Guest Post and Giveaway: Guardian of the Angels series by Anyta Sunday

Cover Artist: Caroline Wimmer Streiflicht Fotografie

Description:

It could be worse for Sylva Lark. She could be dead. A coma was nothing to that. Or her family moving across country for the treatment, leaving her with a big blue mark on her back. 

She can handle it. 

Mostly. 

Except the mark glows and tingles, especially whenever transition helper Atticus Plot (Attic) is close by. She suspects he’s hiding something, and when she stumbles across a torn body bearing the same spiral marking as her own, that suspicion is confirmed. 

After a few shaves with death, the truth finally comes out and the battles begin. 

But not all her fights are external; her biggest one is the decision she has to make between doing the right thing for the world and giving up her beloved family for good. 

Sylva Lark made her choice. 

Now she has to adjust to Guardian life. Training. Killing demons. Controlling her powers. 

If only giving up her family wouldn’t hurt so damn much, . . . and if there wasn’t a strange attraction to the betrothed Prince Atticus she just met . . . 

Amongst murder and mayhem, and toeing an unclear line between right and wrong, Sylva and her fellow Guardians must find a way to secure Eirene. 

But it’s not easy going up against underworld Queen Furie when those on Sylva’s side are hiding secrets . . . 

Will they succeed in protecting the home of the angels? Or will they fail, submitting the heavens to the fate of Furie? 

And will Sylva and Attic ever remember what they mean to each other? 

Or will they stay forever Lethed?

GUEST POST

Right and Wrong in Paranormal Romance

Wouldn’t it be nice if the world were black and white, if we always knew who our enemy is? Wouldn’t it be nice if things were that simple? 

Well, yes. Maybe. But not in fiction. 

In fiction the conflict of what is right and wrong fuels a story and makes for a fascinating character journey. 

Many main characters in paranormal fiction are faced with moral dilemmas all the time, every day. Characters must choose between saving a beloved sister or a lover, or they must hurt someone’s feelings deeply to keep them away from danger, or they must kill demons on a daily (nightly) basis without questioning each and every kill, and whether or not this demon/vampire/zombie/monster could be redeemed if given the chance and support. 

“There are a thousand shades of gray between right and wrong, and I was somewhere in the middle of them.” - Sylva, Phoenixed 

In Veined, the first of the Guardians of the Angels trilogy, Sylva must decide between giving up her beloved family and protecting the souls in Eirene. This is not an easy decision and she struggles with it. In the end, she begrudgingly accepts that she has to do what is right for the greater good, but this never settles well with her. Why is it that the many must take preference over the few? What type of person does it make her it she always chooses the bigger picture and not the smaller, everyday snapshots? Is there ever a time when it’s better to choose the few? 

And let’s be honest here, Sylva is a real person. She wants happiness for the greater number, sure. At least, mostly. Except that . . . Well, what about her happiness? Doesn’t that count for something too? If she is selfish, does that make her a bad person? 

I see a lot of characters in paranormal fiction that struggle with the idea of doing what is right and following through with doing it. And, these inner conflicts, doing what is right over what is less right make paranormal (and in fact any) fiction captivating. 

Characters pitted in a fight between good verse evil where the overall consensus is evil must die and good must prevail? That’s good stuff. But characters whose choices are difficult, who struggle to find the sometimes very unclear line between right and wrong, who wade through conflicts, make mistakes, finally make a decision and follow it through? That’s riveting. 

And more than riveting, it’s real. It’s relatable. Because life isn’t black and white, and we all struggle with doing the right thing from time to time. We all wade somewhere in those thousand shades of gray just trying to do our best. 

I was searching for absolution; searching for silver linings in the gray mess I was wading in. - Sylva, Phoenixed (Coming 2014) 

Thank you, Mythical Books, for giving me the opportunity to share my opinion on the wonderful topic of right and wrong in paranormal literature. This was a fun post to write, especially as I work on the third installment of this series, where Sylva comes to realize that just because Eirene (like heaven) is supposed to be good and Ache (like hell) is supposed to bad, doesn’t mean they are entirely so. She makes some tricky decisions in this one, and some of them fall in moral gray zones. But she’s trying her best and willing to live with the hard consequences . . . 

Thank you all for reading this post. What do you think about right and wrong in paranormal literature? Do you prefer a clear enemy and clear definitions of right and wrong? Or do you like the mess of gray zones?

EXCERPTS

TOUR SCHEDULE

Veined Excerpt (Partial of first Chapter):

DAYTIME TELEVISION SOAPS are funny. Brain transplants, lovers that turn out to be related, and characters that slip into comas. Yeah, I'd thought soaps pretty darn hilarious until the day I woke up from a coma.

