Uninvited

By B.G. Thomas

When a hot tip leads Kansas City reporter Taylor Dunton to a series of grisly murders, his investigation points to Myles Parry and his vodou shop. Myles wants nothing more than to practice his religion in peace, and he hopes Taylor can help him show the community they have nothing to fear. The problem is all the clues point to Myles as the suspect and only Taylor can help him prove his innocence. However, this case has also caught the attention of the vodou spirits of the Lwa... and they've taken an interest in Taylor as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644058619

B.G. Thomas

B.G. Thomas lives in Kansas City with his two husbands—which yes, is different, but amazingly rewarding and wonderfully romantic. They have two sweet rescue dogs named Oliver (who the breed name Dorkie applies perfectly) and Frodo (who is just learning to be a dog). He is missing his soul dog Sarah Jane very much, but she will live on forever in several of his books and in his heart. He is also blessed to have a lovely daughter and they love to hang out. B.G. loves to read romance, comedy, fantasy, thrillers, mystery, science fiction, and even horror—as far as he is concerned, as long as the stories are character driven and entertaining, it doesn’t matter the genre. He has gone to literature conventions his entire adult life, where he’s been lucky enough to meet many of his favorite writers. He has made up stories since he was a child; it’s where he finds his joy. In the nineties, he wrote for gay adult magazines but stopped because the editors wanted all sex without plot, and edited his setups right out. “The sex is never as important as the characters,” he says. “Who cares what they are doing if we don’t care about them?” Excited about the growing male/male romance market—where setup and cute meets is where it’s at—he began writing again. He submitted a novella and was thrilled when it was accepted in four days. Since then the romantic tales have poured out of him. “It’s like I’m somehow making up for a lifetime’s worth of story-telling!” “Leap, and the net will appear” is his personal philosophy and his message. “It is never too late,” he testifies. “Pursue your dreams. They will come true!” You can read about whatever he’s working on right now or whatever he’s rambling on about at his website/blog at: bthomaswriter.wordpress.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/bgthomaswriter Twitter: twitter.com/BGThomasBooks He is always happy to hear from his readers!

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Uninvited

By B.G. Thomas

When a hot tip leads Kansas City reporter Taylor Dunton to a series of grisly murders, his investigation points to Myles Parry and his vodou shop. Myles wants nothing more than to practice his religion in peace, and he hopes Taylor can help him show the community they have nothing to fear. The problem is all the clues point to Myles as the suspect and only Taylor can help him prove his innocence. However, this case has also caught the attention of the vodou spirits of the Lwa… and they’ve taken an interest in Taylor as well.

Originally published as part of Bones (Gothika #2).

IT WAS bad. It was really bad. It made me wish the cop had ignored my press badge (like they often did) and refused to let me go in.

He’d grinned at me—Ah, what the hell. Go on.—and motioned me past.

That’s weird, I thought.

That’s when I saw why.

Fuck! I looked away, felt my Egg McMuffin try to return to the open air, and I forced it to stay down. I would have been a laughing stock—the cops would never forget it.

Remember the Hindenburg, I said to myself. Remember the Hindenburg. My mantra.

I took a deep breath, stepped closer to the nightmare. An officer moved to block my way—

It’s okay, said the first cop to his buddy.

—and I raised my cell phone and took a picture. Took several. I wasn’t much of a photographer and had to make sure I had some good ones.

Good ones! Ha!

I shuddered and turned away. That was when I saw the words, written in blood, on one white wall. TO SERVE BARON MANGE KEY, it said in big, bold capital letters. Fuck!

The victim had been laid out over some kind of large, low table, his limbs tied to the legs. His face had been painted with a skull and his chest cut open from throat to navel. I knew because the dude was naked. There was… something on the man’s penis. I hadn’t wanted to look too close. The blood had been enough. There was a lot of it. Everywhere.

Jesus, I muttered and once more ordered my breakfast sandwich to stay put. Remember the Hindenburg, followed immediately by the thought, Thanks loads for the tip, Brookhart. Brookhart being the cop who had called me and told me to get my "cute butt down to the Meridian Hotel right now!" It was okay for her to say that because she’s a lesbian and I’m gay—part of the reason we’d connected about a year before. I’d been bashed, and she and her partner had shown up, and I’d gotten far more sympathy than a friend of mine who had once had the same thing happen. Luckily, I hadn’t had to go to the hospital.

