Narrelle M. Harris's Blog, page 7

Flash Fiction: Booty Call

This week’s #FlashFictionFriday prompts come from EspineuxAlpha, who wanted a story in the Ravenfall universe, Atlin Merrick who prompted with the booty-shorted cowhop image and KIzzia30 with the ruined cottage and ‘incandescent’.

Follow me on Twitter if you want to join in with prompts for next Friday’s story!

Booty Call

Gabriel’s easel was out in the light which meant Gabriel had to wear a hat to protect his light skin from the sun. James, his boyfriend, sat in the shade on a fold-down chair, peering at the ruins of the farmhouse which Gabriel had decided to paint.

The main house was crumbling but roughly intact, possibly thanks to the ivy that both cracked the bricks and held the wall together. The annex beside it was in much worse shape, only a steel frame left of a roof that had burned decades ago. A tree grew out of what used to be a wooden floor, branches extending past the fire-damaged frame.

The old house and the regrowth that claimed it were not Gabriel’s usual subject matter.

‘Why’re we here again?’ James asked.

‘Michael,’ said Gabriel shortly. He had already sketched the building several times and was now making rough lines to capture shape and perspective.

‘Yer brother has a burning need for a tumbledown rustic cottage on his office wall?’

Gabriel shrugged. ‘He asked, I said yes.’ After a long estrangement, Gabriel and Michael were friends again.

‘He couldnae just take a photograph?’

‘He was a bit cagey,’ Gabriel admitted. ‘He said I should see the place for myself. I thought I’d come and see why.’

James sat suddenly more upright in his uncomfortable chair. ‘Is he perhaps still trying to persuade us to join the Bureau by stealth? Because that thing comin’ out the shrub’s not natural.’

Gabriel squinted at the sudden incandescent light that rendered house, ivy, ruined roof and all nothing but black lines against the white light.

In the centre of the light, a shape appeared. Moved. Coalesced from grey blob to dark solidity, the outline of a human form.

It stepped out of the radiance towards them.

Faster than an ordinary man, James was on his feet, in the sun, standing between this sudden shape and the man he loved.

‘Halt, ye wee bastard,’ he snapped.

The dark shape halted and changed again. Ink shadow became pale skin. A handsome white man with slicked back, golden blond hair. Long shirt. Cowboy boots. Very tight , very short shorts.

James blinked hard. He was used to the uncanny coming at them in unpredictable ways, but a sexy twink in booty shorts was new.

Something had changed during that blink. The sexy twink in booty shorts now looked like…

James’ brow furrowed and he peered more closely. Still not believing what he saw he started again at the feet.

Hot cowboy boots. Check. Well-shaped calves and thighs and close-fitting shorts. Check. Trim torso, clad in pale blue, long-sleeved linen button-up. Check. Square jaw. Tanned skin. Very blue eyes. Check, check, check.

James was now looking at a mirror image of himself.

‘Fuck off wi’ ye,’ he muttered, and before his eyes the twink morphed again. This time he was tall, lean, graceful with tousled dark hair and green, green eyes.

‘Dinnae go lookin’ like mae boyfriend, either, ye scabby mongrel. Ghosts dinnae fright me. I’m a feckin’ vampire.’

The apparition which looked like Gabriel gave him a look eloquent of dismay, though it appeared no more frightened of James’ suddenly descended fangs that James seemed of it.

‘That’s no ghost,’ Gabriel said quietly from behind his easel.

Gabriel had a long history of seeing – and sometimes conversing with – ghosts.

‘What is it, then?’

‘I’m a he,’ said the sexy cowboy in a deep American drawl, losing form again. Now he was a generic grey shape, though the tiny shorts and the cowboy boots remained.

‘What are ye?’ James demanded.

‘You could ask my name,’ the creature complained, still with that twang.

‘What’s your name, then?’ Gabriel asked, always more patient with this sort of thing.

The cowboy suddenly had a hat which he removed to hold over his heart. ‘You can call me John, handsome. I’m what y’all call an incubus.’ And John’s shape began to solidify again, back to the James-like height and build, but this time shirtless. ‘Like what you see, beautiful?’

James tilted his head to inspect this peculiar mirror image. He’d dressed similarly to that just recently. Just last night, in fact.

Gabriel sort of choked. He gave James a panicked glance. James’ eyebrows rose. Waggled.

‘He’s gussied up like that photograph we re-enacted last night. The Dallas waiters…’

‘Carhops,’ said Gabriel faintly.

They’d had an excellent evening inspired by those photographs, James in his army boots and nothing else.

James turned to John, who seemed vastly annoyed that he was getting nowhere with these two.

‘Which one of us are ye trying to seduce? Because I have to tell ye, John, I’m not narcissist enough to want to shag anyone looking so like myself, and you’re not hot enough, even when ye try t’ look vaguely like him, to sub fer mae braw lad here.’

John sagged and returned to cowboy-booted grey blobbiness. ‘Y’all both as bad as that stiff-necked asshole who was here last week.’

Well, that explained part of why Michael had sent them here. Not nearly all, though.

Gabriel was already on the phone to his older brother. James’ supernatural hearing took in the conversation with very little effort.

‘Hello, Michael Dare sp-‘

‘What the hell, Michael? An incubus? What are we supposed to do with an incubus? And if you say “the usual”, James will come to your office and smack you while I disarrange your stationery cupboard with malicious intent.’

‘Ah. So that’s definitely what it is.’

‘You didn’t know? And you sent me and James to find out?’

‘I suspected, but it’s clearly a shapechanger. I can’t make anything of it but mist and the voice.’

‘Does it sound like your girlfriend, by any chance?’

‘Almost exactly like her.’

The incubus’s amorphous shape seemed to be curling in on itself in some embarrassment, apparently also able to clearly hear both sides of the conversation.  ‘I tried to make myself look like her. He kept thinking of her voice, her scent, the feel of her breath on his skin. I can’t make shapes to that.’

‘What are we supposed to do now?’ Gabriel demanded.

‘Did it seduce either of you?’

Gabriel’s derisive laugh was enough on its own, but he elaborated anyway. ‘John the Incubus does a passable superficial imitation, but that’s all it is. He’s about as tempting as a chalk drawing on concrete when compared with the Mona Lisa.’

James preened and gave the incubus a look of insufferable smugness. ‘Mae lad thinks I’m the Mona Lisa,’ he said. ‘Mister Drawn-in-chalk.’

‘Wait, did you say its name was John?’ Michael Dare covered the mouthpiece at his end to ask someone – probably his girlfriend, Anthea – ‘What was the name of that shapeshifting incubus you found in the archives? Jhoron. Ah. Looks like we’ve found it.’

