Monday, March 2, 2015

Character Interview and Giveaway: Infected: Prey by Andrea Speed

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

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


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!

Twitter: @aspeed

a Rafflecopter giveaway

No comments: