Cat Kane's Fiction

Site Update

2011-04-07T20:43:00.000+01:00

There have been a few reasons it's been quiet on the Cat front over the past few months -- the very least of which was having to completely replace my PC after a storm blew our power four times in one day, if that tells you something... -- but it seems I completely neglected to mention here that my website had a facelift back in January/February.

Some of you might've already been to check it out, but for those who haven't there are several changes this time 'round. I know the frames layout was a pest for some of you -- and for yours truly when I tried updating the site while away from my main computer -- so that's gone now. The color scheme's a little warmer too. I really wasn't feeling the grey monochrome anymore, but it's the change I'm least happy with so any feedback on that score would be much appreciated. I hope black text over off-white/cream will be okay for the majority of you, but let me know if there are any problems. However, the best part is the addition of several new free stories! Some of them are out-of-print shorts, some had very limited distribution, and some are brand spankin' new. PDFs are on the way (if you want other formats, let me know), but in the meantime they're all available to read on-site under the "Free Reads" section.

Cat's Adventures in Taxland (aka An UK author gets her ITIN... at the first attempt!)

2011-04-05T00:50:00.002+01:00

I’ve been stressing out over applying for a ITIN (Individual Taxpayer Identification Number) for… months. And then some. But, like most things, the reality of the process turned out to be far simpler and easier than I imagined. I know it's an issue for many people, so I thought it might be helpful to share my experience.

If you’re a Brit (or any other non-US citizen) writing for an US publisher, chances are you’re going to need one of these sooner or later. Your publisher might have asked you for form W-8BEN already, which you can't complete without an ITIN. Basically, it means that the income you declare as a self employed writer in the UK isn’t already taxed by the time it gets to you, reducing the risk of being taxed twice on the same income. The US has tax treaty agreements with many countries, at various percentages. I can only speak for applications from the UK; if you’re elsewhere then parts of this won’t apply to you, but it might help as a starting point.

Now, the Cat-covers-her-ass disclaimer: I’m not a tax advisor, nor do I play one on TV. I am not a lawyer. I’m just sharing this as someone who managed to get her ITIN at the very first attempt, with the absolute minimum of cost, fuss, effort and angst. I make no guarantees that what worked for me will work for you. If it helps, great, but please don’t take my word for any of it. If in doubt always get professional advice. This post is for entertainment purposes only. ;)

Okay, before we even get to the form itself, let me address the issue of ID. The IRS is very strict about what counts as acceptable ID to accompany the application. Pretty much the only acceptable ID for an UK citizen is their passport. You can either send the original, or a notarized copy. From what I could figure out, to get a notarized passport copy they’d accept you’d need to get a photocopy signed by an approved notary – usually at your local solicitor’s office; mine wanted £100 for the privilege – and then send the copy to the Foreign Office (the body that issued your passport in the first place), where it gets legalized as a certified apostille. This costs an additional £30 or so per document. I was paranoid I’d mess up at least once, so was budgeting for two copies of everything. Doing it this way meant little change from £300. This was still cheaper than the prices quoted by Acceptance Agents, who pretty much require you to do most of this legwork first anyway. That route would’ve been upwards of £600, all told.

Yeah. Wasn’t gonna happen. So I was stuck with the decidedly unappealing prospect of sending my passport to Texas for 8-10 weeks. Cheaper, yes, but a little too risky for me.

Fortunately, while trawling the net for advice on this issue I found out you can just send the whole application – including your original passport – to the IRS department of the US Embassy in London. You can also physically take the application in if you live close enough. I’m over six hours away, so that wasn’t an option. This discovery alone pretty much changed my entire perception of the application process. Sending stuff to London felt a lot less stressful, and, should there be a mistake, resending it all wouldn’t be as much of a hassle and would only involve another £5 or so postage.

The W-7 form itself, once you figure out the treaty codes, is pretty simple. Here's the IRS's page with information about the tax treaties, and here's their list of all the individual treaties by country. The toughest part of it is figuring out what you need to leave blank and where you need a N/A. I’d heard horror stories about applications being refused just for one N/A out of place. I’d put it down to Internet myths, but hey… it’s the IRS. With a silent N for Nitpicky. Again, combining a whole slew of sources I finally had a completed form I was happy with. Here’s an image of the form, filled out exactly the way I filled in mine, minus the personal details, if you want to use it for reference. Like I said, I don’t know whether all the N/As were entirely necessary but all I can say is that I have my ITIN so something about it must’ve been right!

I will mention one thing, though. I can’t stress enough that this is ONLY my experience, and from what I’ve read certainly not the norm, but the publisher letter I sent in with the application was NOT an original, it was a PDF print out. It DID contain the publisher’s letterhead and digitized signature (and was personalized for me) but seeing as some people recommend only sending documents your publisher send to you via snail mail with honest-to-goodness real ink signatures on 'em, I just wanted to mention that I didn’t. I’m sure it’s always safer to send originals, but I thought it was important to note.

So, with the form, the letter, your passport, and a covering letter listing all the enclosed documents (probably not necessary but hey, it seemed polite), send them all via Recorded/Special Delivery to:

Internal Revenue Service
American Embassy
24 Grosvenor Square
London W1A 1AE
United Kingdom

I'm pretty sure they’ll check it over, and should there be any errors they'll send it back to you for correction before it gets forwarded on to Texas. Mine was fine, so all I received back was my passport, and an information sheet listing who I should contact if I needed to follow up. The other bonus is that they don’t keep your passport very long. I sent my package off on a Friday, and I had my passport back on Thursday. They also return it Recorded too.

The estimated wait time varies between six and ten weeks depending on where you look, but mine took seven weeks. Now to fill out the W-8BEN, which – thankfully! – is much simpler than the W7. All the info you need for the W-8BEN (treaty codes, rates, etc.) is stuff you’ve already figured out for the W-7.

And that’s it! Hope that proves helpful to anyone else muddling through the process.

Baaaa...

2010-07-29T03:07:00.003+01:00

I've heard much mention of that "I Write Like" site over the past few weeks, but I kept forgetting to go and have a play with it myself ('course, these days, the sentence that starts "I write like..." ends with just a handful of choice words and phrases for me...).

I'm not sure what -- if anything -- it says about me and m writing when every different story sample I put in got me a different result. I'm not even seeing a general pattern (...overdone, literary sci-fi, maybe?), but I gotta admit I'm at a loss as to how anyone gets James Joyce out of "Chasing Butterflies". Ulysses it most certainly is not, *laughs* unless someone's messed around with either book since last I checked.

Eeeeenteresting, though.

Current WIP :

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Human Nature:

I write like
Margaret Mitchell

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Afterthought:

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Chasing Butterflies:

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Chasing Butterflies Release Date

2010-06-22T22:15:00.004+01:00

Just as summer actually seems to be starting over here in the UK, my "Summer Lovin'" novella, Chasing Butterflies, will be released on Monday June 28th, from Liquid Silver Books!

Blurb and excerpt this-a-way...!

30 Days Writing Meme -- Queston Thirty

2010-05-31T22:56:00.001+01:00

30. Final question! Tag someone! And tell us what you like about that person as a writer and/or about one of his/her characters!

Wheeeeeee, it's done! And I didn't slack off or miss days, which pleases me greatly *g*. And stuns me. Though hey... *shifty look* blogger's scheduling feature is my friend.

And on that note, I wouldn't like to commit anyone to a whole month's worth of this unless they actually chose to do so. It's potentially pretty time-intensive, but I think there's certainly a benefit to be gained -- some of the questions really make you look at your writing, your stories, and your attitude to this whole game in a new light.

Writing can be a very solitary occupation sometimes, and it's always fascinated me to know how other writers work, how they approach things, what their tricks and strategies are. I love to learn the different ways they find inspiration, their quirks and idiosyncrasies, and it's comforting to know you're not the only one who thinks their first (and sometimes second, third, tenth...) draft is a steaming pile of crap that doesn't deserve the pixel space it takes up on the screen. Sometimes writers just like an "Oh man, you do that too?!" moment. So honestly, anyone who wants to pick this up let me know and I'd love to read your take on the questions. The full list can be found here.

Thanks for reading along! *g* Now I gotta think of something to do for June...

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Nine

2010-05-30T00:18:00.001+01:00

29. How often do you think about writing? Ever come across something IRL that reminds you of your story/characters?

Wow, this could be another very short one. Answer = All the time. I don't claim to be representative of all, or even most, writers, but... isn't that just what we do? The stories and ideas are always churning away on the back-burner, a constant background noise.

Some of the best advice I've seen out there is of the `treat it like what it is -- a business` variety. That includes not having the luxury of waiting around for the muse to strike, or for some external inspiration to make you think about your work. 'Cause that's what it is, work. I can't think of many professions where you can say "Ah, I didn't feel like it today." I mean, picture it. "Ah, I didn't feel like putting 100% into that brain surgery today." "Ah, I wasn't inspired enough to land this plane safely today." "Ah, I have Accounting Block -- I'll be here on my chaise." It's like any other job. While you're doing it, your focus is (ideally, anyway *g*) on it. And like pretty much every other job, we have a tendency to take work home with us in some form or another. The only difference is that `home` in this case is the distinction between the writing life and the family/home/day job/insert-any-other-obligations-here life.

Yeah, yeah... *g* I know that's not exactly what the question asks, but I had to do something to keep the answer from being one sentence long.

A little caveat though... I'd really appreciate it if that `all the time` didn't include all those ideas that come to me in the shower. 'Cause really, you can't write well on wet paper. What is it with water and creativity, anyway? Something to do with water stimulating the right-brain? Theories welcomed. As would a waterproof notepad...

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Eight

2010-05-29T23:03:00.000+01:00

28. Have you ever written a character with physical or mental disabilities? Describe them, and if there's nothing major to speak of, tell us a few smaller ones.

Not in any of the published books, no. It just hasn't sat right with any of those stories.

I've seen the issue brought up in several places over the past few months though, especially in relation to mental illnesses. It seems such a pervasive issue these days -- or, more likely, those issues are being addressed and acknowledged, instead of simply being ignored and brushed under the carpet -- and I completely agree. I understand and appreciate the desire to see more characters with such issues portrayed both sensitively and as real people. Mental illness can be so lonely and isolating, and knowing someone else — even a character in a book — has been through the same or similar issues can be a great help.

Honestly, at this point in time I feel it's a subject I'm just too close too, for various reasons. And it's so easy with a subject that's close to your heart to turn into a screechy, preachy know-it-all, or, alternatively, to alienate others. The experience is so unique to every sufferer, that while your portrayal might resonate with some, others can/may take offence, which is the very last thing I'd want to do. And those without experience of it at all might even think it was overdone for dramatic effect. Who was it that said fiction, unlike reality, has to make sense? These conditions often appear to make no sense to the uninvolved onlooker, and translating that to a book that requires at least some logical progression and explanation of motive, is tricky. There is no `getting it right` any more than you can with any other demographic. You can just be as respectful as humanly possible.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Seven

2010-05-28T21:40:00.000+01:00

27. Along similar lines, do appearances play a big role in your stories? Tell us about them, or if not, how you go about designing your characters.

Hmm, not entirely sure I get the first part of the question -- I guess they don't always play a big role, but shouldn't appearances be at least somewhat relevant to the story? It's not as though anyone sits there going "Huh, my protagonist was a blond last time, let's make it a redhead this time!", right? Or maybe they do, in which case that explains why I don't get the question. *g* Admittedly, there's been occasions where I've tweaked one character's physical description just so they aren't too similar to another character's, but for the most part they're already different.

I guess "The Sun Child" is the only story where appearances play a vital part -- Eztli is green-eyed and fair-haired, totally at odds with the rest of Yaotl's people. The detail served a two-fold purpose, in that the reader gets why Yaotl's superstitious people would believe Eztli to be something different, potentially supernatural or divine, and also leaves the readers wondering "Okay, so he's just human, so where did he come from in the first place?". And you can bet it wasn't willingly.

In terms of character design, nine times out of ten a character shows up `pre-formed` in that respect. I know the basic stats -- hair color, eye color, height, weight, style of clothes, yada yada. Sometimes I'll seek out a photograph or illustration that helps me visualize them (which has its own problems) and sometimes the picture itself will be a catalyst. Some photographs have so much personality, they just beg you to ask "Who is that? What kind of person are they? How would they react to XYZ?". As for the problems... well, you're never going to find that 100% match if your process is character idea --> image, and for the anally retentive perfectionist types -- *cough* who aren't a million miles away from this post ... ahem *g* -- that can feed the "Aw, c'mon, just one more model agency portfolio site, I'm sure I'll find a pic there!" variety of procrastination.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Six

2010-05-27T22:16:00.000+01:00

26. Let's talk art! Do you draw your characters? Do others draw them? Pick one of your OCs and post your favorite picture of him!

(Warning - some of the links in this post are NSFW)

I don't draw very well *laughs* I wish I could. Having said that, here's a pic of Vance and Ayan in their pre-Afterthought guises (though they still look the same).

I had work in the Yaoicon anthology in 2006, and those stories were illustrated (by Liv Lingborn — scroll down to `Switching Sides`, that's the only pic in this gallery of the original set of…five, I think?), which was a huge kick for me. It was the first time I'd had any (non-me) art drawn of my characters, and I admit something about seeing them for the first time sent a shiver down my spine. Covers do the same for me — I've had some fantastic covers (you can see 'em all here, and the newest is further back on the blog), but on some level it's always just plain weird when you first see your characters `in person`, the way someone else has interpreted them from your description. There's something almost unnerving about seeing the contents of your head in pictures *laughs* Awesome, but strange.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Five

2010-05-26T13:10:00.001+01:00

25. Do any of your characters have pets? Tell us about them.

No.

Wow ,*laughs* that was short.

Of course, Gage would say he has two pet guard-dogs, but I don't think that counts… *g* Neither does the fact Nolan ("Chasing Butterflies") had a hamster once.

I can definitely see some characters getting pets after their story ends, though. I can see Elliott and Dylan from Best Laid Plans with a dog — something big and fuzzy and kind of dopey they can take for walks along the beach. And I'm sure Spence and Billy keep their own horses after "Hung Up".

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Four

2010-05-25T20:43:00.000+01:00

24. How willing are you to kill your characters if the plot so demands it? What's the most interesting way you've killed someone?

I'm trying to remember if I've killed anyone, let alone in an interesting way. Bad guys and the poor unsuspecting vic in crime/whodunnit stories count, right?

Uh...possible spoilers ahead, then, I guess? *laughs* Human Nature and Afterthought specifically.

Bad guys variously torn apart and gnawed on in Human Nature (demons and werewolves, can't take 'em anywhere...) probably isn't particularly interesting for the genre. Just your usual injuries/deaths of the `caused by supernatural creatures who're intensely pissed off right now` variety. But like I said in an earlier question, the threat posed by the bad guys -- and, by dint, the ease of their demise -- wasn't as important as what happens during the fight, and how it changes all three main characters. It's humans vs. supernatural beings, you know they're going to win; the question is really how it affects them.

I guess Marcus from Afterthought was more interesting, seeing as he dies twice. *g* It was fun playing with the concept of powerful telepaths being able to separate their consciousness from the physical body.

In terms of the main characters, or important non-villainy secondary characters being killed off if the story calls for it... Well, it's never happened, but that's probably got more to do with the kind of stories I write (in that they don't call for it, more often than not) than a conscious choice. Sometimes, killing off the well-loved sidekick or funny secondary character comes across as little more than jerking the reader/audience around for gratuitous emotional kicks when the rest of the emotional investment in the story is weak, and I'm not too keen on shortcuts like that. There's an occupant of WIP Hell in which an important catalyst character is already dead before the story itself starts, though since he's not technically killed off during the course of the book, he probably doesn't count. Ultimately, if the story called for it, I'd kill off a major character, but I doubt I'd be happy about it.

Also (apologies to non-UK readers who won't know wtf I'm talking about) this post is also brought to you courtesy of the conclusion of "Ashes to Ashes" last week, so killing off characters -- even if they're already dead -- is kinda at the forefront of my mind. I'd rant about it, but honestly I'm still a little brainfried...

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Three

2010-05-24T20:29:00.001+01:00

23. How long does it usually take you to complete an entire story—from planning to writing to posting (if you post your work)?

Uh… it depends? *weak smile* That's such a cop-out answer, but it is true.

Some things get written in a matter of days/weeks, and some things take a longer time to come together and gel. I'd say that, honestly, it often has less to do with the book in those situations for me as it does the writer. There's usually* nothing in the writing process that's causing the hold-up, it's just RL getting in the way. Then there's the really obvious things, like the actual length of the book (a factor that seems to increase exponentially in relation to how long I work at it and how much fun I'm having, weirdly enough...), and whether the book is for a particular line or submissions call, in which case it has a set deadline that comes into play. I've pulled 35k, plus revisions and edits, outta my ass (...sorry for that image *headdesk*) in a week before now, and a 3k contest story has taken twice as long.

So yeah, it depends on a whole bunch of things, but ultimately, on me. Which is why it's important to take your obligations and responsibilities seriously in this game. "I didn't feel like it" really doesn't cut a whole lot of slack with anyone.

(*Of course, some stories do end up taking an interminably long time for the simple reason that the story itself -- or one of its component elements -- just doesn't work. But even then, it's the writer's (*points at self*) stubbornness in terms of wanting to try every possible permutation of keeping that element in the book, even if it's screaming out in radiation coloured neon that "this doesn't work for this book, get over it!")

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty Two

2010-05-23T20:14:00.001+01:00

22. Tell us about one scene between your characters that you've never written or told anyone about before! Serious or not.

Isn't this a rehash of Q.10?

If they're not written, then chances are it's because those scenes don't exist -- I spend more time in edits taking scenes out than putting 'em in. I have to write the scene in the first place before I can tell whether or not to include it. And I'd definitely have told someone about a scene if it had the slightest chance of being included. My best friend is my sounding board (aka `has to listen to me whine and complain and generally bitch about pretty much every sentence in the book`. Lather, rinse and repeat for every book), and I'd run a scene by her, even if it was in the vaguest, fuzziest, unformed terms, even if it never made the first draft.

I guess in terms of scenes never written because the story just took a different path, there's the alternate ending to Human Nature that never saw the light of day. Let's put it this way, there really wasn't a HEA in the original idea. But the ending I envisioned when I first got to know the characters wouldn't have worked with the way they developed through the story. They changed too much, it wouldn't have been in character for any of them. So, although it `existed` in my thoughts when I first hashed out the plotline in my head, the scene itself never happened.

(For a partial explanation of why that happened with Human Nature specifically, please see Q.19 and direct all comments/complaints/"Thank you for not letting Cat turn your story into the dark, morose, depressing piece of gloom it surely could have been"s to Randall. All his fault.)

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty One

2010-05-22T11:01:00.000+01:00

21. Do any of your characters have children? How well do you write them?

A character in one of the WIP Hell stories does, but that'll be my first real attempt at writing kids who actually belong to the character in question. There's a brief scene in "The Spirit Of Giving" with Riley's young cousins -- and I've been told one of 'em almost steals the show entirely, which is encouraging -- but they aren't as integral to the plot.

There've been some RP scenes and the like featuring children, also, but seeing as I don't have any it's hard to know how well I'm doing. I always worry that I'm writing them too precociously for their age (probably because I was, as a child). That or too sickly-sweet cute (which I most certainly wasn't! *laughs*). So yeah, how well I do remains to be seen.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twenty

2010-05-21T22:06:00.001+01:00

20. What are your favorite character interactions to write?

Snark and bickering rank highly — that's why writing anything with Vance and Pietro is so much fun. They have a history that goes way beyond what's in the book, and I love the way their conversations can touch on that without spelling any of it out. You just wouldn't talk that way to someone who didn't share that past history, and it's great being able to show their relationship without having to go into the details. Yeah, they were lovers once, but the familiarity and ease of their bantering goes even further than that. There's trust and respect under all the snark and smartassery. There's a similar relationship in a WIP. Actually there are similar relationships in a lot of my stories — characters who have a history (not necessarily romantic/sexual) that allows them a whole lot of leeway in how they smack a bunch of sense into the main character.

The seduction is also good. Sometimes the actual sex scenes have me gnawing my desk in frustration (and not the good kind), sometimes they just flow, but the build-up to it is always a great deal of fun. UST, the `we-know-they-will-but-omg-what-if-they-don't?!` feeling gets me every time. I always loved the X-Files more before Mulder and Scully actually hooked up. Afterwards it was kind of "Meh..." I love the chase just as much (if not a leeeeeettle bit more) than the capture. Of course, a great deal of the banter and bickering feeds into this too, that level of ease two characters have with each other in the process of building a relationship.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Nineteen

2010-05-20T11:33:00.003+01:00

19. Favorite minor that decided to shove himself into the spotlight and why!

Randall from "Human Nature" was never meant to be one of the leads of that book. When the bunny first struck, it was strictly Gage/Dominic. The first scene that came to mind was the one near the start of the book with Dominic in front of the fireplace in wolf form while Gage interrogates him, and, obviously, Randall is nowhere in sight in that scene. I thought he was just a background character, at the most a conduit between Gage and Dominic when they weren't *ahem* seeing eye-to-eye. Which was most of the time.

Then I started to actually write the damn thing... Gage was far too invested in Randall for a simple master/servant relationship, and if the book was strictly Gage/Dominic, why was the wolf making eyes at the help?!

The funny thing is, Randall is still a conduit between Gage and Dominic when they don't see eye-to-eye (which, yep, is still most of the time) but in a far more intrinsic way than I first thought. His shift from background to main character opened up Gage and Dominic's characters in ways the twosome relationship could never do. It made HN an entirely different story to the one it would've been otherwise.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Eighteen

2010-05-19T10:16:00.001+01:00

18. Favorite antagonist and why!

The first thing that springs to mind here are the guys from "Hung Up". They're just so… weaselly. Their motives and actions just clicked into place so well with the development of Spence and Billy's relationship. Hell, almost everything clicked into place so well with that book, despite the fact I was tearing my hair out over it at the time. I don't think Billy and Spence's relationship would have proceeded the way it did at all if it wasn't for the actions of Reed and Cordell, so yeah, they're definitely the most satisfying antagonists even if they might not be the most dramatic.

Marcus from "Afterthought" comes close too — he's just so much the archetypal villain, the closest thing to an out'n'out bad guy I've written. It's a hard line to draw, between the 100% evil antagonist and still making them real. Even the most intensely unpleasant characters like Marcus have to have some vaguely human traits, and I'm not entirely sure I succeeded with him, really. It's hard to find anything redeeming in a guy like that, even if he is sociopathologically charming and he did take Ayan in, albeit for his own nefarious reasons. Maybe he's a bit too over-the-top. Granted he needed to be a little over-the-top to lure the boys into a false sense of security…

I've had a comment that the antagonists in Human Nature were a little nebulous and undetermined, which I guess on the level of actual `the bad guys` might be true. But the true antagonists in that book are the characters' own natures, the duality of humanity and other. The bad guys are nameless and faceless and anonymous — to each of the three main characters, the bad guys represent a concept, rather than a group of individuals. If they'd been more defined, more specific, it would have taken away from that, I think.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Seventeen

2010-05-18T22:23:00.000+01:00

17. Favorite protagonist and why!

Can I reword this one to `favourite protagonist per book`? No? Ah, dammit...

It might be squirming out of answering, but there is no favourite. They're ALL favourite for their own particular story, else why would I be writing them in the first place? Writing characters like Vance from "Afterthought", or Nolan from "Chasing Butterflies", or Dominic from "Human Nature" comes easy because their voices come easy to me, but that doesn't mean I like them more than any of the other main characters in those books. Like I said in one of the earlier questions, there's a difference between favourite character and favourite to write. I adore Pietro, and Gage and Randall, but they certainly aren't the easiest to write.

So yeah, lame-but-true answer = there aren't any.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Sixteen

2010-05-17T23:03:00.002+01:00

16. Do you write romantic relationships? How do you do with those, and how "far" are you willing to go in your writing? ;)

Heh heh… Okay, I’ll assume you’ve just stumbled onto my blog, and have little to zero idea of what I write. Yes, yes I do. I do okay, thanks, and as to how far, uh… pretty far.

In all seriousness though, how far I go depends entirely on the characters and the story. If I worked it out, I think the percentage of sex/explicitness in the stories overall would be less than you’d imagine. Yeah, what’s there might be pretty hot, but it’s there for a reason. I can’t stand pointless, endless sex scenes, either as a reader or (hopefully!) a writer. I skim over them in books I read, and most of the time I don’t even feel like I’ve missed anything. I think the best sex scenes a) fit the story and the point in the plot at which they’re included, and b) reveal something about the characters. Mostly b), honestly – for the most part I can suspend disbelief over "we’re running for our lives but still pausing to smex each other up!" as long as it fits the characters’ personalities to be doing that at such an inopportune time.

Writing "Human Nature", for example, which is an m/m/m ménage and features a fair bit of hotter scenes, I wanted each scene to reveal something deeper about how each character related to each other, both in their initial twosomes and then the threesome. I’d like to think that, in skimming those scenes, the reader might not get a full picture of the characters’ thought processes, their motivations, their reasons for the things they do/feel. I’m also weak-kneed for UST, and sexual tension generally, so dragging it out till we’re all yelling "do it already!" – reader, writer and characters – sounds good to me!

Human Nature Review

2010-05-17T22:11:00.002+01:00

Christina at Romance Junkies Reviews had this to say about "Human Nature":

"The atmosphere in HUMAN NATURE is very tense and feels very antiquated. It pulled me into the story right away. I found myself forgetting that the novel has a contemporary setting. Gage is a mysterious and intriguing character. Throughout the story I found myself wanting to know more about him. I was filled with questions and I couldn’t wait to discover the answers. Randall is also a very interesting and surprising character. Despite his life long service to Gage, he is an independent person. I admired his determination to do what is right even if it means going against the man he loves. The relationship between the three heroes is strong and felt very believable to me. HUMAN NATURE by Cat Kane is a compelling paranormal romance."

Read the whole review here!

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Fifteen

2010-05-16T12:24:00.001+01:00

15. Midway question! Tell us about a writer you admire, whether professional or not!

Oh man, wanna ask me something simple instead? Like the meaning of life, or what killed the dinosaurs?

I'm not gonna mention any names or make any lists, because I'll only end up coming back here every other day and adding someone I forgot. Plus, y'know, I've devoted about seven years of my life to literary criticism and I'm not gonna turn my blog into a rehash of my under/postgrad years now *laughs*. I've already done two theses, I ain't planning on another one, and that's exactly what this would turn into. And anyway, there's just too much to mention.

