Welcome to Kate Oleander Books

It’s almost time to return to the world of the Celestial Fae!

For readers who met Silas Amator as the Demon Lord’s right hand, his story is far from over. Two decades have passed since Celeste destroyed the former Demon Lord and the realms finally knew peace. In the years that followed, Silas rebuilt a kingdom poisoned by corruption, earning his rightful place as the Reigning King of the Demons.

But fate has a cruel sense of timing. Just when peace feels within reach, the True One Curse awakens—binding Silas to a mysterious, familiar soul. Duty and destiny collide, forcing him to confront the one thing he’s avoided for centuries: his own heart.

💋 Mine Eternal — a dark romantasy of fate, redemption, and a love powerful enough to shake realms — is coming before the end of the year.

In the meantime, dive into the series that started it all.
The Celestial Fae series is complete with four interconnected novels that breathe life into the world where Silas’s story began.
✨ Book One, Inevitably Bound, is FREE to read on Amazon, Smashwords, and other major ebook retailers.

As a child I was always a teller of tales and a manipulator of characters. Most were within the confines of my play spaces, but grew into the audiences of my peers. The more wild the tale and twisted the character’s fate, feedback fueled me to venture into even riskier scenarios. My friends and cousins never judged me, but loved to be part of the story.

Children don’t judge the things your characters do or scenes that play out on the storyteller’s tongue because they are wise enough to know that it is fiction. Pretend and make-believe. They understand it is made up and just like themselves it is fueled by imagination and triggered by things you see that as a child you do not understand. Children rewrite real life to understand, explain and often just to entertain and they do it through play.

But as you grow you learn that adults judge, and gradually peers learn to judge. Adults question how a “good girl” could write something so cruel and make characters do such “naughty” things. Parents become shocked and appalled because those things reflect on them and how they are raising their children. They worry that you are as damaged as your characters, and perhaps not with words, but with that disapproving or worried glint in their eye they silence a story.

It censors the story tellers.

It censored me.

I did not want to do something “wrong.” I did not want to be seen as the characters that came to life in my mind. Often they were bad and did horrible things. Things I knew were bad, but that was the intrigue. Those naughty things I would never choose to do for fear of punishment and judgement. I could explore such things in the safety of my words. In the end the characters learned or survived despite the evil that manipulated their choices and warped their senses. Or they didn’t and suffered the consequences.

No one died, no one was hurt and no one went to prison–in real life.

I censored myself and wrote the sweet things and the practical things that a good kid should write and not the perverse things that popped into my head, the “what if’s.” As frustrating as it was to lock away the creativity it became easy because life started to snowball. There was no time with classes and activities, jobs and coursework and eventually the responsibility of being a working wife and mother.

There was no place for writing in my life and I had tucked it away for so long that I didn’t even know I was missing it. I did know I was missing something though.

Being a teacher, well set in what and how I teach, careful management of time and with searching new ideas down to a science, after a few years I discovered I was bored and impatient with the hobbies I explored. I turned to reading something other than non-fiction books about classroom management, literary circles, number sense and love and logic. I discovered that romance novels fueled my soul, but not the mushy stuff that is sweet and adorable. I craved the toxic relationships and romance that survived the impossible by the end. I discovered I liked thrilling story lines with suspense and imminent danger to the characters. I liked self-discovery and the growth characters go through. I liked the characters that succeed despite down and out odds in their childhoods, poverty, abuse, bullies, neglect. I love their strength and their determination to live and go after what they wanted even when they nearly gave up. I love quippy banter and fights. Verbal duels and rage with words were as enjoyable as a physical pummeling.

I devoured anything free on Amazon and most things even when the plot was sketchy and the characters were extreme I finished because SOMEONE wrote it. Not all was good, but some struck a chord with me and the resounding thought in my mind was:  I could be doing that! Even the less than quality pieces made me feel as if I could. So I did.

The things I write may not appeal to everyone and that is okay. People may not care for my sense of humor or the way I put words on paper and that is okay. I hope some people enjoy what I write, but if not that is okay too because I can’t ever see myself stopping. The band of crazies rolling around in my head have been awakened and they want out. Who am I to stop them now?

About six years ago on a lazy, lemonade Wednesday, not too hot, but plenty of sun I plopped myself into a comfortable chair and perched a MacBook Pro across my knees.  A warm soothing breeze rushed around me as my children played in the front yard and zipped in and out gulping glasses of cold lemonade to soothe their flushed little faces.

