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…

Cold rain falls and hard winds blow
No, no, November, no, no.
Heavy clouds that threaten snow
No, no, November, no, no.

Plants and trees no longer grow
No, no, November, no, no.
All the fields lie fallow
No, no, November, no, no.

Cold sets faces all aglow
No, no, November, no, no.
Chills each finger and each toe
No, no, November, no, no.

Autumn soon we will see go
No, no, November, no, no.
Winter waits her face to show
No, no, November, no, no.

But our spirits are not low
No, no, November, no, no.
Cos November tells us so
No, no, November, no, no.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The following Friday saw Sam and Anna ensconced in their room in a very posh London hotel. He was dressed, and Anna had tied his tie. She was almost ready and just wriggling into her little dress, a process Sam found truly fascinating.
“It’s a shame we have to meet a lot of very boring people for cocktails. Watching you wriggle has given me all sorts of interesting ideas.”
“Tough tit, Sam. It’s taken hours to buff and polish me. You are welcome to mess me up all you like after this shindig. Until then. Hands off.”
He grinned wickedly, but complied. Anna gave herself a quick spritz of perfume and picked up a tiny weeny evening bag. She gazed critically at herself in the mirror, then Sam came to stand behind her.
“You look stunning,” he whispered before offering her his arm.

They sailed out of the room, looking like the successful professional people they were, but with an overlay of happiness that made people stop for a second look at them as they passed along the carpeted corridor of the hotel talking quietly.

The cocktail hour was as boring as Sam suggested it might be. The committee members and their partners were overly polite and politically correct, but the hospital dinosaurs and their mostly brittle wives spent the time checking Anna out, either covertly, or with shockingly rude thoroughness. She let neither approach ruffle her calm demeanour, and Sam remained rooted to her side despite a myriad of subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to detach him.
“Cripes Sam,” Anna hissed as they headed for the ballroom where dinner would be served, “this lot are even worse than a room full of accountants.”
He sniggered, then Anna felt him stiffen at the sound of a female voice.
“A little bird tells me my ex has had the poor taste to turn up with some bint in tow. I must just have a look at what has picked up my leavings.”
Anna turned a bland face in the direction of the voice, and what she saw had her stifling a giggle.
“What?” Sam hissed in her ear.
“Tell you later. It really is too good not to share.”
Sam’s ex-wife was a very curvy blonde, who obviously thought she bore more than a passing resemblance to Norma Jean, which would have amused Anna anyway, but it was the woman’s escort who had her biting the inside of her cheeks to control the giggles. He was a darkly handsome man, beautifully tailored, and possessed of a carefully tended athletic build. His eyes met Anna’s and he dropped her the ghost of a wink.
“Christina, my love,” he said reprovingly, “that came out very rudely. I’m sure you would like to apologise”.
For an instant she looked mulish before dropping her eyes. “Oh. I’m sure I’m very sorry,” she muttered.
Anna inclined her head, then held out a hand to the dark man.
“Tariq. What a pleasant surprise.”
He bowed over her hand.
“Anna. Likewise.”
Then he scooped up his sullen-looking lady friend and more or less towed her into the ballroom.

Sam held Anna’s arm gently and they stood allowing their party to precede them. Anna put her mouth to his ear.
“No time for the whole story now, just one thing for you to think about. Unless that particular leopard has changed its spots radically, your ex will be sitting on a very sore bottom tonight.”
Sam gave her a quizzical look, then the penny dropped and he grinned.
“How delightful,” he murmured. “Shall we?”

The evening dragged, mediocre food was followed by a mediocre after-dinner speaker, then a mediocre band played mediocre middle-of-the-road music. The entertainment culminated with a cringe-inducing charity auction. As Anna whispered to Sam it was no more than an excuse for wealthy upper middle-class people to pay way over the odds for stuff they didn’t want just to show off to their peers.

By the time they could decently leave, Sam’s jaw was aching with the effort of not yawning.
“I have to slip to the men’s room. I won’t be long. Then we can escape and I’ll watch you wriggle out of that dress.”

