A Preview of The Reanimator’s Soul (TRM#2)

October 15, 2023October 8, 2023 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

The Reanimator’s Soul, book 2 in the Reanimator’s Mysteries series, comes out October 24th! If you would like to preorder it, you can do so here, and paperbacks will be available closer to release day. To whet your appetite, here is the prologue for The Reanimator’s Soul.

Prologue

The Test

Herman Judd awoke in the dark. For a long moment, he lay there, distantly wondering if he was dead and staring into blackness was all the afterlife had to offer. His breath rattled in his chest, sending a throbbing pain through his neck and into his arm. The dead didn’t breathe, and they didn’t feel pain, as far as he knew. Even without light enough to see, he knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Blinking, he tried to remember. He was fairly certain he had gotten dressed for work that morning, but everything beyond eating breakfast in the clinic’s dining room felt hazy and grey. Wherever he was, it was too dark to be the dormitories and too quiet to be one of the wards. There was always light, even at night, and surely, he would have heard the moans of the sick or the quiet chatter of the nurses and orderlies by now.

Slowly sitting up, Herman let out a groan as his head swam. There was nothing to ground him in the disorienting darkness except the pain radiating from the base of his skull. It ran into his shoulder and down into his arm, where it felt as if a swarm of fire ants was gnawing at his nerves. Am I blind? The panicked thought quickly abated as he raised his uninjured hand and saw its shadow ahead of him in the dark. Not blind but hurt. How? A chill washed over him as he batted away the sheet covering his chest and arms. Whatever the reason, he had to get out. Something was wrong. Every hair on his body stood on end as he groped along the icy ceramic table beneath him for anything that might tell him where he was. Inching ahead, his fingertips brushed something solid. He grabbed it and snatched his hand away with a shudder at the alien yet horribly familiar sensation. A body. No longer a person but inert flesh, dead and already cooling. He had dealt with enough bodies in Green-Wood Cemetery to know what they felt like, and he swore he would never wake one again.

Herman’s mind reeled as he scrambled away toward the table’s unseen edge, putting as much distance between him and the body as he could. This had to be a mistake. Or a prank. Yes, he must have fallen asleep on a gurney, and Joe decided to teach him a lesson by parking him in the morgue. Herman pressed a hand to the base of his skull, then ran his fingers down his prickling, half-numb arm. But he didn’t remember falling asleep. Then again, he didn’t remember getting hurt either. Taking one step too far, his legs collided with a cart of tools. They hit the floor with a resounding clatter that sent a jolt of pain through his temple. For a long moment, Herman stood frozen cradling his arm. When no one came, he released a tremulous breath.

Carefully stepping over the fallen tools, he groped forward in the absolute darkness until his fingers brushed the cool plaster of the wall. He tried to imagine what the morgue beneath the clinic looked like. He had only been down there once, and it was months ago. The day he arrived at the Institute for the Betterment of the Soul, the doctor had brought him down to the basement and asked him to demonstrate his powers. The doctor’s gaze on him had been so unnerving he scarcely breathed, let alone memorized the layout of the room. Herman opened his mouth to call out but stopped. If he yelled for help and Joe or the others found him, they would know how much they had shaken him by leaving him with all the bodies. No one else knew about his powers, and they wouldn’t if Herman had anything to do about it. That was the whole reason any of them had come to the institute: to be normal.

Or you could send one of them to find the door, Herman’s mind traitorously whispered as he stepped forward and his fingers brushed against the metal cabinets that housed those yet unclaimed. If he closed his eyes, he could feel them calling to him like a siren’s song. At Green-Wood, he could walk past a mausoleum and tell exactly how many people were in it. Now that his head had cleared, he could sense one hidden in the cabinets and the body on the table behind him. This time, there would be no jewelry or valuables for them to hand over, but if he told them to find the door, they would answer his call. The temptation to reach for his powers welled inside him for the first time in months, as natural as breathing. Before, he had been thankful to feel normal for a time, to not feel the constant surge of magic beneath his skin, but standing afraid in the dark, the tendril of energy reaching across the void for the nearest body was a welcome comfort. Even after everything, his powers would still come if he needed them. Herman’s eyes snapped open as pain lanced through the base of his skull. Rearing back with a yelp, he yanked the energy back, and it scattered like beads from a string.

