Shira Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "blog-hop"

Two days and counting to the Hop Against Homophobia blog hop! Come join me and several hundred (yes, really, several HUNDRED!) other writers, reviewers, sellers and publishers of M/M fiction as we talk about the genre we adore and raise awareness of the fight against homophobia. Each blogger is offering a M/M prize, so there'll be lots of great writing to go around.

I'll be posting excerpts from my upcoming releases, talking about my experiences living in North Carolina and homophobia (yes, the state that just outlawed gay marriage in the state constitution...sigh), and giving away an ebook copy of your choice of one of my Dreamspinner Press books: "The Dream of a Thousand Nights," "Blue Notes," or my soon to be released, "The Trust." (That last one is scheduled to be released on June 18, 2012, so you can be one of the first in line to receive a copy if you're patient.)

So check my blog (www.shiraanthonydotcom.wordpress.com) on May 17th for the first of several posts, as well as links to blogs of all the other wonderful folks who are participating. I can't wait! -Shira

Today is the first day of the Hop Against Homophobia! Please stop by my blog, http://www.shiraanthonydotcom.wordpre.... You can read my rant about North Carolina's new constitutional amendment banning gay marriage) and enter to win a copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press titles in ebook format.

Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs participating -there are more than 200! -Shira

Day two of the Hop Against Homophobia! If you haven’t already, be sure to leave a comment below with an email address where I can contact you if you win the prize (your choice of one of my Dreamspinner Press titles, including the upcoming “The Trust“).

Today, I thought I’d share an amazing and heart-warming story I read in our Raleigh, North Carolina paper, The News and Observer. Diane Daniel was together with her husband, Wessel, for two years before they got married. But barely two months after they married, Wessell confided to Diane that he wanted to be Diane’s wife, not her husband.

How would you react to something like that? I’d love to say I would be completely fine with it, supportive, and not feel as though it was somehow my fault that my husband wanted to become a woman. But that’d be a lie. Diane, naturally, felt terrible. Sad, guilty, angry — all the things you might imagine. And then, as she describes it, she “opened her heart” to the man who would later become a woman.

Diane and Lina are still together, seven years later, now a same-sex couple. This story just amazed and touched me, and made me consider how, even though we may think we are open-minded and loving, it takes true strength to confront the hidden prejudices and fears that live within each of us.

Please check out the wonderful story from the N&O: http://www.newsobserver.com/2012/02/1... And spread the word. Hearts can open, mindsets can be changed. It just takes one person to turn another person’s heart. -Shira

Day three of the Hop Against Homophobia! My new post is short and sweet - my favorite pro-gay marriage political cartoon. www.shiraanthonydotcom.wordpress.com

Thanks to everyone who stopped by for the Hop Against Homophobia! I will be contacting the winner of the giveaway today. It was really a joy to share my rants and know that there are people out there listening! What a great way to raise awareness and encourage those of us in “the choir” to go out into the world and spread the word that homophobia is hatred, pure and simple. If each of us just reaches one person and makes him/her think about it, then it was worth it! -Shira

All I Ever Learned About Romance I Learned from Reading Yaoi (Well, Almost!)

Stop by my blog today, June 22-24th to check out the Manga and Romance Blog Hop! Read about my introduction to gay romance through yaoi and leave a comment to win a free ebook copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press releases and check out the other participating blogs. There's also a grand prize link where you can sign up the BIG pot of goodies! http://www.shiraanthony.com

Have a great yaoi weekend! -Shira

For the last day of the Romance and Manga Blog Hop, I thought I’d share an excerpt from my upcoming release, “The Melody Thief (Blue Notes #2).” Release date is 8/24/12 from Dreamspinner Press. This is from Chapter Four. A little background – Antonio rescues Cary from a mugging on a Milan street and offers Cary spend the night at his place so there’s someone to watch him after he suffers a concussion. Cary wakes up the next morning to a little complication.

Don’t forget to leave a comment at www.shiraanthony.com to be entered to win a copy of one of my Dreamspinner Press titles (including “Blue Notes,” the first in the series). Also be sure to enter the grand prize drawing and check out all the other participating blogs at http://www.hayleybjames.com/2012/06/b...!

Welcome to day two of the Howloween Blog Hop! Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs taking part in the hop by clicking on the graphic or the link above. Each blogger is offering wonderful prizes, so be sure to check them all out!

