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

"Little Death" Extract 5: Sleeper

The entire room seems to rock but they know it’s just them, just the cheap headboard clattering lightly against the wall.  Their lovemaking is electric – or is that the static hum of the light bulb that hangs naked over them?  When he comes, her whole body seems to tighten around him, her arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders, her legs intertwined with his until it feels like he's falling into her, becoming swallowed whole by her embrace.  Then the euphoria clears and he realises he is merely lying on top of a hooker, and a bored one at that.  She looks up at him, as if to query whether they are done here, and the unflinching eye contact makes him queasy. 

Out in the hallway, Eli exhales heavily, his itch scratched.  A familiar glow settles under his skin, but the satisfaction he feels is as empty as that of the man on the other side of the wall.  Sometimes you eat simply to keep going.  It unsettles him, the frequency with which his hunger has been surfacing these last few weeks.  It seems that every time he passes a building where somebody inside is indulging in personal fantasy, or two lovers are grabbing a moment of urgent pleasure, he is drawn to it.  The energy created in such an instant has proven irresistible, and Eli has known for a long time now that other people do not feel such a pull.

For most, sex is about the physical sensation, the gratification of the self.  Eli learned the appeal of this as an adolescent, just like everybody else.  But he learned at the same time that what he felt on the surface wasn’t necessarily what nourished him.  It was during somebody else’s release that he sensed their soul open, and felt something inside himself reach out and grab at their essence like a greedy child.

Eli’s early lovers, following a night in his bed, always awoke with a feeling of fatigue, of faint illness.  As if a tiny portion of their life force had been diminished.  Of course they would dismiss this thought with an empty laugh, and a day or so later the memory of it would fade as they were restored.

There are no lasting effects.  The mantra that Eli mouths to himself day and night, to abate the guilt and to justify doing it again.  And again.  They always recover, so long as it only happens the once.  Eli has never been bold enough to attempt feeding on the same person more than a couple of times; the after-effects become more pronounced, take longer to shake off, and God only knows what after that.  Until Jerome, he’d made a habit of not staying around for long enough to find out.

Of course, Eli sleeps with Jerome.  They make love; they do insane things to each other in the shower; they have dozy and stale morning sex.  But Eli has never reached into him and taken what he needs.  Doing that, treating Jerome like someone he could use, no different from any of the others, it would sully the only pure thing Eli has ever had.  He would sooner die.

It’s colder tonight than it has been in weeks.  The night air gets under the thin cotton of his shirt and stays there, chilling him to the bone, his heady afterglow already dissipating.  The guilt will seep in faster this time, he can tell.  Like floodwater under a door.  At least there was no actual physical contact on his part this time.  Although a petty justification like that falls flat against all the other times that there were.

He is only a few streets away from home when he passes Anna.  For a while he’d had a theory that she was like him.  Some nights he’d see her in the bar alone, pale and languid.  Other times, her complexion would have a healthy flush and she’d be laughing with her companions.  And for somebody who spent so much time in a restaurant, she didn’t eat a lot.  Hungry for other things, perhaps.  But Eli hadn’t even been able to begin to think how he could broach such a subject with anyone, much less somebody like Anna.  And so he’d said nothing, and after a while his theory fell by the wayside.

The high has completely worn off by the time he reaches the apartment block.  Back to reality.  He feels his belly growl, and he tries to remember the last time he ate.  The entire day had been spent painting, and Jerome had taken the lunchtime shift so as soon as he got home they’d shut the bedroom door and not opened it again for hours.  His boyish mouth twitches into a dirty smile.  He wishes that could be enough.  More than anything.

He knows something is wrong as soon as he opens the door to the apartment.  He feels it in the pit of his stomach, and elsewhere.  The sense that tells him when he needs to feed, now it’s telling him there is something in the bedroom.  Something sick and malignant that doesn’t belong there.

Eli races across the living room and through the bedroom door.  Jerome lies on the bed, fast asleep.  At first, Eli mistakes the shadow on his chest for a trick of the light.  Then it moves, and a pair of yellowed eyes fix on him.  Eli realises he has disturbed something, and whatever that thing on the bed is, it doesn’t appreciate the interruption.  How the fuck did he think it was a shadow?  Perched on Jerome’s torso like a cat might be, only three times the size with long spindly arms and squat hind legs, it is more solid, more visible than it was a moment ago.  While at first its body had seemed shadowy and insubstantial, now it glistens like tar.  Eli’s first thought is of a gargoyle, or a gremlin.  A broad grin exposes a mouthful of crooked teeth the colour of charcoal.  A stretched, misshapen nose further distorts its wretched face.

