Excerpt

SEPTEMBER 10
“MR. KERSTMAN, you look just like Santa Claus. Are you Santa Claus? My sister says you’re not, but I think you are. If you’re Santa, then why do you teach school? You should be at the North Pole making toys. I already know what I want for Christmas. Can I give you my list?”

“Yes, Beverly, I’m Santa Claus. Would you like to see my driver’s license?”

Nick Kerstman showed Beverly and the entire class of second graders his fake driver’s license. He walked to her desk and handed it to her. He has shown it to hundreds of children, even some adults, since moving to North Carolina nearly three years ago. It shows him dressed in a Santa suit he bought at a costume store. The fake license grants him permission to: “Drive A Sleigh Of Reindeer Around The World On Christmas Eve.” Dugan, Nick’s friend, made it on his computer and had it laminated at a print shop.

“Look Denise, he really is Santa Claus. Just like I said.” Beverly proudly held the license up for her friend to see. “I told you he was Santa Claus. Now do you believe me? Mr. Kerstman, I mean Santa, which is your favorite reindeer? How many elves live at the North Pole? Does it snow all the time? How do you get all the toys in your sleigh? I like Dasher best. Denise doesn’t think reindeer can fly. Do reindeer ever get sick and can’t fly on Christmas Eve? How tall are the elves? How many toys do you deliver? Are you tired when you get home? Do you deliver toys to the elf children, too?”

During the brief time he has been Beverly’s teacher, Nick has observed that she is popular with her classmates, despite being so independent and outspoken. He wished more students were as eager to participate in class conversations as she has demonstrated. As she continued to speak, her dark blue eyes kept getting bigger and bigger and her face glowed from the excitement. Suddenly, he heard another voice.

“Mr. Kerstman,” Jeff said as he waved his hand trying to get attention to speak. Nick glanced around to see who it was.

“Yes, Jeff, do you want to say something?” He looked at Jeff, who was sitting on the back row across the room from Beverly. It was obvious to Nick that he was anxious to talk.

Everyone turned to look at Jeff, who usually does not talk in class unless the teacher calls on him. “Beverly, Santa Claus is not real. I knew that when I was in the first grade. You must be the only kid at Victory School that still believes in Santa. Mr. Kerstman can’t be Santa, because there ain’t no Santa.”

As Jeff was speaking, Nick glanced around the room to observe how the other students were reacting. Some were nodding in agreement with Jeff; some were watching Beverly; everyone seemed to be interested in the conversation.

“Yes, he is,” blurted Beverly with emotion in her voice. “I just know he is, aren’t you Mr. Kerstman?” she said with tears in her eyes. “You are Santa Claus; I know you are. Santa Claus is real and there he is,” she said as she sat tall in her seat and pointed to Nick.

This was not the first time Nick has had to answer a question like Beverly’s since becoming a substitute teacher at Victory Elementary School. But this was the first time a student had shown so such emotion. Usually they look at his driver’s license, accept the joke and the discussion ends. He has never had to offer any further explanation.

“Beverly, Jeff,  class!” he exclaimed. “I know you’re enjoying this conversation, but it’s taking us away from our lessons. We need to stop talking about Santa Claus and start our reading lesson. You don’t want to disappoint Miss Price, do you?”

“But we want to talk about you and the elves and the reindeer and, and, and how will the toys get made if you’re not at the North Pole?”

“I’m sure Santa has everything under control,” Nick responded with as much kindness in his voice as he could, but he needed to end the discussion. “And I’m certain there will be toys for all the boys and girls on Christmas Eve. Now, please class, open your reading books, and David, please begin reading at the top on page eighty-nine.”

“I hope Beverly doesn’t bring up Santa Claus again,” he thought, while everyone opened their reading books.

Beverly finally settled down and Nick got the students back on-track.

This was Nick’s ninth day in Betty Price’s class of 23 students. She was injured in a car accident the third day of school while driving home. It will be at least three months before she can return to class.

Nick began his teaching career at Victory when he and Sadie moved to North Carolina. Since he enjoys children so much, he decided to apply for a substitute teaching position at the neighborhood school that is less than a mile from his home. The principal hired Nick immediately because he had an unexpected vacancy and no one to fill it. That was the beginning of relationships that Nick treasures.

Everyone, students, parents, teachers and administrators, has come to respect and admire Nick the man and Nick the teacher. He is a natural teacher. His teaching style and techniques, while not always orthodox, hold the children’s attention, which allows him to engage them in the learning process.

Nick loves being a teacher, and students love being in his class. The Victory PTA has honored him as the Substitute Teacher of the Year for two straight years.

EVERYONE IS used to seeing Nick ride his bicycle around the neighborhood, with his dog, Jingles, running along beside him attached to a long, red leash. He and his wife, Sadie, are the most popular couple in the Westbrook Circle neighborhood.

Jingles, a black Labrador retriever, has been a member of the family for more than two years. He was a gift from one of Nick’s friends.

Nick enjoys riding his bicycle and Jingles’ companionship; it helps him relax from a busy schedule. As a large man, he realizes that he needs the exercise to keep from “getting any bigger.”

As Nick rounded the curve, he heard his name called. “Hello Mr. Kerstman!” yelled a small redheaded girl standing beside a white car. He rode into the driveway and approached the car. “Hello Nancy and Mrs. Phillips. It’s a beautiful evening. We’re enjoying our ride, aren’t we Jingles?” Jingles was looking at Nancy as he came to a stop.

“Mommy, can I pet Jingles?” asked Nancy.

“If Mr. Kerstman doesn’t mind, you can.”

Nick smiled. “Nancy, Jingles would love for you to pet him. See how he’s wagging his tail waiting for your attention.”

Nancy bent down and petted Jingles, who is a gentle dog. He is the first dog Nick and Sadie have ever owned.

It is common for neighbors to wave or speak to Nick during his evening rides. When he stops to chat, he is never in a hurry; he always spends as much time as they seem to want to spend with him.

“Do you like the fifth grade, Nancy?” he asked. She was in the first class he taught at Victory. When she was sick that year, he brought lessons by her home and spent time with her every afternoon. He became good friends with her and her parents.

“It’s okay, I guess. The math is hard, though, especially adding and subtracting fractions and making them into percentages. I’m getting some extra help from Mrs. Long.”

“That’s good. Don’t let it frustrate you. Always ask your teacher, that’s why we’re there. And if you still don’t understand, I’ll be glad to help. All you have to do is ask me.”

“That’s very kind, Nick,” Nancy’s mother responded. “Nancy’s always said you were her favorite teacher. You helped her so much when she was in your class.”

Nick and Jingles make two trips around the road that encompasses their neighborhood. Their home on Westbrook Circle is halfway down on the east side of the oval-shaped road. The street is lined with brick homes surrounded by green lawns filled with dogwoods, pines and azaleas.

Tonight is one of those beautiful southern nights when Nick enjoys being outside. It’s the kind of weather he and Sadie had never experienced before their move.

When Nick and Jingles return home, he parks his bicycle in the garage before going into the house. Regardless of the weather, Sadie always has a mug of hot chocolate and some of her homemade cookies waiting for him. After eating a snack and drinking fresh water, Jingles goes to lie down at his favorite spot in the family room.

Nick usually goes to his downstairs office where he reads any reports Dugan has ready for him and watches videos that were recorded that day.

SEPTEMBER 10
“COME IN and have a seat. I heard your students have been asking if you’re Santa Claus. This happens every time you go into a new class,  you must be getting tired of it. I know I would. Although I do know you get a big kick out of showing your driver’s license. Every time I think about that license I laugh. Do you mind if I look at it again?”

Nick took the license out of his pocket and handed it to Reid, who started laughing even before it was placed in his hands. “This is so cheesy, I don’t understand why all the kids don’t get the joke,” said Reid with a broad smile on his face.

Reid Farmer was assigned to be principal of Victory Elementary School the same year Nick became a substitute teacher. They have become good friends since then. They play golf together and are both avid football fans. They try to attend one game each year. Reid is also a big fan of Sadie’s Christmas candy that Nick shares with the teachers and staff every year.

“Yes, that sweet but mischievous little Beverly asked me yesterday morning. And, no, I really don’t mind the children asking. I’ve been asked that question for a very long time. And I have to admit that I could be mistaken for Santa Claus. The truth is I don’t mind people asking me.”

Nick got comfortable in his chair, looked at Reid and said: “I dropped by to remind you that I’m available to teach through the end of October. That’s when we’ll be heading to our winter home. But I’ll be available after February first to complete the school year if you need me.”

Reid would do anything to keep Nick on his staff. At first, he didn’t understand him being away so long during the school year. However, after he learned of his excellent teaching skills and how well the students responded to him, Reid decided that he would do whatever he had to do to keep Nick. “You’re a good teacher, Nick, and the kids really like you. And, you’ve also earned the parents’ respect.”

Reid thought for a moment and continued: “You know, you could be the real Santa Claus. You disappear every year for three months around Christmas. Are you sure you’re not Santa?” He cocked his head to one side and grinned.

“Yes, Reid, I’m Santa Claus. Sadie is Mrs. Claus and Dugan is an elf. Want to see my driver’s license?”

They both laughed as Nick put the license into his pocket.

“I wish there was some way you could be available for the entire school year and teach full-time,” Reid added.

“Sadie and I like going to our winter home, and we’re not willing to give that up … I’m sorry.”

“Well, I understand, I guess. Don’t forget to leave Sadie’s Christmas candy with Natalie before you leave. She’ll pass it out before our holiday break. It must take Sadie days to make all that candy.” Sadie’s candy is very popular with everyone. It doesn’t take long for new teachers and staff to learn about their special Christmas present.

“You don’t have to worry about Sadie’s candy,” replied Nick, “she won’t let me forget. My dear wife gets a lot of joy and satisfaction from sharing her candy with everyone at Victory. She does spend a lot of time working in the kitchen, but she enjoys it too much to pay much attention to the time.”

THERE IS no doubt about Nick looking like a picture-book Santa Claus.

He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and a large chest. He isn’t excessively overweight, but does have a large belly that jiggles when he laughs. His full beard and long hair are white with a sprinkle of salt and pepper gray, the top of his head is completely bald. His deep voice booms like a bass drum. He wears wire-rim glasses to read.

Nick carries himself with authority and dignity. Although his age is a mystery, he looks to be in his sixties. His brown eyes are warm but penetrating.

Store owners and managers approach him every Christmas to play Santa Claus, which he always declines. He also refuses offers to appear in television and newspaper ads

Children are drawn to Nick, and he loves being around them. That’s why he decided to become a substitute teacher.

Wherever he goes, children come up to him to talk, or they wave and say hello when they see him. Hardly a day goes by when some child doesn’t ask if he’s Santa Claus. He always plays along and shows them his driver’s license.

If a parent asks to have their child’s picture taken with him, he always gracefully accepts. Most children leave believing they’ve met Santa Claus.