I admire anyone who puts pen to paper and spills out a little piece of their soul. What's the Hemmingway quote, "there is nothing to writing, all you have to do is sit at a typewriter and bleed"? I think anyone who sits down to write, just from the pure compulsion to tell a story, does just that. Those that then take on the task of getting whatever they've written published, face all the rejections and slamming doors and keep going, I admire them even more. I admire songwriters who have to do what we authors get to do in several thousand words if we want to, in three minutes. I admire the writers of the best tv comedy, who make timing a fine and exquisite art.

And I admire my best friend, who unfortunately doesn't write much these days, but who's kicked me in the ass on too many occasions to count and told me to get on with mine.

Chasing Butterflies Cover Art

2010-05-16T04:02:00.003+01:00

So, remember how I promised you guys eyecandy? Never let it be said that I don't deliver. Behold, the lovely that is the "Chasing Butterflies" cover, by the awesome Lyn Taylor.

For blurb'n'excerpt, check out the Liquid Silver Books forum, here.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Fourteen

2010-05-15T22:21:00.001+01:00

14. How do you map out locations, if needed? Do you have any to show us?

If I’m using real locations, Google Earth is my buddy. I could get lost for hours researching on that thing. Usually though, I’m using a more generic, unnamed town or city just to allow myself the freedom of putting things where I need them. In that case, I’ll figure out approximately where I want the town/city to be, and look at the ones already in that vicinity as inspiration regarding size, architecture, flora/fauna, distance from other places in the book, etc.

A long abandoned WIP had extremely detailed house floorplans. It was a suspense/whodunit set in a shared house, so I needed to know rather specific things (where all the characters were at a certain point, how they got from A to B, what they could see out their window…). For some reason, I could never engage 100% with that story, at least not at the time, but I think that had less to do with anal-retentive floorplans and more to do with way too many POV characters.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Thirteen

2010-05-14T12:03:00.001+01:00

13. What's your favorite culture to write, fictional or not?

Hmm. Isn't this a bit of a rehash of yesterday's question? Isn't a fictional culture just world building by another name?

I guess all I can say to expand a bit on yesterday is that I can't say I've deliberately written another culture, "The Sun Child"'s Aztec influence aside. For the most part, be it urban or small-town, I tend to focus on contemporary western culture -- mostly because it's what I know, and what I'm fairly confident I can depict well without pissing too many people off. Does "Hung Up"'s rodeo setting count as a culture? From the research I did, it certainly is an universe all its own. Even the paranormal books are set in worlds recognizable as our own. And what about gay culture, an amorphous thing that seems to mean different things to just as many different people? I don't think I've written anything that would represent the general consensus' (and potentially stereotypical) interpretation of gay culture, either. But are the books, by dint of having gay characters, set in the gay culture by default?

Come to think of it, it's a rare book that immerses us in other cultures. I wonder if it goes back to the fear of writing the Other, fear of getting things wrong and inadvertently offending the very people the writer is trying to represent? I'm by no means advocating letting the awful, stereotypical and offensive depictions just slide on by without calling them on it, but recently it seems people jump on everything, even the best intentioned work. By all means, tell us what we're doing wrong -- if we're writing it in the first place, it's (usually) because we want to get it right, make it accurate, make it respectful (again, usually. I appreciate there are asshats out there who's intention is to offend). But I wonder if the pile-ons just scare off the writers who would otherwise do their research, portray sensitively and with respect, but are just put off by potential backlash, and the genre as a whole is poorer and less diverse because of it? No idea.

Huh. That went way off tangent, huh?

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Twelve

2010-05-13T22:38:00.001+01:00

12. In what story did you feel you did the best job of world-building? Any side-notes on it you'd like to share?

I've touched on both of these before, so apologies for being a little repetitive here, but I'd have to choose "Afterthought" and "The Sun Child".

"Afterthought" for all the reasons I mentioned in an earlier question -- the possibilities, the potential, the parallels. The WIP sequel expands on all these, and that'll be the real test to see whether I can adhere to the rules of the world I've created while also expanding on them. There's a risk of characters in that sort of world appearing to be omnipotent and god-like in terms of their powers, so it'll be interesting to take a look at the downside of being a powerful Path in that world. The world-building in the "Afterthought" universe still intrigues me precisely because it's an ongoing thing.

"The Sun Child" was very different, because while it's not (and never was) intended as a true historical novella -- it's Aztec-inspired, but there's some artistic license in there too -- there needed to be enough specific detail to anchor it of its time/culture. So none of the deities or mythology in the book is real, but little things, like the societal structures, ceremonial food and drink, is. All the names are real Nahuatl names, but they're chosen for what they mean rather than how often they were actually used as names. The main ritual that forms the story's structure is an amalgam of this real/created world. The ritual that inspired that of The Sun Child and his eight cups exists in the form of a sacrifice made to Tezcatlipoca, whereby a young man is chosen from the tribe, and treated like a prince for a year. During this time, he's taught to play the flute wonderfully, and his final act before his sacrifice is to break the flute on which he played such beautiful music. I'd read about the ritual years before the story was written, and it haunted me enough that when the opportunity came to write "The Sun Child", the whole story took form immediately around it. Of course, the main difference between my retelling of it is that "The Sun Child" does have a happy (or at the very least, HFN) ending.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Eleven

2010-05-12T22:55:00.002+01:00

11. Who is your favorite character to write? Least favorite?

I think, as demonstrated by questions coming up in a few days, there may be a difference between your favourite characters, and your favourite characters to write. Sometimes a character that's close to your heart becomes one of the most difficult to write precisely because they're so close -- there's a tendency to lose perspective, a temptation to let them get away with things that do nothing for the story as a whole. I guess all writers have to guard against indulging their darlings too much, and by dint there's a whole lot more scrutiny that goes into the actions of `favourite` characters that sometimes means the process of writing them isn't as much fun. Or, at least, fun in a different way.

I don't think I have a favourite character, as much as I have a favourite character type -- the snarky character, the sidekick or background character than have much more leeway than the main characters. The bad guys, too. There's something very satisfying in writing the characters who can be as outlandish and outrageous as they like because the reader's supposed to respond to that negatively and/or surprised. Bad as it might sound, the characters who are the most fun to write tend to be the ones that don't require too much thought -- the ones you don't have to censor too much. They speak their mind, regardless of whatever the other characters think, or even because they intend to shake up the other characters a little. In case you hadn't noticed *g* I have a tendency to ramble on when given the opportunity, so when I can let a character have his/her head, let them talk without too much interference on my part, I usually end up with a more satisfying -- and natural, which is important -- segment of dialogue.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Ten

2010-05-11T22:13:00.003+01:00

Yep, the observant among you will have noticed there was no Question 10 yesterday. No, I didn't forget, I was just at a KISS concert (review and/or much flailing to follow). Besides, the even more observant will have noticed there's 31 days in May, so I would've had to skip one day *g*. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

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10. What are some really weird situations your characters have been in? Everything from serious canon scenes to meme questions counts!

I don't think there's anything especially weird in the story canons. No weirder than necessary, anyway.

However, a few of the characters have been RP characters at some point or another -- no better way to work out how a character will react than to just let 'em have free rein to act/interact as they please -- so there's been some weird situations there. Drinking games (how else do you get at those deep dark secrets?). Birthday parties (always good for a fight or three). Secret santa exchanges (the gift that keeps on giving -- and gift choices say a lot about a guy). Does that count as weird?

Then there's the time Vance and Pietro (in other guises) spent a Monday evening discussing the merits -- or otherwise -- of marriage to the background noise of a Patricia Cornwell narrated documentary about Jack The Ripper. That one was... vaguely surreal. And no, that had absolutely no relevance to the book whatsoever *g* in case anyone thinks they missed something in "Afterthought".

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Nine

2010-05-09T23:29:00.000+01:00

9. How do you get ideas for your characters? Describe the process of creating them.

This question ranks somewhere just below "Where do you get ideas for your stories?" on the `Questions That Irritate You` chart. If anyone could condense these questions down to an universal step-by-step guide, then that'd kill the how-to writing books (and probably several creative writing courses) overnight.

The simple answer, for me at least? In everything. A phrase, a song, a shirt, a car, a question, a fear, a dream, a street name, a sentence overheard in the supermarket, a stranger I'd like to know better...

Sometimes the character comes before the story, and often the character is the story -- it all fleshes out because of him and his choices. Someone else in that same situation = totally different story. Sometimes I need a character who... I don't know, really dislikes celery and is allergic to cats, but when he's a little more developed, it turns out he hates eggplant, not celery, and he's faking the cat allergy because it was an excuse to get away from an ex, and it's that kind of nitpicking personality trait that turns out to be the crux of the story. Weird example, I know. A more concrete one might be Ayan from "Afterthought", who -- for no particular reason -- turned out to be claustrophobic. If you've read the book, you'll know how that plays into the climax of the book, but when it first showed up? No clue. Until the climax came to be written, I didn't even know how I was going to weave it into the plot, or whether it would wind up a loose end that needed snipping in edits. Turns out it was pretty important, but why it was there in the first place is one of those odd little quirks.

It's different every time, and it's an ever-evolving thing -- both within individual stories, and for me as a writer -- so there really isn't any process I could describe.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Eight

2010-05-08T22:23:00.000+01:00

8. What's your favorite genre to write? To read?

It probably doesn't do the whole author branding thing any favors, but I don't think I have one. I've done contemporary, paranormal, historical, fantasy/sci-fi… There's something that appeals about each one, both as reader and writer. I guess I could fudge it and say `it depends on my mood`, but there's more than a grain of truth in that. Historicals, for example -- I have to be in a specific frame of mind to tackle that genre to fully enjoy it as a reader. Same for the sci-fi stuff. If I'm having the kind of day where my concentration is shot and my attention has a tendency to wander, I don't think I'd do those books justice. Interestingly though, when I do pick up books in those genres, there tends to be a higher proportion of keepers among them. I don't know whether it's the `novelty` factor, for want of a better word, or that it's harder finding gems in a saturated contemporary market. But there's no specific genre I'll go to above others. I do tend to glom in genres though; I'll read a whole bunch of UF books, for example, and then a bunch of suspense books, or I'll read an author's whole backlist back-to-back if I've bought a book by them I really enjoyed.

As a writer, I'll play the same old broken record that seems to permeate these answers and say it depends on the story. I don't set out to write a specific genre, be it contemp or historical or whatever. The story I'm working on just happens to be in whichever genre, if that non-explanation makes any sense. Like I said, I'm not sure the genre-hopping helps any when it comes to readers knowing the Cat Kane `brand` (whee, find me on the shelf next to the instant coffee!) but I don't think limiting yourself as a writer is good for readers either. Hopefully there's some crossover in voice or style or something where a reader can find common ground between the books.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Seven

2010-05-07T12:11:00.000+01:00

7. Do you listen to music while you write? What kind? Are there any songs you like to relate/apply to your characters?

Yikes… Okay, this could either be really short ("Yes. All kinds. Yes."), or really really long. Tl;dr sort of long, in which I share various playlists and get all deep'n'meaningful about why that certain song IS that certain character's song.

In the (mercifully) condensed version, I'll just tell you that I got a huge kick out of finding out other authors created soundtracks for their books. I've always associated music with my writing, be it with a certain story or certain characters. Sometimes I'll listen to the soundtrack exclusively while I'm writing, but more often I'm using the music in the daydreaming, plotting stage. Scenes play out against the background of the music, like videos. I walk a lot, usually with my mp3 player glued to my head, so this is the ideal sort of time to figure out where the story's heading. Walking unravels plot tangles, and the music -- especially when that one annoying, indecisive, stubborn character's song comes on -- weaves it back together. I find sometimes that if I'm listening to music while actually writing, I focus too much on the music and less on the story. But I can't work in silence either, so instrumental music, or, weirdly enough, talk radio is the background noise of choice.

Then there's the music the characters themselves would listen to (or the music that they'd hear in their environment if it's not a contemporary), which isn't necessarily the same as the music/lyrics I associate with them. Sometimes I'm well aware that a character would hate having a certain genre/style/artist associated with them, they'd never be seen dead listening to that kind of thing, but the song will still resonate.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Six

2010-05-06T22:11:00.001+01:00

6. Where are you most comfortable writing? At what time of day? Computer or good ol' pen and paper?

I find that pen and paper (or more often, pencil and paper) helps me drown out the inner editor more so than the computer screen. Maybe it’s something to do with seeing the words in crisp black and white as opposed to messy barely-legible scrawl that proves a hang-up for me. The temptation to go back and edit is stronger then. It's easier to just click the delete key than it is to chop and change on paper. Oh, you can cross things out, but it leaves great big ugly scribbles and gets ink all over your hands that later on manages to find its way to the fridge door and the kettle handle...

There’s something about the scritch-scratch of nib against paper, the speed and flow of it, that’s much better for my productivity. It’s also more portable, and a whole lot more discreet (sometimes even I can’t read my own handwriting, so good luck other people reading over my shoulder!). Plus, I can do the first round of edits as I type it up from the handwritten drafts, which leaves me with a fairly clean second draft to work with.

As to when and where… doesn’t matter, really. Obviously, in an ideal world I’d like to have as little distraction and interruption as possible, but then again the opening chapter of "The Spirit Of Giving" was written waiting for a plane at Heathrow airport at Christmas, so peace and tranquillity is certainly not necessary!

But if anyone wants to explain to me why I still can't get to grips with typing on the laptop I've had two and a half years, feel free. I think the keyboard is just too far in from the edge. That, and I always forget to turn the mousepad off, so mid-type I'll end up moving/deleting/coloring green a huge chunk of the text I'm working on.

And yes, I've had that happen unbeknownst to me in edits and had my editor going "...??" at me. Bad laptop, bad.

And in other news...

2010-05-06T02:17:00.001+01:00

I've just seen the initial draft of the cover for "Chasing Butterflies", and it's gorgeous! One of the best yet, and seeing as I've been incredibly blessed in the cover art stakes, that's saying something.

Stay tuned, as soon as I have the finalized draft I'll be sharing the lovely with y'all.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Five

2010-05-05T12:08:00.000+01:00

5. By age, who is your youngest character? Oldest? How about "youngest" and "oldest" in terms of when you created them?

Most of my human (or mostly human) characters tend to be in the 20-40 bracket, so there's not a whole lot of variation there. Supernatural creatures, like Gage from "Human Nature" are of some interminably old age -- from the imagery in his back-story, he's at least 200, but could potentially be up to 600. Given that his exact age isn't enormously relevant to the plot of "Human Nature", except that he's old and he's had his fill of humans and their general animosity to demonkind, most of that imagery tends to exist solely in the notes that form my mental picture of his life.

Oldest in terms of when they were created would be Vance and Pietro from "Afterthought", who are, like I mentioned the other day, two of those characters who’ve been kicking around in various guises and various names for a long time, and eventually found their niche in that book.

Newest? The current population of WIP Hell, all too numerous to mention.

30 Days Writing Meme --Question Four

2010-05-04T23:30:00.000+01:00

4. Tell us about one of your first stories/characters!

Not ever, right? Because that would involve y’know… ponies and secret clubs and talking animals and whatever other dross I was writing aged nine. And I don’t think anyone reading this wants to know about that! I ran the gamut while I was learning the craft and finding my voice (and both journeys are still ongoing): rock bands, aliens, ghosts, time-travel, racing car drivers that ended up having weird echoes of Pride & Prejudice... yeeeah. Not so great, actually. And there's more where those came from, each one printed out and filed because the only word processing program we had on to computer at the time was WordStar and I had a limited supply of floppy disks on which to keep all these amazing works. They're all still here, somewhere, though hopefully now the ink's fading. All that paper (that my dad used to bring home from work, and I'd get chewed out for using a whole ream in about a week). Oh, those poor, poor trees...

There were two stories that turned into my first forays into M/M. The first one, circa... mid-nineties, I guess, was an ensemble cast thing about a secret task force plucked from the cream-of-the-crop in their individual fields. They were supposed to be an elite crime fighting team, but they seemed to spend most of their time arguing amongst themselves and falling in and out of love. The research was non-existent; there was no net, and the only vaguely researchy books I could find were usually travel guides. So I had no idea how the FBI worked besides what I'd seen in the X-Files, but I could tell you the precise details on any hotels they might stay in should they ever be in South Dakota. So yeah, the entire story was a mess. But, out of nowhere in that weird left-field organic way characters do, two of the guys became far more interested in each other than any girl I might throw their way. I shrugged and went with it. The story didn't last much longer, and I mostly put that down to the research part -- I didn't know enough with any depth to sustain the plot for any length of time, especially when those pesky technical details came into play.

It was a couple of years after that story went to story heaven that I started on one that would specifically be focused around an M/M couple. Granted, I had no such labels to slap on it at the time, and maybe that was for the best. I was mainlining Grafton, Evanovich and Hoag at the time, so there's no surprise it turned into a small-town crime novel. It became only the second novel-length story I actually finished (and when you consider I'd been starting and abandoning stories for about a decade, that's saying something), and while it has its problems -- and I'm using `problems` there in the same context as `horrific, laughable, gaping flaws` -- the bare bones of the story are sound enough that it's still on the back-burner as a project that could be rewritten with another ten years of experience behind me. I'll always have a soft spot for it, because it's the one that introduced me to this genre, the one that showed me I could follow through and finish something, the one that taught me the value of keeping your plot threads straight. It's my trunk novel, I guess. *laughs*

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Three

2010-05-03T10:14:00.002+01:00

3. How do you come up with names, for characters (and for places if you're writing about fictional places)?

Gah, names are usually a bugbear for me because unless the name is absolutely right, the character doesn’t truly come to life. The name has to fit. It’s not unusual for characters in WIPs to be `Main Character 1` and `Main Character 2` for a while until it all falls into place, until I have a deeper grasp on their personality that lets me go "Yep, THAT'S your name". Sometimes I'll try names to see how they scan in the story, and I’ll go back and change them all if they’ve been given a `hmm, not sure about that one…` name.

I’m also a sucker for layering in meaning, so a character might have a name whose meaning reveals something about them, their personality, their secrets, or the plot. For example, Yaotl and Eztli from "The Sun Child" -- their names mean `warrior` and `blood` respectively.
Seeing as their story is about a tribal warrior rescuing a fated sacrifice, it fits the plot. Vance (from "Afterthought") dervies from a 7th Century definition of `marshland` or `marsh-dweller`, which fit for me with the murkiness of Vance's character, while Ayan can mean `bright`, which, when you see the effect he has on Vance's admittedly screwy moral compass, you'll see why that fits too. If a reader knows the meaning of the name (or looks it up if it’s an unusual one, which I confess I do a lot) then I think it’s great to have that added "Ohhh!" moment.

Of course, sometimes a name just sounds right from the get go, and brings with it the visuals of the character. The "Human Nature" boys just were Gage, Randall and Dominic from the start, the names came as clearly as the mental image I have of them.

Places work the same way. If I'm using an entirely fictional location, I might use a mashed-up amalgam of several places in the rough vicinity of the setting. Or, like Brushfoot, the fictitious small Southern town in my upcoming release "Chasing Butterflies", it's taken from the plot itself. Brushfoots being a sub-species of butterfly (Nymphalidae), and reading a little more about them, it turns out that while on the open surface their wings are bright and colorful, "the underwings are in contrast often dull and in some species look remarkably like dead leaves, or are much paler, producing a cryptic effect that helps the butterfly disappear into its surroundings." Perfect for a small town's name!

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question Two

2010-05-02T22:02:00.000+01:00

2. How many characters do you have? Do you prefer males or females?

Oh man, at the last time of counting – which was about four or five years ago – there were fifty-something, most of them male (like that’s a surprise…!). Some of them have their own books, some of them are languishing in WIP Hell, and some of them have just been there forever and may never even get their story but I love them too much to forget about them. Sometimes that’s just how it works: the character shows up, but there’s either no story to house them, or if there is it’s too outrageous/unwieldy/complicated or otherwise generally impossible. In the spirit of a true packrat, I keep them hanging around in the virtual Green Room till another idea comes along that might work with them. Several of the characters that turn up in my books have been around in various guises in other stories/worlds that didn’t quite go anywhere.

As for the `why` of preferring to write male characters… I don't know. It's something I do ponder, sometimes. There's been a lot of discussion lately about the M/M genre specifically and writing the "other", but hell... we're writing the "other" anyway just by dint of writing about men when we aren't one (or men writing female characters, and so on, and so on, ad infinitum...), so to be honest the discussion tends to lose me there. I have no real issues with anyone writing the "other" as long as it's done with respect, sensitivity, and the character isn't a stereotype. But then again no character should be a stereotype, so maybe that last one's moot. And if no-one ever wrote the "other"... well, books would be pretty damn dull, wouldn't they? They'd be little more than thinly-veiled autobiographies, and believe me, no-one wants to read about my life.

Anyway, back to the `why`... Maybe it's because my own thought processes run toward more masculine tendencies (black-and-white, analytical, problem-solving, etc. etc. ...) than feminine, and I can't quite get a female character's way of thinking. Maybe it's because I connect better -- and always have -- with the hero in het books than the (usually annoying, shrill, TSTL) heroines. Maybe I just burned out writing female-centric stories for many, many years before I started writing M/M. I had no idea it was m/m then, this being the dark pre-Cat-has-internet ages of the mid/late 1990's. But maybe, for now at least, I've just exhausted the `write what you know` idiom on that score. Maybe men just fascinate me more. Maybe there's just more scope when you're writing male characters; like it or not (and no, for the record, I don't), even in 2010 it's still more believable that they can be anything, career/occupation-wise, without having to go into great detail about the whys and the wherefores of how they attained such a position. Or maybe it's a grain of all the above, all rolled into one.

Heh... I warned you I liked to ramble.

30 Days Writing Meme -- Question One

2010-05-01T22:29:00.003+01:00

Jumping on another meme bandwagon, but at least this one has some connection to writing. As the title suggests, 30 days, 30 questions about the writing process. The original meme seems geared more towards fandom than original fiction so there's one or two I might have to tweak a little to make them relevant, but hey -- any excuse to ramble about what I do.

So, onward! Question one!

1. Tell us about your favorite writing project/universe that you've worked with and why.

Way to ease me in gently! I’m not gonna go with `ever` here because that’d open me up to far too many choices, so I’ll limit it to the published books.

While one of my favourite stories to work on was "The Sun Child" (also one of my most obscure books it seems, go figure!), if you’re talking about a whole project/universe, then it has to be the "Afterthought" world. I think my love of good urban fantasy really fed into the whole `it’s our world, but not as we know it` premise. I love the idea of this whole other society co-existing alongside the normal world.

Writing in the M/M genre, there's also the opportunity to layer in the potentially very clandestine world of the Path community. The community as a whole and its individual occupants have to choose their battles carefully -- there's no guarantee of acceptance, or a positive reaction to revealing themselves, but their Path nature is as integral as any other facet that makes them who they are, and suppressing or denying it just makes them miserable. In "Afterthought", Vance wonders at one point how Ayan (who's incredibly uneasy with his Path nature, and that unease has allowed him to be manipulated by Vance's enemies) might have turned out if he'd had a more positive role model, one who'd encouraged and shown him that there's nothing wrong with just being who he is. The parallels are interesting, I think, without being too in-your-face.

Working out the way the Path universe works, both its limitations and its possibilities also led to plotbunnies spawning like crazy. There’s already a sequel to "Afterthought" in WIP Hell, and rough ideas for a couple more, all linked to some extent. It’s a little like a playground I can toss characters into and watch what happens.

Plus, y’know… the things telepaths can get away with? Endless amusement. *g*

Music Memeage

2010-04-19T01:10:00.003+01:00

I've seen that `list the first five songs that come up via shuffle on your mp3 player` meme for ages, but as often as I've been tempted, I've always tempered it with the knowledge that it's likely gonna expose my weird -- or, "eclectic", if you're feeling polite and "obscure" if you have no idea what I'm talking about -- tastes in music. Hey, I'm an 80's child, what do you expect? And whaddya know, expose me it did. Well, okay so it could've been a lot worse. Trust me, it really could have. I know what else is on there, this is me getting off lightly.

Meh, who am I kidding, I make absolutely no apologies for any of it. *g*

1) Survivor - It's The Singer Not The Song

This is one of those songs that, when I first heard it a long time ago, gave me shivers. Something about the lyrics just resonated with the teenage me. Thinking about it now, from a writerly (and older) perspective, it's just as interesting a concept -- I mean, consider the alternative: "when there's magic in the story, it's the writer, not the book". So yeah, *laughs* interesting.

2) Tim McGraw - Good Girls

I don't know if it's the writer in me, but I'm a complete sucker for story songs (and I'm surprised that Springsteen didn't show up on this shuffle because to me, he's the king of story songs) and this is one of 'em. You can see it all unfolding like a movie, scene by scene.

3) Robbie Williams - Come Undone

Again, the lyrics of this one really resonate with me ("I'm contemplating, thinking about thinking"). Something about the contradictions -- that yeah, you can be both things at once and each still be equally valid -- spoke to where I was at the time I heard it.

4) KISS - I Stole Your Love

KISS are my very first love, which, when you think about it, probably explains a hell of a lot. *g* Seriously, I was singing along to the `doo-doo-doo` part of "I Was Made For Loving You" in the car when I was about... four. It's pure theatrics, and the history of the band plays out like a soap opera, but three decades later I'm going to see 'em live in three weeks so I guess some things just last.

5) Coldplay - Viva La Vida

I'm not sure if this really counts as a story song, but in my head it is. This one's interesting, because it's on the mp3 because it -- like about 75% of the songs on there -- fits a character in a WIP. I get a better handle on characters when I know a) what they'd listen to, and/or b) what songs fit their personality. Stories usually develop a soundtrack of their own, and even when the story's done, the song will forever be associated with that character/book for me.

(In the interest of honesty, #5 was originally "Valentine" by Hazeldine, but I couldn't find a version of it, or indeed anything else by Hazeldine on the net. Sometimes I think no-one's ever heard of Hazeldine but me *laughs* but I picked up the album completely at random several years back and it's still one of my all-time favourites)

Coming Soon -- "Chasing Butterflies"

2010-03-29T20:38:00.002+01:00

"Chasing Butterflies", a contemporary m/m romance, will be out soon from Liquid Silver Books as part of their `Summer Lovin'` theme. Stay tuned for more details, or keep up to date on the LSB forum. Meanwhile, here's the blurb!

