GENREALITY

This is a cheater post:  one link to someplace else.  I apologize.  Clearly, my summer of chaos has begun.

Last week, I got the first chapter of Kitty’s Big Trouble up on my website.  The book is due out June 28.  Not long now.  Does this stage of the game get any easier?  No, it does not.  I just talked to my agent and asked him what I was going to do if this book flops.  He assured me that would not happen.

I’m still going to go gnaw on my fingernails for awhile.

(I’m working on a post about what it’s like working on the tenth and eleventh books in an ongoing series.  I’ll have it ready in the next week or so, I hope.)

It’s a new year!  Time for new books!  May I present STEEL, my second young-adult book, which will be out from Harper Teen in March.  Here’s an excerpt for y’all.  Enjoy!

***

The bright sun, soothing white beaches, and picture-perfect views of palm trees and bright blue ocean didn’t do much for Jill’s mood.  Gray skies would have suited her better.  But she tried to make a good showing, for her mother’s sake:  lying on a towel on the beach while eight-year-old Mandy and ten-year-old Tom ran around screaming, splashing in and out of the waves.  Her siblings kept yelling at her to join them, that the water was warm and she should try snorkeling, it was so clear and they could see rocks and fish and shells and everything.  At least they were having a good time.  Mandy hadn’t stopped talking since they arrived, going on and on about sharks and seashells and where they should go looking for pirate treasure.  That was after the visit to the Pirates Museum in Nassau.  Apparently, the island had been covered with pirates some three hundred years ago.  Jill kept telling her that all the pirate treasure had been found a long time ago, and real pirates didn’t bury treasure anyway.  Mandy didn’t care; she was still going to talk about it.

Jill hadn’t even put on her swimsuit, but wore a tank top and clamdiggers.  Her one concession was going barefoot, and she dug her toes in the warm sand.

Her father had gone to play golf.  Her mother stretched out on a lounge chair beside her, sipping from a fruity drink with a paper umbrella and a pineapple rind sticking out of it.  Jill had asked for a taste, and her mother had refused.  “It’s got rum in it,” she’d said.

Maybe the trip would be more fun if Jill were old enough to drink.

Reading in the sun, even wearing sunglasses, gave her a headache, so she set the book aside and tried to take a nap.  Then she gave up on the nap and stood.  “I’m going to take a walk.”

Her mother blinked awake – she’d managed a nap.  “Where to?”

“Just down the beach,” she said.  “I’ll go for a while and turn around and come back.”

For a moment, her mother looked like she might argue.  But she didn’t.  “All right.  Be careful.”

Jill started walking.

The beach wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty, which she would have preferred.  Lots of families seemed to be on vacation, as well as couples of every age.  People, greasy with sunscreen, lay on towels and baked on the sand.  Some played volleyball.  Some, like her, walked barefoot on wet sand, at the edge of where the waves reached.  She kept going, past the people, to where the more attractive, sandy portion of the beach narrowed, and palm trees grew almost to the water.  Voices fell away, drowned out by the sound of waves.  She kept walking.

She could understand how someone could lose herself, walking along a beach.  It was meditative:  the roll of the waves, the repetitive movement of water and patterns of froth that traveled back and forth along the sand were constant, along with the noise — the rush, splash, echo of always-moving water.  Beautiful, entrancing.  It never changed — but at the same time the pattern the breaking waves made was always different, and she could just keep watching it.  The waves, the surf, and the ocean that went on to a flat horizon.

Walking in sand was a lot of work.  Her feet dug in, slipping a little with every step.  Her legs had to push harder.  This was a good workout.  Then again, she was probably moving faster than she needed to.  You were supposed to just stroll along a beach, not march.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t mind sweating.

She could just keep walking, never go back.  She could turn into a beach bum and never make another decision about what to do next.  The idea sounded enticing.

When her bare toe scuffed against something hard in the sand, she stopped.  It was too heavy to be a shell.  Maybe a stone.  She knelt and brushed the sand away, feeling for the object her foot had discovered.

It was a slender length of rusted steel, flat, about six inches long and a half an inch wide.  It tapered to a point at one end and was jagged at the other, as if it had broken.  A thousand people would step over it and think it trash, but not her.

