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Thursday Teaser — THE CHALICE WAR: CAULDRON Drops Tomorrow!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThe Chalice War: Cauldron, the second volume in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy, will be released tomorrow by Bell Bridge Books. And to get you a bit more excited about the release, I offer a new teaser — my hero’s first encounter with the Celtic sea god, Manannán mac Lir. Enjoy!!

*****

While Carrie continued her conversations, Riann wandered up the strand. Near a rock pool, she came upon a man who sat in a rickety lawn chair, an ancient Billabong baseball cap on his head, and two fishing poles set in rod holders before him. A dory rested at the tideline a short distance away, its wood worn and badly in need of fresh paint.

Or so she thought at first glance.

When she glimpsed it from the corner of her eye, the boat looked quite different. It was golden and perfect. She halted and stared straight at the vessel; once again, it appeared to be a battered old rowboat.

She wheeled to face the man. “What—”

His smile stopped her.

He was gorgeous. His chin and cheeks were grizzled, and the corners of his emerald eyes crinkled. He had a dimple on one side, and his hair stuck out from beneath his hat, hanging down to the base of his neck. He wore khaki cutoffs and a stained, torn short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tanned and toned chest and belly, lightly covered with fine silver curls. She had been with men and women, and she preferred the latter. But she would have taken this man to her bed without hesitation.

And he seemed to know it.

“You like my boat?” he asked in a soft Irish burr, his voice a warm tenor.

She eyed the dory again, then averted her gaze slightly, enough to see it turn golden once more.

“I don’t understand,” she said, facing him.

“Of course you do, love. You understand perfectly.” He nodded at Quinn, who stood beside her. “Your conduit is beautiful. May I?”

Before she could answer, he clicked his tongue and held out a hand, palm up. Quinn strained to reach him. Riann released the leash, unsure of why she did it. Quinn trotted to the man and sat in front of him, allowing him to scratch her ears and neck.

“Aye, a fine creature.” He regarded her. “You’re Michael Donovan’s girl, aren’t you?”

She gaped, but took a step toward him. “You knew my father?”

“Aye, love. He was a good man. His death was a terrible loss for all in the magical world.”

Riann stole a glance at Carrie, started and looked again, then turned a quick circle. A soft wind blew off the water, cooling the day, and the surf surged and retreated as always. Silver gulls circled and cried, and a sea eagle flew past, clutching a fish in its talons. But every person on the beach and the sidewalk had frozen in place, as if time had stopped.

“I’m dreaming,” she murmured, frightened.

“You’re not even asleep.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out something that caught the sun with a flash of silver. He tossed it in her direction.

She caught and scrutinized it. It appeared to be a coin of some sort, though almost all the detail had been worn away. She thought there might be a head on one side. She couldn’t make out the design on the obverse. It was mostly round, and slightly concave.

“What is this?”

“A drachm. A Celtic crown essentially. Proof that I’m real, that this is real.”

Riann turned it over. “How—”

“Twenty-two hundred years, give or take.”

She studied the coin for another moment before walking closer to him and holding it out for him to take.

“Keep it,” he said with a smile. “A token, to remember me.”

“Who are you?” Riann asked, fear giving way to curiosity.

“Forgive me. Manannán mac Lir, at your service.”

She’d heard the name before, from her father, of course. She combed her memory.

A small frown creased the man’s brow, which, impossibly, made him even more attractive. “Come now. I refuse to believe that Michael never spoke of me.”

“He did. I just can’t remember—”

“You would forget a god?”

And then she did remember.

Manannán, the sea god. A trickster, her father called him. Fickle, even capricious, like all the Celtic gods, but essentially benevolent.

Riann wondered if she should bow, or kneel.

“Most prostrate themselves before me,” he said, his tone severe.

“O-oh! I . . . I didn’t know.”

He laughed. “That was a joke, love. I had the sense you were about to curtsy or some such.”

She felt her face redden.

One of the fishing poles juddered and nodded. Manannán sat forward, took hold of the pole, and reeled in what turned out to be an enormous silver fish. The god removed the hook from the creature, whispered something to it in a language Riann didn’t know, and heaved it back into the water, easily clearing the coastal breakers.

“Why—”

“Just checking in with old friends. What do you know about the woman?”

As quickly as blood had flooded her cheeks it now drained away, leaving her cold, despite the sunshine.

“What?”

“The woman. The dead one they found last night.” He continued to scratch Quinn’s head. She licked his hand.

“That was you,” Riann said, remembering how Quinn growled and stared into the darkness. “You were watching us.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She was Sidhe. She was killed by a Fomhoire and her demon. But that’s about all. I don’t know why they killed her.”

“Fomhoire need a reason?”

She lifted a shoulder, conceding the point.

“You know nothing more?”

“I know her name, where she worked, that she was on a museum board and was recognized for her philanthropy.”

“Which museum?”

“The Australian.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “What else?”

She shrugged again. “That’s all.”

Manannán’s frown this time conveyed disapproval, as if he thought she should know more.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she thought he expected it.

“No worries, love. But I may check with you again at some point. If you learn anything of value, I hope you’ll tell me. Fomhoire incursions are becoming too frequent for my taste. And now they’ve focused their attention here. There has to be a reason.”

“There are others who know more than I do. Why ask me?”

“Who says I haven’t asked those others?” He let the question hang, a gentle rebuke. “As to why you, because you were there last night, of course. Because you knew enough to convince the police to let you see the body. That was well done. Michael would have admired your resourcefulness.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled in answer and her knees nearly gave way. Rather than stare at him, she cast another look at Carrie, who still stood frozen with the brawlers. When Riann turned back to the god she found him eyeing the reporter as well.

