CamCat Books - Fall 2023 Adult Sampler

THESE ARE UNCORRECTED PROOFS. PLEASE DO NOT QUOTE FOR PUBLICATION UNTIL YOU CHECK YOUR COPY AGAINST THE FINISHED BOOK.

Excerpt from The Darkness Surrounds Us © 2023 by Gail Lukasik / Thriller Excerpt from Ghost Tamer © 2023 by Meredith R. Lyons / Paranormal Excerpt from Phantom © 2023 by Helen Power / Thriller Excerpt from Girl Among Crows © 2023 by Brendon Vayo / Horror Excerpt from King Me © 2023 by J. A. Crawford / Mystery Excerpt from The Oxygen Farmer © 2023 by Colin Holmes / Science Fiction Excerpt from Lest She Forget © 2023 by Lisa Malice / Thriller

All rights reserved. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Distributed by Independent Publishers Group.

To order, visit: camcatbooks.com/Bookstore-and-Library-Orders.

INTRODUCTION. CamCat Publishing, LLC, opened for business in 2019. Our founder, Sue Arroyo, launched the company for the love of story, those tales that bewitch and dazzle you, grab hold of you and won’t let go. She calls them Books to Live In. ’Cause that’s what she did when growing up. She was a bookworm who lived and breathed stories the way her friends would live and breathe the cool kid on the block or the latest rock star.

To her, the characters in her books were the cool kids and rock stars. Who needs awkward teenage parties when you can live epic adventures, find romance, and save the day right there in your mind as you read that favorite book? You know, the one with the creased edges.

Sue is a self-proclaimed entrepreneur. CamCat Publishing is her seventh company. In early 2019, she sold her interest in her most successful business, Trident Technologies, and was able to turn her substantial business skills towards her life-long passion for books.

That’s not a surprise. Growing up, the books Sue read taught her that anything is possible. Anything. And precisely this belief motivated and sustained her as a female entrepreneur pushing that glass ceiling time and again. It was only a matter of time until she’d put her mind and heart and business acumen back to books.

Sue brings a fresh perspective to publishing, a strong desire to establish long-term relationships with both authors and readers, and a passion for a great story.

Therefore, CamCat Publishing is more than a publisher. CamCat Publishing is the sum of its readers and writers . . . and then some. We facilitate and engage in communication between readers and writers because that’s where the magic happens.

We involve our authors and readers every step of the way—in the process of choosing the books we publish, the formats in which we offer them, even the way we advertise and publicize them.

But in all this, there’s one thing we never forget. Yes, books are products to sell, but they are something else, too. They are the expression of an author’s creativity and the touchstone for a reader’s imagination. When the two meet, something extraordinary happens. We walk in other people’s shoes and see the world anew.

We appreciate your time and the opportunity to earn that spot on your shelf.

Fall 2023 SAMPLER •

ADULT TITLES •

“BOOKS TO LIVE IN” The Darkness Surrounds Us .......................................................1

by Gail Lukasik Ghost Tamer .............................................................................23

by Meredith R. Lyons Phantom ...................................................................................41

by Helen Power Girl Among Crows ....................................................................55

by Brendon Vayo King Me .....................................................................................73

by J. A. Crawford The Oxygen Farmer .................................................................87

by Colin Holmes Lest She Forget .........................................................................99

by Lisa Malice

A Ghostly Window Into the Past Nurse Nellie Lester can’t escape death. Fleeing Chicago at the height of the 1918 Spanish flu, she takes a nursing job at a decrepit mansion on a desolate Michigan island, convinced the island holds the secret to her mother’s murky past. The only problem? Her dead mother seems to have followed her there.

Nightly she’s haunted by a ghostly presence that appears in her bedroom. But is it her mother or something more sinister?

When the frozen body of the prior nurse is unearthed, Nellie suspects the nurse’s death and her family’s history are connected to a mysterious group that disappeared from the island twenty-four years earlier.

As winter closes in, past and present collide resurrecting a lurid killer, hell-bent on keeping the island’s secrets. Will Nellie uncover her mother’s shocking past before the killer enacts his final revenge?

“Atmospheric and poetic, this is a tale that will keep you turning the pages until you reach the final, startling revelation.”

—Raymond Benson, author of The Mad, Mad Murders of Marigold Way

Hardcover ISBN 9780744302899 | $27.99 | Releases 9/5/2023 The Darkness Surrounds Us is Gail Lukasik’s fifth mystery novel and her first Gothic mystery. Kirkus Reviews praised Gail’s mysteries as “riveting, fast-paced and loaded with suspense.” Gail’s memoir, White Like Her: My Family’s Story of Race and Racial Passing, captured national attention and led to her appearance on NBC’s The Today Show. The Washington Post named White Like Her one of the most inspiring stories of 2017. Once a member of the Cleveland Civic Ballet Company, she credits her aesthetic sensibility, her stage presence, and her writerly discipline to her training as a classical ballerina.

Gail Lukasik

Gail Lukasik

CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by Gail Lukasik All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover 9780744302899 Paperback 9780744305418 Large-Print Paperback 9780744305647 eBook 9780744305654 Audiobook 9780744305715 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Cover and book design by Olivia M. Hammerman (Indigo: Editing, Design, and More) 5

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To the healthcare workers and teachers who bravely stood on the front lines of the Covid-19 pandemic.

“Dead people always seem to get in the way of the living.”

Helen Sclair, Chicago’s “Cemetery Lady”

PROLOGUE 1918

W

e are running through the snow. The moon lost among the trees. Black and skeletal, their branches lash my face.

But it’s the dog I fear the most. His frantic howls coming closer and closer. My mother grips my small hand so tightly it hurts.

Her terror-filled voice keeps saying: “God will protect us.

God will protect us.”

I stumble and fall. The snow is cold and unforgiving.

When my mother reaches for me, her face is as rigid as stone.

It’s then I know she’s dead.

CHAPTER ONE November 30, 1918

O

n the night my mother died, she took her secrets with her.

That’s what I thought when I found the photograph and the gold pendant she’d hidden in her dresser drawer.

In the photograph, a couple stands side-by-side, stern and resolute. Behind them a small house, too many trees to count.

My mother wears a plain, checked dress, hair spun into a tight bun low on her neck, neat white bonnet on her head.

The pendant around her neck clashes with her severe clothes.

The man wears a white shirt, dark trousers, and looks a little like me—same pale skin and wide-set eyes. I hold his hand and rest my head against his arm. My loose frock looks too big on my small frame. I’m three, maybe four years old.

On the back of the photograph, written in an exuberant hand, are a time and a place, I don’t remember.

Harmony, Michigan 1894: Mary, John, and Anna.

Am I Mary or am I Anna? Neither name conjures a memory.

And who is this man I seem so close to? Surely not my father.

My mother had told me my father’s name was Paul Lester.

That he’d died in a factory accident in Chicago before I was

Gail Lukasik

born. There’d been no photographs of him—no likeness to compare myself to. No photographs of any family for that matter.

The man must be my mother’s second husband. That’s what I told myself. But my mother never spoke of a second husband.

I could fathom no reason for her secrecy. And I loved her too much to be angry. But I was sad and confused.

Adding to my confusion was one line, near the bottom of the photograph, so small it’s almost illegible.

Our last happy day together before they took John from us.

What happened to this man? And who were the “they” who took him from us?

For months after my mother’s death, those questions plagued me, as did the nightmare. Always the same: a cloudless, snowy night, my mother and me running through the woods, her frightened voice saying, “God will protect us.”

The nightmare so real, I was beginning to think it might be a memory.

Then the unexpected happened. When I saw the “Help Wanted” ad, I had to answer it. Was it fate?

The ad had been terse.

Needed: nurse and companion. Above going wage. Three months guaranteed. All travel expenses paid. Write to: Mr. William Thiery, Ravenwood Manor, New Harmony, Michigan.

New Harmony, not Harmony. But it was the same place.

I had to apply. It was as if my mother were speaking to me, telling me to go there and find out about her past.

William Thiery’s letter offering me the position had been as terse as his ad.

“Take the ferry boat from Charlevoix to New Harmony. Go to The Carp. It’s across from the boat dock. Matthew will fetch you,” he’d written in his precise hand. No last name. No description. Just Matthew.

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The sudden lurch of the ferry boat broke into my thoughts.

I picked up my pen, opened my journal, and began to write.

My name is Nellie Lester. I’m twenty-eight years old. I write this aboard the Mersey as it crosses the turbulent lake. It’s the 30th of November 1918. The Great War has ended, but the Spanish flu rages on. I’ve left everything behind—my nursing position on the contagion ward, the Taylor Street apartment where my mother died, and a failed love affair.

It’s been twenty-four years since the photograph was taken.

Someone on the island must remember my parents. My medical bag is my passport. I’ve come to deliver the Thiery’s baby. I’ve come to uncover my mother’s secrets.

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CHAPTER TWO

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don’t know if I believe in omens.

But I shuddered when I stepped off the boat and saw the pine coffin and the six men beside it, waiting in the freezing rain. The darkness of their clothes matched the darkness of my thoughts.

Even here I couldn’t escape death.

The men took no notice of me as I hurried past them, struggling with my suitcase and medical bag, my boots slipping on the icy dock. I was anxious to find The Carp and escape the sleet and the incessant banging of the fishing boats, which mirrored the thrumming of my heart.

When I reached the end of the dock, my shoulders slumped at the sight of the desolate and forlorn town. St. John’s was a scattering of decrepit buildings and houses along a muddy road, anchored by a white church, post office, general store, and The Carp, a moss-covered stone tavern, where I’d been instructed to go.

For a moment I faltered, looking back at the Mersey. The men were boarding the boat, balancing the coffin on their broad shoulders.

I could still change my mind, return to Chicago, and beg the contagion ward matron to give me my job back. After twenty-four

Gail Lukasik

years, did I really believe I could find out who the man in the photograph was and why my mother never spoke of him?

The low moan of the foghorn broke through my thoughts pulling me back to the ramshackle town. If there was even a chance, I had to try. There was nothing for me in Chicago except misery and loneliness.

* The Carp was a dingy, shadowy place that smelled of old fires and dampness. I sat at the table nearest the door, nursing a cup of coffee, anxious and worried. Matthew was over two hours late and the coffin bearers were drunk.

Loud and raucous, they huddled near the hearth. With each pitcher of beer, they toasted the dead man, Sam, a fellow logger.

Their glances had gone from furtive to leering.

They probably thought I was trade. A prostitute. Why else would a woman sit alone in a bar for hours unless she was selling her goods?

I was the only female in the establishment, except for the barkeeper, a tall sturdy woman as disheveled looking as the tavern, who only emerged from a back room when one of the men called for another pitcher of beer.

Where was Matthew? Had I mistaken the day? I pulled out Mr. Thiery’s letter. No, it said November 30. And there was only one ferry that ran from Charlevoix to New Harmony.

