Friday, August 23, 2013

HYBRID BOOKS, ARE THEY SALEABLE?

WHEN I WAS AT WHEN WORDS COLLIDE IN CALGARY, one of the reading panels I was on was the ‘Hybrid Historical Readings’ panel, which I shared with Graeme Brown and Ronald Hore. As we only had an hour to read, we didn’t have time to talk about what we considered a hybrid novel to be, or how cross-genre books fit into the ever changing paradigm of the publishing world.

Six months earlier and before I signed with Five Rivers Publishing: when my agent was hoping to interest one of the Big Five Publishers in New York, she was told, over and over, that the editors liked The Tattooed Witch, but there was one problem: they didn’t know where it would fit in a bookstore. I went to Jasper, Alberta, on a writing and evaluation retreat. On one of the worst weekends of my life, I considered rewriting the book as a women’s historical. I thought of giving up the vision, of tossing the magic, of limiting the love interest to only one (because, by formula, romance readers want only one love interest, not two). I spent an entire Saturday re-reading Witch and not knowing whether the book was any good or not. On the following Sunday, I vacillated between feeling numb and crying my eyes out. I’d spent six years on this novel, and I was being asked to consider rewriting it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t. If I turned it into a strictly historical, I would destroy it. I would snuff the life from it, I would kill its soul.

One month later, I foresook visions of fame and riches and signed with Five Rivers Publishing, a small, but high quality press. Robert Runté, Editor in Chief, had heard me read the first two chapters from Witch two years earlier at When Words Collide, 2011. He told me then, that if I couldn't interest a big house, he would take the book. Luckily for me, not everyone thinks or works the way the Big Five do.

After the When Words Collide panel, I asked Robert for his take on hybrid books and how often they cross his desk at Five Rivers Publishing. This is what he had to say:

“It’s true that a lot of hybrid books come our way. The big presses are run by their marketing departments rather than editorial. After an editor pulls a book from the solicited submissions and advocates for it through the chain of the editorial department, it's the Director of Marketing and his army of sales reps who get the final word. And there’s no arguing with that, because the big presses have to make money for their shareholders. It would be irresponsible of them to choose books merely because they are good, when what matters is that they sell. They owe it to their shareholders to make a predictable return on investment (and the big publishers carry gigantic levels of debt and overhead) so they have to rely on the tried and true marketing channels.

Even the smaller presses, if they are tied to the legacy model of fixed print runs, cannot handle hybrids. It's difficult to risk your shirt on a novel you don't know how to market. In contrast, we at Five Rivers have no problem marketing it, because our category is 'great novels', or  ‘yet another Five Rivers-vetted novel'. We can take risks others can't, because we have low overheads and because the editors are still in charge - not marketing, not shareholders looking for a safe investment. Our sales model is built on the slow build, on word of mouth, on teachers adopting class sets. Three or four thousand copies a year would be too few for a large publisher to bother keeping a title in print, but over a decade, that's 40,000 sales the author didn't make. With the new publishing model, we'd be quite satisfied with 1,000 copies of a title a year, because that adds up to a significant piece of change over a couple of decades, and sales go up each time an author releases a new title, plus each time the press has another hit. So we can risk books that are cross-overs, or are too original, or are too ‘not-exactly-like-this-year's-best-seller’, because we're looking for great books, not safe, predictable sellers. 

 We believe there are still discriminating readers out there who follow authors and imprints and are not necessarily limited to a single bookshelf or category in a bookstore. And so far, we've been correct. We're already in the black after only three years in operation, which is considered an exceptionally strong showing in the publishing industry (and that, without any government subsidies).”

(Me again: I think what really makes me feel happy about Five Rivers taking on a hybrid book like The Tattooed Witch is summed up in this final statement from Robert.)

“I want to publish quality books, which means books that authors are really passionate about, not books dictated by agents and editors based on what they think (notoriously inaccurately) will sell. I want books with soul, not books that have been engineered to market specifics. I want to hear the author's voice, not that of a focus group. I’m not looking to publish titles that sell by meeting the lowest common denominator. I want, and have been getting, quality writing by writers who are writing from their vision, not a publishers’ needs. My fear is if we get a cross-over shelf in bookstores, then we'll get agents telling authors, “I could sell this if you just added a romance-paranormal sub-theme!" Bah, humbug! All it has to be to me is brilliant.”

(Thank you, Robert. You've restored my faith in the industry and in myself.)

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

GUEST INTERVIEW WITH MICHELL PLESTED, AUTHOR OF MIK MURDOCH, BOY SUPERHERO


I JUST FINISHED READING MICHELL PLESTED'S YA NOVEL, Mik Murdoch, Boy Superhero. Despite my editing Tesseracts Fifteen: A Case of Quite Curious Tales (a YA anthology published two years ago through Edge Publishing), I don't usually choose YA books to read for pleasure. This time, I'm glad I did. Once again, I'm surprised at how much I enjoyed reading a YA novel. I loved it because not only did it make me laugh (and cry), it was a refreshing and quick read that reminded me of what it is to be young. I wish I'd had this book to share with my own boys when they were little. Here are the questions I put to Michell:

1. To start off, please give us a short description of the novel. To what age is the book targeted? Was it your intention for the book to be read by that age group, as well as parents who might read the book aloud to their children? Mik Murdoch, Boy Superhero is the story of an eight year-old boy who decides to become a superhero to protect his home town of Cranberry Flats. The book is intended for ages 8 - 13 but it's been enjoyed by much younger children (read aloud by parents) and much older people. The oldest person I've heard from was 55 years-old who enjoyed the book. 

2. What was your inspiration for the book? I read a lot of comic books when I was young. I always wanted to have super powers of my own. This story has been percolating in my mind since I was a student in high school. When it was time to write the story, I used personal experiences, stories told to me by my family and my own imagination to create the story and world of Mik Murdoch. 

3. The novel is set in the small town of Cranberry Flats. Is Cranberry Flats based on a real location? What is your personal experience of small farming towns? Cranberry Flats is meant to be an every town with a strong influence from my home town. While I don't ever say it’s in Alberta (again, every town), the prairies definitely influenced the setting. I grew up on a farm outside of Ponoka, Alberta and went to school there. I spent a lot of time walking around the town and know it very well. 

