“Here’s what I suggest,” he said. “From now on, you’ll make sure every attempt he makes to contact my mother ends in failure.”
She pressed her back into the seat of the booth and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And pray tell how I will achieve that?”
He threw his hands up. “How do I know? Any way you care to, just do it.”
Silence grew between them. Jane’s gaze locked with his and their eyes settled in a clash of wills. Somewhere along the way, he saw her blink, but he didn’t drop his gaze until she finally closed her eyes for a second.
Bringing her hands to her temples, she stared straight at him. “In other words, you’re telling me to sabotage Umberto’s every attempt to contact your mother.”
“That’s right.”
“And if he sidesteps me?”
Michael chuckled. “You really think he can afford to do that?”
Jane gave a small, contrived smile. “I guess you’re right.” She paused, letting the hum and drone of the conversation in the room surround them.
“What if I don’t agree to this?” she said.
He winced inwardly. That’s what he hoped it wouldn’t come to. He didn’t want to employ hostile tactics but it was his mother they were talking about.
He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, his eyes never leaving her. Putting the cup back in its saucer, he crossed his arms in front of him on the table.
“Jane,” he said, “I’m sure you know half the business Vista Standard Bank handles comes straight from my clients.” He paused for effect. “As their lawyer, it wouldn’t be hard for me to tell them to take their accounts elsewhere.”
Jane paled and her lips tightened in a nervous gesture. But she didn’t flinch or gasp, and for that he gave her credit. This girl had balls.
“That’s blackmail,” she said softly.
“I don’t want it to come to that, but I will if I have to. Think about it, Jane. Deflect a few calls, invent a few excuses. It doesn’t take more than that.”
She stared at him for a long time, her narrowed gaze travelling over him before coming back to rest on his face. He wondered what was going on in her head, but like any good legal negotiator knew, you should never betray what was going on in your head. So he simply allowed her to peruse him while he settled back and took small sips of his coffee.
As the seconds ticked by, he saw perusal turn to disbelief and finally to something remarkably like spite on her features. Her lips pursed to a tight line, stretching the skin over her cheekbones and making her bone structure appear formidable as the soft shadows in their secluded corner played upon her face.
Michael didn’t flinch, not even when she opened her mouth and said calmly,
“You’re a bloody arse, you know that?”
He acknowledged her comment with a small smile. He had her where he wanted, he knew it. She wouldn’t have been so vehement if she hadn’t thought herself cornered.
“Excuse me, my dears,” Tabitha’s sing-song voice broke through.
They both glanced at the woman who stood close to their table. How long had she been there listening to them? Michael knew this was the least of their concerns right now though. It wasn’t the first time he was called an arse. He’d been called worse, actually. Putting on a proper appearance to greet Tabitha, he watched as Jane sat up straighter and pasted a smile on her face.
The older woman came to a standstill at his side, her hand settling lightly on his shoulder. Facing Jane, she said, “Have you managed to eat anything, dear? Michael told me about your condition.”
He caught the almost imperceptible second when Jane winced and bit her lip before smiling even wider at Tabitha. She was flustered, that was obvious. Why? Wasn’t she used to being in social circles?
“The food was lovely,” she said, the sound of her voice that of a proper debutante addressing her hosts for lunch at the country club. Did she have such background? He found himself wondering.
“Thank you for the consideration,” Jane added.
“It’s a pleasure, dear. Michael was very worried, if I may add.” Tabitha let the sentence hang, and Michael knew it was a ploy to extract a juicy tidbit of gossip.
“Was he now?” Jane wondered aloud, her gaze travelling to him.
He clenched his jaw in reply. So she wanted to play now, didn’t she? What did she think? That she’d make him feel embarrassed by discussing his emotional side with their host? She was in for a surprise then, because feelings and he didn’t mix.
“It really isn’t like him to be so concerned, is it?” Jane further directed at Tabitha.
The woman laughed. “You got that right, dah-ling.” She paused. “Oh, how impolite of me. I am Tabitha, my dear. We haven’t been introduced.”
Jane held her hand out. “Jane Smithers. Pleasure to finally meet the woman behind this renowned eatery.”
Tabitha clasped her hand in both of hers. “So,” she said, “I guess congratulations are of the order.” Her pointed gaze landed on Michael.
Here it comes – the Inquisition.
“Thank you, luv,” he replied, watching Jane’s face paling and her mouth opening before she caught herself and closed it.
Tabitha patted his shoulder. “You must be really happy at this wonderful news,” she said.
Time to aim for the kill and be done with it. “Of course we are,” Michael replied. “Now, Tabby darling, it’s still rather early, and nobody really knows about it.”
“Oh, my lips are sealed. Don’t worry.” She turned to Jane and squeezed her hand. “I am really happy for both of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my other patrons.”
“It’s okay, darling. We know you’re much in demand here.” He smiled at her and watched as she blushed under the attention.
Tension hung heavy in the air while they both waited for Tabitha to walk out of earshot.
“You let her believe I’m expecting your baby?” Jane finally hissed as she leant forward towards him, anger slashing her cheekbones with a dark stain.
As the sun slowly crept across the flagstone floor, the Queen stirred beneath her silk sheets. The thick drapes were pulled back from the window frames to allow the night sky to show its moon, stars, and planets while breathing cool night air into her chambers. As the rays crept ever closer to the slumbering figure under the silk sheets and exotic fur blankets, it seemed to hesitate. The beam of light considered the figure lying beneath the bedding; her slender, lithe form, skin the color of rich soil, face hidden beneath the cascading raven hair. The sun stopped short of touching the bedposts and seemed to retreat at the recognition of whose chamber it had entered. As the burning orb rose higher into the morning sky, the light faded from the bedroom and slowly meandered its way back to the open window facing east. It lingered at the sill, as if it considered approaching the still figure once more, tempted to bath her in light, but the figure stirred slightly and the last of the light leapt from her presence into the bright morning sky.
The body under the sheets and canopy bed moved again, and in the first moments of awakening she felt it, the presence of a human, a boy bordering on manhood to be exact, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Her eyes remained closed, but she rolled over in bed, her smooth skin sliding easily against the slick silk sheets. Her tongue flicked out like a serpent and tasted the power the child brought to her world, and a slow smile opened across her ageless face, still hidden behind her long, rich, black hair.
Slowly sitting up in bed, her hair fell away from her face, only to envelop her shoulders, back, and breasts to become a midnight shawl of hair. She opened coal colored eyes in the still dark morning room, and the smile played across her face.
“What a glorious morning,” Lilith the Dark Queen of Illenduell said in her slightly raspy voice. She stepped from her bed, the cool morning air quickly turning her naked skin to goose flesh. Lilith approached the window sill facing East and the light seemed to shrink from her approach, the darkness enshrouded her; the light avoided her. She surveyed her Kingdom from her tower bed chamber, the highest peak in her castle, Dunkeln’Tocht in the Thorne Mountains.
“What a glorious mourning indeed…”
“Still, you might consider returning to London for the Season,” Lucy continued blithering on like her sister, Mariana might, “so as to find a wife.”
“A wha-a-a-t?”
She swore his shudder ran all way down to his boots.
So the Earl of Clifton had a fear of matrimony. That might work in her favor.
“A wife,” she supplied. “A countess. A lady of good bloodlines to supply you with an heir and a spare.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know what a wife is for.”
“Aren’t you worried about leaving your title without an heir?” She paused and lowered her voice. “If you don’t come back, that is.”
He glanced over at her, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes.
Oh, she’d hit the mark with that one.
“I have an uncle who is in line,” he said stiffly.
“Excellent. Is he married?”
“Yes.”
“A sensible fellow, then?”
There was a long, measured pause from the earl. “Not particularly.”
“How unfortunate. But perhaps he has heirs with the necessary qualifications?” she asked.
“Yes. Two sons.” The answer came out like a dog snapping at a bone.
Lucy pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. Oh, she had him now. Then she composed her next sally very carefully. If only so it landed like a cannonball at his feet.
“So you’ll marry when you return—that is to say if you return.”
His brows knit together and his arm stiffened.
Lucy wondered if, perhaps, she might have pushed him too far.
“I’ll return,” he said this with a finality that should have been enough right there to end the subject, that is if this had been an ordinary polite conversation.
But it wasn’t enough to stop Lucy.
“Of course you will, my lord. Most certainly,” she said, patting his arm as if consoling him over a lost wager. And a paltry one at that. Then she continued, “What sort of lady will you look for?”
“Excuse me?” He stumbled a bit and Lucy waited for him to get his footing and composure realigned before she once again thrust her question into his chest like a dagger.
