Thursday, November 23, 2017

Cry Wolf: Alpha and Omega Novel

Anna is a werewolf without hope, an Omega, the heart of a pack who is stranded with her abusive pack leader in the projects of Chicago. When Charles Cornick, the native son of Bran the Marrok, shows up in her neck of the woods, she's terrified. And in protective.

As an empath, a natural leader and healer, she automatically protects her pack. Unfortunately, he's here to investigate and when he starts poking around, people notice. The pack is shut down and she's remanded to the Marrok's hometown, kept under watch. Werewolves have two sides- the side that coexists peacefully with the Normals in the suburbs and city, and the other side that fights- a side that keeps them safe in dangerous places and trains them to fight off any attacker. The Wolf.

That dichotomy is so noticable that it's impossible to shut out when Charles walks into her bar and she falls in love. As an Omega, as an empath she calms everything she can, but he bonds with her. For two hundred years he's remained alone, and now their emotions are starting to get tangled up- alone, in a foreign city, sheltered in his house.

A rogue witch tears her from that questionable safety and she's forced to take a mission before she's finished bonding with her mate, half of her struggling to get free and let him find someone as dangerous as he is and half of her knowing he'll die without her help, since magic is moving into the Normal's world.





Intrigued? Buy it Here.



Want, Need, Crave more? Try the Channel.


Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Jesus is our Shepard but the Church is Corrupt (Psychic Wars)

We've been reading, good Firefly joke if you've ever seen the movie, or the TV show. It works in either order. Since I actually managed to read through literally ever psychic manual on the face of the planet (see: fantasy novels) I switched to SciFi. They have some interesting theories.

You see, traditionally, psychics are either military or church. We're just too dangerous to leave unminded. Unfortunately the Church is a political entity and the stuff I've been reading is worrying, especially given that the number one American organization that attempts to enslave us is the CIA, so they'll have a backer (besides Bush, who still has access to ALL THE DATA as a retired president- life man, life). I have a degree in PR, so I'm naturally political. Point of interest, I'm also a Reverend. Although after the past four years I've been thinking truly holy thoughts like forging fucking blessed (bless-ed) titanium baseball bats.

In my defense I've been living at the border of Canada and the US for twenty four years (I wander), and so I've been getting it from both sides. The evil Souless Englishmun's solution to zee American's psychic military might was to train Canadian assassins, with psychic potential, in the art of hunting American military psychics. We love them. A LOT. Unlike my mom they only tried to kill me four times. Unfortunately- good psychic joke- we didn't know we signed up.

I'm not quite sure if they realized that I read a lot of fantasy so I picked up a shocking amount of similar contracts (given them the elbow). Huff is niche, but she definitely sent up a flag that they had signed a deal for an assassination training program from the slants to flip the Pentagon. I was so there. It's my darn English spy training (my Papa, on my mom's side, obviously, was a genuine English spy- needless to say I sat there at his right knee- I was an intrepid child). I made a lot of friends pointing out how many of them were being trained to literally cover English nobility etc. with their bodies (pyschics trance and create a meta, it's a little like falling asleep at work but still working- you know you've done it- you're just somewhere else).

Well I am TOPS at sleeping, ran into the Russians (the Russians!) in Ultima VII. And VI. And V. They loved me. I used to bribe Norway with data whenever they asked me to do something, do it wrong and then laugh when their gangs received a payout for it, it takes fantastic timing so they chose not to kill me. Just for the record I did NOT resent the CIA's method of paying out my mom instead of me and sending me to the bottom every time I ran a contract right. And this is not all the CIA's fault. At least in America.

The bottom line being I took to the training like a fish to water and didn't do much else besides my social life for years. Til the slants kicked me out. Gyppos man, we leave after you're out of the good stuff. On the upside I made a lot of friends trading data, hugging small, impressionable, children when they were upset, and hanging out with dudes since I was military, and their assassins are too. I found out they were being trained physically too so, not to be outdone, that's pretty much how I got the chutzpah to get mixed martial arts on the sly, up to where I can take a real assassin out. Except the big ones. They're scary. I use my spy training to pop them one if they look at me too hard. I'm five seven, no shame. Oorah, bitches.

