Title: Death Mask
Series: Black Harbingers MC
Author(s): Lexi Ander
Cover Artist: Kirby Crow
Categories: Gay, Urban Fantasy, Fairy Tales, Roughhouse Raiders
Length: 43,000 words
Release Date: November 9, 2016
Blurb:
Grim Misery, the President of the Black Harbinger
Motorcycle Club, discovers a wounded warlock and four werepups aboard the
club's LSD shipment. And the news kept getting better and better. Not only is
the warlock sitting on the edge of death, he's illegally bonded to the
werepups, which could trigger a war with the werewolves—and he turns out to be
Misery's estranged husband.
Years ago, Griffin turned Misery away to be with another warlock by the name of Marcheso Aldo. Misery left everything behind, even his family, but couldn't shake the heartbreak Griffin caused. With Griffin thrust back into Misery's life, he discovers things aren't as they seem... and everything is about to get much, much worse.
Years ago, Griffin turned Misery away to be with another warlock by the name of Marcheso Aldo. Misery left everything behind, even his family, but couldn't shake the heartbreak Griffin caused. With Griffin thrust back into Misery's life, he discovers things aren't as they seem... and everything is about to get much, much worse.
Excerpt:
"Death is not the greatest loss in
life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." ~Norman
Cousins
"Prez,
you're gonna want to take a look at this." Nightingale, Sergeant in Arms
of the Black Harbingers MC, called to me from the tail end of the box truck
that recently arrived from the docks. The products the vehicle carried included
the much-awaited shipment of LSD for the city's elder vampires. The goods were
late by one week, and I had some agitated parasites on my hands. If someone so
much as fucked with the shite, they would be in a world of hurt, because I had
no qualms feeding the arseholes to the bloodsuckers.
The clubhouse
for the MC was a repurposed three-story library. The block had been slated for
demolition after World War II to make way for a strip mall or some such. I
loved the building, with its Grecian columns, marble floors, and the liberal
use of dark woods. She had character, and after I greased a few palms, she
became our clubhouse, our home.
On
the ground floor, to the rear of the building, were two bay doors. Semis could
back up to one of them, allowing people to walk into the bed without using a
ramp. The second bay, vehicles drove directly onto the dock. Granted, unloading
the boxes was harder, but we didn't have to worry about prying eyes and for
this shipment, we needed complete privacy.
By
the tone of Night's voice, I wouldn't like what I'd see. One of the prospects
had been sent to retrieve the truck from the docks. Not quite members of the
MC, prospects were initiates working through the probationary period. Simply
put, they were the club's gofers. They did anything and everything the brothers
asked of them. They guarded the bikes in public places, manned the doors at the
parties, and made sure no one unauthorized entered the clubhouse. If a
brother's old lady needed to go somewhere, a prospect escorted them. The list
of shitty duties was endless. At the end of the probation period, the brothers
voted the prospect in or out, but until then, the prospect did what they were
told, without complaint. Our newest prospect, Tinman, who'd picked up the box
truck, stood off to the side looking concerned, but not afraid.
"The
truck was where you'd said it'd be, Misery. There weren't any problems and no
one followed me," he said, without prompting.
When
I rounded the rear of the non-descript vehicle, the door was rolled up,
exposing the back of the compartment, stacked with boxes. Nightingale stood
with his arms crossed over his chest, his cut hidden by the muscular bulk of
his arms. At one time, he'd been a Noble Fae. From which court, I'd never
asked. When most preternaturals came looking to join the Black Harbingers, they
left behind who they once were. The brothers only cared about the here and now,
content to leave whatever hell they'd escaped in the past. We all carried
secrets best left undisturbed, and we let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak.
Those
who didn't know of Nightingale's origins wouldn't have believed he belonged to
that waif-like race. He'd shed his litheness, becoming a motherfucking
powerhouse of strength and muscle. Even his unnaturally-white hair, which many
people assumed the poor bastard had gone gray early, didn't soften his
appearance. Most bikers didn't have facial piercings because they stumbled into
too many fistfights, but not Night. He wore a ring in the right nostril and two
in his bottom lip that he fiddled with when something bothered him, like now.