This was the tip of a rapier, the solid shape of a real sword.  The original source of the modern, flimsy weapons she fenced with.  Every fencing book she’d ever seen had a picture of rapiers like that, to show where the sport came from.  This tip must have broken off and might have been rusting in the ocean for centuries, waves pushing it along the sandy bottom until it washed up here.  Dark brown flakes came off in her hand.  The edges were dull enough that she ran her finger along them without harm — though her skin tingled when she thought about what the piece of steel represented.  Was it a pirate sword?  Had it broken in a duel?  In a battle?  Maybe it had fallen from a ship.  Looking around, she studied the sand as if the rest of the sword might be lying nearby.  She imagined a long, powerful rapier with an intricate swept hilt, like something from a museum or a movie.  An Errol Flynn movie.  But that was stupid.  The tip had broken, and it would have washed away from the rest of the sword a long time ago.

Maybe there was a sword in a museum somewhere, missing six inches.  Maybe she should tell someone about this.  Maybe the pirate museum in Nassau would  want it.

But it was just a broken, rusted piece of steel.  What were the odds that someone strolling along the beach would find it and recognize what it was, like she did?  No one would want it, really.  No one would miss it.

She didn’t know how far she’d come or how long she’d been walking, but she’d left behind signs of civilization.  She couldn’t see any roads or hear any vehicles.  No boats were visible out on the water, and there weren’t any people.  Just blowing palm trees, a strip of sand, and the endless waves.  She might as well have been on a desert island.  Which made her feel strangely peaceful.  Being the only person on an island, looking out at the ocean?  Maybe you’d go crazy.  Or you might think that you’d finally found some peace and quiet.  No pressure on a desert island.

At least walking along the shore she couldn’t possibly get lost.  She turned around and started back.  Before she came within sight of the first people and buildings, she slipped the broken rapier tip in her pocket.

It was weird; she felt like she had something she shouldn’t, as if she’d stolen something.  But she’d found it; she hadn’t taken it from anyone.  Maybe she blushed because she liked knowing something no one else did.  She liked having a little bit of secret treasure.

I’m in Los Angeles this weekend attending the Writers of the Future award ceremony and talking to this year’s winners about how the contest and workshop impacted my writing career.   Fun stuff.

In other news, as we prepare for the mass market paperback release of Canticle (8/31) and the hardcover release of Antiphon (9/14), Tor is running a limited-time special on the e-book of first volume, Lamentation.  Hard to go wrong with a price like $2.99!

So to celebrate that and to introduce you all to a small corner of my Imagination Forest, I thought I’d post the first little bit of the book.  Here, you’ll meet Rudolfo, Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses and General of the Wandering Army.  He’s one of four protagonists whose life is about to change….

See you on the other side! 

Prelude

Windwir is a city of paper and robes and stone.

It crouches near a wide and slow-moving river at the edge of the Named Lands. Named for a poet turned Pope – the first Pope in the New World. A village in the forest that became the center of the world. Home of the Androfrancine Order and their Great Library. Home of many wonders both scientific and magick.

One such wonder watches from high above.

It is a bird made of metal, a gold spark against the blue expanse that catches the afternoon sun. The bird circles and waits.

When the song begins below, the golden bird watches the melody unfold. A shadow falls across the city and the air becomes still. Tiny figures stop moving and look up. A flock of birds lift and scatter. The sky is torn and fire rains down until only utter darkness remains. Darkness and heat.

The heat catches the bird and tosses it further into the sky. A gear slips; the bird’s wings compensate but a billowing, black cloud takes an eye as it passes.

The city screams and then sighs seven times and after the seventh sigh, sunlight returns briefly to the scorched land. The plain is blackened, the spires and walls and towers all brought down into craters where basements collapsed beneath the footprint of Desolation. A forest of bones, left whole by ancient blood magick, stands on the smoking, pock-marked plain.

Darkness swallows the light again as a pillar of smoke and ash blots out the sun. Finally, the golden bird flees southwest.

It easily overtakes the other birds, their wings smoking and beating furiously against the hot winds, messages tied to their feet with threads of white or red or black.

Sparking and popping, the golden bird speeds low across the landscape and dreams of its waiting cage.

* * *

Chapter 1 

Rudolfo

Wind swept the Prairie Sea and Rudolfo chased after it, laughing and riding low in the saddle as he raced his Gypsy Scouts. The afternoon sun glinted gold on the bending grass and the horses pounded out their song.

Rudolfo savored the wide yellow ocean of grass that separated the Ninefold Forest Houses from one another and from the rest of the Named Lands—it was his freedom in the midst of duty, much as the oceans must have been for the seagoing lords of the Elder Days. He smiled and spurred his stallion.

