👻🎃👻 Happy Halloween 👻🎃👻
I've wanted to do a post featuring LGBTQ stories that were set at Halloween but not paranormal for a few years now but time always got in the way until last year. 2024 also aligned and time was once again on my side. Not all of these 5 stories are strictly Halloween set, some are only a small scene but as with Christmas reads, the tiniest mention makes a story a holiday read. So if all things spooky aren't up your alley or you just want something not quite so creepy for a change of pace but still love the holiday, have a look at these 5 tales. If you know of others in the LGBTQ genre that fit this description be sure and leave a comment here or on any of the social media posts that brought you here, I'm always on the lookout for more. Hope you have a fun & freaky Halloween.
👻🎃👻 Happy Halloween 👻🎃👻
Summary:
Santa Rafaela
Damian always thought being a firefighter should come with some hero cred. But running over a cute, nerdy civilian who’s in the act of rescuing a three-legged cat, and sending him to the hospital with a broken wrist? Not so heroic.
Getting hit by a truck isn’t necessarily so bad when it comes with a tall, broad-shouldered, smiling-eyed firefighter straight out of Peter’s fantasies. Although Damian’s straight. He has to be, because this is Peter’s life. And a guy that hot and sweet and funny wouldn’t be interested in a geeky twink with no game and a few extra pounds around the middle, anyway. He’s only hanging around to make sure Peter doesn’t sue.
Damian's determined to make amends—he feels awful, and more importantly, Peter's freaking adorable. Can Peter put his self-doubt in its place once and for all or will he let fear win out and lose the man of his dreams?
Need a Hand? is a 16k word standalone story that takes place in the same universe as The One Decent Thing and A Totally Platonic Thing. It was available several years ago as part of a multi-author giveaway, but it has been expanded and extensively rewritten.
Original Review October 2024:
I have featured Eliot Grayson's work on my blog before and many of them have found a place on my kindle but this is the first time I've actually had a chance(made time more precisely) to read the author. So glad I did and I look forward to checking out the author's backlist in 2025.
Need a Hand? is a fun, light-hearted, short novella that makes you smile and chuckle. Yes, perhaps Peter and Damian's tale might have been better had it been a full length novel but sometimes you don't need a lot to connect to characters, to enjoy a story, and Need a Hand? is just absolutely quite lovely as is. You understand Peter's insecurities even though you want to scream "you're perfect as you are" but there are times when characters need to see it from the others before they can believe it within. As for Damian? Well he has his own brand of insecurities that one can relate to and it's these attributes that make them a perfect fit.
I was looking for stories with some level of Halloween setting with no paranormal effects in a FB book rec group and the author rec'd this one saying the epilogue has mentions of the holiday. I'll admit I chose this story more on the length(or lack thereof) than the blurb but whatever brought me here I am just so glad I arrived. This story from the beginning just left me uplifted and a pleasant contrast from the spooky I've been reading and watching in October😉. When a book leaves the reader smiling I can't think of a better way to express this humorous gem.
Summary:
I Spy #2
It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan -- a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?
Especially when deep down Mark knows he doesn't deserve a happy ending?
(Previously released through Loose Id Publishing.)
I first read this trilogy 10 years ago . . . 10 YEARS?!?!?!? How is that possible? My original review below was a complete trilogy review so I decided to reread Wicked for this year's Halloween(non paranormal) blog post. 10 years and I remember so much.
Here Mark finds he has a choice to make: one last job as a favor to the Old Man and lose Stephen forever or tell his old boss no and continue on in his new civilian life. What does he choose? Well, you'll have to read for yourself to find that out but I certainly wanted to shake Mark a few times to make him see he has the potential of a third choice if only he'd open up completely to Stephen.
Decisions, decisions . . . 😉😉
I Spy Something Wicked is the second story in the I Spy trilogy and it should be read in order to understand the depth of the choice Mark has to make. You won't be sorry. Just a pure entertaining gem, though it may not be in my Top 10 Josh Lanyon list it's still more than worth the read. There may be a short cast of characters than the normal Lanyon fare but each one steals the scene they are in, that's just how interesting and brilliantly creatively written each on is. I may just have to go back and read Bloody and then the final entry, I Spy Something Christmas before the upcoming holiday season.
Original Trilogy Review September 2014:
At first I wasn't a huge fan of Stephen at first. I think it was because he was so determined to not give Mark another chance during Bloody, but I warmed to him quickly. Loved the mystery, the romance, and Mark's journey trying to acclimate to not only civilian life but also relationship etiquette. I won't lie, I prefer reading full length novels over novellas but that doesn't keep me from reading novellas. If I didn't branch out to short stories/novellas than I would be missing some pretty amazing tales. And of course, I've yet to read anything by Ms. Lanyon that I haven't fell in love with.
Desert Dreams by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Owatonna U #6
When danger stalks their new home, it’s only their strength as a couple that keeps them safe.
Ryker misses Jacob every day he’s away. At the start of a new Raptors season with everything to play for, Jacob, the desert ranch, and their small menagerie of animals have become an oasis of peace in a turbulent world. He’s never ridden a horse, he’s never considered how much this place would mean to him, but suddenly he’s forming a connection with a mare called Tops and loving every moment of this new life. Balancing hockey with his love for Jacob, he feels that nothing can ever go wrong.
