Kerry Allen

I was invited to be a regular at RTB, but I was too chicken to commit. I did send them something for Open Blog Night, though, and they were kind enough to put it up here.

Holy Smokes by Katie MacAlister
Mass Market Paperback, 341 pages
ISBN: 9780451222541
Available Now
Retail Price $7.99
Fourth in the Aisling Grey, Guardian series

I’m not even going to do one of my half-assed, tangential reviews, and here is why:

1. It’s fourth in a series and WHOADAMN does it not stand alone. Aisling and Drake you could jump into just fine, but without the political history of the septs, the Guardians, the princes of Abadon, at least two other organizations Aisling has run afoul of in the past, you might as well read the foreign-language portions of your DVR manual for all the sense this story would make.

2. Describing the events in any Aisling book will cause your audience to wonder what you’ve been smoking. Chica is living ma vida loca in a big way.

I finished it in one sitting, and it did elevate both my mood in a general sense and my reading blahs. Jim, the demon Newfoundland, is as irreverent as ever (particularly hilarious toward the end—I had to read that part out loud to explain my gut-busting laughter). Drake’s “Eyebrows of Extreme Displeasure” cracked me up, too. Fiat’s still a rank bastard, and Uncle Damian is just freakin’ awesome (I want one of those).

I predict having Chuan Ren in proximity to Bael is going to be bad news.

I was so disappointed in MacAlister’s last vampire novel, I was worried what would happen with this book, but I’m happy to say it upholds the fine tradition of nuttiness I’ve come to expect from this series.

Book One: You Slay Me
Book Two: Fire Me Up
Book Three: Light My Fire

I’m not even going to try Monday, Wednesday, and Friday blogging for the rest of the month. I got nothin’.

I downloaded a 30-day trial of Web Studio. I had only an hour to play with it, but it seems like a fuller-featured version of WYSIWYG drag-and-drop web design for morons. For instance, you can enter a descriptive tag that will pop up when you hover over a link (merely neat), and it WILL center the page on any size monitor (huge improvement). I’ll have to get deeper into it before I know for sure, but it’s looking good so far.

To combat my mehs, I picked up a book. Within the first few pages, the heroine was sexually assaulted and beaten within an inch of her life. Um… no. I’m not usually squeamish about stuff like that (the details weren’t even provided), but now is not a good time, thanks. My weary brain craves something fluffy. I need that Jennifer Colt in my TBR or a Stephanie Plum marathon. Now that I think of it, I have an Aisling Gray’s latest ludicrous hijinks and mayhem in the pile, too. If all else fails, I can read something kiddy.

I maintained word count on WL on the latest edit despite the added info. (Die, speech tags, die!) Time to put it away for a couple weeks before another readthrough and get it back out there, which means it’s (drum roll, please) Query Letter Time Again! The most frustrating six sentences one will ever write. The new formula: hook, setup, disaster, disaster, disaster, resolution. I can fill in those blanks, but there’s no flow from one to the next, so it sounds choppy and disjointed. I can write two-thirds of every sentence, but the last bit of every one gets limp and soggy.

Where are the freakin’ voices in my head when I need them?

I finished writing Djinn for Dummies, 17 pages of mythological goodness. I wish I’d done it a long time ago. It made connections I hadn’t even thought about. I’ve had djinn who hate a god because he gave man the knowledge to enslave them, but I never considered why the god would do such a thing. Once I did, another important historical event came to light…

If I’m not going to put something in a story, I tend not to think about it. Probably a mistake. Much as I’ve enjoyed all the AHA! moments while I’ve been writing this essay, it would have been more helpful to know a lot of this stuff before I wrote two books on a foundation with so many gaping holes in it. The new info won’t lead to any major changes, but the subtle ones might make some difference.

Now I’m kind of looking forward to laying out the mythology for dragons, vampires, and weres. Not so much the deities, since you know they’re going to be a bunch of vicious inbred whackadoos.

On second thought, that might be kind of fun…

Harried Writer blamed the loss of her train of thought on the sudden appearance of the scruffy 13-year-old boy crouched gargoyle-style on the arm of her sofa, although the station had been deserted for hours, even days, before his arrival. “Thanks for coming.”

“It will cost you.”

“Yeah, I know. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary.”

“If you even suggest killing me off, you and I are going to have words.”

