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**KND Freebies: Deeply moving THE COLOR OF THE SEASON by bestselling author Julianne MacLean is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt**

November 11, 2014 by Kindle Nation

“…incredibly poignant and unbelievably gripping…”

Award-winning and USA Today bestselling author Julianne MacLean continues her rave-reviewed The Color of Heaven series with THE COLOR OF THE SEASON — a fast-paced, emotionally resonant tale that will move and inspire you.

“…Ms MacLean is a wonderful storyteller. The characters in her stories seem so real, and I care what happens to them…”

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

The Color of the Season (The Color of Heaven Series Book 7)

by Julianne MacLean

Kindle Price: $2.99

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

Don’t have a Kindle? Get yours here.

Here’s the set-up:

Boston cop Josh Wallace is having the worst day of his life. First he’s dumped by the woman he was about to propose to. Then everything goes downhill from there when he is shot in the line of duty. While recovering in the hospital, he can’t seem to forget the woman he wanted to marry, nor can he make sense of the vivid images that flashed before his eyes when he was wounded on the job. Soon, everything he once believed about his life begins to shift when he meets Leah James, an enigmatic resident doctor who somehow holds the key to both his past and his future…
Praise for Julianne MacLean’s Color of Heaven series:

Outstanding series!!!
“These books are so well written on many levels…”

Must read series!
“…The author does a fantastic job of bringing a little of each previous book into the ones that follow but making each story feel…completely different…”

an excerpt from

The Color of the Season

by Julianne MacLean

Prologue

Josh Wallace

This past holiday season, I received the greatest gift imaginable—the gift of love. Or maybe it was the gift of life, or wisdom, or a combination of all those things. I’m still not entirely sure. All I know is that I am transformed.

Sometimes I look back on what happened and wonder if it was some kind of stress-induced hallucination. The doctor I told tried to convince me of that, but others were open-minded about my experience and admitted freely that they didn’t have all the answers. That what happened to me was outside their realm of experience.

What I am referring to is my unexpected encounter with the afterlife.

Who would have guessed that such remarkable things would happen to a man like me? A cop who carried a gun, never went to church, and considered any type of spiritualism to be silly new age stuff. That was for people who were weak and afraid of the real world, people who needed something else to believe in. Something to help them cope. Or so I thought.

I’ll be the first to admit I was naive in that area, and I viewed the world, and my place in it, very superficially.

“What you see is what you get,” I used to say.

Who knew there was so much more beneath, and above, the surface of absolutely everything?
Chapter One
A heavy rain was falling when I got out of bed that fateful morning, which seemed fitting, considering I was about to get dumped. I’d felt it in my gut all through the night, churning inside me like a rancid meal. I’d hardly slept a wink.

I rose from bed and stood at the paned window of my Boston flat, watching violent gusts of wind sweep raindrops across the asphalt in the street. Mist rose up from the ground, while leaves on the maple trees along the sidewalk fluttered and the branches swayed.

My body tensed and my head throbbed as I imagined Carla out there somewhere, ignoring my calls.

Because she was with him.

What were they doing right now? I wondered irritably. At this very moment?

I bowed my head and leaned forward over the white windowsill, bracing my weight on my knuckles and clenched fists, breathing deep and slow.

Hell. I needed a cup of coffee.

Turning away from the window, I moved into the kitchen to brew a pot, then poured myself a bowl of cereal, which I ate on the sofa while watching the sports channel on television.

I checked my phone again for a text from Carla. Still…nothing.

A part of me wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, because I knew I wasn’t the most rational guy in the world when it came to cheating girlfriends. I’d been burned once before, so I had a small problem with jealousy.

But what if she’d been in a car accident on her way home yesterday and was in a coma at the hospital and couldn’t get in touch? If that was the case, I was going to feel pretty guilty.

But it wasn’t the case, and I knew it. I’d have heard something.

No, she hadn’t texted or called because she didn’t know how to tell me it was over. She felt badly about standing me up for dinner the other night and probably wasn’t ready to face me and explain herself.

I felt a muscle twitch at my jaw.

Setting my empty cereal bowl down, I rested my elbows on my knees and stared at the blue velvet ring box on the coffee table.

Thirty-five hundred bucks. That’s how much that gigantic sucker had cost, and I’d had no choice but to set up a financing plan with monthly payments because I didn’t have that kind of cash just sitting around. I probably should have chosen something smaller, but I wanted to make an impression.

Looking back on it, I suppose I thought—with my limited view of the world at the time—that the bigger and flashier the ring, the more tempting my offer would be.

I reached forward to open the box.

Yep, it was one blindingly gorgeous ring. If she could just see it and give me a chance to pop the question… Surely there was still hope. She barely knew the other guy.

In that moment, my phone vibrated with an incoming text. I quickly picked it up.

Chapter Two

A half hour later, I opened my front door to find Carla standing on my veranda, shivering in the wind and rain. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a clip at the back, and she looked as classy as ever.

It was astounding, how physically attracted I was to her. Even now.

Especially now.

“Hey,” I coolly said. “Come in.”

I lived on the second-floor apartment of a century home that had been converted into a rental property, so there wasn’t much room in the narrow entrance hall. It certainly wasn’t an ideal location to hold a conversation about the rest of our lives together, so I started up the stairs.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, more than a little aware of the chill in my tone, but I couldn’t mask it. I was pissed.

“Sure,” she replied, unbuttoning her belted trench coat as she followed.

We reached the second level and I went to pour her a cup while she hung her coat and purse on a hook in the hall. By the time she joined me in the kitchen, I was stirring in the cream and sugar.

“Here.” I held out the mug.

She accepted it without meeting my gaze and glanced around the apartment. “Thank you.”

An ominous silence ensued. The tension was thick as mud.

“Should we go and sit down?” she suggested.

I nodded and gestured toward the sofa in the living room, where we’d spent many evenings wrapped in each other’s arms, watching late night movies.

She chose the leather chair by the window, however, which I considered a bad sign.

I sank onto the sofa and watched her sip her coffee. Still she hadn’t looked me in the eye. Then, at last, she set the cup down on the table. Naturally, after she called, I’d moved the ring box and placed it in a drawer in my bedroom. At least for now.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Carla said at last. “I hope you were able to cancel the reservations without any trouble.”

I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not like they bill you for it.”

She nodded and looked down at the floor. “No, of course not.”

Another awkward silence rolled through the room, then she cupped her forehead with her hand and shook her head. “God, I’m really sorry, Josh. You’re angry with me and you have every right to be. I know things have been…strained between us lately.”

“Have they?” I asked, needing her to elaborate, because honestly, I’d thought everything was fine. Well, mostly fine. Maybe there was a part of me that knew she didn’t belong to me completely, and that’s why I’d bought the ring.

Carla let out a sigh. “Yes. I think maybe, we moved a little too fast, right from the beginning. We’d both been through some rough times with relationships that didn’t end well, and that’s why we wanted so badly for this to work.”

“I thought it was working,” I replied. “And I’m still not convinced it isn’t. We’ve been together almost a year, Carla, and we’re good together. You know that. We have great chemistry and we both want the same things—to get married someday and raise a family. Everything was fine until…”

I stopped myself, because I needed to hear her say it.

“Until I flew to Canada to be with Seth in the hospital,” she replied.

The muscles in my shoulders clenched.

A few months ago, Carla had received a phone call about her late husband, Seth, who had died in a plane crash the year before. But apparently they’d found him alive—or so they thought. In the end, it turned out that the man floating on an iceberg in the middle of the North Atlantic wasn’t Carla’s husband after all, but some other passenger on the plane who had claimed Seth’s belongings.

The man’s name was Aaron Cameron—and I wanted to wring his scrawny neck.

Carla sat forward. “I don’t know how to explain it, but something happened to me when I was in Newfoundland, and I’m as confused by it as you must be. All I know is that I need to figure this out, and in order to do that, I have to be with Aaron.”

My gut squeezed with nausea. I shut my eyes, clenched both hands into fists. “You barely know him. You spent a couple of days with him in the hospital, and now you think he’s the great love of your life.”

“I’m sorry,” she continued in a gentle tone. “I wish you knew how hard this has been for me. I hate doing this, but I don’t want to lead you on, or heaven forbid, cheat on you while I figure out what I want.”

My eyes flew open. “Figure it out? So you’re not even sure?”

She sat back and stared at me. “Like you said, I barely know him, but there’s something between us that…” She paused. “I don’t know how to explain it, Josh, but it just feels right. It’s as if we were meant to find each other and I need to explore that.”

Meant to find each other? Seriously?

Reeling with frustration, I rose to my feet and went into the kitchen to pace around for a minute or two. After I cooled the anger in my blood, I returned to the living room and stood on the carpet, facing her.

“We have a good thing here,” I said, “but you want to throw it all away for a guy you’ve only spent a few days with? I thought you were the rational type with both feet on the ground, but maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. Maybe the so-called ‘magic of the universe’ is doing me a favor here, because I sure as hell wouldn’t walk away from what we have to go on some ridiculous quest for my soul mate. You know I don’t believe in that crap, and I sure as hell hope you don’t expect me to wait around for you while you go and do that.”

She stared at me with something that resembled pity. It only served to piss me off even more.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, “but you’re right, I suppose. The universe is doing you a favor, because this isn’t meant to be. If it was, everything would be clear. All the pieces would have fallen into place.”

“It was clear,” I reminded her. “At least, it was for me. And you don’t really believe that, do you? That the universe will take care of everything? We have to take control of our lives, Carla, and make things happen the way we want them to happen.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t take control,” she argued. “I’m just saying that sometimes you have to follow your gut.”

“And your gut is telling you that you should run off with a guy you barely know,” I reiterated. “That sounds really intelligent.” I tapped my forefinger on my temple. “Good to see you’re using the old noggin for these major life decisions.”

“I’m sorry, Josh. I never meant to hurt you.”

Well, you did.

My stomach lurched.

“You can show yourself out,” I eventually said.

All the color drained from her face. Then she stood up.

I stepped out of the way to let her pass. Slowly, she collected her coat and purse from the hook on the wall while I stood watching with a tight jaw that made my entire skull throb.

Don’t go, I wanted to say. Please stay. You’re making a mistake. We can work this out. I have a ring for you in the other room. Would that change your mind if I offered it to you now?

But I didn’t say any of that, because I had my pride to consider.

Instead I stood in anger, glaring at her while my head pounded with tension.

“I’m very sorry,” she said again. “I hope one of these days you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I replied, and felt an instantaneous regret for lashing out at her that way—at this woman I loved. Still loved.

But this was the second time I’d been cheated on, and I was bitter.

I was terribly, terribly bitter.

Chapter Three
A few years back, I fell in love with a beautiful woman named Brooke, who I intended to marry. We met in an upscale restaurant downtown not long after I entered the police force. She was fresh out of college, working an entry-level position with a large marketing firm.

I still remember what she wore that night—a skinny black pencil skirt, glossy white blouse, red, patent leather heels. Her black hair was sleek and shiny and hung to a sharp point at her waist. She had an ivory complexion and her smile electrified the whole room. The physical attraction between us was off the charts and we immediately entered into a relationship that lasted well over a year.

All I’d wanted was to be with her forever and maybe that was my problem. I lost sight of everything else in my life. When things eventually settled into a slower pace between us, I wasn’t prepared for the possibility that she might get bored.

Which she did.

That became obvious when I invited Kevin, an old college buddy of mine to come and stay with me for the weekend. Brooke soon decided he was far more exciting than I was.

I’ve since come to realize that she’d always been attracted to men she didn’t know very well. I suppose I was in that category when we first met in the restaurant. But when the excitement faded, so did her level of interest.

I walked in on Brooke and Kevin in my apartment, in bed together—which was a double betrayal because Kevin had been one of my best friends since freshman year. I took it pretty hard when he did that to me.

Last I’d heard, he and Brooke dated for about six months, then went their separate ways. I haven’t spoken to either of them since, and it was a long time before I felt ready to date again, let alone to enter into another serious relationship. For a while there, I thought I would never be ready.

Until I met Carla.

* * *

I was scheduled to work the graveyard shift on the day Carla dumped me, which at least spared me the agony of going to bed alone, tossing and turning, and over-analyzing what went wrong between us.

I’d done enough of that over the past few days when she stopped answering my calls.

But really… What had I done wrong? I was a good guy with a decent job with the Boston Police Department. Sure, I was only an officer in the traffic division, but I was young, educated and ambitious, and I had my eye on the next level. I was confident that eventually I’d slide over to the routine patrol division, learn the ropes there, and sooner or later get promoted to lieutenant. Or I could apply for advanced training for the SWAT unit anytime.

As far as my personal life was concerned, I was as loyal and family-oriented as any man could be. I loved my mom and treated her like a queen. I enjoyed cooking and didn’t mind doing dishes and laundry. I’d always loved kids––I certainly had plenty of experience with my nieces and nephews. I adored Carla’s teenage daughter Kaleigh and had tried my best to get to know her.

When all was said and done, I had been more than ready to walk down the aisle and become a husband and stepdad. I’d thought Carla wanted that too. I believe she did want it.

At least until she flew up to Canada to meet Robinson Crusoe.

Chapter Four

As soon as I got into the squad car shortly after midnight and started up the engine, my partner Scott set his coffee in the cup holder and cocked his head.

“So what happened between you and Carla?” he asked. “Did she ever get back to you?”

I shifted into reverse, backed up, and drove out of the station parking lot toward the turnpike.

“Yeah,” I replied. “She came over this morning and finally said what needed to be said, so at least now I know.”

“All, hell,” Scott said. “How are you holding up?”

I tugged down on the brim of my hat. “Let’s just say I’ve had better days.”

“What about the ring?” Scott asked. “Did you have a chance to give it to her, or at least tell her about it?”

I scoffed. “Are you kidding? After she stood me up and spent the weekend with another guy, I didn’t think it was an opportune time.”

Scott picked up his coffee and sipped it. “Sorry to hear that. You guys seemed good together. You sure as hell looked good, like some Hollywood power couple or something.” He paused and glanced out the window while the vehicle tires hissed through puddles on the wet pavement. “But listen—maybe if you tell her about the ring, it might change her mind and make her realize what she’s walking away from. You know how girls are about diamonds. The sparkles make them all weepy. My wife practically fainted in my arms when I proposed to her.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “She seems pretty into the other guy—like she thinks they’re soul mates or something, which I really don’t get, and I just can’t forgive. We’ve been together for a year. How could she just flick a switch and do an about-face like that?” I waved a hand over the steering wheel. “I really need to let this go. I’m starting to sound like a broken record—a pathetic, heartbroken sap. Somebody, please, just shoot me now.”

Scott chuckled. “Hey, I understand. She delivered a blow. Seemed like it came out of nowhere, too.” He patted my shoulder. “You’ll get through it, buddy. We just need to find you a new girl. A really hot girl.”

I nodded because that was the “guy” thing to do, even though I had no interest in hot new girls. All I wanted was Carla.

“Do you see that?” Scott asked, pointing at the silver minivan in front of us, weaving back and forth over the center line.

Scott called in the license plate number to the dispatcher while I activated the siren and flashing blues.

Chapter Five

“I’ll get this,” Scott said, raising the hood of his slicker and opening the car door at the shoulder of the road. “But you could order the rain to stop, if you get a minute.”

“Sure thing.” I leaned forward slightly to squint up at the dark, overcast sky while water sluiced down over the windshield.

While I kept the wipers moving at full speed and let the car idle to prevent the windows from fogging up, Scott got out and approached the vehicle.

Attentively, I watched him tap a knuckle on the window of the van and begin to converse with the driver. I noted another passenger in front—a woman leaning across the console to speak to Scott, though it was difficult to make her out through the blinking rear tail lights and heavy rain.

Scott eventually moved a few feet back and gestured for the driver to step out of the vehicle.

Must be a DUI, I thought. Not surprising, given how the van was weaving about.

Just as I reached to unfasten my seatbelt, however, I heard a gunshot. I looked up to see Scott stumbling backwards onto the road.

Shit!

Within seconds, I had radioed for backup and was out of the squad car, going for my gun.

“Freeze! Drop your weapon!” I shouted, darting a quick glance at Scott. He was conscious and clutching his shoulder.

By now the perp had scrambled back into the minivan. The passenger door opened and the woman fell onto the road, screaming hysterically. “Help me!”

“Stay down!” I shouted at her.

Just as I reached the driver’s side door, the tires skidded over the wet pavement, spitting up loose gravel. The van fishtailed out of there.

The next thing I knew, I was aiming my .38 and considering firing off a couple of rounds at the left rear tire, but I didn’t have to. The driver hit the brakes for some reason and the minivan did a 180 on the slick pavement. It skidded into the guard rail about a hundred yards away.

“You okay?” I asked Scott, who was rising unsteadily to his feet. I reached out to give him a hand.

“Yeah. The little bastard got me in the arm. I think it just grazed me.”

“Get the woman,” I said, hearing the sound of the minivan engine sputter. The suspect was attempting to make another escape. “Backup is on the way.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. The front door of the van swung open. The suspect hopped out and sprinted down the off-ramp.

“I’m going after him,” I said to Scott, and broke into a run.

Chapter Six

I barely registered Scott’s voice calling after me, telling me to wait for backup. I probably should have listened to him, but I couldn’t let the suspect get away. Not after he’d shot my partner at close range.

Running at a fast clip down the off ramp, I radioed in my location and followed the perp into an auto body repair shop parking lot.

I was breathing heavily by then, aware of the sound of my rapid footfalls across the pavement, splashing through puddles.

The suspect disappeared around the back of the building. I followed briskly, pausing at the corner to check my weapon and peer out to make sure he wasn’t positioned there, waiting for me.

He had gained some distance and was scrambling up and over a chain-link fence. I immediately resumed my pursuit and climbed the fence to propel myself over.

Inside the repair shop, a dog barked viciously. An outdoor light flicked on, illuminating the rear lot. I was almost over the fence when a door opened and a large German shepherd was released from within. He came bounding toward me, barking and growling.

I dropped to the ground on the other side of the fence.

“Police officer in pursuit of a suspect!” I shouted at the man who followed his dog across the lot.

“He’s heading that way!” the man helpfully replied, pointing, but I didn’t stop to acknowledge his assistance because the suspect was escaping toward a residential area across the street.

“Stop! Police!” I shouted.

To my surprise, just as the shooter reached a low hedge in front of a small bungalow…instead of jumping over it, he halted on the spot and whirled around.

I trained my gun on him. “Drop your weapon!”

He raised both arms out to the side.

“I said drop your weapon!”

I blinked a few times to clear my vision in the blur of the rain. Then…

Crack!

A searing pain shot through my stomach, just below the bottom of my vest. Then another crack! I felt my thigh explode.

Somehow I managed to fire off a few rounds before sinking to the ground. The suspect did the same.

In that instant, two squad cars came skidding around the corner, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

Slowly, wearily, finding it difficult to breathe, I lay down on my back in the middle of the street and removed my hat as I stared up at the gray night sky. A cold, hard rain washed over my face. I began to shiver.

Vaguely, I was aware of the other two units pulling to a halt nearby. I turned my head to watch two officers in raincoats approach the suspect, who was face down in the ditch in front of the hedge.

Then rapid footsteps, growing closer…

“Josh, are you okay?”

I looked up at Gary, a rookie who had offered me a stick of gum in the break room before I’d headed out that night. I nodded my head, but felt woozy. “I think I’m hit.”

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing uneasily at my abdomen. “Help’s on the way. Hang in there, buddy. You’re going to be fine.”

Feeling chilled to the bone, I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

By now Gary was applying pressure to my stomach, which hurt like hell. He shouted over his shoulder, “Need some help over here!”

I clenched my jaw against the burning agony in my guts and leg, and heard more sirens.

“Will they be here soon?” I asked with a sickening mixture of panic and dread.

“Yeah,” Gary replied. “Any second now. Just hang on.”

“It’s cold,” I whispered. “I should have worn the raincoat.”

More footsteps. I felt no pain, only relief but was drifting off. It was hard to focus.

Another cop knelt down beside me.

I labored to focus on his face.

“MacIntosh,” I said. “Can you call Carla for me? Tell her I’m sorry about this morning. Tell her I love her. I didn’t mean what I said. I should have walked her to the door.”

“You can tell her yourself,” MacIntosh replied.

His patronizing response roused a wave of anger in me.

“No.” I grabbed his wrist and spoke through clenched teeth. “I need you to promise me… Promise me you’ll tell her, or I swear I’ll knock your head off.”

“All right, all right,” he replied. “I’ll tell her.”

That was the last thing I remembered from that day.

What happened next was strange and incredible. From that moment on, my life became divided into two halves—everything that happened before the shooting, and everything that happened after.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

The Color of the Season
(The Color of Heaven, Book 7)
by Julianne MacLean
Special Kindle Price: $2.99!
(reduced from $4.99 for a limited time only)

**KND Freebies: Fast-paced, gritty novel BORN & BRED is featured in this morning’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt**

November 10, 2014 by Kindle Nation

“…wonderful…A fast-paced, tightly written novel…Murphy captures both the corruption and allure of Dublin…”

Danny Boyle was a born angel. At least that’s what his granny used to say. But in the turmoil of 1970’s Ireland, an alienated Danny gets into drugs and is involved in a gangland killing…

A work of vibrant imagination by a masterful storyteller, BORN & BRED is the first of three novels that will chart the course of one star-crossed life. Don’t miss it while it’s 80% off the regular price!

Born & Bred

by Peter Murphy

4.6 stars – 9 Reviews

Kindle Price: $1.99

Text-to-Speech: Enabled

Don’t have a Kindle? Get yours here.

Here’s the set-up:

Danny Boyle was a born angel.

At least that’s what his granny used to say, and she should know – she raised him after his parents proved incapable. When she becomes ill, Danny is reunited with his parents but they do not get to live happily ever after, as the ghosts of the past haunt their days. And when the old woman dies, all of her secrets come to light and shatter everything Danny believes in.

In the turmoil of 1970’s Ireland, an alienated Danny gets into drugs and is involved in a gangland killing. Duped by the killers into leaving his prints on the gun, Danny needs all the help his friends and family can muster. Calling in favors from bishops and priests, police and paramilitaries, God and the devil, the living and the dead, they do all that they can. But even that might not be enough.

