Five hundred miles north, things were moving at an altogether faster pace. Two men, a couple of small suitcases, and a black leather holdall, waited by the helipad at the Gleneagles hotel. The larger of the two looked at his companion.
“You sure about this, Sam? It’s going to get nasty, and some people will get hurt, or worse.”
“Yes. I’m sure. They have kidnapped a seven-year-old boy. If they have kept him drugged for thirty-six hours, he could be in a bad way. He might need me, and I might need the stuff I asked for.”
“It’s on the chopper. And how bad?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rod. Worst case scenario is brain damage, but at best he is going to be confused, feeling sick, and dehydrated.”
“Right. So we do need you.”
“And we need to hope.”
They fell silent as the sound of a big helicopter engine came closer.
“Why a Sikorsky?” Sam bawled in Rod’s ear as it came in to land.
They picked up their stuff, ran across the helipad and leapt aboard. A big man in a jumpsuit pushed them into a pair of seats and handed them headsets.
“Welcome aboard Rescue One,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rod grunted. “My friend here wondered why a Sky Crane?”
“Easy. These bastards fly in and out of the target area all the time. Nobody will think twice about another. Has anybody thought about what sort of condition the kid will be in when we get him out?”
“Yes,” Sam said tersely. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. Is the stuff I asked for on board?”
“Yeah. You know how to use it?”
“I do. But let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“What don’t you want to have to use?”
“Mostly: tracheotomy kit. I’ve had to do it in Thailand to kids that were sedated for too long on the underground sex trade routes. It ain’t pleasant, but it can be the only way to get air into the poor little sods’ lungs.”
“Fuck. Will it really be that bad?”
“Probably not, but I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. But the poor little bugger is going to be confused and frightened, and that’s why going home in his friend’s motorhome, where he can rest and feel secure will be better for him than a plane flight where he is surrounded by strangers, or the noise and smells of a chopper.”
“Yeah. I get that. And we can take it in turns to drive. So we’ll get him back to his mum pretty soon. Now I find I’m feeling murderous. Nobody should get between me and anyone I’m beating up.”
The man in the jumpsuit grinned.
“Fine. We’re all fathers here, and nobody is feeling particularly gentlemanly right now. About half an hour till we collect Geordie’s boomer boys. Then an hour from there to this fucking castle. Any orders?”
“Apart from getting my nephew out and demonstrating the family’s annoyance? No. Just do what needs doing.”
“Will do. By the way. This one’s a freebie. Geordie is providing the hardware and the fuel, we’re giving our time. Nobody liked having the Russian Mafia on our turf. But as long as they kept their noses clean we could tolerate them. Taking people’s kids is a big no-no, so we are handing down a lesson.”
“How many are we?” Sam asked.
“You two. Geordie’s boomer boys. Twelve fighters. Pilot, co-pilot and radio guy. Why?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about what they might do to the kid when we tip up. I want to get to him fast.”
“Good thinking. Six of us will escort you right to him. We have his location on screen.”
“Right. Good.”
The two men bumped fists.
They seemed to have covered all the bases, and the men sat in silence until the helicopter dropped down to land briefly. Three men jumped in carrying obviously heavy bags. Once they were seated the chopper took off and headed north. The men put on their headphones and their leader gave Rod a grim wink.
“Got enough stuff to flatten this fecking castle. Geordie says you have to agree, though.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s show them our fist! But we have to get little Bill out first. And if they’ve hurt him…”
The smallest of the boomer boys spat eloquently.
“Aye. There’s examples to be made.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Eggy Drinks

Somewhere in the deep and distant past (during the time I was too busy raising a hopeful brood of contumacious little buggers to take notice of fashion) somebody sneaked something eggy onto the shelf behind the bar. Having made this dreadful mistake they looked at it for a decade before deciding that mixing it with lemonade and shoving a cocktail cherry in it made it a palatable drink. They then persuaded a whole generation of non-drinking aunties and cousins it was both ladylike and delicious.

It’s not. It has the texture of snot and the smell of egg.