With his life finally on track, Jacob is pouring all of himself into the dream he shares with Ryker. Putting the final touches on Mountain Vista Ranch, a halfway home for troubled LGBTQ youth and their families, fills his heart with pride. When their first clients arrive, he finds himself drawn to the small family and their plight. Little does he or Ryker know that the darkness the newcomers have fled from is following them.
Ryker and Jacob just keep getting better and better! Probably my 3rd favorite couple in Scott & Locey's hockey universe. I loved Ryker when we first met him wayback when his dad, Jared fell in love with Ten in Changing Lines and as for Jacob, well as a farmer's daughter in Wisconsin I found so many characteristics I could connect with when he came into Ryker's life in Owatonna U's first entry, Ryker. Together they made a perfect match.
For those of you who think there is no "perfect" when it comes to anything relating to people and love, well I don't mean "perfect" in a Utopian sort of perfect, just that their pros and cons, their strengths and weaknesses, arguments and hugs all compliment each other and make each other stronger.
As for Desert Dreams, I love the whole concept of a place for those in need to regroup and heal and I can't think of anyone better than Jacob to lead the way(well perhaps Jack Campbell-Hayes who BTW makes a cameo and can I just say even without Riley at his side it was still a delicious treat). There is a lot packed into this Owatonna U novella and yet nothing felt rushed or glossed over. As a matter of fact I loved how the authors had Jacob still dealing with the after effects of what happened to him in Valentine Hearts(I won't go into particulars for those who haven't read it yet but it's not a quick fix situation and the authors show their respect for the trauma by "revisiting" the pain).
And I can't forget to mention Stan's security man, Maksim. The blend of humor and heart is delightfully fun and he will definitely be a perfect fit for what Jacob and Ryker are trying to accomplish and provide at Mountain Vista Ranch. From the moment he didn't want to let Ryker through the gate to his tinkling spurs, he has found a home and I hope this isn't a one-time appearance because he put a smile on my face every time he made his presence known.
I also must mention that I loved how it involves Halloween. So many books that have a Halloween-flair are paranormals and all kinds of spooky but this is a contemporary story of recovery and finding your place so I just found the Halloween scene a real treat and that once in a while we all must let our inner child out because you never know just who or how it will help.
RATING:
Summary:
Nick Williams Mystery #5
Friday, October 23, 1953
"Nick! You and Carter have to throw a party for Halloween this year! It's on a Saturday, after all!"
Grudgingly, Nick agrees to be the less-than-amiable host to what turns out to be a bizarre event that will long be remembered by everyone who attends...
When the party is obviously going to be much bigger than Nick & Carter expected, they begin to realize something mysterious is brewing under their very noses. Down in their own basement, as a matter of fact.
A two-timing girlfriend, a locked door, and an unexpected visit from the F.B.I. are just some of the clues that begin to add up to a particularly perplexing Halloween.
So, come on you ghosts and ghouls, witches and warlocks, put on your Halloween best for you have been invited to a memorable evening at 137 Hartford Street in San Francisco on Saturday, October 31, 1953.
Come on in and join the party.
If you dare...
This is a novella of just over 13K words... Boo!
In The Perplexed Pumpkin a few months have passed and it's a week until Halloween. Reluctantly, the guys have been talked into having a Halloween party and soon the crew hired to get the house ready, well let's just say there are some odd things about the whole thing.
For some(and I include myself here), Halloween(or October in general) is all about the horror and paranormal but once-in-a-while I like to throw in a good mystery to help honor the holiday. Perplexed is that: a wonderful tale of WTH?😉.
You got the guys being locked out of their own basement, a cheating girlfriend case, and the FBI. What could possibly be wrong with this set of obstacles? Not too mention the emotional and professional fallout from their trip to Georgia in The Laconic Lumberjack still lingers at times. Any one of these factors would throw most people's day out of whack and yet for Nick and Carter? Well it seems to be just another day at the office.
I'm not going to say much more so as not to spoil anything. Just this: Halloween has a history and habit of often bringing macabre mayhem to one's door, the macabre might be in short supply in The Perplexed Pumpkin but there is definitely plenty of mayhem afoot to give the guys yet another interesting holiday and story to relay to the reader.
Summary:
The XOXO Files #1
The truth is out there. Way, way, way out there!
Drew Lawson is racing against the clock. He's got a twenty-four-hour window to authenticate the mummy of Princess Merneith. If he's not at his boyfriend's garden party when that window closes, it'll be the final nail in their relationship coffin.
The last thing he needs traipsing on the final shred of his patience is brash, handsome reality show host Fraser Fortune, who's scheduled to film a documentary about the mummy's Halloween curse.
The opportunity to film a bona-fide professor examining the mummy is exactly the aura of authenticity Fraser needs. Except the grumpy PhD is a pompous ass on leave from his ivory tower. Yet something about Drew has Fraser using a word he doesn't normally have to draw upon: please.
With no time to waste—and a spark of attraction he can't deny—Drew reluctantly agrees to let Fraser follow his every move as he unwraps the mummy's secrets. Soon they're both making moves behind the scenes that even the dead can't ignore!
