Shield of Fire by Boone Brux

I'm so excited about my new book release, Shield of Fire. It's been a long time in the making, but we finally birthed this baby and it's on sale now at most online retailers. Here's a peek inside.

Blurb:

Protecting humans is the Bringers’ duty. Sending demons to the Shadow World is their pleasure.

In one night, Ravyn’s life plunges from barely tolerable to deadly. Forced to flee the only home she’s known, she stumbles headlong into the clutches of Icarus, a powerful demon intent on stealing her powers. Unfortunately for him, she has no intention of cooperating.

When Rhys realizes the woman he’s rescued from the Bane Demon is no mere human, his obligation as a Bringer dictates he protect and train her in the ways of his people. But he’s unprepared for the intense desire he feels for the fiery Ravyn. To surrender to his need may mean her death.
As the Demon King’s desire for ultimate power escalates, fathers are slated against sons, and foes are made allies. The Bane threat upon them, Rhys and Ravyn must quest to unite the last of the Bringers—and explore a passion too powerful to ignore.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Menda Abbey, Itta Territory, Inness
One Thousand Years after the Bane War

The demon’s gaze narrowed. “Let me see her.”

Beautiful and horrifying, Icarus moved toward Brother Powell with frightening grace. Sinewy muscles rippled under taut, black skin as he prowled toward the crumbled wall of the abbey. His leathery wings scraped the tree branches overhead and waves of ebony hair, banded with rings of gold, cradled two spiraling horns that jutted upward.
Powell glanced away, refusing to gaze into the mesmerizing, reptilian eyes.

The demon’s deep purr poured over him. “What troubles you, Brother? Are you not happy to see me?”

The monk ignored the question and swiped the cold rain from his eyes. He held the hissing torch higher to reveal a young woman. She stood unnaturally still, compelled by the monk’s hypnosis—a spell taught to him by the demon. Her thin shift clung to her bony frame, and her dull eyes stared ahead. Angela had been lovely once, but like so many, she hadn’t been woman enough to withstand the honor of his attentions. They never were, always crying and pleading to be left alone. Lucky for them, the Demon Bane preferred their sacrifices pure.

“This is not what I asked for.” The deadly calm of Icarus’s voice belied the danger of his statement. “Where is the other woman—the gifted one?”

“In her cell. She doesn’t trust me.” Powell stroked Angela’s limp, blonde hair. “But she’ll not be able to resist the cries of her closest friend.”

“For your sake, monk, I hope you are right.” Icarus held out his hand. “Come to me.”
The compulsion whispered past Powell, sweeping across his skin with the promise of pleasure. He slipped his hand under his robe and adjusted his erection.

The demon’s call slithered toward Angela and wrapped around her like a sensual net. Before the force could ensnare him as well, Powell released his hold and backed away. She glided forward.

He watched, immobilized with morbid fascination. Her progress faltered when she reached the holy ground’s boundaries. He leaned toward Angela, willing her to cross the invisible barrier.
“Come to me,” Icarus repeated.

Weak of mind and body, she lumbered forward through the opening in the wall and away from the protection of the abbey’s sanctified ground.

The demon stood before her and grasped her frail arm. With the smooth curve of his talon, he caressed Angela’s cheek.
She didn’t move.

Powell cringed, excited and repulsed at the same time. He ached for a taste of the power Icarus would give him one day.
“So pure,” Icarus crooned. He trailed his talon down her neck. “So sweet.”

Powell squeezed his holy medallion, its ornate embellishments biting deep into his skin. The pain kept him present and protected against the call of the Bane, a call he wanted to answer. Riveted, he held the torch higher, trying to shed more light on the black demon.

Icarus slid his claw lower, coming to rest between Angela’s breasts. His energy pulsed and reached for its prey. The compulsion grazed Powell’s mind. The medallion slipped from his grasp, the chain catching on his fingers to hang loose. Forgotten.

“Awaken, little bird, and let me see your fear,” Icarus whispered.

