I don't have anything shareable yet from And Ashes Lie, so here's a snippet from a YA UF my agent is shopping for me:

He stood with the other three between him and the back door of the Wall, stark in the light of the one flood, breath clouding the cold air. And seeing him, I thought, Ashleigh's an idiot. Ethan wasn't trying to do the tough guy look -- he was succeeding.

Most guys who dress that way put their leather on like armor. They make their outside all hard and bad-ass to intimidate other people, to make themselves feel harder and more bad-ass than they are. They're mostly bluff, though, all talk and no action. Inside they're just as dumb and insecure as the rest of us are. Take off their biker jackets, and they don't have a whole lot left.

Whatever Ethan had been through in Boston, it made him different. He knew exactly what he was capable of, and what it would take to make him do it. And he was capable of a frightening amount. If Brian and Cody and Dan jumped him all at once, they'd pound him into pulp -- for one thing, Cody outweighed him by fifty pounds -- but the look in Ethan's eye said he'd already calculated that, and was prepared to do a lot of damage on the way down.

Okay, I'll play-- A scene from the fifth book-- Retribution. Anna is called upon to heal the wounds of a witch injured by a vampire:

I pull off Sophie’s boots, strip her of her bloody clothes and let everything fall to the floor. I need the vampire to do this. It isn’t hard to summon her. Blood oozes from the reopened wound, flows over my fingertips. I don’t need fangs to open a vein, just position myself over her body and let instinct take over.

I suck at the wound, gently at first, letting the smell and taste of Sophie’s blood send those first shivers of delight through me. But this isn’t arterial blood, I don’t sense the pulse beat beneath my tongue. At first, it doesn’t feel as if it will be enough. The beast awakens, demanding more.

I force it back, make it content to lap at what blood it can get, concentrate on healing rather than feeding.

Gradually, it happens. Sophie’s skin stretches over the cut. It is too shallow to have injured organ or muscle. I trail my mouth down the length of her body and up again. Her skin beneath my lips awakens a different hunger—an intense, sensuous excitement that slows my movements, makes me want to draw the pleasure out.

Deveraux feels it, too. He gasps and his thoughts become hot, fevered with tension. I feel my own blood surge from my fingertips to my toes, feel the involuntary tremors of arousal.

It takes realizing that Sophie is healed and what I’m engaging in now is a mind fuck orchestrated by her alter ego, to bring me out of it. I pull away and sit up.

Don’t stop now, Deveraux whines. I haven’t had sex in months.

Arrgh--I'm supposed to be working! But I can't resist a little Show 'n' Tell. ;-)

To avoid paging through the whole book, I did a random # generator thing to pick a page (40) from WICKED GAME (which comes out a week from today):

>>>
I take the opportunity to study his profile, at least the parts I can see beneath his hair. His jaw is sharp and defined, and his nose is like a ski jump--perfectly sloped with a little curve up at the end. If my nose were a ski jump, the skiers would all plunge to a tragic death.
>>>

--Jeri

From The House of Discarded Dreams, the book I'm currently revising:

"After breakfast of dry pancakes (they were low on syrup too), Vimbai went to talk to the crabs. Her grandmother came along, quiet and helpful as usual. She helped Vimbai see and helped her talk, and the words that bubbled out of Vimbai's mouth underwater were both of theirs. Moreover, Vimbai noticed an increased frequency of dreams about Harare – especially the vegetable garden in her grandmother's backyard – to the point where she suspected that the ghost's memories were leaking in and coloring Vimbai's own. Or maybe the proximity of the ancestral spirit reminded her. Oh, jacaranda trees in bloom, Vimbai sighed underwater. Oh, horseshoe crabs. Will you take us home, to the sand bars and beaches of New Jersey, where you come every spring to spawn and dance through the tides on your little segmented legs?

It's not yet spring, they answered. It is cold and we will die if we leave the safety of our deep sleep."

Here's a snippet from my current WIP:

“Caught Gary with another woman.” Another ache stabbed my chest as Georgina's eyes widened. “He was in bed with her when I stopped by his place.”

“I’ll kill him.” She went rigid, her gaze hard. “Unless you already took care of it. Is he in the back of the SUV? I’ll help you dump the body.”

“He’s not worth the jail time if they dragged Boston Harbor.”

From my to-be-published book, GIVING UP THE GHOST (my MC and her ghost sister):

Paige wrinkled her pert nose and shook her head. Very few things got her as worked up as my untapped fashion potential. Most of the time she had this faded tissue-paper look, so filmy I could see right through her. Get her interested, though, and she brightened up like a Chinese lantern. Right then, she was beaming from her bleached-blonde hair to her strappy sandals.

