It's been a while since I've posted a teaser. Heck, it's been a while since I've posted anything that wasn't merely an update on my existence.
So what you have here is a snippet. There's no more, this is all there is. I don't know who these people are yet, I'm not even sure what their names are. I don't know why they're doing what they're doing, or where they're going.
This was inspired by a song called "Smoke" by a band named Lucero. Someday, I'm going to write an entire book based around this song. After I'm done writing this other stuff folks are paying me for.
~*!*~
Maybe it was the fact that Don-the-Dick had fired me just that afternoon, from a job I hated anyway. Without the menial under-the-table job of grease monkey at a mostly-shady engine shop, there was no way I’d be able to pay next week’s rent on the lousy motel room I called home.
Maybe it was the fact that the last woman I’d come within arm’s reach of had almost gotten my head blown off by the jealous husband she’d conveniently forgotten to mention. I was still finding buckshot in weird places.
I piled everything I owned into one army-green duffel bag and strapped it to the back of my bike, the only thing I had that was worth anything. It growled me over to The Bar – no name, but since it was the only one in this podunk piece of crap town, it didn’t really need one – and I went in to drink my goodbyes.
“Where the hell you gonna go, man?” Joey shook his head, already three sheets in, and it was only ten minutes into happy hour.
“Dunno. Just gonna ride til I get there, I guess. S’how I wound up here in the first place.” Here, being where my bike had decided to blow a gasket on me, and where I’d been more or less living for the last eight months. It was the longest I’d stayed anywhere in a very long time, a mistake I didn’t think I’d be repeating.
“Won’t be the same without you.”
That made me smirk. “Yeah it will. The bar will still be here, and Ralph will still be serving the same pig piss as his ‘special brew’, and on Fridays, Kelly will come in, get plastered, and flash her tits all over the place, just like always. You don’t need me for that.”
Joey’s head swayed morosely, more drunk than grieving my imminent departure. “Won’t be the same.”
I stayed longer than I meant to, as folks I knew straggled in after long shifts in jobs even shittier than mine had been. They were people I would nod hey to, folks I didn’t want to punch in the teeth. Guess that’s as close to “friends” as a guy like me got. I drank more beer than I meant to, and I knew if I didn’t get my ass on the road, I wouldn’t be fit for riding.
Took me fifteen minutes to get out the door, and it wasn’t even that big a place. I think the whole town of maybe a hundred people turned out to see my road dust.
I got settled on my bike, buckling my pitiful excuse for a helmet under my chin. It wasn’t going to do much more than be a bucket for my brains on the day they scraped me off the pavement, and that was ok by me.
Just as I was about to punch the starter and see this town in my rearview, the bike sagged as more weight was added to it, and a pair of arms slipped around my waist.
I turned to find a pretty pair of brown eyes smiling at me, her dark curly hair caught back in a haphazard tail. Her jeans were ripped in several places, on purpose, and the white tank top she wore barely covered the assets the good Lord gave her. Her leather jacket was at least three sizes too big, and so worn it was almost see-through in places. Wasn’t anyone I’d ever seen in town before, and trust me, if a piece of tail like that had walked down the street, we’d have all known it before nightfall.
She grinned at me, displaying her dimples while one hand fished in the saddlebag where I kept my spare helmet. Slapping it on, she buckled it under her chin, and said, “Go!”
Maybe it was the three beers I’d had, or…hell, I don’t know. Without another word, I kicked the bike to life and we were gone, tearing out toward the highway.
Showing posts with label teaser tuesday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaser tuesday. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Nano Teaser
Just for giggles, here's a snippet of what I'm working on for NaNoWriMo. We'll call it Project Nano 2. (Or, if you'd rather, Night of Fire and Ash)
~*!*~
We were dismissed to go about our duties, but Amir lagged behind, his dark eyes troubled. “What’s up, kid?”
He looked surprised, like he hadn’t even realized I was still standing there. “Nothing. Just…thinking about the anniversary.”
I nodded. Most of us remembered very well where we were, ten years ago. “You were what…twelve?”
“Thirteen.” I could see the shiver crawl across his shoulders. “They burned our neighbor’s house down. Thought it was ours. She was old, like in her eighties. She didn’t make it out.”
Yeah. Purity Night – called the Night of Fire and Ash by most of the Otherkind I knew – had resulted in more human deaths than Otherkind. Some nights, laying alone in my apartment, I could still smell the smoke. Funny how that smoke smelled different than any fire I had scented before or since. Almost like you could smell the very hate burning.
“How old were you, Fiddler?”
“Seventeen.” I could remember the feeling of the dew on my bare feet as I slipped out the back door, the red glow of houses burning three blocks over. To my adolescent mind, I thought if I could just get out of the house, they would leave my family alone… It was only when I heard the glass breaking, my sister screaming, that I turned back.
