Well, it’s almost over. I leave Turkey tomorrow, headed back to the United States and saying goodbye to this wonderful country. This has truly been an amazing experience, following the paths of my characters in ways that many writers only dream about.
When I was young, I traveled the world by books. I read voraciously, enamored by the settings and history that I read through the pages of mysteries and historical fiction. Action, romance, adventure, fantasy. It was the most accessible way for me to travel as a child. The fact that I’m able to travel like this–and then share those journeys through my books–is really a dream come true.
Thank you for all your support. Thanks for being the readers who support my writing so I can take trips like this. This book and series has really come alive for me, and I hope you are as excited as I am.
I’m going to have exciting audiobook news soon, along with a cover reveal for THE SCRIBE (and the cover for this book is AMAZING) in the next few weeks. I’m about 2/3 of the way through the book now and I’m looking at a fall release. Until then, here’s another short teaser with Malachi.
Excerpt from THE SCRIBE:
He slammed the door shut on the small refrigerator.
“Doesn’t anyone buy beer other than me?” he yelled to the empty kitchen. “If you don’t buy it, you shouldn’t drink it!”
From upstairs, a faint voice came. “You spent too much time in Hamburg. You’re back in Istanbul; drink raki.” It was Maxim, no doubt lying in bed, waiting for the city to cool before he emerged.
“Or tea,” another voice added in the same thick, Russian accent. If Maxim was upstairs, so was his cousin, Leo. “Gallons of tea.”
“Oceans of it!”
“If only the Bosphorus flowed with vodka.”
“We should get the brothers in Odessa working on that…”
Damien walked into the kitchen, glancing upward as the cousins continued to rib each other. “Drink water. You’re not used to the heat yet.”
Malachi grimaced. “I was born here, you know.”
The watcher pulled a bottle of water from a cupboard and threw it toward him, the tattoos on his bare arms rippled as he threw the plastic bottle. “You haven’t lived in Istanbul for hundreds of years. The city has grown, and that makes it hotter.”
“Anthropogenic heat,” said Rhys, walking into the kitchen from the library and holding his hand out to Damien. The pale man had been sweating non-stop for three day, not surprising considering the air-conditioner had broken around that time. His dark brown hair was plastered to his forehead, and his normally pale skin was flushed. “Human activity produces heat. More humans. More heat. Not to mention climate change. Bloody humans and their automobiles will kill us all.”
Damien and Malachi exchanged amused glances. The cranky British scholar was constantly nostalgic for pre-industrial times.
“Heat can’t kill us, Rhys!” Leo called from above.
“But your whining is doing a fairly good job of torture,” Maxim added. “Is whining a violation of the Geneva Convention?”
“Does the Geneva Convention apply to us?”
“Ask Rhys. He knows everything.”
The scholar’s face only grew redder. “Maybe if I wasn’t the only one working—”
“Stop.” One quiet word from Damien was all it took. The three men fell silent, even the ones on the second floor, who could hear their watcher’s voice from a distance.
Damien was of average height and weight. His face could make women stop and stare, or blend into a crowd, based solely on his demeanor. The only remarkable thing about him was the intricate tattoo work he had inked all over his arms. Malachi knew the work covered most of the man’s legs, as well, though he kept them carefully covered. Malachi glanced down at his own tattoos. Four hundred years of scribing himself still hadn’t left him half as covered as Damien. Who knew how old the watcher was?