Jeremiah Cain has a new MM fantasy romance out: Thorns of Chaos. And there’s a giveaway.
“Cain crafts a vivid world … rich with detail and myth-lore that traipses brightly through the darker themes of oppression and suffering.” –BookLife Reviews
Queer Grimdark Fantasy: Finn is no hero, chosen born, or noble. Despite escalating tensions from the Dayigan soldier’s occupation of Feah lands, the happy-go-lucky twenty-five-year-old is content to spend his days fishing and flirting with the other men in his Celtic-like village. But everything changes at their midyear’s eve festival when an angry Dayigan commander catches Finn in the arms of another man. Suddenly framed for murder, he must flee his village or face death.
However, Finn isn’t the Dayigans’ only target. They believe all Feahs are wicked and intend to destroy them by any means necessary. The Feahs’ one hope of stopping the reign of terror is to find a relic forged by dark faeries and able to control chaos magic-and claim it to protect themselves. With the fate of the Feah lands resting on his shoulders, Finn seeks out sorcerers who practice ancient, forbidden magic.
Instead, he finds love with the handsome but fierce head of the sorcerers–and a power he never knew he could possess.
But when the Dayigans strike, can Finn harness the perilous magic to save his people without losing himself in the process?
Warnings: violence, sexual content, harsh language, homophobia, major character death
Finn jumped up from the shore and spread his wings before pushing them down to gain lift.
He kept a low flight of about thirty feet and could see their village as he passed.
A dozen rowboats—wicker frames covered in skins—lay inverted in a line on the shore. Just past where sand turned to grass, but before turning to forest, a small cluster of homes stood within a fence of long, thin branches woven horizontally between rough posts. Each of the houses had low mud walls and tall conical roofs of thatch.
Finn saw that all the villagers had gathered outside around the houses. Many held torches. A few children chased each other just above the roofs in aerial frolics.
Down the shoreline, Finn continued flying toward the Dayigan fort.
Ominous walls of thick logs, standing two stories high and sharpened, surrounded the roughly square fortress at a hundred and fifty feet across.
When the Dayigans had first arrived four years ago and built their walls, Finn’s people were aghast that they would rip down so much of their forest for such a pointless thing. The structures inside the walls were wooden too, with roofs shingled with green-painted wood. Wooden docks extended from the fort out into the river. Three large sailing ships—not built from these forests but from some forest somewhere—rocked within the tide.
At each corner of the fort, a tower extended higher, and from the center of each, a mast held a smaller horizontal pole at its peak. From each, an emerald green banner hung like a warning in the wind. In gold thread, it bore the sun and both moons in an upward-pointing triangle. A downward-pointing triangle, below the first, represented the distant island city of Dayigo. It screamed, “This is ours now, not yours,” a sentiment echoed by the fort’s inhabitants.
Finn knew better than to enter the fort. Instead, he landed on the shore just outside the wall.
There, the ground was planked over in a level boardwalk. Stalls ran along the edges. The area should have been bursting with goods from all across the continent, but it was empty.
Holding his salmon like a smelly newborn, Finn stared, disappointed and unsure what to do.
Lann landed beside him. “Won’t get much trading done here.”
“’Tis market day, is it not?”
“Aye, it were market day when it were day,” Lann said. “But ’tis not day no more. Come on then, let’s go back. Chief Kaie will have enough gifts without yours, so.”
“I’ve come this far, though, haven’t I,” Finn said. “Might as well see if someone’s about.”
Finn walked forward and stepped up on the boardwalk. He stopped and gasped, clutching his fish to his chest.
A Dayigan soldier stood guard. He was Human—a race like the Terovae, but without wings. They had hairy faces, and though some were thin, like Terovaes, others could grow wider with either muscle or fat. This soldier was larger in the muscular variety, and a suit of chainmail, covered by a green tabard, armored him.
The soldier eyed Finn but didn’t turn his way.
Finn had also found Humans to be a little angry all the time.
“Go on then,” Lann prompted behind Finn. “’Twill be midnight ’fore you’re done.”
Finn breathed deeply and approached.
“Good evening to you, Dayigan friend,” Finn said. “Hate to be a bother, sir, but I’ve come for a quick trade, and I’ll pop off.”
Maintaining his rigid posture and staring forward, the Human replied gruffly. “The market’s shut for the month.”
“Aye, that be true,” Finn said. “And I hate I missed it, but ’tis a special night, this. Tonight, my people—the Feah, well, all the Five Tribes really—celebrate Midyear’s Eve. That’s the end of the dark season and the start of the light season. I’m sure your God Déagar would have a special place in his heart for that, right? Light season, like. And you see, there’s this tradition where we all get a gift for the chief druidess, and I, fool I am, forgot. And to make things worse, me brother’s a temple guardian and his wife—my sister by marriage—she’s not only a druidess, herself, but no less the second-in-command of our whole fecking tribe.” He breathed. “So, ’twill go well noticed if I show up with naught but empty hands and shrugged shoulders, won’t it now?”
The soldier said nothing.
“Right,” Finn said. “What can I get for this then?” He held up the salmon. “A basket of eggs would be lovely. The druidesses use them for the beernog.”
“There’s plenty of fish in the river. We can get our own.”
“That be true, yes. But this fish isn’t in the river, is it? No, this fish is ready and waiting for yourself. And that saves you all the bother of fishing it out.”
The Human turned his head toward Finn and glared a moment. He snatched the fish by its tail. He held it, looked at it, and threw it.
The salmon flew a limp and uneventful flight to hit the boardwalk’s edge, head slapping wood with a spray of blood. It fell to splat on the beach at the water’s edge.
The Human chuckled. “Looks like ’tis in the river to me.”
“Fucking Human!” Lann charged forward to fight.
The soldier drew his sword. “You want to fight me, savage? I’ll gut the both of you before you can—”
“No call for that,” Finn said. “We’re all friends having a chat like.”
Lann stopped but glared.
Finn walked to Lann and patted his chest, now flexed along with the rest of his tense body.
“I don’t think he wants to trade at all,” Finn said. Turning back to the soldier, he added, “We’ll be on our way then. Good night to you.”
The soldier didn’t lower his sword, and Lann didn’t relax.
“The village’ll be waiting for us now,” Finn insisted.
Lann spit on the plank-covered ground.
Finn pushed Lann’s shoulder to turn him.
The Terovaes flew away.
Author Bio
Jeremiah Cain is a dark epic fantasy writer of a vivid world that BookLife Reviews called, “rich with detail and myth-lore that traipses brightly through the darker themes.” He served as an army medic and has a BA in Communication with a minor in English. In addition to reading and writing, he loves video games, particularly RPGs.
Lee Hunt has a new epic fantasy out in both eBook/print and audiobook formats, set in the world of the Dynamicist Trilogy: Last Worst Hopes. And there’s a giveaway!
Their world was ending, all the heroes were dead, the leaders confused, and their enemies were head and shoulders above them. But there was no one else; they were the dregs, the last worst hopes.
Nehring Ardgour has summoned Skoll and Hati from hell. They have torn through the proud and ancient country of Engevelen and the angelic Methueyn Knights that protect it. Armies have died, cities have fallen. None of the great remain. No brilliant inventors, no powerful knights, no master wizards.
No heroes.
But it gets worse. Farrah Harbinger has looked into the future and foretells the coming of an enemy worse than all the others, a creature of destruction and entropy like no other. A being who will grind all hopes and memory of civilization into dust: the One, True Devil.
Who can stop it? Who is left to even try?
Surely not Val, an arrogant young wizard who no one takes seriously, or Mick, an old man who can’t even remember his name. Certainly not Dav, who cannot seem to tell left from right or up from down, or Aveline, a squire filled with more questions than courage. No one would pick them to save the world, and yet there is no one else left.
Your new novel, Last Worst Hope (LWH) is set in the world of the Dynamicist Trilogy, correct?
Yes it is. LWH is set about 250 years prior to the events of Dynamicist, during the last weeks of what is later known as the Methueyn War.
But there are no dynamicists in this era, are there?
None. In those days, magic wielding individuals called themselves wizards. Gerveault’s famous advice about wizards goes unheeded in LWH:
“In today’s world a wizard is a risk-taker, a reckless gambler. A wizard, as rare as the talent for wizardry may be, is widely mistrusted. This is not because the ability to change things makes one morally untrustworthy, but because what wizards do is inherently unpredictable. Wizards are a thing of the old world, and this school is not about ideas that no longer work. A wizard, with only a very few exceptions, is also likely to live a very short life. We want to help you become something else.”
What do wizards in the time of LWH say?
For the most part they live up to Gerveault’s description. Val leads a group of them, called Elysians, and she finds them very difficult to manage:
“Is everyone ready?” Val asked in as loud a voice as she possessed. She looked directly at Rebecca and added, “Remember, Courant is the pride of Engevelen. Be careful. As of an hour ago, people still lived there.”
Rebecca smirked and said, “Don’t worry, Val, this is what Wizards do!”
“What wizards do!” shouted Christopher, making his dolls clap their eerie, human-like hands together, one doll to the other.
“Indeed,” drawled Samantha Westerberg. “What we all do. When do we begin?”
Wizards in LWH prefer to ‘do’ over thinking or talking.
Why are the styles of magic so different in the same world at two different times?
The answers to this are never spelled out in LWH, but there are several reasons. The most important of these is that the ‘cost’ of magic is lower than in the time of Dynamicist. The machine that Ardgour makes—and comes into effect at the end of LWH—increases a kind of cost modulus, called Huygens. This has the effect of making wizardry more dangerous and greatly reduces the power of Skoll and Hati.
What do you mean by the ‘cost’ of magic?
Whether the wizards of the time pay attention or not, magic in the world of Dynamicist obeys the laws of thermodynamics. There are costs and losses. So, when a wizard tries to change something, a little energy is lost in the process. The wizard’s body will cool. And the law of conservation of energy is still obeyed, whether the wizard believes that or not.
How do you mean that ‘energy is conserved’?
The wizards don’t create energy. They borrow it. Chris invests energy in his creepy dolls in the making of them. The area of effect when he breaks the dolls moves energy around, too. He transfers heat—creating a hotter area and, by a collateral effect—cools another area elsewhere.
Interesting. I noticed that Halwyn uses physical gestures—he pushes the mountain, Rebecca makes rhymes, and Val uses analogies. So, why do the various wizards all perform their acts of magic so differently?
The cost, or Huygens modulus, is low at their time, so unbeknownst to them, there is little need for efficiency on the part of the wizards. Most of them have just come up with some instinctive process to make things happen. And they practice and practice with this process until it becomes second nature to them.
But Val is different.
Yes. She belongs to a school of thought called the “Acutists” who believe that (a) Huygens exists, (b) that its existence matters, and (c) that there must be a self-consistent set of rules behind the operation of magic.
How come the other wizards don’t agree?
Because what they have done has worked for them up until now. And not thinking about it helps them to perform better so long as nothing changes. These wizards belong to a school who Val calls, “Staticians” because things staying the same—staying static—is helpful to them.
How does Val’s approach to wizardry differ from dynamics?
Val is using analogic reasoning to figure out how much energy to transfer. She ‘feels’ the analogy of it. This is halfway between the instinctive methods of her fellow wizards and the mathematical approach of dynamics. Here is an example of Val’s thought process in figuring out how to heat a bucket of water versus something as large as a man or a horse:
A stein is to a bucket, what a bucket is to an armored man, the same as an armored man to a horse. Like is to like is to like, and thus we go from what we know to what we thought we didn’t know.
Or here, more chillingly, where Val is trying to determine the minimum amount of temperature change required to coagulate a skolve’s blood:
Like eggs in a pan, like flour in a gravy, like pudding stirred at heat, they all abruptly change from thin to thick. Their heart is like the stirring whip.Like is to like is to like, and thus we go from what we know to what we thought we didn’t now.
So who’s approach is better: Staticians, Acutists, or dynamicists?
It depends on what the situation is ‘like.;
Giveaway
Lee is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour:
They watched, hardly daring to breathe. Then, as if buffeted by a sudden wind, something stirred among the trees. An instant later, the movement resolved into soldiers, running, seven of them, bursting from the trees. It looked like someone in the group might have stumbled and been helped up by others.
The horn called a single note, which cut off almost before fully forming.
“Run!” shouted the major.
“Run!” shouted Havard.
The call echoed up and down the line, but to Mick it did not look like the soldiers were running fast at all. It almost never does, when you’re watching someone impatiently, and absolutely never does when they might die if they’re too slow. He wondered how he knew this.
The image of Sir Valence playing fetch with Fenris blazed like the sun in Mick’s eyes.
Last chances.
Mick did not shout “Run!” but suddenly, unaccountably, he found himself over the line with a pike in his hands, running toward the struggling rangers. He did not remember grabbing the pike or leaping over the wall. He did not remember if landing from the six-foot height had hurt his ancient knees. Mick did not remember his earlier self-doubt, never worried if he would get to the rangers in time, never speculated that he might not be needed, or if his effort was a fool’s errand, the futile histrionics of a mad, old fool from a house of fools, never wondered if he might do more harm than good or fretted that a wall of monsters might come out of the trees and dwarf any effort a hundred of him could muster. He never considered in any way the question of leaping the wall or not. There was no thought or speech involved at all.
He simply ran.
“Mick, get back here!” bellowed Havard. “For knight’s sake, stop!”
But Mick was gone.
The ground sped by quickly as the rangers grew closer and closer. Two huge, strange shapes broke out of the trees, aiming straight for the soldiers. He tightened his grip on the pike, lowered his head, and charged.
The rangers abruptly stopped and formed a semi-circle. One of them limped on as the rest rotated their spears and planted them, gleaming tips pointing up and back toward the trees. An instant later, the skolves hit them, hard, pushing recklessly into the rangers’ spears, swiping at them with their rusty swords. For a moment, the spears held them there, but could not turn them back. Mick could see the skolves shake from side to side, paws, swords and bodies trying to dislodge the spears from the rangers’ hands and get inside their arcuate line.
As Mick rushed toward the battle, one of the spears broke. The rightmost skolve lunged forward with a roar and was immediately hit on its horse-length head by an overhand sword stroke delivered by one of the rangers. The creature reeled back and fell.
Mick broke left for several long strides, then sharply right into the flank of the skolve still held at spear length. “Last chance!” he roared as he lunged and thrust his pike straight into the chest of the beast, taking it off its feet so suddenly that its sword flew out of its huge paw, tracing a spinning arc through the sky before disappearing into the grass. Ferociously, the old man twisted the bladed end of the pike, which had penetrated a foot-and-a-half into the creature’s chest cavity, and step-pulled it out. Dark red blood sloshed out of the ragged wound, but the beast was done. It could only collapse and curl weakly around itself.
The other skolve was struggling under spear thrusts from four of the rangers. With an incomprehensible roar, Mick leaped forward and rammed his spear into the skolve’s head, just missing its eye. It skittered along skull until it caught at the base of where its cheekbone would be. Mick pushed harder, forcing the skolve’s head roughly to the earth, and the haft broke, making him stumble forward with seven feet of wood in his hands. He stepped between the rangers, shifted his grip, and speared the skolve again in the snout with the broken end of the pike haft. It tried to scramble up but collapsed, bleeding from dozens of wounds, but the soldiers kept slashing at it. No one was certain when it would be safe to stop stabbing. Another ranger was rolling around on the ground, hands to his leg, blood seeping between fingers.
“Pick him up,” said one of the rangers at last, a man with a rough goatee.
Mick shouldered his way in, whipped off his belt, slapped the man’s hands away from his leg, and wrapped it tight twice around, just above a large gash oozing red. “I’ll take him,” he wheezed, picking the soldier up and slinging him over his shoulder.
“Run!” a female ranger screamed. “There’s more coming!” Her voice dropped. “All of them.”
Mick did not bother looking back, knew that there was no looking back once over the wall once the chance was taken. There were, however, consequences.
A vast, high-pitched wail passed overhead. A sheet of arrows. Mick knew the sound from somewhere in the distant past. A storm punctuated by the pounding of arrows as they struck their targets. Mick did not look back.
“Look out!” cried the man he was carrying, and an instant later something heavy struck the back of Mick’s leg. He stumbled and went down. The soldier flopped off his shoulders with a scream. “Ahhh. Fuck me,” the man groaned. “Why?” he cried piteously as he rolled weakly, one arm over his face.
Mick staggered back up, hopped, found that his legs still worked, saw nothing was sticking out of himself, shoveled the ranger back up into his arms, and started running again.
“Grandpa,” the ranger whispered. “Grandpa … don’t drop me again.”
Author Bio
Born with only one working lung and having had the last rights read to him and dying of an influenza related viral pneumonia, 25-year-old geophysicist Lee Hunt experienced several near-death dreams. The power of communication and the need to both understand and be understood was at the heart of each. He had already found that nothing was more important than being able to cross the distance between people.
Lee’s interests are eclectic. He is an Ironman Triathlete, hiker, traveler, and an enthusiastic sport rock climber. Lee also continues to work as a geophysicist on Carbon Capture and Sequestration projects, and is a writer for BIG-Media.ca.
The dream of understanding and being understood has never left his mind, and Lee continues that in his works of fiction through metaphor. His works include The Dynamicist Trilogy, Last Worst Hopes and Bed of Rose and Thorns.
Lee Hunt has a new epic fantasy coming out in both eBook/print and audiobook formats, set in the world of the Dynamicist Trilogy: Last Worst Hopes. And we have the cover reveal! There’s a giveaway too.
Their world was ending, all the heroes were dead, the leaders confused, and their enemies were head and shoulders above them. But there was no one else; they were the dregs, the last worst hopes.
Nehring Ardgour has summoned Skoll and Hati from hell. They have torn through the proud and ancient country of Engevelen and the angelic Methueyn Knights that protect it. Armies have died, cities have fallen. None of the great remain. No brilliant inventors, no powerful knights, no master wizards.
