Deborah Cooke: Author

There’s a line in my office, and I’m working my way through it as quickly as I can.

Actually, it’s more of a queue, and it’s a queue of fictional characters in groups. They know each other, you see, so there’s also a background noise of chatter as they await my attention.

First in line are the Dragonfire dudes. By this point, in my office, five of them have partners and there are more of them than you realize as yet. There are toddlers underfoot, Slayers lurking in the background, and this one jade green salamander that keeps vanishing then appearing in a different place. They’re here to supervise my writing of the synopsis for Rafferty’s firestorm – I have to tell you that the sparks are distracting.

If that wasn’t enough to fill my office, right behind the Pyr are a group of fallen angels. They’re dressed in neo-Goth splendor, all purple velvet and black leather (excuse me, it’s faux-leather), high boots and lace collars. Amazingly good looking men – check them out here and here. The women are wearing pseudoskins, they sport tattoos and tote wicked looking weapons. There are Nuclear Darwinists with them, police officers, a politician, a posse of academics, students of the Institute of Radiation Studies and an Oracle with a white diamond bound to her forehead. The light of that stone is nothing compared to the brilliance of the angels themselves when they choose to make an appearance to urge me along. They’re all gathered here because I’m writing the third book in my angel series, REBEL, and they want to make sure I get it right.

You might overlook the vampire brooding in one corner, his gaze fixed steadily upon me. That’s Micah, vampire and star of my short story “Coven of Mercy”, who has been insisting that he wants his entire story told. Yup, he wants a book. I told him to get in line and he did. Look at how he drums his fingers with such deliberation, appearing to be patient but seething that I’m taking so long.

Who else is here? Well, the bunch from Kinfairlie are sitting in another corner. (Scroll down, way down, to the Rogues of Ravensmuir and the Jewels of Kinfairlie.) Elizabeth in particular is quite vexed with me, especially now that Rosamunde’s story is being told. I wave to them for the umpteenth time, insisting that I’m working on it.

The funny thing is that I treated myself to a beer on the porch the other day with Mr. C., and my beer disappeared from the glass after I’d only had one sip. Mr. C. protests his innocence, and really, he had his own beer. The incident put me in mind of Darg and the spriggans, and left me wondering where that little troublemaker has gone. Hmm.

Near the Lammergeier are a pair of women whose story has been half-told and sitting under my desk for several years. One of them has attitude and is looking daggers at me – I have to be sure I don’t turn my back on her.

There’s another group who have pushed their way through the door in the past couple of weeks, defying belief with the addition of their collective presence. I don’t even know how many of them there are, let alone their various identities. There seems to be a large extended family, with trunks enough for an overseas passage, and a whole troupe of servants. Even the cook has come with them! They’re chattering about everything else under the sun bickering and laughing, obviously familiar with each other. I’ve noticed that there’s one man at the back of their group, in the shadows, so to speak, who carries himself a little too well to just be a servant. He doesn’t seem to miss anything, although he says little, and something about his piercing gaze makes me shiver. I won’t turn my back on him either.

Phew! It’s one crowded office. I hate to think of what happens in there at night, after I’ve closed the door and gone to bed. Do you think they talk to each other? Do you think they mingle? Maybe they’re just rewriting the stories – gremlins in my hard drive – which only adds to the challenge of getting their stories told.