pre-order

Project Fierce: Preorder

I combed through my recent entries and realized I’ve neglected to unveil Project Fierce here on the blog.

Project Fierce Chicago is up for pre-order here and you can enjoy 15% off on this beautifully large, richly diverse volume through the afternoon of July 15th.

My story, Castle on a Cloud, was inspired by The Little Matchstick Girl but of course I had to go and give it a happy-ending twist … and a bit of a steampunk makeover along with a few other surprises.

The project benefits LGBTQ homeless youth in Chicago, so you’re not only investing in some quality fiction by a number of talented authors, but the entire proceeds go straight to charity. I finished proofing my galley copy this morning (for my story, I wouldn’t be so hubristic as to go through the whole thing) and you all are in for a treat!

More posts to come, so check back tomorrow and Saturday for news and a chance to win a shiny prize.

Signal to Noise audio book giveaway

To honor the upcoming audio book release of Signal to Noise, as well as the upcoming sequel Klaxon at the Core, available for pre-order here, let’s get this party started!

This is an audio book giveaway for Signal to Noise.

It’s been three years since the Incursion; three long years since Bastian and his twin brother Theo became the sole survivors on the planet Noise. Their distress calls have gone unanswered, and they are running out of supplies. They have no one but each other. And when the long-awaited rescue finally arrives, it brings with it complications that make being alone and forgotten look easy.

The listing for this audio book is available here. It’s 6 hours and 38 minutes long. I will email a ZIP audio file to the winner once I’ve selected and heard back. I choose the winner with random.org.

Entering for this giveaway is a two-part process. I know, I’m making you work for it a little, but a free audio book is pretty awesome, and I’ve been listening to it over the past week–trust me, it’s worth it. Also, I don’t have a marketing team, so having you spread the word is a huge help.

1. Do one (or more) of the following:

– Tweet, or retweet, about Klaxon at the Core’s upcoming release, such as my tweet here.
– Blog, or reblog, about Klaxon at the Core’s upcoming release, such as my tumblr post here.
– Post about Klaxon at the Core’s release on Facebook, or share my update here
– Review Signal to Noise on Goodreads, Amazon, or anywhere on the web. If you’ve already reviewed it, that still counts! It doesn’t have to be a long review, either–a sentence or two letting people know what you thought of the book (and maybe why they should read it) is all that’s needed to qualify.
– Promote the release of Klaxon at the Core in any way I haven’t mentioned and link back to the publisher listing here.

2. Drop a comment here and link me to your reblog, retweet, shared post, review, or any kind of promo that spreads the word. Make sure to include an email address or means of contact. Winners will be chosen Monday, June 23rd, evening Pacific time.

If you haven’t done a promo and a comment, the entry is invalid.

Questions? Ask away! Thank you for your support, and stay tuned for an awesome Klaxon at the Core giveaway yet to come. ♥ May your reading list be long and bring you everything you love!

Up next: Signal to Noise in audio and its sequel

Big news! Everything’s coming up Psionic Frequency.

That’s right, it’s a series now.

I’ve even got a super-secret brand new folder with a working title in the brand new Psionic Frequency folder on my hard drive. Tis a beautiful thing.

Want to know what else is beautiful?

Sweet, sweet audio books. More specifically, Signal to Noise on audio book. Coming soon to most major audio book etailers! It will be available on Audible, Amazon, and iTunes on or around Friday, June 20th.

You may be able to score a free copy sooner, so mark your calendar and check this space for a giveaway opening this Sunday, the 15th! If I could get my shizz together I’d open it on Friday the 13th because that tickles me, but let me be honest, I’ve been spending the majority of my free time playing Mass Effect lately. I mean writing and incorporating edits. Well, that too. Honest.

Also exciting:

Klaxon at the Core is up for pre-order! The (mis)adventures of Theo and Bastian continue in this intrigue and action-packed sequel to my first sci-fi horror. And it will be a dual giveaway–you can put in for a chance to win an ebook copy of Klaxon at the Core for double incentive to mark you calendar and check this space Sunday.

More news coming soon, because I’ve been naughty and neglectful and have quite a backlog of things to share.