“She a friend of yours?”

“I suppose. We’ve only really just met.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on Carrie, an odd twist to his grin. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“What is?”

Manannán turned back to her, his expression brightening. “Not a thing. Remember what I told you. Learn what you can, and watch for me. My demesne ends at the shore, so I’ll always be near water.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m going to start things again now. You may experience a moment’s unpleasantness. It’ll pass. ’Til next time.”

Before she could say goodbye, a wave of dizziness crashed over her and she staggered. Voices reached her. A dog on the far side of the street barked and a car engine revved. The world had awakened.

Manannán was gone, as were his chair, the fishing poles, and that magical golden boat. The coin lay in her palm. Proof . . . . Quinn whimpered and sidled back to Riann.

Riann scratched her head absently.

Carrie called her name and when Riann looked that way, she waved and beckoned. Riann strode over the sand to the sidewalk. Already she felt better.

“Do you have the images you need?” Carrie asked.

“Uh . . . yes. Your interviews are over?”

The woman nodded. “I have enough to write my story.” She surveyed the beach. “It’s nice here. Too bad we haven’t time to stay.”

“Yes. Did you happen to notice the man I was talking to?”

“I didn’t see you talking to anyone. Who was he? Did he see what happened last night?”

“No, nothing like that. Just . . . just a guy fishing. We should probably head back.”

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Professional Wednesday: Marketing Strategy, a New Release, and an Excerpt!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThis Friday — the day after tomorrow!! — The Chalice War: Cauldron, the second book in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy series, will be released by Bell Bridge Books. For those of you thinking, “Wait, didn’t you JUST have a release in this same series?” you’re right, I did. The Chalice War: Stone came out May 5, four weeks before this week’s release. And the final book in the series, The Chalice War: Sword, will be out in July or August. (And wait until you see the jacket art: Spoiler Alert — it’s spectacular!)

The thinking behind rapid-fire releases of this sort is pretty simple: If the first book interests readers, and if they fly through that opening volume, they will be eager for more and won’t want to wait. I can’t tell you how many times authors hear from readers, “Oh, I hate waiting for each book in a series to come out, so I wait until the last book is published before I buy any of them.”

This is deeply frustrating for those of us who write and sell books for a living. I get it, of course. Sometimes, fans have to wait a year or more for subsequent volumes in a series to be released. And on occasion, those subsequent volumes never appear at all. The series is dropped by the publisher, or the author simply never gets around to completing the story. Writers aren’t the only ones who can find the publishing schedule frustrating.

Here’s the thing, though: Quite often, the publication of second and third and fourth volumes in a given series is dependent on the sales of the first book. If sales of Book I disappoint, some publishers will decide to drop the series, rather than go to the trouble and expense of putting out the later volumes. And so the reluctance of readers to buy that first book, lest the others don’t find their way to print, becomes self-fulfilling.

The rapid release model is relatively new in the publishing world, but it is intended to prevent this sort of thing from happening. If readers see the second and third books coming out so soon after the first, they will be more willing to buy that initial installment, and might go ahead and just grab all three as they appear. This is certainly my hope.

So, in the spirit of marketing and piquing your interest, let me tell you a bit about Book II, Cauldron. In book I, Stone, we meet Marti Rider, a Sidhe conjurer, and Kelsey Strand, two strangers who are bound to each other by a powerful magical artifact. They are attacked and pursued across the country by Fomhoire demons and their allies, who are intent upon killing them, claiming the artifact as their own, and using it to conquer our world. Along the way, we encounter a host of Celtic immortals who help our heroes or hinder them, depending on their shifting alliances.

In Cauldron, the pursuit of these magical chalices shifts to Australia, where we are introduced to Riann Donovan and her friend (and perhaps more) Carrie Pelsher. Riann is a Sidhe sorcerer who has fled the States to Australia to escape a tragic past. Carrie is a journalist with a strange affinity for magic. When the Sidhe community in Sydney is devastated by a coordinated Fomhoire assault, the two women find themselves in a race against time and a dance of intrigue among gods, Furies, and demons. And yes, for those wondering, Marti and Kel will find their way to Australia to join the fun.

As I’ve said before, I love all of these books. Writing Cauldron allowed me to draw upon experiences and memories from the year I spent Down Under. Many of the locations described in the book are places Nancy, the girls, and I visited. It was a special book to write. And I hope you enjoy it.

And, to whet your appetite for the book even more, here is a short excerpt! Enjoy!

*****
The train had just pulled out of Redfern station when the first frisson of magic brushed across Sara’s skin. She shivered, tasting darkness in its touch.

Fomhoire. Here, in the middle of Sydney. Nearby and closing in, accompanied by . . . by what? Wight? Demon? Yes, demon. All this she read in that initial contact. More, she sensed the Fomhoire had already found her, was intent on her and closing the distance between them.

Sara stood, crossed to the nearest of the sliding doors, and stared out into the inky black of the railway tunnel, desperate for the light of the next station. Never had the distance between Redfern and Central felt so great. The train car rocked, and she grabbed hold of the steel pole beside her to keep from tumbling into the lap of a young businessman.

“Pardon me,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked to her. He answered with a nearly imperceptible nod and turned his attention back to the Herald.

Morning commuters crowded the CityRail trains and stations. Surely Fomhoire assassins wouldn’t attack her here, in front of so many.

A small voice in her mind replied, Why not?

She wore work clothes, carried her briefcase, was on her way to her office in the CBD. Roger, her tabby, her conduit, was at home, safe in her flat, too far away to help her with spells. She was powerless, defenseless.

The train slowed—finally!—and the train guard announced their arrival at Central Station.

“Change here for Northern, Carlingford, North Shore, Cumberland. . . .”

