Through Smoke and Shadows Series: Beyond a Shadow, Book One by. Alyse Amidon! New Release Blitz! @ninestarpress @l.alyse_writer

Title:  Through Smoke and Shadows

Series: Beyond a Shadow, Book One

Author: L. Alyse Amidon

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/08/2025

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 79400

Genre

 Para, paranormal, lit/genre fiction, gay, trans, crime/mystery, action/adventure, dark, immortal, law enforcement, magic/magic users, slow burn/UST, mental illness, revenge, monsters, violence, guns and knives

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Description

A long-hidden force stirs in the heart of the Utah desert, and a killer sets out on a path to power and vengeance, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

Gene Bradshaw and Jack Cartwright, newly partnered detectives, are called to a gruesome murder scene, and neither knows what to make of it. The mutilated body is so unidentifiable it’d be easy to call it an animal attack, but neither detective buys such a simple explanation. While Gene relies on his gut that something more sinister is afoot, Jack knows the killer isn’t an animal, and it’s certainly not a human.

To catch the murderer, Jack and Gene must set their differences aside and learn to work together. But the closer they become, the more the lines blur between personal and professional. When the case takes an unexpected turn, Gene learns there’s more to his partner’s world than he ever imagined, and he has to dive headfirst into it, whether he’s ready or not.

Set against the deep, desolate canyons and the endless landscape of Southern Utah, Through Smoke and Shadows weaves a twisting tale of the evil that lurks down dark alleys, in our closets, and even in plain sight.

Excerpt

Through Smoke and Shadows
L. Alyse Amidon © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Little Cottonwood Canyon

About six miles west of Solitude Mountain Resort

You got demons inside you, girl.” His sweet, sickly Southern drawl made my skin itch.

Real original, I thought, turning my head to spit blood on the floor.

“Someone ought to help you with that.”

The man was older than others I’d met, maybe forty-five and tall, with a somewhat portly build to him. It was embarrassing to admit, but I’d dismissed him earlier, and thought him harmless. Now, chained to a chair, beaten and torn, I was paying for that mistake. But I wasn’t too worried.

He walked over to the far corner of the…barn? Was that where we were? It had to be something akin to a barn, with its high ceilings, unfinished floors, and walls made of wood. It didn’t smell like animals, though, so perhaps it was an outbuilding.

“Been tracking you for a while,” he said as he pulled out a knife, the blade catching the small bit of moonlight seeping in through the cracks in the roof. “Never thought I’d catch you.”

“First mistake was underestimating yourself.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he approached. “More like I was overestimating you.”

He smiled a cruel smile before sticking the blade into my stomach. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t that bad. I’d probably had worse menstrual pains if I were being honest.

The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth yet again, and I returned his smile with my own. I squirmed forward as best I could, considering my bindings, and pulled the blade further into my gut.

“You really think I got demons inside me?” I asked. “You think a knife’s gonna do anything?” I laughed.

The man’s face turned from haughty to frustrated in an instant, and he twisted the knife, causing blood to rise in my throat. I didn’t stop laughing, though, and it sounded as if I was gurgling mouthwash. Blood dribbled down my chin.

With a huff, the man pulled the blade out abruptly and stalked over to his corner, where he rifled through his bag of toys. I went limp and opened my mouth, letting gravity pull the blood from it, watching as it ebbed out of me ever so slowly. I wasn’t sure how long the man stayed in his corner, but sooner than I would have liked, his shoes came into view before the pool of blood.

The hilt of a different knife, a larger one, pushed my chin up so that I was forced to meet his gaze, and I noticed he was older than I thought. His eyes…they held so much more light than I realized.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You think you can go around doing whatever you want, huh? You can’t.”

The edge of my mouth quirked up on instinct. “I beg to differ.”

A hint of challenge gleamed in his eyes.

In the next instant, his free hand gripped my hair in a tight hold while the other flipped the knife around and used it to slice my throat from end to end.

Now, that one? That one hurt. A lot. And a considerable amount of blood was added to the little pool I had going.

For a beat, neither of us breathed.

When he released his hold, I let my head and body fall limp. He stumbled back, his breathing labored—the sounds of a man who had completed some long-awaited task. I gave him time to get a hold of himself. When he started cleaning up his mess, I made my move. He came over to unchain my body, and I snapped the chains around my wrists, lifting my gaze to meet his.