4. As much as you engage young readers with fun plot elements that will appeal (tree forts, caring for a pet, wanting to be a superhero), you also deal with difficult themes – bullying and its roots, poverty, criminal activity, and delinquent behavior.  Did you have these issues in mind when you started writing the book? Why these particular concerns? When I was writing the novel, I wanted there to be an element of realism to it. I didn't want it to be just about silliness. Kids can see through that from a mile away. There had to be story lines that would resonate with reader, so I had to give some thought to what kids see. Bullying was number one on the list. The criminal part was a natural fit with Mik being a superhero. Delinquency found its way into the story naturally. 

5. For only being eight, turning nine years-old, Mik is a wonderful character. He’s inventive, brave, compassionate, and protective of his family and town. I love the fact that he learns some valuable lessons along the way, ie. honesty is the best policy (when he realizes he needs to confess to his parents about his involvement in rounding up the Halloween candy bandits), a good deed is its own reward (when he uses his own birthday money to provide food for Ed and Lucy Clancy and their baby), and to never give up (when he and Miss Purdy fall into a cave and can’t get out). Did you set out to write about these things as a way to encourage young people to act honestly, bravely, and with compassion? Is this your way of providing an example? Mik is the kid I wanted to be when I was growing up. In many ways, he’s the person I want to be now. I didn't want the story to be preachy. I wanted it to be fun and inspirational for whoever reads it. I wanted to show that good deeds can be their own reward, but there are costs to taking risks, as well. 

6. I found the book extremely funny in places. I loved Mik discovering what happens when he microwaves bugs, or when he pokes a zombie and it turns out to be Mr. McGrady taking a nap. I’m sure most young readers will find the farting and oil-pooping steers hilarious. Kids and adults find different things funny. How do you choose what to include? How do you set things up so they’re funny? One of the things I learned when I was writing Mik Murdoch is that when you’re young, everything is new. I thought back to some of my first experiences and how serious they seemed at the time, but funny when I look back on them. I put those stories in for multiple reasons: as a bit of a lesson for those youth who haven't run across the problem, as a laugh for people who have seen something like it before, and to show Mik’s innocence. The microwave oven scene is a favourite of mine. Just before it happens, the audience is already groaning and anticipating the punch line, which is fun. When I write humour, it’s usually situational. You and I would know that Mr. McGrady is taking a nap. A boy with Mik’s imagination automatically thinks he's dead. The difference in perspective—Mik's and the readers—is where the humour comes out. 

7. The major fantasy element in the book is when Mik and Miss Purdy, the librarian, discover the Migitak Cave of Magic. Are the Migitaks based on a real First Nations people? Does an actual First Nations myth of a magical cave that bestows magical powers on whoever can find it, exist? The Migitaks are not a real First Nation's people, but they are based on many of the tribes I have read about and have encountered personally. I didn't want to use an actual indigenous tribe because I never want to be disrespectful of any one people. I created the Migitaks to have the same sense of love of nature and stewardship of the natural world that actual First Nations people have as a way to honour them all. The magical cave is purely a story construct, although I know that the mythos of the magical cave has been used before in folklore and legend.  

8. You leave some parts of the plot unfinished, which makes me wonder what more is going to happen to Mik. You’ve just finished penning the sequel. Will we see more of the Turkey Men and The Boss? Miss Purdy and her new Superhero powers? Mik and the magical red berry given to him by the Migitak Elder? I purposely left some story threads dangling, because Mik's story is far from over. In fact, there are plans for at least five more books in the series. The magical red berry will be important in the next story. Will Mik get a power from the berry? Possibly. The Big Boss may, or may not, show up again. The Turkey Men were hired goons who can be replaced by pretty much anyone. You also asked about Ms. Purdy. I'd like to write a series about her one day. I just need the time to write it. She might show up in future Mik Murdoch books, but I don't have any concrete plans for her at this time. The character you should really be asking about, and who shows up in the future, is the Migitak Elder. The book I just finished writing, Mik Murdoch: The Power Within, is about consequences. While protecting Cranberry Flats and its citizens, Mik gains the attention of a vicious flash mob and is forced into hiding. The thing about being a boy superhero is, there's always some mystery or another that needs investigating, no matter where he is. Will Mik unravel the mysteries he's faced with and be able to go home? Only time, and a lot of luck, will tell.

(Thanks, Michell. If you'd like to read Mik Murdoch, Boy Superhero, or buy it for a young reader who will enjoy it, you can purchase it from Five Rivers Publishing here. Mik Murdoch: The Power Within will be released some time next year.)

Michell's Bio: Michell (Mike) Plested is an author, editor, blogger, and podcaster living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He writes in multiple genres, particularly Science Fiction, Fantasy, and YA Adventure. He's the host of several pod-casts including Get Published, (2009, 2011 and 2013 Parsec Finalist), the SciFi/Comedy Galaxy Billies (Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy meets The Beverley Hillbillies) and Boyscouts of the Apocalypse (Zombie horror meets boy scouts), a part of the Action Pack Podcast. His debut novel Mik Murdoch, Boy Superhero was published August 1, 2012 and is on the Prix Aurora shortlist ballot for Best YA Novel. His anthology, A Method to the Madness: A Guide to the Super Evil was released in April, 2013. 

Next Post: Hybrid Books: it's a Fantasy, it's an Historical, it's a Noir...Just What Genre is It? And is it Saleable?

Stay tuned.

Monday, August 12, 2013

WRITING COACHES - DO I NEED ONE?



THE FOLLOWING IS A GUEST POST by Rachel Sentes of gal-friday publicity. I've featured Rachel on Suzenyms before, and she always comes at the writing process from an interesting angle. This time, she talks about writing coaches, what they do, and whether a writer should use one. 

IN THE LAST FEW YEARS, the term 'coach' has been overused and has lost value, because anyone can declare they are one. There doesn’t seem to be any regulation or monitoring in the life, business, creativity, or writing coach arena. Sports coaches have to have some academic schooling and training on their resume, but it doesn’t seem like you need much of anything to declare yourself a writing coach.

The terms 'Writing Coach' and 'Life Coach for Writers' are often interchanged and I never understood who needed this kind of person. Shouldn’t a writer just sit down and write? Writing can be hard. What does a writer need a coach for? I wanted to know the answer to these questions after I received a manuscript that had been mapped out by a writing coach. The author was enthusiastic and fully committed to getting his book completed at breakneck speed. The outline of the book was succinct and well ordered, the timelines for completion seemed achievable, but the actual manuscript was a mess. I thought, "What's the point of having a great organizer help you, if the structure and content are unreadable? Why would a coach not mention that the writing isn’t yet publishable?"

