Sunday, December 4, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
And I'm giving away TWO copies of
TIED WITH A BOW to celebrate!
Leave a comment below by this Saturday, November 5th, to be entered.
Please include an email addy so I can get in touch with you if you win. You can obscure it by writing out "at" or "dot" or whatever so evil bots won't find it. Example: virginia (at) virginiakantra (dot) com. Winners announced Sunday!
If you like this giveaway, I'd be so grateful if you would LIKE my Facebook page and recommend it to your friends.
Oh, and you can read a special sneak peek of my story here!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Virginia Kantra's breathtaking new series about family ties, second chances, the strength of community, and the power of love...
Meet the Fletchers
of Dare Island
Steady Matt, the son who stayed in CAROLINA HOME, July 2012
Ambitious Meg, the daughter who never looked back
And rebel Luke, the Marine who thought he'd never return...
Home to the Fletcher family for generations, Dare Island is a fishing village rocked by changing times-its traditions slipping away like the sands of the North Carolina coast. Single dad and fishing boat captain Matt Fletcher deferred his own dreams to support his innkeeper parents and build a future for his sixteen-year-old son. Matt has learned to weather life's storms by steering a steady emotional course...and keeping a commitment-free approach to love.
Newcomer Allison Carter came to Dare Island to escape the emotional demands of her wealthy family. The young teacher aims to build a life here, to make a lasting place for herself. She doesn't want to be another in the long line of Women Who Once Dated Matt Fletcher. It's both tempting and dangerous to believe she can be something more.
Then Matt's brother Luke makes a sudden return home, with a child of his own-and a request that will change all their lives. With a child's welfare at stake, Matt must turn to Allison to teach him to let go of the past, open his eyes...and follow his heart.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I'm very excited to be part of the second ever meeting of
Lady Jane's Salon Raleigh-Durham on
Wednesday, October 26
Hibernian Restaurant & Pub
1144 Kildaire Farm Rd
Cary NC 27511
The Triangle's very own reading salon celebrating the romance genre! Join me and fellow authors Jenna Black and Aimee Laine for an evening for readings, refreshment, and chat.
Admission is $5 or one gently used romance novel.
All proceeds to benefit the Shout Against the Whisper campaign against ovarian cancer and the Wake County Public Library system.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Sheraton Imperial Hotel
at Research Triangle Park, Durham
Cherry Adair, Riptide
Katharine Ashe, In the Arms of a Marquess
Jenna Black, Glimmerglass
Lydia Dare, Never Been Bit
Sabrina Jeffries, How to Woo a Reluctant Lady
Emma Lang, Restless Heart
Deb Marlowe, How to Marry a Rake
Emilie Rose, Her Tycoon to Tame
Beth Williamson, Devils on Horseback: Lee
and me, Virginia Kantra. I'll have the whole Sea series available, including my RITA winning novella "Shifting Sea," if anyone's looking for a particular book.
Click for directions.
Would love to see some familiar faces!
Sunday, September 18, 2011
We have a winner! Actually, we have SIX!
The Gail Parkins Memorial Ovarian Cancer Walk raised over $311,000 for Ovarian Cancer Research. Heather’s OC Warriors came in fifth out of one hundred teams for the most money raised – something that couldn’t have happened without your support of Critiques for Heather.
So, Go, Team!!! Thank you so much for supporting Heather’s OC Warriors and the SHOUT Against the Whisper campaign!
Today I picked the winning ticket numbers by random number generator. They are:
WINNER Andrea Wenger – critique by or coffee with Katharine Ashe
WINNER Connie Nelsen – critique by Abby Gaines
WINNER Leslie Nuccio – critique by or coffee with Virginia Kantra
WINNER Michelle Flye – critique by or coffee with Emilie Rose
WINNER Lori Keizer – critique by Cynthia Cooke
WINNER Lisa Vallani – critique by Cindy Holby/Kassy Tayler
Again, thanks to everyone who contributed to the cause!
September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness month!
For more information, please visit and like Heather's
SHOUT Against the Whisper Campaign on Facebook
Do it for yourself! Do it for the ones you love!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
"Upon a Midnight Clear" by Virginia Kantra
The angel came down in the long gallery of the Conciergerie prison,the notorious antechamber to the guillotine.
Stone walls could not keep him out. Stench and darkness offered no deterrent. He was a child of the air, elemental, immortal, one of the First Creation. As long as he did not materialize completely, he could go anywhere.
