Title Reveal: Field of Fire

 I've spent today's writing time focusing on Drake Chronicles Book 7, which now has a title! 

Keep scrolling for a sneak peek at chapter one of Field of Fire, the seventh and final Drake novel.

🐉🐉🐉

The cry came again, closer, and cold terror gripped Reggie around the heart. Sank claws, and fangs, and threatened to crush his chest. “Gods,” he whispered. “Oh, Gods.”

The Sels had drakes. The Sels likely had hundreds, maybe even thousands of drakes, based on the roadside assault: the portal, the dog-sized drakes pouring through in whole flocks, and the massive head and neck, lopped off when the portal closed. What were they flying toward now? How could they hope to survive it?

He hauled on the left rein. “Lennie, no, turn away—”

Too late.

The cloud floor exploded ahead of them, a hundred or so yards away. White burst through white, a tumble of soft, dull clouds, and something hard and gleaming, reflecting the pink sunrise with dazzling brightness.

Valencia pulled up short, halting in midair, wings beating backward. Reggie lurched forward in the saddle and caught himself on her shoulders. When he glanced down, a gap in the clouds revealed jagged peaks below, like the squiggles on a map from this height.

Nausea rolled through him. He sucked in a breath and sat up, reaching for his sword hilt with one hand, for all the good it would do.

As tatters of cloud streamed sway, the enemy took shape. Drakes. Three of them, of similar size to the fire-drakes, but a gleaming snow white in color.

Alpha roared.

The largest white drake roared back.

Three things happened at once.

Reggie recalled what Amelia had said about Oliver and Tessa, about their drakes being cold-drakes; being white.

Reggie spotted riders on two of the drakes. The straps of saddles, breastplates, and the flutter of long leather reins just like the ones he held.

And Alpha ducked his head, pumped his wings, and flew toward them like an arrow loosed from a bow.

“No!” Reggie bellowed. “Alpha, no!”

Newsletter 2/1/26

 

**This is a mirrored post from my Substack, where you can read it, and all chapters of the Alex Bonfils-centric Dartmoor tie-in novel, Inherent Violence. 

February greetings from a snowy corner of Georgia. It’s been bitter, windy, ice-breaking weather here, but thankfully we avoided the snow and freezing rain that’s struck Tennessee two weeks in a row. I’ll take all the small favors I can get. Now that the Christmas season is well behind us, I’m ready to trade the midwinter blues for green grass, happy horses, and evenings that melt long and slow into night. Daylight savings can’t come fast enough.

As for today, there are a few news items of note:

• I broke ground on the seventh and final Drake Chronicles book this morning, as of yet untitled. Book six, Avarice of the Empire, released at the end of December and offered some wild twists, including a surprise ending that leads directly into the action of the big finale. I’m determined that book seven will be the last book, even if it winds up being a chunky installment. Before anyone asks, I have no idea when it might release. Sorry! There’s lots to juggle at the moment.

• Last week I started a new post series all about writing. Writing 101 focuses on the importance of reading for writers, and Writing 102, the next installment, will discuss journaling and practice writing. This is a deep dive look at craft, from concept to completion, and as of now, I’m planning to update it on a monthly basis, depending on the rest of my writing workload.

• The Alex-centered Dartmoor novel Inherent Violence is rolling along here on Substack. We’re up to Chapter Twenty-One as of last night, and in Chapter Twenty-Two, Miranda gets to meet the old ladies. For anyone asking if I’ll eventually turn this book into a Kindle/paperback release, the answer is that I haven’t decided. Low Lord Have Mercy sales lead me to believe that it wouldn’t sell very well, and in this format, I get to offer it as an exclusive to Substack supporters. So, we’ll see, but I’m not sure.

I have a bit of personal news as well. If you follow me on Instagram, you might have seen my stories a week or so ago when I talked about my health issues. I don’t want to say too much yet, but suffice to say that I felt terrible for most of 2025, especially in the back half of the year. At the beginning of January, I started seeing a new doctor, one who’s actually taking my pain and other symptoms seriously; she’s being proactive, and that’s been a tremendous relief. I had an ultrasound last Tuesday to check on one thing…and the radiologist wound up finding something unexpected. My doctor ordered an MRI, and I have that this coming Tuesday evening. We’ve been moving forward with the hypothesis that I have endometriosis, or ovarian cysts, or both, and now there’s another complication that needs examining. I’m nervous. Hopefully the MRI can shed light on everything that’s going on, and we can move forward with a clear surgical plan.