When he met my gaze, his green eyes were troubled. Then the scent hit me.
Blood.
When
I went to ask what the fuck he was waiting for, Night placed a pale finger over
his lips, biding me to listen. The sound was faint, but the soft whines of some
kind of dog or… Well, fuck me sideways.
"Someone
find Hog and Lalios." My request was made in a low voice, but the brothers
jumped to it as if I'd yelled. Perhaps they felt my tension or they, too,
scented the blood wafting from the back of the truck, now that the door had
been raised.
More
than one person drew a weapon. Grabbing the handrail on the side of the door, I
readied to climb into the back.
"Misery,"
Night called to me softly, but I ignored him.
Even
if werewolves had hidden in the truck, I didn't worry about my safety. The
sound of the pitiful, tiny snarls and growls intensified when my heavy boots
struck the bed. Pausing to listen, I couldn't hear an adult voice among the
pups. With the scent of blood heavier in the confines of the cabin, I surmised
the parent was severely injured. A werewolf in pain was a dangerous creature,
more animal than man. Blinded by the agony, instinct would take over, and he,
or she, would attack first to protect their young. If that were to happen, then
I was the one equipped to handle the werewolf. Sure, I could be hurt like
anyone else, but I was hard to kill. Living for almost two hundred years had
proven that.
Listening
intently, I heard three, perhaps four distinct voices, which was surprising. Nowadays,
werewolves lived longer than they did five hundred years ago. When they became
the stuff of folklore, people stopped hunting them. Since they lived a more
peaceful existence, the number of litters they birthed dropped off to where
pups were now born singly to couples every hundred years or so. The young were
precious to the packs and there being four here made my skin crawl with
foreboding. The day kept getting better and better.
Giveaway
The giveaway will run through midnight on November 25th.
Must be 18 or order to participate.
Giving Away Two (2) Signed Paperbacks
of Death Mask
A
huge thank you to M.A. Church for hosting me on the blog today. My new release,
Death Mask, came out on November 9th.
It's a part of the Roughhouse Raiders collection from Less Than Three Press. I
thought I'd entertain you today with a bit of flash fiction. How Grim met his
best friend Lalios, Part One.
Opium and Lung
Boston
1910
The
blue-gray haze of pipe smoke clouded the air, coating my tongue with every
inhale. Three days ago I entered the docks searching for a particular ship. I'd
heard a vessel from Chinese Empire was sitting in the harbor and it took only a
couple of well-placed questions and a bit of money to find a boat that would take
me to her. The ribbed red sails had stood out like a beacon in the light of the
dying sun.
Normally,
I wouldn't give a damn. I'm no ship lover. The only vessel I'd been on was the one
that set sail from my homeland to the Americas. But the rumor was this
particular ship had hosted a Chinese Lung,
a fabled wyrm and type of dragon shifter that didn't often leave the lush
forest of their birth. The handful who did were known far and wide for the
quality of their opium stash. I was more than interested in tasting the seed
that was rumored to make a man forget. Oh, God above, how I needed to forget.
But
as I lay on the mound of silk cushions staring at the faded wood of the ship's
rafters, already the blessed numbness was receding and the crisp pain crushing me
returned. Nothing I'd taken part in for the last ten years had relieved the
agony of being rejected and betrayed by my husband. Neither drink nor food nor
tonic nor smoke, no matter how potent or mind twisting, gave me relief for
long. The open wound in my chest where my heart was supposed to be was hallow,
never healing the interminable ache left in the wake of abandonment. Fucking
warlock. The opium had been my last hope at oblivion and yet again I was
denied. Perhaps my fate was to walk alone, a punishment for putting my faith in
a person of gray magic. I only wanted to forget his face, his scent, and the
touch of his skin against mine, but it seemed my desire would never be
fulfilled.
The
silk drapes fluttered and the meager candlelight flickered even though I felt
no draft. "I see you are lucid, Irishman. I would encourage you to take
another toke or two but—" When I'd first arrived, I'd expected accented
English but had been surprised by the fluidity in which the dragon spoke.
