Tag Archive: Rory Ni Coileain

A lot of things have started coming together for me lately — letting me see things from a perspective I haven’t seen them from before. And a recent conversation with my fiancee pulled things together even more. And I’m not sure if anyone’s listening — in fact, all things considered, it’s pretty safe to say no one is — but I still feel the need to say something. (If someone does hear, well, great!)

What I’m about to say, I don’t say lightly. I also speak with at least a modicum of knowledge of my subject matter, as the mother and aunt of people on the autism spectrum.

So here it is. Gayle and I were talking about social media’s effect on society, both as a whole and as individuals. (What follows is edited for clarity and to remove my typos, because I’m just retentive that way.)

* * * * * * *

Me: The more I look at it, the more I’m seeing a direct parallel with autism. One of the defining features of autism is sensory and mental overload — and that’s what we’re having, collectively as a society.

Gayle: [Unlimited access to information is a] double edged sword.

Me: People with autism stim, self-stimulate, to block out the barrage of sensory input they can’t filter, to control the input that reaches them and make it manageable. Sometimes it’s pointless behavior, sometimes it’s self-destructive, or at least painful. And people with Asperger’s create rigid categories that all information has to go into, regardless of whether it fits, because they’re overwhelmed by the input they receive and the categorizations are the only way they can deal with it all.

And I’m beginning to think that even tRump’s wall is a symptom that more of us are experiencing than we’d like to admit — it’s too much, and we’re starting to want to wall away the stuff we can’t deal with, the people it causes us pain to interact with.

Even those of us who love diversity and thrive on it are getting close to saturation point.

Gayle: I think I am way past saturation.

Me: I think most people are.

I wonder how many of our current problems and issues could be made bearable if people would just back the fuck off. Not that I have any brilliant ideas on how to make that happen, but it’s an interesting thought experiment.

* * * * * * *

That’s the end of that part of our conversation. It seems to me that a lot of the world’s condition right now bears a certain resemblance to the way an autistic person, or some people with Asperger’s, react/s to overstimulation. Lashing out, shutting down, melting down, just trying to make the unstoppable stop.

And communications on social media bear a LOT of resemblance to a conversation with someone with Asperger’s who hasn’t yet figured out social cues — everybody has something they want to say, something they want everyone to hear. Everybody has to have an impact. And nobody ever gets to change the subject, because the “conversation” is always there to be returned to when someone else stumbles on it.

Part of the problem is that along with the need to speak, there’s a need to be heard — and social media isn’t set up to let someone know they’ve been genuinely heard. Or at least, it’s nowhere near as good at letting someone know they’ve been heard as it is at letting them speak. So people speak more, and louder. And the ones who really need a reaction get cruel and cutting and crude, reacting to everything they come across in the most provocative and hateful way they can.

And seeing the problem doesn’t make you immune. I pass along cruelty and ridicule, and tell myself that I “only” do it when the target deserves it, and “only” pass along the really intelligent and funny cruelty, and then I wonder why I don’t feel like the loving person I want to be. I’ve been known to dive into conversations that have nothing to do with me, because I have some gem of insight I can’t imagine depriving the participants of. (This is, incidentally, different from having something genuinely helpful to say, or calling out an injustice. This is me in love with the exquisite words that flow from my fingertips. Yeah, right…)

And while I could tell you that I’m going to turn this missive out into the world to make its way or not, on its own, and never give it a second thought, that would be a Big Fib.

But it’s not so much that I want people to hear me — I want people to hear this message. I want to offer a possible way to pull us back from the brink of whatever abyss we’re staring down into. Turn down the “noise” to a level our minds can process. Be tolerant of one another’s stims. And give each other the gift of listening.


“Maisie, I think something’s burning – could you check the stove?”

“Sure thing.” I motioned to Birungi, hoping she would turn back around and pay attention to the decorations she was trying to hang, instead of craning her neck to look back over her shoulder into the domi’s kitchen and making the stepladder teeter under her. I could have told her her shiitake stroganoff was at risk a couple of minutes ago – just because I don’t smell the way a human does, doesn’t mean I switch off my olfactory sensors altogether when I’m not at work – but Bee was frazzled enough as it was, and I’d figured we had a few minutes before things went critical.

“Thanks, honey, you’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ll add it to my bill.” Chuckling softly, I switched off my vac-finger and hurried over to turn down the heat under the pan, cranking up the heat sink a notch just to be on the safe side.