Cold seeped through the blocked grates and up from the flagstones along with the miasma of human misery. The corridor was alive with sighs and sobs and vermin. In the bloody wake of revolution, the prisons of Paris were filled to bursting with the ci-devant aristocracy and their suspected sympathizers. Few had the money or influence to secure the comforts of a private incarceration, a bed, food, firewood, perhaps a chamber pot. Cells intended for one or two prisoners held four, six, a dozen men, women, and children, packed together on the filthy straw like so many bottles of wine.
In the stone blocks adjoining the exercise yard, some poor soul had scratched BIENVENUE EN ENFER. Welcome to Hell.
But this was not Hell. There were still those here who called on God in their distress. So the angel had come, drawn by a dying mother’s prayer to provide...
Not escape, the angel acknowledged. He felt the brush of some unusual emotion, threatening his angelic detachment. Frustration, perhaps.
The children of air were forbidden from interfering directly in worldly affairs. With rare exceptions, humans must work out their own fate, their own salvation. But the angel could offer comfort to ease the woman’s soul from this life to the next.
His frustration—if that’s what it was—deepened. Tonight, solace did not seem enough.
He flexed his shoulders at the admission, feeling a prickle between his shoulder blades. He was an angel of God. Comfort was his stock in trade. It must suffice.
A woman’s hoarse Latin slipped through the bars to hang like frost in the air. “Sancta Maria, Mater Domini nostri, ora pro nobis peccatoribus.” Holy Mary, Mother of our Lord, pray for us sinners. “Nunc et in hora . . .” A cough. “Et in hora . . .”
More coughing, deep, wracking.
“Lie quiet, Maman.” A girl’s voice, sweet and clear and welcome as water in this dirty hole, speaking the King’s French. “You must save your breath.”
The angel followed the voice through the square iron grate into the cell. Two women—a woman and a girl, rather—huddled on the straw inside. The girl knelt on the brutally cold floor, supporting her mother’s shoulders, trying to ease her breathing.
The child was very pretty, the angel observed dispassionately, with a delicate nose, a heart-shaped faced blunted by a fi rm, rounded chin, and eyes as blue as an October sky. But it was the mother who had called him here. Citoyenne Solange Blanchard, former Comtesse de Brissac, convent bred and barely thirty.
“Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae,” the comtesse whispered. Now and at the hour of our death...
“Maman, you must rest,” the girl scolded gently. “You need your strength.”
The angel could have told the girl that no amount of rest would make any difference. The infection in the comtesse’s lungs had attacked her already weakened system.
But the girl’s tenderness moved him, anyway.
He spread his power over the dying woman like wings, extending over her the peace of the presence of God.
Solange opened her eyes in the darkness, focusing on his face. “An angel,” she whispered. “Come to save us.”
He was hardly surprised that she could see him. She was very near death. “I cannot,” he told her gently.
“Save her,” the woman insisted. Her daughter, thirteen-year-old Aimée. “When I am gone, she will be alone.”
The girl chafed her mother’s hands. “Maman, you must not upset yourself.”
Doubtless the child believed the comtesse was talking to herself, out of her mind with fever and grief.
The whole country was mad. After centuries of privilege, the Old Regime was paying for its sins of pride and abuse of power. In three short years, the comtesse had been stripped of everything: lands, tithes, and titles. The life of her husband. Their son.
These humans went too far in redressing old wrongs. They had no concept of Heavenly justice, no understanding of divine mercy.
Comfort, the angel reminded himself.
“Your family will be reunited soon,” he assured Solange.
She would be dead by morning. And her daughter would follow, executed within the week, sacrificed to nationalist fervor and bloodlust. Underneath the familiar flowering of compassion, anger stirred, like a worm at the heart of a rose.
Solange wet her dry lips. “One day. Not yet. You must . . .” Another cough rattled the comtesse’s frail frame. She met the angel’s gaze, the light of faith or determination in her eyes. “You will save her."
Such faith should be rewarded.
The words falling from his lips caught him by surprise. He was an angel, bound to discern the will of God, to protect, and to obey. He regarded the dark sweep of the child’s lashes, the sheltering curve of her shoulders.
What if the charge to protect, the call to obey, pulled him in different directions?
He would be punished for his disobedience, of course. Not for the first time. Michael, leader of the Heavenly host, took a dim view of insubordination. But perhaps Gabriel would intercede for him. It was almost Christmas, after all. The season of miracles. There was some precedent for his intervention in human affairs.
