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T.K. Thorne

Excerpts from novels awaiting publication:
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The Old One of Thoralyn
(historical fantasy)

 

     “To one who has understanding, there is no magic, but to one who truly understands--all is magic.”
            --Dagda

     Unease trailed Delaylin like a dark shadow.  Throughout the day, it had hovered between the fine hairs on the back of her neck, whispering undecipherable warnings.  Now at night’s looming, she sat on the bearskin hearthrug in her parent’s sleeping hut, trying to work out what was bothering her.  For once, she wished a seeing-dream would reveal the future, though she could not tell anyone what she saw.  Seeing-dreams were forbidden magecraft.  If she could have stopped them she would, but she didn’t know how.



White Feather
(mid-reader Children's)


     Mac was never sure whether he discovered the cave or the cave found him....
     The day started out sticky warm and by the time he got around to mowing the yard, the sun was scorching his shoulders and neck.  With a resentful push on the lawnmower, he stopped to wipe his forehead with his sleeve.  Before him, the pasture sloped and rippled until it met the line of trees that followed the creek down to the river.  It wouldn’t take long to go duck his head in the creek.  He was almost finished mowing, and it was too hot, and he deserved a break and besides, he’d be back before his father noticed.
 




 

Partners
(fiction-police drama)




     Jerome James pressed the inside of his elbow against the butt of the gun concealed under his jacket.  It was a street gun, a "Saturday night special."  He wasn't sure it would fire.  Under the sterile glare of the convenience store’s fluorescent lights, beads of perspiration traced a jagged course along his hairline.  A half bottle of Red Dagger wine and a line of Lorenzo's coke helped, but what was about to happen was bringing him down fast.



Snow Dancers of Veld
(Science Fiction mystery)

 

     The poster face of Master Gustov Leonardo scowled down from the wall beside Motes’ bed.  The small dorm room offered little else to look at, only her computer workstation, scattered sheets of music, and the slender, cylindrical sheath the size of her forearm that housed the crewith, her precious instrument.
     Justin sat on the bed beside her.  With a tenderness that made her heart race, he ran a finger across her cheek.  Her reaction stemmed partly from the unfamiliar touch and partly from the fear that they would be discovered, that the door would burst open, and the dorm monitor or the dean would storm in.  
    


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