“I can’t kill you off. You’re a legendary figure in my fictional universe. Besides, I just wrote the most amazing prologue for you and Edan. I have a question for you.”

“That will cost you extra.”

She would protest, but there was no doubt a fee for that, as well. “I’m writing an essay about djinn so I can keep my facts straight.”

“You’re procrastinating.”

She jacked up her chin a haughty notch in defiance of that load of utter… truth. “I am taking a breather from the manuscript in order to gain a fresh perspective, and this little project is actually important. Do you want me to be reviled for my crappy world building and get dropped by my publisher before I get to your book?”

“You don’t have a publisher.”

Obnoxious little brat.

“I heard that.”

“Bite me.”

He grinned, revealing one slightly askew eyetooth. “That you can have for free.”

“No thanks. Prison orange isn’t my color.”

“I’m six thousand years old.”

“Yes, but you look like pedophile bait at the moment. Can we get back to our mutually dependent futures, please?”

“Do I get the girl?”

“It’s a romance novel. Of course you get the girl.”

“Forgive my skepticism. My faith in your generous nature is a bit thin after you’ve made me wait a few thousand years.”

“It’s not my fault she doesn’t like you. Read the prologue. You were a monster.”

His eyes narrowed on the pages she waved in his face. “Ryder had a good idea with that shredder. I demand a rewrite.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She poised her pen. “How do you spell ‘impotence’?”

“T-w-e-l-v-e  i-n-c… Oh, quit banging your head on the desk before you ruin the finish. I won’t even charge you for that ridiculous question. What do you want to know?”

“This thing about the king being all djinn. How do you do that?”

All trace of humor left him. “You don’t want me to tell you.”

“Yes, I do, and that doesn’t count as an answer. I figure there has to be some kind of transference of power from old king to new, but I can’t figure out how it’s done. Vampires can learn things from sucking blood.”

“Let that be your last comparison to those parasites.”

She continued as if he hadn’t confirmed he was a judgmental, racist asshole. “Zombies eat brains, but it doesn’t seem to make them any smarter. Is it like acquiring your anir, you have to consume its soul, and how do you do that, anyway?”

His response was a flinty stare.

“That was one question, note the single question mark. To take the place of the one you didn’t answer.”

More staring.

“Is this one of those ‘don’t tell the ebil humans or they’ll destroy the universe’ things?”

“You’re all right, for a human. It would pain me to see you die for possessing knowledge you’re not meant to have.”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“No. I would be pained, but I would kill you.”

He didn’t bluff. She knew because she’d written him that way. She felt an urgent need to pee. “What do I put in my essay, then?”

“Make something up. That’s what you do.”

“It’ll be something gross if you leave it up to me. Cannibalism. Necrophilia. Both.”

“Better than the truth.”

“What’s worse than cannecrophibilism?”

“Most of my interpersonal relations for the past six milennia. I’m a monster, remember?”

“You’re supposed to reform in the name of true love.”

“Right. Good luck with that. I’ll send you a bill for the personal appearance and six questions.” He didn’t trouble himself with anything so mundane as departure through the door. He was there, then he wasn’t.

Her bladder distress left with him (mostly), surpassed by an overwhelming urge to apologize to Edan for sticking her with His Royal Inflexibleness.

Right on cue, a hand slapped down on top of the jumbled reams of notes blanketing the desk. “The prologue stays,” Edan announced in a tone chill enough to shrivel Jack Frost’s balls, “but if you even suggest I’m to care for that barbarian, you and I are going to have significantly worse than words.”

Harried Writer decided the WIP was looking better and better all the time. Gabe was perfectly happy with his story.

A feverish hand settled over the nape of her neck, turning her spine to melted mozarella. “Actually, cupcake, I do have some issues…”

This subject line wiggled past all my e-mail filters.

Upgrade your love weapon to fight better in year 2008!

They get points for creativity. I don’t know how to begin to filter that. And I don’t really want to. It made me laugh.

Maybe it amuses me because I have a character who allegedly learned to speak English by watching the cheesiest porn ever made and says things like that (”I will cleave you in two with my man sword” and “I will fire my love cannon into your foxhole all night long” being notable examples).