My prize? An ebook copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "My Books" link to the left of this post. Enter by commenting on this post, and don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! I'll be drawing a winner on October 30th.

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For day two of the hop, and in honor of Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, I thought I'd share my own personal horror story from my real life opera career. I've already told you that in my various roles I've been stabbed to death, jumped to my death, and died of consumption (at least twice). I also got to stab a villain to death in "Tosca," which was a lot of fun. (I know, I'm a little twisted!) And, by the way, one of my boys in "Aria" (Blue Notes #3), plays the part of the villain I got to stab.

[caption id="attachment_1172" align="alignright" width="277"] Me on stage at the famous La Scala Opera. Okay. Not me. In my dreams![/caption]

Part of any opera singer's training involves stage combat. At one point, I actually knew how to use a sword (not very well, but I did know how to use one). I knew how to pull a punch, slap someone across the face, pull someone by their hair, and, most importantly, how to stab someone. I also knew how to get stabbed. Or maybe I should say I knew how to avoid getting stabbed for real with a knife.

Yes. Most operatic "stabbings" are done with REAL knives. Which, believe it or not, is usually the safest type of knife to use. I say "usually," because in my personal experience, there was one production that left me wondering.

[caption id="attachment_1174" align="alignleft" width="240"] Luciano Pavarotti in "I Pagliacci"[/caption]

One of the first roles I ever performed was Nedda in "I Pagliacci." If you've seen a crying clown singing opera in a commercial, that's "Pagliacci." Nedda is the wife of the crying clown and one of the members of the troupe of performers who travel from town to town, entertaining the local folks. She was rescued from the streets when she was very young and, well, she's not so happily married to the ageing head of the troupe. She's getting a little something on the side from a very handsome young baritone. She also is fighting off another troupe member who insists on trying to rape her.

So here I am, maybe 25, singing in California with a tenor who was well past his prime (but perfect for the role). And he's a little iffy, in many ways. And I'm being shoved around by a very nice baritone (the one who tries to rape my character) who gets a bit carried away with the emotion of the scene. Hence the finger-sized bruises on my upper arms. I can handle that. Bruises fade, and he really didn't mean to grip my arms quite so hard.

The tenor, on the other hand, is a problem. The last scene in the opera, he's found out I've been cheating on him, and that I plan to run away with the handsome baritone. He's not very happy about that (understatement of the century). At the end of the scene, where we are both in clown makeup and supposedly putting on our play for the audience, the tenor is supposed to grab a knife off the table and stab both me and the cutie pie I'm trying to run off with. I'm cool with that. What I'm not so cool with is that in rehearsals, we didn't yet have the knife, so the tenor was using a spoon on us. And really JABBING us in the gut with it. Ouch!

[caption id="attachment_1171" align="alignleft" width="264"] Interior of the La Scala opera house in Milan, Italy[/caption]

At this point, the baritone says, "Time out!" Mind you, he and I were both thinking, "If this guy's going to use a real knife on us, we're going to get hurt." Yes, they dull the knives, but a butter knife can still end up in your belly. Not a good thing. Enter the propmistress. She's the person who provides us with the knives.

We discuss a collapsible knife. You've seen these, I'm guessing. Hard plastic, and when you press the blade against something, it slips inside the handle of the knife. But they tend to jam. Baritone and I are thinking, "That would hurt like hell." Not an option.

[caption id="attachment_1173" align="alignright" width="240"] Rubber Knife[/caption]

We discuss a rubber knife. Wobbles like a rubber chicken. Totally unconvincing. Not an option.

Back to the real knife.

And so it went for days. Seriously! And over that time, the tenor got more and more iffy. He's still not getting his musical cues, he is missing entrances all over the place, and still stabbing us with the spoons. The baritone and I put our collective feet down. Finally, the tenor has a hissy fit in front of the entire cast and quits. Just like that.

Did I mention that "I Pagliacci" is usually performed with another short opera, "Cavalleria Rusticana?" Thank God for that! Turns out the tenor singing in THAT cast knows the role in "I Pagliacci." He is totally professional and steps into the role with only a week of rehearsals. So in the end, we got stabbed with a real knife. I ended up with a bunch of bruises and a rave review in the San Francisco Examiner. No puncture wounds, though!

