Silk & Shadows

Currently working on: Some bizarre futuristic postapocalyptic action adventure thing that came out of nowhere
Mood: Baffled

In the strange alternative universe that is publishing, even though Book 3 of the Marked Souls doesn’t appear on bookshelves until April 5, Book 4 is going to cover conference in some high rise in New York even as we speak.

Here’s how I imagine it is happening:

Editor: We need eye catching! We need hot! We need…the bold hero cover!

(Trumpets blare from the coffee room.)

Cover designer (who looks as rumpled and sexy as the males on the covers themselves): I can build him. I have Adobe Photoshop. I have the capability to build the romance novel hero cover. Better than he was before. Better, chestier, more rippling abs…

Editor (producing Author cover notes with a flourish): Here are the specs.

Designer (reading through notes): There are specs.

Editor: Yes, I said that. These are the author’s specifications.

Designer: No, this actually says spectacles.

Author (appearing out of nowhere, much like the aforementioned story idea and the aforementioned trumpets): Ha! Yes, I have given the hero glasses because I wear glasses and it’s about time more demonically-possessed heroes had to wear glasses. We will be bold heroes together! In glasses!

Editor and Designer (blinking)

Author (also blinking as she wakes from her nightmare back in her bed in the middle of nowhere): Yikes. I had this dream I was in New York at a cover conference. And I wasn’t wearing a shirt…

And in honor of my bold heroes, here’s the first glimpse of my Romance Trading Cards. Much like the Book 4 cover, RTCs are in development around the country at right this moment as romance authors gear up for the spring and summer conference and convention season. You can see examples of some of the gorgeous work at the Romance Trading Card website.

Here are mine, with much thanks to my designers and with hands-clasped prayers that Book 4 is as bold!

Have you seen any inspiring book covers lately?

First off, my heart and prayers go out to those dealing with the disasters in Japan. May all of you remain safe.

As for sagging middles…these aren’t the only options available to you, but if you’re stuck, maybe they’ll spark a fresh perspective:

1. Raise the stakes. Have your hero discover the looming disaster is even worse than he imagined. An example of this would be discovering the kidnapped child he’s hunting for is injured or sick. Or the road in front of the bus has not been finished there’s a twenty foot gap between the hero and safety.

2. Peel back another layer of your hero’s character. Use an event to trigger a memory that is very painful for the hero. This is especially useful if it causes conflict between the hero and heroine, or causes the hero to veer away from a possible route to success.

3. Change direction. Put a big roadblock in your hero’s path that forces the hero to discard his current plan and come up with a new one. A hero always has a plan. Sometimes the plan doesn’t work out. A literal example of this is the escape tunnel that ends up blocked, but it can be anything.

4. Unleash your villain. Have your villain do something really smart and really nasty. And if your hero gets injured in the fallout, so much the better. The best villains are always the ones that manage to outsmart your hero a time or two.

5. Deepen the romance. Turn up the heat and let your hero and heroine sweat it out together. This one actually ties in nicely to any of the above events, because there’s nothing like a near-death experience to stir up the hormones.

If you’re a writer, do you have a favorite way to juice up your story? As a reader, do you recall an awesome story twist that really worked for you?

Currently working on: Unearthing my brain
Mood: Exploratory

So it recently occurred to me — recently, as in 5 a.m. last Monday morning when I was hitting ‘send’ in my email to forward my revisions to my editor — that I don’t have a process for revising.

I know, I know, I have three published books (well, the third one isn’t out until next month) and a handful more unpublished and I still don’t have a process for revising.

I’m not saying I haven’t revised those books. I’ve revised them repeatedly. And painfully. Because I don’t have a process.

See, my mother is an artsy type while my father is an engineer. These two forces play nicely in me, given the chance. I love the art and craft of writing, but I also love my processes. I like charts, worksheets and outlines. I don’t necessarily follow them to the letter (hoo boy, do I ever not!) but it satisfies something in me* to have them around.

I have works-for-me processes for brainstorming and for hot drafting, which I’ve shared here before. But I don’t have one for revising.

