Tuesday, January 21, 2025

🍾Best Reads of 2024 Part 1🍾


👀I'm later than typical for my Best of postings but with my mom's passing last week everything was thrown upside down but it was always important to her that I had my blog as an outlet for "me time" so though it seems odd to do it right now, I'll continue because that's what she'd want.👀

2024 was a little less trying than 2023 until December. my reading mojo is slowly returning but not quite pre-Covid levels yet and I only read 150 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 few 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 2025 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.

👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀


Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3  /  Part 4




Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King
Summary:

Lucifer's Landing #2
Ren Ikeda’s world is falling apart. War has broken out in the streets of Lucifer’s Landing, and his entire empire is being dismantled one explosion at a time. Unsure of his men’s allegiance, but desperately needing protection, he snatches up an opportunity when it lands in his lap. Hiring Mykel Finlay, his complete opposite in every way, has the markings of being disastrous. Realizing Mykel may be the only person he can trust, he clings to the man despite the danger to his heart.

Mykel Finlay doesn’t like bad guys. As ex-police and military, he prides himself on walking the line of good, not evil. When his brother gets in a bind with Ren Ikeda, the Japanese mob boss, he must put aside his moral compass and dive into the murky waters of the mafia. The only thing Mykel isn’t prepared for is falling in love and willingly drowning for Ren, a man he should hate.

With the help of some very unlikely allies, Ren and Mykel try staying alive long enough to take down their enemies and grab a happily ever after neither man thought they wanted. Will their salvation end up leading them down a path of destruction, or will they actually prevail?

This is book two in my Lucifer’s Landing series and is not a standalone. It is highly recommended you read book one: War of the Wicked first.


Original Review Book of the Month January 2024:
Has it really been a whole year since we were first introduced to Lucifer's Landing? Doesn't seem possible, perhaps that's just me because when a book is as rich and thrilling as War of the Wicked was it never truly leaves my psyche.

When an author begins a new series, no matter how much I love the author's works to that point, there is always a layer of "can the author really knock another one out of the park?"  Lets face it, even the greatest authors of all time have been known to put out a clunker or 2 and be it next year or 20 years from now, the day will come when King has a slightly less than stellar release . . .
 
BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY!

Rise of the Ruthless is the exact opposite of clunker.

I'll admit I don't think I can say Ruthless topped Wicked but honestly that comes down to Wicked being the first.  The first is 99.999% of the time always my favorite.  Though Ren and Mykel definitely give Dante and Rainn a heated race for that notch in my heart representing Lucifer's Landing.  Does their pairing meet the "opposites attract" label? That's a toss up.  Yes they are definitely opposites in the "where my moral line in the sand sits" column(at least in the beginning) but their passion to protect loved ones and family is very much in the "equals" category.  The column I put them in is what I like to call "Snark and Cuddle".  They each give as good as they get, they can match snark for snark but they can both cuddle till their hearts explode from the emotional chemistry.  There is absolutely nothing I didn't like about them.

I can't forget Zeus.  How anyone could forget such a protective beast that can be both ferocious and gentle is unfathomable to me.  Animals often play a variety of roles in a story but I don't think I've ever loved one so dearly that they truly are their own character.  If Davidson King were to write a bonus chapter from Zeus' POV I would be first in line to gobble it up.

Now I won't touch on the mystery side of the story as I don't want to spoil anything for either Ruthless or Wicked for those who haven't visited Lucifer's Landing yet.  I will say that there might not be quite as many twists and turns as in Wicked but Ruthless still keeps you on your toes from page one.  There is never a dull moment for the characters or the reader.  

The passion and chemistry between not only Ren and Mykel but Ren and Dante's friendship is equally powerful(for different reasons but I still label it passionate chemistry).  I always find an extra special connection to stories and characters when there is more than just the romantic chemistry involved in the book which makes for an all encompassing storytelling experience.

It took me a few days to read the story and I wish I could say I did that on purpose to savor the King yumminess but it was time that dictated my reading clock.  Had time been on my side, I could easily have read this in one setting and then kicked myself for not savoring it, that's just how engrossing this entry is.  However you choose to set your reading pace, I highly recommend giving Lucifer's Landing a visit, if you haven't dipped your toe in yet you really should start with War of the Wicked because even though Rise of the Ruthless revolves around a different pairing there is an ongoing storyline.

RATING:




Plane, Trains, and Hurricanes by Eli Easton
Summary:
Joe knows where he is going in life. But one crazy road trip just might change everything.

Joe Blankenship knows where he’s going. He’s on track to marry the boss’s daughter and become heir apparent to a multi-million dollar medical supply business. The financial security he never had growing up is within his grasp along with a glitzy Manhattan lifestyle. All he has to do is get to New York by Christmas Eve for his engagement party.

Joe didn’t count on getting grounded in Florida thanks to a hurricane. He couldn’t have anticipated having to rent a broken-down car for the long drive north. And he certainly never foresaw being stuck with a passenger like Remy Guidry, a sweet-natured Cajun boy, social worker at a children’s home, and free spirit. Remy is the opposite of everything Joe has worked for. But he just might teach Joe, not only the spirit of Christmas, but what’s truly of value in life.

Planes, Trains, and Hurricanes is a Christmas road trip, forced proximity, opposites attract romance.

Original Review January 2024:
I look forward to Eli Easton's Christmas story every year, she just has a way of bringing all the holiday fun blended with just the right amount of drama to make for a very enjoyable reading experience.  Planes, Trains, & Hurricanes is yet another delicious Easton holiday yummy.

