excerpt

Guest Blog at Joyfully Jay, plus giveaway!

Hop on over to Joyfully Jay today, and through Sunday, to read my guest blog “Heavy Metal Lover” extolling the virtues of mecha and how it’s played a surprising role in my creative development.

For today’s WIP Wednesday, I offer an exclusive excerpt of “Body Option” that isn’t available anywhere else.

BODYOP

    For five years, Grant Badu has been part of a solid fighting team with the Gemini Suit called Trefoil Argent. Together, they fly and fight so effectively, their combat record so impressive, that they’ve become informally known as the Infallible Duo.

    When a case containing classified military innovations is stolen and shot down in the foothills of disputed border territory, Grant and Argent are tapped for its swift recovery. But the mission requires pilot Argent to take on the one cybernetic option he’s been avoiding, for reasons even Grant doesn’t know.

***

The heels of Grant’s boots, polished to mirror levels of shine, clicked sharply on the tiled surface as he strode up the hallway that led to the Pegasus Eyrie’s mission room. When the Gemini Suit program had been established, Crestovia’s Air Armed Forces—AAF to everyone—had created stations at strategic points across the country that had been dubbed ‘Eyries’ for the Suits they deployed. Each line, from Raptor to the latest Hawk, was named for birds of prey and the station designations had stuck. He had been summoned back to the Eyrie that morning with a message flagged highest priority. The southern border had been quiet lately, so of course something had come up on Grant’s furlough, because that was his luck. Icarus Eyrie was closer to the southern lines, but when something required a lightning strike and guaranteed success, the AAF always tapped the Infallible Duo.

He reached the mission room and paused on the threshold as always, tossing off a crisp salute and admiring the view, perched as it was over the flight deck that launched the Gemini Suits. Argent’s chirp of greeting was loud in his ear from his position on Grant’s shoulder.

“Captain Badu, please enter.” An older, white-haired man with a silvery moustache was present at the head of the table. A general, Grant noted his insignia with surprise. They were infrequently graced with the presence of someone that high in the ranks.

“And my partner, Trefoil Argent,” Grant said pointedly, gesturing to the silver-metallic bird of prey on his shoulder. The fact that Argent was attending the mission meeting in peripheral form, rather than flesh, was something that shouldn’t go without acknowledgment.

“And the immensely talented Trefoil Argent, of course,” Dr. Badger Prane was quick to add, in the manner of an introduction.

“Ah, yes,” the general said, clasping his hands and bending a stare on Argent, who bobbed his head in a preening motion though his pinions required maintenance rather than grooming. “The other half of our Infallible Duo.”

An auspicious greeting, Grant noted, wishing he could make the comment in aside to Argent, but he hadn’t mastered the skill of sub-vocalization, while Argent could make free with his remarks to Grant without others hearing. “Sir?”

“Please, be seated,” the general said. “I’m General Drake Barcek, I’ve been in weapons development for the past five years since receiving my latest star.”

Grant nodded, seating himself at the table and taking note of those present. Dr. Prane was one of the top minds in the Gemini Suit program, and made the rounds constantly to ensure that the pilots were well-treated and looked after. Across from him was Grant’s own commanding officer, Lieutenant General Jasinder Palova, looking stern. Her dark face shuttered in a considering squint and her uniformed arms were folded across her chest. Typically there was more support staff for a mission briefing; the lack of extra faces around their table had him wondering.

Must be secret weapons development, Argent remarked in his ear. Grant responded with the slightest dip of his chin to indicate agreement.

“A plane went down in the Cressian range this morning,” General Barcek said, lacing his fingers together and sending a formidable pale-blue gaze Grant’s way. “The plane was carrying proprietary technology obtained through espionage. Unfortunately for the Bah’zeth, but fortunately for us, they flew toward Bahazeth without the proper airspace access codes, and were shot down.”

One of Grant’s brows winched upward. “One of our own turned on us, and tried to make off with Crestovian military technology,” he summarized.

“In short.” A flicker of annoyance crossed General Barcek’s face. “This is bad for us, very bad. Our available data indicate the plane crashed in one of those cave-riddled areas. We need to send someone for retrieval, and fast.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Grant said, glancing at his colleagues and noting that Dr. Prane was grimacing and gnawing a knuckle. “That’s the kind of mission we can launch for, as soon as Trefoil Argent is prepped.” At the periphery of his vision, Lieutenant General Palova began to shake her head.

“It’s not that simple,” General Barcek said.

Of course it’s not, Argent said in his ear. Grant ignored him.

Dr. Prane left off gnawing his knuckle and sat forward in his chair, spine upright and eyes wide.

“It’s been brought to my attention, when I reviewed your specs for the mission, that Trefoil Argent does not have a body option,” General Barcek said. There was mild censure in his voice.

“I wasn’t aware that existing as a cybernetic suit required one,” Argent piped up, the fluting tones of his high tenor undercutting the saucy delivery that bordered insubordination. When dawning horror broke over Lieutenant General Palova’s face, he added a sharp, “Sir.”

“Not require, no,” General Barcek said slowly, pushing his fingers upward and steepling them, brows lowered as his eyes swiveled to pin Argent with a long stare. “Unusual. Most pilots your age, racking up hazard pay at the rate you have, can count a body option among the list of their peripherals to walk among us … enjoy the fullest life has to offer, as it were.”

“I quite like this peripheral, and my other cybernetic options. After all, a body option cannot fly.” Argent unfolded one silvery wing and extended it, birdlike head cocking as if to view it. “Sir.”

General Barcek grunted and shifted in his seat. “Couldn’t believe it when they told me,” he said, shaking his head. “A pilot of your considerable skill, long since financially solvent past the cost of cybernetic debt, and you don’t have a body option.”

Argent’s beak opened. Grant reached his hand up and pinched it shut.

“General Barcek, are we making conversation, or is there a point to this line of inquiry?” Grant asked. It was direct to the point of rudeness, and Lieutenant General Palova’s eyes narrowed in a very particular way that let him know he’d be getting his ears dismantled and whacked against his head later, but his question was worlds closer to social acceptability than anything Argent would have delivered.