Original Review October 2014:
Perfect for Halloween, I read Josh Lanyon's short story/novella to quench my eerie thirst. Very reminiscent of the classic Hollywood horror films in that everything isn't laid out before you in great gory detail, it leaves you imagining the scenes in your head. Did Drew and Fraser really see a mummy or is it Halloween illusion? There's humor, a bit of terror here and there, intriguing characters, and of course no Josh Lanyon story would be complete without the yummy. Considering the length or lack thereof, depending on how you choose to see it, this story has a lot of "bang for your buck" as the cliche' goes.
Need a Hand? by Eliot Grayson
The whooping and screeching of the building’s fire alarm would have drowned out a louder voice than Peter’s, but he refused to evacuate without the damned cat.
“Tripod! Triiiiipod! Where the heck are you?” No answer. Not like the cat knew his name anyway…or, you know, spoke English, and Peter would’ve stopped to facepalm if he’d had the time. Besides which, Tripod was a true alley cat, snarling and spitting at anyone who tried to cut through to the parking lot, let alone pet him. If he knew his name and spoke English, the little jerk would ignore him out of sheer stubbornness.
Peter’s coworkers thought he was insane for feeding the cat that hung around their company’s office park hissing at everyone, let alone naming him. Current events would appear to bear out their theory.
Except that Peter liked to think he could be as stubborn as he was insane, damn it all.
“Tripod!” His feet slipped on a nasty spill of something seeping out of the dumpster as he ducked down to peer underneath.
No cat, but that wet lump of—something—oh God it smelled bad. Peter staggered back up, ears ringing from the din, and steadied himself against the wall.
Under the constant blare of the alarms, he could hear a new and piercing wail: at least two sets of sirens, coming from more than one direction. He needed to find the cat and get out of the fire lane before he got arrested for impeding an emergency operation, or something.
Peter swiveled, his glasses sliding down his nose and almost flying off. He shoved them back up. And there—a black shape humping its uneven way down the other side of the alley.
“Tripod!” The cat shot a contemptuous look over his shoulder and made a break for the mouth of the alley as fast as his three paws could carry him, right into the path of the fire engine currently pulling into the parking lot from the main street and heading their way.
Peter pelted after, feet trying to flail out from under him as the slick soles of his shoes lost traction. The fire engine’s sirens and the fire alarm’s hoots mingled and crossed, creating a cacophony even Peter’s human ears couldn’t handle.
It was way too much for Tripod. The stupid cat froze, with his back arched and every bit of fur standing up straight, his ears flat against his head as he hissed and spat like he always did.
At the fire engine.
Which outweighed him by like, thousands of pounds.
People used a lot of words to describe Peter. Athletic and daring had never made the list. But stubborn and insane, on the other hand…
He put on a burst of speed, and maybe he was red-faced and sweating through his shirt and panting, but he made it, dived for Tripod and scooped him up and rolled—and yes, he was effing Spider-Man—
—if Spider-Man had 20/500 vision and crappy depth perception. Damn it, those glasses he wore in the movies were just for show, weren’t they? As Peter spun through the air, shiny red and flashing lights filled his vision. What felt like Thor’s hammer slammed into his shoulder, the cat yowled and scratched and bit his way out of Peter’s arms, a whirlwind of pointy bits and rage, and Peter landed with a thud and a shattering crunch. That was his new phone. In his pocket.
Peter had just enough time to feel like a moron for caring about the phone before the pain hit.
Squeezing his eyes shut only made it worse, and he curled into a ball, conscious of nothing but his arm, and how it was in a million pieces that all hurt like hell.
Shouts, and then hands on him, and he writhed away, moaning. A deep, worried voice echoed and shattered around him. Peter caught a glimpse of shockingly wide, horrified hazel eyes in a tanned face before he passed out.
He blinked awake again in a haze of pain as the EMTs loaded him on a stretcher, and he lost another minute on the way to the ambulance, a jolting, scattered journey that blurred in and out. Peter mumbled his name when they asked and came out of it enough to catch that he had a dislocated shoulder and probably a broken wrist.
On the left. Of course. Because that would be good luck for ninety percent of the population, but not for him.
For some reason, the two EMTs who’d taken him away both seemed to be suppressing bursts of chuckles the whole time they rigged up his IV and got him settled, which was a little disturbing. He’d always suspected that the medical professions attracted their share of sadists, but seriously? Keep that for the weekends, guys. Peter caught “…never let him live it down…” and something about roses—roses?—but that was it.
The world went hazy and muted, whatever painkillers they’d put in that IV starting to kick in. Tripod! Tripod…he couldn’t muster the strength to demand they go back for the cat, or to do anything more than mumble incoherently.
For crying out loud. He had to trust that the stupid cat could take care of himself—and anyway, he couldn’t possibly be worse at it than Peter.
He sank back against the stretcher and closed his eyes, letting the meds and the adrenaline crash drag him under.
I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon
The Glock was taped beneath my seat. I freed it, reached for the magazine in the glove compartment, and palmed it into the frame. I scanned the empty car park, the black windows of the house in front of me.
