Cedric Gives Relationship Advice. Book Giveaway.

Today is the big day!  I hope all of you are having a brilliant Valentine's Day.  Your personal love god, Cedric MacKinnon, is here to answer your most fevered prayers.  Today I'll be sharing a few saucy tidbits, and if you leave me a comment with your Top Ten Most Shag-able Characters of Sci fi and Fantasy at the end of this post, you can enter to win a free ecopy of my story, My Fearful Symmetry.  Kindle, Nook or your choice of format offered on All Romance.

So to set things rolling, I want share a few letters from readers.

Dear Mr. MacKinnon,


I was pleased to discover that you are an adept of the ancient arts since I’m looking for some advice this Valentine’s Day. This is the first Valentine’s Day I’ll be celebrating with my wife, Sarah, with whom I have been in love for over three hundred years. It’s a long story.

Sarah and I are very much in love, and we have traveled quite a journey to find our way back to each other after oh so very long. My wife likes to joke and say she and I are a pair. A pair of what, I ask. Just a pair, she says.

“Like a pair of socks?” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “We’re a pair of socks. We go everywhere together and spend our nights knotted up.”

As the nocturnal type, I can only see my beloved at night, but that works quite well for us. Our romantic life is great—or whatever word expresses better than great (I haven’t a thesaurus handy)—but I would like to make this Valentine’s Day a special one and I’m open to any tips (for the bedroom or otherwise) that might help me make this a night to remember for my beautiful wife. She has suffered in the past, and now she deserves all the best life can give her.

I appreciate your time and look forward to your response.

Yours Most Sincerely,

 James J. Wentworth, Ph.D.

Professor of English Literature

Salem State University

My response: 
Dear Dr.Wentworth,

It sounds like you both are the monagamous type, so I won't suggest employing the service of an Immortyl courtesan to spice things up.  I'm always up for a threesome.  My advice is to provide all those things your beloved Sarah loves best.  Buy her a really knockout gift, something she's always wanted.  Take her to a luxury hotel and pamper her with a spa treament.  Have an intimate dinner in your room and play some music that has special signifigance to both of you.  Slow dance with her.  Tell her all of the reasons that have made you stay by her side for 300 years.  When you retire to the bedroom, make sure its been stocked with champagne and an assortment of toys and yummy massage oils.  Do as I do with my lovers.  Worship her with your body--become her slave for one night.  Stimulate all of those places that will set her humming.  Cater to her every need and you'll be surprised how she'll reciprocate.  If that doesn't work, you know where to find me.

Happy Valentine's Day!
Your Bad, Bad Boy,

Cedric MacKinnon

You can learn more about James and his lovely wife at these links:
Her dear and Loving Husband on Amazon
Her Dear and Loving Husband on B&N
Author Meredith Allard's website
Meredith Allard on Twitter







Another reader writes:

Dear Cedric,
I've been with my boyfriend for sixth months, and while we click despite some very obvious differences, there is one issue we just can't work out on our own. We're a pretty unconventional couple. He's a vampire, and I'm not. In fact, I'm what most people would call a vampire hunter. (I dislike the term hunter. I don't actually hunt them. I just slay them if they try to kill me and my friends, y'know?)
 The problem we're having involves my stakes. As in the sharp, pointy kind. I carry them with me at all times, and my boyfriend takes personal offense to that. He thinks I don't trust him. I've explained a million billion times they're not for him, but he keeps trying to get me to leave them at home when we go out at night.

Am I being insensitive? Should I really not trust him because he is urging me to be defenseless when I leave the house?

Thanks,
 L, Confused in Florida

My response:

Dear L,

I can see why the boyfriend might be a wee bit upset, but since I also slay naughty vampires, I know how important it is to keep your weapon of choice close at hand.  I use a katana myself.  It might help to remind him that he's a vampire and always armed and dangerous, and your stake simply levels the playing field.  Your stake is like his fangs and vampire powers.  He should be flattered that you don't think him a sparkly, wussy-ass vamp.  Tell him to grow up and get over it.  If all else fails, hire the services of a male vampire courtesan and have a blissful threesome. 

Your Hot and Bothered Boy,

Cedric MacKinnon

L's alter-ego Jazz Sexton is an active blogger and offers editing services:
http://wordsmadefresh.com/
http://www.jazzsexton.com/
.

Cedric's Top Ten Most Shag-able

Fantasy and Sci Fi Characters of Film and TV

10. Spike- Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A bad vampire boy after my own heart. 

9.  Han Solo- Star Wars
Anyone who can get into Princes Leia's gold bikini pants has got to be special.

8. Catwoman- Batman
Every blessed incarnation with favorite nods to Julie Newmar and Eartha Kitt. Grrrr...

7. Capt. Malcolm Reynolds- Firefly
I like his sense of justice--rob from the rich and nefarious and take your percentage off the top.

