Tell us about yourself in 50 words or less.

Impossible! LOL. That's a hard question. Let's see - I'm married to a polo player and I love to travel. I have three children - twin boys in college and a daughter just starting junior high. I'm easily distracted. I paint and draw as well as write, but I can't sing or dance. I love to cook, but I can't sew or knit. I'm dyslexic and can't tell time, but I have a good sense of direction and never get lost. I hate to drive, but I love to fly. If I won the lottery I'd travel all over the world. (is that 50 yet?)


If you could be any other writer, who would it be and why?

I'd be Shakespeare - well, I can dream, can't I? I'd love to go back in time and see history in the making. Shakespeare is one of my favorite all-time writers, and he lived in an interesting time period. (Plus there are those cool costumes.)


What are your writing plans for this year and what have you done most recently?

Right now I am finishing up a novella for Changeling Press for the Paradise Earth series. After that, I'd really like to get back to my Elf Song series. It's been in my files for two years now and I never got the time to finish it! And I love Llewellwyn! LOL. I have a science fiction/fantasy book for all ages coming out in December with Medallion Press called 'Horse Passages' (under my real name, Jennifer Macaire) and I just finished edits for 'A World Between', which will be paired with 'Virtual Murder' for Loose Id. I'm really excited about that. The two stories are very different, yet use the same science fiction technology of virtual worlds. I'm very pleased with all my books this year, and I can't wait to share them with my readers. .

What is the process you use when you first start to write a story-or do you use any process at all? (You plot out the scenes, outline the story, etc.) If you could do it differently, how would you do it?

I do use outlines, but they are very flexible. Most of the time they change dramatically. I like character driven books, but I don't neglect plot. I'm a picky writer and it takes a long time for me to finish a book, but I don't like to hurry. I get so involved with the protagonists that I feel like they're my friends. I hope my readers get that feeling too! If I could write differently, I would like to be able to write straight through a book and not keep stopping to proofread every day. That takes a lot of time, but I can't seem to stop doing it.

It's a change of season now-what is your favorite thing about fall? Least favorite?

I love fall because of the colors, the smell of dry leaves, the mist in the mornings, and the bonfires we can light in the garden. I love fat pumpkins and gathering nuts. I love an Indian summer, when fall turns hot and dry, and the grass in the fields is all golden. I don't like the end of fall, when the leaves have all gone and the sky turns winter gray. When the rains come, I usually close the shutters and turn on all the lights in the house! I love being cozily wrapped up in flannel with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, but mostly the gray and the cold depresses me.


What's something you haven't done yet that you've always wanted to do?

I want to see the Grand Canyon. My grandfather and I were talking about all the things we wanted to do before we die, and that's on the top of our list, lol. I would really love to go see that, and take the tour on the little donkeys. Is that still around, I wonder? Oh, and I have always wanted to go up in a balloon or a glider.

Excerpt from Battle's Bride
by Samantha Winston
from Loose Id
ISBN 1-59632-098-2
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Battle stared at the woman on the ground. Her skin was fair, with a smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Dark blond hair, and green eyes, if he recalled correctly. Nothing at all like Maevis, who, with her raven hair and flashing violet eyes, had been tied to the post since that morning. As far as he knew, no one had let her out of sight. How was it, then, that this woman had come to take her place? Battle liked puzzles. He had a sharp mind for math and Latin. But this smacked of witchcraft, and he didn't like to dabble in the occult. Not to mention the fact that it was highly illegal to be a witch.

With a sigh, he slid his claymore into its sheath and stooped to pick up the lady.

"There now, lass," he said kindly, as her eyelashes fluttered and she stirred in his arms.

"This is all a dream, right?"She kept her eyes closed.

"'Tis so if you insist." Battle decided to go along with her. He held her close to his chest and started down the road. His horse was tethered around the bend. She didn't weigh much, he mused. Her rump sure felt fine beneath his hand, though. Her breasts pressed against him, and the wet cloth didn't hide much. He untied his horse one-handed and, clutching the woman to his chest, clambered into the saddle.

"Whoa, Thistle," he said to his horse.

"There's no place like home," whimpered the woman in his arms.