This makes me sad. See below for a sample of my madness sadness.

This is a screen shot of my last revisions. In case it wasn’t obvious, the purple is stuff that changed. I’m not saying these were bad changes (in fact, I rather think they were all good and necessary changes) but they look as if the manuscript pages has been savaged by weasels. By The End, I FELT as if I’d been savaged by weasels.

Yes, this is a savage weasel with a cute baby, but trust me, a short story savaged by baby weasels leaves you feeling just as gnarly as a novel savaged by mama weasels.

Revisions for me are hard because I don’t have a process. I read chunks, I rewrite chunks, I rethink chunks, and then I re-read chunks, re-rewrite chunks, rethink some more… You see how this is not a process; this is flailing. Yes, the work gets done but with much more swearing than I think is strictly required.

So here’s what I’m hoping. I hope you writers out there have your own tried-and-true (or at least tried-once-and-it-kinda-worked) revision processes. And I hope you’re willing to share.

In comments, share a tip or a writing book or a link to your own blog post on the topic or a favorite post from another writer that you refer back to often. Maybe armed with a process or two, I — and anybody else struggling to find a way — will tame the savage weasels.

* This “something” is probably the illusion that any given process can make writing — or rewriting — easier. I know** there is no Magic Bullet but processes are the engineering answer to magic.

**I know there is no Magic Bullet, but as Mulder always said “I want to believe.”

When I first began writing, my idea folder was really a folder—one of those manila things that hang in your desk drawer. It was filled with newspaper clippings, notes scribbled on napkins, and one-page starts to stories. Now my folder is a file on my computer—but the point is I still have one.

If you’ve ever had the urge to write, even a temporary yen that quickly passed, I would encourage you to start an idea folder. Why? Because some ideas mature with time.

The good news? You can jot down the gist of your idea, toss it in the folder, and forget about it. This is a great way to relieve any feelings of guilt over not writing it, because it’s now officially on the back burner, waiting for the Right Moment. And the information is not lost. (Unless your computer crashes—which is why you should have back-up software, but that’s another post).

In my idea folder, I have all my manuscripts that have never been published (except one, which I actually typed on paper using a typewriter. Yup. I’m that old). I’m not sure any of those ancient stories will see the light of day, because they’re a mess. Let’s just say it took me a while to figure out plotting and pacing. They would require major revisions to become enjoyable reading material.

In that folder, there are also notes on ideas I’m reasonably certain I will never pursue, because my love for them died. Often quickly. Before the end of chapter one.

Which brings me back to the reason for having an idea file in the first place. In my file are also five ideas that still give me goose bumps when I re-read them. They make me smile. They make me want to pull up a chair and start pounding on my keyboard. I’m convinced that one day I’ll write those stories–even though a couple of them are…well…odd.

So, keep that idea file. Yes, your brilliant notion might bore you to tears in a year or two. But there’s also a chance it will rekindle your urge to write and motivate you to flesh it out. Life is full of detours, many of them great fodder for angst-ridden stories. Write down those ideas. Then let them stew a while, guilt free.

I use mine to remind me that I’ve always been a writer, even when my nametag said something else entirely.

Currently working on: Butter cookies
Mood: Pressed (because now I have a cookie press to make butter cookies — hey, why didn’t I use the cookie press as my blog post last week on favorite kitchen implements?)

Well, 2011 is 1/12 over. How’re you doing? I haven’t been so good about cleaning my closets — and evil XY actually put some of his stuff in one of my closets, which means I have negative goal success on that front. On the plus side, I’ve been fairly consistent with my workouts, which is why I indulged this weekend with butter cookies. Indulged in moderation (does that even make sense?) of course since butter cookies have a way of going from plus side to plus size.

Checking in on the progress of my projects is something I often forget to do until the next time New Year’s resolutions roll around. I like setting goals and I like reaching goals, but doing the work between… Yeah, that’s the tricky part.

So I want to rant for a moment on goal setting philosophy.