6. Mr. Sulu- Star Trek
Who can forget the bare-torso swordfight? 

5.  Princess Leia- Star Wars
The gold bikini.  Need I say more?

4. Arwen- Lord of the Rings
I hear elves have special powers.

3. Aragorn- Lord of the Rings
I'm still waiting for the King to come.

2. River Song- Dr. Who
I just love a bad girl.

1. Capt. Jack Harkness- Torchwood
The coat.  The man inside.  Immortal and bisexual.  The perfect combination in my book. 

Now, I'd like to share a little excerpt from my newest adventure Servant of the Goddess. Keep in mind this is told from Mia's POV.

Sudden shouts battled against the sound of the wind. I peered down the block. Teen-formed Immortyls, sewer rats, closed a circle around a tall male, who held his hands high above his head. From the direction of the wind, I couldn’t yet ascertain this stranger as mortal or Immortyl. Best to investigate. I ran toward the disturbance, wrapping my fingers around the Glock strapped to my hip.



A shrill whistle split the air. Two of the sewer rats lunged for the stranger. He crouched and pirouetted on one leg, letting loose a rapid succession of kicks that knocked his attackers sprawling onto the sidewalk. A rat named Tommy growled and launched himself at the stranger. To my amazement, the stranger leapt high into the air and hovered there for a moment like a falcon before lashing out with both feet. Tommy’s head snapped backward, and he flattened against the pavement. The remaining rats hung back.


The slender figure of a boy maybe eighteen or nineteen touched down and crouched again, poised to strike. No mortal could perform such maneuvers with this speed and agility, not to mention almost ballet-like grace. The Immortyl’s face betrayed raw emotion, indicating he was new to the blood, probably not much older than his form suggested. Eamon, the rat pack leader, drew and aimed a pistol at him. The stranger raised his hands above his head once more.


I gave a sharp whistle for Eamon to stand down. “What’s going on here?”


Eamon lowered the gun and spit on the ground. His forever-twelve-year-old face scrunched up. “We found this one skulking about,” he said. Even after a century and half in New York his speech still gave away his Dublin origins. “Says he’s come from the chief elder’s house.”


The wind kicked up harder. Long, auburn hair whipped about the newcomer’s face. He shivered, hugging an Indian-styled shirt around him. Traces of black kohl and sienna rouge clung to his eyes and mouth, as if he’d scrubbed the paint off in a hurry. The make-up and impractical clothing pointed to origins more exotic than the russet hair and milky complexion suggested. His story sounded plausible. However, the odds that this kid had escaped the chief elder’s compound near Calcutta and made it all the way to New York on his own were unlikely. No slave had ever left there of his own accord.


Kurt had stood trial at the chief elder’s court for inciting rebellion. He’d told me that the chief, Kalidasa, employed state-of-the-art security, as well as vampire-eating tigers. The place was a veritable fortress. Still, there was always a first time, and this newcomer had held his own against Eamon’s band.


I had to admire the kid for standing up to Eamon and his thugs.


The pack leader and I didn’t care much for one another, but he’d fought for Kurt in our recent war with a rival elder. For political reasons, I forced myself to take a civil tone with him. “Did you bother to ask his business before you ordered an attack?” I called to the newcomer, “You--come here.”


The boy lowered his hands and slinked forward. I’d never seen a man move quite like this, with delicacy just brushing the feminine, yet suggesting coiled up, sinewy strength like a jungle cat. Instinct prompted my hand to reach for the Glock concealed on my hip. The kid had danger scrawled all over him in big garish letters.


“Is this true?” I asked.


“I ran away from court,” the boy replied, his speech tinged with a Scottish burr. “I’m seeking refuge here.”


The plaintive tone struck a chord in me. I sized him up again. His winsome looks didn’t belong to the usual brand of vampire assassin, but to a household slave chosen for his decorative value. Still, his swift feet could kill if given the chance. Wouldn’t it be just like Giulietta to send death in such an appealing guise?


“Kurt’s counselor, Chase Powers, can vouch for me,” he continued. “Take me to him.”


“You know Chase?”


“We met in India during Kurt’s trial. He said I’d be welcome here. Please Miss. You have to believe me. I’ve come such a long way and got nowhere else to go.” Desperation filled the spooky, green eyes. They almost glowed, more like a cat’s than a man’s. “There’s probably a bounty offered for my return by now.”


“What did you do?”


“It’s not what I did. It’s what I am.” He held out his hands. Henna tattoos snaked around the wrists and tops, elaborate whirls and spirals. “The marks of my order. I’m an adept of the ancient arts.”


He was an adept? I’d always imagined these temple devotees and de facto courtesans as Indian in origin. I gave the boy a closer look. His clothing had seen better days, but the sinuous way he moved made them a fashion statement. You couldn’t deny the perfection of feature and figure required of his order. He stood out from Eamon’s mangy lot like an emerald in a box of Cracker Jacks.