On Writing & Publishing by Robin D. Owens

Personal notes on writing techniques, writing a novel, my writing career and threading your way through publishing a book.

My Photo
Location: Denver, United States

RITA Award Winning Author -- that's like the Oscar, folks! Futuristic/Fantasy Romance and Fantasy with Romantic Subplots.

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Monday, March 17, 2014

St. Patrick's Excerpt 2, Enchanted Again

She looked through the peephole before she opened the door. It was Rafe, with a wicked grin and a cut by his mouth and a black eye.

She opened the door and stood back. "What happened to you?"

The dogs were circling, sniffing lustily. There was a scent of yeasty alcohol wafting from him, as well as some blood. She narrowed her eyes. It seemed his suppressed aura of magic – and the binding glyph, was brighter. More questions. Because he was drunkish? Because of his companions? Or because the slight taint of other darkness he brought with him, as if he'd tangled with death once again.

Keeping her tone light, she asked, "What happened?"

He tilted back his head and laughed. "Bar fight with my Lyceum fencing friends."

She blinked. "There really are such things?" Then she frowned. "I thought you were going to a respectable bar."

He nodded enthusiastically. "A real Irish bar. With real Irish men. Who took exception to Freddie Armathwaite and his foil." Rafe pruned his lips. "Only English-descended sissy-boys use thin swords like foils and not good solid fists." Rafe dropped his arm around her shoulders and she saw that though he wasn't near sober, he was still steady on his feet. He continued, "Did I tell you that Freddie is a brown belt in karate?"


"Not one of us has to pay for the damage," Rafe announced as if that was unique. "The Irish guys have to. Tommy Corbin, the owner, said so."

"That's good. Ah. Why don't you come over here and sit down on the couch," she said. His arm dropped from her shoulders to curl around her waist and give her butt a nice squeeze.

"The couch sounds ex-cell-ent." He nibbled at her earlobe. "You smell great."

"Thanks." She pulled him down to the cushions and when it appeared that he wanted to be more horizontal with her than she was ready for, she slapped him lightly. "Listen up, Rafe." She pushed him back into a sitting position. "You smell like Darkfolk minions. I don't think some of those real Irish men were men at all."

He blinked, scowled. "What?"

She turned on the Tiffany lamp at the end of the couch, winced as she saw the red-scrape-purple-bruise side of his face. A lumpy cut seemed dangerously close to his eye. She touched it.


"Sorry, you sure you shouldn't go to an ER?"

"Cho was there, he's a doctor. He said not. I'm okay." Rafe frowned. "I'm pretty much the worse, everyone else fights better."

"Or the minions concentrated on you."


Post a Comment

<< Home

Out of the Blogosphere
[ Join Now | Ring Hub | Random | << Prev | Next >>]