☀ No Fury Like That - Lisa De Nikolits

Thank you for joining us on the Virtual Book Tour for No Fury Like That, a Philosophical Murder Mystery by Lisa De Nikolits (8 September 2017, Inanna Publications and Education Inc., 260 pages).

"Imagine if characters from The Devil Wears Prada got trapped in Sartre's play No Exit, where "hell is other people."

No Fury Like That uses the lens of female souls stuck in purgatory to examine loss, love, rage, angst, and what there really is to live for.

Alternately funny, melancholy, philosophical, and raunchy, it's a wild ride and another gutsy novel from de Nikolits." -- John Oughton, author of Death by Triangulation

PREVIEW: Check out the book's synopsis and the B&N Preview below.

Author Lisa De Nikolits will be awarding a one $10 Amazon gift card, and a digital copy of No Furyt card to six randomly drawn winners via Rafflecopter during the tour.  
Please do take part: comment on our post and follow the tour where you will be able to read other excerpts (☀), interviews (ℚ), reviews (✍) and guest blog posts (✉).

|| Synopsis || Teaser: B&N Preview || About the Author || Giveaway & Tour Stops ||

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Synopsis

No Fury Like That is a one-of-a kind suspense thriller about life and death – and the power of second chances.

The novel takes you on a fast-paced, funny, adventurous ride, exploring themes of love, friendship, revenge and family – and the transformation of character in impossible circumstances. No Fury Like That is about metamorphosis, and how friendship is more important than success, love is more important than money and family is more important than power.

What is your moral compass? Julia Redner has to die in order to find her answer to this question – but is she really dead or is she being given the opportunity to rethink her life while solving an intricate puzzle of murders? And she won't miss the opportunity to exact righteous revenge!

No Fury Like That is a philosophical murder mystery with an unforgettable cast of characters, a surprising plot with twists and turns and a powerful, determined female protagonist. The novel will make you laugh and it will make you think but most of all, it will engage you from the get-go.