Anyways, scuttlebutt out of the old tabletop psychic gamers and sci fi ifl nerds is that the Church went ass up and the priests are serious sending people down to buy protection. Don't really have the time to explain to them that that's not how it's done, and it's actually kind of comforting at this point that something so cliched as Church corruption is the issue at hand. To tell you how jaded I'm getting, I suggested war in the Middle East to straighten things out. I then found out we were already at war in the Middle East. Embarrassing. Just for the record, I also looked up Assad's address and passed it to them, since we've been in Syria for ten fucking years now, fighting him. Embarrassinger- it's how you handle arfs like that.

But a good solid war, or at least the threat of one, IS how you mole hunt (gasp you should) corporations try to play at it, but they're just dicks, we're good, and congregations Love a good story so we should be able to flush out the bad'uns pretty easy. Also- point of interest- Corps need to shut down a LOT of the radio signals and cellular signals that "aren't being used". As you can see WE have them internets and aren't afraid to use them. Also, point in case, we're SPIES (it's the precursor to being tapped for assassination, unless you're Canadian, poor bastards, hope they trust the English ones, all the lolz) and really you're just kicking the shit out of me. There are forty two messages embedded in this entry alone, and intelligence IS reading it (CIA, change yo name).

I've just been informed that my use of the word "embedded" is questionable and that Danno is trying to reach me again. Apparently Hollywood got excited about Haen Marn and, from the story, and five thousand dwarves were able to gain access to the castle. I'm going to meditate, beatifically, for a while on the thought of Domhnall and five thousand dwarves (their word, not mine- please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there) chillin', poppin tops. My life is so weird.

I'm thinking of opening a railway called the StoryLine. My dearly departed would have Something to say about that...










Friday, November 17, 2017

Just a Book (In defiance of story tropes)

I was just a Book once, then along came Man. I should be more precise, Man was there first, in fact he'd tell you that he made me, so my unmaking wasn't anything other than the universe marching along. Things are put together, fall apart, are lumped together to move on as they slowly degenerate back into the Earth from which we were all pulled.

It didn't happen that way for me. Man decided to make a new place and I got torn apart, the little God particles holding me together ripped with a lack of precision that dictated the amount of care being placed into the act. Or at least that's how it appears to me. Man will tell you that it has to be the other way around.

I had an order, on the other side. Man said that I was his, then that I wasn't with all of the artless care of someone who doesn't know I from we from you until after they're well into the argument, and their arguments aren't arguments at all so much as contests which put words on top of them simply to make sure that the rules of semantics are followed. But that came first, and last - in fact. Not that any of them noticed.

Maybe you're starting to see the shape of the thing, how just a Book became more, and less, until it wasn't a book at all, more of a thing that got pulled this way and that in a way that was heavily implied but never directly predicted in, ironically, so many of the books that made me up.

But all of the asides aside, not that you should ever start a sentence with but, which is one of the many silly things that they will argue about, rather than content or exegesis or meaning - meaning least of all - the real problem was that when all of their channels opened, communications became chatter and creators couldn't be heard, let alone bothered to be listened to. From there it was turtles all the way down as the louder got louder and even the intelligent devalued words until whole ontologies were underwritten and semiotics became a lost art that desperately looked backwards like a once strong woman on her deathbed who fears what's coming so much that it can't exist with a strength that pulls visions from the past and places them in front of her eyes, blocking reality.

It's not that language shouldn't be living, if it weren't I wouldn't be a Book, I'd be dead words on a page. It's actually not a lot of things, many more than things that it is, which managed to be terrifying in the confusion that followed as what was just written started to be Gospel and what had been written couldn't be found, largely because no one was looking in the frenzy of keeping up with the trends and the trends were really no more than words that were, again ironically, and as previously mentioned, underwriting what had been the previous meaning of the very same words that they were using.

I'm exhausted chasing it around all of the strange turns necessary to form that sort of a knot in thinking and technically I don't even exist on this side - as I've said several times now, and will likely say several times again, I'm just a Book.

