Tag Archives: paranormal romance

Lover in Stone, Installment No. 3

Installment No. 3
#gargoyle #shifter #MFRWauthorscdane #romance

Like a gift, the Scriptum lay open upon the table above the unconscious woman. A single lamp spilled warm, buttery light on both, leaving the rest of the narrow room in shadow.
Where the intruder lurked a few moments longer, waiting. Watching, despite the fact most of his attention was on the book. Which looked like any other relic he’d stolen during his base life.
Old. Valuable not because it was made of anything precious, but because its worth lay in what he was going to get out of it.
Power. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
In exchange for this book—if he could get it into the right hands.
But the man understood greed as a supreme motivator, and he would deliver the Scriptum into the right hands.
Come hell or high water.
The soulless man let his lips twist into a smile he felt nowhere within himself; an odd reflex to something sublime he couldn’t emotionally fathom.
Yes. Hell would come, if he handled this right, but not the high water.
He nudged the unconscious woman’s wrist with the toe of his soft, leather moccasin.
She was not beautiful.
Definitely not Vampire, or Fae.
Which explained why it was she he was stealing this book from in the first place.
The man suspected enough about the Scriptum to know that few would most likely be able to touch it, let alone decipher its mystery.
But this brown paper bag of a female?
If he didn’t have this matter of stealing the book pressing upon him, the power coming to him in lieu of cash payment, he would do her justice.
The man uncurled his fingers from the bowie blade riding his hip.
He would not cut her as he so desired to do. Yet, how remarkable she would be if only he could slide his sharp knife from one cheek bone to the other. Give her a puppet smile that would permanently grace her unexceptional face.
Only the anticipation of the payment awaiting him stayed his hand, and he stepped off from his inborn urge to carve beauty where it was lacking. He turned his attentions to the relic, to the object that, should he succeed at delivering it into the guts of Hell, would gift him an eternity of joyful sculpting.
He bothered not with wondering why the woman had been studying blank pages. That wasn’t where his interest lay. The soulless man stepped over the woman to reach her work table, and closed his gloved hands over the Scriptum.
He was surprised by its heft.
For such a small, unassuming object, it seemed as though it was weighted with the things not written upon its blank pages.
The man yanked and lifted the tome, then slid it into a silk bag, which he then placed inside his backpack.
As he stepped back over the unconscious woman, his hand once again drifted to his hip, to his bowie knife.
Just one quick sweep of his blade.
And yet.
He would not. He could not.
During his lifetime, he had gambled only so far, had never taken unnecessary risks. Besides, he had far too much to gain if he won this game. His hand reluctantly slid from the cool steel of his blade.
With a stealthy tweak of the doorknob, the man slid into the dimly lit hallway, skulked along the rows upon rows of dusty manuscripts, and made his way to one of the many dark recesses of the vaulted library where his ropes hung as quiet and unnoticed as jungle snakes.
With practiced ease, the soulless man pulled himself upward toward the vent at the height of the thirty foot wall, and disappeared into it as silently as he had emerged, like a spider born from one of the hundreds of billowing webs stretching like banners across the ceiling.
Bound for Hell, with the Scriptum riding safe upon his back.
Sometimes it’s a blessing to remain unconscious. At least, to Angelia’s way of thinking anyway. Once she’d come to after having fainted like a wuss, she’d had to endure Aro’s wrath. Which came in the form of silence. Not a good sign at all. He had picked her off the floor with a grip shying just short of breaking her arm, and had her escorted to a “room” at the Triumvirate’s holdings.
For her safety.
She knew exactly why Aro had sent her here. She was to await her punishment for ruining the Scriptum. She sat on a stool in the middle of a ten foot square cell, thinking the only thing missing from this interrogation scene was the bare bulb overhead.
Running her palms up and down her arms did nothing for her shivering as she remembered her last botched job. The details of which dug their sharp nails into her fragile ego.
She’d been in a similar predicament before, when she’d first joined the Literati.
Well, okay, it was similar only in the sense she’d effed that job up, too.
The Recovery Team wasn’t even out the door before Angelia inadvertently bungled the protection magic painstakingly conjured by the Mage to keep them safe. To this day, she didn’t know how she’d done it. But she could remember the faces glaring at her. Each one was covered in soot, like the spell had blown up, turning the faces of her teammates into cartoon characters.
Which was kind of funny. Except no one laughed with her.
Aro had yanked her off the team faster than she could say whoops.
And figuratively chained her to a desk for the next ten years.
Until the Scriptum had been unearthed, and remained stubbornly shut for six months, even for the Demon Decipherer.
Angelia had again proven how inept she was when she’d gone into the room to ask Aro and the Decipherer a question. Somehow, she’d managed to trip on the flat stone floor and brush her fingers along the Scriptum’s sealed cover as she’d thrown her hand out to catch herself.
Aro and the Demon Decipherer had watched in helpless horror as the great tome teetered precariously upon its binding.
The Vampire had a flaming curse on his lips when the impenetrable Scriptum split wide open to finally reveal its secrets.
Well, not quite.
The text on the immaculate vellum promptly disappeared the moment Aro ordered Angelia’s clumsy ass out of the room. Which was the only reason she had been assigned to translate it.
Because the writing didn’t remain for any eyes but hers.
And now those pristine pages were forever marred with a blotch of her pathetic human blood.
Angelia’s insecurities assailed her as she sat on the stool in the cell. As if their weight was too much to bear, she turned in on herself, curling her body around the growing hole of humiliation, the shame that had taken up permanent residence in her gut years ago.
God, Aro was going to fry her for this.
The clank of the heavy steel door had her hopping to her feet, like she was going to kick butt. Or run. A more likely outcome given the current strength of her spine.
The same Vampire who had escorted her here came into the cell. “They are ready for you, Miss Delacroix.” He bowed his blonde head as if he felt bad about her situation, offering his arm like an usher at a formal wedding.
Angelia took it, even if it was just to hold onto something to keep her hands from shaking. She felt hard muscle under the shirt sleeve, and shut her eyes as she sucked up a little comfort from the solidity of it.
“Where are we going?” She peered up at a strong, tight jaw.
Her escort kept his eyes straight ahead. “The Triumvirate wishes to see you.”
The Triumvirate?
Holy Moses, she was in bigger trouble than she thought. Was Aro demanding they give permission for him to release her from the contract?
Her father would be flipping cartwheels while he sang Yes! So, Aro would get at least one vote in the affirmative. Angelia gripped a little tighter to the young Vampire leading her down the stone paneled corridor, her stomach churning as her feet turned to slippery clay.
She would be stripped of her duties. Severed from the one thing making her feel a little special in this world of super beings. Cold, familiar fingers of inadequacy clamped around her guts, just as her escort halted in front of a thick wooden door. He leaned forward to open it, revealing the stone gallery where the Triumvirate conducted their interviews.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 4 coming Saturday, February 7, 2015.