The thought came through the fog with sudden clarity: his being in the morgue wasn’t a mistake or a prank; it was a test. Perhaps the doctor had left him in the morgue to see what he would do. If he used his powers to find his way out, it would only confirm Herman needed more rounds of the stronger treatment to break him of this insidious habit. He had only had that regimen once, and it had left him sick for weeks. He had been so exhausted that even the thought of going to the graveyard again, no matter how good the potential haul, left him seconds from vomiting. The doctors only prescribed it to those who wouldn’t submit and still relied on their unnatural propensities instead of their senses and wits.

Squaring his shoulders, Herman straightened. He had both senses and wits. He didn’t need the mindless dead to do his bidding because he was afraid of the dark. It was like the doctors said, if the treatments didn’t work, it was because he wasn’t trying hard enough. He didn’t plan on letting the doctors down. No, this time, he was going to prove his mother and everyone else who doubted him wrong. Inch by inch, he made his way across the seemingly endless room. With each step, his breathing grew louder in his ears and the urge to reach for the dead fluttered to the surface. When his hand brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob, he shuddered with relief. Herman’s heart pounded in his ears as he fumbled with the lock and stumbled into the long hall to find the basement empty as a tomb. The door quietly clicked shut behind him as he took a step into the dim light. Confirming he was alone, Herman leaned against the wall and drew in a shaky breath. A thin laugh escaped his lips. He had done it. He had escaped the morgue without using his powers. He passed the test.

Herman’s heavy steps echoed through the basement as he made his way to the freight elevator at the end of the hall. His finger still hovered above the button when the gears squealed to life. The elevator rumbled and hissed like a steam engine as it descended, shaking the ground beneath Herman’s feet. Through the metal grate, he could see a man inside. For a moment, he thought it might be Joe, but the instant he caught a flash of the other man’s fair hair in the gloom, he knew it was the doctor. That familiar flicker of trepidation passed through him as the other man’s eyes raked over his form from behind the cage door. As always, the doctor was inscrutable, his face a mask of stillness that betrayed nothing. Herman hated that he never knew what he was thinking. Most of his other bosses or marks he had no trouble reading, but never the doctor.

When the elevator shuddered to a stop and the doctor yanked open the grate, Herman plastered on a wide grin. “Sir, I think I’m cured! You left me in the morgue, and I didn’t wake a single one!”

The doctor stared at him for a long, calculating moment before he said, “Let’s speak inside, Mr. Judd.” Ignoring his pained gasp, he grabbed Herman’s arm and pulled him back toward the morgue. “Has anyone seen you?”

Herman shook his head.

“Good. We wouldn’t want anyone to hear about the nature of your problem, would we?”

“No— no, sir. Of course not.”

“Then, how fortunate that I was on my way to check on you.”

“Could we talk upstairs instead?” Herman asked but immediately regretted it when the doctor gave him a sharp look.

“The more you avoid it, the less I believe you. If you’re cured, as you say, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind being in the morgue a few minutes more.”

“Yes, sir,” he murmured as the doctor unlocked the door and ushered him inside.