The
shadow of my benefactor moved behind the sheer material, the only barrier that
separated him from me, never quite giving me a peek at the shifter. I'd been in
the belly of his ship for three days and I'd yet seen him face to face. Come to
think of it, neither had he shared his name. Not that I cared. I wasn't there
to partake in social niceties. I paid for my opium and he'd watched me imbibe.
More than once, I heard scales slide along the planks as he moved, pacing back
and forth as if waiting for something. Still partially floating in the clouds,
I wondered if he couldn't look fully human. Perhaps that was the reason he
didn't show himself. He didn't need to hide from me but he didn't know that.
Shifters only scented the human in me, nothing else. I didn't want to encourage
familiarity between us, so I kept what I was to myself, allowing the dragon to
draw his own conclusions even though he was wrong.
The
shifter stopped his pacing behind the panel nearest my feet. Futilely, I
squinted attempting to see through the gauzy material. "You have a strong
will and body." His pleasure was obvious in the tone of his voice.
"I've seen men bigger than you who were unable to handle the quantity you
consumed in an hour, never mind what you smoked these past several days."
The shifter took up pacing again, his movements fluid, like a rolling marble
across a smooth surface.
Even
though my mind was clearing, my body was lax, a dead weight when I attempted to
move. "I paid good coin for the smoke." My voice came out raspy, as
if dried out by all the heated air I'd inhaled.
"Your
coin is no what I wish to speak of." The sound of clacking teeth, as if
the dragon gnashed the air, caused me to halt my attempt to rise.
All
the time I'd spent in the shifter's company he'd only been calm and curiously watchful,
until now. I didn't know much about Lungs
or dragons in general, only what I'd heard and that was sorely little.
"Be
at ease." The last word was more of a hiss, barely recognizable. "I'm
merely excited. I haven't met one as strong as you in centuries. There have
been rumors… but I didn't imagine I would cross one of your kind who wasn't
attached to a family."
Alarm
bells sounded in my head. That more than anything else burned the lingering stupor
away, leaving me stone cold sober. I sank into the cushions, schooling my
expression into bland indifference. The shifter wasn't fooled and he gave a
hissy laugh. I surreptitiously scented the air, attempting to get a whiff of my
opium benefactor.
I
threw away caution, needing to know what the shifter wanted of me. "You know
who I am?"
"Oh,
I know what you are. I've heard tell of a child of your ilk who'd wandered into
the western wilderness nigh ten years ago. Some said he searched for his
heart's desire, other claimed he ran from the calamity that swallowed his
hearth and home after the deepest of betrayals. Fewer still spread rumors that
he sought to meet death. But here you sit in my lair, numbing a pain so deep I
easily sense the poignancy and depth."
The
sheer material rippled again, the shifter's shadow darkening the silk the
closer he came to me. Fingers curled around the edge of the cloth and for the
first time I glimpsed a part of the shifter. His skin was the color of gold
bullion; dainty scales covered the length of his fingers between the joints. A
thick, black braid longer than my arm dangled in view when the shifter peered
around the fabric. His golden-brown eyes flickered between human and reptilian
as if the shifter struggled to hold his shape.
"I
search for a… companion. Someone to stand by my side as guardian and
lover."
I
snorted out a laugh and was mesmerized how the shifter's eye crinkled as he
shared my unbecoming mirth. "I am not the strong man you believe me to
be."
"I
beg to differ Grim Misery. If you've carried this level of pain with you for as
long as the rumors suggest, then you are indeed immensely strong. You would
father fine children. Even if you didn't wish to stay with me forever," he
hurriedly added after a brief pause. "Our offspring would be the envy of
our world. Imagine a Lung with your
coloring being able to take flight. No longer the wyrm relegated to the ground
but with wings and able to take to the sky."
The wistful
quality of the shifter's voice told me he wanted a family desperately even
though he'd offered an out. I couldn't be who or what he wanted. A warlock had
worked his way under my skin and I couldn't get rid of him. Besides what the
shifter spoke of—a flying drake—they had died out long ago, before the human
population exploded over the Earth. Where would no place for such in this new world,
but for some reason I couldn't tell him so. I blamed my softheartedness on the
linger effects of the opium.
