I’m a bit of a chameleon when it comes to writing gay romance. I love just about every sub-genre, from contemporary to high fantasy. And although my readers probably recognize my “Shira” voice in everything I write, there are distinct difference in how I communicate with that voice from sub-genre to sub-genre.

Which leads me to the question of what “voice” is in fiction. Most writers will agree there are two types of voices: the writer’s voice, and the voice or tone of the story itself. The line between the two often blurs, mostly because the author’s method of telling a story tends to be unique. The writer’s voice reflects the writer’s own experiences, as well as his or her ability. In fact, most folks who teach creative writing understand that the writer’s voice is something that develops as the student develops. The voice/tone of the story, however, is something far more dependent upon the story itself and the characters who inhabit the story’s universe. It’s this definition of “voice” that I thought I’d touch on today (and really, “touch” is a about all you can do in a short post – there is SO much to be said about voice that I can’t hope to cover it all here).

The idea of “voice” tracks closely with its namesake. In fact, my motivation for writing this blog was having to listen to a bunch of potential narrators for my Mermen of Ea Series and decide who would sound the best reading the books. I found it incredibly difficult to narrow down an actor I wanted to hear read the books in part because the audition snippets they provide are not from high fantasy stories like the mermen books, but are from contemporary romance. It’s hard for me to imagine what these men would sound like reading the more formal voice of my mermen series, because that voice is so different from a contemporary one.

For those of you who have read my contemporary Blue Notes Series, you’ll have heard many voices. The stories are told from a “close 3rd person” point of view, which means they are written in third person, but they reflect the inner thoughts of the characters. So in The Melody Thief, when you hear the snarky attitude, you’re hearing Cary Redding’s inner voice. For Dissonance, when you hear the snobbish voice, it’s Lord Cameron Sherrington whose mind you’re inhabiting.

Switch to mermen (or vampires), though, and you’ve got different issues. My mermen inhabit a universe that is similar to our world in the Age of Sail. So characters don’t use modern expressions like “okay” or “whatever,” for example. Their language is more formal, even a little stiff at times. This more formal voice permeates not only the dialogue in the story, but the narration, as well, since in a close 3rd person POV, you’re hearing the characters’ thoughts in the narration. This was even more of a challenge in my upcoming Blood Series.

In the Blood books, the story takes place both in the past (1896 France, to be exact) and the present day in Miami, Florida. In the historical portion of the story in Blood and Rain, when vampire hunter Adrien Gilbert meets ancient vampire Nicolas Lambert, the characters speak like men would have in the late 1800s. When Adrien is in the present, he speaks like a modern man, with modern expressions and language. Even more challenging was in the second book, Blood and Ghosts, where Adrien travels back in time. Adrien thinks like a modern man, but he inhabits his body in the 1800s. Was I conscious of all this when I was writing? You bet. It was a blast to write, especially when Adrien uses a modern expression and the person he’s talking to doesn’t know what it means. But it also required a great deal of focus on my part–awareness of which voice the story called for and when to use that voice.

Which brings me full circle…. Voice is not an accident. And it takes time to develop. It’s a writing tool like any other, another dimension to the technique of writing that adds depth and color to a storyline. And there’s nothing like writing a story like Blood and Rain, which is part contemporary, part historical, part paranormal, and part fantasy to bring home the need for distinct voice.

Blood and Rain will be coming soon to Dreamspinner Press for preorder. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a taste of the changing voices from that story. Here’s an excerpt from the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning of Chapter 2. Chapter 1 takes place in the present, and Chapter 2 takes place in 1896. See if you can spot the difference in tone. Or, better yet, see if you can hear it! -Shira

******

The evening had started, as it always did, on a far better note. Adrien had stopped by one of his favorite haunts, an upscale martini bar not far from the city center. He’d developed a penchant for gin over the past few decades, enjoying the quick work it made of his long-term memory. Three or four martinis and he could forget, even if only briefly.

