Infected:
Prey
Infected
Series Book
One
Andrea
Speed
Genre: Gay mystery/urban fantasy
Publisher: DSP Publications
ISBN: 163216325X
ASIN: B00NJRJZGG
Number of pages: 376
Word Count: 152,000
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Book Description:
In a world where a werecat virus
has changed society, Roan McKichan, a born infected and ex-cop, works as a
private detective trying to solve crimes involving other infecteds.
The murder of a former cop draws
Roan into an odd case where an unidentifiable species of cat appears to be
showing an unusual level of intelligence. He juggles that with trying to find a
missing teenage boy, who, unbeknownst to his parents, was “cat” obsessed. And
when someone is brutally murdering infecteds, Eli Winters, leader of the Church
of the Divine Transformation, hires Roan to find the killer before he closes in
on Eli.
Working the crimes will lead Roan
through a maze of hate, personal grudges, and mortal danger. With help from his
tiger-strain infected partner, Paris Lehane, he does his best to survive in a
world that hates and fears their kind… and occasionally worships them.
Available at DSP
Publications Amazon
Excerpt
HE was on his
third beer of the evening when he thought he heard a noise in the backyard.
Hank DeSilvo
scowled and looked out the window over the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.
He could see nothing but darkness, and maybe a bit of reflected light from the
television. This was probably a bad time to remember the back porch light had
blown out two days ago, and he’d forgotten to replace it.
Not that it
mattered. The only light currently in the house was coming from the television,
and as long as he ignored it, he developed enough night vision to make out a
shape moving in the back garden. Or was it the wind moving a shrub? Kind of
hard to say.
He slammed his can
down with an annoyed grunt. It was probably the Hindles’ stupid ass dog again,
shitting all over the place and tearing through his garbage. He hated that
fucking thing, some ugly Rottweiler mix they insisted was a “friendly” dog, and
yet it always had a look in its flat, black eyes that was just this side of
rabid. They never leashed the damn thing either, and apparently his yard
destruction was “cute.” He was just about out of this fucking place and that
damn thing had to make a final appearance. And it was final all right; he was
going to make damn sure of that.
He went back to
the living room, glancing at the game as he walked past—it was a fucking damn
boring game anyway—and got his shotgun from the cabinet. It was illegal as all
hell, a sawed-off thirty ought six with the barrels cut so short you could have
stowed it under a jacket, but the barrels had been filed down expertly; it
wasn’t just the rough work of a desperate amateur but the sign of a pro. Which
was why, when they’d searched the drug mule’s truck and he’d found it wedged
under the front seat, he hid it in his trunk and didn’t report finding it. It
wouldn’t have added that much to the mule’s sentence; he already had enough
rock in his glove compartment to put him away for the rest of his pointless
life, especially if it was his “third strike” (and it was, no surprise there),
and he doubted the guy was so stupid that he’d actually ask why he wasn’t
charged with owning an illegally modified weapon. Yeah, he was dumb; you had to
be dumb if you were speeding and had a few thousand in rock in the car, as well
as being obviously stoned yourself. But asking after that was a special kind of
stupid, the kind only politicians and people on reality television ever seemed
to crest.
He cracked open
the gun and made sure he had some shells loaded in it before snapping it shut
again with a sharp flick of his wrist. Man that felt good. This was a real
man’s weapon, made him feel a foot taller and made of pure muscle, and he knew
why that meth fuckhead was carrying it around with him. A weapon like this was
a real god-killer; it made you feel invincible.
It was pure
overkill, of course. The Hindles’ dog was fairly big, and yet one shot from
this gun would rip it in half clean down the middle, as well as make a boom
loud enough to set off every car alarm on the block. But what the fuck did he
care? He was an ex-cop; he’d say the dog charged him, and on his property he
could shoot the fucking thing if he wanted. He’d swap out the sawed-off for his
Remington before they arrived. Ballistics wouldn’t match, but by the time they
proved that, he’d be long gone. Good-bye, shit-hole city; hello, tropical
paradise. It was just a shame that it took him this long to collect.
He stood at the
back door for a moment, cradling the shotgun gently, and let his eyes get
adjusted to the dark before going out onto the concrete patio. He had a mini
Maglite with him with a red lens over the bulb, so if there was something he
needed to see he could twist it on without losing his night vision. Not that he
needed to make a direct hit; even if he just winged the dog, he’d probably rip
half its face off, maybe a leg.
First step off the
patio his foot squelched in something; it felt too liquid to be shit, but the
smell that hit him was meaty, redolent of shit and offal and God knew what
else. Had that fucking dog already strewn his garbage about? Goddamn it.
Holding the
shotgun in one arm, he turned on the flashlight and looked down at what he’d
stepped in.
