Hi, folks. The ninth book of my Mageverse novel will be out August 7, 2012. So I thought I'd give you a sample of the first chapter.

Chapter One

William Justice arched against the mattress like a man being tortured on a rack, his hips rolling upward as he braced his big feet on the bed. Breathing in pumping pants, he ground his head back into the pillow and growled. The low rumble didn’t sound human.

An erection curved high over his taut abdomen, hard as a blade, flushed dark and thick with need. A single bead of pre-come clung to the curving tip of his velvet glans. He sucked in a deeper breath, making the long shaft dance. The drop broke free, hit his belly, and rolled into his navel.

Dropping his hips to the bed, he went still, dark lashes fanning his cheeks as his eyes flicked behind his closed lids, tracking the dream that tormented him.

One big hand fell into the sheets, curled into a fist around a handful of twisted cotton, and gripped hard. A bead of sweat rolled down the thick curve of his biceps, drawing a shining trail as it worked its way along the contours of muscle.

As always, he dreamed of Miranda Drake. Miranda, with eyes the vivid gold of sunlight-shot amber, and a mane of hair as red as fox fur. Her breasts looked intriguingly full beneath the soft cotton T-shirts she favored, usually with some snarky phrase scrawled across the front. Snug blue jeans drew attention to her long runner’s legs and delightfully curvy ass.

Justice had never seen her naked anywhere except his dreams. These days, that was damned near every time he fell asleep. Sometimes he dreamed her nipples were the color of peaches on the sweet cream curves of her breasts, or candy pink, or soft, dusky rose. But in every single dream, her scent intoxicated him with its rich, erotic promise as she reached for him with a wicked, witchy smile.

Never mind that the real Miranda treated him with a cool, distant professionalism that made it plain he was her bodyguard. And that was all.

All he was. All he’d ever be.

“Dammit, Miranda.” Lips peeling off his teeth, Justice growled, the sound deepening to become a bestial rumble. “Miranda!”

Magic flashed. Blazing sparks engulfed him in azure energy. The glowing outline of Justice’s big body grew even bigger, muscles bulging thicker, swelling along lengthening bones. Fingernails curved into claws, shredding the sheet he still gripped. A silken tide of sable fur raced across his body, thickening over chest and groin just as his short hair lengthened into a thick, black mane that extended halfway down his back.

Justice woke with a jerk, pointed ears flattening against his skull. “Fuck,” he growled through the sharp teeth filling his long muzzle. With a disgusted growl, he rolled out of the king bed that was now too short for him, leaving behind shredded navy sheets.

Third time this week he’d wrecked the bed. That damned witch was driving him insane.

Justice stalked on clawed toes to the stained glass window, jerked the latch up, and swung the window wide. Fall air gusted into his face, cool and damp with the woody smell of decaying leaves. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was early afternoon. They’d started keeping Magekind hours, he and Miranda, sleeping during the day and going on missions at night.

You did that when you worked with vampires.

Bracing his hands on the window frame, he stared out across the elegant cityscape of castles, chateaus, and villas that surrounded Miranda’s cottage. Towering walls of marble and granite shone in the afternoon sun, surrounded by trees gone orange and gold with autumn. Topiary knights and ladies danced and jousted between the gilded oaks, swaying in the afternoon breeze.

Avalon.

An enchanted city built by witches on a world that was the other-dimensional twin to Earth, Avalon inhabited a universe where magic was a natural force, like magnetism or gravity. You could use that power to build a house—or turn into a werewolf.

Two months ago, Justice had agreed to serve as the bodyguard Miranda desperately needed. Her father had sworn to kill her, and he was more than capable of carrying out the threat. Even King Arthur and his vampire Knights of the Round Table weren’t enough protection.

Not against Warlock, immortal wizard, werewolf, and all-around son-of-a-bitch.

Justice wasn’t sure he was good enough protection either, especially given this damned sexual obsession he’d developed. Bodyguards did not become obsessed with the bodies they guarded. Not and keep their clients alive.

Yeah, that did it. Looking down, Justice saw that the thought of Miranda in danger had indeed killed his hard-on. He swung the window closed, turned to brace his back against the cool wall, and tried not to remember the dream.

So of course he remembered it anyway. Miranda, naked on her knees, offering him the smooth, perfect peach of her ass. Her witchy eyes shimmered as she smiled at him over one slim, pale shoulder. Her oval face reminded him of an Art Decco goddess, with its delicate strength and long Roman nose. Dusky rose lips curved in a white and wicked smile, seductive as Eve’s. Her gleaming hair cascaded around her shoulders in a thousand shades, from fox-fur to antique gold, and her round, pretty tits danced as she moved. Her pink nipples seemed to beg for the swirl of his tongue and the rake of his teeth. Her slick sex pouted at him from the soft, fiery curls between her spread thighs. Ready for his aching cock . . .

Which promptly stirred and began to rise again, unfurling with the hot flood of arousal through his veins.

“You’re killing me,” Justice told the dream, raking both hands through his thick werewolf mane in pure frustration.

Dammit, it wasn’t as if she were in her Burning Moon. The Dire Wolf equivalent of heat struck fertile werewolf females once a year. During that month, their bodies produced clouds of pheromones that drove every male around insane with need. Justice’s obsession would be understandable if he’d spent weeks drinking that seductive scent. Only Miranda wasn’t in her Moon. The crazed heat he felt was purely his own creation. Meanwhile, she treated him with the unwavering good manners of a lady of the Chosen, a werewolf aristocrat who could trace her lineage back fifteen centuries. God knew what had inspired the erotic nymph of his dreams. It certainly had nothing to do with reality.

Dammit, he shouldn’t even be thinking about this. If he didn’t stay on his clawed toes, she didn’t have a prayer against Warlock.

Protecting people was what Justice did. It was what he was. Even becoming a werewolf hadn’t changed that. He damned well wouldn’t let it.

I am not going to let Miranda’s luscious peach ass distract me from keeping her alive.

***

Miranda Drake dreamed of her mother’s death.

