excerpt – A. L. Lester

#SampleSunday… The Quid Pro Quo

I’m jumping on the #SampleSunday hashtag on twitter this week, with an excerpt from The Quid Pro Quo for you…

The Quid Pro Quo is a romantic historical paranormal murder-mystery set in 1920s rural England where nearly everyone is queer and the main couple is m/transm. Think Agatha Christie, but queer! With monsters! It’s the sequel to The Fog of War, but it works as a standalone set in the Border Magic universe.

Simon pressed the heel of his hand down onto the place the pain was radiating from. That usually helped. He sometimes wondered if there was anything still left in there. He should probably get it looked at. X-rayed, they called it, didn’t they? The hospital in Taunton had a machine, he knew.
He sighed. “Look, I didn’t just come up to show off my weaknesses to you.”
Kennett made a harrumphing sound that could have been a laugh.
“I came to ask about two things. Her alibi. And the way she describes what happened at the seance.”
“Look,” Kennett drew a breath and said in a firm voice, “she didn’t do it.”
Simon glared up at him, not quite ready to get up off the bench and fall over into the other man’s arms again. “That’s all very well. But you can’t just say that and then tell me you can’t say why you know!”
Kennett screwed up his face. “I just can’t, Mr Frost. And that’s all there is to it.”
Simon managed to stand. For all Kennett was small, he was intimidating. He scowled furiously up at Simon, face creased with anger. There was no trace of the sardonic wit about him now.
“Was she with you that night?” Simon asked quietly. It seemed unlikely, a girl like Miss Hall-Bridges and Kennett, who was a good twenty years older than her if he was a day and a lowly ex-soldier to boot. But he’d seen stranger relationships.
Kennett choked. “Bloody hell, no!” he said, almost with a shudder. “Absolutely definitely the wrong tree, Detective Frost!” There! He did return Simon’s interest, else Simon was a Dutchman.
Simon took another wobbling step forward and Kennett stepped back. Simon finally felt as if he was getting somewhere. There was something there. Why were they all protecting the woman? It was clear she was the best suspect—on paper, she had reason. But it was also clear that despite the evidence, nobody thought she’d done it. Including Simon.
Not that a lot of other people didn’t have reason to dislike the victim as well by the sound of it. His take-away from speaking to people who knew her painted a picture of the deceased as an entitled, arrogant woman who expected people to jump to her tune. He stopped that train of thought. There was never a reason to kill anyone. Never. Just because most of the people he knew had spent the last few years seeing that as the solution to all their problems didn’t mean it was right.
He drew a breath. “Then point me toward the right tree for goodness sake! If you have evidence that it wasn’t her, you’re morally obliged to let me have it!” he said, finally after a moment of silence.
Kennett shook his head again. “No, Detective Frost. I can’t. It’s not my place.”
Simon eyed him narrowly. He was backed up against the wall of the hallway, calm and not at all intimidated by Simon’s greater height.
“Do you know who killed her?” Simon asked him.
Kennett’s eyes flicked away and back again. He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” He knew something though. He finally sighed and stepped forward, putting him chest to chest with Simon and Simon had no alternative but to step to one side and let him past unless he wanted to make something of it. And he didn’t. He really didn’t. He moved aside.
Simon was left looking after him as he went down the hall to the kitchen, the door propped open against the building heat of the day. He followed him into the room, watching him fill the kettle and put it on, helplessly standing there with his hands fisted in frustration at his sides, hot with irritation in the warmth of the morning and the lit range.
“We’re done here,” Kennett said, sliding the kettle onto the hotplate and turning to face him. “You should leave, before Dr Marks gets home.”
“What, so you can sort out an alibi for Miss Hall-Bridges between you?” Simon said snarkily.
There was quite a long pause and then, from behind him, Dr Marks’ voice, deep and calm and very, very flat said, “No need, Detective Frost. Lucy and I share a bed. She didn’t go anywhere, all night.”
The silence was as absolute as if a shell had gone off and deafened him.
`

AMazon

publisher

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Ofelia Grand and The Drunken Dog

Hello, everyone! Thank you, Ally, for letting me drop by again. I’m trying to remember when I was here last and what I talked about then.