-----

When a heat-wave wrecks Nolan Brooks' rental car, leaving him stranded in a sleepy little Tennessee town, the goal of spending the summer running his best friend's beach-side bar begins to flutter out of reach. He's trying to be responsible and ambitious for the first time in his life, and spending the weekend at a local festival celebrating the migration of the Purple Lacewing butterfly doesn't fit into those plans.

But he's stuck for the duration, and making the best of a bad situation doesn't seem so difficult when a shortage of hotel rooms means he's spending it with the charming, if mysterious, Gray Ashton. Gray isn't too fond of tourists, but despite his misgivings, it seems he'll make an exception for Nolan.

When Nolan succumbs to the charms of the town, the butterflies, and Gray, he has to re-evaluate what he really wants. But the secrets in Gray's past and the obligations in Nolan's future won't make that any easier than chasing butterflies

-----

Being Random McRandomerson

2010-03-18T22:51:00.004Z

(If you don't watch the tv show Glee, or the anime Bleach, this isn't going to make a whole lot of sense, but on the off chance someone shares my warped sense of humor....)

So, I'm watching this week's episode of Glee (in the UK), and even since I went on a YouTube trawl for funny Bleach-centric vids the other week, I couldn't help but see this....

....as this.

Sometimes, my head is a very, very strange place to be.

But What Are Your Thoughts On Yaoi??

2010-03-14T20:05:00.010Z

This week, this post on Kris's blog actually prompted me, self-proclaimed Queen of the Lurkers and Prime Minister of Lurkdom, to unlurk and comment. See, it happens! Occasionally. Granted, it takes a subject about which I'm pretty certain I know my stuff for me to do it, and maybe it's not the most amazing claim on earth, but nyah. Cat likes her yaoi, and has done for some time.

I'm not sure what kind of crossover yaoi and m/m fiction has. I know several publishers have a category for it, but I'll admit I haven't delved deeply enough to know what they constitute as the yaoi `genre` in that sense. I attend Yaoi-Con almost every year (missed '09, boo!) and I always wonder whether the presses and booksellers who attend are preaching to the choir, or are some anime/manga fans unsure about taking the leap to a more realistic portrayal of gay relationships found in a significant proportion of m/m fiction? A little of both, I'm guessing. Using myself as an example, I definitely appreciate both, though I came to yaoi (and, by extension, anime/manga) because of my interest in m/m. I'm curious how it works the other way 'round. I know a lot of writers and readers have come from the fanfic community, so there has to be some overlap there. And while I adore yaoi, I don't think I write it, in the traditional sense (though I'm sure now someone's gonna point at one of my stories and go "Hey, that's totally yaoi-influenced right there!" *laughs*).

It seems a lot of the standard yaoi tropes aren't generally liked in the m/m fiction community (weepy, over-feminized ukes, anyone?), while others -- Gay-For-You springs to mind -- can work for both. But there's a wide variety out there. While those tropes are alive and well, there're also mangaka who're turning those conventions on their heads. So here's a few of my favourites that do just that (with nary a weepy, girly uke in sight!).

Haru wo Daiteita (Embracing Love) by Youka Nitta was the first yaoi manga I fell in love with, close to 10 years ago now. I adore this so much I bought the entire series in Japanese, just to look at the pictures and try to follow the plot. Basic premise? Porn stars fall in love. But that's only really Chapter 1 -- the rest is an exploration of the development of their relationship, the joys and pitfalls of that juxtaposed with the guys' transition to mainstream acting. Despite the set-up, it's one of the most convincing, realistic relationships in yaoi; there's no chicks-with-dicks syndrome here. The issues and conflicts are as much driven by the fact these are men, in all their stubborn, uncommunicative, proud glory, as any external plots (of which there are several). And while the roles don't switch very often, Nitta plays with the concept of seme/uke in terms of personality -- and as such the perceived notions of who's on top in a relationship, sexually or otherwise -- all the way through. There's also more background to the characters than we usually see, with both main characters' families -- and their very different reactions to their sons' gay relationship -- featuring often. All Nitta's work is on indefinite hiatus, though, because of recent controversy, but whatever your opinion on that (and just go back a couple posts if you're in any way unsure where I stand on copyright issues...) , the story itself is still well worth checking out.

Get your anti-heroes here! There's not a whole lot to say about Yamane Ayano's Viewfinder series that hasn't already been said. On the surface, it's two alpha males--Japanese Yakuza mob boss and Chinese Triad mob boss--playing power games over a young beta-male photographer, but that glib a description really fails to do it justice. Dark and intricate, there's no clear divide between the good guys and the bad guys here. There's violence, kidnapping, rape, BDSM...and that's just Chapter One. It'd be easy to dismiss it on that opening alone, but the characters are all much more complex than they first appear. No, there's no sugar-coating here either, but everyone has their reasons and their motives, and as the story unfolds and we're drawn deeper into the histories and past relationships of the main protagonists (or antagonists, because pretty much all of the characters are both), their actions become understandable, if not entirely forgivable. Don't be surprised if you find yourself rooting for the `bad` guys; Yamane Ayano's characterization makes it hard to do anything else. I read the first couple of chapters in a Japanese anthology way back when, and it hooked me from the start. If you like the art but want something a little lighter, check out Crimson Spell (fantasy) or Foreign Love Affair (contemp). Very difficult to get hold of the English version of Viewfinder these days though, unfortunately.

Naono Bohra, the queen of "seme/uke stereotypes, what seme/uke stereotypes?!". If the older top, younger bottom and/or switch dynamic works for you, then she's your one stop shop. There's also a lot of playing around with the perceived power dynamics in relationships -- sometimes the guy being chased is the one with the traditional `power` (money, high-flying job, etc.), and no-one does Regular Joes better. Lovely artwork, often with a sketchy feel to it, but just as often with hilariously funny caricature asides. As far as I can see, Youkai's Hunger is all that's available in English so far -- boooo!! -- but seeing as it encapsulates all the above (and has paranormal elements to boot), then it's worth checking out. If you don't mind digging through the Japanese versions, I'd recommend... well, pretty much everything.

I almost feel bad recc'ing this, because thanks to Licensing Hell, it's hard to pick up copies of Minase Masara's English books at all. But if you like your characters put through the emotional wringer, then she's the one for you. Very clean-lined artwork, but the themes can be darker than the art suggests -- Empty Heart (pictured) is about a high school student and his teacher, the latter having been in love with his best friend -- the former's straight brother -- for years, and the student having been in love with his older brother's best friend forever. What to do? Become older bro's `substitute` of course. Angst ensues. Another of Masara's works, Lies & Kisses, has an `are they/aren't they?` plotline with potential half-brothers. But, if you don't mind checking out the Japanese versions, there are several lighter stories too, just as angsty and gorgeous to look at (Toiki Yori mo Yasashii is one of my favourites, along with Lover's Position).

Heh, UGH. This is probably what OZ would have been if you were allowed to show explicit sex on network television. Mika Sadahiro's work is always a little bit twisted, a little bit dark, a lot edgy. She's not for everyone, that's for sure, and neither is this manga. As you'd expect of a manga set in a high security prison, this is not light and fluffy; whatever you imagine going on in prison almost certainly does here. It is, however, full of plot twists, red herrings at every turn, complex and vividly drawn characters (and considering the setting, even the `weaker` characters can turn around and, possibly literally, stab you in the back), and one of the best endings to a manga ever. Oh, and did I mention the sex is red-hot? It's probably the most explicit of the list I have here. Like Viewfinder, you will find yourself rooting for, essentially, bad guys. But that's okay, I won't tell anyone if you won't. Sadahiro also does vampires in Pathos, and several contemporary shorts. Just expect the most twisted permutations you can (not necessarily in a sexual/dark/violent way, though that's definitely a part of it; sometimes it's just damn funny -- check out Vanilla Boys (Japanese short story) if you don't believe me).

If you're after something different, both in terms of art and storylines, here's Miyamoto Kano. Realistic characters, with all their quirks and flaws, and some of the most bittersweet stories I've seen in yaoi. None of your huge-anime-eyed ukes or willowy bishonen here -- the art is just as sparse and realistic as the plots. Not one for you if you're adamant you want your HEAs, or even HFNs, because they're not always forthcoming. Not/Love, pictured here, deals with the relationship between a (mostly straight) PI and a prostitute, and while Kano's work is never overly graphic, there's no sweet, fluffy resolution to things either. An acquired taste, maybe, if you're used to the more `fantastical` side of yaoi, but one that's worth acquiring.

New Review

2010-03-11T01:21:00.003Z

Just Erotic Romance Reviews (you can find their Yahoo Group here) gave "Afterthought" 4 Stars and said:

"The idea of Paths and Empaths is not a new thing but this story uses it in a very interesting way. The language is beautifully descriptive and I enjoyed just reading the words. The growth of the relationship between Vance and Ayan seems very natural, they settle into a rhythm that just seemed real. Ayan appears to be the sweet naïve innocent in need of protection but as the story goes on, you see an inherent strength in the character that even he seems unaware of. Vance is a self-centered idiot, only out for himself until Ayan starts to make an impact on his life. Small changes that are hardly noticeable unless you are looking for them end up bringing Vance’s character to a more well-rounded place. The intimate scenes between Ayan and Vance were hot and sexy and the Empath/Path relationship added an extra dimension of feeling. The book took awhile to get going, but the set up was necessary for the plot. The author did manage to surprise me with the twists and turns the story took and I thoroughly enjoyed the secondary plot of the story. Afterthought is a well written, hot paranormal with very interesting ideas and theories."

Aaargh...

2010-02-16T19:04:00.007Z

For several months now I've been debating jumping into the E-piracy fray. I understand completely that readers -- the genuine ones, who are aware of the issues and do support writers -- are tired of hearing the same old, same old. I know it bugs you that we're all complaining when you guys haven't done a single thing wrong by us; there's not much worse than being caught in the general backlash when you're not even a troublemaker. And frankly, that's fine, you guys aren't the ones that authors are trying to reach anyway, so you're wholly entitled to skip any and all of these posts.

And as for the ones who'd pirate regardless -- why hello, Gen Whine Meets Web 2.0 Entitlement Culture, how are you today? -- I doubt there's any point trying to reach them at all. They're not going to stop, and I'm sure a significant proportion of illegal sharers and uploaders get fired up by the challenge every time they hear an author complaining -- the retaliation of spite really isn't worth it. I'd really like for them to own up to simply wanting something for nothing -- aka Stealing, rather than Buying -- instead of couching it in excuses, justifications, and Stickin' It To The Man pseudo-philosophy, but hey, I'm sure they'd like us all off their asses too. We can't always get what we want. Anyway, you can skip this too, there's no point even engaging in discussion with you.

I kinda find it hard to believe that, in this day and age, there are people who sincerely DON'T realize what they're doing is illegal, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt because that's the group all these anti-piracy posts are trying to reach. Those who don't realize that creating and sharing a copy of an electronic file that isn't your copyright is illegal, those who aren't aware that downloading from a torrent really isn't the same thing as popping to the local library.

I know times are tough, they're tough for everyone, writers included. And y'know, I don't think I'm that old (under 35 if you're nosy *g* that's as vague as I'll get) but what the hell ever happened to the concept of "If I can't afford it, I can't have it (so I'll either save till I can, or suck it up and go without)"? I can't afford a Ferarri either, it doesn't give me the right to `borrow` one from the dealership. You don't need an ebook to eat/pay rent/survive, and having to decide what's a necessity and what's a luxury you can do without is a lesson everyone has to learn at some point. But then that's another rant about how the culture of living beyond one's means has run pretty much the entire world into the ground...

There really isn't a lot to say that hasn't already been said -- better, more succinctly, and far more politely than I ever could. So, instead of turning into Ranty McRanterson, I'd like to direct you here and here.

Even if you don't read anything else, please read the authors' rebuttals to the excuses, in particular the ones claiming they're helping an author by sharing their books.

You're not. You're really not. You're adding insult to injury by even claiming it. It's a very popular myth that's been repeated so long no doubt some people really believe it, and in some other industries it might well be true, but when it comes to ebooks there's absolutely no evidence for it. Pirates aren't going to buy what they know they can illegally obtain for free, and if they can get a copy of your newest release through illegal downloading sites, then they're not going to go out and buy your back catalog, they're going to ask for the rest for free too. And no doubt someone's going to give it to them. That's not called Helping, that's called Making Things Worse. One in a million (please, correct me if I'm wrong here) might buy something they really enjoyed, but they're by far the exception. The numbers just don't back that up.

If you don't care, there's nothing I, or anyone else, can say that will change your mind, you'll keep on illegally infringing copyright laws. But please have the balls -- or the knowledge, if you really aren't aware -- to admit you know you're not helping any of us by illegally sharing our books.

Memeage

2010-02-14T19:13:00.003Z

Cause it's Sunday night, and this beats doing anything remotely useful.

Nabbed from Sunday Stealing: The Clown's Meme 1

1. How old will you be in five years? Five years older. Also, five years closer to 40. Scary thought.

2. Who did you spend at least two hours with today? My brother. One hour of which was spent watching a rerun of Glee (I've converted him, heee!).

3. How tall are you? 5'6". That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

4. What do you look forward to most in the next six weeks? Hmm. The Kiss concert isn't till May, so, lessee... Michael Schumacher's return to F1.

5. What’s the last movie you saw? You mean actively sat down to watch, rather than catching a few minutes before my attention wanders? Slumdog Millionaire. Yeah, yeah, I'm way behind the rest of the world, I know...

6. Who was the last person you called? My Aunt

7. Who was the last person to call you? My Aunt, also. I'm getting used to a new cellphone and I accidentally hung up on her mid-call, hence 6.

8. What was the last text message you received? Spam from the phone company.

9. Who was the last person to leave you a voicemail? An actual `I meant to do this` kind of voicemail? I have no idea. One of those `I've forgotten to turn my phone off when I didn't get an answer, so now let me regale you with the sound of the car, my purse, and "there's no answer" comments in the background while you pay through the nose to listen back to your messages` voicemails? My mother, probably.

10. Do you prefer to call or text? Depends who I'm dealing with.

11. What were you doing at 12am last night? Book research, and burning off a data dvd because I have no space left on my PC.

12. Are your parents married/separated/divorced? Married.

13. When is the last time you saw your mom? About an hour ago.

14. What color are your eyes? Greyish-green. Probably the technical term is hazel, but there's no brown in there at all.

15. What time did you wake up today? Laaaaaaate.

16. What are you wearing right now? Jeans (black), sweater (hot pink). Fuzzy socks. Blanket. C'mon, it's cold!

17. What is your favorite christmas song? I have to choose one?! I have a not-so-secret obsession with Christmas music. Well, last year it was Rob Thomas' "New York City Christmas", year before that it was the Jeff Dunham Christmas album, before that it was Darlene Love's "All Alone On Christmas" and the Waitresses "Christmas Wrapping" (though NOT the godawful Spice Girls version). My original love for Christmas music came from an old Jim Reeves cassette my dad used to have in the car, though, so I'll go with that: Gentleman Jim's version of "Silver Bells". Wow, THAT was an involved answer, geez... *g*

18. Where is your favorite place to be? Anywhere in front of a computer screen. Failing that, walking along the beach, listening to music and enjoying the view.

19. Where is your least favorite place to be? Waiting rooms.

20. Where would you go if you could go anywhere? California. Or Japan. Or Italy.

21. Where do you think you’ll be in 10 years? No clue.

22. Do you tan or burn? Tan, though I usually slap on enough sunscreen that if I fell over I'd slide for a mile. *Is pale, British, and intensely paranoid her tattoos will fade*

23. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a child? Ghosts. Or aliens. Hell, whatever I'd seen on TV that week, usually.

24. What was the last thing that really made you laugh? The typing game section of Kichiku Megane R. Don't ask... Also, LOLCats.

25. How many TVs do you have in your house? Uh....5 in total, only two in regular use. One's an ancient B&W portable, and one's broken but hasn't been thrown out yet.

26. How big is your bed? Double.

27. Do you have a laptop or desktop computer? Both.

29. What color are your sheets? Black and white.

30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 3

31. What is your favorite season? Used to be winter for the longest time (I detested high school, and there always seemed to be more things going on in winter to distract me), but the last few years it's been summer.

32. What do you like about Autumn? The colors. Getting to dust off my boots and coats. Crisp mornings -- I love that moment where you can just start to smell the cold in the air.

33. What do you like about winter? Christmas! The cold weather.

A Couple Of New Reviews...

2010-01-25T18:23:00.004Z

...and news that "Human Nature" made the Top 20 Liquid Silver Books of 2009! Check out the list in full here. Congrats to everyone on the list, and thank you for reading!

In the meantime, a couple of new reviews have been posted for Human Nature and Afterthought.

Rainbow Reviews gave "Human Nature" four stars, and said:

"Cat Kane delivers a m/m/m love story crackling with sexual tension, but also the tensions of power dynamics. All three vie to learn their place in relation to the others, while keeping their dignity and having their deepest needs met. It's an uneasy balancing act. Given Gage's and Dominic's need to dominate, the sex in this novel has the ring of BDSM to it. The balance of pleasure and pain sharpens the story's climax."

Read the review in full here.

Joyfully Reviewed had this to say about "Afterthought":

"Afterthought is an intriguing, sexy tale with unexpected twists and turns along the way. Clever, fascinating characters – heroes and villains alike make Afterthought more than your average fantasy tale. There is a somewhat dark, moody gothic flavor to this modern day story that stands out which I liked. Afterthought has an intense vibe revolving around a relationship, trust and fate. This isn’t ‘lite’ entertainment, but it is definitely entertaining."

Read the review in full here.

Human Nature Reviews

2009-12-13T20:03:00.002Z

Human Nature is a Top Pick over at Night Owl Romance, who gave it 4.5 Stars.

"Human Nature is a story of cynicism, world-weariness, and of trying to do your best while staying true to yourself. It is also a story of what looks like betrayal - and is up to a point - but is nothing more than a man trying to stay true to himself, even knowing that he might lose the trust of someone he loves. It is about finding love in spite of, or maybe even because of, differences that seem insurmountable at first sight. Good reading!"

Literary Nymphs Reviews gave it 4.5 Nymphs, and said:

"Cat Kane’s release Human Nature is definitely going to keep you enthralled. I will admit, between the three characters, Dominic drew me into the storyline more. His inability to completely back down and allow Gage to be the master of his territory kept the story interesting. Randall wore his heart on his sleeve, and I believe he was a bit too much of a pushover for Gage. While it wasn’t ingrained in him to challenge Gage, for some reason I think Gage would have enjoyed the opportunity to put him firmly back in his place. The story takes place in a beautiful wooded area far enough from civilization to create a cocoon around the men. Cat Kane builds the romance in this story at a moderate pace, and adds a dash of action to keep the story flowing. I enjoyed reading Human Nature."

Holiday Blog Tour Winners!

2009-12-13T19:45:00.004Z

Thanks everyone for dropping by and taking part in the tour! Help yourself to your chosen Santa *g*, and here's hoping your holidays are nice and naughty!

Prize Winners:

Sharon K

Preja Vu by Alanna Coca
3 paperbacks from Emily and Elise
For a Price by Olivia Brynn
Wolf's Tender by Gem Sivad

Beth

Once Bitten by Trina M. Lee
Bound by Deception by Christa Paige
Rocky Mountain Heat by Vivian Arend
Banged Up by Jeanne St. James
Endangered Hearts by Jolie Cain

Boone Brux

Flesh and Blood by Tina Holland
Between Heaven and Hell by Stephanie Adkins
The Challenge by Serena Shay
Protective Custody by Paige Tyler

Amy S.

Human Nature by Cat Kane
Backlist book by Dee Carney
Semper Fi by Jambrea Jo Jones
Red Lioness Tamed by Savanna Kougar

Shawn F

The Spirit of the Place by PG Forte
Iron by PG Forte
In the Dark by PG Forte
Winner's choice of any book by K.Z. Snow

Foretta

Six Foot Hero by Shea McMaster
TBA by J. Morgan
Hearts Afire December by Emily, Elise and Ella
Signed print copy of Destiny's Magick by Rae Morgan

Caffey

The Omegas by Annie Nicholas
The Extremist by Juniper Bell
Tastes of Pleasure by Shara Lanel

Amy S, your prize should be winging its way to your inbox as we speak, but if for some reason it hasn't arrived then please drop me a comment here.

Holiday Hottie Blog Tour

2009-12-11T04:00:00.000Z

Hey everyone, and welcome to my stop on the Holiday Hottie Blog Tour! If you're following the roadmap, hopefully you just came here from Vivian Arend's blog. Leave a comment at each stop -- after taking a moment to enjoy the eyecandy, of course *g* -- to be in with a chance of winning some fantastic books by some amazing authors! I'm tossing my latest release, "Human Nature" onto the pile of great prizes -- you can read all about the book here.

Meanwhile, grab a glass of mulled wine, and cozy up nice and warm with this lot... I'm telling you, choosing between naughty and nice was never so hard! Maybe you guys'll have an easier time than me. *g*

I don't know about you guys, but over here in the UK, so far winter's been grey and murky. No sign of a white Christmas on the horizon here. Which is a shame, because I don't think anyone would pass up the chance to play in the snow with this guy.

And someone really needs to help keep this poor Santa warm. All that snow? Poor guy needs some body heat to help melt those snowflakes right off.

This has to be one of my favourite Christmas hotties -- he was my default Livejournal icon for December for several years! *g* C'mon, who wouldn't try to find room for him, huh? Even if he ended up having to share. It'd be a chore, but I'm sure we'd muddle through, somehow...

Somewhere here there's a remark about Santa coming bearing large, tempting packages. *innocent whistle* Yep, somewhere. No clue where though, honest....

Hmm, I guess no one clarified it for you, Santa, but the saying goes `wear your heart on your sleeve`. Then again, you don't have sleeves either. Huh. Probably best not to wear the heart at all, in that case. *nods* Bad Santa, bad!

Yep, keep smiling like that, Santa, and there'll be more than cookies waiting for you under the tree. Might wanna tell the elves to pick up the slack on delivering those presents, 'cause I think you're gonna be stuck here for a while...

Well, made up your minds yet? *g* Are you claiming Naughty or Nice this Christmas? Or better yet, both?

When you're done with the tour, if you still feel like getting into the festive spirit, then check out my free Christmas m/m read, "Saints and Angels"!

And now, onward to the awesome Dee Carney's blog for the next stop on the tour. Don't forget that several of the participating authors will also be chatting during the day, so feel free to drop by and say hi. Thanks so much for stopping by!

Happy Holidays!

Human Nature -- Out Now!

2009-11-13T00:37:00.001Z

Human Nature is out now from Liquid Silver Books!

Left for dead by hunters, werewolf Dominic finds refuge at the isolated home of reclusive demon Gage and his human servant Randall. Healing from the attack, physically and mentally, Dominic has no choice but to rely on his grudging host and his enigmatic assistant.

Hidden away from humans for decades, the last thing Gage wants is a werewolf bringing trouble to his doorstep. Keeping Randall at arm's length is problematic enough, but allowing Dominic to stay seems like the safest option–at least until Gage finds himself drawn to Dominic as much as he is to Randall.

Randall has his own reasons for driving Dominic into Gage’s arms. It’s only a matter of time until Gage discovers the secrets Randall’s been keeping—secrets that will surely destroy their fragile, undefined relationship. Still, the pull of the powerful desire that binds them all leaves him wishing there was a way to keep them both.

But as the outside world encroaches on Gage’s sanctuary, all those secrets are about to collide, unleashing a dangerous tide of betrayal, deception and love, and all three men will have to re-evaluate their priorities, their relationships, and who—or what—they are.

Pick up a copy here!

--

Trick Or Treat Winners!

2009-10-31T19:47:00.003Z

Thank you everyone who dropped by yesterday for the blog tour! Hope you all had a great time visiting all the amazing authors taking part, and I hope I've done my bit in turning the uninitiated onto Supernatural *g* I loved reading all your comments.

And now, on to the winners!

First prize: Jewel

Banged Up – Jeanne St. James
Hearts Afire – 3E’s
Afterthought – Cat Kane
Love at First Stake – J. Morgan
No Recourse – Mari Carr

Second prize: Patsy Hagen
Bound by Deception – Christa Paige
Once Bitten – Trina M. Lee
The Challenge – Serena Shay

Third prize: Fallon Hadley
Cin – Ella Drake
Halo in her Pocket – Morgan Q. O’Reilly
Felicia’s Fling – Jolie Cain

Runner Up: Sherry
The Wicked Flame – Stephanie Adkins
Winners choice from Tielle St. Claire

Runner Up: Noelle
Intimate Strangers – Gem Sivad
For a Price – Olivia Brynn

Runner Up: s7anna
Iron – P.G. Forte
The Extremist – Juniper Bell

Runner Up: SusiSunshine
Battered not Broken – Ceilia Kyle
Wyoming Solace – Alanna Coca

Jewel, I'll be emailing you shortly about your prize, if you haven't received an email by tomorrow then drop me a comment on the blog. And congratulations to all the winners!

Trick Or Treat Blog Tour!

2009-10-30T03:09:00.001Z

Welcome! If you're following the Halloween Blog Tour, then hopefully you've just come from PG Forte's blog (and if you haven't then here's a link to the roadmap for the entire tour). Leave a comment at each blog for your chance to win some fantastic books!

Actually, `roadmap` is pretty apt for the only hotties I could imagine posting on this spookiest of holidays, though the 1967 Chevrolet Impala has to take a backseat to its gorgeous occupants today.

Of course, I'm talking about Sam and Dean Winchester, the demon (and any other otherworldly nasty) hunting brothers from the TV show, "Supernatural", currently in its fifth season. If you've never seen "Supernatural" (why not?!? *g*) then maybe the following will help sway you to give it a try.

Sam Winchester (played by Jared Padalecki). Angstbunny. Started off as the Good Boy, dallied a little with being the Bad Boy (and dallied a little with the Bad Girls), pretty much brought about the end of the world as we know it, but still manages to be the puppy-dog-eyed Good Boy. I mean, who could resist?

Dean Winchester (played by Jensen Ackles). An even bigger Angstbunny, but it's carefully concealed behind a facade of Smartass with a touch of Tough Guy. Is calmed down by listening to Metallica (or AC/DC, or any other classic rock that still comes on cassettes). Knows Hell, intimately. Is the only one who gets to call Sam "Sammy".

