Josh Lanyon's Blog, page 76

Irregulars Holiday Codas - SONG FOR A WINTER'S NIGHT by Josh Lanyon

It was a stupid argument.
Not least because it served to bring about the very thing Archer did not want. Now he was on his own for Solstice AND Christmas. And perhaps for the foreseeable future.
“You’re not an Irregular anymore,” he had protested, when Rake first brought up the subject of the Christmas party.
“I served with the Irregulars for four decades.”
“But you’re not an Irregular now.” This was an important point for Archer because he hated the Irregulars. Rake excepted. It was the only thing about Rake he didn’t like. His past with the Irregulars.
 Rake, who understood him very well, had started out trying to be patient. “I still have friends there. Good friends. I’d like to see them again.”
“Good friends like Sergeant Orly who tried to have me thrown in prison for thirty years? Can’t you see your good friends another time? Does it have to be Solstice Night?”
“It’s a party. Everyone will be in one place. That’s the point of inviting me.”
“It’s Solstice Night!”
“I know, sweeting. And I’m sorry for that. But we’ll have Réveillon and Christmas together.” Rake nibbled delicately on the upswept point of Archer’s nearest ear. He teased, “And Boxing Day and Feast of St. Stephen and New Year’s and First Footing and Three Kings Day. We’ll celebrate Chinese New Year, if you like. We’ll spend every single holiday you please together. We’ll spend them any way you choose.”
Archer pulled his head away. “None of those mean as much to me as Solstice!”
Which was quite true. Solstice was the festival that mattered to the Fae. The Solstices and the Equinoxes. And yet…and yet… He wasn’t five years old, after all. Archer had spent plenty of Solstices on his own -- and without the promise of sharing every other holiday on the calendar with someone he loved -- someone who loved him. He knew he was being unreasonable. Even --
“You’re being childish,” Rake had said.
And the conversation had gone from precariously balanced to a headlong plummet into the abyss.
“Is it childish to expect loyalty? Is it childish to expect that I would come first with my-my chosen consort?”
“It’s childish to imagine I would abandon all other alliances and obligations simply because we’re now together.”
“Alliances and obligations to people who are my enemies.”
“Enemies?” Rake had laughed.
The laughter was a grave mistake because Archer already knew he was being foolish. The laughter stung him on the quick, and he had reacted accordingly.
At one point -- the point where Archer had said, “I oppose everything Irregulars stand for. If it was up to me they’d be disbanded and destroyed!” -- Rake’s demon side had shown briefly in red eyes and very sharp incisors. He had ended the conversation, conversation being a polite word for what was now a slanging match, and gone for a walk, slamming the door to the cottage so hard Mikhail Alexandrovich Vrubel’s painting of the demon surrounded by green moths fell from the wall, landing face first in front of the stone fireplace.
An hour later Rake had phoned to say he was in San Francisco and that Archer should expect him back in Saint-Malo when he saw him.
Seven long and lovely months they’d had together, but now it appeared to be over.
A stupid, pointless, useless argument.
Archer was alone again, the thing he dreaded most. And not just for the holidays.
Disconsolately, he wandered through the crowded winter garden inside the Château, investigating the chalet-style stalls of the Christmas market. There were holiday delicacies to sample, handmade toys and old-fashioned ornaments to admire, choirs to listen to. The wet grass glittered, the cobblestones were dark with rain, and the fairy lights gleamed in the bare bones of the trees, like fireflies flickering through an army of skeletons. The scents of wonderful cooking mingled in the frosty air with jovial French voices and music. Much of the music was traditional Breton and French folk songs, but Archer recognized a familiar melody. “Song for a Winter’s Night,“ made popular by Sarah Mclachlan during the years he’d lived in Canada. The choir sang in French, but he knew the words and they made his heart ache.
If I could know within my heart
That you were lonely too
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter night with you
He was homesick, that was the trouble. But he not homesick for Canada. Nor any place he had lived in his much-traveled life. No, he was homesick for Rake.
Why had he said such stupid things to Rake? Why had he gone out of his way to make Rake angry? He didn’t even mean most of it. He didn’t agree with some of the aims and some of the tactics of the NATO Irregular Affairs Division, but he knew they were a necessary evil. Not even an evil, really. Nuisance? He didn’t wish any Irregulars harm. He didn’t wish anyone harm. It was just…
Just what? 
Archer walked on through the merry crowd. The Christmas market was packed this night, and so it would continue to Christmas day. He stopped to buy a bag of roasted chestnuts and drink a cup of Christmas coffee. The strong coffee hinted at cinnamon and allspice and cloves and peppercorns, reminding him of Rake’s kisses. You wouldn’t expect a demon to taste so sweet. Sweet and smoky, that the flavor of Rake’s kisses.
Archer’s eyes blurred, his breath catching in his throat as he realized he might never taste Rake’s kisses again. Demons weren’t famous for their steadfast affections, after all. Wasn’t this sudden decision to go see his old comrades proof that Rake was growing bored with sharing Archer’s banishment?
Archer sniffed miserably and walked on past laughing people in folk costumes performing traditional folk dances.
Very pretty and festive in the lantern light. If you liked that kind of thing.
The real festivities, for Archer at least, were outside the walls of the city. Solstice celebrations would be held up and down the coast and on the small island of Grand Bé. There would be bonfires in isolated coves and fields and the Fae would gather to drink and feast before the Procession of Light began. Archer would not attend the festivities. He was not generally welcomed by the local fée. Not because he was half-blood, but because he was an foreigner. A foreigner with an ancient Sumerian demon for a boyfriend. But even if he didn’t attend the feast and the procession, the holiday was still important to him. He had looked forward to spending his first ever Winter Solstice with Rake. It would be the first time he’d belonged to someone, that someone had belonged to him.
But in fact, what was Winter Solstice but a celebration of the shortest day of the year? And the sooner this one -- and all the rest of them without Rake -- were over, the better.
Archer stopped at another stall. It had been a busy day in the shop and he had not found time to eat. He bought galettes, a kind of buckwheat pancake, spread thickly with honey, and washed them down with two beers.
It was starting to rain again.  The crowd didn’t seem to mind, but Archer suddenly had no heart for it.
He finished his beer and left the winter garden and the Christmas market, walking back through the narrow cobbled streets. The rain was in his eyes the whole way, blurring his vision.
This was all his own fault for being insecure and jealous and possessive. Of course Rake had no patience for such nonsense. Even if it was typical faerie behavior. Well, the jealousy and possessiveness. The insecurity was all human.
 Archer reached the cottage he shared with Rake. He hoped against hope the door would swing open and Rake would be there.
But no. The door was still fastened with its protective wards, and when it opened for Archer, the rooms were dark and cold.
He stood for a moment, struggling to contain all the emotion threatening to tear out of his chest. He was not a child and faeries, despite the cute pictures and YouTube videos, did not cry.
He took off his scarf, his Burberry, and hung them by the door. No point in building a fire or fixing supper. He’d eaten enough at the Christmas market and no fire would warm him now. Instead he went upstairs, undressed, and climbed in the enormous bed he shared with Rake. The green glass beads were draped over the tall headboard post, and he slipped them free and looped them around his neck. They were cool against his hot face, glimmering mysteriously in the darkness and whispering comfortingly to him.
The beads spoke of green things, of soft moss and silky grass and sparkling jade and glittering emeralds and spicy pines and splashing water and hopping frogs and rustling leaves and celadon bowls and smiling waves…
They had done delightfully naughty things with these beads, things that made Archer blush and shiver now as the beads reminded him, reassured him that all was not lost.
 