Name: Anthony Malory
Classification: Regency Rake

Found In: Johanna Lindsey’s Tender Rebel 

The Meet Cute: Anthony’s keeping an eye on his niece, who is attending a ball he wouldn’t be caught dead at, from the safety of the garden when Roslynn sneaks out to escape another dance with a toe-masher headed her way. It’s lust at first sight, but she tells him right away, no matter how tempting he is, she’s looking for a husband, not a boy toy. Ah, the tantalizing aroma of a challenge…

The Catch: Her very life depends on finding a husband in a big hurry, so his determination to thwart her goal long enough get into her knickers could literally be the death of her.

The Pretty: Anthony is one of the rare blue-eyed, black-haired misfits in a family that has produced generations of green-eyed blonds, purportedly the influence of his gypsy grandmother popping up in the DNA from time to time.

There was a wide mouth gently turned at the corners, a strong, arrogant line of jaw. The nose was chiseled sharply, aquiline*, proud. The skin was darkly tanned, swarthy, yet still a sharp contrast to the ebony hair that crowned his head in thick waves. The eyes—God protect the innocent from such eyes—were purest blue, heavy-lidded, with the barest suggestion of a slant. They were exotic, hypnotic, framed by black lashes and slashing brows. They were assessing, probing, boldly sensual—warm, too warm.

Please note this assessment was made at night, outdoors, with only the aid of a stray beam of light from an upstairs window. Every time I look at somebody in the dark with a limited light source, they’re shades of gray. Roslynn evidently possesses some kind of vampiric night vision.

* And don’t get me started on “aquiline.” I learned to ignore the ol’ hooked beak every time some unfortunate hero was afflicted with that Word of the Decade. Anyone find “eagle schnoz” particularly attractive imagery?

Everything about him proclaimed him an avid outdoorsman, athletic, a bloody Corinthian, which was so contrary to the reputation that would have him a debauched creature of the night, devoted to sensual pleasures and late hours of dissipation.

Wait a minute. Vampiric night vision? Debauched creature of the night? I do believe we’ve discovered the seed from which paranormal romance germinated…

Endearing Qualities

• Fiercely loyal to his family.
• Engages in scandalous displays of public affection.
• When his intended makes keeping a mistress (or several) a condition of marriage, he agrees… if she will fill the role.
• Plays matchmaker for long-lost loves torn asunder by misunderstanding.
• Even when pissed off at his judgmental wife, he’s what we call a “considerate” lover.
• Upon a quick skim to refresh my memory, I couldn’t help but notice he threatens to tie Ros to a chair one time and spank her another. It took me only 19 years to realize Tony’s just a little kinky.

Handy Skills

• Inventive use of a chair
• Inventive use of his bride’s cleavage to distract highwaymen so he can dispatch the brigands forthwith
• Able to hunt down stalkers and beat into them the necessity of forgetting the stalkee’s existence
• Despite being a fourth son, he’s rich (still a skill)

In Anthony’s Words: Upon informing Ros that her potential husbands are all out of the question (gay, engaged, sadist, banging his sister, bound to gamble her into the poor house within a year) and destroying all her hopes and dreams:

Her woebegone expression struck right to his heart. He was responsible, with his half-truths and fabrications. He had interfered with her life with the most selfish of motives. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to push her toward another man. And it wasn’t only that he wanted her himself. The thought of another man touching her had the strangest, gut-wrenching effect on him.

Tony gets to have his say twice so I can mock him.

“You didn’t want to marry me, sweetheart,” he reminded her. “I practically had to twist your arm. And even when you agreed, you did everything possible to keep a distance between us. Would you have believed me then if I had told you I loved you? Roslynn, why else would I marry you?”

Suuuuuure he knew it was love when he proposed. He thought only that his guts were wrenched. He probably attributed it to eating some bad chicken.

The Drawbacks: Honesty-is-the-best-policy types might take issue with the amount of lying Anthony does, but I assure you, every falsehood is uttered with the best of intentions toward himself.

Get Your Hands on Anthony

Tender Rebel by Johanna Lindsey, currently available with the completely irrelevant castle cover.

Also appearing in several other Malory family novels, but honestly, don’t bother beyond James. I believe Jeremy’s book prompted my decade-long hiatus from romance. So much Bad Boy potential, tragically gone to waste…

And now behold my beloved 1988 cover.

Note the absence of Fabio, and not a mullet in sight. Is it any wonder I have fought to preserve my ownership of this copy?