The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

The wonderful Charlie Cochet tagged me in the Next Big Thing Blog Hop, so today I’m posting about my current work in progress!  Read on to find out more about it.

What is the working title of your book?

Lifelines

Where did the idea come from for the book?

This is the third book in my undead series, which started with Art of Death and then followed with Bonds of Death.  I decided to write this book because the story and the characters just weren’t done after Bonds of Death.  At this point, I plan on Lifelines being the final book in the series, but I acknowledge that there’s still an endless amount of potential stories for these characters and their future dealings with the undead.  So you never know.

As for the plot itself, I actually cannibalized an old comic I was working on during my early college years, in which students would perform rituals in order to control other students as if they were puppets, using strings—or “lines”—drawn from their life essence.  In Art of Death we had paintings, and in Bonds of Death we had dolls.  In Lifelines, the theme is marionettes.

What genre does your book fall under?

M/M paranormal mystery/thriller (with a side of romance)

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

This question is going to be the death of me.  It’s bad enough that I live under a rock when it comes to actors and such, but even with my limited knowledge, I really can’t imagine anyone who would be a good match.  But I’ll give it a shot, knowing that these are all sort of rough estimations of the characters:

Riley: He bears some physical resemblance to Gaspard Ulliel in this interview, but he’s not meant to be quite as “exotic,” if that makes any sense.  And of course, Riley's key features are his bright emerald eyes and long eyelashes.  The image to the left is a portrait I did of Riley awhile back.

Westwood: I’m completely at a loss.  I can’t think of anyone with that “obnoxiously masculine to the point of looking animalistic” quality that Westwood needs.  This photo of Rafael Verga is close in terms of physical features (and hair!), and he's at least from the right region, but Westwood has a deeper complexion and is more intense and intimidating, with cold black eyes that are set a little deeper.  He's also just a touch older than the model.  Hopefully before the end of the year, I'll be able to do a portrait of him.  I've been dying to do one for a long time...

Porter: I think a 20-year-old Matthew Gray Gubler could probably capture Porter’s personality and his sense of fun, and they share a body type, but Porter’s face is long and narrow rather than square.  Not a perfect match, but as close as I can think of right now.  Of course, he'd need big poofy hair that resembles a tumbleweed...  I did this sketch of Porter when I was in the beginning stages of writing Bonds of Death, and I still haven't had a chance to paint it, but I really want to..

Arman: Unfortunately, Iranian-American actors don’t have much visibility here in the U.S., so I don’t know of any that would be a good fit.  But in terms of physical appearance, the first guy on this page is a close match.  I've tried and failed at drawing Arman a few times now.

Quinn: If pressed, I’d say that perhaps a hardier version of Tilda Swinton (with long hair) would make an interesting Quinn.  I imagine Quinn to look quite a bit less ethereal, but they do share a certain sense of severity.

What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?

When Riley and Westwood are called to a prep school in the Chicago suburbs to investigate a case of mysterious undead activity, they’re caught in the middle of a vindictive scheme by someone who’s determined not only to tear them apart but to destroy them body and soul.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The first two in the series were published by Dreamspinner Press, and I hope the third will be the same.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I’m still writing it.  I’ve been working on it since August and hope to finish and submit it by March.  Progress has been slow compared to the first two.  I wrote Art of Death in a month and edited it in two or so additional months.  I wrote and edited all 96,000+ words of Bonds of Death within two months, but that was horribly tight, and I never plan to do that again.  This time, I’m pacing myself.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre.
I don’t know of anything similar other than the two previous books in the series, especially not within the m/m genre.  The undead are somewhere in between vampires, zombies, superheroes, and demons, without falling into any of those categories, and the books are definitely on the harder edge of the m/m spectrum.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?
I mostly see this story as a natural progression from the previous two books.  Really, Riley himself was the inspiration.

My main reason for writing this story is Riley’s unresolved issues as a character: his recklessness, his dishonesty, his fear of intimacy, and his depression.  All of these issues (along with one other huge problem) prevented Riley from finding happiness in his last relationship, and I knew that nothing would stop him from doing the exact same thing with Westwood unless something changed.