He wants to scream.  He wants to yell his head off, to wake Jerome and call for help, to run back out of the bedroom as fast as he can.  But he stays rooted to the spot.  Not entirely from terror, but rather out of curiosity.  What in hell is it?  Its narrow amber gaze has not strayed from Eli, as if it is just as fascinated and repulsed by him as he is by it.

“Get out,” Eli says, more calmly than he would have thought possible.  “Get away from him.”  Jerome’s expression is one of pain, and fear.  Unconscious or not, he is suffering at the hands of this creature.  Eli takes a step forward, then another.  The closer he gets to the thing, the more his right hand itches, closing into a fist and then opening, fingers outstretched. 

Kill it.

Where did that come from?  He doesn’t have time to ponder the question; the creature has turned back to face Jerome, as if it knows it is only a matter of moments before Eli reaches the bed, and it needs to finish its unholy business.  It places a gnarled, slick hand on Jerome’s chest, and the gesture is so familiar to Eli that he feels sick to his stomach.

It is feeding.

Any trepidation he’d felt up until now vanishes.  He bolts over to the bed, arms outreached, ready to throttle the creature if necessary.  Anything to stop it from taking from Jerome what he had been so careful all this time to honour.  Its eyes snap back to him and it lets out a hideous, eldritch shriek.  By the time Eli’s hands close around the air where its body had been, it has vanished.  It simply isn’t there anymore.

“No,” Eli barks.  “No!” 

“Wha...?”  Jerome is waking up.  Eli sits down on the mattress beside him and pulls him into a hug, one that is tighter than is comfortable for either of them.

“I’ve been having some fucking weird dreams,” Jerome gasps.  “Some pretty twisted stuff, actually...”  He is short of breath.  Eli can’t meet his eye.  Jerome’s skin is pallid, drenched with sweat.  Eli has seen this before, has been the cause of this in others.  His cheeks flush with shame, and he buries his face in Jerome’s bare chest.  His boyfriend’s arms close around him, then he feels Jerome lower himself back onto the bed.  Eli pulls his feet off the floor and lies down next to him, even though he has never felt more awake.

“Sleep,” he says, as if Jerome is the one who needs reassuring. “It was just a bad dream.”  Jerome grunts something non-committal in response.

You didn’t tell him.

Eli ignores that thought, and tries to expel the other one, the one from earlier.  The impulse he’d felt to beat whatever life remained in that creature right out of it.

He’s never seen anything like it before.  Something that ugly, that inhuman – it can’t be real.  And yet, he had not panicked, or reacted with terror.  He’d been curious.  Because as grotesque as it was, it was the closest he’d come to anything even remotely similar to himself.  And just like that, the thought crosses his mind.  The hunger he feels, the need he gets.  The possibility that he’s just seen its true face.

“That’s not me,” he whispers to himself, so quietly that a dozing Jerome does not hear him.  “Not even a little bit.”

Then why, when it looked at him, did its eyes flash with something akin to recognition?

  

"Little Death" Extract 1: Eli

“Where are we going, mommy?”

“Somewhere special, sweetheart,” is his mother’s answer.  “Somewhere safe.”

She is leading him by the hand through the churchyard, but not towards the church.  They walk right past it, the bright afternoon sunlight giving way first to dappled shade, then to cool, damp dusk as they enter the woods beyond the churchyard.

“What’s so safe about the woods?”  Eli asks.  He is only six, young enough to follow his mother, but old enough to know something is different about her.

“He said he can fix you,” his mother says, although Eli thinks it is more to herself than to him.  “He said he can make you better.”

“Am I sick?”

“Oh baby,” her voice softens, cracks.  But her hand tightens around his, and her pace quickens.  “Yes.”

Eli’s eyes snap open, as they often do when he reaches that point in the dream.  He sits up in bed, heart pounding, breathing in and out as steadily as he can.  He feels the heavy warmth of a hand over his, and looks down at Jerome.  He has reached over without even opening his eyes.  He could be fast asleep.

“Are you alright?”  He asks, eyes still closed.

“I’m fine,” Eli says.  “Just the usual.”

“I love you,” Jerome says, voice sleepier now.  This middle of the night conversation is a well-worn part of the script that is their relationship.

“I love you too,” Eli echoes, as a restless feeling settles in his gut.  Seconds later Jerome is snoring softly.  He envies Jerome this.  For Eli, this wakefulness, this sudden unease, can mean only one thing.  He is in need of a sweeter dream than his own.

He eases himself off the bed as quietly as he can, and dresses in silence.  In the corner of the room, his latest painting stands unfinished.  He considers fetching his brushes to take his mind off the bad dream and this sudden craving, but he knows it won’t work.  Nothing works.