On some level, she knew it was a dream; she’d had this particular nightmare so many times, even her unconscious mind recognized it. Yet repetition hadn’t blunted its power to suck her into horror.

She screamed at herself not to open the door, but the dream Miranda did it anyway. Just as on that night three months ago, Gerald Drake stood on the other side—seven and a half feet of enraged, fully transformed werewolf. Snarling, her stepfather stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Miranda backed away, her heart in her throat. He’d been beating her and her mother ever since she could remember. She knew this one was going to be bad.

“You utter fool!” Baring the knife length of his fangs, Gerald backhanded her before she could block the blow. She slammed into the wall with a crash that rattled the foyer paintings as she fell flat on her ass. “You betrayed your people.” His voice rose to a roar. “You betrayed your god!”

Miranda shook her ringing head as she fought to scramble to her feet. She had to get away before he hit her again.

“Gerald, wait!” Joelle Drake darted between them, raising her hands in supplication. “Miranda has done nothing to betray anyone, much less Warlock!”

He seemed to swell in his rage, towering over the fragile figure of his wife. “Don’t you dare lie to me, you stupid cunt! Calista Norman called—she told me all about what you did. How could you let Miranda anywhere near a Knight of the Round Table? You knew she’d talk!”

Calista, you bitch, Miranda thought, steadying herself against the wall as the room rotated slowly around her. Stars flashed in her vision. He’d given her a concussion.

Again.

“We had no idea the knight would be there.” Joelle spoke in a desperate rush, trying to get through to him before he killed them both. “The ladies were holding a Grieving for Joan Devon, and . . .”

“Joan Devon!” Gerald mocked her in a high, singsong voice. “Why do you think Joan’s husband is dead, moron? She gave him up to the knights! Just like she”—he pointed a curving talon at Miranda— “gave up Warlock!”

“No, no, you’re wrong!” Joelle wrung her hands and darted a frantic glance at Miranda. “She told them nothing. Did you, darling?”

“Not a damn thing.” Miranda forced herself to meet her stepfather’s furious yellow gaze without flinching. “The woman tried to give me a communication spell, but Mother knocked it out of my hand and told her to stay away from me. So we left.”

Gerald’s long muzzle twitched, drawing in her scent.

Oh, shit, Miranda thought. I should have talked around it. He’ll know I’m going to contact . . .

“You lie!” He sprang at her, knocking Joelle aside with a sweep of one furry arm. Miranda skittered back, calling her magic as she retreated from his snapping jaws. The Shift raced over her body in a wave of fur as muscle and bone contorted like soft clay in the grip of her power.

“You dare change?” As she met his frenzied gaze, she realized he’d lost control completely. Gerald intended to kill her this time. “You dare fight me? You dare?”

Fear iced her veins, but she made herself sneer. She was tired of cowering before the bastard Warlock had appointed her guardian. “Oh, I dare. And if I get a chance to talk to Belle again, I’m going to tell her everything.”

“Then I’ll have to see you don’t get that chance, you traitorous bitch!” He drew back a clawed hand, obviously intending to rip out her throat.

Joelle threw herself between her daughter and the blow. “Ger—”

His claws ripped into Joelle’s face before she could get the rest of the word out of her mouth. She flew sideways, her body slamming into the base of the stairs with a crash. Something snapped with a crack that seemed to echo in Miranda’s skull. “Mother!” Forgetting her stepfather, she crossed the room in one leap, landing beside her mother in a coiling crouch. It was even worse than she’d feared. Joelle’s head lay at an impossible angle, the life draining from her eyes.

Oh, God. I finally got my mother killed, Miranda thought numbly. She started to snatch Joelle into her arms, only to hesitate, afraid she’d somehow hurt her mother even worse. “Call 911!”

“It’s too late.” Gerald sounded utterly indifferent. It was no pose, either; he really didn’t give a damn. “She broke her neck. She’s dead.” He bared his teeth, stalking toward Miranda on clawed feet. Grabbing a fistful of her mane, he hauled her away from Joelle’s body as he drew back for another open-handed swipe of his claws. “And I’m not done with you.”

He didn’t notice the short sword his stepdaughter conjured into the hand held down by her side. He damned well did notice when she rammed it into his chest.

Miranda’s lips peeled off her teeth. “Well, I’m done with you!”

“Miranda?” The female voice breathed into her mind.

She jerked the blade out of Gerald’s chest, and her stepfather fell onto his knees, gagging in agony. Emotionless as an executioner, Miranda took his head with one swing of her sword.

“Miranda?” The voice called again.

He won’t be healing that, she thought.

Miranda jolted awake, sweating, her body trembling in waves. She sat up and buried her head in her hands as tears rolled hot and fat down her cheeks.

“Miranda? Dammit, girl, answer your cell! We need you now!”

Jolted from her misery, she looked up. She’d thought the feminine voice was some new wrinkle in that god-awful dream, but now she realized it was Belle, using magic to touch her mind.

Miranda grabbed for the enchanted cell phone on the cherry nightstand. Reaching into another witch’s consciousness took a hell of a lot of power, especially when one witch was on Mortal Earth and the other was in the Mageverse city of Avalon. It was much more efficient to use a cell spelled for inter-dimensional communication. “Belle? I’m here.”

“Finally,” her friend said, sounding relieved. “I need you and Justice. Now.”

A minute and a half later, Miranda strode down the hall to Justice’s door. He was already up; she could hear him pacing. Must be in wolf form, she thought, listening to the click of claws on the bedroom’s hardwood floor.

Breathing in, Miranda caught the seductive male scent of an aroused Alpha Dire wolf. And remembered his size, his strength, the tempting power of his hard warrior’s body.

Which was exactly why she needed to stay the hell away from him, no matter how sexy he was. The very last thing she needed in her life was another Alpha werewolf. Just look what happened to Mom, she told the nipples that stood in tight peaks behind the lace of her bra. Besides, Belle needs us. It was night in Pakistan, and Dad’s pet monsters had come out to play.

Miranda gave the door a businesslike rap of her knuckles. “Justice?”

After an instant of startled silence, he laughed. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t even know you were out there. Some bodyguard, huh?”

