Crapometer

We're Back! (I Hope)

2010-10-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

Hello, to everyone (and by everyone, I mean the 11 people following this blog who will hopefully stop in)...

First off, an apology: I had a lot of things happen at once--marriage, graduation, and a move out-of-state, and I've spent the last year or so (futilely) trying to get a job in the publishing industry. In that time, I let the Crapometer go by the wayside. I apologize especially to Sha'el, whose post got the worst of the SPAM. That being said, I would like to get things started back up. So if you have any pages or stories you'd like to submit, I'd love to post them.

Let the good times roll.

Pages

2010-02-22T14:18:00.001-08:00

Chapter I: Choices

“How much money you got, scrotum-face?”

Held aloft by the Neanderthal bully, Connor’s feet dangled about six inches off the ground, one hand grasping the front of his shirt, another holding him by the collar. The boy was much bigger and obviously much stronger. Connor knew who he was, knew his story…his name, he was certain, was Moe.

The kid was trouble. This, coupled with his menacing size and reputation, gave Connor all the motivation he needed to stay out of his way. Today, however, in a hurry to get to class Connor decided to take a shortcut. Bad move. Apparently this was the ogre’s lair, the place where this Cro-Magnon liked to hang out and terrorize those who dared to set foot on the territory he had staked out. Kind of like dogs do after they piss around the yard to mark their turf.

“Hey, re-turd, I asked you a question. How much money you got on you?”

It was not so much a question as it was an ultimatum: give me all your cash or get your lungs pulled out through your nose.

The boy pulled Connor a bit closer to where they were almost touching noses. Connor could smell a combination of cigarettes and Cheetos on his breath. Or maybe it was Doritos. What difference did it make?

This guy had 5’ O-clock shadow, for Pete’s sake! Is that normal for an 8^th grader? Of course this guy probably belonged in the 10^th or 11^th grade. Connor guessed his brain to be about the size of a T-rex, which was, allegedly, walnut-sized.

Moe’s appearance was enough to frighten any middle-school kid, some high-school kids, and, quite possibly, several adults. He was big, for one. Not fat big, but muscular big. He was tall with broad shoulders. Connor guessed his height at about six feet. Not many middle school kids got to 5-1/2 feet, but then again Moe was not supposed to be in middle school.

Moe had a head of shaggy brown hair which was always an unkempt mess, never brushed or combed. He washed it once, maybe twice per week, but the odor that emanated from his body threw even that generous guestimation into doubt.

Perhaps this was his preferred environment. Moe’s master plan was to keep failing until he was either too old to continue in school or until the administration just passed him to get him out of there (this second option was the more likely of the two scenarios). Here he is the big dog on the porch, towering above the rest of the kids on the yard. Most of the kids in this school hadn’t reached puberty yet, whereas this meathead should be dating college chicks, if he were actually smart enough and attractive enough to get the attention of one.

No one would dare challenge this guy. Make all the clichéd comparisons: David vs. Goliath, the 300 Spartans at the battle of Thermopylae, whatever. The point was anyone going head-to-head with this guy faced odds that were just as daunting, though the outcome was never anything to cheer about. David beat Goliath. The Spartans lasted three days, brave and defiant to the end, but ultimately lost, fighting to the last man. This was the kind of stuff that you drew on to face certain defeat with dignity, honor, and maybe a little hope that you COULD pull off a stunning victory.

With Moe, however, it always ended the same: strong bully approaches (ambushes, actually) tiny, elf-like middle school kid who proceeds to lose control of his bodily functions, then crumples like a Ford Escort getting hit by an 18-wheeler. There are no last stands, no stirring words before defeat, no dignity or honor. The end always resulted in some poor sap getting his ass kicked and his money, if he had any, taken by force.

Residual effects were more damaging: the embarrassment of getting your ass handed to you in front of your classmates, then having to walk around school the rest of the day muddied and bloodied, and the feeling of helplessness that always accompanied these assaults.

“Hey, butt-breath. I’m gonna ask you one…last…time. How much you got?”

By this time a small crowd had gathered. Connor had no illusions about anyone coming to his rescue. People these days didn’t stand up for what was right, and today would be no exception. In the midst of the crowd Connor was alone, on his own. The strong were allowed to indulge themselves at the expense of the weak while the sheep just let it ride, man, as long as they didn’t have to get involved.

Connor was fairly confident that no matter what he did he was going to get the crap kicked out of him. Fine…so be it. Was he scared? Yes. However he wasn’t going to whimper and cry in front of all these people. He wouldn’t give any of them the satisfaction. If they wanted to see blood, they were probably going to get to see blood. The sheep, however, would not see him cower and beg for mercy. Not today. Screw that. Connor was many things, but he wasn’t a sheep.

Connor stared into the eyes of the troglodyte, calm, determined, and steadfast. Scared to death, but steadfast nonetheless. “You want my money? You’re gonna have to take it from me.”

“’Scuze me? I don’t think I heard you right, worm.”

Connor steeled himself. “Well, maybe your head is too far up your ass to have heard me right. Let me put it in terms even someone with your limited brain capacity could understand: you want my money, you’re gonna have to take it from me. I’m not gonna just hand it over. So do whatever you’re gonna do, just get it done.”

That, it seemed, struck a nerve. Moe’s eyes widened, his face turned a couple shades of crimson. Did this little worm just say what he thought he said? Apparently no one had ever challenged him like this, and it took him totally by surprise.

“Someone’s getting a whuppin’!” came a cry from the crowd.

“He told you!” said another.

The bully looked annoyingly at the crowd, but only for a moment. He then turned his attention back to matters at hand.

Connor knew he had scored a verbal hit. He started to think about the Spartans standing in the pass, overwhelming odds against them, how brave they were. Wait…the Spartans all died in the end. Not a good analogy. Stupid Spartans.

Maybe Moe would just drop it and forget the whole thing out of respect for this little turd who was brave enough to challenge his overwhelming superiority. Yeah…right. Brave wasn’t the right word…stupid was a more apt way to put it.

Moe was pissed, that much was evident. He had just been embarrassed in front of a crowd of onlookers. Chum in the water. His hands tightened their grip on Connor’s shirt, and now they really were touching nose to nose. Gross.

Connor’s heart was pounding. He tried to convince himself that the shaking in his legs was from the cold air surrounding him, except that it was the middle of April, and it was 80 degrees.

At any rate, he had said his piece. Now he just had to wait for the response. He didn’t have to wait long.

Pixies!

2010-02-04T04:05:00.000-08:00

(For those of you who don't know, the original Pixie novel can be bought here: http://www.amazon.com/Pixie-Warrior-ebook/dp/B00140IUE8)

Story two, The Gray Robes, is about Pixie justice. It’s set in the first third of the 14^th Century and in England. A fully human pixie granddaughter is burned as a witch by the gray robes. This is a huge mistake. This story introduces two new characters. Timothy is the un-winged son of a Katra Pixie. He’s seven years old in this story. Sha’Jael is a weeks old daughter of Sha’mia, high queen of all pixies and a main character in Pixie Warrior. (Drollerie Press). Sha’Jael insists that Timmy is hers for life.

She and Timothy confront King Edward and his two companions. Edward is seeking his bastard son whom he fears has gone missing. He rides into a complex situation. Timothy misdirects him until the village is ready for them. Pixies are alerted. You need to know that the king’s riders have with them a crazed priest, made insane by a pixie bite that will eventually kill him. He was one of three gray robes that burned a pixie’s human granddaughter as a witch. Bad idea that! Here are bits:

All pixies are a bit impetuous. Pixie babies are even more so, and though my cousins of the House of Sha would dispute it, Sha babies are the most impetuous of all. Sha’Jael fluttered down from the oak where she’d hidden and landed toes first on Tim’s shoulder, and many things happened.

“Demons!” the priest screamed.

“A fairy!” The king was awe-struck and meant no insult. Everyone knows fairies are nasty things, just as all know that pixie and fairy are locked in battle until the last judgment.

Jael hissed at the King, displaying teeth grown long and sharp for the hunt.

The knight with the crossbow loosed the bolt at Timothy. Faster than most eyes can see, Jael was off Timothy’s shoulder and had the bolt in hand.

She hovered in front of the king, rage on her face. Her voice was raised, and from a pixie baby that means it was squeaky. “One of your men lost this. I return it to you. Loose another at my Timmy and I’ll make you all bleed. Timmy is mine. … And I am NO foul and stinking fairy.” She made a rude very rude face, something involving squinting eyes and a protruding tongue. “I am PIXIE, twelfth princess of the House of SHA; and you will not call me fairty!”

The king made a half mocking, half serious bow. “My abject apologies, Princess.”

Jael fluttered close to the king’s face – too close for his companion’s comfort. One urged his horse forward and batted at her. She darted up and back. The riders moved forward. Someone shouted, and a hail of arrows – well aimed arrows – struck the ground in front of them. They reigned to a sudden halt.

… So that’s that bit. I like this little pixie and I like Timothy. So does King Edward. Later we have this:

Sha’jael for all her scolding (and hissing) attached herself to Edward. She danced on his table, sat on his hand or shoulder, flirted shamelessly, and in the process taught him more about pixies and their human relations than any amount of pedanticism could have.

When I walked into the dining hall the men were focused on a conversation between King Edward and Jael and Timothy.

“So, it’s all settled. You are betrothed to young Timothy?”

“I’ve chosen him,” she said with considerable finality.

Timothy rolled his eyes. “She’s a baby,” he said “and silly.”

“Tim is not as certain as you are, Princess.”

“He will be,” she said. “I’ll be fully grown in a year. He’ll see. I’ll be irresistibly pretty. All the Sha are. He’ll be smitten.”

The king slapped his knees and the others laughed. Sha’jael blew a kiss to Tim and wing colored a gorgeous and flirty pink, going quickly to emerald.

Timothy blushed, and the laughter grew. “You’re not even two months old. You’ll change your mind,” Tim was tolerant, even a bit condescending.

“… won’t,” she said.

“You’ll only be as tall as you’ll get by year’s end, but not mature for at least twenty years after.”

“… I’ll be gorgeous.”

Timothy paused. “I can see you will be. …” Her wings turned pink again. “But most pixies don’t mate until after one hundred years at least. … I’ll be old or dead.”

“You have too much pixie blood for that.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, I don’t have to wait. … “

“Hopeless!” Timothy threw up his hands.

“So that’s a ‘yes’ then?” the king asked to laughter.

Tim paused again, looked the pouty Jael up and down and sighed. “That’s a maybe.”

The knight’s laughter turned to a loud roar.

Bits from Story three, Timmy and Jael, follow. In this story Timmy comes of age, at least as far as the 14^th Century is concerned. Love blossoms but prematurely for Jael and Timmy. The pixie elders separate them. Adventures follow. Wicked fairies, the black plague, stuff.

Tentativley the first paragraph is:

“Three things happened in 1347. I turned fourteen, which made me an adult in everyone’s eyes – except those of my aunt and mother. A ship for Genoa landed at the London docks and most everyone in Scotland and England died as a result. The third thing? Well, I’ll tell you about that later.”

Later we meet a new character. She just kinda showed up in this story. I hadn’t planed this one at all:

I ducked to avoid a collision with Katra’ Jayin’s newest daughter. She was ten days old and had only one flying speed: as fast as she could go. She wing-braked, which is a lot like skidding to a halt in mid-air and circled my head twice, landing on my right shoulder.

“Timmy!

“Good morning, Tamalee,” Unfortunately a food now has a similarly spelled name, and it is pronounced exactly the same. Alas, we don’t foresee these things.

She gave me a huge kiss on the cheek; she kissed everyone. “Momma and papa are still sleeping. They were up all night! Did you know that? So it was hard to sleep. It’s hard to sleep when you are up. Did you know that? … Aunty told me to chase a bug.”

I snickered at that. She ignored it.

“I caught five gnats, a green biter and one hopper. I watched Cousin Anna milk the goats. And Katra’Jael is sitting on the old wall where the rock pens are. She isn’t doing anything.”

That bit of news was disturbing. Jael was always doing something, usually involving keeping me within her line of sight.

Without a breath, Tamalee rushed on, “… and we’re going to have a big dance tonight.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “I just told you and I just decided to organize it. Well, b’ye!” She zipped off with that abbreviation of ‘God be with ye,” but made a long loop around Old Oak and returned to hover in front of my face. “You could dance one dance with me. … Even if you’ll dance ALL the others with Jael. Everyone know you belong to Jael.”

Everyone but me. Jael claimed me as her own when newly born, and that had been that. Well settled in her mind, she made sure it was a fixed idea in everyone else’s too. Until the last year or so, she’d had the bad habit of showing hunt teeth and hissing at every female, human or pixie, who sowed the slightest interest in me – interest that wasn’t motherly, that is.

I didn’t mind too much until this past year. I like Jael, though sometimes I like her more than other times. Last spring-day I had porridge and ham with the Widow Whitmore and her daughter Isabella. Isabella is two years past me in age and a Basarith granddaughter. That makes her a very distant cousin. She has glossy black hair and a sweet – and accommodating – disposition.

Jael’s muttering about ‘pulling off her wings if she had any, traveled through the village in half a day. Jael was scolded by everyone but so very unrepentant that Isabella found someone else upon whom to bestow her flirtatious smiles.

Later in this story we have this (rough draft only):

“Jael?” I spoke her name softly, using the same tone I’d learned to use with wounded animals.

Nothing. Not even a sigh.

“Jael,” I repeated. This time it wasn’t a question. I touched her cheek and gently lifted her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she turned her head away.

“What’s wrong, Jael?”

She said nothing. I tried to coax her head toward me, and she shook off my hand.

“Jael?” I spoke more emphatically.

“You’ll marry now … and it wont’ be … it won’t be me. … “ She said it so softly I had trouble hearing it. “You … are the age …” She swept the air with her hand. “All the unwinged find mates. You will marry Isabella, and I’ll die.”

I wanted to ask her if all pixies were so full of nonsense, but I already knew that answer.

“I have no intention of marrying anyone right now. I’ve got the blood of all four houses in me. I may not have wings, but I’ve got the blood – and just enough Pixie nonsense – to keep me alive for a long time. And I’ve got enough pixie sense to know that turning fourteen did not change me from boy to man, even if it does them.”

I copied her sweeping gesture. She didn’t raise her eyes to see it, but it wasn’t wasted; she followed the shadow of it.

“But when you marry … it won’t be me …”

It’s hard to explain just what those plaintive words did to me. I’d spent the last seven years fending off her claims on me. I’d been alternatively flattered and annoyed. I liked her. She was companionable most days, and we’d shared lots of adventures. Her one flaw was insisting that she and I were destined to marry.

I ran my fingers through her untended hair and pulled a bit of plant dross from her wings. “You’re a pitiful mess,” I said. And then I did the most unaccountable thing. I kissed her. I lifted her little chin and kissed her tear salted lips.

Understand that we’d kissed before – but not like this. They were little pecks. She was prone to kissing my cheek and flying off, and I kissed her forehead once. But this was … a kiss.