“Your countess? However will you know her when you meet her?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.” Again his tone suggested that the subject was finished.
But oh, Lucy wasn’t. “That is where most men fail in these sort of things.”
“Fail?”
“Yes, fail. Utterly. You men don’t give enough consideration into the sort of woman you want to spend your life with. Instead you rather just sort of pick, like one might a race horse.”
“There is more to choosing a bride than that,” he said, in a stuffy sort of manner.
“How so?” she asked innocently, as if such matters were well beyond her ken. Then again, he hadn’t he least notion that she was leading him into a trap.
Both literally and figuratively.
“Well, I suppose I will have to consider a lady’s bloodlines,” he told her, in such a pompous manner that Lucy almost wished Rusty and Sammy would arrive now and save her from this lofty lecture. “Her education should be impeccable, and I will have to examine her suitability, her countenance, the way she holds herself in public.”
“Exactly as I said. Just as one chooses a racehorse,” Lucy pointed out.
“Not at all the same thing.”
She pulled to a stop. “By bloodlines, training and the turn of her lines. Isn’t that what you said?”
His jaws worked together, his gaze fixed and narrowed on the road ahead. “Yes.”
“Just like a racehorse, my lord.” And with that, she tugged him back into the track in the road and they continued on in silence.
Lucan and his brothers were dangerous. Not to themselves, but to everyone else. There was great evil out there, and it wanted to use them.
Three hundred years of confinement in the castle. But what else was there? They couldn’t be seen, not as they were, the monsters they had become. As the middle son, he had always been there to make peace for his brothers. A rock, solid and steady to keep them all together his mother had called him. He didn’t allow himself to think what was becoming of him and his soul.
Fallon had taken the role as heir to the clan seriously. Everything he did, everything he thought about was their clan. He hadn’t known what to do with himself when there was no clan, and with the beast constantly hammering for control and no way to reverse what had happened, he turned to the wine.
As for Quinn, they had nearly lost him to the beast. Lucan snorted. Beast seemed such an understated name. There was no monster inside them. It was a primeval god banished to the pits of Hell. Apodatoo, the god of Revenge, was housed within each of the MacLeod brothers. A god so ancient, there were no records or tellings of him. And he was far worse than any beast.
Whenever this despondent mood struck him, as if often did when it rained, Lucan took himself off to his chamber away from his brothers. They had their own worries. They didn’t need to see him grappling with his inner demons. He could wallow in his self-pity the rest of the day if he allowed himself. But he couldn’t. His brothers needed him.
He took a deep breath and started to turn away from the window when he something caught his eye. Lucan’s gaze narrowed as he spotted a breathtaking vision. It was a woman, a very young, shapely woman who had dared to come close enough to the castle that he could see the comeliness of her face heart-shaped face. He wished he could see the color of her eyes, but it was enough that he saw her full lips that begged to be kissed and her high cheek bones that turned pink in the wind.
And the thick, dark braid that hung down her back to her waist. What he wouldn’t do to see that hair unbound and falling about her shoulders. He fisted his hands and he imagined running his fingers through the tresses.
Her gown was plain and worn, but they didn’t disguise her small waist and rounded breasts. She moved with a freedom of one who enjoyed being outdoors, of one who reveled in the beauty around her. The gentle curving of her lips as she looked out at the sea tugged at something inside him. As if she wanted the freedom to fly on the wind currents.
She picked the mushrooms with care, her fingers tender as she placed them in the basket. When she stared at the castle, she had looked as if it pained her, as if she had known what had taken place.
"Let go of me," she said, fearing what might happen next.
Chris tightened his grip on her back and drew her closer to him. Her wet blouse stuck to her body, and his broad, naked chest touched hers. Annabelle could feel his heart racing against her chest and his breathing grew faster.
"And what if I didn't?" His eyes didn't leave hers. "I didn't put you in this position. Your clumsiness did. I saved your life."
Obviously, he aimed to anger her so she'd leave. His serious tone held something else she didn't understand. She didn't know her body's reaction-whether she enjoyed the closeness of his body or churned by anger at his teasing.
No, she was definitely enjoying this.
Frustrated by her urge to kiss him, she said, shaking, "M...my clumsiness! You're the one who dropped the soap! Besides, you left the bathroom floor all wet and-"
Chris grabbed her head with one hand and kissed her hard, the other hand securing her back to prevent her from escaping. He then softened his kiss, but somehow managed to convey the same hunger through it.
Did she fight? No, she didn't.
Paralysis conquered her, or she wished she could make that excuse. Annabelle never enjoyed a kiss like this before. His sensual lips drove her out of her senses, and her body melted against his. Chris released her in a gradual sensuous motion. When she opened her eyes, a victorious grin spread on his face. She knew exactly what he wanted her to feel in that kiss-that he could control and weaken her. If she hated anything in life, it was feeling weak and letting people like him know the extent of her fragility.
A devilish smile took over Chris's lips as he once more clasped her waist. When Annabelle arched away, he caught her jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold it still. She stiffened, prepared to resist this time.
But he took her by surprise. His mouth barely brushed hers, a delicate touch that raised goose bumps on her arms. Playful, seductive lips toyed with hers, the kiss as tempting as sweets to a starving child. Until now, she didn't know how starved she really was. But his mouth feeding on hers made hunger knot inside her stomach-a hunger for the unknown and exotic.
Chris planted his lips on hers firm and sure, and her world wobbled around her. His fingers traced the line of her jaw in a whispery stroke left her skin heated and tingling for more. Pressing his thumb on her chin, he opened her mouth then plunged his tongue inside. She froze from the sudden intimacy, but he calmed her with his hand and stroked the base of her throat where her pulse beat erratically. Annabelle couldn't help relaxing beneath his soft touches.
He deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth as if it were made of honey he wanted to relish. With each foray of his tongue, he tasted and caressed her so provocatively she wondered about her sanity. Her pulse pounded in her ears. This disarming pleasure exceeded her expectations. Annabelle closed her eyes, surrounded in the arousing richness of his mouth exploring hers.
Tentatively, she slipped her tongue into his mouth. With a groan, he pulled her hips toward him. Exquisite pleasure raced from her head to the tips of her toes. He swept his tongue through her mouth as if he owned her. His hands cupped her buttocks, and he squeezed them hard.
This madness has to end.
James tossed and turned. In his dream, he lived a nightmare of the past. He tried to block out the scene that played on the canvas of his mind, but neither the images nor the voices would disappear.
“Go then, and good riddance.” Brakes screeched as a fire-engine red Pontiac raced over the bridge and struck Elaine. Her shrill scream cut through the early evening hours. She flew up onto the hood of the car, bounced twice, and landed hard on the pavement. Traffic on Palmento Park Road backed up for miles as she lay dying just across the street from her favorite restaurant. Blood oozed from her head and puddle on the hot asphalt.
James sat straight up in bed. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Screams echoed in his mind, along with a vision of his wife dying just a few feet away from him. He’d had this dream on every anniversary of Elaine’s death for the past twelve years. Had he pushed her? He might have wanted to, but in his right mind, he would never have killed anyone. Even though he’d never been baptized, he’d been brought up Christian. By the time he was six years old, he knew the Ten Commandments.
Though the fatal accident had happened years ago, the day remained crystal clear in his mind. When he’d awakened that morning, he’d gone for his usual walk on the beach. It was hot and humid, unbearable so for 6:30 a.m., although this weather was not unusual for Florida. The heavy, rain-laden clouds and warm waters of the Atlantic promised that a tropical storm was brewing.
Lately, his mind had been as stormy as the weather forecast. He’d been hearing voices again, voices that drove him past the edge of sanity. When Elaine had been killed, Bobby had only been three years old. After that day, he’d raised his son alone. Perhaps Bobby had been better off without a mother, like the voices had said.
Elaine had been unfaithful to him for as long as he could remember. Steve had told he’d seen her in restaurants with men when he’d been out of town. Since Steve had been a friend of his mother’s for most of her life, he had no reason to doubt him. When he’d accused Elaine, she’d denied it. She’d wanted a divorce, full custody of their son, alimony child support and their home. He’d desperately wanted her out of the way. Maybe he had pushed her. Was this Elaine’s way of punishing him if he had? By haunting him?
This excerpt is set in 1958 Northern Territory, Australia where a father and his son rescue a friendly alien, Scaba, who in his haste, accidentally crashed into Earth.
You mean . . . you . . . aliens, will live beneath the moon’s surface?”
“Of course, we are equipped with enough technology that can provide us with life support, food, and medicinal supplies—everything we need to keep our species alive and keep up our exploration missions too."