The sudden brightness as he threw on the lights made the back of Herman’s head throb anew, but the moment he opened his eyes, they landed on the half-covered body on the table. The current of power within him surfaced again, begging him to let it help, let it reach for the dead. If he raised the dead, he could still run, and he would never have to worry about the doctor or his all-seeing gaze ever again. He would find new cemeteries to rob far away from here, and he could start over alone. But the voice inside of him was that of a criminal, a liar, and a freak. Silencing the voice, Herman ripped his gaze away from the body and turned to find the doctor watching him as he kicked the fallen instruments aside. Herman stifled the urge to flinch under the other man’s gaze. Even after six months, it still unsettled him, the way the doctor seemed to look through him rather than at him. At times, it felt like he was dissecting him with his eyes, as if he could peel apart his layers and see what lay beneath. The doctor treated him for those thoughts as well. His fanciful ideas and paranoia were a weakness of character, among many others.

“Tell me about your experience, Mr. Judd. You said you believe you’re cured?” the doctor began as he dropped his ring, cufflinks, and tie pin into a wooden box on the counter.

Herman straightened. “Yes, sir. Or close to it. I used only my sense and wits to get out of the room. I didn’t touch any of the bodies.”

“Are you certain?” the doctor asked, his gaze lingering on the disturbed sheet.

“I didn’t wake any of them. I didn’t know where I was at first and touched that one, but that was it.” Swallowing hard, Herman chose his words carefully. The doctor seemed to know when people like him were lying, and he wanted to be better. He wanted to be free of this. All he had to do was stay out of morgues and graveyards. “I— I was tempted, but I resisted.”

“Ah, but you are still tempted,” the doctor replied as he rolled up his sleeves.

Herman’s heart pounded in his ears. He couldn’t have the stronger treatment, not again. He would rather go back to jail than go through that again. “Only a little, but that means the treatments are working, right? It’s been six months. How long do you think it will take before my powers disappear completely and I’m cured?”

“You have been an especially hard case, Mr. Judd. You have reformed as far as you are capable, but ultimately, you may not have the strength of character needed to be free of it completely.”

“No, I can do it, sir.” His injured arm flashed with pain, but he ignored it along with the desperation in his voice. “I’ll even submit to the stronger treatments again. Please, don’t give up on me. I don’t want to be like this.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Judd. This isn’t a decision I take lightly, but we will have to terminate your position.”

“No, please, I need this. I can’t go back. I can’t.” When the doctor took a step toward him, Herman instinctively shrunk back. He shouldn’t have moved; he was only proving the doctor’s case, but every fiber of his being told him to run at the cold, assessing look in the other man’s eye. “I don’t understand. I passed the test. I didn’t use my powers.”

“Don’t worry, you will be put to a far greater use.”

The doctor’s smile should have put him at ease. A far greater use. Maybe he would send him to work at the sanatorium in Long Island. His heart pounded as if his body knew what his brain could not accept. Herman’s back hit the door. The doctor watched him with his head cocked and a faint smile playing on his lips as a light sparked in his hand. Herman watched in horror as veins of electricity raced up the doctor’s fingers and pooled in his palms. No. No, it couldn’t be true. The doctors weren’t supposed to have powers. They created the treatments; they were the successes the others were supposed to aspire to become.

“You’re a—”

A mocking grin stretched across his lips as electricity crackled down his hand and reached for the world beyond. “Yes, fortunately, dead men can’t tell secrets. Now, can they, Mr. Judd?”

Before Herman could turn for the door, the doctor shoved his palm into his chest. The air ripped from his throat as every nerve in his body sang. His muscles clenched as he futilely struggled against the doctor’s hold. His powers groped for the nearest corpse, but before he could reach, his wildly beating heart seized and fell silent. The smell of burnt flesh and hair drifted to his nose as he hit the ground. The world narrowed to the black rubber of the doctor’s boots as Herman Judd released a final, shuddering breath and saw no more.

Once again, The Reanimator’s Soul comes out October 24th. If you would like to preorder it, you can do so here.

Writing

Why I Write What I Write

January 22, 2023January 21, 2023 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

On Twitter a few weeks ago, I asked if anyone had anything they wanted me to blog about, and my friend Char was kind enough to toss out a whole list of potential topics that were really intriguing regarding my writing process, why I write certain things, how I write, etc., but the one that caught my eye first was “What draws you to M/M romance and what do you specifically find delightful in writing the male gaze from the male gaze?”

