Hey, guys! Hi! I'm still alive, despite three months without a single blog post. Just a quick note to announce a few things.

Hoarfrost, the sequel to Monstrous, and book two in the Blood of Cain series, is coming along swimmingly. It's crazy and weird and hasn't progressed at all like I expected, which is always a good sign, in my opinion. I expect to finish the first draft in the next month or two. I've also been working on something called Queen Victoria's Monsters, which is super fun and set in the 1860s, so lots of exciting research to do. I wouldn't expect this one for a while, I'll be working on it off and on for the next year or so, but I'll let you know when I get closer. You can see the lovely cover below.

All the pleasantries out of the way, I'm having a freebie promotion this week! Monstrous and Blood of the Stars will be free all weekend: Monstrous from Wednesday to Sunday, and Blood of the Stars from Thursday to Monday. Neat!

Be sure to grab yours if you don't have either book already. Especially Blood of the Stars, as I love that story and it's hard to find an audience for a madcap adventure through time, grief, Vodou loa, love, and curses. (Yeah, it's a pretty weird book.)

Goodbye for now, I must drag myself back to my subterranean cave to finish Hoarfrost (just kidding, I'll be in bedroom with a hot cup of tea and a laptop). I probably won't post until I'm done, so eyes on this space, I think Hoarfrost is going to be even crazier than Monstrous. 

​Stay creepy, my friends.

​"I remember my name."
​
Spencer McQuarrie wakes to find himself in a New Orleans hospital in 1945, in a spiraling sequence of events that ends with the brutal murder of his wife, Josephine. Pulled back through time to 1927, he is reunited with a still-living Josephine, and desperately tries to piece together his broken mind to avoid her future death. But then McQuarrie finds himself in the middle of a war between Haitian Vodou demigods – the Loa – and they do not have his best interests at heart.

The loa pull the couple from one time to another, demanding that McQuarrie learn who is killing almost everyone he knows. As McQuarrie starts losing time and waking up in different parishes throughout New Orleans, the list of suspects grows, and he begins to decipher his connection to the killer. Knowing the truth may mean losing Josephine's love. But to save her, he would give up everything: He would fight, he would kill, he would die.

To save her, he would burn worlds upon worlds upon worlds.

It's here! You can buy a copy of Monstrous now, either in ebook format or paperback. It's a week early and I am so happy with how much readers are liking it. It's close to the bone for me, and I hope that shines through. You can add it to your Goodreads here.

To celebrate, nearly all my ebooks will be free on Amazon this weekend, beginning Thursday (and Wednesday for a select few), so if you want to read my other stuff, you'll want to pick those up.

On that note, I'll leave you with some quotes about Monstrous:

"Murray has written something new and familiar. The story was enthralling and I had bitten my fingernails off, by the time I was finished. You should give Monstrous a read, Then read some of her other books."

"It is original in every way possible, imaginative and with that touch of darkness to keep you turning the pages. There is nothing predictable in this book and nothing prepares you for the surprises. Great writing and good editing. Cannot wait for book 2."

"You can feel Frankie's emotions at times because the author has written such a riveting story, you get pulled into the character. I definitely didn't see all the twists and turns coming. You really couldn't rely on what you "thought" was going on because of the superb story telling." 

"Monstrous was amazing."



​Stay creepy, everyone. I need a nap.

Please welcome Gregory A. Wilson to the blog! Take it away, Gregory.


I’ve been awfully busy this year. Besides the arrival of my son—who is a bit of a time sink—I’ve had two books come out, in addition to my normal professional life. The bad news is that, as we all know, time is a finite resource, one which I had precious little of to begin with; adding more things to do just divides the available pie further. The good news is I’ve learned some things along the way—and found help in surprising places.

My promotional activities basically take two forms: the first was my online presence, conducted through social media and my Twitch channel, where I’ve been broadcasting games and commentary with a focus on story and narrative since 2012. I’ve spoken about that elsewhere, so here I’ll focus on the second set of promotional activities: the offline world, manifested in conferences, conventions, workshops, and the like. I’ve done a decent number of these over the years, but in 2016 I took it up a notch: twelve cons in all, from Seattle to Toronto to Orlando to Ottawa and many places in between, ranging from large events with tens of thousands of attendees to ones with a few hundred. The feel of these differ; the Comic Cons, for instance, have a great deal of energy and offer a lot of exposure, but don’t necessarily much focus on writing per se, although there’s interest in a good story when coupled with good artwork. On the other hand, more traditional conferences with a literary focus like CanCon or Readercon are smaller, but the interest level in the attending authors tends to be higher, as many of the attendees are aspiring authors (or at least avid readers) themselves. And finally there are the gaming conventions with strong writing tracks, like Origins or Gen Con, which can often be a good blend of energy and author interest.