“This sounds like a fantastic science fiction movie,” Homer commented.
“Oh, it is far from fictional. In fact, it is a shame Earth’s sciences and physics are so comparatively primitive and limited due to such slow gain in your technological abilities. I guess that is one disadvantage being so far away from other intelligent life.”
Homer frowned, trying his best to take it all in. To save face he reiterated, “So you come from two hundred and fifty million light years away and had an enemy ship chasing you? But, two hundred and fifty million light years, how can anyone or anything travel that distance so fast? I mean, we can look through our telescopes and see the past by studying galaxies outside our own. Like the Andromeda Galaxy, relatively close to Earth at a mere two million light years away. It is the factor of the speed of light which takes so long to reach Earth.”
“Homer, your Earth astronomy, and physics are, well, sufficient for your race . . . for now. Please realize that most humans are not quite ready to . . . understand there are other intelligent life forms that exist in different dimensions as well as your own.”
Scaba saw the look of disappointment in Homer’s eyes. “As I said, most humans . . . there are exceptions like you and your son of course."
Denver eager to keep the conversation flowing with their new friend said, “I heard you speak to me when we were rescuing you, but it hurt when we were driving here.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that, the pain I was in leached into the mind telepathy I used. If it is not controlled it can hurt and even kill. My judgment was not very sound due to my condition, so when I sensed you moving away from the ship, I became . . . concerned. I knew you would understand the SOS signal I sent through.”
“We sure did, and here we are,” Homer said. “What about this plague, this enemy, why did they attack you and will they ever track you here?”
He paused. “One day perhaps . . . One of their fleet contacted us stating they were peaceful explorers and wanted to share geographical information regarding our planet . . .”
Scaba’s voice took on a bitter tone. “We welcomed them, and they in turn violently turned on us. Right now they are stripping our home world of its resources. They knew we were a passive race and did not have any real means to defend ourselves against their assault. When they discovered we were all telepathic, which they saw as a possible weapon against them, they began to systematically execute us."
Scaba looked at the two humans staring intently at him. “They call themselves the Trimadians. And I hope you never encounter them in your lifetime.”
Homer felt sorry for Scaba and what he had experienced. But at the same time he could not speak—he was too caught up in the moment.
Aliens have been here, long ago. An alien is standing talking to me right now!
“That’s a cool name,” commented Denver.
“I’m sure you won’t want to meet them, young one,” said Scaba solemnly. “Admittedly, the Trimadians have amazing skills creating hardy ships. My immediate concern is cleaning up the dent we have made in the ground, which I can rectify. But I must do so before any of your military forces investigate. They may have tracked the ship in your atmosphere, and I will take no chances. When I do leave, I have a device that can hide or cloak the ship for the time I am journeying to your moon. This should only take a couple of Earth minutes, but I need to check all the systems before I lift off again.”
Homer and Denver looked at each other. “I gather you will not want us to breathe a word of this, would you?” Homer ventured.
“You are correct; our nature is not to interfere with another planet’s evolutionary phases, simply to observe. The consequences for your people could be quite disastrous, and I must look after my race.
Homer’s mind geared into overdrive. He made a decision. This was a chance of a lifetime. He had lots of bizarre ideas over time and several years ago he had a daydream (while on the toilet) about a scenario similar to this. No, Scaba was right, the world was not quite ready for the truth, but he knew what he could do. “What if we came to an agreement that would help each of us?”
“What do you mean, Homer?”
“My late wife left me a lot of money most of which is invested. It all goes to Denver no matter what. I am involved with a small group of fellow astronomers who all share similar beliefs, especially the search for extraterrestrial life. I can use this money to raise more funds to invest in developing technologies and communications. If you are only based on the moon, we can easily communicate. I am very passionate about astronomy and so is young Denver. Meeting you is, well, fate." Scaba smiled. “I have picked up your radio signals before. You would be amazed just how far they can travel. Several years earlier, we have closely visited your planet, especially the land units you call your United States, Russia, and this huge warm continent, Australia.”
Scaba looked at Homer intently. “You seem to be a man of honor, Homer. When I corresponded telepathically with you and Denver, I sensed you were genuine and kind in your hearts and I know you are a man of your word. Perhaps I can help you by sharing a little of our technology with you, like developing a ship. I can sense you enjoy science and engineering, especially you, Denver, though you may not realize just how insightful you are. But ultimately, my people’s existence has to be secret. If it gets out about our agreement together, what is your Earth saying? All hell will break loose. You humans do tend to blow things up and then ask questions."
Homer was trembling with excitement. He would agree to anything. “I agree, and we will help with whatever we can do. Can you contact me later, and I will arrange a meeting with some of my colleagues?”
"Affirmative. However, there is not much you can do here now. I would suggest you leave and get to your vehicle, as I need to cover up the damage I created to your terra firma. Retreat a good distance for safety.”
He winked at Denver. “I am sure we will meet many times in the future, Denver.”
Here's a teaser of Eden's upcoming paranormal inspirational manuscript that is still in the works. Enjoy!
He was as good as dead.
As the bullets ripped into him, their impact jerking him around like a puppet on a string, mercenary Talon McNeal had only one last dying regret.
He’d never get to exact revenge on the bastard that did this to him.
Damn, he hated when that happened.
As he fell to the ground, the world turned dim and slowly faded away. Utter and complete blackness engulfed him for just a moment before a pinpoint of light caught his attention. It looked far away and unreachable, but the overwhelming urge to get closer took control. He strained toward it, and as he did, the small circle of light grew, widening outward, little by little.
Almost there. Talon could feel the warmth, feel the comfort and sense of belonging that lay ahead. It was a place he yearned for, a place of forgiveness, peace and acceptance. Finally, no more violence, bitterness or killing. No more pain. At last, somewhere he could call home.
He wanted that.
He needed it.
Desperately.
But it wasn’t meant to be. Just as he was about to reach the light, hands bit painfully into each arm, dragging him away. He saw no one, yet he struggled against a power beyond his control. It was useless. He was being pulled back, back to the other side, to darkness, chaos and pain. To the place where he would pay for all the wrongs he had done. He didn’t want to go there. Everything in him screamed to move forward, toward the light, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. The light was for the good, only the good, and he was oh so bad.
“You may not take him.”
The voice that rang out was pure and strong and filled with warmth and comfort. Talon yearned to hear it’s absolute goodness again, but instead a maniacal laugh was what he heard. The evil twisted sound of it slithered through him, invading his senses in a way that left him shaking.
“He’s mine. We both know that.”
“I disagree.”
“Why would you deny me this one? He’s murdered so many. He’s nothing more than a killer, and for what? Greed. He did it for the money. How can he belong to you?”
“He just does, for now.”
“For now?”
“Yes. Time will tell who he really belongs to. And if it’s shown that he is nothing more than you what you say, then, and only then, can you take him.”
Silence.
Talon waited, hoped and feared, all at the same time.
The hands around his arms slowly released.
“Agreed.”
Relief flooded through him. He struggled toward the light again, needing to get to it. Needing all that it offered. A hand grasped his arm, once more holding him back. But this time it was gentle.
“You may not enter. It’s not your time, yet.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking around him in confusion. Although he saw no one, he felt the power of the voice in its touch, and in its energy all around him.
“You need to prove yourself, Talon. I know the kind of life you’ve lived. I know all that you have done. There are no secrets from me.”
Talon felt shame. He felt like nothing more than the low life killer he was.
“But I also know the man you are inside. I’m aware of your code of honor, and the boundaries you set in what you do. It’s because of that, and only bwcause of that I am giving you a second chance.”
“A second chance for what?”
“A second chance to do things right. To show me that the man I see inside can make a difference in the world, not by killing, but by saving lives.”
“But-I don’t’ understand. How-”
“Enough. You will go back as one of my angels. I’ll send someone to guide you in this journey, but remember this, he can not help you and he can not tell you what the right choices are. Only you can do that. He is there merely to show you what you face and give you as much information as possible to aid your cause. Never forget that the decisions you make will determine exactly who you belong to.”
Talon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Him? An angel?
He wanted to argue, but felt himself being gently pushed backwards, away from the light. He still strained toward it, but its circle grew smaller and smaller and was just about to disappear when the voice spoke one last time.
“I believe in you, Talon. Don’t let me down. Don’t let yourself down.”
After that, everything went black once more.
© Copyright 2009 Eden Robins
There was something in his gaze, but she couldn't quite grasp it. Concern. Yes, that could be it. After all, he was a brother of her friend trying to console her, to make her feel better because a member of his gender hurt her.