No heroes.
But it gets worse. Farrah Harbinger has looked into the future and foretells the coming of an enemy worse than all the others, a creature of destruction and entropy like no other. A being who will grind all hopes and memory of civilization into dust: the One, True Devil.
Who can stop it? Who is left to even try?
Surely not Val, an arrogant young wizard who no one takes seriously, or Mick, an old man who can’t even remember his name. Certainly not Dav, who cannot seem to tell left from right or up from down, or Aveline, a squire filled with more questions than courage. No one would pick them to save the world, and yet there is no one else left.
They watched, hardly daring to breathe. Then, as if buffeted by a sudden wind, something stirred among the trees. An instant later, the movement resolved into soldiers, running, seven of them, bursting from the trees. It looked like someone in the group might have stumbled and been helped up by others.
The horn called a single note, which cut off almost before fully forming.
“Run!” shouted the major.
“Run!” shouted Havard.
The call echoed up and down the line, but to Mick it did not look like the soldiers were running fast at all. It almost never does, when you’re watching someone impatiently, and absolutely never does when they might die if they’re too slow. He wondered how he knew this.
The image of Sir Valence playing fetch with Fenris blazed like the sun in Mick’s eyes.
Last chances.
Mick did not shout “Run!” but suddenly, unaccountably, he found himself over the line with a pike in his hands, running toward the struggling rangers. He did not remember grabbing the pike or leaping over the wall. He did not remember if landing from the six-foot height had hurt his ancient knees. Mick did not remember his earlier self-doubt, never worried if he would get to the rangers in time, never speculated that he might not be needed, or if his effort was a fool’s errand, the futile histrionics of a mad, old fool from a house of fools, never wondered if he might do more harm than good or fretted that a wall of monsters might come out of the trees and dwarf any effort a hundred of him could muster. He never considered in any way the question of leaping the wall or not. There was no thought or speech involved at all.
He simply ran.
“Mick, get back here!” bellowed Havard. “For knight’s sake, stop!”
But Mick was gone.
The ground sped by quickly as the rangers grew closer and closer. Two huge, strange shapes broke out of the trees, aiming straight for the soldiers. He tightened his grip on the pike, lowered his head, and charged.
The rangers abruptly stopped and formed a semi-circle. One of them limped on as the rest rotated their spears and planted them, gleaming tips pointing up and back toward the trees. An instant later, the skolves hit them, hard, pushing recklessly into the rangers’ spears, swiping at them with their rusty swords. For a moment, the spears held them there, but could not turn them back. Mick could see the skolves shake from side to side, paws, swords and bodies trying to dislodge the spears from the rangers’ hands and get inside their arcuate line.
As Mick rushed toward the battle, one of the spears broke. The rightmost skolve lunged forward with a roar and was immediately hit on its horse-length head by an overhand sword stroke delivered by one of the rangers. The creature reeled back and fell.
Mick broke left for several long strides, then sharply right into the flank of the skolve still held at spear length. “Last chance!” he roared as he lunged and thrust his pike straight into the chest of the beast, taking it off its feet so suddenly that its sword flew out of its huge paw, tracing a spinning arc through the sky before disappearing into the grass. Ferociously, the old man twisted the bladed end of the pike, which had penetrated a foot-and-a-half into the creature’s chest cavity, and step-pulled it out. Dark red blood sloshed out of the ragged wound, but the beast was done. It could only collapse and curl weakly around itself.
The other skolve was struggling under spear thrusts from four of the rangers. With an incomprehensible roar, Mick leaped forward and rammed his spear into the skolve’s head, just missing its eye. It skittered along skull until it caught at the base of where its cheekbone would be. Mick pushed harder, forcing the skolve’s head roughly to the earth, and the haft broke, making him stumble forward with seven feet of wood in his hands. He stepped between the rangers, shifted his grip, and speared the skolve again in the snout with the broken end of the pike haft. It tried to scramble up but collapsed, bleeding from dozens of wounds, but the soldiers kept slashing at it. No one was certain when it would be safe to stop stabbing. Another ranger was rolling around on the ground, hands to his leg, blood seeping between fingers.
“Pick him up,” said one of the rangers at last, a man with a rough goatee.
Mick shouldered his way in, whipped off his belt, slapped the man’s hands away from his leg, and wrapped it tight twice around, just above a large gash oozing red. “I’ll take him,” he wheezed, picking the soldier up and slinging him over his shoulder.
“Run!” a female ranger screamed. “There’s more coming!” Her voice dropped. “All of them.”
Mick did not bother looking back, knew that there was no looking back once over the wall once the chance was taken. There were, however, consequences.
A vast, high-pitched wail passed overhead. A sheet of arrows. Mick knew the sound from somewhere in the distant past. A storm punctuated by the pounding of arrows as they struck their targets. Mick did not look back.
“Look out!” cried the man he was carrying, and an instant later something heavy struck the back of Mick’s leg. He stumbled and went down. The soldier flopped off his shoulders with a scream. “Ahhh. Fuck me,” the man groaned. “Why?” he cried piteously as he rolled weakly, one arm over his face.
Mick staggered back up, hopped, found that his legs still worked, saw nothing was sticking out of himself, shoveled the ranger back up into his arms, and started running again.
“Grandpa,” the ranger whispered. “Grandpa … don’t drop me again.”
Author Bio
Born with only one working lung and having had the last rights read to him and dying of an influenza related viral pneumonia, 25-year-old geophysicist Lee Hunt experienced several near-death dreams. The power of communication and the need to both understand and be understood was at the heart of each. He had already found that nothing was more important than being able to cross the distance between people.
Lee’s interests are eclectic. He is an Ironman Triathlete, hiker, traveler, and an enthusiastic sport rock climber. Lee also continues to work as a geophysicist on Carbon Capture and Sequestration projects, and is a writer for BIG-Media.ca.
The dream of understanding and being understood has never left his mind, and Lee continues that in his works of fiction through metaphor. His works include The Dynamicist Trilogy, Last Worst Hopes and Bed of Rose and Thorns.
S.R. Cronin has a new historical fantasy coming out (The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters book 7), and we have the cover reveal: She’s the One Who Scares Us All.
Plus there’s a giveaway!
Iolite, the youngest of seven sisters, was born a frundle, a rare condition that makes her both shunned and feared in Ilari. This has made her family doubly protective of her, even though she only wants to live a normal life and have the sorts of adventures her sisters do.
Although frundles suffer from some physical and emotional challenges, they also have valuable powers that no one discusses. Iolite learns more when she forges a connection with a roving army on horseback from far away Mongolia. She soon learns that the adventure-loving men she enjoys riding with in her visions are planning to invade her homeland.
When the Mongols send envoys to discuss terms of surrender, Iolite goes into a trance and serves as translator. Her family fears for her, knowing such trances can damage a frundle’s health. But her own people become a more serious threat to her when a secret cabal inside of Ilari’s army contrives to imprison Iolite and force her to become on ongoing source of information.
How much does a daughter of the realm owe her country? Iolite has plenty of time to ponder the question trapped in her cold dark cell.
What she does once she is freed will determine the fate of her people.
The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters consists of seven short companion novels. Each tells the personal story and perspective of one of seven radically different sisters in the 1200s as they prepare for an invasion of their realm. While these historical fantasy/alternate history books can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels, together they tell the full story of how Ilari survived.
Which sister saved the realm? That will depend on whose story you are reading.
How do they do it? Each sister offers surprise information on why this didn’t go as anyone planned.
Giveaway
S.R. is giving away a $10 Amazon or B&N gift card (winners choice) with this tour:
I didn’t know whether to answer the stranger or not. We seemed to both be in jail, yet I had no idea why. He wore well-tailored clothes on his tall, thin frame, so other than looking like he could use a good meal or two, he appeared refined.
“What are we doing in here?” I said.
“Ah, yes. That is the question. You’ll figure it out in time.”
We stared at each other between the thick metal bars. Me annoyed. Him amused.
“Iolite. My name is Iolite.”
“Really? Another one named for a stone? Your parents certainly lacked imagination, didn’t they?”
I said nothing. I’d learned long ago that engaging in meaningful conversation with the people in these dreams was pointless. I avoided it.
I already knew I’d meet this man eventually. If my previous dreams were any indication, he’d look the way he did here but he’d speak for himself, not echo my thoughts. We might find ourselves in jail when it happened, but more likely it would just feel like a jail to me. I’d probably meet him at a time when I felt confined by circumstances. Sadly, my dreams conveyed more about my future emotions than they did about any future reality, making their information hard to use.
“I’ve had enough of this,” I said to him. “I’m going to wake up.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he chuckled. “See you around.”
He kept laughing at his own witticism until he went into a fit of coughing and I woke up grateful to be in my small cot. Many of the girls at the school shared rooms with others, but I was allowed to sleep alone. At times like this, it was a blessing.
