Blog Tour incl Guestpost, Excerpt & Giveaway: Kim fielding – Blyd and Pearce

Love Bytes welcomes to their blog author Kim Fielding who is visiting us today to talk about new release “Blyd and Pearce”.
Kim talks about the Femme Fatale’s , shares an excerpt and brought a giveaway with her.
Welcome Kim 🙂

Hi! Kim Fielding here, and I’m so excited to share my newest release—my 21^st novel!—with you. Blyd and Pearce is a fusion of some of my favorite genres: m/m romance, medieval fantasy, and noir private eye. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

If you are at all familiar with noir stories or films, you know that the femme fatale (the “fatal woman”) is often critical to the plots, although the archetype’s roots are much older. Arguably, the Sirens of Greek mythology were femmes fatales, as were Helen of Troy, and Eve and Salome from the Old and New Testaments.

 

So what’s a femme fatale like? She’s beautiful and seductive. Wily. Mysterious. And she seduces our hero into a mess that leads to danger and perhaps destruction. Since our heroes are often smart, unemotional types, her ability to lead him astray speaks deeply of her almost mystical charms. She’s generally pretty smart, although she might choose not to show it. She’s always calculating. Although she’s not necessarily evil, she’s definitely morally ambiguous, and she clearly can’t be trusted.

 

Some examples include characters played by Barbara Stanwyck (Baby Face), Rita Hayworth (Gilda), and Kim Novak (Vertigo). And let’s not forget Jessica Rabbit (“I’m not bad; I’m just drawn that way”) and Sean Young’s Rachael in Blade Runner. I recently watched a somewhat obscure 1946 movie called Decoy, and the femme fatale in that one is wonderful

 

I’ve always admired femmes fatales. They come from hardscrabble backgrounds and live in difficult times, yet they’re strong and powerful. They live in a world that has no soft edges, but they’re going to fight to survive. In some ways, they’re even less sentimental than the very hard-boiled men they seduce.

 

Now, we’ve been talking about the femme fatale, but I write m/m romance. That’s why my new book has an homme fatal (a “fatal man”) instead. The male version is rarer than the female, although I’m certainly not the first to create one. Like his female counterpart, the homme fatal is sexy and charming, and he uses his wiles—and some creative lies—to get what he wants. Or at least what he needs. I think he makes a wonderful addition to a romance plot, automatically creating tension, because even as the hero is helplessly falling for him, the hero’s also aware that this guy means Trouble with a capital T. So we get external conflict from whoever the bad guys are and also internal conflict from the hero’s struggle with himself. And as for the homme fatal, we’re never quite sure what’s driving him and how much of what he says is true.

 

(I should note here, however, in case you’re apprehensive: Blyd and Pearce is a romance, so I can promise you at least a HFN. It just won’t be easy to get there.)

 

Do you have a favorite femme fatale? Please comment!

 

Blurb:

Born into poverty and orphaned young, Daveth Blyd had one chance for success when his fighting prowess earned him a place in the Tangye city guard—a place he lost to false accusations of theft. Now he scrapes out a living searching for wayward spouses and missing children. When a nobleman offers him a small fortune to find an entertainer who’s stolen a ring, Daveth takes the case. While Jory Pearce may or may not be a thief, he certainly can’t be trusted. But, enchanted by Jory’s beauty and haunting voice, Daveth soon finds himself caught in the middle of a conspiracy. As he searches desperately for answers, he realizes that he’s also falling for Jory. The two men face river wraiths, assassins, a necromancer, and a talking head that could be Daveth’s salvation on their quest for the truth. But with everyone’s integrity in question and Death eager to dance, Daveth will need more than sorcery to survive.

 

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The narrow stairway rose steeply, each step creaking under our feet and taking us into increasing darkness. I smelled onions and fish—a bit strong, but better than my apartment’s odors—and blindly held on to the banister. It occurred to me that Pearce was in a good position to attack me, since I’d have trouble defending myself in the blackness of unfamiliar territory. But I wasn’t afraid of him. Maybe some of his enchantment lingered.

We climbed four flights to the top floor, where he unlocked another door. A few scattered spiritlights flared to life at once, but he lit two lanterns as well.

It wasn’t a large apartment, and the roof angled steeply on both sides so that he had to stoop a little when he hung his lute and midnight-colored cloak on a hook. Bright fabrics adorned the walls—silks and embroidered cottons—and a thick mat and pile of pillows were heaped in one corner. Rag rugs and pillows for seating covered the wide floorboards. The apartment held little else other than a dry sink, a few shelves, a little stand with a chamber pot, a painted wardrobe. But it was a cozy space, and two pottery vases of flowers squatted on the windowsill.

“Do you want some wine?” he asked.

It wasn’t what I expected, so I didn’t answer at once. “Uh, yes. Sure.”

He took a green glass bottle from the shelf, pulled the cork, and poured a red liquid into a pair of plain clay cups.

He was no longer wearing the gauzy silks he’d performed in, but his current outfit was hardly understated. Embroidered snakes—matching the bright blue of his chausses—trimmed a sunshine-hued tunic, and instead of sensible boots, he wore scarlet stockings and yellow slippers with curled, pointed toes. On another man, the clothing would have been gaudy, but it suited him well.

I remained near the closed door. With a tiny quirk to his lips, he prowled closer. He held out one cup of wine, which I took, and when I hesitated to drink, he took a dainty sip of his own. “It’s mediocre, I’m afraid.”

Not being able to distinguish good wine from bad, I swallowed a mouthful. It tasted fine to me.

“What shall I call you?” he purred, standing quite close. He was older than I’d thought, but the fine lines at the corners of his eyes didn’t make him any less beautiful.

“Daveth Blyd.”

“It’s a pleasure, Citizen Blyd.”

“I’m not a citizen.”

He tilted his head. “Oh?”

He wore a scent—something spicy and warm—that made my head swim. And his voice….

When I was newly signed on as a city guard, my duties had included carting my captain’s soiled uniforms to the laundry. It wasn’t one of my favored tasks. But she’d been a showy woman and had her capes trimmed not with dyed wool but with velvet. I’d rarely felt anything so soft, and I used to give the velvet surreptitious little pets as I carried her clothes.

Jory Pearce’s voice was like that velvet: soft and rich and plush. And, I reminded myself, expensive.

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Kim Fielding is the bestselling author of numerous m/m romance novels, novellas, and short stories. Like Kim herself, her work is eclectic, spanning genres such as contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, and historical. Her stories are set in alternate worlds, in 15th century Bosnia, in modern-day Oregon. Her heroes are hipster architect werewolves, housekeepers, maimed giants, and conflicted graduate students. They’re usually flawed, they often encounter terrible obstacles, but they always find love.

After having migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States, Kim calls the boring part of California home. She lives there with her husband, her two daughters, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. This may explain why her characters often seem to be in transit as well. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.

Follow Kim:

Website: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/

Facebook: http://facebook.com/KFieldingWrites

Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

Email: [email protected]

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