I used to hate Harry. He squired me around the country for half a year, popped my cherry and promptly disappeared from my life. I cried for a week, then pulled on my big girls pants and got on with life.
But I hated.
Until Azriel and me went to the hospice. He’s a PAT dog, and he brings comfort to the terminally ill. Guess who we found? Thin, diminished, and dying.
When he saw me, a tear ran down his face, and me and Azriel held him close while he drew his last breath.
I don’t hate him now…

©Jane Jago

Unable to do any more research for his latest book, and unwilling to mark the essays of the hapless few who opted to study Ancient Scrolls under his sarcastic and careless tutelage, Launcelot went home.
He kicked the door open and the parlourmaid winced before whisking herself down the back stairs to the servants’ quarters. She passed the master’s valet, Wilkinson, on the half landing.
“He’s home Mister Wilkinson, and he don’t half look to be in a mood.”
Wilkinson permitted himself a thin smile. “Not to worry, Primrose. Just keep out of his way for a while.”
The girl scuttled down the vertiginous staircase with the speed of a startled mouse, but Wilkinson carried on his stately way, wholly undisturbed by any of his master’s moods. He arrived at that gentleman’s bedchamber in time to field the academic gown and boots that flew through the half-open door.
“Wilkinson! Wilkinson! Get your scrawny backside in here right now!”
Wilkinson arranged his narrow features into a suitably servile expression and oozed into the room.
“You called?”
“Course I bloody well called. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Draw me a bath.”
Wilkinson walked into the bathroom on soft feet. An hour later, somewhat soothed by a steamy bath and a change of clothing, Gribble trod the shallow stairs to the family chambers in search of his wife. He found her in her comfortable sitting room. Unfortunately for his brightening mood she wasn’t alone. Sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace was her plain and lumpen sister, Caroline. Gribble sneered.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
The unfortunate girl coloured unbecomingly and Gribble’s merciless eyes took in the red blotches on her neck with some amusement.
“Leave the gel alone, you blackguard. Pick on somebody your own size.”
The voice came from within the embrace of his own huge winged armchair, and it reduced him to schoolboy status in an instant. His formidable grandmother chuckled.
“Pleased to see us, are you Lionel?”
“Launcelot, Grandmere,” his wife’s soft tones were edged with gentle rebuke. “You promised not to be confrontational. It’s bad for the baby.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry Gwyn. I should have remembered. But he’s such a pompous arsehole.”
Gwyn waved a finger and the old lady subsided. Launcelot felt a moment of unusual gratitude, and bowed over his wife’s small hand.
“How do I find you today?” he enquired jocularly. “I’m well,” she smiled, a sweetly absent smile and for a few moments a watcher could have thought themselves looking at an ordinary happy family.

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

If Tim hadn’t overslept that Monday morning, having been up all night with an emergency plumber in his flooded kitchen, he’d not have been late meeting those important new company clients. And if he’d not tripped over carrying their coffees, he might not have ruined his boss’s new Armani suit and he might have kept his job.
And he might have afforded the repayments on his car, so not have needed to be on his pushbike to go to a job interview and got a puncture right outside a diner and got talking with the owner – Lily, his future wife.

E.M. Swift-Hook

If you have enjoyed Granny’s rants, pearls of wisdom and lifehacks on the Working Title Blog, you can now have a collection of her inimitable insights of your very own or to gift to someone you think would appreciate Granny’s words!

Granny Knows Best by Jane Jago is now available in ebook and treebook.

Gran Rap

They call me Granny coz I’m old and grey
But I’m not looking back to yesterday
I’m as old as my tongue, but much younger than my teeth
And you better watch your ass when I’ve got a beef
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
I don’t like slippers, though I like trainer shoes
I never waste my pension for I spend it all on booze
I’ve never made jumper nor a tea cozy
And you’ll never learn ladylike manners from me
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
I don’t play bridge and I think golf’s a bore
Just pour me a gin, and then add one more
I don’t like to go to a ladies lunch club
You’ll find me and mine in a corner of the pub
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
They call me Granny coz I’m old and wise
And I watch the world with experienced eyes
You have to work hard to get my respect
As I think most people are a pain in the neck
This is Gran rap, with a hip rhyme
But it’s over now because it’s pub time

Grab your copy now – ‘cos Granny says to!

