Tag Archives: novel

Bridal Bed, chapter 3

When they entered the house in Bridge Street, Dick was stretched out on the dining room bed, panting and sweating, his skin abnormally red.

Agnes stopped short and moaned. “Richard…” The name in her mouth was a world of pain. If Will had imagined the courtship to be one of convenience, that illusion died now.

“He’ll be fine,” his lips formed the words, as meaningless as his graveyard speech, and she gave him the look he deserved: he was in no position to judge such a thing.

Kneeling by the bed, she stroked Dick’s forehead and whispered his name in a futile attempt to wake him up. Will looked away, but he could feel her touch on that fevered face. The jealousy was a hollowing-out of his chest, his head, his whole being. A heart-sucking, brain-fucking annihilation of everything he knew. It was an ache so vague and all-encompassing it practically replaced his sense of self. It was everywhere, in all his veins and all his bones, a dose of poison just below lethal, smudging every tissue with ice.

You have no business caring, he told himself. You don’t even know this woman. In fact, if she cared about Dick, there was probably something deeply wrong with her.

But when she stood up with a forbidding look on her face and strode past Will to the table, he breathed in the wake of her passing to catch the scent of her, and the trace of cow and smoke and bread was a caress of bruises. Helpless to resist, he watched her open a satchel and empty a jumble of bottles and pouches on the scarred wood. Common enough garden herbs, he knew. Aunt Joan had just such a collection. But the way they shivered in the candlelight… it was witchcraft.

Agnes put the herbs in a bowl and mashed them up with some water. Her slender, soft-looking hands worked the pestle, their pallor a dizzying flash in the low light. Lost in the rhythmic motion, Will was blindsided by a memory from Barton: the first time his fingers had found their way down his own hose.

Cheeks burning, he looked up at her face again, at the evidence of a rough life already digging its trenches in her skin. Was this the only choice she had – to bind herself to Dick? Didn’t she realise the danger?

The feeling of rope against his throat made him pull at his collar. Breathing in deeply, he shrugged off the memory of towering elms, of devils in the dusk. That night in the woods… it was a long time ago, but now that he saw Dick sweat and groan in the grips of his fever, Will remembered how close he himself had come to death. Only the timely intervention of leeches had saved him.

At the thought, he blurted, “Maybe we should bleed him?”

Agnes looked up from her bowl. “You have the money for a doctor?”

“No.” Will paused a beat. “But I have a knife.”

Agnes’s hand made a jerk, knocking the bowl to the floor. “Oh no…” She fell to her knees and gathered the shards of crockery in her hands, a sob rising in her throat. “That was my last peppermint!”

Will’s heart made a squeeze. Good. Let the bastard suffer.

But something better in him won out. “I believe you’ll find some in the garden.”

Agnes looked up, anger blooming in her cheeks. “And leave you alone with him?”

Will hesitated. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and it duly cramped, as if to underscore the folly of letting him handle a blade. He balled it into a fist and hid it behind his back. Jerking his head at the door, he said, “I’ll help you look for the peppermint.”

Agnes glared at him for a moment, but then she acquiesced. A resigned lowering of her shoulders, a pained glance at Dick, and then she donned her cloak again.

Outside it was still pitch black. Thrown for just a moment, Will stayed on the threshold, in the honey-warm pool of candlelight that oozed into the night from inside. Big fat drops of rain battered his head and snaked inside his collar while he balanced on the edge.

“Let’s just rip everything out of the flower beds and bring it inside,” Agnes said.

He turned to look at her, convinced she was making a feeble joke, but her face was serious. Panic had stolen her wits, apparently. Panic at the sight of her beloved in the clutches of death.

Will shook his head. “No need.” Venturing into the storm, he felt his way to where he knew the peppermint grew. He squatted and fumbled through the plants, the rain a wet lash against his face. Catching a leaf between thumb and forefinger, he rubbed and smelled it. Nothing. Just a regular plant smell. He pinched the next one and rubbed it. Too pungent.