“Did anyone in your family get hurt?”
Men died, that night. Their flesh turned black, the fat boiling from within. The masks that were supposed to hide their faces melted into their skin instead. The smoke curled out of their mouths, their noses, choking to death on the very air that should have saved them. “My sister got cut with some flying glass. They shattered her bedroom window, thinking it was mine.” I was never charged. The deaths were ruled accidental, the arsonists caught in their own accelerants.
“Do you think it could happen again? I mean, Franklin Pitt. He’s out of jail now.”
I tasted char at the back of my throat and swallowed it down. The back of my t-shirt fluttered as the air heated just above my skin, the ifreet in me rousing at the sound of the most hated name in the world. “Anything’s possible, kid.” Franklin Pitt would be speaking at the summit, too. I only hoped I could stand next to him, look into his hate-filled eyes, and not incinerate him where he stood. The ifreet would find no guilt in that. The human…might.
~*!*~
We were dismissed to go about our duties, but Amir lagged behind, his dark eyes troubled. “What’s up, kid?”
He looked surprised, like he hadn’t even realized I was still standing there. “Nothing. Just…thinking about the anniversary.”
I nodded. Most of us remembered very well where we were, ten years ago. “You were what…twelve?”
“Thirteen.” I could see the shiver crawl across his shoulders. “They burned our neighbor’s house down. Thought it was ours. She was old, like in her eighties. She didn’t make it out.”
Yeah. Purity Night – called the Night of Fire and Ash by most of the Otherkind I knew – had resulted in more human deaths than Otherkind. Some nights, laying alone in my apartment, I could still smell the smoke. Funny how that smoke smelled different than any fire I had scented before or since. Almost like you could smell the very hate burning.
“How old were you, Fiddler?”
“Seventeen.” I could remember the feeling of the dew on my bare feet as I slipped out the back door, the red glow of houses burning three blocks over. To my adolescent mind, I thought if I could just get out of the house, they would leave my family alone… It was only when I heard the glass breaking, my sister screaming, that I turned back.
“Did anyone in your family get hurt?”
Men died, that night. Their flesh turned black, the fat boiling from within. The masks that were supposed to hide their faces melted into their skin instead. The smoke curled out of their mouths, their noses, choking to death on the very air that should have saved them. “My sister got cut with some flying glass. They shattered her bedroom window, thinking it was mine.” I was never charged. The deaths were ruled accidental, the arsonists caught in their own accelerants.
“Do you think it could happen again? I mean, Franklin Pitt. He’s out of jail now.”
I tasted char at the back of my throat and swallowed it down. The back of my t-shirt fluttered as the air heated just above my skin, the ifreet in me rousing at the sound of the most hated name in the world. “Anything’s possible, kid.” Franklin Pitt would be speaking at the summit, too. I only hoped I could stand next to him, look into his hate-filled eyes, and not incinerate him where he stood. The ifreet would find no guilt in that. The human…might.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Teaser Tuesday 12
Trying to get back in the swing of things, despite the plague running rampant lately. Here's a teaser from Peacemaker. It's actually part of a dream sequence/flashback, showing something from Caleb's past. Dream sequences are something I use heavily in this book (which is supposed to be a no-no) but the dream world actually turns out to be integral to the plot. Hope you enjoy.
~*!*~
The air scorched his lungs as he breathed in, and he slapped at the burning cinders that had fallen into his hair, his hat long since lost in the chaos. “Here! There’s more in here!” Ernst appeared around his feet, the black cat nudging him toward the location of more trapped residents. Caleb found his path blocked and put his shoulder against the smoldering beam, trying to heave it out of the way.
Rufus appeared out of the smoke, coughing and hacking, but between the two men, they cleared the doorway. Inside, voices were calling for help, screaming out in terror. “I’ll get them, you clear me a path.”
He nodded and reached for the fire all around them. It lurked in the ceilings of the building they were in, curling hungry fingers around the floorboards under their feet. He could feel it, angry and seeking, and he grabbed hold, pulling all of that destructive energy into himself. It railed inside him, imprisoned in a form it was not meant to take. Another day, well-rested, he might have been able to feed that extra power out through his familiar, but that much control had been lost sometime in the previous hours, and so he would hold it himself. A moment’s lapse in concentration, and it would find a way out. His skin would curl and burn from the inside. He’d just seen it happen to two other Peacemakers.
“Smuel,” he whispered. Smolder. The walls around them snuffed out suddenly, wisps of smoke replacing tongues of flame. “Hurry, Rufus. It’s getting stronger.”