It had been a fine time in Glimmerglam, his first Forest House. Rudolfo had arrived before dawn. He’d taken his breakfast of goat cheese, whole grain bread and chilled pear wine beneath a purple canopy that signified justice. While he ate, he heard petitions quietly as Glimmerglam’s steward brought the month’s criminals forward. Because he felt particularly benevolent, he sent two thieves into a year’s servitude to the shopkeepers they’d defiled, while sending the single murderer to his Physicians of Penitent Torture on Tormentor’s Row. He dismissed three cases of prostitution and then afterwards hired two of them onto his monthly rotation.

By lunch time, Rudolfo had proven Aetero’s Theory of Compensatory Seduction decidedly false and he celebrated with creamed pheasant served over brown rice and wild mushrooms.

Then with his belly full, he’d ridden out with a shout, his Gypsy Scouts racing to keep up with him.

A good day indeed.

“What now,” the Captain of his Gypsy Scouts asked him, shouting above the pounding hooves.

Rudolfo grinned. “What say you, Gregoric?”

Gregoric returned the smile and it made his scar all the more ruthless. His black scarf of rank trailed out behind him, ribboning on the wind. “We’ve seen to Glimmerglam, Rudoheim and Friendslip. I think Paramo is the closest.”

“Then Paramo it is.” That would be fitting, Rudolfo thought. It couldn’t come close to Glimmerglam’s delights but it had held onto its quaint, logging village atmosphere for at least a thousand years and that was an accomplishment. They floated their timber down the Rajblood River just as they had in the first days, retaining what they needed to build some of the world’s most intricately crafted woodwork. The lumber for Rudolfo’s manors came from the trees of Paramo. The furniture they made rolled out by the wagonload and the very best found its way into the homes of kings and priests and nobility from all over the Named Lands.

He would dine on roast boar tonight, listen to the boasting and flatulence of his best men, and sleep on the ground with a saddle beneath his head—the life of a Gypsy King. And tomorrow, he’d sip chilled wine from the navel of a log camp dancer, listen to the frogs in the river shallows mingled with her sighs, and then sleep in the softest of beds on the summer balcony of his third forest manor.

Rudolfo smiled.

But as he rounded to the south, his smile faded. He reined in and squinted against the sunlight. The Gypsy Scouts followed his lead, whistling to their horses as they slowed, stopped and then pranced.

“Gods,” Gregoric said. “What could cause such a thing?”

Southwest of them, billowing up above the horizon of forest-line that marked Rudolfo’s furthest border, a distant pillar of black smoke rose like a fist in the sky.

Rudolfo stared and his stomach lurched. The size of the smoke cloud daunted him; it was impossible. He blinked as his mind unlocked enough for him to do the math, quickly calculating the distance and direction based on the sun and the few stars strong enough to shine by day.

“Windwir,” he said, not even aware that he was speaking.

Gregoric nodded. “Aye, General. But what could do such a thing?”

Rudolfo looked away from the cloud to study his Captain. He’d known Gregoric since they were boys and had made him the youngest Captain of the Gypsy Scouts at fifteen when Rudolfo himself was just twelve. They’d seen a lot together, but Rudolfo had never seen him pale before now.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Rudolfo said. Then he whistled his men in closer. “I want riders back to each of the houses to gather the Wandering Army. We have Kin-Clave with Windwir; their birds will be flying. We’ll meet on the Western Steps in one day; we’ll be to Windwir’s aid in three.”

“Are we to magick the scouts, General?”

Rudolfo stroked his beard. “I think not.” He thought for a moment. “But we should be ready,” he added.

Gregoric nodded and barked out the orders.

As the nine Gypsy Scouts rode off, Rudolfo slipped from the saddle, watching the dark pillar. The column of smoke, as wide as a city, disappeared into the sky.

Rudolfo, Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses, General of the Wandering Army, felt curiosity and fear dance a shiver along his spine.

“What if it’s not there when we arrive?” he asked himself.

And he knew—but did not want to—that it wouldn’t be, and that because of this, the world had changed.

***

Well, there it is.  If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll consider picking up this book and the others in the series.   Meanwhile, I’m going go enjoy some sun, some good company and some quiet time away from home to work a bit on Requiem.  