Like a parting veil, Angela’s deadened expression cleared. She gasped, frozen by the sight of the towering demon before her. She twisted and fought for her freedom. Bare heels dug into the soggy earth, but the slick grass provided no traction. Icarus jerked her hard, his hold unbreakable.

“No!” Her scream shattered the silence of the night, its echoes hanging in the air like a heavy mist.
He pressed his fingers against her heart and pricked her delicate skin.

She convulsed, her strangled cry dying in her throat. With whispers as soft as the lightest breeze, the silvery essence of her soul sighed and bled from her body. Gossamer threads slithered around Icarus’s hand like small, white snakes, encircling his arm and swirling along the planes of his rounded biceps in an achingly slow, erotically sublime dance. The demon tilted his head and closed his eyes. Angela’s shimmering purity crept up his neck and hovered at his lips. He inhaled and drew her in, stiffening as if in the throes of passion, absorbing every delicate wisp.

The intimate union between predator and prey mesmerized Powell. He crept forward, forgetting the danger. The seductive and deadly act held a perverse beauty. Powell stroked himself, dragging the rough material of his robe over his erection, losing himself in The Taking. Time had no place; the tap, tap of rain on the leaves the only disruption brave enough to break through the reticence of the night.

When the sparkling vapor faded around her heart, Icarus retracted his talons and released his hold. Angela’s body slumped to the ground, dead. He stretched and smiled, his fangs glimmering in the torchlight. “That’s better.”
Powell’s heavy breathing punctuated the quiet. His body quivered from the demon’s feral presence. As the pleasurable effect began to fade, he opened his senses and scrambled to ingest the lingering scraps of Bane essence. Its pure power raced through his body and filled his veins with an intoxicating fire.

Icarus bent and scooped up Angela’s body. Four powerful strides brought him to the abbey’s border. He heaved his burden at Powell. The monk shrieked and jumped back, his euphoric haze evaporating. Bones snapped as the body landed in a crumpled heap at his feet. Bile rose in his throat. For a fraction of a second, remorse pawed at him, but, just as quickly, the sentiment disappeared.

“Bring me the other—now.” Icarus’s wings unfurled and stretched behind him. “Do not fail me, monk.” He crouched and pinned Powell with a yellow stare. “Or I won’t be as kind to you as I was to the girl.”

Powell glanced at the broken body at his feet and swallowed hard. Meeting the demon’s stare, he nodded.
With a powerful leap, Icarus launched into the sky and was instantly swallowed by the darkness.

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Thanks for stopping by!  Boone 

…

FARKLING MY LIFE AWAY

Facebook, it’s everywhere. Everybody who’s anybody has a Facebook page. But, I’m old school and was resistant to hopping on that trend train. My fears of privacy and security warred with networking with other writers. After much encouragement from a few of my writer friends, I created a Boone Brux FB page. I rationalized away my fears by creating positive goals. I would open myself up to those that wanted to be my friend. I would support other writers by reading their blogs and books. I would develop a following of my own. Never could I have imagined the nefarious traps that waited within that den of temptation and time wasting.

If you have an addictive personality, Facebook is not the best place for you to spend your time. The first inkling that I might have a problem came when I began “friending” people. I received a thrill when a total stranger accepted me as their friend. The reason for this reaction probably has its roots buried deep within my junior high years. I started with people I knew, but quickly began taking the suggestions that Facebook provided. I had every intension of being a good friend, but as the numbers grew, the task became overwhelming. Then the guilt set in. Was I giving these people false hope that I would support everything they wrote and posted? I realized it was time for me to step back and reassess my friending. I received a few friend requests, which I happily accepted, but realized I was not being heavily pursued. That created a bittersweet reaction. No requests solved my urge to over friend, but I questioned my value as a Facebook friend. Like I needed more self-doubt.

