Dowser Series: like daughter, like father

While putting together Yazi’s character bio this afternoon, I stumbled upon this scene from Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6) where newly-discovered father/daughter finally get to exchange more than a few words, only to discover that they fight – frustratingly – exactly alike.

We strolled out of Notte’s Bon Ton, laughing and laden with bakery boxes filled with more pastries, along with a seven-inch Diplomat cake for Gran. The betrothal rings were tucked safely in my moss-green Peg and Awl satchel, though I swore I could still taste their magic despite the containment spell that sealed the bag. Granted, that spell was mostly to stop things from falling out of the satchel and not necessarily to dampen magic.

Warner went abruptly still.

My father Yazi — the warrior of the guardian nine — was sauntering toward us from the corner of Trutch and West Broadway.

My laughter died on my lips. I simply stared at my demigod father as he closed the space between us.

Other shoppers brushed past us. West Broadway was a busy street even on a Thursday afternoon, but the pedestrians skirted my father as they passed. The overly intense gaze of his light-brown eyes didn’t break from me. Except for that eye color, he was my exact twin … well, a brawny, better-tanned, masculine twin.

I hadn’t seen my father since he’d saved the rabid koala from a killing blow from my knife, at the site in Peru that I’d come to think of as the temple of the centipede. He’d stopped me from becoming a murderer that day. Yet I’d responded by shoving his Christmas present, unopened, underneath my bed. I was holding onto my grudge, hard and tight. It was unlike me.

My father smiled as he stopped beside us. I fought the instinct to smile back. He wore a hand-knit scarf of blue and green looped around his neck, a sky-blue T-shirt, and a pair of well-worn jeans. The scarf looked suspiciously like my Gran’s knitting.

“A jacket might have been a good idea,” I said.

Yazi cast his gaze over my somewhat-cold-weather-appropriate attire, then shrugged. So much for being careful to not stand out.

“Sentinel,” he said, addressing Warner without looking at him.

“Warrior.”

“You are dismissed.”

Wait, what? No freaking way.

Warner immediately stepped to the side, but then he seemed to fight off the impulse to leave with a jerk of his shoulders.

Yazi glowered at him.

“We’re on a date.” I ground the words out between clenched teeth. “How dare you —”

“I dare,” my father said. “We have things to discuss.”

It was certainly obvious — even to me — where my penchant for childish retorts had been inherited from.

“I’m not remotely interested —”

“I have some errands to run.” Warner interrupted the rant I’d been gearing up on. “I’ll meet you back at the bakery.”

“Your courtesy is noted, Jiaotuson,” Yazi said.

In response to the formality of his last name, Warner bowed — though stiffly and shallowly — in my father’s direction. Then he tugged the boxes of pastries out of my hands. He squeezed my wrist lightly while doing so, and the comforting taste of his black-forest-cake magic tickled my taste buds.

I just nodded, worried about making things worse if I opened my mouth.

Warner turned away, and I quickly lost sight of him on the busy sidewalk. His disappearance was due to his chameleonlike magic more than anything else. Physically, he towered over everyone, even my father.

“The boy dares too much for you,” Yazi said.

It was an observation, not a critique, but I still bristled at it. “His name is Warner. Calling him Jiaotuson is just a cheap way to remind him —”

“Of his lineage? His duty? His bow was at least five inches shy of acceptable, yet I let him walk away without reprimand —”

I pivoted on my heel, turning my back on my father and following Warner’s path back to the bakery.

Yazi effortlessly fell into step beside me.

Catching a break between the slow-moving cars circling the block for parking, I jaywalked across West Broadway. Then I cut north along Balaclava until I hit the sidewalks of West Sixth Avenue, where the traffic was almost nonexistent. The street was lined with refurbished Craftsman-style and Cape Cod-inspired family homes, as was the norm for the area. Most of the houses in Kitsilano had been renovated and redesigned into duplexes and triplexes in an attempt to combat the ever-rising price of real estate in Vancouver. The bid for density wasn’t really working, though. Gran’s house on the water in Point Grey was considered a mansion these days and was worth an ungodly amount of money.

Turning east, I wrapped my cashmere hoodie tightly around me, stuffed my chilled hands in the pockets, and tucked my chin into my scarf against the cold.

The warrior didn’t leave my side, and neither did his muted but still potent spicy dark-chocolate magic. No matter how much dim sum I ate, I still couldn’t place the spice that imbued my father’s power. My own magic must be similarly flavored, since all the shapeshifters I knew insisted that I smelled of Chinese food.

“It’s not raining,” Yazi mused. “Doesn’t it always rain in Vancouver?”

I stopped in my tracks, rounding on him. “I will not discuss the weather with you!”