At first, I sort of stared at the prompt because I’m currently editing an f/f or sapphic romance, which will go out to my newsletter subscribers at the end of the month (which you can join by clicking here). My immediate answer is that I don’t write M/M romance so much as that I write queer romance. I think a lot of newer readers might assume I write M/M only because Kinship and Kindness and The Reanimator’s Heart, my last two releases are both M/M, but if you look at my previous series, The Ingenious Mechanical Devices, you’ll see that there’s an ace-allo M/F(but would be enby in 2023) couple, a gay couple, and a pan-bi M/F couple with various other queer side characters. And subsequent books in the Paranormal Romance series will have a lesbian F/enby couple as well.

It’s mildly annoying that M/M romance tends to get the most attention and sales, which on one hand I am grateful for, but I like to write about all sort of queer characters. Within the queer community, there are those (like myself) who will read about anyone and just enjoys queer couples in general. Other readers tend to be more insular and only read MM or FF, which is fine, but that really isn’t the audience I write for.

My choice of genre/romantic couples stems from my own gender and sexuality. I tend to just say I’m nonbinary and queer for simplicity’s sake, but if we’re getting more granular about it, I’m agender nonbinary (slightly masc leaning, slightly) asexual omniromantic. Aka, gender is *giant shrug* but basically Anne Hathaway in Twelfth Night and my sexuality is that I like people of all sorts but don’t feel sexual attraction.

Because of my gender and sexuality, I am attracted to different genders and my identity in relation to those genders is complicated at times since we don’t really have commonly used words for nonbinary attraction to men or women or other enbies. Because I am slightly masculine leaning, M/M romance made sense in my head. Before I knew what being nonbinary was, I used to say I felt like a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. I felt queer, I felt like that feminine masculinity that I often saw with queer men (highly related to Nathan Lane in The Birdcage as a tween/teen because being a woman was a parody of who was I, but I couldn’t put that into words. Besides that, Anne Rice’s books, which were highly influential in my tween/teen years for realizing queer people even existed, were mostly M/M or focused on queer men. Gay men of the late 80s/early 90s were a major touchstone in figuring out my gender identity and that what I was feeling was queer attraction, so M/M tends to be the attraction I relate to most.

Complicating this was that I dealt with dysphoria, which made it difficult to write cis F/F romance. I often joked there are too many layers of Victorian Era clothing and that’s why I avoided F/F romance, but no, it was that trying made my dysphoria kick up horrifically. For a long time, I had a very hard time reading or writing cis F/F romance, but once I realized I was nonbinary, that lessened greatly. It was strange, but somehow realizing I wasn’t a woman despite the body I came prepackaged in gave me distance enough that I could enjoy those books without my brain rebelling. This is why I’ve actually been able to think more about Ruth’s book (Tempests and Temptation) and write Flowers and Flourishing (though one MC is a trans woman).

Sexuality and gender are complicated, writing is complicated, and dysphoria bleeds into the creative side of your work whether you like it or not. For a while, I was ashamed that I couldn’t write F/F romance. I wanted to, and I am attracted to women. I couldn’t understand the mental block, but once it fell away, it was like, “Oh, yeah, that revelation seemed to clear a lot up.”

The crux of this long digression is that I don’t write for the M/M gaze. I write for the queer gaze because I write queer characters of all genders and sexualities. If you’re looking for exclusively M/M content, that certainly isn’t me, but if you want series with trans characters, nonbinary characters, gay/lesbian characters, asexual characters, and bi/pan characters who get happy endings, then I’m the writer for you.