Two takeaway lessons from this experience: first, have product available, even if the con in question isn’t a big sales driver. Word of mouth is powerful, and under the right circumstances can open professional doors. I did a reading with Ed Greenwood years ago at Ad Astra, and after doing a couple more panels and the like, had a short story in a collection edited by Ed and Gabrielle Harbowy. Later, Ed invited me to take part in his new publishing venture; that eventually became The Ed Greenwood Group, and led to a contract for my Gray Assassin Trilogy, the first book of which was just released. None of that would have happened without the initial face to face contact, and being able to hand Ed something (“here’s the story I just read, in case you’re interested”) helped in that regard. Beyond having product, you need to be prepared: if you seem to know what you’re talking about on a panel, it’s much more likely that people in the audience or fellow panelists will want to know more about you, and to check out the product you’ve got.

Second, be aware of what you’re doing in that environment. Yes, you’re building exposure, creating buzz, and networking with other editors and authors—but demonstrating a general interest in those people before immediately turning to your own work is important. Everyone at these events knows that everyone else is working on something, and that discussion will almost always happen at some point during a social interaction. But no one wants to have someone doing the equivalent of waving a business card as they come up to a group of friends chatting about other things. If you’re genuinely interested in what your colleagues are doing—and you should be, because you can learn a great deal from everyone, even if they’re not writing in your particular subgenre—and demonstrate that interest, the opportunity will eventually come to talk about your own work. And when the opportunity does come, have something ready to say—not “oh, uh, yeah, I’m working on a book. Yep. It’s fantasy,” but rather: “Yes, I’m working on a dark fantasy, about an assassin who kills in the name of his god—kind of Jason Bourne meets Assassin’s Apprentice. It’s the first in a series, and I’m pretty happy with how it’s going.” Now you’ve given the person something specific to latch on to, and if they’re an agent or editor (or know an agent or editor—and all of us do) who is looking for something like that, you’ve got a foot in the door.

The most important thing in all of this is to understand your professional status and how best to deploy it. Yes, you want to be cordial, polite, and engaging—you want to be friendly with and interested in others, not just for its own sake but because everyone likes nice people who seem to like them. But you also want to recognize that in this setting, you’re a professional author (or an author with professional aspirations), and that means you’re a potential colleague, not just a fan. In my case, I had an academic background which helped me to feel more settled when chatting with these giants in the speculative fiction field; internally it was hard not to be kind of awestruck (“holy cow, Ed freaking Greenwood!”), but externally I (hopefully successfully) tried to play it reasonably cool, positioning myself as a person with professional credentials who was interested in deepening my involvement in the field. Outward presentation does make a difference, in this world like any other.

​Obviously an online presence is critical, and it’s important to maintain and develop such a presence over time. But the offline, face to face contacts are still critical, and can help distinguish you in the minds of other professionals in the field. That it also happens to be exciting, fun, and sometimes an amazing (Ed freaking Greenwood!) experience is just icing on the cake.

​Gregory A. Wilson is Professor of English at St. John’s University in New York City, where he teaches creative writing and fantasy fiction along with various other courses in literature. His first academic book was published by Clemson University Press in 2007; on the creative side, he has won an award for a national playwriting contest, and his first novel, a work of fantasy entitled The Third Sign, was published by Gale Cengage in the summer of 2009. His second novel, Icarus, will be published as a graphic novel by Silence in the Library Publishing in 2016, and he has just signed a three book deal with The Ed Greenwood Group, which will be publishing his Gray Assassin Trilogy beginning with his third novel, Grayshade, in 2016.  He has short stories out in various anthologies, including Time Traveled Tales from Silence in the Library, When The Villain Comes Home, edited by Ed Greenwood and Gabrielle Harbowy, and Triumph Over Tragedy, alongside authors like Robert Silverberg and Marion Zimmer Bradley, and he has had three articles published in the SFWA Bulletin.

He is a regular panelist at conferences across the country and is a member of the Gen Con Writers’ Symposium, the Origins Library, Codex, Backspace, and several other author groups on and offline.  On other related fronts, he did character work and flavor text for the hit fantasy card game Ascension: Chronicle of the Godslayer, and along with fellow speculative fiction author Brad Beaulieu is the co-host of the critically-acclaimed podcast Speculate! The Podcast for Writers, Readers and Fans, a show which discusses (and interviews the creators and illustrators of) speculative fiction of all sorts and types.  He lives with his wife Clea and daughter Senavene–named at his wife’s urging for a character in The Third Sign, for which his daughter seems to have forgiven him–in Riverdale, NY.

As part of a new series, I'll be showcasing some new and established authors here on my blog. The first is Amber Bird. I first met Amber when I was invited to be a guest at her book release party, and she is delightful. Enjoy.


​MUSIC MADE ME

In my life, music and books have always been intertwined. I grew up in a home where there were bookshelves full of sci-fi and fantasy and there was always music on the stereo. I have spent as many hours of my life as possible reading whilst listening to music. Every daydream and seed of story since I was a child has come as if summoned by a song I was listening to. It’s no surprise, then, that I find my own writing is tied up with music.

The initial image of Peace Fire, my forthcoming book, came when reading Fool’s Run by Patricia McKillip. I honestly couldn’t tell you what the image I got has to do with that book, but the fact that there’s a band in that book made it seem important and, by commutative properties, made the image it put in my head seem important.

