About the Book

Otherworld evil is loose in the real world. Bram Farrell, Private Investigator, must track it down and destroy it before it destroys him.

Bram Farrell has starred in twenty bestselling novels by writer—and witch—Calista Amberson. Her fans love the tall, dark, and handsome PI who vanquishes supernatural bad guys using his magical powers. So, when Calista uses her magic to pull Bram from his fictional world into real-world, modern-day Detroit, she rocks both worlds.

Every supernatural being on Earth felt his arrival in this dimension. They don't trust Calie’s intentions and Bram doesn't either. When the supernatural community hands him the job of discovering who killed the beings in the real world that match those he killed in each volume of The Raven Tales, he takes on the task. It’s a job he’s done in twenty books—he’s up to the familiar challenge.

Bram’s investigation turns up a lot of suspicious characters grouchy bar-owning trolls, a thirsty vampire godfather, a couple of murderous x-cage fighters, a suspicious minister—and the Devil himself. Things are getting dicey: Bram could use some help with this job—but whom can he trust?

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Excerpt

I was rifling through Calie’s financial papers in search of clues to who her doctor was, and whether he specialized in anything, when the doorbell pealed. A second later, P. T.’s voice blasted at me from the intercom on the desk. “I’m in the middle of kneading bread. Could you get that, Bram?”

Having no idea whether there was a button I should push to answer, I simply yelled, “Got it!” at the top of my lungs and pushed out of the comfy office chair. I’d only reached the study’s open door, though, when I heard voices in the entryway.

“Don’t you dare ask me what I’m doing here, Calista Amberson,” a woman’s voice growled. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to wait until tonight to find out how things went. If, that is, you had the strength to do it yourself. I told you a group effort was needed.”

“You could have called,” Calie said at her most arrogant.

This would be interesting. I assumed the same stance I’d had when the moonlight whammied life into my fictional self the evening before.

The unknown woman snorted inelegantly at the very suggestion of picking up the phone and brushed past Calista. “Patience might be my middle name, but it isn’t a virtue I’ve ever nurtured, dearest, as you know quite well.”

“Patience has never been your middle name, but judge for yourself, Delia,” Calie invited, and gestured dramatically to where I stood. “Bram, meet your . . . hmm . . . distant cousin Delia Maddox.”

The distant cousin swept down on me in a wave of perfume.

“Oh, my!” she gushed.

I straightened and stepped away from my convenient prop, hand extended to do things properly. The woman ignored my mitt and circled around me, taking an inventory of everything else in sight. I feared for a moment she’d decide a fondle would clarify what her eyes told her. Rather than a grope, she settled for poking one well-manicured, bloodred, lacquered claw into the center of my chest.

“Oh, he is real!” she exclaimed, whirling to face Calie.

“You doubted me?” My creator sounded honestly surprised. “After all the things we’ve done over the years, I’d—”

“We did those things together, sister. But this . . . this . . .” She waved distractedly in my direction.

“This,” I pointed out, “is standing right here, you know. Sight, sound, touch: all came with the package deal.”

In fact, to prove it, I was rubbing the aching spot where she’d nearly impaled me with her fingernail.

Delia cocked her head to observe me further. “I don’t remember that he was this touchy in the books, Calista.”

“He was,” Calie said. “You don’t remember because it wasn’t directed at you personally.”

“Still standing here,” I reminded.

“Yes.” Delia sighed, this time in wonder, as she turned to me. “Isn’t Calista marvelous? She always planned to make you flesh. I don’t know what took her so long.”

“It would only work when I required him here,” Calie explained.

“I was forgetting that,” Delia admitted.

“Required me for what?” I demanded. Knew a pound of flesh would be due for my arrival in the physical world. Just hoped it wasn’t a literal cut of personal beef.

“You’ll find out in time, dear,” Calista soothed.

Didn’t soothe me in the least. In fact, I felt a chill run up my spine. This did not bode well for continued existence.

“You need to learn this world first,” she said. “In fact, I was about to send you out to explore.”

That didn’t sound too bad. In fact, I was anxious to venture out.

“Beelzie!” Calie called.

On the floor above, I heard a hinge creak, then a scrambling of clawed feet and a thundering on the hardwood floor. The tip of a dark snout appeared. Then the rest of the creature trundled into view.

It was the eyes that weren’t right in the face of any dog that really drew attention. They were bloodred.

“A dachshund? You want me to take a doxie for walkies?” I demanded. A man had his reputation to maintain. Well, at least the reputation he’d gained at the bookstore.

“Beelzebub is not a dachshund,” the ladies insisted in unison.

“He’s a hellhound,” Delia said.

“A modern hellhound,” Calie added.

I stared at Beelzebub, and he showed me teeth. “Has he been fed lately?”

“Beelzie has a special diet. He doesn’t eat snarling fictional heroes,” Calie said.

About the Author

J.B. Dane is the author of the urban fantasy PI mystery comedy series, The Raven Tales, which includes novels published by Burns and Lea Books, and a series of Indie published novellas that are prequels and also "between the books" adventures of her sleuth, Bram Farrell. Quite a few 5* reviews have followed for the novels, in particular, singing praises that should make her blush though she’s too busy proudly polishing her nails against her lapel to do so. She also writes shorter fantasy fiction, many tales of which have appeared in anthologies, particularly her Nick Claus, North Pole Security stories. She writes historical and contemporary romantic mystery and speculative twisted 19th century fiction under two different names, just to confuse people. Or so they seem to think.

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