Book Title: The Hierophant’s Daughter (The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy)
Author: M. F. Sullivan
Publisher: Painted Blind Publishing
Cover Artist: Nuno Moreira
Genre/s: LGBTQ Cyberpunk/Horror, Sci-fi/Fantasy (Adult)
Length: approx. 100k words/ 298 paperback pages
It is Book I of The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy
Release Date: May 19, 2019
Dive into the first volume of a bleak cyberpunk tahgmahr you can’t afford to miss. What would you sacrifice to survive?
Blurb
By 4042 CE, the Hierophant and his Church have risen to political dominance with his cannibalistic army of genetically modified humans: martyrs. In an era when mankind’s intergenerational cold wars against their long-lived predators seem close to running hot, the Holy Family is poised on the verge of complete planetary control. It will take a miracle to save humanity from extinction.
It will also take a miracle to resurrect the wife of 331-year-old General Dominia di Mephitoli, who defects during martyr year 1997 AL in search of Lazarus, the one man rumored to bring life to the dead. With the Hierophant’s Project Black Sun looming over her head, she has little choice but to believe this Lazarus is really all her new friends say he is–assuming he exists at all–and that these companions of hers are really able to help her. From the foulmouthed Japanese prostitute with a few secrets of her own to the outright sapient dog who seems to judge every move, they don’t inspire a lot of confidence, but the General has to take the help she can get.
After all, Dominia is no ordinary martyr. She is THE HIEROPHANT’S DAUGHTER, and her Father won’t let her switch sides without a fight. Not when she still has so much to learn.
The dystopic first entry of an epic cyberpunk trilogy, THE HIEROPHANT’S DAUGHTER is a horror/sci-fi adventure sure to delight and inspire adult readers of all stripes.
Buy Links
Getting Used To It: Why Queer Lit’s Dilemmas Must Expand Beyond Coming Out
Queer lit needs to finish coming out of the closet—for the sake of real gay people, not just the fictional ones. It’s true the traditional tropes of “coming out” literature and film are important for a certain place and time. At one point, the love that dare not speak its name really was not spoken about, and so the stories of gay culture required a natural emphasis on exploring the feelings of bewilderment over one’s own feelings and, frequently, overcoming—sometimes submitting to—feelings of shame.
These stories have their places in our social and personal lives, of course. Sometimes it’s not enough to be told “It’s okay to be gay.” Sometimes young LGBTQ+ identifying individuals need to see someone struggling with the same decision to self-identify, and to see that person overcome it to the same normalizing end they themselves can also someday enjoy.
But that’s just it. After the gay character comes out and gets accepted—then what? Once the torrid romance is consummated, integrated, what happens to us? Is that all gay people can do—come out, then graduate to being the wallpaper of the exciting adventures of cisgender heterosexuals?
As a little girl in the conservative Midwest who couldn’t help but admit to herself she found female movie stars much more attractive than male ones, I had no frame of reference for these feelings other than their religious and social unacceptability. So, as a teenager in high school learning about the sexual revolution and the plights of the gay community pre- and post-Stonewall, I was struck by the gay rallying cry: “We’re here! We’re queer! Get used to it!”
Get used to it. Not “here are our demands”. Not “impeach President X”. Not even really “acknowledge my homosexuality and be fully comfortable with thinking about what I get up to in the bedroom, which is none of your business to begin with, you weirdo”. Just “get used to it”. Get used to the fact that we are gay; get used to the fact that we, the gay, are your neighbors, your friends and family, your employers, your fellow voters. Get used to us being ourselves. That’s all that’s ever been asked—that heterosexuals simply accept that LGBTQ+ individuals are people with a basic right to be themselves without being beaten to death in the streets for it. Beaten to death, or subject to more insidious and subtle forms of dog whistle gay bashing.