What else about your book might interest the reader?

When staying at his childhood home, Riley sees a hauntingly familiar figure standing underneath the apple tree in the backyard, where his older brother had committed suicide eleven years ago.  Soon after, he discovers clues about an arcane ritual that allows for a human to be reborn as undead—hidden among his brother’s old belongings.

I’m also sharing this excerpt from Lifelines, which says a lot about Riley’s state of mind.  Throughout this book, it gradually becomes evident that perhaps Riley really isn’t as stupid as he’s appeared all this time.  Reckless, yes—but not stupid.  His problem, unfortunately, is much bigger than that.

---

Excerpt: Lifelines

A yearbook sat at the top of the box.  It was from the end of Andrew’s sophomore year.  Although he’d died in January, his classmates had arranged to pass the yearbook around at the end of the year and get signatures and messages from all of Andrew’s former friends and classmates.  Riley remembered being blindsided when a kindly sophomore he’d never met before handed him the book on the last day of school.  Up until now, he’d completely forgotten about the yearbook.

He fought back tears as he pulled the book out of the box and flipped to the sophomore portraits.  There was Andrew Burke: stick-straight blond hair, freckles, a somewhat delicate nose, and ears that stuck out just a bit.

Out of curiosity, he flipped to the freshman portraits and found his own.  He compared it back to Andrew.  Although Riley had always gotten far more attention for his looks than Andrew, they did share a clear resemblance, especially in their eyes and their bone structure.  Riley noticed the resemblance much more clearly now than he had back then.

Before Andrew died, Riley had been a blissfully stupid fifteen-year-old, always eager to accept whatever dare or challenge his big brother tossed his way.  He’d gotten into more scrapes than he could remember, but he knew that Andrew always had his back.  Andrew would tell him to swim down to the bottom of the lake in search of tadpoles or try to steal a pack of condoms from a senior football player’s locker, and Riley would do it without hesitation, knowing that his brother wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him.

During the years after Andrew’s death, Riley slowly came to accept the fact that no one else would ever have his back the way his brother did.  Yet he still put himself down into the depths of dangerous waters over and over, knowing all the while that his lifeline was long gone.

One of these days, he’d finally get pulled under for good.  For eleven years, he’d wondered when that day would come.  He almost wanted it to come.

Alanna’s words surfaced in his mind.  “Sometimes you act like you don’t really care about your life.”

When he’d first met Westwood, the man had accused him of having a death wish.  Just a few months ago, he’d said, “I’m wondering why I’m wasting my time on a human who’s intent on getting himself killed.”

Riley gritted his teeth, trying to fight off a surge of anger.  What did they know?

---

I have the pleasure of tagging/linking the following lovely people, who will share their works in progress next!

December 26

J.B. Sanders

Jana Denardo

Zahra Owens

January 2

Anne Barwell

Grace Duncan

Lifelines - Undead Series #3 Sneak Peek

Thank you so much to everyone who attended my Meet the Author chat on Goodreads!  I really hope you guys enjoyed it.

As I promised during the chat, I'm posting a special excerpt from Lifelines, the third and final book I have planned in the Undead Series.  In the third book, Riley accompanies Lychgate to his hometown near Chicago, upon rumors of dead humans being kept in a state of puppet-like animation by way of an undead-worshipping ritual.

Meanwhile, someone from Riley's past has devised an elaborate scheme that puts Riley and Westwood's relationship—and their lives—in jeopardy.

Going back home for Riley is not an easy thing, as the excerpt I'm about to share shows.  Before the start of Lychgate's assignment, Riley spends the night at his sister's house, but he's blindsided when his parents show up out of nowhere for a visit.  This scene takes place that night after they leave.  And we see that after four years with Nick and now a year with Westwood, Riley is still having trouble opening up.

Another Bonds of Death Excerpt

Bonds of Death releases on Friday!  FRIDAY!  Until then, enjoy this excerpt.

(FYI, a wights-only party is a party where the undead are hooked up with human worshippers.)