The first mental sketches, where there were action and characters instead of just the image of the main character’s home, were something like music videos. A song would come on that fit the mood of the emerging story, and my brain would flash the whole thing at me in an abbreviated way that fit the timing of the song.

Before I even sat down to write out my plot overview years ago, I made a playlist to write it to, filled with songs that fit the mood I thought I’d be writing for. Once that was done, I put the playlist on a loop and poured out a 20,000 word sketch, my fingers pounding out words to the same beat as the songs. I can read that sketch and still bob my head to the music.

Soon after, when I looked at the landscape of my life and realized I only had enough in me to pursue one creative endeavor, I chose music. And, when I was writing a song where the mood and emotions called up images that were from Peace Fire, I wrote the lyrics that I thought would be the closest that story ever came to being told. Even the alternate versions we made and have discussed for the song (Tied to My Chair, for any fans of the band who’re reading) were influenced by the story. No surprise the book trailer for Peace Fire uses one of those versions and is quite like a music video.

Following the path of music actually prepared me to write prose, not just lyrics and poetry. It was learning how to truly work on art, playing just a piece of a song over and over for hours to get it right or analyzing a song figure out why it was or wasn’t working, that made me able to sit down and do the work or analyze what I’d written. It was learning how to work with other people, something that I dreaded in group projects but could manage in a band, that allowed me to write stories where more than just one person saved the day. It was learning how to keep my audience in mind while creating something true to me that helped me understand what a writing teacher had meant when she told me that, once I decided who my audience were, I would be a great writer. It was learning how to let bandmates or producers suggest changes to my lyrics without getting hurt that let me take feedback from readers and editors.

It was finally seeing something I’d created out in the world that reminded me art didn’t have to be fine art to do good for someone other than me and that made me resolve to not leave my stories untold.

I sat down and made a new playlist quickly, and I started writing. And then I made another playlist, because making music had also taught me it’s no good when every song sounds the same or has the same mood, and it’s no good when every scene in a book feels the same. I needed scenes that went with industrial beats, but I also needed scenes that had quieter or more emotional soundtracks.

Music had also taught me that a world of non-stop winning (happy songs all the time!) feels false and isn’t satisfying. I gritted my teeth and prepared to let bad things happen to my beloved characters.

I lined up playlists, grateful that an MP3 player meant I didn’t have to interrupt my writing regularlys to change CDs or records. I pushed play and I wrote. I let songs carry me through pauses, remind me of the state of the world in the 2050 where my characters lived, and help me feel the way the drum would drive them to action when things didn’t go as expected. I even, finishing up a writing day at 4am, let the songs pull a scene out of me that I had meant to gloss over.

Thinking about the music they would enjoy helped me get to know my characters better. I wish I had been able to make the albums they would listen to in their near future. I’m glad that some of them like “oldies” from the 1970s through the 2010s. To apologize for the hard and sometimes horrible things they would go through, I filled their world with music, and that let me feel enough better that I could follow through when the plot called for bad times.

As a nice side benefit, the music also made me stop sometimes for spontaneous dance parties (there are some songs my hips can’t resist) so that I didn’t just sit in a chair for 12 or more hours every day.

In the end, fiction and music are just two different ways to tell the stories that slip and slide the inside of my skull. If the future is, as my book predicts, a little greyer, it’s the fiction and music that will keep me having good days.

​

Those of you that have followed me since the beginning know that I'm a big fan of the steampunk genre. So of course, I've always wanted to dive into a world of steam and corsets and dangerous parasols. Needless to say, I am beyond excited for this project. I'll be releasing it early summer 2017 (fingers crossed), and I think it's going to be a big mess of creepy fun. I bring you QUEEN VICTORIA'S MONSTERS!

Here's the rough synopsis (subject to change):

"Lightning storms always bring bad news. I learned of my dear husband's death during a lightning storm. So when I heard the bell chime above a clap of thunder that shook the windows and rattled my teeth, I knew whoever was ringing brought bad luck with them. When I opened the door I felt the force of the wind and the rain on my face, and it was none other than Queen Victoria herself who bore the bad news.

"Your husband was Charles Harkness," she said, without bothering with a greeting. "And I am here to tell you that he is far from dead."

Amelia Harkness is a young widow, too forward, too loud, and too smart for London society. But when she is awakened by Queen Victoria on a stormy night in April, Amelia's life is changed. The Queen claims to know her late husband, and says he is very much alive. But before Amelia learns the truth she must do one thing for the queen: Offer lodging to a group the queen affectionately calls her "Monsters."

The task seems easy enough, and Amelia accepts. However, it isn't British spies that show up on Amelia's doorstep, but a very strange group of people. A woman that dresses in men's suits and can disappear into shadows; a man who can see great distances and can find things that otherwise would be lost forever; a young boy who can jump great distances; and a woman older than Amelia who has been fitted with bionic parts, leaving her more machine than woman.

