The Scarlet Pimpernel - Fiction and Fact - Rosemary Morris

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About Rosemary Morris

Before I could read, I admired the pictures in my story books. At five-years-old learned to read and, in later life, shared my favourite children’s fiction. For example, at Christmas, I gave my two older granddaughters A Little Princess and The Secret Garden.

Recently, I visited old favourites among which are Baroness Orczy’s series about The Scarlet Pimpernel then researched the life of this talented novelist, the whose life was as interesting as her novels.

The Scarlet Pimpernel

Fiction and Fact

                             “They seek him here, they seek him there,

                             Those French men seek him everywhere.

                             Is he in Heaven? – Is he in hell?

                             That damned annoying Pimpernel.”

The Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy’s most famous character, is Percy, the gallant daredevil, Sir Percival Blakeney Bart.  He is the hero of her novels and short stories set in The French Revolution, so aptly nick-named The Reign of Terror.   

Orczy was a royalist with no sympathy for the merciless Jacobins who spared no efforts to achieve their political ambitions.  Historical accounts prove everyone in France was at risk of being arrested and sent to the guillotine.  Orczy’s works of fiction about the Scarlet Pimpernel display her detailed knowledge about revolutionary France and capture the miserable atmosphere which prevailed.

When writing about her novel The Laughing Cavalier, Percy’s ancestor, Orczy described Percival’s “sunny disposition, irresistible laughter, a careless insouciance and adventurous spirit”.

As I mentioned in my February Insider Blog about Baroness Orczy, Percy revealed himself to Orczy while she was waiting for a train at an underground station. She saw his apparition dressed in exquisite clothes that marked him as a late eighteenth century gentleman, noted the monocle he held up in his slender hand and heard both his lazy drawl and quaint laugh.  Inspired she wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel in five weeks.

On the second of August 1792, Percy founded his gallant League of Gentlemen composed of nine members.  When ten more members enrolled in January 1793 there was “one to command and nineteen to obey.” Percy and his league saved innocents from the French Revolutionary Government’s tool, Madame Guillotine.

London society speculated about the identity of The Scarlet Pimpernel but, with the possible exception of the Prince Regent, only the members of Percy’s league knew his true identity.

  Percy, a man of wealth and influence well-acquainted with the Prince Regent, heir to the throne, married Marguerite St. Just, a French actress.  Until Percy discovered Marguerite was responsible for an aristocratic family’s death he was an adoring husband. Percy kept his alias, The Scarlet Pimpernel, secret from Marguerite for fear she would betray him.  Still loving Marguerite in spite of her crime, he feigned indifference, treated her coldly, shunned her company and acted the part of a fool so successfully that he bored her. However, Marguerite discovered the truth about Percy and saved his life.  After the romantic couple’s reconciliation, Marguerite is mentioned as a member of the league in Mam’zelle Guillotine.

At the beginning of each of Orczy’s novels about The Scarlet Pimpernel and his league, the current events of the French Revolution are summarised.  Thus, Orczy weaves fiction and fact by not only featuring English and French historical figures such as Robespierre, d’Herbois, The Prince of Wales, and Sir William Pitt, the younger, but by making use of historical events.  For example, in Eldorado Orczy describes the Dauphin in the care of the brutal shoemaker, Simon, who teaches the prince to curse God and his parents. 

In the midst of horror, Orczy uses romance and heroism to defeat evil, as she did as a child when playing the part of a fearless prince while her sister acted the part of a damsel in distress.

Orczy spent 1900 in Paris that, in her ears, echoed with the horrors of the French Revolution.  Surely, she had found the setting for her magnificent hero, The Scarlet Pimpernel, who would champion the victims of The Terror.   But why did she choose such an insignificant flower for Percy’s alias?   It is not unreasonable to suppose a Parisian royalist organisation’s triangular cards, which were hand painted with roses that resemble scarlet pimpernels, fuelled Orczy’s imagination. 

Further fuel might have been added by a man called Louis Bayard, a young man with similarities to the real life Scarlet Pimpernel, although he might not have been motivated by Percy’s idealism

William Wickham, the first British spymaster, engaged the nineteen-year old Louis Bayard. Louis proved himself to be as elusive as Percy. Like Percy, Louis had many aliases. Not only did Orczy’s fictional hero and Louis fall in love with actresses, they appeared and disappeared without causing comment. Real life Louis’s and fictional Percy’s lives depended on being masters of disguise. 

