Worth the drive

It was a ten hour drive that prompted my friend to ask me if the bowl of chili we were eating was worth the drive. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of peppers, garlic, assorted spices and the secret ingredient. Flavours danced on my tongue. The muted roar of the race reached us from the television set in the living room. A grin lit the face of a friend I hold dear. Of course the chili was worth the drive.

On the excruciatingly long drive home through severe thunderstorms I thought about my answer. With only CDs by Spirit of the West, The Tea Party and the soundtracks to Cars and Dreamgirls to keep me company, I thought a lot.

Barnes and Noble where we studied each other's selections was worth the drive. Watching the cat return time and again for a chin scratch even though he got a shock every single time he touched me was worth the drive. Going to see the movie 300 together (scantily clad men for me, scantily clad women for him, scantily clad men for me, violence for him) was well worth the drive. Shopping in a grocery store with so much selection it boggled my mind was worth the drive. A Discovery channel marathon of "Dirty Jobs" was worth the drive. Getting to know a good friend better was worth the drive.

Then I thought about how all of the above related to Alex and Nea(what did you expect? This is a writing blog after all) Writing is almost always about the journey, not the destination. Characters think the story is about their goal - reaching the chili so to speak. Readers want to know how the characters reach their destination. What sacrifices they make, how they interact, grow and change each other in the process of attaining their goal. As writers we have to make that journey as entertaining and suspenseful as possible for the reader. The drive must be worth it or they will stop the car and get out.

I plotted my route home with the help of Mapquest,The Weather Channel and one of those old-fashioned, folding papers with lines, squiggles and numbers on it(road map). A cup of tea and bottle of water were placed in the cup holders. I broke my no-food-in-the-car rule and filled the front seat with snacks (I don't recommend peeling your own banana while you drive,that's what navigators are for)The gas tank was full.

As with writing, all the plotting and planning had to move aside for the unexpected glitches that made the journey more interesting. The torrential downpour that lasted through four states, turned into sleet and made the driving treacherous. The car's reluctance to shift gears while making the upward climb north through the Pennsylvania hills. A missed turn for the gas station, detours for construction, a long line of haulers and the frantic blinking of the low fuel indicator. I had to adjust my plan, stretch my brain and stay focused on my goal - to get home safely.

Nea wants to drag Alex into hell as her playmate. I drove the route this weekend. Alex wants to get back to Belize and his old life. I saw a road sign for that trip. Neither one of them will reach their destination. Despite four days of exploring, there's still so much for me to discover. But for all of us, yes, it's been worth the drive.

The chili was delicious.

Synchronicity

I've been doing a lot of reading. It's writing related. I'm looking for a publisher. I want to find one that is a good fit for my kind of paranormal. No vampires, werewolves or shapeshifters here. Just gods and demons, saving the world kinda stuff.

I found one that seems like the perfect fit. And to be quite honest, I've had a few authors I respect tell me to submit there. After reading the guidelines, again, I sat down today to do just that. But thoughts of drowning in the slush pile stopped me. There has to be way around it.

How do you get to write requested material on your package? Have an agent, win a contest, or dazzle the editor at a conference appointment. This is not a house that spends a lot of time with contests or conferences but I googled them anyway. Imagine that, not only is the senior editor going to be at a RWA conference in June, one of the guest speakers is my good friend (that's what all of her stalker fans call her) Lani Diane Rich.

A sign from the gods that I should attend? It's in Wisconsin. Not exactly around the corner for me. But considering the amount of travel I've been planning lately for pleasure, it seems reasonable to go an equal distance in pursuit of my goal to be published.

Then I read the rest of the editor/agent list. 4 out of 5 are on my dream list. I'd be a fool to stay home.

I've already talked one of my writing buddies into seriously considering this wild road trip with me. It didn't take much effort on my part. All of the pieces are lining up. Effortlessly.

Maybe it's time to tap into that synchronicity and run with it. All the way to Wisconsin.

Out of chaos

I feel like Alex and Nea are slipping away from me. I haven't had time to write more than a sentence here and there for weeks now. I've always maintained that if it's important to you, no matter what it is, you'll make time for it. But my brain can't process these days. Paint. Work. Move. Paint. Work. Move. Work. Unpack. Work. I vaguely remember staring at the television in a fog the other night.