‘Him,’ said John with deep irritation.

‘Respect the pronouns, Michael,’ James shouted so he’d be heard.

‘Yes, quite,’ he heard Michael’s reply. ‘Please let Jhoron know that we are aware of the trouble that has caused i- ah, him, to be anchored to that location. We’ve been looking for him for some time and are glad to have found him at last. Now that we know he’s not a haunting but trapped, a curse-breaker will set him free. Once we’ve settled a few things on how and why Aleister Crowley tied him there.’

Jhoron fell to muttering about losing a game of chess to ‘that flighty, drug-addled, faithless bastard’ and then he started crying. ‘He fell in love with Rose and decided to just bury me here. Like I was a dirty secret to hide from her. And then he died and he left me here…’

James’ fangs had slid out of sight again. Gabriel sighed. ‘Do you actually want this painting or was the idea just for us to flush out the incubus for you?’

‘I don’t  have one of your paintings,’ said Michael diffidently.

‘How about I do a portrait of you and Anthea, hmm? You don’t want this rubbish little cottage on your wall, and landscapes really aren’t my thing.’

‘Would you?’

‘Of course I would. Michael. Big brother. You have got to learn to ask me things.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No biggie. James and I’ll keep John here company, while you send someone.’

‘I’m not sure today is…’

‘From what I understand, this poor sodding incubus has been tied by magic to this shabby cottage since at least the 1940s…’

‘1903,’ said the poor sodding incubus. He had regained shape, but now he appeared more like a romantically disappointed Victorian-era muscle man. The leopard skin loincloth and many-laced boots provided a peculiar insight, perhaps, into what Aleister Crowley had liked in an incubus.

‘God. Right. So, not another minute, hmm? We both know what it’s like to be trapped.’

James could hear Michael’s rueful laugh. ‘Quite right, Gabe. Not another minute. And I apologise for the subterfuge. I wanted to see if you encountered anything, without having preconceived notions.’

‘And what if he’d seduced me?’

‘I have seen you and James together, as you recall. I didn’t think it likely. Of everyone I might have sent, I was certain you and James would be safest from its influence.’

Gabriel preened then, and grinned at James. James wasn’t sure why Gabriel found his brother’s faith in them so gratifying, but that was fine.

In the end, Gabriel dragged his easel closer to the cottage – Jhoron wasn’t able to move further than twenty feet from the spot – and spent the time waiting for the curse breaker in painting his portrait.

‘You’re lucky,’ said Jhoron to James. ‘Both of you. I’m thousands of years old. I hardly ever meet people who can resist me.’

But James’ wasn’t listening. He was watching Gabriel paint, and thinking, how could I ever want anything more than him: my heart, my soul.

And Gabriel looked at him, as though he’d heard, and smiled back, eyes shining with total agreement.

Cover Reveal: The Only One in the World – a Sherlock Holmes Anthology

Cover art for The Only One in the World

I am so thrilled to be able to share with you the cover for the upcoming anthology, The Only One in the World – full of stories of what Sherlock and/or John might have been like if one or both came from a cultural background different to the Victorian-era gentlemen of the Conan Doyle books.

Clan Destine Press were fantastic, coming on board when I pitched the idea and giving me the role of commissioning editor. Lindy Cameron helped me spread the net to find a wide range of authors from different backgrounds or with specific areas of historical expertise.

The brief was deceptively simple – Either Holmes or Watson (or both) should come from a background different to the original stories. Any time period, any gender, any orientation were fine, but I wanted to see how a different background would inform who they were and the story that was told.

The result is thirteen amazing stories by fourteen fantastic writers – including award-winning and -nominated writers – who have created stories set in Germany, Ireland, Australia, South Africa, Russian, India, Poland, USA, 17th Century England, Ancient Egypt, Viking Denmark and even one with a global aspect..

The Affair of the Purloined Rentboy by Greg HerrenS.H.E.R.L.O.C.K. by Atlin MerrickThe Path of Truth by Jack FennellSharaku Homura and the Heart of Iron by Jason FranksThe Adventure of the Disappearing Village by Natalie ConyerThe Saga of the Hidden Treasure by Kerry Greenwood and David GreaggThe Problem of the Lying Author by Lisa FesslerMistress Islet and the General’s Son by Lucy SussexA Scandalous Case of Poisoning by Katya de BecerraThe Adventure of the Fated Homecoming by Jayantika GangulyPrince Ha-mahes and the Adventure of the Stoned Mason by LJM OwenThe Enemy Within by Raymond GatesA Study in Lavender by JM Redmann

The Only One in the World is due for release in late April 2021.

The Only One in the World is available for pre-order as ebook, paperback and hardcover now at Clan Destine Press. 

Flash Fiction: Wolf’s Night In

Today’s #FlashFictionFriday tale was prompted by Twitter regular @Alexxphoenix42 (with “nail polish”) and new prompter @annb99 (Hamilton).

I’ve set this story in the universe of The She Wolf of Baker Street – my contemporary queer, paranormal take on the famous folks of Baker Street, currently being serialised for my supporters on Patreon. (Chapter 12 went up on 26 March, so we’re about half way through – now’s a good time to join up if you want to read it!)

The She Wolf of Baker Street focuses on Audrey Hudson (werewolf) who wants help to solve the murder of her family in Edinburgh. Sherlock Holmes and his new flatmate Dr Watson are very willing to try, but Sherlock doesn’t believe in this werewolf nonsense. It’s making life difficult.

Nick Murray is a former army mate of John Watson’s. In Conan Doyle’s canon, Murray is the orderly who saved John’s life at Maiwand. In She Wolf, Nick is the driver who does the same.

This short story is set at a nebulous point in the She Wolf universe – certainly towards the end of the story, if not after those events completely.

Wolf’s Night In

‘I’m shit at this girly stuff.’

Painting her friends’ nails was not high in Nick Murray’s lesbi-friends experiences, but she was encountering a lot of new experiences in the company of Audrey Hudson.  

Audrey peered down her nose at the hash job Nick was making of the pedicure. Nick’s expression of profound concentration, tip of her tongue stuck out between her lips as she tried to stay within the lines, was very funny. The splatterings of bright red Bloody Rosary polish on Audrey’s skin around the nails, the top of her toes – and even, good lord, how did it get on her ankle? – less hilarious.

‘You are not painting the side of a house,’ Audrey admonished her, and damn, once more it came out fond instead of annoyed.

‘It’ll just crack next time you wolf up, anyway,’ pouted Nick.

‘With that reasoning, I’d never brush my hair because once a month it’s unmanageable.’

The image of her friend’s werewolf fur as merely “unmanageable hair” made Nick laugh so hard she got hiccups. Audrey enjoyed Nick in this mood, a far cry from the former soldier’s desperation when they’d first met.

