Lex Chase's Blog, page 14

Get Pawn Takes Rook In French!

Hello, Internet! It is my great pleasure to announce you may now pick up Pawn Takes Rook (or Quand le Pion prend la Tour) in French from Reines-Beaux Press!

The entire series has been contracted for translation, so I’m excited to see where this goes! Right now #LexBeLike…

Regrettably, I do not speak a lick of French. Though I’m very curious at how the American pop culture references were translated! And I kept track of them all. I even had a contest about it.

So to all my lovely French readers out there picking up the book, I look forward to your thoughts!

You can pick up it up here at Reines-Beaux Press or at Amazon and for you international buyers Amazon.fr!

Now I have to learn now to say the French title without botching it. I already had to look up how to spell it twenty times. Please forgive this uncultured American!

For my US readers, in preparation for the Checkmate Ever After paperback release with DSP Publications, the Checkmate series is no longer available through Dreamspinner Press. Don’t worry! You’ll be seeing it soon! Mark your calendars for December 15th! Christmas is coming with two-fisted justice!

 

Pre-Order Bayou Fairy Tale Now!

Hello, Internet! It’s official! Bayou Fairy Tale is finally here and available for pre-order from Dreamspinner Press!

I’m over at Sinfully…Addicted to All Male Romance with an exclusive cover reveal and excerpt. You don’t want to miss that! Check it ouuuuut!

Have the Official Blurb:

Modern day fairy tale princess Taylor Hatfield has problems. One: he’s a guy. Two: he’s Sleeping Beauty, the most useless princess in existence. Throw in his true love, Corentin Devereaux, a huntsman descended from child-eating witches, and Taylor’s younger brother, Atticus—this generation’s Snow White—who tried to kill him. That didn’t go so hot.

For two years, Taylor and Corentin live their Happily Ever After. But Corentin’s cursed to lose his memory every seven days, including his life with Taylor—a painful reminder that he can’t provide for the man he loves. Taylor insists Corentin has the strength to succeed, and when Taylor discovers a way to break the curse, he is more than willing to pay the cost.

When an enchanted blizzard devastates Corentin’s hometown of New Orleans, Taylor is convinced Atticus is to blame and grows desperate to find him amidst the Big Easy turned frozen wasteland. Corentin believes Taylor is chasing a ghost while he chases the ghosts of his own past. Old tensions scratch open scars, leaving both to wonder if they have each other’s best interests at heart. The clock is ticking until Corentin loses his memory, and the rabbit hole goes so deep they may never come out.

This book has been a long time coming! I started writing it just before last year’s GayRomLit in October, and now a year later it’ll be here October 19th! When everyone will be getting back from GRL and have a GRL hangover.

I will not be at GRL this year due to budget issues and timing of things. I deeply apologize to everyone that wanted to meet me and chat about our favorite Enchants! I’m very humbled that readers actually wanted to meet me. You guys are the best!

I would like to extend the offer to anyone that desperately wanted to get their copies of Americana Fairy Tale and Bayou Fairy Tale signed, I will happily drop a signed bookplate in the mail for you. You will get three of them. Because you’ll need an extra for Urban Fairy Tale. Just sayin. 

Just drop me a line at lex.a.chase@gmail.com with “Bookplate Request” in the header and I’ll get you all set.

Get your copy today and buckle up your seat belts because you can’t find Happily Ever After with GPS.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Rory Coileáin presents “Hell Freezes Over”

Hello Internet! Please welcome Rory Coileáin to Flash Fiction Friday with “Hell Freezes Over”! In today’s saucy piece, we learn just what happens when a killer ice storm hits DC. But for club owner Tiernan Guaire, the show must go on!

Hell Freezes Over
by Rory Coileáin

Tiernan Guaire glared at the phone in his hand, wanting nothing more in that moment than to curse until the air around him turned a vivid shade of blue. That wouldn’t help his current situation any, though.