 
When Archer woke a few hours later the room was alight from the gentle glow of dozens of floating will-o’-the-wisps. He blinked sleepily as they drifted down around him, landing on the velvet coverlet and disappearing. He sat up. He was alone but the bedroom door was open and he could see by the way the shadows moved in the hallway that the fireplace downstairs was lit.
Archer threw back the blankets and stumbled downstairs.
A small feast for two had been set out before the blazing fire. There were apple tarts and blackberries and cream, mince pie and little amber cakes that looked exactly like butter and honey cakes from his favorite bakery in Vancouver. Brown bottles of honey ale glistened in the firelight.
“I was beginning to think I would have to jump up and down on the bed to wake you up,” Rake remarked. He sat in front of the fire wearing only a pair of scarlet Paisley silk pajama bottoms. His chest gleamed like bronze in the golden light. His eyes were black and unfathomable.
Archer chuckled uncertainly and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He approached the little feast hesitantly. “I didn’t think I would see you so soon.”
“Disappointed?” Rake was smiling.
Archer shook his head.
“No? You weren’t looking forward to a nice long undisturbed night? A few days peace and quiet?”
It was such a lovely little feast -- and yes, the cakes were the very ones he used to love.
Archer’s eyes filled with tears. Through the blur he saw Rake’s strong face change, grow aghast. “Archer?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back. I thought I’d spoiled it all.”
Rake rose and scooped him up, returning to his place by the fire and cuddling Archer against his broad chest. His eyes glowed red with emotion, his incisors showed very white as he delivered little punishing love bites over Archer‘s throat and shoulders. His silken wings folded protectively, creating a little cocoon for them.
“Not coming back! I said I was coming back!”
“You said I would see you when I saw you.”
“But…then you would be seeing me, right?”
“Maybe a century from now.”
“A century! But it’s only four days till Christmas.”
Archer gave a watery chuckle and wiped his eyes. Rake’s kisses tasted of vanilla tonight. “You’ve been eating cookies.”
“Yes, I have. I brought you some. And Barry Littlechurch sent you those little cakes. He said they were your favorite.”
“You saw Barry?”
“I stopped in to say hello. He’s thinking about coming out here in the summer for a visit.”
“Is he really?”
“Yes. He misses you.”
Archer sighed and rested his head on Rake’s chest listening to the boom of his eight-chambered heart. “I miss him too. Did you have a nice time at your party?”
He felt Rake’s smile. “I did. It was nice seeing old friends. And it was nicer still coming home.”
“I’m sorry I was so bad tempered.”
Rake laughed. “It was pretty frightening.” He kissed Archer and nipped his lip.
“Ouch.” Archer touched his mouth, but there was no blood. Rake never drew blood.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”
Archer closed his eyes. “I thought you might not.”
The wings folded more closely about him with a heavy rustle. Rake bent his head closer and said softly, “But I’ll always come back. Do you know why?”
Archer opened his eyes. Rake’s eyes glowed red gold into his.
“Because I love you.” Rake teased gently, “Better than stars or water, better than voices of winds that sing, better than any man's fair daughter, or your green glass beads on that silver ring.” He wound the green beads around his fist and drew Archer’s face to his for another kiss. “Happy Solstice, sweeting.”

Irregulars Holiday Codas - COOKIE JAMBOREE by Nicole Kimberling

Cookie Jamboree
Nicole Kimberling 
 
 
Despite having once been a professional chef, Special Agent Keith Curry didn’t know a lot about cookie cutters. He understood that they were used to cut sturdy dough into decoratable shapes—generally circles, unless it was a holiday—and that was all.
 
But Gunther knew all about them.
 
“These are the collectables.” Gunther waved his hand over a box of tin shapes as if he were a presenter on some home shopping network. Granted, with his dark hair and long,  toned body he was handsome enough to be on TV. But the gleam in Gunther’s blue eyes as he displayed his precious beauties held a hint of mania. “Sometimes I think they’re my only addiction—apart from kerosene and cigarettes.”
 
Really, Keith wasn’t sure which was worse. As a transmogrified goblin, neither the kerosene nor the cigarettes could do him much damage.
 
