Message From The Author

Kathleen Morgan

Book Title: FIRESTORM
Genre: Futuristic, Paranormal/Urban Fantasy

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Author's Message

Firestorm

FIRESTORM is my seventh futuristic romance. When evil aliens threaten the Imperium, Teague Tremayne, a warrior monk sworn to eternal chastity, is compelled to join forces with Raina, leader of the Sodalitas, a society of warrior women pledged to spurn men. An interesting combination, guaranteed to make the sparks fly. And, boy, do the sparks ever fly, from the first moment Raina "meets" Teague.

With a low groan, he sank to his knees. His head lowered until it touched his chest. His body shook, suddenly wracked with tremors. Then he went still.

Nothing moved but his hands. He lifted the dagger and brought the tip to rest against the middle of his tautly muscled abdomen. In a blinding movement, he drove the blade into his belly.

Raina choked back a horrified cry. Her nails gouged into the tree. Yet never once did she take her gaze from the man kneeling below.

She waited for the blood to spurt and drench the ground. Waited for the death rattle. Waited, and saw nothing but him kneeling there, head bowed, dagger clasped to his belly.

The seconds pounded by, each marked by the crazed thud of her heart, the rush of blood in her ears. The world spun, whirling about her until she was caught up in a deafening vortex of light and sound. And, in its center, knelt the monk. A man who, with one violently irrational act, had become the focus of her heretofore uncomplicated universe.

Then, with a low groan, the monk wrenched the dagger from him-a dagger as immaculate as it had been when he'd first plunged it into himself. He picked up the sheath lying beside him and rose, turning to face the three moons shining now just above the trees where Raina hid. With a smooth, supple movement, he brought the dagger to his lips. Once more, Raina choked back a gasp. She saw his face fully now, and its sweat-slick planes were bathed in such terrible, anguished beauty. She reached out to him, then caught herself in the uncharacteristic, shocking act. It didn't matter. He had already lowered the dagger, resheathed it, then turned and walked over to his pile of clothes. Gathering them up in his arms, he opened the door and strode out into the suddenly calm, eerily silent night. Behind him, in the center of the dirt-packed ground, the fire in the brazier died and a thin wisp of scented smoke curled to the sky.

I'd love to hear from readers. If you'd like an excerpted flyer, please send an SASE to me at: P.O. Box 62365, Colorado Springs, CO 80906.


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