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His American Detective by Summer Devon
Summary:
Victorian Gay Detective #1
The sole survivor of his family’s gruesome murder years earlier, “Poor Little Ned Lawton” has struggled to put the dark events behind him. So when a brash New York detective darkens his doorway demanding an interview, the wealthy young gentleman immediately shuts him out. But a rash of murders in America are mirroring of the London killings, and Patrick Kelly knows Ned might be the key to stopping the bloodshed.
Lawton, now called Edmund Sloan, is a wealthy young gentleman and philanthropist. He’s spent most of his life pushing all memories of his old family and that horrific day from his thoughts. Now a brash, provocative American detective insists he dredge up the past.
Together, Patrick and the unwilling Edmund must uncover the truth of the murders before the killer strikes again, whether it is in New York or London. As they hunt down secrets from his past, Edmund can’t hide his other secret from the sharp-eyed detective: the attraction he feels for men and the enticing Patrick in particular.
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Victorian Gay Detective
The Hunt by JM Dabney & Davidson King
Summary:
Disgraced detective turned private investigator, Ray Clancy, left the force with a case unsolved. Finding the killer was no longer his problem, but it still haunted him. How long would he survive the frustration of not knowing before he gave into the compulsion of his nature to solve the crime?
Server, Andrew Shay, existed where he didn’t feel he belonged, living behind the guise of a costume. Yet it paid the bills, and he refused to complain about the little things in life. One night he returned home from work to find his roommate dead and the killer still there. Afraid and alone, his life spiraled and he didn’t know what to do. Could a detective at his core and a scared young man join forces to bring down the killer in their midst?
The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
Summary:
Stoker & Bash #2
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Finding lost poodles and retrieving stolen baubles is not how DI Tim Stoker envisioned his partnership with his lover, Hieronymus Bash. So when the police commissioner's son goes missing, he's determined to help, no matter what secrets he has to keep, or from whom.
When a family member is kidnapped, Hiero moves heaven and earth to rescue them. Even if that means infiltrating the Daughters of Eden, a cult of wealthy widows devoted to the teachings of Rebecca Northcote and the mysterious contents of her box. The Daughters' goodwill toward London's fallen women has given them a saintly reputation, but Hiero has a nose for sniffing out a fraud. He will need to draw on some divine inspiration to rattle the pious Daughters.
Like weeds gnarling the roots of Eden's fabled tree, Tim and Hiero's cases intertwine. Serpents, secrets, and echoes from Hiero's past lurk behind every branch. Giving in to temptation could bind them closer together—or sever their partnership forever.
His American Detective by Summer Devon
Original Review September 2017:
Poor Little Ned Lawton became Edmund Sloan after being the only survivor when his family was viciously murdered. Patrick Kelly has come across the pond looking for clues that he thinks will help solve a series of murders in America that resemble the Lawton slayings. Naturally Edmund is not eager to revisit his past but he's not willing to let anyone else die if he can help. But will the answers they uncover help or destroy the new found connection between the two?
I have only read a few solo stories by Summer Devon but I have loved every one of them. She has a way of bringing history to life, letting the reader experience the era. His American Detective is no different. Along with the historical atmosphere I could feel Edmund's pain and Patrick's determination as well as their obvious attraction despite Edmund's denial. I won't lie, perhaps the story could have been a bit better had there been more detecting but it could have also made certain factors redundant so I was more than satisfied with the story as is. Her passion and respect for history comes through every page with the small details in every scene and each character's attitudes and emotions, and it's this kind of passion that makes His American Detective amazing and will keep you mind guessing even if you think you figured out(and you may have) there's more to keep your interest piqued right to the end.
Some might find Patrick's constant use of Ned when referring to Edmund to be a bit confusing or odd but truth is I've known more than one Edmund/Edward who used the nickname "Ned" so it never even occurred to me that it might be seen as odd. Also, I think it started out as Patrick's way of making sure Edmund realized what he lost and what was at stake in his quest for answers.
If you are in the mood for a good old fashioned mystery with just the right amount of romance then Summer Devon's His American Detective is definitely for you and I for one am intrigued to see what else she has in store for this new Victorian Gay Detective series.
The Hunt by Davidson King & JM Dabney
Original Audiobook Review March 2020:
There's really nothing I can add to my original review from 2018 as to the story, characters, plot, etc but I will say, knowing the ending didn't take away even a second of enjoyment or lessen my need to reach that end. The adrenaline rush was just as strong and had me on the edge of my seat listening to Ray and Andrew's journey the same as when I originally read The Hunt.
As for the narration, I can't say I have experience with either Kirt Graves or Tor Thom so I can't say for sure who voiced which character. I have to be honest, neither quite matched the voices I heard in my head originally but by the end of chapter 2, I realized they were a pretty perfect fit.
Overall, I can clearly and honestly say that though The Hunt may not make my annual re-read/listen list, I will definitely be enjoying both formats for years to come.
Original ebook Review September 2018:
Accused of something he didn't do, Ray Clancy opened his own private investigation office after leaving the force with a case of brutal killings unsolved. Andrew Shay returns to his apartment one night after work to find his roommate and friend killed and the killer still lurking. With the cops seemingly not doing everything they can, Andrew finds Ray and hires him. Will the disgraced cop and scared server be able to solve the mystery and find the killer before the killer finds them? Can one find happiness and love in the middle of such danger?
OMG!!! I am so not an "OMG" kind of gal so when I say "OMG" you know I really mean "O-M-G!!!" The Hunt is aptly named because there is hunting on all sides going on in the pages of this book. The Hunt is a murder mystery that is reminiscent of classic noir, from the characters to the crime to the scene setting, it has everything that takes a mystery one step further into that noir status. Okay, it may lack the femme fatale that is an almost must in noir, however Andrew sees himself at times as the helpless victim when he is in fact anything but helpless or victim and that is what helps complete the noir package for me.
Talking of Andrew, you can't help but love him. Yes, I want to wrap him in bubblewrap and tuck him away to keep him safe but he's stronger than he gives himself credit for which only adds to my love for him. As for Ray, well in my honest opinion he belongs right up there with Phillip Marlowe and Sam Spade and yes, I pictured Bogey from the getgo. Now I won't mention the cast of secondary characters because in doing so I think I'd risk too many spoilers, and that's something I don't do, however I will say that Bradford is delicious and I wouldn't mind seeing him get his own story down the road.
Collaborations can be tricky but when done right you can't tell who wrote what character because the styles mesh which is what Dabney and King bring us. Followers of my blog know that Davidson King, although relatively knew to the published world has shot near the top of my favorite author list, however I have never read JM Dabney before but I definitely look forward to checking out Dabney's backlist after reading this awesome tale. Together they bring you an incredibly fun(if "fun" is a word you can use for murder😉😉), mysterious tale of mayhem that you won't want to put down once you start, so if you only have 30 minutes you may want to wait to crack open The Hunt.
One final mention is to the cover. I don't usually give the cover much thought when doing a review because as great as it may be its not what sucks me into the story, I don't let the models or artist renderings of the characters influence how I picture them in my mind's eye. However, Morningstar Ashley has outdone herself with this cover. Frankly, the cover got me hoping this would be in the noir genre and the authors didn't disappoint(as I've said above) so this is a perfect cover for this amazing story. A true all around package of reading yummy-ness.
