Once again we had a trying year and as much as I had hoped 2021 would refresh my reading mojo that was lost in 2020 but alas books were not my goto mental boost. Add in my mother's health issues and I found I had only read 113 books. So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice. So over the next two weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2022 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Summary:When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.
Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.
Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.
Silent Sin is brilliant!
I've been looking for a story set in Old Hollywood for about 3 years and when this popped up in a FB group rec request I one-clicked immediately. 2020 screwed with my reading mojo so unfortunately I just got around to reading it and I loved it! EJ Russell really sets scene of the silent era, incorporating real historical facts and scandals that add just the right level of reality into her fictional story. Don't worry, Silent Sin isn't a tell-all, Hollywood documentary but it definitely shows the author's respect for the past with the balance of reality and fiction.
As for the characters, watching Robbie's journey from "runaway" country bumpkin to studio chauffer to stand-in to ???(well I don't want to give away all the lad's secrets😉) is an uplifting, heartfelt tale of entertainment. Seeing Martin's journey of trying to stay true to who he is and who he lets the studio bosses and fans see makes you smile, laugh, and a few times you just want to shake him. When their paths cross you just know that it's fate but you also know it won't be easy but it will definitely be captivating. You can't help but want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything will be okay, of course there are a few times I want to smack them too and scream but that's what makes Silent Sin such a delight.
I have featured some of EJ Russell's books on my blog before but Silent Sin is my first read. For me it's the perfect introduction to a new author, Sin ticks so many of my boxes:
historical✅romance✅Old Hollywood✅friendships✅author's respect for the era✅plenty of heart✅
I have to admit one of my favorite moments comes between Robbie and Martin's manager Sid, the actual activity happens off-page but we learn about it and it put the biggest smile on my face and a loud "YES!" in my internal monologue. Just another example of how the author has written more than romance and how sucked into the story I became.
Again, Silent Sin is brilliant!
Blind Tiger by Jordan L Hawk
Summary:The Pride #1
1924, Chicago. Prohibition is in full swing and gang bosses rule the city with might—and magic.
When Sam Cunningham flees his small-town life to try his luck in the big city of Chicago, he quickly finds himself in over his head in a world of gangs, glitz, and glamour. Fortunately, he has his cousin Eldon to teach him the trade of hex-making.
Everything changes the night Sam visits The Pride speakeasy and meets grumpy cheetah-shifter Alistair Gatti. After losing his first witch to the horrors of the World War, Alistair isn’t interested in any new entanglements, romantic or magical. Especially when said entanglement comes in the form of kind, innocent Sam.
When Eldon is brutally murdered, Sam becomes drawn into the dark underworld of the Chicago gangs. Sam must find the missing hex Eldon created for one of the crime bosses—before whoever killed Eldon comes back for him.
Together, Alistair and Sam begin the search for the mysterious hex, diving deep into the seedy side of Chicago’s underworld while dodging rival gangs. And as they come to rely on one another, Alistair realizes he’s falling for the one man he can’t afford to love.
👀The Pride takes place in the same universe as the Hexworld books.👀
WOW! Just WOW! WOW! and WOW! again.
Okay, now that I got that out of my system, I can continue.
Blind Tiger ticks so many of my boxes:
Historical✅Post-WW1✅1920s✅Prohibition✅Chicago(Upper Midwest so it's sorta local-ish)✅Paranormal/Supernatural✅Romance✅Friendship✅Witches/Familiars✅Mob✅Mystery✅Mayhem/Danger✅Opposites Attract✅
It may seem there is almost too many boxes ticked but the author blends them all together perfectly.
Jordan L Hawk has not only started a new series but made it a spin-off(or next generation style) of one of my favorites, Hexworld. For those who have already read the Hexworld series, you know how amazing the world building is, taking a historical setting and making witchcraft and their familiars a known element, they don't have to hide who they are because the world knows, history incorporates paranormal as part of it's reality. To me that's harder than keeping the paranormal world a secret, blending the two to make an alternate universe or timeline. Genius!
Now having mentioned Hexworld and that The Pride is kind of a spin-off, don't think you have to read Hexworld first because even though it's the same universe, the same alternate reality, you won't be lost, you won't be left wondering "how did this happen?" "why does this work?". The author lays it all out for you but be warned, if Blind Tiger is your introduction to the Hexworld universe, you will want to go back and read it as well, this AU is addictive.
Now let's talk Alistair and Sam. Opposites attract probably puts it pretty mildly, completely different backgrounds and ways of life but once they lock eyes, you just know nothing is ever going to be the same for either. There were so many times I wanted to smack Alistair for not being open to the possibilities of happiness but also I wanted to give Sam a good shake to erase the self-doubt that often crept in usually in the form of his family's voices. Truth is there is probably just as many times that I wanted to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything is going to be okay. For me, those warring emotions inside of me is what told me this is a journey worth reading and that their chemistry is off the charts.
And where would 1920's Prohibition be without a little murder? The mystery is the element that pulls everything together, brings(or perhaps "keeps") Sam into Alistair's world. They mystery may be secondary plot-wise to Sam and Alistair's journey but it is what weaves everything together and kept me guessing till the reveal.
I think I'm going to stop there before I'm tempted to give too much away. I'll just end by saying the blending of all the boxes I ticked earlier make Blind Tiger pop! I was not only sucked into the story and didn't want to put it down but I felt I was right there in the Gatti's club, The Pride and witnessing it unfold right next to me. Another brilliant bit of storytelling from an amazing author. Jordan L Hawk has brought another winner to the table.
