Series: Shift Happens, Book One
Author: S.T. Sterlings
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: Aug 14, 2017
Genre: Sci-Fi/Fantasy, abduction, captivity, shifters, slow burn, enemies to lovers
When he’s propositioned by a wealthy stranger, it seems Coy Conlin’s impoverished life is about to be upgraded. But before he can share the news with his family, he comes home to find his grandmother murdered and his little brother missing. To make matters worse, he’s thrown in prison along with every other shifter under the Sovereign’s orders.
August Seaton left his laboratory job at the Asuda Registry to become a Registry officer. But after a mission with his partner goes horribly wrong, August ends up with Coy’s dead grandmother on his hands, and Coy thinks he’s the murderer. Worst of all, his partner discovers his secret.
August is a shifter. And now he’s Coy’s cellmate. Coy and August must survive each other, abusive guards, and a scientist hell-bent on forcing Coy into a breeding program.
Teamed up, the pair escape prison and journey across the country. With the Registry hot on their trail, they have enough things to worry about. Falling for each other wasn’t supposed to be one of them.
My writing process
I try my best to write every day. Sometimes that doesn’t always happen. I love seeing the word count rise on whatever I’m writing, so I’ll try to write in huge chunks. If not, I’ll aim for at least 1,000 words a day. If I’m rushing to meet a deadline, I can do about 5,000-8,000 words. Technically, I can do more, but it’s terrible for my eyes and hands, so I try to avoid it.
I prefer to write at night. It’s something about nightfall that I find really inspiring. I also do a lot of writing at my day job, so if I know I won’t be able to write when I get home, I’ll try to get some words in at work. I’ve found the more I write, the more motivated I am about finishing whatever it is that I’m working on. However, after finishing big projects, I’ll usually take a break for a few days. During those breaks, I watch horror movies. That’s all I really watch. Believe it or not, horror is my favorite genre, but I have no idea how to write it. I’m not really afraid of anything, so I’m not sure what scares people! I’m going to make an attempt to write horror though. One day…
I used to be a pantser. In my fanfiction days (which I still write, by the way), I never wrote outlines. I also hardly ever finished stories unless they were one shots. Now, I pretty much have to outline everything, so my original stories always have outlines. They’re never really in-depth outlines, but they definitely touch upon everything I want to happen in the story.
Often times, I’ll add my WIP to Dropbox and share the link on my personal Twitter, so that my friends can look at whatever it is that I’m working on. This isn’t the same as my author Twitter. You have to put up with my awful tweets to read my WIPs as I write them! While I won’t share my personal Twitter, it’s not really difficult to find it, haha.
Before I begin a new WIP, I always think about the things that interest me for inspiration. I had plans for writing King of the Fire Dancers since I was a child, and the inspiration for their story came from a piece of furniture. Two pieces, actually! I can’t say any more than that, or it will be a huge spoiler. The YA WIP that I just finished was inspired by the scene in Interview with the Vampire when Claudia cut her hair and it grew back. I tend to pull from things I’ve seen a long time ago that just sort of stick with me.
I’d love to be one of those people who can write anywhere, but I can’t. I can only write at home. Anywhere else is a distraction. I’m a people watcher. That sounds kind of creepy, lol. Sometimes I see people and make up stories for them based off of what they’re doing at the time, so writing around lots of people is impossible for me. Plus, I worry about people looking over my shoulder, lol. I tried writing on a plane once and it was one of the most awkward things I’ve ever done. I did write on a train once, and that wasn’t too bad. Still, I prefer to at home in the comfort of my room when I’m writing. That works best for me. I’m honestly amazed at people who can write in coffee shops, at the beach, and stuff like that. Talk about dedication!
King of the Fire Dancers
S.T. Sterlings © 2017
All Rights Reserved
There were two things that Coy Conlin was exceptionally skilled at. The first was dancing. The second, and more unconventional, was turning into a dragon. Both were in his blood and took years of trial and error to perfect, but the former wasn’t a danger to those around him. It wasn’t easy maneuvering a dragon body, especially not one as big as his. Dragons had claws, scales, and fangs. He even had the misfortune of retaining his proneness to seasonal allergies, which sure as hell took explosive sneezing to a whole new level. Still, thanks to his grandmother—a dragon shifter like him—he’d mastered shifting and everything that it entailed from a young age.
His prey was a slender boy with white skin and blue eyes. The boy raced past, auburn hair catching the wind and blowing about his head. He scurried through the dried grass, his pale, gangly legs kicking up dirt as he rushed to hide behind a large tree. Laughter disguised as a growl escaped Coy’s mouth. As if a mere tree would provide the boy sanctuary.