Then Nick grinned. ‘I used to get John to paint my nails when I wanted to tart up for a date. That boy has a steady hand. He used to do Percy’s too, when we were on furlough in London, though Perce did his own lippy. They tried their hardest with me, those gay boys, but we all had to accept that I was just never made to wear Maybelline. Even with his moustache, John looks better in mascara and rouge than I do.’ She smirked. ‘How long do you reckon before Sherlock finds the photos?’

Audrey leaned back in her armchair, eyes raised to the ceiling and her tenants living on the floor above. ‘You weren’t here when Sherlock dolled up for a case. I thought John was going to have a stroke.’

Nick waggled her eyebrows suggestively and Audrey pretended to be stern, with a severely arched eyebrow. ‘I mean the medical condition, not a quickie fondle.’

Nick’s laugh was raucous and infectious. ‘Don’t short change my Johnny-boy there, Mrs H. He could definitely do both.’ And she burst into a wicked snatch of song.

“That’s when I began to pray:
Lord, show me how to
Say no to this
I don’t know how to
Say no to this…”*

Then she fell over backwards on the floor, she was laughing so hard at her own salacious wit, and in doing so tipped the entire bottle of Bloody Rosary across her prosthetic leg.

In an instant, the laughter died. Memory seized Nick by the throat and by the heart and filled her mouth with fear. All the blood drained from her face. She began to breathe hard, fast, shallow. Audrey could see how the polish looked like a pool of blood across the limb Nick had lost in a roadside bomb in Afghanistan; she could see Nick falling suddenly, deeply into that memory of terror, pain and Percy’s terrible death.

Audrey leaned down to take Nick’s face in her hand.

‘Look at me, Nick.’

Nick closed her eyes.

‘Nick Murray. Look at me.’ Audrey spoke in the commanding tone of the Alpha wolf, and Nick looked at her.

‘You’re safe here in London. You’re with me. John and Sherlock are upstairs. You’re all right.’

‘I’m not, though, really,’ said Nick in a shaky voice. ‘One leg down. And then there’s…’

‘All true. And yet, here you are. Alive, with friends who love you, and I have promised to protect you. Even when you make a mess of my toenails and spill nail polish on my carpet.’ Audrey’s smile was warm, forgiving, encouraging.

Nick swallowed. Smiled crookedly. ‘Heya, Mrs H. Doin’ the fantastic Den Mother routine again.’

‘Heya, wayward cub,’ Audrey replied. She squeezed Nick’s cheeks like she was a six year old instead of a grown woman. ‘I really don’t mind about the carpet.’

She really did, but what was she going to do, with Nick so reluctantly allowing Audrey to calm her and comfort her?

Nick grimaced again, and then her cheeky grin slowly returned. ‘I should paint up my leg. What d’ye reckon? Union Jack, Betty Boop or a great big bone so next full moon it’ll be easier to find?’

Audrey smacked Nick lightly across the top of the head. ‘For you, I think a portrait of… who’s that strapping Amazonian woman you’re always drooling over?’

‘Oooh, Ronda Rousey! Yas, mah queen!’

And all that remembered terror was mist, blown away by distraction and Audrey Hudson’s determination that this time, with these people, she would not be the Cursed Alpha. This time she would protect her pack.

*Song lyrics from “Say No To This”, from Hamilton.

Flash Fiction: Crush

Today’s #FlashFictionFriday story comes from a Twitter prompt by @Alexxphoenix42.

Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter if you want to suggest prompts for these Friday stories!

Crush

That boy you had a crush on when you were thirteen is here in the bookshop. He was two years older than you then. He still is, technically.

His golden skin then was soft and full, fresh and plump with youth. His dark hair fell in a curtain over deep brown eyes, which back then was appealingly shy and a little mysterious. The intervening years give you perspective, however, and now you think he was uncomfortable with being one of only four Vietnamese students in a mostly white school; perhaps embarrassed that his English wasn’t yet perfect.

His English is perfect now, though the first tongue he knew still lilts into some of his vowels as he asks the staff for recommendations for his great-granddaughter. Something cute. Perhaps with dragons,  perhaps with a princess, but a doing kind of princess. Not one that waits to be rescued.

You meant to be a doing kind of princess yourself, one day.

You meant to be a lot of things, none of which are the things you are.

You follow him out of the bookshop, with that gift in his satchel. The straight back you once gazed at longingly from across the school sportsground is stooped now. The clever hands you admired at music practice are still beautiful in his grand old age.

You wanted once to be a princess for him to rescue. As you got older, you wanted to be a knight, some kind of hero to this boy who was musical and athletic but so shy. You wanted to protect him from the bullies and the unkindnesses of the world.

He never saw you then.

He doesn’t see you now.

You didn’t ever become the princess or the knight in shining armour.

You have sharp teeth now and an affinity for the night. Your deathly white cheek is as curved with plump youth as it was when you died. Forever sixteen years old. Forever pining with an unrequited crush.

You are not the princess and never will be.

You are the dragon.

But like the dragon in the book he has bought for his great-granddaughter, you are, today, full of mercy.

Today there will be no eating of knights or the doing kind of princess or their grandfathers, whom you once loved with your whole childish heart.

Today, you still have a crush on the boy you had a crush on seventy years ago. Today you let that memory make you feel young again, and kind again.

And for one brief, longing, beautiful, painful moment – alive.

Flash Fiction: Ceasefire

This #FlashFictionFriday story came from prompts on Twitter by @EspineuxAlpha, @Alexxphoenix42 and a photo of some bloodied sheets from @AlanBaxter

Ceasefire

The splash of scarlet on pale linen didn’t seem enough to suggest murder, but it was a very small murder, after all.

The blood had fallen in patches and smears. Reading the shape of it, Tinker understood that the battlemouse had convulsed in its death throes. Its armour had held the poor beast intact, or more of its blood would have pooled on the sheet and soaked through to the mattress.

Not enough blood for two, though. The battlemouse’s body had vanished, but so had its faerie warrior.

Tinker’s wings fluttered and she rose above the scene of the skirmish. Nearby, in the human’s kitchen, someone was calling, ‘Where the hell is the can opener?’

‘In the dishwasher,’ the young human shouted back. ‘I’ve fed Tiger already!’

‘Miracles do happen!’

Tinker, once having been something of a miracle worker herself, flew up to the ceiling for a more comprehensive view of the room.

She spotted the tip of the battlemouse’s tail protruding from under the chest of drawers, where it had crawled to die after its opponent had mauled it on the bed. Tinker flew down again, her slippered feet touching the floor soundlessly. She bent to peer under the furniture.