Copyright 2008 Dennis Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

In a matter of seconds, all ten of the teens had been bound by the wrists.  One of the hooded figures had pulled out a long skinny object, muttered “Ropastope!”, and amazingly, a thick rough rope had shot out of it and wrapped itself around their wrists.  Nick could do nothing as he was dragged towards the giant cart along with the others.
“What do you think, Razortooth?  Non-magical beings?” one of the hooded figures roughly asked the wolf-man, spit flying from his mouth.
“Oh, yes indeed!” Razortooth grinned nastily.  “These here kiddies must have somehow come across the Oakenwood Gateway.  Lucky us, lucky us!”
“Zorkon’ll be pleased with this!” another hooded figure exclaimed.  “This time we’ve got humans instead of elves, eh, Bogdorf?”
“Haha!  Yes indeed, Marvin!  Only thing better than a live human is more humans!  We’ll be gettin’ a pay raise after this!  That is, if we got paid to begin with!”
The man let out a hideous cackle as he laughed with his comrades.
“Look at this, Razortooth, they’ve even got a little doggie with them!”
“You’ll be wanting to keep him, eh, Razortooth?”
“No,” the wolf-man growled to his friends.  “He’s not my type.  Look at him!  All cute and cuddly.  I want a big black one that’ll rip a man to shreds on my orders!”
“Well, we’re takin’ the dog too, then, aren’t we?” the man called Bogdorf asked.
“Ah, feed him to Devilius’ new monster, that’s what I say,” snarled Razortooth.
Two of the hooded figures lifted Nick off the ground and were about to heave him through the cage door when they stopped.
“Hey, what was that?”
“What’re you on about now, Bogdorf?”
Then Nick realized something; Mrs. Sykes wasn’t there.
“I swear I just saw somebody in the woods over there, Marvin.”
The two figures craned their heads around.
“I don’t see nothin’.”
“Well, what if it’s more kids?”
“What if it’s a bloody squirrel, Bogdorf!  Eh?”
“I just thought-”
“Contego!”
In a flash, everything changed.  The two figures holding Nick dropped him suddenly.  As he looked up, he thought he saw one of them blasted away as a strange blue light surrounded him.
It was Mrs. Sykes, and she was holding a long skinny stick just like the one the hooded figure had used.  As Greg’s eyes became adjusted, he saw a jet of light streaming from the black stick, then spreading outward over their heads to form a half-sphere around him and his friends.  He could still see through the shield of blue light, but it was as if they were inside a bubble.
“Get back, all of you!” Mrs. Sykes yelled at the dark figures.  “These kids are mine.  You will not take any of them!”
The hooded men glanced cautiously, and even fearfully, back at Mrs. Sykes as they retreated.  They didn’t fight back or even bother talking to her.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” one of them grumbled, and a moment later they were scrambling away down the road with their horse and cart.
Mrs. Sykes waited until they were out of sight before releasing the shield.  The blue light vanished as she shouted “Reverso!”, and Nick found himself lying on the dirt road with his friends in the moonlight.
She then shouted “Reverso!” once more, pointing it at Nick’s bound hands, then Greg’s, Katie’s, and so on.  Amazingly, there was a crackling sound as blue lightning erupted from the stick each time, wrapped itself around the teens’ wrists, and freed their hands.  Then she stowed the object away in the pocket of her dress and bent down to help them all.  Everyone just stared, white-faced, at each other for a few moments before Mikey broke the silence.
“Mrs. Sykes?” he said cautiously, his voice shaking.  “Are you a….a….?”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry it had to happen like this!” she exclaimed, almost in tears.  “What are the chances they’d be right there when we came out of the gateway?!  It was lucky I was the last one out.  They didn’t even see me coming!”
“Mrs. Sykes,” Greg said very seriously, “what just happened?”
Their teacher took a deep breath before saying, “It’s a lot to explain, so please forgive me if I skim over the small details.  You see, Greg, I’m a witch.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Josh grumbled, still sitting on the road.
“So, wait a second, was that magic you just did?!” Mikey asked eagerly.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Sykes answered.  “It’s a contego spell, which is basically a shielding charm.  I created a shield around us that automatically throws enemies outside and doesn’t let anything come back in.  That’s why they didn’t bother fighting back; they knew it would do no good.  The shield would have just repelled anything they fired at us.”
Greg’s mouth was open in disbelief.  “This can’t be happening,” he finally muttered to himself.
“So- hold on again- was that a wand that you just had?” Mikey went on.
“Yes, of course,” replied Mrs. Sykes.  “Every good witch has a wand these days.  Unfortunately, however, most of the Zorkonians do too.”
“Zorkowawhat?!” Josh exclaimed in disbelief.
“Are those what just captured us?” Mikey asked.
“Hold it, hold it,” Greg yelled from the ground as he wiped his sweaty forehead with his hand.  “Are you saying that there are bad….people around?  Like those people?”
“They’re wizards, in fact,” Mrs. Sykes answered calmly.  “And other….beings.”
“And other beings?!” Greg cried.  “What does that mean?!  What was that one dude who was all hairy?!  Are you telling me- are you freaking telling me that that was a WEREWOLF?!”
“Greg, please calm down,” Mrs. Sykes urged.  Nick could tell she had changed completely; she was no longer the upbeat, enthusiastic teacher they knew in school.  Now she was faced with an immense task; the task of introducing ten students to her unbelievable world, and guiding them through it safely.
“I….I just….where the hell are we?!” Greg asked.
“It’s….it’s not very easy to explain, unfortunately.”
“That’s because we’re in a freaking fantasy world!” he shot back, his voice quivering with fear.  “That’s because this place technically doesn’t exist, isn’t that it?!  You don’t even have to tell me; I know how it goes!!”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s like that one book I was reading!” Mikey exclaimed.  “Where there’s a fantasy world that’s hidden from the real world, and only certain people know about it!”
“But this isn’t a freaking book, Mikey!  THIS IS REAL!!”
“Please, everyone!” Mrs. Sykes shouted.  “Let me explain!”
“Yeah, I’d like to hear some explaining!” Greg cried.  “I just got chased by evil green ghosts who kill people and blow things up, and now I’m sitting in a place that doesn’t exist!  What kind of-”
“Greg,” Mrs. Sykes stated calmly, “everything will be fine.  You’re very lucky to be here with me.  We’re all lucky we didn’t get taken off to Zorkon’s castle-”
“Whoa, whoa,” Nick butt in, “so what would have happened if they’d taken us away?!”
But Mrs. Sykes shook her head.  “You don’t want to know.  Please trust me on that.”
“No,” Nick insisted, “I want to know what we’ve got ourselves into!”
“Bad things!” Mrs. Sykes replied irritably.  “Things beyond your worst nightmares!  Things you won’t live to tell anyone about!”
“Well?” Nick urged determinedly.  “Things like what?”
“Like-”
“Tarantella!”
Another blue lightning-bolt crackled out of the forest and hit Mrs. Sykes squarely in the chest.  Sticky spider webs exploded around her as she fell to the ground, encasing her like prey caught in a web.
The teens stared helplessly as the hooded figures reappeared from the trees surrounding them, and the huge black horse and cart emerged from the darkness.
“Heehee!  Good one, Artemis!  Hit her right in the chest!”
“Serves her right!” one of the figures cackled.  “After that show she put on the first time!  I can’t believe she really thought we were gone!  One old witch stop four Zorkonians?!  Zorkon’d kill us!”
The wolf-man reappeared over Nick, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and thrust him into the caged cart while the others took care of his friends.
“Nice seeing you again, kid!” he growled as he slammed the door shut and locked it with a strangely-shaped key.  “Ready for a ride?”
Nick rolled over on the wooden floor as the horse pulled them forward with a nasty jolt.  He looked around to see Ben and Matt scared speechless, Cat whimpering in a corner, and Mrs. Sykes unable to move at all under the spider webs.  Then he glanced outside the cage, but it was too dark to make out anything, except for the shadows of trees on either side of the road and the moon shining high above them.
“We’re takin’ ‘em to Zorkon straight away, ain’t we, Razortooth?” a hooded figure asked as they walked along beside the horse.
“Oh, we are indeed, Bogdorf.  He’ll be pleased, of course, with all that’s about to happen tomorrow night.”
“You reckon he’ll try and use them as bait, or something like that?” a different figure questioned.
“I don’t know about that.  But I wouldn’t mind keeping one of them for myself!”  Razortooth paused and licked his lips hopefully.  “Victor’ll probably want one, too.  That rascal….”
Nick tried to block the conversation out of his mind; it wasn’t doing him any good.  It was only making him panic even more.
“Katie!” he whispered, and crawled over to her amidst the hay scattered throughout the wooden base.
“Listen,” he went on as he leaned up against the cage walls beside her.  “It’s gonna be OK.”
What a stupid thing to say.  I must sound like a complete idiot!
“We have to….uh, work together and get through this, right?” he continued, trying to cover up the fear in his quivering voice.  “So, uh….let’s think….we need a way to find that tunnel once we get outta here, I guess, so we can get back home….so let’s try and think of any….hey!”
Nick’s eyes lit up as an idea popped into his mind.
“Katie, the candy corn!  Do you still have it?!”
Katie was too shaken to answer, but ruffled through her giant purse and pulled out the half-eaten bag from earlier that day.
“OK,” Nick went on, glancing ahead at the hooded figures.  After making sure they were deep in conversation, he quietly opened the bag, pulled out a tiny piece of candy, and dropped it through a crack in the wooden base.
“W-w-what are you doing?” Katie whispered.
“Leaving a trail!” replied Nick as he dropped more candy through the crack, “So we can follow it back to where we got captured, and find the tunnel back to Parker’s Point!”
Katie looked back, but couldn’t make out any trail as she squinted into the darkness.
“I d-don’t know, Nick,” she whimpered.
“We’ll be able to see them in the daytime, don’t worry!” Nick whispered back.
After a few minutes the hooded figures steered them off the main road and onto a tiny pathway, leading them deeper into the forest.  They traveled on and on, for what seemed like hours.  Nick spaced the candy further and further apart as time went on, not sure if it would last the whole journey.  Mrs. Sykes was stone-still inside the spider web-net, and Cat whimpered quietly in the corner, but the other teens just huddled fearfully against the cage wall, not knowing what was coming or where they were going.  And outside the cart, the trees grew thicker and taller as they were pulled onto even skinnier pathways, until the underbrush scraped against either side of the cart.
Finally, the forest ended to their right, and they rolled past a vast field of grass.  Ahead of them, at the end of the field, stood a giant black tower, illuminated under the moonlit sky.  It was surrounded by several smaller structures and a disheveled stone wall, but the most ominous thing was the bright green light radiating from the upper windows of the fortress.
The horse pulled their cart off the tiny pathway and up a dirt road, stopping on the lawn in front of the entrance.  Nick hastily stuffed the candy corn back into Katie’s purse and looked up to see a tall figure striding towards them from the tower doors.  Behind him scuttled a tiny man in a lab coat and another tall figure wearing a black cape.
The man in front had a gray mustache and a long pointy beard.  He wore billowing midnight-blue robes with stars and moons studded across the outer layer, and also had a pointy hat to match.
“Well, well, well,” he exclaimed as he strode forward, “if it isn’t my fine, ferocious werewolf and his companions, back from a hard night’s work!”
“My Lord,” Razortooth replied, bowing low before his master.
“Hahaha, look at that, Victor!” the tiny man behind him exclaimed to his friend, “They have captured more victims for my incessant studies!”
“They are young,” the man in the cape replied as he stopped to watch with the scientist, “Young and fresh.”
The star-studded man swept past Razortooth and his friends to gaze at the cart, and everyone inside it.  There was silence for a few seconds as he surveyed the scene, and the hooded figures watched keenly.
“Razortooth?” the man finally said.  “In all my years as an accomplished wizard, I have never seen any of my followers capture this many humans at one time.”
Razortooth grinned nastily, baring his sharp yellow teeth.
“How did you do it?” the man asked simply, folding his arms and pacing back and forth.
“Found them coming out of the Oakenwood Gateway, My Lord,” answered Razortooth.  “All of them, including that witch and the dog.”
“Oooh, I’d beware of the witch, though!” one of the other hooded men blurted out.  “She’s a feisty one, that one!”
“Shut your big fat mouth, Bogdorf!” Razortooth snapped from the corner of his lips.
The star-studded man thought for a second before saying, “Pick the juiciest one, Razortooth.  They’ll be all yours.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” Razortooth replied, and bowed again.  Then he walked to the back of the cage, unlocked it, and stared hungrily at the petrified teens.  Before he had a chance to react, Nick found himself being dragged out of the cage and onto the cold wet grass outside.
“You’re nice and built, boy,” he heard Razortooth growl from somewhere overhead.  “You’ll make a tasty snack.”
“My Lord,” one of the other hooded figures began, “you’ll understand if I feel Marvin and I deserve some of the share?”
“You will get your reward,” answered the man, “but it won’t be one of these humans or the dog.  I have other ways in which I can repay my faithful followers.”
“So, what’s to be done with the rest of them?” the figure asked.
The man paused for a moment.  “Feed them to the monsters,” he finally said, and swept away towards the door, his dark cape billowing behind him.
Mikey couldn’t believe what he thought he heard as he was pulled from the cart.  Feed them to the monsters?!
“Search ‘em before we take ‘em in!” someone was saying.  “Make sure they don’t got no weapons or nothing like that.  We’re takin’ ‘em to the dungeons!”
Meanwhile the tiny man in the lab coat had hurried after the star-studded man, arguing angrily.
“Zorkon, I feel compelled to object to this decision!  I am in short supply of humans for my next experiment, and I wish for at least two of these specimens!  There are, at the least, ten of them!  Would it not be a waste of precious victims to simply surrender them to the repugnant beasts which lurk in the depths of-”
“Don’t argue with me, Devilius,” the man snapped, cutting the scientist short.
One hooded figure snatched Mikey’s wallet and cell phone from his pocket, while another grabbed the rest of the teens from the cart and the third conjured ropes and bound them all together.
“Golly, look at this, Artemis!  He’s got a little box that lights up!”
“Give me that, Marvin.”
“Looky here!  This one’s got one of them, too!” a different man cried.  “Ha!  It makes numbers if you press the buttons, Artemis!  Look at this!  It makes numbers!”
Razortooth had grabbed a hold of Katie’s purse and was snatching random things out of it curiously.
“Take a look here!  She’s got all kinds of tiny bottles in this bag!”
“You think they might be potions, Razortooth?”
“Don’t know, Artemis.  This one says ‘Nail Polish’, though….never heard of no potion like that….”
Greg cowered in the back of the cage, and was about to be the last one pulled out.  But the figure stopped short of him when he noticed what Razortooth had just pulled out of the purse, and crawled back outside.
“Put that down, Razortooth.”
The wolf-man was holding a gleaming gold necklace adorned with several shiny jewels.
“I’ll keep what I want!” he barked back.  “I found it first, so that means it’s mine!”
“How about we all just divvy it up when we get inside?  That’ll be fair,” the man urged.
“How about I divvy you up when we get inside and feed you to the monsters, Marvin!” the werewolf snarled viciously; Nick, who was lying in the grass below him, saw saliva drip from his fangs and almost hit him in the face.
“I won’t put up with this,” Marvin retorted, and seized his wand from his pocket.  He gave Razortooth a meaningful I-have-a-wand-and-you-don’t look.
The werewolf’s lip curled, and the other hooded figures all stopped binding the teens to watch.
Greg’s heart skipped a beat as he lay inside the cage.  Run.  Run away right now while they’re not looking!  You can do it.  Just go!
“I’ve put up with your smuggling and cheating for too long, Razortooth.  You’re not going to get away with it this time.  Put the necklace down,” Marvin demanded.
“I found it!” the werewolf roared.  “So stop you’re complaining, Marvin, or I just might consider having you for dinner instead of the boy!”  Then he glanced from Nick to Marvin.  “I’d get a full meal out of you, anyway,” he added as an afterthought.
“Fine!  We’ll do it your way!” Marvin shouted back.  “Let’s just see who ends up with all the precious goods at the end, then!”
“I don’t give a rat’s tail how much any of you wizards get!”
“Exactly,” Marvin replied more calmly.  “Which is why I need to do this- PARALIPHITZ!!”
A green bolt of lightning shot from the tip of Marvin’s wand, hitting Razortooth and exploding into tiny bolts that wrapped around his body.  The werewolf let out a tremendous roar, opening his mouth wide to reveal rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth.  Then he stumbled towards Marvin; the spell seemed to be doing something to him, making him unable to run.  The wizard dived out of the way and raised his wand again, but before he could shoot another spell, someone screamed “STOP IT!!”
Zorkon had turned around after hearing the fight, and now he strode between Razortooth, who was sprawled on the ground beside Nick, and Marvin.  He glared at them both with a look that made even the werewolf shiver.
“Marvin, undo the spell,” he ordered coldly, and Marvin obeyed by shooting a blue reverso spell at Razortooth.
Nick watched anxiously from the ground, glancing from the werewolf, to Zorkon towering angrily over him, to the little scientist watching excitedly behind his billowing blue robes.  Then he glanced over at the cart, deserted and forgotten in all the action.  Greg was gone.
“Artemis, tell me who started it this time,” Zorkon commanded to one of the hooded men.
“It was Razortooth, My Lord,” Artemis answered with a wicked grin at the werewolf.
Zorkon sighed.  “Why don’t I doubt you?”
“He was trying to snatch up all the precious goods, My Lord,” Artemis went on.
Zorkon twiddled his wand between his fingers.  “Devilius?” he said finally.
The little man in the lab coat scuttled forward eagerly.
“Take Razortooth’s reward from him.”
“He is to be mine?” the man asked excitedly.
Zorkon nodded.
“Hahaha!” he cried evilly, and ran for Nick.
The werewolf grabbed hold of Nick’s arm as they both lay in the grass, watching the scientist scramble towards them.  “I’ll be back for you,” he snarled, glaring right into Nick’s eyes as he was seized under the armpits and dragged away by the little man, “That’s a promise.”
Nick stared right back at the werewolf as he was carried away.  His red eyes were hungry and vengeful, and they didn’t break eye contact until Nick was carried up the stone steps and into the castle.
“Let me go!” he shouted angrily as he tried to fight the scientist, but they had tied his hands behind his back and he couldn’t do much.  He stared back out onto the lawn as he was dragged through the doorway, and saw the other wizards round up his friends and march them towards the castle.  Bogdorf had hoisted Mrs. Sykes over his shoulder, and Biscuit’s four legs were tied together as Marvin carried him in his arms.  But they weren’t going to the same place he was, he thought.
“You shall make a brilliant experiment!” the scientist cackled from overhead.  Nick helplessly watched the stone door close behind him as he was dragged along the floor.  The gap of blue light grew smaller and smaller, until there was a thundering boom and darkness surrounded him.