Don’t …

Julia Lucia Maxilla stood up to her full four feet and eleven inches and stared at her co-investigator. She saw a tall, handsome man with black hair, pale skin and a square jawline. He glared down at her, and she was surprised by the blueness of his eyes. Her dogs came to lean against her, and this would have alerted her to the idea the man wasn’t precisely pleased to see her if her own intuition hadn’t already made that clear.
“Llewellyn, is it?” She kept her voice cool.
Behind him she could see another man trying to blend into the wall.
“Yes, domina.”
“If we are going to work together, I think we can dispense with such formality. The name is Julia.”
“Julia,” he hesitated fractionally, “I’m Dai Llewellyn. This is Decanus Bryn Cartivel, and is it permitted to ask what those dogs are?”
Julia decided to let the hesitation pass. She summoned a smile. “Canis and Lupo are wolfhounds,” she turned and indicated the huge Saxon who stood at her shoulder. “The dogs and Edbert guard me. In case you missed it, I’m not very big so if I need to intimidate somebody they help with that too.”
For a moment the Briton actually grinned, then he must have remembered whatever grievance was wearing at him and he started looking sulky again. Julia sighed inwardly. He was going to be difficult and that was a shame because he was really, really pretty. Before she got chance to snap his handsome nose off for him, he surprised her by holding out a hand to Edbert.
“Greetings.”
Edbert actually grasped his wrist and the two tall men stood eye to eye for a moment.
“You play nicely with my lady. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Her bodyguard spoke rarely and when he did his uncomfortably deep voice always reminded Julia of a thunderstorm in some far valley. She winced inwardly, rather wishing he hadn’t chosen to speak now and was surprised to hear a thread of amusement in the Briton’s response.
“You can be sure I’ll bear that in mind.”
“If you two have finished bonding, I have a visit to make.” Julia turned a carefully blank face to Dai. Dai. “You had better come with me. Edbert and your decanus can take a break.”
He frowned. “Does it pertain to the investigation?”
“No. And yes. It’s a duty visit to the Tribune. The Prefect is just a time server and she’s a complete waste of time as far as I can see. The Tribune is a different matter. Aside from policy, he and I have known each other since we were children.”
“Since you were children?” Llewellyn frowned. “But wasn’t the Tribune born in the Suburra? And raised in the insulae at the foot of the Capitoline Hills before he was adopted by a patrician?”
“He was. And so was I. Any questions?”
Dai shut his mouth with a snap. Julia could all but hear him thinking, and she took pity on him. It would make little sense to a Briton, who was no doubt raised on TV crime dramas which featured the poverty and criminality of the poorest slum area in Rome, that someone from that place could be in any position of influence or power.
“My father was a soldier, but my mother was a lupa, I think you use the term ‘whore’. My father was killed when he was twenty, in a border skirmish with the Mongol Empire, my mother died soon after of an occupational disease – she succumbed to morbus insu, an STD. I was raised by my father’s family who took me in because I was his only child and I think they wanted something to remember him by.”
“Oh. But how did -?”
“How did I get to be an inquisitor? A long story. And mostly painful, so can we leave it?”
She essayed a smile and her new colleague managed a half grin in response. Julia looked at him more closely.
“Your tunic,” she said severely, “is pretty grubby. That fish sauce must be days old. Do you have another?”
He nodded, wearing the expression of a schoolboy caught cheating in a class test.
“Good. Decimus is a fussy blighter. We’ll swing past yours on the way.”

From Dying to be Roman the first Dai and Julia Mystery from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

In the quiet after what had felt like a maelstrom of need, she lay quiescent on his broad chest listening to the pulses of the earth as they echoed in the bigness of his bones.

Neither spoke, although his hand stroked the skin of her back and she kept her lips pressed to the skin of his throat.

In the silent recesses of her mind she knew she had just given away the only bargaining coin a woman ever has, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice sounded uncertain. 

“Marry me Meg?”