And if I’m thinking like that, I’ve been playing grownup human for much too long. Grimacing, he put the phone back to his ear. “Any guess as to when power’s going to be back? I have a club to open in an hour.”

“Sorry, sir, no ETA. All our trucks are out, but they can’t get anywhere. Not in this.”

Tiernan plowed a hand through his hair. What he really, really wanted to do was hit something, but there was nothing handy to hit. Just before dawn, Washington, D.C. had been hit with an ice storm, the worst anyone had ever seen. Even worse, apparently, than the one Kevin had driven through with him the night the two of them first fought the Marfach together. Power lines were down everywhere. Not a problem for Tiernan at the moment, the wan daylight making its way down the stairs was more than enough for a Fae to see by, and he could channel light after a fashion if he had to. But the heat was out as well, and while Purgatory held heat reasonably well, being underground, that wasn’t going to go on much longer either, not with the door up to street level open to let in what light there was.

“I don’t suppose you can be bribed,” he muttered to the faceless Pepco functionary on the other end of the phone.

“Sir, if I could, I’d be retiring tomorrow.” The woman sounded exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

She sounded like she actually was. Tiernan couldn’t make himself be pissed off at her. At the weather, sure, but not at her. “Not your fault. Thanks for trying.”

He touched off the phone, then turned on his heel and looked around the dimly-lit room, growling under his breath and wishing he couldn’t see said breath. Maybe he should have had Mac or Lucien try to get hold of Rhoann… but no, the half-water elemental had already made it clear he didn’t do weather. Shit.

“Is there a reason you’re standing around in the dark?”

Tiernan turned to face Conall, who had apparently just taken form behind him. “I glow with the light of a thousand suns because my heart is pure. And Pepco says they don’t know when they’ll be able to get a crew out here to get the lights back on, and the heat’s anyone’s guess.” He sighed. “But I suppose it’s not really a problem, because no one’s going to be driving anywhere in this shit anyway.”

“True, but the Metro’s still running. And it’s drag night. The humans will be here.” Conall scratched an ear. ‘I think I can help you out. Josh and I have light and heat upstairs, at least in the bedroom.”

“I’ll just bet you do.”

“Har har.” Conall made a kissy face at Tiernan, who mostly ignored it. “I could manage that much of a channeling on my own. But down here, with the power of the nexus to tie into, I’ll bet I could have this whole place ready to open on schedule.”

For the first time since he’d spent almost 45 minutes on hold with the power company, Tiernan let himself feel a little glimmer of hope. “You do that for me, and I’ll let you and Josh have the dungeon tonight for a shibari demo.”

Conall didn’t bother to hide his delighted shiver. “Let me go get Josh. I’ll need his help for this one, I think.”

********

Josh had a coil of rope over each arm, and the look of anticipation in the dark-haired human’s eyes was one Tiernan knew well, having seen it in his own husband’s eyes on many occasions.

“I’m a little surprised. It’s not like I could put anything on the Web site or social media to let our patrons know we’re open.”

Josh laughed. “Conall didn’t tell you about the sign?”

Tiernan blinked. “Sign?”

“Come on upstairs, take a look.”

Bemused, Tiernan followed Josh past Lucien at the door, then up the stairs to the sidewalk. A sandwich board stood on the sidewalk, perfectly positioned to catch the gaze of anyone coming up out of the Metro station on the corner.

WELCOME

to the Great Washington, D.C. Ice Storm

January 2015

HELL HAS OFFICIALLY FROZEN OVER

but

PURGATORY IS STILL SMOKING HOT!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Evelyn Elliott presents Bereave

Hello Internet! Please welcome Evelyn Elliott for this edition of Flash Fiction Friday! She’s here today with Bereave, a very touching piece about one woman mourning the loss of her wife. Hug your loved ones on this special day.

Bereave
by Evelyn Elliott

 

When Joan woke that morning, she had a pounding hangover. Dirty light filtered through the shade slats on her window. Awareness came gradually.

