- If you had a grant to write any book you wanted as a freebie without worrying about sales, what kind of story would you like to tell?
That’s basically how I write all of my books. I try not to think about sales or what effect this particular story will have on my writing career; I just write. The story tells me what it wants, and that’s what I do. This probably makes my work is very niche. I’m okay with that. My goal has never been to be a bestselling author. If just one person feels touched by my work, I’ve done my job.
- What inspired you to write this particular story? What were the challenges in bringing it to life?
When I was looking through a website for photos to give to my cover artist for Infernal Hope, I came across this photo of a man in period costume holding a cat. I fell in love with it instantly and bought it, knowing I had the cover for my next book. I gazed at it constantly. I knew his name was Thomas and his cat was Gracie. I knew he was a medium. Apart from that, I didn’t know much about him or the story I would write.
When I had some downtime waiting for Infernal Hope to limp back from my editor, I started getting ideas and making notes for this new story. Initially, I wanted to set it in London, but I was afraid that had already been done so much that I wouldn’t be able to add anything new. I decided to set it in the US at the end of the Gilded Age, in 1888. I don’t know why, really. It just felt right.
I set it in Austin, Texas, because that’s where I live, and I thought it would be easy to do hands on research. The pandemic, and having chronic health problems that made me vulnerable to it, squelched a lot of the research I had planned. Even fully vaccinated, the delta variant worries me. Because the hospital rates in Texas are so high (don’t get me started), I don’t even feel like driving around is safe. If I were to get in a bad car accident, I might get to die in an emergency room because someone thinks Bill Gates and the lizard people snuck a microchip into the vaccine. I don’t mean to sound sarcastic and bitter, but, hey, I am sarcastic and bitter. That’s kind of my default setting.
- Who was your favorite character to write in this book and why?
Thomas. He came to me so quickly. He’s sweet and insecure, vulnerable. He’s very innocent when the book begins, and it was fun to watch him blossom.
- What character gave you fits and fought against you? Did that character cause trouble because you weren’t listening and missed something important about them?
Hadrian! His cowboy stuff bothered me. And the cop thing kind of got me. It wasn’t until I got out of his way and let him tell me his sympathetic backstory that I began to understand him. I can’t share any of it because it’s important to the plot—full of spoilers. Once I started understanding him, I realized how sweet he is, how protective, how conflicted he could be—and how soft he can be when everything is quiet.
- What qualities do you and your characters share? How much are you like them, or how different are they from you?
Thomas has more in common with me when I was younger. The feeling of being out of step with the society around you, believing no one will ever accept or love you for who you are, and being a little too uptight. We both have asthma and disabilities that wear us down.
Hadrian and I are often weighed down by guilt. We both have PTSD, although he doesn’t have a severe case and, in 1888, there’s no diagnosis for it. He has a strong sense of justice and a short fuse. He probably gets that from me. Hadrian, Thomas, and I all share a deep love of animals. Hadrian likes things kind of rough in the bedroom, so to speak. I own a dungeon bed and pig roaster—neither of which are in this book. The BDSM in Carillon’s Curse is very light—bondage and a little spanking. I thought anything more would overwhelm the story.
- What food(s) fuel your writing?
Twinnings Irish Breakfast tea with raw honey. I drink it every morning. I also have a thyroid pill and a glass of water. I write from 9 until noon. (This often includes answering urgent email and a first glance at Twitter.) I have lunch with my husband from noon to one, where we either eat a salad or stir fry with rice noodles, sometimes with more tea. Then I write from 1-3:30. (This often includes marketing of some sort.) If I’m hungry, I have mixed nuts or a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter. That’s it, because I no longer write after 4:30 at the latest. I like to take off when my husband does and hang out with him. We’re freakishly close. Like twinspeak close.
- What meds are you supposed to be taking?
A lot of them. I take all of my meds and am thankful for the science that made them possible. I have three autoimmune diseases, asthma, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. Some of my bipolar meds cause weight gain, but I feel better on them. I’m transitioning, so I also take testosterone, which I LOVE. I feel really grateful that my husband has a good insurance plan and I’m able to get what I need. I wish everyone in the US had access to quality healthcare. I know I wouldn’t be alive today without my meds.
