Coming Soon--"Beary Sassy" by Vonnie Davis

Lucky me, I've been friended by a small group of paranormal authors who self-publish. Someone creates a storyline, sets up pages on facebook so we can keep in touch, and offers services like cover creation, formatting, and beta reads.

Our current project is "That Old Black Magic: Heart's Desired Mates" series. It is set in a Shifter Community of Stillwater, CA in the Sierra Nevadas. Eight books will comprise the series. Each author retains her rights with royalties paid directly to the author. We promote and support each other.

Each story revolves around a couple who fight their attraction to each other. Although they secretly watch the other, few overt attempts are made to connect. Oh, there are run-ins and arguments, awkward words, and stolen kisses. What finally brings them together is a Raven-shifter's chanting an old heart's desired mate spell. Something goes awry -- isn't that always the case? -- and the entire town is thrown into an orgy. Couples who've secretly desired each other unite for a night of passion. Some wake up the next morning aghast at what they've done.

My contribution involves a Scottish bear-shifter sent to Stillwater after she's been targeted by a drug gang. A man she's dated hid drugs in her home. When she finds them, she turns the cache over to the authorities. She's shot, poisoned, and marked for more attempts on her life. The head of her bear sleuth sends her to America -- a new take on witness protection.

Police detective in the magical community is Mateo Savage. This panther-shifter is attracted and yet put-off by the Scottish bundle of sass.

Keep watching. My new book will be available soon! It's in the formatting stages now. it'll be out in eBook and paperback formats. www.vonniedavis.com

A Halloween Treat #2 by Christine DePetrillo

I hope you've still been good, people. If you have, Halloween treat #2 is Abra Cadaver, a paranormal romance novella.

Blurb:
Holly Brimmer never expected to be brought back from the dead. After a fatal car crash, a mysterious stranger gives her a second chance at life—but it comes with a price. To stay alive she must pay it forward, accomplish an important deed, thus making her mark in the world. Until she does, her savior is bound to her. Now she has a backyard full of dead bodies and one unwanted houseguest.

Keane Malson kills bad guys to keep the innocent alive, but he’s still a monster. Cursed by a witch moments before an honorable death on the battlefield, he’s lived thousands of years, roaming from place to place with no end in sight. It’s a lonely life…until he meets Holly.

When a wanted man targets Holly, Keane will do anything to protect her, even if it’s the last thing he ever does.

Excerpt:
Holly Brimmer stared at the dead body resting in the grass in her backyard. She knew it wasn’t truly human, but shit, it sure looked like a real person. This one was actually good-looking. His rusty brown hair was only slightly matted with dried, greenish blood. 

Must not have put up too much of a struggle. 

His skin wasn’t that post-life purplish color yet either. He still appeared fresh, as if he might pop open his eyes and say, “Just kidding! I’m not dead.” 

But that wasn’t going to happen. 

This fellow had definitely taken his last twirl on the carousel of life. She inhaled the summer-heated air and exhaled slowly. How did I end up here? 

“I don’t know why you insist on burying them, Holly. Demons only last eighteen hours after death, and I like to burn the bodies before then anyway.” 

The mere sound of his voice tensed every muscle in her already stress-beaten body. If she could take back one horrible decision, Keane Malson would be it. 

Keane leaned on the threshold of the back porch door. If he stood up straight, his head nearly hit the top. For a man of his size, he moved like a butterfly—absolutely no sound whatsoever. The snake tattoo circling his left bicep twitched as he folded his arms across his chest. Holly loved snakes, but that one slithering in black ink across his pale flesh confused her. She wanted to stay away from it and inspect it more closely at the same time. 

Stay away from it, Holly. Snakes bite and Keane probably does, too.

Pick up Abra Cadaver today and see how sexy monsters can be! 

Happy Halloween, Pumpkins!

Toodles,
Chris
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com 

A Toad Joins The Menagerie

It seems as if two kittens, two dogs, and (between my mother's feeders and mine) about twelve cups of homemade hummingbird nectar a day wasn't enough.
 