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On Wednesday night, Porter shyly asked Riley if he’d be willing to pose for a painting, “for old time’s sake,” as he put it. The setup in his bedroom wasn’t ideal, but at the moment he couldn’t afford to rent a studio space.

As requested, Riley sat sideways in a wooden chair, facing away so Porter could paint his back. Riley usually preferred Porter’s paintings when they included the model’s face because he had a knack for capturing likenesses and subtle hints of emotion, but a painting from behind meant he didn’t have to keep a rigid expression, and they could even converse while Porter worked. As Porter laid down the underpainting on his canvas, Riley filled him in on what had happened during the days he’d been gone, including all the details of Riley’s foray into designing baby dolls and Matt’s promise to send him more work.

A couple hours into the pose, Riley asked, “How does my back look? Is it getting too bony?”

Porter laughed out loud. “Relax, Riley. It’s just a painting.”

“I’m curious, that’s all.”

“You’re as gorgeous as always, okay? Jeez, I never understand you people with your perfect bodies who fret about every pound you gain or lose.”

After a pause, Riley reluctantly explained, “Westwood thinks I’m getting too skinny.”

“Is that why he hasn’t been coming around lately? What a douchebag.”

“How do you know he hasn’t been coming around? He usually lets himself in through my window.”

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard your bedsprings screaming for mercy.” He chuckled. “Or you, for that matter.”

Riley’s face went red. “I didn’t think you could hear.”

“Uh, yeah. I can hear. Mrs. Mason and I always analyze your performances when we run into each other in the stairwell.”

“Mrs. Mason? The old lady from the third floor?”

“Yep. I love her. She’s hilarious.”

“Man, you suck.” He waited, listening to Porter’s rhythmic scratchy brushstrokes for a minute before speaking again. “But no, that’s not why Westwood hasn’t been around. I think he’s… mad at me.”

“Why should he be mad at you?”

Riley frowned. “Well really, it’s all Quinn’s fault. She put me on the spot. She said Westwood needed to get stronger in order to survive an attack with your blood, and she asked me to worship him.”

The brushstrokes stopped. “And?”

“I said no. Well, I didn’t exactly say no, but I didn’t say yes, and Westwood obviously knew I was about to say no. He walked out of the meeting. And he was my ride, so Quinn had to drop me back at his house to pick up my car. And by the way, it doesn’t get any more awkward than being stuck alone in a car with Quinn.”

Porter began painting again. After a minute, he said, “In a sense, I see where Quinn is coming from. I personally don’t care if Westwood bites it, but apparently he does good work for Lychgate, so I guess it would be best for him to pick up a follower and get stronger.” He paused. “But you and Westwood are sleeping together. You’re the last person Quinn should be asking.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely,” Porter said. “You know how I feel about Westwood. He’s in it for himself. He always has been. You’ve been seeing each other for six months, and he probably doesn’t even know your middle name.”

“We didn’t see each other much for the first three months. Things only started picking up in June. And besides, I’m fine with things the way they are. He doesn’t need to know my life story.”

“But he’s already taking advantage of you, and if you start worshipping him, it’s just going to go to his head.”

“He doesn’t take advantage of me,” Riley protested. “I know how to take care of myself, Porter. And when he and I are together, I want it as much as he does.”

“I’m sure you have wonderful sex together,” Porter said. “But that’s not what I mean. It’s like when you were telling me about your big car chase. All Westwood cared about was running that other car off the road so he could save his own skin. You said it yourself; he didn’t even consider what it could have meant for you until Quinn told him off.” Again, the brushstrokes slowed. “Even though I’ve been undead for twenty years, I live as a human, and most of the undead I run into think I’m human. It’s become clear to me that most undead don’t have a lot of respect for humans. They think humans are inferior, and they don’t have much consideration for a human’s life. Since they can die and come back over and over, they forget what it’s like for the people who only have one shot at it.”

“Westwood is ignorant,” Riley admitted. “He doesn’t know any better. But that doesn’t mean he can’t change.”

“Do you think worshipping him is the way to get him to change?”

Riley didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he and Westwood had slept together. He remembered Westwood holding him down, positioning Riley’s body to his liking, and going at it without another thought. That night, Riley might as well have been a hole in the mattress, for all Westwood seemed to care about his half of the experience.