Her phone sang at her—good morning! Wake up, sleepyhead! She called it a few rude names, then turned off the alarm. The late alarm, set to make sure she was absolutely up by noon. She looked around the room with swollen eyes.

Waking up was the absolute worst thing she did all day. In between dreaming and awareness, she often forgot about the funeral. She’d roll over to kick Tasha out of bed, then remember Tasha wasn’t there. Today the house smelled like sausage, like Tasha used to cook. Maybe it was a neighbor grilling brats outside, and the smell was coming through the window. Joan couldn’t breathe with that taste in her mouth.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t want to cry. Instead, she grabbed the vodka bottle next to her bed and tipped it into her mouth. A few drops on her tongue helped erase the smell.

The bottle was empty.

Joan pressed her face to the pillow. Felt the ring on her finger. She and Tasha had a shotgun wedding. A romantic surprise to celebrate same-sex marriage becoming legal in their state. A short honeymoon before Joan was deployed overseas. She was only supposed to be gone a few months.

Then the news had come that Tasha was sick. Real sick. Joan’s commanding officer had given her leave, sure, but only once Tasha was bad enough. They’d only had a few weeks together. Now, after the funeral, Joan could not imagine going back. She was supposed to get on a plane tomorrow. Maybe she should just lie here instead.

She was out of vodka, though. And food.

She crawled out of bed and put on some pants. Her keys were gone from the kitchen counter. Motherfucker. Joan checked in couch cushions. Her bedroom. The pockets of her pants.

A panicky feeling set in. She set the keys down on the counter yesterday. Did she… did she move them? Did she drive last night?

No. No, she wouldn’t do that. Except she had been pretty reckless lately—

A quick look outside told her that her car was in the same spot as last night. The more she looked for her keys, the more she saw bits of Tasha. Tasha’s lost bra behind the laundry hamper. Her jewelry in the bathroom. Her toothbrush.

Joan remembered running out of vodka last night. She remembered looking for her keys, but not finding them. Had she lost them?

Joan yanked open drawers in the kitchen, rifling through. Where would Drunk Joan hide her keys? A flash of light caught her eye. There was something under the drawer, between the bottom of the drawer and the bottom of the cabinet. A little cubbyhole. Joan carefully lifted the drawer out, hands shaking.

Tasha liked to squirrel things away. Joan was always finding shit in stupid places. A bag of caramels under a loose floorboard. A birthday present under the guest bed. She kept a bottle of Joan’s favorite beer hidden in the produce drawer of the fridge for whenever Joan had a bad day. And for some reason—despite the fact that Joan never had a drinking problem before Tasha died—Tasha always stole Joan’s keys when Joan drank.

Joan’s hands closed on something cold and metal. She pulled her keys out of the cubbyhole. Her legs gave out as she stared at them.

The smell of sausage was back, and Joan—

Joan didn’t believe in the supernatural, but in that moment, she swore she could feel someone watching her. She’d tried to drive last night, and somehow her keys had gone missing and ended up in one of Tasha’s hiding spots.

Joan curled up, keys digging into her fist. For the first time, she cried, and she didn’t feel like she was alone. She held tight there for an age and wept until she was empty.

Urban Fairy Tale Sneak Peek!

Holy crap, 555 followers on Twitter! Thanks guys!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Ada Maria Soto presents Outrun the Storm

Hello, Internet! Please welcome Ada Maria Soto for Flash Fiction Friday today! They say rain is a lucky omen on your wedding day, but when the storm of the century is about to make landfall…how lucky is it?

Outrun the Storm
By Ada Maria Soto

It had been a year since the city had stopped watering the grass in the parks, letting it go brown and the ground hard.  They had booked the park for the wedding well before that.  It felt like they had been planning it forever.  Kenneth kicked at the grass with his high polished shoes.  His mother had joked that it had rained on her wedding day, and her mother’s, and family legend said her grandmother’s as well.  It also had a habit of raining on wedding days on his father’s side.  Everyone joked that it wouldn’t be a problem for him.  No one was rained on any more.