The moment the doors opened, she pushed her way out, heedless of the men and women in front of her and those on the platform waiting to board. People shouted after her; a few muttered obscenities. She didn’t care. She hurried to the nearest stairway, one that would take her to the concourse. The magic followed, aimed like a weapon at her back.

By the time Sara reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing hard, sweating through the blouse she wore beneath her blazer. She switched her briefcase to the other hand, wiped her slick palm on her skirt.

She kept to the crowd, surrounding herself with people, using them as shields and searching frantically for anyone who might give off enough glow to let her defend herself.

How can there be Fomhoire in Sydney?

She and the others maintained a network, a web of magic. Like Sidhe in other parts of the world, they watched for portals and Fomhoire incursions from the Underrealm. As far as she knew, they had sensed nothing.

For decades, Sara and her fellow Sidhe had protected one another, warned one another. These last several years had been quiet, peaceful. She knew other Sidhe in countries far from Australia had battled Fomhoire recently. Harrowing reports had reached her from the States, from Europe and Africa and Asia. But here . . . . Relative peace had reigned for so long, she had grown comfortable, lax. Caution needed to be a routine, like exercise. And she had grown lazy. How many mornings had she left her flat without taking the simple precaution of warding herself? This morning had been no different from yesterday, from the day before, from the one before that. Except it was entirely different. And she might well die because of it.

She exited the gates, threaded her way through the throng in the concourse, hoping to lose her pursuers among the masses. She would exit the station onto Pitt Street and grab a taxi. That was her plan anyway.

As she neared the doors at the west end of the concourse, she sensed more magic. Wights probably, but without Roger, she wouldn’t stand much chance against them, either. She slowed, halted. People flowed around her on either side, as if she were a stone in a stream.

Eddy Street then—the nearest exit.

After a single step in that direction she stopped again. More magic. They had her surrounded.

Another train perhaps. If she could return to the gates and get to a North Shore platform, or maybe the Illawarra line . . . .

A spell electrified the air and made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Sara could do nothing except brace herself for its impact.

Magic fell upon her an instant later, obliterating thought, will, consciousness. She couldn’t say if she remained standing or fell to the floor or ran in circles like some ridiculous child’s toy. Time was lost to her.

When next she became aware of her surroundings, she was still upright in the middle of Central Railway Station’s Grand Concourse. A woman stood before her radiating so much power Sara had to resist an urge to shield her eyes.

“Hello, Sara,” she said in a cool alto and an accent that would have convinced any native Aussie.

“Who are you?” Sara asked, surprised she could speak.

The woman smiled. She was beautiful, of course. The Fomhoire always were here in the Above, regardless of how they appeared in the demon realm. Pale blue eyes, flawless olive skin, golden brown hair that fell in a shimmering curtain to her shoulders. As brilliant and superficial as a Carnival mask. She wore jeans and a long sleeve Sydney FC T-shirt; nothing that would have made her stand out in a crowd.

A second form hovered at her shoulder, as hideous as the woman was lovely, as ethereal as she was solid. It appeared to be little more than a cloud; shapeless, smoke grey, undulating. What might have been eyes shone dully from within the shadow, like stars partially obscured by a nighttime haze. Its lone substantial feature was a mouth at its very center, nearly round and armed with several rows of spiny teeth.

Two demons. One ghastly, the other lovely. Both deadly, no doubt.

None of the people passing by took note of them. Sara sensed that she, the Fomhoire, and the cloud demon were invisible to all.

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Tuesday Treat!!

The Chalice War: Stone postcardsI gots swag!!!

The Chalice War: Stone postcards, hot off the press!!

And while you might be able to get some from me at a convention, I thought I would send a few out to a handful of lucky fans. All you have to do is guess what number I’m thinking of between 1 and 999! If you’re one of the five closest to the right number (above or below), you’ll get a postcard, signed and mailed to your address!!

Submit your guess in my Facebook group!! (If you’re not a member yet [hairy eyeball directed at you!!] submit your guess and ask to join and you will be approved!) Deadline: May 26, 2023

Easy peasy, right??

Ready, set, guess!!

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Teaser Thursday: One Day ‘Til Release!!

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeAnother teaser, to get you excited for tomorrow’s release from Bell Bridge Books of THE CHALICE WAR: STONE, the first book in my new Celtic urban fantasy. Enjoy!

*****

Macha turned back to Marti. “You summoned us. Why?”

Before Marti could answer, the Fury went on. “You used herbs and oils to do it.” She halted her pacing beside the spear of tiger’s eye and nudged it with the toe of her shoe. “And crystals. How quaint. I’m guessing you lost more than your husband to the Fomhoire. They killed your conduit, too.”

Marti stopped herself from saying something rash and irrevocable. Macha wanted a reaction. She was a predator; all three of them were. Twisting the emotions of mortals came as naturally to them as hunting did to a hawk. Marti gained nothing by lashing out. And by holding back, she denied them nourishment of a sort.

“Yes, they did,” she said, keeping her tone even. “I wish they hadn’t of course, and I’m sorry to have summoned you this way. To be honest, I don’t like the smell of petitgrain any more than you do.”

An amused grin flashed across Macha features and was gone.

“Nicely done, Marti.”

“I don’t mind the smell that much,” Nemain said.

“Do shut up, Nellie.” Macha resumed her pacing, hands held behind her back. “You have questions.”

Delicately. She needed to learn as much as she could while revealing as little as possible.

“They sent Sluagh to kill Alistar,” she said. “And it turns out Alistar took certain precautions, just in case something like this happened. It seemed like he knew the Fomhoire would come for him eventually.”

“What kind of precautions?” Macha asked, as Marti had known she would.