“Hey, Bernie, another round,” shouted the clean-shaven logger. The other loggers boasted thick mustaches or generous beards. One logger’s mustache was waxed and curled up at the ends.

The barkeeper emerged from the back room. Though plain faced like me, her luxurious brown hair glimmered in the shadowy tavern light, unlike my frizzy red mess.

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She plopped the pitcher on the table. The clean-shaven logger grabbed her around her waist and pulled her toward him.

“I’m having none of that, Abe.” She swatted him on the head with her dirty rag. He let go. “Now you louts keep it down.

There’s a lady present.” She jerked her head in my direction.

“More like trade,” Abe answered.

That set off a volley of bawdy laughter.

Heat flooded my face. I looked away, fidgeting with my spoon.

“Miss,” the barkeeper said, towering over me, holding the empty beer pitcher. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I don’t know what you’re about, but you’re upsetting the men. I don’t want any trouble.” She glanced back at the loggers. “They need to let off some steam. One of their friends died yesterday in a logging accident.”

The bitter taste of panic rose into my mouth. “I’m sorry about their friend. But I have nowhere else to go. Matthew was supposed to pick me up hours ago. I don’t know where he is.

He’s to take me to the Thiery house.” I was on the verge of tears.

“Ravenwood Manor? Why didn’t you say so?” Her whole demeanor changed from suspicious to friendly. “Let me get you a refill on that coffee?”

Before I could answer, she disappeared into the back room.

Suddenly, the room went quiet. I glanced at the drunken men.

They were staring at me, smirking. Then they ran their tongues around their lips.

I didn’t think my face could get any redder. Humiliated, I buried my face in my journal, blocking out their drunken laughter. I turned to the drawing of New Harmony that I’d copied from a map hanging on the ferry’s cabin wall.

Kidney shaped and amazingly small, I probably could walk from one end to the other in less than a day. Most of the island was forested. Ravenwood Manor overlooked Lake Michigan. St. John’s was nestled in a cove on Ascension Bay.

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Looking at the tiny island surrounded by nothing but water, a wave of claustrophobia washed over me.

The men seemed to have lost interest in me. I closed my journal, letting my thoughts tumble back to my mother.

What had brought her to this desolate island? Had she been so distraught by my father’s sudden death, she’d married the man in the photograph and started a new life here?

Whatever her reasons, she would have been thinking of me, wanting a better life for us. I picked up my pen and sketched her face—the dimpled cheeks, broad features, and thick curly hair so black it had a blue sheen.

“How about we go upstairs, honey?”

I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the clean-shaven logger standing by my table. His dark eyes traveled my body. I shut my journal and rested my hand on it protectively.

“Did you hear me? I’m inviting you to go upstairs with me for a bit of fun,” he said loudly, drawing hoots and snickers from the inebriated loggers.

“I’m sorry, but I’m expected at Ravenwood.” Why was I apologizing?

He stumbled back, his lascivious expression gone. For a moment he struggled for words. “I wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping at Ravenwood. Strange things go on up there.”

His sudden somberness sent a shiver up my spine. “What do you mean? What kind of strange things?”

“Well, for one thing—” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “For one thing, no one seems to stay long. If you catch my drift.”

“I don’t understand.” Was he implying no one wanted to work for the Thierys? Maybe Mr. Thiery’s curt, unwelcoming letter wasn’t a sign of a busy man but a sign of an unreasonable and difficult one.

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“Stop bothering the woman.” The barkeeper swatted him again with her dirty rag. In her other hand she held the white enamel coffeepot.

“Just making her acquaintance.” He shrugged.

“Get back to your friends and stop your nonsense.”

He slunk away, mumbling under his breath.

As the barkeeper refilled my chipped cup, she said, “Don’t pay any mind to Abe. When he gets drunk, he likes to stir the pot. Nothing strange going on at Ravenwood. It’s just old and creaky, like everything else on this island. I should know.”

She seemed so sincere; I wanted to believe her. “Have you lived here long?”

She took my question as an invitation, put the coffeepot on the splintery table, sat down, and rested her thick arms on the table.

“About twenty years or so. Up until last year my pa and I ran The Carp. Now it’s just me. He’s too infirm.”

Twenty years? She’d come to the island four years after the photograph had been taken. Still, she might know someone on the island who had been here when my mother and I lived here.

I ladled a heaping teaspoon of sugar into my coffee, stirred it slowly as I considered my next question. I didn’t want to appear nosy. But there was an openness about her that made me want to trust her.

“Someone told me the island used to be called Harmony. Do you know why the name was changed to New Harmony?

“That would be because of Henry Thiery, William Thiery’s uncle. He lived at Ravenwood when he wasn’t in Chicago. I’d tell you to ask him, but he died some years back.” She smiled, revealing two missing lower teeth.

I returned her smile. “Do you know who lived at Ravenwood before Henry Thiery?” I had to be careful. If William Thiery discovered my real reason for coming here, I could be dismissed.

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“Can’t say I do.” She looked away toward the men, as though one of them had called her. When she turned back, her soft brown eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

She picked at a splinter. Though chapped and red, her fingers were surprisingly small and delicate. “You should ask Doctor Proctor. He’s our island historian.”

“There’s a doctor on the island?” I blurted. If the island had a doctor, why did William Thiery hire me?

She laughed. “He’s not a real doctor, as such, more of a healer. He’s a newspaperman from Chicago. People go to him with their medical troubles.”

A newspaperman turned healer? I just prayed he wasn’t like the fake healers, who since the pandemic hawked bogus medicines and false hopes.

The barkeeper pressed the splinter back into place with her thumb. “Since we’re asking questions. What’s your business with the Thierys?”

Though I suspected she knew my business with the Thierys, I answered. I really liked the woman and wanted to ally her fears about me. And I could use a friend. “Mr. Thiery hired me to deliver Mrs. Thiery’s baby and care for her afterwards.”

She nodded her head. “That’s what I figured.”

I sensed she was going to say something else but then thought better of it.

“I’m Bernice.” She held out her delicate hand to me. “But everyone calls me Bernie.”

I shook her rough hand, felt the strength of her grip.

“Nellie Lester.”

“Nice meeting ya.” She stood, grabbed the coffeepot, and started to walk away, then turned back. “Just some advice. I’d be careful asking too many questions, Nellie. Most islanders aren’t as friendly as me.”

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The Darkness Surrounds Us

Though she’d delivered her warning kindly, her intention was clear. Outsiders should mind their own business. I felt hurt by her reprimand.

After she returned to the bar, I gazed out the window. The snow had stopped, but the wind was gusty.

I opened my journal and wrote: Doctor Proctor, Chicago newspaperman, not a real doctor. Then drew a question mark.

The loud crash of a chair hitting the stone floor startled me.

My hand jerked and ink streaked the paper.

Abe was rocking drunkenly on his feet as he jabbed his finger at the logger with the curled mustache sitting across from him.

“You’re a liar. A damn liar.”

The accused man put up his hands defensively. “I’m not saying it’s true. I’m only saying that’s what Peterman said. He swore he tightened those straps. He thinks someone messed with them.”

The man’s words enraged Abe even more. “Peterman is looking to put the blame on someone else. A good man is dead because of his carelessness. I’m telling you. He didn’t tighten those straps.”

The man next to Abe grabbed his arm. “Sit the hell down, will you? If anyone’s to blame, it’s Thiery; hiring men who know shit about logging and paying us dirt wages. You don’t need a crystal ball to see this place is almost logged out.”

Abe yanked his arm away. “Yeah, and you don’t need a crystal ball to see this place is cursed.”

He downed his beer, banged his glass so hard on the table that it shattered, sending shards everywhere. Then he stormed out of the tavern.

I watched him disappear into the dark wondering about the logger’s death. Was it due to carelessness, as Abe insisted? Or had someone messed with the straps? If so, why would someone purposely loosen the straps?

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Gail Lukasik

The overwhelming smell of whiskey and animal musk pulled me from my musings. I turned around. Looming over me was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders that strained against his black wool jacket. He had the same weathered face and calloused hands of the loggers. But unlike them, his hair was long and unkempt, as was his unruly black beard. His square jaw and crooked nose gave him a combative appearance. His eyes were so deep set, I couldn’t see their color. He’d be a hard man to read.

“You Nellie Lester?” he asked impatiently, as if he’d been waiting hours for me.

“Yes. You must be Matthew.” I stared at the dried blood on his hands.

“This your gear?” He gestured at my medical bag and suitcase, which rested on the muddy stone floor.

Before I could answer, he scooped up my bag and suitcase and limped toward the door.

I shoved my journal into my purse, fished out a penny and left it on the table.

The cold air was like a tonic after the tavern’s smothering miasma. I hurried toward the horse-drawn wagon.

Then I stopped. In the back of the wagon stood a cur, more wolf than dog. A low growl rumbled from the mammoth creature.

“What you waiting for?” he called, tossing my suitcase and medical bag in the back of the wagon. “He doesn’t bite.”

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More chilling tales from CamCat Books

Available now, wherever books are sold.

Death is one thing, it's what you do afterward that matters.

Aspiring-comedian Raely is the sole survivor of a disastrous train wreck. While faced with the intense grief of losing her best friend, she realizes that someone is following her—and has been following her all her life. Trouble is, no one else can see him. For a ghostly tag-along, Casper’s not so bad. He might even be the partner Raely needs to fight the evil spirit hell-bent on destroying her.

Raely and her friend must learn why this demonic spirit is haunting Raely and how she can stop him before he destroys her life—and her soul. Which, much to her chagrin, means she needs the help of a psychic (although she’s sure they are all charlatans) and must rid herself of the pesky ghost hunter who’s interested in exploiting her new abilities.

“Touching, relatable, and haunting—in the best sense of the word. Do not miss this.”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of The House Guest

Hardcover ISBN 9780744302790 | $27.99 | Releases 9/19/2023 Meredith grew up in New Orleans, collecting two degrees from Louisiana State University before running away to Chicago to be an actor. In between plays, she got her black belt and made martial arts and yoga her full-time day job. She fought in the Chicago Golden Gloves, ran the Chicago Marathon, and competed for team U.S.A. in the savate world championships in Paris. In spite of doing each of these things twice, she couldn’t stay warm and relocated to Nashville. She owns several swords, but lives a non-violent life, saving all swashbuckling for the page, knitting scarves, gardening, visiting coffee shops, and cuddling with her husband and two panther-sized cats. Ghost Tamer is her first novel.

GHOST TAMER

M E R E D I T H R. L Y O N S

GHOST TAMER

M E R E D I T H R. L Y O N S

GHOST TAMER

M E R E D I T H R. L Y O N S

CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by Meredith R. Lyons All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744302790 Paperback ISBN 9780744302813 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744302820 eBook ISBN 9780744302837 Audiobook ISBN 9780744302851 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

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ii For my Momza, who knew this day would come.

