Excerpt:
I wake to a muscular, silent figure looming over me, his wings casting unnerving shadows. Intelligent dark eyes scrutinize me from his smooth, brown face framed by cropped black hair and raven quills. He’s been around the block.
My guard shoots up. I’d stand, but my body’s too weak from the climb. “Your nest, huh? Sorry, I didn’t see your name on it.”
“It’s carved right over there.” He points past me to the rockface. My eyes travel over the stone, where he’d etched River in craggy letters. The carved name is so tiny I didn’t notice.
“Now you’re supposed to tell me your name. That’s how this goes.”
I blink. “Delene Fairborne. Listen, would you mind if I–– ow,” I scrape against the wall and suck air through my teeth. I clamp my eyes shut.
“Are you okay?”
I shrug the blanket off, and my injured wing flops lamely near my shoulder. River’s eyebrows lower, and he comes closer.
“Let me look.”
He stows his serrated hunting knife, presents empty hands, and crouches to examine my injury. “Relax. I won’t hurt you. Let’s see the damage.” He’s gentle, avoiding the wound and handling my feathers softly. He lightly touches the bandage.
“Dr. Lytle runs the Stockade, the underground bunker and lab where the humans imprison and experiment on our kind. His men hunted me down and shot me with a crossbow as I tried
to escape. The wound is still healing––I changed the bandage earlier, but without a spare set of clothes, I had to tear strips off my pants to re-dress it.”
“Hmm.” He examines the back with a frown. “There’s an exit wound.”
“Yeah, I pulled it out.”
“Well, that was stupid of you. You could have died if those goons pierced a blood feather.”
My temper flares. “Oh, as opposed to leaving it in. I’d rather take my chances, thanks.” My voice is hostile, though I’m grateful for his help. I still don’t know who he is or what he wants, and my mother warned me to be on my guard.
River sits back on his haunches, sighs, and meets my eyes.
“Doesn’t look good. How long have you been here, kid? A day or so?”
“I’m no kid. I’m seventeen.”
“Well, I’m eighteen. So, you’re a kid.”
“By what, a few whole months?” I snicker. “Okay. If a kid free-climbed in the pitch-black up a hundred-foot cliff to get here, I guess I’m a kid.”
After examining the wound, he says, “The damage looks fixable. Let’s clean this well to prevent infection.”
“I’ve cleaned the wound.”
“Clean deeper,” he admonishes. “I don’t have antibiotics, but I’ll try to get some. Or at least honey. Honey heals.”
He hesitates before retrieving water, then takes a rag from his pouch and soaks the cloth. With the knife still in hand, he comes closer.
“Look … You seem all right, but I’m a lone wolf. I operate solo. You have a target with a big ‘X’ on your back. I feel bad for you. I do. But you know how it is with our kind.” He gives me a blatant look, so here’s your cue to leave.
“Gee, I’d kindly vacate the premises, but I can’t fly.”
He rubs the back of his neck, agitated. “The valley’s full of drones. And they’ve got at least a dozen soldiers combing the forest.”
“I’m sorry.” I shift my eyes down. “You never asked for any of this.”
“None of us did,” he waves me off. “The soldiers are here.
I’m screwed either way.” He pauses and assesses me. “Stay the night. Then after that, I’m sorry, but you need to find somewhere else to hide.”
The night might be all I need. “Thank you.”
1. What literary pilgrimages have
you gone on?
I’ve visited the Charles Dickens house in London back in 2002 and walked the
moors that inspired Wuthering Heights. I’ve lived in Kent, where many of
the events in Jane Austen’s novels took place, visited lavender fields and
hidden away villages she mentioned in some of her books, picnicked in the
places Lizzie and Darcy might have stood, and gone to dozens of castles across
Europe. I’ve spent quiet hours in the reading room at Shakespeare and Company
in Paris. Each place felt sacred in its own right.
2. What is the first book that made
you cry?
Where the Red Fern Grows absolutely gutted me. I was around nine, and I
remember sitting in my room, clutching the book, completely devastated.
3. Does writing energize or exhaust
you?
Both—sometimes in the same session. When I'm in the zone, it’s electrifying.
But after a deep emotional scene or major revision, I’m completely drained and
could use a hug.
4. What is your writing Kryptonite?
Distractions. If I’m not intentional, I’ll lose hours to mom duties, emails,
chores, social media, or reorganizing my desk for the fourth time. I thrive
with a set schedule and find that I’m most creatively productive in the
mornings when things are quiet.
5. Did you ever consider writing
under a pseudonym?
Yes, and I did so when I first started writing adult romance over ten years
ago. I have since retired my romance writing, but writing under a pseudonym
helped in my journey to believe in myself as an author. I ultimately chose to
switch to writing Young Adult novels and write everything these days under my
name to stay authentic and connected to readers.
6. What other authors are you
friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?
I’m lucky to have many amazing author friends who cheer me on, offer tough
feedback, and understand the chaos of the creative life. We swap pages,
brainstorm sticky plot issues, and remind each other that imposter syndrome
lies.
7. Do you want each book to stand on
its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between
each book?
I aim for both. I love when each book can be enjoyed on its own, but I also
like to leave subtle threads—recurring places, names, or themes—for readers who
follow the whole journey.
8. What author did you dislike at
first but grew into?
Jack London. When I first read The Call of the Wild in school, my palate
of classical literature was rudimentary and underdeveloped, and I couldn’t
connect with it. But years later, I picked the book up again and was struck by
the raw power of his storytelling and his deep understanding of nature and
survival. Now I appreciate how visceral and emotionally charged his work is,
especially the way he captures the instinct to endure. There’s something raw
and beautiful about his writing.
9. What’s your favorite
under-appreciated novel?
Intensity by Dean Koontz.
It’s a relentless, pulse-pounding thriller that lives up to its name, but what
really stuck with me was Chyna’s resiliency. She’s a survivor in every sense,
intelligent, resourceful, and emotionally complex. Despite the trauma she’s
endured, she refuses to break, and that fierce inner strength left a lasting
impression on me as both a reader and a writer.
10. As a writer, what would you
choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
A turtle—steady, thoughtful, and always carrying its home (and stories) on its
back. Turtles might move slowly, but they always get where they’re going. I like
to think that’s how I approach writing and life: with quiet persistence,
kindness, and a tough shell when needed.
11. How many unpublished and
half-finished books do you have?
I’ve got at least eight solid manuscripts in various stages—some are completely
finished, and some may never see the light of day, but they were essential
learning experiences.
12. What did you edit out of this
book?
I cut out lots of filter words and horrible rough draft malarkey that could
weigh it down. All the important plot and subplot is in the book. I took out
any complex sentences or redundancy that distracted from the main storyline and
slowed the pacing.
13. If you didn’t write, what would
you do for work?
I’d either be a family and marriage counselor or teach English college classes.
My degree is in both Psychology and English, and I’m passionate about both
fields.
14. Do you hide any secrets in your
books that only a few people will find?
Yes! There are Easter eggs—personal jokes, family and pet names, and nods to
experiences or pop culture—that my closest friends and longtime readers might
catch.
15. What is your favorite childhood
book?
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I read it when I was eight years
old,over and over. The warmth and fun, the cast of characters, the relatability—it
made me want to be a storyteller.
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