Posted by authorcamilson
About the Author
Claudia Herring writes romantic fantasy novels. Her Djinn Chronicles series are set in a world of mysterious powers and tumultuous intrigues fraught with subterfuge. They begin in Regency England where sensible mortals interact in disbelief with djinnis, magicians, sorceresses, and soothsayers.
She would live in a library if she could.
Is afraid of her cat.
If you like Diana Gabaldon or Carol Berg, you’ll love Obsessions of a Djinni.
About the Book:
Title: OBSESSIONS OF A DJINNI
Author: Claudia Herring
Publisher: Caravanserai Publishing
Genre: Romantic Fantasy
A djinni seduces his master’s young bride, forcing her to make a fateful choice.
A world of mysterious powers and tumultuous intrigues comes to life in Regency England as a djinni, burdened with a dark secret, is thrown into a love triangle fraught with subterfuge.
Will he defeat his nemesis or be betrayed?
ORDER YOUR COPY:
I am Djinn. I am abandoned.
Another day of countless days. Waiting. A torture, but not the worst I have endured.
The light of this place sets me on edge. I know not its origin. Where the brightness falls illumines my carpets, colors rivaling my jewels, the finest weave of silk from Persian masters, treasures on which to tread. But I would gladly tread a floor of dirt strewn with rushes if I could be free.
I stretch my arms above my head. My kurta shimmers around my body, the gossamer silk the hard work of thousands of industrious and sacred lepidopteran larvae and their keepers. I see the gleam of silver and gold, the glimmer of gems on my ivory tabletop reflecting the rubies’ blood red, the emeralds’ echoing green and the ancient amber of the topaz as if it were a soft, tranquil pond.
I will be called. I know not when. My impending summons looms over me like the sword Dionysius hung above Damocles. I pray my next master will be kind, for I have had enough of cruelty. And if I could have wishes, if I could follow my heart, I would search for my Thalia.
Meanwhile, I am here, in Bramley House, for many years now. I sense I am in the East wing, upstairs, in one of the older bedchambers. Of over a hundred rooms in this centuries-old manor, this is one rarely used. In here are cast-offs of years gone by.
Among the clutter and jumble sits a marble bust of some long-forgotten statesman, transported to these misty isles to adorn the august Roman villa of one of England’s early conquerors. A magnificent, life-sized bronze stands by the window—an Indian god with four arms, dancing, dancing, dancing, a Natraj, Shiva, who keeps this world, where I am forced to exist, in motion. A few steps away, above the mahogany escritoire, hangs a drawing, elaborately framed in burnished gold leaf, the flowing black ink magically coalescing into my lady, my Lavinia, my Thalia, fixing you in her grave gaze, her somber eyes conveying the tragedy I made of her life.
And on the mantel the etched brass urn, securely lidded, where I am prisoner—for how long I do not know.
I remember being in this great house, living in its rooms, a real person in a real place. Happy. Reunited with my beloved, my heart, my Thalia. I remember sunlight streaming at an angle through the wavy old glass, warming my black velvet jacket, dust motes floating in the rays like stars within a galaxy. My hair pulled back in a queue secured with a black velvet ribbon, the style of the time. I took it all in, my treasures, my manor, my love, my life.
Even I never realized how quickly it could change.
- Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)
- Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)
- Click to print (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Telegram (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)
- Click to share on Skype (Opens in new window)