The bar was small and full of people. A Sinatra song played in the background as he walked over to the stainless-steel bar, filled with men, some of whom he’d already discarded, others new faces. Eager, all of them. He sensed their eyes on him and felt the hunger they didn’t understand. He understood that hunger. The scent of his blood created it in them. The same irresistible scent that had lured many a human to fall prey to the vampires now drew them to him.

He sat down at an empty barstool and nodded to the bartender, who set to work making the driest martini possible with his most expensive gin, dropping in a tiny bit of lemon peel instead of an olive. He handed Adrien the drink without saying a word, and Adrien brought the glass to his lips.

“Nice,” a male voice said from behind him.

The man was beautiful, tall, with shoulder-length black hair and deep green eyes. He wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a crisp button-down shirt that emphasized his muscled chest and narrow waist. Late twenties, perhaps. A new face, but a familiar presence.

“It’s not bad.” Adrien took a sip of his drink and pretended not to care. It was easy.

“I wasn’t talking about the drink.” The man lifted his drink to his full lips but watched him intently.

“I wasn’t either,” Adrien replied without missing a beat.

“I’m Cole.”

“So you are.”

They left the bar together for his apartment, where his housekeeper had already set a table for two. A bottle of Puligny-Montrachet chilled in a cooler by the table. Between them, they finished that bottle, although Adrien drank very little. Alcohol affected immortals far more than humans or vampires.

After dinner Cole stood and walked over to the railing, looking out over the river below. “You know what I am.” Cole’s voice was as smooth as the wine.

“Yes. I know what you are.” Adrien had sensed Cole was a vampire the moment he’d seen him. No self-respecting hunter would have missed the subtle electricity in the air or the scent of mingled blood. He lifted Cole’s hair off his neck, then trailed his lips over his silky skin. Cole smelled good—an earthy and primal scent that caused the bloodlust to rise in Adrien. Once, he had embraced his lust for blood.

When he’d first become an immortal, Nicolas’s blood had done far more than sustain him. They had shared their bodies, their blood, and their souls. The blood had been their bond, the bloodlust a welcome reminder of Adrien’s love for Nicolas. Now the lust for blood had nothing to do with Adrien’s heart. It was another bitter reminder that his body would not let him perish, even though he cared nothing for living.

It’s been too long.

Cole moaned. The deep, throaty sound made Adrien’s mouth water in spite of himself. Adrien despised his body’s response, but he’d long ago learned he couldn’t fight it. Once, he had gone nearly twenty years without giving in to the call. He’d been weak, pathetic, barely able to think. He’d prayed he would die. He’d lost consciousness, but he’d awoken to find himself drinking his fill. He’d come perilously close to killing the human whose blood he’d feasted on, but he’d managed to stop. However miserable his existence, Adrien would only feed on vampires—he’d not break the oath he’d taken to protect humans when he’d become a hunter.

Adrien licked the skin of Cole’s neck, feeling the blood pulse there, hearing it call to him. Cole tilted his head in anticipation, opening himself to Adrien.

Adrien buried his teeth in Cole’s skin. Blood flooded his mouth and danced on his tongue, sweet and salty. Too long. His body was far more vampire-like in its craving for blood than when he’d first been given the gift of an ancient vampire’s soul. He wondered if it was the same for other immortals.

Adrien tried to ignore the images that flashed through his mind—the sound of silvery laughter, a mother’s loving caress. Cole’s memories. Adrien despised this forced intimacy, but he’d come to see it as the price of blood. Something to be tolerated.

It hadn’t always been that way. When he’d shared Nicolas’s blood, Adrien had experienced great joy. He’d seen himself through Nicolas’s eyes and felt the depth of Nicolas’s love. Each drop of that precious liquid had opened new doors. Each taste offered insight into Nicolas’s heart and soul. A beloved memory. A mystery—the mystery of Nicolas—unfolding with every swallow.

