Steam, Sun, Cedars

Some mornings you go outside with the dogs and a cuppa, the sun is peeking through a break in the cedars, and the steam is so beautiful you’ve got to get a shot.1

It’s been a dreadful week after losing poor Fearless!Cat. None of us are quite right. There’s been a lot of hugging, a lot of staring into the distance, a lot of petting and making much of our remaining furry friends.

But sometimes, when the sun comes through the branches and you have a cup of strong fragrant caffeine, when the dogs are pleased with the world and glancing up at you every so often to make sure you’re still looking, when the kids can rest easy because they know you’ve done what’s necessary… well, sometimes it’s not all bad, even when your heart hurts.

Sometimes it’s even pretty good.

Adieu, Fearless

So… yesterday, the Princess padded into my room somewhat early, bearing a mug of coffee and some bad news.

Our Fearless!Cat was not doing well.

Regular Readers will remember Fearless!Cat was my father-in-law’s; when he went into assisted living he was distraught over what would happen to her. Of course we took her in. It was a four-hour drive to bring her home, and she made her displeasure known during every single, solitary minute.

Her name was Ninja, because she had only the faintest spot of white on her chest. Her predecessor in my father-in-law’s house–Taffy Kat–lived to be 23 or 24 and required diapers by the end; father- and mother-in-law had a genius for picking long-lived pets.

Anyway, Ninja was twenty, and Saturday night she was just as robust, vocal, and bossy as ever. Sunday morn she was curled up on her favorite bed, obviously slipping away fast. For a couple hours I thought she’d rally, but then she spoke, loud and clear.

It was time.

Our regular vet is moving offices and closed on Sundays to boot, and I was near frantic. Fortunately, there are area vets who do house calls in this situation, and we got lucky. Or, you know, Ninja knew there was an appointment slot that afternoon with the vet she’d chosen, and acted accordingly.

I would not put it past that cat. After all, she’s Fearless!Cat on the blog because she was known, out in my father-in-law’s neighborhood, for taking on raccoons. She was a stubborn, temperamental warrior, and her ferocity was only matched by her great tenderness with the Princess and Little Prince.

When Ninja came to live with us, she was already past middle age, but she would torment Odd Trundles by perching on the stairs (he would not, under any circumstances, go down the interior stairs, and only the outside ones under mild protest, since he was so front-heavy) and regarding him calmly as he barked, wiggled, and play-bowed frantically at the head of said stairs, longing, wanting, needing her to come up and make acquaintance. The Mad Tortie had trained him not to play roughly, but Ninja was having none of this “play with” nonsense. She was there to torment, and she did her job.

She also slept on the Little Prince’s pillow, slipping down the hall like the soft-footed assassin she was named for as soon as Odd was safely in his crate. And she demanded the Princess feed her twice a day; she wouldn’t touch her bowl otherwise.

What I’m saying is, this cat knew what she wanted. Always. And yesterday she decided her bags were packed; she was ready to go.

So. A very nice veterinarian from Loving Hands came out, and Ninja passed in the midst of her family. There were soft voices, tales told of her glory and stubbornness, prayers said to Bast, Anubis, and Artemis. Then, once she was gone, she was laid to rest deep and safe in our rose garden as the Princess requested.

A special thanks to Dr Xava, who was kind, patient, and did exactly what Ninja told her to do. It’s rare to find doctors who listen so well.

I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time digging graves for small animals, in pouring rain. I didn’t mind the rain; I could blame it for the water on my cheeks.

None of us are feeling too grand right now. Kind thoughts are welcome–though please, none of that rainbow bridge business, I can’t stand it. If you’re moved to make a small donation on behalf of Her Grace Madame Ninja, First of her Name, Wearer of Scythes, Chatterer Upon Stairs, She Who Does Battle With Trash Pandas, I suggest BeeBee’s House Kitten Rescue, or the Humane Society of Southwest Washington, where all our pets except Ninja came from.

No doubt she is in glorious battle somewhere, no longer inside an aching body. I’m sure she’ll come back to visit occasionally, but right now she’s resting. Twenty years, she’s bloody well earned it. Please give your furry friends a gentle pat or two on our account, my friends.

I told the kids that the pain is our hearts getting bigger, and our capacity for love deepening. That it’s a gift, the last gift our fuzzy friends give us. I do believe it, I have to believe it.

But oh, it hurts. It hurts.

Plastic Bat Objections

Yes, that is a small bat encased in Lucite. No, I did not buy it. Yes, I was awful tempted; no, I really didn’t buy it, because of Philosophical Objections.

But given that the morning I saw it was full of uncomfortable things, like being doused in asafetida-laced, salted rainwater while people were screaming, maybe I should have. At least I got a bookstore visit out of the deal.

I’m too old for weeks like this. Bring on Saturday, I’m done.

RELEASE DAY: Throne of the Five Winds

Did you ever want to do something really, really different? So different, indeed, nobody would guess it was you?

I did. And my publisher was willing. And now you can read it.


The warlord Garan Tamuron and his general Zakkar Kai have unified Zhaon. The crown to their conquest is the neighboring country of Khir, a dagger pointed at Zhaon’s heart—now bled white and dulled, forced to send tribute to the conqueror.

Two queens, two concubines, six princes—the palace complex is full of jostling, sly gossip, and danger. A hostage for Khir’s good behavior, the lady Komor Yala has only her wits and her hidden maiden’s blade to protect herself… and her childhood friend Princess Mahara, sacrificed in marriage to bring a tenuous peace.

