“Stop doing that,” I say, exasperated. I wave my hands at the space between them. “He’s gone already. Left to return to Honey Sands. I wish you were right, but he isn’t interested.”
Even though these two seem intent on getting me together with the vampire, I manage to steer the conversation toward thecoming Snowlight festivities, and soon they’re bidding me goodbye and herding their younglings out the inn’s side door for a trip to the market.
I check in with Dew, then tuck myself into my room for some writing.
My desk is a lovely mess of quills in pink, purple, green, and blue, stacks of parchment in varying sizes, books from far and wide, and a bowl of lollipops.
I’m about three chapters into a new book. The words come pretty quickly because this is a chapter where the two main characters are arguing and flirting at the same time. Some authors plot every moment in their book, and though I wish I could do it that way, that’s not how my mind works. I have to write and find out what happens as I experience the story alongside my characters.
As I write my character’s potential first kiss—sometimes these scenes need to change or move—I can’t help thinking about Archer’s mouth. I had expected a vampire’s lips to be cold, but they were warm and soft. Of course, he wasn’t truly kissing me, just reacting. I wonder what a real kiss from him would be like. I envision him falling into me, scooping me into his arms, and then I imagine his long fingers inmy hair, how he tilts my head, and he devours my lips. Would he nip me with his fangs? What would happen if he did?
I take a deep breath to settle my suddenly racing heart and get back to my draft. I have to focus and get this story done before my publisher can come up with any more ridiculous ideas.
Chapter 6
Archer
“No. Not happening, Quinn,” I say to the air like my goblin publisher is standing right here in my kitchen, which they are not.
I throw the note to the floor and pour myself another cup of coffee. If Quinn thinks they can shove me into co-writing with Colette, well, they have officially lost their mind. Quinn knows I work alone. Always have. Always will. Writing is deeply personal.
The coffee is as black as my blood, and it’s perfect. I breathe in its familiar scent and take another hearty gulp. The heat of the crockery mug chases the chill from my fingers. I don’t often feel chilly, but I didn’t make it backto Honey Sands until near dawn, and the house is freezing. The fire is doing its best, but a foot of snow fell during Moonglow’s and my journey, and the temperature has dropped to downright icy. It figures, considering Snowlight is now less than two weeks away.
After refilling my coffee once more, I leave the small kitchen and find my desk in the living room. The flames in the hearth snap and rise as I make myself comfortable. My parchment sits in a neat pile, ready for words. I dip my black quill into the ink pot and begin working on my next thriller. I think this one will deal with a serial killer who falls from his horse.
The main character’s sense of ethics is almost magically awakened by the injury, and he must deal with the evil actions and plans he’s already set into motion. Maybe he can save the person who was meant to be his next victim. Yes. But once he reaches them, he learns the potential victim was a version of himself that never existed. Hmm. Yes, like a fever dream…
Once I have the premise down, I begin to carefully outline each scene.
“Archer!” Someone is yelling outside my front door.
I look to the fire andrealize it’s nearly gone out. Sometimes, I focus so deeply that I lose track of anything outside of my work. I quickly set another log on the fire and blow to grow the smoldering bits to flames.
“Coming,” I say to the door.
I open it to a floating envelope. Frowning, I snatch it from the air and look around to see who was calling my name.
“Archer!”
I jump back. The shout is coming from the letter. I release it, and it begins circling my head like an unhinged bird.
“Archer! Archer! Archer!”
Stones, the matter surrounding messages is growing ridiculous. I grab the thing and take it inside. There’s no wax seal, but the writing inside is easily recognizable. Yet another missive from my publisher.
Archer,
You simply must do this.Your numbers are so low right now that only this will save your career. Just think of it as a promo. One short story with Colette and then you’reback to your thrillers, only this time with an audience to pay both you and me. This is not a request. You’re doing this!
Quinn
I collapseinto the armchair beside my desk. Can I push back? Quinn isn’t wrong; my sales are rubbish. If I don’t make more money soon, I’ll have to sell this house. I don’t have a family to go to. My father is dead. My mother is a monster. My brothers aren’t comfortable anywhere near me or any vampire.
Standing, I throw up my hands.
“Fine! I’ll do it,” I say to nobody.
I pen them a quick note of surrender.
