Please direct your inquiries to my askbox or fanmail/messaging.

Briefly, Starbound (a working title that I dislike) is a story about a former army surgeon who works with an unusual gentleman to investigate the murder of a popular news columnist, and their pursuit leads them to the truth behind a recent war. It's an adult fantasy novel with M/M romance elements.

It was worse than stale paste sandwiches--an order to discharge 30% of my Mental Recovery patients by next week, to prepare for the legions of soldiers returning home from the war. I'd have to choose as if anyone in a bed now was staying in a hospital for the cuisine and ambiance. Who was too mad to leave? Who was sane enough to go? I left it on the desk and put on my coat to meet Robin, jogging downstairs and out the front door.

An autumn breeze kissed my cheeks, a friend I hadn't met in years. The evening air had a streak of winter in it, a promise of frost on the grass in the morning and nothing at all of Laneer's everlasting summer and gunfire. Home. For a moment I believed it. I'm home.

The heavy door of the hospital swung shut behind me. I curled my hand around a cigarette to hide the tell-tale light of the burning end. I shifted to put a graystone pillar between me and the tree with the best line of sight to the front door. It was foolish, but the band of tension along my shoulders eased. Sixteen men. I had to choose them and send them home.

The hospital doors swung open, releasing a competence of nurses from the daytime shift. Robin slid out of the crowd, a hand-knitted cardigan flung over the shoulders of her gray dress and starched apron, clutching a hand-rolled cigarette. I touched the brim of my bowler and let her have the safe spot next to the ashtray.

"So you're late too," I said.

"Miles." The gap between her upper front teeth flashed in a smile that didn't melt the tension around her eyes. Maybe I had to come back in. Maybe one of my patients started tearing at his skin, or found something sharp to use on his wrists. Or started screaming and couldn't stop.

But she wouldn't be out for a smoke if it was an emergency. whatever had Robin troubled wasn't with the patients. I reached for my inside pocket. "Do you need a light?"

She held up a match. "I've got it. I'm just glad I caught you."

Not a patient emergency. Politics? Dr. Crosby on a rampage again? "What is it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" She tapped her cigarette on the back of her hand and slouched.

"No, that's not true. I wanted to tell you, before it gets out..."

She struck the match and let it burn while she cleared her throat.

I fought the urge to blow it out. "What is it?"

"I gave my notice. I'm going to medical school."

Oh. A good man would be happy for Robin. "Excellent. Congratulations."

She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. "We'll stay in touch."

"We shall." She wouldn't be returning to Beauregard Veteran's when she became Dr. Robin Thorpe. She'd have a year's waiting list as a doctor with an office practice. Double that if she picked a speciality people respected.

She shook my arm a little, dragging my attention away from pitying myself. "I mean it, Miles. You'll still come to holiday dinner, won't you?"

"Will you have time to do up a fuss for holidays?"

"There's always time for family, Miles."

For her, that was true. Robin's family was a wonderful bunch, full of caring and affection. "I'll be glad to come for holidays."

"See? We'll stay in touch. Though you need to make a new friend at work." "Robin. You're scolding me."

"It isn't good to have work as your only companion--do you hear that?" Thin beaded braids bounced as she cocked her head.

The night air carried a peal of brass bells tuned to clash with each other, their dissonance joined by a chorus of bicycle bells and shouts. Cry-bells. We threw down our smoldering cigarettes and ran to the street.

A carriage careered around the corner. Cyclists scattered like startled fish. The driver hauled on brake and reins, putting his weight into halting the carriage at the curb. We weren't an emergency hospital. Could we help whoever had been rushed here? What if they needed a surgeon?

Cold pooled in my gut. I'd have to do it. There wasn't anyone else.

The coach door banged open and a gentleman leapt out, bearing a sick man in his arms. The patient's face lolled toward me, the shadows around his eyes deep violet. My heart kicked against my chest. Not just sick, by his pallor and the waxy look of his skin. This man was dying. He lifted his trembling hand and clawed at my coat lapels.

I got my arms under his shoulders and knees. "I'm Doctor Singer, Sir. We'll take it from here."

"I found him in the street." The gentleman grasped my arms and between us we made a carry chair. "I'm Tristan Hunter."

I gawped at him for a moment but then we were moving like we had to outrun a tin grenade. "Did he tell you his name?"

"I didn't ask."

The sick man groped for me again.

"Sir? Can you tell me your name?"