by
Uncover the conspiracy, outrun the enemy, and trust no one—survival is the ultimate test.
Oberon Wycherley never thought his dull London life could take a deadly turn—until a frantic neighbor, American journalist Art Carew, claims to have uncovered an international conspiracy. A Greek industrialist is marked for assassination by a shadowy cabal called the Black Stone and that's only the beginning.
When Carew is found dead in his flat, Oberon finds himself the prime suspect—and the only one who can stop the plot. Fleeing to the rugged Scottish Highlands, Oberon must decipher Carew’s cryptic notebook while dodging assassins and evading the police. Along the way, he forms an unlikely partnership with the enigmatic Syd Whatten, a man whose charm is matched only by his secrets.
As the Black Stone’s sinister plan accelerates, Oberon and Syd race against time to unmask the conspirators. From explosive escapes to a high-stakes standoff on a storm-battered coastline, every step brings them closer to the truth—and deeper into danger.
Will they foil the plot in time? Or will Oberon become another casualty of a deadly game?
A gripping blend of espionage, danger, and unexpected alliances, The 39 Steps will leave you breathless to the last page.
Publisher's Note: This is a contemporary reimagining of the 1915 novel by John Buchan.
Publisher: Entwined Publishing
Editors:
Cover Artists:
Genres:
Pairings: M-M
Heat Level: 3
Romantic Content: 2
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 26-35
Protagonist 2 Age: 26-35
Word Count: 50955
Setting: London, Scotland and Cumbria
Languages Available: English
“I’m gonna go sit in the corner and browse my phone like a normal human.” Oberon paid for his drinks and the wine he’d be taking home with him then took his glass and snagged a table in the corner next to the window. His job meant keeping an eye on the news so he could justify a bit of doom-scrolling as work. The media sites were full of the usual rubbish about the royals, D-list celebrities and the cost of living. Oberon browsed anything he could find that was remotely related to mining and mining companies. There was a particularly interesting piece about deep seabed mining for polymetallic nodules. Potato-sized lumps containing copper, cobalt, nickel and manganese…hmm, all crucial to battery manufacture. The mention of potato was enough to make his stomach rumble. He took his glass back to the bar, said goodbye to Marley, who handed him a bag containing his bottles of wine, then headed for home.
READ MOREThe rain had stopped, leaving a fine, clear evening. Everything smelled freshly washed. As Oberon walked back to his flat near Portland Place, the crowds surged around him, busy and chattering, snapping pictures of anything and everything. He envied their easy-going camaraderie and excitement even if he didn’t understand the attraction of countless selfies. The shop assistants, office workers in sharp suits, street cleaners and buskers all had things to do and places to be. He gave a few pound coins to a homeless guy hunched in a tatty sleeping bag in a closed-down shop doorway because he saw him yawn; he was a fellow-sufferer. At Oxford Circus, Oberon looked up at the sky and made a vow. I’ll give this place another week and if nothing exciting happens, I’ll stick a pin in a map and buy a one-way flight.
His short-term home was on the first floor of a newish block behind Langham Place. He was flat-sitting for a friend who’d taken a six-month engineering contract in Brazil and the rent he was charging Oberon was peanuts compared to the going rate in the area. The building was upmarket enough to merit a security desk in the entrance hall, along with mailboxes and a well-maintained noticeboard. The lobby smelled of lemons.
His friend had a cleaner who came in three times a week and though Oberon didn’t make enough mess to justify it, he didn’t want to take the woman’s income. Magdalena traded light duties for baking, leaving him Polish sweets and pastries that did nothing for his waistline. There was a lift, which Oberon rejected in favour of the stairs, thinking of those pastries.
He was fitting his key into the lock when another man made his way up the stairs. He moved quietly and his sudden appearance made Oberon start. He was slim, with a short reddish-brown beard, orange-streaked hair and washed-out grey eyes. He was half a head shorter than Oberon’s six feet one.
“You’re my upstairs neighbour, aren’t you?” Oberon recognised him as the occupant of a flat on the next floor. They’d exchanged hellos once or twice in passing but nothing more.
“I am, Mr. Wycherley. I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” the man said. “Can I come in for a minute?” He seemed to be making an effort to steady his voice, and he reached for Oberon’s arm but didn’t touch him. “My name is Art Carew. I won’t take up much of your time.”
Oberon didn’t feel he could refuse. He got his door open and motioned Art in. No sooner was Art over the threshold than he made a dash for the kitchen, where he peered out of the window before coming back.
“Is the door locked?” he asked, not waiting for a response before fastening the security chain in place himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m taking advantage, but you look like the kind of man who might understand. I’m in trouble and I need a favour. It won’t cost you anything.”
Oberon debated throwing him out there and then but he was bored and the man was intriguing, if a bit odd. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll listen. Can I get you a drink?” He looks like he needs one.
“That would be kind and very welcome.”
There was a tray of decanters and glasses on a table next to the couch. Oberon poured his visitor a generous neat whisky. Art downed it in one. “Another?”
“Thank you but no. I should keep a clear head, but that one helped steady the nerves.”
“My landlord appreciates a single malt. Take a seat. I’ll just be a minute.” Oberon carried his wine through to the kitchen then took off his jacket before returning to the living room. “So, tell me what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?” Art said. “I’m a bit shaken up and not thinking straight. You see, I’m dead.”
COLLAPSE
