by Lizzy Ford
“Never,” he says fiercely, a familiar light flaring in his eyes. “You became my queen last night, witch, the heart of Black Moon Draw, and the only woman I will ever take to my bed.”
My god. No words.
“In a fortnight, you will meet your new subjects,” he continues. Releasing me, he stoops to sweep me up in his arms.
“Why so long?” I ask.
“Because I do not plan to let you leave my bed before then.”
I giggle, eyes drinking in his planed features as exhilaration flies through my system. The feminine side of me is already in a puddle, the primal need to belong to and claim this man until I can’t speak, walk, or think strong enough that I’m glad he’s carrying me. I gaze up at him with no short amount of awe and gratitude.
I really do get my happily-ever-after.
“What say you, witch?” he growls.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Thank me with your legs open.” Grunting, he hefts me over one shoulder.
I laugh and then begin to weep, the lightness in my heart too great for me to contain any longer.
Like him, I’m home at last.
Epilogue: LF
The End.
I consider the words. They don’t seem quite right. Deleting them, I debate for a moment and then simply leave it blank. The book may stop here, but their story is eternal.
“Best. Book. Ever.” The shih-tzu at my feet stirs when I speak, and I reach down to scratch him between the ears. “Another best seller, Wookie!” He looks up at his name, as sleepy as I am.
This book feels incredible. It flowed with unnatural ease, basically writing itself. I haven’t slept in three days, compelled to complete the story of Naia and her Shadow Knight. There are stories that seem to be channeled from outside of my imagination entirely, worlds painted so vividly on my mental canvas, that to delay sharing them is a sin.
I pull up the chat window where I’ve been talking to one of my readers. There are fans – and there are rabid fans. My last three books have been like this, inspired by the stories of rabid fans who messaged me, begging to be in a book. All three books were similar to this one – channeled writing that drove me batty until I sat down to put the worlds on paper.
I type her a message.
Hey, Naia78! The story’s done. I’ll post the final chapter in a bit, after I edit so you aren’t bothered by any more typos!
I wait a minute. She doesn’t immediately respond. What’s odd: the other two women never wrote back after I finished the final chapters of their respective books either. I’m assuming they liked their stories. If they weren’t happy with the ending, I’d hear about it.
“Oh, well. Hope Naia likes it, too.” I stand up and go to the kitchen. Exhausted after the writing marathon, I’m also completely energized by the power of Naia’s story. It thrills me to finish a book, especially one that flowed the way this one did. Making a cup of tea, I dwell over any loose ends I might need to fix. My muses are usually good at catching them in my final round of editing.
The only thing I can think of: what happened to the Red Knight.
On this topic, my muses are quiet. He walked through the doorway ahead of Naia and disappeared. The otherworldly inspiration behind Black Moon Draw isn’t volunteering any sort of resolution to his story. Nor do I feel the desire to change that part. I love to leave a bit of mystery in each book, something to leave the readers wondering and stimulate their imaginations the way I like to dream about what happens instead of watching the end of movies.
The Red Knight is probably my favorite character. The idea of a book character being so determined to find its author makes me giggle, and I’ll admit – I had fun messing with him and watching him grow more and more frustrated.
My doorbell rings. Wookie erupts into fierce little barks and I grab my tea, heading towards the door. It’s too early for FedEx or UPS deliveries and my best friend Julia isn’t coming by to go shopping for another hour. It leaves one possible trespasser, someone I’m not too thrilled to talk to again this morning.
“Quiet, Wookie,” I tell my fluffy puppy affectionately. I push him away from the door with my foot. “Probably the neighbor complaining about me parking in his spot again, since I didn’t move it yesterday morning.” I sigh. I was knee deep in my manic writing episode, which isn’t an excuse normal people understand.
I prepare an excuse for the neighbor. There are days when I really hate living in an apartment community. Someday, when I hit the big times and become a world famous author, that’ll change. Until then, I just have to deal with the ongoing conflict for the best parking spot.
Unlocking the door, I open it.
My mouth drops open. After a moment of shock, I start to laugh. “No way!”