“Is this even, do you think?”

Birungi was holding a mass of what looked like pink lace up to one corner of the large viewer in the living room. The viewer was set to its default, the view outside the domi; it had been a beautiful Martian afternoon, but even though the sky would still be bright for a while, the evening dust devils were starting their wander through Bradbury.

“It looks fine to me, though you might want to adjust the color filter on the viewer – unless you see both those pinks as the same?”

Birungi leaned over for a look. “Oh, damn. You’re right.”

She stuck the lace to the wall, where it dangled amid the hearts and what I’d been told were “cupids” that festooned the domi. I spotted an eddy of dust in a corner of the kitchen, and reactivated my vac to take care of it while Bee fiddled with the viewer settings.

“Oh, thanks, Maisie – damn the dust.”

Damn the dust was a form of verbal punctuation among human and android colonists alike. Almost 75 percent of the first human generation on Mars had succumbed to lung diseases no one had ever seen before, before the colonists realized exactly what they were up against. Androids – like me – were part of the solution; we didn’t need to breathe, so we were better suited for outdoor work. And the humans’ domis were made as airtight as they could possibly be… but even the best airlocks couldn’t keep up with the damned dust entirely.

“No problem – say, did you get the ‘lock fixed?”

“Not like I could just let that go!” Birungi laughed. “Maintenance was by this morning. Does this look better?”

“That’s much better.” The sky was actually still at least half a nanometer to the cool, but I was fairly sure humans couldn’t see that, and Bee’s intended dinner guest was definitely human.

Birungi set down the remote and turned on her heel, looking around the room. “What do you think, Maisie? Good?”

I followed her gaze around the room – lace, cupids, hearts and all. “You know human holidays aren’t my thing, but I think it’s very pretty.” I wasn’t lying – when it came to aesthetic judgments, I was more than happy to let my programming supply a “normal human” response as if it were my own.

“I wonder why people stopped celebrating Valentine’s Day.” Birungi folded up the stepladder and tucked it back into its niche next to the airlock door. “It’s not like people stopped loving each other, you know?”

I shrugged. If human holidays were outside my wheelhouse, human religious crusades were on another planet entirely, and I wasn’t about to pronounce on a crusade that had ended a hundred years before my component metals were synthesized. “I don’t know, but I think you’ve hit on the perfect theme for a romantic dinner. What time is Donal supposed to get here?”

“He said he’d be here at 1700 – oh, and here it is almost 1650!”

I couldn’t help smiling at Birungi’s sudden alarm, the way she started tugging at her clothes, smoothing her springy foam of black curls that wouldn’t be smoothed by anything short of a clothes press. “You look wonderful, and he’s going to fall for you like Phobos fell for the carbon miners.”

“You think so?” Birungi’s hands didn’t settle much, but she smiled.

“I know so. Trust me, androids have a sixth sense about these things.” It helped to be able to smell pheromones with a sensitivity well beyond the human olfactory range, of course. Donal didn’t stand a chance. “And I think I’ll leave you to it, unless you have anything else you need help with?”

“Oh, no – thank you so much, Maisie, I don’t know what I would have done without you!”

I waited until I heard the doorvac sucking the dust-laden air out of the ‘lock before setting out for the edge of Bradbury, just to be sure Maintenance had down their job properly. Once I saw dust spilling out of the catch, though, I turned and sprinted for the garage. I had an errand to run, and this afternoon was the perfect time for it.

I could have run all the way out to the edge of the canyon, of course. I’m built for it. But as my human friends are fond of saying, just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Even an android has to worry about dust in her joints, and buggybubbles keep the worst of it out, even in a sandstorm.

I had a map – a handheld antiquity so old it was a 3-D transcription of an actual 2-D, but the landmarks I’d been able to verify all checked out. I juggled to keep it upright with one hand and steered the bubble with the other, as mostly flat land gave way to scattered boulders, and gradually to dunes.

When I’d been assembled, the dunes had been well to the west of Bradbury, but the bow wave has crept closer over the years. Another century or so and we might have to abandon the colony, at least for a while.

But if I was lucky, the bow wave had passed what I was looking for.

When the map told me I was close – “told me” the old-fashioned way, I had to look at it – I shut it off and sensored it the rest of the way. I thought I recognized a boulder halfway to the horizon; the survey photos gave it an odd shape, like the snapped-off blade of a wind-turbine, only with an ear, or maybe a nose. And what I was looking for was probably somewhere on its leeward side.

