Friendly Fire is Re-Releasing!

*drum roll*

Otherwise known as FINA-FRICKIN-LLY, it's the re-release of my m/m romantic suspense novel Friendy Fire, formerly out with Riptide Publishing. The book is up for pre-order now, for the holiday bargain price of $2.99, and will be released on Boxing Day, December 26th.

Thus begins the deluge, my darlins. Stay tuned for lots of old stuff coming back with a face-lift.

Friendly Fire on Amazon

Elliot McKenzie is the king of reinvention. Five years after losing his job and his lover and almost going to prison, his self-help program, Charmed Life, is more successful than he’d ever dreamed. He thinks he’s put his sordid past firmly behind him, until he starts receiving cryptic threats . . . and realizes it might not be as over as he’d hoped.

Security expert Lennox West has been lost since a deadly skirmish in Afghanistan led to his forced retirement from the Army. His PTSD makes helping his ex raise their daughter a challenge. When his ex’s sister asks him to set her boss up with a security system, Lennox isn’t expecting anyone like Elliot McKenzie—a man who captures his attention and makes him feel relaxed for the first time since leaving the service.

But Elliott is dangerously stubborn. Even as the threats against him escalate, he refuses to involve the police, and Lennox fears that stubbornness could kill him. A battle of wills ensues that brings them closer to each other than either man expected. But if the threats turn real, they might not live long enough to get their future together.

The Tank: Chapter Ten, Part One

Notes: Let's meet a few of our brilliant in-house scientists and thaumaturges! And Caroline can't resist showing off, unfortunately.

Title: The Tank: Chapter Ten, Part One

***

Chapter Ten, Part One

If Anton had been expecting a scene from some sort of ancient Hephaestionesque-forge in the Engineering wing, full of fire and smoke and grit, he’d have been truly disappointed. This had to be the tidiest shop of its type he’d ever seen, and also the largest. From the second floor, which he and Dr. Grable had reached thanks to the assistance of an actual elevator—quite a luxury—it stretched on for a length comparable to the entire main lecturing hall at the university. Not just one of the large chambers for lectures—all of them. The breadth of it was stunning, and the level of organization that had to go into keeping it all running equally breathtaking. There were enormous structures partially-elevated in places, with men and, indeed, a few women running around beneath them doing things with tools so esoteric that Anton could hardly imagine their use. He’d rarely felt more out of place.

Engineering and Thaumaturgy were close cousins to many practitioners. They both had a basis in mathematical formulas and equations, but where Thaumaturgy climbed into the spiritual and ethereal, Engineering dug in its roots and planted itself deep within the earthen realm of practicality. For Anton, that was a mental bridge he had little facility at making—he was a thaumaturge through and through, better with alchemical symbolism than imaginary numbers. Someone like Caroline, whom he noted looked particularly avaricious, could see a long ways in both directions.

“Our Chief Engineer is Giovanni Da Vinci. Yes,” Lord Jourdain added with a hint of pride in his voice, “of those Da Vincis. It took some convincing to pry him away from his sinecure with the papacy, but to be the lord and master of the engine of the French Empire did the trick.”

“Absolutely fascinating,” Caroline exclaimed. “Is that the beginnings of another airship over there, like the one which picked us up?”

“It is, with a few modifications to the frame. The next generation of tanks are being constructed in the yard outside—there isn’t space for the number the emperor requested be built in here.”

“And multi-shot cannon,” Dr. Grable noted sourly.

“A step above what you might remember from the front, but not so different overall,” Lord Jourdain demurred. “Single shot cannon still have their uses, but if a man can carry a double-barreled gun, why shouldn’t a machine make better use of its own solidity?”

“Why indeed? Anything spelled yet?”

“Ah, no. Signore Da Vinci is very particular about finishing his work before passing it on to our thaumaturges. They consult each other on projects, obviously, but for the most part he is left to do his work without consideration of magical enhancement.” Lord Jourdain set off along the walkway at a steady pace, pointing out a few things of interest but leaving far more unmentioned. It wasn’t surprising—he couldn’t be keen to give too much away, after all—but Anton wished for Caroline’s sake that the man was more forthcoming. The less she felt compelled to sneak about in search of information, the better it would go for her.