I pulled the blankets closer around my body trying to stay warm, thinking I didn’t mind the physical oddities life thrust upon me when it made me a frundle. Okay, my short stature was sometimes a nuisance but I rather liked my silver hair. I found my purple eyes attractive, too, though plenty of others averted their gaze rather than look into them. I always wondered what they feared.
My dreams, however, did present an actual problem. They had started a year ago, and happened more often now, leaving me wide awake in the middle of the night filled with questions. I kept both the dreams and the questions to myself. I knew people didn’t mind frundles, as long as they stayed in the background and caused no trouble.
The only troublesome ones were the ones who had the dreams. Or worse yet, the dreams and episodes.
But I wasn’t that kind. Not yet. Not as far as anyone knew.
Because I’d never had a single episode. For you can hide the dreams, but there is no way to hide that.
Author Bio
Sherrie Cronin is the author of a collection of six speculative fiction novels known as 46. Ascending and now writes a historical fantasy series called The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters. The synopses of her books makes it obvious she is fascinated by people achieving the astonishing by developing abilities they barely knew they had.
She’s made a lot of stops along the way. She’s lived in seven cities, visited forty-six countries, and worked as a waitress, technical writer, and geophysicist. She’s lost several cats but acquired a husband who still loves her and three kids who’ve grown up fine, both despite how odd she is.
These days she lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina, where she also answers a hot-line, does things to improve her writing, and volunteers for the Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA) of which she’ s proud member.
It is her life’s dream to tell these kinds of stories or be Chief Science Officer on the Starship Enterprise. She admits to occasionally checking her phone for a message from Captain Picard, just in case.
SI Clarke has a new quirky queer sci-fi book out (ace/aro/agender): The Left Hand of Dog. And there’s a giveaway!
Escaping intergalactic kidnappers has never been quite so ridiculous.
When Lem and her faithful dog, Spock, retreat from the city for a few days of hiking in Algonquin Park, the last thing they expect is to be kidnapped by aliens. No, scratch that. The last thing they expect is to be kidnapped by a bunch of strangely adorable intergalactic bounty hunters aboard a ship called the Teapot.
Falling in with an unlikely group of allies – including a talking horse, a sarcastic robot, an overly anxious giant parrot, and a cloud of sentient glitter gas – Lem and the gang must devise a cunning plan to escape their captors and make it back home safely.
But things won’t be as easy as they first seem. Lost in deep space and running out of fuel, this chaotic crew are faced with the daunting task of navigating an alien planet, breaking into a space station, and discovering the real reason they’re all there…
Packed with preposterous scenarios, quirky characters, and oodles of humour, The Left Hand of Dog tackles complex subjects such as gender, the need to belong, and the importance of honest communication. Perfect for fans of Charlie Jane Anders’ Victories Greater than Death – especially ones who enjoy endless references to Red Dwarf, Star Trek, and Doctor Who. This book will show you that the universe is a very strange place indeed.
Warnings: anaphylactic shock, minor injury to a dog, this book is not for TERFs.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Startled by the sound of movement behind me, I whirled around to face three … they had to be children in bunny costumes. ‘What?’ That’s what they had to be, right? I mean, they weren’t actually rabbits. Definitely not. For one thing, they stood upright. Real bunnies don’t normally do that, do they? For another, they were about the size of Spock.
But the costumes looked real in that no skin showed through – not even on their faces – and I couldn’t see any zips. Also, I was pretty sure rabbits didn’t come in pastel rainbow colours. Actually, they reminded me of a toy I’d had as a child. Bunnyboo, I’d called it. Four-year-old me was terribly inventive.
‘Check out your floopy-floppy ears! How adorable are you?’ Nervous sarcasm still intact then.
I was nauseated enough that shaking my head seemed like a bad idea. ‘It was beer I had last night, right? Not, like, psychedelic mushrooms? Maybe some natural tree spore that makes a person have trippy visions?’ No one answered me. Or even looked at me.
Spock sat neatly and dropped her brain in my lap. She lifted a paw towards the nearest of the bunnyboos – for want of a better word. The creature’s mint green fur matched the emerald hue of its humongous Disney princess eyes. ‘Yip,’ said Spock in her smallest, most polite voice.
This is not happening. I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Something.
Pulling a device from a holster like a carpenter’s apron, the bunnyboo pointed it at Spock. Or maybe it was merely reading what was on the screen – if it even had a screen. Who was I kidding? I had no idea what they were doing.
Another, slightly taller bunnyboo – this one periwinkle blue with eyes like Wedgewood plates – stepped forwards and ‘spoke’ to Spock as well. That is, its mouth moved and Spock’s full attention was on it. But no sound emerged. Spock yipped again in response to whatever it was I couldn’t hear.
Spock pointed at me with her long, sable nose then looked back at the bunnyboos and emitted a low noise, not quite a growl.
‘Would someone please tell me what the bollocking pufferfish is going on here?’ I demanded. Okay, not demanded. Requested. Well, pleaded. Whined, maybe. Whatever verb it was I verbed, no one paid me any heed.
The bunnyboos of my strange hallucination were too deeply engrossed in their silent conversation with my very real dog to spare me any of their attention. It was like watching a TV on mute – except I could hear movements and breathing and the sound of my heart beating a drum on the inside of my chest.
After a few further moments of this bizarre fever dream, Spock leapt down out of the coffin and turned to face me. She sat on her haunches and looked me in the eye. Then she lifted one paw at me in a clear imitation of the ‘stay’ command I used with her.
A bunnyboo with heather purple fur lowered a rope lead over Spock’s head. Spock stood and followed them from the room.
‘Where are you taking my dog, you fluffy bastards?’ I clambered out of the coffin-bed and scrabbled after them as fast as my besocked feet would carry me. But the thick metal door slid shut seconds before I got to it.
I pounded impotently on the door, screaming, ‘Spock! Come back. Don’t let those fuzzy arseholes hurt you.’ Unable to find a door knob or control panel or anything, I leant against the wall next to the door and slid down until I landed on my arse. I shivered and hugged my knees to my chest.
Why can’t I wake up? Letting my head fall forwards, I cried for a bit, whimpering Spock’s name periodically.
Author Bio
SI CLARKE is a Canadian misanthrope who lives in Deptford, sarf ees London. She shares her home with her partner and an assortment of waifs and strays. When not writing convoluted, inefficient stories, she spends her time telling financial services firms to behave more efficiently. When not doing either of those things, she can be found in the pub or shouting at people online – occasionally practising efficiency by doing both at once. As someone who’s neurodivergent, an immigrant, and the proud owner of an invisible disability, she strives to present a diverse array of characters in her stories.
Lee Hunt has a new fantasy audiobook out in his Dynamicist Trilogy: Herald. And there’s a Giveaway!
Robert thought becoming a dynamicist would enable him to change the world, starting with saving all his friends from being slaughtered. He was wrong.
Acts of genuine creativity used to bring mortal punishment. But now, wizardry is dead and Robert, Koria and Eloise live in a world where change and invention is possible.
Robert hopes that mathematically-framed dynamics will enable him to change the new world. But he keeps having prophetic dreams where his friends are all murdered by a mysterious cloaked man, and the grain protestors are more menacing than ever. They declare dynamics is dangerous and that the changes must stop. They are right about one thing: dynamics is dangerous, especially for someone so hopeful, angry and impetuous as Robert.
Soon Robert’s horrific nightmares come true and a cloaked man appears on campus, stalking and murdering students –his friends are next.
Desperate to change the future, Robert recklessly pushes the bounds of both dynamics and reason. Every crushing failure dampens Robert’s hope for the future and pushes him a step closer to the powerful, nihilistic, and merciless Lonely Wizard.
Series Blurb:
Would it kill you to create something genuinely new? In Robert’s world, it used to. Supernatural vengeance for invention is now a thing of the past.
Young, optimistic, quick of mind and quick to act, Robert thinks being invited to the New School is an invitation to change the world. But change is difficult when there is no history of innovation.
He is initially successful in his studies, but nothing is as simple as he naively imagines. His classmates confuse and frustrate him. One is a drunk, while another two constantly stalk him. Is it for love or something more sinister?
Robert’s optimism is further tested by protestors who circle the campus, decrying the newly invented breed of grain. They claim it is poison and that the New School should be punished by Nimrheal, the god who formerly murdered inventors. Robert suspects foreign business influences are behind the protests, but he quickly finds that investigating their cause is dangerous.
Robert’s most difficult challenges are his unresolved childhood issues. His mother died while he was a child. Robert’s formative helplessness and inability to remember her face projects into a powerful and blinding protectiveness towards all women. When a campus assault pushes Robert over the edge, his hopes of even staying at the New School are jeopardized. He cannot aspire to change the world if he does not even know himself.
At the same time as Robert struggles on campus, a powerful, ruthless and emotionally closed man known only as the Lonely Wizard journeys across an empty wilderness to return home. As Robert and the Lonely Wizard move closer together, Robert finds that instead of entering a golden era of invention, he may instead be on the brink of a cold war and an endless, unchanging dark age.
Davyn’s whistle tore the air again, but someone lunged at him and the big man stumbled and swallowed the thing. He staggered back, choking.
