The Beckoning Void - Book Tour and Giveaway

Can Emelia and her band of plucky outcasts save the world from a cult of fanatics intent on unleashing an ancient horror?
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The Beckoning Void
by Patrick LeClerc
Genre: Gaslamp Adventure Horror

Emelia DuMond is an actress, her skill at adopting and changing her identity lifting her from her humble beginnings to success on the stage of Victorian London. And to the attention of the Ghost Society, a secret organization who work to defend the world from threats of the paranormal. After centuries of seeking, the sinister Disciples of the Void have obtained an arcane book of great power. A power that could tear the veil between dimensions and plunge the world into a dark, unspeakable future.
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Now she has recruited an aging soldier of fortune burdened by a conscience, the sword wielding daughter of an Afghan brigand and an airship whose captain escaped slavery during the Civil War by stealing a Confederate vessel.

Can Emelia and her band of plucky outcasts save the world from a cult of fanatics intent on unleashing an ancient horror?

“The Beckoning Void” is a tale of cunning plots, flashing swords, skillful piloting, witty repartee and eldritch dread.


** Recently made it into the semi finals of the 2023 Book Blogger Novel of the Year Award!
Details can be found at https://www.bbnya.com/ OR on Twitter at @BBNYA_Official **

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​The slanting rays of the setting sun poured in through gaps in the rotted shutters of the ancient cottage, illuminating swirling eddies of dust. The fireplace was cold. Part of the thatched roof had fallen in. A scatter of leaves skittered across the floor as a breeze found its way around the warped door.
Count Roderick sat on a rickety chair in the dimly lit hovel, sizing up the three men opposite him. Rough men. Dressed like brigands, but with a very unbrigand-like sense of purpose about them. Each of them had a hanger or messer and a hefty dagger at his belt, and two had long pistols at their sides. That didn’t concern Roderick overly. For his own part, he wore his sabre at his left hip and a revolver at his right. The count felt that the naked display of weapons might serve to discourage violence. He also had a dagger up his sleeve and a derringer in the pocket of his jacket, in the event he was asked to remove his weapons to demonstrate his peaceful intent. Demonstration was a fine thing, he believed, and his intent was generally peaceful, but flexible.
It was the eyes of the men that concerned him. Hard eyes. Not the cold, hard eyes of a murderer, but the kind of hard eyes that burned with the flames of a fanatic. Dangerous men.
But they were dangerous men with money, and he had debts. Pity the elder count hadn’t been granted the sense to run an estate. The man had been a gifted soldier, skilled with a horse or a sword or a pistol, and with an eye for ground, a head for tactics, and a way of commanding men.
That much had earned him a title from the Emperor of Austria-Hungary. But for all his sterling qualities, he had a blind spot for money and a mercenary’s devil may care attitude toward tomorrow. Couple that with a rapacious appetite for fast horses, beautiful women, drink and cards and the end result was that when he died, he left his estate—and therefore his son—in debt up to his eyeballs.
Roderick didn’t really blame his father. The man had been a simple soldier who had landed unexpectedly in luxury and took full advantage of it. He’d have done the same. Probably could have in different times, for he had inherited his father’s charisma and martial prowess. The young man, however, had the misfortune to be born into a period of peace.
So here he was, conducting clandestine meetings with shady, probably mad cultists in a cold, drafty cottage instead of attending victory balls in Vienna.
“You have the book?” asked the first ruffian. A lanky fellow with a face like a corpse but not as joyful.
“I do.” Roderick reached into his satchel and handed it over.
In truth, he was glad to be rid of it. The thing made his flesh crawl. It was old, filled with symbols and scribbles in some language he couldn’t read but found disquieting. The leather binding reminded him of human skin and the ink was the rusty brown of old blood. He told himself that this was just silly superstition. That he was a man of reason living in an enlightened age, but the blood of an Irish father and Romani mother provided fertile soil for the seeds of eldritch horror to take root.
The cultist leaned over it, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. He reached out and touched the spine, tentatively but with restrained desire, stroking it with a trembling hand. The others peered over his shoulder.
Like virgins on their first visit to a brothel, thought Roderick.
“I’m impressed,” said the leader. He placed a purse upon the table. “I’d have thought Dr Carmody would have defended this with his life. And was ever vigilant.”
The count shrugged. “I enlisted the help of a lass I know who excels in distracting even the most vigilant of men. And making them much less capable of defense.” He looked into the purse and frowned. “This is half what we discussed. I did bring you the whole book. I’m fairly certain of that.”
“When our leader receives it, the rest of your payment will be sent to you.”
Count Roderick’s frown deepened. That wasn’t the agreement. He considered the situation and figured that the reduced payment had a great deal to do with the fact that they had more weapons than he did. The fact that they were willing to hand over any payment at all was likely because he had enough weapons to make completely stiffing him not worth the risk.
He thought for a long moment. Accepting such treatment was bad for business. On the other hand, they did have him outnumbered three to one, even though the one was him, which he figured brought the odds pretty close to dead even. Still, even a fair fight was something best avoided until you could find a way to make it unfair in your favor.
He was still debating with himself when the corpse-faced man interrupted his train of thought.
“This woman. If she knows of our plan, she must be eliminated. Unless you’ve already done so.”
That was a step too far. The count was well aware that sometimes one couldn’t make an omelet without murdering some witnesses, but these men grated on his nerves. They were too direct, too sure they could impose their will on him. Him! Like so many fanatics, they were simple blunt instruments, intent on bludgeoning the world into the shape they wished and entirely lacking finesse. Nothing wrong with a good old blunt instrument, when the time called for it, but he’d be damned if he was going to be beaten into shape. And “eliminating” Margarethe would be a criminal waste of a perfectly good prostitute with a captivating smile, a real sense of panache, and one of nature’s finest sets of tits. May as well burn the Sistine Chapel.
The count leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs and rolling his neck. His frown disappeared, replaced by a Cheshire cat grin.
“Sorry, boys,” he said. “I’m afraid this simply isn’t the done thing, as my dear old dad would say. I’ll be taking that book to your boss myself, and we can discuss things like ‘payment in full’ and ‘professional courtesy.’”
“You expect us to agree to your terms?” said the man, his words grating like the stone door of a tomb.
“Don’t see that the opinions of three dead men should concern me overly.”
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Patrick LeClerc makes good use of his history degree by working as a paramedic for an ever- changing parade of ambulance companies in the Northern suburbs of Boston. When not writing he enjoys cooking, fencing and making witty, insightful remarks with career-limiting candor.