It was the smell – compounded of blood, and burst intestines, and faeces, and fear. He knew it would fill his nostrils for the rest of his days. That and the sound of horses screaming in mortal agony. It was, he had discovered, easy enough to tune out human voices – but not the death cries of the animals who came here through no volition of their own.
He fell to his knees in the mud and hoped death would find him next. It didn’t, though he died anyway.
Another corpse among so many, only this one fell on his own sword.

©Jane Jago

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

Other words distracted him, appearing on a screen shimmering into his vision. His unwanted guest sending another message, asking him – telling him – to follow a new line of questioning. Vane gritted his teeth and looked back to the man standing before him.
“I would like to know why you feel you would be better able to serve the community in civilian life. You have been given the chance to remain in the military but still express a preference against that. If you mean what you say about service, about wanting to serve the Coalition, don’t you think your skill in warfare would suggest the military as the better option?”
The green eyes were steady now, holding his own in a gaze, direct enough to be taken as a challenge. He hoped it was not meant to be one. For an irrational moment, Vane wondered if the man somehow guessed this question came from a different source.
“I want to try civilian life. I have never known any other life than the Legion, sir.”
“Exactly. And many people might say that is an excellent reason for remaining with us – albeit in a less rigorous capacity. What would you say to them?”
“I do not think many people have lost their entire life history and woken to find themselves paying for crimes they cannot even recall. I would like to experience what those ‘many people’ would consider a normal productive life as I have not yet had the chance to do so. Sir.”
More words flashed up. At the back of the room the observer still watched, Vane could feel the pressure of their expectation. He suppressed a sigh and read his autocue.
“Have you thought about your own safety? Your terrorist colleagues will not have taken kindly to your public denunciations. Not all the friends and relatives of your victims are law-abiding citizens. You are not entitled to any extra protection in civilian life and the Coalition won’t guarantee your safety once you have been discharged.”
A good question and one Vane realised he should have considered asking himself. The issue of safety, in the case of this man, ran very much two-ways. For a moment he thought he saw Revid’s lips curve with irony, but before he could be sure, the blank mask resumed.
“I understand I will be on my own and am prepared to accept the risk. I do not consider it to be in excess of the risk I have faced every day of my conscious life so far in active service, sir.”
Which was hard to deny. Beside him, Sergeant Hynas shifted his stance again, unimpressed and wanting to comment. Vane ignored him. He could guess what Hynas wanted to contribute and besides, more questions were appearing on one of his screens.
“Normal life means having family and loved ones around you. Do you have any family to go to?”
Behind the holofacade, the unwelcome observer leant forward as if trying to see more clearly.
“I have no family, sir. I have been informed my parents died some years ago. Due to Central guidelines on family size at that time, both were an only child, as was I. My grandparents, I have been informed, all made it clear they don’t wish to have anything to do with me after I was responsible for the murder of my wife and their great-grandchild.”
Vane knew about the murder, of course, but he still felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift as this was delivered with a complete lack of emotion. The neurocologists had cleared this man of being a psychopath, sociopath or having other dangerous anti-social mental disorders, but to hear him speak of murdering his family without any external reaction at all, chilled the blood.
“You killed your own child?”
Despite himself, Vane knew the question came out laced with disgust.
“I did, sir.”
Still no emotion.
“And you feel nothing about that?”
The green eyes moved back to their previous middle-distance focus.
“I have no memory of my family, sir, or of taking any life before I joined the Legion. It is difficult for me to see myself as someone who would, act in such a way. But I know I committed the crime. Right now, I feel deeply ashamed I was once the kind of person who would do such a thing.”
Vane tried to imagine waking up one day with no memory of his past and being told he had committed mass murder. Was it possible to become a completely different person by such means? Or were the fundamentals of who we are ingrained deep below levels of personality and memory? He knew the neurocologists said this man was now a different psychological individual from the murderer, but as a normal human being, it remained incredibly difficult to accept.