BORN & BRED is the first novel in the Life & Times Trilogy, a cycle of three novels that will chart the course of one star-crossed life. It is a work of vibrant imagination from a poetic novelist of the first order.
5-star praise for Born & Bred:

“…The author did a splendid job in portraying many diverse relationships, city life, church life, family life, corruption and crime…an engaging read…”

“…so interesting and well constructed…”

an excerpt from

Born & Bred

by Peter Murphy

CHAPTER 1

On the night of August 10, 1977, Daniel Bartholomew Boyle made the biggest mistake of his young life, one that was to have far-reaching consequences for him and those around him. He might have argued that the course of his life had already been determined by happenings that occurred before he was born, but, poor Catholic that he was, riddled with guilt and shame, he believed that he, and he alone, was responsible. He had been dodging the inevitable since Scully got lifted but he knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. Perhaps that was why he paused in front of the old cinema in Terenure after weeks of skulking in the shadows. Perhaps that was why he waited in the drizzle as the passing car turned back and pulled up beside him.

“Get in the car, Boyle.”

Danny wanted to make an excuse—to say that he was waiting for someone—but he knew better.

It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. They weren’t the patient sort, twitchy and nervous, and single-minded without a shred of compassion. He looked around but the streets were empty. There was no one to help him now, standing like a target in front of the art deco facade of the Classic.

The cinema had been closed for over a year, its lights and projectors darkened, and now lingered in hope of new purpose. He had spent hours in there with Deirdre, exploring each other in the dark while watching the midnight film, stoned out of their minds, back when they first started doing the stuff. He used to do a lot of his dealing there, too, around the back where no one ever looked.

“Come on, Boyle. We haven’t got all fuckin’ night.”

Danny’s bowels Zuttered as he stooped to look inside the wet black car. Anthony Flanagan was sitting in the passenger’s seat, alongside a driver Danny had seen around. He was called “the Driller” and they said he was from Derry and was lying low in Dublin. They said he was an expert at kneecapping and had learned his trade from the best. Danny had no choice; things would only get worse if he didn’t go along with them.

“How are ya?” He tested the mood as he settled into the back seat beside a cowering and battered Scully. He had known Scully since he used to hang around the Dandelion Market. He was still at school then and spent his Saturday afternoons there, down the narrow covered lane that ran from Stephen’s Green into the Wonderland where the hip of Dublin could come together to imitate what was going on in the rest of the world—but in a particularly Dublin way.

Dave, the busker, always took the time to nod to him as he passed. Dave was black and played Dylan in a Hendrix way. He always wore an afghan coat and his guitar was covered with peace symbols. Danny would drop a few coins as he passed and moved on between the stalls as Dylan gave way to Horslips, Rory Gallagher, and Thin Lizzy.

The stalls were stacked with albums and tapes, josh sticks and tie-dyed t-shirts with messages like “Peace” and “Love,” pictures of green plants and yellow happy faces along with posters of Che, whose father’s people had come from Galway.

The stalls were run by hippies from such far-out places as Blackrock and Sandyford, students from Belfield and Trinity, and a select few from Churchtown. They were all so aloof as they tried to mask their involvement in commercialism under a veneer of cool. Danny knew most of them by sight, and some by name. On occasion he’d watch over their stalls when they had to get lunch or relieve themselves. He was becoming a part of the scene.

***

“Hey Boyle!”

Danny had seen Scully around before but they had never spoken. Scully, everyone said, was the guy to see about hash and acid, and, on occasion, some opium.

“You go to school in Churchtown?”

Danny had just nodded, not wanting to seem overawed.

“Wanna make some bread?”

“Sure. What do I have to do?”

“Just deliver some stuff to a friend. He’ll meet up with you around the school and no one will know—if you’re cool?”

Danny had thought about it for a moment but he couldn’t say no. He had been at the edge of everything that happened for so long. Now he was getting a chance to be connected—to be one of those guys that everybody spoke about in whispers. Sure it was a bit risky but he could use the money and, besides, no one would ever suspect him. Most people felt sorry for him and the rest thought he was a bit of a spaz.

“Could be a regular gig—if you don’t fuck it up.” Scully had smiled a shifty smile and melted back into the crowd, checking over each shoulder as he went.

***

As they drove off, Scully didn’t answer and just looked down at his hands. His fingers were bloody and distorted like they had been torn away from whatever he had been clinging onto.

Anto turned around and smiled as the street lights caught in the diamond beads on the windshield behind him. “We’re just fuckin’ fine, Boyle. We’re taking Scully out for a little spin in the mountains.”

His cigarette dangled from his thin lips and the smoke wisped away ambiguously. He reached back and grabbed a handful of Scully’s hair, lifting his bruised and bloodied face. “Scully hasn’t been feeling too good lately and we thought that a bit of fresh air might sort him out, ya know?”

“Cool,” Danny agreed, trying to stay calm, trying not to let his fear show—Anto fed off it. He brieify considered asking them to drop him off when they got to Rathfarnham but there was no point. He knew what was about to go down. Scully had been busted a few weeks before, and, after a few days in custody, had been released.

It was how the cops set them up. They lifted them and held them until they broke and spilled all that they knew. Then they let them back out while they waited for their court date. If they survived until then—well and good. And if they didn’t, it saved everybody a lot of time and bother.

Danny sat back and watched Rathfarnham Road glide by in the night. They crossed the Dodder and headed up the hill toward the quiet, tree-lined streets that he had grown up in. As they passed near his house he thought about it: if the car slowed enough he could risk it—just like they did in the pictures. He could jump out and roll away. He could be up and running before they got the car turned around and by then he would be cutting through the back gardens and could easily lose them.

“You live around here, don’t ya, Boyle?” Anto spoke to the windshield but Danny got the message. “And your girlfriend—she lives down that way?”

Danny thought about correcting him. He hadn’t seen Deirdre since the incident in the church but there was no point. They’d use anybody and anything to get to him. He was better off just going along with them for now.

He briefly thought about asking God to save him but there was no point in that, either. They had given up on each other a long time ago. He turned his head away as they approached the church where he had been confirmed into the Faith, so long ago and far away now.

***

He had dipped his little fingers into the old stone font and made a wet cross on his forehead, his chest and each of his shoulders. His granny had often told him that the font was used in the Penal times when the faithful were banished to the mountains and the English spread their “Enlightenment” with muskets and swords. He had blessed himself like the generations had done before him, entitled by patriotism and Catholicism, rising up from the bogs of hopelessness to shake off the Imperial yoke. And back then he believed every word of it.

“The long arm of the Devil is always reaching out to knock unwary souls from the narrow path that leads to Heaven,” she always warned him. “And the fires of Hell burn brighter every time a soul falls.”

He had been fascinated by that and once held his finger in the flame of a candle to see what it was like. And though he quickly pulled it away, he had a blister. “Let that be a lesson to you,” his granny chided as she smeared butter on it. “Now you can imagine what it’s like to have your whole body burning—for eternity.”

***

Anto lit another cigarette; the bursting match filled the car with sulphur, the red and yellow glare briefly brightening the side of the driver’s impassive face. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Scully?”

Scully didn’t say anything and just shook his downturned head.

“C’mon, Scully. Don’t be like that. We’re all still friends.” Anto handed his cigarette packet back over his shoulder. “Here, give Scully a smoke—and have one yourself. We’re all good mates here. Right? Just a bunch of mates taking a drive in the mountains.”

Danny took the packet and fished two out. He held one toward Scully and when he didn’t raise his head, searched for his mouth. He struck another match and held it out as Scully turned his head. His face was bloody and swollen. His nose, snotty and flattened to one side. He was missing more teeth than usual and he had been crying, probably for his life. He sucked the flame toward the tip of the cigarette and nodded at Danny but his eyes were resigned.

“There’s the old church where we all went to Mass. Isn’t that right, Boyle?” Anto reached over his shoulder and took the pack from Danny. “That was where we made our Confirmation and all that shite?”

Danny just nodded as old memories flooded back.

***

He had blessed himself with deliberate care under the supervision of Mr. Patrick Joseph Muldoon, his National School teacher, who had spent most of 1966 teaching Danny and his classmates how to be really Irish as the country got ready to celebrate the once derided martyrs of the Easter Rising—those who had died so Christ-like. By 1967, Muldoon’s vocation was to ready them for Confirmation, that they might be a credit to their Church, their parents, and, of course, to Patrick Joseph Muldoon, once from a small biteen of a place in the bogs beyond in Mayo.

But when the Confirmation class went to Confession, he caught Danny blessing himself with his left hand and wacked it with a leather strap. “For the love of God, Boyle, what kind of way is that to be blessing yourself and you about to make your Confirmation? What kind of a Catholic are you?” Danny didn’t dare answer, burning as he was with shame, the lingering effects of Original Sin. Muldoon had taught them about that, too. That’s why they had to have the love of God beaten into them.

He was smiling as Danny stepped inside and took his place with his classmates. All the boys were dressed in dark suits with ribboned medals on their lapels, looking for all the world like little gentlemen.

And the girls looked like flowers in A-line coats over lace-trimmed satins and white stockinged feet in black patent-leather shoes. They weren’t women yet, but some of them were beginning to attract attention in the way they stood and eyed the boys who smiled back nervously. Some of the boys even blushed and fidgeted until someone broke the tension by whispering: “I hope the bishop asks you!”

They had all been drilled in the Catechism but when the moment came—when the bishop walked among them and stopped, searching for doubts and unworthiness—none of them wanted to be tested. There was so much riding on the day. It was the day when they took their place in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

It was also the day when friends and families bestowed their blessings in a much more tangible way. The previous year, some of the boys made over five pounds. Danny knew that he would do better. His father had already promised him a fiver—the next time he came home—to make up for not being able to make it over for the big day. “Things are a bit slow right now,” he had told him when he made his weekly phone call. “But I’m just going down to see a man who knows a man who heard of a fella that might be hiring. Things are going to pick up, you’ll see.”

His father often made promises like that and usually forgot about them, but this time Danny was sure he’d come through. It was his Confirmation, after all, and the Holy Ghost was involved. He’d move his father to do the right thing. Besides, his granny said they would go and visit his mother in the hospital and Danny could show off to all the nurses and the patients. “They all have lots of money,” his granny assured him, “and they’ll be delighted for you, on your big day. Now stop fidgeting and pull up your socks. And make sure you take the pledge.”

***

“I didn’t grass,” Scully suddenly announced to no one in particular, as if the enormity of his plight had finally seeped through all of his pain and nausea. “I swear to ya, I didn’t tell them anything. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know. I just gave them names of people I made up. Ya know I’d never grass. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

The Driller and Anto exchanged glances but said nothing so Danny stayed silent, too. The Devil was coming to collect his due and there was nothing any of them could do about that. Scully was done-for but there might still be some hope for Danny. There had to be. Sure he had strayed from the path, but it wasn’t all his fault.

***

When the Confirmation ceremony reached its apex, Dr. John Charles McQuaid, the archbishop of Dublin, ascended into the elevated pulpit. He rose like an apparition without seeming to move his limbs under his dark robes. He looked to the ceiling and then down on them all for a moment like he was thinking about withholding Confirmation.

Danny had overheard his granny say that he was like that: “Cold and remote but, God love him, he grew up without his mother’s love to soften his world. But it’s a pity that he doesn’t pay more attention to what the Sacred Heart of Jesus used to say about Love and being nice to everyone—especially poor sinners.”

Danny never knew what to say when Granny spoke like that. He just listened and stored it all away to consider when he was alone and his face couldn’t be read. But none of that would get in his way today, not when being a Catholic finally paid off.

The archbishop was talking in a low stern voice: “I promise,” he intoned and paused until they repeated it. Danny joined in and raised his voice above them all, vowing with all of his heart: “to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, except used medically and by order of a medical man, and to discountenance the cause and practice of intemperance.”

When he’d finished, Danny’s heart soared up around the columns, searching for an open window, to fly out, all the way to the Heavens. The small fiery tongue of the Holy Ghost had descended upon him and kindled his soul and he wanted to feel that way forever.

But, by the time they got out of the warm stuffy church, the boys were tugging at their fresh white collars, loosening their stifling ties, while the girls hopped from foot to foot, trying to skip the pinch of new shoes. Muldoon was organizing them for photographs. First the whole class and then a series of each newly-confirmed with attending parents and himself—prominent for all posterity.

“If you don’t mind,” Granny Boyle had asked with polite insistence, “Danny and I would rather it was just the two of us.”

Muldoon smiled like he’d been slapped but stood back without comment. The old principal was retiring that summer and he was next in line for the job. He didn’t want to risk any more complaints reaching the parish priest’s ears. “Not at all Mrs. Boyle, and may I tell you that I’ve never seen Master Daniel looking so well turned out. He’s a real credit to you.”

“He’s a credit to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, that one. A pure angel if ever there was one, no matter what slandering sinners would say about him.” She stared Muldoon down as she arranged herself for the camera. She had never gotten over it—the day Danny came home in tears.

***

“What’s the matter pet?”

Danny was still shaking as he told her about what had happened at school that day.

They had been having a serious discussion about what went on in the local dances. None of them had been to any, of course, but most of them had older brothers and sisters.

Geraldine Wray was talking about “the Lurch”—the latest dance craze. Muldoon listened with growing indignation and puffed himself up a little more. He blamed television, the world’s latest intrusion on Ireland. He had one but he only watched RTE. His students, though, watched the BBC and ITV, watching shows like Top of the Pops and no good could come of that. He had warned them it was a bad influence. “God bless us and save us,” he declared when he had heard enough.

“Everybody’s doing it,” Geraldine assured him.

Muldoon puffed himself up a little more. “I don’t care if the bishop and the reverend mother are doing it.”

“I can just see those two at it,” Danny piped up in a flash. He had a bit of a crush on Geraldine and never missed a chance to be in the same conversation, but it went wrong. Muldoon turned on him with a face like thunder. “May God forgive you for saying such a thing. That’s a mortal sin—that’s what that is—and you just weeks before your Confirmation. I’ve a good mind to call the archbishop myself and . . .”

Granny gritted her teeth as Danny relayed it all.

“Oh, did he now?” she stroked Danny’s face. “You go on up and have a little lie down in your bed while I go and have a word with the parish priest. I’ll not have that bog-amadán talk to my grandson like that. Go on now, and here,” she handed him a small plate of chocolate biscuits. “Just mind you don’t get any on the sheets.”

***

“Big smiles for the camera, now.”

Granny composed herself. This was one of those great moments that would live on long after she had gone to meet her maker. She would have a few bones to pick with Him when she got there but for now she smiled and held Danny close to her. Please God, she whispered through her smile. Look after my Danny when I’m gone.

She had great faith in God but she also had a healthy fear of the Devil and there were, God forgive her, times when she wasn’t certain which one would win out in the end. But she kept her doubts to herself and went along with the current of the times.

Besides, she reminded herself as she shook hands with neighbors and friends, God tests the faithful but doesn’t stint on their rewards. He had given her Danny, the apple of her eye and the only thing the world hadn’t torn from her. She was there for His angel when those who should weren’t. She accepted the job with joy, and dread. She knew far too well that the wickedness in the world would be out to destroy Danny, just like it had done to Jesus—and Padraig Pearse.

***

When they got to Killakee car park, the Driller pulled over and turned the car toward the twinkling lights of the city below and waited for Anto to break the silence.

“It’s nice up here, isn’t it lads? I like to come up here to think, ya know?”

“I think we’d have a nicer view over by the wee wood,” the Driller disagreed and nodded in the direction of Cruagh Wood, off in the darkness.

“What do you think lads? Do you think we should go for a walk in the woods?”

Scully said nothing but pleaded with Danny with his swollen, puffy eyes.

“I’m fine here,” Danny answered, hoping that if they waited in the car park, someone might drive by, maybe even the Garda.

Anto was probably just trying to frighten the shite out of them—and he was doing a great job. Every time Danny let his mind wander into what might happen, he had to clench his arse.

But it was all just for fuckin’ show—it had to be. They weren’t going to whack the two of them. They might just be making a show for Scully’s sake, but Danny had done nothing wrong. Sure he owed them some money, but he was going to pay them, one of these days.

In the back of his mind, Danny had always known that life was out to get him. Despite all the talk about God loving them, and all, he knew better. His God stalked the streets looking to mete out punishment when he could and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

“Always thinking of yourself, Boyle. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to be considerate of other people’s feelings? Like Scully, here. Don’t you think that he might like a walk in the woods?”

“But it’s still fuckin’ pissin’ down with rain. Maybe we should just go back down and come out another time?” It was a long shot but Danny had to try. If he could just get back to the city, he’d change everything. He’d even start going to Mass again. And he’d go to Confession and clear his slate. He prayed silently into the dark desperation that swirled around him. Maybe, if he prayed hard enough?

Anto nodded to the Driller who started the car and took the road that led toward the wood. “Ya, maybe you’re right, Boyle. What do you think, Scully? Do you think we should come back on a nicer day?”

“I didn’t grass anybody. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know? I wouldn’t grass you’se guys. Ya know that, don’t ya? You’se are my mates. I’d never fuck you’se over. You know that, don’t ya?”

Anto seemed to be thinking about it and nodded when he was done. “Of course we do but we just had to hear it from your own lips. You know that we’re just trying to remind you of what would happen if you did.”

“I know that Anto, that’s why I’d never fuckin’ grass you, ya know. I’m not mad, ya know?”

“Ya,” Danny joined in, careful not to implicate himself with his enthusiasm as a rush of forgiveness Zowed through the car. He whispered his thanks to the side window and resisted the urge to bless himself.

“Okay,” Anto turned around and smiled at them both. “But let this be a lesson for you—the both of you’se. We have to stick together. Right?”

Danny and Scully nodded as they drove off, but the Driller pulled over when they got to the woods. “Well now that we‘ve all kissed and made up, I need to take a leak. Anybody else?”

“Ya,” Anto agreed. “We’re all cool now. Right Scully? Boyle? No hard feelings? Let’s all get out. We can have a few hits, too, and put the whole fuckin’ thing behind us. I don’t want to smoke-up in the car, in case we get pulled over on the way back.”

They all got out and stretched in the damp mountain air. Perhaps, Danny wanted to believe, it was all going to be okay; Anto was just sending them a message. He could be like that—very dramatic.

They stood in a row, pissing up against the boles of trees, careful to stand with the wind behind them. Danny stood next to Scully and had almost relaxed when the Driller stepped up behind them and popped two shots into the back of Scully’s head.

Scully fell forward, his own piss still dribbling between his fingers. He twitched a few times and then grew still. Anto approached and nudged him with his foot before looking into Danny’s face. “It wasn’t personal, Boyle, ya know that? It’s just business. We have to maintain loyalty. Scully knew that, ya know?”

Danny didn’t speak and just nodded as he kept one eye on the Driller who still held his gun ready.

“And now we should commit our dear departed friend to the ground,” Anto continued like he was saddened by what had just happened. “And, when all the fuss has died down, we’ll come back and put up a nice little cross, or something. Scully used to be a good mate; it’s the least he deserves. Did you bring the shovel?” he asked the Driller who was still standing over Scully, ready to shoot again if he moved.

“No! Fuck-me. I left it in the car. Here,” the Driller held out the gun, cold and hard in the softness of his damp leather gloves. “Hold this while I get it.”

Danny fingered the cold metal, still reeking of death, and thought about it. He could pop them and get the fuck away without anybody knowing. He’d always wanted to be a hero—just like his grandfather who had fought off the Black and Tans.

***

“He would have been so proud of you, Danny boy,” his granny had reminded him the day he was Confirmed. “I’m sure he’s boasting about you right now with all of his old friends and comrades.”

She had brought him to the Garden of Remembrance because that’s where his spirit lingered. It was where she came to talk with him when the spinning of the world got too fast. He never spoke to her, she wasn’t crazy—like some people—but she always said that she found peace and calm in his silence.

She wanted to share that with Danny but he was too young still.

And too full of wonder, as he stared into the pool, at the mosaic on the bottom, ancient Celtic weapons, forever beyond use.

He watched his granny’s reflection walk to the other side of the cruciform, and, with the sunlight reflecting on the water and the brilliant white fluffy clouds just beyond her shoulders, she looked like a guardian angel. But he could tell that she was tiring. The long bus ride from Rathfarnham and the short one across the river and up to the “Square” had taken their toll.

When he looked up she rearranged herself and beckoned: “Come on now and sit down with your granny and enjoy a little bit of the peace and quiet they all died for.”

The sun was flittering through the fresh green trees and Dublin rumbled by outside without deference as Danny nestled in beside her and stretched his legs in front of him. He admired the sharp crease on his long pants. His shoes were a bit dusty and his socks had rolled down to his ankles. His ribbons fluttered under his nose, tickling as they passed. He was almost a young man now, almost ready to make his own way in the world, still clutching the envelope that Granny had given him on the bus.

“Go on,” she smiled. “You may as well open it now. Only give it back to me afterwards so I can keep it safe until we get home. It’s not much now, but it’s the least you deserve.”

Danny nearly piddled when he saw the two five-pound notes tucked in the folds of a handwritten letter that said how proud she was of him; how he was the reason that she was happy to get up every morning even though everything else she had loved had been taken from her. Her handwriting never varied and flowed until it carried him along to where she reminded him to stay close to God—that the Devil was never far away.

Danny read it slowly and deliberately before putting it back in the envelope which Granny tucked into the folds of her bag and looked at all the memories that swirled around them.

“When I was a girl the English opened their jails and sent their murderers over here to plunder and pillage, and, some say, defile any young girls who might be out at night.”

She fanned herself with her glove before continuing. “They were the Devil’s spawn, all right, but some of the boys weren’t going to let them get away with any more of that. Your grandfather was one of those that stood up to them. Even killed a few of them, too, but he got absolution for that. The priest told him to pray for their souls, every day; for the rest of his life, as his penance.

“Not that he ever talked about it, mind you, but then those that did the most say the least and that’s the way the holy mother of God wants it. Maybe it was Her plan all along—that Bart would kill them and then pray for their souls. That way they could still get to Heaven. Don’t you see?”

Danny nodded in total agreement. His grandfather was his idol. He was going to grow up just like him, too, and become the man that won the North back. Granny often told him that he had it in him—not like the Gombeens down in Leinster House. “Free-Staters,” she called them and almost spat the words. “They were the ones who locked your grandfather up for being too much of an Irish hero—the bunch of scuts, every one of them, God forgive me.

“But your grandfather never held a grudge. ‘We all die for Ireland, someday,’ he always used to say when people got to arguing about it. He wasn’t one for making a hash of the past, especially with those who hadn’t even been a part of it.”

She then fell silent among her memories as the breeze rippled the water and the flags, and the fresh green leaves, as Danny wandered among his own daydreams. After he had done all the patriotic stuff, he’d play football for Ireland and help them win the World Cup. And they would win it fairly, too, not like the English. The parish curate was starting a new team and had asked Granny if Danny could play for them. They must know how good he was, although he had never really played much.

He’d have to get a pair of boots, though. He’d get his father to buy them the next time he was over. Granny wouldn’t know the right ones. He would ask his mother to ask him; she always knew how to get him to do things.