Lover in Stone, Installment No.2

Installment No. 2
#gargoyle #shifter #authorscdane
Merrick craned his neck to get a better look at the path beneath him, and felt the pull of his thick shoulder muscles run the length of his spine. The screech of stone assaulted his ears as his claws scored the wall. His talons, formidable weapons that they were, bit perfectly into the holes already etched into the granite—from his centuries of crouching exactly where he was now—perched on the Archway to Hell.
Condemned to killing its trespassers.
Thank you, God, you lousy son of a bitch.
Rage swelled inside him like the flooding waters behind a crumbling levee. Another soul, burdened with guilt, plodded beneath him. Resigned to its fate in Hell, where the doomed bastard would remain. Because Merrick knew no souls discovered redemption. Instead, they forever perpetuated their crimes, twisting ceaselessly within their self-designed tortures.
Like a twitching whip, Merrick’s rope-like tail slashed his fury as he tracked the sinner’s route.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Dante might have mistranslated the words carved into the Archway’s keystone, but he hadn’t mistaken the circular levels.
Not the misery. Nor the horror.
Merrick knew every shitty bit of it—he’d been forced to witness every doomed soul since the creation of this infernal cauldron. And he’d had enough. His guts were swimming in the filth of the madness, the terror. His skin grew thick, rough as stone—the telltale sign of what he and his Kynd were fated to become.
Condemned by God to this unholy patch of sunshine, he was inevitably turning to stone, just as thousands of his brethren already had. And he couldn’t stand it, had to circle on his paws to relieve the twitching of his skin, the compulsion of his muscles to act. To do something to alleviate his furious despair.
The archangel Lucifer had been right: God was a heartless bastard who turned his back to the cruelty He Himself created. Was it no wonder the souls consigned to Hell were so full of hopeless misery?
Just like the one entering Hell beneath him.
Shrieking assailed Merrick’s ears, and he roared his anguish while his heart weighed heavy as the rock it was fast becoming.

