Why should I provide my email address?

Start saving money today with our FREE daily newsletter packed with the best FREE and bargain Kindle book deals. We will never share your email address!
Sign Up Now!

KND Freebies: Captivating romance GAME OF LOVE by NY Times bestselling author Melissa Foster is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

***Kindle Store Top Ten Bestseller***
in Contemporary Romance Fiction
Voted Best Book Series of 2013
by Supportive Business Moms, UK
“Sweet, sexy, and sensual.”
bestselling author Amy Manemann 
Another addictive romance from
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Melissa Foster…It’s Book of 1 of The Remingtons, the steamy 5-book series featuring alpha male heroes and sexy, empowered women who are flawed, funny and passionate…50% off for a limited time only!

4.4 stars – 89 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Ellie Parker is a master at building walls around her heart. In the twenty-five years she’s been alive, Dex Remington has been the only person who has always believed in her and been there for her. But four years earlier, she came to Dex seeking comfort and then disappeared like a thief in the night, leaving him a broken man.

Dex Remington is one of the top PC game developers in the United States. He’s handsome, smart, and numb. So damn numb that he’s not sure he’ll ever find a reason to feel again.

A chance encounter sparks intense desires in Ellie and Dex. Desires that make her want to run–and make him want to feel. A combination of lust and fear leads these young lovers down a dangerous path. Is it possible to cross a burned bridge, or are they destined to be apart forever?

**BONUS** Includes the first chapter (sneak peek) of Stroke of Love, The Remingtons, Book Two.
Please note: This book contains adult content. Not meant for readers under 18 years of age.

5-star praise for Game of Love:

“Another splendid and realistic breath of fresh air from Melissa….an easy, addictive and very enjoyable storyline.””…it all rang true…a really sweet (and somewhat steamy) love story….”

an excerpt from

GAME OF LOVE
(Love in Bloom, The Remingtons, 1)

by Melissa Foster

 

Copyright © 2014 by Melissa Foster and published here with her permission

Chapter One

DEX REMINGTON WALKED into NightCaps bar beside his older brother Sage, an artist who also lived in New York City, and Regina Smith, his employee and right arm. Women turned in their direction as they came through the door, their hungry eyes raking over Dex’s and Sage’s wide shoulders and muscular physiques. At six foot four, Sage had two inches on Dex, and with their striking features, dark hair, and federal-blue eyes, heads spun everywhere they went. But after Dex had worked thirty of the last forty-eight hours, women were the furthest thing from his mind. His four-star-general father had ingrained hard work and dedication into his head since he was old enough to walk, and no matter how much he rued his father’s harsh parenting, following his lead had paid off. At twenty-six, Dex was one of the country’s leading PC game designers and the founder of Thrive Entertainment, a multimillion-dollar gaming corporation. His father had taught him another valuable lesson—how to become numb—making it easy for him to disconnect from the women other men might find too alluring to ignore.

Dex was a stellar student. He’d been numb for a very long time.

“Thanks for squeezing in a quick beer with me,” he said to Sage. They had about twenty minutes to catch up before his scheduled meeting with Regina and Mitch Anziano, another of his Thrive employees. They were going to discuss the game they were rolling out in three weeks, World of Thieves II.

“You’re kidding, right? I should be saying that to you.” Sage threw his arm around Dex’s shoulder. They had an ongoing rivalry about who was the busiest, and with Sage’s travel and gallery schedule and Dex working all night and getting up midday, it was tough to pick a winner.

“Thrive!” Mitch hollered from the bar in his usual greeting. Mitch used Thrive! to greet Dex in bars the way others used, Hey. He lifted his glass, and a smile spread across his unshaven cheeks. At just over five foot eight with three-days’ beard growth trailing down his neck like fur and a gut that he was all too proud of, he was what the world probably thought all game designers looked like. And worth his weight in gold. Mitch could outprogram anyone, and he was more loyal than a golden retriever.

Regina lifted her chin and elbowed Dex. “He’s early.” She slinked through the crowded bar, pulling Dex along behind her. Her Levi’s hung low, cinched across her protruding hip bones by a studded black leather belt. Her red hoodie slipped off one shoulder, exposing the colorful tattoos that ran across her shoulder and down her arms.

Mitch and Regina had been Dex’s first employees when he’d opened his company. Regina handled the administrative aspects of the company, kept the production schedule, monitored the program testing, and basically made sure nothing slipped through the cracks, while Mitch, like Dex, conceptually and technically designed games with the help of the rest of Thrive’s fifty employees—developers, testers, and a host of programmers and marketing specialists.

Regina climbed onto the barstool beside Mitch and lifted his beer to her lips.

“Order ours yet?” she asked with a glint in her heavily lined dark eyes. She ran her hand through her stick-straight, jet-black hair.

Dex climbed onto the stool beside her as the bartender slid beers in front of him and Regina. “Thanks, Jon. Got a brew for my brother?”

“Whatever’s on tap,” Sage said. “Hey, Mitch. Good to see you.”

Mitch lifted his beer with a nod of acknowledgment.

Dex took a swig of the cold ale, closed his eyes, and sighed, savoring the taste.

“Easy, big boy. We need you sober if you wanna win a GOTY.” Mitch took a sip of Regina’s beer. “Fair’s fair.”

Regina rolled her eyes and reached a willowy arm behind him, then mussed his mop of curly dark hair. “We’re gonna win Game of the Year no matter what. Reviewers love us. Right, Dex?”

Thrive had already produced three games, one of which, World of Thieves, had made Dex a major player in the gaming world—and earned him millions of dollars. His biggest competitor, KI Industries, had changed the release date for their new game. KI would announce the new date publicly at midnight, and since their game was supposed to be just as hot of a game as they expected World of Thieves II to be, if they released close to the release for World of Thieves II, there would be a clear winner and a clear loser. Dex had worked too hard to be the loser.

“That’s the hope,” Dex said. He took another swig of his beer and checked his watch. Eight forty-five and his body thought it was noon. He’d spent so many years working all night and sleeping late that his body clock was completely thrown off. He was ready for a big meal and the start of his workday. He stroked the stubble along his chin. “I worked on it till four this morning. I think I deserve a cold one.”

Sage leaned in to him. “You’re not nervous about the release, are you?”

Of his five siblings—including Dex’s twin sister, Siena, Sage knew him best. He was the quintessential artist, with a heart that outweighed the millions of dollars his sculptures had earned him. He’d supported Dex through the years when Dex needed to bend an ear, and when he wasn’t physically nearby, Sage was never farther than a text or a phone call away.

“Nah. If it all fails, I’ll come live with you.” Dex had earned enough money off of the games he’d produced that he’d never have to worry about finances again, but he wasn’t in the gaming business for the money. He’d been a gamer at heart since he was able to string coherent thoughts together, or at least it felt that way. “What’s happening with the break you said you wanted to take? Are you going to Jack’s cabin?” Their eldest brother Jack owned a cabin in the Colorado Mountains. Jack was an ex–Special Forces officer and a survival-training guide, and he and his fiancée Savannah spent most weekends at the cabin. Living and working in the concrete jungle didn’t offer the type of escape Sage’s brain had always needed.

“I’ve got another show or two on the horizon; then I’ll take time off. But I think I want to do something useful with my time off. Find a way to, I don’t know, help others instead of sitting around on my ass.” He sipped his beer and tugged at the neck of his Baja hippie jacket. “How ’bout you? Any plans for vacay after the release?”

“Shit. You’re kidding, right? My downtime is spent playing at my work. I love it. I’d go crazy sitting in some cabin with no connectivity to the real world.”

“The right woman might change your mind.” Sage took a swig of his beer.

“Dex date?” Regina tipped her glass to her lips. “Do you even know your brother? He might hook up once in a while, but this man protects his heart like it carries all of the industry secrets.”

“Can we not go there tonight?” Dex snapped. He had a way of remembering certain moments of his life with impeccable clarity, some of which left scars so deep he could practically taste them every damn day of his life. He nurtured the hurt and relished in the joy of the scars, as his artistic and peace-seeking mother had taught him. But Dex was powerless against his deepest scar, and numbing his heart was the only way he could survive the memory of the woman he loved walking away from him four years earlier without so much as a goodbye.

“Whoa, bro. Just a suggestion,” Sage said. “You can’t replace what you never had.”

Dex shot him a look.

Regina spun on her chair and then swung her arm over Dex’s shoulder. “Incoming,” she whispered.

Dex looked over his shoulder and met the stare of two hot blondes. His shoulders tensed and he sighed.

“It’s not gonna kill you to make a play for one of them, Dex. Work off some of that stress.” Sage glanced back at the women.

“No, thanks. They’re all the same.” Ever since the major magazines had carried the story about Dex’s success, he’d been hounded by ditzy women who thought all he wanted to talk about was PC games.

Regina leaned in closer and whispered, “Not them. Fan boys, two o’clock.”

Thank God.

“Hey, aren’t you Dex Rem?” one of the boys asked.

Dex wondered if they were in college or if they had abandoned their family’s dreams for them in lieu of a life of gaming. It was the crux of his concern about his career. He was getting rich while feeding society’s desire to be couch potatoes.

“Remington, yeah, that’s me,” he said, wearing a smile like a costume, becoming the relaxed gamer his fans craved.

“Dude, World of Thieves is the most incredible game ever! Listen, you ever need any beta testers, we’re your guys.” The kid nodded as his stringy bangs bounced into his eyes. His friend’s jaw hung open, struck dumb by meeting Dex, another of Dex’s pet peeves. He was just a guy who worked hard at what he loved, and he believed anyone could accomplish the same level of success if they only put forth the effort. Damn, he hated how much that belief mirrored his father’s teachings.

“Yeah?” Dex lifted his chin. “What college did you graduate from?”

The two guys exchanged a look, then a laugh. The one with the long bangs said, “Dude, it don’t take a college degree to test games.”

Dex’s biceps flexed. There it was. The misconception that irked Dex more than the laziness of the kids who were just a few years younger than him. As a Cornell graduate, Dex believed in the value of education and the value of being a productive member of society. He needed to figure out the release date, not talk bullshit with kids who were probably too young to even be in a bar.

“Guys, give him a break, ’kay?” Regina said.

“Sure, yeah. Great to meet you,” the longer-haired kid said.

Dex watched them turn away and sucked back his beer. His eyes caught on a woman at a booth in the corner of the bar. He studied the petite, brown-haired woman who was fiddling with her napkin while her leg bounced a mile a minute beneath the table. Jesus. Memories from four years earlier came rushing back to him with freight-train impact, hitting his heart dead center.

“I know how you are about college, but, Dex, they’re kids. You gotta give them a little line to feed off of,” Regina said.

Dex tried to push past the memories. He glanced up at the woman again, and his stomach twisted. He turned away, trying to focus on what Regina had said. College. The kids. Give them a line to feed off of. Regina was right. He should accept the hero worship with gratitude, but lately he’d been feeling like the very games that had made him successful were sucking kids into an antisocial, couch-potato lifestyle.

“Really, Dex. Imagine if you’d met your hero at that age.” Sage ran his hand through his hair and shook his head.

“I’m no hero.” Dex’s eyes were trained on the woman across the bar. Ellie Parker. His mouth went dry.

“Dex?” Sage followed his gaze. “Holy shit.”

There was a time when Ellie had been everything to him. She’d lived in a foster home around the corner from him when they were growing up, and she’d moved away just before graduating high school. Dex’s mind catapulted back thirteen years, to his bedroom at his parents’ house. “In the End” by Linkin Park was playing on the radio. Siena had a handful of girlfriends over, and she’d gotten the notion that playing Truth or Dare was a good idea. At thirteen, Dex had gone along with whatever his popular and beautiful sister had wanted him to. She was the orchestrator of their social lives. He hadn’t exactly been a cool teenager, with his nose constantly in a book or his hands on electronics. That had changed when testosterone filled his veins two years later, but at thirteen, even the idea of being close to a girl made him feel as though he might pass out. He’d retreated to his bedroom, and that had been the first night Ellie had appeared at his window.

 “Hey, Dex.” Regina followed his gaze to Ellie’s table; her eyes moved over her fidgeting fingers and her bouncing leg. “Nervous Nelly?” she teased.

Dex rose to his feet. His stomach clenched.

“Dude, we’re supposed to have a meeting. There’s still more to talk about,” Mitch said.

Sage’s voice was serious. “Bro, you sure you wanna go there?”

With Sage’s warning, Dex’s pulse sped up. His mind jumped back again to the last time he’d seen her, four years earlier, when Ellie had called him out of the blue. She’d needed him. He’d thought the pieces of his life had finally fallen back into place. Ellie had come to New York, scared of what, he had no idea, and she’d stayed with him for two days and nights. Dex had fallen right back into the all-consuming, adoring, frustrating vortex that was Ellie Parker. “Yeah, I know. I gotta…” See if that’s really her.

“Dex?” Regina grabbed his arm.

He placed his hand gently over her spindly fingers and unfurled them from his wrist. He read the confusion in her narrowed eyes. Regina didn’t know about Ellie Parker. No one knows about Ellie Parker. Except Sage. Sage knows. He glanced over his shoulder at Sage, unable to wrap his mind around the right words.

“Holy hell,” Sage said. “I’ve gotta take off in a sec anyway. Go, man. Text me when you can.”

Dex nodded.

“What am I missing here?” Regina asked, looking between Sage and Dex.

Regina was protective of Dex in the same way that Siena always had been. They both worried he’d be taken advantage of. In the three years Dex had known Regina, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d approached a woman in front of her, rather than the other way around. It would take Dex two hands to count the number of times he’d been taken advantage of in the past few years, and Regina’s eyes mirrored that reality. Regina didn’t know it, but of all the women in the world, Ellie was probably the one he needed protection from the most.

He put his hand on her shoulder, feeling her sharp bones against his palm. There had been a time when Dex had wondered if Regina was a heavy drug user. Her lanky body reminded him of strung-out users, but Regina was skinny because she survived on beer, Twizzlers, and chocolate, with the occasional veggie burger thrown in for good measure.

“Yeah. I think I see an old friend. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” Dex lifted his gaze to Mitch. “Midnight?”

“Whatever, dude. Don’t let me cock block you.” Mitch laughed.

“She’s an old…not a…never mind.” My onetime best friend? As he crossed the floor, all the love he felt for her came rushing back. He stopped in the middle of the crowded floor and took a deep breath. It’s really you. In the next breath, his body remembered the heartbreak of the last time he’d seen her. The time he’d never forget. When he’d woken up four years ago and found her gone—no note, no explanation, and no contact since. Just like she’d done once before when they were kids. The sharp, painful memory pierced his swollen heart. He’d tried so hard to forget her, he’d even moved out of the apartment to distance himself from the memories. He should turn away, return to his friends. Ellie would only hurt him again. He was rooted to the floor, his heart tugging him forward, his mind holding him back.

A couple rose from the booth where Ellie sat, drawing his attention. He hadn’t even noticed them before. God, she looked beautiful. Her face had thinned. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, but her eyes hadn’t changed one bit. When they were younger, she’d fooled almost everyone with a brave face—but never Dex. Dex had seen right through to her heart. Like right now. She stared down at something in her hands with her eyebrows pinched together and her full lips set in a way that brought back memories, hovering somewhere between worried and trying to convince herself everything would be okay.

Her leg bounced nervously, and he stifled the urge to tell her that no matter what was wrong, it would all be okay. Dex ignored the warnings going off in his mind and followed his heart as he crossed the floor toward Ellie.

Chapter Two

NO WAY. NO fucking way did Dina just leave me alone on my first night in the city. Ellie stared at the table. You know how to get to my apartment, right? Just give us an hour; that’s all I ask, Dina had said before handing her an extra key. Great. Dina and a guy she’d known for less than an hour might or might not be having sex while she slept on the couch. I just need to get through the interviews; that’s it. I can do this. Her mind weaved through the tangled afternoon of rushing to Union Station, missing her train and having to wait for the next one. Spending three hours on the train practicing for her interviews before pulling into Penn Station, exhausted and late. She was contemplating ordering a drink—or five—when very definitely male fingers touched her table. Why did they look familiar?

“Ellie?”

Ellie sucked in a breath at the sound of his voice. Dex. Oh, God. Dex. Her gaze followed those familiar fingertips to the large hands that had kept her safe when she’d climbed into his window late at night. Her heart remembered, thundering in her chest as her eyes traveled up his sinewy, muscled arms, and she took in all six-foot-something of him, ending at his seductive, midnight-blue eyes. Jesus, they still slayed her.

“Dexy?” His name came out as one long breath. She needed to stand, to hug him, to say hello, but her body wouldn’t obey. She was frozen in the booth like a wallflower. Ellie was no wallflower, damn it. She closed her eyes for a beat and centered her mind. It’s Dex. Just Dex. The truth was, Dex had never been just Dex. But she knew better than to get too attached to anyone. Even Dex. Especially Dex. Self-preservation was a skill Ellie had honed at a young age.

Ellie didn’t have time or energy to dwell on the unkindness of her upbringing. She soaked up the good memories, and knowing she was always on the brink of chaos, she swept the bad memories under the carpet with mummified silence and pushed on. No matter how shitty the day appeared—and she’d seen her share of shittiness in her twenty-five years—nothing compared to moving from one foster family to the next, all the while praying her mother would finally find sobriety and do the right thing by her. But her mother had drunk herself to death when Ellie was eight, ending her internal longing for the mother she’d never have. Admitting to the awfulness of her upbringing would be like falling right back into that needy little girl, and she was never going back there.

Dex ran his hand through his dark hair. He still wore it long on top and a little shorter in the back. And damn if he didn’t have that sexy facial hair thing going on. The hair on his chin was lighter than the hair on top of his head—closer to the color of Ellie’s. Not quite black, not quite dark chocolate. His thick eyebrows and dark lashes still shadowed his eyes, giving him that serious brooding look that had always made her heart skip a beat. God, you’re here. And you’re hot. No. I can’t go there. Shit.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “It’s been—”

“Too long.” Ellie cleared her throat to strengthen her voice. She didn’t want to rehash the details of when she’d come to see him four years earlier. She’d fought the painful memories day in and day out, tried to forget the weekend ever happened—Oh, how I tried to forget. But she could no sooner forget a day with Dex, much less the best weekend of her life. She hadn’t even been brave enough to return the few messages he’d left, trying to figure out why she’d gone away. The thought of hearing the pain in his voice was too much. She’d had to leave. She’d had to separate herself from him. Dex was better off without her hanging around his neck like a needy, fucked-up noose.

She dropped her eyes to the table, barely able to breathe past the guilt of what she’d done. He was right there with her again. He was always there for her—and she was always soaking him in, taking the comfort he had to give. And breaking his beautiful heart. She kept her eyes trained on the table to keep from…what? Begging for forgiveness? Crawling into his arms and telling him how much she loved him? How he’d scared the living shit out of her four years earlier when he’d professed his love for her? Fuck. There was nothing she could say to fix what she’d done, and she was in no position to make up excuses or promise a damned thing, which was why she hadn’t had the courage to call him when she’d decided to return to New York. She’d worried that he wouldn’t want to see her again after the way she’d left the last time. The way she’d always left, without so much as a goodbye.

“Four years,” he reminded her.

She cringed. It was silly of her to think he’d let her off the hook for leaving without saying goodbye. For not answering his desperate attempts to reach her. For not explaining why she’d left. As she looked at him now, she didn’t see any such demand in his eyes. Then again, Dex had never demanded a thing of her.

He reached across the table and touched her fingertips.

Ellie stared at his hand, desperately wanting to answer the pull in her heart and take his hand in hers. Dex’s hand had been her lifeline on too many nights to count, but now she didn’t reach for his fingers. She couldn’t. It would be too easy to crawl into the safety of him and allow herself to soak up the comfort he’d surely provide—and too easy to forget that she came with even more baggage now, tangled all around her like a wicked web. She was a different woman than Dex had known before. A stronger woman. Even if it hurt like hell to be strong sometimes. Even if looking at Dex, knowing how badly she’d hurt him, sliced her heart wide open.

Dex made no move to pull his hand away. “What are you doing in New York?”

Running away. “Applying for teaching jobs.” Ellie wanted to pour her heart out to Dex and let him erase the hurt of the last few weeks and help her to start fresh. She needed to forget, but Ellie sucked at forgetting. That was part of what made her strong. Remembering every shitty thing that had ever happened to her allowed her to never fall into the same circumstances twice. Of course, running away helped, too.

“So you did it.”

Dex’s lips curved into a smile that said so much more than he was happy for her. He’d believed in her when no one else had. God, she missed that. God, I’ve missed you. He leaned back. His rumpled black T-shirt clung snuggly to his chest. Tattoos snaked down his left arm. New tattoos that she hadn’t seen before. Ellie felt a stirring down low in parts of her that had been quiet for a very long time, which confused the hell out of her because she and Dex hadn’t progressed to being those kinds of friends in the past. Although, had she stayed…No. She wouldn’t think about that. His eyes never wavered from hers, and as Dex’s long fingers trailed away from hers, she longed for them to return.

“Yeah. I made it, Dex.” She met his gaze and shook her head, feeling her own lips wanting to smile and hesitating. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Some days I can barely believe it, but I have the paper to prove it. I’ve got a master’s in minority and urban education from the University of Maryland. They gave me a scholarship, which was really helpful.” Pride swelled in her chest alongside the familiar comfort of being with Dex that she was trying not to allow herself to enjoy. He had a way of doing that to her. Sneaking comfort in through the cracks in her armor.

“I never had any doubt,” he said.

“I heard about Thrive. I guess all those years of tinkering paid off.” She remembered many nights when she’d crawl through his window to find him wearing nothing but boxers and sitting beside a stack of technical books and magazines. She’d maneuver around memory boards and computer paraphernalia, articles and notebooks. God, there were always notebooks scattered about his bedroom floor. He’d lift his arm, and she’d crawl in bed beside him and settle into the safety of him. His arm would drop to her shoulder and he’d pull her close while he read, and she calmed her nerves or slept. Or sometimes, she just breathed in the security of him.

Dex nodded. “Yeah. It’s a nice gig.”

Nice gig. That was so like him, downplaying his success. She’d seen his picture on the front of Gamer magazine several times over the past few years. One of her fifth-grade students had written a report about him right before she’d left Maryland. It had been a well-written report, noting not only his multimillion-dollar business but also his double degree in computer science and mathematics from Cornell. At the time, she’d thought about contacting him, but given the way her life had been unraveling with each breath, she hadn’t wanted to cast her chaos onto him again. Not after they’d shared that weekend together and she’d realized just what Dex had meant to her—which scared the shit out of her at the same time.

Not after she’d run.

She always ran.

And now here he sat, making time for her once again while she ran away from the shit storm caused by dating a man she hadn’t known was married—a man who had hurt her both emotionally and physically. God, she couldn’t let Dex know. Right after he killed the asshole, he’d probably look at her differently, even though she hadn’t known he was married. She couldn’t be seen as a victim again. It was too damn hard. Goddamn Bruce Kellerman. She was done with men. She pushed the thought of Bruce aside. She had bigger problems to deal with, like trying to get a job and find an apartment, not to mention making it through the night worrying about some strange guy in the next room.

“Hey, do you have time for a drink?”

No. I need to find Dina’s place, and I…hell. The familiar comfort of being with Dex was too good to ignore. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Dex flagged down a waitress and ordered a beer, then lifted his eyebrows to Ellie. “Rum and Coke?”

She rolled her eyes. “God, am I still that high schoolish?” She wished she could order something more adult, like a cosmo, a manhattan, or a martini, but the truth was, her high school taste for rum and Coke had stayed with her like white on rice. “Yeah, bring it on.” She might as well relax and enjoy the evening. Her first interview wasn’t until ten the following morning, so even if she stayed out a little late catching up with Dex, she’d have time to sleep in.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

Game of Love
(Love in Bloom: The Remingtons, 1)
by Melissa Foster
4.4 stars – 90 reviews!
Special Kindle Price $1.99!
(reduced from $3.99 for limited time only)

KND Freebies: The evocative and absorbing PROBABILITY ANGELS is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

41 rave reviews!

For fans of urban fantasy and science-fiction —
or anyone who just likes a really good story…

With the kind of effortless writing that breathes life into even the most unusual scenarios, Probability Angels is capturing the imaginations of all kinds of readers.

Probability Angels (The Matthew and Epp Stories)

by Joseph Devon

4.2 stars – 53 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Matthew knows that he died twenty years ago. He has, after all, been bouncing around New York city ever since, causing mischief and having fun as a supernatural being. But recently some problems have been cropping up: not only is he hallucinating things in garbage cans, but his mentor doesn’t think he’s working up to his full potential, his best friend can’t offer any solace but drunken confusion, and his wife is dying in Central Park.

See, the past twenty years haven’t meant a thing because now it’s time for Matthew to make his second choice and become a tester of humanity. And that’s all before the zombies show up.

Come explore the world of Matthew and Epp and see what a samurai from feudal Japan has to do with the course of modern physics, what a two-thousand year old Roman slave has to do with the summit of Mount Everest, and what a dead man from Brooklyn has to do with the fate of the world.

5-star praise for Probability Angels:

“…it’s rare that a novel transcends words…and becomes art. Probability Angels by Joseph Devon is such a book…one of the most talented and interesting authors around…”

…an excellent read, with all you could ask for to keep you intrigued…”

“Joseph Devon has built an incredibly vast and imaginative world…By page 3, I was completely hooked…if you’re in the mood for something completely new in the area of angels, zombies, fate, and destiny, throw yourself into this book…”

an excerpt from

Probability Angels

by Joseph Devon

 

Copyright © 2014 by Joseph Devon and published here with his permission

The patterned wallpaper, the waist high molding, the chandeliers every ten feet, the glass covered wooden tables with overly ornate vases stuffed with flowers, everything in sight screamed out that this was a place designed to look nice with no thought given to whether or not someone would want to live there. Matthew walked along as quickly as he could in his tuxedo, wondering why hotels always had to look like this.

Matthew was a short man but not so short that people noticed that about him, his thinning hair made him look in his thirties while the glint in his blue eyes put him closer to twenty. A pair of thin rimmed glasses sat on his face like a statement of health. His tuxedo was well cut and lacked the rumpled shininess of a rental.

He passed an intersection of hallways, glancing to his right and seeing the elevator bank he continued on. Then he passed the vending machines. Then he made it to the bathroom.

Entering the bathroom he slowed down, the door eased shut on its spring behind him and Matthew stood there listening. He could hear him, softly, somewhere past the row of sinks. As Matthew trod through the bathroom, which itself was an orgy of overly ornate decorating, he glanced in the corner at the gold mesh wastebasket. There was something there that shouldn’t be, or at least he saw something there that shouldn’t be, and for the first time since he had walked out of the grand ballroom Matthew broke stride, his casual cool bounce faltering as he closed his eyes hard and shook his head. When he opened them again the wastebasket was empty.

He turned to face forward and picked up his stride again, turning the corner to where there was a row of stalls with beautifully stained wooden doors. Matthew walked down the row, glaring at the doors one after another. He finally crept around one and looked in to see a man sitting on the toilet with the lid down, the door open, his face in his hands as he sobbed.

“Excuse me?” Matthew said gingerly. The man looked up. “I was just looking for the cigar bar when I got lost and wandered in here and then I heard you from over by the sinks and I…well…I mean what’s wrong, pal?”

The man looked up, all elbows and knees from how he was folded onto the toilet seat. Matthew caught his eyes and smiled. “Come on,” Matthew said, “let’s go over by the sink, you can splash a little water on your face, talk it out, maybe I can help. At the very least,” Matthew looked around and smiled a good-natured smile that oh so delicately pointed out the absurdity of a grown man sitting alone in a toilet stall crying by himself, “I can definitely listen.”

Matthew coaxed the man out, led him to one of the sinks, turned on the tap for him, patiently listened as the man told his story, which Matthew already knew. Matthew nodded, one ear open in case there was anything new he should know, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a cigar, spent time enjoying its aroma while he waited for the man to finish his tale of heartbreak and fear and unrequited love.

Matthew hopped up onto the counter, using only his legs, his hands never getting involved. He landed between sinks in what he somehow made look like a comfortable position. Through the whole leap the only thing he seemed intent on protecting was his cigar, which he held between thumb and forefinger of one hand. As he sat listening to the man’s speech wind down he rolled the freshly cut cigar gently, feeling the moist tobacco leaves giving slightly under the pressure of his fingers.

Matthew glanced over and saw that the man had finished and was looking at him with a face that was still damp from a few splashes of cold water. Matthew knew he was ready.

“Look,” Matthew started, leaning back into a position that should have been ten times more awkward but that he managed to make look ten times more comfortable. “I’m no expert on these things. I’m just here for this wedding as a distant uncle. Just wanted to find the cigar bar is all. But I see a fellow man sobbing himself to pieces in a toilet stall over a girl, and there isn’t any question in my mind as to what I should think. You, my friend,” and Matthew stared hard at the man, “need to go after this girl.”

“But she’s married,” the man said.

Matthew continued to stare, the man’s eyes drawn to his like something deeper was passing between them. “Doesn’t matter,” Matthew said. “A love that can make a man sob in a toilet…that’s a love that you’ve got to at least give a chance to, isn’t it? You said yourself; you knew she was having doubts about her marriage.” Matthew stared.

Finally the man broke eye contact and turned to face himself in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said, “she has doubts.”

“Okay then,” Matthew said, smiling like a high-school football coach after a particularly good pep talk. “Then go get her.”

The man looked at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds; doing something to his face that Matthew could only assume was some form of courage gathering. Then he said, “Thanks,” and turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Matthew continued sitting on the counter, his legs dangling like a little child’s, kicking happily back and forth. There was a beep and he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone. Flipping it open he glanced over a text message, surprise registering on his face. All thoughts of the man and the conversation were gone as he pondered the text message, gone until he looked down at the counter and saw a neat stack of twenty dollar bills sitting there. “Hm,” he said, “quick work.”

Hopping off the counter he grabbed the bills and placed them in his pocket then popped the cigar into his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror, hands in his pockets, the cigar clenched between his teeth off to the side of his mouth, and took a pull, only sucking air through the unlit end. He looked disappointed and concentrated harder. His cheeks formed small hollows in his face as he took a more determined draw, the unlit cigar bobbing between his teeth, once, twice, three times until, during the fourth pull, the end suddenly burst into bright red flames, catching the cigar alit before residing and leaving only a perfectly glowing red ember. Matthew smiled at himself, taking his hands out of his pocket he smoothed down his jacket as he took a few puffs, then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

—–

Matthew walked down 72nd street underneath the modern-gothic windows of the looming apartment building on the corner. He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, taking a pull at his cigar, now mostly gone, enjoying the warm summer midnight. It had rained earlier and the streets were damp. He waited on the light, then crossed over Central Park West and followed the double-wide 72nd street into the park. He turned off the street about twenty yards in and followed a path up a gentle rise, a canopy of trees closing in around him.

Matthew walked further and further into the park, following path after path, cursing more than a few times as branches he hadn’t noticed swatted at his face. Then, through the darkness, he saw a thin band of yellow hovering in the air. As he drew closer his eyes recognized it as a strip of tape, like the kind used to mark off crime scenes, only different, strung across the path. Matthew paused and looked around, looked at the darkness that was behind him, then looked at how the light on the other side of the tape was different somehow. He smiled, a little laugh coming out of his mouth, then with a touch of nervousness he ducked his torso and stepped onto the other side of the tape.

The first difference was as immediate as it was obvious. All noise ceased. As Matthew straightened himself up there was no more wind in the trees, no more muffled sounds of traffic from Central Park West, there was only silence. He continued walking down the path, the second change slowly sinking in as he realized he was no longer walking through a post-midnight darkness. The air was now mellower, lighter, like it was only a little past dusk. Then he stopped short and walked a slow circle around a single point of light, smiling as he recognized a firefly, its bottom flashing electric green, frozen in time, hovering in the air. He reached a finger up and slowly pointed it towards the glowing beetle, was about to tap it to see what would happen when a voice spoke up behind him.

“Please don’t.”

Matthew jumped and turned, then smiled and shook his head. “Jesus, Epp, you scared the hell out of me.”

Epp walked over, his face lit by the firefly’s light. His skin was sable black, the color of an exotic hardwood, and he was a good head taller than Matthew, although due to a complete lack of anything but muscle on his body, he probably weighed the same.

“What happens if I touch it?” Matthew asked, looking back to the firefly.