RATING:
Summary:
John Billings Mysteries #2
The year is 1895.
An ancient manuscript claiming to hold the secrets of God’s creation;
A cunning old woman trying to make sense of it;
A deluded psychopath intent on stealing it away from her.
Private detective John Billings and his assistant Bartholomew Trotter have been tasked with finding a mysterious ancient manuscript known as the "Codex of Solomon" – a book of magical spells much desired by secretive esoteric societies.
They're not the only ones hunting for this artifact. A deluded young psychopath has already committed murder to find it. And a stubborn old woman thinks that this manuscript will give her the respect she so craves.
This is the latest in a series of Victorian mysteries exploring the dark side of the late Victorian era. It follows on from the events described in A Glimpse of Heaven.
Original Review July 2021:
Once again Olivier Bosman has created an intriguing blend of mystery, friendship, realizations, humor, danger, mayhem, and this time around wonderful travel to distant lands. John Billings just gets better and better with each book. They mysteries are always brilliant and though I may have seen a couple of points coming I was always left with the feeling of "wellllll, maybe not, maybe it's this" because the author always keeps his readers on the edge of their seats.
As for John, well he just continues to grow and accept who he is and though there isn't anything real "big" on the personal front, he continues to move forward, perhaps a bit slower at times than you want him to but always onward. As to his trusty sidekick/assistant, Trotter, we see a few new peaks into who he is as well and I have a feeling, like John, he will continue to grow as the series and their caseload progress. Together their friendship may seem only work related but I think they both realize, perhaps not admit, it goes beyond the office and caseload. Whatever it is and however you see it, it definitely adds an extra layer of fresh fun to the series.
Now I won't go into the mystery part too much, I will say that though it is probably more gruesome at times than any of the other cases in John Billings workload, be it as private investigator or Scotland Yard detective, but I also think there is a bit more humor than any of the others mostly due to Billings and Trotters' dry wit. I may have had more moments of "ewww" but also more laughs. I think the combination of gruesome and humor is what really made this my favorite one yet. A Little Morbid is simply put: interesting and attention-grabbing making for a flat-out wonderful reading experience.
One last note, some might say this can be read as a standalone since the case he is hired to solve has a start and finish but the truth is there are elements that carry over from A Glimpse of Heaven, I won't say more to that so I don't spoil anything but for me I'm glad I read book one first. Truth is, I'm glad I read DS Billings Victorian Mysteries series first. John Billings has grown as a character both on a personal level of accepting who he is but also as a detective and investigator. There are friendships that carried over into his journey as a private investigator that also made me glad I read from the very beginning. Having said that, you won't be lost if you don't read DS Billings first but personally I'm glad I did.
The Blood Boss by Davidson King
Summary:Black Veil #1
Vampires, mermaids, and witches…oh, my! Black Veil is full of them all, but at the end of the day, it’s The Blood Boss who has the last word. Ever since The Final War, Vampires rule Black Veil, and with The Blood Boss in charge, peace reigns.
Keeping the vampires under control is a task Cain takes seriously. Humans have accepted his rule, and anyone who seeks to destroy his territory is given swift punishment. His promise to keep Black Veil safe comes with great sacrifice and selflessness; never does he dare hope for more in life. Until one day, a man walks through his front door and changes everything.
Jayce has a happy life. His adopted parents love him, he wants for very little, and he lives every day to the fullest. But when a normal evening turns into a nightmare, and Jayce is forced to come face-to-face with The Blood Boss, the world as he knows it feels like a lie.
Then a great secret is revealed, and nothing is what it seems. Cain and Jayce must work together to stop the forces uniting against the vampires. Life and love are in jeopardy as they fight those who seek to destroy them. Can Cain and Jayce keep Black Veil from crumbling into the sea when every attempt to do so seems impossible?
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! Once again Davidson King has proven that the Force is strong within her because . . . WOW! The talent for storytelling that runs through her veins is so strong, if it really was the force she could singlehandedly blow up the Death Star. Her gift of words is so powerful you can't help but get sucked in once you start.
I won't say she had "fears" about venturing into the paranormal genre but I'm sure there were inner hesitancies but she needn't have worried because the world King has created in her new series, Black Veil, really is the complete package. The Blood Boss, or as those closest to him call him, Cain may be a vampire of few words but you know he's the boss by his presence. "Presence" may seem like an odd word to use in literature since you aren't seeing the character on a screen or stage but the world building that Davidson King has created is so vivid and descriptive, I felt like I was witnessing it right outside my window. You really lose yourself in the book and become part of the environment that is Black Veil and the desire to discover all it's little nooks and crannies, rumors and truths, and how the lines of good and evil can sometimes blur.
As for the main characters, Cain and Jayce? Well, I mentioned the power Cain gives off but he also has heart(and yes I realize that's an odd thing to say about a vampire but its no less true), he cares for others more than he wants the world to know. We meet Jayce as he steps in to receive punishment for a debt his father hasn't been able to pay back and he doesn't do this on a whim, this is the kind of man he is. Put these two together and you have a recipe for what could be complete and utter chaos or the grand champion winning pie at the fair that you want to eat even though its been sitting on the judging table for days. Which is it? Trick question really, on one hand I won't give particulars to spoil anything but truth be told Cain and Jayce are a little bit of both, chaos and champion.
Cain and Jayce and the supporting cast of characters who I'm sure we'll get to see more of in future installments makes The Blood Boss an absolutely delicious read sure to satisfy any and all your fiction hungers.