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Teaser: B&N Preview

PART I: THERE

1. WAKING

I wake everything hurts. I’m locked in darkness, submerged. I’m breathing, yes, but the burn bites deep into my bones. I want to lift my head but it’s too heavy; it’s a giant tree stump buried in the roots of my arms. My arms are stinging. My elbow feels like shattered wreckage. Am I broken? Why can’t I move?
     I focus on my mouth. Teeth are clenched, jaw is locked. Prison. The prison of my face is buried in the stump log of my head that is handcuffed to my arms.
     But, yes, I can breathe and I do. It feels good to breathe and, like a balloon, my head fills with air and becomes lighter, light enough that I can nearly imagine moving it. But only nearly.
     I am wedged. I breathe into the darkness of my hot, exhaled air and I wonder if I am dreaming or floating slowly towards the light of wakefulness, at the surface of consciousness.
     I wait, expecting to burst through like a drowning man freed after an interminable time of clawing upwards but there’s no reprieve, and I’m not going anywhere. Although my head is a balloon, lighter, still, there’s nothing but the burning, the sting, the darkness, and the air I breathe in and out.
     Unclench jaw. Teeth snap apart with a click and the sandpaper of broken tooth enamel is gritty in my mouth. My tongue is a giant snake lodged in an earthworm’s burrow and I want to move my giant python tongue but I can’t. All I can do is sandpaper my palette with the tiny enamel tooth shavings that I ground down during the night. The night? Is that why it’s so dark? It’s night, I must be asleep but I panic, where is my surface?
     I want out, away from the pain that burns from my elbow, which is crushed underneath me, crushed awkwardly, bent, twisted and broken. Please, I implore my limbs, my tongue, my head, my hand, please, something move.
     My head budges a fraction, enough to make me believe that some movement now will equal all movement soon.
     And it is so. Slowly, slowly, like a car being dredged up from the depths of a lake, my head is lifted by an invisible crane, lifted out of the dark, wet prehistoric roots of my burning, stinging, broken arms.
     My eyelids are glued tight, but my head is upright and I can straighten my arms although it hurts like hell and I want to scream but I’ve yet to open my mouth.
     My python tongue finally forces its way between my teeth, and I hiss inwards. The sound gives me strength and I snap my mouth open, a letterbox unhinged.
     Pins and needles like boiling water, fingers pierced by cactus thorns of poisonous pain.
     I am going to open my eyes. I tell myself this in no uncertain terms. I force my eyelids apart and stare blindly into the fierce flame of the unforgiving sun. I slam the shutters closed and hiss again.
     Burning pain, broken teeth, searing light, why can’t I find the surface of this terrible dream? Why can’t I find the escape hatch of air, that geyser that will shoot me back into the land of daytime sanity and boring, reassuring normalcy?
     My torso is twisted like a pretzel. Chair. I’m in a chair. Did I fall asleep at work? Am I at my desk, drooling, gritty-eyed and dishevelled for all the world to see?
     I straighten my spine. Yes, that’s definitely the arm of a chair.
     I command my eyes to open again but I take it slowly this time, and I peek gingerly through slitted blinds, see fuzzy movement. People. There are people. I open the blinds just that much more. Yes, people.
     Oh my god, I’m in an airport.
     Floor-to-ceiling windows tower to the left, and I see planes lined up outside, white shark capsules ready to swallow sardines, ship them through the sky and spit them out on the other side.
     But I notice something strange. None of the planes have any markings. They are void of Air Canada logos, there are no American flags, or British Airways or WestJet decals. There’s nothing, only white sharks lined up on flawless licorice, the tarmac so fresh it looks chewy. Green lawns divide the runways under skies of the purest blue, accessorized by perfect cotton wool clouds, so pretty. I stare through Vaseline-smeared eyes and I blink a few times, hoping my vision will clear and that something will make sense, but there’s nothing familiar about the world outside.
     Was I in a plane crash? Is that what had happened? Maybe I’d been on my way somewhere—but where? And the plane crashed or maybe it had to make an emergency landing? The outdoors is reminiscent of the Caribbean and yet it also looks like nothing I have ever seen before.
     I turn back to the world inside the airport, and I recoil. It’s as if I have been punched in the gut, my already tender gut. The noise, the noise, the noise. It’s like being slammed by a Mac truck, such is the impact of this harsh wall of noise. How could I have mistaken this chaotic inferno for the cool, quiet world of underwater blackness?
     A crowd is gathered in front of me and they’re screaming and jostling while airport staff make loud, unintelligible announcements over the intercom. Everybody’s shouting at the same time.
     I blink again, still trying to clear my eyes, and I unwind my body until I’m sitting straight up in my chair, well, nearly straight. My elbow is still stinging and I reach for it, fearing I will encounter sheer bone jutting through the flesh but the skin is as smooth and intact as ever. My arm aches as if I crushed it beneath me when I slept and it needs to ease the kinks out in its own time. But it is still hard to breathe. I feel winded, as if I’ve taken a bad fall from a horse and broken a few ribs.
     I let my fingers explore the rest of my body. I reach for my face first, again, frightened by what I might find. But my hair is soft and silky and there are no cuts or bruises on my scalp. I brush my bangs aside and check my forehead. Undamaged. I slide my fingers down my nose. My nose is reassuringly my nose, long, with that tiny pinch at the tip. My cheekbones are high and rounded and familiar under my fingertips and my mouth is free of cuts although my lips feel chapped and dry, and this confuses me. I wet my lips with my tongue and again I taste the sandpapery grit of broken enamel. I explore my teeth and the inside of my mouth, but nothing is broken, nothing explains the sandy grit. My front teeth have always stuck out slightly, much to my annoyance, because I think it makes me look friendly and approachable, which I am not. My overbite and full lips give me a slightly open-mouthed, Marilyn-pout and my theory is that men find me irresistible because I look like I’m halfway ready to give them head, and I’ve got no feminist problems with that. Men and their predictable desires for my assets have made my life so much easier. I’ve always pitied the plain Janes. I gnaw on my bottom lip, a gesture that Martin finds so alluring and, reminded of him, I shoot up in my seat.
     Martin! My husband! Where is he? Panic fills my chest and I stand up quickly. The room spins to black and I fall back into my chair. I lean forward, with my head over my knees and take shallow, little breaths.
     I tell myself that I am fine. I got up too quickly, that’s all. I must find Martin but I need a moment.
     While I rest my head on my knees, my right hand searches my left for my wedding band and engagement ring, and, to my horror, I find nothing. Where are my rings? I would never have lost them. They, like Martin, mean the world to me.
     I raise my head slowly and sit up. My vision has cleared and everything is in sharp focus.
     I look around wildly, hoping to see Martin in the crowd. He must be there. I bet he’s trying to find out what happened and he’ll be back soon, back with directives and solutions. I can always rely on Martin.
     I look at the seats next to me. They are the usual, steel-framed airport chairs, sectioned off by armrests. The black, padded, plastic-covered seats are empty.
     I wonder where our luggage is. And, for that matter, where is my purse? I lean down again, taking my time, but there is nothing under the chairs.
     I turn to look at the lounge area behind me. I am the only person in a sea of seats and the clamouring crowd is still in front me, but they are white noise now. Voices scream in my head: Where is Martin? What happened? What’s going on? And where is my fabulous white leather Prada purse with the snake-print accordioned sides that I had bought only days before? Where are my Cartier rings, the startlingly huge emerald set high in a bank of diamonds, embedded in rose gold, with a wedding ring to match, a ring inscribed with the date of our wedding and, Us, Always in scripted font?
     I focus on the crowd in front of me. A Noah’s ark of the world’s people are assembled, but there is no camaraderie or friendly intimacy. Kids in their twenties, old folks with walking sticks, businessmen, housewives, a rock star, a construction worker, an executive power-woman, a middle-aged lady in a cleaner’s uniform, and a supermodel.
     The surreal nature of the situation puzzles me and then I am further punched in the gut by three realizations. None of these people is dressed for a holiday, none of them has a companion, and none of them has any luggage.
     I look down at myself and shrink back into my chair. What was I thinking, leaving the house like this? My navy blue sweatpants have seen better days and the pink T-shirt should have been thrown in the trash a long time ago. And I don’t even have any shoes on, for god’s sake.
     I pull my feet up onto the chair and hug my knees to my chest and I am shocked anew by my pedicure, which is chipped and worn, as are my fingernails.
     It’s a tight fit, tall me scrunched up in the chair, but I fold into myself like a scrawny bird, wings hugging in tight and I chew on a fingernail, something I haven’t done in years, but I need to gather my thoughts and try to make sense of what’s going on.
     Where’s Martin? Why doesn’t he come and find me? Why am I here alone?
     And where on earth is here? Perhaps I had decided to go on a yoga retreat, it must have been something like that. Yes, I bet I was on my way to a spa and Martin was going to meet up with me once I had done ten days of downward dogging and nibbling on exotic fruit. But there’s no way I would have gone with nails like this. My explanation doesn’t make sense and I don’t even like yoga—it’s a sorry excuse for people who can’t handle real exercise. Once again, I bury my head in my arms and try to focus on my breathing.
     At least the pain has left my body. The pins and needles have gone, and there is no burning and no stinging. So that’s good, but my distressed heart is thumping like an angry fist, and I cup my hand under my left breast, trying to calm myself down.
     I am not sure how long I stay like that, but I finally decide, from the sanctity of my dark and cozy place, that I am going to find out just what the fuck happened.

