When did you start writing?
About as soon as I could write the alphabet. I won a library essay contest when I was a kid and wrote for the school newspapers. I wrote a romance novel about a couple of ballet dancers in my early twenties (back in the days of typewriters), but never sent it out. Didn’t try again until five or six years ago, after reading
Twilight. Unlike some people, I liked
Twilight, but was frustrated by the lack of sex and Edward’s lack of history. In literature, vampires personify uncaged sexuality, so a chaste vampire seemed counter-intuitive. Plus, I felt writing an immortal creature provided fantastic opportunities to build an interesting backstory. What had he/she seen and experienced over the centuries? How was he/she affected by it? My immortal characters all have a history tied to the world and what they’ve seen and experienced has colored them in some way.
What’s the strangest thing that’s inspired one of your stories?
I don’t know if I’d call it strange, but all of my stories are inspired by real history and/or mythology.
Have you ever based a character on someone you know? If so, did you tell them? If not, is there someone in your life you’d like to base a character on?
Originally, one of the characters in
The Queen of Swords borrowed attributes from my younger sister, but I believe those things have been eliminated in the rewrites as the character evolved into someone not-so-nice. I also give some of my own experiences to my female characters.
What do the people in your “real life” think of your writing?
My real-life circle is very small and everyone who knows I write is very supportive.
Tell us about your book.
Which one? After trying so hard to find an agent and/or publisher, I finally “sold” three books in 2013, two paranormal romances and a thriller. All three will release in 2014.
The first—my debut novel—is
The Queen of Swords, a paranormal tale of undying love. Releasing in Kindle and paperback formats on March 22, it’s the story of a white witch who returns every century to reunite and try to save her earthbound soul mate. An immortal wizard turned him into a type of Celtic vampire two hundred years before on the eve of their wedding. The book tells what happens the third time they meet. The publisher for
The Queen of Swords is Vamptasy.
The second is titled
The Knight of Wands and will be the first in a four-part series I’m calling
The Knights of Avalon. The Knights were Scottish noblemen who fell in battle and were taken to Avalon to become breeding drones for a queen who reigns over an Amazonian colony of blood-drinking faeries. In the first book, Callum Lyon, a knight who escaped captivity, tries to woo a free-spirited English socialite named Vanessa Bentley, who values her freedom over her heart. Despite his attempts to pin her down, she moves to New Orleans to take a job, but gets into all sorts of trouble once there. I won’t spoil it by revealing more. Releasing sometime in late spring, it’s an erotic romance and my publisher for this one is Soul Mate.
The third book, titled
The Tin Man, is totally different. It’s a thriller based on things I see happening in the world that people don’t seem to care about but should. It’s about two emotionally wounded journalists who become the pawns in a game of dark family secrets and a global conspiracy involving media ownership and the manipulation of public opinion on a global scale.
The Tin Man, releasing August 30, will be published by Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly (CHBB).
After this, what's your next project?
My current work-in-progress is book two in
The Knights of Avalon series. After that, I haven’t decided. Probably another paranormal romance/urban fantasy. I’ve got a stalled manuscript about an oil company spokeswoman who gets involved with a merman during an oil spill in the Hebrides. Might get back to that one, or write one featuring a secondary couple in
The Queen of Swords. I’d also like to write a sequel to
The Tin Man—keep those journalists working on stories from the real-world news.
Are you a careful planner, or do you let the story guide you?
I do a bit of both. I work out the characters and their motivations, setting, and where I want the story to go. I also tend to do index cards for each scene or major plot point from start to finish. Once I start writing, it can go completely off the rails, depending on where the characters want to go. As long as they’re reaching the touchstones, I let them do what they want, figuring I can always rein them in later.
Who is your favorite character?
I love them all, of course, but, if pressed, would probably pick Alex Buchanan, the journalist hero in
The Tin Man. He’s very complex and has lots of demons to deal with, but also is a really good guy.
Do you listen to music when you write? If so, what?
I don’t. I can’t concentrate with music on. I prefer total silence.
What's your genre? Would you ever try writing in another? If so, what?
I’m toying with the idea of writing historical romances someday because I’m a history buff and have developed an expertise in period fashion through my dollmaking. I just need a good story idea!
Where can fans purchase your book?
All of the books will be sold on Amazon.com.
When Graham Logan draws the
Queen of Swords, he knows he’s about to meet the love of his life. For the third time. But surrendering his heart will mean risking her life…or making her what he is--two things his beliefs won’t allow him to do. Graham rages at God: Why give her back only to take her again?
Cat Fingal, the third coming of Graham’s beloved, won’t let him slip away so easily. A white witch, she casts a spell to summon him—for answers, among other things.
Graham has other problems, too. Like the seductress who wants him for herself and the dark wizard who cursed him and killed Cat the first two times.
Will she find a way to save him this time around?
Excerpt: The Queen of Swords by Nina Mason
Graham had just come upon the misplaced diaries—in the cupboard under the stairs—when he caught a whiff of something burning. Concerned, he stepped back into the foyer. A quick look around revealed nothing unusual. He sniffed the air, again detecting smoke, though none of the toxic undertones of a house fire. Neither did it smell of a choked chimney. It was, in fact, pleasantly herbal—like the juniper-laced bonfires of Beltane he knew in his youth. Was Branwen burning incense...or Benedict trying out a new pipe tobacco?