See, self-help gurus tell us we should set SMART goals, where SMART stands for Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Timely. Which is indeed smart, as well as lovely, balanced, popular, and perfect — all the things I DESPISE in a romance heroine. Because it’s completely NOT THE TRUTH. Oh sure, maybe there is some girl/goal out there who meets all those criteria, but more likely she/it is hiding some deep, dark, delusional secret. In the case of the romance heroine, I’ll like her better when I discover she has a secret she never wanted to deal with but is forced to confront during the course of the story. In the case of the goal, the secret is… Often in real life, we don’t get to pick our goals.

Seems to me, many a goal in real life is an I-SMACK goal. As in “I get smacked” by an Imposed, Sudden, Monopolistic, Aggressive, Chaotic, and Killer goal.

I’m being a little unfairly grumbly because the aforementioned self-help gurus do offer some advice that can still be applied to I-SMACK goals.

Break it down: What are the baby steps that compose this overwhelming I-SMACK goal?

Back it out: What’s my drop-deadline and when do those baby steps need to be overcome to get there?

Buckle down: How much caffeine do I require to make this happen? (Well, actually the gurus don’t say quite this, but I think it’s what they meant.)

Worse, my secret — which is not very deep or dark or delusional — is that I don’t care that much about cluttered closets and I’m never going to be able to benchpress my body weight. SMART goals forget to include the element of desire. And as any attentive romance reader knows, without the desire, this story ain’t happening.

I-SMACK goals at least have the element of onrushing doom to stimulate the desire to live. But it IS desire.

In looking at some of my goals again, I’m wondering, Do I really want this? WHY do I really want this? If I can’t answer — or if I answer, I don’t — maybe I need to change my goals.

Because as young Skywalker discovered, if the answer is “Do not,” the universe falls to evil. So… I’ll DO. And reward myself with a butter cookie.

Out of curiosity, how do you reward yourself for a goal met or a job well done?

I’m the furthest thing from a professional cook you can imagine. I used to joke that I was such a bad cook that I burned Jell-O. My skills have improved marginally over the years, but family dinners are still held at my sister’s house. For good reason.

I would willingly abdicate all cooking responsibility and resign myself to a life of mooching off others, but I can’t—I’m a mom. Which means there must be healthy food prepared on a daily basis.

BUT, I also have a mental problem common among writers called I’m-lost-in-my-manuscript. Ask my daughter how many times I’ve boiled a pot dry, overcooked the pasta to the point of mush, or burned the bottom of a pan. Too many to count. Seriously, my kid would a scrawny beanpole if it weren’t for carrots, pita, and hummus.

Enter the Slow Cooker. Also known as the Crock Pot.

My brother gave it to me for Christmas last year, and I love this thing. I throw things into the pot in the morning, work all day without giving it a thought, and by dinner time, I have tasty food to eat—with no burning. It even switches from high heat to low simmer on its own, if I forget to eat on time. It’s a miracle worker. Okay, no, it won’t make Jell-O, but it will make hamburger soup, teriyaki chicken, chili, pot roast, pulled pork, mushroom pork chops, short ribs, and stew.

I’m still experimenting with recipes, but there are tons of dishes possible—just Google ‘slow cooker recipes’ and you’ll see what I mean. I found one for lasagna that I’m eager to try.

Do you use a slow cooker? What food miracles do you produce?

Currently working on: 100 things at once
Mood: Scattered

When writers learn about creating characters, one of the first techniques we’re taught is to assign each character a story goal, something the character desperately wants and must pursue through the course of the story. Since many of us use the start of the new year to assign ourselves some resolutions, I think we can all relate.

Next, writers are told to figure out why the character wants to reach the story goal. What is the character’s motivation?

This is where I, as the (ostensibly) lead character in my own life, get a little murky.

Why do I write?

If I do one thing this year, I want to figure out the answer to that question. See, this year is a turning point (my fellow writers will recognize that term too, and probably wince) in my writing life, and it’s time I clarified my motivation.

Why is motivation important to characters? In a story, strong motivation keeps the poor, beleaguered character on task no matter what rocks we mean writers throw at them. Wimpy motivation lets the character off the hook and he slinks home to his easy chair, never to adventure again. Booooring!