“Yes.” General Barcek coughed into his fist, began to turn red, and re-settled in his chair, folding his hands beside a tablet display. “This mission will require Trefoil Argent to be assigned a body option.”

Grant removed his fingers in haste as Argent twisted his beak out from thumb and forefinger, head tilting in the way that meant he was going to nip, hard.

“It’s quite a steal for you,” General Barcek was saying. “Haven’t paid the money out for one, already, and now the AAF will foot the bill because we need you to have it for this mission. Works out quite well, when you look at it that way.”

“What if I don’t look at it that way?” Argent said flatly. “I’ve never seen the need for soft and squishy parts. I’m a pilot. I fly, I don’t—” He snapped his beak shut.

Grant huffed and thanked his own lucky star that Argent hadn’t completed that thought in front of the General. We’re fighter pilots, we fly and we fuck. Argent had never gone with the peripheral that would let him follow through on the second. He did plenty of the first, and claimed it was all he needed.

Grant went stone-faced to avoid betraying any expression to General Barcek, Dr. Prane or even their commanding officer. Dr. Prane and Lieutenant General Palova had questioned him repeatedly, right around the time of Argent’s yearly flight-readiness evaluations, on why Argent consistently held off on getting a body option. Grant’s loyalty sealed his lips. In truth, though, he didn’t know. It was one of the few things Argent had never confided in him, and Grant had too much stubborn pride to ask for something not freely given.

“Lieutenant Argent,” Lieutenant General Palova said sharply.

Argent tilted his beak in the air and shut up, but turned his head so one black eye-lens was fixed on those assembled at the table.

“This mission requires it,” General Barcek said, straightening his shoulders. He had a barrel chest that was halfway slid into a gut that strained the seams of his deep green military tunic.

“Any multi-legged cybernetic peripheral worth its weight–”

General Barcek spoke over him, raising his voice and increasing in volume until Argent fell silent again. “For those unfamiliar with the cave system of the Cressian range,” he said, modulating his volume when Argent ceased speaking, “it’s riddled with veins of lead and other heavy metals, those with insulating, signal-dampening effects.”

Grant’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. “Metal peripherals won’t do well there,” he re-phrased, to confirm his own understanding.

“Your metal peripherals will not do well there,” General Barcek repeated, fixing Argent with a gimlet stare. “The link for the body option is different, and stronger, based as it is on DNA rather than circuitry. You don’t uplink, you transfer.”

Argent’s metallic pinions rattled together as he shifted on Grant’s shoulder. Grant tried not to frown; existing through cybernetic peripherals as he did, Argent had no need to fidget. He was making his opinion known with that rattle.

“It’s a two-person mission on foot,” General Barcek continued. “Our coordinates can put you in the approximate location where the fighter plane was downed, but gunner and pilot will need to proceed into the caves to track down and retrieve that case.”

“It’s imperative that we deploy our best team immediately in order to recover that technology,” Lieutenant General Palova said, taking up the thread of the mission briefing. “Without question, Captain Badu, Lieutenant Argent, you are that team. Which brings us to this table, here and now.” She rapped her knuckles on the table’s surface.

“Thank you,” Grant said, when it became apparent no one else would speak, especially Argent who only rattled his pinions again. He smoothed a dark-skinned hand down the front of his uniform and tugged. He was still in fighting trim beneath his green tunic, though his days of working up from foot soldier to fighter pilot were long past. He had manned the weapons from Trefoil Argent’s cockpit for eight years once he’d promoted into the Gemini Suit project at twenty-four, and the suspension rig was enough effort that he had to keep up on regular workouts and stamina runs to remain fit for the job. “General. Lieutenant General. I’ll fly wherever Argent takes me, but accepting this mission comes down to his choice.”

It was Dr. Prane who spoke up, manner soft and conciliatory. “Argent?”

Argent replied with several strident clicks and caws more reminiscent of the bird of prey that his current form resembled—a shape he’d chosen for his primary off-duty cybernetic peripheral. At last, following a conclusive sharp click, he settled down, talons squeezing Grant’s shoulder until he grunted. “Not like I have much choice, sir. I guess I’m getting a body option.”

***

Release date: Wednesday, April 2nd.
Pre-order here.

Guest Blog: Male pregnancy…but not.

Greetings everyone–today we have a guest blog from Lexi Ander, author of the intriguing new debut Alpha Trine. It’s sci-fi, with a twist:

I first wanted to say thank you for having me here. I’m going to try and not bore you today.

When I set out to write Alpha Trine I was following a story prompt that directed there be male pregnancy without the use of technology and one of the main characters must be alien. Even though Alpha Trine is set in the far future on the other side of the universe I decided didn’t want the men to become pregnant.

I know! I know! Male pregnancy means a man somehow becomes pregnant but I wanted something different. So I started looking around at what was currently possible in earth’s environment without the use of technology. Chances are if it exists here, if there is life somewhere else, it could be possible there as well.

There are frogs that switch gender if the opposite sex isn’t available. Male seahorses carry the developing eggs. There are asexual creatures who can procreate by themselves. There are other creatures who have huge territories, when they come across a male they collect the sperm, and hold it in their body in a type of stasis until the creature is ready to procreate. Really, the wild kingdom has so many variations that I could have a supply of alien pregnancy scenarios if I wanted.

In some science fiction stories you can read about a Third Sex. Neither male nor female the third sex is required in some science fiction societies in order for a race to procreate. The perfect example is Octavia Butler’s Xenogenesis series. (Loved that series)

What about humans? Is there no way for there to be that kind of scenario? I said yes. With a genetic twist, I could see the hermaphrodite identity equal to the sci-fi third sex concept. In today’s reality, it breaks my heart that doctors and parents make a sexual identity decision for children who are born as hermaphrodites, instead of waiting for the child to grow into which ever identity they choose. I have read too many heart breaking stories so I chose to create a central species called the Fal’Amorics where being born a hermaphrodite is celebrated.