“Can we go see my ma now?”

“Sure of course we can, pet. We can get the bus just down the street and we’ll be there in no time.”

She rose slowly and headed toward the gate, trailing her fingers in the water for a moment before raising them to her lips, her heart, and across her shoulders.

***

“You like that, don’t ya Boyle? A gun gives a man real power.” Anto lit another cigarette and watched Danny’s face. “Why don’t ya keep it? It could come in handy, ya know?”

Danny hesitated. He could get one of them—but which one? Anto was always packing. He had lit his cigarette with his left hand. His right was still in his pocket, facing Danny. And the Driller was coming back.

Danny decided against it. He would have to raise the gun on both of them and he couldn’t be sure that he would actually fire it. He might pause and that would give one of them a chance to pop him. He held the gun in his hands, turning it around before handing it back to Anto.

“Thanks, but I don’t want it.”

“Are you sure, Boyle? It could come in handy.” Anto reached his gloved hand forward and took the gun away. “C’mon then, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

“But what about Scully?”

“Ah, fuck him. We’ll make a call when we get back. The cops can come and pick him up.”

“But won’t they figure out what happened?”

“Don’t worry, Boyle. They’ll never be able to trace it back to us. That’s why we wear gloves. C’mon, let’s get to fuck outta here.”

Danny sat in the back seat and looked at his bare fingers, now imprinted on the gun. Anto had him over a barrel and there was fuck-all he could do about it.

“By the way, Boyle,” Anto turned when they pulled up outside the Yellow House, close to where Danny lived. “Now that Scully is no longer with us, we’ll have a few things for you to do.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“C’mon, Boyle. You’re perfect for the job. And,” he paused to pull his gloves off, “we know we can trust you. Think about it and we’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER 2

Danny’s mother listened to the radio as she waited for the kettle to boil. The news was full of the Queen’s visit to the North and Jacinta’s heart grew warm with hope. They were all tired of the fighting, but her heart froze a little when the newscaster went on to report on the finding of a young man’s body up near the Hell Fire Club. He had been shot in the head and left like rubbish among the trees.

Danny had been out late and she couldn’t help but worry. He had become so shifty again, avoiding her eyes and any questions about how he was spending his nights.

“It’s just one less feckin’ drug dealer,” Jerry snorted as he sat down at the kitchen table and waited for his tea.

She had seen that look on his face before. He had worn it for years when she was in the hospital, when he tried to show that he wasn’t afraid. “The sooner they all kill each other the better, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, it’s got feck-all to do with us.”

“Maybe you’re right, but did you ever wonder where Danny is getting all his money from? Every time he goes out, he buys things for himself.”

“He’s probably making it busking.”

“Are you sure? He’s got nearly two hundred under his mattress.”

“Good for him. He’s getting great on the guitar and he has a good voice. If only he’d sing something good, like Buddy Holly. I’m sick of all the punk shite he does.”

“But he can’t be making it all from that.”

“He’s probably got a few fiddles going—down at the Dandelion—you know? Buying and selling shit. Fair play, I say. Anybody who can make any money in this country is a feckin’ genius.”

“You don’t think we should be worried?”

“Not at all. Danny is a good lad at heart. He’d never do anything stupid.”

But Jerry wasn’t so sure. If Danny was anything like him, he’d get himself into more trouble than he could handle. He was probably involved, somehow. It was the only way he could be making money like that. The Ireland that Jerry’s father had fought for had become a hard place and he and Jacinta hadn’t made it any easier for Danny. He knew what was going on. There were drug dealers everywhere like they didn’t fear anybody.

But there were those that the drug dealers feared and Jerry knew someone who knew someone who knew them all. They might be interested in helping—for Bart and Nora’s sake if not for Jerry’s. He’d have to convince them, though. He had blotted his copybook with them before.

***

Danny lay in his bed, listening to them. He had hardly slept. He didn’t dare. He was haunted by Scully’s bruised and swollen face, and that look in his eyes—like he was just resigned. And afterwards, he almost seemed relieved that all the running and hiding was over, lying by the bole of a tree as his blood trickled from his head and mingled with own piss still dribbling off down the hill.

Danny retched again but his stomach was empty but for the bile that churned like a knife. It had all seemed like a game up until now, playing the hard chaw. He wasn’t going to be like his father, catholically bowing and scraping to bishops, priests and all those that carried out their will. Beaten down from the beginning, but, in the back of the car, he had prayed like a sinner and made promises into the dark.

He was ashamed of that. Despite all of his posturing and protestations he was just like the rest of them, a craven Catholic to the core, trapped in the limbo of Purgatory, lost and alone now, betrayed by hubris and delivered to the Devil.

No one was ever going help him—no one ever had. His granny said she was but she was just doing it so everybody could say what a great woman she was, raising a child at her age. His prayers had never been answered and it was stupid of him to think they might. He was cut off from all that.

He wished he could go down and tell his parents what happened but they had never been the type of parents that could make things better. Usually they just made things worse. They had never really been parents to him when he was growing up. His father had been in England and his mother was in St. Patricks’ Mental Hospital, even when he was Confirmed. But his granny had taken him to see her, just like she said she would.

***

“He gave the little wealth he had,” they used to chant in unison as they approached the front door, almost skipping along the path.

To build a house for fools and mad
And showed by one satiric touch
No Nation wanted it so much
That Kingdom he hath left his debtor
I wish it soon may have a better.

Granny had taught him that verse when they first started to visit, when Danny was very young. It made it all a bit more normal and she always said that she loved to hear him laugh and sing. “The great Dean Swift left the money to build it when he died,” she had explained. She had given Danny a copy of Gulliver’s Travels, too. Sometimes he brought it with him and pretended to read while his mother and his granny stared at each in stony silence only broken now and then by banalities.

“Oh, Danny, pet! I thought you’d get here much earlier.” His mother was agitated and lit another cigarette from the lipstick stained butt of the last. “I was even starting to think that you might have fallen under a bus or something.” She wore a skirt and blouse and had her hair brushed out. And she wore makeup. Usually she just wore her worn out robe with curlers in her hair. “But I’m so glad that you’re finally here. Come here to me,” she beckoned, “so that I can hug the life out of you.”

Danny waited for his granny’s nod of approval before nestling into his mother’s arms, feeling her cold cheek against his, and the soft warmth of her tears. He wanted to say something that would make her happy but he was unsure. His granny told him he had to be polite to his mother but she didn’t want him to get too close—for his own sake. She told him that his poor mother was not well, God love her, and that she couldn’t be a real mother to him right now.

“So did you have a nice day?”

“I did, Ma, it was very nice.”

“He took the pledge too,” Granny interjected as she reached out to extract Danny.

“Look what I have for you. Come here and see.” His mother pulled him closer again and reached under her cushion for her beaded purse, one of the items she had made during arts and crafts.

She had made one for Granny too, though she never used it. She also made covers for bottles—to turn them into lamps. Danny had one in his room, a wicker of colored plastics with a soft heart-shaped cushion edged with white lace.

She drew a clean, fresh pound note from her purse and held it up. “This is for you, pet, to celebrate the day. And,” she was enjoying herself and her smile almost chased the furrows from her brow. “Your Uncle Martin sent you this.” She reached back into her purse again and pulled out a bright ten-shilling note. “He wanted to see you today but he couldn’t wait. He was here for over an hour,” she paused for emphasis. “But he said to tell you that you’re to phone him and he’ll take you to the Grafton. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His granny reached from behind him and took the money just as Danny’s fingers reached it. “I’ll put it with the other money I’m keeping safe for you. Don’t forget to thank your mother.”

His mother watched and a twinge of annoyance flashed across her face before she swallowed and pushed it back down inside of her. “I wanted to go and see you at the church but they wouldn’t let me. They said I wasn’t up for it.”

Her eyes filled with tears as the flickers of old regrets rose and she struggled like she was trying to avoid sliding back into the darkness inside of herself.

“There’s no need to be upsetting yourself,” Granny soothed. “I was there with him and we’re both here now.”

For a moment, his granny softened and reached out to touch his mother’s hand. “So! Are you feeling any better? I think you’re looking better but you’re very thin. Are they not feeding you at least?”

“Better?” Danny’s mother answered without taking her eyes from his face. “All they do is give me pills and tell me to pray to God.”

“Prayer is the best medicine,” his granny soothed, even as she stiffened.

“Could you not have a word with them?” his mother pleaded. “At least to get them to let me out once in a while? For Danny’s sake.”

“And why would they listen to me; I’m just an old woman. And besides, Danny’s well looked after, now.”

Danny rose and walked to the window like he wasn’t listening and watched their reflections and the breeze running free on the grass outside. It was a nice view when the sun was shining but it could get very damp and grey when it rained and sadness hung in the air.

“Would you mind if we came in?” asked the nurses who had gathered in the doorway. “We just want to say congratulations to Danny on his big day.”

They squeezed into the room crinkling their starched white linens, followed by two nuns draped in flowing black whispers. The nurses took turns squeezing him and slipping coins into his hand but the nuns just patted his cheek and handed him little medals—St. Christopher and the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

“God bless you, Danny!” they all agreed and told him he looked like a saint–or an angel.

“I’m afraid it’s getting late and we should be leaving,” Granny announced when the fuss died down, and while the presence of the nuns would discourage Jacinta from protesting. “I have to get Danny home in time for his tea.”

“But we only just got here,” Danny said, forgetting his manners and his vague understanding of the situation.

“Now Danny,” the nuns admonished.

“But I’ve hardly had a chance to see him.” Jacinta rose to take him in her arms.

“You mustn’t get excited,” the nuns reminded her. “What would the doctor say if he knew?”

The nuns pried them apart, faces stoic beneath their veils, and ushered the nurses out.

Danny’s mother smiled wearily as if there was nothing she could do. Even Danny could see that. He wanted her to say something so he could spend a few minutes with her alone but she had begun to shrivel again.

“Can I just say goodbye to Ma before we go?” He knew if he pleaded just right that he would get his way and Granny and the nuns would withdraw to the hallway outside.

But they left the door open.

“It’s so good to see you, Danny boy. I can’t believe how big you’re getting. Did your daddy call you?”

“He did, last weekend, and he says he’ll be home soon and that he is going to give me a fiver.”

“Ah, that’ll be grand.”

“But I really want him to buy me a pair of football boots, you know, like the ones Johnny Giles wears.”

“We’ll ask him, then. I’m sure he’ll know the right ones.” But she didn’t sound convincing. Her face was sad, almost without hope.

Danny searched for something to change that: “And when he comes I’m going to ask Granny if he and I can come and see you on our own.” It was all he had to offer.

“Ah, that would be lovely. That gives me something to look forward to.” She reached out to take him back into her arms.

“Danny,” his granny called from the doorway. “We have to leave now.”

Danny hesitated but his mother just nodded. “Go on now, Danny boy, and don’t be keeping your granny waiting. There’s a good boy.”

He turned again from the doorway but his mother had her head down, like she might be falling asleep, except her shoulders were shuddering a little. “Bye Ma,” he called as the nuns closed like a curtain between them, muffling any answer she might have made.

***

“When I grow up,” Danny announced when they were back home, as he dipped his chips into the broken yolks of his fried eggs, “after I’m finished being the president and playing football, I’m going to become a doctor. But not the type that just give people pills and lock them up. I’m going to be the type of doctor that actually makes people better.”

“I think you should be a priest, instead,” Granny answered without turning around from her sink of soapy dishes. She said she wanted to tidy up before they had the cake she bought—just for the day that it was. It was yellow and spongy with a soft cream layer in the middle. It had hard, sweet icing with lemon jelly wedges coated in sugar. Granny would even let Danny pick them off her slice. “A priest can do far more good than a doctor.”

“Father Reilly said that only the doctors can help Ma. I asked him at Confession.”

“I’m sure he meant something else. Only God can help your mother and not before she lets Him.”

“Why doesn’t God just mend her now?”

“Ah, Danny, you don’t understand. God works in mysterious ways.”

“Does He not love Ma?”

“Of course He does. Why would you even think such a thing? He loves us all.”

“I pray all the time, for Ma to get better, but sometimes I don’t think He is listening.”

Granny stopped what she was doing and swatted the stray strands that had wisped around her face.

“God is always listening, Danny, and He is always watching us. That’s why we have to be good all the time. But sometimes,” she paused and waited for his frown to lift, “he lets us try to find our own way back to Him. He wants us to have free will so that we come to Him of our own accord.”

“But what about Ma? She doesn’t have free will anymore. She isn’t even allowed to leave the hospital anymore.”

“Ah, Danny, sure you don’t understand yet. When you’re bigger you will but for now you’ll just have to believe me that God knows what is best for all of us, even your mother—God love her.”

The kettle began to whistle and Granny fussed with the teapot. “Come on now and let’s have some cake.”

Danny was easily deflected and devoured his cake with enthusiasm. When he had finished his second slice she ushered him off to brush his teeth and say his prayers. “I’ll be up to tuck you in, in a minute.”

***

But when she got to his room he was fast asleep. He looked like an angel with his fists rolled up beneath his chin, the little medals the nuns had given him peeping out from between his fingers. She gently stroked his hair and fought to keep her heart from bursting.

You will look out for him after I am gone? she whispered into the unanswering dark.

God, who knew what was best for them all, and kept His thoughts to Himself, had given her a great many challenges in life. But He had given her Danny, too, to lighten the burden no matter how dark the days became. He was that small candle that burned when her heart and mind grew dark with sorrow.

And fear and doubt. She’d had conversations with Davies, the solicitor and long-time friend of her dear, departed, Bart. There was nothing else to be done. She’d have to let Danny’s father back into his life. She could make conditions, but she would have to allow it.

And you’ll make sure that no harm will ever come to him?

She didn’t hesitate to make bargains with God, assured as she was in her faith. When she needed something she asked because when He needed her to step in and take care of His little angel, she didn’t hesitate.

Naturally she had confidence in Him, but sometimes she wondered if He wasn’t distracted by the multitude of conflicting prayers and personal requests. Things were allowed to happen that were obviously going to come to a bad end—like Jeremiah and Jacinta, who should never have been brought together. Her son had a weakness for drink and Jacinta had a feeble mind.

But they did, and they gave into temptation and had to be married before she began to show. That, Granny decided, was her role in life—to help to iron out the wrinkles in the Great Plan.

She sat for a while gently stroking Danny’s hair. He had come into the world just after Christmas, a few weeks before he was expected. Jeremiah and Jacinta had been arguing all night. Jacinta had a visit from her sisters. They were on their way home from the dance and brought her fish and chips.

***

“We saw Jerry down in the pub.” They masked their delight in sharing bad news with a veneer of seeming concern. Jacinta had married above her station, showing them all up, even if she had hitched herself to Jerry’s falling star. “He spent the whole evening going around flirting with all of the women there.”

“And him with an expecting wife at home.”

“Not a shred of shame in him either.”

“What was he up to?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be telling you all of this but it’s better that you know now.”

By the time Jerry got home she had worked herself into a right state.

***

Danny also knew that he had literally fallen into the world, expelled by his mother in a fit of rage.

He had heard the story often, whispered by grown-ups who overlooked his small presence, like he was too young to understand.

The story went that his mother had lifted a heavy skillet to rap his father across the head and the strain of it was too much and she expelled Danny, just seven and a half months after the wedding.

They said he didn’t seem to mind and for the first few months he slept for most of the day.

His granny said it was because he never enjoyed a moment of peace inside of his mother as she was the type of woman that could never be at ease. Even when she was sleeping she fretted and twitched over every little slight, real or imagined. Even carrying Danny, while other women had a glow about them, Jacinta had a scowl.

Danny had also overheard that it wasn’t a planned pregnancy, that it was more of an unfortunate accident in a lane behind the dance hall. He had heard whisperings that his mother had been drunk and eager and his father had been drunk and thoughtless. He had no idea what any of it meant but apparently, “they had been eyeing each other for a few weeks.” He heard that his father thought she was a fine-looking thing and his mother knew that he came from a few “bob”—Danny’s grandfather was a minister in the government at the time, and a veteran of the War of Independence.

His granny said it was what was to be expected. She often said that she knew that Jeremiah was lost the day he came home drunk, at eighteen, with his Confirmation Pledge in tatters around him.

That he should fall prey to Lust was inevitable, and when the news reached her, she chided him for a while and then arranged for a nice, respectable wedding while her future daughter-in-law could still be squeezed into a white dress.

***

“I have had a quiet word with Father Brennan,” she had announced as cordially as she could manage.

She had brought Jerry and Jacinta together over tea at Bewley’s, in a booth where they could keep their business to themselves. “He can fit you in on the third Saturday in May.”

Jerry stirred his tea without looking up while Jacinta devoured sticky buns. Neither of them even offered a word of thanks but Granny Boyle didn’t care. The holy mother of God would grant her all the thanks she needed. “And then you can have a nice weekend on the Isle of Man.”

Jerry lit another Woodbine as Jacinta stared at the empty plate. “Are there any more of those sticky buns?”

Granny Boyle forced a smile as she beckoned a waitress. This was going to take all of her patience so she turned her gaze on her son. “Your father is going to have a word with someone in the Public Works Department, too.”

Jerry looked at her for a moment and shrugged. “I was going to reapply,” he protested softly.

“There’s no time for that anymore,” Granny cut him off. It was still an open sore between them. He had failed in his first year at UCD much to the consternation of his father, causing the poor man to turn purple. “He’s a thundering disgrace to us all,” he had bellowed when he heard about Jerry and Jacinta. “First he drinks himself out of college and now he takes up with the daughter of some common laborer from God-knows-where. We should send the pair of them off to England and be rid of them.”

“Now Bart,” Granny had soothed. “He’s made his bed and we’re not going to turn him out over that.” She folded her arms to let him know the matter was decided and he better just get used to it.

“Very well but don’t expect me to pay for the wedding.”

“You won’t have to,” she reminded him. She had her own means. Her father had left her money when he sold up the old place. She had always kept it separate and apart.

The wedding went well and the weather was fine. Bart behaved himself and even danced with his daughter-in-law and her mother. Granny let him have a few whiskeys in the bar before the reception so that he could put on his public persona. He made a very good speech, too, and only mentioned re-election twice.

And when it was all done, Granny sat back as the young people danced the rest of the evening away. She had done all she could and now it was up to Jeremiah and Jacinta, though she would be there to help them every step of the way—for her unborn grandson’s sake if not for theirs.

But as Granny spent the summer making plans, arranging a nice flat for the newlyweds on the Terenure side of Rathgar and prodding Jacinta in the direction of motherhood, Fate played its own hand and took Bart. He died of a heart attack at the Galway races after a day of longshot winners.

“Fate is fickle,” she reminded her son as they walked along behind his hearse.

***

“They found a young fella named Declan Scully shot dead in the mountains,” his mother told Danny as she poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of him. “Didn’t you know somebody by that name?”

Danny didn’t look up as his parents sat and waited. “I haven’t seen him in a few years. The last I heard he was into drugs.”

His parents said nothing but he could sense them exchanging glances. He knew they wouldn’t force the issue. They couldn’t; he could turn it back on them so easily. “Did they say who did it?”

“No, but the Garda said that it might be linked to the killing down in Rathgar, a few months ago.”

His mother hovered but Danny didn’t answer. Instead, he reached across and took a cigarette from her pack and lit it with one of her matches, filling the kitchen with the acridity of sulphur.

“Whoever it was should be given a feckin’ medal,” his father added as he gulped some tea and raised his newspaper. “We should get rid of all these little feckers, once and for all.”

“Don’t be talkin’ like that. What if it was our Danny?”

“And why would he get caught up in that shite? He’s not that stupid. Isn’t that right, Danny?”

Danny agreed but didn’t raise his head. He couldn’t be sure what his eyes might tell them.

He had to get away from them. He wasn’t a part of their world anymore. He had to get back to where he could hide away until he sorted it all out. He’d go down to the Dandelion while it was still there. His whole world was changing and he needed something to hold onto.

“I’m going out.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“I’m going to busk for a while and then I got to look after a few stalls.”

“Will you be home for your dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“You won’t be late, will ya?”

“I told ya, I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll leave something in the oven and you can heat it up when you get home.”

***

His parents watched in silence as he finished his tea and swung his guitar over his shoulder. His jeans were soiled and his denim jacket was tattered and frayed around the collar. His hair was long and greasy and he hadn’t had a bath in over a week.

“I’m worried about him,” Jacinta said after she heard the front door close.

“He’s not going to listen to either of us.”

“What are you saying—that we should just give up on him?”

Jerry lit another cigarette and shrugged. “Why are you asking me? How would I know what to do?”

“’Cos you’re supposed to be his father.”

“Right, like the little bollocks would listen to me, anyway.”

“But we have to try. We can’t just turn our backs on him. He needs us.”

“What he needs,” Jerry paused to stub out his cigarette. Her face was lined with worry so he had to sound reassuring.

He knew what he had to do but he couldn’t tell her. Not until he had it all sorted, anyway. He had let her down so often, but not this time. This time he’d come through for them all. “Is a good, swift kick up the arse.”

***

Jacinta couldn’t let it go at that. She had to do something. She went down to the church to have a chat with Nora. She would know what to do. She always did before.

Jacinta blessed herself at the old stone font and stepped inside. The church was almost empty, just a few old people seeking solace in the shadows, every little noise they made echoing to the wooden beams above.

She made her way through the flickering shadows to the little side altar and lit a tea candle from the sputtering flame of another. She knelt in the first pew and lowered her head and prayed to the statue of Mary, standing forever between them and God, almost shapeless in her long white shift, under the pale blue mantle, her sandaled foot crushing the serpent that slithered around the world.

Jacinta always prayed there; it was where Nora would find her when she came.

Nora would listen to her and the news she brought. She would never speak but Jacinta could always feel her censure. She and Jerry had always been a disappointment to the old woman but she never spoke about that anymore. Instead she would just listen as Jacinta poured out all that troubled her.

And even when Jacinta was finished unloading her burdens, the old woman would not speak. She didn’t have to. Jacinta knew she would intercede on her behalf, interceding with God’s own mother, interceding on behalf of her daughter-in-law who could never be strong enough to bear her own burdens.

Jacinta knew her mother-in-law had never approved of her but she’d still help—for her grandson’s sake if nothing else. That was Jacinta’s one solace: Nora Boyle would never turn her back on them. She would move the powers of Heaven and Earth for her grandson.

“It’s Danny,” Jacinta spoke softly, keeping their business private. “I’m worried sick about him. I think he’s into drugs again and I worry that he’ll end up like the poor Scully boy they found dead this morning.”

Nora didn’t answer so Jacinta continued.

“I know that Jerry and I are to blame. We should have been better parents for him but we’re trying now. Please, Mrs. Boyle. Is there anything you can do to help us?”