Read more about Zero Hour: The Revelation and Luke Fetkovich HERE.

Copyright 2008 Luke Fetkovich. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Mock Sword and Sorcery at your own peril.Â
Oh, we all know the clichés, for they haunt us on late-night movie channels: overly-muscled bodybuilders in furry
diapers, wielding thick swords with even thicker accents, trading ham-fisted dialogue with Italian women in metal bikinis”¦it seems like a parody, really. In fact, it’s exactly that.
I’m not sure who thought it was a brilliant idea to compartmentalize popular fiction into all of the various “˜styles’ that we have now, but I’ve always thought it was a huge mistake. After all, if you have a historical character in a historical setting fighting fantastic creatures, is it fantasy or is it historical fiction? Consider that people in the Middle Ages actually believed in monsters before you make your choice. I’d argue that a dragonslayer book has just as much right to be considered historical fiction, if indeed the author did the research necessary to ground the tale in a believable setting. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
~ Forward: A Scattering of Jewels by Mark Finn, Author, Blood & Thunder: The Life and Art of Robert E. Howard

…What’s so fascinating about Sword & Sorcery? It’s the literature of monsters. And it teaches us how to spot them, and sometimes to find the courage to face them. Perhaps if my young friend had shown more interest, she might have drawn a little inspiration from the great works of Leigh Brackett and C.L. Moore, and found a way to confront her own predator with more grace and fortitude.
I know you won’t make that mistake. Enjoy the works that await you on the following pages, but take lessons from them too. Monsters are out there.
Keep your sword sharp.
~ Introduction by John O’Neill, Publisher and editor, Black Gate Magazine

“Make haste to furl the sail!” Asad al Din bellowed into the raging wind. His crew of Nabataean sailors struggled to haul down the billowing cloud of striped silk, but the power of the wind threatened to drag them off the ship’s wooden deck.
“The might of the storm is too great, Captain!” Jalil called back. “It will cast the crew into the sea!”
“Ease off the main sheet, you great lout!” Asad al Din roared as the knotted muscles of his arms and shoulders heaved against the sweeping tiller, keeping the ship’s nose pointed into the crashing waves. “Carefully now, carefully!”
Three men dragging mightily eased the sodden line through a tackle, allowing the great triangular sail to release its hold upon the storm winds and flap wildly. That done, the rest of the sailors lowered the boom and bound the loose sail.
“We make great speed, even with a bare mast,” Jalil called. “Surely this passing tempest is the retribution of Allah!”
“Ha!” Asad al Din scoffed loudly. “The retribution of Allah is swift, but only against the unrighteous. This is but a storm in the season for storms.”
“There is a fell voice echoing in the sky,” Jalil warned. “And I have glimpsed the dark bulk of a monster within the clouds. I fear this is no earthly tempest.”
“Bah, save your tales of monsters for the children in the bazaar,” his captain replied. “For this is no more than a quick squall. I see the clouds clearing ahead. We’ll be free of this storm yet.”…
~ “Passion of the Stormlord” by Robert A. Mancebo

Ice cracked beneath Krhanik’s boots with a sound like the breaking of a man’s skull. He took another step, and another, and the cold sheet beneath him groaned in protest. Krhanik walked on, heedless of the snapping sounds of fracturing ice, his face upright in the sleeting gale that pushed against his forward progress. Before him rose the image of the wolf, enormous, world-spanning; the beast that had haunted his earliest dreams and filled his blood with poisonous rage. Somewhere ahead of him, in the darkest part of the north, the wolf awaited him “” and Krhanik walked unbowed into the storm to meet it.
To meet his destiny.
Beneath him bone-white fissures snaked in all directions with each careless step, rivulets of spider-silk-fine cracks marring the gray surface of the pack ice. Krhanik did not look down, never looked down. Keeping his eyes fixed on the line of flattened hills in the distance “” the only landmark he could see in the swirling wet of the storm “” Krhanik walked on under a twilight sky fat with rain clouds the color of damp felt.
Beneath him, beneath the creaking ice, the fathomless salt depths of the ocean rolled cold and hungry…
~ “The Wolf of Winter” by Bill Ward

The arrow hummed past Miri’s head. It spent itself in a saw grass clump just a few paces ahead of her horse. She twisted in the saddle to spot the bowman who had loosed the arrow, caught a glimpse of his black robe as he scrambled down the side of the tall rock he had perched on. Most likely he had climbed it to spot her, and had taken the unlikely shot when he did.
She had a few moments while he remounted. Miri scrambled from the mare, tugging at the halter rope as she trotted forward to scoop up the arrow. The soldiers sent by the Priestesses of Ishtar to kill her mother, and incidentally her, were superbly equipped. Miri had been taught the fletcher’s art by her mother, who after forty or more lifetimes had an amazing skill with anything having to do with fighting, death or destruction. But Miri had never seen anything so exquisite as these arrows. They were fashioned of some dark wood, nearly black, smooth and slightly oily to the touch, perfectly round and straight, with no trace of knife or draw. The feathering was slightly spiraled, and very long, almost a fifth of the length of the shaft. They were tipped with square patinaed bronze heads, barbless but covered with whorls and cuneiform etchings, prayers perhaps. This was the ninth black arrow she had collected.
She shoved the arrow into the quiver that hung from her saddle, grasped a handful of mane and swung back astride the mare. The horse spun toward where she had stood and nickered in complaint at having its hair pulled. Miri turned the mare’s head in the direction of the marsh, away from the bowman, and kicked it into a trot. The trail was uncertain here. Any faster would be far more dangerous than the man following her, deadly though he might be. She hadn’t far to go, anyway. The clearing with the small village was only a short distance…
~ “As from His Lair, the Wild Beast” by Michael Ehart

Silence. Not even the fall of a single dew drop disturbed the ominous slumber. Thick vines twined their way from out of the choking undergrowth to quietly stalk and strangle the tall, sinuous trees whose canopy blanketed the sky and cast the world below into a constant, green-hued twilight. And through that deep quiet came a whisper, like a gentle caress of wind winding its way down unseen trails in the growth.
Ikuru felt power surge through him, coursing beneath his skin, lending strength to muscle, sinew and bone as the jaguar tattoo transformed him into something other than himself. His blood pounded with the power of the Runner, and the jungle’s unnatural stillness spoke to him of horror. He plunged farther ahead into that absence of sound, of life, following its tale toward the acrid scent of fire and death that clung to the stagnant air; ever away from his painful past and deeper into lands unknown.
He soon found this story’s sad beginning. The huts were smoldering skeletons, cradles of soot and ash that still embraced the bodies of the villagers who had once lived here. The terrifying scene reminded Ikuru of his own village, a season ago, when the skinless men and their cruel priests had brought the road of death to scar the Mother jungle.
They had spoken to the king with lies of undreamt wealth, had exchanged gifts and accepted hospitality. Then came the great treachery, and in the course of one night their superior numbers overwhelmed and massacred all of the soldiers and any who they thought might offer resistance. Even the totemic powers of the King’s personal guard, the most powerfully tattooed and feared of all the warriors, fell in the tide of slaughter. In one night the kingdom, and a people, ceased to be…
~ “Runner of the Hidden Ways” by Jason Thummel

A man of sense does not dwell long amongst the shadow-crested peaks of the Uryl range, Voyvodin wisdom said. For when the winds come shrieking down those jagged slopes, they come from the unknowable darkness between the stars and can blow a man to madness.
These words echoed through Vasily’s thoughts while he assessed the strength of his chains and rolling prison, endured the jackal-like laughter of his once-allies-turned-captors, considered the smoldering eyes of the girl-slave who had bewitched him to turn on his qasaq company, or swore dire vengeance against the dark robed figure leading them higher into the mountains. With every moment, he remained alert for any opportunity to secure his freedom.
Mutt-faced Barot banged his mead cup against the bars of the cage and then stepped aside. The scars across both of his cheeks made a cruel, savage smirk from even placid expressions. His face far from placid, he said, “I always knew a woman would be your undoing, Vasily.”…
~ “Vasily and the Beast Gods” by Daniel R. Robichaud

Copyright 2008 Jason M. Waltz. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Mom,” Cracey called out. “There’s a doggie back here.”

It was a cocker spaniel with soft golden brown hair, which curled and tufted all over its sides and back, and was smooth around its head. Its tail wagged frantically from side to side, carving high in the air. The dog panted and Cracey thought he looked happy, even smiling. She’d never seen a dog smile before. Well, the dog in that one movie did, but she fell asleep through that. The cocker spaniel trotted up in front of Cracey and plopped right into a sitting position. It stared at her with its tongue bobbing up and down like a limp banner. It eyed the orange ball in Cracey’s hand.

“You wanna play with my ball, doggy,” Cracey asked.

The dog stood up and made the barking motions, but made no sound.

“Okay,” Cracey said. “I’ll throw it and you catch it and bring it back, Okay doggy?”

The cocker spaniel replied with another silent bark and an enthusiastic bounce.

Cracey launched the ball into the air. The dog turned and ran after it. The ball landed in the grass and the stray animal immediately picked it up in its jowls. The Spaniard ran back to Cracey, sat in front of her and spit the ball at her feet.

“Yuck,” Cracey said while wiping the ball on her front. “You got doggy goobies on it.” She tossed the ball into the air again with all the control she could muster with only two fingers holding the slimy thing.

This time the dog only had to run a little ways before catching the ball in its mouth in midair. Again, he returned with the ball to the little girl.

“You have to drop the ball if you want me to throw it again,” Cracey complained. “Come on.”

The dog returned an inquisitive look.

“Here, let me show you.” Cracey took the ball in her hand and pulled it from the animal’s mouth. “You smell funny.”

Cracey stepped back and repeated her action of throwing the ball, this time with more disgust at the growing coat of dog saliva drenching her toy. She could never play with this ball after today. Again, the dog chased the ball and caught it, a little faster this time. The speed of the dog startled Cracey. She couldn’t catch a ball that fast. The dog returned with the toy. Cracey had to pull the wet sphere from his mouth a second time. This time the ball felt warm, hot, almost burning, and something about the smell of the dog wasn’t right either. Its breath was stronger and worse smelling than before. Cracey felt funny inside her tummy and head.

“I don’t think I wanna play anymore.” Cracey stepped away from the cocker.

The cocker stepped toward her. The once appealing smile had disappeared from the animal’s face. He looked serious. His tail had dropped and now stood still. His march matched Cracey’s retreating steps and scared the five-year-old. His nose pressed against her hand.

“No!”

The dog stopped and a low growl burrowed from beneath his lips.

Cracey stepped back and got some room between her and the frightening dog. The dog stepped forward.

Read more about Circle of Dogs: The New Paladin and D.L. Fairchild HERE.

Copyright 2008 D.L. Fairchild. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
Meet the Carrot-Tops
A long, long time ago, in the year 1850, there was a man by the name of
Sam Carrot-Top. He was a well educated man, slender in build and always
wearing a dusty old cap that covered his orange hair and broken glasses.
He was an honest and wealthy man, but you would never guess that he and
his family were well off; he never showed his wealth or bragged about it. He
used his money to help the poor and needy.
His wife, Jane, was oh so beautiful with lush red hair, a petite figure, and
smooth, creamy pale skin. She loved all the children in the neighborhood,
always fixing a broken heart or a scraped knee. She was the perfect house
wife, the kind any man could want.
They lived in a small town in Georgia called Valdosta. Sam and Jane were
the talk of the town; they grew the largest vegetables and fruits the eyes
have ever seen. Their watermelons were the size of houses and carrots as
long as 20 feet!
All the neighbors began to whisper and became jealous of the success of
the Carrot-Tops, farmers came from near and far to see the great Carrot-
Top plantation. Because of the popularity of their fruits and vegetables,
they became a household name. Merchants came from all over the world to
buy their fruits and vegetables.
Some of the other farmers became extremely jealous of the success of the
Carrot-Tops. They tried to sabotage their land, either by overflowing it with
garbage or water, but it never worked. The fruits and vegetables kept on
growing and growing. Some were so tall that their leaves touch the clouds.
Nevertheless, Sam and Jane ignored their rivals and continued to be good
neighbors.
Their pride and joy was their son and only child, Peter Carrot-Top, a 10-
year-old boy who was and skinny as a bean pole with bright orange hair
and deep freckles on his face. He wore the same old clothing over and over
again, brown khaki pants and a rainbow-colored shirt with two different
colored shirt sleeves.
Peter was teased by all the kids. Not only was his hair funny, but his name,
Peter Carrot-Top, was as well. The kids teased him all day. Every day it was
the same thing, kids singing,”Peter Carrot-Top, Peter Carrot-Top,” in an
annoying and devilish tone.
Peter was sick of it. Unfortunately, every time he got upset, his head would
swell up like a big orange balloon and his orange hair would gently stand
up at attention. This made the kids laugh even harder.
Peter was all alone in a world he didn’t understand or fit in. There was
nothing the principal or the teachers could do. Peter was just a special boy.
His mother and father were hurt the most; Peter got the orange hair from
his father, and the freckles from his mother.
Peter’s parents went to the school regularly to seek help for their son. Just
a poor farmer, Peter’s father did not know what to do. He would pace the
school hall as he talked to the dean of the school asking for help for his
son, but Mr. Snicker, the dean of the school, just walked around with his fat
gut stuck out and only made the Carrot-Tops feel worse by telling them
their child needed to be placed in a special school.
Peter’s father slammed down his hat in frustration as the dean sat back in
his leather chair, smoking his cigar with an smirk on his face. Mr. Snicker
shouted to Peter’s father, “Boy, calm down before I have you thrown out on
your ears!”
Peter’s father grabbed up his hat, took his wife by the hand and stormed
into Peter’s English class. “Peter, get your things. We’re taking you out of
this school!” By the look on his father’s face, Peter knew that his dad was
very upset. All Peter’s mother could do was cry and sob as they walked out
the doors. The kids began to laugh, and once again, Peter felt distant an
alone.
Peter and his family jumped into their wagon, and off they went. Peter
could see the concentration on his father’s face and the sadness in his
mother’s eyes. Peter began to tell his parents how very sorry he was, but a
gentle touch on the hands from his mother let Peter know it was all right.