Kenneth looked up at the rumble in the distance.  The sky was so pale it was nearly white.  On the horizon dark clouds had been creeping in over the sea, heavy with rain and sparking with lightening.  It was another hour before the guests would be arriving.  Closer to two before they actually did the ceremony.  The weather warning app on his phone, which had been mute for well over a year, had started going off.  He had checked the radar images.  The storm was huge.  It was moving slowly but it would be over land within the hour, dropping its rain.

He looked around.  There would be flooding, the dry earth unable to take in the water fast enough, and the dead plants unable to hold the topsoil in place.  There was a breeze, cooler than it should have been.  Thirty miles inland and he swore he could smell the sea.  There was a squawk overhead.  Seagulls fleeing the storm.

His phone pinged with a message from another guest.

‘Have you seen the weather report? Is the wedding still on?’

That was the question of the day.  They had picked the park for a reason.  They had met there, for the first time, at age six and had fought over a ball.  They had met there again after college.  He was walking his dog.  Daniel had been trying to ‘wake up his muse’, which seemed to mean drinking cheap cold coffee on a park bench.

Daniel came down the little hill towards him.  He’d been talking to their wedding planner.  There was another rumble of thunder.

“There’s going to be flooding,” was the first thing Daniel said.

“I know.”

“They’re predicting 120 mile per hour wind gusts. Trees are going to go down, power lines.  They’re advising people evacuate to shelters now.”  Daniel put a hand on his shoulder.  He hadn’t put on his tie yet.  “We can’t tell people to come.  It’s not safe.”

“I know.” He leaned his forehead on Daniel’s shoulder.  “I wanted to get married today.”

“There’s nothing that says we can’t.  I hear Red Cross evacuation points are very romantic.”

Kenneth smiled a little and looked up at Daniel.  “I wanted to get married here today.”

There was another soft and distant rumble.  The sky above them was shifting from white to ever darkening gray.  “Why don’t we?  We reschedule everything else.  Tell people to stay home.  But Father Mike is still sitting up there waiting for us to make a decision.” Daniel brushed a kiss against his lips.  “Let’s get married before the storm comes in.”

Celebrate The Holidays With A New Contract!

Ho, ho, ho, Internet!

Now that the ink has dried, I am pleased to announce my story Loving and Loathing Vegas will be a part of the Dreamspinner Press 2015 Advent Calendar!

This will mark my own milestone of my 10th story with Dreamspinner Press! And when I think back, if you told me I’d be a published author with other people reading my quirky stories I’d say “Nice idea, but you’re bonkers!”

Now here I am, with a Christmas story no less! And this one stands to be my oddest little tale yet.

Loving and Loathing Vegas tells the tale of best friends and longtime roommates Jackson and Vegas. Both of them incubi hailing from the Seventh Circle of Hell, they now live among humans and run a diner in a one stoplight town. All Jackson longs to tell Vegas how he feels, but his pride gets in the way.

One night, when the pair find an abandoned baby in the trash, what ensues is a massive trial by fire of uncontrollable crying, going potty at really inconvenient moments, and adorable coos that will warm the cold, dead heart of the most evil demon.

Sex Demons. Babies. And Damned Good Pie.

You ain’t never seen a Christmas Carol like this.

Look for it at Dreamspinner Press on December 1st!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Kids, Clairvoyants, and Zombies, Oh My!

Hello Internet! Please welcome M.D. Grimm to this edition of Flash Fiction Friday. In today’s piece we meet Maverick, a disgruntled clairvoyant none too pleased with his gift for seeing the dead.

Kids, Clairvoyants, and Zombies, Oh My!
by M.D. Grimm

I was developing a twitch and the ten-year old was the reason. Why didn’t Cory understand the concept of “quiet” or “very-important-police-work?” I sat on the couch, my laptop on the short table in front of me, and the police files open on my lap. I told Cory I was busy, I told him he could play video games in the other room, but no, he just wanted to spend time with Uncle Maverick. Well, honorary uncle, anyway. Sweet, but freaking annoying.

“Did I tell you about how the cops came by my neighbor’s home?” Cory asked, sitting on his knees beside me on the couch, blocking my light at the same time.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “Rosen and Grimm look like they could go for a walk. You can do that, if you want. Just around the block.” Please God, take the dogs.

Hearing their names, my Rottweiler and one-eyed pug lifted their heads and wagged their tails.

“Nah, they look comfortable,” Cory said.

I barely suppressed a sigh. I lifted my head and rolled it on my neck, trying to ease the tension. I didn’t work well with others hovering. I liked peace and quiet when looking over police files dealing with stolen bodies from the freaking morgue. Five so far and I was hoping to get some lead, some clue, to help the police.

No, I wasn’t a cop. I was a paranormal investigator who sometimes acted as a “psychic” for the San Francisco Police Department. I wasn’t a psychic per-se—I hated that label and all the connotations that went with it—no, I was more of a clairvoyant. It was different, trust me. Anyway, sometimes the police asked me to look at odd cases.

I wasn’t a people person in even the loosest definition of the word, but I was forced to either talk to live people or talk to dead ones.

Yeah. I see dead people.

I’m not happy about it, either.

“The cops looked real angry when Mr. Chang didn’t let them in his house,” Cory went on. “I wouldn’t be either, if I had the door slammed in my face. Mr. Chang is kinda creepy anyway, I wouldn’t mind new neighbors. Maybe they’d have a boy my age I could play with. Not some old guy who plays in his cellar at night—”

I frowned and looked at Cory. “What was that?”

Cory blinked, looking shocked he finally had my direct attention. Then he smiled big and sat back, as if savoring it.

“Well, I can see his yard and cellar door through my bedroom window, you know? There’s all these noises and smells coming from his house at night. It sounds like some strange beast growling. I tried to tell mom but—”

“Do you know Mr. Chang’s first name?”

Cory frowned, squinted one eye, then shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

I flipped through the files and found a Mr. Ray Chang and his address. I knew where Cory lived with his mother and it was the same Mr. Chang who was an active suspect in the investigation.

“Huh,” I said. I patted Cory’s back. “Thanks. That helps.”

Cory blinked again, tilted his head. “What I do?”

The front door opened and Chakra, Cory’s aunt, came in. She beamed a smile at her nephew, her sister’s son, and held out her arms for a hug. Cory made a production of being grossed out but I knew he adored his aunt. Why shouldn’t he? Chakra was a gem. She was also a talented Egyptologist, gorgeous, and born a man. No joke. At the age of eighteen, she’d had a sex change and as far as I knew, she couldn’t be happier. We lived together but weren’t together. We were friends, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about her origins. Maybe it was because I’d only ever known her as Chakra. Yeah, okay, I’d been weirded out for about five seconds at first, but she was the sort of person others gravitated toward. You couldn’t not love her.

Besides, I was the guy who talked to dead people. Who was I to judge or condemn?

Chakra and Cory chatted as they disappeared into the kitchen and I was finally left in silence. I blew out a breath and sat back, the stress easing out of me. I preferred the company of my dogs most days.

“I should probably check out Mr. Chang’s place, what do you think?”

Rosen panted, doggy grin wide, and Grimm snorted.

“You’re right, I should probably tell the police. I will. After I do a bit of snooping.”

…Two hours later

I ran down the empty street—yes, those existed in San Francisco at night—my heart pounding, my lungs burning. Thank God I’d been running since I was freaking nine and it was my main choice of cardio.

The six corpses possessed by infernal spirits chased me, gaining. I couldn’t run much farther and there wasn’t anywhere I could go to avoid people. I could only hope they were strictly after me. I ran to a familiar building across the street, up a few steps, fumbling with my keys. The door to the apartment complex suddenly opened and nearly bashed me in the nose. A face I knew very well greeted me.