Nora didn’t answer and Jacinta waited. Her mother-in-law liked to make her wait. She probably wanted her to know that things took time, that she couldn’t just ask and have everything put to right. She and Jerry would never learn anything if all of their problems were solved whenever they asked.

No. Nora Boyle would make her wait for a little while so Jacinta prayed and dedicated her rosary to the Blessed Virgin, saying each prayer slowly so the words would not get all jumbled together.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

… Continued…

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Test of Magnitude (The Torian Reclamation Book 1)

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Here’s the set-up:

Revenge is only justice when it can be administered without hatred.

Welcome to the Tora star system, home of the spectacular Cardinal-4 space station overlooking Amulen and Banor, twin worlds that share the same orbit. One visit and you’ll understand why this station is the pinnacle of Torian achievement and a wonder of the Erobian Sphere.

Unfortunately, your timing isn’t great. Many centuries of peace and prosperity are on the verge of collapsing for members of the Erob coalition, as signs of the first interstellar wars loom. The half-breeds tell us it is because we are now forsaking the ancient law, and have thus allowed an evil infection to begin spreading through the galaxy. But those Erob half-breeds have always been a little over-dramatic, haven’t they?

Brandon Foss, an unhappily married Virginian in his early thirties, awakes from a strange dream to discover he has been abducted from Earth and kept in cryonic preservation on Amulen for two decades. One other resuscitated human is with him, a knucklehead who almost seems as alien to Brandon as their reptilian captors. A friendship of convenience forms as the two Earthlings soon become unwittingly intertwined in Torian politics and military affairs — at a time, it turns out, when the Torians desperately need just such intertwining.
5-star praise for Test of Magnitude:

“Loved it…great story, marvelous characters, and great world building…”

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an excerpt from

Test of Magnitude
(The Torian Reclamation)
by Andy Kasch

Amulen Chancellor Renal5 closed the door to his office. There was a lobby full of people to see him—governors, his political advisors, military commanders, contractors, astronomers, and several scientists—but they would all have to wait. It was overwhelming, and he needed a little breathing space.

He sat down behind his desk and looked out the window. If he never turned toward the wall in his office, this could be a nice evening, except for one thing. Now that dusk had fallen, the light from Cardinal-4 could be seen in the sky. It was an ominous reminder that all was not well in Tora.

Renal5 turned and looked at the video screens on his wall. One was a static picture of the damaged side of the space station. What a horrible mess. Who could have ever anticipated this kind of thing happening? It didn’t make any sense. There had never been an interstellar war in the Erobian Sphere, and there was no logical reason for this attack. The invaders had accomplished nothing except vandalism and petty abductions, from the looks of it.

The two other screens on the wall were showing live camera feeds of the damage on Banor. The first response crews and reporters were just now beginning to assess the scope of it. That’s where the High Chancellor had gone, to meet with Banorian Chancellor Gormin8 and survey the scene. There’s another thing that made no sense. The abductions didn’t include political leaders or anyone important, as far as they could tell from the early reports. So far, it seemed the damage was limited to two medium-sized cities and one small rural village. The cities were hit with missiles, but the village was attacked with ground troops wielding hand weapons, according to witnesses. There was nothing of appreciable value in the village, just some old religious relics. No sense whatsoever. Thank Erob they hadn’t bothered to attack Amulen.

Two angry voices rose from the lobby and penetrated the wall of Renal5’s office. They grew louder, until they were shouting at each other. Couldn’t he have a few moments of peace? Renal5 reopened his door and saw two military commanders getting in each other’s faces.

“You tell me, General, because I don’t know!” one of them yelled. Renal5 recognized him as Commander Olut6 from Cardinal-4. He had just arrived and was fuming at the High General.

“Comrades, please,” Renal5 said. “Come in. Let’s discuss this calmly.”

Neither of them moved or even acknowledged Renal5. They just stood in place while Olut6 continued his rant.

“Holes blown everywhere, systems failing all over the station, more than twenty civilian casualties and I’ve got four dead pilots. No help. No help at all.”

“You had help, Commander,” the general replied. “Lots of help. We came.”

“You weren’t there! We were alone! The extat battle went on for millennia before we got any help! We were dying up there, and got no response from the fleet!”

“It wasn’t that long. You’re exaggerating again.”

“Comrades!” Renal5 yelled. “In my office!”

Now they turned and looked at him. Renal5 realized neither of them had ever heard him raise his voice before.

“Please,” he said in a calmer tone.

They followed Renal5 into his office, but the tension between them could still be felt. Renal5 closed the door behind them. The three of them stood for a moment and watched the latest shots of the destruction from Banor on the video screens.

Renal5 removed a small box from one of the shelves and opened it. There was a bottle inside, and four tubes.

“Perhaps we should all settle down and have a drink. This is Blackflower-20, a very rare batch.”

“No, I don’t want an extat drink!” Olut6 said. “I want explanations!”

“You are upset because of the slow response time from the ground,” Renal5 said.

“Slow? You call that slow? We got pulverized, and were left to fend for ourselves, until the extat thing was nearly over. Slow is not the right word. Non-responsive. Why was the fleet non-responsive?”

Renal5 set the box on his desk. “To be clear, Commander, help did arrive. Pilots from the main fleet did scramble and participate, in considerable numbers, and some of them shot down missiles, I understand, which otherwise may have hit the station. The help arrived late, but it did arrive.”

Olut6 grumbled something unintelligible and walked over to the window. This kind of level-headed diplomacy is what kept Renal5 in office. He loved it, truth be known, and began to feel reenergized.

“However,” Renal5 continued, “we must concede that it was quite late in arriving. General, what is the reason for that?”

“When the High Chancellor asks me that question, then I will answer it,” the general replied.

Renal5 chose to ignore the disrespectful comment and said, “There is some flaw in our emergency response procedure, then?”

“No, there is no flaw in our procedures,” the general said, “but we do have our priorities. The security of the planets, and in particular the central Torian government here on Amulen, is top priority. Should it not be so?”

Olut6 turned back from the window. “The attackers never approached Amulen! They were all out in front of us! We managed to get one of them, thank Erob, and the remaining enemy forces then divided themselves between us and Banor—which your fleet ignored when it did show up! Security of the planets? We were half blown apart by the time you arrived, and you left Banor alone to be invaded after you finally managed to scramble! If those are your priorities, you better tell your pilots. What in Erob were you guys really doing down here?”

The general raised a finger at Olut6. “You had better watch your tone, Commander, or you might find yourself back down here with us, in charge of food transportation!”

“Friends, please,” Renal5 said. “Commander, I will remind you that you are addressing the high command, and your superior. General, I will ask you again to give a reason for the delay in your response.”

“In my official report to the High Chancellor,” the general said, “I will make mention of miscommunication issues resulting in a slight delay in our response time to the request for help from Cardinal-4—but will maintain that military priorities directed us to first assess and attend to the security of the central government.”

“What kind of miscommunication issues?” Renal5 asked.

“I will answer that question when the—”

“High Chancellor asks it,” Olut6 interjected. “Slight delay? The records will show an inexcusable lapse of time after at least seven emergency distress calls. That better be one heck of a communication failure.”

“Watch yourself, Commander,” Renal5 said. The general seemed to appreciate that. At this point, Olut6 was in danger of losing his command as a result of an unrestrained temper. That would be bad for everyone. He was a cooperative military commander, and he had, after all, managed to destroy a large enemy warship.

Olut6 responded by walking in circles and shaking his head. He began muttering, as if talking to himself, but loud enough so he could be heard.

“Extat invaders. They had us, too. Our defense plan was inadequate. The entire station might have been destroyed, and maybe I wouldn’t even be here to complain right now, if it wasn’t for that extat alien pilot misappropriating one of our fighters! Whole extat thing is insane. Insane.”

“What do you mean, alien pilot?” the general asked.

“Yes, an alien. Said he was a …Earthling, if I remember right. Mushy, soft-skinned thing. Extat Earthling could out-fly and out-shoot the best of ours. Had better skills and more courage, too. Made us all look like we were sleeping. Craziest thing I ever saw. Shot down seven missiles by himself on one dive, and six on another, all while dodging friendly fire. He even got hit by friendly fire, but kept at it, picking off missiles like he was in a shooting gallery. Then he made a reckless run right at the warship, alone, dodged all the incoming fire and took out one of their batteries with one shot. Got away clean. If it wasn’t for that extat alien…”

Olut6 stopped circling and stood before Renal5.

“His heroics rallied our boys behind him, and finally scared the attacking warship off. I understand you have a bunch of these Earthmen on ice back at the Science Complex. Get me a dozen more like him and I’ll give you one squadron that can defend all of Tora.”

“That is most ludicrous thing I have ever heard suggested,” the general said.

Renal5 cocked his head and tried to comprehend the information Olut6 had just given. An Earthling was the hero of the space battle? No, that couldn’t be. Suddenly, a string of memories flashed across Renal5’s mind. That mysterious Sheen, Arkan9. He predicted all of this, didn’t he? Renal5 had sent him off to Governor Stugin2, and then granted him permission for a science research project, mostly out of fear when he came to realize Arkan9 had somehow come into possession of confidential details about Renal5’s private life. Maybe that wasn’t just political blackmail after all. Renal5 had subsequently terminated his project after coming under pressure from the director there, who had successfully lobbied support from the High Chancellor and the C2 governor.

The two military commanders stopped bickering and were now watching one of the video screens, which was broadcasting live footage of the village that had been invaded by alien ground forces. Renal5 picked up his lightpad and turned up the volume up on that screen.

“Again,” the newscaster said, “what you are witnessing is the scene from Uden, the Sheen colony that many Torians visit at a child in level-5 or level-6 education. In fact, the students were scheduled to begin arriving at the camp here next week. Obviously, those trips have now been cancelled. Eyewitnesses report that although no resistance was offered, the invaders still destroyed a section of the village with hand weapons, and killed at least twelve residents here in the attack. They then rounded up prisoners, and apparently have stolen at least one ancient religious relic kept here by the Sheen. More than fifty residents are missing and presumed abducted, mostly Sheen, but several native Torians as well, and also one alien who is said to be a fugitive research subject escaped from the Amulen C2 Science Complex.”

Olut6 turned to Renal5. “Another Earthling?”

“Most likely,” Renal5 said. “That village is where the Sheen is from who was in charge of them.”

“How many have been revived?” Olut6 asked.

Renal5 shook his head. “Those were the only two, as far as I know. That Sheen is impressive, let me tell you. He convinced us to let him undertake the project of reviving them. I remember now, he predicted all of this, and said an interstellar war was coming, which would be disastrous unless these abducted aliens were resuscitated. He was …convincing in his abilities, so we let him have his fun for a while, but I had to shut him down when it caused a disturbance at the Science Complex.”

The newscaster on the video screen continued.

“Also abducted was a Sheen by the name of Arkan9 who is highly revered in this colony. According to our sources here, he was in the process taking the ancient prophet tests, and was widely expected to soon be the first confirmed Sheen prophet in over 300 years.”

“Is that your Sheen?” Olut6 asked.

“Yes. Extat.”

“So,” the general said as he turned back around to face Renal5, “we have destruction and abductions. Both which seem petty and worthless to us—but they must mean something to the invaders. We have witnesses who saw their ground troops. That means we can identify them. The next question is, do we pursue them and attempt to rescue the hostages?”

“I’m afraid public outcry will demand it,” Renal5 said.

“Yes,” Olut6 said, “they probably will. But the public doesn’t fly ships or fight in battles. There are serious tactical considerations in such an undertaking. We couldn’t stop them here, and going after them in their own space would be much more problematic.”

The general nodded and agreed, which was refreshing. Maybe these two commanders wouldn’t actually kill each other in Renal5’s office today.

“Then fill me in, please,” Renal5 said. “I’m the one who will have to explain why we are unable to launch a rescue effort. What exactly are the difficulties?”

“Assuming their numbers are not significantly greater,” the general began, “the primary problem lies in transporting fighters. The interstellar fleet is not big enough to bring more than 10% of our fighter fleet, if that, especially considering landing craft will also have to be brought along.”

“Perhaps you don’t need that many fighters,” Renal5 said. “A rescue attempt is not an assault force.”

“It would be plenty if we had pilots who can fly and shoot like that Earthling,” Olut6 said.

“In any case,” the general continued, “we can’t plan a campaign until we know what we are up against. Where the hostages are, what size force is holding them, and whether a sneak rescue attempt is even feasible. We’ll have to wait for the astronomers to get us that information.”

“I have two waiting in the lobby,” Renal5 said. “Should I have them come in?”

“No,” the general said. “They don’t know anything yet. However, there is a propulsion scientist in your lobby, Director Lan2. He’s been working with us on a classified project which may become very useful now. Why don’t you bring him in?”

Renal5 summoned the scientist from the lobby. He came into the office and was introduced by the general. They all exchanged greetings.

“Tell them about the ITF1,” the general said.

Lan2 activated his lightpad and tapped on it after glancing at the main video screen on the wall. The big screen changed images as Lan2 assumed control of it. A picture of a spaceship now displayed, the design of which was unique. It appeared to be an interstellar ship, as it had a distortion field generator around the outside, although a much smaller one than Renal5 had ever seen before. Indeed, everything about the ship was sleek, like a fighter craft would be. Forward weapons were mounted on the sides of the cockpit and from a gun turret underneath. There was also a rear upper turret of some kind.

Lan2 spoke. “This is a new, secretly-developed military craft, the Interstellar Transport Fighter. The prototype was developed several years ago, and the actual working models have recently begun small-scale production. A minimum crew of four is required for optimal operation of all functions, but it can be flown with limited weapons capability by a solitary pilot if need be, like a regular fighter.”

“How can that thing work?” Olut6 asked. “The dag is so small.”

“It works,” Lan2 replied, “because it is engineered to generate a smaller distortion field, aerodynamically, in accordance with the narrow hull of the ship. To be certain, travel times are considerably slower than those of orthodox transport ships. The ITF1 also has a more limited immediate range due to the compact particle accelerators, but can recharge itself rather efficiently. Theoretically, it can travel the expanse of the galaxy, perpetually, in short hops. Any acquired supply of negative mass particles can be infused in the accelerators and will increase the immediate range, assuming an engineer crew member is on board.”

“What about local propulsion?” Olut6 asked.

“Same technology as our current fighter models,” Lan2 said. “The ITF1 has a much longer range, of course, because of its size. However, it is estimated to be 14% less maneuverable than our standard fighter craft.” Lan2 tapped his lightpad and a standard fighter appeared on the screen next to the ITF1 for scale. The ITF1 was more than twice its size.

“The reduced maneuvering capacity should be a non-factor,” the general said.

“Why is that?” Olut6 asked. “And why is the 14% figure only an estimate? Haven’t these things been tested? Surely you have developed an accurate simulator, at least.”

“The ships have been tested extensively in simulations,” the general said, “and we have logged more than a hundred hours now in the real machines. These units are a commander’s dream come true, Olut6. Listen to me. You don’t need much local maneuvering. The dag controls are so pin-pointedly acute that you can pop up in front of an enemy ship, fire, turn, and distort away again before they know you are there.”

“Then where the extat were you with these things during the battle?” Olut6 said.

“Easy, Commander,” Renal5 said. He turned back to Lan2. “What’s the rear turret for?”

Lan2 and the general both smiled broadly.

“That is the control pit for the REEP canon,” Lan2 said.

Olut6 cocked his head. “It fires from the rear?”

“Exactly,” Lan2 said. “Should be quite effective against enemy craft up to three times the size of the ITF1. Also good for taking out gun mounts and missile batteries on larger vessels, such as those enemy warships.”

Olut6 shook his head and began walking in circles muttering again. “Unbelievable. What a day. First we get attacked by giant interstellar warships, many times the size of anything we deemed possible to engineer. Who would have thought such a thing could exist? Now I find out we have small interstellar fighters, and those don’t look like they should exist either. New technology everywhere—that I knew nothing about. New technology attacks us, and it turns out we have new technology that could have staved off the attack.”

Renal5 chose to ignore Olut6 and turned to the general.

“How big is this fledgling ITF1 fleet?”

“We have three operational craft at present, with three more on the way that should be ready by…” the general turned to Lan2. “When?”

“They are built and just need the systems tested, General. We can have them delivered in 6 to 8 days’ time.”

“Delivered to where?” Renal5 asked.

“Niptil,” the general answered. “We have them docked at a small station orbiting Niptil.”

Renal5 cocked his head, then straightened it again and nodded. Niptil was the sixth planet in the Tora star system; a rocky, reddish-colored dead planet that was of great interest to physicists because of the atomic structure of some of the rocks.

Olut6 spoke. “That is wise, General. And I see now why it was not practical to engage them in today’s battle.”

The general nodded. “Our boys aren’t quite ready to use them yet, either.”

“What do you mean?” Olut6 said. “One hundred hours logged, they should be surgeons with them by now.”

Lan2 answered him. “We have been disappointed with both the simulation results and the initial drills with the actual craft. It seems we have designed the ships to be capable of more than what Torian pilots are. Reaction times, change of focus, and instantaneous decision making are skills we lag in as compared to many other galactic species. In addition, the configuration of the REEP canon in the rear of the hull results in a small sonic reverberation when fired. This causes the gunners to suffer short lapses in alertness. Occasionally, even the pilots have shown signs of shock from it. Therefore, it is best used as a rear defense mechanism, rather than an assault weapon.”

“I disagree with that assessment,” the general said. “The boys involved in this project have shown great enthusiasm and excitement as a result. Even with the limitations just mentioned, one ITF1 crew can do more in a simulated battle than ten regular fighters.”

“General,” Lan2 said, “if I may be so bold, one properly-crewed ITF1 operating at peak capacity should be capable of more than twice that. In fact, the comparison is spurious. These craft can literally pop in and out of space, appearing for brief moments and firing missiles, lasers, or even REEP repulsion blasts. Erob forbid we should ever have enemies who attack us with similarly-designed ships.”

“Well,” Renal5 said, “if we can design them, others can, too. I suggest assigning a team to begin engineering defense strategies against this type of weapon.”

The general nodded. “That’s already being worked on, Chancellor, but the ramifications are challenging. That’s why the ITF1 project is so encouraging. If there is to be a rescue effort for the Banorian hostages, these new ships are the appropriate tool for the job.”

“Agreed,” Olut6 interjected. “But we had better learn to use them—or get someone who can.”

Lan2 and the general both cocked their heads at Olut6.

Renal5 noticed something new was happening on one of the video screens, so he turned the volume on it.

“We repeat,” the newscaster said, “Banorian authorities suspect the invaders were from Azaar, a world approximately 2,800 light years from Tora towards the outer arm of our galaxy. Formal relationships with Azaar began only weeks ago, when they sent an ambassador to visit Cardinal-4. Could this have been an act of blatant treachery? The description of the invaders given by eyewitnesses matches the images of the Azaarian species recently added to the Torian galactic registry. Further analysis of the design of the attacking warships bears an architectural resemblance to the design of the Azaarian transport ship which arrived at Cardinal-4 just weeks before the attack.”

“Looks like they are on to the enemy already,” Renal5 said.

The general shook his head. “The arrogance. A feigned act of diplomacy, followed by a vicious, outright attack. It makes no sense, especially if they didn’t bother to disguise themselves.”

“It’s up the astronomers now,” Renal5 said. “If Banorian intelligence is correct, we could have the location of the hostages discovered fairly quickly. I think you two have some work to do.” He motioned to the general and Lan2, who then looked at each other and nodded.

Lan2 disconnected his lightpad. He and the High General bowed before Renal5 and said “Tulros.”

“Tulros,” Renal5 said. “Keep me constantly updated, please.”

The High General and Director Lan2 left the office.

Commander Olut6, however, sat down in front of Renal5.

“Chancellor.”

“Yes?”

“Get me two dozen more of these Earthlings. Males in early adulthood.”

“Commander—”

“Just do it. I’ll handle the High General.”

Renal5 sat quietly for a moment, reflecting upon everything that happened today. The space battle. The treachery from Azaar, if that’s really who it was. The damage to Cardinal-4 and the pending cost to repair it. The dead citizens and soldiers. The hostages. Then there was that abducted Sheen, who, not surprisingly, is suddenly supposed to be a new prophet. The things Arkan9 had said before were difficult to dismiss now, foreboding as they may have been at the time. Perhaps if everyone had paid him more heed, today would not have been quite so disastrous.

There was still a lobby full of people to see, and Renal5’s head was starting to hurt. He grabbed the box of Blackflower-20, poured himself a drink, and looked up at Olut6 before recapping the bottle. Olut6 nodded, so he handed him the tube and filled another for himself. They sat and drank in silence.

“All right, Commander. I’ll see what I can do.”

… Continued…

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an excerpt from

Fortunate Son:
A Novel of the Greatest Trial
in Irish History
by David Marlett

CHAPTER 1

Every man has three names:
One his father and mother give him,
One others call him,
And one he acquires himself.
— Anonymous, 17th Century

Sunday, November 16, 1727

Lord Arthur Annesley, the Sixth Earl of Anglesea, was slopped. He had been sitting alone at his oak table in the dark back corner of the Brazen Head Tavern since half-past ten that morning. Now, nearly five in the evening, he could hear fresh rain blowing across Dublin’s Merchant’s Quay, tapping the tavern’s windows, dripping heavy in pools along Bridge Street. He was floating, his white wig askew, his fat fingers tracing the blood groove of his gold-hilted rapier lying on the table. “He’s mine, he is,” he muttered to no one. “B’god, James is mine! So he is. She’ll never take him to England.” He glanced up with his one eye, the other having been long ago shot out by his wife’s cuckolding suitor. “My son’s mine,” he boomed. “Damn you all!” A violent cough overtook him until finally he lowered his chin, rivulets of perspiration trickling down his brow.

“‘Tis well known, me lord, James is yer son,” the tavern keeper offered. “Would ye like another?”

“Ney!” Arthur shook his head, muttering, “No more boys.”

“Ach nay, me lord—would ye like another pint?”

“Ha! Ney, Keane. Best be on m’way.” He stood shakily, steadying himself on the dark wall, sheathing his rapier.

“Well den, g’night sire,” the keeper said, gesturing with his bar towel. Arthur tapped the wrinkles from his blue Italian cocked hat. “Keane?” “Aye, m’lord?”

“What be the cure….” He stumbled sideways, trying to buckle his sword sash. “What be the cure for a hangover? I’ll wager you don’t know.”

“Sleep, most likely,” Keane answered, moving across the small room, delivering a dram to a large man sitting alone. “What do ye think, sir?” he asked the man.

“I have no reckon,” the man muttered, his Scottish brogue rumbling low. “Leave me be.”