As a side note, Sarra Cannon’s Publish and Thrive course is going to be running soon. This 6 week class is what helped me restart my career last year, and it was certainly worth the money. If you’re new to indie publishing or want to get back into the swing of it by refreshing your knowledge on best practices or marketing, I would take a look. I wrote out 40+ pages of notes when I took it, and now that she has expanded it, I will be taking it again since I have lifetime access to the course. She also has payment plans set up if you want to join but can’t pay in full upfront. If you use this link to sign-up, I get a commission as a former student.

If you would like to know more or have questions about the course, I would be happy to answer them!

The Reanimator's Heart

One Day Until The Reanimator’s Heart

October 23, 2022October 17, 2022 Kara Jorgensen3 Comments

As of when this post is dropping, there is ONE MORE DAY until The Reanimtor’s Heart releases!

In case you haven’t heard about The Reanimator’s Heart, here is the blurb:

A reluctant necromancer, a man killed before his time, and the crime that brings them together.

Felipe Galvan’s life as an investigator for the Paranormal Society has been spent running into danger. Returning home from his latest case, Felipe struggles with the sudden quiet of his life until a mysterious death puts him in the path of the enigmatic Oliver Barlow.
Oliver has two secrets. One, he has been in love with the charming Felipe Galvan for years. Two, he is a necromancer, but to keep the sensible life he’s built as a medical examiner, he must hide his powers. That is until Oliver finds Felipe murdered and accidentally brings him back from the dead.
But Felipe refuses to die again until he and Oliver catch his killer. Together, Felipe and Oliver embark on an investigation to uncover a plot centuries in the making. As they close in on his killer, one thing is certain: if they don’t stop them, Felipe won’t be the last to die.

You can also see what others are saying about it:

The Reanimator’s Heart is my eighth novel, and it is a sort of tie-in to Kinship and Kindness as both series center around characters working in the New York Paranormal Society. The content warnings for The Reanimator’s Heart are on my specific book page for on my website as well as on the Goodreads listing (and inside the ebook/paperback).

Speaking of the paperback, that is available to order on Amazon and will disseminate to wider distribution in the coming weeks. You can also buy/preorder the ebook at all major retailers through this link and it will be delivered to your device on the 25th.

I am super excited about this book, which is sort of Pushing Daisies meets Sleepy Hollow but with MM romance.

If you pick up a copy, I hope you will leave a review! They really help authors like me out in terms of visibility and credibility.

Personal Life · Writing

When a Happy Ending is an Act of Defiance

May 8, 2022 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

I’ve been struggling to think of what to say this past week. Or really the past month or so, because most of my thoughts amount to “I have lots of feelings, none of them good.”

Living in the US, I have been constantly surrounded by headlines about overturning reproductive healthcare/abortion, attacks on queer relationships, and transphobic laws that seem to want to stamp out our existence. It’s so much all at once that it’s mind-numbing. I’m a nonbinary person with a uterus, and while my reproductive health is somewhat secure due to steps my partner and I have previously taken, this is all a lot. I think for anyone who gives a shit about other people, this past month has been a lot.

I’m tired, my brain feels pulled in a hundred directions, and I feel the negativity creeping through my veins because a very loud minority has decided I shouldn’t exist and many of my friends shouldn’t exist. Or if they do, it’s only on their terms.

And it has made it very hard to write lately. The weight of hatred and uncertainty looms over me constantly, but it reminds me why I started writing in the first place.

Back in 2014, we were still fighting to have same-sex marriage recognized. States were facing lawsuits after banning it even after it was legalized country-wide. Anti-queer sentiment was overt, loud, and just as painful as it is now. I remember staring at my books with their cast of queer characters and wondering if there was still a place in the world for me. Publishers were still pushing queer characters to the sidelines or cutting queer plotlines all together unless they were not on the page. I’ve written before about why I self-published, so I won’t stay on it too long, but the sidelining of queer characters/relationships was why I decided to self-publish. No publisher or company or anyone but me could make my characters straight.