“I understand that you are mad —”

“I’m freaking livid. I see Warner maybe once a week, because all the other times, you have him off doing hell knows what —”

“There are territories to walk,” Yazi said mildly. “If you —”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I will not unlock your sweet little girl’s magic for her.”

Yazi frowned as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

“And yeah, I get why you don’t want Warner and me together.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you think I’m not … enough.”

“Enough? Enough what?”

I clamped my mouth shut. The conversation was veering off in unexpected directions. I was actually managing to confuse myself in the process of venting.

I began walking toward the bakery again. Sections of the sidewalks were becoming slick as the afternoon cooled, and I wasn’t wearing great shoes for long-distance urban walking.

We’d crossed Trafalgar, then Larch, before my father spoke again.

“I would have thought …” he said, then corrected himself. “It was my understanding that the sentinel intended to propose … with my blessing.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Because you wouldn’t accept him?”

“Listen, just because you slept with my mother once and accidentally made me, that doesn’t make you my father.”

“It most certainly does.”

“Biologically, maybe.”

“In every way.”

“You can’t be my dad if I won’t let you.”

“Watch me.”

Jesus, it was like arguing with myself. Except with an Australian accent.

– excerpt from Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6)

Dowser 4: Bixi, aka ‘doom crosses our footsteps.’

I came upon this scene while putting together Bixi’s biography and it made me laugh. Flashback to Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)!! Click here for the reading order of the Adept Universe. Bixi most recently appears in Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0).

“Earthly delights.”

*side eyes Warner*

LOL!!!

Book cover by Elizabeth Mackey Graphic Design

A jet-black cat sauntered through the far archway. Its casual gait was insufficient cover for the cunning betrayed by its yellow eyes. Its sleek fur shone among all the gold of the decor, not a hair out of place.

Warner, still frowning at me, followed my gaze. Then he went utterly still and pale.

“A black cat in the heart of the guardian temple,” he murmured. He reached for a weapon that he didn’t actually have, then held his hands before himself, wary. “Doom crosses our footsteps.”

I snorted out a laugh. “What century are you living in?”

Spicy dragon magic — all apricots and smoky syrup — gathered around the cat along with a haze of golden light. The creature transformed amid a wash of intense magic, as the shapeshifters did. Then Bixi — doing her best Cleopatra impersonation — stood before us. White dress, gold armbands, heavily kohled eyes and all. She obviously didn’t have to stash extra clothing everywhere like Kandy did when she changed back from her wolf form.

Logically, I knew Bixi wasn’t actually Cleopatra, since she was supposedly only around seven hundred years old. But still, I wondered if there wasn’t some deep ancestral connection going on with the guardian of North Africa. And again, when did ‘seven hundred’ become an ‘only’? It was also interesting that the guardians seemed to decide what physical age suited them best. Suanmi was technically younger than Bixi but appeared to be a youthful forty-five. Bixi looked to be about my age at the most. My father Yazi, the third-youngest of the guardians, appeared to be thirty-five.

Warner dropped into a deep bow beside me.

“Hello, warrior’s daughter,” Bixi said, completely ignoring Warner.

“Hello, guardian.”

“What earthly delight have you brought with you this time?”

Warner started coughing — no, choking — beside me.

I reached into my satchel, fished around, and pulled out a simple yet modern, yellow-papered Sirene chocolate bar. As far as I knew, this was the only bar that the newly established company produced out of Victoria, on Vancouver Island. It consisted of a tasting pair made from 72 percent Ecuador and 67 percent Madagascar cocoa. It was a new purchase I’d acquired downtown last weekend at Xoxolat — a mecca of earthly delights that carried a vast selection of single-origin chocolate bars from around the world. I hadn’t even tried a single square of the Sirene yet, and I’d really been looking forward to it. Normally, I tried to distract chocolate-questing dragons with cupcakes or cookies, but in my haste to get Warner sorted out I’d forgotten to pack a box.

Bixi came just short of snatching it out of my hand. “I enjoy your visits, alchemist,” she said. Then, pressing the bar to her nose and smelling it through its wrapper, she sauntered off in the direction she’d come. Her thin, gold-strapped sandals made no sound on the stone floor.

Dragons had a strong sense of smell and great taste in chocolate. Though regrettably, they never seemed to have any around.

– Excerpt from Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)

Archivist 1: Chapter One, Part One

Balancing the four lattes I’d bought from the coffee shop around the corner on a Tupperware container filled with freshly baked blueberry cinnamon buns, I crossed through the darkened offices of the magical antiquities section of the National Museum of Ireland.

The nonmagical museum collections were actually distributed throughout Dublin, but the two main buildings — natural history and archaeology — were housed next to each other in the heart of the city, only blocks away from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Trinity College, and the large park of St. Stephen’s Green.

