QSFer Kim Fielding has a new MM fantasy romance out, part of the shared world series Carnival of Mysteries: Crow’s Fate.
You can’t fly away from destiny.
Crow Rapp assumes he’ll spend his life growing corn in rural Illinois, like the grandparents who raised him. But during a visit to a traveling carnival, he encounters a handsome stranger named Simeon Bell—and receives a prophecy of a horrifying future. When that future materializes soon afterward, Crow flees… only to find that no matter how far he goes, fate pursues him.
Simeon reenters his life a decade later and causes Crow to consider whether actively fighting his fate might be better than constant attempts at escape. In a world tinged by magic, where myths are as real as the sky above them, the men try to determine Crow’s true identity. Along the way, they test the powers of friendship and love and explore the boundaries of free will—ultimately discovering whether the force of destiny can be overcome.
Crow’s Fate is part of the multi-author Carnival of Mysteries Series. Each book stands alone, but each one includes at least one visit to Errante Ame’s Carnival of Mysteries, a magical, multiverse traveling show full of unusual acts, games, and rides. The Carnival changes to suit the world it’s on, so each visit is unique and special. This book contains an Illinois farmboy, a roustabout from London, and realizations about the power of love.
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Excerpt
It was dark inside, much darker than the midway, so Crow’s first sensory information was the scent: a mixture of floral and spice, a little like the incense Aunt Helen had brought back from her honeymoon trip to Chicago. But this aroma was deeper, more complex, and probably wouldn’t fade away after an hour or two, like the incense. In fact, he had the sense that the odor had been here for a very long time and was as much a part of the tent as the fabric itself.
A single lightbulb hung from the peak of the tent, and fairy lights outlined the ceiling where it met the walls. Crow blinked a few times in an attempt to help his eyes adjust. Which was when he saw another person in the tent with him. Madame Persephone, he presumed, although her back was to him. She was broad-shouldered and as tall as he was, which surprised him because few women were. A colorful scarf covered her head and back.
Crow made a small noise, not quite a throat-clearing, at which point she spun around, the scarf dropping to the floor.
It wasn’t Madame Persephone.
It was, in fact, a startlingly handsome man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. With the scarf gone, Crow could see that he wore old blue jeans and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. His long dark hair was bound into a ponytail; his eyes, also dark, glittered with humor. He grinned as if doing so came naturally, as if smiling was his usual response to almost everything.
“S-sorry,” Crow stammered.
The man laughed, scooped the scarf from the floor and settled it on the back of the chair. “No need to be sorry. I was the one doing something he oughtn’t.”
He had an accent. English, Crow was pretty sure, although he’d never met anyone with an English accent. In fact, he had never met a single person born anywhere other than Illinois. The unfamiliar vowels sent a shiver across Crow’s heated skin and gave him a clenching feeling low in his gut; neither of those sensations was unpleasant.
“I… I….”
“She’ll be back in a bit. You can wait here if you fancy.” The man waved toward the tent’s only other chair, which faced a cloth-covered table.
Crow took a step backward. “It’s okay. I don’t….” He wasn’t sure how to finish.
“It’s fine. The boss just wanted a brief natter. She won’t be gone long. You don’t want to miss out on a reading with her—she’s the best. Have a seat and I’ll keep you company while you wait.”
Keeping company with this man was terrifying and also the thing Crow most wanted in the world. He took a few deep breaths before sitting down. When the man didn’t say anything, Crow took a longer look around. The inside walls of the tent were draped in a great variety of fabrics. Whether due to the dim light or the fabrics themselves, Crow couldn’t tell, but the colors seemed to swirl in a way that reminded him of the lava lamp Aunt Helen had also bought in Chicago. The effect made him a little dizzy, and staring at the man made him dizzier, so Crow focused on the furnishings instead. They turned out to be minimal: the table in front of him, the two chairs, and a smaller table off to his left. Both tables held a variety of objects: a crystal ball like the one on the sign, decks of cards, crystals, and some other things he couldn’t identify.