Always distract the Furies with truth, Alistar told her. They’ll sense lies, but they’re not so smart that they can’t be distracted with a few well-placed truths.

Marti shrugged. “Spare license plates for the car, stuff with our finances. It was like he knew I’d outlive him.”

“And your question is?”

“Why? What made him a target for the Fomhoire? What did they think they’d gain by killing him?”

Macha stopped and clapped her hands in mock applause. “Lovely, my dear. You should be in show business with us. What do you think, girls? Shall we make Marti part of the act?”

Badbh leered.

Nemain glanced from one sister to the other. “Why? Does she sing, too?”

Macha ignored her. “You brought it here with you, didn’t you?” She waved off the question. “You must have. You’re far too clever to have left it behind.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I do believe Alistar kept you in the dark about its true nature. That would have been like him—doing the prudent thing—assuming he had a choice in the matter. The problem is, he wasn’t as prepared to die as you imply. If he was, he would have told you more.”

“They were after something he had?” Marti asked, unwilling to confirm the Fury’s suspicions.

“They are after something you still have,” Macha told her. “Stop playing games with me.”

“What is it she has?” Badbh asked, taking a step toward Marti, hunger in her pale eyes.

Macha’s gaze flicked toward her sister. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

“I’m sure you do,” Macha said, facing the other Fury. “But I have no intention of telling you.”

The glower Badbh directed at her sister could have kindled wet wood.

“Maybe we should speak in private?” Marti asked, trying to mask her eagerness.

“I don’t think I’m ready to do that, either,” Macha said.

“What do you want?”

Macha gave an exaggerated shrug. She was having too much fun for Marti’s taste. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“The Fomhoire want it, too, right?” Badbh said. “Just let them fight for it.”

“That’s tempting, actually,” Macha said. “I would love to see another full-blown war between you and the Fomhoire. It’s been too long.” She brushed a tiny thread off her dress. “But in this case war would be dangerous, even for us. We can’t afford for you to lose it.”

“Then tell me what I need to know.” The words tumbled out of her, reckless, too fast. Macha had frightened her. Marti’s suspicions about the stone had been growing in recent days. With the Fury’s last words, terror exploded in her mind.

Gods, Alistar. What did you do to me?

Macha smiled again. “I don’t think so.”

“But you said—”

“Oh, we don’t want to see you beaten, but we have to have some fun. Don’t we girls?”

Badbh and Nemain cackled, sounding far more like Furies than nightclub singers.

“You know what you’ve been hiding,” Macha went on. “I do, too. Now, it seems the Fomhoire have some inkling as well. But it’s been lost to time for so long they can’t imagine where it could be or exactly what it might look like. To be honest, none of us can.”

Macha halted, scanned the room with studied indifference before fixing her gaze on Marti once more. “Actually, I would love to see it.”

Marti shook her head. “No.”

The Fury pouted, her lower lip protruding provocatively. The audiences in Vegas must have loved these three.

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Professional Wednesday: Learning From Each of Our Projects

Ideally, every new book and story we write is not just an adventure in imagination, a chance to discover new characters and settings and narratives, but also a learning opportunity. I continue to improve my writing with each project, and I try to do at least one thing new with each story or novel. For instance, while working on my short story for the Dragonesque anthology, which will be published later this year by Zombies Need Brains, I was aware that my editors (and good friends), Joshua Palmatier and S.C. Butler, both tend to cut out a few dialog tags from all the stories they edit. I was determined to make that impossible for them. And I wound up managing to write the entire story using only a single instance of “said” or “asked.” Let them find something else to cut! In doing this, I actually made the story leaner, more concise, and more fun to read.

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeWith this in mind, I thought it might be helpful to list a few things I learned, reminded myself of, and/or tried to do differently while writing my Chalice War trilogy, which debuts on Friday, May 5 (THIS FRIDAY) with the release of The Chalice War: Stone from Bell Bridge Books.

Journal about, well, everything: The first book in the Chalice War series includes a frenzied chase/trek across the U.S., and a series of climactic scenes that are set in Las Vegas. The second book is set in Australia — in Sydney, as well as in the tourist town of Kiama along the Illawarra coast. The third book is set in Ireland. I have driven across this country a few times, and I’ve been to all the places I just mentioned. I have driven into Vegas at night, approaching from the east, as my characters do. I have spent time along the Irish coast (although not quite the same part). I have spent a good deal of time in Kiama.

And I have journaled about all of these experiences. While writing descriptive passages for the books, I drew heavily on old journal entries (and also on my old photographs). I’ll admit this is not the first time I have drawn upon personal experiences and writings for this sort of thing. When I wrote the Fearsson books, I consulted journal entries from visits to the Sonoran Desert. Whenever I write in the Thieftaker world, I draw on old entries from my college years in New England. This is not a new lesson, so much as something I was reminded of while writing the Chalice books. But the value of the point is undeniable. The more we write, the better we get, and journaling helps us keep in practice, which is reason enough to do it. But it can also be a terrific source for material that we can adapt to our fiction, be it in the form of descriptive writing, character development, or even plot points.

Dude, lighten up: My books tend to be very serious. Bad things happen all the time to good people. The fate of the world hangs in the balance again and again and again. It’s kind of like Buffy’s tombstone from the finale of the fifth season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer — “She saved the world. A lot.” I’m not suggesting this is a bad thing. People return to my books because I keep the stakes high, and they like that.

And the stakes could not be higher in the Chalice War books. The fate of our world is balanced on a knife’s edge throughout all three volumes. Serious stuff.