“Maverick?” Reggie said, startled. Wearing a pink fish-net shirt and tight black pants, Reggie was obviously heading out for the night. I’d come just in time.

If I’d had air, I would have shouted hallelujah.

I shoved Reggie backward, bulled forward, then slammed the front door shut.

“What the f—” Reggie sputtered. Six zombies slammed into the front door, shattering the glass. I stumbled into Reggie and we went down in a heap.

My best friend in the entire world—also the only gay medical examiner in San Francisco—stared up at me, brown eyes dazed, in a state of shock.

“Zombies, Reggie,” I said, gasping. “Why the fuck did it have to be zombies?”

When Bad Boys Make A Wrong Turn

As long as stories have been told there has always been the hero, the villain, the love interest and the wild card that is the bad boy. From the epic of Hector, the tale of the Huntsman, the alluring danger of Eric Northman—bad boys have endured.

Bad boys do not fit a standard mold, bewitching and bemoaning readers of all types. One reader’s interpretation of Christian Grey’s antics may be seductive, but another reader may see him as manipulative. What defines a bad boy in today’s fiction? Where is the line between sexy and psychopath?

Author Jeffe Kennedy offers her take.

“One of my favorite examples of the bad boy is Roarke, from J.D. Robb’s ‘In Death’ series,” she said via email interview. “He’s the perfect foil for Eve, who is a homicide detective tremendously wedded to the concept of the law upholding right and wrong. Roarke believes that the law is not absolute and that the personal compass is more important. Roarke is irresistible because he’s strong enough, powerful enough to be above the law. He balances Eve and brings possibility to her life. That’s what the bad boy is—the person who brings change.”

Kennedy compares the bad boy archetype to Loki, the Norse god of mischief and trickery.

“Like Loki, the bad boy is a mythological force,” she said. “They cannot be related to real world terms. That’s the mistake in trying to parse what a bad boy hero would be like in modern life. Of course, they seem like psychopaths in that context.”

Aimee Duncan, an assistant librarian, shares the sentiment.

“Defining a bad boy I think is awfully tricky because a lot of it depends on the personal taste of the reader,” she said in an email interview. “For me, there’s a certain level of ‘badness’ I am willing to tolerate in a character. There’s also only a certain amount of time before it bores me and I stop reading entirely.”

Duncan said she has her limits of what she’s willing to put up with. For her, cruelty is the top offense.

“Thoughtlessness is one thing,” she said. “I can excuse thoughtlessness if there’s regret at some point and a genuine effort to reconcile things with the offended party. Going out of your way to seriously hurt or degrade someone and taking pride in it…, just no.”

Editor Grace Bradley defined the bad boy archetype and how it affects readers of all stripes.

“I think this, just like anything else in fiction, is received differently by individual readers based on their own experiences and preferences,” she said via email. “For a reader who has struggled with an overbearing personality in a relationship, their spouse/significant other may be one of those control freak have-to-have-it-my-way individuals who drives everyone nuts. This reader may find that she/he often doesn’t feel heard in the relationship and that her/his opinion is not important. A strict Dominant/submissive relationship story may not appeal to someone such as that. That reader may not understand how it can be a turn on to give herself completely to her lover in a submissive manner.”

Bradley has a cravat to her personal definitions of a bad boy.

“I don’t necessarily think of Dominant men as ‘bad boys’ meaning they wouldn’t all get lumped into that category simply because they practice BDSM. That is just an expression of their sexuality.”

With the psychology laid out what makes a bad boy work in fiction, Bradley continued.

“What has happened in this man’s life to make him the person he is,” she said. “Is he destined to always be alone because of this behavior? Everyone finds it hard to turn away from the proverbial train wreck.”

Bradley elaborated readers like to “watch a man struggle.”

