If you like a complex story, this is right up your street.. ~Sinfully Gay Romance Book Reviews
The Visionary is a dark gay paranormal with romantic elements, violence, and sex magic.
Warnings: This book contains violence, dubcon, mind control, and sex magic. For more details, please see my warnings / temptations page.
Amazon Universal Link: mybook.to/The_Visionary
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VWTNGH7
Cover Art by SuiteSixStudios
“What’s that purple mist?” Colin asked, startling himself. He never spoke to strangers, especially not about—
“It’s more a fog.”
Odd. The man didn’t seem surprised. It did remind Colin of pictures of fog rolling in around the Golden Gate Bridge. Only these misty tendrils were purple and gradually disappeared as they moved farther away from Tattoo Guy.
“Why won’t you answer me?”
“What else do you see?” He turned slightly toward Colin but remained hunkered down, studying Tattoo Guy but not touching him.
“Nothing.” Colin blinked, and that fast, it wasn’t true anymore. “Crap, his tattoo just moved.”
“No. The flower.” The purple tendrils had decayed so much they’d stopped diverting Colin’s attention from the blood on Tattoo Guy’s arm and the back of his shirt. He was obviously more than hurt.
“The violet moved?”
“It slapped the cymbal. I heard it.” Colin thought about running, but his feet refused to move.
“It’d help if one of them named the killer.” The large man stood slowly and brushed off his hands. A little over six feet tall and slightly bulky, his long shaggy hair and full beard shot through with gray made him look like a street person. “Some of these tats have mouths. Are they saying anything?”
“What?” Colin took a step back. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”
“Already have. But I plan on starting an investigation of my own. The police are busy. If he doesn’t have any family to make noise—and I know he doesn’t—they won’t put much effort into finding out who killed him.”
“Why do you think someone killed him?”
“Murder is purple.” He slowly reached into his jacket and smiled tightly as he brought out a pastel-green business card. “I’m a private investigator. Al Green.”
“You must not be a very good one if you live here.” Colin took another step back but then moved forward to take the card. The card read “Alonzo Green, P.I.” along with an address near Union Station, in one of the most red-and-purple areas in Portland. “Green” was obviously fake—Colin could see the lie without even trying. Al’s olive complexion said he was of Mediterranean descent so his real last name probably sounded more romantic. Literally.
“I do all right, but a lot of my clients aren’t in a position to pay much.” Al tilted his head toward the young man on the floor.