"You have no idea how powerful your charm is, do you?" Wolf said in a soft tone that caressed her stomach.
Beautiful and perfect. Now I'm charming. "You think I have a charm?"
"Yes."
"And you find me attractive."
"Very."
Was he telling the truth or it was his nature to be kind to any woman he found crying in the dark. "Are you being honest right now?"
"Madeline, I am telling you the truth."
Madeline took a deep breath and met his stare. "So if I ask you to make love with me right now, you'll do it." It wasn't a question but a challenge.
"What?"
"Make love with me. Right here. Now."
Wolf raised his brows, then blinked as if trying to remove something stuck in his eyes "I beg your pardon?"
She knew it. The you-look-perfect-charming-and-pretty bit was a lie, an attempt to make her feel better. A joke. Reality bit her hard and it hurt. Madeline bit her lower lip to stop from crying. The effort didn't work. She looked away as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. This time she didn't bother wiping them. Edward hated it when she cried. And Wolf would probably swim on the cold Puget Sound water just to get away from a crybaby like her if he wasn't Diana's brother.
Wolf's finger touched her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Madeline, look at me. I'm not sure I heard you correctly."
"Yes, you heard me right. I asked you to make love with me. You said I'm attractive. I wanted to know if you're lying."
"I'm not lying. But I don't think I could--"
"I know. It was an irrationally stupid question."
"Don't get me wrong. You're very attractive, but--"
"I'm not your type."
"Madeline, your question surprised me and--"
"Having sex with a woman with rough hands from cutting stems never crossed your mind. Don't worry, I'm not mad. I put you on the spot. That's not very nice of me. It's just what you said challenged me. Now I know the truth."
"The truth being…"
"You're only being kind to me because I am Diana's friend."
"You are beautiful."
"Stop. We're just going around in circles. Besides, it doesn't matter. Edward broke up with me because he realized I'm not attractive and interesting. I can accept that."
"Ignore what he said and stop belittling yourself."
"Wolf, I'm dispropor--" Warm hands cupped her face, preventing her from moving her head even an inch. "What are you doing?"
"Shutting you up."
Before her mind could process what he was up to, his lips crushed hers. Surprised, she did nothing but look at his closed eyes.
"Close your eyes, Madeline, and open your mouth."
"But you're shutting me up, hmm…" Whatever it was she wanted to say left her brain when Wolf's swift tongue plunged and explored every recess of her mouth, leaving wonderful tastes of wine and man. Like a hot drink going down her throat, his touch and kiss warmed her body. Giving herself freely to the passion of his kiss, she began to relax. She should stop him, but like an ice cream on a hot sunny day, she wanted one more lick. There was something in his kiss. Like fire, it quickly consumed her. Countless times in the past, she imagined how it would feel like to be kissed by him. Now she knew. It was like soldering heat that joins metal.
Madeline closed her eyes. Her senses quickly zeroed in on his hands against her cheeks and…heavens, the hard pulsing cock pressed against her hipbone. She flattened her hands on his chest. Warm and hard, his chest muscles flexed every time he moved. He felt good beneath her palms. While her need to be touched grew stronger, her knees felt weaker. She felt intoxicated and…god help her, lusty.
Drunk from the heady sensation, Madeline captured his exploring tongue and sucked him gently. The groaning sound he made encouraged her to get bolder. She wrapped her arms around him and closed whatever small gap was left between them.
"Madeline, you taste so good, better than an expensive wine," he whispered. "I could kiss you all night." He gripped her hip and pulled her tight against him.
"You're just saying that to make me feel better." She felt him pulse against her belly.
"Will you stop and believe me when I say you're a very attractive woman?"
Hearing the word attractive again, she ended the breathy kiss. "I wish I could believe you."
"What can I do to make you believe me?"
"Make love with me."
Alex Marlow had just been tasked to guard the richest woman in the universe. He wondered why he wasn’t twitchy.
Of course, his team hadn’t been told that yet. Nor had he started the mission. Both of those would raise the stress level.
He and four of them were awaiting the sixth member, who was uncharacteristically late.
“Where the hell is Elke?” Aramis snapped in frustration.
“She’s probably mining her apartment for practice, or defusing her comm, or having an intimate experience with her shotgun,” Jason Vaughn offered. “Regardless, you’re not going to make her appear faster.” He smiled wryly.
Aramis was a bit more than half Jason’s age, and it showed. He twitched, all youth and energy. Jason sat in a couch, comfortable and calm.
For calm, however, Jason had nothing on Bart Weil, the big German, who leaned against the wall and barely gave evidence of being alive. His eyes took in everything, though.
That left Horace “Shaman” Mbuto, the team’s surgeon, as the odd one out. He was older even than Alex, ancient by the standards of executive protection, and making use of the time to inventory a surgical kit.
They seemed a bit motley, but in the executive protection business, they were the best, and had been a team for a year now. He couldn’t imagine breaking them up. The mixed skill sets meshed perfectly, and the personality clashes were minor and only added flavor. They were Ripple Creek Security’s star bodyguards, and paid accordingly.
Luckily, money was not a problem for their new principal.
His musing was interrupted when he saw familiar movement out in the turnaround.
“Here she comes,” he said.
Jason felt better when he saw Elke. He worried about her when she was late. They’d been friends a long time, and saved each others’ butts more times than he could count. Probably everyone knew her persona was largely an act, but he knew the real Elke. She really was a performance artist who worked with explosives, but under that, she was very human. She just didn’t let it peek out often.
She slipped in the door and closed it behind her. The window darkened with polarizing as Alex pushed the control, and she drew a heavy drape across. Jason activated the dampening gear on the table next to him, and a few other security measures happened. It wasn’t as secure as some military areas, but it should be plenty for what they needed, he hoped. Alex seemed a bit twitchy, though he probably thought he looked dead calm.
Alex stayed sitting, but said, “I assume you all realize we have a mission.”
Bart said, “I was hoping we would be told of a pay raise and free beer.”
“You know better,” Alex replied. “We have a medium duration project, on and off Earth, in civilian environments. That means limited weapons and explosives.”
Elke said, “I will send you the usual protests on this theory.”
Alex smiled back, “And I will file them in the usual way.”
Banter aside, Jason understood the concern. High profile civilian missions could be worse than those in war zones. Everyone knew you were unarmed, and your response was basically to say, “Stop, or I’ll call the police!” That, or throw yourself in front of incoming fire. It came down to tactics, evasion, diversion in lieu of any confrontation of any kind. That was always the goal, of course, but for putative peacetime missions it was a legal and real imperative.
Aramis said, “I notice we haven’t been told who we’re guarding.”
Elke said, “I assume we haven’t been told for a reason.” She gave a hint of smile.
Alex smiled back. “You assume correctly. The OPSEC is necessary. However, you can be told now.” He touched a command, which put the full screen up.
“This is our principal,” he said, and gave them time to wrap their brains around it. The silence lasted about a minute.
Aramis said, “She’s…”
Jason offered, “Stunning.”
“Actress? Model?” Bart asked. “She’s not one I recognize.”
“Caron Elain Prescot,” Alex said.
“The Prescot ExtraSolar Ores Group?” Elke asked.
“Yes. Daughter of the owner.”
“He’s worth how much?” Shaman asked.
Jason, now caught up, said, “There’s no way to count. He’s primary shareholder of the company, and they own an entire freaking star system full of readily exploitable minerals. More money than most governments can get to play with, and no need to worry about appeasing a populace. He treats his employees well, I understand.”
“Yes,” Alex said. “The employees are not likely to be a problem, other than the occasional awestruck miner who doesn’t know who she is and wants a date.”
“Do I recall,” Shaman said, leaning back in his seat with a furrowed brow, “that several other major shareholders are unhappy with the state of affairs?”
“Former shareholders,” Alex said. “It’s been thirty years since Prescot Mining bought an option on mineral extraction rights for the system. The initial plan was terraforming. That proved infeasible, so the original title holders sold it off. However, Prescot was able to argue successfully that they retained rights based on capital outlay, not bundled with the rest. Several other nations and groups all bought in and out on rights to the system, in a decades-long financial poker game. Several times exploratory parties and habitats were started, and abandoned. Eventually, they all defaulted or cancelled and abandoned.”
“Which puts the system up for grabs again,” Jason said. “Except that Prescot’s claim was never abandoned.”
“Right. They basically inherited the jump point and had mineral rights to the system. They landed a habitat and laid the balance of claim, and started shipping minerals back, at a loss. Even some of the stockholders pulled out, and their consortium investors and backers dropped them.”
