A curse threatens the Winter Kingdom. A brother is turned to ice.  A rebel uprising is on the horizon.
Marble-maker Rye Cunnings is at the center of it allâand doesnât know it. He doesnât know heâs the lost summer prince. Doesnât know his blood can unlock Winterâs curse. Doesnât know why the marbles he makes flutter with magic. All he thinks is that heâs crazy. That he sees things others donât, like dragons and strange markings on his skin.
But when a dark dragon snatches away Ryeâs only friend Milo, he is forced to face the crazy in his life and figure out a way to bring Milo back.
Help comes in the form of Cerdic Leit, a warrior who finds Rye to take him âhomeâ to the Telluric Realm and their kind. All Rye has to do is follow him into Gatreau, the gateway to the four Telluric kingdoms, and all his questions will be answered. In the hopes of saving Milo, Rye steps into this new and dangerous world. A world where he learns of the Tellurics and their Hansian foes. A world that is swept up in a bitter battle of justice and hate.
And a world that wonât let Rye leave again.
Interview:
J. Scott Coatsworth: When did you know you wanted to write, and when did you discover that you were good at it?
Anyta Sunday: I think Iâve been wanting to write since I was a small child. The first story I remember vividly was a fantasy about stars turning into planets that I wrote when I was about ten.
And when did I know that my scribbles might interest a few more people other than my family? That must have been around the release of âVeinedâ, the first book in my âGuardian of the Anglesâ trilogy. Not only were people reading my book, they were even leaving nice positive reviews: D
That said, of course writing is a constant process of improvement, and I hope that âLockedâ shows some of the techniques I learned recently.
JSC: Whatâs your writing process?
AS: It differs from book to book, but some things are always there: no matter what the novel, thereâs always that point in the middle where I start fretting: This is so stupid. No one will read this. But itâs all about pushing through these moments.
And in the daily grind, it really comes down to just writing. Get your words on the page. And to achieve that, keep pushing the cats off the keyboardâŚ.
JSC: Tell me one thing hardly anyone knows about you.
AS: I hate whole hot tomatoes. Donât mind them cold, donât mind them pureed. But a chunky breakfast tomato? EwwwâŚ.
JSC: Do you write more on the romance side, or the speculative fiction side? Or both? And why?
AS:Â I do like both romance and fantasy, and it depends on the book how strong each part is. No matter what genre I write, thereâs always a romance in there somewhere. And on the other hand, I love creating new worlds.
âLockedâ really brings these two things together: thereâs a whole new exciting world, with its own rules and possibilities, and there are also multiple love stories to keep you entertained!
JSC: What pets are currently on your keyboard, and what are their names? Pictures?
AS:Â Of course the aforementioned cats, Milo and Morrissey (Morry is the one with the white mustache). Pic attached đ
JSC: Are you a plotter or a pantster?
AS:Â I always start with a plan for the plot, but in the end I change so much during the writing that it often is pretty far removed from the original ideas. So I guess Iâd be a plantster đ
JSC: What are you working on now, and when can we expect it?
AS:Â Well, there are a bunch of exciting projects in the works Of course I want to keep pushing Rye, Cerdic and the other characters from âLockedâ deeper into their adventures, so the follow-up is in plantster stages (hopefully out by the end of the year!).
In the meantime, you can explore the world of âLockedâ even further on the companion website, locked.anytasunday.com (where you can find a map of the world, lots of Telluric history and events, and character backstories and pictures!)
Also, Iâve got a contemporary novella coming out soon, and thereâll be more German translations coming out later this year as well.
Excerpt
Rye Cunnings shivered and hoofed it down the cobblestone road, fixed on the slice of his marble store ahead. This was just another morning. Just another morning.
A drizzly dawn fingered through the low-hanging mist creeping along Bristolâs narrow streets. Lamppost lights flickered and blinked out, sucking their murky reflections from deep puddles. Rain hit Ryeâs neck and face and the palm he pressed against his chest. The drops snaked down his sleeve and mixed with the blood at his wrist. It tingled, and Rye dabbed his cuff over the cutâa circle intersected with twelve loops.
A cut that heâd gouged out with his keys, following the shimmery pattern that had marked his skin for as long as he could remember.
Mist lurked over the Marvel Marbles store sign, thickening over the tattoo parlor and barber cushioning it on either side.
Inside was safe. He just needed to get inside.
He jogged over the road for the bright blue door beckoning him home. Each step jarred through his body to his aching head. He just needed to touch one of the marbles he made.
Key in his good hand, he sank it into the lock and twisted until the bar snapped back.
A figure prowled out from the shelter of the parlor entrance.