“They like to see the heroine ‘take him down’ in the end,” she said. “She is, ultimately, the one thing that heals him. These types of heroes bring an emotional edge to the story as well as an intense internal conflict that can seem impossible to overcome.”

What she looks for in a submission and the things that set off red flags?

“As an editor, if I see a book come in where the hero is physically abusive to the heroine, I’m going to pass,” she said. “Abuse of any sort should not be tolerated in a relationship, and I certainly don’t want to see it in romance fiction. We are, of course, not talking about the type of pain involved in BDSM play that is consensual. Mental abuse is also something I do not want to see.”

Bradley insisted that if the story is “sunshine and puppies” from the start, readers would grow bored.

“The hero and the heroine will treat the other badly, in some shape or form,” she said. “What works for one reader may offend another, but as a general rule the moment I feel a book has gone beyond acceptable boundaries, I’m out.”

Article first appeared at Lex Chase’s Nomad Chronicle in July 2012. Many thanks to Jeffe Kennedy, Aimee Duncan, and Grace Bradley for their frank answers.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Tali Spencer presents “Vanishing Act”

Hello Internet! It is my pleasure to welcome back Tali Spencer! Today on Flash Fiction Friday, Tali presents Vanishing Act. We meet Ethan and Justin, both very much in love, but their love is tested with Ethan’s frequent…Vanishing acts.

Vanishing Act by Tali Spencer

 

Justin rounded the counter and stared at the empty booth. Glittery red vinyl seats. Check. Table set for two and two hot cups of coffee, still steaming. Check. Napkins. Husband…

No Ethan.

Shit. Not again. Justin forced his legs to carry him to the booth, where he sat down with a plunk to stare at the two cups of coffee. Still hot. If he didn’t drink, would he have to pay?

Ethan wasn’t in the bathroom. That was where Justin had just come from and this tiny shore town diner only had the one stall. He glanced up at the waiter, who’d just come over to set down two heaping breakfast platters—eggs over easy for Justin, and a mound of chipped beef on toast for Ethan. Except there was no Ethan.

“Any chance you saw where my breakfast partner went?” Justin figured he might as well ask.

“No. He was here a moment ago.”

Not again. Ethan had promised. Promised he would stop dropping off the face of the earth only to return the next day—or days later—sporting a smile and an apology. Promised he would at least leave a note. Justin looked everywhere on the table. He unfolded the napkins and looked for pen marks, torn letters, a symbol… nothing. He looked under the sugar canister. He looked between the jellies and packets of sweetener. He pried into the crevices of the vinyl upholstery—crumb-filled and sticky and… better not to think too much about that—and looked on the floor.

Nothing.

Ethan was gone. Again.

“Fuck this,” Justin muttered. He should have guessed they would hit the rocks sooner rather than later. He’d known from the start Ethan guarded some kind of secret. He never explained where he went, just described it as business.

Whatever the business was, it paid for the penthouse overlooking Rittenhouse Square and a shore house in Jersey. And it didn’t require driving. Ethan required that Justin drive wherever they went. The driver’s license apparently was only for show.

He ate the eggs and bacon rather than waste them but left Ethan’s order. It was Ethan’s favorite breakfast, sure, but apparently not enough to keep him in one place long enough to eat it. After downing his coffee, Justin left the diner. Sure enough, his car was still there.

* * * *

Justin was sitting on the deck, watching sea gulls dive at the ocean, when Ethan reappeared. He always reappeared at the shore house, never the place in the city. Something about skyscrapers, baselines, and optimal horizons.

“Jus—”

“Don’t even try it. Don’t use that sexy voice on me. I’m not going to look at you either, I just won’t.” Justin knew if he did, it would be his downfall. Two years ago he had taken one look at Ethan and been smitten for life by the man’s dark, dangerous, and otherworldly looks. A model, he’d thought him then. But Ethan had never modeled.

