MJ Monday: MJ’s Manuscript-WIP Excerpt

From the third book in the SERVICE FOR SANCTUARY trilogy, Besieged by the Moon, tentatively scheduled for February 2020 release.

Phoebe McKinn knew she’d made a mistake when she found herself out past sundown on the night of the new moon. She hated new moons. The total darkness made her too vulnerable. Walking from the bus station to the exclusive neighborhood where the late congressman’s house was located wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. Yes, she had her quarterstaff, so she wasn’t completely unarmed, but shifting was her best weapon.

The metro bus stop was only two blocks from the entrance to the gated community. Reaching the kiosk should have been safe enough given the neighborhood, but tonight a group of young men congregated nearby. Numbers gave them courage. The catcalls didn’t bother her—no self-respecting werewolf paid attention to cats or vampires—but this night, when she couldn’t shift, not even in self-defense, she mentally kicked herself for not securing shelter for the evening. She wouldn’t find her own kind in the Peters’ family enclave.

Not that she couldn’t take her harassers. She was strong. Werewolf strong. Her quarterstaff gave her an advantage.

Sure enough, the band of hoodlums lurked, almost as if they could sniff her vulnerability.

“Hey, bitch!”

If only they knew that ‘bitch’ wasn’t an insult in her world.

A few whistles pierced the darkness.

The gauntlet began.

Phoebe held her head high. She was stronger than the standard issue non-lycan female. A gang of men bent on teaching a woman what they thought of her was something she should be able to handle without breaking a sweat. On any other night.

“Smile, bitch!”

She bared her teeth, but it didn’t have the same effect it would have should she have been able to shift. She kept walking, every one of her senses focused on her surroundings: the scent of freshly turned soil; crickets counting out the temperature of the next day; the chill of a late spring evening brushing her skin; the moonless sky.

There. Footsteps behind her.

“You ignoring me? I don’t like being ignored.”

His friends laughed their support.

The bus stop was only a few yards ahead of her, clearly marked by a puddle of light from the streetlamp. She didn’t know what time the next bus would be coming through. Waiting for it would be the same as inviting the young men to continue harassing her. She’d have to keep walking.

Except someone stepped from the shadows onto the sidewalk in front of her.

Phoebe stopped. The young man was thin. Short. A brutal smile distorted his face.

“Come on, bitch. Be nice to us, and we’ll be nice to you.”

Then she was surrounded. Completely encircled by a tightening ring of beasts on the prowl. On any other night of the month, she could shift and be done with this clump of yakked up hairballs.

She refused to surrender to the fear nipping at her. Terror had its own aura. She would not give these bottom dwellers the gift of knowing they’d rattled her. The new moon sapped her strength.

She clutched her quarterstaff with both hands.

Just like hunters of any species, the ring tightened around the target, preparing to go in for the kill. Someone caught her arm. “How about a kiss?”

Phoebe wrenched free, but there was a second, a third, a fourth hand reaching for her. Touching her with callused fingers. Someone’s hangnail scraped her wrist.

The wood of her quarterstaff cracked against someone’s forearm, followed by a shriek. Not hers.

And they stank. Her head filled with the stench of unwashed body, rotting teeth, clothes in desperate need of soap and water. A recently eaten garlic sausage haunted someone’s breath.

“Be friendly, and we won’t hurt you,” a disembodied voice promised. As if the creature had any honor. Sure enough, something grabbed her breast.

Phoebe screamed and swung her weapon.

She hadn’t been trained in mob control.

A foul-tasting hand clamped over her mouth. She bit down hard enough to draw blood, which under other circumstances might have satisfied her rage, but not tonight.

Someone yanked her denim jacket down her arms, disabling her hands. “Get rid of the stick,” a rough voice commanded. Someone else wrung her breasts hard enough for her eyes to water. She tried to kick. Scream. Flail her way out of her jacket.

Fabric hissed as it separated. Pain seared her thigh. The roar in her head muted the filth spewing from her attackers’ mouths.

Except it wasn’t all filth. Cries of . . . surprise. Shock. Fear.