Whesplurgh!
“He is liar!” roared one of the bald, stocky men in his thick accent, pointing at Endicott. “We’ll beat the truth out of him!” He stepped forward and began drawing his sword.
Cyara rallied from her shock. “No one beats anyone here!”
His bald, stocky companion pushed Cyara roughly, and she stumbled backwards into the crowd. This was too much for Endicott. His heart leapt, and without thinking, he grabbed the heavy iron bacon pan and swung it, bacon-outwards, at the thug who had struck Cyara.
Gong! Glahhr!
Bacon, grease, and pan connected ferociously, and as a unit, with the man’s rotund head, knocking him heels over cartwheeling head to the ground. His sword clattered to the floor. The other bald man came on, lunging with his sword. Endicott turned the blade aside with the pan and tried to step back, but he stumbled over Purple Hat, who was arguing with someone else behind him. The swordsman saw his opportunity and rushed forward, sword raised for an overhead strike, but stopped short with a puzzled look on his fat face. Something had caught hold of his foot. It was Cyara. She had him by the ankle in a surprisingly strong grip.
Gong! Glahhr!
Endicott struck him in the face with the pan before the swordsman could kick Cyara loose. As his attacker fell back, Endicott looked for Cyara, but she was hidden by a shift in the crowd. Then he saw Davyn. His big friend was surrounded by a group of people who were trying to help him cough out the whistle. Endicott almost laughed and was about to return to the two bald protestors when he was savagely struck on the temple by a blow he did not see.
Author Bio
After having the Last Rights read to him at the age of twenty-five, Lee Hunt came to appreciate the power of catharsis. He was born on a farm with only one working lung but has gone on to become an Ironman triathlete, sport rock climber, professional geophysicist, and writer.
As a scientist, Lee has published close to fifty papers, articles, or expanded abstracts, has been awarded numerous technical awards, and was even sent on a national speaking tour. He enjoys discussing the amorality of science and is useful at parties in explaining the physics of whether fracture stimulation might be a risk to the fuzzy, cuddly things of nature. After 28 years trying to understand the earth as a geophysicist, Lee turned to writing fiction. He now spends time hiking, cycling, floundering in a lake, clinging desperately to a wall, or at his desk trying to write an entertaining story.
Please join me in welcoming Natalina Reis to the Land of Make Believe! She has stopped by to share her thoughts on writing outcasts and celebrate the release of her new MM gay/bi paranormal/urban fantasy romance, Of Magic & Scales book two: Of Scales and Fire. And there’s a giveaway!
Welcome, Natalina!
Natalina Reis on Writing Outcasts
I’m often accused of writing “weak” characters, immature and insecure. I admit, I often write characters riddled with doubts about themselves and how others feel about them. I also know my characters usually come off as being a bit childish either because of my penchant to use a lot of humor or because, well, they display a lot of insecurities. But I never write weak characters.
People normally equate being assertive and secure with being strong. To me what makes a person strong is the ability to face those things that make you uncomfortable or to soldier on when you’re afraid or anxious. Not much different from the definition of a hero. A hero is not someone who is not afraid but someone who acts despite being terrified.
Aiden, in the Of Magic & Scales series, is only sure about one thing: his sexual prowess. Other than that he second guesses himself at every turn including doubting that anyone could ever really love him. Does that make him weak or immature (well, he is immature by his own admission)? I beg to differ. Despite all his doubts, his fears, Aiden is always willing to risk it all for those he loves and willing to change and accept things he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—before. To me that’s the real challenge, to be able to surpass your fears and doubts and come up on top in the end.
My writer’s tagline reads “Writing romance for the misfits, the outcasts, and the lovers unafraid to go against the grain” and that’s exactly what you will find in all my books, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a FM romantic comedy, a romantic fantasy, a dystopian romance, or a MM paranormal. In each of my stories there is someone who struggles against his/her own doubts and limitations but does not let that stop him/her from achieving his/her goals.
Of Scales & Fire
The cast of supporting characters from Natalina Reis’s “Of Magic and Scales” are back and stronger than ever, and so are the pop culture references and silly jokes Aiden likes so much. As Aiden and his new family are joined by an unexpected antagonist that may yet prove to be their undoing, will their (un)domesticated new life as a couple be turned upside down?
Aiden Mercer’s life has changed dramatically since his days of being a man-whore, where he spent most of the time either running his coffee shop in sunny Portugal or man-watching at the beach. He now has Naël, a cranky merman to love and to hold, and his sister, Vee, and friends to care for. Life is good.
But life never seems to stop surprising the American ex-detective. A mysterious order of monks, a mermen poacher, shocking revelations about his parentage—and whoever is hunting him down—turn Aiden and Naël’s summer into one to remember. Or maybe one they’d rather forget.
It had become a running joke with us—the fact that I had no clue who or what I was. It was painfully obvious I was a magical of some kind, but no one seemed to be able to identify which one. I had lived my whole adult life thinking I was just a Joe Schmo, only to find out that was far from the truth. I was still pretty ambivalent about it. It was nice to have powers other humans could only dream of, but on the other hand, it also meant I was forever linked to a group of creatures I had fought so hard to stay clear of.
I pushed him away, pretending to be mad at him. “Well, I am very poorly acquainted with my own powers, and until I learn how to better control them, I’m not much help to anyone.” I took another quick peek at the couple now walking out the door.
Fouchard slapped me with the kitchen towel. “Those powers were what saved my sister two months ago.” It was true; I had helped rescue his sister from the hands of a serial killer bent on getting rid of all magicals who didn’t fit the traditional mold. My boyfriend took a couple steps until his lips hovered over mine, his heady scent invading all my senses. He was the one who held all the magic. “Stop being so down on yourself and own it. You do with everything else, why not with this too? It’s part of who you are.” True, except I really didn’t know who I was. Fuck, I didn’t even know my own birthday. “Besides, you have magic in those fingers of yours,” he whispered, a wicked smile spreading on his lips. “You’re a true sorcerer with that mouth.” He brushed a thumb along my lower lip. Then he looked down at my crotch and licked his lips. “And other magical parts.” He let it hang as he lifted his eyes to mine.
Author Bio
Natalina wrote her first romance at the age of 13 in collaboration with her best friend. Since then she has ventured into other genres, but romance is first and foremost in almost everything she writes. She’s the author of We Will Always Have the Closet, Desert Jewel, Loved You Always, and Lavender Fields.
After earning a degree in tourism and foreign languages, she worked as a tourist guide in her native Portugal for a short time before moving to the United States. She lived in three continents and a few islands, and her knack for languages and linguistics led her to a master’s degree in education. She lives in Virginia where she’s taught English as a Second Language to elementary school children for more years than she cares to admit.
Natalina doesn’t believe you can have too many books or too much coffee. Art and dance make her happy and she is pretty sure she could survive on lobster and bananas alone. When she is not writing or stressing over lesson plans, she shares her life with her husband and two adult sons.
Jeff Jacobson has a new queer YA urban fantasy romance out, Broom Closet Stories book 3: “The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow.” And there’s a giveaway!
What If an Evil Witch Was Controlling Your Thoughts Without You Knowing?
Soon after being whisked away to Seattle to live with an aunt and uncle he barely knew, Charlie Creevey learned that he hailed from a family of witches. After settling into this unfamiliar life, his feelings toward his new friend Diego Ramirez began to grow into something more serious. And if that wasn’t enough, he failed to stop the nefarious witch Grace and her cohort from using the dreaded deathcraft and killing his mentor Malcolm.
In Book 3 of this riveting series, Charlie discovers that Grace has gone into hiding and is acting behind the scenes. Able to influence minds in ways that were previously unheard of in the witching world, Grace compels Charlie to unwittingly do things like taking on the bullies at Puget Academy and lying to his family. The more Charlie believes he is acting of his own accord, the more Grace secretly rebuilds her strength and plots her comeback.
Will Charlie ever be able to overcome Grace and her coven? Or is Charlie destined to live life as a gay teen witch, shrouded by the evil veil of the deathcraft? And can he ever share his secret with Diego—or will he have to keep his identity as a witch hidden in the broom closet forever? Find out in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow.
High school life as a gay teenage witch is never easy. Ask Charlie Creevey, the boy who’s busy developing his witchcraft abilities while navigating romance with Diego Ramirez. Forget about focusing on schoolwork, too, thanks to an evil witch and her ilk who will stop at nothing to destroy everyone around them, including Charlie and his family, for power. All he wants is some normalcy… but will Charlie ever be able to share who he really is? Or must everything remain a secret?
From paranormal adventures and a whirlwind romance, to battling evil witches and a gripping conclusion, enjoy all the thrills and excitement, in the supernatural world of the Broom Closet Stories.
Giveaway
Jeff is giving away a $25 Amazon gift card to one lucky winner:
“JACK-O’-LANTERNS,” DIEGO WAS SAYING, the carving knife in his hand glinting in the dining room’s candlelight, “started as tiny squash containers to hold the coals from the fires built by the ancient Druids. Each household carried a coal home and used it to start a fire in their hearth. They believed this would bring them luck and blessings for the coming year.”