John Winchester (played by Jeffrey Dean Morgan). Papa Winchester. Original owner of the Impala, and the reason Sam and Dean were brought up to be Hunters thanks to his desire for vengeance after his wife was killed by demons. Oh, but nothing's ever THAT simple in the Supernatural world, oh, no...

Castiel (played by Misha Collins). Angel. He's just really confused about it. Originally one of Heaven's worker bee angels sent to keep an eye on Dean, his involvement with the Winchesters has led to Castiel questioning more than just his host's tastes in bad raincoats.

Of course, I could also tell you about the intricate plotlines, the out of left field twists that just leave you breathless, the amazing depth of characterization for even the smallest players, the crisp, edgy writing, the scares, the laugh-out-loud humor and the tear-jerkingly believable relationships, but hey... *grin* Just go watch. If it doesn't make your Halloween weekend spookier AND sexier, then I'll go gnaw on my keyboard. And if you're already a fan, then tell me what about the show got you hooked!

If you're still looking for some Halloween reading when you're done with the tour, then come back and check out "Old Ghosts", a free M/M Halloween novella. You can read it here on the blog:

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

Alternatively, you can download the .pdf version here.

And now, onward to Ella Drake's stop on the tour! Thanks for stopping by!

Afterthought Reviews

2009-10-29T21:47:00.002Z

A couple of recent reviews for "Afterthought" -- gotta admit I'm pleased with the reception it's had so far!

Literary Nymphs Reviews gave it 4 Nymphs

Night Owl Romance rated it a 4.5, and a Reviewer's Top Pick!

Fancy Winning Some Of These Treats??

2009-10-29T01:29:00.003Z

All these fantastic authors have spirited up a spooktacular (Booktacular? Or maybe I should just ditch the puns now *g*) Halloween blog tour that gives you the opportunity to win some great books!

It's all happening on Friday October 30th, and here's the list of authors' blogs you'll need to visit and comment on the day in order to enter:

1. Gem Sivad – http://gemsivad.wordpress.com/blog/

2. Trina M Lee- http://www.trinamlee.com/

3. Emily/Elise – http://www.scorchedsheets.com/blog

4. Juniper Bell – http://www.authorjuniperbell.blogspot.com

5. Morgan Q O'Reilly - http://themorgandiaries.blogspot.com

6. Christa Paige – http://www.christapaige.com/blog/

7. Celia Kyle – http://www.celiakyle.com/blog/

8. Olivia Brynn – http://oliviabrynn.com/blog-2/

9. Stephanie Adkins – http://stephanieadkins.wordpress.com/blog/

10. Paige Tyler – http://paigetylertheauthor.blogspot.com/

11. Sara Brookes – http://www.sarabrookes.net/

12. Jolie Cain – http://joliecainauthor.blogspot.com/

13. Jessica – http://culinarycarnivale.blogspot.com/

14. Jeanne St James- http://www.jeannestjames.blogspot.com/

15. Alanna Coca- http://alannacoca.wordpress.com/blog/

16. Serena Shay – http://serenashay.blogspot.com/

17. Mari Carr – http://www.maricarr.com

18. P.G. Forte- http://www.rhymeswithforeplay.blogspot.com

19. Cat Kane – http://catkane.blogspot.com/

20. Ella Drake – http://elladrake.blogspot.com

21. Tielle St. Clare -http://tiellestclare.blogspot.com/

22. Tina Holland – http://tinaholland.wordpress.com/

Of course, there'll be some extra hot treats waiting for you on the day. Just, y'know...as an added incentive.

See you there!

Human Nature -- Out November 9th!

2009-10-02T22:03:00.002+01:00

Human Nature has a release date! Look for it on November 9th!

Keep up to date with info about Human Nature here, and scroll down to see the cover (though I warn you, you might be gone a while. It's cool, I'll wait. *g*)

Afterthought -- Out Now!

2009-09-24T08:25:00.003+01:00

Afterthought is out now from Liquid Silver Books!

Click here for purchasing info!

--

Human Nature -- Cover Art

2009-09-17T22:54:00.004+01:00

Human Nature has a cover! Please excuse me, I'll be the drooling wibbly mess in the corner....

Afterthought -- Release Date: September 21st 2009

2009-08-26T20:38:00.003+01:00

"Afterthought" will be available from Liquid Silver Books on Monday, September 21st!

When you're choosing between right and wrong, sometimes love is just an afterthought.

Telepath Vance Gregory never thought that taking down high-powered underworld Path Marcus Rose would be easy. When his enemy proves to be a far more formidable danger than Vance anticipates, he has no choice but to join forces with Ayan, a beautiful low-level Path with mysterious connections to Marcus.

Captured by Vance's organization during a bungled ambush on Marcus, Ayan had no intention of helping them achieve their ends. But Vance isn't like anyone he's known. Given a glimpse of how life with him might be beyond the uncertain society they inhabit, Ayan agrees to Vance's plans.

Neither of them expect the intense attraction, nor the explosive mental bond it forges. And when Ayan's powers begin to spike out of control, neither of them want to face the unpredictable dangers that could tear them apart.

With Ayan at his side, Vance sets out to remove the threat Marcus poses to the Path community. But Marcus isn't that easy to kill, and when Ayan turns out to be vital to Marcus's continued existence, Vance has to choose between the enemy he hates or the man he loves

Because the pen name is no accident

2009-08-14T20:47:00.007+01:00

This past week, we visited a local zoo to see a couple of new additions -- ten week old snow leopard cubs. If the pen name didn't give it away, I'm a total sucker for all things feline, and the opportunity to go visit these two was too tempting to pass up. They'll be leaving for a different zoo elsewhere in the UK come the new year, and believe me when I say that visiting a mountain zoo in Wales in the fall is generally not a good idea, so we braved the crowds (and then some -- that's what you get for visiting the day after they run a piece on the local news...) this week.

Admittedly, I'm not sure how I feel about zoos in general. From a conservation point of view, or when it comes to animals that could never be returned to the wild, I can see the benefits. There were a pair of rescued `dancing bears` at this zoo, and while their behaviour betrayed the psychological toll their abuse took, I found myself wondering what the alternative would be -- if there was one at all. For animals so damaged that survival in the wild would be impossible, I suppose it does provide a safe environment.

Still, it's never a pleasant experience seeing these gorgeous wild animals in cages, even if not for the cages I wouldn't get to see them at all. And it's a sad indictment that most of these animals wouldn't be safe from humans in their natural habitat anyway.

Seeing the big cats did, however, stoke up the desire to go and work on the couple of feline-shifter WIPs that're haunting my hard-drive somewhere. *TWO* werewolf stories (one released, one upcoming), and no feline shifters -- there's something wrong with those numbers! 'Course that means putting aside the pirates, the rock stars, the secret agents, the telepaths... *g* but 'c'mon, if these fluffballs don't inspire you, nothing will!

The cubs --

The parents --

A Friday Fly-by

2009-07-11T01:57:00.009+01:00

There's a music festival on nearby this weekend, and to celebrate its tenth anniversary and the opening of a new stage, they invited The Red Arrows aerobatics team to perform.

Gotta admit, wasn't hugely interested in the music, but seeing these guys was something I wasn't gonna pass up! They performed for about thirty minutes, and I'll admit the romantic sap in me thought this was the highlight.

I've boosted it a little in Photoshop because the original was a little hard to see, but check out the heart pierced with an arrow. *melt*

More pics after the cut!

Human Nature -- Coming Soon from Liquid Silver Books

2009-07-08T01:42:00.003+01:00

Coming soon from Liquid Silver Books, "Human Nature" is a paranormal gay menage.

~

Left for dead by hunters, werewolf Dominic finds refuge at the isolated home of reclusive demon Gage and his human servant Randall. Healing from the attack, physically and mentally, Dominic has no choice but to rely on his grudging host and his enigmatic assistant.

Hidden away from humans for decades, the last thing Gage wants is a werewolf bringing trouble to his doorstep. Keeping Randall at arm's length is problematic enough, but allowing Dominic to stay seems like the safest option–at least until Gage finds himself drawn to Dominic as much as he is to Randall.

Randall has his own reasons for driving Dominic into Gage’s arms. It’s only a matter of time until Gage discovers the secrets Randall’s been keeping—secrets that will surely destroy their fragile, undefined relationship. Still, the pull of the powerful desire that binds them all leaves him wishing there was a way to keep them both.

But as the outside world encroaches on Gage’s sanctuary, all those secrets are about to collide, unleashing a dangerous tide of betrayal, deception and love, and all three men will have to re-evaluate their priorities, their relationships, and who—or what—they are.

~

To read an excerpt and keep up to date with all the info about Human Nature, check out the Liquid Silver Books forum!

Where is that defining line, Mr. Manly Masculine Man, and would I recognize it if I tripped over it?

2009-07-05T22:50:00.004+01:00

I’ve been reading a lot lately. I think in the past year or so I’ve read more in this genre than I ever have before, and especially in the last five, six months.

And I’ve noticed a few things that’ve made me curious.

One of those is the disparity between the books that’re cited as being the best, bar none, testosterone-frying-the-motherboard-as-you-read examples of male characterization, and my personal reaction to them. First, lemme let you in on a leeeeettle secret: Cat = not-a-guy. Never claimed to be and wouldn't have the energy to keep up that sort of fallacy anyway. And I’m not even going to attempt to distinguish between female pen-names, male pen-names and ambiguous pen-names because in general, it doesn’t seem to make a difference to me.

I don’t see a difference, that's the point. And yes, as a writer it's possible I'm reading it deliberately looking for things that, as a reader, I wouldn't get the least bit hung up on, but none of them read as particularly masculine to me — whatever that means. I don’t see much of a difference being in the head of a hero in an oft recommended M/M book than being in the head of any of the female leads in any one of the paranormal/UF/contemp/whatever books I’ve read over the same period of time. They feel the same, in their internalized thoughts, their behaviour, their reactions.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Personally, I’d probably say good – shouldn’t the character always be "who" rather than "what"? – and if you ask me whether any of these books worked as stories, then most of the time I'd say "yes".

But there's a lot of pressure to Get It Right, and a lot of readers complaining (understandably) about too many `chicks with dicks` in M/M fiction, that a lot of stories are just het romance with one gender switched. I guess on the flipside, picking out those overly feminized traits should be easier, but some of the recommended – specifically as examples of Manly, Masculine Men – stories contained some of the most overwrought, hand-wringing navel-gazing I've read in a long time. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against navel-gazing unless it's dragging the pace down, but aren't we always told `Real Men Don't Spend Ages Agonizing Over Their Feelings!" (at which point I usually want to introduce the speaker to some of the men in my life and go "Ya think?!")? Would I even have pulled up on those details at all if the books weren't specifically recommended for their realistic male portrayal? Did that part stand out more precisely because of that delicate see-saw M/M writers have to balance in the name of verisimilitude? Am I being over-critical or over-thinky?

(Answers : Probably not; probably; what, you haven't worked that out about me yet?)

Personally, in experience and in fiction, I’ve always been of the mind that people have a lot more in common—especially emotionally when it comes to relationships and relating to each other—than they have different. I know (straight) women who’d rather have teeth pulled than speak about their emotions and I know (straight) men who’ll talk about their feelings at the drop of a hat and their level of take-charge, problem-solving reaches its limits with the daily crossword. Love feels like love, hurt feels like hurt, guilt like guilt, longing like longing. Maybe the articulation of those things manifest in different ways, but generally if you make me feel something for that character then I don’t care if a remarkably intelligent badger is tapping away at the keys on the other end. I’m not commenting on the characterization, exactly, just….where that mythical dividing line is supposed to be between `fantasy guy written through a woman’s perspective` and `yep, this is a perfect example of how to write a `real` man`.

So why do some books come across to (predominantly female, AFAIK) reviewers as specifically scoring high on the male characterization scale? Books I’ve read and enjoyed, don't get me wrong, but I’d been sitting there waiting for the amazing crash from above and the angels trumpeting "This! This detail and this mindset and this pattern of logic and this line of behaviour and this sullen grunting and preoccupation with his dick is what defines this book as Certified with 100% Real Man!".

Never came. Is that because it's how I'd automatically write my men, and wouldn’t notice anything different to what I’d write myself - for better or worse? Or is it that there really ISN’T the huge difference we’re led to believe? And at the end of the day, I guess you have to consider the majority of M/M's audience. Maybe it's that fantasy Real Man we're looking for when it all comes down, and it's that striking a chord? I don't know.

Like I said, make me care about the character and I'll forgive just about anything, but the analytical, need-it-all-defined-down-to-the-last-nth little imp in my soul can't help but wonder what that defining element is for readers/reviewers. I'm pretty sure I couldn't pinpoint it myself, but it's damn well getting in the way of my enjoying some great books lately and sometimes it even smacks of bad stereotyping. Stereotyping with good intentions, perhaps, but stereotyping nonetheless.

I sincerely hope my guys never come across as overly feminized. Never been called on it (even if one of my covers – which I adore, btw – did), but who knows, and I’m sure as hell not gonna stand here and claim any different. I write them as the characters they present, as the story calls for – isn't that what we all do? – and if they're held up as examples of anything, I hope it'd be as a good story, no more and no less than that.

Why yes, I do remember how to use this thing...

2009-06-27T04:40:00.003+01:00

There’s been a great deal of stuff abounding lately about the do's and don’ts, shoulds and shouldn’ts of author promotion, in particular how an author should behave on blogs/social media.
I’m the first to admit I suck intensely at a) talking about myself and b) talking generally. Just check out the overwhelming lack of posts on this thing. Most of that is just that I’m horrifically bad at this kind of stuff anyway—I’m the archetypal shy, retiring writer. Mostly shy. I’m happier hiding out behind my computer screen, hiding behind my stories and characters rather than pushing myself out there. I mean, no-one wants to know what I think about anything, and anyway, no-one even knows who I am most the time.

Which, I’m thinking, when it comes to building an interaction with readers (hello, any readers! *waves* I do love you, honest, I’m just like that awfully socially awkward boyfriend you had that one time who did adore you but always forgot our anniversary until about 7.p.m. and had to run out to the gas station to pick up flowers that smelled like premium unleaded) is kinda a problem.

And it’s not even so much about the promo, as it is my uncertainty when it comes to all the unspoken (and occasionally spoken) Rules Of This Whole Online Thing.

I’m probably at that point of being old enough AND young enough to have pretty much both watched and grown up with the net as an all encompassing behemoth that’s part of everyday life. I’ve seen the rise of blogging and social media and interaction, and yes I get the concept `well it’s like a journal` and yes, I had one of those growing up (complete with ubiquitous stickers reading `keep out`, though I never had one of those cool ones with a key and lock). But even if I was of a personality to think that the world needed to know what my cat vomited today, or what I had for breakfast there’s very little self-confidence there to shove it out there regardless. But I could fill this damn thing to the brim if I typed up every random `hmm, it’d be interesting to share that` thought I have every day.

But then comes those do's and don’ts—don’t share too much personal information vs. share, it makes you seem like a real person (and here all this time I was thinking I was a Decepticon). No views on politics, religion, current affairs. No opinions on just about anything in case it rocks the boat with someone somewhere. But then no-one wants reams of reviews and crazyass promo all the time, and I can’t blame them. I’ve always felt lame for having very little else on here bar the occasional freebie.

‘Course, I wonder if there’s more value in a freebie fic to anyone hitting me up than my ranting and rambling. If you’re here because of my writing, and I don’t know why else you would be, then I guess you’d rather read the stories.

But I think about how my own perceptions of writers I admire and follow has changed—positively and negatively—because of their online presence, because of their thoughts either melding or opposing my own, their experiences of their craft, the industry, the highs and lows of it all. I don’t think there’s a whole lot I can offer in terms of challenging, thought provoking metanalysis, but hey…maybe it’d be nice to share a bit of what makes Cat tick sometimes. Even if I still have no idea how much is too much, or how little is just being mean.

And for the record, breakfast was yoghurt and the cat didn't vomit anything, but she does need a new flea collar.

Afterthought -- Cover Art and Sneak Peek

2009-06-11T15:34:00.003+01:00

The cover for "Afterthought" is here, and I'm really pleased with it!

There's also a new short extract from "Afterthought" up at my site!

Twitterpated!

2009-03-26T00:31:00.003Z

Joined Twitter.

http://twitter.com/Cat_Kane

Yeah yeah, I have no excuse (except that it's all over BBC FiveLive right now, and FiveLive tends to be the audio of choice when I don't want music). But!!! While I might not be good at maintaining blogs, maybe 140 characters is do-able.

....Pffft.

Christmas Fic -- Saints And Angels

2008-12-24T19:58:00.004Z

A few years ago, amid a mad last-minute rush to fulfill all my Christmas obligations (which at the time included papers for my Masters', ficathon challenges, the usual Christmas insanity plus two family birthdays in the two days before Christmas!), I was whapped over the head by a mistletoe-wielding muse who demanded this story be written.

Some folks might've seen it on Livejournal that year or, later on, on my site, but thanks to another crazy-rushed Christmas and in lieu of a new festive story, I thought I'd post the links up here for anyone who didn't get the chance to read it then!

Saints And Angels
Two lost souls meet before Christmas, but just who’s saving who?
Rating : NC-17 overall

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Alternatively, Saints And Angels can be found on my site, under Writings --> Site Exclusives.

Happy Holidays to everyone, and here's hoping 2009 will be fantastic for you all!

"The House on Sheridan Street" is out from Torquere Press!

2008-12-15T11:12:00.003Z

Gale Solomon is a real estate developer, buying properties and renovating them for profit. The latest house has been giving him nothing but headaches, though. Protestors are picketing the old Sheridan house, demanding that it be 'saved'. On top of that, Nathan Oakley has shown up, claiming to be a long-lost grandson of the previous owner, demanding his inheritance back.

Gale knows that Nathan’s not Mrs. Oakley's grandson; no living relative was found by the estate, so Nathan must be running a scam. Too bad Gale likes Nathan. Maybe more than likes him. Will a mysterious letter help clear things up or make them worse? And what exactly is going on in the attic of the old Sheridan House?

Get your copy today!

Old Ghosts Download & New Reviews

2008-11-11T00:37:00.002Z

As promised, here's a link to download a .PDF format copy of "Old Ghosts" in its entirety -- Old Ghosts

There have also been some more reviews coming in, both for Best Laid Plans (from Liquid Silver Books) and for Hung Up, a story from the "Under This Cowboy's Hat" Anthology (from Torquere Press).

Night Owl Romance Reviews -- Best Laid Plans

Wild On Books -- Best Laid Plans

Romance Junkies Reviews -- Best Laid Plans

Fallen Angel Reviews -- Under This Cowboy's Hat (Anthology)

Old Ghosts by Cat Kane -- A Halloween story (M/M, R)

2008-11-10T19:50:00.006Z

Thanks for reading "Old Ghosts"! Hope you enjoyed! A pdf. file of the story in its entirety should be up in a couple of days.

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part Five

The apartment was empty. So was the hallway, and the elevators, the stairwell and the lobby.

Impossible. No one disappeared.

Standing on the silent, empty street outside his building, Jake wondered if that was true. He scanned the desolate street, seeing no sign of life besides the highway traffic that sulked and rumbled by at the intersection at the far end of the block.

He used to love the highway lights, once. He used to love the night-time itself, watching the world go by in a haze of light and noise. Now, the traffic a hundred yards away was about a hundred yards too close.

Samuel…
Read More...

What the hell did he expect, when he’d all but admitted that he didn’t care if Samuel fucked him while thinking about his long-lost beloved Ben.

No. Jake ran a frustrated hand through his hair. It felt too impersonal calling it fucking; it was a cold, distant term for the tenderness in Samuel’s eyes, in his kisses.

Tenderness for Ben.

Damn. This jealousy of a dead guy was really a new low.

And even if Samuel came back, Jake had no idea what to say to him.

As the adrenaline and heat of Samuel’s touch faded, the anxiety at being out alone on a dark street resurfaced like the déjà vu echoes of a bad dream. The windows seemed more sunken than usual, the alleyways seemed darker.

Jake shook himself out of it; he wasn’t going to find Samuel if he allowed himself to succumb to these stupid damn fears. Not now.

Samuel made him stronger. As long as he remembered that, he’d be fine. He’d be—

“Hey, mister. Trick or treat?”

Most people got elementary school kids showing up at their doors in messy witch or ghost costumes. Most people had plastic pumpkin shaped buckets shoved under their noses, whiny little voices demanding candy in the way only the entitlement generation could.

Jake, he was beginning to realize, wasn’t most people. Just like he didn’t get an ordinary stalker, he got the bratty high-schoolers whose costume consisted only of a Jason mask and buckets of attitude.

He hoped they didn’t see how badly they’d spooked him.

“I don’t have anything with me. Sorry.”

He tried walking briskly back towards the apartment, but the kids followed him. Out of the glow of the streetlight, they looked far more sinister than Jake knew them to be. His panic didn’t care, revving up the adrenaline and the jitters irrespective of his slender grip on common sense.

“Aww, c’mon, man,” one of the kids said. “You gotta have somethin’.”

Pretending not to hear—not hard, it wasn’t easy to hear them speak past his pounding heartbeat—Jake kept walking. He couldn’t remember how many of them there were in the group, four, maybe five, and he sure as hell wasn’t in any state to be taking on a bunch of teenagers. He might only have been ten years older than them, but he felt fifty years older.

“Hey.” The tone took on a harsher edge, less playful. “Don’t just frickin’ walk away, asshole.”

Jake walked faster, almost breaking into a run. “I said I don’t have anything. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“C’mon, you live here, right?” The menacing tone continued, Jake’s fear making it lisp and drawl, sibilant and dangerous. “We can go with you, if you wanted. Pick up some cash, maybe some beer.”

The others laughed, sharp sounds like the whiz of a bullet shattering glass.

“No.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, man.” A different voice, no less threatening. In Jake’s head, the sweetest endearment would be threatening about now.

It occurred to him that potentially, the reality of things was nothing like he perceived it to be. Maybe the kids were just playing around. Maybe Jake’s stalker really was an undead magician.

Maybe he really was going absolutely crazy.

“I said leave me alone,” he muttered, close enough now to the safe haven of his building that he could taste it. Yeah, they’d threatened to come in, but they couldn’t. Right?

Please, leave me alone…

“And I said, don’t fuckin’ walk away!”

A hand reached out, bone-cold fingers catching his sleeve. Jake’s blood ran like ice, nausea coiling in the pit of his stomach. Every incremental step felt as though he was in a funhouse, tilting left, right, up, down.

He turned sharply, hands flailing blindly to try and shake off his assailant.

“Get the fuck off me!”

The kids said something, but Jake couldn’t make out what it was. He’d turned for the building, stumbling and laboring his way towards the door. Just a little further.

Samuel…I can’t even come and look for you. Was Ben that pathetic, huh? You wouldn’t love someone that hopeless…

He tripped on the curb, landing hard on one knee, palms scraping the concrete sidewalk. The pain didn’t even register, a small price to pay in an attempt to get away.

“Hey!” One of the kids yelled, but even as Jake tried to make the world stop spinning long enough to get to his feet, the yell turned into an abrupt cry of fear.

“Oh shit!” Another of the kids shouted, as Jake heard thudding footsteps running past him. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Jake listened till the footsteps faded, and all that remained was the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his clothes against the cold sidewalk. He tried to push himself up, but the grazes on his palms finally began to sting with the effort.

Shit…

He closed his eyes, too exhausted to do anything else. Whatever had scared the kids off, he’d take his chances with it.

Just before the dizziness roared around him, the world outside sounding like the rushing of a violent storm-swept tide, he thought, just maybe, he heard someone whisper his name.

* * *

He drifted in the dark, swimming and sinking with every breath. Up was down, fighting was drowning. The panic subsided into a low, roiling unease, until a hand reached through the darkness, warmth seeping into him from the gentle touch.

With all the soothing power of a sedative, the warmth infused him with calm and distraction, wrapping around him like a blanket until it was all he could focus on.

“Ben.”

Jake opened his eyes, blearily, as though waking from the deepest dream. Samuel gazed down at him, eyes red-rimmed but his smile remained soft.

He tried to speak, to move, panicking to realize he couldn’t. Samuel didn’t seem to expect it of him, instead reached down again to brush quivering fingertips against his forehead, through his hair, down the side of his face. The touch felt warmer still, Jake thought, losing himself in it till he couldn’t remember what frightened him anymore.

“I’m so sorry, Ben,” Samuel said, little more than a whisper. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

Before Jake could even ask why, the image shifted.

This time, he knew where he was before he even opened his eyes. Only one place smelled like cigars and old books woven through with a thread of cold fog.

At least Samuel looked happier this time, he thought, opening his eyes to take in the drawing room he’d so often caught glimpses of in the past couple of days. Sensory memories, fleeting little ghosts compared to this surround-sound immersion.

“There…” Samuel finished tucking a blanket around his knees, then moved him over to a vast picture window looking out onto an equally impressive garden. Jake was used to a shelf of potted plants, ferns and cacti he regularly replaced after his unerringly black thumb killed them off. He’d never seen gardens like this outside of parks. Just out of his line of sight, he knew—without really knowing why—there was a huge ornamental fountain, horses and chariots spewing cold frothy water into the autumn sky. “Will you be all right while I’m gone?”

Jake couldn’t reply here, either. The briefest of moments brought a look of anxiety to Samuel’s dark eyes, and he rested his hands over Jake’s.

No, over Ben’s.

“I have to go, love. I wish to speak to Clarence tonight, and besides…your doctor told us that the best thing for you is to keep doing as we’ve always done, didn’t he?” Samuel touched his cheek, leaned in to kiss his hair. “If we do this, then perhaps…”

Perhaps things would get back to normal. Samuel didn’t say it, but Jake knew. He had a feeling Ben did too; another fear underlay his own, a tension that spoke of disappointment, disillusionment and despair.

He stilled, giving Samuel the only sign of acquiescence he could, given the circumstances.

“Good.” Samuel smiled, though Jake could see the feather-edges of anxiety tightening his eyes. “I’ll hurry back, I promise.”

The image shifted again.

So distracted by the full control he had over his limbs, Jake stumbled mid-walk, only for someone to catch his elbow.

“Careful,” Samuel laughed, touch lingering along his arm as he let go. “It’ll be hard to explain if we go back with your face all bashed in.”