The other Peacemaker bolted into the dark hallway, charred floorboards creaking ominously under his boots. Caleb could feel the power behind the fire looking for him, furious that something had stolen its energy. He would only be able to hold on so long.
“Go go go!” Rufus herded a soot-blackened family past him, carrying the youngest child in his arms. “Give us thirty seconds Caleb, then get the hell out!”
He tried to count to thirty, but the flame inside him would not let his mind find the numbers. It was hungry, it was angry, and it wanted free. Ernst was butting his furry head against his knee, urging him to let go. Finally, he was forced to release it, and he could only pray that Rufus had gotten the family clear.
The flames roared back to reclaim their territory and then some, and Caleb felt his hair and eyebrows singe to nothing as he staggered for the stairs. It followed him, drawing in a breath deep enough to flutter the tatters of his shirt sleeves, then bellowed out a gout of flame and ash that would easily incinerate him.
A shield sprang up around him, and the fire whipped around the globe, raging when it could not find entry. Caleb breathed the artificially pure air in great gulping lungfuls until he staggered into the street, collapsing at Rufus’s feet. Ernst appeared right next to him, the tip of his long black tail smoking.
The blond Peacemaker, hair long gone as dark as Caleb’s own with soot and sweat, dropped the shield he’d put around his partner and yanked him to his feet. “This block is lost, Caleb, we have to go!”
Reluctantly, he let Rufus drag him from the scene, and the building gave a ponderous groan as it collapsed behind them. There were other men moving in the smoke around them, passing buckets between, sparks of power flaring where people tried futilely to direct the flames around their homes or businesses.
“George! George, over here!” Rufus waved to two other Peacemakers as they crossed the street a block away. “Where are we supposed to be making a fire break? We got separated from Daws about an hour ago.”
George was supporting his partner with one arm, the other man sporting a vicious gash over one eye. He barely paused to answer. “It jumped the river, we’re pulling back! It’s lost!”
“Dear God…” Rufus’s eyes were wide and staring, the whites showing brilliantly against his ash-blackened face. “They can’t just let it burn…”
“There’s no letting it, man, it’s going to do it whether we want or not!” George staggered off as fast as he could with an injured man in tow, leaving Rufus and Caleb alone in the middle of the charred buildings. Even the hardy water brigade had abandoned their positions, buckets lying next to empty water barrels.
Chicago was burning.
Caleb knew they had to move. He knew, like the rest of his dreamed memories, that the building to their right was going to collapse in another moment, the rain of debris trapping Rufus beneath it. He knew that the beam would crush his partner’s life from his lungs, and that he would be forced to leave the body or burn along with him.
He knew it, and he could not prevent it, could neither move nor speak a warning. Such was the way of dreams.
In the alley to their left, a woman’s voice wafted forth, humming softly. It was a soothing melody, lilting, and it had no place in this frequent terror of Caleb’s nights. Even in the dream, he was able to frown in puzzlement.
The shadows moved in the alley, at first easily mistaken for the swirls and eddies of smoke. But there was no mistaking the dark eyes he found looking back at him, framed by twin black braids.
The Indian woman tilted her head curiously, her skin and clothing remarkably free of ash and char.
“No…no you can’t be here…the building is going to fall, you have to run!” She obviously didn’t understand him, and she smiled softly. “No, don’t smile! Run! You have to…” He suddenly remembered Rufus, realized that he could speak again. “Rufus, you have to run!”
But Rufus was gone. There was no one standing in the street beside him. The flames seemed to have halted their inexorable advance and merely flickered in the windows and rooftops, waiting.
“Ernst?” The black cat was gone too, and there was no sense of his presence nearby. “What…?” He blinked, wiping sweat and blood from his face as he stared around in confusion. “What’s happening?”
The Indian woman never answered, merely turning to walk down the street in the opposite direction, humming softly. Every so often, she glanced back to see if he was following.
Numb, perplexed, he did. In his daze, he stumbled over the rubble in the street, fell…
~*!*~
The air scorched his lungs as he breathed in, and he slapped at the burning cinders that had fallen into his hair, his hat long since lost in the chaos. “Here! There’s more in here!” Ernst appeared around his feet, the black cat nudging him toward the location of more trapped residents. Caleb found his path blocked and put his shoulder against the smoldering beam, trying to heave it out of the way.
Rufus appeared out of the smoke, coughing and hacking, but between the two men, they cleared the doorway. Inside, voices were calling for help, screaming out in terror. “I’ll get them, you clear me a path.”
