To introduce you to my book, Infected: Prey, I thought I’d
interview one of its main characters, Paris Lehane. Luckily, he likes attention
much more than Roan, the other main character.
Andrea: Why don’t you introduce yourself to everyone?
Paris: I’m Paris Lehane, six feet tall, one fifty on a good
day, generally too sexy for my shirt. Turn ons include a sense of humor, sly
eyes, and amazing asses.
Andrea: This isn’t a personal ad.
Paris: It totally should be! I like chocotinis and
cheeseburgers, although not usually at the same time, snuggling and ice cream.
Turn offs include hypocrites with sticks up their butts, whisky breath, and
nose hair.
Andrea: Are you done?
Paris: No, I have a sizable list, but since I’m really not
in the market for a boyfriend or girlfriend I’ll let it go.
Andrea: Why don’t you tell everyone about your boyfriend and
the world you live in?
Paris: Well, I have the greatest boyfriend in the world –
sorry, everyone else, he’s mine. He’s Roan McKichan, badass private detective,
and sexy as hell. He also has a heart of gold beneath that hard shell, because
the best ones do. He’s a lion strain infected, which makes total sense, ‘cause,
look at his hair. That’s a mane if I’ve ever seen one.
Andrea: Lion strain infected?
Paris: Oh, right. There’s this killer virus that infects
people and causes them to turn into big cats a few days a month when it doesn’t
kill them outright. Instead, it kills them slowly, but it doesn’t buy you as
much time as you’d like. It’s pretty nasty.
Andrea: You’re not lion strain?
Paris: No, I’m tiger strain, the worst of all strains. I
mean, it’s awesome to be a tiger, but it kills you pretty quick, so that’s a
bummer. Also, it hurts like hell.
Andrea: This doesn’t cause problems?
Paris: Being different strains? No, why would it?
Andrea: I don’t know. I guess I just assumed. Um, you don’t
self-identify as gay, do you?
Paris: No, because I’m not. I like guys and girls equally. I
just happened to fall in love with this wonderful man.
Andrea: Bisexuals get a lot of crap, especially bisexual
men.
Paris: Don’t I know it. Now, I’m kind of a worst case
scenario, since I was kind of a selfish bastard when I was younger, and I used
my powers of seduction for evil, but not all bis - or handsome men - are like
me. Also, I just have to say that anyone who says you’re not bi – or gay, or
what have you – can go sit and spin. Only you have the right and the ability to
label yourself. So if anyone says you’re not something or other or insist you
are something, tell them to go run someone else’s life for a while. And if you
don’t like labels, don’t feel pressured to make that call. Go ahead and call
yourself fluid or queer or nothing. Don’t let anyone tell you who you are,
especially if they’re hung up, bigoted a-holes.
Andrea: I had no idea you were so inspirational.
Paris: I’m not Roan, but I have my moments.
That he does. And to read more about Paris and Roan, I hope
you pick up Infected: Prey.
Infected: Prey
Infected Series
Book One
Andrea Speed
Genre: Gay mystery/urban fantasy
Publisher: DSP Publications
ISBN: 163216325X
ASIN: B00NJRJZGG
Number of pages: 376
Word Count: 152,000
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Book Description:
In a world where a werecat virus has changed society, Roan McKichan, a born infected and ex-cop, works as a private detective trying to solve crimes involving other infecteds.
The murder of a former cop draws Roan into an odd case where an unidentifiable species of cat appears to be showing an unusual level of intelligence. He juggles that with trying to find a missing teenage boy, who, unbeknownst to his parents, was “cat” obsessed. And when someone is brutally murdering infecteds, Eli Winters, leader of the Church of the Divine Transformation, hires Roan to find the killer before he closes in on Eli.
Working the crimes will lead Roan through a maze of hate, personal grudges, and mortal danger. With help from his tiger-strain infected partner, Paris Lehane, he does his best to survive in a world that hates and fears their kind… and occasionally worships them.
Available at DSP Publications Amazon
Have you started this series yet? If you are an urban fantasy fan this is a must for your to-read list. Infected: Prey is the first book in a series that already has five books available for your reading pleasure. I love starting a series like this, late in the game, so I can binge read them all back to read. It's a great way to immerse yourself in the series, world and characters. ~Roxanne
Have you started this series yet? If you are an urban fantasy fan this is a must for your to-read list. Infected: Prey is the first book in a series that already has five books available for your reading pleasure. I love starting a series like this, late in the game, so I can binge read them all back to read. It's a great way to immerse yourself in the series, world and characters. ~Roxanne
Excerpt:
HE was on his
third beer of the evening when he thought he heard a noise in the backyard.
Hank DeSilvo
scowled and looked out the window over the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.
He could see nothing but darkness, and maybe a bit of reflected light from the
television. This was probably a bad time to remember the back porch light had
blown out two days ago, and he’d forgotten to replace it.