Bragging was what I was doing 😁 (You’re always welcome anyway, Ofelia!)

I talked about how my alter ego, Holly Day, had written 12 stories in 12 months – we’re working on story number 18 in 18 months now. I submitted Holly’s May story – a story for World Naked Gardener Day, and it’s all Ally’s fault (This is actually true, sorry – Ally) – a few days ago, and I’m now working on the June story.

But just like last time I was here, I have a new story out, and it’s one of those either-or stories that JMS Books have every other month. This time the call was for either Sugar or Spice stories. I went with Spice.

In a way, I’ve messed up. Last time I was here, I talked about The Ruby Tooth, which was a Naughty or Nice story. This time I have The Drunken Dog. Both stories have shifters and fated mates, and both stories are named after pubs, but they’re not in a series. If I’d been thinking, I’d have turned them into a series, but I wasn’t thinking.

I have a super short story called Cup o’ Sugar. Cup o’ Sugar is a cafe where Sam works, and Sam happens to be Roarak’s mate. Roarak is the alpha of the Halfhide pack – a werewolf pack.

The Drunken Dog is about Zev, who also is a member of the Halfhide pack, though he’s not really a werewolf. The stories are very loosely linked, and I intend for all the stories I write about members from Roarak’s pack to be standalone.

In April, The Cake Shop will be released. It’s about York, another member of the pack, and The Cake Shop is a bakery. So, all the stories in this series are named after establishments, they’re all similar, and at a glance, you’d think The Ruby Tooth would be part of it, but it’s not.

I usually pride myself on having a plan, but… Hindsight is a bitch.

But enough about me nagging about what-ifs and regrets. Do you want to read an excerpt from The Drunken Dog?

I picked a part where Zev is at The Drunken Dog and talks to Otis, who is a vampire. I’ve thrown all kinds of monsters into these stories. Zev, for example, is a cú sídhe which is a mythological hound from Irish folklore. They’re huge moss-green beasts the size of a cow that bark three times – maybe I should’ve talked about that instead of ranting about titles LOL