Pages

2010-01-09T10:26:00.001-08:00

Chapter One

I was staring at the late news with the volume turned down when Danny’s picture flashed on the screen. It took a moment for my brain to catch up to the fact I was seeing his picture on television. I sat up, reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The serious anchorlady was saying that the boy was missing since late that afternoon. He was last seen leaving a pick-up baseball game at Fletcher Middle School, riding his bike in the direction of home.

They showed his vital information on screen. Danny Darwin, twelve years old, five feet tall, ninety pounds, brown hair and blue eyes. Last seen wearing a red Nike tee shirt and blue jeans.

I knew most of this.

I’d just met him that afternoon when I almost ran him over. I was driving home from work, brooding on my soon-to-be ex-wife, when he rode his bike right out in front of my car. I swerved and avoided hitting him, but he dumped his bike and took a little slide.

“You okay?” I asked, getting out of the car as he picked himself up. He was skinny, with limp brown hair that hung down in his face. His red Nike tee shirt was a half size too big. I’d guessed him to be ten or eleven.

“Oh, man, that was close,” the boy moaned as he examined a tear in the knee of his jeans. I squatted down to get a better look at the damage as the surge of adrenalin started to melt away and the sledgehammer in my chest slowed its tempo.

He sat back down on the ground and pulled up his right leg, looking at the wound to his jeans and the blood on his knee. Tears threatened to spill as he turned his pale blue eyes up to mine. He swallowed hard.

“I’m okay,” he said.

I liked him. He was a tough kid. Aside from a skinned knee and a small cut on the palm of his right hand he was fine.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Danny,” he said. “Danny Darwin.”

I gave him my hand and pulled him up. “Okay, Danny, my name’s Mack. I’m sorry about your jeans but I think your bike is alright.” I stood the bike up and looked it over. A baseball mitt dangled from the handlebars.

He smiled and looked at his bike, hardly a scratch, his knee already forgotten as he took the handlebars.

“Thanks, mister.”

“We’re friends now, Danny, and all my friends call me Mack,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Now listen. People driving cars aren’t always paying attention like they should, so you have to be responsible for your own safety. You understand? You’ve got to be the one paying attention.”

“I’m sorry, Mack, I’ll be more careful,” he said. “I promise.”

“You could have really gotten hurt. You’re lucky I have cat-like ninja reflexes,” I said, trying to take the bite out of the scolding.

“I’ll pay better attention, I promise,” he said. His eyes shone with the truth, pure and simple.

An old Monte Carlo was stopped at the intersection a half block away. It turned in our direction and I motioned Danny to the side of the street. It rumbled toward us slowly, leaving a trail of gray smoke in its wake. We let the car pass and then I gave Danny a serious look.

“You gonna watch where you’re going?”

He nodded vigorously. “You bet I am.”

I chucked him on the shoulder and smiled. “Alright, Danny. You take care, now.”

He got on his bike and rode away, looked back over his shoulder at me, smiling and waving as he pedaled down the street. I waved back and hollered for him to watch where he was going.

A graphic with a phone number appeared on the screen and the anchorlady implored the viewers to call with any information that might help locate Danny. I memorized the number as they switched to a story about a double shooting on the Westside.

I went to the kitchen with Bandit, my yellow Labrador, following closely. I dropped some ice cubes into a tumbler, soaked them with Jack Daniels and added a splash of water. I picked up my cell phone on the way to the back door. Bandit led the way out to the deck. I savored the slow burn of the whiskey as the dog sniffed around the perimeter of the yard, hoping to root out an opossum or a coon.

Naturally, I wondered if my encounter with Danny had anything to do with his disappearance. Did he hit his head when he fell and suffer a concussion? Maybe he’s disoriented, lost on his bike somewhere.

Not likely. His head never even hit the ground and he was fine when we parted.

Would he run away? I had no idea, but he seemed like a happy, well-adjusted kid to me. You never know what someone’s home life is like, sometimes even when you know them well, but I didn’t sense any fear in the boy in our brief meeting.

It could be as simple as a miscommunication with his parents. It’s Friday night; maybe he made plans for a sleepover with a school buddy, and maybe his parents forgot about it.

No. That’s a reach, and the cops would have covered that angle by now, anyway.

The simple explanations that resulted in a safe outcome for Danny were few, and would have been investigated first. It’s only been five hours, but if it’s already on the news, the boy didn’t turn up in the most likely places.

This felt different from all the other times I’d seen or read news stories about missing children. I’d met him; he was more than just a picture on TV -- he was a kid in the neighborhood.

I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach; an unpleasant, rolling sensation. I gripped the deck railing and tried to imagine that everything would be fine; Danny would be found unharmed, smiling and riding his bike with his baseball mitt dangling from the handlebars. But a dark wind kept blowing the thought away before I could get my arms around it.

This kind of thing is on the news all the time, but it’s never in your neighborhood. And as long as it doesn’t happen in your neighborhood, you can keep it from being quite so real. It’s a sad story on the news, and sure, those are real people, but not to you, not really.

Now it happens right here, right down the street. The media would soon have the Darwin house staked out, if they didn’t already. Danny’s parents hadn’t been on the news tonight, but it was only a matter of time. Their nightmare would be there for all to see. The neighbors, my neighbors, would voice their horror and pledge their support. The other locals would watch in a mild state of horror from their couches and dinner tables.

I drained my glass and set it on the railing, picked up my cell and dialed the number for the police.

“Jacksonville Beach Police Department, Officer Wallace speaking,” a man’s voice announced.

“Hello, my name is Mack Anderson and I have some information regarding Danny Darwin.”

“Hold one second, sir,” Officer Wallace said.

The air was thick with humidity and the sea breeze seemed to have given up for the night. I felt the familiar sting of a mosquito on my neck. I killed the insect with a quick slap and wiped its bloody remains on the leg of my softball shorts.

A metallic click in my ear and a new voice came on the line. “This is Detective Cahill. Who am I speaking with?”

“My name is Mack Anderson. I have some information on Danny Darwin that might be helpful.”

“What have you got, Mr. Anderson?”

“I saw Danny this afternoon. He was riding his bike and I almost hit him. I got out of my car and talked to him to make sure he was alright. He seemed fine, and we went our separate ways.”

“Where did this happen?”

“I was driving west on Seagate Avenue, on the block between 9^th and 10^th Street. Around five thirty this afternoon.”

“You sure about the time?”

“I’m sure about the approximate time. It was between five thirty and five forty five.” I explained the sequence of events that approximated the time.

Cahill took down my full name, address, and contact numbers. “The detective in charge of this case will want to speak with you. Probably tonight. Are you at home right now, Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“Keep your phone handy. I’ll call you back.”

I went inside, showered and put on khaki shorts and an Allman Brothers concert tee shirt, vintage 1988. Then I mixed another drink and went back outside. The first drink hadn’t done much for me, but as I sat on the deck looking up at the stars in a moonless sky, the second one began to work. I realized that I hadn’t thought about my soon-to-be ex-wife in at least three hours. Had to be a new record.

Cahill called back.

“Mr. Anderson, would it be alright if I stop by in about fifteen minutes? I can save you the trouble of having to come to the station.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes past midnight. I wasn’t going anywhere, and I wasn’t ready to go to bed, so I told him sure, drop on by.

True to his word, fifteen minutes later I heard a car door slam in the driveway. Bandit barked twice and looked at me. I waved him down as I stood and walked inside. He trailed me through the house and I opened the front door just as a man was reaching for the buzzer.

I guessed him to be in his early sixties, with thin gray hair combed across a deeply creased forehead. He was taller than average, with a narrow face and strong jaw line. His eyes were gray and hooded, a spray of crow’s feet fanning out from the corners. The sleeves were rolled up on his white Oxford button-down, the collar was unbuttoned and his blue and red striped tie hung an inch low. He had the air of a hard-working man who was having a hard day.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“That’s me.”

“Detective Cahill,” he said, flipping open a small leather case to display his badge.

We shook hands. He had a wide hand and a solid grip. I invited him in and showed him to the kitchen.

“Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Just some water, please,” he said.

I fetched him a bottled water from the refrigerator and we sat at the kitchen table. He asked me to go through the account of my meeting with Danny, and I gave it to him as I had done earlier on the phone. He checked his notes as I did so, letting me recount the tale without interruption.

“Do you recall anyone else in the vicinity at the time? Any cars, pedestrians walking by, neighbors out in the yard, anything like that?”

I reviewed the encounter in my mind once again, but no images of bystanders emerged.

“Sorry, detective, but I don’t recall anyone at all.”

“Try to keep your mind open to it, maybe something will pop up. That happens, sometimes. The human memory is a quirky mechanism.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, but I didn’t hold out much hope for a forgotten detail.

He flipped his notepad closed and stood up from the table. “We appreciate the information, Mr. Anderson.”

“I know it’s not much, but I thought it might be helpful,” I said, wishing I had more to offer.

“It’s very helpful. It narrows the time frame and helps us track his movements.”

“Am I the last one to see him?” I asked.

“I’m not in charge of the investigation, so I couldn’t tell you that,” he said. He didn’t say if it was because he didn’t have the information, or didn’t have the authority to share it. “Either way, we appreciate your help.”

“If there’s anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to ask,” I said.

“I can’t think of anything, but I would like to use your facilities if that’s alright.”

“No problem. Through the den, down the hallway on the right,” I said. He probably wanted to take a covert look around, but I didn’t care. I figured that was why he wanted to “save me a trip to the station”. He was smooth if somewhat transparent.

When he returned he thanked me for my time and suggested that the detective in charge of the investigation would still want to talk to me. I was sure a thorough background check would be performed, but there were no marks on my record, save a misdemeanor Drunk and Disorderly charge from my college days, the result of an unfortunate incident at a frat party.

I walked him to the driveway. His car was an unmarked gray Chevy Malibu of recent vintage. We shook hands again.

“Good luck, detective. I hope he turns up in good shape.”

Cahill gave a weary nod. “You and me, both.”

Bandit stood next to me in the driveway and we watched Cahill’s taillights as he turned the corner at the end of the street. Maybe it was just my state of mind, but I didn’t get the feeling Cahill was holding out much hope for a safe recovery. Bandit looked up at me. There was doubt in his eyes, too.

Pages!

2009-12-09T07:13:00.000-08:00

I desperately needed to stop and think. I turned my head to judge the distance from me to the monsters chasing. Monsters they were, although I never got a good look at them. The things I did see were just images as they ran through the pale moonlight that filtered down through the high barred windows.

Their eyes were the red of glowing embers and their mouths were full of sharp, pointy teeth. I suppose it was to make it easier to devour me. Their skin was black and slimy. They were part canine, part hell, and the hatred oozing from them was unmistakable.

Of course, we all know what happens when the girl, being chased by the psycho, looks back? Yep, you got it. After sliding what felt like was 40 yards on my knees, I corrected myself. That was a bit of luck on my part and while I knew it was stupid, I looked back again. I also know that while everyone would sit in their safe home and throw popcorn at the screen, I have to believe it is human nature to do so.

The dogs, for lack of a better term, were so much closer. I wanted to stop and cry. How did I get here? Where was I? And then there was my personal favorite, “Why me?”

Before I could look back around, I was bouncing backwards off a wall or what I thought to be a wall. Before I could land on my backside, something grabbed my arms and short sharp scream burst from my lungs. Before I could blink, I was hauled up off the floor, feet still wanting to run, and me, still wanting to obey.

I looked up into the most perfectly black eyes I had ever seen. There are so many shades of black, each one just a hint different. These were utterly black and the way I knew they were I knew they were, was because the skin surrounding them was so white, it faintly luminous.

“Run!” I tried to get out.

Harsh breathing filled the hallway and it took a moment to finally realize it was mine. The other sounds were still there, but different now. Shuffling nails now, no longer running. Panting and snuffling, instead of that damn growling.

I tore my eyes, with some effort, from the black holes in front of me to look back.

A whimper came from one of the things and then it was followed by more. As I watched, the pack as a whole turned and fled. Still suspended, I whipped my head back around to look at… what?

I started to feel the cold of his hands on my overheated skin. I looked back at his eyes and realized he was looking at me in a way I didn’t to much care for. A rumble came from his chest as he groaned and closed those black holes.

I knew I needed to get away from him, that he was as just as dangerous as the dogs that just left or maybe more. Apprehension filled my soul as I watched him.

He tilted his head back and breathed deep through his nose and I knew he was taking a breath of me. When he opened his mouth, I watched with horrified fascination as his incisors grew to enormous length. He took another deep breath, through his mouth this time, and then he lowered his head and opened his eyes.

Where before was just unrelenting black, now was the fiery depths of hell. Crimson pupils burned with lava colored irises. He lifted me higher, closer to those teeth and my silence was broken. Scream after ragged scream erupted from me like water from a burst damn. He laughed softly as he bent his head to my neck. I kicked my feet wildly, looking for something to connect with. He shifted me to hold me with one impossibly strong arm, using his other hand to gently move my head to the side.

“You don’t know what you have done by just being born.” He whispered, lips moving against my throat. “Don’t worry, little Mia. You are only damned”

I screamed my throat raw one last time as I felt his fangs pierce my neck.

Chapter 1

Gasping, panting, and sweating, I sat up on the couch and about fell off of it trying to get a look around. My coordination when I first wake up is always in question, but in this instance, since I didn’t brain myself on the coffee table in my haste, I felt it would be a good night. To my relief, there was no one around with big teeth and creepy eyes and I got my pulse back under control after a moment or two.

I looked at my cell phone and saw it was 7:27 PM. I had a party to go to a 9:00 so I groaned and headed for the kitchen to make coffee.

After putting a pot on to brew, I made my way to the shower down the hall, cursing my best friend Samantha for throwing this party. It was my 24^th birthday so there was no way I could have gotten out of it. I am not anti-social, but I prefer sitting at home with a good book. It’s less hassle and I am always for less hassle.

Stopping short, I went back to the living room to switch on the stereo. I put Godsmack in the CD player and felt a little better. I live for music and TV can go to hell. However, that’s just my opinion and I won’t force it on anyone… much. Turning the volume up, I headed back to the shower.

Standing under the hot water, I contemplated my nightmare. Under normal circumstances I don’t remember my dreams at all but this was the second time in a week I have had this dream and it was identical in every way. Trying to shrug it off, I heard Awake come wafting down the hallway. This was my favorite song on the CD and I started to sing along with it.

Rinsing my hair, I suddenly froze. My nerves were drawn tight, tension thrumming through my body. To the best of my recollection, he never laughed, or chuckled, in that song. He never sounded exactly like the man in my dreams and for damn sure, he never sounded like he was right outside my shower door.

I have those frosted shower doors that curve and they open by sliding from the middle. I don’t like T.V. but I do watch horror movies, not that I liked them any better, and am easily impressionable at the old age of 24. I have seen Janet Leigh killed in a puddle of chocolate syrup enough to know that I didn’t want to go out that way. I really don’t like chocolate that much and so, laugh if you must, I installed a latch on the inside of my shower. I was standing there with soap in my hair, afraid to open my eyes even the tiniest bit. I couldn’t remember if I locked it or not. I was having a difficult time trying to get enough oxygen.