Finally, I switched off the bubble and went on foot. There was some dust – though surely I was imagining that I heard my servos cursing as I slogged through it – and as I got closer, there were times when a footstep actually crunched on bare rock.

Suddenly inspired, I switched on my metals sensor. I usually used it for iron mining, but a few tweaks set it hunting for titanium and aluminum, metals not normally detectable on the Martian surface.


Whatever that meant.

Now that I knew what to look for, I could see flat surfaces that had to be dust-coated solar panels, and a stalk with a rectangular growth at the top, set with circles. Lenses.

I worked quickly – I was losing the light – but I had to be careful as well as quick, and by the time I’d uncovered the relic, it was nearly dark. I had to switch on my forehead lamp for the last bit, reversing my vac-finger to blow dust out of crevices that probably hadn’t seen any kind of light in hundreds of years.
And when my light hit one of the solar panels, and I heard a faint, grinding whir…

…and when the lenses finally tilted down to look at me…

Don’t let anyone tell you MA-Cs don’t have feelings.

“Hello, Granddad,” I choked.

And as I’d planned, I started to sing.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Sorry I’m late, Snippetteers — it’s before midnight somewhere, right? Work on Back Door into Purgatory has been terribly slow — so much so that I’m reluctant to post on a weekly basis, because it reminds me how little I’ve actually gotten written during the week. But I’d like to share a bit of my most recent writing. Can’t give you any background — that would be a spoiler — but I hope you enjoy!


Something heavy jumped onto Tiernan’s abdomen, jolting him out of restless sleep. He manifested a knife from his crystal hand even before he was fully awake; he’d had to kill too many nocturnal predators to count during his wanderings. Waiting, even waiting for his eyes to open, was a luxury he rarely had under those circumstances.

Nothing was trying to kill him yet, though. And whatever was crouched on his bladder was too damned small to feel so heavy.

“Are you going to kill me, or just wait there until I piss myself?”


Your link back to Rainbow Snippets, your home for LGBTQIA+ goodies on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

And my page at QueeRomance Ink, where you can find all the SoulShares, the oboroten’, and a treasure trove of other LGBTQIA+ romance: https://www.queeromanceink.com/?s=Rory+Ni+Coileain&search_type=book_search

Hello, Snippetteers! — sorry it’s been so long, I’ve been dealing with a massive case of writer’s block, and frankly, it’s been kind of a downer some weeks to look at the WIP and realize that I barely have enough new material since the previous week to make up a snippet! But things are slowly getting better, and I wanted to share what I’ve been up to. Sorry it’s another seven-sentence wonder, but I couldn’t knock off the first sentence, and it’s only three words, so… (Setanta, by the way, is Lasair and Bryce’s blind runt Fade-hound puppy.) (And I think this one requires just a bit of context — Lasair and Bryce are talking about Bryce’s insistence that he doesn’t “deserve” love.)


“Look at Setanta.” Lasair nodded toward the Fade-hound puppy, whose head now rested on his front paws and whose back end eagerly responded to the sound of his name.

Bryce obediently turned his head and arched a brow. “If he’s going to fart every time we say his name, we might want to start spelling.”

“I am trying to be serious here.” An impossible task, needless to say, especially with amusement finally lighting his lover’s dark eyes. “Does the Odorous One fret over what to give us, or what we are willing to give him, or whether he has earned what we give him?”


And here are a couple of links for you:

Rainbow Snippets, your home for all sorts of wonderful LGBTQIA+ goodies on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

And my author page on QueeRomance Ink, with buy links for all formats of all my books: https://www.queeromanceink.com/?s=Rory+Ni+Coileain&search_type=book_search

Happy New Year, all! — I meant to be here last weekend, but I was a little bit preoccupied with my furnace going out repeatedly in below-zero weather. o.O Not how I’d planned to spend my New Year’s weekend, that’s for sure!

I’m wrestling with the section of the WIP I’m working on right now… it’s either going to be amazing, or it’s going to be a total shambles. And I have no clue which it’s going to end up. This is a Fiachra-and-Peri scene — Peri’s just come home from a night out clubbing in his drag persona, Falcon. Falcon’s not your typical drag queen, though — she’s a ‘fish’, presenting as a really stunningly gorgeous woman, very quiet, very don’t-touch-me. And Fiachra is as much in love with Falcon as he is with Peri.


