Publication Date: September 2022 (Second Edition)
Publisher: Tygerbright Press
Audiobook: narrated by Hollie Jackson
Page Length: 340 pages
Genre: Historical Mystery
Young American painter Theodora Faraday struggles to become an artist in Belle Époque Paris. She’s tasted the champagne of success, illustrating poems for the Revenants, a group of poets led by her adored cousin, Averill.
When children she knows vanish mysteriously, Theo confronts Inspecteur Michel Devaux who suspects the Revenants are involved. Theo refuses to believe the killer could be a friend—could be the man she loves. Classic detection and occult revelation lead Michel and Theo through the dark underbelly of Paris, from catacombs to asylums, to the obscene ritual of a Black Mass.
Following the maze of clues they discover the murderer believes he is the reincarnation of the most evil serial killer in the history of France—Gilles de Rais. Once Joan of Arc’s lieutenant, after her death he plunged into an orgy of evil. The Church burned him at the stake for heresy, sorcery, and the depraved murder of hundreds of peasant children.
Whether deranged mind or demonic passion incite him, the killer must be found before he strikes again.
EXCERPT
Cupping her face tenderly, Averill kissed her on both cheeks. The first kiss was barely more than breath, the second warm, soft, and faintly moist against her skin. At each touch of his lips, a thrilling vibration played along her nerves. Drawing back, Averill smiled at her—that smile so full of secrets.
“I will see you tomorrow night,” he said, and then went dashing down the stairs.
Feeling dazed, Theo wandered back inside. “Tomorrow,” she murmured.
A sudden rush of sunshine poured into the studio. All around her, the walls she had painted wine red glowed in the afternoon light. She crossed to the windows, watching the grey rain clouds scudding across the eastern expanse of Paris, leaving pure cerulean sky behind. Montmartre fell away beneath her in a cascade of steep roofs, chimney tops, and trees frothy in their new spring finery of green leaves and creamy blossoms. Theo raised a hand to her cheek. The vibration of her nerves spread until her skin tingled everywhere. Her heart was thrumming from the softest brush of his lips. Each beat sounded a different emotion. Excitement. Apprehension. Sorrow. Hope.
She was in love.
How infinitely stupid.
Theo had been sure she was en garde. Safe from further hurt. Safe from broken promises and disillusion.
In California, with a dowry of money and horses promised her, there had been suitors. She’d known since she was little that she was a bastard. John Faraday, the man who’d raised her, the man she’d believed was her father, had called her a Faraday but never adopted her. His wife was concerned for her own two sons’ inheritance, so he put nothing for Theo in his will, not even her favorite horse. Then they were all dead in a train wreck, except for the wastrel youngest son who tossed her out on her ear. Theo had nothing left but the clothes in her closet, her paints, and her grief.
The suitor who had seemed most ardent came to see her after the funeral. She remembered her rush of gratitude when he appeared. Her world had been shattered. Emotional comfort and financial security would help mend that world, and Theo felt the promise of love like a rosebud ready to unfurl and open the tight clutch of her heart. But the ardent suitor did not offer marriage. Instead, he suggested a nice little house in San Francisco, where he would visit occasionally.
It was a hard lesson, being jilted and tossed on the rubbish heap. Nothing she had believed in was real. There was death, and after death, betrayal. Coldly, Theo decided she would never marry. A husband would believe he owned her. Intolerable. Nor would she make the daring leap of taking a lover—she might as well sell her heart into slavery. Loving her art would be enough.
But she had found art was an expensive amour, one she could barely afford. She’d developed her skill with pencil, with pen and ink, because tubes of paint were too dear. Sometimes she’d felt all the color had faded from her world. It was a miracle that she wasn’t still slaving at the Louvre Bar in the rough end of Mill Valley, thinking that was the closest to Paris she would ever come. But the miracle had happened. A lawyer climbed the rickety stairs to her room to tell her Phillipe Charron was her true father—an elegant French portrait painter who had seduced an American society girl. The lawyer adamantly refused to name her mother. But her father would bring Theo to Paris, if she wished. Yes. Theo wished.
So she sailed to Paris—and in Paris she once again had family. There was the new father she seldom saw, an invalid grandmother who spent all her time with her ancient poodle, an uncle she loathed, an aunt she pitied, an insipid female cousin she liked too little—and the male cousin she liked far too much.
Loved.
From the first, Averill had captivated her. His compassion had soothed her lingering pain and eased her still raw anger. Ignoring the turmoil churning inside her, Theo set about glossing her rough surface. She’d struggled to reclaim the finishing school polish that had become so tarnished, to transform her haphazard schoolgirl French to something approaching Parisian fluidity and her raggedy wardrobe into Bohemian chic. Averill had helped her with it all. Fellow artists, they quickly became fellow conspirators, fellow rebels, dearest friends. His morbid moods made her frightened for him, sometimes even frightened of him. But always she was fascinated. Averill was everything mysterious and seductive that was Paris to her—challenging, enticing, and forever elusive.
Bathing in the sunshine, Theo lifted her hands to cup her face, fingertips curved to her cheeks, where the sensation of Averill’s kisses still lingered. The throb of excitement pulsed through her once again, hot and sweet. Her heart and her body were at war with her mind.
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Yves Fey
She’s been a tie dye artist, go-go dancer, creator of ceramic beasties, writing teacher, illustrator, and has won prizes for her chocolate desserts. Her current obsession is creating perfumes inspired by her Parisian characters.
Yves lives in Albany with her mystery writer husband and their cats, Charlotte and Emily, the Flying Bronte Sisters.
Thank you for hosting Yves Fey today, with Floats the Dark Shadow xx
ReplyDeleteThank you from me as well - and you've talked me into getting The Parlor Game.
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