Planes has a definite Hallmark Holiday Movie feel and as someone who has seen more Hallmark holiday movies than I care to admit due to my mom's love of them, I can honestly say it is 10X better.  I love it when an author creates characters that you not only love to cheer for but also want to know.  I couldn't help but want to wrap Joe in a huge Mama Bear Hug and tell him to follow his heart's wants and not the journey he thinks he needs.  As for Remy, well I want to also squeeze the life out of him in a tight motherly hug because he's just so darn adorable.  How could I not want to know both of these amazing characters?

I love the whole hurricane obstacle too.  Born, raised, and still living in the upper Midwest I have never lived through a hurricane but I certainly understand Mother Nature being in control and not being able to get to where you need to be.  Can't say I would push myself to try and get ahead of the storm but then again I have never quite been in either man's position.  Gotta love Remy's optimistic approach to everything though, also something I'm not sure I could have shared.

The author says Planes is an opposites attract, forced proximity, road trip journey.  Road trip? Definitely.  Forced proximity? Certainly. Opposites attract? On the surface.  I say "on the surface" because to look at them then obviously opposites but I think the more we learn about Joe, or more precise the more he learns about himself, then maybe they aren't quite as opposite as originally thought.  Whatever label you choose, Planes, Trains, and Hurricanes is a holiday reading must proving once again that Eli Easton is definitely the Queen of Christmas.   If you're looking for man against Mother Nature stories than I highly recommend this story for that as well.

RATING:





Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:

Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #15
When their colleague Dr Panesar is the victim of serious allegations, the Cambridge Fellows have to call on every resource to solve the problem. But in a case where nothing is as it appears and they can’t even identify who’s posing the threat, how can they clear an innocent man’s name?












Original Book of the Month March 2024:
You would think that after 20 books a series would be getting old, tired, rehashed . . . Cambridge Fellows Mysteries is so not getting old, tired, or rehashed.  Charlie Cochrane has kept Jonty and Orlando as fresh and original as ever.  I can't imagine my reading journey without these two Cambridge Dons detecting and romancing their way through life.

Mysteries have always been my go-to genre of choice both in reading and viewing form so there is very little that still surprises me when it comes to sniffing out the culprit(s?😉) but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the journey from crime to discovery.  As I started off by saying some might think a series with so many entries can't possibly keep one guessing but Deadly Alias does.  I won't spoil the mystery but I will say, I lost count on how many times I thought I had it figured out but lo and behold, I'd swipe a page and my guess was foiled sending me back to square one. I did make the correct guess shortly before the reveal but the intricacies surrounding it still left me a bit baffled until all was laid out before me.  So I say with 200% certainty: kudos on the who done it as well as the what, where, why, and how.

As for Jonty and Orlando.  They never lose their spark, their chemistry, and their all around happiness with life . . . long as a good bit of detecting falls in their path.  Having read this series from the beginning I know what lays in front of the pair as well as where fate leads certain cast members but I won't spoil it for anyone who is new to Cambridge Fellows.  These newer entries are thrown about in the timeline so check out the author's website if you want to read it chronologically.  Because I don't want to cotton on to the fate of some characters all I will say is I love seeing this series return to it's "heyday" and it never gets boring when Jonty's family aid in the investigation, talk about a family business😉.

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias is topnotch storytelling, weaving a web of deception that will keep you on your toes.  There are a few comments that elude to previous points  in regards to Orlando's younger homelife that was discussed in an earlier entry but the author handles it so a new reader to the series won't be lost.  Deadly Alias is a great blend of drama, humor, danger, family, chemistry, friendship, heart, and of course mystery.  The author also keeps to the era, from dialogue to social morals to clothing and so many elements in between but does so in a way that you don't feel a part of a school lesson. There may be a few liberties here and there but there's no doubt the respect Charlie Cochrane has for yesteryear and getting it right.

Whether the author keeps adding entries to the early years of Jonty and Orlando's life or she strictly moves on to adding to their older years, I will gobble them up.  Full length novel or one page holiday coda, I will devour them all.  Jonty and Orlando has become members of the family, you may not want them around 24/7 365 days a year but it's great to have them visit.

RATING:





The Pitiful Player by Frank W Butterfield
Summary:
A Nick Williams Mystery #14
Friday, July 8, 1955

Ben White, a movie producer working on Nick's dime, is ready to show off what he's been up to, so Nick and Carter head to Hollywood to see what there is to see and, to be polite, it stinks.

Ben's director has an idea and he says it's gonna make Nick even richer than he already is.

But, before they can start the cameras rolling, leading man William Fraser is found murdered at the lavish Beverly Hills mansion of seductive silent screen star Juan Zane. Carlo Martinelli, Ben's lover, is arrested and charged with murder even though everyone in town knows he's innocent, including the District Attorney.

Meanwhile, the Beverly Hills Police Chief makes sure that Nick knows that his kind of help isn't wanted in the posh village, home to some of Hollywood's most famous stars. The chief is running a good, clean, wholesome town, after all.

From Muscle Beach to Mulholland Drive, Nick and Carter begin to piece together the clues that point to who did it and why. Somehow they manage to do so in the sweltering heat and noxious smog of the Southland.

In the end, however, will anyone be brought to justice? It's Hollywood, so you'll have to wait for the final reel to find out.


Original Book of the Month Review March 2024:
Gotta start by saying this is the first of Frank W Butterfield's full-length novels I've read in the world of Nick Williams and Carter Jones.  As a series-read-in-order kind of gal it's unusual for me to start in the middle.  I was looking for recs that had a Hollywood/acting theme as Oscar season had arrived and The Pitiful Player came to my attention.  I knew starting the middle would normally throw me for a loop but I also knew(or suspected to be more accurate), having read Butterfield's Nick & Carter Holiday short story series there probably wasn't too many side characters that I wouldn't recognize and that for the most part it sounded like these mysteries were standalones.  