I spy with my little eye…
Nothing moved. The bronze autumn moon shone brightly through the barren branches crosshatching the bell-cast rooftops.
I turned off the radio in the dashboard console, cutting off Jack White midnote. “Dead leaves and dirty ground” was about right. I unlocked the door of the Range Rover, got out, and crossed the deserted lot, boots crunching on gravel, breath hanging in the chilly October night. There was a hint of wood smoke in the air; the nearest house was roughly eight kilometers away. A full five miles to the nearest living soul.
I walked past a large banner sign lying facedown in the frosty grass and studied the building’s facade. Two stories of battered white stone. Broken finials and dentils. Arched windows — broken on the top level, mostly boarded on the bottom. The narrow, arched front door was also boarded up. Once upon a time, this had been some founding family’s mansion; in the early part of the last century, it had operated as a funhouse. Now it looked like a haunted house. That was appropriate since I was there to meet a ghost.
I went around to the side of the long building, found a window where the boarding had been ripped away. I hoisted myself up and scrambled over the sill.
Inside, moonlight highlighted a checkerboard floor and what appeared to be broken sections of an enormous wooden slide.
According to Stephen, it was a long time, decades, since the place had operated officially, but it was still a popular place for teens to romance — and vandalize. Especially around Halloween. That was two nights away. I didn’t anticipate any interruptions.
I proceeded, soft-footed, along an accordion strip of mirrors, some broken, some not, my reflection flashing past: a man of medium height, thin, dark, nondescript. The pistol gleamed in my hand like a star.
Down a short flight of stairs, a twist and a turn, another short flight down. I froze. At the bottom of the steps, a woman sat hunched over. She wore tattered French knickers and a blonde wig. It took a couple of seconds to realize she was covered in cobwebs. One of those mechanical mannequins. I glanced at her in passing and saw that someone had bashed her face in.
A floorboard squeaked. I spun, bringing the pistol up. Jesus. He’d arrived before me. I was getting sloppy in my old age.
The shadow raised its arms high. Hands empty.
“Christ on a crutch, Hardwicke. I don’t think much of your taste in meeting places.”
I lowered my pistol. “Malik.”
He was still bitching. “Really, old boy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have done this in more comfortable surroundings. Some place civilized where we might have a drink and a chat.”
Why? Because I thought I might have to kill him. But I wasn’t so socially inept as to say that — for all Stephen thinks, I’m lacking in the social graces. Instead, I replied, “I like my privacy.”
“So I gathered. May I put my hands down?”
“Yes. But keep them where I can see them.”
He suddenly laughed. “Christ on a crutch! You think I’m here to twep you!”
“Good luck with that.”
He was still chuckling; I didn’t find it nearly as amusing. “You think the Old Man ordered an executive action against you?”
“How should I know?”
“Just the opposite, mate. He needs your help.”
I relaxed a fraction. “Sorry. I’m no longer in the help business.”
“Private citizen, eh? How’s that going for you? I should think you’d be climbing the walls with boredom by now.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Course I do. You’re just like me. Like all of us in The Section.”
“I’m not in The Section. I’m retired. Happily retired.”
“So we heard. Decided to get married and grow roses. Think I’d prefer Oppenheim Memorial Park. You know, the lads have a bit of a wager going on how long you’ll last in the private sector. Granted, you’ve lasted four months longer than I thought you would. Tigers don’t change their spots.”
I didn’t bother to correct him. Not about the spotty tigers, and not about the fact that I was quite content in my role as private citizen.
Mostly. According to Stephen, I still had a lot to learn about “coloring between the lines.”
Malik was saying, “You must have seen the news. You must know what’s going on in Afghanistan with Operation Herrick.”
“I watched the UK death toll pass two hundred.”
“That, yes. But I mean what’s happening with the Old Man. The heat he’s taking from the cabinet and the ministers.”
“Nothing he hasn’t faced before.”
“It’s different this time.”
If I had tuppence for every time I’ve heard that.
“No.” I was already turning away. “I can’t help.” This was a promise I wasn’t going to break. Not for anyone. Not even John Holohan.
Malik cried, “Hear me out at least, can’t you?”
His vehemence surprised me. I faced him, saying nothing. I didn’t want to hear it. Wasn’t going to let it change anything. But I owed John this much; I’d hear his emissary out.
Desert Dreams by RJ Scott & VL Locey
“This is Max.” Jacob held the phone out to me. “He looks like a happy kid,” Jacob murmured.
I glanced at my husband to see the light in his eyes. One day he might want kids—surrogacy, adoption, somehow, we’d be extending our family—and how could we do that if I was traded up to Montreal or Vancouver and he was here in Arizona?
“He’s the best.” Jack beamed. “All four of the kids ride, and because of Max we have a horse therapy program for children at the D.”
Of course, they did, because Jack clearly had a grip on his life and could work magic, and managed to have his whole world on an even keel.
“We’re uncles,” Jacob said proudly. “Show Jack a photo.” He looked at me pointedly.
I could see the tension bracketing his eyes. I was fucking up, and he’d been planning for this visit for weeks. After all, it had been Jack’s Legacy Ranch that had inspired Jacob.
