When you get up in the morning, the last thing you expect is to see a murdered guy hanging outside your window. Things like that tend to draw the attention of the local police, and when you’re squatting in your parents’ old house until you can afford to buy it, another thing you can’t afford is the attention of the cops. Oh yeah. Hi. My name is Pet. It’s not my real name, but it’s the only one you’re getting. Things like names are important these days. And it’s not so much that I’m Pet. I’m a pet. A human pet: I belong to the two Behindkind fae and the pouty vampire who just moved into my house. It’s not weird, I promise—well, it’s weird, yeah. But it’s not weird weird, you know?
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W.R. Gingell
W.R. Gingell is a Tasmanian author of urban fantasy, fairy-tale retellings, and madcap science fiction who doesn’t seem to be able to write a book without a body suddenly turning up. She solemnly swears that all such bodies are strictly fictional in nature. W.R. spends her time reading, drinking a truly ridiculous amount of tea, and slouching in front of the fire to write. Like Peter Pan, she never really grew up, and is still occasionally to be found climbing trees.
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