For Erin, for Jason, for Jake.

Each of you is remembered within these pages.

For all who have lost someone indelibly lodged in their soul. ii

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“it’s coming. let’s run.”

Joe and I sprinted through the thick snowflakes toward the El platform, pounding up the salt strewn stairs two at a time. Scanned our passes lickety-split and leapt onto the very first car just as the warning bell chimed and the doors glided shut.

“Winners.” Joe held his gloved hand up without turning around and I smacked my mittened palm against his for a muffled high five.

He pointed to the front of the car. “Hey, Raely, your favorite seats. Must be your lucky day, girl.”

“Excellent!” I clamped onto my friend’s shoulder and wove after him through the passengers as the elevated train bobbed and swayed.

It was a few hours after the rush, and the train was not uncomfortably packed. Joe and I lucked into those first two seats at the front behind the driver. I loved being able to see out to the tracks in front. Made it almost like a carnival ride. As soon as I was settled in my seat, leaning back against the side window, Joe launched into an

Meredith R. Lyons

impassioned critique of my stand-up set. We were both out of breath from our sprint. Still buzzing from the adrenaline of recent stage time.

“I mean, you have to feel good about that bit with the birthday cup,” he said. “That one is solid . . .” We had just finished five-minute solo sets at an early evening open mic. I liked the earlier ones, fewer people. Although Joe was trying to get me to commit to a ‘real’ one— 8 p.m. or later, true show time—sometime before spring.

Other passengers surrounding us in our little section of the train stood either reading or plugged into music or podcasts. Everyone created their own space. Joe’s ardent critique of my set didn’t register to the average commuter, although a few smiled to themselves, glancing over at him, perhaps catching some of his clever turns of phrase. Since he was in flow, he was still standing, gesticulating, while I gazed up at him.

I flung my legs across the seat he had not yet taken and studied him. He was one of those guys who would always be okay. He could easily transition from his office job to any bohemian shenanigans that he may get the urge to dabble in with a simple change of clothes and an alteration of mousse pattern. His set had been perfect. He’d nailed every bit. And for some reason, he always wanted me to do just as well.

“Okay, now you do mine,” he demanded, one gloved hand gripping the upright post as he swayed with the train, the fluorescent overhead lights gilding his dirty-blond hair, bleaching him into overexposure.

“What did you think? Where do I need to tighten it up? I thought the part about the reunion email was a little meh . . .”

“Joe, none of it was ‘meh.’” I’d spent much of his set resisting the urge to tell the people next to me, That’s my best friend up there. “I think you should just go for the whole ten minutes next time. It was spot-on. The audience was with you the entire time. I think they were disappointed when you were done, honestly.”

“I still think if we got into Second City, it would take our skills to the next level.” He scooted a little closer as the train made another stop, N2N

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but only a few people pushed through the doors before they slid shut again. “Improv is an essential skill.”

“Oh, for sure,” I said. “I just don’t know that I’m—” “Stop saying you don’t think you’re ready, you never think you’re ready for anything. You just need to do.” He leaned toward me, grinning and pointing. The train jostled, but he swayed with it. I couldn’t help but smile back. City lights flashed by in the windows behind him as we sped through the Chicago Loop, leaving the near south side. The tiny squares of high-rise windows carved bright, symmetrical specks into the dark winter sky.

It had finally stopped snowing. I peeked out the front window. The train gobbled up the line of track before us ever more quickly as it picked up speed.

“So,” I nudged his leg with my boot. “We’re done with our sets, no more secrets. What’s the big, exciting thing you’re doing this weekend that trumps game night? I was ready to clean up at Telestrations.”

Joe’s smile broadened. He smacked my boots, pushing them to the floor, and took the seat, leaning toward me. “I’m proposing to Mia.” I straighten away from the window. “Shut. UP!” He grinned and grasped a finger of his glove, wiggling his hand free and reaching for an inside coat pocket. “Wanna see it?”

“Yes, I wanna see it! Oh my God! Joe!” I scooted closer, a silly grin spilling over my face, and extended my palm. I loved Mia. And I loved who Joe was with Mia. Joe grinned back at me and unfastened the first two buttons of his coat to access the pocket.

The full moon gilded the metal of the tracks ahead of us as the train whipped toward the river, to the turn just ahead. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Joe,” I said, catching his eye. “The train is going too fast.”

We turned away from each other, gazes locked on the front window. The curve was looming. Shiny, bright metal, arcing gracefully to the left. And the train wasn’t slowing down. My heart expanded, N3N

Meredith R. Lyons

uncomfortably filling my chest. Electricity shot through my limbs. Our car sped forward relentlessly.

My eyes found Joe’s. The metallic taste of fear coated the back of my tongue. I meant to say that we should grab on to something, even as my body compelled both hands to grasp the railing of the seat beside me. Joe opened his mouth to say something and then . . .

There was a wrench. A screaming of metal fighting metal. The train tore off the rails. For one second, we were all suspended together. As if existing inside a gasp. Not a human sound. Conversation ceased. Silence was our collective scream.

Then chaos. Everyone yelled, cried, cursed. The lights strobed, then cut out. Every body and bag on the train hurtled toward the front of the car, tagging every metal guardrail along the way. Gravity found us again with a sickening crunch.

Pain sliced into my side, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t make space.

Pressure increased. I couldn’t breathe. Panic clawed at my ribcage. I wanted to fight but there was nothing to defeat. No air to breath. I couldn’t move. Nowhere to go.

Blackness.

When consciousness found me again, I was disoriented.

My head hurt. My lungs heaved as if I had been underwater. I wheezed like a drowning victim. Someone pulled at me. Under my arms. Hauling. My feet were caught. Yanked free.

A yelp died escaping my throat. I struggled to open my eyes, my eyelids impossibly heavy.

“Joe?” Raspy. Rusty voice.

“I’m getting you outside. They’ll find you more easily outside. You need to stay very still.”

I wrenched my eyes open. I watched my legs being pulled through the shattered window of the train as if they belonged to someone else.

My booted feet thudding to the ground. Dragging trenches through the fresh powder. I had never given thought to how big the trains were N4N

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when I rode them every day, but now, seeing one crashed in the snow, it was like a blue whale.

“Joe . . .” I croaked.

“You need to think about surviving. You’re hurt. You need to stay relaxed and then you need to do what the medical people say. Look up.

Look up and stay calm.”

He laid me down in the fresh snow and I looked up. I could see the moon. Full. I could even see a few stars. Never see stars in Chicago.

Not downtown.

I heard sirens. Helicopters. Someone was in trouble. I knew I should help. But I was so tired. Lying in the snow and looking up seemed the right thing to do.

The edges of my vision blurred. Whoever had been pulling me was no longer nearby. I heard voices. Turned my head to the side. It seemed to take a long time. The world went in and out of focus. I saw people.

Lights. Lots of lights, painting the glittering snow with pulses of pink.

I wondered why I didn’t feel cold. I didn’t feel anything. A crimson semi-circle blossomed through the snow at my left side. The bloom slowly grew. It was beautiful. Red against the white.

People. Running closer. Boots spraying the fresh snow. Shouting, lights flashing, the whirring of the helicopters throbbed against my eardrums. I pulled my gaze back to the train to search for Joe. I tried to call for him, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

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ii

days in the hospital passed by in a blur. I’d had surgery and was going to have a ginormous scar on my left side, sure to be very attractive come bikini season and fun to explain the next time I managed to sustain a relationship to ‘that stage.’

I was the only one in the first car to survive.

My mom drove up from the suburbs immediately and had the sense to contact the personal injury lawyers I used to work for parttime.

No one would tell me anything about Joe. Not that I was conscious much at first. They waited until I was ‘out of the woods’ to break the news that he hadn’t made it. Apparently, that kind of shock can affect the healing process.

Mom was neatly Tetris-ing flowers and get-well cards into a box she had coaxed from hospital staff, which had lubricating jelly stamped on the side. Mia had just left. Her visit had been awkward and painful with neither of us knowing how to talk to each other. Now I slumped in

GHOST TAMER

my wheelchair, exhausted and hollowed out from that halting attempt at conversation, cocooned in my invisible blanket of grief and pain, a stuffed Pooh Bear wedged next to me.

When mom had placed it in my lap, I’d rolled my eyes and reminded her that I was twenty-six but tucked him under my arm when she turned her back.

Another nurse finished a chatty farewell with Mom—who, of course, had befriended with the entire staff by now. She reminded me to take it easy and swept out of the room with my recently autographed discharge papers.

“Where’s that tall dude with the shaggy hair? Is he coming to say goodbye, too?” I sounded crabby. But crabby was one of my more pleasant moods lately.

“Who?” Mom didn’t look up from her packing.

“That guy. He came here like . . . three or four times? Usually during the night? I figured he was a night shift person. He never stayed long or did anything useful, but he sure did come by a lot. What?”

She had stopped packing and was staring at me, brow furrowed.

She looked much too concerned to be merely trying to come up with someone’s name.

“What?” I repeated.

“The first few nights after surgery you talked to yourself sometimes. We assumed you were . . . sleep-talking, like you used to do when you were little. You would ask about Joe or—” “So, you never saw that guy?”

“I think you must have been imagining it. You’ve had a lot of morphine.”

She nodded to the stack of get-well cards in her hand and resumed collecting bouquets.

Exhaustion pulled at me. The ever-present ache in my chest flared, reminding me that Joe was dead. In the end, I didn’t care who had visited, and so I let it go.

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iiii three weeks later, I limped up the well-salted sidewalk to my lawyer’s River North office, buzzed the receptionist from the street-level intercom, and announced myself. After yanking the door open, I debated taking the stairs up to the second story, decided to heed the throbbing ache in my leg, and opted for the elevator. I was on track for a full recovery, they said, but it sure was taking a hell of a long time.

Minutes later I was in the small, familiar conference room with a bottle of water in my hand and a notepad on the shiny wooden table in front of me. I’d worked part time for Dubin and Cantor for almost three years and still came in to help occasionally if they were shorthanded. They’d apparently managed to grab the cases of a few more of the survivors in adjacent cars. And some of the . . . not survivors.

Anyway, it was nice to have lawyers you trusted.

James Cantor, my former boss, came striding in. He was short, athletic, and energetic, with an accordion file under one arm and a coffee in hand. I managed to wrestle a weak smile from somewhere to meet his blast of energy. Normally, I blasted right along in tandem.

“Raely! You look tons better. How do you feel? You feel like crap, right? Yeah, well, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I promise you. Night and day. You may not feel it yet, but you’re healing.”

“Thanks,” I said, the corner of my mouth creeping up the left side of my face. I hauled my latest batch of medical records out of my messenger bag. “My ortho has started emailing me these directly, so I printed them off at the comedy club.”

