Wishbone is out

My first novel-length work to hit publication is now available from Torquere Books.

This calls for an excerpt. Why look. Here’s one now.

Tonner was awake when Wishbone knocked on his door.

“You look like you’ve had a night to remember,” said the burly sail-maker.

Wishbone staggered theatrically inside the tiny room and fell back on the bed.

Tonner laughed, but softly. The walls were thin between apartments, and not everyone would have awakened yet. “Would you like some tea while you tell me about it?”

“Please.”

Tonner poured two cracked ceramic mugs and handed one to Wishbone.

The sail-maker had close-set eyes, broad shoulders and a broken nose. He allowed Wishbone to sleep in his bed during the day in exchange for certain favors. One of them was a narrative of the previous evening’s adventures.

Wishbone stared at the water-stained ceiling. “I went up the Hill and got fucked senseless by a shih-aan.”

“By the Unnamed Gods, Wishbone,” Tonner sputtered into his tea. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about this week’s hush money.”

“I’d have loaned you the coin.”

“That’s very sweet of you, but I know you don’t have any coin to speak of. If you did, you wouldn’t be re-using those tea leaves.”

“Well, there’s truth to what you say,” Tonner admitted. “You survived. Tell me all about it. I heard that shih-aan have great big spikes on their yards.”

Wishbone opened his mouth and hesitated. The truth seemed unreal now. At the same time, his feelings were so tangled that he wasn’t sure he wanted to share it with anyone. He felt cheated that the shih-aan had given him no moment of sweet weakness to savor, and Sir’s body remained a clothed mystery. So he made up a tale in which all the usual perversions were indulged, where he’d ridden a cock (unspiked) instead of a fist, and that of prodigious size indeed to account for how sore he was.

“Certainly too sore for another ride this morning,” he concluded.

“You must be dead,” said Tonner. “I’ll call a priest.”

“I’m serious!”

“It’d be the first time. Now be good and turn over.”

Tonner’s cock wasn’t that long, but it was thick. Wishbone winced at first at the friction in his well-used ring, but soon found himself struggling as always to take Tonner’s meaty thing further in while he worked his own cock with one spit-slicked hand. He arched his back and bit the bedclothes to muffle his cries. The spilling, though, was a pale echo of the one given by the shih-aan. Probably Wishbone was just tired. He pulled up his trousers, and something fell from the pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Tonner as he settled his own clothes.

“A bonus for a job well done.” He picked up the comb. It appeared to have been carved from a golden seashell. The ripples in it fascinated the eye and pleased the hand. A graduated series of purple stones were set along the back so that they caught the light. “They left me alone long enough to search through some drawers, and I found this on the bottom where it might not be missed.” He offered it to Tonner. “Looks like a better prize than the tin ring I lifted last week.”

Tonner took the comb in his hand, then dropped it and backed away. His eyes opened wide. “That thing is cursed.”

“This?” Wishbone picked up the comb again. He felt nervous when he closed his fingers on it, but that was entirely reasonable given that he’d stolen it.

“I don’t know how you can stand to touch it,” said Tonner, “But I want it out of the apartment immediately.”

“Can it wait until after I’ve slept?” asked Wishbone. He was in a hurry to move the comb as well, but Davvy wouldn’t have his booth open until much later.

Tonner shifted from foot to foot. “I’ll allow that,” he said finally. “But I want it gone. Now I’ve got to open the shop.”

“Hold up.” Wishbone fished in his purse for a crescent. “Buy us some new tea, hm?”