“I suppose a pinch o’ snuff might do ye, Lord Anglesea,” Keane guessed, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Ney, goddamn you, Keane!” His words a lather of grumbled mush, his arm a terrier in a fox hole, fumbling through the twisted coat sleeve. He spun, shoving his hand through. “I knew you didn’t know, you damn thievin’ Irishman. ‘Tis t’ drink again!” He staggered backward to the door. “That be the cure, b’god!”

“Aye, me lord,” said Keane. “So I’ve heard.” Now the Scotsman was standing too.

“T’ drink again!” Arthur bellowed, throwing his arms up. “T’ drink again, ‘tis all you need!” Turning, he careened through the doorway, along the rickety boardwalks, lurching into the muck of Bridge Street. “‘Tis all I need!”

A large hackney coach pulled by six horses was crossing the Father Matthew Bridge, gaining speed in the pelting rain. The horses snorted against the driver’s whip as he yelled from the box, his cloak flailing in the wet wind. “Up with ye curs! Now! Up! Up!” Again and again he cracked the long leather across their backs. The loud roar and stirring commotion of the coach and six easily cleared traffic from the bridge, opening a wide swath up Bridge Street beyond, like a plow cleaving mud. When the horses reached the quay on the far side of the River Liffey they were pulling so hard and running at such a blaze that all four wheels left the ground before crashing back to earth to spin in the slurry sludge. Galloping past the Brazen Head Tavern, with nostrils flared and eyes mad wide, they would not and could not stop for anything in their path.

Against the whir of voices the ale had loosed in his head, Arthur heard charging hooves, people shouting, and through the stinging rain, he saw a maniacal blur rushing him. But he couldn’t move. A black surging wall, yet he stood, stammering something about God. Finally one step toward the side, but it wasn’t enough—the violent impact threw him back and down. Twenty-four hooves thundered over him, snapping his right leg like straw, driving it into the thick mud. Another hoof trampled his gut, his ribs shattering. Instant fire. Then the coach hit him, the splinter bar catching his chin, the front axle crushing his larynx, cracking spine, whipping his head into the path of the rear wheels which slammed over him, mashing his face into the filth and black ooze.

His one eye fluttered open, stinging, but he couldn’t breathe. To one side he saw muddy boots and spurs—some standing, others moving away. His bloody mouth sagged, convulsing for air. He felt warmth trickle from his ears. Life abandoning him. Then, between the clamoring shouts and splashes, he heard the massive bells of Christ Church Cathedral begin their solemn peal, announcing the time. He stopped moving, and there in the shadows of his mind he saw James, no more than five, standing on a rocky hill, laughing, the sea air tousling his auburn hair. Suddenly James sprinted off, through an emerald field, clambered over a low stone fence, then raced on, away, toward a man who was waiting, watching—a man Lord Arthur Annesley, the Earl of Anglesea had never been.

CHAPTER 2

But know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life
Now wears his crown.

— Hamlet, William Shakespeare, 1601

Two days later the birds fell silent in the churchyard of Christ Church Cathedral, leaving only the heavy steps of shiny boots and shoes amidst the light clanking of silvery mourning swords and the rustling of somber fabric. Led by the priest and the cross, the clergy began a slow procession from the lich-gate at the churchyard’s north end. Behind them, six men covered in dark grey frocks filed forward, lifted the mahogany coffin from its table and joined in step.

James Annesley, twelve years old and now the Baron of Altham and Earl of Anglesea himself, slowly followed, studying the path before him. A gust whipped his black hat and he snatched it back, covering everything but his tail of hair. He glanced across the crowd of no fewer than three hundred gentlemen and ladies shuffling along, awash in their black linen suits, heavy silk dresses and respectfully short ruffles. The women were suitably dour, a collection of black gloves and matching crepe handkerchiefs, hair pulled high under dark bonnets of silk. He could see the eyes of the men, a mass peering from under silver-ribboned cocked hats, white wigs and furrowed brows. They were fixed on him like the luminous piercing eyes of black cats, studying him, judging him.

A woman in a full veil was standing apart from the others, fidgeting. For a moment Jemmy thought she might be his mother—but of course she was not; this woman was too short, too heavy. Besides, his mother would not be there. Although his gaze dropped back to the path before him, he was too late to see the upthrust edge of a flagstone. His toe caught it and he stumbled, one foot across the other and down, smashing into the legs of the rear pallbearer. The man’s knees buckled, he lost his grip, and the coffin shifted violently back. Thud! The sound echoed from within the coffin as the bearers struggled to keep it from hitting the ground. Jemmy sprang to his feet, his freckles lost in blush, imagining his father imperiously jostling about inside the box. As the bearers recovered their grips and solemn composures, the priest slowly proceeded forward, never hesitating in his recitation: “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth….”

Regaining composure, Jemmy focused on the back of the coffin. His father was finally dead, killed just two days ago, crushed by a runaway coach. He had heard it was murder— “A blood-damned, godless Catholic killed him!” But it could have been anyone. Who had not hated Arthur? Everyone had their reasons. Some had tried before. Even Jemmy—or at least he had thought on it. The man had been vile—a meanness that had enveloped Jemmy for so long that he was now calm, relieved the rage had been silenced under the booming hooves of six horses. The storm of the man had ended, the thunderclaps subsided, the torrential rain now dry. Relief. That coolness he felt in the hollow of his stomach was a certain contentment, the settled knowledge that the evil was gone, never to return.

But where one weight was gone, now another hovered, waiting to be assumed. Jemmy was the new Earl of Anglesea, the English owner of over fifty thousand Irish acres, four thousand more acres across in England, a member of both the Irish and English Houses of Lords—he had no idea what that meant for him. Where should he go? How to act? Could he remain friends with Seán, the son of Fynn Kennedy, a Catholic laborer? And what of Jemmy’s mother? Could he now go live with her? Even on to England? She had not come to him in over two years—would she want him? He watched his shoes glide back and forth. Why didn’t she come to this funeral? Even just for him. Yet, if she had, what would he say? He didn’t want to talk to her or anyone else. Except Fynn Kennedy who now joined in step beside him.

Nothing felt more right. Though his father was lying in that coffin, the only man who had ever treated Jemmy as a son, who had ever loved him, was walking by him now, upright and proud, wigless hair tied back, jaw set, crescent eyes warm, one big hand on Jemmy’s shoulder. Even though Fynn was Catholic, Jemmy knew the man would remain by him today, no matter the aristocratic grumbling it caused. The warm hand on his shoulder gave him strength, as if chain armor, as if it were the hand of Sir Lancelot on Sir Galahad’s shoulder, the hand of valor, strength. Although Fynn’s son, Seán, thought Sir Lancelot was the best knight, Jemmy knew the best was Sir Galahad—the young one, the only one who had found the Holy Grail, found it glowing in the belly of a ship. He wished he could find something like that. Another wind-burst snapped his state away, and he returned to the bleak churchyard, the cold people.

Behind the peerage, a small gathering of commoners had gathered along Fishamble Street. They too were in dark clothes, though mostly in browns and grays, with no wigs nor swords among them. These were the Catholics, no more welcome than Fynn, particularly at such a noble Englishman’s funeral. Among them was Juggy, soon to be Fynn’s wife. As Jemmy saw her, she caught him with her empathetic eyes. He gave a slight smile, pleased she was there. Beside her was Fynn’s giant cousin, John Purcell, with his wife and their two young daughters, pulled in so close that they were almost lost in their father’s enormous gut. To Jemmy they all seemed lost, uncomfortable. He wished they would just go back to their homes, back to whatever they were doing, back to their happiness. And just past the Purcells was Seán. He was hopping on one foot, tugging irritably at his brown coat. Jemmy watched him, longing to simply step out of the damn procession, cut across the yard and run down Fishamble Street with Seán. To run away. To disappear. Seán could give him that, that most precious of gifts, the gift of invisibility, the gift of vanishing into the Dublin streets.

The priest’s droning faded in Jemmy’s head. He looked up. There was no rain, no sun—only the low, spit-grey clouds of November clinging to the morning sky. Its hazy light draped the stones of Christ Church Cathedral, engulfing the high buttressed walls, throwing faint shadows across the Four Courts of Justice which adjoined the church’s north side. The march slowed now, approaching the chapterhouse, which joined the Cathedral to the Four Courts. He expected the procession to turn there, to enter the church’s nave through the side door, but instead the priest led the group to the left, toward Skinner Row, toward the far side of the Four Courts. “Where’s he going?” Jemmy whispered.

Fynn leaned down. “I suppose t’ enter ’round off the lane. No doubt these nobles can’t squeeze their arses through that transept.”

“‘Tis the long way, ‘round the courts.”

“Aye, so ‘tis, Seámus,” Fynn said, addressing Jemmy by his Irish name. To Fynn Kennedy, Jemmy was not Jemmy, not James, not Jimmy, not barely an Annesley, not the Baron of Altham and certainly not the Earl of Anglesea. He was Seámus. And that was that. Seámus he had been since birth—Seámus he would remain. Their bond had formed over the years at Dunmain House in Southern Ireland, where Fynn had served as the Annesleys’ stablemaster. But that service ended upon their move to Dublin a year prior. Fynn had been summarily turned out without even the bother of a fictive explanation.

According to Juggy, it was because Lord Anglesea had overheard Fynn teaching Irish Gaelic to Jemmy. They had all denied it of course, Jemmy the loudest. But the truth was he had learned much more Gaelic than just his own name. He was now fluent in the illegal language.

The priest paused to adjust his peruke wig, now flopped across his slumped back, then resumed recitations from the Book of Common Prayer for the Anglican Church of Ireland: “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave….”

As the group moved along Skinner Row, Jemmy looked up at the court building. He and Seán had often played here in the passages and the churchyard. They had sat on the stone steps leading up from Christ Church Lane watching the comings and goings of the high-wigged solicitors, chained criminals, justices of the peace, and other curious-looking people. But he had never paid much mind to the old court building itself. Nor had he ever thought it odd that it was built on the cathedral’s grounds. Stretching up above him, the court’s tall narrow windows were cracked and moldy, most threaded with lead latticework, the track marks of numerous repairs and fragile attempts to keep out the rain. Squinting his sea-green eyes, he noticed the parapet along the roofline was crumbling in places, the grey sky seeping through the eves.

Once inside the church, the procession continued into the drafty nave to where the coffin was laid on a stone table before the closed chancel screen, below the pulpit with its imposing canopy which appeared to rise out over the people. The clergy turned and waited silently for the laity to slide into their pews. Jemmy picked a pew in the center of the nave, scooting down the long wooden stretch until he came to the outer edge. Fynn eased in beside him, patting him firmly on the knee. The priest had climbed the rounding stairs and was now wobbling in the pulpit. “I will take heed to my ways, that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep….”

Immediately next to the end of Jemmy’s pew was a black marble tomb shaped in the effigy of a medieval warrior. He studied it, cocking his head to read the inscription: Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, STRONGBOW, 1176. And beside Strongbow’s tomb was another one, though much smaller. Silently, he read the faint letters inscribed in its base:

O graceless son, who left thy sire,
Amid the battle’s din;
And the same moment, turned thy back
On Country, Kith, and Kin.

‘Tis his son there, the one he cut in half for running away from battle! He knew the story well but had never seen these tombs. The small one wasn’t short because it held a child; it was short because it held only half a man, a young warrior killed and forced to lie forever beside his father, the very man who had sliced him in two. Suddenly a dreadful idea came to Jemmy as he stared at his own father’s coffin, panic paling his face. Glancing over, he saw the reassuring glimmer in Fynn’s narrow eyes. Please God, let them bury me next to Mr. Kennedy. Or anywhere so long ‘tis far from this cathedral, far from Da.

The tombs of Strongbow and his half-son lay in the bay of a stone arcade that ran the length of the nave. Toward the top of the nearest column the stone arched up and over and down to the next column. Looking up, Jemmy saw the lower arches supporting higher levels of stone arches which in turn were hoisting the high vaulted ceiling—pushing it back to God, curving it out into the open air, denying gravity, tempting fate. The house of serendipity under the ceiling of castigated chance. The priest coughed slightly mid- phrase. Jemmy leaned close to Fynn. “Did he know Da?” he whispered.

“Who, lad?”

“The old priest.”

Fynn shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps so.”

A cold breeze drafted across his feet. He watched the ancient man, studying the movement of the thin lips. “…shalt prepare a table before me against them that trouble me. Thou hast anointed my head with oil, and my cup shall….” After the prayer, a cool, echoing silence fell through the cathedral, interlaced with an occasional cough. No weeping. Not even a sniffle. But was he supposed to cry? He clenched his teeth, trying to feel sad. Was he lacking something, some care? Was he devilish, cold hearted? Was he just like his father? A devil? A gargoyle of a man. Did the priest know that man in the coffin had been a devil? Was his father still a devil, even after death? Maybe he should yell at the priest: You’re burying a devil, don’t you know! Maybe his father should be buried outside, not in the crypt of this cathedral, not below where Jemmy now sat. He had been to church a few times since they had moved to Dublin, but always to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and the dean at St. Pat’s, Dean Jonathan Swift, was much different than this codger. Dean Swift told them how loving and caring Christ was. Jemmy looked again at the coffin. There lay mortality. There in that mahogany box lay his father, wrapped in death clothes, his fat head pushed against the coffin end. If Dean Swift was right, if Christ did die for everybody, was his father in heaven now, devil or not? Jemmy chewed his bottom lip, glancing away, up, anywhere. Dean Swift told stories about Lilliputians too, didn’t he? Were Lilliputians in heaven? Or did they go to some other heaven, a much smaller one?

Retracing the arches down to the tops of the massive supporting pillars, Jemmy’s wide eyes found others looking back. Circumscribing the summit of each column was a series of faces with deep-carved, stone eyes—forever beautiful, staring blankly at the nave people. A man in pensive gaze, an old man wrinkled and withdrawn, another much younger, frozen on the verge of speaking. Then he saw her. Almost directly above him was the face of a beautiful maiden, her head wrapped in a death shroud. Or was it a scarf to keep out the cold? Different from the others, her eyes were closed. The others were all peaceful men, noble faces, the old, the young, all with open eyes, all looking right back at him. And the lady’s face was graceful, not threatening or warning, yet her closed eyes bothered him. Why couldn’t she look at him? Did she not want to see the people there, not want to see him? She was welcoming yet still hidden. Was she dead or just sleeping? Suddenly, in his mind, the carving began to transform, swelling, trembling, struggling and flexing against its stone bindings. Then it became a living face—the face of his mother. Tears welled in his eyes as he silently pleaded, Mother, where are ye? Where are ye? As quickly as she had appeared, Mary Sheffield faded back to grey stone, the flesh hardening, the eyes closing. She was gone.

“Seámus.” Fynn touched Jemmy’s shoulder, whispering. “Seámus, m’boy, ‘tis time for ye t’go. Up t’ the altar.”

