This is a preliminary sketch of Daryl by Kurt.-except he should have long hair in a tail.

Last night I emailed the “polished draft” of Falling to my editors, so what you read here is a work in progress. in the comments section you have a last chance to tell me what you like, what you don’t like, how many mistakes I made, what’s missing, what’s too much. Or even if you don’t like it at all and I should quit trying to be a writer. Sending off a draft to be edited is a scary thing. But I’m planning on releasing Falling in July, so it had to be done.

Natalie Naudus is also beginning to record the audible book of Hunter now. The big question is: Will I have fingernails by the end of June? Actually, I won’t have time to chew on them as I have started Book Four. I can’t decide between these titles: Betrayal, or Betrayed. Which should I use? What does Betrayed invoke in you, what does Betrayal? I like Betrayal.

Chapter Five

Every time Readen Me’Vere pulled one of the ancient books from his library shelves he heard Daryl’s voice. “Wear the cotton gloves. These books are precious and fragile.” It irritated him, but he always did it. Why had no one ever made copies of these? 

He knew the answer. No one had expected the Larrak to reappear––the Itza Larrak, the last Larrak. But Readen brought it back—freed it from its prison in the columns of the now blocked cavern beneath Restal Hall.  He discovered it as a child, by accident. It had never stopped teaching him its own magic. I’m more powerful now than the strongest talents. I have the Itza Larrak

All the long winter Readen spent every spare moment perusing the ancient books. The stories of the war against the Larrak fought when the colonists first arrived on Adalta. The stories they’d learned about the first war, fought a millennium before between the Karda and the newly invading Larrak. He turned the last page of the last book, closed it, and pushed back from the table. No one, either Karda or human, had ever connected with a Larrak like he had. He put it back on the shelf. 

All that time wasted, all that power wasted breaking the preservation field on the five-hundred-year-old books and he’d learned nothing. His head heated with the familiar surge of frustration. He didn’t have talent. He’d never had talent. He was never going to have talent. The only person on Adalta ever born without talent. Readen pushed the old frustration back down––a distraction, a waste of time. And irrelevant. He didn’t have talent, but he had power. A little worm of thought asked, was the power his or was it borrowed? He ignored it.