RATING:
The Gardener and the Marine by RJ Scott
Summary:Ellery Mountain #9
Harrison is alone and hurting with his memories gone, but Toby shows him that love can heal even the most broken of hearts.
After losing his entire team in a roadside bomb, Harrison is left with a traumatic brain injury, a broken body, and scars on his heart that might never heal. Staying at the Ellery Mountain Veterans Center is the first step in healing, but short-term memories evade him, and the only thing he trusts is the love of Barney, his support dog.
Until he meets Toby.
Toby lands the chance of a lifetime, using his horticultural skills to aid in working with veterans during their physical and mental recovery. Meeting Harrison on his first day goes badly, but there is something between them that could be more than just friendship.
With time, it could even become love.
**Triggers for PTSD and past suicide ideation**
*Can be read as a standalone - some mention of previous characters, but not enough to cause an issue*
**This story was previously available in weekly instalments in my newsletter. The file has been edited and a few scenes added.**
I've loved RJ Scott's Ellery Mountain series ever since I first discovered it 6 years ago, so to find there was going to be new entries, needless to say I was ecstatic. The Gardener and the Marine was first available as weekly installments with the author's newsletter, however I didn't take the opportunity to read it that way. At first, time just got away from me and then I decided that RJ Scott's works are often a can't-put-it-down read for me so I decided to wait until completed.
However you chose to read it, Toby and Harrison's journey is brilliant!
I won't go into many details, not that this is a mystery or anything like that and we all know her stories are HEA but the mens' journey is so heartwarming, there are moments some might call heartbreaking but I would use the term "heart-hurting", I just don't want to spoil even the tiniest moments. Harrison is at the heart of the story with his learning to live life with brain injury and loss, I couldn't help but want to wrap him up in Mama Bear Hugs to protect him but he has Barney for that. I've read stories before with therapy animals but there was just something about the way the author brought Barney's presence to the the table you felt like he was right there next to you, helping you through the story as well.
I grew up a farmer's daughter and when my mother became ill my parents shifted from a grain & feed crops to a vegetable/fruit farm. My mom was to ill to work the farm but she did the business side as we sold fruit and veggies to local stores. I mention this because I could see first hand how farmlife and gardening helped all three of us accept her health situation. So seeing Toby realize how the family business of gardening helps his brother live with autism and turn it into therapy for the Ellery Mountain Veterans Center really spoke to me. The connection the garden creates between Toby and Harrison is beautifully written as well as giving Harrison an opportunity to strengthen his mind and body made this story even stronger.
The Gardener and the Marine, simply put, is a truly wonderful, touching, heartfelt gem from beginning to end.
A last note, if you haven't read Ellery Mountain before, it's not a series you have to read from the beginning as each entry focuses on a different couple. Personally, I can't imagine not reading it in order just because I'm a series-read-in-order kind of gal but it's not necessary, you won't be lost, yes previous characters make appearances but again knowing their story or not doesn't effect the story you choose to read. However you choose to read this series, I highly recommend definitely doing so.
RATING:
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Chapter One
July 28, 1921
Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samson’s truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocer’s assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sun—it was more holes than straw by this time.
Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not here.” Samson’s gaze slid away from his. “Don’t have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.” He nodded at the truck. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Robbie’s empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. He’d learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the ride—anything that got him farther from Idaho, really—was more than he could hope for. “Thank you, sir.” He stumbled toward the truck cab.
“Hold on, you. Not up front.” Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. “Back there. But give us a crank first.”
Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too.
As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruits—a lemon and five oranges—almost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.
He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it.
His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after another—even the lemon, so sour it made his eyes water—as the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust.
After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze.
With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he could—less chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day.
Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. “End of the line, kid.”
Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed.
He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. “Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.”
Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. “No skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I don’t need any help on the farm.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“I understand. Thanks anyway.” He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. “Does this road lead to Mexico?”
Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. “Whatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you can’t get here.”
“Where’s here?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hollywood.”
Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. “I guess it is.”
With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. “Give us another crank, will you?”
Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street.
What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other grower’s orange grove. There weren’t any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldn’t hire somebody with only one set of clothes—and those almost too worn to be decent.
Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldn’t muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime.
So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasn’t adrift or as castaway as his namesake—Robinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samson’s truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus.
At the back of Mr. Samson’s orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old man’s farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy who’d never heard of the Volstead Act—not the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect.
He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.
*******
“I’m not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I can’t.” Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. “He tried to drown me.”
Sid Howard, Martin’s manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Come on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You can’t take this personal.”
“I damn well do take it personally. He’d never try that shit with Fairbanks.”
“Shite.”
Martin frowned at Sid. “What?”
“A baronet’s son from Hertfordshire wouldn’t say ‘shit.’”
“But I’m not a baronet’s son from Hertfordshire.” Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. “That would be you. Me? I’m only a tailor’s apprentice from Flushing.”
Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martin’s grip. “No. That would be me. And don’t forget it, even when we’re alone. Even in your own head. It’s easier to remember the lies if you live ’em full-time.” Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. “And don’t drink this shit. You’ll go blind.”
“I’ll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstow’s finest bathtubs.” Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. “But you’re right.” He bared his teeth. “It’s shite.”
“That’s more like it.” Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. “So. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.”
“Better you than me,” Martin muttered. “I loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.”
“Maybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because he’s—”
“A pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?”
“Because,” Sid raised his voice over Martin’s, “he’s the one who controls your career.”
“He’s not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.”
“Yeah, but Ira’s the talent-facing brother. Jacob’s got his sausage-like finger on the studio’s financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, money’ll trump talent every time.”