By the way, in case you're interested in how you "stab" someone with a real knife and make it look real? The person doing the stabbing has their back to the audience and holds the knife where everyone can see. They make a pretty obvious stabbing movement toward the belly of the person being stabbed and, as they come in to do the stabbing, they flatten the knife and literally lay it across the other person's gut. Believe me, it looks pretty damn convincing. The person getting stabbed grabs their abdomen and falls to his/her knees, writhing in pain, then becomes still. Or maybe sings an aria and then dies (this IS opera, after all!).

Hope you enjoyed my little story. Entirely true, all of it. Ah, the glamorous life of an opera singer. -Shira

PS: Did I mention there was an earthquake during rehearsals and that this was performed in Oakland, CA, about a year after the big quake that brought down part of the Bay Bridge?

Welcome to day two of the Howloween Blog Hop! Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs taking part in the hop by clicking on the graphic or the link above. Each blogger is offering wonderful prizes, so be sure to check them all out!

My prize? An ebook copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "My Books" link to the left of this post. Enter by commenting on this post, and don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! I'll be drawing a winner on October 30th.

******************

For day two of the hop, and in honor of Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, I thought I'd share my own personal horror story from my real life opera career. I've already told you that in my various roles I've been stabbed to death, jumped to my death, and died of consumption (at least twice). I also got to stab a villain to death in "Tosca," which was a lot of fun. (I know, I'm a little twisted!) And, by the way, one of my boys in "Aria" (Blue Notes #3), plays the part of the villain I got to stab.

[caption id="attachment_1172" align="alignright" width="277"] Me on stage at the famous La Scala Opera. Okay. Not me. In my dreams![/caption]

Part of any opera singer's training involves stage combat. At one point, I actually knew how to use a sword (not very well, but I did know how to use one). I knew how to pull a punch, slap someone across the face, pull someone by their hair, and, most importantly, how to stab someone. I also knew how to get stabbed. Or maybe I should say I knew how to avoid getting stabbed for real with a knife.

Yes. Most operatic "stabbings" are done with REAL knives. Which, believe it or not, is usually the safest type of knife to use. I say "usually," because in my personal experience, there was one production that left me wondering.

[caption id="attachment_1174" align="alignleft" width="240"] Luciano Pavarotti in "I Pagliacci"[/caption]

One of the first roles I ever performed was Nedda in "I Pagliacci." If you've seen a crying clown singing opera in a commercial, that's "Pagliacci." Nedda is the wife of the crying clown and one of the members of the troupe of performers who travel from town to town, entertaining the local folks. She was rescued from the streets when she was very young and, well, she's not so happily married to the ageing head of the troupe. She's getting a little something on the side from a very handsome young baritone. She also is fighting off another troupe member who insists on trying to rape her.

So here I am, maybe 25, singing in California with a tenor who was well past his prime (but perfect for the role). And he's a little iffy, in many ways. And I'm being shoved around by a very nice baritone (the one who tries to rape my character) who gets a bit carried away with the emotion of the scene. Hence the finger-sized bruises on my upper arms. I can handle that. Bruises fade, and he really didn't mean to grip my quite so hard.

The tenor, on the other hand, is a problem. The last scene in the opera, he's found out I've been cheating on him, and that I plan to run away with the handsome baritone. He's not very happy about that (understatement of the century). At the end of the scene, where we are both in clown makeup and supposedly putting on our play for the audience, the tenor is supposed to grab a knife off the table and stab both me and the cutie pie I'm trying to run off with. I'm cool with that. What I'm not so cool with is that in rehearsals, we didn't yet have the knife, so the tenor was using a spoon on us. And really JABBING us in the gut with it. Ouch!

[caption id="attachment_1171" align="alignleft" width="264"] Interior of the La Scala opera house in Milan, Italy[/caption]

At this point, the baritone says, "Time out!" Mind you, he and I were both thinking, "If this guy's going to use a real knife on us, we're going to get hurt." Yes, they dull the knives, but a butter knife can still end up in your belly. Not a good thing. Enter the propmistress. She's the person who provides us with the knives.

We discuss a collapsible knife. You've seen these, I'm guessing. Hard plastic, and when you press the blade against something, it slips inside the handle of the knife. But they tend to jam. Baritone and I are thinking, "That would hurt like hell." Not an option.