“I remember watching that on the stock scroll,” Jason said with a grin. He’d always respected accomplishment. “The volume increased as they plowed capital into development of new tech. Once they reached break even, they had this asymptotic growth curve for about a month, then it got taken off the charts completely because it buried everything else.”
“From millions to billions?” Elke asked.
“From millions in a billion Mark operation to trillions, quadrillions, no one knows how much,” Alex said. “The Prescot family holdings went from a significant minority to majority shareholders, they basically bought their family company back, and then acquired an entire system of assets.”
“And it’s our job to protect his daughter against jealous rivals,” Bart said. “He can afford us, and they are hiring us because they think it’s worth it.”
Aramis said, “So a private citizen is spending enough money to buy a small house every week to have us watch his daughter? Why does that sound like we'll be earning it?”
“Yes,” Alex agreed with a nod. “It’s not just us. We get the daughter. Jace Cady’s team gets facilities again—she’s got the estate, basically. Our pilots are going to take over any ship with a family member on it, and unannounced. The boss will assign them from a pool at the last moment, so no one can make a concrete plan. This family earns in seconds what we earn in weeks.” Read More......
The muffled opening click of a car door broke the silence, and Trent moved to see the person getting out - more like slithering out - of the SUV.
A slim pair of legs emerged and wobbled uncertainly for a second when the sandal-clad feet hit the asphalt. When the door closed, he saw a short denim dress hugging a tiny frame. Straight black hair brushed the shoulders and the lapels of the collar, and framed a lovely, delicate face.
Trent had to blink a few times. The woman, or the girl, looked like a life-size doll. She stood barely taller than five feet, and was so small it looked like he could encircle her waist with his hands. Her eyes were deep-set and dark, rimmed with dark kohl. Her golden skin was pale underneath her makeup, and she bit her full lips, as if trying to work some color into them.
“Thank God that dog is alive,” she said in a light, youthful voice. “I sure would’ve hated to have killed it. Lucky there isn’t any damage.”
Her voice reminded him of laughter, and the tinkling of fragile crystal flutes. Shaking off the bizarre notion, he focused on her words, and a slow throb built in his blood. The overwhelming feeling settled as a twitch in his cheek, and he winced when a stab of pain shot from his clenched jaw.
No damage? She thought there was no damage? What about his car? “Lady, you just demolished my car.”
Nothing betrayed her cool composure when her gaze traveled to his rental car and back again onto him. “Sorry, but you hit from behind. You’re at fault.”
He opened his mouth to give her a fitting reply, but only a gasp escaped him. She’d stopped dead in the middle of the road, and it was his fault? Was she unconscious or what? “If it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She pursed her full lips, and her chin jutted out in a fierce way as her hands settled on her hips. She craned her slender neck to look into his face. “Well, I should’ve killed the dog? That’s what you wanted?” she asked. “And you wouldn’t have jammed into my car if you hadn’t been tailgating me.”
“I wasn’t tailgating you—”
“Yes, you were,” she replied with defiance. “And you were speeding, at least a hundred where the limit is eighty.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “Miss, you were going faster than me, so don’t get on your high horse here.”
“Stop evading the issue. It’s your fault.”
Disbelief strangled his throat as he stared at her. She glared back, not in the least bit intimidated by the fact he towered above her by more than a foot. At the same time, he flinched under her accusing words. Kill the dog. Right - like he’d have wanted to kill a poor animal. What was it about this scrap of a girl that had him so ruffled? A thought struck him, and he voiced it out loud. “Are you even old enough to drive?”
“I’m twenty-four years old, for your information,” she spat out.
“Jeez, that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he retorted. What difference did it make if she was legal? Other than she could be held responsible for the accident.
“My car is damaged, and it’s your fault.”
Her dark eyes grew even darker as they narrowed on him. Fire - or ice - burnt in them. Her voice however dripped with frost when she said, “I thought British men were supposed to be courteous.”
“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t believe it. She’d done it again - he was struck speechless.
Her hand fluttered before her in an evasive gesture as she shook her head. “You know, proper British manners. Can’t say you’ve shown any so far.”
“How do you know I’m British? Does it read not-from-Mauritius somewhere on my face?”
“Your accent,” she replied. “You speak just like Hugh Grant.”
Hugh Grant? That pasty-faced pin-up? “Thanks. That’s a very positive compliment.”
Trent had the pleasure of seeing his sarcasm unsettle the unnerving Miss Know-it-all. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession as she glowered at him.
“You’re so...” she paused and seemed to look around for the proper word. “Obnoxious,” she spat out a few seconds later.
He’d been called many things in his life, but this one was a first. And coming from a tiny lady like her, he didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. It was a long time since he’d had such a verbal joust with someone. He had to admit it was as stimulating as it was unnerving. But dammit, he had no time to ponder upon that. He was getting late. And he itched to shut that busybody up.
“Jeez, that’s incredible,” he said. “A pretty head as yours came up with such a big word. I sure hope you won’t get a nosebleed from too much brain activity—”
He stopped short when he noticed something on her face. Horrified, he stood there, his jaw slackening as his mouth hung open.
“What?” she asked.
He pointed at her face. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”
Here's the flap blurb:
Using a divining rod or a crystal pendulum, dowser Trini Bates can locate the unseen: underground water, buried minerals, lost valuables.
Some claim she’s a wonder worker.
Others say she’s a liar, a cheat, a fake.
Trini is neither saint nor charlatan. Recently widowed, she only wants to be left alone to grieve. However, when her brother’s bootlegging partner disappears, Trini is summoned from her seclusion to dowse for his whereabouts. She finds his body at the bottom of a Colorado canyon, but she’s devastated when the sheriff accuses Parn—the brother she raised after their mother’s death—of murder.
Trini admits her brother is wild and reckless, but he’s not a murderer.
And if he’s innocent, then who is guilty?
Trini’s investigation plunges her into the bloody Prohibition world of moonshine and machine guns. She discovers Sheriff George Mallis hides a secret. Before he wore a sheriff’s badge, he spearheaded the largest illegal liquor trade in Colorado—a trade that cost him the lives of his sons. Mallis blames Parn for their deaths, and Trini is terrified he will wreak his vengeance on an innocent man.
Mallis isolates his prisoner in jail. Her only link to Parn is through the chief deputy—a man willing to risk his job for Trini’s affection, a complication that rocks her fragile emotional balance. Trini bonds with the murder victim’s children, and with their help, unearths disturbing truths about her brother’s life. When her dowsing fails to find a friend’s missing daughter, Trini realizes her doubts about Parn’s innocence have sabotaged her ability. Even when the children are threatened and someone tries to kill her, her precious gift lies dormant. Somehow, Trini must reclaim her power if she’s to save the children, her brother and finally, her own life.
And a short excerpt:
Merle Woodson is missing, and Trini’s brother is questioned about his disappearance. Here, Trini uses her dowsing talent to locate Woodson’s body. She hopes her discovery will prove her brother’s innocence, but of course, it has the opposite affect, and her brother is accused of murder.
The crystal swiveled at the end of the twine like a child’s toy spin-top in motion.
“Where is the man?” Trini said.
A tickle on the ends of her fingers signaled the talent was awakening. She moved the crystal an inch west so that it hovered above the town of Jackson. The instrument became a tiny pendulum swaying above the map, an infinitesimal movement that she wondered if she felt more than saw. Not yet. Not yet.
She moved the crystal again, an inch to the north, over the hamlet of Walsh’s Hole. Just keep open. Keep loose. It’s coming now. It’s coming.
“Show me the man,” she repeated.
The energy surged into her hands, and the crystal increased its sway. The whorls on Trini’s fingertips swelled and throbbed, her hands flamed crimson and the skin appeared to stretch near bursting. At the end of her motionless fingers, the string and the crystal turned in a perfect circle the size of silver dollar. Her veins jutted like mountain ranges winding their way up her forearms into her biceps, and she felt pinpricks along the top of her arms.
As the crystal turned, the sensation deepened; the pinpricks became deep talons that dug into her flesh. Heat, then burning ice, seared her arms, her shoulders and chest, and the muscles in her neck. She didn’t know how much more she could take. In the back of her mind, she registered surprise; the dowsing had never hurt like this. She must be more nervous than she thought.
One final surge of her energy to her reddened fingertips and she knew she’d found her target. She withdrew the crystal, set it on the desk and massaged her bloated hands.
“Holy God,” whispered Taggert.
“Trini, are you all right?” asked Roy.
“Yes, I’m all right. And I think you’ll find Merle Woodson right here.”