“You promise,” Solange insisted.
Recklessness seized him. “I swear.”
The girl glanced up, almost as if she heard him. Those clear blue eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
The angel jolted. She saw him? Was she that pure? That innocent? Or was she like her mother, close enough to death to feel the brush of his wings?
“The answer to our prayers,” Solange said.
“Can he get us out of here?” Aimée asked, direct as a child, pragmatic as any of her countrywomen.
“Of a surety he can save you,” Solange said. “You must go with him.”
The girl raised her head. He had no idea what she could make out in the dark. She should not have been able to see him at all.
“You will have to help my mother. She cannot stand.”
The angel held Solange’s gaze for a long moment.
“I do not go with you, mignonne,” the comtesse said softly.
Aimée stuck out her rounded chin. “Then we will not go.”
“My dear . . .” The comtesse coughed. “You have no choice.”
“I won’t leave you.” The girl’s voice rose, provoking glances and whispers from her fellow prisoners.
But the cell’s other inhabitants were too respectful of her grief, too fearful of fever or sunk in their own despair to intervene.
“I cannot remove her against her will,” the angel said.
“You promised to save her,” Solange said.
Irritation flickered through him, crackled like ozone in the air. Frustration with her, with himself, with the sins of men and the limitations of angels.
“She does not wish to be rescued.”
Intervention was one thing. He might be forgiven for granting a dying mother’s prayer. But violating a human being’s free will was another, far more serious offense.
He looked at the girl, her springy dark curls, her clear, wide eyes, the jut of that childlike chin. She was old enough to make her own decisions.
His chest tightened. And far too young to die. Her goodness shone in this mortal Hell like a star.
Solange continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I have family in England. A cousin.” Her voice, her strength, flared and faded like a sullen fire. “Héloïse married an Englishman. Basing. Sir Walter Basing. You will . . . take my Aimée to them?”
“No,” the girl said fiercely. Her cheeks were flushed, her shoulders rigid. “It is my life. My choice.”
Stubborn. He would need to silence her to get her past the prison guards.
He did not look forward to taking solid form, to descending into the flesh and the stink and the pain of human existence to lug her through the barricades. He dare not save them all.
But the girl would live. She would be safe in England. He would be damned before he’d let this child’s light be extinguished.
His lip curled. He might be damned, anyway.
He breathed on the girl, catching her slight body as she slumped.
They didn’t have much time.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Friend and fellow author Heather McCollum is starting a Facebook campaign to spread the word about the warning whispers of Ovarian Cancer, which she is currently battling with courage and grace.
You can learn about the signs and symptoms here and "like" her page here.
Shout Against the Whisper
I really want to support her effort, so if you do, let me know here or on my Facebook page by Sunday night.
I'm giving away a signed book from my back list to somebody!
Friday, July 8, 2011
I'm beyond thrilled that "Shifting Sea" in the Burning Up anthology received the Romance Writers of America 2011 RITA award for Best Novella.
You can read the complete list of RITA award winners here.
Thanks to some lovely anonymous person who was taping presenter Toni Blake, you can also watch me bound onto the stage and seize my statuette like Golem grabbing the Ring. (No Tonis were harmed in the making of this video. At least, she kept her feet and managed to drag me in the general direction of the photographer, so I'm pretty sure she's okay.)
Monday, June 27, 2011
So tomorrow (Tuesday), I've got a special sneak peek from FORGOTTEN SEA up at RomCon. One lucky commenter will get her choice of FS or my RITA-nominated book, IMMORTAL SEA.
RomConInc Paranormal Blog
Good luck...and please wish me the same at the awards ceremony this coming Friday!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
New York, New York! What to Pack for the RWA National Conference
As a fifteen-year veteran of National Conference and a sometime visitor to NYC, here's my advice.
Pack as lightly as you can. Airlines charge for extra baggage. Consider packing a zippered duffel or a flat rate priority mail box in the bottom of your suitcase for the extra books you may bring home.
How you define "comfortable shoes" depends on your tolerance for pain and for fashion. But I suggest packing
Athletic shoes (if you plan to walk in Central Park or spend an afternoon shopping or at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or even to hit the treadmill) It's faster, cheaper and more fun to walk around NYC than to sit in traffic.
Dress shoes – These are your go-to shoes, the ones that look good and go with most of your wardrobe and won't give you blisters when your feet swell
Flats or sturdy sandals – In case you're wrong about the blisters
Killer heels – For awards night or morale
Black slacks. Come on, this is New York.