“Sorry, yeah.” I scrolled to a picture of little Charlotte on my cell, my heart swelling with love at seeing her cheeky smile, and showing Jack who made all the right noises, and called her hella cute. She was hella cute, and in that particular photo, she was in a tiny Raptors shirt that I’d sent to Dad and Ten.
“I’m actually kind of her big brother, Jacob’s like an uncle, but biologically—it’s complicated.”
“Life always is.” Jack laughed. “And that’s your team?” he asked, smiling at me, waiting for me to give the best answer I could think of.
“Yeah, the Arizona Raptors, in Arizona.” Duh. The fuck, Ryker?
“I never get that.” Jack wrinkled his nose. “I get ice in Canada, that’s perfectly okay, I mean, it’s cold. But we have a team in Dallas, you know them, yeah?”
“There are only thirty-two teams, so we play them.” Jeez, way to sound condescending.
Jack shook his head. “Ice. In Dallas. Makes as much sense as ice in Arizona.”
The Perplexed Pumpkin by Frank W Butterfield
Offices of Consolidated Security
777 Bush Street, 3rd Floor
San Francisco, Cal.
Friday, October 23, 1953
Just before 10 in the morning
"Nick! You and Carter have to throw a party for Halloween this year! It's on a Saturday, after all!"
I looked over at Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, who was standing in the doorway to my office with a pout on her face.
She was a no-nonsense kind of gal, so her pout had some meaning behind it. Usually, I would ignore her suggestions about my normally abysmal social life these days but, for some reason, she got my attention.
"Why do you say that, doll?"
"First off, you got all these swell guys working for you now, and they're lots of fun."
I watched her face drop down.
"Unlike some people we could name?"
"Right."
She was talking about my ex, one Jeffery Klein, Esquire. He was my ex-lover, my ex-attorney, and my ex-friend. He was also about to be married to a lovely woman, if the society pages were to be trusted. I wished them both well even though I knew it was bad news.
"So, we got a great gang of guys, and that's why you want me to throw a party, is that it?"
Robert popped his head around the corner and said, "Well, there's more to it than that, Nick."
Robert was my whiz-bang real estate manager who was also an ex-employee of Jeffery's. I'd hired the kid out of pity for his situation, given that he'd been unceremoniously canned, but was over-the-moon happy with his quick mind and his ability to manage an ever-growing list of residential and commercial buildings. He was making me a fortune, and it was the easiest thing ever.
"Does this have anything to do with Joe?" I asked.
Robert blushed and smiled. So, the answer was yes.
"He's come up with a terrific idea for decorating your house and has a whole list of Halloween games we can play. He has a couple of friends who'll make all the food. He'll even bring all the records to play on the hi-fi."
Marnie piped up, "He's practically a host in himself."
I smiled. Joe was a sweet kid in his 20s who Robert had met one night out on the town in early September. They had been inseparable ever since and, according to Marnie, were now living together in Robert's one-bedroom apartment in one of my buildings on Powell Street. I liked the kid and I liked seeing the two of them together. In fact, Carter, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman husband, had invited the two of them over for dinner on the previous Friday. We'd had a fun time. After we had eaten, we took a drive up to the top of Twin Peaks for some parking and necking. We'd dropped them off at a new hot spot on Polk Street before heading home ourselves. On Monday, Robert had reported to me that the two of them had painted the town red that night and the next night, as well, for that matter.
Carter was standing in my office with his back against the wall watching all of this with increasing amusement. I looked at him and asked, "Well, Chief? Waddaya think?"
"Sure. We'll have to invite Pam and Diane."
I nodded. Pam and Diane were the "lady couple," as Carter called them, who lived next door. I added, "And Evelyn and her new gal."
"Roberta," Carter prompted. Evelyn lived on the other side of Pam and Diane and had recently started going with the most voluptuous blonde I'd ever seen.
"Roberta," I echoed. Carter smiled at me in his sweet, southern way.
I looked over at Robert. "Go ahead, kid. Sounds like fun." He smiled at me and quickly disappeared out the door of the office.
Mummy Dearest by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago—in fact, in the Sixth Dynasty, which was way before anyone used the phrase once upon a time—there was a beautiful princess. But like all beautiful princesses, not to mention everyone else on the planet, Princess Merneith fell prey to time and tide, and she eventually wound up in the Lasse Dime Museum in Walsh, Wyoming. Population 1999.
I know what you’re thinking, but there are worse places you could wind up, I guess, including—according to legend—as fuel for the locomotive fires upon which some of the princess’s kinfolk landed when railroads were built across Egypt.
Merneith’s empty eye sockets stared up at me from the browned linen swaddling coyly concealing the rest of her petrified features. I leaned closer, nose nearly pressing the glass lid of the display case. She was so tiny inside that bundle of rags…
“How art the mighty fallen,” a voice murmured from behind me.
I didn’t quite jump, but I did straighten so fast I almost decapitated myself on the strategically placed Indian tomahawk display. I’d thought I was alone in the exhibit room. As it was, it took me a few seconds to locate the source of the voice in the surrounding jumble of shrunken heads, taxidermy and miscellaneous junk. A plump, elderly woman, her gray hair in short braids, regarded me with hopeful expectancy.