But people who know me know that I enjoy laughing and that I joke around a lot. And in these books, really for the first time in my career, I rely heavily on humor. I won’t go so far as to call the books “light-hearted” or “romps” — the series is action-packed, and, as I say, the stakes could not be higher. Still, there is a lot in these pages that made me laugh as I wrote, and I expect the books will make my readers laugh as well. A lot.

Limit the number of POV characters: Early in my career, when I wrote my big, fat epic fantasies (The LonTobyn Chronicle, Winds of the Forelands, Blood of the Southlands), I used a vast array of point of view characters. I was writing big sweeping stories and had a cast to match. I went from those to Thieftaker and Fearsson, which both had, basically, one POV character (the first chapters of the second and third Fearsson books were written in other POVs, but then both books reverted to Jay). Noir-style mysteries, I felt, worked best when told from the perspective of the investigator. Later books (Islevale, Radiants) fell somewhere in between — more than one, but not as many as those huge stories I told early on.

With this newest trilogy, I tried something a little different. I needed more than one POV character, but I wanted to have a maximum of three in each book. And that’s pretty much what I did. Chapter one of books I and II are from different POVs, but after that I have two POV characters in Stone, the first book, and three POV characters in the others.

And I like the way the novels read with limited casts of this sort. There is enough variety in the voices to propel the books forward with each POV shift, but there are few enough narrators that my readers can grow comfortable with the characters and their personalities. Obviously, every story is different, and what works with one series won’t necessarily work with another, but going forward, I will look for opportunities to limit my cast of narrating characters to more manageable numbers.

I hope you will check out the new series. I really do believe you’ll enjoy the books.

In the meantime, keep writing!

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Special Tuesday Post: The Chalice War — a Teaser

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeThree days until the release of the first Chalice War book, The Chalice War: Stone.

Here’s a teaser to whet your literary appetites!!

*****

She  lit a single candle and used that flame to burn the herb mix. Pale grey smoke hazed the room, the air around her redolent. Closing her eyes, Marti raised her chin and spoke to the ceiling.

“Macha, Goddess of War, harbinger of death, igniter of passion, I summon thee. I seek answers, I pledge faith, I foreswear trickery. Heed my call, honor old friendships, appear here before me.”

The smoke thickened, its scent mingling with that of the oils. Marti grew lightheaded, but nothing else happened. She thought about trying her summons again, but knew Alistar would have chided her for her impatience.

Furies, gods, and other ancient powers come at their leisure, he used to say. Invoke them a second time, and you run the risk of angering them, or worse, of imparting unintended meaning to your summons. That’s something you really don’t want to do.

Minutes dragged past. Against her better judgment—and Alistar’s—she prepared to try the incantation a second time. Before she could, she heard a woman’s voice say, “You forgot ‘trickster in battle.’ That one was always my favorite.”

“Never mind that,” came a second voice. “She didn’t even mention us.”

Marti stifled a groan. Macha, eldest of the battle Furies, was wise and powerful. More to the point, she had harbored some affection for Alistar. On her own, she might have been willing to help, which was why Marti invoked her by name. She didn’t wish to deal with Macha’s sisters, Badbh and Nemain, or to give Macha an excuse to show off. She should have known better. Summoning one of them was like trying to find a movie with only one of the Marx Brothers.

The three were known as the Morrigan, goddesses who had appeared throughout Celtic history, bringing war, death, and famine, and stoking the passions of men, whether lust for blood or sexual hunger. Depending on their moods, they might manifest as hags, or in their animal forms: Macha as a war horse, Badbh and Nemain as twin ravens.

A moment later, they stood before her, squinting in the dim light, waving their hands in front of their faces to disperse the smoke.

“Gods,” Macha said, “how I hate the smell of petitgrain.”

The last few times Marti had seen them, they had looked like this: young, curvy, glamorous. Macha had a thick mane of fiery red hair. Her green eyes were nearly a match for Marti’s, though her complexion was as pale as marble. The twins were brunettes, taller and thinner than their older sister, with bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. All three wore matching sequined dresses, cut low in the front and tight around the hips.

Macha smoothed her dress and brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. “Diana,” she said with a cold smile. “How nice to see you again.”

Marti stood. “Macha, thank you for coming.”

The twins laughed.

“We’re not going by the old names right now,” Macha told her, casting a quick scowl at her sisters. “We’ve landed a gig on the Strip in Vegas.” Her smile this time appeared genuine. “We’re headlining at the Scepter.”

“We’re the Morrigan Sisters now,” said one of the twins. Marti always had trouble telling them apart. “I’m Nellie, she’s Barb. Macha’s going by Maddie.”

Maddie?

“That sounds nice,” Marti said. “I’m glad for you.”

“Thanks,” Macha said. She walked a slow circle around the living room, stiletto heals clicking on the wood floors.

“New place?”

“Yes.”

“I was sorry to hear about Alistar,” the Fury said over her shoulder, with a toss of her hair. “I always liked him.”

Anguish lanced Marti’s heart. Seeing Macha exchange a glance and smirk with her sisters, she cursed herself. They didn’t give a damn about her or about Alistar. Macha wanted to evoke a reaction—always. Marti had made it too easy for her.

“You don’t look so good, Diana. Trouble with the Fomhoire?”

This time, the Fury made no effort to hide her amusement. Alistar once warned her about this, too. The Furies thrived on strife, violence, hatred. They rarely took sides in the conflict between Sidhe and Fomhoire. Rather, they did all they could to perpetuate it. She couldn’t trust any information they gave her, at least not fully. She could only hope to separate the useful tidbits from the manipulation.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, Writing

Monday Musings: This Blog, My Books, Your Support

This Blog:

I want to say from the outset that I love maintaining this blog. I write my twice-weekly posts because I enjoy sharing my thoughts (on Mondays) and my writing tips (on Wednesdays). Writing on demand in this way is always good practice. Delving into various issues with the Musings posts often is therapeutic for me, and forcing myself to think about different craft issues on a weekly basis helps me continue to hone my own writing skills.