Ah! But I didn’t stop there. Dargon is a marsupial lion who shares a symbiotic relationship with Alpha. An interplanetary war stripped two planets of one primary sex. One planet became the homeworld of the females and the other belonged to the males, and they couldn’t stand each other. The Alpha-Zetamites stepped in after the war and offered their assistance by playing middlemen, dare I say the Third Sex, between the males and females of the species. This allowed for Dar Massaga’s, regardless of sex, to be able to procreate since both sexes have the marsupial pouches.

These three species allow for many different scenarios. Even as I wrap up Alpha’s, Dargon’s, and Zeus’s story in Striker, there can be several more different male pregnancy scenarios… but not.

Thank you for stopping by and a warm thank you to Tay for hosting me today. Before I leave with the blurb and an excerpt remember…

I’ll be giving away a paperback copy of Alpha at the end of this blog tour. Every comment on this and the other four posts will be another entry into the drawing. On September 28th I will email the winner at the end of the day, so remember to leave a comment with a way to contact you.

Blog tour schedule:
September 23rd – Babes In Boyland (http://www.babesinboyland.net/)
September 24th – Raining Men (http://rainingmenamen.blogspot.com/)
September 25th – Pants Off Reviews (http://pantsoffreviews.blogspot.com/)
September 26th – World of Diversity Fiction (http://sean-norris.com/)
September 27th – dreaminginfinity (https://dreaminginfinity.wordpress.com/)

Alpha Trine

Blurb:
The sole survivor on a science vessel adrift in deep space, Zeus was adopted by the Emperor and Empress of the Mar’Sani, though he is both human and blind, and seen by most as unfit to join the royal family. Though they were able to repair his vision, Zeus does not trust his eyes and the nobles of his parents’ court refuse to ever trust a frail human.

Dargon Kal-Turak, along with his symbiote and lover Alpha, command one of the most dangerous ships in the stars. Narrowly escaping a trap, they dock in a space port to make repairs, but find that the Psionics hunting them are closing in fast. In desperation they kidnap the port Master Mechanic, unaware that the man they’ve brought on board is more than he seems, and will bring far more upheaval to their ship, their lives, and the stars than any of them could have imagined.

Excerpt:

Prologue

Canry was lost—no—taken.

Empress Ashari ignored her attendants. She knew they would report back to her mate, Emperor Valdor Vondorian, and she cared not. She was hollow inside, the pain turning to a numbness that ate at her core until there was nothing left for her to feel. She refused to pretend everything was normal because it was not. Nothing would ever be normal again because he was gone—stolen. Her youngest son, Canry, had disappeared in the Waters of Poseidon only two short months ago, and yet it seemed like yesterday.

Ashari slipped a hand under the cream-colored pillow and pulled out Canry’s little nightshirt. She had made the weave herself from the finest spyder silk. Ashari handled the material carefully. Her claws were ragged from nervous chewing, and she did not wish for the fine thread to catch on them. Her eyes burned as she tenderly fingered the colorful clothing. Her heart might have been hollow but her tears were rivers that fed the sea.

She wondered what she could have done differently. All Mar’Sani younglings were introduced to the Waters of Poseidon when they turned six lunar months. She and Valdor had been delighted Canry had quickly taken to the waters, more so than the twins or his sister, Shaneva. The youngling had been swimming, diving perfectly at her side and then slithering through the water, his black scales glistening in the sunshine.

She noticed the tips of the barbs that ran along his spine and down his tail were beginning to turn red, a sign of his royal blood. Canry splashed Ashari with his tail and dived into the water—never to surface again. Within moments everyone began searching for the royal youngling. Those who lived in the waters combed the depths and found nothing. Canry was simply gone—disappeared—no trace or body had been found. He had vanished.

Never in Mar’Sani history had a youngling or adult been lost in the Waters of Poseidon. For days Ashari refused to leave the shoreline of the great sea in hopes her son would find his way back home. She spent hours diving and swimming until she was overcome by exhaustion and the attendants pulled her ashore.

Finally, she accepted the fact that Canry would not be coming home. She took to her sick bed and there she stayed.

Every day she ate a little less. Her mate, Valdor, tried his best to console her, but there was little he could do. Poseidon had, for some unknown reason, taken her son, and in a few short years, he would claim their daughter as well.

Their now youngest child, Shaneva, had been showing signs of The Longing prior to Canry’s birth. One in every two thousand younglings born would return to the Waters of Poseidon. These children would eventually choose to reside in the waters over living on land. The reasons for The Longing were unknown, but neither were the children discouraged from the choice. As natural as The Longing was to the Mar’Sani people, Ashari could not help but wonder what she had done that Poseidon would lay claim to two of her four children.

A large Mar’Sani male filled the doorway. His black scales gleamed like polished rock. Dark yellow eyes narrowed at the sight of Ashari lying on the platform, his barbed tail swishing side to side. Resplendent in the imperial red and gold robes, the Emperor strode into the room. Ashari knew that look of determination on his handsome face and was unfazed. She tucked the outfit back under her pillow as Valdor sat on the edge of the low bed.

“Your attendants claim you are not hungry this morning.”

Valdor’s voice was deep, resonating throughout the room.

Ashari refrained from replying for there was nothing to say.

“They also relay you are too tired to rise.” Again, she responded with silence.

Without another world, Valdor unlaced his boots and set them aside before climbing onto the platform. He gently nudged her to rise up, and he slid under Ashari before pulling her down to his chest. He released a great sigh and stroked the smooth ridge of her forehead until her curiosity slowly surfaced.

“What are you doing?” Ashari softly inquired.

“He … Canry was my son too. I miss his laugh. I miss watching him sleep. I miss … Being the emperor requires that I put my personal sorrows aside to care for others, but I cannot keep doing so if I lose my mate as well. I, too, hurt and grieve. I am exhausted and food holds no appeal. So I will lie with my beloved for a time and keep her company in her sorrow.”

Ashari buried her face in the crook of Valdor’s neck, the scales pliant against her cheek. He needed her, Ashari reminded herself, and Valdor never gave up.