“Did you say something?” I asked. I was hoping it was her and not one of the stuffed critters.
She smiled. I was struck by the beauty of her eyes. Despite her evident age, they were a wide and sparkling aquamarine.
“The princess.” She nodded at the display case. “Kind of looks like a piece of driftwood, doesn’t she?”
“Well, I never really th—”
“You’re with the film crew?”
She was so eager, I was sorry to have to disappoint her. “No.” I couldn’t help asking, “What film crew?”
“You’re not with the film crew? Aren’t they coming?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed so anxious I felt like I should apologize. Or at least explain. “I’m Drew Lawson. I wrote Dr. Solvani about examining the princess.”
She looked as uncomprehending as the glassy-eyed stuffed beaver on the pedestal behind her.
“I’m writing a paper on her. The princess.”
“Oh? Babe Jenson.” She offered a hand and pumped mine energetically. “Dr. Solvani is so forgetful these days. Didn’t say a word to me.”
My heart sank. This sounded like a delay in the making—and I was on a tight schedule. Even tighter than usual. “He didn’t?”
She was shaking her head regretfully. “Nope. I’m afraid the doctor must have forgotten all about the mysterious people too.”
“The…mysterious people?”
“That would be me.” The new voice was suave and male. It belonged to a stocky young guy about my age with sandy hair, neatly trimmed beard and long-lashed hazel eyes.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Babe exclaimed. “I was starting to worry about you.”
That seemed to be the looked-for response. The guy gazed at me expectantly.
“Er… Hi.” I nodded politely, convinced by now that everyone in this little shop of horrors was wacko.
“Fraser Fortune,” he prodded.
“Hi,” I repeated.
His confident smile faltered. “Fraser. Fortune. The Mysterious.”
“The mysterious…?”
I thought I was conveying polite inquiry, but maybe I just looked hard of hearing. He repeated forcefully, “THE. MYSTERIOUS.”
“The mysterious what?” Now I was getting impatient too. Anyway, what kind of a name was Fraser Fortune? It sounded like the hero of one of those goofy old 1920s adventure novels. Dick Daring and the Lost City. Dick Daring in the Foreign Legion, Dick Daring and the Secret of the Moldering Museum.
Dick—er, Fraser—was now looking at me with disgust. “The Mysterious. It’s only one of the top-rated documentary series on TV right now.”
I snorted. “You mean that thing where they supposedly investigate ancient, weird or paranormal phenomenon and then wrap it all up in half an hour for the at-home viewers?”
His rosy complexion faded. He drew himself up to his full height—he was just a fraction shorter than me. “Yeah. That long-running, top-rated, award-winning thing that I produce, write and host.”
Babe’s chuckle interrupted our exchange of civilities. “Now, I thought for sure you must be a TV person. You’re so handsome.”
Fraser and I turned as though we’d choreographed our moves. She was beaming at me. I heard Fraser hitch a little breath. I reached in my pocket for my glasses and slipped them on.
“No. I’m a college professor. Do you think I could talk to Dr. Solvani?”
Babe looked apologetic in the face of my mounting desperation. “Dr. Solvani didn’t come in today. The doctor usually doesn’t come in on…” her voice lowered, “…this day.”
“Friday?”
“Halloween,” Fraser supplied irritably. He didn’t actually add dumbshit, but the implication was clear.
I ignored him. Pointedly. “Do you have a way of getting in touch with him? This was all supposed to be arranged—”
Even before I finished speaking, Babe was shaking her head, her braids flying out with the vehemence of her feeling. “No. Oh no. I’m afraid Dr. Solvani can’t be reached.”
Fraser continued to stand there openly listening to our conversation. I gave him a discouraging look. It flew right over his head like a twittering soul departing for the Underworld.
“Well…” I chewed my lip. Fraser and Babe watched me as though waiting for something. “Then may I go ahead and examine the princess? It’s supposed to be all ar—”
“No way,” Fraser interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“No way.” He met my look with one equally stony. “We’re filming here today. We’re just about to start setting our equipment up.”
“That’s true.” Babe, uncomfortable and apologetic, was suddenly avoiding my gaze. She used the corner of her flowered smock to wipe dust off the edge of a credenza.
“But I’ve got Dr. Solvani’s letter right here.” I unzipped my day planner.
“And I’ve got a signed contract.”
I stared at Fraser. He stared right back, and beneath that cocky, self-satisfied grin was a purpose harder than Egyptian basalt.
It galled me to have to try and conciliate him when the antipathy between us had been instant and instinctive, but I could see from Babe’s unhappy expression that if I wanted to examine the princess, I’d need Fraser’s cooperation.
“It won’t take me very long. Probably no more than an hour at most. If I promise to stay out of everyone’s way—”
He was shaking his head. The look of fake regret on his boyish face made me want to strangle him.
“Look.” I tried for a pleasant, reasonable tone. I think I managed constrained. “I’m only here for the day. I’m flying out tomorrow morning.”
He spread his hands and shrugged in a sorry-no-can-do.
“Why?”
