Title: The Mad Monk and the Christmas Pie

Author: Mark Lesney

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/26/2021

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 105700

Genre: Historical Holiday, LGBTQIA+, performance arts, humor, mystery, cleric, con artist, medium, murder

Add to Goodreads

Description

Nineteenth-century New York was hardly the place for Alexander Collier, a ne’er do-well actor and ex-con, to make a living. So, teaming up with the so-called “Mad Monk” for a safe home and a little chicanery seemed a necessary compromise if he was going to survive. Alexander joins Brother Sebastian—a renegade Trappist monk-cum-spiritualist—in his crusade to protect the religious treasures of history from private greed. Brother Sebastian uses his “powers” as a heavenly medium to trick Robber Barons and wealthy members of society into doing good and turning over priceless artifacts. But where guile does not suffice, a little housebreaking, pickpocketing, and theft by the monk’s misfit crew of servants and rogues can turn the tide—at least until treachery leads to a Christmas murder and an unexpected romance.

Excerpt

The Mad Monk and the Christmas Pie Mark Lesney © 2021 All Rights Reserved New York City, August 1897 If I had known Stephen was going to try to kill me, I might have practiced my fencing more often. For some reason, my nemesis was now darting at me like a fiend, his sword slashing. These weren’t our choreographed moves—he was out for blood. He’d warned me he was going to kill me if I didn’t stop smiling at his wife or talking to her beyond the confines of rehearsals and the stage. But how could I take him seriously? I knew he never loved her, not really in the manner of husband and wife, for the very same reason I was not a credible threat to what passed for their wedded bliss. I liked Sarah, and she appreciated me. She was one of the few people with wit in the company, so why would I listen to her fool of a husband and break off our budding friendship? But my nonchalance in the face of his threats was finally going to get me killed—or at least would wind up killing my career. I dodged and parried across the stage, nearly slipping on the smooth wooden planking in front of the floor lamps; it was too soon for me to die, both in real life and the play. Stephen’s face was wild, his eyes wide with fury, though the stark menace in his gaze was somewhat spoiled by the almost comic beard, spirit-glued beneath his real mustache. As he thrust at me with his sword, I froze for a moment in panic, then barely dodged away. The blade was conspicuously missing the guard on its tip—the nubbed cover that was supposed to keep me from getting skewered. My blade, of course, was useless as a weapon, except for parrying. I had intended no mayhem, so I hadn’t even dreamed of removing the protective sheath. I did my best to try to disarm him, even though he was so much better than me at swordplay, having practiced it incessantly like a little boy with a new hobby. I’d watched him in mild disdain at how seriously he took it up with our trainer. Though more likely, he wanted to gain proficiency for the chance to engage in another sort of swordplay with our German fencing teacher. Herr Heimrich admittedly had excellent form—especially in white tights. I’d admired them both as they leaped about in the gymnasium, not realizing that all the while Stephen was practicing how to kill me. ***** “God, look at them. I’d almost give Karl a tumble myself,” Sarah had breathed out softly, watching her husband and the fencing instructor in action just two short days ago before our opening. She’d held one hand to her eyes, squinting beneath her chestnut-colored bangs at their quite impressive dance. Both of us were half blinded by the rays of the early morning sun pouring through the arched windows of the fancy gymnasium. The theater management had rented it to hold both our fencing and our dancing lessons. Sarah pursed her small, delicately pink, and slightly greasy lips. She was nibbling on a buttered crusted roll. Karl had a nice behind. A perfectly normal, nice, masculine backside, well complemented by the muscular torso above it, the square-jawed manliness of his face, and the dark black of his close-cropped hair. But Stephen? Greek sculptors might have been at a loss carving such a perfect set of nether quarters out of marble. And Stephen knew it, always choosing pants a size too small, consciously outlining those firm and perfectly formed buttocks. They were not too big to make them feminine, and unlike too many men, they were not so flat as to seem not there at all. He was modestly endowed from the front, as outlined by the slightly noticeable bulge. But then again, his was the perfect Greek mean in all his physical aspects. And though Greeks had gods, not angels, Stephen would have been an ideal naked subject for a Michelangelo to have brought worshipful religious beauty into light. His golden hair in the sun’s rays through the window was a halo that put my yellow hair to straw in comparison. Had he been a slightly less flamboyant actor, there would have been no one who could have kept him from the highest temples of the stage. But sadly for the world, and more so for his wife, that perfect ass of Stephen’s was also mounted on the perfect ass. A man whose wit was brilliant, but pointed like a surgeon’s knife, one who operated on the psyches of the people around him without the benefit of chloroform. Or perhaps he was more like a fishmonger, filleting the souls of his victims, like poor Sarah, one right after the other. But damned that grace and beauty as he slashed and danced in whirling swordsmanship like a master. Or the lead male in a perfectly choreographed ballet, which in truth was what this was, a set of moves destined to awe and captivate an audience far more significant than his poor wife and me. “It is a marvelous rear end, I must admit,” said Sarah. And I had the grace to blush. She must have been following my thoughts…and gaze. “But I truly fell in love with him because of his eyes. And I still melt when he looks at me in a certain way. And I tell myself he always comes home, eventually, no matter how far he strays. To me.” “He’d be a fool not to,” I said chivalrously. “Yes. Especially since Stephen’s such an utter idiot with money. I hold the purse strings, after all. It’s so hard to keep up paying