In real life… Well, in real life, I secretly do want the easy chair with a fuzzy blanket and fuzzier socks, BUT I know that strong motivation is really what will keep me reaching for my goals.

“People often say that motivation doesn’t last. Well, neither does bathing — that’s why we recommend it daily.”
– Zig Ziglar

More than a year ago, I attended a writing workshop where the speaker asked us to determine our own personal reason for writing. Other than fame and fortune. (Cue laugh track.) Everyone diligently bent their heads to their papers and scratched away. I cheated off the writer next to me.

Because I’m not sure of my motivation. I asked other writers afterward what they wrote. They had great answers:

• I write for free therapy.
• I write because I have to write.
• I write so I don’t have to get a job where I wear pants.
• I write to get the strange voices out of my head. (See reason #1.)
• I write because I love to write.

Great as these answers are, they don’t really resonate with me. (Although I’d like to not need a job where I have to wear pants.) So I never answered the question for myself, never found the motivation that rings me like a bell. But this year, I think I’m going to be forced to figure it out.

I hope it’s a good answer.

So do you have parts of your life you don’t look at too closely? Are you happier that way, or do you want to explore those hidden depths? How many people do you think get eaten by the dragons in their hidden depths?

Currently working on: Absorbing leftover Halloween candy
Mood: Sugar bombed

I’m feeling contemplative. (Uh oh, watch out.) Our topic here at Silk And Shadows this week is “what storytelling means to me.” It’s definitely easier to navel gaze after a whole week long evening of bloating on KitKats, Heath bars and Pixie Stix.

I’m in a good place to be contemplative right now. In addition to suffering a serious chocolate head-buzz, I just turned in Book 4 of the Marked Souls last week (okay, yes, I did start eating the Halloween candy last week) AND today I turned in copy edits on Book 3, VOWED IN SHADOWS (4/11). So this is a great time to ask myself:

WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING?!?!

I also routinely ask myself that question right around Chapters 7, 13 and 23… Hey, look at that. Something about prime number chapters screws me up. Huh.

Anyway, the obvious answer to the question is exactly what it says in the picture I posted here last week from the sticky note on top of my computer monitor: I AM TELLING THE STORY. (“You fool” is implied.)

But when I’m staggering around in the depths of the storyworld — desperate for a gallon of gasoline and a match, just so I can clear a path so I might have a clue where I am — that’s a terrible time to ask myself the corollary to the above question:

WHY AM I DOING THIS?!?!

I don’t like to ask because… I don’t know why I’m doing this. I suspect the answer is the same as the answer to:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

The first answer to “Why did the chicken cross the road?” is, of course:

To get to the other side.

As a reason for storytelling, I think this makes simple sense. I write the story to get to the other side of the story, which — if you start at The Beginning — would be, not surprisingly, The End.

I think the “writer as chicken” analogy also works because anyone who has tried to drive past a chicken on the side of a road knows that wanting to cross the road is apparently, to the chicken, as natural and inevitable as… well, laying an egg. Which is how it is for writers. (Not the egg-laying part so much as the natural and inevitable.)

Also, chickens wander; chickens peck; and chickens are the butts of many semi-funny jokes — very much like writers — including the following:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road halfway?
A: To lay it on the line.

Getting a story “out there” and sharing it with others is a thrill-seeking rush. Much like standing in the middle of a street.

Q: What do you call a chicken crossing the road?
A: Poultry in motion.

I like to make art. I’ve painted, I’ve dabbled in photography, I bead. But there’s something about the beauty, versatility, power, and play of words that fascinates me.

Q: Do chickens have belly buttons? (This isn’ t a joke; more of a factoid.)
A: Belly buttons are the scar left by the umbilical cord. Chickens have the equivalent of an umbilical cord in their yolk sac, but the sac is reabsorbed and leaves no scar.

I think a lot of writers are like chickens in that there is no “scar” showing the moment they became a writer. They just absorbed that storytelling energy and pecked their way out.