After doing some research, I discovered (for the most part) that a writing coach doesn’t work with a writer to critique the content or edit work. She helps the writer with his process and makes him accountable so he achieves specific goals. If you're looking for someone to validate how great your story is, you won't get that. What you will get is a great resource who has expertise in helping you  reach goals and learn the value of your writing. A good coach can answer your questions about how to map and time manage your career. She will boost you when you're feeling discouraged. Coaches set achievable goals, hold you accountable for your work, push you through roadblocks, and counteract self-sabotage, with the end goal being your project's completion. 


Every writer is different, and every coach will have a different take on the work they want to do with you. Not everyone works well on his own. Some writers need someone to monitor them, to make sure they hit deadlines, and to push them when they aren’t self-starters. Many need that kind of interaction to keep them going. The people who hire writing coaches are often the same ones who join weekly writing groups to discuss their work.

If you decide to hire a writing coach, remember that you're about to work with someone in an area that is very personal to you (what writer hasn’t referred to their manuscript as their baby'?). Therefore, you need to make sure that you're going to get along with this person. Have a discussion with the coach to find out as much about them as possible. Ask to see their contract, fees, and get them to explain how they work. They won't do your writing for you; that's your job. If you don’t think you can take direction from them, this could be a problem.  


Once you think you’ve found a coach, look over their fees and consider their methods. Most should have a decent resume in the field. If they promise you instant success, move on; these coaches often have an ulterior motive for signing you up. Watch for 'up sales' right out of the gate. While it's common for writing coaches to offer other services, it shouldn’t be a requirement that you buy them. 

The writing coach industry is unregulated, and as such, so are the fees that are charged. Shop around for your best fit. I've seen fees ranging from $100.00/hour to $1,500.00 for three months. It’s rare to find a writing coach who is actually certified. Indeed, the only certification process I found was something called a Creativity Coach Course that takes twelve to eighteen months to complete for $2,900.00. What it provides, I’m still not certain, but I think it was a basic psychology course directed towards understanding writing roadblocks. Don’t bother to search for someone who says they are certified. This doesn’t denote how good of a coach they are.

My impression of this industry is that writing coaches can be of great benefit to writers who need direction with process, organization, and accountability, but you shouldn't look to them to turn you into a better writer. That may be a great side effect of working with them, but if you don’t have the basics of grammar or storytelling, a coach isn’t going to be able to help you as much as you might hope. Spend some time thinking about what you want to get out of the relationship, and what you want the coach's role to be. Do you want someone to call you and get your butt in gear to hit a deadline, someone who can assess your progress on a weekly basis? Start by asking these questions, and then ask a potential writing coach. 


I came across this great link that contains an interesting discussion about writing coaches and mentors on the Urban Muse. It answers a lot of questions: http://www.urbanmusewriter.com/2012/02/should-you-hire-a-writing-coach-or-mentor.html. Ultimately, the purpose of working with anyone in the industry is to find the best way to reach your goals. A writing coach is one route to consider on your way to success. 

Rachel's Bio: Rachel Sentes is a professional writer and full-time publicist/CEO of gal-friday publicity, based in Vancouver, B.C. Her clients include actors, sports figures, publishers, authors, top tier businesses, and dog rescue associations. She specializes in building publicity platforms and garnering media bookings for authors, helping them negotiate their way through the ever-changing maze of the publishing world. Rachel has booked clients on CNN, CTV National, BNN, The Seattle Times, Global, Shaw, City TV, The Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail, NewsTalk 1010, TSN, Bloomberg Radio and The Vancouver Sun, to name a few.

(Thanks, Rachel.) 

Next Post: The ABC's of How NOT to Write Speculative Fiction - 'A' is for Adjectives, Adverbs, and other Descriptive Additives - do we use them, or not?

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

WHEN WORDS COLLIDE

I AM SO LOOKING FORWARD to this weekend, when I'll be attending When Words Collide, one of my favorite writers' conventions that occurs every year in Calgary. For those of you who are attending, I'm looking forward to meeting you if we haven't met before. Looking at my schedule, I'm involved in the following launches, workshops, and panels:

On Friday, August 9, 2013: At 6:00 p.m. Diane Walton and I team up to present Live Action Editing, where we take examples from the ABC's of How NOT to Write SF (which I've begun posting here on the blog). We'll challenge the audience to find and discuss the writing errors.

At 9:00 p.m., I team up with funny ladies Melodie Campbell and Sarah Kades, plus the wonderfully talented Tim Reynolds to discuss More Humour in Fiction. Since the hospitality suites are opening at the same time, I may have to bring shots.

On Saturday morning, 10:00 a.m., I start the day off with Live Action Slush, Fantasy Edition, where Robert Runté, Graeme Brown, D.B. Jackson, Ed Willett and myself don our editors' hats and listen to samples submitted anonymously by the audience. If you're not familiar with Live Action Slush, the reader (in this case, the lovely Ed Willett) reads the writing sample until three editors signal him to stop. If no one puts their hand up, the writing is good and has grabbed our interest. If we do put our hands up, we discuss what the writer might do to improve his or her work.

At 2:00, I'm involved with the Urban Green Man Launch, with Adria Laycraft and Janice Blaine (co-editors), Brian Hades, Publisher of Edge, and other contributing members to the anthology (Susan Forrest, Randy McCharles, Billie Milholland, Sandra Wickham, Celeste Peters, and Suzanne Church). We each read five minutes from our story. As my story Evergreen opens with a tarot reading, I think I'll bring my tarot cards.

At 3:00, I'm off to another panel on Exciting Anthologies, with fellow-panelists and anthologists, Mike Plested (A Method to the Madness, Five Rivers), Adria Laycraft (Urban Green Man, Edge), and Lynda Williams (Okal Rel Universe). My contribution to this group is two anthologies (Divine Realms, Ravenstone Books and Tesseracts Fifteen: A Case of Quite Curious Tales, Edge), so I should have something to add.

THEN at 9:00 P.M., I'M LAUNCHING The Tattooed Witch. Thanks to Diane, Managing Editor at On Spec, and the Pure Speculation folks, I have a place to launch the novel. When I approached the When Words Collide team, it was on very short notice. I wasn't sure the book would be out. Thanks to Lorina Stephens at Five Rivers, it is. Please come by Suite #1057 for drinks and cake!