2-4 blouses with a pop of color to go with the slacks and the jeans. Not T-shirts, not sweatshirts, for God's sake nothing with a saying on it. Silk is good.
A dress. Maybe two. Black is good. Not too short, not too tight. Think comfort and cool.
Layering pieces. In case you feel too cool. A jacket/blazer to dress up the slacks (especially for those editor/agent appointments) and a lightweight cardigan.
To sleep, lounge, exercise in
T-shirts, dark jeans and/or a summer skirt are good for sightseeing.
Dress up clothes
1-2 outfits that make you feel fabulous.
One for publishers' parties and one for awards night. Even if you're skipping on the parties, we're in NYC (Okay, maybe this is only a thrill for me because I'm from North Carolina). Treat yourself to a nice dinner out and celebrate everything you've accomplished!
Costume jewelry – arty earrings, a chunky necklace, a cuff, something with personality
Scarves to change things up
Before you pack the pantyhose, check out the latest buzz in the pantyhose wars
Camera (If you don't know how to use the one on your phone, this is a great time to learn.)
Ear plugs and/or breathe right strips if your roommate snores. Or if you do.
A really small umbrella (only if you have room).
A fanny pack screams "tourist." If you want to get around with your hands free (and you don't mind digging under your clothes) consider a money belt.
If your phone doesn't map, print off your likely walking and subway routes so you feel comfortable exploring.
Ibuprofen, tummy meds, personal products. Yes, you can buy them there. Do you really want to go looking at 2:00 in the morning?
Something—bookmark, trading card, postcard, business card--with your name, email address, website and/or book cover to give to total strangers and pass around the conference lunch table.
A business card with your real name, email address, telephone number and snail mail address to give to editors, agents, and close personal friends. You can write the name of your manuscript on the back.
If you are a past or present RITA or Golden Heart finalist , don't forget to pack your award pins! This is your chance to look like the military leader of a small third world country.
Fellow veterans and native New Yorkers, what would you add to the list? What would you leave off? If this is your first conference, what do you want to know?
Friday, June 10, 2011
I'm guest blogging at The Qwillery
One commenter will receive copies of Forgotten Sea and my RITA finalist books Immortal Sea and "Shifting Sea" in the Burning Up anthology! Contest open until this Friday, June 17.
Hope to see you there!
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Blogguest, Virginia Kantra tells us about Forgotten Sea!
Blond heroes. Love 'em or leave 'em? Team Morgan or Team Justin? Visit me on the Borders True Romance blog today and tell me what you think.
There's a book in it for somebody!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Jennifer Mathis and Heather M. each won a signed set of the seven Children of the Sea books.
Ren won the triskelion pendant.
(You three should have received emails from me. If not, please, please contact me through my website.)
Thank you all so much for entering and commenting and sharing the excitement of release day!
I'll be guest blogging today at The Romance Dish about star crossed lovers, and one lucky commenter will receive a copy of Forgotten Sea!
So if you still want to win something, please drop by and say "hi"!
And, of course, you can find out first about future giveaways by "liking" my author page on Facebook or by subscribing to this blog.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Only one week until the Forgotten Sea release!!! If you like this series, I need your help getting the word out!
So I'm giving away TWO personalized, complete sets of the Children of the Sea: SEA WITCH, SEA FEVER, SEA LORD, IMMORTAL SEA, FORGOTTEN SEA, and the two novella prequels in the anthologies SHIFTER and BURNING UP. Seven books!
To enter, simply leave a comment on my blog.
To increase your chances, recommend my books or my books page to your friends - on your blog, page, email, newsletter, or by good old word of mouth.
If your friend leaves a comment ("YOUR NAME sent me!"), they'll be entered in the contest for one complete seven-book set.
And you'll not only be entered in the first giveaway, but in a special "Thank You, Friends!" drawing for another complete seven-book set. (The more friends you send, the more times you'll be entered!)
Finally, I'll choose one commenter at random to receive a replica of the series logo - a pewter triskelion on a black satin cord with a sterling clasp, a copy of the warden's medallion.
DO PLEASE leave some way for me to identify and contact you. You can post as "Anonymous," but you must leave an email address, disguised so the evil cyber bots do not spam you. (Example: virginia (at) virginiakantra DOT com)
And please make sure when you're getting the word out that your friends identify you in the same way, so that you have every chance to win! (Screen names are fine.)