“Just more work for me,” Epp answered, the calm undertone of his voice making Matthew’s easy confidence seem like a bad case of nerves. Epp looked Matthew up and down. “Nice tuxedo,” he said.

There was honest appreciation for good tailoring in Epp’s voice, but Matthew found himself unable to accept it as a straight compliment considering that Epp was wearing a suit that seemed more like a symphony composed of charcoal threads than mere clothing.

“I was working some adultery at a wedding,” Matthew said to explain his clothes.

“Adultery?” Epp asked turning and walking away. Matthew started walking with him, the idea of not following never crossing his mind. “At a wedding? With your skill? Seems a little beneath you, Matthew. You might as well tailgate at the political conventions with the rest of the newbies.”

“Well,” Matthew said, not letting himself get rankled, “the woman in question was the bride.”

A slow exhalation of breath through Epp’s nose was all Matthew got, but he knew enough to know that this was as close to laughter as he was likely to get. “I suppose that does contain a certain amount of flair worthy of you, Matthew.”

“Yeah?” Matthew said, a touch of haughtiness in his voice. “The guy involved was the priest.”

A smile spread across Epp’s dark features and as his eyes softened Matthew knew that he had redeemed himself.

“You know, it’s been twenty-two years,” Matthew said, “you think it might be time for you to give me a little credit?”

The smile disappeared from Epp’s face. “Not a chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matthew said, “so why’d you text me?”

“Come,” Epp said, and Matthew followed him off the path into a patch of lawn, more trees popping up between them and the views of the city. Not much farther in, at a secluded area, they came upon a frozen couple. The woman was in the process of saying something with strong emotion to the man. The man was stuck with a panicked look on his face, his body lurching forward as if he was trying to break into a run. There was a large knife in his hands. Matthew bent down and examined the knife, saw the red sheen covering it, the blood frozen in the air spraying off the blade, could imagine the man’s arm moving fast, the knife whipping around as he panicked. Matthew straightened up. The man was running…he turned…he saw a form lying on the grass not far away and gathered easily enough that this was the victim.

Matthew turned back to Epp. “I’m still not used to murders.”

“I don’t know that we ever get used to them.” Epp was looking down at a clipboard.

“Still though,” Matthew walked over to him, “I don’t get it.”

Epp looked up from his clipboard. “It’s an insurance thing.” He pointed to the couple, “These two need a body. Don’t worry about that, it gets complicated.”

“But,” Matthew was looking around at the coverage, more trees than you’d normally get in Manhattan, that was for certain, but it was still awfully thin, “I mean, it’s 2007, who the hell dies in Central Park anymore? And what time is it, actually?” He squinted, trying to read the frozen light level. “It barely looks like the sun has set.”

Epp flipped a page, studying something, flipped another page. “We are here to test their spirits, Matthew. Their intelligence is out of our hands. This isn’t even my work, to tell the truth. Someone else started it. It’s not bad. A little sloppy, definitely not great, but not bad. I just took it over recently.”

“Really? You can do that?”

“These are special circumstances.”

“Well whoever set this up must have been pretty angry when you took over. You’ve got a knife murder, by a couple, in Central Park? How much is this worth?”

“For me? Nothing,” Epp shook his head. “You don’t get to jump in this late and gain any currency. And as for the guy who started this in motion, he’ll be fine. He’ll wind up making double what this is worth. We’re sending him to Hollywood for a week.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, his tone not fading, “but you’ve probably had a hand in a dozen of these types of headline cases. I’ve never wondered but how much are cases like this worth?”

Epp shrugged, cool eyes never leaving Matthew. “They keep me in Zegna.” Epp extended a hand with the clipboard in it.

Matthew took it and glanced down. “Plus you get to use all the neat toys.” He began flipping through the sheets. “These are probability photographs, aren’t they?”

Matthew turned page after page, each one showing a possible outcome, most of them involving the couple being herded into a jail cell, or a police car or a courtroom. Each photo had a graph in the lower right-hand corner containing simple probability waves of varying heights. Matthew stopped at a photo of the couple sitting happily at home; he glanced at the graph in the corner and saw that the curve was barely more than a straight line. Matthew chuckled. Then he handed the clipboard back.

“I still don’t get it. Why bother with the,” he circled his finger in the air, looking around, “you know, the time tape stuff?”

“Special circumstances,” Epp said, reaching a hand out to take the clipboard back.

“And what might these special circumstances be, Epp? And what am I doing here?”

Epp paused. Matthew was struck by the fact that Epp seemed unsure of how to continue. Epp took a deep breath, his lips pursing in thought. Then he pointed. Matthew turned and looked at the form on the ground. “She’s a jogger. She wound up being their choice for victim. Like I said, it’s complicated. It’s also just awful bad luck.”

“Why?” Matthew asked, taking tentative steps towards the form lying on the ground.

“Matthew,” Epp paused again, the rarity of Epp being unsure was making Matthew’s nerves start to sit on edge. “Matthew, she’s yours.”

“Yeah?” Matthew asked, curious. He was creeping around now, moving very low to the ground, the back of the woman’s head the only thing visible. “I don’t remember doing her,” he said puzzled, “but it’s been a long time. I guess she could be one of mine.”

“She wasn’t a case of yours, Matthew.” Epp looked around, as if hoping for some help in saying what he had to say. When no help came he continued speaking. “She was your choice.”

Matthew’s body reacted before he did, his legs giving out as he leaned over the body so that he fell kneeling into the grass. “No,” he said in a whisper. He looked up at Epp, eyes stunned, his face showing nothing but denial. “NO,” he said, his voice rising in a shout. Shaky hands reached out and rolled the body over with a thump, her hair falling off of her face. Matthew sucked in a stuttering breath and looked down at the blood covering her shirt. He ran hands over her body, smoothing out her shirt, trying to wipe away the blood; he looked up at Epp again. “Fix her.”

“Matthew, that’s not how this works. She—”

“Fix her!” Matthew yelled. He stumbled up and began walking towards Epp, who held up his hands, trying to calm Matthew down. “You fix her!” Matthew said, his finger jabbing out behind him at where she lay. “You fix her right now!” Epp lowered his hands as Matthew approached.

She doesn’t die!” Matthew yelled in Epp’s face. One hand rose up and shoved Epp’s shoulder hard, “that was the deal,” he screamed, his eyes stinging now. “The bullet changed paths and went into me and she gets to live and I die. I die!” Matthew shouted, slapping his own chest. “Me! Not her!” And he pointed another finger back at the body.

“You chose life for her, and she’s had a decent one, as per the deal,” Epp said, calm enveloping him, “but immortality for her was never part of it. Her time has come.”

“Fix her,” Matthew said. Epp remained impassive. “Fuck you!” Matthew screamed, and he stormed off past Epp.

“You go blow off steam, Matthew,” Epp yelled out after him. “You walk this off and I’ll clean up here and I’ll meet you at the usual place.”

Before Matthew disappeared into the dark Epp saw him walk past the firefly and with one angry hand reach up and swat it out of the air.

—–

Matthew fumed down the street. His hands were in his pockets, his bowtie unstrung and dangling from his collar. He wasn’t sure where he was going; he barely recognized his surroundings. He was breathing heavily through his nose, the hot summer air pumping in and out of him like fuel. He spotted a couple walking towards him and he lowered his shoulder and walked into the girl, with a hush like a steam vent he wafted through her, eyebrows angry. “He’s cheating on you,” he thought, and then he was through her, past her, and two steps later he heard her turn and start cursing off the young man with her. A handful of coins appeared in his pocket and he ran his fingers through them.

Another pedestrian came into sight, a lone woman, and he never broke stride, just ducked his head and plowed through, baring his teeth as he went, and he heard the woman burst into sobs behind him and more change appeared in his pocket.

His cheeks were moist and with the flat of his hand he tried to wipe the tears away but they kept coming and he was walking through a group of street dwellers and drug dealers and behind him he heard a fist fight break out and the change in his pocket bulged then flattened into a couple of bills and he thumbed at the corners.

His eyes stung and his nose was running and now he tried the back of his hands but he couldn’t keep his cheeks dry and he heard someone calling his name. He spotted a group of tourists and thrust both hands into his pockets, angling his walk so he’d catch all of them square on. His lip curled up and his teeth were bared and he was only a few steps away from them when an arm caught him across his chest and he was being restrained.

“Matthew!” someone was shouting in his ear and he turned and saw Benjamin with his jowly face and rough beard. Benjamin’s clothes were burly, if not disheveled, and the belt of his trench coat never seemed to hang right. “Matthew, leave some for the rest of us, here,” Benjamin was laughing.

“What do you care about them for?” Matthew was staring at the family of tourists.

“I don’t care about them, I care about you.”

“Lemme do ‘em,” Matthew said, his body practically going limp under Benjamin’s restraining arm, as if he wasn’t even able to hold himself up anymore. “I got a good one for ‘em.”

“Okay, but then we go get a drink at the place, right? Maybe get your head back together?”

Matthew nodded and Benjamin let down his arm and gave him a shove. Matthew teetered on one foot, hopping along, passing through the family of tourists who began pointing at a map and arguing. Matthew looked at Benjamin from over the father’s shoulders. “Arguing over a map?” Benjamin said. “That was your big idea?”

“I don’t…” Matthew stopped talking, looked around confused. “This isn’t helping.”

“Come on,” Benjamin said, and they walked towards the street. “You have a fiver?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

Benjamin held up his hand with a five dollar bill in it and Matthew stood next to him doing the same. There was a whir and Matthew felt the wind in his hair as the five dollar bill vanished and then he was standing next to a statue of Ralph Kramden and looking up at steel girders painted aqua-green. Benjamin was over by a row of double glass doors holding one open. Matthew walked through into the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

They walked through the long hallway, mostly empty at this time of night, ugly brown brick walls rising up to the ceiling three stories above them, their feet stepping on tiling that looked like it had been decorated with a can of glue and the contents of a well used three-hole punch. They rode up an escalator and continued towards the back of the building until they reached another set of double glass doors. They walked through into the Port Authority bowling alley. On the right was the arcade, down the hall straight ahead were the lanes, Matthew and Benjamin turned left and walked into the bar.

“What do you think?” Benjamin asked, looking around at the bar half full of college students, bus drivers getting off their shift, bowlers, and anyone else sucked into drinking at the Port Authority. The bar was an island in the center of three walls of booths, most of which were full.

“I don’t know,” Matthew said, running the back of his hand over his forehead like he was testing to see if he had a fever. “You mind clearing a few seats? I think I’m through bumping skin tonight and I certainly don’t feel like going visible.”

“Sure thing, buddy,” Benjamin said and he walked to the farthest corner of the bar where a man was sitting between two empty stools. Benjamin leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear and the guy stood up and stormed out, a half drunk pint glass still sitting on the bar.

“Cheating wife?” Matthew asked, watching the guy leave.

“Thieving brother,” Benjamin said.

“Interesting,” Matthew said, sitting down.

Benjamin was fishing in his pocket as he pulled back the barstool next to Matthew. He put a stack of twenties on the bar as he sat down and with a wave of his hand a couple of cheap rocks glasses appeared filled with flat ice cubes and pale scotch. They sat in silence, sipping their drinks, listening to the bar around them. One drink finished, Matthew threw a twenty on the bar and another round appeared.

“It was 1985,” Matthew said, apropos of nothing. “We had married the year before when everyone said we weren’t ready. We knew we were ready. We thought we were ready, anyway. Who the hell is ever ready for marriage?” Benjamin nodded, sipping his drink, staring straight ahead, listening but not intruding. “Anyway,” Matthew went on, “we were living in Brooklyn in some god-awful apartment complex where the noise of the train was a welcome distraction from the mice in the walls. But, you know, we loved it. And we weren’t going to stay there forever of course. We had big plans.” He took a gulp of scotch, holding it on his tongue before clenching his teeth and swallowing it down.

“We went to a Mets game one night. Neither of us were fans or anything, that was the funny part. It was sort of a, ‘We’ve never done anything like this so why don’t we give it a try,’ kind of thing.” He shook his head. “I mean we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing and we left in the middle of the game and wandered down the wrong street and…well it was New York in the eighties.” His glass came up and a couple of ice cubes went into his mouth, he chewed them awhile.

“Anyway, there he was…I can’t even remember really what he looked like, but the gun I remember. And there were some words, it all gets a little jumbled and then the gun went off,” Matthew mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger, his thumb dropping, his mouth making a little “pow” sound. “And all I really remember is this rush of thought chased with pure adrenaline and all that was going through my head, over and over was, ‘Please be me not her, me not her, me not her, me not her…’” He sucked another ice cube into his mouth, got a good hold of it between his back teeth and crunched it down with a laugh.

“And then things get hazy,” Benjamin said, recognizing the laugh.

“And then things get hazy,” Matthew said with slightly drunken camaraderie and the two raised their glasses and clinked them together.

“Next thing I know,” Matthew went on, “I’m standing at my own funeral and this preposterously well dressed black man is talking to me about things I in no way understand. And he says his name is Epp. And he takes me under his wing.” Matthew breathed out a sad sigh and it came rushing back. He put his glass down on the bar with too much force and liquor splashed over his fingers. “And twenty-two years later she dies anyway.”

“It’s not Epp’s fault you know.”

“I know, I know,” Matthew held his alcohol soaked fingers up and looked around, then settled on wiping them off on his pants. “But you can’t really blame me for my reaction. I never gave this a whole lot of thought, I guess. It’s all sort of jumbled in my head.”

“Of course,” Benjamin said as if Matthew was blaming himself for things that he shouldn’t. “If you don’t think things through, things stay jumbled. That should be our motto.” Benjamin caught sight of a friend on the other side of the bar and he gave a smile and a nod of his head. “Anyway, the deal was never for our choice’s immortality, just that you’d go instead of them, and they’d have a shot at a decent life.”

“Is yours gone yet?”

“Mine? No, forty years later and she’s still puttering on, god bless her.”

“Yeah. Well I still feel like Epp could have filled me in a little better.”

“Ah. You can’t blame him. That’s just how he is, all impassive and what have you. You know why he’s like that don’t you?” Benjamin looked around like he was worried he was being watched. “It’s because he was a slave.”

“No shit? He’s been doing this for more than a hundred years?”

“That’s why he’s got the rank.”

“And we get cheap whisky.”

“Amen,” Benjamin raised his glass and held it towards Matthew who obligingly gave it another clink with his. “Anyway,” Benjamin placed his glass down and looked past Matthew, “oh shit.” There was a change in his demeanor, a straightening of his back and a quickening of his pulse. “He’s here.”

Matthew looked around and saw Epp coming through the bar towards them. “Yeah, he said he might drop by.” They watched Epp walk the bar, those who could see him giving curt nods like they were afraid to display any emotion around him. He was courteous in turn, waving and greeting those who he passed, but there was an aloofness about him that kept him detached.

“Hello, sir,” Benjamin said with a little nod of his large head as Epp came over to them.

“I don’t outrank you, Benjamin,” Epp said as he slid into the barstool on the other side of Matthew. “I keep telling you that.”

“Yes, sir,” Benjamin said. “Let me buy you a drink.” He threw another twenty on the bar and watched as it broke into a ten and some singles and another rocks glass appeared in front of Epp.

Epp picked up the glass slowly, turning it in the light, he swirled it gently under his nose and breathed in. Then he took a sip, letting it slide on his tongue, and then swallowed. He put the glass back down. “I don’t outrank you, Benjamin, but tonight I’m going to insist that you drink what I drink.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crisp stack of bills held together by a paper band. Two of these dropped on the bar and Benjamin stared at them from the corner of his eye, frozen in mid-drink. Matthew looked at Epp, then down at the two stacks of money.

The bands across the packets had “Five Thousand” written on them in orange letters and as Matthew watched they began to shake and shrink, depleting in size as three new crystal rocks glasses appeared on the bar in front of them. The glasses filled up with a new type of scotch. When Matthew looked back at the stacks of bills, there were only a few left.

“Sir, I can’t let you…” Benjamin started, but Epp waved him silent.

“Even for the immortal, Benjamin, life is too short to drink bad scotch.”

Matthew picked up his glass, amazed at how heavy it was and how cool the crystal felt. He smelled the liquor inside and just closed his eyes, enjoying it. Benjamin only stared down at the bar, afraid to go near it. Epp took a sip and smiled, then looked over and saw all of this. “Don’t worry. Next round’s on me as well.” He threw another two stacks of bills onto the bar.

Matthew dared a sip and Benjamin dared to pick his glass up. Much the same as before, the three sat drinking in silence, letting the whisky do the talking. More rounds came, and the conversation started up again, nothing important being said, just words being exchanged over a shared drink or two. After a few more Benjamin pushed his chair out and stood up a little wobbly. “I think I’m done for the night,” he said. “Want to come down to the East Village, Mattie? We’ll fuck with the hipsters and scrounge for change. It’ll be fun.”

Matthew laughed. “No, thanks, I think I’m just going to sit tight for awhile.”

“Suit yourself,” Benjamin said, easing his weight off his barstool. He caught Epp’s eye. “That’s some good scotch,” he said, stifling a burp, “I thank you for that, sir.”

He gave a couple of slaps on the shoulder as he walked past them, then exited out of the bar. Epp watched him go. “That guy will not listen to me when I tell him I don’t outrank him.”

“Don’t you?”

Epp turned to look at Matthew and Matthew instantly regretted what he had said Epp’s look was so disappointed. “Don’t tell me you think like him.”

“Well you do get to do a lot of pretty neat things that we don’t get to do.”

“It isn’t rank, Matthew. I can do those things because I have learned how to do them, not because some sanctioning body allows me to do them. I don’t get to use the tape because someone says I get to, I can use the tape because I’ve come to learn a few things about space-time. The elders meet together not to decide the rules for everyone else but because we like meeting together, we like exchanging ideas and lessons. But the pool of knowledge is open for anyone to drink from. We have no control over that. You should know that by now.”

“I feel like there’s a lot I should know by now.”

“It takes time,” Epp said, his voice soft and understanding after his small tirade. “You’ll get there. But the first thing you should do is stop listening to people like Benjamin. I know, he’s fun to share a drink with and I’ll stand him a round anytime, but he’s got a lot of things backwards. Like most newbies he seems to think that we’re in control here. They make their first choice and they get a taste of this new world and they think the meat bags are somehow below them.” Epp looked around at the regular people drinking in the bar all around.

“We do seem to hold a lot of the cards,” Matthew said, and to illustrate his point he waved a hand through the head of a guy walking past his stool. The guy decided then and there to cheat on his taxes.

“But it’s a lot more give and take than most newbies ever care to realize. They have their fun and then their choice straight-lines and then they’re gone. But we share this world, and we use what the mortals come up with. I mean, take the tape again. Do you realize that when I first learned that trick the tape didn’t even exist yet? I mean I had to pound wooden stakes into the ground, and then spool this spindly twine around them to mark off an area. But then tape comes along and I get to use tape. You know? Or take the money,” Epp dropped another two blocks of cash down on the table. “We use money because a symbol for our currency is damned handy but it’s only a symbol. Most newbies never bother to question that.”

Epp looked over at Matthew, who was watching the cash shaking on the table, slowly depleting itself as his glass filled again with scotch. “Look at you,” Epp said. “I forget sometimes how far along you aren’t. You’re picturing some lady at a desk somewhere tallying up what’s been spent and what’s been earned. You think the elders run the money, don’t you?”

“Well,” Matthew said, clearly thinking something along those lines but also not sure he was so crazy for thinking it.

“It’s just the easiest way for us to visualize what is happening, but there is no bank of accountants somewhere that cuts your paycheck when you do a meat bag, Matthew. It’s just how we come to express the notion of how much you’ve pushed and how much they’ve pushed back. I mean, do you think there’s an exchange rate?”

Matthew’s face was a wrinkle of puzzlement that was part him staring at the money and part scotch. “It doesn’t matter what it looks like, Matthew.” Epp reached a hand out, he flexed his fingers a few times, then made a fist and pounded down on the bar. At first Matthew didn’t notice what was happening, the sound that came out of the bar was so booming, so unnatural, that the sound was all he could focus on, but before Epp’s fist came down again he caught a glimpse of the pile of money and saw that it was now some form of large silver coin he had never seen before. Epp banged the bar again and the coins jumped and Matthew was pretty sure he was looking at Spanish Doubloons. Epp pounded, the coins jumped and Matthew caught sight of something that must have been Chinese, then a coin that looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place, then something he’d never seen before, then back to a stack of crisp $100 bills.

“Neat trick,” Matthew said.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

 

Probability Angels
(The Matthew and Epp Stories)
by Joseph Devon
4.2 stars – 53 reviews!
Kindle Price: 99 cents

KND Freebies: Intense technothriller QUBIT is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

In this multilayered technothriller, an elite hacker, a beautiful CIA agent and an ambitious gangster circle each other in a dangerous game of international intrigue — where the stakes are higher than anyone can imagine.

Qubit

by Finn Mack

4.6 stars – 13 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

An ambitious Singapore gangster recruits an elite hacker to steal a devastatingly powerful quantum computer and hijack the world’s financial markets. Meanwhile, a beautiful streetwise CIA agent is determined to foil their plan in a case that could make or break her career.

With settings ranging from Detroit to Singapore to the slums of Bihar, India (the “Sicily of India”), Qubit examines both the vulnerability of our cryptographic infrastructure and corruptibility of our financial systems. The story features international intrigue, a violent gang war, an unlikely love story, and an intricate cryptographic chess match that takes place as the global economy teeters on the brink of collapse.

5- star praise for Qubit:

“Brilliant…Well written with complex characters… An author to follow.”

“Great suspenseful read! Cool subject matter, compelling characters, and gripping story!”

“Outstanding! …characters…are wonderfully fleshed out.”

an excerpt from

Qubit

by Finn Mack

 

Copyright © 2014 by Finn Mack and published here with his permission
Part 1
Drinks Are On Me1

Renaissance Center (Detroit Riverfront)
Wednesday, January 17th
2:00 p.m. EST (Eastern Standard Time)

Lock hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his pockets, a futile defense against the whip-cold wind rushing angrily towards Jefferson Avenue from the icebound Detroit River. Dark and soaring cylinders of glass and steel loomed over him like implacable gods. Their very name — collectively,The Renaissance Center — was a promise of a future that had never come, a fitting monument to a city that had lost its way.

Perhaps parking in the garage farthest from his destination was thus a fitting, if entirely accidental, ritual. After all, weren’t he and the city self-similar parts of a mysterious socioeconomic fractal? Anyway, it was a costly mistake when it was twenty degrees below freezing. At last, he approached the 200 Tower, eyeing the revolving glass doors longingly. Beyond those doors lay warmth.

And a job interview.

Lock clenched his jaw at the familiar sensation of rusted gears grinding up his intestines. Why did he bother with these things? Before he even finished the thought, he knew the answer. The email inquiry had gotten his attention with those two magic words: quantum cryptography.

Lock found himself coming up behind a small, round figure that appeared to be wearing at least two heavy coats and three scarves, one of which secured a woolen cap, and another of which might have been a tattered blanket. A few curly white locks of hair had tumbled out from the top of this bundle, which Lock belatedly realized was an old woman. He forced himself to slow down to match her gait, reaching forward to help her push the door forward. The old woman turned back to him slowly with something that looked at first like a sneer, but after a moment, Lock realized she was trying to smile. Her face was moist with tears, perhaps from the cold. Lock nodded at her and forced himself to smile back — it was probably more of a grimace — barely restraining himself from pushing her forward towards the warmth.

With the old woman shuffling steadily forward in the wedge in front of him, Lock pushed against the door, hearing the frustrated gasp of the wind as the door sealed behind him. He paused for a moment to savor the relief — and to let the old woman get clear of the door.

What was he still doing in cold, wintry Detroit? Why not move somewhere warmer? Somewhere he could find a decent job? Of course, he knew the answer to that question, too.

Sophie was here.

Lock made his way to an open elevator and got on, unbuttoning his coat, being careful as always with the third button, which dangled from the jacket by a single worn thread. And, as he always did, he reminded himself to take the coat to the cleaners to fix the button. He felt the gears grinding again as the floor number displayed above the door measured his ascent.

Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

He’d never used his real name in connection with his interest in quantum cryptography, which meant someone had gone to no small amount of trouble to find him. It wasn’t just a matter of tracing his IP address because he anonymized all his Internet activity using a program called Tor, for which he’d proudly submitted several patches.

He walked down a poorly lit hallway with dingy blue carpet before arriving in front of glass doors, upon which were etched the words “Patel and Associates,” and through which he recognized what appeared to be a reception area. Lock took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

In stark contrast to the hallway outside, the office itself was surprisingly well-appointed, featuring burnished wood floors, a perky ficus tree that nearly reached the twelve-foot ceiling, and a thick Persian-style carpet that made Lock want to take his shoes and socks off. The air smelled vaguely of…incense? Whoever these people were, they weren’t recruiters.

He introduced himself to a caramel-skinned receptionist with a mole on her cheek and silky black hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. She forced her mouth into a semblance of a smile and told him to have a seat. Lock guessed that he’d interrupted a riveting Facebook session.

He settled his lanky frame into a comfortable brown suede couch and picked up a copy of that morning’s Wall Street Journal. He took in the headlines with morose-orbed blue eyes and attempted to run his fingers through what would have been stringy blond hair, before remembering that he’d shaved his head. Kafka had convinced him it would look sexy. He ought to have known it was a prank. It was Kafka’s way of encouraging him to get over his breakup with Mandy. As he pretended to read an article (“Buggy Trading Systems Put Markets At Risk,” warned the headline), he wondered if he ought to have worn something besides a sweatshirt and jeans. At least they were freshly laundered. And he’d worn his new bright-blue Converse hi-tops.

Lock caught himself tapping his foot. There really was only one reason why anyone would be interested in an ex-con with a penchant for quantum cryptography. Especially in the wake of the announcement of the Wave Nine. Well, if the Feds were going to pin something on him, he might as well deal with it. Maybe he could be like DJB or Aaron Swartz and take the government head on —

“Mr. Cairnes, Mr. Patel will see you now,” chimed the secretary.

Lock looked up from his paper with an affected arching of his eyebrows. He folded the paper back up, set it down, and stood, discretely wiping his palms on his jeans. He walked to the office door, which was closed, and looked over to the secretary — was he supposed to simply open the door, or knock? She nodded wordlessly. Lock opened the door and walked in.

“Ah, Mr. Cairnes,” said a man in a shiny gray silk suit, standing up behind a large desk made of a dark, heavy-looking wood. The muscles of his round face were relaxed. He blinked slowly and smiled with a faint air of condescension, as though he were amused by a child playing. He gestured toward an even larger black leather couch across the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Lock took in his surroundings, which were entirely consistent with the lobby, and included the addition of two wall-sized pieces of art and a spectacular view of Detroit’s west side and the snow-muted expanse of its frozen river. If he had an office like this, maybe Sophie would look up to him more, like she did Dennis, her stepfather. This office was even nicer than the one Dennis had in Bloomfield Hills.

“You can call me Lock,” he offered, easing himself into the couch. “What is it you guys do again?”

“We’ll get to that, I’m sure,” replied Kirin, strolling over to the couch. His heels clicked on the wood floor until he reached the border of a thick intricately patterned carpet. Lock noticed that his shoes were immaculately polished. He looked down at his new blue Converse, which suddenly seemed tacky. Kirin reached out and offered his hand. “Kirin Patel.”

Lock looked up and took his hand, shaking it awkwardly. Shaking hands was one of those strange customs, like wearing ties, that seemed to be from another time and place. He did his best, certain that his gawky handshake was unimpressive.

However, Kirin seemed unconcerned as he sat down in an expansive chair, his jacket parting to reveal a slight paunch, his hands placed casually, palms down, on the wide, flat armrests. Lock decided he needed a chair like that for his living room. His vibrating recliner suddenly struck him as…juvenile.

“Mr. Cairnes — Lock — I’d like to offer you a job,” began Kirin. He reached down to adjust his bright-blue pocket square, as though he’d suddenly noticed that it was out of place. As he looked up, Lock thought Kirin looked like a man who felt as if he’d gotten away with something. “It pays quite well,” continued Kirin, “and I think you’ll find the work very interesting.” He paused and leaned forward slightly. “How does that sound?”

“A job?” Lock heard himself echo dully. He looked out the far window at the cold blue sky, darkened by the window’s tint, and rubbed his hands together slowly. Perhaps this really was just a job interview. However, Kirin had skipped past the usual pointless questions and gone right to offering him the job. And there was still the question of how they’d known about his interest in quantum cryptography. “Sounds good, I guess,” Lock mumbled.

Kirin leaned back, looking surprised. “Don’t you want to know what kind of job it is?”

“Sure,” said Lock, his eyes wandering to the paintings on the wall. The one on the left was white with what looked to him like a brightly colored whirlpool viewed from above — various shades of reds and blues, with a smattering of yellows. Lock decided he liked it and wondered how much it had cost.

“I’d like you to build me a quantum computer,” said Kirin, an expectant smile on his face.

Lock laughed, partly because of the sheer absurdity of the statement and partly out of nervousness. What the hell was this guy up to? “A quantum computer?” he parroted, his eyes coming back to Kirin’s, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” said Kirin, looking mildly offended. Lock realized he must have sounded dismissive. Kirin elaborated. “What if I told you that we had licensed the technology from Coherence Technologies?”

Lock stopped laughing. Kirin didn’t look or act like he knew Shor’s algorithm from a brute-force dictionary attack. And no one actually called them Coherence Technologies. They were CoTech, or maybe Coherence. “For the Wave Nine? The NSA locked that up.” Hadn’t they? One rumor on the message boards was that the Wave Nine would be released once the Internet’s cryptography infrastructure had been upgraded to use algorithms that weren’t vulnerable to quantum computing-based attacks. Another rumor held that the NSA already had a quantum computer, and simply didn’t want anyone infringing on their monopoly.

Kirin ignored his objection. “What I’d like to do is hire you to build a quantum computer based on the specifications from Coherence Technologies.”

Lock’s eyes narrowed. “I can think of several folks in Ann Arbor alone who are probably better qualified than I am for something like that.”

Kirin waved his hand. “Nonsense, Lock. We need someone with, shall we say, practical hands-on experience, as much as we someone who understands the physics. Just like the Chief Scientist at Coherence Technologies. There really aren’t that many people like him. Or like you. At least not who would be interested in this job, mind you. The private sector isn’t for everyone. And, again, we’re happy to pay you a generous salary.”

Lock sat back and took a deep breath, his eyes wandering again to the view of the river outside. Maybe this was for real. Maybe he was so accustomed to failure at this point he couldn’t even trust an opportunity when it was handed to him. He took another breath and tried to focus on the pieces that didn’t yet fit. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”

“Of course!” Kirin clapped his hands together as if something had been agreed on, showing his teeth with a Cheshire-cat smile.

Lock stared down at the glass-topped coffee table, which had one of those interactive magnet sculptures, presently featuring the outline of someone’s hand. Lock guessed it was the receptionist’s. He pursed his lips. The heel of his foot began moving up and down, seemingly of its own accord. He stopped breathing. “I get it,” he intoned, looking up slowly. “You haven’t actually licensed their technology.”

Kirin’s smiled slipped away for a moment, but then he began to laugh and rub his hands together. “Yes, you’re very clever. Not surprising, I suppose. That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Anyway, right. We haven’t actually licensed the technology. So we also need you to…ah, how shall I put this?”

“You need me to steal it,” interrupted Lock, his eyes closed.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Kirin, emphasizing the point with a ringed finger.

Lock slapped his hands on his thighs, preparing to get up. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Kirin — ”

“Kirin, just Kirin is fine. My last name is — ”

“ — but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“We haven’t even talked about the money — ”

“It’s not the money. I just can’t help you.” Lock stood up.

Kirin quickly rose too, moving a step toward Lock. “Don’t you want to build a quantum computer? Wouldn’t you find that exciting?”

Lock raised his hands as if to defend himself from Kirin’s advance. “Sure. It’d be interesting. But…well, I’m going to go.” He began walking toward the door.

“How about a salary of a…a million dollars annually?” asked Kirin.

Lock was halfway across the room. He turned. Even Kirin seemed surprised by the offer. He was apparently desperate — although Lock now understood why. He was being offered everything he’d wanted — but he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t risk going back to jail again. He couldn’t risk losing whatever was left of Sophie’s childhood. And, hell, it was probably a sting by the FBI or something anyway. “The answer is no. Got it?” He turned back toward the door and walked out of the room.