Excerpt from The Drunken Dog

Zev pushed open the door to The Drunken Dog, breathing a sigh of relief when he found it mostly empty, but disappointment quickly followed. He’d hoped Otis would be here. The image of him twirling his glass and smiling at Zev had popped up in his mind more times than he could count, and he wanted to talk to him again, preferably without a crowd around. Otis wasn’t the only reason he’d come, though.
He grabbed the first stool he could find, placed his elbows on the bar, and rested his head in his hands.
It had been five days since he’d been there. It was the longest he’d been away since he’d found it, but today he needed a drink in the worst way.
He and Roarak had been building a carport when three wolves from the Bloodclaw pack who controlled the eastern part of the city had shown up. There had been taunts and posturing and when one of the Bloodclaws had threatened to take Sam—Roarak’s mate—the shit had hit the fan.
Roarak had clawed one of them, and Zev suspected there would be repercussions. When one of the Bloodclaws had gone for him, he’d flashed teeth. He hadn’t flashed teeth in years.
The way the wolf had backed away formed a knot in Zev’s gut. He shouldn’t have shown his teeth. Now he’d made their pack more of a target.
Roarak had clapped his shoulder and told him they had to go home to inform the others and set up a schedule to guard Sam. Zev always kept his distance from Sam, not because he disliked him, but Sam was a precog, and Zev feared he’d be able to tell things about him if he stayed close.
“What can I get you?”
Zev raised his head to meet Gerald’s gaze. “Whiskey.”
“Rough day?”
Zev sighed and eyed Gerald. Did he know about what went bump in the night? He most likely did. The way he’d told Zev he didn’t want any trouble made him think he did.
“The worst.”
Gerald tilted his head. “Anything I should know about?”
Ah, definitely someone aware of there being things going on in the city that didn’t show on the surface. Zev shrugged. “Nah, I think you’re fine.” He hoped.
The bar was in their area, or the area they considered theirs—the Bloodclaws didn’t agree.
“Internal or external problems?”
Zev grinned. “You surprise me, Gerald.”
Gerald raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
Zev snorted. “You’re human.”
“I am, but I’ve known Otis a long time, and I’ve owned this bar for a long, long time.” He poured Zev’s whiskey. “I should retire, but I worry.”
“About?”
“Otis. This is where he comes when he starts over. I don’t know where he’d end up if I closed.”
Zev frowned. Otis had lived far longer than Gerald had. “I’m sure he’d be fine.”
Gerald shook his head. “He doesn’t have anyone. He hides from other…” He looked around. “…of his kind, and—” He shook his head.
“And?” Hides? His heart beat faster. Was Otis in danger? He should come by more often just to make sure he was okay.
“I know he can take care of himself, he’s no fool, but he’s vulnerable.”
“You’re his dayman?”
“Dayman?”
“You’re not.” Zev took a sip of the whiskey.
“I don’t think he has one.”
“Then he is vulnerable.”
“Who is?” Otis swept in through the door and leaned against the bar next to Zev. Zev turned on his stool to invite Otis to come closer. “Good morning. You’re up early.” He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar. The sun had set ten minutes ago.
“I woke up thirsty. Rum, please, Gerald.”
Zev narrowed his eyes. “Should you start your day with alcohol?”
“You’re willing to donate something more substantial?”
For a second, Zev considered it, but one sip and Otis would know he wasn’t a normal shifter. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
Otis pursed his lips. “But you’re not repulsed by it?”
Repulsed? “Why would I be?”
“Shifters normally are. Killing cute, innocent bunnies when running around as wolf is fine and dandy, but taking a sip from someone’s neck or elsewhere—” He wiggled his eyebrows. “—is appalling.”
Zev chuckled and shook his head. Heat shot through him as he pictured Otis’ mouth on him. “Nah, you’re fine with me.” He shouldn’t have said that. “Are you sure you should be drinking rum before breakfast? Don’t you have a donor on your payroll?” He’d believed all vampires had donors at hand.
“Are you my mother? I have no memory of her, but I find it hard to believe she’d look like you.”
Zev shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
“No, I don’t think there ever will be one for me. We turn to ash, you know.”
Zev rubbed his forehead. He didn’t have the energy to keep up the banter.
Otis stiffened, and Zev instantly looked around the room in search of a threat.
“You smell wrong.”
“What?” Zev gave up on finding a threat by the empty tables and looked at Otis.
“You smell… Your scent is spicy or it was spicy the other day, now it’s woodsier.”
Stupidly, Zev pulled in a breath. “I’ve been working with wood.”
“No, that’s not it.” Otis’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been around wolves? Other wolves, I mean?”
“Well, yeah, I live with five of them.”

The Drunken Dog

Zev Nightfall has a secret. For two years, he’s been the beta in a loosely knitted werewolf pack, but he’s not a werewolf. He’s a crossbreed, part wolf, part fae, which is a death sentence in most packs. That’s not his only problem. One night he meets Otis, a vampire. Shifters and vampires aren’t friends, yet fighting is the last thing on Zev’s mind.

Otis Miller is in the middle of rebuilding his rockstar persona. Again. A hundred years ago, all he had to do was to move when people started noticing him not ageing. With cameras and social media, it doesn’t work anymore, and he isn’t sure he has the energy to start over. Then there is the shifter coming to the bar where he’s singing. He makes Otis want to jump off the stage and never look back.

Zev knows he shouldn’t get involved with a vampire; he has enough problems as it is. But Otis is alone and vulnerable, and it tugs at Zev’s heartstrings. Normally, Otis stays away from other supernatural beings, but something about Zev makes him want to curl up on his lap and forget about the world around them. But how would two people from enemy species make things work, and will Zev’s pack ever accept not only a crossbreed but a vampire as well?

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About Ofelia

Ofelia Gränd is Swedish, which often shines through in her stories. She likes to write about everyday people ending up in not-so-everyday situations, and hopefully also getting out of them. She writes romance, contemporary, paranormal, Sci-Fi and whatever else catches her fancy.

Her books are written for readers who want to take a break from their everyday life for an hour or two.

When Ofelia manages to tear herself from the screen and sneak away from her husband and children, she likes to take walks in the woods…if she’s lucky she finds her way back home again.

