Today was an editing day.

I have a tendency to flip between polishing chapters already written, and grinding through new content for my work in progress, ‘Rocke Stoene: Graveyard Blues.’ Today, I focused on eliminating words and phrasing that is out of place in a pre-gunpowder era fantasy world.

A fantasy novel, the tale weaves mystery and noir aspects into the genre, while turning some of the stereotypes upside down. Rocke may seem like the typical, hard-bitten protagonist straight out of a nineteen-forties detective novel. However, I’m trying to flip the script on the out-dated and quite often misogynistic or culturally obsolete concepts from that era.

Perhaps the best way I can introduce Rocke is through the first few paragraphs of the opening chapter, ‘A plea: the trouble with temptation’

Enjoy!

***

Halfway through my second cup of kav, I heard the words that always meant trouble was about to come calling: “I need your help.”

Silhouetted in the bright sunlight, she stood there—a vision that would entice the dead to sit up. And here I’d thought my morning kav would be the highlight of my day. My gaze lingered a beat too long on her features, and while the cynic in me is usually quick to dismiss a mere pretty face, there was a mesmerizing lilt in her voice, a vulnerability that tugged at the part of me that always fell for a tale of woe.

I motioned for her to come in.

My chair creaked in protest as I leaned back to give her my full attention, scanning with both my eyes and my spectral vision. The years I’d spent as an investigator have taught me the importance of careful observation in both the spirit world and the physical one.

The grimy panes of my front window overlooking Arlinhame’s dockside provided privacy, which is why I never bothered cleaning them. The wan light that streamed through, however, revealed that she was a striking beauty. With my third eye, the one that opened a window on the realm of the dead, I sensed a thread of danger lurking in her shadow.

She slipped through the door and paused, a deliberate entrance chosen for its drama. She stood perfectly still for a few beats before her smile faltered, a thin break in her carefully constructed facade. Her hazel eyes betrayed a quiet desperation that threatened to pull me in before I could look away. I forced my gaze downward, a cowardly retreat, and found it landing on her figure. I almost whistled as my gaze lingered on the enthralling curve of her hips.

Then Maw-maw’s thoughts echoed in my head—a wave of pure, ghostly indignation crashing over me. “Rocke! Eyes where they belong, mister! You never were one for manners!” That spectral thunderclap, the constant intrusion of my long-dead ancestor and self-appointed partner, made being a spirit-talker feel like a curse, especially when it meant enduring her sharp tongue and biting sarcasm.

But, as always, a sharp reprimand wasn’t enough. She continued, disdain dripping from each word. “I didn’t raise you to be such a disrespectful oaf. She’s a lady, not a sausage in the butcher’s window. She deserves better than your slack-jawed drooling!”

Heat rose in my cheeks, betraying my embarrassment. Hoping my visitor wouldn’t notice my momentary distraction, I forced a calm expression onto my face and thought back defensively. “Just paying attention to details, Maw-maw.”

The chuckling in my head told me that Maw-maw knew she’d caught me red-handed. Maw-maw was no prude, in fact, she’d been a hell of a flirt in her day—something she made no secret of. Still is. But she takes perverse joy at making me squirm, and fifty years of being dead has only sharpened her wit.

I added a mental whisper. “And I don’t have floozies. And… You didn’t raise me.”

***

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