Hi Dear Readers!

I can't believe July is just around the corner. I feel like it was just January and now the year is already half over. But June is a very special month in the LGBTQIA+ community and I wanted to make sure to tell all my LGBTQIA+ readers and their allies, HAPPY PRIDE!

I've got a couple of surprises for you all today. *Drum roll* First, we'll start

with a cover reveal for Cat's Chance in Hell. Alexandria Corza did a fantastic

job with the cover and I couldn't be happier. She sent me the mock up, and I

was like, “Done.” That doesn't happen very often. And it goes along so nicely

with Poe's cover. Then I thought, “Well, if I'm sharing the cover, I could also

share the first chapter.” So, yeah, it's included. And then to end the

newsletter, I did another round of If Fantasy Creatures Could Text between Poe and Carter. Yes, it's a completely Carter-centric newsletter.

Cat's Chance in Hell

Without further ado, I give you Carter Strike, Siamese shifter extraordinaire, and Tommy Tittoti's right hand cat:

Just a reminder that you can pre-order Cat's Chance in Hell here:

Pre-order Cat's Chance in Hell

Chapter 1: Cat's Chance in Hell

Just a quick note that this is only a partially edited version and may not be the final draft -- we'll see once the book is finished! But I'm making progress. While I have the pre-order set to December, I'm planning to have it out waaay before then. Unfortunately, I don't have an exact timeline, but I'm hoping I'll have a more accurate timeline by the next newsletter. Let's go with coming soon . . .

Anyway, I couldn't wait to show you at least a sneak peek. Cat's Chance in Hell picks up a little over a year after The Demon's in the Details. A contract has been put out on Poe Dupin's life. Carter is tasked with finding the culprit and has reason to believe it's someone in South-West Baltimore, maybe even the roger himself, Bengal Damon-Cowles.

(Excuse the formatting -- it won't let me put in indents 🤷‍♀️).

CHAPTER ONE

(Carter's POV)

I forced myself to lie along Duma Hall’s side, even though I wanted to spring from the mussed bed and put some distance between us. The smell of sex lingered on the rumpled sheets and my skin, and I tried not to wrinkle my nose. Even with the open window and ceiling fan on high, our mingled scents remained strong. Duma always kept the windows open, even in the middle of winter. The cat shifter never seemed to get cold. Couldn’t say the same. I shivered.

Just a little longer.

The barking of Mrs. Martinez’s dogs next door and the wall-rattling bass from Duma’s neighbor on the other side of his row home were a familiar backdrop to this scene.

Duma wasn’t much of a cuddler, but after sex was the easiest time to pick his very tiny bobcat brain. I had about five minutes before he fell asleep, and I could be on my way. My mission was more important than my comfort. Especially since it would hopefully keep a friend safe.

Beer cans littered the wobbly bedside dresser, and an empty Utz bag lay on the floor next to an ashtray that held half a roach and some stray catnip leaves. The dingy blue carpet had patches of wear from Duma’s work boots, and the room’s only chair was barely visible under a pile of dirty clothing. Not the best housekeeper.

“You’re sure you haven’t heard anything about Poe Dupin?” I purred in his ear for the second time, running a hand over his sweaty, flushed chest for emphasis.

“Who’s that again?” He blinked, eyes unfocused, a lock of ginger hair slicked to his forehead, his mouth agape.

In other circumstances, I’d consider his slack-jawed mouth-breathing a compliment. Now, I sighed. Since Poe had moved in with my boss, Tommy Tittoti—Baltimore’s one-and-only demon—more than a year ago, everyone knew Poe’s name. Except one braindead bobcat in South-West Baltimore, apparently.

Though only a few of us knew Tommy and Poe had actually mated. Most just assumed he was Tommy’s live-in boy toy. But since Tommy never kept lovers long, Poe definitely stood out.

Unlike shifter matings, their lives were now tied together in a single thread. Clip one and the other died, too. Yeah, not letting that get out. I was already magically bound to my boss, but he’d added some extra juice to the binding. Even under torture, I’d never be able to reveal that fact to anyone who didn’t already know it. Not that I’d betray either Tommy or Poe that way.

Duma yawned, his meaty hand slipping around my waist.

What a waste of a night.

Ugh. Now I’d have to—

Why had the music stopped? No dogs barked. Like everyone suddenly held their breath. I scrambled from the bed, the hair on my nape standing on end. Duma clasped my wrist, his thick, calloused fingers biting into my skin.

“Sorry.” His eyes didn’t meet mine.

Son of a—

The bedroom door burst open, and two badass panther shifters bolted inside, all decked out in head-to-toe leather getups that hugged their curves. They looked like something from the Matrix. Both had long black hair, tied back, and bright yellow eyes.

