Author: Killian McRae
Publication Date: September 19, 2012
Publisher: Tulipe Noire Press
About the author:
History is Killian's primary love in life, outside her family and, yes, sadly her dog. Therefore, her works of fiction often are packaged inside historical wrappers, as she tugs and twists on the edges of reality to ask the ever-present "What if?"
Born and raised in rural Michigan, Killian used the local library- a single room in her village's firehouse- as an escape, before actually escaping to the relative jungle of Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan. There, after several minor attempts to establish a major, she finally completed a BA in Turkic History and nearly attempted a Bachelors of Music in Vocal Performance. ("Theys call it the opry 'round these parts," she says in her heavy, Michiganian accent.)
Killian is a member of Stanford University's Writer's Certificate program and a PRO member of the Romance Writers of America. Her other interests include musicology and did we mention history? She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay area, though she is quite often unhappy about this fact.
Teaser from Pure & Sinful:
As Dee sauntered away, Riona focused on the priest’s expression. Marc wasn’t in his collar and coat today, but always carried the air of the clergyman within to some degree, like he wore his collar on the inside.
“How did you end up here?”
She took in the rugged cut of his jaw, the stubble that showed he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. He wasn’t bad looking by any measure, and he probably could have been quite the heartbreaker if he wasn’t a man of God. His eyes weren’t brown, they were black, and glistened like onyx pendants. A firm jaw and supple lips were likely often employed more for battling the fires of Hell than fanning the flames of lust. Nevertheless, the tools were there to be used, if he so desired. For a man of the cloth, he sure cut that cloth fine. The priest rose to what she considered the perfect height, had a body not too muscular, but hardly milk toasty, and a swagger in his walk that would make a lady think he could move his body in all the ways the good Lord intended.
If only his collar and his personality weren’t pressed with double starch.
“Paolo’s is the best pizza in town. Trust me on that, I’m Italian.” Sarcasm wasn’t his most attractive trait, but it was one of the most prominent.
“Don’t deflect the question,” Riona commanded with a click of her tongue. “I mean being one of the Pure Souls. I know how you found me…”
“… secured in a straitjacket and pending shipment to a cushy psychiatric facility?”
She crossed her arms and grimaced, wondering suddenly if the hex she’d learned to give demons jock itch would work on humans. “Look, you walk through the steel wall of a meat locker and try to explain it to the police in a way that doesn’t get you 5150’ed, and then you can talk. But, I mean, a priest? Isn’t the Catholic Church, you know, kind of not kosher with the whole magical powers and battling goblins thing?”
“Technically, the Catholic Church isn’t kosher with anything,” he returned. “Kosher’s a Jewish thing, not that I think the people of the book are anymore approving of mortal combat with the spawn of Hell. I was born into it. Magic is a birthright, you know. It shows up in my family every couple of generations. Just like being a priest — like my father before me, and his father before him.”