Let me start by saying I know I promised a second chapter of Tragedy (for weeks) and you guessed it- there is a but, I’ve been working on Wolf Within. (chapters one, two, and three are above) I finished the first draft a while back and decided to let it sit. My goal was to decide what to do with it. It’s a long novel, (over 140,000 words) and have thought about splitting it in two. A book series seem to be a good thing right now, but I have Crimson Moon, the sequel to Wolf Within and there lies my problem. Also, is it what I want, and is it right for Wolf Within. Then there are all the different options available, the self-pub thing, the Amazon thing, smashwords thing, things, things, things, and the other things. This combined with starting Crimson Moon and writing several short horror stories and trying to them get out and about, I have been slow to make a decision. And there is life, mom to minions - the senior minion who graduates this year, the teenage minion who, well is a teenager, wife to Mr. K, and all the not so fun stuff, and time slips between my fingers.
I picture a scene from Flash Gordon. Flash Gordon (hero of the universe) is tied up in a cell awaiting death, and asks to see Dale Arden (Travel agent turned girlfriend to Flash) when Klytus says "Oh, dear. How pathetic. Yes, I anticipated that. " (just gonna say, Flash is wearing leather underwear, yea, I would visit too) Dale arrives and Klytus turns over an hourglass. The key here, the hourglass runs up, not down, anyway, the sands of time start to thin. Dale tries to lift it, turn over, move it, and can't. She keeps saying in a panicky voice, “I can’t turn it over. It won’t turn over.” That’s me. Only Flash Gordon isn’t saying, “Come here, leave it alone, don’t look.” While wearing leather underwear.
About the time the sand began to run thin in my hourglass, and I felt insanity calling me by name, I started editing Wolf Within.
There are tears, screams, laughs, and I might be missing some hair. Worse, I still haven’t decided what to do with it. I’m giving it another run through,shortly, and am thinking about having someone else give it a read. I have to admit making a decision isn’t my worry. I am a firm believer, when the time comes, I’ll know what to do. Easier said then done, even if I believe it. And there's the rough draft of a query letter I wrote- there's too many marks on it to count and like I said, I'm not sure.
So what does this have to do with Tragedy? Well, nothing except I’m telling you why Tragedy is slow coming. It will, it will be here….. *evil laugh* Soon too…. *not so evil voice*
~ ~ She bent down until Elijah’s face was even with hers. There was anger building in her, and it felt good, its sweetness and promise of violence saturated her mouth as she met Elijah’s golden gaze. He was standing close to the window, moving towards it with every step, and now a sliver separated his changing form from the lined glass. She knelt until she was her knees, palms flat against the window, the first quiver filling her hands, and glared at the man who worked to take everything from her.
His voice was low, a growl running through each breath his chest heaved out. “Recreate monsters? I am not a monster. Having to live out in the open and deal with humans has weakened us, turned us against our own. Our traditions are nothing, our packs are meaningless, our ways have been lost under weak terms so we don’t scare you. Humans have tried to change us and in turn destroyed what we are. Who is the monster?”
“You will always a monster,” she answered flatly.
“In the name of the law, how many shifter kills do you have, Detective Gray?”
“It would be easy to ask you how many human kills you have, but I don’t care,” she said coolly ignoring his question. “Lycan or a human, it doesn’t matter, you are kidnapping and murdering people. And that makes you the monster. Life doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t care who you are or what you are, because at the end of the day, you are not special.”
“How many of us have you killed?” he snarled at her.
“Not enough.” The words left her mouth with all the hate she could feed into them. The rush of adrenalin filling her veins was anger, and it wouldn’t help her while she was in the tank. She needed out, she needed to get to him before she snapped out of the rage.
“Why not ask how many humans have fallen at my hand?” It was his turn to push her. She didn’t care, if he continued to taunt her, her anger would continue to grow.
“You’re going to die.” She felt a calm move over her, her skin went from warm to hot. Sweat beaded on her forehead, neck, and arms, at her waist, under her hair, and her legs felt wet inside her jeans. Her tank top and jeans suddenly felt too tight. The cuts and bruises from the day before went forgotten under her desire to get out of the tank to kill him. For a second she thought about her job, right and wrong, and what it would mean to kill because of hate and anger. It was a natural reaction, a natural question coming from her conscience. If she did what she wanted, and that was to end his life, Elijah would win and she would turn into the killer he wanted. Without his disease and without his infection.
“Get her out of there and bring her to me.” Elijah growled turning each word into a threat of its own. “We’ll see how Macelaine feels once the truth is revealed.”
The name meant nothing, and if it did, it wouldn’t have mattered. Fear spiked through Macy’s anger churning in her stomach and feeding her images of Laura Barrette’s torn bloody body, and the death bloom that scarred her. Macy wasn’t going to back down. She remained where she was, hands against the window, feeling the tingle turn burn race up arms and into her elbows, then into her shoulders. Behind her, the door of the tank opened with a whisper and Elijah smiled revealing the sharp canines of his wolf.
“Would you kill your own kind?” he asked. His voice was a deep rumble, the threatening growl gone. His gold eyes glowed, the ends of his calico hair grazing his shoulders. He was getting what he wanted, he was about to infect her.
“Your kind, yes.” she answered. She stared at him trying to put all the hate she felt into her eyes while her heart pounded, and the rush of blood filled her ears.
“We’ll see.” Elijah hadn’t finished the words when strong hands gripped her upper arms and squeezed them until her eyes watered, and a whimper worked its way to her throat.
Macy swallowed the surprise and the pain then leaned forward to fight the man’s hold and keep her eyes on Elijah. He smiled and gave the slightest nod. The man squeezed harder jerking her backwards off her knees and pulled her away from the window, her heels dragging on the alien material of the floor. The pain from her wounds sank into the mixture of fear and anger filling her. Above, then at the sides, the tank came alive, its walls bombarding her ears with Elijah’s guttural laugh. They drove them insane, she thought, this a chamber of horrors and Elijah is its master. ~ ~