Jemmy wiped his hot cheeks with the back of one hand as he stood, slipping into the aisle. He reluctantly walked to the front. Behind him he heard deep murmurs, but no distinguishable words. As he stopped at the coffin, a clerk took his arm, leading him to one side. People began to course by, men unknown to him, greeting him as the new Earl, calling him lord, saying things in memorial about his father, a man they had surely never known.

~~~

Thirty minutes later, the eight bells of Christ Church Cathedral began their dirge, shaking the brisk Dublin air. Emerging up from the crypt, Jemmy walked up and out, into the light, beyond the stone columns, past the cold faces, through the door of the south transept, and out into the churchyard. The throng of the elite, the spectators, stood about, clustered in dark little pockets of self-appointed supremacy. To Jemmy they were more like clumps of black peat. The sun had broken through the grey sky at last, and Jemmy squinted trying to spot Fynn.

“James Annesley!” a voice thundered.

“Aye?” Jemmy looked up, shielding his eyes from the brightness.

“Just what do you think you’re doing here, knave?” The man was advancing on horseback, two other horsemen close behind.

“What business do ye have with the lad?” Fynn was at Jemmy’s side. Jemmy could now see the man, mounted high, haughty and proud, the angular face scowling down at them. He saw the man’s gold cravat, cropped wig, blue three-corner hat. Nothing dark, no mourning clothes. The only black was in those eyes.

“My business is none of your concern, stable boy,” the man growled at Fynn. “Remove your nasty heretic arse from this holy yard.”

“B’God ye’d best declare yerself, if ye wish t’ survive yer tongue!”

“A challenge!” The man spun his spirited mount on the churchyard turf, the hooves spattering wet clumps of mud on Fynn and the people crowded around.

The big Irishman, John Purcell, charged, brandishing a walking stick. “Get yer English arse down!” His guttural boom reverberating off the stone walls. Just as quickly, the other two Englishmen spurred their mounts toward him. Shouts and neighing erupted in Jemmy’s ears. He stepped back from the commotion, seeing the glint of a steel scabbard, hearing the ring of a blade slipping free. Silence descended. Everything stopped. Except the bells which continued their tolling far overhead. Fynn was once again beside Jemmy, John Purcell was being held back by the tip of a rapier, and Seán was standing wide-eyed on the far churchyard wall.

“Now,” began the man. “Now that you’ve closed your Catholic gobs, I’ll speak t’ the young runt.” Infused with anger, a hint of brogue slid through the man’s efforts to maintain his English composure.

Juggy stepped forward, clasping Jemmy by the elbow. “What do ya want with the young lord? He’s just buried his father, so he has. Tis that not enough? Or didn’t ya know?”

“Aye, so he’s just buried his father.” The man smirked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But what do you know of it?” His lips curled to a grin. “I am the corpse’s brother.”

“Richard Annesley,” Fynn said, reciting the name flatly.

“M’da has no brother,” Jemmy said. “He—”

“Aye, but he did, Seámus. He did indeed.” Fynn was slowly advancing. “So Richard, where’s yer black beard? Or aren’t ye hiding behind no more?”

“Stand back!” Richard drew his pistol, cocking it. “Stand back, Irish cur!”

Fynn stopped, then raised his arms, smiling. “Wouldn’t want t’ be upsettin’ ye. Ney. That wouldn’t do—now would it? Considering how upset ye must be over the loss of yer dear brother.” Richard shifted in his saddle, but kept his aim steady. “Let me think on this,” Fynn continued, now feigning contemplation. “If I be right, ye’ve come t’ claim the title and property of the Earlship for yerself. Aye?” He turned, patting the rump of the horse beside Richard. “And this here must be the arse of Captain Bailyn.”

Bailyn jerked his horse around. “Get yer b’deviled hand off m’horse!” He spat at Fynn through two crooked yellow teeth. His thin face was pale, unshaven, smallpox scarred.

Fynn smirked. “Good God, Bailyn, ye’re more ugly than last we saw ye.”

Richard motioned Bailyn back. “Kennedy, the boy is a bastard. Ye know ‘tis so.”

“I am not!” Jemmy burst.

“Ye say he is, do ye?” said Fynn. “Of course ye do.”

Juggy stepped in front of Jemmy. “So whose child ya say he is?”

“Ah, m’lady,” Richard began. “I’d think you’d be the Betty t’ answer that.” Juggy’s face tightened, her cheeks growing red.

“Damn ye!” Fynn erupted. “I’ll not stand for yer insults against the lady or the lad.”

“Lady, say you?” Richard spurred his horse sideways, placing his pistol against Fynn’s temple, knocking off Fynn’s hat. “I told you, maggot, step away.” As Fynn took one deliberate step back, Richard grabbed Juggy by the collar, dragging her to his saddle, pressing her smooth face against the leather. He leaned down to her ear, his eyes and pistol still aimed at Fynn. “As you’re aware, I speak true when I say the knave is the son of a whore. Aye, Mistress Mackercher?” He released her with a slight shove.

As Juggy stumbled back, Jemmy charged. “Ye’re not my uncle! I have no uncle!” Just as he bolted by the third horseman, the man kicked out a spur, slicing Jemmy’s right cheek, knocking him to the mud. He clutched his jaw, blood streaming through his fingers. Juggy was to him but he was already on his feet, backing up, refusing her, glaring at everyone.

“Now hear me, all of ye!” shouted Richard, straightening in his saddle. “This bastard boy goes by the name James Annesley, claiming to be the son of the widow Mary Annesley, once Lady Anglesea. But as you all well know, my brother was a drunken whoremonger and this boy is but a whore’s son. He is a charlatan. An imposter and a liar. I am Lord Richard Annesley, the one and true Earl of Anglesea. And so help me, I’ll hang the one of ye who says otherwise.” He pointed his pistol at Jemmy. “Starting with you.”

Jemmy stared back, eyes narrowing.
CHAPTER 3

Alas, my Love! Ye do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously;
And I have loved ye so long,
Delighting in yer company.

Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight;
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves.

— “Greensleeves,”Anonymous, 1581

Misty fog, aglow in the morning’s half-light, settled over St. Stephen’s Green, the vast open land on the western edge of Dublin. In a remote corner a meandering creek murmured along, slicing through a pale meadow, dividing trees—trees which sheltered the moist grass and the damp rocks which had tumbled from stone walls overgrown with ferns. It was early, yet the blackbirds were already beginning to fuss and caw. Time crept by, as had the five months since the funeral dirge that continued to play. Jemmy was sitting against one of those enormous oaks. He was focused, his mouth agape, the pink scar etched along his right cheek pointed to his hands where he was trying to count the legs of an orange centipede—he had not made it past seventeen. He would get the poisonous creature to cling to a small stick, its crittery back coiled into a tight ball. Then he would start counting. But whenever he would get to about seventeen, the vermin would uncurl, crawling quickly to the other end of the stick. With no desire to hold the thing, he would quickly invert the stick and begin counting yet again. “Ah, ye little turd,” he whispered as it touched his hand, spawning a cold shiver. Hearing the sound of someone approaching, he peered around the trunk. It was Seán ambling toward him, carelessly swatting bushes with a sapling stick. “Seán!” Jemmy stood, his filthy wet clothes sticking to him. “Look at this!” Just then the centipede raced across his hand and up his arm. Jemmy shouted, flinching, whacking his chin with the stick, hurling the creature high into the tree.

“M’God! Get it off me!” Seán was immediately screaming. “Get it off me!”

Jemmy raced around the giant oak to see Seán writhing on the ground, kicking and swatting at the empty air, demon-possessed, wild-eyed and scared. “What’s at ye?” Jemmy shouted. An orange flash tumbled from Seán’s waistcoat, scurrying for cover under the leaves.

Seán didn’t stop. “‘Tis bitting me! ‘Tis killing me!” He kept thrashing.

“Stop, will ye! Take in some air! ‘Tis gone!” Jemmy suppressed a grin.

Seán was panting, his round face pink, blue eyes wide. “Jumped on m’face!”

Jemmy helped him up. “‘Twas nothing Seán. Nothing.”

“Nay, ‘twas something big!” His hands wriggled over his head and chest. “Ye see it?”

“Perhaps just a little—” His mouth creased into a grin.

“‘Twas nasty with big teeth! Fangs! Fangs, Jemmy! I saw ‘em, I did!”

Jemmy was fighting back tears of laughter, struggling to keep control. It was nearly unbearable—Seán’s terrified face and one orange centipede running scared.

“It had a million legs, it did!”

That was it. Jemmy roared with laughter, stuttering, “I’m sorry, Seán. Did m’best. But I counted only seventeen!” Then the dam broke and he dropped to his knees, lurching forward to the ground, giggling hysterically. Sean stopped and stared, totally confused, which only made Jemmy laugh harder. Finally Jemmy settled, feeling the cut under his chin. “So? Did ye bring me some food this mornin’?”

“Da wouldn’t let me,” Seán mumbled.

“Why not?” Jemmy soured rapidly at the thought of no breakfast. His jaw may have ached a bit, but his stomach burned.

“Said ye’re being mule-headed to stay here. Said there’s no reason to stay away from him. Ye aren’t protecting nobody out here, least not yerself. Said ye should come back t’ Mr. Purcell’s.”

“I don’t care what he says,” Jemmy blurted. Silence hovered and they sat in it, motionless, watching a man canter his horse across the far end of the green. The beast’s snorts steamed in the early air. “If I’m there at Purcell’s, that fathead Richard and his men will come. I know it. I’ll stay hidden till this is gone.”

Seán pulled himself to his feet. “‘Tis not going t’ just pass, I don’t think.” He walked a few paces to the creek bank. Swollen gusts whipped the leaves above, and a few wrens and yellow-winged hammer birds began to fill the morning with warble and echoing song. “I miss Dunmain.”

“Aye,” said Jemmy. They were thinking of the Annesleys’ country estate in southern Ireland, the land where both he and Seán were born, where they had played the first ten years of their lives. Seán was born in the servants’ quarters, the son of the stablemaster. Jemmy was born in his mother’s bedchamber, one of the twenty-eight rooms of the lavish Dunmain House. Jemmy longed for the rolling green hills, the forests, the long stone fences, the random ruins and ancient abbeys lying in wait to be discovered. But he did not miss the house. The immense, cold house held a trove of bad memories—his father beating him, his mother leaving.

“Jemmy!” Seán blurted. “Look at this!”

As Jemmy stepped beside Seán, his eyes followed Seán’s outstretched finger down toward the creek. Lying half-exposed in the slick clay was a human skull, peering back at them, peering up into the world, neither entering nor departing, the crown cracked slightly, polished white by water and sun. “M’soul!” Jemmy whispered, staring into its dark eye sockets. “Who do ye think it is?”

“Probably Friar O’Conner.” Seán smirked. “After a night of ale. ‘Tis begob.” Jemmy’s smile rolled into a chuckle, imagining the old, fat friar falling drunk into the creek. But the skull just stared back. Sean became serious and whispered, “Da says there’s bones of Celtic giants buried in Dublin. All ‘round us.”

“Ye think this is one of Cuchulainn’s knights?”

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps, Seán,” whispered Jemmy, “‘tis Cuchulainn himself.” Both boys plopped down on the bank, smiles dissolving, bright eyes warily returning the solemn stare of the great mythic giant.

“Nah,” Seán said, recovering, shoving Jemmy. “Can’t be. ‘Tisn’t big enough.”

“Ye never know. Maybe ‘tis.” The skull made Jemmy feel strange, knotting his stomach. The stone image of the woman in Christ Church flashed in his mind—the bright effigy bursting upon him, white-hot light, then gone. Rolling to his back, he stretched his lanky legs across the grass and surveyed the living green rippling overhead. Flashes of distant cyan and white-blue glinted through the calico canopy, dropping down in wispy slants of gold that illuminated the boys below. Closing his eyes, he soaked the light in, the soothing coolness. Soon he began absently humming a tune that he loved, that haunted him. He could hear his mother’s delicate voice caressing him with it:

Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight;
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves.

“What are ye going t’do?” asked Seán. At that moment, like the aimless tune adrift, an indifferent emperor moth floated gracefully over their heads. Jemmy watched it, enchanted. It was a brilliant apparition, gliding, flicking its wings, disappearing as magically as it had arrived. Seán pressed on, breaking the spell, “Will ye go away with yer mum, now that—”

“What’ll I do?” Jemmy grinned. “I’ll put that skull on a stick and chase Juggy with it!”

“Ye know I wasn’t talkin’ about the skull. I meant—”

“Juggy’d forgive me. She’d beat yer measly arse, but she’d forgive me.”

“Ye’re a wee prick, ye are!”

Though Jemmy was only twelve, soon to be thirteen, he understood why the local men teased him about Juggy. Joan Landy, “Juggy,” once the Annesleys’ kitchen maid, had wet-nursed young Master James. Some of the cruder men had implored him to recount the experience, at which he would bolt away. Nevertheless, he loved Juggy like a mother and knew she treasured him in return. Indeed she showed him more concern than anyone else did, except maybe Fynn. She laughed with Jemmy, teased him, listened to him when he needed to talk. And though he adored Juggy, he knew his mother, Mary, flatly despised her, referring to her as “Madam Mack.”

Juggy grew up with her brother, Daniel Mackercher, in an Edinburgh orphanage. When she was older she moved to London to serve the estate of Jemmy’s maternal-grandfather, John Sheffield, the First Duke of Buckingham, working in the bowels of the Duke’s new palace which he had only recently constructed. There she was taken in by the Landys, also serving the Duke. Hungry for a family to call her own, she took their surname, leaving Mackercher far behind. When Arthur and Mary were married, Joan Landy came to Ireland as part of the Annesley household. She had served them ever since. As far back as Jemmy could remember, a prattling of “lil’ Scotty lass” tales and “Miss Juggy” stories had been bandied about. The one he heard most was when Juggy first arrived in Ireland, how she had been seen secreting about with his father. He was not sure what “secreting about” meant, but no doubt that was why his mother hated her so much. Perhaps it was the same “secreting about” rumored between his mother and a tanner named Palliser — his father sliced clean the man’s ear, who in turn took out Arthur’s eye. He would ask his mother, thought Jemmy. Someday. When he saw her again. If he ever did. No, he would ask Juggy. Juggy would tell him the truth.

“Ach.” Seán’s voice was tight. “Will ye be going away with yer mum, or won’t ye?”

Jemmy sighed, rolling his eyes. There was no escaping Seán when he had an unanswered question, especially about Jemmy’s mother. Seán’s mother was Margaret Kennedy, the “matron saint” who had died giving birth to Seán. Juggy had been Margaret’s closest friend, and Jemmy often saw Juggy cry at the mention of the dead woman. “Tell me, Jemmy!” Seán would not let it go.

“Tell ye what?”

“Ach! Ye bloody well know! What I keep askin’ ye! Are ye going t’ England? Are we t’be friends no more?”

“I don’t know where she is, Seán.” Jemmy felt his face flush as he conceded to the question. “I don’t think she wants me with her. ‘Tis been two years.” He clambered to his feet, took a few paces, then picked up a small rock and began tossing it between his hands, shifting its weight from side to side, faster and faster. “Besides, she’s probably already gone.” He threw the rock at the skull, missing it. Then he snatched another stone and took careful aim before letting it fly. It hit just above the eye sockets and bounced away. Moving to the bank, he flumped down and found more pebbles to throw. One after another, slowly and deliberately, he tossed them, knowing all the while that Seán was still standing, watching him, confused. “Once, twice, thrice. Once, twice, thrice.” Jemmy faintly counted his lofted shots. The small stones produced a hollow melody as they hit the ancient forehead then plopped into the shallow trickling stream and dark clay beyond. “Once, twice, thrice. Wants. Two eyes. Through ice. Eh?”

His friend was now sitting beside him. “Our codes.”

Jemmy raised a finger. “Wants—”

 “All be clear,” Seán interjected, then paused. “Don’t guess it’ll mean yer Da’s not around.”

“Thank the gods.” Jemmy added his middle finger to the other. “Two eyes,” he said, pronouncing it like ‘twice’, “’tis me warning yer half-wit head to look about.”

“Ach, sure.” Seán elbowed Jemmy.

“And through ice,” Jemmy exclaimed, raising three fingers. “We stand together. No matter the bastard.”

Seán got to his feet. “Had we been at the Boyne, t’would’ve been our signal. Through the thick of it!” He thrust three fingers into the glowing air, as if commanding his men up the grisly hill of that most celebrated of Irish battles.

“True,” said Jemmy with a smile. He returned to stoning the river. Much to his growing annoyance, and as much as he tried, he could not make the flight of the pebbles follow a consistent path. One would fall into the stream with a splash, then be washed clean and glide down the way. Another would veer to the left on its descent and land splat in the muck of the far shore, then slip from sight, swallowed in the ancient clay and silt. He became obsessed with the rock-casting, but it was futile. Only smaller and smaller pebbles remained, and they were increasingly unpredictable. As fate embraces chaos, order was not to be grasped, and the bitter issue about him leaving was still lingering, distastefully unresolved.

“So, what are ye goin’ t’do?” Seán asked, as if on cue. He turned in a big circle, surveying the common green. “Ye can’t rightly live out here. Anyway, Da said if ye want any more food ye’ll have t’ come back t’ Purcell’s.” He started peeling bark from the oak that swelled over them like a colossus. “Besides, out here isn’t much hidden.”

“‘Tis a fine place t’ hide from that bastard Richard,” Jemmy growled, standing and gathering his waistcoat. He warily watched two old men with a milk cow amble through the park, guiding the animal across a small rickety footbridge, then out through the north gate. Jemmy turned and walked the other way.

“Where ye going?” asked Seán, surprised.

“T’ get breakfast. Ye not coming?”

Seán trotted to catch up.

… Continued…

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Fortunate Son:
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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.

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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.
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an excerpt from

Witch’s Bounty

by Ann Gimpel

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 remaining demon stalkers alone to face what might be Armageddon, while I teleported back to the Old Country, hat in hand, to solicit aid on your behalf.”

“Maybe I misjudged you,” Jenna said. Her face and voice had lost their closed-off aspect.

A corner of his mouth turned downward. “Actions speak louder than words, witch.”

Colleen snorted. “Yup, and talk is cheap. I’ve been chafing at the bit to get out of here, but these last few minutes were time well spent.”

“Agreed.” He aped a Scottish brogue. “Ye canna fight alongside a man ye doona trust.” Duncan held out a hand. Both witches shook it. Bubba walked to the Sidhe on the land bridge formed by their arms and cuddled against him before jumping to the floor.

“What’s that? An old Celtic saying?” Jenna asked, but she was smiling.

“You might say that.” Duncan straightened his shoulders. “Now send me an image of where we’re going.”

“You do that,” Jenna trotted to the door, “and I’ll lock up.”

Colleen slapped her forehead with a palm. With everything that had happened, the last thing on her mind was securing the shop. “Thanks,” she murmured, and sent a mental picture of the Witches’ Northwest headquarters to Duncan.

Chapter Four

Duncan gathered his spell and waited for Jenna to return so he could drape it around all of them. More than anything, the changeling’s vote of confidence touched his heart. He made himself a vow to be worthy of the creature’s trust, particularly in light of what he’d always considered a heavy-handed reaction to the Scottish changelings’ very minor rebellion. The Sidhe could have simply given them a stern talking-to. Even at the time, he’d thought draining their magic more than a little draconian.

Colleen clucked to Bubba and he leaped into her outstretched hands. Jenna killed the dim shop lights and took her place between him and Colleen. “Double check our destination.” He fired his mage light so he could see their faces, and sent an image to both witches. At their nods, he launched his casting and felt the weightlessness he associated with teleporting. Though it was risky, he planned to bring them out in the basement boiler room of the multi-story structure that housed the Witches’ Northwest Coven headquarters.

He’d considered an outdoor location, but he wasn’t familiar enough with the area to guarantee someone wouldn’t see them pop out of the ether. If that happened, the sort of panic it would engender was sure to attract the Irichna, if they were as close as Colleen and Jenna thought.

Too late, he considered weaponry. Seraph blades were ideal. There were several in the Sidhe armory, deep beneath Penrith. In a pinch, an iron blade dipped in holy water worked almost as well, but not for the Sidhe. Iron was poison to them. He wondered what the witches used. Brick walls formed around them. Water dripped down the bricks in a steamy cascade. Duncan held his spell in place, ready to whisk them away if he sensed danger.

“It’s okay,” Colleen whispered into his ear. “Only us here.”

“How’d you determine that so fast?” Impressed by her ability, he kept his voice low and reeled in his casting. The basement looked to be one large room. Perched in one corner like a prehistoric beast, an ancient boiler creaked, snapped, and groaned as it sent steam heat elsewhere in the building through an elaborate ducting system that disappeared through the low ceiling.

“Demons have a particular stink about them,” Colleen said. “You can’t not notice it.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Jenna muttered. She turned in a tight circle and ended up facing Duncan. “I’m guessing you’ve never actually confronted one.”

She hadn’t asked a question, she’d told him. Duncan winced, mostly because she was right. He tried to modulate defensiveness that rose to the fore. “I’ve fought other enemies.”

“But not Irichna.” Colleen glommed onto Jenna’s insinuation like a homing pigeon. The skin around her eyes furrowed with worry. “We’ve fought other enemies too. Nothing ever quite prepares you for the reality of an Irichna demon.”

Duncan sent his magic spinning outward. Not only were there no demons anywhere near, they seemed to have the entire basement level to themselves. Bubba wriggled in Colleen’s grasp and she set him down. He streaked to a far corner of the boiler room. Muted squeaks from the hapless mouse he’d caught told the rest of the story.

“We’re not in any i

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After a tragic car accident claims the lives of his wife, Jane, and son, Ryan, Marcus Taylor is immersed in grief. But his family isn’t the only thing he has lost. An addiction to painkillers has taken away his career as a paramedic. Working as a 911 operator is now the closest he gets to redemption–until he gets a call from a woman trapped in a car.

Rebecca Kingston yearns for a quiet weekend getaway, so she can think about her impending divorce from her abusive husband. When a mysterious truck runs her off the road, she is pinned behind the steering wheel, unable to help her two children in the back seat. Her only lifeline is a cell phone with a quickly depleting battery and a stranger’s calm voice on the other end telling her everything will be all right.

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Submerged

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

Prologue

Near Cadomin, AB – Saturday, June 15, 2013 – 12:36 AM

You never grow accustomed to the stench of death. Marcus Taylor knew that smell intimately. He had inhaled burnt flesh, decayed flesh…diseased flesh. It lingered on him long after he was separated from the body.

The image of his wife and son’s gray faces and blue lips assaulted him.

Jane…Ryan.

Mercifully, there were no bodies tonight. The only scent he recognized now was wet prairie and the dank residue left over from a rainstorm and the river.

“So what happened, Marcus?”

The question came from Detective John Zur, a cop Marcus knew from the old days. Back before he traded in his steady income and respected career for something that had poisoned him physically and mentally.

“Come on,” Zur prodded. “Start talking. And tell me the truth.”

Marcus was an expert at hiding things. Always had been. But there was no way in hell he could hide why he was soaked to the skin and standing at the edge of a river in the middle of nowhere.

He squinted at the river, trying to discern where the car had sunk. He only saw faint ripples on the surface. “You can see what happened, John.”

“You left your desk. Not a very rational decision to make, considering your past.”

Marcus shook his head, the taste of river water still in his throat. “Just because I do something unexpected doesn’t mean I’m back to old habits.”

Zur studied him but said nothing.

“I had to do something, John. I had to try to save them.”

“That’s what EMS is for. You’re not a paramedic anymore.”

Marcus let his gaze drift to the river. “I know. But you guys were all over the place and someone had to look for them. They were running out of time.”

Overhead, lightning forked and thunder reverberated.

“Dammit, Marcus, you went rogue!” Zur said. “You know how dangerous that is. We could’ve had four bodies.”

Marcus scowled. “Instead of merely three, you mean?”

“You know how this works. We work in teams for a reason. We all need backup. Even you.”

“All the rescue teams were otherwise engaged. I didn’t have a choice.”

Zur sighed. “We go back a long way. I know you did what you thought was right. But it could’ve cost them all their lives. And it’ll probably cost you your job. Why would you risk that for a complete stranger?”

“She wasn’t a stranger.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Marcus realized how true that statement seemed. He knew more about Rebecca Kingston than he did about any other woman. Besides Jane.

“You know her?” Zur asked, frowning.

“She told me things and I told her things. So, yeah, I know her.”

“I still do not get why you didn’t stay at the center and let us do our job.”

“She called me.” Marcus looked into his friend’s eyes. “Me. Not you.”

“I understand, but that’s your job. To listen and relay information.”

“You don’t understand a thing. Rebecca was terrified. For herself and her children. No one knew where they were for sure, and she was running out of time. If I didn’t at least try, what kind of person would I be, John?” He gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t live with that. Not again.”

Zur exhaled. “Sometimes we’re simply too late. It happens.”

“Well, I didn’t want it to happen this time.” Marcus thought of the vision he’d seen of Jane standing in the middle of the road. “I had a…hunch I was close. Then when Rebecca mentioned Colton had seen flying pigs, I remembered this place. Jane and I used to buy ribs and chops from the owner, before it closed down about seven years ago.”

“And that led you here to the farm.” Zur’s voice softened. “Good thing your hunch paid off. This time. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“There won’t be a next time, John.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Zur’s mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“There won’t.”

Zur shrugged and headed for the ambulance.

Under a chaotic sky, Marcus stood at the edge of the river as tears cascaded from his eyes. The night’s events hit him hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. He was submerged in a wave of memories. The first call, Rebecca’s frantic voice, Colton crying in the background. He knew that kind of fear. He’d felt it before. But last time, it was a different road, different woman, different child.

He shook his head. He couldn’t think of Jane right now. Or Ryan. He couldn’t reflect on all he’d lost. He needed to focus on what he’d found, what he’d discovered in a faceless voice that had comforted him and expressed that it was okay to let go.

He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. 12:39, to be exact. He couldn’t believe how his life had changed in not much more than two days.

“Marcus!”

He turned…
Chapter One

Edson, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 10:55 AM

