Ask Me A Question

Why thank you, Erin. here is the sample from Spike, though it’s been tweaked since in the editing process:

SPIKE – Sneak Peek Sample

I was staring into the abyss.

Giant, brimming, sky-blue wells of horror, only moments from unleashing a torrent of mascara-infused tears.

“I already looked in there!” Whitney moaned, arms wrapped tightly to her chest. She stomped a foot, her snow-white wedding dress shimmering in the warm afternoon sunlight pouring through a bay window. Perfect blonde curls bounced precariously atop her head. “I’m telling you Tory, it’s missing!”

I dropped her Louis Vuitton bag to the floor, struggling to keep my annoyance in check. “Okay, Whitney. But I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. We double-checked everything just a few minutes ago.”

Whitney’s hands seized the sides of her dress. Then she flinched, releasing her grip and frantically smoothing the delicate while silk with her palms. She’d been a live wire all morning, from the moment I spied her practicing her walk down the aisle at dawn.

“Can you describe it for me again?” Voice calm. Holding her eye. Afraid that if I looked away she might crumple to the floor and never get up.

Her eyes bugged. “It’s blue, obviously!”

“Yes, Whitney. I know your ‘something blue’ is, in fact, blue.” Deep breath. Blank expression—like one you’d use on a stray dog of unknown temperament. “But perhaps a little further detail?”

“It’s a garter,” Whitney huffed, hands working. “My mother’s, from her own wedding. Robin’s-egg blue, with white embroidery.”

I nodded, remembering the tiny item. “You had it at home, when we inspected your bag before leaving.” For the fourth time. “So it must’ve been here when you unpacked. We just have to track the thing down.”

“Unless it was stolen,” Whitney muttered darkly, a frown pinching her delicate features. “I was in the ladies’ room before, and that hairstylist left in an awful hurry.”

“Devin didn’t steal your garter.” I was well past irritated, but trying to cover it. “She had to go touch-up the other bridesmaids.” Oh how I wished to be with them at that moment, though I didn’t have a thing in common with Whitney’s gaggle of beautiful frenemies. But the Maid of Honor has ironclad personal-assistant-to-the-bride duties. And right then, they included locating a six-inch hoop of missing taffeta.

I glanced around. We were alone in a spacious drawing room on the second floor of the Williem Carter House, one of the most exclusive wedding venues in Charleston. Both the service and reception were being held there. A National Historic Landmark, the ancient private home boasted a showcase of museum-caliber art and antiques, with a stunning ballroom surrounded by a cozy garden courtyard. The venerable old building was the height of refinement and charm. Whitney Dubois—a southern debutante to the tips of her manicured toes—wouldn’t have had it any other way. Even I had to admit the place was perfect.

However, at the moment, the palatial residence was hiding an apparently crucial element of Whitney’s ensemble, and the bride-to-be was verging on hysterics. So I was down on my knees in a dress and heels, peering under an ornate collection of couches, bookcases, and coffee tables for this stupid, useless, confounded blue garter that no one but Kit would ever see anyway.

Ew. I fast-forwarded past that unpleasant thought, searching the hand-stitched carpet with my fingers. My quarry continued to elude me.

“We’ll simply have to postpone,” Whitney babbled, verging on collapse. “You’ll tell the guests. The caterers will howl, of course, but I don’t see any way—”

“Just hold on.” I sat back on my heels, palms up in a calming gesture designed for spooked horses. “Take a breath. We don’t need to postpone the wedding. Let’s just retrace our steps a bit. Find this stupid garter.”

“It is not—”

My hand chopped sideways. “Of course not. Poor choice of words.” I rose and began pacing, chewing my bottom lip as my blue-green eyes turned inward, reviewing our progress of that morning. After the … events of last year, my irises had never returned to their former emerald green. A few people noticed from time to time, but not in any particularly startled way. “It happens,” was the phrase I heard most often.

Not usually from ingesting a covertly-manufactured anti-viral serum created in hopes of reversing a catastrophic DNA mutation—one which granted the infected subjects extrasensory canine superpowers—but whatever.