There won't be any more time this weekend either. Missing my characters is a good sign. It means my brain is coming back online. I hope. There's a section in the sagging middle that I can work on in my head while all this chaos gets straightened out. Imagine that, it's the section of the book that is filled with chaos and confusion for the characters. All their preconceived ideas are turned upside down.
Nothing is what they thought it was. They aren't where they want to be, physically or emotionally. I can use how I feel right now when I'm stuck for a description. The main difference is that I know how wonderful life is going to be once the dust settles.

Spider Web

I've been painting all the walls in the house the same off-white colour. It's called Spider Web. In some lights it has a hint of blue, in others it looks green. It depends upon lighting, time of day and where you're standing. Very strange, and brings us back to perspective.

That's a big thing in my life and in my writing. I try to see situations from the other person's point-of-view so that we can come to a better understanding. I try to write scenes from the character who has most to learn.

This project started as Alex's story. He was supposed to save the world but I let his sister do that instead. When she defeated a demon the germ for Alex's story embedded itself in my psyche.

I haven't had a lot of time to write while I paint. This house is bigger than I thought. And while Spider Web doesn't sound like it would be, it's actually a bright, fresh colour. It gives the rooms a different look. Considering the fact that we're taking several individuals and weaving their lives under this roof, the name is appropriate. I like the connections we're making. Spider Web in both apartments.

Alex and Nea have been relegated to the background but they're still lurking in my brain. Nea has taken more thought than Alex, because she's newer to me. She's had a lot to learn, been given a lot of scnes in order to show that. I was a bit concerned that the story had shifted ownership to her. I shoved the thought aside and focused on painting. Spider Web in the common room.

Alex appeared in his sister's story. The seeds of Nea were sown there. Wings and rivers, kayaking and flying - images that tumbled around as I continued to apply paint. There were connections between Alex and Nea, between the stories and once I found the link between ripping Nea's wings off and sending Alex over Niagara Falls in a kayak, I realized the story belonged to both of them. Their connections are integral to each other and the story in much the same way painting all the rooms in the house the same colour reminds us that we rely on each other's strengths to balance the family as a whole.

Threads weaving throughout the house - and the story.

Flying

I made an amended version of my goal for the January writing challenge. Instead of writing full scenes, I wrote notes, dialogue and descriptions for the entire book. I not only know where it's going, I know how it's getting there. Now I have to work on the details, those pesky demonic details.

Nea loves to fly. She loves everything about it - the wind in her hair, the steady beating of her wings, riding air currents, and scaring the crap out of people when she comes up on them. I've been playing around with her wings. I know they're pale, translucent with tiny veins visible. I want to stick with the leaf motif but also want them to be creepy.

What kind of texture do they have? Alex not only has to touch them, he's going to fondle them. Yes, like that. So it better not be too gross. And I don't want him to damage them either. There's some thought still required on this subject.

But flying. Where does fly? Why? When? Not how. I can picture how. The expression on her face is pure ecstasy.

Which is why it's going to demoralize her when I ground her like the nymphs - rip her wings off her body.

Writers are evil people.

Home is where the heart is?

I've been thinking about Home a lot. My personal living arrangements are in flux for one thing. My characters have no idea where they live for another.

Is where you live home? Not for Alex. The son of a diplomat he's grown up all over the world. As an adult, he has a home base but lives out of suitcases and backpacks as he travels the world chasing one extreme adventure after another.

Nea was booted out of her mother's home when she was young. Her father took her in, but as a weather demon, had no fixed address. They went wherever his mood took them. As an adult, her vagabond existence never changed.

I couldn't set the story all over the place. For various plot and health reasons, Alex needs to be grounded in one spot. It's driving him crazy. I was nice enough to put him into a converted version of the old Toronto Power Generating Station at the top of Niagara Falls.


The inside is even more spectacular. Whenever I get stuck, I can drive over there and look at Alex's view. The building is perched right on the edge of the Niagara River, close enough to drop a kayak into the water. The roar of the Falls fills him with despair.


Nea grew up for a few short years inside a fairy forest. As soon as I saw this picture, I knew she longed to return here among the moss. Secretly and so deep down inside her consciousness that even she doesn't know she longs. The scene of a traumatic life defining moment, it holds great power over her. But it's not home. She has no place she considers Home.

Neither does Alex.

And neither one of them seem to be attached to any one place over another - despite her secret longing and his determination to return to Belize. They are children of the earth. The whole world is their home. With neither one of them knowing where - or who - their heart is, they are destined to wander.

Eventually they will make a home together. Likely some time in the future after the story is told. And that home will probably be wherever their suitcases and backpacks fit. Neither one of them would be happy settled in one spot. There home base will be determined by convenience not comfort, nor familial ties. Bits and pieces of their hearts are scattered throughout the world. Together they will gather them up and reform their own definitions of heart and home.