Actually, he was a pretty damned good bodyguard. He’d killed the werewolf assassins that had jumped them in Paris last month, along with the other assorted killers before and after that. She’d be dead a dozen times over if not for Justice.

Miranda cleared her throat. “Belle just called me. She needs us. Apparently the Knights of the Round Table got in a fight with some monster Warlock dreamed up.”

“But it’s still daylight.” Being vampires, the knights slept during the day.

“Not in Pakistan.”

“What the hell is going on in Pakistan?”

“One of the witches is dying. Belle said she’s trying to hold on long enough to tell us about a vision she’s had about us. I gather it’s pretty damned important.”

“She had a vision about us? Crap. Why?”

“Don’t know, but we’d better haul ass. And Belle says we need full armor, so I’ve got to conjure yours.” Miranda already wore her own suit of interlocking plate. The bulletproof steel was engraved with spells that made it feel as weightless as silk, though it could protect against damn near any impact and most magical blasts. A silhouette of a dragon’s head was enameled in red across the breastplate. Arthur Pendragon had ordered Miranda and Justice to wear his personal heraldic symbol as protection against friendly fire. Magekind warriors had a tendency to think any werewolf was the enemy. All too often, they were right.

“Give me a minute,” Justice said through the door. “I’ve got to change.”

Miranda felt the explosion of magic as he Shifted. Clothing rustled, then the door swung wide.

Oh, my.

Working to keep her expression cool, she took in Justice’s broad, bare chest, faded jeans, and big bare feet. The way he held the door open made his biceps bunch until they looked the size of grapefruit. Sparks of werewolf magic still flickered in his black eyes, a remnant of his transformation.

Miranda liked to tell herself that William Justice had a thug’s face, between his broad cheekbones, square jaw, and aggressive nose. Thick black brows slashed over deep-set ebony eyes. Cop’s eyes, watchful, assessing, maybe even a little paranoid.

She could resist all that. Really. She’d be just fine if it weren’t for his mouth. Wide, curled in a wicked grin more often than not, with a full lower lip she really wanted to bite. Just hard enough to make those obsidian eyes go all hot.

Then she’d run her hands down the powerful lines of his chest, exploring every thick contour, tracing her fingers through the soft curls that covered that chest, following the tempting line of sable hair that dove behind his zipper, pointing the way to . . .

Alpha werewolf, Miranda reminded herself sternly, jerking her eyes away.

“Uh, Miranda?” he asked in that velvet rumble of his.

Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to meet Justice’s night-dark gaze without letting her eyes drift downward. She was not going to follow that maddening line of hair . . . “Yeah?”

“I need that armor. You did say we’ve got to hurry.”

“Oh. Uh, right.” Reaching for the energy of the Mageverse roiling invisibly around them, Miranda concentrated and began to spin magic into steel.

Seconds later, Justice’s jeans had been replaced by armor that matched her own. Somehow all that ornate gleaming metal only emphasized his strength, drawing attention to the elegant V of his torso as it swept down to narrow hips and long runner’s legs.

There was nothing muscle-bound about him; he fought with speed and agility, as ruthless and loyal in her defense as the wolf he was. If he were human, I’d be in love with him by now. She instantly banished the thought, afraid it would show on her face.

Luckily, Justice didn’t notice her preoccupation. He was too intent on the sword she’d conjured for him, a length of steel designed for magical combat, its enchanted edge as sharp as a straight razor.

Eying the weapon’s broad blade, Justice swung it with a skillful rotation of his wrist, testing its weight and balance. He gave her a brisk, approving nod through the open visor of his helm. “This looks good. Let’s gate.”

“Miranda?” Belle’s communication spell reverberated in her mind. “Daliya won’t last much longer. If you don’t get here in the next five minutes . . .”

“We’re on the way.” Miranda shot a laser-thin stream of magic into the air. The point flared blue and bright, expanding as she fed it more power, until it became a rippling opening in the air. The magical portal cut across the dimensions to Mortal Earth—the home of six billion humans with no idea thirty thousand werewolves lived among them.

Justice led the way through the gate, wary and protective as always. Miranda drew her own sword and stepped after him. At least with his delightful ass covered in steel, she was less likely to drool at it.

He stopped so suddenly on the other side of the gate, she had to sidestep to avoid running him through. “Dammit, Justice, what the . . .” Then she got a good look at what had stopped him in his tracks.

The blasted ruins of a city square lay before them, buildings blazing against the night sky. Tumbled bricks lay in piles between chunks of broken cement spiked with rebar, as blackened wooden beams jutted like the fingers of charred skeletons.

Magekind agents moved fearlessly among the burning wreckage. Witches cast spells to snuff the flames as vampires dug survivors free of the rubble, then handed them off to healers for treatment of their injuries.

“Jesus, Dad has been busy.” Miranda’s feet were planted in something sticky. Flipping her helm’s visor up, she glanced down to discover she stood in a puddle of drying blood. Grimacing, she stepped out of it and sent out a mental call. “Belle?”

“Behind you,” the witch called.

Turning, she and Justice found they’d gated into the mouth of a filthy alley. Belle and Tristan knelt on the trash-littered ground, a woman in armor lying between them. Moving closer, Miranda realized the witch was curled protectively around a man’s decapitated head, one hand stroking its bloody cheek. Her despairing grief was so intense, it filled Miranda’s Direkind nose with the scent of sweetness gone acrid, like burning roses.

Miranda hurried toward them, armored boots sending gravel bouncing across the alley. Justice followed more slowly, checking the alley for whatever had felled the woman and her lover.

The dying witch lifted her head at their approach. Her eyes met Miranda’s, glazed with suffering and approaching death. Had she been a victim of a werewolf bite? Miranda sheathed her sword and dropped to her knees beside Belle.

Justice moved to hover protectively over them, eyes scanning from one end of the alley to the other. Nothing would sneak up on them with him on guard. Miranda could concentrate on the victim. Sending a wave of magic rolling over the woman, she searched for lethal punctures. The magic in werewolf bites sent Magekind victims into fatal anaphylactic shock; only Miranda’s Direkind healing spells could save them. But since she couldn’t be everywhere at once, she’d concocted a vaccine a couple of weeks ago and administered it to every fighter in Avalon.

