. . . I’m not talking about your children!

There’s a phrase writers use in the revision process: Kill Your Darlings. That a descriptive paragraph or scene, no matter how well-written or poignant or suspenseful or romantic or just plain stunning . . . if it doesn’t fit in the story . . . if it can be taken out without changing anything . . . has to go.

Kill it.

It’s the hardest thing a writer can do.

Because killing your darlings goes well beyond a well-turned phrase that may be repetitive, or a scene that is unnecessary. Sometimes in the slash and burn process of editing, characters need to go. And I don’t mean just killing them off in the middle of the book. I mean editing them out of the book completely.

Somehow, editing a character into nothing–completely erasing them–seems so much worse than murder.

I’m wrapping up my final round of revisions for LOVE ME TO DEATH, my January 2011 book starring Lucy Kincaid. Last night I had two major story decisions to make. The first was a series of scenes related to a character that my hero, Sean Rogan, has a confrontation with who subsequently ends up dead. The confrontation scene was fabulous–I loved the scene because it showed Sean being a hard-ass, and because Sean is a bit of a playboy and charming and always in a good humor, I wanted to show him being tough when it was warranted. And there was some great dialogue, too, a great back-and-forth that doesn’t always come easy to me. Then there was the discovering the dead body scene and being interrupted by the FBI. I really enjoyed the back-and-forth between Sean and FBI Agent Noah Armstrong as they butted heads, and then Lucy’s conflict of being in the middle of a crime scene while in the long FBI application process.

But . . . these scenes took up over thirty pages and while well-written and good, they didn’t truly advance the plot. There was no specific reason that Sean needed to talk to the dead guy before he was killed–he didn’t learn anything specific; and in fact, storywise, the guy needed to be long dead before Sean found him.

So . . . I cut all those scenes. And in cutting such a big chunk, I had to edit other scenes that were affected. But nothing changed storywise, and the revelations near the end of the book as Sean and Noah continue their parallel investigations (Sean is a private investigator) make so much more sense now! It’s as if subconsciously, I knew that these scenes weren’t necessary.

Sometimes, we don’t kill our darlings. One scene my editor identified that she felt didn’t advance the suspense plot enough, I decided to keep. I rarely disagree with my editor. In fact, I think the last time I kept an entire scene that she didn’t think was necessary was in THE KILL. But I understood what she meant, so I whittled the scene down a bit, and changed the lead-in to heighten the suspense even though the scene itself is not very suspenseful. But what it reveals about both my characters is, in my opinion, the best way to show the readers who Sean and Lucy are.

But . . . the book isn’t printed yet. The scene may end up on the cutting room floor.

I’ve had to get rid of characters, too. Take Max Revere, a true crime writer who was supposed to be a major character in ORIGINAL SIN. I love Max so much I even bought the URL of his name so he could blog. (I’m not kidding!) I wrote him into the first draft, and my editor told me that she didn’t feel he contributed enough to the story. But I was determined to make him work because I Really Like Max. So I spent a lot of time reworking the story so he had a bigger, more pivotal role. And sent the revisions in, and my editor said he didn’t have a pivotal role, and that he detracted from the story. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I edited him out of the story. When she read the final version, she said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Max was removed easily.” And he was. I’d spent so much time working on his scenes that he wasn’t integral to any part of the story. Just one more character in a large cast of characters.

I argued about it. I tried to convince her that Max was essential. That he was important. That I couldn’t cut him out with messing up the story. But she was right and I was wrong. He wasn’t missed, except by yours truly.

But I was determined to write him into CARNAL SIN. And I did–he had three scenes. They are fantastic scenes. He’s smart and shrewd and intensely loyal–and he doesn’t believe in anything supernatural. He’s also a flirt, in a quiet, soulful eyes kind of way. He just has to look at you and you melt. And he has an agenda, and you know it, and even though you know he’s not all one-hundred-percent good, you’re willing to go along with him because he draws you in in his search for the truth.

And my editor said that he didn’t contribute to the story. I didn’t even argue this time, because she was right, and I knew she was right even as I wrote the scenes. But I wrote them almost defiantly because dammit, I wanted to prove that he was important!

And now he ceases to exist, except in my mind.

Max Revere will be re-born, just not in the Seven Deadly Sins series. Because I had an epiphany the other day. Max doesn’t fit in a supernatural story. He needs to be the lead character in his own story. He’s too strong a character to be secondary to anyone. I’d had a couple ideas over the years, and when I read a snippet of something completely unrelated in a publishing e-newsletter, Max just clicked into place. I have his backstory, I have his first (and maybe only) book, and I have the set-up. It just . . . works.

So not every darling killed will be gone forever. While most of the scenes and snippets I cut from my book during the revision process I’ll never use again, they often give me ideas for future stories. Cutting doesn’t bother me. I’ll slash and burn my manuscript if that’s what it takes to make the story the best I can make it. I love the revision process, even when I have to make the very difficult decision to excise a paragraph, a scene, or even a character, out of my book.

Now for a blatant piece of self-promotion . . . CARNAL SIN will be released on Tuesday, June 22! Yes, book two of the Seven Deadly Sins series is almost here. As regular visitors to MSW know, I loved writing these books. I needed to take a break from romantic thrillers, and writing two supernatural thrillers with a large cast of characters in a classic battle of good versus evil gave me what I needed to reignite my love for writing. I am particularly pleased with the blend of police procedure and the supernatural in CARNAL SIN. (For my fans in Australia, CARNAL SIN will be released down under on July 1.)

RT Book Reviews gave CARNAL SIN four-and-a-half stars and said: “Carnal Sin kicks butt!”

The weekly book buzz at Mania said in their review of ORIGINAL SIN: “Original Sin is yet another new series that is definitely more promising. Original Sin is much more grounded in the supernatural and mystery elements and other books of the same ilk. . . . Brennan masterfully builds suspense and horror in this genre-bending story. . . . All in all this was a strong start to this new series and one I’d recommend.”

I’m giving away a copy of CARNAL SIN. The winner will be announced this weekend. And if you don’t win? You can buy CARNAL SIN pretty much anywhere books are sold come Tuesday . . . or pre-order from Amazon, BN, Borders, or wherever you liked to shop! (Note to last winner of CARNAL SIN–I just got my books in, so yours is going out tomorrow!!)

Come out of lurkdom just to say ‘hi’ . . . or tell me what actor and/or actress you picture in the roles of Moira O’Donnell, Rafe Cooper, Anthony Zaccardi and Sheriff Skye McPherson . . . just for fun

Here’s one idea for Max Revere . . .