Rye choked back a gasp, then let out a relieved laugh. Milo. Just Milo.
âStealthy as a cat, you are.â
âPurrrrrr.â
Milo smirked and slunk to his side, raindrops weaving through day-old stubble to the cleft in his chin. He studied Rye and lifted an eyebrow. âAnd whereâve you been?â
Doesnât matter. Get inside!
Rye feigned nonchalance. âA walk.â A drug-induced, crazy person one. âJust a walk.â
He beckoned Milo inside, but he tilted his chin skyward and let the rain fall on his face. A small smile played at his lips. âAnd a mighty good morning for one. Fresh, today is. Invigorating. Whereâd ya go?â
Where? Where he always regained consciousness: the local cemetery at the church ruin. Every week the same time, the same place, and always surrounded by a sea of daisies. âJust . . . about.â
Clouds rippled, growing darker. Rye sucked in sharply, grabbed Miloâs arm and steered him inside. He shut the door and sank back against the glass.
Milo strutted through the store, running fingers over jars of comets, catâs eyes, peacocks and milky ways. Hundreds of jars filled the shelves on his walls. Sparklers, corkscrews, aces. Hundreds of colors glittered without light. Aquamarine, butterscotch yellow, magenta, and every shade in between.
Rye caught his breath and let the colors calm him. In a couple of hours the grandfather clock tucked between shelves would chime nine and kids would press their noses to the window and fog the glass as they took in the wonder of his store. The day would whip by with smiles and laughter. Then itâll be sundown again, thank God.
Milo faced him, casting a look at his mud-crusted jeans. Rye tucked his bloodstained sleeve behind him. âYou look like regurgitated hell, pudding.â
âAnd you wonder why I never let you into my bed.â
âYou couldnât handle me, love.â
Rye gripped the wooden âshutâ sign as he peered through the rain-splotched glass to the sky. Milo came to his side, staring out the window with him.
âA bad sign, huh?â
Rye startled. âWhat?â
âThe weather. Means less customers, right?â
âCustomers. Right.â His head pounded, his teeth ached. A marble. He needed one now. He shifted away from the windows but Milo planted a forearm on his shoulder.
âYou seem on edge, Rye. Lock up for the morning. Weâll go out.â
Out? He shook his head. âNot today.â
A dark shape darted behind the gaps in the clouds. A shiver scuttled down Ryeâs spine and he stepped back. Milo moved with him, oblivious to the danger that lurked out there.
âI need to make marbles,â Rye croaked.
âWhat you need is a day off, friend.â
âHavenât made a marble in two days.â
âWe could go to the carnival, hop on the Ferris wheel. Might even see above these clouds today.â
âHow about some green tea?â
Milo pulled away, and Rye scampered across the store to his special marbles behind the counter.
âAll right,â Milo said. âIâm going to be a bloody wanker and just say it: you donât have a social life, mate. You never party. No one visits.â
âIâve plenty ofââ
âCustomers donât count.â Milo skulked closer. âFar as I can see, Iâm the only friend you have. And that makes you one hell of a poor bastard.â
A sharp pang shot up Ryeâs temple and he hissed, and scanned the middle shelf. He withdrew the largest jar, uncorked it, and dunked his fingers into the mass of silver swirls. Relief fingered up his arms, soothing the pain in his head and the ache from Miloâs advice.
He pocketed a marble.
Over the counter, Milo pointed at Ryeâs bloodstained sleeve. âWhat happened, then?â
Rye resisted the urge to stare at his wrist. The cut never stayed long, would be nothing but faintly-scarred lines by now. Opening the door to his kitchen and marble-making workshop, he threw a hurried lie over his shoulder.
âItâs nothing. Had a raspberry smoothie.â
In the kitchen nook before his workshop, Rye picked up a half-filled pot of tea. Behind him came the clacking of boots, then a hand clamped over his shoulder, urging him around. Cold tea spilled out of the nozzle to the floor between them.
âWhat are youâ?â
Milo pushed up Ryeâs sleeve and revealed the circular scar, traced with dry blood. âHow exactly did you have that raspberry smoothie?â
âY-you wouldnât understand.â
âDonât underestimate me, I have vast, comprehendy abilities.â
Ryeâs throat was tight. âIâm crazy, Milo. Certifiable.â He lifted the pot. âGreen tea?â
Milo gently drew his black-painted nails around and over the mark. âYou and green bloody tea.â He pulled Ryeâs sleeve down. âIâll have a cuppa.â
With a shaky hand, Rye poured them both a cup. Milo pinched his nose, downed his tea, and set the cup in the sink. âUgh.â
Rye sipped his, then put it down. It didnât settle his churning stomach.