The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
Original Review November 2018:
DI Tim Stoker never saw lost pets and stolen trinkets in his future when he partnered up with his lover Hieronymus Bash so when his boss' son is missing, he jumps at the opportunity to find him. Hiero in turn is using everything available to find a family member who is also missing. When the Daughters of Eden come into the mix, will the two and their friends be able to work together to sniff out the fraud as well as find the missing persons? And what does it mean for Stoker and Bash, when their different tactics get in the way?
I don't often say this, and trust me when I say it because I am a HUGE series reader, The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree is even better than The Fangs of Scavo which is saying something because that was a pretty awesome read in itself. As fun as Stoker and Bash were when they met, watching them grow together(both good and bad) is even better. Don't get me wrong, they have a long way to go to truly find their HEA but with Fruit they are well on their way . . . eventually😉.
As for the case, well you know I won't touch on that because in a mystery every little tidbit can be a spoiler but I will say that the author kept me guessing right up to the big reveal. That doesn't happen very often, not because my ability of deduction is great but I've been reading/watching mysteries since before I knew what a mystery was which means I have seen pretty much everything when it comes to the "who done it?" genre. The mystery is a lovely blend of fiction and fact with amazing historical accuracies, yes a few liberties were taken but nothing that ruins the historical flavor of the story.
As for Stoker and Bash, well they are absolutely brilliant. Heat, both in actions and words, is never doubted but their ability to navigate each one's lack of willingness to talk about their pasts with the here-and-now left me in tears as well as giggles. As for their merry(or not-so-merry) band of comrades, they not only add to the detecting part of the story but the reader also sees just how they are more than allies, they have become a family. Hiero and Kip may have a long way to go before they are completely open with each other about everything they have seen and done that has made them who they are but in The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree they make giant leaps forward toward that goal. I for one can't wait to see what the future holds for these two and their family of misfits.
If you are asking me do you have to read The Fangs of Scavo first, I would say yes. The cases don't connect but the relationships are continuously growing and a few references are made to the Scavo case so not having read book one I feel would definitely leave you, perhaps not confused or lost but certainly missing something. Selina Kray is most definitely an author to keep your eye on.
RATING:
Summer Devon
Summer Devon is the pen name writer Kate Rothwell often uses. Whether the characters are male or female, human or dragon, her books are always romance.
You can visit her facebook page, where there's a sign up form for a newsletter (she'll only send out newsletters when there's a new Summer Devon or Kate Rothwell release and she will never ever sell your name to anyone).
JM Dabney
J.M. Dabney is a multi-genre author who writes Body Positive/Diverse Romance and Fiction. They live with a constant diverse cast of characters in their head. No matter their size, shape, race, etc. J.M. lives for one purpose alone, and that’s to make sure they do them justice and give them the happily ever after they deserve. J.M. is dysfunction at its finest and they makes sure their characters are a beautiful kaleidoscope of crazy. There is nothing more they want from telling their stories than to show that no matter the package the characters come in or the damage their pasts have done, that love is love. That normal is never normal and sometimes the so-called broken can still be amazing.
The author is Gender Nonconforming are uses the preferred pronouns They/Them.
Davidson King
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Selina Kray
Selina Kray is the nom de plume of an author and English editor. Professionally she has covered all the artsy-fartsy bases, having worked in a bookstore, at a cinema, in children’s television, and in television distribution, up to her latest incarnation as a subtitle editor and grammar nerd (though she may have always been a grammar nerd). A self-proclaimed geek and pop culture junkie who sometimes manages to pry herself away from the review sites and gossip blogs to write fiction of her own, she is a voracious consumer of art with both a capital and lowercase A.
Selina’s aim is to write genre-spanning romances with intricate plots, complex characters, and lots of heart. Whether she has achieved this goal is for you, gentle readers, to decide. At present she is hard at work on future novels at home in Montreal, Quebec, with her wee corgi serving as both foot warmer and in-house critic.
If you’re interested in receiving Selina’s newsletter and being the first to know when new books are released, plus getting sneak peeks at upcoming novels, please sign up at her website.
The Hunt by JM Dabney & Davidson King
Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 95% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M mysteries in no particular order. Mysteries of all sorts, different eras, different crimes, basically mayhem of all varieties perfectly blended with romance, drama, humor, and heart, creating unforgettable reads.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. I have also tried to include links to previous posts for those that are part of a series.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. I have also tried to include links to previous posts for those that are part of a series.
Summary:
Victorian Gay Detective #1
The sole survivor of his family’s gruesome murder years earlier, “Poor Little Ned Lawton” has struggled to put the dark events behind him. So when a brash New York detective darkens his doorway demanding an interview, the wealthy young gentleman immediately shuts him out. But a rash of murders in America are mirroring of the London killings, and Patrick Kelly knows Ned might be the key to stopping the bloodshed.
Lawton, now called Edmund Sloan, is a wealthy young gentleman and philanthropist. He’s spent most of his life pushing all memories of his old family and that horrific day from his thoughts. Now a brash, provocative American detective insists he dredge up the past.
Together, Patrick and the unwilling Edmund must uncover the truth of the murders before the killer strikes again, whether it is in New York or London. As they hunt down secrets from his past, Edmund can’t hide his other secret from the sharp-eyed detective: the attraction he feels for men and the enticing Patrick in particular.
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Victorian Gay Detective
Summary:
Disgraced detective turned private investigator, Ray Clancy, left the force with a case unsolved. Finding the killer was no longer his problem, but it still haunted him. How long would he survive the frustration of not knowing before he gave into the compulsion of his nature to solve the crime?
Server, Andrew Shay, existed where he didn’t feel he belonged, living behind the guise of a costume. Yet it paid the bills, and he refused to complain about the little things in life. One night he returned home from work to find his roommate dead and the killer still there. Afraid and alone, his life spiraled and he didn’t know what to do. Could a detective at his core and a scared young man join forces to bring down the killer in their midst?
Summary:
Stoker & Bash #2
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Finding lost poodles and retrieving stolen baubles is not how DI Tim Stoker envisioned his partnership with his lover, Hieronymus Bash. So when the police commissioner's son goes missing, he's determined to help, no matter what secrets he has to keep, or from whom.
When a family member is kidnapped, Hiero moves heaven and earth to rescue them. Even if that means infiltrating the Daughters of Eden, a cult of wealthy widows devoted to the teachings of Rebecca Northcote and the mysterious contents of her box. The Daughters' goodwill toward London's fallen women has given them a saintly reputation, but Hiero has a nose for sniffing out a fraud. He will need to draw on some divine inspiration to rattle the pious Daughters.
Like weeds gnarling the roots of Eden's fabled tree, Tim and Hiero's cases intertwine. Serpents, secrets, and echoes from Hiero's past lurk behind every branch. Giving in to temptation could bind them closer together—or sever their partnership forever.
Original Review September 2017:
Poor Little Ned Lawton became Edmund Sloan after being the only survivor when his family was viciously murdered. Patrick Kelly has come across the pond looking for clues that he thinks will help solve a series of murders in America that resemble the Lawton slayings. Naturally Edmund is not eager to revisit his past but he's not willing to let anyone else die if he can help. But will the answers they uncover help or destroy the new found connection between the two?