Frowning, Miranda glanced at Belle. The blond witch’s pretty face looked soot-smeared and exhausted in the frame of her open visor, and she smelled of blood, smoke, and grief. “What happened? I thought I vaccinated everybody. Did it wear off?”

Without answering, Belle bent closer to the fallen woman. “They’re here, Daliya. You can tell them what you saw.”

“Good . . . Good.” The Maja lifted a shaking gauntleted hand.

Miranda took it automatically. “Are you bitten anywhere? My magic . . .”

“You cannot heal what kills me.” The woman sucked in a rattling breath, obviously struggling for strength. They’d taken off her helmet, exposing lovely Pakistani features and huge dark eyes. Her black hair pooled around her head in a lake of ebony silk that gleamed in the firelight. “And I don’t . . . want you to.” She stopped to pant.

“That’s her husband,” Tristan explained gruffly, nodding to the head. “They were Truebonded.”

Miranda grimaced, understanding at last. The Truebond psychic link was pulling the Maja into death after her mate. Actually, it was surprising she was still alive at all. Truebonded couples usually died within minutes of each other.

“Daliya fought to survive long enough to see you,” Belle explained, a rasp to her normally musical French accent, as if she’d breathed in too much smoke -- or fought back tears. “She’s had a vision involving you and Justice, and she says she has to tell you about it.”

“Wolf.” The dying Maja lifted her free hand toward Justice as if it took all her strength. “Wolf, I must speak . . . to you, too.”

He hesitated, obviously surprised, then sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees to take the witch’s hand.

The moment he touched her, light exploded in the depths of Daliya’s black pupils. Feeble fingers clamped around Miranda’s so hard, she almost yelped in surprise.

The witch began to chant in a feverish cadence, her musical voice much louder than it should be, as if an alien power had taken over her dying vocal chords. “Listen! Seek the Mother of Fairies as she folds enchanted steel into blades she fills with the souls of lost gods.”

Daliya’s black eyes flicked from Miranda’s face to Justice’s, magic sparking in her pupils like fireworks. “She waits in her forge for the hero wolf to come for Merlin’s Blade. Then will the Hunter Prince be free—then will he rule in bloody vengeance or bend his knee to his spirit’s feral king.”

Her fingers tightened on Miranda’s until the steel of both their gauntlets creaked under the strain. “It will take the daughter of evil and a master of darkness to lead the night world into the light. If they do fail, humanity will drown in blood under the white wolf’s heel, and the crows will feast.”

The Maja fell silent, panting as if she’d run a marathon, her last desperate strength visibly draining like water from a broken pitcher. Her dark eyes began to cloud in death. “Find the Mother at her forge, or Avalon . . . dies. Warlock will kill the . . . world. Magekind. Humans. Direkind. All will feed the ravens. All will die.”

Her gaze slid away from Miranda’s to seek her husband’s head. She released Miranda’s hand to touch pale, bloody lips with fingers that shook. “Wait for me, Kadir. Now I come.” Daliya’s lips twitched as if to smile, despite the tear that rolled down one dark cheek. “Yes, yes . . . I’m always . . . late.”

Her hand dropped to the pavement as her magic swirled away with her life, escaping back to its source in the Mageverse.

As I said, the book will be out August 7. If you'd like to preorder it from Amazon, you'll find it here: http://www.amazon.com/Master-Darkness-Angela-Knight/dp/0425247937/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1340025453&sr=8-3&keywords=angela+knight

At Barnes and Noble, the link is:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/master-of-darkness-angela-knight/1104878538?ean=9780425247938

The first chapter of my new book, Enforcer

If you haven't seen much of me lately, it's because I'm hard at work on my new novella, "Enforcer," which will be published in March by Berkley.

Enforcer is the long-awaited climax of the TIME HUNTERS series that so many of you have been demanding. I hope you find it worth the wait. In the meantime, I'd like to share the following chapter, just to give you a little taste of my futuristic world.

Enforcer

Chapter One

The one thing Dona had always hated about time travel was the smell. All those romantic temporal trids never mentioned the reek of horse manure and non-existent sanitation. But after three years as a Temporal Enforcer, Dona barely noticed the stench anymore.

This odor was an order of magnitude worse, a nauseating sensory assault blended with an overlay of human waste and the copper reek of blood. It seemed to coat the back of her throat until every breath, every swallow made her stomach roil.

Decomp was a smell you never got used to, no matter how many murders you worked.

Some of the bodies had spent hours ripening in the July heat of this dark, silent house before a courier ‘bot had arrived at the North American Temporal Outpost. The ‘bot’s report of a tour group under attack had every available agent scrambling.

Two and a half minutes after the ‘bot left eighteenth century Philadelphia, a team of ten Enforcers Jumped into the house’s parlor, weapons drawn. The smell told them they were too late.

It was soon obvious no frantic temporal tourist had sent the courier. Every one of the poor bastards was already dead when it made its initial Jump through time.

The killers themselves had sent the ‘bot. The question, of course, was why.

Now reasonably sure she had her rebellious stomach under control, Dona stepped through the open bedroom door. Her Enforcer’s gaze automatically tracked the arching patterns of blood-splatter across the wall to her left. The small oval rug felt sticky under her booted feet, saturated with drying blood.

She scanned the room warily. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to see, since there was barely enough space for the oak four-poster bed canopied in rose-patterned fabric, an armoire, and a wash stand. A china pitcher stood beside a matching washbowl on the stand, both painted with a delicate pattern of twining red roses that matched the canopy.

Beyond the bed’s canopy curtains lay a still lump so covered with dried blood, it appeared to have been dipped in brown paint.

Scan and identify victim, Dona ordered her internal computer.

She was perfectly suited to this kind of computer forensics. A nanocrystal computer wound through her brain, its artificial synapses linked to her neurons. More nanocrystal formed a lacy network of sensors just beneath her skin, designed to detect everything from DNA structure to the presence of tachyon weaponry. Deep within her bones and muscles lay still more nanobot filaments, making her far stronger than her long, lean build would suggest. All of which made her ideally suited for her job as a Temporal Enforcer.