In I jumped . . . what a glorious splash landing it was.

I won't talk about the mystery part so I don't spoil it for anyone but I loved it, I loved the intricacies, the twists and turns that Nick and Carter found in their quest to free their friend.  Sometimes it seemed like every time a question was answered it only led to more questions but eventually everything works itself out with the aid of N&C and their merry band of ever-growing employees and friends.

I'm afraid my knowledge of the LA landscape comes from what I see in films/tv shows so I can't speak to the accuracy of said setting but I can't help but think Butterfield got it pretty spot on considering how awesome his attention to detail was in the N&C Holiday shorts. I do know that the inclusion of real Hollywood actors helped to pull me into the story, to make me feel like a customer at the Brown Derby or Joe's Diner witnessing everything firsthand.

A couple of examples that stood out, that made me stop reading for a second to appreciate the author's efforts:

1. William Hopper at the fundraising event.  I'm guessing not too many people realized that Bill Hopper, aka Paul Drake from TVs Perry Mason, was the son of Hedda Hopper.  I'll admit I didn't know it until about 10 years ago when I thought I saw him in a bit part of an old movie I was watching and looked it up on Wikipedia.  Such a tiny blip in this great story and yet for me it went a long ways to express the respect of the era the author has.

2. The speech Nick gave at above mentioned fundraising event for polio research and vaccine.  Nick speaks of a cop's daughter he met not needing an iron lung but still dealing with the disease and probably will for years to come.  My grandmother had polio when she was younger but also did not need the iron lung.  I think too many people don't understand there were other ways polio hit and just how important the vaccine was.  Butterfield including this again spoke volumes to me, such a small point in terms of wordage and pages but a huge point in establishing the era.

Now that those points have been made, I'm going to close out my review by saying even when the time comes and I've read all 32 entries as well as a few others in the Nick and Carter universe, the couple and their found families will never get old, will never fail to entertain. They are just so likeable and loveable you just can't help but gravitate towards them.

RATING:





The Pursuit of  . . .  by Courtney Milan
Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.

•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.

The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.


Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author.  Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start.  I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary War😉.  Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.

So glad I did!

Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army.  Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds.  Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it.  No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was  . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstances😉. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then?  Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.

There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself.  If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.

RATING:




Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Ren Ikeda
“Thank you for dinner, Dante.”  Rainn handed me my coat, a small grin adorning his face. He was a beautiful man, a good soul. Maybe too good for this cruel world. He’d shown great courage in the face of true evil when it came to Joseph Etienne.

Having been kidnapped and almost raped simply because he fell in love with Dante Scavo, the head of the Italian mob, didn’t diminish his shine one bit. If anything, it made it brighter.

“My pleasure. But, Ren, I have to ask you again if you’d like to stay here in this house. It’s not going to be safe for any of us right now, and you’re down in numbers.” The concern in Dante’s gaze warmed my heart. I was happy to have my friend again, and it touched me to see how worried he was for me. But my pride was too great.

“No, I will be fine. Asahi is with me, as is Minoto. I may have lost some protection, but I will replenish.” I buttoned my coat and mustered a smile for Dante and Rainn, who seemed to need convincing. “Besides, I’m safer in my penthouse than I am here. There, they have to climb twenty-seven floors in order to get me. Here, just one, maybe two.”

Rainn chuckled. “Please be safe.”

I knew if it hadn’t been for Rainn, Joseph would have killed me the night he’d destroyed my house. But Rainn’s quick thinking in cutting my hand and painting my neck and face in blood made them think I was dead, and that in turn had kept me alive. I would be forever grateful to this man.

“We will meet weekly. Nothing will change. I suggest we keep a united front on this, and perhaps people will think twice before attacking either of us.” Even with my smaller numbers, I believed that.

Dante held the door open for me. “I hope you’re right. But I’d feel better if you took some of my men.”

I’d known this would be his next request. “No, thank you. Let me handle my own house, Dante.”

He nodded curtly and followed me out to my car. Rainn stayed back but waved as soon as I reached the vehicle.

“Ren.” Dante stepped closer, and Asahi got into the passenger seat, giving us some privacy.

“What is it, Dante? I’m not taking any of your men.”

He shook his head and seemed unable to meet my eyes. “I understand. You’re as stubborn as I am, and it’s why I want you to listen to me.”

“Very well, what is it?” I scanned the area closest to the front of the house. A few of Dante’s men milled along the grounds, but far enough to be out of earshot. My men were in the car, also out of earshot.

“We often don’t show our pain to those around us, for fear it exposes us, shows weakness. I understand this deeply. When Rainn was missing, and we knew Joseph had him, that was when I realized I loved him—I’d never felt such terror, such fear over anything in my entire life.”

Was Dante confiding in me as a therapist? Was the worry over Rainn causing him pain even with him being home and safe?

“He’s okay, Dante. No one will harm him again.”

He nodded. “I know…I’m fucking this up, Ren.” Now he did meet my gaze, his eyes filled with sorrow and pain. “I know you cared greatly for Yuma, and I’m just here to tell you that if you need someone to talk to…if you need to⁠—”

Oh, absolutely not. I wouldn’t have this at all. “Dante, I wish for you to stop talking.” I was relieved when he snapped his mouth shut. “What Yuma was or wasn’t to me is my own business. While I appreciate what you’re stumbling through to say, I wish the matter to be dropped.” I rapped on the window, and Asahi stepped out. “Have a good night, Dante.”

Asahi opened my door, and I quickly got into the vehicle. To Dante’s credit, he did not try to push the issue, nor did he stop me from leaving.

On the drive to my penthouse, I thought a great deal about what Dante had said, and he was right. I needed more protection. The men I had were loyal and talented. But they were still only a few, and I couldn’t expect them to cover every shadow.