“Oh, please.” The words weren’t Jake’s, but they came as naturally as breathing, as though he was acting out someone else’s script. “As if anyone would believe you could bash anyone’s face in!”

“Oh that’s how it is, is it?” Samuel grinned, stepping in his path and winding his arms around Jake’s waist before he could pull away. “I see.”

A warm breeze blew, carrying with it the scent of summer flowers. Jake looked around, taking in the overgrown country lane, tree-lined and shaded. In the gaps between the trees, a sun-drenched meadow, busy with a riot of red and yellow flowers, led off towards a small village, where a pale church spire jabbed up into a pristine blue sky.

“This is beautiful,” he murmured without thinking. “So peaceful.”

Samuel held him close, face buried in the crook of Jake’s neck. Jake felt the sigh more than heard it.

“Yes, it is. This is what you’ll leave behind, you know.” Samuel turned his head, lips brushing the side of Jake’s neck. “I’m what you’ll leave behind.”

“Sam…”

It wasn’t quite Ben’s conflicted thoughts Jake felt, and not quite his own, rather a weird overlapping of both. His soul knew that Samuel’s intentions would never be anything less than honest and true, but there was a desperation in the flutter of those lips against his skin that spoke of taking any steps, any measures necessary.

“No.” Samuel shook his head, hair tickling Jake’s jaw and sending flickers of pleasure skidding along his skin. “I know you must go, I stand by any decision you make, you know that, but…”

There wasn’t much Jake could say to that. There hadn’t been much Ben could say, either. Instead he just stroked Samuel’s hair, stared up at the tangled canopy of leaves and branches and sky.

“Jake,” a voice called. “Jake?”

The face hovering over his didn’t look much different from all the times before, but the worry creasing Samuel’s dark eyes made Jake wonder what horrific scene he’d landed in now.

Wait. Samuel just called him Jake.

For the second time in as many days, Jake saw the apartment ceiling from a whole new angle. It could do with a new coat of paint, he thought, trying to fill his head with anything but Samuel and the things he’d just experienced. If he thought too hard about that, he was pretty sure his head might explode. Instead he tried focusing on how he’d gotten from the street to his couch.

Sitting up, he weakly brushed off Samuel’s concern.

“Jake—“

“What happened?”

“Ah, well…” Samuel sat back, smiling wryly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I think perhaps my appearance startled those youngsters…”

Jake paused at the term ‘youngsters’. Samuel barely looked five years older than those kids himself, and neither he nor Jake should have been old enough to call teenagers `youngsters`. Maybe in Samuel and Ben’s day, Jake thought, when today’s high school kids would have been the front line soldiers and factory workers, maybe the difference seemed that much greater.

“I’m not entirely sure how I returned,” Samuel went on, “I only knew you needed me, and…” Another wry smile. “Here I am.”

Closing his eyes, Jake just nodded. “The magic can do that?”

“Probably,” Samuel said. “Foolishly, I never did enquire too much about the potential side-effects…”

Jake listened to the silence for a long moment, breathing in the peace and calm that came from this man’s presence.

Denial was over. Something was going on beyond his scope of imagining, and the only way he’d come to terms with it all would be by embracing it. Believing it.

“You need to tell me everything,” he said. “You need to tell me how you got into that casket. And you really need to tell me how I got you out of it.”

* * *

Ben’s family took the news of his death with remarkable grace. Far more than Samuel, that much was certain.

“Thank you, Samuel.” Ben’s mother, dabbing her eyes with a large kerchief borrowed from Ben’s father, patted his arm as she left. “Thank you for all you did to take care of him.”

All he’d done? Driven Ben to his death, that was the extent of Samuel’s so-called help.

No one questioned it. The doctors suggested at one time or another that it might be a potential outcome—they’d experienced it with others in Ben’s situation. No one blamed Samuel, even though it was all his fault.

Even the knowledge that Ben had hardly lived in his condition, not truly, helped ease any of the guilt. Samuel was the only one who’d seen the deterioration, day in and day out. If he stood back and did nothing…would the outcome be the same?

No one would blame him for pulling out of the show.

No one but Clarence.

Samuel wasn’t sure how Clarence would incriminate him in Ben’s death, not without giving his own secrets away, but he had no doubt the older man would, if Samuel reneged on their deal. But there wasn’t a deal, not anymore. Samuel had nothing to show for it.

“Terribly sorry to hear about your friend,” Clarence said, walking into the theatre dressing room before Samuel had to chance to say anything. “That’s the risk we take sometimes, unfortunately.”

Carefully arranging his neck-tie and cloak, Samuel did his best to keep his hands from trembling. “Well,” he said softly, “I suppose now I can’t possibly owe you payment for something that never happened.”

“Pardon me?” Clarence narrowed his eyes. “I upheld my part of the bargain, lad. What came of it is of no consequence to me.”

“No consequence?” Samuel hissed. “Ben is dead.”

“And it was your choice to involve me, my boy,” Clarence said. “You will pay the piper, Samuel. Balance must be struck.”

Clarence strolled out, cigar smoke trailing behind him, as though they’d shared a conversation about the appalling weather they’d endured lately. Samuel let the tension leave him on a shuddering breath, a brief respite from the admission of his fate.

A price worth paying? How stupid.

“Ten minutes till curtain, Mr. Gilbert.” One of the stagehands, a scruffy boy younger than Ben had been when he left for war, stuck his head around the doorway.

“Yes,” Samuel said. “I know.”

He all but sleepwalked through his show, relying on the by rote instinct that had his illusions and tricks memorized. The crowd either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, and Samuel suspected it was a combination of both. They cheered and gasped at all the right moments, though their awe couldn’t reach him—he didn’t think anything could, not anymore.

The finale of the Great Count Mirza’s show, the trick that still gleaned his father some rather menacing letters demanding that he “control his abhorrent heathen of a child”, was named The Relentless Resurrection, and featured the lovely work of art that was his ebony coffin.

Real ones didn’t cost as much, he’d learned. He still wished he didn’t know.

As a prelude to the finale itself, he would close a small animal in the coffin, a mouse or a dove. With the close of the door, a small panel at the bottom of the box would open, closing off the live creature and allowing him access to a dead version, placed there previously. He would invite a member of the audience—usually the gruffest, most reliable looking gentleman he could find within the first two rows—to check on the authenticity of the dead creature, before putting it back. Closing the door once more would reverse the mechanism, revealing, upon opening the door a final time, the creature alive and well, apparently resurrected.

When that was done, he repeated the procedure. With himself.

Slanted mirrors and images of a grotesque corpselike dummy replaced the panels that opened and closed to reveal the dead, then very much alive, creature. He’d choose another member of the audience—this one a theatre worker in on the act—to open and close the door, and to announce fearfully to the audience that the Great Count Mirza was indeed, dead.

Stepping into the coffin never usually troubled him; he’d never been so closely accustomed to death as to fear the implications of his act.

He remembered gazing down at Ben in his coffin, so lovely and peaceful despite it all. The undertaker had indeed done a magnificent job. No one would guess the horrors he’d endured, just by looking.

When the door closed on him, muffling the sounds of the crowd outside, Ben’s face was all he could see.

“Ben…” He whispered, closing his eyes.

He needed to flick the switch for the trick to proceed, but the tears threatened and all he could do was grope blindly along the wall for the concealed button that set things in motion. He’d be granted a moment’s privacy, at least.

The sound of the crowd faded. Samuel frowned, opening his eyes. The reflection of the corpse peered back at him, twisting and changing until it took on Ben’s features, beautiful at first, just as Samuel remembered him, but rapidly decaying, skin peeling, mouth opening in a silent scream.

“Ben!”

“Too late for him, I’m afraid.” Clarence’s voice came from everywhere, came from the dark itself. “As for you…”

“Clarence, please…!”

A sigh, a sound that permeated everything around him. “I truly wish it were too late for you, my boy. It would be much easier on you if it was.”

Even though he couldn’t see, could barely move, Samuel tried to twist around, trying to fathom where the voice came from. “What are you talking about? Clarence, stop this madness this instant! You can’t scare me with your theatrics!”

“You know they are far from theatrics, lad.” Despite it all, Clarence sounded resigned, weary. “I am not to blame for your misfortune. Perhaps you should have made certain your boy wanted to be saved before you went ahead and did so.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Regardless. The due must be paid, Samuel. But in all good conscience I can’t extract the full price for your choices. You’ve already gone some way towards settling your debt, and your intentions were true.”

“I don’t--!”

“It’s a blessing you already own the vessel that will extricate payment,” Clarence said. “It’s a blessing you love this contraption so much. You and it will be well acquainted for some time to come.”

The darkness deepened. Samuel had never dreamed such a thing was possible. Outside, he could just make out the muffled cries and shouts. “He’s gone!” and the crowd’s cheering. The stagehand’s panic must have seeped into their blissful enjoyment, as the cheers became murmurs, became yells.

“What are you doing?”

“When he forgives you, my boy,” Clarence said, which, Samuel noted, wasn’t an answer at all. “When he forgives you your selfish sins, then you’ll have paid the price.”

“I don’t understand!”

“One day he’ll find you. One day you’ll atone.”

“Clarence!”

No answer. The dark swept around him, like swimming in a cold lake at midnight. The noises faded till all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his head and the harshness of his own breathing.

Then nothing at all.

* * *

“And that was it? Till the Halloween store?”

“Not completely. I recall some instances where the coffin was opened, but nothing happened.” Samuel watched him carefully. “Not like you.”

“Because it wasn’t me.” Jake nodded, still a little numb and detached. He stared down at his hands, noticing the grazes had been cleaned off while he’d been out of it. “Because it wasn’t…”

Samuel sighed. “Jake, regardless of what you think, you were the one that woke me from that magic. You. Yes, I might have become confused and—“

“Do I look like him?”

“Yes,” Samuel nodded, “you look a great deal like him. But I’m in no way insinuating that—”

“I was a photographer, before.” Jake got to his feet, feeling a little steadier but by no means stable. “War zones, disasters, places of mass human suffering, you know…” He tried gamely for a depreciating smile. “The stuff that rakes in the money.”

Samuel just watched him. Jake found he couldn’t move too far away from him, as though Samuel himself created a field of something resembling serenity. Something that allowed him to talk.

“For a while I was okay with it, you know. I was making great money, I was traveling the world. People wanted my work. People wanted me, needed me for something. I thought for a while that…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. What I did mattered. Made a difference, somehow. People could see what as going on in places they’d barely even heard of, maybe some of that shit’d get fixed.”

“You felt…compelled to do this.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jake decided to treat it that way. “Yeah. I guess. And I tried pretending it didn’t faze me, wasn’t getting to me more and more every day. I mean, I was just doing my job, right?”

“Jake…” Samuel stood, taking slow, tentative steps towards him.

“I didn’t quit ‘cause I wanted to. I just…people were telling me I was acting strangely, I’d have these…blackouts, memory lapses, whatever. Eventually my doctor told me that if I didn’t quit, I’d end up with serious problems. ‘Course by then, I already had serious problems…”

He didn’t flinch when Samuel wrapped his arms around him, feeling as comforted by the action as he had in the dream, the memory, whatever he’d experienced.

“When I managed to get separated from the rest of the press party somewhere in Israel two years ago, and spent three days hiding in someone’s basement ‘cause I was convinced if I came out I’d be shot, they decided enough was enough. Sent me home, told me I had post-traumatic stress disorder…” He leaned back a little, enough to look up at Samuel. “I guess in your day that would’ve been called shell-shock or something.”

Samuel stared down at him, eyes narrowed. “Do they treat you better in this day and age?”

“Better?” Jake smiled a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Samuel drew him closer again, and Jake closed his eyes, cheek pressed against the soft warmth of Samuel’s shirt.

“Why do I feel so safe when I’m with you?” His lips nuzzled the fabric with every syllable. He felt Samuel draw breath, release it with a soft sound of contentment.

“That, I don’t know. But it doesn’t have to be such a bad thing, does it?”

Jake shook his head, just as Samuel lowered his, their lips meeting in a ghost of a kiss, the contact little more than the movement of warm air.

“I was out there looking for you, you know.” His hands reached up to tangle in Samuel’s hair. “I wanted you to come back, I wanted to explain, to apologize…”

He felt Samuel’s smile in the brush of lips against his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. “You have nothing to apologize for, my love.”

Jake tilted his face up to claim Samuel’s mouth again, the kiss no less gentle for its intensity. His arms wound around Samuel’s shoulders, arching up against him as Samuel’s embrace tightened.

“Sam…” Jake breathed.

Samuel froze, hands on Jake’s shoulder, pushing him back till their eyes met.

“What did you just call me?”

Jake had to track back through his thoughts for a second, everything too jumbled by that odd cocktail of contentment and want.

“Sam,” he said again.

Samuel’s eyes darkened a shade deeper than their usual impossible depths, lips parting on a silent breath. When he spoke, his voice was rough with need, and hearing desire in that proper, precise accent made Jake’s knees weak.

“Again.”

“Sam.” Jake let Samuel yank him closer, crushingly tight. “Sam…”

With a near inhuman growl, Samuel kissed him, deep and demanding, tongue tracing the seam of Jake’s lips before yielding to the temptation and plunging between them.

He’d never been kissed like that before. Never been so overwhelmed by someone else’s need, someone else’s hunger. He should tell Samuel about the memories, he thought, but that could wait while they made some new ones.

There was no resistance this time when he unbuttoned Samuel’s shirt, eager to feel the real, solid warmth of his lover’s chest beneath his hands.

This was his. Somehow, in ways Jake couldn’t explain. And equally, a part of his soul he’d always known searched, longed for something, belonged squarely to Samuel. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to let him go twice.

No. Make that three times.

“Do you have…?” Samuel began, speaking against Jake’s lips in between kisses, dark gaze darting around the room. “Should we, ah…?”

Simple to decipher the code, as if he’d been interpreting Samuel’s words forever. Never quite letting go, never losing that warmth and contact, he led Samuel the short distance across the room towards his bedroom.

He managed a sheepish “Sorry,” as Samuel drew him close again, dismissing his worry with a smile and a kiss. If he’d known he’d have company, he’d have tidied up. As it was, he kept the mess around to antagonize Carrie.

Carrie. Jake vowed that, first thing in the morning, he’d call her up, explain things as best he could. He was already convinced she’d happily snag the attentions of a dozen guys if she went out dressed in that skimpy pixie costume. Besides, she’d known, she’d realized long before he had that Jake’s mind and heart were elsewhere.

He’d felt many things with Carrie, but that strangely sweet shyness wasn’t one of them. Perhaps he’d been Samuel’s lover decades ago, and perhaps his soul even remembered that, but his body felt every inch the new lover, anxious and anticipating all at once.

For someone who’d waited for this for ninety years, Samuel had the patience of a saint. The shaky rise and fall of his chest was all that betrayed his need as Jake pushed the shirt off Samuel’s shoulders, hands mapping the smooth, pale expanse of shoulders, arms, chest. Relearning something he already knew.

Samuel backed up against the edge of the bed, sitting down, arms wrapping around Jake’s waist as his lips nuzzled the thin cotton of Jake’s t-shirt. Funny how he’d never noticed the cold earlier, as though Samuel was still close by, wrapping him in warmth.

“I’m sorry…” Samuel whispered, but Jake knew it had nothing to do with any regret about the embrace.

It still didn’t feel like his place, but either way, he’d felt what Ben felt, knew the conflict that tore up his thoughts when it came to Samuel and the choices Ben made. Leaning down, lips against Samuel’s hair, he breathed, “I forgive you.”

Samuel’s arms tightened, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses through the fabric. Hands skimming up Jake’s back, he pushed up the fabric enough that lips brushed skin, sending sparks of sensation crackling through Jake’s blood.

“Jake.” The word was a vibrating purr, as Samuel’s lips moved toward the jut of Jake’s hipbone, teeth faintly scoring skin, kisses and licks soothing any imagined hurt. One hand clumsily unfastening Jake’s jeans, letting them shush down his legs to pool at his ankles, Samuel muttered something about garments in this day and age, and Jake laughed.

Pausing in his task, Samuel looked up at him, smiling softly, happily, and even as his body thrummed, fever hot, taut as a guitar string stuck in a fireplace, Jake’s thoughts tumbled back, latching onto another time he’d seen Samuel smile that way.

He recognized the field of flowers, red and gold dancing around him on a sweet summer breeze. There was a blanket beneath him, but he could still feel the thick lush movement of the grass through it as Samuel moved above him, all pale, sun-warmed skin and insistent kisses.

Ben. Jake. It didn’t matter. He was one and the same, and in that moment, wherever it was lost in time, he was Samuel’s world.

“Sam,” he murmured, then and now, hands tightening in his lover’s hair as Samuel’s kissed tracked down his body, lavishing attention to every inch of skin he could reach. Kisses to the inside of his elbows, his wrists, the jut of a hip, the vulnerable soft skin of his inner thigh.

The sun beat down, warm and bright enough that Jake had to close his eyes, but Samuel’s mouth was hotter as it closed around his arousal, wet and tight and perfect and so achingly familiar that Jake cried out, and his thoughts spiraled again.

In his apartment, Samuel pressed him back into familiar sheets, but in Jake’s head, there was an oak tester bed, rich dark red damask sheets, and a roaring fireplace. Firelight danced across Samuel’s bare skin, making the sheen of sweat sparkle like lamp light on snow. His hair was in his eyes, darkness shadowing an even darker gaze, but Jake knew what he’d see there if the glow of the fire banked light into Samuel’s face. Passion. Tenderness. Love. Jake’s legs parted around Samuel’s hips, ankles crossed to lock them together, and the hard heat that pressed against him, pressed into him, was sweeter than meadow flowers, hotter than the raging fire.

Safe, but intense in its thrill. Like coming home, but like the first tentative exploration of an unknown land.

This, this was what he’d waited for. This was what he’d searched for, and with every kiss, every touch, every thrust, the fear melted away like ice in the face of a blazing sun, a roaring fireplace.

Now, and then, he clung to Samuel, arching up to meet every erratic shift of his lover’s hips, any trace of resistance or hesitation faded to nothing. Just the need. Just the desperation to bridge a gap that at once seemed impossible, and seemed to disappear with every second, like a bumpy country road beneath thin, speeding tires.

It would never be enough, and there’d never be enough time to make up for what they’d lost, but when Samuel’s hips stilled, thrust driving deeper into Jake than he’d ever known, something shattered inside his soul that made the time apart irrelevant.

They had forever. In flower fields, in dark fire-lit rooms, in the familiar detritus of Jake’s apartment, where the headlights from the highway cast striped shadows on the ceiling, and his body tensed beneath Samuel’s as the climax hit with the tenderness of petals, the ferocity of flames, and the sweet lick of magic.

And, as they lay in each other’s arms, silent save for their heartbeats, the push and pull of breathing, inhale and exhale, the digital clock on the nightstand beeped midnight.

Jake smiled, burrowing into Samuel’s arms.

Maybe those old ghosts would rest easy tonight.

Old Ghosts by Cat Kane -- Part Four -- A Halloween story (M/M)

2008-11-04T06:29:00.003Z

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part Four

Jake woke and stretched, bleary gaze squinting up at the living room ceiling. He couldn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but at least the pounding migraine had dulled to a tolerable—

Wait…

He sat up, head protesting feebly.

“Jake,” Samuel said, smiling at him from the mismatched easy chair. “I’m so relieved you’re awake.”

If it had been something serious, Jake thought, would Samuel have thought to take him to the ER? Probably not. Jake doubted it was the done thing in Samuel’s day.

In his day? Am I really believing this crap?

Running a hand through his hair, he slumped back against the chair.

“Jake—“

“Look, just tell me whatever you wanted me to hear.”

“But you’re—“

“I’m fine.”

Samuel had the tenacity to fold his arms over his chest, and raise an eyebrow. “Pardon me, Jake, but last time you said that, you keeled over ten seconds later. Permit me to take that statement with a grain of salt.”

Jake caught himself before he pouted. “Yeah well, I mean it this time.” Samuel looked at him skeptically, and Jake frowned. “Honestly. The keeling over wasn’t good for me either, you know.”

It didn’t quite appease Samuel, judging from the continued quirk of one dark brow, but at least he gave up arguing.

“Very well.” Samuel sat back. “Where would you like me to start?”

A million places, Jake thought. There wasn’t a single part of this entire situation that he understood, and only Samuel had the answers.

“Who are you?”

“It would appear that you know much of that already.” Samuel smiled wryly. “I’m Samuel Gilbert. I am—was, a magician.”

Jake tilted his head. “Pulling rabbits out of hats kinda magic?”

Samuel chuckled softly. “Amongst other things, yes. I preferred doves to rabbits, though.”

“But Samuel Gilbert disappeared.” Jake shook his head. “You’re saying you didn’t? You were, what, trapped in that coffin in the Halloween store the whole time?”

He was asking too many questions, snapping them out like gunfire, and Samuel certainly looked the part of the guy in the firing line. When Samuel stood abruptly, Jake couldn’t help but flinch, but Samuel walked past him, stopping at the living room window and pulling back the blinds. Jake knew the view that greeted him, the darkening cityscape, glitter and gloom under a smoggy sky.

“What year is it?”

As far as odd questions went, that had to rank a ten, maybe ten and a half.

“Two thousand eight,” Jake said.

Samuel’s gaze snapped up meet Jake’s. He let go of the blinds, and they clattered back into place, swaying gently.

“I know it was a long time,” Samuel began softly, “but…”

There was a lost bewilderment in dark eyes that couldn’t be faked, Jake thought, even if Samuel was the best actor in the world. Guilt. Guilt and longing, a yearning for something—some time—he’d lost.

Jake saw that look in his own eyes sometimes, when the man in the mirror looked like a stranger and he longed for a way to go back, make different choices.

But then he wouldn’t have been Jake if he had; he wouldn’t have been honest to himself, and in the calm spaces where nothing seemed so terrible, he could admit that living with the fear was a better option than living a half-life, living a discontented lie.

“Sit,” he told Samuel, getting up and heading for the kitchen. Getting two glasses out of the cupboard, he filled one with water, and one with a shot of the only cheap whiskey he had in the apartment. Samuel looked like he needed a drink, and Jake seriously wished he could join in. Either way, he didn’t feel in much mortal danger anymore. “Tell me how come you’re coffin ended up at the Halloween store.”

Samuel, who’d surprisingly enough done as Jake asked, accepted the drink with a nod of thanks.

“Halloween store? The place we met, it’s a shop of some sort?”

“Yeah.” Jake shrugged. “They sell…you know, costumes and decorations and stuff.”

Samuel canted his head, looking thoughtful. “Like theatrical supplies?”

“Ah, yeah, sort of.”

“In that case, I’m not sure how I came to be there.” Samuel paused. “Perhaps first I should tell you about Ben.”

Jake resumed his spot on the couch. There wasn’t much Samuel needed to tell him on that score, not really. A guy didn’t go around calling a total stranger ‘my love’ unless the one he’d mistaken you for meant a great deal to him. “He was your boyfriend?”

“My lover, yes.” Samuel fixed his gaze on his drink, swirling the dark gold liquid around the bottom of the glass as though he saw something at the bottom of his glass that Jake didn’t. “He was a solider in the war. It was what he wanted, he chose to go.” The defense struck Jake as desperate, as if Samuel was used to defending Ben. “He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself had he not tried. But when he came home…”

An ice chill scratched down Jake’s spine. His fingers tightened on the glass.

“He wasn’t well,” Samuel said simply, after a moment’s silence. “He wasn’t the same. The things he’d seen, done…damaged him, I suppose. Damaged his soul, his heart. All I wanted was for him to be well again.” He looked up, gaze locked on Jake’s as though willing him to believe. “All I wanted was for him to be the man he’d been.”

“How?” Jake asked, unable to summon more than a whisper.

This man couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know.

And if there was a way, would Jake take it?

Yeah, his soul whispered, and see what it did to this guy? Would you be willing to sacrifice that much? Sometimes, when the fear of intangible, old ghosts overwhelmed him, Jake thought he just might.

“I had a colleague—“ Samuel began, and Jake’s mind latched onto the article on the net—latched onto anything that didn’t leave him mired in his own thoughts.

“Clarence Francis.”

Samuel looked at him, eyes narrowed, dark and angry with a rage that Jake doubted was aimed his way. “Yes. He wasn’t like the rest of us. Unlike us, his magic was…” Samuel lowered his gaze. “Real. Dark, but real.”

“But there’s no such thing—“

Samuel smiled wryly, and Jake all but shrank back into his seat.

“I beg to differ, Jake. Proof that it was all too real sits here before you now.”

Deciding that answering that remark either way was far beyond his scope for reasoning, Jake asked, “So what happened? Didn’t it work?”

“Oh, it worked.” Samuel’s smile became sadder still. “It worked perfectly. That’s the problem.”

* * *

Jake stared at him mutely, but Samuel’s memory slipped back several notches, back to that stormy October evening, far, far too long ago.

He remembered his utter confusion at Clarence packing away his potions and tools, getting to his feet with a brusque nod.

“But—“

“It’s an enchantment, my boy,” Clarence smiled wryly. “It isn’t a divine miracle. Give him a day or two.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“No,” Clarence agreed mildly. “I didn’t, did I?” He closed the nondescript briefcase containing some of the most esoteric items Samuel had ever seen with all the calm of a factory worker clocking out. “Watch him. If nothing comes of it in a day or two, come and see me.”

He followed Clarence to the door in silence, an odd combination of disappointment and relief running through his veins. Yes, nothing had happened, but on the other hand nothing had happened. If the worst repercussion of this was that Ben remained exactly as he was, then Samuel thought they might escape relatively unscathed.

And if he improved…well, Samuel would gladly pay the price for Ben’s happiness.

“Oh, and Samuel?” Clarence paused at the door. “Please don’t miss your performance next Friday. We’ll discuss payment terms then.”

The house seemed eerily silent when Clarence’s car drove away. Samuel dismissed the servants for the evening, and headed back to the drawing room.

Putting either of them to bed seemed a monumental task for which Samuel had neither energy nor motivation. He couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from Ben, even in adjoining rooms, not now. If there was any change, and Samuel missed it, he’d never forgive himself.

Tucking Ben’s blanket more snugly around his still-unresponsive form, Samuel knelt back at his lover’s side, resting his head on Ben’s lap.

“Sleep, my love. Sleep and it will all be better in the morning.”

He hadn’t expected sleep to claim him so quickly, but the strain of the evening—the strain of it all, truth be told—took its toll. And perhaps he dreamed, but would never recall the contents.