Martin snorted. “So much for art.”
“Pictures aren’t art, Marty. They’re business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it don’t matter if it’s as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.”
“Really, Sid,” Martin murmured. “Your language.”
Sid grinned. “Unlike some, I don’t forget who I’m supposed to be.” Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailor’s apprentices didn’t have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England.
“As I said, I met with Jacob today.”
“And?”
Sid’s heavy brows drew together. “He and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Ira’s liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks you’re the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob… well….”
“I know, I know. He hates queers.”
“Nobody knows for sure that you’re queer, Marty.” Sid’s scowl said, “And keep it that way” louder than words could. “Anyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as they’re in their place.”
Martin’s snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martin’s backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martin’s backstory and he’d traded it with Martin’s when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures.
“Right. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.”
“It’s not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows he’s got none. He’s a stevedore’s son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so you’ll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dick’s bloody hatband and he wouldn’t care as long as your pictures make money. But they won’t make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.”
“Kerrigan’s popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because he’s queer.”
“Exactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didn’t lift a finger to save him. He’d become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You don’t want to be in that position.”
Martin pinched his eyes closed. “If it’s not because they suspect I’m in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, I’m never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.”
“No. It’s because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?”
“Vernon, actually.”
“Right. Well, they don’t like that you fired him.”
“I fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.”
“Swive.”
“What? Are you telling me a baronet’s son wouldn’t say fuck?”
“Baronets’ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronets’ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywood’s finest gentlemen, does not.”
Martin leaned his head on the cushions. “Jesus, Sid. Don’t you ever get tired of the act?”
“I’ll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.” Sid crossed his legs. “I met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.”
Martin groaned. “Good lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasn’t it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?” Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey.
“It has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter can’t fix it.”
“Very well. I’ll return tomorrow to die again.”
“Good. They expect you at ten.”
“Ten.” Martin cracked open an eye. “That’s a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still won’t let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. I’d take the streetcar, but—”
“No. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.” Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. “I’ll contact the studio. They’ll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.” He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. “You’re not Valentino, after all. Yet.”
“Isn’t it grand that I don’t want to be, then?”
Sid sighed. “Marty, you need to think about your image. The studio’ll only protect you as long as you’re an asset, and you’ll only be an asset if—”
“If I make Jacob enough money.”
“If you don’t make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.”
Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homer—”
“Vernon,” Martin murmured.
“—was a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the press—”
“They wouldn’t. Nobody who’s in the life would ever give me away. We don’t do that to one other. Not ever.”
“That’s what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truth—”
“Truth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.”
“Maybe. But you can’t depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.” Sid settled his straw boater on his head. “A studio driver’ll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. I’ll take care of it.”
Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. “Thanks, Sid.”
“And next time? If you’re gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sid grabbed Martin’s wrist, his dark eyes serious. “I mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.”
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court.
Damn it, he’s right.
The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were few—New York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didn’t even have a word for it.
In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment… worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval.
Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. I’ve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know.
So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, he’d heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanks’s next picture.
It was nuts.
It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the bills—his and Sid’s. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where they’d been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too.
Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do that—he had few enough fans left. He’d best keep the faithful remnants happy.
With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.
Blind Tiger by Jordan L Hawk
1
The rumrunner waited for them behind a burned-out building just north of Chicago.
Philip steered the Model T truck over the bumpy ground, every pothole jarring Alistair’s spine. Doris sat in the wooden bed behind them, the occasional lights reflecting in her eyes. The moon had set with the sun, clouds blotting out the stars. The electric glow of the city tapered out a mile back, the only illumination from the headlights.
They pulled up beside the rumrunner’s truck and climbed out. The rumrunner strode toward them, her hair hidden under a cap and her clothes—and no doubt weapons—mainly concealed by a long overcoat. The nights still held a definite chill in April, and Alistair had to resist the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets. No sense in making anyone think he was reaching for a concealed gun.
“About time you showed up,” she said, shooting a glare at Philip.
“We’re right on schedule, Camille,” Philip replied. He was a big man, solidly built in contrast to Alistair’s own lean ranginess. The headlights washed out his pale, almost colorless hair and gleamed in his yellow-gray eyes. “Do you have the goods?”
One of Camille’s men flung back the tarp covering the crates stacked in the back of their truck. “Straight down from Canada,” she said. “Do you have my scratch?”
Alistair removed a thick envelope from inside his jacket and passed it to her. She looked inside, quickly thumbed the stack of bills, and then vanished it into her own oversized coat. “A pleasure doing business with you. Load ‘em up, boys.”
“Not just yet,” Philip said, holding up his hand.
Camille rolled her eyes. “We’ve always dealt straight with you, Gatti. Do you have to do this every time? It’s a little insulting.”
“Sounds like what someone who’s planning a crooked deal might say,” Alistair observed.
Camille focused on him, her eyes narrowed in anger. Philip merely looked pained. “You aren’t supposed to say that part out loud, Alistair,” he muttered.
This was why Philip was the front man, and Alistair usually stayed in back and counted the money. Ordinarily their busboy, a burly young man by the name of Frank, would come along and help move boxes. But Frank had run off to Mexico with his sweetheart a week ago, so Alistair volunteered to come just this once.
He didn’t regret speaking up, even though he’d obviously pissed off Camille. She might not be slipping them watered down hooch—or worse, booze doctored with rubbing alcohol or gasoline—but she’d thought about it.
Of course she had. You couldn’t trust anyone, certainly not in this business.