“You’re sure?” Fiachra lifted Peri’s hand—Falcon’s, actually, those were her silver-gilt nails flashing in the light from the side table—and kissed the back of it. “Your first time would be a poor occasion to fuck up this whole consent thing.”

“It’s not—”

Yes. Yes, it is. Falcon was quite possibly the most virginal virgin ever.


Your link back to Rainbow Snippets, your home on Facebook for all things LGBTQIA+ — https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/
And my page on QueeRomance Ink, which will get you to everything I’ve written that’s still out there on the market — https://www.queeromanceink.com/?s=Rory+Ni+Coileain&search_type=book_search

Hello, Snippetteers! — (a special hello to my South African friends!) I’m sitting here typing around a cat, fingers flying (ha!) as I try to make a midnight deadline. Here’s a hot off the presses look at BACK DOOR INTO PURGATORY, the final installment in the SoulShares series. Six sentences — hey, I made it, for once! — the POV character is Peri (Peregrine Took Katsura), who has just come home from a night of clubbing to face something he’d never anticipated. Though he probably should have…


Peri knew the look in Fiachra’s eyes. Funny how it had been the same look when those eyes were blue as glacier ice—-he liked it better now, when Fiachra’s eyes were even darker than his own, but he’d know the look anywhere.

And right now, that look was a complication he wasn’t sure he was ready to handle. Not when it was directed at Falcon.

“Let me go change, aisuruhito—-my feet are killing me.” Not quite true; stiletto heels were like bedroom slippers to him, but if he could get out of Falcon’s shoes, he could get out of the rest of her, and be open to what his scair-anam so obviously wanted.


And your link back to Rainbow Snippets, your home on Facebook for all kinds of LGBTQIA+ goodies — https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

(Want to find me? — https://www.queeromanceink.com/?s=Rory+Ni+Coileain&search_type=book_search )

Hello, Snippetteers! — sneaking in under the wire this weekend, with a glimpse at Cuinn and Rian’s chapter in BACK DOOR INTO PURGATORY. (If you’re conversant with the SoulShares series, you’re going to love this book — I’m treating myself to giving each couple/threesome their own chapter, revisiting what I — and, I hope, you — love best about each of them. This week’s snippet is Cuinn and Rian, and that’s all the setup I’m going to give you. *winks*


Cuinn’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “You… need it to hurt?” The lad had been an insatiable pain slut, well known to the S&M underground of Belfast, before he’d found the consummation he hadn’t known he’d been looking for, in Cuinn and in the Pattern.

“Only enough to remind me I’m yours.” The fiery gaze turned skyward, for a fraction of a second. “Yours and not hers.”


Your link back to Rainbow Snippets, your home on Facebook for LGBTQIA+ yummy goodness: https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

Radical hate, radical love

Warning — this post is going to be just a little unusual for me, no matter which, or how many, of my faces you know.

Shall we begin?


My epiphanies tend not to be blinding-light, road-to-Damascus moments (though I’ll admit I’ve had a few of those, like the moment when I realized that it was probably smarter to start carrying a walking stick than to keep falling on my head at inconvenient moments). More often, they’re moments when a great many things I already knew, miscellaneous bits of information acquired here and there the way a magpie accumulates shiny things, fall into a completely new, and perfectly obvious, configuration. The kind of moment that makes a person sit there with her mouth open, wondering idly if something’s going to fly in, while she contemplates the new pattern in her life and wonders what it’s going to do to all the careful constructs she’s already built.

I had one of those moments this afternoon. Some of my epiphanies (most of them, frankly) have very little to do with anyone but me. But this one… damn. I have to try to share it. If the pattern isn’t as logical to you as it is to me, I apologize; something I perceive all at once is hard to reduce to a linear medium like print. But I’m supposed to be a writer, right? That’s my job; getting what’s inside my head into yours.

I suppose this particular insight started with an article I read this morning, somewhere on the Internet; an article about the extent of Russian psychological engineering being conducted via social media. Facebook groups, and their equivalent on other social media (I’m primarily a Facebooker, myself, so I’m not as conversant with the other forms) seeded social media with messages designed to inflame, to set us against one another regardless of our political persuasions. Russian-backed groups posed as white supremacist organizations, published outrageous allegations, organized rallies, insisted that the only way to deal with illegal immigrants was to “kill them all.” They posed as BLM cells and so-called “Antifa”, advocated murder and rioting and looting. They posed as vicious homophobes, and as TERFs. And as individual trolls, they inserted themselves into as many conversations as they could, solely to fan the flames of our hatred for one another.