On Sunday at 12:00 noon, I'm doing a short reading from The Tattooed Witch at the Hybrid Historical Readings which I will share with Graeme Brown and Ronald Hore, and then,

AT 4:00 p.m., it's the Method to the Madness Launch, where I release my hounds and inner evil empress  Calasandra (fashionista, romantic, and conqueror of the Virgo Supercluster). I hadn't intended on sewing this week, but as we're supposed to be in costume...well, let me say, what I'll be wearing isn't what I originally intended. This will also be my first time at COSPLAY. Further, if you haven't yet heard Calasandra's podcast on her own personal website, go here. I will attempt to share (and not conquer) the launch with Jade Brook, Jennifer Rahn, Tim Reynolds, Aaron Kite, Janna Willard, Troy Winn, and co-editor, poor down-trodden Mike Plested. (Or so he claims. I don't believe it.) I'll post pictures if I get good ones.

Next post: Writing Coaches - What Can They Do For You?

Stay tuned.



    Thursday, August 01, 2013

    THE TATTOOED WITCH - THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS

    AS MANY WRITERS DO with their books, I've decided to follow their example and post the first two chapters of my debut novel, The Tattooed Witch on Suzenyms. If you want to read a bit further, Amazon has posted a larger sampling (almost four chapters) on their site. Welcome to medieval Spain in a parallel world. Welcome to magical tattoos, gypsies, witch burnings, and flamenco. Steep yourself in blood, passion, love, and survival. This is the world of Miriam Medina as The Tattooed Witch.