He nodded and reached for the fire all around them. It lurked in the ceilings of the building they were in, curling hungry fingers around the floorboards under their feet. He could feel it, angry and seeking, and he grabbed hold, pulling all of that destructive energy into himself. It railed inside him, imprisoned in a form it was not meant to take. Another day, well-rested, he might have been able to feed that extra power out through his familiar, but that much control had been lost sometime in the previous hours, and so he would hold it himself. A moment’s lapse in concentration, and it would find a way out. His skin would curl and burn from the inside. He’d just seen it happen to two other Peacemakers.
“Smuel,” he whispered. Smolder. The walls around them snuffed out suddenly, wisps of smoke replacing tongues of flame. “Hurry, Rufus. It’s getting stronger.”
The other Peacemaker bolted into the dark hallway, charred floorboards creaking ominously under his boots. Caleb could feel the power behind the fire looking for him, furious that something had stolen its energy. He would only be able to hold on so long.
“Go go go!” Rufus herded a soot-blackened family past him, carrying the youngest child in his arms. “Give us thirty seconds Caleb, then get the hell out!”
He tried to count to thirty, but the flame inside him would not let his mind find the numbers. It was hungry, it was angry, and it wanted free. Ernst was butting his furry head against his knee, urging him to let go. Finally, he was forced to release it, and he could only pray that Rufus had gotten the family clear.
The flames roared back to reclaim their territory and then some, and Caleb felt his hair and eyebrows singe to nothing as he staggered for the stairs. It followed him, drawing in a breath deep enough to flutter the tatters of his shirt sleeves, then bellowed out a gout of flame and ash that would easily incinerate him.
A shield sprang up around him, and the fire whipped around the globe, raging when it could not find entry. Caleb breathed the artificially pure air in great gulping lungfuls until he staggered into the street, collapsing at Rufus’s feet. Ernst appeared right next to him, the tip of his long black tail smoking.
The blond Peacemaker, hair long gone as dark as Caleb’s own with soot and sweat, dropped the shield he’d put around his partner and yanked him to his feet. “This block is lost, Caleb, we have to go!”
Reluctantly, he let Rufus drag him from the scene, and the building gave a ponderous groan as it collapsed behind them. There were other men moving in the smoke around them, passing buckets between, sparks of power flaring where people tried futilely to direct the flames around their homes or businesses.
“George! George, over here!” Rufus waved to two other Peacemakers as they crossed the street a block away. “Where are we supposed to be making a fire break? We got separated from Daws about an hour ago.”
George was supporting his partner with one arm, the other man sporting a vicious gash over one eye. He barely paused to answer. “It jumped the river, we’re pulling back! It’s lost!”
“Dear God…” Rufus’s eyes were wide and staring, the whites showing brilliantly against his ash-blackened face. “They can’t just let it burn…”
“There’s no letting it, man, it’s going to do it whether we want or not!” George staggered off as fast as he could with an injured man in tow, leaving Rufus and Caleb alone in the middle of the charred buildings. Even the hardy water brigade had abandoned their positions, buckets lying next to empty water barrels.
Chicago was burning.
Caleb knew they had to move. He knew, like the rest of his dreamed memories, that the building to their right was going to collapse in another moment, the rain of debris trapping Rufus beneath it. He knew that the beam would crush his partner’s life from his lungs, and that he would be forced to leave the body or burn along with him.
He knew it, and he could not prevent it, could neither move nor speak a warning. Such was the way of dreams.
In the alley to their left, a woman’s voice wafted forth, humming softly. It was a soothing melody, lilting, and it had no place in this frequent terror of Caleb’s nights. Even in the dream, he was able to frown in puzzlement.
The shadows moved in the alley, at first easily mistaken for the swirls and eddies of smoke. But there was no mistaking the dark eyes he found looking back at him, framed by twin black braids.
The Indian woman tilted her head curiously, her skin and clothing remarkably free of ash and char.
“No…no you can’t be here…the building is going to fall, you have to run!” She obviously didn’t understand him, and she smiled softly. “No, don’t smile! Run! You have to…” He suddenly remembered Rufus, realized that he could speak again. “Rufus, you have to run!”
But Rufus was gone. There was no one standing in the street beside him. The flames seemed to have halted their inexorable advance and merely flickered in the windows and rooftops, waiting.
“Ernst?” The black cat was gone too, and there was no sense of his presence nearby. “What…?” He blinked, wiping sweat and blood from his face as he stared around in confusion. “What’s happening?”
The Indian woman never answered, merely turning to walk down the street in the opposite direction, humming softly. Every so often, she glanced back to see if he was following.
