The Black Lily Society New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title:  The Black Lily Society

Series: April Oaks, Book Two

Author: Alice G. Holmes

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 08/20/2024

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 106500

Genre: Paranormal, paranormal, urban fantasy, asexual, demisexual, lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer, poly, ghosts, vampires, Night Hag, empath, neurodivergent, New Orleans

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Description

Lyric Morrison is looking to get away. After the Phoenix Coup, she wants to forget all about vampires. She decides to move to New Orleans, the perfect place for a fresh start. However, upon moving into her new apartment, Lyric meets a woman named Heather Campbell. She’s bright, she’s cheerful, and she’s dead. Heather is a ghost, and she wants Lyric to solve her murder.

Suddenly, Lyric finds herself pulled back into the world of vampires and magic by a power she didn’t know she possessed. Lyric is a medium, with the ability to communicate with the dead. As she’s drawn further into the investigation, she meets Elias—the vampire who saved her life in Phoenix, who is also the number one suspect in Heather’s untimely death.

Along the way, Lyric befriends another vampire named Lionel and Verity, a clairvoyant, both of whom have a dark secret tied to Lyric’s own past. Torn between her feelings for Elias and her promise to help Heather, Lyric is caught in a tangled web of mystery that may be her undoing.

Excerpt

The Black Lily Society

Alice G. Holmes © 2024

All Rights Reserved

Sweat poured down my back. My glasses fogged up from the exertion. My muscles ached, and I grunted as I pushed against the heavy box. I panted as I shoved the box up the steps, until finally it was in the apartment. I wiped my brow and exhaled, exhaustion creeping over me. “That’s the last one,” I said. No one was around to hear me. It was the last week of August, and the heat and humidity were getting to me.

I sighed, went inside, and closed and locked the door behind me. Thankfully, I’d already assembled the furniture. I stepped around the last box and collapsed, boneless, onto the bed. I winced as I was a sweaty, smelly mess and these were clean sheets.

“Good thing I got the washer,” I said. I’d technically moved in a week ago. But there was a delay in getting my boxes from Miss Sophie’s in the Bywater to my new place in the Lower Garden District. Not an easy task without a truck. Or help.

The elation I’d felt with a job well done slowly ebbed away. As I stared at the high ceiling of my new studio apartment, I reflected on how I’d ended up there. My original plan to move involved about two years of working and scrimping and saving but two things happened.

Firstly, everyone who’d been in Phoenix during the coup was given a check for damages from the government. Mine wasn’t huge, since it was just me and no one in my family died. As though a check could make up for what happened. A city taken hostage by the undead, people terrorized and killed, and the government just says, “Here, have money to help you forget about it.” Still, I wouldn’t turn down free money. And it was enough that I was able to pay down some debt. I used the rest to book a stay at a long-term rental in New Orleans and mail most of my belongings there.

The second was my job. In an effort to save money (and because the coup had been hard on everyone) we went fully remote. I was given a company laptop, headphones, and microphone and told not to come into the office anymore. When I asked if I could move and still keep my job, my supervisor discussed it with the company president. They got back to me a few days later and said it was fine.

My therapist agreed a change of scenery would be good for me, though I wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. Fifteen hundred miles was a bit far to travel for an appointment.

On our last visit, she’d asked, “Are you still having nightmares?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“And will you still go to therapy once you relocate?”

“I don’t know yet. I still have my job, and I can work from home. But my benefits may change.”

“I would recommend you look into it as soon as possible.”

“Otherwise, I might go crazier? Great.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “Lyric, you’re not crazy. You’ve had a traumatic experience, preceded by a traumatic childhood. Trauma exacerbated by an undiagnosed neurodivergent disorder. You may be fragile, but you’re not crazy.”

“Same thing, different name.”

I was flippant because I was terrible at goodbyes. I knew despite requests to keep in touch, I wouldn’t. It always played out the same in the past. I’d call and email and make a nuisance of myself. Then I’d come to my senses and stop pestering people who wouldn’t write or call me back.

It was nice to finally have a name for my “genius syndrome” as my father called it. Autism, I was autistic. Dr. Cade said if it were still in the DSM I would have been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome—as though it lightened the stigma surrounding my diagnosis. Though I’m glad I didn’t get saddled with that. After reading online that Asperger’s was a term coined by a Nazi, I was happy to leave it behind.

Dr. Cade encouraged me to alert my employers, but I chose to keep my diagnosis to myself, and I was glad I did. Otherwise, when those vampires took over Phoenix, they may have dragged me away, never to be seen again.

A constant point of contention between myself and Dr. Cade: She insisted they weren’t real vampires but “troubled people who believed they were,” I argued they were and showed her footage I found displaying their fangs and their super strength. She dismissed it as trickery. I stopped short of telling her what I’d seen with my own two eyes. I didn’t want to end up like my former boss.

“Stop,” I said aloud. I knew where my thoughts were going, and it would only upset me. I needed to focus on the joy of the situation. I was hundreds of miles away, in my new home in New Orleans.

Before the coup, I’d gone to New Orleans on vacation with a friend. I fell in love with the city straight away. I had the strangest sensation I’d been there before. The day I had to return to Phoenix was the day I decided I would go back to New Orleans in the fall. I was originally going to visit on another vacation. I ended up relocating instead.

I reached into my pocket and took out my phone. I opened Eris, my favorite chat app. I saw a message from Psyche. She wanted to know how I was.

EratoONine: Finally done.

Psychepomp: About time!

EratoONine: Yeah, sorry for the delay. The boxes were heavy, and I didn’t have any help.

Psychepomp: I thought you were going to hire movers.

EratoONine: This was cheaper.

Psychepomp: But not easier.

EratoONine: You got me.

Psychepomp: You’re going to hurt yourself.

EratoONine: I’m fine.

Psychepomp: Liar. So, what are you doing tonight?

EratoONine: I’m going to take a shower and head downtown.

Psychepomp: Ooo! Anything fun planned?

EratoONine: Not really. Walk the Quarter, get some dinner.

Psychepomp: You should go to Port of Call! They have awesome burgers, and they serve them with baked potatoes.

EratoONine: I’ll put a pin in that for another time. I’m not in the mood for beef today.

Psychepomp: Suit yourself. Take lots of pictures! I gotta go; the kids are home.

EratoONine: Give them my love. See you later.

She sent me a kiss emoji and went offline. I put the phone away and groaned as I got to my feet. I had overdone it because I just had to do everything myself. I admit it, I have difficulty asking for help. And yeah, I still managed to pull it off on my own, but at the cost of aching muscles and smelling like a dead water buffalo.

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Meet the Author

Alice was born in California in the 80s, which explains so much, really. Before becoming a writer they were in a punk band and also worked as a nurse. In their spare time they enjoy television shows about ghosts and baking as well as a wide spectrum of music. They currently live in Arizona with their collection of Funko Pops and comic book figurines. Find Alice on Facebook.

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