Agnes kneeled beside him, a hint of warmth shielding him from the wind. “What are you doing?”

“The smell of peppermint is unmistakable. We don’t need to see it to find it.”

“Oh… of course.”

He felt her reach out to help. Their hands collided among the soaked leaves – a momentary spark of fire in the chill – and Will clenched his teeth. He had no business reacting to her presence. She belonged to Dick, and Will would be damned if he let himself want anything of his again.

But who was he kidding? The reason he was out here searching for peppermint at all was because of her. Seeking a cure for fevers not for Dick, but because of her.

A sudden thorn tore a gash in his finger, and he put it in his mouth. Such a tiny wound, but the pain shot through all his defences. When he went back to feeling his way through the herbs, his fingertip stung and ached as if his whole being had gathered in that minor digit.

Within minutes, he lighted on the right plant and tore a few stalks. Agnes found some elder leaves, and they went back inside to find Dick mumbling in his sleep, face dappled with a sickly dew. Seeing him suffer, Agnes stifled a moan, and Will turned to her.

“We need to do it.”

“No.”

“Look at him. He has an excess of blood, and there’s no one else who can do it. If I had gone to Barton before… But there’s no time.”

Agnes’s gaze slid to the storm-wracked man on the bed. Her eyes were wide, with too much white. Her mouth was no longer the soft summer pink of the graveyard, it was pale and strained like a gag.

“Maybe you want to do it?” Will said.

“Maybe I do.”

Her whisper was strangely audible through the howling of the wind, but she didn’t move. Will reached for a knife, and she tensed. She didn’t stop him, but she followed his every move, her eyes black in the flickering light, her nostrils stretched in whitening fear. Will picked up a candle and put it by the bed, where it cast ghostly shadows on Dick’s face. There was a warming of the air as Agnes approached behind him, and the metal glinted in his fist, asking: should he really do this? Or should he give the knife to her?

Moving slowly, he rolled up Dick’s sleeve to expose the inside of his arm. He could hear Agnes breathing and paused, unsure of how to proceed. “A… bowl, perhaps?”

Without a word, she went to fetch one, and Will put it under Dick’s elbow.

“Maybe a rag, too. For…”

Excess blood, he didn’t say, but Agnes stifled a sniffle as she obeyed. He didn’t have to name the horror to make it real.

Feeling dizzy, he looked down at the knife. It was a perfectly ordinary knife, a simple household utensil used for cutting meat and bread. Now to be used on a man’s skin. For a moment his mind filled with the image of the scraping knives in Goodman Field’s tannery, the careful removal of flesh from leather-to-be.

His hand cramped again, clutched the knife tighter. The man at his mercy had once been the boy who had harassed Will throughout their school years. His curse lay on the riverside elm where he had bound Will and where Annie had fallen. When he left for London, Will had been shackled to the tannery in his stead, and now he was aiming to bind Agnes in a golden hoop.

And yet what power did he have now, asleep, unconscious, lost to the world?

It would be so easy.

A sudden chill had Will shivering. Breathing in, he laid the knife against the blue shadow in the crook of Dick’s arm. The world seemed to hold its breath… and then he made the incision. The blade was sharp: only a small nick was needed. Dick groaned softly as blood pooled in the hollow, flowed over and ran in twin streams on either side of his arm into the bowl beneath. Will watched it run – trickling, trickling – hypnotised by the dark red colour. Fluid and fast, it left the body so easily, through such a small hole. Life brimming over, leaving forever.

Staring, dazed, he tried to think: how much blood was enough to alleviate the fever, but not enough to kill? When should he stop the flow?

A hand reached past him and clamped down on the wound, thumb pressing hard. Will swayed where he sat, brushing her arm. She leaned into him, winding a rag around Dick’s arm, movements quick and sure, experience winning over fear. Will breathed her sweat, and her elbow knocked into his ribs as she tied a tight knot.

Scarlet guilt hissed in his chest as he stared at the bowl in his hand, at the trembling, dark liquid. Had he been prepared to let the blood run dry?

