About the Book

St. Patrick’s Day could be the most dangerous time of the year…

Name’s Bram Farrell. I’m a PI—well, used to be. Michigan doesn’t think I have the requisites for a license in this world. My experience is nearly all within the pages of a set of fantasy novels written by Calista Amberson, who I thought died shortly after yanking me into the real world but hadn’t. Currently, I rank at the top of her “Erase These Idiots” list. The feeling is mutual.

As St. Patrick’s Day dawned, I thought the only dangerous thing on my social calendar was meeting my secretary-cum-sugarplum Naomie Enright and her family. It wasn’t—though downing green dyed potato salad had taken courage. No, it was finding the Irish goddess Danu waiting for me at the bar of Enright’s Pub. She had a sword for me to find. Someone had nicked The Retaliator, an ancient Tuatha blade that could kill with just a scratch.

Not many of them around in twenty-first-century Detroit.
Except Naomie’s brother happened to have a friend who liked to buckle on some swash and dazzle crowds with sword play. And he’s vanished, only the scents of ghoul and vampire lingering in his wrecked apartment. That’s never good.
And it was headed for even worse. I needed an edge to solve—and survive—this case!

~~ Amazon ~~

Excerpt

It was dim, as usual, in The Bridge Bar and Grill, and the scents were not in the least appealing. Not those wafting from the kitchen, from the pewter tankards on the table, nor from the guy sitting across from me.

And I use the word guy loosely. He wasn’t human, but then, I’m not either. Just passing for one. Passing a damn sight better than the troll sharing the table with me. The name’s Bram Farrell but most non-humans refer to me by my other moniker, The Raven. I’m a PI specializing in Otherworlder crimes and punishment. Or at least I used to be.

“What sort of experience do you have in providing security for a business owner?” I asked.

“Been in the protection business fer nigh on forty years now,” he said.

“Ms. Lund isn’t looking for protection, she’s looking for security. You do realize the two things aren’t exactly kissing cousins?”

Actually, what Ruthie was looking for was somebody who looked big, scary, and could thump on any customer she felt needed to be escorted to the street with a firm kick to their nether regions. She’d love to do it herself but she’s a very foreshortened troll since her dad was a dwarf. The highest she could deliver a martial arts kick was to a man’s kneecap. In the past her half-giant brother Ralph had handled bouncer duties, but he’d gone off to check on his bridge.

I’ve no idea why she thought I was the best person to play nonhuman resources personnel, but I’d showed up to do it anyway.

“‘Splane ta me agin what the job is,” the regulation sized troll across from me said. “Spell it out so’s I can understand, and I’ll tell ya if I got the moxie.”

I glanced at the application form before me to cadge his name. “It’s simple, Horace. Ms. Lund points to someone she wants out and you pick them up and put them out. Like letting the cat out, except that this cat doesn’t want to leave.”

“So, I break their arm and maybe a couple ribs.” I suppose he was attempting to clarify the position.

“No. You say, ‘thank you for patronizing our bar, now get the hell out and don’t come back.’”

“Before or after I break a few bones?”

“There is no bone breaking involved.”

“Then what’s ta keep ’em from comin’ back in?” he asked.

Well, he had me there.

“I think I see where you’re confused. You are what’s keeping ’em from returning.”

“What if it’s somebody I know, like a friend er relative?”

Mentally, I sighed. “I’ll have to ask Ms. Lund when all the interviews are finished for the day,” I sidestepped. “If you don’t hear from her, it means she’s chosen a different contender for the post.”

Horace nodded sagely. “So, when do I start work?”

Put the words troll and physics together and the equation clearly states the square root of the thinking capacity of the individual divided by π (preferably cherry) equals an end to this foolishness.

“Tomorrow night. Be here at five,” I said.

He smiled. Not a pretty sight. Stuck his hand out. “Thanks, Raven. I’ll do the little lady proud.”

Ruth slid into his vacated seat while I was still trying to work feeling back into the hand he’d wrung. “Did you find me a guy?” she demanded.

“Horace Hochlegschon.” Loosely translated that’s Horace Tall Bugger. Very loosely translated. “He was our final contestant for the day. He’ll probably break your customers in half over his knee.”

Ruth shrugged. “Is he good looking?”

“Compared to what?”

“I see your point,” she admitted. “I owe you one, Bram.”

No, she didn’t. She’d already done me a giant favor helping me juryrig a protection spell for my secretary-cum-sugarplum, Naomie Enright.

“Did Ralph say how long he’d be gone?” I asked.

Ruthie shook her head. “I don’t really expect to see him back this way ever. He’s just using that bridge of his as an excuse. Personally, I think he’s off lookin’ for a sweetheart. He’s ready to settle down and start a family.”

I did not want to picture that.

“You finished writing that second book?”

It was a big step down from magic tossing bad ass to writer, but I’d shouldered the status reduction well.

“Nope. Still learning how to type.” Which was a lie. Not that I now knew how to type, but that I was even making an effort to learn.

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. The latest novel in the series is RAVEN'S EDGE. 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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