Phoebe opened her eyes—she hadn’t realized she’d squeezed them shut—and saw a tall, dark haired man swing his fist at the jaw of Sausage Breath. Heard the smack and crunch as knuckles met flesh and bone. Catcalls turned to a glorious symphony of whimpers. Several of her attackers ran into the darkness which had spawned them. At least two sprawled in crumpled splendor on the sidewalk.

She snatched up her quarterstaff and inhaled deeply. The scent of her rescuer filled her head. She knew that aroma: the earthy spice of lycan blood. A fellow werewolf had come to her rescue. Her exhale sang of relief.

But there was more to his presence than werewolf. Instinct tingled in her blood. Unfamiliar, but undeniable. She knew. Werewolves always knew.

He kicked the bodies lying on the concrete before straightening and looking at her. His eyes glittered like midnight diamonds in the reflection of the streetlamp. Dark hair clung to his cheeks. He shook his head, and the fine strands flew out of his way. Shadows defined the contours of his face.

Giddy delight urged her to rush to him, but she held back. “Oh. It’s you. It’s about time you showed up,” she said. After all, a female waited her entire life to meet her mate.

“Your leg,” he replied as he walked toward her.

His voice. Oh, Creator, his voice was the male version of a siren’s song.

She limped toward him, using the quarterstaff as a cane, but he held up his hand. “You’re bleeding.”

That would explain the wet sensation on her jeans. Probably was responsible for the queasiness roiling in her stomach, too. “I think one of them had a knife.”

He scooped her off her feet, tossed her over his shoulder, and headed back in the direction from which he came.

“Um, excuse me?” She tried to keep the quarterstaff off his body.

“I need to get your pants off—”

Well then. He was kind of rushing things, but she was okay with that.

“—so I can look at that leg.”

Oh. That. “It’s just a scratch,” she said, even though her thigh was beginning to throb. “It’s probably already starting to heal. I can think of better things to do when my pants are gone.”

“Not subtle, are you?”

She had a nice view of a fabulous male butt working his jeans. “Why waste time? We both know we’re mates. Let’s get the marking out of the way so we can get on with the other things we have to do.”

Maybe it was the way her head was bouncing around, but her world view was getting wonky. Fading in and out. Swirling. Sparkling.

Something was desperately wrong with this scenario. Didn’t male blood leave their brains and flood their penises, rendering them incapable of rational thought? That’s what the grannies always claimed.

Then why was she the one whose head was light?

“We don’t even know each other’s name,” her future mate said.

“Phoebe,” she replied. “Phoebe McKinn.”

“Parker Rowe of the Loup Garou pack in Colorado.”

“You’re a long way from home, Parker Rowe. Looking for me?” Please, please be looking for me.  Phoebe Rowe. The perfect name for me.

“Actually,” he said, “no.”

MJ’S Musing: The Allure of Jeans

When I was a teenager, I loved jeans. Even as a young adult, jeans were my wardrobe of choice. Lately…not so much. I guess I’m getting cranky in my old age.

At Day Job, any day we can wear jeans is greeted with much elation, especially among the younger set. But I don’t find jeans comfortable anymore, maybe because I purchase my professional wardrobe to be comfortable.

The more I think about it, the more I realize jeans have never been comfortable. They bind. I remember when I was able to abandon snow pants for jeans–and discovered jeans didn’t really keep you warm in the snow. They’re too hot to wear in the summer.

So what is the allure of jeans?

MJ’s Musings: How Does My Garden Grow?


Yes, it is still February in upstate New York. Yes, there is still snow on the ground. Neither of those means I can’t start thinking about my 2019 garden.

Last year was the first year I had what I really wanted.  It has taken several years to reclaim my back yard from the above-ground swimming pool that was here when we purchased the house.  The pool was a great thing to have when the children were  younger. But eventually it turned into a time & money suck. I’d much rather have a yard.

In 2018, I decided to go with coleus for color. My husband is allergic to bee stings, so color without flowers is a concern. So in May, I purchased many plants, along with a sweet potato vine and Persian shield. The man who has been helping me reclaim the space planted my coleus along with chives, lemon balm, oregano, two kinds of parsley, spearmint, and peppermint.