Donning his jacket in the elevator, he exhaled, his weight lifting slightly off his feet as he descended. He glared up at the descending floor numbers displayed above the door. “God dammit,” he cursed, slapping the burnished aluminum elevator wall, and wondering why he’d bothered coming at all.

Sentosa Cove, Singapore • The Li Home
Thursday, January 18th
9:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Vipul Rathod felt a bit giddy as he shifted the black Acura SUV into park. Traveling without his usual entourage was liberating. And especially so since he’d just pulled into the ample driveway of one of his family’s chief rivals. If there was ever a place he was supposed to have his bodyguard, this was it.

He got out and walked along a curving sidewalk toward Li Mun’s sprawling estate. The morning sun seemed to make everything shinier, and there was a nice breeze blowing in off the ocean. It seemed like an awfully nice day to be contemplating murder.

He reached the porch and noticed a child’s scooter lying on its side. Did the old fattie have grandchildren? He pressed a button next to the large double doors and heard chimes playing a pleasant, familiar-sounding tune. He stepped back and waited, crossing his arms and looking askance at the neighboring lot. It was just as impressive as Li Mun’s. Perhaps I should get one of these places for myself, he thought.

The door opened just wide enough for a tall, severe-looking man to glare at him. “You’re Vipul Rathod?” he said with a heavy Chinese accent. Fresh off the boat.

“Yes,” replied Vipul.

The door opened a little wider. Vipul stepped into a large tiled foyer. “Raise your arms,” said the first man. He raised them and felt two sets of hands patting him down. They found nothing, just as he knew they wouldn’t, because he carried no weapons. He didn’t need them.

“Right this way,” said the stockier man, leading him into a large living room that was almost completely white, with white marble floors and patches of white rugs, as well as a white suede couch that formed a cushioned perimeter around the room. Light streamed in from two large sliding doors, offering a view of the ocean, which glimmered like a vast display-case of diamonds. He made his way into the room slowly, taking in the various details. A telescope. A large painting of a black circle on a — what else? — white canvas. A glass table with obsidian carvings of…something.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” said a woman’s voice behind him. Vipul turned. The stocky man was gone. The woman before him was so beautiful his knees nearly buckled. Waves of black hair cascaded down to her elegant neck. She had high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with golden irises, and lips that made him think of fresh raspberries. “My father will be with you shortly,” she said, and Vipul became light-headed. She was still talking. “Can I offer you a drink? Some coffee? Orange juice? Or mineral water, perhaps?”

“No,” Vipul managed to croak, his tongue sticking momentarily to the roof of his mouth. “Thank you.” He tried to smile, but realized that it hadn’t quite come off. It never did. He wasn’t much for smiling. Or women, for that matter. But this one…he wondered if she thought he was too small, too boyish looking. Or maybe she went for that. Women often told him he was —

“Very well, then. Like I said, my father will be in momentarily.” She turned and walked down a hall that led out of the vast living room. Vipul’s head tilted as he watched her hips sway with each step. She disappeared around a corner, and Vipul was two steps into the hallway himself before realizing he’d started following her. That was Li Mun’s daughter? To hell with my brother, he thought. I should be proposing a dynastic marriage. Maybe his brother had the same idea. Maybe that’s why he’d never mentioned the daughter. There was already enough bad blood between them as it was, without throwing Helen of Troy into the mix.

The thought of his real reason for coming focused him. He turned back toward the living room and sat down in a corner section of the expansive couch, then leaned back and mentally rehearsed the imminent encounter. A few moments later, he heard a shuffling sound. He turned and saw the old man entering the room; he was impressively rotund, with dark pockets of flesh beneath heavily lidded eyes, and sported a disastrous comb-over. Hard to believe, thought Vipul, he’s one of the most powerful men in Singapore.

Vipul stood up. Li Mun waved his hand as though to say Vipul needn’t have bothered. He shuffled over to a large lounge chair directly opposite Vipul and fell slowly backward into it. He stared at Vipul, raising his eyebrows and frowning slightly. Vipul said nothing.

They stared at each other.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” asked Li Mun finally.

Vipul attempted a smile again, but this time the icy overtones were intentional. “Nice to see you too, Li Mun.”

Li Mun glared, motionless.

Vipul found himself looking down at his brown loafers. He wasn’t accustomed to being stared down. Usually, he was the one doing the staring. He forced his eyes up to meet Li Mun’s gaze. “I’ll get to the point,” he said, his voice sounding too wispy. This is it, he told himself. Get it together. “We have a dispute, correct?” He paused, but Li Mun simply kept staring at him. “But I think we can both agree that my brother is a stubborn man.” His tone was sounding better now, a bit lower. “We can probably also agree that stubbornness is not a trait of a good leader.” Ah, that’s too low. Don’t want to sound like you’re trying too hard. “Resolving disputes like ours requires a willingness to come — ”

“I’m not going to kill your fucking brother for you.”

Vipul could feel his heartbeat accelerate. Li Mun had skipped ahead of the script. How would his father have responded? Of course, that was an absurd question. His father was dead. And even if he’d been alive, old Bikram would have surely grabbed Vipul by the earlobe and — focus. “Ah,” was all he managed to say.

“Anything else?”

If nothing else, the old man had taught him not to give up. And Oxford and Harvard had taught him persuasiveness. In theory, anyway. “I understand. You’re concerned about the cost.”

“The cost? It’s the heat. Are you a child? In this town? I gotta lay up for months for something like that.”

“Which…costs you…money,” prompted Vipul, trying to conceal his impatience.

“Exactly,” said Li Mun.

Vipul watched the old man. He had barely moved since he’d sat down. Even his lips barely moved. He reminded Vipul of his old Zen master, Yuan. Except that Yuan wasn’t vain enough to bother with a comb-over and wasn’t obese. “But…if I were running things, you and I…I think we’d get along much better.”

“You’ll concede the points if I kill your brother. No. It’s not worth it.”

Vipul suddenly realized Li was bargaining with him. For a moment, he wanted to play just to see if he could win against such a formidable opponent. But then he remembered why he was really here. The points meant nothing to him. Let the cranky old bastard think he’d outwitted Bikram’s overeducated younger son. That actually made things easier. Vipul knew that the dispute between his brother and Li Mun was a complicated affair that came down to how they divvied up the profits from selling whores, mostly from India and China. Li Mun wanted a larger share of the Rathod organization’s profits because he provided most of the political protection. “Three points, then.”

Li Mun blinked slowly and shook his head.

For God’s sake, man, Vipul wanted to yell. He took a deep breath. It’s just a game. And none of this matters anyway. “Four,” replied Vipul. I have to at least make it look like I’m trying.

“Five.”

“Four is plenty. With all due respect.”

“With all due respect, go fuck yourself. We both know you’re a dead man without me. You’re lucky I don’t ask for points on your whole fucking business.”

Vipul sat back. A crooked smile played across his face. Li Mun probably understood his situation better than he did. He was a master. When this is all over, he thought, I’m going to marry your daughter and then study everything you do. “What’s your daughter’s name?” he asked, surprising himself.

“What? What do you care?”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“Five?”

“Give me five on the rest, and I’ll throw in my daughter.”

Vipul tried to laugh. He wasn’t good at it. He always risked sounding like a bleating sheep. He’d need to work on that. The important thing was that Li’s joke meant they had a deal. It was an awful deal by any ordinary standards. He’d have a hard time selling it to Anand. But they had a deal, nonetheless. Now he just needed to —

“How do you know your brother wasn’t here first?”

Vipul had begun standing up and so was caught half-sitting and half-standing. He hesitated for a moment and decided to stand. Further discussion just created unnecessary risk that the deal might go sideways. “I don’t,” he replied crisply and began walking toward Li Mun to shake on their deal.

Of course, if Satish had already proposed a deal, either Vipul had just made a better one, or he’d be dead momentarily. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t played hardball — and certain that he was going to walk out of Li’s home alive.

Because there was no way his stubborn brother would have agreed to five points.

Jurong East, Singapore • Katya’s Apartment
Thursday, January 18th
9:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Katya Brittain absentmindedly stirred her coffee with a spoon, even though she hadn’t put any sugar or cream in it yet. Her compact figure was curled up in the corner of an undersized yet abundantly cushioned sofa that she had selected specifically so that she could curl up in it each morning. Her Medusean black hair was pulled tightly back into a pony-tail, specifically so that she could feel the air-conditioning caress her neck. She stared into the screen of her laptop with dark and curious eyes, while balancing the laptop itself expertly across one of her thighs. She held her World’s Greatest Daughter coffee mug with one hand and stirred nothing into the coffee with the other. The mug had been specifically chosen to remind her of home, since, by necessity, almost nothing else in her modest apartment could.

A grainy black-and-white video was playing on her laptop. She watched as a man approached the entrace to a large resort home. She set the coffee mug down on the end table next to her, which itself had been carefully selected specifically so that it would serve as an extension to the sofa and allow her to set her coffee mugs on it without needing to pay too much attention to what she was doing. Several mugs’ worth of coffee had been spilled over the years because of tables that were either too high or too low, and Katya had been determined to bring an end to that particular tragedy.

She dragged her finger across the trackpad, effectively rewinding the video, and then hit the spacebar on the keyboard to allow her to advance, frame by frame. Once in a while, she would stop and fire off an exotic sequence of keystrokes and mouse gestures that resulted in sending the captured frames to her printer, which was on the other side of the room next to a dying fern, a plant she’d selected specifically because it wasn’t supposed to die.

She hopped up from the easy chair and slid across the floor in her stockinged feet, skidding in front of the printer in a practiced move. She picked up the photos and studied them for a moment. She found their subject to be boyishly handsome. Maybe he’s dating the daughter, she conjectured. She walked over to a bare desk in front of a window, a plastic-and-metal affair that hadn’t been selected specifically for any reason at all because Katya rarely used it, except to set things on it, which is what she did with the photos. She stared out the window, which gave her a view of the rooftops of a number of other apartment buildings and then, peeking out from behind them some distance away, the lush green of the parks surrounding Jurong Lake. Beyond that, she mused, where the wharfs and the Singapore Straight, and then, of course, Malaysia and the Indian Ocean. She looked back at the grainy photo that lay on top of the others, at a young man squinting in the sunlight, his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked vaguely haunted. Probably just another cad chasing after Li Mun’s daughter. Still, she’d ask Ong Goh about him, just in case.

                                   2

Corktown, Detroit • Mad Dog’s Tavern
Thursday, January 18th
11:00 p.m. EST (Eastern Standard Time)

“A million dollars?” asked Kafka incredulously, shocks of black hair emerging at unexpected angles from the top of his oblong head.

“I could have probably gotten two,” replied Lock, finishing a sip of beer. He looked across the bar at the old photo of “Mad Dog” Sullivan, an angry-looking Irish gangster who was the bar’s namesake. Lock loved the antique feel of the place — the bar had originally been a speakeasy back when Detroit was the principal port of entry for liquor coming in from Canada. With the red brick walls and the gaslights glowing in their frosted sconces, it was as though the bar was part of some hidden, timeless alley.

“Two million? Are you kidding me?” Kafka stared straight at Lock through his thick-framed glasses. They’d fallen out of fashion a few years earlier, but Kafka hadn’t cared. He’d been wearing the same glasses since before they were in fashion to begin with.

Lock gave him a sidelong glance and couldn’t suppress a wry smile. “Yeah, he threw out a million when he realized I was walking out. Hell, maybe I could get him up to three. Or five.”

“Lock, you guys need another round?” asked Vicky from farther down the bar, a towel thrown over her shoulder. She wore her dark-brown hair back, and Lock admired the creative ways she found to accentuate an already prominent bosom. Tonight her strategy involved a black T-shirt, torn open at the neckline to form a ragged V-neck, with the words “Ask me if I care” emblazoned across the front in white gothic script.

“Sure, Vicky, but when are they going to get some real Irish girls in here?” asked Lock.

Vicky gave him an exaggerated frown but said nothing, grabbing two glasses from beneath the bar and filling them from a tap.

“So are you going to take it?” asked Kafka.

Lock leaned sideways and sneered. “Really? You have to ask me that?”

Kafka shrugged, as if protesting his innocence. “I don’t know, man. You just get in and get out. Also, fuck man…building a quantum computer? You’d do that for free.”

Lock shook his head vigorously. “I just can’t risk it.”

“I get that, when we were talking a few Ben Franklin’s to change someone’s grades. But…this is the real deal, man. This is…how’d they get your name, anyway?”

“Here are you are, gentlemen,” offered Vicky, setting the two full pint glasses in front of them.

“Vicky, does my friend Lock here look like a criminal to you?” asked Kafka.

“Nah. He just looks tragic.”

“Tragic?” asked Lock, straightening his posture. “I look tragic?”

“Yeah, you got those tragic eyes.” Vicky gave him a sly smile before wheeling and heading back down to the other end of the bar.

Lock shook his head slightly and took a swig from his beer, marveling at the myriad tip-maximizing tactics that Vicky had mastered.

“So how’d they get your name?” Kafka pressed.

“Don’t know. That’s a good question.”

“Message boards, maybe?”

“Maybe. The thing is…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re right. I would do it for free. Imagine having your own quantum computer. That’d be something. I’d love to try Grover’s algorithm on something besides a simulator. You know, for real. Actually see what kind of crazy things I can do with it.”

“What’s the big deal with quantum computers again? I mean, I know that they have qubits instead of bits, but I always sort of forget the details…”

Lock gazed at the back of the bar as though a movie were projected on it. “Well, the easiest way to get it, is to think about simulating quantum mechanical interactions. We can model them with wave functions, but, on a transistor-based computer, running those models is relatively slow because we’re translating wave functions into a bunch of logic operations.”

“Ones and zeroes…”

“Right. On a quantum computer, however, we aren’t using transistors, we’re using the state of a quantum particle directly. For example, the spin — ”

“Is that Black Irish playing? I think that’s Black Irish.”

“ — of an electron or the polarity of a photon. Yes, that’s Black Irish.”

“I thought so.” Kafka returned his attention to Lock, with mock seriousness. “Continue, please, professor.”

“You asked the damn question. Anyway, naturally, our simulation runs much faster, because, in a sense, it’s not really a simulation anymore. We’re actually changing the state of quantum particles.”

“Like if we wanted to model the effect of weed on the brain, the best way to do it would be to actually smoke some weed.”

Lock smiled in spite of himself and sipped from his pint glass. “Sure. I guess. The thing is, lots of things are based on wave functions, not just quantum particles. To use your analogy of the brain, we know humans are really good at pattern recognition. Like I can recognize you or Vicky. I’d probably recognize you even if you grew a mustache and put on a hat.”

“Or if you were really stoned.”

“Also, yes. But…where was I? Oh, yeah. Pattern recognition is useful for other things, too, like diagnoising medical conditions. So it’d be real useful if we could hook up transistor-based computers to brain-based computers to do pattern recognition. But we can’t because we don’t know how to build brains.”

“Which is too damn bad.”

“But we do know how to build quantum computers. Thanks to CoTech. It was hard problem because quantum particles are really small, obviously, and really unstable.”

“This is all coming back to me now. Each qubit can have more information than a bit on transistor-based computers. Because it’s a wave form? So lots of qubits allows for really complex wave forms.”

“Exactly. It’s like an MP3 file. It’s just a big, complex wave form. But there’s enough information there for us to hear Black Irish.”

“And then you can use a different set of algorithms, like Fourier transforms.”

“Right, because they operate directly on wave functions. Those algorithms run blindingly fast on a quantum computer because the computer’s state already is a wave form, not a bunch of switches that are pretending to be a wave form.”

“Ah, that’s right. And we know how to use Fourier transforms to do things like integer factorization, which normally take exponential time — “

“Well, not exponential, but…almost, yeah.”

Kafka frowned disapprovingly. “As I was saying. Finding prime factors takes a long time on transistor-based computers. But on a quantum computer, since we can use Fourier transforms, we can use a different algorithm, and it runs much faster.”

“In polynomial time. For really large numbers this is a big difference. Seconds, instead of years. Most of the cool things you can do with quantum computers are based on that idea: algorithms that use wave functions, which we have to simulate with bits and bytes, run much faster on qubits, because qubits are wave forms already.”

“I remember you running those simulations. What was that language?”

“QCL. Yeah. I was always trying to show you some cool new algorithm.”

“Yeah,” said Kafka. “But I just wanted to play Super Mario.”

Lock laughed and looked down into his beer. “Yeah, and that fucking game where you had to rescue Zelda and never did.”

Kafka chuckled. “Yeah. That game was awesome. Dodongo dislikes smoke!”

Lock shook his head. “We thought we had it all figured it out.”

“Hey, we had a good time.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Right. Sorry. I just meant — ”

Lock waved his hand without looking up. “Forget it. The thing is…”

“What?”

Lock took a long draught from his pint glass. “Stealing it. That’s a different story. And I’m not even sure I could build it, even if I had the plans. I mean, you need diamond crystals, finely calibrated magnetic fields — ”

“But that’s the whole idea of stealing the specs. All that stuff would be in there.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But if there’s one detail left out…”

“So…you’re thinking about it?”

“No, man. I mean, of course I’m thinking about it. You know, like I think about maybe one day I’m gonna sleep with Vicky. But not really. I told you. Too risky.”

“Two million dollars is a lotta cheddar, though.”

“Hell, for all I know, it’s an FBI sting or something.”

“A sting? Wouldn’t that be entrapment?”

Lock looked up and found himself amused by Kafka’s earnestness. “You don’t think they’d just lie about it? I’d rather not be the martyr.”

Kafka lifted his glass. “I hear that.”

Lock sank into the aural ambience of laughter and hushed voices and another indie band that he couldn’t quite place playing on the jukebox.

“Hey,” said Kafka. Lock felt a wiry hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t it your fucking birthday?”

Lock shrugged.

“So what are we doing to celebrate?” demanded Kafka.

“Not much,” answered Lock. “I’m opening tomorrow.”

“Aw. Why didn’t you ask for the time off?”

“Need the hours. Every time I do that, Rich cuts my damn hours.”

“Come on, man.” Kafka sat up and looked around the bar. “We need to at least get you laid.”

Lock frowned. “You make it sound like that only happens once a year.”

“Well, since Mandy dumped your ass…”

“I dumped her,” insisted Lock.

Kafka raised his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I just remember you sitting on my couch — ”

“Oh, like you’ve never had a weak moment.”

Vicky seemed to appear from nowhere. “Hey, what about Sophie?” she asked.

“What about her?” asked Lock.

“Are you guys doing anything?”

Lock puzzled over Vicky’s apparent ability to participate in a dozen conversations at once. Yet another tip-maximizing skill. “Yeah. I’m taking her and Krista snowboarding.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Lock nodded and took another sip from his beer. “If I’m lucky, she’ll come over afterwards and we can rent a movie and order a pizza. She used to love that. But now…”

“She’s sixteen, Lock,” counseled Vicky. “That’s all. She’s just outgrown it.”

“She’s outgrown me.”

“Nah,” said Vicky. Lock looked up just as she winked at him and scampered away again.

“Two million dollars,” mused Kafka, cocking an eyebrow. “You could buy Sophie her own slope.”

Lock regarded his friend warily from the corner of his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Or maybe I just work for the FBI.”

Pioneer Wharf, Singapore
Saturday, January 20th
4:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Katya put down the field glasses and wiped her brow. Her black Lycra tights felt constricting in the night’s thick, damp heat. She leaned back against a large shipping container, concealed in its shadow. After counting ten deep breaths, she peered cautiously from around the corner, raising her field glasses to her eyes.

Li Mun was speaking to a dozen men in black suits who stood around him in a semicircle. Behind them were four black Mercedes SUVs. Katya found Li Mun’s presence here puzzling. The day before, she’d noticed a spike in the chatter from Li Mun’s lieutenants. They never said much, and what they did say was nearly impossible to make sense of, even after months of listening in. But in her years in the field, she’d learned to infer a great deal through context. How many calls had been made? How far apart were they? Did the speakers sound tense? She knew something was happening tonight, even if she didn’t know what.

She’d picked up Li Mun’s cavalcade after they had crossed the bridge leaving the Li Estate on Sentosa Island. The use of a private wharf like this one would normally have suggested to Katya they were smuggling in young women. But there was no reason for Li Mun to concern himself with such a routine event.

Two more black Mercedes SUVs pulled up, and more men in black suits began spilling out of them. There was a strange tension in their movements, but Katya couldn’t quite identify what it was. Abruptly, she recognized the man who got out of the rearmost vehicle: Satish Rathod. Now it all started to make sense. The Rathods were a relatively small-time crime family, not nearly as influential as the Li Triad, and certainly not Triad. But they were players, nonetheless. Probably here to negotiate some sordid business arrangement.

The two men shook hands, encircled by what amounted to a platoon’s worth of nervous soldiers. In their midst, the two principals chatted easily, like old friends. Katya hadn’t bothered setting up mikes or cameras — the place was too wide open. She was probably too close as it was.

She leaned back against the shipping container and took another deep breath. This was something of a letdown. She’d been hoping for a breakthrough — perhaps a meeting with the trade minister, or at least the deputy minister. She considered just packing up and leaving. But then she thought of Ong Goh. Another trick that nearly a decade in the field had taught her — information was currency. Maybe she’d learn something that would be useful to the SPF. After all, they needed a warrant to do surveillance here. Whatever was happening, she was the only way they’d ever know about it. And although the CIA was on friendly terms with the SPF, and she was on good terms with her contact, Ong Goh, it never hurt to come bearing gifts.

She squatted down to fish around in a black canvas bag she’d brought with her. She pulled out a small black camera and then slowly peered around the corner again. She heard the rumble of a boat and then saw its outline as it approached the dock. The running lights were off. She heard voices calling out — they were guiding the vessel in. Everyone was now facing the shore, which meant there wasn’t much point in taking pictures because there were no faces. Still, she held the camera in position. They’d turn around eventually. She’d snap a few pictures proving the meeting between Li Mun and Satish Rathod had taken place, and then she’d split.

It was girls after all. The catcalls started even before she could see them. Perhaps they were a gift to cement some business deal? The first of them appeared at the front of the barge, alighting unsteadily on the dock with the help of several of the gangsters. Then a second and a third. Satish and his men were acting as though they’d never seen women before. Li Mun’s crew had actually withdrawn slightly. Curiously, they weren’t looking at the girls —

Gunfire flashed and cracked and the women screamed and nine men were thrown backward, falling to the ground. Katya’s arms fell to her sides before she remembered the camera. She brought it back up, focused, and held the button down. She took a round of photos and put the camera down again, watching with naked eyes. Li Mun’s men advanced, divvying up the slain and carefully firing one round into each of their skulls.

Kill shots. Take no chances.

And leave no traces. Weapons dangled from shoulder straps or disappeared into holsters. Keys were taken from pockets. Bodies were picked up and thrown aboard the barge that had brought the girls, who in turn were loaded into the newly orphaned SUVs. The motor of the barge fired up, grumbled a bit, and the ship drifted back into the darkness. The SUVs efficiently formed a parade of tail lights leading back out to the main highway.

Within ten minutes of the first shots, the wharf was empty.

Katya slid down behind her container and realized she wasn’t breathing. Calm down, she told herself. It was just another gangland execution. Li Mun had, for some reason, decided he’d had enough of Satish Rathod. No big deal, not her concern. But still, her hands were shaking. Even though she had some military training, spook fieldwork was mostly surveillance and relationships. She’d never witnessed anything this violent firsthand.

She looked at the camera and began flipping through the photos she’d taken, partly out of curiosity and partly just to calm herself. Neither Li Mun nor Satish Rathod’s faces were identifiable in a single photo. Satish, of course, had been on the ground by the time she’d starting taking pictures. Li Mun had quietly lumbered into the back of one of the SUVs, never once turning toward the camera. She wondered if perhaps he’d known she was there. She looked around nervously, but there was nothing but looming shipping containers and shadows upon shadows. She placed the camera back in the bag, hoisted it over her shoulder, and hurriedly disappeared into the darkness.

Tally Bar, Singapore
Saturday, January 20th
10:30 p.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Katya worked her way through the crowd at the legendary Tally Bar and climbed up the spiral staircase to find Ong Goh at his usual table in the far corner. She sat down across from him and smiled. He always managed to look at her like she was the only woman on earth. She admired the Clark Gable mustache and the confident look in his eye and the impeccable way he dressed, with a cravat and neatly turned-out collar, his silver hair always slicked back — and his whiskey glass never empty. Ong Goh was truly a man from a bygone era.

“Hello, my darling,” he growled, his voice somehow cutting through the sound of the drum solo fromSing, Sing, Sing. “Will you marry me?”

“You’re already married.” Ordinarily, Katya would have merely tolerated the harassment, taking the high road in the name of some larger goal. She believed she had pretty thick skin. But coming from Ong Goh, it was somehow, if not charming, at least inoffensive.

“I’ll get divorced.”

“Ask me again when it comes through.”

“I will.”

A waiter appeared. Ong Goh ordered for her: “Whiskey sour for my beautiful companion.”

“Just a soda water with lime,” corrected Katya.

Ong Goh frowned. “How can I take advantage of you if you’re always sober.”

Katya smiled patronizingly. “I have some interesting news.”

“There are no words you can speak that would not be interesting, my darling Katya.”

“Right. Last night — well, I guess it was early this morning — Li Mun’s thugs shot and killed Satish Rathod and…eight of his men.”

“Not seven or nine?”

“No. Eight.”

“My, my. Where?”

“There’s a private wharf they use, west of the airport. They use it mostly for girls. But this time there was some kind of meet. Apparently, it didn’t go well.”

“Satish dead. And the little brother isn’t even in the business.”

“The little brother?”

“Vipul. Their father sent him off to Oxford. Sort of the runt of the family.”

“Hmm. So he’s like Michael Corleone.”

“A Godfather reference? Sure. Except his father’s already dead.”

“That brings me to another question.” Katya delved into her purse and pulled out the photos she’d printed from the video capture outside Li Mun’s home. “Is this Vipul, perhaps?”

Ong Goh put down his whiskey and examined the photos. Katya’s soda water arrived, and she took a sip. “Could be,” said Ong Goh. “I’d have to run it by someone to be sure. Can I keep these?”

“Sure. I have some others from the wharf last night, but they don’t show much except a bunch of guys in suits lying on the ground.”

“I can see that in the alley beside the hotel any night of the week.”

Katya smiled.

Ong Goh leaned back and took a long draught of whiskey. He stared at Katya. “In all seriousness, why won’t you run away with me?”

“What do you make of all this? Why is — what’s the brother’s name again?”

“Vipul. Don’t you know, I’m very unhappily married.”

“No, you’re not. Do you think Vipul made some kind of deal with Li Mun? Was it a power play? Did he arrange to have his brother killed?”

Ong Goh leaned forward and took Katya’s hand. “You mustn’t overthink these things, my love. The criminal mind is rarely complicated. Anyway, who cares? The Triad is our real concern.”

Katya withdrew her hand. “I know. I just thought it might be useful intel.”

“I’ll pass it on. Thank you. Do you have anything else?”

“Not this time. You?”

“Not much. As expected, our minister is planning to support the quota proposal.”

“That’s good.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Except that I have his cell conversations with Li Mun. So it proves Li Mun is influencing him.”

“It proves nothing. We have nothing to go after him with and nothing to show Triad influence. You know I can’t use your surveillance.”

“Not directly, no. You know better than I, this is how it always starts. A piece here and a piece there.”

“If it means dragging this case out so I can spend my evenings with you, I’m all for it.”

Katya smiled wearily. “Not quite what I meant.”

Chinese Garden, Singapore
Sunday, January 21st
5:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Had anyone been surveilling Katya, they would have known that every morning she went for a long walk, all the way down to the Chinese Garden and then back. And every morning she’d meet with what they might guess was a retired gentleman who had a fondness for Panama hats, guayabera shirts, and perhaps attractive young women of ambiguous ethnicity. They would meet a little after sunrise on weekdays — perhaps thirty-minutes later on weekends — on a bridge near the twin pagodas overlooking Jurong Lake and have a chat. They were creatures of habit, it seemed, as they rarely missed a day. Perhaps they’d become friends, in time, meeting each morning like that. Maybe it was just knowing that the other was going to be there, looking forward to saying hello and hearing the latest news.

Or maybe…

ψ

This particular morning, as on most mornings, Haruo Quartan arrived before Katya. He leaned over the railing, appearing to stare out at the calm surface of the lake.

Katya walked to the apex of the bridge, taking her place next to him, and assuming the same posture. “Good morning, Haruo,” she said.

“Good morning, Katya. I hear Mr. Li has been a bad boy.”

“I saw it myself.”

Haruo paused. “What tipped you off?”

“Chatter.”

“Cell phones?”

“Yes.”

“They never learn.”

Katya smiled to herself. “I’d like to think perhaps it has something to do with listening patiently for nearly two years. Not to mention Hong Kong.”

“There’s that,” acknowledged Haruo.

Katya smiled again. “Thank you.”

“What’s he about?”

“Li Mun? I think it’s actually a coup happening in another family. Li Mun was just the trigger man.”

“Which family?”

Katya straightened up, leaving just a hand on the railing, and turned toward Haruo, who was still looking out over the lake. “Fairly small-time. The Rathods?”

Haruo made a slight humming sound.

Katya wondered if that meant he’d heard of them. “The younger brother, Vipul, got rid of the older one, Satish,” she added helpfully.

“For Li Mun to intervene…”

Katya was eager to show Haruo that she had explored all the implications. “Vipul must have conceded something.”

“A great deal, I would imagine. This is Singapore, after all.”

Katya was silent. Haruo apparently wasn’t impressed by her analysis. This is Singapore. Murder was rare in the island city-state. Of course, that was partly because it was so easy to get rid of the bodies. The murder of Satish and his men would very likely never show up in the official statistics.

“The younger brother is up to something. Li must realize it too.”

Katya took a different angle. Haruo was always telling her to stay focused. She wanted to make sure he knew that she had. “Given our mission here…”

“You’re probably right.”

They were silent for a few moments. Sometimes, there just weren’t any new developments worth talking about. Katya prepared to say good-bye.

But apparently it was okay for Haruo to get distracted. “What do we know about the younger brother?”

“Not much. Ong Goh is going to send me the SPF profile. Western education. Oxford. Was not directly involved in the family business.”

“You see the problem?”

Katya did not. What had she missed? She waited for Haruo to continue.

“In medieval Europe, the nobility sent the younger sons into the clergy. Today, gangsters send their younger sons to Oxford and Harvard.”

Katya desperately wanted to see the connection.

Haruo’s mind continued down whatever rabbit hole it had fallen into. “The father, then, he’s passed on?”

“Yes,” confirmed Katya, recalling Ong Goh’s observation from the night before, and wondering what had inspired Haruo’s guess.

Haruo made a low humming sound. “Let’s set up on Vipul.”

“I don’t understand.” Katya stared intently at Haruo as if she might be able to see into his mind and learn the secrets of how it worked.

“There’s nothing to understand, Katya. That’s exactly the problem.”

She turned back toward the lake and stared at a family of turtles swimming past, feeling stupid.

“Katya. You’re looking for connections. Sometimes you have to look for disconnections.” Quartan paused. “I’m not talking about the whole works. Just the basics. A radio scanner. A few cameras. Just to have it. Just in case.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“Ong Goh proposed to me again.”

“I wish you both the best.”

Katya laughed in spite of her frustration. “I didn’t accept!”

“Ah. Well, you should. He’s a fine old cadger.”

“He’s married!”

“To a fine woman, in fact. Until tomorrow?”

“Good-bye, Haruo.”

“Good-bye, Katya.”

3

Little India, Singapore
Sunday, January 21st
9:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)

Vipul wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he scanned the faces of the family’s lieutenants, seven of whom had recently been promoted. The chairs at the tables were all occupied, and there were still another dozen men standing. They were all packed into the back room of Desi, a restaurant whose real purpose was to launder money and give them a place to meet discretely. It was hot and dank, and the smell of sweat and curry made Vipul’s eyes water.

Anand’s imposing figure loomed over his own, even though Vipul was standing as tall as he could. He never stopped being impressed by Anand’s stature. Everything about him was oversized: his bald head, his broad shoulders, his ring-clad, claw-like hands. His eyes always seemed to be narrowed and his jaw clenched. “Everybody’s here,” he whispered to Vipul.

