Hi! I was hoping you'd all show up here eventually, and here you are! This is the last stop before we head back to the party, so here are the questions:
What color are Ethan's eyes?
What does Val call the desk monitors at her work?
1/2 point: Is there a DSMV?
Personally I think the screen-on fairy is hilarious. A final bonus question: Look back through the other posts on this blog. What does Val think of the decor at the restaurant called Caliente?
Link to Sample pages of Spirit
Back to the party
Monday, July 8, 2013
Launch Party Tonight!
Tonight is the launch party for Spirit, and you're all invited. We're having a facebook/blog scavenger hunt, with points and prizes. Let other people know who might be interested. A free e-copy of Spirit to the fourth person to tweet about it with the hashtag #spiritthebook.
Valerian (Val) Howell has no intention of using the Spirit skills she was born with, until she stands over the body of another spirit worker at a murder scene.
At that point she has a choice. It's either use those skills or get flattened, with the dubious help of an irritatingly attractive coworker-turned-bodyguard who just might be working for her enemies.
She's tangled in a web of memories that aren't even hers, fighting an enemy she can't see with weapons she's never taught herself to use.
Why can't anything dealing with Spirit be simple?
Sample (from chapter 2):
I'd deliberately picked Caliente to see if he could be put off by the decor―or the food. The food's taken a sharp downward turn since the old cook left. Ethan didn't seem concerned, didn't even seem to notice the ancient hairless moose-head hanging in the shadows eying us balefully. Did it resent that we were still alive?
"I don't want anyone to know." I glared at him. "And you mention it you're dead."
What seemed to be eight generations of layered decorations, from old autographed pictures of Elvis Presley to Chianti bottles and stuffed deer heads, made the shadows into a tasteful person's nightmare. Somewhere off in a high corner something with more than two eyes glared down at us. I ignored it.
"Why? Lots of people have minor sensitivities."
I loaded a chip with salsa and crunched into it, then held up a finger as if my mouth was full. Polite. Yeah, right. It gave me time to think. "Lots of people aren't me. I don't want people demanding I do spirit work for them. I open those eyes, I'm legally liable." Thankfully foretelling had never been one of my skills so I couldn't tell anyone whether they were in line to get that promotion or if their boyfriend was going to propose.
Then again, in some cases foretelling might have been useful. This was one of them. His eyes widened slightly, and I wondered again why I hadn't just gotten in my car and driven away rather than stalking over to confront him in the parking lot. I'd just told him that not only was I sensitive, but sensitive enough to interpret what I saw.
"Then why are you here?" He waved a hand, presumably meaning not so much the schmaltzy, old fashioned restaurant as the office we both worked in. Why not join a highly lucrative profession where my skills could be utilized?
"Because," I said patiently, "I don't want to use it." The reasons behind that would take more time than he would want to spend on me. Twenty three years of living with Môma, to be precise.
Valerian (Val) Howell has no intention of using the Spirit skills she was born with, until she stands over the body of another spirit worker at a murder scene.
At that point she has a choice. It's either use those skills or get flattened, with the dubious help of an irritatingly attractive coworker-turned-bodyguard who just might be working for her enemies.
She's tangled in a web of memories that aren't even hers, fighting an enemy she can't see with weapons she's never taught herself to use.
Why can't anything dealing with Spirit be simple?
Sample (from chapter 2):
I'd deliberately picked Caliente to see if he could be put off by the decor―or the food. The food's taken a sharp downward turn since the old cook left. Ethan didn't seem concerned, didn't even seem to notice the ancient hairless moose-head hanging in the shadows eying us balefully. Did it resent that we were still alive?
"I don't want anyone to know." I glared at him. "And you mention it you're dead."
What seemed to be eight generations of layered decorations, from old autographed pictures of Elvis Presley to Chianti bottles and stuffed deer heads, made the shadows into a tasteful person's nightmare. Somewhere off in a high corner something with more than two eyes glared down at us. I ignored it.
"Why? Lots of people have minor sensitivities."
I loaded a chip with salsa and crunched into it, then held up a finger as if my mouth was full. Polite. Yeah, right. It gave me time to think. "Lots of people aren't me. I don't want people demanding I do spirit work for them. I open those eyes, I'm legally liable." Thankfully foretelling had never been one of my skills so I couldn't tell anyone whether they were in line to get that promotion or if their boyfriend was going to propose.