“It was an emergency.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Tell me something new. You know, at least this time you only left me to pay for breakfast, not escargot and marinated pigeon at Le Meurice”—their honeymoon in Paris had been spectacular… until dinner on the second night—“or settle up the hotel bill in Bali.”

“Justin.”

He knew Ethan was beside him because he smelled the man’s cologne. It was one of those scents he could never describe except as mysterious. And expensive.

“When we got married, I thought”—words caught in his throat—“I thought it would mean being together more, not all this… going away. You won’t even tell me where! Or how… does someone swing in to pick you up in a stealth helicopter or something?”

“It’s weirder than that.”

Justin opened his eyes and there was Ethan with his gold-kissed skin and sun-streaked brown hair, and eyes so damn deep and concerned and….

“Damn it, you’re doing it again.”

A smile crinkled the edges of Ethan’s eyes and gently tugged at his perfect lips. “Reminding you that you are the most adorable creature on Earth and I would do all within my power to be with you?”

“Except you aren’t. You aren’t with me… now, yes. But sometimes when you’re supposed to be with me, you aren’t.”

“It can’t be helped.” Ethan pulled up the other deck chair so they could sit facing each other. “That I am with you now is because I could not leave you behind. I want to be here, with you.”

“Behind?” Did Ethan have someplace else to be… or someone else to be with? “Is this the part where you try to scare me so I stop trying to find out your secret identity?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Just tell me how you do it and where you go,” Justin said. “Because I’m going to start calling the CIA and asking what the hell is going on.”

Ethan winced. “I know. That’s why I told the Harria Council I had to synch you.”

“Synch me?” Justin sat up and leaned toward the man he loved. The man he’d married. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Painful maybe, but not so bad. If we’re synched, then the next time there’s an emergency, you go with me.”

Justin reached for Ethan’s hand and was given it without hesitation. Their fingers twined. “I promised you, for better or worse. Where you go, I will follow and all that. But I had this idea we would communicate—”

Ethan hung his head. “I know. But there’s no good way to tell the man you love that your blood has properties that make it a regenerative for the Harrian emperor, or that the Harrian emperor is a little… accident-prone.”

Justin picked up on the inflection. “Accident prone? As in—”

“He a bit of a war-monger and gets injured a lot. And that’s when I get summoned.” Ethan opened his shirt to display the tattoo on his shoulder. A blade-like shape in blues and golds swept over his pectoral skin. Justin loved to admire the ink and tease Ethan by licking to trace its many lines. “This is synched to”—Ethan’s right hand slipped into his jacket and reappeared holding a bracelet—“this. If you will wear it, you will travel with me to Harra any time I am ordered there. I can’t refuse. That Xanthar allows me to live here as much as I do… that was my demand and, well, he surprised me. I think free will is part of the magic and he wants me to be happy. He’s been asking me to bring you to Harra for as long as he’s known about you.”

Justin took the bracelet in hand. He’d never seen anything like it—or any jewelry so beautiful. It appeared to be made of horn and gold, with dark rings of something else encircling it, along with glimmers of the same blue that burned within Ethan’s ink.

He looked again into Ethan’s eyes. “Are you human?” Justin wasn’t even sure the answer mattered, but he wanted to know.

“Just like you. I’ll tell you how all this happened later, but… I won’t force you to do anything. You can put this on, or you can think about it. Or you can refuse. I just”—Ethan leaned forward and brushed his lips across Justin’s, lingering when they opened and beckoned—“I love you, Jus. I want you to be happy, and I thought I could make it work. I’m still trying, and at least now you have answers. You know why I disappear sometimes, without warning and without leaving notes.”

“They should give you enough time to write a fucking note.”

“You’d think. But that’s not how the curse works.”

“Curse? You didn’t tell me about a curse!”

“It’s pretty simple. It all began when—”

Where Ethan had been, Justin saw only the deck chair and, beyond it, the sea. Oh, shit. Not again.

And wouldn’t you know Ethan had taken the damn bracelet with him.