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

The photo sat in it’s silver-gilt frame, buried deep in the drawer for years before Sam unearthed it and, realising her own guilt had silvered with the passage of time, wiped the surface of the glass with nostalgic affection.
She’d never know why she’d left him. Day of their wedding. Instead of going to church, she’d gone to the airport. She’d been too young? Fear of commitment? Bad on-the-day nerves?
Behind the photo was the unopened final letter he’d sent. She read it now.
It’s ok, Sam. I know you. By the time you read this I’ll have forgiven you…

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Spice Ghosts have descended on Roshaven accusing Jenni of stealing their sacred bones and are threatening to destroy the city if they are not returned but Jenni the sprite has no idea what they’re talking about.
With the help of her boss, Chief Thief-Catcher Ned Spinks, Jenni promises to find and return them however the skeletal trail leads them into the dark and dangerous waters of the dread Sea Witch.
Ned is out of his depth and frantically treading water while Jenni must fight to avoid becoming catch of the day.
The Bone Thief is the new Roshaven book from Claire Buss.

Ned Spinks, Chief Thief-Catcher, slumped his shoulders in dismay at the pile of reports spilling over his desk. Things were not well in the city of Roshaven.
‘And these are all from this week?’ Ned asked as he gestured at the pile.
‘Yes, Boss.’ Willow, a tree nymph and one of Ned’s catchers, nodded her head so vigorously, her leaves rustled. ‘There’s been multiple instances of people claiming their magic has been stolen and a report from the Sailors’ Guild that unexpected sea-related deaths have risen sharply.’
‘Have you spoken with them?’ asked Ned.
‘The Guild? No. We thought it was just their standard report. Was we supposed to?’ Willow bloomed uncertainly.
‘No, not the Guild – the people who think their magic was stolen.’
‘Not yet, but we’ve set up interviews with some of them this afternoon. But Boss… how can we prove if someone’s had their magic stolen or not?’ she asked.
‘The best thing you can do is find out why they think it’s happened in the first place. If we can discover a common element between each experience, then we might be able to pinpoint why it’s happening,’ replied Ned.
He was mildly concerned. In all likelihood, the people who thought they’d lost some magic had inadvertently used more than they expected or had some other ailment that was preventing their ability to cast. But magic skimming, taking small amounts of power from others, was illegal, so if these were legitimate claims, then the catchers would need to find and arrest the culprit before they caused someone permanent damage. Skimming was dangerous for both parties.
‘Let’s hope it’s kids messing about so we can nip it in the bud or, better yet, maybe they all have a nasty cold affecting their casting. See what you can find out.’ He shuffled through the paperwork. ‘Is that everything?’
‘There’s the paper,’ said Joe helpfully. He was Ned’s only fully human catcher, besides himself.
Ned waited for the lad to expand but nothing else was forthcoming so he examined his paperwork pile more closely and sure enough, a copy of The Daily Blag lay between reports. He eased it out of the stack and read out the headline.
‘Death at the Beach.’ He glanced at Joe.
‘There’s a bit more, Boss.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Joe.’ Ned stiffened the paper with a flick of his wrists and read on. ‘Towns and villages up and down the coast of Efrana are reporting an increase in mysterious deaths linked to the ocean. Officials are baffled why it is suddenly not safe in the water and are urging locals and visitors to stay away from the beach.’ Ned read on in silence, but the article lacked any further facts.
‘What do we think – mermaids?’ asked Ned. ‘They’re not exactly the friendliest creature in the ocean.’
Both Willow and Joe shook their heads.
‘True, but they are territorial, and this is happening all over.’
‘Plus we spoke to Pearl,’ said Joe. ‘She said it wasn’t them.’

A Bite of… Claire Buss

What keeps you coming back to Roshaven in your writing? 

I enjoy writing the Roshaven books because of the colourful cast. They are fun to write, fun to listen to and fun to read back to myself when going through the painful road of editing. I also get of lot of enjoyment from other people telling me what they enjoy from reading the books as well, like the fact that they think Fred has a Welsh accent lol. There’s so much scope for imagination, anything can happen – and it often does – Roshaven stories can take you anywhere. 

What were the best, the worst and the hardest things about writing The Bone Thief? 

The best part was making it all up as I went along, which is how I write all my books to be fair. The worst bit was having my freshly minted words picked apart by my Crit Group haha. The hardest thing for me is always the editing. Because I’m a discovery writer and I don’t have a firm plan before I start writing, things often head off in weird directions and plot holes start replicating. The second draft is always super painful as I marry up plotlines, timelines, characters that appear and disappear and I usually end up doing a lot of backfilling but I kinda enjoy that bit as I make scenes more awesome once I know what finally happens in the end. 