"I
cannot." I struggled to sit, suddenly feeling ridiculous amidst the mound
of brilliantly colored pillows. I looked around, finally seeing what I'd been
oblivious to when I'd entered seeking relief. He'd called this place his lair
and indeed it was. Luxurious, decorated to appeal and seduce and I hadn't
noticed any of the subtle hints, didn't question why a shifter would allow me
onto his vessel with no questions asked. I'd been lucky the ship wasn't
operated by brigands. If I'd been captured and sold underground to someone who
could suss out who and what I was, such as the dragon had, then… I didn't want
to think about the consequences. I wouldn't be luck enough to be saved again.
The
shifter was diminutive but suddenly, he seemed to loom as if he was twice my
size. My blood ran cold and I watched his every move warily. "Cannot or
will not?" he asked, steel in his tone.
"Cannot,"
I reaffirmed. Watching as the silk in his grip tore when his claws unsheathed.
"You search for someone to share your life and bed with. I won't mislead
you. I'm tethered to another, whether I like it or not."
The
dragon released the bolt of cloth and he moved away. I didn't know why I spoke
but there was something itching to be released and I gave into the impulse
without thinking it through. "There is another like me, without a family.
He helped me, sobered me up about a year ago." And kicked my butt for the
selfishness of my pursuit of oblivion. Shame swamped me at the thought of what
he'd have said if he saw me now. "He lives out west in South Dakota, a Ute
by the name of Iron Lightning. He lives on a butte on the Cheyenne River Reservation.
He's not… not broken like I am."
I
glanced away from the shifter's shadow, wondering if giving this dragon Iron's
location was a mistake. It didn't feel like one but neither did I feel as if I
bumbled when handfasted a warlock.
"He
is like you? And would be open to my request?" The shifter pressed close
to the sheer curtain, his slender frame definitely not ending in a pair of
legs.
"I'm
not going to court him for you. Besides, you might take one look at him and how
he lives and walk away. If you truly want a partner, then you're going to have
to put in the work. I can tell you right now, if you try to win him with opium,
he'll walk away from you." Deciding that I needed to leave before I said
anything more, I rolled woozily to my knees and carefully climbed to my feet.
Once I'd ascertained I wouldn't topple flat on my face, I brushed down the
buckskins I hadn't bothered to exchange for eastern duds when I reached
civilization. Slowly, I headed toward the stairs that led to the deck.
"My
thanks, Grim Misery," the dragon called after me almost cheerily. "If
you are ever in need, give my name to the ruling snake shifter clan and I will
come."
I
scowled over my shoulder. What he offered as a boon beyond measure, especially
after I'd shunned his advances. "You never gave me your name."
"You
are one of a few who will have it." The statement was followed by a
weighted pause that warned me to keep what he would reveal to myself. "I'm
called Jian Chin. For the information you gave me, I will give you some in
exchange. I'll have my man drop you off near Eastern Avenue. There is… someone
there who you need to meet."
I
was tempted to throw the curtains aside and follow Jian Chin as he retreated. I
wasn't sure I wanted to meet this person he spoke of. But as I contemplated my
course of action, the sound of a door closing and the bar set in place told me
that avenue of action was closed to me. Grumbling under my breath, I climbed
the steep steps and was unsurprisingly met on deck by a grizzled old man who
ushered me off the vessel into a long boat.
As
the half dozen men at the oars rowed, I glance back at the ship to see someone
in red silk robes standing on deck watching me being taken away. I had the
sudden feeling this would not be the last time I saw Jian Chin.
Lexi
has always been an avid reader, and at a young age started reading (secretly)
her mother’s romances (the ones she was told not to touch). She was the only
teenager she knew of who would be grounded from reading. Later, with a pencil
and a note book, she wrote her own stories and shared them with friends because
she loved to see their reactions. A Texas transplant, Lexi now kicks her boots
up in the Midwest with her Yankee husband and her eighty-pound puppies named
after vacuum cleaners.
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