Camille took a threatening step forward. Her hand dipped toward her pocket—she was definitely packing heat. “I don’t like your tone,” she said. Her goons shifted, not yet pointing guns, but waiting on the signal.
Apparently, they’d forgotten who they were dealing with.
A warning growl sounded from the darkness near the truck. Nothing showed of Doris: not a hair, not a whisker, not even the gleam of eyes in the night. But she was out there, and she wasn’t happy.
Shotguns were all well and good, but an angry tiger was even better.
The men paled, and the chilly air smelled suddenly of fear. Camille’s eyes darted to the shadows, then to Philip and Alistair. Taking in Philip’s yellow-tinged eyes and Alistair’s deep amber. Remembering, no doubt, why the Gatti family might work with the gangs, but hadn’t been subsumed by them.
Not that the Gattis were related by blood. No one would look at pale, sturdy Philip and think Alistair, with his rangy body and Italian looks, was his literal brother, or brown-skinned Doris his sister. But the bonds between them were no less for it.
Camille stepped back and gestured to the crates. “Work your magic, then.”
“Thank you.” Philip took out a leather wallet, shuffled through its contents, then removed a sheet of paper with an elaborate hex drawn on it. He chose a crate from amidst the pile. One of Camille’s men unloaded it, opened the lid, and stood back.
Philip held the hex over the bottles packed securely in straw. Joel and Wanda had charged it earlier, so he spoke the activation phrase: “Reveal to me the impure.”
Alistair barely kept from rolling his eyes. Eldon, their hexman, had such a flare for the dramatic it was ridiculous.
If any of the booze had been cut or otherwise tampered with, a betraying yellow glow would appear. This time, at least, there was nothing.
“See?” Camille snapped at Alistair. “It’s good.”
“This time,” he replied.
Her scowl deepened. Philip hastily stepped between them. “Thank you for your indulgence, Camille, and I apologize for my brother.”
“Maybe you ought to keep your ‘brother’ on a tighter leash, then.” She folded her arms angrily over her chest. “When we first went into business together, I told you I wouldn’t haul anything but the real McCoy. Now you bring this asshole along to insinuate my word’s no good?”
“Of course I trust you,” Philip replied with his charming smile. “But you get the stuff from somewhere, and it’s them I’m not so certain about.”
Alistair and Philip stood back while Camille’s men went to work. Doris emerged from the shadows in human form, dressed in boots and denim overalls, a cap pulled down over her sleek black hair. Despite the cold, she wore her sleeves rolled up to display muscular arms. Her pale yellow eyes were startling against the brown skin of her face, and one man nearly dropped a box in fear when she drew close to him.
A long time ago, it had bothered Alistair, how frightened people were just because he could turn into a cheetah, or Philip into a snow leopard, or Wanda a lioness. No one wanted to adopt a so-called dangerous breed of familiar; even witches feared them, as though they had less ability to reason than the animals whose forms they took. Seeing the fear on someone’s face had hurt, made Alistair want to do something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t a wild animal ready to lash out.
Then the war happened. And now here they all were, back together again and calling themselves the Gatti family, working in a business where that fear was all to their advantage. Not even the toughest gang leaders wanted to run the risk of waking up to find a tiger in their bedroom.
Thank God, Sullivan wasn’t the toughest gang leader, just the smartest.
When the shipment was transferred, Camille tipped her hat to them. “Safe travel home,” she said. “I’ll see you next time.”
She climbed into her truck, along with her men. Within minutes, the chug of the engine faded away into the darkness.
“Will there be a next time?” Doris asked, leaning idly against the side of their own truck.
“Good question.” Philip turned to Alistair. “You’re such an asshole. This is why I don’t usually bring you along.”
Alistair grinned at him. “I love you, too.”
“Seriously, though,” Doris said. “We still doing business with her?”
They both looked to Alistair, since he was second in command after Wanda. “Camille’s thinking about double-crossing us,” he said. “Maybe she won’t now that she knows we’re suspicious, but the temptation is always going to be there.” He paused. “And once we get back, have Joel charge some more of those hexes. I want every bottle inspected, just in case she hid a bad batch near the back on the truck, where you wouldn’t look.”
“Fur and feathers,” Philip muttered. “Should I feel around for a new supplier?”
“Leave that part to Wanda.” Alistair hunched his shoulders deep inside his heavy coat. “Come on. Let’s get back to The Pride before we freeze our tails off.”
A Little Morbid by Olivier Bosman
Prologue
Extract from Alick Lourie’s Diary, June1895
A Woman of My Ilk
She stood on the foredeck, her hands on the railings, the sea breeze blowing through her thin white hair. She looked perfectly ordinary. She wore an ill-fitting lime green skirt, frayed around the ankles, a blue-and-white blouse that didn’t quite seem to fit, and a motheaten black shawl draped around her shoulders. Just a poor, common, middle-aged woman who wouldn’t normally arouse my curiosity, were it not for her countenance. There was something about her posture. The way she stood rigidly upright against the wind, as if she were in command of the ship, guiding us all to our destination. This was a woman who knew where she was going. A woman in charge of her own fate.
It’s easy for us magicians to recognise each other. The hidden wisdom we carry inside us elevates us from the common man, and this is reflected in our posture. There is a certain aura about us, invisible to everyone else, which acts like a beacon, signalling to other magicians that we are of their ilk. It was this aura which drew my attention.
I stood on the starboard side, looking at her back, watching her shawl dance in the wind. She must have felt my stare poking her in the back (we magicians can do that), because after a minute or so she turned around and looked at me. I held my stare. I looked straight into her eyes for a couple of beats, then, unbuttoning my jacket, turned my back on her and strolled back into the cabin. Contact had been made. It wouldn’t be long before she approached and inquired about my identity.