DNA scan confirms there is a ninety-eight-point-five percent chance the victim in Lolai Hardin, the comp announced a moment later in its light, androgynous voice.

Dona muttered, “Yeah, that’s what I figured you’d say.”

Lolai had been the licensed temporal guide who owned Hardin's Independence Tours; this house was her Philadelphia base of operations. She’d been playing host to a group of tourists here to watch the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Until a gang of murderers gave them all a guided tour of hell.

Since the Enforcers had already determined Lolai wasn’t one of the victims downstairs, odds were she was this one.

But you couldn’t make assumptions. Not with these bastards; they were fully capable of killing a temporal native and putting her in Lolai’s bed. Though it was hard to imagine that dark lump had ever been human...

Play the file of Lolai's commercial trid again. Sometimes looking into the victim's face helped Dona see her as a human being. Helped her see evidence that wouldn't come into focus as long as she kept seeing the victim as a chunk of meat.

The comp made that little mental chirp that said it was acting on her last order. An instant later, the woman's three-dimensional image faded into view like a ghost.

The trid appeared perfectly solid, though Lolai seemed to be standing hip-deep in the bed, roughly where the corpse’s legs should be. There was a bit of nauseating irony Dona could have done without.

The temporal guide had been delicately beautiful, despite the fine lines that radiated from the corner of her blue eyes. According to her dossier, she was eighty-two, though someone from this time would have believed her no older than twenty.

Hardin wore an eighteenth-century walking dress in deep green silk, with a delicate lace apron and a matching kerchief tucked in the gown's low square neckline. A jaunty hat decorated with flowers tilted rakishly over one eye. She looked as comfortable in the historical garb as if she wore it every day.

Which she probably did. When not ferrying tour groups back and forth through time, most guides lived wherever they conducted their tours. It helped them blend in with the temporal natives and build relationships they could use to create more interesting historical trips for their clients.

"I’m Lolai Hardin,” Hardin said in Galactic Standard with a faint Colonial Philadelphia accent. “I have thirty-four years of experience as a temporal guide specializing in Colonial America, particularly Philadelphia, Boston, and New York. Before that, I was a guide in Civil War Charleston, South Carolina.” Hardin’s smile was bright, her manner calm and confident. Dona tried not to wonder how she’d looked when she’d realized she was about to die. Had she sensed the horror her last hours would be? “If you'd like to experience life as our ancestors did, Hardin's Independence Tours will give you a taste of the past you'll never forget."

"I certainly won’t be forgetting this any time soon -- whether I like it or not," Dona muttered. She’d be having nightmares about this one.

She desperately wanted a bath.

"Goddess Mother, this is worse than the butchery downstairs," Chief Alerio Dyami rumbled as he strode into the room. Dona's far-too vulnerable heart leaped in reaction, though she managed to keep the pleasure off her face.

You weren't supposed to be that damned happy to see your commanding officer walk in.

He was a big man, tall and broad in his dark blue temporal jump armor. A Vardonese tattoo swirled down the left side of his face in vivid shades of green and gold, emphasizing the angular strength of his features. As he scanned Lolai’s pitiful corpse, glacial rage burned in those dark pupils, flecking them with crimson light.

Dyami wasn’t just Chief Temporal Enforcer for the North America Temporal Outpost -- he was a Vardonese Warlord. A genetically engineered warrior born and bred to protect civilians, Dyami had the superhuman strength and speed to do the job. His eyes glowed whenever his emotions grew especially strong, probably as a warning to the unwary. Everyone assigned to the Outpost soon learned that when the chief’s eyes went red, you’d better duck.

“Fourteen people dead,” he growled, looming at her shoulder, eyes blazing like laser sights. “And there’s not a single fucking thing we can do about it. Sometimes it drives me insane. God, I'd love to go back in time and just slaughter those bastards. Except it wouldn't do any fucking good because...”

“...You can’t change history,” Dona echoed his snarl.

Lolai would die because she had died. Somewhere she was still dying. Thirty years of time travel had proved that all time is simultaneous. Past, present and future were an illusion, which made the concepts of predestination and time paradoxes equally meaningless.

“So we’ll just damned well make sure we catch the bastards before they kill anyone else.” A muscle jerked in his broad, square jaw.

Dona rocked back on one booted heel. “With Lolai, that makes all fourteen victims accounted for. Hardin, the ten tourists downstairs -- one of whom is a fourteen-year-old boy -- and the three support staff who posed as Hardin's house servants."

The chief grunted, his brooding gaze drifting to what was left of the tour guide. "At least the bastards didn't kidnap anybody."

“No, you definitely wouldn’t want to be a victim they could take their time with.” Dona grimaced. “It was bad enough as it is.”

The woman's wrists were bound to the canopy posts with mag cables. Loops of the metallic rope-like restraints circled the posts at the foot of the bed, but the ankles they'd bound had vanished.

Dona's comp helpfully informed her that Hardin’s right leg was that red lump under the bed, while the left one had somehow ended up beside the washstand. She swallowed hard and told her comp, Do not let me toss in front of the Chief.

Beginning anti-nausea treatment. Her stomach stopped bucking. “You think the killers were priests?”

He shrugged. "Hard to say, though they were definitely Xeran, based on the DNA scans." Several of them had gang-raped one of the staff and a female tourist, leaving plenty of DNA behind in the process. They hadn’t even bothered to destroy the genetic evidence, as if they’d wanted the Enforcers to know who they were.

Dona didn’t much care for the implications. "This isn't normal behavior even for Xerans. I had my comp run a simulation based on the scene downstairs. The comp says the killers hacked at those people in some kind of frenzy. Maybe religious, maybe sexual. Either way, it was ugly.”

He nodded, only to stiffen abruptly, his head whipping around toward the form on the bed. "Seven hells!"

"What?" Her hand dropped to the shard pistol on her hip. He'd gone so pale, his facial tatt looked almost gaudy against his pallor.