Two beady black eyes peered back. A set of pointed teeth grinned at her. Tinker recoiled so hard she landed on her rump. Her leather armour creaked as she fell.

‘Well met, Major Tink,’ sneered the hedgehog. Its two front teeth stood out like fangs in what ought to have been a friendly face.

This war had made monsters of everyone.

Her eyes adjusting to the dim light under the bureau, Tink could at last see the full extent of Tiggy’s violent work. Foolhardy Peaseblossom was sprawled beside their dead mouse. IT was heartbreaking for Tink to see her old friend, traditional garb of pink sweetpea petals replaced long ago with armour of walnut shell made forbiddingly jagged with thorns from a wild rose.  A sharp hedgehog quill was embedded in their shoulder. The poor fairy seemed quite dead.

‘Tiggy,’ said Tink. ‘What have you done?’

‘Defended myself, lass. As is my right.’

‘This is neutral territory,’ Tink protested. ‘No warfare on Giant territory. It’s the law.’

‘What was I to think your lieutenant intended?’ protested the hedgehog. ‘Following me quick and tricksy, like you lot do. Sneaking up behind. A washer-woman’s a right to go about her lawful business.’

‘The Giants don’t want you doing their laundry anymore.’

‘Hardly that, any more. We need bandages. Wadding and thread for stitches. Spiders won’t give us silk any more for that work, so we scavenge where we may. But your bloody Captain Peaseblossom insisted on making a fight of it. And here we are.’ Tiggy blinked rapidly. ‘Made me soil those sheets. Stain’ll never come out.’

‘The Giants mustn’t know.’

‘Giants’ll blame it on the cat.’

The Giants blamed a lot of what happened during the war on their cats.

‘If you’ve killed Peaseblossom on neutral ground, there’ll be…’

‘What? War? We’re already at war. How could it be worse?’

Peaseblossom, timing ever magical, moaned. Blinked open golden eyes that fixed on Tink.

‘M’jr Tinkerb-?’

‘I’m here, Pease.’

‘You came for me, ma’am.’

‘Of course.’

Peaseblossom sank back to the floor with a sigh. ‘We were cruelly set upon, Tink, by this quailing washtub hedge-pig.’

Tiggy bridled.

‘Tiggy says you first tried to cut her throat.’

‘You take the word of Oberon’s swag-bellied harpy before your comrade in Tatiana’s army?’

Tink gestured helplessly. ‘Your mount was speared upon the bedding of the child Giant. How came you to climb it? Why did-?’

‘I…’ Pease’s eyes darted between the Captain and the enemy. ‘The hedgehog crept inside. I saw a cat followed. I followed the cat.’

Comprehension dawned. It is a lie that the enemy of your enemy is your friend. Sometimes, such as when it’s a padpaw hunter like a cat, your enemy’s enemy is just everybody’s enemy.

‘You came to warn me?’ Tiggy asked, bewildered in her shock.

The door the room swung open and all three fell deathly silent. The thud of giant footsteps made the floor judder with its movement.

Discovery might mean death, or it might mean worse. Both sides knew the stories of tiny winged warriors kept in jars to suffocate or starve, separated from the earth and from magic and from all hope.

A sound that was akin to music burst from a device beside the bed and the child Giant flung itself onto the mattress. Words that meant nothing without context reverberated, making Tiggy, Tink and Peaseblossom all cover their ears.

I can’t explain you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb

Then a voice said, ‘Tiger! There you are! Come on, come up, give us a cuddle. Come on! What’s under the cupboard, then? You been hunting mice again? Here…’

Creaking of a human rising from the bed. The fairies and the hedgehog tried to withdraw. Another mutual enemy come to threaten them.

Tink drew her tiny blade and prepared to fight for her life. Peaseblossom, injured but unbowed, staggered upright, plucked the quill from their shoulder and held it like a spear.

Tiggy plucked a quill from her back.

A quivering nose intruded on their little space. A seeking paw, fitted with its natural blades, poked in after it.

Tiggy and Tink moved as one, jabbing.

The cat’s yowl was ear-splitting, turning hearts and bowels to water, but it also run from the unexpected assault.

‘Tiger! Tiges!’

The child Giant lumbered after its ferocious pet, under the impression that it was a fluffy darling in need of succour. Giants feared so little, when they should fear so much. It’s what made them so dangerous.

‘We must get out of here,’ Tink urged.

‘Yes,’ agreed Tiggy. ‘I have made an error. I have defended my life against the wrong threat.’

The battlemouse had to stay, but Tiggy and Tink between them helped Peaseblossom back into the room, across the boards and the carpet that made the going sluggish, and into the hall. Unseen, they crept through the cat flap and into the garden until they could take refuge under a yew hedge.

Awkward silence reigned for a brief time. Finally, Tiggy found a tiny handkerchief square, which she folded and offered to the wounded fairy.

‘I am sorry. I misjudged your intent.’

‘I should have shouted at you from a distance,’ said Peaseblossom. ‘I’m not used to warning the Other Side, though.’

‘None of us are,’ said Tink. ‘We’ve all become too used to this war. We used to be friends, didn’t we? I don’t even remember what Tatiana and Oberon were fighting about this time.’

‘Don’t suppose they do, either,’ said Tiggy gruffly. ‘We simply act on their will as though no other cause is needed.’

Tink sheathed her sword and shook her pale yellow hair loose. ‘We have become so used to our enmity, so… so…’ the words of the awful human song came to her tongue. ‘So numb to it, that we are more comfortable striking a blow than heeding a warning. We have forgotten how our realms were once united. This is… not how we were. It is not how I am. It is not how we should be.’

‘No. We should not,’ agreed Tiggy.

‘Then let us stop,’ said Tink. And she placed her sword upon the grass.

Peaseblossom stared at the Captain. ‘This is treason!’

‘I would rather commit treason upon an unjust queen in an unnecessary war, than spill another drop of faery blood.’

Tiggy sat on the ground and covered her black eyes with her little paws. Her teeth, which had looked so wicked and forbidding in the darkness under the cupboard, now appeared only sadly yet endearingly buck-toothed.

‘I don’t want to fight any more,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t want always to be scrubbing the blood out of pinafores and breeches. I don’t want to be stealing linen for bandages and stitching up wounds.’

Tink patted her hand. ‘Then let’s stop. Let’s leave the war to those who want to fight it, to those to numb to remember who we used to be.’

‘But where shall we go?’

‘I don’t know. I hear of a place beyond the sea. Where Giants leave saucers of milk out for us, and they know better than to ask for wishes. They have voices like music and tell stories woven in magic.’

Tiggy looked dup. ‘Do you know the way?’