Vipul had no way of knowing. The faces looked familiar, but that was all. His father had sometimes brought him along to meetings not much different than this one. “Watch and learn,” he’d growl, “but say nothing.” Sometimes he would go to the office of his brother, om shanti, to engage in another round of their interminable arguments…and someone would interrupt, waved in by his brother, striding into the office past him like he wasn’t there, leaning forward to whisper something into his brother’s ear. And then there were the family gatherings, where he’d see them lurking in the back, mere shadows consorting at the fringes of the laughter and conversation, occassionally exchanging whispers with each other or his father or his brother. So he had a uneasy familiarity with them, but that was all.

Thank goodness for Anand. Or, rather, for his father’s foresight in asking Anand to take Vipul under his wing. His father had known this day would come. And Anand had embraced the role, just as his father had known he would. Anand understood what his father was trying to do. But the rest of the organization saw Vipul as a threat.

Just like his brother had.

Vipul leaned over to Anand. “In the green shirt, there, that’s Paresh, right?” he whispered.

Anand looked down at him from the corner of his eyes. “Right.”

“And the one with the scar is Sameer?”

“Yes.”

Vipul straightened up. “Good to see you again, Paresh.”

Paresh nodded respectfully. They were going to at least give him a chance, apparently.

“And you, Sameer. How have you been?”

Sameer shrugged. Vipul could see immediately that he’d made a mistake. Sameer must have been close to one or more of the men who’d “disappeared” last night. Vipul didn’t want to appear too cheerful. After all, his brother had just died. Om shanti.

Vipul decided it was time to begin. “Quiet please,” he said in Hindi. No one seemed to notice.

“Quiet please!” yelled Anand. Instantly, the room went silent.

“Thank you,” said Vipul, continuing on in his normal speaking voice. “As you know, early this morning my brother and several of our family were to meet and negotiate terms with the Li Triad for the girls we provide to…establishments in Geylang and other areas. They did not return.” Vipul let his words hang in the air for a moment. He decided that his voice was wavering too much. He needed to sound more forceful. “We were able to confirm via other sources that, as we suspected, Li Mun executed them and dumped their bodies in the strait.” Vipul looked at the faces staring back at him impassively. He tried to meet their eyes, each in turn, just as he’d watched his father do. These were the kinds of nuances Satish had never grasped. “We must obviously retaliate.”

There was a sudden burst of oaths to avenge their fallen brothers. Vipul held up his hand. The room gradually fell quiet. Vipul was relieved he hadn’t had to rely on Anand again to silence the men.

“But we must be patient.” He could feel the air become still. “Now I know what you are all thinking. Believe me.

KND Freebies: Offbeat bestseller HOW EVAN BROKE HIS HEAD AND OTHER SECRETS is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

***Kindle Store Top 20 Bestseller***
in Literature & Fiction/Humor & Satire…
plus 61 rave reviews!
“Funny, bewitching, observant.”
                                          —The Oregonian

From the

author of The New York Times bestseller The Art of Racing in the Rain, comes this offbeat and moving novel about a fractured family dealing with unexpected challenges.

Don’t miss it while it’s 77% off the regular price!

4.3 stars – 77 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Or check out the Audible.com version of How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets
in its Audible Audio Edition, Unabridged!
Here’s the set-up:

Evan had a hit single, but that was ten years ago. Thirty-one now, he’s drifting, playing in a local band and teaching middle-aged men to coax music from an electric guitar.

Beset at a young age with a life-threatening form of epilepsy, he’s kept his condition a secret. But his deepest secret is that he got his high school sweetheart pregnant. Then her conservative parents whisked her out of Seattle and out of Evan’s life.

Now, 14 years later, he experiences unplanned parenthood when he undertakes to raise the resentful teenage son he’s never known.

5-star praise from Amazon readers:

“…original, beautifully written, and deals with complicated subject matter…The prose is flawless, the imagery gripping…a very human story that will stay with you long after you read the last page.

“Once again, Garth Stein delves deep into the psyches of fascinating characters. Evan’s epilepsy and the effect it has on his life and creativity is beautifully observed and artfully related…”

an excerpt from

How Evan Broke His Head
and Other Secrets

by Garth Stein

 

Copyright © 2014 by Garth Stein and published here with his permission

1

Maybe a little reflection at this point in Evan’s life isn’t a bad thing. A gathering of mourners on a hill at a cemetery outside Walla Walla, a good five-hour drive from Seattle. A hot morning under an intense and brilliant sky. A dead girl in a box, suspended over a hole dug in the fertile soil. And Evan, watching from a distance like a father gazing through a nursery window at his newly born son, whose cries go unheard, untended, a helpless flail of tiny arms and legs and a little mouth that is open in silent scream, all of it safe from Evan’s unsanitary touch.

   He hikes up the hill and takes his place among the circle of attendees. They are all the same: pale complexions, downcast eyes; a wash of chalky faces. There are fewer than he’d hoped. Twenty at most. He’d been warned that the burial service would be small, reserved for family and the closest of friends. Still, he’d envisioned a pack into which he could fade. After all, Mormons tend to stick together; they like to travel in groups.

   He shifts uncomfortably. He has nowhere to hide. They are looking at him. Not directly, not staring. They are sneaking peeks, stealing sideways glances  from  behind  flapping  paper  fans. They have no idea who he is; they don’t seem to care. A man speaks a few elegiac words that are swallowed by the breeze, tossed around and thrown over his shoulder for no one to hear.

   Evan recognizes Tracy’s mother and father. He remembers her brother, Brad, one of those high school peers who fell somewhere between friend and acquaintance. Around them stand several of Tracy’s older siblings. He doesn’t know them, couldn’t recall their names if called upon to do so. Three or four or five brothers and sisters who were already grown and were never around when Tracy was a teenager; shards of a fractured family. And there is another important  family  member  present: Tracy’s  son.

    Evan doesn’t recognize Dean, but he knows well enough who he is. A young man, fourteen-years-old, who, like Evan, stands out from the crowd, his dark hair hacked short, his face alert and defensive.

    Dean looks up and meets Evan’s eyes. He looks at Evan without suspicion. But why would he suspect? What could he think, other than that Evan was another from Grandpa’s congregation, come late for the passing of Tracy Smith? But he is curious about something, for he doesn’t look away.

   Tracy’s father places his arm around Dean’s shoulders, a gesture of comfort. Dean shifts slightly, stiffens a little bit, not dramatically, but enough to indicate that the gesture is not welcome. Enough so that Tracy’s father withdraws his arm.

    And in an instant, Evan knows Dean. He knows what is going on. For Dean to have to witness his mother’s burial is bad enough, but for him to be so uncomfortable with his fellow grievers that he cannot grieve himself is crushing. Evan remembers his own grandfather’s funeral, watching the people cry. He felt so separate from them. They may have been friends with his grandfather for a long time, but they didn’t really know him. Not like Evan did. And so he couldn’t join them. He could only get through it and then grieve later, when he was alone, when it really mattered, as, he knows, Dean will grieve for his mother later. Until then, Dean stands, stoically, guarded, comforting no one, allowing no one to comfort him.

   Evan’s mind drifts from the scene; the tentacles of his attention are caught by the breeze and gently sway toward the land around him. He hears the combines grinding away in the distance, whirling their razor-sharp blades as fast as they can, slicing at the dry stalks of winter wheat. It is mid-July and the harvest season is upon Walla Walla. He can feel the trucks, heavy on the highway; he can envision the people in town walking with a bounce to their step. He knows that this is what they wait for every year, to gather up the fruit of the earth and revel in its bounty. We are in the days of plenty. The fruits and vegetables and grains allow us to grow and prosper. All partake of the cornucopia. Save for Tracy Smith, whose body, now released from its earthly commitment, is being returned to the soil from which it sprang.

    Evan snaps himself back into the frame; he attends to what is before him, the burial of his ex-girlfriend. He scrapes his teeth against his lower lip, scratching an itch that is not really there but somewhere in his brain. A seizure? Is one coming? No, no. The heat, the long drive. It’s fatigue, not a seizure. It had better not be a seizure. Not here. It would be too ironic for him to come down with a case of the falling sickness at Tracy’s funeral when he was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. It would be almost funny to have twenty or more Mormons stand over his convulsing limbs, questioning in breathless voices: Who is he? What is he doing? Why is he here?

    The service ends. Mourners amble back to their cars. Evan wonders what is next for him. He has seen the remains of Tracy properly attended to, and he has seen Dean, his child, now grown. What else is there to do but to return to his car and make the five- hour drive back to Seattle, take his place again in his life and wonder, as he always has, what was to become of Dean, the Boy Wonder, whom Evan has never met.

    “You came. I’m shocked.”

    Evan turns. Tracy’s brother, Brad, stands directly in front of him, not more than two feet away.

   “You’re the one who—” Evan starts.

   “Called you,” Brad finishes for him. “I know I did. My father would kill me if he knew. Don’t tell him.”

   “I won’t.”

   “You must feel guilty as hell,” Brad says, and as he says it, he sticks out a long finger and tries to jab Evan in the chest; Evan, quickness being one of his assets, takes a step back and out of range.

    “Where’s Dean’s father?” Evan asks.
“I’m looking at him, stupid,” Brad replies.
“His stepfather,” Evan clarifies.

     Brad laughs a quick snort. “How have you been, Evan?”
Evan shrugs. He was kind of hoping for a real answer.

     “I heard that song of yours on the radio,” Brad continues. “About ten years ago.”

     “Eleven.”

    “I never could find the album, though. It must not have been that big.”

    “It was big enough,” Evan says, an edge creeping into his voice.
“Really? Ever think of sharing any of the money you made with Tracy and Dean?”

     But she was the one who abandoned him, remember. He had wanted to keep the baby. She was the one who left Seattle. She was the one who stole away in the middle of the night.

   “I gotta go, man,” Brad says, “my diplomatic immunity is about to wear off.”

   “What does that mean?”

   “It means what it means. What do you think it means. I’ll see you, man. Good luck.”

    Brad starts to leave.

    “Give me your number,” Evan says quickly. “I’ll give you a call. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

   “Nah,” Brad grins, “you know everything you need to know about me, Evan. I’m just like you, man, still fighting the good fight, you know?”

   And he’s gone. All around, black-clad bodies murmur down the hill toward their cars.

Evan spies Tracy’s mother, Ellen, who is being consoled by another woman. His first impression is that she looks old. When Evan first met her, he was only fourteen and she—but a child herself when Tracy was born—was thirty-six. That was seventeen years ago. Evan is now thirty-one, Ellen fifty-three. And while the seventeen years has hardly changed Evan—he is still boyish and almost beardless— those same years have taken a different toll on Ellen Smith. Her face is etched with deep wrinkles. Her hair is dull brown with streaks of gray. Her blue eyes are pale.

   “Hello, Mrs. Smith,” he calls out, approaching the women. Ellen’s friend excuses herself; Ellen looks toward Evan blankly. “It’s Evan,” he says. “Wallace.”

   She doesn’t respond. Why would she? She hated him, back when he and Tracy were high school sweethearts. She and her thickly muscled husband, Frank. They both hated him. So what should he say to her now? Should he accuse her, and by accusing her make it clear that he feels the magnitude of her actions?

   “Evan?” she asks, the mist clearing.
“I’m so sorry about Tracy.”

   “Yes.”

   “How is Dean?” he asks.

   “Oh! Dean’s fine.”

   Evan nods. “He looks good. Healthy.”

   “He is,” Ellen smiles painfully. “What are you doing here?”
Evan shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

   “I’d like to meet him,” he says.

    Ellen looks quickly over her shoulder and down the hill to where people are climbing into their hot cars and driving off. A small group lingers near two black limousines. Frank is among them.

   “I don’t believe that would be in his best interest. Not now, anyway.”

   Evan cocks his head, unsure how to take her response. But it doesn’t matter. Before he can think about it long, his request is granted. Without warning, Dean is standing beside Ellen as if Evan had made a wish.

Dean. The Boy Wonder. So close now, so near, Evan feels his pulse quicken. What is it about Dean? His presence is almost intoxicating. His long, thin limbs draped in a black suit, his collar too large for his neck, his navy-blue tie knotted in an old-fashioned style quite beyond Evan’s sartorial expertise. So casually he hangs his arm around Ellen’s neck and rests his head on her shoulder, turning slightly toward Evan, his green eyes blaring out from their sockets, screaming at Evan that I am yours, yes, I am of you, yes I am.

   “I’m hot, Grandma,” the young man complains.

   “This is an old friend of your mother’s,” Ellen says deliberately, almost forcing herself to say it, pushing through her misgivings. “He’s come from Seattle to pay his respects.”

    Dean unhooks his arm and offers his hand to Evan, which Evan takes, awed, in a way, by such self-control, such a display of courtesy in the face of such real grief.

    “I’m terribly sorry about your mother,” Evan mumbles. He’s caught off guard. The new sensation of Dean’s hand in his own, the feelings rushing through his body, his nerves sending confused signals to his brain, that not only is he holding a hand, shaking a hand, but that it is a hand that belongs to his own flesh and blood, his own son.

   “Thank you,” Dean responds evenly.

   Evan doesn’t let go; he holds on and they stay like that, hand- in-hand, for several moments.

   “We have to go, Evan,” Ellen breaks in. “The reception.”

   Again she looks down toward Frank, who is in the parking lot staring up at them with piercing eyes. Evan has always been afraid of Frank Smith, a stocky man who wears his gray hair tightly shorn. His neck is thick with ropes of muscles that disappear into the collar of his shirt. His nose was flattened—Tracy once told Evan—from years of boxing while in the Marines. He has little hands that he clenches into fists of calloused and scarred flesh that appear to be made of clay. He speaks not like an average man, but like a little Moses, a man of God, a man who carries lightning in his arms and breathes the flames of Righteousness. He is not one to be challenged.

    Evan releases Dean’s hand; Ellen nudges Dean to start down the hill, which he does. She does not immediately follow.

    “Please don’t interfere,” she whispers at Evan. “Not after all this time.”
“But—”

    “Please, Evan. I don’t know why you’re here. But please don’t interfere. Not after all this time.”

    She turns and hurries after Dean, catches him, and then ushers him to the bottom of the hill. When they arrive, Frank directs them into one of the limousines, waves his arm to those still standing by, who obediently climb into their vehicles, and they all drive off, leaving Evan alone at Tracy’s grave.

    Evan cannot move. He stands silent for several minutes, long after the last black car has left. What happened? He was so young when it all occurred. A sperm and an egg met, cells began to multiply and divide, and a child was born. But then what? What became of Evan? What became of his son? It’s all so murky, the circumstances so obscure that he doesn’t even remember how the story goes, or whose story he really believes. The truth belongs to he who tells it, so what good is it, anyway?

    He starts back down the hill toward his car. His steps fall heavily against the hard-packed dirt path, and he raises his eyes to the surrounding land; the harvesting machines continue to work over the amber hills, threshing the wheat that has grown all spring, plowing an ever-widening swath of brown through the endless golden fields.

2

He pulls around the corner and parks. He’ll wait it out. He rolls down the windows, hoping to catch a breeze, reclines his seat, and closes his eyes. He’ll rest a while, then try again.

They usually spent part of the night together. He preferred going to her house, based on some youthful notion that it would be better to be caught by her father and die a quick death from a bullet wound than it would to be caught by his own parents and die a slow death by guilt. He also preferred her house because it was darker and thicker, almost warrenlike in its depth, and completely different from his parents’ sterile, brittle, strained home.

    He sneaked out of his house when all was dark and walked fifteen minutes down unlit streets until he got to hers. He climbed in her window. They fooled around, fumbled with each other, quick sessions that were silent and largely unappreciated. Sex for sex’s sake. Sex because they could. They could, and they did. Fucking for sport, she told him. Funny.

   Afterwards, Tracy indulged in contraband. A pint of Seagram’s perhaps. Some Marlboros. Maybe some pot. Evan never joined in. He knew what it was like to be out of control, and didn’t seek it out voluntarily. It would be many years before he would realize the medicinal qualities of marijuana and look back on that time as a missed opportunity. But there had been so many missed opportunities; what was one more?

   She told him things. She told him what she wanted out of life. He learned that her dream house was one with a white picket fence and a green, green lawn. Her dream vocation was to be a writer. Her dream family was two boys, a girl, and a dog. Her dream man was—

    I’m late.

    She was a half a head shorter than he was. Her hair was long, curly, thick and ash-blond. She sometimes referred to herself as Cousin It.

   How late?

   Late enough.

   A full year older, she was a senior, he a junior. She was one of the smartest people he knew. Intuitively smart, not like his father or his brother, who were book-smart. He once overheard a teacher call her “gifted,” and it surprised him—not that she would be gifted, but that she had never mentioned it to him.

    Are you sure? Mr. Hill in Health said that some girls are too thin—girls who do gymnastics—

   I took a test.

   She told him once—her dream man was tall. He kept his hair cut short. It was black hair, very neat. She watched him shave every morning; his face was soft. His breath smelled like autumn leaves. He stood very straight, but not stiffly, and he wore dark suits. When he came home from work he opened the white gate and stepped sweetly up the flagstones to the stoop. He played with his children, fed the dog, drove the car, fixed the sink, and mowed the lawn. Evan was disappointed; her dream man wasn’t him. He wondered why she told him this, but he knew it was to keep him honest, to make sure he understood that his was a temporary harbor.

    I’m pregnant.

    They were an old couple at age seventeen, having dated since his freshman year. He loved Tracy. But he knew that he loved her more than she loved him.

   Marry me.

   Very funny, Evan. Marry me.

   Evan, seriously—

   Yes, seriously. There was a child involved now. They could raise a child together. And that would be some great kid. Some great family, a family of love, Evan’s music and Tracy’s gift and the baby. He would be a cool kid, asking questions about everything he saw, playing ball, learning to read, to climb trees. Evan suddenly felt so tremendously happy thinking about the future. They would live in a little house, they would raise their kids, and most of all, they would be happy. They would be so happy.

   Evan, Tracy said forcefully, I got accepted to Reed.

   Reed College. That’s where the gifted people go.

   I got accepted.

   Of course she did. They would be fools not to accept her.

   That’s great.

   A long pause.

   I’m not going to college with a baby.

   He studied her face at length and knew that she was right. She couldn’t go to college with a baby. Of course not. And  how would it work, anyway? How could Evan make his end of it work? He would go to his parents, lay himself at their feet, confess his sins, more sins than they could possibly have guessed. They would be disappointed in him. They would feel let down by him again. His father would accuse him of having done it on purpose. He would say something like, You sure know how to stick it to us, don’t you, Evan? Or he would look out at Evan from under his dark brow and say, I suppose when you don’t have to clean up after yourself, you don’t care how big a mess you make, isn’t that right, Evan?

   How could Evan disappoint them again? First the accident, a family-shattering event. Now this. A child at seventeen? How could he let them down again?

   I have money, he said. I can give you money.

   She didn’t answer.

   It’s the best thing, right?

   Again, she didn’t respond.

   It’s the best thing, he said again, trying to convince himself that it was.

   Is it what you want? she asked.

   It wasn’t what he wanted, no. Not at all.

   Yes.

   Are you sure?

   Yes, he said. I’ll pay for it. It’s what I want.

A laser burns his eyes. He brings a hand to his face and squints through his fingers. The reflection of the late afternoon sun off a car mirror. A burgundy minivan pulls out from a driveway. What time is it? His watch says five. That was some nap. He’s starving, but otherwise he feels good, refreshed.

   He pulls around the corner and finds the street almost  completely deserted. That’s good. That means the party’s over. He parks across the street and surveils the house for a few minutes. It’s quiet.

   Finally, after what he thinks is long enough, and eager to get on with it, Evan pops open the door to his car and steps out into the newly energized air around Walla Walla.

   Yes, that’s right. Something electric. About the situation and about the air. lonized. Tingly. For the instant Evan climbs out of his car, the front door of the Smith house opens and out comes Dean. He’s changed out of his black suit and into something a little less formal. He’s carrying an old push broom, and he begins to sweep the porch. Doing chores, even on the day of his mother’s funeral. Give the kid a break already. Still, it offers Evan the perfect opportunity.

    Without thinking he swoops across the street and up the walk, hops the two steps onto the porch. He doesn’t want to think too much about it, about what he will say or how he will act. He just wants to do it. He has his feeling he can rely on. The electric feeling, the tingling, like something good is bound to come of it all. It quashes all of his natural inhibitions. It allows him to bound into a stranger’s life. Bound right in and change it all around.

   “Dean,” Evan says, arriving on the porch, looking at the thin boy, fourteen, but boyish, his chopped-salad hair, his pimples, his magnetic eyes that are like emeralds, glowing across the porch at Evan. His small hands and pink fingers, chewed fingernails, gripping the old shop broom. Feeling comfortable in his old clothes, ripped jeans cut off just above the knee, washed out black T-shirt with a Nine Inch Nails logo on it, skateboard sneakers without socks, chicken legs, knobby knees, not really comfortable in his body yet. It occurs to Evan that when he was this boy’s age, he was having sex. He was putting his erect penis into a girl. But, oh, how he would try to prevent this boy from doing the same, if he were this boy’s father. Do what I say, not what I do. Be what I should have been, not what I am.

    Dean looks up at Evan, waiting for an introduction of some kind. Any kind. And Evan starts to give it. But it never finds its way out of Evan’s mouth. God damn. This isn’t stage fright. This isn’t being overcome with emotions. This is a seizure.

   Makes sense. The sense it makes is too clear now. A little baby seizure, a so-called simple partial, is flipping its way though the rail- way that is Evan’s brain, hitting switches in the wrong direction, firing synapses out of turn  and, all-in-all, causing a veritable cacophony of electrical impulses that freezes Evan in his tracks, nails his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and prevents him from speaking to his son. His own son, now not more than ten feet away. “You’re a friend of my mother’s,” Dean says, puzzled by Evan’s lack of presentation.

   Evan stands before Dean, shaking his head. The only thing he can do. Shake his head, frustrated, angry at the implacable little fucker of a seizure rendering him mute.

   “I met you at my mom’s funeral.”

   The crying shame of it all. Being where you want to be and not being able to take advantage of it. Evan holds his finger to his lips. Shhh. A gesture of quiet. Shhh. It will all pass. He holds his finger to his lips and hopes that Dean will understand. No questions now. No talking. It will pass. It’s a baby. A simple partial seizure. Really very elementary when you understand the pathology of it. It begins with a misfire.

   “Why are you here?” Dean asks. Evan shakes his head. “What do you want?” Shhh. “Who are you?” No. “Grandma.”

   No. Not grandma. No. It’s going. The electrical firestorm. The giddy feeling that Evan had attributed to the excitement of the moment had actually been an aura preceding a seizure. He should have known. He should have sensed it. So easy. A lab rat would have known. There will be no cheese for you!

   “Grandma!”

    Ellen appears. It’s almost gone. Bad timing.

   “Go inside, Dean,” Ellen says sharply. She walks toward Evan. “What are you doing here?”

    Finger to the lips. Shhh. It’s okay. Really. It isn’t contagious. It’s called epilepsy.

   “Frank’s sleeping,” Ellen says. “You don’t have to worry about him waking up, he took a pill.”

   That’s not it.

   “How did you know?” she demands. “Was it Brad?”
Evan nods. Yes, yes, it was Brad. Brad told him everything.

    She allows herself a burst of rueful laughter, which seems to expel some of the anger from her system and soften her demeanor a bit. She runs her hand up her forehead. It brushes against her stiff hair. It’s been styled. Not like when she was young and Evan would see her around Tracy’s house, back in high school. She smoked back then for one thing, and drank. White-trash Mormon. Now she’s reformed.

   “He looks like you,” she says rather sadly.

   The words are almost free, almost turned loose by the brain. Evan strains. He tries to speak. “Gaaa,” is all that comes out.

   Ellen looks at Evan strangely, but she ignores his sound. She’s obviously wrestling with demons of her own. Her glance darts from Evan to the door and back.

   “I think you—” She stops, squeezes her eyes closed, composes herself. “You haven’t come to take him away, have you?”

    He shakes his head. No, no. Not that.

   “Because I don’t know what I’d do if . . . I can’t lose him again.” Again? Lose him again? What does that mean?

    She takes a deep breath and resigns herself to something. “Please  don’t  make  trouble, Evan,” she  says. “Tell  him  you’re  a friend of Tracy’s, all right? Tell him you and she were very close. But—Please. Don’t take him away from me.”

    She disappears into the house. A moment, then Dean emerges. “Who are you?” Dean asks.

    Evan’s ready. It’s gone. He knows he can talk if he wants to. But his confidence is understandably low. He needs a few more seconds to get things together. He motions for Dean to follow. Dean does. Evan leads him to his car, a place where he feels safe, where they are both protected. He gestures for Dean to get in; he does. They sit for a moment.

   “Who are you?” Dean asks again.

   Evan turns to him. The tip of his tongue.

   “I’m getting out if you don’t tell me who you are.”  Evan closes his eyes. It’s right there. The tip of his tongue.

   “I’m your father,” he says softly, amazed, himself, that anything came out.

   A  moment  of  shock  flashes  across  Dean’s  face. But  only  a moment. Then a half-smile.

   “Where are we going?” he asks.

   Where are they going? He hadn’t thought they were going anywhere.

    Dean snaps on his seat belt and looks forward.

    Evan, startled, mimics Dean’s movements. He starts the car. Evidently they’re going somewhere. He shifts into first and pulls away from the curb. But where? He laughs to himself. He doesn’t know.

3

He has half a mind to keep on driving. Just go, man. Drive all the way home to Seattle. Beyond Seattle. To Canada. To Japan. China. Get a rice paddy and live off the earth for the rest of his life. Raise his son to be a peaceable man, a leader of the free world, a respectable man whom people will want to follow.

   They don’t speak as they leave town. Evan takes quick stock of his brain state and determines that he’s okay. Having a small seizure doesn’t mean a big one is coming, though it doesn’t entirely preclude the possibility. The good news is that a big one is always preceded by an aura—a bit of a warning sign—so he’d have time to pull over. It’s all about risk management.

   Evan glances over at Dean and wonders what he’s thinking. What on earth could be going through this boy’s mind? He has just met his absentee father. Is there resentment? Hatred? Or just relief that he has a father at all and that he wasn’t spawned from some kind of weird laboratory experiment, a fatherless child, the cloned replica of FDR or something,  merely DNA scraped  from  the  polio-withered big toe of the great orator, injected into an unsuspecting egg and implanted into the waiting wall of his mother’s womb.

    And still they don’t speak.

    Evan doesn’t know where he’s going, so he heads west. He saw a sign for the Whitman Memorial on his way into town, and thinks that might be the ticket. He vaguely remembers the Whitmans from his ninth-grade history class. Missionary martyrs. Maybe if he takes Dean to the Whitman Memorial, they will find some kind of greater truth. Maybe they will both be better able to understand their unique situation.

    They drive into the parking lot and Evan stops the car. He glances at Dean who seems unimpressed by the location. Like he was expecting a water-slide park or something. Evan opens  his door. When he sees that Dean isn’t getting out with him, he sits back in his seat. This wasn’t a good idea, he thinks. Say something. Do something.

   He’s still feeling sluggish from the seizure. He can talk okay. It’s just that the link between his brain and his tongue is a little scrambled. He may think to say one thing, but something else might come out of his mouth. It happens. Best to avoid dialogue at this point. He reaches over and touches the scruff of Dean’s neck. A fatherly gesture. Dean pulls away instinctively, but tries not to make it look obvious.

   “I thought we could take a walk together,” Evan says. It works. That was just what he was thinking and then he said it.

   Dean doesn’t move. He has no intention of taking a walk. “Got a cigarette?” he asks.

   “You shouldn’t smoke,” Evan responds without thinking. Ah. Unconscious speech. Everything is in order.

   “You’re a natural.”
“A natural what?”
“A natural father.”

   Evan nods. They sit silently for a minute, neither of them budging. And then Dean evidently decides something.

   “Okay,” he says with a snort. “I’ll play.”

   He climbs out of the car and walks toward the park entrance. Evan follows. He pays their admission and they enter the Visitor Center, a dark room boasting intricate dioramas under plastic domes, vast wall hangings detailing the history of Marcus and Narcissa Whitman and their tribe of Presbyterian missionaries, and a massive HVAC system blasting visitors with about a million BTUs of frigid air.

    Evan is amazed at how easy it all is. They stroll through the exhibit at a leisurely pace, pausing at each display to read the information cards. They take their cues from each other silently, exchanging glances, moving when the other moves, pausing when the other pauses.

    They learn things together. Things like that the Whitmans arrived at this very site in 1836 and built their mission. That they made friends with the Indians in the area. That they called for more missionaries. That they converted the Indians, and that the Indians took to conversion for a time, until the measles nearly killed them off. When the Whitmans’ God failed to end the plague, the Indians decided enough was enough and massacred all the missionaries, including poor Narcissa Whitman, who was with child.

    “Know your audience,” Evan says. “With some Indians it’s put up or shut up.”

    “Huh,” Dean says, with a hint of irony. “Interesting.”

    They continue their game out the rear door of the building and along the path that leads to the hill atop which the Whitman Memorial obelisk stands. Silently, easily, they hike the steep hill together, reaching the summit as if it is some symbolic hurdle they have vaulted together. The light from the sun is golden. The shadows of the wheat are long, and large-winged black birds hover over the fields, searching for prey. Evan feels that he has chosen a magical moment to reunite with his son. He feels the energy of the spirits around him.

    “This hill is where the Whitman missionaries were killed,” Evan says. “No,” Dean scoffs, “actually, this hill is where the memoria They thought it would look nicer if they put the memorial on a hill. The missionaries were killed down there.”

    He points to a small pond to the southwest.

   “You’ve been here before?” Evan asks.

   “Yeah. My mom used to bring me.”

   My mom . . .

   Suddenly the magic is lost. Suddenly Evan feels like he’s in over his head. They’re playing father-and-son like they’ve done it before. They’re playing make-believe. But none of it is true. The truth is that they are total strangers with no shared experiences, no mutual references, and only one thing in common—Tracy—and she’s dead.

    He knows he’s supposed to say things, but he doesn’t know what. Desperately, he looks out to the land, hoping for something to divert Dean’s attention. He could continue his conversational evasion, create more distractions, talk about the birds, for instance—hawks, or whatever they are—he could ask Dean what he thinks they’re eating—shrews? gophers? voles?

    “Okay,” Dean says, finally. “We’re here. Let’s hear it.”

    “Well, uh . . .” Evan stumbles. He tacks on a chuckle. “Boy, this is awkward.”

    Dean refuses to acknowledge the awkwardness of it.

    “Yeah?” he asks dispassionately. “You said you wanted to talk to me. So talk.”

    “Well, let’s see. I’m not sure how to start,” Evan admits.

    “Are you kidding?” Dean laughs bitterly. “I’ll tell you how to start. Start by telling me you love me. Tell me you missed me all these years. Tell me it’s good to see me, that I look just like my mother. Give me a hug and tell me it’s good to hold me. Come on, Dad. You know the routine. You’ve seen it on TV. You want to try this again in a couple of days? You could watch some Oprah tapes, study up. She does this kind of thing all the time. You’ll pick it up fast.”

   Evan is rattled by this speech. It sounds remarkably practiced, like Dean’s been waiting for this very moment his entire life, rehearsing in front of a mirror for the day he will see his father for the first time.

    “That’s not what I—” he starts. That’s not what he . . . what?

    That’s not what he wants to say? That’s not true. It is what he wants to say. It’s not  what he  expected Dean to  act like? What did he expect? He must have expected something. After all, he drove all the way across the state for this very moment. It certainly would have been easier to not show up at Tracy’s funeral, avoid this scene entirely, treat it like a surgeon might treat a bullet that is lodged next to the heart. Leave it alone. But on some level he knows the simple ineluctability of it: this trip includes this conversation. At some point he had to have acknowledged the truth to himself. So why, then, is he unprepared for it?

   “I want to start by apologizing,” he says.

   “Apologizing? For what?”

   For all of it. For everything since the beginning of time.

   “For everything.”

   “For everything,” Dean repeats. “You’re sorry for everything.”

   “I am.”

   “You didn’t mean any harm?”

   No, but—it occurs to him that he and Dean are talking about two different things. Evan’s sorry that Tracy ran off; Dean thinks he’s sorry because he ran off. What does Dean actually know? What did Tracy tell him? What does he think?

    “Okay, Dad,” Dean says. “You’re sorry. Sure. I’ll buy that. Apology accepted. You’re forgiven. Water under the bridge. You’re free and clear. Feel better?”

    No. He doesn’t want to be forgiven. He’s sorry that it happened; he’s not sorry that he did something wrong.

    “So if that’s all you came for,” Dean continues, “maybe you should take me home. I mean, I understand that when my mom died you probably figured I needed a parent figure, so you felt some kind of obligation to come here, but I’m okay, really. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry yourself.”

