Book Tour: Going Back for Romeo author L.L. Muir on offing your own pen name
Let’s give a warm welcome to Going Back For Romeo author L.L. Muir!
In Going Back For Romeo, the heroine is buried alive in order to be sent back in time. But other than that, I’d have to say the darkest thing I’ve ever written was a scene where I murdered my nom de plume—my pen name, my other self.
That’s right. I murdered Ainsley MacQueen.
How did I do it? I drown her.
The creepiest thing about it—she knew it was coming!
I have never felt the barrier between sanity and madness strain so hard as when I held her under the water and we looked into each other’s eyes, communicating perfectly. She knew she had to go. She didn’t even struggle.
Even now, I get a little nervous, wondering if the driver of some rubber truck might be reading this post and decide to come do some community service on his way to work. I live in Canada, by the way, if anyone in the mental-health industry is reading and curious. Yeah, Canada.
If you’re interested in reading this creepy scene, it’s in a blog post on my blog. You’ll have to go back a ways to find it, but it’s there. Like a confession waiting for the first interested party to find it.
Be warned, Going Back For Romeo is emotional but has a lighter tone than this beautifully dark blog. And sometimes, it’s just downright funny as hell.
Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494
The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister’s tomb, but he refused to reach for it.
“Nay. I’m not ready to be finished.” Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God’s hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.
Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat. Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave. The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.
He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.
“If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I’d be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here. I’m sure my sister wouldna mind the wait.”
A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.
None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?
“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”
Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.
“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me.”
Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.
“Morna, love. Dinna greet. The faery will come to make it all right again. Watch for the faery…and keep away from your husband!”
“Silence!” the robed bastard roared.
Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole. After all, what could the man do to her now?
Monty would not ruin her00 trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.
He looked at the stone.
“I love you, sister mine.” His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.
“And I you, Monty. Blow us a kiss.”
When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.
“I’m stayin’ right here, pet. Ye’re no’ alone.”
“Get on, then.” The whimper in her voice was slight. “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”
With a final wink she disappeared.
Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing. After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands. Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow. She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.
If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently? What kind of bastard would not?
There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”
Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead. Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle. She sounded as if she were deep in the ground.
His heart shuddered with cold. Dear God, what had he been thinking? His plan was madness; she would never last. Not enough time. He had to get her out!
He reached for the odd stone…and was struck soundly from behind.
About the author
L.L. Muir lives with Superman in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. They are raising numerous super-heroes for society, but none will wear tights. Currently, she writes Scottish & Regency historicals and paranormal fiction for both adult and young adult readers. She is represented by Cori Deyoe of Three Seas Literary Agency.
Her hobbies are:
*stalking kilt-wearers at the local Scottish Festival and Highland Games.
|Before writing full-time, she owned a flower shop called The Scottish Rose. She’d often answer the phone sounding like Mrs. Doubtfire…until a gentleman customer asked to speak with the Scottish woman who owned the place.|