I have only read a few solo stories by Summer Devon but I have loved every one of them. She has a way of bringing history to life, letting the reader experience the era. His American Detective is no different. Along with the historical atmosphere I could feel Edmund's pain and Patrick's determination as well as their obvious attraction despite Edmund's denial. I won't lie, perhaps the story could have been a bit better had there been more detecting but it could have also made certain factors redundant so I was more than satisfied with the story as is. Her passion and respect for history comes through every page with the small details in every scene and each character's attitudes and emotions, and it's this kind of passion that makes His American Detective amazing and will keep you mind guessing even if you think you figured out(and you may have) there's more to keep your interest piqued right to the end.
Some might find Patrick's constant use of Ned when referring to Edmund to be a bit confusing or odd but truth is I've known more than one Edmund/Edward who used the nickname "Ned" so it never even occurred to me that it might be seen as odd. Also, I think it started out as Patrick's way of making sure Edmund realized what he lost and what was at stake in his quest for answers.
If you are in the mood for a good old fashioned mystery with just the right amount of romance then Summer Devon's His American Detective is definitely for you and I for one am intrigued to see what else she has in store for this new Victorian Gay Detective series.
The Hunt by Davidson King & JM Dabney
Original Audiobook Review March 2020:
There's really nothing I can add to my original review from 2018 as to the story, characters, plot, etc but I will say, knowing the ending didn't take away even a second of enjoyment or lessen my need to reach that end. The adrenaline rush was just as strong and had me on the edge of my seat listening to Ray and Andrew's journey the same as when I originally read The Hunt.
As for the narration, I can't say I have experience with either Kirt Graves or Tor Thom so I can't say for sure who voiced which character. I have to be honest, neither quite matched the voices I heard in my head originally but by the end of chapter 2, I realized they were a pretty perfect fit.
Overall, I can clearly and honestly say that though The Hunt may not make my annual re-read/listen list, I will definitely be enjoying both formats for years to come.
Original ebook Review September 2018:
Accused of something he didn't do, Ray Clancy opened his own private investigation office after leaving the force with a case of brutal killings unsolved. Andrew Shay returns to his apartment one night after work to find his roommate and friend killed and the killer still lurking. With the cops seemingly not doing everything they can, Andrew finds Ray and hires him. Will the disgraced cop and scared server be able to solve the mystery and find the killer before the killer finds them? Can one find happiness and love in the middle of such danger?
OMG!!! I am so not an "OMG" kind of gal so when I say "OMG" you know I really mean "O-M-G!!!" The Hunt is aptly named because there is hunting on all sides going on in the pages of this book. The Hunt is a murder mystery that is reminiscent of classic noir, from the characters to the crime to the scene setting, it has everything that takes a mystery one step further into that noir status. Okay, it may lack the femme fatale that is an almost must in noir, however Andrew sees himself at times as the helpless victim when he is in fact anything but helpless or victim and that is what helps complete the noir package for me.
Talking of Andrew, you can't help but love him. Yes, I want to wrap him in bubblewrap and tuck him away to keep him safe but he's stronger than he gives himself credit for which only adds to my love for him. As for Ray, well in my honest opinion he belongs right up there with Phillip Marlowe and Sam Spade and yes, I pictured Bogey from the getgo. Now I won't mention the cast of secondary characters because in doing so I think I'd risk too many spoilers, and that's something I don't do, however I will say that Bradford is delicious and I wouldn't mind seeing him get his own story down the road.
Collaborations can be tricky but when done right you can't tell who wrote what character because the styles mesh which is what Dabney and King bring us. Followers of my blog know that Davidson King, although relatively knew to the published world has shot near the top of my favorite author list, however I have never read JM Dabney before but I definitely look forward to checking out Dabney's backlist after reading this awesome tale. Together they bring you an incredibly fun(if "fun" is a word you can use for murder😉😉), mysterious tale of mayhem that you won't want to put down once you start, so if you only have 30 minutes you may want to wait to crack open The Hunt.
One final mention is to the cover. I don't usually give the cover much thought when doing a review because as great as it may be its not what sucks me into the story, I don't let the models or artist renderings of the characters influence how I picture them in my mind's eye. However, Morningstar Ashley has outdone herself with this cover. Frankly, the cover got me hoping this would be in the noir genre and the authors didn't disappoint(as I've said above) so this is a perfect cover for this amazing story. A true all around package of reading yummy-ness.
The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
Original Review November 2018:
DI Tim Stoker never saw lost pets and stolen trinkets in his future when he partnered up with his lover Hieronymus Bash so when his boss' son is missing, he jumps at the opportunity to find him. Hiero in turn is using everything available to find a family member who is also missing. When the Daughters of Eden come into the mix, will the two and their friends be able to work together to sniff out the fraud as well as find the missing persons? And what does it mean for Stoker and Bash, when their different tactics get in the way?
I don't often say this, and trust me when I say it because I am a HUGE series reader, The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree is even better than The Fangs of Scavo which is saying something because that was a pretty awesome read in itself. As fun as Stoker and Bash were when they met, watching them grow together(both good and bad) is even better. Don't get me wrong, they have a long way to go to truly find their HEA but with Fruit they are well on their way . . . eventually😉.
As for the case, well you know I won't touch on that because in a mystery every little tidbit can be a spoiler but I will say that the author kept me guessing right up to the big reveal. That doesn't happen very often, not because my ability of deduction is great but I've been reading/watching mysteries since before I knew what a mystery was which means I have seen pretty much everything when it comes to the "who done it?" genre. The mystery is a lovely blend of fiction and fact with amazing historical accuracies, yes a few liberties were taken but nothing that ruins the historical flavor of the story.
As for Stoker and Bash, well they are absolutely brilliant. Heat, both in actions and words, is never doubted but their ability to navigate each one's lack of willingness to talk about their pasts with the here-and-now left me in tears as well as giggles. As for their merry(or not-so-merry) band of comrades, they not only add to the detecting part of the story but the reader also sees just how they are more than allies, they have become a family. Hiero and Kip may have a long way to go before they are completely open with each other about everything they have seen and done that has made them who they are but in The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree they make giant leaps forward toward that goal. I for one can't wait to see what the future holds for these two and their family of misfits.
If you are asking me do you have to read The Fangs of Scavo first, I would say yes. The cases don't connect but the relationships are continuously growing and a few references are made to the Scavo case so not having read book one I feel would definitely leave you, perhaps not confused or lost but certainly missing something. Selina Kray is most definitely an author to keep your eye on.
RATING:
The Hunt by JM Dabney & Davidson King
Rudy had given me a strange look when I’d walked in a few minutes earlier and didn’t take my usual spot at the counter. I was still mentally processing the call I’d received from one Andy Shay. I’d done a quick search for him and found several social media profiles from different Mr. Shays, but didn’t take the time to do a more thorough investigation.
When he’d stated he’d witnessed a murder, I’d resigned myself to dealing with another crazy person, but then after Andy had explained, my tired brain had quickly put the pieces together.
Andy sounded young and justifiably scared. His voice was soft with slightly husky notes. I didn’t know why out of everything the kid’s voice is what I remembered most.
I raised my mug to my mouth and downed half of it, hoping the caffeine would wake me up. I should’ve slept. I’d spent most of the morning researching and hadn’t come up with one mention of similar crimes. Even if there was only one detail the same, I’d grasped at hope, only to be disappointed when the suspect was dead or imprisoned. I don’t know how I felt about that, but I didn’t have time to think too much about it.
