Something Wicked This Way Comes: An All Hallow's Eve Interview With Jemima Valentino

Jemima Valentino is the author of His Elle, an erotic novella, and Broken, a short story based on real life events.  I couldn't think of a better time than Halloween to talk to Jemima about her new supernatural release The House On Hundred Hill.

Your new paranormal novella, The House On Hundred Hill, explores the hidden world of the Nephilim.  Has this particular mythology always been of interest to you?  Did you have to do much research?

I absolutely love mythology and the supernatural, but to be honest I am probably a bit of a dunce when it comes to ancient legend - I do love to make it up though! I did do a little bit of research on the Nephilim, and discovered that they were supposed to be giants, so much larger than my characters Draven and Nate Black. I think the thing with mythology though, is that it’s open to interpretation as the whole point is, nobody really knows. So, I allowed the research and information I discovered from it to swirl around in my head for a while to come up with my own interpretation. ‘The House on Hundred Hill’ was my first real attempt at world building, and I totally loved it! It’s given me a new passion and a totally different direction to my current work in progress.

Your first novella, His Elle, was a piece of erotica set in the real world.  The House On Hundred Hill is a paranormal thriller with erotic elements.  Did your writing process differ at all the second time around?

Absolutely. I wrote His Elle very much from the heart, putting myself in the place of my central characters and basing their emotions on how I thought I would feel in that situation. His Elle is a story of emotional and psychology healing through BDSM and although I have never lived in this lifestyle, it’s always easier to write a character that you can relate to. I remember having a similar discussion with you before about how it is easier to write a character based on your own gender, age group, environment etc.

Whereas with The House on Hundred Hill, I have (obviously) never encountered a real-life Nephilim or their ancient enemies, the Gregori. Therefore, the short answer is definitely yes - my writing and thought process differed massively with second book, and I’m sure it will do so again with my third, fourth and fifth as you grow as a writer, and in the writing process, with each new idea.

Genre terms such as "urban fantasy" and "paranormal romance" have become ubiquitous in recent years due to the success of Stephenie Meyer and the more adult fare of Laurell K Hamilton and Sherrilyn Kenyon.  What do you think it is about these subgenres that makes them so popular?

I think people in general like to get lost in fantasy. The worlds that Laurell K Hamilton and Stephenie Meyer have created have massive appeal to readers that can use their imagination and lose themselves in an alternate reality for a period of time. It’s escapism in its simplest form. I read ‘Thinner’ by Stephen King when I was a child and was probably far too young to be let loose inside a book that dealt with an adult theme of gypsy curses, but that book has stayed with me to this day because I remember thinking what I would do if one of my family was cursed in such a way.

Escapism is what books are all about - every fiction book ever written and read has caused somebody somewhere to lose themselves, even if it’s just for a second. Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance are not new to our bookshelves, they’ve just been modernised with the times, and given updated ‘genre definition’ from the classics of Bram Stoker and JRR Tolkien.

Do you have a favourite novel from the fantasy or horror genre?

I actually watched the start of ‘Christine’ last night on the TV, before I fell asleep. I’d forgotten what an awesome story that is. Although it’s probably not amongst my favourites, I do enjoy most books by Stephen King.

This year I have also read quite a few books in the fantasy genre by indie authors, and the one that really stuck with me is Fierce Dawn by Amber Scott. It was really very well written and probably the only time I’ve given a 5 star review to a book that sits in the YA category. Then again, I also totally loved Hunger Games too, and can’t wait for the film release next year.   

What would you say separates The House On Hundred Hill from other works of fiction that explore paranormal romance?

Probably it’s erotic element. Angels and BDSM is not something that I’ve come across that much (if at all!), and some readers may find that a bit of a strange theme throughout the book. It was written intentionally though and I really think it adds that extra dimension to the normal ‘sexy angel’ books that you find floating around on the bookshelves of YA readers. The House on Hundred Hill is very adult, and I’m hoping it will appeal to readers who like to combine the paranormal and sex.

Can you choose one sentence from the book that encapsulates its style or theme?

