Dead Harvest Blog Tour: excerpt
Dead Harvest (Discreet Demolitions #1) by Jeanette Battista and Tracey Phillips
Paranormal*e-book, 209 pages*CreateSpace (published October 10, 2012)
Someone’s been raising the dead and it’s J’s job to find out who. As a detective operating in the Underworld, J—with her powers of shadow manipulation—is uniquely equipped for the job. What she isn't counting on is the help of an escapee from a mental institution who seems to attract trouble just by existing.
It’s up to J and T—two very unlikely allies—to find the necromancer and bring him before the Underworld Balance Magistrate for judgment before the human world gets wise to the dead walking among them.
Excerpt:
Robert trailed off as soon as he realized that he was babbling, because it was a nervous habit, and he didn’t want Plumley to pick up on his discomfort. Something about this entire visit seemed off, and he was becoming gripped with the urge to put this strange girl with her unsettling fixation on saliva on the other side of a bullet-proof metal door. He stood as quickly as he could without seeming panicked, and threw what he hoped was a reassuring smile in Tiramisu’s direction.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation tomorrow when you’ve had some rest?” he asked, resisting the urge to wipe now-sweating palms on his slacks when he saw the girl’s brow furrow and her expression darken.
“No,” came the reply, “I want to talk about this now. I am perfectly sane, I want out of this straitjacket, and I don’t think it would be too much to ask for someone to provide me with a handkerchief.”
“We’ve discussed that,” began Robert, taking a step backward.
“No, we haven’t. You’ve been condescending and you haven’t answered my questions and I’m still sitting in drool and it’s really making me cranky!”
“Now look here, I think that given the circumstances, we’ve been very reasonable. You are an extremely ill young lady, and you’ve hurt people! We cannot let you out of the restraints until we’re sure you won’t hurt anyone else, and that’s the end of it.” Robert sighed, and took a step back toward Tiramisu. “Look, I’ll see what I can do about the drool, okay?”
“They weren’t people.”
Another shift in conversation, and Robert’s head was starting to spin. “What?’
“You keep saying I hurt people. They weren’t people.”
“What were they then?”
“Monsters.”
“Tiramisu, we’ve talked about this. There’s no such thing.” Robert watched as the girl’s head dropped forward again, shoulders slumped. He sighed. Obviously they were going to have to switch medications. He’d get on that first thing tomorrow, but in the meantime there was no sense in staying any longer. The doctor turned to leave, directing his final comments more to the door he was approaching than to his patient, “I’ll be back in the morning. Get some rest, okay?”
There was a creaking noise, followed by several sharp snaps and the sound of fabric tearing. Then Tiramisu’s voice was in his ear, and there was a heavy iron grip on his arm.
“Monsters are real,” she hissed. “Wanna know how I know?”
Carl burst into the room, syringe of sedative held ready. Robert felt the grip on his upper arm release and a hard shove on his back, which threw him directly into Carl’s path. His momentum caused the syringe’s needle to enter his stomach and he watched as Tiramisu’s left hand—which now seemed strangely broader and flatter-looking than he remembered—closed over Carl’s and depressed the plunger. She used her right hand to shove Robert aside and he bounced off the padded wall and slid to the floor, the sedative already taking effect. Blearily, he watched as Tiramisu brought the heel of her foot down on the top of Carl’s shoe hard enough to cause an audible crunch, and then, as the bigger man doubled over in pain, she knocked him unconscious with one sharp uppercut. Then the doctor felt his lab coat being grasped, and he was lifted up and shaken roughly. He forced his eyes wide open and found himself staring again into an angry brown gaze. Before he lost consciousness altogether, he heard Tiramisu Plumley’s voice: “I know there are monsters, because I think I am one.”
