Today, the Sensational Six box set is the Book of the Day at the influential site ereadernewstoday.com.
That's far from the only good news today (although some of it I can't yet talk about).
Sensational Six contains great stories by Gini Koch, Jordan Summers, Caris Roane, Sasha White, and Vivi Anna, in addition to the fantasy novella "A Soul in the Hand," my first published collaboration with Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell. And for the moment, it's yours for under a buck! Check the BotD link above!
Out of Tune, a fantastic anthology edited by Jonathan Maberry, is still out there, and it contains dark fantasy "John Barleycorn Must Die," the second published story by Marcy and me.
Tomorow, Dead But Not Forgotten: Stories from the World of Sookie Stackhouse, an anthology of stories set in the universe of Sookie Stackhouse, edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L.P. Kelner, comes out. Like Out of Tune, this book has stories by a bunch of brilliant writers, and includes my story "Taproot."
But just today, Marcy and I got more news--good news--about another short that we can't wait to talk about, and I got good news about a novel that I can't wait to talk about. For the moment, though, I can't talk about them.
So there you go. Lots of exciting news, some of which is still under wraps.
Since I can't talk about them, though, I thought I'd do something else... so below are the first two paragraphs of "A Soul in the Hand" and "John Barleycorn Must Die" (I can't show "Taproot, because those rights belong to Charlaine, not to me). I hope you'll be intrigued enough to track down the stories.
More news soon!
A Soul in the Hand
In the dream, Kord was Panther. He moved through the trees like an unmoored shadow, lithe and black, paws lightly brushing the earth with each step. This was not the hardwood forest he had been born in, at the empire’s edge, or the swamps he had come to know in later years. It was jungle, densely wooded, steamy, thick with life at every layer, from the worms and insects underfoot to the birds inhabiting the highest canopies, their plumage flashing, brilliant as it caught sunlight that only reached the floor as a muted and filtered green haze.
Panther followed a scent trail he couldn’t name. It was rich, heady, familiar and strange at the same instant. Whatever it was, the scent was clearer in this place than the few signs of passage left behind by his prey: a crushed leaf here, there a vine yanked free of a tangle. Panther’s eyesight was sharp; he missed nothing. But odor was the only trustworthy guide, and Panther filled his nostrils with it at every step, confident that he was closing in.
John Barleycorn Must Die
The sign read “Bacchanal Brewing—Ale Fit for the Gods,” and not only was it the last place in town I wanted to be, it was also the last story in all of this news-challenged state that I wanted to be covering. And considering my other choices were batteries made from cowpies and allegations of fraud at the local dog show, that was saying something.
This piece would have been a natural for Paul Hendricks, who worshipped microbrew as if those aforementioned gods had wafted down from paradise to personally hand-deliver it to us lowly mortals. So of course Paul was out with a flu that came out of nowhere, hit him hard, and looked like it would keep him down for the count. Which meant Jayne had assigned the story to me, and it was about as welcome as a punch in the kidneys.