Perhaps a happy dream, he thought later. He hoped so, anyway.

He awoke to a hand resting gently on his hair, trembling with every breath. Samuel sat up, reaching for that hand and grasping it tightly.

“Ben?”

Ben—his Ben!—stared down at him, tears tracking down his face.

“What did you do, Samuel?” Ben shook his head. “What did you do?!”

Samuel blinked, struggling to find his voice. “Helped you. Healed you.”

Ben shook his head again, more vehemently, like a horse tossing its mane to ward off flies. “No…”

As Samuel continued to kneel at his side, Ben stood. It was the tall, graceful character Samuel remembered him to be that walked over to the window, none of the past weeks’ listlessness or sluggishness present. The fog closed in overnight, and the drizzle only exacerbated the hideous morning.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” Ben turned to him, eyes wild for a brand new reason. “I can feel it, Sam. In my blood, in my soul. It’s…unnatural. It’s wrong.”

“No.” Samuel got to his feet. “It can’t be wrong. It’s brought you back to me, don’t you see? Everything’s back as it should be!”

“At what price?” Ben stared at him. “Sam, I should never have come back at all, can’t you accept that? Prolonging it by such…such dark measures is just—“

“Yes, you should!” Samuel strode to Ben’s side, hands on his lover’s shoulders, a breath from shaking him. This wasn’t how it should have gone, damn it all! “You’re meant to be here by my side!”

“And so you turn me into a monster?” Ben whispered. “I can feel it. It’s not me. There’s something…” He clawed at Samuel’s hands, shoving him away, moving to stand behind the heavy oak desk, putting himself between Samuel and the door. “It isn’t meant to be, it isn’t meant to be…”

“Ben…”

“I didn’t want this, Sam! I never asked for this!”

When Ben turned and fled, Samuel was still to immobile from terror and delight in equal parts to react quickly enough. Before giving chase, his gaze landed on the other side of the desk, where Ben had stood, and the open drawer.

The pistol Samuel kept there was missing.

No…

He heard the sound of the front door rattling, Ben fighting against the locks and bolts until the old doorway opened. Samuel raced after him, heart hammering, nausea coiling in his stomach.

It wasn’t meant to be that way. Ben should have been glad, happy, they should have been together. He wasn’t supposed to be chasing his lover like a frightened, cornered animal who’d rather chew through its own paw than remain in this trap.

A trap I laid. This was all what I wanted. It was all about me.

Shaking off that terrible thought, he shoved through the door, running down the steps into the garden, following the path of disturbance through the grass and flowerbeds, lips and heart screaming desperately for his lover.

“Ben…Ben!”

No answer. There’d never be an answer.

Never. Just endless dark.

“Samuel?” A hand pressed against his arm.

—a hand resting gently on his hair—

He froze.

—reaching for that hand and grasping it tightly—

“Samuel.” More insistent this time.

Ben. No, not Ben. Jake.

“I didn’t think,” he heard himself say. “I didn’t stop to think that he wouldn’t want it too. I thought…”

When he couldn’t go on, Jake spoke for him instead.

“What happened?”

He couldn’t put it into words, the dread of following Ben’s footprints across the dew-sparkled lawn, tracking through mud and dirt into the woodland beyond the house. There could never be any articulation for the wrenching pain of hearing the single gunshot deep in the trees, shattering the stillness of the morning. Birds squawked, rising up into the lead gray sky, and Samuel remembered falling to his knees, remembered the way his scream never did drown out the ringing and rushing of his blood in his head.

“Samuel…” A hand cupped his cheek, long cool fingers smudging moisture he could barely feel.

“He died.”

* * *

A man who meant him harm wouldn’t cry that way over a memory. There wasn’t a whole lot Jake knew about the past day’s events, but of that he was certain. Samuel’s eyes were haunted with an unspeakable pain, and Jake read between the lines of all the things he couldn’t say with those two words.

There was plenty he couldn’t say himself.

I understand.

Were his ghosts the reason Samuel mistook him for Ben in the first place? Could this stranger see the same pain in Jake, the same fears?

He had no answers, and even less comfort to offer, but he couldn’t help closing the distance between them, pressing his lips to Samuel’s.

The last vestige of the crazy idea that this man was a ghost vanished with the first brush of Jake’s mouth against Samuel’s, warm, gentle lips parting in a soft sigh of surprise beneath his. The cheek under his palm was cool, damp, but reassuringly real.

Samuel breathed his name, another whisper of heat against Jake’s lips.

He should have stopped, pulled back, thought about what he’d just done. Samuel didn’t want him, Samuel wanted Ben, wanted whatever ghost of his lover he saw in Jake.

But he didn’t want to stop. Stopping meant having to think, meant having to make the vaguest attempt to wrap his mind around reason and rationale that eluded him.

No stopping. He could live with being Ben for a little while, if it meant Jake could forget and Samuel lost that awful pain in his eyes.

“Jake,” Samuel said again between kisses, as if he’d only just realized that Jake had moved from the couch to sit on the chair’s armrest. It still wasn’t close enough. “What are…?”

“Ssh.” Both hands cradling Samuel’s face, Jake’s kisses became nuzzles, closed-eye mapping of Samuel’s face by touch alone. “This is what you want, right?”

If Samuel protested, Jake didn’t hear it; everything beyond his awareness evaporated the moment Samuel’s arms wrapped around his waist, tugging Jake off the armrest and onto his lap with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

So what if he’s not desperate for me?

It was easy to forget Ben in the heat of Samuel’s kisses. Easy to forget the headache, work, Carrie, the rest of the world. Hands in Jake’s hair, stroking and tangling, Samuel kissed him as though—

As though he’s waited a lifetime for this.

Maybe he had. Dazed by kisses, lips tingling with playful nips and sweet licks, his body drowned out the common sense that suggested exercising caution was a wise move.

Caution be damned. He could lose himself in this. Samuel could chase away the fear.

He heard Samuel murmur something against his lips as Jake slid a hand between their bodies, fingers catching on the soft, clearly expensive fabric of Samuel’s shirt. He hadn’t paid much attention before, but it didn’t much look like something Samuel could pick off the rack today. The high collar looked as though it should have hosted a cravat or some elaborate kind of tie.

It was just as easy to open as any regular shirt, though, much to Jake’s relief.

Samuel hissed a breath when Jake’s hands found skin, and Jake swore he felt an odd electrical charge licking his fingers with every caress.

Hunger, he thought. Just hunger, just a desire for something he’d never get with Carrie. She did the best she knew how, he couldn’t fault her on that, but he’d never feel this way with her. Never feel protected. Never feel as though, for a second, nothing could ever scare him again.

Samuel’s embrace was fierce, protective, and in that moment Jake felt a deep, vicious envy for whoever Ben had been before his demise. Anyone who left a longing this profound, and just threw away any attempt his lover made to help him didn’t deserve better.

He let his hand skim down Samuel’s chest, savoring warm skin that, along with the arousal just nudging the inside of his thigh, told him he was most definitely dealing with a flesh and blood creature.

”Wait.” Samuel pressed one hand, flat-palmed, against Jake’s chest, not quite pushing away. Just getting his attention. “Perhaps you should be resting.”

“I don’t want rest.” Jake settled himself more snugly on Samuel’s lap. If he’d been thinking at all, he’d have realized it felt much too comfortable—much too familiar—in this man’s arms. Maybe he’d been waiting for this for a lifetime too.

I wish I was the one you were looking for.

“Jake,” Samuel said. His name again, not Ben’s. Damn it.

“You don’t have to call me that, you know.” Catching the hands that restrained him, albeit gently and carefully, Jake pinned Samuel’s wrists to the armrests.

“But—“

Grinding his hips down, knees sinking into the gaps in the cushion between Samuel’s thighs and the sides of the chair, Jake dug his fingers harder around Samuel’s wrists. Holding on. Keeping this man near, whatever the consequences.

Please, just make me forget. Just make me remember…

Maybe it was ghosts and magic. Jake didn’t think he’d mind much if it was.

“You can call me Ben.” He nipped the skin beneath Samuel’s earlobe, tasting a crispness like a winter breeze and the tang of some fancy cologne. Nothing a ninety-year-old ghost should taste like. “I won’t mind.”

Samuel stiffened beneath him, but not in the way Jake would have liked. As he shifted on Samuel’s lap again, he could feel the hardness burgeoning against him, feel the heat of Samuel’s body, hear the quickened pace of his breathing.

Yet he’d stopped.

He let go of Samuel’s hands, only for them to wrap around him, pulling him close.

“I’m sorry,” Samuel murmured against the crook of his neck. “Whatever you may believe, this isn’t the reason I sought you out.”

Jake shrugged, suitably mortified at the dawning awareness he’d just flung himself into the lap of a total stranger. And yet… “Doesn’t matter. I can’t give you what you wanted anyway, so…”

“What do you mean?” Samuel leaned back a little, staring up at Jake. “I wanted nothing more than to meet you.”

Disentangling himself, Jake stood, rearranging his clothes. He wanted a shower. He wanted to sleep for a year. He wanted to be far, far away from this man.

“You wanted Ben,” he said, arms wrapping around himself as though to ward off a chill. He walked over to the window, putting distance, and some furniture for good measure, between himself and Samuel. “And I’m not.”

“But—“

“I thought it wouldn’t matter. But it does, doesn’t it?”

It’s not me you want.

“Very well,” Samuel said, voice stiff with forced calm and politeness. “If that’s what you want. I apologize once more for troubling you. If nothing else, please believe your happiness is all that matters to me.”

“My happiness?” Jake managed a weak laugh. “Don’t you mean Ben’s happiness?”

No answer. Jake felt a chill swirling around the room, as if he’d opened a window and let in the cold evening air. It felt a little like being out on a cold, murky morning. For a second he believed that anything he touched in his own apartment might feel cold and damp with dew.

Something cracked, like a gunshot, and the air left Jake’s lungs on a single breath of pure panic.

No. Oh, God no, not now…please, please…

When he turned around, Samuel had vanished.

Old Ghosts -- Part Three -- A Halloween Story (M/M)

2008-11-01T17:25:00.003Z

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part Three

By the time Jake made it into work, the headache was a thudding migraine, sending little flickers of light dancing across his peripheral vision. He popped two painkillers before even sitting at his desk, wishing he’d just gone home.

No. Home wasn’t a great idea. That man knew where he lived. Granted, if he had that much information, finding his workplace wouldn’t be too difficult, but Jake clung to whatever fragment of optimism he could.

Funny, he’d always thought that if he acquired a stalker, it’d be one of Carrie’s cast-offs. A crazy ex, one of the guys she’d drained dry of their credit limit and their will to live before she moved onto him.

No, Jake’s luck dictated that he got the psychopath who thought he was someone else.

It had nothing to do with the missing casket. On the drive to work, he’d convinced himself that it was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. Maybe the guy saw him freak out at the Halloween store, maybe it was some sick and twisted creep’s idea of a joke. Whatever weird mojo going on with the casket, it had nothing to do with him.

He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, scenting candles and cigars and that damned drawing room again. He wasn’t even sure he knew what a drawing room was. His apartment certainly didn’t have one.

No. It has nothing to do with you, remember?

Still…

Levering himself up, chair clanking back into its rightful position, he booted up his laptop, waiting impatiently until he could hit up a search engine. There were a handful of memos and post-its decorating his desk, several of them in vivid shades of radiation orange. Jake flicked through them, knowing full well he wasn’t planning on attending to any matter until his head stopped pounding, or until he found an answer to his mystery man. He was betting on the former, if he had to throw money away.

He didn’t have many details, but he typed in what he knew. ‘Ivory inlaid black casket’ and then, on a whim, ‘Samuel’.

The search engine only returned a handful of hits. Most of those referred him to a funeral parlor in New Orleans that specialized in gothic caskets, run by a guy called Samuel. Jake hit up the site just for the sheer hell of it. This Samuel’s picture was on the site—he looked nothing like the dummy in the casket, and nothing like the voice Jake heard last night. Soft. Cultured. English.

He frowned. English. Returning to the main page, he replaced `casket` with `coffin`.

Even fewer hits. Sam’s casket place in New Orleans still showed up. At the end of the list—a scant three pages long—Jake found a link to a British historical site. Bringing up the cached page, he scrolled through the dense genealogical text to find the highlighted terms, all neatly bunched together in a single paragraph:

‘One of the most popular stage magicians of the day was The Great Count Mirza, also known as Lord Jonathan Gilbert’s youngest son, Samuel Gilbert. Count Mirza’s was a controversial act in its heyday following the Great War, both for its content and the ensuing mystery of Samuel Gilbert’s disappearance in late 1921. Both Gilbert and his famous finale act, an ivory inlaid black coffin claimed to be used in occult worship, disappeared from the dressing room of a London nightclub. Lord Jonathan spent his remaining days seeking his son’s kidnapper, implicating along the way both the family of Gilbert’s recently deceased childhood friend, and rival illusionist Clarence Francis. No prosecution was ever brought.`

The article trailed off into an analysis of Lord Gilbert’s House of Lords sittings, and the bills passed during his tenure, but Jake could barely even focus on the screen. Words kept drifting through his awareness, as surely as the highlighted text.

Samuel Gilbert. Magician. Coffin.

The glittering, hazy aura at the edge of his vision crowded closer, until all he could see was a blurry image of the laptop, thick black text against a painfully white screen. He squeezed his eyes closed, palms against his temples, as if pressure alone could temper the ice-pick stabbing.

1921. It was impossible. Crazy. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. What the hell was stalking him, a ghost?

The lights flickered, sending a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Wow, Jake, you’re not looking good.” Tommy, his colleague, paused as he passed the open door. “You okay?”

Jake managed a weak nod. “Migraine, that’s all.”

He’d cultivated a reputation for evil migraines; it wasn’t an outright lie by any means, but they also served to cover up for the days when Jake’s other little issues kept him from even getting out of bed.

“Ah. Man you look at death’s door. Why don’t you go on home? It’s quiet here today anyway.”

“Yeah.” Jake cracked open his eyes, grateful that, for a moment at least, the aura receded. “I think I might.”

“You got anyone to give you a ride home?” Tommy asked. “Cause you ain’t looking too hot to drive, buddy.”

Jake thought about calling Carrie, but couldn’t deal with the thought of her incessant chatter. Either she’d insist on telling him about the great new pair of shoes she’d bought, or she’d keep prodding and niggling to find out what was really wrong. Jake tried to imagine her reaction if he told her he might be the stalking victim of a ninety year old Halloween dummy come to life.

It just wasn’t happening.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Meds should be kicking in any minute.”

Tommy looked at him skeptically. “Well, if you’re sure. If you can wait around an hour or so, I’ll take you, but—“

“No, thanks.” He managed a smile of gratitude, but he didn’t want concern. He wanted sleep and forgetting.

Sometimes the light of the migraine aura looked so much like mortar fire, like crackling gold across a black sky. He didn’t want to be around people if that happened.

“’Kay.” Tommy nodded. “I’ll let ‘em know you took off. Look after yourself, buddy.”

The flares died down enough for him to get back down to the parking lot, realizing briefly that he’d been in the car more than he’d been in the office today. Hell, he’d been in the Halloween store longer.

He took the drive slow, unsure sometimes what was the aura and what was a stop light blaring its colors.

There was no-one outside his building, or in the lobby, but he approached with caution anyway. At least he could refrain from entertaining an undead stalker two days before Halloween. And that he was even entertaining the possibility spoke of a need for more sleep and stronger meds. Much stronger.

He was on his floor, letting himself in when Mrs. Doyle from 4b stomped outside, all hair curlers and slippers, skinny cigarette and yesterday’s newspaper.

“Hi, Mrs. Doyle.” Jake smiled weakly.

“You get that damn salesman at the door yesterday too?” She demanded, making no pretence of chit-chat and a part of Jake was intensely grateful. “Or it was another of these damned trick or treaters. I hate this damn holiday, ain’t safe for old folks, I’m telling you.”

Jake had been mulling whether the trick or treaters weren’t at greater risk from the likes of Mrs. Doyle, when the actual content of her words registered. He froze at the door, one hand on the doorknob.

“He talked to you, too?”

“Damn right.” Mrs. Doyle took a drag on her cigarette, coughing loudly. “Don’t know what he was sellin’, but he sounded like a smarmy little shit. Glad we got those intercoms is all I say.”

“Yeah…” He watched her disappear back into her apartment in a cloud of smoke and rustling paper. “Me too…”

The stupidity of returning to a place where that man could easily find him reared up again, the migraine calling in reinforcements just out of spite.

Locking the door again, he turned back down the hallway; he could waste time at the grocery store a few blocks away, stock up on painkillers and ice-packs. If there was anything he knew that might ward off psychosomatic ghosts or real-life stalkers, then he’d load up on that, too. And if Samuel, or whatever the hell his name was, came back, well, Jake would take his chances with the cops.

He couldn’t stay here. Not yet.

Not till he was sure that whatever he was dealing with, it was flesh and blood.

* * *

After a night of enduring it, Samuel began to rethink his assessment of the glories of this advanced age.

If the car drivers had anything to do with it, he’d be lucky if he survived it long enough to see Ben again, let alone convince him that he spoke the truth.

Automotives had been dangerous enough in his day. He recalled the zippy little Sunbeam he’d purchased brand new in the year before his awful mistake. Driving around in it—admittedly a privilege and a luxury—the wind in his hair, the countryside rolling by under his wheels, he’d almost known what it meant to be invincible

These contraptions, hulking metallic beasts with roars louder than a bomber, wouldn’t feel so much as a bump if they hit him. And so many of them! Perhaps all classes owned vehicles in this day and age. They barely slowed as he tried to cross the street, and Samuel yearned for the sight of a simple carriage, or more pedestrians.

Although, perhaps fewer pedestrians made things simpler. They already stared at him as though he was the most peculiar sight they’d seen this century. One particularly indignant stare left him wishing sorely he could retaliate without drawing further unwanted attention to himself.

I’ll have you know, madam, he thought to himself instead, that these garments are from the best tailors in Mayfair. You, on the other hand, appear to have recently escaped the circus.

Somehow, he suspected voicing such an opinion would involve the police again. The people of this age seemed awfully eager to involve them in all minor disputes, and his explanation would have been odd at best.

Safer to mind his business and bide his time. Time mattered little now, and sleep was a chore he’d just as soon neglect for now. He didn’t venture far from Ben’s residence, afraid that one wrong turn would leave him hopelessly lost.

He’d been lost for far too long already.

When he saw one of the gleaming, deadly contraptions stop outside Ben’s door, he backed up into an alleyway across the street. If it was Ben, Samuel didn’t want to frighten him again.

He needn’t have worried; Ben didn’t even look around as he got out of the car. He headed for the entranceway without a second glance, but not before Samuel saw the pain etched onto Ben’s face.

Different face, different name, different voice, but Samuel would recognize Ben anywhere, even at the ends of the earth. He’d given up everything for a chance to take that pain away once, and he’d gladly do it again.

Samuel moved from the shadows without thinking, crossing the road as he might have in his day, paying little heed to any oncoming traffic.

A car honked its horn, the blaring noise echoing off the walls.

Ben turned, eyes wide. Samuel braced himself for an impact that never happened.

Evidently, Samuel thought, trying to put his thoughts and racing heart back in good working order, cars in this age were more adept at stopping.

“The hell are you doing?” the driver yelled, leaning out of the window. “Watch the frigging road, moron!”

“Ah, I…” Samuel glanced at Ben. “I’m truly sorry. It was my mistake.”

“Damn straight it was,” the man grumbled, revving the engine as he pulled out, driving around Samuel with a screech of tires.

On the other side of the street, Ben still watched him, staring in horror and—Samuel hoped—a little curiosity.

“I’m sorry to you, too.” Samuel began, before Ben regained his senses and ran again. “I truly have no desire to frighten you, believe me. Please, trust me.”

Ben’s eyes widened impossibly at that. Samuel pressed on, certain that this remarkable and unexpected window of opportunity would be small.

“I mean you no harm, I promise. I just wish to talk to you. I just want you to listen to me. Please.”

“I’m not Ben,” the man on the other side of the street mumbled, looking away, one pale hand rising to his temples. “I’m Jake. I’m not Ben. I don’t know any Ben.”

“All right. Jake, then.” The word tasted odd, but at that point Samuel would have called the other man anything he chose. What did names matter when the one he’d been waiting for, so horrendously long, was a scant few feet from him? “I am Samuel—“

“Gilbert,” Jake said dully, as though it was an everyday occurrence to recall a long-lost lover’s name. “Samuel Gilbert, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Samuel nodded, before lowering his gaze as the implications of Jake’s knowledge occurred to him. “If you know my name, then you must know—“

“I Googled you.” Jake shrugged, another flash of pain dancing across his face. He closed his eyes briefly, but clearly didn’t need to see Samuel’s perplexed expression to realize the strange term was lost on him. “Never mind. I found some information about you. About your disappearance.”

“Ah.” Samuel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Perhaps Jake didn’t know all the details, in that case. “Yes, well. As you can see, that’s not quite, ah…”

Jake shook his head, holding up a hand to pre-empt Samuel finishing off that half-constructed thought.

“I can’t do this out here.” Jake turned for the door. “Come on. Right now, if you’re gonna kill me then you might put me out of my misery. I have nothing to lose.”

Bewildered and bemused by the remark—much of this age, and this man, bewildered him, he realized wryly--Samuel nonetheless followed, helpless to fight this turn of events. Had he not wished, hoped, yearned for this? He ought to grasp it with both hands, and yet something made him hesitate; perhaps it was the pallor of Jake’s skin, or the husky edge of pain in his voice.

“Are you all right, Jake?”

Jake turned, stared at him. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

Samuel offered a small smile; Jake was as terrible as liar as Ben had been. “You appeared a little unwell.”

“I’m fine,” Jake repeated, even less vehemently, sending Samuel a look that, had he been up to the game, he should have interpreted with little difficulty. “I just want to get this over with.”

Not entirely the admission Samuel had hoped for, but how could he complain when Jake opened the door that led from that small room with the doorbells and speaker, inviting him into the residence proper? He gazed around the Spartan, utilitarian lobby, and a pang of longing raced through his blood for his estate, for his home, for the things he remembered.

Perhaps B--Jake didn’t remember those things any longer. He couldn’t, if he was content with this.

But then, his Ben had never been one for trappings. That had been Samuel’s province alone.

In a narrow hallway that reminded Samuel of the boarding houses where some of the theatre people stayed, Jake opened another door, gesturing for him to enter with the barest tilt of his head.

Even looking moments from keeling over, he was still lovely, Samuel thought. Gold hair that gleamed even in this dim and paltry light, blue eyes a little too bright, betraying a pain Samuel was yet to understand, but feared he’d caused somehow.

I always cause you pain, don’t I?

He paused, helpless to keep from reaching out, fingers brushing Jake’s cheek. With a sharp intake of breath, Jake stared at him, accusing and as confused as Samuel felt.

“If I could have stayed away from you, if I could have refrained from causing you any further pain, my love, then I would have. Believe me. Hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted.”

Close enough to feel the shush of Jake’s breath, Samuel allowed those beautiful eyes to transport him back to easier times. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the applause of the crowd, smell the dust and paint of the theatre. He could feel the wind in his hair as he raced the Sunbeam down country lanes, Ben laughing at his side.

Jake pushed him away, glaring. “I’m not Ben.”

As Jake strode into the room, Samuel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

The flat was more comfortably appointed that its exterior suggested. After the previous night’s escapades, Samuel longed to sit and rest, but resolved to wait until Jake invited him to do so; this age might have lost its manners, it certainly didn’t mean Samuel had to discard his.

Jake appeared to have no intention of inviting Samuel to do anything. Without a word, he crossed the room to a small galley kitchen filled with odd machines and utensils, and rummaged through the bag he carried.

Samuel blinked, saw Clarence rummaging through his briefcase. Blinked again, saw Jake retrieving a small rattling container. He watched, silent and patient while Jake filled a glass with water, emptying some of the container’s contents into his palm. Medicine, Samuel judged.

“You aren’t well,” he said.

Jake swallowed the pills, brushing off the concern with a half-hearted wave of his hand.

“You should rest,” Samuel said. He’d seen that bravado far too often to believe it was anything other than Ben’s stubborn resolve, refusing to accept help or show weakness. “We can talk later.”

“We talk now.” Jake’s voice was breathy, hoarse. He leaned against the edge of the counter, eyes squeezed shut. “And then you get the hell out of here.”

“Jake—“

Blue eyes snapped open, staring at him as though that new name was the last thing Jake had expected to hear.

“What do you want with me?” The desolation in Jake’s voice broke Samuel’s heart all over again, just like Ben had done that damp, foggy All Hallows' Eve morning. It was a different kind of pain—he hoped nothing would ever feel as hopeless and fathomless as the chasm that opened in his soul when he found Ben that morning—but a familiar pain, nonetheless. “What do you…?”

“Jake?”

Those lovely eyes fluttered closed, as Jake’s hold on the counter—the only thing holding him standing, Samuel realized a moment too late—wavered, and he teetered briefly before his knees buckled, limp body about to crash to the ground.

Samuel barely caught him before he hit the floor.

Old Ghosts -- Part Two -- A Halloween story (M/M)

2008-10-30T20:06:00.006Z

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part Two

“You’re sure you can’t stay?”

Carrie leaned up on her tiptoes, kissing Jake’s cheek. “I gotta be up early, so yeah, I’m sure. Besides, you seem kinda pre-occupied tonight.”

“No I’m not.” The defense was a little too quick, to eager, to be a true denial. Even Carrie could see right through it, and considering Carrie could barely see past an end of season sale at JC Penney’s, Jake thought that was saying something.

“Liar.” She smiled, then canted her head, watching him thoughtfully. “We have fun, right?”

“Where’s that coming from? Yeah, of course we do.”

Carrie nodded. “Then that’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Get some rest.”

Standing on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, Jake watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner of the block. A gentleman might have offered to walk or drive her home, but Carrie always brushed off the offer. Jake suspected it had less to do with chivalry, and more to do with the anxiety attack he’d had the first time he’d attempted it, unthinking of how the shadowed streets, darkened windows and hidden alleys would affect him. He’d been foolish enough to believe that since he was out with a girlfriend, walking quiet suburban streets, it would keep the panic at bay.

Yeah, some catch he was…

He was fine during the day. When he could see clearly the secrets lurking in his surroundings, it rarely troubled him. When he could tell that the shadow one someone’s porch was just a chair or a pile of pumpkins, when he could see that the dark hollows of the windows around him held nothing more sinister than drapes and a potted plant.