Next week:  Goshwowsensawunda Moments, Part 2:  Television

A short and sweet post today:  Next week, my first young adult novel is due out from Harper Teen.  It’s called Voices of Dragons, and it’s an alternate history with dragons, rock climbing, jet fighters, and boyfriend trouble.

(Ever since my first book came out, I’ve found it useful to try to condense the premise into a one-sentence soundbite.  i.e. “It’s about a werewolf named Kitty who starts a talk radio advice show.”  People will always ask, “What’s your book about?” and if you take more than one sentence to explain, their eyes inevitably start to glaze over.  So one punchy sentence to sell the book.)

I’ve posted the first chapter over on my website, if you’d care to take a gander.  Voices of Dragons, Chapter One.

Well, it’s about six weeks until the next novel release.  It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve had a book out.  It’s only been since March.  Usually we talk about time flying, but it feels like it drags when you have a book coming out!

Here’s the first bit of the next Kitty novel, Kitty’s House of Horrors.  Due out January 2010.

***************

Chapter 1

I knew if I stayed in this business long enough, I’d get an offer like this sooner or later.  It just didn’t quite take the form I’d been expecting.

The group of us sat in a conference room at KNOB, the radio station where I based my syndicated talk show.  Someone had tried to spruce up the place, mostly by cleaning old coffee cups and takeout wrappers off the table.  Not much could be done with the worn gray carpeting, off-white walls filled with bulletin boards, thumbtack holes where people hadn’t bothered with the bulletin boards, and both of those covered with photocopied concert notices and posters for CD releases.  The tables were fake wood-grain-colored plastic, refugees from the 1970s.  We’d replaced the chalkboard with a dry erase board only a couple of years ago.  That was KNOB, on the cutting edge.

I loved the room, but it didn’t exactly scream high-powered style.  Which made it all the funnier to see a couple of Hollywood guys sitting at the table in their Armani suits and metrosexual savoir faire.  They seemed to be young hotshots on the way up–interchangable.  I had to remember that Joey Provost was the one with slicked-back light brown hair and the weak chin, and Ron Valenti was the one with dark brown hair who hadn’t smiled yet.  They worked for a production company called SuperByte Entertainment, which specialized in reality television.  I’d looked up some of their shows, such sparkling gems as Jailbird Moms and Stripper Idol.

They were here to invite me onto their next show, the concept of which they were eager to explain.

“The public is fascinated with the supernatural.  The popularity of your show is clearly evidence of that.  Over the last couple of years, as more information has come out, as more people who are part of this world come forward, that fascination is only going to increase.  But we’re not just trying to tap into a market here–we hope to provide a platform to educate people.  To erase some of the myths.  Just like you do with your show,” Provost said.  Provost was the talker.  Valenti held the briefcase and looked serious.

“We’ve already secured the participation of Jerome Macy, the pro wrestler, and we’re in talks with a dozen other celebrities.  Name celebrities.  This is our biggest production yet, and we’d love for you to be a part of it.”

I’d met Jerome Macy, interviewed him on my show, even.  He was a boxer who’d been kicked out of boxing when his lycanthropy was exposed and then turned to a career in pro wrestling, where being a werewolf was an asset.  He was the country’s second celebrity werewolf.

I was the first.

While working as a late-night DJ here at KNOB, I started my call-in talk-radio show dispensing advice about all things supernatural, and came out as a werewolf live on the air about three years ago.  Sometimes it seemed like yesterday.  Sometimes it seemed like a million years had passed.  A lot had happened in that time.

Arms crossed, I leaned against a wall, away from the table where the two producers sat.  I studied them with a narrowed gaze and a smirk on my lips.  In wolf body language, I was an alpha sizing them up.  Deciding whether to beat them up because they were rivals–or eat them because they were prey.  They probably had been talking to Jerome Macy, because they seemed to recognize the signals, even if they didn’t quite know what they meant.  They both looked nervous and couldn’t meet my gaze, even though they tried.

This was all posturing.

“That’s great.  Really,” I said.  “But what is this show going to be about?”

“Well,” Provost said, leaning forward, then leaning back again when he caught sight of my stare.  “We have access to a vacation lodge in Montana.  Out in the middle of nowhere, a really beautiful spot, nice view of the mountains.  We’ll have about a dozen, give or take, well-known spokespeople for the supernatural, and this will be a chance for them–you–to talk, interact.  We’ll have interviews, roundtable discussions.  It’ll be like a retreat.”