    Chapter One
    Host Maligno

                In the furthest corner of the gilded bed chamber belonging to Alonso de Santangél, High Solar of Granad, Miriam Medina stood as still as a porcelain vase. Only the occasional blink of her eyes and the even, slow rise and fall of her breasts betrayed her presence although the priests in the room knew she was there. She had watched the dawn come, had marked how the sun spilled through the crenellated glass, how it had cut bright patterns across the floor. Her assistant’s tunic clung to her like a damp tent, as heavy as the velvet drapes on the windows. Sweat trickled between her breasts. A potted oleander bush, heavy with blossoms, shielded her from view. To her reckoning, she had been banished to her corner for five hours now. In this place, Miriam Medina knew it was better to be ignored.
                She breathed through her nose and tried not to gag. Beneath the powdery scent of the oleander, the room stank of old men. She could smell her own sweat, too. The heat of the day was not the only cause. The priests had rounded on them when she and Ephraim had arrived. Their open hostility startled her so much that she had stepped on her father’s hems. A woman! In the High Solar’s chamber? What are you thinking, Doctor Medina?
    She is a drudge, nothing more, her father maintained. They both knew it for a lie. And then she had been banished to this corner as if she were no more than a child. So demeaning, considering Ephraim knew her true capabilities.
    You’re at a loss, Papa. One touch and we’ll know what ails the High Solar.
    No. It’s too dangerous.
    But you said so yourself—you don’t know what ails him!
    I have my suspicions.
    And they are?
    They don’t matter. I will deal with it.
    And if he dies, what then? They’ll blame you. And then, what will happen to me?
    It had been an unkind thing to say, a selfish thing to say, but it had been the only way to move him. Against his better judgment, he had agreed. 
    You’ll do nothing until I call you, Miriam.
    Yes, Papa.
    You’ll stay out of the way and not dare to move.
    Yes, Papa.
    And if I call you—that’s ‘if’ Miriam—you’ll determine the trouble. Then you’ll return to the house and stay there until I come home.
    It wasn’t fair, this pretense they were expected to maintain. She considered the room full of priests. These old men—they lived one way but preached another. Wasn’t it Sul who had said, ‘Hide not your light beneath a bushel, but place it on a candlestick, so that it giveth light to all the house?’ Hers was a unique gift, but if she ever displayed it openly, they would accuse her of congress with demons.
    If he would just call me. She closed her eyes to suppress her impatience and ignore her thirst. In spite of the sunshine, the bed chamber was littered with enough candles to light a nave. What the High Solar needed was darkness and solitude. Ephraim had suggested it, but the priests insisted that their patriarch needed the blazing protection of Sul all about him. It mattered not if the heat contributed to his demise.
    A small page in white livery appeared in the doorway. He held a steaming bowl of broth in his hands. Earlier, Ephraim had turned away Alonso de Santangél’s breakfast. The monks had tried to feed him, but he had spit up the gruel. Clear liquids only, Ephraim maintained.
    With a nod, Ephraim beckoned the boy forth and accepted the broth. The monks in front of her shifted, affording her a better view of Alonso de Santangél.
    She caught her breath.
    Without his robes of office or a miter upon his head, he was a much younger man than she had assumed, about thirty years of age. A tonsure of blonde hair ran about his head like a crown. He had the face of an angel—beautiful in a stern sort of way, although at the moment, the visage was marred by pain. His bare chest was well muscled for a man of the cloth. He looked as if he spent his days scything grain.   
    He was handsome! The realization came as a shock. What business did a Prince of the Church have in being so attractive? And what business did she have in finding him so? Surely, it was a sin to think of him that way, although there were far too many sins as it was.
    A flush rose to her face. She had seen naked men before, surreptitiously, through slatted shutters. None of Ephraim’s patients had impressed her—all flabby bellies and flaccid penises, but this one; he would be different, as perfect as any sculptor’s model, his thighs well-formed and his loins…she took a deep breath, thankful that the priests’ backs were turned to her.  
    She set aside her attraction with a rigid self-control. She had studied the body’s drives in Ephraim’s medical books. It was logical to feel this way. She was a young woman reacting to a striking, albeit ineligible, man. She eyed the priests about her. At least Alonso de Santangél wasn’t old and dried out, as these others were.
    Ephraim set a spoon to his lips. She held her breath—please, Your Brilliance, keep it down!—and chided herself. She was reacting like one of those stupid girls who pressed themselves against the bricks and swooned whenever a conquistador who rode by. Would she be so worried about the High Solar if he weren’t so good looking? She knew the answer to that. She would not.
    Alonso de Santangél accepted another spoonful, and then abruptly, he choked and coughed. She bit her lip. All around her, monks muttered in dismay. Ephraim thrust the bowl to the page and reached for a cloth. He leaned Alonso de Santangél to his side and helped him wretch up what little he could. Bloody spittle bubbled from his lips. She held herself tightly, knowing she could not rush to his bedside to help.
    A Luster monk approached to help. Ephraim waved him off. “Leave it.” He glanced to where she stood at the back of the room and beckoned her to come. “My assistant will clean it up.”
    She blinked. Gods, had she heard him right? He motioned to her a second time, so she dropped her gaze and strode through the priests with her hands clasped. Let them think she was no more than a servant reserved for the most odious of tasks. Alonso de Santangél loomed into view. He is wonderful, she thought as she drew alongside him, like Sul after the Passion. Without a word, she dropped to her knees and thought of the Goddess Lys in her incarnation as the Pietà, Mother of the God. With great care, she swabbed Alonso de Santangél’s face. His flesh was a mottled red. Her attraction fled as fear for him took its place. She wanted to cradle him, to ease his pain. He lifted his suffering gaze to regard her. His eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky. It took all of her strength to refrain from laying a soft hand against his cheek, to reassure him that she would do all in her power to help him. She caught a hint of sweetness beneath his breath. That was wrong. Why should his breath smell sweet? Abruptly, he choked and gagged. When he subsided, she wiped his chin and allowed the tip of her forefinger to touch his face.
    A tongue of fire shot through her, burning her throat and turning her stomach into a molten churn. She fought the grey that engulfed her and swallowed. Her legs buckled, but since she was already on her knees, no one noticed. She curled her finger back into her fist and forced herself to breathe.
    Trembling, she wiped his mouth as gently as she could, keeping her fingers clear. She couldn’t afford to lose herself. Gods, what had he been given? She ran through the list of possibilities. Alonso de Santangél watched her with sunken, wild eyes, his pupils like dark beetles scuttling in a grave. One thing was certain; she and Ephraim couldn’t leave him alone. Someone in the Solarium had done this, perhaps one of the priests in this room. She tucked a strand of her black hair into her kerchief. Her fingers twitched. Ephraim watched them intently.
    Poison, she signed, knowing the awful truth of it. Monkshood or oleander.
    Her father’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at the soup. He reached into his bag and withdrew an envelope—medicinal charcoal for toxins.
    “Take that away,” he told the page, indicating the bowl of broth, “and on pain of death, don’t touch it.” He stared hard at the lad, knowing the proclivities of young boys. “From now on,” he told the breathless assembly, “no food or drink passes the High Solar’s lips that I don’t prepare.”
    “But what is wrong with him?” demanded the Solarium’s Exchequer. He looked like rabbit about to bolt for its hole.
    Ephraim tipped the charcoal into a cup of water and set it to the High Solar’s lips. “It’s a sensitive matter, Luminance. When His Brilliance is stable, I’ll share my diagnosis with you in private.” Her father was no fool; the last thing he would do would be to air their suspicions publicly. He coaxed Alonso de Santangél to drink. To Miriam’s relief, he kept it down.
    “You must have some idea,” the Exchequer pressed. “Is he contagious?”
    “No. What ails him isn’t due to any humor of the air, nor is it a god-sent punishment. He is sick through no fault of his own.” Ephraim eased Alonso de Santangél to his pillows. “I want this room cleared. His Brilliance needs peace and solitude if he’s to recover.”
    The Exchequer frowned, less bothered now that he was unlikely to catch a plague. As the priests grumbled, Alonso de Santangél captured her gaze. His eyes bore into hers as if she were his last link to life. His fingers trembled. He lifted a shaking hand as if to touch her.