Sitting on the threadbare carpet in front of the living room fireplace, Marcus Taylor stroked a military issue Browning 9mm pistol against his leg, the thirteen-round magazine in his other hand. For an instant, he contemplated loading the gun―and then using it.

“But then who’d feed you?” he asked his companion.

Arizona, a five-year-old red Irish setter, gave him an inquisitive look, then curled up and went back to sleep on the couch. She was a rescue hound he’d picked up about a year after Ryan and Jane had died. The house had been too damned quiet. Lifeless.

“Great to know you have an opinion.”

Setting the gun and magazine down on the floor, Marcus propped a photo album against his legs and took a deep breath. The photo album of death. The album only saw daylight three times a year. The other three hundred and sixty-two days it was hidden in a steel foot locker that doubled as his coffee table.

Today was Paul’s forty-sixth birthday. Or it would have been, except Paul was dead.

Taking another measured breath, Marcus felt for the chain that marked a page and opened the album. “Hey, Bro.”

In the photo, Corporal Paul Taylor stood on the shoulder of a deserted street on the outskirts of a nondescript town in Afghanistan, a sniper rifle braced across his chest and the Browning in his hand. He’d been killed that same day, his limbs ripped apart by a roadside bomb. The IED had been buried in six inches of dust and dirt when Paul, distracted by a crying kid, had unwittingly stepped on it.

One stupid mistake could end in death, separating son from parents and brother from brother. Resentment could separate siblings too.

“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am,” Marcus said, blinking back a tear. “We wasted so much time being pissed at each other.”

As a young kid, he’d hidden his older brother’s toy soldiers so he could play with them when Paul was at school. In high school, Marcus had hidden how smart he was, always downplaying his intelligence in favor of being the cool, younger brother of senior hockey legend Paul Taylor. Marcus had learned to hide his jealousy too.

Until his brother was killed.

He stared at the warped dog tag at the end of the chain. It was all that was left of his brother. There was nothing to be jealous of now.

He glanced at the gun. Okay, he had that too. He’d inherited the Browning from Paul. One of his brother’s war buddies had personally delivered it. “Your brother said you can play with his toys now,” the guy had said.

Paul always had a warped sense of humor.

“Happy birthday, Paul.”

He knew his parents, who were currently cruising in the Mediterranean, would be raising a toast in Paul’s honor, so he did the same. “I miss you, bro.”

Then he dropped the tag and flipped to the next set of photos in the album. A brunette with short, choppy hair and luminous green eyes smiled back at him.

Jane.

“Hello, Elf.”

He traced her face, recalling the way her mouth tilted upward on the left and how she’d watch a chick flick tearjerker, while tears steamed unnoticed down her face.

Marcus turned to the next set of photos and sucked in a breath. A handsome boy beamed a brilliant smile and waved back at him.

“Hey, little buddy.”

He recalled the day the photo had been taken. His son, Ryan, a rookie goalie on his junior high hockey team, had shut out his opponents, giving his team a three-goal lead. Jane had snapped the picture at the exact second when Ryan had found his father in the crowd.

“I love you.” Marcus’s voice cracked. “And I miss you so much.”

He couldn’t hide that. Not ever.

There was one other thing he couldn’t hide.

He had killed Jane. And Ryan.

For the past six years, whenever Marcus slept, his dead wife and son came to visit, taunting him with their spectral images, teasing him with familiar phrases, twisting his mind and gut into a guilt-infested cesspool. The only way to escape their accusing glares and spiteful smiles was to wake up. Or not go to sleep. Sleep was the enemy. He did his best to avoid it.

Marcus glanced at the antique clock on the mantle. 11:06.

Another twenty-four minutes and he’d have to head to the Yellowhead County Emergency Center, where he worked as a 911 dispatcher. He’d been working there for almost six months. He was halfway through five twelve-hour shifts that ran from noon to midnight. He worked them with his best friend, Leo, who would undoubtedly be in a good mood again. Leo liked sleeping in and starting his day at noon, while Marcus preferred the midnight-to-noon shift, the one everyone else hated. It gave him something to do at night, since sleeping didn’t come easily.

He closed the photo album, stood slowly and stretched his cramped muscles. As he placed the album and the gun and magazine back in the foot locker, a small cedar box with a medical insignia embossed on the top caught his eye, though he did his best to ignore it.

Even Arizona knew that box was trouble. She froze at the sight of it, her hackles raised.

“I know,” Marcus said. “I can resist temptation.”

That box had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. It represented a past he’d give anything to erase. But he couldn’t toss it in the trash. It had too firm a grip on him. Even now it called to him.

“Marcus…”

“No!”

He slammed the foot locker lid with his fist. The sound reverberated across the room, clanging like a jail cell door, trapping him in his own private prison.

Behind him, Arizona whimpered.

“Sorry, girl.”

One day he’d get rid of the box with the insignia and be done with it once and for all.

But not yet.

Shaking off a bout of guilt, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the master bedroom of the two-bedroom rented duplex. It was devoid of all things feminine, stripped down to the barest essentials. A bed, nightstand and tall dresser. Metal blinds, no flowered curtains like the ones in the house in Edmonton that he’d bought with Jane. The bedspread was a mishmash of brown tones, and it had been hauled up over the single pillow. There were none of the decorative pillows that Jane had loved so much. No silk flowers on the dresser. No citrus Febreeze lingering in the air. No sign of Jane.

He’d hidden her too.

Stepping into the en suite bathroom, Marcus stared into the mirror. He took in the untrimmed moustache and beard that was threatening to engulf his face. Leaning closer, he examined his eyes, which were more gray than blue. He turned his face to catch the light. “I am not tired.”

The dark circles under his eyes betrayed him.

Ignoring Arizona’s watchful gaze, he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the tube of Preparation H, a trick he’d learned from his wife Jane. Before he’d killed her. A little dab under the eyes, no smiling or frowning, and within seconds the crevices in his skin softened. Some of Jane’s “White Out”—as she used to call the tube of cosmetic concealer—and the shadows would disappear.

“Camouflage on,” he said to his reflection.

A memory of Jane surfaced.

It was the night of the BioWare awards banquet, nineteen years ago. Jane, dressed in a pink housecoat, sat at the bathroom vanity curling her hair, while Marcus struggled with his tie.

He’d let out a curse. “I can never get this right.”

“Here, let me.” Pushing the chair behind him, Jane climbed up before he could protest. She caught his gaze in the mirror over the sink and reached around his shoulders, her gaze wandering to the twisted lump he’d made of the full Windsor. “You shouldn’t be so impatient.”

“You shouldn’t be climbing up on chairs.”

“I’m fine, Marcus.”

“You’re pregnant, that’s what you are.”

“You calling me fat, buster?”

Five months pregnant with Ryan, Jane had never looked so beautiful.

“I’d never do that,” he replied.

She cocked her head and arched one brow. “Never? How about in four months when I can’t walk up the stairs to the bedroom?”

“I’ll carry you.”

“What about when I can’t see my toes and can’t paint my toenails?”

“I’ll paint them for you.”

“What about when―”

He turned his head and kissed her. That shut her up.

With a laugh, she pushed him away, gave the tie a smooth tug and slid the knot expertly into place.

He groaned. “Now why can’t I do that?”

“Because you have me. Now quit distracting me. I still have to put on my dress and makeup.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Jane always made it worth the wait, and that night she didn’t disappoint him. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was a vision of sultry goddess in a designer dress from a shop in West Edmonton Mall. The baby bump in front was barely noticeable.

“How do I look?” she asked, nervously fingering the fresh gold highlights in her hair.

“Sexy as hell.”

She spun in a slow circle to show off the sleek black dress with its plunging back. Peering over one glitter-powdered shoulder, she said, “So you like my new dress?”

“I’d like it better,” he said in a soft voice, “if it was on the floor.”

Minutes later, they were entwined in the sheets, out of breath and laughing like teenagers. Sex with Jane was always like that. Exciting. Youthful. Fun.

After dressing, Jane retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. “Camouflage on,” she said when she returned. “Now let’s get going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He heard her whispering, “Six plus eight plus two…”

“Are you doing that numerology thing again?” he asked with a grin.

Jane had gone to a psychic fair when she’d found out she was pregnant, and a numerologist had given her a lesson in adding dates. Ever since then, whenever something important came up, she’d work out the numbers to determine if it was going to be a good day or not. She even made Marcus buy lotto tickets on “three days,” which she said meant money coming in. They hadn’t won a lottery yet, but he played along anyway.

“What is it today?”

She smiled. “A seven.”

“Ah, lucky seven.” He arched a brow at her. “So I’m going to get lucky?”

“I think you already did, mister.”

They’d been late for the awards banquet, which didn’t go over too well since Jane was the guest of honor, the recipient of a Best Programmer award for her latest video game creation at BioWare. When Jane had stepped up on the stage to receive her award, Marcus didn’t think he could ever be prouder. Until the night Ryan was born.

Ryan…the son I killed.

Marcus gave his head a jerk, forcing the memories back into the shadows―where they belonged. He picked up the can of shaving cream. His eyes rested, unfocused, on the label.

To shave or not to shave. That was the question.

“Nah, not today,” he muttered.

He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He was also overdue for a haircut. Thankfully, they weren’t too strict about appearances at work, though his supervisor would probably harp on it again.

The alarm on his watch beeped.

He had twenty minutes to get to the center. Then he’d get back to hiding behind the anonymity of being a faceless voice on the phone.
Yellowhead County Emergency Services in Edson, Alberta, housed a small but competent 911 call center situated on the second floor of a spacious building on 1st Avenue. Four rooms on the floor were rented out to emergency groups, like First Aid, CPR and EMS, for training facilities. The 911 center had a full-time staff of four emergency operators and two supervisors—one for the day shift, one for the night. They also had a handful of highly trained but underpaid casual staff and three regular volunteers.

When Marcus entered the building, Leonardo Lombardo was waiting for him by the elevator. And Leo didn’t look too thrilled to see him.

“You look like your dog just died,” Marcus said.

“Don’t got a dog.”

“So what’s with the warm and cheerful welcome? Did the mob put a hit out on me?”

Leo, a man of average height in his late forties, carried about thirty extra pounds around his middle, and his swarthy Italian looks gave him an air of mystery and danger. Around town, rumormongers had spread stories that Leo was an American expatriate with mob ties. But Marcus knew exactly who had started those rumors. Leo had a depraved sense of humor.

But his friend wasn’t smiling now.

“You really gotta get some sleep.”

Stepping into the elevator, Marcus shrugged. “Sleep’s overrated.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Leo pushed the second floor button and took a hesitant breath. “Listen, man…”

Whenever Leo started a sentence with those two words, Marcus knew it wouldn’t be good.

“You’re not on your game,” Leo said. “You’re starting to slip up.”

“What do you mean? I do my job.”

“You filed that multiple-car accident report from last night in the wrong place. Shipley’s spent half the morning looking for it. I tried covering for you, but he’s pretty pissed.”

“Shipley’s always pissed.”

Pete Shipley made it a ritual to make Marcus’s life hell whenever possible, which was more often than not. As the day shift supervisor, Shipley ruled the emergency operators with an iron fist and enough arrogance to get on anyone’s nerves.

The elevator door opened and Marcus stepped out first.

“I’ll find the report, Leo.”

“How many hours you get, Marcus?”

Sleep?

“Four.” It was a lie and both of them knew it.

Marcus started toward the cubicle with the screen that divided his desk from Leo’s. Behind them was the station for the other full-timers. He waved to Parminder and Wyatt as they left for home. They worked the night shift, so he only saw them in passing. Their stations were now manned by casual day workers. Backup.

“Get some sleep,” Leo muttered.

“Sleep is a funny thing, Leo. Not funny ha-ha, but funny strange. Once a body’s gone awhile without it or with an occasional light nap, sleep doesn’t seem that important. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

They were interrupted by a door slamming down the hall.

Pete Shipley appeared, overpowering the hallway with angry energy and his massive frame. The guy towered over everyone, including Marcus, who was an easy six feet tall. Shipley, a former army captain, was built like the Titanic, which had become his office nickname. Unbeknown to him.

“Taylor!” Shipley shouted. “In my office now!”

Leo grabbed Marcus’s arm. “Tell him you slept six hours.”

“You’re suggesting I lie to the boss?”

“Just cover your ass. And for God’s sake, don’t egg him on.”

Marcus smiled. “Now why would I do that?”

Leo gaped at him. “Because you thrive on chaos.”

“Even in chaos there is order.”

Letting out a snort, Leo said, “You been reading too many self-help books. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned on one heel and headed for his desk.

Marcus stared after him. Don’t worry, Leo. I can handle Pete Shipley.

Pausing in front of Shipley’s door, he took a breath, knocked once and entered. His supervisor was seated behind a metal desk, his thick-lensed glasses perched on the tip of a bulbous nose as he scrutinized a mound of paperwork. Even though the man had ordered the meeting, Shipley did nothing to indicate he acknowledged Marcus’s existence.

That was fine with Marcus. It gave him time to study the office, with its cramped windowless space and dank recycled air. It wasn’t an office to envy, that’s for sure. No one wanted it, or the position and responsibility that came with it. Not even Shipley. Word had it he was positioning himself for emergency coordinator, in hopes of moving up to one of the corner offices with the floor-to-ceiling windows. Marcus doubted it would ever happen. Shipley wasn’t solid management material.

Marcus stood with his hands resting lightly on the back of the armless faux-leather chair Shipley reserved for the lucky few he deemed important enough to sit in his presence. Marcus wasn’t one of the lucky ones.

Bracing for an ugly reprimand, his thoughts drifted to last night’s shift. A drunk driver had T-boned a car at a busy intersection in Hinton, resulting in a four-car pileup. One vehicle, a mini-van with an older couple and two young boys, had been sandwiched between two vehicles from the impact of the crash. The pileup had spawned numerous frantic calls to the emergency center. Emergency Medical Services (EMS), including fire and ambulance, arrived on scene within six minutes. The Jaws of Life had been used to wrench apart the contorted metal of two of the vehicles. Only three people extracted had made it out alive. One reached the hospital DOA. Then rescue workers discovered a sedan with three teenagers inside—all dead.

They’ll have nightmares for weeks.

Marcus knew how that felt. He’d once been a first responder. In another life.

He straightened. He was ready to take on Shipley’s wrath. At least this time it would be done privately. Plus, if he was honest, he had messed up. Misfiling the report was one of a handful of stupid mistakes he’d made in the last week. Most he’d caught on his own and rectified.

“Before you say anything,” Marcus began, “I know I―”

“What?” Shipley snapped. “You know you’re an idiot?”

“No. That’s news to me.”

Pete Shipley rose slowly―all two hundred and eighty pounds, six feet eleven inches of him. Bracing beefy fists against the desk, he leaned forward. “I spent three hours searching for that accident report, Taylor. Three hours! And guess where I found it?” A nanosecond pause. “Filed with the missing persons call logs. Whatcha think of that?”

“I think it’s ironic that I filed a missing report in the missing persons section.”

“Shut it!” Shipley glared, his thick brows furrowed into a uni-brow. “Lombardo says you’ve been sleeping better, but I don’t believe him. Whatcha got to say about that?”

“Leo’s right. I slept like a baby last night.”

Shipley elevated a brow. “For a baby, you look like shit. You need a haircut. And a shave.” He wrinkled his nose. “Have you even showered this week?”

“I shower every day. Not that it’s any of your business. As for the length of my hair and beard, sounds like you’re crossing discrimination boundaries.”

“I’m not discriminating against you. I simply do not like you. You’re a goddamn drug addict, Taylor.”

Everyone in the center knew about Marcus’s past.

“Thanks for clarifying that, Peter.”

Shipley cringed. “All it’ll take is one more mistake. Everyone’s watching you. You mess up again and you’re out on your ass.” His shoulders relaxed and he folded back into the chair. “If it were up to me, I would’ve fired you months ago.”

“Good thing it isn’t up to you then.”

Marcus knew he was pushing the man’s buttons, but that wasn’t hard to do. Shipley was an idiot. A brown-noser who didn’t know his ass from his dick, according to Leo.

“This is your final warning,” Shipley said between his teeth. “We hold life and death in our hands. We can’t afford errors.”

“It was a misfiled report. The call was dispatched correctly and efficiently.”

“Yeah, at least you didn’t send the ambulance in the wrong direction.” A smug smile crossed Shipley’s face. “That was the stunt that got you knocked off your high horse as a paramedic. Got you fired from EMS.”

Marcus thought of a million ways to answer him. None of them were polite. He moved toward the door. “I think our little meeting is done.”

“I’m not finished,” Shipley bellowed.

“Yes you are, Pete.”

With that, Marcus strode from the office. He left Shipley’s door ajar, something he knew would tick off his supervisor even more than his insubordination.

He tried not to dwell on Shipley’s words, but the man had hit a nerve. Six years ago, Marcus had been publicly humiliated when the truth had come out about his addiction problem, and his future as a paramedic was sliced clean off the minute he drove that ambulance to the wrong side of town because he was too high to comprehend where he was going.

That’s when he’d taken some time off. From work…from Jane…from everyone. He’d headed to Cadomin to clear his mind and do some fishing. At least that’s what he’d told Jane. Meanwhile, he’d secretly packed his drug stash in the wooden box. Six days later, while in a morphine haze filled with strange images of ghostly children, he answered his cell phone. In a subdued voice, Detective John Zur revealed that Jane and Ryan had been in a car accident, not far from where Marcus was holing up.

That had been the beginning of the end for Marcus.

Now he was doing what he could to get by. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle the career change from superstar paramedic to invisible 911 dispatcher. That wasn’t the problem. Shipley was. The guy had been gunning for him ever since Leo had brought Marcus in to fill a vacant spot left behind by a dispatcher who’d quit after a nervous breakdown.

“What did Titanic have to say?” Leo asked when Marcus veered around the cubicle.

“He doesn’t want to go down with the ship.”

“He thinks you’re the iceberg?”

Marcus gave a single nod.

“I got your back.”

Leo had connections at work. He knew the center coordinator, Nate Downey, very well. He was married to Nate’s daughter, Valerie.

“I know, Leo.”

As he settled into his desk and slipped on the headset, Marcus took a deep breath and released it evenly. The mind tricks between him and Shipley had become too frequent. They wreaked havoc on his brain and drained him.

Because Shipley never lets me forget.

The clock on the computer read: 12:20. It was going to be a very long day.

In the sleepy town of Edson, it was rare to see much excitement. The center catered to outside towns as well. Some days the phones only rang a half-dozen times. Those were the good days.

He flipped through the folders on his desk and found the protocol chart. Never hurt to do a quick refresher before his shift. It kept his mind fresh and focused.

But his thoughts meandered to the misfiled report.

Was he slipping? Was he putting people’s lives in danger? That was something he’d promised himself, and Leo, he’d never do again.

Remember Jane and Ryan.

How could he ever forget them? They’d been his life.

The phone rang and he jumped.

“911. Do you need Fire, Police or Ambulance?”

Marcus spent the next ten minutes explaining to eighty-nine-year-old Mrs. Mortimer, a frequent caller, that no one was available to rescue her cat from the neighbor’s tree.

Then he waited for a real emergency.

Chapter Two
Edmonton, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 4:37 PM
Rebecca Kingston folded her arms across her down-filled jacket and tried not to shiver. Though May had ended with a heat wave, the temperatures had dropped the first week of June. It had rained for the first five days, and an arctic chill had swept through the city. The weatherman blamed the erratic change in weather on global warming and a cold front sweeping down from Alaska, while locals held one source responsible. Their lifelong rival—Calgary.

“Can we get an ice cream, Mommy?” four-year-old Ella said with a faint lips, the result of her recent contribution to the tooth fairy’s necklace collection.

Rebecca laughed. “It feels like winter again and you want ice cream?”

“Yes, please.”

“I guess we have time.”

They hurried across the street to the corner store.

“Strawberry this time,” Ella said, her blue eyes pleading.

Rebecca sighed. “Eat it slowly. Did you remember Puff?”

Her daughter nodded. “In my pocket.”

“Good girl.” Rebecca glanced at her watch. “It’s almost five. Let’s go.”

Her cell phone rang. It was Carter Billingsley, her lawyer.

“Mr. Billingsley,” she said. “I’m glad you got my message.”

“So you’ve decided to get away,” he said. “That’s a very good idea.”

“I need a break.” She glanced at Ella. “Things are going to get ugly, aren’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Divorce is never pretty. But you’ll get through it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Billingsley.”

“Take care, Rebecca.”

Carter had once been her grandfather’s lawyer and Grandpa Bob had highly recommended him—if Rebecca ever needed someone to handle her divorce. In his late sixties, Carter filled that father-figure left void after her father’s passing.

Her thoughts raced to her twelve-year-old son. Colton’s team was up against one of the toughest junior high hockey teams from Regina. With Colton as the Edmonton team’s goalie, most of the pressure was on him. He was a brave boy.

She bit her bottom lip, wishing she were as brave.

You’re a coward, Becca.

“You’re too codependent,” her mother always said.

Rebecca figured that wasn’t actually her fault. She’d been fortunate to have strong male role models in her life. Men who ran companies with iron fists and made decisions after careful consideration. Or at least worked hard to provide for their families. Men like Grandpa Bob and her father. Men who could be trusted to make the right decisions.

Not like Wesley.

Even her grandfather hadn’t liked him. When Grandpa Bob passed away two years ago, he’d sent a clear message to everyone that Wesley couldn’t be trusted. Grandpa Bob had lived a miser’s lifestyle. No one knew how much money he’d saved for that “rainy day”—until he was gone and Colton and Ella became beneficiaries of over eight hundred thousand dollars from the sale of Grandpa Bob’s house and business.

Grandpa Bob, in his infinite wisdom, had added two major conditions to the inheritance. Money could only be withdrawn from the account if it was spent on Ella or Colton. And Rebecca was the sole person with signing power.

Wesley moped around the house for days when he heard the conditions. Any time she bought the kids new clothes, he’d sneer at her and say, “Hope you used your grandfather’s money for those.”

Once when he’d gambled most of his paycheck, he begged her for a “loan,” and when she’d voiced that she didn’t have the money, he slapped her. “Lying bitch! You’ve got almost a million dollars at your fingertips. All I’m asking for is thirty-five hundred. I’ll pay it back.”

She’d refused and paid the price, physically.

Rebecca wanted him out of her life. Once and for all. But for the sake of the children, she had to find a way to forgive Wesley and deal with the fact that he was her children’s father. He’d always be in their lives.

Every time she looked at Colton, she was reminded of Wesley. Unlike Ella’s blonde hair and blue eyes that closely resembled her own, both father and son had dark brown hair, hazel eyes, a light spray of freckles across their noses and matching chin dimples.

She’d met Wesley at a company Christmas party shortly after she started working as a customer service representative at Alberta Cable. The son of upper-class parents, Wesley had created his independence by not joining the family law firm, as was expected. Instead, he went to work at Alberta Cable as a cable installer. At the party, he’d been assigned to the same table as Rebecca. As soon as Wesley realized she was single, he poured on the charm. He was a master at that.

The next morning she’d found Wesley in her bed.

After nearly four years of dating, he finally popped the question. Via a text message, of all things. She was at work when her cell phone sprang to life, vibrating against her desk. When she glanced down, she saw seven words.

“Rebecca Kingston, will U marry me?”

She’d immediately let out a startled shriek. “Wesley just proposed.”

This sent the entire room into a chaotic buzz of applause and congratulatory wishes. The rest of Rebecca’s shift was a blur.

“Is Daddy gonna be at the game?” Ella said, interrupting her memories.

“No, honey. He’s at work.”

At least that’s where Rebecca hoped he was.

Wesley had left Alberta Cable six months ago, escorted from the building after being fired for screaming at a customer in her own home and shoving the woman into a wall. It hadn’t been the first complaint lodged against him. He’d been employed off and on since then, but no one wanted an employee with anger management issues.

When Rebecca had asked what had happened, he mumbled something about an accident, arguing that it wasn’t his fault. “No matter what that ass of a supervisor says,” he said.

She’d given him a look that said she didn’t believe him. She paid for that look. The black eye he gave her kept her in the house for nearly a week. That’s when she filed for separation.

Since leaving Alberta, Wesley had wandered from one dead-end job to another. For the past two months he’d hardly worked at all. She hoped to God he wasn’t sitting at his apartment, surfing the porn highway.

Last time she saw him, Wesley had blamed his unemployment situation on the recession, which had, in all fairness, wreaked havoc with many people’s lives and crushed some of the toughest companies. But the economy, or lack of a strong one, wasn’t Wesley’s problem. The problem was his lack of motivation and the inability to handle his jealousy and rage.

Perhaps Wesley was experiencing a midlife crisis.

Maybe she was too.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep it together. But she did it for her children. Besides, she’d endured worse than uncertainty when she lived with Wesley. Much worse.

Rebecca glanced down at her daughter. Ella was a petite child who’d been born two months premature. Wesley had seen to that.

She shook her head. No. What happened back then was as much my fault as his. I stayed when I should’ve left.

“Hurry, Mommy!” Ella said, tugging on her hand.

The hockey arena was a five-minute walk from where she’d parked the Chevy Impala, but with the ice cream pit stop, Rebecca was glad they’d left early.

“Ella, do you think Colton’s team will win today?”

Her daughter rolled her eyes. “Of course. Colton is awesome!”

“Awesome,” Rebecca agreed.

Tamarack Hockey Arena came into view, along with the crowds of hockey fans who gathered outside the doors to the indoor rink.