‘I can find the way,’ said Tink with confidence. ‘I knew my way to another land once, by the second star on the right. I can find the Singing Land.’

She held out her hand. Tiggy placed her paw in it.

They looked to Peaseblossom.

‘You killed my battlemouse,’ said Peaseblossom to Tiggy. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘I’m right sorry for it, too. I won’t try again.’

‘Will you sew me a new jerkin and a gown made of sweetpeas?’

‘Aye, and make you shoes of down and a cloak of linen, when I find some.’

‘All right.’ Peaseblossom stood. Wobbled a little. Tiggy held out her hand and Peaseblossom took it.

And, once the night had come and the cat was locked inside, these soldiers of faerie who had abandoned the war, began to walk, guided by Tink and the stars, towards peace.

The lyrics in this story are from Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb (PF was prompted by Alexxphoenix42)

Flash Fiction: Stop. Don’t Stop.

Each week I’ll ask my Twitter followers for a word, phrase, image or character as prompts for flash fiction. I’ll select a few and write a quick short fic! If you want to take part, follow me on Twitter and look out for the hashtag #FlashFictionFriday.

This week’s prompts are from Twitter users @azriona1912, @avawtsn (who prompted a Sherlockian story) and @Alexxphoenix42. This is a contemporary setting, but not otherwise in an existing universe.

Stop. Don’t Stop.

Stop talking.

Sherlock Holmes, unable to actually read minds, did not stop talking.

He was expounding at this point on a treatise he’d read on lividity as affected by ambient temperature, levels of exsanguination, and whether the body had been found in the primary or a secondary location and therefore changed position in the interim.

Forensics was not John Watson’s speciality, though his knowledge had come on in leaps and bounds since becoming Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate.

Stop talking.

Sherlock did not stop talking. In the midst of one of his great enthusiasms, he was energetically pacing the carpet at 221b with the easy grace of a natural dancer. He gestured with those elegant arms of his; with those long fingers of which John had written so much in his case studies. Sherlock’s grey eyes were alight with his zeal for the topic. His expression, so often languid and dreamy when between cases at home, was alive with humour and fascination.

Sherlock’s voice thrumming with articulate passion on his favourite topics was always a joy to hear.  And if John had not been harbouring his secret crush for going on three months now, he’d be having a wonderful time listening to it.

Well, no. That voice, languid or sharp, in quiet reflection or in full-throttle discourse on the processes of violent death, had been one of the reasons for the secret crush to begin with.

Please. Stop talking.

It was as though Sherlock’s voice had a direct line to John Watson’s libido and John was wondering how he might make a rapid escape without causing offence. It seemed just as likely that The Most Observant Man In London And Probably The World would take offence anyway, when he stopped talking long enough to notice John’s reaction.

Oh no.

Keep talking. Please keep talking.

John fixed an expression of deep interest on his own face, with a tiny frown, his head thrust a little forward indicating close attention, the occasional nod and ‘Mm-hmmm’. It was a technique he’d deployed with overly talkative colleagues, some sergeant majors, and the occasional patient. He made a particular effort to listen to things other than his flatmate’s gloriously sexy voice: the drip of the kitchen tap which he’d yet to fix; the sound of a gunning engine in the street outside; the plinkerty-plonkerty Greensleeves heralding a Mr Whippy ice cream van some streets away.

Sherlock’s voice was now a deep background melody, a delightful low-level murmur of music to punctuate the supple way Sherlock moved through every space he occupied.

Three months ago, his old colleague Stamford had brought the two of them together – this man of purpose and poise, and John Watson – a man robbed of purpose and, still recovering from traumatic injury and life-threatening hospital infection, devoid of poise as well.  Most of John’s nights were restless from half-haunted dreams, his days fractious with exhaustion and misery.  He spent the latter in the living room, gaunt and easily wearied, half-heartedly applying for locum positions he didn’t think he could get, and watching.

Watching mysterious guests arrive unhappy, leaving full of hope. Watching Sherlock Holmes play his violin, tinker with his chemistry set, contemplating solutions with deep introspection. John’s attention was riveted by the spectacle of this self-contained man with the hawk-like nose, the piercing eyes, the beautiful hands.

For that first week, John expected at any moment for Sherlock Holmes to say, ‘So sorry, Doctor. This isn’t working out. Stay until you can find another flat, of course.’ He seemed a decent bloke, after all.

Instead, Sherlock had invited John’s medical opinion on a client who had just departed. Startled at being so suddenly called upon to contribute, John drew upon his years of army medical practice – a varied field of endeavour for any student of humanity – and gave as thorough an account of his thoughts as he could.

Well, he had been staring. Mostly at Sherlock, but also at the client, at their interactions.

‘You agree with me, then,’ Sherlock had said. ‘The man’s faking his injuries.’

‘Exaggerating them, perhaps. Without an examination or knowledge of his medical history, I wouldn’t like to make a summary judgement.’

‘Ah. You exhibit a healthy caution, Doctor. It’s a capital mistake to theorise ahead of the facts. But your thoughts, combined with my prior knowledge, suggest the inevitable conclusion that this fellow hopes to put me off the scent with his spurious story of a stabbing.’

God, the way the man talked, like a hero in a Victorian novel. In someone else it might have been risible. In Sherlock Holmes, it was utterly captivating.

Sherlock had called on John’s expertise often since then. On his company when expertise wasn’t required.  He even told John of his early cases, allowing John to make notes as he spoke. ‘I should make a record of my work and methods someday. Your efforts may be a good beginning.’

John hadn’t any idea of publishing anything. He just liked to listen to Sherlock talk and taking notes gave him the excuse.

Sherlock had stopped talking.

Oh no.

‘John?’

 Non-committal. That was the way to play it. ‘Hmm?’

John looked into Sherlock’s knowing grey eyes. Realised that he’d been tuning out of the actual words but zooming in on Sherlock’s hands. His mouth and throat. His slender body, head to foot. Desire had made John’s skin flush, his pulse rate quicken.

John Watson had been sprung checking out his flatmate like a besotted teenager. Or the grown idiot creeper he was.

John made a strange noise. A strangled sound, to accompany his wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights stare. He had a powerful new desire, for instant transportation to Mars. Perseverance Rover might be able to tolerate him, with a whole planet to share. Blessed suffocation might eradicate this mortification at some point in the future, too.

‘I…’ John began, but words failed him utterly. Should he deny it? Apologise? Flee?

Sherlock’s smile was unexpected. The warmth in his eyes even less so.

‘Your evident interest is…’

The next word would redeem or ruin it all. Inappropriate. Curious. Unwelcome. Flattering. John held his breath.

‘Reciprocated.’