for his clothes, though, his port, his cigars, and his expensive gifts to agonizingly winsome younger men.” “Men throw themselves at you all the time. Or try to,” I countered. “And sadly, no one interests me but Stephen. The one I can’t have.” I was slightly embarrassed and looked back down at the men in their dance below us. It was hard not to admire the lunge and thrust between the two of them, both shining in the sunlight in their fencing uniforms. I sighed, knowing my practice bout was next. I was more sturdily built than either of them and much too tall to manage such elegance with a blade. And frankly, I was not at all motivated to exert myself to such tremendous efforts just to look good in a play. Acting was a necessity for me, not a grand ambition as it was for Stephen. Sarah sighed. “Part of me would almost take Karl to bed for the fun of showing Stephen he couldn’t have just any handsome man he blinked his lashes at. There are still men who prefer women in this world,” she said, popping the last bite of the roll into her mouth. “Though I never seem to meet them,” she finished after a moment’s chewing. “And sometimes I wish I’d married one.” She was staring directly into my eyes, and I had to look away. She knew full well what I was about, and this was just uncomfortable. The whole conversation was. “It’s a wonder Stephen never took a fancy to you, Alex. Though I suppose it’s understandable. You’re too threatening to him.” “Threatening! I’m nothing but a bit player, and he’s one of the twin lights of the modern theater. A younger Jack Gilman…” “Don’t let Jack hear you say that or Stephen either.” She laughed. “No, you threaten him in so many ways. You’re almost as handsome as Stephen in your way. Even though your nose is a little crooked, no one can see that from the stage. And you’re a bit less pretty. But then, you don’t try to be good-looking as hard as Stephen does. Don’t you hate what he does with his mustache? That wax! “You’ve lived a real life. A hard life. Not cushioned in a world of make-believe like Stephen. You’ve been out West. You’re an ex-Pinkerton, a former jailbird, a salesman, and everything in-between. You’ve experienced twice the life Stephen has if even half your stories are true, and it shows in everything about you. There’s no pretense. Stephen is all pretense. He’s just an actor. That’s why he hates you. Why he’s jealous.” “Well, my stories as you call them are all true, though perhaps a tad less glamorous than I make them out to be when I’m drunk. But I’m certainly trying my damnedest to be an actor now. And surely even he can see how little a threat I am in that department!” “Language, Alexander,” she corrected me automatically. “I love Stephen with my whole heart and soul, but at his worst, he’s a vain little coward and a bit of a bully. And sometimes a spoiled brat! And you show him up by not paying the slightest bit of attention to his boundless wealth of charm.” I wisely laughed at what she said as if it were a joke. I was too curious for my own good then. I asked, “Have you and Stephen ever managed to fulfill your marriage vows?” The idea was so foreign to my nature I couldn’t imagine someone like Stephen, someone like me… “Oh yes, and that’s the terrible thing. It’s the endless chain binding me, giving me belief. And hope. “Because I am the only woman Stephen ever managed to make love to, however rarely he manages it, and however drunk he has to be. I don’t know what makes me special in his eyes. I only know that I long for those nights when he embraces me with wild passion and then falls into misery like a frightened child clinging to me when we are through. I can’t break free. Because, I guess, at heart, I don’t really want to.” I shuddered and wondered why she was telling me all this. I had asked without really expecting an answer, but a joking dismissal. It was a horribly private thing to bring up. But then I often wondered what it was about me that made people pour out their confidences. They’d air their dirty laundry as if I were some papist clergyman in a confessional. Perhaps it was my sympathetic face. Or maybe it was because one thing I had learned in life was one should never judge. At least not out loud. “I’m such a fool, Alexander, a terrible fool. Because I do love him. I love him so much I—” She turned to me, smiled sadly, and reached out to squeeze my hand for comfort. I put my other hand on hers and pressed gently. Then I turned to look down and saw the fencers had paused, separated for a moment from their dance, resting and drinking water scooped up in ladles from a bucket. Stephen was staring at me now while elegantly dabbing delicate beads of sweat from his perfect forehead with a small white towel. And if he were indeed the living sculpture of a god, I knew right then I would be dead, a lightning bolt tearing through my brain from the hatred he was beaming at me. I quickly released Sarah’s hand, and the hatred in his gaze spread to a nasty smirk upon his lips and whispered words I couldn’t hear from where I sat, but ones I knew didn’t bode me any good. And yet, the man was beautiful, even in his mask of jealousy and hatred as Lucifer must have been, still angelic as he fell from heaven’s heights while cursing God. I should have heeded the warning then.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Mark Lesney is a single gay man of a certain age, living with the obligatory cat. His only fiction credential before “Interview with the Kevin” is a semi-comic steampunk M/M romance novelette, “The Golden Goose,” published in the “Steamed Up” anthology, sadly now out of print. His non-fiction writing credits, however, are extensive. Currently, he is the managing editor of two medical newspapers, for which he also writes routinely. For over 6 years, his science and history articles appeared monthly in two newsmagazines, for which he was a writer/editor at the American Chemical Society. His credits also include science articles published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact. He has a PhD in plant pathology and a second PhD in the history of science. He has worked as a research scientist and university professor. But his love has always been reading and writing fiction—with science fiction/fantasy, mystery, paranormal romance, and historicals all grappling for his affections. He is now determined to pursue that dream intensely.

Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: The House on Druid Lake

Author: Isabelle Adler

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/04/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 69300

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, PNR, Halloween, haunted house, shifters, architect, mystery/suspense, office drama, ghost, mythical creatures, werewolf

Add to Goodreads

Description

A new city, a new job, a new home—things are definitely looking up for Oliver Foster. An aspiring young architect, embarking on a successful career in Baltimore, all he wants is to put the pain of a broken heart and broken trust behind him. The last thing he needs is another ill-advised romantic entanglement. But despite his best intentions, Oliver can’t help his growing fascination with Nym Brown, the mysterious owner of Lakeside Lodge. When Oliver rents an apartment in an old Victorian house overlooking Baltimore’s Druid Lake, he expects it to be quaint and shabbily charming. But as Halloween draws near and all things spooky come out to play, Oliver becomes convinced there is more going on at Lakeside Lodge than meets the eye, aside from the faulty plumbing. His neighbors are a whole new definition of quirky, and his enigmatic, gruff landlord is both intimidating and dangerously attractive. Dark and sinister secrets lurk behind the house on Druid Lake’s crumbling façade. Unearthing them might yet put Oliver’s future—and his heart—on the line.

Excerpt

The House on Druid Lake Isabelle Adler © 2021 All Rights Reserved Lakeside Lodge looked more like Dracula’s castle than a gingerbread house. Oliver paused on the stone steps that cut across a long grass knoll and peered up at his new place of residence. It was difficult to get a proper look at the house from the road, obscured as it was by the tall chestnut oaks and red maples that surrounded it. But from this viewpoint, just outside the wrought-iron gate, the massive gable above the front porch was clearly visible, as was the turret on the right side of the roof. Comparing the house to a castle was perhaps an exaggeration, at least where size was concerned. But it certainly possessed an old-world fairy-tale charm and an intangible aura of mystery. It had been evident even in the few photos that accompanied the online listing which had sold Oliver on it in the first place, making him contact the real estate agent and take it sight unseen. Well, that and the exceptionally low rent combined with the nice location right on Druid Lake and next to the park, just a few minutes’ drive away from Oliver’s new job in Central Baltimore. Also, Jake would’ve hated it, and Oliver felt a particular satisfaction about no longer having to conform to Jake’s plans and wishes. However, now that Oliver stood in front of the house in the failing light of an early October afternoon, a heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he couldn’t deny there was something disquieting, even disturbing, about the jumble of architectural elements piled in a haphazard fashion. The building was three stories high, crowned with a shingled mansard roof with prominent dormer windows which must have commanded a stunning view of the lake across the road. A wide front porch boasted square tapered columns, and a fanciful pediment in the shape of a stylized owl with outspread wings adorned the gable. It was very Victorian, with touches of Gothic Revival and American Craftsman thrown into the mix. But the style skewed heavily to whimsical as if the architect (or maybe the owner) couldn’t stop themselves from adding all their favorite design elements to the project. Like a magpie decorating its nest with every manner of shiny, without sparing a thought to the harmony of it all. The end result, though imposing, was more reminiscent of a cheesy B-movie haunted mansion than an actual apartment building, old as it might be. The wilted lawn and unkempt tree garden that stretched into the backyard didn’t help the impression, though the grounds, as befitting a mansion, were much more expansive than those of any of the neighboring properties. By the time Oliver climbed the stairs to the porch, he’d begun to suspect the reason for the low rent. Up close, everything exhibited signs of mild, to even prominent, disrepair. The wooden handrails were chipped, with some of the spindles broken or missing, and the shallow steps creaked dangerously under