Collecting cookie cutters, on the other hand, represented a foray into dorkville that somewhat detracted from Gunther’s mighty sex appeal. Insofar as Keith now considered Gunther long-term relationship material, he had to weigh things like cookie cutter collections against his own ideas of what should be in a home kitchen. Not that Gunther and he were swirling around the vortex of inevitable co-habitation. Far from it. Like most trans-goblin children Gunther still lived with his parents.
 
Keith’s reluctance to have sex in the garden-level bedroom of a ranch house in Marin County while his boyfriend’s parents slept overhead had been the source of many tense conversations and one genuine argument. Gunther didn’t understand why Keith didn’t want to transfer from DC headquarters to the west coast. Keith couldn’t explain how uncomfortable Gunther’s extra-human family made him without sounding like a racist.
 
So they’d argued and made up and gotten a little stronger every time—understood each other better as the days went on. Keith was pretty sure he was in love with Gunther. He’d have to be to willingly attend this awkward Christmas party after having gone so far as volunteering to work for the winter holidays just to avoid having to celebrate so many other holiday gatherings.
 
Gunther delved into the box and pulled out a tiny tin rocket and held it up. “I really love this one. You can make it look dirty really easily.”
 
“Are you sure we want to bust all these out?” Keith rustled through the box. “It’s supposed to be a Christmas cookie party. Don’t we just need a star and a gingerbread man?”
 
“A lot of the returnees don’t have a very fixed idea of Christmas and I like to give them a lot of options.” Gunther continued setting the cutters out in lines. “Who says Christmas can’t be celebrated with rockets?”
 
“Or muscle cars, apparently.” Keith nudged a vehicle shaped cutter back into line. “I always thought modern Santa would drive a red cadillac.”
 
“I don’t really know what car Santa drives these days,” Gunther replied. “Probably something Swedish.”
 
That’s the trouble with working for NIAD, Keith thought. You mention some guy you think is fake and he turns out to be real. Never fails…
 
“Does your family make a big deal of Christmas?” Gunther asked.
 
“Sure, I guess.” Keith finally found the gingerbread man. It was a good-sized cookie cutter. Eight inches high.
 
“Are we going to go over there?” Gunther kept his eye on the cookie cutters. “Or do you think it’s too early for me to meet them?”
 
In the six months that he and Gunther had been seriously dating, Gunther had never once inquired about Keith’s family, which had been odd, given the close connections in the trans-goblin community, but also relieving, since Keith hadn’t wanted to talk about it.
 
“We don’t really communicate,” Keith said. “They weren’t stoked about me turning queer on them.”
 
“I see... Gunther flashed him a smile. “I guess it’s good I spent their present money on you then.”
 
“You bought me a Vita-Mix 5200?”
 
“How much do you think I was planning to spend on them?” Guther asked, with a laugh. “I’m just a civil servant, after all.”
 
With four hours till the party started, they still had a lot of work to do so Keith put on some tunes and fell into the rhythm of rolling dough and cutting out shapes. They used every single cutter, no matter how odd or seasonally-inappropriate. The only criteria that needed to be satisfied was that he had four hundred cookies at the end of it and that twenty-six of them were gingerbread men. Keith had no idea why they needed such a specific number of those, but complied.
 
As the cookies were cooling and Keith was mixing food coloring into icing, other agents from the San Francisco office began to arrive. It was still early—an hour before the weirdoes would show up to try and become more human-socialized via application of frosting, silver dragées and red and green sprinkles.
 
Not to mention the assortment of edible glitters.
 
He didn’t remember so many agents being there the previous year, but then he figured maybe he hadn’t been as able to distinguish the guards from the inmates then—so to speak.
 
Even Gunther’s retired ex-partner, Rake showed up. A hulking, dark-haired man, he looked like he should be clumsy, but moved with the grace of water. He wore a sticker that read, “VISITOR” in large letters and had a devious expression on his face.
 
But he was an actual demon, so Keith supposed he would. Still, Keith was about to go over and see what he might be up to when he caught Rake sneaking a handful of chocolate jimmies.
 
Mystery solved.
 
Keith went back to baking while Gunther greeted the arrivals with volleys of enthusiastic hugs, handshakes and high-fives.
 
As Keith transferred the final sheet of gingerbread men into the oven, he noticed Guther’s godfather, Henry, lingering near the tall cooling rack. How any man who looked and acted so much like a dirty old hobo could have snagged such a hot boyfriend as Jason Shamir, Keith would never know. To Keith, Henry looked like a grizzled blond scarecrow who had hopped a train in 1933 and somehow ridden it all the way to the twenty-first century. The last time he’d had Henry over for dinner, the guy had pronounced the appetizer, Gunther’s favorite salmon tartare dressed with lemon confit, to be “the best cat food I ever ate.”
 
Unaware of Keith’s watchful eye, Henry reached into the pocket of his stained and battered trenchcoat and removed a handful of white iridescent powder, which he started to sprinkle over the freshly baked cookies.
 
Keith felt certain that nothing pulled out of that guy’s pocket should be applied to food. He started forward, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.
 
“Don’t worry. It’s part of the plan,” a male voice whispered in his ear. From the lingering scent of chocolate jimmies, he guessed it was Rake before he turned around. “He has to get this done while they’re still hot and pliable.”
 
“What crazy shit did you put on those?” Keith glared at Henry, who just grinned.
 
“Don’t worry it’s edible… I think.” Henry licked his finger, then after a moment of contemplation said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
 
The powder he’d sprinkled on the gingerbread men shimmered and twinkled like starlight glinting off newly fallen snow. Then one of the cookies began to twitch. At first Keith thought it was a trick of the light and shifting parchment paper then the little guy sat up. It twisted from side to side as if cracking its back.
 
Keith’s reaction was immediate. He brought the spatula down hard. The gingerbread man caught it struggling against him with strength and will that should have been impossible in a cookie.
 
