Interview with Author, KB Cutter!

I'm thrilled to introduce KB Cutter to the Flood Gates! Welcome!

Thank you Kelly for allowing me to be here today. I'll try not to embarrass you.
Much.
-cheesy grin-
 
It's my distinct pleasure. Let's play a little Q&A —

1.       First off, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?

Ah, the details of my life are inconsequential. Okay, not really, they are kinda mundane. I'm a geek of all trades. Love books, film, and writing (shocking, I know) I have a place in the Catskill Mountains, a secluded spot in the woods to recharge from the stresses of modern suburban life. Campfires, s'mores and enjoying the music of nature are on the order of business 'up yonder!'

I've been enamored with the written word for longer than I can remember and being a voracious reader, naturally I gravitated toward writing my own tales. Fast forward a few years later (ok, MORE than a few years) I found a wonderfully interactive writing group on the internets, wrote in every conceivable genre there and finally screwed up the courage to submit my work for professional publication.

Mmmmm. A place in the Catskills. Sounds heavenly. And I, for one, am very thankful you screwed up the courage to submit.

2.       Do you have a day job as well?

No day job for me.  –shivers-  I work nights. I cannot fathom waking up to an alarm clock every morning, unless I have to, then it's under duress.  ;-)

I'm a member of the Thin Blue Line for the past 23+ years. Some folks thing its odd that my part time occupation writing erotic romance is a bit incongruous given my profession.  I prefer to be slightly different. All right, maybe a bit more than slightly.

Oh, honey. I'm a big, big fan of 'different'.

3.       How did you choose the genre you write in?

Hmm, the genre chose me, actually. When I posted at the writing forums, the majority of my collaborative partners were women. They usually determined the narrative structure of the story. I was writing urban fantasy, paranormal, contemporary thriller romances before I knew the whole sub classifications of the romance genre!

Don't get me started on the whole "fantasy, urban-fantasy, paranormal, gas-lamp, steampunk" sub-classifications system. I just flat call it fiction. J

4.       Do you work with an outline, or just write?

I'm more a pantster than outliner. I use a rough guideline for starting off, then my Muse kicks in, taking me on quite the journey. She really does love to drive!

Me too! Nothing better than when the muse shows up with her whip, is there?

5.       Can you tell us about your challenges in getting your first book published?

I don’t have a hard luck story to tell. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wrote a short story entitled Summer Heat, a complete 180 from my normal comfort zone, about a woman coming to terms with her sexuality, leaving her husband for her best friend. I subbed it to Noble Romance and in a few days, I received a contract.  To this day, I'm still in awe of how it all transpired so quickly.

I think publishing stories like yours are important to share. Too many writers hear about how difficult it is to get published, and give up before they've started.

6.       What are the most important elements of good writing? According to you, what tools are must-haves for writers?

You must have read. Period. End of. Everything else, you can learn. If you do not take the time to read, you will NOT evolve as a writer. Oh, and maybe hammering out a few hundred words a day doesn’t hurt either.

A few hundred words a day? Damn, you're committed. *** bowing to you, sensei ***

7.       What is your favorite breakfast food?

I loves da breakfast.  Bacon and egg on a roll. Ketchup. Large coffee. I'm set. The world could end. Don’t care.

Mmmm. You can't talk that way to a pregnant woman. Can you hold on while I go get something to eat? Just kidding – let's keep going – and please ignore the rumbling from the round little belly over here.

8.       Decaf or regular?

Regular. It's like non-alcoholic beer, what's the point?

Impossible to argue with logic like that…

9.       How many times have you been naked in public? Elaborate.

All the time. Why?

LOL – I knew there was a reason I liked you. J

10.    What project are you working on now?

Jeez, what am I not working on now?  I've narrowed the field to two projects. One is a sci-fi novella featuring a M/F/M erotic romance at is core. Think of Blade Runner meets Inception via Children of Men. The other is short horror themed bit of sexiness of lesbians vs. zombies. I told ya I was different!!!

Blade Runner meets Inception via Children of Men? I think you need to up your daily word quota, because THAT I've got to read!!!

You have been an incredibly good sport about all the questions, KB. Thank you so much for being here! 

Thank you, Kelly, for allowing me to babble at your blog. I hope I didn't scare anyone off.

No way! I’m sick and twisted; therefore, I would bet my bottom dollar everyone that reads this blog doesn't scare too easily. J

I'd like to share a blurb and excerpt from my latest release, an erotic paranormal romance – The Darker Side of Heaven available on Amazon Kindle and at Noble Romance and other e-book venues!

Folks can look me up at www.kbcutter.com and Facebook and Twitter. I'm quite social.

My blog: http://halfpastmidnighthour.blogspot.com/?zx=3c2572537e5795d6

Good lord, yes, please share. I'd be disappointed if you didn't. OK readers…get a load of THIS!!!

Book Blurb:

Shadows lengthen over the world. Turmoil rages.

Something evil this way comes . . . .

Emotionally conflicted avenger Chalice Noire, product of an unholy union between demon and angel, is a slayer to the forces of darkness. Employed by shadowy benefactors in Rome, her sect is commanded by fallen angel Nikolai Voss, whose allegiance is not to the church but to the flame of vengeance that burns within. 