The contest will run between now and the release day of Forgotten Sea, June 7. Good luck and thanks so much for helping me get the word out!
Friday, May 27, 2011
1. Sea Witch and the Children of the Sea are based on the Orkney legends of the selkie (“The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry,” the movie “The Secret of Roan Inish” ).
‘I am a man, upo the lan,
An I am a silkie in the sea;
And when I’m far and far frae lan,
My dwelling is in Sule Skerrie.’
What did you know about the selkie legend before you read this book? How are the merfolk (selkie, finfolk) different from other shapeshifters?
2. To what extent do you think Margred “acts like a guy” in coming ashore for sex and after her one night stand with Caleb? How did you feel about her behavior?
3. For me, non-human characters are a way to explore what makes us truly human: the capacity to choose, to love, to commit. I wanted to take Margred's "otherness" seriously, both as a non-human character with a unique point of view and as a way of exploring human relationships. I had to consider how Margred’s experience and emotions within her element—her environment, the sea—would affect her thoughts and decisions on land. There’s a recurring line in the books that I use to capture the children of the sea: “We flow as the sea flows.” I adored writing Margred because she’s so amazingly sensual and sexually confident, but has so much to learn about faith, love, and tenderness.
How does Margred demonstrate her “otherness”?
Does her being a child of the sea (not human) make her more or less sympathetic as a character?
4. Caleb is a police chief and former soldier, but he has no magic powers. Would you describe Caleb as an alpha or a beta hero? How does he demonstrate his heroism?
5. Romantic Times said of Sea Fever, “This is an especially fine paranormal with strong characters, logical plotting and a great sense of place. It keeps the magic at a low burn and focuses on the people.”
How important do you feel the setting and the island community of World’s End are to Sea Witch?
Which elements are important to you?
Who was your favorite secondary character?
6. Sea Witch borrows pretty freely from Hans Christian Andersen's original "The Little Mermaid," especially in terms of Margred's search for a soul:
“So I shall die,” said the little mermaid, “and as the foam of the sea I shall be driven about never again to hear the music of the waves, or to see the pretty flowers nor the red sun. Is there anything I can do to win an immortal soul?”
The whole mythology I created for the elementals and the "First Creation" is patterned on the Creation story in Genesis.
Did you see/get the religious references?
How do you feel about their use in a paranormal romance?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
A grunt, another thump, and a man--a young man's legs--appeared as he backed over the threshold, carrying one end of a large trunk. His companion followed, carrying the other. Setting their burden down, they turned to face her.
Boys. Lucy released her breath. They were just boys--sixteen? seventeen?--in long white shirts and ragged shorts, one big and broad with a shock of dark hair and a belligerent expression.
Tough guy, Lucy thought with a teacher's instincts and a smothered smile.
His companion was wiry and lean, not quite grown into the strength of his wrists or the size of his feet. Beneath a mop of blond-streaked hair, his eyes watched her, guarded and golden as the dog's.
He nudged the trunk with one foot. "Warden said you needed clothes."
She swallowed. "Yes. Thank you."
The bigger boy shifted his weight awkwardly. "There's more."
"Other clothes. If these do not fit you." The tawny one frowned in apparent concern. "You are taller than Miss March."
"Miss March?" Lucy asked cautiously.
"She was our teacher."
Was? "What happened to her?"
"She got old." A girl spoke from behind the two boys.
Their age, Lucy thought, or maybe older. With girls, it was hard to tell.
She had sleek, dark hair the color of mink and a wide-lipped, sulky mouth.
"She died," said the big, dark boy.
"I'm sorry," Lucy said.
The girl shrugged, her eyes cool blue and disdainful. "She was human."
Her casual dismissal chilled Lucy. "She" was human. Did that mean...
"Are you a teacher?" asked the tawny-haired boy.
"I..." Lucy dragged her scattered thoughts together. "Yes."
"We don't need a teacher anymore," the girl said.
The boy shot her a look. "Speak for yourself."
"Suck-up," taunted his companion.
The wiry teen clenched his fists. "Stupid."
"Tell me your names," Lucy said. As if this was the first day of school, the first fight on the playground.
The tough guy scowled, unwilling, maybe, to back down in front of the girl.
"Iestyn," said the other boy, the one with the strange, pale eyes. "This is Roth."
The girl tossed her head. "Kera."
She looked like a model, a girl made up to look like an adult. A beautiful almost adult in a short silk tunic the color of apricots that left her arms and most of her legs bare. Beside her, Lucy felt like a scarecrow. She resisted the urge to pull the slicker tighter.