Just about the time I’d gotten my friending under control, I found the applications. Oh you dirty scoundrels, tempting me with the promise of hours of pleasure. The first step I took down that path of mindless time wasting was Happy Aquarium. Wow, cyber fish, and I got money if I kept them fed, clean, and alive. I embraced Petey the penguin, Jaws the clown fish, and Calypso the crab. I made a home for them, loved them, and decorated their tank. But wait, what is this? I can look at my friend’s tanks? BIG MISTAKE! One of my friends had fabulous squid and aquatic paraphernalia, but her fish were hungry. Oh my God, her fish are starving, and her tank was dirty. Didn’t she check? Can I feed her fish for her? No? No? But I need to help. I need to save her fish!!!!!!! I sent her an urgent message, but still the fish went unfed. Finally, she popped up on the Facebook chat, which is a whole other blog, and I pleaded with her to feed her fish. She laughed as if it was nothing, and promised me she would. Whew, now I could go back to my writing.

But wait, somebody sent me an invitation to start my own zoo. Oh, I love animals. And so, the vicious cycle began. I adopted every animal possible, bought kiosks, hired help, found lost gold, shook my money trees. I even made another Facebook page under my real name so that I could adopt animals from myself. As you can see, I was sinking into the abyss of applications. However, my downward slid was not done yet. Tikki farms appeared, Happy Fish, yes more fish, and the Fairy Garden. How many hours a day was I spending feeding my fish, adopting animals, looking for gold, and harvesting my crops? It got worse. My friend sent me free chips to play virtual slot machines, Texas Hold’em, Word Challenge, Trivia Challenge, and the worst of all…Farkle. If you’ve never played Farkle, don’t start. Hours I’ve wasted Farkling my day away.

This was a problem. Where was my manuscript? Where had the characters of my imagination gone? What day was it? When had I last eaten? Why were my kids still at home? Had I forgotten to take them to the bus? I was only moving from my computer to get more coffee and pee. When I finally shook the hypnotic hold that Facebook applications held over me, I knew I had to do something drastic. Delete, delete, delete. Gone went Word Challenge, gone went Happy Fish, and yes, bye, bye Farkle. I stood up from my chair like a phoenix rising from the ashes. I shook my legs, trying to get the feeling to return to my butt cheeks and feet. Stretching, I smiled. I had done it. I had walked through the valley of FB applications. I had stared down the throat of the time-suck monster, and I had survived. I shut off my coffeepot, showered, rinsing the sticky residue of Facebook desire from my body, and drove to the store to buy groceries. A new day had dawned. The sun kissed my face and I smiled, knowing that I was a stronger, wiser, writer having Farkled and survived.

THE BURDEN OF NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

Each year, as New Year’s Eve approaches, my mind shifts into overdrive, and all rational reasoning flees. Somewhere in the sands of time, the law of New Year’s Resolutions is written. Somewhere deep within my genetic makeup is a primitive creature that answers to this law every year. With all sensible thought gone, I construct a “Must Do” or “Goal List” as long as the Alaskan Highway. I know as I write goal #256 on my paper that I will probably not get past tasks #15, if I’m lucky. So this year I asked myself, “Why do I do it?” I know how the course of events will unfold. I’ll be optimistic and motivated in January. By March, my suspicions that I won’t be completing all my tasks begin to creep in. And by June, I am prostrate on the ground in self-condemnation.

I was surprised to find that a mythical king of early Rome, and not a woman, created the tradition of New Year’s Resolutions. After all, resolutions seem like the type of torture a woman would heap upon herself, much like high heels and Spanx. I do want to point out that my research said a mythical king named Janus. Hello, this smacks of woman to me. It’s said he had two faces, one to look to the past, and one to look to the future. If this isn’t woman, I don’t know what is. I believe this is where the term “eyes in the back of her head” came from. Thanks King Janus for providing us with scheduled emotional baggage.

King Janus may have been the first for resolutions, but the celebration of the New Year has been raging for centuries. This year, I choose to throw off my burden of trying to achieve the unachievable. Instead I will bask in the ancient tradition of ringing in the new year with friend, food, and wine. I will embrace the belief that everything will be okay in 2010 if my linen closet isn’t organized, or I don’t get my bathroom painted, or I don’t achieve that super-model body. No, this year I am looking to other countries for their traditions. I notice I gravitate toward the ones where food and alcohol are involved.