When he glanced up, Agnes looked back at him, their eyes a pair of frightened birds above the scene of the carnage. Stripped by that all-seeing gaze, Will got to his feet and put the bowl aside, legs strangely weak beneath him. Wiping his hands, he fought to keep his voice light as he said, “I’ll keep watch over him if you want to sleep.”

 

A world of stars

Chains of Being Cover

Time to make some noise about my latest book. Lo, an excerpt appears!

After trudging through the more touristy parts of SoHo, we finally reach the Aquarian, a pub that allows plus ones but is still moderately tasteful. When I get my card out and press it to the bouncer display, I feel Timon tense beside me, but the laser reads the card and makes a happy chirp: confirmation that I have the requisite aspects to frequent this particular pub.

I usually don’t reflect on it – I’m eligible to enter almost anywhere – but this time, with Timon at my side, I wonder: what is it about my chart that makes me such an attractive customer? And more importantly, what aspects would result in a beep and a red light?

Azods can’t get in anywhere on their own, of course, since they don’t even have a card. But there are also less obvious fences. Some places don’t want people with badly aspected Mars, since it’ll always result in a fight. Shops are wary of Neptune square Mercury and their potentially thieving ways. Even the university has taken to turning away students with Mercury retrograde in the first house. There are challenges, and then there are challenges. No need to put people through the wringer if they don’t have it in them.

“What are you having? Heineken?”

“Kilkenny,” Timon says, and I go to order for both of us. Sure, places like this might pride themselves on their open-mindedness, but there are limits, and the handling of money is one such limit. As the charted one, I’m responsible for my starless tag-along, and my right to bring him can be revoked at the slightest hint of trouble.

While I wait at the bar, I look around the room. It’s filled with the usual rabble of show-offs and hang-arounds. I don’t like the Aquarian. Half the people here are the type to tattoo their chart onto their necks or advertise their most attractive trait with a pendant. But I’ve promised Timon a drink, so the Aquarian it is.

The bartender gives me two overfull glasses and I walk over to the booth Timon has found, foam sliding down my hands. When he takes his glass, our fingers touch and I stiffen. I want to wipe it – because of the beer foam, nothing else – but now we’ve had skin contact, Timon will probably think I do it out of disgust.

My phone beeps and I automatically wipe my hand before reaching for it. Shit. The screen shows a notification from StraightDate. Putting the date into dating, the slogan announces. Cheesy, yes, but I work sixty hour weeks and don’t have the time to look for love the traditional way. I open the latest message to see a flirty smile.

“News?” Timon asks sweetly.

“It’s just this dating site I’m a member of.” I flash the screen at him to make sure he understands. A slow nod is his only comment, and I narrow my eyes. Is there an element of disbelief in there? Fumbling to put away my phone, I clear my throat. “Just so you know.”

Timon snorts. “Know what?”

I shoot him a glare. “What kind of people I date,” I bite out, regretting having notifications on that stupid app in the first place.

Timon gives a wan smile. “I have no problem with who you date.”

“That’s not what I…” I break off with a sigh that sounds too exasperated. “I’m just saying.”

“Well, this isn’t a date, so.”

“I know that.”

“Just… if you were worried.” Timon gives me a mischievous look, but before I can retort something clever, he changes gears. “So anyway, this study you’re conducting…” He takes a sip from his drink. “Were you on the cusp of a breakthrough or something?”

Jarred by the shift, I try to stall. “Why do you ask?”

Timon cocks his head. “It’s my job to know everything. What kind of scopiler would I be if I didn’t draw exaggerated conclusions from flimsy evidence?”

I give my beer a pointed look. “You’d make a great researcher.”

“Hah. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold?”

I make a repentant face. Someone like Timon can never get into research, so perhaps joking about it is perceived as a taunt? I give him a searching look, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead he studies the pearls of condensation running down his glass.

“Whoever killed the professor doesn’t want the study to go forward, right?” he muses.