“Excellent!” He dived for the records. “So you don’t need copies?

Great. I’ll have Helen enter them. Hey, you want a coffee? You look like you could use a coffee. Fake plant milk, right? Helen!”

Helen shuffled in briskly, a warm grin already in place. Her iron gray hair and sensible sweater-and-skirt ensemble contrasted with James’s artfully faded jeans and black button up—rolled to the elbows, N8N

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of course. He gave her my coffee order, which I knew was coming out of a Keurig, so I didn’t feel too guilty about it, and passed her the records.

“Yeah, I guess the doc likes me. Is it true love? Or am I merely a fascinating case? We may never know,” I said. Helen chuckled and trotted off.

James teased a folder out from the large accordion file with ‘Raely Videc’ printed on the side in large block letters. So strange to see one with my name on it.

“Got your police report back and even have photos of the scene.”

“Really? Wow, that was fast.” I accepted my coffee from Helen with a nod of thanks and scooted closer to the table.

“Yeah, so, we gotta work on your statement. I know you were in shock and it’s completely understandable that your memory may be hazy or incomplete.” He carefully spread the papers and photographs across the shiny table, placing each 8 x 10 as if it belonged in a specific spot.

“I don’t think my memories were too hazy.” I took a gulp of coffee, summoning patience. We’d had several versions of this conversation before.

“You said you were pulled from the car.”

“I was pulled from the car.”

“You said someone pulled you out through the window of the car and dragged you away from the rest of the train.”

“Yeah. ’Cause that’s what happened.”

He pushed a photograph toward me. I spun it around and slid it closer. It was an aerial view of the wreck, obviously taken from a helicopter. Maybe stills from a video. I could see the smashed front car, the second car dangling, and the third car teetering. I could see myself. A lone, tiny figure, limbs splayed like a snow angel, a crimson blotch at my side. I forced my emotions into a little box. Stuffed them into my mental basement. I would deal with them later. Or never. Never was fine.

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“Yes, look.” I jammed my finger at the photo, pushing it to the space between us, suppressed emotion thickening my Chitown accent.

“You can see drag marks from my legs. I was sitting on the opposite side of the train. How could I have been thrown from the window on this side? There woulda been glass all over me. I woulda hit my head or something.”

“Look here.” As James circled his finger over the snow surrounding my body, his accent broadened in response to mine.

I glared at the section he indicated, then clung to a polite tone with effort. “I don’t see anything.”

“Precisely.”

What was he talking about?

“What don’t you see?”

My brow furrowed. I looked at the photo, then shook my head.

James leaned forward, palms on the table. “Footprints.”

My breath caught. I snatched the photograph off the table. Held it close to my nose and scanned. He was right. Other than the trenches my feet had dug into the powder and the craters pocked by fallen debris, the snow was perfect.

“The paramedics came immediately after this was taken. You can see them off to the side. They saw no one nearby. If someone had pulled you from the train, there would be footprints somewhere.”

N 10 N

M O RE PARAN O RMAL READS FRO M C A MC AT BOOKS

Available now, wherever books are sold.

Would you sell your hand for a million dollars?

Regan “Roz” Osbourne is broke. Her ex-boyfriend won’t take no for an answer, and no one is taking her art work seriously.

So when a mysterious stranger offers her a million dollars and safety from her unstable ex in exchange for her left hand, she can’t afford to refuse.

Immediately following the amputation, she’s racked with insufferable phantom limb pain. Desperate for relief, she enrolls in an experimental drug trial. But this drug has a peculiar side effect—she develops a psychic connection to her missing limb. She soon discovers that Chicago’s longdormant Phantom Strangler is now wearing her hand and is using it . . . to kill.

“The horror-thriller Phantom delivers twists, laughs, and chills in equal measure.”

—Erin Flanagan, Edgar-award winning author of Deer Season and Blackout Hardcover ISBN 9780744302660 | $27.99 | Releases 10/10/2023 Helen Power is an academic librarian living in Saskatoon, Canada.

Her debut novel, The Ghosts of Thorwald Place, won gold in the 2022 IBPA’s Benjamin Franklin Awards for Best New Voice: Fiction. She has had several short story publications, including ones in Suspense Magazine and Dark Helix Press’s Canada 150 anthology. In her free time, she loves discovering new places, discussing horror movies, and devouring root beer by the case.

SOMETIMES EVEN SERIAL KILLERS NEED A HAND

PHANTOM HELEN POWER

PHANTOM HELEN POWER

PHANTOM HELEN POWER

CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by Helen Power All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744302660 Paperback ISBN 9780744302677 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744302721 eBook ISBN 9780744302769 Audiobook ISBN 9780744302776 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

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I

T WON’T BE LONG NOW. I float amid the crowd, riding the wave of the shallow and elite that swim around me like a school of fish in an aquarium. They have no idea there is a shark in their midst. Enthralled by my wit and beauty, partygoers converge upon me, eager to meet me, to be close to me, to know me. I feel like I am the honorary guest, despite the lack of invitation. Despite no one knowing who I am or why I’m really here.

I nurse my martini as I flit from conversation to conversation. They are all fools. Dullards chattering about the exhibit as if they know anything about true art. True art takes risks; it deviates from the norm, it makes people feel uncomfortable, aroused, afraid. I am a true artist, though my work will never be on display like this, at an event so pretentious and asinine. My work isn’t of traditional mediums. My expertise isn’t as derivative as paint on canvas or molded blocks of clay.

True creation comes from destruction.

I know that I shouldn’t have come. But I couldn’t resist. My gaze roams the room. I’m a predator stalking my prey. I spot her immediately. Sticking out like a sore thumb in this crowd of the sophisticated and affluent. The girl has no idea what is about to happen to her. That she has been chosen. That she is about to make the ultimate sacrifice, for art.

Helen Power

Envy and anticipation course through me as I watch her clutch a glass in her flawless left hand. I’ve been broken for too long. It’s kept me from my life’s purpose, from sharing my vision with the world. But soon I’ll be whole again. Soon my name will return to the lips of everyone in this city, whether they’re admiring my craft or simply don’t understand it. Soon I can get back to my art.

It won’t be much longer.

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he event was disgustingly extravagant. Moonlight cascaded through the towering stained-glass windows and pooled on the marble floor, which gleamed a garish silver and gold. Massive crystal chandeliers strained against the chains suspending them from the vaulted ceiling. The gentle strains of a violin drifted through the hall, only to drown in the loud hum of the guests’ mindless prattling. The scent of floor polish cut through the overpowering mix of expensive perfume and cologne, mingling with the unmistakable stench of narcissism and pretention. All around me, people strutted about in their decadent outfits. Draping ball gowns, blinding diamonds, and expressions laced with condescension seemed to be the required uniform of the evening.

I didn’t belong here.

I shifted uncomfortably in my dress, which I’d “borrowed” from my roommate, Hanna. The Danish goddess was at least one size smaller than me, and I was starting to feel it in the bust and hip areas of the slinky red number I’d found in her closet. I placed my empty martini glass—only my third drink of the evening—on the platter of a waiter who brushed past me.

I barely had the chance to grab a glass of red wine before he was gone. A splash of the liquid sloshed over the glass rim, spraying my wrist. I tensed, my eyes roving over my dress, but I hadn’t spilled any on it. Hanna was quiet

Helen Power

and I didn’t know her very well, but I was pretty sure that if I borrowed her dress without permission and returned it damaged, she would kick me out of our loft apartment. She was the perfect roommate. She was hardly ever around, she let me use the main living area as my creative workspace, and she sometimes covered my part of the rent. She kept to herself and never asked prying questions—like when was I going to sell something, and why wasn’t I part of any art shows, even the lousy ones like this one that featured no talent whatsoever. It was the ideal living situation, and I didn’t want to screw it up.

I glanced around the hall. Satisfied that no one was looking my way, I surreptitiously bent my head and sucked the red wine off my wrist. Just at that moment, my eyes landed on a woman staring at me from over forty feet away. She looked just like everyone else here, but her arm was swathed in a sleek black sling. Flushing, I spun around and hurried in the opposite direction, humiliation hot on my heels. I had no idea who that woman was—she was too far away for me to get a good look—but it would be just my luck that someone with influence in the art world would be the one to catch me casually licking myself at a black-tie event. I pushed the embarrassment from my mind and didn’t think of it again.

Another half hour and several failed attempts at networking crawled by.

I glanced around the hall, but of course there were no clocks mounted on the cold stone walls. I hadn’t worn a watch, because my cheap-ass timepiece would have been a dead giveaway that I didn’t belong, and pulling out my phone would have had the same effect. Despite having no idea what time it was, I knew it was getting late. This reception would be winding down within an hour or two.

I shouldn’t have come. I hadn’t planned to. I’d gotten the invitation in the mail two weeks ago, and I’d thought about declining, despite the open bar. Amrita Tejal, one of my former classmates from college, was putting on an art exhibit. I hadn’t heard from her since graduation, and part of me had assumed that she’d moved on, married, and given up the dream of being an Artist with a capital A. But no, she’d persevered and now she was displaying her work at the Grant Park Fine Art Gallery. The masochist in me decided to

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show up at the last minute. I needed to know what she did. I needed to see it for myself. I also couldn’t pass up the free alcohol, even though it turned out to be watered down.

I’d made the rash decision to show up, and despite the appetizers and endless supply of alcohol, I was regretting it. I’d already gone through the main exhibit. I’d expected to see something intriguing, inspiring, intimidating, but instead Amrita’s art was simply . . . imitative. It had consisted of three narrow halls, the dull, off-white walls mounted with television screens. On them, there was a woman, the same woman on each screen, but in a different stage of undress. She was taking off her public persona—her business attire, her makeup, her facade—before retiring for the evening. The final panel, which took up an entire wall at the far end, depicted her standing by a window, stark naked. Not even a robe or a strategically placed shadow to hide her nakedness. I’d suddenly felt exposed in that moment. I was that woman, naked, mounted high for all to see, in my too-tight dress and fake Jimmy Choos.

Unable to spot another waiter, I dropped my wineglass in a potted fern.

I casually approached the buffet table and selected a shrimp cocktail. I tried not to be obvious as I wolfed it down. Since Hanna was hardly ever around, she didn’t keep our fridge fully stocked. I barely had enough money to cover rent from my part-time job as a dealer at the Horseshoe Hammond. I wasn’t exactly pitching in for fresh produce.

My phone chirped and I glanced at the screen. It was my ex, Ben. I deleted the message without bothering to read it. He was awfully needy for a drug dealer. I’d told him I wouldn’t give him the time of day after we broke up, and even though it was nighttime, I still wasn’t going to respond to his texts.

“Roz! Ohmygoodness, you made it!”

I froze, jumbo shrimp half lodged in my throat. My cheeks heated up as I forced myself to swallow. I turned around.

“Amrita! It’s been so long! How have you been?” My words oozed insincerity.