And lastly, this little amusing story that really has nothing to do with writing except it combines chickens and books:

A chicken walks into a library and says to the librarian “book, book, book,” so the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. About an hour later, the chicken walks in again and says “book, book, book,” so once again, the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. About an hour later, it comes back in and says “book, book, book,” so the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. This time however, the librarian is a little curious so she follows the chicken. She continues to follow it for about half an hour when it comes to a marsh and puts the books on the ground. A frog leaps out of the marsh, looks at the books, and says “readit, readit, readit.”

Do you think it’s a good idea to examine our personal motivations for creative endeavors, or anything else for that matter? Especially under the influence of chocolate? Or should it be saved for professional counseling, a “do not try this at home” kind of thing?

P.S. My short story – very short, like, 25 words short! — is available today in HINT FICTION: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. Other, way more famous contributors include Tess Gerritsen, James Frey and Joyce Carol Oates (!). The stories have been called “fun and addictive, like puzzles or haiku or candy.” Uh, I don’t want to talk about candy…

Currently working on: Stand-off with Book 4 characters — Who will blink first? Me or them?
Mood: Clenched jawed

Autumn is a bit delayed here in the Pacific Northwest. Last week here at Silk And Shadows, I showed some pictures of my summer vacation (at left: the garden harvest we took with us for one-pot dinners) and normally, on our drive home from the high desert, when we pass into the rain cloud over Mt. Hood, we see the first signs of fall in the turning leaves.  This year, it’s still all green. Kind of like the tomatoes in our garden which are a month behind. Hurry up, tomatoes, we don’t have much time!

 This is the time of year when I like to finish up projects. It feels appropriate to batten down the hatches before winter. Here’s what’s on my list for fall projects:

1. Finish Book 4, come hell or high water
The high water will definitely be here. This is, after all, the Pacific Northwest. We do rain. As for the hell… I am not a peaceful writer. There is much kicking and screaming at my computer. I’m not proud of it, it does not serve me well, and I don’t recommend it as a technique to other writers, but it’s mine. I am currently in the kicking portion of this evening’s entertainment; the screaming will commence shortly.

2. Put the garden to bed
In a lovely dovetailing of deadlines, I will be done with Book 4 about the time the garden is done. I usually wait too long to strip the beds — hoping to wait for just one more red tomato — and end up having to do it in the rain, with my gloves drenched and full of mud. But whatever. Mulching for winter lacks the anticipation of spring planting, when you know you’ll get to watch the little plants grow all season, but there’s a certain satisfaction in covering the earth and wishing it good night.

3. Unearth my closet
The wild amokness of the garden can be productive, for pole beans at least. The same can be said sometimes for a wild imagination. The bedlam in my closet is not helpful in any way. Living in an old farmhouse has its pleasures, but the forehead-smashing, under-eaves closets are not among them. I wear whatever’s hanging closest to the door just to avoid going into the closet, for fear I won’t ever come out. Crawling into the way back… There be monsters. This fall, I want to at least be able to SEE the back wall.

4. Play with paint
I have an art project I’ve been itching to try, a multilayered abstract jewelry thing. I have the materials and just haven’t had the time. (I think I can sneak that in for Christmas presents, but don’t tell anybody ‘cuz it’s a surprise.)

5. Write something new
My ideas file is now 13 pages long. Truly, not every one of those ideas deserves a book, but some of them deserve at least a look beyond the cursory scribbling I gave them when they first popped up. The quiet of winter will be a perfect time to winnow through them — like next season’s seed packets to see what might sprout.

What’s on your list of autumn projects? Do you find that some tasks are better suited for some seasons than others?

[Note from Jessa: I met Tracy at the Romance Writers of American conference last year at a lunch hosted by our literary agency.  Right there, I fell in love with Tracy's hot and steamy erotica covers, but I think I'm even more excited about these dragons!  Check it out and don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of her latest book!]