Then again, in some cases foretelling might have been useful. This was one of them. His eyes widened slightly, and I wondered again why I hadn't just gotten in my car and driven away rather than stalking over to confront him in the parking lot. I'd just told him that not only was I sensitive, but sensitive enough to interpret what I saw.
"Then why are you here?" He waved a hand, presumably meaning not so much the schmaltzy, old fashioned restaurant as the office we both worked in. Why not join a highly lucrative profession where my skills could be utilized?
"Because," I said patiently, "I don't want to use it." The reasons behind that would take more time than he would want to spend on me. Twenty three years of living with Môma, to be precise.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Wyre-rat (part 14)
I took my attention from the mouth of the alley, stood and paced forward, then sat again. I studied him. Some kind of calico, which in my training meant "mongrel."
His fur was mostly dark, streaked with odd patches of a lighter color that I couldn't identify with the rat's color-blind eyes. He blended well into the darkness.
He stared at me for a time, then slowly sat up, his front paws not curled beneath him but crouched low and ready if I should attack.
Likely that's exactly what he expected.
I stayed were I was. We couldn't communicate--one or the other of us was going to have to shift shape.
Instead he extended a paw toward me, claws retracted. I bent over to look and almost lost control. Buried in his fur, in a bracelet of stretchy material much like the one I'd worn last night, a tracking device.
His head dropped and I wondered. Taking a single step forward at a time, I crawled to my belly in front of him. Even slower, I reached out a paw. With my paw resting over his but not touching, I waited to see if this was what he wanted.
His head bobbed. Cautiously, still not touching in case this was a trap, I hooked claws over the edge of the stretchy material and pulled it off. It was tighter than I'd expected, which made sense if they didn't want him to be able to take it off himself.
It lay there on the cement, blinking at us.
He was apparently shocked when I lunged at him and bit him on the cheek, claws scrabbling against his skin so that blood dripped onto the pavement around the tracker. He fought, as expected, but I leaped away to the top of the dumpster.
I sat there, waiting for him to get it through his thick skull. It took longer than I'd hoped, but no longer than I'd expected. He stared down at the blood, then squalled and began rolling it across the cement with his paws.
Oh, man. I hissed and he looked up, obviously surprised. Balancing on my hind feet, I waved my paws at him and then deliberately put them down flat on the dumpster lid. One, two. One, two. Footprints, idiot.
He blinked, looked down at his bloody paws and then jumped into a puddle. With a final glance back at the scene of the crime, he leaped up to the dumpster lid and followed me across the rooftops.
Part 15
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
His fur was mostly dark, streaked with odd patches of a lighter color that I couldn't identify with the rat's color-blind eyes. He blended well into the darkness.
He stared at me for a time, then slowly sat up, his front paws not curled beneath him but crouched low and ready if I should attack.
Likely that's exactly what he expected.
I stayed were I was. We couldn't communicate--one or the other of us was going to have to shift shape.
Instead he extended a paw toward me, claws retracted. I bent over to look and almost lost control. Buried in his fur, in a bracelet of stretchy material much like the one I'd worn last night, a tracking device.
His head dropped and I wondered. Taking a single step forward at a time, I crawled to my belly in front of him. Even slower, I reached out a paw. With my paw resting over his but not touching, I waited to see if this was what he wanted.
His head bobbed. Cautiously, still not touching in case this was a trap, I hooked claws over the edge of the stretchy material and pulled it off. It was tighter than I'd expected, which made sense if they didn't want him to be able to take it off himself.
It lay there on the cement, blinking at us.
He was apparently shocked when I lunged at him and bit him on the cheek, claws scrabbling against his skin so that blood dripped onto the pavement around the tracker. He fought, as expected, but I leaped away to the top of the dumpster.
I sat there, waiting for him to get it through his thick skull. It took longer than I'd hoped, but no longer than I'd expected. He stared down at the blood, then squalled and began rolling it across the cement with his paws.
Oh, man. I hissed and he looked up, obviously surprised. Balancing on my hind feet, I waved my paws at him and then deliberately put them down flat on the dumpster lid. One, two. One, two. Footprints, idiot.
He blinked, looked down at his bloody paws and then jumped into a puddle. With a final glance back at the scene of the crime, he leaped up to the dumpster lid and followed me across the rooftops.
Part 15
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Spirit release
Spirit will be out on July 1. I don't know whether the jitters are excitement or terror.
Valerian (Val) Howell has no intention of using the Spirit skills she was born with, until she stands over the body of another spirit worker at a murder scene.