John began breathing again, then stopped again. Reciprocated?

‘You talk this time,’ said Sherlock, flinging himself into his armchair, showing off his athletic build like he rehearsed the move three times a week for maximum visual impact. ‘I’ll drink my fill of you.’

He let his eyes roam over John’s physique, much improved now from those early days of recovery. Broad-shouldered, strong, steady. A bulldog to Sherlock’s greyhound.

‘What shall I…?’

‘Anything you like, dear fellow. The sound of your voice is remarkably stimulating. Tell me what you’d like us to do when we’re naked together, now we have the preliminaries out of the way.’

There was nothing in this world so heady as The Most Observant Man In London And Probably The World bending his entire focus upon you, while smiling with wicked and affectionate promise.

John was a man with a powerful gift for description. He spoke, Sherlock listened, until communication happened in motion as well as words and they–

–did not stop.

Flash Fiction: Hallowed Be Thy Name

I’ve missed writing short fic to prompts (as I did for this lockdown fiction series) so I asked my Twitter followers to provide some prompts and I’d write a story!

That was so much fun I think I’ll make it a weekly even. If you want to play, follow me on Twitter and look out for the prompt requests!

Prompts followed for this story were provided by Alan Baxter, Jack Fennell and Mikee.

Hallowed Be Thy Name

Hannah carefully picked a path along the rocky shoreline, ensuring her sneakered feet had good enough grip on the wet basalt before taking another step. The conch shell she approached was resting next to something altogether less expected at one lip of rock overhanging the surging sea. An elegant brass telephone, the slender handpiece resting on the brackets, the body underneath it decorated in swirls and florals down to its dainty feet. The only part of it not pristine was the dial, the holes of which were filled with coral.

Waves crashed against the underside of the rocks, periodically spraying sea water over shell and telephone.

‘This salt water is terrible for my feet, you know, Mistress,’ croaked Hannah’s companion, tucked comfortably in the pouch woven into the end of her scarf.

Hannah touched the frog on the head with her fingertip. ‘Then pull your head in, Hector, and quit sticking your tongue into it.’

Hector ducked slightly, his yellow-webbed front feet, bulbous black eyes and grey-green nose visible over the edge of the thick grey wool. ‘Should be home. It gets dark too quickly this time of year,’ he said, voice deep and gruff, throat stretching out with the sound. He only croaked of course, but a witch always understands her familiar. And, of course, vice versa.

‘You could’ve stayed at home in your tank,’ Hannah countered. ‘I’d’ve left the telly on fer you an’ all. But no. I need to go out and you, ye nosy frog, have to come with.’ She patted the pocket, though, so Hector didn’t doubt her affection. ‘Tuck down, Heck. That spray’d no good on her eyes.’

Hector shifted further into the warm, woolly scarf pouch as Hannah reached her destination. Conch shell and telephone, washed up with such geometric precision on the basalt shore. She sat on the edge of the basalt shelf, feet dangling over the drop (getting wet from the waves and foam). She lifted the shell and – after first checking for indignant crabs occupying the curved space – she lifted the shell to her ear.

‘I can hear the sea,’ she declared with a laugh.

‘But can it hear you too?’ Hector’s muffled voice rose above the sound of the waves and rocks and gulls crying out above.

A witch doesn’t only always understand her familiar. She always hears it.

Hannah moved the shell to her lips. ‘Come on then,’ she shouted into it. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

The sea below her surged, beyond even its restless crashing against the rock. And there she was. The late sunlight glinted from bright fins, long weeds that looked like hair and skin that looked human but was made of a million tiny scales that grew larger and darker as they covered the powerful shape of her tail.

A great flex of that strong body and the mermaid burst out of the sea, like a dolphin breaching the surface; or more like a great white shark leaping to take down a bird in flight. Her leap took the mermaid into the air, twisting, and she landed sinuously on what passed for her backside on the rock beside Hannah. She smiled, triangular teeth serrated and sharp and nothing at all human, whatever the legends said.

Hector cowered lower in his pocket.

‘Do I have to talk you out of eating me again today, Ariel?’

‘Don’t call me that,’ the mermaid scowled.

‘I’ll stop when you give me another to call you by.’

The mermaid folded her arms, spread her webbed hands against her shoulders in sulky resistance. ‘You know I don’t have one any more.’

‘I’m not like him,’ Hannah said. ‘With all his, leave all this behind baby, come with me and I’ll get you a shiny new soul.’

‘You told him to offer that to me,’ said the mermaid.

‘Yes.  But I never said for you to give the him your name.’

‘I didn’t know when he asked for it that he meant to keep it.’

Hannah sighed. ‘Eating him didn’t give back, either.’

‘No,’ sighed the mermaid. ‘Worth a try, though.’

‘Doubt it,’ croaked a tiny, grumpy voice from Hannah’s scarf.

The mermaid bent low to whisper hissingly into the wool surrounding the frog, ‘Splendid to see you, froggy.’ Then she made a slurping noise.

‘Don’t you go spooking my familiar,’ Hannah admonished her. ‘You’re not here to eat him, or me. You’re here for your name.’

The mermaid bared her many, many teeth at the witch. ‘You don’t really have my name. All this time looking and you haven’t found it.’

‘You live in hope, though, eh? ‘S why you meet me.’

The mermaid sulked again. Looked at the strange telephone sitting by the conch shell.

‘What is this thing?’

‘I called it out of the sea for you. We need it.’

‘But what does it do?’

‘It’s like the shell. Lift that part at the top. Have a listen,’ said Hannah.

The mermaid picked the receiver up and stared at it. Bumped her chin against it, tasting it with her skin.

‘Yer ear, Ariel,’ said Hannah.

The mermaid scowled again and pressed the receiver against the curl of bone and cartilage.

Her terrifying mouth stretched wide in a laugh. ‘I can hear the land.’ She held it out to Hannah, who could hear it too. Wind in the trees and the creak of forests bending in it.

‘See that circle on the front, with the numbers behind the coral? Dial this number.’ The witch held out her hand, on which she’d scrawled a telephone number in black biro. The number was beginning to smudge in the damp air.

The mermaid pressed her fingers into the coral and turned the dial, breaking the coral to pieces. The dial ticked slowly back into place.

‘Who am I calling?’

‘His phone number.’

‘I ate him, remember?’

‘Can’t forget. The table manners of you, ugh.’

The mermaid, not hopeful, pressed the receiver to her ear again and although the cord connecting phone to service had long since given itself up to salt and sea, she could hear it ringing, and then a click, and then a voice.

‘Hello, Ed Collins’ phone, Al Collins speaking.’