My interpretation:  we’re going to put you all in a house and watch you go at it like cats and dogs.  Or werewolves and vampires.  Whatever.

“So. . .you’re not using the same model that you’ve used on some of your other shows.  Like, oh, say, Cheerleader Sorority House.”

He had the grace to look a tiny bit chagrined.  “Oh, no.  This is nothing like that.”

I went on.  “No voting people off?  No teams and stupid games?  And definitely no shape-shifting on camera.  Right?”

“Oh, no, the idea behind this is education.  Illumination.”

Ozzie, the station manager and my boss, was also at the meeting, sitting across from the two producers and acting way too obsequious.  He leaned forward, eager, smiling back and forth between them and me.  So, he thought this was a good idea.  Matt, my sound guy, sat in the back corner and pantomimed eating popcorn, wearing a wicked grin.

I had a feeling I was being fed a line, that they were telling me what would most likely get me to agree to their show.  And that they’d had a totally different story for everyone else they’d talked to.

I hadn’t built my reputation on being coy and polite, so I laid it out for Mr. Provost.  “Your shows aren’t exactly known for. . .how should I put this. . .having any redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

He must have dealt with this criticism all the time, because he had the response all lined up.  “Our shows reveal a side of life that most people have no access to.”

“Trainwrecks, you mean.”

Valenti, who had watched quietly until now, opened his briefcase and consulted a page he drew out.  “We have Tina McCannon of Paradox PI on board.  Also. . .Jeffrey Miles, the TV psychic.  I think you’re familiar with them?”  He met my gaze and matched my stare.  One predator sizing up another.  Suddenly, I was the one who wanted to look away.

“You got Tina to agree to this?  And Jeffrey?”

Both of them were psychics; Tina worked with a team of paranormal investigators on primetime TV, and Jeffrey did the channeling-dead-relatives thing on daytime talk shows.  I’d had adventures with them both, and the prospect of spending two weeks in a cabin in the middle of nowhere taping a TV show was a lot more attractive if I’d be doing it with them.

“What do you think, Kitty?  Do we have a deal?”

I needed to make some phone calls.  “Can I get back to you on that?  I need to check my schedule.  Talk it over with my people.”  Most of my people were already in the room, but the Hollywood talk amused me.

“Of course.  But don’t take too long.  We want to move on this quickly.  Before someone else steals the idea.”  Provost actually winked at that, and his smile never faltered.  Valenti had settled back and was regarding me coolly.

“You’re not scheduling this over a full moon, are you?” I said.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Provost said, way too seriously.

“Just one more question,” I said.  “Have you signed on Mercedes Cook?”

Provost hesitated, as if unsure which answer would be the right one.  I knew which answer was the right one:  if the Broadway star/vampire/double-crossing fink was on the show, I was staying as far away as possible.

“No,” he said finally.  “She turned us down flat.”

Wonders never ceased.  But they’d asked her.  And she’d said no, so that was a point in the show’s favor.  “Ah.  Good,” I said, and Provost relaxed.

We managed polite farewells and handshakes.  Ozzie and I walked the two producers outside to their rented BMW.  Provost continued to be gracious and flattering.  Valenti stayed in the background.  Sizing me up, I couldn’t help but think.

After they’d driven away, we returned to the building.  The summer sun beat down.  It had been a beautiful day, a recent heat spell had broken, and the air felt clean.  Smelled like rain.

I turned to Ozzie.  “Well?”

He shrugged.  “I think it’s a great opportunity.  But it’s up to you.  You’re the one who’s going to have to go through with it.”

“I just wish I knew what kooky tricks they have up their sleeves.  What are going to be the consequences if I do this?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said.

I hated that question.  Reality always came up with so much worse than I could imagine.  “I could make an idiot of myself, ruin my reputation, lose my audience, my ratings, my show, and never make a living in this business again.”

“No, the worst that could happen is you’d die on film in a freak accident, and how likely is that?”  Trust Ozzie to be the realist.  I glared at him.

“Who knows?  At best it’ll draw in a whole new audience.  To tell you the truth, with people like Tina and Jeffrey involved, it kind of sounds like fun.”

“You know what I’m going to say,” Ozzie said.  “Any publicity is good publicity.”

So far in my career, that had been true.  I was waiting for the day when it wasn’t.  “Let me call Tina and Jeffrey and find out why they signed on.”