Unlike me, who has to sneak about regardless.

They spent an hour or so in Engineering, which was about forty-five minutes longer than Anton had real patience for, before finally heading over to the Thaumaturgy wing. As soon as they stepped in the door, Anton felt more at ease—the quiet hum of magic filled the air, gentle pressure along his skin like a breeze that had learned to stand still. The central hall they walked into was empty save for one man writing on a chalkboard that took up the entire length of one wall. It looked like a series of equations that had to do with…propulsion? Was that the symbol for quicksilver?

“That is Lord Atwood, one of our greatest masters of theoretical thaumaturgical symbology,” Lord Jourdain said, leading them forward. “My lord, good morning.” When the older man didn’t so much as look up, Lord Jourdain repeated “Good morning!” in an elevated tone of voice.

“Ah!” Lord Atwood turned around to look at them. “Visitors, how lovely.” He spoke excellent English, without even a hint of accent. “Are you here for the colloquium on ether? One of my students is presenting it—should be quite nice. It’s not happening for a few hours yet, though.”

Caroline raised her hand in a demure wave. Anton knew that wave. For her, it was the equivalent of jumping up and down. “I’d love to listen to it,” she said. “I’ve read all your early papers on the subject, it’s absolutely fascinating.”

“Early papers? Eh? Speak up, lass!”

“Yes, all the early ones!” she shouted.

“Ah! The British ones, you mean! Ha! Come a long way since those, we have. You’re British, then?” He turned slightly astonished eyes at Lord Jourdain. “I thought the whole point of me being here was to get my work away from the British bastards.”

Lord Jourdain nodded. “It was, but I think we can exempt Lady Cuthbert from the ranks of bastardry for the time being. The emperor looks upon this as a chance to impress the outside world with our innovations.”

“Impress, eh? You mean he wants us to scare the pants of ‘em!” Lord Atwood cackled to himself. “Fine, fine! I’ll be happy to scare this young woman a bit. You know these symbols behind me?” he challenged her.

“I’m well acquainted with them,” she replied, a bit more tart than girlishly cheery now.

“Then take what I’ve got up here and solve for acceleration of an object through the specified magic-free zone, with the variables as given.” He rubbed his hands together. “If you can find a way to get it across our hypothetical barren wasteland, I’ll let you into my lab and show you some really scary work.”

“Fine.” Caroline snatched the chalk out of his hand and studied the board. After a minute of silence, she leaned in and began to write.

Anton would have continued watching, had he not heard the slightest creak of a rusty hinge behind him. He glanced back to see one of the doors to the private labs was open just wide enough to admit an observer to watch the proceedings. When whoever it was noticed Anton looking their way, the gap tightened. Tightened, but didn’t vanish. They were still watching.

Was this Lord Atwood’s student? A curious researcher? If so, were they curious about the equation, or about the visitors? Thaumaturges were notoriously cagey when it came to sharing their work, but these luminaries were only here at the allowance of the emperor. It seemed that that meant sharing was a given.

Caroline stopped writing a moment later. “There. Done.”

Lord Atwood peered at the equations. “Not bad,” he said at last. “You didn’t compensate for wind resistance, though.”

“That wasn’t part of the original symbology.”

“It’s part of the physics of the problem, girl, and the symbology is only as good as the reality that it works within. Still.” He stroked the sparse hairs covering his chin. “I suppose it’s good enough to warrant a peek at the lab. Bring the rest of these people, Jourdain, let’s see what they make of it all.” He began to wander away, and the party moved to follow.

Anton stopped one of the ever-present staff. “Would you be so kind as to take over conveying Dr. Grable for a moment or two?” he asked. Dr. Grable glanced up at Anton but didn’t object. The servant took over, and Anton glanced at the private lab again. The crack was still there. Taking a breath, he turned and began to walk slowly, softly, toward the door.

The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part Two

Notes: We have our central cast assembled, now let's meet some supporting characters. I think we're about at the halfway point on this story--it's going to be longer than the other ones in the series by quite a margin.