After a moment, Porter asked, “Can you relax your shoulders? Your muscles are bunching.”

“Oh, sorry.” Riley corrected his posture.

“Perfect. Thanks.” The brushstrokes resumed. “I’m sure there’s another human out there who’s willing to worship Westwood. It may be hard for him to find and seduce that person. He doesn’t know how to turn on the charm like, say, Thackary for example. But he’ll find someone. Heck, maybe you can help him look.” Another pause. “I just don’t know if you want to go opening yourself up to him like that.”

“I kind of feel the same way.” Riley gave a wry laugh. “You know, I’m going to a wights-only party this weekend. Maybe I’ll meet someone for him there.”

At this, Porter sputtered. “Wait a minute—you’re going to a wights-only party?”

“Yeah. Why is that so surprising?”

“Those parties are hardcore, dude. You don’t go to a wights-only party unless you really want to become a part of the world of the undead. I guess I figured that even though you were dating an undead guy, you still wanted to live a normal human life.”

“I do want to live a normal human life.” Riley hesitated. “To be honest, the main draw for me is the prospect of free food.”

Porter’s resulting cackle was so loud it made Riley wince. “Why is that funny?” he demanded.

“Dude, you’re delusional! I don’t even know what to say to you! If I invited you to an S&M orgy, would you come just for the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Not for, like, a cheese cube tray. But if you did something cool with smoked salmon or maybe some of those Thai lettuce wraps—”

“My God, Riley!” Riley heard the sound of paintbrushes clattering on the ground. “That’s it. I’m buying you groceries with my next paycheck.”

Riley glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, why did you stop painting?”

Porter tossed Riley his maroon silk robe. “I’m done.”

“Really?” Riley pulled on the robe, heading around to the other side of the easel to take a look. As usual, he was awestruck by Porter’s talent.

Porter’s hand lowered onto his shoulder, bringing him out of his trance. “Hey, buddy?”

Riley turned and met Porter’s gaze. His roommate looked unusually serious. “What?”

“If you’re really going to go to that wights-only party, just… just watch your back, okay? As much as I hate Westwood, at least he’s an honest guy. He doesn’t play games. Not everyone else who goes to those parties is like that.”

Riley considered his words. He knew it was silly, but the more people warned him about the dangers of wights-only parties, the more he wanted to go. He still didn’t see the harm in it. After all, no one could force him to perform a ritual if he didn’t want to. He’d go, scope the place out, and politely excuse himself. No big deal.

        “Thanks,” he said to Porter at last. “I’ll watch my back.”

Bonds of Death - Opening Excerpt

Bonds of Death releases in exactly one week!  I can't believe how quickly the time has come.  I'll be at GayRomLit from 10/17 until 10/21, so I'll be out of town on the day of the release, but I'll be sure to find some time to post news and excerpts and other fun stuff regardless.

For today, I'm sharing an excerpt.  This is opening of Bonds of Death, and we get to find out what Riley, Westwood, and Porter have been up to for the past six months since the end of Art of Death.

----------------------

A wash of yellow light spread across Westwood’s arm, hitting with a pinprick highlight at the height of his bicep and diffusing over his taut bronze skin. Riley feathered the surface of his canvas with his dry fan brush, blending the previously rough brushstrokes for a softer finish. For a moment, he sat back to admire his subject at the far end of the bedroom. Westwood’s face was partially buried in the crook of his hefty arm, exposing the small star-shaped tattoo on the back of his shoulder. His legs were bent as he lay on his stomach. The white bedsheet laced between his muscular thighs barely covered his nudity.

A better artist would have been able to portray the chasteness of the scene, but to Riley, there was no chaste way to look at Westwood’s body, even if his most intimate areas were covered. Riley knew too well the touch of those hands, the power in those limbs. With all his bulk, Westwood would have been plenty strong as a mere human. But Westwood was no mere human, and the jutting, vein-laced curves of muscle Riley replicated on canvas did little to portray the true strength within his lover’s seemingly mortal frame.