"Warden said to call you Miss Hunter."
She smiled easily, encouragingly. "I think we can drop the 'Miss.' I'm not that much older than you."
For some reason that made the bigger boy laugh.
Iestyn poked him to shut him up. "Warden said anything you want, you can ask us."
Anything you want... She would have killed for a shower. A long, hot one. But she suspected enchanted castles didn't run to indoor plumbing.
"Maybe...A fire?" she suggested hopefully.
Iestyn nodded. "We brought wood. And water for your bath."
"The prince said you would want one," the girl—Kera—said.
Conn had ordered her a bath.
Something softened in the center of Lucy's chest. That was thoughtful. It didn't make up for kidnapping her, of course, but she could still appreciate the gesture.
Roth came back with a bundle of driftwood and dumped it by the empty fireplace.
Lucy roused. "I can do that." She nudged the hound Madadh out of the way to kneel on the cold stone hearth.
While she arranged wood and kindling, Kera drifted from the room, delivering an armload of towels before disappearing again. Iestyn and Roth trudged in and out, dragging in a copper tub big enough to sit in and buckets of clear, hot water. A faint sulfur smell rose with the steam.
Lucy shivered with cold and anticipation. "Did you have to boil all that?"
Iestyn grinned and leaned down to strike a spark to the fire. "No, there's a spring deep in the cliffs under the castle. Where all the elements meet, earth and air, fire and water. But--"
"It's a bitch of a climb," Roth said.
"But my lord thought you would appreciate some privacy on your first night," Iestyn continued.
Blood surged in Lucy's face. They weren't talking about the bath anymore. Conn's clothes hung in the armoire. This was his room. She sat back on her heels, hoping the boys would blame her sudden flush on the fire. She cleared her throat. "I bet you enjoy that. Having your own hot springs, I mean."
"Oh, aye," Roth said darkly. "If you don't mind demons looking at your butt."
Iestyn's bucket slipped, splashing water out of the tub.
Roth jumped back, cursing. "You great wanker!"
"Here." Lucy got between them with a towel, reassured by their squabbling, glad for something to do. They were just boys after all.
She mopped up the mess while the fire crackled and the boys trudged in with more buckets and went out again. Red shadows danced on the hearth. Under the slicker, a line of sweat traced down Lucy's back. She glanced from the half full tub to the open door and sighed. She was not getting naked in front of the boys. Still she was beginning to relax, lulled by the fire and their uncomplicated wrangling, soothed by the promise of the bath and the possibility of clean clothes.
To pass the time, she opened the trunk.
A long red buttoned cloak lay on top. She lifted it carefully, shaking the scent of lavender from its folds. Below were neat piles of thin drawers and thick socks, tidy stacks of yellowed shifts and bright shawls, sturdy dresses of no particular color or style. She looked dubiously at some of the dresses. The waists were so tiny, the shoulders so tight. Several pieces she was sure would fit: a hooded cape in deep green velvet, a padded turquoise robe, a sheer silk nightgown that whispered of seduction.
Everything was clean and creased, as if it had been lying unused for a long time. Lucy frowned. A very long time.
When the boys came back, Lucy was smoothing the wrinkles from the green cape, trying not to notice how her hand trembled against the velvet. "Your teacher, Miss March...How old was she?"
Iestyn looked surprised. "Almost a hundred, I guess."
Lucy's heartbeat quickened. Her suspicions grew. "And how long ago did she die?"
Kera reappeared and set a silver hand mirror on one of the chairs. "Fifty years ago."
Iestyn nodded. "Maybe more."
"But you knew her. She taught you." Her mouth dried. Over fifty years ago.
"Aye." Roth's grin revealed strong white teeth. "The prince said he was not having us grow up as little savages."
"But we were the last," Kera said. "Or almost the last."
Iestyn set another bucket on the hearth. "There was Dylan."
"But he had already gone through the Change before he came," Roth said.
"We were the last on Sanctuary," Kera said.
Lucy moistened her lips. Her pulse drummed in her ears. "The last what?"
Iestyn regarded her with wide gold eyes. "Why, the last children."
Monday, May 23, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Congratuations to Julie M., Angel492003, and Meggerfly! Look who's waiting to go home with you!
Thanks everyone so much for coming by to comment.
Don't miss more giveaways! Make sure and sign up as a blog subscriber (or join my Yahoo mailing list) so you can be the first to hear about future contests!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Sometimes a character strolls on to the page and then won't leave your imagination or your heart...