Amelia becomes more involved with the group when her life is threatened by a band of men with metal faces. And as the clues unravel, Amelia's new friends increasingly look to her for leadership as they track the dastardly criminals throughout London, fighting their way to the truth. But truth isn't always pleasant, and it becomes apparent that it isn't Queen Victoria's Monsters that the villains want, but Amelia herself.

If Amelia wants to survive, she's going to have to reveal hard truths about who the men are and why she is the target. But most of all, she's going to have to discover why the queen of England chose her, and it wasn't because of who her husband knew. Queen Victoria somehow knew what Amelia was capable of. And it had nothing to do with how to run a household.

​It takes a Monster to know a Monster. But Amelia will be damned if she's going to let anyone determine her fate. Even if that person is the queen herself.

​And here is the cover:

Can't wait to bring this story alive, and I'll update you as things progress. While you wait, though, why not pre-order Monstrous? (hint, hint)

Monstrous won't be out until December, but I thought some of you might like to read the first chapter. It's an odd, dark book, with lots of sex, murder and mayhem. Please do let me know if you like what you read, and feel free to pre-order Monstrous here!

​Without further ado, the first chapter of Monstrous.


chapter one


I died on a Thursday.

The thing about dying is, no one ever comes back. Not really. Even if all your parts are put back together—even if you’re walking around breathing, talking, screwing—it’s never the same again. Part of you is always going to wonder if the world is real, if you’re still lying on a gurney somewhere bleeding out. Or, in my case, pocked full of holes from lethal injection and forgotten in a cooler.

I died on a Thursday, and three days later I woke up.

When I walked out of the motel, the sun was coming up. I pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from the pocket of my leather jacket and tapped one out. My lighter was dying and my hands were shaking, so it took a couple tries to get it to ignite. I pulled in the smoke and closed my eyes, the northern Wisconsin air already hot and humid, even this early. The keys in my back pocket bulged and I scanned the parking lot for Jimmy Wayne Frasier's car. My eyes slid over a Camry, an F10 pickup truck, recently washed, and then froze on a rusty Chevy Nova, a pair of ratty fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view.

“Jimmy, you're so goddamn predictable,” I said, letting the cigarette dangle from my lips as I fished out the keys. I pushed a pile of fast food wrappers and beer cans off the front seat into the parking lot as I drove away. I didn't know where I was going, but it didn't matter. They would find me. They'd find me and tell me where to go next. I looked at my hands on the grimy steering wheel, ragged from my work, blood caked under my fingernails.

Jimmy Wayne Frasier was a serial killer. Emphasis on was. I’d tracked him to the motel where he had no fewer than three dead prostitutes carefully arranged on the floor. And when Jimmy, slovenly and slow, lunged for the gun lying on the bed, I had him hogtied on the floor before he even knew what was happening.

He figured it out soon enough.

“Please call the cops,” he had blubbered. “Please. I don’t understand.”

“I don't completely understand it myself,” I admitted. “I'm dead, Jimmy. But soon you will be, too.”

I watched him squirm, shaking his arms frantically behind him, as I pulled a wicked little fillet knife out of my belt and walked slowly toward him. He was crying.

“Aw, Jimmy Wayne,” I lowered the knife with a sigh and straddled the chair, facing him. “This isn't fun for me, I promise you that. I'm not what you'd call a happy person, if you get my meaning. I've done some bad things in my life. Maybe even worse than the shit you've been doing.” I looked over at the dead women on the floor and wrinkled my nose. “Though not as gross.”

I got up and stretched, my knife still in my hand. I saw Jimmy looking at it and sat back down, leaned forward. “I don’t get a chance to talk to many people, Jimmy. If I could get some much-needed psychiatric therapy, I’d jump at the chance. God knows, I need it. But what would I tell them? They’d have me socked up in the crazy house before I even got to the good part. Either that, or they’d toss me back on Death Row.” I shrugged. “That wouldn’t be so bad. In the end, I got what was coming to me. I was fine with it. Dying. But then I woke up. You believe that shit, Jimmy? I fucking woke up from being dead. And I know I was really dead, because I know that's what you're wondering. You're thinking, either I'm crazy or messing with you, am I right?”

Jimmy was a puddle of tears now. His latex-gloved hands were scrunched into balls and his face looked like a big pink prune. I stood up and he became agitated again, struggling against the rope. I raised my shirt, pointing to my belly and tracing the scar up to the middle of the Y-incision.

“This is how they do an autopsy, Jimmy. Which I'm sure you know because of your dead people thing. Also gross.” I pulled my shirt back down and picked up the knife. “I guess I got autopsied, no other explanation. Don't ask me how I'm still walking around. Maybe I'm a zombie, or a vampire. But I just keep getting hungry, thirsty, my heart's still beating, and I still have to...you know. Go to the bathroom. Was that too much information?” I watched him, shaking his head, his eyes red from crying, clear snot dripping out of his nose. “Jimmy, it's really too bad I have to kill you. You should know, you're not the only one. And none of this is really your fault. I mean, it is, but all you people are like this. You just acted on it.”