Rebecca took Ella’s hand and drew her in close.

In Edmonton, hockey fans bordered on hockey fanatics. It wouldn’t be the first time that a fight broke out between fathers of opposing teams. Last year, a toddler had been trampled in a north Edmonton arena. Thankfully, he’d survived.

“Stay close, Ella.”

“Do you see Colton?”

“Not yet.”

“Becca!”

Turning in the direction of the voice, she scoured the bleachers. Then she spotted Wesley near the home team’s side. He wasn’t supposed to be there. The terms of their separation were that he could see the kids during scheduled visitations. Once the divorce was final, those visits would be restricted to visits accompanied by a social worker―if Carter Billingsley, her lawyer, came through for her. She hadn’t given Wesley this news yet.

“I saved you some seats,” Wesley hollered. The look he gave her suggested she shouldn’t make a public scene. Or else.

Rebecca released a reluctant sigh. Great. Just great.

“Are we gonna sit with Daddy?” Ella asked.

“Yes, honey. Unless you want to sit somewhere else.” Anywhere else.

Despite Rebecca’s silent plea, Ella headed in Wesley’s direction, pushing past the knees that blocked the aisle. Rebecca sat beside Ella and tried to tamp down the guilt she felt at placing their daughter between them.

“There’s a seat beside me,” Wesley said.

Her gaze flew to the empty seat on his right and she winced. “I’m good here. Thanks for saving the seats.”

Looking as handsome as the day she’d married him, Wesley smiled. “You look lovely. New hairstyle?”

She touched her shoulder-length hair. “I need a trim.”

“Looks good. But then you always do.”

She stared at him. He was laying on the charm a bit thick. That usually meant he wanted something.

Wesley chucked Ella under the chin. “So, Ella-Bella, how’s kindergarten?”

“We went on a field trip to the zoo yesterday.”

“See any monkeys?” he asked, his arm resting over the back of Ella’s chair.

“Yeah. They were so cute.”

“But not as cute as you, right?” He caught Rebecca’s eye and winked. “You’re the cutest girl here. Even though you have no teeth.”

“Do too!” Ella opened her mouth to show him.

After a few minutes of listening to their teasing banter, Rebecca tuned out their laughter. Sadness washed over her, followed by regret. If things had gone differently, they’d still be a family, and the kids would have their father in their lives. But Rebecca couldn’t stay in an abusive relationship. Her mind and body couldn’t endure any more trauma. And she was terrified he’d start lashing out physically at the kids.

So she’d made a decision, and one sunny Friday afternoon, she’d summoned up the courage to confront Wesley at his current job de jour.

“We need to talk,” she’d told him.

“This isn’t a good time.”

“It’s never a good time.” She took a deep breath. “I want you to move out of the house, Wesley.”

He laughed. “Good joke. What’s the punch line?”

“I’m not joking.”

His smile disappeared. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s not like you couldn’t see this coming. I want a separation. You know I’ve been…unhappy in our marriage.”

“I’ll try to make more time for you.”

“It’s not more time that I want, Wesley. Neither of us can live like this. Your anger is out of control. You’re out of control.”

“So this is all my fault?” Wesley sneered.

“You nearly put me in the hospital last week.”

“Maybe that’s where you belong.”

She clenched her teeth. “Your threats won’t work this time. I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving tonight, and I’m taking the kids with me.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Seems to me you’re only thinking about yourself, what you want. Have you even thought about what this’ll do to the kids?”

“Of course I have,” she snapped. “They’re all I think about. Can you say the same?”

“You’re going to turn them against me. Like your mother did to you and your father.” His voice dripped with disgust.

“Don’t bring my parents into this. This has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the fact that you have an anger problem and you refuse to get help.”

“What’ll you tell the kids?”

She shrugged. “Ella won’t understand. She’s too young. Colton’s getting too old for me to keep making excuses for you. He’s almost a teenager.”

Wesley didn’t answer.

“You know what he said to me last night, Wesley? He said you love being angry more than you love being with us. He’s right, isn’t he?”

She stormed out of his office without waiting for a reply. She already knew the answer.

That evening, Wesley packed two suitcases.

“I’ll be staying at The Fairmont McDonald. I still love you, Becca.”

His actions had stunned her. She’d been prepared to take the kids to Kelly’s. She was even ready for Wesley to try to hurt her. What she hadn’t expected was his easy submission. Or that for once he’d take the high road.

“You’re leaving?” she said, shocked.

“That’s what you wanted,” he said with a shrug. “So that’s what you get.”

For a second, she wanted to tell him she’d made a mistake. That she didn’t want a separation. That she’d be a better wife, learn to be more patient, learn to deal with his rages.

Then she remembered the bruises and sprains. “Good-bye, Wesley.”

“For now.”

She’d watched him climb into his car and waited until the taillights winked, then disappeared. Then she let out a long, uneasy breath and headed down the hallway. She wandered through their bedroom and into the en suite bathroom, all the while trying to think of the good times. There weren’t many.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, one finger tracing the small scar along her chin. Wesley had given her that present on Valentine’s Day two years earlier. He’d accused her of flirting with the UPS delivery guy.

“You deserve better,” she said to her reflection. “So do the kids.”

Now, sitting two seats away from Wesley at the arena, Rebecca realized that her husband was still doing everything in his power to control her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“You’re wasting your money.”

“What money? You get most of it.”

“That’s for the kids, Wesley, and you know it.”

She dug her fingernails into her palms. Don’t fight with him. Not here. Not in front of Ella.

She caught his eye. “Next time Colton has a game, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother showing up.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He gave her an icy smile. “That’s my son down there.”

“What part of ‘scheduled visits’ don’t you―”

Cheers erupted from the stands as both hockey teams skated out onto the ice and joined their goalies. Everyone stood for the national anthem, then a horn blasted.

Rebecca released a heart-heavy sigh.

The game was on.
After the game, the arena parking lot was a potpourri of car exhaust and refinery emissions, and a breeding ground for irritation. Everyone wanted to be first out. Especially the losing team.

Rebecca was glad she’d parked her Hyundai Accent down the street.

“Mommy, are we going home now?” Ella asked.

“Yes, honey. It’s almost supper time.”

“Is Daddy coming home too?”

“No, honey. Daddy’s going to his own house.”

As they made their way through the parking lot, Rebecca was sure Wesley would veer off toward his van, but he stayed at her side. Doing her best to ignore him, she reached for Ella’s hand as they crossed the street. Behind them, Colton lugged his hockey bag and stick.

When they reached the sedan, Rebecca unlocked the doors, sank into the driver’s seat and started the engine, while the kids said good-bye to their dad. Stepping out, she moved to the back door and wrenched on it, gritting her teeth as it squealed. Colton climbed in back. Ella looked up at her with a hopeful expression.

“Back seat,” Rebecca said.

Ella obediently climbed in beside her brother, and Colton helped her with the seat belt for her booster seat.

Rebecca shut the door using her hip. Catching Wesley’s eye she said, “You always said we should use the sticky door, that if we did it might not stick so much. Hasn’t worked.”

Wesley studied the exterior of the car. “Can’t believe you haven’t bought a new car.”

The Hyundai had seen better days—and today wasn’t one of them. They’d bought the used car back in 2003, when they’d gone from a two-door Supra—Wesley’s toy—to a four-door vehicle that wasn’t so “squishy,” as the kids had called the Supra. The red paint was now worn in places, the hinges of the trunk groaned when lifted and the back door on the passenger side stuck all the time, making it impossible for either of the kids to open. The latter was a result of an accident. Wesley had been sideswiped by a reckless teen texting on her cell phone. Or at least that’s the story he’d given her.

“This works fine,” she said. “I don’t need a new one.” And I can’t afford one.

Colton cracked the door open and poked his head out. “Dad said he’s getting me a cell phone for my birthday next month. One that does text messaging.”

Rebecca shut the car door and turned icy eyes in Wesley’s direction. “You what?”

“Before you say anything, hear me out. Colton’s old enough to be responsible for a phone. Besides, I’m taking care of it, bills and all. When he’s old enough to get a job, he’ll take over paying for it.”

“I told you a while ago that I do not agree with kids walking around glued to a cell phone. It’s ridiculous.” She walked around to the driver’s side.

“What if there’s an emergency and Colton needs to call one of us?” he asked, following her.

“Then he uses a phone nearby or has an adult call us. It’s not like he’s driving any―”

“Rebecca, this is my decision. As his father.”

“Well, I’m his mother, and I say no cell phone.”

She scowled at him, mentally cursing herself for falling into old habits―childish habits. Truth was, she’d been thinking of the whole cell phone argument ever since Wesley had first brought it up. But her pride wouldn’t let her back down. Not now.

“I think you’re being a little unfair,” Wesley said.

“Unfair? You really want to go there?”

She turned when she heard the whir of the power window.

“Did you tell her, Dad?” Colton asked.

“Hey, buddy, give me a second―”

Rebecca frowned. “Did you already tell him he’s getting a cell phone?”

“Let’s table the phone idea for another time.”

“Fine.”

Wesley shuffled his feet. “Becca, I have a favor to ask.”

She held her breath. Here it is.

“I want Colton to stay with me in July.”

From inside the car, Colton nodded. “Say yes, Mom.”

She was livid. Motioning for Colton to roll up the window, she turned to Wesley. “What are you doing? This is something you should’ve discussed with me first.”

“I am discussing it with you.”

“You should’ve called me, not mentioned this right in front of him.” She tried to ignore Colton, who had his grinning face pressed up against the window. “Why didn’t you call me so we could discuss this?”

“I tried calling. I left you two messages last week.”

Rebecca blinked. She checked the answering machine every day, and there’d been no calls from Wesley.

Wesley’s mouth curled. “I’m not lying.”

“Maybe I accidentally erased them.”

“Probably. You always had problems with technical things. And managing money.”

“For the last time,” she snapped, “our financial mess isn’t my fault. We both overspent.”

“But you’ve got your secret stash, don’t you?”

“You know that money is for the kids’ college funds,” she said.

When Wesley had found out about the money that had been set aside for the kids, it had enraged him to the point that he deliberately drove his van into the side of the bridge on the way home from dinner at a restaurant.

Rebecca hadn’t come away unscathed. She suffered a multitude of scrapes and bruises, easily explained by the crash. The doctor had no idea Wesley had beaten her after pulling her from the wreck. She barely recalled that incident. But she remembered the others that followed in the days after the crash. The broken wrist. The bruises on her back and hips.

Every day afterward, Wesley had said he loved her. But love wasn’t supposed to hurt physically. Was it?

… Continued…

Submerged

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Designed to entertain and stimulate, these thirty-eight intriguing stories of science fiction and fantasy reveal events no one else has ever dared to expose, along with a healthy dose of political and social satire.

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Strange Science Fiction
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by Benson Grayson

THE MAN ON THE MOON

Herman Hawthorne was unique in two distinct areas. He was the third richest individual in North America, thanks to his late father’s early investment in the shale oil industry. Secondly, he was the world’s worst curmudgeon. Hawthorne cared not one iota for the opinions of other people. Everyone except him, he said often and loudly, was either a fool or a charlatan, or both. Naturally, he could hardly be said to be well liked.

None of Hawthorne’s views were widely accepted and most were almost universally discredited. His claims that the germ theory had no basis of fact but was actually invented by the Pinnacle Pharmaceutical Company in 1904, in what was a highly successful campaign to increase the sales of its drugs was universally scoffed at, despite Hawthorne’s proof that a high percentage of all pharmaceutical products are today actually purchased by individuals responding to widespread television advertising. Similarly, his assertions that earthworms actually do fall from the sky when it rains, rather than simply fleeing their flooded homes was flatly denied by all reputable scientific bodies, notwithstanding Hawthorne’s clear evidence that no widespread scientific research had ever been conducted to objectively look into his theory.

Hawthorne was born and raised in northern Florida, far from the family’s holdings of shale oil leases but close to the bank, to which all the royalties from the shale oil operations were funneled. As a child, Hawthorne was taken by his father to observe one of the space shuttle launches at Cape Canaveral and this incident made a lasting impression on him. Not a favorable impression. Even as a child, Hawthorne distrusted what anyone told him and thought the so-called space shuttle launch was a giant fraud.

Growing to adulthood, Hawthorne’s greatest campaign was aimed at proving that NASA’s statements about space exploration were all part of a giant hoax, designed to illegally obtain funds by whichever corrupt administration was in power in Washington. “Can you honestly believe,” he would assert to all who would listen, “That we actually sent a manned expedition to the moon? Why even Jules Verne’s novel A Trip to the Moon is more creditable.”

Hawthorne was so certain of his derogatory opinion about NASA that he decided to obtain the necessary proof. There were fewer obstacles to Hawthorne attempting to do this than for most other individuals because of his great personal wealth. But even for a person with Hawthorne’s resources to replicate the American space program would have been too costly.

Fortunately, Hawthorne had other arrows in his quiver. Alone among prominent Americans, Hawthorne had strongly endorsed the Russian annexation of the Crimea. Ignoring popular outcry, he further loudly identified himself with Moscow’s call for Ukraine to cease its effort to join the European Economic Union. Russian President Vladimir Putin was so grateful over this rare show of foreign support for his policies that he sent a warm, personally hand-written note to Hawthorne, thanking him and inviting him to visit Russia.

Hawthorne quickly accepted the invitation and travelled to Russia. In Moscow, he was treated with the same ceremony as would be accorded a friendly head of state. At the formal dinner in his honor, he was seated at the table next to the Russian President, and he and President Putin spent almost two hours in friendly conversation. It was during this meeting that Hawthorne extracted from Putin a promise that Russia would permit him to use its space facilities to send his own expedition to the moon.

The Russian President probably did not expect he would have to honor his promise to Hawthorne. After all, of what use is a commitment to use Russian space facilities if one does not have a space capsule. Hawthorne had no official backing so there was no practical chance of his buying or borrowing a space capsule. Undaunted, Hawthorne thanked Putin, departed Moscow the next day and back in the United States began furious efforts to obtain a space capsule. With his great wealth, it was still difficult but not impossible.

After examining his options, Hawthorne heard of an ex-Air Force Major and former astronaut, Harley Mathews, who had been forced out of the program after a series of highly-publicized extra-marital affairs. The one-time astronaut had NASA Training to pilot a space capsule. Mathews was now in bad financial shape, attempting to eke out a living as a salesman of aluminum siding while paying large alimony payments to his former wife, and providing child support to the unwed mother with whom he had fathered a child.

Hawthorne contacted Mathews and offered him a six-figure salary and two year contract if he would agree to head the proposed expedition to the Moon. His duties would include designing a capsule for the journey and then piloting it. Despite the great temptation of the financial package, Mathews truthfully explained the many practical obstacles in the way of such a project. His objections were dismissed and Mathews agreed, assuming that Hawthorne would come to realize the futility of his plan and abort it, but not before Mathews would receive a healthy cash infusion.

Without further delay, Hawthorne purchased a closed auto manufacturing plant in Michigan and installed Mathews in an office on the top floor, formerly housing the factory management. From his office, Mathews could observe the work of the labor force on the factory floor below. Mathews’ first task was to draw up the plans for a space capsule capable of transporting a crew of two from the Earth to the Moon, landing on the Moon’s surface, and then safely returning the crew back to Earth.

Initially Mathews just went through the motions, aware of the apparent futility of the project. He was astounded when Hawthorne asked to see the plans, carefully inspected them and then gave Mathews detailed instructions on how to improve them. Mathews realized that although Hawthorne was eccentric, he was nevertheless extremely intelligent and had good technical knowledge.

The finished design was for a space capsule resembling in appearance a rustic log cabin. Despite its odd appearance and its smaller size than the space capsules designed by NASA, it was theoretically possible for it to reach the Moon. In some respects it was even better. Mathews was aware, from personal experience in piloting a space capsule, of defects he could now correct. He now employed new technology and material developed since the original space capsule design was finalized. Its thrust engines were more powerful than earlier ones and capable of extreme speeds, despite the relatively heavier weight of Hawthorne’s capsule, due to the reinforcing of its sides to prevent damage from collisions with dust particles in space.

The plans completed, it was now time to begin the manufacture and assembly of the various component parts. Some were to be manufactured in the plant, others to be obtained from outside suppliers. Hawthorne showed great skill in supervising the award of the contracts. He was aided by the fact that he did not have to employ certain companies as suppliers that had powerful advocates in Congress, nor was he obliged to purchase from the lowest cost bidders who might actually be unable or unwilling to supply the highest quality item.

Mathews had no difficulty in assembling a trained work force, being able to choose from among the many unemployed workers in the area. The space capsule was completed ahead of schedule and shipped to the East coast to be loaded onto a fast merchant vessel chartered by Hawthorne to transport it to a Russia Black Sea port. When the ship neared its destination, Hawthorne and Mathews flew directly to Moscow on Hawthorne’s private jet.

Russian President Putin was surprised and annoyed by Hawthorne’s arrival. He was deeply involved in handling the crisis with Ukraine, seeking to keep that country within the Russian orbit while avoiding a rupture with Western Europe and the United States. He never anticipated when he made his vague commitment to Hawthorne that he would actually request the use of the Russian space facilities to send an expedition to the Moon. Putin therefore invited Hawthorne to tea at the Kremlin, planning to spend only a few minutes with him and then return to more important matters.

Their meeting did not go as the Russian President had planned. Hawthorne not only voiced his strong endorsement of all Russian actions toward Ukraine, but volunteered to repeat them at a news conference in Moscow and again in Washington. Putin was particularly overjoyed by Hawthorne’s declaration that “If he had been in Putin’s shoes, he would react just as Putin had reacted.” A public statement like this from one of the most powerful American business leaders would clearly aid Russian propaganda and greatly bolster Putin’s standing in Western Europe.

Unsurprisingly, the Russian President quickly agreed to Hawthorne’s request for help with his expedition. Putin issued instructions for Russian officials to accord every possible assistance and to treat the proposed launch to the Moon as the equivalent of a top priority Russian project. When the vessel transporting Hawthorne’s space capsule docked, it was unloaded promptly and sent by rail to the Russian space launch facility at Baikonur in Kazakhstan. After his press conference, at which he repeated the statements on Russian policy toward Ukraine which he had told Putin, Hawthorne and Mathews were flown on Putin’s personal jet to Baikonur.

The lift off a few days later went according to plan. Mathews, extremely nervous and not certain that the capsule would actually survive in space, found that when he took control it functioned perfectly. The capsule and its two man crew enjoyed an uneventful flight to the Moon with everything going well except for Hawthorne’s stomach, which rebelled at the feeling of weightlessness in space. At the critical moment when the capsule was to land on the Moon’s surface, Mathews did an excellent job, executing a smooth landing.

As soon as the ship stopped moving, Hawthorne rushed to dress himself to begin his exploration. He had equipped the capsule with only one protective suit, seeing no reason why Mathews needed to leave the ship. Giving Mathews instructions to prepare for a return to Earth as soon as he returned, Hawthorne went through the airlock and stepped down onto the moon.

Hawthorne did not expect to spend much time on the moon. He was quite sure that he would learn enough in a few minutes to confirm his suspicion that no human had ever actually landed on the moon, and that all accounts to the contrary had been fabricated for ulterior purposes. He felt much better even in his confining space suit than he had during the trip, his stomach having returned to normal.

Notwithstanding the heavy space suit, Hawthorne made good progress, aided by his much lighter gravity on the moon. He ascended a small hill and then saw in front of him a depression in the surface, about twelve feet deep and probably some thirty yards long and wide. In the center was a large circular mound. The height above the mound declined on a gentle gradient and Hawthorne was able to walk down it with no difficulty.

Nearing the mound, he changed his mind about it. It did not look like a hill and in fact like something not naturally made. Could it be a house? His mind rebelled at that thought. Circling the mound he saw what might be a door. Feeling very foolish he approached it and knocked. The door swung open. Inside Hawthorne saw a human type figure. At first glance, it appeared to be his own height, but when looking down he realized it was floating about a foot in the air. It was wearing some type of white garment and emitted a type of soft radiance.

“Are you a Moon Man?” Hawthorne asked, hardly believing his eyes and feeling very foolish in asking.

“Don’t be idiotic!” came back the answer in perfect English. “What else could I be? Do you really think I might be a Martian?”

Hawthorne was taken aback. He was pondering what to say when the Moon Man went on. “You might as well take off that helmet you’re wearing around your head. There is plenty of oxygen in this depression for you to breathe properly.”

Feeling he was taking a dangerous risk, Hawthorne unscrewed his helmet, removed it, turned off the oxygen supply coming from the tube mounted in the back of his space suit, and took a breath of the air. It was surprisingly fresh.

“You see, “said the Moon Man triumphantly. “Now sit down and make yourself comfortable.

Hawthorne sat down on what looked like a chair. Apparently the Moon people did not always float in the air but availed themselves of furniture. “Would you care for some Moi?” The Moon Man asked, speaking more politely than before. Before Hawthorne could answer, he poured a thick, viscous red liquid from a flask into a metal goblet and handed it to Hawthorne. The visitor from Earth tasted it, found it surprisingly refreshing and downed the contents.

“What is this?” he asked. “I didn’t think you could grow anything on the Moon.”

“We can’t,” came back the reply. “Moi is an organic compound manufactured in the molten core of the Moon and forced up through cracks in the surface of depressions such as the one in which I am living. That’s the way we get our oxygen as well. Forced up from the core. I believe our Moi may be similar to the manna referred to in your Old Testament as being furnished by your God to help the Israelites survive in the desert.”

Hawthorne was amazed that the Moon Man knew so much about events on Earth and spoke such colloquial English. When he inquired, the Moon Man explained that the inhabitants of the Moon regularly listened to radio broadcasts emanating from the Earth. “We also receive your television signals,” added, “But they are usually too scrambled for us to make much sense of them. Additionally, we learned your language when we sent exploratory missions to Earth many centuries ago. We decided at that time you were too primitive a species for us to have any interaction with, always concentrating on murdering each other, and that in the future we should do all that we could to prevent you from learning of our existence.”

“If you actually visited the Earth,” Hawthorne asked, “Why is there no record of it in our history?”

“Actually, there is,” came back the answer, which left Hawthorne even more confused. “Many of your accounts of ghosts represent human sightings of us. If you think about it, you can see our appearance is rather similar to the descriptions of ghosts.”

Remembering the purpose of his mission to the Moon, Hawthorne said. “I am very glad to have made the trip here and to have met with you. I always suspected that all the reports of NASA expeditions reaching the Moon and exploring it were fabricated. If they had really done so, they would have encountered you or other Moon People and reported that to Earth.”

“You’re being foolish again,” the Moon Man said reproachfully, “they didn’t see us because we deliberately concealed our existence from them. It’s a simple matter to camouflage our depressions and our residences so they are indistinguishable from the Moon surface.”

Hawthorne realized that he had spent considerable time speaking with the Moon Man and that it was necessary for him to leave and return to the space capsule. “One last question,” he said. “Since you Moon people have taken such pains to avoid Earthmen learning of your existence, why have you revealed yourself to me?”

“That’s very simple,” came back the answer. “There are three reasons. In the first place, if you told the people on Earth what you have seen and heard, they would not believe you. You would be confined in a mental institution. The second reason is that if they did believe you and sent another mission here to look for us, we would simply conceal our existence, as we did during your previous Moon walks. Of course, the third reason is the most important.”

“And what is that?’” Hawthorne blurted out.

“It’s just this. You are never going back to Earth. You are here permanently.”
“What do you mean?”

“Go to the door and look out.” explained the Moon Man.

Hawthorne rushed to the door and opened it. High in the sky, disappearing from sight, he beheld the spacecraft returning to Earth. He cried out in horror and began cursing, then sobbing. In a few minutes, however, he regained his composure. Actually living permanently on the Moon with the Moon people would not be that bad. Their Moi was pretty tasty fare. If he stayed here, he would not have to undergo that awful feeling of weightlessness again. But best of all, if he stayed here, he would be dealing with a species much more rational, more intelligent and nicer than what he had observed on Earth.

… Continued…

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Life isn’t easy for any eleven-year-old… Chloe the “Military Brat” (Cul-de-sac Kids Book 1) by A. L. Zeine

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