He attempted a few more brushstrokes, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, from remembering the way those arms felt last night when they squeezed him tight and pushed him into the mattress.

Five years ago, when he was in college, he could have painted an attractive nude male model without batting an eye. Then again, none of those models were anything like Westwood.

As his eyes lingered on the bare-skinned man amidst the scattered sheets, he began idly chewing the back of his paintbrush.

Blech. Oil paint doesn’t taste good.

He scrubbed at his tongue and spat. Disgusting.

Sheets rustled, and Westwood groaned like a disgruntled wolf. He raised his eyes, fixing his coal-black gaze on Riley. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Riley squeaked, attempting to turn his easel as if he were painting the bare wall.

Westwood scrambled up to his seat, pulling the bedsheets close in an unwitting caricature of a demure maiden. “Were you painting me while I slept?”

“I….”

“Goddamn, Riley. Since when did you become a creeper?”

Riley scowled, tossing his paint rag onto the drop cloth he’d stretched across the carpet. “I think I like you better when you’re not awake.”

“Spoken like a true creeper.”

Riley scooped up his paintbrushes and shoved them into a bucket before reaching for the canvas. “Whoa!” Westwood called, rising from the mattress. “You’re not going to let me see?”

“Of course not.” Riley tried to shield the canvas with his body as Westwood approached. “You know oils aren’t my strength. I’m a digital painter. I’m really rusty when it comes to traditional media.”

“Excuses, excuses. Let me see.”

“But I….”

Westwood shoved him aside indelicately, eyeing the canvas with all the artistic discretion of a teen flipping through a Playgirl magazine. “Hmm. You got my nose wrong.”

“Your nose was smushed into the pillows. I got it exactly the way it looked.”

Westwood gave a careless shrug. “You know, this is the first time I’m actually seeing your artwork.”

“And?”

“I guess you’re okay at it. At least you’re better than me.”

“I should hope so. I have a degree in this, you know.”

“Porter doesn’t have a degree, but he’s still better than you.”

“Porter only doesn’t have a degree because he keeps dying before he can get through college. He may look like he’s only twenty, but he’s got decades of practical experience more than me.” Riley whipped the canvas out of Westwood’s hands. “And did I ever tell you you’re kind of a dick?”

Westwood tapped the surface of the painting. “You got that part wrong too.”

“You were on your stomach.”

Westwood raised his eyebrows as Riley shoved the canvas into a narrow gap behind his computer desk. “I don’t see why you have to paint me in the first place. Why don’t you grab a bunch of fruit and stick it on your table and paint that? Isn’t that what you artist types do? Still life paintings?”

“I don’t think a couple packets of ramen and a bag of frozen vegetables would make for a very compelling still life.” He frowned. “In case you forgot, I’m no longer the kept boyfriend of a rich lawyer. I’m the single unemployed artist who moonlights as a nude model at Prestwick College of Art. Fresh fruit is a luxury I can’t always afford.”

Riley idly examined a spot on the bedroom wall where the painters had spackled over a flattened roach. Gems like this were plentiful in the new two-bedroom apartment he shared with Porter Gomez. It had only been a few weeks since they’d moved in, but he was already beginning to wonder if it was even worth the minuscule amount he’d have to scrape together for rent every month.

“I’m not so sure about this apartment,” Westwood said as if reading his mind. “I thought I heard something in the middle of the night, but I was too tired to check it out.”

“Oh, that was the police. They arrested the crack dealer downstairs.”

“Lovely.”

“This was all I could afford,” Riley said defensively. “I couldn’t stay at Nick’s place, and staying with Mr. Tobias, my old painting teacher from Prestwick, was just awkward. I mean, unless you want me to move in with you….”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Westwood gave Riley a shove that was only half-playful.

Riley finished gathering his paints in uncomfortable silence. In truth, he didn’t want to move in with Westwood any more than Westwood did. The way Riley saw it, things were fine as they were. He went about his daily business, worked, chatted with his roommate, tried to navigate through the daunting world of networking with other artists, and occasionally woke up to Westwood climbing through his window and tackling him—an impressive feat considering the apartment’s location on the second floor. Riley was happy enough with their current arrangement. Even after six months, it felt like he was in a brand new relationship. Sex and independence, along with the occasional conversation. It was exciting, and he didn’t spend enough time with Westwood to get annoyed by his personality.