©️jj 2020

Jaelya Roussal, Regent of Harkera, woke up to almost total blackness and silence, her heart hammering hard and a shimmer of perspiration coating her body beneath the light coverlet. She woke as one awakes from a bad dream, with the vague and yet urgent sense of danger that the rational mind, still blurred from sleep, takes time to dispel. There was no possible danger, she told herself, two men stood guard outside her door and the grounds of the Summer Palace were well patrolled by night and day. No one would harm her in her own bed-chamber.
During the civil war she had woken like this many times and occasionally with good cause, when there were sounds of fighting brought to her on the night air. But the fighting was over, Mandervik himself was dead and the war, which had only finished in the spring, seemed now to belong to another lifetime and a different Jaelya.
Waking to the dark left her with a feeling of unreality – as if the universe itself had disappeared and she was all that existed, alone, floating on an island suspended in a void. Then beyond the invisible door to the solar, she heard the sound of booted feet and a muted exchange of words as the guard was challenged formally. The footsteps receded, leaving the stillness of the night to descend again like an unbroken veil.
She was fully awake now and she cast her mind back, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. It had not been a dream – more a jolt of surprise, of the kind that set the pulse racing.
Then she knew.
Alize had been there. She did not question how,with the door bolted and guarded and the windows shuttered against the night air. She just knew that Alize had been in the room and touched her as she slept and had spoken the words which had woken her:
“My poor child – you thought the war was over, but it has only just now begun.”
“Alize?” she spoke the name hesitantly and in little more than a whisper. But there was no reply and the room was empty. Alize had somehow come and was now gone, leaving no trace of her presence.
Sighing, Jaelya turned on to her side and drew her knees up close to her body, hugging the coverlet around her as she had done when a child. She refused to dwell on the words or their meaning or even why tonight, of all possible times, Alize should come to her after so many years of silence. Such thoughts were best left for the clear light of day when the ghosts of the past walked more warily and her mind could be better focused on the demands of the present.
But, like a shy creature of the wild, sleep eluded her. Her thoughts drifted, against her will, until those time worn ghosts that hovered about her, led her gently along the paths of unwilling memory to the beginning of everything.
It was, of course, Alize who had been there then.
Her first awareness of life had been of holding Alize’s hand on that day – as if she had been flung into the world fully-formed at the age of three. Even now she could still see clearly the high beamed roof, with its painted and vaulted ceiling, arching over the huge black and white slabs of stone which paved the floor. She had stood in the doorway, as if looking into the universe from outside, one hand holding onto a small bundle of clothes and the other gripping Alize’s hand tightly – as if her life depended upon it.
She conjured the scene easily, untarnished by the passage of years. The long table, taller than herself then, the chairs which had seemed made for giants, the fireplace which looked large enough to roast a good-sized ox and the faint, musty, smell of cold ashes and old books. Seated at the table, a heavy bound book open before him and a remote screen set up to one side, sat a boy with a mop of curly hair who had looked up as they entered. To the Jaelya in the memory, he had seemed so grown up himself – but he cannot have been much more than five summers her senior.
Feeling confused, she had looked up at the figure of Alize towering beside her and the face that had looked down at her contained blue eyes that seemed to embrace the world and all the stars beyond. Jaelya had felt as though she might be swallowed up in their depths, but somehow the thought made her feel safe rather than frightened. Then Alize’s gaze had moved from herself to the boy, who had got to his feet and was standing quietly behind the table, his square face framed by unruly golden curls.
“Child, this is your sister. Her name is Jaelya and I want you to take care of her.”
The boy had been staring at her with open curiosity as if wondering what manner of creature she might be, but at Alize’s words a miracle happened and his face broke into the most gentle and wonderful smile.
“My sister,” he had breathed the words as a triumphal declaration rather than as any kind of question and then the boy had come across to her, his hands held out in welcome, his honey-coloured eyes lit up by the brilliant smile that was for her alone. “Hello Jae. I am your brother and I’m always going to keep you safe.”
And in that moment Jaelya had loved him with a fierce devotion, a devotion which all the years between and all the tests and burdens of those years had done nothing to diminish. So why was it, as she lay now in the dreamless darkness, that the thought of his returning to Harkera filled her heart with nothing but apprehension?

From Transgressor Trilogy: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook, a Fortune’s Fools book.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

The Vote

I’ve been on the losing side of more votes than you could shake a shitty stick at and I’ve sworn and cried and cursed the rest of the electorate as the fools they undoubtedly are.

But.

It has never occurred to me not to vote.

Not voting is not a protest. It’s effing well giving in.

And the next person who tells me their vote doesn’t count is in for a walking stick right up the back passage.

Voting is both a privilege and a duty. People died so you could vote.

And if you don’t vote, don’t fu**ing complain…

Imagine having an organized platform with information ready for your next book launch. A magical place where readers can browse your books and contact you begging for more. You could be that author!
Whether you are a fledgling author just starting out or a seasoned professional, The Organized Author by Cindy Tomamichel is here with the answers you need.

Welcome writers!