Caught up in moving and prepping for my new job, I hadn’t had a chance to really explore the city yet. So I’d walked the twenty minutes to work, finding the early-November morning warm enough that I’d taken off my brown leather jacket and slung it over one arm, keeping my backpack secured over both shoulders, as always. I’d purloined the coat from my mother’s closet, so technically it was vintage. A favorite dark-brown sweater, plaid skirt, tights, and laced brown boots completed my outfit.

The exterior door to the magical archive was tucked away at the side of the archaeology museum, which was built in the Victorian Palladian style — complete with an impressively grand colonnaded entrance that fronted a twenty-meter high domed rotunda. The unremarkable steel door that led to the archive was unmarked and locked, but it had yielded to my touch with only a slight push of magic. No automated lights had flickered on when I entered, so I left it that way.

I’d gotten up at 4:00 a.m. to bake the cinnamon buns, which were still warm and sticky. The lattes were for my new employees, though having never met them, I had no idea if they even drank coffee. Making the buns in the temporary kitchen currently set up in the basement of my newly inherited house had been challenging, but I wanted to meet my co-workers and start the first Monday of my first official job on the best of terms.

‘House’ still wasn’t the right word. My new estate. Palace? Manor?

A name would really be helpful. Something that encompassed the scope of the estate. But I’d been a little too busy upending my life and overseeing the revitalization of the main house to come up with anything suitable. And my five-year-old brother’s suggestions were a little over the top. Sisu, who had a habit of changing his own name on a whim, was the son of a demigod and had to be continually reminded that he was neither invincible nor the defender of all.

The so-called inheritance of the estate was part of my cover for being in Dublin in the first place. As was the job I was starting today. All subparts of a larger task given to me by the guardian dragons — to live and work among the Adept as a dragon archivist, posing as a Godfrey witch.

I was well qualified for the head curator position I was to undertake — though I had crammed about two years of studying into the last month in order to feel that way. But the spy mission was another thing altogether.

Hence, opening with the offering of coffee and cinnamon buns. My research had informed me that bringing occasional treats to the office was a customary bonding ritual among colleagues.

I crossed through the open office area, my eyes easily adjusting to the low light. Four desks occupied the corners of the large room, some neat and tidy, others piled with books, papers, and supplies. Shelving units and filing cabinets filled the walls behind the desks.

An enclosed office took up about two-thirds of the far wall. A name I couldn’t read from this distance was stenciled into the obscured glass of the top half of the door. A clear path cut from the main entrance through the other four desks toward that door, with a corridor stretching farther into the building on the left, presumably leading to the bathroom and some sort of kitchen or eating area.

Energy radiated through the floor from heavy-duty wards, informing me that the main magical collection was archived below ground. As witches typically did when securing objects of power, sourcing their magic most often from the earth.

As I crossed through the main room, I wondered if there was also a more public collection. Something that the Adepts who called Dublin home could access without requesting specific items through one of the archivists or the librarian. If there wasn’t, I’d need to look into the logistics of opening a small viewing space or even a library.

As I approached the office door, the name emblazoned across its glass came into focus — Celeste Cameron. It wasn’t my own name, but the title printed underneath was mine — head curator.

So I’d found my office. Celeste Cameron had been murdered in an incident with a soul sucker entity over six years ago. An entity so powerful that it had also severely hurt my Great-Uncle Jamal when he’d been called in to deal with it, though he had managed to contain it.

I knew that the other employees — two archivists, a librarian, and a historian — had been maintaining the archive, but I’d been surprised to learn that neither the Byrne coven nor the witches Convocation had yet found anyone suitable to fill Celeste’s position. Before the guardian dragons had arranged to appoint me. Not that anyone knew the guardian part of my assignment, excepting the head of the witches Convocation, Pearl Godfrey. The witch who oversaw all other witches was now Auntie Pearl to me and my brother Sisu. On paper at least.

With the lattes and cinnamon buns balanced in my left hand, I reached for the doorknob of the office, feeling the energy radiating around the door. Possibly a ward — but the office might also have been sealed after Celeste Cameron died. The fact that her name was still printed across the glass made the second option seem likely.

Power hummed under my hand, but the door didn’t yield to my touch. I waited, feeling my way through the tenor of the energy, trying to assess its strength and purpose.

I could have waited until my employees arrived. But I’d come to work thirty minutes early to get a sense of the offices before meeting the people who were going to look at me as if I were simply a twenty-five-year-old witch who’d just come into her magical inheritance. A name and expectations came with that inheritance, but I’d have to prove I was qualified for the position I’d landed in.

Also, I had no doubt that the Byrne witches I’d already met, plus the members of the Conall pack helping renovate the estate, had already whispered bits of information about me to their friends and family.

So, since I couldn’t actually control what other people said about me, or Sisu, I wouldn’t worry about it.

Well, I wouldn’t worry about it much.