But Chalice possesses a holy relic, a Weapon of the Mass, Nikolai desperately craves, and he will stop at nothing to retrieve it, destroying anything or anyone, including his own soul.

Renegade vampire Adam Blake is a recluse, attempting to bury his troubled past and the tortured memory of his former lover, Chalice Noire, in America's last frontier: the Alaskan wilderness.

             Armageddon looms, the agents of light and darkness gather forces. The battle to be fought not on the sands of prophecy, but in the rugged beauty of Alaska, where Chalice and Adam once again cross paths. Can they reconcile their past to save humanity's future? 

Excerpt:

Chapter One 

Hell is empty and all the devils are here

 ~ William Shakespeare

 Fire Island, N.Y. 

Chalice Noire wanted to slit their throats. Instead, she caressed the prominent bulge in the cultured man's trousers and slowly ground her ass against the crotch of the biker behind her.

Bloodletting would come later.

"I think someone wants to party." Victor's hooded gaze remained on her hand as she massaged his crotch.

Chalice tightened her grip on the outline of his fierce erection.

Victor winced, his breath hitching in his throat.

"I'm not the only one." Chalice murmured in his ear.

She suppressed the urge to do a Mike Tyson on his lobe.

The biker grabbed her by the waist. She could feel his insistent heat pressing hard against the flimsy fabric of her summer dress.

"You know what they say, two's company, and three's a ménage." The biker's voice held the rasp of a thousand gargled razor blades.

Chalice felt his rough hands gliding along her bare legs. The bastard's hand pushed the fabric of her dress higher, exposing her ass.

"Christ, Victor, she's a fucking party girl, all right. Kinky fuck me boots and little bitch's goin' commando!"

Chalice gritted her teeth.

Anger welled up in her breast, a red beast clawing its way to the surface. She did not want to lose control. Her own base instincts began to clamor for attention. She willed herself to resist the insistent energy, the pulsating desire that made blood throb in her temples, and in her clit.

She squeezed Victor's cock harder.

"Ow! My sweet, I do so enjoy your robust enthusiasm, but I'm not a masochist."

Bullshit, Victor Kozlov, I am privy to the darkness that lurks within your corrupted soul.

The biker, Dominic Stone, continued to paw at her ass. He bore a bullshit name, but it wouldn't matter much longer. His groping hands dipped between her legs, massaged her sex. The son-of-a-bitch could introduce himself to the devil when she was through with him.

Simultaneously repulsed and sexually charged, she struggled to control the part of her that made her wet from their touch.

"I'm gonna fuck you right here and now. My cock's so hard for your wet pussy, baby. It's practically busting through my zipper."

"Dominic, please; no need to voice such vulgarities. The way our bodies react to this gorgeous creature, our flesh speaks volumes, and our tongues should be put to better use."

Victor's voice was a rich, soothing bass. No wonder women fell under his charm. Tall, dark, and aristocratically handsome, with a hint of eastern European accent, he appeared the consummate bon vivant.

Chalice knew better. Beneath Victor's cultured facade, lurked a career criminal with a specialty in trafficking flesh, preying on the innocent, the unwary. She tracked him across the entire breadth of Asia and through half of Eastern Europe. She had always been one step behind.

Until now.

His vanity would be his demise, alongside his liaisons with things of a dark nature. The women were not always bound for the sex trade. Some suffered a fate far worse than prostitution. Victor had to satiate the black appetites of beings not of this world who aided him in his desire for money and power. The Audro Council, the shadowy Vatican-based organization she worked for to help rid the world of evil and those who consorted with the legions of devil spawn had long sought to end the Russian criminal enterprise. She thought it ironic the church recruited her, she an offspring of an unholy union of half human-half demon succubus and corrupted angel. Her talent for bloodshed kept the questioning lips of certain cardinals and bishops still concerned over her suspect linage trembling. In the early days, she thought of herself as an avenger, now . . . she wasn't so sure.

Chalice often wondered how innocent the girls actually were. To be so blindly ignorant, so stupidly naive to fall for Victor's line of bullshit, perhaps they deserved their fate of sexually indentured servitude.

She felt nothing for these women, not anger or sorrow. Tonight, however, a small vestige of humanity smoldered inside of her.

A tiny flame in the dark.

Pity.

Useless emotion, girl. Get your head out of your ass or get killed.

Dominic's hoarse voice dissipated the fog of her self-rumination. "Whatever, Victor, all I know, is I like what I see and feel, and what I want, I fucking take. This piece of ass is gonna take all my fat cock deep in her soaking cunt."

Chalice sensed movement behind her. Dominic grunted, undoubtedly trying to extract his turgid member from his jeans. She wondered how a Russian criminal oligarch like Victor Kozlov hooked up with a Pagan biker enforcer like Stone. It was obviously a business arrangement. Victor supplied the women; Dominic got them strung out on drugs, and eventually they hustled their scrawny asses in biker-run strip joints or Russian mafia-backed whorehouses.