I’m so excited to be here today, talking about Dark Embers, the first book in my brand new Dragon’s Heat series.  Though I’ve been published for a couple of years now as Tracy Wolff (erotic suspense and Harlequin Superromances) this week marks more than the debut of a new series for me-it also marks the debut of a brand new name, Tessa Adams. 

Building a new name in today’s competitive market is difficult, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about today.  Today, I wanted to talk about a different type of naming altogether-one that is even harder.  That naming, of course, is the naming of my characters. 

When I first started writing professionally, I thought I’d have no problem coming up with names for my characters-after all, there are a million (more probably) names in the world. How hard could it be?  Ha!  That question shows you how much I knew.

Admittedly, sometimes it’s not difficult at all to find the right name and other times it’s so hard that I feel like ripping my hair out.  For example, I’m launching a dark and angsty Young Adult series in early 2011, centering around a strong female protagonist who is the daughter of a professional surfer and a mermaid.  As her seventeenth birthday approaches, she must make a choice-does she stay human or become mermaid?  Naming her was easy for me-Tempest came to me early on in the process and fit her like a glove.  Naming my dragons, on the other hand, was terrible.

As I sat down to write Dark Embers, I spent a long time wondering what a good name would be for a dragon.    Obviously, it had to be strong and sexy and hot (pun totally intended).  And, to make matters a million times worse, I didn’t need to name just one dragon- I had to name nine.  After all, when you set up a series, you need to start bringing in a group of secondary characters fairly early on-otherwise, your readers won’t be very vested in the next book in the series.  So, suddenly, I not only had to name the King of the Dragonstar clan (who turned out to be Dylan, btw, which means, powerful, with great influence, like a lion, son of the sea or son of magic, depending what source for name origins you look at-it seemed the perfect name for my tortured, reluctant yet incredibly powerful King) but I also had to name his sentries-the men who helped him protect his clan. 

After days of playing with names, I reached a really interesting conclusion-I love male names that end in the letter N.  I have Dylan, Quinn, Logan, Ian, Shawn … you get the idea (and is now a good time to mention that heroes of two of my already published books have the names Kevin and Byron???)  Talk about N overload.  To throw some variety in there, I ended up adding in a Gabe (because Gabriel is my all time favorite name ever, so of course he is one of the most amazing characters I’ve ever written) and a Liam, which is so close to ending with an N, I wonder why I even bother.  And after I finally settled on the dragon names, I had to come up with names for their mates-or at least for the first few books, as I had one to write and proposals due on another two. 

And now, that those names are finally taken care of (Phoebe for Dylan, Jasmine for Quinn and Annalisse for Logan), here I am again, struggling to find the perfect names for a brand new urban fantasy series I am working on. 

For my heroine, a direct descendent from the highest priestess of the Egyptian goddess, Isis, she is a body finder, someone who through magic, psychic link, etc. is unerringly drawn to uncover dead bodies.  Playing opposite her are two men (don’t you love a love triangle???) one a beleaguered FBI agent stuck following her across state lines as she discovers bodies and the other a powerful, magical force from her past whose very presence causes her already difficult gift to go haywire.  The only problem … I don’t yet have names for any of them.  So …  

What I thought I’d do, was ask your advice.  Any suggestions for kick-ass female names?  Or for strong, powerful male names?  Leave a suggestion here and be entered to win a copy of Dark Embers.  Thanks in advance, and thanks so much to the wonderful ladies of Silk and Shadows for having me.  I really appreciate it.

_____________________________________

Read more about DARK EMBERS:

King Dylan MacLeod is one of the last pure-bred dragon shapeshifters in existence-and ruler of a dying race, the Dragonstar clan.  It falls to him to protect his people-and their ancient magic.  He has one more duty: to provide an heir.

Like all dragons, Dylan can only procreate with his destined mate-for whom he’s searched for five hundred years.  His dark, rampant sexual appetite has earned him quite the reputation, all in the pursuit of his one true match.

But his search is delayed when a deadly disease sweeps through the Dragonstars, and Dylan must venture to the human world to find a cure.  He tracks down renowned biochemist Phoebe Quillum, never imagining the beautiful scientist will be the mate he’s been seeking for centuries.  But no sooner do they meet then Phoebe and Dylan are besieged by an obsessive, overpowering sexual desire.