“Asahi?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like you to look into recruiting some people for protection. With everything going on here in Lucifer’s Landing, and this impending war between the Irish and the Greeks, I can’t deny that Dante is right and my numbers need replenishing.”

“Not a problem. I will get right on it. Would you like to meet with each person or⁠—”

“I trust you’ll choose the right people for the job, Asahi.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I leaned back on the headrest and closed my eyes. Dante was also right about my feelings regarding Yuma. I’d loved that man, and while I knew he’d understood my feelings, Yuma had been one hundred percent straight. A memory assaulted me of one night as we’d sat by my koi pond in the backyard. Yuma had been bolder than anyone I knew, and that conversation would always stay fresh in my mind.

“I wish I could love you, Ren, the way I know you love me.”

I turned toward him as he stared at the pond. The moonlight was bright, his every feature in view. I could see the heartbreak not loving me was causing him.

“Love is as evil as it is kind, Yuma. I wish I hated you. It would make everything so much easier.”

“I wish you hated me too.”

Before that moment, I’d never verbalized my feelings to Yuma, but clearly, I’d been more transparent than I’d thought. Yuma had been my number one, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d seen right through me and picked up on every little thing. Through the years my love for Yuma had changed…morphed into a strong respect. He’d died for me, and while I missed him terribly, I had put to rest any chance of him being my partner long ago.

“We’re here, sir,” Asahi said, interrupting my melancholy. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine, just tired.”

He didn’t say more, and it was something I was grateful to Asahi for. He was never intrusive when it came to feelings or emotions.

Earlier today, knowing I was going to Dante’s, I’d instructed two of my men to stay behind at the penthouse to make sure there were no issues. So, it was just Asahi and me on the elevator up while Minoto secured the car in the garage, and I was grateful he didn’t fill the silence with mindless babble.

The elevator doors opened, and I was assaulted by the sounds of yelling. One glance at Asahi and he stepped in front of me.

“Stay here,” he said, slowly walking in the direction of the noise.

I was a stubborn man, another fact Dante was correct about, and while I knew it would frustrate Asahi, I followed him to see what the commotion was.

“The way I see it is you’re out a hundred grand, and Mr. Ikeda’s house won’t be completed on time.” I heard one of my men speaking sternly.

“How am I out a hundred grand?” I knew that voice. It belonged to Louis Finlay, the contractor I’d hired to finish my house.

“Because he isn’t paying you a dime. Now that I think about it, you’re out two hundred grand, ’cause you’re going to fix it out of your own pocket.”

“I can’t do that!” Louis sounded desperate, and I decided it was the perfect time to make my presence known.

“Good evening, Mr. Finlay.” I darted a look at Asahi, who wasn’t too happy I’d left the elevator.

“Mr. Ikeda.”

“I’m going to venture a guess and say there’s an issue with my home?” I divested myself of my jacket and handed it to Loni, my housekeeper.

“It was a wiring issue, Mr. Ikeda.”

One of my guys, Eiko, rolled his eyes. “It was a guy you personally chose, Louis, to wire the house. And what happened after he was halfway done?”

I turned to Louis, awaiting his answer.

“He disappeared, and the lighting sparked, setting the wall on fire.” Louis practically mumbled his response, but I knew what I was hearing. The house wasn’t close to being done and now this setback.

“This is quite disappointing, Louis.” I slipped my shoes off.

“I’d worked with him before, and there’d never been an issue. I think something happened or⁠—”

“Be silent.” I held up a hand. “I want my home back, and I will pay to finish it. However, Satoshi is correct. You will be on the hook for the payment.”

“Mr. Ikeda…I…I can’t afford that.” Beads of sweat were forming on Louis’s forehead, and his lips quivered.

“Louis.” I sat on my couch, enjoying the soft leather and calming feel of the cushion as it hugged my body. “You will owe me, not whomever you hire to do the job. If you select someone and they fail, you are accountable.”

Louis’s eyes widened. I was positive owing a crime boss was far more frightening than owing a plumber or electrician. There was no question he was in a bad spot.

“How am I going to do that?” His voice shook, and I knew if he didn’t sit soon, he’d likely collapse.

“Satoshi, please get Louis a chair.” Satoshi grabbed a stool from the kitchen and slammed it next to Louis, who jumped. “Sit.” I gestured to the chair. “In a lot of instances, people who owe me don’t always have cash, so tell me something you have that might be lucrative to me.”

As the Old English proverb said, “You can’t get blood out of a stone,” so I’d be sure to get payment another way from Louis.

“Like trinkets, a house, some sort of collateral?” Louis was talking to me, but his gaze darted all around the room, looking at my men and me.

“Loni, would you get Louis a glass of water?” I took a breath and met Louis’s very terrified expression. “Relax, please. I’m not going to kill you. But I’m also not going to sweep this under the rug. Do you understand?”

He nodded quickly.

“Collateral works with banks, Louis. It’s something they hold in case you don’t pay. You’ve already told me you can’t pay. So what will you give me that equals the amount owed?”

Loni came in and handed Louis a tall glass of water, which he took with unsteady hands. “Thank you,” he whispered. Loni said nothing and left the room. Louis sipped the water, his brow furrowed, no doubt thinking about what he had that he could give me.

“Louis?”

My voice caused him to jump, and he spilled water over the front of his shirt. “S…sorry.”

“What do you have that I’m able to use?” I ignored his sputtering and his now-wet shirt, wanting very much for this conversation to end so I could go to sleep.

“I…I don’t know, Mr. Ikeda, I need to think.”

I nodded. It was a fair request. “Very well. You have forty-eight hours to come up with something. Eiko will retrieve you then and bring you to me.”