I will also admit, though, that maintaining the blog is time-consuming. Some weeks, the posts flow pretty easily. Other weeks, not so much. It can take me a full day to write the two essays, occasionally more than a day. That’s fine, too. As we all know, writing can be like that — easy one week, excruciating the next.

To state the obvious, I am not compensated in any way for my blogging. That has been by choice, and I do not intend to place a paywall between my readers and the content on my blog. That, I fear, would change the dynamic between my blogging and reader response to my posts, which feels very organic right now. I want to keep it that way. I have thought, though, about creating a Patreon (for those unfamiliar with Patreon, it offers creators a chance to gain financial backing from subscribers) and asking people to contribute voluntarily. If every person who visited my blog and every person who subscribed to it gave just one dollar per week, that would be ample compensation.

As I say, it’s something I’ve considered. But . . . .

My Books:

As I’ve already said, I maintain the blog because I enjoy doing so. But, to be perfectly honest, I also do it to bring traffic to my website. The calculus is a little convoluted, but it goes something like this: If people come to my site to read the blog, maybe they will stick around and look at the other pages. And if they look around, maybe they’ll become interested in my books, and maybe they’ll start buying and reading those books. As marketing strategies go, it is neither brilliant nor revolutionary, but I’m a fantasy writer, not a Madison Avenue executive, and it’s the best I’ve got.

And so, I am a little reluctant to set up a Patreon because in a way I already ask you for a financial contribution, don’t I? I make no secret of my desire for you to read my books. I write about them in my blog posts, I refer to them in my social media posts, I talk them up and even hand-sell them at the conventions I attend. If someone were to ask you, “What do you think David B. Coe wants from you?” you probably wouldn’t have to think too long and hard before coming up with, “Well, I guess he would like me to buy his books when they come out.”

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeLet’s back that up with a little math. I said a moment ago that, were I to start a Patreon, I would be happy with contributions of $1.00 per week, which comes to $52.00 for the year. Now, as it happens, I have the first book of a new trilogy coming out on Friday of this week, May 5th. This is The Chalice War: Stone, the first book in my new Celtic urban fantasy from Bell Bridge Books. The second book, The Chalice War: Cauldron, will be out in June, and the third book, The Chalice War: Sword, will be out soon after that. Each printed book lists for $17.95. Factor in sales tax, and the three books together would cost about $57 or $58, or about $1.12 per week. (If you read ebooks, the three together will cost a total of about $16, or $0.31 per week. What a bargain!!)

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeSo, for about what you might give to a Patreon, you could have all the blog posts AND all three books in the new series.

And so . . . .

Your Support:

Yes, with a Patreon, most of the money goes directly to the author. When you buy our books, we authors get a much smaller share of the proceeds. And yet, most authors I know would make that trade every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Why? Because we write! Because we LOVE to write! Because we have new ideas that we are eager to write and have published!

Much that we hear about the publishing industry sounds arcane and confusing, and many of us respond to elements of the business with amazement and dismay, wondering why anyone ever chose to set up an entire sector of the economy in quite this way. But boiled down to its most basic elements, the business model is pretty straightforward. Authors write books, publishers put out those books, readers purchase and read those books. And if all goes as it should, and readers do their part, authors get to write and publish more and more books. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Which brings me, at long last, to my point. I need for you to buy my books. It really is that simple. If you like the blog — if you navigate to my page on Mondays and Wednesdays, or if you subscribe to my feed and the posts come to your inbox — you know how much I love to write. I love it so much I do it for free twice every week. But I can only do that if the books move off the shelves and I get to write and publish more of them.

Your support is vital, not just for me, but for every author whose work you care about. Stories matter. The written word matters. Today, more than ever before. All over the world and, sadly, all over our country, self-expression is under assault from those who fear ideas. All over the world, and all over our country, literature is dying a death of a thousand cuts: book bannings, apathy, the allure of gaming and television and social media. Books and authors need the passion and commitment of readers, just as readers need the passion and commitment of writers.

And, to state the obvious, authors need to make a buck. This is our passion, our obsession, our craft and art. It is also our livelihood.

So, please, enjoy my blog posts. If you’ve missed any recently, feel free to go back and read through the archives. And take a look around the site. Make yourself at home, and rest assured that I’ll be back with another post on Wednesday, and with more in the weeks to come. But also please consider that when you buy my books, and those of other authors, you not only get those stories, you also make possible all the content we make available to you.

Thanks for reading this. Have a great week.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, Writing

Creative Friday: THE CHALICE WAR: CAULDRON Cover Reveal!!

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeAs I have mentioned previously, the release of the first book in my upcoming Celtic urban fantasy, The Chalice War (Bell Bridge Books), has been delayed. We had hoped for February. It will be May.

After that, though, the other two books in the trilogy will come fairly quickly. You have already seen the gorgeous art for book I, THE CHALICE WAR: STONE, and yet I offer it again above. Because how can you see it enough, right?

And today, I offer as well, the cover reveal for book II, THE CHALICE WAR: CAULDRON. I am so jazzed about the look of these novels. Book II is set in Australia — in Sydney and its surrounds — where my family and I lived for a year back in 2005-2006. It was so fun to revisit our experiences there as I wrote the various scenes. And that bird on the cover is an Australian Magpie.