Beverly, Randall, Charlie, and Diego, along with Rita and Jeremy Lostich, sat together in the dining room at the house on Washington Street. The dining table, covered in layers of newspaper, was laden with mugs of hot apple cider for the boys and pumpkin IPA for the adults, plates of cake donuts, two bowls of roasted pumpkin seeds, regular and tamari-flavored, plates of Spanish tapas stuck with wooden skewers, and an array of pumpkins. The smells of cinnamon, apple, and clove, mixed with the raw scent of pumpkin flesh, hung above the carvers. In the background, vintage Halloween music from the thirties and forties by Cab Calloway, Rosemary Clooney, and the Bones Boys added to the holiday atmosphere. True to form, Amos wandered back and forth between the promise of warmth from the roaring fire in the fireplace and the possibility of a dropped piece of food near the table.
Charlie had scooped out the innards of his soccer-ball-sized pumpkin, wondering exactly what kind of face to carve. He watched Diego slice into the top of his mostly untouched pumpkin. He seemed more interested in educating the adults on the origins of Halloween than actually making progress on his jack-o’-lantern.
“I think it’s a cool tradition. I’d like to bring an ember from your fireplace home in my pumpkin tonight—if that’s okay with you,” Diego said, looking at Beverly and Randall. “It’s a thing we witches like to do.”
Jeremy, who at that moment had just taken a large swallow of pumpkin IPA, began choking on the liquid.
Rita set her knife down and patted her husband on the back as he coughed. “There, there, dear, you okay now?” she asked. Diego missed the smirks shared between the adults.
“Went (cough cough) down (cough cough) the wrong (cough) pipe (cough cough),” Jeremy managed to say.
With a final swat of her hand to his back, which nearly sent her husband sprawling forward on the table, Rita picked up the small craft knife again and made a tiny cut on the face of her pumpkin.
“Well, however the tradition started, I think this is a lovely way to spend an October evening together.”
The group voiced their agreement and continued to chat, carve and laugh together.
Charlie was about to ask Beverly if she thought he should carve a grinning mouth or something more sinister, when out of nowhere, his vision began to swim, followed by a blackening down his eyes and face, as if someone had poured a bucket of shadows atop his head.
The warm, festive dining room in which he sat, the place where he had eaten many meals at the house on Washington Street, disappeared. He felt a soft carpet beneath his feet. He was looking down at a glass coffee table, under which lay a teenage boy with short, dark hair. Blood coated his arms and cheeks, and his eyes were both tired and horrified. Next to Charlie stood Thomas, Tony, and Claudia, droplets of blood on their clothing.
Charlie burned with a hint of the same kind of bloodlust he felt when gripped by the deathcraft.
He wanted more. “No, please,” the boy begged.
“Don’t you mean ‘Yes please’?” asked Tony as he leaned down over the table. Charlie watched as blood dripped down Tony’s bare forearm.
“Wait!” he shouted in Grace’s voice.
It took him one horrific second to realize that he was inside of Grace, looking down at the boy through her eyes, before his head filled with memories that were neither Grace’s nor his own: walking hunched against the windy cold in downtown Seattle; seeing a dumpster fire; sitting in the backseat of a red Ferrari as Tony and Thomas drove up and over a hill; the two men and two glamorous and beautiful women surrounding him; sharp pain as a knife made gashes in his chest, his arms, his neck.
The personality and identity of the boy filled him: Tristan Cloud, a young teen from Olympia, who had run away from home because his father couldn’t accept that he was gay, hustling on the streets of Capitol Hill, dread in his gut turning to terror and helplessness as he realized what a bad decision he had made to get into the car that night. Then, a confusing mess of days that involved cutting, screams, cajoling, cruel laughter, and an overwhelming desire to fall asleep and be done with life.
It took Charlie a moment to figure out that the Fab Four were taking sips of Tristan’s life force, which gave them full access to the boy’s thoughts, memories and emotions. And because Charlie was linked to Grace via the deathcraft, he’d been yanked inside her once again.
“No!” Charlie shouted, standing up from the dining room chair on which he sat at the house on Washington Street.
Four adults and one teen looked at him, hands holding carving knives and drinks frozen in midair.
“Charlie?” asked Diego, confused. The adults were already looking at each other, already trying to communicate ideas and plans without Charlie’s boyfriend noticing.
He knew he had to say something. “No! I forgot the, uh …”
Desperate, he looked over the table for some excuse. Gutted pumpkins with carved faces stared at him, their insides in piles on the table, making his stomach turn. Candles, Halloween decorations, food … “The special decorations! I forgot the special, secret decorations!” he cried, looking hard at his aunt as he spoke. “Be right back!”
Author Bio
Jeff Jacobson was born and raised in Seattle and graduated in 1991 from the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Wash., with a degree in Asian studies and a minor in Chinese language (Mandarin). He works both as a coach and a trainer of coaches, and is passionate about how evolved leadership can help transform organizations, their clients, and even the world.
The Broom Closet Series emerged from a challenge/dare after Jeff Jacobson criticized other books for how they depicted witches (“Windswept hair… spells, always in Latin…” no, no, no). The friend he made these comments to called him out on his critique, noting that the authors wrote their books, not Jacobson’s. Could he write his own witchy books? In 2008, Jacobson decided to find out.
Already top sellers on Amazon, The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight and The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home chart teenager Charlie Creevey’s double coming out – as a young gay man, and as a witch. He lands in the hamlet of West Seattle and becomes part of the local coven, which he needs in order to fight off Grace, a murderous villain who’s killing teens to fuel her power and control. Jacobson picks up the thread yet again in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow as Charlie’s feelings for classmate Diego Ramirez deepen, and Grace’s pitiless murders terrify and threaten the community.
Please welcome first time guests, Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus.
They have a new sci fi/space opera book out, Virasana Empire: Dr. Laurent Book 1: “The PV-3 Mutagen.” And there’s a giveaway!
Blurb:
As a history scholar and courier for the secretive Circle of Thales, Rene Laurent is a man of many talents – none of them lending themselves much to a life of adventure.
But when a chance meeting with a young, idealistic Belligra priest drags him into a wild quest to keep a dangerous mutagen off the streets of Floor, his curiosity gets the better of him. Between monsters both human and man-made, he realises that maybe fieldwork is more of his game than he had ever thought possible…
Written by Rainbow-Award-winning authors Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus, ‘The PV-3 Mutagen’ is a colourful non-romance sci-fi adventure set in the wildly diverse ‘Virasana Empire’, and the first novel of the ‘Doctor Laurent’ series.
Warnings: Not a romance. Harsh setting, but hopeful.
There were five of them. At least, five that Rene was aware of.
He had spotted the three following him when he took the escalator to the bottom floor of the mall. He had originally planned to take the tube train to Cherry Hills, but instead he turned into the access tunnel that led up to the street, trying to shake them off. Judging by the two who were now cutting him off just ahead, that had been a bad idea. The tunnel they were in was sufficiently removed from the cheap glitz of the mall to be only dimly lit, and the only other person here was a woman pushing a shopping cart, purposefully hurrying away from the developing confrontation.
A quick look around showed Rene there weren’t any convenient emergency doors he could slip through, either. He was in trouble.
At least, they didn’t seem to be professional mercenaries, just some gangers, though they moved with too much purpose to be out simply to mug him. And no ganger deserving of their colours would mug a scruffy street rat like him, anyway. To them, he had to look like he didn’t have anything worth the trouble, as much a carefully crafted facade as laziness – he liked his comfortable rags a lot, thank you very much. So what did these particular thugs want from him?
And more importantly, how to get rid of them?
He was well aware that he didn’t stand a chance against them in a fight. Combat skills were at the bottom of the list of things he was interested in. Also, the mall was too cheap to have any sort of camera surveillance. It didn’t even have security guards though Rene doubted any would have come running if they had existed. He wasn’t a valued customer, and as long as the gangers didn’t make too much of a mess, no one would care.
The best course of action seemed to be to play the helpless victim and let them rough him up a little. It wasn’t like they would manage to inflict any lasting damage, anyway.
He had come to that conclusion when one of the thugs, whom Rene mentally labelled their ‘leader’, shoved him against the wall.
Rene turned to face them, clutching the stack of folders he was carrying to his chest protectively, trying to present a credible picture of being scared. The other thugs had formed a semicircle around him and their boss. Judging by the nasty grins of his ambushers, it wasn’t very hard to fool them.
“Gimme that,” the leader snarled and grabbed the folders.
They held the weekly update on the topside situation in this sector of Floor. Nothing too important, and certainly not irreplaceable. Rene had picked them up a few minutes ago at the office of the info broker the Circle of Thales was currently employing. He congratulated himself on not yet having picked up the datacrystal with the off-planet reports from the Beetle Shack under Cherry Hills. He had planned to do that on the way back down before having a lunch of lava beetle while he was there.
He let go of the folders with a strangled whine and cowered.
