The Books in Question

Since, we're all in this together, let's talk about what we're writing this next month. Comments welcome.

Dirty Toes:  DJ Admire is given a case, and a partner, by the local cops. Someone is serial murdering children. There is no noise, no forced entry, and the kids are found dead in their beds, all leg flesh missing between knee and hip. DJ and Paula Ramirez, a rookie with magical control problems, have to hunt down the killer.

First page:

Captain Morgan is my reality filter, and today I needed all the filtering I could get. It was an ordinary October Wednesday in Memphis, pollen count through the roof, just off the full moon and eighty degrees with humidity that made clothes and pollen stick to everything. Most days, even days like that. I got by just fine.

I'd known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.

“Admire here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my brain with tiny sharp teeth.

“Miss Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can figure it.”

If the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops, who were also top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI, without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight into the Nightside and the bottle.

So far, I was still holding the bottle instead of the other way around. No-Talents ended one of three ways. We were found ripped apart by something Nightside, or we went out with a needle in our arms or antifreeze in our veins. I wasn't the druggie sort, but those who knew me had their bets on the other two.

I thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.

So, despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my office and headed down to 201 Poplar.

Two hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a public service. But this one...

Five children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys, found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all flesh missing from hip joint to knee.

Terror of the Frozen North: Edward Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, is blackmailed by his jilted fiancee, Sarah Brown, into babysitting an eccentric inventor on a trip to Greenland, where they will be testing new inventions for His Majesty's Army. His beloved secretary, Charlie, and his evil ex, Nigel, are along for the ride.

First Page:

He rode the edges of the estate, the damp December wind chilling him even through the greatcoat he wore. The coat itself smelled faintly of oil and smoke, a remnant of the Great War, now six years past. He put the thought from his mind and let Oscar carry him into the estate's parkland, along trails he'd ridden since boyhood.

The trees loomed bare and black with the wet, green moss shocking against their bark. It was a lonesome way to spend the week between Christmas and New Year's, but it suited Edward. He'd given the staff the week off. Charles had gone into London on some errand for a few days. He was playing bachelor, eating out of tins, sleeping on the sofa before the fire and reading as late as he liked. General Elizabeth had tutted over the notion and left plenty of goose from Christmas.

He smiled at that thought. Charles had enjoyed his first real English Christmas with roast goose, mistletoe, crackers, carolers and flaming plum pudding. The gifts had been small, but Charles had assured him they were never large at the Doyle household. As the night grew long and the last of the wassailers had trundled off, warmed by good rum punch, Edward had taken up residence under the mistletoe, kissing anyone who came within reach. Janine and Olivia had giggled and kissed him sweetly, without jealous looks at each other. Elizabeth had allowed a buss on the cheek, as had Robert. Charlie had held back as they left and then planted himself on Edward's lap for a lengthy kiss that left both of them yearning.

Edward shook his head. Robert was spending the holiday week in the village with his family. He popped round every couple days to check the animals, but Edward had been taking care of them. He plagued Edward's mind. The boy was truly beautiful with eyes the color of the parkland in springtime. But much, much too young, Edward reminded himself. And there was Charles to think of.

He adored his secretary. The little American brought love and cheer into his life, something he never thought to find again after the war had blighted his whole generation. Those that hadn't died had come back changed. The dead weren't always the unlucky ones.

Like Nigel. He tried to steer his thoughts back to Charles, but was haunted by the specter of Nigel.  His former wingman and former lover had changed. The war had turned a mean streak into purest sadism and cruelty, the sort that could throw a burning oil-lamp on a naked girl and laugh as she screamed. Edward had put the poor lady out, as well as himself, but she had been burned and they would both bear the scars of that dalliance. Charles bore scars from Nigel's hands as well, in body and mind. Edward wondered whether maybe they should have gone down that day over France, both of them.

Edward slid off of Oscar and led him by the reins. That was no way to think. Charles loved him. He smiled a little then at the thought of his sweet boy, who was probably sitting in the London townhouse banging away at his typewriter. Charles had been known to sleep with the machine as well as atop it after a long day.
His thoughts returned to the war. Six years gone by. Edward couldn't take it in sometimes. He dreamed of flight, of dogfighting. He woke in a cold sweat from the nightmares where the Red Baron shot him down, sending him spiraling to the ground. He always woke before the impact.

Edward didn't talk about the nightmares. Nor did he like to remember the night he had awakened to Nigel's hands around his throat. Nigel, deep in sleep and cursing him for a jerry, had woken only after Edward had punched him in the jaw. They both wore the bruises for a week.

Charles had become accustomed to the dreams and always woke up when Edward did. He would cuddle close, kissing and stroking Edward's face. “The war is over out here,” he'd whisper and lie quietly until Edward went back to sleep.

Everyone said Edward was lucky. He grimaced at the thought. His luck had run out in Paris, 1919. She'd been a redhead. The champagne had been strong. And he'd awakened in the gutter with a lump behind his ear and everything missing except his underwear.