“This is stupid.” I muttered, hopefully to myself. “That was a dream based on one to many of those damn movies that you watch so much. Go ahead and crack an eye lid and just look, you damn coward. No shadowy figure is going to be standing there.”

I did as I was told. No one was going to tell me I was a bad soldier, not following orders. I was right. No shadow. No one was waiting with a really sharp knife and a bottle of Hershey chocolate. Immediately I felt foolish. What I may lack in coordination I more than make up for in imagination. I finished rinsing my hair.

. If I timed this right, I would have 10 minutes to shave my legs and get out before I froze to death. I grabbed the shaving gel, lathered up and began my favorite part of showering. One day I was going to win the lottery, not that we had one here, and have laser hair removal performed on my legs. I have always fantasized about that. The big check was in my hand and the reporter asking me two things.

Number one- Are you going to keep working?

Are you nuts?

Number two- What is your first purchase going to be?

Laser hair removal.

That’s my big dream.

Lost in my daydreaming, I was almost done when I realized I was singing along with Awake again. Realizing that at that point in shaving wasn’t good for me. Ankles are a bitch at the best of times. Add to that my impressive grace and throw in a dash of ‘What the Hell?’ and you have the recipe for blood. Well, more precisely, my blood. There was a good inch and a half of skin missing from my ankle.

“Son of a …” was as far as I got before another freaky moment. From the corner of my eye I thought I saw movement. There was the shadow. It was on the other side of the room, the side that I couldn’t see before. It was the killer. My heart froze in my throat.

I couldn’t tell if he had the required bottle or not, damn frosted glass. Before I could get my head around fully to see and scream, there was a very low laugh and then nothing. The shadow stood there unmoving.

I decided quickly that I should keep my mouth shut. The frost worked for me as well, after all, and he didn’t know that I had seen him.

Trying desperately to think of something to use as a weapon, I remembered the shampoo. It burns my eyes, so it should burn his. But what if he is wearing a mask? Wait dummy, if he covered his eyes he couldn’t see. I looked at the razor in my hand. I turned it so that the handle stuck out between my fingers. That could hurt. What if I combined them both? Awesome! At least I had something to hurt him with. Police would have DNA evidence to try to find my murderer with if nothing else.

Speaking of hurt, my ankle stung like it was on fire. I hate water in a fresh cut. Speaking of water, I was freezing my ass off standing there. I looked down and was amazed at the amount of blood in the shower floor.

“Get your head together, lady, and get moving” I said under my breath. Looking at the shadow, I realized it hadn’t moved an inch.

“Ok, deep breath” I inhaled and looked at the latch. It was locked. Would it make a click when I lifted it? Would it give me away? With a razor in one hand and Paul Mitchell’s’ best in the other, I looked at it.

Damn it, just open it. Adrenaline was flooding my body and I knew I had to move. Using the top of the bottle to flip it so that maybe he wouldn’t see my hand to well through the frost, it was silent. Well, till it swung back and hit the door. But that tiny bit of noise was covered by the noise of the now ice cold water.

Grabbing the handle with my pinky and to hell with him noticing my hand, I slid the door open, closed my eyes on the way out and squeezed the shampoo bottle at the cloaked figure blocking the door. Then I made a jab with the razor handle.

I cracked open an eye when no one attacked me. I stood there wide eyed and felt really, really stupid. I could only thank God that there was no one there to witness that total embarrassing act. My bathrobe was now dripping with shampoo as I realized I had hung it there last night.

I started laughing and then laughed harder when I felt the hysteria rising up in me. Legs shaking, I lowered the lid of the toilet and sat there for about five minutes while trying to get a grip on myself. That dream had me really screwed up, apparently.

Reaching in the medicine cabinet I got out the band aids and antibiotic cream and proceeded to clean my leg up. After wrapping up in a towel while cursing my shampooed bathrobe, I walked to my bedroom to find something to wear. Knowing Sam as I did it was not going to be a jeans and t-shirt party. Even though she threw this party for me, I was grumbling as I yanked my clothes out of the closet.

A simple short A-line dress in dark green velvet was about the only thing I had to wear. It was kind of cute. Fit tight across the breasts and then flaring out to just above the knee. I paired it with some black tights and tall black boots that covered my calves. Looking in my mirror, I suppose it did ok. I am not a fashion freak.

I went back to the bathroom for some light cosmetic work and I was as ready as I was going to be. I looked in the mirror for a moment longer. Something didn’t feel right, although I couldn’t explain it. It was as if the night was waiting for something, holding its breath, in a way. Then I thought about the bath robe and turned away.

Flipping the light out, I stomped down the hall. I really hate being the center of attention. No, hate isn’t a strong enough word. Detest? Despise? Anyway, you get the point.

I returned to the living room and took Godsmack out of the player. When I turned it over to examine it, sure enough, there was a scratch on it. Ok, that explains that. The laugh was my doing.

Coffee spoke to me in the way that lovers do and I couldn’t resist the temptation. Sitting at the bar I took a deep breath of the favored drink. I skimp on most things, shopping wise, but my coffee was my escape. I looked at the clock and even my coffee couldn’t wash away my unease about the upcoming event. I had six minutes to go before I had to leave.

Carrying my cup, I went and chose some Beethoven to put in the player. Fur Elise filled the room and I started to sway with it. Closing my eyes, I let the magical piano take me away. There is nothing more beautiful than the piano in my opinion. It was a marvel of construction with all of the keys and all of the strings. However, they were nothing without the one piece of wood at the bottom to bring it all together, the sound board.

Abruptly, I saw the face in my dream again. I heard his voice and felt his lips. My eyes snapped open. My relaxed state of mind was gone. Damn it.

I put my cup in the sink, grabbed my purse, keys, and hit the road. After I securely locked up, that is. I am paranoid, but I have my reasons.

Getting into my Kia, I checked my backseat. Nope, no bad guy there. I let the windows down and the warm Bama air ran through my hair. I had a back up of Beethoven and I tried to recapture my happy place. I was five minutes from Sam’s when my phone rang.

“Hey” I said. I thought it was her because I was 2 minutes late. She hates that, but it was my party. I got nothing from the caller.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Hey, at least you could talk dirty and make both of us happy” This came after another moment of silence.

“What? Nothing? Call back when you got something to say.” I pulled the phone away and thought I heard laughing. I flipped it closed and then opened it again to check my last call number. Unknown. Great.

Query!

2009-12-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Agent,

Sansuig is his planet’s Customers Enforcer for all blood coming from Earth. Unfortunately for him, the elite vampires of his home planet aren’t willing to settle for legal blood: They’ve created a market for the sommeliers, smugglers who sneak contraband blood from Earth back home to sell at exorbitant rates. His department just doesn’t have the funding to keep up with these flashy sommeliers, but that doesn’t stop his boss from demanding a high-profile arrest--or else. Now he’s got to enlist the help of Henry, a twelve-year-old human with irresistible blood, to catch one of the most notorious smugglers the planet’s ever seen. Not to mention contend with a tabloid journalist he doesn’t even know is on his tail…

OUTLAW SOMMELIER VAMPIRES FROM OUTER SPACE tells the stories of Sansuig, a vampire alien looking to save his job, Henry, a human boy pulled into the mission, and Gasun, a tabloid writer trying to make his fortune on an actual scoop. It is complete at 30,000 words.

(Personal paragraph)

Thank you for your time and consideration.

I look forward to hearing from you,

etc.

Pages!

2009-09-06T08:38:00.000-07:00

The Year 264

As the edge of dawn began the daily struggle to beat back the deep
darkness of night, the intruder felt comfortable enough to stand after
crawling unseen and unheard inch by inch for hours.  A nightbird sang
out a few nervous notes and the call was echoed in the far distance.  
Audvakr never heard the approach, he never heard the slow stealthy soft
footfalls, Adosinda; his wife, merely stirred and rolled over.   The
tip of the razor sharp knife held by the intruder hesitated only for
a moment and then pricked the pulsing artery in Audvakr’s neck. 
Instantly awake, his battle honed instincts commanded him to freeze
and in that moment, his life was saved.  Audvakr struggled mightily
in the battle of emotions; one of rage to leap and destroy the enemy
who had invaded his yurt and the other to remain utterly still and
accept his fate. 

The knife blade was laid gently on Audvakr’s neck as the intruder
leaned in close.  It was the smell that gave him away.  Audvakrs’ eyes
flashed with anger as his older brother Ricimar, leaned in and whispered,
“We will have no more argument, you and your clan have one season to
leave.  This time, next year, I will kill you”    And with little more
noise than a gentle zephyr, he was gone.

In the long minutes that followed, Audvakr subdued his rage and
replaced it with a chilling calm as he considered his options;
challenging Ricimar for supremacy was foolhardy and most likely
suicidal as most of the clans considered Ricimar as the Ric or king
already, so leaving these lands with the clan became the only option. 
The question of where to go plagued Audvakr’s mind.  He had always
been good at remaining calm in battle in order to see the larger
strategic positions.  Now he must be calm and brutally honest with
himself so that the options could be properly considered.

To the East, lay the lands of the deadly Alans and Saspirii, who fought
great battles while mounted on fast and nimble, but small horses.   The
daunting prospect of carving out a homeland against the Alans, who never
took hostages and relished the idea of tying prisoners to a tree and
setting it alight, did not sit well.  Audvakr thought of his childhood
friend Tucovar’s fierce border fight several years ago that left him with
a useless left leg and dependent on the women for his every need.

To the North, lay the Vandal people and utter destruction.  The Vandals
and Goths of late had tolerated each other as long as there were long
distances between them, but as the number of people had grown, so had
the accounts of attacks and a few burned settlements.  Of all of the
places that Audvakr and the clan could go, this was the most dangerous.

South, across the great sea, called the Euxine Sea by the Romans, lived
the dark skinned and fierce Phrygians who were ruled but never subdued by
the Romans.  This too could end in disaster, if he and his clan survived
the sea voyage and tried to establish a settlement with unknown farming
and hunting resources on the far shore, and a counter-attack occurred
while his back was to the sea, disaster was assured.   The Romans might
spare him and then enslave him, but the Phrygians would not.

Seemingly surrounded on all sides by enemies, Audvakr mulled the Romans
over in his mind, well organized and well equipped, but reports from the
spies, told of many new Emperor’s in a short amount of time.  This must
mean that there was a leadership problem in the Empire. 
“I wonder how that affects the loyalty of the Legions?” mused Audvakr. 
Shaking his head to force himself back into considering the options,
caused his wife to stir, roll over and drape her arm over his chest.

To the West, over mountains and another sea, lay the great Empire of the
Romans with their highly disciplined, fast moving and extremely well
armed legions.  Audvakr closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax into
the barely awake stage of consciousness where the Gods could speak to him
of their intent.  

Audvakr dreamed that he was trapped in a bear fighting ring armed only
with a small spear.  His opponent, instead of a bear was a Roman Centurion
fully armed in heavy armor.  Anytime Audvakr tried to make for the side of
the ring, the Centurion was there to block him.  What had been cheering of
the crowds for him had now become jeers and catcalls.  There was only one
way out; directly attack the Centurion.  Gathering his courage, he charged
the Centurion.  As he approached, the armor no longer seemed quite so new,
the sword no longer quite so bright, shining and sharp.  The closer he got
to the Centurion, the older and more aged it appeared.  When Audvakr was
finally within combat distance, the mighty Centurion was merely a collection
of twigs and branches that fell into dust at the first thrust of his spear. 
Beyond lay the exit in the ring that he had been searching for.  Finally
relaxing, he felt the tenseness leave him and then, then the sweet embrace
of nothingness.  With his wife’s warm body offering solace against the early
morning chill, Audvakr, struggled to remember the dream, something about
being trapped, fighting a Centurion, and fighting an old Roman. 

The Gods tired of playing with him, and stuck his mind as lightning would
detonate an old gnarled tree.  Audvakr snapped wide awake and understood
that the Romans were politically weak and a quick thrust would deliver the
Empire into his hands.  Smiling at his good fortune, Audvakr considered the
problem of his people.  The Gothic people had always honored those chieftains
that split off and established their own kingdoms.  Trapped between the Euxine
Sea and foreigners who desired their land, the Goths were perpetually at war
with each other to expand each clans land.  Audvakr realized that his problem
lay not with the ability to fight; instead it lay with the lack of land.  
The Romans, although larger in force were weaker in substance.  His father’s
advice rang in his ears “Avoid the strong and attack the weak” he had always
said when in his cups.  Audvakr needed to split off and become a chieftain,
Rome was politically weak; why not become the ruler over Rome?

It was a vision as clear to Audvakr as anything he had ever experienced;
invade and conquer the Roman Empire.  The Goths had the men to overcome the
Legions natural advantage in movement.  If one group were to secretly travel
west across the land using the Romans own roads and another large group led by
Ricimar to the south by sea…  The Romans would naturally respond to the large
seaborne attack with Legions from Rome led by one of many Emperors eager to
prove himself to the people of the Empire.  With the Legions racing south to
fight Ricimar to the South, Ricimar would be desparate for help but Audvakr
would instead swoop across the land and seize Rome.   With the capital occupied
by Audvakr, the Romans would become disheartened and would surely submit.  And
if Ricimar should happen to fall…  Audvakr smiled and the vision of Audvakr
living amongst the golden palaces of the Romans unburdened by Ricimar lingered
long enough for him to slip into the most restful sleep he had ever known.

Devine and the Snakes [short story]

2009-07-20T15:53:00.001-07:00

Everyone of a certain age claims to remember where they were when they heard of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, or the terror attacks on 11^th September 2001. Similarly, people tend to remember the circumstances when they first saw a snake. I am referring of course to real snakes in the wild, not one of those rodent-stuffed, for-display-only relatives that you might see wallowing in captivity at a local zoo.

For many people it is a startling experience of childhood, but, coming from Ireland, James Devine was different. He had never stumbled across a plump adder sunbathing on a warm path on the Surrey Downs, nor pulled the stump of a dead old tree in winter to reveal a writhing nest of them angrily awoken from their hibernation. No, the wise Saint Patrick had banished them from the Emerald Isle many centuries before Devine's time. The irony was that more than one type of snake frequented the bush in early 1980's Hong Kong.

Having failed to make any mark in London, Devine answered an advertisement in the Sunday Telegraph and fetched up as an inspector in the Royal Hong Kong Police. It sounded grand to the ignorant, but in those days Europeans were recruited direct at the rank of inspector, like baby lieutenants in the Army, and were the cannon fodder thrown straight into the deep end with formations of Chinese Sergeants and Constables. Some swam, but to the amusement of the locals a lot sank. No one thought Devine much of a swimmer.

It was one of those late tropical spring days when the sun was hot and strong and the rains had not yet arrived. Devine - overweight and sluggish - was feeling rough after a night of excess on the local beer and had suffered a throbbing head and very queasy stomach all morning. At a heavy six foot he towered over his Chinese colleagues. By the time he had turned up late for work that day his platoon were already sitting in their transport waiting for him. The Platoon Sergeant, Cheung, failed to hide a disapproving frown, and tapped a beautifully carved hardwood walking stick - which Devine coveted - impatiently on the tarmac. Some of the younger PCs sniggered amongst themselves. Devine, since his first arrival in the Colony, had inspired curiosity and amusement rather than respect and obedience in his men.

