UPDATE: My short sharp interview over at Mr B‘s is up, too! Drop by for more lies and exaggerations.
Happy Friday the 13th! If you’re not superstitious, then you won’t mind that I put a spell on you. Don’t worry — it’s just to get you to join in the Valentine’s Day giveaway that my publisher Trestle Press has cooked up. I’ll be giving away FIVE copies of It’s a Curse: Drunk on the Moon 7 at Goodreads. Just RSVP to the event to be in the running for the freebies. Be sure to find me on Goodreads if you haven’t done so already. Some people give hearts and chocolates: I give you a free book. What could be better than that?
But the fun doesn’t stop there: lots of the Trestle Press folks are doing the same thing, so you have lots of opportunities to win. I know the books aren’t really that expensive, but I also know how much more fun it is to get away with paying nothing at all. Oh, I know you people, yes I do.
Here’s a wee excerpt of It’s a Curse, where Roman first meets his client. Hazard a guess at who Jameson might be based on (g’wan g’wan g’wan):
“Coffee? Or are you ready to start oiling your neck again?” Duffy flipped the battered National Geographic over on the counter so that the unnaturally green frog smiled upside down from the cover as I sat on a stool.
“Coffee.” I wished I had thrown a few more aspirins down my gullet but another cup ought to sort that out. Duffy’s java had about five times the strength of a normal brew. He claimed the beans had come from his cousin the alchemist. On days like this, I almost believed him.
He slid a mug across the counter and grinned a little too widely in its wake. “So, we gonna hear some wedding bells soon?”
A growl rumbled in my throat. The full moon was still days off, but the wolf already ran under my skin. He never really left anymore.
“Come on, Roman. You were awfully friendly with her last night.”
This time I did snarl. “I don’t remember a thing.”
Duffy grinned. “You missed a good show. Those metal jockeys never had a chance.”
I let the hot black blast fill my throat and ignored him. The wasps in my head were beginning to drown at last and a little silence would have aided their demise. Unfortunately Duffy blathered on, a pointless tale of drunken boasts, a damsel in distress and damage to the furniture that he blamed on me.
“Mr. Dalton, I presume?”
I swiveled my neck to the right, a mistake as the wasps took flight once more. “Who wants to know?”
He was tall and trim, clad in a Saville Row suit worn with such utter carelessness that he had to have been born to it. Sandy brown hair topped a face with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and an amused look that its wearer probably never lost. He took a drag on a Gauloise and favoured me with a broad smile that managed not to suggest any sort of friendliness. “Edward Jameson.”
“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Jameson. Why didn’t you send your butler instead?”
One eyebrow raised just enough to deepen the picture of amusement. “It’s a rather delicate matter. My butler and I have a little understanding; he pretends not to know all my intimate secrets and I pretend to believe him. May I sit down?”
Hope that whets your appetite. Don’t forget I’m over at the Writer’s Block Party and all the folks from The Girl’s Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse are over at Pornokitsch talking about why we do what we do.