Numb, perplexed, he did. In his daze, he stumbled over the rubble in the street, fell…
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Teaser Tuesday Eleventeen
This teaser is from Peacemaker. At this point in the story, our hero Caleb has had his mount (an arcane-powered mechanical construct) explode beneath him, and the bad guy has staked him spread-eagled out in the middle of the prairie to die. But it appears that someone isn’t ready to let him go yet…
~*!*~
Cool water trickled over his lips, and delicate touches moved over his chest and arms while the soothing song went on. It took him some time to realize that he could open his eyes if he wanted, and when he did he found himself staring up into dark eyes set in a lovely, honey-brown face.
The Indian woman, the one from the mountain and his dreams, smiled to see him awake, and she slipped her hand behind his head to support him while she trickled more water down his throat.
Caleb gulped it as fast as he could, though he was certain even an entire river would not have been enough. When he managed to choke himself, she laid his head back down with a chiding look.
“I…” He paused to cough. “Thank you.”
Smiling shyly, she gathered up some clothes and bowls and rose, walking gracefully across the floor.
Only then did Caleb realize that he was inside one of the large teepees, cheerfully lit by a crackling fire in the middle. The smoke rose in a column through the hole in the top, and beyond it he could see only darkness. It was still night then, but the same night, or another one?
An attempt to sit up revealed that he was still stretched and tied, the lodge apparently erected right over his place of confinement. The nullstone amulet still nestled in the center of his chest. Perhaps they didn’t trust him after all. “How long have I been here?”
The woman was busily working with some pungent smelling plants on her side of the fire, and barely glanced over at his voice. His answer came instead from the other side.
“Time passes differently here, so that is hard to say.” From the shadows, the old shaman appeared, moving to take a seat next to the fire. The coyote familiar padded into view as well, laying down with its head on its paws, but its eyes on Caleb.
“You speak English now?”
The old man smiled, the creases in his face deepening. “There is only one language of the spirit, and all who are brothers may speak it in this place.”
Caleb glanced around. “What, in this teepee?”
“You are in the Place Between.”
“The place between what?”
“Between life and death. Between asleep and awake. Between one world and the next.” The white-haired man threw a handful of something on the flames, and aromatic smoke rolled out. Sage, Caleb thought. “Coyote spoke to me of your need, and your readiness to see this place.”
Caleb eyed the familiar beside the fire, but he couldn’t tell if it was the same coyote that had watched over him on the prairie. One looked very much like another. “Am I…hallucinating still?”
The old man chuckled. “It is possible. That is one way of reaching this place.”
“Am I dying?” The woman returned to his side, and Caleb eyed her warily. She knelt, scooping a handful of a dark, wet substance from a bowl, and began smearing it on his burned forearms. The poultice was cool and sent tingles through his skin.
“I do not believe you are dying. Though you would have, without our aid.” The old man produced a long pipe and began filling it with tobacco. Caleb could smell it even under the aroma of the other herbs. “I am called Crying Elk. I am the medicine man of this band of the people. And you are a star soldier of the white man.”
“Star soldier?” The old man tapped the place above his heart, and Caleb understood. “My badge…” It was gone, he supposed, wherever Warner had discarded his shirt.
“You are not the same as the last star soldier who came to this land. He was a man like the dark one, the one who digs into the mountain’s heart and causes such pain. He was only interested in his personal gain.” Crying Elk smirked with dark humor. “We would not have aided him, no matter how he begged Coyote.”
That fit in line with everything Caleb had learned about his predecessor. “I feel like I should apologize for that.”
The old shaman snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils to join the haze. “Each man chooses to walk his own path. His choice was not yours, so why would you need to apologize for it?”
Caleb shrugged, only to be reminded of the bonds that tied him. The woman frowned at his fidgeting, reaching to smooth some of the sticky goop over his forehead as well. “What is…what is she doing?” Instinctively, he flinched away from her touch, and she frowned, grabbing his chin firmly and giving him a glare.
“She is a great healer of our people. The poultice will take the heat from your wounds, allow them to heal. The water will replenish you.”
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“I told you this already. Because you are not like the other. You spare lives when you could more easily take them, even among people not your own. You give food to the hungry, and warning to those in danger.” The old man grinned in the firelight. “Though your spirit guide should more likely be praised for that.”
Spirit guide…Ernst! “Is Ernst all right? Where is he?”
“I am certain he is fine. He was fine before he found you, and he will be fine after you are gone.” He rested a hand on the head of his own familiar, more a gesture of respect for an equal than affection bestowed on a pet. The coyote looked up, and Caleb swore he could see the animal smile in return.
Even knowing he would not be able to move past the nullstone, Caleb tried to reach out for his connection to Ernst. It was like pushing through yards of wet wool, but he gritted his teeth and tried anyway.
The woman slapped his arm lightly, and shook a finger in warning. Caleb resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her petulantly.
“You are not strong enough just now to fight the power of the draining stone. I will teach you later, when you are more yourself.” Crying Elk drew on his pipe deeply, his eyes watching the dance of the fire before him. “Now is the time when we must speak of more serious things.”