He pads barefoot over hardwood floors to the front door, only stopping to put his shoes on when he is outside and the noise will not wake Jerome.  The night outside is unseasonably warm; he unzips his hooded sweatshirt and savours the sensation of the night air on his bare chest.  His jeans cling to his legs, heavy and tight.

He and Jerome have lived in Bellevue for nearly a year now, and he can navigate the streets at night with ease, but he doesn’t pay much attention to where he’s going.  On nights like this it is never his eyes that lead him, but something on the inside.

He doesn’t know how long he walks.  Each breath he takes is more rapid, more shallow.  The heat builds under his skin and it feels like every muscle in his body is tightening.  The familiar pressure below his stomach is there, the almost benign flow of blood that people call lust.  But it isn’t lust alone that brings Eli out onto the streets at night, more frequently these last few weeks than ever before in his life.  Rather, something much closer to hunger.

On Sheridan Street, he stops outside a small house.  An unremarkable home; the front door needs a fresh lick of paint and the lawn hasn’t been cut in a while – if Eli didn’t know better, he might think it was abandoned.  But he does know better.  In a bedroom upstairs, somebody is sleeping.  And, more importantly, dreaming.

Eli closes his eyes, and reaches out.  The pounding in his chest abates slightly, as if an invisible beast knows it is about to be fed.  In the darkness beneath his eyelids, Eli begins to see the man in his bed.  It is like a Polaroid image clearing at first; he sees the rise and fall of his broad, hairless chest, then the outline of a muscular arm arched over his head.  Eventually Eli can make out the slightest of creases on the thin sheet draped over the man’s waist.  A thin, teasing line of hair makes its way down from his navel, thickening and darkening just before vanishing under the cotton.

Eli reaches out with his right hand.  Instead of touching thin air, he feels the warmth of the man’s body.  Gently, so lightly that the sensation is almost imperceptible even to him, he ghosts his fingers over the man’s muscular chest.  Eli sees his nipples harden in arousal, an unconscious reaction to his presence.

Under his eyelids, the man’s pupils dart around rapidly.  He is having a very pleasant dream.  And he has no idea how much more pleasant it will get.  Eli cups his face in his right hand, and the man instinctively nuzzles his palm.  In sleep, his brow furrows in a slight frown.  His lips form a soft pout.

His eyes, should they open, would be blue.  His name is –

Eli pushes the thought away.

He lets his hand slide down from the man’s face, pausing for a second around his throat, savouring the sensation of the pulse beneath his palm, the ripple against his skin as the man swallows.  It feels like he hasn’t shaved in a day, maybe two; the stubble grazes his hand gently.  Eli allows his hand to linger on the strong, coarse jaw; Jerome is always so clean-shaven.

The sleeper’s breathing quickens.  The edges of his mouth twitch in pleasure.  He exhales loudly, bucks his hips lazily.  It is impossible to notice the sizeable erection beneath the sheet.  Eli lowers his hand to rest on his chest again, more heavily this time.  He doesn’t know anymore whether it is his hand, or the man’s chest that is red hot.

A sharp intake of breath, a quiet moan.  The sleeper’s lips form a silent name.  Who is he dreaming of?  Jules.  The name appears unbidden in his own mouth.  A man, or a woman?  It doesn’t matter, he supposes. 

The man thrusts upwards against the sheet one more time, harder, then again.  It must be one hell of a dream.  Eli’s hand doesn’t move from his chest.  The stuffy warm bedroom air is thick around them, laden with electricity.  Any moment now.

The man splays both his arms outwards wantonly, and for a split second Eli thinks of a crucified Jesus.  He vehemently rejects this thought.  The sleeper thrashes on the bed, panting hard.  Seconds later, he comes loudly, his voice a wordless, guttural howl.  Eli breathes in deeply.  Something travels up through his hand; a pulse, a flex of muscle.  He inhales the sleeper’s own breath, a heady mix of scotch and smoke.

He feels his own body open.  The tension in his stomach evaporates, the need laughs silently as it is given what it wants.  It is beyond sexual gratification; for the briefest of moments, it is akin to bliss.

Eli breathes out, feeling drunk and sated.  When he looks down, he sees a pair of bright, fierce blue eyes looking up at him.  Panic threatens to rise in his throat, then the eyes drift closed and the man is asleep once more.  His chest and stomach glisten, the sheet lies crumpled around his thighs.  His cock looks both happy and spent; Eli can relate.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he is back in the yard.  His cheeks are hot, flushed, and his heart is racing again, given new life, new blood.  He feels like he could do anything.  But all he wants to do is go home.  He turns and walks, practically skips, away from Sheridan Street.