“Hank’s Beehive is off-limits,” the leader sneered, “didn’t you get the memo? He is about to shut down.”
So that was what this was all about. The info broker Rene had just visited had been in a turf war with another info broker two malls down the street for a while, but apparently, things were heating up. Not something he cared to get involved in even though Hank was a decent guy. Well, make that a decent guy for Floor.
“Can’t have that idiot handing out charity, can we? Not the Floorian thing to do, eh?” The leader clearly wasn’t expecting an answer as he rammed his fist into Rene’s stomach.
The punch drove the air out of his lungs and hurt like a bitch. Or rather, it hurt for the few seconds it took his body to repair the damage. Rene crumpled to the ground in a heap. If he looked sufficiently hurt, they would hopefully leave him alone quickly. And not search him. If they tried to take his phone, he would have to do something, though he admittedly had no idea what.
“You understand me, little shit? You stay away from now on!”
“Hey! Stop that!”
A voice ringing out loud and clear in the narrow tunnel rudely interrupted the leader’s little speech.
Rene glanced up through his long hair hanging in his face and did a double-take. The tunnel leading back towards the mall was almost filled out by a tall figure in heavy, plate armour, wielding both a broadsword and a fucking tower shield so large he could completely hide behind it. The symbol on his surcoat and shield was unmistakable – Temple Belligra, the Fist of the Church. It was about the last faction Rene wanted to have get involved in this minor scuffle.
Priests were infamous for poking their noses where they didn’t belong. Luckily, they were rare on Floor. Yes, they had a few Verata, but they mostly remained inside their Fort Phosphoros Monastery. The occasional Jansahar only paid attention to the local flock who worshipped at the small shrines they kept all over the planet. Both groups were easy enough to evade for someone who didn’t need supernaturally talented people scanning them and finding out they were an unregistered psion.
But seriously, a Belligra? There were no faithful in need of protection here on Floor, mostly because there were no faithful here. Floor prided itself with being the most secular planet of the empire, and it was a reputation hard-won.
But apparently, this particular Belligra was set on rescuing him.
Excerpt 2 – Confrontation
Riccardo was prowling towards them, now, with his sword drawn, cutting quite the figure in his bulky armour. He looked like he might be able to hack the probably armoured limousines to pieces. Rene followed him at a safe distance.
The driver of the front limousine was standing next to the access console of the garage’s roller gate. He must have noticed Riccardo already, because he was staring straight at him, like a rabbit frozen in an oncoming car’s headlights.
“What are you waiting for?” An angry voice came from the open backseat window of his limousine. “Open the fucking gate and get us out of here!”
“You will not touch that console,” Riccardo commanded, his voice booming in the harsh acoustics of the garage. “Back away from the glider, get on your knees, and fold your hands behind your head.”
Riccardo was halfway across the garage from the gliders, so the driver would have had time to press the button to open the gate and hide in his armoured vehicle. Instead, he hectically looked back and forth between the approaching Belligra and the open window behind which his boss must be. He took a tentative step away from the console.
“Don’t you dare!” the voice from inside the limousine yelled, now even angrier. “I won’t just fire you, I’ll make sure you never find a job on all of Floor again, you ungrateful son of a bitch!”
Rene was beginning to see why everyone they had met so far hadn’t shown a shred of loyalty towards Mr Gutierrez, assuming that was him. The driver came to the same decision as his expression shifted from insecurity to grim resolve. He firmly stepped away from the console and the glider, got on his knees demonstratively facing away from both and folded his hands behind his head.
“Claude! Claude, you do it!” the man in the limousine screamed, “You drive the limousine!”
“Mr Gutierrez, I am not licensed to…” another shaky voice, also inside the limousine, answered.
“I don’t care! We have to…”
He was cut short as Riccardo arrived at the limousine, reached through the rear window and – judging from the choked yell – grabbed the man inside by the throat and shook him none too gently. “You’re not going anywhere!” Riccardo snarled, “You will face your crimes like an adult. You have sinned and God has sent me to exact punishment!”
Not exactly how Rene would have phrased it, but certainly impressive. If this was the man in charge, he deserved everything Riccardo was going to do to him.
The backseat window of the second limousine whirred down and a haggard woman in her fifties looked out. She was wearing her blonde bleached hair messily piled on top of her head and an expression of haunted horror on her face. “I confess!” she proclaimed loudly, “I confess everything. We have done wrong! All of us! This whole project is…”
“Shut up, Gabriella!” another female voice from inside her limousine interrupted her, “Shut the fuck up, you’re burying all of us!”
“You don’t understand!” Gabriella turned back to her colleague, “Don’t you see it? God has sent…”
“God has better things to do than…”
“Silence!” Riccardo’s thunderous voice echoed in the garage, followed by exactly that. “Everyone step out of the gliders,” Riccardo ordered at a much lower volume. “Do not resist or I swear by God, I will cut in half anyone who does.”
Gabriella yanked open the door of her glider and scrambled out so quickly, she stumbled and lost her footing, ending up on her knees. She quickly decided that it was a great position to be in and copied the driver of the first limousine, folding her hands behind her head. She was wearing a long, green lab coat. The technician by the elevator had mentioned Mr Gutierrez being in the company of scientists, so Rene guessed she was one of those. Her name tag identified her as Dr Gabriella Sanchez.
She was followed more slowly by another woman, this one in her early thirties, with perfectly coiffed, red locks, wearing too much makeup on her admittedly pretty face, and the same green lab coat. Her name tag said Dr Jada Shekyim. She looked down at Gabriella disdainfully and remained standing, studying Riccardo with an aloof expression. The limousine’s driver exited as well and calmly joined his colleague on the floor. The last one to emerge was another scientist in a lab coat, a man with obvious cybernetic enhancements to his left eye, evidenced by metal elegantly merged to skin around it and several dataports on the same side of his shaved skull. His name was Dr Silas Bisgaard. He looked mostly bored of the whole episode.
The passengers of the first limousine weren’t as cooperative. Rene had no clear view of what was going on inside, but from the sound of it there was a scuffle going on, with Riccardo holding on to – probably – Mr Gutierrez.
Then the other passenger door opened and a young man spilled out, scrambling away from the car hurriedly. Early twenties, cheap suit in last season’s style, a mop of tousled, brown hair, glasses clutched in one hand. Claude, Rene guessed, and by the look of him, Mr Gutierrez’s personal assistant. That finally stopped the struggling inside the limousine.
“Let go of me, you brute,” Mr Gutierrez grunted.
“Are you ready to obey?” Riccardo asked.
“I comply under duress.”
Why he thought that would mean anything to Riccardo, Rene had no idea. But it certainly sounded like company speak. Riccardo withdrew his hand and the door opened. Mr Gutierrez stepped out in as dignified a manner as he could under the circumstances and made a show of straightening his tailored designer suit. Around forty, carefully groomed from his slick black hair, over his thin moustache, down to his shiny, black shoes, probably made from real leather. Everything about him screamed upper management position. Not rich or powerful enough to get away with wearing whatever eccentric shit he pleased, but with enough disposable income to show off.
He glared first at Riccardo, then at the drivers, the scientists, Rene, and finally at Claude, who was coming around the glider to where Riccardo could see him.
Claude shrank from the baleful glare of his boss, but he was the only one to react.
“Mr Gutierrez,” Riccardo addressed him coldly, “you and your company have committed severe sins against the order God has given our universe by messing with his designs in ways that endanger innocents and pose incalculable risk to humanity as a whole.”
Mr Gutierrez scoffed at the accusation, but Riccardo’s phrasing gave Rene an idea. He pulled out his phone for some quick research.
“You have broken into our building and are threatening me and my employees with violence,” Gutierrez wasn’t backing down. At least, he was doing it from a reasonably safe distance and not getting right into Riccardo’s face. “I’m going to sue you and your Church! You will pay for this…”
“A Belligra can not be charged with forced entry, property damage, assault or manslaughter crimes when on a mission for the Temple,” Riccardo cited in turn. “I have every right to be here.”
“What? A thug like you has no right to lay a finger on me!”
Riccardo leaned in close, threatening Gutierrez with his sheer physical presence. “Go ahead. Give me a reason,” he quoted Lady Rage’s catch phrase when she was dealing with stubborn officials.
Gutierrez had obviously seen a few Lady Rage movies too, judging from the way he instantly recoiled.
“I believe he is right, Mr Gutierrez. Temple Belligra has special rights,” Claude supplied helpfully.
“That’s ludicrous!”
“If you think that is ludicrous you will like this even less,” Rene chimed in, having finally found what he had been looking for. “Imperial Decree #354.223 states that the Church, in their sacred mission, is exempt from several prosecutions, citing that, among others, Temple Belligra cannot be charged with anything concerning the actus reus of manslaughter, assault, property damage, forced entry and trespassing. Also, and I think this might be of more relevance to the matter at hand, as stated in the bannbulle ‘De sacris separatio Anima et Materia‘, the Church has banned all experimentation touching in any way the supernatural abilities of any creature, except for cases explicitly waived after church examination.“
Everyone was staring at Rene as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head, like he was now the most dangerous thing in the room, not Riccardo.