I hesitate. “Uh… maybe.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Why else kill an old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

“Well…”

“Which tells me the study was on the verge of a breakthrough, and someone knew. It also means you’re in danger.”

I take a deep swallow from my glass and put it back down too hard. The bang makes me sound angry, but I’m really not. I’m just… sick of it. Of everything. The world feels like an itchy sweater I can’t take off. I have a sudden urge to talk to Feona, even though I know I can’t confide in her. Emotional support isn’t her strong suit. Sure, she can pat a hand and offer advice she’s memorized from a book of quotations, but to actually listen and be there… that just isn’t her. Blame her Aries ascendant or Mars in the eighth house, but Feona Hollander is a doer, not a feeler.

Unlike Timon, who seems able to channel every emotion under the stars.

He’s drumming his fingers on the table now, deep in thought. “Maybe you should take a few sick days. Lie low for a while.”

Sudden anger surges in me. “I can’t let this psycho scare me into silence. I’m a searcher for truth. If I abandon my post, what’ll the world come to?”

Timon stares at me. Then he laughs. “Wow, Doctor Hammond. You do take yourself seriously.”

“And you don’t? What if you started guessing at crime scenes? Plucked theories out of thin air?”

“That’s kind of what I do, actually.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Timon shoots me a cheeky look. “Believe? I thought you were a ‘searcher for truth’. Aren’t you supposed to know?”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, one-nil to the starless.”

Timon falls quiet, mouth open for words that don’t come. Oh, wait… ‘starless’ isn’t a PC word anymore, is it? I seem to remember a columnist cautioning against it in some Sunday supplement or other. As I scrabble to take it back, Timon waves a dismissive hand.

“It’s, um… a bit difficult to keep up, you know?” I attempt to defend myself. “These terms change all the time, and…”

“It’s your job, though, isn’t it?” Timon’s dark eyes issue a blood-freezing challenge, and I swallow drily.

“That doesn’t mean…” I half-whisper, gesturing vaguely. “I mean… I fuck up. I’m so sorry.”

“You said.”

“Yeah, but…” But you’re obviously not forgiving me. I take a sip from my beer to avoid looking at him. Tension hangs heavy over the table, dissuading further conversation. Yeah, I’ve fucked up, but come on. Three months ago, that word was fine. Sure, I’m an ‘expert’, but not in the way Timon thinks. I don’t socialize with Azods, I only work with their blood. I’m in a lab, for stars’ sake. I don’t frequent websites devoted to Azod rights, I only read research papers and tables full of blood metal levels. Where would I even get the memo that ‘starless’ is no longer an okay word?

Not knowing what else to do, I take another gulp, but the beer tastes sour now. Timon looks sullen and unreachable. I want to explain, but it’ll only make things worse. Sighing, I prepare to empty my glass in silence. This was a crap idea to begin with. A doctor and an Azod, pretending at friends? It’s laughable. Bound to go wrong.

Intrigued? Find out what happens in Chains of Being at your favourite online store.

In a world of stars, #WhatsYourSign?

Doctor Hammond is the darling of the constellations. With a genius birth chart and a doctorate in Astrology, everything points to imminent academic stardom. But a danger lurks at the heart of Hammond’s research, and when Timon the Azod enters the stage, a collision is inescapable – because Timon is Hammond’s polar opposite. Navigating the world on intuition alone, he represents the chaos Hammond tries so hard to control. And in a society built on the zodiac, he’s the unthinkable: a man without a chart.

In another part of town, actor Sean Matthews prepares for the role of his life. Together with posh boy co-star Alastair Chesterton, he’s about to make television history. But when the show starts bleeding into reality, Sean has to face some difficult truths – about himself, about Alastair, about reality itself. In the clutches of a narrative that’s stronger than him, he’s faced with the ultimate choice: to play the part he’s been given, or to risk it all and go off script.

Set in a London close to our own, this story shows a world about to crumble – or be born again.