The Emperor is aging, and only one of his many sons may take the throne. Whether they wish to or not, all six princes are locked in a deadly battle, and a Khir princess and lady-in-waiting are merely pawns to be used. Still, it will only take a single spark to ignite fresh rebellion in Khir. If that spark is the mistreating of their cherished princess, Yala’s beloved lady, war may be closer than a maiden’s blade itself.

And then, the Emperor becomes ill, and a far more deadly game begins…

Available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and independent bookstores.

I’ve seen a few people saying the book takes a long time to get underway. That’s true; it’s like every first book in an epic fantasy trilogy that way. Just sit back and settle in, my friends, there’s two books left and enough heartbreak, intrigue, dazzlement, tea, and gore to suit you all. Sip your drink and let me tell you a story of an emperor, six princes, three lands, a barbarian horde, and a lady-in-waiting with secrets sharper than her blade.

Originally titled The Maiden’s Blade (which some of you will remember pieces of for my dear subscribers) this first book has had a long hard road to publication. I sort of didn’t want to tell anyone, but it’s too good a secret to keep–especially according to my publisher.

So, my dears. Enjoy. I’ll be out for most of the day, trying to take deep breaths. Even a quasi-unannounced release day is enough to give me nerves.

Soundtrack Monday: Sinister Kid

The Marked

I had the beginning of The Marked inside my head for a long time. One of the things keeping me from writing it was Preston Marlock; he is a cagey character, slippery and desperate.

I don’t deny I was often frustrated with him. I had Jude, I knew what made her and Aggie tick, and to a lesser degree the Skinner. But Preston? Oh, he didn’t like being pinned down. He didn’t like speaking at all.

So instead of talking, I began to play him music. He would come creeping out during the damndest songs, but it took a while to get the one that would reliably draw him from hiding.

What’s it like, I wondered, going through an unnaturally long, unnaturally violent life and never being able to touch another human being without killing them? Once I put the question that way, I realized the problem wasn’t that Press didn’t want things. He just buried the wanting, because he thought it wouldn’t do any good.

If there’s ever a character who exhibits the kind of despair the nuns of my youth called a sin, it’s Press. After a while, I’d hear the first bars of Sinister Kid and think about him, and he’d start talking.

I just had to slow down enough to listen.

Gift Reserved

Had to cut short my run this morning because of my damn heel. I’m doing everything right–icing, rest, gel inserts–but I have to run, goddammit, and what’s the point of doing everything I should if it doesn’t work? My body is not doing any favors by trying to cut me off from the one thing I like doing at the moment.

It’s true I’m in somewhat of a deep funk. I need the endorphin hit from running to keep the rest of me stable, and my dissatisfaction and frustration are starting to gouge under my skin instead of just scratching lightly.

It also seems to be a year for people who stabbed me in the past to believe they’re entitled to some sort of forgiveness or just another shot at the whole deal. It never ends the way they want. I have become somewhat unforgiving–no, that’s not true. I’ll forgive, certainly, in my own time and for my own reasons.

But I don’t ever forget. I can be gracious and even polite. But I’m not going to be open or trusting. That’s a gift reserved.

I suppose some of my ill temper has to do with the weather, too. There hasn’t been rain for a good week or so, and I’m tetchy. It would be nice if I could run, for once, and work everything out inside my head. As it is, I’m stuck with tiny glimpses of peace that only serve to underscore how the rest of me feels.

My reading material lately–serial killers and police procedurals–probably haven’t helped either. I’m also working my way through The Eagle Unbowed, and I have to say I don’t blame Poland for being intransigent at any point. They had absolute and utter reason to be, and I’m cold all over reading history that will almost certainly repeat itself.

In short, all sorts of things seem to be unraveling. Hopefully, come Samhain, the “sleave of care” can be knitted up afresh; we just have to get there.

I’m not even enjoying writing all that much at the moment. Oh, I don’t stop, of course–nothing short of death will halt my scribbling, and perhaps not even that. But now it’s more like scratching at a mosquito bite than usual, I scrub until I get a trickle of blood and then can rest, semi-satisfied. I’ve been pushing myself at a murderous pace for a long while.

Writing is a need instead of a want, especially when I’m edgy and dissatisfied.

Anyway, I’ve RJD2 playing and the world outside my office is hideously bright. The giant yellow Elder God is burning in the sky, and its hissing almost makes me nauseous. I suppose I should swallow more coffee, wash away the sweat from my aborted run, and get to work.

It won’t satisfy, but at least it’ll fill the time until I can call it a day and crawl back into bed. Probably shouldn’t have left this morning, but then, that’s true of all Mondays, isn’t it.

Let’s endure the day together, my friends. I’ll hang on if you will.


Oh, and today is the last day to enter the October Valentine Test Giveaway. At least the prospect of giving presents cheers me up.

En Garde, Good Doge

We are Doge. We are Good Doge. We have the entire couch but choose the ottoman.

We are waiting for the Evil Delivery Driver. When he shows up in his big brown truck we will LOSE OUR TINY LITTLE MINDS. We will create SO MUCH NOISE he will leave and then we will require pets because we are Good Watch Doge who saved our poor dim Hoomin from Evil Delivery Driver.

We also save our Big Doge and Hoomin Cave from wind, tree branches, passing cars, Other Doge (not good doge like us, we are the only Good Doge) and our favorite, Invisible Things Requiring Sonic Assault.

We are Doge. We are Good Doge. We have the entire couch.

But we choose the ottoman.