When he returned, he found Christina, Tariq and their party at the table making their farewells to Anna. Christina’s father moved away from the table and grasped his hand firmly. “That’s a lovely girl you have there,” he said in his rich, Lancashire brogue. “I’m glad my little madam didn’t put you off women for good. Mind you. She’s met her match with this one. Perhaps he belts her like neither one of us did. Whatever. It seems he has known your Anna for some years. Says you’re a lucky man.”
Sam just smiled and watched. Christina, jumpy and edgy and seemingly unable to keep her eyes or her hands off her escort. Tariq, urbane and polished, but with an underlay of something much less civilised. His ex-mother-in-law, made faintly uneasy by something she couldn’t understand, talking randomly to the wife of one of the older doctors. And Anna. Anna, who seemed unaffected by the undercurrents around her. Serene and lovely, she smiled charmingly at everyone but was careful not to catch Sam’s eye. The giggles, he surmised, were quite near the surface.
As Tariq and his party moved away one of the senior doctor’s wives turned to Anna.
“He’s an attractive beast. How do you come to know him?”
“Purely professionally. He’s a financial adviser and I audited the books of some of his clients.”
“Oh. Boring. So there’s nothing you can tell us about the man then?”
“Other than the fact he’s rich, successful, unmarried and a quarter Iranian? No.”
The woman who had asked the question had the grace to blush, and her husband rescued her from further embarrassment by announcing himself ready for bed.
This effectively broke up the party allowing Sam and Anna to escape. They got into their room and Anna dropped face down on the bed in a serious fit of the giggles.
“Sorry Sam,” she mopped her streaming eyes. “I’ll explain as soon as I can stop laughing.”
He looked down at her.
“I’d sooner watch you wriggle out of that dress,” he said darkly.
She got to her feet and obliged with an exaggerated shimmy of her narrow hips. Sam growled deep in his chest and began to throw off his own clothes while she stood and watched him, clad only in a tiny thong and skyscraper heels. As soon as he had fought his way out of his dinner suit he grabbed her.

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

Born she was from darkness
In the bosom of the night
Daughter of indiscretion
Selene who shines so bright
Relaxes she and grows by day
Secret as a nun
And then she bellies like a sail
Giving back the sun
Born was she to wax and wane
In her appointed time
She calls the seas to rise and fall
A Circe in her prime
Born she was from that dark sky
Wherein we see her face
Silver sister, crescent moon
Epitome of grace
Born she was from darkness
Born she was to die
Consider our mortality
The crescent moon and I

© jane jago

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I have a circle of ‘lady friends’ ranging in age from ‘old enough to know better’ to ‘bloody hell she’s out without a nurse again’. What binds us together is the love of a drink or two, the mistrust of politicians in all their shades of belief, and a sort of jaunty independence that moves us to stick up our middle fingers at life.
Until recently, I would have also said we were bonded by a broad streak of common sense. However.
That was until Beryl’s god-bedamned daughter-in-law bought her a ouija board for her birthday. A crowd of us descended on Dunshaggin – Beryl’s five-bed three-bath cottage off the high street – for a weej night.
I went along – hoping for plenty of booze, a buffet of belly-busting proportions, and a bloody good laugh at the silly game.
Got the first two. No problems. And the food, having been delivered from the local branch of the middle classes’ favourite supermarket was excellent. In fact, until the weejing started it was being a blast.
But then Beryl got the bloody thing out of its box and they all sat around it like hopeful sheep.
After rather a lot of jockeying for position, everyone had a finger on the wheelie doodad and Beryl dimmed the lights.
We were left with one spotlamp shining on the table and everything else as dim as the coal house on a December evening.
Even then I expected – or maybe I just hoped for – a bit of a laugh. Boy oh boy was I disappointed.
For a long time, nothing happened, except Brenda demanding to know if there was anybody out there and the occasional fitful jiggle of the wheelie thing.
After what felt like three hours of this, I got bored, and, somehow or another, wheelie sprung into action.
It was such a busy little doodad, scurrying about bringing messages from beyond to all and sundry. There were messages from departed loved ones (particularly touching were the words of love from pets who waited on the rainbow bridge), there was advice both emotional and financial (mostly of the ‘that’s a scam you silly old cow’ variety), and there was a sprinkling of rude jokes to leaven the pudding.
Oh how merrily we weejed. And oh how sad we’re we when mister wheelie launched himself off the table in a hissy fit.
And that, I rather hoped, would be that.
But of course it wasn’t.
Weej evenings became all the rage, although, sadly, nobody gets messages like that first night in Brenda’s house.
Me?
I don’t go any more. I have the perfect excuse.It was the message from my old dog, Susan, I explain. Warning me against any more contact across the great divide.

Yeah, doh. Of course we can speak. But what’d be the point? Two-legs would just get creeped out.
I mean. One time there was this horse. Ed he was called. Used to talk to his two-legs all the time. When other two-legs found out they put his’n in a place for madders and ole Ed got boiled down for glue.
No. You take my word for it. Don’t never even try to talk to a two-legs no matter how much you love it.
Just put love in your eyes. If you’re lucky it might even understand.

©Jane Jago