Jane Atchley's Blog - Posts Tagged "americana"
Under The Charleston Moon
Here are the first three pages of my current work in progress. Although it is still a paranormal, it is a different direction for me. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter One
It was a smorgasbord for monsters. The press of prey—guests—trapped—milling in his aunt’s foyer made John’s gums itch. He ran his tongue over his aching canines and concentrated on the woman holding his hand. Emma Wilson, his high school sweetheart. A familiar ache tugged at his heart. He had to get away. His aunt’s sharp elbow in his ribs jerked him back to the present.
“For pity sake Johnny, don’t gape at the girl like she’s something to eat. Say hello. You haven’t seen each other in a coon’s age.”
Was he so obvious? He gave Emma a tight-lipped smile, extracted his hand for hers. “It’s good to see you, Emma. As usual your beauty strikes me dumb. Aunt Dolly, if you ladies will excuse me I need some air.”
John forced himself to keep to a sedate pace crossing the ballroom. Polished to a rich honey-gold gloss, the aged pine planks squeaked under his leather soles. Flinging the French doors wide, he stepped into the humid Charleston night and closed the door on his urge to roll in the blood of Aunt Dolly’s guests. He’d known it was too soon to return to society, but Aunt Dolly was damn hard to deny. Hosting the first soiree of Charleston’s renaissance simply thrilled her. And truth to tell, he wanted to experience their old townhouse’s rebirth too.
He rested his hands on terrace’s cool stone railing and stared out at Charleston Harbor. On this moonless late spring night, he could just make out lights from Fort Sumter crouched in the distance. Fort Moultrie hid behind Sullivan Island’s jutting finger lost to his vision. Growing up in this house, listening to whispers about that unfortunate Powell girl, he doubted a Mr. Moultrie never existed. Fortunately for him, in a city where bloodlines meant everything, the Powell and Ravenel pedigrees secured his place in society.
The French doors clicked behind him, after how long John didn’t know, spilling music and laughter onto the terrace. “Darling,” came a lilting feminine voice. “I’ve been hunting for you.”
The soft slide of silk on silk warned him of the woman’s approach. John pushed away from the railing and turned hoping she would realize her mistake. A vision in dark blue silk evening gown cut in the new princess style Aunt Dolly couldn’t stop raving about closed on him. She moved with easy grace. The word willowy sprang into John’s mind. Her wide expressive mouth beamed a radiant white smile, and she wagged her index finger as she drew nearer.
“You naughty boy, why are you hiding out here in the dark?”
A lovely brogue colored her speech, Scottish, John guessed. His gaze flicked to a stranger who had followed this vivacious creature onto the terrace.
The woman twined her arms around John’s neck. “You canna hide from me, you know. I’ll always find you.” Her lips covered his, and John forgot about the red-faced stranger.
Her touch jolted him as an electric shock. His sharp inhale filled his lungs with her scent, vanilla, cinnamon, and underneath a tantalizing earthly scent he suspected uniquely hers. Her taste lingered on his tongue and his mind screamed mine. John lifted his head. Fearless dark chocolate eyes dared him to denounce her. He marveled as a surge of protectiveness instead of hunger shot through him. Things like this didn’t happen to John Moultrie…not recently anyway.
“Ah but you enjoy the hunt.” John teased. It was easy to envision this bold sable-haired woman in the role of Diana the Huntress.
She arched one fine dark eyebrow. “You ken this, do you?”
John smiled. Not Diana, a Celtic deity. He tucked his newfound goddess’ gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we return to the party? It sounds like the dancing is starting.”
She shot a quick glance toward the stranger smoking a cigarette while pretending to enjoy the view over the Battery. “I'd love to.”
The moment the French doors snapped shut behind them, his goddess pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Thank you for not giving me away sir. I am much in your debt.”
John's gaze followed her until the whirl of satin clad belles and immaculately attired gentlemen swallowed her from sight. He cursed under his breath. The first woman he had encountered in over a year he had not wanted to devour and he hadn't gotten her name.
“See something you like, Johnny?”
John glanced down at his Aunt Dolly. Seventy-seven, still a handsome woman, Dolly was the only mother he had ever known. A flash of his goddess’ sable hair caught up in its old-fashioned chignon captured his attention. “Who is the young lady at the punch bowl?”