I shrugged. “Well, it's been fun, Jimmy Wayne. You are a fantastic listener. It's been a while since I've talked to anyone like this. But I came here to do a job, so I guess the question is: Are you ready?”


The Nova's full tank of gas got me all the way to the village of DeForest, outside of Madison. I fueled up with Jimmy's credit card, smiling pretty for the camera pointed at the gas tanks. I parked next door at a Culver's, ducking into the bathroom to wash my hands before grabbing two burgers and a custard shake to go. Heading south. The sun was high now and I shed my leather jacket. But even with all the windows cranked open, I was still sweating. And after a while, the fast food wrappers sweating grease in the sun made my stomach turn.

The sun was sinking below the horizon, the sky a violent orange by the time I reached the outskirts of a city. I pulled into the first shady bar I could find, eyeing the shabby motel next door, its “Vacancy” sign lit up like a beacon. I stretched as I got out of the Nova, parked far in the back of the small parking lot.

I wiped down the surfaces, taking what little cash Jimmy had in his wallet and ditching the rest. Leaving the keys in the ignition, I grabbed my duffel bag and pulled on my jacket, even though it was still hot as hell. I was out of smokes, and smelled like an animal. I slipped into the bathroom in the dark, smoky bar.

I looked in the mirror and cursed. I cleaned up, trying to drag a comb through my tangled hair. I pulled a clean shirt out of my bag, shoving the sweat and blood-stained tank top into the bottom. I desperately needed a shower, but I wanted a drink more. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, fishing a stick of deodorant out of my bag. I smiled at my reflection, blinking as something moved in the corner of my eye in the mirror. I spun to look behind me, but there was nothing there.

“I need sleep,” I muttered, smoothing my hair one last time. I'd been up too long. Even my reflection looked weird to me now. I walked out into the bar, freezing for a second at the dozen or so people. A couple of rough-looking old guys playing pool looked up and stared at me. I ignored them and slipped onto a stool. The woman behind the bar was wearing blue eyeliner and smoking a Newport. She didn't even put the cigarette down before coming over.

“What are you drinking, honey?” she said.

“Maker's Mark and Coke,” I said, flashing her a big smile. If I was going to waste Jimmy's cash on booze, I might as well get the good stuff. “And don't go easy on the Maker's.”

“Long drive?” she said, looking me over.

I zipped up my jacket and shrugged. “Not too bad. You got Lucky Strikes?”

She nodded across the bar. “There's a machine. Use quarters. It steals dollar bills.”

I changed what was left after the drink for quarters and walked over to the cigarette machine.

“What's your poison?” said a voice. I looked around and saw a man sitting at a table next to the machine. He was reclining, with his feet up on another chair, a brown drink in his hand.

“Luckies,” I said. “Looks like I'm out of luck.”

“That's funny,” he said without laughing. “Unfiltered?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell of a choice for a girl.”

I gave him a cold stare. “You’re a peach, aren’t you?”

“Shit,” he said, looking down at his glass. “I'm sorry. I've been drinking this swill for two hours. I'm not usually a dick.”

“Rough day?” I said.

“Rough life.”

“That makes two of us.” I put my quarters in and punched the knob for Camels. I pounded the pack in my hand, smiling. “See you around.”

“Wait,” the guy said, standing. He wasn't half bad when he wasn't skulking in the shadows. Under the five o'clock shadow and the dirty tee shirt, he was lean with dark eyes that he fixed on me. “Let me buy you a drink.” His face, dead serious until this point, broke into a half-grin, dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Please.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because I want to sleep with you.” He stepped out from behind the table and walked toward me, stumbling only a little. He
smiled that half smile again and something stirred inside me.

“I'm just passing through,” I said.

“So am I.”

“I won't give you my number.”

“I won't ask for it.”

He was close to me now, his eyes a little bloodshot, but he was warm and alive and I could see myself forgetting about the world in him for a few hours. I smiled. Not the big country girl smile I'd given the bartender. It was a different kind of smile that made the guy's charming half-grin falter and sent the pulse in his throat jumping. He reached towards my hip but I grabbed his wrist. His arm was muscular and I saw the lines of a military tattoo in the dim light. He was stronger than me, but he let me hold his wrist, his dark eyes glimmering with a look I recognized.

“No promises,” I said. “Buy me a few drinks first, and I'll let you rent me a room at that flea-infested hole-in-the-wall next door.”
His smile came back, his eyes still fixed on mine. He pulled a hand out of his pocket, a big blue tag on a key ring reading “Starlight Motel” in silver letters.

“Already done,” he said. “I'm Thomas Dekker, what's your name?”

“Nice to meet you, Tommy,” I said. “I’m Frankie Mourning. Let's get that drink.”


The truth was, booze didn't do a whole lot for me anymore. I'd tried everything to quiet my head and have a few hours of peace. Uppers made it worse. They also made me chatty, which was dangerous in my line of work. Weed slowed me down. Ecstasy may as well have been an energy drink, and opiates made me feel like I had bugs crawling through my scars. There was no oblivion for me. I was still myself, no matter what I took. Alcohol was the only thing that made the nightmare end and let me get a few hours sleep, as long as I drank it fast enough.