2. AGNES

I unfurl from my protective ball and lower my feet to the floor. The sharp, scratchy carpet pokes at my toes with synthetic fibers. I stand slowly and my head remains clear.
     I raise myself to my full height, six-foot-one, and scan the room. I’ve always loved being tall. I’ve never been one to stoop on the arm of a shorter man, trying to diminish my height and Martin, bless him, short as he is, never wants me to either. He loves me in stilettos, towering, getting a bird’s eye view of the world, and telling him what I can see.
     Which, in this instance, isn’t a lot.
     Tall windows to the left show the same white, unmarked planes I noticed earlier, green astro turf, and black runways. Nothing moves. Planes are neither landing nor taking off, and there are no baggage carts scuttling about.
     I walk over to the window, and cool linoleum replaces scratchy carpeting under my feet. I press my face up against the glass. The cotton wool clouds haven’t moved since I first noticed them, but surely that isn’t possible?
     I will the clouds to move, even slightly, then study them for evidence of the tiniest shape change, but nothing happens, nothing at all.
     I turn towards the crowd at the information desk. Where, I wonder, are the arrival and departure boards? The ground crew behind the desk are in uniform but there are no logos or badges, and their suits are dull navy and old-fashioned. Even their jaunty sailor hats are reminiscent of a 1970’s poster, retro and boxy.
     I need to speak to one of the crew.
     I push my way to the front of the crowd, elbowing people aside, but a strange thing happens: as soon as I reach the counter, an invisible rubber band snaps me back to the end of the line. It happens so fast that I can’t put the brakes on. The fourth time I reach the counter, I grab it with all my might, fingers digging in, but still, I find myself being flung backwards. It doesn’t hurt, it’s more like I am rewound, like a film clip that keeps jumping back.
     After a dozen times, I lose my cool. “What the fuck? Seriously? What the fuck is going on here?” I am shouting but I don’t care. “Is there some goddamned vortex or what? What the fuck?”
     “She’s a new arrival,” someone says, and I spin around.
     “Who said that?” I snarl. “Can someone please explain what’s going on?”
     “Your Introducer will show up eventually,” someone else offers. “You have to wait.”
     “My what?”
     “Better hope you don’t get Agnes,” an elderly woman with a Jamaican accent and a tight yellow perm says. “She’s a crazy girl, that one.”

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About the Author

Originally from South Africa, Lisa de Nikolits has lived in Canada since 2000. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Philosophy and has lived in the U.S.A., Australia and Britain.

Lisa de Nikolits is the award-winning, critically-acclaimed author of seven novels: The Hungry Mirror, West of Wawa, A Glittering Chaos, The Witchdoctor’s Bones, Between the Cracks She Fell, The Nearly Girl and No Fury Like That (Inanna Publications).

Her short fiction has appeared in Postscripts To Darkness, Volume 6; Maudlin House; Lynn Crosbie’s Hood; The Jellyfish Review; PAC’N HEAT (a Ms. Pac-Man noir collection); Mesdames of Mayhem’s crime anthology Thirteen O’Clock; and the Toronto Sisters In Crime’s anthology, The Whole She-Bang 3. Her poetry has been published in CWS/cf.

She lives and works in Toronto.

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