Chalice shivered. The slick, bulbous head of Dominic's cock pressed against her ass.

Damn, girl, get a grip. Don't lose it now.

She rarely let her body respond so viscerally, but she hadn't had sex in weeks. The need for ecstasy burned in the deepest fiber of her being. Her accursed lineage stirred the lustful beast within. Perhaps it was a mistake taking on two powerfully built men alone, no back up, no one ghosting her movements, especially on a goddamned island. Chalice knew it was risky, deadly, but she rarely second guessed her instincts. Doing so in her line of work got you one thing: dead. Chalice had to go it alone. She preferred it that way. Whatever transpired, it was on her, no trigger-happy cowboy heroes crashing through doors at the wrong moment.

"Hey, Dom, baby, slow down or you're gonna blow your wad too soon. Let's get little Victor to come out and play." Chalice cooed.

"He is not so little, my love."

Dominic slapped Chalice's ass. She barely resisted the urge to reach behind her and rip his balls off.

"Sorry, little darlin'. It's like a fire hose; once the pressure's on, it's gonna be a gusher. Fuck, c'mon Victor, whip it out unless you gone fag or somethin'. I ain't got all goddamn night."

Chalice grinned inwardly.

Neither do I.

Victor's eyes narrowed into piercing black coals. His gaze pure malice, body tensing. He obviously didn't like being addressed in such a vulgar manner.

Chalice slowly pulled Victor's zipper down, diffusing the palpable tension. She worked his thick cock out, grasping his shaft, stroking his expanding flesh.

"Oh Victor's not gone fag—quite the contrary."

Chalice smiled, gently blowing on the tip of Victor's cock. He shivered in her touch, precum leaking from the tip.

Dominic grunted. Chalice could feel his pelvis against her ass, the large head of his cock about to part the folds of her sex. Victor began to stroke Chalice's hair, his eyes closing, obviously anticipating her mouth upon his swollen cock.

Her gaze narrowed.

The party's started.

Chalice reared up, bringing her right arm forward and then shot it back, her elbow connecting with Dominic's throat.

She heard a satisfying crunch.

Dominic stumbled back, gurgling. She kept her grip on Victor's cock, squeezing with all of her might, his eyes bulging. She violently jerked her arm left and heard a gratifying, wet tearing sound. Victor's screams joined Dominic's rasping and choking.

Chalice withdrew the dagger from her boot sheath. The French doors were open, white curtains fluttering in the breeze; the pale moonlight glinted on the flat of the blade.

Chalice glanced at Dominic; his hands were at his throat, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He crumbled to his knees, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Victor continued to scream, curled on the floor in a fetal position, his hands clasping his crotch.

The beach house, while secluded, was not remote enough to allow Victor to wail like a banshee.

Chalice had to silence him. His howls of pain would carry on the open air.

She strode to the downed man, boot heels deafening loud on the floor, and kicked him over.

Victor yelped like a whipped dog.

Chalice slit his throat.

"Ah, thank you. That fucking yowling was driving me nuts."

Chalice whipped around to the grinning face of Dominic Stone bearing down upon her.

She was unable to sidestep his advance completely. For a large man, he moved incredibly fast and hit her in the shoulder, knocking the blade from her hand, spinning her around. She regained her footing, splaying her legs. Dominic slammed into the flat screen TV, shattering its black screen. He spun around, his movements fluid, quick, and unnaturally athletic. No run-of-the mill biker muscle.

"I hope Victor got the extended warranty." Dominic glanced at the Russian. His body still. Blood leaked out of the gash in his neck. "I guess it don't matter now."

Chalice eyed the dagger.

Dominic squinted. "I know what you're thinking; can I get to it before he does?"

"That's a piss poor Clint Eastwood impression."

He laughed.

"Actually, it was supposed to be Charles Bronson. Eastwood's a wuss."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Hmm, I thought you figured that out already. Guess your brains are in your tits." Dominic licked his lips. He grinned, displaying rows of sharp, needle-like teeth.

"I'm an incubus. Although I must issue this disclaimer: I'm not pure-blood. I have ta do that, bit of a drag, really, but as a lesser demon, one must adhere to the Unholy Scripts."

Chalice remained mute, taking in the information.

The biker shrugged. "I'm like you, half-breed, although I think you are more along the lines of a mutt."

Chalice bared her teeth, inching forward.

Dominic held up his hands.

"Easy, Xena; guess I struck a nerve. C'mon, you have to know who you are, at least parts of you. I certainly know one part of you. I can smell it."

Chalice balled her hands into fists.

Dominic sighed.

"Am I going to have to call you Cleopatra, huh? Queen of fucking denial? Listen, why don't we cut to the chase. You could use a good fuck, Satan knows I'd enjoy giving one. So, let's shed our human masquerade, get busy, and I drench you in sticky demon jizz."

"You're a vile creature. I'd rather slit my wrists and drink my own blood than fuck you."

The biker chewed on his lower lip, drawing a foul smelling, brackish fluid that snaked down his chin.