[caption id="attachment_1173" align="alignright" width="240"] Rubber Knife[/caption]

We discuss a rubber knife. Wobbles like a rubber chicken. Totally unconvincing. Not an option.

Back to the real knife.

And so it went for days. Seriously! And over that time, the tenor got more and more iffy. He's still not getting his musical cues, he is missing entrances all over the place, and still stabbing us with the spoons. The baritone and I put our collective feet down. Finally, the tenor has a hissy fit in front of the entire cast and quits. Just like that.

Did I mention that "I Pagliacci" is usually performed with another short opera, "Cavalleria Rusticana?" Thank God for that! Turns out the tenor singing in THAT cast knows the role in "I Pagliacci." He is totally professional and steps into the role with only a week of rehearsals. So in the end, we got stabbed with a real knife. I ended up with a bunch of bruises and a rave review in the San Francisco Examiner. No puncture wounds, though!

By the way, in case you're interested in how you "stab" someone with a real knife and make it look real? The person doing the stabbing has their back to the audience and holds the knife where everyone can see. They make a pretty obvious stabbing movement toward the belly of the person being stabbed and, as they come in to do the stabbing, they flatten the knife and literally lay it across the other person's gut. Believe me, it looks pretty damn convincing. The person getting stabbed grabs their abdomen and falls to his/her knees, writhing in pain, then becomes still. Or maybe sings an aria and then dies (this IS opera, after all!).

Hope you enjoyed my little story. Entirely true, all of it. Ah, the glamorous life of an opera singer. -Shira

PS: Did I mention there was an earthquake during rehearsals and that this was performed in Oakland, CA, about a year after the big quake that brought down part of the Bay Bridge?

Last day of the Howloween Blog Hop! Comment on this post to win an ebook copy of your choice of one my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "Books" link to the left of this post. Don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! I'll be drawing a winner on October 30th.

******************

For the last day of the hop, I'm going to leave you with the first chapter of a WIP that is not part of my Blue Notes Series. In fact, it's an entirely different type of story. Sexy pirates and shifters. 18+, dubcon, with a bit of MMM, and definitely NSFW, ya'll, so don't say I didn't warn you!

Summary: Taren has never known anything but life as a slave, but when he's kidnapped by the captain of a pirate ship, his lifelong dream of going to sea is realized. The pirate captain Rider offers Taren his freedom in exchange for three years of his life and sexual servitude. Not a bad trade, Taren decides, given that the pleasures he finds in the captain's bed far surpass his greatest fantasies.

When Taren is lost at sea trying to save a fellow crewmember, he finds himself a captive of Captain Rider's old enemy: Eoin Dunaidh, the enigmatic captain of the Blue Water. But Eoin and his crew harbor a secret that will change Taren's life forever, forcing Taren to choose between his loyalty to Captain Rider and his crew, and a call far more primal.

**************

When two sailing ships were engaged in battle, the attacking ship would try to get upwind of the enemy vessel and spread its sails out full, literally stealing all the wind and leaving the enemy “dead in the water.” The attacking ship could then ram the enemy, cutting it in half and sinking it.

Chapter One

Taren huddled beneath a tattered blanket as an icy wind blew through the cracks of the building. The mortar between the bricks had crumbled and the fire was a good twenty feet away, providing him little warmth. He didn’t dare move closer—he had been beaten more times than he cared to remember by the other, more powerfully built men with whom he shared the tiny sleeping quarters.

He had lost track of time since he had come to this place. Had it been a year, perhaps two, since the old sail rigger had sold him to pay a gambling debt? The living quarters at the inn were far less comfortable than Saren’s hut on the edge of the docks, but the work wasn’t nearly as strenuous. Still, he longed for the freedom of climbing the ropes of the incoming vessels and standing atop their masts with the wind in his face.

More than anything else, Taren of Laxley dreamed of sailing aboard one of the great ships. He closed his eyes and imagined the spray against his face, the rocking of the vessel beneath his bare feet. He imagined crouching on the masthead, looking out through the spyglass, trying to spot approaching ships. He imagined hoisting the sails and watching them flutter in the wind and the feel of the ship as she caught the wind.

He had to imagine all these things; he had never been to sea.

“You, boy,” a sturdy woman snapped from the doorway. “What’s your name?”

“Taren, ma’am.” He got to his feet and repressed a shiver. It would do him no good to irritate Madame Marcus at such an ungodly hour—she would see his weakness only as a complaint, and he didn’t want another whipping.