Fear filled his eyes as I took hold of his lapels. I pulled him in close.

“I told you the knife wasn’t going to work.”

I shoved him to the ground, and he grunted on impact, rolling over to his front and then trying to push himself up.

I stood, and the rest of the chains slid down my body. I picked up a broken piece, wrapped it around his neck, and pulled him upright. His hands shot to his throat, desperately clawing at it to pull the chain away from his skin.

“What? You thought that’s all it would take?” I tsked. “You should have known better.”

He elbowed me in the ribs, but I just tightened my grip. His mouth agape, he tried to suck air into his lungs, though his efforts were futile. As his face drained of color and his eyes rolled up into his head, I released him, shoving him away.

He gasped for breath on all fours. I kicked him over onto his back, and he stared up at me in fear. I stood over him and imagined how I must appear to him. A tall, pale woman with bruises he’d inflicted littering her skin, fresh knife wounds on her neck and stomach. Blood draining out of her. I gave him a wicked smile.

“For the record, there are no demons inside me.”

His eyes grew wide as I lunged for his throat.

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Meet the Author

L. Alyse likes stories that push against and break genre norms. She likes to crack genres open and write about what’s most interesting. She’s fascinated by characters who are different, unapologetically themselves, and morally complex. Her stories are filled with dark, twisty plots that let the characters breathe. 

When she’s not working or writing, L. loves to crochet, watch TV, cuddle her dog, and spend as much time outside as she can.

Website | Instagram

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I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent April 7 - May 2, 2025 Virtual Book Tour!

The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series

After finding herself in the middle of murder investigation in her last two secretarial jobs, Dot finds the only place that will hire her is her local funeral home.

Why not? At least there all the clients are safe from what the town calls her murderous "Curse of Camden". It is 1965 and Dot is planning her wedding with a Twiggy-like mini-bridal gown, but secretly she’s not so sure it’s a good idea. If she really is cursed, what might happen to the one she loves? Is she willing to put him in danger? She and Ben put wedding planning on the back burner when one of the town’s teenage girls gets hit by a drunk boater who gets away. The closer they get to the answers, the more Dot feels the curse is coming for Ben.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 2025
Number of Pages: 215
ISBN: 978-1-68512-870-8
Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.

“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”

Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.

“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”

“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”

“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”

Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.

Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”

Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”

I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”

“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”

“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat - was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”

“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.

We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.

Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”

I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.

Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”

“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”

“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”

I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”

We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.

“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.

“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”

On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.

“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”

Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”

“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?

“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”

The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”

“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“Then we’ll have to ask him.”

As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.

“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”

I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”

“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.

Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”

We knew just what his thing was.

Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”

Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”

“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.

“Why would I do that?”

Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”

Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”

“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”

“Watch me.”

“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.

“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”

As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”

“Out!”

***

Excerpt from I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved

Teresa Trent started out teaching English in Colorado, but life and children intervened, and with all that new spare time, she began writing. Besides The Swinging Sixties Series, Teresa has penned the Pecan Bayou, Piney Woods and Henry Park Mystery Series and always has a little idea in the back of her mind for the next one. She is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her podcast, Books to the Ceiling, features authors with new mysteries on the market.

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Waters of Destruction (An Orchid Isle Mystery) by Leslie Karst Virtual Book Tour!

Waters of Destruction (An Orchid Isle Mystery)

Cozy Mystery

2nd in Series

Setting

Hawaii

Publisher

‎ Severn House; Main edition (April 1, 2025)

Hardcover ‏

‎ 224 pages

ISBN-10 ‏

‎ 1448312183

ISBN-13

‏ 978-1448312184

Digital ASIN ‏

‎ B0DKXTRTX5

Retired caterer Valerie Corbin investigates a suspicious drowning in this Orchid Isle cozy culinary mystery, featuring a feisty queer couple who swap surfing lessons for sleuthing sessions in tropical Hilo, Hawai‘i

After a vacation of a lifetime in Hilo, Hawai‘i, retired caterer Valerie Corbin and her wife Kristen have decided to move permanently to the beautiful – if storm-prone – Big Island. The couple are having fun furnishing their new house, exploring their new neighborhood and playing with their new little dog, Pua. But while they’ve made good friends with local restaurant manager Sachiko and her partner Isaac, they can’t help but feel a little lonely.