I curved my hands around the mug and stared into the dark liquid. The bell going off over the door had me lifting my head. A thin man walked in with clothes that hung on his frame. As soon as I’d looked up our eyes met. There was no doubt in my mind that he was the one I was waiting for, and I slid out of the booth. I sensed the young man’s fear, so I patiently stayed still as he prepared to approach me.
Andy’s first few steps were cautious, as if he hadn’t made up his mind on whether I was an ally or foe. I knew that expression, I’d lost count of how many times I’d seen it over the years. Two decades of dealing with terrified and reluctant witnesses prepared me for anything.
“Mr. Clancy?”
I was slightly taken aback by the sound of that voice in person and blamed it on my lack of sleep. The kid was young, maybe mid-twenties.
“Call me, Ray. Please, take a seat.” I motioned at the bench and waited for him to slide into it. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Rudy, refill for me and another for my friend here.” Rudy smirked at me from behind the counter, and I knew what he was thinking. That was the farthest thing from the truth. I was impatient to find out what happened the other night, but I waited for Rudy to approach with the coffeepot and an extra mug.
“Does your date need a menu, or are you planning on being cheap, Clancy?”
“Rudy, don’t fuck with me today.”
The words must have come out harsher than I’d thought because I caught the kid flinching in my peripheral. Skittish. I was going to have to temper my normally gruff nature.
“Cranky,” Rudy muttered, and I waited for him to drop off the menu, then return to the opposite side of the counter.
I watched in horror at the amount of sugar the kid doctored his coffee with and tried to hide my disgust behind my own mug of straight, black coffee. The way coffee was meant to be drank. Andy’s hands shook, and if I hadn’t paid closer attention, I would’ve missed that. I warred with the decision to let Andy take the lead and start the conversation or broach the subject myself.
My curiosity won. “Why did you contact me?”
“I researched the case. A crime reporter, I can’t remember his name right now, well, he did some stories and your name was mentioned. Your name came up in several articles.”
“But why are you here? I’m not a cop.”
Those four simple words still stung my pride. I should be on the case. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t have caught the guy sometime in the last six months.
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Hieronymus Bash contemplated the question posed by the long, red-lettered banner that blazoned over the otherwise quaint fruit and vegetable stall. A sharp tug of the arm from Callie, his ward, brought him to heel. He’d already been struggling to match her brisk pace, having been dragged from his early afternoon repose in the cozy climes of his study into, of all things, the sunshine, or what passed for it on this weak-tea day.
Rays of piss-yellow sun trickled down over the city, tinting the fumes that oozed up from the Thames. Clouds of smog blurred the distant Albert Bridge into an impressionist’s nightmare. A growing crowd choked the small stage erected just before the river’s edge, scuttling in from both directions of Cheyne Walk like ants over a carcass. A bald man with a white mustache that flapped out to his ears checked his pocket watch for the fourth time since Hiero and his companions descended from their carriage.
At the far end of the stage, a squad of low-rank militia struggled to keep a path clear for the Duke of Edinburgh and his bride, Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia, only beloved daughter of Tsar Alexander II. The newlyweds were, in the timeless tradition of royals everywhere, unfashionably late to the opening of the Chelsea Embankment, the third and final stage of the sewage system that had transformed London’s riverside.
“Look, it’s Bazalgette!” Callie tugged him forward, doing a fine impression of an excitable hound.
“While I admire your enthusiasm, I do wonder if it’s not a tad misplaced.”
Callie scoffed. “Only you would prefer the arrival of some dippy duke over the architect of this entire endeavor.” She threw her free arm out wide. “Can you not spare a moment to admire this feat of engineering? In the place of muddy banks, pavement has been laid, a fence with lampposts erected, with gardens and greenery to come. And running beneath it, the waste of London, and soon an underground train! How can you be so trout-mouthed in the face of such marvels?”
“Not your most persuasive argument, comparing the face that dropped a thousand trousers to a fishmonger’s wares.”
Callie sighed, relinquishing his arm to chase after her muttonchopped idol. Hiero watched her go, marveling at how much she resembled her Uncle Apollo, Hiero’s long-deceased lover who had charged him with her care in character and spirit. Theirs was an unconventional household, where the lady moonlighted as a detective, the servants were part of the family, and the lord of the manor—Hiero himself—was neither a lord nor owned the manor.
“Come now.” Han, his friend and self-appointed keeper, fell into step beside him. The rhythmic taps of his lotus-headed walking stick slowed their pace to a stroll. “You’re no longer catch of the day with Mr. Stoker about.”
“Perhaps if he were about, someone would defend my honor.” Hiero bristled at the mention of his fair-weather paramour, Timothy Kipling Stoker, a detective inspector with Scotland Yard who shadowed them when there was a mystery to solve but otherwise preoccupied himself with... well, finding them another mystery. His dedication to duty exasperated.
“Not likely.”
“No, I rather thought not.” Hiero pressed a lavender handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Mr. Bazalgette’s innovations would have to work much harder to filter out nearly a millennia of filth, the river being a cesspit into which the city had poured every conceivable kind of rubbish, from human to animal to otherwise. A place where sins had been cast off and bodies buried. A few of Hiero’s personal acquaintance.
“Where has your Mr. Stoker taken himself off to this—” Han considered the urinal murk of the embankment and found himself at a loss of an adjective. “—afternoon?”
“I do not presume to know what impulses rule that man.”
“And yet you are the one who rides his... coattails.”
“Only when he deigns to undress for the occasion. Otherwise...” Hiero huffed, his mood irretrievably spoilt by this line of conversation. “I cannot think where I’ve gone wrong with him.”
“No?” Han evidenced something close to a smirk. “It wouldn’t have something to do with meddling in his work affairs, compromising his relationship with his superiors, forcing him into our fellowship, risking everything he holds dear, and then sharing nothing of consequence about yourself, now would it?”
Hiero peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing of the sort, I’m sure.”
“Ah. Well, then, it is a mystery.”
“Coo-coo! Mr. Han!” a voice trilled at them from behind.
With a pair of heavy sighs, they turned to heed an all-too-familiar call. A hand waiving a white handkerchief fluttered up and down amidst a dense crowd. A grunt from Han parted the sea of surging revelers to reveal Shahida Kala, the latest of Hiero’s charity cases, hopping with the vigor of a spring hare. Her compact figure contained a carnival of personality.
The instant this bright light had beamed into his study on the arm of her father—who served under Apollo in Her Majesty’s Navy—Hiero recognized her for one of the rare people who could steal his spotlight. So he had relegated her to the least enviable position in the household, that of nurse to Mrs. Lillian Pankhurst, Callie’s permanently indisposed mother. But the long days of attic dwelling and reading Richardson’s Pamela ad nauseam had not snuffed a single spark.
Instead Lillian had transformed from bed-ridden depressive into a semifunctional member of the family. Every morning she and Shahida took a two-hour stroll. They cultivated a rooftop garden. Shahida had imposed an afternoon tea regimen on their household, always leading the conversation as Hiero, Callie, and Han plotted ways to return to their preferred solitary occupations. Dinners were always a family affair, but Shahida’s insistence on more healthful, nourishing fare that conformed to Lillian’s new diet had Minnie, their cook, weekly threatening to resign. Callie was the only other member of the household resistant to her charms.