“You have to work today?” Westwood asked.

“Yeah.” Riley finished stowing the last of his painting supplies and collapsed his easel. As he folded the drop cloth into a crinkly square, he added, “I thought it’d be nice to get a little bit of painting in before I have to be on the other side of the easel at nine.” He glanced at the alarm clock on his thirty-dollar IKEA nightstand. “Speaking of which, I have to hop in the shower, so unless you want to join me, you should probably get going.”

“Your shower’s too small. I’ll go. But I want to get a glass of water first.”

“Wait!”

Westwood stopped midstride, his hand on the doorknob. “What?”

“I don’t want you to scare Porter again.”

Two days earlier, Westwood had wandered naked out of the bedroom exactly as he was about to do now. Porter had been at the fridge, and upon seeing Westwood, he’d yelped like a startled Chihuahua and dropped an entire milk carton on the floor. It had been a rare half-gallon carton of organic milk from Whole Foods that Riley had been looking forward to using in his coffee. But as sad as he’d been to say good-bye to the five-dollar milk, he’d felt even guiltier for having put Porter in that uncomfortable situation.

“Porter’s had twenty years to get used to seeing me,” Westwood said.

“Not in his house without warning, though. I don’t blame him for being freaked. You were the one who took his mortality, after all.”

“You kill a guy once, and he never gets over it,” Westwood muttered under his breath.

“Twice,” Riley corrected.

“Whatever. Anyway, I don’t hear him out there. I’m going.”

Riley pulled on a robe as he followed Westwood to the door. When he stepped out into the hallway, he saw no signs of his lanky, shaggy-haired roommate. Porter usually slept late, but across the cramped living room, Riley could see that his door was wide open and the bedroom unoccupied. Unlike Riley’s room, which was still lined with unpacked boxes, Porter’s room was bare, instantly displaying his characteristic lack of personal effects.

“You think he slept over at the bar?” Riley asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Riley cringed as Westwood helped himself to Sarasota’s questionable tap water. He then watched the water disappear from the glass in four impossibly large gulps. As Riley turned toward the bathroom, Westwood caught his arm. “One more thing before I go.”

“Yeah?”

Westwood tore open the belt of Riley’s robe, lifting him off the ground and slamming him on his back across the kitchen table. He whipped off Riley’s underwear and grabbed him below the knees, pulling him close. With a mischievous laugh, Riley dug his fingers into Westwood’s shoulders and readied himself for the ride.

Excerpt Time - Undead Series #3

Sharing a tiny excerpt from my WIP, the third book in the Undead Series. :sigh: I wish Porter were my roommate...

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“Dude, it’s pizza time!” Porter called from the kitchen as soon as Riley walked through the door. He was wielding an oven mitt on each hand, as usual. Back when they’d first moved into the apartment on Medina, Riley had gone out and bought kitchen supplies without first checking to see if Porter had already picked any up. As a result, they’d ended up with two oven mitts, and ever since, Porter always made a point of wearing both whenever he cooked. As far as Riley could tell, the extra mitt didn’t seem to keep Porter from finding creative new ways to burn himself. All it did was make him twice as clumsy when handling pots and pans.

But he put on a hell of a good dinosaur-themed puppet show with them.

Riley shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the back of the nearest chair. Behind him, Porter’s focus had already made a rapid shift from pizza preparation to practicing his dinosaur noises. But before Riley could disappear into his bedroom, Porter suddenly stopped mid-rawr and called, “Come back here and eat some pizza!”

“Not hungry,” Riley mumbled. “Besides, I have to pack. Don’t you have to pack too?”

“I finished.”

“You’ve only been home for half an hour.”

Porter shrugged. Riley knew that his roommate kept very few personal items, so he let it go. Again, he turned for his room, but Porter called, “Dude, you have to eat. I made that pizza from scratch, you know. Half meat, half veggie, depending on whether you feel like Mr. Tyrannosaurus—” he held up his left oven mitt, “—or Mr. Brachiosaurus.” He held up his right mitt and waved.