Copyright 2008 Yolanda Jackson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

1 of the reviews
by Celia N
Absolutely brilliant story, well written. Enjoyed by teenagers and adults. Highly recommended.
KEYWORDS: Fantasy Adventure
EXCERPT:
“Okay, lets see, I have a story, it’s one that was told to me a long time ago,” said Devlin as he tried to get comfortable. “And it goes like this, once there was man called Radon who lived in a far off land. He was hiking through a snowy and winter covered forest. He had a hard time because it was a forested area that was unknown to him. The snow was so high that it came up to his knees, soaking his legs with coldness. It was so cold that he couldn’t even feel his toes or the lower part of his legs and he was starting to get worried.

Normally Radon liked snow but not today when he had to travel so far through it; it felt more like his enemy. Just as the sun was starting to descend through the sky Radon reached a thinly ice covered lake; it definitely looked too thin to cross on foot.

“This is boring,” said one of the younger blue men, who blamed the giants for the lack of a fight that day.

“Watch your manners,” snapped the King.

The young man guiltily shut his mouth; he looked embarrassed and most likely regretted his out burst.

“As I was saying. Radon was looking for a way around the ice when he saw a figure dressed in gray on the ice. The woman just stood there in the middle of the ice. The ice started to break; cracks spread under her feet. Radon shouted a warning but he was too late, the woman fell into the icy cold water. The figure could be seen bobbing up and down inside the hole but the strange thing was she wasn’t screaming or thrashing at all. She was barely keeping her head above water. Despite of this Radon still acted quickly anyway. He grabbed a length of rope from his bag, tied the rope around a tree and his waist, took a few paces back and sprinted towards the lake as fast as he could. He dived forwards and landed on his stomach and slid across the ice. The wind rushed past his ears as he sped along the ice.

Radon just managed to stop himself, before the edge of the hole. He grabbed onto the edge of ice, stretched his hand into the freezing water and caught her quickly-disappearing-hand just in time. He heaved and pulled her onto the ice. The ice was breaking underneath them but it held together long enough for him to pull them back across the lake and back on to dry land. The whole time as he struggled, not a word was spoken. He fell into the snow and gasped for breath. His clothes were soaking wet and the cold breeze was really eating into his flesh. If he didn’t get warmed up soon, he would be in a lot of trouble.

“Thanks, kind stranger, I will repay my debts with three wishes,” said the middle-aged woman, who seemed to be a lot dryer than he was. Radon just blinked at her and asked her if she was kidding.

“I kid you not,” stated the woman.

“It can’t be true,” said Radon, who had been expecting at most a word of thanks or a warm place to stay.

“Do you want the wishes or not?”

“I suppose it won’t hurt to give it a try,” said Radon, giving up. Hoping that he could wish himself warm.

“First wish?”

“Mmm, let me see,” said Radon, as if he was really thinking it through. Trying to make her think he was taking her seriously. She had been out in the forest on her own so there was no telling how mentally unstable she was. “I wish for a nice cottage by the lake here with a hot fire, warm bed, tons of food and lots of beer.” He added stretching his arms out, as if showing her what a huge pile of stuff he wanted.

“Granted,” said the woman simply.

Sure as fish a cottage appeared no more than six feet away from him; it looked as it had been there for years. And one thing that Radon did notice about it was that it looked warm and cozy. Stacked outside under a slanting roof were piles and piles of firewood. Radon went inside and discovered that the place was quite large, and it had more than a few rooms. One of which was stacked from floor to ceiling with barrels of ale and another was stocked full of fresh and dry food. After he had finished looking around, Radon went and planted himself in front of the fire. Ate an extensive hot meal and drowned it down with some refreshing cool ale.

“What is your second wish?” she asked, making her presence felt again.

“So soon?” asked Radon, who was enjoying himself immensely.

“You only have twenty minutes to finish off your wishes,” she said tapping her foot.

“You didn’t tell me this before!” he protested, wanting to take his time and think out each wish carefully.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Alright, my second wish is a forever refilling chest of gold, but the chest must be a decent size.” He said after a few moments.

“Very well, granted.”

Under his feet appeared a chest of good design, Radon jumped up and greedily opened the lid. The chest was full to the brim with glittering gold. It was more money than a simple lumberjack like himself had ever seen or would ever likely see. He emptied the chest of gold on the floor, creating a tinkling pile of gold. He did this until the box was empty. Radon closed it and opened it again, and sure enough the chest was full again with more gold. “Oh this is great!” shouted Radon happily. He did this a few more times until he got bored and returned to his seat. Thinking what he should do with his last and final wish. Radon thought it through, and realized that he had all the material things he needed or ever wanted but all he needed now was someone to share it with.

“Two minutes left,” said the woman irritably.

Radon with a big smile on his face then said these words. “I wish for you!” he said.

“What! Are you mad?” Her smooth face crunching up into a frown.

“I wish for you when you were your most beautiful.”

“Beauty is very different from where I come from, and I warn you that this is not a very good idea,” said middle-aged wish-giver in a grim tone.

“That’s is what I want,” said Radon, stubbornly.

“As you wish but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A cloud of smoke gathered around the woman, swirling and twisting around. Like a great storm was brewing right in front of him. The smoke was purple in color and smelt of sulfur.

“What happened next?” asked a small man, as a Devlin took a quick breather.

“I’m getting to it,” said Devlin. “Radon was beginning to have second thoughts about his last wish but it was too late for him to change it now. And his heart fell as he heard a loud booming laugh erupting from the shroud. Something was definitely wrong and when the smoke cleared a towering figure stood before him. It wasn’t an attractive woman at all but a big purple monster with huge sharp fangs.

“W-what are you?” asked Radon backing away nervously. Radon was a heavily muscled lumberjack and he had taken on more than his fair share of wild animals when he needed to but there was no way he could defeat this creature by mere strength alone.

“I’m free!” said the monster before it started to laugh again. “After years of being trapped in that wretched body, cursed to serve anyone who saved me with three wishes, now I, Ecathu is free to wreck havoc and chaos once again.”

“What about my wish?” asked Radon before he could stop himself. He knew that confronting the beast would be a bad idea.

“Oh, yes,” said Ecathu as if it had just noticed that Radon was still around. “Mmm, let me see because you helped me escape I will give you a head start.” The monster was standing there grinning; its many sharp teeth shining in the light. Suddenly the cottage didn’t feel so comfortable and welcoming anymore. In fact he felt trapped and he would be lucky if would be able to escape alive.

“Head start?” asked Radon puzzled.

“Yes, you have five minutes before I hunt you down.”

“Hell!” cursed Radon, who then tried to grab the gold chest, but gave up when he discovered that it was going to be impossible to move. It was just way too heavy. Radon cursed again as he dashed for the door and pushed on it but found out that it wouldn’t open, so he went and dived through the window, rolling in the snow until he was back onto his feet. All the while the monster was heard from within laughing like a maniac.

Radon decided he would cross the frozen lake, figuring that he would save time if he did so, even if it was risky. As he went across, he treaded lightly; and quickly scrambling ahead if he heard cracking noises. Amazingly he crossed without falling in.

Radon sprinted through the snow-covered forest, tripping over once or twice into the snow. After about five minutes he took a breather, confident that he had gotten far enough for a little break. Leaning against the tree he cursed himself for being such an idiot for losing the gold and the cottage. At least he had gotten a warm meal and was able to make himself warm in front of the fire. Both of which gave him some energy. Just then he heard a loud explosion; the cottage had been blown to smithereens.

Radon pushed himself to run faster; luckily he found a well-worn but slightly overgorwn path. The path winded its way through the heavy snow laden trees. As he ran he heard trees and branches snapping behind him. And then just as he thought the monster was going to catch up with him, Radon reached a small town. Radon stopped near the town and hid behind a huge carved stone. He peeked around the edge to see if he was still being followed and sure enough Ecathu burst out from the forest, timber flying everywhere as it rushed towards him. It grunted in rage and the beast stopped just before the edge of the town and wouldn’t come any closer.

“Curse you! Human,” said the monster pounding its foot. “I will get you someday,” boomed the monster that promptly turned around and stalked off.

“That’s strange,” thought Radon. “Surely the monster is not afraid of a few villagers. Is it?”

As Radon looked around he noticed that the whole town was surrounded by the huge carved rocks. Strange symbols were carved deeply into the huge stones, the symbols seemed to be glowing a deep red. And soon as he thought it through he realized that the stones protected the village. He would never be allowed to leave again; as he sat there catching his breath he heard the loud booming voice before it left and it said. “I will sure as hell never give up. One day I will get you and skin you alive!”

At first the villagers treated Radon with suspicion and some were even hostile towards him but he was eventually accepted by the town’s folk, who treated him fairly. He wondered why they would need protection from the monster if it was trapped in the human body but he was told that there were worse things out there and the stones protected the village from them. After a year or two Radon was charmed by a wonderful woman who he married and had a family with. He also carved himself out a decent job as a carpenter, and he soon found out that he was content to stay there for the rest of his days. He may not have got the cottage, the endless food and gold, but he felt that he had gained something better; he had a family he could cherish forever.” said Devlin, “That is the end.”

A around of jovial applause filled the night air, congratulating him on a great story. There were also a few loud cheers and whistles.

“Is Ecathu still waiting for him?” asked a young boy, his eyes wide.

“For all we know, he could be.”

“That was a rather good story,” conceded King Indigo. “Is the story true?”

“The man who told me said it was and he was quite a serious man. The man who told me was only one of a few people who had escaped the village unscathed.”

Copyright 2008 Craig Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

-1-
The man in the grey suit was good, I’ll give him that. The first punch he’d thrown had been a feint to put me off balance for a side kick to the ribs that would put a man in the hospital, if it connected. As it was I was just barely able to recover my balance in time to sidestep the kick and close with him. I managed to catch the outstretched leg with my left arm. Having an opponent’s leg is not as much of an advantage as you would expect when you are fighting someone who is well trained. Sure enough, Grey Suit grabbed at my free arm in an attempt to flip me off of him. I lifted his leg as high as I could and kicked the side of his left knee. The angle was good and the knee gave out allowing me to knock him off balance and drive him forcefully into the stone wall behind him. He was dazed at this point and a quick jab to the temple put him out. It would have been no problem to finish him, but that wasn’t necessary and I didn’t need anymore blood on my hands, even if
it was just another hired gun.

I patted him down and quickly found a Glock 10mm pistol in a fancy shoulder rig along with two spare clips of ammunition. I checked the safety on the gun and tucked it into the waist of my pants at the small of my back. With my shirt pulled down it wouldn’t show to a casual observer and it was within easy reach if needed. I had my own side arm, a Beretta 9mm, but I liked Glock pistols and it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a spare. The fact that it would be untraceable to me was just an added bonus.

I dragged Grey Suit’s limp body along the edge of the wall until I came to a row of hedges about 15 yards further back from where we were. I thought about it for a minute more and checked his pockets. Sure enough there was a key card there. A quick look in his wallet revealed a small slip of paper with a four digit number on it. This was either his pin number for his bank account or the access code that goes with the key card. I took both and smiled. Sometimes people are too predictable. I then took a small bottle of ether from inside the black jacket I had on and dabbed a bit onto a cloth. I held it over his mouth and nose until I was satisfied he’d breathed in a good dose. Between the concussion and the ether, I figured I’d have at least couple of hours before he’d be in any shape to tell anyone what happened.

The lighting along this side of the villa’s wall wasn’t great. From my earlier surveillance I knew that the darkness was a temporary illusion. If the alarms were tripped, the whole area for 50 yards around the villa would light up as bright as day in the glare of dozens of high-powered halogen lights mounted along the top of the wall at 30 foot increments on all sides. Right now, only every third light was on. I guess even crime lords have to worry about the electric bill sometimes. Whatever the case, the shadows made it much easier for me to move undetected along the wall. I just had to be careful in the bright regions every 60 feet or so.

Having Grey Suit’s key card made getting into the compound much easier. He’d come out of an access door on the back side of the wall encircling the villa. This was the side I’d made my approach on simply because it is the least watched. The fact that only about 20 yards from the wall is a sheer cliff face that drops off about 100 feet into the Pacific Ocean made this the road less traveled. In my book the road less traveled is the path trouble always chooses, but then sometimes I’m a cynical bastard.

I slid the key card into the slot next to the number pad by the door. Once the card was in, a tiny LCD screen blinked to life and asked for my pass code. I typed in the numbers on the paper and was pleased when the small red light on the pad flashed green and I heard the click of the bolt disengaging. I had some equipment with me in a small backpack that would have let me make short work of bypassing the lock, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I opened the door cautiously. According to the hand drawn map I had, this door actually led into the kitchen area of the main house. It was well past two in the morning and I didn’t expect to meet anyone in the back pantry of the kitchen, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t be careful.

A light was on in the first room I entered. It was a small storage room for dry goods. Since I’d mapped this out as my planned route of access to Don Ramerez’s office on the second floor, I was glad to see that so far the building was laid out exactly as it appeared on the drawings I had. As I made my way through the rest of the servants’ areas on the first floor I found that my maps were worth their weight in gold. I’d have to remember to thank Sam when I got back. I don’t know where he gets all his information, but he definitely came through on this one.

It took another 30 minutes or so for me to move through the house and make my way upstairs. The tricky part was once I reached the upstairs office itself. The alarm system for the house and surrounding grounds was geared towards keeping people out. Once inside, you didn’t have to think much of it, I’d had to dodge a couple of other “Grey Suits” on my way up here and it was their job to see to security inside the building. Except that was not the case for Ramerez’s office. He was in Las Vegas for the week meeting with several of his “known associates” as the dossier called them. I didn’t have a clue what the meeting was about and I didn’t care. All I did know was that he was not going to be home again for several days and getting what I had come for was much easier with him out of the way, or so I hoped.

The map showed his office at the end of a short hallway. Sure enough, there it was behind two heavy double oak doors. Another key pad was installed in the wall next to these doors. I briefly considered trying my luck with the pass key I had, but decided that I didn’t want to risk tripping the alarm if Grey Suit didn’t have authorization to open those doors. I proceeded down the hall and stopped at a door to the left of the office. This was an administrative office for Ramerez’s personal assistant and, if the map was right, it held a connecting door. There was no visible alarm system on this door, but just to make sure, I ran a quick sweep with another toy I brought along. This one detected the kind of magnetic fields used in most alarm systems. When I was satisfied it was clear, I tried the lock. Oddly enough it was open. So I simply walked into the assistant’s office. It was a neat, well organized little office with very nice, if not overly flashy, furnishings. As I shut the door behind me, I noted the several other doors in the room. One door on the right and connected her office with Ramerez’s, and there were two to my left, a supply closet and a bathroom.