    A harsh clatter of boots came from down the hall. The tramp grew louder. Miriam pulled her gaze from Alonso de Santangél to see what army had arrived. A stark figure in black and white stood framed in the chamber’s doorway. She ducked her head to hide. Gods! Ephraim had said that the Grand Inquisitor had left for Madrone that morning, but here he was.
    Flee, her instincts told her. Run and don’t look back.
    This was the man that all of Esbaña feared as much as they did a god-sent pestilence. In three major cities, thousands had died smelling the stink of their burning flesh. La Puraficación de la Fé, he called it, a purification of the faith. He had given the town one week to come forward and confess its sins in an Edict of Grace. Most people attended. She and Ephraim had not; Ephraim’s grandfather had been Juden until the family converted fifty years ago. The conversions made little difference to the inquisitors; they didn’t believe them. Now, it was too late.
    “What is this?” Tor Tomás demanded. He swept into the room, his boots striking hard against the marble. No one said a word as he stopped before her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, hoping she looked as benign as a lamb. His eyes were a strange color, so yellow as to be reptilian. He wore no tonsure as the other priests did, but had shaved himself bald, as if to impress Sul with his greater sanctity. His head resembled a cracked egg. A thin line cut across his face—an old scar, she realized. His only other ornamentation, other than the official Brand upon his chest, was a tiny hoop in his left ear. He looked more cutthroat than priest.
    Ephraim cleared his throat. “This is my daughter. She cleans for me, nothing more.”
    “Monk’s work.”
    “I take the sputum to my residence to study, Radiance. She knows how to collect it.”
    Tor Tomás dismissed the excuse with a wave. His fingers were long and thin, the nails uncut. Something dark and ruddy rimmed their bases. “She has no business here. She taints the very air.”
    “Forgive me, but I beg to differ.” Ephraim stood his ground.  “Even the medical college in Zaragoza allows that women have their place. I can vouch for my daughter. She’s received no schooling, save for what little I’ve shown her. She’s no threat to anyone, least of all, the High Solar. I would not have her here, if she were.”
    “How long has she been here?”
    “Since early morning, Radiance.”
    “And why did you bring her?”
    “As I explained, she collects.…”
    “You’re lying. You brought her here because you thought she would be needed. Why is that, I wonder?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You weren’t at the Edict of Grace.”
    “I’ve been with His Brilliance all week.”
    “That doesn’t excuse your daughter.”
    The silence was palpable. She felt the weight of the priests’ scrutiny fall upon her. In seconds, someone would point a gnarled finger at her and accuse her of witchcraft.
    “She is unmarried,” Ephraim said quickly. “I don’t allow her to travel or stay alone without a chaperone.”
    She walked through Granad as she pleased, although mostly to visit the market to buy supplies for the house or their pharmacopoeia. If the priests asked anyone who knew them, they would uncover the lie.
    Alonso de Santangél groaned. The focus in the room shifted. Tor Tomás pursed his lips. “How is the patient?” he asked dryly.
    “Not well. I’ve administered a tincture,” Ephraim said.
    “You prepared it yourself?”
    “Of course. I wouldn’t trust any woman to handle it.”
    She closed her eyes. Another falsehood. Fortunately, the Grand Inquisitor didn’t question it. He studied Alonso de Santangél for a moment and then snagged his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. “He doesn’t look well,” he said, handling him as he might a melon in the market.
    The High Priest sputtered to life. His arms shook as if he had no more strength in them than a man twice his age. His hands flailed. He wheezed and choked.
    “Radiance, please.” Ephraim set a restraining hand on the Grand Inquisitor’s wrist.
    The inquisitor released his fingers as if he had touched something foul. He locked his strange yellow eyes with Alonso de Santangél’s blue ones. The two men regarded each other with such loathing, that anyone with a whit of understanding could not fail to notice.
    “This is terrible, my Brothers!” Tor Tomás announced suddenly. “Your Patriarch is dying!” He pointed at the Exchequer as if to accuse him of negligence. “Luminance, you can’t allow him to leave this world without administering the Holy Unction. I have with me, a shipment of wine from Madrone. Let a cup of it be used for his last rites.”
    “Radiance, there is still hope,” Ephraim began.
    Tor Tomás dismissed him. “You’ve done quite enough, Doctor.”
    “But I can save him! Wine is the last thing he needs right now. He needs.…”
    “He doesn’t need absolution? What kind of heresy is this?” He glared at Ephraim as if he had suggested they drain the high priest’s blood from his veins.
    “I don’t mean that! Of course, we all need absolution….”
    “Step aside, Doctor Medina. You aren’t the only one who knows impending death when he sees it. Our brother doesn’t need a physician. He needs a priest.” He snapped his fingers. A Luster monk rushed forward with a goblet of wine in his hand.
    “Not that.” Tomás waved him off. “The rare vintage I brought from Madrone. Ah, there it is.” One of his retainers stepped forth with a bottle in his hand. The man was as huge and as grim as block of granite. His black and white habit barely passed his knees. Tomás tossed the goblet’s original contents to the floor and ignored the gasps of shock from the clergy. He broke the bottle’s seal.
    Ephraim stepped forward. “Please! Not yet, I beg you!”
    Tor Tomás ignored him and poured fresh wine into the cup, topping it to the brim. “Great Sul!” he cried, holding it aloft for all to see. “Your shining son, His Brilliance Alonso de Santangél is soon to depart from this world. Let him not descend to the perpetual darkness you reserve for all sinners! Lift him up, Holy Sul! Grant him an eternal place at your side, ever radiant and ever strong, free from the stagnant waters of mortality!”
    Miriam watched as the sun caught the rim of the glass. The harsh scintillation blazed like a star. Tor Tomás brought the goblet down and passed his hand over it in blessing. From where she sat, she saw a pale powder fall from his fingers. Before she could speak, the inquisitor pressed the cup to the High Solar’s mouth. Alonso de Santangél raised frantic hands to prevent it from touching his lips.
    Stop! she wanted to cry, but Ephraim had already done so. The Grand Inquisitor ignored him and pried the High Solar’s mouth open. Alonso de Santangél had no strength to prevent it. He swallowed—one gulp, two. Wine splashed over his face and gushed from his mouth; there was no way he could not drink. He choked, gagged. In defeat, Miriam folded in on herself. The sacrament went on forever. The priests and monks looked on with distress but did nothing to prevent it.
    Finally, the goblet was done. The wine had spilled down the side of the bed and had stained the sheets. Splotches of it spattered her face. She watched dully as Alonso de Santangél went into convulsions. His death was violent and hard, as one might expect for a man in his prime. She closed her eyes, couldn’t block the sounds of his agony. She wanted to clutch him, send her apology flying after him: Your Brilliance…Alonso!  Forgive me! I couldn’t stop him! I’m so sorry! Her throat tightened into a knot, her limbs stiffened into stone. She couldn’t afford to weep. The priests in the room watched in uneasy silence, their expressions grim. At the last moment, she opened her eyes to capture a last shred of Alonso de Santangél before he died. To her horror, he stared at her as a drowning man might, as if she were the last tenuous hold he had on life. She winced, wondering if those blue eyes registered what she was—a girl of seventeen, smitten for the first time and at the worst possible moment in her life, a girl devastated by his dying. With a violent shudder, his head slumped to the side and he gave up the ghost.
    She wanted to scream. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Alonso de Santangél had been stolen from her. Now, he was inextricably lost. The clergy lifted their hands and made the starburst of Sul. Their leader, His Brilliance, Alonso de Santangél, and youngest patriarch to ever have served the faithful in Granad, was dead.
    Ephraim helped her rise. She stood, feeling broken, as if some of part of her had fled. Ephraim looked as if he had shrunk inside his robe. He set a trembling arm about her shoulders and drew her away. They passed through the chamber like phantoms in a bone yard.
    As they reached the doorway, a strident voice called out, “Stop them! Don’t let them escape!”
    Ephraim dug his fingers into her arm. She had been waiting for the Grand Inquisitor’s shout, as had he. A tramp of footfalls rushed up behind them.
    Her father stepped in front of her to protect her from the guards. “Why are you stopping us?” he demanded. “We’ve done nothing wrong!”
    Tor Tomás confronted them. “Done nothing wrong?” he repeated. “I disagree. You bring a woman into the High Solar’s presence. You allow her to approach him on his sick bed. He dies. You and your daughter are under arrest for the murder of Alonso de Santangél, High Solar of Granad.”