The pose didn’t suit her. Although far be it from Angelia to notice she formed the perfect imitation of a long-legged grasshopper. Not with her attention riveted to the skin-bound book spread open in front of her.
She felt like a member of the bomb squad holding the wire snips. Kept her breath locked in her lungs. And not because the pages of the book were fragile, either. Given its age, the darn thing had defied the ravages of time.
What worried her, and kept her from breathing, was the aura of magic surrounding the thing.
The relic sitting in front of her was volatile as a real bomb. All it would take would be one wrong move, one offensive stumble from her, and the book could do anything.
So, she couldn’t screw up.
As it was, the only reason she sat in the same room with it was because she was the only being it allowed to read its pages.
Like the Scriptum had an inkling of its own.
And that made it one scary so and so.
Because, let’s face it, she wasn’t anyone special. Not in this world of Fae, Vampire, Demon, and Ghoul.
And Grotesques.
How could she forget to add the Gargoyles and Chimeras to her list of supernatural wonders. When she was younger, she used to fantasize about the Grotesques, spending countless nights conjuring histories for them, fabricating stories of derring-do for her Gargoyle heroes.
Which was fine when you were a little kid. Playing make-believe was as normal as snot hanging out of your nose. Even as a teenager, she could be excused when she’d gripped tight to her fascination, practically wallpapering her bedroom with pictures of Chimeras.
She’d never outgrown her fascination.
Which made her a loser on all counts. A human living in a realm populated by creatures with innate talents that left her wanting.
And feeling pathetically inadequate.
Ugh. Yeah. She’d polish that nugget of loveliness later. Right then, she was preoccupied with sliding her silver reading blade along the pages she was translating. She had come to the running end of an unfinished sentence about her favorite subject: Gargoyles and Chimera.
So to her, the Scriptum read like a New York Times best-selling novel: a real page turner. Hastening to devour more, she flicked the blade to roll the page. Only to slice her finger on the vellum—even though she’d been using her knife.
“Ooh, crap!” She jabbed her bleeding finger into her mouth, her eyes dancing like frantic maids to find something, anything, to dab the blood off the ancient page.
“Oh, God, oh God, how could I be so stupid?” Mortified, she jumped to her feet, tipping her stool so it clattered to the floor behind her.
The droplet of her blood spread in a widening circle into the page. Like an atomic cloud.
And just as flipping devastating.
She’d marred the ancient Scriptum. With her stupid, human ineptitude she’d scarred a relic which had remained in near pristine condition for centuries.
Faltering back, she couldn’t peel her helpless stare from her blunder.
Oh, man. She would have to confess it.
Fear snatched her breath. Droplets of sweat stung her armpits, prickled the small of her back. Aro, her Vampire boss would be…catatonic with rage.
See? Pathetic. Aro would never lay a fang on her. Not when her father was Vampyre, one of the ruling Triumvirate.
Okay, so he wasn’t her real father. But she’d been raised since infancy as Anton’s own, and it was no secret to the Vampire realm. Inept human she might be, but Angelia moved within her father’s world freely.
No Vampire in their right mind dared touch her.
Including Aro.
Right. Taking a deep breath to calm her panic, she bent to put her stool back onto its three feet. Then bolted upright, her hand clutched to her heart like a clichéd heroine wrapped tight in her corset and long skirts.
Singing expanded inside her head.
“Holy rum raisin ice cream.” The Scriptum hummed. The voices stuck to her pulse, pulling and twisting along her veins as they sang. They magnified inside the amphitheater of her skull, to the point she thought the bone would fissure and sound would blast forth like footlights—to illuminate the ceiling over her head.
Her knees buckled, as if she knelt in supplication to the concerto. Tears tumbled down her cheeks. Trembling, she reached forth, as though Jesus himself stood in glowing magnificence in front of her, and she wanted nothing more than to touch his modest robes.
The voices flew ever higher, and Angelia’s heart strained to devour every truth, every glorious exultation…until the pounding lump of muscle stuttered, fluttered, and fibrillated.
As her vision tunneled, the Scriptum shrunk into a tiny pinprick before disappearing, just like scenes in old movies ended.
Last thought? Darkness. Angelia cashed out like an empty register, her body folding to the flagstone floor.

~S.C. Dane
~Next Installment (no. 3) coming: Tuesday, February 3, 2015.