I knew who she was, of course. There is only one magician that fits her description: Ruth Grenfell, the keeper of Solomon’s Sephardic secrets. She was fleeing to France. Just like I was. Except I was running away from the police. She was running away from people like me who are after her manuscript.
My heart pounded as I made my way to the ship’s lounge. There is no such thing as coincidence in a magician’s life. There is only fate and providence. So, Mrs Grenfell was on this steamer. That meant that her manuscript, the Codex of Solomon, the text which revealed the secrets of God’s creation, the very thing I’d been yearning to get my hands on, was somewhere onthis ship too! I was still reeling as I took my glass of port from the waiter and sat on the leather settee by the window.
It wasn’t long before I saw her stumble into the bar, scanning the customers in search of me. A waiter approached her and asked to see her ticket – the poor ragged creature was quite clearly not a first-class passenger. But having located me at my table, she elbowed him away and marched straight towards me.
“Do I know you, sir?”
I looked up at her, towering over me. Her tanned, leathery face was aged and wrinkled well before its time, and there was a frantic look in those brown eyes.
“You were staring at me!” she continued. “Outside, on the deck. Why were you staring at me?”
The waiter approached us. “Is this woman bothering you, sir?” He grabbed her arm. She quickly pulled it away.
“Not at all,” I said to the waiter. “Please leave us alone.”
The waiter nodded and walked away. I smiled at her. “I’m sorry to have dismayed you. I didn’t mean to stare. I must’ve been daydreaming. I have a habit of doing that.”
“So we don’t know each other?”
“No. But I’ll happily introduce myself.” I held out my hand. “The name is Simeon. Faust de Simeon.”
“Madam de Martos,” she mumbled, shaking my hand.
Aha, I thought. Travelling under a pseudonym. Just like me. Madam M. How suitably mysterious. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said, embarrassed. “I clearly made a mistake.” She was about to walk away, but I detained her.
“Please stay. Sit down. Let me buy you a drink.”
She stopped and looked at me. “I’m not supposed to be in here. I have a second-class ticket.”
“You can stay as my guest. I insist.”
She hesitated, but she eventually sat down.
“What will it be? Port?”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass of absinthe.”
I clicked my fingers for the waiter and ordered the drink.
“You’re very kind,” she said. She was blushing. “You must think me quite mad. But I’ve had some bad experiences in England, with men following me. I think I may have become a little paranoid.”
“Please don’t explain. It was rude of me to stare, even if I did so inadvertently. It is I who should apologise to you.”
The waiter came back with the green beverage and placed it on the table. She picked up her glass and held it out to me.
“Cheers,” she said. She took a sip and replaced the glass on the table. “I won’t be any bother. I’ll just sit here quietly and do some work.” She took some embroidery out of an old-fashioned white linen reticule wrapped around her wrist, sat back in her chair and began to sew. This was a bit rude, I thought. I had rather been hoping for conversation. But eccentric people are seldom well-mannered, and I knew of something which might spark her interest in me. I took something out of my pocket. My little book. Barrett’s Magus, which has served wonderfully as a calling card on previous occasions. Taking great care to leave the cover visible, I stretched my arms over the table, opened the book and began to read. It wasn’t long before her eyes were drawn to the book’s title.
“What are you reading?” she asked, her face flushed with astonishment.
“What, this?” I turned the book around and looked at the cover. “Oh, it’s just a book about magic.”
“Magic? You’re interested in magic?”
“I am rather, yes. It’s an odd hobby, I know, but I’ve been making it my speciality these last few years.”
“You’ve been studying it?”
“Well, I studied divinities and ancient languages at Cambridge, and I was a member of an esoteric society in London.”
“Which one?”
“The Golden Dawn,” I lied.
“I’m interested in magic too!”
I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t say! Well, what are the chances!”
“I’ve been studying it for many years. Well, I ain’t been to college like you, of course, but I’ve been taught by some very knowledgeable men. There was my husband, Phineas de Martos. You’ll have heard of him.”
I wrinkled my brow. “No, I don’t believe I have.”
“Then, after he died, I studied with Frater Sapienti from the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them.”
“Do you speak Hebrew?”
I pretended not to know what she was leading up to, but inside me, my heart was pounding. “Hebrew? Yes, I do a bit.”
“Because I have a book, you see.”
“A book?” My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I had to button up my jacket lest she should see it pound beneath my shirt.
“I don’t have it on me. It’s hidden somewhere safe on the mainland. It’s a very valuable book. But it’s all in Hebrew, and I don’t speak Hebrew. I don’t suppose you could...”
“Well, certainly, I could. Will you be staying in Paris?”
“I’ll be staying at Madeleine’s Hotel for Women in Montmartre. Oh, I would be so grateful if you could help me decipher the texts.”
She reached her arm across the table and grabbed and squeezed my hand.
“Well, my dear madam,” I said, smiling at her, “I’d be delighted to.”
The Blood Boss by Davidson King
Chapter One
Jayce
“Good night, Jayce.” Sibell, the old lady who owned the bookstore where I worked, squeezed my shoulder when she passed.
“Stay safe, Sibell, I’ll see you Monday morning.”
She smiled softly, her dark eyes twinkling as if they held a million secrets. Nodding quickly, she shut the front door.