I took the photo of Alex's home, Nea's is courtesy of Bryan J Weitzel at bjwcreations.com

And the winner is....

...Curculio Elephas


A gift from Nea's demon father when she was a child. She thought the little grub was Clio.
She had to feed Clio. And all of Clio's 45 brothers and sisters. They destroyed an already weakened stand of Spanish Chestnut trees. Nea got in BIG TROUBLE for this. Trouble from which she has never bothered to extricate herself. The entemology may be a little skewed for the botany but it's fiction. I get a little artistic licence, right?

You get two points if you know where the name Clio came from. Another two points for guessing which insect is the curculio elephas.


That's right. It was the Chestnut Weevil (sorry guys, the nose convinced me)

Insects

I'm trying to decide which insect Nea would have as a pet. I haven't figured out all the reasons she has one but I saw it on her shoulder, looking somewhat like a brooch pin. It's her reminder of a life-changing incident that set her on the demonic path. But I don't want it to be an insect that comes with a public preconception. I don't want it to be ugly or icky. I've narrowed it down to the Japanese Beetle



which is partly responsible for the decimation of the American Chestnut, looks good as a brooch and doesn't send me screaming into the night. I like the way the carapace shimmers and I think I could do a lot with it.

Then there's this guy - the Chestnut Weevil. I like his proboscis(nose). It's almost cute. He'll blend in with her clothes, hair and other surroundings


There are pros and cons for both. Which one has a higher ick factor for you? I'm not sure that's what I'm going for but I'm going to give this some consideration. Everything has to serve more than one purpose in a scene, chapter, story. Does he have a name? Yikes, he'll have to arc too.

Perceptions revisited

I know I talked about this before but I've been struggling with all the tell notes I have for this story with no idea how to show this stuff. Until I made the connection between an interesting thing that happened yesterday.

I applied for a car loan. I'm now making more than double what I brought home for most of my working life. So when I told the guy doing the application what my salary was, I glowed with pride. He questioned the figure repeatedly. I glowed more. Isn't it amazng that I make that much money? Apparently, it's not that much. He makes more than that in a day. Nice life. I suppose his reaction should have diminished my pride and self-worth but it didn't. I still appreciate how far I've come financially, even if it's not up to his standards. It's up to mine.

And that's when it occurred to me that my hero cannot possibly comprehend my demon's issues. He grew up in a family that accepts and loves him for who he is, warts and all. He's laid-back, easy-going and well-liked. Hate, self-loathing and abject terror are completely outside his frame of reference. Just as the opposite is outside of hers. Beacuse they view life from opposite sides of the coin, at some point one of them is going to have to experience what the other one does. For them to come together as a couple,they're both going to learn how the other half lives.

I have a nifty little graph in my head that illustrates that. It looks a lot like the acceptance stamp on my car loan. Not really but I had no idea how else to tie the two back together. Frame of reference, people.

WODE Writing challenge

Write Off the Deep End is having a writing challenge in the month of January. While inspired by NaNoWriMo, it's different in several ways. We set our own individual goals; daily, weekly, and/or for the month. It can be a new project, an existing project, research, setting up a writing space, or organizing the rest of our lives so that writing is a priority. Like NaNo, we have a yahoogroup to help support each other, and keep a database charting our individual progress. Most of the participants are from my local writer's group but I have extended the invitation to other writers I've met in the Quest for more knowledge, support and insight into this creative process. The more people involved, the greater chance for success. So many of us are competitive creatures. Simply knowing other people are reaching their goals can spur us on to complete our own.

If I come on here over the next month, babbling about how my characters are refusing to co-operate or that the weather is interfering with their action in the forest or asking what kind of insect eats its young or any other odd comment or question, you'll know that I'm in the midst of a writing challenge. I will also be in the midst of house renovations and in dire need of a vacation midway through the month but that's the kind of chaos that gets my creativity hopping.

If you know what kind of disease chestnuts can rebound from, please save me the research time and let me know. I'm going to send a horde of insects into the grove to finish them off while they're in their weakened condition so I suppose knowing the appropriate insects would help too. Hey, I don't have time to research, I'm plotting my goals, plot and arcs so I at least have some clue which direction I'm headed in January. Want to join me?