So when Sachiko begs Val to fill in for a member of her bar team who’s gone AWOL, Val dusts off her cocktail shaker and happily agrees. It’s a great chance to meet more people – and learn the local gossip.

Such as about Hank, the missing bartender, who vanished after a team-building retreat at a local beauty spot a week ago, and hasn’t been seen since. Until, that is, his body turns up at the bottom of the waterfall, and the police seem very interested in where Sachiko was at the time of his death.

Sachiko couldn’t have killed him . . . could she? Val dives into the murky waters of the case, determined to find out.

This mouth-watering cozy mystery is perfect for fans of Ellen Byron, Jennifer J Chow, Lucy Burdette and Raquel V Reyes, and includes a selection of delicious Hawaiian recipes to cook at home.

Leslie Karst is the author of the Orchid Isle mysteries Waters of Destruction and Molten Death, of the Lefty Award-nominated Sally Solari mystery series, and of the IBPA Ben Franklin and IPPY award silver medal-winning memoir, Justice is Served: A Tale of Scallops, the Law, and Cooking for RBG. After years waiting tables and singing in a new wave rock band, she decided she was ready for a “real” job and ended up at Stanford Law School, then returned to school to study the culinary arts.

Now retired from the law, Leslie splits her time between Hilo, Hawai‘i and Santa Cruz, California, spending her days writing, cooking, cycling, gardening, and observing cocktail hour promptly at five o’clock.

Author Links

Website http://www.lesliekarstauthor.com/

Chicks on the Case https://chicksonthecase.com/

Mystery Lovers Kitchen https://www.mysteryloverskitchen.com/

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/lesliekarstauthor/

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The Break of Dawn Eule Grey New Release! @ninestarpress

Title:  The Break of Dawn

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/01/2025

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 28400

Genre: Contemporary, British, Yorkshire, YSP, Art, Sculpture, Easter, Spring, second chances, new beginnings, first love, baby animals

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Description

Cora ‘I am all that I need’ Richards has a prison reputation for being an ice queen. She exists via a strict code of survival: people equal pain—the end. Surprises lead to disappointment; therefore, Cora won’t tolerate the unexpected. Friends? No. Lovers? Never. A hollow nighttime ache in her chest is bothersome, true, but the issue certainly isn’t caused by loneliness. Cora knows who she is and what she isn’t. She gladly accepts a placement at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, not to meet the elusive artist, Sky Sunday, but to finish her prison sentence early. It’s work, nothing more.

But the breathtaking landscape, woolly lambs, fluffy ducklings, and friendly artists challenge a woman trying not to feel. Life at the Sculpture Park is vibrant, messy, and warm. Still, it would take someone extraordinary to melt an ice queen such as Cora—the end.

Sky Sunday wears dungarees and muddy yellow boots, talks in riddles, listens to Cora’s suggestions, and never belittles her. From the first awkward meeting, attraction sizzles between them. But Sky is rubbish at talking. So is Cora. How can two impenetrable women ever get close?

From dawn to dusk, the workers toil on a mysterious, humming sculpture, and nobody knows what it’s supposed to be. If they trust their instincts, Sky insists that something unique will happen on Easter Sunday. Cora abandons the last of her ice armour as dawn breaks, but is it too late to be vulnerable and take a second chance?

What happens when an ice queen and a fluffy chick kiss? Can Cora and Sky forget their past and begin a new life together? This story is not the end.

Excerpt

The Break of Dawn

Eule Grey © 2025

All Rights Reserved

February 1

It started with a shout.

“Richards! Gov’s office.”

The yell left a deafening silence in the dining hall. Chatter ceased, the insistent bang-bang of doors stopped, and even the pitter-patter of rain on the windows faded as if it knew that a shout from Miss Holmes always signalled terrible news, and especially for me—my prison release date was mere months away.

Potential crimes flashed through my mind. Had I left a mess in the kitchen during my shift? Did I piss someone off? Had my sentence been lengthened due to a technical hitch?

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d messed up the dates. Three sentences ago, a fight led to six additional weeks on the wing. Gah. The incident hadn’t been my fault. When someone insulted me, I fought back. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, you’d end up on the floor with a broken nose.

When the yell settled, the women gleefully nudged one another, glad to see me in trouble—I wasn’t popular.

My roommate, Jenny, tugged insistently at my standard prison-grey sleeve. “Cora. You better go. She sounds pissed.”