Because I have asthma, like Thomas, I have an inhaler. They don’t have inhalers in his day, so he uses laudanum, an opioid, and marijuana. Those were the asthma medications of the time.
In 1888 Austin, Texas, a shy medium with clubfoot is visited by the grisly spirits of murdered children and enlists the help of a rugged Texas Ranger to pursue their killer. As the two men hunt the murderer, they find themselves not only in the grip of a taboo love that could—at best—send them to prison, but also in danger of becoming the killer’s next prey.
In the twenty three years of his life, Thomas Carillon has known nothing but unrequited love. People don’t notice him; they only notice his clubfoot. He has given himself up to a solitary existence with only the companionship of his cat and the ghosts who visit him. When a rare child ghost, her massive injuries evident, asks Thomas for help, the only law man that will listen is a hard-bitten Texas Ranger who reawaken’s Thomas’s secret desires. The two grow closer as they chase the killer, but can they hold onto their fragile, budding love in such hard times?
Hadrian Burton thinks Thomas looks like an angel, except for whatever horror he’s hiding in that strange boot. Temporarily leaving life on the range and his complicated past to track down a killer with Thomas, Hadrian finds himself doing something he vowed never to do again—falling in love. Their “congress,” as Thomas calls it, is more intense than he has ever experienced. After a lifetime of virginity, the clubfooted man is going wild, and he doesn’t balk at Hadrian’s unconventional appetites. But Hadrian fears he will only hurt Thomas in the end. And yet, he has never fallen so hard for another man. How can he keep both his and Thomas’s hearts from being broken? And how can he bring the elusive Child Slayer to justice with only the help of a medium and ghosts?
Sionnach Wintergreen is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this reveal:
Friday, January 27
Austin, Texas
Thomas Carillon set down his teacup as he watched his cat, Gracie, lift up from his lap in a black and white ruffle of fur, her ghost puff. She had sensed a presence. He sighed. Ghosts never respected his privacy. He enjoyed helping them, but sometimes they demanded attention—usually when he wanted to be alone in his drawing room. “Is it more Confederates? I’m so tired of goddamned Confederates. It’s always ‘what did I die for’ and telling them, ‘not a damn thing’ doesn’t send them off to the Great Beyond.”
Thomas smoothed Gracie’s rumpled coat. It was thick and wispy at the same time, too short to call long and too long to call short. Consequently, the only time it laid flat was when Thomas sleeked it back with his hand, and then it only stayed down for a few seconds. This excited burst of hair, of course, was different. Gracie’s ghost puff. He was the medium, true enough, but Gracie always saw ghosts first, and it was this distinctive puff of hair and body that announced every spectral visitor to Carillon House.
“Show yourself, spirit. I sense your presence and will endeavor to listen to your tale.” He left out that Gracie was truly the one who sensed the specter’s presence. Gracie, for all her intuitiveness, couldn’t speak to ghosts. That was his talent.
This spirit didn’t have the distrust or sudden coyness displayed by most of the ghosts who called on him. This one appeared right beside the arm of his wingback chair. She flickered, wan and bloodless. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest tightened. Seeing a spirit rarely triggered one of his asthma attacks anymore, but the ones who had suffered terrible injuries still affected him.
“You are Mister Carillon” asked the girl. He didn’t usually see child ghosts. Something about them, perhaps their innocence, allowed them to cross over without all of the problems that burdened adults and kept them bond to the realm of the living.
She looked about five years old with duckling blonde hair done up in curls atop her head and crowned with a large red bow. Dirt and blood-stained white lace gloves were the only article of clothing she wore. She held her bowels in her arms as if cradling a large bouquet.
“Yes. Yes, I’m Mr. Carillon. Please, call me Thomas.” He tried to right himself. Whatever had happened to this child, he knew she meant him no harm. People were scared of ghosts, but the most fearful beings wore flesh and skin flushed with blood. “What is your name, my child?”
“Rebecca. The pretty painted ladies told me to come here.”
The whores. All of the whores liked him. They knew he wasn’t like the men who plagued them in life. Homosexuals spent as little time as possible with naked females—and they certainly didn’t pay to do so. He had helped some cross over and entertained with the others. A number of them didn’t want to cross over, content to haunt men and make them impotent or help him impress rich old women at séances.