Stephen King has said that the short story is a lost art. King is the master of the short story; in fact, my favorite King movies originally came from his short stories. (THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION was originally “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption; there was also ’1408′ and ‘The Langoliers’, both of which translated well to film, and others.) But as the magazine market has collapsed and fewer anthologies are published, the short story has become rare. My mom says she doesn’t like short stories and novellas because she doesn’t feel like there is a completely story; other people enjoy them because they can read a complete story quickly, without having to invest hours of time.

I have a 4,000 words story in the upcoming BLOOD LITE II, the Horror Writers Association anthology. I originally wrote it as the prologue for CARNAL SIN, but it didn’t fit the tone of the book. In fact, it really didn’t “sound” like me. So I added an ending to the prologue and revised it to be a complete story of the anthology: “Her Lucky Day” is the story of a prostitute who thinks she killed her john, until an unlikely savior walks in. She believes she’s been saved . . . but has she?

I received permission this week to release the exclusive short story that was printed in the special Walmart printing of ORIGINAL SIN. “Ghostly Vengeance” takes place a week after the events in ORIGINAL SIN, and a week before the events in CARNAL SIN which will be released two months from today. It will be available at sevendeadlysinsbooks.com next week, but you can read it here first! (Note: this is my copy, which doesn’t have all the nice copyeditors fixes!)

If you haven’t read ORIGINAL SIN, the short story doesn’t give much away, but it does take place after the events in OS and there are a few spoilers. It’s up to you! If you don’t want to read the short, please comment anyway for a chance to win OS, because–honestly–I’m getting a complex here. Rocki and Lori have over 100 comments each this week. Somehow, I don’t think that’s fair, do you? (I love you girls, you know it, but hey, I’m competitive!) So comment for a chance to win a signed copy of the special Walmart ORIGINAL SIN, with “Ghostly Vengeance” printed in the back. I only have a couple copies of this version, so I thought it would be an enticement!

Tell me what you think of my first ghost story, or talk about your favorite short story and why. One of my all-time favorites is “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. Brilliant in its simplicity, and thought-provoking as well as horrific. You remember it from school, right? The woman who gets stoned . . . and I’m not talking about pot here.

GHOSTLY VENGEANCE

(c) Allison Brennan

Why should he be alive
Breathing still while others died
–Blue Oyster Cult, “Sole Survivor”

Three nights after Moira and Rafe were nearly killed during an occult ritual at Rittenhouse Furniture Warehouse, they watched the property from a car she’d borrowed—without permission–from Skye’s neighbor down the street. Emergencies required drastic measures, and she figured if she saved the sheriff’s ass, Skye’d get Moira out of any potentially sticky situations.

Rafe shut his cell phone. “Anthony is on his way.”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk him out of coming. I hope I’m not over-reacting.”

“You? Overreact?” Rafe smiled. “I highly doubt that.”

Moira’s sense of foreboding had been growing all evening, and now that they’d arrived at the store, she knew she’d been right to worry. Skye was in trouble. She didn’t know how she knew—it wasn’t a vision, it was more a feeling, like a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Besides, she’d never had a vision of the future, only the present. But twenty minutes ago she’d run from Skye’s house, Rafe on her heels. She knew Skye was at Rittenhouse and something was very wrong.

Staring at the dark, empty building, Moira bit her lip and considered their options. She’d already tried Skye’s cell phone, but it went directly to voice mail. They couldn’t wait for Anthony, because if something happened to Skye while they sat around twiddling their thumbs she’d never forgive herself.

Their borrowed car was concealed on the far side of the lot under a broken streetlight. In fact, all the lights were out, which was also odd. It was the middle of the night, with a thick fog. She could barely make out the large display windows in the front of the store, but she didn’t see any flickering of flashlights or the overhead fluorescent lights. They’d been here for nearly five minutes and nothing: no movement, no light, no sound.

Skye’s truck was parked near the back entrance next to a black Jeep. They had no idea who owned the Jeep, but it could be a witch tapping into the dark energy that still permeated the area after Friday night’s disastrous ritual. Or it could belong to a couple of kids bent on making out or looting the place.

“I say we go in through the front,” Moira said to Rafe. “I don’t see any movement in the front windows.”

“Anthony said to stay put and wait for him.”

She bristled as she opened the door. “I don’t take orders from Anthony.”

Rafe opened his door. “Neither do I.”

She shivered as the damp salt air wrapped its foggy mitts around her. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, she was dressed for action: jeans, thin black turtleneck, and her special leather jacket. She pulled her long, dark hair out of her way.

“Maybe we should separate,” she whispered as they quickly shut their car doors. “I’ll take the front, you the back.”

“Hell no, we’re staying together. No way am I letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at him, bemused. “I think I’ve proven to you that I can take care of myself.”

He smiled. “Sure you have. Maybe I need you to take care of me.”

He was teasing her, but before she could come up with a retort, his smile disappeared and he scrutinized the building, palpable tension rolling off him. “Rafe?”

“I feel—odd.”

Odd. Yeah, that was an appropriate word for the creepy crawlies that kept the hair standing straight up on the back of her neck. A darkly nagging sensation, like an itch you couldn’t scratch that worsened with each heartbeat.

They skirted the edge of the lot, where bushes and trees were dead or dying. The concrete had been pristine on Friday; the earthquake caused by the demon Envy when he roared into the building had broken the perfect slab, making the property look long-abandoned.

If someone were planning a ritual sacrifice, Moira thought, this would be the place to go. Murder, violence, and magical energy was still coating the building like a glove. Ripe for one of the dark magicians to seize the power.

Taking her hand, Rafe pulled her to his side. He assessed her critically. “You sure you’re okay? You’re still limping.”

“Am not.” Her thigh had been bruised when a demon at Good Shepherd had stepped on it with his hoof, but she wasn’t going to let a sore spot keep her from her job. She didn’t like Rafe noticing her limp. If his attention was not fully on the job, it could get him hurt or worse. “Don’t worry about me, okay? If we’re going to do this, we’re a team. Equal partners, no lone wolves.”

“Partners,” he said.

Rafe brought her left hand to his lips and lightly kissed it. The only injury she had that was still bandaged; in the heat of battle, Rafe had cut her palm to weaken the demon Envy.

Not that she was expecting a fight here.

Not that she wasn’t.

They continued to the front of the building, stooping under the large display windows in case anyone inside was looking for movement in the dark shadows.
She squatted in front of the lock. There was still a police seal on this door. No one had entered this way since the seal was put on early Saturday morning. If she broke it —well, chalk up another crime on her rap sheet.