Writing queer characters who eventually got their happily ever after was an act of defiance. In romance, marriage is the usual happily ever after because that’s what cis het M/F couples do. It’s recognizable, it’s legally binding, it’s overt. I wanted that for my characters even if that wasn’t legally possible in the 1890s. The next best thing was a faux wedding (as seen in Dead Magic‘s binding ceremony), but having queer characters find each other, love each other, live closely, and be recognized as a couple by their friends and family was still defiance.

When you write anything involving historical elements and queer characters, reviewers will toss back in your face that “being gay was illegal” back then. Well, so was prostitution, adultery, theft, and murder, yet all those happened as well and no one complains when they read about those things in historical romance. The double standard is eye-roll inducing, but each of those obnoxious reviews spurred me to write more queer characters and eventually more trans characters.

In the back of Kinship and Kindness, I even included a short further reading section about trans people in the 1800s. So many lived normal lives where they worked regular jobs, socialized, and even married. Often, the weren’t even outed as trans until after death, but people don’t want to take into account that people could blend in or that their communities protected them or at least looked the other way if they knew. We all know of famous supposedly straight historical figures who had a “roommate they were really close to” or “a dear friend” they often holidayed with in the South of France that people still refuse to believe were some flavor of queer.

When we write queer characters during times that feel fraught, it is an act of defiance. Writing their lives is a declaration of our existence, our struggles, our love for each other. The stories don’t have to be happy. Their lives don’t have to be (and shouldn’t be) perfect. But writing queer characters into existence as complex, real people is hammering home that we cannot be stamped out. We will not disappear.

I’ve been trying to remind myself of this as I work on my writing. My projects matter even when the world feels like it’s pressing in. There’s always the hope that someone will see themselves in my characters and feel better for a time or lose themselves in whatever drama is playing out. The Reanimator’s Heart has a society of paranormals where people are more likely to be queer than not, and there’s also a lavender marriage where each participant has a partner of their own (one of which is a sapphic trans woman and the other is an autistic gay man). Even if it’s the mid 1890s, everyone manages to live a fulfilling life and eventually find happiness, and that matters.

If you’re writing queer books right now, no matter how bleak it feels, it still matters. Someone out there is clinging to your work in this storm.

Kinship and Kindness

Preview of Kinship and Kindness

July 7, 2020July 7, 2020 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

Kinship and Kindness

My next book in a brand new queer paranormal historical series, Kinship and Kindness, comes out July 31st, and to celebrate and whet your appetites, I have posted chapter one below. You can preorder Kinship and Kindness, on all major ebook platforms and paperbacks will be coming later.

Let me know what you think and stay tuned for more soon.

Chapter One

The Rougarou

Preparing for the Annual Delegation of American Werewolves for the first time on his own should have been exciting, but Theo Bisclavret’s eyes glazed over as Mr. Rosier droned on about the growing list of half-finished tasks he had to accomplish. Every werewolf in Grand Chien had been abuzz about the imminent arrival of delegation members from all over the United States, but after facilitating the preparations for three weeks in his father’s stead, Theo just wanted it to be over or for his father to return from England, whichever came first. It had been an endless parade of lists from various members of their international governing body, Les Meutes, each trying to make sure he had everything in order, as if he hadn’t attended nearly every werewolf event his father had organized in the last fifteen years. Tension creeped up Theo’s neck and into his jaw, but as he rolled his shoulders and tried to breathe out the nagging pain, his eyes shot up as his sister pointedly cleared her throat on the other side of the room. He raised his gaze to find Rosier looking at him with a grey eyebrows raised as if waiting for an answer.

Theo slowly straightened in his chair, keeping his face neutral and his back straight as he often saw his father do. “Could you please repeat the question? I thought I heard something outside.” His wolf surfaced, searching for a sound, but Theo gently shoved it down.

“I said, do you know when the Rougarou will return?”

That was what they were all wondering. “Our father has assured us that he will return in ample time to meet with the delegations. When we have a specific date of arrival, we will let everyone know.”