In the dark…the dark was different. Without Carrie’s company, he felt more afraid on the empty street than he’d ever known.

And something was watching him.

A cold prickling tickled the nape of his neck, a tingle of sweat shivering down his back despite the chill of the evening. Not paranoia, not imagining snipers in high windows, not the sense of dread that used to have him turning around, camera braced, ready to capture some new atrocity.

The reality of it.

If he turned around, he’d come face to face with his watcher. He could all but feel their breathing, the gentle shushed displacement of air.

He smelled smoke. It had been a staple in the early days, but this wasn’t the same; this wasn’t the acrid, foul smelling stench of things he’d rather not know about burning to ashes. It was like wood smoke, a campfire crackling with cherry-wood, cigars and nutmeg, sweet and spicy in the cold fall night.

He’d smelled it somewhere before, if the anxiety that kept him rooted to the cold sidewalk would allow his mind to access it.

“Benjamin,” someone whispered, and Jake froze. “Ben.”

He shouldn’t have recognized the name, let alone reacted to it, but the two foreign syllables sent fingers of ice scraping down his spine.

Once, he might have turned to face things. He’d been a head-on kind of guy. Now, it took all the will he had just to stay upright as he stumbled back up the steps to the apartment building, pushing open the heavy security door and hearing the reassuring thunk of locks closing behind him.

If only that door kept the fear out, then everything would be perfect.

* * *

Outside the comforting dark of the drawing room, Benjamin looked different. Hardly disappointing, he could never be that, especially after all this time, but Samuel despised the terror shaking his frame.

Samuel spoke his name, but to no avail. It frightened his precious charge even more. Perhaps this odd landscape petrified Ben as much as it did him.

For a moment, he stared in bewilderment, trying to fathom when Ben had become so accustomed to the lavish lifestyle that he resided in such a large house. The odd patchwork of illuminated and darkened windows made him think it was perhaps a collection of flats instead; some of the London townhouses were being converted last time he recalled.

It came to him briefly that he recalled very little of the time in between. Short burst of light and activity when some poor unsuspecting wretch opened the casket doors, only to have it slam back shut.

Perhaps he’d never known as much as he thought.

Perhaps Ben still hadn’t forgiven him.

Yet it had been Ben’s image carouselling through his mind in the darkness, when he realized the tortuous paralysis that kept him prisoner all those years weakened enough to allow him to feel his fingers, his limbs. Moving was insufferably slow, like trudging through mud, extremities awakening with the tingled pain after a particularly acute attack of pins and needles.

When he opened his eyes, he still saw the darkened interior of the casket, but the dark moved, swirling and shifting like a monochromatic kaleidoscope.

Take me to him, he thought. nothing else matters, just take me to Ben.

Like the flicking pages of a picture book, the next recollection he had was of the dark haze around him dissipating, brushed away by the cool hand of an autumn breeze. He was on a street, and less than ten feet ahead of him stood his beloved Ben. Safe. Alive.

Afraid. Always afraid.

He’d never been under any illusions that Ben approved of his actions, but hoped that with time, as he grew better and stronger, Ben might at least understand.

Clarence came to the estate just as he’d promised. The late October evening had turned for the worse, a murky, misty night with clouds like flint. Rain lashed as Clarence’s car rattled onto the long driveway in front of the house.

“Foul evening, Samuel.” Clarence brushed rain off his sleeves, the short journey from vehicle to doorway drenching him thoroughly. Samuel’s staff hurried to take his coat and hat, bustling quietly and efficiently.

“This way,” Samuel said, not eager to engage in conversation about the weather, nerves taut and shivering, desperate and impatient to get it all done with. At the time, he foolishly believed Clarence felt the same, when the older man simply followed in silence, offering no argument.

Still, Samuel paused at the drawing room door, fingers grazing the handle in a near caress, breathing deeply before pushing the door open.

“Ben.” He stepped carefully into the room, moving as he’d seen his father’s stable hands move around frightened foals. “Ben, we have a visitor.”

The figure at the window didn’t budge, though Samuel hadn’t truly expected him to. He sighed softly regardless as he walked over to the wheelchair, kneeling next to Ben to check that the blanket was still tucked warmly around his knees.

Before he left, Ben’s beauty, passion and intelligence left Samuel breathless. The beauty remained, not so much as a visible scar to mar it, and Samuel convinced himself the intelligence and passion remained locked away behind those eyes, behind the terrors Ben must have witnessed.

Reaching out, he brushed a lock of golden hair from Ben’s empty blue eyes.

“Mr. Francis is here to help you.”

Not even a flicker. Behind him, Clarence seemed to grow impatient; Samuel swore he heard a cluck of disapproval as Clarence set a plain brown briefcase down on the table, like a good doctor.

“We should get started.”

Samuel nodded, wheeling Ben closer, noticing no change in his lover’s expression. He drew an upholstered wing chair to Ben’s side, sitting close and reaching for one of the hands Ben held limply in his lap. Clarence raised a brow, but said nothing. Samuel decided it was a scant price to pay that Clarence’s suspicions were confirmed.

“Perhaps you would rather wait outside,” Clarence said mildly, withdrawing candles, dark and thick as sapling trunks from the briefcase, setting them in an arrangement on the table. Vials came next, apothecary bottles filled with substances Samuel was at a loss to identify, uncertain whether he even wanted to.

“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t leave him alone.”

“As you wish.” A stringed charm followed. Samuel wondered if the briefcase was a living breathing imitation of the bottomless boxes used by magicians. “In fact, you can make yourself useful. Have him hold that, will you?” Clarence handed him the charm, glancing briefly—disdainfully—at Ben. “You’ll have more luck than me.”

Samuel glared—all he’d thought to do at the time, desperation driving him on—and snatched the charm. It was little more than a tangled twist of fraying twine, on which dangled smaller white objects that clattered together. Samuel grimaced, noticing they looked remarkably like teeth.

“Where did you get such a thing?”

“Hardly any of your concern, Samuel.” Clarence glanced up at him dispassionately, renewing Samuel’s image of the methodical doctor. “An acquaintance of mine found it in India some years ago, if you must know.”

Samuel could imagine Clarence’s acquaintances. Unfortunately.

Instead of thinking too hard upon it, he busied himself with the task at hand.

“Come on, Ben.” He coaxed gently, unfurling one of his lover’s unresponsive hands, squeezing softly before attempting to wrap the fingers around the twine. “Try, for us.”

Ben’s eyes slid slowly to his, though Samuel didn’t know what his lover saw—a frightened, cowardly man who was taking the easy way out rather than fighting the doctors and their judgments to ensure Ben proper treatment.

Proper treatment. Such a joke. Even those who gave credence to his condition were liable to pack him off to some institution, and that would be the end of them both.

A frightened, selfish coward, then.

Averting his eyes, he set his lips in a grim line, closing Ben’s fingers over the charm. “Trust me. Please…”

Clarence made another impatient noise, and Samuel reluctantly let go of Ben’s hand.

“You still have made no mention of payment,” Samuel murmured, watching Ben’s gaze drop to his lap. At least the charm seemed to demand what attention he had, like a child with a jangly toy.

“Did you not agree no price was too high?”

Samuel should have quibbled that assertion. “And I stand by my agreement. I only want to know what—“

“The talk of price is later.” Clarence dismissed him. “You seem very eager to pay the piper, Samuel.”

“I just want it done.”

“At any price?”

Later he would remember the tang of pleasure in Clarence’s voice, the lascivious, greedy look, as though he’d been invited to an unparalleled feast.

“Yes,” he said. “At any price.”

But what difference did it make now? Ben was still afraid, even if there was significantly more life in his eyes than Samuel remembered from the days after the war. Those blue eyes saw now, he knew. They witnessed, they appreciated. They lived.

He stepped up to the door of the building. Judging from the arrangement of oddly shaped doorbells, then it was a multi occupancy building, yet nothing like the ones Samuel remembered. Ben never afforded nor sought such luxuries, not that Samuel minded a jot bestowing such gifts and indulgences, even when Ben didn’t like to admit he enjoyed it. There was nothing wrong with the enjoyment of pleasure. Once upon a time they’d learnt that together.

There was no Benjamin Harvey on the list of names next to the doorbells. Samuel decided to press each one, and simply hope that Ben might answer to one of the foreign names.

When a disembodied voice emanated from the wall in front of him, it was all he could do not to leap out of his skin. As he stared around, seeking the source of the voice, the gravelly words formed themselves into a lady speaking. At least, he thought it was a lady; much as the voice crackled and hissed, he couldn’t be certain.

“Whadd’ya want?”

A lady couldn’t possibly mean him that much harm, could she? Still scanning the wall for some clue as to her whereabouts, Samuel shook his head. “Where are you, madam?”

Silence, then another of those odd crackles. “You sellin’ somethin’, huh? Well I ain’t buyin’! Get outta here!”

Samuel blinked, startled into stillness. “No, madam, I assure you, I’m only—“

“I said get out!” More crackling. “Damn kids…”

A loud click pre-empted her silence.

Still contemplating how her voice traveled that way, Samuel’s gaze rested on a small grated square next to the doorbells, similar to the grate of a confessional, and decided it must be a speaker of some kind. Albeit the crackling gave it away, the voice might as well have been standing next to him for its clarity and precision.

Despite everything, Samuel smiled to himself—this truly seemed to be such and advanced age. Mr. H. G. Wells himself could never have imagined such a vision of the future. Perhaps he and Ben could come to enjoy it together, he thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter that Ben was truly a child of this age now, and simple devices such as the speaker rendered Samuel awestruck.

He ran a finger down the list of names for a second attempt. The grooves and ridges under his fingers reminded him how long he’d been denied the simple pleasures of touch, of moving a hand and feeling the word as a tactile being. The slatted metal of the grate speaker was cool and sharp, and the molded material of the doorbells worn and smooth.

What would Ben feel like to touch in this age? Sinewy muscle and soft skin, hair like silk and lips like velvet. Would those things be the same?

Two of the names were undoubtedly female, and one merely listed a surname. Samuel referenced the latter for later, fingertips resting on the very last button—Jake Corbett.

This one.

He pressed the button. Somewhere in the distance he swore he heard the resonance of the sound, like the echo of a servant’s bell from several rooms away.

Eventually, the crackling came again, noise surrounding him like mist.

“Yes?”

One syllable, and Samuel’s heart leapt, pulse fluttering so hard in his throat that he wasn’t sure he could speak more than the requisite word.

“Ben?”

A loud clatter resounded around him this time, as if Ben—or Jake—had dropped something. Then, softer than summer drizzle, came a quavering, “Who are you?”

“Ben, it’s me. Samuel.”

Silence. Samuel closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the grate, desperate to be as close to the ghost of Ben’s voice as he could.

“I don’t know a Samuel. You’ve got the wrong person.”

Samuel squeezes his eyes tighter; the tremor in that voice was so surely Ben, even if the name, the tenor and the pitch were different. American, his brain, rusty from lack of use, supplied. Drawn out vowels and a questioning lilt to every word, as though the world itself surprised them, but they could hardly summon the energy to respond.

“Ben, please—“

“Don’t call me that. Go away.” It sounded far more a plea than the lady’s threat. “Or I’m calling the cops.”

The police? Samuel wasn’t certain at all how this society functioned, but he doubted it had changed that much. In any age, the police’s involvement was rarely good.

“But you are.” He rested his hands either side of the speaker, as if he could connect with Ben that way. “You wouldn’t have woken me otherwise.”

“When he forgives you, my boy,” he could still hear Clarence say, “when he forgives you your selfish sins, then you’ll have paid the price.”

“Please—“

“Go away.” The fear twined with a resolution, a defiant edge he’d loved so much. “Please, just go away.”

Hands curling into fists, Samuel forced himself to breathe, a concept still too long forgotten to be truly habitual.

Not again. He refused to believe his actions were frightening Ben yet again, despite the panic decorating his beloved’s voice like froth edging a rough tide. Samuel barely recalled the panic—Ben had lapsed so quickly into apathy, that stage lasted all of a few weeks.

“Wait, I’m—“

The clicking sound that he came to understand signified the end of the conversation, like the click of telephone exchanges, echoed dully in his head and around the small hallway in which he stood.

Samuel leaned heavily against the speaker, let out a long, shaky breath. Somewhere in this building, Ben might very well be doing the same thing. He traced the grate of the speaker, wishing he could just melt into it, let the wires carry him to Ben, but whatever lingering magic had brought him here refused to help.

He glanced at the name again. Jake. His Ben. Whatever the other man believed, Samuel would have to prove to him that this was real.

Sighing, he levered himself away from the wall, brushing one finger against the nameplate again in the vain hope that Ben would feel the reassurance somehow. In the meantime, he had to find a way to get by in a world he didn’t recognize.

Stepping out of the narrow hallway—claustrophobic by anyone else’s standards, but to Samuel it felt like a ballroom—he looked up at the windows, some dark, some lit.

“Good night, Ben.”

* * *

Jake dreamed of dark drawing rooms, flickering candlelight, and something rough binding his hands. Much as he tried to free himself, his hands refused to co-operate, barely moving to his commands. On the periphery of his awareness, he could hear a rhythmic rattle, and an equally sonorous muttering, almost a chant.

“Come on, Ben,” someone said, yearning and soft. “Try. For us. Please, trust me.”

He woke up late, disorientated, and with a headache that could trigger earthquakes, but he knew exactly where he was going.

On the way to the mall, he called into work, claiming he was spending the day out of the office on a location scouting mission for one of the magazine’s next photo shoot. If anyone asked, the mall seemed like the perfect place to set up a winter themed shoot—commercial consumerism meets Santa’s elves.

This early on a weekday with no kids around, the Halloween store was unnervingly quiet. The toys and machines made more noise, less frightening for the whirrs and clicks of motors that betrayed what they really were.

It wasn’t the kid who greeted him next to the animatronic displays this time, but an older guy, face pinched by narrow wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked a little like a shortsighted ferret.

“Uh…” Jake frowned at the empty space where the coffin had been. “What happened to the decoration that was here yesterday?”

The ferret man made a face. “It’s gone.”

“Oh.”

He ignored the flare of disappointment. Of course the thing would’ve sold, it was a gorgeous piece of artisan craftsmanship besides being a Halloween decoration. Someone was sure to snap it up, he’d been foolish to leave without the damn thing. Maybe that’s why he was going crazy—a Halloween toy was haunting him.

“Do you happen to know who bought it?”

“What?” The man glared at him. “No-one bought it, it’s gone.”

Jake paused. “Gone?”

“The hell are you, kid, some kinda mime? Yeah, gone. We got in this morning and the goddamn thing’s just gone.”

“But it can’t just—“

“Can, and did,” the man said. “Shoulda known better when it just appeared outta nowhere. Fricking messed up, I’m telling you.”

Jake watched him walk away, before looking back at the empty space, fighting the urge to shiver.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m starting to think you’re right.”

Old Ghosts -- Part One -- A free Halloween story

2008-10-29T07:23:00.003Z

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part One

In the far corner of a cold, dark room, guarded by an army of cloven gargoyles and zombie babies, the plain nondescript box leaned against a dank wall. Draped in dust and gently swaying cobwebs, it towered above the minions that surrounded and protected it, and bore no identifying mark as clue to what lay inside. To its left, a half decayed body swung from its bloodied hook, to its right, a mountain of worn and tarnished skulls.

“The hell is that thing?”

“Dunno, man. It just…appeared.”

“Appeared?”

“Yeah. Pretty frickin’ spooky, huh?”

The two men picked their way through red-eyed pot-bellied rats that squeaked when trodden on, dismembered limbs that oozed blood from jagged tears, and wicked temptresses draped in old torn lace to reach the box.

“To hell with spooky,” one of the men grumbled, “more like the shit-for-brains delivery guy forgot to put it on the invoice.”

His friend picked up a box of false vampire fangs, moving it out of the way. “Yeah, I guess. What’d we order that they’d just send us one’a them, though?”

“Who knows. Let’s just get it out front, anyway. If it’s this big then it’s probably gonna be goddamn expensive, too. C’mon, Gerry, help me with this.”

With some difficulty, they managed to insinuate a loading trolley between the wall and the leaning box. Getting it loaded onto the trolley, however, was an entirely different matter.

“The hell…?”

“Damn it, Mitch, this frickin’ thing weighs a ton.” With some effort, wheezing and cursing, they managed to tip it enough to land on the trolley with a thud, almost sending the small metal helper skidding back across the storeroom floor.

“Careful.” Mitch warned. “Bet it’s got some pretty fancy bells and whistles in there, I don’t want it coming outta my wages.”

At least the storeroom was on the same level as the main shop floor; lugging the box up and down stairs would’ve been nigh on impossible.

“What’s that?” The store manager stared at them as they wheeled it in, heading for the area at the back of the store reserved for all the animatronic Halloween decorations. “That wasn’t on the invoice.”

“We figure they musta screwed up somewhere.”

The manager rolled his eyes. “Sounds about right.” He approached the trolley, box-cutter in hand. “Well, let’s get it out there anyway, if we’re lucky they won’t notice the mistake and we can bankroll the profit.”

He stalled when it became obvious that the box had no taped up seams. The surface – brown cardboard to all intents and purposes, like everything else – had no opening bisecting any of the longer surfaces, and on the trolley it stood a good foot taller than any of the staff.

“Get it down from there, I don’t want it falling on me.”

”Whatever you say, boss.”

Around the room, mechanical growls and groans whimpered from rubberized skulls and severed heads. Lights blinked and flickered, and the fake cobwebs swayed in the air-conditioned breeze.

The box hit the ground with a rattling thunk that temporarily drowned out all the other noise. The men looked at each other.

“Well,” the manager said after a while, “if it’s broken we can tell ‘em it arrived that way.”

There was no seam to tear open on either end either. In the end the box cutter had to create one, a neat snicked line in the cardboard that ran the length of the six-foot-something box.

“Help me get this stuff off.”

They peeled back the cardboard, tearing it around oddly fitting corners when there was no other option.

Finally, the packaging lay strewn around a life-sized, ornately inlaid ebony coffin.

The manager whistled lowly. “We got a price for this thing?”

“Ain’t your regular high school haunted house piece,” Mitch peered close, “that’s for sure.”

“What’s inside?”

“Does it even open?” Mitch knelt at the side of the coffin, running a hand along the gap between the top and bottom lids. “No buttons or controls either, they’re probably inside.”

“Where does it plug in?”

Mitch paused, then shrugged. “Must be battery operated or something.”

The manager sent him a look. “In case you didn’t notice, this ain’t your ex-wife’s vibrator, Mitch. You think something this big runs on a couple D batteries?”

Mitch glared. “Solar powered or something then, how the fuck should I know?”

“A solar powered Halloween decoration?”

“Hey, you know what those frickin’ environmentalists are like these days. You can’t take a shit unless it’s recyclable.”

The manager grimaced at the image, flipping open the latch on the top half of the lid, drawing it back.

“Holy--!” Mitch jerked back. “Okay, that’s fuckin’ freaky…”

Lying inside the coffin, on suitably deep red satin, was the waxiest, tamest looking vampire dummy the Halloween store ever had the ignominy of selling. From the over-done pallor to the shadowed, sunken eyes and thin grimacing lips, the dummy exuded a creepiness all it’s fake-ass own.

“Pfft. It doesn’t even look—“

The sunken eyes snapped open, the pupils beyond a glowing, fierce red. The waxy skin began to gleam like the outside of a frosted candle-holder, the flame within bright and flickering.

“The hell…did you press something?”

“No!”

The thin lips drew up in a snarl, revealing fangs as white and sharp as winter frost.

“Heh.” Mitch grinned. “You pissed him off.”

“Huh. Must be activated by the door.” The manager opened and closed it a few times, each time gleaning the same animated response. “Kinda neat, except we’ll have all the damn kids breaking the door off trying to make it work.”

“Wanna put it behind the counter, then?”

“Fuck, no, damn thing creeps me out. Leave it here with the others, there’s always someone watching that area so the kids don’t break the merchandise.”

“Yes, boss.”

* * *

Jake batted a dangling furry spider–lopsided, with one of its eight legs shorter than the rest–away from his face, and grimaced.

“I hate Halloween.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Carrie clutched his arm. “How can you hate Halloween? It’s the one day of the year when you can be as outrageous as you like and no-one can say anything about it.”

Jake stopped, brow raised. “Uh, you think that sways me?”

”Spoilsport.”

“I prefer to call it anti-commercialism.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said about Christmas too, but I don’t see you running off to the store to return any presents.”

“That’s different. That’s useful stuff. This…” He waved a hand disdainfully around the shop. “Is spending too much money on one lousy day.”

“Whatever. Either way,” she sidled up to him, hands clasping his arm tighter. “You have to help me pick out a sexy costume.”

Truth be told, he had no interest either way, but on autopilot he said, “You’d look sexy whatever you wore.”

Carrie smacked his arm playfully, and Jake thought that if she kept up her compulsion to whack his limbs every time he spoke, he’d wind up bruised and looking a little like some of the vulcanized rubber dummies in the Halloween store. “And don’t think sweet-talk is getting you out of it either.”

“Yeah, well, make it fast yeah? This place closes in an hour and I don’t wanna be stuck here all night.” He flinched as a ghoulish head popped up from a cauldron bubbling with dry ice and flashing lights.

“Big baby.” Carrie teased. “Too scared to come in here with all the ghosties and creepies, huh?”

Frankly, being there with her was scarier than any of it. “Shut up,” he glared, pulling free of her arm so she wouldn’t feel any more tell-tale flinches. “Just hurry up and go choose something, will you?”

She huffed. “Fine. You know you could have just stayed home if you were only coming to mope around and complain like a teenage boy.”

She disappeared into the rack of bagged costumes and plastic accessories before he had a chance to rebut the remark, but his defense was lukewarm anyway; he should have stayed home. He should have chosen today as the day he finally accepted they were done. When she’d called him at work earlier on that day, the right response to “Wanna go to the mall tonight to check out Halloween costumes?” was “We’re through”, not “Sure”.

“What about this?” Carrie turned, brandishing a full-length vampiress costume that, as far as Jake could tell, was a bodice attached to some lace and little else. Soul-sucking and seductive, he supposed that was about right.

“Why not just a nightgown and two gallons of pigs’ blood?”

Carrie stared at him, and wrinkled her nose. “Ew, why would I want to do that?”

“Never mind.” Jake waved off the attempted joke. Best to walk away now while she’d partly forgiven him. He ignored the awareness that he didn’t much care whether she forgave him or not. “I’ll be over here looking at the decorations,” he said, moving out of earshot before she could call him back.

The fact that she hadn’t gotten the joke just went to show how little they had in common. The only movie Carrie had managed to divert her skittish attention span to in the last year was `Sex and the City`, and only then because “Oh look, Jake, she has the same name as me, isn’t that awesome!?”. The irony didn’t escape him. A couple of good dates and some mediocre sex really wasn’t enough to sustain anything.

The decorations barely held his interest. There was something reassuringly fake about demons and monsters that still bore their mold lines and rubberized joints. Okay, so maybe the groaning harpy dragging herself across the floor like a reject from a Japanese horror movie made him flinch, but the `made in China` stamp on the back of her neck quashed any real unease. Like celluloid scares, they’d fade from his awareness the moment he stepped out of the store.

Judging by how long Carrie took to choose regular clothes, Jake didn’t think that’d be any time soon.

He picked his way through the displays, the standard cast list of any Halloween store worth its scary salt: the mummy, the zombie, the werewolf, the headless corpse, the vampire bride, the skin-melted mutant crawling out of a canvas tube painted to look like a barrel of acid.

Jake grimaced, shaking his head. It was beyond him why people found gory joy in these things. He’d left behind a life where the realities he’d witnessed on a daily basis numbed him to the gleeful scares of holidays like this. After all he’d seen, holidays glorifying pain and suffering didn’t float his boat.

Between the fire door and a model of Frankenstein whose neck bolts lit up when he spoke, the black inlaid coffin seemed remarkably tasteful. He wondered briefly whether the casket was real; it certainly appeared different to all the other garish displays. Its subtlety made it more unsettling, nothing about it looked fake even though he knew it had to be.

“Hey.” He caught the attention of one of the store’s staff. “What’s this one supposed to do?”

The kid stared vapidly at him, then at the coffin. “You’ve gotta open the door. But we don’t let people do it on account of them breaking stuff.”

Jake blinked. “So how do people know what it does?”

The kid shrugged. “Dunno. Sorry.”

Watching the kid walk off, Jake began to wonder if he was the only sane one left on the planet. Or at least in the Halloween store. Shaking his head, he turned back to the casket, its black wooden frame glinting softly in the shop’s bright light.

“Maybe it’s just us, buddy.”

And now he was talking to inanimate Halloween decorations. Wonderful. Better rethink that sanity thing, even if his shrink had given him the all-clear.

Still. The kid was nowhere in sight, and there wasn’t a sign on the coffin door warning potential purchasers from testing out the merchandise. Jake wondered what Carrie would say if he went home with this thing. She’d probably wrinkle her pretty little nose again and say, “Ew!”.

Good. No better reason to buy the damn thing. It might keep her out of his hair for a while. That and the cold alluring beauty of the piece, looking more like a display of craftsmanship than a novelty toy. Without thinking, he ran a hand over the ebony inlay work, slivers of white that could have been marble recessed into the wood just deeply enough to feel the faint edge of a groove. If he closed his eyes he could imagine an Edwardian drawing room, dark and smoky, with—

The coffin door slid open under his fingers, even though he couldn’t recall pressing anything to make it do so.

Jake stared at the impossibly life-like dummy inside the coffin, almost smelling the tobacco of that drawing room, the must of old letters and books, the tang of a rich wine.

The dummy’s eyes snapped open, flaring red. Jake felt the panic escalating, like a high striker at a carnival, where a strong swing of a mallet sent the puck racing up the tower towards the bell. He thought he heard the bell clanging in the back of his mind, saw the scatter-fire of flashing lights, like neon fireflies.

The bell was just the sound of a container full of Viking hemlets and spears toppling over as Jake backed into it.

The kid dashed back, a frantic look on his pimply face. “What happened?”

“Ah, sorry…” Jake rubbed a hand to the back of his neck, trying for that winsome idiot look that had often saved his neck when he’d wandered into places he shouldn’t. Better they think you were just stupid. “I tripped.”