He was only too pleased to spell it all out. “Because it’s not practical, for one thing. We’re going to be setting up lights and cameras and reflectors and mics. The crew is going to be moving around. And the focus of all that is Princess Merneith. Okay? So we can’t have you sitting there in the middle of everything with your tape measure and chainsaw.”
“Tape measure and chainsaw?” I remembered that pleasant, reasonable people didn’t shout. “I’m not dismembering her. I just want to examine the mummy and take a few photos.”
“No.”
I turned to Babe. I could see by her expression she wished I hadn’t. “I’m…erm…sorry,” she stammered. “Mr. Fortune does have a contract.”
“And I have a letter and permission from Dr. Solvani.” I knew I was wasting my breath, but on top of my genuine frustration with not being able to accomplish what I’d traveled a thousand miles to do, I really, really hated to let that arrogant prick, Fraser Fortune, win this bout.
“You could come back Sunday,” Babe offered. “You can have the museum all to yourself.”
Like that would be an issue? The place was a tomb. Literally.
“I’ll be in San Francisco on Sunday. I have a garden party to attend.” I winced inwardly even as their expressions altered. I didn’t mean it to come out sounding like Lord Whipplesniffle looking down his long nose at the serfs. As a matter of fact, the last thing I wanted was to go to this fucking garden party. But Noah had basically made it an ultimatum.
“Of course you do,” Fraser drawled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Actually I had a pretty good idea what it was supposed to mean.
He smirked, and I reminded myself that pleasant, reasonable people do not punch each other either, even if one of them was totally begging for it. The funny thing was, I’d sort of had the impression that he might be gay. It seemed the old gaydar was on the blink.
If a shrug could be insolent, Fraser’s was. “Just that you look like the kind of guy who would spend an afternoon at a garden party and then go home and watch PBS while you sip sherry in your smoking jacket and ascot.”
Oh yeah, I’d’ve dearly loved to smack him in that rosebud-shaped mouth of his. He had perfectly straight little white teeth. Almost like baby teeth. They were too cute—like I imagined he was, hosting his god-awful TV show. Now that I thought about it, I did sort of recognize him from the obnoxious ads for his stupid show.
Oh sweet mystery of life! That was their idiot slogan. Usually flung from the grinning lips of Mr. Fortune as he was hanging upside down or falling off a mountain or leaping out of range of something potentially poisonous.
“Now, now,” Babe said nervously, reading my expression correctly. “I’m sure no one needs to get nasty. Mr. Fortune, maybe you could let Mr. Lawson—”
“Doctor Lawson.”
“Doctor Lawson, I mean.” She turned pink, and I felt like more of an ass than ever. I honestly wasn’t the kind of guy who felt he needed to impress people with his title. I think maybe I said it because I knew it would irritate Fraser—and I could see by the mulish set of his jaw that it did.
But that really didn’t do me any good because it just made him all the more determined to thwart me. “Sorry,” he was saying, shaking his head. “Can’t help you. Nothing personal.”
I stared at him. He stared right back. Enjoying his moment of triumph.
“Fine.” I said to Babe, “If Dr. Solvani should call—”
But she was shaking her head too.
I left them in the shadowy bowels of the museum like two bobblehead dolls commiserating with each other.
The princess slept on in her glass coffin.
Swell. Now what?
I left the museum and stalked out to the small shady parking lot. There were a total of five vehicles including a battered white van at the far end which looked like it hadn’t moved in a decade, a small blue Prius, and my rental car. My rental was nearly boxed in by a large black van which had the words The Mysterious and a website URL painted in silver and purple with sparkly wingdings. Three guys were unloading gear down a ramp and carrying it to the ivy-covered front porch of the museum. The fifth car was a vintage station wagon. It was parked near the van. Two lanky, long-haired blonde girls in bell-bottoms were exchanging clipboards and laughing. Everybody seemed to be in very good humor, which made me feel all the more morose.
What the hell was I supposed to do with myself for the next twenty-two hours? Walsh seemed pretty limited in its entertainment options. My motel didn’t even offer pay-per-view.
I stared across the street at the feed-store sign swinging lazily in the autumn breeze. On the other side of the museum was a small park. Through the wall of trees I could hear childish voices shrieking something that could have been pleasure or could have been outrage.
If it wasn’t for Noah’s mother’s garden party, I’d change my flight reservation, but missing that shindig was not an option. Not if I wanted to save my relationship with Noah—and I certainly did. How could Noah doubt it?
In fact, if anyone should be feeling insecure—
But neither of us should feel insecure because we loved each other. We were just going through a rough patch, and the disapproval of his family and the doubts of some of our colleagues didn’t help.
One of the girls standing by the van smiled at me. I smiled back automatically. She perked up.
Oops. Enough of that. I hunted for my keys and continued briskly on to my car. Maybe I could use my stay in Purgatory to catch up on some other work. I’d go back to the hotel, treat myself to a decent lunch, maybe have a nap, and then I’d see if I could get any work done. It seemed like I was always running behind on some project or other these days.
And this evening I’d find something to entertain myself. I’d noticed on my drive through town that their little theater was showing a vintage double feature of Boris Karloff in The Mummy and Bela Lugosi in Dracula. That might be fun. A refreshing change from Rocky Horror Picture Show, anyway.
