Elizabeth Drakes's Site

Fantasy Romance

Romance Writer

Short Story: Adrift

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I am super excited for launch day!

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In celebration, I wrote a short story in the same world as to Love a Prince. I hope you enjoy it!

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Emerald Point

Adrift

Gabriel leaned on his cane as he scanned the angry ocean. Its waves rose and fell like daggers as it smashed the splinters of what had been a ship against the rocky shore.

His leg ached from his exertions, but Gabriel ignored the pain. If he still wanted to still walk in ten summers, he needed to push himself now.

Anger stabbed him, but he shoved it away. Self-pity did nothing to change his circumstances. He may no longer serve Dracor as he once had, but his mental faculties were sharp, he still rode horses, and he had his faith. The ghoul hadn’t taken everything from him.

He glanced down at his damaged leg.

But it had taken enough.

A cry whispered on the bitter wind, and Gabriel glanced at the seagulls. Their plaintive calls washed over him, and a frown pinched his brow as he heard the sound again. More insistent this time if fainter.

He’d listened to the old legends about sirens luring sailors to their deaths on these rocks, but he paid them little heed. The waters around Emerald Point were treacherous, and the number of shipwrecks had more to do with inexperienced captains than mysterious demon women.

The cry came again, and Gabriel picked his way across the rocky beach and around the shattered planks deposited by a dozen or more shipwrecks. The ever-changing tide and jagged rocks made it impossible to know if the freshly splintered boards were from an old wreck or a recent one. Not that it mattered. In the rough waters of Emerald Point, no one ever survived a shipwreck.

Yet, the cry came again. Fainter now, more plaintive.

Gabriel cursed himself. He should go home, brew himself a pot of coffee, and forget whatever creature was trying to lure him. He’d fallen into a trap once, and it had cost him his leg.

But he was a Knight of Valor. Even if he no longer served on active duty, he couldn’t ignore the cries of someone who needed his help.

Limping across the beach toward the noise, Gabriel discovered a pile of boards hidden between rocks taller than a man.

The cry came again. Louder. Sharper.

It sounded close now, most likely under the boards.

The cry of a child, scared and alone. He’d fallen for it once. He’d fall for it now. He could make no other choice.

Setting aside his cane, he swallowed back the sour taste of fear and cleared away the boards. Carefully, lest one fall and crush the babe. If there was a babe.

The crying grew more urgent as if infant, or whatever it was, realized someone was coming.

Shoving aside the last board, Gabriel discovered a tiny child swaddled in a strange iridescent fabric. Tears stained the infant’s chubby cheeks, and she had strange golden hair that glittered in the morning sun. He leaned closer to her, and she opened her eyes. They glowed an unnatural shade of green and were larger than a cat’s eyes.

Gabriel stumbled back, and his bad leg crumpled.

He sprawled into the sand, water and rocks.

He cursed as he pushed himself up to sitting and brushed off a vine of seaweed.

The child cried again, her plaintive whimpers piercing his heart.

He had no idea what she was. Maybe the offspring of the very sirens he’d dismissed. Her pointed ears whispered elven, but he’d seen plenty of elves, and none of them had eyes like that.

Using his cane, he shoved himself back to his feet.

The infant whimpered as she stared at him with her inhuman eyes.

Gabriel clutched the amulet of Dracor he wore around his neck.

He sensed no evil from the child, but she was frightened, hungry, and alone. Whatever she was, he couldn’t just leave her to be carried off my wolves or worse.

Steadying himself, he limped back over to her. While dirt, sand, and seaweed clung to him, her blanket remained both dry and unsoiled.

He frowned as he reached for her, and the press of magic pushed at his hands before dissolving. Some sort of protection bubble. He’d seen them before, but never anything powerful enough to withstand a shipwreck.

Lifting the tiny infant, he held her close. She shivered and pressed against him, nudging his chest as she searched for food.

“Sorry little one, can’t help you there.”

He stroked her glittering hair, then took his canteen from his pocket. After saying a prayer to Dracor, Gabriel offered the child the water. She drank, her tiny face screwed up as she realized it wasn’t milk, but too hungry to refuse.