The question the gay community—especially gay readers—must ask themselves now is: Are we used to it? Are we used to ourselves? Are we fully comfortable with being out? I think the over all trends in queer literature imply the answer is “no”, because we keep coming out, but we never explore what happens once we are out. Like a middle-aged victim of helicopter parenting who finds himself back in his parents’ basement, we seem afraid to swim out into the sea of life on our own and keep coming home to the initial challenges which shaped us in search for resolution. This repetition is stultifying in the worst sense, for literature and for humanity.
For instance: how many young gay characters in fiction are worth a better story than the dilemma of “how do I tell Mom and Dad that I’m queer/what do I do with these feelings”? I would say the vast majority. Why aren’t any of these gay characters getting stories written about when they’re semi-functional (better, slightly dysfunctional) adults ready to embark on a real adventure? What if the protagonist of 2017’s Oscar winning film Call Me by Your Name was already an adult when the story began, and the movie was an entirely different one about an LGBTQ archaeologist solving an Indiana Jones-esque mystery and maybe bumping into the mysterious older man from his past at a key point in the plot? Obviously, it would be a totally different genre—and that’s just the point. Queer literature needs to start taking itself more seriously, and expanding its breadth as wide as possible. Out of YA and romance, and into exciting new fields.
There were a lot of reasons I wrote the story which blossomed into the LGBTQ cyberpunk/horror series The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy, but if I am being honest, the main reason I needed to explore this story is because I believe LGBTQ+ people need original heroes who are universally relatable, whether the reader identifies as gay or straight. We need the ability to pick up books about incredible lesbian heroes like disgraced martyr General, Dominia di Mephitoli, whose sexuality doesn’t figure into her story any more than would masculine heroes on an adventure to rescue or resurrect their beloved. Because, don’t get me wrong, we should still be writing about love—love is one of the greatest parts of life, after all, and love is what we in the LGBTQ+ community fight for most of all—but queer love isn’t going to get the more closed-minded individuals of the heterosexual cisgender community to pick up a book and come to terms with the fact that gay people are, in fact, already here and already queer, and it’s high time for them to get used to it. Queer love won’t win heterosexual hearts. But queer adventures, queer magicians, queer detectives and generals and doctors and teachers all just might. And if we can slip a little bit of queer romance into the background of the story, well…that’s just the Bedazzling on the pride flag.
M.F. Sullivan, a bisexual woman living in Southern Oregon, is the author of two other published novels in addition to the LGBTQ+ cyberpunk/horror series, THE DISGRACED MARTYR TRILOGY. Book I, THE HIEROPHANT’S DAUGHTER, is available May 19th, 2019 on Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble.com, and through indie and gay booksellers across the United States and Canada. By 4042, the Hierophant and his army of genetically modified, cannibalistic humans—“martyrs”—have risen to global dominance. That same year, his daughter, General Dominia di Mephitoli, flees her Father’s oppressive regime to resurrect her wife. Be sure to get your copy and check out more of her work at http://www.paintedblindpublishing.com.
THE DEFANGING OF THE VAMPIRE: Why Rejection of Mythological Evil Poses Danger to Society
The Flight of the Governess
The Disgraced Governess of the United Front was blind in her right eye. Was that blood in the left, or was it damaged, too? The crash ringing in her ears kept her from thinking straight. Of course her left eye still worked: it worked well enough to prevent her from careening into the trees through which she plunged. Yet, for the tinted flecks of reality sometimes twinkling between crimson streaks, she could only imagine her total blindness with existential horror. Would the protein heal the damage? How severely was her left eye wounded? What about the one she knew to be blind—was it salvageable? Ichigawa could check, if she ever made it to the shore.