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excerpt: the flowers of time

As promised, this week I have an excerpt from The Flowers of Time for you. Set in the 1780s, in England and Northern India, the main characters are Jones, a non-binary archaeologist who has lived in the mountains for most of her life, and Edith, who is a botanical illustrator.

If Pater hadn’t made Jones promises to leave straight after the funeral, she wouldn’t have gone at all.

“You promise?” he’d asked, again and again as his strength waned in the flicker of the butter-lamps. “You promise you’ll go, Frank? You need to get away. Take the green-bound book and go.”

“Yes, Pater,” she had reiterated again and again. “I promise. I’ll go. I’ll go straight down to Bombay, to John and Richard. And I’ll take ship as soon as I can. You’ve already written to Aunt Caroline, I sent the letter myself. I’m ready.”

She had been sniveling to herself as she spoke, hoping he wouldn’t notice how distressed she was in the dim light. She didn’t want to be having this conversation at all. He looked yellow-faced and sunken-cheeked even in the daylight and in the flickering light of the dim lamps at night it was worse. He was already corpse-like.

He moved a thin, clawed hand to cover hers. “My dear, I love you so much. I have perhaps done you a disservice by not sending you home to Caro before now, when you were younger.”

“I didn’t want to go,” she said, roughly. “It’s all right, Pater. I’m all right. I’ll go, as soon as is possible.”

“I should never have kept you out here, once I realized that the book has some truth behind it,” he said. He had been rambling a little about his books in the last week or so, as he had become weaker. “You must take it back with you. And put it in the library at Stamford Hall. That’s where it came from. Put it in the library, up high, on one of the top shelves to the left of the arched window. Use the ladders. And then it will be safe.” He drew a rattling breath. “Promise me, Frank.”

She turned her hand over beneath the fragile skin of his own on the counterpane and clasped it carefully. “I promise, Pater.”

“And don’t do what I did,” he added in a harsh whisper. “Don’t search for the source. All these years,” he said, “All these years I have been following the trail, looking for the source. And now, here we are. And it’s not a source for good, my child. It’s not a source for good at all.” He was lapsing in to rambling again. “I want you away, Frank. I want you and the book safe.” Finally he slipped in to the restless sleep that was consuming more and more of his time. She bent her head over his hand as she clutched it. He was the only family she had ever known and she was terrified to lose him.

“It won’t be long now.” The soft voice of one of the older monastery healers came from behind her in the slow Bhoti they used with her. “But you know that.”

She turned slowly on her stool, not letting go of her father’s hand, and nodded. “Yes. I know. Thank you, Jamyang. I do appreciate everything you are doing for us.” Kalsang was behind him, she noticed, his apprentice and shadow. “Thank you for helping him wash earlier, Kalsang.”

“You are most welcome, Jones.” Kalsang nodded with all the formality a teenager could muster.

“He wants me to go home. To England. To my aunt.” She swallowed and looked up. “It’s all arranged. He’s written. Sonam will take me down to Bombay.” She heard Kalsang’s indrawn breath of shock. Bombay was months of travel away. She had only been once herself, about fifteen years ago, when Pater had made the trip to take some artifacts down to send home.

“Will you come back?” Jamyang’s voice was unchanged, still calm and unshocked.

She met his gaze. “Yes. Yes. He wants me to stay in England a year. So I can learn where I come from.” She disengaged her hand gently, not waking her father, and stood. “He’s right, in a way. I should know. But my home is here. And my work is here. His work. It’s so important the people at home in England learn about the wonderful things here in the mountains. There are buildings and people here that people in England never even imagine. Things so old, so precious! I want to keep documenting it all, keep exploring.”

Jamyang watched her, with a small smile and then patted her arm. “You are a good person, Jones,” he said. “You are your father’s child. Franklin has been my friend for decades now, since you first came here when you were a tiny child after your mother died.” He stepped forward and took her hand. “We will welcome you back when you come, child. You will always have a home here with us. But do as your father wishes, now. Take the book he speaks of back to England. And leave it there. He has protected you from it for this long. Now, your protection must rest on your own shoulders.”

Next week, my monthly ‘what I’ve been reading in July’ roundup!