#Paranormal romance release

Happy Thanksgiving, All! I have much to be thankful for: Kenrickey: Book Three of The Luna Chronicle” is now available at Melange Books, LLC.KenrickySCD3-sm

Back Jacket Rumblings:

In the northern Maine woods, a wolf pack unlike any other reigns the landscape. With the ability to shift into human shape, they are the supreme rulers of their territory. Until the real humans threaten their secret realm…

Ken Rickey is one of those humans. Until he’s entrusted with the secret of the wolf-people, an honor he’ll do anything to uphold. For among the wolf-people, Ken has found loyal friends in Armand and Eaen, two of the younger wolves in Luna’s pack who share his sense of adventure.

Welcoming them to his human world and keeping them safe isn’t going to be easy, especially when there are those who suspect the truth.

An intuitive woman, Naomi Foss is quick to unearth the mystery of Ken’s two friends. Human they may seem, but there is a wildness about them which is fast consuming Ken, altering him in extraordinary ways.

But the acceptance of Naomi plunges Ken and his wolf friends into dangerous territory, where the exposure of Luna’s pack becomes a lethal reality. Can these young lovers and friends stand against the threat while keeping their secret from those who hunt them?

A Scene For Your Reading Pleasure:

            We cavorted for quite some time—chasing, snatching, biting. Armand, once he’d gotten over his initial fear, darted around just as uninhibited as the rest of us; although he and Eaen were careful about shifting in front of Naomi.

I, on the other hand, shed all of my inhibitions, and the mock hunt for Nae escalated seriously. I wanted her bouncing ass all to myself, and her playful screams were jabs of electricity to my groin.

She didn’t run very fast once she caught me ogling her like she was an entrée. Good ol’ Nae. She even feigned a limp so that I could corner her in the living room. She darted her eyes around like a trapped deer, and wedged herself into the corner by the book shelf, protecting her back. Then she lifted her upper lip in a warning snarl, even as her hazel eyes glistened and her pupils stretched to turn her eyes almost black. Her blonde hair was tousled and sweaty, and I’d never seen a creature more inviting.

My mouth found hers before I could say no guts, no glory, and sweet living jackrabbits, she opened herself to me. It was all I could do not to slide Mr. Plucky into home once the ump signaled for me to steal. Her tongue teased, tasted me, then retreated maddeningly, and I withdrew just far enough to clamp my teeth across her windpipe and cup her ass in my hands.     She gasped, and my groin ached as it grew more swollen.

The ringing of her cell phone was like the screech of a car crash, and we both flinched at the intrusion of it. Naomi groaned as she slid away toward her pile of clothes on the living room floor. Eaen and Armand stood with their legs splayed, sides heaving, and wore tendrils of frothy spit on their fur. I stood with my need so obvious my balls hurt.

            Christ, guys.

Eaen winked, the teasing turd. He saw. He’d noticed we’d all gone a bit nuts, and he loved it. Armand’s waving tail gave him away, too, but the three of us paid more attention to Nae’s cell phone call.

It was The Bear, and he wanted her and his car. She’d been gone too long already, judging by her end of the conversation. She’d promised to be back before lunch and it was past that. My, how time really does fly when you’re having fun.

She told him she’d be right there, then snapped the lid shut on her phone. And I got an unexpected explosion of jealousy in my guts.

“Don’t go, Nae. Stay with us,” I offered, and fought like hell to keep my anger from boiling over into my voice. A feat beyond me, I wasn’t exactly successful. “Tell him to fuck himself.” Oh, yeah, I was really trying.

“I can’t, Ken. Not yet, anyway, but soon,” she promised.

            Was she crying? “Aw, Christ, Nae, don’t cry.” She effing leveled me. I was a mud puddle waiting to catch her tears, and before I knew it, my feet crossed the room and my arms were wrapped around her. I’d have sacrificed daylight for her.

“Come back later, then, huh?” I pulled her away to lose myself in her shimmering eyes, which had turned green because she cried. “I’ll come get you. Just call me, and I’ll come, okay? Whenever you want.” My fingers combed her tousled bangs, tucking their length behind her seashell ear.

She nodded and sniffed, and my heart cracked. Jee-zus, how was I letting her leave?

I wiped her tears with the pad of my thumb, pulled her warm body close, then ripped myself away and edged a fair distance back to stand between Eaen and Armand while we watched her dress. Weren’t we the gentlemen? When she finished donning her clothes, the four of us huddled to say good-bye.

“We really have to talk, Nae. Soon,” I said, before she slipped out the door and into the Yeti’s car. Within moments, she was gone, but even I could still smell the snowy day in our house.

~S.C. Dane

#Wolf Love—A Serial by S.C. Dane

Okay, folks. Time to change tack and set a different course. Truly, I’ve yammered on long enough, it’s time to give you what you like best about me: my stories.