Caleb dragged his gaze away from the woman with her hands all over him to look at the old shaman. “What things? And you know, it’s hard to have a conversation all tied up like this.”
“Is it? It is not bothering me in the least.” The old man blew a perfect smoke ring, amusement in his dark eyes. “Attend now. Time must not be wasted in this place.”
“But you said time—” Caleb fell silent at a look from the old man. Maybe they’d answer his questions later. Probably, they wouldn’t. Just like Ernst.
~*!*~
Cool water trickled over his lips, and delicate touches moved over his chest and arms while the soothing song went on. It took him some time to realize that he could open his eyes if he wanted, and when he did he found himself staring up into dark eyes set in a lovely, honey-brown face.
The Indian woman, the one from the mountain and his dreams, smiled to see him awake, and she slipped her hand behind his head to support him while she trickled more water down his throat.
Caleb gulped it as fast as he could, though he was certain even an entire river would not have been enough. When he managed to choke himself, she laid his head back down with a chiding look.
“I…” He paused to cough. “Thank you.”
Smiling shyly, she gathered up some clothes and bowls and rose, walking gracefully across the floor.
Only then did Caleb realize that he was inside one of the large teepees, cheerfully lit by a crackling fire in the middle. The smoke rose in a column through the hole in the top, and beyond it he could see only darkness. It was still night then, but the same night, or another one?
An attempt to sit up revealed that he was still stretched and tied, the lodge apparently erected right over his place of confinement. The nullstone amulet still nestled in the center of his chest. Perhaps they didn’t trust him after all. “How long have I been here?”
The woman was busily working with some pungent smelling plants on her side of the fire, and barely glanced over at his voice. His answer came instead from the other side.
“Time passes differently here, so that is hard to say.” From the shadows, the old shaman appeared, moving to take a seat next to the fire. The coyote familiar padded into view as well, laying down with its head on its paws, but its eyes on Caleb.
“You speak English now?”
The old man smiled, the creases in his face deepening. “There is only one language of the spirit, and all who are brothers may speak it in this place.”
Caleb glanced around. “What, in this teepee?”
“You are in the Place Between.”
“The place between what?”
“Between life and death. Between asleep and awake. Between one world and the next.” The white-haired man threw a handful of something on the flames, and aromatic smoke rolled out. Sage, Caleb thought. “Coyote spoke to me of your need, and your readiness to see this place.”
Caleb eyed the familiar beside the fire, but he couldn’t tell if it was the same coyote that had watched over him on the prairie. One looked very much like another. “Am I…hallucinating still?”
The old man chuckled. “It is possible. That is one way of reaching this place.”
“Am I dying?” The woman returned to his side, and Caleb eyed her warily. She knelt, scooping a handful of a dark, wet substance from a bowl, and began smearing it on his burned forearms. The poultice was cool and sent tingles through his skin.
“I do not believe you are dying. Though you would have, without our aid.” The old man produced a long pipe and began filling it with tobacco. Caleb could smell it even under the aroma of the other herbs. “I am called Crying Elk. I am the medicine man of this band of the people. And you are a star soldier of the white man.”
“Star soldier?” The old man tapped the place above his heart, and Caleb understood. “My badge…” It was gone, he supposed, wherever Warner had discarded his shirt.
“You are not the same as the last star soldier who came to this land. He was a man like the dark one, the one who digs into the mountain’s heart and causes such pain. He was only interested in his personal gain.” Crying Elk smirked with dark humor. “We would not have aided him, no matter how he begged Coyote.”
That fit in line with everything Caleb had learned about his predecessor. “I feel like I should apologize for that.”
The old shaman snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils to join the haze. “Each man chooses to walk his own path. His choice was not yours, so why would you need to apologize for it?”
Caleb shrugged, only to be reminded of the bonds that tied him. The woman frowned at his fidgeting, reaching to smooth some of the sticky goop over his forehead as well. “What is…what is she doing?” Instinctively, he flinched away from her touch, and she frowned, grabbing his chin firmly and giving him a glare.
“She is a great healer of our people. The poultice will take the heat from your wounds, allow them to heal. The water will replenish you.”
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“I told you this already. Because you are not like the other. You spare lives when you could more easily take them, even among people not your own. You give food to the hungry, and warning to those in danger.” The old man grinned in the firelight. “Though your spirit guide should more likely be praised for that.”
Spirit guide…Ernst! “Is Ernst all right? Where is he?”
“I am certain he is fine. He was fine before he found you, and he will be fine after you are gone.” He rested a hand on the head of his own familiar, more a gesture of respect for an equal than affection bestowed on a pet. The coyote looked up, and Caleb swore he could see the animal smile in return.