Adrien drank his fill, then claimed Cole’s mouth. This kind of contact he could stomach. He didn’t need sex to survive, but he enjoyed the release. Cole unbuttoned Adrien’s black silk shirt and his cock swelled against Adrien’s thigh. Adrien moaned as Cole skated his fingertips over his chest.

“I have never known a hunter to crave blood,” Cole whispered in his ear. “I thought only we experienced the bloodlust.”

“You were wrong,” Adrien said as he pulled Cole’s shirt over his head and mouthed a pretty pink nipple. Sex was always better after he fed, and Adrien’s cock was already hard at the thought of fucking such a lovely ass. He drew Cole’s body against his, walked backward into the living room, and pulled Cole with him onto the rug. Soon they were naked and he was no longer a hunter or an immortal, he was simply a man, seeking release, seeking pleasure.

 

Adrien lay there afterward, only partially satisfied. Nothing new. Sex was like the bloodlust—it always left him wanting more. Cole brushed his fingers over Adrien’s chest, then his neck. He licked Adrien’s earlobe, then ran his tongue over Adrien’s Adam’s apple.

“May I?” he asked.

“No.” He would willingly share his blood with only one person.

“Too bad.” The vampire was clearly disappointed. “I would have liked to have known the secrets of your blood.”

Adrien watched Cole dress but said nothing.

“Perhaps another time, then.” Cole turned and smiled at him before he walked out the door.

For at least an hour after, Adrien lay on the floor and allowed the night air to caress his bare skin. He closed his eyes and dozed.

“Adrien.”

The voice awakened him. Nicolas’s voice again. Why sleep if it only served to reawaken the pain he sought to suppress?

He stood and pulled on his jeans. He walked onto the balcony in his bare feet, then climbed to the roof of the penthouse.

Having reached the edge, he spread his arms. He leaned forward and fell unimpeded, riding the wind like a sigh. The glass of the building sailed by him, the breeze buffeting his face. He hit the water and sank into the cold blackness. He wished he could die.

 

Chapter Two: Blood and Rain

Saint-Gervais, France, 1896

Rain fell on the dirt streets, creating rivulets of muddy water that ran unimpeded into the already clogged gutters. Small pools of water and mud had accumulated on the grass surrounding the immaculate houses. It had rained off and on for weeks, ever since Charles Duvalier had arrived in Saint-Gervais.

Charles found comfort in the overcast sky. The chill in the air was an old friend whose welcome would never wear thin. In spite of the beauty of the French countryside and the warmth of the townspeople, the hunger he despised was still there. It clawed at his soul like death come to claim an old man, waiting until he grew too weak to resist.

He would leave before the hunger overpowered him, before his humanity was consumed by the primal urge against which he could not defend. He could smell it everywhere: blood, the thing that brought him so much pleasure and yet threatened to devour all of his humanity, everything he valued, and everything he held dear.

Time to leave. He waited for the cobbler to bring his horse.

There was much about Saint-Gervais that had tempted him. Nestled between the mountains and the river, this small hillside village reminded him of the time when he was human and his heart and soul were still free to dream of a happy future, unencumbered by darkness. The longing for that time returned, unbidden. Charles pushed the memory away.

Nostalgia is for the weak.

Nostalgia alone hadn’t kept him here. Handsome, clever François was the other reason. François, the beautiful man who awakened a desire Charles thought dead forever. The oldest son of the centuries-old Gilbert clan of hunters, François had begun to earn a reputation as a fine swordsman for the Council of Hunters. Charming, powerful, and anxious to know more about the world outside the town where his family worked their hillside vineyard, François had wanted to accompany Charles when he moved on. Charles had been sorely tempted. François’s heart was brave and pure. Over the long centuries he’d wandered, hoping to exorcise the guilt, Charles had forgotten what it felt like to genuinely crave knowledge. François had reminded him. With François, Charles felt truly alive again. Happy.