Their passion turns to something truer-and they know in their souls and bodies that they’re in too deep to get out.  And when Phoebe is kidnapped by Dylan’s oldest enemy, he must risk everything to reclaim the only woman he’s ever loved, or his clan will be wiped out forever.

_____________________________________

Prologue

He’d failed. Again.

Locked inside his head, tormented by shades of what might have been, Dylan MacLeod stepped into the night and closed the heavy, wooden door behind him.

He paused for a moment, sucked in a deep breath full of heat and sand and misery. Told himself it was no big deal. Part of him even believed it.

After four hundred and seventy years, he was damn good at lying to himself.

Shoving away from the small house with the cactus garden and the stone swimming pool in the front yard, he walked the deserted street rapidly. It was three a.m., and his only company was a scorpion or two. The desert was quiet, the night solemn.

And he had failed again.

With each step he took, his conscience grew heavier.

With each footfall, his heart grew colder, until he was once again at that place without hope. It was where he usually existed, where he’d spent the last century, mired in guilt and rage and a fear he refused to admit.

That he was here now was his own fault. It had been stupid, even for a moment, to truly believe that she might have been the one.

Agitation made him walk faster, until his boots were pounding the pavement in rhythm with his too-quick pulse. Self-disgust made him shut down inside, until all he could think of was the night.

The stars.

The moon shining brilliantly over the desert.

At least until his jeans sagged around his ass.

With a muttered curse, Dylan yanked the faded denim back into place. Slid the button through the tab, jerked up the zipper.

What did it say about him that this latest encounter had left him so desperate to get away that he hadn’t stayed long enough even to get his clothes on properly? Worse, he hadn’t bothered to say good-bye to Eve . . . Eva? Eden?

For a brief moment, he struggled to remember her name, what she looked like. Then let it go, as it mattered less than nothing. It wasn’t like he’d be seeing her again. Within moments of slipping inside her, he’d figured out that she wasn’t the one-none of the signs were there.

No instant connection between them, as his clan mates so often spoke about.

No burning as the tattoo around his arm shifted to reflect the presence of his mate.

No searing pain as a part of her soul arrowed into his.

Nothing but a mediocre orgasm that had barely given his powers a pulse. Before she’d rolled off him, he’d been plotting his escape. And by the time the shower had kicked on in the bathroom, he’d been halfway to the front door.

God, he was a fucked-up bastard. Cold as ice, despite the fire that raged within him. Hot as flame, despite the glacier that had taken up residence in his stomach. Was it any wonder, then, that he couldn’t find her?

He didn’t deserve her.

His laugh, when it came, was anything but humorous. That had to be the understatement of the year. The decade. The new millennium, and probably the old one, as well. Why else would it have taken him this long to do what everyone else managed in the first two centuries of their existence? Why else would he be doomed to failure night after night, encounter after encounter? He had screwed up generations ago, and now he and his clan were paying the cosmic price. Big time.

His boots ate up the streets in the sleepy little town, as he struggled to put distance between himself and his latest sexual escapade. Wind whipped around him, played with the tails of his shirt, caressed his bare chest. But Dylan didn’t bother buttoning up. What was the point, when he was headed right back to the bar to find yet another female shifter interested in taking it off?

Hope sprang eternal.

As he walked, he scanned the desert around him. Checked out every brush of the wind against cactus; narrowed his eyes at the rustle behind a random pile of heavy rocks. Then shook his head as a low, deep howl split the air next to him. A lonely coyote was the least of his problems.

If someone had told him four hundred years ago that he would be here, in this place, he would have laughed at them. If they’d told him he would grow tired of night after night of hot, anonymous sex, he would have told them they were insane. But youth was like that-arrogant, seemingly invincible, convinced the world was for the taking. Or at least that’s how his youth had been.