"Your words sting, sweet cheeks. Go on; pretend you're not like me. Keep deluding yourself. Truth hurts like a motherfucker. You want it rough. I'm down with that. I dig the pain thing. Bitch, I am going to enjoy raping every hole in your body."

The thing that called itself Dominic transformed. The leather jacket and jeans began to smoke and burn as the clothing fell to ashes on the floor. Muscles flexed under coarse, bile green, scaly flesh. Its penis swung pendulously, thickening rapidly; the bulbous head soon rose a foot above the creature's muscled abdomen.

Chalice's gaze fell upon the pulsating organ.

"For an incubus, you have a really small dick."

The demon's laugh was like sand poured off a gravedigger's shovel.

"The succu-bitch has a sense of humor after all."

Rage consumed her. Chalice charged forward, her lips pulled back, snarling like a she-wolf. This loathsome thing would soon regret its mocking words. The demon roared, shattering the panes of glass in the doors. Chalice feinted left then quickly sprinted to the right, as if a quarterback dodging the sack. The incubus slashed with its talons, ripping the back of her dress. Its nails raked her flesh. Chalice cried out in pain as she leapt for the dagger, sliding across the floor on her stomach. She managed to clasp the hilt when the demon lashed out again, ripping more fabric and flesh.

Chalice could smell her skin burning, could feel her back wet with her own blood. The incubus lunged as Chalice flipped onto her back, the agony from the cauterized wounds making her eyes water. The demon attempted to straddle her, its impossibly long, thick erection pulsated menacingly over her. She swung the blade, intent on severing the horrid appendage, when a voice exploded inside of her head.

Chalice!

The arc of the blade slowed, giving the demon enough time to jerk back. The dagger sliced the incubus's legs, causing it to cry out in a combination of pain and a sound she could only assume came from relief that she had not lopped off its prized organ.

The wounds on the demon's legs burned. The stench of rotting flesh filled the room.

"You cunt, you fucking impure blooded she-bitch!" The demon wailed, snatching the dagger from her weakened hand. Chalice's mind reeled. Chaotic images flashed in her mind. She knew that voice. Saw his face. Why did he call to her now?

The incubus slashed at her abdomen. The blade sliced a thin, surgically red straight line stretched across her stomach. Blood began to seep from the laceration.

The demon's flesh continued to burn. Tendrils of smoke wafted from the cuts on its legs.

He loomed over her, the dagger blade pointed downward. The demon's face contorted in agony and rage. Chalice tried to fight the lethargy in her body. She knew it wanted to finish her off, drive the dagger into her chest, stake her to the floor like a butterfly to cork board.

She was not going out like this, on her back.

Helpless.

She was the hunter, not the prey.

Chalice screamed, throwing her hands up, if she had to grasp the blade, severing her fingers, so be it. She would fight this sex-crazed piece of filth from hell with every ounce of strength she could muster.

She heard the crunch of broken glass and the sound of muffled . . . gunshots. Or was it the ocean slapping the shoreline? The demon growled as the dagger came down. Chalice saw the red and black brimstone eyes of the beast ablaze with pure undiluted hatred. Chalice reached for the blade, her gaze locking with the demons.

The incubus jerked. Its body twitched. Small bits of flesh exploded into greenish-black mists off its body.

The dagger continued its downward spiral, and as Chalice swatted it away, she thought she heard tiny coffin nails clinking on the floor. 

Oh wow KB, nobody likes chicks kicking ass better than I do. :)

Everyone else... go get another slice of Darker Side of Heaven!  Available for download now!

Murdering Eve - Exclusive excerpt!!

By popular request, below is an exclusive excerpt of Murdering Eve you'll only find here.

CONTEST: Sign up to follow my blog, or "Like" my Facebook page  starting today through November 15th, and you will be entered to win a signed copy of Murdering Eve! Contest winner will be announced on Wednesday, November 16th. Happy reading!

Facebook: Kelly L Lee - Author

********

Whit felt it happening, but he still didn't quite believe it. The transference of power between two supernaturals was an awesome phenomenon in itself, but for such a thing to happen on Earth Realm was unprecedented. Only the most powerful Gods were known to have done it at all. Zeus and Hera were the most renowned, but Apollo was rumored to be able to do it at will.

Yet, as impossible as it seemed, transference was happening. He could feel Eve's power encircling him, and beginning to infuse him. A golden light, the energy warmed him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Whit's own power raged stronger than it had in decades. Satisfaction and desire rolled through him.

An unfamiliar emotion tugged deep in his soul, but with it came peace and certain knowledge. If he had sex with Eve, she would become his mate. That's why they had reacted so strongly to one another. Their souls were fated. Whit pushed the thought away, refusing to acknowledge what that fact would mean to him, and what it meant for his future. He hesitated as she lay under him, held captive by her beauty while his mind screamed to retreat, the message undelivered to his hands and his eyes. He couldn't tear himself away, no matter how much destruction making love to her eventually wrought.

The word reverberated in his mind . . . mated. The concept was too huge to contemplate, so he didn't. As she pulled at him in delicious desperation, he leaned into her and inhaled her scent, sending shockwaves through his body. He closed his mouth on her breast, and power  slammed into him like a tidal wave. Moving from him to her, from her to him—wind and fire combined. That's what she was, a Fire element power, with the heat and intensity of the sun itself. Her essence burned through his veins like a brush fire, picking up speed with the velocity of a hurricane.