She eyed the combination lock. “Great.” She pulled out small hand-held sheers. “This might take a minute.” Especially one handed, she didn’t have full-use of her left hand yet.

“I’ll do it,” Rafe said, taking the sheers. Twenty seconds later he’d cut through.

Rafe reached for the door handle. “Wait,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

There was something tingly in the air. While it felt similar to magic—like a few too many electrons in the air—there was no magical undercurrent. No witchcraft, except for the residual spells cast three nights ago. No demons, but there was something—

From deep in the interior of the warehouse, a blood-curdling scream pierced the night, followed immediately by three gunshots.

“Skye!”

Moira grabbed the knob, and rushed in, Rafe on her heels. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her back.

“Be smart!” he growled in her ear. He was right, of course. She willed her racing heart to slow down.

They were in the main showroom. Their eyes had adjusted to the absence of light, and she could see the outlines of the furniture against the edges of the vast room. Remnants of the occult ritual remained, but much of it had been boxed and put into evidence. Moira glanced over to the center of the room where Father Philip had died . . . she averted her eyes, still unable to come to terms with his death. She pushed her grief to the back of her mind. Skye needed her undivided attention.

At first the voices in the back of the warehouse were indistinct, male and female, then Moira clearly heard Skye.

“David—we have to leave right now,” Skye said.

Moira exchanged glances with Rafe. “David Collins,” Rafe whispered. “The SWAT team leader.”

On Thursday, the night before all hell broke loose at Rittenhouse, a disgruntled employee had killed two of his co-workers and a customer before he was taken out by SWAT. Skye had been here that night, and Moira suspected that the sheriff’s presence tonight had more to do with the human murders than the demonic activity the following night.

“It’s my fault,” the male voice—David—pleaded. He sounded on edge, his voice rough and emotional.

“You did your job right, David. You saved three lives. It could have been so much worse!”

“But we lost three innocent people!”

“You can’t think that way,” Skye said.

“Don’t lecture me!”

“We have to go. We’ve seen her die three times, we have to get out of here. I’ll call Anthony, he’ll understand this better than us.”

Rafe whispered in Moira’s ear, “Ghost.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“They’re in the bathroom, right? That’s where the manager died, right?”

“Yeah, but if she’s repeatedly dying, it might just be an imprint of her death, not a real spirit.” Sometimes during sudden or violent deaths, sensitive people could see the victim die. The death loops fade away over time.

“Maybe.” Rafe sounded skeptical.

“Or a manifestation from David’s mind. Maybe he’s imagining it.”

“It sounds like Skye saw the same thing.” He glanced at her. “You haven’t seen a ghost before?”

“No,” she admitted. “You?”

He didn’t answer, and Moira wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to or because Skye and David were arguing, their voices echoing in the partially empty warehouse.

“Don’t look!” Skye shouted. “David, close your eyes!”

Rafe and Moira ran toward the open bathroom. David had his flashlight aimed toward a stall with no door. Dried blood was spattered on the three walls, trails of blood winding down to the floor where it was pooled. A flicker of energy manifested itself into a ghost.

It was Grace Chin, the last victim of Ned Nichols, the Rittenhouse shooter. She was squatting on the toilet, talking on a cell phone though they couldn’t hear her speak, her face frozen in terror as her eyes kept darting to the doorway. She couldn’t see them. She was waiting for something else.

The ghost screamed and the sound of the bathroom stall door being kicked in echoed, then the bullets, three of them, hitting Grace in the chest, the head, and again in the chest, blood spraying everywhere in the small stall, the ghostly replay hitting the walls in the same places that the dried blood now remained.

“It’s my fault!” David screamed. Just as Moira realized David had a gun in his hand, Skye saw her and Rafe in the doorway. The sheriff managed to look both relieved and pissed off.

“David—”

“Why should I live? She didn’t deserve to die, I could have saved her! I should have saved her!”

“It was Nichols who shot her, David. Get your head on straight! It was all Nichols, not you.”

“You should have let me go in sooner!”

The accusation stunned Skye into silence, and Moira took the opportunity to step into the room. Rafe’s hand was on her arm, whether to support her or hold her back, she wasn’t sure.

“David,” Moira said, “we have to get out of here right now. This isn’t real, it’s probably an imprint of Grace’s murder. Death can imprint itself anywhere, but sudden death is more likely to stick around for awhile. But if this is really Grace’s ghost, she might not know she’s dead, which makes her dangerous. You’ve got to let this go.”

“I can’t!”

Skye said quietly, “David, we’ve been friends for my entire career. You don’t want to do anything you can’t take back, and dammit, I don’t want to knock on your parents’ door tomorrow morning and tell them that their son killed himself.”

Skye’s comment seemed to shake David from his daze. He stared at his gun in horror. “I wouldn’t—” he stopped, and said quietly. “I’ve been here every day. I walked away. But then I saw her, and I couldn’t leave. I feel so helpless, Skye.”

“I know you do. We’ll get through this, I promise.” She held her hand out for his gun.

The apparition began again, a psychic rewind of Grace Chin’s last minute alive.

Rafe said, “Moira, get them out. I’ll take care of the ghost.”

“How—”

“Go!” he ordered. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

He had that look, like he was listening to someone else. Moira pushed aside her fear for Rafe and who he was listening to, and motioned Skye to grab David’s gun.

David holstered it instead. “I can’t—”

“Don’t look!” Moira told him, pushing Skye out the door when she hesitated. “Go, Skye—now!”

Skye went, glancing over her shoulder. Moira pulled David from the room. He neither helped nor hindered her, his eyes on the ghost of Grace Chin huddled in the bathroom stall talking on the phone.

Rafe began speaking the ancient language Aramaic. Moira needed to get David and Skye away. Break the fear and grief that was keeping the two cops rooted in that room reliving the death of the one victim they couldn’t save.

They ran into the break room, which was in complete disarray—the table overturned, papers everywhere, coffee mugs shattered on the floor. Moira figured the ghost had less to do with the mess than the demon Envy who’d been drawn into the warehouse by Fiona’s coven. But either way, Santa Louisa had one more weak spot where the line between Hell and Earth was thin. Moira could feel it.

Skye opened the back door. “David, we’ll go to my house and talk about this, as long as you want.”

“I’m sorry Skye. I don’t know what got into me, I didn’t mean—” He jumped at the ghost’s scream and three gunshots.

The back door slammed shut, pulling right out of Skye’s hand.