Shrugging it off, he grabbed the box of diaries and headed for the stairs. As he climbed, so did the smoke. A picture of Caitriona came into his mind. Or was it Catharine...or the new one? He couldn’t be sure as she was naked and her hair hung loose. As she reached for him, he saw something odd: a blue fire the size of a pilot light in the center of each palm.
Like moth to flame, you yearn for light. Come from shadow into my sight.
The words whispered. Caitriona disappeared. Desire blossomed. What was going on? At the top of the stairs, he was sweating and dizzy. Every nerve ending, every vein, burned like fire. He raced down the hall toward his bedchamber, dropping the box as he shot through the doorway. Bending to collect his spilled diaries, he startled at what he saw:
He had no hands. And no feet.
The smoke and ethers enveloped, pulling him apart cell by cell until he felt like the sands of time moving through an hourglass. The cosmos was silent except for a haunting echo—like the sound inside a seashell. He felt at once connected to everything and nothing. Adrift and yet highly attuned. He was blind yet all seeing; numb yet hypersensitive; defenseless yet omnipotent. Others were there, too—phantasmal energies blowing past and passing through like sleet.
The next thing he knew, he was on his back, winded and disoriented. The room was dark save for the flicker of a solitary candle. He could make out only two pale shapes. The larger one, he presumed, was a bed, the smaller one, by the window, his summoner. His nostrils flared, seeking her scent, but found only the spices of the smoke.
“I told ye to stay away from me,” he growled. “Why did ye not listen?”
*****
“Just so ye know, vampires don’t kill—except by accident, of course, or to commit deliberate murder.”
The sound of his deep, musical burr quickened Cat’s pulse. It could only be the good-looking Scot who’d been checking her out from the stacks for the past twenty minutes.
“Excuse me?” She raised her eyes from Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, but did not turn around. There was no need. She’d already memorized every detail of his appearance while he skirted her gaze. Each time she looked his way, hoping to catch his eye, he was conveniently reading the book in his hand. Each time she returned to her work, the prickling hairs on the back of her neck gave away his game.
He seemed uncannily familiar too, though she couldn’t place him. The proud stance, powerful build, and thick copper hair all struck a chord—a sweet arpeggio that resonated somewhere deep inside.
“The average adult has five liters of blood,” he began to explain, “and the average stomach can hold fewer than two.” He paused to shift gears. “She’s also wrong about the coffins. And the impotence—though the book remains one of my favorites of the genre.”
“Mine too.” She set the gold-clad novel on the table beside her laptop. “Do you go here? You seem familiar.”
“Nay. I went to Saint Andrew’s ages ago.”
She still didn’t turn. “Oh? Then what brings you here?”
“I just moved to the village,” he said, “and heard the university had an impressive collection of vampire literature. So, I thought I’d see for myself—to kill a wee bit of time. But it seems ye’ve beaten me to it.”
“For my dissertation,” she offered quickly, pinging with guilt. She did not add that renewal of her faculty contract hinged on her finishing her Ph.D. before the term ended in three more weeks. Or that she was hopelessly behind. If she told him how under-the-gun she felt, he might leave. And she wanted to keep talking to him.
He was undeniably handsome. Bodice-ripper, book-cover handsome. Straight nose with a slight flare at the end; strong jaw and jutting chin; prominent brow and cheekbones; intense, deep-set eyes that turned down at the corners ever so slightly; and a sweet, kissable mouth whose tucked lower lip made it both boyish and sensual.
Apart from the biker jacket and boots, he might have stepped out of one of the Highlander romances she read every chance she got—a longstanding guilty pleasure. For some inexplicable reason, she’d been attracted to all things Scottish for as long as she could remember.
He reached past her, selected Dracula off her stack of reference material, and began looking through it. She could hear the pages turning behind her, but couldn’t bring herself to turn round. If she met his eyes, she would melt like butter.
“He was lucky to have no reflection to fuck with his head.”
His voice brought her back, but only partly. “Who?”
“Count Dracula.”
“Oh.” Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. “It was meant to symbolize that he had no soul.”
“I ken that. But is it true, do ye think?”
Cat knew from her Highlander romances the word “ken” meant “know” in Scots, but was otherwise confused by his question. Why did she find his closeness so discomposing? Men, even good-looking ones, rarely had this effect on her.
“Is what true?”
“That vampires have no souls,” he clarified. “That they’re eternally damned.”
“I don’t believe in—”
When she didn’t go on, he prodded. “Ye don’t believe in what?”
She was going to say “eternal damnation,” but remembered it was never a good idea to discuss religion—especially her religion—with any but like-minded practitioners of the craft. And even then, it could lead to heated disagreement.
Turning at last, she met his eyes, an astonishing shade of gold—like topazes or whisky backlit by the sun. They also were so gnawingly familiar she wanted to scream.
She tried to speak, to wrench her eyes away, but couldn’t seem to. Images of heather and bracken, of misty hills and crystal lochs, washed over her like a dream. What in the name of the goddess was happening to her?
Unable to bear his riveting gaze any longer, she turned back to the table, winded and shaken. She took a couple of breaths to slow her pulse and regain control. As he reached past her to return Dracula to its place, her eyes followed his hand—a sculptural marvel with long fingers tapering from furrowed knuckles to lustrous nails. She shivered as she imagined those fingers traveling over her flesh. He smelled good, too. Natural and earthy. Like a walk in the woods on a crisp autumn morning.
“How do I know you?” She had to force the words through her throat. “Have we met before?”
“Oh, aye.” His breath brushed her ear. “A couple of times.”