First wave of the mecha releases tomorrow!

Tomorrow, the mecha take the world by storm!

Right now there’s less than twenty-four hours left to pick up the first wave of mecha collection titles at a sweet, sweet pre-order price of 15% off.

My title, Body Option, is in the first wave. Check it out:

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.

Excerpt here.

Happy reading!

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.

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.

Body Option: Pre-order and giveaway

Happy Sunday, everyone! Do you mecha? My latest, Body Option, is available now for pre-order, and there’s also a lovely giveaway.

Preorder here and enjoy 15% off savings up through the afternoon of Tuesday, April 1st.

You can also sign up for the Goodreads giveaway here through Tuesday, March 25th.

Last night – giveaway signup and pre-order

This is the last night for two things:

Pre-order The Fall Guide and save 25% off!

Hope everyone got a great start to their week. The holidays are in the air, and I’m working on Christmasey stories…maybe I’ll be able to share!

Preorder: The Fall Guide

In two weeks, The Fall Guide is available to buy, which means … pre-order is up NOW!

The Fall Guide is my latest novel, and it’s available at a pre-order discount now through Less Than Three Press. Save 15% off from now until the evening of Dec 3rd if you order through the press.

Eric is a popular beauty blogger, and hopes to use the momentum of that to start his own business selling makeup for men—but his first attempt to launch makes it painfully clear he has a lot to learn and a long way to go.

Unexpected help comes in the form of Devon: Gorgeous, successful, and far too smooth. He is everything Eric would like to be, all the things Eric is starting to fear he’ll never achieve, and the success that Eric is striving for in both his professional and personal life is jeopardized by Devon’s inability to understand that business and pleasure shouldn’t mix, because they can have disastrous results for both.

There are a lot of reasons I can’t wait to share The Fall Guide with you. And if you give me a few days, I’ll be better able to articulate them, but for starters: representation is important to me, and neither Eric nor Devon are your typical gay cis white males. Eric defies gender norms; Devon is biracial. They have a lot of obstacles in their way, including Eric’s boyfriend Martine, Eric’s own pride, and Devon’s intimidating advantages.

More to follow, but I wanted to put the word out that you can pre-order your copy now!

WIP Wednesday: Convergence

For today, I’m offering an exclusive first look at Convergence, my story premiering next week in the second Proud to Be a Vampire collection bundle. You can pre-order Convergence by itself here, or as part of a bundle with four other great stories here, which saves you 15% on the bundled titles. Having just read the galley to give it a last once-over, I’m really excited to bring this story to you–and it was a lot of fun to write!

Chris and Ling travel the world in search of rare, exquisite curiosities, but treasure hunting is rife with danger and comes with a price. In order to retrieve a lost treasure deep within a perilous mountain, Chris hires on a vampire. But traveling with a predator comes with its own risks, and their venture may collapse into absolute loss unless they can each find the opportunity in one another.

The trip to China was arduous, though less a danger than in times of old, but it meant cramped quarters and little privacy even with the modern convenience of first class compartments on the steam train. Dorran was a less challenging passenger than Chris had expected, having arranged for a human-tall box to be shipped in the cargo space.

“You’ve read Dracula a few too many times,” Dorran remarked upon hearing Chris’s arrangement for a cargo box, and retired to the dimmest corner of the shared compartment with a heavy cloak.

“Sunlight is not anathema?” Chris responded, startled.

“Only in that it illuminates the shocking paleness of my skin.”

With that, Dorran withdrew, leaving Chris and Ling to their books and conversation. It was an interminable trip rendered passable only through the engagement of the mind. As ever, Chris envied the ease with which Ling got up to roam the narrow strip of walkway. At least he could escape the compartment to take a turn about the train, even if it was in the guise of servant.

One dark morning, as the train streaked through winding hills etched in black relief against the paler grey of massed clouds, Chris found himself the subject of scrutiny from a pair of piercing green eyes. Dorran had pushed the hood back far enough to expose his face.

“He surfaces,” Chris said in a wry tone.

“The injury.” Dorran’s voice was a dry crackle gone rusty after so long a silence. “It kept you from being pressed into service for the war?”