Moira looked at Skye, who said, “I didn’t—the wind.” She reached over to open it again, but it didn’t budge.

Skye kept pulling on the door, but Moira knew they were trapped.

Rafe walked into the back room. “We have a problem.”

“I know, your exorcism didn’t work.”

He shook his head. “She wasn’t a ghost.”

“What do you mean that wasn’t a ghost? You saw it.”

“It wasn’t even a death imprint. It was a projection—”

“You mean fake?” Skye exclaimed. “Someone recorded Grace’s murder?”

“No, I mean a . . .” Rafe was at a loss for words, but Moira finally understood what he meant.

“Another poltergeist is playing games.”

“Would you explain how whatever it is locked us in here?”

Rafe said, “There is definitely a ghost here, and not a simple apparition—it’s a vengeful spirit. He put a supernatural force on the door. Essentially, his will is keeping it shut tight. The ghostly image we saw of Grace Chin was from his memory.”

David shook his head. “That makes no sense. Skye, you can’t be buying this!”

“Did what you see and heard make sense?” Moira asked.

Skye paled. “The ghost is Ned Nichols?”

“Most likely,” Rafe said.

David shook his head. “But I saw Grace. We all saw her. I’m not crazy.”

“The delay between the imprints,” Moira said, “was about three to four minutes. It’s been at least ten minutes since the last gunshot. The show stopped when Nichols no longer had a captive audience.”

“But why?” Skye asked.

Before Moira could tell her the why didn’t matter, the temperature plummeted in the break room. “He’s locked us in.”

“We have to get out of here,” Rafe said. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What?” Skye asked.

“The cold.”

The small refrigerator fell over, the crashing suddenly loud in the silence. Padlocks spun on a row of lockers along the far wall, then one by one the metal doors opened and closed, banging in a caustic cacophony.

“The front,” Rafe said. “We’ll break the windows if we have to. But this guy Nichols has it out for someone, and I think it’s you, David.”

“Why? Because I killed the fucking bastard?”

The locker doors crashed faster and faster.

“Don’t piss him off,” Moira said.

“Too late,” Rafe said. “I don’t think he ever intended to let David leave.”

The door into the hall slammed shut at the same time as the lockers stopped making their agonizing racket. Skye pulled out her phone. “It’s dead.”

“It’s the electromagnetic field the ghost is creating,” Moira said.

“What do we do? Can you exorcise it or something?” Skye asked. The cop hated feeling useless. Moira understood exactly how she felt.

She reached into her pocket and took out a one-pound bag of salt. “This isn’t going to be enough for all of us,” she said. She glanced at Rafe.

He said, “I’ll need your help. I don’t think I can take him down on my own.”

“I’ve never dealt with a ghost.”

“I have, follow my lead.” He frowned and rubbed his temples.

“Rafe?” she whispered.

“It’s okay, just a memory. I can do this.”

Moira ordered Skye and David to sit on two chairs. She poured a circle of salt around them. “This should keep you safe for awhile. This poltergeist is still learning his parlor tricks, he still doesn’t have a lot of control.”

“Salt?” David looked skeptically at the ground.

“It deters spirits. It’s not foolproof, but it definitely will buy you time.”

“What about you?” Skye asked.

“Years of memorizing exorcisms will come in handy,” Rafe said with a half-smile, taking out his dagger.

“You can’t use a knife on a ghost,” David said. He still looked skeptical, and Moira hoped he stayed put.

“It’s iron,” Rafe explained. “If he manifests himself, it’ll disrupt his energy for awhile.”

“How long is awhile?” asked David.

“A minute or so. Long enough.”

The iron shavings they both had in their jackets helped detour ghosts and demons from possessing them as well. Again, not foolproof—a small amount of iron wouldn’t repel more powerful spirits. But Nichols was new at this game, and it would offer them some protection.

Rafe turned to Moira. “Ready?”

She had her knife out. “Right behind you.” The door into the hall opened easily enough. “Divide and conquer,” she muttered.

“You’re being the pessimist tonight,” Rafe said, his eyes focused on the dark in front of him. “Flashlight?”

Moira handed her light to Rafe.

They walked down the short hall, past the offices, and stood along the wall looking into the main showroom. During the ritual to summon the Seven Deadly Sins, the coven had moved all the furniture to the sides. During the battle that ensued, much of it had been tossed or broken, but the police and emergency crews had cleaned up enough to get through the maze.

“There’s more energy here,” Moira said. “I feel the electromagnetic increase.”

“You’re a regular human EMF detector,” Rafe teased.

“Ha ha.”

Rafe tensed beside her. “Do you—”

“—see that? Hell yes.”

The ghost manifested itself into a pale, transparent image of his human body. He wore dark slacks, a light colored, button-down shirt and had a small red hole in the middle of his forehead.

“Nichols,” Rafe whispered.

The showroom was so cold they could see their breath.

“He knows we’re here,” Moira said. “Ready?”

Rafe launched into an exorcism Moira hadn’t heard before. Though not always effective on ghosts, a traditional exorcism could interrupt malevolent activity long enough to find a more permanent way to get rid of the spirit. Destroying their human remains was still the single most effective way of banishing a ghost.
But since cell phones weren’t working, Moira couldn’t very well call the coroner and ask him to torch Nichols’s body.

Moira kept her eyes on the ghost. The exorcism impacted him only slightly—he wavered in form, then took shape again.

Rafe paused, and Moira said, “Let me try—”

Before she could start an alternative exorcism, a chair flew across the showroom and hit the wall right next to her head.

Nichols disappeared, but the cold remained.

“Moira—” Rafe took her hand and they started to move slowly back toward the break room.

A small table flew at them and they ducked.

“There!” Moira pointed to Nichols who was partially visible only feet from Rafe.

Rafe lunged toward the apparition with his dagger to disperse the energy. The ghost flickered and disappeared.

“Get him?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

A coat rack hit Moira in the head.

“Are you okay?” Rafe sounded both in control and panicked at the same time, if that were possible.

“I’m okay.” Damn, that hurt. She rubbed the side of her neck. She’d been beaten up during her training at Olivet, but nothing like this. “I swear, I wish it was a demon. They are more predictable than that damn ghost.”

“Demons aren’t invisible,” Rafe said. “They can’t waver in and out of sight like ghosts. But ghosts can’t drag you to hell.”

“Oh, joy, that’s looking on the bright side.”

Rafe rubbed the back of her neck. “You have your gun?”

“Of course.”

“See if you can crack the window, weaken it then we might be able to push out the glass.”

“What about the exorcism?”