For my mother's 92nd birthday, our handyman gave her a tiny toad or frog. I don't know the difference and, at the moment, I don't care. Mom was absolutely thrilled. One free and rather nondescript amphibian completely shaded the new TV my brother, sisters, and I pitched in to buy her for her bedroom. At her request, I might add, not that I'm salty about that.

Like any tech savvy lady, she headed her walker straight for the computer to research the little guy's needs. 
  
Terrarium. Check. Fine spray mister. Check. Small clay pot to make a little hidey hole. Mom decided her spare pots were too big. I managed to find a tiny one under my kitchen sink. Mom promptly took a hammer to it. 

I guess I'm not getting it back. 

Silly me, I'd envisioned her laying the pot on its side. At that Mom showed me some pictures she'd found on the internet. These showed the pot turned upside down with a rounded entrance cut into the side. I admit they were cute like little Hobbit houses. We turned to look at her handiwork. Her hammer blow had busted out a jagged triangular piece of clay. Hairline cracks suggested it wouldn't be prudent to hit it again.

She was disappointed. But after studying it for a moment, I told her it made the habitat look like she had a badass toad living there. 

The water dish was replaced six times before she settled on a lid possessing the perfect depth. Not too deep but just enough for him to sit in easily. The website further claimed the frog needed dirt from the area where it was found.

Fresh, loamy soil from the creek bank will have to do. The next requirement was living moss. Who wrote this stuff? And how do they know? Did amphibian pollsters go pond to pond?

It took me a bit but I found green moss growing under her outside water faucet.

Job well done...I'm ready to stamp the project finished.

Then she tells me, "the article said he'll only eat insects that are still alive. It has this graph and a toad his size needs about 3 bugs a day. Nothing with a hard shell so, I think, that lets out ladybugs and such. Oh, it also says that the back legs of crickets have to be removed. Something about them causing a blockage in his digestive system."

I suggest ordering live insects off the internet or buying some at a local pet store. She laughs like I've made the funniest joke. 

"Why pay for bugs when we've 34 acres filled with them? It shouldn't be hard. You could try checking piles of animal poop to find flies."

I stare at her in disbelief but she seems completely serious. I also know if I don't do it, she'll be out there scrambling around, with her walker no less, That leaves me to hunt out perfect dietal tidbits with which to tempt, what sounds to me, a very picky amphibian.

Outside, armed with long tweezers and a plastic baggie, I begin my search. Unfortunately, the trillions of bugs that live here must have been listening at the window. It seems they've all dispersed and gone into hiding. Not a single bee is droning. The ants have taken it a step further by sticking Go away, nobody's home signs on their hills. Reluctantly, I check the piles of doo-doo my dogs have left conveniently around but not one fly is decorating them.

It seemed to take forever until I finally capture the only three bugs either too inattentive or lackadaisical to heed the alert. One fly type thing, another bug I don't recognize, and a grasshopper.

Believe me when I say it's hard to catch flying/jumping insects with tweezers. However, I refuse to touch them with bare hands. I'm sweating by the time I hand the baggie over into Mom's waiting hands.

I suspect my grin is more than a little hysterical as I tell her, "Here. I don't know if grasshopper legs have to be removed like a cricket's. Your call." 

On that note, I head home. It's only a few steps as my place is right next door. The heat has made me slow as I'm about halfway there when it hits me. I'm going to have to go through this every stupid day until fall. 

As much as I'm hating this internet site Mom has been reading with all the passion of a proselyte, it has given one piece of advice with which I heartily agree.

Amphibians should be released back into the wild while the weather is still warm. This will give them some time to dig a hole for hibernation.

Here in southern Missouri, this means I'll be wearing a bug hunter cap along with all my other hats until the end of September or early October. Locally, the first really cold day hits  Halloween. As a child, I was convinced this was Mother Nature's way of messing with trick-or-treaters.

By that time, I figure I'll be maniacally singing Ugly Bug Ball while fancy dancing with the fleas. It's either that or I'll turn into one of them like Kafka's Gregor in Metamorphosis. Hmm, between those two options I think I'll stick to my party pants.

The phone's ringing as I shut the door behind me. 

"Robin," Mom exclaims excitedly, "I've been reading some more and the males have a bluish tint to their necks while a female's neck is the same color as the rest of its body."