Classic movies

I've been on a bit of a classic movie kick. The dialogue alone is worth the price of admission (where did that expression originate?) It's sharp, witty and fast-paced. There are some interesting reminders that times have changed but it amazes me how tough and in control the women were of their hearts, minds, and destinies - not to mention their men. Cary Grant, William Powell, Bogie all more than held their own.

Smoking and drinking to excess were the norm, not frowned upon as they are in today's society. Lots of name-calling and face-slapping. Very little swearing or graphic violence. There were dark themes, and farsical schemes. A little bit of something for everyone.

Especially writers. Because the most important element to every classic movie I've watched over the last month has been a good story told well. Without nudity, profanity or special effects to rely on, the writers used words. Descriptive words, intelligent words, word twists and riddles, banter and repartee to move the plot and characters along in a way that invested and entertained the audience.

I have a few presents to finish making, all the wrapping to do and a little bit of baking left. I'm going to watch Suspicion, Vertigo, maybe even To Catch a Thief in my last minute rush of activity.

It's all in the name of research.

Writing through the holidays

It's the time of year when we're stretched in every possible direction. Family, work, friends, acquaintances, characters - yes, even our characters are part of the melee that demands our time right now. But most of us will likely give more time to the post man or paper boy than we will to the characters who bring our stories to life. There simply aren't enough hours in the day to fit everyone and everything in. I've given up a decent night's sleep in the attempt to get it all done but am still way behind. Nine more shopping days. Ha ha h - oops ho ho ho.

To a certain extent, I resent the time away from my writing. The fictional world is part of my coping mechanism for the rest of my life. Right now, in the crazy season of holiday cheer, shopping, eggnog, baking, decorating, whine, visiting and wrapping, I need that world more than ever. The longer I'm away from it, the harder it is to get back into the story and characters that sustain me. Like an elusive dream in the pre-dawn hour, my fictional world lingers on the edge of my consiousness.

Excuse me while I back away from the blog and capture a few moments of bliss in a world where the only demand is that I give it life.

And keep my sanity.

Why I blog

One of my critique partners asked me why I blog. I told her it helped me marshall my thoughts. She understood the idea of journaling to brainstorm but followed with the question, "Why make it public?"

I've been thinking about that for a month. There's no doubt a blog is a good time sink. Once committed to a blog, it's important to update it on a regular basis. It's great practice for meeting a deadline. If you take too long to post, people will yell at you about it.

A blog is also a great forum to try out an idea and get feedback. It's also an excellent way to build readership. If the goal is to be published, or stay published, than a blog can be a useful tool.

Plus, I like the attention.

According to the flower lore - "You stand up for what you believe in, even if it gets in the way of what other people think. You are proud of yourself and your accomplishments and you enjoy letting people know that."

I am a Canna What Flower Are You?

The devil is in the details

The other morning, my mind drifted to the crisp Autumn day after the Don't Look Down conversation. It was the same park with the same friend but every image I latched onto was isolated. The bright red leaf of the vine that twined its way through the metal lattice of the park bench. The chartreuse Osage orange that hung on the bare branch like a tennis ball. The smooth round orange stone in the field of pebbles and rocks. And my friend's hands, so much younger looking than his age and occupation would suggest.

It occurred to me that my hero only sees my heroine in details. Her smooth, round ass. Shimmering, pulsing wings. Small perfect breasts. Red eyes that see through his soul. He doesn't see who she is, only that which will bend him to her will. This could have a lot to do with why I still don't picture her clothing. When Alex looks at her, he focuses on what's important to him.

And that's where life and art meld. Photographs take us out of a moment, highlight an image that gives it significance for the rest of time. Scenes do the same thing. If you're showing it, then it's important.

Nea is a fractured character. And the more she disintegrates, the more Alex will see of her. Her true self will emerge from the wreckage of her identity crisis. Because in her case, the devil, or demon if you will, is truly in the details.

Mirrors

I was standing in front of the mirror this morning brushing my hair before I jumped into the shower. It was the perfect pose for admiration, very flattering. And my first thought was, "That is a much better body than you think it is." It's soft and round and generous and I rarely look at myself like that. I'm usually critical of the excess weight, the effects of gravity and scars of life.

I stripped the bathroom last night in preparation for this weekend's paint job. With so little to distract me, my focus naturally gravitated to the mirror. Such a clear unobstructed view made me look at myself differently. Less critically.

As writers we're critical people. We're always trying to improve our projects, our style, our craft. Critique groups were formed for that very purpose. Critique, critical and criticize have the same root. And we sometimes make the mistake of thinking they're all the same thing. We focus so much on what doesn't work that we ignore what does. As a result, we occasionally ruin the good stuff when we're fixing the bad.