In disguise, Percy fools his archenemy, Citizen Chauvelin, who Orczy gives the role of official French Ambassador to England. It is an interesting example of her distortion of historical personalities and incidents for them to feature in her works of fiction.  In fact, it is doubtful that Bernard-Francois, marquis de Chauvelin ever assumed a false identity as he did in Orczy’s novel, The Scarlet Pimpernel, about Percy and his League of Gentlemen, among whom are such fictional but memorable characters such as Armand St Just, Marguerite’s brother, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Hastings and Lord Antony Dewhurst.

Another example of Orczy weaving fact and fiction is Louis-Antoine St Just, a fanatical revolutionary, who she describes as Marguerite’s cousin.  Louis-Antoine St Just, a young lawyer, was Maximillian Robespierre’s follower. He supported the punishment of traitors as well as that of anyone who was a ‘luke-warm’ revolutionary.  In The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel Marguerite’s brother, the fictional, Armand St Just, meets with Robespierre and other Jacobins.  Orczy portrays him as young, fervent and articulate as the real-life Louis-Antoine St Just.

Throughout the history of publishing countless authors, who became famous and whose work is still enjoyed as books, films, plays and television adaptations, found it difficult to place their work.  Orczy’s most famous novel was no exception.  Percy took the leading role in her play called The Scarlet Pimpernel and captured the audience’s hearts. Subsequently the novel was published, and Percy became famous.  His fame increased with each sequel about his daring exploits.

Orczy did not write her novels featuring Percy and his brave companions in historical sequence, but for readers who might prefer to read them in that order instead of the order in which she wrote them, they are as follows.

Novels

              Title        Chronology                                          Published                                             

*The Laughing Cavalier     January 1623                                                                1913

*The First Sir Percy                      March 1624                                                     1920

**The Scarlet Pimpernel                September – October 1792                              1905

Sir Percy Leads the Band                          January 1793                                        1936

I Will Repay                                                          August-September 1793                       1906

The Elusive Pimpernel                                            September–October 1793                    1908

Lord Tony’s Wife                                      November-December 1793                  1917

The Way of the Scarlet Pimpernel              late 1793                                                          1933

Eldorado                                                               January1794                                         1913

Mam’zelle Guillotine                                              January 1974                                        1940

Sir Percy Hits Back                                               May – June 1794                                             1927

A Child of the Revolution                           July 1794                                                         1932

The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel                                                                                 1922

***Pimpernel and Rosemary                                 1917-1924                                                       1924

*   About Sir Percy’s ancestor.

** Play 1903.

***    About Sir Percy’s descendant.

Short Stories

The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel          July 1793                                                         1919

Adventures of the Scarlet Pimpernel           Possibly 1794                                       1929

Of Further Interest.

Links in the Chain of Life.  Baroness Orczy’s biography.

A Gay Adventurer.  A biography of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart (1935) written by ‘John Blakeney’ pseudonym of Baroness Orczy’s son John Montagu Baroness Orczy Barstow.

 

Old London Bridge by Katherine Pym

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~*~*~*~

Old London Bridge

Old London Bridge was a world unto itself. Not considered London, it was a Liberty, or suburb. People were born, lived, married, and died there, some without stepping off the Bridge the whole of their lives. 

Built in the years between 1176-1209, began by King Henry II, the first Plantagenet king of England, and finished during the reign of King John (who was forced to sign the Magna Carta), it was a massive structure that acted like a dam. It stood stalwart against heavy tides, ice during cold winters, and prevented invading ships to pass upriver. 

Pool of London (Tower of London would be on the Right)

So strongly built, the Old London Bridge lasted 622 years before being pulled down in 1830's. The location of the current London Bridge is some 180 feet upriver from the old. 

It was a stone structure of 19 arches and a wooden drawbridge. Houses, shops, churches and other assorted buildings stood on the bridge. 

The anchors holding the bridge in place were called starlings. Massive and feet-like, they were comprised of broken stones and rubble. The starlings compressed the river flow into one-third of its width, causing the tides to rush through the arches like heavy waterfalls. The rush of water going out to sea could be as high as 6-8 feet, depending on the phase of the moon. 

It brought out the reckless, usually young men, to 'shoot the bridge'. Boats would gain speed and if the water wasn't too high where heads scraped the tops of the arches, or be drowned, they'd fly through and shoot out the other side, over the Pool of London (ships of sail anchored there). After a moment or two dangling above the Pool they'd drop like a rock to the water. Many died upon a wager, or from mishap by getting pulled into the fast current. 