“Ease up, kiddo, you’ll squish him,” Henry chided.
 
Keith relaxed his grip on the utensil and the gingerbread man shoved the spatula away.  It stood up, teetering on its rounded legs. He hopped from the cooling rack to the table, gave Keith the bras d’honneur, then gave Rake a more military salute.
 
Rake handed the gingerbread man a small roll of paper. The cookie accepted the banner before marching, drill-sergeant style toward the end of the table.
 
As he strutted, others began to rise as well, moving clumsily, like baby cartoon pandas awakening from naptime. The scent of hot ginger and molasses saturated the air.
 
One by one the guests started to notice. They pointed and smiled, but were much less surprised than he would have expected even NIAD agents to be.
 
Gunther broke out into a wide smile as he watched the gingerbread men line up on the counter. Then they unfurled the paper Rake had given them. In large, block letters it read: Good Luck, Gunther!
 
“You guys!” Gunther looked around, grinning.
 
Keith looked around too, but he was more baffled.
 
“We just thought you should have a good send off,” a dark-haired agent said.
 
Keith leaned toward Rake, who had left the jimmies behind and was applying himself to a saucer of heart-shaped candy confetti.
 
“What is going on?” Keith whispered.
 
“Gunther’s transfer came through. He’s headed for DC.” The big man’s voice rumbled beneath the congratulatory noises made by the agents who surged around Gunther.
 
Rake daubed a finger into a nearby bowl of pink icing. “Maybe it’s supposed to be your Christmas present.” He licked the icing from his finger with a tongue that was too long too agile and too red. Forget tying a knot in a cherry stem—this guy could make a whole macramé owl wall hanging with his lingual appendage.
 
Keith snatched up the icing before Rake could double dip. Rather than being deterred, Rake simply grabbed a gingerbread man and bit its head off. The cookie’s arms and legs flapped and flailed but nothing could stop the progress of Rake’s teeth through its torso.
 
As Rake gnoshed, a strange, blissful expression lit his face. Catching Keith watching him, he shoved the gingerbread man’s kicking feet into his mouth, swallowed, and then murmured, “Just like the good old days.”
 
Rake sauntered toward the group of agents who surrounded Gunther, shouldering through them easily.
 
The rest of the gingerbread men were slowing down now, gradually hardening as they cooled.
 
“Are they alive?”
 
“Nah, they’re just animated. Like puppets. See, the pixie dust is already wearing off. Wouldn’t want to scare the new returnees.” Henry took a swig of something from a flask and then stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. “So I guess you’re getting a new roommate.”
 
“If you mean Gunther, he hasn’t said anything.”
 
“Seems like the classy thing to do would be to invite him then. Meantime I’ve gotta run. Gunther asked me to break the news to his parents for him.”
 
“You aren’t going to stay to decorate cookies?”
 
“Not this year. I think I made enough of a mess of it last year.” Henry looked chagrined. “In hindsight I can now say spiking the punch was a bad idea. Look at that--Carerra is already giving me the evil eye.” He saluted the San Francisco Bureau chief. She neither smiled nor waved back. Behind her stood a few of the guests—all humans, all with the fashion sense of recently released mental patients. One young girl wore what looked like a live lobster on her head as if it were a tiara. Another, a middle-aged man, wore candy cane pajama bottoms, a sweater with Santa’s face knitted into it, and a tangle of battery-operated LED lights around his neck. The festive, flashing necklace failed to hide a Frankenstein-like scar.
 
Time to get this party started.
 
Keith went to greet them, meeting up with Gunther along the way. All in all thirteen returnees attended. Though their number swelled to fifty once all the agent-volunteers, handlers and integration liaisons had been accounted for—fifty-one if he counted the girl’s symbiant crustacean, which Gunther said they should not, since it would be surgically removed the following week.
 
After two hours of unparalleled weirdness with frosting, the guests retreated to the NIAD residence facility, the room emptied and only Keith and Gunther remained to do the last of the sweeping up.
 
“I think it went pretty well,” Keith said, just to break the silence. Gunther seemed unnaturally preoccupied with getting every last rainbow jimmie into the dustpan, so Keith continued, “What are you going to be doing in DC?”
 
“Same as here. Assault team. Volunteer goblin community liaison.” Gunther still hadn’t looked up at him. “I thought it would be nice to be in the same city as you.”
 
Diplomatic as always, Gunther left it open for him to decide whether or not they’d live together. Keith could almost feel Henry’s breath on the back of his neck whispering, “Now’s the time, kid. Don’t blow it.”
 
He knew it wasn’t true. Or at least it probably wasn’t really the old bum’s voice—just the sound of his own conscience. He felt his face reddening. How was it possible that he could be nervous? Gunter had made it just about as easy as it could be. Still, he’d never lived with any boyfriend before and he knew that to Gunther’s family this step was the first on an inevitable road toward marriage. Goblins were just conservative that way.
 
“I guess I always figured that you’d live with me. If you ever did come back east,” Keith said.
 
“Yeah?” Gunther finally lifted his face so that Keith could see the blue of his eyes.
 
“I mean, I thought I’d have more time to plan than this, but—“
 
“It’s not till after New Year’s,” Gunther put in.
“Then I guess I better start looking for a bigger place.”
 
“There’s a two bedroom condo for sale in Dupont Circle that has a beautiful kitchen with an induction range.” Gunther fished his phone out of his pocket and started swiping through screens of DC area realty ads. “Hardwood floors too.”
 
“Why would we need two bedrooms?” He didn’t immediately address the rest of what was wrong with Gunther’s plans, including actually buying a pricey condo.
 
“For when mom and dad come to visit.” Gunther glanced over shyly.
 
Keith felt objection after objection rising up with in him, then realized that none of those issues needed to be addressed right this second. He took the broom and dustpan out of Gunther’s hands, leaned in and pressed his mouth to Gunther’s. He tasted like caramelized sugar and butane--like the top of a crème brulee.
 