Connacht, Ireland 916 AD
I shall marry this woman, Dægan Ræliksen decided. It had been over a fortnight since he first followed her through the green meadows to the waters of the River Shannon, watching her intently. Observing her seemed to give him great pleasure, and every day he would anticipate her arrival, secretly longing to hold her in his arms. Only lately did he grow impatient with his desire for her that this day, he settled on, would finally be the day he’d put his suffering to an end and make her his wife.
She stood amid the knee-high grasses and flowers in a long white flowing tunic, hemmed with an embroidery of vibrant gold at the ankles and wrists. The sleeves were long and tapered. The bodice mildly followed the curves of her dainty torso, blooming into a tasteful neckline that allowed just a slight hint of cleavage to show before a single jeweled brooch, under her chin, fastened a matching cloak at her shoulders.
In days passed, her tunics included colors of deep crimson, indigo, and sometimes an earthy beige, but today’s choice, he noted, was his favorite. She embodied the very likeness of a beautiful Valkyrie, save for her lack of weapons and fair hair. Her color was distinctly dark with shades of auburn glistening like radiant sunlight upon long russet curls. Her skin was smooth like fresh buttermilk and her smile, like a cool drink of water. She stood no taller than his shoulders, but she easily filled the empty space in his heart, if not the entire expanse of his mind for the past weeks.
By her attire, Dægan could only guess her to be an Irish maiden of wealthy descent. This, too, excited him, for in contrast to her befitting nature, she was rugged and spirited, riding her stallion as well as any of his mounted hirdmen to this specific place every day, yet still looking elegant upon it.
In the long hours that she had spent alone, no man had ever summoned or demanded her presence. He found this quite odd, for she was old enough for bedding and young enough for bearing solid, healthy sons. She came and went as she pleased, heedless to the fact that she was the object of another’s longing. Instead, she would often sing, tickling his heart with her exuberant voice, an Irish ballad that danced in his soul.
He was unexpectedly mesmerized by her, chained to the very thought that she could be all his if he only dared to make his presence known. That, in itself, would prove to be the most difficult, for he dreaded that his countrymen’s reputation as savage foreigners would precede any valiant attempt at meeting civilly. He was a handsome man with a persuasive charm, or at least he was told so by other women who had fancied him. Yet he knew an effective come hither approach would not be enough to swoon the innocent soul before him.
He had pondered his options last night over a scanty dinner of roasted rabbit, and had come up with the idea of “saving her” from the rampant run of a conveniently spooked steed. It could be done easily enough, assuredly changing her views of a savage foreigner to that of a hero, and quite possibly obtaining the affable encounter for which he so wished. But now, by midmorning, the idea seemed utterly ridiculous. There were too many possibilities for things to go wrong. The horse could rear and topple her from its back. He could have difficulties even catching up with her horse once it fled. Or worse, the horse may not even spook at all.
Discouraged, Dægan continued to gaze through the trees and brush at his enchanting maiden, wanting so desperately to step out and make himself known. But how? How could he show his face without frightening her?
He did know a little bit of Irish, given that he had made his home off the west coast of Ireland for the past two years. Being a merchant, he also needed to know enough of the language to make certain he was getting a good trade for the spices he had imported from the southern lands. He could even boast smooth-tonguing a few endearments in the beautiful lilting Gaeilge, but he knew this woman only had to look at him to know he was not Irish.
Every idea, no matter how promising it seemed, had its pitfall. He could only close his eyes and pretend to exist in a different world. And how grand a world he could envision behind closed lids; a place where they could meet without apprehension, smile without pause, and converse without falsehoods. What he wouldn’t give to make that world a reality…
But as Dægan opened his eyes in weary disappointment, he caught his breath to find her walking closer to him. His body became rigid, his heart raced, and only then did he notice just how fiery his blood could run through his veins. The distance between them was diminishing slowly with each of her steps and he had not a plan for with to remedy this turn of events.
Fleeting ideas swarmed his brain like dancing bees. ‘Tis too soon in the day for pilfering and much too foolish to be thinking it. The only halfway respectable idea that came to mind was to lie down and fake an injury. Perhaps he could say he’d fallen from his own horse, appearing helpless and pitiful, conceivably someone in dire need of care and kindness. But for some reason, he did not drop to his back and put that plan into motion. He sat frozen, only staring as she stopped a few feet from him to peer blindly into the thicket.
“Who’s there?”
Her voice was like springtime; genuinely sweet with a pleasant, melodic tone that could very well warm a chilled soul after a long daily Erin rain. It was with this thought that he drew in a slow breath, catching her airy spiced scent that sifted between the summer green leaves of the hedge plant separating them. And he wondered if Valkyries smelled as good as she did.
Suddenly, from behind her, Dægan could see several dark figures emerging on the shores of the River Shannon. Although their distance was too far, he managed to make out that they were not alone. Coming closer were three more longboats flaunting red and white sails. He did not recognize the men, but he knew from the shape and adornments on the prow that they were like him, Norse.
By this time, four men had pulled the vessel out of the water and others were descending from each side. Their numbers were large and men who came in sizeable fleets were not usually merchants, but hirdmen who were following their chieftain into a devastating raid for booty—or worse yet—war!
Dægan reacted with lightening speed and pulled the Irish maiden to the ground before she could say another word.
Her captor was a brawny brute in his prime, just as weighty as he was tall, and without much effort he stifled her screams of terror with a simple hardened hand to her mouth, while his other hand matched her frantic squirming. His legs pushed hers to the ground and held them there like they were nothing but the meager limbs of a child.
He was strong. Oh, God, how he was strong! But she refused to give in, and threw wide her mouth, biting the bulge of skin on his palm that lay across her lips.
Dægan retracted his hand from her vengeful jaws, and in an instant, she catapulted her forehead into his nose, a maneuver he had not expected a woman to know. The pain in his face was severe, and he dropped his head, giving way to the blood that started to flow from both nostrils and down around his mouth.
She tried again to wiggle free, but he seemed to almost collapse upon her, limiting her chances of profiting from her clever defense. His body was heavy and hot against hers, his hair stringing in her face as he drooped limply at her neck.
Dægan felt as if everything around him was going black, and whatever remained in his tunnel-view, was in complete vertigo. Despite the slip of consciousness that was rushing through him, he could still feel her relentless thrashing beneath him. He tightened his hold on her, grasping for strength as if his very will to stay coherent were cinched around her fragile little wrists. The only thing that kept him from dozing into a helpless sleep was the acute awareness of his own blinding agony, for it had now become his only incessant thought. He forgot the woman, her sweet alluring voice, her carefree mornings, and her lighthearted dances amidst the tall flowers of the Erin meadow. All he knew now was the pain in his face and the indignant wrath that followed right behind it.
A deep moan escaped him, and it was in that moment, when she had turned her head to avoid his bloody face, that she, too, saw the accumulation of more men coming ashore. I shall die this day, she thought.
Read More......
The students spent the next two weeks in the classroom, their evenings completely taken up with studying. The food was much better quality than they were used to. They stuffed themselves with tasty entrees, homemade bread and bakery goods. Waistlines began to bulge.
“Kate, this is disgraceful. I can’t button my skirt. This gorging has got to stop,” Mary Lou moaned.
“But it’s all so good,” Kate said. She thought for a minute then screwed up her face. “Maybe we can compromise: no second help-ings and regular outdoor exercise. All we’ve been doing is sitting these last two weeks. If we’re not in class, we’re in this room, hitting the books.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mary Lou said. “In fact, let’s go out right now and measure out a course where we can run, or, at least, walk fast.”
The mid-December day was unseasonably mild. A harsh late afternoon light lay over the complex of buildings. The snow had packed hard after a freeze the previous week making walking easy. A soft breeze blew from the southeast.
“Boy, it’s nice out here,” Kate said.
“Don’t let it fool you,” Mary Lou said. “This is Chicago. You can’t trust the weather. You know that. You’ve lived here all your life. Tomorrow it could be in the teens or even lower. We’d better bundle up.”
The girls began a slow jog around the buildings. They passed the chapel, a small building that held nondenominational Sun- day services. The bakery lay to their right. The smell of fresh bread wafted on the air doubling their determination to exercise. Ahead the cottage wards looked almost like a run down suburban area. The original plan was to provide a home-like setting where patients could live in a family atmosphere instead of a large impersonal institution, but buildings were sadly overcrowded. They saw faces staring at them from the curtained windows. Most of them just stared, but a few disembodied hands appeared and waved slowly back and forth. They turned left at the pharmacy to a large open space behind the power plant.
“I wonder what’s down that way?” Mary Lou said. “It looks like a fence. See, way down at the end.” She pointed to wooden posts poking out of the snow. “Let’s find out.”