Title: The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part Two

***

Chapter Nine, Part Two

 

  

The tour was easily found—one of the innocuous, vaguely disapproving staff approached them as soon as they left Dr. Grable’s rooms and escorted them to the dining hall, where, they were coolly informed, “the rest of your party awaits.”

Anton understood that the insinuation had to do with them being inconvenient for everyone else, but he was willing to let it slide. Dr. Grable, however, was used to being attended to by a staff who kept their opinions to themselves, for fear of bringing his wrath and extra duties down on them. He wouldn’t take it at the university, and he wasn’t about to take it here. The dressing down was short and ferociously blunt, culminating with “—as I’ve just had my damn leg tended to by your in-house witch doctor, I believe I’ve more than enough reasons to force a little wait on my behalf, and I don’t care if you agree with me or not, man, try that attitude to my face again and you might find a frog staring back at you in a mirror one day.”

Their escort went silent after that, bowed a bit lower and kept more distance, and Dr. Grable looked up at Anton and murmured, “And now I’ll be roundly despised by the staff, who will have more sympathy for you if you take care to look a bit beleaguered.” Anton took that as a stage direction, and attempted to make himself appear more hangdog than he already felt as they entered the dining hall.

But this was…not a hall. This was an elegant oak table that seated perhaps twenty, not a place where the staff and soldiers and scientists and whoever else came to eat. The long, shining expanse of wood was covered with trays of thinly-sliced meat and cheese, bowls of fruit, platters of bread and jam and mounds of beautiful white butter carved into elegant shapes, silver pots of coffee and tea, juice and water with actual ice cubes sparkling in it. There was also a small stack of empty plates, indicating that the others in the room had, in fact, eaten.

Lord Jourdain stood quietly talking with Cardinal Proulx over matched cups of coffee by the largest windows. Caroline was sitting in a little gaggle of women at a side table, both high-ranking servants from the look of things, their stern miens softened by her engaging manner and the pretty picture she made in her sky-blue dress. She looked over at Anton as he and Dr. Grable entered, but had the sense only to briefly smile rather than being more engaging. Monsieur Deschamps paced by the fireplace, looking from one little nexus of conversation to the other as though he knew how odd it was for him to be isolated so, but couldn’t do anything about it.

Camille was nowhere to be seen. That bothered Anton more than he wanted to admit.

Lord Jourdain was the first to break off and join them, his new robes nearly indistinguishable from what he wore to greet them yesterday, grey-streaked hair pulled back in a neat tail. “Gentlemen, welcome. I trust you both slept well?”

“The sleeping went well enough, but your doctor is an unstoppable force when she has something on her mind,” Dr. Grable said with a grunt, waving Anton toward the nearest teapot. He served himself, stretching for the cup with a grimace but scowling warningly when Anton moved to assist him.

“Yes, Dr. Wictoryn is quite excellent at her work, isn’t she?”

Dr. Grable inclined his head. “She is indeed, sir.”

“I’m pleased you think well of her capabilities. Her preferred focus is research, of course, this being a research institute, but one of the caveats of the position of a medical researcher was that she be on hand to deal with any injuries that crop up among the staff or guests.”

“I’ve no complaints.”

That would be a first if it were true, Anton muttered in his own head.

“While you two gentlemen help yourself to breakfast, allow me to begin my explanations of the grounds and those areas permissible for visitors to frequent.” Lord Jourdain looked around the room. “You might have noticed that the Institute is built like a keyhole, with three substantial buildings linked in a U-shape and a gate and guard towers closing that U up. We are currently in the central building, which is dedicated to administrative matters, including the feeding and housing of our guests and staff. The building to the north,” he waved to the side with his left hand, “is where our thaumaturges do the majority of their work. The central hall is open to you, as well as the meeting rooms and learning laboratories, but if you encounter a locked door, you must not try to force it. Intrusion into private research matters of the Empire will result in a swift reckoning.