The lights Ramerez’s office were not on, but there was a large fish tank positioned between the two doors on the left that was lit up brightly to show off the tropical fish inside. Salt water fish, what a nightmare to keep those alive, of course I generally consider the only good fish to be the one sliced up for my sushi. I did appreciate the tank for one reason though as it cast its eerie, quivering bluish glow around the room, providing enough light for me to work by.

I knelt by the door to the main office and examined the lock. The same style keypad as the others was present. I took off the small backpack I’d been wearing and pulled out what could best be described as a mutant palm pilot. The big difference between it and a normal palm, besides the fact that the hardware and software inside had been significantly upgraded, was the thin, flat ribbon cable running from the palm’s top and ending in a card almost exactly like the one I’d removed from Grey Suit. I inserted the card in the security slot and started the program on the palm.

While the program ran through all its voodoo-witch doctor electronic magic I pulled a small box from my bag. This contained a fingerprint kit which I used to dust the key pad. It quickly became apparent which numbers were the commonly pushed ones and I paused the palm’s program and entered that data. When it started up again the palm ran for less than a minute when it stopped and the light on the keypad flashed from red to green. I smiled as I heard the faint “click” of the lock opening.

I opened the door so slowly that it took a full minute for me to get it wide enough to look into the room. There was some light coming in from a large bay style window in the back of the office revealing the expensive looking furnishings within. Heavy antique chairs with leather cushions; a huge, intricately carved oak desk with a black marble top; and a fireplace to one side with a carved marble mantle that matched the desk top. I used a small mirror to check the areas I couldn’t see without opening the door further. I didn’t see anything, so I cautiously entered the room.

I found what I was looking for right away. On the wall opposite me there was a large portrait of a strikingly handsome man posed holding a Winchester rifle in his arms and surrounded by hounds. The face in the painting was Ramerez, but the artist had taken some probably not unadvised artistic license when it came to his body. The man in the painting looked like a professional athlete ready to spring into action. The real Enrico Ramerez hadn’t sprung into action for anything other than dinner for quite a while. I gave the frame of the painting a tug and it swung out on concealed hinges to reveal the small wall safe hidden behind.

The safe was electronically locked with yet another combination keypad. I was about to begin the tedious process of cracking the safe when the double doors to my right burst open. The room must have been sound-proofed because I should have heard the three lugs coming a mile off. Dressed in loose fitting camo-pants and jackets, and carrying automatic weapons (the venerable AK 47 assault rifle favored by third world thugs everywhere I noted) they had kicked open the door. One had his rifle leveled squarely at me as the other two began to advance smiling evilly as they came closer with their weapons raised.

-2-

“Step away from the safe and keep your hands where I can see them” the one by the doorway barked at me in thickly accented Spanish.

I speak Spanish fluently but I decided to go for a quick feint. If you are going to escape a situation like this, your best chance is in the very first few minutes while your opponents do not have you fully under control and don’t know your capabilities.

“I don’t understand you! I’m here from the gas company to check your wiring!” I said slapping the biggest, stupidest grin on my face I could manage and backing away from the men approaching me.  “You’ve gotta hell of a squirrel issue here, let me tell you.” I continued and pointed at the safe on the wall.

The man in the doorway was still watching me with his gun casually pointed in my general direction. He obviously felt like I wasn’t a real threat since I had no visible weapons and they outnumbered me three to one. “Hands up you stupid ass or I’ll kill you now!” he growled and motioned with the barrel of his rifle.

As the two men had approached slowly, I’d been back peddling to keep my distance. Until I felt my back hit the desk. I stumbled a little, like it caught me off balance. Then everything happened at once. The goons coming in at me took the stumble as an opening and moved in quickly to grab my arms, each dropping his gun to let it hang by a strap from their shoulders. I had reached back with my hands as if to steady myself and grabbed the handles of two leaf-bladed throwing knives I had tucked away in gravity holsters on my back under my jacket. A snap of the clasp holding each knife in place and they dropped smoothly into my hands. As the first thug grabbed my left arm above the elbow with both hands, I brought my forearm up and stabbed him in the right bicep. The knife went in up to the hilt and, needless to say, he let go and grabbed at his now useless arm to remove the knife, the point of which was now sticking out the other side of his arm.

The other one had stepped directly between me and the man at the door. As I stabbed the one on the left, I twisted pulling that arm the rest of the way free and brought up my right arm with the other knife. The twist had put the second man on my right side. He bear hugged me, actually picking me up off the ground and pinning my upper arms. I was still able to move my lower arms and stabbed down and back with the knife in my right hand as hard as I could.  I felt it sink into his right thigh and my hand jarred as the knife hit bone. He dropped me as one of his hands grabbed the knife in his thigh and the other groped almost blindly for me. I grabbed the grasping hand with both of my own and twisted his wrist sharply down and around, locking the arm at full extension and forcing his shoulder down.

The man by the door charged in with his gun pointed at me but not firing. I had control of the man with the knife in his leg and was using my leverage to maneuver the bigger man, keeping him between me and the barrel of the rifle. As the door goon got closer, I shoved with all my strength against the locked arm of Mr. Knife-in-my-leg and he stumbled backwards. Only the grip I had on his arm prevented him from falling. Gravity and inertia were there to pick up where my arm left off when I let go and he fell backwards into the third man as he advanced. I grabbed another knife from my belt and threw it into the third goon who was already recovered from his stumbling collision and was raising the AK-47 to fire.

The distance was short for a knife throw, not more than six or seven feet and the knife hit home right where I intended. The blade was now sticking out of the gunman’s right shoulder just above the arm pit. The rifle fell to the floor as I leapt, slamming into him hard and knocking him over. I followed him down and grabbed his greasy hair on each side of his head. One quick slam and he was out. Unfortunately the man with the knife in his arm had extracted it and was coming at me with it gripped in his left hand. I was still on all fours on top of the now unconscious man. Instead of rising up, I rolled left and kicked out, catching his knife hand on the inside as I rolled. The knife flew from his hand and stuck in the wooden paneling of the wall a few feet from the safe.

Despite losing the knife the man kept coming, yelling out a comment about my mother that I won’t repeat and I am fairly certain isn’t true. I ducked under a clumsy haymaker punch he threw with his good arm, and the ridge of my hand met at the base of his skull in a sharp chop before he could recover. He went out and I turned my attention to the last man, the one with the knife in his leg. He wasn’t moving and I could see that he’d landed badly and was also out cold.

I checked the hall and didn’t hear any alarms or see anyone coming, but that didn’t mean much. I closed the double doors and picked up one of the now discarded machine guns. The lock on the doors was splintered but the handles were still in place. I took the gun and hung it by its strap over the door handles then twisted it and looped it again over the door handle. A quick spin and it was tied off tight. I didn’t think it would hold long, but the doors were sturdy and it should slow down any visitors.. I jammed one of the nice leather backed chairs under the other door at an angle, then I returned my attention to the safe.

No time now for subtlety, I rummaged into my backpack and pulled out a sealed tube. I snapped off the end and curled it like a toothpaste tube spreading a thick gray paste in a line around the edge of the safe’s door. When that was done, I squeezed out a bit extra into a little mound in the corner and stuck a small silver cap in it.  I sidestepped with my back to the wall and pressed a button on a small transmitter. If you were hoping for a jarring explosion, you’d be disappointed by the exaggerated pop and sizzle that followed. After about 15 seconds, the thermite derivative and magnesium detonator had done their job and the safe door thunked loudly to the floor, its edges still glowing white hot.

It was a fairly large model for a wall safe, with three small shelves inside. The first shelf held several bundles of cash in various currencies; I skipped over this and went to the second shelf. It held what appeared to be a gold plated Ruger Nighthawk pistol, and ammunition for it, as well as a black velvet box, the sort you’d use to hold a very valuable piece of jewelry. The third shelf held the prize I was after. Six small figures, each about the size of a Barbie doll, two female, four male. Each had a tag tied to the leg stating a different name and each one had a small pouch tied neatly around its neck. I didn’t know what each pouch contained specifically, but I knew it would be hair, nail clippings, a vial of blood (with anti-coagulant mixed in) or some other similar item collected from the person named on the tag. I reached for the figures. The next thing I knew, I was laying against the far wall, smoke rising from my gloved hand. The fingers of the gloves were no
w burned and cracked, but at least my fingers didn’t show any signs of damage.

I got to my feet a little unsteadily and decided that I’d been luckier than I thought considering the force of the ward had knocked me across the room. I went back to the safe and studied the contents again. Nothing inside the safe showed any sign that it had even been disturbed.

I pulled a small crystal on a silver chain from my front pocket. I should have done this before I messed with the safe at all, but I had been so distracted by the mundane that I forgot the whole reason I was here and what that could mean for security.

I held the crystal close to the money on the bottom shelf and the assorted contents of the second shelf. Nothing from the money but I did get a faint glow when the crystal was near the ammunition. Probably cursed bullets. Mean son of a bitch! Even if you survive the shot, you get stuck with some other bit of nastiness. I moved the crystal up to the third shelf and it glowed brightly when I waved it near the figures.  The glow faded as I moved the crystal farther from the figures. I smiled. I may not be able to conjure a puff of smoke, but I know sloppy warding when I see it.

I removed the biggest item in the small pack I was carrying. The intricately carved wooden box looked like a fine cigar box but was covered in a writing I couldn’t understand and had finely worked silver hinges and clasp. I opened the box, triggering a spell laid on it. The runic writing lit up in a pale green color. I reached into the safe and slowly pulled out the shelf that the dolls were resting on. Sure enough, it slid out just like it was designed to (adjustable shelves are handy). I tipped the contents of the shelf into the cigar box.

The box did not look as though it would hold all the figures, but they fell unceremoniously into it without a hitch. Then, just because, I took the second shelf out and dumped its contents in as well. I only wanted the ammunition and the gun, but until I had a chance to have Tabitha look at the bullets, and figure out what was on them, I wasn’t going to even touch them. Despite my earlier mistake, I am generally much more careful when dealing with magical items.

I took one last look into the box before closing it. The gun, ammunition, figures and the velvet jewelry case were all jumbled inside with what appeared to be plenty of additional room.  I closed the lid and watched the writing flash from green to red and then the glow faded. The silver clasp was now tarnished and looked rusted. When I held the crystal next to the box there wasn’t even a spark. A deck of magician’s playing cards wouldn’t read as mundanely as the box. Perfect.

I placed the box back in my bag, and threw the cash from the safe in on top of it. Waste not, want not, I always say! Now I just had to figure out how to get out of here. At that moment, I heard a banging at the door and a number of voices apparently shouting from outside (good sound proofing). An intercom on the desk barked to life with the sound of an authoritative voice from outside speaking in heavily accented English “Gringo, you can get out of here alive if you open the door and give up. Otherwise we gonna come in and you are never gonna come out!”  His thick accent would have made his words sound comical, except for the deadly nature of the situation.

I dragged one of the unconscious men over and laid him out across the foot of the door. He was a heavy guy and made an excellent dead weight.

“Hey gringo, don’t be a damn fool. Give up and you might just get out of here alive, heh. What do you say?” he paused, “I’ll give you one minute to think about it.

Just what I needed. Tuco from “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” threatening me in marginal English. I checked the side door to make sure it was locked and that the chair I placed in front of it was secure. I took my backpack off, and stripped off my clothes. I stuffed them into the pack with everything else except the Glock I’d taken earlier. I chambered a round in it and stepped around the desk. The view from the window was excellent. I could see for miles in the pale light of the half moon. The ocean waves rolling in the distance, the security lights that had been dark when I came in, now blazing to life lighting up the courtyard below and the grounds outside. Oh yeah, and a whole lot of guys with guns running around both inside and outside the villa’s high stone wall.

I stepped back from the window and bunched up the straps on the backpack, putting both of them in my mouth. I raised the Glock and first shot five random rounds into the double doors behind me. I shot high and figured I wouldn’t hit anyone on the other side, but at the same time it would most likely startle them and give me a bit of confusion to work with.

Sure enough, a second after I stopped firing the door began to splinter as it was hit by heavy fire from the other side. In the confines of the room the sound was deafening, and the shrapnel from the door was whizzing dangerously around me, but I was already on my way out. I emptied the rest of the rounds in a quick spasm of fire directed at the window behind the desk. I dropped the gun even as the last spent casing popped from the side ejector slot.

The window had shattered outward under the fire and I leapt as hard and far as I could. I willed the change as my feet left the ground and felt my body shift. It wasn’t an instant change, but it didn’t have a lot of dramatic movie effects either. If you were looking up from the courtyard 20 feet below as I leapt out, you’d see the shape of a medium sized man, and then it would be like I went out of focus and by the time you finished blinking to clear your eyes, the man was gone and only the shape of a large wolf would remain.

If you kept watching, you’d see that wolf, with a backpack in its muzzle, land gracefully in the courtyard, right in front of two startled men and then bound off before they could react. By the time the men in the house had broken into the office and gotten to the shattered window to look out, they would just catch a glimpse of the wolf leaping to the top of a truck and from there over the high wall and out of sight. Tell me I can’t make an exit when I have to!

Read more about BLOOD CURSE: Werewolf for Hire Book One and Nic Brown HERE.

Copyright 2008 Nic Brown. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
It Begins…May, 2007

“Drat!  Darn! A-g-g-r-r-r-r-r-h-h-h-h-h!” She shrieks and smacks her head down on her crossed arms, which are resting on her bent knees.

“Great…just great,” Persephane Pendrake says sarcastically to herself, slowly calming down. Persy, as she prefers to be called, sits on the back steps of the deck which encompasses the family’s two-storey, board and batten house.

Normally, the scent from her mother’s magical, medicinal garden wafts up to the deck filling Persy with comfort and pleasure, but not today.

Persy has lived with her secret for all of her twelve years and ten months of life.  Even though she’s experienced numerous temptations to let it out of the box, Persy has kept it to herself. That is, until today.

Persephane Pendrake is an exceptionally talented young witch.  Each week, as she grows closer to her thirteenth birthday, it’s clear that her powers are becoming stronger and more plentiful.  This is also part of her secret.

This secret, according to her parents, is the one thing about her no one must ever know, otherwise she risks turning her and her family’s lives into a carnival act, or even worse, having them treated and examined like lab rats.

Today, however, Persy lost her cool…big time.  Tim Ruddle, cause of this fiasco, lives on her street and goes to her school–Mannington Public.  That he is two years younger than Persy makes it particularly galling that he got one over on her.

Tim is well known for being a tease and practical joker and for the most part, Persy ignores him.  Persy admits that this particular incident probably didn’t warrant her overreaction, but his relentless, obnoxious taunting is accumulative, like toxic waste, just never goes away and yet he keeps pouring it on.