She couldn’t afford to think that way. It was a matter of “when,” not of “if.” She would never succumb. Neither could car accident, nor baying hounds, nor the Hierophant himself keep her from her goal. She had fourteen miles to the ship that would whisk her across the Pacific and deliver her to the relative safety of the Risen Sun. Then the Lazarene ceremony would be less than a week away. Cassandra’s diamond beat against her heart to pump it into double time, and with each double beat, she thought of her wife (smiling, laughing, weeping when she thought herself alone) and ran faster. A lucky thing the Governess wasn’t human! Though, had she remained human, she’d have died three centuries ago in some ghetto if she’d lived past twenty without becoming supper. Might have been the easier fate, or so she lamented each time her mind replayed the crash of the passenger-laden tanque at fifth gear against the side of their small car. How much she might have avoided!
Of course—then she never would have known Cassandra. That made all this a reasonable trade. Cold rain softened the black earth to the greedy consistency of clay, but her body served where her eyes failed. The darkness was normally no trouble, but now she squinted while she ran and, under sway of a dangerous adrenaline high, was side-swiped by more than one twisting branch. The old road that was her immediate goal, Highway 128, would lead her to the coast of her favorite Jurisdiction, but she now had to rediscover that golden path after the crash’s diversion. In an effort to evade her pursuers, she had torn into a pear orchard without thought of their canine companions. Not that the soldiers of the Americas kept companions like Europa’s nobles. These dogs were tools. Well-honed, organic death machines with a cultivated taste for living flesh, whether martyr or human. The dogs understood something that most had forgotten: the difference between the two was untenable. Martyrs could tell themselves they were superior for an eternity, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the so-called master race and the humans they consumed were the same species.
That was not why Cassandra had died, but it hadn’t contributed to their marital bliss. And now, knowing what she did of the Hierophant’s intentions—thinking, always, what Cassandra would have said—the Governess pretended she was driven by that ghost, and not by her own hopelessness. Without the self-delusion, she was a victim to a great many ugly thoughts, foremost among them being: Was the fear of life after her wife’s death worth such disgrace? A death sentence? Few appreciated what little difference there was between human and martyr, and fewer cared, because caring was fatal. But she was a part of the Holy Family. Shouldn’t that have been all that mattered? Stunning how, after three centuries, she deserved to be treated no better than a human. Then again, there was nothing quite like resignation from one’s post to fall in her Father’s estimate. Partly, he was upset by her poor timing—she did stand him up at some stupid press event, but only because she hoped it would keep everybody occupied while she got away. In that moment, she couldn’t even remember what it was. Dedicating a bridge? Probably. Her poor head, what did the nature of the event matter when she was close to death?
That lapse in social graces was not the reason for this hunt. He understood that more lay behind her resignation than a keening for country life. Even before he called her while she and the others took the tanque to the coast, he must have known. Just like he must have known the crash was seconds from happening while he chatted away, and that the humans in her company, already nervous to be within a foot of the fleeing Governess, were doomed.
Of the many people remaining on Earth, those lumped into the group of “human” were at constant risk of death, mutilation, or—far worse—unwilling martyrdom. This meant those humans lucky enough to avoid city-living segregation went to great lengths to keep their private properties secure. Not only houses but stables. The Disgraced Governess found this to be true of the stables into which she might have stumbled and electrocuted herself were it not for the bug zaps of rain against the threshold’s surface. Her mind made an instinctive turn toward prayer for the friendliness of the humans in the nearby farmhouse—an operation she was quick to abort. In those seconds (minutes?) since the crash, she’d succeeded in reconstructing the tinted windows of the tanque and a glimpse of silver ram’s horns: the Lamb lurked close enough to hear her like she spoke into his ear. It was too much to ask that he be on her side tonight.
Granted, the dogs of the Lamb were far closer, and far more decisive about where their loyalties stood. One hound sank its teeth into her ankle, and she, crying out, kicked the beast into its closest partner with a crunch. Slower dogs snarled outrage in the distance while the Disgraced Governess ran to the farmhouse caught in her left periphery. The prudent owners, to her frustration, shuttered their windows at night. Nevertheless, she smashed her fist against the one part of the house that protruded: the doorbell required by the Hierophant’s “fair play” dictatum allowing the use of electronic barriers. As the humans inside stumbled out of bed in response to her buzzing, the Disgraced Governess unholstered her antique revolver and unloaded two rounds into the recovered canines before they were upon her. The discharge wasn’t a tip-off she wanted to give to the Lamb and her other pursuers, but it hastened the response of the sleeping farmers as the intercom crackled to life.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice, quivering with an edge of panic.