WIP Wednesday: Courage Wolf Never Sings the Gorram Blues

Change of plans! Here’s an excerpt of next week’s release, Courage Wolf Never Sings the Gorram Blues, which is part of the Rocking Hard: Volume One anthology and available for preorder here. Five great stories for an incredibly low price!

Summary for Courage Wolf:

    Bailey Kravitz, lead singer of Courage Wolf, is a high-strung, perfectionist diva of a front man. Gunner Lansing, bassist of Courage Wolf, is a laid-back, hang loose ladies’ man who is only serious about guitars and sex. They say opposites attract, but Bailey’s terminal crush on oblivious Gunner is tearing the band apart. Meanwhile, his longtime friend, quiet but intense guitarist Tor Macleod, helps him pick up the pieces yet again. Between annihilating everything they’ve built and reeling from total rejection, there may be a third option Bailey has been overlooking all this time. Problem is, Bailey’s always been more than a little difficult when he’s out to get his way, and that may ruin his prospects after all.

A wall of bodies filled the arena, a sea of screaming fans facing the stage with their arms thrown up and waving. Luminous winks from a thousand phones cast their small, glaring lights like a field of stars across the dark sea of bodies as the crowd swayed to the music that thundered through the stadium.

Bailey Kravitz was in his element, pouring raw energy into his vocals as he clutched his microphone in one hand, balanced on one foot and clinging to the mic stand with the other hand. With the focus of the crowd upon them, all eyes turned on him, Bailey felt like a lens channeling their energy and reflecting it back in the radiance of the music. The instrumentals thrummed through his bones and swept him along toward the chorus.

He grinned fiercely during a guitar bridge, excited for the stage effects yet to come. They’d suffered through a shitty rehearsal and his stomach was bottoming out under the expectation that the effects would fail, again—but if they pulled it off, it was going to be spectacular.

The crowd roared, their bodies flailing wildly, and Bailey couldn’t help but give back an excited little air punch, skipping across the stage and kicking a foot out as Tor’s guitar crescendoed toward the next refrain behind him. He turned his head to grin at Gunner, who sent a sultry smirk his way, rocketing Bailey from simply high into the stratosphere.

Opening their brand-new single at the US Music Awards was a rush like no other, and Bailey was all too happy to seize it with both hands.

His heart quickened when he realized the bass had gone on too long and he’d missed his cue for the refrain. Instead of panicking, Bailey punched the air again and returned to his microphone stand, fitting the mic into the bracket and grasping it with both hands as he waited for the guitar and bass to circle back around to the right place in the rhythm for him to join in.

Inwardly, Bailey was seething. They’d only practiced it a million times; to draw out the song like that at the USMAs was galling. Pushing through, he leveled a brilliant grin at the front row, barely visible to him beyond the blinding lights, and sang his heart out.

Behind him, an explosion of golden stars blossomed across the latticework fixed to the stage, and Bailey kept singing even as the crowd’s reaction made him want to grin, so hard.

“You tried,” he sang, “but is it good enough—it’s up to you; though the way is tough … you tried …”

The screams from the crowd were so loud, they pierced the bubble of music he was enclosed in, thanks to his in-ear monitors. When he finished up the last line, the euphoria swelled his chest to the point that Bailey was barely tethered to the ground. He swept a bow and bounced off the stage as the lights cut, leaving everything in sudden darkness.

“We’ve got another instant hit,” Bailey declared, pulling out one of his in-ear monitors as he moved past the wing of the stage into the narrow corridor beyond it. His brow furrowed and he cast a glare over his shoulder at Gunner, their usually-reliable bassist, but current target of his ire. “Would’ve been better for our first live if you hadn’t fucked up my cue.”

Gunner’s brows rose. “Excuse me? Who missed their cue, Bailey?”

“Guys,” Tor interjected, his tone low but carrying. “Press.”

Bailey clamped his lips shut. Whatever problems they might be having, he wasn’t stupid enough to air it in front of the press. And, of course, they could be expected to be on camera at any turn of the corner at the USMAs.

The reminder came just in time. “Hi! How’s it going?” inquired a perky blonde who materialized in front of them with an oversized yellow microphone with ‘USM’ on it in large, bubble-font letters of three different colors, denoting she was a US Music network personality. “I’m Angela; does Courage Wolf have a moment to do a spot with me?”

Bailey put on his pleasant professional smile. “Of course we do!” he said, matching her enthusiasm level.

“Fantastic!” Angela gushed, gesturing for the four of them to line up beside her. There were tape blocking marks on the ground, as there had been on the stage, and Bailey lined up beside her, checking the camera’s position relative to himself to ensure he was in an advantageous spot. “So I’m standing here with Courage Wolf, backstage at the USMAs—”

She pronounced it ‘us-ma’s,’ and Bailey kept his smile fixed on his face, giving a slight nod to the camera as it panned in his direction.

“Guys, can you introduce yourselves to our fans who may be less familiar with Courage Wolf’s rising star?” Angela invited.

“Sure!” Bailey said gamely. “I’m Bailey Kravitz, our singer and lyricist …”

“Any relation to Lenny?” Angela asked, earnest or deadpan.

Bailey couldn’t tell which, but gave her a wide smile and treated it like a legitimate question. “Unfortunately for me, not related, though people keep asking. I can’t even play the guitar … ” He was about to continue, but Tor spoke up beside him and Bailey resumed his smile.

“I’m Victor, Tor Macleod, guitarist and songwriter,” Tor supplied. He dug a thumb into Gunner’s ribs.

“Gunner Lansing, bassist,” Gunner said briefly, jerking his head in Sasha’s direction.

“Sasha Guzina,” Sasha said. “Drums for Courage Wolf. You know, heart of the band.”

“Great!” Angela said. “Thank you. So, Courage Wolf. That’s a fun name for a band; where did it come from?”

“Everyone asks us that!” Bailey said with a dazzling, dimpled smile that in no way showed how tired he was with the question. “It’s an Internet meme. A lot of our songs are mash-ups of Internet memes, actually.”

“That’s right!” Angela interjected. “In fact, your homemade video, self-titled Courage Wolf, went viral and that was what brought you crashing into the music industry, is that right?”

