About the Book:
Between love and duty lies destiny
Orphaned and alone, Jasminda is an outcast in her homeland of Elsira, where she is feared for both the shade of her skin and her magical abilities. When ruthless soldiers seek refuge in her isolated cabin, they bring with them a captive – an injured spy who steals her heart.
Jack’s mission behind enemy lines nearly cost him his life but he is saved by the healing power of a mysterious young woman. Together they embark on a perilous journey straight into the heart of a centuries-old conflict.
Thrust into a hostile society, Jasminda and Jack must rely on one another even as secrets jeopardize their bond. As an ancient evil gains power, Jasminda races to unlock a mystery that promises salvation.
The fates of two nations hang in the balance as Jasminda and Jack must choose between love and duty to fulfill their destinies and end the war.
Guest Post: Respecting the Muse
People frequently ask authors where their ideas come from. The muse, that creative force responsible for inspiring artists, is oftensaid to be fickle. Mine can sometimes be an outright jerk. Like a toddler who can't decide which toy to play with, my muse throws fits and tantrums, and just might have ADD.
When she's on her good behavior, she tends to show up in the most unexpected ways. I got the idea for one manuscript frommy husband who challenged me to write a "black, female, Napoleon Dynamite." The result bore no resemblance to that film or character, but it was a great starting point.
Another story features a character whose psychic ability manifests via smell. The idea for this one came from my own life. I sometimes smell things that don't belong, but are recognizable. Like the scent of my late grandmother's closets, or my late father's cologne, or ––even stranger–– mothballs. The scents are fleeting, but I wonder if they could be messages of some kind. In that story, my character can tell that something bad is going to happen to the person she smells, but she doesn't know what or when.
The idea for
Song of Blood & Stone was born late one night as I was binge-watching movies on Netflix. I was in my Jamie Bell period, watching and re-watching anything I could with him in it. My stroke of inspiration came during the movie The Eaglewhen his character, Esca, first appears on screen. He's a slave in ancient Rome, entering a fight against a much larger and well-armed gladiator. Esca doesn't look scared even though he's outmatched. He looks pissed.
http://makeagif.com/i/GEscaw This is the exact expression that Jack wears the second time he and Jasminda meet in Song of Blood & Stone. About six seconds of film was enough to set my imagination on fire. The next day I started writing.
So, what inspires you? How does your muse behave? My muse definitely has a mind of her own. And even when she's erratic, I'm always grateful for the sparks of inspiration no matter how they come.
Excerpt: Song of Blood & Stone by L. Penelope
“Untie him,” Jasminda said, staring at Jack's lashed wrists. “I need to check his wounds.”
Ginko pulled a knife from his boot to cut the rope. The sharp edges of the pain had been bound by whatever spell she’d sung a few moments before, but the weakness in his limbs couldn’t be ignored. The lack of food and water, the days of walking and hiding, had all left him teetering on the edge of his endurance. She too had deep circles under eyes, and he wondered what she’d been doing up on the mountain.
As she settled next to him, his awareness of her pulsed like an extra sense. She smelled of cool mountain air, pine, and something light and feminine that he couldn’t place. He closed his eyes and inhaled her nearness, allowing it to soothe and calm him. He imagined himself far away, in the barracks he’d called home since childhood or maybe even farther away, floating on his back in the Delaveen Ocean, the sun warming his face.
The vision faded when her fingertips grazed his forehead.
“Does that hurt?” she whispered, her voice gentle. He opened his eyes to find her closer than he’d expected. Unable to find his voice, he shook his head.
“Take that off,” she said, pointing to his shirt. He had the absurd desire to chuckle. How many times had he longed to hear a woman ordering him to take off his shirt? What he’d felt of her touch so far had been very soft . . . She must be soft all over. He’d never imagined a Lagrimari girl could be so lovely. The coils of her hair called to his fingertips and—
Tensyn’s oily voice broke through Jack’s musings. “Has your tribute day been scheduled?” He and Ginko stood in the doorway behind him, and Jack hated having anyone at his back. That kind of sloppiness had literally been beaten out of him. He blamed the pain and the fatigue.
His bruised fingers faltered on the tiny buttons as he shrugged awkwardly out of his shirt. Once again, she assessed his injuries impassively, though he suspected things were quite a bit worse than yesterday when she’d seen him.
“No,” she said, answering Tensyn.
“And your family?”
“Dead.” The unexpressive mask of her face slipped for an instant, and he glimpsed a cavernous well of grief in her eyes.
“May they find serenity in the World After,” Tensyn intoned.
Jasminda repeated the blessing. Jack's eyes met hers briefly before she looked away. “Lie back,” she told him.
She dipped a cloth in the water and ran it across his chest, cleaning away the blood and grime. He suppressed a groan at the incredible coolness of the water on his skin, relishing in it until she stopped suddenly. He craned his neck down to see what had caught her attention. The bullet wound was far worse today, the skin black with infection, blood and pus seeping out.
The screen door slammed. He looked up to find the two of them on the porch alone.
“What is your name?” She pitched her voice low, speaking directly into his ear in perfect Elsiran as she continued cleaning his chest.
He took hold of her wrist, stilling her hand. Even the former POWs spoke only a broken version of Elsiran. How had she been able to learn it when no one in Lagrimar spoke the language? She shook free of his grip and continued cleaning his chest and face. Inside, the soldiers chortled, ensuring they would not be overheard.
“Jack,” he whispered, scanning her face desperately. “Are you a Keeper of the Promise?”
She frowned, darting a look at the door. “No. I don’t know what that is.”
“How can you—”
“This is not Lagrimar.” The door opened again, and Ginko emerged, taking a stance with his arms folded while he chewed on a stick of jerky.
Jasminda switched back to Lagrimari, speaking quietly. “I need to cut away the dead flesh from the wound. Otherwise the infection will kill you.”
He nodded faintly, still trying to process her last words. If they weren’t in Lagrimar, that meant they had all passed through the Mantle without knowing it. He’d been on home soil the whole time. That must be why she’d acted as if he were deranged.
Escape was so close. The despair threatening to pull him under faded away like mist in the sun.
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