If cake was off the dessert menu, what would you go for instead?

Hmmm I’d take my Nan’s rice pudding. I don’t know how she did it but it was always amazing. These days my dairy and egg intolerance make eating out, especially dessert, rather miserable. Occasionally there’s a decent vegan option but not very often. I love, love lemon meringue pie, or at least I used to. 

Claire is an award-winning multi-genre author and poet. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, she went on to work in a variety of marketing and administrative roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and expert procrastinator Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. Since then, Claire has published twenty-one novels and poetry collections and had her short fiction published in six anthologies. She is also Deputy Editor of Write On!. Claire continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake. You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter and if you sign up for her Newsletter you will get a free book.

Tally had loved Rupert all her life. From childhood hero worship to teenage crush, to whatever it was that died inside her the day he married a girl from a wealthy family.
Not having been brought up to believe you could die of a broken heart, Tally married a tall young farmer whose calloused hands were always gentle on her skin.
Watching her husband cradle their firstborn, she found love for his steadfast kindliness.
So it was that, when Rupert came to her bewailing his mistaken marriage, she refused him.
What you need isn’t always what you think you want…

©Jane Jago

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

The demise of their leader effectively robbed the few remaining Spaniards of any desire to fight. In compliance with the rigid rules of piracy, they were herded into a longboat and provided with water and food. Whether or not they made land was in their own hands.
As the last grizzled veteran climbed into the boat he raised puzzled eyes to where Gobby was halfway up the main mast maniacally waving a huge cutlass he had liberated from the body of a dead sailor.
“Why ain’t that rat dead? I seen the hidalgo run him through. Why ain’t he dead?”
Jack grinned. “Gobby? He is dead. Been dead since forty-four. He’s just too stupid to notice. There’s that many holes in his gut that when he takes a tot of rum it runs out and the fleas get drunk.”
As the longboat pulled away, Jack’s attention was drawn to some sort of a commotion emanating from the forecastle cabin. Bony Mary came out onto the deck with something or someone in her arms. The huge woman appeared to be crying, which was unusual enough to have Jack pushing his way to her side. She was carrying the frail body of a young woman cradled tenderly against her brawny chest.
“Look what the bastard was doing,” she said bitterly. “Just look.”
Jack looked. The young woman was deathly pale, except for her slender neck, which was discoloured by deep bruising and multiple bite marks.
“Oh,” he said softly. “So that was his game.”
“What?” Mary demanded. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that somebody needs to behead the corpse of the Don. And that we’ll be taking it back home and giving it to the obeah woman to burn. Because, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not, he was regularly drinking the blood of a virgin in a bid for immortality.”
Mary hissed and one of her ‘girls’ hastened to hack off the corpse’s handsome head. After a few minutes’ effort she stood up holding the head by its immaculately curled hair.
“What now, Jack?”
“Have some of the boys put the body in a sack and load it on the Runner. You lot take the head. We’ll give them to Mama Ouija when we gets home.”
With that decision made, the pirates got down to offloading the treasure and Jack looked with some pity at the girl in Mary’s arms.
“Carry her onto the Runner. There’s nowhere to rest her on the wrecker. She can have my cabin, and one of your girls can stay with her. You, if you like.”
Mary’s smile showed a lot of very white, very even teeth. She patted Jack on the top of his stockinet cap. “For a one-legged dwarf you ain’t a bad sort.”
Jack sighed. “I’m only a half dwarf. If I knew who my father was I reckon I’d be in a mine or a smithy somewhere earning an honest living.” Then he showed his own teeth in a rueful grin. “Or maybe not…”
“At least they built you a decent false leg.”
“The contentious little shits just about had to, as I lost the real one saving their bloody foreman from a rock fall. But that’s all water under the keel. Right now I got work. You take the girl to my cabin and I’ll have someone bring you some wine. Get her to drink it. She needs to rebuild her blood.”
Back on Retiro de Ladrones, Jack made sure Don Carlos was disposed of in such a way as to ensure he couldn’t rise from the dead, then promptly forgot all about him. There was pirating to be done, and he was never more alive then when he stood on the deck of his ship feeling her timbers move through his one good foot and smelling the tang of salt in the air.

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…