Fox’s Folly Cover

Got my cover for Fox’s Folly!

I love it, but as usual, the people on the cover don’t quite match the vision in my head. Tag, the sun-glassed guy in the background, should have much redder hair–he’s a fox, after all, with hair to match. However, I’ve been told it’s hard to find hot cover models who are true gingers. And really, it has good-looking men, a fox, and Las Vegas…what more could I want?

To celebrate the cover, here’s a short teaser excerpt. It hasn’t gone through final line editing yet, so read at your own risk:

Tag adjusted his collar and walked through the door.

And right into a man who, in the heart of the city, smelled of evergreen and ocean and the blue heat at the heart of a flame, of amber and a sexuality so primal and yet so pure that it made Tag want to fall on his knees in praise of the Lord and Lady at the same time he wanted to fall on his knees and do something far naughtier.

He looked up into eyes that were both innocent and endless, and felt something snap inside him.

Probably, he thought weakly, what had snapped was what passed in a fox for common sense. Or maybe it was his heart.

Not human.

Paul Donovan didn’t even have to think to know that, didn’t have to engage the witch-sight he’d had locked down ever since he’d arrived in this gods-forsaken temple to consumerism. The man had no shields to speak of, and the nonhuman energy danced off him. He didn’t feel dark, didn’t exude an obvious sense of wrongness—but there was no guarantee that the being Paul Donovan sought would. It might be something so far removed from human concepts of right and wrong that it could kill another sentient being without becoming corrupted.

Paul had closed his eyes instinctively at the second of impact, fearing what it would do to his already frazzled senses. Now he opened them, gingerly, letting his witch-sight focus for the first time since he’d arrived in Las Vegas the day before.

He saw a beautiful red fox with intelligent human eyes, and a bright, fresh aura of russet overlaid over the man before him.

Dual.

Not the killer, then. The killer had struck with magic, though a magic that none of the local Nevada witches or shamans could identify. Duals didn’t have magical abilities other than their shape-shifting. Besides, a predator, if he turned killer, was going to get hands-on, or teeth-on, do something messy and obvious. He wouldn’t use a magic so subtle that the half-fae casino owner had to call in a seventy-five-year-old favor from the Donovan witches to figure out what was going on.