He was Nephilim; the perfect impure balance between humanity and the sprawling darkness, the terrifying shadows that eclipse the soul of the pure-bred humans and lead to that desperate ache, that chill of bones, the screams of malevolence that beg and fight for release but are never heard or recognised until it’s simply far too late. 

Do you have a favourite character in this book?  Who was the easiest to write for?

Jessica was the easiest to write (going back to my earlier comment about relati

ng to characters), but the most fun and my favourite was actually Draven. I love that dark dangerous edge in an alpha male character and my favourite part of the book was when Jessica meets him for the first time.

The House On Hundred Hill is the first in a series. What can readers expect from future instalments?

I would love to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. (That’s not a threat by the way, before I’m arrested for posting death threats to the internet….)

Seriously though, I have the plot semi formed in my mind at the moment but I’m taking a little break from writing the next one to concentrate on something else. But, what I can tell you is that there will be a surprise return of a character mentioned in The House on Hundred Hill, and Jessica and Nate’s relationship will be threatened as they venture into Gregori territory on the desperate hunt for Draven and Azrael.

Who are your writing influences and/or literary heroes?

I hate this question because there are so many literary heroes and I always struggle to name just a few. From the top of my head, I would have to Say Stephen King and Anais Nin. I always want to throw Sue Townsend in there as well, as the woman is a comedic literary genius and the Adrian Mole series will keep in entertained for the rest of my life as I never get tired of reading those books, time and time and time again.

As it's Halloween, I have to ask you - do you believe in ghosts?  Have you ever had a paranormal experience?

Oh for sure! I am a great believer in paranormal activity. I’ve never actually seen a ghost, although I think I’ve felt them on more than one occasion.

My parents live in an old converted barn / woodshed that dates back to the early 1800’s (just to clarify, it’s a house now, they don’t just live in a woodshed…), and they have a long sweeping gravel driveway that leads up to the house. My dad told me once that he looked out of his bedroom window one morning and there was a man with a horse and cart walking up the driveway. By the time my dad went out to greet him, the man and his horse had disappeared. When my dad asked in the local village if anyone knew him, the locals said his name was Ipikin and he was a rag and bone man at the time my parents’ house was built. The villagers even showed my dad some drawings of what the man looked like. Since then both of my parents have seen Ipikin a few times, mainly in the winter when the driveway is covered in snow. Spooky eh?

The House on Hundred Hill is out now on Amazon. Check out Jemima's website for more information, or follow her on Twitter: @JemimaValentino

Book Review: Skin Lane by Neil Bartlett

I first saw a copy of Skin Lane by Neil Bartlett in the Hugh Owen library at Aberystwyth, in a small fiction stand by the entrance, propped up between The Kite Runnerand Small Island.  That was almost three years ago, but it was only last month that I finally bought a copy.  The cover, with its photograph of fur and steel, and blurb which gave almost nothing away, had me thinking it would be an urban thriller in the vein of Fight Club.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  Narrated in an omniscient voice familiar to anyone who has ever been read a fairy tale or bedtime story, Skin Lane is the story of Mr F - a middle aged man who works in the fur industry and lives a solitary existence.  The year is 1967, the setting is London, and Mr F's structured, quiet life is about to be thrown into chaos.  One night, he has a dream.  An unsettling, compelling dream which returns night after night


Mr F's nocturnal insecurities begin to bleed into his usually disciplined working life.  When his employer brings in his nephew and instructs Mr F to take him on as an apprentice in the cutting room, he finds somebody on which he can place all of his fear and blame for the dream.  The nephew is young, handsome, cocky and charming - everything Mr F is not.  As the narrative takes an unexpected turn, each man is cast in their respective role of Beauty and the Beast.  The apprenticeship unfolds almost like a love affair, as each piece of raw, wild skin is transformed into a thing of luxury, to be placed upon the shoulders of a wife or mistress in return for one favour or another.


For the first two hundred pages, I had no idea where this story was going, or where it possibly could go.  So little actually seems to happen, and yet at the book's end, everything has changed.  Skin Lane is not a fairy tale, nor is it a love story.  It is simply Mr F's story: one of loneliness and desire, although it is unlikely that such an insular, compulsive character would even recognise these words as pertaining to him. 

