The Secret Room, Sequel to House of Shadows

Okay, I figured that among this blog's multi-purpose uses, sort of like one of those enormous Swiss Army knives which we can never quite recall what that tiny implement on the back side does, but which we are certain one day we will discover its function and subsequently marvel at how in the world we ever lived without it . . .

::ahem:: Uh, sorry.

Having begun the second book in The Breed Wars, The Secret Room, I figured I would post the occasional update here. And considering the level of insanity of this project (which is intended to include twelve novels in the paranormal Breed Wars series, three in the heroic fantasy trilogy which will begin with The Caballa, and at the project's end come to a climax with the singular novel The Misbegotten), it will be completely understood if you pause for a moment to shake your head in bemusement at the obviously insane author before reading further.

One element of storytelling which has always intrigued me has been the multi-layered narrative, where we readers are captivated by an ongoing story which not only satisfies us in the present with the tale's climax, but which lays hints like breadcrumbs that there is a much larger story swelling in the background like an oncoming thunderstorm, teasing with the promise that there is more, much more, to come.

That is where I am now. And I wanted to make a promise to my readers that with each coming novel, which by itself will stand alone, that larger hidden tale will be advanced, and you will always at the story's end come away knowing more than you did at its beginning.

At the moment, I am just under 3000 words into The Secret Room. Here is its beginning, which is included at the end of House of Shadows, and I will continue to post occasional snippets as time slogs along.

Hope you enjoy.

--

The first coffee of the day sits like hot mercury in my stomach long after I leave The Warming Hut, my head down, my shoulders hunched. It's cold. Or perhaps I should say colder than usual for San Francisco during this time of year.

A stiff wind blows my way from the nearby shoreline as I navigate the length of the Promenade. It whips my skirt against my bare thighs, a familiar sting. I keep walking.

In the distance I spy the length of the Golden Gate Bridge, rising from a sea of fog as it leaps across the bay. Its orange vermillion struts stand out in sharp contrast against the cloud it appears to rest on, as though the sky has fallen to earth. I neither stop nor pause.

Shortly thereafter I continue past the parking lot on my way to the east sidewalk. As I do, I look up into the face of Joseph Strauss's statue, posed atop its white circular pedestal as though the somber gentleman has been waiting for me.

Then, suddenly, I hear them again. Footsteps. Still some distance behind me, but just a bit louder, just a little closer.

My name is Marie Abigail St. Claire, and I have fifteen minutes to live.