After she’d drunk her fill, Gabriel took off his jacket and fashioned it into a sling. Tucking the child into it, he tied his jacket in place, holding her snug against his chest. Her strange eyes closed, and she drifted to sleep.

Gabriel hoisted himself back to his feet. Thoughts of finding a wet nurse and figuring out how to care for the strange child until he could find her parents filled his thoughts, and he barely needed his cane as he walked across the rock-strewn beach to his cottage.

 

How to Not Set Goals

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Goals are important. They are how you turn dreams into reality, breaking down the ephemeral into manageable tasks.

But I set my goals a little too aggressively in March.

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Every year at the day job.

Sometimes, when you are so focused on achieving something, you can forget other obligations.

I released a book in early April. You can check it out here. It was the culmination of a lifetime goal.

I started writing my first novel when I was ten. I still remember the teal blue spiral notebook that housed that first book. I had planned to publish it before I was twelve, because I was awesome.

How I wish I had the confidence now I had then!

As excited as I was to release this book out into the wild (and nervous), it was a lot of work. On top of that, I was trying to write 1.5k words a day on a new WIP, work a demanding full time job, and be a parent and spouse.

Yeah, some things fell down.

I will never be Mom of the Year, but I could’ve been a lot a better.

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Sadly.

I will never be a perfect wife. Ever.

I will never be tracked as a “superstar” where I work. I just won’t put in enough hours, which is interesting when I think of all of the hours I’ve poured into writing novels.

But, I do need to figure out a better way to fit writing into my life. I love telling stories, though the act of writing itself is work. Hard work.

But I have this tendency to throw myself fully into whatever I’m doing when what I need is balance.

So, I’m sorting through that at the moment.

I finished a story I think of as Logan and Rita. Catchy title, I know, but it’s a fresh first draft. It’ll get better. I promise.

Now, to put my editing cape back on. And by cape I mean my comfy jammies with the most amazing LL Bean slippers. I need to figure out a pace I can manage with my children, spouse and job.

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But he still gets there.

Not sure what that is yet, but I’m not giving up on my Winter 2018 time frame for How to Love a Duchess.

 

 

 

Short Story: A Dog of Her Own

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Lord Wrakar wishes she brought something like this home.

 

A Dog of Her Own

Andromeda kicked the dirt and crossed her arms over her thin chest.

It wasn’t fair.

She was bored and lonely. A dog would fix both.

Of course her grandmother didn’t want her to have one. She never wanted Andromeda to have anything nice. Laverra was still mad Andromeda had survived being born and angrier yet Andromeda’s father protected his daughter.

Andromeda glanced back at the upper windows of the gothic manor house looming behind her. It blocked out the faint trickle of sunlight that escaped the overcast sky and shrouded the grounds in gloom. The wards around the compound protected Andromeda from the outside evil, but they did nothing to protect her from what was inside.

She’d seen only six summers, but she already knew one day soon she’d have to protect herself.

Another reason for her to have a dog.

Her grandmother would be resting now, preferring to sleep during the day when her magic was weakest.

Andromeda snorted. Magic didn’t care if it was day or night, but her grandmother’s magic was fading. Laverra had deviated too far from Uzakiel’s path, and Rashalee had snared her in a web of lies, greed, and envy. The old woman would soon need a powerful blood sacrifice to appease Uzakiel.

She’d go after Andromeda’s father.

Andromeda wouldn’t let that happen, nor would her dog once she got one. Her father was the only one ever kind to her even if his studies absorbed so much of his time that he didn’t notice her most days.

She kicked the dirt again.

One of the human guards spotted her and hurried away, pretending he hadn’t noticed her.

Andromeda was used to it. She’d always been an ugly child with her too-big blue eyes and golden ringlets. But her father loved her, and people were nice to her because they didn’t want to anger Lord Wrakar.

One day, they’d be nice to her because they didn’t want to anger her.

The thought cheered her as she skipped down to the crypts. Dysentery had killed two human servants earlier in the week, and her father’s apprentices had laid out the bodies in the prepatory chambers with the flesh-eating beetles. Her father had no work for zombies at the moment, and after another week or so, one of her father’s apprentices would raise them for kitchen duties.

Fresh skeletons made the best house staff, and the apprentices needed the practice.