“Cook’s needing you in the dining room. Seems a new ship’s put into port. He wants an extra pair of hands.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Taren said, dropping the threadbare blanket by the wall.

Dining room duty was better than some chores. Cook might even let him scrape the dregs from the pots as they cleaned up later. Taren’s empty belly growled at the prospect and he followed the woman across the open courtyard, past an angry rooster who pecked at him when he strayed too close, and into the warmth of the kitchens.

“Cook, sir,” he said to the large man standing at the ovens, face dirtied with soot from the fires. “What do you need?”

“Grab the soup from off the counter, boy, and ask the gentlemen if they would like more.”

Taren nodded and pulled a potholder from beside the smallest of the ovens. The padding was, as with everything else, worn thin, and he felt the heat from the iron handle as he reached in to lift the pot off its hook. He ignored the pain as the metal burned his palms and scurried out into the dining room, retrieving a large ladle hanging near the doorway.

********

The light in the dining hall was far more subdued than in the kitchen, the gas fixtures on the walls burning a warm yellow and making the faded red fabric walls appear tawdrier even than in the daylight. Long wooden tables ran the length of the room, several of which were filled with men, laughing and shouting, some singing off-key, most with large pints of ale in their hands.

Taren’s gaze met Serita’s. She was one of the other servants and old enough to be his mother, but her inclinations were hardly of the maternal kind. Still, she had always been kind to him—as kind as could be expected in a place such as this. She nodded and got back to filling tankards, cackling when the men handled her ample bottom and leaning over as she poured their drinks so they could easily see her full breasts. Later, he guessed, she would offer her services in their rooms as many of his fellow servants did for the paltry coins they might receive in return. The master never complained about such activities, but Taren knew he expected half of what Serita and the others earned with their bodies. Taren had never been tempted to follow a guest to his or her bedroom, although he had been presented with the opportunity on many an occasion.

He felt a rough hand on his forearm, and nearly lost his grip on the pot. “You’re a pretty one,” the owner of the hand said in a low voice. “Ain’t he, Captain?”

“Please,” Taren said in a trembling voice. “I must serve the soup.” Another hand grabbed his buttocks and squeezed. He couldn’t pull away, or he’d spill the hot soup on himself and possibly the man seated to the left of his antagonist.

Pirates, thought Taren, judging by their looks and their rough manner.

The man seated at the head of the table—the “captain”—pursed his lips in appreciation. As his gaze raked over the open collar of Taren’s shirt and the tight fit of his too-small-britches, Taren felt hotter than he had under the blanket only minutes before.

In the past year, Taren had begun to grow from a boy to the beginnings of a fine man. He now stood taller than the women, and although most of the men were larger than he, Taren guessed it was only a matter of time before he would reach and perhaps surpass their stature. This transformation had come as an enormous relief. He had no idea how old he was—sixteen or seventeen, perhaps?—nor did he know his parents. For so long, he had been the smallest of all the boys at the inn, and he had been given no reason to expect that it would ever be otherwise. Until, that is, his body had begun to assert itself.

“Come here, boy!” the captain shouted over the din.

Taren did as he was told, trying to ignore the lecherous gaze of several of the men seated nearby. “What can I get for you, sir?” he asked, as he’d been taught.

The captain, middle-aged with a coarse beard peppered with gray, was a broad-chested, bear of a man. Powerful and attractive, his weathered skin spoke of the sun and the wind, and his eyes were a piercing blue. And yet the weight of that gaze upon him made Taren feel slightly dizzy. It was a frightening thing, and the desire he saw in the older man’s eyes was raw.

The master won’t abide a servant taken without consent, Taren reminded himself as he began to ladle the fragrant soup into the captain’s bowl. He would endure the wanton looks and the fondling in silence, as he had done in the past. Then he would retreat to his duties in the kitchen, safe once more behind the wall that separated servant and guest.

“What’s your name, boy?” The captain’s voice was a deep rumble that seemed to work its way through Taren’s ears and into his body.

“Taren of Laxley, sir,” he answered, his trembling hand the only outward sign of his fear.

