Follow on Twitter @RRJames14, or drop a line complaining about his writing to rrj@russellrjames.com. Blog http://www.russellrjames.com
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/russell.r.james
Facebook Page http://www.facebook.com/pages/Russell-R-James/172907172791996
Twitter http://twitter.com/RRJames14
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5347738.Russell_James
Amazon Author Page http://www.amazon.com/Russell-james/e/B006BFIOKQ/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 GUEST POST When I moved to Florida, people said “Aren’t you afraid of hurricanes?” I laughed. What were the odds? In 2005, I got my hurricane. Actually, I got three. This triumvirate of terror ruined the entire summer for the state. All three hit my house. Hard. A hurricane is an exercise in fear. Weather hits all the extremes; high wind, blinding rain, hail, tornadoes, waterspouts, floods. You always think your home is your literal castle, a concrete block fortress against animals, insects and the elements, the place to go to be safe. A hurricane tests those assumptions. At some point the awful realization hits: all that stands between you and the howling hell outside is a thin pane of glass. One flying branch shatters it, and inside becomes outside in seconds. Just like you know the character in the hockey mask always kills again, you know the power to house is going to go out. You ride out the storm, watching the hurricane track on the TV news, just waiting for the inevitable blip of the screen and the plunging of the house into darkness. The arrival of that inevitable darkness is almost a relief. Then the next clock starts running. How long will food in the refrigerator last? How much canned food have we got? Did we buy enough bottled water? You worry that the candles will burn down the house. While the backyard fills with water, you realize that you are utterly powerless. You can’t muscle the storm away, you can’t reason with it. For the hours or days it thrashes your home, you are at its mercy. In BLACK MAGIC, my May release from Samhain, a sorcerer calls forth a hurricane to level South Florida. The citizens of Citrus Glade go through hell to survive the storm. I’ve been told that the storm sections are harrowing. For this novel, I used that basic bit of writer’s advice: “Write what you know.” Buy yourself a copy and experience a hurricane the best way possible, vicariously. About the Book
Chapter One
A single fried egg stared at Lyle Miller from the center of the white plastic plate. It was sunny side up, a perfect match for his ebullient mood. He was about to banish his ennui and embark upon a new Grand Adventure. He picked up a bottle of hot sauce from the diner counter and painted a ring around the egg yolk. He noticed that Gloria, the waitress, watched him from the end of the counter. Lyle wasn’t the usual Sunrise Diner customer, who was generally of the south Florida cracker variety. Lyle combed his thick, black hair near straight back, razor part on the right. High cheekbones gave his face great definition and his eyes sparkled sapphire blue. Despite the stifling summer heat, he wore a black, long-sleeve silk shirt. No doubt he looked a cut above Gloria’s usual ten-percent tipper. Lyle touched the yolk with the tine of his fork. It shuddered, as if in protest at its coming fate. He gave the egg the slightest pressure and pricked the sac. Others attacked a fried egg, slashing the liquid yolk in half and mixing it with the hard fried white. But Lyle preferred to savor that moment of victory. Bright yellow yolk oozed from the egg’s wounded side. Lyle smiled at the almost imperceptible drop in the yolk’s crown and the slow trickle from the base that telegraphed the inevitable end. With his fork, he led the streaming yellow liquid in a counterclockwise journey around the egg and through the red hot sauce. By the third trip, the yolk sac was flat and Lyle had a masterpiece, threads of swirled red, orange and yellow that covered the white of the egg. It reminded him of his new Grand Adventure. Gloria sauntered up with a carafe of steaming coffee at the ready. She was well past thirty with platinum hair and the kind of skin damage only tropical sun can inflict at that age. She tucked her gum into the corner of her mouth with her tongue and fired up a big homespun smile. “Warm you up?” she said with a dip of her carafe to his coffee mug. Lyle looked up from his plate. He guessed her life story. High school cute. A failed marriage or two. A variety of addictions and a slide down into a career at the Sunrise Diner off Alligator Alley. Nursed a stubborn denial that she was as past her prime as week-old fish. Nobody anyone would miss. He flashed her a shining salesman’s grin. “Has anyone ever turned down that offer?” he answered. She refilled his cup. “So what brings you out into swampy south Florida today?” Lyle caught the arrival of an old man in a green John Deere baseball hat. He shuffled in and took a seat in a booth. Collateral damage. “I’m a magician,” Lyle answered. “A master of illusion and prestidigitation.” “Like that Criss Angel?” Lyle kept from cringing. “Exactly. Allow me.” He pulled a deck of cards from his shirt pocket, though it had appeared empty. All fifty-two cards expanded into a fan in his right hand. Gloria’s eyes locked on the large dark blue sapphire ring on Lyle’s third finger. “Pick a card,” he said. She passed her hand back and forth across the deck, hesitating as if the fate of the world rested on her selection. Lyle swallowed his impatience. She pulled out a card. He placed the rest of the deck against his forehead and closed his eyes in mock concentration. “Seven of diamonds.” “Oh my gawd!” she shrieked. “How’d you do that?” Lyle winked away the world’s stupidest question. He extended his hand and she returned his card. He tucked it into the deck and cut it in half, face down. He held his hand over it and the top card levitated into his palm. He flipped over the queen of hearts and handed it to her with a flourish. “For you,” he said. “The queen of hearts, as you are destined to break so many.” Gloria managed a star-struck smile and stared at the card. Lyle rose and left ten dollars on the counter for his uneaten three-dollar breakfast. By the time Gloria looked up from the face of the playing card queen, Lyle’s black convertible was pulling away in a cloud of white dust. She tucked the card into the breast pocket of her white working blouse, behind her hand-lettered name tag. She walked the coffee pot over to the old man in the booth. “A little java, Sid?” she asked the Sunrise regular. She started to pour and she felt the card in her pocket get hot. A look of shock crossed Sid’s face. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his eyes bulged. He went red as a beet, looking like some horrific Christmas decoration in his green hat. Sid clutched his chest and fell against the table so hard his coffee mug jumped with a clank. “Sid!” Gloria screamed. She dropped the coffee pot. It shattered on the floor into a muddy sunburst. She bent to help Sid. The card in her shirt went white hot. She jerked upright. Fiery fingers dug into her chest and wrapped her heart like bands of flaming steel. She hitched one last, incomplete breath and collapsed to the floor. Ten miles away, Lyle’s black convertible took a right on CR 12 and headed north. It passed a sign that said: CITRUS GLADE 35 MILES. Black Magic Giveaway
US ONLY - 2 winners will each get a signed copy of Black Magic
a Rafflecopter giveaway