Andromeda liked the skeleton staff better than the human one. The skeletons never called her ugly, her father awful, or her dead mother stupid. And they always did what she told them.

Her grandmother wished Andromeda would be as well-behaved as the skeletons. Laverra could keep wishing.

Sitting on the edge of the mausoleum, Andromeda swung her legs. The crypts were quiet, like they always were. Like the manor house was. And the courtyards. And the workrooms.

She blew a golden curl from her eyes. Sometimes, she wished people would laugh. Smile. Even yelling would be better than the constant silence.

She wanted a dog. Needed it.

The crypts were situated in the most ancient parts of the family compound, and their family was one of the oldest in Oskelez. Andromeda wondered how old the bones moldering in the crypt were.

A smile teased over her lips as she thought of a way to ease her boredom.

Magic filled her, and she sunk it into the ground. It filtered over the bones of servants, then past the dust of her ancestors. Their presence intensified her own magic, and she giggled as a surge of power washed through her.

Harnessing it, Andromeda pushed the magic deeper. Burial sites from long forgotten wars lay further beneath the crypt. Deeper yet were the bones of peasants from a failed uprising.

Sweat beaded on Andromeda’s brow as she gathered the power of the dead to her, bolstering her magic and delving deeper.

Past the bones of noble knights and valiant priests who served gods she didn’t know. Deeper yet to the dust of slaves who’d built Oskelez and the bones of their masters.

The masters.

What is the seven hells were these creatures?

Things of nightmare. Things of…

Wait. Were those the bones of a dog?

A smile lit Andromeda’s face as she ripped the magic from the ancient dead surrounding the dog and funneled it into the beast.

Sweat trickled down her cheek as the dead fought her, resisted her.

She balled her tiny fists and locked her jaw. She was a necromancer of clan Xyrenia.

The. Dead. Would. Obey!

She tore the magic from them and slammed it into the dog.  Her dog.

The ground beneath the crypt shook, the dry earth cracking and tearing as a howl ripped through the silent afternoon and echoed off the magic wards.

Bone paws the size of caldrons punched through the ground, followed by two large heads and a massive body. The creature of nightmare stood taller than a man, and it tossed back both heads and howled.

Red pinpricks flickered in its eye sockets as it turned toward Andromeda.

She crossed her arms and waited.

The abomination studied her then lowered both of its heads to the ground at her feet.

Andromeda clapped her hands together in delight.

“I’ll name you Orthul, and we’re going to be the best of friends.”

She skipped back to the house, her new companion at her heels.

 

If you liked this story, you might like to check out a free copy of my debut novel, To Love a Prince.

Cover Reveal: To Love a Prince

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I am very excited to share the cover of my first romance novel with all of you, and here it is!

 

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What you don’t trust can’t betray you, but it can still break your heart.

Haunted by a tragedy he couldn’t prevent and hounded by a duty he never wanted, Crown Prince Eli of Tamryn is a cold shell of a man with a stone for a heart. But, whether his subjects like it or not, he will soon be their king. All he needs is to ascend the throne is the Dragon God’s blessing and the approval of the Dragon Church.

There’s only one small problem: the god is silent, and the church wants him dead. Well, there is one other problem—the slightly confusing matter of how he somehow acquired a slave girl who wheels and deals with everything and everyone, no matter what the cost, to win her freedom.

When Eli uncovers a plot to seize the throne, driven by a forbidden cult of dark worship, he must protect a church that hates him and a god he thinks has forsaken him. Duty runs headlong into the newly awakened needs of his heart, and with treachery before him and enslavement behind, no choice is good.

Old secrets reveal new lies, and betrayal will bring a man, a crown, and a kingdom to the very brink of war.

 

If you’re interested, you can get an advance reader copy  here.  Yes, that’s a free copy of the book. All I hope you’ll consider doing in return is leaving me an honest review.

Understanding Stress

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I may have been in a bit of mood the other day when I wrote this post.

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Sarcasm Level: Master

But, if I put away my skeptic, I can admit that I think it’s important to manage stress. But to manage it, I need to understand what stress is. And I do want to better deal with it, especially as stress kills creativity.  Hard to write Romance with dead creativity.

So, I did some research.

In a nutshell, stress is a physical response. Your body thinks it’s under attack and goes into fight or flight mode. Your body releases a whole bunch of hormones preparing you for physical action.