Tommy Dekker bought me six drinks, though he himself stopped drinking after three. And by the time we stumbled toward his motel room around midnight, he felt pretty damn good to me. When he kissed me in the parking lot, his lips were hot and hungry, and he felt firm when I put my hand against his chest.

“What are you, a gym rat?” I said breathlessly.

“On the job training,” he panted, pulling me against him again. I jumped up, grinding myself into his hips, my legs around his waist, and he carried me across the parking lot, only taking his tongue out of my mouth when he dropped the key at the front door.

When we burst through the door, we fell against the wall, where he pinned me, unbuttoning my pants as I pulled off his shirt. He kissed me hard and I shoved him down onto the bed, my whole body vibrating.

“I should take a shower,” I said.

“Later.” He grabbed my waist and pulled me on top of him. I straddled him, pulling off my coat and tossing it into a chair. I unbuttoned his jeans and he started to pull up my shirt.

“No,” I whispered, pulling it back down. “Anything but my shirt.”

“Why?” he said.

“You can touch me inside my shirt,” I said, “but it's not coming off.”

“What about your pants?”

“Those are coming off right now.” But he was already pulling them off, tipping me backwards on the bed. I laughed, but his face was dead serious again, and in a heartbeat, he had his own pants off and was on top of me. I moved to kiss him, but he took my hands, lacing his fingers through mine and pressing my arms down onto the bed.

“Wait,” he whispered. His breath smelled like good bourbon, sweet and rich. His nose was nearly touching mine, and the streetlight filtering through the dirty lace curtains shone on his face. “Wait,” he said again, and I found it hard to breathe. “I just want to look at you for a second.” His dark eyes were too close, his face too solemn.

“Come on, let's do this,” I said, wrapping my legs around him. But he didn't move, he just stared at me.

“God, you're beautiful,” he said.

“Shut up and do me,” I said, laughing. But he didn't laugh. He unlaced his fingers from my left hand and touched my face.

“Okay, enough.” I took his wrist from my face. “We'll do this my way now.” I pushed him off of me and climbed on top of him.
He didn't resist. But he kept watching me. Those goddamn eyes were burning into me so hot and fierce that I couldn't breathe. I lowered myself onto him, arching my back as he arched his. He didn't close his eyes, watching me. Not looking away, watching, watching me ride him like my salvation depended on it.

The climax came fast and hard and I felt him give way at the exact same moment. We buried our cries in each other's mouths, in a kiss that was too intimate. It felt like I was telling him my secrets, like he knew me now.

I rolled off and lay panting and looking at the water stained ceiling.

“Jesus Christ, Tommy,” I said.

“People don't really call me that,” he said, out of breath.

“What do they call you?”

“Dekker.”

“Is that what you want me to call you?”

He looked over and smiled his sexy half smile.

“You can call me anything you want, Frankie Mourning.”

“I'm going to call you Tommy,” I said. “Mind if I take a shower now?”


Tommy was passed out when I got back. I slid into the bed as quietly as I could. His face was relaxed in sleep. I knew I should go. I knew I should split before they found Jimmy Wayne Frasier's car. But I was so tired. I couldn't remember the last time I slept more than an hour, maybe two days ago? Three? I leaned back onto the pillows and watched Thomas Dekker sleep. He had tattoos all over his chest and upper arms. I couldn't make them out, even with the light from the parking lot. Marines, maybe. His hair was cut short, a dark brown color, and stood up in front. He had an eyelash on his cheek.

I raised my hand in the dark and was about to brush it away, but he opened his eyes. I pulled my hand back as he watched me.

“Why won't you take your shirt off?” he said.

“Bad heart,” I said. “I have scars.”

“So?”

“I didn't want you to see. They're ugly.”

“They busted you open?” he said.

“You could say that,” I said. “I'm lucky they put everything back where it belongs.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Healthy as a horse,” I said.

He lifted a muscled arm. “Come here.”

I frowned. “Where?”

“You don't want me to put my arm around you?”

I shrugged. “If you're into that.”

I moved into the space he made, flattening my body against him and felt his arm pull me in.

“See, that wasn't so bad,” he said. His eyes were closed. I wondered how many drinks he'd had today. It was admirable that he mostly kept up with me.

“I'm not usually the cuddling type.”

“Neither am I,” he said, his voice heavy with sleep. “Stay with me tonight, okay?”

“It's either that or hitchhike,” I said.

“Which are you leaning towards?”

“I guess you'll do. There are killers out there.”

“That there are. Where you headed?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe east.”

“You don't know where you're going?”

“I'm waiting for a sign.”

“I'll give you a ride,” he said. “I'm going to New York in the morning. I've got a shitty Civic, so it's not the lap of luxury or anything.”

“But,” I said, motioning around the motel room, “I've grown accustomed to such finery.”