What the hell could be bad enough to make Alerio Dyami go white?

"I just had my comp run a DNA scan on this woman's rapist. It says he was human.” He actually looked sick, an expression that looked utterly alien on a man who was usually so coolly professional.

Dona stared at him, feeling her stomach drop to her boots as she instantly realized why he'd reacted so strongly.

Technically the Xerans were human, being descended from the human colonists of Xer. But over the past couple of centuries, genetic engineering had changed them into something…else. Something faster and stronger and light-years meaner.

To the Xerans, humans were inferior primitives, heretics who refused to worship their "god," a lunatic they called the Victor. Dona could think of only one human they’d trust to help them slaughter a houseful of human civilians. “Ivar Terje.”

“Yeah, Ivar. Again.” The chief curled a lip. “I told my comp to rerun the scan. It got the same results. There's a ninety-nine-point-eight percent chance Terje raped and murdered Lolai Hardin.”

“Gods.” Dona’s eyes slid back to the dismembered torso. “How could he have done something like this?” And why in the name of all the hells didn’t I know he was capable of it? "I slept with him. Oh, Gods...."

"I didn't know what he was either.” Dyami shook his head, the beads of his combat decorations clicking among his long black braids. “I still can’t believe he sold us out for a handful of galactors."

Well, it was hardly a handful. The chief’s own investigation of Ivar’s finances had determined the Xerans paid him 1.3 million galactors. But Dyami wasn't the kind of man to turn traitor for any amount of money.

Ironically, it was that bedrock honor that had made Dona turn to Ivar to begin with. If Dyami hadn't been so relentlessly honorable--not to mention inhumanly handsome in that Vardonese way of his, all height and muscle and hard black eyes--she wouldn't have felt driven to seek a lover in self-defense. She’d known Alerio was every bit as attracted to her as she was to him. If he’d made a concentrated attempt to seduce her, she’d never be able to resist. And she was damned if she’d get involved with another CO.

So instead she’d become lover to a traitor and a murderer.

Oh, beefershit, Dona thought, suddenly impatient with herself. I wanted to believe I was in love with the sociopathic bastard because he knew just how to play me. I was willfully stupid.

Her sensors had warned her Ivar used his comp almost continuously, controlling his body's normal emotional reactions at all times. If he'd been a suspect, she'd have recognized that elaborate control as an indication he was lying every time he opened his mouth. But because he was her partner – and her shield against the temptation Alerio posed --she'd ignored the warning signs.

She hadn't seen the truth until his fist hit her face.

Her gaze slid back to his victim. And apparently I got off lucky. The thought of what he’d done to Lolai tied her guts in rolling acidic knots.

"Would these people be dead if we'd managed to capture Ivar six months ago?" She caught herself rubbing her belly. With an effort, she forced her hand to drop.

Dyami snorted. "I hate to interrupt your wallow in guilt, but Ivar is nothing to the Xerans." Despite his tart words, there was sympathy in his dark gaze. "They don't think much of traitors. These poor bastards would be dead whether or not they’d let the fucker come along for the ride."

"I'm not very fond of the dickhole myself," Dona muttered.

Dyami suddenly lifted his head and half turned away. Probably listening to a private com message. The dim light from the evidence bot rolled over the dark blue scales of his armored T-suit, making its silver piping gleam. Her eyes helplessly followed the rolling line of light as it played over powerful muscle barely concealed by the tight-fitting suit.

"Dr. Chogan just commed me. They’ve completed the evidence collection. Let’s take care of this poor fem and Jump for home." Turning his head, he caught her staring at his ass. One black brow rose.

If not for her computer, her cheeks would be blazing beet red. "Uh, yes sir."

"Good." He gave her a decisive nod, beads clinking. "We need to finish the cleanup before one of the temporals decides to investigate."

No, they definitely didn't want some eighteenth century good Samaritan walking in on an Enforcer team in all its armored glory. "I checked before we left the Outpost, but I didn't see any record of a mass slaying on this date,” Dona told him. “If somebody’d found this mess, they’d have talked about it.”

Dyami snorted. "Assuming any reports survived the ensuing five hundred years."

That was the trouble with time travel. You might think you knew what happened, but you really didn't. Records were lost, to fire or mold or other ravages of time. Those who reported the events at the time could have lied to protect their reputations, to make a political point, or just for the hell of it. Ever since temporal exploration began thirty years ago, humanity had been shocked to learn how much "history" was pure beefershit.

You never really knew what had happened during historical events until you went back and watched them occur. Otherwise, the past might as well be the surface of an alien planet.

"Make way. Body tube coming in." The stasis cylinder floated through the door, the blue glow of its antigrav field lighting up the room. Dr. Sakuri Chogan followed, her face grim and pale under her topknot of iridescent green hair. A swarm of evidence bots trailed her, ready to process the scene.

Chogan stopped in the doorway and stared around at the arching patterns of blood splatter. "Seven hells!"

Dona automatically took a step closer, concerned by her friend’s sickened expression.

"Oh, back off." The Outpost’s doctor shot her an impatient glower. "I do autopsies for a living.” Then, as if against her will, her gaze drifted around the room again. “Though judging by the scene, I can already tell you this bastard’s crystal is seriously cracked."

“DNA scans say it was Ivar,” Dona told her.

“Oh.” Wincing on her behalf, Chogan promptly changed the subject. "We’d better get this poor woman tubed." Revulsion crossed the human’s expressive face. "As soon as we can find all of her…”

###

Grim, unspeaking, Dona, Chogan and Dyami went to work at the gory task. Luckily temporal armor was as effective at blocking biological contaminants as it was at protecting the body from time travel.

As they worked, faint slurps and thumps signaled that the evidence bots were equally busy, removing every last blood cell from the plastered walls, every hair and bone fragment and stray bit of tissue from the bed and floor. Every last alien anything that didn't belong in the eighteenth century. By the time they were through, you’d never know anyone had died here.

Dona lifted the stiff brown pillow that had lain under Hardin’s head. A courier bot popped out from beneath it, darting into the air in a blaze of blue anti-grav light. She jumped, barely managing to bite back a startled yelp.