"Aye, that's the truth," Battled agreed. She looked pale, and her lips had started to turn blue with cold. He sighed and hugged her closer. "We're almost home. Only another hour."

Her eyes flew open. Green and brown, and as clear as water running over mossy stones. And terrified.

"There now, don't go having hysterics again. I'll get you home soon, and you'll tell me how you came to be in Maevis's place on the bonfire." As he spoke, he wrapped his heavy woollen blanket around them both. The thick, boiled wool was nearly waterproof, and soon the combined warmth of their bodies stopped her shivering.

He pulled the wool a little higher, so that her head was covered, and turned his horse toward home. His horse knew the way and picked up its pace, breaking into a ground-eating canter.

"I never rode a horse before," said the woman. She sounded a bit odd.

"Are you all right?" Battle looked down at her.

She blinked. "Fine, thank you. This is the most amazing dream I've ever had. I don't think I've ever thought of being tied to a bonfire or wrapped in a woolen tent before."

"Aye, well, why don't you try to rest a bit? Close your eyes and go to sleep." Battle hitched her up a bit more, as she'd started to slide off his lap. She didn't weigh much, and he was strong enough to carry her all the way home. He'd done this before with a heifer with a broken leg, and it was far easier carrying a soft, agreeably scented woman. Her perfume, a light fragrance that reminded him of spring flowers, tickled his nose.

"I must be in a very deep coma," came her voice again. "And if I'm dreaming, it's all right to say that you're a very handsome guy."

"The name's Battle, not Guy," said Battle. He shifted again. Her scent and the feel of her warmth and soft curves made his cock stiffen. In their position, it pressed right up against her buttocks. He tried not to think about that. He tried to think of things that would make his unruly cock calm down. He'd always been proud of the fact he didn't masturbate and could control himself. The priests had scared him with tales of blindness, and since he was in charge of his castle and outlying village, he couldn't risk going blind. He never touched his cock. He controlled it with his mind. Let's see... what could he think of? Usually thinking of the priest did it, but this time, the priest kept turning into the pretty lass on his lap. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine something repulsive.

"You know, you have a hard-on," the woman continued with a little giggle. The giggle made his cock even stiffer.

"A hard-on? What's that?" Battle asked, opening his eyes and looking at her. Big mistake.

She twisted her head around and stared at him with her clear, mossy-green eyes. Her pink lips curled in a saucy smile. "You don't know? Well, that does it. I'm dreaming. The hunkiest male I've seen in ages puts me on his lap and carries me away on his white horse." She nodded. "It is a white horse. You are the handsome prince on a white horse with a humungous hard-on." She giggled again. "I mean you have a hard-on, not your horse." She moved, pressing more of her anatomy firmly against his cock. "Hmmm. That feels good. I wonder if I can get my underwear off?" She reached down, and before he could figure out what she was up to, she wriggled her hips and lifted her dress up to her waist.

"What are you doing?" Battle hadn't fallen off his horse since he was a lad. But if she kept up her antics, he was going to take a tumble. Already he was having trouble keeping his breathing normal, and he'd lost most of the feeling in his legs and arms; all he could feel was her hands gripping his cock right through his kilt. His cock was now the center of his universe. He felt a wave of blistering heat wash over him, and he had to gasp for breath. "Stop that!" He tried to let go of the reins to pull her hands away, but for some reason, his brain refused to listen.

"Skittish, aren't you?" she said. "Let's see. I've heard that men don't wear anything under their kilts. Is that true?" She found the fold of cloth that closed his kilt and pulled it back. "It's true; it's true!" she cried, and burst out laughing. "Oh, my. This is a wonderful dream."

 

Elisa Adams
http://www.elisaadams.com

Excerpt from Night Creatures
available now from Changeling Press

Chapter 1

Thick layers of mist swirled up from the ground, wrapping its clammy fingers around Juliana's ankles. She quickened her pace. The heels of her sandals clacked against the uneven stone floor, the only noise echoing through the otherwise silent tunnel. The sharp, staccato beats mimicked the pounding of her heart. Monstrous wrought iron sconces held burning white candles, their flames painting flickering shadows on the walls.

She shivered and glanced at her surroundings -- unknown, yet at the same time strangely familiar. She'd seen this place before.

In her nightmares.