They ran the distance, but were breathing hard when they reached the fence.
“Boy,” Kate said blowing hard, “am I out of shape.” She leaned against the old rotting wood standing out at odd angles; in some places new posts replaced the old ones.
“Wow, it looks like a cemetery,” Mary Lou said. “See there where the snow’s melted? It’s a grave marker.”
“Are you sure? Let’s climb over.” Kate already had one leg over the low railing.
“No, we’ll get in trouble. Here I can reach my hand through. There, see where I’ve wiped the snow away?” She squinted at the faded markings. “It says Robert Gil—something. I can’t make it out, but the date is pretty clear. My God! It says 1848 to 1913. I wonder who all these people were.”
“I don’t know, but it’s kind of spooky.” Kate looked around. “Do you think there really is a ghost around here?”
Mary Lou shivered. “If there is, this is the place it would be lurking after dark. Let’s go back. I don’t want to be anywhere near here when the sun sets.”
At that moment an animal ran behind the cemetery fence. It turned and glared at them with yellow eyes.
“What was that?” Mary Lou said gripping a post.
“I don’t know,” Kate answered. “It looked like some kind of strange cat, but it’s awfully big.”
As Mary Lou looked around, the cat had disappeared, but she thought she saw someone slip behind a large oak tree. She froze. “I think someone’s behind that tree.”
Kate turned. “No, you’re imagination’s playing tricks on you, but let’s get out of here, right now.”
The girls ran without looking back, but Mary Lou could feel unfriendly eyes watching them. She tripped and fell over a mound of snow. When she tried to get up, her limbs refused to move. She saw that the light was just beginning to fade. Would someone or something grab her at any minute? She turned and thought she saw a figure blending in with the shadows of the trees. Was it the ghost or someone human? Scrambling to her feet, she hurried to catch up with Kate as they reached the shelter of the buildings. In the distance they heard a peculiar howl. It wasn’t the wind. Was it the animal they had seen? Or was it something else?
They were both breathing hard. “Someone was out there,” Mary Lou gasped. “I could feel it. Someone who didn’t want us at that cemetery and that strange howling.”
“It was probably that animal,” Kate said with little conviction in her voice. “Come on, forget about it. Let’s go to the dining room. It must be time for supper. I’m starved.”
Click on the book cover above or here to go to Amazon.com to purchase the book.
The Space Frontier
“We progress by reaching towards what has yet to be done.”
– Mission statement of the Confederational Regime
My name is Iain Daniel Bryce, that’s pronounced <Ī-yăn>, and I am a pirate but not in every sense of the word. I’ve done my share of swashbuckling and do indeed steal, and I won’t deny that I’ve occasionally pillaged, sometimes burned, from time to time wantonly destroyed many a thing in my day and, yeah, I’ve killed, but only when I was forced to, and truly took no pleasure in doing so. One thing I will adamantly deny, and dare anyone to say otherwise, is I’ve never, nor do I allow my men to rape! I’ll admit I am guilty of being a menace to society and imagine someday I will have to pay for the crimes I have committed, but not today!
I been called the Robin Hood pirate by some, which I don’t particularly like, I say leave the man to his own story and legend, I wanna make one of my own, but ‘cause I steal from them that’s got and give to them that don’t, I guess that’s a fairly accurate appellation. Some say I’m a hero and I guess to some I am, but not to anyone that really matters. I been called a god by some ‘cause I seem to be immortal and I guess to some it would seem that way as well, but believe me that’s far from the truth. I am just a man. I bleed red, I love and I hate like all them others, I can die, and someday will, hopefully of old age, but my life will most likely end in a far more bloody way. Difference between me and some of them others is I believe in something that’s bigger than me and that belief has helped me make it out of some right tight scraps, is all.
Before you is the first of my journals (hopefully one of many more); these chronicles are not meant as a declaration of my guilt, quite the contrary, they are intended to be a true account of my exploits as a BrimTier pirate aboard the diamond class star vessel Phoenix. Some of these stories will be rough in language and a bit graphic in content but then what would a pirate story be without? I haven’t changed the names to protect the innocent, partly because I don’t think there are any and partly because I believe in giving credit where credit is due. No doubt I’ll long be dust by the time anyone that could do anything to me for these pages reads them. Nor have I exaggerated, embellished or lessened a story to make it any more or less enjoyable. Everything you read between these covers will be exactly as it happened with the feelings and emotions of the people at the time. Even my own shortcomings will be laid out for all to see. (Yeah, I got a fair few!)
So now, how best to begin?
I suppose the best way is to give you some backstory to explain why I chose this way of life, since it was a conscious choice. First let me explain how the BrimTiers came to be then I’ll tell you a bit of my world.
The word BrimTier is a synonym for the space frontier – the last true frontier. We never found proof of aliens, though some still look – it’s a big frontier. By 2160, Earth had became the utopia everyone prayed for, disease and war becoming only brief passages in medical and history books, but this paradise lasted for only about fifty years then the truth of the situation became too much to dispute. It was finally admitted, though it caused more than a fair few tribulations, that this paradise hid an acrimonious side; without disease and war the death rates dropped while the birth rates continued to climb, at an alarming rate, meaning a great population boom.
By the year 2215 the increased population had all but depleted Earth’s already strained resources, forcing extreme measures. This did act as a jumpstart to the space program, which had been all but spinning its wheels for close to a hundred years; this jumpstart was more necessity than advance in true science, though some of the latter was achieved in the offing. Now, in 2261, we have people all over the known universe.
How was this achieved, you ask? Under pressure from the Confederational Regime, our current government, Earth’s scientists came up with a rapid way to make some of the moons and planets of our universe more Earthlike, often in as little as a matter of weeks, by a process called terraforming.
Terraforming creates a livable atmosphere on a celestial body, be it natural or manmade, by mimicking Earth’s climatic properties. The difficulty or extent is determined by the present conditions on the planet or moon; atmospheric pressures must be increased, water must be made available, if no polar ice caps or underground water is available, and any ultraviolet radiation or cosmic radiation must be reduced to manageable levels. By satisfying these four conditions an ecopeosis (there’s my ten letter word for the day, or rather nine, but you get the gist!) can be achieved.
When there are adequate amounts of carbon dioxide plant life is introduced, they produce oxygen, which builds up atmospheric gases and increases temperature and atmospheric pressure, thus making a site livable. The new world is then seeded with animals and beneficial insects to continue the circle of life. (Good God, does my brain hurt after spouting that tidbit of knowledge … and don’t be asking where I got it because that kind of thing just seems to pop into my own tiny big black every little while.)
Some of these moons and planets took well to this process and some didn’t; in fact some it destroyed, horrific weather conditions and the like.
The planets that weren’t good enough even to be force terraformed were peraterraformed.
When there aren’t any features on a body that can be manipulated but it has enough commercial value, being situated in the galaxy to help promote good commerce, it is peraterraformed. In this process biospheres are constructed then fertilized soil, plants and water are brought in to create a mini ecopeosis (there’s that word again!). Inside these domes cities are built, roads laid, forests and gardens planted, rivers cut and lakes dug and a system of pipelines and levies is constructed to reproduce any weather conditions a colonist might wish for. As the complexity of it sounds, this is a far more expensive system to maintain so only the first two BrimTier planets have them.
By using these terraforming processes we’ve moved outward from Earth.
This seemed a new version of paradise but it didn’t take long for the colonies on Venus,
Earth’s moon, Mars, Jupiter’s moons: Europa and Callisto, Saturn’s moons: Mimas and Rhea, and two space stations: one between Jupiter and Saturn and one just beyond the mini planet,
Pluto, to fill to capacity as well. This pushed us out farther and farther.
The colonies within our original solar system are called the Inner Tier, fifty lightyears out from that is the First BrimTier, the next twenty-five lightyears out is the Second BrimTier and all after that is uncharted space. The tiers are separated by more than just blackness of space; all the advances have done nothing to change the public’s perspective of social orders, more than ever a person’s name and birthplace is all that matters.
The Inner Tier is mostly old money and gets the best supplies; middle class families and blue-collar laborers, the ones that had the resources and money, were able to purchase spots in the First BrimTier which is adequately supplied; the rest, the ones without wealth or influence, and the criminals, were sent to the last, the Second BrimTier, which barely sees any supplies at all. That’s where me and mine come in; we try to help the people of this forsaken tier.
What my crew and I do won’t make their lives more likable but I hope we do make them livable. Our task isn’t an easy one though, we must contend with less benevolent pirates and the CRF. I’ll tell you of each, beginning with the latter, since they are currently the bigger thorn in our side.
