1) First, tell us about yourself – where you live, your family, and those sorts of details.
I live in The Woodlands, Texas with my husband and a German Shepherd dog. I have two grown daughters. One lives in Denver. One in North Texas.
2) How long have you been writing?
I wrote from the time I was eight until I was in my early twenties. Started again January of 2012.
3) Do you have a favorite place to write?
I’ve set up my workspace to be comfortable and it is. Given a choice, this is where I like to hang.
4) Why did you decide to write Gathering Storm?
This is the fifth installment of a serial saga, the natural progression of an ongoing story.
5) Who is your favorite character in your book and why?
Elora Laiken. The saga is really her story, although she’s often a character on the periphery of the focus. In this installment, she is the star around which other planets revolve.
6) How about your least favorite character? What makes them less appealing to you?
A lot of people love Deliverance, my incubus demon, and I really don’t get why. It would be impossible to come up with a more selfish, self-centered character. He’s an eight-hundred-year-old adolescent who literally lives for sexual gratification. To me it seems like a terrible waste of perfectly good immortality.
7) Do you proofread/edit your own books or do you get someone to do that for you?
I participate in the process, but don’t try to do it alone. I have a professional who lives in London. I get on her schedule as soon as I’ve worked out a self-imposed deadline on my calendar. When she and I are finished, I turn it over to my street team who inevitably find editing escapees. When all goes as it should, by the time release day comes I have a flawless product to put out.
8) What do you like to do when you’re not writing?
Read, play cards, go to movies and travel.
9) Do you read much and if so who are your favorite authors?
I do read a lot. I’m very fickle about favorites. My flavors of the month are Kristen Ashley because of Motorcycle Man and Katy Evans because of Real.
10) What question do you wish that someone would ask about your book, but nobody has?
What inspired Gathering Storm?
The saga is based on the idea of multiple realities existing within the same physical space, but unknown to each other because of variants in vibration. This is an idea that is becoming more science and less science fiction all the time. The premise of the saga is that there are multiple versions of ourselves existing simultaneously in these other dimensions that are similar but not identical to our own, alternate, not parallel.
I was toying with the idea of being psychically connected to these other versions of ourselves in dreams. I have dreams in which I find myself in an unknown environment, interacting with people I have never seen, yet the dream has the distinct quality of feeling real. I began to wonder if I’m experiencing a glimpse of the lives of some of the other versions of me.
The Order of the Black Swan Book Five
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: 7th House
Number of pages: 320
Word Count: 85k
Cover Artist: Victoria Danann
The fifth installment in the Black Swan serial saga. READING IN ORDER STRONGLY RECOMMENDED. That’s why we have a try-before-you-buy-program. The first book in the saga, My Familiar Stranger, is PermaFREE everywhere.
THE NEWSLETTER: Z Team, a.k.a Zed Company, is transferred to Jefferson Unit, which is being temporarily retired as an active hunter facility and converted to a research / training institution. Sol takes his first vacation – ever – leaving Glen in charge with Storm supervising. Rosie is proving to be an extraordinary little girl and Deliverance is in BIG trouble with her mother.
THE SURPRISES: Storm is really not himself. Former members of B Team must reunite to preserve his image and reputation. No one could have prepared for the surprises Rosie delivers.
THE ADVENTURE: The Ralengclan send a second wave assassination team to Jefferson Unit at the worst possible time, when it’s been left defended by only Z Team, Glen, the Lady Laiken and the trainees.
Glendennon Catch caught the eye of the bartender who simply pointed toward a back corner. He couldn't see what the man pointed to, but he nodded and began making his way toward the rear.
He wound through a few layers of standing people who were holding glass mugs and talking loudly to be heard over the music, until he could see a corner snug in the back. It was close to a window so there was enough light to see, even with the smoke, that the bartender had been right in surmising that he was looking for Z Team.
There they were - the farthest thing from inconspicuous. Glen couldn't begin to guess how they had managed to be successful vampire slayers when everything about them drew attention and broadcasted vibes of this-is-your-last-chance-to-run. It was a message that floated around them like a diaphanous cloud of warning.
The four of them fit comfortably in a snug designed for eight. That was partly because of their sheer size and partly because they had a casual way of draping arms and legs so that they took up as much space as possible. It also communicated disdain for established notions of propriety. Glen knew instinctively that even the word "propriety" would make Black Swan's infamous misfits laugh out loud.
One of them was wearing a sleeveless shirt that had once been a denim jacket. His left arm had been transformed into a tattooed sleeve by an intricately inked mural of muted colors. It was odd to see bare biceps when it was brittle-dick cold outside, but Glen supposed that if he'd made that much of an investment in ink he might want to show it off too.
Glen's initial impression of the guy sitting next to Sleeve was that he should have the nickname, Dark, or Black. He wore black jeans, a black metal band shirt that was probably a collectable, and his spiky hair was so blue black it had to have been dyed that color. All that with eyes so pale he could almost get away with going undercover as a vamp. He wasn't wearing eyeliner, but the contrast between his ice-color irises and those thick ebony lashes made his eyes pop in a dramatic way that probably drew interest from a lot of babes. The Black Knight. Glen smiled a little to himself. He enjoyed his own company and his own offbeat sense of humor.
The third wore a plain gray long sleeve tee that covered his upper body, but Glen could see black ink climbing out of the neck of the guy's shirt, stopping just below his pronounced jaw line. Either tribal pattern or angel glyph. Hard to tell with just snake tails in view. He had a serious case of bed head going, probably by design, and one eyebrow that was raised and had been since he'd noticed Glen standing there watching them.