“Baby, I know it’s your first place away from Mom and Dad and you’re excited. But you’ve never even paid an electrical bill.”
 
Gunther smiled, leaned in close and whispered. “Maybe I’ve been living with my parents for thirty-seven years but that just means I’ve got a million bucks in the bank and nobody to spend it on but you.”
 
“Well then,” Keith slid his hand down Gunther’s back. “I got a hotel with room service. Why don’t I give a brief overview of my long-standing grudge against the Potomac Electric Power Company over breakfast in bed?”
 
“Then can we look for a place?”
 
“As long as the PEPCO bill is in your name,” Keith said, “we can live anywhere you want.”
 
 
 
 
 

The Irregulars Christmas Codas!

As promised at the beginning of the year, Astrid, Ginn, Nicole and I are writing Holiday Codas for our Irregulars characters this week. Every morning, starting tomorrow, check in for a new coda, starting tomorrow with Nicole's  "Cookie Jamboree".

ALSO this week, the Irregulars digital edition goes on sale through Weightless Books. This is a one day sale only starting at 10:00 a.m. THURSDAY and running for 24 hours. The Irregulars digital edition will be $1.99 during this period.

Yeah. Seriously.

See you tomorrow!

And so it begins! THE KICK START BLOG TOUR

Today's stops on the Kick Start blog tour include:

Live Your Life Buy The Book

and

Boys in Our Books

And to get you in the mood for spending time with Will and Taylor, how about this flashback to the Will and Taylor interview the boys did for Jessewave last year?

KICK START is now available!

Right on schedule. WOW. How did we do that?!

You can buy it here for Kindle.

Or through All Romance Ebooks.

Or Smashwords.


Coming soon to Nook, Kobo, iPad, etc.

And do not forget this week's blog tour -- we're giving away some terrific stuff (including a Kindle Paperwhite). It all starts tomorrow at Live Your Life, Buy the Book.

Have a wonderful Sunday!

Happy Thanksgiving!

The KICK START Blog Tour

  To celebrate the release of Kick Start, the fifth book in the Dangerous Ground series, the Fanyons have put together a jaw-droppingly fabulous blog tour to take place one week from now: December 2nd through December 8th.

Take a look at this! I'm honestly flabbergasted.

Giveaway: 9 prizes in total  
•GRAND PRIZE : Paperwhite Kindle with all DG books sent separately (including Kick Start) for winner to install. 
•Kick Start T-shirt
 •Kick Start Coffee Mug
•Set of Magnets

•2 ebooks (1 prize) from Josh's back catalogue

•3 audiobooks (3 separate prizes)  from Josh's back catalogue from Audible  •Top Secret Special Edition Mug

 Schedule:
 
Monday Dec 2nd  - LIVE YOUR LIFE, BUY THE BOOK
Monday Dec 2nd  - BOYS IN OUR BOOKS
 
Tuesday Dec 3rd - CHICKS AND DICKS
Tuesday Dec 3rd -  DANI ALEXANDER
 
Wednesday Dec 4th -  MRS CONDIT READS
Wednesday Dec 4th -  BOY MEETS BOY
 
Thursday Dec 5th - SINFULLY SEXY BOOK REVIEWS
Thursday Dec 5th - RHYS FORD
 
Friday Dec 6th  - SID LOVE
Friday Dec 6th  -  NOVEL APPROACH
 
Saturday Dec 7th - JOYFULLY JAY
 
Sunday Dec 8th - FACEBOOK FAN PAGE - FANYON EXTRAVAGANZA !!!
 
We're going to do our best to come up with some fun and amusing posts, including an interview with everyone's favorite third wheel Naval Lt. Commander David Bradley. Stay tuned!  
 

Author! Author! LB GREGG

It's hard to interview someone I've known as long and as well as Lisabea. I respect her and I luff her. She's not
afraid to call a spade a spade -- usually Kate Spade. And generally two hours before she has to show up perfectly
coiffed.

Five things I love about L.B Gregg
1 - She owns a percolator
2 - Her laugh
3 - She's game. For anything.
4 - Her smart, funny, no bullshit prose
5 - Her New England backbone. Also her New England funny bone.


Therefore, without further adieu, le interview...



Have you ever been a suspect in an arson case? Coz if not, I'm wondering how the local sheriff could have overlooked such a strange series of coincidences...



 The cops only give me a second glance when I’m standing next to you, Lanyon.


  What's the last piece of music you listened to? Did you sing along?  

I’m listening to my WIP playlist now. Change by Churchill. I can’t carry a tune, so slurring and humming is involved. And I’m not even drinking! I’m answering interview questions.  


   

You took two years off to build your mansion on the hill. The house is beautiful, but it's tough coming back from sabbatical. Thoughts?



Not as tough as Everest, and I’m no Tom Cruise, but it’s been an uphill climb. When I decided to renew myself, focus on my family, and build that dream house I did worry my readers wouldn’t remember me, or care to. Momentum is a crazy thing—it’s hard to build, and it sucks to lose it, but I’m still glad I took the time off. I wondered if you enjoyed your time off, though—and if the sabbatical came at a price?


See what I did there?
    

(I see that. Coz I'm watching you.) 

Martha Stewart versus Cat Woman. Who takes home the tiara?  



Martha crafts a tiara out of organic hemp baker’s twine and Connecticutpine cones, which sounds like a crown of thorns but is in reality an unachievable DIY masterpiece and after stealing it from Martha’s lofty brow, Cat Woman stuffs it right up Martha’s you-know-where. **cough**
   

What do you love most about writing? What do you like least? 
 

When the story you’re working on is utterly lost and you somehow manage to find that magical thread again. It’s incredible—-partly because you can write again, and partly because creativity is the ultimate high.
 