"Alerio Dyami!" the bot thundered in a surprisingly deep voice. "I seek Alerio Dyami, Chief Temporal Enforcer of the North American Outpost."

"I'm Dyami." Alerio studied the device with narrow-eyed intensity. “My sensors say it’s a Xeran ‘bot,” he murmured to Dona.

She backed off, one hand falling to the shard pistol holstered at her hip. Luckily, the fact that the courier had traveled in time meant it was unlikely to be armed with any really interesting energy weapons. Anybody or anything attempting a temporal jump armed with a tachyon beamer would blow itself straight to the seven hells.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of other ways to kill, even a target as formidable as Alerio Dyami. Dona locked her sensors on the ‘bot, ready to fire if it tried to power up a weapon.

"I have a message for you," the courier announced. "Would you like to take it privately?"

"Chief, don't!" Chogan began urgently.

Dyami shot her a cool look. "Give me a little credit, Doctor. I'm not stupid enough to smear anything from that thing on my skin." To the bot, he said, "I'm not concerned with privacy. If you've got a message, play it."

"As you wish," the bot said cheerfully.

And just like that, Ivar Terje stood in the middle of the room.

Dona damned near drew her pistol before logic kicked in. It’s just a trid, idiot.

"Don't shoot the 'bot, Dyami," the three-dimensional recording said with a smirk. Being genetically engineered, Ivar was inhumanly handsome—at least until you realized his eyes were as cold and gray as the ice on a frozen planet.

And why didn’t I notice that when it could have done me some good?

He’d cut his hair since she’d seen him last, buzzing it so short it covered his head in a red bristle. The style was apparently designed to call attention to the silver implants jutting from his skull.

"Look who's wearing horns!" Chogan curled a lip. "Terje’s pretending to be a priest of the Victor now."

"What do you think of my handiwork, Chief?" Ivar's image flashed a vicious white grin. "Hells, that Lolai was a squealer. If not for the mute field, every primitive for miles would have come running." The grin widened still more. "It'll take a lot more work to get a scream out of Dona, but I'll manage--eventually."

To Dona’s surprise, Dyami stiffened, his eyes going solid red, his lips pulling back in a snarl. "You won't get the chance, ‘botfucker.” He took a gliding step closer, as if he’d forgotten it was only a recording.

Ivar chuckled, almost as if he'd heard the chief. "I'm sure you're growling manly Warlord threats right now. I'd be impressed —if I were there. Instead I'll just give you a choice. Surrender yourself to the Victor’s...justice. Along with Dona, Galar Arvid, Jessica, Nick Wyatt, and his whore Riane."

Every trace of humor vanished from his face, leaving nothing but vicious intent. "Otherwise, my team and I are going to butcher every temporal historian, every trid crew, every tourist and guide we can get our hands on. And that's a long list. Your choice, Dyami. Surrender now like the hero you are, or let innocents pay for your cowardice."

The image winked out.

Dyami lunged for the 'bot in a blurring surge of Warlord muscle, but before his fingers could close over it, the thing darted away. A flare of blinding light and a thunderclap sonic boom signaled the ‘bot’s Jump back to the Xeran home world.

When Dona's ears quit ringing, Alerio was still pacing and cursing. "Courier probably recorded our reactions to Ivar's little ultimatum. He'll want to gloat." He bared his teeth in something light years from a smile. "Glaciers will claim the Seven Hells before I surrender any of my people to those Xeran dickholes."

That reaction didn't surprise Dona in the least. "He meant it about the civilians, sir. They'll slaughter every tourist and historian they can."

"Then we'll just have to make sure they don’t get the chance." His eyes were solid sheets of flame now, damn near bright enough to cast a shadow.

And she was staring at him again. Her longing was probably written all over her face. Fool, Dona thought, dragging her eyes away. Never mind what happened with Ivar – what about Kagan? Wasn’t it enough getting your heart ripped out by one commanding officer? Do you really need Dyami to repeat the lesson?

###

The temporal journey back to the North American Outpost was as grueling as always. The Enforcers Jumped from the house's great room in teams of two, accompanied by body tubes.

Alerio kept watch as was his habit, covering his team's retreat. As much as he could, anyway, having gone half-blind and deaf from the temporal flares and their accompanying sonic booms. Luckily the suits' dampening field kept anyone more than ten meters away from feeling the effects. No temporal natives would wonder why there was a thunderstorm inside the house next door.

Finally only he and Dona were left. For a moment, Alerio let his gaze linger on the cool purity of her profile, with its high cheekbones, striking violet eyes, and the mouth that seemed gene-gineered for sin.

He looked away just before she Jumped. His ears were still ringing as his comp started reciting the familiar string of coordinates back to the Outpost.

Coordinates confirmed. Engage temporal warp, he told it.

Engaging temporal warp in three...two...one.

It felt like being hit by lightning. His mind blinked out…

…And… he was back again.

Temporal warp to the Outpost successful, his comp announced.

Alerio made no answer, half-blind, stomach knotting in violent rebellion, his muscles jerking from the temporal warp. Bracing his knees, he stayed upright by will alone until his comp could compensate. My team?

All members of the investigation team present and accounted for.

Alerio breathed a silent prayer of thanks to whatever Vardonese goddess happened to be listening.

He'd lost a Jumper once. Riane Arvid's sabotaged T-suit had bounced her back and forth across Terran temporal space before finally dumping her in the twentieth century. Her suit was dead as a stone by then, unable to Jump at all. Unfortunately, a team of Xeran assassins appeared minutes later. She’d have died then and there if not for a timely rescue by Nick Wyatt, half-breed Xeran and superhuman guardian of an alien race called the Sela

Nick and Riane had returned to the Outpost desperately in love.

Still, almost losing an Enforcer was an experience Alerio had no desire to repeat. Especially considering Ivar's threats.

It'll take a lot more work to get a scream out of Dona, but I'll manage—eventually.

Like hell, ‘botfucker.