So, there it is! Enjoy!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. Coe

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Invasives, Writing

Professional Wednesday: What Holds Me Back, part I — Life Issues

As we turn the calendar to March, I thought I would turn to a new series of posts in my Professional Wednesday feature. This month, as I struggle with a bit of work-related inertia, I have decided some might find it helpful to read about “What Holds Me Back.” Because let’s be honest — those of us who seek to make a living as professional creators face no shortage of obstacles to productivity. We have to be self-motivated, we have to be disciplined, we have to be imaginative and prolific on demand. None of this is easy and at times it seems hobgoblins lurk in every corner, threatening to undermine even the most sincere determination to get stuff done.

What — or who — are my hobgoblins? How do they disrupt my work patterns, and what do I do to keep them at bay? These are the questions I hope to address in the next several Wednesday posts.

This week, I address perhaps the most obvious and formidable hobgoblin of them all: Life.

Life is a fickle bastard, with a cruel streak a mile wide, a perverse — at times evil — sense of humor, and a preternatural knack for intruding at the absolute worst moment. But Life can also be charming, deeply attractive, kind, generous, and downright fun. This is part of what makes Life such a difficult opponent in the battle over productivity. Life is as changeable as March weather, as unpredictable as the best storyline, and as relentless as time itself. Life happens constantly; Life will not sit quietly in a corner reading a book and respecting our need for calm just because we have a looming deadline or a new idea we are eager to explore. Life lives to mess with us.

All strange metaphors aside, in my experience, relating to my own work output and also my interactions with other professionals, general life disruptions are responsible for the vast majority of missed deadlines and punted obligations. Sometimes it’s the (relatively) small stuff — a kid with a bad cold or stomach bug, a blown car engine or flat tire, a flooded basement or loss of power. Sometimes it’s more serious than that — an ailing elderly parent, a dire illness in the family, a failing marriage, the death of a friend or relative. I’ve faced my share of such things — not all, but enough; every one of us has.

And in the short term, there is nothing we can do about them. Life imposes its own exigencies. When our kid is sick or our parents are fading or a relative or friend is in need, we have no choice but to prioritize the people we love and the obligations we’ve taken on as parents and partners, offspring and siblings and friends. No one with a thread of compassion or decency should punish or blame us for this. Those who would, do so at their own risk, because eventually they, too, will be on the receiving end of Life’s caprice.

The problem comes later, after the crisis has passed, but while the aftermath lingers. Nearly two years ago, when our daughter received her cancer diagnosis, I withdrew from . . . well, pretty much everything. I told my agent and editor that I wouldn’t be able to make a deadline that was still a couple of months away. I stopped seeing friends. I hunkered down with my fear and my grief and my anger, and I essentially surrendered to this terrible thing Life had done to my family and me. I was sure I couldn’t work through it, and so I didn’t even think it worthwhile to make the attempt.

Nancy responded differently, not because she is better or stronger than I am (although she might well be both . . .) but because she deals with emotional strain differently. She is great at compartmentalizing, which is good, because at the time she had a high-stress, high-profile job. In the time since, she has advanced to a position that is even more high-stress and high-profile. Her ability to compartmentalize has served her well.

I don’t have that ability. I can’t compartmentalize. But, I realized, I had a different ability I could harness. I had learned years ago — when we lost my parents, and later when we lost my eldest brother — to channel my grief and pain into my art. And it didn’t take me long after hearing the news of our daughter’s illness to understand that was precisely what I needed to do. Within a week of calling my agent and editor to tell them I was pulling back, I sent them new messages. I am working through this. I will make my deadline.

INVASIVES, by David B. Coe (Jacket art courtesy of Belle Books)And I did. The book was Invasives, by the way. It contains the best character work I’ve ever done, and that is no coincidence.

I suffer from anxiety and panic disorder. I sometimes walk the edge of depression. I know as well as anyone that coping with life is hard, and that glib, easy-fix solutions to the shit life throws at us are worse than useless. Such facile responses can actually hurt, because they suggest to those of us who struggle that the problem isn’t the circumstance but rather our inability to deal with it.

But I know as well, from my own experience, that we don’t have to be whole to create. Life elicits emotion and those emotions can overwhelm and paralyze. The thing is, though, we’re creators, and emotion is our bread and butter. Yes, at times the emotions we feel in life’s rawest moments are like a downed electrical wire. We touch them at our own risk. As I found a couple of years ago, however, we can be resilient in the face of the worst circumstances. Long before I was ready to interact with other people, I was ready, even eager, to take hold of that live wire and use it for something constructive and healing.

Life can disrupt our art. We all know this. But we are alchemists at heart. We can turn grief and hurt and fear and anger into golden moments on the page (or the canvas or the guitar or the stage — whatever). And, for me at least, that is how I keep life from holding me back.

Keep writing.

Bell Bridge Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, The Chalice War, Writing

Creative Friday: About That Celtic Urban Fantasy . . .

The Chalice War-Stone, by David B. CoeRight around the holidays, I was shouting from the virtual rooftops about my new Celtic urban fantasy trilogy, The Chalice War, which would be coming out early in 2023. The first book, I bellowed (virtually), would be coming out in February, and it would be called The Chalice War: Stone. It would be followed, a month or so later, by The Chalice War: Cauldron, and then a couple of months after that by the finale, The Chalice War: Sword.

So, about all that . . . .

Life happens. Lately it’s been happening to me. A lot. In this case, though, it happened to my editor/publisher at Bell Bridge Books, through no fault of hers, or really anyone’s.

The books are still coming. Really. Stone will be out in May. That’s the current plan. It will be followed a month or so later by Cauldron. Sword should be out by midsummer. The first book is ready to go. We have art; the manuscript has been revised, copy edited, polished to a high shine. We’re just scheduling it in a way that allows us to follow it quickly with Book II, which has now been through revisions and will soon be copy edited.