“Moran’s right. You are a pretty one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man’s hand rubbed Taren’s ass before he realized what was happening. He couldn’t move away, or he’d spill the soup, nor could he put the pot down on the table and risk Cook’s wrath. He felt his shirt pulled from the waist of his pants before he could protest, and the same hand that found his ass now found his hardening cock beneath the fabric.

“Now there’s a tempting treat,” the captain rumbled appreciatively.

Taren’s legs shook with the contact. The captain’s hand was practiced, the touch of the rough palm sensual. Taren tried to repress the moan that issued from his lips, but with little success.

“You like that, don’t you, Taren of Laxley?” The pirate removed his hand and Taren’s disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry,” the captain added, “I just wanted to make this a bit easier for you.” He took the pot from Taren’s hands and set it on the table, then pulled Taren closer to him by his shirt.

Taren looked around the room. No one seemed to notice how he now stood in front of the pirate with his back against the table, or the stain on his cheeks he was sure was as bright red as the feathers of the rooster in the courtyard. He swallowed hard but he did not move away, the realization that he wanted the other man’s touch a shock.

“I won’t hurt you,” the captain said, his voice low, his expression unfathomable.

“I know,” Taren whispered. He shuddered in anticipation as the captain reached around him and slid it under his pants and over his buttocks. This time, however, the hand was slippery. Taren caught the faint whiff of butter from the table and saw the smile on the pirate’s face.

“Better like that, isn’t it?”

Taren nodded, too overcome to speak.

The pirate’s other hand found the soft flesh of his sac and rolled it around. Taren shivered as a large finger probed to find the sensitive ring of muscle between his ass cheeks. He nearly fell forward, but the other man’s muscular thighs held him upright.

He had never known such pleasure. The captain’s scent was powerful, adding to the intensity of the sensations that ran through Taren’s body like fire. The man’s eyes held him captive as much as his hand. Taren fought the urge to reach out and touch the pirate’s rough jaw, to feel it beneath his fingertips.

The man’s finger breached his opening, while he took Taren’s erection in his other hand, pulling and stroking until Taren had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. Taren no longer saw the room or the other men as the captain’s hand traveled up over his tip and probed the slit.

“Ahhh…,” Taren groaned. He didn’t care if anyone else heard. He couldn’t hold back anymore. And when the finger in his ass pressed completely inside, he came hard, his body shuddering with his release, his head reeling from the intensity of it.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed to croak as he came back to his senses.

The captain chuckled and licked his hand as if it were covered in honey. “No need to thank me, boy,” he said. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Taren was thankful that his long shirt covered the front of his trousers and the wet spot there. He escaped from between the pirate and the table, and picked up the soup. A heated flush still on his cheeks, his breath came in stuttered gasps as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, trying to calm his racing heart.

Oh, God! Had Serita witnessed the entire sordid act? And what of himself? Had he enjoyed it?

No. Anyone would respond to such a touch. The thought was hardly comforting. And yet the warmth that he felt, having been satisfied by a hand other than his own, still lingered. A man’s hand, no less!

He set the soup back down on the fire to keep it warm and glanced over to Cook, who was happily tasting an aromatic stew in large spoonfuls, oblivious to Taren’s return.

“I’ve finished, sir.” Taren set about to doing the dishes while he awaited further instruction. Perhaps he might be able to explain the embarrassing stain as water from the sink. As it happened, however, Serita returned a short while later with a stack of bowls for washing, then left with the stew on her arm. She didn’t say a word, nor did she attempt to catch his eye.

********

More than an hour later, the dishes dried and replaced on the shelves, Cook gave Taren leave to return to the sleeping area. Taren had avoided any further contact with the pirates, and Serita vanished after the tables were cleared, mostly likely to spend what remained of the night with a guest.

The faint color of dawn lit the horizon as Taren stepped into the courtyard. The rooster who had scolded him before called loudly from atop a stone wall. Taren yawned deeply and strode with purpose across the dirt, taking care to steer clear of the other birds that were already pecking the ground in anticipation of breakfast.

He was nearly to the doorway of the building when he heard footsteps from behind him. He turned in surprise, confused as to why any other servants were up before the morning call. But it was not a servant's face he saw—it was one of the men from before.

“What can I get for —” he began to say, but his words were cut short by a hand, clamped tightly over his mouth from behind. His eyes grew wide in fear as the hand pressed a piece of cloth against his mouth and nose and he inhaled a pungent odor. The world seemed to dim, and he remember nothing more.