Title: THE UNRAVELING
Category: Adult
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Word Count: 89,000
Pitch:
In the heart of Montmatre, Paris, touch-phobic songwriter Callie Kincaid’s best friend is murdered by a terrifying creature seeking something Callie’s accused of taking. Forced to partner with enigmatic alchemist Remy Dane, a man she gets along with as well as oil does with water, Callie attempts to harness the extrasensory abilities hidden behind her phobia. As the fabric of the world begins to come undone, she needs to discover the root of her fears and the powers behind them before she’s the one being taken apart.
Question 1: In your MC’s voice, what costumed character do you relate most to and why?
Oh, definitely Storm from X-Men, she had severe claustrophobia but she didn’t let it stop her from pulling her shit together and kicking ass, even when she was terrified. Mostly.
Question 2: As an author, what makes your manuscript a tasty treat (aka unique/marketable)?
I think I’ve created a relatable character whose internal obstacles are sometimes greater than her external ones. The fact that it focuses on personal growth as much as the fantasy, paranormal and romantic elements sets it apart from other books in the genre.
First 250 words:
A murder scene was the worst possible introduction to my beloved city Poppy could have gotten when we stepped out of the Paris Metro station a block from my home. That there were several sheets draped over objects in the alley told me this one was just as violent as the others, and I wished I hadn’t craned my neck to look. Poppy, on the other hand, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared open-mouthed, a horrified look on her heart-shaped face. In an instant all my hopes for a perfect first day with my best friend were crushed.
“Callie? What is this?” she asked.
“Come on.” I nudged her forward with my shoulder. “Don’t look, just keep walking.”
“Does this happen a lot here?” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the scene. I gave a terse nod. In fact, it was the sixth time I’d had to walk past police tape this year, and it was only May. The last couple, like this one, were practically steps from my door. It was a little unnerving, and every time I walked home from the café where I worked I compulsively looked over my shoulder and peered into darkened alleys.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked as I hurried her along.
I shrugged. “What could you have done, other than worry about me? The police will find him soon, I’m sure. They say it’s some crazy guy who paints his skin blood-red and wears a scary mask.