I’m also a freak of nature because I think editing is fun. I love working with my editors to make a better book.


Least? I want to say the first draft, but really? Doubt. Doubt undermines everything.
 
   

What do you think is the most important thing to remember when creating fully realized main characters? 


I write romance novels. I keep that at the forefront of my mind. A good character in a romance novel is complex. Real romance is more than an unrelenting stream of orgasms or the pursuit thereof. Not that orgasms are a bad thing—or that I’m above writing sex –but a fully realized main character isn’t focused on his wiener. Characters with depth have purpose. Purpose drives them. Characters have dreams. They have jobs. They have hobbies. They have fears. They’re connected to their communities, or families, or friends. They laugh. And a lot like you and I, they make mistakes. Of course, in my books, the mistakes are usually ridiculous instead of angst-filled—like Mark braining Jaimie with a bible in the packed church on Ash Wednesday.


   Have you ever broken a bone? 


I have stubbed and broken the same toe more than twice. It’s not longer than the other ones; it’s just unlucky.
 
 

You're best known for your smart, snappy, sexy romantic comedies. Is there any genre you'd like to tackle but you're kinda sorta afraid?  
 

Hah! NOT giving away any of my secrets, Lanyon. But I’ll tell you what I won’t write out of pure terror: historical romance. Unless it’s a parody. I would do that.




   Are those wild stories about prep schools true? 
 

The prep school world is all about intense pressure, competition, and rampant hormones. That’s an explosive combination, so probably the wild stories are more than a little true.
   

What are you working on now?
 

Men of Smithfield5: Sam and Aaron. Or, as I like to call it, The Inn Keeper and the Hamburgler.  The title says it all, right? This book features mysterious newcomer Aaron M. Saunders and Sam Meyers, manager of the only B&B in Smithfield. There are cooking classes, and break-ins, and snogging in the pews of St. Joes.  Lots of familiar faces and Smithfieldplaces. You’ll love it.


   

All time favorite dessert. Do you have the recipe?

 
 

Sticky Toffee Pudding. And I don’t have the recipe because once I learn how to make it, I’ll never stop eating it. I also love to try weird flavored ice creams, like rosemary, basil, or maple bacon.

   

You are quite the world traveler. Top three favorite foreign countries?  
 

Scotland because the land is untamed and raw; and the whiskey is the whiskey.


Italy for the food, the wine, the shopping, the history, the food, the wine, the food, the food.


Guana Island (BVI) as most of the island is a nature preserve and it’s unspoiled.
 
   

Are you a full-time writer?  


When I’m writing full-time, I am a full-time writer.
 

What's out next? Are we going to see more of the Ce and Dan?

 
 After Smithfieldthe Fifth is complete, I buckle down on Romano and Albright Three. I have a title and three chapters, which I count as serious progress. I have made numerous trips to the city and the book is simmering on the back burner. I can’t rush this book. Of course, I can’t avoid it, either. But it’s up next. I love Ce and Dan, however, those two can be hard to pin down.
 
   

Tell us something surprising. Anything. Go on. Surprise us!  
 

I’ve eaten an entire jar of Spanish olives in one sitting on more than one occasion. Salt is my weakness.

Sean Crisden on THE DICKENS WITH LOVE

Tell us a little bit about your background. How did you get started in narrating/producing audio books? How many audio books have you narrated?
Sure, pull up a seat. By day I was working in corporate middle management and watching my creative soul atrophy. By night I was playing guitar and singing in the now defunct rock band “Divided Sky” for almost ten years. After some gigs I would be approached by folks who complimented my voice and would occasionally offer me voice over jobs on the side. That sparked an idea in my lil’ brain that wouldn’t really ignite until years later, when the band dissolved and I couldn’t take another minute of going into an office everyday.

I was fortunate to have appeared in a few commercials and films by that point and was interested in cultivating myself as an actor. However, the part of me that likes to sleep and stay in my jammies was at odds with the travel, early calls and time spent primping and preening to be camera ready. It occurred to me that I could use the perfect storm of my skills with audio engineering, my voice and wearing pajamas as much as possible and make a go of it as a voice talent. I paused all other creative pursuits and dug in like an overzealous backhoe and within a month I had landed some decent gigs as well as my first audiobook (M/M erotic as it turned out). I quickly discovered that I absolutely adored narrating audiobooks and apparently folks agreed as I haven’t stopped since. Audiobooks are my bread and butter as a full time voice talent today.

So far I’ve narrated 108 audiobooks since November 2010 and my session queue is packed into the future so hopefully I don’t think I’ll be giving my tongue a rest for some time.


How much acting is involved in narrating a story?
A good deal. Storytelling itself is an art and acting is certainly involved, although not always in the ways that we initially think. Bringing characters to life is half the job and being able to tell a story is the other. I often imagine myself as some sage, wizened grandfather figure sitting in a well worn comfy recliner in front of a fireplace while swirling a drink in a tumbler. No better way to spin a yarn unless you work in textiles.


I've worked with a number of narrators and you are probably one of, if not *the* single best prepared and professional. What kind of prep do you do before you start a project?
Well gawrsh, you do know how to flatter a guy. Dedication and strong work ethic all begin with wearing Spongebob pajamas to work. 

Truthfully (not that my previous statement is fallacy) being organized and professional in any business venture is a firm part of the equation for success. Sometimes it’s not easy to remember that this is in a fact a business of which I am the owner, proprietor, representative and CEO. Perhaps from my years in the corporate world or just from what dear ol’ Mom instilled in me when I was young, I always strive to present the best representation of myself and my efforts. That means following best practices and going the extra mile to make sure that things not only go smoothly and efficiently but also bring a smile to face of all involved whenever possible.

On the actual process of prep, I always begin by reading the story and feeling the intent and direction of the author and the characters. I make notes where appropriate and list any trouble spots such as pronunciation queries or general questions. After I’ve digested the story and it’s nuances I begin narration, which for me is where the real fun begins. PJs optional.