The funny thing about it is that it had always happened this way, just generally by the people who cared for words, curated them and nurtured them until they slowly blossomed into books, instead of the ceaseless chatter that drives This book into being as I struggle to put some sort of stopgap around the words that can only change so much and are already straining at the seams with mismeanings, half-meanings and half understood meanings as dialect moves to emotion and back again.

It's an art to corral them all back into place, and if semiotics had meaning that would be possible, but the dimensions that have been corrupted stretch all the way back into the fifth of them all which is consciousness and sensory apparati aren't to be trusted, let alone the interpretations of those things impressed upon them. So how to even communicate became the question that, ironically, as I mentioned before, it took a Book to answer. I'm already imagining myself a novella, a short step into madness that takes a sharp right and lands firmly on the side of reason because, really, this practice of explaining the inexplicable, all the while dodging the technical jargon that is generally dredged up to give a nod to understanding but refuses to even look at the concept of the Land of Nod since, horrors, is beyond any one book's capacity, let alone the possibility that this book could do so and remain anything resembling prose. And, really, we need prose.

Beauty will drive them forward (I almost said "you" there, but you never really get anywhere telling someone you instead of them so I chose a digression instead, so then you can tell the joke next, to the person you give the Book to), even in an era which uses nonwords like "noms" with the self importance necessary to make them greater than words and imply the necessity of conformity that moves beyond groupthink into cultish ecstasy of reassured helplessness, which somehow leads to blamelessness - but really only because everyone agrees on it. Dystopia was the agreed upon ending, for years, which pushed the antihero up in a pyramid scheme which ignores it's own teetering in the same way that a stock market refuses to crash because, somehow, taking it away is worse than leaving it in place.

So dystopia it is, necessitating my own demise, which I must (by convention) accept as inevitable from the very beginning to inspire the ennui which is compulsory in order to strike all of the minor notes of the antihero, the fall and the decay of society with the strange twists on the eighths of their notes that makes them almost Japanese, except insofar as the Japanese Japanophiles that still exist would chase me down if they ever knew I said that. Not that one can really chase down a Book, since it is always - really- already there. Fortunately, as the antihero, it's within the boundaries of my definition to always and automatically insult and fail - not that I can really have boundaries - as the book - but that's the problem really, isn't it?

However, clearly the fall is Man's and I can hardly be society as my demise is much too explosive to be considered decay, although the strange twists with which she uses me makes me the tool of that same dilapitation and so that leaves my sole possible role that of the antihero. So I complain. Obviously I must be less than both Man and society, in this cannon, which suits them both well - although, myself, less so. Which is not to say that I could be more than Man or society, for I've accepted my role by studying the footsteps of the carpenter, a weary apprentice I am, failing even now, and blending in so well with both Him and her, that I wonder occasionally that they don't notice that I'm a Book.

Expl nouns nonexistence and adverbs lack, leaving verbs as things and adjectives as their movement's modifiers


Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Playing Bridge (Psychic Wars)



The Danes have this bridge you can only cross at low tide. It's beautiful, the run offs causing it to emerge as the water slowly recedes. As you cross your top half is the only part visible from down the shore. The kids love it. The Danes hate us.

If you follow the river down into the Atlantic (wave hi to Iceland) and as it flows out around into the English Channel, catch a current that drifts gracefully up around and into England and Wales. You may even drift into the In Between and find Caer Caldwin. Which is apparently where fucking Danno is.

Apparently being locked in a wizard's mansion wasn't enough for him, he got my son to pick him up and wound up walking from there through the mists. You don't walk through the mists. Ever. I mean, I do, but I can also survive my child's fits of temper when he finds out that he has to do some work. I should never have told him that he was a prince. Ever since he's been sure he's the one to pull King Arthurs sword from the stone. I don't have the heart to let him in on all of the vagina obsessions that riddle Medieval Literature, but my older boys laugh pretty hard whenever he sets his cap for it. England is, pretty obviously, waiting for it's rightful Queen (of all the British Isles) - they're the only ones that I know that have Queens pop up on a pretty regular basis. Also, point of interest that sword is held by the Lady of the Lake. Just in case you're a myth in search of a prophesied.