 

 

Love among the stars

So I heard it was a special day today – February 14. I haven’t really caught on to that whole thing, but I do have a brand new excerpt from my upcoming release to share! Yay. 🙂 Planning to set it loose on the world sometime in April.

Meet Timon and Samiel, everyone. 🙂

“Yes, what?”

Samiel jumped. He’d forgotten he was holding a phone. “Oh. Yes, hello, this is Doctor Hammond,” he said, the title almost tripping him up. “I’m calling from the university of –”

“You want me to vouch for Timon? He’s benefic. Oh, and this is D.I. Mannerley if you’re wondering. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. My guys are in the elevator.”

“The police are already here?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a team on every corner today. Saturn retrograde and all, you know?”

But Samiel didn’t know. Saturn retrograde? His forecast hadn’t shown anything of the sort. He’d heard something on the news about a week of overtime for the police, but he’d written it off as disinformation leaked from some hack company.

“Get your hands off me,” Timon barked.

“I’ll call security,” Feona yelled back, and Samiel put the phone to his chest.

“Feona! Feona, he’s benefic.”

“What?” She turned a forbidding scowl his way.

“He’s with the police.”

She scoffed. “The police? He’s a blanky, Samiel.”

“Don’t–” Samiel stopped, uncertain. Should he really tell Feona off in front of all her colleagues just because of one stupid insult? It would set an example, but it really wasn’t fair. She was just shaken up.

But even shaken up, people shouldn’t use words like that.

“Wait a minute.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Are you still there?”

“Huh? Yeah… hey Garett, you can go start the car, I’ll join you in a minute. Yes, what?”

“This Timon… what does he do?”

“Oh, he’s a scopiler. Strictly on a freelance basis, you understand, but we really can’t afford not to use his services. He’s the best.”

“Oh…” Samiel glanced at Timon. A scopiler? That rare breed of people who could intuitively deduce a perpetrator’s chart based on the crime, the forecast for the day, and the chart of the victim. His gaze snagged in the aura of professionalism, of confidence that was so incongruous in an Azod, and for a moment, he seemed to float above the scene. Nothing could touch him: not the pale corpse, not the hubbub, not Timon’s sullen good looks.

And then he was back in his body, and D.I. Mannerley was asking if there was anything else he wanted to know before she went down to the bleedin’ garage.

“Uh… no.” He rubbed his forehead. “Thank you, D.I. Mannerley.”

He hung up, just to be grabbed by a rough hand and pulled away from the doorway. “We’ll take it from here.”

Two policemen barged past him and started ordering people to leave. Inside the office, Timon was squatting by Professor Wright’s lifeless body, lifting a manila folder with a pencil, but he straightened up to accept a pair of gloves.

“You too, scram,” one of the policemen barked at Samiel.

Timon gave him a disgusted look. When he spoke, his soft voice cut through the noise like a knife. “He can stay, Garett.”

The policeman whirled on him. “What?”

“I need details. I can’t read everything on the body. I thought you knew that by now.”

Garett grudgingly let Samiel enter and nudged the door shut with his foot. The turmoil of the corridor was muffled. Grateful but shaken, Samiel watched as Timon folded up his shirt sleeves. It was such an impossible scene: an Azod, busy working, analysing – almost like a normal person.

Of course, the starless weren’t really starless. They’d just had a rough start in life. Many of them were adopted or foundlings. Some had been born in cabs on the way to the hospital, others had been delivered by distracted doctors who didn’t note the time. Some of them knew their sun and moon signs, the slowest moving houses, and sometimes their ascendants. Worst case scenario, they were born on the street by other Azods, and none of the strict routines were in place for them.

But they weren’t actually starless. That was just a term to say they lacked the requisite paperwork. They’d all been born under a particular constellation. The only trouble was that no one knew which one. And so they went through life like ciphers, unpredictable and threatening, unable to get a job since they couldn’t prove they were suited for it.

Well, except for Timon, it seemed. Somehow he’d managed to worm his way into a position of relative power: an impossible riddle. Was Timon so incredibly good at what he did that he’d surmounted the odds?