Coy hated flying. Dragon or not, he preferred to keep his feet—and claws—securely grounded. But, humans were often smarter than they looked, and he knew that if he continued to creep along the ground, the boy would feel the vibrations caused by his heavy footsteps. And so, he pushed off, sharp talons grazing earth as he hovered above the coarse ground. His wings, as wide as sails on a cutter, pierced the air and sent forward a powerful gust of windblown, dusty dirt. He flapped them again, creating a mini dirt storm between himself and the tree and, most importantly, his prey.
A shower of prickly leaves and thin, brittle branches fell to the ground. Seconds later, the boy emerged from behind the tree, arms up and over his head, shielding himself from the downpour. Amidst the cascading debris, Coy caught the look of determination on the boy’s face. Wedged tightly in the boy’s grip was a rock, jagged and angled, the tip pointing toward the sky. A rock? Really? A puny, misshapen hunk of slate? What good would that do against a ninety-foot-long dragon with scales as black as onyx and five times as hard?
The little idiot.
The boy let out a wail of a battle cry and charged forward, gripping the rock in his hand like a warrior wielding a sword. There were hundreds of ways Coy could have reacted, and most would have ended with the boy dead on his feet. Instead, he stood there, a beacon of massive power and pride, and allowed the boy to attack. He didn’t feel the impact of the rock smashing against his leg, though he did see the resulting blood. It wasn’t his. It would have taken much more than a rock to puncture his scales.
It was the boy’s.
The force behind the thrust of his hand had caused the rock to ricochet off a section of scales and created a shallow cut in the center of his reddened palm.
Coy had been specific with the rules—no blacking out, no crying, and no bloodletting. If any of those happened, the game ended immediately. And, although the human tried to hide it, he was definitely bleeding.
“No, wait. I’m okay. I swear it. I’m fine. Look. It barely—”
The protest fell on deaf ears—literally. Coy couldn’t hear—or see—anything during the transformation. It was as if he were alone in a black, soundproof room, nothing but darkness and depth and the feeling of endless falling. His heart rate quickened, slamming against his chest like a musician’s calloused hands pounding against a hand drum. He inhaled through his nose, focusing on the rhythm and physically and mentally controlling the pace of his heartbeat. He calmed his mind, grasping at emotions pulsing like lightning, smoothing them out until his vision began to return. First, blurs of colors: reds and browns and a single blob of white standing directly in front of him.
Then, all at once, everything returned.
“It’s barely a scratch,” the boy muttered, folding his pale arms over his chest.
“Too bad,” Coy replied, rubbing at his jaw. It felt good to use his vocal cords again. He was incapable of speech as a dragon, just limited to snarls and hisses…and fire breathing. That last one came in handy. “Rules are rules, Ari.”
Ari—Coy’s adopted brother—frowned. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”
“A chance to what?” Coy rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relax some of the tension in his muscles that came from shifting. “Find another rock? What was that supposed to do?”
He trudged away from his younger brother, crushing dead grass beneath his bare soles. He spotted his discarded sarong lying by a fragment of slate, the latter’s golden-brown surface highlighted with speckles of fiery red. The color was reminiscent of his own skin, warm brown with red undertones—the exact opposite of Ari’s. Even if Ari had somehow managed to slightly injure him with his dumb rock, the bruise would have been difficult to see. One of the many perks of having brown skin was that it didn’t display bruises well. Growing up, that played to his advantage with the number of fights he got into.
Ari pouted. “It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Yeah, well.” Nude, Coy bent down to retrieve his sarong. “That type of thinking is going to get you killed. Or worse, you’ll get your ass kicked.”
Ari rubbed his bloody hand against his sweat-soaked tunic. “How can getting beat up be worse than dying?”
Coy watched as the blood stained the faded fabric. Ari had already outgrown most of his clothes. What he had left was either tainted or torn. Coy would have to take up private performances at this rate just to make sure he could afford to buy Ari clothes.
“If you’re dead, you won’t have me around to rub it in.” He grinned at Ari and then motioned toward the open wound on his hand. “Better not let Dinina see that. You know how she gets.”
He wrapped the thin, cobalt-colored sarong around his waist, securing the two ends into a knot. They’d spent half the morning outside, which meant he’d spent just as long in his dragon form. He’d be exhausted later, but it was worth it. He always had fun hanging out with his little brother. Still, he felt like he was forgetting something.
And then he remembered.
“Shit!” he shouted, the sound so loud and sudden that it startled an unkindness of ravens perched in a nearby tree.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ari asked, blue eyes wide with concern.
There were several things wrong, and all of them could be summed up with two words.
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ST Sterlings is a librarian, and a mother of two (two boys, and one exhausting female GSD). She’s an avid fan of LGBTQ romance, and also loves the horror genre. She’s from Hampton, VA, but currently lives in Lancaster, CA.
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