So, here’s a paranormal romance I was inspired to write shortly after finishing The Luna Chronicle series. I wrote all three of those books—Luna, Grane, and Kenrickey—in the first person point of view. I was ready to work with a different voice, one that would let the reader see more than just the one side of a first-person narrative.

So, this story was an experiment, and an unfinished one at that. Other third-person narratives competed for my attention and won. I’ve written and completed two other novels since starting Wolf Love. I don’t know where this one is going. Maybe as Wolf Love unfolds, you, my dear readers, will have some ideas. Maybe I’ll let a lucky reader finish it for me.

In the meantime, I’ll strive to post a new installment every Saturday during my lunch break.

Feel free to share a comment, or your opinion.

Happy reading!

Wolf Love

A Serial by S.C. Dane

Chapter One

   The deep-toned voice rumbling from below tickled across Sofia’s skin, elevating the fine hairs on her arms. Its rich velvet coiled a serpentine around her gut, squeezing it taut while the rest of her warmed. Clenching her jaw in defiance, she shimmied her shoulders to shake the feeling out of her body. Except that just made her skin flare; the heat crept up the base of her skull.

    Concentrating on her gloved grip and the bales of timothy in front of her, Sofia shut out that stirring voice, and certainly didn’t peer over the edge of the hay loft to see who it belonged to.

    It was a stranger, she knew, not someone already working on the farm. Because a voice like that would have sizzled in her veins long before now. Nope. That sultry silk of string was new, and it was talking with Charlie, the owner of the farm. The voice was seeking employment, so help her, at this farm. The very place she’d found sanctuary, her respite from the rest of the world. From her past.

    Sofia should’ve been pissed. Instead, her feet were slinking closer to the lip of the loft and her body was leaning downward, tipping toward the owner of that voice, as if she were a houseplant seeking the sun.

    Dammit. Her body was a traitor, and to punish it she retreated to her chore, yanking the fifty pound bales of hay and flinging them toward a darkened corner, where they skidded into haphazard piles she’d have to neaten. Which meant moving the bales yet again, so they’d be stacked tight and high, to make room for the rest of the hay laying cut in the fields. It was hard and itchy work in the hot loft, and not really a one person job. But Sofia preferred the solitude, and by now the other farmhands understood that and left her alone.

    The stranger was here to help bring the new hay in. At least, that’s what his words were saying, and she couldn’t get a good look at him from her position in the loft without giving herself away. If the owner of that sultry baritone matched the voice then he’d have enough muscle for the job.


   Charlie was welcoming the stranger to the team and shuffling him off to check out the rest of the farm, to meet the other employees. Which meant the owner of that voice was going to be sticking around to do a lot more than gather in the hay. Mr. Baritone was going to drive her away; Sofia was as sure of that as she was of her body’s reaction to him. A voice with the power to resonate within her the way this one did meant trouble, pure and simple.

   Because it generated the same heat within her body the dreams of her past did, and those had dealt her nothing but a lifelong strand of misfortune.

   Sofia returned to the bales in front of her, letting the sweet aroma of drying grass fill her head and crowd out what the arrival of the stranger meant. She was a grown woman, after all, and it was time to quit running. Her dreams were just that—dreams.

   “What do you think, Sol? Stay put?”

   The dog she spoke to lifted his chin from his big paws, his brown-eyed gaze attentive as he cocked his broad, shaggy head.


   The wolfhound mutt dropped his muzzle back onto his paws and puffed a contented sigh.

   “Damned straight, Sol.” Sofia hurled another bale, showering itchy flecks of chaff onto her sweating skin. Determined, she toiled in the heat of the loft as she plotted ways to stymie the dreams forever looming in her conscience.

   And which were now creeping into her reality.


   German smelled the woman the minute he stepped into the barn, despite the overwhelming stench of domestic livestock hanging in the air around him. Wolf was here. Sublimely female, too, and he felt a tugging in his guts he’d only ever heard about.

   Ignoring it, he nursed his anticipation, and couldn’t help but bask in his good luck. He’d hit pay-dirt. Those who’d sent him on this fool’s errand had been right about the woman. And hadn’t even known it.

   German’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a lethally gleeful smile, but he promptly put his palm to his mouth to hide it before the fellow named Charlie turned to see it. Humans did not
like his smile. In fact, they instinctively backed away from it, and because the aroma of that sweet woman up in the loft promised him freedom, he couldn’t afford to offend the human who stood beside him.