My body and I have had our differences over the years. I'm not as good to it as I should be. I focus on the negative, on the ways it has let me down when in reality I'm blessed with this body. It gets me where I need to go, allows me to express myself in the ways I most desire and is reasonably attractive in the process.

My writing is the same. It tells a good story, is reasonably entertaining and allows me to express myself in the ways I most desire.

Today, I'm going to appreciate all that works well; not just in my writing or my body, but my life as well. Be less critical, and let my attitude mirror my life.

Voice

Jennifer Talty wrote a good piece about writer's voice on her blog. While it's true that many writers struggle to find the writing style that sets them apart from other writers, I think the bigger problem is that people try too hard to sound different. Every single person who writes to me, whether it's a note, letter or email sounds exactly the same on paper as they do in person. They're not worried about their "voice", they're simply using it. Instead of spending too much searching for the right feel, the right rhythm, the right combination of words, be yourself. If you're light and airy, write that way. Don't try to be something you're not. Be yourself. It's as true in writing as in life. It's the best way to be successful at what you do.

Don't look down

It's not just the title of a collaboration from Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer, apparently it's my own personal philosophy.

I rarely look down. I didn't realize this until my friend had to keep pointing out stuff on the path that I was about to step on, like the raccoon. It wasn't until I was told to step aside that I realized the raccoon was dead. I was too busy looking up in the trees. My friend, on the other hand, didn't look up. Not much anyway. I was looking up or into the distance, seeing the big picture, trying to take everything in. My friend was focused on the path we walked, on what was right in front of us, on the details.

Between the two of us we managed to see both high and low, near and far.

We were talking about our writing the next day, specifically our characters and their evolutions. We discussed every little trick we've ever read about understanding them better; their goals, motivations and conflicts; their perceptions and they way they are perceived. I thought about our own walk in the park and how differently we experienced it. What of our characters? Did they see overviews or minutiae? Are they focused in the present, looking ahead to the future, or perhaps mired in the past? Do their viewpoints complement or conflict each other? How does it affect their relationship, the plot or story if their styles are the same?

I try to look down once in awhile to get a better sense of what's in front of me. Like my demon's wings, my hero's exuberance and the knotty branch blocking the path.

"She's a writer"

I went away last weekend with a couple of friends. I gathered enough information on that road trip for several blogs, more about that later, but one of the most interesting was that the phrase, "She's a writer" seemed to be the answer for every situation we encountered.

"How do you know each other?" - "She's a writer." I'm the writer in question and just for the record, I work with one girl and live with the other(no, not like that, sheesh). My relationships with them does make for some interesting situations but apart from this blog, none of them have ever ended up on any of my manuscript pages. Yet.

"Why didn't you fly?" - "She's a writer." The answer had more to do with cashflow, which, as we all know, is something with which writers struggle. My friend's answer was a more interesting response. The road trip provided us with sleep deprived giggles, the unforgettable image of a ghost deer leaping across the road in front of us, and the opportunity to brainstorm my story in the wee hours when everyone else slept.

"What do you want to do?" - "She's a writer." Apparently only the writer can make a freakin' decision. When in actuality, only the writer is looking at new and interesting situations for research purposes. In all fairness, the writer is the one who wanted the picture of the statue because it almost looked like her demon heroine. So that was a fair response.

When it comes right down to it the response to "What do you want to eat? Where do you want to go?" and "What did you purchase?" truly was "She's a writer." My characters, settings and situations are heavily influenced by my experiences, and vice versa. I can't separate my writing from my self. The need to put words to page are integral to my identity. Everything I say, do, think, and feel is guided by that truth.

Some of the questions may have been altered for storytelling purposes. :Shrug:
I am a writer.

Update
Here's a photo of the not quite Nea statue. The body is right; the legs, wings and arms are not, but the statue has given me a lot to think about.

...in the details

Do you ever have a phrase stick in your head, minus an important word? No matter how hard you try to remember it, nothing sounds right.

...in the details. I was fairly certain it had something to do with writing. For two days, I thought the missing word was beauty. The beauty's in the details. True enough when you're writing. Individual snowflakes, the light against the tree trunk, a crooked smile. Together those details layer a scene, really make it come alive. And I'm pretty sure I heard Bob Mayer say something similar in one of his talks with Jennifer Crusie. Although in Bob's case, I'm sure his details had more to do with the satisfying click from removing the safety on his glock.