The moonlight this evening is weak, but Eli carries his own glow.  The night, it almost seems, is singing to him.  Welcoming him back.  When he reaches the apartment, he clumsily rushes to take off his shoes and ends up walking out of his sweater and jeans, striding into the bedroom and standing before the unfinished painting, issuing an unspoken challenge.

By the time he finishes, the sun is peeking like a voyeur over the horizon.  Eli looks back to the bed, where Jerome sleeps under a beam of half-light.  In the morning, he will feel ashamed.  But he’s riding too high a wave for any kind of guilt to reach him yet.

In the bottom right corner of the painting, in as small lettering as he can, he inscribes his name, then climbs back into bed beside his lover, wrapping cold, paint-stained hands around Jerome’s warm body.

Eli Cody, Bellevue, March 2011.

Can sex work as a plot device?

I have watched two very interesting films about sex recently.  They weren't particularly titillating, but that wasn't their purpose.  What made them so enjoyable was the way they actually used sex to tell a story.

 

Sex and Death 101 is a black comedy starring the delicious Simon Baker as Roderick, the enviably successful businessman with a beautiful fiance.  To put it bluntly, he has it all.  And, as is the trope in modern comedies, if the story begins with the main character having the perfect life, then said life will soon be turned upside down.

 

Warning: Spoilers Ahead

 

On the eve of his wedding, Roderick receives an anonymous email containing a list of every woman he has ever slept with.  The last name on the list that he recognises is that of his current fiance.  But strangely, the list continues, comprising a total of 101 names.  A series of comedic and fateful accidents lead Roderick to believe he is predestined to sleep with every name on the list.  At the same time, a serial killer by the name of Death Nell is working her way through the sexist, misogynistic population.

 

As Roderick's journey unfolds, he learns a few precious lessons about the difference between having sex and making love, and as he draws inevitably closer to name number 101 on his list, he begins to fear that once he has bedded this last woman, his life will end.  The sublimely ridiculous commentary from Alpha, Beta and Frank, the so-called Fates of this story, act as shamelessly obvious exposition.  And yet the narrative is not ruined.

 

Now I'm not saying this film is a deep look at gender roles or the nature of free will.  But it struck me as a wonderful concept, that one's love life could be mapped out and tracked in such a way.  Similarly engaging was the backstory of the femme fatale Death Nell, whose own experiences with the opposite sex led her to become a predator.

 

Easy A has a slightly more conventional plot.  Olive Pendergast, a witty and attractive teenager, tells a small lie about losing her virginity.  Almost immediately, rumours about her are spreading like wildfire and she is branded a harlot by her high school's Christian youth group.  Embracing her newfound reputation, Olive takes her cue from Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter and sews a red 'A' onto each item in her new, revealing wardrobe.

 

A surprising business opportunity arises, as the local geeks come to Olive and offer to pay her in exchange for a claim that they had sex, making them seem less like losers and further propelling her into the slutty stratosphere.

 

Throughout the entire tale, Olive in fact remains a virgin, and it is only when the consequences of having such a loose reputation come back to bite her on the behind that she decides enough is enough.  But convincing everyone that the town bike is, in fact, still pure, is nigh-on impossible.

 

While part of me found it hard to believe that the idea of a seventeen year old having sexual relations would cause such a scandal, Easy A was still a hugely enjoyable film.  Emma Stone is pitch-perfect as the sardonic, invisible student who jumps at the chance for notoriety, and I fell in love with her far-too-modern parents and their recollections of an adventurous, misspent youth.

 

I've been struggling recently with Eli, one of the lead characters in my paranormal novel Little Death.  He is the offspring of a human mother and a father with unknown origins, and ever since adolescence he has been possessed with a sexual appetite that leads him to believe he is an incubus.

 

In the original draft of this story, the incubus fed through physical contact, namely intercourse.  My problem with this was, how do I tell his story without making him seem unsympathetic?  He wants to remain faithful to his lover, but can't satisfy his cravings at home without causing harm.  So he casts a wider net, all the while hating himself for doing so.

 

This didn't satisfy me.  So I researched the incubus myth a little more thoroughly, and realised that they are more commonly linked with erotic dreams.  There was my solution; something that, I felt, elevated Eli above a ravenous imp with a taste for the pleasures of the flesh.  It also opened a million doors for my story - if the monster of your story resides in the world of the subconscious, doesn't that make anything possible?

 

This new approach enabled me to write Little Death as a Gothic tale with erotic elements, as opposed to a piece of erotica with endless scenes of the incubus feeding.  This theme was far too similar in my mind to the latter half of Laurell K Hamilton's Anita Blake series, in which the previously celibate heroine is consumed with otherworldly passions that must be sated at any given opportunity. 

 

The films discussed above provided an alternative, light-hearted insight into how such a salacious subject can be broached, and I praise their imagination and humour.