The CRF is the police for the CR, which is an acronym for the Confederational Regime, rolls off the tongue, don’t it? That’s why most of us call ‘em simply the CR. This is our current government. (Did you notice I didn’t say elected?) In spite of all the scientific, technological and medical advances the political arena has reverted back to feudalism. The position of leader of the people is now passed down from father to son in the same family. The president is like a king, in many ways: having power over all beneath him; he has his lords – the CRP, his army – the CRF, and his subjects – the rest of us.
Most of us think he’s a bumbling oaf, but he’s the final authority on all things so then he must be respected, right – NOT!
Lisa Comstock is a resident of Northern New England. She has enjoyed telling stories all her life and always wanted to be a published author. Her dream has come true! She has two published credits: The BrimTier Chronicles series – about a Robin Hood style space pirate, set in the 23rd century – Part 1, Life of a BrimTier Pirate and Part 2: Times of a BrimTier Pirate and the soon the be released Part 3, Sins of a BrimTier Pirate. She has several other manuscripts she hopes to have released over the next few years as well. She writes mostly in the science fiction/ fantasy genre but her works encompass many genres – including action, adventure, romance and suspense.
The BrimTier Chronicles series:
Part 1: Life of a BrimTier Pirate – released July 2008
Part 2: Times of a BrimTier Pirate – released May 2009
Part 3, Sins of a BrimTier Pirate – released TBA
Author’s official website: www.brimtierchronicles.com
Facebook Fanpage: The BrimTier Chronicles
The BrimTier Chronicles blog page: http://thebrimtierchronicles.blogspot.com/
My books are available in the store at www.brimtierchronicles.com/store and at all major online bookstores (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Target etc.)
One lucky reader will win a copy of Part 1: Life of a BrimTier Pirate. To enter, leave a comment or question for Lisa. Be sure to include your email address in your comment or send a message to contests.bookblog@gmail.com to complete your entry. The winner will be chosen on Sunday, November 29.
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Ring. Ring.
Her heart pounded frantically. Jolene pushed her covers off and jumped out of bed, her gaze on the clock. Four o’clock in the morning. She had a caller. Horror pulsed through her veins, and then she grabbed her purse.
It can’t possibly be him.
Come on, Jolene, answer it.
Her hands shaking, she dug in her purse pulling out the cell phone and flipping it open. “Hello.” He’d blocked the caller ID.
“What took you so long, Jolene?” a muffled voice asked.
She tightened her grip on the cell. No. How did he get this number?
“Come on, speak to me. I know you’re there,” the whisperer said in a low raspy voice. “Don’t make me come in there.”
“What do you want?” He knew where she was. How could he? “How did you get this number?” she demanded, rubbing her palm on the pale floral bed cover. Was he outside? She wanted to hang up, but that never worked. He’d call all night then.
“Jolene, I’m disappointed in you. You were around too many people tonight for me to get to you.”
She rose and walked to the window, feeling cold in spite of her olive green cotton pajamas. If only he’d talk in a normal tone, she might recognize the voice. “Why are you harassing me?” she asked, sliding the light green curtain aside so she could peek out. There weren’t any new cars parked on the street, but he could’ve parked anywhere and be outside the house.
“I thought we were friends. Don’t you like it when I tell you all the things I’m going to do to you?” He cackled loud and long.
His maniacal laughter sent shivers up her body, and she wrapped her free arm around her waist. Did she know this person? Surely, she didn’t know anyone like this except for Les. That guy was just downright crazy. Quiet.
She held her breath and listened. Was he still there? No sound. He must’ve hung up. Softly, she started to close her cell.
“Don’t hang up on me, Jolene.”
Startled, the phone slipped out of her grasp, but she scrambled to catch it. The darn thing hit the thick beige carpeted floor. Down on her knees, she grabbed the cell, putting it to her ear.
“Hello.” The buzzing told her she’d lost him. What would he do now? Call her back. She stared at the phone, her shoulders hunched, and the tendons in her neck tightening.
After a few moments, she rose, went to her bed and climbed in pulling the covers around her. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she didn’t want to wake her sister or call her brother to talk to him. This was her problem to take care of. She would call the police later this morning and make a report.
Ring. Ring.
Jolene grabbed the phone; she knew it was him again. She’d made him mad by hanging up on him even though it had happened accidentally. Without saying anything, she listened, hoping it wasn’t him.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
The loud click told her he was finally gone. Her hand shook so badly she could hardly reach the oak end table to lay her cell on it. She’d never sleep the rest of the night. She had to figure out who this person could be.
The only person she knew this crazy was Les, but she didn’t know how he could’ve gotten her numbers. She’d never met him before tonight.
Pulling the covers over her head, she burrowed deeper into the bed. She’d always been afraid of the boogie man, and now he was really after her.
Blurb for "Confession":
Can Chelsea and Jordan find their child, and rediscover each other?
When Chelsea Montgomery vanished eleven years ago, her hometown thought she'd been abducted. In truth, she'd given up the daughter she'd secretly had with Jordan Case.
Now he confronts her to help find the child. With a little girl's fate hanging in the balance, will the uneasy partnership -- stained by the past -- transform into something else?
Excerpt:
Jordan sat down on the couch and patted the floor in front of him. "Sit down. Let me get those knots out."
She took a few steps in his direction, stopping out of his reach, afraid to let him touch her. If he touched her, then she'd fall madly in love with him all over again. That couldn't happen.
She watched as he leaned forward far enough to grab her by the hand. He pulled her to him.
"Are you sure you want to?"
"Yes," he said. He guided her down to the floor between his legs. Before leaning back, she slipped her t-shirt off, revealing the navy tank top. His strong hands slid over her skin and she sunk back against him. She'd forgotten how strong he was, how needy she felt when he touched her. As if by magic, her body slowly began to relax underneath his touch. He kneaded her skin with the palms of his hands. The more he touched her, the more she felt at ease. She leaned forward a bit, making his legs embrace the rest of her body. His hands trailed down the length of her back toward the top of her jeans. A small moan escaped her lips. If only he would go lower.
"Feel good?" The words floated through the air like music from a past dream.
"Mm hm."
He rubbed the small of her back, his hands working every muscle imaginable. "Remember when I would rub your feet each night after work?"
"The best part of the whole day." His hands. His voice. He had cast a spell over her.
"I loved those times with you, Chels."
Butterflies swarmed in her stomach, breaking up her intoxicated sensation. Chels? He used to call her that when they were teenagers. He was the only person who'd ever had a pet name for her.
"Me, too," she mumbled.
"That's what has gotten me through until now. Those memories of us from before you disappeared." His hands stilled, but she could feel their heat against her.
Damn it! Tears welled in her eyes. He couldn't see them, she wouldn't allow him to. She scooted away him his touch, far enough away so she could stand up on her own without using his assistance.
"I'm sorry, Jordan. We shouldn't be doing this."
"What are you talking about, Chelsea?" He tried to grab her by the hand again but this time she walked away from him. She went over to the windows, dried her eyes and then turned around.
"I told you everything, so now I should go." She walked past him toward the stairs.
"No, you won't." The words were ice cold. It seemed like his massage had been some sort of dream.
She froze. "What do you mean, I won't?"
"Let's get something clear. Okay?"
She slowly turned around. She had never heard this tone from Jordan in the whole time she had known him. It scared her.
"What?"
He stood up from the couch and walked over to her. His hands jammed into his jean pockets. "There's a choice to be made here," he said. "You either stay here to help me locate my daughter or I contact the authorities."
Wendy Ely has always been fascinated by romance. She began her first romance novel when she was just thirteen-years-old. It certainly wasn't anything great but sparked the passion for writing romance novels.
When she's not writing, she's usually busy taking care of her two children in Phoenix, Arizona. Wendy keeps busy with her small business and going to college. During her free time, Wendy enjoys traveling and being outdoors.
And here's the blurb for "Jesse's Brother":
One woman, two men: a single summer to choose between them.
Sacrificing a summer to fix her relationship with her mother and find out what’s troubling her father isn’t so bad...right? Wrong. Or so Samantha learns upon her return to Portland.
As if family drama wasn’t bad enough, first comes Noah. Then comes Jesse. Samantha is torn between the way her heart skips a beat each time Noah looks at her, and the way Jesse’s touch make her yearn for more.
Readers, Wendy is giving away ecopies of "Jesse's Brother" and "Confession" to two lucky commenters. To enter the drawing, leave a comment or question for Wendy. You also must leave your email address in your comment or send a message to contests.bookblog@gmail.com. The contest winner will be chosen on Wednesday, November 25. Read More......