She pauses with all the drama of an expecting mother's baby reveal. Pink confetti seems to spill through the airwaves along with her voice, "You have a little sister! Oh, and next time? You better remove any legs. They're too hard for me to pull off."

Touche, Mom, I hang up. She's managed to insult me and turn me into a butcher for her pet - all in the same breath.

It's all summer magic at the farm.

Check out what I've written and what I'm working on at my website
remullins.com 

AMAZON 
THE WILD ROSE PRESS 

Or find me on FB at R.E.Mullins/author 

Ever have one of those mornings?

                    Stepping into the kitchen this morning, I'm shocked to see I forgot to set up the coffeepot last night. It's an integral part of my 'heading to bed' ritual. It goes hand-in-hand with brushing my teeth. I do it so all I have to do upon rising is push a button. 

Scratching the side of my left knee, I pick up the carafe and step/stumble over the dog as I turn to the sink. I swear he wasn't there a second ago. His normally limpid eyes are filled with reproach. In his mind, I should be feeding him the moment I get up. Having to fix the coffee is a change in routine that is messing with both of us.

I get the pot going and quickly feed the pets.

I scratch the back of my neck.

I decide there should be enough time to start a load of laundry before the pot finishes brewing. I stuff dirty clothes inside, turn the machine on, and add liquid detergent. 

I stand there, squinting down into the tub as it fills with soapy water. Was that something glinting among the clothes? It disappears as the machine begins to agitate. 

I dismiss it as a figment of an under-caffinated mind.

I scratch my hip as the phone rings.

"Hi," I answer. Politely, I might add.

"You haven't had your coffee," My mother says accusingly and then hangs up on me. It's amazing how she can tell, with only one word, if coffee has socialized me for the day or not.

  She refuses to talk to me before I have a caffeine hit. I love (sarcasm here) how she makes it sound like I'm some addict that can't function without a morning cup of joe. Until my eyes have been opened with a coffee bean and water stimulate, she claims, I'm unable to carry on a sensible conversation. She also won't ride in a car with me until I've got at least 2 cups of caffeine flowing through my veins.

I scratch my thigh.

After pouring a steaming cup, I doctor it with a drop of milk and head to the shower. Naked, I find several new, red patches of broken out and bumpy skin. You see, the little slice of Eden I live on is bountiful in poison ivy, shumac, and oak. I find six new six chigger bites in a place I'd rather they not be.

I scratch at them. I sneeze as Queen Anne's Lace is currently blooming and I'm allergic. 

 Once clean, I look in the mirror and try telling myself I look rather fetching painted pink with Calamine lotion. I compound this lie by adding I'm much more Pink Panther and less Pepto Bismal Monster.

 The lotion does not stop the itching.

The tone for the morning has been set. So much so that, later, when putting fresh sheets on the bed, I stub my baby toe on the leg of the bed frame. And it hurts. My luck it's broken. I can see the tissue swelling and know I'll be limping for a few days.

I believe I hear the distant echo of bed frame designers everywhere  laughing sadistically.

I'm scratching and sipping coffee as my morning ends with the outbreak of WWIII.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me explain that these canine and feline hostilities are rooted in the fact I live out in the boonies and bought a new car last March.

 Stay with me here. 

Who knew that somewhere, somehow, someone decided it would be a good idea to use a soy based coating on new engine wires.

That's right. Just like in the Princess Bride, a R.O.U.S. (rodent of unusual size) took it upon itself to have a wire snack. Its gnawing caused over three hundred dollars worth of damage.

 Everyone said I needed a cat. I don't do things halfway.

So, last week, I took in two kittens. 

Here is Kif, the dog, seeing Calico Andie for the first time. As the internet suggested, I let the dog and kittens get to know each other through closed doors. When the dog is inside, the kittens stay in the guest bathroom. They sniff at one another through the space at the bottom of the door.

  As you can see, one swipe of Kif's Gene Simmons-esque tongue could drown a tiny kitty.

I call this one, Marley because, I think, she looks like gray, marled wool. I find I have to repeat this a lot. I guess it was a bad name choice as, evidently, most think her name is a drug reference.
 It is not.