The kid eyed him suspiciously. “Are you hurt? Cause, you know, we don’t accept any liability for any injuries caused by the merchandise or—“

“No, I’m fine.” Jake held up a hand to ward off the spiel. “Sorry for the mess.”

The kid just grumbled a reply, setting to work righting the display bin, while Jake cast a fleeing look back at the coffin. The casket lid had closed again. Jake didn’t recall doing that either. It was on some mechanism, he supposed, a timer or something.

“Where did you run off to?” Carrie appeared at the end of the aisle clutching something violently purple in a bag.

“Oh. Just around here. So, did you pick something?”

“Yeah.” Carrie lifted the bag with a giggle. “It’s a purple pixie, and it’s—“

“Great. It’ll look fabulous.” One hand at the small of her back, Jake steered her towards the cash register. “Let’s pay for it so we can get out of here. Get back to my place,” he amended quickly, “to try it on, yeah?”

He caught Carrie’s frown in his peripheral vision, felt the tension in her arm as he reached for it. Was that what she felt every time she touched him?

“What’s the hurry?”

“Nothing! Just, you know…I want to see you in it.” Desperate times called for desperate measures. “And out of it.”

Carrie giggled like a schoolgirl. “Jake, you’re a bad bad man.”

Yeah, whatever. Jake gratefully herded her towards the pouting goth salesgirl at the register, tugging out his wallet with his free hand. Anything was better than staying in the store a moment longer.

* * *

Benjamin..!. It had been Benjamin staring at him in abject terror.

After everything, after all the sacrifices, that expression still haunted him, still had the capacity to wound deeper than bombs or bullets.

Ever since he came home, Ben was always afraid, and on days when fear was the only emotion Samuel could wring out of him, he was grateful for any kind of response at all. Better fear than nothing, and Ben so frequently descended into nothing in those final weeks and days.

Samuel managed as best he could. Circumstances allowed him to keep busy; in the years immediately after the war, people seemed more desperate than ever to seek his kind out, indulge in the hedonistic pleasures of vibrant theatres and smoky night-clubs. He always assumed it their affirmation, reassurances to themselves and the world at large that they were still alive, that they had survived.

Every evening they came to the clubs in droves, clamoring to see the magical and daring acts performed by The Amazing Levanto, or in Samuel’s case, The Great Count Mirza. He’d considered, briefly, changing the act to something less peculiarly foreign, but no one seemed to care. The war was over, and they were all content in their newfound calm.

“How is your dear friend, these days?” The Amazing Levanto, also known as Clarence Francis, asked one autumn evening, whiling away a cigarette in the dark backrooms of the club in between performances. Their rivalry, a concoction to bring in more marks, had never been more than that. Not to Samuel. Clarence was a comrade, a mentor. While Clarence didn’t know the true nature of Samuel and Ben’s friendship—no one did—Samuel suspected he had his doubts. One didn’t place such emphasis on `friend` otherwise.

He continued polishing the custom made ebony casket, a staple figure in the finale of his act, and kept his tone mild.

“Well, thank you.”

“Still the same, then.” Clarence lit up a cigar that must have mysteriously bypassed the rationing through the black market. “You know my offer still stands.”

“No.” Samuel shook his head. “Grateful as I am that you’d trouble yourself to—“

“Hardly any trouble, lad.” Clarence shrugged. “At least, not for me.” He sent Samuel a foxish sidelong smile. “We’re different, after all, you and I.”

Samuel nodded. He’d been aware of that for some time, although he suspected it took another magician in the profession to realize that some of The Amazing Levanto’s illusions were truly impossible. The audience and the evening papers all lapped it up. Yet he had no desire to taint Ben’s soul with the unknown consequences of Clarence’s…abilities.

Because there would be consequences, of that he was certain if nothing else.

“So, keep it in mind.” Clarence said, before levering himself away from the low doorway, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors. Literally, for all Samuel knew.

Either way, he had dismissed the notion. Irrespective of the cost to himself—Clarence was sure to extract a cost, too—Ben would never forgive him for bringing darkness into their lives.

Ben went off to war for all his right reasons, just as Samuel had stayed behind for his. Ben never judged Samuel for his actions, and Samuel never condemned Ben for his decision to fight. At least Samuel had the means to do so, to volunteer his services to King and country on the home front instead of the front line. It was those means that permitted him to care for his childhood friend at the Gilbert country estate, and Samuel’s appearances became few and far between as Ben deteriorated and Samuel grew loathe to leave his side.

Ben deteriorated every day.

“Wait.” He followed Clarence into the dark halls, nearly jumping out of his skin when the older man appeared from the shadows.

“Hmm?” Clarence said. “You’ve changed your mind.”

It certainly seemed as though Clarence had been waiting for him to do just that.

“Are you certain you can do something for him?”

“For him, absolutely.”

“Then this weekend. The house in Berkshire.”

Clarence nodded. “It’s a new moon. That should do nicely.”

“And your price?”

Clarence smiled, teeth showing in the dark. “Surely there is no price on your beloved’s well-being, is there Samuel?”

Samuel imagined Ben, sitting at the drawing room window, staring out wide-eyed at nothing. Nothing tangible. Nothing that existed outside his memories.

He grit his teeth. “No, there isn’t.”

But Clarence extracted one regardless.

Despite it all, Samuel knew he’d meet Ben again. That if he waited, as long as it took, the benevolence of his intentions would see them through. Despite the faith that had served as a good distraction during the war, Samuel had no doubt, God or none, Ben would return to him one day.

He lost track of the days, the years, but that mattered little now.

Benjamin.

Ben was clothed in the odd garb that everyone he’d seen since the box was opened—colorful but plain, almost a reminder of wartime austerity. Nothing like the clothes he recalled from his last moments of freedom: the silk hats, the spangled dresses, the feathers and the jewels.

He tried to move, tried to speak, as he’d attempted to do with the others, to no avail. Words refused to escape his lips, his gaze refused to move from Benjamin’s terrified stare. If he managed to speak, it must have been a horrifying sound for his precious Ben to stumble back, knocking over a stack of remarkably lightweight weapons.

Weapons? Did Ben ever relinquish his desire to fight?

Before he could think on it further, the doors that kept him in this prison of his own making closed once more, locking him back into eternally conscious darkness.

Yet it wasn’t the same.

Somewhere outside, Benjamin lived, thrived. His Ben. If he concentrated, he could still hear him outside the coffin. Surely Ben still remembered it, still knew its significance?

The silence closed in and claimed him once more, yet the thought of Ben remained.

The time had come for The Great Count Mirza’s finale.

"Best Laid Plans" reviews

2008-09-16T20:38:00.002+01:00

Reviews of "Best Laid Plans" have begun coming in, here's a few links!

http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2008/09/best-laid-plans.html

http://rainbow-reviews.com/?p=566

http://www.mrsgiggles.com/ebooks/kane_plans.html

Win a Kindle Ereader loaded with great fiction!

2008-09-01T19:23:00.001+01:00

It's Torquere Press' fifth anniversary, and we've gotten together to offer our readers a great prize! Find the Scavenger Hunt button somewhere on my website -- here -- collect buttons from the other participating authors, and you could win a Kindle E-book reader loaded with Torquere Press books!

The contest runs for the whole of September, and full details and info can be found here

Good Luck!!

Best Laid Plans, Out Now from Liquid Silver Books!

2008-08-18T23:14:00.002+01:00

The inspiration for Best Laid Plans came from flicking through the plethora of `real life` documentary channels. I'll confess that one of my guilty pleasures is the suspense of watching people salvage something decent from the jaws of disaster, and when one documentary featured a mediaeval-themed wedding, complete with falconry displays, I remember thinking: "Imagine the mess if someone decided it'd be a good idea to release doves at a wedding while a falcon was loose…"

That wedding went off without a hitch, but the germ of the scene remained. And so, Eliott, my well-meaning but chronically luckless wedding co-ordinator was born. Of course, I love my happy endings--at least, once I've tormented my characters enough--so Eliott needed his own Prince Charming. Dylan, however, has secrets of his own…

Well, who said any of this was easy?!

Here's an excerpt!

At least Dylan finally seemed to be taking an interest in proceedings, though Eliott wished fervently that his client’s enthusiasm was for some other reason. Suit fabric. Gaudy ties. Extortionately expensive cufflinks. Anything but the pretty young man kneeling at his feet, face far too close to Dylan’s crotch for Eliott’s liking, and doing things with a tape measure that Eliott couldn’t watch for fear of whimpering.

It was ridiculous. He was sneaking around with a nearly married man; he had no right to feel jealous of some kid.

He was making Veronica feel this way. Regardless of what anyone said, Eliott failed to see how he couldn't be causing this same kind of pain. While she didn't need to sit here and watch someone else paw her man, the awareness that it was going on couldn't be any kinder.

Still, she wasn’t the one watching this, and for that small mercy she should be grateful. As for himself, Eliott figured he’d seen enough when he caught himself staring at the outline of Dylan’s cock through his shorts, monitoring it for the slightest twitch at Henry’s attentions.

Dylan eventually followed him to the dressing rooms, still dressed in the T-shirt and underwear, jeans slung over his arm, as if wandering half naked around a store was a common occurrence.

"You didn’t tell me he was part of the service."

Eliott didn’t reply, just browsed a little more viciously through the assorted garments on the rack, making the coat hangers scrape and whine against the pole. If Dylan wanted to call him on it–if he even noticed–the tailor rescued Eliott from the awkwardness, bustling in with another armful of clothes.

"These will be more in your client’s size." He added them to the rack. "Anything else, just give Henry or myself a call."

Eliott grit his teeth while, in his peripheral vision, Dylan smiled.

"Thank you, we’ll certainly do that."

If Dylan dared call Henry into the maelstrom of tension that used to be the tailor’s dressing room, Eliott thought he might scream. And he didn’t do screaming, he much preferred rational, polite conversation. Dylan just brought out the screaming tendencies in him.

"Then I'll leave you to it." The tailor smiled, leaving the dressing room, even as Eliott tried in vain to think of another reason to make him stay.

He watched the door forlornly, before turning back.

Dylan tugged off his shirt, the action leaving his hair mussed, and even before he looked up, dark eyes locked on his, Eliott's mouth had gone sandpaper dry.

"I get this odd feeling you don't want to be alone with me." A smile tugged at the corners of Dylan's lips. With his head lowered, dark bangs obscured his eyes, but Eliott could imagine the amused glint sparkling in them.

"Why would you think that?" He strode over to the clothes rack, picking out anything at random. "Why don't you try this first? It's a very popular style right now, and the color would suit you."

Arms wound around his waist, Dylan's bare chest warm against him as he pulled Eliott back. Lips nuzzled the back of his neck, the contact searing through Eliott like a lightning bolt. Dylan smiled.

"You're still prettier than Henry."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't meant to be."

In his defence, Dylan wasn’t smiling anymore, but the predatory hungry look that had replaced it didn’t make Eliott feel any safer. Needy, hot, flustered, yes, but not safe. He decided Dylan was smug enough with himself right now, he didn't need to know how that reassurance had soothed Eliott's frayed nerves like a security blanket.

He wanted to be everything. Not just prettier, but more important than anyone or anything. Selfish and foolish, and while Dylan didn't know, it was tolerable.

Dylan’s kisses were like a drug, addictive from the first taste and with each one Eliott needed a little bit more to get the same effect.

He yanked the cubicle curtain closed as Dylan dragged him inside, as if it'd really help when the tailor or one of the apprentices came in. Eliott never knew them to do that, not when he was attending to a client, but this wasn't the usual sort of attending.

"Want you." Dylan dragged a lick along his lower lip, kissed him hard. "Don't want anyone else's hands on me."

Eliott nodded his head, wordless agreement that neither did he, hands sliding up Dylan's chest, tracing the lines of his collarbones, his shoulders, drinking him in through touch, knowing it would never be enough but content to tease himself. Lifetimes with Dylan wouldn't be enough, let alone ten minutes in a dressing room.

Mine, he thought against the kisses, I wish you were really mine.

Buy It Here!!

~ Cat Kane's Fiction ~
http://www.morethanfiction.com

Coming Soon from Liquid Silver Books!

2008-07-16T04:37:00.001+01:00

Best Laid Plans by Cat Kane

Sometimes, nothing goes according to plan...

Wedding co-ordinator Eliott doesn't think his nose-diving career can get much worse. After the wedding disaster of the decade, the last thing he needs is to get involved with his new client. Dylan's wedding is supposed to be Eliott's new start, his second chance, but not when it risks everything he's worked for, everything he thought was right.

Dylan never intended to fall for the wedding planner, and despite his `bride's` encouragement he can't bring himself to tell Eliott the truth behind their plans. If Eliott knew the real reason they'd approached him, everything would be ruined. But as time goes on and his feelings for Eliott deepen, how long can he keep pretending the wedding is nothing more than convenience?

Another Review!

2008-05-29T23:54:00.001+01:00

Literary Nymphs have a great review of "The Sun Child" here!!

They gave it 5 Nymphs, and said:

"Returning home from a hunting trip, Yaotl is informed that it is time to start his duties as guardian to the Sun Child, the human incarnation of the Sun God. When Yaotl is presented to him, the Sun Child requests that Yaotl refer to him as Eztli, his real name. Neither man can resist the attraction between them, nor does Yaotl believe that Eztli is truly the Sun Child. Eztli knows the truth; he is an orphan stolen from his village as a child, and raised by the priests to be a sacrifice. Yaoti is faced with losing the man he loves or exposing the deception.

The Sun Child: The Eight of Cups is a sensuous and brilliantly compelling story of how myths and rituals are performed as a scheme to take advantage of peoples ignorance. Ezytli has blond hair and green eyes, which is uncommon among the tribe. Cat Kane provides a marvelous example of how righteous illusions are used to pacify the people rather than explore new ways to support finding a resolution. This is an outstanding and very enjoyable read."

Reviews

2008-05-16T20:39:00.004+01:00

Collecting together a bunch of reviews into one post.

Sanctuary : Four of Swords (Torquere)
http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Sanctuaryfourofswords.html
http://cocktailreviews.wordpress.com/2007/04/20/sanctuary-torquere-press/

The Spirit Of Giving (Phaze)
http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Apr08/thespiritofgiving.CK.html
http://rainbow-reviews.com/?p=271
http://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/205393.html

Under This Cowboy's Hat (Torquere)
http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/May08/underthiscowboyshat.ANTHO.html

Shifting Back (Torquere)
http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2008/05/shifting-back.html
http://cocktailreviews.wordpress.com/2008/01/10/shifting-back-torquere-press/

"The Sun Child" is out from Torquere Press!!

2008-02-11T00:37:00.004Z

image

Years ago, Yaotl left his Aztec village to lead the life a soldier, but he has never forgotten a boy he met when he was a child, or the shell he gave his new friend to keep safe. When Yaotl returns to his village, much has changed, and he's in charge of keeping someone else safe, Eztli, the Sun God's vessel

Eztli is nothing like Yaotl's people. Blond and green eyed, strangely seductive, he calls to Yaotl, who does not believe that Eztli is meant to be a sacrifice. When the tribe begins to resent Yaotl questioning their beliefs, he knows he's on to something, Can he save Eztli and love him at the same time?

Buy "The Sun Child" here!!

Accountability

2008-01-22T03:18:00.000Z

Those four submissions for January alone? Done. Drove me to the brink of Batshit!Crazy, but done. Whether anything comes from any of it, we'll have to wait and see.

Poking around the net in between working out character names for a space opera/sci-fi thing, I stumbled on this writing challenge which, if I remember about it come February, I'm tempted to sign up for. But, instead of waiting till then, I thought I might as well go `public` with a few WIPs and see where the accountability of saying "this fic is at such-and-such a point, I want it *here* by whenever" gets me. Couple of these have been sitting around for a year, and one's been in the "needs editing" pile for...gah, years.

No titles because, well, most of them don't have one yet. Titles are not my friend...(neither, lately, is the zokutou word meter site, so no fancy wordcount meters for me).

RDG (aka The Paranormal Threesome Thing) -- 22k (needs to be 50k)

DS (No not *that* kind. (...Probably) aka The Sorta Angel/Demon Thing) -- 5k (needs to be 25k+)

BLP (aka The Wedding Planner Thing) -- 25k (needs to be 30k-ish)

OTP (aka The ABC Shifter Thing) -- 15k (needs to be 25k+)

SA (aka The "OMG Cat Writes Het!" Thing) 17k (needs to be 20-25k)

NG (aka The Butterflies Thing) 16k (needs to be 20k)

Oh, and that space opera/sci-fi thing? Zero-k. Needs to be 80k. Yeah. Go me.

Year End Round-Up

2007-12-30T20:23:00.000Z

I don't usually do these, but I figure it can't do any harm as far as writerly accountability goes. For many reasons, it felt as though 2007 was an unproductive year; it felt like one of those years where I wrote a lot but didn't seem to get very far. The upside of that is that I have several bits'n'pieces that just need a little polishing off now and they'll be ready to submit, so hopefully it'll balance out in the end.

2007 Word Count (excluding edits, college papers, grocery lists...) = 184,506. Not great considering it was at around 100K in April...

Submissions = 7 (lame...)

Sales = 4 (three of them going live in 2007, one in early 2008).

Rejections = 3

More `yes please` than `no thanks`, so I guess that's moderately successful considering the low submission rate on my part. Aiming for three/four subs in January alone this year (yikes!), so I'll be on course to beat this year's quota.

And, just for a giggle...

Aims for the upcoming year: At least double the submission rate; beat out the word count; update this damn thing more often ;)

The Spirit Of Giving Released!

2007-11-27T21:10:00.000Z

My Christmas-themed story `The Spirit of Giving` is out now from Phaze!!

Stolen Christmas gifts by an inept thief set in motion an unlikely relationship between two young men that blossoms into something more.

Check it out here!!

Shifting Back is out from Torquere Press!!

2007-10-31T20:14:00.000Z

Shifting Back edited by Rob Knight

Historical werewolves. Arthurian shapeshifters. That's what Shifting Back is all about. Compiling stories from the Wild West to the lush jungles of India, Shifting Back takes on the past, giving the good old days some animal magnetism.

Sean Michael's Law of the Jungle takes on a pirate and his unexpected gift. With Wings to Fly, by Kara Larson hearkens back to Arthurian legend, and to a shapeshifter with druidic heritage. Serpents, by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks explores the world of scaled djinns and great cobras, while Cat Kane looks at the more traditional werewolf in A Matter of Choice. Finally, BA Tortuga explores old west cat people in Snake Oil. From sea battles to gun fights, Shifting Back has the best of both historical romance and the world of the shapeshifter.

Get your paws on it today!

Reviews for "Hung Up"

2007-04-14T22:48:00.000+01:00

Billy is a rodeo rider going through a bit of bad luck. Spence is a rodeo vet trying to recover from a betrayal by someone he worshipped. The two men meet at a small country bar and Billy sets out to woo Spence. While Billy is wooing Spence, Billy’s sponsor suggests they bribe someone so Billy can get the best rides. Billy tells his sponsor to do what he wants as long as he leaves Billy out of it. It all blows up in Billy’s face and he risks losing all he loves, including Spence.

Cat Kane created a tender story in Hung Up. Billy is incredibly likeable even when he is breaking the rules. Spence is a wounded soul afraid to trust again. When Billy succeeds in seducing Spence the scene is very hot. I will admit to tearing up when Billy’s betrayal becomes known. Hung Up is a beautiful story.

Two Lips Reviews

"Hung Up" by Cat Kane was a powerful, intense and moving story about two delightful yet flawed characters who had secrets that tore their relationship up until they were able to work their ways (separately) around the issues. That story deserved a five stars plus rating and I wish Kane would turn it into a full length novel and develop the characters and their backgrounds more. This book is an excellent read both for the plot line and the erotic substance. Enjoy.

K.Peoples, Amazon.com

Sanctuary: The Four of Swords by Cat Kane

2007-04-14T22:44:00.000+01:00

Jay is on his way to a retreat, leaving LA and his Hollywood job behind to deal with his anger management issues. Popping an A-list star in the nose isn’t great for the career. He thinks he’s found the end of the earth, and Jay just knows he’s going to be bored to tears.

Then he meets Noah, the grandson of the retreat owner, and the slow life suddenly seems a heck of a lot more interesting. Noah may be young and optimistic, but he’s got a much better handle on life than Jay. Can he teach Jay about the things that are really important?

Find out today!

Site News!

2007-01-03T23:38:00.000Z

My website, Morethanfiction has been given a facelift for the new year!

Along with the new revamped look, there's a few updates, most noticably in the Links section, and some new fiction in Writings. Included is a FREE downloadable .PDF copy of my Torquere Press published short story, "A Place Like Home." Check it out under Sample Fiction in Writings!

2006-11-08T20:36:00.000Z

Under This Cowboy's Hat, edited by Rob Knight -- available in print and ebook

The cowboy is a larger than life figure, a legend of the American west. But he's also very much a part of modern life, whether he rides a horse or a pick-up truck, whether he works cattle or works the rodeo circuit.

Under this Cowboy's Hat is all about the cowboy, his life and loves, his work and his play. Each story takes a slice of a cowboy's life and serves it up hot, letting the reader in on a world most folks only dream about.

Masked Riders, by Parhelion, is set in 1860s California. Richne'er-do-well Jesse is sent to a relation's ranch to deal with a ghost rider who seems Hell bent on making trouble. When Wardley Bridger is sent along to keep Jesse out of trouble, sparks fly. On the trail or off, these two have to deal with their feelings for each other, and try to solve the mystery of the masked rider.

In Hung Up, by Cat Kane, rodeo cowboy Billy is looking for a little companionship. When he finds Spence, he thinks he might have just what he needs. But Spence has secrets he's not sure he wants to share, and Billy has something to hide as well. Can these two learn to trust?

Rounding out this trip of stories is Ricochet, by BA Tortuga. Holt is coming off a bad break-up. So bad that it's left him with holes that are physical as well as mental. His old friend Teague comes to help him find his way home, back to Texas, and the life he thought he'd lost forever. Can they stand strong against the ricochet of Holt's past?

Get Under this Cowboy's Hat today and see what makes the men tick!

"The big, bad world doesn't owe you a thing."

2006-08-30T15:08:00.000+01:00

Title courtesy of The Eagles, because their words on the subject of overwhelming entitlement I've come across in the past few weeks, are probably far more courteous than mine would ever be.

Anyone who just expects their work to be accepted in this industry are either several buckets of crazy, or submitting stuff to their best friend. And your `friends` can hold contests and ficathons open months past the deadlines that the rest of the plebs had to meet, your `friends` can ride your coat-tails to Kingdom Come and back, they can kiss your ass and lick the parts of you that you can't reach, but they aren't agents or publishers. They aren't people putting their own necks and their own money on the line to take a chance on your work because they see something in it, something special, independent of any ass-kissing, or head-count of lackeys.

Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of rejections and my share of private teeth-gnashing and sulking ~~and kicking the cat~~. Emphasis on private. To publically question the mental capacity and personal biases of editors or judges who dared reject the work you expected to be accepted, to disparage work that was accepted (work that, if you had been privvy to reading in the first place, had come from a place of trust -- really nice of you to treat that trust with the respect and courtesy it deserved, huh?) in your rightful place, is about as unprofessional and ungracious as it gets.

It's been shown time and again that a writer doesn't know when their work might bring them back into contact with an editor/publisher/whatever they've happily bitched about elsewhere. So why bother? Disappointment is one thing, immaturity is another thing altogether. If I was an editor who had to make a decision on your work in future, I would be swayed by that kind of behaviour and those kind of remarks, rightly or wrongly. In the end you're just shooting yourself in the foot.

2006-07-25T21:07:00.000+01:00

For a while now, I've been trying to figure out why I'm attracted to some, admittedly few, stories, while some just leave me cold from the first two sentences. I want to know what draws me, because I want to know what it is about my work that would draw others. "The Hook", "in medias res", it's all well and good theoretically, but what is it about that first line, first paragraph, first page that either drags me in or pushes me away?

Much of what I've come up with so far is pretty abstract: engagement, clarity, relevance, detail. I need to know who I'm supposed to care about. A lot of things that turn me off introduce fifty characters in one page, and that early in a story I'm not going to be prepared to pile through all the cookie-cutter characters to figure out whose story this really is. I need to know where, in the widest sense, we are. Generic locations and/or white rooms...no, just no. Give me something real, give me a taste of somewhere: a time, a place, a sound, a scent.

I need to believe, in the characters, the setting, the quirks and nuances, the detail. Paint me a picture, play me a soundtrack. Don't give me a series of incidents that happen too fast for the reader to absorb their relevance. Don't give me disposable plastic people. Please, please, don't give me plastic people...

Do I follow my own advice? Moderately...I'm trying, at least.

Anyway, this week saw me breaking a long reader-drought and buying a couple of books from two of the largest e-publishers, and it made me wonder why, what it was about these specific stories that made me part with cold hard cash. So before I read either of them any further than the exerpts on their respective sites, here's the first impression of both.

Story One is very much within my niche, my comfort zone (Gay vampires, oh my!) and that probably contributed. But what sets it apart from the whole slew of cliche that is the musty-stale gay vampire genre, why buy this one instead of any of the others? Well, for one the premise is different. Or as different as it's possible to achieve when everything's been done. Interesting elements, things that, from the summary at least, aren't the general staples of the genre. Story One is a little quirk in an old, comfy, familiar genre. Technically well-written, pacey, loaded with potential.

Story Two is about as far out of my niche as we're likely to get (Het bdsm. Yeah, I know. Don't look at me like that...!), and I only found it through a mediocre review on another blog (hey, the author's name was interesting!). Other reviews on amazon were much more positive, however, so I gave it a shot. And funnily enough, the common element to Story One was that it was different, it put a novel spin on a genre not quite as tired as gay vampires, but with the added hazard of "when it's good it's good, when it's bad it's funny in all the wrong ways". It stood out from the ever-expanding crowd.

Both stories did, and both stories were purchased more or less on that basis. I'm not saying this reasoning applies to everyone, most probably it only applies to the likes of me who're pretty damn tired of the same-old same-old, but I found it interesting nonetheless.

Making someone pause and think "hmm, that's an interesting take on it..." worked for me, anyway.

Are the stories any good? Dunno yet. Ask me when I've read 'em.

2006-07-21T07:11:00.000+01:00

Welcome to Cat Kane : v.Blog. We'll see if this gets updated any more frequently than the site or the livejournal.