“Buck up, princess,” he said. “I'll treat you like a queen.”

I don't remember falling asleep, but it was still dark when my eyes flew open, my heart beating fast. I looked around the room, getting my bearings, my eyes moving to Dekker. He was deep in an alcohol-induced sleep. I wondered if he'd even remember me in the morning. I inched out of bed and went into the bathroom, relieving myself and then drinking straight out of the faucet. I caught my reflection in the mirror and turned away. I was about to get back into bed when I heard it.

“Frankie,” came the whisper, so familiar that it hurt.

“No,” I said. “Not again. Just let me sleep.”

“Frankie,” it came again, loud and close and inside my head. “Frankie come outside. Come, come, come. Come out, Frankie Mourning and get your redemption.”

I slipped my jeans on in the dark. I couldn't find my shirt, so I pulled on Tommy's followed by my coat and boots. I left the door ajar, peeking another look at Tommy as I slipped out.

It was a clear night, but the stars were just out of view, the city illuminating the sky with a dirty light. I pulled out a Camel and lit it, walking around the corner of the motel. A raven squawked as it landed on a rusty pickup truck. It watched me out of one beady eye as I passed. The wraiths liked dark places, so I needed to find the shadows, even in a shady, sleazy place like this.

“Hey,” I said, walking behind the motel. There was an empty lot, surrounded with a barbed wire fence, my boots crunching on gravel. “Where are you, you creepy shit?”

“That's not very nice, nice, nice,” said a voice in my head. I spun and it was crouching in front of me, seeming to bleed into the shadows. I took a drag of my cigarette and blew out smoke.

“I was sleeping,” I said. “I haven't slept in days.”

“Maybe you don't deserve to sleep,” it said. This one's voice wasn't male or female, though most times it was usually one or the other. They liked to sneak up on you when your back was turned. As far as I could tell, it was a different one every time, though having never seen their faces, I couldn't have said for sure. I called them wraiths, but I didn't think they really had names. The raven watched us from atop the barbed wire, cocking its strange little head in the semi-darkness.

The wraith crouching in front of me was covered head to toe in a hooded cloak that seemed a part of its body. The edges were indiscernible, as if it could melt into the darkness at any moment. I couldn't see its face, either, the space under the hood unnaturally dark. I sometimes wondered if there would even be anything there if I ripped the cloak off. I also wondered if the wraiths were really there. Maybe I was just imagining all this. It was a pretty thought.

But I touched the Y-shaped scar that wound its way down my breastbone and I remembered the first night I woke up. I was pretty sure I wasn't making all this up, because if anything was real, it was pain. And those first days had been nothing but agony.

“Stop staring at me,” I said. “What do you want?”

“Touchy,” it said, voice echoing in my skull. “Seems I pulled you from lover's bliss, bliss, bliss.”

“Fuck you.”

The raven squawked, as if in agreement.

“You can't keep him, Frankie. You're not exactly girlfriend material.”

“I'm not trying to keep him, asshole. Now tell me what you want.”

“It's what you want, Frankie. Redemption, remember? It's why you're alive. Mostly, mostly alive.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. I dropped my cigarette onto the gravel and ground it out with the toe of my boot. “Yeah, I know. You creeps remind me every time. So where are you sending me?”

“We need you to do something a little different,” said the wraith. “Something a little outside of your pay grade, grade, grade.”

“I don't get paid.”

“That's not true. You're working toward a goal.”

“Yeah, like a company store,” I said. “With no indication of how long I have to do this or how many it's going to take to be done.”

“Even if you're never done,” said the wraith, “it's a better deal than where you'd be headed if we let you stay dead, stay dead.”

“Says you,” I said. “So what's this next job? And what do you mean, something different? Worse than a killer? Because that last guy killed a whole lot of hookers. It's worse than that?”

“You'll think it's worse.”

“Just tell me what the job is then, Morticia,” I said. “Or we could stand around yapping all night.”

“You have to go home,” it said.

“Home?” I said. “I don't have a home, I'm fucking dead.”

“You had one once,” said the wraith. “Your best place, and your worst place. All those trees and fresh air scrambling your brains. Where it all happened. The beginning of the end, end, end.”

“Oh, no,” I said, bile rising in my throat. “I'm not going back there.”

“You are,” it said. “You must.”

“I died, remember? Someone will recognize me.”

“You left ten years ago and your family never left their mountain. No one will know you.”

“I went to school.”

“Have a lot of friends, friends there? Besides, we know you only attended school for a few months. Before, before, before.”

I glared at the wraith. “Don't do this. Pick someone else. You must have other people doing this besides me. Anyone else.”

“You're the only one, one, one,” said the wraith. “Boss's orders.”

“Tell the boss to fuck off.”

“You don't mean that, Frankie.”

I looked away from the wraith, trying to slow my heart.

“I can't go back there,” I said. “Hellville is cursed.”

“Helmsville,” corrected the wraith. “Rugged country. It's beautiful there, isn't it?”

“I can't go back to that place,” I said. “Please don't make me do this.”

