CHAPTER ONE
It's 11:45 on a Friday night, and Rav Trivedi is cranky. It's been l a long day and a long week. He should be ordering dessert at his favorite restaurant, or sipping champagne at a gallery opening, or whatever it is normal people do on a Friday night in New York City, but instead he had to work late, and now he's inching his way crosstown in the back of a yellow cab that reeks of cotton candy. It's taken ten minutes to travel two blocks, and the pink air freshener swinging from the rearview is so overpowering it's making him dizzy. He tries to lower the window to vent the sickly sweet odor, but the button doesn't respond. "Excuse me," he says, leaning forward, "the window back here won't go down."
"I don't open windows in traffic," the driver informs him. "Exhaust fumes give me a headache."
"Right." Rav fades back into the seat and considers his options. As usual, his instincts are torn between the two sides of his upbringing, as if one of his parents is perched on each shoulder. On the left sits His Lordship, English to a fault, counseling his son to bear it in dignified silence. On the right is Eva, native New Yorker and consummate diva, quoting the yellow taxi passenger bill of rights and reminding Rav that he is the customer here.
He tries to split the difference. "Only the trouble is ... " He leans forward again. "This air freshener is giving me a headache, so we have a dilemma."
Dark eyes meet his in the rearview, sizing him up. Rav catches
his own reflection in the acrylic divider: young, pretty, scrubbed and tweezed and carefully styled. Bespoke suit, high-maintenance haircut, Oxford English accent. He can guess well enough what it adds up to in the driver's mind.
"Sorry to hear it, princess. You don't like it, get a limo next time." He punches the radio and turns it up loud.
Apparently, Rav isn't the only one having a day.
He surrenders to his fate, tucking his fingers under his nose and letting the delicate cedar scent of his hand lotion do what it can against the smell. It's going to cling to him like a bad cologne, isn't it? Eau de Coney Island: cotton candy and grime, with subtle notes of despair.
A call comes in on his phone. It's work, because of course it is. Rav hits decline, but before he's even stuffed it back in his pocket, it buzzes with a message. Pick up. It's vibrating again. This time, Rav takes the call. "You have reached the voicemail of Detective Rav Trivedi of the New York City Police Department. I can't take your call right now, because I don't want to. If you require immediate assistance, you can contact my partner, Detective Will Shepard. Unless you are the aforementioned partner, in which case you can kindly sod off, because it's been a very long day and I have a date with a strap ping fireman and some massage oil."
In his dreams, anyway.
There's a pause. on the line. "Are you done?"
"It's nearly midnight, Will. I've spent the past four hours canvassing every bingo hall in Brooklyn and I'm in a mood."
"Cry me a river. I spent my day sifting through trash under the. Brooklyn-Queens Expressway."
Rav grimaces. "Touche."
"Anyway, what's so bad about bingo halls? Don't tell me you're afraid of a bunch of harmless old biddies?"
"Harmless? Clearly, you haven't spent enough time in the company of old biddies. Young men in well-tailored suits are like catnip to them. You wouldn't believe the sorts of things that come out of their mouths."
"Such as?"
"One of them called me a 'sleek sports car' she'd like to take for a joyride. Another had some engaging suggestions for how I might make use of my handcuffs."
"Yikes."
"My trouser pockets are full of Werther's Originals." "The butterscotch? That's not so-"
"I didn't put them there."
"Wow," Will says, laughing. "And here I thought interviewing drug dealers was dangerous."
"More guns, less inappropriate touching." "Where are you, anyway? Is that music I hear?"
"In a cab, and that last part is debatable." Rav sticks a fin ger in his ear. "The worst part is that I got absolutely nowhere. Please tell me you had more luck."
"Might have. Wanted to run it by you while it's fresh in my mind. Nobody saw our vic, but they did see his car, and a witness claims-"
"Hold on, I can hardly hear you." Rav leans forward in his seat. "I beg your pardon, but would you mind turning that down? Official police business."
The cab driver meets his eye in the rearview again. Then he hits the up arrow on his stereo. Twice.
Rav can just make out Will's laughter over the pounding of drums. "Saw that coming. Gotta love New York cabbies. Great tune, by the way. Nicks."
"What?"
"The Nicks. The New Knickerbockers? You know, the band?" "Sorry, I'm not up on what the kids are listening to these days." "You're twenty-nine years old, Rav."
"Don't remind me. I turn thirty in precisely three months, whereupon my desiccated husk will most likely disintegrate into
gold glitter and blow away."
"Saves me having to buy you a birthday present."
Rav snorts appreciatively. Though they haven't worked together long, the two of them have found a comfortable rhythm. Shepard is always up for a little banter, and he's got this low-key wit that Rav quite enjoys. They complement each other well, too. Rav can be a little intense, and Shepard's more slow-and steady approach balances that out. More important, despite being ex-army and built like an NFL quarterback, Will doesn't feel the need to prove his masculinity at every turn, which is refreshing. As an openly gay cop, Rav's had to put up with a lot of alpha male bullshit over the years, so it's a relief to work with someone who's safe enough in his own skin to let Rav be safe in his.
"Hey, you still there?"
"Sorry, my mind is wandering. It's been a long one. You were saying about a witness?"
"Right. He claims to have seen a white female-"
The cab driver slams on the brakes, jerking Rav into his seat belt and sending his phone flying. "Did you see that?" The driver lays on the horn with both hands. "This woman just jumped in front of my car! Hey, lady, are you nuts?" Rav isn't paying much attention, too busy fishing his phone out of the seat well. Then a chorus of honking goes up all around them, and the driver murmurs an ominous "Shit ... "
From He's to Die For, by Erin Dunn. Copyright © 2025 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
It’s the height of the industrial revolution and ten years into Lenore’s marriage to steel magnate Henry, their relationship has soured. When Henry’s ambitions take them from London to the remote British moorlands to host a hunting party, a shocking carriage accident brings the mysterious Carmilla into their lives. Carmilla, who is weak and pale during the day but vibrant at night. Carmilla, who stirs up something deep within Lenore. And before long, girls from the local villages fall sick, consumed by a terrible hunger.
As the day of the hunt draws closer, Lenore begins to unravel, questioning the role she has been playing all these years. Torn between regaining her husband’s affection and the cravings Carmilla has awakened, soon Lenore will uncover a darkness in her household that will place her at terrible risk.
LGBTQ | Fantasy Historical | Horror [Zando, On Sale: February 18, 2025, Hardcover / e-Book , ISBN: 9781638932161 / eISBN: 9781638932178]
Kat Dunn grew up in London and has lived in Japan, Australia and France.
She has a BA in Japanese from SOAS and an MA in English from Warwick. She’s written about mental health for Mind and The Guardian, and worked as a translator for Japanese television.
Her fiction has been shortlisted for the Mslexia Novel Competition, and Dangerous Remedy is her first novel.
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