This morning, before I've ingested my normal pot or two of coffee, I discover the kittens have Houdini-it out of the bathroom. 

Canine and feline sleeping peacefully. 

So cute. So precious.

I start singing the Beatles, "All together now."

 

Either my singing or grabbing the camera wakes them up. And, all h...heck breaks loose. At first, Kif frantically wags his tail. He thinks it's playtime and he's been desperately wanting them to play with him.

However, the kittens snub him. Marley rather rudely puts her hind leg over her neck and starts grooming. I tell her that, at the very least, she could have turned her back before washing those bits and pieces.

 Kif's feelings are hurt. He responds by barking and attempts to jump up on the tea cart. 

Backs arching, the kittens hiss and spit with adorable ferocity.  Which, understandably, Kif doesn't take seriously. I didn't either until Andie makes this weird growling sound that causes the hair on the back of my neck to prickle. 

Andie and Marley reward them for picking them up out of canine reach by puncturing my skin with forty tiny but razor sharp claws.

 I yelp. This inspires Kif to repeatedly jump against my side. I'm almost knocked over by the ramming force of fifty, sturdy pounds. 

I'm done trying to referee. I'm tired of scratching.

  Poor Kif is put outside. I tell him that, when the kittens are old enough to look after themselves, they will take their turn at being banished outside for misbehaving.

 Right now, the kitties are too little to be outside where hawks, owls, and turkey vultures patrol the skies looking for tasty little morsels. Yet, Kif is a pampered pooch and it's too hot to leave him out during the heat of the day. It's not like he doesn't have shade trees, a pond, and a spring fed creek to keep him cool. No, he stubbornly stays on the deck. He stares longingly inside and, somehow, manages to make me worry he'll get heatstroke.

I scratch as I reconsider living in the country. 

I reconsider being a 'pet' person.

I think I need a more robust coffee bean.

Oh, and when transferring wet laundry to the dryer, I found my reading glasses. I guess they slipped off my nose when I was loading the washer earlier and that's what I'd seen glinting among the clothes.

 All this and I haven't even been up for three hours.

REMULLINS

author of paranormal romance

Keep up with what I'm working on at

remullins.com 

 

Separate title novella written for Kindle worlds.

 

#Nurturing weeds

Pink Evening Primrose

milkweed

Daisy Fleabane

Black-Eyed Susan

Oxeye Daisy

Blue Cornflower

Loostrife or Lythrum

Flowers or weeds? I guess it is in the eye of the beholder. I admit that I let these untamable wildflowers grow in my garden despite the fact some gardeners consider them obnoxious, invasive, and undesirable weeds. 

I've been warned to dig them out by the root before they have a chance to, horror upon horror, take 'hold' and edge out more desirable specimens like roses and hydrangeas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not, of course, that there is anything wrong with roses and hydrangeas. Indeed, if you were to ask my favorite flower, I would say it is whatever is in bloom. 

 

Now, stick with me here as I go through a rather convoluted theory about how gardening can relate to writing. It came to me yesterday as I was working outside.

 

Imagine each flower as a person in your story. That each bloom is a character both unique or stereotypical. It's undeniable that plants possess their own strengths and weaknesses much as we do. Some are aggressive and try to take over the bed. Some are delicate and temperamental. Some are bold and some dainty. 

 

Others, like the hybridized rose, might create a gorgeous and showy splash of color but they've lost that original, deeply haunting, and sweet scent in the process. They put me in mind of the handsome or lovely character that is all surface charm with no inner substance.

 

Can't you see children or childish characters in the tiny daisy fleabane? Milkweed is maternal. Attracting butterflies like a magnet and essential to the Monarch's diet, milkweed is the comfortable, older woman. Sweetly pink or butter yellow Primrose is the secondary female lead. This character is usually the heroine's best friend. On the other hand, you have to see that purple lythrum is the male best friend. 

 

Or do plants radiate gender to you as they do me?

 

That's why I see the Black-eyed Susan or Oxeyed daisies as great heroines. They're plucky, fun, cute, and bright all at the same time. While the masculine blue cornflower is perfect as the hunky, strong, and brave hero.

