Putrescence in Her Peripherals is my upcoming dark fantasy. It’s coming out this fall, and I’m SO excited to share it with you. Until then, I’d like to drop a few deleted scenes and unpublished world building moments. Here, we’ll explore the moment Aidan met Amélie. If this teaser piques your interest, swing by my Instagram to follow along on the novel’s path to publication.
Aidan took a deep breath as he walked toward Café Olé. It was a rainy, dreary Thursday, and he had just fed. Now clean, he was looking forward to enjoying a quiet cup of coffee and reflecting on better days ahead. He didn’t fancy his work, and though it physically rejuvenated him, he felt tired today.
When the door opened, accented by the chiming of bells to announce his arrival, something made him pause and scan the room. He wasn’t one to ignore his instinct.
The only woman in line at the register turned to glance at him. He immediately paled. It was like seeing a ghost, a doppelgänger of Lucresse Dumas in every way. Well, every way but the hair. This woman had brown hair. No, dark auburn.
For one disorienting moment, it felt as though the centuries between them had collapsed. He’d seen something familiar in the sparkle of her hazel eyes, the curve of her lips, the way her toe thumped to release excess energy.
Lucy was dead. Had been for centuries. Could this be reincarnation? Was that possibly real? He couldn’t rationalize this any other way. Sure, he’d seen women who bore a light resemblance to his wife, but none had ever made his heart react like this. None had ever made hope rise so suddenly and so violently.
Collecting himself, he finally closed the door and got in line behind her.
How the hell do I speak to her?
What if fate had finally returned something to him? What if he said the wrong thing and frightened her away? And beyond that, what could one possibly say to someone they mourned for centuries?
Aidan’s eyes darted down to her purse. Being a practiced pickpocket, his instinct was to unzip the purse and snatch something. But what if this was the one instance where he was caught? He could flash his badge and say that he was actually zipping it up, but…
The man at the register was wrapping up his order, so Aidan had to act fast. He knelt to tie his shoe, then leaned forward and unzipped the woman’s bag gently on the way up. He was so practiced that the motion was fluid and nearly soundless. She didn’t notice.
He scanned the space – no eyes were on him. In the stretch of a single breath, he reached in and grabbed her wallet. He pulled it to his side, resisting the urge to flip it open and look at the name on her ID.
The cashier called her forward. She placed her order. Aidan had to remind himself not to hold his breath when he got on the ground, pretending to pick the wallet up. The cashier started to say the total, so he moved fast. He had the wallet visible in his hand and was in the process of standing up when she noticed her purse was open.
He reached forward to tap her shoulder, but she spun around. He cleared his throat and extended the wallet. “Looking for this?”
Her face lit up in a familiar way that made his heart lurch. She claimed it eagerly. “Oh my gosh, thank you! That could have been bad.”
“Let me make it better,” he offered, stepping forward to stand beside her. “Coffee’s on me. Would you mind adding a dirty chai to that order before you check me out, ma’am?”
The cashier took his card with a nod and rang the order out. She returned it with a receipt and flitted away to prepare their drinks.
“I’m Aidan,” he said, turning his eyes on the woman. Every instinct urged him to pull her close, but this woman was a stranger wearing familiar sunlight. “Would you like to have coffee with me?”
She smiled. “I’m Amélie. Sure.”
“What brings you in?” Aidan asked politely.
She nodded toward the window, gesturing to a business somewhere on the street. “I do historical reenactments and plays sometimes – stopped by for a corset fitting. Wanted a drink after.”
“Oh,” Aidan said breathlessly. “I’m rather familiar with historical fashion, actually. What play are you doing?”
She chuckled. “Not a play – a reenactment of the trial of King Charles I. I’m Queen Jane.”
“Ah,” he said. “Fitting, with a name like Amélie. You’re from Urnfeld, right?”
“My father was,” she explained. “But I do a pretty damn good impersonation of an accent, having grown up around him.”
He grinned. Lucy had an accent, thick and melodic. “And how is it being married to King Charles?”
“He was cold at first, but we’ve since found love,” she said in a remarkably convincing Urnfeldian accent. The sound struck something deep and ancient inside him. For a dangerous moment, he wanted to believe that death had finally returned what it stole. Her voice carried the same warmth and melody that had haunted him for centuries.
“Very convincing, Amélie. Brava bravissima!”
She bowed, then straightened enthusiastically when the barista brought her drink over. As she accepted it, she turned to him. “What brings you in today?”
Aidan shrugged, reminding himself not to stare too intently. He didn’t want to risk scaring her off. “This is one of my favorite coffee shops. I live in the area, and with the gloomy weather, I wanted a pick me up.”
She nodded as the barista brought his drink over. “A dirty chai sounds great on a day like this. Is that your usual order?”
“Eh, I mix it up,” he said, guiding them toward an intimate two-person table. “Life is meant to be full of adventure, you know?”
“I wish,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not as adventurous as I’d like. I majored in poetry and minored in historical fashion, so I work retail. Degree wasn’t great for much beyond historical reenactments, unfortunately. Although I do create historical costumes for clients on the side. What do you do?”
He fished for his wallet and opened it, revealing a badge. “I’m a detective.”
Her eyes widened, flashing from the badge to his face. “Detective Grieve. Oh. That is so much more impressive.”
“Absolutely not,” he said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t know how to fit boning into a stomacher. But I suspect you do.”
“I do, but it’s not my specialty. I typically let others make my corsets.” She leaned forward, running her eyes over his face. “So how did you get into historical fashion?”
“I did a few plays when I was younger,” he admitted. “And I’ve always loved history. Coffee, you know, was something King Charles drank, but it was another few decades before the general populace was familiar with it.”
She tilted her head, and his heart lurched. Lucy was always giving signals of inquisitiveness, and here was this woman echoing that same curiosity. Her hazel eyes combed over him before they widened.
“Wait. Grieve. Like the House of? Are you a descendent of King Charles?”
He chuckled. Lucy would’ve rolled her eyes at the very idea of court politics. Amélie, meanwhile, looked delighted by it. The difference should’ve grounded him, but he found it charming. “Not of King Charles. Of King Madden, though.”
“Oh my,” she said, lifting a hand to her heart. She leaned closer, dropping her voice as if they were gossiping. “Were you from one of the royal children? Or from a bastard’s line?”
He threw his head back and laughed. The thought of his father cheating on his mother with a woman was rich, but that was a lot to explain. Definitely not something he’d bring up on the first date. “One of the royal children. Guess which.”
She leaned closer, studying his features as if the centuries wouldn’t have diluted any possible clues. However, a smirk bloomed across her face. “Aodhàn. Without a doubt.”
“How’d you know?”
“Aidan,” she said, tapping her temple. “You’re named for him. Aren’t you?”
He shrugged and lifted his chai for a sip. When he didn’t answer, she traced the rim of her glass. “So you used to do plays. What do you do for fun now?”
He set his cup down and studied her, trying very hard to focus on the conversation instead of the impossible familiarity of her presence. “I read. Play violin. Spend time with friends. If I’m being totally candid, Amélie, I’m not a particularly interesting man.”
She laughed. “Me neither. I really just do a few reenactments here and there. If I’m being honest, retail sucks. It drains me. And my home life is a bit depressing. I spend a lot of time reading, too.”
He perked up. “That’s what we should do for our next date, then! Read together. Maybe do a picnic.”
“Our next date?” she asked amusedly. “This is a date, then?”
“I’d like it to be,” he said. “I’ve never said ‘stomacher‘ in casual conversation before. And I’d very much like to keep talking to you.”
She reached forward to thread her fingers with his. “I think I’d like to get to know you, too.”