Even Han, cynical, monkish, seen-it-all Han, danced to whichever melody she played. Hiero watched as he bounded over to her, biting his lip at the comical sight of a surly giant bowing to the whims of a pretty imp, but also to keep from emitting a growl of frustration. He glanced back to search for Callie, but the crowd had swallowed her. By now she’d likely clawed her way to the front of the stage and barked questions at a baffled, bewhiskered Mr. Bazalgette, which Hiero thought should be his formal title.
Schooling his features, he joined Han and Shahida’s conversation in medias res and was somewhat aghast to discover them talking about produce.
“... the plumpest, juiciest berries. Artichokes the size of a fist. Fat aubergines and cabbages and cauliflowers, and cucumbers as long as...” Shahida pressed two fingers to her mouth. Hiero didn’t miss how her eyes flickered down. “Well.”
Shameless, that was the trouble. As if she’d snipped the best pages from his playbook and then had the temerity to improve on his notes.
Han chuckled. Chuckled! Hiero hadn’t seen his friend so much as shrug in all the time he’d known him.
“A religious order, you say?” Han asked.
“The Daughters of Eden.” Shahida leaned in, gave him her most conspiratorial smirk. “And I think they might be.” She didn’t even have the grace to straighten when she spotted Hiero. “Oh, Mr. Bash! Mrs. Pankhurst and I don’t mean to spoil your fun. But if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll stay here for a while. We’ve discovered the most—”
“Impressive cucumbers. So I heard.”
“Mrs. Pankhurst is just beside herself. We’ve big ideas for our garden, but this...”
Hiero was unmoved. “And what is it you want?”
“We’ve done our third crate and could fill two more. The crowd is bit much for Mrs. Pankhurst, so I thought Mr. Han might take us back to Berkeley Square? We’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“As it is my carriage, I rather think it will return for me regardless.”
That got her attention. “Of course. If you’d like us to stay—”
“Let us see these berries from heaven.” With a sweep of his hand, Hiero directed them back toward the stall that had earlier piqued his interest. “Their Majesties will wait upon our leisure.”
A long line of enterprising vendors hawked their wares along the edge of Cheyne Walk, hoping to entice royal watchers to purchase a bit of refinement for their life. One stall lined up its dainty little bottles of oils and perfumes like Russian nesting dolls. A mini royal portrait gallery sold likenesses of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their progeny in a variety of poses. The gentleman scooping iced lollies for the children had his work cut out for him on such a tepid day, Hiero thought. The pub with a street-side stand offering hot tea and cider already did brisk business. A few watercress girls fought against the crowd’s undertow, but their wares looked shriveled as seaweed compared to the glorious bushels of the Daughters of Eden.
Even Hiero had to admit, upon inspection, the quality of their produce astounded. Fat and luscious, their fruit allured like the bosom of an opera diva, ready to smother and enthrall. Their vegetable stalks evidenced a virility that would put most molly-houses out of business. Little wonder their customers meandered around the baskets like lovestruck swains. Their bounty conjured images of orgies culinary and carnal. Hiero didn’t doubt there were more than a few serpents lurking about this tiny Eden, eager to defile a peach or two.
All of this was overseen by a trio of women dressed in immaculate white uniforms that somehow defied the city’s grime. Hiero drifted away from his companions to better observe these wyrd sisters. The tallest was also the least remarkable, a stout but cheery woman with farm-worn hands and hard-earned streaks of gray in her brown hair. She milled through the customers, answering questions and nudging reluctant buyers toward the register.
A skittish dove of a girl dutifully kept the ledger and the cash box, cooing her thanks before slipping some sort of pamphlet into people’s baskets. Her crinkly hair had been woven into two winglike braids that perfectly framed her heart-shaped face. A sprinkling of dark freckles contrasted with her pale-brown skin, all but disappearing when she blushed.
Which she did whenever the third sister glanced her way. “Willowy” did not do this petite, flopsy woman justice. A willow branch would look as leathery and stiff as a whip compared to her wispiness. Near-translucent skin and stringy cornsilk hair completed the otherworldly effect. Hiero almost questioned whether she was really there, such was the nothing of her regard. She appeared to have no occupation other than to pose under the sign in a demure attitude. The crowds gave her a wide berth, and little wonder. Nobody wanted to mingle with a possessed scarecrow.
Except possibly meddlesome not-detectives stuck on a boring outing with friends who had abandoned him for some phallic parsnips and a walrus architect.
Just as Hiero made to pounce, the waif leapt as if lightning struck. Eyes ravenous, mouth agape, hair billowing in an invisible breeze, she stared into the buzzing hive of customers. Transformed in an instant from trinket to spear, her astonishment gave color to her cheeks and heft to her bearing. She appeared somehow taller, bolder, a colossal spirit crammed into a compact package: a genie unleashed from its lamp.
All the better to bedazzle you with, my dear, Hiero thought.
Hieronymus Bash, professional cynic, knew a performance when he saw one. He read again the red sign that screamed above her head: When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box? But there was no box he could see, and if this woodland sprite was Mrs. Northcote, he’d eat Han’s walking stick. These Daughters had lured in quite a crowd with their sensuous produce. Was she the serpent come to tempt them? And if so, to what end?
Hiero shuttered his natural radiance to watch the spectacle unfold. The pale sister glided, arms outstretched, into the maze of crates, eyes fixed on her prey. Hiero hissed under his breath when she stopped at Lillian Pankhurst. In a state of docile confusion at the best of times, Lillian continued sorting out a mess of string beans, oblivious to this starry-eyed suitor. Han, ever protective, moved to Lillian’s side just as the sister shrieked...
“Daughter! You are found!”
The woman at the ledger jumped to her feet. “Juliet?”
“I’ve heard your spirit call to us these long nights, and now you have come home!” Juliet continued at eardrum-splitting pitch, making herself heard to all in the vicinity and probably those across the Thames. “Welcome, Daughter, into Her grace and light! Welcome home!” She hugged a startled Lillian with impressive fervor for one so slender. Lillian, looking to Shahida for a cue, patted her on the back.
A frowning Han caught his gaze from across the way, but Hiero signaled he would play Polonius behind the curtain. Hopefully without the knife in his gut.
“Don’t fear, Daughter. You are among friends,” Juliet nattered on. “We have come to shepherd Her back to Eden through our good works, and, by your pallid cheeks and trembling hands, I can see that you are eager to play a part.”
“Oi!” Shahida hollered, shoving her way between Juliet and Lillian. “Mrs. Pankhurst gets three square a day, and her arthritis is much improved. I dare anyone here to say otherwise.”
“But her spirit, dear girl, droops like a flower too long out of the sun.” Juliet backed away a step to address the customers, every one of which stood rapt. “She knows how this frail woman has struggled. She has heard her prayers and her anguish. She has shone Her glorious light into her, lit her like a beacon for her sisters to find. She is a Daughter, called upon to continue Her good work and bring about a second Eden!”
Shahida let out a trill of laughter three octaves too high. It effectively pierced the balloon of hot air Juliet had been huffing and puffing.
“Angel with a flaming sword you’re not, ma’am. Sorry.” Shahida locked an arm around Lillian. “Stick to the fruit and veg.” A pointed look directed Han to escort their charge away.
“But I haven’t finished the beans...” Lillian muttered as they disappeared into the gaggle of onlookers.