If one were lucky, the wherriman pulled his boat to the river's edge. His passenger got out to walk around the end of the bridge, where he'd catch another wherry in the Pool and finish his journey. 

The bridge had a row of houses on either side of its length with shops at road level. This made the actual road from London to Southwark no more than 12 feet across. Sources state there were about 140 shops at one time, the two story chapel of St Thomas a Becket, Nonesuch House, and the gatehouse (no name). The bridge, with its heavy flow of water, sported water-wheels, corn-mills, and on the London side the water works that supplied running water into surrounding houses. 

Ice Fair on River Thames, London Bridge in background

Then, there was the gateway at the Southwark side where heads of traitors were displayed. The Keeper of the Heads had full managerial control over this section of the Bridge. He impaled newly removed (from the body) heads on pikes, and tossed the old ones into the river. When the original bridge was pulled down, workers found a bevy of skulls in the mud. 

Sometimes, reality is stranger than fiction. While researching the Bridge, I came across the following: 

When King Henry VIII demanded Catholicism no longer be the favorite religion of the land, Sir Thomas More refused to follow his liege. As a result he was beheaded. His body was placed in a coffin and his head put on a pike above London Bridge. After the allowable time frame where the Keeper of the Heads knew seagulls had feasted and nothing should remain but putrid flesh and hollow eye sockets, Sir Thomas' daughter beseeched him not to throw her father's head in the river. Instead, she requested the Keeper give her the head so she may join it with the body, and they be interred together. 

The Keeper agreed, but was amazed when he removed the head. It remained pink and whole as if still alive... 

~*~*~*~

Thanks to Wikicommons Public Domain

 

Reference: Old London Bridge, the Story of the Longest Inhabited Bridge in Europe by Patricia Pierce, Headline Bok Publishing, 2001.

Early bird or night owl? by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

My husband often says the early bird catches the worm to which I like to respond the owl sees at night and catches the mouse. He likes to get up early and I like to stay up late, but how many more differences are there between early birds and night owls?

After spending an evening browsing and reading about early birds and night owls, I drew a short list of the differences that kept resurfacing.

— Early birds don’t need alarm clock and wake up with a smile on their face while night owls like hitting the snooze button and are irritable in the morning.

— Night owls are more intelligent and creative as where early birds are more perfectionists and successful.

— Early birds are more productive during the morning hours while night owls are more productive in the evening.

— Night owls are more impulsive as where early birds like to plan ahead.

— Night owls consume more coffee and alcohol than early birds.

That got me thinking. Am I really a night owl?

I don’t get up in the morning unless I must go somewhere or do something, and that never prevents me from going to bed late. I will be grumpy if someone wakes me for no reason, but one little girl can make me smile at 5:30am. She’s three years old, she has blonde hair, blue eyes, and she calls me grand-maman.

Interestingly enough, I am a perfectionist—too perfectionist sometimes—and I can be productive at any time of day. It depends what I do. I’m best at edits and research in the morning and afternoon but I’m more creative in the evening or at night. I like to plan ahead when it comes to family, travel, or finance, but I mostly write by the seat of my pants. 

I like a dark cup of coffee mixed with hot chocolate in the morning—two cups if I was forced to get up—and tea in the afternoon. I don’t drink alcohol and I prefer to spend the evening home than go out. 

So I’ve come to the conclusion, I was neither an early bird nor a night owl, I’m just some form of permanently exhausted pigeon.

Enjoy your day...or night!

JS

https://sites.google.com/site/jsmarloauthor/home

Do the Characters in a Novel Reveal the Inner Thoughts of a Writer? by Connie Vines

Topic: Your characters come from your mind, from other people you've witnessed, but can you create their lives without them revealing something about yourself? Have they ever taught you something?

I needed to ponder this question for a few minutes.

So, are my fictional characters my 'great reveal'? I asked myself.

 To a degree I believe this to be true.  Every story is filtered through an author's view of the world, emotions, and life experience--at least for my heroine.

However, there is also a curtain we all have firmly in place--revealing only what we wish to reveal to others.  The same is true of our characters.  My heroine will be more like 'me' in my rough draft than she will be by the time I've completed my novel.

In my soon to be released "Gumbo Ya Ya an anthology who like romance Cajun".  One of my heroines, Celeste, jumps overboard into a raging sea!

Not a plan of action in my 'non-fictional' life.

 Runaway horse?  Yep, I'd saddle up.


 Yoga on a mountain top?  Sure, with a soft yoga mat.