“You worked for him?” Garett jerked a thumb at Professor Wright.

Worked. Past tense already.

Samiel swallowed. “Yes.”

“Did he have a forecast?”

“Of course.”

“You know where he might have kept it?” Garett picked up the tablet that lay by the professor’s motionless elbow. “In this?”

Samiel stared at the tablet, his mind a blank. it was starting to sink in now. Professor Wright was actually dead. Like dead, dead. Never to return. Not just the head of the research team, but the old man who snorted into his coffee when Feona told her dirty jokes; the huggable human teddy bear who always had five minutes to spare when someone had personal problems; the thundercloud who could disperse a gaggle of reporters with one guttural bellow.

“If it’s password protected, Timon can crack it,” Garett said impatiently.

“Actually, I…” Samiel looked over his shoulder at the safe. “I think he prints them and keeps them in there.”

Walking across the room to open it, Samiel blinked away a sudden film of moisture in his eyes. He couldn’t show weakness now – shouldn’t even possess it, according to his chart. This was just a problem to be solved, nothing else. Treat it like Timon does. Like a puzzle.

“Well, the perpetrator is intelligent, that much is clear,” Timon said, stepping away from the desk. “Probably knows a thing or two about forensic astrology, so they’ve deliberately muddied the waters. Leaving him here instead of moving him to some place that would reveal things about their chart.”

“Like what?” Garett asked, pen and notebook in hand.

Samiel thought he could hear a tiny sigh. “Like burying it, and revealing a strong earth influence?”

Garett scribbled.

“But if they can deliberately go against their chart…?” Samiel frowned. “I mean… isn’t that impossible?”

Timon pulled off his gloves. “Some people can subvert their true charts. Takes someone bright, though. But the science of astrology isn’t one hundred percent exact yet. Shouldn’t you know that, Doctor?”

The subtle stress on his title wasn’t lost on him. One of the articles in his dissertation had treated on that very subject: the free will conundrum. But he’d only passed the needle’s eye a month ago, and he was standing before his murdered boss, for God’s sake. For all his Mercury conjunct Uranus, he couldn’t be expected to be a genius at a time like this.

“They’re never clever enough to hide their motivations, though.” Timon held out his hand towards Samiel. “Phone, please.”

“Oh.” Samiel had forgotten he was holding it. He handed it to Timon, who thumbed an app and started reading.

“Mm, yes… Mars was in the terms of Jupiter last night, so this was motivated by a sense of justice. A vendetta.”

“How can you be so sure?” Garett asked. “If they’re so smart, wouldn’t they choose a time for the crime that would muddy the waters too?”

Timon looked a little tired. “Well, that’s where my intuition comes in. Otherwise anyone could do what I do, you see? There has to be an element of the unknowable, the leap of faith, the insane. Otherwise it’s just another chart.”

“Speaking of charts…” Garett raised his eyebrows at Samiel.

“Oh… yes, of course.”

Samiel unlocked the safe. When the door swung open, Garett pushed him aside and grabbed the whole pile of folders. “We’ll take these.”

“But –”

“This is evidence now.” He gave Timon a wry smile. “Some light reading for wonder boy over there.”

Timon was pacing the room, scanning the ceiling, the walls, the bookcases, the window – noting everything, but taking nothing down. He had a phenomenal memory too? As Samiel watched him, a thought occurred to him: if Timon could read a stranger’s chart in clues left behind at a crime scene, he should be able to deduce his own chart. Or didn’t it work that way? Wasn’t the brain wired to understand itself? Samiel rifled through his memory for any literature on the subject, but couldn’t recall anything.

He glanced at the body by the desk, at the motionless form that had once been Professor Wright, the man who’d dedicated his life to finding the ultimate blood test. If they ever found it, they’d have to call it the Wright test.

But what if scopilers could already do it on intuition alone? What if Professor Wright’s work was all in vain? The body grew blurry, unfocused. What if this Timon guy could just take one look at someone and deduce their stars?