“And if I don’t have anything?”

It was a dangerous question to ask because I knew Louis understood what not paying a crime boss meant.

“Let’s hope you are a clever man and can think something up.” I stood, the soreness in my back reminding me of the stress that was my life making itself known. “Asahi will see you out.”

Louis muttered his thanks, but I was already walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. I was exhausted, constantly putting on a front that said I was aware, powerful, and always ready, only lasted so long. I’d reached my quota for the day.

“Sir?”

I was about to undress when Eiko came to the doorway.

“What is it, Eiko?”

“Someone should watch Louis, in case he runs.” I nodded in agreement, unsure who I had to spare for such a task. “I can do it, sir. But what if he does try?”

I sat on my bed, exhaustion finally winning out. “If Louis tries to run, he makes his payment with his life.”

“Kill him?”

“Yes.”





Planes, Trains, and Hurricanes by Eli Easton
CHAPTER 1
December 22
The day I met Remy Guidry, there was an apocalypse. Not the apocalypse with a capital A but the lowercase kind that hits Florida on a regular basis.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blankenship." The woman at the Delta counter didn't sound sorry. Nor did she look cheery despite the green wreath that was pinned to her chest. "All flights are grounded due to Hurricane Jack. No plane is leaving Miami today. Or tomorrow. Possibly the next day either."

This dire information matched the board of CANCELED flight designations that was visible just to my right. But I was deep in denial. "Seriously? We're just seeing the outer bands of the storm. And there's an evacuation notice. Surely, you'd want to fly out as many people as possible before it gets bad."

She arched an eyebrow and her gaze shifted to look over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw the lights of a few dogged taxis outside in the passenger arrivals area. They were blurry through the sheets of rain pelting down the glass windows. One of the taxi drivers held his hat as he fought the wind to get to the driver's door.

"Sorry," the woman said flatly. "As you can imagine, everyone wants to get home for Christmas. But we can't control the weather, sir."

"What about other airports? Can you get me a flight out of Orlando?"

She shook her head. "Orlando is down too. So is Tampa. I suggest you grab a hotel room while there's a taxi left to take you there. Oh, and I'd recommend one on higher ground."

She put up a plaque that said CLOSED. Her wreath pin blinked sadly as she walked away.

I dragged my roller bag through the airport, which was growing less populated by the minute. By the time I reached the rental car counters, it was as if humanity had never existed. Or, at least, that it had never wanted to travel anywhere. All of the counters were closed except for Budget where cheerful fairy lights threw disco vibes onto the lone employee at the counter. She was a middle-aged woman with a shellacked blonde beehive. I ran over and stopped in front of her, panting.

She smiled. "You look like a man who needs to get somewhere."

"God, yes…" I checked her name tag. "…Bridget. Bridget from Budget, that's cute."

She winked. "That's me."

I gave her my most dazzling smile and ran a hand through my blond hair—short on the sides, long on top, with cut-edge layers thanks to lots of product. If my looks could help me get out of Miami, I wasn't above using them. "Well, Bridget, I need to get to New York for an engagement party. My fiancée will have my, er—" I was going to say balls for breakfast, but no, "—guts for garters if I don't make it."

"Oh my." Bridget's eyes widened.

"So I'll take anything you've got." I put my credit card on the counter.

Bridget grimaced. "I'm afraid I don't have anything. We've been sold out for hours. I've been calling around to other agencies for our customers, but I've pretty much tapped out that well, too. I'm sorry."

My heart did a nosedive—straight down, tail spinning, like a plummeting bi-plane. "Please. There has to be something."

"Well…. There are one or two rental places I haven't tried yet. But they're way, way down market and not close to the airport."

"I'd appreciate if you'd check. I'll take anything!"

"All right. I'll try." She gave me a sympathetic smile and got on the phone.

I waited, fists clenched.

This was all my boss's fault. The news had been talking about Jack for a week now. It was supposed to make a direct hit on Southern Florida and then move up the eastern seaboard. I'd wanted to fly home days ago. But, no. Simon Schubert, founder of Schubert Supplies as well as my future father-in-law, was an old-school salesman who believed that if you walked out the door without a signed contract in hand, the deal would never happen. He insisted I stay until Mason, the biggest hospital conglomerate in Miami, had signed on the dotted line on a deal for nearly a hundred-k worth of medical supplies. The red tape had been endless, and I'd had to be a lot pushier than I was comfortable being. The Florida people wanted to postpone sign-offs until the hurricane was over. Hell, the contract review had finally been accomplished by Mason's lawyer while he was on a flight to Los Angeles. Because, evacuation.

But not me. Oh, no. I was still here.

Bridget put a hand over the phone's receiver. "I found a car, Sir, but it's with Rent-a-Heap in Miramar. A Ford Fiesta."

"I'll take it," I said immediately, nudging my credit card closer to her.

Rent-a-Heap. A Ford Fiesta! Oh how the mighty have fallen. I thought of my Porsche in New York with longing. But, at this point, I'd ride an e-scooter if it came with an umbrella.

"You've been a gem, Bridget, really," I said to the woman when she completed the call. "Great customer service. I'll leave a review."

"It's Christmas," Bridget said with a smile and a shrug. "Safe driving, sir. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you!"

The words felt strange as I said them. Christmas. It was, in fact, that time of year, as the many bedecked and bedazzled decorations at the airport, and at Mason HQ, where I'd spent the past two weeks, assured me. But I'd been so wrapped up in work, in the stress of trying to close the deal, I'd had no head space for the holidays. And with all the stuff Allison had planned, it wasn't going to be any more relaxing once I got to New York either.