Despite what we’ve been told, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. During our hunter-gatherer days, this helped us escape from predators or defend ourselves and our tribes.

Where the issue comes is that our bodies haven’t adapted to modern life.

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Not if I want to sleep…

A boss with an impossible deadline triggers the same fight or flight mode as a lion trying to eat you. With a lion, we need the physical response to either flee or fight back. But this is not the best reaction in a modern environment. Here, we’d be better served if we our physical response was focused calm so we can at least try to make the deadline.

So, in addition to our evolutionary response not helping us in this situation, it also means we don’t have the opportunity to burn off those stress hormones. Not a lot of running while trying to piece together that report the boss wants. This is what causes the jittery feelings and racing heartbeat.

So, how do we deal with it?

The one thing that’s helped me the most is learning that the racing heartbeat and other aspects of stress are frequently caused by a physical hormonal response. These hormones need to be burned off, and I’ve started doing that by walking.

I try for at least a 30 minute walk at lunch, and this has helped tremendously. I burn off all my pent up stress hormones and come back to the afternoon more focused.

Sometimes, this isn’t enough, and I take a brisk walk through the halls. Other times, I’ll walk out to the lunchroom and back. Something, anything, to get me up, get me moving, and burn those stress hormones.

Now that I know stress is physiological in nature, it helps me deal with it.

My bigger issue is when I don’t have an outlet. While we are now in daylight savings time again, it’s dark when I get up in the morning, it’s dark by the time I get dinner on the table at night.

Better though than two months ago when I seldom saw the sun.

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This means walking before work or in the evenings is a no-go at the moment.

I’m still trying to figure something out, especially with the kids. I have a treadmill and an elliptical in our finished basement, but it’s an act of Congress to get down there. Including the negotiating, pleading, and filibustering.

But I am working on it. I started making a play space for them downstairs so that they have something to do other than pester me while I’m trying to listen to an audiobook and burn some stress.

 

What do you do to deal with stress? Do you find it easier to cope with stress with physical activity?

10 Ways to Conquer Stress and Bring Back Your Creativity

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We know stress kills creativity. And, given modern life, stress isn’t going anywhere.

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Me during the height of budgeting

So, what can we do about it? How do we tame the stress so our muse will come hang out with us and bring some inspiration along with her?

 

Here are 10 Things “experts” Say Will Reduce Stress

1. Get enough sleep

Because it’s so easy to sleep when you’re already stressed. It’s not like stress causes insomnia or anything. Oh wait.

2. Eat Well-Balance meals

Already doing this, though this can also be a source of stress. It’s a lot easier to pick up something on my way home that to spend thirty minutes I don’t have trying to put together a healthy choice.

3. Limit Alcohol and Caffeine

Gave up both when I was pregnant, and I never started back on either. Very liberating to not need that cup of coffee in the morning, though I was awful to be around for the two months it took to break the habit.

Frankly, I’m not sure if this just transfers your stress from you to your family members as they now have to deal with you without coffee…

4. Count to 10 (or 20)

This has helped me when dealing with my children, but not for the bigger things like when those children are ill.

5. Take Deep Breaths

Okay… Feel like medical science might be stretching a little here.

6. Take a time-out.

No, not the kind you give your children.

Although maybe.

They recommend things like practicing yoga, listening to music, meditating, getting a massage, or learning relaxation techniques. According to the experts, stepping back from the problem helps clear your head. Because I totally have time for this! If I did, I might not be as stressed out…

7. Learn what triggers your anxiety.

What triggers mine? Impossible goals like trying to balance work, children, a spouse, a household, and writing. You know, modern American life.

8. Maintain a positive attitude.

I think I actually flipped off the computer monitor when I read this. Mature, I know.

9. Get involved.

Volunteer or find another way to be active in your community, which creates a support network and gives you a break from everyday stress. Which totally works because I’m not already stressed over not having enough time meet all my current obligations.

10. Welcome humor. A good laugh goes a long way. 

Clearly what some of these coping strategies are. For me, anyway. Though, it’s not exactly funny as this helped me very little.

 

If nothing else, I suppose it did make me smile a little. Sometimes, science can’t solve all your problems.