But beauty didn't flow quite right. It didn't have the proper rhythm for that phrase. I tried clarity. Details provide a great deal of clarity. The shimmery wings on my character's back are an important detail about her appearance that provide some clarity to her identity. She's definitely not human but that detail takes it another step further. Demons have wings, nymphs don't. The clarity is in the details.

Still not right. Serenity in the details? Essence in the details? Confusion in the details? After awhile every single word I tried had a strong arguement for why it was essential to the details. The details started to overwhelm the phrase with their own ideas of what they did, where they belonged. I dragged other people into my internal discussion. I like to share the insanity.

A friend suggested that the devil was in the details. My initial reaction was hey, just because we're talking about demons....But then the more we played with the phrase the more sense it made. It sounded familiar. But it didn't sound like a writing phrase. I suppose those details can be devilish to describe. But don't beauty and clarity make better sense? Not just from a writing standpoint but from a position of truth. Of course Google proved my friend right.

But I like beauty. And clarity. And serenity.
What about you? What do your details enhance?

First Kiss

I discovered tonight that one of the reasons I can't write at my parents' is it makes me uncomfortable to be thinking erotic thoughts while my mom is in the other room. She laughed at me but really I couldn't do it. There is a lot more to my wip than sex but right now that’s what the characters and I are dealing with. And that’s something I just don’t want to be thinking about at my parents’ house. Yeah, I know where I came from and what a wonderful night that was for them but some things are better left undiscussed. And for the record, I feel slightly weird writing those scenes with anyone else in the room.

Then Mom asked me about writing kisses. She’s going great guns on her NaNoWriMo entry. The love scenes are slowing her up, so I guess I’m not the only one with the squee factor. She wrote, "They kissed passionately, ardently." And I said, "Show that". Which is where it got weird. She wanted examples. I wouldn't give her any. I suggested she do some reading, perhaps ask herself questions. How did it feel, physically and emotionally? What did they taste like? What physiological response did the characters have to said kisses? Did they want more, less? Did the kisses drive all other thoughts out of their minds?

I've been thinking about kisses for awhile. They are so huge both in real life and fiction. The first one has to be almost perfect. And if it's not, in fiction there better be something that makes the hero and heroine try it again. Every kiss means something. The first kiss, a kiss of anticipation and anxiety can taste like fear, or panic, even be over-eager, too worried about making a good impression to actually do so. Or the lead up that draws out the moment; breath mingling as mouths slowly come together, feather light touch of lips. Kisses can say so much.

So, Mom, I’m sorry I wasn’t forthcoming last night. This blog is an attempt to make it up to you. Just don’t read it while I’m in the room.

Here’s an example of a first kiss from Heaven Coming Down. Not a lot of description, mostly introspection but I think it sets up the situation between the hero and heroine. In the end, it is their kiss that saves the world so the first kiss needs to hint at that, even though poor Ki-ennu has no idea what he’s gotten into.

He could only think of one way to stop her from speaking.

Ki-ennu tightened his fingers in Gabriela’s braid, pulled her in close, and kissed her.

Her lips were smooth and sweet like the tender inside of a freshly peeled orange. He should have guessed that her tough exterior and acidic tongue would harbor such gentleness. Nothing with Gabriela was as it initially appeared.

Her hands came up to grasp his forearms, whether to push him away or draw him closer was unclear. Gabriela moaned.

The sound changed the tone of the kiss. Flipped a switch inside him as emotion took over from practicality. What had started as a way to prevent her from repeating the spell shifted to relief.

She could have died.

If her grip on the tree trunk had slipped, Gabriela would have fallen, impaled on a tree branch. It would have been an excruciating death. Her loss would be devastating, not only to the Quest, but to himself.

Ki-ennu pulled her in closer, tightened his grip as his tongue sought to banish the taste of fear from them both. He would shield her from harm, use his own body to keep Pzuzu at bay.

Her hands slid up his arms in a caress. Her mouth opened and Ki-ennu felt the kiss change again.

Gabriela pressed herself into him. She wound her arms around his waist, hooked her leg over his calf. She did not cling, nor devour, but met him head on, an equal exchange of passion and energy.

It was a kiss unlike any other.

With a woman unlike any other.

If this was how humans kissed, no wonder Inanna had been willing to forgo her throne for one. His mother’s sacrifices to be with a human suddenly made more sense.

Another moan, only this one came from him.

Stunned at the display of emotion she wrung from him, Ki-ennu wrenched himself free.