About the Book

Valentine’s Day could be the most dangerous time of the year if an angry Cupid is the hit man hunting you down.

Bram Farrell, paranormal PI, has been yanked from the pages of the novel. His author and creator brought him into real-world Detroit to do a job for her, but the job went south, and the real-world Detroit is as loaded with monsters and magical beings as the pages of her books were. And they are all out to get Bram and exact some otherworldly revenge on him.

Most guys wouldn’t mind that it’s raining females, some expected, some surprises, one he could do without. And then there is his new secretary, Naomi, who he’s falling in love with. Keeping her alive—and himself—is going to be tricky.

Outrunning an alchemist, a vampire, and a witch is going to take more than cutting wit.

Luckily, this paranormal Sam Spade has some resources besides his dry sense of humor. His dachshund Hellhound is with him and his magic is coming back. Which should be helpful considering someone has put a hit out on him.

There’s a lot on Bram’s plate this February. The question is, will he live through it this time?

Entertaining, funny and suspenseful, Marked Raven is the perfect place to pick up the Raven Tales urban fantasy series.

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Excerpt

It all started shortly after dawn on the most dangerous day of the year—Valentine’s Day.

One minute I was engrossed in taking names and kicking ass— you know, deep into a video game—when the familiar black-and caramel muzzle of my canine partner got between me and the screen.

And the arrow.

The first I became aware of the danger was when his teeth snapped down on it a foot away from reaching its target.

Me.

It was old-school design. The only bit you might call high-tech being the pink and red feather bits at the tail end. Beelz had it gripped between his teeth and had amped up his growl as he turned demon red eyes to the being hovering near the ceiling.

A cupid wearing nothing but a red sash with a quiver of those dainty fletched arrows on his back.

“What the frick!” the curly blond-headed, bow-wielding tike snarled around the cigarette clamped between his front teeth. Based on the deep octaves of his voice, as well as his language and smoke, I made the deduction: this weren’t no kid. I’m a P.I.; it’s what I do.

Beelz spat the stick out and hustled around the desk to leap at the intruder. He might be a hellhound but as his preferred form is that of a dachshund, the leaps were getting him nowhere near his target.

And cupid was nocking up another bolt.

I took cover beneath the desk. “Who the hell wants me to fall in love with them?” I yelled at the little bundle of lethal joy.

“No one, slick. I was hired to take you out.” Ash cascaded as the cigarette bobbed. Don’t talk and smoke at the same time should be up there with chew with your trap shut. But, hey? He was an assassin?

“Pretty lousy camouflage. In that get up”—or lack of one—“you don’t exactly blend into the surroundings, pal.”

“What camouflage? I ain’t wearin’ no camouflage. Youse The Raven, right?”

No one had asked me that since November, but the answer lingered on my tongue. I’d said it enough times last fall. “Fictional character. Yeah, I’ve got the same name, but that’s all.”

“Not what I heard, buddy. Crawl out and take the medicine I come ta give ya.”

Hmm. Supply a target or evoke my décor-singeing modicum of magic. Decisions, decisions. But, since what prestidigits I could toss leaned more toward human flame-thrower, and I really didn’t want to burn the house down, there had to be a third option.

“How much they paying you?”

“Whadda you care?” the cupid snarled.

“I’m willing to top the offer so you don’t shoot me,” I said.

“Doubt you could match my price, Raven,” chubby snarled.

“Farrell,” I corrected. “The name’s Bram Farrell. The Raven is not a real person. I think if you’d just take a gander at this room, you’ll see that I probably can match—if not best—the amount you agreed to.”

I’d inherited a cushy joint. No need to describe the place. Just saying mansion should fill in the blanks. All it’d taken was making sure my creator bit the big one.

“Oh,” the fake toddler mumbled. Sounded like he was eyeballing the décor.

Beelz gave an exhausted sigh and stopped trying to get a piece of the hit-tike.

“I’ll throw in extra for the name of your client,” I offered from my burrow safely beneath the desk.

“No can do,” Babyface said.

“Professional ethics?”

“Never met them. Just an envelope dropped in my quiver at the wedding chapel I frequent. Gave me the address, a picture of the target—you—and a hefty down payment.”

“How hefty?”

“Fifty Gs.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?”

“Nah. Fifty pieces of gold. The places I frequent don’t trust paper, pal, just coin.”

“Any particular kind?”

“Spanish, Roman, Etruscan—whatever ya got.”

Great. All I had to do was denude every online offering of antique gold coins.

“You on a timeline?” I needed to know. There would be shipping involved.

“End of the month,” chubby said.

In that case, expedited shipping.

“There somewhere to get in touch when I’ve got the horde gathered?”

“Little Chapel of Bliss in Vegas,” the assassin said. “So, youse wanna shake on the deal or what?”

“Going with or what. Cool with that?”

“Totally chilled,” he said. Well, he should be. It was the middle of February in Detroit for Grendel’s sake.

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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