It happens after soccer practice.

Persy finishes on the field, hurries to jump into a quick shower.  It’s getting late, about 4:45 pm and her annoyingly, over-protective Mom always wants her home by 5:00.  Persy scampers half-dried to her locker; flings the door open, grabs her hair de-frizzer, globs a wad into her hand and smears it through her very thick, dark hair. It’s as if a light goes on…she freezes. Persy’s chestnut-coloured eyes enlarge to double their normally large size!

“What IS this stuff?” she shrieks.  She looks in horror at her palms which are very rapidly stiffening up and turning white.  Someone has replaced her hair product with white glue! And she’s pretty sure who that someone is!

Persy slams her locker shut, grabs her back pack and runs outside to the schoolyard to see if anyone is still around who may have seen anything.  What a surprise, there’s Tim surrounded with a bunch of his friends laughing to the point of tears.  She hears the words ‘glue’ and ‘hair’ bandied about and knows instantaneously that she is right about the identity of the culprit.

“Well! You’ll not be laughing for long. You are so overdue…” she growls as she charges down the steps at warp speed, definitely bent on doing some nasty.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches her motoring in his direction and just knows by her look and speed that ‘glue in the hair’ may have been a little over the top. It looks like he could most assuredly suffer bodily damage on this round.

“Feet…don’t fail me now!” he yelps and belts down the street.

By the time Persy hits the street outside the schoolyard, Tim is a full block ahead of her.  No problem, she thinks.  Years of soccer have trained her into a lean, mean running machine.

Sure enough in short order she’s breathing down his neck.  Then Tim takes a quick deek off to the left and hides behind a huge old oak tree.  Of course, this means they are into “you go one way – I go the other” around the tree; it is too thick for Persy to reach him by standing in one spot.

Off to the right side of the tree she suddenly spots Mr. Hornby’s cranky bulldog, Gruesome.  He’s sitting there, staring, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, slobbering on the sidewalk.

Persy jumps to the right and as she expects, her target veers to the left. And THAT’S when it happens.

She could always communicate telepathically with animals.  Persy and her mother, Angelica are witches of the ‘Order of Silent Speech’ and even short-tempered Gruesome is always up for a chat. After all, how many options does he have? Communicating with human-kind is extremely rare!  The only problem is that whenever Persy does this, a small stream of coloured sparkles arc through the air.  Usually, she can choose her times, so that no one notices, but not today.
‘Grues, ol’ boy,” she projects. “I don’t suppose you could somehow nail this ninny in one spot, while I show him a thing or two about hair styling?”

Unfortunately, just as the conversation starts, Tim leans to his left and looks directly between Persy and Gruesome. “What are those spark-..?”

He doesn’t finish because in a heartbeat, Gruesome springs at Tim and takes a whacking great mouthful of Tim’s jeans, shorts and little of what’s underneath!

“O-w-w-w-w-w-w,” yells Tim, horrified at what parts could be permanently damaged.

Persy whips around the tree, grabs Tim by the scruff of the neck with her left hand and from behind her back, shoots her right one out; in it she holds a nauseatingly, smelly wad of rotten egg and pine resin mixture, the size of a baseball; Persy smunches the mess down on Tim’s head.

“There!” she shrieks. “Style that…you little sidewinder!”

She lets him go and he takes off in a small cloud of dust.

“Thanks, Grues,” she throws back at the dog as she too, runs home.

“Anytime,” the dog mutters, “only excitement I get.”  And he waddles off.

So here she sits, mulling over her options.   Persy knows Tim has seen the sparkles; how is she going to explain that away?

Persy sighs deeply.  “Cripes!  What a muddle,” she groans.
B-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z,  B-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z…Persy glances up.

“Hi Benson,” she says quietly, turning her eyes down again.

“I say, Perse,” Benson says. “You telling me ‘the hedgehog look’ is in for hair styles this season?”

Persy reaches her hand up and touches her hair.  To her horror it’s sticking out in pointed clumps where the wind caught it and the glue dried as she ran.

“Oh, great, on top of everything else I probably look like I’m auditioning for the role of Medusa in some pathetic Greek play,” she cries.

“Not such a good day, sweet’ums?”   Benson, being sympathetic, is highly suspicious.

“Not one of the best,” she mutters.

Benson is her dragonfly familiar.  Familiars are life time sidekicks.  They show up at birth and attach to you for the duration.  Benson’s always claimed he’s actually a dragon. Some fool bunged on the “fly” bit when he wasn’t looking. How true that is Persy doesn’t know, but he certainly does have the attitude and arrogance of a dragon.

He’s a gorgeous little fellow although Persy never lets him know that; all glittering deep greens, turquoise and silver. And she loves his silvery-white brush moustache and crazy matching eyebrows, all in all the epitome of ‘cute as a bug….’  But the last thing Benson needs is something else to be swelled-headed about.  He can fly faster than the speed of light, making him a very handy, invisible spy when needed. He’s also a veritable fount of information on just about anything.  Amazing, really.  He’s lived for centuries, being a familiar to countless witches and wizards before Persy, which she supposes accounts for the flying database that he is.

“So why so glum, chum?” asks Benson.

Persy gives him a summation of the end of her day, post-soccer practice.

“Great Scott, Perse! What ever were you thinking?” His voice is creeping higher by the moment–something Persy hates.  It usually heralds some long drawn out lecture.

“There’ll be phone calls, my dear–many, many prying, prodding calls – mark my words!”  Here we go, thinks Persy as Benson’s voice continues to climb.

“How do expect your parents to explain this one?  You know people suspect you of being a tad odd. Now, that Tim kid can actually say he saw something weird and ah, that will be another adjective frequently aligned with your name!”  Benson is now shrieking.

“I know, I know,” sighs Persy. “I really mucked up this time.”

“AND!” Benson’s on a roll now. Persy knows stopping it would be like trying to stop a tidal wave with a slotted spoon.  “Where did the gob of rotten egg and pine resin come from?”

“A silent Appearance spell.”

They both know that silent spells are very tricky.  This is the first Benson knows of her ability to throw one. She’s maturing very quickly, much faster than he suspected—a bit of a shock to him.

“And WHERE did you learn to do that?” This is not good–his voice is at least three octaves above normal.

“Well, I know about them and I found Mom’s Book of Shadows and kind of, um, read up on them. As they are silent, I thought they can be darn handy without getting me into too much trouble–no one can hear me, right?”

“Blimey, Perse,” Benson sighs, his British background rising to the surface. “Ah, well, I don’t think the egg and resin thing is the hot tamale; it’s the visual fireworks that you’re going to have to explain.” He’s calming down now, voice at level one+ octave.

They sit quietly together. Slowly gliding back and forth, Benson lights on Persy’s left wrist, both are deep in thought.

“PER-SEPH-AN-EEEEEEE PEN-DRAKE!” the bellow comes.  Uh-oh!  When you got the full nine yards of your name from Angelica…you’re in deep doo-doo!

Persy jumps up from the step, launching Benson off into the ethers, and runs into the house.

“Yes, Mom?” says Persy, trying, but undoubtedly not succeeding to impart an air of innocence.

“Persy, I just got off the phone with Mrs. Ruddle.  I don’t think I have to tell you the details of that conversation – do I?” Angelica sputters.

“No, Mom….But…..”

“No buts. You know how critical it is that we hide what we are.  Didn’t our family suffer enough in the Witch Trials in England?  You know that as soon as anyone here suspects we are of the Magical Folk that we’ll be turned into “paparazzi feeding frenzy”? We’ll be hounded for the rest of our days…Persy…honestly!”

“I’m so sorry Mom…but Tim put glue in my hair product container.  I guess I just lost it and Gruesome was right there.” Persy grins a little. “He likes when I talk to him, so he was glad to help. Also Tim is pretty mean to him, so it all kind of fell together.  What about a Memory Erase?”

“My problem with that is…who has Tim and even more critically, his mother, told?  It’s really hard to trace that, but I believe if I check the Book…there is a ‘Threading Charm’ which will link all the conversations, and then I can throw the Memory Erase.  I want you to help collect the magical objects I’ll need,” Angelica states.

Persy, Angelica and Benson go up to the secret attic, where all this type of work is done.  They all know it’s best to get this done before Dad comes home.

Chapter 2
Persephane Looks Back

Angelica and James met just after she, Persy and Benson Time-Linxed from Britain in 1666; Persy was about ten months old.  Persy was told was that she was brought through the Time-Linx by Angelica with Benson in tow, for safety reasons.  They arrived in Muskoka close to thirteen years ago, on the river bank after finding their way through a pristine waterfall.

James is there fishing and astounded when they pop into his vision on the bank across from where he’s frustratingly floating fish bait around, only to see it being taken with nary a fish caught.  He’s about to throw in the towel on fishing. Hamburgers really don’t sound that bad, after all.

“What in the blazes?” His chin drops and speech is a forgotten skill. The most gorgeous woman he has ever seen just walked through the falls with a baby in her arms!  Holy Crow!

Angelica’s afraid they might meet someone right away, so is ready.

“Hello, my daughter and I are camping…completely lost our way and somehow wound up under the falls. I’m wondering if you can direct us to the closest town?” she quickly queries.

James sputters, “Well, of course…I mean, sure…the town is not far…well, goodness…town, yes…..u-m-m-m-m….I’d be happy to take you.” He fumbles with his fishing rod, or rather his ‘not so fishing-rod’. James pulls it out of the water, takes it apart, and packs it into its case.  He throws it in the back of his SUV after he opens the front passenger door to let Angelica in, holding baby Persy.  Strange how the dragonfly flies in the door and rests on Angelica’s shoulder, James thinks.

James drives them to Rockmanor, where he knows there’s a twenty-four hour restaurant, figuring they’re likely hungry.  One huge problem is there’s no hotel in Rockmanor and it’s more than obvious that Angelica and her babe have nowhere to go.

After a home-cooked meal, although James isn’t sure Angelica enjoyed it; James asks if her camper is near.

“No, and it really isn’t in good shape, anyway. I’m hoping to rent something in town. Is that possible?”

“Well sure, rooms can be rented in the daytime but right now, everything is closed. What do you plan to do for tonight?”

“Have no idea what I’m going to do. My first concern is getting ‘un-lost’ and then going from there.  Any thoughts?”

Persy’s out cold in Angelica’s arms. The little strange dragonfly sits on Angelica’s shoulder, his wings slowly fluttering up and down, obviously asleep as well.

James opens his mouth to speak, when both of them hear a low pitched growl outside the window beside them.

Without saying anything, Angelica quickly places Persy in James’ arms, and rushes up the aisle to the front door.

Looking outside, she sees a smallish black bear sitting under the window. Bears, where she comes from can be a bad omen, or a protector.  This one definitely has an agenda and Angelica wonders what it is.   She stands there for a moment; the bear looks up, and eye to eye, they speak.  Fine, thinks Angelica, all’s well. The bear’s a protector, but it blocks any further details from being revealed.

When she returns to her seat, James is holding a very content Persy.  “You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Angelica answers, knowing a lot of explanations are in order, but please, she thinks, not now.

“Everything is fine. I just need to find somewhere for the night for my daughter and I,” Angelica says, looking out the window.

“I don’t suppose you, bear lady, have any answers?” she utters to the bear in Silent Speak, when James’ head is turned, keeping the sparkles out of his sight.

Then it comes to her; the bear’s name is Orsina and will be watching over her and Persy as long as they live in this world.  Angelica sighs with relief, but her lodging situation is still not solved.

“Well,” says James. “If it’s okay with you, I have a guest house on my property. It’s not far from here and I’d be happy to let you stay there until you find what you need.”

He’s so afraid of offending Angelica but she gladly accepts. Unbeknownst to her new friend, Angelica has scanned his energetics and detected not one iota of harmfulness in this man.  She’s satisfied that he’s offering shelter strictly as a Good Samaritan.

Now, twelve years later, they still live in Rockmanor with James, in the house because within a few months, James and Angelica were married; just after Persy was a year old.

James is the only Dad Persy has ever known and she loves him deeply, probably as much as her Mom. James more than any of them, fears the unveiling of his wife and daughter.  He’ll be out of his mind with worry if this Mind Erase isn’t done immediately.

Mom home-schools Persy in White Magic but doesn’t include much about life back in Old Essex.  Persy does know, however, that her name was chosen by Angelica because: 1) Angelica likes the name but more importantly 2) it has a resonance with her future, although Angelica won’t elaborate.  It’s purposely misspelled from the mythical goddess “Perseph-o-ne” so Persy won’t have to endure a lifetime of associations with the underworld queen.

Benson sometimes talks a little about the ‘British Times’, but not often; mostly after evening tea and a couple of wee (dragonfly sized) snifters of eighteen year old snapdragon wine.

“Ah, lassie,” he’ll say, “Ya kin feel the fairy folk dancing around the flowers!”

Yes, well that’s Benson in his more mellow times and when he becomes too relaxed, he tends to speak his words backwards.  She’ll never forget the time after many snifters; he turns to her and says, “Used to go out with this ladybug…trouble was…she always wanted to sit on my ‘pal’.”

Problem for Persy is, she’s visiting a friend who, of course, can’t hear him and finds Persy’s raucous laughter somewhat misplaced, as the friend is telling her about the death of her favourite parakeet!
Angelica has told both her and James a little of what it was like back in England during the 1600’s.  Although witches and wizards cannot be killed by fire, the officials would round up anyone they thought was practicing magic and decide whether they were witch or wizard, sentencing the guilty to be burned.

The difficulty was that no real witch or wizard can work under these conditions of constant fear of exposure.  If they weren’t charged, and of course they have spells to slant the odds that they weren’t, then anyone who worked with them or were associated with them in any way were arrested, interrogated, examined and often burned.  It was a horrible time for all, magical or not.

The craziness started in the late 1400’s when one of the human Popes, Pope Innocent VIII declared that the Devil was doing his work on earth through his minions, the witches and wizards.  For more than two centuries, people were accused of witchcraft, mostly women, and hanged or burned.

Although it was most prevalent in German-speaking countries, France and Scotland, by 1645 Witch Hunts became the ‘flavour of the month’ in Angelica and Persy’s Essex.

Persy’s biological father, Andreas was taken one night when Persy was just over a month old and never heard from again.  Angelica has an aunt who was arrested and although the officials think they burned her, she simply did a Vanishing Spell in the middle of the fire and now lives quietly in Argentina.

It’s extremely difficult for ‘burned’ witches and wizards to communicate with left-behind family, as believe it or not, the Magic Hunters have a few witches and wizards working on their side and these traitorous Magicals can pick up the energetic of communication between family members. Therefore, it’s a given that if you’re arrested, you don’t try to connect ever, with undiscovered family or friends. They can only hope Andreas is all right wherever he is…knowing that he is living under these constraints.