Fear, anxiety and excitement tickled my spine and quaked my fingers. Staring for minutes at a blank word document willing myself the nerve to just type something–anything almost made me stop before I started.  Type something!  Even if it was just a character’s name. Type. Delete. Type. Delete. The noontime sun shifted significantly in the sky by the time I completed the following words:

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“Hurry! We’ve to reach the inn before sundown or we’re sleeping in the stables.”

“Ha, we have no intentions of sleeping tonight sir, makes no difference to me.”

“Speak for your self, I am beat.”

“Good luck! Burns, the way you smell, no one would take you on for all the gold in the region.”

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut if for you, Piper.”

“Really, I might just take you up on that.” Piper threatened, his weathered face, pulled taut over his prominent cheekbones as he narrowed his eyes at Burns.

“Enough! I’ve had to listen to you all,” a heavy sigh teaming with forced patience rushed past the man’s lips, “just, let’s finish this in peace, ‘kay?” Jax had had enough, he wanted one thing: a soft bed, as long as it was in solitude. He adjusted his hat scratching the sweat soaked dark hair stuck to his head in a ring. He found Burns loathsome, the man was unbearable, but soon he would be rid of him—all of them.

They rode in the stillness of the dense woods; the only sound to be heard was the crunching of earth beneath their horses’ hooves. No birds sang, no locusts buzzed and the air was eerily calm.

“Whoa,” Jax whispered as he held up his left hand, bringing his dark bay horse to a stop. He held this pose for a brief moment, and then turned to the others. “Stay here. I see something up ahead.” With a hint of orneriness Jax added, “It very well may be an ambush, preying on us good Samaritans. Be watchful.” Martin grinned and shook his head as Green, uneasy, began to interject for a better plan. Jax cut his idea short when he gave a little smirk and finished telling the men if there are more than five Jumpers visible, they will need to get out fast.

Peering through brush and trees Jax searched for the reason his instincts were set ablaze, but nothing presented itself. Something was awry. The stillness, no nature sounds—something had recently happened here or was about to. Even still, every inch of his body ached for nothing more than the sweet softness of a warm bed; his mind longed to drift into a mindless sleep.

After noon tomorrow his debts would be paid and he could walk free. He thought about the little patch of land on the hillside and the way the wildflowers bobbed in the afternoon breeze. He could almost smell the dank, earthy fragrance of the old wooden cottage. Reality shook him back to the here and now when he saw a lifeless foot protruding from the hem of tattered undergarments.

Jax froze and then turned to the men signaling them to stay put. It very well could be a trap; it wasn’t unheard of in the border territories. He once again scanned the fauna for anything out of place and saw nothing, besides the foot. Stepping forward, his boot caught a twig causing it to snap in the silence and he immediately ducked assuming an attack would soon follow. He decided staying low was a good option and scurried awkwardly under his long legs until he reached the grime-covered foot. He said a small prayer life still existed in the foot’s owner.

My husband came home and I realized I had completely forgotten about supper.  “I did something today.” I knew it wasn’t a “great something,” but it was almost as exciting as the moment I discovered I would be a mom. Giddiness welled up inside of me dampered by embarrassment and fear of not being good enough.

“What was that?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

A squirrely look curved his lips and furrowed his brow. “Why is that?”

“Okay! I started writing . . . a book.” Again the look occupied his features. “I just started writing, okay it took me forever to actually make myself do just type the first words. It took forever to just put everything into place, but it felt so good.”

“That is awesome. It is a good feeling.”

For the rest of the night, he made supper, and the next four days I continued typing only stopping when another idea relentlessly begged to be tapped out on the computer screen.  I was a terrible, inattentive mother for four days. However, something awoke in me that day that has yet to be silenced and I have learned to be a better mother while I write.

I have always been a story teller, the relayer of wild, elaborate and embellished dreams that enraptured my younger cousins.  “Then what?  Tell us more.” I wove them into the dreams recreating scenarios that were both funny and daring, but always exciting.

I thrived on writing stories, often terrible, gross horror stories as a junior high student.  Parodies of required reading.  Ridiculous new lyrics to popular songs, shortened silly blurbs that made friends laugh. Sing-Songy poetry was easy and earned an invitation to the Young Writer’s Conference in 8th grade.  So what happened to this girl?

I let what I thought others expected of me control my life for a time, but life has a way of forcing you back where you belong if you let it. I let it.

And she is back, I have been reborn as Kate Oleander.

For the past six years stories have flowed out of me until I was exhilarated, exhausted and a little of both.  In the spare moments I can find when no one in my home needs me more or papers do not need to be graded and lesson plans written–I write, I read, I write, I rewrite and start allover.

A part of me was truly asleep, she has had a long rest and doesn’t ever want to stop. She can’t stop she has too many tales to share. The characters will never be silenced!