Chapter One
It was a smorgasbord for monsters. The press of prey—guests—trapped—milling in his aunt’s foyer made John’s gums itch. He ran his tongue over his aching canines and concentrated on the woman holding his hand. Emma Wilson, his high school sweetheart. A familiar ache tugged at his heart. He had to get away. His aunt’s sharp elbow in his ribs jerked him back to the present.
“For pity sake Johnny, don’t gape at the girl like she’s something to eat. Say hello. You haven’t seen each other in a coon’s age.”
Was he so obvious? He gave Emma a tight-lipped smile, extracted his hand for hers. “It’s good to see you, Emma. As usual your beauty strikes me dumb. Aunt Dolly, if you ladies will excuse me I need some air.”
John forced himself to keep to a sedate pace crossing the ballroom. Polished to a rich honey-gold gloss, the aged pine planks squeaked under his leather soles. Flinging the French doors wide, he stepped into the humid Charleston night and closed the door on his urge to roll in the blood of Aunt Dolly’s guests. He’d known it was too soon to return to society, but Aunt Dolly was damn hard to deny. Hosting the first soiree of Charleston’s renaissance simply thrilled her. And truth to tell, he wanted to experience their old townhouse’s rebirth too.
He rested his hands on terrace’s cool stone railing and stared out at Charleston Harbor. On this moonless late spring night, he could just make out lights from Fort Sumter crouched in the distance. Fort Moultrie hid behind Sullivan Island’s jutting finger lost to his vision. Growing up in this house, listening to whispers about that unfortunate Powell girl, he doubted a Mr. Moultrie never existed. Fortunately for him, in a city where bloodlines meant everything, the Powell and Ravenel pedigrees secured his place in society.
The French doors clicked behind him, after how long John didn’t know, spilling music and laughter onto the terrace. “Darling,” came a lilting feminine voice. “I’ve been hunting for you.”
The soft slide of silk on silk warned him of the woman’s approach. John pushed away from the railing and turned hoping she would realize her mistake. A vision in dark blue silk evening gown cut in the new princess style Aunt Dolly couldn’t stop raving about closed on him. She moved with easy grace. The word willowy sprang into John’s mind. Her wide expressive mouth beamed a radiant white smile, and she wagged her index finger as she drew nearer.
“You naughty boy, why are you hiding out here in the dark?”
A lovely brogue colored her speech, Scottish, John guessed. His gaze flicked to a stranger who had followed this vivacious creature onto the terrace.
The woman twined her arms around John’s neck. “You canna hide from me, you know. I’ll always find you.” Her lips covered his, and John forgot about the red-faced stranger.
Her touch jolted him as an electric shock. His sharp inhale filled his lungs with her scent, vanilla, cinnamon, and underneath a tantalizing earthly scent he suspected uniquely hers. Her taste lingered on his tongue and his mind screamed mine. John lifted his head. Fearless dark chocolate eyes dared him to denounce her. He marveled as a surge of protectiveness instead of hunger shot through him. Things like this didn’t happen to John Moultrie…not recently anyway.
“Ah but you enjoy the hunt.” John teased. It was easy to envision this bold sable-haired woman in the role of Diana the Huntress.
She arched one fine dark eyebrow. “You ken this, do you?”
John smiled. Not Diana, a Celtic deity. He tucked his newfound goddess’ gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we return to the party? It sounds like the dancing is starting.”
She shot a quick glance toward the stranger smoking a cigarette while pretending to enjoy the view over the Battery. “I'd love to.”
The moment the French doors snapped shut behind them, his goddess pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Thank you for not giving me away sir. I am much in your debt.”
John's gaze followed her until the whirl of satin clad belles and immaculately attired gentlemen swallowed her from sight. He cursed under his breath. The first woman he had encountered in over a year he had not wanted to devour and he hadn't gotten her name.
“See something you like, Johnny?”
John glanced down at his Aunt Dolly. Seventy-seven, still a handsome woman, Dolly was the only mother he had ever known. A flash of his goddess’ sable hair caught up in its old-fashioned chignon captured his attention. “Who is the young lady at the punch bowl?”