I had still gotten up way too early to bake. To make a friendly first impression.

I twisted my hand gently, forcing the magic locking the door to yield to me. It resisted.

I applied slightly more pressure, but carefully. A broken door and shredded wards would result in questions — specifically, the question of why I hadn’t waited to be given permission to enter.

But I didn’t want to start out asking for permission to do my job, which was why I’d also given the boundary wards that had sealed the exterior entrance a slight nudge when I’d entered. Manipulating wards, or even breaking through them, wasn’t beyond the abilities of any archivist talented enough to be a head curator, even a witch or sorcerer. And though I might have been still feeling my way through all the other aspects of the new life that had been thrust upon me, I was a good archivist.

I would eventually be a great one.

And all of that started today.

Magic stirred within my backpack. A press of warmth between my shoulder blades from Infinity, my personal archive. Not a warning. That always felt like more of a buzz. Encouragement, maybe?

Smiling, I pressed a touch of my own power to the door handle — and it yielded. The door popped open, swinging inward to reveal a large, dark office. The windows on the far side of the room were heavily shuttered. Which made sense, because now that the door was open, I could feel a humming energy emanating from the dozens upon dozens of magical items that occupied bookshelves running floor to ceiling along both adjacent walls.

I could feel the magic contained within Celeste Cameron’s office even before I’d stepped through the secondary ward that stretched invisibly across the open doorway.

No.

It was my office now.

And either the wards were weak, or they hadn’t been made to block the level of sensitivity I brought to the job. A higher sensitivity even than most other archivists — whether witches, werewolves, sorcerers, necromancers, or dragons — all of whom typically ranked as highly sensitive to magical items and creatures. It was practically the first line of the job description, right before a natural resistance to such magic. Otherwise that archivist’s career would be cut dreadfully short.

I stepped through the doorway. Energy clung to me, trying to taste my magic, then slid off when it couldn’t gain purchase. Because it was difficult to ward against a dragon. We were magic, descended from demigods. Not that it couldn’t be done. But the witch who’d built the wards would have needed to know that dragons existed in the first place, outside of morality tales and mythology.

The boundary wards yielded completely. My front foot landed on a worn rug set just inside the door to protect the oak hardwood. And the buzzing of all the magic objects on the shelves increased.

A wide grin swamped my face.

This place already felt like home. Literally. The library at my mother’s estate was filled with tiny touches of energy, just like —

Something slammed into the side of my head, getting instantly tangled in my already wild hair and obscuring my eyesight. Tiny claws tried to hook into my skin, failing at first, but then finding a hold on my bottom lip. The creature latched onto my right upper canine and started nibbling and suckling.

Yes. On my tooth.

I laughed.

Still somehow balancing the coffee and cinnamon buns in my left hand, I gently attempted to pull the creature off me. It clung with a tenacious strength that was usually only reserved for the starving. And since going for my teeth was a bit of a clue as to what I was dealing with, I understood that this creature did have a rather specialized diet.

I managed to transfer its front claws from my lip to my forefinger, tugging it away from me so I could peer at it. It assessed me with wide, dark-orbed eyes.

An imp. Known as a tooth fairy among various cultures. ‘Imp’ was a wide classification for magical creatures — some with wings, some without — that ranged in size from smaller than brownies to larger than pixies. This imp was the length of my forearm. Its eyes dominated its light-gray-skinned face, except for the overly large mismatched teeth of its lipless mouth.

“That wasn’t nice,” I said teasingly, holding it loosely so I didn’t accidentally crush it. “You could have said hello.”

The imp narrowed its eyes at me, then chittered discontentedly. It was unlikely it understood English, or spoke any language I could understand, but my tone should have —

The imp sprang free from my grasp, attempting to launch off the coffees and the Tupperware balanced in my other hand as it made its escape.

Four lattes in large paper cups with plastic lids didn’t make for a terribly stable surface.

Scrambling for footing, the imp leaped for the nearest shelf.

The lattes slammed into my chest and shoulder, lids flying off to dump hot coffee all over me.

Shrieking — even a dragon wasn’t completely impervious to heat — I lost hold of the cinnamon buns as well.

Hot liquid soaked into my hair and sweater, scalding the skin of my neck and collarbone, then dripping down my plaid skirt, all over my favorite brown boots and the rug.

The imp watched me warily from the shelf at eye level to my left. It chittered again, disconcerted.

“Yeah, that also wasn’t nice,” I said, sighing.

– Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1)

RELEASING MAY 25, 2021

PREORDER NOW

– AMAZON – APPLE BOOKS – KOBO – BARNES & NOBLE – SMASHWORDS –

Archivist Series: Kellan

The second of the illustrations I’ve commissioned from Nicole Deal for the Archivist series is a bit of a spoiler, so I thought I might as well include an excerpt from the first time Dusk lays eyes on Kellan as well (see below). Working with Nicole has been amazing. I love, love her take on characters that currently only live in my head. You can find Dusk and Sisu’s illustration here.