“Shame!” Juliet bellowed, beseeching the yellow sky. “Shame! It is the burden of womankind.” The customers moved into the space vacated by his friends, and Hiero followed, curious as to how she would spin such a public defeat. “The prophet Rebecca Northcote warned against it in her great bible, The Coming of the Holiest Spirit. Too often we ladies wait upon the actions of others. Are made to feel shame and guilt and worthless when we do act. Allow others to lead us astray, away from the truth in our hearts. We pay the price for the sins of our fathers and brothers and husbands. But She... oh, She is coming to deliver us from these injustices, from our fears and torments. As our Holy Mother Rebecca divined, if we join together, Daughters, and build the garden, She will come to save us all. She will gift us with her light!”
“Amen!” the ledger-keeper cried, having abandoned her post to shove pamphlets into the hands of any who would take them.
“Thank you, Mother!” the other sister seconded, lifting a basket of golden pears for all to see.
Juliet scanned the crowd. “You reap of the bounty we offer, but you do not know of how we labor in Her name. To prepare for Her coming, our prophet Rebecca chose each of Her Daughters with care. And though a shame-filled few will deny Her, everyone is welcome to hear Her message and to contribute however they can.” Hiero swallowed a snicker as she gestured to the donation tin. So transparent. “If you are committed to peace and prosperity, if you would see heaven retake the Earth, then I invite you to heed our prophet Rebecca’s call. And She will shine Her light upon you for all the days of your life.”
Juliet seemed to resist taking a bow, but only just. She gave each customer a final angelic smile, then returned to her perch beneath the red sign. A few of the curious chased her with questions; a ragdoll sag and a vacant stare shut them out. Instead the ledger-keeper, who introduced herself as Sister Nora, gathered them around the donation tin before addressing any queries.
“And?” Han appeared beside him, sudden as Banquo’s ghost. “Showstopper or second-rate?”
Hiero rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Better than a pair of poncy royals cutting a ribbon, but only just.”
“Fit for a return engagement?”
“Perhaps. Their setup is commonplace, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Enough to en savoir plus?”
“Time will tell. You know how religion turns my stomach. But their focus on Lillian was...”
“Agreed. That Sister Juliet read her too easily.”
Hiero nodded. “Could have been instinct.”
“Or she saw a mark.”
They shared a look weighted by their years of friendship and experience, a partnership of equals who knew, without another word, how to protect their own.
Rudy had given me a strange look when I’d walked in a few minutes earlier and didn’t take my usual spot at the counter. I was still mentally processing the call I’d received from one Andy Shay. I’d done a quick search for him and found several social media profiles from different Mr. Shays, but didn’t take the time to do a more thorough investigation.
When he’d stated he’d witnessed a murder, I’d resigned myself to dealing with another crazy person, but then after Andy had explained, my tired brain had quickly put the pieces together.
Andy sounded young and justifiably scared. His voice was soft with slightly husky notes. I didn’t know why out of everything the kid’s voice is what I remembered most.
I raised my mug to my mouth and downed half of it, hoping the caffeine would wake me up. I should’ve slept. I’d spent most of the morning researching and hadn’t come up with one mention of similar crimes. Even if there was only one detail the same, I’d grasped at hope, only to be disappointed when the suspect was dead or imprisoned. I don’t know how I felt about that, but I didn’t have time to think too much about it.
Andy’s first few steps were cautious, as if he hadn’t made up his mind on whether I was an ally or foe. I knew that expression, I’d lost count of how many times I’d seen it over the years. Two decades of dealing with terrified and reluctant witnesses prepared me for anything.
“Mr. Clancy?”
I was slightly taken aback by the sound of that voice in person and blamed it on my lack of sleep. The kid was young, maybe mid-twenties.
“Call me, Ray. Please, take a seat.” I motioned at the bench and waited for him to slide into it. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Rudy, refill for me and another for my friend here.” Rudy smirked at me from behind the counter, and I knew what he was thinking. That was the farthest thing from the truth. I was impatient to find out what happened the other night, but I waited for Rudy to approach with the coffeepot and an extra mug.
“Rudy, don’t fuck with me today.”
The words must have come out harsher than I’d thought because I caught the kid flinching in my peripheral. Skittish. I was going to have to temper my normally gruff nature.
“Cranky,” Rudy muttered, and I waited for him to drop off the menu, then return to the opposite side of the counter.
I watched in horror at the amount of sugar the kid doctored his coffee with and tried to hide my disgust behind my own mug of straight, black coffee. The way coffee was meant to be drank. Andy’s hands shook, and if I hadn’t paid closer attention, I would’ve missed that. I warred with the decision to let Andy take the lead and start the conversation or broach the subject myself.
My curiosity won. “Why did you contact me?”
“I researched the case. A crime reporter, I can’t remember his name right now, well, he did some stories and your name was mentioned. Your name came up in several articles.”
“But why are you here? I’m not a cop.”
Those four simple words still stung my pride. I should be on the case. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t have caught the guy sometime in the last six months.
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Hieronymus Bash contemplated the question posed by the long, red-lettered banner that blazoned over the otherwise quaint fruit and vegetable stall. A sharp tug of the arm from Callie, his ward, brought him to heel. He’d already been struggling to match her brisk pace, having been dragged from his early afternoon repose in the cozy climes of his study into, of all things, the sunshine, or what passed for it on this weak-tea day.
Rays of piss-yellow sun trickled down over the city, tinting the fumes that oozed up from the Thames. Clouds of smog blurred the distant Albert Bridge into an impressionist’s nightmare. A growing crowd choked the small stage erected just before the river’s edge, scuttling in from both directions of Cheyne Walk like ants over a carcass. A bald man with a white mustache that flapped out to his ears checked his pocket watch for the fourth time since Hiero and his companions descended from their carriage.
At the far end of the stage, a squad of low-rank militia struggled to keep a path clear for the Duke of Edinburgh and his bride, Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia, only beloved daughter of Tsar Alexander II. The newlyweds were, in the timeless tradition of royals everywhere, unfashionably late to the opening of the Chelsea Embankment, the third and final stage of the sewage system that had transformed London’s riverside.
“Look, it’s Bazalgette!” Callie tugged him forward, doing a fine impression of an excitable hound.
“While I admire your enthusiasm, I do wonder if it’s not a tad misplaced.”
Callie scoffed. “Only you would prefer the arrival of some dippy duke over the architect of this entire endeavor.” She threw her free arm out wide. “Can you not spare a moment to admire this feat of engineering? In the place of muddy banks, pavement has been laid, a fence with lampposts erected, with gardens and greenery to come. And running beneath it, the waste of London, and soon an underground train! How can you be so trout-mouthed in the face of such marvels?”
“Not your most persuasive argument, comparing the face that dropped a thousand trousers to a fishmonger’s wares.”
Callie sighed, relinquishing his arm to chase after her muttonchopped idol. Hiero watched her go, marveling at how much she resembled her Uncle Apollo, Hiero’s long-deceased lover who had charged him with her care in character and spirit. Theirs was an unconventional household, where the lady moonlighted as a detective, the servants were part of the family, and the lord of the manor—Hiero himself—was neither a lord nor owned the manor.
“Come now.” Han, his friend and self-appointed keeper, fell into step beside him. The rhythmic taps of his lotus-headed walking stick slowed their pace to a stroll. “You’re no longer catch of the day with Mr. Stoker about.”