Dine on escargot, Rocky Mountain oysters, frog legs? I have, and I will in the future.

 Hold a 6 ft. python--yes, though someone else had a firm hold of upper portion of snake's body (no accidental snake-licks for me).

Jump into the sea?  


No.  Never. . .ever.

 I seem to be be more removed--meaning more analytical in the development of my secondary characters.  This is especially true when I seeped myself in the secondary character's world, work, and point of view.  I become the secondary characters, like a method actor.

Now, my villains must have a motivation with a trigger rooted in a past event/or recent trauma.  Providing me with way I can explain (not justify) the villain's twisted reasoning/action.

Yes, some people are evil, truly evil.  However, I have yet write a novel requiring I delve into that degree darkness, and doubt I every will.

The second part of the topic:  Have my characters every taught me something?

My current release, "Tanayia" Whisper upon the Water, Book 1 Native American/First People Series, taught me to not only view life, but experience the hardships though the eyes of another person.


Opening Prologue 1868:

The Governor of New Mexico decreed that all Indian children over six be educated in the ways of the white man.

Indian Commissioner, Thomas Morgan, said:  It was cheaper to educate the Indians than to kill them.

1880, Apacheria, Season of Ripened Berries

Isolated bands of colored clay on white limestone remained where the sagebrush was stripped from Mother Earth by sudden storms and surface waters.  Desolate.  Bleak.  A land made of barren rocks and twisted paths that reached out into the silence.

A world of hunger and hardship.  This is my world.  I am Tanayia.  I was born thirteen winters ago.  My people and I call ourselves "Nde" this means "The People".  The white man calls us Apache.

I believe i have learned a great deal from my fictional characters.

When writing my novella, "Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow,"  I discovered my quirky sense of humor was becoming more developed--and this was actually a good thing :-).  My readers will also have a peek into the 'behind the screens' of Hollywood beauty and glam! in "Bell. Book, & Gargoyle".(My Sassy & Fun Fantasy Series are all set her in my own backyard--SoCal.)

What have you learned from the characters featured in the novels you read?  Novels you write?

What doesn't this reveal about you as a reader? or novelist.

Happy Reading,

Connie

Amazon.com
Amazon.UK

KOBO

Soon to be Released:

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What's the scoop about chocolate? by Vijaya Schartz

The young heroine in these books loves chocolate. See all of Vijaya's BWL books HERE

I recently autographed my books at the Glendale Chocolate Affaire just before Valentine's day. It made me think about chocolate and its influence on our society. But more interestingly, is it a health food? or is it responsible for weight gain?

Vijaya Schartz holding her latest BWL release, ANGEL OF LUSIGNAN

Writers are addicted to it... so are most readers. We are all guilty of this indulgence. Chocolate is addictive... but did you know it's also a health food?

The pre-Columbian rulers of Central and South America drank it and called it the food of the gods. It was said to keep them young, healthy, and beautiful. 

When the conquistadores brought it back to Europe it quickly became a sensation.

It was a favorite drink at the court of the French king Louis XIV and a beverage reserved for the ruling class. It's only in the 20th century that it spread to the working classes and became a favorite winter drink for all.

There are many ways to drink or eat chocolate. Not all are healthy. My Tai-Chi teacher drinks it with a little Cayenne pepper. Excellent for the heart.

Is chocolate really a health food? Did you know that eating a small piece of 100% dark chocolate every single day will keep your hair from falling? But there is a catch. To be effective as a health food, chocolate should not be mixed with a lot of sugar or other carbohydrates. Sorry. No chocolate cake or candy will do the trick. Only pure dark chocolate will do. I love it. It's a little bitter... an acquired taste. But hey, it works for me.

Chocolate is also touted to be a mood enhancer and I tend to agree.

Wishing you all a wonderful end of winter, with lots of hot chocolate.

Vijaya Schartz
  Action, Romance, Mayhem
  http://www.vijayaschartz.com
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What happened to Shrove Tuesday? Asks Tricia McGill

Visit my Author page at Books We Love for links to the many online stores where our books are available.

As I have mentioned before, I attended a small church school for the first 6 years of my school days. I loved that little school as we got to go to all the religious festivities, my favourites being what we called Pancake Day but I much later learnt was Shrove Tuesday, and the harvest festival held at our local church. We would have to take a basket of fruit or vegetables along which the priest assured us was then distributed to the local disadvantaged people. 