*Kellan Conall from the Archivist Series by Meghan Ciana Doidge. Illustration by* Nicole Deal.

You will find Nicole’s ridiculously gorgeous rendering of Kellan (and the twin wolves) tucked between two scenes in chapter 2 of Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1). It will be in full colour in the eBook version (unless your eReader doesn’t do colour) and grayscale in the paperback. The book releases on May 25, 2021 (SO SOON NOW!!)

*** MILD SPOILER ALERT ***

Though he was some sort of shapeshifter, the stranger looming over a temporary workbench in the middle of what was going to be the main kitchen was definitely not Bethany. He was working with some sort of tool — sanding, maybe?

He looked up as I entered, instantly and steadily meeting my gaze. The plastic sealing the doorway fell back into place behind me.

The air was slightly dusty. Bright pockets of light from work lamps set around the large space gave the room a bright white glow. The sounds of Sisu, Neve, and Lile chattering away in the dining room filtered through more thick layers of plastic encasing a doorway on the wall to my left.

I recognized the stranger, though I’d never met him. In his late twenties, he was the spitting image of his sister, Gitta — and yet somehow looked nothing like her at all.

Kellan Conall.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and so well muscled that his T-shirt had to be cutting off his circulation at the upper biceps, he was one of the largest men I’d ever seen. And I knew plenty of warrior dragons, as well as the treasure keeper of the guardian dragons — Pulou. Though not as tall, Pulou had a body like a grizzly bear’s from the neck down — and looked the part as well, thanks to the enormous mink fur coat he always wore.

Kellan’s hair was dark brown, his skin a lighter brown. And his eyes were the same strange golden-green as the twins. Magic flared in those eyes as he took me in, staring at me as forthrightly as I was staring at him. His nostrils flared as he turned off and set down the tool he’d been wielding.

The sound in the room faded, including the chatter from the dining room. The moment seemed to physically stretch before us, as if some sort of spell had been triggered. Yet the warm but completely disconnected sensation I was feeling wasn’t magic. At least nothing remotely conventional.

“Dusk Godfrey,” I finally said. Was it possible to feel heavy, as if I was rooted to the plywood-covered floor, and yet lightheaded at the same time?

Apparently, yes.

He grinned, revealing white teeth. But the expression did nothing to soften all the hard planes of his face. He looked as though he could run through a brick wall, through multiple brick walls, without getting a scratch, let alone faltering.

That probably wasn’t a particularly attractive quality to anyone except for myself … my hormones? My magic?

And yes, I was still staring at him. And he at me.

“My employer,” he said. His accent was lilting yet still deep, as if his voice or the words themselves were pulled from the depths of his being.

There was something seriously wrong with me.

“Kellan Conall,” he said, pulling off his gloves.

– Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter Two

***

Are you new to the Adept Universe? Click here for the reading order. Or click here for the Welcome! sequence.

Archivist 1: A collector of rarities

“Doran isn’t going to attempt to harm me,” I said calmly. “I’m a valuable asset. And he isn’t stupid.” My blood was also poison to him, if he could even sink his teeth through my dragon hide. He’d only claimed two hundred years though, so I didn’t think he was powerful enough to do so. Yet.

I, however, could skewer him through the heart with an exceedingly powerful bone blade before he even saw me lunge forward.

Not that I went around stabbing magical beings in the heart.

I was a collector of rarities after all.

– excerpt from Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter Five, fourth draft

Archivist 1: update and excerpt

I just finished my first full pass on the story editor’s notes for Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1). Next, I’ll do another complete pass, smoothing the prose and making certain I haven’t inserted anything strange (i.e. continuity errors, etc) while working through the editor’s suggested changes/additions.

The book is now 104k. That’s long. I prefer to stay under 95k myself. But, the editor hasn’t recommended any cuts. Yet.

To celebrate getting through the last two weeks (which have been seriously, seriously rough for me headache-wise) I thought I’d share an excerpt from Chapter One and Dusk’s first day of work. I hope you enjoy it!

Leather-covered sketchbook (aka Infinity) created by Mille Cuirs. Ink: Caroube de Chypre by Jacques Herbin. Fountain pen: Parker Sonnet Ciselé Silver

I stepped through the door. Energy clung to me, trying to taste my magic, then slid off when it couldn’t gain purchase.

Like I’d said, it was difficult to ward against a dragon. We were magic, descended from demi-gods. Not that it couldn’t be done, but the witch who’d built the wards would have needed to have known that dragons existed in the first place. Outside of morality tales and mythology, of course.