Angelica gathered what she needed and in 1666 their time, and 1994 here in the present, she crossed through the Time-Linx with her baby daughter and Benson to start a new life.

“Persy? Are you down there daydreaming?  I need a black candle brought up here. Remember?” Angelica calls.

Persy grabs one out of the pantry and sprints up the stairs to the attic.  Persy loves this room with all the magical herbs tied and hung upside down from the ceiling beams, precious oils in decanters on the shelves along with dried anatomical parts, poisons, flowers, gems, crystals and umpteen coloured candles.

Angelica opens her Book of Shadows which rests on its wooden stand. She holds a paper in her hand with the words ‘My Secret’ on it, and on the other side of the paper, the actual secret, which is that Persephane Pendrake is a witch.

Angelica lights the black candle and chants as she rubs out the letters of ‘My Secret’ one by one:

As I erase each letter away
Your memory will lose my secret (the list of people who were told) today,
And after the last letter is erased and paper burned
My secret in your mind–will never return
As I say, so mote it be!
She did the Threading Charm beforehand and finds the list of busy bodies that are told of the day’s events, so she can fit the names into the spell.

It’s done and Dad’s still about fifteen minutes from getting home.  He works as the curator in the Alexandrian Museum in Willington, a small city, about three quarters of an hour away.

Whew! With Mom’s help, Persy certainly dodges a whole mess of trouble.  She feels a very quiet Friday evening is in order.  And while Friday evening is quiet, this isn’t the case on Saturday.

Chapter 3
Orsina Reveals Herself

Saturday morning begins blindingly bright.  Persy finishes breakfast and with Benson on her right shoulder, strolls outside to the front porch.  After yesterday’s events, she’s glad she isn’t going to be faced with school and Tim Ruddle for two days.

The sun and warm spring air seem to beckon her, as she walks down the steps and onto the road.  It isn’t very far at all to the woods and this is most definitely the day for it.

Five minutes into the woods, there’s the crystal waterfall, about ten feet high, and it drains into the clear river, bordered by moss and flower-covered banks.  Persy loves it here.  However, she doesn’t venture too close to the falls, as more often than not, there’s a small black bear and her cub drinking from the river or catching fish.  They never bother anyone, and don’t seem to mind if you sit quietly on the banks.

On occasion, Persy has tried to communicate with the bear, but animals have the right to refuse Silent Speak conversations, and that is the case with this private bruin.

Persy slides partway down a bank and sits on a clump of moss.  Benson lands on her forearm and looks up at her face.

“Lovely little walk down the frog, eh, what?” he quips.  Persy grins and rolls her eyes.  “Yes, that it was.”

Note from Lady Ellen:  Here’s the deal. Benson has definitely spent a lifetime or two, too many, as a familiar of witches and wizards in London, England, particularly the east end, fondly referred to as the home of the “Cockney”.

This small area of London has a very particular accent and one of their more charming and fun habits is the use of “Cockney Rhyming Slang” (CRS).

It’s an idiom of speech wherein pairs of words such as ‘frog and toad’ are used for common words, in this case ‘road’. You’ll see that the second word of ‘frog and toad’ rhymes with ‘road’.

To confuse things more, cockneys won’t use the rhyming word and say ‘going up the toad’ they’d use the non-rhyming word ‘frog’. So ‘going up the road’ becomes going up the ‘frog’. It’s their secret way to communicate. Here are some other examples:
“Apples and pears” is used for ‘stairs’. So ‘going up the stairs’ becomes ‘going up the apples’ (not using ‘pears’ which is the rhyming word}. Clever, eh? Sometimes the whole rhyming couplet is used, though; going up the apples and stairs.

Son and Daughter = Water (“drinking a glass of son” – not daughter or maybe “give me a glass of son and daughter”).

Adam and Eve = Believe (“you wouldn’t adam it” or maybe, “you wouldn’t adam and eve it”).

Al Capone = Phone

Almond Rocks = Socks

April Showers = Flowers

Pen and Ink = Stink

Butcher’s Hook = Look

Push and Shove = Love

Cat and Mouse = House

Baked Beans = Jeans

Maurice Gibb = Fib

Stewart Granger = Danger

Jurassic Park = Dark

After Eight = Date

So you get it now?

There a ton of these…some classic…everyone knows them…some newer, and some you’ll be told are out-right rubbish.

So have fun with this.  Benson will let them drop throughout the Persephane Pendrake Chronicles, see if you can figure them out.  You can also come to our official website http:// HYPERLINK “http://www.lady-ellen.com/crs” www.lady-ellen.com/crs.html and we’ll be talking about them there!

Don’t forget to try and make up your own with your friends. Ah-Ha! A new secret code that only you kids will know…lovely!

Now, back to Persy…

Persy sits back on her elbows and within a few minutes the bear and her cub show up.  Both bears glance up at her and then bend their heads to the river to drink.

Without warning, Persy hears a voice talking to her, a woman.  “Persephane Pendrake, my name is Orsina, we need to speak,” she hears.

Persy’s mouth drops open and she bolts up straight.  Benson shoots into the air.  “What the…?” he snaps.

“Quiet, Benson, the bear is talking to me!”

“I know that love, I can hear her!  No need to get all batty about it!”

Persy shushes him and looks back over at Orsina.  She continues to talk to Persy.

“For many years I have been watching over you from a distance.  Now that you are within range of the time of knowing…it is necessary I make contact with you.  You are aware that you are a witch, but what you probably don’t know is the depth of your power and the power you are about to gain in the upcoming years.  This information, when appropriate is always passed to the individual witch or wizard by an animal spirit because we have proven ourselves as very reliable keepers of secrets, and also as guardians of young, talented Magical Folk such as you.

Your mother knows I’m here, but has taken a vow of silence on this matter, allowing you to evolve properly. It is up to me to tell you more of your past, so listen carefully, Persephane Pendrake, this is very important for you to know, in order to understand your fate in this life.

The portal your mother brought you and Benson through under that waterfall is a part of the Time-Linx.  The Time-Linx does just that; links all things throughout all of time.  Albert Einstein of this world once proposed that time is not linear; that all is happening at the same time and he was right.  It’s through the Time-Linx that talented Magical Folk can travel to anytime, from 10,000 years ago… the times of Atlantis; or to Ancient Egypt, at the beginning of their belief in gods, which was some 6,000 years ago, to eons into the future, and of course everything in between. There are situations in many eras which will need your help Persephane Pendrake, and these will be made known to you when the time is right.

When you warp from one world to the other you have the ability to land at the exact point you left when you return, so you will never be missed by the humans around you.

It’s time Persephane Pendrake, very soon.  You are two months from being thirteen years of age which is close enough to time travel.  Your mother knows how to prepare you for Time-Linxing. I will contact you again in exactly one month’s time and we shall meet here.  Until then, grow well.”  The conversation stops as quickly as it began.

Read more about Persephane Pendrake and the Cimaruta and Lady Ellen HERE.

Copyright 2008 Lady Ellen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

1

Micah snatched the young woman from the treetops with inches to spare, proud of his finesse not a cosmic moment later. No simple feat that, the aerodynamics radically different on a planet with an atmosphere, ensconced in a life form he’d only gained use of a scant terrestrial day prior.
Fortunately, he’d retained his powers this time, unlike the last two (or was it three?) assignments where he’d been required to live like every other member of the indigenous species until the moment arrived, and his task performed, he was free to leave for home. Almost a demotion, those errands had seemed, not that he’d done anything remotely worthy of punishment.
He was none too happy with his given method of Earthly transport, however, especially after too long a taste of the saddle left his, what, uh, oh, something.
Ass, right, Gabe? My ass is sore?
The archangel snickered through his thoughts and said, Is it?
Can’t you just answer me and leave it at that?
I did, asshole. That’s the word. Thought you had a handle on the lingo.
I do, for the most part, but it was a crash cour.
Then get with the program.
What? Oh, shit.
The familiar little snigger that followed had always grated his being raw. An eternity under Gabriel’s supervision left little room for even the tiniest of illusions that Time might soften his attitude. And why he was always free for each of Micah’s assignments simply boggled. Was everyone at his level that busy, all the time? Change was good, wasn’t it? A change of supervisors even better.
Quit hovering around, Gabriel snapped. You can’t afford to be late.
I’m right on schedule.
You’d think so, wouldn’t you?
Ignoring the overt attempt to instill doubt, Micah envisioned a graceful upward spiral, the erose face of the high cliff sliding by, the girl a sleeping feather in his arms. Like a damn…hmmm…butterfly, wasn’t he? Sure, beautiful in flight. Over the jagged edge he swooped, stalling to a perfect two-point landing near a pile of faded jeans and green t-shirt, underwear, socks, and cowboy boots. He placed the naked woman on a soft patch of verdant turf in the shade of a young pine created especially for the purpose, then re-dressed her in a thought. A step back into a turn toward the trees, he blew a two-fingered whistle for his four-legged ride.
The black beast cleared the forest at a canter, speeding up on his approach, and Micah dropped to a seat beside the woman. Damn horse had set him in the dirt for the last time. No wonder his…uh…ass hurt, not to mention his chest. Shit, a failure this time might take them both over the cliff and catching a horse wasn’t noted anywhere on his schedule. Besides, the silly animal might decide he liked to fly and try it when Micah wasn’t looking.
The horse skipped to stop a short distance away, eyed him a moment, then ambled forward to plop his velvet muzzle in Micah’s lap, angling his head to rub brow and cheek against Micah’s bruised chest. He scratched about the flickering ears, up into the thick mane until the affectionate equine lifted its head to stare at him, vigorously working the bit with teeth and tongue.
“Well, sure.” Micah slipped the bridle free and a joyful whack to his midsection by the black nose knocked him back to his elbows. The horse proceeded to wander back toward the trees, head down, snuffling the semi-barren ground.
For the umpteenth time since first he’d put it on, Micah yanked the black hat from his head to smooth the sweat of his brow, riffle his silken hair to catch the cooling breezeexcuses, mainly, to further experience his fingers. Sensitive marvels these singular digits, the opposing thumb making the perfect all-purpose tool, this life form a superior biological design overall. Maintenance was another matter: that first need to eliminate a warm, wet surprise to Gabriel’s unabashed amusement.
Howled with…laughter. Yeah, that’s what he’d done, the bastard.
The young woman stiffened, then sat up, green eyes dazzling in confusion. Sunlight basted her long thick hair in copper flames, like those that had danced atop the small fire he’d napped beside the night before.
“I’m not dead?” she cried, scrambling to her feet.
“Look pretty lively to me,” Micah said.
She looked down at herself, then surprisingly aimed a glare at him. “And who are you?”
“Micah.”
“Micah who?”
A second name? No one mentioned that. At Gabriel’s whispered suggestion, he replied, “Divine, Micah Divine.”
Hands on her hips, she tilted her head, and fired. “What kind of silly name is that?”
A cosmic snicker and Micah frowned. “Good as any other, I guess.”
Prick, he snapped at Gabriel between two earth seconds of time. You left that two names shit out on purpose.
The archangel laughed outright and said, Epithets are easy to remember, aren’t they?
Not always.
Right, you had trouble with your ass.
Shut the hell.
“What’re you doing here?” she demanded, Gabriel’s howls of amusement preventing a ready reply. Before Micah drew a breath, she asked, “Just where are you from anyway?”
“All over Creation,” he said.
“You being smart-mouthed now?”
“Uh…no, ma’am. Not trying to be.” Smart-mouthed? What the hell’s that? Gabriel, this wasn’t on the schedule.
Maybe not yours, came the whispered reply.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“Just got here yesterday,” he said and snatched his hat upon getting to his feet, amazed to discover he towered over her by a good, fuck, what’s the word?
Foot, Gabriel said. Twelve inches, ok? Not that appendage on the end of your leg. Your expletive was magnificent, by the way. Starting to think like a real human now.
Micah’s pride at the unexpected praise dissipated with her next sentence.
“I think you better go.”
“Me? Why do I have to leave?”
“Well, I was…” Her eyes widened, then she wrinkled her freckled nose. “Busy.”
“Sleeping?” he asked, clapping his hat on his head. “That isn’t safe, a woman alone, is it?”
She cast her gaze to his scuffed black boots. “Never mind.”
“Bad dream, was it?”
She bit her lip, glanced back to cliff’s edge, then refused to meet his eyes.
“So, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Carol Flannigan.” She looked past Micah now. “If that’s your horse, you don’t want him wandering off around here. Rim Road’s just beyond the trees.”
“Aw, he won’t leave.”
“You’re sure about that.”
What a skepticthey weren’t all like that, were they? Micah rammed two fingers in his mouth to whistle, and a moment after, his horse loped free of the pines.
“Aw, crap,” he muttered, dropping into a crouch.
“You have a problem?” Carol asked.
“Me? No, it’s him.” Micah gestured at the speedy black beast flattened into a gallop. “He’s convinced he can stop on a dime. Well, I let him try to prove that a couple of times and now he won’t quit. He’ll knock me down if I let him.” He slapped his back pocket. “No offense, ma’am, but this ass is already sore.”
Was that a flicker of a smile? Hard to tell, it was gone so fast.
The horse crow hopped to a halt, doing his best to guilt Micah in a stare.
He took up the bridle on the rise to his feet, then crooked the fingers of his right hand. “Come on, then.” The animal snorted, tossed his head, then pricked his ears, and high-stepped the short distance, neck arched like a carousel pony, tail a wavy black plume.
Micah couldn’t help a chuckle at the show-off, and Carol’s wide-eyed wonder.
“You train him yourself?”
“Nah, just talked him into it.” He corralled the satin neck with an arm to feed the docile equine the bit.
She was silent, watching while he bridled the horse, then said, “My father might be interested in you.”
Micah casually latched the chinstrap, his timing impeccable, his delivery unmatched. “What for?”
“He needs a new man who knows horses.” She scowled, averting her eyes. “Well, if you showed him this one.”
“Like to meet your father then. I could use the work.”
Her shoulders sagged. “He can’t pay anywhere near what you’re worth–.”
“I don’t do anything for money.” Ah, there it was, a real smile to trade, her posture a bit straighter now.
“You don’t?”
“Do you?”
She paused as if to consider, then said, “I don’t think so.”
“From what I understand, that’s fairly uncommon here.”
Oh, now she gave him a skeptical look, edged in alarm. Had he misused the language in some way? His horse yawned, stretched his neck, and shook out his mane.
“So, where’d you park your rig?” she asked.
“My what?”
“Truck and trailer. Don’t you have one?”
“No.” The snicker on High intensified his irritation. To think he could be piloting a machine about the terrain instead of.
Pay attention, Gabriel barked.
Her eyes narrowed to slits a gamma ray couldn’t sneak past. “Well, you’re just plain odd.”
“No odder than a nightmare, am I?”
Her head jerked as if he’d slapped her. “Where are you from?” she asked, enunciating every word.
He grinned. “All over Creation.”
Her quarter pivot ended in a sudden squint, then a turn back to look him square in the eye. “You want to meet my father, you can follow me to the house. You’ll have to wait for him though.”
“Is it far?”
“A few miles. Why?” She abruptly showed him both palms. “No, don’t tell me. Your ass is sore.”
A backward glance or five and she climbed behind the wheel of a faded-blue pickup parked in the shade of the pines, the motor thrumming to life a moment later. Micah gathered the reins and swung into the saddle, right on time.
According to his schedule.
2