   “But I want to—”

   “Well then you should have a long time ago, right?”
Evan doesn’t answer. But I want to explain

   “Then you should have a long time ago, right, Dad?”
“I wish you’d stop calling me that. My name is Evan.”
“Okay, Evan, where have you been all my life?”

   Evan shakes his head.These are questions that can’t be answered so easily.

   “Naaaaaa!” Dean makes the sound of a game-show horn blaring. “Sorry, Evan, that’s not a good enough answer! But we have some nice consolation prizes so you won’t go home empty-handed.”

   Dean turns to go.

   “I know I deserve all of this,” Evan says as Dean walks away. Dean suddenly stops.

   “All of what?”

   “Everything. Your anger. Your frustration.”

   “My anger? No, Evan, wrong again. You know what you deserve? You deserve to be locked in a room with Frank, that’s what you deserve. Frank would teach you a thing or two about forgiveness. I’d pay money to see that.”

    “I’m sorry,” Evan says. “I wish I had time to explain it all, to make you see . . .”

   “Great.”

   “I wish I could tell you all the things I know. I’m sorry.”

   “Big deal!” Dean shouts, his face tight, shaking with rage. “You’re sorry. Big deal! I think it’s real nice that you came to see me. You brought me to this nice scenic place, we said hello. You got some things off your chest. You got to apologize to me. I accepted your apology. And maybe all this made you feel better, Evan. But you know how much it means to me?”

   Evan doesn’t answer.

   “It means exactly dick shit.” Dean stalks away.

By  the  time  Evan reaches the bottom of the hill, he feels like there’s an emergency. His brain is firing like crazy. He’d had that seizure earlier, on the porch. A little one, but a seizure nonetheless. And now. A space oddity. Strange sounds in his head, strange feel- ings. He doesn’t like it. He needs some pot.

   Dean is in the car already, in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Evan opens the driver’s side door.

   “I need to go to the men’s room, then I’ll take you home,” he says. He feels like his  words are slurring. A telltale  sign. Tongue thickness is always a precursor.

   He grabs his bag and closes the door. The restroom is in the main building, but, thankfully, it’s not really inside. The door is on an outer wall. Evan goes in. It’s a park bathroom. Cinder block walls, electric hand-dryers. Evan stuffs himself into a stall. He sits. He takes out his pipe—the one-hitter, designed for times like this—and his weed. At this point there’s a certain urgency to it all. He feels things that he doesn’t want to feel. Twitches. He’s having trouble swallowing. His tongue won’t move on its own. He’s got a big one coming. If only he’s in time.

   He smokes. Immediately he feels it. Smoke. Hot, sweet-tasting, it creeps down his throat like the fingers of some insidious monster, thin, wispy tendrils that reach into his chest, a forked tongue licking inside his bronchial tubes, depositing its medicine deep into the recesses of his lungs.

   He feels the relief. The grip loosens. In a minute there is time. He takes another hit. Much better. He feels glazed now. Protected from the seizure by a coating of hard sugar.

   He hears the door to the bathroom open, close. Shit. Busted by the park ranger. It must reek like pot in here. He scrambles to stow his pot and pipe. He flushes the toilet, like anyone would believe he was just going to the bathroom. He opens the stall door. It’s not a ranger. It’s Dean.

   “Dean, I—” Dean turns to go.

   “Dean. I use it as medicine.”

    Dean stops and turns, his face blank. “Right,” he  says. “Me, too.”

    He leaves.

    Evan gathers his bag, flushes again. Like it matters. Like any of the details matter.

* * *

They drive through town in silence. Evan isn’t thrilled that he got busted by Dean for smoking pot, but it’s better than the other scenario. If Evan had been too late to stave off the seizure and Dean had found him crammed into a stall, his shoes sticking out under the door, jerking and dancing to a rhythm that only Evan could hear, what would Dean have said? Would he have called an ambulance, held Evan’s hand through it all? Doubtful. More likely, he would have been afraid of what he was seeing, unsure of what Evan was doing, wanting to keep as far away as possible.
And so Evan is stuck again. Hiding his horrible secret from the world. Trying to live a life without a sign around his neck that says kick me, i’m a cripple. Sneaking around in dark corners, taking the only drug that really helps him, the only drug that helps him without killing him, he affects the attitude of someone who smokes as a lifestyle choice: musicians and drugs were bedfellows thousands of years before Evan came along. But for Evan it isn’t a choice. It’s survival. It is who he is.

   He stops his car across from Frank and Ellen’s house.

   “Listen, Dean,” he says, “when I was seventeen, I got a girl pregnant and she had a baby—you—and I never saw you. It wasn’t my fault, Dean, but I can’t say I’m not guilty. And I—”

   He looks over at Dean, who is sneering at him, and stops. It’s no use. He can’t stuff his life into a nutshell and make a child see. He can’t reverse the past: fourteen years of Dean going to the annual father-and-son picnic with his mother—he can’t change that. He can’t explain it away; he can’t mitigate it in any way: Dean grew up without a father, and it’s impossible for Evan to erase that reality while sitting on the sticky vinyl seats of his car, a car that is older than Dean himself.

   “Are you done?” Dean asks after a moment.
“Yeah, I guess I’m done.”

   “Good. Maybe we’ll see each other again some day. Like at your funeral. I’d like that. Be sure to put me on the invitation list.” He climbs out and walks around the front of the car. As he passes Evan, he calmly reaches out his hand and gives Evan the finger. The finger. Evan has to laugh. The kid just makes you want to smack him.

   Dean walks across the street and up onto the front porch of Frank’s house. But instead of continuing into the house, Dean slows to a stop. Evan follows Dean’s eyes to the front door. It opens suddenly and Ellen flies out of the house. She rushes to Dean, turns him around and herds him off the porch. What the hell is going on?

   Frantic, Ellen prods Dean down the walk toward the street. Evan rolls down his window.

   “Take him,” she calls out in hushed hysteria. “Take him away, please!”

   By now they’re crossing the street and Dean has pulled away from her. He stands in the middle of the road, looking at her with disbelief. She rushes to Evan’s car.

   “You have to leave here,” she pleads. “Please!”

   It is then, with Ellen practically pushing her way through Evan’s window, that Evan realizes something is terribly wrong. Her cheek is scarlet and swollen. She’s holding a damp washcloth to the corner of her mouth. The towel is dark, but he thinks he sees blood on it.

   “What happened?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

   She calms herself, musters her energies, looks Evan directly in the eyes.

    “You have to take him away from here,” she says as steadily as she can. “Take him away, Evan. I’ll call you when  you  can  bring him  back. Please, just—”

   Bang!

   They both jump. Dean spins toward the sound. A door slamming violently, a house shaken. A bear wakened from its slumber. Frank.

   He storms out of the house with a great roar, which might have been funny if it weren’t so fucking scary. He’s still wearing his suit. No tie. He is barefoot.

   “Get your ass in this house!” he yells.

   A dog down the street barks violently at Frank, charging and hurling itself against a chain link fence with a CHING-ing-ing! Bark, bark, shuffle, CHING-ing-ing!

   Evan, Ellen, and Dean are all frozen. A living tableau. What has Evan gotten himself into? What’s going on?

   There’s no time to wonder. Frank has been loosed, and he’s on his way, a human cannonball, a projectile ready to explode on impact. Evan doesn’t know what the story is, but there’s time for that later. Right now, he wants to take Ellen’s advice and get out. He looks at Dean, who still hasn’t moved though Frank is closing in, off the porch, onto the walk, fifteen yards at most and closing fast—

   “Please!”

   “Get in the car, Dean!” “Wha?—”

   “Get in the fucking car!”

   Dean hesitates.Ten yards from being smashed to oblivion.

   “NOW!” Evan screams.

    And this time Dean moves, bolts from his position on the broken yellow line, shoots around the car and into the passenger seat. Frank is at full speed, running at them. Ellen quickly backs away, and for a moment, Evan wonders what will happen to her. But he can’t worry about that now. He revs the engine and drops  the clutch, leaving squealing tires and a cloud of acrid smoke in his wake.They fly down the idyllic residential street, posted speed limit twenty-five (the old Saab still can get off the line pretty good, Evan notes with a grimace), and away from some crazy  scene. Dean twists himself around and looks out the rear window.

   “We should go back.”

   “She told me to get you out of there, Dean. She knows what she’s doing. She said she’d call.”

   “But—”

   “Sit down!”

   Dean reluctantly resumes his seat, snaps on his seat belt. “Grandpa’s scary,” he says.

   “To you and me both.”

* * *

  They stop for gas about an hour out of Walla Walla. Dean has sucked himself into his shell. He isn’t Dean; he is a husk, a hollow casing. The real Dean is somewhere else, far, far away.

   Evan gets himself a bottle of water; Dean doesn’t want anything. While he’s in the mini-mart, Evan takes out his cell phone and gets Ellen’s number from information.

   “Hello?” she answers with false brightness.

   “It’s  Evan.”

   “I said you could talk to him,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I said you—”

   “What’s going on there, Mrs. Smith?”

   “I said you could talk to him, not take him.”

   “I thought you meant—”

   “Frank was very angry.”

   “Did he hit you? Is that what happened?”

   “No, Evan.”

   “Is he abusing you? Should I call the police?”

   “No, Evan, don’t be so melodramatic. We had an argument and I bumped into the freezer door, if you can believe that. The door was open and I turned.”

   She abruptly stops; a moment of silence; then she says cheerfully, “I’ll call you in a few days and we’ll get together.”

   What? She’s either lost her mind or Frank has walked into the room. “What am I supposed to do with him?” Evan asks.

   “Thank you so much for calling. I’ll be sure to pass along your thoughts to Frank, of course.”

   “What am I supposed to do with him?”

   “We’ll be fine. It’s difficult, yes, but we’ll get through. I’ll call you in a few days and we’ll get together for a nice lunch, okay? Okay, talk to you soon, Sally.”

   She hangs up. Wonderful.

   Evan could have anticipated almost all of this: seeing Dean, having Dean yell at him, even having a barefooted Frank chase him down the street. But bringing Dean home with him? No. Not in a million years.

   He goes outside and climbs back into the hot car. Dean doesn’t acknowledge him; he stares out the window as they pull onto the road.

   “Can you turn on the air conditioner?” Dean asks. “It’s  on.”

   “Can you turn it up?”
“It’s  up.”

    Dean closes his eyes and leans back in his seat.

   “I wish my mom were here,” he says quietly to himself, his last words until they arrive in Seattle, almost four hours later.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

by Garth Stein
4.3 stars – 77 reviews!
Special Kindle Price: $2.09!
(reduced from $9.00 for limited time only)

KND Freebies: Charming rave-reviewed novel CHECKED is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

4.9 stars…
66 straight rave reviews!!

This wonderful first novel about a young woman’s struggles with OCD is touching the hearts and minds of readers with its insight, humor and unexpected romance.

Don’t miss it at 40% off the regular price!

Checked

by Jennifer Jamelli

4.9 stars – 66 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Callie spends countless hours staring at appliances to make sure they are really unplugged. She wastes obscene amounts of time checking for murderers in various corners of her house and entire sleepless nights performing pointless checking rituals. Then every spare minute is filled with inspecting doorknobs, chairs, floors, etc. for minuscule traces of germs. Oh, and she does all of this as she counts to three over and over again in her head. She does this every day. Without fail.

Dr. Blake just doesn’t fit into her schedule. Until he does. Until Callie begins to trust him. Until she starts to need him. And want him. And . . .

5-star praise for Checked:

“Loved it…funny, sad, witty, charming…”

“…A fast read…exciting every minute.”

“… beautifully written…gives the reader a romance without degrading their intelligence — a rare find in contemporary romances.”

an excerpt from

Checked

by Jennifer Jamelli

 

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Jamelli and published here with her permission

1

THE APPOINTMENT

            {In my head radio, the Pretenders start the second verse of “I’ll Stand by You.”}

Have a seat, please, Miss Royce, says the red-headed receptionist as she extends a manicured hand to indicate the seating area. Red. Bright red nails. And a small scratch on the pad of her pointer finger. A scratch or perhaps some wayward nail polish? Please let it be nail polish. Please don’t let it be blo—

            She stares at me, waiting. I flush.

            Like I said, I’m fine here, really, if I’m not in your way or anything. I don’t mind standing. Really. Stop talking, freakshow. She gets it—you don’t want to sit. I move slightly away from her desk so I am standing in the seating area. We are both quickly distracted by the jingle of bells at the door. A short, plump man with a trench coat and a briefcase comes flying in the room. {Frank Sinatra takes over, crooning “Fly Me to the Moon.”}

            I step back further into the waiting room just in time to prevent the side of his briefcase from touching my black pea coat. Clutching my silky black and white purse, I watch him fling the briefcase on the counter as he talks at the receptionist.

            Cancel my appointments for today, tomorrow, and Friday. I have to get to the airport by three to be in New York by evening visiting hours. He pauses to breathe and quietly adds, He’s in critical condition.

            To avoid imposing further upon this conversation, I take another step into the seating area, careful not to touch any of the clustered blue chairs. I look down at my purse and fiddle with the silver hardware on the handles. {Sinatra moves right on to the second verse.}

            Mr. Briefcase finally gives the receptionist a chance to speak.

            “Yes, sir, Dr. Spencer. I’ll cancel your appointments right away. Oh but, um…” I can feel her gazing toward me. I keep my hands and eyes on the silver rings on my purse.

            She quietly says, “Your two fifteen is here a little early. A referral from Lennox Counseling.” I look up at this man who is apparently going to be my psychiatrist. I remember the card from Dr. Lennox hanging on my fridge. Dr. Keith Spencer. Pierce Mental Health. 2:15 p.m.

            See if Dr. Blake can handle it, he says, picking up his briefcase with one hand while fumbling for his keys with the other. If he starts the initial consultation, he can just leave the paperwork on my desk. He glances over at me, and I move my eyes abruptly back to my purse. He then continues his conversation with the receptionist. I’m sure I’ll be back here by two fifteen next Wednesday.

            When I eventually look back up, Miss Receptionist and Dr. Spencer peer intently at her computer screen. Perhaps Dr. Blake can’t handle me either.

The receptionist taps a red nail on the computer screen as she whispers, But he won’t treat—

            It’s just an initial consultation, Dr. Spencer interrupts before turning and flying back through the door without another glance in my direction.

            Wont treat what? Women? Graduate students? Catholics?

            I’ll be right with you, Miss Royce.” The receptionist cuts into my thoughts as she stands up from her chair to go toward the back part of the office.

             Back to my purse buckle. {Time for the refrain again. Ready for a big key change.}

            Ma’am. She is at her desk again. Dr. Blake, a psychologist in this practice, will be seeing you today. Please just step through this door, and I’ll show you to his office.

            I look at the brown door to her left, the one those red fingernails point out to me. It isn’t one of those swing doors I can just push in with my foot or leg or back. It has a horizontal silver bar handle. Shit. SHIT. SHIII-TT.

            Since the receptionist appears to be gathering a file (mine?) from the desk, I quickly thrust my coat-covered elbow onto the end of the silver handle and push down and forward at the same time. The door opens. I catch it with my right black pump and try to move my elbow back to a normal spot. But instead, I drop my purse. Smooth, Callie. So graceful.

            Now holding my file, the receptionist is looking at me. Awesome. I grab the top part of my purse, carefully avoiding any contact with the sections that touched the carpet or door.

            Right this way, please.

            Sure, Red. As you wish.

            I follow her for what seems like forever. Her slow, calm pace doesn’t help matters. We go to the end of one brightly lit hallway only to turn left into another. Uniformly framed pictures line the walls, pictures of meadows and birds.

            We make a second left turn and there is yet another large bird staring at me. A robin, I think. I hate birds. They randomly crap on things that would otherwise be clean. Cars. Park benches. Picnic tables. Mmmm…nothing says yummy picnic better than a big white and black pile of—

            We are turning again. {Frankie fades out, and The Beatles slide in with “The Long and Winding Road.”}

            We’re here. The receptionist twists the silver doorknob to open the door and then presses her back against it so I can enter.

            Miss Calista Royce, Dr. Blake.

            A quiet, so quiet voice says, Thank you, Annie.

            Annie. Of course your name is Annie.

            Annie steps in the room a moment, and soon that quiet, deep voice speaks again.

 Come in, Miss Royce.

            The door stays open even after Annie leaves. Excellent. Not an automatically closing door. I walk in, and my eyes meet, um, no one. No one sits behind the massive cherry desk that faces me.

            Dr. Lennox referred you to this office? That hushed voice pulls my gaze around, over to the right corner of the room. Blue dress shirt over muscular arms. Black pin-striped pants. Dark brown hair.

All facing away from me.

            Um…yes.  As you clearly just read in my file. Why bother asking?

            He wants you to seek further treatment. Medication from Dr. Spencer. This comes as a murmur as he appears to look up and directly out the window in front of him. Very tense. Obsessions occupying approximately eighty-five percent of the day. Compulsive behaviors linked to the majority of these…difficulty sleeping, working, socializing. Excessive checking habits…

            He turns and gradually begins walking, all the while flipping through my file. Face down…reading…walking. Toward me? To shake my hand? To take my coat?

            As he approaches me, I clutch the top part of my purse even tighter in my right hand and bring my left hand down to play with a button on the front of my coat. He stops in front of me but doesn’t look up. I hold my breath as he reaches behind me to close the door. Still looking down at the file, he heads back to the window.

            I don’t resume my breathing until he is again facing away from me.

            Silence. {“The Long and Winding Road” ends and then starts right back up againtwice.} My purse is getting heavy. I let go of my coat button and grasp the top of my purse with both hands.

            He clears his throat and speaks. So you’re looking for some quick fix, some medicine from Dr. Spencer.

            Quick fix?

            I try to explain. Dr. Lennox suggested that, um, taking some medicine might alleviate some of my issues.

            Quiet. Nothing. Just the back of a man—a statue in front of me. His hand moves through his artfully-tousled hair. Silence. I clear my throat.

            He did want me to see Dr. Spencer specifically so I can just wait until next week when—

            Dr. Spencer wants me to conduct this opening consultation with you. He turns from the window to walk to his desk.

            Just a few standard questions—if you are ready.

            I nod my head in agreement. But he can’t see me because he is now sitting at his desk and looking down at a clipboard.

            Mmhmm… I say quietly, pointlessly nodding again. He takes a shiny silver pen out of his left shirt pocket.

            Pen poised to write, he speaks again, First question. He pauses.

            He still doesn’t look at me. I move my own gaze to the bookshelves behind his desk. Lots of thick books with fancy, complicated titles. A framed degree. Dr. Aiden Blake.

            One picture. A young woman holding a maybe two-year-old boy. Both with the same dark hair. It looks like a professional picture gone wrong. The woman has a warm smile directed at the camera. The little boy is sitting on the woman’s (his mother’s?) lap and his body is facing the camera. His head, though, is turned up toward the woman’s face, and his little right hand rests on her cheek. As if the little boy whipped his head around during the photographer’s count of three to check to make sure his mother was still there. Sweet. Perhaps Mrs. Quiet and son.

            My eyes involuntarily move to his left hand. No ring.

            Why do you spend most of your day seeing problems that do not exist?

What? That is your “standard” question?

            I abruptly move my gaze back to him, but he, of course, is not looking at me. I don’t think he is going to speak again until I offer an answer.

            Umm…I don’t really…I’m not entirely…I don’t know.

            You don’t know. I just figured you did know since you’re ready to put a medicinal bandage on this whole problem.

            Medicinal bandage? Who says that?

            Um…no. I’m not really…you know, I can just wait until next week. Really. I have to, uh, work at the writing center in just a couple—

            You’re a writer? he interrupts.

            Well, I want to write, yes. I am taking graduate courses in creative composition at, um, Pierce University, and well, I have to write for, uh, my courses.

            Eloquent, Callie. No wonder he thinks you’re a writer.

            Well then, Miss— (He looks back at my chart.) Royce. These questions can easily be answered in writing.

            Great. Just tell me what you want me to write about, and I can give my answers to Dr. Spencer next week then. I’ll stop ruining your day.

            I start to dig in my coat pocket to find my keys.

            I’d like you to start by writing about some early memories of your issues. Perhaps you can email these to me by, let’s say, Friday afternoon.

            What? Is this like a homework assignment? As though I don’t have enough to—

            Is there a problem, Miss Royce? Oh—did he see my irritation? I look up.

            Of course not. He has now spun his chair around to face the sole picture on his bookshelf.

            Um, well, when I write I prefer to use an old-fashioned pen or pencil. Pause. By the way, it’s Calista.

            That’s fine. Try to get it in the mail by Friday then. I see we have your email address on file, so I’ll just send you some other topics to think about later in the week.

            Oh. Okay. Thank you. Again, sorry for disrupting your existence.

 I turn toward the doorknob on his door.

Calista. That quiet voice pulls me around yet again.

I freeze. He’s looking at me. Sorrowful eyes…heavy…inconsolable. A tragedy in blue.

I can’t look away. I begin to feel a dull ache in my left side. {Damien Rice fills my head with “The Blower’s Daughter.”}

            His eyes hold mine. They are relentless. The sharpening pain in my side weighs me down, cementing my shoes to their place on the floor. My lips part slightly as my body tries to remember to breathe.

            In slow motion almost, he releases me, closing his eyes and clenching them shut. The blue eyes that open back up to me are hard, stony.

            He swiftly spins his chair to grab the box of tissues on his bookshelf. Without meeting my eyes, he turns back around and holds the box out to me.

            To help you out of here, he says in an almost inaudible voice. What?

            Th-thank you, I stammer. I clutch my purse and take six slow steps toward his desk. Three steps at a time. One two three. One two three.

            He stares past me, blankly looking at the door. I pull three white tissues from the box he’s holding and turn back to his point of focus. When I get to the silver doorknob, I quickly cover it with the three tissues spread out in my left hand.

            And I’m out.

            The creepy birds on the walls watch me as I walk back through that twisting path in a daze. I use my three tissues to open the next silver-handled door, and I’m back in the waiting room.

            The receptionist is on the phone, arguing heatedly with someone about which bar to go to on Friday night. She’s mad. She doesn’t even look up as I pass.

            Later, Annie. Hope your sun shines again tomorrow.

            I use Dr. Blake’s tissues one last time to push out the main door (no silver handle) to the building, and I hastily throw them into the large trash can right outside the office. Carefully, I hold up my purse with my right hand. I unzip it with my left and remove my wallet, a pen, my phone, deodorant, a package of tissues, a calculator, my checkbook, lip gloss, and three Band-Aids. I shove the items in my coat pockets and drop the purse directly into the trash can.

            Too bad. It really was a nice Christmas gift.

            I quickly retrieve my keys from my right coat pocket and find my car. After I climb into the driver’s seat, I just sit for a moment.

            What the hell was that? The longest stare ever, no doubt. Preceded by the most elongated period of time avoiding eye contact. Some kind of game, perhaps?  I smile to myself. Maybe this is simply part of the standard treatment.

            I look at the clock on the dashboard. 2:38 p.m. Better get moving. I have to be at the writing center by 4:00 p.m. I count to three, start my car, count to three again, and turn on the radio.

My little rented house is in front of me eight minutes later. Mandy’s car is not in her spot. It’s nice to have my sister for a roommate, but she really isn’t around much. Busy with all of those stimulating undergraduate courses, maybe. More like all of those parties and sorority events.

            2:47 p.m. I open the front door and leave my shoes on the black towel just inside. The kitchen sink is eighteen steps away from the front door. Six counts of three. After rinsing all of the soap off of my hands and lower arms, I dry myself off and hit the PLAY button on the answering machine.

            Hey, Callie. Guess you’re not back yet. I’m just checking to see how things went. Call me when you can!

            Melanie. I pick up the phone and dial her number. On the first ring, I hear Abby, my six-year-old niece.

            Hey, Abby. Is your mommy home?

            Silence. And then, Hi, Aunt Callie. I just got a new—

            Abigail—I’ll take the phone now. Hey, Callie. My older sister’s authoritative voice interrupts our conversation. I hear some small whines from Abby in the background.

            Hey, Melanie. Couldn’t wait for me to call, huh?

            She laughs. I was just hoping they’d be able to fix you in under fifteen minutes and have you all bouncy and sunshiny before work.

            Not quite. I think it’s gonna take at least twenty minutes. Thirty, tops.

            Melanie laughs. Okay. How did it really go?

            Well, I think I managed to get in and out of the office without contracting any new diseases. Barely, though. I decide not to tell her about my purse. If I try to keep it light, we can talk things out comfortably, normally. Otherwise she worries too much. Besides, she was the one who gave me the purse last Christmas.

            I take a new dishrag out of a drawer, drench it with dish soap and water, and begin wiping off the counter.

            She’s waiting to hear more.

            My doctor couldn’t actually see me. Some emergency or something. They passed me off to some other guy. Guy? Super busy man? Terrified, sad boy?

            “Oh. What was he like?

            What do you want to know? I can give you a pretty detailed description of the back of his head, his tense shoulders…

            He was pretty busy, really. Busy staring out his window…and at my file…and at his bookcase. He didn’t have a lot to say. I’m just going to fill out some basic information and send it back to the office. My real doctor should be back next week.

            That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe it’ll be easier to get yourself into the office the second time.

            Maybe. Although I can’t imagine it will be much easier to get out next time. Unless, perhaps, I take six tissues instead of three.

            Okay, I have to make Abby some dinner before I go to yet another meeting. This case is killing my evenings.

            A phone meeting? Or do you have to drive the whole way back to the office?

            Back to the office. The firm likes us to be all professional and lawyery for the big cases. At all times. We’ll probably be in Board Room I, the one with the enormous chairs. She pauses.  It is a forty minute drive, though, and that does mean I’ll have a total of eighty minutes in the car without hearing any crying or whining. I could use a little peace.

            All right. Please—

            Be careful. I know. I will be, Calista. Give Mandy a hug for me.

            I will. Thanks for checking on me, Mel. Bye.

            2:59 p.m. Not much time before I have to leave again. As I take the dishrag to the hall laundry closet and put it in the washer, I think about this week’s to-do list. Work tonight. Groceries tomorrow morning. I pull out the knob to start the washer and grab the Lysol spray on the laundry shelf. Hmm…class tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. Professional Writing Lab I. Our second night of my professor’s Publishing Series. Some published writer will be speaking for the entire three hours. Trying to be inspirational. Really just feeding his or her ego.

            Going back down the hallway, I disinfect my black pumps. Six seconds of spray per shoe.

            Lysol can back on shelf. Hands washed in kitchen sink.

            Let’s see. TA class on Friday afternoon. College Writing 101. I still haven’t done much more than sit and observe. I can hardly be called a teaching assistant. The freshmen yawning through class probably think I’m just a twenty-something-year-old creeper drooling over their teacher. Little do they know it’s the other way around.

            After Dr. Gabriel officially introduces me to the class in late October, perhaps I’ll feel more comfortable about being there. Comfortable, yeah—for about two weeks before I have to teach a couple of the classes in November. With him watching me. Ugh!

            Quick trip up to my bathroom. Last one until I get back home tonight around 8:00 p.m. As I dry my hands, I look in the mirror to make sure I look together. Makeup—faded, but not running. Hair—a little frizz, but nothing disastrous.

            I go back downstairs to the kitchen table to grab my notebook for Monday’s Literary Analysis II class. Maybe I’ll get some writing done tonight at work.

 “You’re a writer?” The memory of a deep, quiet voice questions me. Oh. That’s right. I have yet another writing assignment to complete this week. In the mail by Friday, he said. Before he sends me more standard questions. Fantastic.

            Maybe I’ll just write my response for him this evening and get it out of the way. I can put it in the mail tomorrow, and we can get this process moving. I’ll have all the paperwork done before I see Dr. Spencer next Wednesday.

            I smile, thinking of my conversation with Melanie. According to her, I’ll need just one short visit in Dr. Spencer’s office and my transformation to normal should be complete.

            3:05 p.m. Preparations to leave the house.

            3:48 p.m. Time to go. I grab my coat and notebook before taking my black leather purse from the closet. I transfer the items from my coat pockets to my new purse, step into my slightly damp heels, and I’m out. Door shut and locked. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist. Locked.

            On to work.

 

2

THE ASSIGNMENT

            The writing center is pretty empty. The usual. No one really comes until after dinner on weeknights. Most of them don’t even want help. They just want a quiet place to type.

            For now, I’ll take advantage of this quiet place to write myself. Earliest memories…I begin to brainstorm as I get situated at my corner desk.

            Hmm…my parents always tell me that I was a horrible baby. Always screaming. Not sleeping unless I was on my mother’s chest. But maybe that is how babies are for the most part. Maybe Melanie and Mandy were just exceptionally good. Perhaps Jared was only different because he was a boy. Or maybe he seemed really easy because he came right after me. Could this really have started that early though?

            Excuse me. A stick-thin girl with a campus sweatshirt interrupts me. Can you help me with my paper? She looks to the left, most likely toward the computer where she is working.

            She thinks I am going to go over there? Clearly a freshman. I smile at her as patiently as I can and explain the process of emailing me the paper, attaching questions, and getting a response within a half hour.

            Oh. I just thought… She drifts off. Thought what? That I would actually take a job where I had to sit and talk with college freshmen? That I would sit close to them and hear them chomp their gum as I worry that they’ll accidentally spit while they are talking to me? So close that I can smell their not always clean clothes and the scented sprays they’ve used to disguise their poor laundry habits? No, thanks. Sorry, freshman. {Cue Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”}

            She is still standing in front of me. I manage to give her a smile before she turns to go back to her computer. It’s not entirely her fault that I find her disgusting.

            This is probably her first college paper, and she really does look worried. I turn on the laptop sitting on my desk so I’m ready for the arrival of her email.

            Back to early memories. So why did the baby version of me scream so much? Not bathed enough? Not changed enough? Maybe I was scarred from my experience with swimming in filthy amniotic fluid for months. Maybe a questionable looking doctor gave me my first shots.

            Or was the baby me just afraid that if I stopped crying I’d be left alone with my own scary thoughts? Were they already there?

            Perhaps my mega-intense doctor man can tell me if this is even possible. Surely this couldn’t have been what he meant by earliest experiences though. I really think he meant early as in I could hold my head up and eat solid food but not old enough that I had my driver’s license yet.

            I don’t have the chance to finish this enchanting conversation with myself because my computer dings. That means I have a paper to check.

            My freshman. Brittany at Computer 7, so says her help ticket email. No paper is attached to the email. Just a question about making a cover page. She’s only on the cover page? Looks like I will be spending my whole shift with Brittany.

            I type her a quick response, attaching some standard cover page examples.

            Back to my standard question. I begin to write my response, and other than four dings from Brittany, I am pretty much left alone…

The Evil Forks and the Dangerous Mouse Droppings

            Some of my earliest fears were based on some simple fatherly advice. I don’t even know exactly why the advice was given; I’m sure my brother, Jared, and I were doing something questionable to bring it on though.

            At dinner, Dad told me that a person could get something called “Lockjaw” from having a fork stabbed into his or her skin. Lockjaw sounded pretty scary.

            For the next few years, every fork I saw became a nemesis. Luckily, I found that I could eat many foods without having to use utensils. (Knives and spoons were probably okay, but how could I know for sure? Dad hadn’t said one way or another on other eating devices so I thought it was safest to avoid them all.) But I couldn’t avoid them all of the time. Every week (usually during the weekend), there would be four index cards sitting on the kitchen counter, four lists of chores. One for my brother, one for each of my sisters, and one for me. Ahthe dreaded list. Mine always said “EMPTY DISHWASHER” in the small capital letters my dad used for list making. DAMN IT.

            Carefully, oh so carefully, I’d pull out each spoon, each knife, and each terrifying fork. If my skin even brushed against one of the menacing prongs, I’d quickly open and shut my mouth a few times to make sure it wasn’t glued shut.

            Eventually, the scandalous task would be over and, phew, I’d made it through yet another weekend listalmost. After my dad’s capital-lettered chores, my mom would often add some of her own in her more feminine, lower-cased writing. And many times it was there, the next worst task: dusting. AHH—people should be forced to read the warnings on some of those cleaning supply bottles before they use them. They are freaking scary. I could go blind. I could have to have my stomach pumped. Hell, I could even die. No way. Not me. If I wasn’t going to let the forks get me, there was no way a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner was taking me out. So at the age of seven, I proceeded (very carefully—with gloves) to find out which bottles had the least troublesome warnings. Window cleaner and dish soap won (but this was many years ago—I’ve found other acceptable products over the years.) From then on, all dusting was done with window cleaner or just water. And when one of those lists said “Clean bathroom sink and tub,” my parents could always count on the hall bathroom smelling like dish soap. Who knows how many times I saved my eyes, my stomach, my life

            Okay, so cleaning products and forks were nightmares, but they couldn’t even compete with the treacherous mouse droppings.