Even knowing he would not be able to move past the nullstone, Caleb tried to reach out for his connection to Ernst. It was like pushing through yards of wet wool, but he gritted his teeth and tried anyway.
The woman slapped his arm lightly, and shook a finger in warning. Caleb resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her petulantly.
“You are not strong enough just now to fight the power of the draining stone. I will teach you later, when you are more yourself.” Crying Elk drew on his pipe deeply, his eyes watching the dance of the fire before him. “Now is the time when we must speak of more serious things.”
Caleb dragged his gaze away from the woman with her hands all over him to look at the old shaman. “What things? And you know, it’s hard to have a conversation all tied up like this.”
“Is it? It is not bothering me in the least.” The old man blew a perfect smoke ring, amusement in his dark eyes. “Attend now. Time must not be wasted in this place.”
“But you said time—” Caleb fell silent at a look from the old man. Maybe they’d answer his questions later. Probably, they wouldn’t. Just like Ernst.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Teaser Tuesday the big 1-0
The teaser today is from Muse. Artemis feels the need to remind Heracles just who is in control:
~*!*~
“Perhaps you simply need a reminder of who I am and why you serve me, my ardent warrior.” Her gaze found the guard at the door, his still-human eyes turned away from the brewing conflict. “Perhaps you need to recall just what I am capable of.”
It was a simple power, possessed by many of her kin and used to greater effect by some than others. The power to transform those around her into the shape of her whim could be extremely useful. It could also be terrifying.
The guard, already a hound in the making, jerked stiffly to his feet, eyes going wide in horror as he felt what was happening. His mouth opened to scream, but the changes being wrought in his throat eliminated any human voice. Instead, a strangled bleat emerged, the man choking and gagging on his own tongue now grown too large for his mouth.
He hit the ground on all fours, seizing as the muscles crawled and knotted beneath his skin. The sounds of bone cracking were loud against the bare ceiling, and every hound in the place had emerged from its den to watch the spectacle.
Heracles made the mistake of trying to look away, and Artemis grabbed his chin, forcing it forward. “You will watch, my warrior. And you will remember.” She could feel his jaw clench at her touch. She sank her fingernails in for good measure.
Fine brown hair had emerged over the tortured man’s body, his clothing fallen away or absorbed somehow during the transformation. He shrieked as his pelvis fractured with a gunshot report, reforming itself, and his knees folded backwards to create the hocks of some four-legged creature. His ears lengthened, his skull flattened on the top even as his cheekbones and jaw crackled in their transformations, creating a muzzle with a broad flat nose. His eyes, pleading mutely with the goddess who commanded him, became large and round, deep brown pools of agony.
You do this at my will. You have given yourself to me and you are mine to do with as I see fit. Artemis smiled gently at those begging eyes. There was no greater act of love than giving himself to his goddess’s purpose.
His fingers, braced on the floor, fused into two thick toes, the skin blackening and melting together as it shrank into a tiny hoof. The coat of fine hair now covered his entire body, down to the tip of the thin tail that had sprung from the base of his spine.
In a matter of excruciatingly painful moments, a tottering newborn calf stood where a man had once been. The pitiful creature shuddered, trying to find a balance on its new and unfamiliar hooves, knobby knees trembling with the effort of supporting its own weight.
The enormous hound in the kennel next to her butted her hand insistently, golden eyes turned up in entreaty. She caressed the black-furred head, and nodded with a smile. “Have your way, my hunt.”
“No!” Heracles’ protest was lost in the baying of the hounds as the animals descended on their one-time keeper.
The calf managed one terrified bleat before it was buried under the mass of muscular bodies, and soon the only sound was the cracking of bone and snarls as the hounds squabbled over choice tidbits amongst themselves.
Satisfied, Artemis turned to look at her bodyguard. “You are immortal. Can you imagine being torn apart like that every morning of your life, only to heal anew by Darkfall and face the same fate for eternity?”
He swallowed hard, no doubt trying to contain his gorge. He’d never had the stomach for the truly necessary things, in her experience. “Would it be so different from my life now, my lady?”
Ah, so we play the martyr now, my turncoat? “Perhaps not for you, no. But Persephone?” She shook her head. “It would be a pity for her to suffer for your obstinance.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Of course I will. Of course.” She patted his arm, the muscles in it corded with his clenched fists. “But fetch me that muse. Before she has a chance to contaminate anyone else with impure thoughts.”
He was defeated, and she knew it. She could sense it deep within her hunter’s soul. Heracles turned to go, and Artemis happily watched her hounds feast. Piles of steaming offal disappeared down the lean throats, and the irritated snarls had dissolved into growls of contentment. One of the males mounted a female there amid the carnage, the beasts coupling with no thought at all to the humans they’d once been. For the first time in days, the voices in her head were silent.