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Amrita looked the same as I remembered. Tall and elegant, with smooth, brown skin and her hair pulled back into an elaborate twist. But her outfit was different. This one screamed wealth and success, despite this being, as far as I knew, her first art show. My attention was caught by the strange tone of one of her irises. Had she always had different-colored eyes?

“I’m doing really great. Clearly,” Amrita said, gesturing around the crowded hall. She was doing better than “great.” Everyone here had come to see her art. I couldn’t even get so much as a form rejection letter back from the shitty little galleries around town, and she was having a show at Grant Fucking Park.

“I loved your exhibit. Very, uh, unique,” I choked out the words.

Amrita smiled slightly. “Yes, the idea came to me in a dream.”

Well, her dreams were more unoriginal than those of a teenage high schooler. If I’d been paid a nickel for every time I’d dreamed I was naked and on display, I’d be a millionaire. I twisted my lips into a pleasant smile. “I’m surprised you invited me.”

Amrita was watching me, intently, wordlessly. She looked me up and down with her unnerving eyes. “I love the dress. It’s very risqué. Who are you wearing? Abbiati?”

I smiled, though it felt more like baring my teeth. I hoped there wasn’t shrimp caught in between them. “I’m not really sure. Someone else picked out the dress.” That much was true. Who knew where Hanna had gotten it?

Maybe it really was designer. More likely, it was Target.

I couldn’t tell if she was buying what I was selling. She gave me a little smile. Aside from her initial enthusiasm at seeing me, she was very cool, calm, and collected. Nothing like the frenetic, energetic girl I knew in college. Back then, I would be tempted to douse her with a bucket of cold water just to get her to shut up. Now I was begging for her to say something, anything to end this silence and quiet the storm inside my head.

“So, is this your first art show?” I asked. I should have excused myself.

What was I thinking, prolonging this torture? Jealousy reared its ugly head, and it took all my self-control not to gouge her perfect, hypnotic little eyes out.

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“Yes. Yes, it is,” Amrita said with a mysterious smile. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. If you’ll excuse me, I should be mingling. There are some important people here tonight.”

Even though I’d wanted the conversation to end, her words still felt like a slap to the face. I wish I’d thought of telling her I had places to be. “As should I,” I replied. I awkwardly spun around, swayed around another waiter carrying a tray, and swooped in, snatching up yet another martini.

I took a deep sip as I surreptitiously glanced back to watch Amrita dissolve into the crowd. I supposed that could have gone worse. She could have asked me about my own art.

“Are you a friend of Ms. Tejal’s?” A vaguely British voice came from just behind my ear.

I tried not to flinch as hot breath tickled my neck. I turned around slowly and gave the speaker the once-over. A lazy smile clung to a remarkably unremarkable face. He wasn’t tall; he only had a few inches on me. He had a receding hairline and premature wrinkles lined his forehead, but the suit he wore clung nicely to his abdominal muscles. And it was a decidedly expensive suit.

“We aren’t friends. We went to college together,” I said with a wave of my hand.

“I didn’t think you looked like you’d be friends with her,” he replied.

I narrowed my eyes. What did he mean by that? Could he tell that I didn’t belong here? I bit back my retort when I caught sight of the Rolex on his wrist. Maybe I could get a free dinner out of him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said instead.

He tossed me a knowing smile that was surprisingly attractive. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t been rude. I was interested in getting to know him a little better.

I took a slow sip of another martini that had suddenly appeared in my hand. I casually looked away from this man, my eyes scanning the crowd, acting as if I wasn’t interested in anything he had to offer.

“Are you an artist?”

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“Yes,” I replied. I didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to know that I worked part-time and that I poured every free moment into working on my sculptures, half of which I’d burned or thrown out the window in fits of rage when they were rejected or critiqued unfairly.

“My name’s Sylvain Dufour,” he said primly in his British accent.

I didn’t bother to respond or even glance in his direction.

He shifted slightly, as if trying to draw my attention. I finally deigned to give him a demure look. His eyes locked on mine. He was already smitten.

I pushed aside any guilt I might feel at the fact that I was planning to use him. All I could afford to see were dollar signs in the form of his sparkling cufflinks and fine-tailored suit.

I gave him another once-over, my eyes lingering on his hair. At least he didn’t have plugs. I much preferred a balding man over someone who was feebly battling his genetics.

“I’m Regan Osbourne,” I said, keeping my tone casual as I returned my attention to the crowd.

“I haven’t heard of you.”

Ouch. “Well, I haven’t heard of you either,” I snapped without thinking.

I pressed my lips together, holding my breath.

My fear that I’d turned him off was unfounded. Instead of recoiling, he sidled in a little closer. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Men—especially the rich and self-entitled ones—never seemed to like nice girls.

“Why haven’t I heard of you?” He didn’t make it sound like an insult.

He seemed genuinely curious.

Well, he hadn’t seen my art. I swallowed, pushing aside that invasive thought. “I’m between projects. My work is more . . . private.”

He nodded, and I had the dreadful feeling that he was reading between the lines. He knew I was a fraud. Untalented. Delusional.

“Ms. Tejal almost didn’t have her work displayed here tonight,” he said.

“Sometimes you just need to know the right people.”

At that, I perked up. I tried to hide my interest. “Do you know the right people?”

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He didn’t reply. Instead he gestured for a waiter to bring him another drink. I needed to learn how to do that.

“The right people?” I repeated impatiently, once he had another drink in hand.

Sylvain’s cocky smirk was back. “Ms. Tejal had a benefactor. A man sponsoring her dreams. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be where she is here today.”

I stifled a snicker. “So, she has a sugar daddy?”

Sylvain’s cerulean-blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “I’m not privy to the details of their arrangement.” His eyes dropped from my face, and I waited patiently, trying not to laugh. Was he implying that he was interested in being my “benefactor?”

I finished yet another martini—my fourth? Fifth?—and Sylvain beckoned the waiter to bring me another. I giggled, then clamped my mouth shut, embarrassment flooding through me and heating my cheeks. I might not have been drunk, but I was well on my way there. “Are you trying to get me plastered or something?”

Sylvain smirked, then took a sip from his glass. I thought I heard him say, “Or something.”

I blinked. “What was that?”

His lips curled into that same arrogant smile, but the alcohol infusing the blood in my veins made it seem less annoying, more beguiling. He didn’t answer my question.

The rest of the night was a blur. I remembered laughing at a lot of things that seemed funny at the time. I remembered telling him he reminded me of James Bond, because of the suit and accent, but informing him that the beloved MI6 agent had a full head of thick hair. I remembered leaning heavily against him and whispering seductively in his ear. I remembered waving good-bye to a stoic-looking Amrita as I left with Sylvain, my arm linked around his waist. I remembered entering the cab, but not leaving it.

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M O RE H O RRO R-TH RILLER READS FRO M C AMC AT BOOKS

Available now, wherever books are sold.

SOMETIMES EVEN SERIAL KILLERS NEED A HAND

R

egan “Roz” Osbourne is broke. Her ex-boyfriend won’t take no for an answer, and no one is taking her art work seriously. So when a mysterious stranger offers her a million dollars and safety from her

unstable ex in exchange for her left hand, she can’t afford to refuse.

Immediately following the amputation, she’s racked with insufferable phantom limb pain. Desperate for relief, she enrolls in an experimental drug trial. But this drug has a peculiar side effect—she develops a psychic connection to her missing limb. She soon discovers that Chicago’s longdormant Phantom Strangler is now wearing her hand and is using it . . . to kill.

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PHANTOM HELEN POWER

WOULD YOU SELL YOUR HAND FOR A MILLION DOLLARS?

PHANTOM HELEN POWER

Beware the Brotherhood of the Raven When two boys vanish from her hometown, Daphne Gauge notices uncanny parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. Symbols of an ancient Norse god. Rumors of a promise to reward the town’s faithful with wealth and power, for a price. She warns her husband that another sacrifice is imminent, but just like last time, no one believes her.

This leaves her with a desperate choice: investigate with limited resources, or give in to the FBI’s request for an interview. For years, they’ve wanted a member of the Gauge family to go on record about the tragedy back in 1988. If she agrees to a deposition now, Daphne must confess her family’s dark secrets. But she also might have one last chance to unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744306552 | $26.99 | Releases 11/7/2023 Brendon Vayo was born in Okinawa, Japan, and now lives in Austin, TX. He has a wonderful wife and three children. The kids keep him awake at night, so he hopes his books do the same to you. Girl Among Crows is his first novel.

G I R L A M O N G

C R OWS THE DOOR MUST REMAIN OPEN

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G I R L A M O N G

C R OWS B R E N D O N

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C R OWS B R E N D O N

V A Y O

CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by Brendon Vayo All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744306552 Paperback ISBN 9780744306590 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306613 eBook ISBN 9780744306637 Audiobook ISBN 9780744306668 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Family tree illustration by Maia Lai

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for yen, who believed.

EXHIBIT A

$ from Crusher.

Keep yourself pure, Brother.

For the sake of our children, George Gedney the Door must remain open.

33 Ravens Home Dr New Minton, MA 01100

—Postcard in Gerard Gedney’s possession, postmarked October 20, 2020.

CHAPTER ONE April 22, 2021

M

y husband Karl shakes hands with other doctors, a carousel of orthopedic surgeons in cummerbunds. I read his lips over the brass band: How’s the champagne, Ed? Since he grayed, Karl wears a light beard that, for the convention, he trimmed to nothing.

The ballroom they rented has long windows that run along Boston’s waterfront. Sapphire table settings burn in their reflections.

The food looks delicious. Rainbows of heirloom carrots. Vermont white cheddar in the macaroni. Some compliment the main course, baked cod drizzled with olive oil. My eyes are on the chocolate cherries. Unless Karl is right, and they’re soaked in brandy.

At some dramatic point in the evening, balloons will drop from nets. A banner sags, prematurely revealing its last line. celebrating thirty years!

Thirty years. How nice, though I try not to think that far back.

I miss something, another joke.

Brendon Vayo

Everyone’s covering merlot-soaked teeth, and I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Is it my dress? I didn’t know if I should wear white like the other wives.

I redirect the conversation from my choice of a navy-blue one-shoulder, which I now see leaves me exposed, and ask so many questions about the latest in joint repair that I get lightheaded.

The chandelier spins. Double zeroes hit the roulette table. A break watching the ocean, then I’m back, resuming my duties as a spouse, suppressing a yawn for an older man my husband desperately wants to impress.

A board member who could recommend Karl as the next director of clinical apps.

I’m thinking about moving up, our careers. I’m not thinking dark thoughts like people are laughing or staring at me. Not even when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Are you Daphne?” asks a young man. A member of the wait staff.

No one should know me here; I’m an ornament. Yet something’s familiar about the young man’s blue eyes. Heat trickles down my neck as I try to name the sensation in my stomach.