You might not think that a novel set against the fur trade of the 1960s would be the most engaging of stories, but I was rapt throughout.  Bartlett's writing had me cringing with discomfort on one page, then would bring a sting to my eyes in the next.  Its closing chapters are by far the strongest, as all of the latent passion of the last three hundred pages is finally addressed, resolving everything and nothing.

 

Rude Awakening: An Adonis Jones Mystery (Part Two)

In Part One, readers were introduced to Adonis Jones - detective, hedonist and hero of this story.  Now follow our intrepid team of crime solvers (loyal companion Willy, housekeeper Tatiana and police inspector Roderick) into a seedy underworld of murder and seduction...

~

     Rod reluctantly “allowed” us to accompany him to The Cooch Club; this was after all, he informed us, an official police investigation. I've learned over the years that a good dose of gumption and a dash of violence get you a lot further than following procedure, but I wasn't about to tell him that; I suspected his patience was wearing thin. And beneath that slightly sleazy but gorgeous Errol Flynn moustache of his was a man with quite the fiery temper. I'd only ever cross Roderick Sexton if I was in the mood to be tied up and punished.

The Cooch Club was nothing like I expected; I'd imagined a run-down, backstreet Coyote Ugly affair. In reality it had the appearance of an exclusive establishment, albeit one with a bloody awful name. I was familiar with the concept of “cooch”: a sideshow striptease performed at Twenties speakeasies and carnivals. A nasty little dance done on the cheap for some extra cash; I felt glad that Tatiana was above this now. A little degradation is good for us all, and Lord knows I’ve enjoyed my fair share, but I found it unsavoury to think of a horde of sleazy men leering at my Russian doll. 

Again, I was taken by surprise; the interior of the club appeared just as respectable as the exterior. White marble pillars, Grecian murals on the walls; my godly namesake would have felt right at home. But Tatiana assured me this was still the club's exterior; the real party lay beneath. Underground.

Roderick flashed his police badge to anyone who'd look until we finally caught the attention of someone who appeared to be the proprietor; a swarthy, bearded medallion man by the name of Helios.

“We're here about Carl Van Der Wood,” Rod told him. Before he could say any more, Helios erupted in denials. 

“Never heard of him,” he began, followed by; “he's not been here,” and finally; “he was fine last time I saw him.”

“Of course...” Rod stepped closer to Helios, and I could hardly believe how he towered over the stout Greek; such presence! He didn't even have to say anything else, Helios dissolved into a panicky confession. I couldn't make much sense of it, but when Rod turned back to us, I knew he had the answer.

“The culprit is downstairs,” he told us. “There's a member's area, Helios is going to take us there now – isn't that right, Helios?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered in response. Anything for leniency at this point, I supposed.

And so Helios led us into the underworld of cooch; and I have never been so horrified and aroused in such equal measure.

It was a Caligulan orgy; bodies writhed and intertwined seamlessly, the only incongruity among the waves of flesh being the occasional strap of leather or glint of steel. 

Willy's cheeks flushed, and it came back to me how green he was to this world. Tatiana's only response was a single raised eyebrow, but what can one expect? She said she'd worked here, no doubt she'd seen revelry of this kind before.

Roderick stood on the shore of this sea of sex, and turned to Helios.

“The killer?” He asked, and I'll be damned if the club owner didn't almost bow in deference to this copper!

“Lucius,” he called out into the writhing throng, and added to us; “nobody here uses their real name.”

“Shocker,” I said.

A head of dark hair arose from the mass of bodies, and “Lucius” made his way towards us. I couldn't help but be impressed and a little distracted by his roughly hewn jaw, taut muscles and tumescent cock. Believe me, I do not have a one-track mind, but this man looked like an unfinished statue, something raw and hot to the touch. 

It was only when he flicked his dark curls out of his eyes that I recognised him. 

“Dominic Eyre.” I uttered his name as I would a curse. 

“Hello, Adonis.” He smiled at me, a hateful but, shame me, beautiful thing to see.

“Who is this?” Roderick asked, a question that I could see on the lips of both Willy and Tatiana as well.

“This is the man who killed three people before I found him and handed him over to the law.” Dominic almost seemed proud of that fact as I voiced his sins to my friends and the roomful of rutting strangers.