 

Now, every grower knows they must nurture each plant to their individual needs of water and fertilizer. So must the author nourish the story. But beware. Suspenseful drum roll. No matter how well tended a garden, black-spot, spider mites, or root rot might invade at any moment. 

 

The thought makes me shiver just as much as when suspense drives the plot. 

 

Even among the flora, there are few bad flowers. Queen Anne's lace tops my list as an undesirable. I didn't realize I was allergic to the intricately woven bloom until the summer of snot. That was the year it grew along the fence line and my little sweeties lovingly brought me a stem or two each day. I, in turn, dutifully placed them in vases around the house. And sneezed my head off as my nose ran and ran and ran. 

 

It's embarrassing to say how long it took me to figure out the cause of my 'summer cold'. It goes to show that Queen Anne's lace is the epitome of a complex character. Pleasant and interesting to look at but hiding a sinister motive.

See? Everything you need for writing inspiration can be found in your garden. There are blooms that are lovely, sweet, spicy, pungent, bold, pastel, or shyly hidden among the foliage. I bet you can find an annual or perennial that uncannily resembles someone you know.

 

Nature even comes with bad guy-flowers - like Queen Anne's lace and goldenrod. These nasty little buggers sprout each spring looking like every other tiny green speck. It's how they hide out and go unnoticed as they shove their roots deep into the soil.

 

It's the same when you write. Hidden threats provide conflict and suspense. Fear and worry keeps the main characters moving along. 

 

To get back to these sinus inflaming plants that burst from the soil, a shoot of innocent green in a green sea. They are the evildoer hiding in plain sight. It isn't until the leaves uncurl or sets a bud that it becomes identifiable. Only then is the gardener able to spot and weed them out. Much as a writer grooms the plot, elaborating on a character's internal and external struggles. The main characters must recognize and accept the problem before it can be defeated.

 

And so it goes. A story line forms like a garden reveal. Characters struggle to find and keep their place in the world much as shade and sun seeking plants. They must guard against others that try to crowd or overtake them. Defend against rivals that would kill them by hogging the soil's nutrients. 

 

But, sometimes, even two vastly different plants manage to harmoniously exist side-by-side. These are the lovers coming together in an explosion of colors and complementing hues.

And this is the road my mind traveled as I dug and planted in the dirt. You might say, I spent too much time in the sun. I don't know.

Either way, I'll leave my thoughts on seeds for another time.

 

R.E.Mullins

author of paranormal romance

 

AMAZON 

THE WILD ROSE PRESS 

BARNES & NOBLE 

 

 

My latest work is a novella bridging the gap between the original Blautsaugers of Amber Heights series and my new Vampires of Amber Heights series. 

 During the Civil War, Union soldier, John Alden took a musket ball to the gut. As he gasped his final breath, he was turned into a vampire and started life anew in Amber Heights, Missouri. For over one hundred and fifty years, he's lived a rather solitary life as a vampire Enforcer.

Young single mother, Joann Clarkson, needs a job and fast. Hoping to be rehired, she returns to Dr. Michaela Blautsauger's lab prepared to eat a hefty helping of humble pie. She comes to regret that decision when she's taken hostage. Things look grim but she'll never stop fighting to escape. Her son needs his mama.
As an Enforcer, John must hunt down the vampire who kidnapped Joann. In his search, John winds up babysitting her toddler Cody. Changing diapers might be worse than getting staked, but nothing compares to how he feels when both mother and child fall into danger again.

 

The Blautsaugers of Amber Heights series. Each novel features a member of this vampire family as they deal with loving interference from family members, wacky members of the human community, danger, and their own personal hangups to find their soulmates.

Kindle Worlds novella, Vampire Girl: Back to Hell was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it.

 

Eli Grayheart, vampire demon, lesser Lord of Inferna was banished to the mortal realm. For a decade, he has been reduced to working the night shift for human employers and little pay. As he desperately seeks a way back to his homeland, he has plotted his revenge. The pink Fae, known as Keeda Weranseer is going to regret the part she played in his exile. Ever more graphic plans for revenge fuel his life, and, he swears, if it takes forever and a night he will find his way back to Hell.