Once there was a golden age of writing, where authors sat down at their typewriters, and wrote words that seldom needed editing. R.E Howard (creator of Conan) shouted his dialogue as he typed, rousing only to argue with the exasperated neighbours, no doubt tired of hearing the hero and sorcerer arguing. Science fiction authors such as Heinlein and Asimov sent off short stories to magazines and changed the way people viewed entertainment. In France and London, poets mused in cafes, arguing over absinthe and words in equal measure. If you wanted to remain unknown to your readers, then it was possible. J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee apparently never gave interviews.
What has this rosy picture to do with me, you might well be asking yourself? Well, the one thing missing in the past was the internet, and the pressure on authors to build awareness of themselves in a sea of others doing the same. No one who wants to make some money or gain readers today can act like a writer from a past century. The world of writing has changed and changed fast.
Being an author in this time of the internet is a lot harder in some ways than in the past. No longer can we type up something and dash it off to an editor, and write more while waiting for the money to roll in. That’s idealised, but no one fifty years ago could have been as overwhelmed with the amount of self-promotion, marketing and platform building that is seen as essential in today’s writing world. It is really easy to feel completely overwhelmed, and this interferes with or stops your writing and can lead to you thinking you are never doing enough. I have felt like that – and maybe you do too? I hope that this book will help get back some writing time for you.
What is the Organized Author? I go through most of the areas that can be part of an author’s platform with the fiendish intent of helping you organise and consolidate your social media and profiles. I will cover aspects such as websites, Facebook, your Amazon profile, Twitter, Goodreads and various other profiles. You may have all or some – or none – of these, it doesn’t matter. Each of these profiles can be organized and streamlined so that your message is consistent across your author platform.
But why do I need an author platform or brand? A consistent message looks professional and provides focus in your marketing. There are various tools and ways to organise yourself to make the multitude of marketing tasks easier and less of a time suck. Hopefully, social media will eat up less of your energy and writing time. I have not covered marketing, as there are approximately a googleplex of books on this topic. It will however ensure that any marketing you do end up doing – the information will be accessible, and people – readers! – will get a smooth and consistent message about you and your writing.
What are my qualifications for all this? Rest assured, I have been where you are – alone and bewildered by all aspects of the internet and social media. I am new to the publishing business, and new to marketing. I am however a big fan of being organized, despite being a pantser when I write. As a new author, there were so many things I had to learn quickly, and that involved many hours of googling blogs, deciding what worked and what didn’t, and then trying to balance all that work with actually writing as well.
This book is my payback to the author community that gave me a hand – when I needed information, or guidance on some aspect of the internet or social media. I found help both with other authors via my publisher, and from Facebook groups and random strangers that became friends on Twitter.
Being organized takes the stress out of at least one aspect of your writing life. If Hollywood calls at the end of the month – you will be confident you are presenting an organized front to the world.

To read on, you should pick up your copy of The Organized Author

A Bite of… Cindy Tomamichel

(1) What do you think is the hardest aspect of being an author that need to be better organised?

I think sifting through all the advice online and deciding what works for you. I’ve described most of the things an author can do – but whether they can or should is dependant on their time and abilities. Being organized can help reduce the effort in some areas, but if you take on too much you really risk being overwhelmed and stalling your creativity.

(2) What have you learned from writing this book?

That some of the technical processes are much harder for some people than others. There is quite a difference between writing and marketing and setting things up like newsletters or profiles. A great deal of reluctance too – perhaps harking back to a golden age, when publishers organized everything, and all the author had to do was write and maybe attend a book signing of adoring fans!
For me personally, it is an interesting process to present information in a way that actually helps and is at the correct level of understanding.

(3) Tea or coffee, and served with what?

Having been a life long tea drinker, I often drink just as much coffee these days. Served with (far too often!) a biscuit, hopefully homemade. I tend to think that writers are composed mainly of caffeine and snacks – with a decorative layer of pet fur. The writer, not the snacks, although that happens too!

Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre writer. Escape the everyday with the time travel action-adventure series Druid’s Portal, science fiction and fantasy stories or tranquil scenes for relaxation. Discover worlds where the heroines don’t wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way. Cindy is also the fiendish mind behind the empire of The Organized Author. She is bent on world domination … hmm, sorry, did I say that out loud?  … making life easier for authors by sharing tips that can streamline their author platform.
You can find her on her own website, follow her on Facebook and Twitter, sign up for her newsletter or seek assistance with her author services.

He was an experiment. Nurtured and taught by the most intellectually advanced AI on the planet, and holding humankind in suspicious contempt. 