Old fool! The moment you touch him, you will kill his soul. He’d long since learned that everything he touched turned black. This was no different. He clenched his jaw and tied his bags to his saddle, patting his mare for good measure and whispering in her ear. He was just about to lead her outside when a young man emerged from one of the nearby stalls.

“Monsieur Duvalier?”

“Adrien. I hadn’t expected to see you here.” Charles secured his cloak around his neck and smiled at François’s younger brother. Adrien, with his mother’s pale skin, blue eyes, and hair the color of a wheat field at sunrise, looked nothing like his brother. François had once explained that Adrien had been a sickly child and that after their mother’s death, he had nearly died of a fever that had lasted weeks. So different from François in appearance and personality. They’d been inseparable. Until Charles had come to town.

Adrien did not return Charles’s smile. “You’re leaving without speaking to him.” Not a question. Adrien judged him. Charles knew he deserved this.

Vampires and hunters were not sworn enemies, but many vampires deeply resented the hunters’ interference in their affairs. Millennia ago, the ancients asked the hunters to enforce our law, Charles’s creator had once explained to him. But there are those of our kind who do not recognize the pact between our races. They fancy themselves resistance fighters in a war of their own creation.

François and Adrien’s mother had been a victim of the heretics. And although the ancients and hunters had swiftly punished the vampires responsible, Charles guessed that Adrien had taken their mother’s death particularly hard.

Charles had known Charlotte and Jacques Gilbert well. He’d attended their wedding. He too had grieved Charlotte’s death. After she’d died, he’d seen little of Jacques, who’d been left to care for François, Adrien, and their younger sister, Isabelle. Three small children and a struggling vineyard would keep a man well occupied.

Charles repressed a sigh. “It’s better this way. Surely you know this to be true.”

Adrien narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps now he’ll see you for what you truly are. Heartless and cruel. You used him.”

Charles wouldn’t quarrel with Adrien. Better that François believe Charles had rejected him than follow him and truly be hurt.

Adrien watched as Charles tied his belongings onto his saddle. Charles led the animal onto the muddy street.

“Good-bye, Adrien. No doubt our paths will cross again.”

 

 

François Gilbert drew his cloak tighter around his body as the rain stung his face. The sound of the wind through the trees was like a plaintive cry, almost alive, as if the storm shared his heartbreak. His horse snorted in protest as he took off at a gallop. Time was short. It had taken him longer than expected to leave the house without being seen.

He hasn’t left yet. The thought did little to tamp down his growing despair. He urged the horse onward, pushing the animal near to its limits. He gritted his teeth against the wave of grief that wrapped its fingers around his heart as he left the vineyard behind. He imagined his sister’s sweet smile and his father’s embrace. Those things he would miss, but more than anything, he regretted the look of pain he’d seen on his brother’s face the last time they’d spoken.

“You intend to go with him, don’t you?” Adrien asked as he’d tended the vines. He didn’t look up to acknowledge François.

“It’s hardly the first time I’ll be away, Addie. You’ll take care of Isabelle while I’m gone, won’t you?”

“Of course I’ll take care of her.” Adrien frowned, still focused on the plant he held between his thumb and forefinger. “But this isn’t the same. You’re not coming back this time, are you?”

“Of course I’ll—”

“The Council won’t forgive this. All that you’ve done… all you’ve accomplished…. Is he worth the sacrifice?”

François offered Adrien what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “He doesn’t believe he is. But my heart says otherwise.”

“And what of the vineyard? Father can barely afford to pay our accounts. If you leave—”

“I’ll work,” François said, feeling the sting of guilt. “I won’t be a kept man. I can do more to help our family if I leave this town.”

“Please don’t leave.” Adrien gazed up at him, eyes brimming with tears.

“You’re strong, Adrien. Stronger than you know.” Even now, Adrien saw him as the stronger brother. How ironic, that Adrien was more powerful. More cunning. Able to see the broader picture. More introspective, but this gave Adrien the advantage when it came to understanding people.

Adrien, I wish you could see yourself as I see you.

Adrien shook his head and turned back to his work.

