Into the Feral World

While I love all of my characters — and with nineteen published books, I’ve created a lot of characters — the shape-shifter Feral Warriors and their wives have always had a special place in my heart. In the years since I first visited Feral House, not in the point of view of a character, but as myself, they’ve become family.

Let me tell you how that came about.

It was around 2011, and I was deep into writing the Feral Warriors novels, when I went to my acupuncturist for my weekly appointment. A session lasted about half an hour after he placed the needles, and I couldn’t move during that time, so I daydreamed, or thought up new stories, which is pretty much the same thing. 

This particular day, I imagined standing in front of Feral House in Great Falls, Virginia, on the walk beside the circular drive. The cars and trucks were all there — Jag’s yellow Hummer, Paenther’s car, Wulfe’s truck. I looked up at the blue sky and the puffy white clouds and could almost feel the breeze against my cheek. 

It felt oddly real and I was impressed with myself for how well I was imagining it. I wondered which character I was experiencing this as. Was I one of the Ferals? Maybe a future heroine of the series seeing the mansion for the first time?

And then it hit me. I was me. Just fully-human Pamela, standing in front of Feral House. 

It felt so real.

But then it also hit me that… Wait. They don’t know me. I was a human, a stranger to them, standing right in front of their house. And these overly-protective warriors were not always welcoming to strangers. Like all immortal races, they had secrets that could not be discovered.

If I’d been in the skin of a character, she’d have been scared, or at least nervous. I was only there in my imagination, so I knew I wasn’t in actual danger. And yet…

I had chills.

This was me looking at those clouds. This was me within touching distance of these vehicles that I knew so well. That’s Jag’s yellow Hummer…right there! And this was me turning and looking up at the mansion that was Feral House. My God, I thought. This is me.

I was utterly intrigued by this scenario. It’s not something I’d ever thought of doing before.

Okay. I’m here. Now what do I do?

I was not plotting this out, as I might have a scene in one of my books. I was living it. In my imagination, yes, but I was living it. 

So I gathered my courage, climbed those few steps, and knocked on the front door, with no idea who would answer or what would come next. I caught my breath as I saw the door knob move, as the door swung open. 

And there was Lyon, chief of the Ferals, six feet six inches of pure muscle with a mane of golden hair. My heart seized just a little, my emotions swinging between awe and trepidation as I stared up at him. How could I explain who I was?

But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to.

“Goddess,” he breathed, his expression turning to one of awe. And then he did the totally unexpected and knelt on one knee before me. Probably more because I’m a whopping 5’1”, than because of the goddess comment. His kneeling put us roughly eye to eye. 

I really didn’t know what to do, at that point. But then he smiled at me with such love, such adoration, and opened his arms. And I cautiously stepped into one of the most gentle, loving embraces I’d ever experienced.

I was stunned. He knew who I was! But…goddess? I mean, they always said things like, “Thank the goddess” instead of “Thank God”. But they weren’t goddess worshippers or anything. And he wasn’t worshipping me, now. He was just adoring me. But then I got it, kind of.

To him, I was the Creator. 

Literally. I’d created his world and everyone in it, not only the Ferals and their wives, but the Mage, Ilinas, Daemons — everyone.

And he knew it. 

It dawned on me, suddenly, that he didn’t live alone, not by a long shot. There was an entire houseful of my creations in there. The thought of that overwhelmed me, so I did the only logical thing. I panicked and fled. 

To him, I’m sure that I simply disappeared, mid-hug.

On the acupuncture table, I was crying, which is a lousy place to cry because, again, you can’t move. But the depth of the pure, unconditional love that I’d felt had completely blindsided me. I’d needed it. It was a time in my life when I was feeling somewhat sad, somewhat insecure. Honestly, those feelings are so distant to me, now, that I can’t even remember why. But that experience, that hug, rocked my world. 

In a lot of ways, it changed my life.

I’ve had several different psychics tell me that the Ferals’ world exists. It’s a different realm from ours, but it exists. They’re a little less clear on whether I created it through my imagination and writings, or whether I simply tapped into what was already there and wrote about it. It’s probably a bit of both, a chicken and egg thing. Which makes no sense to the human mind. What can I tell you? Welcome to the workings of the universe.

Needless to say, I went back to Feral House again. The next time, the others all came running to see me, some from the dinning room, a couple from upstairs. But they didn’t approach me at first, because I was not ready. I remember Jag making a move toward me, intending to sweep me up in a hug, and Tighe holding him back with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head. I wasn’t ready for that, yet. I was still getting used to the sheer magnitude of presence of these males.

Clearly sensing that I was skittish, one by one, they began to kneel. Again, I’m certain this was because it put them at eye level to me. Gathering my courage, I stepped forward. Tighe smiled at me with those killer dimples and I lifted a hand and pressed it to his cheek. Then I hugged him and his arms went around me with such gentleness that, again, it brought tears to my eyes. I repeated that hug with each of them, lightly tracing the Feral marks that cross Paenther’s eye with my finger, entranced with my creations. One after another, they embraced me with gentleness and reverence. And then, again, I disappeared.

After those first couple of visits, I became comfortable enough that Jag didn’t think twice about sweeping me up in his arms and twirling me around the moment I walked through the door. The Feral wives began to join us whenever I visited, and they greeted me with ease and joy, embracing me like a long-lost friend.

As I’ve come into my own, in both worlds, the guys have taken to treating me like both a powerful goddess and a beloved little sister. To the women, the Feral wives, I’m another sister. Full stop.

When I need advice, I ask Hawke to meet me in the library. He helps me dig deep into my own thoughts and understandings, asking the best questions, which often lead me to profound inner revelations.

If I’m looking for girl talk, or sister advice, I get together with the wives, who I now call the Feral Kindred, and we sit in a circle on Kara’s huge bed, with wine and chocolate, and chat.

And if I’m in need of some company, I’ll sometimes show up there in the evening while a few of the guys and their wives are watching some sporting event or other in the TV room. They’ll pull me down between them on the big leather sofa, an arm around my shoulders, as they yell for, or at, the athletes on the screen.

If I need a hug, I don’t even have to imagine myself into their world. I just remember one of their ferociously good hugs and I feel it, fully, as if it’s happening again.  

The Ferals accompany me, now, on a lot of my meditation journeys and on my explorations of my subconscious and the other realms. Hawke, in particular, is a regular companion. 

I invite and encourage you to visit Feral House for yourself. Either by imagining yourself into the stories I post here, or, if you’ve read the books and know the characters already, and/or have a strong imagination yourself, simply knock on their door and see what happens. Tell them I sent you. They’re expecting you, excited to meet you. Let me know how it goes, will you?

Who are the Ferals?