The boundary wards yielded completely. My front foot landed on a worn rug set just inside the door to protect the oak hardwood. And the buzzing of all the magic objects on the shelves increased.

A wide grin swamped my face.

This already felt like home.

Literally. The library at my mother’s estate was filled with tiny touches of energy just like —

Something slammed into the side of my head, getting instantly tangled in my already wild hair and obscuring my eyesight. Tiny claws tried to hook into my skin, failing but then finding hold on my bottom lip. The creature latched onto my right upper canine and started nibbling and suckling.

Yes. On my tooth.

I laughed.

Still balancing the coffee and cinnamon buns in my left hand, I gently attempted to pull the creature off me. It clung with a tenacious strength that was usually only reserved for the starving.

And since going for my teeth was a bit of a clue as to what I was dealing with, this creature did have a rather specialized diet.

I managed to transfer its front claws from my lip to my forefinger, tugging it away from my teeth so I could peer at it. It assessed me with wide, dark-orbed eyes.

An imp of some sort. A wide classification for magical creatures — with or without wings — that ranged in size. Smaller than brownies but larger than pixies. This imp was the length of my forearm. Its eyes dominated its light-gray skinned face, except for the overly large mismatched teeth of its lipless mouth.

“That wasn’t nice,” I said teasingly, holding it loosely so I didn’t accidentally crush it. “You could have said hello.”

The imp narrowed its eyes at me, then it chittered discontentedly. It was unlikely it understood English, or spoke any language I could understand, but my tone should —

The imp sprung free from my grasp, attempting to launch off the coffees and Tupperware balanced in my other hand as it made its escape.

Four lattes in large paper cups and plastic lids didn’t make for a terribly stable surface.

Scrambling for footing, the imp leaped for the nearest shelf.

The lattes slammed into my chest and shoulder, lids flying off, and dumping hot coffee all over me.

Shrieking — even a dragon wasn’t completely impervious to heat — I lost hold of the cinnamon buns as well.

Hot liquid soaked into my hair and sweater, scalding the skin of my neck and collarbone, then dripping down my plaid skirt, all over my favorite brown boots, and the rug.

The imp watched me warily from the shelf at eye level to my left. It chittered quietly, disconcerted.

“Yeah, that also wasn’t nice,” I said sighing.

– from Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter One, fourth draft

RELEASING MAY 25, 2021

PREORDER NOW AVAILABLE

– AMAZON – APPLE BOOKS – KOBO – BARNES & NOBLE – SMASHWORDS –

***

In other news, guess who didn’t actually hit publish on the paperback for Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0)? Ugh, me! I’m sorry. It should be available very soon.

In canon? Gabby and Peggy.

I’m working on Gabby’s Moments of The Adept Universe short this weekend as a bit of a brain break from the Archivist series in between drafts. [I finished the first draft of Archivist 1 yesterday]. I’m trying to figure out if the age the Talbot twins were adopted is ‘in canon’ or just a note I made for myself (and therefore put in their ‘official’ bios). I’d like them to be older than age seven for the short. If possible.

Gabby’s short details an exceedingly important moment in the twins’ background, feeding into the idea I’m working on for the Misfit 4 storyline. When I outlined the story for Michael, he was a little doubtful I could fit it into a ‘short’ format. So … challenged accepted!

A series of Adept Universe notebooks and a touch of inspiration in the art of Jessica Growling (aka Nature’s my Friend) – an Iris for the month of February.

The first scene I found was, of course, the very first time we meet the twins through Jade’s perspective. Lots of great info in the scene – and some fantastic dialogue, if I say so myself – but no mentions of the age they were when adopted!! So now I scour Misfits 1!

***

Excerpt from Champagne, Misfits, and Other Shady Magic (Dowser 7):

“Introduce yourselves,” Kandy said, seriously peeved. “Then let us know why the hell you’re in a storage room with eight mundanes only one door over.”

The amplifier opened her mouth — but then snapped it closed after a look from her sister. They stared at each other for a moment, and a tiny taste of tart jam shifted between them.

“Communicating telepathically,” I said for Kandy’s benefit.

Kandy snorted. “Don’t make me teach you to obey your elders, my pretties.”

“We know.”

“We understand.”

They overlapped each other, nary a pause between one speaking and the other taking over.

“You first, sis,” the telepath said.

“I always go first.”

“You’re the eldest.”

“So they said.”

“Why would they lie?”

“I’m not having this conversation —”

“You!” Kandy jabbed her finger toward the amplifier.

The telepath flinched. “She’s even more growly than Bitsy.”

“She’s older.” The amplifier shrugged, eyeing the pissed-off werewolf at my side.

“I swear to God,” Kandy growled. “I’m going to teach them some manners.”

I quashed a grin, looking pointedly at the amplifier. She squared her shoulders, intoning with exaggeration. “Gabrielle Talbot. Commonly known as Gabby. Amplifier. Sister of Margaret.”

