Darragha Foster: Shape-shifter romances with a twist. Or a fin.

[reviews_and_ramblings]

Darragha Foster writes shape-shifter romances with a twist. Or a fin. After the success of her first shifter tale, "The Orca King," she's enjoyed adding her own bizarre touch to what could have otherwise been straight paranormal romances. The Orca King, II, is slated for release into the wild on October 20th from Liquid Silver Books. Although Darr has incorporated several man-love elements in her previous novels, The Orca King, II is her first full M/M. You can learn more about Darragha and her books by visiting her site at www.darragha.com.

THE ORCA KING, II: Made impotent by a shadow born of his own poor choices and godly misdeeds, whale-shifter Big Tom, The Orca King, takes on the challenge of a lifetime to make amends to the women whose personal histories he's abused after leading too many of them on needless sensual vision quests. To restore and renew his vitality and ability to shape-shift, and to save the life of his true love--a man infested with the breath of the serpent demon--he must confront his shadow head-on--not with force, but with love. The Orca King was named in the top-twenty five most unusual paranormal characters in the last twenty-five years by Romantic Times Booklovers Magazine.

Darragha Foster will provide to two among who will leave a comment the choice of an ebook from her backlist.

The Orca King, II book trailer:

EXCERPT ONE:

Big Tom closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the melody hummed by his best friend, Granny Tillicum. He wanted to absorb the vibration, desperate for the comfort it offered. Fearfully, he figured he was screwed. All the signs were there. Glaring neon signs that blinked on and off, over and over again, "You're in deep shit, Tom!"

But it never hurt to ask for help. Especially from an oracle. A very wise woman.

The King needed counsel.

He'd been distracted for weeks. Unable to sleep or concentrate. Unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, such as eating, drinking and laughing.

He had no HMO, no primary care physician, no therapist with whom to discuss his insomnia and fatigue. He had no spouse. No soul mate along his current path. Not even a dog. It had been months since he'd taken a lover and even longer since he'd shared his special vision quest talents with a lost soul.

Worst of all, he could not shift.

This was the hardest to accept.

He could not shift.

He had been trapped in human form for six weeks, dry and solitary. He could not sing into the wind and hear its reply. He did not rule the bay or the forest. As vital a part of island life as any eco-system, his disconnection had resultant affects on tourism and the Orcas Island community. Businesses and residents were suffering. The whale-watching cruises were on hiatus for the pods would not return until they heard the call of their king.

And he could not sing to them. He heard their cries and wanted to reply, but the words escaped him. Human vocal chords could not make whale song.

Granny Tillicum, he hoped, would have an answer. He'd been embarrassed at his impotence of body and abilities and had avoided her for too long. When the very weather had remained unchanged for weeks, he knew he needed to look beyond his ego and limp member and seek counsel. As summer approached, a day or two of sunny weather, even in the Pacific Northwest, was expected. It had rained every day for sixty days. The Northwest corner of Washington's lengthy drizzle was making national news.

He knew it was his fault that the sun failed to shine. His illness affected the very land he called home. Orcas Island, the jewel of the San Juan Islands chain, had lost her protective spirit.

Tom, locked in human form, was vulnerable and subject to human traits. So deeply tied to the land creating the island and the sea surrounding it, if he felt sad and depressed, so did all who dwelled in his realm. It was the renewal of shifting that cleansed and purified him. It was the act of shifting and the aura of magic left in its wake that fed and nourished the land, as well.

The folding of space, both inner and outer, when shifting, created a by-product more valuable than gold and more healing than penicillin. Shifters called it "the wake," and its tide was more formidable than any magics on earth.

There was an analogy for "the wake" used to explain to newly created or birthed shifters how their abilities affected the world around them.

Think of a mortal as a fly clinging to the tail of a horse at full, wild gallop across a flat, even surface. So was it with humans. Some caught onto the "the wake" and rode it to glory. Some sensed its approach and spent their lives devising ways to predict it or subdue it. Others ignored it, hid from it or wished it away.

Tom's wake had enveloped Orcas Island for centuries. The effects were now wearing thin. Wearing off.

Because he had not shuffled off his mortal coil and shifted for so very long, he felt dirty; dirty inside, where no amount of scrubbing could reach. His human flesh crawled and prickled over his bones, and his shifter heart wept bitterly for want of the sea. Even the water in a drinking glass called to him. The drip from a leaky faucet taunted him. The rain punished him.

The King was suffering.

His heart ached, and his spirit pined for relief.

Hoping to find his bearings, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the tactile sensation of Granny's ancient hands. A visage of old leather saddlebags appeared in his mind. He trembled in her feeble grip. She had more power in her one-hundred-year-old hands than he had in his orca whale form. Granny was the true master of Orcas Island. He was but her humble servant when in her commanding presence.

EXCERPT TWO:

Tom saluted Jack with his stein and poured whiskey straight into the frothy beer. "To save time," he said as Jack shook his head and walked down bar to help another customer.

Tom glanced at the clock. "It is going to be a long freakin' day," he murmured.

Boisterous laughter and sounds of guffawing men filled the bar. Ballplayers, saluting themselves on being masters of the world, streamed in. Tom turned on his barstool as a team entered in dirt-smeared, blue-striped uniform whites.