In Norway, they make rice pudding and hide an almond inside. Guaranteed wealth goes to the person whose serving has it. I’ll take two helpings.

In Australia, they roast a suckling pig as a symbol of good luck. Often times it’s accompanied by green peppermint ice cream in the shape of a four-leaf clover. Seriously, pork and ice cream, the only thing I can think of that could make it better is to add chocolate and wine.

In Sicily, they say it’s good luck to eat lasagna. I’m going to keep this tradition going all year long.

In Haiti it’s tradition to wear new clothing and exchange gifts. I don’t know about you, but this screams “shopping” to me, and that’s always a good thing.

In Spain you eat twelve grapes when the clock strikes midnight to ring in twelve months of good luck. Good luck and a full serving of fruit, I’m feeling better already. Peruvians add a thirteenth grape to ensure good luck. If twelve is good, thirteen must be better. Kind of like doughnuts.

In Greece bread is baked with a coin buried in the dough. The first slice is for the Christ child, the second for the father of the household, and the third slice is for the house. If the third slice holds the coin, spring will come early. I particularly like this tradition. First of all, Jesus can have the heel of the bread. He’s welcome to it. Second, I live in Alaska, so any chance of bringing spring early, I’m doing it.

So King Janus, you can keep your old New Year’s Resolutions. As for me, I’m ringing in the new year with Lasagna, hot bread (minus the heel), and rice pudding. 2010 is already looking bright.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Bigfoot, Alien Abductions, and Jesus’ Face on a Tortilla

I had hoped to write a timely Halloween blog about the scary creatures that live among us. When I was growing up, these stories graced the front cover of The National Enquirer every week. The paper was one of the few places you could find the in-depth scoops about the unnatural and freaky events happening in our world. Even the movie Men in Black touted the papers value, holding it as some of the best journalism on the planet. Excited about doing research for my blog, I trotted off the store and bought the newest copy. What a horrible disappointment.

The first disturbing thing I noticed was the cover. It looked like every other cover that flanked it. Movie stars in bathing suits. Movie stars locked in passionate embraces of other famous people. I would not have been nearly as disappointed if one of those celebrities had turned into a zombie and had eaten its film crew. But no, these were ordinary stars doing ordinary star stuff. Where were the predictions of Nostradamus? As a young girl, I used to pour over my grandmother’s copy of The Enquirer, trying to decipher the secrets of his prophecies. The cover held no mention of the world ending, or the dead rising, or Billy Bob’s neighbor turning into a werewolf. It’s almost Halloween, for crying out loud, where’s the horror?

As I flipped the pages, I became frantic looking for headlines like; ‘I GAVE BIRTH TO BIGFOOT’S BABY’, or ‘I SAW JESUS’ FACE ON A TORTILLA SO I ATE IT AND CLEANSED MY COLON FROM SIN.’ There was nothing, not a single mention of the half shark man, time machines, or a 100-foot sandwich. I also noticed a stunning lack of alien abductions, anal probes, and crop circles. They have all been replaced by story after story of too thin movie stars, divorcing movie stars, yoga gurus dishing the dirt on movie stars, and new mom movie stars who got their bodies back within 48 hours of giving birth. Sure these articles are scary, but they're not worthy of a Halloween blog. Thankfully, The Enquirer still had over forty listings for psychic hotlines in the back, but where were the hard-hitting scoops about the Batboy, or the prehistoric dinosaur caught in a lake in Alaska, or the 700-pound ballerina? I’m sorry to say, my friends, that those days are gone. The once solid icon of sensationalized journalism has sold out to the lure of Hollywood.

So when you need to know about the cannibalistic tribes of the Serengeti, the latest sighting of the Loch Ness Monster, or when the world is going to end, don’t bother looking to The National Enquirer for answers. The only thing you will find there is how to cleanse your colon just like the stars do.