But it probably wasn’t that easy. If it was, scopilers across the country would already have made big money out of it. Samiel’s shoulders fell. What a perfect validation method that would have been – to have a scopiler tell them whether the test results were accurate.

“Alright, well, if you’re done, we’ll have regular forensics come in,” Garett said. He handed Timon the pile of folders.

Timon grimaced at the insane amount of paperwork. “Yay. The old man couldn’t have kept it all in a computer? This will take a month to compile.”

“I’ll help you,” Samiel said, taking himself by surprise.

“Really?” Timon gave him a sly look that made something flip in Samiel’s chest. “Well, thank you, kind sir.” He jerked his head at the door. “Let’s go?”

Clickbait your book! ;)

Had some fun today imagining my books as clickbait articles. I urge my fellow authors to try it – at the very least, it’s an exercise that can narrow down the plot of a WIP or help you come up with those pesky blurbs.

This man met his celebrity crush at a party – but what happens next will melt your heart

10 things only bulimics will understand

Only one in 50 literature buffs can identify these 23 Shakespeare references. Can you?

Can we guess your favourite trope?

23 ways to say ‘I love you’ – the sixteenth one will make you cry

This is why you should never have a pretend relationship

5 behind-the-scenes problems musicians don’t want you to know about

He was a doormat for twenty-nine years – but you won’t believe what happens when they accuse him of this

Readers are freaking out over this gritty “romance”

AYCE banner

Cutting Edge (Pax Cymrica #4)

This post and the links in it contain advertisements for my book.

Cutting Edge cover

After ten years of hard work, rock band Pax are enjoying a stable career, but not everyone rejoices in their success. Just weeks into their first holiday in years, a family files a complaint against them for causing their son’s death. Their lawyer assures them the lawsuit will go away quietly – after all, a rock band can’t be blamed for some poor kid’s fate on the streets.

Or can they? This is the eighties, at the height of the moral panic surrounding heavy metal, and no accusation is too ridiculous. When Jamie takes on a guitar pupil who pushes the boundaries of artistic freedom, he starts to question his own responsibility for what he puts out. At the same time, Michael meets a former bully who insinuates that Michael wasn’t as innocent a victim as he thinks.

While Michael fights his personal battle against demons from his past, he also prepares to give evidence on the part of the band in a court of law. The question isn’t just whether Pax will survive this latest blow – it’s whether Michael will.

“The clear star of the show was the tension was between Michael and Jamie. Their internal conflicts were incredible and intricate.” (The Novel Approach)

Buy link

Blog posts:

Forgiveness – but for whom?

If you don’t like it, don’t watch it

Symbols and opposites

Unicorns in the office

Should art be censored?

Release (Pax Cymrica #3)

This post and the links in it contain advertisements for my book.

Release fire större text röd eld

Things are moving forward for Pax. At 35 miles per day, to be exact. Their new tour may be unorthodox, but they do have fans, tucked away in the backwaters of England. Besides, there are whispers about bigger gigs, maybe even another album. But there’s something wrong with Jamie. Michael doesn’t want to believe it, but on the eve of their big break, the truth threatens to destroy everything.

“Ingela Bohm did an excellent job with all her characters and this story but Jamie’s character in particular. I didn’t feel like I was just reading words on a page but I was actually in his head with as scary and as hard as it was to be there sometimes it made this series one of my favorites.” (World of Diversity)

“It’s almost impossible to read it with a dry eye … Ms. Bohm is such a lyrical, masterful writer that, at times, she takes my breath away. There are moments of unmatched tenderness, breathtaking first-love, depths of despair and betrayal, broken hearts and soaring hearts, evil, beauty and love – and above it all, music.” (Sinfully Addicted)

Buy link

Blog posts:

Jamie Gardiner: a charming chameleon with hidden pain

Michael Vaughan: a study in contradictions

“One, two, three, four…” A band comes to life

A musical love affair