The only taxi I could find was about to knock off for the day. I had to give the wizened taxi driver a hundred-dollars in cash to take me to Miramar, on top of the fare.

"You leaving town?" he asked me as he pulled out of the airport.

"As fast as possible."

"Where you goin'?"

"New York."

He shook his head. "A word of advice? Don't try to take 95 north from here. It's a parking lot. Our dispatcher told us to avoid it."

My heart did another nosedive. This time the plane's tail was smoking. I hadn't thought of that. Yet another reason not to wait until the last damn second to evacuate.

"This is a nightmare." I covered my face with my hands.

"What you want to do," the driver went on calmly, "is cut over to 27 from Miramar and then take 441 up nearly to Orlando. You can cut back over to 95 from there and avoid the worst of the bottleneck out of Miami. Hopefully. Anyway, it can't be any worse."

"Oh yeah?" I took out my phone and brought up a map. 27 was west of Miramar, so a bit out of my way since I was headed north. But he was right. It was probably faster than the I-95 bottleneck.

"I'll do that. Thanks for the tip."

"De nada. Hope you make it out of the area okay, man. This hurricane—it's supposed to be a walloping SOB."

I sighed and rubbed my temple. No shit. Every cell in my body was urging me to get away. Though how much that had to do with the storm, and how much with what I knew would be Allison's wrath—far scarier than Jack's—was debatable. At least I had a plan now. I gave in to the inevitable and called her on my cell.

"What do you mean, you won't be home tonight?" Allison gasped. "Tomorrow morning is brunch at the club. You need to be there!"

I stared out at the pouring rain. The wet swip-swipe of the windshield wiper blades was audible over the wind. "Babe, every flight out of Miami is canceled. I managed to get a car, but it's a twenty-hour drive. I should be home by tomorrow night."

"But you'll miss the brunch! Can't you get a flight out of a different airport? What about a red eye?"

I grit my teeth. "Orlando's shut down too. And any flights from Florida that are still leaving are likely to be full given the evacuation notice. I'm driving home."

"But the club's putting on a special menu! And we were going to tease the engagement ahead of the party. You know this."

The party on Christmas Eve, at her parents’ mansion, was the gala where our engagement would officially be announced. Somehow, that one event had accumulated other mini-events around it like children huddled around Mother Goose. Or maybe like the tormented spirits when the Ghost of Christmas Future opens its cloak. These festivities extended through the entire Christmas and New Year's season.

"Allison, I'm doing the best I can. There's a hurricane. I'll be there tomorrow night, in plenty of time for the party on Christmas Eve. I'm sorry to miss the brunch. All right?"

"As if you leave me any choice," she grumbled. "Just don't be any later. Do not fuck this up, Joe. I've spent a lot of time planning this. You know how important it is to me."

"Swear. Love you. Gotta go. I'll text you when I've made some progress." I punched the END button on my phone before she could argue.

My gut ached and I popped a few of the antacid tablets I always carried in my pocket. I was too young for this shit, but my stomach had been acting up for the past few months. Probably the stress of the job. Simon was the type of boss who was never satisfied for more than five minutes, and I'd been traveling constantly. Plus the conversation with Allison left me feeling sour, upset, and weirdly off-kilter, like things were spiraling out of control. And if there was one thing I hated, it was losing control. I reminded myself that engagements, weddings, all of that jazz, were a huge deal to most women. Bridezillas really were a thing. Of course, Allison had big plans, and of course, she wanted me there. Once we were married, everything would calm down.

My phone buzzed. I plucked it back out of the breast pocket of my suit jacket assuming it would be Allison, maybe with an apology, maybe with, I dunno, some concern for my actual safety and wellbeing. But the screen said BORIS EVANS. He was the CEO of Mason. Oh God. Don't let there be a problem with the contract.

"Hi, Mr. Evans! What can I do for you?" I answered with my upbeat salesman voice.

"Joe? Did I catch you before you left town?"

"You did, sir. Though I'm doing my best."

"Flight grounded?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But I'm on my way to pick up a rental car. So…"

"Oh, good! When I saw on the news about all flights being canceled, I hoped you might be driving."

"That's the plan. I think I got the last rental car in Miami." I chuckled in a self-effacing way.

"Then you're just the man I need." An alarm bell dinged in my head, but it didn't have time to build steam before he came right out with it. "I need a favor, Joe. It's a big one, but I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

"Uh… okay. If there's anything I can… sure."

"There's a young man who works at a home where my wife volunteers. He just found out his mother has cancer and this is probably her last Christmas. She's in Manhattan, and he needs to get there. As you know, he's not gonna get a flight."

Oh. Oh shit. "Uh-huh."

"I thought, if you were driving, maybe he could go with you. It would mean a lot to me, Joe. He's a stand-up young man and, well, obviously this is urgent."

I saw my plans for a speedy getaway melting—much like the dime-sized hail that was currently hitting the taxi's windshield was destined to do. Fuck a duck.

There was no way I could say no to Boris. Not after I'd twisted his arm to get this deal closed. And he'd remain an important client. This deal was only the first of many. I hoped.

"Of course," I said with a hiccup of hesitation. "Where, um—"

"Perfect! Thank you so much, Joe. His name is Remy Guidry. I'll text you the address of where to pick him up. It's in Homestead."

After Boris hung up, I banged my head on the window. Homestead was south of Miami, and the car rental place was north. So it would be at least a two-hour trip out of my way to go to pick up this complete stranger. And then I'd be stuck in the car with the guy all the way up the continental US. In a freaking hurricane.

"It's the happiest time of the year!" the radio opined.

I caught the cab driver eying me in the rearview mirror. "You got a passenger, huh?"

"Yeah. Lucky me."

"Look at it this way, man. At least you'll have someone to share the driving with."