A few years ago it would have pissed me off. These days, it was like a game: how bossy could she get, how bratty could I get. Playing at being normal.

From Vstavatya (working title), this year's Nanowrimo novel and one I'm trying to bash into good enough shape to actually show somebody. (But this is still the first draft version, so please forgive the occasional clunk!)

---

The horses were starting to pick up their feet restlessly. The noise sounded like more cavalry approaching, but there was a musical tone to it, like the sound of bells ringing far away. Maks strained to see between the legs of the Coronet’s horses. There was a moment of tension, of expectation. And then two things happened at once. From behind, the Coronet’s regiment rounded the corner, with the Captain at the head, brandishing his sword. And from in front, around a different corner, came a column of horsemen in blue and white. They galloped towards the Coronet’s forces like a regiment of clouds, scudding down the street as easily as clouds move across the sky.

‘Rising Regiment!’ called one of the Coronet’s cavalry men. ‘Reform the line!’ In the confusion, a gap opened up in the circle of horses. Maks pulled his mother through it, and they managed to duck behind a pile of rubble just as the Rising Regiment collided with the Coronet’s cavalry.

Peering over the rubble, Maks saw his father’s body disappear under the hooves and boots of the clashing armies.

Here's a snippet that revisits one of my all time favorite secondary characters--Jake Hillhouse from Timeless Wish *points to icon*



Could it be? Was it possible he had seen, Kenny Maeda? No. There was no way in hell. The best friend he loved like an older brother was no restless spirit. If he was Jake would have felt his presence long before now. He would have seen him, talked to him when he was in one of his deep meditative trances. Hell, Kenny would have surely made his presence known to his grieving daughter. Could he have? Is that why Emmi was having trouble sleeping?

Maybe it was the sun spots. That was it. He’d had lunch with a neighbor yesterday who mentioned how sun spots were wrecking havoc with the cosmic atmosphere and the universal forces of energy. It had to be the sun spots.

Here's a snippet from my new book, Don't Hex with Texas:

My first impulse was to run at the wizard and tackle him to pull off his robes and uncover his identity, but I held back. His spells might not have been able to hurt me, but physical sticks and stones could break my bones. Not to mention the fact that assault and battery were considered crimes, and I was in the town square where both the county sheriff’s department and the city police department were housed. I didn’t think “but he was doing magic” would count as a valid excuse for an attack.

Oh, this is too addictive. I love everyone's snippets, and then I realized I was lurking and not being brave. So, here is my snippet from NEED, which comes out with Bloomsbury in January. I did the random page thing as well.

“Zara!” Nick slams out of his now parked car. He rushes over and stands in front of me. I can’t see his features because of the headlights shining behind him. He is just a massive silhouette, but I'd know that silhouette anywhere.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice comes out angry, mad.

My voice is whisper weak. “I wanted to find him.”

Okay, I'll play. From Dragon Wytch, which comes out July 1st (copyright 2008, Yasmine Galenorn):

“I see you’ve been pawing through my goodies again,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him.

“I like pawing your goodies,” Morio said, arching his eyebrows. He planted a long, slow kiss on my lips. So different than Trillian. Bewitching instead of demanding. Trillian overwhelmed and conquered, where as Morio encouraged his conquests to hand over the keys to the kingdom without so much as a twinge of regret. Trillian was alpha, Morio stood outside of the whole testosterone match and calmly bided his time.

I lingered in his arms, and he playfully pinched my butt. “You better get a move on,” he said, then leaned close to my ear. “I’ll be out there tonight, watching, to make sure you’re okay.” Without another word, he pulled away and gestured to me with a flourish. “She’s all yours, Smoky. Treat her with care.”

Here's one from the chapter I'm working on my WIP, Tekgrrl. The last line amuses me so, which is why I picked it:

I weaved my way through the crowd to interrupt. Tapping on his shoulder, I said, “Raiding Lainey’s wardrobe?”

Toby turned to see me. “Hey, you made it!” He drifted away from his dance partner to lean down to kiss me on the cheek.

I kissed him back with a wry smile. “Yeah, I made it to the alternate universe where you wear leather.”

He actually turned red. “Shut up.”

“Are you going through a mid-life crisis or something?”

He frowned. “It’s not like my costume is any more tighter or more ridiculous than this.”

He had a point, but I couldn’t resist teasing him. “Toby, sweetie, I think once you hit 40, there’s a law against you wearing leather pants unless you’re a biker or a rock star. And if you start wearing them, Paul might start wearing them, and then I’m going to be psychologically scarred for life.”