At that point she has a choice. It's either use those skills or get flattened, with the dubious help of an irritatingly attractive coworker-turned-bodyguard who just might be working for her enemies.
She's tangled in a web of memories that aren't even hers, fighting an enemy she can't see with weapons she's never taught herself to use.
Why can't anything dealing with Spirit be simple?
Sample:
I'd deliberately picked Caliente to see if he could be put off by the decor―or the food. The food's taken a sharp downward turn since the old cook left. Ethan didn't seem concerned, didn't even seem to notice the ancient hairless moose-head hanging in the shadows eying us balefully. Did it resent that we were still alive?
"I don't want anyone to know." I glared at him. "And you mention it you're dead."
What seemed to be eight generations of layered decorations, from old autographed pictures of Elvis Presley to Chianti bottles and stuffed deer heads, made the shadows into a tasteful person's nightmare. Somewhere off in a high corner something with more than two eyes glared down at us. I ignored it.
"Why? Lots of people have minor sensitivities."
I loaded a chip with salsa and crunched into it, then held up a finger as if my mouth was full. Polite. Yeah, right. It gave me time to think. "Lots of people aren't me. I don't want people demanding I do spirit work for them. I open those eyes, I'm legally liable." Thankfully foretelling had never been one of my skills so I couldn't tell anyone whether they were in line to get that promotion or if their boyfriend was going to propose.
Then again, in some cases foretelling might have been useful. This was one of them. His eyes widened slightly, and I wondered again why I hadn't just gotten in my car and driven away rather than stalking over to confront him in the parking lot. I'd just told him that not only was I sensitive, but sensitive enough to interpret what I saw.
"Then why are you here?" He waved a hand, presumably meaning not so much the schmaltzy, old fashioned restaurant as the office we both worked in. Why not join a highly lucrative profession where my skills could be utilized?
"Because," I said patiently, "I don't want to use it." The reasons behind that would take more time than he would want to spend on me. Twenty three years of living with Môma, to be precise.
Valerian (Val) Howell has no intention of using the Spirit skills she was born with, until she stands over the body of another spirit worker at a murder scene.
At that point she has a choice. It's either use those skills or get flattened, with the dubious help of an irritatingly attractive coworker-turned-bodyguard who just might be working for her enemies.
She's tangled in a web of memories that aren't even hers, fighting an enemy she can't see with weapons she's never taught herself to use.
Why can't anything dealing with Spirit be simple?
Sample:
I'd deliberately picked Caliente to see if he could be put off by the decor―or the food. The food's taken a sharp downward turn since the old cook left. Ethan didn't seem concerned, didn't even seem to notice the ancient hairless moose-head hanging in the shadows eying us balefully. Did it resent that we were still alive?
"I don't want anyone to know." I glared at him. "And you mention it you're dead."
What seemed to be eight generations of layered decorations, from old autographed pictures of Elvis Presley to Chianti bottles and stuffed deer heads, made the shadows into a tasteful person's nightmare. Somewhere off in a high corner something with more than two eyes glared down at us. I ignored it.
"Why? Lots of people have minor sensitivities."
I loaded a chip with salsa and crunched into it, then held up a finger as if my mouth was full. Polite. Yeah, right. It gave me time to think. "Lots of people aren't me. I don't want people demanding I do spirit work for them. I open those eyes, I'm legally liable." Thankfully foretelling had never been one of my skills so I couldn't tell anyone whether they were in line to get that promotion or if their boyfriend was going to propose.
Then again, in some cases foretelling might have been useful. This was one of them. His eyes widened slightly, and I wondered again why I hadn't just gotten in my car and driven away rather than stalking over to confront him in the parking lot. I'd just told him that not only was I sensitive, but sensitive enough to interpret what I saw.
"Then why are you here?" He waved a hand, presumably meaning not so much the schmaltzy, old fashioned restaurant as the office we both worked in. Why not join a highly lucrative profession where my skills could be utilized?
"Because," I said patiently, "I don't want to use it." The reasons behind that would take more time than he would want to spend on me. Twenty three years of living with Môma, to be precise.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Wyre Rat (part 13)
Ahead, a faint scuffle. Angry squeaks and squeals, the snarl of some kind of predator. My twitching nose told me that someone had cornered a stupid cat.
I strolled forward, and looked up at the dumpster where I'd almost had to sleep the night before. Then I cocked my head to the side and looked around the edge.
