QSFer Rory Ni Coileain has a new paranormal book out:
Fiachra Dubhdara is a Fae living a stolen life, in a body that isn’t his own. He’s also the most junior detective on the D.C. Vice squad, assigned the task of infiltrating and shutting down Tiernan Guaire’s Purgatory.
Peri Katsura is the newest and hottest masseur at Lochlann Doran’s Big Boy Massage, inexplicably drawn to the gorgeous cop assigned to bust him but needing to hide a dark secret of his own.
And the owner of Fiachra’s body has a plan to get it back – a plan that may cost Fiachra his SoulShare and close the doors of Purgatory forever. Unless the Marfach gets there first…
Book Six in the Soul Shares Series
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“How much for…” The blond frowned. “What’s your name?”
“Huh?” The change of subject left Peri blinking. No names, ever might as well be inscribed over the door of this place, and every place like it he’d ever worked. “Why do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
Big hands ran lightly up and down Peri’s arms. More touching. More of that indescribable sensation that made him want to laugh and moan and drop to his knees, surrender, lose himself. And that was even before he looked into those amazing blue eyes.
Eyes that really saw him. Eyes that held secrets and wanted to share them. Peri barely suppressed a shiver.
And the man wanted to know his name.
“Peri.” The gentle touch was making him bold. Or stupid. Probably both. “And who are you?”
For a second, he wasn’t sure if the smoking hot blond had heard him; his gaze had dropped, his eyes were on what his hands were doing, and he seemed perfectly happy to go on that way for a while. “Name’s Fiachra,” he murmured at last.
Peri was trying to think of a more intelligent comeback than beautiful name, when Fiachra touched him under his chin with a fingertip, tilted his head up, and looked into his eyes, and he stopped thinking altogether.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Fiachra whispered.
Peri blinked fast, catching the tears before they could do more than make his eyes sting a little. What he was was exotic. He knew it; he’d always known it. He had his Japanese father’s dark almond-shaped eyes, and his father’s glossy black hair, though peroxide and L’Oréal turned it to pale gold. His mother’s Swedish ancestry had lightened his complexion and given him killer cheekbones and a slender body. Fucking beautiful. And fucking untouchable.
His beauty was his armor, these days. Whether other men hated or lusted, at least they did it from a distance. A safe distance.
He didn’t deserve the jealousy he got. He knew that. But he didn’t deserve the safety he had, either.
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Rory Ni Coileain has been writing almost as long as she’s been reading, and reading almost as long as she’s been talking. She majored in creative writing in college, back when Respectable Colleges didn’t offer such a major, so she designed it herself—being careful to ensure that she never had to take a class before nine in the morning or take a Hemingway survey course.
She graduated Phi Beta Kappa at the age of nineteen, sent off her first short story to an anthology being assembled by an author she idolized, received the kind of rejection letter that fuels decades of therapy, and found other things to do for the next thirty years or so, including nightclub singing, working as a volunteer lawyer for Gay Men’s Health Crisis, and studying ballet in New York City, until her stories grabbed her by the shirt collar and announced they were back.
Now she’s a legal editor, a soprano in her church choir and the St. Mark’s Cathedral Choral Society (unless they’re singing Mozart, because she’s decided that Mozart didn’t like second sopranos very much), the mother of an almost-not-teenaged son and budding film-maker, and amanuensis to a host of Fae, Gille Dubh, and shapeshifters who are all anxious to tell their stories, and some of whom aren’t very good at waiting their turns.