Chris’s hand tightened on the silver handle of his cane. “Among other things.” He could walk, with pain so preferably only short distances. “It does not keep me from managing the curiosity arm of the business, or from self-sufficiency.”

“Mm,” Dorran said. “I’m sure. That’s why Ling fetches tea and toast.”

“He does so out of respect rather than requirement.”

Dorran sat forward, eyes intent. “How severe was the damage, Mr Bryant?”

Chris’s response was prompt and well-rehearsed from repetition. “The doctor who saved my leg cut away the gangrenous tissue. In his zeal, he removed muscle to a degree that it impaired function. Yet, I am lucky. I am not disfigured; I did not lose the leg.”

Dorran’s eyes moved down his body, resting on his thigh. “You surely have a good deal of scarring.”

“Not any that you’ll see,” Chris retorted, wondering at the line of questioning.

Black brows flicked upward and Dorran’s mouth quirked in a sensual, crooked smile. “We are in very close quarters, Mr Bryant, and look to remain so for quite some time.”

Chris looked at him askance. He did not want to encourage familiarity, especially not with Dorran’s words dripping innuendo, but the use of the title only brought his father to mind. While Chris was grateful to John Bryant for providing him with an upbringing and opportunities to allow him to pursue his interests, he disagreed with him on so many other fundamental points that they kept contact brief and to a minimum.

“You may address me as Chris,” he said at last.

Dorran looked up from where he’d begun to subside within his hood. “Eh?”

“As you say, we are going to be in close quarters with one another for the foreseeable future, and you may as well address me by my given name.”

“And you may call me Dorran.” The offer was returned promptly, but with the air of one conferring a boon.

Chris eyed him a moment longer. There were many esoteric subjects that provoked his curiosity, but none so much as the motives of a vampire and now he had one before him. He would be remiss as a scholar if he let the opportunity lapse.

“What moved you to respond to the advertisement I placed?” Chris asked. He had wondered since the moment Dorran had set foot in his shop. Tall and handsome, no hideous monster had appeared before him. Dorran could quite obviously pass for human, and apparently there had been a certain amount of risk in revealing himself to begin with.

Dorran sat up straighter, arranging a fold of hood to shield himself from the wan light that had pierced the clouds outside the window. Chris raised his cane, reversed it, and used the handle to draw the curtain securely closed in an adroit move. Dorran nodded his thanks.

“You expect me to say I’m fleeing the country, evading the pursuit of those who I’ve robbed of their loved ones?” Dorran sounded amused.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Chris said dryly.

“I would accuse you of reading penny dreadfuls, if I hadn’t seen evidence of your standard fare.” Dorran gestured to two of the books that Chris had set aside when Ling got up to fetch them breakfast. “You may be scholar as well as linguist.”

“I have a wide-ranging curiosity.”

“You have a taste for the exotic.” Dorran fitted his fingertips together and surveyed Chris over them. “And I have an appetite for adventure.”

“That’s the reason?” Chris attempted to mask his surprise.

“Reason enough to get me out of London,” Dorran said.

“And away from any retribution due the crimes of your nature,” Chris was unable to resist adding.

Dorran laughed; it was a rich, unfettered sound, causing Chris to stare in surprise again. “A scholar’s nature, but a poet’s mind.” He seemed admiring rather than sarcastic.

Chris flushed. It was the first time someone had praised his poetical bent without contempt. “I hardly see what that’s to do with it,” he said stiffly.

“You embellish and invent,” Dorran said. “What I do, I do from necessity. And those that receive my embrace are more than willing, in the end.”

Chris frowned. “I don’t …”

“Because it is their end,” Dorran clarified, tone gentle. “And when they reach it, I am mercy. I am solace. And I take nothing that would not be spent uselessly, otherwise.”

Chris inhaled sharply. “Are you saying—” he began, and turned his head when the rattle of the door opening diverted his attention.

Ling stood on the threshold, levering the door open with one arm, a heavy tray balanced on his hip. “No, don’t move,” he commanded, when his dark eyes took in Chris’s struggle to rise, spurred by his need to help. “I haven’t dropped a tea service yet.”