The mermaid smothered a gasp. Hannah nodded for her to continue. ‘Hello. Mr Collins.’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘I’m…’ without a name to give, and refusing to use Ariel, the mermaid had to content herself with, ‘I’m a friend of Edward’s.’

‘You know Ed?’ Al Collins’ tone was urgent and eager. ‘Have you seen him? Tell me you’ve seen him. He’s been missing for weeks. He went out on the yacht by himself, to meet someone, he said, and since then, nothing. The yacht was found adrift. He left his phone on board. I’ve been hoping someone would call. Nobody knows what happened.’

The mermaid knew what happened. She’d met Ed Collins at sea in his pretty boat, and that comely lad had been captivated by the strange creature who saved him when he fell off the damned thing. Beautiful in her monstrous way. He said he wanted to be with her, but they could only do that on land. Only human, he could hardly change to live in the sea but she, being fey, perhaps could change to live with him.

The mermaid led Ed to Hannah the Witch for a solution. Hannah had suggested the correct exchange for changing herself so utterly was the reward of gaining an immortal human soul.

The mermaid had been only too eager to explore this alternative to a long but soulless life.

But then Ed’s second thoughts had become third and fourth and fifth thoughts. He’d stayed away for heartbreaking weeks. Finally he had come out to see his pet sea monster; to tell her that while he was fond of her, they were two very different people, with very different paths in life, and that it wasn’t her, it was him, or maybe it was a little bit her, and all those teeth. He wasn’t prepared to spend a life married to a woman who’d once been a mermaid no matter what promises they’d made because, well. The teeth. Not when there was all those lovely willing women with not so many teeth out there, happy to share his bed and not getting all peculiar over giving him their names.

He’d worked it out by then. That for the creatures of the fey world, rules were different and difficult, and governed by things other than human intent. The rules applied whether you understood them or wished them. Words meant something to those creatures. Names meant everything.

She’d given him hers in a rush of optimism. A small thing to give in exchange for a soul.

So, sorry love, he said. This was farewell, but oh, he’d be keeping her name. Something to remember her by. He was keeping it somewhere safe.

Lied to, betrayed, heartbroken, enraged, she reached for Ed’s hand and wrapped her arms and fins around him. She pulled him into the depths and ate him, searching for herself inside his skin, but not finding her name anywhere.

‘Hello?’ said Al into the silence.

‘Sorry,’ said the mermaid. ‘Thinking. He had something of mine. Has, I mean.’

At the other end of the call, it was Al’s turn to fall into silence. He broke it with a hoarse whisper.

‘Are you… that woman? That mystery woman he was seeing?’

‘Might be,’ she said, because if anything was clear at that last meeting, it was that Ed was seeing quite a lot of people.

‘You vanished when he did.’

‘I went home,’ she said. ‘But they wouldn’t let me in. He didn’t give me back the thing he took. I need it. I can’t go home without it.’

All these weeks and weeks and weeks living near the surface, unable to reach the deeps, bargaining with Hannah. Find my name again or I’ll eat you too, after what you did.

You asked me to help you find a way to be with him. I didn’t tell you to give up your name.

You tricked both of us. Find it. Or be eaten.

On the bewitched phone, Al was still talking. ‘If you want it, you’ll have to come here and answer my questions. You know what happened to Ed.’

‘I know,’ she admitted.

‘What happened to my brother?!’

‘He stole from me.’

‘He told me was seeing some crazy bitch. He had a lot of crazy bitches in his life but you were the one, weren’t you? The craziest bitch. Weren’t you, Ulali? Weren’t you?’

The word speared down the ensorcelled line, lightning in a word. The name struck her ear and filled her throat and then her chest. Her heart beat with it.

Ulali. Ulali. Her name, her self. Her soul. Ulali. Ulali.

Her body coiled with elation. Ulali pushed away from the basalt ledge, uncoiling again with the kinetic energy of the entire sea. Midair she twirled and spun then dived into the sea. Surged out of it again, water streaming behind her, a trailing veil of joy.

‘Thank you!’ she cried to the witch. ‘Thank you! I shall not eat you today!’

She pushed high out of the water, pirouetted in the foam of the sea, then dived down deep.

In minutes she was gone. With her name in her heart, sitting behind her many sharp teeth, Ulali swam home to the darkest depths of the ocean. Her name would open the gates for her. Her name would take her home.

Hannah sat on the edge of the rock, watching the shifting of the ocean surface, even though she wasn’t sure if it marked the mermaid’s passage or just the movement of the tide.

She lifted up the phone receiver. At the other end a man was crying. ‘Tell me. Was it you? What’s your name? What’s your name? I had it a minute ago and now it’s gone. What did you do to my brother.’

Hannah gently hung up the phone. It was a bad business all round, and she’d done her best. Foolish mermaid, insisting on giving up everything she was for him. Even if he’d been worthy, it was a rash act.

‘She gone?’

Hannah patted her little pocket. Hector emerged carefully. The sun was almost down, the molten gold light of it staining the clouds and the stretch of the horizon.

‘She’s gone.’

‘Did you hear the name?’ Hector asked.

‘No. I don’t need it. I have one of my own.’

‘Hmph,’ said Hector. ‘Not the one you tell her.’

‘Not that one, no.’ Even Hector didn’t know Hannah’s true name. It didn’t do to keep it anywhere except behind your own teeth and in your own heart.

‘Does she know she never actually needed to bargain anything away for a soul?’

‘But she did, Hector. She needed to get her soul back again.’

‘I mean, that she didn’t need one from outside.’

‘I know what you mean. And she understands it now.’

Hannah rose to her feet. She threw the conch and the telephone over the edge of the rocks, back into the sea. In the growing darkness, she began to pick her way back to dry land.

‘Mistress,’ said Hector. Also not his real name. ‘Do I have a soul?’

‘It’s possible, Heck. Why don’t you give me your true name and we’ll find out.’

‘I’d rather not. Mistress.’

‘Good frog,’ she said, and kept walking.

Coming in 2021

Already I have several stories and some more music planned for this year. Here’s a little look at some upcoming projects!

Who Sleuthed It?  (pre-order for March release)The She-Wolf of Baker Street (currently on Patreon)The Only One in the World (coming soon)Root and Branch (coming soon)More songs from the Duo Ex Machina song project

Who Sleuthed It?

Due for release: March 2021

I’m delighted to have a short story in Clan Destine Press’ latest anthology about animals helping their animal friends – or their human sidekicks – solve a host of diabolical crimes and whimsical mysteries.

“Blood and Bone” is set in Melbourne in 1871, and sees wizard Lucius Kearney and his shape-changing rat wizard friend Magnus Sminth investigating a disappearance on behalf of a damsel who is in no particular need of rescuing.