They pulled out of the dusty station yard in Sai Kung, far out in the eastern New Territories, and bumped off towards High Island Reservoir, and beyond. A couple of resentful-looking Chow dogs skulked off to find other shelter from the rising sun.

Devine sat in the seat of honour in the front of their short-wheelbase Platoon Commander's Landrover next to the driver, Cheung sat behind the driver so that Devine could see him easily and the bored-looking platoon orderly - a thin, acne-encrusted youth with good English and a groundlessly high opinion of himself - sat directly behind his commander. The New Territories were the rapidly diminishing area of country between Kowloon and the Chinese border.

Cheung, dapper and studious-looking with spectacles balanced on his nose, patiently briefed Devine, who was still huffing and puffing loudly after having had to rush his change into his straining khaki summer uniform, webbing belt and canvas-legged jungle boots. A stain of sweat was already spreading out across his clean uniform tunic.

A friend of Devine's in Marine Police - Belgian Bob, the most boring man in Hong Kong - had built up an unnerving collection of photos which appealed to the broad streak of depravity in Devine. There was a selection of Chinese hookers dressed as schoolgirls which he dwelled upon, and another section with a grisly parade of corpses collected from the waters around Hong Kong in varying stages of decomposition which he did not.

Devine had become inspired and had borrowed Belgian's camera in the hope of taking a few souvenirs of his own. He rested the Nikon on his lap and sneered at the thought of Belgian ever getting it back.

'There have been reports of Snakeheads operating in the Tai Long Wan area last night.' Snakeheads were the Triad lads who organised the smuggling of the groups of would-be immigrants on their journey into Hong Kong. In the metaphor, the bodies of the snakes were the long wriggling lines of these unfortunate migrants being led along by the Snakeheads. As with all illegal activity in Hong Kong where there was a decent profit, the hand of the Triads was ever close. They were indifferent to the personal circumstances and tragedies that drove the individual illegal immigrants to part with their entire families' life savings and risk death, or worse, on the gamble of a journey from China or Vietnam to the golden streets of Hong Kong. To them it was just business.

The self-pitying Devine listened with little patience 'These bloody people, why do they insist in coming here?' he wondered aloud.

Cheung sighed as he studied the back of Devine's fat head, the bristle of sandy hair glistened with sweat. He had been in the police for more than twenty years and had known many of these foreigners like Devine who arrived in his country with little care for them and less experience as policemen. They lived a life of great luxury compared to him and his kind, and the majority of them spent their time avoiding work, boozing and whoring. Why do they insist on coming here, he wondered silently. 'Marine police ambushed a group of them on a speedboat and there was some shooting. They got the Snakehead but some of the illegals got clear. We must sweep the area to find them.'

Devine leant his arm casually on the window sill of the Landrover but recoiled sharply at the searing heat of it. Even at that time of the day you could've fried an egg on the outside of his vehicle. The orderly and the driver exchanged a snigger and received a stern frown from Cheung for their trouble. The driver's smiling eyes returned to the road and the orderly returned to the racing form with a contemptuous sniff.

Devine curled into a kind of sitting foetal position and grunted with disdain. 'Bloody nuisance, why can't we have a nice quiet day for a change?' He let go a sneaky little fart, sighed with relief that he could still do that with his stomach in the state it was, and thanked his luck that it was too hot to keep the Landrover's windows closed. He took a soggy, stained handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

Cheung wondered idly what it would have been like if the Chinese empire had maintained an old trading post on the Atlantic coast of Europe. What if he had been offered the chance of going there in a privileged capacity, what would he have behaved like and what would the locals have thought of him? He fingered the image of the ugly little god Chung-Kuei, protector of travellers, which was carved on his beloved stick. One day he would travel to see where these people came from and try to understand them.

Less than an hour later Devine was sitting by a rocky stream bed in the middle of the bush. He squeezed a little trickle of sweat out of his handkerchief onto the rocks at his feet and pondered his lot. It was still before midday, but the queasiness in his stomach had developed into loud gurglings and sharp cramps as he had struggled to control his rebellious innards. He had called the whole convoy to a screeching emergency halt, blocking a narrow twisting road that followed the coast on one side and had thick vegetation on the other. He commandeered the morning paper from his sulking orderly - who hadn't quite finished with the racing page - and, hanging the camera over his shoulder by its strap, he slipped off alone down a little stream bed looking for a spot of privacy.

Devine pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted up at the sun. He was presently serving out a posting as a platoon officer at the Police Tactical Unit. It was supposed to be an elite paramilitary formation within the Force; the truth was that divisional commanders also found it a perfect dumping ground for any officer that had become a liability in some way. In Devine's case that would be for his old-fashioned incompetence.

His present duties were to march round the New Territories hunting any illegal immigrants that had wriggled past the slashing knives of the Ghurkhas up on the border, or had slipped around the Marine police patrols and onto the outlying beaches and bays of the thousands of islands that made up Hong Kong. The day before he had been at an operations meeting with the officers at the Ghurkha Lines near Fanling and had partaken of one of their fine goat curries and a number of local beers afterwards. The fact that he had patronisingly insulted one of the native Ghurkha officers, a highly decorated Subedar, by asking him to run along to the kitchen and re-fill his bowl of curry like a good chap, had not registered with him - he therefore hadn't any idea of what had been introduced to his bowl surreptitiously en-route, and its direct relationship to his current delicate condition.

'What a day for a hunt,' Devine thought. The tall grass and tropical vegetation either side of the rocks were higher than him and there was little more than a trickle of water in the stream at this time of year.

He pulled himself up using the nicely carved walking stick that he had bullied away from Cheung and stepped carefully from rock to rock around a stand of bamboo. 'If he thinks he's getting you back he's got another thing coming.' Once Devine borrowed something the owner rarely saw it again.

He stopped on a large boulder, about ten feet across, and laid the walking stick down on it. He placed the newspaper down and rested the camera on it. After one more look to check that he was definitely alone he was suddenly gripped by another, much fiercer, stomach cramp. Oblivious to the presence of anything in his agony - a troop of elephants could have stormed up the stream bed at that moment - he quickly undid his webbing belt and whipped down his trousers. His revolver handle in its webbing holster clattered on the rock.

He squatted down hanging onto his knees like a coolie, his white, spotty bottom suspended inches above the boulder. The walking stick slid off the side of the boulder out of sight, dislodging the camera as it went and causing it to disappear too. The gentle breeze took a hold of the newspaper and it fluttered off across the rocks and into the stream page by page. He could control himself no longer. His teeth clenched and eyes squinting, a dark fluid mass issued from him and across the hot surface of the rock - oh sweet relief.

Had the noise started before he had squatted down? He couldn't say, but his bowels instinctively snapped shut. He could have been in no more vulnerable a position when he heard a loud whooshing noise, a long hollow hiss. It meant nothing to him until his misty eyes re-focussed.

He found himself looking, at a range of about four foot or so, straight into the black expressionless eyes of a coiled and hooded cobra. The huge, dreaded Hamadryad or King Cobra, hunter of snakes. It was bathed in sunlight and for a moment it was as if he was looking at it through a Vaseline covered lens. Instinctively he knew that any movement on his part could provoke the beast into an attack. Its erect head swayed from side to side gently - Devine feared it was sizing up the angle and distance of attack.

The smooth cream belly and the olive-green back of the beast glistened. He had been sunning himself on a rock, relaxing and waiting for a spot of food to amble by when this great lump of a human turned up. Not even the most ambitious cobra could look upon Devine as a potential meal - he couldn't even take a bite off him. Devine had heard it said that snakes can smell fear; well if that was the case then this one should have been gagging at the stench of Devine now.

Fat black flies had started to gather around him. Seconds ambled and minutes strolled by with mocking indolence. The sound of crickets and beetles sawing away in the vegetation niggled at him. The sweat tickled across his brow, down the bridge of his nose and collected in a big drip on the end. He daren't even flick it off.

The snake's awful eyes drilled into him without a trace of mercy, it was examining his very soul. Its head sat up on its supple spine, as taught as a finely strung bow.

Then it seemed to relax. It was still erected and hooded, but there was an indefinable sense that it had reached some conclusion - it had run its rule over Devine and concluded that this snivelling wretch was no threat. Was it a swish of the body, a flick of the tail or a glint in the eye? Perhaps it was amused, in a primitive reptilian sort of way.

How long does it take for venom to work? Devine was all alone and didn't know if he would have time to find help before it did. He had heard it could kill a human in just a few minutes, an elephant in a couple of hours. He had no idea what sort of venom it was though. Would it be excruciatingly painful or would it paralyse his nervous system and suffocate him to death? 'Oh God deliver me from this and I'll be a changed man', he whimpered.

The sun glared down bright, a heat haze rippled around him and his legs quivered with the effort of squatting. His inflexible hamstrings and groin screamed with pain. He didn't even notice the dreadful stench from his outpourings below him. Flies were now swarming about him and the filth below, they droned in his face and marched across his lips, taunting him.

There was a strange mystical feel to the light. Devine wondered if he was beginning to hallucinate, he thought that he could see a face in the wall of green behind the snake. First he noticed the eyes, a pair of brown almond shaped oriental eyes. Then he could make out a round face, a nose and a grinning mouth, a child's face. Was he going mad?

He blinked to eject the sweat that was now gathering on his eyelids and the face had gone. He scanned the bush behind the snake leaf by lush green leaf but there was only vegetation - no, he must have been mistaken. With nothing else to occupy him he was peering at the area again when another face appeared, an adult face this time, and quite distinctly different. An oval-shaped woman's face examining him with interest and then distaste as the eyes took in the mess drying out below him. He couldn't call out to his men for help - through the dense bush he couldn't even hear the impatient low throbbing of their diesel engines ticking over.

Stealthily the woman emerged through the curtain of bush. This Chinese woman represented an unexpected glimmer of hope for him, a possibility of rescue from his dreadful situation, but at what cost.

Her eyes looked past him towards the stream bed and the edge of the dense bush on the opposite side. She had that look of the single-minded woman, her own children being her primary concern at this moment, then a flicker of concern for him and the obvious inner turmoil as she weighed the implications of interceding on his behalf against continuing her escape with her little family. His eyes appealed to her, he daren't make a sound as he willed her desperately to do something, anything to chase this thing away.

She knew what he wanted, but she hesitated. A crease of her brow, a twitch beneath her left eye, a nibble at her lower lip as she battled with her own priorities. She hadn't got this far without being able to make a decision. Her pretty brow unknotted itself. Devine thought how he would probably have crashed off through the jungle laughing to himself had their positions been reversed.

She was behind the snake, and to begin with it did not detect her. She reached stealthily down behind the big boulder and picked up the beautifully carved walking stick. He could have kissed her. As she did that the cobra became aware of her and span around to face her, hissing loudly again. This was a new and entirely different grade of threat to it.

Taking a pace forward she raised the stick above her head like an oriental swordsman. There was a pause as the snake and woman regarded each other, a confrontation across species, then she brought it down with a loud crack on the stone beside the snake. It flicked one more defiant hiss at the woman, gave Devine what appeared to be disturbingly like a final sneer and slithered unhurriedly off across the rocks. The deadly yellow bands along its back rippling across the undulating ground before it disappeared into the far curtain of jungle. It seemed to go on forever, he hadn't realised how huge the thing was. The woman had chosen not to harm it, and the snake knew this. Was it Devine's sun-baked imagination or was that last hiss corrupted by mirth?

For the first time he noticed that the woman had a small sleeping child strapped to her back.

Devine, nearly in tears, could control himself no longer and, with a loud farting noise, he relieved himself again over the rock. A child broke cover behind the woman - it was the owner of the first face he had seen - and it smirked at Devine's predicament. They were tidily dressed and obviously healthy, but dirty from their travelling.

She glanced down at her feet and spotted something down there. Handing the walking stick to the child she picked up the camera and examined it carefully.

Devine was so cramped and in pain that he could not move, let alone stop her. He was trying to move himself, to get his seized-up, locked and pain filled limbs moving as he thought to himself of what a superbly ironic moment it would be when he had this bitch arrested and thrown out of Hong Kong - she who had looked at him with such presumptuous pity.

Perhaps she had seen something in his face, a betrayal of his treacherous nature. She steadied the camera in front of her and peered through the sight. The implications of what the general availability of such a picture of him would mean instantly horrified him. He desperately tried to claw himself off his haunches like some demented crab, his eyes filling with tears at the pain and frustration like a spoilt child throwing a tantrum.

She held the shutter-release button down for a moment and the camera clicked several times. Having barely struggled a foot towards her he stopped and hung his head, defeated at the thought of her being caught and those pictures getting into the wrong hands. This was a story he didn't want widely known.

Jamming the camera into a shoulder bag the woman signalled wearily for the child to follow her, gave Devine one more pitying look, shook her head in disdain and stepped with great athleticism and dignity across the rocky bed. She disappeared into the foliage on the far side of the creek, not far from where the snake had entered. The child, as it was bid, skipped after her twirling the stick and Devine was once more alone. The quiet was broken only by the raucous clatter of insects, his only company the foul smell in the air around him where the flies rapidly multiplied.

He had forgotten all about the walking stick. The diminutive god of travellers would be looking after her little family now.

How was he going to explain the loss of the stick and the camera?

Pages!

2009-07-08T15:52:00.001-07:00

Chapter One

Banging rattled the door. As Azarel sat up, tendrils of dreams swirled and escaped. The door shook again, banishing all thought of recapturing them.

"Anyone home?"

Azarel hopped down from her bed atop the cold brick fireplace. She reached the window in a few steps and pulled aside the rough curtains. A handful or so of men in Lasaral uniform were outside, mounted on rangifers that dug with antlers in the fallen leaves and dusting of snow, searching for lichen.

"In the name of the Qins, open this door!"

Azarel walked to the shelf with the pots and dishes. Barely visible behind them, she found the knife with its wooden handle painted red, the one laced with poison, and turned back to the door.

She took one step. Before she could take another, the bar on the door broke in half. The resounding crack made her jump. The door swung in, revealing a young man with thick dark brows and several-day stubble. Behind him was an older man, his small eyes drowning under puffy lids and bags. A scar bisected his face.

The young man's gaze landed on Azarel. His eyes widened slightly, as though surprised to see her. He tipped the leather visor of his fur hat.

Azarel tightened her grip on the knife she held behind her back.

"Are you Azarel?"

"I am." Her words sounded strange to her ears, and her throat felt raw, as though from long disuse.

"You are? But...," he trailed off. Then, smiling brightly, "Can we come in?"

"You already did."

The young man glanced at the door and then back at her, and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I thought no one was home when you didn't answer."

"I was sleeping. What is it you want?"

The young man walked into her hut and the older man followed.

"Wait for me outside," the young man said, turning around. He fingered the belt at his waist that kept the warmth in.