            More words of wisdom from my father. “Wash your hands after you play in the garage. There is probably mouse crap out there.”  Hmmsounded pretty bad if this actually merited a warning from my father. (He never really gave random warnings or advice.) What could these mouse droppings do?

            It wasn’t like there was a bottle I could use to check out warnings for this feces product. This was also obviously before the Internet was really in swing so I had no help there. Instead, I had to leave the potential dangers to my imagination. Smart move, I know—just brilliant.

            That mouse crap was almost paranormal—it could paralyze or even blind a person quite easily. All someone would have to do was walk out to the laundry room (in the garage) in bare feet, come inside, and walk on the living room carpet—and the house was suddenly infested.

            If I accidentally picked something up from the carpet after an infestation, I would immediately wash my hands, my feet, the thing that I had picked up—all contaminated objects. It was an endless cycle. We are lucky we had no fatalities.

            I did my part. I wore shoes if I had to go out to the laundry room, and I refused to use anything that had ever resided in the garage. My other family members didn’t do their part though. They still don’t. I’ve seen them countless times doing laundry in bare feet, using tools they’ve found in the garage, and coming inside without washing their hands. I constantly fear a call from the hospital. One of them is bound to end up there.

          I finish my shift pretty pleased with my completed assignment so I grab an envelope and fold it so it fits inside. If I just drop this in the mailbox on the way home, I don’t even have to think about it for the next couple of days. I do just that.

#

I begin my night preparations shortly after returning home. Thermostat: 70 degrees. Stove: off. Doors: locked. Blinds: closed. Alarm: set. Teeth: brushed. Pictures: straightened. Clothes for tomorrow: out. Mandy’s room: cleaned. Nails: painted. Email inbox: empty. Laundry: away. Entire house: dusted. Kitchen: scrubbed. My bathroom: sanitized. Evening shower: taken. Body lotion: applied. Pajamas: on. Hair: dried. Prayers: said. TV: on.

            Eventually, I fall asleep while a skinny woman on the television goes through the steps for making ravioli.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

 

by Jennifer Jamelli
4.9 stars – 66 reviews!
Special Kindle Price: $2.99!
(reduced from $4.99 for limited time only)

KND Freebies: Gripping fantasy epic MYTHBORN: RISE OF THE ADEPTS is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

Think “Game of Thrones meets
Assassin’s Creed…”From martial arts master and acclaimed video game creator Vijay Lakshman comes this intricate, entertaining fantasy epic about a world called Edyn where gods and demons still walk the earth.Don’t miss it while it’s just 99 cents!
4.6 stars – 44 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Edyn is a world ravaged by war, cursed by Gates through which gods and demons still walk the earth. A plume of power erupts, pointing to an ancient Gate between our world and the Aeris, creatures born from myths and legends, hungering for worship, and offering only possession and slavery in return.

An order of monks known as Adepts sense the Gate, but are not alone. Elder races have taken note and converge on the Gate’s next appearance, a desert stronghold known as Bara’cor. The Adepts send one of their very best to investigate — Silbane, lethal assassin, Master of the Way, honed as a living weapon. His mission: stop the Gate from opening, no matter the cost. His best chance is to use his apprentice’s ability to disrupt the magic, possibly killing him in the process.

Destinies converge as the mighty strive to balance the fate of their worlds against the life of one boy. He is Arek Winterthorn — apprentice to Silbane, assassin-in-training, student of the Way.

And he is…Mythborn.

5-star praise for MYTHBORN:

Epic and original
…a gem [with] characters that are shades of gray rather than archetypical ‘good’ and ‘evil’…world building is top notch…dialogue feels ‘real’…action and plot are terrific…”

…Mythborn rocks!

“Fantasy novels give me the creeps…[but] Mythborn is riveting. It’s for the mainstream reader who wants to enter a world of fantasy, drama and likes great character development…”

an excerpt from

MYTHBORN:
Rise of the Adepts

by V. Lakshman

 

Copyright © 2014 by V. Lakshman and published here with his permission

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is

indistinguishable from magic.”

—Arthur C. Clarke

Histories: Sovereign’s Fall

“War is not about who is right.

It is about who is left.”

—General Valarius Galadine, High Marshal

The final battle lasted for days, leaving the ash slopes littered with the dying and dead. Bodies lay strewn about with the haphazardness of violence passed. King Mikal Galadine stepped his horse forward carefully, mindful not to trod upon those who had fallen in his name. His gray eyes drank in the scene, the dark earth of the volcano’s slope now stained with the blood of men. In that gaze, the toll the past years had taken was there for all to see. New lines creased his face, and his shoulders slumped with the weariness of a man who had labored far too long at the task of war.

Too many sacrificed, he thought, and now one final duty. He motioned to his armsmark.

“My lord?” the armsmark grunted.

Mikal sighed, then ordered, “Bring your men forward.”

“At once, sire.” The mounted armsmark turned and cantered back to the lines, barking commands at the assembled soldiers.

The ground shuddered. Mikal’s horse whinnied, then stepped to the left, the animal’s senses attuned to the minor rifts occasionally snapping into and out of existence around them. He’d been told to expect small quakes, by-products of the magic that allowed a space between their world and the demon plane to open. The tremors would pass, now that the Gate was closed.

Mikal gave his horse a few pats on the neck then turned his attention back to the slope and the ragtag band of men and women descending it. They stumbled along slowly, supporting each other, with barely the energy to breathe, much less walk. Hundreds had gone up to do battle with the demonlord Lilyth, but barely twenty staggered down from that final struggle, their black uniforms gray with soot.

But they had succeeded, and the demon was dead, buried in the volcano’s smoking pit. Lilyth had destroyed vast stretches of the land in her quest to subjugate and rule, and much work remained to bring back what her all-consuming hate had perverted. An army of lore-masters had bought new hope, but the price of their service had cut deep.

So many signs had been missed, and so many mistakes made. A younger Mikal Galadine might have dwelt on such regrets and allowed them to change his heart, but the elder king’s sense of justice took over, silencing any doubt. Mistakes had indeed been made, but some debts are paid for in blood.

The survivors came down the last rise. At their lead was Mikal’s friend Duncan, who raised his hand in greeting. The king could see the effort it cost him.

“Rai’stahn has pulled the dragon-knights back. The gods be praised, we were successful. Lilyth is no more.” Duncan lowered his pale eyes. “I am sorry… for the loss of your brother.”

The king brushed off the concern that was plain in his friend’s voice, and said, “Whatever was left of him died years ago. We do what we must.”

Duncan turned his attention to the people behind him, missing the look of determination on his friend’s face. “Your leave to move to shelter? Sonya is especially drained.” Pride shone in his eyes and a slight smile escaped, despite his immense weariness. His leaden arms moved automatically to support his wife, who stood a bit unsteadily beside him, though her eyes were clear and alert. “She truly is the Lore Mother to us all.” At his touch, she leaned into the comfort of his embrace.

“A moment,” King Galadine said, holding up a mailed hand. His armsmark cantered forward and handed him a scroll. After he’d backed away, the king undid the black ribbon and unrolled the parchment.

Confusion ran for a moment across Duncan’s face. “My lord, can this not wait?”

For the first time, the king met his eyes. “No, it cannot.” He looked down at the parchment and began to read:

“On this day, the twentieth of Peraat, I, King Mikal Petracles Galadine, proclaim the Way of Making false. It shall no longer be practiced in the lands of Edyn. Those who continue to adhere to and follow its teachings shall be put to death. Those who exhibit the Talent shall be sacrificed for the greater good of the land.”

The king met his friend’s confused gaze, “Never again shall we find ourselves under the yoke of the Way.” A breath passed, then two, and in that instant the two knew each other’s hearts. Then Mikal bellowed, “Archers, forward!”

The armsmark repeated the command and one hundred archers moved forward in lines on either side of the king.

Duncan looked about in alarm, then shook his head in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“I killed my brother for the safety of this land, archmage. Why would I spare you?”

Duncan dropped all pretense of mannered speech and exclaimed, “We fought side by side! Now we are to be executed?”

“No. Just as my brother, you are a casualty of war.” The king turned and nodded.

Bows bent and released, their strings thrumming as deadly shafts sped to their targets. Having defeated Lilyth, few mages had any strength left to defend themselves. Arrows pursued the few who tried to flee, ripping through flesh and finding vital organs. Most died where they stood.

Sonya screamed, diving at her husband, who had not moved. She caught hold of his chest, placing herself in the way of coming death. In a moment the sound of bowstrings stopped. She cautiously opened her eyes and found the rest of her friends and compatriots scattered about. All were dead or dying. Only she and Duncan remained.

Duncan looked around in shock. “You… they defend you with their lives.” He looked up numbly. “They were heroes. They had children, families…”

“No,” the king said.

His answer caught the archmage off guard. The king’s dead gaze never shifted as he watched a sickening realization set in across Duncan’s features.

“You killed their families, too?”

Mikal remained silent, his eyes searching the blasted landscape for an answer. Then he looked back at his friend and said, “I cannot allow this to happen again.”

Duncan shook his head, “Women and children?” He paused for a moment, then added, “Why have we been spared?”

The king motioned with his hand and a runner came forward with Valor, the fabled bow of House Galadine. “You have not, for I share the burden of my law.” He grasped the weapon, rune-carved and ancient. Its black wood seemed to soak up the little light left. “Hold each other. I will make it quick.”

Sonya stepped forward, her hands protectively over her belly and said, “You’ll be killing three of us.”

It was simply said, but delivered with such intensity it swept aside any royal formalities, speaking directly to the man she had called friend these many years, instead of a king who now sat in judgment.

Mikal’s gaze fell to her stomach, her meaning instantly clear. Slowly, his chin dropped to his chest and he slumped forward, every part of him physically echoing the grief he felt. He sat there for a moment in silence, then answered her from under his helm, his voice sounding hollow even to himself. “It is the worst thing I have done,” he said, even as he slowly nocked an arrow. “But not the worst I will ever do.”

“How can you live with yourself?” she accused.

The king took a deep breath, then raised himself and met her incredulous stare without flinching. “Make no mistake, my lady, for I am damned as well. I have killed the innocent, those pledged to my service, even children. Unborn shall be put to death for no crime they can control. Is this justice, fairness, or misery I now spread in the name of safety?”

Neither answered, but the battlefield replied with the moans of the dying, and the cawing of crows. Then, Duncan turned to his wife and held her close. Their eyes met, the years behind their gaze speaking more than any words could. Their hands touched tenderly, and in that briefest of moments a small blue spark jumped from her to him, unnoticed by anyone else. Duncan looked at her, first with astonishment, then with anguish.

She grabbed him tighter, then whispered something in his ear, to which he slowly nodded. Their embrace lasted only a moment before Duncan met Mikal’s eyes and said, “Nothing dies.” It was an age-old adage, warning of the ghosts injustice always raised.

The king’s grip tightened, but he said nothing. He sighted down the shaft, his hands steady, and slowly drew back. Valor groaned, as if the runebow knew what was about to happen and ached for release. Then, its twang-thrum echoed across the battlefield, the sound scattering a few black-winged thieves, their bellies full of the flesh of men. Two bodies fell, pierced by one arrow.

The king looked down, drew a shuddering breath, then turned back to his handiwork. His eyes, however, did not waver with remorse or regret, for there was none. They remained hard, like the granite rocks surrounding him, and just as dead.

Many years passed while King Mikal Galadine descended further into grief. Some heard a cawing of crows whenever the king was near. Others heard screams echoing from a far off battlefield. The word, ‘scythe’, was cautiously whispered, but no one knew why. Perhaps none wanted to say, ‘curse’ – that the king now reaped what he had sown.

Madness soon overcame grief, ghosts of a friend’s last words haunting Mikal’s every waking moment. No one knew exactly when he decided to take his own life, only that the deed was done after an heir had been born.

Darker times, though, were still to come…

PART ONE

Histories: Magehunters

A bladesman does not kill;

He allows one to live, purely by his own will.

He kills or grants life when wielding his blade.

—The Bladesman Codex

How often have you done this?” His voice came out nervously, looking to his lieutenant. He wore the dark mail and cloak of the king’s Magehunters, blue edged with silver. In his right hand he carried a torch, its dancing flame sputtering and hissing in the light rain. It painted his young face a lurid splash of orange and black, as light and shadow danced in the dismal night. He didn’t want to do this, but talking to his lieutenant kept him in good spirits.

“Half a dozen, Stiven, maybe more. Stop worrying.” He was not much older than the boy he spoke to. He rubbed his face clear of rain and looked up, silently cursing the weather and the clutch of new recruits like Stiven he had to look after. Dumber than a bag of onions, and not even as useful, but he could not afford to have the boy panic at the wrong time. He put a conciliatory hand on Stiven’s shoulder and said, “The king’s mark is with us. She’ll deal with any trouble. Just worry about your shieldmates.”

Stiven gulped, looking at the storm clouds, then turned a wide-eyed stare back to his commander and said, “Garis said they have powers… that we can be turned into things… unnatural things.”

Lieutenant Kearn shook his head and smiled. “What makes you think you’re so normal now?”

Another soldier bumped the kid with an elbow and said, “Don’t worry Stiv, you’ll likely be turned into a man. That’ll be a real trick.” Good-natured laughter followed as the platoon of men moved through the forest toward the village. Then the rain began to fall in earnest, ruining the moods of many. They had spent close to a fortnight on the hunt and wanted nothing more than a roof that didn’t leak and a dry, warm bed.

Their mood was further darkened by the woman who rode next to them on her black destrier. Her name was Alion Deft, the king’s mark, and her job was to hunt down and kill those who would threaten Edyn again. She wheeled her horse, then signaled Kearn to stop. She cantered over and met the young lieutenant’s unvoiced question with a flat statement. “I’ll address the men here.”

Lieutenant Kearn nodded, then motioned to his sergeant to have them form up but keep silent. At this distance, sound could still carry to the village, though the rain had muffled much of their progress through the undergrowth.

The men shambled into a loose square facing their sergeant. The fact the order had been obeyed instantly was the only indication these were seasoned fighting men. Some pulled their hoods farther forward as the rain fell harder. Lieutenant Kearn looked at the ragtag grouping and scowled at the lax formation, but then said, “Shield rest.” The men relaxed, but only a bit, waiting for their commander to speak.

Deft moved her warhorse forward to face the men and dismounted. Her cloak was the same dark blue as the others, but her armor was silver and steel, with a circular symbol stamped upon her breastplate. Her fingers rubbed it absentmindedly, a ritual before every cleansing. She looked at the assembled soldiers and asked, “Why are we here?”

There was no answer, and she seemed to expect none. She pulled her sword from its scabbard, the steel ringing its own note of death, and continued, “There is a pestilence. I mean to remove it.” Her gaze swept the men while the clearing remained silent. The only sound, rain falling through the trees. “I act on the king’s order, and by his grace and our Fathers, so do you.” Her eyes hardened. “No mercy.”

The men shuffled a bit, but nothing they heard was new. At a nod from the king’s mark, they all knelt. Deft raised a circled hand in supplication and said, “Let us pray.”

The men lowered their heads as the king’s mark intoned, “Fathers, bless our acts tonight. Aid us to smite the demons who wish harm upon your good lands. Let us be the hand that delivers justice, in peace.”

“In Peace.” The men responded. They slowly rose, some making the sign of the Circle and kissing their fists. Soon, they knew, it would be over.

Kearn watched Stiven look at the king’s mark as she stood there in the rain. “She’s beautiful,” he heard him whisper, to no one in particular.

“Aye,” said the sergeant who had lost an eye during one of the many border fights following Lilyth’s defeat, “and deadly. Stay away from her when it starts.”

“Why?” Stiven asked, in a voice that sounded like a boy more than a man.

The one-eyed man turned back and said, “Just stay out of her way.” He cinched Stiven’s pauldron closer, tapping it with a mailed fist to be sure it sat securely on his shoulder, then walked away, disappearing into the wet gloom.

Stiven stared at the sergeant’s back until Kearn thumped him out of his reverie. “Come on, Stiv. You’re assigned to the catchers. Grab some torcs.” He motioned to a basket holding dozens of metal collars, dull and gray. Still, every so often the light would catch one just so, and the coppery orange metal would flash into life.

Stiven moved over and grabbed one of the collars, holding it as he had been taught. It didn’t weigh much, but Kearn knew Stiven had seen what it could do. He clutched it tighter, making the thrusting motion once, twice, as if to remind his own arm how it was used. Then he took two more and hooked them onto his belt, within easy reach, and was obviously relieved to see the others do the same. Everyone knew Stiven hated standing out.

The sergeant whispered a command to douse the torches, and Stiven’s went into the wet ground with a hiss. The clearing where they stood fell into inky darkness, until his eyes adjusted and Kearn could make out the rest of the men. They looked like shadows, disappearing between the rain, leaves, and trees, and death followed their every step.

                                 * * * * *

Alion Deft stood where she had delivered her prayer, scanning until her eyes came to rest on an older man, grizzled and gray. He had the look of one who scowled regardless of the weather. His mouth worked a repetitive chewing motion that spoke to the wad of hazish within. He stood near a small cart they had wheeled along with them. It was made of wood, and along one side held a small door, bolted closed. The king’s mark nodded her chin at the cart and said, “Malioch, bring her out.”

“Royal whelp.” He said the words like they were a private curse, talking at Alion, but not about her.

The king’s mark moved in front of him, her eyes fixed on the man until he acknowledged her with a spit to one side. She waited a moment longer then said, “Bring her out.”

It was the flatness of her voice, the dead calm that gave the man pause. He spat again, a brown liquid, foul smelling and pungent, then produced a large iron key. The bolt unlocked with a snap and he pulled wide the door. He waited a moment, then thrust his hand inside. “Come on!”

A squeal sounded from inside the box and Malioch cursed, then grabbed a handful of hair and yanked. Out came a girl, dumped unceremoniously into the wet mud. He kicked her so she tumbled forward again, falling face down. “Curse you, witch.”

Alion watched this without care, waiting for the girl to rise. Slowly, as the desire to stand and stretch overcame her inherent fear, the girl came to her feet. What was once a white robe was now matted with filth and stains, hanging from her bony shoulders. Dark hair that had not felt a loving hand in weeks fell in clumpy strings. When she finally looked up, what had been a face filled with laughter held only the frightened gaze of someone trying desperately to avoid another beating. The girl cringed with her entire body and spirit, looking far younger than her twelve summers would indicate.

The king’s mark stepped forward and stooped so her eyes were level with the girl’s own. She noted the prisoner still wore the torc around her neck. As she neared, the girl stepped back but Alion held up a hand, “Steady now, Galadine. You know your job, yes?”

The girl looked as if she were about to cry, but nodded vigorously.

“Do as I say and you may have your father’s love again.” Alion lied without a second thought. This vermin, along with the rest, would be food for worms long before the king forgave her sins. Alion did not care. Using these magelings had become a necessary evil. How else would they be able to find others like her?

The Talent ran strong in the Galadine line, their curse to bear for being faithful stewards of the land, and the king’s willingness to sacrifice his own blood spoke to his character and nobility. Still, the need to consort with this thing filled her with disgust. She could only imagine the royal family’s shame that they should be so afflicted.

Despite these thoughts, her revulsion, along with the deepest desire to thrust her blade into the heart of the creature, never reached her eyes. She said the words with utter sincerity, allowing the briefest hint of a smile to play across her features, reassurance that everything would be all right.

She stood and motioned to Kearn. “Take the torc off.”

As the lieutenant obeyed, she looked back at the girl and said, “Kalissa, you know what happens if you run?”

                              * * * * *

Kalissa Galadine nodded again, not saying a word. The instant the lieutenant touched the torc, it unlatched with a small click and the metal collar opened.

Power flooded through Kalissa’s senses, reawakening her connection to the Way. It sang into her heart, healing minor injuries, succoring her weariness, and cleansing her soul. The pain fell as if washed away like her mud stains. She felt reborn, but knew this was only temporary. If she did not obey, her father would keep her here. Nothing she did, no connection to the Way, would ease the pain of what she had to do next.

She opened her eyes and Saw, then pointed and stammered, “Th-through the trees. There are two you want.”

Alion looked at the girl for a moment then asked, “Just two? Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Alion looked up, her eyes calculating. “You stay near me for this.” She handed the reins of her warhorse to a nearby soldier who secured it to the cart, which would remain behind.

Kalissa came forward, standing woodenly next to the king’s mark. She never took her eyes off the glowing folk she could see, amongst the less bright signs of the people in the village around them. They stood not more than two hundred paces away, beacons of Talent marking them for death.

Next to them, she saw a third, brighter than they were, someone with the potential for true power. Her eyes flicked once to the knight standing next to her, then back to the village. This third one was young, a girl not more than five or six summers old. Kalissa did not know who she was, only that if the girl were discovered, it would likely mean her own death.

Why would the king’s mark need her Talent if another, younger child were found to do her bidding? The shame of the decision to let this girl be put to the sword along with the rest of her village would have caused her anguish in the past, but now it barely registered. If her own father could give her away to someone like Malioch, why should she be any more merciful?

Adults with Talent were killed, but children were harvested and put to work, just as she had been. She would not take the chance these men would choose this new child of power over herself, and she did not care anymore about the consequence to her own soul. She would live and that was all that mattered. It was not the first time she had chosen her own safety over others and she knew it would not be her last. It was simply a matter of survival.

                    * * * * *

The village was small, counting no more than ten huts arranged around a central fire pit that still held glowing embers, protected by a rain shield made of some sort of metal. The rain hit it with a pang that sounded at once both hollow and strangely muffled. Alion could almost hear the drops slide down the shield, before they joined their brothers on the soaked earth. At best, the king’s mark estimated, there were less than fifty people here. She looked to Kalissa, who pointed to the second hut on her right. Alion put two fingers up and pointed.

The men broke into smaller squads of four, each taking station silently at the entrance to each hut. The remainder of her men melded into the shadows in case any tried to sneak out, a strategy they had practiced and perfected over dozens of raids.

When they were in position, Lieutenant Kearn signaled to the king’s mark, who strode into the center of the village and its fire pit. Grabbing a metal poker, she stoked the embers, then grabbed some wood from the pile. She threw this onto the fire, watching as it lit, growing slowly into a warm, orange dance of flames. Then, she casually ran the poker across the rain shield, the metal on metal creating a cacophony of sound, causing a few villagers to poke their heads out to see what was happening.

At that moment those under Deft’s command exploded into action, streaming into each house and grabbing the people inside. Screams ensued as the village realized it was suddenly under attack, yet there was little defense offered. The attackers were both well-trained and alert in comparison with these simple, sleep-addled folk.

Three entered each house and battered people into submission. A fourth would move in quickly and collar them, the torc snapping into place before they knew what was happening. Instantly, any path to their powers would vanish, or at least that was the promise. These torcs could only be removed by one without Talent. It made for an infallible test of who exactly was a mage and who wasn’t. If they had no power, they could remove their torc easily. If not, the king’s mark would deal with them.

                          * * * * *

Stiven raced in behind his team, torcs ready. He saw a man go down with a strike to his forehead, the flat of the blade hitting him with a dull thud. Stiven was upon him, dropping his torch and snapping a torc in place with a simple thrust of his hand. He fumbled to make another ready and looked up, only to see a woman slashing downward with something. He raised his blade instinctively, hearing the strike of steel on steel and feeling the shock of impact. The sword tumbled from his cold, wet fingers as he fell onto his back.

The woman carried a cleaver and raised her hand to strike again, but two swords plunged into her back as his squadmates came to his aid. They struck repeatedly as the woman let out a low groan, falling to her knees. They stabbed her even after she fell forward, face down and lifeless, pinning her body to the ground with their blades.

One leaned on his sword, thrust through the back of the dead woman’s body, then looked up at Stiven and laughed, “She had some swing in that arm!”

He didn’t answer, his mind still reeling from the speed of the attack and everything happening around him. Sitting on the ground, he watched numbly as the little girl who ran up to her dead mother’s body was torced, then pulled out of the hut along with her unconscious father.

Alion smiled at the brutal efficiency of her men. The villagers put up little resistance and were soon rounded up and left kneeling in the mud of the central square. Those who were unconscious were dumped to the side under the watchful eyes of the guards. Those who had been killed were dragged from where they fell and laid out for the count, a grisly sight for the survivors. Within a few moments, the raid was over and the people of the village were fully accounted for, one way or another.

* * * * *

“Wake them,” Alion said, motioning to the unconscious.

Guards went to the well and roped up buckets of cold water. With these they doused the fallen, following with kicks and slaps until all were at least semi-conscious and able to kneel next to their friends.

When the king’s mark was satisfied she had everyone’s attention, she said, “You know why we are here. You harbor those decreed by the King’s Law as a threat to this land. Point them out, and we will release you.”

None said a word, which did not surprise Alion Deft at all. Simple folk often saw those with Talent as some kind of benefit and harbored them, a mistake she would not allow to go unpunished. She moved slowly until she stood silhouetted by the fire, which blazed like a mantle of yellow power behind her. “Separate them.”

At her command, the children were grabbed and moved to one side, while the adults were held at sword point. Screams ensued and one mother ran forward to grab her son. Alion moved with the swiftness of a cat. Her blade licked out, slicing the woman’s head from her shoulders before returning to her scabbard in one smooth motion. The body and head fell separately, and the villagers instantly sank into a stifled hush of broken sobs and muttered curses.

“You are in violation of the King’s Law, a decree designed to safeguard your lives! I bring justice and order. Where are they?” Alion knew she could have asked Kalissa, but this was the interesting part. She always wondered why people had such faith in their friends, when it took so little to turn them against each other.

“Justice?” a kneeling man asked. “The king’s brother summons a demon and the land is plunged into war. For that, we pay with our lives?”

Alion nodded, and a guard picked the man up and brought him before her. Her eyes narrowed. “Lilyth destroyed our world. King Galadine saved it. You owe him your respect.”

The man shook his head, clearly distraught, “My wife…”

The king’s mark looked at the headless body and shrugged. “She chose her path, as will you.” Alion grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Where are the mages? Answer, or your son dies.”

Two guards snatched up the boy in question and brought him to where the man could see him. It was clear this was the boy the dead woman had tried to save. They shoved him down to a kneeling position, and one placed his sword point at the nape of his neck.

“No!” The man looked back at the king’s mark, pleading, “No, please.” He then looked about the group and pointed to a man near one end. “He is the one you seek. He and his wife!”

Alion looked to where the man pointed and saw one of the men who had been unconscious. He knelt now, holding one hand to his bleeding forehead. She looked back at the man, then shoved him away. “Well done.” She then looked at the guards near the accused man and said, “Bring him here.”

The guards obeyed, and the man was dragged before the king’s mark and dumped at her feet. Alion looked at the man and said, “Kalissa?”

The girl walked forward, a small tremble in her lips. She came slowly, fear dragging at her feet.

“Is this man one of your kind?” Alion asked.

The girl looked at the man, who now focused his eyes on her with hatred. Because he was collared, she would not be able to see his aura, a sure sign he had Talent. Normal people always shone, regardless of the collar or not, just not as brightly as those with Talent. “Yes, King’s Mark. He is one of us.”

“And the other?” Deft had pulled a dagger, wicked and sharp, absentmindedly picking at her nails.

Kalissa looked at the pile of bodies and pointed. “Dead. His wife w-was the other,” she stammered.

Alion watched the girl, then the man. When Kalissa mentioned his wife, she caught the look of anguish that flitted behind his eyes. So, she thought, the girl speaks truly, or at least it is true his wife is dead. We shall see.

The king’s mark addressed the kneeling man. “Take off the torc, and you will be released.”

The man turned his attention from the girl who had pointed him out and now looked at the tall woman before him. She was square-jawed and horse-faced, her voice without emotion. There was no love or compassion in her eyes, only apathy and death. “The Lady curses you,” he said weakly, knowing his fate.

“My Kalissa is seldom wrong. If your wife had lived, maybe I could have persuaded you to work for me, but with her dead, there is little to compel your obedience.” Alion paused, “Unless, you have a child?”

The man shook his head. “No,” he spat, and the king’s mark could see he wished her death, or worse.

“Then take off the torc and you will be absolved in the eyes of your Fathers.”

The man slumped into the ground, head in his hands. Then he grabbed the torc in both and pulled, his neck and face straining until red. When he could pull no more, he gave up, exhausted. “What does it prove?” he muttered.

Alion turned and faced the man kneeling before her and said, “It proves you have been judged, found guilty, and served the King’s Justice.”

She brought the blade up in a short, brutal arc, stabbing under the man’s neck and through the back of his skull. The man coughed a gout of blood, clutching at the Mark’s hands. His grip was at first strong, but as his life gushed out, became weak, feeble pulls on her wrist. His last breath gurgled out of him as he died.

Alion pulled the dagger from his neck and wiped it clean, shoving the dead man onto his back with her booted foot. Then she grabbed the torc, which came undone easily at her touch, and tossed it into a basket sitting some feet away. Sheathing her dagger, she looked to Lieutenant Kearn. “Get them up.”

At his command, the villagers were lined up facing the king’s mark. She watched them without emotion. These were worse than the ones who sullied themselves with magic. They turned their backs on the Almighty Fathers, embracing instead the work of demons.

Her men grabbed the large basket she had tossed the torc into and placed it on the ground near the standing villagers. Alion motioned to the basket and said, “Take off your torcs and put them in the basket. Then go wait in that hut.” She pointed to the back of the village. “Once I have satisfied the king’s decree, we will release you and depart.”

The survivors moved slowly, stiffly, reaching up and pulling off their torcs with numb fingers, tossing them into the basket. Unlike the man before them, they had no Talent, and the torcs came off easily at their touch. As each collar came off, that person was ushered into the hut to stand with his neighbors.

From the back of the line came a child’s squeal. Alion looked and saw a small girl, no more than five, pulling at her torc. A nearby adult reached down, but the king’s mark stopped her with a word: “Hold!”

Four men formed a circle around the girl, who looked more frightened now than ever. She sat down in the mud and buried her face in her hands. Alion moved in closer and said, “Little one, what is the matter?”

She looked up, with eyes so blue they almost glowed. Soft black hair spilled down her shoulders, and Alion found herself stunned by the child’s simple beauty. The girl stifled her tears, then sobbed, “You hurt him!”

The king’s mark looked back at the dead man. Not as truthful as I was led to believe.

She turned slowly and faced Kalissa, a little satisfied when the girl shook uncontrollably, her eyes showing white. “Did we miss one?”

With a scream, Kalissa turned to run, but was grabbed by Malioch. He punched her once in the face, then slapped the torc back on her before she tried any more mischief.

Alion grabbed Kalissa by the scruff of her neck and dragged her back to the little girl, then threw her to the ground. “Did you think to save one of your own?”

When the girl did not answer, the king’s mark looked to the other villagers. “Remove your torcs, now!”

The townsfolk scrambled to obey, and within a few heartbeats there were no more wearing the king’s metal collar. They were pushed and shoved back to the hut, until all were crammed inside. Guards stationed themselves at the entrance, as others circled the hut to ensure none escaped.

Alion turned her attention back to the little girl Kalissa had not mentioned. “The collar, it won’t come off?” she said sweetly.

The girl looked up, then shook her head, pulling at it. “I want my da,” she said in a small voice.

The king’s mark drew her blade. “You’ll join him in a moment.”

“Hold your arm, Deft.” The strident command came from behind her, the voice strong and composed. She saw her men turn and look. Any undrawn weapons sang out of their scabbards now with the ring of steel. She blinked once, then turned to the voice.

At the village’s entrance path stood three men. No, not men, she corrected herself, one man and two boys. They were dressed in dark, close fitting clothes without armor. They carried swords strapped across their backs, the hilts jutting up defiantly over their shoulders. Even as she watched, the man in the center stepped forward into the light of the village fire.

Recognition sparked and she paused, thinking through her options. This man was an outlaw, a malcontent, but dangerous. Her eyes narrowed and she drawled, “Captain Davyd Dreys, what a pleasant surprise.” Suddenly a simple evening’s culling had turned into a fight for her very survival, and Alion was too pragmatic to lie to herself. Still, she had to buy time and asked while readying her weapons, “How does it feel, knowing you are both a traitor and cursed?”

