Hitting publish on Mistress of Death was a hard thing for me. It didn’t matter that I’d worked toward publication for years, that an editor had gone over it, or that I’d had critiques and suggestions from my writing circle. Revision and rewrite and editing and writing over and over again until I didn’t want to look at another word.

Writing and publishing is a lot like open heart surgery, and in the end, instead of closing up and hiding it all away, people get invited inside to poke and prod. Why this type of stitch? You could have done this instead, you know that right? Those parts aren’t even supposed to be in this area!

Or maybe it’s not like that at all and I’m being overly dramatic.

It’s amazing how much the story changed over time, under different influences. I wrote it at a point in my life where I was reading a lot of young adult, new adult, fantasy with these amazing independent fresh women. It wasn’t like anything I’d read up to that point. All of those books were so inspiring, sharp and beautiful. So of course I wanted to write something like that too.

This was easily ten years ago. Maybe longer. That’s how long I’ve held on to this story. How long I queried before deciding to go independent.

And I can honestly say it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I’m even wondering why I didn’t do this sooner. I mean, besides the fear and worry over rejection. But we’re all emotionally healthy here and don’t worry too much about that, right?

Mistress of Death is a mix of fantasy and adventure with lots of romance thrown in. It follows Gabriel Mercer, a young woman, raised in the shadow of the most famous assassin the city has ever seen, coming into her own and creating a life for herself. Of course, the life she dreams about changes as events unfold and Matthew Smith, a handsome police officer, makes an appearance.

There's love, death, and revenge; lots of sexual tension and only a little bit of blood.

Below is an excerpt from the beginning of the novel, when Gabriel and St. Patrick meet for the first time, and when Gabriel finds out who Matthew is.

Her breathing changed, the deep slow movement of her chest quickening, a faint hiss taking his attention away from the book. He pulled the pocket watch out and opened it, counting down the minutes. He'd given her enough to keep her asleep for hours, but here she was, lucid, less than an hour later.

"You're at a private surgery. You were brought in by an officer less than an hour ago." He watched her catalog the information, taking in the glass cabinets lining the walls, the steel sink and countertops. She touched her shoulder, exploring the bandage. She searched for the leather harness, going rigid when she discovered its absence.

"Where is it?"

"I had to cut it off. You may bill me the expense."

She snorted, a corner of her mouth lifting. "I'll be delighted to do so. To whom shall I have it addressed?"

"Wallace St. Patrick, Surgeon."

Twisting her neck, she looked at him, an assessing glance moving from boot to hair. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Doctor." She waved a hand, sketching a bow from her reclined position.

"I would say the same, but I'm afraid I don’t know your name. And as pretty as you are, your face is unfamiliar." He was just as curious as Matthew to discover the woman's identity. "Or should I be asking what you are?"

"Is the officer coming back?"

"Yes."

"And when he does?" There was no fear, only mild interest.

"He'll probably have a reason to take you in."

"Yes," she sighed. "He will."

"And who have I had the pleasure of treating this evening?" He removed his glasses, wiping them on his shirt. "And please do me the courtesy of telling the truth."

"I am apprenticed to Arno Mercer."

"You are Gabriel?" He compared her features to the stories he'd heard, the rumors passed behind hands and through locks. The talk around the name was already building momentum despite the fact she had yet to make a solo kill. Notoriety found her, clung to her, the only apprentice Death had ever taken, child and student all in one. They watched and feared her, even as she lingered in Death's shadow.

She was infamous on the other side of the river.

The woman turned to him, eyes intent.

"I didn’t realize I was stitching Death's prodigy."

"How does a Right Bank doctor know my name?"

St. Patrick saw the possibility in her posture, the reach toward the scalpel on the counter. "I don't spend all of my time on the Right Bank." He hesitated. "The officer will return soon."

The woman lifted a brow, questioning.

"It would be better if you were gone."

*

Gabriel rolled off the table and landed on her feet. The motion jarred her shoulder, the bite of pain reminding her it was still attached. Her head hurt, throbbing, and her left ankle twinged as she put her full weight on it. The fall could have been worse, tomorrow it would be, but right now she had to push past it and make it home.

The surgeon, St. Patrick, sat in his chair, inspecting the embossed cover of his novel. She had been prepared to kill him, and he knew it. She crossed to the counter where a surgical tray sat, bloody and in disarray, waiting to be sanitized. The scalpel fit her hand almost as well as the golden blade. The coolness of it, the slight curve, soothed her.

A knocking tumbled down the hall.

"Out the door." St. Patrick was on his feet. "It leads to the back garden. The gate is frozen shut and you'll have to climb over the wall."

The knock from the front of the house came again. Gabriel tucked the blade into a boot and moved, pulling the back door open. An old night, deepest black around the edges, not yet lightened by a rising sun, but she could feel it there, lurking.

"Wait, take this." St. Patrick grabbed a plain white surgery smock from behind the door and threw it at her. In a quick movement she wrapped it around herself and was through the door. It closed behind her, cutting off the light.

A wild garden greeted her, evergreens tall and thick against the back wall. She sprinted across hibernating grass, pushing past the first few branches. Frosted earth and the spicy fresh scent of crushed pine stung her nose, below those the scent of the alley, overwintered garbage and manure. She searched the decaying brick for handholds, working her way up when the back door rasped open.

Gabriel dropped back into the bushes, ignoring the stab in her shoulder, and crouched. The ground was damp, and she brushed her hands on her pants, realizing for the first time she'd left the surgery wearing so little. The leather sheath, the knife, a gift from Mercer, was gone.

A rectangle of light stretched across the garden, illuminating a paved path and the tangled mess of evergreen shrubs and leftover summer plants. A man stood silhouetted. Before, she'd had an impression of strong arms, height, the rough wool of his coat against her cheek, and the thump of his heart; such intimacy on a first encounter. But there had been no face.

St. Patrick spoke, and the man turned, profile caught in light. The high-collared blue uniform set off his features, the strong line of his jaw. Gabriel's heart pounded, blood ringing in her ears.

"She’s long gone," St. Patrick said. "By now she’ll be across the river."

The man sighed, turning back into the house. "Or farther than that."

She was tuned to him, fierce gaze attached with something almost like longing. The two men spoke, voices soft, as the door closed; Gabriel leaned forward to catch the murmured words.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," St. Patrick said. The light snapped off, bitten by wood and rusted iron, taking imagined warmth with it.

His name was Matthew.

Matthew.