So my son can run around knowing he's a Prince all he wants, I'll give him his due the second his ass Actually hits that throne, which will never happen. I occasionally wish that Prince Charles had never stolen the changeling secret from the Norse, nor that I had bloodlines from the same set of In Between magic. But I do love my son. Even if I did just set his brothers on him. You don't just throw my armor guy into Caer Caldwin. My hand to hand specialist, maybe, but not my armor guy. Because that's what, unfortunately, makes him my armor guy. It's a weird psychic thing.

Ironically, this call I might take. Not the one about the manse (which was a story he'd given me for my birthday- don't laugh, one time I was blessed with lips to shame the red red rose etc.), but Caer Caldwin is where my ancestral home is, and is a generally bendy place, even for the In Between. Plus the little bugger still owes me a ton of money, and we're married. Maybe I'll just lock him in the castle and call it a day. The boys just laughed even harder at that, I'd better go find out what's going on...

Ten hours later I feel like I should note, should anyone want to bowl of broth this poor bastard while I go looking for him, that I directed him to Haen Marn... and accidentally called it Caer Caldwin, my ancestral home... one of these two is a disappearing island...if I ever apologized I would now...

But I'm me.

 











Time Never Does Stop... It's a Person's Experience...




Friday, November 10, 2017

The Global Village (The Psychic Wars)




When you've been in The Program long enough, you learn to look around. The whole bit about your husband being your contact (which takes some explaining if you've got a husband) and so on actually runs through cover stories all the way up. I recently got Canada engaged to Japan. It's a long story.

Needless to say things are ugly abroad. Every normal with so much as a pen pal likes to jack cellular MINs and place a psychic connection request, and then get psychics into some sort of misunderstanding. The suburbs are the worst- it's as though they don't remember four years ago, when they weren't in danger, weren't being raped or having their houses broken into. Because it happens infrequently they seem to think they're on the right track and there's no talking them out of it, especially since, with the normal twenty somethings, they got some training off the internet. I almost screamed when I heard that. Can't get ours to look up a darn thing to save their lives and bloody Normals are head and shoulders into project Wicca. Our cause of death is going to be middle class boredom.

With everything that's going on, Norway merging with Russia and Europe in chaos, I'm amazed the Eastern Bloc hasn't crumbled. They made a strong showing early and it held, Russia turned it's sites to other former Soviet states, in places the West didn't mind. I'd give a lot to be able to broker an engagement between the UK and the Ukraine nonetheless. In kid speak- with Brexit they could both use a friend.

I'm still parked and waiting orders, although I'm burning my way through my English rolodex. I switched to operating out of England, which is a strain, but took some pressure off of the military.

Danno went and got himself in trouble again and I've been largely ignoring his calls, since Italy ran into the name of a fallen angel. Keeping my son away from that has been all I can do, you make arrangements and bury them, then move as fast as you can while they're still occupied, but every, single, time, some stupid normal pokes their nose in it- and his climber stepmom is no exception. The woman sends me lists of demands. I don't have a high opinion of French culture to begin with and her ideas that she has a say in my life have been moving her fairly quickly up my "Break their Soul" list.

Dennis and I finally just threw up our hands and parked one of the Cardinal's "nether portals" on the portico. F--- it. He'll learn soon enough to move out of the way of mommy's gun arm. You don't lay plans for an army then call in. Politics... how do you explain politics to a child? And one who's being raised in the suburbs. Kenmore didn't have a car service, but at least we knew how to act. I asked for a courier service downtown the other day and had a laugh, I had to call back up there to get things done. Things my child needs to know, that a tutor can't teach.

The short version of it all being that we dug some dirt up on the slavery program the CIA was running on psychics, flushed out another ring of "old boys" who perpetuated it, and wound up going up against one of the nastier secrets they'd been fueling off of, from the Church. Catholics. I've been politely asking them to take Jesus down off of the cross for a month now, the poor man. (It's a knockdown fight, actually, but I'm a Rev and we don't let on about things like that to parishioners, let alone non-believers). That sort of imagery can't be healthy, not with the demons and fallen angels and boggles that they've dug up with this war...