He’d spent centuries gorging on women, taking them each and every way he could. Glutting himself on their scent and taste and feel, until his powers reached staggering heights. Devouring whatever they gave him with a grin and a wink and a softly whispered “Thank you.”

He had plenty of time, he’d told his father when the man had advised him to settle down. He was trying to find the right woman, he’d promised his mother when she’d fretted about the future. And then, from one heartbeat to the next, everything had changed.

His brother had been murdered. His parents had died soon after. He’d been crowned king. And just that suddenly, his people, his legacy, were without an heir. Bad enough that the second son was now the king. That he couldn’t find a mate, couldn’t deliver on his family’s legacy, was a nightmare.

There were others-his sister, his niece-who could take his place if he fell. But it wouldn’t be the same. The line of succession, which had remained in his family for more than three thousand years, would fall with him.

One more fuckup from a man who had never wanted to be king in the first place.

Dylan shoved the thought away-what he wanted didn’t play into things anymore. What was best for his people did. And what was best for them now was that he provide them an heir.

He should already have done so, should already have guaranteed his people’s survival through this millennia and into the next. God knew he had tried-for nearly four hundred years, he had tried. And he had failed.

No mate meant no heir.

No mate meant night after night of anonymous sex as he searched for her.

No mate meant a dwindling in his powers that was not just devastating, but downright dangerous-for himself and his people.

His was a precarious state of events for any centuries-old dragon, but for him it was an out-and-out disaster-particularly considering the state his clan was in.

Not that an heir would solve all the problems, but it would solve the most pressing-including the fact that it had been far too many years since a young dragon had been born to Dragonstar.

Far too long since they’d had something to celebrate.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and for one brief second Dylan considered ignoring it. The day had been dismal enough-any more bad news and he might just take flight and never return. The idea was far more inviting than it should have been, far more compelling than it had ever been before.

In the end, he grabbed his phone and flipped it open. Barked “Hello” in a voice he knew was far from welcoming. He was king of the Dragonstar clan, and as such could never be unavailable to his people. That didn’t mean he had to like it-especially tonight.

“Dylan, come quick.”

A shot of uneasiness worked its way down his spine at the panic in his best friend’s-and second- in-command’s-voice. As a rule, nothing fazed Gabe.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Marta. She’s-” Gabe’s voice broke. “She’s sick.”

His stomach plummeted to his boots. “Are you sure?”

His brother-in-law’s voice was hoarse. “I’m sure. I tried to deny the symptoms, to ignore them, but that’s not possible anymore. I don’t think-” His voice broke again. “I don’t think she’s going to make it through this.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Dylan was already running, his boots echoing in the deserted street as he stripped his shirt from his body. He didn’t bother with the pants or boots; they would take too long. Just blurred his image as he started to shift.

Pain-red-hot and intense-as bones broke, reshaped, grew longer.

Pleasure-acute and all-consuming-as he became what he was meant to be.

He ignored both sensations; concentrated instead on making it through the change. One more second. Two. And then he was in the air, his wings spread wide as he soared through the star-bright sky.

Not Marta, not Marta, not Marta. The simple phrase was a mantra in his head as he sped toward his lieutenant’s house, making sure to stay invisible, despite the panic racing through him. So many of his friends, so many of his clan, had been taken from him in the last years. He couldn’t stand to lose his sister-Gabe’s wife-too.

Please, God, not his baby sister, too.

But when he landed in Gabe’s yard, he knew his prayers had, once again, gone unanswered. He could smell the blood from outside the house, could hear his sister’s nonsensical mutterings through the walls of dense stone.

Marta was bleeding out.

Delirious.

Probably already paralyzed.

If her illness followed the same pattern all the others had, she would be dead before the next moonrise. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Inside him, the power sputtered to life, surged through him. The need to heal, to fix, to do what he was destined to do. But he’d tried it so many times before on so many of his clan members, and each time, he had failed. This disease was an enemy he didn’t know how to fight.

Rage and anguish welled within him, crushing his lungs and twisting his spine into hard knots. Throwing back his head, Dylan roared with all his pent-up fury-then went inside to watch his baby sister die.