To a child of the Cold War, this isn’t as crazy an idea as it sounds. I grew up in an era when every school had its fallout shelter every classroom had its duck-and-cover drills; one of my earliest memories is of my father trying to explain the nuclear test-ban treaty to his three-year-old daughter so I would stop crying and go to sleep, without looking out my window waiting for the sky to glow, and then to fall. Paradoxically, I’ve always loved Russia, and Russians, ever since I can remember… but the hostility of the Russian government was a fact of my life during my most formative years. And it seems odd to that Cold War child that no one seemed to foresee social media being weaponized in quite this way – maybe if Facebook had been invented by someone a little older, the world would be a different place right now. Or maybe not…

We talk about terrorists being “radicalized”. I don’t know how many of us have ever given any thought to what that actually means, since it’s something that happens to people Other Than Us. Maybe we imagine being locked in a room, listening to a hypnotic voice chanting over and over again until the capacity for conscious thought is gone. Maybe we imagine a deliberate program of indoctrination, available in secret corners of the Internet to those fanatical enough to seek out the instructions that will turn them into killing machines.

I don’t think that’s what it means at all. I think it means exactly what’s been done to us, and is still being done to us. It means ensuring that the medium in which most of us spend so much of our time is filled with the voices of hate – sometimes the voices of those who hate us, and sometimes the voices of those telling us “we” have no choice but to hate them. It means saturating the public discourse with the language of fear and loathing and hatred, until those are the only responses we think of when someone disagrees with us. Until we respond even to those we love with anger and suspicion, prepared to be wounded.

I don’t pretend to be a professional in the field of psychology, but I do know something about the Jungian notion of the shadow. The shadow lives in all of us, the impulses and emotions and thoughts we choose (for the most part) not to air, because we know their capacity to cause harm and pain to ourselves and others. But sometimes, this theory goes, we feel we have permission to let the shadow out. There’s great power in the breaking of a taboo, a rush, a euphoria. And it’s addictive – once the shadow is out, it takes a tremendous effort to cage it again.

I thought, during the summer of 2016, that that was the appeal of the current occupant of the Oval Office – he was giving his base permission to let out the hate and the fear and the jealousy they’d kept bottled up. They felt safe, free to hate.

Now, though, I’m starting to realize that I was only seeing part of the picture. All of our shadows have come uncaged. We have all been radicalized. We are encouraged and prodded and coaxed to dehumanize those with whom we disagree – and that’s so much easier when they’re being encouraged and prodded and coaxed to dehumanize us. Those flames probably don’t even need to be fanned any more – but the fanning goes on, groups and bots and trolls and clickbait Web sites feeding the fire and waiting for us to destroy ourselves.

The manipulation has had another effect, too. One I can speak to from personal experience, and one brought home to me all too clearly last night. Some of us – many of us, I think – fight the radicalization. We refuse to join in the shouting, hurl the stones, lash out at enemies real and perceived. But there’s a cost to that, too: despair. Depression. I’m entitled to wear the semi-colon, and I might, someday; the night after the last election was the first time in my life I woke up in the middle of the night and prayed to die before dawn. The first, but not the last. Thankfully, I’ve found a medication regimen that works, and something else, which I’ll get to in a minute, and I’m no longer at risk.

But not all of us are so fortunate.

The poison in the air around us kills, as our m/m community learned last night, when one of us could no longer see any path to the light. James’ last Facebook message told us so, and said good-bye; what struck me about his message, though, and added to this quiet epiphany of mine, is that apart from its finality, his message could have been sent by almost any one of us. How many of us have “said good-bye” to Facebook, or social media, temporarily or permanently, because we simply can’t bear the hatred, the anger, or just the “drama” – us, turning on our own, treating our own the way we treat the “enemy”? The people who knew James well picked up on the difference in his final message, but I’m sure that to many, it was another entry in a wretched, hurting, despairing string of farewells. We hoped he’d take time away to restore himself, and come back to us when he could bear to, as so many of our friends have had to do.

James was one casualty in this war. I’ve known and loved others. I came close to being one myself.

For me, it ends here. The war ends here. I will not allow myself to be manipulated any longer, either to hate or to despair.

I mentioned “something else” a few paragraphs ago. I’m an Associate member of the Order of Julian of Norwich, an Episcopal contemplative order. Mother Julian was a medieval anchoress, the author of the first book published in the English language by a woman, Revelations of Divine Love. In a nutshell – the tl;dr, if you will – her premise is that God is love, that he created all things through love, that his will for the world is perfect love.