“Rebecca. That’s a lovely name.” He could have used a sip of tea, but Rebecca’s condition made his stomach shiver. “What brings you to seek me out?”
“I like your cat.”
“Do you? Thank you. Yes, she is a rather nice cat.”
“What’s her name?”
He was thankful most children crossed over. He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with them. He hadn’t understood them even when he was one. At twenty-three, he should have been starting his own family, but he didn’t call on women. He knew they wouldn’t have wanted to marry him even if he had courted one. The two his mother had tried to collect for him had practically run away. “Her name is Gracie.”
Rebecca giggled, holding twists of guts as easily as she might lift a skirt. “That’s a funny name for a cat!”
“She’s a funny cat. Tell me, dear, what happened to you?”
She sobered. “He hurt me. He hurt my private places, then he cut me with his knife.”
A burst of anger flared bright and hot in Thomas’s face.
Rebecca cringed. “Please, don’t be angry, Mister.”
His grief at her condition and her fear fanned the flames of his asthma. He fought for a breath. A small wheeze escaped him. “I’m not angry at you. Not even a trifle. Tell me, Rebecca, tell me who he is.”
“His knife was the biggest knife I’ve ever seen. It was much bigger than his…. He hurt me.”
Raw fury tightened his chest more than asthma. He fought to keep his voice even, not wishing to frighten the child. A Bowie knife—that could have belonged to nearly half the men in Austin. He needed more information. “Did you know him?”
She shook her head negatively, curls bouncing. “I was playing with Sarah and Rose outside Rose’s house. Her house is next door, but Sarah lives on another street. He came up and wanted to tell us a Bible story. I didn’t like it. It was about Lot. He said I needed to come with him because my mother said so, but we didn’t go see my mother. We went to some place where cows are, and he did things to me. And chickens. There were chickens there, too. The black spotty kind. I like those.”
Thomas went ahead and helped himself to his tea. He drained his cup despite its coolness, and set it back down. “I’ll go see the Marshal,” he said gently. Maybe, if he was truly fortunate, the police would discover her corpse so her poor mother could bury her. “That was a terrible man, but no one is going to hurt you anymore, Rebecca. What happened to you in life didn’t happen to your spirit body. Think about how you usually looked.”
As she thought, her ghostly flesh righted itself, and she became well and whole, although she was still a specter, pale and flickering like a candle flame. She wore a pretty, lacy frock and was a lovely little girl. Thomas smiled at her. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
He was about to try to send her to the Great Beyond, when she chirped, “What about the boy?”
“What boy?”
“The boy in the barn. The man brought him there after he hurt me. Before he cut me. He hurt the boy, too. The boy was a tiddy baby, but I didn’t call him one. He wouldn’t stop crying. I don’t want the man to cut him, though.”
Thomas tapped his shoulder. Gracie, who had been quiet in his lap, leapt on his shoulder and balanced as he grabbed his cane from against the chair and stood. Even with the special boot, the clubfoot was a menace. It kept his bed empty and his heart forever yearning.
“What are you doing?” asked Rebecca.
We’re going to see the police.” He reached into his vest and pulled out his pocket watch. He opened it and showed it to Rebecca. “You can ride in here, and I’ll let you out when we talk to the Marshal.”
She tilted her head to the side. “It’s a special watch?”
He smiled. “It was my great grandfather’s. It’s very special to me. I don’t know why it works the way it does, but I can carry two spirits in it if they are so inclined.”
“And Gracie’s going, too?”
“Gracie goes everywhere I go. Always.” He actually went precious few places, preferring the quiet seclusion of his home.
Gracie blinked at the girl with a slow bat of her black lashes. A cat kiss. A blessing.
Rebecca’s face broke out in a huge grin. “Then I’ll go, too.” She turned to a white mist and disappeared into the watch. Thomas put it in his pocket and shuffled toward the foyer. Despite his confidence when speaking with the girl, a chill licked down his spine. He hoped they could find the boy before he became a specter as well.
Before I started writing full time, I volunteered as a grant writer for animal rescue nonprofits. I love animals, and they inevitably find their way into my stories. I share my life with my husband and seven spoiled cats. I’m also the emotional support human to a husky.
Author Website: https://www.SionnachWintergreen.com
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