He said something to the others. Then the fourth, the one facing away with one long arm draped over the back of the snug, turned to look at Glen, revealing elfin ears. Those ears were outlined by light brown hair with titian streaks. Same curl as Sir Hawking. Had to be Torrent Finngarick.
They looked exactly the way Glen had expected them to look. Hard. Tough. And like they belonged together. He was thinking, So they're Black Swan knights with a little bit of a nasty reputation. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like me. Right?
It was an inadequate internal pep talk, but he just wasn't feeling it. He decided to go with Plan A, which was taking life straight ahead, one step at a time. Glen had a reputation of his own for being easy going, but he made an exception for passive aggressive nonsense. He didn't like it, didn't like people who habitually avoided the front door, and didn't mind letting his irritation with bullshit bubble over.
Plan A meant walking straight up to them, stating his business, hoping for the best, but being prepared for the worst. That was the thought bouncing around in his mind as he observed their reactions to seeing him approach the table.
When he was standing over them, he looked around the table and said, "I'm Glendennon Catch." Then he zeroed in on Torn. "Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick." He said "sir" quietly enough so that only they heard him, but they got the message. It was as good as a secret handshake. "The office sent me with a message from the HR department."
They left him standing there for a minute without saying anything or changing expression. It was a thinly disguised intimidation strategy to get him to reveal nervousness, timidity, or some other weakness that would register as a flaw in their eyes. That sort of thing didn't work on somebody who had inherited the dominant werewolf gene. He could stand there all day without flinching or looking away.
Finally, the big guy with the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned, showing dimples which seemed entirely out of place against the persona he'd so carefully crafted. "So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're waiting."
The other three chuckled softly without taking their eyes off of him. Glen laughed openly and good-naturedly, but let the sound trail off ending in a low level growl, incongruent with the smile on his face. The growl wasn't loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They all sat up a little straighter and took another look at the kid. He had their interest, but that was worlds away from respect.
Looking at Glyphs, he said, "My briefing didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to call me by a name, it's Glen."
Finngarick's blue eyes twinkled in a way that brought Ram to mind while the other two laughed at Glyphs being put down by a kid who was years away from growing into his big frame.
"Long way to deliver a message. Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it up to the snug, and made a gesture of invitation. "You'll find we're no' much on formality. Call me Torn."
Glen nodded then looked at the others. Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, "This is Gunnar. That's Raif." He raised his chin in the direction of 'black knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is Bob."
"Gunnar. Raif, Torn, And Bob. No way."
Finngarick's eyes twinkled with that special elvish sparkle. "Aye. Make no mistake. Name's Bob."
Glen shook his head. "Let's rename him."
Finngarick looked at Bob and then back at Glen. "What we have here gentlemen is a cool, gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do, but have another pint. So I say we'll play that game. What would you call the man if it was up to you, young emissary?" Glen shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"
"Well, yeah, I sort of named him in my head on the walk across the bar."
"Pub," Torn corrected.
"Yes. Pub. Sorry."
Bob raised both brows. "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what you named me in your head on your walk across the... pub."
Glen looked at him with speculation trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth. "Glyphs."
While Bob studied Glen, his three teammates studied Bob in turn, like they were trying it on for size. Bob lowered his eyebrows and rolled his big shoulders in approval.
Finally Torn nodded as if to say he'd reached a conclusion. "Right you are. Now that you point it out, I can see he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him fine. Congratulations, trainee. You just named yourself a knight."
Torn Finngarick called for a Guinness Extra Stout to be served to Glen, who wasn't used to alcohol at all and certainly wasn't ready for Irish black beer. He took a manly mouthful, thinking he had arrived, and promptly spewed it all over Torn in a spectacular demonstration of human fountain power. The other three members of Z Team laughed so hard they had to wipe tears.
"That was almost as funny as the night that Chokarzi stripper puked half a gallon of half-digested Cuervo in your face in the middle of a lap dance."
Glen borrowed a wet bar towel and offered it to Finngarick with a blush. "I'd offer to clean you up, but your file says you prefer to get personal with women."
Torn took the towel without a word, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. When he was as clean as was possible without a shower and fresh clothes, he handed the towel to Glen. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk maybe?" he teased.
When Glen returned with a mug of root beer, no one asked him what was in the glass. Torn simply motioned to the chair. Glen sat.
"You're needed at Jefferson Unit. You're to accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your things are being gathered and moved as we speak."
As Glen looked from one to another, he saw no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch. He'd give them that.
Glyphs shrugged. "New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than some."
Finngarick looked at Glen like he was a lab specimen on a microscopic slide. "Would you be happenin' to know why we're needed so urgently?"
Glen thought about it for a minute and decided there was no reason to withhold the truth. "Yes."
A ghost of a smile seemed to cross Finngarick's handsome elven face. "And would you be sharin' with us then?"
Torn glanced at his teammates as if the four could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin' is, we're accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least surprised if you came to say we're bein' transferred to Antarctica. But this? Naturally we're curious, you understand."
"Of course I understand. But I'm not at liberty to say."
Torn nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you were sent to escort us?"
It took Glen less than a second to process whether it might be problematic to divulge that information. "The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring. I'm being given a try-out for his job. He sent me to get you." Z Team stared at Glen as if they were waiting for the punch line. Finally, he said, "No. Really."
Gunnar cleared his throat. "So. You're saying that, at some point, we might be calling you boss?"
Glen responded with a shit-eating grin so big, it begged for comeuppance. Gunnar swept his gaze around the snug before it came to light on Glen with a chilling mix of challenge, mischief and amusement.
Torn leaned forward. "Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper hazin' then. Glen."
Four sets of eyes darted to the movement in Glen's throat when he swallowed.