For some reason, he planted the coleus in front of the herbs. In May it wasn’t a problem.

Even in June, I could manage.

July started to be challenging.

By August, the herbs were essentially unavailable, but the coleus was gorgeous.

So I clearly need to rethink 2019. I have a corner, down by the garage, that is deep and difficult to access. I think I will fill that with coleus.

And where the coleus grew with the herbs requires more herbs. Perennials such as thyme, rosemary, sage.  Maybe I should put in basil, too. My basil is usually in a container. I find I don’t use it as much as I used to. What I’d love to grow is cilantro, but I’ve never had success.

We do have cherry and grape tomatoes for my husband. I think green onions and spinach would be nice additions to plot of land.

MJ Monday: MJ’s Mansuscript: Service for Sanctuary Bk 1


Yes, I have a new book coming out in June. I don’t have an exact date yet, but when I do, I will be sharing it with my newsletter subscribers, then on social media.

The book is the fourth set in my Toke Lobo & the Pack universe and the first in trilogy called SERVICE FOR SANCTUARY.

Here’s a sneak peak:

Prologue

“They’re breaking the treaty.”

Ethan Calhoun stopped twirling his tone bar between his fingers and clutched the cold steel in his palm. So, a governmental dilemma prompted Tokarz, pack alpha, to summon the pack to the Full Moon Lodge. Ethan had hoped Tokarz was going to announce a new tour for Toke Lobo and the Pack. The band hadn’t been on the road in months.

“What?” someone asked.

“The United States government wants to break the treaty with us.”

Ethan tightened his grip on the tone bar. Mitchell Jasper, the pack’s government liaison, slunk into the room with Tokarz. Ethan figured something bad was coming. The man looked . . . terrified.

“Washington no longer wants to offer sanctuary in return for our service,” Tokarz clarified, in case any werewolf in the room didn’t understand the implications of a broken treaty. As if the threat to their existence was a concept too complicated to be stated only once.

Or maybe shock made everyone slower than usual.

Ethan didn’t have the words to describe the sensation of melting from the inside out. Granted, he wasn’t descended from one of the original French families comprising most of the Loup Garou pack. The treaty cut with Thomas Jefferson wasn’t sacred to him as it was to the others. He was ignorant of his own family’s treaty. His grandfather remained mute about the pack he’d abandoned. Although Loup Garou had accepted the Calhoun family, Ethan was always aware he was an outsider.

“We need your help.” Jasper cleared his throat before he spoke. The words still emerged weak and diluted. It was a miracle the man didn’t piss himself.

“Why should we help you?” Tokarz asked.

“Most people don’t want the treaties abandoned.”

“Most people aren’t aware there are treaties,” Tokarz said in a voice so cold, Ethan expected the windows to frost over.

Why didn’t Tokarz ask Jasper to define we? Who wanted the pack’s help?

“Look.” Jasper channeled some testosterone from somewhere. “I know it’s a bad idea to break the treaties. I know how valuable having a . . . secret weapon of . . . your nature . . . is to the security of our country. I’m a patriot, and I am not going to let ignorance and short-sightedness destroy something costing the government nothing and still works.”

Tokarz smirked. “So. You want us to be a secret secret weapon?”

The phrase sounded ridiculous. Tokarz watched too many old movies.

Jasper cleared his throat again. “My department isn’t the only one trying to work around the new administration’s dictates. While I am in Loup Garou to officially tell you the treaties will be rescinded, I am also here, personally, to tell you our country has never needed you more.”

The man deserved points. He played the room perfectly. Every werewolf present, including Ethan, was deeply patriotic.

“Not to say there isn’t an element who would like to see you . . . your species eliminated.”

“Say what you mean,” Tokarz said. “Don’t use fifty-dollar words when nickel ones will do. Dead. Some folks want us dead.”

Only if a guy observed Jasper closely, as Ethan did, would he see the slight inclination of his head.

“We need to remind some members of congress who are privy to the agreements precisely what they know and why the treaties matter.”

“You mean threaten them.” Tokarz glowered.

“The treaties have served our nation for two centuries. Some influential people need to be reminded.”