“Perhaps if he were about, someone would defend my honor.” Hiero bristled at the mention of his fair-weather paramour, Timothy Kipling Stoker, a detective inspector with Scotland Yard who shadowed them when there was a mystery to solve but otherwise preoccupied himself with... well, finding them another mystery. His dedication to duty exasperated.
“Not likely.”
“No, I rather thought not.” Hiero pressed a lavender handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Mr. Bazalgette’s innovations would have to work much harder to filter out nearly a millennia of filth, the river being a cesspit into which the city had poured every conceivable kind of rubbish, from human to animal to otherwise. A place where sins had been cast off and bodies buried. A few of Hiero’s personal acquaintance.
“Where has your Mr. Stoker taken himself off to this—” Han considered the urinal murk of the embankment and found himself at a loss of an adjective. “—afternoon?”
“I do not presume to know what impulses rule that man.”
“And yet you are the one who rides his... coattails.”
“Only when he deigns to undress for the occasion. Otherwise...” Hiero huffed, his mood irretrievably spoilt by this line of conversation. “I cannot think where I’ve gone wrong with him.”
“No?” Han evidenced something close to a smirk. “It wouldn’t have something to do with meddling in his work affairs, compromising his relationship with his superiors, forcing him into our fellowship, risking everything he holds dear, and then sharing nothing of consequence about yourself, now would it?”
Hiero peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing of the sort, I’m sure.”
“Ah. Well, then, it is a mystery.”
“Coo-coo! Mr. Han!” a voice trilled at them from behind.
With a pair of heavy sighs, they turned to heed an all-too-familiar call. A hand waiving a white handkerchief fluttered up and down amidst a dense crowd. A grunt from Han parted the sea of surging revelers to reveal Shahida Kala, the latest of Hiero’s charity cases, hopping with the vigor of a spring hare. Her compact figure contained a carnival of personality.
The instant this bright light had beamed into his study on the arm of her father—who served under Apollo in Her Majesty’s Navy—Hiero recognized her for one of the rare people who could steal his spotlight. So he had relegated her to the least enviable position in the household, that of nurse to Mrs. Lillian Pankhurst, Callie’s permanently indisposed mother. But the long days of attic dwelling and reading Richardson’s Pamela ad nauseam had not snuffed a single spark.
Instead Lillian had transformed from bed-ridden depressive into a semifunctional member of the family. Every morning she and Shahida took a two-hour stroll. They cultivated a rooftop garden. Shahida had imposed an afternoon tea regimen on their household, always leading the conversation as Hiero, Callie, and Han plotted ways to return to their preferred solitary occupations. Dinners were always a family affair, but Shahida’s insistence on more healthful, nourishing fare that conformed to Lillian’s new diet had Minnie, their cook, weekly threatening to resign. Callie was the only other member of the household resistant to her charms.
Even Han, cynical, monkish, seen-it-all Han, danced to whichever melody she played. Hiero watched as he bounded over to her, biting his lip at the comical sight of a surly giant bowing to the whims of a pretty imp, but also to keep from emitting a growl of frustration. He glanced back to search for Callie, but the crowd had swallowed her. By now she’d likely clawed her way to the front of the stage and barked questions at a baffled, bewhiskered Mr. Bazalgette, which Hiero thought should be his formal title.
Schooling his features, he joined Han and Shahida’s conversation in medias res and was somewhat aghast to discover them talking about produce.
“... the plumpest, juiciest berries. Artichokes the size of a fist. Fat aubergines and cabbages and cauliflowers, and cucumbers as long as...” Shahida pressed two fingers to her mouth. Hiero didn’t miss how her eyes flickered down. “Well.”
Shameless, that was the trouble. As if she’d snipped the best pages from his playbook and then had the temerity to improve on his notes.
Han chuckled. Chuckled! Hiero hadn’t seen his friend so much as shrug in all the time he’d known him.
“A religious order, you say?” Han asked.
“The Daughters of Eden.” Shahida leaned in, gave him her most conspiratorial smirk. “And I think they might be.” She didn’t even have the grace to straighten when she spotted Hiero. “Oh, Mr. Bash! Mrs. Pankhurst and I don’t mean to spoil your fun. But if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll stay here for a while. We’ve discovered the most—”
“Impressive cucumbers. So I heard.”
“Mrs. Pankhurst is just beside herself. We’ve big ideas for our garden, but this...”
Hiero was unmoved. “And what is it you want?”
“We’ve done our third crate and could fill two more. The crowd is bit much for Mrs. Pankhurst, so I thought Mr. Han might take us back to Berkeley Square? We’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“As it is my carriage, I rather think it will return for me regardless.”
That got her attention. “Of course. If you’d like us to stay—”
A long line of enterprising vendors hawked their wares along the edge of Cheyne Walk, hoping to entice royal watchers to purchase a bit of refinement for their life. One stall lined up its dainty little bottles of oils and perfumes like Russian nesting dolls. A mini royal portrait gallery sold likenesses of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their progeny in a variety of poses. The gentleman scooping iced lollies for the children had his work cut out for him on such a tepid day, Hiero thought. The pub with a street-side stand offering hot tea and cider already did brisk business. A few watercress girls fought against the crowd’s undertow, but their wares looked shriveled as seaweed compared to the glorious bushels of the Daughters of Eden.
Even Hiero had to admit, upon inspection, the quality of their produce astounded. Fat and luscious, their fruit allured like the bosom of an opera diva, ready to smother and enthrall. Their vegetable stalks evidenced a virility that would put most molly-houses out of business. Little wonder their customers meandered around the baskets like lovestruck swains. Their bounty conjured images of orgies culinary and carnal. Hiero didn’t doubt there were more than a few serpents lurking about this tiny Eden, eager to defile a peach or two.
All of this was overseen by a trio of women dressed in immaculate white uniforms that somehow defied the city’s grime. Hiero drifted away from his companions to better observe these wyrd sisters. The tallest was also the least remarkable, a stout but cheery woman with farm-worn hands and hard-earned streaks of gray in her brown hair. She milled through the customers, answering questions and nudging reluctant buyers toward the register.
A skittish dove of a girl dutifully kept the ledger and the cash box, cooing her thanks before slipping some sort of pamphlet into people’s baskets. Her crinkly hair had been woven into two winglike braids that perfectly framed her heart-shaped face. A sprinkling of dark freckles contrasted with her pale-brown skin, all but disappearing when she blushed.
Which she did whenever the third sister glanced her way. “Willowy” did not do this petite, flopsy woman justice. A willow branch would look as leathery and stiff as a whip compared to her wispiness. Near-translucent skin and stringy cornsilk hair completed the otherworldly effect. Hiero almost questioned whether she was really there, such was the nothing of her regard. She appeared to have no occupation other than to pose under the sign in a demure attitude. The crowds gave her a wide berth, and little wonder. Nobody wanted to mingle with a possessed scarecrow.
Except possibly meddlesome not-detectives stuck on a boring outing with friends who had abandoned him for some phallic parsnips and a walrus architect.
Just as Hiero made to pounce, the waif leapt as if lightning struck. Eyes ravenous, mouth agape, hair billowing in an invisible breeze, she stared into the buzzing hive of customers. Transformed in an instant from trinket to spear, her astonishment gave color to her cheeks and heft to her bearing. She appeared somehow taller, bolder, a colossal spirit crammed into a compact package: a genie unleashed from its lamp.