“Well,” Bailey said with a deprecating gesture. “More or less? We got signed by a major label, and we’ve been selling well enough that we’ve been able to do what we love ever since.”

“And those sales seem ensured by a rabid fanbase online,” Angela supplied with a grin.

“Oh, stay away from the Internet,” Sasha said, straight-faced. “I wouldn’t poke it with a stick. It bites back.”

“Seriously though, we love all of our fans,” Bailey said, returning to safer territory. “We’re so grateful to them for all of the voting they’ve done, all of the support they’ve given us, that has allowed us to come this far.”

“So, what do you say to the people who are less than fans, your detractors who call you out as hipsters, manufactured, or—the horror—a misfired boyband?” Angela said, making a face.

Bailey couldn’t tell if it was apologetic, or if she was trying to slip the question in on her own agenda. They’d dealt with a lot of two-faced interviewers over the past few years.

“I’d say they’re jealous,” Tor replied when Bailey held his breath, stewing. It was Tor’s turn to flash one of his rarer, but no less dazzling, smiles at the camera. “And it’s pretty telling that a so-called ‘one-hit wonder’ band has had over twelve songs debut in Billboard’s top ten.”

“Enough said!” Angela said brightly. “Thanks for your time.”

Bailey stalked down the hallway, keeping a grin fixed firmly in place that was more like a rictus now. The moment they reached their dressing room, he shoved the door open hard enough for the knob to crack against the wall. Storming into the middle of the room, he swung around to glare at Gunner. “You dropped a note, and I missed my cue!” Bailey accused, leveling a finger at him.

Gunner swelled up, his face going red.

“No, he didn’t,” Tor interjected, quiet but forceful. “Fair’s fair, Bailey. You were crowd-dazzled again; it’s understandable, performing a new song at such a big show.”

Bailey turned toward Tor, compressing his lips. He was still angry, but didn’t dare unleash its full force on Tor the way he did with Gunner, who always fought back. “I wasn’t dazzled,” he protested.

“Okay,” Tor said, accepting it. “Let’s make our quick change, all right?”

Bailey took the hint and dropped it, but not without a dire sidewise glance for Gunner. Although he was a perfectionist, he wasn’t petty enough to want to ruin the high for everyone. Fresh off a stage show, he tended to nitpick and be critical, and Tor kept the peace when Bailey would otherwise blow up at everyone just because he was angry at himself.

He frowned over his shoulder as Tor left the room while he scrambled into his second outfit for the evening. His attention turned quickly to his own appearance, though, because he didn’t have much time and everything had to be perfect. He was tall and lanky, some might say too reedy, and used fashion to clothe his figure to advantage. He had black hair that varied in length depending on the year and his mood, currently long enough to style up or keep loose around his face as it was that night.

Tor emerged from the closet sized bathroom pulling his sandy ponytail out of his form-fitting shirt as Bailey was smoothing a hand down the front of his immaculate charcoal blouse with its silver threads, casting a critical eye over Gunner and Sasha.

“Band T-shirts again, really?” he said disdainfully. They were both good looking enough: Gunner had a long sweep of hair reminiscent of hot bassists from other eras and a tight well-muscled body, and Sasha had a plain broad face but the sweetest rare smile as well as a stocky physique that earned him his share of admirers. Yet despite those good looks, they refused to let him improve their choice of dress.

“Chill, Bailey,” Sasha replied. “You’re never going to get us into haute couture, so may as well stop trying.”

“Yeah, you can’t turn us into Bailey clones,” Gunner added.

“Don’t you both wish—” Bailey began.

“Enough,” Tor said, taking Bailey’s elbow and steering him toward the dressing room door. He, at least, dressed to a standard Bailey couldn’t complain about, in a clinging blue shirt that went well with his hazel eyes, and slacks over motorcycle boots. “We’ve got an award to lose, am I right?”

“I know, right?” Bailey quipped, shifting himself forcibly into a more upbeat mode. It was nerves, he told himself, but it was more than that. Gunner was so oblivious. He just didn’t get it, and it was driving Bailey wild. He had to put that aside for now.

For every award they’d been nominated, they had a kind of ritual, treating it as a sure loss rather than a sure thing. From their humble beginnings, Courage Wolf had been a long shot. Their fan-driven wins had been a surprise to all of them, pushing them so far up into USM’s visibility, along with VidTube, that they’d ultimately drawn the attention of some important players in the music production world.

Within their group, they never believed in the win until their names appeared as the winners. It was like a dream, and even though they’d come so far, Bailey still thought it could all end overnight. That wasn’t so terribly implausible, after all. They tried to present themselves as fresh rather than cynical, though. Bailey was certain the fans responded better to that approach.

Once they returned to their seats, escorted by venue staff, Bailey watched the show with interest, taking mental notes. He half-expected to use all of his experiences as material later, and Tor, the other half of their creative team, more than met him halfway.

When they reached the award section of the program, Bailey clasped his hands together, staring up at the presenters. There was only so far their we’re not going to win mantra could take him. Each time, at a certain point he found himself with his heart in his mouth, feeling as though everything was on the line. They’d be fine if they didn’t win, of course, but the sick swoop of the wait, followed by the rush of winning, was better than the most amazing roller coasters Bailey had ever ridden.

He was tempted to hide his eyes, but he kept them fixed wide open.

“Looks like someone will not be going home with a gold ‘you tried’ sticker tonight—the winner is Courage Wolf!”

Bailey rocketed to his feet, throwing his fists toward the sky in triumph. His scream of “We won!” was lost in the general dull roar of the crowd.

He turned to Gunner, but he had his back to Bailey, and he was clapping Sasha on the shoulder. Bailey scowled and turned toward Tor, who had already left the row and was standing at the end of the aisle. He cocked his head to one side, silently asking a question. Bailey gave a brief headshake in response and walked toward him. It wasn’t the time to address the reason for his frown; he had a performance to put on.

Next week on WIP Wednesday: Convergence.