Eve stiffened beneath him, and some of the delicious warmth drained away.

Barely coherent, he said, "What's wrong?"

Whit saw the whites of her eyes the same moment he heard the roaring of water, as if a waterfall was crashing over them. The structure he had painstakingly built for Eve gave way with an explosion of energy. Debris crashed down all around them. Whit instinctively used his body to shield Eve, moving his torso up to protect her head. As he pushed himself up on his elbows to grab her and run for cover, a frigid band clamped around his waist and wrenched him into the air above the trees. Breath left his lungs in a rush, the g-force of his ascent as discombobulating as a botched teleport.

Gasping for air, Whit tried to grab the band around his midsection to dislodge whatever had grabbed him, only to have his hands pass through it. Water clenched him in the form of a fist, flowing down the face of the waterfall, encircling him and holding him suspended above the trees. Merciful Athena, a water God? Poseidon? No, he couldn't be here. And even if he could, he controlled the Earth's saltwater oceans, not fresh water streams. What the hell is this?

Frantically searching for Eve on the ground below, he finally saw her. She stood up and looked at him with shocked eyes, her flight instinct so strong that he felt his own legs itch to run. A flash of red caught his peripheral vision, and Whit saw someone darting through the trees, directly toward Eve. Panic gripped him as he shouted down to Eve. "Run! Someone's coming!"

A woman, taller than Eve, stepped out from amongst the trees, holding a dagger. She looked like a crazed lunatic. Leaves and sticks clung to her wild, fiery hair. Her face twisted in a murderous glare, and her mouth moved rapidly. A chant, he guessed, to keep him captive above their heads and out of her way. The woman crouched and stealthily moved through the trees, circling the open area, trying to double back behind Eve, who still stood dumbstruck, staring at Whit.

He screamed at her to snap out of it and get the hell out of there, but she seemed rooted to the spot. Whit watched in helpless horror as the redhead stalked toward Eve. Who was she? What did she want with his female? He struggled against the watery vise, but he couldn't wrestle water.

Whit concentrated intently, calling the air to him. The speed of its response blew his mind. Gale force wind instantly swirled at his command, bending over trees . The sudden intensity of the gusts knocked Eve down. He scaled back, trying to moderate his control against his rising panic. The liquid fist gripped him tighter.

Focusing the direction of his power, Whit watched as the wind emptied the river bed, spilling water out on to the banks and into the vegetation. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop the water flowing steadily over the cliff from the waterfall, and that was the source of water holding him. The rushing water encircled him, holding him fast, then flowed down from Whit's suspended form into the empty riverbed, refilling it. He couldn't break free.

To his horror, the wind he'd summoned whipped up more whitecaps on the swiftly flowing river, adding to the force of its flow. The redhead looked up at him with a sinister grin, enjoying that his power was feeding hers. He shut down his element immediately, snarling at the impotence of his power in the face of the situation.

The redhead lifted a gold, heavily jeweled dagger in mock salute to him. He recognized the weapon instantly. King Simek had given him an identical version to murder the human child so many years ago. His refusal had earned him banishment to Earth Realm. Is it really the same one?

Simek had handed the dagger to him locked in a case and told him to be careful. "Don't accidentally cut yourself with it, soldier. Hephaestus would laugh himself silly." At the time, he'd assumed his King was being facetious. The order had been to slay a human child, and Simek wouldn't waste the power of a supernatural weapon simply to dispatch a mortal. But seeing the redhead stalking Eve with the same dagger, Whit knew it must be created by Hephaestus. Only a weapon forged by the God of Metalworking Fire could mortally wound a supernatural. Simek had to have known Eve wasn't human; otherwise he wouldn't have given Whit a supernatural weapon. But how did Simek know about Eve, and who wanted her dead?

There was no time to ponder the riddle, because Eve had disappeared from sight. His heart soared that she might have successfully fled the area. The redhead stood still, her head making barely perceptible movements as she scanned the area. Whit held his breath, waiting for her next move.

Golden sparks shot up from about twenty yards out, revealing Eve's hiding place. The woman turned suddenly, and marched into the trees.

Pain shot through Whit's brow as he concentrated, directing his power to funnel the wind at the predator advancing on Eve.

A quick burst of wind knocked the redhead on her ass, but she got right back up. Whit repeated the hit with the same outcome. The redhead never even looked up at him. He'd intended to draw her attack away from Eve and to him, but she wasn't taking the bait. The clever bitch was holding him, safely impotent, until she could murder Eve, then kill him. A fierce howl ripped through his chest as he screamed in frustration.

The sky had opened again, rain falling torrentially, increasing the flow of the waterfall that had seemed so small when he set up the campsite. Rapid, successive lightning strikes lit up the darkness, a macabre scene, as flashes of white light illuminated every detail of the attacker's progress as she advanced closer to Eve's hiding spot.

