A Murder of Crows

Goth tattoo artist Avery Byrne refuses to accept that her friend's death was an accident. Armed with determination and a thirst for justice, Avery dives into Phoenix, Arizona's adrenaline-fueled world of street racing, seeking revenge.

Teaming up with Roz Fein, an unlikely ally who operates a spy shop, Avery navigates the city's high-octane underbelly.

As they edge closer to uncovering the truth, Avery finds herself grappling with a growing attraction to Roz, while still grieving the recent death of her ex.

Love, vengeance, and high-speed action collide in a sapphic crime thriller you won't want to put down.

A Murder of Crows, Book 2 in the Avery Byrne Goth Vigilante series, is a twist-filled ride, combining relentless suspense with the poignant exploration of loss and love.

Buy A Murder of Crows and buckle up for an adventure you won't soon forget.

“Boze, dude, what’s wrong?” Hatchet wiped the blood-red cupcake crumbs from his hands and onto his grease-stained work shirt. He set the bottle of ginger beer he’d been drinking on a nearby metal tool cabinet. 

The tall, older man shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “Feeling woozy. Must be the meds them docs got me on. Or maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“You don’t look too good, my friend,” Fisch chimed in. “You need to lie down or something? There’s a cot in the office we can set out if you need.”

“Naw, I’ll be all right. After all, it’s payday,” Boze replied with a tired grin. “Don’t wanna be falling asleep for that. When’s that guy supposed to be showing up, anyway?”

Hatchet gazed up at the old clock on the service bay wall. “Said eight. So half an hour.”

Boze rose unsteadily to his feet. “Maybe I’ll splash some water on my face.”

He took two steps before he lost his balance and fell against the side of a 1955 Thunderbird that Classic Autos was restoring. His head clipped the side-view mirror on the way down. 

“Fuck!” he groaned.

Hatchet was at his side in a heartbeat, checking his friend for injuries. Blood seeped from a cut on Boze’s temple, staining his gray afro a bright red. 

“Something ain’t right, Hatch. Feelin’ all kinda—I dunno,” Boze said woozily. “Maybe I oughta drive myself to the ER.”

“You can’t drive yourself like this.” Hatchet pressed a clean shop rag to Boze’s wound. “Fisch, help me get him into the Blue Streak.” 

“Probably better if we call for an ambulance,” Fisch replied.

“No!” Boze snapped, his voice shaky. “Don’t need no damn ambulance. Got enough medical bills already. Blue Streak’s faster.”

The two younger guys helped Boze to his feet and, supporting him on their shoulders, got him out into the parking lot.

“Where should I take him?” Hatchet asked.

“Saint Joe’s closest,” Fisch replied. “On Thomas at Third Avenue.”

“Sounds good.” 

Hatchet lowered his friend into the passenger seat of his 1965 Mustang convertible, pulled the seatbelt across his waist, and closed the door. The pale-blue paint looked silver in the golden glow of the streetlight.

“Just hang in there, brother. We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Should I follow in my car?” Fisch asked, pulling out his keys.

“No,” Hatchet insisted. “Someone’s got to stay here and collect the money. I’ll call you soon as I know something.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

Hatchet jumped in behind the wheel and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing. Engine roaring, they raced south on Seventh Street, using the suicide lane to get around cars in their way. 

“Oh, man. Oh, man,” Boze gripped his chest. “Hard to breathe.”

Hatchet wasn’t feeling so good himself. A wave of drowsiness hit him suddenly. He struggled to keep his eyes open and on the road, even as he wove through the obstacle course of vehicles in front of him. 

Whatever was making Boze sick seemed to be affecting him now too. The flu? In early May?

As it became increasingly harder to focus on the road, Hatchet considered pulling over. He was looking for a parking lot to pull into when Boze slumped forward, held into his seat only by the seatbelt around his waist. 

“Boze! Wake up! Hey!” He tried to shake his friend awake, but there was no response. Panic gripped him. “Fuck! Hold on, brother!”

Hatchet pressed the accelerator to the floor. His own drowsiness intensified. Suddenly, he was floating. His concerns for Boze dissolved into a cloud of euphoria. 

“Shit!” Hatchet opened his eyes in time to see the utility pole flying toward him at bullet speed. A deafening metallic crunch was the last thing he heard.