And, yes, it was a drag to have wasted the money and time on a flight to Wyoming when Noah and I could have spent this weekend together and gone to a couple of the Halloween faculty parties we’d been invited to—or even stayed home with the lights off. We didn’t have many home-alone nights lately. Not together anyway.
I climbed in the rental, turned the key in the ignition and began the slow process of maneuvering my way out from behind the equipment van. No way in hell was I asking them to move for me, although I wasn’t sure why since it would have inconvenienced them nicely, but it was a matter of pride to be able to angle my way out of that slot.
The girl who had smiled at me came around and mimed asking the truck to move. I shook my head decidedly. No way. Everything under control.
She chewed nervously on her pen as I continued to edge past the immaculate paint job and gleaming chrome.
At last I was clear. I threw one last reluctant look back at the ivy-draped front of the museum. Fraser Fortune stood on the porch beneath the faded sign that proclaimed Lasse Dime Museum in letters the color of dried blood. He seemed to be looking for something in the parking lot, and apparently it was me.
He put his hand up in unspoken command, came down the steps and started briskly across the shady lot. He passed his crew, and they called out various smart-aleck comments. He grinned good-humoredly and tossed back equally unflattering observations.
As Fraser reached my car, I pressed the button and the automatic window rolled down. He leaned into the car, resting his hands on the window frame, his head level with mine.
“Uh, look,” he said.
I looked. His lashes were very long and gold-tipped, his skin smooth and lightly tanned. His beard was the color of ripe wheat. He smelled surprisingly nice, although I couldn’t quite place the scent. White tea and lemon blossom and sunlit ocean? Clean.
“Maybe we can help each other.”
“How’s that?” I asked warily.
“It just occurred to me…”
I watched him narrowly. He was right in my personal space. His lashes flicked up, he met my eyes, his lashes flicked down. My unease grew.
“She’s right. Babe, I mean. You’re…probably pretty photogenic. You’ve got that cheekbone thing. Assuming you don’t turn into a total dweeb on camera, we could use you. We like to interview experts for each segment, and you clearly think you’re an expert.”
Gee, what a people pleaser this guy was. “What is it you’d want from me?”
His cheeks got a little pinker. “I just told you. You can examine the princess, but we’ll film you doing it. Then I’ll interview you.”
“You’re kidding.”
He looked straight at me. “No, I’m not kidding. Why not?”
What was he doing leaning in my car window? He was practically in my face, practically close enough to rub noses.
A bizarre thought. I talked myself away from it. “Do you know what publish or perish means?”
He shrugged—or would have had there been enough space. “Yeah. Of course. It’s the code you sheltered academic types live by. You have to publish enough books and scholarly articles in whatever your field is so your department heads think you’re worth keeping around.”
“Ha. Well, you’re right. Sort of. Getting enough articles published in the right places can make a difference between getting tenure and not getting tenure. But all the scholarly academic articles in the world won’t help me get tenure if I turn up on your monster-of-the-week show.”
Far from insulted, Fraser smiled complacently. “I knew you’d seen the show.”
“I’ve seen enough to know what your show is about.” I mimicked him on those stupid ads. “Oooh. Sweet mystery of life!”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to strike a pose. I’m not ashamed of what I do. I’m offering you a big opportunity.”
“Well, thanks. But no thanks.”
He rose too fast and banged his head on the roof of the car. “Ouch.” He rubbed the back of his head. “God, you are such an arrogant ass.”
That stung. I didn’t care what he thought of me, but I wasn’t arrogant. “I am not. All I’m saying is that your show is not exactly about scholarship.”
“How would you know? According to you, you’ve never actually watched it.” He stopped rubbing his head and glared at me.
It wasn’t so much that he was right, it was the fact that just for a second he looked genuinely hurt.
I said, “Answer me this. Why are you here?”
“To do a segment on the princess.”
“Why?”
He looked uncomfortable. It was fleeting, but I knew I didn’t imagine it. “Because she’s interesting.”
“She’s four thousand years old. She’s not Princess Diana. She’s a mummy.”
“So’s Princess Diana by now.”
That time I didn’t bother to hide my distaste, although I was vaguely surprised to hear my tongue cluck in the exact same sound Noah made when he disapproved of something. “You’re doing a segment on the princess’s mummy because of that idiotic story about a curse.”
His hazel eyes kindled with the light of the true fanatic. “What if it’s not just a story?”
“Oh come on.”
“It’s true.”
“What’s true?”
Fraser said with every appearance of sincerity, “It might not be just a story. We’ve got a number of eyewitness accounts.”
“Of what?” I curled my lip. “What do these supposed eyewitnesses say?”
“They say that every October thirty-first, the princess rises from her grave.”
Steamy books with delicious tension, heart-wrenching pining, and a hefty dose of action and adventure have always been Eliot’s jam as a reader and author.
Find out more about Eliot’s books or sign up for an occasional newsletter on her website, or come follow along on Instagram. Happy reading!
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
RJ ScottWriting 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.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Eliot Grayson
Josh Lanyon
Need a Hand? by Eliot Grayson
I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon
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Desert Dreams by RJ Scott & VL Locey
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The Perplexed Pumpkin by Frank W Butterfield