Riley squinted. “Did you sew eyes and teeth on those oven mitts?”

“It was long overdue, and you know it.” He continued to hold up Mr. Brachiosaurus, which looked so pathetic that Riley had to admit it was somehow endearing.

Finally, Riley rolled his eyes and took a seat at the dining table. “I’ll take a couple veggie pieces.”

From the 7/21 Meet the Author Event

For those of you who weren't able to make it to my Meet the Author event on Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page last weekend, I'm posting the subjects here so you can take a look.  I couldn't very well repost all the resulting conversation, but I will say it was a great event.  I got to talk with a fellow ferret owner, several fellow chocolate lovers, chat a bit about all-male Shakespeare performances, discover some gorgeous guys, and more.

Also, you can catch me at the following events this week:
7/25 - Is Abuse Romantic? - abuse awareness month post on Chicks & Dicks
7/27 - Nude Models - guest post on Pants Off Reviews 1-Year Blogoversary - with ebook giveaway
7/31 - Art School - guest post on Long and Short Reviews


Meet the Author - Ana Bosch - July 21, 2012

Meet the Author on Facebook - The After-Party

I just wrapped up an amazing chat on Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page to celebrate the release of Art of Death!  I'd promised to share a preview of the sequel, Bonds of Death, which is due out in October, but due to timing and the desire to not spoil the story for anyone, I decided to post it here.

Sequel Preview: Bonds of Death

What's better than a book about nude modeling and the undead?  TWO books about nude modeling and the undead!  Bonds of Death, the sequel to Art of Death is scheduled for an October release.  As we learned in Art of Death, the undead grow stronger when they take on human worshippers.  Since each undead has a weakness that could potentially kill them for good, sometimes a human worshipper is the only thing that can help them resist an attack targeting their weakness.  So what happens when the headstrong Riley is asked to worship his undead lover in order to save his life?

(beware: Art of Death spoilers ahead)

Too Late to Chicken Out

The release of Art of Death is exactly two weeks away, and as much as I'd love to go crawl back into my hole and pretend I've never written anything, it's a little to late to do that now.

Don't get me wrong; I'm excited and thrilled that this novel is going to be published. But I'm also a whole lot more nervous than I thought I would be. There's a lot to be nervous about. Will people buy the book? If they buy it, will they like it? What if there are mistakes that I missed?

The thing I'm probably the most nervous about, however, is the "heat level" of the book. Let's face it, The Dragon Tamer could easily carry a PG-13 rating. Art of Death? No way. This is a hard R. This is the first time I'm putting out anything with any sort of graphic content in it. (Yes, my webcomic will have some graphic content, but it hasn't happened *yet.*) The sex in Art of Death is integral to the plot and the development of the characters, but in a way that makes it even harder, because I can't even cobble together a "clean" version of the manuscript for people I know without feeling like I'm losing huge chunks of character development.

I finished up with the galley proof today, and one of the editors passed along some really positive and encouraging feedback from the proofreader that helped to put my mind at ease.

Anyway, with only two weeks left before the release, I thought it would be good to share an excerpt from the novel.  This is the opening scene of the novel, and you get to experience a bit of the joy of an art school critique.  I'll probably share one or two more excerpts before the release, but for now, here's the first scene:

Excerpt From The Dragon Tamer

I'm counting down the days until the release of my first published work, The Dragon Tamer. It'll be out on February 1, which is just over a week away. The day before the release, I plan to post a "behind the scenes" blog entry on the development of the story's cover art. Until then, enjoy the following excerpt from the story!

*****

"Hurry, Aedan, bring me the sunstone petals. We have to add them to the pot before it reaches a boil.”

Aedan stood at the opposite end of the potions workshop, nearly invisible amongst the tubes and flasks and bottles shelved around him. A warm yellow-orange glow washed over the oak counters and chests from a row of torches set in the wall. The flames cast flickering shadows that wavered across the room as if they were dancing. Destan craned his neck, unable to spot the young man who was now kneeling as he explored the bottom drawers and cabinets. “Aedan! I said hurry!”