“And you are?” I say.

“Gerard,” he says. The glasses on his platter sway with caffeinated amber. “Gerard Gedney. You remember?”

I gag on my ginger ale.

“My gosh, I do,” I say. “Gerard. Wow.” Thirty years ago, when this convention was still in its planning stages, Gerard Gedney was the little boy who had to stay in his room for almost his entire childhood. Beginning of every school year, each class made Get Well Soon cards and mailed them to his house.

We moved before I knew what happened to Gerard, but with everything else, I never thought of him until now. All the growing up he must’ve done, despite the odds, and now at least he got out, got away.

“I beat the leukemia,” he says.

“I’m so glad for you, Gerard.”

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If that’s the appropriate response. The awkwardness that defined my childhood creeps over me. Of all the people to bump into, it has to be David Gedney’s brother. David, the Boy Never Found.

My eyes jump from Gerard to the other wait staff. They wear pleated dress pants. Gerard’s in a T-shirt, bowtie, and black jeans.

“I don’t really work here, Daphne,” says Gerard, sliding the platter onto a table. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.”

The centerpiece topples. Glass shatters. An old woman holds her throat.

“Gerard,” I say, my knees weak, “I understand you’re upset about David. Can we please not do this here?”

Gerard wouldn’t be the first to unload on what awful people we were.

But to hear family gossip aired tonight, in front of my husband and his colleagues? I can’t even imagine what Karl would think.

“I’m not here about my brother,” says Gerard. “I’m here about yours.”

His words twist.

“Paul,” I say. “What about him?”

“I’m so sorry,” says a waiter, bumping me. Another kneels to pick up green chunks of the vase. When I find Gerard again, he’s at the service exit, waiting for me to follow.

Before I do, I take one last look at the distinguished men and a few women. The shoulder claps. The dancing. Karl wants to be in that clique—I mean, I want that too. For him, I want it.

But I realize something else. They’re having a good time in a way I never could, even if I were able to let go of the memory of my brother, Paul.

Q The catering service has two vans in the alleyway. It’s a tunnel that feeds into the Boston skyline, the Prudential Center its shining peak.

Gerard beckons me to duck behind a stinky dumpster. Rain drizzles on cardboard boxes.

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I never knew Gerard as a man. Maybe he has a knife or wants to strangle me, and all this news about my brother was bait to lure me out here. I’m vulnerable in high heels. But Gerard doesn’t pull a weapon.

He pulls out a postcard, its edges dusty with a white powder I can’t identify. The image is of three black crows inscribed on a glowing full moon.

“I found it in Dad’s things,” says Gerard. “Please take it. Look, David is gone. We’ve got to live with the messes our parents made. Mine sacrificed a lot for my treatment, but had they moved to Boston, I probably would’ve beat the cancer in months instead of years.”

“And this is about Paul?” I say.

“When the chemo was at its worst,” says Gerard, “I dreamed about a boy, my older self, telling me I would survive.”

I take my eyes off Gerard long enough to read the back of the postcard: $ from Crusher. Keep yourself pure, Brother. For the sake of our children, the Door must remain open.

Crusher. Brother. Door. No salutation or signature, no return address.

Other than Crusher, no names of any kind. The words run together with Gerard’s take on how treatment changed his perspective.

Something presses my stomach again. Dread. Soon as I saw this young man, I knew he was an omen of something. And when is an omen good?

“Your dad had this,” I say. “Did he say why? Or who sent it?”

An angry look crosses Gerard’s face. “My dad’s dead,” he says. “So’s Brother Dominic. Liver cancer stage 4B on Christmas Day. What’d they do to deserve that, huh?”

“They both died on Christmas? Gerard, I’m so sorry.” First David, now his dad and Dominic? He stiffens when I reach for him, and, of course, I’m the last person he wants to comfort him. “I know how hard it is. I lost my mom, as you know, and my dad ten years ago.”

The day Dad died, I thought I’d never get off the floor. I cried so hard I threw up, right in the kitchen. Karl was there, my future husband, visiting

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on the weekend from his residency. I didn’t even think we were serious, but there he was, talking me through it, the words lost now, but not the comfort of his voice.

I looked in his eyes, daring to hope that with this man I wouldn’t pass on to my children what Mom passed down to me.

“Mom’s half-there most days,” says Gerard. “But one thing.”

The rear entrance bangs open, spewing orange light. Two men dump oily garbage, chatting in Spanish.

“Check the postmark, Daphne,” says Gerard at the end of the alleyway.

He was right beside me. Now it’s a black bird sidestepping on the dumpster, its talons clacking, wanting me to feed it. I flinch and catch Gerard shrugging under the icy rain before he disappears.

The postmark is from Los Angeles, sent October last year. Six months ago, George Gedney received this postcard. Two months later, he’s dead, and so is another son.

What does that mean? How does it fit in with Paul?

Though he’s gone, I keep calling for Gerard, my voice strangled. Someone has me by the elbow, my husband. Even in lifts, Karl’s three inches shorter than me.

“Daphne, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Colquitt. I need Sheriff Colquitt or . . .” Voices argue in my head, and I nod at the hail swirling past yellow streetlamps. “Thirty years ago, Bixbee was a young man. He might still be alive.”

“Daphne, did that man hurt you? Hey.” Karl demands that someone call the police, but I shake him.

“It’s fine, Karl,” I say, dialing Berkshire County Sheriff ’s Office. “Gerard’s a boy I knew from my hometown.”

Karl’s calling someone too. “Some coincidence,” he says.

Though it wasn’t. Here I am trying not to think about the past, and it comes back to slap me in the face as though I summoned it. Paul. The little brother I vowed to protect.

The phone finally picks up. “Berkshire Sheriff ’s Office.”

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Brendon Vayo

“Hello,” I say, “could I leave a message for Harold Bixbee to call me back as soon as possible? He is or was a deputy in your department.”

“Uh, ma’am, I don’t have anyone in our personnel records who matches that name. But if it’s an emergency, I’d be glad—” I hang up. Damn. I should’ve known at nine p.m., all I’d get is a desk sergeant. I’d spend half the night catching him up to speed.

“Daphne.” My husband lowers his phone, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “I asked Ed to pull the hotel’s security feed. You’re the only one on tape.”

“What? No.” “It shows that you walked out that door alone,” says Karl, gesturing, “and I come out a few minutes later.”

The Door must remain open.

Dread hardens, then the postcard’s corner jabs my thumb. I’m about to show Karl my proof when I realize that now there are only two crows in the moon.

“How’d he do that?” I keep flipping it, expecting the third one to return, before I sense my husband waiting. Distantly, I hear wings flap, but it could be the rain. “Gerard wanted me to have his dad’s postcard.”

“So this boy Gerard comes all the way from Springfield to hand you a postcard,” Karl says. “And he can magically avoid cameras?”

“I’m not from Springfield,” I say, shaking off a chill. Magically avoid cameras. And Gerard can turn pictures of crows into real ones too. How? “You seem very agitated,” says Karl. “Want me to call Dr. Russell? Unless . . .” Karl’s listening, just not to me. “Ed says the camera angles aren’t the best here. There’s a few blind spots.”

“I said I’m not from Springfield, Karl. Any more than you’re from Boston.”

My husband nods, still wary. “Boston is more recognizable than Quincy. But how does your hometown account for why Gerard isn’t on the security footage?”

I lick my lips, my hand hovering over Karl’s phone.

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When we first met, I wanted to keep things upbeat. Me? I’m a daddy’s girl, though (chuckling) certainly not to a fault. In the interest of a second date, I might’ve understated some things.

“Here,” I say, “it’s more like I’m from the Hilltowns. It’s a remote area.”

My lips tremble, trying to force out the name of my hometown. “I was born and raised in New Minton, Karl.”

Somewhere between Cabbage Patch Kids and stickers hidden in a cereal box, the ones Paul demanded every time we opened a new Crøønchy Stars, is recognition. I can tell by the strange flicker on Karl’s face.

“The New Minton Boys,” he says. “All those missing kids, the ones never found.” Karl is stunned. “Daphne, you’re from there? Did you know those boys? God, you would’ve been a kid yourself.”

“I was eleven,” I say. And I was a kid, a selfish kid. I came from a large family. Brandy was seventeen, Courtney fifteen, Ellie nine, and Paul seven.

The day before my brother disappeared, I wasn’t thinking that this night was the last time we’d all be together. I wasn’t thinking about the pain Mom and Dad would go through, especially after the town gossip began.

No. I thought my biggest problems in the world were mean schoolboys. So I ruined dinner.

“Daphne?” Now Karl looks mad. “That’s a big secret not to tell your husband.”

If only he knew.

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M O R E H O RRO R TALES FRO M C AMC AT BOOKS

Available now, wherever books are sold.

W

hen two boys disappear from her hometown, Daphne Gauge sees eerie parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. What

her husband dismisses as graffiti, Daphne fears are symbols harkening to an ancient Norse god. Digging more deeply, she uncovers evidence of the town’s belief that sacrifice endows wealth and power. Is this more than a bloodthirsty urban myth?

When no one believes her, she considers giving in to the F.B.I.’s request that someone in Daphne’s family go on record about what happened in 1988.

If she grants an interview, Daphne must confess dark secrets that strike close to home and just might unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel Illustration: wilqku / bphillips BE THE FIRST TO HEAR about new CamCat titles, author events, and exclusive content! Sign up at camcatbooks.com for the CamCat Publishing newsletter.

BRENDON VAYO

Fiction / Horror USD$18.99 CAD$25.99 GBP£16.99

GIRL AMONG CROWS

THE DOOR MUST REMAIN OPEN

G I R L A M O N G

C R OWS THE DOOR MUST REMAIN OPEN

B R E N D O N

V A Y O

The King is Dead, and the Game is Afoot.

The hit TV show, The Lands Beyond, has become a cultural phenomenon, influencing fashion and baby name trends. Its creator, R. R. Reynard, masterminds the story each season, pitting the cast against each other in a toxic, kill or be killed, environment. But Reynard has even greater ambitions.

He’s formed a feudalistic society of superfans who are willing to do anything to rise in the ranks and be officially canonized as a character on The Lands Beyond. With the show set to enter its final season, the cast, crew, and superfans attend a convention at the historic Chateau D’Loire. While holding court, Reynard is murdered, and the notebook holding all the secrets, twists, and endings disappears.

Enter Ken Allen, former D-list actor turned private eye.

As the body count rises, Ken discovers the stakes are far greater than just a television show. And the fantasy neophyte is about to learn that all is fair in love and war in The Lands Beyond.

“A pitch-perfect combination of action, mystery, and humor.”

