Evan Morris is a full-time corporate drone who intends to become a full-time novelist, film-maker, poet, magician, indian rope trickster and rogue of the high seas.

He lives in Centurion with his wife and two children and spends most of his spare time plotting their escape from quotidian reality, so far with only minor success. His children have
some promising ideas, though, and the whole family is committed to a life of high adventure involving, at the
very least, balloon rides to the moon, aquatic jeopardy,
and frequent swashbuckling.

There might also be bodice-ripping. And international intrigue whereby the lives of billions hang in the balance. Possibly also a thousand elephants. Nothing has been ruled out entirely.

When not so occupied, Evan reads, writes fiction, poetry
and screenplays, broods, muses, ruminates, and every now and then rails against the injustice of it all.

He also memorizes classic English verse. Don't get him started. 

Evan is also the author of The Breeding Season and Bone Fire

extract from The Protector 

Colin Marchant said it was time they hunted it down and killed it. Ran Baker agreed with that, but said it was no use calling it ‘it’, they all knew it was that fancy boy from the midlands, they should call it ‘he’. His dad Lew Baker said what difference did that make, whether it was man or beast? And all gathered agreed. It made no difference were it woman or wolf, man or harpy, it must be done in.
“Killed six of mine hens,” said Lew. “Six, maybe seven if you count the first ten days ago.”
“Can’t be ten days back already,” said Ran. “Besides, I know that first one was only a fox done it. Seen the bugger run off.”
“Maybe when they start out as wolfs, they start out right small,” said Mervin Church. Everyone laughed.
“Wolfs,” said Peg the Tavern. “Evil bastards.”
They were gathered there in Peg’s, in the front room by the fire. It was evening. Mervin Church had called the meeting the day before, of all the fit men in the village to come down and make an end of this. His own yard had been ransacked twice in three nights, and his old pony Hobb was lying shot underground, with a broken leg.
“Always said we should of run him off to begin with,” said Ran Baker. “That boy. Too bloody sexy, him.”
“Who was to know he’d get bit, though?” said Mervin Church.
“Someone’s bound to get bit,” Ivor Chapman said sourly. “You know these hills and what’s out there. Wolfs by the dozen, I always thought.”
Everyone brooded. Then a man in the corner spoke up for the first time. He was sitting apart from the rest of them, alone at a table, and had appeared to be ignoring the conversation thus far. He had a sheet of paper on the table in front of him and was drawing a picture on it. He was a broad, tall man, Tom Butcher.
He said: “There’s but one wolf in these hills. The lord of wolves, him. Only but one.”
“Two, now,” said Mervin Church. “Him and this other, the midlands boy.”