"Are you sure?" The other's voice was low and raspy.

"Go, I'm sure."

The older man inclined his head and glanced at Azarel.

The daylight dimmed for a moment. Dread overwhelmed her, making it hard to think. His gaze carried through the space between them and brought with it his malevolence. Not anger and not hatred. Nothing so passionate. Simply a quiet, calculating malice.

Azarel shuddered.

He broke their gaze and was gone out the door. The room brightened again, the pressure lifted from her chest, and she could breathe easier.

The young man pushed his sat on her one rough bench and glanced up at her. From him, she sensed only excitement and urgency. Her own blood picked up speed in response.

"You can't imagine how happy I am to find you. I wasn't even sure we'd be able to," he said, his words coming out as puffs of white in the cold room.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Of course. Why I'm here. Again, I apologize for the door. I'm Shaunn Diamonestesh, and I was sent here by Qin Yacoba, Co-Ruler of Lasaral, Lead Co-Ruler of Frosland, to summon you to Lasaral to cure her sister, Qin Daxia."

"I haven't heard of a Yacoba or Daxia," Azarel said.

"Really? They've been Qins for some time, after the death of their father and then their older brother."

"I suppose I don't get a lot of news here." Her fingers ached and she relaxed her grip around the knife. She sensed no malice from him and his relaxed pose suggested that he intended no harm.

"Why did you come to find me? You have doctors and priests closer by," she said.

"We've tried everything. Truthfully... you are our last resort. Don't take offense. It's simply that we weren't sure we would be able to find you. If you do come and succeed, there will be significant compensation, to make it worth your while." He smiled the kind of smile used to getting its way. Too confident, considering she had yet to give her answer.

The memory of the scarred man's ill will was still fresh. He would kill her, given the chance. Shaunn seemed oblivious to it, and thus would be poor protection.

And too, she wanted to go back to sleep. She wanted to close her eyes and dream again. She didn't remember what those dreams were, but she woke up content. She knew the forgotten dreams were more pleasant than this cold lonely hut.

Images flitted through her mind. Old people, young people, children, men, women, all coming to her with that same desperation, begging for her help. Azarel had helped them all, not for the compensation they offered. It pleased her to see the ripples of her actions spreading out, changing the world.

Herbs lined her shelves in stone and glass and clay containers. Dried branches of them hung on her walls. She did help those in need. If she left, those who came to help wouldn't find her.

"I can't come with you."

Shaunn's smile faltered but he forced it back in place. "If you don't come, Daxia will likely die. Her father and brother already died of the same ailment, and nothing had aided them. And we've found nothing to aid her, either."

Despite his smile, she sensed desperation underneath it, growing now in the face of her resistance.

"Bring her here, and I will see what I can do."

Shaunn stood. The tension in him overrode all other emotions.

"Do you jest? We can't bring her here. She's too ill." He sounded outraged. His cheeks were red under the stubble, as though she slapped him, and he gritted his teeth. "And she's the Qin!"

Azarel held his gaze. His entitlement strengthened her resolve to go nowhere with him. "I am not coming with you. You can bring her here, that's the best I can do for you."

"You leave me no choice but to arrest you. You are coming with us, and you will help Daxia, like it or no."

Azarel shook her head, and held the knife before her. "I am not going anywhere with you."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said and took a step toward her. His hand hovered on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"And I don't want to hurt you," she said, standing still, knife ready. She meant it. He was young and impulsive, and he only acted this way because he wanted to help the ill Qin. But she didn't pity him enough to come with him.

At that moment, the silence was rent by the shouting of men and the lower tones of finxes. Azarel and Shaunn both glanced at the door. The panic, fear, and pain carried over the distance.

She ran outside, Shaunn following. The soldiers had their swords out, warding off the finxes that outnumbered them. The finxes flew above the humans, each several heads longer than a man, covered in wiry black fur, long clubbed tails writhing through the air. Their black leathery wings cast great shadows below them.

One of the men screamed and toppled from his rangifer.

The swords sliced through the air, reflecting the sunlight sharply. One caught a finx and the animal howled and rose higher. The men were banding together, slowly moving toward the trees. Once they were in the trees, it would be safer, for the finxes' wingspan was too great to allow them entrance. Then, they would put their bows to good use and the finxes would be at a disadvantage.

"Stop!" Azarel shouted.

The fighting continued. Inhaling deeply, Azarel raised her voice. She willed that word to cover the distance between her and the finxes, to reach them, to have her be understood.

"Stop!"

The word carried, spread. Its volume, and the force behind it surprised her. All in the clearing - man and animal - turned to her.

The finxes hovered just above reach, their wings beating the air with enough force to lift her hair. She concentrated on pushing the awareness of the men's fear out of her mind, and focused on an image of light, a sense of calm. She nurtured it and it spread within her, pushing its way through her limbs and out. She willed it to reach the finxes.

The finxes hungered to rip the men apart and watch the red flow, taste its salty goodness, let its heat warm their stomachs. Their fury at the men overrode that hunger. The finxes would keep her safe from these humans who came with threats and anger.

"Go now, all is well," she whispered. She willed the calm to convince them. Their tails cease their agitated writhing and the largest of the of the finxes called out hoarsely, a sound akin to speech. Then they all lifted into the air and flew west, toward the mountains there, where they made their lairs.

The men all stared at her. When she opened herself back up to it, their fear hit her at once.

A moan from the man on the ground broke through the silence. His hood had fallen back, revealing bright orange curls. He clutched at his shoulder and blood seeped through his fingers, staining the transparent layer of snow that covered the ground.

"Get him inside," Azarel said to Shaunn, who had come up beside her.

She went too, inhaling deeply, holding her breath, savoring the freshness of the forest on the brink of winter. The sky was grey and bright; tense, as though gathering itself before unleashing a torrent of snow.

Her chest grew tight and she thought of the dream that she no longer remembered. It had been a warm dream. Here, all was loneliness and solitude.

She tried to remember how long she had slept, but failed. The last thing she could remember was the music of ice melting from millions of frozen branches, heralding spring. There was no doubt that now it was fall. She didn't know what that meant and it was too unpleasant to think about. She hoped that after she patched orange-hair up, they would leave. Then, she could let oblivion reclaim her, taking the questions, and worries, and loneliness away.

The men entered the hut and Azarel stepped in behind them. She could feel the scarred man's malevolence fill the tiny space, pushing at her.

She turned to him and his gaze was already on her, small eyes narrowed.

"It's a bit...cold in here," Shaunn said, his eyes lingering on the fireplace.

The fire had gone out at least half a day ago, for the grey bricks held no hint of warmth in them.

Azarel shrugged. She had no explanation for how she had slept here with no fire. She didn't know herself. She wasn't cold, despite only wearing a shirt and pants, and she left it at that.

"Start the fire," she said.

Shaunn took out a lighter and turned to the stack of wood by the fireplace.

Azarel turned back to the scarred man, who still watched her. He never took his eyes off her and she felt his gaze even with her back to him. He seemed calm and composed, but she felt much more simmering there, where no one else could see it.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"Gerth."

"And your friend, here?"

"Thom."

"If I cut the coat off him, do you have anything else for him to wear?" She had nothing she could offer him in the way of replacement clothes, and a man without a coat was a dead man.

"No."

"Then you better help him out of it, and his shirt too. Carefully." She slid the poisoned knife into her belt.

Azarel took the herbs needed, and a stone bowl and pestle. After the water had boiled, she washed the wound, and applied the poultice of dried herbs, tying the tourniquet tightly. Thom gritted his teeth throughout, her work punctuated with his escaped grunts.

Azarel rested her hand top the bandage and closed her eyes. The wound was hot. Her fingers began to tingle. She allowed the feeling to grow and it spread, the tingling becoming painful, the pain reaching into her, reverberating through her very bones. Azarel forced herself to breathe evenly and willed her body to absorb it all.

She heard Thom exhale and opened her eyes.

"Better?" Azarel asked.

"The pain is gone," he said. His words suggested gratitude, but she sensed his wariness that built as she worked.

"It's time for you to leave now," she said, turning to Shaunn. Thom's fear mingled with Gerth's simmering malice. It was too much for the small space, difficult to shut out. She wanted them gone, as soon as possible.

"You better pack, we're not leaving without you." Again, Shaunn's right arm hovered on the hilt of his sword. She thought it was more of a reflex; she knew he had no intention of harming her.

"I already gave my answer."

Shaunn gritted his teeth and she felt the anger in him rouse quickly. "Are you going to call those monsters down again?"

"They're not monsters. They're highly intelligent animals. And I didn't call them down, they were here of their own accord. And finally, to answer your question, no. I don't think they'll be back."

"Good. You're still under arrest."

His words grated on her, and she felt her hands clench into fists. She forced herself to relax them. "How do you plan to make me help you, once we're there?"

"Hopefully by the time we get there, you'll come to your senses. And if not, I'm sure Yacoba will think of something. My job is to get you there." When Azarel didn't respond, he added, "I didn't want to have to do it this way, but I'm not leaving here without you."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and squared his legs. His lips were pursed in determination. Azarel could see he meant it. He would tie her up and drag her out, if he had to.

"Will you gather what herbs you think you might need?" He asked.

“What are her symptoms?” Azarel resigned herself to going. If she pushed the issue, she risked having the finxes come back. She didn't want anyone else hurt.

Shaunn smiled, clearly relieved. “She is weak, sleeping a lot, lately especially. Similar to her father and brother, who both died of it.”

“How many others are affected?”

“No one else has been.”

"And you don't think that's strange?"

Shaunn shrugged. "I don't know." He held Azarel's gaze for a few moments. "If you're implying that they were poisoned -"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm simply asking questions to get more information. So far, you've told me very little."

"I didn't mean to offend you. I was just trying to say that we did consider this possibility and all of the Qins' food was tasted, and other precautions taken. Besides, the Quins are well-liked."

Azarel shrugged in response. That didn't mean very much.

"So...you will pack your things, whatever you need?" Shaunn asked.

"It seems I have little choice."

"Thank you," Shaunn said. "We will wait outside."

“Wait,” she said. The urgency to have at least some part of the puzzle resolved overtook her.

Shaunn paused and turned back.

"What's today's date?"

“Day She, first week of Meresht,” he replied.

First week of the month of fall. Where had spring and summer gone?

Azarel nodded and they left.

The small rectangle of space that was the entirety of her hut seemed to expand, again, once Gerth was gone.

When she'd packed, she glanced about the room. In part, she hoped she would heal the Qin and return soon. But a small part of her hoped she'd find a reason not to return. She'd been awakened from the comfort of dreaming oblivion to an-ever present loneliness and confusion. She didn't remember how long she had slept or or her past, and that frightened her. Perhaps out there, somewhere, there was something that could spark her memory.

She left, something in her sensing that she might never see her home again.

Query

2009-06-22T13:45:00.001-07:00

Whitney Davis finds herself in a place she never though existed; a place where she is loved, free of conditions. A place where she can change her destiny... even if she started out life as a poor Cinderella.

Whitney has left her neglectful mother and small southern town for new adventures as a freshman at Penn State. She is nervous and anxious all at the same time, but is determined to be happy, even if it means becoming a "yankee".

A few weeks into the first semester, it seems as though Whitney is changing her life for the better, she's gotten a job at the local deli and has made loyal friends on campus. ... But one evening right before Thanksgiving Break changed everything.
As her mangled body lies on the cold floor of a frat room, she looks around and wonders why the attack has stopped.
Before she looses consciousness, she is ever so gently cradled in the arms of her best friend Wes. He takes her to his home to care for her and show her the true meaning of family.

Over the next two months, Whitney finds herself falling in love with her knight, her forever friend, Wes. At last, she can let go of her broken childhood... Maybe she can change her fate.... Only time will tell.

My novel is 80,000 words and is complete.

Pages!

2009-06-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1: Transformation

Clara woke with a star t from a nightmare. All she remembered was the feeling of falling further and further down through the abyss, a putrid wind whipping at her face, the sound of her own screams as she plummeted into the unknown hell. For some reason she was cold all over and surrounded by darkness thick enough to cut with a knife. Had the power gone out? She couldn’t even see the paltry glow of her tiny nightlight. Then she realized that she was not in her bed as her hand brushed across cold hard stone. The basement? Had she been sleepwalking? She sat up and immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shocked through her skull like a lightning bolt. Clara gasped as she clutched at her head, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. Her fingers came in contact with something warm and half sticky. She pulled the hand away quickly, then slowly brought it to her lips and tasted it. Blood! She drew back in horror.
What the hell happened? She wondered as she felt for the source of the wound. She found it on the left side of her head, right at the temple. Clara couldn’t remember anything that might have caused the injury. The last thing she knew was that she was in her bed and didn’t remember anything after that. Did she start sleepwalking and then fall down the basement steps? It was the only plausible conclusion she could think of. Clara stood up, slowly, painfully, when she heard a metallic clinking. She froze, eyes widened to try to see through the darkness, body poised for flight. Was there someone else there?

“Mom?” she called softly, nervously, “Mom, is that you? Jazz?” No one answered, and Clara broke out into a cold sweat. “Is anyone there? Hello?” she called, louder this time. Still, there was only silence. Clara took a hesitant step forward and this time she realized that the clinking sound was coming from under her. She dropped down and felt around at her feet. Her shaking, searching fingers touched something cold. She grasped it and ran her fingers across it. It was a chain, she realized as she followed it up to a shackle latched around her ankle and then back down to an iron ring fixed to the ground.

Clara panicked. Where the hell was she? What was going on? Who had brought her here and why? Fear caused her thoughts to race around her head like startled cockroaches, clouding all reason, sending her into frenzy. She screamed for help as she wrenched at the heavy iron chain. No reply came, and even as she continued to shriek, she began to sob as well. She shouted for what felt like hours until she was too hoarse to even whisper, and she pulled at the chain far past the point of exhaustion, even until her palms blistered and bled. Clara finally collapsed, panting, to the ground. Her eyes and chest hurt from crying, her throat burned from screaming, the muscles in her arms cried for rest and the skin of her hands was peeled and raw. Her body, unable to handle any more, simply shut down and Clara passed out on the floor.

Fifteen floors above Clara‘s prison, Ciaran sat at the window in his room. He stared out gravely as he absently twisted the button on the cuff of his jacket. Below in the courtyard, ladies in brightly colored gowns mulled about with their slightly more conservatively dressed husbands, shielded from the bright summer sun by their wide-brimmed hats decorated with feathers and real flowers kept fresh by small water-filled vials tucked underneath bright silken ribbons. Their wings glimmered in the sun in tones of gold or red or caramel brown or raven black. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a festival, with the hum of excitement reaching all the way up to Ciaran’s window.

Ciaran knew that this was all about him and the event that was to come tonight, but he was considerably less cheerful than everyone else about it. He had only been out of his room once today, but was immediately bombarded with handshakes and praise by everyone he crossed. He shuddered. Monsters. Of course his discovery would give the Royal family an invaluable advantage in the war against the rebels, and he was dedicated to his duty to the King, but they still shouldn’t have been so eager about it. It was the most despicable act that he would commit and the entire court was treating him like he was a hero. Ciaran had made his terrible discovery mostly by accident, and had begged the King not to use it. But the rebels were gaining ground and the Royal family losing it, so the King insisted on going through with the experiments.