With a sigh, Chris settled back into his seat and looked across the way. Dorran was already wrapped within his hood again, arranged as though he had never stirred.

The door slid shut on its own weight and Ling grasped the tray with both hands, edging his way into the narrow compartment and seating himself beside Chris. “Eat while it’s still lukewarm.”

Chris snorted and reached for the tea, which was badly over steeped. “Any trouble?”

“If there was, would I tell you?” Ling returned. He gave Chris a knowing look and a clap on the shoulder. “Relax, white man. The closer we get to Shanghai the more you will be the outsider, and I the man of means.”

“As always,” Chris said with a faint smile. “And have all your countrymen wondering why you put up with such a challenging situation.”

Ling shook his head and pushed a plate of toast on him. “Because it was the white man who troubled himself with bettering my situation,” he replied as he always did. “It’s you who is my brother now, Chris. You say challenging. I say it’s another word for opportunity.”

They shared a laugh over that together. Ling’s eyes were warm. He rarely smiled, but he was expressive in other ways. Having been a solemn child himself, Chris was best suited to understand that.

“My father should adopt you, if he had any sense,” Chris said. “You’d be best suited to run the company after him.”

“And leave you to your studies and haring off after fusty knick-knacks?” Ling exclaimed, copying his mock outrage straight from one of the elder Bryant’s rants. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Left to your books, field studies, and your deep thoughts.”

Chris said nothing, merely turned a melancholy glance on his thoroughly stewed tea. He could not turn the question back on Ling on whether he would like that; it would be too cruel. He was satisfied that his station could at least provide Ling the ability to manage the business capably under guise of assisting Chris, even if he could not accrue the credit.

“Have your deep thoughts turned up an answer for what we’re to do with him, when we disembark?” Ling nudged him, sipped at his own tea, and made a face. Neither of them took their tea with sugar, and both were dismayed at the atrocious liquid that was being passed off under the guise of tea.

“I suppose we could find him a burqa and pretend he’s a woman, if we disembark in full daylight,” Chris said slowly.

Dorran’s hood retracted enough to show a slice of face and glaring eyes. “I hardly think that will be necessary.”

“Ah, you do listen. Thought so,” Ling remarked, appearing unsurprised. “You are too still at all times.”

“Being still takes no effort,” Dorran said. “It’s moving like a human when you have no need for it that takes practice.”

Chris shared a glance with Ling. Mirrored in Ling’s eyes was an awareness that they were out of their depth, and had no idea even how lightly to tread in their dealings. Had the particular artefact they sought not required a vampire in order to secure it, they could have remained blissful in ignorance.

“What curiosity are we searching out?” Dorran inquired. “The contract lacked specific detail.”

“It’s not the kind of detail I wanted to spell out in print,” Chris said, intercepting a warning look from Ling, who gave a slight shake of his head.

“Come, now, we’re en route and you need my help to secure it. You are going to have to bring me into your confidence, sooner or later.”

Chris hesitated a moment longer, measuring the reasonable request with his instinct that called for utmost discretion. He and Ling had been on many expeditions since they were in their teens, and more than once they had come to near ruin by entrusting the wrong people. It was another thing that knit them together.

“You don’t trust me.” Dorran’s voice was barely audible over the rushing grind of the train.

“Why should we?” Ling shot back.

“I am in your employ,” Dorran replied. “A deposit has been paid for my services, the rest due upon safe return.”

“And money is the only consideration?” Chris said, sceptical of that motive. “A tidy sum, no matter how enticing, would seem secondary to a creature such as you.”

Dorran’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. “I set my signature to your contract.”

“That means something to vampires?”

“It means something to me.”

Before Chris could phrase a reply, Dorran disappeared beneath his hood once more, shutting down the conversation. Ling made a sceptical noise in his throat and Chris exchanged a glance with him once more. Outward protestations to the contrary, they could not trust an outsider, let alone a vampire.

Though they had said nothing aloud, the message seemed to have been heard, as Dorran remained within his hooded cloak until the train reached its final stop.

Convergence will be available next Tuesday evening.

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.

Talya Andor

Author of QUILTBAG fiction