WIP Wednesday: The More Plausible Evil

The excerpt of the day is from The More Plausible Evil, which is still very much a work in progress–I haven’t finished my second draft, which is undergoing expansion before I send it to the publisher for editing. I’m posting at the urging of Jamie Sullivan, another talented author to check out!

This means the manuscript is likely to change quite a bit between now and the final draft! Even this excerpt is unlikely to remain untouched. Even the blurb will most definitely be transformed! And I don’t have a cover for you, but I do have a summary. The More Plausible Evil will be released some time next year, to be determined.

    “During his confession pending the night before Evan’s execution, he reveals the details of a lifetime’s worth of killings that shed light on his motives, and brings forward the curious short-lived claim that a vampire is at the heart of his salvation.”

“Are you even sure it’s Rafe?” Evan clenched his hands into fists as he looked through the windshield. His jaw was tight. He was beginning to doubt the necessity of frequent abandonments of everything they had, since he hadn’t seen so much as a golden hair from Rafe since he was a child.

“It’s always Rafe,” Alastair replied tensely, gloved hands taut on the wheel of his fast, expensive car. He pushed the accelerator and shot them forward at even greater speed. “I know the signs by now, pet; he’s only been catching my trail and dogging it for the past two centuries or so.”

“Why does he want to find you so badly? What’s he hoping to accomplish?” Evan pulled in a huff of breath, expelling it in a brief, angry noise. “My laptop … all my notes on the study of criminal psychology … not to mention, I liked the set of clothes I have now.” He folded his arms and looked out the side window into the darkness that wrapped around the car. He wasn’t going to mention that he’d lost certain gifts that Alastair had gotten him, small keepsakes but important to him because they’d come from Alastair, and he’d never get those back now. Even if Alastair was to re-purchase anything—and one ancient dagger, at least, had been one of a kind—the sentiment connecting Evan to the object would be gone, lost with the original.

“All of your things can be replaced.”

“Maybe I wanted for us not to have to, for a change! Even my cell phone …”

“You’d need a new one anyhow,” Alastair reminded him. “We always change numbers when we move. New place, new phone. No bridges left behind.”

“Right.” Evan set his jaw again. He’d noticed Alastair dodged the question of Rafe, and he was too proud to revisit the topic in an attempt to drag some answers out of him.

“I need to keep you safe, my pet. Things can be replaced. You know that. And I am … sorry … that we must do it so often, but better to ensure you’re still alive and beside me than lost forever.”

Evan couldn’t reply to that. He was still too angry, slumped in the passenger’s seat and stinging over the loss. Instead, he attacked the choice of words. “I’m not your pet. I’m a person. Or is that really all I am to you?”

The aggressive statement was answered with long silence. The only sound in the car was the hum of the engine and the distant throb of the wheels hitting irregular patches of highway.

“Vampires become fixated on those things, places, or people that are most important to them.” Alastair spoke up at length, his voice almost lower than the engine noise that filtered through to the cabin. “Rafe is obsessed with the idea of me. And I … I have that capacity for attachment as well. Once an attachment is formed, it becomes more important to us than almost any other thing beyond survival. And with mine, the two are intertwined.”

Evan settled on his side, finding a more or less comfortable position for his head, and didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he pretended to sleep.

The next city they settled in was more than halfway across the nation. It was of a sizeable population; that was always Alastair’s first criteria, a place with sufficient urban density to support good schools and high enough crime rates so that he could prey unnoticed.

They went through the familiar, well-oiled mechanism of re-establishing their lives again. Alastair took him on a lavish spending spree, but Evan was listless through most of it. He had the latest, best laptop on the market. He had the newest model of smart phone. He had a newly refurbished library of books and graphic novels, and a brand new room. Instead of being excited over the fresh reinvention, as Alastair billed it with each move, Evan found himself thinking of the things he’d left behind.

They were at the mall, finishing up their last purchases, and Alastair slid out of the dressing room in a brand new pair of jeans and a finely tailored cashmere blazer that made his tall, lean form elegant. One thing that constantly rendered anonymity more difficult was Alastair’s looks; he was gaunt and striking, his high-cheekboned face turning heads wherever they went. His black hair had been styled into an impeccable coif resembling a pompadour. As always, he had remodeled himself more thoroughly than their latest apartment.

“Ta-da,” Alastair trilled, skidding to a halt in front of Evan.

Evan looked up from the browser on his phone to survey Alastair with critical eyes. “Fantastic,” he said in an unenthusiastic tone. “Acid washed jeans went out about thirty years ago.”

Alastair’s expectant face fell. “Yes, but … it’s back in style again. So they tell me. And I know when it was in style—I was there.”

Evan shrugged. “I wasn’t, but I’ve seen pictures of the eighties, and they want your jeans back.”

“I think it looks good.”

“So buy it,” Evan replied. “Not like my opinion matters.” He turned his attention back to his phone’s display and swiped a finger, switching applications and calling up a game he’d been playing when Alastair had gone into the dressing room with a pile of clothes in his arms.

Alastair turned and vanished.

In his wake, Evan regretted the harsh words but was still too choked with frustration he couldn’t voice to make any attempt to take them back. He was deprived of a choice, of any say in how they did things, and he wasn’t an equal. He was a pet, and no matter how fond Alastair was of him, he would always be a pet to him.

WIP Wednesday: The Fall Guide

For today’s WIP Wednesday, I have an excerpt from The Fall Guide for you. I started this story last year, had to set it aside for other projects, and happily finished it this year. The wonderful Ashley was my pre-reader for this, and she and I are both totally in love with how it turned out. Now I’m incorporating edits, and some of my editor’s comments are so funny and spot-on that I wish I didn’t have to delete them as I go through.

The Fall Guide will be available late this autumn, December 3rd. More to follow!

Fall Guide v3 small

    “Eric Caville is an established beauty blogger seeking to parlay his expertise and online renown to put out his own line of products. When he experiences failure to launch, a chance meeting with smooth producer Devon Talbot results in help from a most unexpected source. Devon is sexy, insightful, and treats Eric better than his own boyfriend. Eric has difficult choices ahead of him in terms of going back to the drawing board with his business, his love life, and whether either will see him through to next season. Along the way, he has to tackle his pride and overcome past associations before they hold him back from reaching out for what he wants the most.”