I had worked here from the time I was eighteen and loved it. Now that I was twenty-three, Sibell was able to hand over a great many important tasks to me, such as counting the drawers, locking up, and ordering inventory. She’d told me the day she promoted me that she was grateful to finally have someone she trusted to watch over the store when she couldn’t. I took the responsibility seriously and was equally as grateful.
After I flipped the sign on the door to closed and locked the cash drawers in the safe, I did a sweep of the rows to be sure they were all tidy and nothing was out of place before leaving and locking the door.
“Late night?” the baker across the way, Burt, shouted as he shut down his own place.
“Fridays always are. Have a good night, Burt.”
He waved and got into his truck. I didn’t drive; the desire to learn how never intrigued me. If it rained I took the bus, but on clear days like today, I used my legs to get me home. I always traveled along the sidewalk that paralleled the ocean. In the morning, the sunrise would be my cup of coffee, and in the evening, when the moon made the sea glitter, it was a nightcap of delicious Chardonnay.
I was raised in foster care, though I didn’t have horrible and traumatizing memories like many in the system do. I was one of the lucky ones. My foster parents loved me from the second they found me on their doorstep at only a few days old, and I’d always felt like I was their son. At the age of five, I went from a foster kid to an adopted one, and Michael and Anne Harlow became my legal parents, and Black Veil City my home.
While not perfect and constantly humming with magic in the air, I wouldn’t live anywhere else. I heard the chimes from the church bells, indicating it was nine in the evening, and I hurried my steps. See, I loved this city, but when the sun was fully tucked away, it was safer to be home.
As I passed the police station, one of the officers stopped me.
“You shouldn’t be walking around at night, son. Do you need a ride?”
“No thanks, I’m just around this corner.”
“Okay, be safe.” I could feel the officer’s eyes on me until I turned down my street; everyone was vigilant at night.
I wasn’t born when it happened, but as the story goes, the world was falling apart, and humanity was responsible for it. In school, I was taught that due to humans killing the planet and each other, a balance no one knew existed had been upset.
The textbooks referred to it as The Final War because there hadn’t been one since. Mom would tell the story so dramatically, it was almost humorous. The first time I’d heard it, I was ten:
“From the Earth’s core the demons climbed, and from the stars the angels fell. The sea came alive, and the waves brought magical creatures ashore. The trees trembled with life as winged magicians swept through the forest. Humanity was not destroyed in this war; it was set to order.”
That was how she always started the story. Vampires, fairies, angels—all of them had come to Earth’s aid and saved it. When the dust settled, a new hierarchy was created and humans were not at the top. I was okay with that because, first of all, I’d known no differently, and also I’d learned that the oceans became cleaner, the air was safer, and there was zero pollution. But the fact that humans weren’t number one meant something else was, and here in Black Veil City, that was vampires. Namely, The Blood Boss.
I had never met him—hell, he didn’t show his face anywhere that I’d ever seen, and I knew very little about him. But he controlled all vampires, and while the streets weren’t running red with blood at night, it was the time they tended to roam, and crime was rare but it did happen.
I could see the porch light shining at the house and was just about to climb the steps when I realized there was a sleek black Cadillac in the driveway that didn’t belong to anyone I knew. Who could be here at this hour?
Something crashed inside and I rushed through the door, worried Mom, Dad, or the foster kids inside were in trouble.
“Jayce!” Mom shouted from the couch. Her hands were on her lap, and tears streaked down her cheeks. Dad was on the ground, his nose bleeding. But what had me frozen in place were the two hulking vampires in the living room. One stood beside Mom, and the other hovered over Dad.
“What’s going on here?” There were laws in place that vampires couldn’t enter someone’s home and dominate them for anything unless they had proper documentation from The Blood Boss.
“Who are you?” The one who was beside Mom narrowed his eyes.
“I’m Jayce Harlow, and I live here. Who are you?”
“Jayce, don’t…” A sharp look from the vampire above my dad shut him up.
“I’m Emil, this is Petru, and we’re here under orders from The Blood Boss.” Emil was the one guarding my mother, and he slipped a piece of paper from the pocket of his expensive suit.
He walked over to me, and I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. He had to be over six five or something. His blond hair was styled in a short cut, his eyes an eerie shade of blue—a cross between white and baby blue. I’d noticed all vampires had odd-colored eyes; it was one way of identifying them.
“Take a gander.” He held the paper out to me, and I took it, reading every word carefully, hoping I’d find a reason to tell them they had no right to be here. But there was none and…
“You borrowed money from The Blood Boss, Dad?”
Petru stepped back when my father tried to stand, but he stayed close.
“I had to, Jayce, I had no other choice.”
I read the line that scared me the most. “Failure to pay the agreed-upon amount will result in your punishment being ruled on in front of The Blood Boss and a fair judgment dealt.” I looked up, and tendrils of fear licked at my skin. “Dad, this is serious! It says you borrowed over fifty-thousand dollars.”
“I know and—”
“Do you even have it?” I knew he didn’t; money was tight even with what we were given from the government to care for the foster kids. I’d told my parents not to take any more kids in, that we couldn’t afford it, but they hated turning away a child in need.
“No.” His voice was a whisper, and he flinched when Petru grunted.
“Emil, is it?” The vampire nodded. “Can I ask what punishment my father will get?”
He shrugged. “I’m not The Blood Boss; you’d have to ask him, but the reason there is order in Black Veil is because no one gets to slide by without repercussions for their actions.”
“But from your experience, what would you say he’d get for it?”
Emil spared a glance at Petru before answering. “The reason Michael Harlow borrowed money had to do with the fact that the bank was about to foreclose on his house. It’s a noble reason. My guess is he’d likely make him work it off.”