Great idea! Here's a bit from The Forest of Hands and Teeth (YA coming out in April 2009):

As a child growing up I learned in my lessons from the Sisters that just before the Return They -- who They were is long forgotten -- knew what was coming. They knew that something had gone horribly wrong and that it was only a matter of time before the Unconsecrated swarmed everywhere.

They still thought they could contain it. And so, even as the Unconsecrated infected the living and the pressure of the Return began to build, They were busy constructing fences. Infinitely long fences. Whether the fences were to keep the Unconsecrated out or the living in we no longer know. But the end result was our village, an enclave of hundreds of survivors in the middle of a vast Forest of Unconsecrated.

-Carrie

If I'm not allowed to play with the Big Kids, friendly Mod, please delete.

Here's a bit from my WIP. Title TBD.

Hugin hadn't moved--hadn't even blinked those fathomless amber eyes--but Kyriean felt invisible talons plucking the threads that bound her thoughts together. Sheer stubbornness kept her gaze steady. If she could play the role of a proverbial tongue-stealing cat, she could win an epic staring contest with a mind-reading raven. "She knows because I told her. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Let me think. Munin struck a pose, head cocked thoughtfully. Maybe because you're… human? Honestly, woman, what part of "for Divine Use Only" don't you understand? These spells are so classified even we don't know them, so I'm damn sure you didn't find them in Magic for Fun and Profit, chapter 6!

Val galdrar, Hugin murmured. The words slid into the folds of Kyriean's brain and curled up like kittens. Corpse-spells. Used by Odin and one or two more competent mortals to break the sleep of the dead. The raven blinked slowly, deliberately. Care to tell us why you qualify?




Edited at 2008-05-06 06:49 pm (UTC)

Thank you!!

Can I put contribute my meagre offerings, even though I am not agented/contracted/published/DONE?

From my novel-in-progress Elijah's Chariot.

Voices behind the closed door startled Eva. She hadn’t thought anyone would be in the drawing room just yet. Opening the door a smidgeon, she pressed her eye against the crack to spy on whoever was inside.

“—all I’m saying is, Sumire, is that you haven’t done right by the girl since she was born and this is the perfect opportunity to set things straight!”

It was Sir Corliss, but Eva didn’t have the right angle on the person to whom he was speaking. She shifted her body and opened the door just a bit further.

“I am afraid that what you ask is out of the question, Corliss.” Eva caught sight of a woman’s bare back, adorned with a dangling diamond pendant. The woman wore her dark hair short and bobbed, dressed with jeweled pins and she waved a lit cigarillo in a holder in Eva’s father’s face.

“Why?” he asked. Sir Corliss was far more agitated than Eva had ever seen him. “I’ve never made any demands of you, Sumire, and I ask this one small favour in return for everything I’ve done for you—”

“If you find it all such a burden, I will gladly take her off your hands.” Wreaths of smoke twined about the woman’s gloved hands. “But you and I have our own lives to lead, Corliss. I am not here in Londinium for my own personal pleasure.”

“What are you here for, then?” Eva’s father demanded. “Your Heavenly Emperor did not have to send you; Yamasaki was more qualified for the ambassadorship and you know that. If you did not ask to be placed here for…whatever unfinished business that lies between us, then why are you here?”

An irritated huff of smoke enveloped Sir Corliss. “I have been charged by my sovereign with a mission. Do not underestimate me, Corliss. I have a duty to my countrymen.”

“To hell with your bloody countrymen!” Eva sucked in a sharp breath; she had never heard her father swear. He closed his eyes and sighed. “What of your duty to your daughter? To your family? Or me?” He moved in closer, taking the woman’s hands in his own. The woman was very still. “Aishiteru, ne?”

At the Nipponese words, the woman threw off Sir Corliss’s touch as though she had been bitten by a snake. “Don’t you dare, Corliss, don’t you dare.”

“Sumire—”

But she had turned her back to him. Eva struggled to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face. “A serpent’s words are still poison, no matter what language he utter them in. Don’t think to charm me into considering your suit with my own tongue, Corliss. I won’t have it.” A bell rang in the distance, signaling the dinner processional. At once all passion disappeared from her voice. “That’s our cue. I believe you are my escort into the dining room?”

Sir Corliss paused. “I believe so,” he said. Eva had never heard her father sound so defeated and broken. She narrowed her eyes resentfully at the glittering beaded figure. Sir Corliss offered his arm to the woman, his tone as frigid as hers. “Shall we, Lady Min?”

Totally off topic but I just had to say - how funny I'm currently reading SCIONS:INSURRECTION

From the opening of New Tricks, out this November from Ace.

