STORM CLOUDS ARE
GATHERING, AND THEY WILL RAIN BLOOD.
Scarlett
is living her happy-ever-after, back in the real world. Only the
‘happy’ part is proving problematic.
For starters, there’s
the isolation. Being a Cerulean among humans is fraught with risk, so
her time with people can only be fleeting. Which means being with
Luke but not being with Luke.
Then there’s her
Cerulean light, her power over life and death. Less awesome talent,
as it turns out, and more overwhelming responsibility. And it comes
with rules – rules that are increasingly difficult to obey.
But what’s really
pushing Scarlett to the precipice is something much bigger than
herself, than her life in the cove. A force to be reckoned with:
Blood.
When long-buried truths
are exposed, will Scarlett keep her head above water – or will she
drown in the blood-dimmed tide that is unleashed?
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Excerpt
It began with
screaming. Shrill, ear-piercing, horrified screaming.
A girl shrieked,
‘Blood! Look, look – it’s everywhere!’ and pressed her hand
to her mouth.
A man shouted, ‘Good
grief!’ and another, ‘Great Scott!’
An old lady swooned
gracefully and would have tipped over the balustrade of the riverboat
had a lanky lad not caught her.
The cause of the
excitement – a woman lying slumped on the long table on deck, cheek
on her bread plate, headdress in the butter dish – twitched a
little.
‘She’s alive!’
cried a lad beside her delightedly. ‘She moved!’
‘Did not,’ argued
another.
‘Did too!’
‘Gentlemen,’
interjected a short, portly man with a twirly black moustache, ‘if
you will forgive my intrusion, it must be noted that this woman has a
bullet hole in her head and is logically, therefore, quite definitely
deceased.’
Another old dear folded
to the deck with a prolonged ‘Ohhhhhh’ and her husband grabbed a
feathered fan and began wafting cool evening air in her face while
calling, ‘Smelling salts – does anyone have any?’
I tried to keep a
straight face. Really I did. I bit my bottom lip until I tasted my
cherry-red lipstick. I pinched my leg through the cream satin of my
gown. I dug my long cigarette holder into the sensitive flesh of my
arm.
But it was no good.
The ‘What ho, chaps’
posh accents.
The buxom woman sagging
in the arms of an elephant hunter wearing Converse All Stars.
The production of
smelling salts in a bottle whose label read Pepto-Bismol.
The corners of the
little round man’s moustache coming looser with his every word.
The fast-pooling puddle
of pinkish blood on the bread plate, buffeted by the steady
in-and-out breaths of the corpse.
Take it from a girl
who’s really died – death on the River Dart, Devon, is hilarious.
‘Dear me, Ms Robson
here appears to be quite overcome with shock,’ said the guy at my
side suddenly, and he slipped an arm around me and turned me away.
‘Come, madam. Let us get some air.’
I smiled at him. Then
grinned. Then choked back a guffaw. Thankfully, by the time
full-scale hilarity hit me I’d been led to the rear of the boat,
away from the rest of our party, and could bury my face in the
bloke’s chest and shake mutely with laughter.
The gallant gentleman
rubbed my back soothingly as I let it all out and said loudly, for
the benefit of any onlookers, ‘There there, pignsey, there there.’
‘Pigsney?’ It was
the final straw. My high-heeled sandals gave way and I melted into a
puddle of mirth on the deck.
‘I’ll have you
know, Scarlett Blake,’ hissed Luke, my boyfriend a.k.a. gallant
gent, hoiking up his too-tight corduroy trousers so he could squat
down beside me, ‘I Googled “old-fashioned terms of endearment”
and pigsney’s a classic.’
I wiped tears from my
eyes, dislodging a false eyelash in the process, and tried to catch
my hiccupping breath as Luke went on.
‘Means pig’s eye.
No idea why that’s appealing, but apparently in the seventeenth
century, calling a lady pigsney was the very height of courting.’
Through his fake specs
Luke’s blue eyes fixed me with a stare so earnest I almost managed
to stop laughing.
‘But this is a Death
on the Nile-Stroke-Dart murder mystery night, Luke,’ I managed
to get out. ‘Set in the nineteen thirties, not the seventeen
thirties.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but
my character tonight, Mr Fijawaddle, is a historical fiction writer,
isn’t he? So as well as dressing like a brainy recluse – and I’m
warning you now, I won’t hear another slur against this tweed
jacket – he’d know all kinds of obscure terms. Like ginglyform
and jargogle and nudiustertian and bromopnea and farctate and
quagswag and philosophunculist.’
His showing off sobered
me just enough to control the giggles. ‘You made those words up,’
I accused, poking a crimson talon into his mustard-yellow shirtfront.
He blinked at me
innocently. ‘Did not. I told you before we left the house, I did my
homework.’
I narrowed my eyes.
‘All right then, Mr Fijawaddle, what does that last word you said
mean?’
‘Philosophunculist?’
‘Yes, that.’
‘Er…’ Luke gave
me a sheepish grin.
‘Spill it,’ I said
menacingly. As menacingly as a girl dressed up as a vintage Hollywood
starlet with cute little pin curls and rouge aplenty can be, that is.
‘Philosophunculist,’
recited Luke. ‘Noun. A person who pretends to know more than they
do in order to impress others.’
I threw my head back
and laughed. ‘Busted!’
Luke slipped an arm
around me and pulled me close. Really close.
‘Bet you like it when
I use long words,’ he said huskily, eyes fixed on my too-red lips.
‘Bet you like it when
I wear a clingy nightgown as a dress,’ I replied, eyes fixed on his
too-kissable lips.
‘Brazen hussy,’ he
growled at me.
‘Randy boffin,’ I
murmured back.
Then neither of us said
another word for quite some time.
Once upon a time a
little girl told her grandmother that when she grew up she wanted to
be a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy princess fireman. ‘Write,
Megan,’ her grandmother advised. So that’s what she
did.Thirty-odd years later, Megan is a professional writer and published author by day, and an indie novelist by night. Her fiction – young adult romance with soul – recently earned her the SPR’s Independent Woman Author of the Year award.
Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in Robin Hood's county, Nottinghamshire. She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a palaeontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she's not writing, you'll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.
You can find Megan online at:
http://megantayte.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13478850.Megan_Tayte
https://www.facebook.com/megantayte
https://twitter.com/megantayte
https://plus.google.com/+MeganTayte
Thank you for sharing.
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