James Winter makes a series of moral compromises in The Dickens With Love. Did you make any conscious vocal decisions on how to keep his character sympathetic and engaging to the reader?
I simply put myself into the shoes of James Winter and let my vocal reactions reflect how I feel I would react within the context of the given situation. James is a really likable guy in a position that many of us have been or will be in in our lives; a dilemma that pits our livelihood against our moral compass. He’s vulnerable and very fallibly human, which most of us can relate to.
 What character was the most fun to narrate? Why?
In this case, I would have to say Crisparkle. I love accent work ;-)


Which character was the most difficult to narrate? Why?
Good question.  While I wouldn’t classify any of them as difficult per se, I did want to take care with Professor Crisparkle as he evolves from a stuffed shirt to a much more relaxed and caring character. Of course, for those of you who haven’t read or listened to the book yet maaaaybe that happens and maaaybe it doesn’t.

Was there a particular scene you think you read especially well? Or that you particularly enjoyed reading?
One word for you: “ocelot”.

You are probably the foremost narrator of M/M Romance, which means you've read a LOT of sex scenes. How awkward is it to read erotic scenes aloud?
Well, I haven’t seen the data on that claim yet but thank you it is rather flattering. I was skeptical myself initially about narrating such steamy material. My first erotic narration was loads of fun (pun intended?) and I realized that it is in fact wonderfully thrilling and an art all of its own. I think the only time I feel any sense of awkwardness is when I’m in the booth and someone comes into the studio and observes during the narration for whatever reason. I’m a very...physical...narrator.

What’s the most satisfying or rewarding part of narrating/producing an audio book?
My ongoing joke is that my favorite part of the process is when I get to read “thank you for listening to…”. In fact, I have a distinct feeling of tingly goodness that usually starts around the 3rd page of narration for each title and lasts through the remainder of it. This is the point when suddenly my brain shifts gears and I can feel the storyteller come out. I’m used to many short scripts and narrations in my corner of the VO biz, so it seems to be around the third page that my brain smiles and says (thinks) “hey, we may get to do this for a while.”


Does it make the process easier if you enjoy the stories you narrate or is the process fairly detached?
Absolutely. There is a higher reward from giving life to a finely written story penned by a masterful writer. Obviously not all writers are the same and aside from uninspired work there are also some recurring writer quirks that really get my goat: punishingly tired cliches, brain-dead repetition and have pretending to have never heard of a thesaurus.  Good golly if you think its irksome as a reader try reading it and then narrating it! All in all however, no matter the content, prose style or caliber of the author it’s always a pleasure to narrate. Just lemme’ at Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey!

Where can readers/listeners find out more about you and your work?
My website is www.seancrisden.com and I do try to keep it updated. Well, updated-ish. I’m usually a few months behind with titles and projects simply because I’m too busy working on said titles and projects. A search on Audible.com for me is always good too. Likewise you can find me on Twitter under seancrisden. As a bonus I occasionally have something worthwhile to say! I do always encourage folks to contact me and let me know their thoughts, good or ill. After all, I narrate for listeners to enjoy it. Drop me a line. It’s lonely sitting in a box all day talking to myself ;-)

Author! Author! ASTRID AMARA

This month's interview subject is the wildly talented and always amusing Astrid Amara. You may know Astrid through her classic rom com Hanukkah novellas and/or her brilliantly original epic fantasy novels. I would usually try to burble on a bit but I have succumbed to the flu, so I can only say that I love Astrid's work and I'm delighted to have her here on the blog.

In her words, here's Miz Amara.

Okay, Pony Girl. Come on. Explain about the horses. Is it true you are the Imelda Marcos of the Equestrian World? How many equines do you actually own? Is that horse on your website yours? Or are you just stalking him?
Oh I *wish* the horse on my website was mine! Actually, strike that – I only want that horse if I’m a millionaire and can afford barn slaves, because it takes a hell of a lot of work to keep a grey horse clean. That’s why my dream horse is a black Arabian gelding….

I actually only own ONE equine, but he’s enough for me. He’s a 20 year old asshole of a smarty pants, all gentleman until he sees a pretty mare. He’s a Polish Arabian, and in a former life before I owned him he won dozens of amateur dressage competitions. Now he and I fart around and pretend to do dressage when we’re feeling ambitious, and go for lazy strolls around the countryside by his pasture when we’re not.

He is scared of the color white, butterflies, and that sunspot that appears on the arena floor. He is NOT scared of me, little dogs, or the horse-sized soccer ball he rolls across the arena for treats.
I love him to death; and I owe all my readers for being able to have him, because my Porn for Ponies is more than just a clever name. It’s what allowed me to buy him, feed him, and tend to his medical issues.

 What's the last piece of music you listened to? Did you sing along?
My favorite album to write to at the moment is Woodkid’s The Golden Age, because not only are his videos amazing, but Iron is the best song to write a cavalry story to. Watch the video for “Run Boy Run” on Youtube now if you haven’t seen it. Seriously. Do it. Now.

I cannot wait for The Devil Lancer, your upcoming AU Crimean War epic. What's the best part of the Crimean War?
“The best” is a hard thing to define in this circumstance – I think the thing that most impresses me about the Crimean War was the absolute, insane levels of bravery and honor the soldiers had, on both sides. This was an atrocious war, fought for a stupid reason, in terrible conditions, under idiotic leadership, and these men accomplished incredible feats.

It was hard to write because I wanted to throw in every little detail about the war that I came across. Choosing what was relevant to the story and what was just being included for the gore factor was difficult for me.

Who is your all time favorite villain?
Ooh, good one. Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the first one who comes to mind. As a Trekkie and Benedict Cumberbatch fan, the new  Khan is pretty hot. Er… I mean “scary.”