“And on whose behalf would we be reminding them?” Tokarz asked the first question Ethan would have asked in his place.

“Your own.” Jasper lifted his chin, as if daring Tokarz to contradict him.

“Go on,” Tokarz said after several moments of a staring match. Jasper did not blink.

“I have a list of names. Men who have availed themselves of the special services guaranteed by the treaties, and who are currently in positions of power to help—maybe force—the preservation of the treaties.”

Maybe Ethan’s imagination spoke, but Jasper sounded stronger. Surer of himself.

“And how do you suggest we remind these people they owe us sanctuary?”

As Jasper laid out his plan—and his idea didn’t sound like much of a plan—Ethan’s gut churned. He was surprised he hadn’t snapped the tone bar he always carried in his front pocket. His fingers worked the steel hard enough.

Jasper’s so-called plan involved sending emissaries to meet with the politicians who had availed themselves of lycan services in the past. Ethan wasn’t clear on what the emissaries were supposed to do; every instinct he possessed shrieked Tokarz planned to send him. He’d worked on a couple missions the band had been involved in and was one of the few band members who was not yet mated. Mated males needed to stay put and protect their females.

After the meeting broke up, Tokarz asked Ethan to stay. The request prompted Ethan’s father and grandfather to also remain.

“My grandson is the sole survivor of my line,” Pa told their alpha.

“When my grandfather accepted you into the Loup Garou pack, you—”

“My agreement with the Loup Garou hasn’t changed,” Pa said.

Ethan exchanged a glance with his father, who didn’t seem any more in the know than Ethan was. Pa nursed his secrets; his family respected Pa’s reticence.

“My agreement hasn’t changed,” Pa repeated. “The treaty your ancestors signed with the government has nothing to do with me or mine.”

“My grandfather’s conditions for accepting you included honoring our ways. The treaty is a part of this pack’s heritage.”

“Has Ethan not participated in missions as required? The time you met your mate? The time a crazy man in Idaho threatened to overthrow the government? Ethan has fulfilled his generation’s obligation to your family.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do. You’re alpha. You could send anyone.”

“You’re right. I’m alpha, and I’ve made my decision.”

***

A lopsided silver moon transformed the random snowflakes drifting around Ethan from white to glitter as he made his way home. His breath, puffing into the frigid winter night, sparkled where moonbeams brushed the warmer air.

The streets were empty despite lycans preferring the night. Everyone must have been celebrating they weren’t being sent on a fool’s errand.

The moon appeared lonely, as if she needed a song or two. Ethan considered obliging her.

Except he didn’t feel much like singing at the moon or into a microphone or even in the shower. He was unmated; naturally Tokarz volunteered him for a mission. The mated guys got to stay home with their females, while the single males were obligated to treaty fulfillment.

Even without a treaty.

Even if a lobo’s family wasn’t included in the treaty.

Even if the lobo wasn’t part of the pack.

 

The Importance of Tribe

Apparently not everyone’s brain works the way a writer’s works. This was a shock to me. One of my writer friends told me a story about how her mother once commented that she was a weird child for always making up stories about her dolls. That blew me away. Of course one makes up stories while playing with ones dolls. Right?

I’ve been the odd duck out most of my life. I remember being in high school and not seeing things the way other people saw them. Mostly I tried to hide being different, but that usually didn’t work very well.

Eventually, there was the Internet, where I found out about Romance Writers of America. I joined the national organization. Several months later I called to find out if there was chapter in my area. They gave me the name and phone of the president of Central New York Romance Writers. I called. Turned out the president was Maggie Shayne, whom I knew from the Romance Foretold forum.

I went to my first meeting…and knew I’d found my home. These people “got” me. They understood me. They, too, saw the world in their own “off-kilter” way. Their world was a world I understood. Their world was the world in which I belonged. I had located my tribe.

Many (most) of the faces have changed since that September Saturday. Publishing has changed. The outside world has changed. The one constant is that remains is the sense of belonging. Of knowing I can ask a question about the fiction in my head and I will be presented not with weird looks, but with a helpful dialogue. Because my tribe “gets it”.