“The bottle’s not where I left it,” Aedan barked back. “You must have moved it.” His fingers finally stumbled upon the thin-necked flask, and he rushed back to Destan’s side, uncorking the bottle and shaking the petals into the pot.

“Gently!” Destan scolded.

“They’re supposed to be shaken forcefully into the mix, not poured gently,” Aedan said. “And don’t speak to me like I’m a child. I’m grown now; you know that very well.”

Destan examined Aedan for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed. The slender young man stood stubbornly before him, clad in his usual long black coat, raven hair nearly concealing his defiant amber eyes. “I’ll take your word for it,” Destan said at last. “You’re the prodigy.”

Truly, Destan had no choice but to take Aedan at his word. Although they’d worked on the potion together for months, it was Aedan’s expertise that brought out the rainbow sheen atop the surface of the brew, proof that the potion was properly mixed. And it had been Aedan’s idea in the first place to create a potion that would give a mage the ability to cast a spell without the need for chanting or conjuring.

One sip of this potion, and the drinker would be powerful enough to rightly claim the position of mage clan master. Astraeus had died just the day before, and now it was a race to complete the potion before anyone else could claim his seat.

“I’ll leave this to simmer overnight,” Destan said. “Of course, I’ll lock the door to the workshop so no one can access it while it’s setting.” He turned to Aedan, a wry smile on his face. “I suppose I should thank you for helping me with this potion. You know how badly I’ve wanted to be clan master. And to show my thanks, I’ll let you have a taste of it after I drink my share. I may even name you my second in command.”

“All right,” Aedan said.

“You know,” Destan whispered, “this potion could very well kill us.”

“It’s a volatile mix.”

Despite his mild tone of voice, Destan could see the fire in Aedan’s eyes. He’d always been drawn to that fire. That heat. He himself was a water mage, seven years Aedan’s senior, and he’d watched with bated breath as the boy came into manhood. Over the past year his wait was over at last, and he’d finally been able to form the union with Aedan that he’d always wanted. He’d seen Aedan in the throes of passion, in his most helpless state, begging Destan for release. Now, seeing that fire bright in his eyes, Destan couldn’t help but sweep him forward, pressing his mouth against his apprentice’s, fingers laced through his silky black hair.

When their lips parted, Aedan let out a shaky sigh. His cheeks were flushed as he looked up at the tanned, husky man, brushing golden strands out of his eyes. “When I’m second in command,” he began, “what would you have me do?”

“What do you think?” Destan replied slyly, his fingers sliding into Aedan’s belt and yanking it open.

Shoving his hand away, Aedan said, “I’m serious! I want to know what responsibilities you’ll give me. Astraeus had you handling all kinds of fascinating tasks.”

“Come now, doll,” Destan breathed in his ear, “you don’t need to worry about any of that. With this potion, I’ll be strong enough for the both of us.”

“You have no want for my own strength?”

When Destan didn’t reply, Aedan pulled roughly away from him, his breath coming out in a furious huff. Then, quietly, he said, “It’s never going to change with you, is it?”

“Aedan, Aedan,” Destan coaxed, rubbing his apprentice’s shoulders. “Don’t get all fired up. We’re partners, all right? You and I, partners.” He wrapped Aedan in a warm embrace, and finally the young mage turned around, allowing their lips to meet again.

In a daring move, Aedan suddenly pushed forward, delivering a soft bite to the nape of Destan’s neck. As the water mage gasped, Aedan let his tongue dance lightly over his skin, trailing from the nape up to the ear.

“Ohh, Aedan,” Destan moaned. He ran his hands down the young man’s back in a manner wholly unlike that of a teacher to his apprentice. “Now you’re bringing meup to a simmer.”

“Fire and water,” Aedan chuckled into the man’s neck.

“And partners forever.”

He closed his eyes, reveling in the exquisite sensation of Aedan’s tongue against his skin.

He did not notice as Aedan lifted a vial off the table behind him, dipping it into the cauldron, corking it, and shoving it into the pocket of his coat.