Tonight would be the first attempt at the creation of a Nightborn, a fusing of a demonic presence with an innocent mortal soul. And the event was to be attended by all the most important members of the Royal court, including the King. Even the Queen herself would make an appearance. The eternal mother of the nation, hers was the single most exalted name in the land. She was her people’s ruler and goddess, immortal and omnipotent. For her to personally attend the event was a testament to its importance to the Royal family. Ciaran could not deny the Queen’s wishes, nor could he question them. At this point, if he tried to back out of what was viewed as his duty, Ciaran would be considered a traitor to the nation and would be banished or worse. In a way, he felt as much a prisoner as that human girl down in the dungeon.

I shouldn’t even have been allowed in the presence of the court. Ciaran thought to himself as he stood up and stretched his wings, black as his hair, but the kind of raven black in which you could see nearly any color if the light hit it right. I couldn’t ever have hoped to even be a kitchen boy in the royal household. If it weren’t for Valkir and the King, I would have been killed like the murderous gutter wretch that I am. Ciaran knew that he owed the King and Diriage Valkir everything he had. He even owed the sneering, whispering court his gratitude. He was the bastard son of a prostitute, lower than low, the scum that even the peasants had walked over like a cockroach, and they, as they were quick to remind him, were so graciously allowing him into their presence. Not into their world, still not worthy of their full respect, but at least he was worth enough for them to look at him when they spoke.

Of course, now it was an entirely different tune. Every time he went out nowadays, Ciaran was bombarded with nobles, drowned in nobles, nobles swarmed about him like flies to carrion. Whether it was the overly curious Sir Marrenz barraging Ciaran with questions on “the process” as he called it, or Sir Liren the Warmonger hitting him roughly on the back and laughing boisterously, or the beautiful but notoriously sly Lady Nymphenia fawning over him like a new pet, all the while making subtle, snide comments about his “heritage”, Ciaran didn’t know, but something made him dislike these new, friendlier nobles even more than their old snobbish selves. They seemed greasier, more treacherous now, like ice in the spring. Serene on the surface, but if you took one false move, they would sink you in a heartbeat.

He looked at the clock ticking peacefully on the wall. “Scirztch”, he swore roughly to himself in Lirdish, a habit he picked up from his old “master”, a greasy Lirdish immigrant named Varg, and had never quite dropped. It was already past the 16th hyr. The ceremony was supposed to start at the 20th. Why is the day going so quickly? The sun is probably already setting, the moon getting ready to rise. Why can’t it just stop? Ciaran thought desperately. He felt submerged guilt rise up as the seconds ticked placidly away on the clock. It was eating at him more and more until he was practically driven mad by it. He paced around his room like a caged tiger. Yes, it was his duty to serve the Royal Family and his country, but was it right if it meant harming an innocent? I have to find the King! He thought as he burst out of his room. He didn’t know what else to do. He had to talk to the King, tell him about the girl. To try one last time to get him to call this whole thing off. To not make him go through with this. Please. Please make him listen to me. Ciaran prayed to some nondescript god as he rushed through the marble corridors. There was a tight knot in his stomach, a sickly urgency, as if he knew he wouldn’t make it in time, but he was trying anyways. He went straight to the King’s chambers, hoping against hope that he would be there. Truthfully, Ciaran knew that the King was probably off somewhere, chatting up the court ladies or drinking in celebration of the victory he was sure would come. But he asked the guard at the door anyways. There was always a guard at the door, whether the King was in there or not, and he was never very friendly. He looked Ciaran up and down and said curtly,

“Ee’s not to be disturbed.”

“So he is in there.”

The guard looked down on Ciaran like he was an idiot. “’Is Highness is resting before tha ceremony tonight. ’E’s ordered that I allow no one to disturb him.” he said in the thick accent typical of the city of Pertrast.

“Please.” Ciaran begged, “I must see him immediately. It’s an urgent matter pertaining to tonight’s ceremonies.”

The guard snorted, “Well, then it’s not ‘Is Highness that you need to see ‘tall. You’ll wanna be talkin’ to Lady Rubia, she’s tha one coordinatin’ everything.”

“Look. I’m the one performing the ceremony. I don’t need to speak to Lady Rubia; I need to talk to the King. It’s an urgent matter and could concern the safety of all the spectators! Now please let me through!”

Ciaran knew how to get a person’s attention, even if it was through a lie. The ceremony would be completely safe for the spectators. The only ones at risk were Ciaran himself and the girl. The guard, however, swallowed the lie whole, turning wide -eyed and pale faced. His wings fluttered nervously as he stepped aside to let Ciaran through.

The King was resting, wine glass in hand, on a huge cushioned divan, smiling contentedly. He looked up as Ciaran entered, cocked his head briefly in curiosity, and then beckoned him coolly with a pudgy white finger.

“Come in, come in, Ciaran.” he said cheerfully as Ciaran bowed ceremoniously. And then, “What brings you around here, Little Gutter Boy?” He asked warmly, almost like a father. Ciaran remembered blushing fiercely when the King had first called him that. Now, it was a term of endearment, rather than an insult, and it almost made Ciaran want to chuckle. But he was too absorbed in the graveness of his own situation to let the King’s warm, infectious personality get to him. Despite the war with the rebels, the King hadn’t changed a bit. He was a sort of enigma to the members of the court. Outwardly, he appeared to be little more than a cheerful oaf. He drank and sang and flirted with the young ladies. He ate like a beast and his voice seemed boisterous enough to lift the entire castle off the ground and levitate it there like a balloon. But underneath, there was a sharp intelligence, a cold methodic logic, and keen observation. He could spot treachery a mile away, smell fear on the skin of the guilty. He was a man to be both respected and feared.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “Have you brought me good news?”

It was a friendly enough comment, but the way the King said it gave Ciaran chills. Just a little too cheerful. It was like he was saying; it had better be good news. Ciaran wanted to just nod, smile, say everything was running smoothly and then get out of there as fast as he could. But he was frozen. All he could think about was the girl. He had seen her face as they brought her through the portal, limp in the arms of a guard, blood trickling from her head where they struck her. She was young, not much younger than Ciaran himself, but enough to make him feel like he had stolen a baby from the crib. Her expression seemed so calm, like she had just fallen asleep in the soldier’s arms. There was a bruise already forming above her left eye.

Suddenly, it came out in a torrent. Ciaran hadn’t meant it to, but it just slipped.

“Please. Please, Your Highness, you must call off the ceremony. Call off ALL the experiments. Please, I’m begging you, don’t go through with this!”

Ciaran was leaning forward, arms outstretched, his face a few dangerous inches away from the King. The King raised an eyebrow and gave Ciaran a look of simple curiosity that was worse than any contemptuous sneer or angry snarl.

“Why?”

Ciaran stood back, feeling nauseas. The King simply saw no reason for stopping. There wasn’t a scrap of guilt in his eyes or twinge in his voice. He couldn’t possibly understand the wrenching shame and guilt that gnawed at Ciaran like a pack of starved dogs. To him, the girl was nothing, not even a living creature. Just a tool. Just a lump of iron that would be forged into a fine sword. He had made sure that the quality of the iron was good, but didn’t give it a thought beyond that. After all, the blacksmith was to be praised for the making of a fine sword, not the lump of iron.

Ciaran straightened and calmed himself. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.” he said flatly, “Merely a passing madness. Tonight’s ceremonies will carry on as planned.” He bowed low and turned to leave.

“Wait, Ciaran, come here.” said the King. It sounded strange. More of a request than an order. Ciaran turned around and walked back towards the King.

“Sit with me.” he said, patting the cushion beside him. Ciaran obeyed. The King clicked his fingers and out of the darkness, a servant came, bearing another chalice. The King poured deep red wine into it and gave it to Ciaran. He put the cup to his lips and sipped delicately at it. It was rich, spicy and warm. He sighed involuntarily as it slipped down his throat.

“Good, isn’t it?” the King asked. Ciaran nodded wordlessly. It was good. Like wrapping yourself in furs on a cold winter day.

“Don’t think that I don’t realize how…”he paused as if searching for a more delicate word than he had in mind, “…personal these experiments are to you. I know it’s something that you feel regret for discovering. Something that you wished could have stayed locked away and eventually lost to time.” the King sighed; it was something he had never heard from His Highness before. It sounded weary, exhausted even, and weak. “But the fact of the matter is that we need it right now. The rebels are gaining surprising ground and other countries look at us and are thinking that we can’t even keep our own nation under control. They are seeing us as weakened, as an easy target, if you will. I fear that if we don’t quiet the uprising now, there will be an attempt at takeover of Altsterra. We are an old country, and small. We just don’t have the manpower to take on two enemies at once. This is why we must stop at nothing to end this war before it begins. This is why we need the Nightborn.”

Ciaran stood, set the chalice on a nearby table, and bowed deeply. “The ceremonies will continue as scheduled.” he said blankly, like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. And then he left.

It was already halfway through the 18th hyr. Ciaran walked to through a maze of grand corridors and tiny service hallways. He had taken this way at least a hundred times before and could navigate it blindfolded. Eventually, he came out onto a tiny courtyard. It was always empty, an old kitchen garden that was abandoned after they rebuilt the kitchens in a new area of the palace. Scraggly, overgrown herbs had taken over everything and filled the air with a spicy aroma. Thrushes nested in the nooks and crannies of surrounding walls, their nests green from the dried up herb stalks they used. There was a cracked stone bench held up by what was once probably a stone lion but now had been washed away to a featureless monster by the rain. Ciaran sat on it, drawing his knees up to his chest. He knew what the King had said was true. As long as the rebel movement continued to exist, the whole country was vulnerable to attack. And if attacked, Altsterra would probably fall.

But still something ate at Ciaran, picking at him, making him feel guilty. Was it the girl? He hoped she was still asleep, even though she would have to be awake for the ceremony anyway, but at least she could be at peace until then. It was a childish, selfish wish, Ciaran knew, and he felt a pang of self-hatred for it. Or was it the rebels? “Commoners” fighting for a voice in government and the handful of nobles that sided with them. Personally, Ciaran could side with their plight. They often had to live with unfair laws because they had no power to protest them. But Ciaran couldn’t agree with their methods. They were trying to start a revolution, trying to overthrow the old government, the Royal Family, the Queen and put a new regime in its place. Like many, he didn’t see any good that could come out of such turmoil and destruction. But the rebels were Alsterra’s own people, too. Would Ciaran see them brutally murdered by the weapon he created? See their families broken, their children orphaned? He was sure that the rebels wouldn’t stand a chance against the Nightborn. In addition to being able to control a demon, the demon’s powers would be amplified through the fusing of it and a mortal soul. The Nightborn would be an unstoppable weapon, an Enabli Maascir, a Tool of Destruction.

Ciaran jerked his head up as he heard footsteps. Had someone followed him here? Captain Diriage Valkir emerged from the shadows. His hulking shoulders barely fit through the tiny doorway and he had to duck his head. Li Higante, the Giant, he was called by many.

“I thought I might find you here.” he said calmly, brushing the cobwebs from his jacket. He had a voice like approaching thunder, low and rumbling. Like most Alsterrans, he was fair skinned, but numerous battles in the hot sun and the fact that he just preferred to be outside had permanently turned his skin a nutty brown. He was extremely young for a Captain of the Royal Guard, maybe only six or seven years older than Ciaran, who was nineteen, but he had proven himself time and time again in battle.

He was covered in battle scars, a feature that somehow made him even more popular with the court ladies. Valkir was the closest thing Ciaran had to a friend, though he acted more like a big brother sometimes.

Updates

2009-06-15T13:38:00.000-07:00

In the next few days, I'm going to try to clear out the blog archives, and delete all but the most recent ten posts or so. If you'd like your submission to stay up, please E-mail me to let me know.

We also need some more fodder, so please feel free to send in anything you're polishing up!

Query!

2009-06-06T04:04:00.001-07:00

Dear Crapometer,

Mye thinks that she might be crazy when she starts hearing a cynical, man-crazed voice inside her head. She’s totally convinced she’s fallen off the wagon when the voice starts spouting nonsensical drivel about other Realms of Existence and the beings that inhabit them; wraith-like monsters called Shades. Every Elesran knows that magic is nothing more than myth; something that has fizzled away from the face of the Viridan hundreds of years ago, if it ever did exist in the first place. But when Mye finds herself debating the finer points of good and evil over a handful of olives with a Dark Shade named Melou, she’s forced to reconsider her views. Melou has been searching for a Carrier, a mortal whose body can be used by a Shade as a conduit to convert magical energy into the Mortal Realm from the Shadow Realm. He intends to use this Carrier to do what he does best: terrorize the puny mortals of the Viridan until every last one of them drops dead. Mye knows her luck can’t get any better when Melou tells her she’s just the Carrier he’s looking for.

But thanks to Melou, Mye finds out that she has about as much magical talent as a piece of driftwood; she is a magical cripple of sorts. This fact should have gotten her off the hook from future endeavors into ‘magical’ territory, but it turns out that the cynical voice she’s been hearing in her mind is actually a Shade named Toad, the ‘lesser of two evils’, who has vowed to stop Melou at all costs. Conveniently enough, Toad has also managed to blackmail an unwilling Mye into helping her find the true Carrier before Melou does, thereby saving the Viridan from complete desolation and destruction.

Realm of Shadows is a women’s fantasy novel of just over 100 000 words. It stands out from other books currently offered in the women’s fantasy genre because it has a female lead that doesn’t just kick butt ‘for a girl’, but who kicks butt in general. It is my first novel.

Thanks in advance for considering this novel.

Query!

2009-05-07T18:14:00.001-07:00

Dear Agent,

They say love hurts, but at least it doesn’t leave marks.

Love is the last thing bookish high school senior Evie Cowen wants when she finds herself thirteen centuries in the past; she needs to find her way home or else wind up stuck in a time without showers or sneakers. But she can’t stop thinking about Jude Dulac, the handsome young demon tracker who rescued her. Not only is he technically one hundred-thirty years older than her, because of a special gift he was born with, Jude cannot even touch Evie without burning her skin.

Since Jude, already suspicious of strangers, knows she’s hiding something, he doesn’t trust his new houseguest; especially when she grows closer to his mother, Colette. Can Evie overcome his suspicions, and the alarm that only increases with the disappearance of first one local serving girl and then another? Will Jude tell his mother the secret about Evie’s skin? And will Evie ever get home?

When a strange girl comes to her window claiming to be an ancestor, Evie thinks she’s found her purpose, the reason she was pulled out of her own time. And eventually she does discover who killed those girls, discovering a lot about herself in the process. After a few months in the nineteenth century, Evie isn’t even sure if she wants to go home. But she longs for her mother, for her own time. Little things about the past, like eight layers of clothing in New Orleans’ muggy summer, make her miss it desperately. Though she doesn’t want to leave Jude, she knows they can never be together. That doesn’t make leaving any easier when the time comes.

