Friday, October 19, 2012

Alpha Hero Wanted, but Make Mine a Dark Hero, Please!


What is your favorite thing about Alpha Heroes? Well, we authors are ready to share our favorite Alpha Males, our favorite things about them, and everything sexy and heated about those Alpha Males you can think of. *wink* Starting on Friday and ending on Oct 22nd, over 200 Authors and Bloggers will share their favorite things about those sexy men we know and love.
And while we do that, we are EACH doing a giveaway. Yep. There will be over 200 giveaways on each blog hosted by that Author or Blogger. But that's not all....




We have THREE grand prizes:
1st Grand Prize: A Kindle Fire or Nook Tablet
2nd Grand Prize: A $130 Amazon or B&N Gift Card
3rd Grand Prize: The Pictured Swag Pack!
Please Note: Swag pack not available for International Shipping!
You as a reader can go to EACH blog and comment with your email address and be entered to win. Yep, you c an enter over 200 times! Please, be sure to leave a comment here sharing your favorite Alpha Male from a book you've read, and leave your email address so you can be entered to win The Grand Prize: A Kindle or Nook tablet and oodles of other prizes from each blog on the hop.

Those who leave a comment here will be entered for the above 3 Grand prizes and entered to win a $15 Starbucks gift card and a print copy or ebook copy (your choice) of Dark Hero from me.  Just share your favorite romance book hero here. What's his name, what book was he in, and why does he appeal to you? I'm always looking for a hot, sexy alpha romance to enjoy. And don't forget to list your email so we can contact you if you are the winner.


Allow me to share with you my ideal alpha male hero. Donovan is a Gothic Hero with a serious brood factor (Think Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, but without the innate cruelty). He's a former pirate, a scientist and an actor who uses his wit--an important component--not just his brawn, to conquer the bad guy. Donovan is a survivor. He's a little bit damaged. He's a dark, brooding hero, having escaped France after being tortured for a crime he didn't commit. After escaping prison, he knocked about in the East Indies for a few years as a pirate.

 After Donovan is banished from Elizabeth's home by her nasty step-papa, he doesn't just skulk away and sulk. Nope, he dons a mask and plays the part of the disfigured, tortured Count Rochembeau, a refugee from the Terror in France. His scheme works because that's just what the stepfather wants--an evil, frightening bridegroom for Elizabeth (he's just wicked, that stepfather). Donovan is willing to do anything to claim girl he loves, using even deception when necessary. 

When Elizabeth is kidnapped, Donovan reverts back into pirate mode and hunts down the culprits who kidnapped his bride. It's not pretty when he captures their ship. No one is left alive. This is the brawny, tough guy part of the Alpha Male equation. And that's the part that gets the blood pumping in our veins as women, right?  There is the warrior element that makes us swoon and sigh.

Yeah, but . . . there is another side that must be present:  the tender, gentle, patient lover. Donovan is not a brute or a bully. He's been tortured. He's been in prison. He's been in a dark, ugly place where fear abounds. Therefore, he's able to help Elizabeth through her pain. He's able to bring her back from the dark side. He's been there, so he knows the way back. He's strong, tough, smart, and oh so tender!

Purchase links for Dark Hero:
Amazon.com
Barnes & Noble Nook
Smashwords for any digital format

Thanks for stopping by. Remember to leave a comment to be entered to win the grand prize and other prizes and then continue this wonderful blog hop by clicking any of the links below. Each author is featuring more ideas about Alpha Male Heroes, prizes and great books! Get ready to be swept away . . .

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Ghost Stories, what makes them Good?