“Be well, Adrien.”

 

 

François first met the man with silver hair and eyes the color of the ocean while running an errand for his father. He’d just returned from a trip to a nearby village, where farmers had discovered several dead animals. The Council had suspected wolves were to blame, but as with all such reports, they’d dispatched a hunter to investigate. With each such foray beyond the confines of the small village where he lived, François yearned to travel farther.

François had been immediately and inexplicably drawn to Charles Duvalier, the brooding nobleman who shunned the trappings of Parisian society and traveled without manservant or carriage through the French countryside. Never fearful of strangers, François had introduced himself to Charles.

“François Gilbert.” Charles’s eyes sparkled with obvious amusement as he repeated the name. “Would the Council approve of your speaking to me?”

François laughed. “I do not need the Council’s permission to speak to anyone. And should you offend my delicate sensibilities, I am more than capable of killing you.”

“You chose to speak to me, knowing what I am?” Charles asked.

“You don’t frighten me.” It wasn’t quite the truth. François was afraid. He just wasn’t sure why.

“I should frighten you.” The humor François had sensed in Charles fled in the wake of something darker. Pain. Guilt. François knew these feelings well, though he’d tried to hide them from his family and especially his brother.

Undeterred, François had approached Charles again the next day, this time as Charles sat on a stone bench under the shade of an ancient oak. The rain, which had fallen steadily for nearly a fortnight, had broken the evening before. It would rain again soon, but for now the early spring breeze was cool and the sun shone brightly through the breaks in the clouds. François didn’t wait for an invitation. Instead, he sat down next to Charles as he read a book of English poetry.

“Alfred Lord Tennyson,” François said when Charles didn’t acknowledge his presence. “And in English, no less.”

“You’ve read him?”

François did his best to hide his pleasure at Charles’s look of surprise. “Yes. Also in the original English.” When Charles raised an eyebrow, François added, “No doubt you think me uneducated because I live in such a small village.”

A smile danced on Charles’s lips. “I’m pleased your father taught you as well as he did.”

“Do you know my father?” His father had never spoken of Charles. Then again, his father rarely spoke of his life before he’d married their mother.

“We’ve met.”

François had hoped for more explanation, but he wouldn’t press Charles. Instead he smiled and asked, “Which poem is your favorite?”

“Ulysses,” Charles replied, clearly waiting for his reaction.

“An interesting choice.” François smiled and recited, “My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: it may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, and see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

“Impressive.”

“Is that you, monsieur? Are you Ulysses? Always wandering, always yearning for new horizons?”

“Perhaps.” In that moment François sensed Charles’s loneliness so acutely, it made his chest ache. He cursed his gift of empathy, for it made him long to free Charles from the pain. He gently touched Charles on the shoulder. Did he imagine Charles’s sigh in response?

“I would like to wander with you sometime, monsieur.”

******

Blurb: Adrien Gilbert has spent several lifetimes searching for the love he lost. Born in the 1800s into a clan of fabled vampire hunters, Adrien once wanted nothing more than to tend his family’s vineyard in southern France or read a good book. But Adrien’s peaceful existence ends abruptly when his older brother, François, is murdered. Bound by his hunter’s oath, Adrien sets out on a path that will forever change his life when he agrees to execute his brother’s killer, the vampire Charles Duvalier.

After months chasing the elusive Charles, Adrien reluctantly makes a bargain with Nicolas Lambert, an ancient vampire. Adrien will escort Nicolas to Paris for his marriage to a rival clanswoman, and Nicolas will help Adrien find Charles. Nicolas’s quiet strength and gentle heart soon convince Adrien that Nicolas is nothing like the vampires he has sworn to destroy. As the wedding date draws nearer, a force intent on destroying the fragile peace between the vampire clans threatens to tear apart both the vampire realm and the world of the hunters. To secure both past and future for those he loves, Adrien must find a way to stop the looming war between hunters and vampires. But first he’ll have to let Nicolas go.