The modern life to which Evie returns is not the same boring one she left. Not only has she been missing for three months, she’s contracted malaria. How to explain that to her mother, who is a wreck? And that’s just the first few hours.

Whether Evie wants it or not, the past is about to catch up with her.

Evangeline, a young adult fantasy novel, is complete at 100,000 words. A partial or the full manuscript can be provided at your request.

Thank you in advance for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Author

Pages!

2009-03-25T12:58:00.000-07:00

Chapter

Belle was impatient, and full of anxiety. As each second ticked by she felt more and more of herself give up. She was careful, but was she careful enough? She waited until Malakai was out of sight to venture out. She made her way to the castle and now found a good spot between two empty market stalls. The spot lended her view of the main exit from the castle, but hid her from the castle’s view.

After finding the perfect spot it was now a waiting game. She was seen by plenty of people, all of them perusing the markets for something to buy, but none of them paid her more attention than a glance in her direction and then, after a puzzled expression, they went on about their own business. She cared not about them; her only worry was the men that would be exiting the castle.

As she waited she kept checking to make sure her dagger was still with her, her hand frequently finding its way back to the weapons grip. She had stolen the dagger from Malakai; he kept lots of weapon stashed away at her bar and she of course knew all their locations. What attracted her to the dagger was its length, longer than most daggers but still short enough to easily be kept hidden on her person.

The waiting was now too much for her and every thought she had tried to convince her to go home. “This is crazy,” she told herself. “You would never be able to do such a thing. If you are caught you will be kil—“

Just then the doors to the castle opened. Her mind went silent as she watched the many noble men leak out. Near the front was Kennath, who seemed to be rushing. Belle did not think, she just acted. Her legs carried her out of her hiding spot and toward Kennath. She was terrified of herself, and of him, but for some reason could not stop herself.

As she approached him he turned away from her, toward a different path through the city. She followed him as inconspicuously as she could manage. The path he took looked barren, and much too narrow for any market stalls to be placed there. It was also still visible form the castle. Belle moved toward the path when a serpian almost bumped her on his way to it. Her heart felt as though it missed a beat and now was frantically trying to catch back up.

“Kennath,” She heard the serpian call as he slithered up to the brute. Belle ducked into one of the market stalls and started acting like a customer. She did not realize that it was a smithy, and it looked odd for a woman to be perusing the inventory of weapons and armor. But, she stayed, and as she looked at the weapons she kept Kennath in the corner of her eye.

After a moment of conversation they left each other, the serpian back toward the castle and kennath back down the narrow alleyway. As soon as Nerus was out of sight Belle inched toward the alley. She waited at the edge of the turn and peered out to watch Kennath. Since the alley was empty, if she followed him in the alley they would be the only two there, and he would most likely see her following him. So she waited and watched the path he took.

The alleyway came to a fork. Kennath went left, instead of back toward the markets. As soon as he turned out of sight Belle entered the alley and quickly made her way to the end. Her heart was racing and she felt herself breathing harder. As she approached the fork in the alley, she tried to calm her breathing and remain silent but couldn’t. She peered down the path at Kennath and saw him conintue on his route. He was almost a hundred yars ahead of her when she decided to sneak after him. This was the risky part, if he looked back he might see her, and even though she crept along the shadows that the buildings provided, it was the middle of the day, and those shadows would not hide all of her.

After carefully following his many turns through the back-alleys, he reached a deadend. The alley ended at a pile of rubble. Kennath looked all around when he reached the dead end; now he was deciding to be careful about being seen. Luckily, Belle had backed off when he reached the dead end and remained out of his sight.

She then realized that Kennath would turn around and come right past her on his way out of the dead end. This was her chance, coming out he would either see her against the wall, or he would walk past without noticing her, either way, she was going to act. She gripped her dagger and felt her whole body shaking with anticipation. She waited for him, but he did not come. What was taking so long, he should have come back this way by now. She dared not peer around the edge down the alley and risk being seen.

As the minutes passed her impatience wore on her, and she could no longer wait, it was a dead end, no where for Kennath to go but back the way he came, and yet still h had not come. She decided to risk taking a look. She slowly began to slide her head around the corner until her eye could get a view of him.

He was gone, the alley was empty. She walked out into the alley and made her way to the mound of rubble piled against the wall of the dead end. She could not figure it out, where had he gone?

She began to climb atop the rubble and see if perhaps he had taken to the rooftops. She reached the top of the pile and found she was unable to leap high enough to get to the top of any of the adjacent roofs. She had lost him. She felt somewhat relieved. She shook her head, how had she even made it this far. Her nerves relaxed a bit.

She began climbing back down the rocks. As she made her way down she slipped as a rock moved when she stepped on it and fell to the ground hard on her back. The fall shot a jolt of pain through her body. She regained her compusre and looked at the rock she slipped on. It had rolled slightly left, revealing a dark crevasse. As she took a closer look, she realized the rock was covering an entrance to a cave.

Belle struggled to move aside the large boulder but eventually moved it enough to allow her to slide past. She hesitated, unsure of herself, of her cause, but ultimately knew she could not not go through with this. Her hand unconsciously went to her blade again and felt its hilt, reassuring her of its prescence. She could not stop herself, she wanted vengeance and she would have it. She entered the cave.

As Belle shimmied down the long narrow tunnel she could not stop herself from shaking. She knew there was no hiding, if Kennath was at the end of this tunnel he would kill her and she might never be found. But she pressed on, as if it was not her decision to.

The tunnel let her out into a larger, open area. It still held the basic features of a cave; dark, damp, cool, and rocky, unrefined boundaries. There were torches that kept the place lit, but still plenty of areas where light was lost.

She began to slowly look around for Kennath. She found only one pathway out of the area so if he was not here, he must have taken it. Before taking it she took one final scan of the area and that is when she saw him, staring right at her.

Success!

2009-02-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Elektra,

I just wanted to say thank you to all at the COM for comments on my query which I submitted some time ago. In the last week I got confirmation of representation of the agent at the top of my list. That's partly down to you folks, so cheers. I wouldn't have made it out of the slush pile without you. :-)

[...]

Anyway, more power to the COM. You guys rock!

Thanks

Mike

Discussion!

2009-02-16T09:58:00.000-08:00

Someone sent me what I thought was a pretty interesting question, so I thought I'd post it and let everyone discuss their opinion on the matter.

Dear Elektra:

I've read that, due to the current economic climate, publishing houses are cutting costs and corners. As an aspiring writer, I am concerned that the trickle-down affect will reach agents, thus causing them to be even more selective and less inclined to accept submissions. I have my manuscript prepared and revised, and my query letter has been perfected: Should I proceed? Would it be smarter to wait until the economy takes a turn for the better and the publishing world feels less choked for cash? Or should writers go ahead and submit their stuff? What do you suggest??

Thank you!

My reply:

I've wondered about this myself. Note that I have no credentials at all; however, I have done a lot of research for a few years on publishing (I hope to work in the industry), and my verdict is: querying can't hurt. Waiting for the economy to turn around could take years, and that's a long time to wait to query. Keep in mind that, even if you query now and don't receive any bites, there's nothing that says you can't query again with a new letter a year or two down the line. Also--and again, this is just my unprofessional opinion--I suspect that a number of people may use the time they have now that they've been laid off to write the book they've always been planning to write, which means that in a year or two, agents may be even more inundated than they are now. But keep in mind that this is just the opinion of an (unpublished) writer, and should by no means be taken as anything more.

At your service,
Elektra

So what are your thoughts?

Pages!

2009-02-08T16:54:00.001-08:00

Sophie Kavanagh snaked her way through the maze of hallways at the Wiltern Theatre, nervously fingering the forged backstage pass around her neck. The “credentials” she wore had been crafted by a friend who once worked at the Wiltern and had a vague memory of what they should look like. He had convinced her that no one ever did more than glance at the pass and that all she had to do was look like she belonged.

That part was taken care of – she had no doubt about whether she belonged there. Her single-minded purpose was to engineer a reunion with her ex-boyfriend, the lead singer of that evening’s featured band. Sure, it had been three years since they had last seen each other. And yes, it had been a high school romance during her year in Ireland as a foreign exchange student. But the lack of communication over the years had done nothing to make her think that Gavin McManus wouldn’t be thrilled to see her again.

Rogue’s performance that night had showcased their debut album and demonstrated why they were gathering such a dedicated following among the American college scene. Not only were they a great live band, but their brand of soulful rock and themes of social angst, partying, and love lost were a natural fit for this generation. The fact that the lead singer was wildly charismatic and the guitar player was drop-dead gorgeous didn’t hurt either.

It was pure luck that Sophie rounded a corner to find a large bouncer in front of a door marked “Talent.” Though his back was to her, the bouncer’s hulking shoulders and the flap of skin where his bald head and neck met was an altogether imposing sight.

But she quickly realized that the bouncer was captivated by a gaggle of girls who were promising to flash their breasts in return for him allowing them into the band’s dressing room. As they teasingly began a countdown, Sophie slipped behind him and through the unlocked door.

Sophie took a moment to take in the activity of the room. It was crowded with a mix of the roadies and techs that make the nightly show function, obvious groupies, and the self-consciously hip that make up the Hollywood scene – most of whom still wore their inanely expensive sunglasses and rose their voices above the sound system to make sure that they were heard by as many people as possible.

At the sound of a sharp burst of laughter, Sophie instinctively looked for Gavin as the source of the entertainment. He had always been one to command the center of attention. But before she could locate him, she noticed two scantily clad girls dancing provocatively, kissing each other with an elaborate show of tongue.

It wasn’t the girls that interested her, but rather who they were performing for. Their current audience of one was Conor Quinn, the band’s guitar player and Gavin’s best friend. He was sitting by himself on a sofa, clad only in Levis and with a bottle of Heineken in his hand. His short black hair was askew and a striking contrast with his deep blue eyes. He had always been the most conventionally handsome of the group and now that he had grown into his looks, he wouldn’t have been out of place on a catwalk, modeling the latest fashions.

As Sophie took in the sight of him, a flood of memories rushed through her head and heart. He had been the most overtly sexual of the group, casually sleeping with girls whenever possible and never tied down. And so it did not surprise her to now find him in this clichéd rock star position. She smiled and realized she felt the same affection for him as ever.

Just then, he glanced up and locked eyes with her. The recognition was instantaneous. Conor quickly stood up, his face spreading into a broad smile. He stepped past the girls without hesitation and their faces fell in disappointment.

“Sophie Kavanagh, I don’t believe it!” Conor said and surprised her with a quick kiss on the lips and a long, tight hug. “I adore that you’re here,” he murmured into her ear as he pulled away.

“I was so excited when I saw that you guys were in LA,” she replied. “I had to come, to see…”

“Good that you did. God, you look gorgeous!” He eyed her up and down unabashedly.

Sophie smiled and actually felt her cheeks burn as she blushed. She had agonized over what to wear, finally settling on form fitting jeans and a snug black vest over bare, tanned skin. She saw his eyes linger on the hint of cleavage beneath the backstage pass she still wore. A quick scan of the room told her the pass looked nothing like the real thing and she hastily pulled it off of her neck and slid it into her back pocket.

“Thanks,” she said, running her hand through her long honey-blond hair. “Oh, and sorry to break up your little show there.”

Conor laughed and made a dismissive wave of his hand. “So, you saw us play? What’d you think?”

“You guys were amazing. Really, you sound great! And the album is so good.”

“Thanks. It’s grand to hear you say so.”

They fell silent, taking each other in for a moment.

Finally, Sophie reached out and touched Conor’s hand, breaking the reverie. He leaned forward expectantly.

“Conor, I so want to catch up with you, but I need to find Gavin. I have to just…see.”

“Oh.” He took a step backward and rested his hands on his hips. “Well, listen, before you run off, just what sort of reunion were you expecting?”

But Sophie had already tuned him out, having spotted Gavin across the room. With a half-wave to Conor, she gravitated to Gavin. She felt no trepidation or doubt, only impatience to reconnect with the man who had possessed the whole of her heart since they had met four years ago.

Gavin was seated on another sofa, his attention focused on the platinum blond girl by his side. Oddly enough, jealously did not occur to Sophie. She immediately sensed that this girl did not have the kind of connection she and Gavin had once had, that whatever was between them was purely superficial.

Gavin, too, had filled out his frame in the past few years. His wavy brown hair was pushed away from his face, exposing his expressive blue eyes. The sensual shape of his mouth was just as she remembered and it brought to mind all the hours she had spent when they were together watching his lips as he spoke or sang to her.

“Gavin…” Sophie held her breath as she waited for him to look up at her.

After a prolonged moment, Gavin did look up and the hardness in his eyes let her know immediately that he had already seen her and chosen to ignore her.

A flash of confusion and regret ran through her entire body before she decided not to be deterred.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “I saw the show. You guys were great!”

“Thanks,” he said shortly and put his arm around the blond, who in turn smiled triumphantly at Sophie.

“It’s so amazing that you’re here…that you did this. You got what you always wanted.”

“So it would seem.”

Gavin’s detached response to seeing her again was the exact opposite of what she had expected.

“Are you in town long?” she forced herself to ask.

“Few days, then we’re off to the next city, next show, next girl,” he said and squeezed the blond. She accommodated him with a high-pitched giggle.

Sophie was frozen silent for a moment, her heart aching at his coldness. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same guy who had spent a year loving her.

“Well, good for you,” she finally said, ignoring the taunt of his response. “Do you want to take my number in case…you get some free time?”

“Sure, Sophie,” he replied mildly.
At least he remembers my name, she thought. She pulled a pen out of her Coach bag and jotted her phone number down on a cocktail napkin, her hand trembling.

Gavin lazily took the napkin from her without meeting her eyes. “Well, thanks for stopping by,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” Sophie asked, unable to hide her disbelief.

The naked hurt in her voice caused him to sit up and away from the blond. “What’s that, darlin’?” he asked softly, looking her in the eyes now.

“This is what you’ve become?”

He regarded her for a moment, a half-smile forming on his face. “Have you come to judge me, is that it?”

But Sophie lost her nerve, suddenly feeling foolish for imposing on an old high school boyfriend who had clearly moved on.

“Forget it. Nevermind, it was my mistake,” she mumbled before turning and heading for the door.

She wasn’t halfway down the hallway when she heard a man call her name. For the briefest second, she imagined it to be Gavin running after her with apologies.

Instead, as would become the case in the years to come, it was Conor who was by her side. He offered her his own cloth handkerchief for the tears that were welling in her eyes. In addition to donning a long-sleeve shirt, he had obviously also witnessed her disastrous encounter with Gavin.

“Was I really so wrong to have come?” she asked.

“Things are just different now, Sophie. I tried to warn you,” he said gently.

“I feel like such a fool. I just thought that what we had would still mean something.” She took a breath and blinked back further tears. “I have to go.” She stood on her toes and kissed Conor on the cheek. “Thanks for being so sweet to me.”

“Sure,” he replied and watched helplessly as she quickly walked away.

Synopsis!