Nightmares she spent every waking minute trying to forget. A chill hung in the damp air, thick and humid, a living entity invisible in the dim lighting. It danced across her skin like ghosts flitting through the night. Goose bumps rose in its wake. The rancid scents of putrid salt water and rotting seaweed coated her nostrils, getting stronger the deeper she went into the bowels of the tunnel. Bile burned her throat, as much from the stench as from the terror that raced through her bloodstream and made her pulse pound in her ears. Still, she pushed onward. What choice did she have? In front of her or behind her, the tunnel led to the same place.

To hell.

The ground slanted suddenly beneath her feet, angling to take her deeper underground. She wobbled and pitched forward. Her arms shot out to catch her, but it was too late. She hit the ground with a sickening thud. The tender skin on her knees tearing as they connected with the rough stones.

A cold sweat peppered her forehead. She swiped it away with her palm, coating her skin with the slimy filth that covered the floor. Algae, rotten seaweed, and who knew what else. Her stomach turned. She pushed up to her feet and glanced behind her. Nothing but darkness greeted her. Something had extinguished all the candles she'd passed. There was no way for her to return, even if she'd been brave enough to face what awaited her at the mouth of the tunnel. Her only choice was to press ahead and pray that nothing deadly met her at the end.

A few dozen feet ahead of her, a soft yellow glow filtered through the thick air. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel? Somehow she doubted it would be that easy. Still, what more could she do than follow it? It would be better than stumbling back through the dark unknown. Part of her knew what she'd face when she reached the end, but her mind had blocked it from her memory.

As she stepped closer, the soft sounds of chanting reached her ears. Unintelligible words, spoken in harsh murmurs, many voices speaking together as one. She swallowed hard against the lump of ice clogging her throat. There were people there, at least. Whether or not they would help her remained to be seen.

When Juliana reached the end of the tunnel, the uneven ground gave way to a steep, narrow staircase cutting harshly through the stone. She hesitated only a moment before descending, instinct urging her forward and at the same time, warning her away.

The chanting grew louder, the light brighter, as she made her way down the slippery steps. When she finally reached the bottom, the stairway emptied into a cavernous stone room that smelled of the sea. And blood. The coppery tang filled the air and she nearly gagged on its intensity. But a brief search of the room produced no sign of the red liquid.

Her gaze fell on a group of people, clad in black cloaks, gathered in the center of the roughly circular stone room. They knelt in a circle around a granite platform draped in red cloth. An altar, of sorts. A woman lay on top, every inch of her fair skin exposed to the eyes of all kneeling around her. Her eyes were closed, her body unmoving. Was she dead?

Fear drove a jagged spike through Juliana's heart. Whatever awaited her at the mouth of the tunnel had to be better than this. She backed up a step, but not before they noticed her presence. The chanting stopped and a sea of faces, gaunt and watery with eyes that glowed an angry red, turned toward her. A scream pierced the air. It took her a moment to realize the scream was her own.

 

Rachel Bo
http://webpages.charter.net/rachelbo

GUARDIANS 2: BIRTH OF RIVALRY by Rachel Bo.
Available now at www.changelingpress.com
Copyright 2005 - all rights reserved.

Seated before him on their mount, Ysa could not avoid the touch of Pan’s lean body against hers, but she meant to speak to him as little as possible. He had murdered her betrothed. True, Vitale still lived, but that was despite Pandolfo. She suppressed a shiver. Her love was changed, now, in a way that both excited and frightened her. She wondered when he would come, for she did not doubt that he would, and what she would say.

Finally, however, she could hold her tongue no longer. “Why are we not heading north, to Genoa?” Pan had been leading them steadily northeast.

“They will be watching the road to Genoa. I have friends in Spoleto who will allow us to stay with them until Orphieto ceases the hunt.”

He spoke so calmly, as though this were a pleasant walk through the garden. His lack of emotion was even worse when Ysa remembered he did not know his cousin had not died. She choked back a sob. “Do you feel nothing, Pandolfo? For Vitale?”

He shrugged, his shoulders nudging hers. “If not for my cousin’s bad aim, I would be the one lying dead in that clearing.” His breath singed her ears as he whispered, “Would you cry for me, Ysa, if I were lying there?”