All the better to bedazzle you with, my dear, Hiero thought.
Hieronymus Bash, professional cynic, knew a performance when he saw one. He read again the red sign that screamed above her head: When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box? But there was no box he could see, and if this woodland sprite was Mrs. Northcote, he’d eat Han’s walking stick. These Daughters had lured in quite a crowd with their sensuous produce. Was she the serpent come to tempt them? And if so, to what end?
Hiero shuttered his natural radiance to watch the spectacle unfold. The pale sister glided, arms outstretched, into the maze of crates, eyes fixed on her prey. Hiero hissed under his breath when she stopped at Lillian Pankhurst. In a state of docile confusion at the best of times, Lillian continued sorting out a mess of string beans, oblivious to this starry-eyed suitor. Han, ever protective, moved to Lillian’s side just as the sister shrieked...
“Daughter! You are found!”
The woman at the ledger jumped to her feet. “Juliet?”
“I’ve heard your spirit call to us these long nights, and now you have come home!” Juliet continued at eardrum-splitting pitch, making herself heard to all in the vicinity and probably those across the Thames. “Welcome, Daughter, into Her grace and light! Welcome home!” She hugged a startled Lillian with impressive fervor for one so slender. Lillian, looking to Shahida for a cue, patted her on the back.
A frowning Han caught his gaze from across the way, but Hiero signaled he would play Polonius behind the curtain. Hopefully without the knife in his gut.
“Don’t fear, Daughter. You are among friends,” Juliet nattered on. “We have come to shepherd Her back to Eden through our good works, and, by your pallid cheeks and trembling hands, I can see that you are eager to play a part.”
“Oi!” Shahida hollered, shoving her way between Juliet and Lillian. “Mrs. Pankhurst gets three square a day, and her arthritis is much improved. I dare anyone here to say otherwise.”
“But her spirit, dear girl, droops like a flower too long out of the sun.” Juliet backed away a step to address the customers, every one of which stood rapt. “She knows how this frail woman has struggled. She has heard her prayers and her anguish. She has shone Her glorious light into her, lit her like a beacon for her sisters to find. She is a Daughter, called upon to continue Her good work and bring about a second Eden!”
Shahida let out a trill of laughter three octaves too high. It effectively pierced the balloon of hot air Juliet had been huffing and puffing.
“Angel with a flaming sword you’re not, ma’am. Sorry.” Shahida locked an arm around Lillian. “Stick to the fruit and veg.” A pointed look directed Han to escort their charge away.
“But I haven’t finished the beans...” Lillian muttered as they disappeared into the gaggle of onlookers.
“Shame!” Juliet bellowed, beseeching the yellow sky. “Shame! It is the burden of womankind.” The customers moved into the space vacated by his friends, and Hiero followed, curious as to how she would spin such a public defeat. “The prophet Rebecca Northcote warned against it in her great bible, The Coming of the Holiest Spirit. Too often we ladies wait upon the actions of others. Are made to feel shame and guilt and worthless when we do act. Allow others to lead us astray, away from the truth in our hearts. We pay the price for the sins of our fathers and brothers and husbands. But She... oh, She is coming to deliver us from these injustices, from our fears and torments. As our Holy Mother Rebecca divined, if we join together, Daughters, and build the garden, She will come to save us all. She will gift us with her light!”
“Amen!” the ledger-keeper cried, having abandoned her post to shove pamphlets into the hands of any who would take them.
“Thank you, Mother!” the other sister seconded, lifting a basket of golden pears for all to see.
Juliet scanned the crowd. “You reap of the bounty we offer, but you do not know of how we labor in Her name. To prepare for Her coming, our prophet Rebecca chose each of Her Daughters with care. And though a shame-filled few will deny Her, everyone is welcome to hear Her message and to contribute however they can.” Hiero swallowed a snicker as she gestured to the donation tin. So transparent. “If you are committed to peace and prosperity, if you would see heaven retake the Earth, then I invite you to heed our prophet Rebecca’s call. And She will shine Her light upon you for all the days of your life.”
Juliet seemed to resist taking a bow, but only just. She gave each customer a final angelic smile, then returned to her perch beneath the red sign. A few of the curious chased her with questions; a ragdoll sag and a vacant stare shut them out. Instead the ledger-keeper, who introduced herself as Sister Nora, gathered them around the donation tin before addressing any queries.
“And?” Han appeared beside him, sudden as Banquo’s ghost. “Showstopper or second-rate?”
Hiero rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Better than a pair of poncy royals cutting a ribbon, but only just.”
“Fit for a return engagement?”
“Perhaps. Their setup is commonplace, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Enough to en savoir plus?”
“Time will tell. You know how religion turns my stomach. But their focus on Lillian was...”
“Agreed. That Sister Juliet read her too easily.”
Hiero nodded. “Could have been instinct.”
“Or she saw a mark.”
They shared a look weighted by their years of friendship and experience, a partnership of equals who knew, without another word, how to protect their own.
Summer Devon is the pen name writer Kate Rothwell often uses. Whether the characters are male or female, human or dragon, her books are always romance.
You can visit her facebook page, where there's a sign up form for a newsletter (she'll only send out newsletters when there's a new Summer Devon or Kate Rothwell release and she will never ever sell your name to anyone).
J.M. Dabney is a multi-genre author who writes Body Positive/Diverse Romance and Fiction. They live with a constant diverse cast of characters in their head. No matter their size, shape, race, etc. J.M. lives for one purpose alone, and that’s to make sure they do them justice and give them the happily ever after they deserve. J.M. is dysfunction at its finest and they makes sure their characters are a beautiful kaleidoscope of crazy. There is nothing more they want from telling their stories than to show that no matter the package the characters come in or the damage their pasts have done, that love is love. That normal is never normal and sometimes the so-called broken can still be amazing.
The author is Gender Nonconforming are uses the preferred pronouns They/Them.
Davidson King
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Selina Kray is the nom de plume of an author and English editor. Professionally she has covered all the artsy-fartsy bases, having worked in a bookstore, at a cinema, in children’s television, and in television distribution, up to her latest incarnation as a subtitle editor and grammar nerd (though she may have always been a grammar nerd). A self-proclaimed geek and pop culture junkie who sometimes manages to pry herself away from the review sites and gossip blogs to write fiction of her own, she is a voracious consumer of art with both a capital and lowercase A.
Selina’s aim is to write genre-spanning romances with intricate plots, complex characters, and lots of heart. Whether she has achieved this goal is for you, gentle readers, to decide. At present she is hard at work on future novels at home in Montreal, Quebec, with her wee corgi serving as both foot warmer and in-house critic.
If you’re interested in receiving Selina’s newsletter and being the first to know when new books are released, plus getting sneak peeks at upcoming novels, please sign up at her website.
Summer Devon
katerothwell@gmail.com
JM Dabney
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CRIMINAL DELIGHTS WEBSITE / BOOKBUB
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AUDIBLE / HOSTILE WHISPERS TWITTER
CRIMINAL DELIGHTS WEBSITE / BOOKBUB
PINTEREST / HOSTILE WHISPERS FB
AUDIBLE / HOSTILE WHISPERS TWITTER
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Selina Kray
EMAIL: selinakray@hotmail.ca
His American Detective by Summer Devon
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The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
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