What do you love most about writing? What do you like least?
I love the finished product, two months later, when I have a chance to re-read my work and go, ok, that’s what I wanted to read. Before that I hate the whole thing. I hate sitting down and writing. I hate difficult plotting problems. I hate middles. Deadlines stress me and without them I do nothing. And when I’m working on a project every page I read is the worst drivel I’ve ever come across. I can’t stand my own story as soon as I finished it – I always need several weeks before I can bare to re-read it, and there are a few stories out there I still can’t re-read because I don’t like them.

What do you think is the most important thing to remember when creating fully realized main characters?
Motivation is important – I hate bad guys that are just bad for no reason (I call it the Orc Problem). There has to be a reason they suck. And our good guys have to have bad traits too. So I think it’s crucial to conceive of your character as a fully-rounded human being. Base them on a real person if that helps. Do character worksheets and plan out their whole life if you have to – but remember they need to be like the rest of us, with good days and bad days, things that make them angry, things they aren’t good at, things they’re GREAT at, etc.

Have you ever broken a bone?
Oh, the bitter irony! When I started responding to your interview questions I could say no. But since I started this interview, my horse stepped on my pinky toe and broke it! I was walking him past a field where there are cute mini horses and he gets all insecure because they’re tougher than him. And when he’s busy ogling  something like a horse or a plastic bag he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s walking.

But that won’t stop me! As Steven Wright put it, “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”

You're an astonishingly versatile writer, penning everything from adorable romantic comedies to these intense epic AU historical fantasies. Is there any genre you'd like to tackle but you're kinda sorta afraid?
Hard-core science fiction, with lots of that “science” stuff, scares me, mostly because I’m not very informed when it comes to physics and chemistry, and even many aspects of biology stump me. But I really respect stories that stay true to the real laws of physics and are scientifically feasible.
And I do want to tackle what I fondly call my “Anti-Twilight” series – a 2-3 book young adult scifi/fantasy series for young girls. I’m scared because it’s not what I read, but I think the challenge of writing something like that, out of my comfort zone, might be kind of fun.

Is it true about Jewish Guilt?

I just closed my bedroom window so my brother can have more air. Does that count?

What are you working on now?
I’m going to take a second crack at a story I started a few years ago and never finished. It’s an amalgam inspired by books I was reading at the time – one on homesteaders, one on the cholera epidemic of London, one on diamond mining. It’s the story of a doctor who has to work in a remote homesteader outpost when an epidemic breaks out, killing large numbers of the population. He has to team up with the local reverend to investigate what is killing the townsfolk and why only certain members of the population are falling ill. And of course there’s some secrets that draw the two men closer…

All time favorite dessert. Do you have the recipe?
If you love chocolate and love mint flavor, these brownies will KILL you with happy. Be warned: Don’t eat the thick dark chocolate layer on top by itself, it tastes bitter on its own because its bitter chocolate. But when you bite into it with the rest of the brownie?.... Hells Yeah.

Chocolate Peppermint Bars

Layer #1 Ingredients:
2 oz. unsweetened bitter chocolate
½ cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
½ cup sifted flour
½ cup chopped almonds (optional)
Layer #2 Ingredients:
1½ cup powdered sugar
3 T butter
1-3 T milk
1 t peppermint extract
Green food coloring
Layer #3 Ingredients:
3 oz. bitter chocolate
3T butter

Instructions:
1. Melt chocolate and butter in a pan.
2. Cream eggs and sugar together in a bowl.
3. Add flour and chocolate mixture to bowl and mix well.
4. Grease an 8X8 pan and pour in the batter.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes, then turn of heat and bake another half a minute. Let cool completely before next steps.
6. Cream together sugar and butter in a bowl.
7. Blend in peppermint extract and milk – enough milk to make the icing, not too liquidy but spreadable.
8. Add green food coloring to tint the icing.
9. Spread icing onto cooled first layer and chill.
10. For third layer melt chocolate and butter in a pan.
11. Pour evenly on top of cooled icing.
12. Chill for at least 1 hour, enough time to harden the top chocolate layer. Cut into squares.

You are one of the funniest people I haven't yet actually met. Say something funny.
Wow that’s no pressure. The funny part of my brain is actually small, since most of my brain is consumed with sleeping and ponies. Here, I drew you a picture of why I can’t be funny on the spot.

 Are you a full-time writer?
I wish. I really do. But alas I am also materialistic, which means I like having a nice house and heat and a boot collection, not to mention my expensive equestrian habits, four dogs, two goats, and a husband who likes to cook with organic ingredients. So yeah, I work for The Man during the day. At night I go, “fuck you, Man!” and rebelliously don’t pay my parking ticket.

 What's out next? Are we going to see more of the Bellskis? 
I’m not sure! It’s always exciting planning out what I’ll write next. Once I finish a Hanukkah story I tend to make promises to myself like “I’ll never ever ever do that again waaaaaah” because writing up-beat, romantic comedies aren’t really my natural mode, they are hard for me. I usually have to counter every happy story I write with something replete with explosions, bloody wounds, heartbreak, and excessive violence to fuel me through the next happy ending.

The Bellskis are my favorite couple of all the ones I’ve written in contemporary romance, so I would like to try something else with them – but it’s also hard because you reach a point where you’ve put your characters through a lot. After a while you’re like – “leave him alone!”

Tell us something surprising. Anything. Go on. Surprise us!
I once fell in a manhole.

Like, a perfect, Astrid-sized manhole. I was walking along the road with friends in Central Asia, where all the manholes have been stolen and melted down. Anyway, one second I’m just chatting “blah blah ermergerd blah” and then I’m in a hole.

I fell straight in, which sort of defies physics, in that I didn’t  hit the sides or anything. I had a large friend with me and he reached down and immediately lifted me out of the hole. He tried to ask “are you all right” before bursting into laughter, but he failed.

Also surprising: I can’t burp. Tight throat sphincter, I’m told. Ew.