A cat, yes. From the patterns, probably the same cat that had followed me before.
I considered that momentarily, remembering the animals that had walked casually into the Center. Wyre Containment Facility. Even as a rat, I shivered.
Red eyes flashed and the cat crouched down. This had to be a real cat--surely a wyre wouldn't actually hunt a rat that way...
The cat pounced, and the smallish rat turned and ran. It scuttled close to the wall, dodging teeth and claws when necessary, and squished itself down into a space that most humans would have considered too small for its bulk.
The cat snarled at the hole, its claws flexing.
Unconcerned now, I sat easily on my haunches and watched the play.
As if the cat sensed me, sensed my attention, it spun. In doing so it put its back to the hole it had been watching and the rat slithered out and ran right to a pile of garbage. It burrowed in and held very still.
Smart rodent.
The cat glared at me, crouched again. Stupid cat. I looked away toward the mouth of the alley, pretending I didn't care about the predator a few feet away.
He squashed himself flatter to the pavement, his hind-end twitching. I watched him, spread my own claws and bared my teeth--still not looking at him. If he was human he'd see that as the insult it was. If he wasn't, he'd maybe get a brain and run.
I saw the anger. His ears laid back.
Human. Wyre.
Part 14
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
I strolled forward, and looked up at the dumpster where I'd almost had to sleep the night before. Then I cocked my head to the side and looked around the edge.
A cat, yes. From the patterns, probably the same cat that had followed me before.
I considered that momentarily, remembering the animals that had walked casually into the Center. Wyre Containment Facility. Even as a rat, I shivered.
Red eyes flashed and the cat crouched down. This had to be a real cat--surely a wyre wouldn't actually hunt a rat that way...
The cat pounced, and the smallish rat turned and ran. It scuttled close to the wall, dodging teeth and claws when necessary, and squished itself down into a space that most humans would have considered too small for its bulk.
The cat snarled at the hole, its claws flexing.
Unconcerned now, I sat easily on my haunches and watched the play.
As if the cat sensed me, sensed my attention, it spun. In doing so it put its back to the hole it had been watching and the rat slithered out and ran right to a pile of garbage. It burrowed in and held very still.
Smart rodent.
The cat glared at me, crouched again. Stupid cat. I looked away toward the mouth of the alley, pretending I didn't care about the predator a few feet away.
He squashed himself flatter to the pavement, his hind-end twitching. I watched him, spread my own claws and bared my teeth--still not looking at him. If he was human he'd see that as the insult it was. If he wasn't, he'd maybe get a brain and run.
I saw the anger. His ears laid back.
Human. Wyre.
Part 14
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wyre Rat (Part 12)
I sat, swishing my tail like a stupid cat, eyes half shut as I watched. No one came in and no one left. Some time after midnight I saw the first movement--three animals approached the big doors. A dog and two cats, it looked like, although the dog was small and furry.
The door swung open--not from either side, but from the middle. The animals walked in as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
So at least some of the wyre were not being held prisoner. Some worked with their captors.
One of the cats turned and looked back just before it walked through the doors, looked right at me.
Time to go.
I scuttled through the bushes, looking for any hint that I was seen or followed. This whole thing was looking more and more like a trap, probably set just for me.
I got back out to the main street and crept through the shadows away from that place. I had enough information, if I left now. They could send someone else in, infiltrate the place.
I scuttled back through the alleys and streets, lost myself. Not literally, but I ran around in enough circles to confuse anything but a 'bot. At a sound in the alley ahead of me I pressed myself against the wall, whiskers quivering. My ears shifted forward and back to pick up the sound if any humans approached.
Part 13
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
The door swung open--not from either side, but from the middle. The animals walked in as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
So at least some of the wyre were not being held prisoner. Some worked with their captors.
One of the cats turned and looked back just before it walked through the doors, looked right at me.
Time to go.
I scuttled through the bushes, looking for any hint that I was seen or followed. This whole thing was looking more and more like a trap, probably set just for me.
I got back out to the main street and crept through the shadows away from that place. I had enough information, if I left now. They could send someone else in, infiltrate the place.
I scuttled back through the alleys and streets, lost myself. Not literally, but I ran around in enough circles to confuse anything but a 'bot. At a sound in the alley ahead of me I pressed myself against the wall, whiskers quivering. My ears shifted forward and back to pick up the sound if any humans approached.
Part 13
If you want to start at the beginning: Wyre-Rat episode 1
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