QSFer Michelle Osgood has a new MM paranormal book out:
Nathan Roberts was just your average polyamorous librarian living in Vancouver until his best friend Deanna started dating a werewolf. While hosting the small pack in his apartment while they hid from the underground network, the Huntsmen, Nathan gave in to his attraction for Cole, the pack leader’s brother. Now, the two are navigating a serious relationship.
When his neighbor is murdered, Nathan is convinced the death is linked to the supernatural, but Cole and their friends deny any paranormal connection. This leads to a fracture of trust between Nathan and Cole, and Cole’s pack is left to deal with an unknown killer on the loose. As Nathan pursues answers on his own, he must come to terms with the truth and his feelings for Cole.
Better to Kiss You With, Book 3
Nathan forced his eyes open wider. If he could just see more, he’d keep his focus. The screen blurred; the grid, the black text seemed to swim under water. He was entering the data from his journals into a spreadsheet he’d created, hoping to group similar information.
However, his notes had become less professional and more confessional. Now, he couldn’t skim the pages—he might miss a detail about his day that now had more meaning—so he had to read each entry carefully. It didn’t help that Nathan was more of a Word guy than an Excel guy and found anything more than basic input wildly frustrating.
But once finished, he’d have an easier time connecting the dots. In TV and movies, the research-y guys—Nathan was irritatingly aware of the trope he fulfilled in his own personal werewolf story—always created dramatic research boards on their walls or a convenient expanse of glass. Multi-colored string was often involved, which Nathan had never been able to follow, and an apparently never-ending supply of thumbtacks. Since Nathan had none of those things—except his wall, but he wasn’t losing his damage deposit—Nathan went with an ordinary, civilian, Excel spreadsheet.
And, on his third re-read of his journals, Nathan was almost finished. He’d gathered every detail he knew about the werewolves,
every inhuman ability; every tell: eyes that changed color, vocal cords that produced sounds no human could manage, strength, speed, enhanced senses. Then, everything he knew about GNAAW—how the organization was structured, the number of registered packs, their corresponding locations, how they communicated. He entered the dates of each meeting Kiara’s pack had had with the organization and listed response times to the various crises they’d faced. Then he’d pulled together all the information he had on the Huntsmen, including what little he’d gleaned from them during their time together in February, not just information about the Huntsmen themselves, but what that organization knew about werewolves.
He’d closed his blinds once the sun had begun to rise and had gone to full-screen on his desktop Mac. He had no idea what time it was. He didn’t feel tired. Just… scratchy, a vague, itchy discomfort all over. A few hours ago—probably—he’d had to rummage in his medicine cabinet to find eye drops, left over from when he’d last decided he was through with glasses and wanted to return to contacts.
There was probably an expiration date on the eye drops, but Nathan was ignoring that. He was ignoring everything he could. Cole had texted. Nathan had left the phone upstairs then, remembering to reply only when his stomach had protested loudly that he needed to find something to eat.
He hadn’t checked his phone since. He would when he was finished.
He was confident that tomorrow—or later tonight, or whatever time it was. Later—he’d be able to tease something out from his data. He knew more about the Huntsmen than anyone thought, not that he was hiding what he knew. It wasn’t as if he’d been keeping things from the pack, from Dee. But what he knew came from the hours he’d spent with the Huntsmen, and Nathan didn’t like to talk about it.
You know who we’ll go to next, don’t you? His shoulder jerked as the Huntress’ phantom voice whispered in his ear. If you don’t help us, we’ll go to her.
He shook off the memory and, though the greasy-slick guilt remained, went to the next page in his journal. He was almost through; only a few pages were left. He wanted to keep working, to dig through the information he’d deemed important until he’d found what he was looking for, but he knew that his ability to focus was rapidly dwindling. The point of diminishing returns was just on the horizon—if he hadn’t already passed it.
Michelle Osgood writes queer, feminist romance from her tiny apartment in Vancouver, BC. She loves stories in all media, especially those created by Shonda Rhimes, and dreams of one day owning a wine cellar to rival Olivia Pope’s. She is active in Vancouver’s poly and LGBTQ communities, never turns down a debate about pop culture, and is trying to learn how to cook.