“You are not my betrothed.”

“Was,” Pan reminded gruffly. “He was your betrothed. Now he is gone, and our fates are joined. You will never be able to return to Orphieto. Your uncle will disown you, and there is no one else for you, Ysa. But Genoa will welcome her son back. She does not care about the affairs of country cousins. My family has money and influence -- I still have a place there. You have only me now, Ysa. You are mine.” His tone was triumphant, and one hand slid up her waist, cupping her breast.

Ysa bit her lip. Even now, after what he had done, Pan’s touch lit a guilty fire in her belly that yearned to be fed. She squirmed, but did not push his hand away. “He is not dead, Pan. He lives.”

Pandolfo abruptly reined in his horse. “What?”

Ysa felt a small measure of satisfaction at the shock in his voice. “Vitale lives.” She tossed her hair in his face. “You always call me your little witch. It’s true, Pan. The Mother came for me, and she granted Vitale life.”

Pandolfo was quiet for a moment, then began chuckling. He clicked his teeth to urge the stallion forward again, still laughing. “You always hated the way the village children whispered witch behind your back. The shock of his death has you dreaming, Ysa.”

“You saw her.” She felt the muscles in his arm tighten. His hand squeezed her breast painfully. She was glad for his anxiety, but ashamed as a flood of moisture gathered between her thighs in response to his rough touch. “You were not laughing when she made your feet move, Pan.” He gripped the reins in his right hand. Remembering the slash of lightning, she reached out and grasped his right forearm, covered by the loose sleeve of his shirt. The edge of his sleeve fell back, revealing red, tender skin -- not charred as she had expected.

Still, he hissed with pain, the hand at her breast moving to clutch her ribs, his arm crushing until she couldn’t breathe. Ysa let go. When his grip had loosened, she laughed. “You are cursed, Pan. And after she sent you away, she granted me a boon. Vitale is changed, but he is alive, and he will come for me.”

“He will have to find you first,” Pan growled. “Until then…” The hand not gripping the reins brushed lightly over her brow, fingers tangling in her hair and pulling her head around. “You are mine.” His lips claimed hers -- grinding, punishing.

Ysa thought of Vitale and knew she should pull away, but Pan’s assault created such a throbbing in her lips, a beat echoed by a fierce pulse between her legs. Ysa moaned, and Pan caught her swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He nipped it sharply, sending a stab of pleasure to her woman’s place that made her cry out. “You see, Ysa?” he whispered maliciously. “No matter how you deny it, you belong to me.”

“Your touch may please me,” Ysa murmured, “but you do not have my heart.”

“I will.” Pan’s tongue swept across her lip. “I will.”

 

Treva Harte
http://www.trevaharte.com

WHY ME?
by Treva Harte
now in e-book and print from Loose Id (www.loose-id.com):

Since he was definitely awake now, Cassie turned on the radio, pushed the volume up and then put her foot on the accelerator.

“I’m not talking to you. I’m driving.” She paused for a while and then said, a little belligerently, “What’s wrong with New York City?”

“Never liked the place. Besides, that means we have several hours to drive.”

“And driving now bothers you?”

“Waiting several hours to get you in bed bothers me. It’s starting to bother me a lot.”

Hands unbuttoning her shirt. Short dark hair tickling against her body as he moved his head down from her breasts to her belly button and then to her thighs. Going further down yet with that flickering, relentless tongue of his. His teeth bit, then his mouth sucked. Then she felt his tongue reaching her pubic curls. Cassie was sweating. Wynn’s hair was damp. They’d been at this for hours and hours. They’d be at this for hours more.

This time Cassie knew she did blush. There was no doubt about it. That was a wonderful fantasy but not hers. She just wouldn’t -- even if she hadn’t felt the heat going up her face, she would have known by the satisfied smirk on Wynn’s face. They were sharing his ideas this time.

Fine. Let him smirk. They were still in for a long trip. She could create plenty more sex scenarios in her head.

Cassie wondered when she had learned to switch from sharing just words in her mind to mental images. That seemed like she was getting better at linking.

Obviously Wynn was well able to see her mental images too. Only too well. Oh, God. That was embarrassing. Exciting but still embarrassing.