“I don’t know that it’s going to work fast enough. I wish we could get a message to Anthony to burn Nichols’ body, but we’ll just have to find a way to get out of here then deal with the spirit after. I don’t like leaving Skye alone with that guy—I don’t think he’s a hundred percent stable right now.”

“Skye said she’s known David her entire life or close to it. She would have let us know if she felt threatened.”

“It was his reaction to the reenactment. He’s angry and depressed. Not a good combination.”

“Okay, escape is always good.”

“And,” Rafe continued, “I think the ghost hates you. He threw those things at you, not me.”

“Just lucky I guess.”

“It’s because you’re a woman. Do you remember Skye said after Nichols went postal last week that he blamed his boss—Grace Chin—for sleeping her way to the top.”

“That puts Skye in danger too,” Moira said, pocketing her dagger and taking out her gun.

She shot at the window.

Teeny crack. She fired again, but this time the bullet was diverted and nearly hit Rafe. Her heart quickened and she pocketed her gun.

“Plan B.”

“I don’t have a Plan B.”

“Maybe a Plan C?”

Nichols manifested in the corner of the room. Heavier pieces of furniture moved toward them. Slower than the smaller pieces, which gave them the edge.

“If I can make him retreat, it might loosen his hold on the doors,” Rafe said.

“Go for it. I’ll be bait, since he seems to really hate me.” She moved away from a buffet that looked like it was about to crush her. “And I’ve never met the guy.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Rafe ran along the perimeter of the showroom, toward the apparition, and Moira waved her arms to distract the ghost. “Hey, Nichols! You’re dead! It’s time to move on. I know, you’re probably freaked out because after killing three people in cold blood you didn’t get much chance to say I’m sorry before wham, bam, thank you SWAT.”

The ghost moved toward her, and Rafe lunged for it, slicing the apparition with the iron handle of his dagger. It disappeared.

“Let’s go,” he said, working his way back over to Moira. “Did you have to antagonize the ghost?”

“It worked.”

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or lecture you.”

“If you haven’t guessed, I really hate lectures.”

He kissed her so hard and so fast she would have wondered if he’d kissed her at all, except for the heat that moved through her body.

“Lecture later,” he mumbled as they ran back down the hall to the break room.

The door in front of them splintered when a bullet blasted through.

“Shit!” Moira exclaimed, pulling Rafe back toward her. “That almost hit you.” Her heart raced. They were going to kill themselves if they weren’t careful. Maybe that’s exactly what the ghost wanted.

“Hold your fire!” Rafe shouted. “It’s us!”

Moira opened the door. “Why were you shooting?”

“I saw the ghost,” Skye said, stunned. “You’re not—”

“You didn’t hit anything human,” Moira said, entering the room. Rafe was right behind her, but the door slammed shut in his face, separating them.

“Moira!”

She pushed and pulled at the door. “It’s not budging!” Moira called back to him.

“I’m going to find a way out. Be careful in there.”

“You too.”

Moira heard furniture slamming against the walls. The ghost was dividing them to make it easier to take them out. She had to distract the ghost away from Rafe.

She remembered that the ghost had gone after her. “Skye, I have an idea.”

“Great, because I have none.”

“Just play along, okay?” She turned to David who looked shell-shocked. “David, you’re SWAT, you’ve got to get it together.”

“I’m okay.” He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “I’ve never seen a ghost before.”

“Guess what, neither have I. You have to be the bully, he won’t believe it coming from a woman. Skye said something the other night about Nichols blaming the manager for sleeping her way to the top, or something like that.”

David nodded. “He was furious. And at Skye because she was a woman. Said she slept her way into becoming Sheriff.”

“Play that. We have to get him in here and away from Rafe.”

Another crash from the showroom and Moira tried not to picture Rafe lying injured—or worse—under an armoire.

“Oh—oh! I get it.”

Moira backed into a corner with her dagger ready, watching the entire room, an exorcism on her lips. David turned to Skye and said, “I should congratulate you, Skye—you became sheriff the old fashioned way. On your back.”

Skye was a little slower on the uptake. She turned and stared at him, shocked.

“Speak up, or are you going to lie about it?”

Moira pushed the scenario along. “You prick, don’t talk to my girlfriend like that!” She looked pointedly at Skye, willing her to get into the role.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Skye said, catching on. “So what? I’m a good Sheriff. It doesn’t matter who I had to screw to get there.”

The temperature in the room plummeted again.

“You set Ned up because you hate men,” David said. “You made me kill him because you hate men.”

“That’s right,” Skye said, less forcefully.

Nichols manifested himself right next to Moira. That, she wasn’t expecting. He reached out, waves of energy coming off of his spiritual aura, and she was flying across the room, hitting the wall.

Fuck, that hurts!

She was pinned against the wall, scarcely able to breathe let alone fight the ghost.

Nichols rushed at Skye and David, then bounced off the invisible shield the salt circle gave them. All three of them looked stunned.

“Skye!” Moira called, using the last of her breath. Skye turned and Moira tossed her dagger toward her.

Skye leapt from the circle to catch it. Nichols went for her, fast.

“Handle,” Moira said, and Skye flipped the blade around and slashed the ghost with the iron handle.

Nichols disappeared and Moira fell to the floor.

Skye rushed over to her. “Are you okay?”

“He’s no Casper.” Moira slowly rose to her feet. She took her dagger back. “I don’t think I like ghosts.”

The back door opened and Anthony rushed in. Skye practically flew into his arms. “It’s Nichols ghost,” Skye said in a rush. “He lured David here, locked us in, I don’t know what he wants—”

Anthony touched Skye everywhere, as if to make sure she was in one piece, then kissed her, holding her close.

Moira told David, “Go out, as far as you need to get reception, and call the coroner. Tell him he has to destroy Nichols’s body. Pour salt all over it then burn it.”

David looked at her like she was insane. What, he was questioning her now after everything he’d seen tonight?

“Rafe is trapped in the showroom!” Moira exclaimed. “Do it!”

Skye said to David, “Please, David, trust them. Tell Rod I’m ordering him to do it. I’ll take any fall-out.”

“All right. But Skye, in June—”

“It’s okay,” she said, “The election isn’t as important as our lives.”

“You still have my vote,” David said, and left.

Moira had already run over to the door and fought to open it. “Dammit! It’s not moving!”

Anthony and Skye came over to assist. “You’re bleeding,” Skye said.

“It’s just a little cut.” She put her hand on the back of her head. It hurt, it was damp and sticky with blood, but it would heal.

Three loud crashes from the storeroom made Moira jump.