The roger of South-West Baltimore’s personal guard.

Fuuuck. I couldn’t catch a break.

They had several weapons strapped to their bodies, and if I had any interest in women, my tongue would’ve been lolling. Frankly, their knee-high boots held more appeal because I didn’t roll that way. Unless it would earn me my freedom. Then I was . . . sexuflexible.

Neither woman smiled, their gazes cold and sharp. No lulling them with sex like I did with Duma. Probably for the best.

I twisted out of Duma’s grip, shifting as I darted toward them.

Larger predators always underestimated me. And cat shifters were the worst. I know, since I am one.

A petite Seal Point Siamese—a God in the cat world—if you must know.

As I slid underneath a panther shifter’s grasping hands and shot between her legs toward freedom, I yowled in triumph. Small and mighty for the win!

“It’s Carter Strike!” one called to the other. “Don’t let him escape.”

Well, hell, who would have known Duma had enough fucking brain cells to turn me in to the rakshasa’s personal guards? Thought I’d fucked what little brains he had out of that mostly empty bobcat skull.

More fool me.

I skittered as I bounced off a wall, narrowly avoiding capture. I launched myself out an open second-story window, bursting through the screen. One guard almost caught my tail as I plummeted.

Should have sensed the trap. Duma was acting squirrelly. I mean, he wasn’t exactly a stage actor. I should’ve been more careful.

The roger of South-West Baltimore, Bengal Damon-Cowles, was rumored to be crafty as, well, a cat. Rakshasas weren’t true shifters, though they possessed both a humanlike form and could do a partial shift into a tiger. Not sure whether that was icky or really frickin’ cool. Urban legend said their tiger half was a ghost. How a tiger-ghost came to be, I couldn’t guess. Mostly, they were an enigma. One I didn’t want to meet, much less solve.

The drop from the window wasn’t extreme, fortunately. Though it was messy. Landing on a pile of garbage bags in a dumpster wasn’t my style. Still, I couldn’t be caught in Damon-Cowles’ neighborhood. I didn’t have permission to be here.

I sneezed. Then leapt from the dumpster.

Ow! I had sliced open a paw on something sharp in one of the bags. Shook it out. Ugh, I needed a bath. And, if I was human, a tetanus shot. Lucky for me, the wound would heal in a few minutes, though. Nothing serious.

The life of a cat. Good thing we had nine of them.

I ran, leaving bloody paw prints in the snow lining the pavement, then charged down the boulevard headed for an alley, my escape plan in place.

Behind me, the door to the rundown row home crashed open. The chase was on. The four-footed variety. Panthers were quick. Luckily, I’d taken them by surprise and had a head start.

As I darted into the alley, a low, sensual voice yelled, “Stop!”

No, not yelled. Drawled. Commanded. Expected me to obey. My fur stood on end.

Bengal Damon-Cowles. Had to be. Holy shit.

I was no fool.

Mostly. Duma notwithstanding.

I tucked my head down and sprinted, my paws headed for home. Tommy was gonna be pissed.

The sound of the panthers’ pounding feet closed in. I wasn’t worried. A chain-link fence blocked off this alley. I had enough room to slip underneath. They wouldn’t be able to follow. Not quickly. The razor wire secured to the top of the barrier—courtesy of yours truly—made sure of that.

I put on a burst of speed, my breath coming in puffs in the frigid night air, as I hurtled toward my freedom. Any second now . . .

“Stop.”

This time my legs locked up, and I teetered, trying not to face-plant. Ooh, so not good.

Warmth erupted in my chest, and suddenly my limbs were mine to command again. No chance to mull that over.

I wiggled through the fence. The snap of powerful jaws and a low growl let me know I’d only just made it. I looked over my shoulder and gave my best cat-that-drank-the-cream grin before taking off. No idea how many enforcers were looking for me. Couldn’t be too smug.

I raced toward home.

If Fantasy Creatures Could Text...

Poe Dupin and Carter Strike have a snarky sort of friendship. Poe thinks Carter is SUCH A CAT and Carter loves sassing Poe at every opportunity. We'll learn in book two that Carter and Ollie Clem have become close friends and roommates (um, is that a spoiler???), and as far as Poe's concerned, anyone who can make Ollie smile--a rare feat these days--is okay in his book. Even if he is a pain in the ass cat.

Thanks so much for reading! I'll be in touch. Also, if you're around Facebook, come join my reader group: Maslow's Mischief, Magic, and Murder and hang out with me and my fantastic readers! We'd love to have you.

Happy reading!