Excerpt:

Eric napped through the flight and woke with Vegas on his left, the Strip gleaming like a string of tacky jewels. He used a small hand mirror from his handbag to check his appearance, reapplying gloss. He was in Vegas for business, after all, and his business was cosmetics and beauty supplies—or he hoped it would be. He had to appear immaculate everywhere, because that day’s casual encounter could be tomorrow’s customer.

The airport was every bit as packed as LAX had been, but at least Eric was able to secure a luggage trolley without resorting to murder or felony. He stacked his roller cases on it and found a cab. The price of the convention’s hotel, the M resort, would cut deeply enough into his wallet that he’d considered taking the shuttle, but he’d discovered there was a baggage limit for that option.

People tended to think of Vegas as glitz and glam, a perfect storm of drinks, gambling, and excess, but the place did good business as well. On any given weekend, Vegas, like L.A., could be found hosting conventions. The atmosphere encouraged deals over swank dinners with plenty of liquor, and while Eric wasn’t holding out much hope for that, he knew he could end up with some good exposure.

Beauty Expo 2012 was one of the events where brand-names and independent products gathered together with plenty of blogger and press coverage, and Eric had managed to dredge up the money to purchase his own table. He’d been running his own successful blog, the man-icure.com, for years and it was his dream to parlay an online reputation into a real-life line of beauty products.

Where most men his age were donning suits and muscling their way up to the board room, Eric had always been more interested in doing a snappy deconstruction of Oscar de la Renta’s latest men’s wear line and keeping his hair, face, and nails on the cutting edge of trends. He’d done his share of starting a few over the course of the lifetime of a blog that had started out on Blogger during his college years, and graduated to his own domain name with the help of a web-savvy friend.

Now he posted daily updates from his tablet and smart phone, sometimes after uploading sneak peeks from his phone cam. A lot had changed, but Eric’s passion for all things fashion had only deepened through the years.

André had advised him many times to try for a journalist position at a major fashion magazine, but Eric knew what was involved to get in the door. It was basically years of indentured servitude.

He wanted to be his own boss, and it was icing on the label cake if he could look good doing so.

Eric leaned toward the window and snapped a few photos with his phone as the cab drove along the Strip. Even in the daylight, before the lights cast their gaudy signals against the velvety black backdrop after dark, the sight of it was striking.

He sent a quick post to his blog, a teaser of things to come as well as an injunction to enjoy happy hour in a cheeky nod to André.

That night would be check-in, a networking event, and he’d definitely be getting together with other bloggers over some drinks. In a way it was a good thing Martine hadn’t come with him, because Eric had to stay focused, get to bed at a decent hour, and make sure he was awake early enough in order to get his table in order before the ballroom opened.

He’d invited Martine, as he supposed all good boyfriends ought to when spending a weekend out of town, especially when headed to a place like Vegas. When Martine had declined, citing work as well as a lack of vacation time, Eric hadn’t been overly surprised, but he had realized most people in a good relationship probably wouldn’t feel relieved.

André was probably right, but Eric had been nurturing the relationship along for eight months. He owed it one more chance.

Eric gave a firm nod, praising his own fortitude as the cab pulled to a stop in a wide circular front drive. He counted out a cash tip and held onto it until after all his cases were safely delivered along with him near the front desk of the hotel.

Check-in was not the breezy process that brochures or movies promised, but an interminable line that had Eric shifting from one foot to the other and constantly checking his phone in an attempt to keep himself distracted. The smoke filtering from the casino floor was beginning to give him a headache, and he was long past ready to have a drink in hand.

A bellhop piled all his cases onto a trolley, at least, and that much was taken care of after he obtained his room key and signed the deposit for an amount that made him wince. It was an inner room without a view, even.

It would all be worth it, Eric consoled himself, once he had a martini in his hand and the money was rolling in from his product launch.

After tipping the bellhop and stripping his shoes off, Eric wandered barefoot around his tiny, windowless hotel room putting things to rights. First and most importantly, he went through an inventory check to make certain nothing had gotten damaged in transit. Next, he laid out his outfit for the networking meeting. When going to a meeting of bloggers, it was essential to be on point and looking his best.

At last, when he’d gone over the essentials and made sure he knew where to check in for the expo, he gazed at his phone and considered calling Martine to let him know he’d arrived safely.

Eric chickened out and sent a text before going to freshen up.

By the time he was done with his grooming routine and returned to his phone in preparation to leave the room and orient himself to the hotel, he had eight texts. Most of them were from his blogger friends, confirming the time and date of their meet-up or letting Eric know they’d arrived at the hotel.

One of them was from Martine, and Eric checked it with a vague sense of dread. That emotion reminded him of the moments when a single message could give him belly flutters. There had been a time he’d looked forward to each and every text from Martine.

That he dreaded them instead didn’t mean the relationship was bad, only … comfortable. Perhaps they’d become too comfortable, and because Eric had noticed it, it was up to him to correct it.

He turned his attention to Martine’s text and his half-formed smile died on his lips.

Nice2knw have fun in Vegas drink hard fuck safe

For a moment, Eric wanted to snap off a return text demanding if Martine had gotten the wrong number and thought he was one of his bros, or if there had been some way he’d interpreted “I’m going to Vegas for a working weekend” as “I’m going to watch male strippers, snort coke off their six packs, and fuck my way from one end of the strip to the other.” He took a deep breath, reminded himself that tone didn’t come across properly in text, and rifled through his makeup kit to touch up his eyes and gloss before leaving the room.

That had earned Eric a night of flirting, at least, and he was going to enjoy it to the hilt.