My First Conference

My First Conference


16 Days Before the Conference:

In less than three weeks, I will be going to my first writer’s conference. I can’t wait. I’ve been to conferences with my husband, he’s an optometrist, and may I sum up that experience with one simple consonant; “ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.” But, this conference is all about me, no kids, no husband, no dishes. I will be participating in a group pitch session. I hear that ‘it’s good practice.’ I understand this to mean that pitching is a painful, yet necessary right of passage in a writer’s life. Taking this to heart, I decide not to be nervous. I doubt the agent/editor will verbally flog me if they don’t like my story. I doubt I’ll be made to sit in the corner with a dunce hat on if my stories hook isn’t catchy enough, will I?


10 Days Before the Conference:
Today my focus is on my wardrobe. I’ve been an at-home-mom for a number of years and own very little in the way of ‘business casual’ dress. What I do own is nice, but over the last couple of years, I’ve stacked on a few extra pounds. I keep meaning to correct that situation, but every time I feel the impulse to exercise, my mind overrides it with the command to lie down and read a good book. I’ve tried joining a gym, where there’s nothing to lay down on, but my car is possessed. Instead of ending up at the club, I end up at Starbucks. The one near my house is inside of a grocery store. They sell doughnuts, not a good start to a workout. As the conference approaches, I must accept that I will not lose 40 lbs. within the next 10 days. I’m going to have to work with what I’ve got. I have learned that trying on clothes in my heightened state of fluffiness is like moving. I’m trying to cram all my junk into a container that can realistically only hold half the mass. Since my clothes are not going to conform to my more voluptuous figure, I’m going to have to get a bigger container.


One Week Before the Conference:
Appropriate apparel located! I tick that off my ‘To Do’ list. Now my focus moves to preparing the family for my absence. There is some innate need to make the world completely right before I exit the house. Why is this? When I’m at home the laundry is rarely caught up. You will never find precooked meals in the frig waiting to be reheated. Why do I feel the need to clean my house? Do I think it’s going to stay that way while I’m gone? I have two 8 yr. old, human tornadoes, able to destroy a room in a single pass. I will only be gone for three days. It’s not like they’re going to starve. Even if they didn’t eat the entire time I was away, they would still be alive when I got home. Heck, even the dog knows to drink out of the toilet when the water dish is dry. Maybe I’ll thaw some hot dogs.


1 Day Before the Conference:
Prior to any trip I take, I briefly entertain the thought that I will only take carry-on luggage. As I stand looking down at my big suitcase, I throw my head back and laugh. It’s filled with items to be donated for the basket raffle. This works out well since I’m quite sure I will be winning one of the baskets; donated items out, won items in. I may as well pack an extra pair of wongie-waistbands. There is nothing like putting on stretchy pants after a long day of conferencing. I cram my tennis shoes on top. Maybe the hotel has an exercise room. I pause, who am I kidding? I toss the sneakers back in the closet. I crack myself up sometimes.


The Conference and Home:
I’ve been home for five days and the conference high is wearing off. I’m exhausted and I still haven’t unpacked. Emptying my suitcase feels like the fun is over for another year. However, I have a lot to accomplish before next year’s conference rolls around. Four things have become my mantra for the next 365 days.
1. Write, write, and write. Get the story down on paper and stop obsessing. There’s always time to edit.
2. Let my voice shine through, which will happen, if I write.
3. Don’t get lost in the time suck of email, Facebook, Twitter, and a thousand other venues. Instead, turn off the internet and write.
4. Keep my butt in the chair. The refrigerator doesn’t need to be cleaned. The silverware drawer doesn’t need to be organized. I don’t need to try on all my old makeup until the pages are written. Focus on the goal. Write.
Okay, so there might be one reoccurring theme, but it’s an important one, write the book. The conference has shown me that I am capable of writing much more than I’ve required of myself thus far. Nobody is going to write my book for me. As-a-matter-of-fact, nobody but me really cares if I ever write a book. Family members still want to eat; the school still wants me to volunteer; and the dog still wants me to walk him. Nobody cares whether I sacrifice sleep in exchange for that hour of quiet writing time.