Robert trailed off as soon as he realized that he was babbling, because it was a nervous habit, and he didn’t want Plumley to pick up on his discomfort. Something about this entire visit seemed off, and he was becoming gripped with the urge to put this strange girl with her unsettling fixation on saliva on the other side of a bullet-proof metal door. He stood as quickly as he could without seeming panicked, and threw what he hoped was a reassuring smile in Tiramisu’s direction.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation tomorrow when you’ve had some rest?” he asked, resisting the urge to wipe now-sweating palms on his slacks when he saw the girl’s brow furrow and her expression darken.
“No,” came the reply, “I want to talk about this now. I am perfectly sane, I want out of this straitjacket, and I don’t think it would be too much to ask for someone to provide me with a handkerchief.”
“We’ve discussed that,” began Robert, taking a step backward.
“No, we haven’t. You’ve been condescending and you haven’t answered my questions and I’m still sitting in drool and it’s really making me cranky!”
“Now look here, I think that given the circumstances, we’ve been very reasonable. You are an extremely ill young lady, and you’ve hurt people! We cannot let you out of the restraints until we’re sure you won’t hurt anyone else, and that’s the end of it.” Robert sighed, and took a step back toward Tiramisu. “Look, I’ll see what I can do about the drool, okay?”
“They weren’t people.”
Another shift in conversation, and Robert’s head was starting to spin. “What?’
“You keep saying I hurt people. They weren’t people.”
“What were they then?”
“Monsters.”
“Tiramisu, we’ve talked about this. There’s no such thing.” Robert watched as the girl’s head dropped forward again, shoulders slumped. He sighed. Obviously they were going to have to switch medications. He’d get on that first thing tomorrow, but in the meantime there was no sense in staying any longer. The doctor turned to leave, directing his final comments more to the door he was approaching than to his patient, “I’ll be back in the morning. Get some rest, okay?”
There was a creaking noise, followed by several sharp snaps and the sound of fabric tearing. Then Tiramisu’s voice was in his ear, and there was a heavy iron grip on his arm.
“Monsters are real,” she hissed. “Wanna know how I know?”
Carl burst into the room, syringe of sedative held ready. Robert felt the grip on his upper arm release and a hard shove on his back, which threw him directly into Carl’s path. His momentum caused the syringe’s needle to enter his stomach and he watched as Tiramisu’s left hand—which now seemed strangely broader and flatter-looking than he remembered—closed over Carl’s and depressed the plunger. She used her right hand to shove Robert aside and he bounced off the padded wall and slid to the floor, the sedative already taking effect. Blearily, he watched as Tiramisu brought the heel of her foot down on the top of Carl’s shoe hard enough to cause an audible crunch, and then, as the bigger man doubled over in pain, she knocked him unconscious with one sharp uppercut. Then the doctor felt his lab coat being grasped, and he was lifted up and shaken roughly. He forced his eyes wide open and found himself staring again into an angry brown gaze. Before he lost consciousness altogether, he heard Tiramisu Plumley’s voice: “I know there are monsters, because I think I am one.”
About the authors:
Website
Jeanette Battista graduated with an English degree with a concentration in medieval literature which explains her possibly unhealthy fixation on edged weapons and cathedral architecture. She spent a summer in England and Scotland studying the historical King Arthur, which did nothing to curb her obsession. To satisfy her adrenaline cravings—since sword fighting is not widely accepted in these modern times—she rode a motorcycle at ridiculously high speeds, got some tattoos, and took kickboxing and boxing classes. She gave up the bike when her daughter came along, although she still gets pummeled at the gym on a regular basis.
When she’s not writing or working, Jeanette spends time with family, hikes, reads, makes decadent brownies, buys killer boots, and plays Pocket Frogs. She wishes there were more hours in the day so she could actually do more of these things. She lives with her daughter and their ancient, ill-tempered cat in North Carolina.
Tracey is a science writer by day and gamer by night. She’s worked in a tea factory, dropped creamed spinach on a four star General, wrangled the prose of college freshmen, and stage-managed more amateur theatrical productions than you can shake a stick at. Her random and misspent youth also included a yearlong sojourn in Scotland that left her with a strange fondness for daffodils and fife and drum music. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, two children, every video game console known to man, and an extremely low-maintenance cat.
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