In the lulls between runs on the ambulance --and sometimes the lulls between employment at various ambulance companies-- he writes fiction.

His work can be found at inkandbourbon.com, and quantummuse.com


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Why Did I choose an Alternative Victorian Era for “The Beckoning Void?”

Mostly because it’s a mashup of all my favorite things. History and sword fighting and adventure stories and old Hollywood banter all rolled into one. With airships.

The Victorian Era is great story fodder. You have enormous technological and societal changes going on, and that's really where science fiction as we know it today was invented. Look at Mary Shelley's “Frankenstein” (which is probably technically Georgian, not Victorian, but on the cusp) and Edgar Allen Poe and Jules Verne and H G Wells. This is where authors started looking at technology and asking, “What if?” which is the basis of all science fiction.

Plus, you can still combine all that tech with swashbuckling swordfights.

In addition to the science fiction possibilities, I wanted a diverse, eclectic cast, and that fits the era better than people think.

Emelia was raised in poverty, but had a talent for immitation that allowed her to find success on the stage, reinventing herslef as an actress and then a spy. The colonialism of the age creates the perfect circumstances for a character like Alyah. Mixed race, Afghan-English, raised by a father who taught her swordplay and riding who doesn't really fit into either world, so she finds her own way. The realities of the Famine and the new mobility . Connolly and Count Roderick are both products of the Wild Geese, Irish exiles turned soldiers in foreign armies, albeit with varied success. Captain Little is a great character. Escaped slave turned airship captain.

I drew inspiration for all of these characters from historical examples. None are exact analogues, but they certainly all have precedents.

One thing they all have in common, regardless of which side they wind up on, is that they are all outsiders. Whether due to race or class or gender, each of them has to find their way in a world that doesn’t accept them. The social, political, and technological upheaval of the Nineteeth Century gave me a terrific canvas to work with.

Not to say this is a book primarily about social issues. At its heart, it’s an action adventure swashbuckler with a touch of horror. Think the plot of the 1999 version of “The Mummy” with the banter of “The Princess Bride” and a dash of social commentary. Plus, a bit of mad science and airships.

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