“Nice, isn’t it?” asked the man. “Quiet.”
Crow noticed then that the sounds of the carnival were completely absent inside the tent. He could hear his own breathing, a little harsh, and the man’s, which was calmer and more even. It made the space feel so intimate that Crow’s cheeks heated. He hoped the dim light would prevent the man from noticing.
Still smiling, the man sat down in the empty chair with an easy grace Crow could never hope for. “I come here sometimes when I need a few minutes away from everything. Madame Persephone doesn’t mind as long as she’s not with a local.”
“You work here?”
“’M a roustabout. Help set things up and take them down again. In between I carry things about and put in a hand wherever it’s needed. Like just a bit ago when Mr. Ame told me to send Madame Persephone to him. He’s the showrunner—the bloke who owns the carnival.”
That made sense. This man looked strong, and Crow could easily imagine him hauling heavy loads and hoisting… whatever needed to be hoisted. “Is it a good job?”
“Ah, lovely so far. But it’s been only a few weeks for me, hasn’t it? I expect I’ll need more time before I decide whether I’ll stay for good.”
“Am I interrupting one of your, um, quiet times? ’Cause I can go.”
The man shook his head. “Stay. Madame said I’m to keep an eye on the place while she’s away. Entertain any locals who stop by. None did until you, though, and I was bored. Which was why I was playing with her scarf when I oughtn’t.”
He didn’t look at all repentant, however. In fact, he reached back and stroked the fabric draped over the chair as if he were considering putting it on again. He had big hands, Crow noticed, his fingers long and broad.
Crow tore his gaze away. “I don’t even know if I was going to, uh, get my fortune told. It’s bullshit anyway. I’d rather spend my money on rides.”
If the man was offended by this, he didn’t show it. He cocked his head instead, as if studying Crow. “Where are you from?”
“Here.” That was only a whisker away from the truth. Slightly emboldened, Crow crossed his arms. “You?”
“There.” Laughing eyes. “And whom do I have the honor of meeting?”
It could be some kind of scam, some carny trick to glean private information and thereby empty Crow’s pockets. But Crow had nothing to lose but a couple of dollars, and he didn’t want to go back out onto the midway again. “Crow.”
“Is that a nickname?”
“It’s the one my mother gave me.” It was almost the only thing she’d given him: Crow Rapp, a strange name on a birth certificate that didn’t list a father. She’d given him her good looks too, or so people said. Neighbors said she’d been a beauty, and Aunt Helen claimed that Crow was her spitting image. He didn’t know if that was true because his grandparents had no photos of her and wouldn’t speak of her at all.
Sometimes Crow would look in the bathroom mirror, past the diagonal crack, and wonder which of his features might be her legacy. The butter-gold hair that bleached almost white in summer, or maybe the storm-cloud eyes. The squarish face with the wide, serious mouth. Perhaps the long-limbed frame, lean and wiry.
“You don’t look much like a crow,” said the man, “with that pale hair and those pretty eyes. The name would suit me better, love. Maybe I ought to steal it.”
This felt dangerously like flirting, and Crow’s cheeks burned again. A man shouldn’t be flirting with him. And Crow shouldn’t be enjoying it. Shouldn’t be hoping the man would push a bit farther.
“You can’t steal a name.”
“Can’t I? I’m a bloody good thief, I am. Or used to be. And look.” He pulled out the tie binding his hair. Released from its prison, the hair flowed over his shoulders, black and glossy as, well, a crow’s wing. His eyes were shining and black—or close enough to it that his pupils blended into the iris—and his nose was just a little sharp.
Crow’s name would suit this man well.
“I should go,” said Crow, but he didn’t move.
Author Bio
Kim Fielding is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. Winner of the 2021 BookLife Prize for Fiction, a Lambda Award finalist and three-time Foreword INDIE finalist, she has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space.
She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two daughters who fully appreciate her, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, a cat who doesn’t tromp over her keyboard, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.