On the corner of Market and Castro, half hidden in the shadow of a doorway, stood a vampire. Not just any vampire, mind you; one with a dark cape and four inch protruding fangs. And tons of hair gel. A few doorways down, a werewolf chatted amiably with a sickly green-hued zombie. All around them, demons and divas swirled giddily together. It was, of course, Halloween in the Castro

Not sure that I can share from my contracted novels, so here's a (longish) snip from the current spec work, entitled Heat:

#

The room was fairly large and sterile-looking, with small white ceramic tiles covering the floor and a row of metal drawers lining the back wall. The lab tech nodded us forward and pulled out one drawer in a puff of refrigerated air. On the slab was a sheet covered object just about the right size for a body.

Oh god. It hit me what I was here to do, and my knees felt a little weak.

“Steady,” Beau said, and I felt his arm go around my waist. I clung to his side, realizing that it made me look like a weak female and I didn’t care.

The lab tech carefully pulled back the sheet and exposed the face of the victim.

It might have been a wax Barbie doll sleeping for all I knew. Whatever was human about her had long fled, and all that was left were a pile of remains. Her face was cold and gray, her features refined and pretty. Beautiful, even, but that wasn’t a surprise given most of the Alliance's supernatural origins. Her ears weren’t pointed, I noted, so that eliminated the chance of any sort of fey creature. Her hair was brushed back from her head, almost as pale and colorless as her skin – blonde, judging by her brows.

They wanted me to identify her. I stared hard, racking my brain. She looked vaguely familiar, but I could have simply been losing my mind because I was staring at dead flesh, desperate to associate it with anything that would get me out of the morgue faster.

The lab tech moved away, crossing the room to the next slab. I leaned in to Beau, my lips barely moving as I whispered. “So, what is she?”

He whispered back. “A were, we think. Don’t know what kind.”

That definitely narrowed down the field. Female weres were rare. “Any markings?” Listen to me, sounding just like the police.

Beau pulled the sheet down just a little, revealing a tiny paw tattooed over the body’s right breast. He was very careful not to reveal more skin than necessary, and I wondered what he was hiding. It didn’t matter, because at he sight of that inked paw, I remembered. It was too tiny to be a wolf, the five small toes tipped with dainty claws.

“Otter,” I said. “Regina St. James was the only were-otter in the database. She showed me her tattoo once.” I stared down at the body again. Lord, it didn’t look like Regina. She’d been so blonde, pretty, with a ton of makeup on her face and a zesty, bubbly personality. This cold, pale stranger wasn’t her. “She liked to date, a lot. Giselle loved her.” Good thing shifters couldn’t get diseases, or she’d have been a walking VD factory, too.

I shut that thought out. It was bad to speak ill of the dead.

#

- Jill Myles

Edited at 2008-05-07 12:39 am (UTC)

I had a hard time picking a quote because as I'm reading over my WIP, I'm reminded that I'm supposed to be writing on it instead of reading FFF. ;) Anywhere here's a snippet from BALLAD, the standalone sequel to LAMENT coming out next year.

Inexplicably, my eyes focused on the hand he held the spoon with. On one of his knobby fingers was a wide metallic ring, scratched with shapes. Ugly and dull, like the band on my wrist.

Sullivan caught my gaze. His eyes dropped briefly to my wrist and then back to his own ring. “Would you like to see it closer?” He put down his spoon and began twisting it, working it over a knuckle.

A sick, uncertain melody sang in my ears, and in front of me, Sullivan fell to the floor, pushed himself onto his hands and knees, vomiting flowers and blood.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and then opened them. Sullivan was still working the ring off.

“No.” I shook my head. “Actually, I’d rather not. Please leave it on.”

:) Thanks!

Well, I can contribute a snippet from my current WIP, Scythe and Poppy. This is the end of Chapter Three and includes my great 1st person POV descriptive experiment of having another character describe the MC to herself. I'm not sure how well it worked.

#

Nodding, his gaze traveled from my head to my feet and back. With most men, anger and embarrassment would fill me, but his stare held no lust, just curiosity. "Blonde hair with a touch of red in it, fairly long, I see. Gray eyes, slight. Some degree of intelligence there, I'd venture. Vague egg shape to your face, pleasant enough to look at. Lithe and wiry enough for more than light labor." He tipped his head to the side. "I wager you smile frequently?"

I couldn't help but respond with a grin.

"I am Master Mikligan. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Adormediera." He took my hand and kissed it. Without releasing it, he straightened. "You are either exceptionally brave or unusually foolish,” he said. “Which is it?"