“That’s from the Fort Phosphoros netsite, by the way,” Rene added gleeful.
“Well, shit, we’re fucked,” Dr Bilsgaard commented dryly.
“Why didn’t the legal department check this beforehand?” Dr Shekyim turned on Mr Gutierrez. “You’re telling me I have invested months in this project to have it yanked from under my ass by some robed freaks?”
“I told you what we were doing was wrong,” Dr Sanchez whimpered from the floor, “That we shouldn’t mess with…”
“You scared, little bitch! What I have accomplished is unparalleled. Once we moved to human applications we could have…”
“Silence!” Riccardo bellowed again.
Author Bio
We are Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus, a couple currently living our happily ever after in the very heart of Germany, under the stern but loving surveillance of our cat.
Both of us are voracious but picky readers, we love telling stories and drinking tea, good food and the occasional violent movie. Together, we write novels of adventure and romance, hoping to share a little of our happiness with our readers.
An artist by heart, Beryll was writing stories even before she knew what letters were. As easily inspired as she is frustrated, her own work is never good enough (in her eyes). A perfectionist in the best and worst sense of the word at the same time and the driving creative force of our duo.
An entertainer and craftsman in his approach to writing, Osiris is the down-to-earth, practical part of our duo. Broadly interested in almost every subject and skill, with a sunny mood and caring personality, he strives to bring the human nature into focus of each of his stories.
Colin D. Vaughn has stopped by the Land of Make Believe for a quick chat plus a giveaway to celebrate his new release, Expression: Telepaths Rising. Welcome, Colin!
Exclusive Interview
AQG: Would you visit the future or the past?
CDV: As a writer of science fiction I know I’m probably supposed to pick the future, but I think I would visit the past. Specifically, I’d probably go to the Roman Empire during the Pax Romana. I’ve always had a strong interest in the time period and even studied Classics in high school.
This interest is reflected in my book by the questions that try to wrestle with. What does it mean to be a citizen? What’s good government? What’s it like to live in a world where you feel like anything is possible?
Also, classism and elitism are important themes to my story. What social stratum would a telepathic segment of the population occupy? While it’s easy to imagine them as an elite, and they are to a significant extent in the first book, I also wanted to show an Earth where that’s not universal, accepted or enduring. Even having a significant advantage over others is not necessarily enough to keep one from being relegated to an oppressed class.
Tying that back to history and the Roman Empire, it’s informed my writing with respect to issues of class. It’s allowed me to complicate things in a way that I find more interesting.
AQG: Complicate things how?
CDV: Well, I’d read recently that archaeological finds has changed the way some historians think of slavery and class in the Roman Empire. There seems to be evidence that movement was a lot more fluid and complex than previously believed. A person of that era might reasonably aspire to a full citizenship no matter how “low” their origins. They might have dreamed (however realistically) of a citizenship rooted not in race or pedigree but in the adoption of a way of life. Or, in a darker way, what would society be like in a place where one slave could own another slave?
For me, as a Black American, that’s a far more interesting view of society and oppression than the American experience which was far more rigid. In other words, for my story, if telepaths are oppressed somewhere, how might that look if it wasn’t a formal, legalized system – less America or South Africa and more Roman. What if it was a system based on the vagaries of individual treatment and local mores? And how might individuals act in a world where anything goes and anything is possible, for good or ill?
Colin D. Vaughn has a new queer multi-racial sci fi book out: “Expression: Telepaths Rising.” And there’s a giveaway!
It’s the year 2113. Telepaths are real. They’re exalted. Feared. Hunters. Hunted. Kingmakers and slaves. With his expression, Ken is catapulted into the ranks of a tiny elite. With immense telepathic potential, he will have to learn how to use his powers and whom to trust. And quickly. Because there are enemies, both within and without, and they’re not going to wait.
Tarrington placed his datapad on the table. “This begins the psychic assessment of Kenneth Jared Kawashima. Nigel Tarrington, Authorized Facilitator of the Ministry of Citizen Services and Mauricio Vargas, an Authorized MCS Liaison from the Ministry of Psychic Affairs, presiding. Also in attendance are the subject’s father, Takahiro Kawashima; mother, Claire Alma Reed; and sister of minor age, Stephanie Fusako Kawashima.”
Tarrington turned to me: “Kenneth, pursuant to the Telepath Registration Act, as a suspected telepath you are required to undergo psychic assessment. You may not decline, delay or obstruct this hearing in any way. You may, however, have the presence of counsel at this proceeding. If you do not have one available to attend within 24 hours, one will be provided to you by the Ministry. Please touch the datapad and state whether you request or waive counsel.”
All of this was rather pro forma – I was surrounded by my family and it wasn’t as if a lawyer could stop or save me from this process. Not that I wanted it to stop. I touched the pad. “I waive counsel.”
The datapad chirped: “Identity confirmed. Waiver of counsel acknowledged.”
Tarrington turned to my parents. “Please touch the datapad to confirm that you have no objection to this proceeding, its recordation, or your son’s waiver of counsel.”
My parents touched the pad and it chirped: “Identities confirmed. Acknowledgements confirmed.”
Tarrington smiled, “Well, now that all that fussy business is complete. I will turn things over to Mr. Vargas.”
Vargas smiled at me, and then, clear as a bell in my head, I heard him sing a jaunty tune: I am the very model of a modern major general. I am the very model of a modern major general.
I laughed and asked him, “So you’re a general, eh?”
He smiled: No, more like a lowly foot soldier, little brother. Ask me a question. In your head – look into my eyes and say the words of your question one at a time. Remember, don’t speak.
I looked him straight in the eyes and thought: Where. Are. You. From?
Honduras. Suddenly I could see a wide stretch of forest, leading to deeply forested mountains, their tops veiled in low-lying clouds. Though I knew I was still crouched on the floor of our living room, I cool also feel moist spongy earth under my feet, a cool breeze across my cheek. This is my home. Well, actually, my hometown is the metropolis of Gracias a Dios, but the rainforests on the outskirts are what I think of as “home.”
For a moment, I almost felt like it was my home, too. I, who had only ever left Tennessee for our family’s annual trip to the Japan Territory, almost ached to return and hike those forests. Gracias a Dios. Thank you.
It wasn’t until Vargas smiled and said aloud: “My pleasure” that I realized that I had spoken to him mind-to-mind again, but in a natural, almost instinctual, way.
Was this what it meant to be a telepath? This incredible sharing, this intimacy? I felt as if Vargas – no, Mauricio– was some long-lost friend. Could he sense the same about me? I was just about to ask him for more when Tarrington clapped his hands once and said, “I take it that it was a success? He’s a true expressive?” I came to and looked around. My family was just staring at me. At me and Mauricio.
Mauricio nodded, then reached and touched the datapad: “Confirmed that subject’s telepathic gene has expressed, as verified through the receipt and transmission of audio, visual and tactile stimuli between subject and myself.”
Tarrington said: “Excellent! Now, Ken… I may call you ‘Ken,’ yes? . . . You understand that you will be more fully and properly assessed by the Psych Ministry at a later point?” I nodded. He then continued, “However, for myMinistry’s purposes an initial, somewhat rough assessment is necessary. Mr. Vargas will perform this. I am sorry for any discomfort.”
Mauricio then said aloud: “Ken, I will now force myself onto you” – at my sister’s gasp, he addressed everyone and continued – “in a very safe and controlled way, I assure you all. Though unpleasant, I will not harm Ken, I promise you.” Then turning to me: “Ken, what you must do is push me away. Pretend there’s a door that you’re trying to push closed. Or pretend there’s a pot on a heating unit bubbling over that you need to slam a lid onto. Or think of it however you think right – trust your instincts. OK, here goes.”
Then, before I could even begin to ponder what Mauricio was getting at, I saw his green light brighten and felt him touch me as he did before, but somehow both heavier and louder than before. Where before I felt like I was sharing with Mauricio, walking in his shoes, I now felt like he was walking on me. Instead of beautiful forests, I saw a man wielding a leather strap. The man – Father! – started hitting me over and over with the strap, shouting. It hurt! God, had this really happened to Mauricio? Or was this all part of the test? I couldn’t imagine my own gentle father or mother (however strict) ever acting so. But – ow! – the bastard kept hitting me! And I felt so angry, that he was hitting me, that he might possibly once have beaten my friend this way. I jumped up and yanked the strap from him. I then pushed him and lashed the strap across his face. He started to back away and I lunged after him hitting him again and again with the strap…”
Author Bio
Colin is a Midwesterner by birth who lives in Washington, D.C. with his husband. Lawyer by day and aspiring writer by night (and lunch break). Since discovering Asimov and Tolkien as a child, he’s had a lifelong love of science-fiction and fantasy. And he has enjoyed the explosion of wonderful stories featuring fellow LGBT and people of color.
But the more he read, the more he realized that he had his own tales he wanted to tell. And themes he wanted to explore – power and temptation, social progress, the fall of civilizations, ways to love, futurism, beloved community, and many more.