WIP Wednesday: Body Option

First things first! Less Than Three Press has released a discount code for the first lucky 30 customers, see their Facebook for info: https://www.facebook.com/lt3press/posts/10151535051610988

My launch for WIP Wednesday is Body Option, my recently-completed story for the mecha anthology “Loose Screw.” Story summary:

For five years, Grant Badu has been part of a solid fighting team with the Gemini Suit, Trefoil Argent. Together, they fly and fight so effectively, their combat record so impressive, that they’ve become informally known as the Infallible Duo. When a case containing classified military innovations is stolen and shot down in the foothills of disputed border territory, Grant and Argent are tapped for its swift recovery. The spoke in their gears is the fact that the mission requires pilot Argent to take on the one cybernetic option he’s been avoiding, for reasons even Grant doesn’t know. When their enemies close in faster than expected, Grant and Argent need to put aside the sudden tension between them in order to complete their mission, but the overwhelming odds facing them push them right up against the critical threshold, from which there is no return.

Excerpt:

The wind screamed past the reinforced glass of the cockpit, sheltered between the two sleek shoulder tines of Trefoil Argent as the Gemini Raptor dropped low toward the jagged teeth of the mountain range studding the near horizon. Grant Badu winced as the glare bounced off a tine at the precise angle to reflect into his eyes, and he squinted at the rapidly growing cliffs rising up in the forward view.

“Careful,” Grant cautioned his pilot. “We need to fly low enough to avoid the Bah’zeth sweeps, but there’s no need to clip your tail feathers.”

“This isn’t my first flight mission,” Argent’s voice sniped through his earjack. “Or my tenth, for that matter. If I so much as see your fingers twitch for the override controls, I’ll spin you into a blackout.”

Grant flicked his eyes toward the blue heavens visible overhead, and held back a comment on insubordination. His rig in the cockpit afforded him a near three-sixty view, if he were to rotate his suspension clear around, but it was only on one dimension. Argent had eyes in every direction, because he wasn’t merely the pilot for the Gemini Raptor Suit. He was part of it.

“Wasn’t impugning your flight pattern, Argent,” Grant replied, containing his amusement to a low rumble within his voice. “Nor have I reached for those controls in the eight years I’ve been working with you. Old habits die hard, is all.”

“Sure, and you still fly solo on weekends.”

“Why, Argent, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound jealous.” Grant cocked a deliberate glance over his shoulder at the impenetrable central column that housed Argent’s physical body.

Silence was his only reply.

Grant shook his head, mouth quirking, and turned his attention to the display panels and various readouts at hand. They were dropping low over the Cressian mountain range that bordered his and Argent’s homeland of Crestovia, and it was time to cut back on the idle chatter. The mission required their concentration. Argent would rib him that it took Grant the greater share of his, seeing as he was without Argent’s enhanced advantages.

Crestovia’s enemies had been legion ever since the split and redistricting of nations that had followed the Thirty-year Poison War. They were surrounded on all sides by countries and kingdoms that remained at war, both with Crestovia and one another, and kept building bigger and more deadly machinery following the World Nations’ ban on chemical or foot-soldier warfare of any kind. As the only land with a fertile valley and seaport access on their embattled slice of the map, Crestovia had poured their best resources into finding a military solution to keep their enemies off their necks. Grant’s own piloting expertise had come into play with the rise of the Gemini Suit program.

Trefoil Argent was not a machine. He was the brain at the center column of a giant cybernetic suit with flight capabilities, fully equipped with a number of weapons that Grant could wield from his suspension rig in the protected cockpit.

Where other countries used robots, or long-range drones, Crestovia had chosen a different, drastic solution. They had offered their young, bright, disabled children the option for body repair, or a crack at the Gemini Suit program. Many had opted for reconstruction, and served their country in other ways from military defense to diplomacy. Argent, and those like him, had opted to fly.

Grant had never seen anything like it in his years of piloting, or military service. At first, when he’d been redeployed to the Gemini Suit program, he’d thought it cruel. How could they encase a human, a living being, within a buffered support column and relegate them to the status of a brain, a human computer that powered a mobile suit? Argent didn’t see it that way, though. He had taken to his cybernetic peripherals like Mozart to arranging chords. He flew the suit, walked through its giant legs, and fought with its state of the art mechanical limbs. Grant, for his part, controlled the weaponry, from forearm gatling cannons to precision laser knife, and sat with redundancy “override” pilot controls in the rare case a Gemini Suit overextended themselves and hit the critical break threshold. Many of the “brains” of the Gemini Suits had hit critical break since the inception of the program, and been decommissioned for other types of civil service. Argent, one of the first to don a cybernetic suit and one of a handful of the Raptor class still in action, had never hit critical.

In fact, Argent had taken to the cybernetics so well, he was unique among his peers.

Trefoil Argent, Argent’s Raptor suit, was one of the first-run Gemini Suits. It was built on roughly human-shaped but aerodynamic lines that allowed the suit to double functionality as a flight-capable unit, and a war machine that could stride into battle and dispatch its enemies more nimbly than any tank or drone. Argent had chosen the designation Trefoil, and the distinctive triple split tines of his symbol were etched onto the arms of the suit as well as Argent’s central column.

“We’re getting close,” Grant observed, scrutinizing the topography map on one of his readouts. They didn’t have an exact location fix from the Raptor, but a Bah’zeth robot had downed one of their fighter pilots a few days prior, and it had caused an immediate scramble in the upper ranks. Grant and Argent had been tapped as the best team for the recovery job, even though they’d been further out from the border at the Pegasus Eyrie.

“Acknowledged,” Argent said. He had been curt ever since the mission orders had come in.

Grant shrugged, suppressing his instinct to glance over his shoulder at Argent’s column again. He would notice, and it might make an already-tense situation worse. Still …

He couldn’t help himself. “You going to be ready?”

“Of course I’m going to be ready!” Argent snapped in his ear. He altered course, dipping an aerodynamic arm that doubled function as a wing, causing them to scream through the narrow gap between two close-set peaks. “It’s just like any other peripheral. I’ve been using those all my life.”

Grant didn’t bother to disguise the frown that pinched his brow. Argent’s participation in their upcoming mission was nothing like any of the other peripherals he’d used before, but Grant didn’t know how to breach the topic without pressing Argent in a number of already sore spots. There was a crucial difference in Argent’s latest, and he refused to discuss it.

Once they made landfall, it would be Argent’s first time using a body option.