That was true. But with the way my luck was going, the guy wouldn't even be able to drive.





Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias by Charlie Cochrane
Autumn 1912
Orlando Coppersmith loved the mellow days at the back end of summer, as the evenings darkened and the garden began to give the first hints of soon relinquishing its present glories for those of autumn. He liked the way the increasingly watery sun lit up the courts of St Bride’s college and how the light played across the desk in his study there. He even appreciated turning his thoughts back to the coming term and the challenge of knocking some maths into brains that weren’t always receptive—to see the “Eureka!” moment in a student’s eyes was still a pleasure.

But most of all he loved Jonty Stewart, who shared his life at both St Bride’s and Forsythia Cottage, their home along the Madingley Road. Although that love was at present being sorely tested.

“What are you up to now, pest?” Orlando called through the shut door of Jonty’s study.

“Nothing.” The guilty edge to Jonty’s voice and the sudden cessation of the din which had been emerging from the room gave the lie to that statement.

“Would you like me to come in and provide independent verification of the fact?”

A sound, reminiscent of somebody hurriedly hiding something, was followed by the door opening a little and Jonty’s handsome—yet guilty looking—face appearing round it. “No, thank you. There is no matter of interest here.”

“For nothing going on and no matter of interest there’s an awful lot of noise being generated.”

“Can a Kildare Fellow of Tudor Literature not have an early morning rearrangement of his filing system without having to endure an inquisition?” As Jonty spoke, he edged out of the door, closing it swiftly behind him.

Orlando rolled his eyes. At least part of his lover’s filing system usually consisted of sweeping everything into a certain drawer higgledy-piggledy. “And does this reorganisation involve a brick hammer or whatever else made that unholy racket?”

“I dropped a couple of heavy tomes on the floor. Jolly near my foot, as it happens. Would you like to inspect the area for damage?” Jonty smirked. “Or any other part of me?”





The Pitiful Player by Frank W Butterfield
Chapter 1 
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Friday, July 8, 1955
Half past 7 in the morning 
I stood up from the kitchen table and said, "No." 

Carter stood and said, "Excuse us, everyone. We're gonna move this argument into the other room." 

We'd been having breakfast in the kitchen with Mrs. Strakova, our wonderful cook, Mrs. Kopek, her friend and our housekeeper, and Ferdinand, our gardener and ersatz chauffeur. The other three kids who worked for us had already left the table. 

I said, "Thank you, Mrs. Strakova, for another delicious meal." With that, I turned on my heel and made my way through the dining room and into the great room. 

As I did, I heard Carter say, "Yes, thank you." 

Mrs. Strakova replied, "You are very welcome, Mr. Carter."

As I stood in the great room, looking at the roaring fire that Carter had built while we were waiting for breakfast, I sighed audibly. I was, to put it mildly, sick and tired of having the same conversation over and over again. 

Right then, I heard Carter say, "What is the problem, Nick?" 

I shook my head and made my way for the stairs. As I made my way up, I could hear him following me. At the top of the stairs, I sped up, passing the two bedrooms on either side of the hallway, and breaking into a trot before banging open the door to our bedroom. I discovered a startled Gustav, our butler and valet, who was putting away the laundry he'd picked up the day before from down on Clay Street. 

He looked at me from where he was standing in front of the bureau. "I am sorry, Mr. Nick," he said apologetically. 

I slammed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. "Don't apologize, Gustav," I said with a sharpness to my voice that he didn't deserve. 

"Is this about—" 

"Yes." 

He smiled wanly and said, "I agree with you." 

As Carter knocked on the door behind me and started fiddling with the doorknob, I said, "That's fine, Gustav, but no one asked you." As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I instantly regretted it. I said, "I'm sorry." 

He shrugged. "That is fine, Mr. Nick. Shall I come back again to finish?"

"Go ahead and finish. I'm not letting him in." As I said that, Carter banged a little louder on the thick oak door. 

Gustav raised his eyebrows for a moment and then turned to finish unfolding and refolding the clothes he was putting away. He had a very specific way that he liked to fold our BVDs and socks. He'd stopped trying to get the laundry to follow his instructions and, instead, had decided he would just have to do it on his own each time the clothes came back. 

"Nick." That was Carter. "Let me in." 

"You said I was stubborn and you're right. I've already told you. It's not gonna happen." I leaned against the door and kicked off my shoes. 

Gustav looked down at my stocking feet with a question on his face. 

In a whisper, I said, "Makes it easier to get traction on the rug. My shoes will slip. I may need your help." I wasn't really serious but I wouldn't have turned him down if he offered. Carter banged again. 

"No, Mr. Nick. I must not get involved. We all have our little fights, now and then." 

I grinned but was also tempted to walk over and knock his block off for quoting me back to me. However, right at that moment, I was too busy trying to figure out which piece of furniture would be heavy enough to keep my very tall, muscular, ex-fireman of a husband from getting in the door. I knew that I had little chance of keeping him out. But I wasn't going down without a fight. 

"Nick, I'm gonna start pushing my way in, son. You better get ready."

"I don't care, fireman. You don't scare me." I hoped that by saying those words, usually reserved for our romps in the hay, that I might defuse the tension. 

"Look, Nick," said Carter from behind the door. "I have a meeting at 10. We need to get to work. And I don't want to have this argument again." 

"If you don't wanna have this argument again, then you should stop asking me about it." 

Carter sighed. "But I refuse to believe that you're gonna keep refusing me what I want." He was playing dirty. That was talk straight from our bed. I tried to get mad about it but realized I'd just done the same thing. 

"Gustav is in here, fireman." 

"Are you gonna stay in there with him and leave me out here, all alone?" 

Gustav looked at me with a grin on his face. 