As another crack of thunder ripped the air, Eve darted out from her hiding spot and swung a tree branch at her attacker's head. The redhead blocked the blow with a raised arm, and the dagger flew from her hand. Eve dropped the branch and burst back through the trees into the clearing. Whit thought she was going to keep running, but she stopped and turned around to face her opponent, who emerged from the tree line, again holding the dagger.

Merciful Gods, what is she doing?

Eve's powers were rudimentary at best, and the ability to see visions, either past or future, wouldn't help her in a fight. Granted, she had that raw power he'd felt more times than he could count, but it hadn't taken on any physical manifestation. If only she'd learned how to turn the energy into some kind of charge she could use as a weapon, but there hadn't been enough time. He beseeched the Gods . . . they hadn't had enough time. Whit screamed until his throat went raw, his heart shattering with the knowledge that she couldn't hear him above the storm.

Lightning struck the trees around them repeatedly in a circular pattern. The wood splintered as acrid smoke billowed into the air, choking Whit. Terror twisted in his belly as he watched the women square off. Eve's face contorted with rage and she screamed at her attacker, who merely bared her teeth in an evil smile.

The redhead slashed with the dagger, and Eve feinted to the right, but she tripped and fell down trying to get away. Eve scrambled to get a foothold in the loose debris scattered around the clearing, the weight of her upper body on her hands, her legs kicking wildly in retreat. The redhead lunged at her with the dagger raised. Eve's aura flashed to black as she threw out her hand. A lightning bolt ripped from her arm.

Whit's heart jumped to his throat with unexpected joy. A close-range lightning bolt would surely incinerate her attacker. But the redhead only stumbled back a few feet, redirecting the flow of electrical energy from the lightning bolt, grounding it into the dirt, suffering only a glancing blow. Somehow, unbelievably, she must have expected that form of attack and been ready for it.

Her attacker relentlessly moved toward her again. Clearly panicking, Eve dropped to the ground, scraping up handfuls of dirt in her fists. She was giving up.

"No!" Whit screamed and thrashed against the liquid harness, hopelessness and despair threatening to drive him to madness.

The redhead was two strides away when thunder clapped so hard, Whit saw the ground vibrate. With another clap of thunder, the earth shook violently and the redhead struggled to stay upright. An eerie, cracking noise rent the air as the ground beneath the redhead's feet split, a widening gash that threatened to swallow her beneath the surface. She jumped out the way, and backed away from Eve, slowly shaking her head.

Eve lifted her face toward the sky. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth moved in a silent chant. The face of the cliff began to crumble, boulders raining down around the women. Huge chunks of rock pummeled the remains of their campsite, and fear clenched in Whit's gut  as they struck the ground inches away from Eve.

The steady beating flow of the waterfall disintegrated into the deadly rush of a wall of water. The fist around him suddenly lost its grip, and with its release, he dropped like a stone. Whit landed at a midpoint between the two women, both a few yards away from him.

His feet firmly planted on the ground, Whit locked on to his enemy's location. The redhead continued to back away  from Eve, distracted by the spectacle before her. She still clutched the dagger, but it appeared forgotten as she stared at the cliff. The waterfall split over and over, crumbling under the fist of an invisible God. Water flooded around her.

Tearing his attention from the redhead, Whit looked back at Eve. She still knelt in the same place, clutching fistfuls of dirt, her eyes upturned toward the heavens. Eve was doing this. She was tearing the earth apart.

He flipped around to confront the redhead. Stark terror marred her face.

The riverbed widened from new gashes ripped in the earth; Whit noticed the boulders of rock flying from the cliff had littered the stream, breaking up the flow. The river eased from a rushing torrent to a slower current as water spread out thinly across the forest.

He maneuvered to stand directly in front of Eve, ready for his turn to fight off the at
tacker. With the redhead's water element threat weakened, he would dispatch her easily enough in hand-to-hand combat. Lightning flashed again. A huge, bloody laceration had opened across the side of the woman's head. Well done, Eve.

The promise of vengeance coiled in his muscles. He advanced on her, his mind quickly deciding on the best method of disarming her, taking control of the dagger, and putting the weapon to good use.

As he took the first step, Eve's voice cut through the darkness, hardly more than a whisper.

"Whit?"

Eve's questioning plea stopped him in his tracks, but his gaze stayed locked on his prey.

The redhead's lips turned up at the edges in a sneer at his hesitation. She mouthed a silent promise. "Next time."

Then the bitch was running faster than anyone with a dire wound should be able to move. Whit matched her step for step, but she had too much of a head start. Within seconds, she had jumped into the water and made it to the deepest part of the river which still had a swiftly moving current.

Following her downstream meant leaving Eve. Whit knew he needed to take the attacker out to keep Eve safe, and here was the best chance he was going to get to run her to ground. Indecision rendered him immobile. If he went after the redhead, could Eve defend herself if Michelle found her alone? Could the Custodaris and the redhead be working together to intentionally separate them? The impulse to chase his prey pounded in his ears and caused a roaring in his head, but he cast a glance over his shoulder to check on Eve.