All that’s to say that I’m not sure what my schedule for the next few weeks or months is going to look like. I’m going to write as much as I can, with the idea that I’ll have scheduled posts set to drop in the early stages of any surgery recovery period. If I’m laid up for a while, I won’t be much use at the barn (ugh!) but should still be able to write. I’ll keep y’all posted!

Stay warm, everyone :)

11 Years ?!

 

January is "birthday month" for Fearless. 

Writing books didn't turn out to be the self-sustaining, successful career I'd hoped, but I suppose you have to look at the odds: the odds of finishing a book; of publishing a book; of finding even one reader; of hearing that your words impacted someone in a positive way. Eleven years later, readers are still buying Fearless, still giving Mercy and Ava a chance to charm them, and that's a pretty special thing. 

Thank you to everyone who's been along on this wild ride with the Dogs! ❤ I can't believe it's still going. 

#TeaserTuesday: You Coward

 

NOW AVAILABLE

“Pull him out,” he instructed, and Valgrind burrowed his head down into the snow. He withdrew a moment later, hauling Rune out by the back of his tunic.

Rune sputtered, and kicked, and swung his arms, and showered snow everywhere.

Valgrind craned his neck around so Náli was face-to-face with Rune’s spitting, cursing, red-cheeked visage. Close enough that Náli could slap him—which he did.

His hand left a gratifying red mark behind, each finger distinct, and snapped Rune’s head to the side. When he turned back, he no longer looked panicked, but, thankfully, furious. Good: an angry man was a man who could take action. Fear and panic were nothing but wasted effort.

“Shut up and listen to me,” Náli said, not as himself, but as the Corpse Lord. His was a laughable sort of authority, but by some miracle, Rune shut his gob and went still in Valgrind’s grasp. “We can’t go after Tessa because Tessa’s not here.”

Rune blinked at him, uncomprehending, and then scowled. He pointed toward the capital, somewhere beyond the peaks. “Of course she’s not here. That Sel took her! Which is why we need to give chase! Our drakes are faster than the big one, and…what?” He broke off, frowning, when Náli shook his head. “You turn back if you want to, coward, but that’s my wife! I’m going after her!”

Náli almost slapped him again. He said, “That Sel opened a portal and took her through it. We can’t go after her, because it’s not a matter of flying faster. She’s gone, Rune. And we can’t follow.”

Fearless Read-Along: Chapter Thirty-One Part One

Monday. Funeral day. Ava sat up before her alarm went off at six with a strange weightless feeling in her stomach. She’d been to almost a dozen such funerals, but never because of murder, and never after such a strange few days as these last few. MC funerals were bedecked in pomp, steeped in nostalgia, works of art, really, and for the first time since coming home, she woke up and felt almost like her old self. Like the club daughter, instead of the country club girlfriend. 

Welcome back to the Fearless read-along! Picking up where we left off, Chapter Thirty-One is a long one, so I'm going to split it into two posts. 

It's funeral day for the Lean Dogs: time to lay Andre to rest, and to make statements to the public, and to their enemies. 

In a fictional sense, funerals make for great tipping points. The reminder of our brief time on earth, the harsh reality of our own mortality, brings characters to decision points. This happens in real life, messily, imperfectly; in a novel, it can be cold and clean and a necessary catalyst for change. 

 

             The second her feet touched the floor, in the chilly dark of her room, the energy began fizzling in her veins, that strange, morbid excitement. A member was dead. Bring out the bikes, say all your prayers, give thanks for your once-percent blood. And so it always went. 

Ava wakes the morning of the funeral nervous and (guiltily) excited. The club daughter in her will always love the chance to show up for her family; to be counted amongst the Dogs. She's her mama's right hand, and there's a certain importance that makes her relish the role, even as a pall of sadness lies over them all. 

She begins the day comparing Ronnie to her family, and not merely finding fault with him, but actively asking herself why she's with him. Oh boy, Ronnie. It was never going to work, but then he drives the point home by being an ass at the funeral home. He's tried the Understanding Good Guy route, and now goes for scorn and shame; he's really so stupid he thinks that she'll chase after him, and put some distance between herself and her family. 