Not that it
mattered. The only light currently in the house was coming from the television,
and as long as he ignored it, he developed enough night vision to make out a
shape moving in the back garden. Or was it the wind moving a shrub? Kind of
hard to say.
He slammed his
can down with an annoyed grunt. It was probably the Hindles’ stupid ass dog
again, shitting all over the place and tearing through his garbage. He hated
that fucking thing, some ugly Rottweiler mix they insisted was a “friendly”
dog, and yet it always had a look in its flat, black eyes that was just this
side of rabid. They never leashed the damn thing either, and apparently his
yard destruction was “cute.” He was just about out of this fucking place and
that damn thing had to make a final appearance. And it was final all right; he
was going to make damn sure of that.
He went back to
the living room, glancing at the game as he walked past—it was a fucking damn
boring game anyway—and got his shotgun from the cabinet. It was illegal as all
hell, a sawed-off thirty ought six with the barrels cut so short you could have
stowed it under a jacket, but the barrels had been filed down expertly; it
wasn’t just the rough work of a desperate amateur but the sign of a pro. Which
was why, when they’d searched the drug mule’s truck and he’d found it wedged
under the front seat, he hid it in his trunk and didn’t report finding it. It
wouldn’t have added that much to the mule’s sentence; he already had enough
rock in his glove compartment to put him away for the rest of his pointless
life, especially if it was his “third strike” (and it was, no surprise there),
and he doubted the guy was so stupid that he’d actually ask why he wasn’t
charged with owning an illegally modified weapon. Yeah, he was dumb; you had to
be dumb if you were speeding and had a few thousand in rock in the car, as well
as being obviously stoned yourself. But asking after that was a special kind of
stupid, the kind only politicians and people on reality television ever seemed
to crest.
He cracked open
the gun and made sure he had some shells loaded in it before snapping it shut
again with a sharp flick of his wrist. Man that felt good. This was a real
man’s weapon, made him feel a foot taller and made of pure muscle, and he knew
why that meth fuckhead was carrying it around with him. A weapon like this was
a real god-killer; it made you feel invincible.
It was pure
overkill, of course. The Hindles’ dog was fairly big, and yet one shot from
this gun would rip it in half clean down the middle, as well as make a boom
loud enough to set off every car alarm on the block. But what the fuck did he
care? He was an ex-cop; he’d say the dog charged him, and on his property he
could shoot the fucking thing if he wanted. He’d swap out the sawed-off for his
Remington before they arrived. Ballistics wouldn’t match, but by the time they
proved that, he’d be long gone. Good-bye, shit-hole city; hello, tropical
paradise. It was just a shame that it took him this long to collect.
He stood at the
back door for a moment, cradling the shotgun gently, and let his eyes get
adjusted to the dark before going out onto the concrete patio. He had a mini
Maglite with him with a red lens over the bulb, so if there was something he
needed to see he could twist it on without losing his night vision. Not that he
needed to make a direct hit; even if he just winged the dog, he’d probably rip
half its face off, maybe a leg.
First step off
the patio his foot squelched in something; it felt too liquid to be shit, but
the smell that hit him was meaty, redolent of shit and offal and God knew what
else. Had that fucking dog already strewn his garbage about? Goddamn it.
Holding the
shotgun in one arm, he turned on the flashlight and looked down at what he’d
stepped in.
At first it
looked like a puddle, which didn’t make sense since it hadn’t rained in a week,
and the thought that it was dog piss was dismissed since it was dark, and dog
piss wasn’t usually black. Or was that red-black? Swinging the light outwards,
he saw greasy, ropey strands that couldn’t have come from his garbage can, and
then a big hunk of raw, bloody meat like a lamb shank… only it was too long and
thin to be a shank, too dark, and ended in a paw.
It was a
Rottweiler leg.
Someone—something—had
dismembered the Hindles’ psychotic dog and spread about a third of it all over
his backyard. He saw the leg, which was the biggest piece, an assortment of
internal organs, loops of intestines laid out like fallen party streamers, and
lots of blood. But where was the other two thirds of the dog?
The hair stood
up on the back of his neck, and he knew he had to get the fuck inside now. But
as he turned, shotgun at the ready and braced against his hip, he saw the flash
of white teeth in the dim moonlight, and his brain sent out the impulse to pull
the trigger.
He didn’t have
time to wonder why it never happened as the teeth ripped open his throat.
About the Author:
Andrea Speed was born looking for trouble in some hot month without an R in it. While succeeding in finding Trouble, she has also been found by its twin brother, Clean Up, and is now on the run, wanted for the murder of a mop and a really cute, innocent bucket that was only one day away from retirement. (I was framed, I tell you - framed!)
In her spare time, she arms lemurs in preparation for the upcoming war against the Mole Men. Viva la revolution!
Website: www.andreaspeed.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/andrea.speed.3
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/Andreaspeedwriter
Twitter: @aspeed
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/andreaspeed
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