The bank was going to foreclose on the house? Why didn’t anyone tell me?
“He already works two jobs. If you take him away, the bank will surely take the house. Isn’t there another way?”
Emil shook his head. “Anne Harlow could take his place as payment.”
My mom was a schoolteacher during the week, and on the weekends she worked at the community center to help children who were struggling in school. She couldn’t be away either.
“If you take Mom or Dad, they will be even deeper in debt with the bank, the foster kids will have to leave, and I don’t have a lot of hope for them in the system, and they’d lose their other jobs. Please, is there any other way?”
Emil looked over at my mom, then at my dad. When he met Petru’s gaze, it was as if they were having some sort of telepathic conversation, and maybe they were; I didn’t know a lot about vampires’ abilities.
“Are you their son?” Emil turned toward me again.
“No!” My dad made to run over to me, but Petru stopped him easily.
“I am, why?”
“It’s not typical, and I’ve never seen it done, but you could go in your father’s place.”
“Jayce, please.” My mom was sobbing, and I heard the pitter-patter of footsteps above me. No doubt the kids were listening and frightened. Michael and Anne were amazing foster parents. If it weren’t for them, I’d likely be in a shit situation, and if they left here now it would be a disaster.
I, on the other hand, only worked at the bookstore and while Sibell needed my help, she wasn’t completely lost without me. Mom and Dad would take a little hit financially, seeing as my paycheck went to help out around here. It was the sole reason I stilled lived at home. However, without me here it would also be one less mouth to feed, so things might balance themselves out.
“I’ll do it.”
My mom cried harder, and my dad tried to break free of Petru’s grasp. They loved me and didn’t want to see me handed to The Blood Boss, especially for something I had no control over.
Emil held a small square device in his hand. “I need your finger.”
Reflexively I clenched my fists. “It will be hard to work off my father’s debt if I’m down one finger.”
Emil and Petru chuckled. “You can keep your fingers, just slide one in here.” The square device opened and there was a tiny needle sticking up inside. “I need a drop of your blood.”
I glanced over at my parents, Mom’s cries were softer, but my father looked as if he were about to come apart.
Slowly, I stuck my finger inside the device, feeling the brush of the needle. Emil gave me no time to react; he shut it and I felt the quick, piercing pain.
“Repeat after me,” Emil said. “I, Jayce Harlow, agree to take punishment for Michael Harlow’s debt to The Blood Boss for the allotted time agreed upon by him.”
I repeated what he said, and he went on.
“This is a blood oath you are making at your own free will and without coercion?”
“Yes.”
“I hereby stand witness to this pact and agree to the substitution of Jayce Harlow in place of Michael Harlow.”
Emil released my finger and I immediately stuck it in my mouth, earning a chuckle from both vampires.
“I bet you’re delicious.” Emil winked but quickly walked to my dad.
“I don’t allow you to take my son!”
“Michael Harlow, you are hereby excused of your obligation to The Blood Boss—”
“No! I refuse.” He tried and failed to break away from Petru as he raged and cried.
“Dad, please. Let me do this. Conner, Lisa, the twins, they need you and Mom here.”
“What if he hurts you?” My mom spoke through her sobs.
“A debt is not punishable by death or physical harm,” Emil answered, his voice laced with boredom. “Petru, I will get Jayce to the car, and then you may release Michael and join us.”
“Can I say good-bye?”
Emil’s expression hardened. “I’ve been as kind as I’m going to be, Jayce. Let’s go.”
Even if I wanted to, I wasn’t going to argue. I followed Emil out of the house, hearing my mother’s loud cries all the way to the car.
The Gardener and the Marine by RJ Scott
I didn’t look at them, let alone talk to them, and even though I sensed Daniel wanted to ask me if I was okay, I ignored him and was quickly halfway up the stairs, my hand on Barney’s collar, hoping like hell for my leg not to buckle. He didn’t call up after me. No one shouted in this place, because it was an oasis of peace and a secure shelter for all those damaged vets who’d been chewed up and spit out by war.
When my recollection of why I was here hit me front and center, I counted myself as one of the lucky ones to find a place to hide. I wasn’t a danger to anyone else, but I was a danger to myself. The night terrors, the panic attacks, the stupid fucking inability to be a goddamned man—that was why I was there. The hospital staff healed my body to the best of their ability, the shrinks attempted to fix my head, but I didn’t have peace, and Barney was the only thing I cared about.
Caring got you hurt, and I was too raw to extend any affection or understanding to anyone but Barney.
I slumped onto my bed, then flopped backward, hands extended to each edge, Barney jumping up and curling himself right into my side. My heart raced, my head hurt, but once I matched my breathing to Barney’s and allowed his presence to soothe me, I began to calm.
“Danno, Brat, Diaz, Spook, and me,” I whispered into the room. “Danno, Brat, Diaz, Spook, and me.” The names of the fallen were a reminder of what I’d seen and lost and were a way to connect with the world around me. Other people grieved Danno and Brat’s loss—they’d only been kids both of them with big families. Diaz had a girlfriend who blamed me for her beloved dying on my watch. Spook had been married no more than a month and had left a pregnant wife behind.
I had my mom, but I’d pushed her away when I was in hospital. I know that because it’s written in my book.
Why didn’t the explosion take me?
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.
I'm an avid reader and film fan and I have an MA in creative writing for film and television.
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.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
EJ Russell
Jordan L Hawk
EMAIL: jordanlhawk@gmail.com
Olivier Bosman
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
A Little Morbid by Olivier Bosman
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
The Blood Boss by Davidson King