2009-02-05T07:40:00.001-08:00

FREDERICA AND THE HEIR TO THE UNDERWORLD

FREDERICA (Freddy) used to think pop quizzes were the worst blight that could trouble her young life, but the day before her sweet sixteen she’s nearly trampled by a hottie on a horse- in the middle of a sidewalk in Southern California.

The horse’s rider, POLYDEGMON (Deg), is so handsome it makes her teeth hurt, and with charisma to spare. Being near him is enough to make excited tingles surge from the tips of Freddy’s fingers down to the toes of her sneakers, but Deg’s no ordinary cute boy: he is the eldest son of Hades and Persephone and Heir to the Greco-Roman Underworld. His sister, KORE, has been kidnapped, and he’s in SoCal to catch up with her kidnapper: CERNUNNOS, Leader of the Wild Hunt. Freddy’s sleepy town is the next stop for the Wild Hunt on their ride of mischief and mayhem, and Deg intends to make Cernunnos return his sister no matter what.

The night of the Hunt’s arrival, Deg infiltrates their camp and looks in every corner for his sister, even eying the banquet food with gut-twisting apprehension. He finds no sign of Kore, though. On his way out, the Hunt’s hideous hell dogs reveal him as an intruder, and the Wild Hunt enthusiastically gives chase. Deg is wounded and, in desperation, he does what he swore not to, and runs to Freddy for help.

Freddy sees two impossibly ugly dogs dragging Deg into the trees around her house. She wants to run to his rescue, but she isn’t Xena, just a terrified teenager who’s never had to fight anyone for real before, let alone a pair of freaky zombie dogs. Freddy mentally shakes herself, bottles up her terror, and runs to Deg’s rescue, driving the dogs off. She brings him to the safety of her house, but Deg stops her from calling 911. Freddy wakes up her dad, COLIN, who’s an EMT, instead to tend Deg’s injuries.

Colin sends Freddy to bed then confronts Deg. He knows who Deg is, and he wants the Olympian to stay away from his daughter. He patches Deg up and throws him out. The next day Colin forbids Freddy from ever seeing Deg again. Freddy wants to know how her dad knows Deg, and why he’s so sure the guy isn’t up to any good. Colin and Freddy’s mom agree Freddy wouldn’t understand if they did tell her, which they can’t.

Which is great, just great.

Freddy is sick of her parents lying to her, sick of everyone she cares for deciding over and over again not to answer her questions or tell her the truth. She’s scared too, though: What could be so awful they would rather lie than tell her about it? Freddy wants answers, and she knows the place to get them: Deg. That night she sneaks out to find him.

On the nighttime streets of her small town Freddy finds more than she wanted. She’s nearly caught by two members of the Wild Hunt, a large creature with the face of fox, and a tiny man who looks like he’s made of sticks. Freddy panics as shock and revulsion war for dominance. She wishes she’d never gotten out of bed, never met Deg, and all the time she’s hoping these nightmare creatures out of hell won’t see her huddled in the brush by the road. The two huntsmen pass on without finding her and she continues on, more determined than ever to make Deg tell her what the heck is happening.

Deg catches up to her near the Wild Hunt’s camp and tries to bodily carry her back home. While they argue, the Huntsmen surround and capture them. Cernunnos lets Deg go free to carry a message back to Hades. Freddy the Lord of the Hunt keeps. Instead of heading straight home to Hades, Deg sidetracks to Freddy’s house. He and Colin return to the lair of the Wild Hunt to try and get Freddy back. Colin is captured, and Cernunnos forces Freddy to trade her life for Deg and Colin’s safety. Cernunnos takes Freddy back to his home, the Otherworld, while Deg and Colin limp home to lick their wounds.

In the Otherworld, Freddy finds Deg’s stolen sister. Kore, though, likes her captivity just fine, and, as for her alleged kidnapper, Cernunnos, it’s clear to Freddy that Kore and Cernunnos are lovers. In her chamber, a rather lovely apartment for someone who’s supposed to be a prisoner, Cernunnos informs Freddy that he needs her to marry Hades’ son, and thereby seal a peace between Cernunnos’ people and the Olympian gods. Freddy, confused, asks Cernunnos who he really is.

He tells her, “I am your father,” then leaves.

First, Freddy can’t breathe. Then, she can’t think.

Well, she can think, but all of her thoughts are swirling too fast to make sense of them. She tries to slow the hamster wheel of her mind enough to make coherent thought possible around the blind panic. The one thing she can’t stop wondering is: why didn’t anyone ever tell her? Her mom? Her da- Colin? Before too long it’s time to go meet her future father-in-law: Hades. Cernunnos threatens to harm Freddy’s parents if she doesn’t behave, so she puts on her company manners.

Just when Freddy thinks she can’t wrap her brain around anymore weirdness, though, the crazy keeps on coming when she sees Deg. Deg Deg, her Deg coming to dinner at Cernunnos’ lair just as if the Lord of the Hunt wasn’t a murdering evil kidnapper nut job. Cernunnos’ big peace plan to make up to Hades for kidnapping Kore is to play Swap-the-Daughters. Cernunnos gets to keep Kore, and Freddy has to go off and marry one of Hades’ sons.

Dinner just gets better from there when Cernunnos introduces Freddy to his wife, MORRIGAN. Cernunnos and Morrígan haven’t gotten along since he saved Cúchulainn from her wrath, and made the hero a member of the Hunt. Morrígan’s not fond of her husband, true, but she’s even less fond of Freddy, his “half-blooded, bastard spawn.” After the desert course she tries to strangle Freddy. Cernunnos decides it’s best to separate his irate wife and his defenseless daughter. After a ceremony officially betrothing Freddy to Deg’s brother, CLYMENUS, she’s sent home to the Underworld with Hades. With Deg.

After her arrival Below, Freddy contemplates escape. If she tries, though, Cernunnos will kill her parents. All supernatural protection will be denied Freddy. Even Deg’s. Then Morrígan will find Freddy and torture her beyond her worst imaginings. The truce will be violated and the pantheons will go to war. If Freddy tries to wriggle free the whole house of gods goes down. Deg offers to intervene with Hades on her behalf, but Freddy has come to realize she’s better off wed than dead, and better off wed than starting a war that could destroy two pantheons.

Deg pleads Freddy’s case to his father anyway, but Hades refuses to listen. He threatens to cripple Deg if he brings it up again. Deg relents, but still simmers with frustrated outrage and anger. He tells himself the consequences of angering his father are too great to pursue this, but he can’t make himself forget the life debt he owes Freddy- or the tender feelings she stirs inside him.

In the days leading up to her wedding, Freddy does her best to make her new life in the Land of the Dead work. Clymenus is handsome, and nice enough, but her feelings for Deg linger on. The night before the wedding Deg comes to check on her. No one’s told her what the ceremony will be like, so in a bit of play-acting he shows her. With the feelings between them, though, the vows become more real than a mere recital. Deg cares for Freddy, wants so much for her to be happy: with him, without him. They end up in each other’s arms; her fingers nestled in his hair, every nerve he has straining towards her touch. “Does the wedding ceremony end with a kiss?” she asks.

“Not usually.” They kiss.

Clymenus walks in and catches them. He slaps Freddy and calls her a whore. Deg moves to beat his brother up, but Freddy comes between them. Unless a miracle happens she still has to marry Clymenus the next day, and she’d rather not get into a fistfight the night before her wedding- with her groom. Clymenus says the wedding’s still on, but he makes Freddy promise to stay away from Deg.

Cernunnos and Morrígan show up for the wedding, with Morrígan taking on the duties of Freddy’s absent mother. The wedding ceremony goes off almost perfectly, and the newlyweds retire to their bedroom to consummate while the party continues without them. Clymenus is willing to let bygones be bygones if only Freddy will sleep with him. Freddy knows she isn’t ready, though, and she tells him she can’t. Clymenus insists. Freddy says she won’t. Clymenus slaps her and ties her to the bed with his wedding tunic. Freddy gets a hand free and disables Clymenus. She’s busy pummeling him to pulp in anger when Deg comes charging in to rescue her. Freddy, emotionally drained and frightened, goes to Deg.

They escape that night. Deg refuses to leave Freddy in the Underworld to live with his brother. Morrígan catches them leaving the party, but says nothing, thereby allowing them to get free. After a trek across the Elysian Fields, a face-off with Cerberus, and a trip in Charon’s ferry, Freddy finds herself being driven home in Deg’s ’69 Mustang. When they get to her house, though, they discover Morrígan came during the night and tricked Colin into leaving with her to “save” Freddy. Freddy can’t understand why the Morrígan is so crazy obsessed with her dad until a chance comment of her mom’s makes Freddy realize her stepdad is Cúchulainn, and Morrígan has been trying to get her hands on him for centuries.

Deg, nonplussed at rescuing Freddy only to have run right back into danger, attempts to dissuade her. Ultimately, though, he decides to go with Freddy and her mother to get Colin back. They infiltrate the Otherworld and set a fire as distraction to cover their escape. Deg seizes this opportunity to multitask and kidnaps his sister Kore away from the Otherworld.

With Morrígan, Cernunnos and their respective minions giving chase, Freddy’s group makes it back to the real world, but, during a moment of inattention, Freddy’s mother wrecks the Mustang. Hiking through the night they discover a country club, large enough to hide in and already empty for the night. Freddy’s group sneaks in, hoping to hide long enough to figure out some way to save themselves, but ideas are scarce and the apparent chances are slim. With Morrígan’s party tearing the country club apart and Cernunnos’ people camped across the golf course, Deg decides to see if he can at least get Freddy away to safety. He persuades her to run to Cernunnos and attempt to coax her sire into returning to help them. Freddy sneaks out and successfully makes contact with Cernunnos who, it turns out, is only there to get Kore back.

Meanwhile, Morrígan’s minions attempt to capture Deg and the others. Colin, though, becomes angered and slips into the famous battle frenzy of Cúchulainn. He gains the strength of ten men and becomes impervious to all but the most grievous of wounds. He also loses the ability to tell friend from foe. Just as Freddy and Cernunnos are about to catch up with them, Colin goes after Deg and chases him through the country club. As Freddy gives chase to stop her dad from killing Deg, her mom calls after her that water should snap Colin out of his battle frenzy. Freddy catches up with her men just as Colin is choking the life out of Deg in the club’s gym. Without pausing for thought, Freddy barrels in to Colin and knocks all of them through the window and into the pool below.

The water succeeds in curing Colin’s battle frenzy, but only just as Morrígan catches up with them. Morrígan attempts to reclaim Colin, and Cernunnos refuses to interfere. When Morrígan gets too close, Colin rears up and chokes her. Morrígan attempts to stab him. Freddy, Deg and even Kore jump in to help. In the ensuing chaos, Kore ends up knifing Morrígan in the back. Then they both topple together into the pool. The temperature in the room drops with such speed it feels like a slap. A sudden, strange storm, whips up the pool water into a swirling vortex.

Just when Freddy and Deg are about to dive in after Kore, she emerges. Her hair has gone white, and as she climbs out of the pool, all of Morrígan’s people, including her two sisters, bow and swear allegiance to Kore. Even Cernunnos, “All honor to you, my love, my consort. My queen.”

Kore, Cernunnos’ new queen, releases Colin from his ties to the Wild Hunt. Deg goes to his sister, but there’s not much they can say to one another. Kore, as the new queen, has other obligations, and now she cannot return home to the Underworld, even if she wished it. The siblings part with a poignant goodbye.

Before he leaves, Cernunnos tells Freddy that, despite what she may think, everything he has done was with her best interests at heart. He loves her very much, and if she should ever need anything, she has only to call his name and he will come to her aide. Freddy thanks him very nicely then hustles him out.

Later, after the dust has settled, Freddy and Deg discuss their relationship. Deg tells her, “Frederica, I have crossed the rivers of the Underworld, battled the three-headed hound of Hades, bribed the ferryman of the Underworld, faced off against a war goddess and her entire unwholesome host, wrestled the mighty Cúchulainn to see you safe and happy. You have come to mean very much to me.” And then he apologizes for forgetting her birthday present.

“Deg, you and me together, that’s present enough for anybody.” They kiss and ride off into the sunset together on his horse for their second date.

Query

2009-01-27T07:25:00.000-08:00

Dear [AGENT’S NAME]:

When sixteen year old Cora overhears the leaders of her religious sect talking about a very unusual Gift, she decides to steal it.

Cora considers herself a collector, but so far her collection is limited to the shoes, wigs, and other odds and ends she took from those who offended her over the years. The mysterious Gift would be the pinnacle of her collection. It would also be her revenge. She hates religious life and those who drew her into it.

To Cora’s surprise, Melantha, the most important woman in Cora’s sect, not only discovers her plans but asks Cora to make a promise. If the worst happens, Melantha wants Cora to take the Gift and, more importantly, to safeguard it with her life. Astonished to realize that Melantha doesn’t hate her – and might even respect her – Cora agrees.

As Melantha had feared, a cruel betrayal allows their empire’s ancient enemy to invade – and not only to take slaves and seek vengeance. Their enemy is now in league with a tyrant known as the Imperator. A collector himself, the Imperator wants two new treasures: Cora’s best friend, Lena, and the Gift. Cora fights to save both Lena and the Gift from the invaders, but she cannot: although she escapes with the Gift, the Imperator’s allies kidnap Lena. Cora swears to rescue her best friend and protect the Gift, even if that means binding her own life to the Gift – and to the eerie, fragile goddess that rules it.

THE GATES OF HORN AND IVORY is a 90,000-word young adult epic fantasy novel. It is the first book of a trilogy. The next two books are currently in outline form.

I was attracted to your agency because of your representation of [AUTHORS’ NAMES], two of my favorite authors. [AUTHOR’S SERIES] in particular embodies the epic storyline but three-dimensional characters that I have tried to create in my own writing. I appreciate your consideration.

Sincerely yours,

Query!

2009-01-08T09:14:00.001-08:00

I am seeking representation for Time After Time, a recently completed 100,200-word paranormal romance novel set in 1898 England.

Simon Grenville is a Victorian gentleman: educated, refined, and elegant, with an interest in the occult. Until very recently, he shared this interest with his closest friend, Alex Reynell. Now Reynell has taken a darker path, but Simon doesn't know how dark it is until he meets a mysterious woman and hears a frightening tale of things to come.

Joan is a hardened warrior, raised and trained in a shattered world two hundred years in the future. She's spent her whole life fighting a losing war against unspeakable horrors: horrors someone let into the world with a book Reynell writes. In a last, desperate act, she's come back through time to destroy the book and deal with its author.

To reach Reynell, Joan will have to become part of his world. Simon can get her there: he can teach her how to speak, how to act, and how to be the kind of woman that Reynell will find alluring. As the lessons progress, though, Simon finds that Joan is as enticing as she is alien—and she's more drawn to him with every day that passes.

As they fight to save the future of the world, they discover that their future may lie with each other.

Short stories of mine have appeared in Dawnsky, Allegory Magazine, and Spacesuits and Sixguns. I have a B.A. in English literature and currently live in [CITY], where I work as an assistant editor for [TECH PUBLISHING GROUP].

I would be glad to send additional material or answer any questions.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,