Ava cast a glance into the next room, at Ronnie massaging his scalp from his slump on the sofa. Why? she wondered. Why am I not allowed to have what my parents have? Why do I have – Ronnie dug his phone from under his pillow and checked it – this?

On Mercy's side of things, president-to-president contact is made with the Carpathians. Ghost lays down the law, Jasper bristles, and the stage is set for active combat. 

“Alright, Jasper,” Ghost said. The conversational tone, the assumed familiarity was grating on the younger man’s nerves, Mercy could see; Jasper’s jaw worked. “As much fun as this is, I didn’t come here for a social call. This” – Ghost circled a finger in the air, indicating the trip they’d all made to this side of town – “is your warning. Your polite warning. I am not having some all-out war with your crew. I don’t have time to play Cowboys and Indians with you. If you make one more move toward that end, I will kill you. I will destroy you, in every way possible.”

It's surreal to revisit this war with the Carpathians after Lord Have Mercy. The club started out fighting local enemies, and as the Dogs gained power and influence, so too did their enemies. It makes me want to shed a proud little mother tear over the ways they've grown since this first book; the challenges they were able to tackle and overcome as the years went by. 

The back half of the chapter contains all the ~revelations~, and the steamy bits, and I'll post about that next Monday. 

Avarice of the Empire: The Debriefing

Book six in the Drake Chronicles, Avarice of the Empire, dropped one week ago today. It's one of the shorter books in the series, but packs a big punch. Let's dive into it. 

This book picks up where Fortunes of War left off, and like Fortunes, the majority of the action takes place on the long march toward the capital of Aquitainia. That's due in part because it's a long way from Drakewell and an even longer way from Aeres. This is a fantasy realm, but these are also Olden Days: travel takes time; it's laborious, and dusty, and sweaty, and terribly unfun. But that's the beauty of writing this sort of travel: it provides automatic tension. I can then use that tension to further all the character relationships, be they romantic, friendly, or hostile. 

I can't tell you how many times I've read books in which the author writes in a flight, or a road trip, or even a long walk, and simply says "we flew to Nashville," or "we walked ten miles," so on, etc. That trip can certainly be a point A to B move, without incident, but if you have characters trapped together for hours, or days, or weeks, you have a ready-made environment for interpersonal development, and that's what Avarice highlights. 

Beware of spoilers ahead! 

AOTE: "How was dinner?"

 

We get a glimpse of the capital of Aquitainia in Avarice of the Empire...but likely not in the way anyone expected! 

My full author debriefing is coming on Sunday, a full week since the book's drop, and there will be spoilers. Until then, enjoy Cassius's pretty ankles. 

With a sigh, she let herself inside the chamber, and when the door was shut, heard the lock turn from the outside.

The fire crackled merrily, bright and pulsing warmth into the chamber. Candles flickered on the bedside table, and in the sconces, and on the low table in front of the sofa.

She thought it was the work of a slave—and it was, but not the lady’s maid she’d envisioned.

Cassius straightened from the table and blew out the fireplace spill he’d used to light the candles. He’d lost his stiff coat since she’d left for dinner, dressed now in a spring weight thigh-length tunic and breeches. The ensemble made his shoulders look broad—broader than she’d thought they were.

“My lady,” he greeted. “How was dinner?”

She turned, crossed to the sideboard, and poured herself a large measure of wine.

“Ah.”

She took a long, fortifying swallow and turned to lean back against the sideboard. Cassius, she saw, had perched on the arm of a chair, legs stretched out long in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’d traded his usual boots for a soft-looking pair of slippers; they were dark purple lined with some sort of dyed fur, a sharp contrast to his pale, trim ankles. She stared at them a moment, the distinct lines of bone and tendon, the faint blue tracing of veins.

Pretty, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake and took another slug of wine.

“Did you see your sister and cousin?” he asked, and she looked up at his face.

If he’d looked informal earlier, he was downright casual now. Clearly tired, no longer trying to hold his expression in check. He sat with arms folded, brows drawn together, chewing at his lower lip in an absent way. His sleek white hair was ruffled on top, like he’d been raking it back with his hands, and she realized he’d taken out the leather tie that kept it pulled back at the crown. It framed his face in a whole new way, now; lent a little color to his cheeks by contrast.

Again, against her will, she was reminded of Mal. Of him unbuttoning his collar and slouching against her bedpost, relaxed but attentive, caring but ready to tell her a hard truth should she need to hear it.