We exchanged worried looks. I stood as if to head to the office but legged it to our room instead, my stomach clenching about the bottle of hooch brewing beneath my bed. Jenny and I had started the brew a few weeks before. I’d reckoned we could celebrate my release with a few drinks. After eight months of sharing a cell, we’d grown pretty close. As close as I allowed people, anyway, which meant a chasm the size of a planet crouched between us. We were very different. Jenny carelessly revealed every facet of her life as we lay in our beds, whereas I shared bare essentials, such as my favourite brand of chocolate. Stuffed animals covered her bed while mine was bare. Enough said.

The hooch was not the problem. Bubbling quietly and consistently, our concoction hadn’t been discovered. Hooch constituted a minor offence anyway. What the hell else had I done?

The officer shouted again, more aggressively. “Richards! Gov’s office.”

The tone of her voice pissed me off. I wouldn’t go without a fight. Yeah, I should’ve accepted defeat and walked to the office with a sorry expression. Only a spanner with a death wish as strong as the undead would have ignored a call from the governor. I didn’t say sorry or play nice. Thirty-two was too old to change the habits of a lifetime.

Jenny thundered into our cell, banging the door behind her. “Did someone snitch? You better go before you get a warning.” At forty, she was serving her first sentence, naïve as a baby. Jenny still believed the prison rules existed to protect us, bless her cotton socks.

I made myself comfy on the bed. “Nope. Miss Snotty Holmes will have to come and fetch me.”

Years of practice in front of a mirror hadn’t been wasted. I could steel my face into an impenetrable fortress without much effort. Nobody saw the real me, the kid who’d cried during beatings and hoped her momma would visit at the children’s home over Christmas time.

Needless to say, my weak years were a very long time ago.

Jenny adopted her melting-biscuit look. She was pretty, with an expressive face that hid nothing. My helpful lessons about concealing one’s feelings hadn’t done anything for her. She cried or shouted wilfully, drawing attention, revealing weaknesses and vulnerabilities she should’ve kept hidden. I’d probably have demanded a new cellmate months ago if she wasn’t so kind. Oh, I didn’t like her—god forbid. Jenny was inoffensive to live with. Like and dislike had become irrelevant feelings to me. But she never gave up trying to improve or save me, the poor woman.

Jenny hovered at my bedside, looking like the apocalypse was coming, bristling with kindness. “Go and see what Miss wants? Maybe it’s good news. You know they’ve been handing out certificates from education this week? You did well in your exams.” She nodded encouragingly as if I were a silly kid needing a hug rather than a tough bitch who could cope with any amount of trouble. Bring it on.

She lunged. I held my breath, willing her not to touch. Jenny had a crush on me. It wasn’t unusual. Most women inside welcomed a ‘special relationship’ with a roommate. Not me. Jenny had attempted many touchy-feely incidents over the months. Obviously, I’d ignored them all. Whether hand-holding or hair brushing, every contact was disgusting to me. Why would I welcome another woman’s baggage on top of my own? No. It was better to be alone than abandoned. Hugs equalled pain. The end.

Jenny attempted a sudden, unexpected hug. “Aww, babe.”

I held up a practised iron fist. “Don’t touch me and never call me babe.” It was laughable and sad how she shrank back, believing I would hurt her. I never would. Jenny might be a nuisance, but she didn’t deserve or need a slap, only a little reminder now and then about boundaries.

She abruptly drew her hand back. “I just wanted—” She sounded wounded, almost tearful.

The grief in her eyes was too much. I closed my eyes.

“Yeah, well, don’t tell me because I’m as interested as a cardboard box would be. I’m having a nap if anyone asks.”

It was a relief to shut her out. Why women wanted to be special, I’d never understand. Yuck.

I began silently counting. At six hundred, a stern voice broke my concentration.

“Didn’t you hear? The gov wants you in her office.”

I swung my legs off my bed and crammed cold feet into my shoes. “I didn’t hear, Miss. On my way.”

What had been gained from the extra few moments alone? Even I didn’t understand myself. Maybe it was part of my nature to rebel, or perhaps every victory, however tiny, kept me going. I was a narky cow. The end.

Jenny watched me silently and reproachfully. As I passed her, I stuck out my tongue. She rolled her eyes.

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Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them! She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night! For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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