Blinking the spots from his eyes, Alerio glanced around the cavernous room that was Mission Staging. Heavily shielded for Jump traffic, it was lined evidence and equipment lockers as well as regeneration tubes for treating the injured. Most temporal missions began and ended here, especially those featuring a large Jump team.

Alerio spotted Dona deep in an animated conversation with Riane. The young Warfem and her cyborg wolf partner had been with the crew working the house's ground floor. His gaze drifted slowly down Dona’s clean, lovely profile, then along the curving contours of her body. There was something about her that had the power to stop him in his tracks every time.

Enough mooning, Alerio thought. I’ve got killers to catch.

Romance Fiction: Feminist?

I’ve always had a suspicion that romance novels are actually underground feminist literature. After all, the writers are women, the readers are women – even the editors at Big Six publishers are women, as are the vast majority of e-publishers.

And romance is the 800 pound gorilla of the book market. As Marla Bustillos notes in her article at the Awl.com, “romance is by far the most popular and lucrative genre in American publishing, with over $1.35 billion in revenues estimated in 2010. That is a little less than twice the size of the mystery genre, almost exactly twice that of science fiction/fantasy, and nearly three times the size of the market for classic/literary fiction, according to Simba Information data published at the Romance Writers of America website."

(This is a great article, by the way. She seemed to view romance the same way I always have. Which is what inspired me to write this blog.)

Yet despite the undeniable popularity of romance, everybody absolutely SNEERS at the genre. Why? That’s simple.

Anything involving so many women must suck.

Especially if it deals with subjects like how women perceive men and themselves; how they feel about men, how they experience sex, and how they manage their lives and children.

We romance authors use historical and fantasy settings to examine, in an metaphorical way, how women deal with social pressures such as the mother who demands “Why aren’t you married?”

Or how it feels to be a woman in a society which insists that women are inferior to men. Period.

Look at some of today's political discussions of women in combat roles. One female television commentator this week discussed the 60 percent increase in rape in the military. Her basic point was, Of course they’re being raped. What do they expect?

The subtext is, if you’re in the service and you get raped by a fellow soldier, you were asking for it.

Now, as a romance novelist, this is the kind of thing that makes me want to write something. Thing is, I can’t come right out and say what I really think about this commentator; that might offend a large segment of my readership.

What I can do is set a novel in, say, 1823, show a woman of the period who is raped, and then examine her experiences of both the rape itself and the reaction of Society matrons who are quick to say she must have asked for it.

I would then use the story to ask why a woman might say another women asked to be raped. Perhaps the society matron believes that since her own precious daughter doesn't wear revealing clothing or break social rules, she'll be safe from this horrific crime. (Perhaps the Fox commentator believes that as long as you don't serve in the military, you, too, will be forever safe.)

I could show the mind of the rapist, who really doesn’t give a damn what the woman was wearing. He just saw an opportunity and took it. His whole focus is on the sense of power raping this woman gives him, when in his ordinary life, he’s basically a weakling at the bottom of the male status chain. (This actually is closer to the psychological reality of serial rapists than the view of them as mysterious, all-powerful monsters.)

Using these characters, I can really look at the crime and explore it in a way that makes the reader experience ALL sides of rape: the victim’s, the offender's, the society matrons', and the judge’s.

I could show you how the law at the time viewed rape as basically a property crime: the woman’s father “owned” a virgin he could have married off for financial advantage, but who is now no longer valuable because she’s been raped. So the thief -- or rapist -- must be punished for his crime. Which is not really against the woman at all in this social view: it's against her father.

I could also give you a hero who comes to love the woman despite social attitudes that she no longer has value. I could examine how the two of them work to overcome her emotional scars.

And it would take BOTH of them. He couldn’t save her from the rape, but his willingness to love her helps her realize that she’s not a wounded, worthless object, but a human being who deserved far better from society than she got.

I could thus show you rape and its emotional effects, even make you experience those effects through my characters. I could examine the egregious way all societies treat rape. (In some countries, female victims are jailed for being raped, which makes no damned sense whatsoever.)

In so doing, I could create an argument against blaming the rape victim with considerable emotional power, without actively preaching to the reader.

This would have far greater impact on the reader than a ranting blog post talking about how a certain Fox commentator is a f****ing moron. If you happen to be a Fox fan, that’s not going to change your mind one bit.

But reading my novel just might.

Feeling the emotions of all those involved might make you think. Might make you reassess what you believe and why you believe it. (As long as I don’t overtly preach, and all my points are made in subtext rather than coming out of the heroine’s mouth.)

That’s the power of the romance novel. That’s why women write them, and that’s why women read them. It lets us talk about these things without having to worry about how men are going to react to what we have to say.

Unfortunately, said male reaction is likely to be: What IS this shit?”

Neurological studies have shown men and women have very different brains which process emotion in very different ways. So when a man reads a romance novel, the emotional experiences the book describes are not how he experiences the same things. So he just doesn't get it.

A man reads a romance and thinks, “This is not how I perceive reality. This is just smut for women.”

As a result, romance is viewed as unworthy, stupid, purple, florid….I could go on, but I’m getting depressed. Anyway, the end result is that only 9 percent of the romance readership is male, according to the Romance Writers of America.

Feminist critics are just as likely to deplore our fiction as men are. I suspect few of these women have read a romance published after, say, 1990. For one thing, many feminist literary critics proclaim our heroes are all rapists, something that has been unacceptable in romance fiction since 1988 or so.

Today we tell our readers that making a violent assault on a helpless person is not heroic. Today's romance heroes are far more likely to kill a rapist than BE one.

Then again, perhaps feminist critics decry romance for more pragmatic reasons. They have sense enough to know that if they defend the romance genre in the literary establishment, men will laugh at them. Which does not bode well for one’s academic career.

I, happily, am not a critic. I'm a romance novelist, and I'm damned happy to be one.

And I have this great idea for a book...

Car chases blog

Dear ladies from Savy Authors -Yes, I realize that I was supposed to post my car chase blog, and I do intend to do it. I will interview my husband and post the answers tonight. I just haven't had a chance to get to it before now. I am sorry. Look for it tonight.