“I wouldn't call him a serial killer,” I continued, “just a deranged deviant who went too far. Three young men ended up in the morgue after spending the night with him. How on earth did you get out of prison?”

“Never went,” Dominic said, smiling again. “Although the prospect of a castle full of men does sound appealing, I prefer the discipline to be on my terms. I had a very good lawyer.”

Ha! The system. I felt like spitting (something I neither practise nor preach).

“I should have known it was you as soon as I saw the bruises on Van Der Wood's neck,” Roderick said. “But why leave the card with the body, if you wished to frame Adonis?”

“Who said anything about framing? I just wanted to make sure he knew I was on the market. Did you like my gift, Adonis? I know you have a soft, or should I say hard spot for the wide-eyed, youthful type.” He fixed Willy with a perverse look, and my latent lust turned to anger.

“You're crazy,” I said, “and at the risk of putting words in my friend's mouth, you're also under arrest.”

“Damn fucking right he is,” Rod said, laying his handcuffs on the bastard. “And this time, the Van Der Woods will make sure you go to prison for a long, long time.”

“It's your turn to be the bitch,” Willy offered, and I put my arm around him proudly. 

“Good,” Dominic leered. “I told you, I like discipline. On my terms. My work wasn’t finished. Van Der Wood was my cherry on the cake.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Roderick grunted into his ear as he man-handled him towards the stairs. “I doubt even a deviant like you will enjoy sleeping on prison issue sheets.”

Roderick dragged Dominic upstairs into the club and out to his car, none too gently either. Tatiana gravitated back up to the bar, leaving Willy and I alone together at the edge of the orgy that had continued regardless throughout the entire exchange. 

“Asphyxiation,” Willy said thoughtfully, poor young Carl’s demise still clearly on his mind. “What a daft way to go.”

“Oh I don't know...” I pulled him closer. “If I could pick any way to die, I wouldn't turn down the chance to be suffocated between your legs.”

Willy raised an eyebrow, mimicking Tatiana perfectly, and nodded towards the orgy.

“Shall we?” He asked.

“Why the heck not,” I said. “We've just caught a killer, I think we should celebrate!”

~

The End

Rude Awakening: An Adonis Jones Mystery (Part One)

Don't you just hate it when you wake up with a nose-full of last night's blow? I prefer a glass of fresh orange juice and an espresso before my first bump of the day, thank you very much. But we don't always get what we want, I suppose. And as I was soon to learn on that glorious September morning, a much bigger mystery than how I slept with all that snow up my snout was about to come lunging my way. Crawling out of my four poster bed, I necked the glass of water on the nightstand and fished a spare aspirin from the tasty crevice of my navel. Willy was still sleeping off last night's ravishing, and I decided to leave him to it; he deserved a lie-in after everything I did to him!

It took me a while to stumble down from the bedroom to the kitchen, partially on account of the rather mansion-esque size of my home and also because of my hung-over zigzagging. It was only when I eventually reached the kitchen doorway that I came to realise two things:

Firstly, that the rather distracting thwick-thwack I'd heard all the way down the stairs originated from the fact that I'd forgotten to throw on my morning thong and kimono. Secondly, that there was what appeared to be a dead body sprawled rather decadently over my marble counter, legs akimbo, rigor mortis evident in every extremity. And I mean every extremity; much like Virginia Woolf's young Orlando at the debut of his adventures, there could be no mistake as to his sex. Sex... that reminded me of something.

“Willy,” I called out in what has been described by many as a handsome baritone, “come and look at this.” Willy Wolfe, my partner in crime solving and most-time lover, appeared presently in the doorway beside me.

“Cripes,” he said, and whistled. “What did we get up to last night?”

“Sodomy, for the most part,” I replied, “but I don't recall any stiffs other than our own.”

“Neither do I,” Willy's right hand instinctively went to my groin for comfort. “Well what do you suppose we do?” He asked after a moment's gentle squeezing.