And into this drama. I bit my bottom lip and looked at the doctor (Albelin, as he’d introduced himself seconds ago). Although Albelin stood next to the bed, his voice echoed like he was at the other end of a tunnel. “. . . coma . . . much sooner than anticipated.”

Goose bumps dotted my skin and I tucked the hospital sheet—the only thing covering my body save a pair of ungenerous undies that were giving me a wedgie—tightly under my arms.

My thoughts spiraled. I strained to recall how I’d arrived here in the first place, but I couldn't remember much. There had been a flash of color, and then—blank.

Albelin's curly black hair swished as he moved his gaze away from me and toward his vibrating pocket. Something on the side of his neck caught my attention. A black tattoo, like the wing of an eagle. But it disappeared behind his collar as he pulled out his phone. He scanned the screen, and then stuffed the phone back into his pocket. “Your family is on their way,” he said.

My family. Faces and partial memories popped up like a black-and-white film, with someone slowly winding the crank. A blonde woman unraveling a kite—Mom. A man in a police uniform—Dad. And a boy building a Lego tower—Jeffrey.

“Right.” The word felt hollow and scratched the inside of my throat. Using the corner of the sheet to cover my mouth, I coughed. It hurt my chest and sounded wet.

With watery eyes, I scanned the room. I’d been so stuck on the word coma, I’d failed to notice my basic surroundings. My coughing came to an abrupt stop, but my thoughts continued to gallop. It wasn’t as though I knew what coming out of a coma should feel like, but I had an idea what it should look like. Where was the respirator? The drip? Heart monitor? In fact, the only features of the room that indicated hospital were the green walls and linoleum flooring.

Albelin must have read my panicky expression as I’d surveyed the room, because he started to explain, “We used a new method involving electro-magnetism to bring you back to consciousness. That’s why you aren’t wearing anything and why you shouldn’t have any issues with muscle deterioration. That, and we’ve given you protein supplements.”

Electro-magnetism? That sounded like something I’d hear in a physics class. My stomach flipped and I swallowed the awkward laugh that rose to my throat and caused a gurgling sound. This wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill hospital at all. Maybe it was experimental, maybe there'd been no other option. Oh, God, what happened to me?

I craned my neck from side to side. My muscles were stiff, but at least I was conscious. I let out a shuddering breath and blinked back the water pooling in my eyes. I didn't care that I was seventeen and supposed act big and brave and something close to an adult. Right now all I wanted was my mom.

Albelin smiled, barely crinkling the skin at the sides of his eyes, but his smile didn't soothe the erratic butterflies in my belly. If anything, it made them worse; he was so young to be a doctor. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a duffel bag and handed it to me. My duffel bag. The one I took to gymnastics trainings. “Here are some clothes for you to change into.”

I twisted the familiar canvas handles around my palm.

“Showers aren’t far,” he added, “just out those doors, second on the left. Towel’s in the bag. Let me help you there.”

Holding the sheet, I stood up. My legs felt like jelly, but I shook my head at Albelin’s offer. “I think I can manage.” I wobbled my way toward the swing doors.

Albelin raced to my side. “I insist on helping you.”

He attempted to brace my elbow, but I pulled away. “Thanks, but—but—” I needed alone time. To think. And I didn’t want anyone touching me while I was wearing practically nothing but a sheet. "I'll be fine, really. I'll yell if I need help."

As soon as I was in the hall, I rested one hand against the wall and used it as a crutch. I was doing all right considering I’d not used my legs in weeks.

Light filtered through the windows, imprinting squares on the opposite wall. I pressed my hand in the center of one as I looked outside onto the street. Mom, Dad and Jeffrey would be coming soon.

I jumped, dropping the duffel bag when a flash of black whizzed by. A tall guy wearing a green T-shirt and tight black gloves up to his elbows was striding down the hall. I lunged to grab the bag, but my foot caught in the sheet, ripping it from under my arms. My head jerked up as the scratchy cotton sunk to my feet and I chased after it.

Palms sweating, I wrapped the sheet tightly around me, heat swelling my cheeks. At least he'd jerked his head away. Still, it didn't stop my heart from thumping double-to-one in embarrassment.

Pick up the bag and move. Go shower.

He glanced back, sweeping his hair to the side. With a chuckle, Gloved Guy passed by and pushed through the swinging doors of my room. As soon as he was behind them, Albelin greeted him. It sounded like they knew each other well. I reached to pick up the duffel bag and stopped.

“Her name’s Lark?” Gloved Guy’s voice sounded amused by my name. “Like the bird?”

I crept closer. Why was Albelin talking about me?

“Sylva Lark,” Albelin corrected.