My own theology is a tiny bit more eccentric than Julian’s (good thing I’m an Episcopalian, we’re good with eccentricities). Julian was saddled with a theology that held that God was all-powerful, and caused everything that happened; therefore, if something bad happened, that theology was tasked with explaining why a good God made bad things happen, as well as with explaining why God didn’t just bring his will to pass, if he could do anything. My own personal theology holds that God isn’t all-powerful, because he gave us free will. Our own wills are powerful enough to do things God doesn’t want us to do, because he refused to create a race of slaves.

So if I am to pray “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” if I want God’s will, that perfect love, to exist here and now, I need to give my small part of that will back to that purpose. My will has to be love, too. Fortunately, as one of my favorite benedictions puts it, “We are not called to love perfectly, only to love.” Because perfect love is much too much of a challenge for me – there are times when just plain ordinary love is well out of reach, and the best I can do is try not to hate, just for today. And sometimes I fall short even of that. But I’ve promised, I’ve bound myself to love. Radical love. So I pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. It’s been a lot harder to do that lately… but now I see the strings of the puppeteers, the little man behind the curtain. It’s a different game now. (And when it comes to those who have deliberately aligned themselves with the hatred and the fear, for their own advantage — love doesn’t necessarily mean sweetness and light and flowers. But letting go of the hate frees me from the burden of seeking vengeance and frees me to seek justice.)

I suppose, in the end, this is another one of those epiphanies that’s addressed mainly to myself. It’s not my place to tell anyone else how to live their life, and it’s definitely not my place to consider anyone else’s path inferior to my own. But I can invite you to join me on my path – please do, it’s easier, and much more pleasant, to walk in company. (And it’s going to involve writing, I promise! – it’s the despair that’s been keeping me from writing, and I’m convinced that writing romance is part of the way I’m called to let that radical love into the world.) I won’t be used any longer, I won’t be manipulated… and I will love.

Walk with me, dear ones.

Hello, Snippetteers! — sorry to have been away so long, but for those of you who haven’t been following my mini-saga on Facebook, one of my cats, Captain Jack Harkness, ran away just after we moved, at the end of August; he came home mid-September half starved and with a broken jaw, so we’ve been through surgery and tube feeding and waking up in the middle of the night for feedings… but Jack is fine now, apart from a few shaved patches that are acutely embarrassing to him (not to mention itchy), and eating like a horse (well, a pony) to make up for lost time.

And here’s a snippet from the work in progress, BACK DOOR INTO PURGATORY, the ninth and last SoulShares book. I decided to be mean this time and stick with the six sentence rule no matter what. Enjoy! 😉


Josh leaned forward, took his weight on his hands, and brushed his lips across Conall’s. “Want me to unbind you?”

“No.” Conall swallowed a lump in his throat. “Take me. Just like this.”


And links for your reading pleasure —

Rainbow Snippets, your home on Facebook for LGBTQIA+ goodies of all sorts: https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

And the recently-released STONE COLD, SoulShares #8: http://ow.ly/BcYh30gc7BM

Hello, Snippeteers! — things have been a little slow in the writing department lately, as the Ni Coileain household is packing up to move across town next week. But I finished off STONE COLD and sent it off to my publisher (watch this space on September 28!) and now I’ve started work on the last SoulShares novel, BACK DOOR INTO PURGATORY. It’s a little different from the others in the series — no new couple, though everyone from the preceding eight books will get at least one more turn in the spotlight as the Fae and humans of Purgatory face down their ancient enemy once and for all.


“You’re going to have to keep your head down in order for me to tie off that last — oh, hell.” Josh straightened. “I know that look.”

Conall sighed. “Sorry, dar’cion.” He didn’t bother contradicting his partner; it was bad enough that he’d been snapped out of his delicious state of willing submission by a familiar frisson of energy along his spine. “Something’s come through the nexus.”


And, as usual, finishing off with a couple of links:

Rainbow Snippets, your Facebook pied-a-terre for all tales LGBTQIA+ — https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets/

And my page at QueeRomance Ink, a resource for romance all across the LGBTQIA+ spectrum, searchable by author, title, subgenre, trope, pairing, and much more! — https://www.queeromanceink.com/?s=Rory+Ni+Coileain&search_type=book_search