“Get the coffee on,” I suggested, “and then I imagine we'd best call the police.”
Willy nodded his agreement and filled the coffee pot with three scoops of breakfast blend. After a hot, stimulating cup, and some more furtive fumbling on the part of Willy, I felt up to making the call. While we waited for the law to arrive, my housekeeper Tatiana let herself in the back door and jumped straight into a bout of hysterics at the sight of the poor bugger straddling the toaster. I knew though, that her distress came not from being in the same room as a dead body (she was from the deadliest of Russian gangster stock, after all), but from the prospect of cleaning up after one.

I calmed her down with a sound slap and a hot cup of coffee, and shortly after she was her usual self, swearing in her mother tongue and smoking like a chimney. I don't doubt the shot of vodka I slipped in her coffee helped somewhat.

No sooner had we finished our beverages than the doorbell rang; Beethoven's V for Victory. Not today, old boy, I said to myself as Tatiana rushed to let the police officers in. And who should she lead back into the crime scene? None other than Roderick Sexton, my old rival from the days when I was in the force, not to mention my former bum-chum.

“Long time no see, Don,” he grunted, casting a critical cop eye over the corpse on the counter, and an even darker glare over Willy's flawless, uncovered torso. “Obviously you've kept yourself busy.”

“I'll say,” I shot back, wrapping a muscular arm around Willy's broad shoulders. “But the dead guy's nothing to do with me. He was there when I woke up.”

“A likely story,” Roderick scribbled something in his knob-jockey notebook, then glanced at Tatiana. “I take it she's legal?”

“Of age and she has a passport, if that's what you mean,” I said, tired of this already.

“I can make you come and break your legs at same time.” Tatiana smiled sweetly. God bless her, she probably thought she was helping. Roderick evidently didn't know what to make of this exquisite creature, so he turned his attention to the corpse.

“Do you know who this is?” He exclaimed after seconds of inspection. Willy, Tatiana and myself all shook our heads in unison.

“It's Carl Van Der Wood,” Roderick said, as if it meant something. “Of the London Van Der Woods!”

“That means nothing to me,” I told Roderick, to which Willy whispered “Vienna” and the two of us giggled. I'm sure Tats would have joined us in a good old chortle at the copper's expense but the pun in all probability went over her head, bouncing off the Iron Curtain.

“You don't seem to understand how serious this is,” Roderick fixed me with his stony eyes and my cock twitched at the memories. “The Van Der Woods are an incredibly wealthy, powerful family. If this is murder, and I'm going to go out on a limb and say it bloody well is, then somebody stands to gain a lot of money from his death.”

“Cripes,” Willy uttered again.

“Cripes indeed,” Roderick echoed, then turned to me. “It appears that whoever killed young Carl here had a view to framing you, Don. Someone with a heck of a grudge. And I wouldn't even like to start compiling a list of your enemies. Just your disgruntled ex-lovers take up half the Yellow Pages.” I smiled and nodded; a slight exaggeration, perhaps, but largely true.

“Am I to be grateful,” I asked, “to not be a suspect, then?” 

“You're not ruled out quite yet, but I doubt even you would be arrogant enough to kill the male Paris Hilton and expect to get away with it, let alone stupid enough to leave the body on your kitchen counter.”

Possibly the closest I'll ever get to a compliment from Roderick Sexton; it was almost enough to make me blush. Even back during the time when I was in him nightly, we'd never been on what you might call cordial terms.

“Do we know how he died?” Willy asked, a pertinent question that brought my mind back from its erotic reverie to the situation at hand.

“No blood or guts to speak of,” Roderick murmured, leaning in closer to examine the naked Van Der Wood. “Bruises on the throat, though, so strangulation at a guess.” He let out a low whistle at the sight of Carl's now defunct wedding tackle, and I silently agreed with him; such a pity, such a waste. 

“Wait a minute,” Rod said after another moment, “what's this?” He slipped one hand into one of those rubber gloves (that took me back!) and extracted something from just underneath Carl Van Der Wood's bottom. A business card.

“The Cooch Club,” he read aloud. “Never heard of it, have you?”

“I danced there for while,” Tatiana said. “It is bad, bad place.”

“I bet it is,” I turned to Willy. “Time to get dressed, Willy; we have work to do.”

This was definitely a case for Adonis Jones & Co.

~

To Be Continued...