“And?”

“And she’s veined.” . . .

~*~*~

Lethed (Partial of First Chapter):

SOMETHING WATCHED ME. I sensed its sadistic presence. Tingles of anticipation snaked from the nape of my neck down my spine.

With one hand pressed firmly on my rickety, white-picket side gate, I glanced over my shoulder.

The tree-lined street stared back at me. Snow-dusted branches accentuated the silky navy sky, and meager yellow light leaked from the lampposts.

I strained to hear the telltale crunching of snow. Nothing. Breathing in, I sought the sour smell of evil in the breeze or the tinny smell of blood—a scent I’d become familiar with in the last few months.

Again, nothing.

Just a sharp cold that promised winter would linger this year.

My shoulders sagged in relief. I wasn’t supposed to be out alone—I promised Albelin I’d always take another Guardian with me if I left the motel premises. Perhaps my guilty conscience was responsible for this strange sensation of evil.

I hadn’t wanted to disobey him. Not really.

I clutched the gate, its splintered edges digging into my palms, and studied the house in front of me.

Steadying my breath, I opened the latch and pushed through to the path. Frosty stalks of lavender brushed the back of my hand in a light, swirling breeze as I took in the large acorn tree. Beyond it, the luminescent windows radiated warmth and beckoned me home.

No, I didn’t want to disobey Albelin.

I needed to.

Like every week, I crept to the side of the house and peered into the living room. Slouched on the couch watching TV, Mom sat with her head resting on Dad’s shoulder, and Mottle was tucked into the small space between them. My brother Jeffrey wasn’t in the room—but it was near midnight, so he probably lay tucked up in bed.

Dad kissed the top of Mom’s head and her lips moved. Love you too, honey.

I wondered if Dad heard Mom’s whispered words. It seemed cruel that I could hear the words meant for him when I wanted them to be meant for me.

But they couldn’t ever be for me anymore. Not since I’d chosen to give them up to become an angel-protecting, demon-killing Guardian.

My stomach roiled and I stifled a cry.

I slunk back into the shadows, waiting for the warm weight of darkness to smother me into numbness again. It worked the last three months.

Digging each jagged fingernail into my sweaty palms, I counted down from ten. I looked forward to replacing the frustration and hurt with dull throbbing. But at “one,” nothing changed. I backed up harder against the corrugated fencing behind me, the cold seeping through my shirt.

Dad’s head jerked back in laughter that verged on maniacal. It used to make me laugh, too—at Dad. But now it made me want to bang on the windowpane until it shattered, and with it the thick wall of memories they couldn’t see between us.

I twisted the ring on my little finger, hoping the comforting tic would help me.

It stopped me from yelling out, but it didn’t curb the tears. Sizable drops splashed onto my hand as I wiped a sniffle from my nose.

I instantly forgot about the tears as a ripping pain sliced down my forearm. Blood seeped through my light-blue sleeve. I whistled in a breath as I clutched the cut. Usually, I relied on the semi-regular cuts and stabbing burns to snap me to a keen sense of reality, but now the pain inside me did the job well enough.

Mottle jumped off the couch and trotted to the window. She pawed at the glass and meowed.

I sighed. At least Mots remembered me. Her gray fur pressed up against the window as if begging me to pat her. She butted her head, rattling the glass, and I suddenly couldn’t bear her leaving me alone.

She was one member of my family I could still have.

“I’m coming to get you,” I whispered.

As if she understood me, she leaped off the sill and padded out of the living room.

I moved with purpose to the front of the house, my feet lightly treading the leaf-covered path. I searched the potted-plants for a spare key. Surely there’d be one here somewhere. . . .

First pot. Second.

Dammit!

Where could they have hidden it? Or had they moved it after Dad worked the Guardian homicide cases a few months ago? Flashes of torn Guardian bodies flickered in my mind, eliciting waves of goose bumps over my skin.

For a small city, Foxtin’s high death rate . . . I shuddered. Demons—Keres and Arae—slaughtered us Guardians as if they drew hot knives through butter. I saw it.

I also saw them turn my friend Marcus and ex-boyfriend Jason part-demon.

Saw them kill Maddy, my best friend. . . .

~*~*~

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About the author:

A born and raised New Zealander, Anyta Sunday has been exploring the literary world since she started reading Roald Dahl as a kid. Inspired, stories have been piling up in her head ever since. Fast forward to her mid-twenties and jump a few countries (Germany, America, and back again), and she started putting pen to paper. When she’s not writing or chasing her kid around, she’s reading, hiking, watching a Joss Whedon series, attempting pilates, or curling up with her two cats. Updates on her projects can be found at anytasunday.com. 

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