Hi guys, we have Eric Alan Westfall stopping by today with his new release Of Princes False and True, we have a great exclusive excerpt and a brilliant giveaway so check out the post and enter the giveaway! ❤ ~Pixie~ p.s. keep an eye out for Shorty’s review!
Of Princes False and True
Eric Alan Westfall
A tennis match? Starting a war between the Duchy of Avann and the Kingdom of the Westlands?
Only in a fairy tale.
When Prince Henry hurts a young ball boy who told him Danilo’s ball was inside the line, Danilo’s response is automatic. Punch the prince’s face, pick him up left-handed, and break the royal jaw. Unfortunately, there’s another “automatic” at work: a death sentence for whoever strikes royalty.
King Hiram can’t—won’t—change the rule of law to rule of royal whim. But he grants the Heir of Avann fifteen days to find words that will allow Danilo to live.
In those fifteen days: Magick. The gods, goddesses and gender-fluid deities on Deity Lane. Kilvar, the assassin. A purse which opens in a bank vault. A mysterious old man. The Lady of All. The Magickal Hand writing, rewriting. A fairy tale within a fairy tale. A huge horse called Brute. And at the end…perhaps the right words and a most unexpected love. Plus a deity-supplied dinner with just the right amount of garlic.
All royalties will go to a local LGBT organization.
Exclusive Excerpt!
The Royal Bedchamber
The King of Westland’s Castle
Late Afternoon
The Day the Story Starts
In the third hour of the traditional mid-day nap-to-evade-the-heat, King Hiram and Roger finally slept for a while. Awake and out of bed, the king considered the room. Anyone who knew him well would consider the consideration smug.
While the servants would know a great deal of rogering had occurred, in the lowercase sense, Hiram believed, without the tiniest bit of proof, they didn’t know who was rogerer and who was rogeree. He overlooked—deliberately avoided thinking about?—the fact certain names and certain explicit instructions were called out at certain peak moments. And both the callers-out and the responders who sometimes repeated the instructions to be sure they understood, had well-developed lungs. Strong lungs which expelled a sufficiency of air for supporting the sounds which made the words which could be heard for quite some distance, despite intervening doors and walls.
Content in his belief no one knew who did what to who…whom?…Hiram smiled at Roger.
Roger smiled back, knowing better.
A double round of rogering which left the coverings and mattress so stained with seed, sweat, spit, drool and three different oils, that the mattress needed replacing, was an excellent outcome. It was good to be a king who could afford to have enough specially made mattresses and sheets specially made in advance, so there were always replacements at hand when the need arose.
The king’s smile widened. He was king, damn it! He could silently say the hell with governing the kingdom. He could keep the door locked, and get back in bed with Roger.
Except he couldn’t.
He snapped his head around at three fast, sharp knuckle-raps on the door, with “Majesty!” appended.
Immediately followed by another set of three knuckle-raps and “Majesty!”
And a third set.
He was often tempted to respond to each set of raps and “Majesty!” with three fast raps and “Moldy!” But he never did.
He glanced toward Roger, who was already gone, without even affording him a glimpse of that glorious ass. He stalked to the armoire, yanked the door open to get at a light robe dangling on a hook, pulled it on, belted it over his nakedness, and went to the door. He ignored the light streaming in from the tall windows making up most of one wall, which showed what he wasn’t wearing. He ignored the fact anyone with even a reasonably capable nose, or a reasonable eyesight, would know there had been no midday napping in the royal bedchamber.
He ignored his annoyance at being deprived of a third round with Roger, and replaced it with annoyance at the ancient, scrawny, white-haired Lord Muldur, the Chancellor who brought him an endless array of problems, almost all of which someone lower in the kingdom’s hierarchy could have dealt with. All, he was earnestly assured, were of the utmost concern and immediacy. Very few of them were either.
The king opened the door, enjoying the slam it made against the stone walls. He liked the effect, which was why the door had been redesigned after there was no one to argue he couldn’t do it. Or shouldn’t.
Old Moldy’s hand was raised as if to start another set of rapping, rapping, while the king was not napping, on his chamber door.
Interesting. The last time Moldy did more than three sets, the king informed him doing it again would cause castration. Upon reconsideration, since doing so would likely not even cause a ripple in the Chancellor’s life, the king advised his loyal servant if it happened again, he would be drawn, quartered, castrated and beheaded. Apparently whatever wild conspiracy theory he was bringing to royal attention was serious enough to take the risk.
“Well?” the king snarled.
Old Moldy lowered his hand in the process of wilting under the royal glower. He opened his mouth to speak, oblivious to the guards who were returning from their “there’s royal rogering going on, so let’s move where we can’t quite hear everything so clearly” stations, back to positions by the door, protecting the king from unwelcome intrusions.
Ha. The king could have used another round of welcome intrusions, just then, but it wasn’t to be.
The Chancellor was oblivious, as well, to the miniature entourage he’d acquired en route from wherever he had been. Each of them, plus several servants who had no need to clean the corridor a second time the same day, were hovering within earshot, while doing their individual and collective best to create the impression they could see and hear nothing, while seeing and hearing everything.
The king held up his hand in a shut-up-now gesture, stepped back, and arm-waved the Chancellor inside, shut the door on the disappointed faces, but didn’t lock it.
He was about to suggest Old Moldy sit, but remembered the only chair in the room, the one built to withstand anything, was somewhat broken. Damn, but he and Roger were good at rogering foreplay. He yanked his attention back to his problems.
The Thirty-Nine hells with protocol. “Explain why my nap is being interrupted, Lord Muldur.”
He did.
The explanation did not make the king happy.
About Eric!
Eric is a Midwesterner, and as Lady Glenhaven might say, “His first sea voyage was with Noah.” He started reading at five with one of the Andrew Lang books (he thinks it was The Blue Fairy Book) and has been a science fiction/fantasy addict ever since. Most of his writing is in those (MM) genres.
The exceptions are his Another England (alternate history) series: The Rake, The Rogue and the Roué (Regency novel), Mr. Felcher’s Grand Emporium, or, The Adventures of a Pair of Spares in the Fine Art of Gentlemanly Portraiture (Victorian), with no way out (Regency) coming out a month after Of Princes.
Two more fairy tales are in progress: 3 Boars & A Wolf Walk Into A Bar (Eric is sure you can figure this one out), and The Truth About Them Damn Goats (of the gruff variety).
Now all he has to do is find the time to write the incomplete stuff! (The real world can be a real pain!)
Giveaway!
Win two backlist eBook titles!