    Chapter Two
    Potro

    They were forced down a long hall and pushed down a narrow set of stairs. Unlike the main floor of the temple with its white marble facades, there was no ornamentation here. The walls looked as if they had been hewn from bedrock. They passed thick doors with barred windows, all monks’ cells at one time, but judging from the moans emanating from them, not now.
    “What is this place?” Miriam demanded. They had come to a large door.
    “Interrogation Room.” The large monk shoved her into the vault. He was a barrel of a man, at least twenty stone’s weight and over six feet tall. He slammed the door behind her.
    She grabbed the grill. “Where are you taking my father?” she shouted. They marched Ephraim down the hall. She strained her neck to see, but the dark swallowed him.
    She spun on her heel. The chamber was large. Numerous torches had been set into the walls. Three chairs stood behind a table with quills, ink and vellum. On the far side, a wooden pallet rested on thick legs at a forty-five degree angle. Lines of rope dangled from its sides. Across its width, slats of wood lay. Each slat terminated with a large screw.
    Her heart lurched in her chest like a bird caught in a net. Not taking her eyes from the contraption, she forced herself to breathe.
    A potro. She had never seen the damage it could inflict, but she had heard of it. As the screws tightened, the ropes bit into one’s flesh. Bones broke and tendons popped. People said whatever they were told to, to relieve their pain. But why torture her if the Grand Inquisitor was already convinced of her guilt?
    The answer flared in her mind like a spark on tinder. He might accuse her, but by law, the Crown required confessions. Thus, the vellum and the quills.
    A tramp of boots came from down the hall. She backed away from the door as if it might attack her. The same beefy guard who had imprisoned her earlier opened it and stood to one side as the Exchequer and another priest filed in—a secretary to record her confession, no doubt. Before she could run, the guard grabbed her and marched her to stand before her judges as they took their seats. She cringed as Tor Tomás appeared in the doorway. He paused as he beheld her, his snake’s eyes bright.
    She flinched. The guard held her firm. His touch was anything but reassuring, but there was something unexpected in it—he wasn’t the brutal thug she thought him to be. He was unhappy with the proceedings. Why? As he released her, the fleeting impression was gone. The secretary smoothed the roll of vellum, took a quill and dipped it into an inkwell. The Exchequer stared at her, his expression sour. As for Tor Tomás—he lounged in his chair, but his glance burned.
    A hot flush rose up the back of her neck. His regard was not that of a cold, desiccated cleric arguing the finer points of canon law. He stared at her as the men in the square did, their lust as obvious as the bulges in their hose. She held her head high and ignored him, a foolish stance, but it hardly mattered what she did. From the faint smile touching his lips, he knew it, too.
     “Your name?” The smile disappeared. He was all business now.
    She met his gaze boldly. “Miriam Medina.”
    “Medina? A Juden name, is it not?” The Exchequer glanced between the secretary and Tor Tomás as if he had just realized it. They waited for her to confirm it.
    She lifted her chin. “My family is devout. We are Conversos.”
    “As all Conversos claim to be. Still, your father kept the family name,” Tor Tomás pointed out.
    “As we are required to do, by law.”
    “Miriam is also a Juden name. If your family is so law-abiding, why did your parents choose a Juden name for you?”
    She said nothing.
    “Do you and your father attend the Solarium regularly?”
    “We pay our tithes.”
    “That’s not what I asked.”
    “We maintain a shrine to Sul at home. We can’t always attend services. My father is often called to assist the sick.”
    “Your mother’s name?”
    “Mari.”
    “Not a Juden name. Her surname?”
    “I don’t know it.”
    All three blinked at her. “How can you not know it?” Tor Tomás asked.
    “She died when I was three.”
    “Even so, I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t know her name. Surely, your father told you. How did she die?”
    “An illness of some kind, I think.”
    “You think and your father’s a physician.” He turned to the Exchequer and secretary. “Maybe he poisoned her, too. What were the details of her death?”
    “I don’t know them.”
    He set a long finger to his lips. “Was there some scandal involved? Some reason your father would disassociate himself from her? Was she Juden, as well?”
    “We are Conversos.”
    “Yes, yes. How old are you?”
    She glanced away. “Seventeen.”
    “Seventeen and unmarried?”
    “My father never arranged it.” Ephraim had, but she had refused all three suits. Every time she had tried to talk to the mayor’s son about the town’s growth, he said her interest demeaned her—she was too pretty to be concerned about such things. The head of the Silk Guild’s nephew rubbed his thighs and spoke to her breasts. The third was a widower three times her age with a daughter two years younger than she. After one too many pats on the knee, she told him he was a lecherous old panderer who should marry someone his own age and leave her alone. He called her a shrew. After that, the suits stopped. She decided she didn’t need men and would remain a spinster all her life.
    “You’re a virgin?”
    She frowned. It was no business of his.
    “Answer the question!”
    “Yes!”
    He regarded her without saying anything. His gaze drifted to her breasts and lingered on her hips. Her face grew hot. He shifted in his seat. “How did you kill Alonso de Santangél?” His voice returned to normal.
    “I didn’t kill him.”
    “But your father did.”
    “My father hasn’t killed anyone.”
    “Yet you practice medicine alongside him. Perhaps you made a mistake.”
    “I didn’t….” A trap.  “I do not practice medicine. I only help him clean.”
    “Perhaps you assisted in killing the High Solar.”
    “I didn’t murder him.” She regarded him through narrowed eyes. He had dropped the powder into the wine. The certainty that he had killed Alonso de Santangél resounded in her heart so loudly that it might have been a bell tolling from a tower.
    “Am I allowed to ask you a question, Radiance?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Does the god speak to you directly?” The Solarium taught that only saints heard the voice of Sul.
    He nodded stiffly, unsure of where she was going. “He sends me impressions.”
    “Then if the god speaks to you truly, you know who really committed the High Solar’s murder.”
    His eyes flashed. She had accused him covertly and he knew it. The Exchequer didn’t notice. He waved his hand in dismissal. “This is getting us nowhere. She isn’t about to confess unless we put her to the question. Set her on the potro and be done with it. We have a Requiem to arrange.”
    The small flush of victory curdled in her gut. She wanted to bolt, but the guard was behind her. Tor Tomás held up his hand and smiled coldly. Why had she been so rash? He would punish her even more severely, because of it. “Not yet, Luminance.”
    She swallowed. He was breathing more heavily, now. “With one so young, we must be…indulgent. By all means, go and arrange the High Solar’s interment. Take Brother Diego and the guards with you. I’ll finish the interrogation on my own.”
    Her heart hammered in her chest while her head yammered warnings. If they left, there would be no witnesses. What were those marks on his fingernails? He could be capable of anything. She didn’t want to be alone with him.
    The Exchequer fidgeted. “I wish it were so easy, Radiance. Unfortunately, we can’t go. The Crown expects us to stick to proper procedure. With the High Solar’s demise, it falls to me to act as spokesman for the Solarium. Granad must remain above reproach. As protocol dictates, I will stay awhile longer.”