—Anthony Award-winning author Gigi Pandian for Jove Brand Is Near Death Hardcover ISBN 9780744305760 | $27.99 | Releases 11/14/2023 Ken Allen Super Sleuth Series #3 Despite what his family thinks, J. A. Crawford is not a spy and travels the country investigating disaster sites. Before that, he taught Criminal Justice, Montessori Kindergarten, and several martial arts. He divides his time between Michigan, California, and the worlds in his head.

KEN ALLEN | SUPER SLEUTH SERIES

KING

ME J. A. CRAWFORD

KING EVER KEN ALLEN | SUPER SLEUTH SERIES

HEROES

ME DIE J. A. CRAWFORD

KING EVER KEN ALLEN | SUPER SLEUTH SERIES

HEROES

DIE ME J. A. CRAWFORD

CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by J. A. Crawford All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744305760 Paperback ISBN 9780744305838 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306354 eBook ISBN 9780744306392 Audiobook ISBN 9780744306514 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Floor plan illustration by Maia Lai 5

3

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ii To Rob, who always asked for more stories.

And to the storytellers, crowded around their tables, dice in hand, making up all the things that really happened. ii

1 WINTER HAD COME TO THIS TOWN, and boy was it a doozy.

Record lows, day after day, with the thermostat threatening forty. The population combed their closets for cast-off garments. Scarves, once considered purely decorative items, found their true calling. Gloves and earmuffs, which only ever saw use as props for holiday photos, now adorned the natives. Faux fur of every hue and print abounded, transforming the masses into a menagerie fit for a zoo. As for this detective, well, I was in pure bliss.

The crisp climate was a godsend. Whatever the opposite of seasonal affective disorder was, I had it. It was all I could do not to Ho Ho Ho in the face of all the bah humbugging. I wasn’t bothered a whit, being summoned forth by a potential client. Secret rendezvous were routine in my role as sleuth to the stars. My office had become a campsite for paparazzi posing the question, Why would So-andso want to hire Ken Allen? If a client wanted privacy, clandestine meetings were required.

J. A. Crawford

Which made their choice of setting puzzling. Chateau d’Loire was anything but inconspicuous. The luxury hotel was the closest thing my fair city had to a historic landmark. Architects often outlived their creations in This Town. The birthplace of showbiz was built on an evergreen graveyard, layered on the bones of those who failed in their quest for the immortality of fame.

Chateau d’Loire looked like what castles became after royalty stopped fretting so much over being besieged: a seven-story fairytale compilation of witch-hat towers and crenulated turrets, complete with meant-to-be-holy-but-actually-hot statuary. The arched doors and windows promised to transport you to another world. You even passed under a portcullis on entering.

The current visitors reinforced the illusion. The lobby was packed wall-to-wall with people decked out in armor of all varieties, from a knight’s full suit to leather ensembles more suited to BDSM than battle. They carried an array of weapons: swords, axes, bows, and staves. While I wasn’t familiar with this particular species, I knew the genus well: Superfans.

The kind who traveled from far and wide to attend conventions like the one I was about to join: a celebration of all things The Lands Beyond.

The biggest television show, ever. A cultural phenomenon which exponentially gained steam over the last nine years, shaping pop culture from fashion trends to children’s names. With the tenth and final season set to start filming in a week, the atmosphere at Chateau d’Loire crackled with anticipation. Prior to heading overseas, the cast and crew dropped by This Town for one last marketing hurrah. The most I’d ever charged at a con was forty bucks, and I had to be framed for murder to rate that. Photo op and autograph sessions from the stars of The Lands Beyond ran hundreds of dollars a head. Exclusive events, like sharing a meal, stretched into the thousands.

•2•

KING ME

From what I gathered from the endless ads and ever-present merchandise, the show was a souped-up version of Dallas with sword fights. You’d think I’d know the basics about the program which had defined the last decade, but I’d somehow escaped its lure. Despite my past as a celebrity personal trainer, I didn’t know any of its stars. It was shot overseas, with mostly foreign actors who went home after filming. And to be frank, sword and sorcery wasn’t my thing. But try explaining that to a diehard fan. They compare The Lands Beyond to Shakespeare, if only the bard had possessed the creative vision to include dragons.

While I managed to negotiate the labyrinth of humanity without contracting tetanus, I did catch plenty of glares. Cavorting around in slacks and a buttoned-up blazer was breaking their immersion. But to people in the know, I was also cosplaying . . . after a fashion: Once, and only the once, I played Jove Brand, superspy extraordinaire, which provided me with a gimmick for my second act as a private eye. Hiring a D-list super sleuth held a certain appeal among celebrities. I had been one of them, technically. I understood the tightrope they walked.

And, more important, I knew how to keep my mouth shut.

The halberd-wielding security had been informed of my coming but still required I present my pedigree. Once they confirmed I wasn’t an imposter—a claim I wasn’t confident of myself—they parted their poles and allowed me to pass. I apologized my way through a bustling kitchen to the service elevator, where a second set of guards—this time the conventional kind with discrete holster outlines under unbuttoned jackets—also vetted me. They used a tubular key to provide elevator access to the penthouse level and ushered me in. When the doors opened at the top, I was staring into the smiling face of a guy who once upon a time might have killed me—nothing personal—if I had zigged instead of zagged.

Not too long ago, Alexi Mirovich was the top mixed martial artist in the world, before his career was cut short by a stint in a Siberian •3•

J. A. Crawford

prison for involuntary manslaughter. A Russian oligarch arranged for a commuted sentence if Alexi competed in an illegal underground fighting ring. His opponent had been yours truly.

My goose would have been good and cooked had I not been able to suss out Alexi’s big secret: the Bull of St. Petersburg—as he was known—suffered from labyrinthitis. At the time he was professionally competing, disclosing his condition was career-ending, as was treating it with corticosteroids, which would have shown on drug screens.

When confronted, Alexi agreed to work out a gentleman’s agreement: he took a dive and I didn’t expose him. Shortly thereafter, Alexi played the heavy in a Cherno Perun flick—the Russian version of Jove Brand. It got him noticed, and then he joined the swollen cast of The Lands Beyond as a naïve, unstoppable gladiator. Now, Alexi was in full wardrobe in honor of the con. Or more likely, full wardrobe was contractually required.

In the past, Alexi’s condition kept him from developing a notable physique. It’s tough to do intense cardio when you have vertigo issues.

Not that it stopped him from crushing the competition. When no one survives against you for more than two minutes, your VO2 max is irrelevant. But now that he was able to get proper medical treatment, Alexi could finally train the way he’d always wanted.

Underneath a costume of leather straps arrayed without rhyme or reason, Alexi Mirovich was absolutely jacked. Muscles like slabs of rock danced under paper-thin skin. Veins traced a roadmap up his arms and shoulders. He spread his spike-knuckled hands with a grin.

“Ken! Too long.”

“Hey, buddy. Glad to finally talk to you. Wait, can you hear me?”

“Implant,” Alexi replied, tapping his ear. He flushed slightly.

“Sorry. Shy.” Deafness was a result of Alexi’s condition, but he hadn’t always been that way. It had been beaten into him via a grueling training regimen imposed by his late father. If there was one thing people in •4•

KING ME

the entertainment and combat sports industries had in common, it was daddy issues.

“Don’t be. Your English is better than my Russian. Or sign for that matter.” I stepped out of the elevator. “So, what needs detecting?”

“Not for me.” Alexi started down the hallway, waving that I follow.

The penthouse level had a weird layout. There were four penthouse suites, each centered in a rounded turret. The two hallways formed a cross, with the elevator in the middle. Each point of said cross ended in a suite entrance. The only other doors on the floor led to staff supply closets. Alexi steered us toward the turret with the swankiest view overlooking This Town: the chamber reserved for the guest of honor.

The hallway ended in a high-arched door, its brass knocker topped with a crown. Alexi produced an oversized vintage key from his woven harness. Electronic key scanners were a no-no here at the historic Chateau d’Loire. The lock opened with a satisfying click as Alexi gestured for me to proceed him. The door had real weight to it.

I applied some muscle and stepped into a throne room.

The broad, short hallway leading to the seat of power was lined by suits of armor, with the occasional ottoman in the event the visiting monarch wasn’t ready to receive you. Bookshelves provided an entertainment option to pass the time while you waited.

The throne stood at the end of the red velveteen carpet, three steps up from ground level. The royal seat was classic midcentury medieval, America’s Camelot period, when the emphasis was mood over historical accuracy. The man occupying the throne was dressed like the king of diamonds, in a primary color riot of an ensemble, though more svelte than the playing card implied. He’d leaned into the shtick, his white hair done wavy with a curling mustache and beard.

The only off-theme accessory was his crown. It was in the gothic style: studded with high-reaching tips of what looked like sundered blades.

The king spoke, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “So you’re Ken Allen.”

•5•

J. A. Crawford

He sat there with a faint smile while things got awkward. I had no idea who this guy was, and he had every expectation of being recognized. Realization began to settle in. A bead of sweat ran down my ribs. I had to say something, and I had to say it now.

“What can I do for you, Your, uh, Highness?”

The king laughed, thumping his scepter against the dais in a form of applause. Topped with an axe head, the rod matched his theme.

“I’ve spent too much time in a world of my own making, Mr. Allen. It took a complete outsider to bring me down to earth.”

I gave a bow which would have been described as sardonic, back when the term was in fashion. “If you’re looking for a jester, I got out of that business.”

The king loosed another august belly rumbler, throwing his head back like a cartoon character. “I’m certain you’re exactly who I’m looking for. You’ve gotten a lot of press over the last year, with the Jove Brand murders and the superhero sabotages. I’m in need of a shamus. There’s a killer at large. One who is almost surely in this very building.”

“Who’s the victim?”

The king dinged his scepter against his crown. “Me. R. R. Reynard, at your service.”

While I couldn’t have picked Reynard out of a crowd, I knew the name. He was the mastermind behind The Lands Beyond. Its creator, showrunner, and sole writer. In the nineties, he’d helmed a show called Never After. Though it only lasted for two seasons, it gathered a huge cult following.

After disappearing for two decades, He reappeared ten years ago with The Lands Beyond, his magnum opus. Most people didn’t do their best work after qualifying for social security. Reynard was the exception who proved the rule.

“So what—” I’d exceeded my limit for standing at attention. Raising a finger to indicate a time-out, I dragged an ottoman over. Being •6•

KING ME

vintage, it was heavier than it looked. I took a seat, unbuttoning my jacket. “If you’ve been poisoned, a doctor will do you more good.”

“It’s not poison, I’ve made sure of that. I have reason to believe someone has sabotaged my innermost sanctums.”

“Which are?”

“I own a cabin in Maine. It looks like something out of Walden, but has state-of-the-art security. I was to visit with a colleague, but changed plans at the last moment. While there, said colleague experienced a headache. But rather than take a pill, they decided some fresh air might do them good. When they came back from their hike, the cabin was burnt to its foundations. This was instance number one.”

Reynard paused for questions or comments.