“Stand back,” Skye said. She fired three bullets into the lock. The door sprang open.

Moira told Anthony, “You do the exorcism, I’ll find Rafe.”

Anthony didn’t like taking orders from anyone, especially her, but she didn’t give him time to argue before she rushed down the hall ahead of him.

“Rafe!” she called. “Raphael!”

A grunt from near the front told her Rafe was down. She felt the energy building again, and suddenly she had an idea on how to defeat the ghost.

She ran back toward Anthony and Skye and hit the rock-solid demonologist head on. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

She ignored him and asked Skye, “Do you have your Taser with you?”

“Of course, but—”

“I need it.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

Skye handed it to her. “I took off the safety. Be careful.”

Careful. Like they weren’t in imminent danger of being crushed by flying furniture.

Movement near the front drew her eye. Nichols was faintly shimmering, barely visible, whether because he was weakening or had learned to control his physical presence better, she didn’t know. But he was moving away from them . . .

. . . and toward Rafe.

Moira maneuvered among the toppled furniture and shouted, “Hey, Ned!”

The ghost turned to face her.

She didn’t realize how fast ghosts could move. Suddenly it was right in front of her, touching her, its icy cold aura burning her flesh.

Her feet weren’t on the ground.

“Moira!”

It was Rafe’s voice, but she couldn’t let herself be distracted. She fought the levitation, but Nichols was strong. Her arms felt like lead weights and she had to use every ounce of strength to move her hand into firing position.

She couldn’t breathe, as if the ghost was sucking every ounce of air out of her.

In the back of her mind, she heard Anthony shouting a Latin exorcism. The ghost wavered, but didn’t let go.

She pressed the Taser’s trigger.

Two darts flew from the Taser and went right through the apparition.

Moira fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of her. She couldn’t move or feel anything and wondered if she broke all her bones. She hadn’t realized how high he’d held her.

But she wasn’t dead, and slowly the pain spread.

She felt her body gathered up. “Moira, Moira!”

It was Rafe. She tried to say his name, but nothing came out.

“It’s gone,” Anthony said.

“Let get out of here,” Skye said.

Moira tried to talk, but it came out a moan. Rafe was carrying her from the building. The damp fog revived her. She hurt everywhere, but nothing felt broken. “Rafe.”

“Shh.”

“Nichols?”

“Gone.”

“It worked.” She relaxed and leaned against Rafe’s chest, breathed the fresh outside air.

“How did you know the Taser would work?” Anthony demanded.

“Leave her alone,” Rafe said. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’s okay,” she said, feeling better. “Ghosts are made from electromagnetic energy—at least, that’s where they get their strength. I thought a jolt of electricity might disrupt him long enough for us to get out.” And since ghosts were either attached to a person, object or building, if she didn’t destroy it, most likely he’d be trapped in Rittenhouse until they could exorcise the building.

“Smart,” Skye said.

“You scared me,” Rafe whispered in Moira’s ear.

“You scared me. We’re even.” She sighed. “I think I can walk now.”

He set her on her feet. Skye was on her phone, and Anthony was holding her close to his side. Moira saw the love, and the fear, on Anthony’s face. Though she and Anthony had their differences— substantial differences—her feelings about him were changing because of how much he loved Skye. A man who could love so deeply couldn’t be a total asshole.

She looked at Rafe. “I’m okay.”

He was scrutinizing her. She didn’t want a lecture, so she hugged him, relaxing in his warmth.

She took a final look at Rittenhouse Furniture Warehouse.

Four ghostly images flickered in the windows, then disappeared.

Maybe it wasn’t completely over.

THE END

I rarely comment about reviews I receive for my books because reviews are generally one person’s opinion. I can take the bad reviews with the good, and while I don’t like to get a bad review, I just suck it up and repeat what Stephanie Laurens said at the Orange County Romance Writers meeting a couple years ago: “They’re just having a bad reading day.”

There are a few things that irritate me about reviews, however–good and bad. The first and foremost is spoilers. I’ve had good reviews where the reader obviously loved the book and wants to talk about it with everyone (I love people like that!) Except they get a little carried away and share a bit too much in a public forum. Or the bad reviews where the readers wants to prove what an idiot the author is by telling the world who the bad guy is and why it was “so obvious” from the beginning and listing every major turning point in the book. The only review I asked Amazon to remove was where the reviewer did this and more–not only identifying the killer, but also revealing that one of the main characters died at the midpoint of the book.

I’ve had more than one bad review, but a recent comment on Amazon related to ORIGINAL SIN had me scratching my head.

“This book seems to have taken bits and pieces from the show Supernatural and was made into a book.”

I had to think about that for a long time, because I am a fan of SUPERNATURAL–a huge fan. I’ve seen nearly every episode twice. I’m also a fan of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER and the old classics FRIDAY THE 13th THE SERIES and THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

I started OS in the summer of 2003, though I called it THE COVEN at the time. I knew the basic premise, the heroine (Moira), but had no idea who the hero would be, other than a tormented ex-seminarian. I didn’t know Rafe Cooper or his backstory or how my hero would come to the scene. I originally planned on having the hero be the brother of a missing girl (Lily) but it didn’t work out, and Lily didn’t stay missing for long in the final draft. I had over 100 pages drafted when I sold THE PREY and put this story idea on the back burner. SUPERNATURAL aired in September of 2005. I didn’t watch it until the DVD came out the following year, then I was addicted. My daughters originally discovered the series but I was on a tight deadline before the release of my first book.

I wrote the proposal for OS in early 2007 and gave it to my agent. She wanted to hold off a bit because we wanted to build me in romantic suspense first, and I agreed. The proposal outlined a seven book series (I use the term “outline” very loosely–the proposal was only three pages) and listed the main characters and the premise: the seven deadly sins released from Hell as incarnate demons. Believe me, when the Season Three opener of SUPERNATURAL aired in September of 2007 called “The Magnificent Seven” — yes, about the Seven Deadly Sins as demons — I nearly flipped. My daughters will tell you that I stomped around the room declaring that I had the idea first!

But as we all know, it’s not the idea but the execution that matters, and the episode was nothing like my idea.

Whenever we write, especially when we write stories that by necessity have a lot of research put into them, there are bound to be similarities between other works of creative art–unless it’s a completely made-up world not relying on human facts and theories.