She looked demolished, like an electrical current which had popped a breaker after a power surge. Against every natural instinct in his body, he forced the familiar predatory urges to drain away. He couldn't leave Eve. With a few deep breaths, a desire to protect replaced the urge to destroy. Possessiveness suffused him, and a swelling sensation filled his chest. Eve needed him.

She pushed herself to her feet, trembling violently.

Whit bolted toward her, then enveloped her in his arms.

"Next time," he whispered under his breath.

*********

---

Stay tuned! Tomorrow, the utterly phenomenal KB Cutter will be stopping by for an interview, and you'll get a sneak peek at his newest erotic paranormal romance - The Darker Side of Heaven. Be warned, even the excerpt will curl your toes!! Yippee!!!

Pregnancy Sucks

I realize this is not a popular opinion. I also realize there are many who will gasp with incredulity that I dared type the words and commit them to the permanent record of cyberspace. Like doing so will guarantee my unborn child will pop out with two heads. News flash – it won’t. The little bun in my oven will come into the world exactly the same way she would if I danced around fondly patting my belly with fairy dust shooting out my ass. She’ll be fine. Relax.

It isn’t that I’m ungrateful – I’m not. My second child will be every bit as precious and special to me as the first, but that does not mean I have to be happy about the process. I am almost 40 years old, and my body just isn’t handling the stress very well. My boobs are freakishly huge. I barfed for pretty much the first four months solid. I’m growing hairs in new and unwelcome places, and at 22 weeks, my feet are already expanding. Again. The first pregnancy, I went from a size 7.5 to an 8, because pregnancy loosens all those ligaments that hold your feet together. Something the new-baby-happy-police won’t tell you is that feet don’t shrink back. All my wonderful and fabulous mules, platforms, and FMP’s went homeless, and it looks like the process is about to repeat itself. That seriously pisses me off. I love my shoes.

As I sit alone in a hotel room tonight (Business trip, folks – I haven’t left my husband. Yet. But I will if he calls me hormonal one more freaking time), I’m stretched out with a pillow on my lap which cradles my beloved laptop, thinking about the next 18 weeks and what’s in store. Food cravings, cankles, weight gain, and stretch marks . . . and I find myself thinking back to earlier this year, and the 3-day drunk-o-rama in Vegas that set off this chain reaction.

It was our 8 year wedding anniversary, and I had the spicy idea to take my husband to see Zumanity (www.zumanity.com) the first night we arrived. If you’re unfamiliar with this wildly popular show, think Cirque du Soleil live-action porn for sophisticates, and you’re pretty much there. Needless to say, after the performance, and many, many drinks later, what happened in Vegas definitely did NOT stay in Vegas. I’ve decided to sue the city managers, because although the motto is catchy, it’s complete bullshit. I have proof. Because you know what folks? My beloved 4 year old daughter was the result of the FIRST Vegas drunk-o-rama. That’s two for two. I’ve decided my husband and I aren’t going back, ever. Not unless he’s undergone a procedure that requires him to sit for an entire weekend with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch.

Anyway, what’s done is done, and now I’m stuck dealing with the longest and most painful hangover of my life. The good news is that once I emerge on the other side of the aches, pains, vomiting, and the small matter of a whole little person busting out of my body. . . I’ll have a new bundle of ear-splitting, screaming joy to share my life, which will hopefully have my smarts and my husband’s good looks. Which isn’t anywhere near the worst thing that could happen. And considering I just had to retype the last sentence twice because the little monster keeps kicking the pillow under the laptop out of place, I think she agrees with me. J

Stay tuned . . . the next post will be an exclusive excerpt from Murdering Eve that you'll only find here!

Hell Week

It's such a relief to be back. To my blog I mean. And life. And eating something other than cold pizza, and pickles straight from the jar. Looking back at what I just wrote, you'd think I was coming out of the sleep-deprived, hazy coma of having a new baby. But no – that little slice of heaven is coming in February. On the contrary, what I just survived was actually far more painful. I got a crash course in editing my first book. One hundred and twenty thousand words of manuscript edited in one week.

I'd fallen into a trap that most new authors probably dive headfirst into as well, and my little hallucination came back to bite me on the ass with steel jaws. I thought I was a half-decent writer. After letting my nearest and dearest read the version of Murdering Eve that had been accepted for a book contract, as well as winning an award for the story, I ridiculously thought it was halfway well written, especially since everyone told how WONDERFUL it was. Ha! Though I will say that I'm proud of the creativity of the story and the way it all came together, my editor very kindly pointed out that my technical writing skills were a smidgen less than perfect.

I have learned that I commit a multitude of sins when I write, like dangling modifiers, split infinitives, the proper use of farther/further. These are the devils in the details that separate a ho-hum writer from good one. And strangely, we're all supposed to know these rules no later than 9^th grade English class. To know I make these mistakes is incredibly humbling; and correcting them was an excruciating process from which I don't know if I'll ever recover. Just kidding, after the first night in a week (last night) that I actually slept more than four or five hours, I'm feeling better already. But it's going to take a while to get back to the confident, happy-go-lucky lady I was before. If I weren't pregnant, I'd be a lot better by now, probably having downed a bottle of good wine last night by myself. Never underestimate the healing and regenerative power of a bottle of booze. But as it stands, I'll have to bounce back with rest, time with my kiddo, and eating something that doesn't come straight out of the refrigerator.