I also loved Sunday School as we got to hear all those amazing stories from the best story book of all time—the bible. Call me a sinner but the only time I visit church nowadays is for a wedding or funeral and even these are few and far between as either my younger relatives get married in their garden or go over to Bali or similar and marry on a beach, and most funeral wakes are held at the funeral parlour.

Anyway, the essence of this post is to find out why we (or should I say I?) don’t hear much about Pancake Tuesday any more. Perhaps this is due to me not living in the UK now as it still seems to be a tradition that is held up over there to this day.

While searching online I came across an informative post at:

http://www.historic-uk.com/CultureUK/Pancake-Day/  

My thanks go to its creator Ellen Castelow for the following facts and figures:

Shrove Tuesday is held before the start of Lent, which for Christians is the 40 days leading up to Easter (a traditional time of fasting) It always falls 47 days before Easter Sunday. The bell that would call people to confession was called the Pancake Bell and this apparently is still rung today. So that blows my theory of Pancake Day not existing any more out the window.

So, back to Pancake Tuesday which to me was a fantastic celebration. I’ve always loved them and we would have them at home with sugar and lemon or in good times with golden syrup atop. As most everyone knows they are made of batter and fried in a pan. The story goes that the tradition started as far back as 1439. Shrove Tuesday was the last chance the housewives had to use up the simple ingredients of eggs, flour, salt and milk before Lent. Even I, terrible cook that I am, can master such an easy recipe. I doubt I could manage the racing and tossing them as I go with much skill though.

A pancake race of some repute is held in Olney, Buckinghamshire each year and the original started some 600 years or more ago when a woman of this town heard the shriving bell calling them to confession while still in the process of cooking pancakes and headed off to church clutching her frying pan. Rule is that the women of the town must wear their apron and have either a hat of scarf on their heads. The pancake must be tossed three times during the race. 

Many towns and villages throughout England still carry on the tradition in some form. Also, some towns held a football match on the day, but a lot of these have died out.

Something I didn’t realise is that in some countries Shrove Tuesday is known as ‘Mardi Gras’, meaning Fat Tuesday in French. So, there is the connection with using up food before Lent. Mardi Gras celebrations are famously held in Rio de Janeiro, New Orleans, and Venice. And news to me, is that the Mardi Gras held in Sydney Australia each year is connected, although this year is to be held on 3^rd March.

Acknowledgements also go to this site for more information garnered about Shrove Tuesday: 

https://www.whyeaster.com/customs/shrovetuesday.shtml

Visit my webpage for reviews and excerpts from all my books.

The Stages of Public Speaking

http://www.bookswelove.com/authors/sawka-randall-western-suspense/

This month my blog will be in stages. The wooden kind, that is.

In 2007 the release of my first book included a large book launch event in downtown Edmonton. This was my first time public speaking. Yikes. I was very uncomfortable. Thankfully a good number of friends and family were present. This allowed me to make a brief (very brief) opening statement and humbly asked for questions. They were mostly softballs or kidding. I made it through that.

I was certainly nervous about the national book tour. How would I react to speaking/reading/media?

The radio / TV / signings were actually quite easy. For some reason the readings were iffy. Still, I got through them.

With our move to Toronto I decided to train in public speaking. I chose acting and impov classes. My first few visits I shook before performing on the stage. It took four months to get comfortable. Now, it's second-nature to get on "the boards". What a change.

Even in front of the camera doing short comedy skits for my Sawka TV youtube channel are more fun than work. Way more fun than work. The biggest surprise is the comfort with improvisation. When your mind is clear the reactions just appear. The few seconds it takes seem long, but I now see that it's just the way it works.

So much fun!

Soren's Calling - A Dark Paranormal Short by S. Peters-Davis

Hello everyone – thanks for stopping: ) I belong to a short story writing group on GoodReads and I’d like to share one of my darker paranormal short stories – not the usual for me, my preference is a lighter form of paranormal or supernatural to read and to write. It’s a real shorty😊  Enjoy…

Soren’s Calling – word count 967

          The tree, miles inside the dense Michigan forest, billowed with majestic energy, same as it did fifteen years ago. I’d sensed its power even then, at ten years old. Something marked in my memory like a reoccurring dream called me back to this place.

          I touched the kaleidoscope of bark, reveling in its swirls of uneven texture, and swore it shivered. Or was I vibrating to its high frequency? Excitement and exhaustion sliced through me. “Hello, old friend,” I whispered.

          A sudden heaviness settled into my body and eyelids. I dropped my backpack and leaned against the tree, bending until I rested on the ground. The sketch book. I pulled it from the pack and thumbed through the pages of my drawings. There he was. I want to see you again.