October Churchyard by Lily Silver, 2006

      
What Makes a Compelling, Believable Ghost?
      With Halloween just around the corner, I wanted to talk about what makes a good ghost story.  As an author, creating ghosts is much harder than reading about them. 
      When writing Dark Hero, a Gothic Romance, I had think long and hard about how and why the ghosts would appear in the story in the first place, as well to try to create that chill factor we love in ghost stories.
I asked myself this, why stick around in a place for centuries when you could be off enjoying the after-life? I’d go to Paris, to the Louvre. I’d be off in a heartbeat if I was a ghost and able to travel anywhere I wanted to go with no physical boundaries. And yet, the main element of ghost stories is the ghost being tied to the person or to a specific place.
       Ah, now I had a clue. I can’t just throw random ghosts into a story to jack up the creepy factor and scintillate readers; we need to have reason for the haunting that fits into the plot of the book.
       So, I came up with a list of elements to help me construct a compelling, believable ghost:
1). Ghosts have feelings, and feelings compel us to act, rationally or irrationally.
I love the Supernatural TV Series. As Dean and Sam hunt ghosts, there are often some pretty angry haunters to contend with. An example is the female ghost in the show’s pilot who kept appearing to men along the deserted road. The men she appeared to were unfaithful to their mates, so after they picked her up she would kill them. She did this because she had been betrayed by her husband and being in an angry, irrational state, she killed herself. Thus, she became fixated on killing other men in the area near her home who are adulterers. Her feelings of pain and betrayal at death forced her to seek revenge--now that’s an emotionally driven ghost.
2). Ghosts want to contact the living. That is the bread and butter of the Ghost genre. If they’re off doing their own thing, like going to Paris to haunt the Louvre (my choice) then where’s the story? What’s the point?  It might be at the Louvre . . . but again, why would I be there instead of at home trying to contact my children and grandchildren?
3). Ghosts have to be motivated toward a goal. There has to be a reason why they are stuck where they are. That’s why they are so angry, sad or psychotic. They have intense feelings which cause them to act and they are motivated to complete a goal so they can find peace.
       To illustrate this, consider two of the ghosts in the Harry Potter movies. I love the headless ghost who keeps floating around Hogwartz cheerfully chatting with everyone, but it seems he serves no real purpose in the movie other than background flavoring. Moaning Mertle on the other hand, (the girl who haunts the bathroom) has intense feelings and a purpose to be in the story. She has knowledge that ultimately helps Harry and the gang. Once they talk to Mertle, she helps them solve their problem by giving clues that lead to the next step in their quest. 
       I have several ghosts in Dark Hero. Some are strangers to the heroine and others are family members. Regardless of their relationship to Elizabeth O’Flaherty, they all have a reason to be stuck with a haunting gig and a reason to want to contact to her. Elizabeth is a seer and is able to see and speak with the dead. Examining why the ghosts should be present in first place helped me to write a compelling ghost story and avoid using ghosts as wallpaper merely to spice up the story. 
      After sharing what I think makes a credible ghost, let’s open this up for discussion. Feel free to share your comments about what makes a worthy haunting in a story and what you like (or don’t like) in ghostly characters.
Leave a comment. It’s your turn--share a favorite ghostly character, what appealed to you or what didn’t?  

Free on Me! A Halloween Treat. I am currently working on the Sequel to Dark Hero; Bright Scoundrel. If you would like a free digital copy of Dark Hero, A Gothic Romance use coupon code YN23J at smashwords.com
Coupon is good now through Dec 1st. Limited to readers of this blog. Get your free copy and be ready to read the sequel, Bright Scoundrel, come December!   

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

A Gift to Readers: A Free Serialized Historical Romance!