“My name is Dominia di Mephitoli: I’m the former Governess of the United Front, and I need to borrow a horse. Please. Don’t let me in. Just drop the threshold on your stables.”
“The Governess? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Dominia di Mephitoli, really? The martyr?”
“Yes, yes, please. I need a horse now.” Another dog careened around the corner and leapt over the bodies of his comrades with such grace that she wasted her third round in the corpses. Two more put it down as she shouted into the receiver. “I can’t transfer you any credits because they’ve frozen my Halcyon account, but I’ll leave you twenty pieces of silver if you drop the threshold and loan me a horse. You can reclaim it at the docks off Bay Street, in the township of Sienna. Please! He’ll kill me.”
“And he’ll be sure to kill us for helping you.”
“Tell him I threatened you. Tell him I tricked you! Anything. Just help me get away!”
“He’ll never believe what we say. He’ll kill me, my husband, our children. We can’t.”
“Oh, please. An act of mercy for a dying woman. Please, help me leave. I can give you the name of a man in San Valentino who can shelter you and give you passage abroad.”
“There’s no time to go so far south. Not as long as it takes to get across the city.”
It had been ten seconds since she’d heard the last dog. That worried her. With her revolver at the ready, she scanned the area for something more than the quivering roulette blotches swelling in her right eye. Nothing but the dead animals. “He’ll kill you either way. For talking to me, and not keeping me occupied until his arrival. For knowing that there’s disarray in his perfect land. He’ll find a reason, even if it only makes sense to him.”
The steady beat of rain pattered out a passive answer. On the verge of giving up, Dominia stepped back to ready herself for a fight—and the house’s threshold dropped with an electric pop. The absent mauve shimmer left the façade bare. How rare to see a country place without its barrier! A strange thing. Stranger for the front door to open; she’d only expected them to do away with the threshold on the stables.
But, rather than the housewife she’d anticipated, there stood the Hierophant. Several bleak notions clicked into place.
One immaculate gray brow arched. “Now, Dominia, that’s hardly fair. Knowledge of your disgrace isn’t why I’ll kill them. The whole world will know of it tomorrow morning. You embarrassed me by sending your resignation, rather than making the appearance I asked of you, so it is only fair I embarrass you by rejecting your resignation and firing you publicly. No, my dear. I will kill these fine people to upset you. In fact, Mr. McLintock is already dead in the attic. A mite too brave. Of course”—he winked, and whispered in conspiracy—“don’t tell them that.”
“How did you know I’d come here?”
“Such an odd spurt of rain tonight. Of all your Jurisdictions, this one is usually so dry this time of year! Won’t you come in for tea? Mrs. McLintock brews a fine pot. But put that gun away. You’re humiliating yourself. And me.”
M.F. Sullivan is the author of Delilah, My Woman, The Lightning Stenography Device, and a slew of plays in addition to the Trilogy. She lives in Ashland, Oregon with her boyfriend and her cat, where she attends the local Shakespeare Festival and experiments with the occult.
Find more information about her work (and plenty of free essays) here.
Author Links
Giveaway
Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win one of two signed hardback copies of The Hierophant’s Daughter
or a $10 Amazon Gift Card
BLOG TOUR SCHEDULE
Thank you so much for being part of the blog tour and hosting this post! LGBTQ+ issues are super important to me, but what’s most important to me is that they be seen foremost as human issues. Hopefully lots of readers out there know what I mean!
[…] Love Bytes (Guest Post) […]