          My eyes closed of their own volition, sending me into the darkness of deep sleep.

* * *

          Breaking branches, rustling leaves, and a thud on the ground next to me startled my mind to consciousness. I jumped to my feet, the sketch book landing with Soren’s page open. I glanced at it for a second before scanning the area and seeing nothing. Then…he stood in front of me.

          “Soren?”

          His violet-rimmed dark eyes studied me. He’d grown in stature, still long-limbed with clawed hands and feet. His shoulder-length silver hair was drawn away from his sculpted face by a couple slender braids. He sniffed the air and his mouth opened showing long incisors.

          “It’s me, Becca.” I reached my hand toward him and he jerked back, snarling, the talons on his fingers displayed in full. The hair across the nape of my neck snapped to attention, reminding me of the graphic way he’d stopped a wolf from attacking us years ago.

          Maybe this wasn’t Soren. I lowered my gaze to the drawing at my feet. He stepped closer backing me against the tree, his thin brows pinched together as he studied the drawing. He looked back at me, wide-eyed, and planted his hands on both sides of my head. Somehow, we fell inside the tree.

          We plummeted into a wind tunnel. His arms locked around me as he spun my body around until our heads were up and our feet were down.

What the heck just happened? I didn’t recall this part.

Warm shimmering light surrounded us, making the violet color of his eyes opalescent as we free-fell in this make-shift elevator of air.

“Becca,” he whispered and nuzzled my neck. “You came back.”

My eyes moistened. “Soren, I’ve missed you.”  His earthy cocoa-spice scent doused my olfactory in memories. The three days and nights we’d spent together, climbing the tree, finding mushrooms, swimming in an icy pond, enjoying campfires…until my parents found me wandering the forest alone.

We never went to that forest again for our spring mushroom hunts.

All this time I thought the tree and Soren were figments of a child’s wild imagination. I returned to the forest in hopes of finding the tree, where I’d first fallen asleep so long ago. I lifted my head away from Soren’s shoulder to study him closer. His face appeared more human. The fangs had receded. His ears lost their pointed tips and his nose wasn’t so snout-like.

The tunnel opened into a vast terrain of vegetation, thistle huts, pools, gardens; a whole underground civilization. Our descending slowed until our feet rested on solid ground.

“Where are we?” My focus went ballistic, attempting to take in everything at once.

Soren tapped my chin, closing my mouth.

I laughed. “We didn’t come here as kids. I would have remembered it, especially the trip down.”

“No. Our kind never brings humans here.” He grabbed my hand.

No humans? My stomach roiled and my knees shook then folded. The whole falling through a tree into another world of beings wasn’t connecting inside my brain. A living nightmare might work as not one human knew where I’d gone, too hard to explain a child’s quest.

“Becca, you must stand, now, or everyone will know.” He pulled me up and wrapped an arm around my waist. “We must hurry.”

I jerked to a stop. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring me here?”

“Shhh. No scene. Come now.” His nostrils flared and he eyed the gathering crowd. “Explain in a moment.”

A pack of wolves came to mind. My stomach flipped a couple more times at their red eyes, flaring nostrils, and growing fangs and claws.

Soren yanked me along a narrow grassy path, the others followed on our heels. Their snarls and growls closed in. Soren lifted me in his arms and ran toward a large round hut. He pushed through the fabric-like doorway into a cool dimly lit room. Not one of the creatures entered after us.

“They want to hurt me. Or eat me. Why did you bring me here?”

He set me on my feet and motioned for me to sit on the cot in the center of the room. Then he slid my sleeve above my wrist, his fingertips touched two small scars. “Those are what called you back. I marked you long ago, as you slept, with the intention of giving you another that bonds. It is why we were attacked. Spring is our season to bond, no matter what age, we bound our mate and when the age is ripe, like now, we mate for life.”

“Instinct brought me here? You told me humans aren’t allowed.” My heart beat into my ribs so hard my body moved to its pulse. A mix of emotions swept through me in a shiver.

“There are no humans here, only our mates and us.” His face morphed, fangs extended.

“No.” My voice a mere whisper as he pushed me back and his fangs sank into my neck.  

To see books by this author – check out author pages below:

DK Davis BWL Publishing Inc. Author Page: http://bookswelove.net/authors/davis-dk-ya-paranormal/

S. Peters-Davis BWL Publishing Inc. Author Page – http://bookswelove.net/authors/peters-davis-s-suspense-paranormal/

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