Chapter Nine, Continued:
Zara was starting to panic. She tried to be compliant in his arms, but his determination to possess her was growing by the second. Don’t struggle, don’t fight him. She told herself silently and sternly. If she did wrestle too much, he’d awaken fully. She wanted him to go back to being sound asleep so she could admire him, like a wolf in the woods.
       You want him to take you to his bed. You want him to take you here, now, on the floor.
        She gasped, as reality came hurtling forward in her mind. Yes, she wanted this man, but not like this, not in a tangled dream as he kissed her and held her tight in his arms in a drunken stupor. If he was like most of the men in the camp, as she’d heard reported by the women about the fire, then being lost in a bottle of spirits would hinder his ability to couple with her sufficiently, even if he seemed most enthusiastic on that account presently. His hardened manhood was pressing against her belly, just below her navel, intruding, promising further conquest as his beastly tongue ravaged her mouth with wicked pleasure.
        The hand on her backside, squeezing her behind brought Zara up short. She wore only her billowy shift, with nothing beneath it to shield her skin from his warm, seeking grip.
        She gasped, and drew her lips away from him. His response was to hug her to him, still clutching her bottom in one hand whilst kissing her neck and holding her fast against him with his other hand at the small of her back. 
         How far should she let this go with the man? If she were in camp, they would expect her to seduce him and then the men in her family would claim a payment was due from the Gadje the next day to compensation them for the loss of her innocence. It was a trick played on the greedy, lusting Gadje men who visited the camps and indulged in too much spirits and then were seduced by the dancer, a ploy to elicit guilt and payment for a fake deflolike Mama.          Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
         Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
         And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
         St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
         They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
         Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
         Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
         Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
        No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him?  As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did wering. Zara was no maid, and she wasn’t in camp. She was alone. A woman alone.  If he impregnated her, she would surely suffer in the coming months, as she had no income and no protector. She’d be just like Mama.          Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
         Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
         And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
         St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
         They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
         Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
         Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
         Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
        No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him?  As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did hear him fall and the floor shake in response.        Zara moved quickly to the window and entered the secret passage. She closed the panel just as she heard the door to hall open.
                                                        *   *   *   *   *
       Brisbane hurried to his master’s side, concerned to find him unconscious in the middle of the floor. He sniffed the air, confused by the lingering scent of rosemary amid the more manly smells of hard liquor, sweat and polished leather.
       “My lord?” Brisbane leaned low over his charge and examined him. The master’s skin was hot to the touch, a harbinger of the change that was about to come. There was no hope for it. He must get the man undressed, quickly, before his body began the transformation and yet another pair of fine dress clothes were ruined by the transmutation.
       “Stay with me, sweet spirit . . . I promise not to harm you.”
       “Aye, sir.” Brisbane lifted his master’s head and pulled the shirt over it. He set the delirious man down gently as he worked to pull the hands from the sleeves. Even now, the fingertips were lengthening and changing into sharp gray claws. St. John spat, and coughed and began to writhe as the curse grew more powerful within his mortal flesh.
        The liquor didn’t help, nor did the administration of laudanum. He told his master, yet the man continued to try to douse his sorrows in the fiery potions. The sedative only hastened the master’s change. It might make him feel less pain and grief at his wife’s murder, yet, it also made it easier for the beast to emerge. Without St. John’s will to hold it back, the creature could win the battle within them as St. John’s rational mind succumbed to the drug’s power.

        Snarling echoed in the chamber. Brisbane unfastened the placket of his master’s pants and pushed the fabric over his shifting, rippling bones. The pain of such a horrible transformation could not be imagined. No one could bear it without going a little insane, he thought as he moved to his master’s feet and tugged off first one boot and then the other one.
        St. John gurgled, and the beast within him growled and snarled.
        Brisbane, from long practice, recognized the danger and stepped back. He watched his tormented employer writhe and arch as the shifting muscles and bones fairly tore the man asunder. Crushed the man and pushed all remnants of humanity within as the beast emerged from his tormented soul.  Brisbane hurried to the door and opened it, allowing the creature its freedom to roam the halls. He would follow the wolf-creature and let it out the nearest door once they reached the first floor. The beast always wanted to run free, unhindered beneath the shimmering stars.
        Human skin was quickly disappearing as the rippling, shifting into the creature overpowered St. John’s will. Ach, he should not have imbibed so heavily in spirits tonight, Brisbane thought. Once his will was vanquished, his primal nature took over.
        St. John was no longer human. Brisbane backed away from the display of sharp incisors that had grown long and sharp. His heart rose in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. This was new, this hostility toward him. The wolf usually recognized him and ignored him, much as the master would in his human form. This time, the wolf was agitated by his presence, snarling and growling low as if to warn him away from a fresh kill.
        Brisbane was no fool. He edged carefully toward the door and nodded to his master.
       The wolf turned in a circle, his ruff raised and his fangs prominent. As Brisbane reached the door, the animal gave one last warning lurch, growling and snarling at him as if to toss a few last threats at him in his retreat. This was not like the master at all. He never threatened Brisbane before. What new circumstance had brought the hackles out in the beast?
        St. John’s deep russet coat of fur shimmered in the low firelight as the beast’s attention was drawn to other things. The long muzzle was pinned to the ground as he paddled anxiously to the window and then began scratching at the wood paneling and growling low in his throat.
 Copyright Lily Silver, 2012 

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