Rosier looked over his shoulder at Eudora, but she kept her head down over her portable desk. When Rosier turned back to him, Theo leveled a look at him that would quash any further questions. With a tightening of his lips and a final admonishment to send him the final preparations post haste, Rosier took his bowler from the edge of the desk and departed. The moment the door closed behind him, Theo deflated and let the chair beneath him languidly spin before swiveling back to his sister. Eudora pursed her lips and shrugged. Tucking a wayward brown curl behind her ear, she sat on the edge of the desk and reread the notes she had taken.

On the far wall, the calendar hung mockingly across from the desk. Theo counted back the weeks and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t believe Pa’s been away three weeks already.”

“Yup,” Eudora replied flatly, her brows furrowing at the interruption.

“And you’re certain the last telegram came six days ago?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Do you think something’s wrong? It isn’t like him to be away for so long.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine. Maybe they have bad weather and he can’t leave. I’m sure it snows in England.”

“Yeah.” Theo sat back. He wished he knew where his sister had put the letters she had read to him over the past few weeks during dinner. Reading them might put his mind at ease, but he hadn’t thought to ask. It seemed pointless to demand them now. “Do you think Wesley is all right?”

Eudora’s face tightened a fraction before brightening with a placating smile. “You are such a mother hen, Theo. Wesley is fine. He’s a Pinkerton. He can hold his own. Hopefully Pa can talk him into coming back sooner than later. Then, you won’t have to keep up this charade.”

Guilt rose in Theo’s gut so fast he felt ill. Being the future Rougarou had been his dream for so long that, even though it was impossible and had been for some time, he still felt as if he had failed. He had failed himself, he had failed Pa, he had failed the packs if Wesley or Eudora couldn’t take over after Pa stepped down and instability ensued. His wolf’s comforting bulk rubbed against his mind, and he absently flexed his hand as if reaching to touch it. An unexpected warmth closed over his hand. He looked up to find his sister’s acorn brown eyes pinning him with something between affection and sorrow.

“That is what you want, right?”

Theo nodded and inwardly sighed. “You should go back to the house and get some sleep. You’re going on patrol tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mother. And you should, too. You’re burning the candle at both ends.”

“I have a few things left to finish up.”

“I balanced the books and took stock of the linens that came in this morning, so you don’t have to.”

“Oh. Then, I guess I’ll go home with you. I want to put a few baskets of food together for the neighbors before you go out tonight.”

“Just make me a list of names, and I’ll do it. Give them some peaches, would you? I can’t bear to eat another jar of peaches.”

“They’re good for you, and you love peach jam.”

“Used to.” With a smile, Eudora kissed the top of his head and squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, let’s walk home together. I don’t like you walking through the woods alone.”

“Now, who’s the mother hen?” Theo said only to receive a flash of her tongue in response.

Gathering his coat and hat, Theo tried to ignore the pain in the back of his head and the twisting in his stomach. It was probably just worry, but he couldn’t help the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

***

Bennett swore as he slapped a mosquito off his cheek. This trip had been nothing but a pain in the ass. He had thought the trip to Louisiana would be a vacation from his life in Brooklyn. For the first time in years, Bennett could sleep without the constant cacophony of city life only a stack of brick away. He could eat in relative peace without the lingering scent of turpentine or oil paint. There would be no fine layer of clay dust on everything or piss-poor piano music playing at all hours, and no raucous lovemaking on the other side of too thin plaster walls.

Instead, Bennett spent three days vomiting everything that passed his lips. Whether he was on the deck overlooking the East Coast rolling below or tucked into his windowless room, bile clawed up his throat and his stomach roiled at the ship’s constant motion. All he had been able to see before dirigible sickness struck was the northern half of New Jersey, and he had already seen that from the ground. Stepping off the dirigible outside of New Orleans, he knew he looked like death. He felt like it and probably smelled liked it. Three drivers had refused to take him to Grand Chien, but this one seemed far more eager to take him than he should have. As the narrow boat tilted beneath him, Bennett clutched the sides but yanked his hands back when he remembered the swamps were supposedly riddled with alligators. Cramps rippled through his calves and arms, but he bit them down with a grimace.