âNow make me a marble, friend,â Milo said with a wink, and took out the pendant hanging under his shirt. âOne with a bit of me in it.â He snapped off a thin corner and handed Rye the tiny wedge.
Rye stared at the piece on his palm. So small, so horribly scratched, and yet it warmed his entire hand. He clamped his fingers over it.
âGot any cash?â
âPut it on my tab.â
âI love it when I do work and no one pays me.â He moved into his workshop and Milo followed behind. âReminds me of my last foster home.â
âSaid so dryly. Thatâs exactly why I like you.â Milo flung himself on the stained brown couch at the flank of the room and slipped his hands behind his head. âIâll lie here and share my woeful problems while you warm your glory hole. God, I love marbling.â
Rye tossed a fiber blanket at him. âI work with a torch.â
âGo on then, light up. Make magic.â
Swallowing, Rye glanced at Milo, who stared at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. Make magic. Heâd thought the same thing himself a thousand times. The way his marbles soothed his anxiety, or seemed to open locked doors, or throbbed warmly in his grip like they held secrets of who he wasâwhat he was.
âI donât make magic,â Rye said carefully.
Milo turned his head, waggling his brows. âMarvel me, then. Make me a nicer set of balls than I already have. Or better yet, make a marble that solves all my problems.â
âSuch as cockiness?â
âDonât go messing with anything starting with cock. All else is fair play.â
âYour assery it is then.â
Milo snorted.
âEntertain me with these oh-so woeful problems.â Make me forget mine.
âIâm too smart for my own good,â Milo said with a smirk. âAnd itâs going to cost me.â
âSo dramatic.â
Milo looked pointedly toward Ryeâs wrist.
âPoint taken,â Rye said.
Miloâs phone rang and he swung off the couch. âYou get to making that marble,â he said, ducking through the door. âIâll be back.â
Rye took a sparkly gold glass rod from the jars on the shelf, bumping the small velvet pouch of marble monstrosities at the end. Theyâd been Miloâs attempts at marbling, pockmarked and pitiful. Yet heâd not brought himself to throw them away. They called to him with a magic of their own, the magic of a hundred shared laughs between them. Laughs that had been few-and-far-between before Milo had come into his life a year ago.
Rye set the melting glass next to the wedge of pendant. What style did Milo want? Did he wish his marble to glitter? To glow? To be dotted with silver?
He listened for Milo and was met with nothing but the creaking of his store door. Where had Milo gone to take his call? Rye shuffled to the kitchen. Empty. He checked the store.
âMilo?â
A breeze swept through the room. The front door was partially open and rain was pooling at the floor. Had Milo taken his call outside? Or had he left, like sometimes he did, without so much as a goodbye?
At the store window, Rye looked outside. The cloud had thickened. It hung low over shop roofs and gutters, only a few feet above the three umbrella-toting pedestrians huddled at the bus stop. Milo was strutting down the middle of the street toward the store, ash blond and soaked.
Rye waved.
The cloud burst, plumes pelting toward the ground, and a large winged body swooped down the street toward them.
Dragon.
Ryeâs heart seized in his chest; he jerked his bloodied arm across his face and peered at the beast again, at its long snout, horns, and black scales, the arrowhead tail snaking behind it, whipping up gusts. The dragon dipped and umbrellas jerked, inverting into black poppies. Their owners laughed.
Rye ached to be one of those men, ignorant of the terror flying over them, of the dragon stretching its forelegs, clawed talons aimed atâ
Milo!
Rye tried to shout but his voice was lost in the tight clutch of his throat.
The dragon whipped past the window. Wind surged and the door banged against the wall shelves, smashing a jar, glass shards and red marbles raining to the floor.
Rye shrank back into the shadows, shaking as the dragon snatched his friend and lifted into the clouds. Words echoed in his head, soft, placatingâŚ
Shhh. He wonât get you.
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Author Bio:
A born and raised New Zealander from Wellington, Iâve been exploring the literary world since I started reading Roald Dahl as a kid. Stories have been piling up in my head ever since. Fast forward to my mid-twenties and jump a few countries (Germany, America, and back again), I started to put them to paper.
My genre of choice is romance, both adult and YA, gay and straight. You can take a closer look at my books, available as e-books for download in many formats!
When Iâm not pushing my characters deeper into adventure, I chase my son around the house and fight my two comical cats for the desk chair.
Since 2014, Iâm also part of CritShop Literary Services, specializing in writing workshops and editorial services for LGBT fiction.
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Winnerâs Prize: E-copy of Locked