Pre-order Who Sleuthed It? from Clan Destine Press

The She-Wolf of Baker Street

Currently being serialised on my Patreon

It began in late 2020, and continues into 2021: my new novel is being serialised on Patreon – The She-Wolf of Baker Street is a queer, modern, paranormal take on ACD’s classic characters. Werewolf Audrey Hudson takes on a tenant who may help her discover the mastermind behind the vicious murder of her pack.

Read it on my Patreon from as little as US$1/month
All new patrons get Scar Tissue and Other Stories as a welcome reward.

The Only One in the World

Due for release in early 2021

The Only One in the World is an anthology of Sherlock Holmes stories predicated on the notion of what Holmes and/or Watson would be like if they came from a completely different cultural background.

Writers with a particular cultural background or expert historical knowledge were invited to contribute, so readers can look forward to Holmeses and Watsons from many backgrounds.

Branch and Root

My story, ‘The Marbletree Wood’, will appear in Branch and Root from Shooting Star Press. It’s set in the Witches of Tyne universe, but a very long time after the events of those books.

The release has been delayed due to the pandemic (well, what hasn’t?) so stay tuned for details.

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The Duo Ex Machina Song Project

Two songs have already been released in my project to produce songs from the Duo Ex Machina series in partnership with Joshua King of Golden Hour Studios.

Two songs have been released so far: Hymn/Him (from Kiss and Cry) featuring vocals by Loic Mamet, and High (from Number One Fan) featuring Jenni Powell of Riff Raiders on vocals..

You can listen to the Duo Ex Machina songs at:

Songcast MusicApple MusicSpotifySoundcloud

Visit The Song Project to learn more.

Review: The Schoolgirl Strangler by Katherine Kovacic

Katherine Kovacic has proven herself an excellent crime writer, beginning with her debut, The Portrait of Molly Dean (a fictionalised take on the real 1930 Melbourne murder of 25-year-old Dean) and its sequel, the wholly fictional Painting in the Shadows (featuring the same art historian dealer/sleuth Alex Clayton).

With The Schoolgirl Strangler, Kovacic takes on true crime, detailing the Melbourne murders of four schoolgirls between 1930 and 1935. The deaths were the work of a serial killer before the word was invented, and Kovacic explores each killing and case in chronological order before coming to the arrest and trial of the man responsible.

It can be tricky to write true crime of this nature without giving undue attention to a man who murdered children and was, unlike cinematic serial killers, was lucky rather than clever in evading capture, particularly when it came to the police investigations, which time after time arrested and even tried the wrong people.

By focusing on the lives of these girls and the investigation of their deaths, Kovacic keeps paints a more involved picture of the impact of the crime on the girls, their families, the wrongly accused and the society in which they lived. Her respect for the girls and their families includes the simple facts of their deaths without prurient detail.

Kovacic has a clear, concise style that engages from the beginning, particularly in describing the lives of 12-year-old Mena Griffiths, 16-year-old Hazel Williams, 12-year-old Ethel Belshaw and 6-year-old June Rushmer. The consequences for the people in their lives, and those who were wrongly accused, are laid out with compassion and restraint.

The Schoolgirl Strangler is paced like a thriller, so if you’re not already aware of the history, the perpetrator’s name isn’t shared until his arrest afterJune Rushmer’s murder in 1935. (In deference to this deliberate choice, I won’t name him here either.)

The account of the killer’s trial, including transcripts of evidence, counsel’s comments and the judge’s questions and directions to the jury, a little drier, but Kovacic manages to keep a light touch and the pace moving well.

It’s not until after the killer’s conviction and the several appeals before his execution that Kovacic inserts more significant analysis, as she explores some of the evidence provided at the trial about the killer’s state of mind. She does an excellent job of looking back with a modern perspective on mental health and psychopathy and dissecting claims that the killer was criminally insane at the time he committed the murders. It’s a satisfying round-up of some of the questions raised and insufficiently answered according to the best knowledge of the 1930s.

In that round-up, Kovacic also notes a potential but minor link with the still unsolved murder of Molly Dean.

The Schoolgirl Strangler is a well told (or perhaps retold) story of these shocking murders, hitting just the right tone of respect for those lost girls and the families that had to go on afterwards and the examination of the mind of a perpetrator.

Buy The Schoolgirl Strangler

The Schoolgirl Strangler (Amazon US) The Schoolgirl Stra n gler (Allen and Unwin)

Other books by Katherine Kovacic

The Portrait of Molly Dean Painting in the Shadows

Review: Inheritance of Secrets by Sonya Bates

Inheritance of Secrets opens with its narrator, Juliet, in the Adelaide morgue to identify the bodies of her viciously murdered grandparents, Karl and Grete Weiss. It’s the great and terrible blow that cracks her life wide and fills it with doubt, grief, fear and danger. 

As she and her estranged sister Lily try to understand what’s happened, and to disprove the accusation that their beloved grandfather was a secret Nazi, they uncover answers to some of puzzles surrounding their family trauma.  

Through a series of flashbacks, the reader gets to see what actually happened when Karl Weiss travelled to Australia as a migrant on the Fairsea, and subsequent events that lay in wait for 60 years until a killer came to call. The two storylines eventually converge, but only when both young Karl and present-day Juliet have faced some serious threats.

Threat hangs heavy in the air throughout Inheritance of Secrets – the elusive Lily is clearly involved in some very shady dealings which leave her fearful and furtive, though her instincts may help her and Juliet in the long term. Juliet’s journalist friend Ellis has fingers in multiple pies. Things aren’t helped by Juliet’s ambitious fiancé, Jason, who is less interested in helping Juliet than in making partner at his firm.

Sonya Bates leads us through carefully the morass of accusation, confusion and threats, leaving us to doubt until late in the piece about Karl’s real history. Juliet is frequently rather hapless, as we all would be under the same conditions, but when the crisis reaches a peak, she’s resourceful. Her complex relationship with her Lily, Ellis and Jason add texture and complications to what’s already a fraught time for her, and you easily get as enmeshed in her private life as in the investigation.

The prose zips along and the reader has the pleasure of watching Juliet reconnect with Lily, realise some important things in her life and come to a renewed sense of herself by the conclusion.

A very satisfying read with a conclusion that fits Juliet’s character and the book’s themes of inherited secrets.

Buy Inheritance of Secrets

Inheritance of Secrets (Harper Collins)Inheritance of Secrets (Dymocks) Inheritance of Secrets (Amazon US) Inheritance of Secrets (Kobo)Inheritance of Secrets (Angus and Robertson) Inheritance of Secrets (Book Depository) Inheritance of Secrets (QBD Books) Inheritance of Secrets (Booktopia)