I couldn't help but laugh. I stepped away from the door. As I did, Carter opened it. I bent over to pick up my shoes and should have known better because I left myself wide open. Carter took advantage of the situation and gave me a hard swat on my ass. I stood up and turned on him. "What was that for?" 

"For being an ass about all of this." He looked down at me with half a smile. 

For some reason, I could feel the tension come back. I nodded, walked over to the bench by the bed, and began to put my shoes on. 

"What are you doing?" asked Carter. 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

"I know what you're doing. Why do you need to do it?"

"Because these are new and the soles are still too slick." 

"Too slick for what?" 

Finished, I stood and said, "For getting traction to keep that door closed." 

Carter folded his arms. "You thought you were going to be able to keep me out?" 

Gustav, who didn't appear to be finished, made a beeline for the door. Without saying anything, he slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him. 

I nodded, putting my stone face on. "I did." 

"Don't try that look with me, Nicholas Williams." 

I melted a little, like I always did when he used my full name. But I wasn't ready to give in. Not yet. "Or what?" 

"You know." 

That tension was back. And it was riding on the back of unreasonableness. "Look, Carter. Cut the crap." 

He rolled his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

I took a deep breath and thought about his perfectly reasonable question. After a moment, coming up with nothing, I replied honestly. "I don't know." 

"Well, I wish you would either tell me what is bothering you about all of this or just get mad and try to slug me or something." His voice cracked at the end. 

I blinked several times, trying to keep the tears from getting out. "I dunno. Really, Carter, I don't." 

Carter, whose face had been contorted in a frown, appeared to relax. He sighed. "You've been through a lot this year—"

I exploded. "And so the hell have you! So what? Why do you keep saying that? Yes, this has been a tough six months." I waved my hands in the air. "Seven months. However long it's been, it's been tough. But it's over." I brought my voice down. "Can't you see that it's over? Life is back to normal. Why do you have to keep bringing all of that up, over and over again?" I knew I was losing it, but I had a point and I wanted to make it. "Maybe, just maybe, if we stopped talking about it and just got back to living our lives, then it would go away." I plopped down on the bench and looked out the window. "It is fucking cold as fuck in this goddam house. Why the hell do we have all the goddam windows fucking open?" 

Suddenly, I couldn't stand the house any more. I wanted out of our gilded cage. I was sick of dealing with all our staff and running the business. I just wanted out. 

I looked at Carter for a long moment, wondering if he understood. He just stared at me as if he did but didn't know how to reply. Not knowing what else to do, I stood up, grabbed the shoe box by the wall, and pitched it against the mirror over the bureau. It shattered into several long pieces of glass and made quite a racket. I stood there, not quite sure how to respond to my own violence, and felt really, really cold. 

Carter walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder behind my neck. He ran one finger up and down my spine. It felt soothing in a way I hadn't felt in a while. I thought I was going to cry, but the tears didn't come. 

There was a loud knock on the door. "Mr. Nick? Are you OK?" It was Mrs. Kopek. 

Carter replied, "We're fine, Mrs. Kopek. We need some time alone."

"Yes, Mr. Carter." 

I could hear her walk away down the hall. Whispered voices spoke in Czech and then faded as whoever was there made their way downstairs. 

Carter grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me towards him. He looked down at me for a long moment. His eyes were red but no tears came for him either. I wondered if we were just both cried out. 

He pulled me over to the bench. We both sat and he put his arm around me. We sat there for a long time. Finally, he stood and walked over to the side of the bed. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. After a moment, he said, "Marnie?" There was a brief pause. "Fine. Look, neither of us are coming in today. I have a meeting at 10. Burgess can take care of it. And, whatever is on Nick's calendar, just move it around or do whatever you have to do." There was a long pause. "We're fine. We just need to find some warm weather, that's all. Now, can you get Robert on the line for me?"






The Pursuit of . . .  by Courtney Milan
Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.

Yorktown was just like any other engagement. 

Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.

In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.

The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.

They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.

Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—

John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.

There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.

It moved, man-shaped.

The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.

All of them but him.

Damn it all to hell.

Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent. 

Fight. Survive… Damn it.

There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.

The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.

John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.

It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike. 

There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.

The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.

“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”

John refused to hear his words.

John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.

The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”

John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.

Ah, damn it.

This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.

It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.

“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”

For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.” 

He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.

“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”

Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?

“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”

What the hell?

“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”

Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all. 

He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.

“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”

There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.

“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.

“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”

Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.

“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”

Their weapons crossed again.

“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”

John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals. 

There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.

He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.

The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”

John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”

“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”

“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”

Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…

And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket. 

“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.” 

A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.

“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”

John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.

It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.

The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”

He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.

“Go on,” the man said. 

His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now. 

A bugle sounded.

John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.

It was done. They’d won.

He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”

“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”

“What?” John stared at him.

“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”

“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.

“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.

They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.

Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.

He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.

He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?

“I can’t go back,” the man said again.

John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.

The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.

It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.

The man stared at it.

“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”

The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”

“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”

The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin. 

John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.

Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”

The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.

Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”

John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.

John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”

“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”

He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.

He would never see the man again. 

In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.

“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”

Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.

John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” 

“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”

“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.

Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.



Davidson King
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

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.





Eli Easton
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.

Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.

In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.





Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.





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.





Courtney Milan
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.

Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.

Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.



Davidson King
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Eli Easton
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Charlie Cochrane
EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com

Frank W Butterfield
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Courtney Milan
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EMAIL: contact@courtneymilan.com



Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King

Plane, Trains, and Hurricanes by Eli Easton

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias by Charlie Cochrane

The Pitiful Player by Frank W Butterfield

The Pursuit of  . . .  by Courtney Milan


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