Just because I want to share my experiences with you vicariously, and because I'm an incessant whiner, I wanted to take you through the process I recently survived. Not the actual work of course, I like you too much, but the daily emotions I experienced as I made my way through the week.

Day 1 – Tuesday, late afternoon. File arrives from editor with a full page of notes in the body of the email with, "Here are the things you need to be looking for and changing as you make your way through the manuscript. They may or may not be noted on the pages." I pick myself up off the floor, and then I open the file. Red text flashes across the screen, making me squint from the brightness of the glare. I pick myself up off the floor again. Taking a deep breath, I close the file and walk out to my husband. He sees my face, and instantly assumes someone is dead. Not exactly, but I can't deal with the overwhelming emotions. I'll start tomorrow.

Day 2 – Wednesday. I get through 25 pages in the first 4 hours. I'm worried about how much time its taking, but feeling ok. My editor has done a "heavy edit" on the first 30+ pages, pointing out each and every error, so I've got a good roadmap. Surely, I'm going to get better at this as I get the hang of it.

Day 3 – Thursday. Holy shit, I'm taking the day off at my "real" job tomorrow. This is a frigging nightmare. I'm not going to finish by my deadline, which is next Tuesday. My husband is leaving the next morning for a business trip. He's got to provide coverage for a hospital over the weekend, and I'm going to be all alone with our four year old. Oh, hell no. I call my mom, and she agrees to take the munchkin for the weekend after her soccer game on Saturday morning. Thank God.

Day 4 – Friday. After editing ten hours straight other than pee breaks-which are all too frequent because I have a little person lying on my bladder-and food runs to the fridge, I take a break to speak to my kid. One of her friends comes over, and I order enough pizza to get me through the duration. Her friend goes home and my daughter goes to bed after three hours away from the computer. I go back to work until 2 a.m. I cry. A lot.

Day 5 – Saturday. It's post soccer game and I'm home alone with no distractions. The heavy edit notes have been long-gone for days, and I have to find, and correct, most of my own problems. The pace has slowed considerably. I'm no longer averaging 6 pages an hour. Including re-writes that have now become necessary because I've matured as a writer since last year when the story was drafted, I find minor logic problems that MUST be fixed. My eyes are burning, my back is screaming, and I can't feel my legs. At 3 a.m. I call it quits, because I don't even understand the storyline anymore. Why did I write this damn thing, anyway?

Day 6 – Sunday, last full day to work on edits unless I want to get fired from day job. I throw up, and it's not because I'm pregnant. I wake up at 7 a.m. and make coffee. My stomach is in revolt most of the day, but I refuse to spare the 15 minutes to either make something to eat or run to get fast food. Cardboard pizza it is. I break around 5:30 p.m. to brush my teeth for the first time that day, and put on clothes to go pick up my kiddo from my mom. We meet at Applebee's, and I can't control the urge to eat something. Two plates of food later, I'm feeling better. When the kid goes to bed, I'm back at it until 1 a.m.

Day 7 – Monday morning. I'm shaky and tired, and I'm pretty sure the baby in my belly is pissed off at me. By late afternoon, I beg the nanny to take the kid to ice skating lessons so I can edit. She stays late, God bless her. About midnight, I get an email from the cover artist with the mock-up of the cover for the book. I sob hysterically, thinking everything might actually come together. I edit until 3:30 in the morning. The kid wakes up at 4 a.m. with a nightmare. You've got to be shitting me.

Deadline day – Tuesday. I'm so tired. I've only got about 10 pages left to finish, then I need to run back through and do all the last minute stuff like run a final spell check, do a "find" on some the words I need to make sure are consistent through the document, and do some finishing touches. "I can do this," I say to myself. Turns out, I can. I hit send on the file to my editor. I laugh out loud. I cry. I become paralyzed with fear I've done it all wrong, or missed a million errors. A few hours later, an email comes from my editor. She tells me it looks great. She'll start the detailed review in the morning, and then expects to send it directly to pre-production. She writes that although I may think I have a lot of bad habits, I am really well-advanced, esp. for a new writer. I do a dance that looks ridiculous with a rounded, pregnant belly. I couldn't care any less….

This morning – I receive my final cover art and banner, which is now posted on the right so you can see it. Life is good.

After spending so much time at the computer this past week, you'd think I wouldn't want to sit down and blog, but the honest truth is that I've missed it. There are no rules here. I can start my sentences with "And", and you guys don't care. I can put, commas, and; semi-colons, anywhere I damn well want. J Hardy, har…. (that last sentence was a joke, just in case my editor sees this blog post). Therefore, I took my lunch hour early during a break in meetings to write freestyle and it's never felt quite so good.

New posts coming soon – I'm all jazzed up for Halloween, and will be spending some time researching and writing about all the spooky, creepy traditions of different cultures/religions. The level of bizarre will get ratcheted up for a while, let me tell ya.

Hugs and kisses to all.