From the Children of the Sea prequel "Sea Crossing" in the anthology SHIFTER
Emma's heart beat like a frightened rabbit's. She wrapped her arms around her waist, tucking her hands under her armpits to hide their trembling.
She was a teacher in a girls' school. She was not used to violence. Male violence. The men's casual assault and her rescuer's swift reprisal had shocked and shaken her.
The bigger man--the one who had grabbed her--led his limping companion away. Emma fought a shiver of reaction. Revulsion. They were no worse, really, than the men in the boarding house she had learned to lock her door against each night or the ones who called and whistled after her on the street. No worse than Paul.
They had not raped her.
Although they could have.
Another shudder shook her. Thank God she had been rescued. He had rescued her. Again.
He stood planted, unmoving, his eyes narrowed as the other two men staggered
from the hall. Emma's gaze slid over the hard slabs of his torso to the ridges of his abdomen and felt a clench in her stomach that might have been fear. He wasn't even breathing hard. If not for the dark hair covering his powerful chest, the breeches clinging to his thighs, he might have been a statue.
"You," he barked.
But his attention was on the boy, the one with the odd colored eyes. The
only one who hadn't run when those two men cornered her.
"What in Llyr's name were you doing?" the big man demanded.
Emma moved instinctively closer to the boy. He was only a child. He--
"She was all alone," the boy said with dignity. "I thought--"
"You did not think. Murdoc could swat you like a fly. Next time you see the prince's peace disturbed, you call me or one of the other Wardens, understand?"
Wardens? Emma shied at the word like a horse from the bite of a lash. What was this place? A jail? An orphanage?
Her chest hollowed. An asylum?
The boy's thin face flushed. "Yes, sir."
Emma's protective instincts roused. Orphaned or crazy, the child meant well. "He was only trying to help."
Her rescuer turned his dark, brooding gaze on her, and she felt again that quick clutch in her belly. Tension rose off him like steam.
Her mouth dried. She should not have come down. She was not safe here.
She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed.
"You wanted to help," he said without expression.
He was speaking to the boy. Emma gathered she was irrelevant.
The child straightened his narrow shoulders. "I--Yes."
"Right. Make yourself useful, then. Fetch a girl to attend the lady."
The boy nodded and darted away.
"Wait!" Emma called after him.
The child paused, almost quivering in his desire to be gone.
"What is your name?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Iestyn."
"Thank you, Iestyn," she said gently. "I am Miss March."
"Yes." His smile flashed. "Thank you, miss."
He ran off.
Her Viking was still watching Emma with an intent, cat-at-a-mousehole look that made her palms grow damp.
Guess who's all grown up now and getting his own book? ;-)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
THREE WEEKS until the Forgotten Sea release! Hooray! And look what showed up on my doorstep!
I have three copies to give away.
Who wants one?
Oooh, oooh, meant to add: Please include an email addy so I can get in touch with you if you win. You can obscure it by writing out "at" or "dot" or whatever so evil bots won't find it. Example: virginia (at) virginiakantra (dot) com.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Romance Writers of America meets in NYC next month! So it seems a good time to reprise my advice about editor and agent appointments.
I met my first editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, at a pitch appointment back in the days when she was a lowly assistant editor at Silhouette and I hadn't yet completed my first manuscript. (This was so long ago you could get away with that.)
Mind you, it took me four years to write a story she could actually buy. But that meeting gave me hope and was the start of a working relationship that lasted ten years.
So let's say you're headed to New York. You score an appointment with the agent you most covet or the editor you want at the house of your dreams. You have ten minutes to convince her that you are a perfect match. Now what do you say?
First of all, relax. No matter how you feel inside, this is not the do-or-die moment of your career. Remember that the editor wants to like your book. All you have to do is describe your story in words that will let her know what it's truly about. I can't find my own high concept with both hands in the dark. But I can talk succinctly about story because of Debra Dixon's wonderful explanation of goal, motivation, and conflict. Because of her, I can offer
Virginia Kantra's Cheat Sheet to Perfect Pitch
Start:"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."Say a few words about the publisher or agent that suggests you've done your homework, read their authors' work. This means, of course, that you have done your homework, that you know that this agent represents your genre and you are not pitching your sweet Christian romance to an erotica publisher.
I've written a word count, subgenre
set in location and/or time period.