At first it looked
like a puddle, which didn’t make sense since it hadn’t rained in a week, and
the thought that it was dog piss was dismissed since it was dark, and dog piss
wasn’t usually black. Or was that red-black? Swinging the light outwards, he saw
greasy, ropey strands that couldn’t have come from his garbage can, and then a
big hunk of raw, bloody meat like a lamb shank… only it was too long and thin
to be a shank, too dark, and ended in a paw.
It was a
Rottweiler leg.
Someone—something—had
dismembered the Hindles’ psychotic dog and spread about a third of it all over
his backyard. He saw the leg, which was the biggest piece, an assortment of
internal organs, loops of intestines laid out like fallen party streamers, and
lots of blood. But where was the other two thirds of the dog?
The hair stood up
on the back of his neck, and he knew he had to get the fuck inside now. But as
he turned, shotgun at the ready and braced against his hip, he saw the flash of
white teeth in the dim moonlight, and his brain sent out the impulse to pull
the trigger.
He didn’t have
time to wonder why it never happened as the teeth ripped open his throat.
Author Bio
Andrea Speed was born looking for
trouble in some hot month without an R in it. While succeeding in finding
Trouble, she has also been found by its twin brother, Clean Up, and is now on
the run, wanted for the murder of a mop and a really cute, innocent bucket that
was only one day away from retirement. (I was framed, I tell you - framed!)
In her spare time, she arms lemurs
in preparation for the upcoming war against the Mole Men. Viva la revolution!
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Paris: Paris
Character Interview
Please welcome Roan and Paris from Andrea Speed's Infected: Prey to Diane’s Book Blog.
What is your full name? Do you have a nickname?
Roan: Roan McKichan. Well, some guys call me slurs of various varieties, which I really don’t
appreciate. Some people who aren’t asshats call me Ro.
What is your hair
color?
Roan: Weird dark red color. Like half-dried old blood.
Paris: Black as night, and twice as pretty.
Eye color?
Roan: Green
as a lawn.
Paris: A rich, toilet water blue.
Where were you born?
Roan: Seattle.
Paris: Vancouver , British Columbia
Where have you lived since then?
Roan: A lot of places around Seattle.
Paris: Throughout British Columbia
Where do you currently call home?
Roan: Seattle
Paris: Seattle
What is in your refrigerator right now?
Roan: Leftovers.
On your bedroom floor?
Roan: Probably dirty
clothes and a towel.
On your nightstand?
Roan: Paperback, alarm clock, lamp, phone,
pen and paper. In your garbage can? Lots of take out containers.
What is your biggest
fear?
Roan: Turning into a lion, and never turning back.
Paris: That I’ll transform and get loose and kill someone.
What is your most
treasured possession?
Roan: I love my books. Oh, and my Buell motorcycle.
Paris: Posessions are just things. I don’t treasure any above anything else. People matter, things don’t.
Who are the people you
are closest to?
Paris: My boyfriend, Roan, beyond a doubt. And Randi, who I like to
think of as my best friend.
Which living person do
you most despise?
Roan: It’s really hard to top Elijah Winters, the leader of the
Church of the Divine Transformation. He
is preying on vulnerable people, making them think infection is a good thing,
and he is a full time tool.
Who is your funniest
friend?
Paris: Oh, Roan. He’s hysterical. Sometimes he even means to be.
What is your greatest
regret?
Roan: Connor. I’m not going to explain, I’m just going to leave it at that.
Paris: That I didn’t meet Roan sooner.
Which talent would you
most like to have?
Roan: I always wished I could be a drummer. Don’t ask me why.
Maybe it’s because I like to hit things.
Paris: I kind of regret not being an artist. I always wished I could draw better than I do. It looks like it would be very relaxing.
What is the quality
you most like in a man/woman?
Roan: Being able to put up with me. Oh, and understand
my jokes. I’m not looking for complete comprehension, I’m not crazy, but at
least fifty percent is good.
What or who is the
greatest love of your life?
Paris: Chocolate. No, seriously, you can’t guess by now?
Roan. Always Roan. He’s my knight in lightly tarnished armor.
Who is your favorite
hero of fiction?
Roan: I really like Wolverine. It doesn’t hurt that he’s naked a
lot, and kind of hot. (In the case of the movies, really hot.)
In real life?
Roan: Doctor Rosenberg is pretty heroic, in my opinion. She’s studied this stupid
virus all her life, at great personal expense, but she hasn’t stopped yet. And
she’s put her neck out on the line for me, even though she’d benefit greatly if
she didn’t.
What is your motto?
Roan: Life is absurd. Might as well punch it in the face if it makes you feel better.
Paris: I’m too sexy for this shit.
Giveaway
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