QSFer Ef Deal has a new queer steampunk book out (gay, lesbian), Twins of Bellesfées book 2: Aéros & Héroes.
Can the Mistress of the Forge best the Mistress of the Night? Strength is forged in the moment when you dare to be vulnerable.
Despite this inherent knowledge, Jacqueline Duval struggles with feelings of weakness and failure when a private celebration for her twin sister’s marriage turns fraught with peril.
Beset by vampires and insurrectionists and rogue monarchs, how is Jacqueline to keep her invited—and uninvited—guests safe, and the King of the French on the right side of the grave?
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Excerpt
She had left Monsieur Claque to puff away the last of his fuel in her workshop. She couldn’t leave the servants’ wing unguarded, no matter what de Guise promised. Whether Anne blew the tin whistle or Mircalla decided to “call” her victims, Monsieur Claque had to be ready to defend them. The guests had brought so many servants, governesses, attendants whom she had promised gold if they stayed locked in, but only because she had counted on Monsieur Claque to safeguard them…
She descended the stairs and headed into the night.
A lovely solo violin filled the air. Jacqueline was no connoisseuse. She had no idea who was playing since she had invited four different violinists; nor could she name the piece. Still, the serene melody that soared from the concert hall’s open balconies and drifted across the valley to echo from “the temple of living pillars,” as Charles described the parc, settled her anxiety, reminding her of the joy her endeavors had evinced thus far. It was possible three glasses of champagne had softened her spirit, but she preferred to think it was the violin. She hummed along, and at the same time laughed at herself, her awful sense of pitch, her low, almost baritone voice.
“Ah, de Guise, de Guise. What can you possibly see in me?” she whispered to the gas lamps.
The very mention of his name brought to mind the previous night in her bed, and she pirouetted in delight, giggling, before returning to the violin’s song. Her fantaisie was interrupted by a retching noise near the pond. In silhouette, she saw a man bent double. A woman stood beside him, rubbing his back while he emptied his stomach.
Jacqueline snickered. “Too much fuel.”
How many times had she done the same for Angélique, during her twin’s years of decadence and dissolution. Before Llewellyn. Before Angélique could put a name to the void in her life. Before she had learned that what she was, was not more than who she was. Before she had become the agent of her own destiny, avenging herself against the ones who had wronged her. Before she had learned to love herself, and to love another even more.
Perhaps that’s what the poor fellow at the pond needed. She hoped the woman beside him could help him find it.
“You two should be inside,” she called to them. “The concert has already begun.”
The fellow straightened and waved. “I love you, Duval!” he called.
Charles. She should have known. And Countess Laroche, no doubt. She waited until she saw them walk away. Her anxiety returned. She would have to check the grounds after finishing up the fueling to be certain they made it safely inside.
Jacqueline followed the drive past the Benets’ cottage down into the woods, gas lamp posts illuminating the path to the workshop. Seated at the third table along, Monsieur Claque raised his head as she entered and lit the phosphorus lucifer lantern beside him, bathing the workshop in blinding white light that reflected and refracted off every polished metal in the shop, creating a dazzling fairyland of sparkles. She breathed in the magical scents she loved: sawdust, hardwood, machine oils, burnt metals. If only she could spend these hours here rather than among tout Paris.
“Sorry to keep you,” she told Monsieur Claque, patting his arm.
She went to the fuel storage cabinet and removed a canister of a liquid fuel she had developed from coal extracts. She brought it to the worktable next to Monsieur Claque, then went back for two other canisters. When she opened his breastplate and removed his fuel tank, the autonomaton’s head dropped and the lights of his indicators went dark.
“I never meant for you to get so low,” Jacqueline said, “but if it’s any consolation, I’m operating on zero myself.” Then she hiccoughed and chuckled. “Unless you count alcohol. I have some of that for you too.”
She measured out portions of the three liquid fuels and poured them into Monsieur Claque’s tank, then returned the canisters to storage. She closed the cabinet, but as she shut the lock, the workshop went dark.
The utter blackness after the brilliant phosphorus blinded her. Instinctively, Jacqueline seized a claw hammer from its hooks beside the cabinet. She whirled. “Who’s there?”
She heard nothing, saw nothing but the faint glow of gaslight from the forest walk. The pond frogs barked and quacked, and cicadas buzzed, unalarmed. As her eyes adjusted, she sidled toward Monsieur Claque. Something large, soft, and furry tripped her. She landed hard, slamming her brow into the claws of the hammer.
Her vision exploded in fireworks. Futter that damned cat! She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse pounded against her skull, and blood streamed into her left eye. Groaning, she managed to get up to her elbows to flip over and sit, brandishing the hammer in one hand.
Jacqueline snatched the hem of her dress to mop blood from her face. Pressing the fabric to the gash on her brow, she waved the hammer around wildly. Her head throbbed, pain and blood blinding her. As terror mounted, her thoughts raced.
Angélique. Angélique will smell fear. Angélique will smell the blood. Llewellyn will—
Talons seized her shoulders from behind. Sharp teeth pierced her flesh. Jacqueline choked on a strangled cry. Then…
Sweet, sweetest euphoria overtook her senses. The dusk of the workshop enfolded her in delicate warmth and she gasped in wonder. The very air caressed her arms, her legs. Jacqueline nestled into it with a sensual moan.
Utter peace filled her, in the way hydrogen might fill the envelope of an aerostat, and she floated up to follow the song of the violin. It carried her beyond the forest, above the vineyards, up into the night sky of myriad stars. She reached for them and kept reaching and kept rising.
A shot tore away the envelope, and Jacqueline fell to earth.
Author Bio
Musician, poet, editor, video editor, and author of steampunk, fantasy, and horror, Ef Deal has been writing and composing since she was nine years old. Her short fiction has been published in numerous online zines and print anthologies including The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Dangerous Waters from Brigid’s Gate, Chris Ryan’s Soul Scream Antholozine, two anthologies from Speculation Publications, and four anthologies from e-Spec Books. She is currently public relation coordinator for eSpec Books, assistant fiction editor at Abyss&Apex magazine, and video editor for Strong Women ~ Strange Worlds. Her novels Esprit de Corpse, Aéros & Héroes, and The Order of Duval from eSpec Books are part of a steampunk paranormal romance series set in France, featuring the gifted Twins of Bellefées, who tend to show up in other eSpec Books anthologies. When she’s not writing, she plays bugle in the Blessed Sacrament Golden Knights drum and bugle corps, and is a member of the Buglers Hall of Fame and the New Jersey Drum Corps Hall of Fame, honored for her contribution to playing, teaching, directing, and arranging. She lives in Haddonfield, NJ, with her husband and her chow chows Corbin and Rory. She is a member of SFWA and HWA. Her website is www.efdeal.net.
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