I have dozens of books on criminal psychology, true crime, forensics, serial killers, weaponry, crime scene investigations, and the like. Dozens. I’ve read parts of all of them, and all of some of them. There are certain truths in criminal investigations that I use–and most other crime writers use as well to varying degrees. I like forensics and psychology, so I tend to write more detail about those subjects. Medical stuff? Not so much. In fact, most of my errors have been when I take my characters to the hospital, so I try to skip those parts now No one has accused me of copying from CSI or CRIMINAL MINDS. And did anyone else notice the similarities between the CM episode “Outfoxed” as a compilation of both THE RED DRAGON (where Harris’s killer targets families who he gets to know through home movies his company develops) and SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (where Harris uses a convicted killer to help the FBI find the active killer–and both incarcerated murderers want to see the photographs of the victims.) Still a good episode. They made it their own with their own twists and motive for the killer.

So I was thinking, why SUPERNATURAL? Is it because it’s fantasy/supernatural/horror? That by definition it’s not real and thus I must have copied?

Truth be told, I have more books on witchcraft, religion, black magic, spells, exorcisms, and mythology than I do on crime and forensics. I immersed myself in these books for the year before I really started writing OS. I wanted to get a feeling of all the possible directions, but ultimately I gravitated toward books and ideas that supported my vision and my characters. I read more about the dark arts and exorcisms and speaking in tongues and Jewish fairy tales.

Would it surprise you that virtually every single episode of SUPERNATURAL has some written lore about it? When Sam talks about, “Lore says A,B,C” he’s taking that pretty much directly from the show’s research books. Funny thing–I have many of those same books! In the SUPERNATURAL companion guides they dissect each episode and talk about the lore that went behind it–Eric Kripke, the show’s creator, was adamant that there needed to be a grounding in the mythology, so wanted “proof” of a lore — which means research.

None of us came up with the idea that Holy Water was like poison to demons, or that salt protects against evil spirits, or that a devil’s trap (or spirit trap) can protect both a magician or trap a demon. Those ideas have been around for hundreds of years. Salt, in fact, as a protection pre-dates Christ. Every major world religion has a devil-like figure and theories related to demons or evil spirits. None of this is new, not to SUPERNATURAL or to me. There’s one SUPERNATURAL episode (the scarecrow) that is so much like an episode in FRIDAY about a scarecrow that I nearly laughed. But they were still different enough because in television, characters are the voice. They make the show unique, just like a writer’s writing voice plus characters make a book unique.

So the bad review didn’t bother me specifically because I wonder how well-read the commenter is on matters of the supernatural. Because if you read just a little, you quickly learn that it’s all been discussed before.

There have been a few things that have popped up in the show that have me banging my head because those concepts are in my books, but honestly? They no more took the ideas from me than I took the ideas from them. We all took them from the lore out there–and created our own stories from it. There are some things that, if you’re trying to stick with ideas that have been written about historically or theoretically, have become “facts” and when you’re writing a real-world paranormal story, you need to stick to the basic common understanding. No suspending the laws of physics — unless you find a good spell for it.

Rant Number Two . . .

Since this post has gone on a bit longer than I planned, Rant Two will be posted at Murderati on Sunday. It relates to the so-called NYT ethicist who stated that if you buy a hardcover book, while it’s illegal to download a pirated copy of the book, it’s not unethical. My response? If that’s the case, they he should go tell people that if they buy a ticket to a movie, they have every right to illegally download a pirated copy of the movie.

So my question to you: what are some other movies or books that explore very similar ideas–and what do you think about it? If we’re all drawing from the same pool of facts and mythology, what makes the final creative product unique? The author’s voice or director’s vision on screen? The characters? The tone? The rhythm? The little plot twists and turns? When do you get frustrated by similarities and when do they not bug out–or maybe, make the book even more enjoyable?

Catholics aren’t supposed to be superstitious. (I can hear a lot of you laughing out there, because the Irish are mostly Catholic and the Irish are very superstitious!) I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m Irish Catholic. :/

Writers also tend to be a bit neurotic. Some of us never read our books after they are published. Some of us have little rituals in the morning to help lure the muse out of hiding. Some of us simply write off our entire career as rubbing the right lucky shamrock at the right time when all the moons are aligned.

I don’t know any writer who doesn’t feel that what they are writing is the worst drivel on the planet. Self-doubt is part of this business–I think all creative people doubt their talent because the final product, be it a book or a movie or a painting or a song, is subjective. Some people will love it. Some people will hate it. Also, we feel guilty (or maybe it’s just us Irish Catholics who feel guilty, though some of my Jewish friends say their mothers have the market cornered on wielding guilt as a weapon.) Why guilt? Because if we LIKE the book we’ve written, is that too arrogant? What gives us the right to deem our novel worthy?

I have a few more chapters left of my page proofs for CARNAL SIN, which I need to FedEx this afternoon. Reading the page proofs is the last time I’ll see this book before it is printed. And now I’m scared. Because I really like this book. For those who know me, I tweak extensively in the page proof stage, cutting repetition, changing words, sometimes adding or deleting whole paragraphs–sometimes even adding in an entire scene! But not this time. I’m being hypercritical of everything because I like it. I really, really like this book–and I’m terrified that I’m going to jinx it. That if I LIKE the book, everyone else is going to hate it. Or worse, that I’m blind to the story’s flaws.

The same goes for my career. When someone congratulates me on my success, I want to say, “Don’t jinx it!” Instead, I’m gracious and smile and say, “Thank you.” Because what do you really say to that? Every writer is crawling up the side of an hour-glass, and once you start on the upslope, you’re hanging on only by the sheer force of your will, your perseverance, and even a little luck. Talent matters, but talent isn’t the ONLY thing that matters.

Three months and CARNAL SIN will be on the shelves. No matter how well it does, or doesn’t do, I know I wrote the best book I could write at the time. And really? That’s all any writer has control over. The story on the pages.

I’m giving away books! A copy of ORIGINAL SIN, book one of the Seven Deadly Sins series and a copy of COMING HOME by Mariah Stewart (I thought I ordered two copies, but I ordered three from Amazon, so I have an extra! My mom gets one.) And the two winners get to pick a friend to win, too! Those friends will win any title from my backlist, your choice! Just post a comment, any comment. But what I’m really interested in today is your superstition. Do you throw spilled salt over your shoulder? Avoid walking under ladders? Do you have a special ritual when you write? What about before you fly or go on a car drive?

Other than my fear of jinxing myself if I expect something good to happen, I have a little superstition related to gambling. Long ago, I won $500 at Craps in Lake Tahoe. That day, I’d played Roulette for the first time, right when I walked into the casino. Now, I can’t go to a casino without playing Roulette first because I have this subconscious belief that it helped in winning Craps (though I lost $20 on Roulette.)