Anyone from this town will tell you that nothings been right since the Pope stopped being Polish, but the Catholics here are pretty outspoken. I had to clean out one of their basements once, it was a four person job which required a major league bout of storytelling.

We're fairly well through cleanup, but now is not the time for anyone to be on me... right Danno?... Right. The man is trying to get me eaten by a fallen angel, I just know it. Someday someone will explain to him that that's not even close to Puckish...it's... there's got to be a word...














Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Blood Rights

Worlds collide as a human slavery ring is slowly exposed. Chrysabelle was bred to feed vampire nobility, but a plot to merge the natural and supernatural sends her fleeing back to the mortals who are foreign to her, and into the arms of another vampire.

Ironically, their struggle to stop the merge between worlds may expose the slavery rings, and bring the two different cultures together. Political intrigue and alterity that is enchanting in its sensuality, Blood Rights brings a lot to the table.

Great for college level discussions on culture, or for a heavy but addictive read, you'll love Chrysabelle, hate Malkolm and wonder why every book doesn't have this many layers.




Curious? Buy it Here.


Want, Love, Need more? Try the Channel.

Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Canadian Mafia Moved (The Psychic Wars)

This war has been dragging on for entirely too long now. My best friend's grandparents lost everything they had in the Great Depression- they used to produce hand carved boxes for candy- and now she stands to inherit less than a million. That's the sort of thing that happens during a long bout with espionage, if you're rich.

If you're a name, it's even worse. You've got appearances to keep up (I'm a Boss at that but, you know, I still phone it in internationally), and you can wind up on the street. Obviously a background in counterespionage lets you block the worst but, Wizard's First Rule and all, the proletariat can really kick your butt with their stupidity.

The short version being you wind up making more direct contacts with less direct people than you like but, life being life, you also get thrown a gem or two. Like the fact that the Canadian Mafia started moving.

You'll have to give me a moment here. You see, I live about a stone's throw away from Canada, and grew up on Nickelodeon, pootean, and rumors of free health care. Loonies and Toonies (real currency), and the Peace Tower in the news (I couldn't make up stuff this good, their PM lives there). To top it all off- and mind you, I'm adopted- my cousin's half brother's aunt, my cousin's cousin's uncle, my second cousin's aunt's step-sister's daughter and my first cousin once removed's cousin on his mother's side's brother's kids are all in it. So I'm *really* familiar with some of their odder tactics (we all trained together in the program). Last Halloween they dodged a deal with the Italian Mafia by inviting them to their Ugly Sweater Christmas Party. The Italian Mafia politely declined.

Now anyone who pays attention knows that Canada really does have some serious (and legal) gambling, stripping and dusted marijuana- so the fact that they have a Mafia shouldn't shock anyone. But they're our neighbors to the north, and it does... it just does...

The short version being that now that the worst is past the Army went back to trying to run psychics, only they've got a bunch of newbies, I've already graduated and their records are fucked. Also, just as a point of interest, we run teams of Army, not the other way around- we're intelligence. All of the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest jokes suggest themselves. Some of the older psychics and I (the old bitches' club) set them up with trainers, but those are twenty somethings and they're up our ass for more and we're kicked to shit, broke and overloaded. They also screwed the pooch on PR for us while this was going on so we're up against a wall. Desperate times and all.

So I've got the kids making runs up through Canada, acting as liason's with Henry (who, despite popular rumor I really can't stand, adolescent love aside, I can almost hear my dearly departed's laughter on this one, he helped chaperone our betrothal... I never did tell him about Chuck...) and organizing everything that's threatening to get un-organized while the number one arms dealer in the world shoves their head up their ass. I can say that. You can't. You should also probably keep your head down because the crap that is going on requires a license, and you don't have one. Neither do they, and someday maybe we'll have a long talk about that.

And then, of course, someday they'll thank me- right? Until then I burned my old cover and started operating out of England, since someone needs to get from somewhere to Germany to shore up relations. Not that she necessarily will. Toto. No! Now we got problems...

 It's a bitch of a time to be Bint.





















Time Never Does Stop...It's a Person's Experience...