 

Contact me, read a free Christmas short story, or see what I'm working on at:  remullins  

Or find me on: FACEBOOK

 

 

 

 

Why would you tackle a sub-genre of Romance you don't read? #amwriting #paranormal #bear shifters by Vonnie Davis

          If I've told you this story before, please, let's chalk it up to a senior moment. I seem to have them at random.

         I was recovering from cancer surgery to my saliva gland—of all places—when a pair of large golden spots began to glow in the back of my mind. These strange apparitions didn’t go away. Brain cancer, I thought. The surgeons didn’t get it all and the cancer’s spread to the back of my head. Just as I was ready to call the doctor’s office to make a dreaded appointment, the glowing neon yellow spots blinked. Blinked, mind you!

Eyes?

These spots I’d tried my best to ignore for two weeks were eyes? Well hell, I didn’t need a cancer doctor. I needed a shrink!

For almost a month as I healed, making daily trips to the doctor to have liquid drained from my swollen face, these yellow eyes watched and waited and willed me to speak to them. Now, I might be a tad crazy, but even I know better than to talk to things that shouldn’t be there.

So, one night as I was drifting off to sleep, the eyes moved. They floated from my head and into the face of a huge brown bear standing at the foot of my bed. Since I believe book characters often search for an author to write their stories, I told him he was at the wrong house. That I didn’t write children’s stories. He shook his large head. “Oh, you’re not that kind of bear?” He silently shook his head again. It was an eerie moment.

Then to my surprise and delight, he shifted into a kilt-wearing Scot with long dark hair. “Oh gee, you’re still at the wrong writer’s house. I don’t write paranormal. I don’t even read it.”

He sauntered to my side of the bed and sat. “Aye, lassie, but ye will.” His Scottish brogue sent a shiver skittering over my skin. “Scoot over and I’ll tell ye how bears came to be extinct in Scotland.”

I snuggled closer to Calvin and the bigger-than-life Scot stretched out on the bed next to me with one hand beneath his head. He told me the most bizarre, imagination boosting tale of his ancestors. He said his name was Creighton Matheson—Mathe meaning bear. I absorbed every detail of his family’s legend.

What do you think was the first thing I did when I woke up the next morning? I googled “Are bears extinct in Scotland?” They were. In fact, I found an article where the UK was trying to re-introduce the species into the Highlands. The article claimed the bears were shot into extinction by hunters in the previous century. But I had a better story…straight from the mouth of a bear shifter.

I was told by a woman who reads auras that the bear was my totem; my healer when I got sick. Who’d have thought?

My series of shifters began with almost zero knowledge of the paranormal genre. I hadn’t intended for anyone to read them because I felt like a fake writing about something I was ignorant of—but, oh, what fun I had writing for my own enjoyment.No pressure because I didn't intend to show them to anyone. My agent at the time told an editor at Random House about my “play stories.” The editor read the first three chapters of one and gave me a contract for three books in a series. The books and novellas have continued and I’ve fallen in love with the bear shifters with the glowing, golden eyes.

In His Midnight Star, Bear has made a close connection to Star. He expects her to stay in Scotland with him and his human half, but she can't. Or so she thinks. Bear brings her three heart-shaped stones as presents...

“How wonderful! Even when I leave and go back to the States, I’ll have these to remind me of you and Gunner. Thank you so much, I love them."

Bear howled and stamped his foot. He reached for Gunner’s kilt and wrapped it around Star. He pointed and his jaws popped."

“I love you, Bear, but I can’t stay. I must go back to Georgia.”

A pained roar bellowed from his throat. Would he get angry and attack? Her heart pounded a fearful beat. To her surprise, he marched to the corner of the room, sat with his back toward her and his face in the angle. His shoulders were slumped and he moaned and moaned.

Great, a bear that throws tantrums. How can I make him understand when a large part of me wants to return to Scotland once I kntow I’m okay? I’m too confused to help anyone…or anything…at this point. I need some distance to think clearly about Gunner and me

She charged into the kitchen. What few dirty dishes were in the sink were covered by a large fish Bear had no doubt thrown there. Maybe he was hungry. She carried the fish into the bedroom and dropped it on Bear’s lap. “Eat this and calm down.”