“Talbot?” I asked. “Daughter of Angelica?”

Gabby scowled. “Adopted daughter of the sorcerers Stephan and Angelica Talbot.”

“Margaret Talbot,” the telepath said, picking up practically on top of her sister’s final word. “Known as Peggy. Telepath … truth seeker.”

Gabby shot her a look.

“Well, there’s no point in lying to a dowser, is there?”

I didn’t correct Peggy’s assumption that I could wield my skills to distinguish magical abilities that finely.

Gabby looked from me to Kandy belligerently. “We won’t be used. The Talbots won’t allow it. Never again.”

Kandy cackled. “You think two sorcerers could stand against Jade Godfrey, dowser, alchemist, wielder of the instruments of assassination, if she wanted you?”

“Plus, I’m not interested in using anyone,” I said mildly.

“Not the point,” Kandy said. “It’s the principle. They come into your territory and question your authority.”

Peggy looked stricken. “We certainly weren’t.”

“Henry Calhoun said we’d be safe here,” Gabby said quietly.

That gave Kandy pause. She glanced over at me.

I nodded.

“Henry sent you to Vancouver?” the werewolf asked.

Gabby and Peggy nodded in perfect unison.

Kandy grumbled under her breath, retrieving her phone from her back pocket and opening her texting app. I had a feeling there would be T-shirts for the amplifier and the telepath in the near future.

Kandy’s self-assigned pack was rapidly expanding. First Rochelle and Beau, then Mory — though the necromancer might have nominally been under the werewolf’s protection first. Then a fledgling vampire, and now an amplifier and a telepath. If Kandy ever needed to invade a small country, she was collecting the army with which to do so. With at least a dozen more years of training, of course. And that wasn’t even including Drake, Warner, and me.

Either that or the US Marshal, Henry Calhoun, who most assuredly belonged to Kandy by way of her bite and the transfer of magic that had come with it, was about to get an earful.

I gestured toward the green-haired werewolf. “Kandy, enforcer of the West Coast North American Pack.”

Gabby and Peggy exchanged another look. Then, by seemingly mutual decision, Peggy spoke. “The pack has a presence in Vancouver?”

Kandy paused her texting to growl. “Why do you care?”

Neither Gabby or Peggy answered.

“Can you tell us why your magic went … awry?” I asked.

“It didn’t. Not really. It was just intense and out of the blue.”

“And you normally have trouble getting it under control? Or mitigating its effects?”

Another glance passed between the twins.

“No. Not for a long time, I guess.” Peggy twisted a large moonstone ring on her left index finger. Gabby wore the same ring on her right index finger, making me wonder if that indicated the twins had different dominant hands.

They spoke with American accents, completely different from Angelica Talbot’s. Gabby’s intonation was more abrupt, while Peggy had a softer, smoother tone.

“I have a brown spot in my left eye,” Peggy said. “If you’re trying to tell Sis and me apart.”

I smiled. “Your magic tastes different.”

“Yeah,” Kandy said. “You can’t fool anyone who can smell magic, fledglings.”

They glanced at each other, and this time even I could see the look of disappointment that passed between them. Maybe tricking people into thinking you were your twin was a fun game?

“You haven’t been by the bakery yet,” I said.

Gabby shifted uncomfortably. “We were going to come …”

“Mory said we should …” Peggy added.

“But we were waiting until everyone was in town, like officially, so we could all come together. As a family. You know? But Stephan is still transitioning his work.”

“No one is going to hurt you in Vancouver,” I said gently. My odd conversation with Angelica Talbot was suddenly showing itself in a new light.

Peggy nodded. “That’s why we’re here … Because we were bred for our magic …”

“… and whored out.” Gabby twined her fingers through her twin’s, but she kept her steady gaze on me.

“Mother … fecker,” Kandy snarled, modifying her language at the last moment.

Gabby narrowed her sky-blue gaze at the werewolf. “We aren’t seven.”

“Yes.” Peggy nodded helpfully. “We just look young for our age.”

“A bonus for our breeders.”

“You mean it would have been a bonus, Gabby. If the Convocation hadn’t rescued us.”

“Eventually.”

“It was a large prostitution ring, difficult to track and crack.”

“We agree to disagree.”

“Yes, we do. Anyway, we were pretty damaged by then, as you can imagine.”

“So no one wanted us.”

“Except the Talbots.”

“Yeah, except Stephan and Angelica.”

The twins looked at each other for a moment, then turned their expectant gazes on us.

I stared at them, processing this new inundation of information — and catching Kandy doing the same thing in my peripheral vision.

***

In other news, before I quit work for the day I’ll schedule the next audiobook giveaway – Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2) – so check back at 2 pm PST tomorrow to grab a copy!