Oliver’s weight, whose physique had once been described by his best friend, Pam, as “waifish.” For the first time since he’d boarded the plane to Baltimore, equipped with a healthy supply of hopeful enthusiasm and a single bag containing his most prized belongings, doubt stirred at the back of his mind. Oliver tried the handle, but the front door was locked. There also wasn’t any sign of an intercom, which left either the grimy doorbell button or the heavy brass knocker. Oliver chose to knock and then listened as the sound echoed dully within until everything was still again. He’d shielded his eyes and stood on his toes, trying to peek through the stained-glass transom window when the door was suddenly yanked open, and he came face-to-face with a wall of plaid. “What do you want?” a gruff voice boomed. Oliver risked lifting his gaze. The voice belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man blocking the doorway. Oliver resisted the urge to take a step back under his annoyed glare. “Hi,” he offered. “I’m Oliver Foster. I’m here about the apartment I rented.” That last sentence came out more as a question than a statement, his voice rising in pitch, and Oliver winced internally. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose while the man regarded him in sullen silence. Finally, he opened the door wider and stepped back, granting Oliver access with a wave of his hand. A single overhead light illuminated the hallway. A threadbare patterned rug spanned the length of it, leading toward a dark mahogany staircase at the back. Tiny brass plaques, tarnished with age, marked the apartment numbers on slotted mailboxes hanging on the wall to his right. Below them stood an empty black lacquered umbrella bucket. A faint smell of dust and mildew permeated the air, and Oliver’s earlier premonition about the state of his chosen accommodations intensified. “What an unusual place,” he ventured, still determined not to give in to negativity. “Must have a lot of history.” The man grunted, studying him from under drawn eyebrows. His eyes, the color of light amber, glinted in the low light. Together with his pale skin, overgrown dark hair, and menacing stance, they created an unnerving effect. Oliver shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, wondering whether the scowl was directed at him, or if it was simply a part of the man’s natural disposition. “Where’s your luggage?” the man asked. Oliver blinked. “It’s only this.” He indicated his bag. “I’m having the rest of my stuff shipped over. I gathered the apartment came fully furnished?” “Yeah.” The man turned and walked toward the staircase, forcing Oliver to trail after him. “My name’s Brown. I’m the landlord and building super. My apartment is across the hall from yours.” They passed what appeared to be a large sitting parlor on one side of the hallway and a closed door on the other, but Brown stopped at neither. They climbed one flight of stairs to the first-floor landing, ancient floorboards groaning with their every step. Oliver clutched the banister, but Brown seemed unconcerned about the possibility of the staircase crumbling under his powerful frame. “Why don’t you leave the front door open?” Oliver asked. “What about mail and delivery people?” “They know to leave stuff on the porch,” Brown said without turning. “Usually whoever comes home first brings the mail in.” This was…a curious arrangement. Oliver wasn’t sure he liked the idea of his landlord or his neighbors sifting through his mail. “Aren’t you afraid someone might steal your packages?” he ventured. “It’s a rather busy street.” Brown did turn to him then, pausing for a moment on the top stair and looking down at him. “All the more reason to keep the door locked. Besides, no one is stupid enough to steal from here,” he said and continued on, leaving Oliver gaping at the inconsistency of those two statements. There were only two apartment doors on the landing, facing each other across a narrow stretch of hall. Another small door, perhaps a utility closet, was tucked under the stairs. Brown produced a key from the front pocket of his flannel shirt, unlocked the door marked 1B, and gestured for Oliver to follow inside. Oliver would be lying if he said he didn’t cross the threshold with some trepidation, given the overall shabbiness, but as Brown flicked on the lights, he could see nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, the apartment