No sooner had she whirled around and made a few steps than the fish slapped her in the back. She yelped and spun in his direction. Bear’s back was to her again. Oh, two can play this game. She bent, picked up the fish, and threw it at the back of his head. He growled and started to shift.

~~~~~~

Ah, a food fight with a shifter. No one ever accused me of being normal. Have a grand day.

www.vonniedavis.com

An Interview with a #Werewolf by Christine DePetrillo

I recently sat down with Reardon McAlator from Wolf Kiss, Book One in The Warrior Wolves Series. He agreed to spend a little time with us today. Reardon, welcome.

Reardon: Thanks for having me, lass.

CD: Swoon-worthy accent. You must have lasses falling at your feet.

Reardon: (offering a swoon-worthy grin as he shrugs) I don’t notice if they are. I’ve got my very own fairy lass, Dr. Brandy Wendon, and she’s all I need.

CD: How did you and Brandy meet?

Reardon: Well, she met my wolf first, and she did what she does for all her wolves at Silver Moon Wolf Sanctuary.

CD: Howl at the moon with them?

Reardon: (chuckles) Aye, on occasion, but I was referring to the expert care she gives each of the wolves in our pack. Many of us wouldn’t still be here without her. Many of us wouldn’t want to be here without her.

CD: Why did you come to modern-day Vermont all the way from Ireland of the past?

Reardon: It wasn’t exactly voluntary. When you anger the goddess of wild things, punishment is sure to follow. (blows out a long breath) I did something I shouldn’t have and the goddess kicked us out of our beautiful Ireland.

CD: Us?

Reardon: My brother, Jaemus, my two cousins, Kole and Shawn, my brother-in-battle, Erik, and myself. The goddess scolded us all so we’d never forget what we’d done. What I made us do. (hangs head)

CD: You have regrets.

Reardon: Many. Fortunately I’ve been rewarded with great happiness in Vermont also. It hasn’t been all bad.

CD: What was something unexpected that happened because you were forced to come to present-day Vermont?

Reardon: Aside from falling in love, I didn’t expect to develop such a strong bond with a lad. Brandy’s boy, Dylan, treated me well when he knew me in wolf form and then accepted me into his family in human form. He’s a remarkable boy, full of life and potential. Brandy has done an amazing job raising the lad, who is actually her nephew. Her sister passed away unfortunately.

CD: I’ll bet you and Dylan have a lot of fun with the wolves at the sanctuary.

Reardon: Aye, we do. That lad has so much energy. The wolves often tire before he does.

CD: Everyone’s getting their exercise then, running about the woods.

Reardon: If I had to land anywhere, Vermont was the perfect place.

CD: What modern convenience do you enjoy most?

Reardon: The car. It’s so much easier than walking, sailing, or riding a horse to get around. Brandy’s veterinary partner, Dr. Parker Daniels, taught me how to drive.

CD: How did that go?

Reardon: Let’s just say Parker is a very patient man who doesn’t mind seeing his life pass before his eyes. Repeatedly. I’m good at driving now though.

CD:  Good enough to take Brandy out on the occasional date?

Reardon: Aye. Every Friday night and sometimes into Saturday morning.

CD: (fans self) Okay, then. Werewolves have wild weekends. Good to know. Any advice for our readers?

Reardon: I spent so many years fighting men in battle, but the only fight that really counts is the one that brings you your true love. Love is always worth fighting for.

CD: Great advice, Reardon. Thanks so much for joining us today.

Reardon: My pleasure, lass.

CD: You don’t think Brandy would mind if we hugged, do you?

Reardon: It might make her growl a bit.

CD: I’m willing to take a chance. I’m a fast runner.

Reardon: (laughing) You better hope so.

If you want more time with Reardon, read his story in Wolf Kiss, Book One in The Warrior Wolves Series. I promise he doesn’t smell like wet dog. If you like Wolf Kiss, leave me a review. The wolves and I love reviews.

Looking for more February fun? Join Small Town Hearts on Facebook, a reader group I co-host with author Amanda Torrey. We’re having a Valentine’s Party on February 11^th that you don’t want to miss! Games and prizes will be part of the entertainment. We’d love to see you there.

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com