Taylor! There you are.

I jumped as if I’d been goosed, spun around, and looked up, and up, to see Dt. Brookhart looking down at me with those big dark eyes of hers. She was tall at, well, any height compared to my five five. You’re letting your hair grow, Daphne.

She reached up and touched her short, natural waves as if surprised they were there. Not really. They weren’t much longer than a few inches.

Where’s Detective Asshole? I asked.

She gave me an amused smile and an arch of one of her wondrous brows. She swore she didn’t pluck them. I didn’t believe it. He’s looking for something. She pointed at the body. Nice, huh?

I shook my head and saw the open chest in my mind’s eye. The McMuffin gave me a cheery wave and let me know it would still be glad to let me taste it again. Just as good the second time, it told me.

Stay! I ordered. No, I told her. Not nice at all.

She smirked.

What’s it about?

Brookhart shrugged, always sure not to commit. I was a reporter, after all. Sort of.

Not for me to say. But if I were asked off record….

I rolled my eyes. Off record.

"Then I would say it looks like a ritual killing of some kind. Witches, Satanists, I don’t fucking know. Did you see the chicken head?"

Chicken head? Chicken head?

Tied to his willy.

Willy. Oh my God. The something on the man’s penis.

Rooster head, actually, she replied matter-of-factly, like it was an everyday occurrence. Cock on a cock.

Cute, I said.

I don’t ever think they’re cute. But hey, what do I know?

What can you tell me about the vic? I asked, trying to sound cool and televisiony.

Brookhart turned and looked back at the bloody disaster. "His ID says he’s Douglas Brightwell—don’t use his name."

Daph!

Those lovely brows of hers came together in a dark slash. She hated it when I called her Daph.

Daph is too cute, she had told me more than once. She wasn’t cute.

I thought she was okay, but hey, what did I know?

"No name!"

I sighed. Fine.

She nodded. Married, father of three. He’s in town for a business convention. Or he was. Six two, two hundred fifty pounds, more or less, most of that muscle. Whoever cut him open was determined.

God, I thought, looking away. That was an image.

And they cut out his heart.

Heart? I snapped my eyes back in her direction.

She nodded, expression totally neutral. Yup. We haven’t found it yet either. But there’s a lot of other shit. Feathers everywhere. Chicken bones. Bottle of rum, most of it gone.

Drunk killer?

She shrugged again. Oh. And there’s a bucket. Full. Of blood.

"With blood?" I actually felt my own draining from my face.

"Like in Carrie, but they left it behind. No prom queens need worry."

Funny, I said. God. Chicken bones. Bucket of blood. Missing heart. "Why did you call me?"

Are you tired of covering pet parades and gay pride, or not?

Yeah. I sighed, then nodded. Tired.

Then I suggest you get another couple of pictures before the chief gets here—which should be in about thirty seconds—and get the story to your boss before Chadrick or Rockower get a whiff of this. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the corpse.

Chadrick and Rockower were two of the Chronicle’s star reporters. And they would get a whiff of this soon—and try to steal the story. My story, if I had any say. I nodded, swallowed hard, and darted back to the body to take more pictures. There was a coroner there now, peering down at the man’s face. And Brookhart’s partner, Dt. Asshole, was there as well, arms crossed over his chest, the scowl on his ugly face making him even less attractive than usual.

Well fuck me, the coroner said suddenly.

What? said Dt. Asshole (aka Townsend).

There’s a statue in this guy’s mouth.

A statue?

It’s a goddamned Virgin Mary, the man said, apparently totally unaware of the blasphemy in his choice of words.

I gulped and keyed that info and a few more sentences into my phone, attached the pictures, and hit the send button.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in my boss’s office.

LOOKING AT my pictures on Mencken’s computer wasn’t quite as bad as seeing the real thing. That’s when me and the boss saw that, yes indeed, there was a rooster’s head tied to the man’s impressive genitalia—

"Not that that’s going to do