But by the time he was thirty years old his wealth was such that those with female children forgave him that, as they threw their offspring in his path.

He was always polite, although the females knew he held them in contempt and wilted under his gaze.

He married in the autumn of his fortieth year. A beauty who never seemed to age and who bore him twin boys as like him as if they were himself reincarnated…

©️jj 2020

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

A couple of hours later, Em put out her best crystal glasses, a platter of cheese and fruit and a bottle of exceedingly nice sherry. Then she sat down to wait. It wasn’t many minutes before a perfunctory tap on the door heralded her visitor. The bishop’s secretary/supernatural liaison officer came in, walking very softly. Em reconsidered the sherry, opting for her best brandy instead. She poured two goodish snifters but said nothing.
“We have a problem Emmeline.”
“Aside from the bats thing?”
He took a fortifying swig of brandy before replying. “Yes. That would be easily dealt with. But.”
“But Doug Turner isn’t quite what he seems to be?”
“Indeed he isn’t. Only…”
“Only what?”
“What indeed? I was hoping you could help me there.”
“If you are sniffing around whether or not he’s one of mine. I can set your mind at ease there. He isn’t.”
“Oh. I rather thought that would explain why he wants rid of the bats.”
“Why would….” Em waved her hands distractedly. “Never mind. You think he’s a supe. I think he’s a supe. My friends think there is something not right about him. That leaves two questions. What is he? And why the heck isn’t he registered?”
“In a nutshell. That’s about the size of it. And it is disturbing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We will find out what is happening. Bishop Enoch is not about to have an unregistered supernatural being on his turf, so this will be resolved quite quickly. However. In the meantime…”
“Will I and mine keep an eye on him?”
“Yes. But. Keep your distance and no heroics. Whatever it is feels insane to me.”
“Yes. I’m not about to get in a fight with an unknown quantity. I’ll just put the Indian sign on him. Now eat some cheese if you are going to pilot that stupid little car of yours after a stiff brandy.”
When he had gone, moving as quietly as a wraith, Em cleared away the remains of his repast before staring fixedly at the phone. It didn’t ring. Instead a car horn tooted merrily outside. Agnes had arrived.
“I was on my way home,” she said accusingly.
“This is important.”
Agnes subsided into a chair and Em put the kettle on. Once they were provided with tea Agnes leaned her elbows on the table.
“Tell me then.”
Em outlined the salient points of the evening. Agnes’ eyes narrowed and her chin seemed more prominent as she took in the implications. 
“Right. I’ll make sure the girls know he’s under suspicion. And you keep your bloody distance until we know what we’re up against. Now shut up while I compose a text.”
She got out her phone and her thumbs flew. Em watched, amazed as always by how fast her oldest friend typed – or texted if that was a verb. When Agnes put her phone down Em grinned at her.
“How do you do that so fast?”
“Practice. Now. Tonight’s meeting. The Crapper woman turned up. She’s a bloody mess. Kind of okay underneath but a jumble of insecurities, worries, and angst. Depressive if I don’t miss my guess. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy regular member but certainly not recruit material. And. She sat next to Lilian who says she smelled Harmsley-Gunn.”
“Yes, well that miserable old bastard was bound to be sniffing around. Anything else of consequence?”
“Yes. There is something not right at the housing association. People are being threatened with eviction.”
“Are they indeed? On what grounds?”
Agnes showed her teeth. “That’s what we need to find out. Fortunately I have a great niece who works in the council offices.” Agnes’ phone bleeped four times. “Right. That’s the reverend under surveillance. Now I’m off home.”
She bent to kiss Em’s cheek before bustling away. Em grinned at her departing back.

Part 10 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

There was a clever man
Who had some clever plans
In his brain right behind his forehead
When they were good,
They were very very good
But when they were bad – life was horrid.

And one of the plans
Of this oh so clever man
Was to make a world in which we all could gain
But the cost to Mother Nature
Didn’t in his thinking feature
And the plans he made were thus all in vain.

And another of the plans
Of this very clever man
Was to right the wrongs that everyone endured
But the arguments go on
Who was right? Who was wronged?
And the real wrongs of this world remain uncured.

So although the plans 
Of every clever man
Might be meant to resolve each situation
Maybe the plans would do
If they listened to me and you
And understood the hearts of every nation.

E.M. Swift-Hook