“The south building,” he continued as if he hadn’t just promised a long drop and a quick stop to anyone who stuck their nose where it didn’t belong, “is dedicated to our engineers, where the laboratories are much larger and less individualistic. You may view them from a walkway accessible on the second floor, but if they are covered, you are not to look further. You are not under any circumstances allowed to be on the ground floor in those laboratories unless accompanied by myself or another qualified engineer. This is for your own safety, and disregarding this rule could result in a very painful accident.” He folded his hands together and looked around the room. “Are there any questions at this juncture?”

“This is all so exciting!” Caroline said, clasping her hands together and batting her eyelashes a bit. “If I may ask, do you have any women thaumaturges or engineers on staff?”

“Several of each, Lady Cuthbert.”

“How delightful! I would so like to meet them. The thought of bringing word of France’s great social progress in acknowledging all that women have to offer back to England absolutely thrills me.”

Lord Jourdain smiled indulgently, and Anton almost reeled from how smoothly Caroline had just stitched herself into the fabric of the place. Lord, if she were actually a diplomat she would be unstoppable. “That can certainly be arranged, my lady. Anything else?”

“Yes.” Cardinal Proulx was fingering his cross. “What of the late Vicomte Voclain? When are his services to be held?”

“His brother has been contacted and is on his way,” Lord Jourdain said. “It is a journey of several days, and he is insisting that his brother be interred on their ancestral grounds.” His voice went a bit flatter. “Among other things. Undoubtedly he’ll wish to speak with you, to ensure that the last rites were performed as well as could be expected under the circumstances.”

“Of course, of course.” The cardinal inclined his head. “I would be very pleased to meet with the new vicomte.”

“He will be, won’t he?” Lord Jourdain’s eyes sharpened a bit, but nothing else about him indicated undue interest in the incoming Voclain. “Is there anything else?” He looked around the room. Anton did his best to hold still under the scrutiny, while Monsieur Deschamps was fidgeting so hard he was his own odd little orchestra.

“In that case, I ask that you please follow me to the Engineering wing of the Institute.”

The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part One

Notes: Story today, yay! We're about to enter the machination phase of the book, so strap your thinking caps on and prepare to sally forth into (gasp) political and interpersonal manipulation! So exciting ;)

Title: The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part One

***

Chapter Nine, Part One

“A…tank?” Anton looked with new interest at the mechanical marvels roaming about outside. Now that he got a better look, he could tell there were in fact only three of them and not an actual herd…group? Battalion? Whatever you called a group of something like that in a military context. “As in a tank of water? A tank of, of fuel? Or are these magical too?”

“In the case of these particular beasts, I believe the engines are powered by petrol.”

“Really?” Anton couldn’t quite picture it. “Isn’t that enormously heavy?”

Dr. Grable shrugged. “The engines provide enough horsepower to overcome the inertia inherent in carrying the fuel, but it’s true, they can’t get very far on it yet. Steam might be more effective, but they’d still have the weight of the coal.”

“Why not magic, then? The way the airship does it?”

“Delicate magic,” Dr. Grable reminded him. “Very delicate, intricate magic acting on a highly unusual flotation system. The equations don’t yet exist that could allow magic to successfully long-term operate a machine like that. They will eventually,” he added with an air of resignation, “but they don’t yet. You must remember, this is a joint research facility. Magic informs science and vice-versa, but they also stand on their own.”

“If they’re already capable of things like this,” Anton began slowly, “what could they possibly need us for?”

“Judging worth. Remember? We’re not here for the quality of our minds, although I have no doubt you could run circles around some of the thaumaturges they have working here,” Dr. Grable said. “There is deep mistrust of their own people within imperial leadership, and for the first time I have to say I’m beginning to see why. Voclain dead, terrorist attacks, experimental airships at the beck and call of a lowly lumière…these are very strange circumstances, to say the least. I’m actually quite pleased to be here, now—we may indeed have the opportunity to thwart an act of sabotage.”

“You might,” Anton said. “I don’t share your ability at evaluating thaumaturgic equivalencies. I’m just here to assist you however I may.” He took in Dr. Grable’s cagey expression. “Aren’t I?”

“Is that woman fetching the wheelchair from the other end of the bloody institute?” Dr. Grable muttered, then patted the bed beside himself. “Sit down for a moment, lad.”