The man she had called Davyd looked about and said simply, “I’m no longer captain and don’t serve your king. That doesn’t make me a traitor.”

“Really? What would your men say, the ones lying dead at Sovereign’s Fall?” A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, for Captain Drey’s desertion was a well-known fact.

Davyd ignored her jibe and looked about, taking in the whole scene. “Still consorting with children? Have you found no better work since your days in court?”

“This is better suited to my particular tastes, but what of you? Do you not care for the mark you still wear?” She raised her arms and displayed the two interlocked circles worn by all king’s marks, tattooed on her forearms.

Davyd was hit with a fit of coughing, a phlegm-covered sound emanating from deep within his chest, and held a hand to his mouth. Beneath his sleeve, she could still see the same tattoos on his forearm, twin to hers. After a moment, his coughing subsided and he rasped, “I was too late to help my brothers, but will not allow you to kill their children. You will face justice today.”

Alion’s eyes took on a calculating stare, and she nodded slowly. “The wasting sickness is upon you, judgment from the Fathers’ hands.” She moved to one side and motioned to her men, who moved forward in a loose semicircle. “Why chance your sons’ lives? They do not have the benefit of the training you’ve received.”

Davyd signaled to his sons to remain steady. They, in turn, drew weapons and came to stand by their father. “I’ve taught them what I know.”

Alion Deft, the king’s mark and magehunter, bowed to the outlaw and said, “By all means then, have at us.” She looked to the brace of men still guarding the hut with the villagers inside and screamed, “Release them to their Fathers!”

At her order, her men hefted long spears and began stabbing through the thin hut walls, killing any within reach of the leafed blades. Normally they would have set the hut afire, but the accursed rain had put an end to that plan. The men at the entrance waited, stabbing any who ventured near the opening. The screams of the dead and dying soon filled the night air.

Davyd and his sons exploded into action, summoning the Way. Their forms flashed in a burst of blue fire, a flame-like skin protecting them as armor would. Without speaking they ran in three directions, with Davyd taking the shortest route to Alion and the other two winging toward the hut where the soldiers continued massacring the townsfolk. To the assembled men, the three looked like angels, shining like blue stars in the dismal night.

It was not a moment too soon, for guards began flinging their torcs at them, lethal rings aimed at the mages. The torcs did not need to fasten themselves to be effective, only loop around a limb, and Alion’s men knew it. They had practiced this and the air soon filled with the weapons of the Magehunters, seeking any kind of contact to deaden a connection to the Way.

Davyd blocked one, deflecting it with his sword, then ducked and rolled under another as a soldier swiped at him with his weapon. The mage raised his blade and blocked the soldier’s, then opened his palm.

Blue flame engulfed the man, incinerating him in less than a heartbeat. Davyd did not slow as he dived through the dying man’s ashes and stabbed another through the eye. He yanked his blade free and spun, slicing with his arm. A thin blue light arced out, like a line with a weight at the end, severing anything it touched. Soldiers fell screaming, their legs cut out from under them.

Alion felt the blue line come her way and dodged, rolling through it. Her armor shone, bending Davyd’s spell and protecting her from its lethal cut. She thanked the king’s priests and their ability to bring the power of her Fathers to protect her.

Over the blue devastating line streaked the elder of Davyd’s sons, Armun. He landed lightly, swinging his blade in a tight arc and swatting aside two rings. He knelt and punched his fist downward. The ground erupted in a circle from the impact point, cracking under the soldiers’ feet, but leaving the villagers unharmed.

The men caught in the spell fell into crevasses appearing suddenly beneath them. Armun stood and clenched his fist, and the earth closed again on the trapped men, crushing them in its black embrace. He looked to his father and smiled, then made his way toward the hut, cutting men in half with his blade as if they were made of paper.

Davyd leaped at Alion again, weaving a net of silver steel around the king’s mark. The strikes were lethal, but each time they came near, his sword bent and twisted in his hand as if it had a life of its own. Her armor acted as if it were a reversed lodestone, repelling his blade at every thrust. He cursed, then pointed his finger and a bolt of lightning, pure blue and white, flashed at his opponent.

Alion stabbed her sword into the ground, then knelt behind it. The arc of lightning hit the air in front of her and curved around, bending the stroke into a sphere of power surrounding the king’s mark, but not touching her. The lightning danced until it gathered at the hilt of her sword, following the blade down and channeling itself into the ground, leaving Alion entirely unharmed.

The ground around her exploded outward from the force of the lightning strike, scorching the earth in a radial pattern of force. From its smoking center rose the king’s mark, smiling, blade in hand.

While Davyd combated Alion, his youngest son, Themun, leapt away from the clearing and began cutting down sentries and those who had managed to escape their swath of destruction through the camp. As he rounded a tree, a blade came whipping out, only to be caught on the hilt of Themun’s steel.

Lieutenant Kearn pulled a shorter blade and faced his opponent, who looked no older than his new recruits. This would be simple work. “I’ve never heard of a mage who can fight.” To his side came Stiven, holding a cudgel he had found to replace his lost sword. He held one in one shaking fist, a torc in the other.

Kearn motioned to him to attack. “Easy kill,” he cajoled, “they can’t stand against our—”

Themun’s form blurred, moving faster than the man could blink. His blade sliced effortlessly through the torso of the hapless lieutenant, the body falling in two pieces even as he kicked the other man in the face.

Stiven tumbled and landed on his back. He threw the torc blindly at his attacker, then rolled and began feverishly crawling into the undergrowth, trying to hide.

Themun deflected the torc away, then placed a booted foot on the boy’s back. He heard him scream, then watched as he rolled over and begged, “Mercy! Please, this is my first time! I knew it was wrong! From the very beginning!”

The look on the boy’s face made it clear he had not expected to be facing someone his own age, but Themun didn’t care. He could hear the lies fall from the man’s tongue even as he spoke it. Magehunters were despicable and the song of retribution sang in Themun’s heart. Only blood would quench it.

“Please, don’t kill me,” begged the boy again. He began to grab for a dagger.

“I’m not my father,” the Themun said, then sliced twice with his blade, opening Stiven’s bowels. “I’m not as good at making this painless.”

Stiven screamed in agony and fell back, the dagger falling from nerveless fingers.

Themun stabbed him once in the neck, then held the boy’s hand to the spurting wound. “Hold here, it’ll be slow; let go, and you’ll die quick. More mercy than you have shown these people.” With that, he stood up and literally vanished into the undergrowth, never looking back to see what the boy chose. He simply did not care.

                            * * * * *

Armun did not hesitate, speeding to the hut holding the villagers. He knew his father battled Alion and that he could not get there in time, so he did the next best thing. At least saving some of the villagers was still within his power. He grabbed the soldiers at the door and flung them away, his touch sending a surge of lightning through their bodies. They fell in smoking husks, dead before they hit the ground.

He pushed forward with both hands and the hut exploded outward. The grass and thatching detonating with such force that many of the larger pieces sliced into exposed skin and blinded those soldiers unlucky enough to have been looking in that direction. Armun had a special affinity with earth and trees.

He snapped his fingers and every piece of grass or wood lodged within a soldier or on their person burst. The force was not huge, but enough to break bone, tear flesh, and incapacitate them. Literally dozens of men fell dead or dying from Armun’s touch. He let out a sigh and surveyed the area. In a few heartbeats he and his brother had laid waste to almost fifty men.

                                * * * * *

Alion and Davyd battled back and forth, their swords an intricate dance of death. When Davyd pressed, Alion pulled back, forcing the other to commit. Davyd however was too well trained to allow her to draw him in. Worse, she knew his sons would be done soon, then it would be three against one. She knew her time was running out.

When Davyd’s sons returned, her life would be over. She cursed her luck again at having the errant king’s mark appear now, during her raid. Alion was no fool, and though Davyd Dreys had not participated in the final battle against Lilyth, he was not one to be trifled with. He had been trained by the best, before going outside the law.

Had she been assigned a full complement of troops, they might have prevailed, but against one who had the combined training of a bladesman and the lore of the Way, this was no longer about winning, it was about survival. It didn’t help that his sons were turning out to be as lethal as he was. What she needed now was leverage if she was going to get out of this with her skin intact.

At that moment, Davyd was wracked by a fit of coughing, so Alion took the advantage. She pushed forward and kicked him in the chest, then bolted to one side. In an instant, she dived and rolled, snatching up the little girl they had found. Alion put her back to a tree, a blade to the girl’s throat. She did not have to wait very long.

Davyd Dreys was joined by his two sons, neither of whom seemed particularly winded, a testament to their own training. He clapped them on their shoulders, then came to stand in front of Alion. He sheathed his blade and opened his hands. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“Another mage, dead before she bears more filth!” Alion spat this out, her hand tightening on the hilt as she prepared to slit the girl’s throat.

“Wait. You must want something.” Davyd gestured to the open forest and asked, “Free passage?”

Themun looked to his father in astonishment. “She can’t live!”

Another bout of coughing erupted, bending Davyd over. When the attack subsided, he let loose a breath and wheezed, “Her armor… It bends the Way. Do we take that chance?”

Themun’s eyes met Alion’s own, and she could almost hear his thoughts. She would do this again if left alive. He looked back at his father, “For one girl?”

Father and son regarded each other, and Alion knew Themun saw the death of this hostage as a small price to pay for eradicating someone like her. “Trust me?” He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and then turned back to the woman holding the knife. “Free passage, for her life.”

“You would trade? After telling me I will see justice today?” Alion laughed. “Do you think me a fool?” Still, a part of her began to believe she might yet gain her freedom.

“I would trade even scum like you if it meant saving her,” Davyd said, looking at the little girl. “Release her and I will grant you safe passage.”

“Your Oath, then? And my other girl, Kalissa? You know who she is.” Alion raised a bushy eyebrow. “Protect the innocent I understand, even the child of a Galadine. She must return to her father.”

Davyd stepped back, sighing. Alion knew that to let her go was against every fiber of his being, but he would not mete out justice in the same manner as the king’s men. It simply was not what he believed in. He needed to know that in some things, he and his sons were different. And she would use that against him. She remained silent, knowing he could only come to one decision, and was not surprised to hear him utter the Oath.

“By the blood of my forefathers, I bind myself,” he said. “My oath as Keeper of the Lore, no harm will befall you by my hands.” A small flash of yellow encompassed the mage at the uttering of the Binding Oath, then disappeared. “Now, do what your honor demands.”

Alion stood and released the girl, shoving her forward with a booted foot. “You’ll never survive the King’s Law, honor or not, and neither will your sons.” She looked around the camp. Of the villagers, perhaps ten survived and she had killed the two that had been mages. An incomplete victory, but one she could accept with her honor intact.

Armun stepped forward and said, “Be thankful we value his Oath, or your blood would water the ground here.”

“Your father is a fool,” Alion replied with a smile. She limped over to Kalissa, who lay unconscious on the ground, paused to sheathe her blade, then picked up the girl and slung her over a shoulder. Looking back at Davyd, she said, “You can’t win.”

“Perhaps, but that depends on what ‘winning’ means.” Davyd nodded to the trees. “Be gone, dog. I took the Oath, but my sons did not.”

Alion clenched her jaw at that, but said nothing. She adjusted the weight of the girl over one armored shoulder, then made her way into the trees and disappeared.

                          * * * * *

“You’re letting her go?” A villager exclaimed. “She is a murderer and she goes free?”

Davyd turned to the voice and said, “The message she carries back, without her men, without accomplishing what she set out to do, will strike fear into the hearts of the Magehunters.”

Though he believed this, none of the people around him did. They had lost those they loved most dearly and now sorted through the memories of their lives, strewn about because of one night’s casual violence. This was not a time to accept his point, much less care. Only their shock at this attack and their fear stopped them from exacting their own vengeance on the king’s mark.

He looked to Armun and said, “Help them, check the wounded, help who you can.” He coughed again and spat out dark phlegm that looked bloody, but neither of his sons commented. His healing had done what it could to slow the sickness, buying him maybe a few more years. Nevertheless, the outcome was inevitable.

He wiped his mouth and smiled at his youngest, barely fifteen. “Go, see to the girl. One of the villagers can take that torc off her.”

The boy scampered away and landed lightly at the girl’s feet. “Come on.” He had a shock of brownish-blonde hair standing out from his head and the little girl smiled at him. It looked funny.

“What’s your name?” she asked, not understanding that this same boy had argued to sacrifice her life just a moment ago.

He turned, then offered a very formal bow and said, “Themun. Themun Dreys, and you?” He gave her a small smile, but Davyd watched his son carefully. He knew the boy’s mind was still on his decision to let Alion Deft go.

She smiled back and answered, “My name is Thera.” She looked about a little sheepishly then added, “I don’t have a last name.”

“No matter.” Themun looked toward the north and said, “The city of Dawnlight lies not too far away. We’ll call you that. Thera Dawnlight.”

                                  * * * * *

Some distance away, Alion reached her horse and untied the reins. Dumping Kalissa’s leaden weight across the saddle, she mounted, then hurried along the path that led back the way they had come. She heard a groan and realized the treacherous girl had come awake. Alion slowed and grabbed her by the back of her head, pulling her upright.

“Sit up, or I’ll carry you across it all the way home.”

Kalissa looked about in confusion, then said, “Where are we?”

“Alive,” said Alion dispassionately. “Don’t thank me.” She didn’t say anything else, but counted herself lucky. Losing the girl might have meant her own neck in a Galadine noose.

They rode slowly for a short distance while she adjusted to sit in the saddle as Alion had commanded.

Then both their attentions were taken by a man standing on the path, the moonlight streaming through the clearing, clouds painting his red robes the color of dried blood. Alion kicked her horse, intending to ride him down, but he raised a hand. For some reason the horse obeyed his command to stop, pulling up short with a whinny.

The man said, “Well met, Alion Deft, king’s mark.”

Alion vaulted off her saddle, the sword clearing its sheath as her feet touched the ground. If this person knew her, he was likely in league with Davyd. She would deal with his treachery now and be on her way.

She pulled her arm back to strike and felt her muscles go stiff. Normally her armor would have bent enchantments around it, but this time she felt as if she were encased in stone.

The man tilted his head to the side, as if examining something, and said, “Your armor won’t protect you, king’s mark, and neither will your simple faith in the gods. They don’t care, they never did.”

She tried to move, but her muscles were frozen tight, still locked in paralysis. Only her mouth seemed to work. She snarled, “So much for honor. Had I known Davyd to be so craven, I would have slit that girl’s throat when I had the chance.”

The man stepped forward past her blade and pulled his hood back, revealing blond hair and pale blue eyes. His gaze told her this man had nothing to do with Davyd Dreys.

His eyes gripped hers and he said, “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting.” He then reached up and tapped her forehead lightly. The flesh began to blacken and shrivel away.

“I judge you wanting. You have much to atone for, Alion Deft. This spell will take several hours to kill you, and you will feel every moment of it. Call to your gods. Perhaps they will grant you solace in the next world.”

                        * * * * *

He stepped past her and came to stand by the girl, Kalissa, who had dismounted with a grimace that gave testament to the punishment she had suffered at the hands of Alion Deft and her men. She ran to and hugged the man, saying, “She deserves it. They all do.”

Scythe laid a gentle hand on her head, stroking the soft hair. His eyes looked back through the forest to the mountain of Dawnlight, a black silhouette of jagged rock climbing up to stand illumed in the clear moonlight. There were forces at work in the ancient city that could aid him on his quest, ones he meant to investigate.

He looked away from those moonlit peaks and could sense Davyd and the others hard at work in the decimated village. The youngest in particular bore watching, for he had Talent far beyond his father and elder brother. He could sense others too, doing what they could to create a better life far from the king’s Justice. He looked down, sadness in his eyes, then knelt in front of Kalissa.

He froze her in place, then tapped her forehead lightly, watching the blackness spread like an inky stain. “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting. I judge you wanting, Kalissa Galadine. You have hunted your own kind, killed others so you might live, and sown sorrow in your wake.”

He looked again in the direction of Dawnlight, took a deep, cleansing breath and said, “Like your father, I do not show mercy.”

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

by V. Lakshman
4.6 stars – 44 reviews!
Special Kindle Price: 99 cents!!
(reduced from $5.99 for limited time only)

KND Freebies: Captivating paranormal romance WITCH’S BOUNTY is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

A sexy, smartly written paranormal romance by the always surprising Ann Gimpel…

When the beautiful and gutsy witch Colleen meets the disconcertingly gorgeous Sidhe Duncan, their powerful demon-hunting magic is matched only by the undeniable magnetism between them…

Don’t miss Witch’s Bounty while it’s
just 99 cents!

4.6 stars – 5 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

A demon-stalking witch teams up with a Sidhe, but their combined power, never mind their love, may be too late to make a difference.

One of only three remaining demon-stalking witches, Colleen is almost the last of her kind. Along with her familiar, a changeling spirit, she was hoping for a few months of quiet, running a small magicians’ supply store in Fairbanks, Alaska. Peace isn’t in the cards, though. Demons are raising hell in Seattle. She’s on her way out the door to help, when a Sidhe shows up and demands she accompany him to northern England to quell a demon uprising there.

Duncan swallowed uneasy feelings when the Sidhe foisted demon containment off onto the witches two hundred years before. He’s annoyed when the Sidhe leader sends him to haul a witch across the Atlantic to bail them out. Until he sees the witch in question. Colleen is unquestionably the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. Strong and gutsy, too. When she refuses to come with him, because she’s needed in Seattle, he immediately offers his assistance. Anything to remain in her presence.

Colleen can’t believe how gorgeous the Sidhe is, but she doesn’t have time for such nonsense. She, Jenna, and Roz are the only hedge Earth has against being overrun by Hell’s minions. Even with help from a powerful magic wielder like Duncan, the odds aren’t good and the demons know it. Sensing victory is within their grasp, they close in for the kill.

5-star praise for Witch’s Bounty:

“…kick-ass demon-hunter warriors [with] attitude and sarcasm in spades. The hero  is…a swoon-worthy gent, very dashing….fast-moving with plenty of action…would recommend it to fans of paranormal with a side of erotica…”

“…Another new and interesting series from Ann Gimpel…Each series is a complete world with complex and entertaining characters as well as detailed plots and intrigue…”

an excerpt from

Witch’s Bounty

by Ann Gimpel

 

Copyright © 2014 by Ann Gimpel and published here with her permission

Witches’ History Primer

…In the beginning, Ceridwen bent over her cauldron, stirring up the world. Sometimes the other Celts helped, but mostly they left her alone because she was so ill-tempered. She created witches somewhere between Sidhe, dark fae, and Druids—borrowing a pinch of this, and a bit of that, to give them an eclectic mix of magic.

Gwydion dropped by one day and leaned over her shoulder, peering into the large, black pot. “You’ve made the witches far too powerful,” he complained.

Ceridwen shrugged. She pulled her staff out of the sludge simmering before her, dark eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you want this job?”

The master enchanter shook his head. Blond hair wafted in steam from the cauldron. “No, but you’ll rue the day you didn’t temper their magic.”

The goddess narrowed her eyes. “Does Bran, god of prophecy, know you’ve taken over his job?”

Gwydion bristled. “Damn my eyes, woman, you’ve made witches as strong as the Sidhe.”

She got to her feet, faced the other god, and thumped his chest with her forefinger. “One day we may need that strength.”

Gwydion looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, his broad-shouldered form shimmered and disappeared.

“Hmph. Good riddance.” Ceridwen sank into a cross-legged sit next to her cauldron and went back to stirring. She’d die before admitting this to the other Celtic gods, but out of all her creations, witches were her favorite…

Chapter One

Rain worsened from a steady drizzle to a pounding, punishing deluge of icy sleet. Colleen Kelly strengthened the spell around herself. It sizzled where it ran up against the droplets. At least she wasn’t quite as soaked as she would have been without its protection. Pavement glistened wetly in the last of the day’s light. It was just past three in the afternoon, but December days were short in the northern latitudes and Fairbanks was pretty far north.

“At least it’s not snowing,” she muttered as she pushed through a nearby glass-fronted door into the magicians’ supply store she owned with two other witches in the older part of downtown. Bells hanging around the door pealed discordantly. She sent a small jolt of magic to silence them.

“I heard that. Not the bells, but you. It’s supposed to snow this time of year. How could you possibly be pleased the weather patterns have gone to hell?” Jenna Neil stalked over to the coatrack where Colleen stood. Blonde hair, hacked off at shoulder level, framed a gamine’s face and shrewd, hazel eyes. Jenna towered over Colleen’s six foot height by a good four inches; her broad shoulders would have made most men jealous. Between her trademark high-heeled boots, and a scruffy embroidered red cloak tossed over skintight blue jeans, she looked as exotic as the anti-hex hoop earrings dangling from each ear.

Colleen rolled her eyes, shook out her coat, and hung it on the rack. “Spare me your lecture about global warming, okay? It’s cold enough to snow. It just isn’t, for some reason.”

“Mmph.” The line of Jenna’s jaw tensed.

Indian spices wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of herbs, dried flowers, and desiccated body parts from small animals. Colleen’s stomach growled. Breakfast had been at six that morning—a long time ago. Pretty bad when even dried newt smelled like food. “Did you cook something? And if you did, is there any left?”

A terse nod. Jenna turned away, walking fast. Colleen lengthened her normal stride to catch up. “Hey, sweetie. What happened? You can’t be in this big a snit over the weather.”

Jenna kept walking, heading for the small kitchen at the back of the store. “A lot of things. I was just having a cup of tea. Shop’s been dead today.” She disappeared behind a curtain.

Colleen glanced over one shoulder at the empty store. A phalanx of bells around the door would alert them if anyone stopped in. The minute she tugged the heavy, upholstery fabric that served as a kitchen door aside, the pungent tang of Irish whiskey made her eyes water. “You said tea.”

“Yeah, well I spiked it.”

Colleen grunted. “Smells like you took a bath in booze. What the fuck happened?” She grabbed the larger woman and spun her so they faced one another.

“We got another pay-your-tithe-or-die e-mail from our Coven.” Jenna’s nostrils flared in annoyance.

“So? That’s like the tenth one.” There were new policies none of them agreed with, so they’d joined with about twenty other witches and stopped paying the monthly stipend that supported their Coven’s hierarchy.

“It’s not what’s bothering me.” Jenna pulled free from Colleen, tipped her cup, and took a slug of what smelled like mostly liquor.

Colleen fought a desire to swat her. Getting to the point quickly had never been one of Jenna’s talents. She clamped her jaws together. “What is?”

“Roz called with…problems.” Jenna turned and started toward the steep staircase ladder leading to her bedroom above the shop.

“You can’t just drop that bomb and leave.” Colleen made another grab for Jenna to keep her in the kitchen. Worry for their friend ate at her. Of the three of them, Roz was usually the most volatile. “What happened? I thought she was in Missouri, or maybe it was Oklahoma, visiting that dishy dude she met online.”

“Didn’t work out.” The corners of Jenna’s mouth twisted downward. Colleen quirked a brow, urging her friend to say more. “He only wanted her for her magic. Turned out he preferred men.”

“Aw.” Colleen blew out a breath. “She must have been disappointed.”

Half a snorting laugh bubbled past Jenna’s lips. “Maybe now she is. At the time, furious would have been closer to the mark.”

Colleen’s throat tightened. “Shit! What’d she do?”

“Turned him over to the local Coven.”

“Thank God!” Colleen let go of Jenna and laid a hand over her heart. Roxanne Lantry was more than capable of killing someone who’d pissed her off. It was how she’d ended up in Alaska. Roz hadn’t exactly been caught when her cheating husband and his two girlfriends went missing, but she hadn’t stuck around to encourage the authorities to question her, either.

Colleen and Jenna had already left Seattle; Roz repressed her antipathy for Alaska’s legendary foul weather and joined them. Magically, she was stronger than either of them, and she had a hell of a temper.

Colleen’s stomach growled again. Louder this time. It didn’t give a good goddamn about anything other than its empty state. She pushed past Jenna to the stove, lifted a lid, and peered into a battered aluminum pot. Curry blasted her; the spicy odor stung her eyes and made her nose run. “Whew. Potent. Mind if I help myself?”

“Go ahead.” Jenna sat heavily in one of two chairs with a rickety wooden table between them. She picked up her mug and took another long swallow.

Dish in hand, Colleen slapped it on the table in front of the other chair and went in search of a mug of her own. There weren’t any clean ones, so she plucked one out of the sink and rinsed it. Back at the stove, she tipped the tea kettle. Thick, amber liquid spilled from its stubby snout into her waiting mug. Jenna waggled the whiskey bottle in her direction.

“Nah.” Colleen settled at the table. “It would go right to my head. Maybe after I get some food on board.” She tucked in. After the first few mouthfuls, when the curry powder nearly annihilated her taste buds, the pea, potato, and ham mixture wasn’t half bad.

Jenna drank steadily. When Colleen’s dish was empty, she refilled her mug with tea, filched a couple of biscuits from the cupboard, and sat back down. “Are you going to talk to me?”

“I suppose so.” Jenna’s words slurred slightly.

Colleen cocked her head to one side. “I suggest you start now, before you forget how.”

“Oh, please.” Jenna blew out a breath, showering the small space with whiskey fumes. Colleen waited. The other witch could be stubborn. Wheedling, cajoling, or urging wouldn’t work until she was good and ready to talk. Finally, after so long Colleen had nearly chewed a hole in her cheek, Jenna finally muttered, “Roz called.”

Colleen ground her teeth together. “You already said that. It’s how you knew what happened with the guy.”

Jenna nodded. “There’s more.” She picked up the whiskey, started to pour it into her mug, then apparently changed her mind and drank right from the bottle. “She’s in Seattle. Checked in with Witches’ Northwest, just to say hello, and because she wanted to touch base with people she’s known for a long time.”

Another long pause. Colleen batted back a compulsion spell. It wasn’t nice to use those on your friends. She shoved her hands under her bottom to reduce the temptation.

Jenna lowered her voice until Colleen had to strain to hear. “The Irichna demons are back.”

“But our last confrontation wasn’t all that long ago. Only a few months. Sometimes when we best them, they’ve stayed gone for years.” Colleen shook her head. Even the sound of the word, Irichna, crackled against her ears, making them tingle unpleasantly. Irichna demons were the worst. Hands down, no contest. They worked for Abbadon, Demon of the Abyss. Evil didn’t get much worse than that. No wonder Jenna was drinking. Colleen held her hand out for the bottle—suddenly a drink seemed like a most excellent idea—and picked her words with care. “Did Roz actually sight one?”

“Yeah. She also asked if we could come and help. More than asked. She came as close to begging as I’ve ever heard her.”

“Erk. They have a whole Coven there. Several if you count all the ones in western Washington. Why do they need us?” Colleen belted back a stiff mouthful of whiskey. It burned a track all the way to her stomach where it did battle with all the curry she’d eaten.

Jenna just shot her a look. “You know why.”

Colleen swallowed again, hoping for oblivion, except it couldn’t come quick enough. She knew exactly why, but the answer stuck in her craw and threatened to choke her. The three of them were the last of a long line of demon stalkers, witches with specialized powers, able to lure demons, immobilize them, and send them packing to the netherworld.

When things worked right.

They often didn’t, though, which was what killed off the other demon stalker witches. It didn’t help that demons as a group had been gathering power these last fifty years or so. Witches lived for a long time, but they were far from immortal, and the demon stalking ability was genetic. She, Jenna, or Roz would have to produce children or that strain of magic would die out. So far none of them had come anywhere close to coming up with a guy who looked like husband material… Colleen looked at her hands. Even absent a husband, none of them had a shred of domesticity. Certainly not enough to saddle themselves with offspring.

“What’s the matter?” Jenna grinned wickedly, clearly more than a little drunk. “Cat got your tongue too?”

As if on cue, a blood-curdling meow rose from a shadowed corner of the kitchen and Bubba, Colleen’s resident familiar, padded forward. When he was halfway to them, he gathered his haunches beneath him and sprang to the table. It rocked alarmingly. Jenna made a grab for her cup. The large black cat skinned his lips back from his upper teeth, bared his incisors, and hissed.

“Oh, all right.” Colleen clamped her jaws tight and summoned the magic to shift Bubba to his primary form, a gnarled three-foot changeling.

The air shimmered around him. Before it cleared, he swiped the liquor out of her hand and drained the bottle.

“Would have been a good reason to leave you a cat,” Jenna mumbled.

He stood on the table and glared down at both of them, elbows akimbo, bottle still dangling from his oversized fingers. “If you’re going to fight demons, you have to take me with you.”

“No, we don’t,” Colleen countered.

“You don’t follow directions well,” Jenna said pointedly.

“Isn’t that the truth?” Colleen rotated her head from side to side, starting to feel the whiskey. At least once when they’d humored the changeling, he’d almost gotten all of them killed. Problem was she couldn’t predict when he’d follow her orders, and when he’d decide on a different tack altogether. Then there were the times his fearlessness had saved them all. Bubba might be a wildcard, but he was her wildcard.

“You forgot when I welcomed your spirit into my body, and kept it alive, while the healers worked on you.” Bubba eyed Colleen, sounding smug.

“If you hadn’t decided to play hero, and needed to be rescued, the demons wouldn’t have injured me.” Colleen winced at the sour undertone in her voice. That incident happened five years before; maybe it was time she got over it.

“Nevertheless.” He tossed his shaggy head, thick with hair as black as the cat’s. “When you conjured me from the barrows of Ireland, and bound me, we became a unit. You can’t go off and leave me here. It would be like leaving a part of yourself behind.” His dark eyes glittered with challenge.

“I hate to admit it,” Jenna sounded a little less drunk, “but he’s right.”

“See.” Bubba leered at them, jumped off the table, and waddled over to the stove with his bowlegged gait. Once there, he opened the oven, climbed onto its door, and peeked into the pot. He started to stick a hand inside.

“Hold it right there, bud.” Colleen got to her feet, covered the distance to the stove, and dished him up some of the curry mixture. “Get some clothes on and you can have this.”

He clambered down from his perch and over to several colorful canisters scattered around the house where she stashed outfits for him. Keeping Bubba clothed had been a huge problem until she’d hatched up a plan, and sewn him several pant and shirt combos with Velcro closures, since he didn’t like buttons or zippers. The changeling dressed quickly and took the bowl from her. “I could have gotten my own food.”

“Better for the rest of us if you keep your paws out of the cook pot.” Jenna stood a bit unsteadily. “I’ll be right back.”

Bubba stuffed food into his mouth with his fingers. “Where’s she going?” His words came out garbled as he chewed open-mouthed.

Colleen looked away. “Probably to pee. Maybe to throw up. Um, look, Bubba, it might be wiser if we took a quick side trip to Ireland and released you.” She glanced sidelong at the changeling spirit she’d summoned during a major demon war forty years before. He’d been truly helpful then, especially after he’d mastered English, which hadn’t taken him all that long. In the intervening time, he’d mostly clung to his feline form, eating and keeping their shop free of mice and rats. They’d lived in Seattle the first ten years or so after he joined them, relocating to Alaska to conceal their longevity. She dragged the heels of her hands down her face, feeling tired. It was getting close to time to move again, but she didn’t want to think about it.

Bubba shook his head emphatically. Food flew from the sides of his mouth. He scooped a glob off the floor and ate it anyway. “I have to agree to being released. I don’t want to go back to my barrow. I like it much better here.”

Colleen sucked in a hollow breath, blew it out, and did it again. Bubba was right. Rules were rules. He’d had a choice at the front end. He could have refused her. Witches respected all living creatures. The ones on the good side of the road, anyway. No forced servitude for their familiars, despite rumors to the contrary.

Jenna lurched back into the kitchen looking a little green. “You okay?” Colleen asked.

“Yeah. I drank too much, that’s all.” She rinsed her mug at the sink, refilled it with tap water, and sat back down. “Did you two come up with a plan?”

“I’m going.” Bubba left his dish on the floor and vaulted back onto the table.

Jenna rolled red-rimmed eyes. “That was the discussion when I left.”

“Your point?” Colleen swallowed irritation.

“Nothing.” The other witch sounded sullen, but maybe she just didn’t feel well.

“I offered to free him—” Colleen began.

“I refused,” Bubba cut in. He shook his head. “No recognition for all my years of loyal service. Tsk. You should be—”

“Stuff it.” Jenna glared at him. “We have bigger problems than your wounded ego.” He stuck out his lower lip, looking injured as only a changeling spirit could, but he didn’t say anything else.