Hoping the young man ferrying him across the swamp didn’t notice, Bennett eyed him with suspicion. The entire journey, he hadn’t shut up for longer than it took to take a breath, and while he was far more willing to ferry an ill passenger than the others, Bennett couldn’t help but be suspicious. He knew he could easily be shanked and dumped into the swamp without a qualm once his pockets were emptied. It happened plenty in Brooklyn.

Bennett squinted at the stars dazzling through the trees as the midnight world began to awake around them. Bats and night birds cried from the tree tops while insects kept a heady buzz in time to an unseen metronome. Despite the noise, the lack of people was disconcerting in a way Bennett hadn’t expected. He was accustomed to constant movement. At all hours he could hear people coming and going from the Ruth’s house. Her numerous boarders and friends never seemed to all sleep at once, and the grocers, suppliers, and newsboys outside had no qualms about waking people up. Years in the city had taught him how to sleep through anything, except silence. Luckily, the ferryman hadn’t stopped talking since they embarked from the landing field.

Bennett pulled at his collar and licked his dry lips. God, he was tired and thirsty. It was painful how badly he wanted some water. The other man probably had a flask of something on him, but Bennett didn’t want to ask. Too much liquid meant he would have to relieve himself eventually, and he didn’t want to think about the logistics of that. He chuckled to himself under his breath. It was ironic to be surrounded by so much water yet be so thirsty. That shouldn’t have been so funny.

“Y’all right?” the ferryman asked.

Bennett swallowed against another surge of dizziness as he turned to face the other man. “Yes, why?”

“You’re a little green around the gills.” Removing the lantern from the bottom of the boat, the ferryman held it aloft. Bennett squinted into the darkness but couldn’t see what he was focusing on. Then, he shuttered the light and opened it again three times; twice slowly and once quickly. When Bennett looked at him quizzically, he added, “I’m letting the patrols know I’m a friend.”

“Patrols?”

“Oh yeah, the Rougarou’s people patrol the bayou every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bayou is vast and dark, and people do bad things when they think others can’t see.”

Was that a hint or a threat? Bennett’s ribs struggled against the confines of his girdle at the thought. His normally attuned danger senses felt fuzzy. Bennett tugged at his collar and licked his dry lips as the pirogue pushed through a copse of mangroves to emerge in an open stretch of water that ended in a vast swath of grass. At the shore, a large shed stood near a dock, and behind it, a house emerged through the darkness. While he couldn’t make out much detail, Bennett could tell it wasn’t the grand plantation home he had expected the Rougarou to inhabit. The boat slid smoothly beside the dock and bumped onto the mossy shore.

“This is it?” Bennett asked, ignoring the ticking of a muscle in his leg.

“You said you wanted to be taken to the Rougarou, right?”

“Right. Will anyone be up this time of night?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t have brought you out here otherwise. The house is straight ahead up a ways.”

“Ah.” Fishing into his pocket, Bennett struggled to count out enough money to, hopefully, cover the fare, but as he put his hand out, the younger man pushed it away. “But I—”

“The Bisclavrets are paying me to ferry delegation members to and from the landing field. I’m not to take money from guests, Mr. Reynard.”

“I see. Well then, thank you for your help.”

Hefting his bag onto the grass, Bennett stood to shake the other man’s hand and lurched forward. He clasped his hand in what he hoped felt like a natural handshake even though the earth seemed to pitch beneath his feet. With a tight smile, he turned and took a heavy step onto the shore. His knees buckled beneath him as his vision shrunk to a pinpoint and his body collided with the wet grass.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. If you’re interested, you can preorder a copy at all major ebook retailers.