Oh, dear. The doctor was being hospitable. This didn’t bode well. Nevertheless, Anton sat.

“You are certainly here to assist me,” Dr. Grable stated. “To help me with any thaumaturgically heavy lifting, so to speak. But yes, the primary task of evaluating the spells currently in production will fall to me and me alone. However, if my theory that an act of sabotage or falseness has already taken place and been detected, I find it very unlikely that another such act will be discoverable by someone like me. Whoever did it knows that they’re being watched. I could probably scour this place from top to toe and not uncover a whit of imbalanced magic, much less actual sabotage.”

“Then what—”

“Which is where you come in,” Dr. Grable continued, continuing like he’d never paused for breath. “I am a figure who will, because of my reputation, necessarily be a part of a bustling crowd while I am here. This isn’t arrogance, it’s simply fact, and now that my leg is broken I shall have even less freedom than I might have had before. You, on the other hand, are a young man of excellent mind but few means. You will not be approached by people looking to buy your influence, because you have no influence. On the contrary—it would be considered strange for you not to try and ingratiate yourself with some of the resident thaumaturges and scientists, in case one of them might offer you a better path to solvency.”

Anton was dumbfounded. “You want me to…to what, act as a spy for you?” God, was there no escaping that fate?

“Only in a manner of speaking, and a crude one at that. What I want you to do is to look at the people behind the work they’re doing, not simply at the work itself. You’re better than most of the students I’ve had when it comes to understanding the mind as well as the mechanism. Look for someone whose work doesn’t line up with his or her aspirations, someone who professes one thing but secretly desires another.” Dr. Grable sighed, his shoulders slumping a bit. “I hate to put this sort of responsibility on your shoulders, Anton, but the truth of the matter is that neither of us would be here right now if all was well. Something in this beautiful, miraculous place is rotten, and we must discover what it is before the rot spreads. It could mean saving hundreds, thousand of lives in the end.”

“Or costing hundred or thousands of lives,” Anton had to point out. “This is a place that has dedicated itself to the pursuit and improvement of warfare. What if in rooting out a traitor, we’re actually making way for death to become even more efficient?”

“It’s only something to worry about when it’s your side that’s dying,” Dr. Grable replied bluntly. “The emperor hasn’t held his throne for the last fifty years by being a pacifist, but he hasn’t been a tyrant either. I don’t like the thought of integrating myself further into the machine, but I like even less the idea of uprisings and insurgencies springing up in every town and city with a suitably disaffected populace. It doesn’t take much for mild discontent to turn into a soul-lashing fervor, Anton. I’ve seen it happen many times before.”

He nodded his head toward the door. “You’re English by nationality, of course, so it’s not your fight, not yet. If you feel you can’t do this, I understand. Now, this very morning, is probably the last chance you’ll have to convince Lord Jourdain or the lumière to let you go.”

No. No, it was already far too late for that. It had been too late the moment Caroline entered the pictured. Camille had simply sealed Anton’s fate. “I’ll stay,” he said heavily.

“I appreciate that, my lad.”

Just then, Dr. Wictoryn reentered the clinic, a wide black leather wheelchair with silver fittings pushed in front of her. “It took me a while to find one that would suit your width,” she said acidly to Dr. Grable.

“Oh, for the love of God, woman—”

Anton sighed. Probably he could return to his room, cast the stasis spell, and be back before their argument finished. But no—he didn’t have his holdall yet. Perhaps it was in Dr. Grable’s quarters.

“I beg your pardon, let me help you move him,” Anton said at last, breaking into the building argument. He got under Dr. Grable’s arm and was helping him to his feet before Dr. Wictoryn caught her breath and realized she had work to do if she didn’t want her patient to end up on the ground. The transfer to the wheelchair went well enough, and afterward she escorted them out of her clinic with stern orders that culminated in “—ensure that I see him at least once a day, do you understand me?”

“Harridan!”

“Gasbag!” She slammed the door shut, and Dr. Grable chuckled.

“Once a day, eh? Lucky me! Now, let’s find my rooms and then order someone to give us a tour of this place.”

That, at least, was a plan Anton could get behind.