“I’m following along okay so far. Thanks for keeping the syllables down.”

He toyed with his rod for a moment to make sure I knew who was at whose bidding. “On to instance number two. We leave for Scotland in a week. During filming, I reside in a custom trailer. On the heels of the fire, I sent my security team to prep it for arrival. They found the air mixture had been tampered with.”

“Air mixture?”

“The trailer is mobile. When we film at elevation, I maintain a high oxygen environment, which I find conducive for creativity. It had been adjusted to emit a mixture more akin to rocket fuel. One spark, and I would have had an impromptu Viking funeral.”

Reynard studied me intensely. The guy was a storyteller, and his tale could appear to be the work of a speculative mind. He was expecting me to display some skepticism, maybe challenge him.

“The final season of The Lands Beyond starts filming in a week.

You’re the golden goose. Who would want to do you in now?”

“I’ve made my fair share of enemies in the last ten years. Most of the cast despises me. Maybe all of them.” His grin went cold. “Some are better actors than others.”

•7•

J. A. Crawford

“Who’s on short call?”

“Nobody. No matter how many episodes the players may appear in, every actor receives a full season’s salary and is required to stay in residence for the duration of filming. So, even they don’t know when I might give them the axe.”

Reynard’s scepter made more sense now. He was his own hatchet man.

“If you kick the bucket, who inherits?”

“I have no siblings and no children. Thirty years ago, when we were filming Never After, I successfully defended a false paternity suit. The lesson was not wasted. Snip-snip went my vas deferens. As for my estate, the exact details of my trust remain secret.”

“So who profits from your death? Not the studio, and the cast is both in the dark and already paid. So, if it’s not money, it’s love. Who cares enough to kill you?”

Reynard reclined as much as his throne would allow. “The Lands Beyond has an extremely devoted following. Some might describe them as fanatical. A few even believe my yarns to be true, and that I am but the conduit who relays them. A prophet of sorts. And history tells us what happens to prophets.”

“Could you foresee your way to a prime suspects list?”

“I knew you would ask.”

Reynard went into his robes and came out with a metal-bound case the size of a tablet and a foot thick. A built-in lock anchored the reinforced hasp. He set his hand on the case, gesturing as if he were about to withdraw a rabbit, and the hasp popped open. He slipped a folded page from the interior and re-secured the case before beckoning I approach His Grace.

I had to put a foot on the bottom step to reach Reynard. He made no effort to meet me halfway. He was wearing a ring topped with a stamp. As I stretched for the page, he let it drop from his fingers. I snatched it out of the air in a display of agility. Reynard’s method ap•8•

KING ME

proach was starting to wear thin, but I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was worried about paper cuts.

The paper was dot matrix style, with the perforated rails on both sides. The printer it scrolled out of could have had grandkids. A list was printed on the page. A long one. I had to unfold the next sheet.

Next to each name was a percentage.

“You took a poll?”

Reynard grinned. “What is the point of loyal devotees if you don’t make use of their free labor?”

“Looks like most of these aren’t real names.”

“Indeed. Those are the names the Edgelords have chosen for themselves, taken from the lore of Crucible.”

I looked up from the list. “What’s Crucible?”

Reynard made a face like he found a short hair in his soup bowl.

“Crucible is the name of my world. The network didn’t think using its formal name would work as a title, hence The Lands Beyond.”

“And who are the Edgelords?”

Reynard gathered himself. If looks could kill, someone would have been investigating my murder. “I have had online forums in one form or another since the early days of the internet. The most dedicated fans of Never After were the earliest and most fervent supporters of The Lands Beyond. They became the first Edgelords. Others have joined them over the years, rising through the ranks to that innermost circle.”

Reynard even had a feudal system worked out for his fandom. His creation had all the makings of a cult. I started to wonder if he ever took those robes off.

“I don’t suppose you have these people’s actual names.”

“Indeed I do. Two-step verification is required before you receive the colée.”

Being on thin ice already, I didn’t ask Reynard to explain what that meant. In my short time as a detective, when it came to cases, I’d only had two big spuds among the small fries. Both times, I’d been •9•

J. A. Crawford

lucky enough to have already been an expert on the subject matter.

It looked like I was going to be spending a lot of time on The Lands Beyond wiki.

“Well, the sooner I get started the better. How long does the convention run? It’s not often I get all the suspects in one spot like this.

That’s really going to cut down on the travel time. Most of this job is commuting.”

“We are here through Sunday at noon.”

Which gave me forty-eight hours before the convention attendees scattered to the winds and the cast and crew were an ocean away. I dug into my blazer for the envelope containing my standard contract.

Reynard awaited me. I resisted the urge to fold it into a paper plane and launch it at him. He breezed through the contract before signing it. Reynard must have been a fast reader, because he didn’t strike me as reckless when it came to putting his name on things.

I returned the contract to its envelope and tucked it away. As I did, my jacket parted enough to give Reynard a peek at the goods.

“You really use a Quarreler? I must admit, I didn’t believe it.”

I buttoned my coat before Reynard got a closer look. Along with dressing like Jove Brand, galivanting superspy, I had become known for sporting non-lethal equivalents of his gadgets. The last thing I needed was Reynard requesting to take my sidearm for a spin.

“I don’t like guns, and law enforcement barely tolerates me as it is. If I started trading bullets with the bad guys, they’d lock me up. Not that the bad guys care.”

Reynard stared for a moment before a sly smile spread across his face. “I understand. You like to keep your secrets.”

“Hey, could you swing me a room? It doesn’t have to be anything special. I’m going to want to make the most of the weekend.”

“That should be within my power.”

“Do you have an assistant or someone I can coordinate with?”

“Bradley Corbett. He’ll meet you at the elevator.”

• 10 •

KING ME

In a blatant breech of etiquette, I left without being dismissed.

When I got to the doors, I turned around, scratching my head.

“This whole little world you got going is something else.”

Reynard thumbed his axe. “It’s good to be the king, Mr. Allen.” iii Bradley Corbett exited the service elevator ten minutes after me. Like Reynard, he was also done up as a playing card, but a jack instead of a king. The look was less flattering on Corbett. I doubted the costume had been his decision, which scored an early sympathy point. He guided me out of the kitchen and into a side room with all the roomservice trays and linens.

“I have some materials for you.” Corbett struggled to holster the little axe he was carrying. His belt was too tight. I took it off his hands.

It was heavier than it looked, and sharp. It occurred to me Corbett hadn’t bothered with introductions.

“I guess I stand out in this crowd, huh?”

Either Corbett was wearing mascara or he had been gifted with naturally perfect eyelashes. “Oh, I recognized you from that viral video, Mr. Allen.”

“Oh boy, which one?”

“When you and that female police officer fought those men in the street.”

Corbett was referring to Special Investigator Ava Stern. After coming after me for a murder I didn’t commit, each of our next big cases turned out to be the same case. We ended up in a public dust-up recorded by about ten different bystanders. Stern saved my bacon and won another commendation she didn’t care to pin.

“That was not my finest moment.”

“Tell that to Mr. Reynard. He was rather impressed. Less so with your appearance on the silver screen.” Corbett withdrew a tablet from • 11 •

J. A. Crawford

his robes. Its slipcover was done up to resemble a leather-bound book.

“When Mr. Reynard honors someone to the rank of Edgelord, a full background check is required. The dossiers are here.”

Corbett shuffled next to me to provide a better view. He smelled like he’d done some reading about pheromones and believed all of it.

“Can you send this to me?”

“Part of the terms of service is that this information stays private within FoxRex, LLC.” “Of which I am currently a subcontractor. Look, Reynard didn’t pick me for the way I pop on camera. I’m good people.”

Corbett wavered, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I should ask Mr. Reynard.”

He swapped to a messaging screen TMZ would have doled out seven figures for. Below Reynard were thumbnail images of every star from the show, as well as the chief executive of Home Drive-In, the dying cable channel The Lands Beyond had rocketed back into relevance.

We idled around awaiting a royal decree. The short back hallway was featureless, besides the two plainclothes guards. One door led into the kitchen complex, the other into the hotel proper.

“Mr. Reynard should have replied by now.”

“Well, we can’t wait around all day. Let’s request an audience in person.”

Corbett’s expression was pained. “Mr. Reynard has a full schedule.

He hates when his receptions are interrupted.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take the heat. It comes with the territory.”

Corbett had the keys to the kingdom. Security cleared him up the elevator. He tapped on Reynard’s door. When no answer came, I put the calluses on my knuckles to the test, to be rewarded with more silence.

“Open this, will you?”

Corbett produced an antique key from his robes. He cracked the door slowly, and softly inquired with a “Your Highness?” rather than • 12 •

KING ME

Reynard’s name. His posture and tone told me that in the past, Corbett had walked in on activities he’d rather not have witnessed.

Unconcerned about suffering Reynard’s slings and arrows, I pushed past Corbett into the room. From twenty feet away, Reynard looked asleep. His bare head was sagged, his deep widow’s peak pointing down toward the crown in his hands. But something was off. Humans are always in motion. Breathing, blinking, tensing, and relaxing. Reynard was too still.

I closed the distance, eyes peeled. Despite the reputation those in my profession had for being conked over the head, I’d managed to avoid being blindsided by living under the assumption a killer lurked around every corner.

Reynard’s eyes were open and still wet. He wasn’t bleeding much, what with the murder weapon still in his body, and the loud robe did a good job covering up what blood was present. The spiked crown had been driven into Reynard’s chest, the circle of sword points deep enough to pin him to his throne.

Ding, dong.

The King was dead.

• 13 •

M O RE MYSTERY TITLES FRO M C AMC AT BOOKS

Available now, wherever books are sold.

he Lands Beyond , a hit TV show and cultural phenomenon, determines fashion trends and baby names. Its creator, R.R.

Reynard, masterminds the story while pitting the cast against each other in a toxic, kill or be killed environment.

But Reynard has even greater ambitions. He’s formed a feudalistic society of superfans, willing to do anything to rise in the ranks and be canonized as a character on The Lands Beyond. With the show in its final season, the cast, crew, and superfans attend a convention at the historic Chateau D’Loire. While holding court, Reynard is murdered, and the notebook containing all the secrets, twists, and endings disappears.

Enter D-List detective Ken Allen.

As the body count rises, Ken discovers the stakes are far greater

KEN ALLEN | SUPER SLEUTH SERIES

KING ME

T

THE KING IS DEAD, AND THE GAME IS AFOOT.

than just a television show. And the fantasy neophyte is about to learn all is fair in love and war in The Lands Beyond.

Fiction / Mystery CAD$24.99 GBP£15.99

Cover Design: Maryann Appel Cover Artwork: Malchev / Thenatchdl / GoodGnom / ChrisGorgio BE THE FIRST TO HEAR about new CamCat titles, author events, and exclusive content!

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USD$17.99

KING

ME J. A. CRAWFORD

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