    Tor Tomás bit off the words. “If you recall, Luminance, I established those procedures. Under their most gracious majesties, I have the authority to change them at will.”
    The Exchequer remained unruffled. “Of course, but revisions take time. We’d have to assign a scribe to pen them, and then send them by the fastest horse to Madrone. I wish we had that luxury, but we have a funeral Mass to perform. We can’t leave Alonso for long. Not in this heat.”
    Tomás leaned back in his chair. “Let us continue with the questioning. Do you bear any birthmarks or unusual blemishes?” The hooded snake of some new emotion lifted behind his veneer. He was calm again.
    She did bear one birthmark, a tiny dark crescent that lay between her breasts like a curl of hair. A moon mark, Ephraim had called it when she was little. She hoped her tone conveyed a lack of interest. “No.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I am sure.”
    “What about tattoos?”
    Tattoos were associated with forbidden knowledge. She didn’t have any, but her mother had had. She scoffed. “Of course not.”
    He smiled at her, a serpent cornering a chick. “So, you know what tattoos are?”
    “I’ve seen them.” Why had she been so brash earlier? It would have been better to play the fool.
    “Where?”
    “On a man who visited my father. A sailor. The mark was infected. My father treated it.”
    “What did it look like?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “How did he treat it?”
    “A…a poultice.”
    “What kind of a poultice?”
    Too great of an understanding of herbs would confirm her knowledge of medicine. Maybe it was too late for that. She had convinced him she was no fool. Drat, her blasted tongue! “I don’t know.”
    “Again, that dreary response, you don’t know. Let’s leave her for now, Luminance, and speak with the father. Barto, watch her.” He rose from his chair. The henchman nodded.
    The three priests filed from the room and closed the door behind them. The guard was her one chance. She approached him as she might a tame bear. “Your name is Barto?”
    He frowned at her and looked away. It was against the rules to speak with prisoners.
    “Please. They’ll hurt me. You know this.” She plucked up her courage and set a hand on his forearm.
    “Get off!” He pulled his arm away, but it was enough. The touch confirmed what she knew. She reminded him of someone.
    “Do you have family somewhere?” If she could appeal to that sense of connection, she might turn him.
    He refused to look at her. She thrust a finger at the potro, as if to accuse him of setting it there. “You’d let them do that to your sister, Barto?”
    “I don’t have no sister.”
    “Your mother, then?”
     “She’s dead.”
    “I’ll be dead if you don’t help me! Please! You must!”
    He turned his back on her.
    He was too big to straddle. She would have to talk her way around him, to coax him. Who did she remind him of? He wouldn’t have a wife. As part of the Grand Inquisitor’s retinue, he wouldn’t have the means to maintain a mistress, either. “Please, I’m innocent, Barto. I…I am only seventeen! I’m too young to die! You must believe me! I didn’t kill the High Solar!”
    He looked pained.
    “Please, I beg you! Do what’s right and let me go.”
    He laughed. “And have my cojones torched for it?”
    He might as well have slapped her. Fury found its way up from her throat like coals spewing from a pit. “So, you’d let them burn me instead?  What kind of a man are you? You’re a coward! You’re all cowards! I hate you!” She flew at him, rammed his chest with her fists.
    His face twisted with anger. He shoved her aside. “I ain’t no coward! Shut up!”
    A harsh staccato came from down the hall. Someone running. The door to the cell burst open and Tor Tomás rushed in, breathing hard.
    His face shone with triumph. “Your father claims he never treated anyone with a tattoo! Which means you lied to me, Witch! I suspect you know all about them, that you’re hiding a few yourself! Hold her, Barto. Let’s see what kind of a creature she really is.”
    She drew back in alarm. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I don’t have any tattoos!” she insisted. If they stripped her, they would find the birthmark. They would put her on the potro. It was only a matter of time before she told them everything—how she did more than assist Ephraim, how she prepared his potions, and worst of all, how she sensed others with a touch.
    “Don’t stand there like a fool! Seize her!” Tomás’s words set Barto into motion. She backed away from him but kept her eyes on the two of them, looking for a break in their front. With Barto on her right and Tomás on her left, they hemmed her like hounds on a doe.
    Her fingertips bumped the far wall. She made a mad dash past Barto, but Tomás lunged and caught her in his horrid hands. He swung her around and slammed her into the table. Quills flew through the air. His eyes were feral, he stank of wine. He pushed her down, grappled her breasts. She screamed and kicked him only to win a blow to her head. The pain stunned her. She choked in shock.
    “What are you hiding, Witch?” His lips nuzzled her ear. His lust felt as greasy as blood. He drew back his arm and struck her again. The blow shuddered through her cheekbone. She bit her tongue. She gasped and turned her head away, fearing another strike. Something hard prodded her between the legs. She didn’t have to guess what it was.
    “Stop!”
    She couldn’t see who had shouted, but whoever it was had enough authority to stay him.
    “This is highly untoward! There is no need!” The Exchequer was discomfited by the display of violence. “You can let the girl go. The doctor has confessed.”
    The words rang in her head. Ephraim had confessed? Why would he do such a thing? Papa, what have you done?
    And then she knew. The answer flattened her like one of Tomás’s blows. Ephraim had lied to save her. Oh, Papa, she thought, you haven’t spared me. You’ve only made things worse!
    “He’s admitted his guilt, although he maintains his daughter is innocent. I see no need for us to proceed further,” the Exchequer said.
    “There is a need.” Tomás’s weight crushed her. She lay trapped between his arms. “She’s a witch. She has a tattoo, I think. At least one, maybe more. I was about to search for it.”
    “Be that as it may, there’s still the Mass to perform. You can leave her for now. Once we’re done, you can deal with her as you see fit. She isn’t going anywhere.”
    His mouth brushed her ear. “I want you to think of something while I’m gone,” he whispered, like a lover suggesting favors. “Have you ever heard of a device called ‘the Pear’, little witch? It’s an interesting tool, shaped like its namesake. One inserts it into bodily cavities, like so.” He drew away from her and held his hands as if in prayer. And then he spread them into a ‘V’.
    She knew what had caused the blood stains on his fingers.
    “Are you coming, Radiance?” The Exchequer waited at the doorway.
    Tomás ignored him. “I can’t wait to see how my toy affects you. But of course”—he touched his crotch briefly; she doubted that the Exchequer saw—“you can always beg for the alternative.”
    He smoothed down his habit. His intentions were clear, his plans for her delayed, not done.
    Her legs threatened to give out from beneath her. As Barto locked the door behind them, she slid to her knees and lay where she fell. Her cheek throbbed where Tomás had struck her. She barely noticed it, chilled by his words. He would return in a few hours and rape her, perhaps do worse things. She turned her face into the flagstones, choked to keep from crying, and utterly failed.

    *

    If you enjoyed reading this portion of The Tattooed Witch and would like to purchase it to see how the story unfolds, thank you for your support! Please click on these links below:
    From Amazon
    From Kobo
    From Five Rivers Publishing (go half way down the catalogue list, and you'll find it).

    Next Post: When Words Collide - What I'll be doing, the panels, workshops, and launches I'll be involved in, and with whom.

    Stay tuned!