was much sparser than he’d imagined. The living room, with its high windows, ornate cornices, and a fireplace tucked in a corner, opened into a small kitchen outfitted with decades-old appliances and laminate flooring. A long couch faced the windows and the wall between them, but as far as Oliver could see, there was no TV. This looked much closer to the pictures in the posting than the dilapidated exterior, at least. And everything was clean. Worn out, certainly, but not dirty. Someone must have put in the work of scrubbing the hardwood floors and giving the walls a fresh lick of paint as the whole place smelled of pine-scented cleaner rather than mildew. Oliver lowered his duffel bag onto the floor, next to the narrow side table by the entrance, and took a cautious step inside, taking in his surroundings. “There are some towels and bedding in the linen closet next to the bathroom,” Brown said, pausing by the breakfast counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. “If you want hot water, I suggest showering in the mornings. It can run out quickly this time of year, especially in the evenings.” An image of Brown standing in the shower, a stream of steaming water gliding over his skin and plastering his dark hair to his forehead popped unbidden into Oliver’s mind. It was as sudden as it was surprising, considering the man’s complete lack of geniality. Oliver cleared his throat and turned to the windows to conceal his blush, shivering with the draft that made the heavy curtains flutter. He was simply tired from his flight, letting his thoughts wander in silly directions. “Okay. Is there anything else I should know, Mr. Brown?” It didn’t help matters that he could still see the man’s faint reflection in the windowpane, set against the gathering gloom outside. “Rent is due on the first of every month. I’ll send you the link for the pay app for this month’s fee and deposit.” “Or I can just slide the envelope with the cash under your door.” Brown’s reflection frowned. “You know,” Oliver said, “because it’s all so old-fashioned around here?” He paused for effect. There was only silence. “Forget it; it was a bad joke.” “I don’t care either way, as long as you pay on time,” Brown said gruffly. “Takes a lot to keep this place up and running.” Oliver supposed it was true. Old buildings were notorious money pits where maintenance was concerned, and from what he’d seen so far, the “up and running” part was a bit of a stretch. What the house needed was nothing short of a complete overhaul, but he judged it better not to say so to the landlord. “Here are your keys.” They jingled as Brown put them on the entrance side table. “One for the apartment and one for the front door. I’m right across the hall if you need anything.” He somehow managed to make it sound like a warning rather than an invitation. “Um, sure,” Oliver said, turning back to him. He hoped he’d composed himself enough not to betray his earlier embarrassment. “Wait. Can you recommend a place where I can order takeout? After that airplane food, I’m kinda starving.” He’d have to do some grocery shopping tomorrow after work, but he had absolutely nothing planned for dinner tonight. As if to emphasize his words, his stomach rumbled, too loud in the quiet of the room, and he flushed again, the heat creeping up to his hairline. Brown’s gaze traveled from Oliver’s feet to his face as if taking his measure. “There’s a decent pizza joint nearby,” he said. “I can get you their menu flier.” “That’d be great!” Oliver said, sounding fake cheerful to his own ears. The conversation, mundane as it was, had made him more and more flustered. Or was it the other man’s looming presence? Either way, Oliver couldn’t wait to be alone and get settled, preferably after a nice, hot meal. Brown nodded and turned to leave without sparing another word. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Oliver alone, with only the ticking of the mantle clock to fill the silence.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

A voracious reader from the age of five, Isabelle Adler has always dreamed of one day putting her own stories into writing. She loves traveling, art, and science, and finds inspiration in all of these. Her favorite genres include sci-fi, fantasy, and historical adventure. She also firmly believes in the unlimited powers of imagination and caffeine.

Website | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway