This teaser comes from Crossing Bedlam and introduces one of the wilder denizens of the Shattered States.  Feel free to click on the cover to visit the Amazon site and read the whole thing instead of this little taste.  Some stuff has been altered to avoid spoilers of earlier adventures, but I put the break there in case I missed something.

Cover Art by Jon Hunsinger

A chorus of trumpets announce the Duchess of LaSalle’s arrival as she steps out from behind an ornamental curtain. Her guests get a brief look at the solid wall at her back, which makes them wonder if she has been hiding there for hours. The fancy woman is wearing a burgundy dress with a large skirt and golden embroidery, the fabric complimenting her dark purple hair. Faint bulges in the clothing reveal the presence of bulletproof padding around her vitals. Using her handgun to adjust the bowler on her head, the warlord takes a seat in front of the two travelers. For a brief moment, the woman seems distressed and takes off her hat to check for the bent raven’s feather that is kept in the emerald-colored band. Snapping her fingers at a servant, she has him retrieve the fallen decoration and reattaches it with the use of the man’s chewing gum.

Having turned the Hegler Carus Mansion into her base, the Duchess carries the air of a noble. She seems at home among the Victorian stencils and beautiful artwork, which she has kept in pristine condition. A small table is between herself and her guests, a lace covering draped over the badly dented surface. Within minutes, a fancy tea kettle is brought out and two chipped cups are filled through a strainer. Milk, sugar, and lemon are placed on the table, but the center is left open for a platter of biscuits.

“No need to wait for me. I have a special brew being made in the back,” the pleasant warlord says, keenly watching her guests struggle to figure out the proper combination for their drink. She shudders at the sight of Cassidy having her tea with nothing added, but Lloyd’s attempt to add milk and sugar puts the woman at ease. “My name is Katie and I’m in charge of this territory. I’m sorry about the rudeness of my people, but they got excited over the prospect of medicine. Such a rare commodity that we tend to lose our head around it. May I ask for your names and how you came into possession of those pills?”

“I’m Cassidy and this is Lloyd,” the blonde replies, keenly aware of the armed guards watching her. There is a lot of tension in the room, most of which seems to be directed toward their host. “Pardon my rudeness, but what’s with the tea and the . . . Britishness of the place?”

“Because I’m trying to make this place feel like home,” Katie explains, claiming a few biscuits to nibble on. Her blue eyes light up when she sees a man step into the room, her heart sinking when he turns back around. “I came over here to become an international actress. Easy to do since you yanks love our accent. Got a few small roles and was about to have a big break when the bloody collapse happened. Not famous enough to get out or form a cult or whatever else the big names did to survive, I wandered around the country until reaching LaSalle about five years ago. I used my natural charm, determination, and take charge attitude to become the leader of this town. Now we’re prospering more than Chicago. All because I’m making this place more like my homeland. Left side driving, metric system, tea time, and only getting pizza by the pie are only some of the reasons why we’re surviving here. Not to mention the toll booth, pilfering a military installation for equipment, and hiring a team of engineers to revive the Carus plant. All done in the British way, I assure you.”

“Why don’t you have an accent?” Cassidy interrupts, slurping down the last of her drink. A cold ale is placed in front of her, the manservant figuring that the young woman would prefer it over another cup of tea. “Thanks. Look, I believe nearly everything you say. I’m just not buying the British thing because I don’t hear your accent.”

“Maybe the storyteller sucks at writing accents,” Lloyd interjects, grinning at the blank stares he receives. Taking his tea like a tequila shot, the killer notices that their host keeps trying to examine him out of the corner of her eye. “Never mind. I believe she’s British and it’s rude to question your host. Especially one with tanks and other military-made surprises. Do I have something on my face?”

“Sorry, but I just realized who you are,” the warlord replies, reaching into her pocket for an old printout of her acting credits. Holding it up for Lloyd, she points to one line that makes the man smirk. “I played your third victim in the TV biopic. My first . . . only semi-big role, which I’m very proud of. Although I was alone in the single scene that I had until I was killed off-camera, so I never got to work with any of the other cast members. They were thinking of making a series about a fictional murderer based on you. I was up for a female villain, but the bloody part went to this Oscar winner who wanted a break from movies. Jokes on her since the collapse happened a few days after she signed the contract. So how can I get more medicine from you?”

A man with Katie’s tea hurries across the room, his hair a mess as if he had a battle with the kettle. From the stains on his white shirt, one has to wonder if the manservant knows what he is doing in the kitchen. With an undeserved sense of superiority, the man proudly hands the drink to his employer and takes a step back. Katie takes one sip before immediately drawing a sawed-off shotgun from under the table and blasting him in the chest. Tossing the weapon onto the table, she gets to her feet and pours the disgusting tea onto the bleeding corpse.

“The tea leaves are still in the bloody cup!” Katie shouts at the body.