I apologize for the delay, but I assure you the books are on their way. And, as a way of thanking you for your patience, I offer another teaser from Book I. Enjoy!!

*****
While the woman’s heels still clicked on her walkway, Marti sensed a second source of power. The energy from this one was as turbid as the woman’s was clear, as tied to darkness as hers was wild. It took Marti several moments to spot this second presence, and when she did, she had to bite back a shouted warning.

A large animal—a cat of some sort from the look of it—crouched by the side of the woman’s house, partially concealed by the bushes growing there. It followed the woman with its eyes and the gentle swivel of its massive head, but it made no move to attack her.

Marti watched them both, motionless, holding her breath. The cat had to be a conduit, bound to a Fomhoire sorcerer. She swept the street with her eyes, not daring to turn her head, wondering if the sorcerer was close by or had sent the cat to scout. Or to hunt. If that last, was it after the woman or Marti herself?

After watching the cat for another few seconds, Marti convinced herself the creature was intent on her neighbor, not her.

For now, Marti had no access to her magic, and the stone was shielded. Power called to power, Alistar used to say. That cat—a panther by the look of it—would be drawn to a conduit as potent as itself, not to an unbound Sidhe sorcerer.

Marti stood smoothly, taking care not to make any sharp movements. She picked up the bottle and cup, tiptoed into the house, and locked and bolted the door. She lingered by the window, eyes on the cat. Her neighbor had made it inside; lights went on downstairs and, minutes later, on the second floor. Marti didn’t think the woman was in danger, at least not this night. But she had drawn someone’s interest, which promised to make Marti’s life even more complicated than it was.

After some time, the panther emerged from the bushes, padded out into the street, and with one last backward glance at the house next door, prowled off into the night. Marti remained at the window until the creature had reached the corner and trotted off of Fairlea.

Then she retrieved her protective herbs and stones, and went after it.

She understood the risks, but she wanted to find out who the cat belonged to. Having no conduit herself, and carrying the sachet and crystals, she didn’t think another sorcerer, even a Fomhoire, would sense her. Of course, having no conduit, if she was wrong about this, she would die.

She slipped back outside, locked the door behind her, and eased down the road. She made not a sound, kept to shadows, avoided the light that pooled beneath streetlamps the way she would patches of quicksand. At the corner, she caught a glimpse of the panther loping off the road into what appeared to be another yard.

Marti followed, and soon realized the cat had led her to the community playground she’d passed when driving in earlier. It was darker here; there were no streetlights or houses near the play area. But by the light of a half moon, she spotted two figures standing near the swings, one a good deal taller than the other.

The panther trotted to the shorter of the two, lay down at this person’s feet, and began to lick one of its paws. Marti crept closer, hoping to overhear something of value. She placed each foot with care, eyeing the ground in front of her for dry leaves, twigs, children’s toys—anything that might give her away. With fewer shadows here, she had to follow a line of trees—a less direct route than she would have liked. At one point, the cat raised its massive head and stared in her direction. She froze, deciding she had gotten close enough.

She couldn’t hear their conversation, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was able to see the two figures in greater detail. The cat had lain at the feet of a man. He had dark hair and wore dark slacks and a pale dress shirt. The other figure was murkier, as if obscured by a black veil. She couldn’t imagine why, at least not until it raised an elongated arm to point at something above them. Marti suppressed a cry.

The moonlight revealed a translucent membrane of flesh underneath its arm, broadest at the shoulder, tapering to the wrist. No wonder it appeared to swallow light; no wonder it was so freaking tall. A Sluagh.

With nightfall, the air had grown stagnant, but in that moment, the smell reached her and her stomach heaved. Decay, disease, death. Smells, she’d read somewhere, could kindle memories that transported a person to different times, different places. This stench carried her to the old house, to Alistar’s brutalized corpse in the garden, to Burl’s blood-matted carcass in the kitchen.

Marti searched the sky and street for more of the demons—they rarely traveled alone. She saw none, but that did nothing to put her mind at ease. She resisted the urge to run—if the demon didn’t hear her, the cat would. Either would kill her.

Indeed, if not for the Fomhoire and his cat, the demon would have found her already. The panther couldn’t sense her talent for magic because she didn’t have a conduit, but the Sluagh could. It hadn’t because—only because—the Fomhoire stood beside it, no doubt reeking of magic. She shuddered.

A moment later, matters grew far, far worse. The Sluagh pointed skyward again and let out a rasping screech that made Marti flinch. From above came two answering cries, as harsh and chilling as the first. Two more Sluagh circled over the playground, their wings luminous with moon glow, the webbing between their long legs making them look like huge swallows. They wheeled, swooped toward the ground, and pulled out of the dive at the last instant, cupping their wings like billowing sails and landing near the other Sluagh.

The cat scrambled to its feet and bared its teeth. The Fomhoire caressed his conduit’s head and said something to the creature. The panther nuzzled the side of his leg, but it kept its bright eyes on the Sluagh and remained standing. For his part, the sorcerer had shifted his stance so that he could watch all three of the demons. He had also edged away from them; he would be no more immune to the fetor than Marti was. Likely he had a spell at the ready, just in case. Sluagh might serve the Fomhoire, but they would prey on any magical creature.

She almost hoped they would turn on the man and his conduit. Almost. The problem was, when they finished with him, they would sense her magic, and have her for dessert.

The Sluagh didn’t linger for long. The Fomhoire and the first demon spoke for another few seconds before the three demons leapt skyward and soared off.

The sorcerer watched them go, absently petting the panther’s head. When the Sluagh had vanished from sight, he glanced around and left the playground.

He headed straight toward Marti.