And now, you’ll be the first to see the cover for CARNAL SIN. Drum roll please . . .

Sometimes, I’m at a loss of what to say. Those who know me well are laughing right now–Allison can always find something to say! But this week is upside down. It’s release week. I’m woefully behind on my schedule. I’d planned on going out to local stores and signing stock today, but didn’t because I’m reworking the last 100 pages of CARNAL SIN, my July release. And I’m not done, so tomorrow, no stock signings either. And I’d wanted to get a newsletter out Tuesday, to announce that ORIGINAL SIN is on sale . . . but that, too, fell by the wayside because of these revisions. And this morning I woke up with a mild sore throat. I’m fighting it with zinc and Airborne (take THAT you damn germs!) and so far . . . it hasn’t gotten worse. That’s a plus!

There are always so many things I want to do release week, but there’s that little thing of only 24 hours a day. And this Tuesday, the day my book came out, we had back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back (yes, five) basketball games. I made it to three and a half–catching both my daughters, the varsity boys and half the younger middle school team. And in between games, I had my laptop out–that not-so-insignificant issue that I need to fix the ending of CARNAL SIN.

And tonight Dan had a meeting and I had to do double-duty on practice drop-off and pick-up, so didn’t sit back down at the computer until 10 pm.

So you can see that thinking what I should write about is hard. As I often do when I get stuck, I look at my bookshelves. Sound weird? Well sometimes just staring at the books filling my shelves I can come up with an idea.

It didn’t work this time. So I looked at my desk. I have one stack of my Rita books–seven books, but I’ve already read two so I’m happy. Then another stack–with included a copy of ORIGINAL SIN (because I always pre-order a copy from both Amazon and BN.com–I’ve done it with every release and I think I’m a bit superstitious because I fear if I DON’T pre-order it’ll jinx it. I know, I know–dumb. But there you go.)

The book on top of ORIGINAL SIN is THE NEXT BEST THING by Kristan Higgins. I discovered Kristan when she entered the RITAs and I judged her book (I know, we’re not supposed to say anything, but this was two or three years ago and she won.) I loved it. (I can’t remember the title–was it CATCH OF THE DAY? It had the dog in the picnic basket on the cover, but my mom stole the book so I don’t have it on my shelf.) It is exactly the opposite of what I write. She writes warm, funny, heartwarming books that I adore. And THIS one has a cat instead of a dog (Go Felines!) So I always buy Kristan’s books ostensibly for my mom, but then I get another copy because my mom wants to keep the copy she “borrows” from me. (And yes, before anyone asks, I’m bringing my mom to RWA this year, okay? I think people are more interested in talking to her than me!)

So I stared at Kristan’s book for awhile (admired the cat–it looks like a Russian Blue persian on the cover, which reminds me of my old cat named Raider–yes, after the football team–though white and orange cats are my absolutely favorite.) Her book is about second chances, family, lost loves . . . second chances? I stared, hoping for blog inspiration, worried about my opening week sales (knowing you don’t get a second chance for opening week), frustrated that my revisions are taking longer than I thought (if only I could stop tweaking and ONLY address my editor’s concerns–but no, I have to touch every damn page); and stressed about the new release date for MORTAL SIN (8.31.10) because I don’t know how it starts. (Well, I was stressed more yesterday, because I didn’t know how it started or what happens in the book, but this morning driving to Starbucks I had a flash of the opening scene, so I think I’m okay now.)

And I thought, what would be the next best career after writing books for a living? I can’t imagine doing anything else. With all the warts and stresses and worries, I love what I do.

In fact, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I thought I should be an English teacher first (but I dropped out of college) and then I thought maybe a reporter. There was also a time, for about two years, where I wanted to be a Forensic Pathologist–like Quincy, MD. That was until I dissected a fetal pig in biology in 8th grade and went back to wanting to be a teacher/reporter on the way to author. (As an aside, I did observe an autopsy and didn’t almost faint–cough cough Brenda Novak cough cough–so maybe I could have been a forensic pathologist. We’ll just never know now, will we?)

So honestly? The next best thing to being a writer . . . is writing about other careers. I have the best of both worlds (hey, Kristan! That sounds like a good title for one of your books–THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS. Ha.) Seriously, though. I get to talk to cops, FBI agents, forensic pathologists, lab techs, coroners, doctors (with a special SHOUT OUT to CJ Lyons who has always answered my questions with aplomb. (I’ve never used that word in a sentence–”aplomb”–meaning with “ease” “self-confidence” and “style.”) I learn about the job, go deep in my characters so I can find out what they think of their job, and for a few months, I become a cop . . . or a criminal psychologist . . . or a demon hunter. And that is the next best thing . . .

Now it’s time for some of that Blatant Self Promo. I can’t help it. It’s release week. ORIGINAL SIN is on sale . . . and I have had some amazing reviews I’m tickled about (because as you all know, especially Toni and Rocki and Karin who have seen the worst of neurotic me, I’ve been a teeny-tiny worried about changing genres.)

Becky Lejeune at Book Bitch wrote:

“Brennan’s first paranormal outing is a winner. I love the detail that has gone into this book and can’t wait to learn more as the series develops.”

From Fantasy Rambler:

A terrific mixture of suspense, mystery and a lot of action with a hint of romance . . . I found myself repeatedly surprised by the turns in the plot. I have definitely been pulled into the world of the Seven Deadly Sins and I cannot wait until Carnal Sin releases later this year.

From Casee at Book Binge:

Original Sin is the start to what promises to be an amazing paranormal series. . . . I’m pretty sure that Moira will be on my list of top five heroines of 2010. She’s that good.

From RT Book Reviews:

“Suspense maven Brennan takes a decidedly supernatural turn with her new demon fighter series. . . . Her style of suspense readily adapts to the Urban Fantasy genre, giving it a darkly powerful edge. It’s shiver inducing!”

And here’s part of a review that is supposed to appear in the Providence Journal soon . . . cross your fingers that it makes it so I can use it, because I was floored when I got it.

“A scintillating new series… evokes memories of William Peter Blatty at his level best… Brennan shows a deft command of all things both normal and otherworldly in crafting one of the best tales of its kind since Dean Koontz and Stephen King were still writing about monsters. There’s no shortage of those here and the result is a new genre classic.”

I also want to thank my fabulous partners here at Murder She Writes for being so terrific and supportive, and how about our new bloggers? Amazing women, all of them.

What would be the next best thing for you? Or if you could have a second chance at something, anything . . . what would it be?