He chastised himself for wishing they'd just shut up. Denying others their right to jubilation was something he'd never done before. It made his gut ache. He grabbed his beer and took a long drink. Nope. His belly still ached.

He swung back around, hunching his shoulders over his beer, hoping he was projecting an aura of "leave me the fuck alone."

Tom shivered as a surge of air-conditioning hit him in the backside. He listened for the familiar clicking noise that followed a gush of cool air. He laughed as the sound did not materialize. "Jack! You got the a/c fixed!" he called.

From down the long bar Jack looked up and shook his head. "Still broken, bud."

Tom felt icy fingers along his spine again. The chilling tendrils turned to wisps of fire toying with the muscle definition of his torso and shoulders. He shivered as a bracelet of heat ringed his forearms, and red-hot daggers teased his rib cage. His secret places tingled from the unseen embrace. The places, where in his whale form, there would be fluke and dorsal. For a very brief, too-fleeting second, he felt the absolute joy of shifting overtake him. It ebbed and flowed and swelled, then vanished, leaving him as empty as he had been for months.

Tom hadn't felt something like this hit him in years. Decades. He tried to recall the last time another's aura had reached out and touched him--no--reached out and slapped him senseless. Centuries, maybe. The strong maleness of the ethereal impression both alarmed and aroused him. Who was this? He could feel the man's aura project out like a force-field of radiant sensuality and strength as he, this inhumanly affecting ballplayer, sidled up to the bar.

Tom, hunkered down and half-drunk, could see only the man's torso from the corner of his eyes. A white and blue uniform of the team who'd just entered the lounge. To see more of this interloper into his air-space would have taken more effort than he was willing to give. Until he heard the man's voice.

"Hey, bartender! How's about a round of brews for the winning team? Whatever you have on tap."

The words made no difference. The man could have been speaking gibberish, a foreign, dead language or even speaking in tongues--the words were not important. It was the voice. The tonal inflection. The words unspoken, that pulled Tom away from his pity pot, and he looked up, into the smiling face of the softball player.

The ballplayer extended his hand to Tom. "How are you? I'm Devon."

Tom's gaze was fixed. He didn't want to appear to be a catatonic on holiday having a brew, but he could not help but stare. "I'm fine. Thanks." Tom consciously decided at that moment to pull his gaze back to his beer and concentrate only on the fact he had been completely emasculated by a shadow. He was in a foul mood and wanted to feel sorry for himself as much as the man must have wanted to celebrate with his team.

Instead, he raised his strong right hand to clasp Devon's.

The fiery chill still cascading up and down his spine sprang with cat-like precision to his palm, where it melted down his body, to his loins and thighs. Tom twisted on his seat to hide a shudder. The burn grew hotter, and it smoldered and pulsated between them. Flesh to flesh. This was unlike any handshake he'd ever experienced.

Tom wanted to look away. He wanted to feign disinterest and present himself as reclusive. He did not want to make small talk or share pleasantries while the bartender filled frosty glasses with the local brew.

This ballplayer had the most startling ice-blue eyes he'd ever seen. He might as well have been swimming in the deep sea for all the blue enveloping him. Blue like the sea. A twinkle like sunshine on a vast expanse of open ocean.

Under the man's cap, deep brown hair pasted by sweat to his brow framed a ruggedly handsome mocha-toned face. Tom couldn't help himself. He smiled.

"Would you like to join us?" Devon asked. "I hate to see a man drink alone in a room soon to be full of drunken fast-pitch diamond dogs."

Tom began to say, "No, thanks," but the words that came out of his mouth were nothing like what he was thinking. "Sure, I'd love to." Sure, I'd love to?

"Great, mosey on over and introduce yourself to the guys. My whole name is Devon de la Cruz. Yes, that's a slight Jamaican accent you detect. Dad's Latino. Mom's Jamaican. I like things fast and spicy. But you don't have to remember all that right now. I'll answer to Devon or Cruz--whichever is easier for you after a six-pack."

They had not yet broken the handshake.

Tom squeezed Devon's hand with a firm shake. "I'm Tom Tyee. And I didn't say anything about your voice."

The handshake--a greeting of strangers about to become friends. Centuries old. Routine. A daily occurrence in every part of the world since before recorded time.

How could a simple handshake make him feel so ... Tom felt his throat muscles constrict. How can a handshake make me feel so vulnerable?

Palm to palm. Long fingers pressing wrists, pressing pulse points. Sweat to sweat. Body heat to body heat. Tom's penis reacted as if he'd just touched the hand of a beautiful woman. And Devon de la Cruz was no woman! This guy was, inch for inch and pound for pound, just as tall and well-proportioned as he was. Except Devon didn't have the paunch. Everything in his mid-section looked taut. The man radiated good health and pulsed with vibrant sexual stamina.

He released Devon's hand. Hiding embarrassment, he nodded to the bartender to fill his beer, then pulled his flannel shirttails closer around his waist to hide the rise in his jeans.

Comments

[elisa-rolle.livejournal.com]

Same for me. I'm really waiting for this one. Elisa