Carol paid little attention to the rutted dirt road angling north, away from the Mogollon Rim, the rugged escarpment defining the southwestern edge of the Colorado Plateau, a geological formation thousands of years in the making. Cooler forest left for sun-lit fields of native grass harboring the occasional squat prickly pear cactus, via rear and side mirrors she kept a flitting eye on the stranger and his trick horse trotting behind her idling truck, the return home hardly worth a conscious thought, she knew the way so well.
Shouldn’t she be toasting her tootsies in Hell about now? How did she wake upwake upat the top of the cliff fully clothed, this irksome man beside her? Perhaps he was right, maybe she’d fallen asleep and that snap of the rock, the sudden drop was all a bad dream.
Chills shivered despite the oven-hot wind gusting through the open cab windows. God might not be quite as far away as she’d been wont to assume.
Tall he was, this cowboy out of nowhere, his hair a deeper black than even that of his horse, and his eyes, the violet-blue of a late autumn sky, irises rimmed in a riotous bronze…unearthly…almost.
Who was he? All over creation? What could he mean by that?
Upon her descent of the drive, the lazy blades of the windmill rose over the yellowing hillside, undulating in the heat beyond a two-story log house shaded by leafy giant elm and ancient cottonwood at the rear. A large barn emerged stark white on her left, a round corral at its back, holding pens forward of a small shop and loading chute for cattle ferried to market.
What had she been thinking? Times were tough enough for her father. As hard as he’d worked over his lifetime, as well off as he’d been just three years ago, he now teetered on the brink of losing everything. Still, wasn’t the state of the world itself living proof that God didn’t give one big fat shit about anything on Earth, much less the lives of individuals like her father? Good men didn’t stand a chance. Yet her father clung to his faith, rock-solid sure God would help him. Even told her he’d been praying for a miracle. And she’d almost called him a fool? Not quite so easy to think that way, not now, not after…
A glance in the rear view mirror only deepened her confusion.
She parked the pickup near the five terraced steps leading to the front door, surprised to see her father leaning against a cedar stanchion in the shade of the covered porch. A rugged man in his late fifties, silver streaked his bright red hair, a hint of paunch under the white shirt tucked into his jeans. Carol slammed the cab door and trudged up the stairs.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked. “Thought you were going to Holbrook.”
“Who you got with you, Daughter?”
“Some guy named Micah Divine.”
“Heck of a moniker there.”
Micah’s lack of gear mystified, rooted her to the porch to stare. Sand-colored duster and light bedroll behind the cantle, black saddlebags hardly laden, coil of new rope cinched in the latigos, striped canteen hanging from the saddle horn. Dressed in a long-sleeved chambray shirt and jeans identical to clothing favored by two of her father’s hired hands, Micah wore no gun of any kind, no knife, not a single weapon she could see.
“That’s a trick horse he’s got there,” Carol said finally.
“Where’s he from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask, or he didn’t tell you?”
“Ask him yourself.”
A half-smile and he said, “All right, I will.”
At Micah’s approach, the black horse on his heels like a dog, her father descended the stairs with his hand out.
“Rory Flannigan.”
They eyed one another, the handshake secondary to the initial sizing up, then both traded grins like old friends.
“Daughter tells me that’s a trick pony you got there.”
Micah shrugged a shoulder. “No, not really.”
“Is too,” she said emphatically. A flicker of his eyes in her direction, then his horse plopped its head on his shoulder like a jealous child, irritating Carol all the more. Damned if she knew why though.
Rory nodded at the horse. “Where’d you get that guy?”
“Found him,” Micah replied, curling his arm about the black nose, then backing the animal up a stride with a forefinger’s worth of pressure to his muzzle.
Her father’s smile deepened the crow’s feet about his eyes. “You found him, you say?”
“Uh-huh. A few miles from the base of that cliff where I caught your daughtersleeping.”
Carol’s breath seized her throat. Was that just a slip of the tongue, or was he trying to say…no, he couldn’t mean…could he? She turned her head from a prickly chill of disbelief to her father’s intense concern.
“What were you doing out there?”
How was she supposed to answer that? She looked away. “Man said he just got here yesterday.”
Micah busied himself relieving his horse of its bridle, the corners of his mouth upturned in what looked like a self-satisfied grin. Damn man, what did he know anyway?
Rory hesitated, then said to Micah, “Looks like a mustang to me. How long you been working with him?”
He squinted. “Wasn’t very cooperative at first.”
“They rarely are. How long?”
“Since yesterday.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Carol muttered under her breath.
Rory rubbed his chin as if he hadn’t heard her. “You say you just acquired him yesterday?”
“Well, I…” Micah glanced her way briefly, but she couldn’t read his eyes. Was he mad now, had she gotten to him? Confused him like he’d done her? Was that a shake of his head? He hooked the bridle over the saddle horn, then furrowed his brow, and said, “Yep, yesterday.”
The smile on her father’s face broadened, the first display of genuine amusement Carol could recall in too long a time, and a breathless chuckle escaped his throat.
“That’s the biggest whopper from a poker-straight face I’ve heard in a good while. Where you from?”
“All over creation.”
“See?” she said, righteously baffled now. “He doesn’t even have a rig.”
Rory shut her down with a wave of his hand. “Makes no difference to me.”
Why not, she wanted to scream the instant before the gunshot crack of a whip precipitated a painful squeal. Micah’s horse wheeled to face the barn, ears flat against his neck.
“Kerry,” she said, the sudden nausea watering her mouth.
Her father’s countenance darkened at a scowl. “Bastard’s supposed to be breaking that horse, not beating it to death.”
Micah’s frown scared Carol for the intensity. “Your daughter mentioned you might have some work.”
“You want a job, come with me.” Rory strode the wide graveled drive toward the barn, Micah a half step behind, his horse in an agitated, head-tossing trot beside him.
Carol hurried after, the pace quickening at each new report, each heart-rending equine cry for help.
Maybe her father would fire the murderous prick at last.
3

Kerry Penfield lifted his gray hat long enough to swipe the gritty sweat of his brow on a sleeve before the salt chanced to burn his eyes, then waggling the bullwhip, started after the huffing silver stallion. Teeth bared, the animal lunged, and quick as a rattler’s strike, Kerry stung the sleek haunch with the knotted tip of the leather plait, springing the squealing horse into a full pivot. The unexpected move in close quarters knocked Kerry flat, and he scrambled for the fence on all fours, stopped at a glance over his shoulder to the immobile horse, head up and ears forward, as if someone approached.
The urge stirred Kerry then, a shadow he recognized, hungry, waiting to be fed. Ah, but he was so restless with it lately. Or maybe it was restless with him.
Kerry got to his feet, swatted the dust from his jeans, scaring the stud to the far side of the corral. The bullwhip lay in the dusty earth at the center of corral like a braided snake frozen mid-slither.
The perfect opportunity had almost slipped through his fingers. When Carol left the house that morning, puffy eyed and too fucked up to manage a pan of scrambled eggs, he had no doubt where she was headed. Her father off to Holbrook, the county seat, all the surreptitious tracking looked about to pay off until Dawson and Seth dillied about the barn too long to risk simply riding out after her. The purring motor had announced her return, early enough to kindle a secondary plan of action. Minutes after the engine died, he’d baited the trap, certain the snotty little bitch wouldn’t hesitate to confront him over the horse in her father’s stead. The irony wasn’t wasted on him, however. Snatch her from the same corral, even kill her first, if necessary. Her truck parked back at the ranch before lunch, before anyone else might be expected to return, and they’d find him hard at work in the barn. Beyond suspicionthis time.
Gravel crunched underfoot, too loud to be anything less than alarming. He turned to face the sound, squinting to cover his astonishment at meeting Rory’s glare.
“What the hell did I tell you before?” he said upon making the wood rail fence.
“I didn’t touch him, just put the fear of God in him.” Dread knotting his stomach, Kerry glanced from Carol’s frown to an equally unhappy stranger, a head taller than his angry employer, who should be in Holbrook right now. What the fuck was Rory doing home?
“Why?” the newcomer asked.
“Why what?” Kerry snapped.
“Why do you need to scare any horse into working with you?”
Caught without reply, he glowered at the nosy bastard instead until an outfitted, yet unbridled black horse trotted freely around the far side of the corral to touch noses in greeting with the gray.
“Do I have to remind you how much that stud is worth?” Rory said to Kerry.
“I know already, Hancock pedigree and all that.” Man was a skipping fucking record sometimes. “You want him broke, Rory, that’s what I’m doing. No one else wants to try.”
“Bet he could do it,” Carol said, a tip of her head toward the imposing stranger.
Rory looked up to the man beside him. “If you’re of a mind, then be my guest.”
Damn that fucker could move, up and over the rails like a giant chimpanzee, beside Kerry not five seconds later. Or so it seemed.
He offered his hand along with his name to which Kerry sniggered, avoiding his gaze until the bastard slowly let his arm to his side and said, “So. You’re Kerry, huh?”
“Who…ah, Rory or Carol, they told you my name?”
Micah leaned closer. “No one had to tell me, Penfield.” The ominous whisper closed in from all sides. “We were scheduled to meet.”
Kerry sucked a staccato breath, backpedaling half a step in alarm.
Micah looked to Rory. “Horse got a name?”
“Miracle.”
“Perfect.” He levied a beaming smile on Kerry. “Believe in them, don’t you?”
“What?” he said, his thoughts in a nasty gridlock. Scheduled to?
“Miracles. Happen every day you know.”
“I like you already,” Rory said.
Kerry headed for the fence to escape the oddball, and said over his shoulder, “Grab my whip while you’re down there in the dirt.”
Micah chuckled after him. “Should’ve got it when you were down there before, don’t you think?”
Rory shared a grin with Carol, who then studied her boot tops and giggled. Fuming, Kerry perched on the top rail, more than happy to witness the damnable horse make a fool out of the smart-ass.
Miracle swung his head about for a good look at the tall man approaching slowly, hands out at his sides, then returned to the black horse, who lifted his nose and…nodded?
Of all the stupid shit, damn nag had to be shagging a fly. Kerry looked past Carol, lost in a wide-eyed stare after Micah, to Rory, who met his gaze with hiked brows and a challenging smirk.
Shreds of a whisper rode the erratic breeze and Kerry gaped in angry disbelief when Micah ambled right up beside that stiff-legged gray stud.
“I’ll be damned,” Rory murmured, trading yet another smile with his daughter.
Micah ran his hands over the horse’s face and neck, fondled both ears, then scratched along the narrow ridge of coal black mane, landing an itchy spot mid-way down the neck. Miracle shivered, arched his back, head rising into the air until his dark muzzle pointed skyward, top lip draped over bottom, a foamy drool oozing over his chin. When Micah stopped, the horse whickered in collecting himself, then nudged the man’s arm with his nose.
“Just like…aw, God,” Carol whispered, bowing her head. Rory slung his arm about his daughter’s shoulders.
“What the fuck?” Kerry muttered under his breath. All that work with the horse shot to hell. And that silly black broomtail, head and neck stretched over the rail as if mesmerized by Micah’s hand tracing a pewter foreleg to a black hoof, which Miracle promptly lifted as if he’d done that a million times.
Carol searched her father’s face. “Did Chase get that far with him?”
“Let’s think he did and leave it at that,” Rory replied.
Kerry was dumbstruck. Even the most famous of horse whisperers should’ve had a rough time winning the animal’s trust, taking days, maybe weeks, not minutes.
Who the hell was this guy?
Micah settled a smile on Rory, and said, “He’ll work for you now.” His disapproval roasted Kerry not a blink later. “Well, not you. He doesn’t like you at all.”
Rory snorted. “No surprise there.”
“I ain’t taking any chances,” Kerry said, looking directly at Carol. “He’s a killer.”
“Shut up,” she yelled, and spun on her heel to stalk around the corner of the barn.
“From now on, you’ll answer to Dawson,” Rory said. “In fact, you can go catch up with him and Seth right now. You know exactly where they are, don’t you?”
Beyond furious, Kerry stomped to the middle of the corral to collect his whip, then returned to the rail, grimacing in the effort to maintain his composure. “You’re making a big mistake, Rory.”
The old man met his glower with hazel fire ablaze in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time now, would it?”

Copyright 2008 M.L. Bushman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Gosh, it takes a long time to die, thought Sanct.
For another moment or two he kept his eyes closed just to make sure that this wasn’t the Death Goddess’s way of playing a joke on him after nipping past her angels, letting him think that he was saved, then Whoops! Just Kidding!
Apparently it wasn’t, because he felt nothing being crushed or splattered mercilessly onto the nasty stone pavement. In fact, the mad whistling in his ears that had let him know that his descent was accelerating had been reduced to a mild whoosh. Sure that he was being teased, he kept his eyes closed.
His body slowly touched cobblestones one piece at a time.
After waiting patiently, Sanct noticed that there was still no death occurring, as far as he could tell. Then again, he had never done it before, so he could not be sure.
He opened his eyes, and found himself lying on the ground, covered in glass shards and feathers. Blinking a couple times and breathing deeply once, he decided that he had not died.
He slowly rose and dusted himself off. The shouting he had tuned out during his fall came to the forefront of his mind, and he peeked around the corner of the building to find a mob in front of the Temple of Knowledge, most with a weapon and a piece of paper in their hands.
“Maybe it wasn’t paranoia after all,” Sanct said to himself, recalling the people who had noticed him on his way to the temple. Some of them must have followed him but he had lacked the street savvy to notice.
He fled from the building by the alleyway behind it, not daring to take the main street and expose himself to the mob there gathered. He tried to run through the University grounds, but when he reached the side entrance, he found that the closer he got, the more burning a sensation he received through the soles of his feet. Remembering the banishment thrown over him by Lord Olber, he retreated from the entrance, and the painful sensation subsided.

Copyright 2008 Danny Birt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.