“I suppose we have to go to Seattle,” Colleen muttered, half to herself.

“Don’t see any way around it.” Jenna worried her lower lip between her teeth.

“What exactly did Roz say?”

“We didn’t talk long. Her cellphone battery was almost dead.” A muscle twitched beneath Jenna’s eye. “She’d just stopped in at Coven Headquarters and the group mobbed her. Said we had to come. They’ve already lost about twenty witches to stealth demon attacks.”

Colleen’s heart skipped a few beats. Twenty witches was a lot. Maybe a quarter of the Witches’ Northwest Coven. “Crap. When did the attacks start?”

“Only a few days ago. They’d planned to call us, but saw it as goddess intervention when Roz just showed up.”

“Damn that Oklahoma cowboy.” Colleen pounded a fist into her open palm. “If his Coven doesn’t flatten him, I will.”

“He wasn’t a cowboy.” Jenna’s voice held a flat, dead sound. “He was supposed to be a witch. You know, like us.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want to close things up here, or should I try to get someone from our Coven to fill in at the shop?” Jenna looked pale, but the tipsy aspect had left her face.

Colleen shook her head. “We haven’t sold enough in the last few weeks to make it worthwhile to pay someone to clerk for us.”

“Okay.” Jenna’s hazel eyes clouded with worry. “When do you want to leave?”

“If you asked Witches’ Northwest, we probably should have left three days ago.”

“How are we getting there?” Bubba squared his hunched shoulders as much as he could and eyed Colleen.

“Excellent question.” Jenna looked at Colleen too.

She put her hands in front of her face, palms out. “Stop it, you two. I can’t deal with the pressure.” Colleen clamped her jaws together and considered their options. Roz already had a car in Seattle. It didn’t make sense to drive their other one down, plus it would take too long. Flying with Bubba was impossible. He looked too odd in his gnome form and his cat form didn’t do well with the pressure changes. They had to teleport, which would seriously deplete their magic and mean they couldn’t fight so much as a disembodied spirit for at least twenty-four hours after they arrived.

Jenna screwed her face into an apologetic scowl, apparently having come to the same conclusion. “Look, I’m sorry I’m not more help. There’s something about that particular mix of earth, fire, and air that I always bungle.”

Air whistled through Colleen’s teeth. It had been so long since they’d teleported anywhere, she’d almost forgotten Jenna’s ineptitude with the requisite spell. “How about this? You go down to the basement and practice. I’ll get a few things together…”

“What do you want me to do?” Bubba asked.

“You can help me,” Jenna said. “I’ll do better if I have an object to practice with.”

The changeling scrunched his low forehead into a mass of wrinkles. “Just don’t get me lost.”

“Even if she does, I’ll be able to find you.” Colleen tried to sound reassuring. She was fond of her familiar. In many ways, he was very childlike. Heh! Maybe that’s why I’ve been so reluctant to have a kid. I already have one who’ll never grow up.

The bells around the shop door clanged a discordant riot of notes. “Crap!” Jenna shot to her feet. “I should have locked the damned door.”

“Back to cat form.” Colleen flicked her fingers at Bubba, who shrank obligingly and slithered out of clothing, which puddled around him. She snatched up his shirt and pants and dropped them back into the canister.

“I say,” a strongly accented male voice called out. “Is anyone here?”

“I’ll take care of the Brit,” Colleen mouthed. “Take Bubba to the basement and practice.”

She got to her feet and stepped past the curtain. “Yes?” She gazed around the dimly lit store for their customer.

A tall, powerfully built man, wearing dark slacks and a dark turtleneck, strode toward her, a woolen greatcoat slung over one arm. His white-blond hair was drawn back into a queue. Arresting facial bones—sculpted cheeks, strong jaw, high forehead—captured her attention and stole her breath. He was quite possibly the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. Discerning green eyes zeroed in on her face, caught her gaze, and held it. Magic danced around him in a numinous shroud. Strong magic.

What was he?

And then she knew. Daoine Sidhe. The man had to be Sidhe royalty. No wonder he was so stunning it almost hurt to look at him.

Colleen held her ground. She placed her feet shoulder width apart and crossed her arms over her chest. “What can I help you with?”

“Colleen Kelly?”

Okay, so he knows who I am. Doesn’t mean a thing. He’s Sidhe. Could have plucked my name right out of my head. “That would be me. How can I help you?” she repeated, burying a desire to lick nervously at her lips.

“Time is short. I’ve been hunting you for a while now. Come closer, witch. We need to talk.”

Chapter Two

Duncan Regis eyed the grim-faced woman standing in front of him. She was quite striking with such stunning bone structure—high cheekbones, square jaw—she could have been a runway model. Her unwavering pale blue eyes held his gaze. Dressed in brown wool slacks, a multicolored sweater, and scuffed leather boots, she had auburn curls that cascaded to waist level. A scattering of freckles coated her upturned nose. Her lips would have been full if they weren’t pursed into a hard line.

He knew he was staring, but couldn’t help himself. Colleen was tall for a woman, close to six feet, with well-defined shoulders, generous breasts, and a slender waist that flared to trim hips. He smelled her apprehension and was pleased she was able to cloak it so well with the defiant angle of her chin and the challenge in her icy stare.

Despite his earlier command, she didn’t move. Annoyance coiled in his gut. He could summon magic and force her, but he wanted—no, make that needed—her cooperation. Compulsion spells had a way of engendering lingering resentments. He smiled, but it felt fake so he gave it up. “I like women with spirit, but I’m used to being obeyed.”

She frowned and tilted her chin another notch. “I’ll just bet you are. I’m not coming one angstrom closer until you tell me why a Sidhe is hunting for me.”

Surprise registered. He tried to mask it, just like he’d attempted to disguise himself in a human glamour. Duncan tamped down a wry grin, wondering if his second ploy had worked any better than his first.

“Not really.” She tapped one booted toe. “I read minds. You’ll have to do a better job warding yours, if you want to keep me out.” Colleen exhaled briskly. “Look. Maybe it would be easier if you just told me why you’re here. I’m sort of busy just now and I don’t have a bunch of time to spar with you.”

“You don’t have any choice.”

“Oh yes I do.” Anger wafted from her in thick clouds. Along with it a spicy, rose scent, tinged with jasmine, tickled his nostrils and did disconcerting things to his nether regions. He resisted an urge to rearrange his suddenly erect cock. Colleen unfolded her arms, extended one, and pointed toward the door. “Out. Now.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake—”

“Maybe so, but this is my turf. If you force me with your magic, you’ll have broken the rules that bind your kind—and the covenant amongst magic-wielders.”

Duncan’s temper kindled, but it didn’t dampen the lust seeping along his nerve endings. Rules be damned. He could flatten this persnickety witch, or better yet, weave a love spell and bind her to him that way. Maybe he should do just that and have done with things. He clasped his hands behind him to quash the temptation to call magic. The movement stretched his trousers across his erection, making it obvious if she chose to look down.

Something dark streaked from the back of the shop and planted itself in front of him, hissing and spitting. Gaia’s tits. A cat. He stared at it. Hmph. Maybe not a cat after all. Duncan reached outward with a tendril of magic. Before it reached the creature, Colleen bent and scooped it into her arms. The not-a-cat wriggled and hissed, but she held fast.

“Leave him alone,” she said through clenched teeth. “He’s mine.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Damn if it isn’t a changeling. How’d he end up with you?”

Her foot tapped the scarred wooden floor again, its beat so regular it could have been a metronome. “I asked you a whole lot of questions.” She took a step backward. “But the only one I want to know the answer to is—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jenna wavered into view, having teleported in from somewhere. Her gaze landed on the cat. “Thank Christ! For a minute there I thought the little bastard got away from me.”

“Jenna,” Colleen snapped. “The Sidhe have deigned to call.”

The other woman whipped around and stared at Duncan. He stared back. What was it with these witches? Had they taken some sort of potion to supersize themselves? She made Colleen look positively petite. Jenna sidled closer to Colleen; part of her height came from high heels, but she was still an imposing woman. “What does he want?” she growled.

Duncan cleared his throat. “I’m right here. You can ask me.”

“Fine.” Jenna put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

“How do you know I want anything?” he countered, trying to buy time to figure out what to do now. He hadn’t counted on two witches, and a changeling.

“Because if you didn’t, Colleen would have shooed you out of here by now. You really do need to leave. We’re busy.”

He snorted. “Yes. Colleen made that abundantly clear.” He looked from one witch to the other. At least his erection was fading a bit. Crowds always had a dampening effect on his libido. Many other Sidhe thrived on group sex, but he’d never appreciated its appeal.

“Either tell us what you want right now,” Colleen moved toward him, cat still in her arms, “or leave. I’m going to count to three—”

“Maeve’s teeth, witch! We’re on the same side.”

“Generally speaking,” Jenna joined Colleen about three feet away from him, “that’s probably true, but the Sidhe have never helped us.”

Colleen quirked a brow. “No, they haven’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I have this prescient feeling that Sidhe-boy here is about to ask for a pretty big favor.”

“Sidhe-boy?” The dregs of his lust scattered; he scrunched his hands into fists. “Show some respect.”

“You’re not respecting me,” Colleen said. “I’ve asked you to leave—twice. No, make that three times.” The not-a-cat finally twisted free. He skimmed over the distance to Duncan and buried his claws in his leg.

“Why you changeling bastard!” Duncan shook his leg. The thing didn’t even budge. He bent, curled his hands around the furred body, and tugged. The thing bit him. Anger flashed. Magic followed. The changeling howled and fell into a heap on the floor.

“Goddammit!” Colleen shrieked. “He was just trying to protect me. If you’ve killed him…”

“I didn’t. He’s only stunned.” Duncan rubbed his ankle, glanced at the puncture wounds on his hand, and directed healing magic to both places.

Colleen sprang forward and gathered the creature into her arms. Duncan felt her magic quest into its small body. She blew out an audible breath. Cradled against her, shrouded by her long hair, the changeling mewled softly.

Duncan shook his head. He’d hoped to be subtle, accommodating, encouraging, so the witch would at least hear him out with an open mind. The time for that was long past. “All right.” He spread his hands in front of him. The flesh wounds on the one were already nearly closed. “I’m here because we’ve had problems with Irichna demons—”

“Christ on a fucking crutch,” Jenna cut in. “Seems like they’re on everyone’s mind these days. We were just—”

Colleen rounded on her. “Shut up!”

“Oops. Sorry.” Jenna held out her arms for the changeling. “I’ll just take him and—”

“No.” Colleen’s voice was more like a growl. “You’ll stay right here.” She placed the changeling in the other witch’s arms and turned to face Duncan. “I know you’re Sidhe, but who are you?”

“Duncan Regis.” He held out a hand. She ignored it, so he let it drop to his side.

“Regis, Regis,” she mumbled, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Ruling class from somewhere in Scotland.”

He nodded, impressed. “Northern England, at the moment, but the border has moved around a bit over the years. I do lay claim to Scottish roots. I didn’t know witches studied our family lines.”

“Witches don’t, but I did.”

“Any particular reason?” He was almost sorry he’d asked. She had strong feelings about the Sidhe, and he was about to find out why.

The changeling yowled, obviously recovered from his semi-comatose state. Jenna cursed and set him down. “Damn it! He scratched me.”

Duncan thought about saying something cheery, like welcome to the club, but bit back the words.

Colleen rolled her eyes. “He wants to talk. There’ll be no peace until he shifts.” She flicked magic toward the creature winding itself between her booted feet. The air shimmered and a rather large gnome took form.

He rocked toward Duncan with a bow-legged gait that made him look like a drunken sailor; his open mouth displayed squared off teeth. “I’ll tell you why she knows about you.” The changeling drew himself to his full height of about three-and-a-half feet. “She came to the Old Country looking for help during the last demon war. You Sidhe were too high and mighty to get your hands dirty, so she had to settle for me.”

Colleen snickered. “Not exactly the way I might have described it, but close enough. Hey, Bubba! Get some clothes on.”

“Later,” the changeling snapped without looking at her.

“Which of us did you approach?” Duncan made the question casual. Whoever turned Colleen down had broken the covenant binding magic-wielders to come to one another’s aid in times of need. He wondered if she knew.

“Of course I do.” She sneered. “Your thoughts are as transparent as a child’s. Even Bubba here,” she pointed to the changeling, “does a better job masking his feelings when he puts his mind to it.”

“Thanks.” The changeling glowered at her before transferring his attention back to Duncan.

“What kind of name is Bubba?” Duncan linked to the changeling, and was surprised by the complexity of his thoughts. Maybe the witches had been a good influence.

“You didn’t have to just push your way in.” The changeling screwed up his seamed face in disgust, but didn’t draw back. “My true name is Niall Eoghan.”

“Clothes,” Colleen reminded him.

Bubba made a face at her, turned, and walked behind one of the display cases. When he emerged, he wore wide-bottomed green trousers and a black shirt.

“Irish.” Puzzle pieces clicked into place and Duncan transferred his attention back to Colleen. “You never did tell me who you’d asked for help. It appears they not only turned you down, but chased you across the Irish Sea.”

“We left voluntarily,” Jenna said.

Colleen’s lips twisted in distaste. Whatever she remembered apparently didn’t sit well. “We spoke with two Sidhe at Inverlochy Castle outside Inverness. They refused to give us their names, but said they were princes over your people. They heard us out and sent us packing. Gave us twenty-four hours to leave Scottish soil.”

“I was all for staying,” Jenna chimed in. “After all, we had passports.”

“Was it just the two of you?” Duncan asked.

“Roz was with us,” Colleen said.

Understanding washed through him. “Three. You brought three to maximize your power.”

Colleen’s full mouth split into a chilly smile. “We were under attack by the Irichna. Would you have done any less?”

“Probably not. So after we, that is, the Sidhe—”

We worked fine,” Bubba said flatly. “Unless you’ve decided to renounce your heritage.”

Duncan traded pointed looks with the changeling. “Speaking of magic, you’re stronger than any changeling I’ve ever come across.”

“That’s because you’re used to our feeble Scottish cousins. They were stronger before you stripped their magic and diverted it for your own purposes.”

“Enough.” Colleen snapped her fingers. “Or I’ll change you back into a cat. We don’t need a history lesson just now.” She shook her hair back over her shoulders. The movement strained her sweater tighter across her breasts. Duncan dragged his gaze elsewhere.

“About the Irichna—” he began.

“We can’t help you,” Colleen said flatly.

“Why not? We’d pay you well.”

“It’s not a matter of money, although I’m not sure you could afford us.”

“We have an, um, previous engagement,” Jenna offered.

“Whoever it is, we need you more than they do.” He looked from one witch to the other.

Colleen dropped her gaze and rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index fingers. When she looked up, the skin around her eyes was pinched with worry. “I’m not sure it’s a matter of who needs whom more.” She speared him with her pale blue gaze. “Do the Sidhe know why the demons are so much more active here of late?”

He debated how much to tell her. Given her ability to burrow inside his head, it was unlikely he’d be able to hide much. If he told her everything, though, it might piss her off. Hell’s bells, it annoyed the crap out of him. “Not exactly.”

Her nostrils flared. “You can do better than that. If you can’t, the door is behind you.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Talk now or leave now. It’s all the same to me.”

“Not to me,” Bubba grunted. “I think he should leave. Changelings in Scotland are weak because the Sidhe drained their magic to avoid another uprising.”

Duncan drew the smallest of spells in hopes the topic would die. The changeling was correct, but it wouldn’t be productive to haul that old bone out to gnaw on. “That’s very old history,” he said mildly.

“And not the least bit relevant right now,” Jenna snapped. “Colleen’s right. Either spit out the truth, or get out of here.”

“One,” Colleen counted. “Two…”

“All right. All right.” He spread his hands in front of him. “What do you know about demon history?”

“The Irichna work for Abbadon. Insofar as I know, they always have. Do things like that even have histories?” Colleen asked.

“Irichna are the only ones we’ve ever worried about,” Jenna chimed in. “The other demons are more of an annoyance than life-threatening.”

“Next question.” Duncan swallowed hard; embarrassment tightened his chest. “Do you understand why you have the power to corral the Irichna?” Both witches stared at him. When they didn’t say anything, he forced himself to keep talking. Heat rose to his face and the discomfort in his chest intensified. “It used to be us, but when the Irichnas’ power cycle intensified about two hundred years ago, we recognized they were in one of their upswings.”

An unpleasant light gleamed in Colleen’s eyes. “I could guess the rest, but I don’t have to because I see it in your mind. You foisted the demons off onto us.”

He gritted his teeth, determined to tell them the truth, no matter what it cost his pride. “It’s actually a little worse than that. We tried to get some other takers, but the Druids, undead, and weres turned us down, so we didn’t ask the next candidates.”

“You lily-livered bastards.” Jenna pounded a fist into the nearest object. It happened to be a display case. Glass shattered.

“Guess Great-Gran’s tale about being shanghaied by the Sidhe was truer than we ever guessed.” Spots of color splotched Colleen’s cheeks. She looked like she wanted to kill him and Duncan didn’t blame her. “What exactly did you people do to her?”

“Gene splicing. We actually augmented her power with our own, using a dominant pattern so all her offspring would have at least some level of power.” Duncan cringed at the defensive tone beneath his words. At the time, he’d bought into the concept wholeheartedly. Today, he castigated himself for being a fool.

Colleen looked right through him. “You broke the covenant. It says we get to choose something like that—not have it stuffed down our throats.”

He swallowed shame. It tasted acrid, bitter. “I’m sorry. It seemed like a win-win. Witches got more power and we—”

“Offloaded one of the Sidhe’s major responsibilities, which is to keep Earth safe from demons,” Bubba spoke up.

Duncan felt as if he’d been shot through the soul. Out of the mouth of a changeling… “I can’t change what’s happened. How many of you are there?”

“You mean of great-Gran’s descendants?” Colleen quirked a brow. He nodded. “Three.”

“That’s all?” Duncan didn’t even try to modulate the shock waves roiling through him. The Sidhe council had been certain there’d be more like forty or fifty. “What happened to all of you? You don’t live as long as we do, but still…” His voice trailed off.

“What do you think?” Jenna flapped her fisted hand at him. “Demons killed us.”

Guilt smote him, joining shame and remorse. “I’ll help you.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Colleen muttered. “Even Sidhe can’t raise the dead.”

Duncan shook his head. “No. When I first got here, you tried to get rid of me, said you had something important to do. I’ll go with you. Help you. It’s the least I can do to make up for…for…” He couldn’t get the words out. Sidhe meddling had set the altered witches up for what looked a whole lot like genocide. Because he couldn’t bear the pain and accusation in their eyes, he dropped his gaze. Even the changeling hated him, with good reason.

He could almost hear gears turning in Colleen’s head. She drew near him and he left himself undefended, wards down. She placed a hand on his head and sent magic auguring into him. Her touch was deft, if not terribly gentle. When she moved her hand, he fought an urge to grab it back.

“You told the truth,” she said, sounding surprised. “You can come with us. If things are as bad as I think they are, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“I don’t agree,” Jenna spoke up.

Colleen’s mouth twisted as if she’d tasted something bitter. “Beggars can’t be choosers. If we’re not careful, there won’t be any demon stalkers left.”

Not on my watch. Duncan bowed formally toward both witches. “Thank you. I will do everything I can to ease your burden.” And see it shifted back onto my people, where it belongs.

Chapter Three

“Sit if you’d like.” Colleen pointed at a chair. “Jenna and I need to get a few things together and then we’ll leave. How are you with teleporting?”

He shrugged. “Fine. How far are we going?”

“Seattle.”

“Piece of cake.” He grinned. It transformed his face into something boyish and quite beautiful. Colleen blinked and looked away. If she didn’t keep her guard up, Duncan just might inveigle his way past barriers she’d had up for longer than she cared to think about. As it was, a warm, fluttery feeling started in her belly and spread outward. She warded herself so he wouldn’t notice.

Jenna made a grab for her arm. “Come on,” she growled, voice gravelly. Colleen gritted her teeth. Maybe the other witch had intuited her thoughts.

“I’m going with you,” Bubba announced. “Who knows what he’ll do to me if I stay here.” He stared meaningfully at Duncan. The Sidhe looked away and settled himself in a leather easy chair next to one of the display cases.

“Are you done talking?” Colleen eyed Bubba.

The changeling looked solemn. “It’s easier to transport me when I’m a cat, huh.”

“Much.”

“Okay. I’ll chase down a mouse or two while you and Jenna get what you need.”

Colleen flicked magic his way, watching to make sure the transformation was complete. She picked up his clothes, wondering why she bothered keeping him covered. The changeling didn’t mind being naked. Someday, she’d ask Bubba why the Sidhe had felt the need to drain the Scottish changelings’ magic, but today wasn’t the day. Tomorrow wouldn’t be, either. Until they got the Irichna on the run, there wouldn’t be time for anything else.

“Colleen.” Jenna’s voice vibrated with impatience and Colleen understood the other witch wanted her alone so they could talk.

“Coming.” She trailed after Jenna across the shop and through the kitchen curtain, pulling magic as she went to shield their conversation that hadn’t happened yet. Jenna headed for the narrow, hanging ladder staircase that led to a bedroom nested beneath the old building’s eaves. Colleen followed her up. By the time she got there, Jenna was half naked and in the midst of changing into traveling clothes.

Not a bad idea. Colleen opened the two drawers where she kept a few things, and eyed their contents. She and Roz shared a ratty, older house on the southern outskirts of Fairbanks. Jenna lived above the shop. For all her earlier hurry, Jenna remained ominously silent as she dressed and chucked a few things into a rucksack.

Colleen unlaced her boots and toed them off. She pulled on warmer pants and a long john top, layering fleece over it. “I know you want to talk about something. What?” She stuffed a stout rain jacket into a small pack and bent to get her boots back on.

Jenna stalked to where Colleen stood and bent so close Colleen saw her shoulder muscles bunch. “We. Do. Not. Need. Him.” She bit off each word. If she’d been a cat, every hair would have stood on end. “Besides, you want to fuck him.”

Defensiveness tightened her stomach into a sour ball. “So what if I do? He’s gorgeous. Any woman would want him, plus I can’t remember the last time I got laid.”

“I can. Beltane.”

Colleen counted on her fingers. “Okay. Six months, give or take a few days. And the last time before that was the Beltane before. It’s not exactly like I’m a slut.”

Jenna shook her head. “That’s not it. I wouldn’t care if you entertained a different man every night.” She crossed her arms over her chest and winked lewdly. “It might actually improve your disposition. You’re not thinking, Colleen. The Sidhe is a complication. We’re stretched so thin, we don’t need anything else to deal with right now.”

Colleen blew out a tired breath. “He may be a complication, but we need some kind of help,” she countered. “I wanted to talk about this before Roz left, but somehow the opportunity just never presented itself. Besides, when the demons aren’t very visible, I suppose I always pretend they’re gone for good.”

“Talk about what?” Jenna’s mouth curled suspiciously.

“The Irichna. We know they’ve been getting stronger. Especially after that last skirmish in California a few months back, where they killed five of us.” She scrubbed the heels of her hands down her face and gazed at Jenna. “Bottom line is they want us dead. All of us. Once we are, they’ll have free rein here on Earth.”

Something flickered in the depths of Jenna’s hazel eyes. It was gone so fast, Colleen couldn’t name it, but it might have been fear. The other witch straightened. “I still say we can get all the help we need from other witches.”

“Christ! Be reasonable, Jenn. Other witches are great, but they’re helpless against Irichna. The demons may have killed five of us, but thirty other witches died defending us in that disaster.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Colleen’s temper, never on a long fuse, stirred to life. They needed to leave, not have a philosophical discussion about what the demons were up to. It went against the grain, but she focused her gaze so Jenna had to look at her. “Once we’re not in their way anymore, the Irichna will open Abbadon’s gates and all those hideous creatures will flood Earth. Panic will overcome everyone and everything. World governments will declare martial law—”

“And it won’t make a fuck’s worth of difference at that point, because we’ll be dead. Goddammit, Colleen, I know all that. So does Bubba. He’s worried changelings will be the first ones targeted.”

“What?” Shock raced through her; bile splashed the back of her throat and she swallowed painfully.

Jenna nodded. She looked more sad than angry; lines formed around her eyes like wagon wheel spokes. “He told me that all the old creatures were vulnerable. Virtually all of them have demon blood and it’s a two-edged sword. It makes them valuable allies when we battle the Irichna, but it also draws demons to them like a lodestone.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

Jenna shrugged. “I think he tried, but you soft-soaped him.”

A confusing welter of feelings rocked her, but the one that swam to the top was guilt. Sometimes months went by when she didn’t pay much attention to the changeling, beyond making certain he had food. “Yeah.” She had to take a breath to force the rest of the words out. “I can see where I haven’t been very present for him.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn good thing she didn’t have kids. She’d probably end up on some sort of Child Welfare list for being a crappy mother.

“I’m ready to go.” Jenna draped the strap of her bag over one shoulder. “About the Sidhe…I don’t trust him. They hung us out to dry. He as much as admitted it.”

“Yes, I went into his head. He didn’t fight me at all. He feels bad about what’s happened to us, almost as shitty as I do about ignoring Bubba.”

“Maybe he made it up. He could have ulterior motives.”

Colleen tossed a couple more tops into her bag, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. “No, he was telling the truth. What kind of ulterior motives could he possibly have?”

Jenna raised a hand, waved it around in the air, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll divert our teleportation spell.”

“Not likely. If you understood that spell better, you’d know it has zilch in the way of stealth elements. I’d know immediately if he were trying to route us back to the U.K.”

Color rose to Jenna’s face and stained her sharp-boned features. “Touché.”

Colleen grunted. “We’ve been up here so long, he may have given up on us and left.”

“A girl can dream. Let’s go. I’d like to get there while Roz is still alive.”

Colleen’s eyes widened. “That bad?”

“I couldn’t tell, but when’s the last time you remember her asking for help?”

“Hmph. Good point. She’s not the type.” Colleen walked to the trap door, faced inward, and grasped the sides of the ladder. She slithered down it, hurrying so Jenna, who was right above her, didn’t step on her hands.

“I’ll spell the place,” Jenna muttered and raised her arms with her hands positioned palms up. “Won’t take but a minute and it should keep most everybody but a really strong mage out.” She chanted softly, calling on the four directions and four elements to protect their shop. Colleen tossed some magic into the mix. Jenna didn’t need any help, but nervous energy frizzled Colleen’s nerves and it felt better to do something beyond simply standing there.

Bubba rocketed out of a dark corner. He meowed loudly and wove around their feet. Still feeling remorseful, Colleen bent and scooped him into her arms. He purred loudly and leaned into her as she straightened. Jenna dropped her arms. “Ready?” Colleen asked.

Jenna didn’t answer. She pushed past Colleen and strode through the curtain into the main part of the shop. Colleen heard muffled cursing and wondered if it was because Duncan had left—or because he was still there. She sent a thread of magic questing outward, and was ridiculously pleased to sense the Sidhe’s energy.

Stop! Just stop. He’s probably got half a dozen paramours back in the U.K. waiting for him to come home.

She clutched Bubba closer, made sure her bag was solidly around her shoulder, and followed Jenna into the front room. “I think we’re all set,” she said brightly.

“Excellent.” Duncan flowed to his feet. The mage light hovering near him flickered and went out. “How do you want to do this?” He quirked a brow.

“Huh?” Confusion rocked her. “Do what?”

“You asked for my help with teleporting. Are you just coming along for the ride, or—”

“Sorry,” she cut in, voice brusque to mask her sudden feelings of stupidity. “I was hoping you’d lend power to my spell, since I know where we’re going.”

He walked two paces closer, green gaze boring into her. “I don’t mind doing the whole thing. Just send me an image of our destination.”

She tried to look away and couldn’t. Damn! His magic is hella strong this close. Because she hadn’t been careful, he’d mired her in a spell. Fury vied with helplessness and she gritted out, “Stop that right now.” Bubba writhed in her arms and hissed.

Duncan had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry.” The aura dancing around him shrank to a pale glow.

Jenna stalked between them, glowering. “I told you this was a shit-for-brains idea. He just tried to force you with compulsion.”

Colleen rounded on the other witch. “You think I can’t recognize a spell I just got trapped in?”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of Titania, would the two of you back off. Yes, I drew magic.” He threw his hands in the air. “Guilty as charged, but my motives were pure. It takes a lot of magic to teleport. It will deplete you far faster than me. You didn’t say much about why you’re racing to Seattle, but you didn’t have to. What if the Irichna are lurking where we exit? If you drain a great deal of your own power getting there, you’re dead ducks.”

Colleen felt her face heat. She’d worried about exactly the same thing. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

“Why are you thanking him?” Jenna demanded. “If it weren’t for the Sidhe, we wouldn’t be in this mess. He as much as admitted it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about me as if I wasn’t standing right here.” Duncan’s tone sharpened and he sounded annoyed. “The operative pronoun is you, not he.”

“Now who’s splitting hairs?” The air around Jenna crackled with suppressed power.

“I thanked him because he’s trying to take care of us, me in particular,” Colleen ground out. Bubba flexed his claws; one caught her forearm and she yelped.

“Bubba doesn’t like anything about this,” Jenna said.

“He’s reacting to the tension in this room,” Colleen retorted. She shifted the cat to her other arm to free a hand and rubbed her temple where a headache had started. “And he’s right. We’re headed off to do battle with something ancient and powerful. We all need to be on the same page, or it’s as good as showing up wearing signs that say, Just Kill Me Now.”

“Good you understand that,” Duncan muttered. He turned to Jenna, sheathed the remainder of his magic, and bowed formally. “I understand you don’t trust me. You have many reasons not to. Exigencies make unlikely bedfellows. I honor the covenant betwixt magic wielders. It’s why I offered you my assistance. There are other Sidhe like me, honorable mages I can call upon for help. I was waiting until we arrived at our destination before I did so.” He hesitated a beat, and then went on. “It is unwise to marshal troops before one knows exactly what is needed.”

Jenna crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question. Actually, I spent the time the two of you were upstairs considering why I didn’t just get up and leave.”

“What’d you come up with?” Colleen asked. Bubba leaned toward the Sidhe as if his answer was important. The changeling had always had good instincts. Colleen tuned in with her third ear to listen carefully. Sidhe were notorious for trick answers, multi-layered affairs that were meant to obfuscate and blur things, while sounding perfectly reasonable on the surface.

“Several things.” Duncan held up a finger. “One. I had no idea there were so few demon stalkers left. Two,” a second finger joined the first, “I, er, finally understood that my people hung you out to dry and it annoys the hell out of me.”

“So it would have sat better if there were still forty of us?” Jenna cut in. “Or fifty?”

Color stained Duncan’s bronzed skin. “To be brutally honest, probably.” He held up a hand. “Let me finish. It would mean the Sidhes’ genetic manipulations weren’t responsible for killing off so many of you.”

“If it killed even one of us, would that have been acceptable?” Colleen couldn’t help it; she leaped into the fray.

Duncan made a fist and pounded it into his open hand. “No.” He narrowed his eyes. “What we did was wrong. I see that now. Mind you, many of my fellows won’t agree with me. They view all humans, even those with magic, as expendable, but we will have allies amongst the Sidhe too.”

Colleen rolled his last statement around in her head. “We, huh? You make it sound as if you’ve signed on for the long haul.”

“I have.” He cleared his throat. “I never finished giving you the reasons I didn’t simply walk out of your shop. If the Irichna win—and they nearly have—we’ll all face the consequences. I fear it will be the end of magic here on Earth. As it is, many Sidhe have faded into the Dreaming, or taken up residence on the borderworlds.”

“Scarcely the end of magic.” Colleen clanked her teeth together, so pissed off she wanted to kill something. Bubba twisted in her arms and she loosened her hold, realizing she must have been squashing him. “Merely the end of good magic. The Irichna and their minions have plenty of the other sort.”

“Exactly what I meant.” Duncan inclined his head toward her. “Thank you for the clarification. I came here hoping to gather maybe ten or twelve of you to deal with a fairly minor Irichna uprising in Cumbria.” The muscles in his jaw worked. Colleen wasn’t sure if he was angry or embarrassed, or maybe a little of both. “Sidhe have always been fairly insular. We don’t pay much attention to the goings on in the human world.”

“So you didn’t know how strong the Irichna had gotten,” Colleen said flatly. “Or how depleted our ranks were.”

“In a word, no. I’m shocked, furious, dismayed…” He blew out a breath. “None of that matters. Feelings are an indulgence. What’s important is figuring out how to get those bastards on the run. It didn’t make sense for me to leave two of the three