I stiffened like one of my brother's devices throwing a cog. Was he insulting me? "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," I said, thinking diplomacy the better course.

Mikligan shrugged. "No matter, we will know for certain in due course." As he withdrew his hand, something scraped across my skin.

I took a sharp breath, yanking my hand away. A thin scratch ran across the back, blood just welling up into it. I looked up at the old man, anger building in me. "Why did you –"

"Poison," he said.

Ice flooded my veins.

Leaning in, his voice took on a raspy tone. "If you wish to live, you will follow my instructions exactly."

#

Here's part of the teaser I posted on my blog today. It's from my urban fantasy, KNIGHT'S CURSE:

I followed them both through the cavernous room on the main floor. There was way too much power here. Acclimate, hell. The pressure overwhelmed. I strode past a glass case filled with a number of items I recognized because it was me who had stolen them.

The Raggedy Ann doll looked innocuous in her glass cage, her big button eyes and railroad-stitched mouth an innocent façade. Except the thing packed a wallop of bad mojo. It was a soul sucker. Enchanted by a witch at the turn of the century, the tattered old doll would steal the soul of a child as it slept, and replace it with one of a demon. I'd filched it from the attic of an aristocrat in Washington D.C. who had used it to bargain for political favors. It was no wonder I didn't trust politicians.

www.karenduvall.blogspot.com

I'll play! Here is the opening scene from my current WIP which is a historical.. hm... oh well. I like it. Delete it if it doesn't fit :)

Caroline was awakened by the sound of firing cannons. For a moment, she just lay there, not trusting what she heard. When the ship groaned, and shuddered, she realised it was real. Someone attacked the ship. Maybe I can finally be free she thought, and sat up. Wincing at the pain, she wrapped a sheet around her bruised and battered body.

When she looked around, she was amazed how... ordinary it looked. That is until you looked closer and realised that every piece of furniture, except maybe the bookshelves, had places to fasten a leash, and that the leather that hang from a peg looked a lot like a harness, for a very big dog. Or a human....



Caroline suppressed a shudder.

Please, God, anyone, get me out of this hell hole, she prayed desperately. She couldn't stand the constant fear that anyone passing by outside, would be Him, returning for a break. When the cannon fire stopped Caroline froze, and prayed that the other ship had won. That she would get out of here. At this moment, I would trade a pirate against this captain, she thought and made a face.

When she heard unfamiliar footsteps outside, she held her breath, torn between wanting them to find her, and wanting to stay hidded. After felt like an eternity, the door swung open. The old Caroline would have screamed in terror when she was the man that stood there, but the new Caroline just stared at him. He was... striking, not handsome, but striking with his raven dark hair, and blue eyes, his features where rugged and showed the result of living at the sea in many ways. He was dressed in shirt, trousers and boots. She swallowed nervously when she saw that he held a cutlass in his hand. A bloody cutlass.

" Well, Well, what do we have here?" he asked as a slow smile began to spread across his face.

Caroline had learned to recognize the delight that was obvious in the smile. He will punish me, she thought, and backed away until she hit the wall. She knew she had a hint of fear in her eyes. And she hated it, hated that she had become afraid of men. Hated that she didn't trust anyone anymore.

Okay, here's something from a WIP. No agent, no contract, mmm friendly mod, thanks.

While my heart broke, I bathed Julie with a golden balm, and as my hands glide across the Armageddon field of scorching pain her charcoaled body is restored to its youthful beauty and my tears wash away the golden soapsuds. Crouching down I tell her, ‘Darling I didn’t know.’ I kissed her sad eyes, held her hand and waited. An angel came for her from the ceiling; a solar charged teardrop with eyes, and swallowed by the light, my Julie is gone. A piece of my heart went with her. It is too hard, and crying I lay my head against Gegu’s chest, and the angel appears again.

I'm a watcher, so I hope it's ok that I post.

Alisia appeared before him, kneeling, her black robes swishing on the floor. The black veil allowed him to see her face, but barely.

Raelan couldn't help to smile at his handiwork-- well, Vesa's handiwork. He reached out and flipped the veil over her head, exposing her face.

Wrinkles traced paths across her once smooth skin; cobwebbed lines marred the corner of her eyes.

It was her hair that startled him into silence.

Spun silver, save for a couple of ebony streaks.

"Master," she rasped. "How may I serve you?"

Raelan met her gaze, struck by the hollowness of her eyes. Where they once had been emerald fire, now they were the color of dulled jade. "Have you been feeding like I instructed?"

She nodded, wincing. She clenched her teeth.

"Are you in pain?" Marah asked, stepping forward and studying Alisia. The fallen faerie Queen.

CA