“It's already decided,” said the wraith. “And Frankie, Frankie, Frankie?”

“What?”

“Helmsville, Montana isn't cursed. You are.”

The cloaked figure seemed to spin in front of me, and with a sound like sheets on a clothesline, the wraith was gone. And I was alone, but for the raven. I stared at the bird for a few seconds, waiting for it to screech at me. But even the bird was silent, and after a moment, it rose into the air with a flap of wings and disappeared into the darkness.

“Quitter,” I said.

Dekker was still sleeping when I slowly pushed the door open and slipped into the room. He was snoring softly, his wide chest rising and falling. I found his keys in his pants pocket. Feeling around, I found his thick wallet. I wasn't going to look at him. If
I didn't look at him, I'd be fine. If I didn't look at him, I could keep on breathing. I turned to go.

Dekker snorted loudly and I froze. I turned slowly to look at him. His eyes fluttered and I felt my heart in my throat. I didn't know why I was so nervous. He was just a roof over my head. He was a bar tab and entertainment for the night. What did I care if he caught me? But I stared at Dekker's face, stock still in the dark. And I breathed again when he started snoring again.

I backed away, watching his face. He was just a guy, and a weird one at that. He was probably a shit when he wasn't drinking. Maybe he had a wife and kids. Maybe he kicked puppies for fun. But I recognized the feeling in my chest. It wasn't love or lust or anger. It was that feeling I got when what-might-have-been slipped out of my grasp. I'd had a lot of might-have-beens in my life. For the most part, I didn't think about them. Even when they were staring me in the face, I put them out of my mind.
I shouldn't have looked at him.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm really sorry.

Dekker's Honda was being guarded when I found it. Three ravens sat on the hood, blinking at me.

“Come on,” I said. “I don't have a choice.”

The birds flew up onto the low-hanging roof of the motel, still staring at me. I was used to the birds. They were always there. Sometimes they were the only ones I talked to for days. I turned my back on them and got into the car.

The car started nice and quiet and barely made a sound as I pulled out onto the highway. When I flipped on the headlights, the ravens were gone. I was so exhausted my bones hurt. I pulled out his wallet, my stomach churning as I looked at it. I blew air out and opened it. I'd need money. I knew he had some, he'd been buying my drinks in cash all night. I wouldn't use his credit cards, it was the least I could do. He'd have them canceled by morning anyway.

Why had I given Dekker my real name? I didn't understand it. Usually I picked something out of the air. Sally McGrady. Antoinette Carter. I'd even used Rita Hayworth once and no one batted an eye. But I'd given him my name, the name I'd been born with. The name I died with. It was dangerous. I was being risky and I wasn't sure why.

I kept my eyes on the road, glancing down at the wallet by the light of the headlights behind me. At first I didn't know what I was seeing. Then I couldn't believe it was real.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Shit, shit, shit.” Repetitive as a wraith. I threw the wallet away from me, like it was a cockroach, but it fell open on the passenger seat. As a semi truck passed me, I chanced another look at it, as it gleamed in the lights cutting through the night.

It was a badge. A silver badge shaped like a star, the words Chicago Police etched into the metal. And across the top, the word Detective.

“Shit!”

​​The wraith was right. I was cursed.

I'm a bit under the weather today, but I have an announcement: Here is the cover for Mad City, to be released in 2017! Here's the rough synopsis:

Ten years ago, there was an accident in Madison City. A wall was erected, and no one is permitted to go in or out: except for a sheriff, elected by committee, to keep the order and the peace. 75% of people in Mad City are completely sane. For now. As for the other 25%...
Royce Kincaid is the new sheriff of Mad City, a position that always results in death. He goes in knowing what to expect: Insane criminals, citizens that are walking time bombs, vigilantes that are as bad or worse than the criminals they stalk. Kincaid will police them all.

​Or die trying.

I'll post details about pre-orders and Goodreads links for Mad City as the publication date gets closer. Probably early summer if all goes well.

And here is the cover! By the amazing Dean Samed, who did the covers for Monstrous, Hoarfrost, Blood of the Stars, and Eat the Ones You Love. He knocked this one out of the park.

Off to finish up Monstrous. Stay creepy!

MONSTROUS IS NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER! 

Click on the link to reserve your copy. It's been a really fun adventure writing it, and fans of Niki and Jenny Undead will fall for Frankie Mourning. I know I did. 

You can put it on your reading list on Goodreads here.

I'll be posting Chapter One in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for that. 

I also have an email list now and will be sending out my first newsletter this month. There will be snippets, things I'm working on, excerpts for books that are in the works, and an exclusive short story that hasn't been published yet (but will later this year). You can add your email to the list on the homepage of this website.

Thanks for your support, everyone! The people that have contacted me interested in this new urban fantasy series has been really wonderful. Keep asking me questions, and chatting, I love it. I spend most of my time alone, so the interaction is probably good for me.

That's all for now! Stay creepy!

In the spirit of trying new things, here's a book trailer for Monstrous: Blood of Cain Book One. Enjoy!