   He needed to get closer to her, and showing off his pearly whites wasn’t going to earn the trust of the man who stood between his future and this woman he was scenting. He’d have to play this hot situation as cool as he could manage. Which meant not even hinting there was more to him than his bare skin and normalness. One blip on the weird detector and he’d get politely escorted off the farm and away from his quarry.

   Which was something this wolf-man couldn’t afford.

   So, he sheathed his strong teeth as he lowered his eyes and shoulders into a more submissive posture, to deflect any flash of instinctual awareness that might flare up in the human beside him.

   “Glad to have you on board,” Charlie said, sticking out a calloused mitt of a hand.

   Clasping it like the lifeline it was, German kept his lips pulled down over his teeth in his warmest semblance of a grateful grin. “I’m glad to be here,” he answered without lying. Because in spite of his subterfuge and private reasons for seeking employment at the farm, German didn’t lie, ever. A wolf never could.

~S.C. Dane

Stay tuned for installment number two of Wolf Love coming November 16, 2013.


Ten Reasons Grown Women Don’t Go Trick or Treating:

10. We are too mature for such crazy antics.

9. We don’t have to beg for our treats. We take from our kids’ goody bags like bears. We are entitled.

8. Nobody ever gives out Godiva chocolates.

7. Nobody ever gives out bottles of wine, either.

6. We refuse to be seen in our Wonder Woman outfits. We wear them under our regular clothes.

5. The smart women stay home to take the bags of candy from visiting kids. Did the tykes not say Trick or Treat?

4. We’d rather be home curled up with a steamy paranormal romance novel.

3. We’d actually rather be home curled up with a sexy vampire or shape-shifter hero from our favorite paranormal romance novel.

2. Call us crazy, but Halloween is the only time we can get away with screaming at our neighbors’ kids to scare them. Of course we’re staying home to dish out the payback.

And the Number One reason why grown women don’t go trick or treating: WE DON’T BEG. Well, all right. We do. But only in the bedroom.


What in Samhain does any of the above have to do with The Romance Studio, you wonder? #SPOOKAPALOOZA, of course! And please refer to Numbers 4 and 3 in the Ten Reasons Grown Women Don’t Go Trick or Treating. It’s romance time with your favorite shape-shifter, or vampire-slayer. Time to treat yourselves to the paranormal. ‘Tis the season for indulging your darkness.

You want a little gore with your sensuous love? Check out my three novels. Buy links and excerpts are on the right. Just click on the cover to indulge yourselves. Either story will satisfy your hungers.

~S.C. Dane

“No Little Thing” is a big thing!

My second paranormal romance novel has hit the digital shelves (find it at Jupiter Gardens Press). Titled No Little Thing, by S.C. Dane, it is vastly different from my first novel Luna: Book One of The Luna Chronicle.

Read this blurb, and you’ll see why:

Lily Fain’s life as a horror novelist isn’t perfect, but it suits her, even if she has written off true love in exchange for her fictional world of monsters. Then her imagined world comes to life when she discovers she has a stalker who isn’t the average fan, but a real vampire who wants her dead.

Griffyd Fychan is a vampire-killer who is seven feet of lithe muscles, quick reflexes, and an explosion of ferocity that strikes terror in those he hunts, even those he rescues. But when the slayer steps between Lily and her vampire stalker, Griffyd’s instincts not only compel him to protect her from their mutual enemy, but to bond with her, as well.

The problem? Griffyd isn’t human–he belongs within the pages of Lily’s horror novels.

Faced with the menacing vampire-killer’s affections, will Lily retreat in fear to her author’s life? Or will she surrender to her dark passion for Griffyd, whose bonding to her could alter her in ways neither one could have ever foreseen?

THAT’S THE BLURB. See? It’s very different from Luna. The most striking difference is the author’s voice. I wrote my first novel without ever having read a paranormal romance in my life. I had no clue about format, what readers were looking for. I had simply written a story that wanted telling. By the time I got to writing Grane: Book Two of The Luna Chronicle( not available til August 2013), I had begun to get an inkling. By book three? Kenrickey reveals a definite path toward my immersion into the world of paranormal romance.

No Little Thing is the culmination of a lot of reading and of studying the genre. It turned out well. Especially since I didn’t stray from my core belief in my writing: I conjure heroes who have my readers moaning: “I want one!”

You will want your own Vampire-killer. Don’t think so? Then I dare you to read No Little Thing, and prove me wrong. For now, you can find the novel (in e-book format) at Jupiter Gardens Press.

Happy reading. And, oh yeah, I told you so.

~S.C. Dane