My Title is about a character tag (descriptive adjective and specific noun)
Fighting/striving/struggling for character goal
because character motivation
But conflict (why can't she have what she wants?)
The other primary character (hero or heroine)
is a character tag
who wants character goal
so that character motivation
A sentence about how the romance is affected by or impacts the plot.
A sentence about how the characters work together or at cross purposes to defeat the antagonist or overcome the conflict.
A sentence establishing your area of expertise or level of excitement about this story.
Finish by telling her what you want: "I would like to send you the story."
Don't be thrown if the editor asks questions about your story. This means she's interested.
You can ask questions, too. They probably get tired of, "What are you looking for?" But you could certainly ask specific questions about projects you have simmering on the back burner. Which brings me to,
Have a second pitch prepared in case the editor says this project doesn't meet the needs of her house at this time or asks what else you are writing.
As I mentioned above, you want to do your research before you even request any appointment. Make sure you have visited
Agent Query - An excellent guide to what an agent is and how to submit to one,
along with a free, searchable database of over 700 agents.
as well as Preditors and Editors
Another Realm hosts this guide to literary agents and publishing houses.
And good luck!
(You can find an earlier version of this post and other articles about writing on my website.)
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Lara skimmed along the tree-lined walk, her flat shoes crunching the pea gravel. She imagined Justin blundering in the dark, dazed and bleeding, hurt and resentful, a danger to himself . . . or to others.
She needed to find him. For his sake. For hers.
She had to tell somebody. Tell Simon.
Her stomach churned. The thought of facing the governors, of Zayin’s scorn and Simon’s disappointment, made her sick inside.
But she had no choice. A trickle of sweat rolled down her spine. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
The distinctive pitched roof line of the headmaster’s residence poked over the trees—six chimneys and a weathervane shaped like an eagle.
Simon Axton lived alone in the original Colonial farmhouse, set apart from the other school buildings behind the main hall. Lara had been invited inside exactly eight times. To the sunroom to take tea with her cohort on graduation day. To the book-lined library for cocktails with the schoolmasters and other proctors over the holidays. Once or twice to bring Simon a file he’d left at the office.
Lara approached the front porch, her steps slowing, anticipation burning a hole in her gut. Too late, she realized she should have called. But what would she say?
What could she say? She was supposed to be in her room.
Simon’s cool dismissal pounded in her head. “If you’re quite satisfied, I believe we’re done here.”
The thought of his displeasure dried her mouth. She stared up at the darkened windows, listening to the whisperings and rustlings and cracklings of the overgrown garden. A soft thump sounded from the back of the house, some small, nocturnal animal hunting in the night.
Her heart thudded.
Suck it up, she ordered herself. Get it over with.
Straightening her shoulders, she marched toward the steps.
That noise again, like a prowling cat or a raccoon testing the garbage cans or . . .
She caught her breath. Or like an escaped patient, skulking in the bushes.
Goose bumps rose along her arms. She stood frozen, her mind racing, her breath whooshing in and out of her lungs. He couldn’t be . . .
Maybe. Why not? How far could he get, with a skull fracture and the heth around his throat?
She thrust her hand into her skirt pocket, wrapping her fingers around the knife—his knife, Justin’s—and was instantly electrified as if she’d grabbed a live plug. Her nerves sizzled. Like a bug flying into a bug zapper.
She strained her senses.
There? Almost. Almost . . . There.
A whisper of warmth, male, animal, alive. A swirl of wild energy, around the corner, behind the house. Intangible. Unmistakable.
Justin was here, somewhere nearby.
Clutching the knife like a divining rod, she plunged into the darkness at the side of the house, stepping over beds of hostas and lilies of the valley, creeping under the black and staring windows. It was like her Seeking—was it only this morning?—or the game she’d played as a child. Warm. Cold. Warmer. Hot.
She shivered. A dangerous game, with high stakes and an unpredictable playmate.
Warm, warmer . . .
A thick oak raised its arms over the backyard, obscuring the star-strewn sky. She stepped into the mottled light, her gaze scanning the dappled ground, the silvered plants, the velvet shadows. Against the foundation, the door to the storm cellar yawned open, a gaping black hole.
The knife burned in her pocket. The air left her lungs.
There. Sprawled across the stone threshold, one arm reaching for the wooden door as if to shut it behind him. His hair was bleached, his skin pale in the moonlight. The bandage on his forehead was dark with blood.
Justin lifted his head and met her gaze, his eyes nearly black in the shadows, burning with intensity. “Help . . . me.”