Archivist 0: it’s vintage.

I dropped the prequel to the Archivist Series in the editor’s inbox yesterday for line and content edit, which means I’m not allowed to make any more major changes to the storyline. So there you go … my quiet ‘what happens in the moments before the series begins’ prequel novella that wasn’t supposed to be more than 30k is now a novel of 53k, and is on track for a January 2021 release.

I’ll be releasing the book – as a serialized freebie, as I did with Amplifier 0 – on my blog but I’ll also put up the preorder ahead of time for those of you who don’t want to read online. I’m actually hoping to drop the first section on January 1, 2021, but with the holidays coming up I need to check to see if I can get on Pauline’s schedule (aka the proofreader). I’ll keep you posted.

To celebrate getting the book into the editor I’m posting a sneak peek of the book cover over in the Facebook fan group. And I’ve added an excerpt below that totally highlights how Dusk’s mind works.

Scene set-up: Dusk is wearing a sweater with a patterned yoke as well.

The woman was wearing a pretty red sweater with a Fair Isle pattern on the yoke. Her light blond hair coiled into curls that barely brushed her shoulders. So unlike my own wild mane that I felt momentary … frumpy.

She caught me looking, glancing at my own outfit. “Oh, does your grandmother knit?” she asked in English.

In English!

Sigh.

“Um,” I responded slowly. My maternal grandmother, Ruth, had died before I was born, having ventured into sixteenth century China in pursuit of a bashe that — having gone insane and decided it was a dragon — was obsessed with reclaiming a pearl it claimed contained a prophecy. Since my grandmother had inadvertently released the gigantic snake from a misfiled artifact in her own archive, she’d been responsible for its release and therefore its recapture.

My grandmother’s ashes — authenticated, so my mother could claim her inheritance of the estate — were housed in an ornate urn on the mantel in the library. The pearl was safely housed in the treasure keeper’s personal collection where all the exceedingly dangerous artifacts were stored. Pulou, aka the treasure keeper, aka the guardian dragon who oversaw all the dragon archivists, had personally returned my grandmother’s remains. And the prophecy was a separate thing altogether.

That either the pearl or the prophecy even existed was knowledge that wasn’t mine to collect. Yet. But the family library yielded things to my touch it shouldn’t, including personal family journals. And my mother hadn’t caught me. Again, yet.

The woman was staring at me. Her eyes widening as my silence discomforted her.

I touched the neckline of my sweater. “It’s vintage.”

“Oh!” She smiled broadly. “Good find.”

– Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0), fourth draft

Coming January 2021

Archivist 0: the damn egg

The book cover is only a couple of tweaks away from being ready and I’m putting the finishing touches on the edit for Archivist 0 this week. But, before I spend the rest of the afternoon writing a ‘missing’ scene, I decided I was totally overdue to release an excerpt.

I mean, you know I’ll use any excuse to share.

I touched Sisu’s shoulder, worried about how long he’d been in the nexus without me, and possibly not knowing where I was, but his attention turned back to the golden egg as if it was somehow compelling him. And maybe it was. I couldn’t feel anything specific from the egg, but the press of the library’s energy was intense.

Jiaotu reached over his son’s head, plucking up the object of my brother’s obsession. He narrowed his bright blue eyes at the artifact, which was only slightly larger than a regular chicken egg, then he shrugged and handed it to Sisu.

An entire world of hurt and terror could be hidden in that shrug.

Sisu cupped the egg in both hands, grinning. Then he whispered, “Hello, there.”

And … that was way worse than a casual shrug.

Jiaotu was watching me with one eyebrow slightly raised as if he expected me to protest.

I could handle anything that came out of the damn egg. I held the guardian’s gaze, silently letting him know that.

– Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0), fourth draft.

To be released chapter by chapter in January 2021.

Archivist 0: wanton destruction

When Michael beta reads for me – usually after the third draft, before a book goes to the story editor – he mostly highlights typos and anything he feels is awkward. But he also tags favourite bits, usually with a laughing or crying emoji.

I thought you might find this excerpt as amusing as Michael apparently did.

“The fact that we can feel [her power] so acutely should remind us all that Dusk is seventy-five years away from her majority.” Jiaotu pronounced each word precisely. It was the most vivid display of emotion I’d ever heard or seen from him. And I’d placed Sisu into his arms only moments after his birth. The guardian’s only child. A child whose existence was already a rarity in a world more and more filled with environmentally destructive technology.

“So is Drake.” Suanmi tapped her long fingernails on the arm of her chair. They were filed into slightly rounded points, painted bright red. “Yet he is perfectly capable.”

“Of utterly wanton destruction,” Haoxin said gleefully. As if wanton destruction was a good thing.

– [title redacted] (Archivist 0), third draft