“Heracles?” She heard his boots stop. “Come to my bed tonight.” He didn’t answer, but she knew he would obey.
~*!*~
“Perhaps you simply need a reminder of who I am and why you serve me, my ardent warrior.” Her gaze found the guard at the door, his still-human eyes turned away from the brewing conflict. “Perhaps you need to recall just what I am capable of.”
It was a simple power, possessed by many of her kin and used to greater effect by some than others. The power to transform those around her into the shape of her whim could be extremely useful. It could also be terrifying.
The guard, already a hound in the making, jerked stiffly to his feet, eyes going wide in horror as he felt what was happening. His mouth opened to scream, but the changes being wrought in his throat eliminated any human voice. Instead, a strangled bleat emerged, the man choking and gagging on his own tongue now grown too large for his mouth.
He hit the ground on all fours, seizing as the muscles crawled and knotted beneath his skin. The sounds of bone cracking were loud against the bare ceiling, and every hound in the place had emerged from its den to watch the spectacle.
Heracles made the mistake of trying to look away, and Artemis grabbed his chin, forcing it forward. “You will watch, my warrior. And you will remember.” She could feel his jaw clench at her touch. She sank her fingernails in for good measure.
Fine brown hair had emerged over the tortured man’s body, his clothing fallen away or absorbed somehow during the transformation. He shrieked as his pelvis fractured with a gunshot report, reforming itself, and his knees folded backwards to create the hocks of some four-legged creature. His ears lengthened, his skull flattened on the top even as his cheekbones and jaw crackled in their transformations, creating a muzzle with a broad flat nose. His eyes, pleading mutely with the goddess who commanded him, became large and round, deep brown pools of agony.
You do this at my will. You have given yourself to me and you are mine to do with as I see fit. Artemis smiled gently at those begging eyes. There was no greater act of love than giving himself to his goddess’s purpose.
His fingers, braced on the floor, fused into two thick toes, the skin blackening and melting together as it shrank into a tiny hoof. The coat of fine hair now covered his entire body, down to the tip of the thin tail that had sprung from the base of his spine.
In a matter of excruciatingly painful moments, a tottering newborn calf stood where a man had once been. The pitiful creature shuddered, trying to find a balance on its new and unfamiliar hooves, knobby knees trembling with the effort of supporting its own weight.
The enormous hound in the kennel next to her butted her hand insistently, golden eyes turned up in entreaty. She caressed the black-furred head, and nodded with a smile. “Have your way, my hunt.”
“No!” Heracles’ protest was lost in the baying of the hounds as the animals descended on their one-time keeper.
The calf managed one terrified bleat before it was buried under the mass of muscular bodies, and soon the only sound was the cracking of bone and snarls as the hounds squabbled over choice tidbits amongst themselves.
Satisfied, Artemis turned to look at her bodyguard. “You are immortal. Can you imagine being torn apart like that every morning of your life, only to heal anew by Darkfall and face the same fate for eternity?”
He swallowed hard, no doubt trying to contain his gorge. He’d never had the stomach for the truly necessary things, in her experience. “Would it be so different from my life now, my lady?”
Ah, so we play the martyr now, my turncoat? “Perhaps not for you, no. But Persephone?” She shook her head. “It would be a pity for her to suffer for your obstinance.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Of course I will. Of course.” She patted his arm, the muscles in it corded with his clenched fists. “But fetch me that muse. Before she has a chance to contaminate anyone else with impure thoughts.”
He was defeated, and she knew it. She could sense it deep within her hunter’s soul. Heracles turned to go, and Artemis happily watched her hounds feast. Piles of steaming offal disappeared down the lean throats, and the irritated snarls had dissolved into growls of contentment. One of the males mounted a female there amid the carnage, the beasts coupling with no thought at all to the humans they’d once been. For the first time in days, the voices in her head were silent.
“Heracles?” She heard his boots stop. “Come to my bed tonight.” He didn’t answer, but she knew he would obey.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Teaser Tuesday IX
Here’s a treat for Teaser Tuesday! This is a selection from the long lost and lamented Project 1. (otherwise known as Avarice) This novel wasn’t trunked, no, not at all. It was sent to a farm in the country to live with a family that loves it very much. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Sorry for the length, but this is one of my favorite scenes. You shoulda seen the one that came before it, it was pretty pimp too. Too bad the overall plot of the book is unsalvageable as it stands now.
Ah well, maybe someday.
~*!*~
She was still buckling her sword on when she hit the deck to find her men already at the ropes, rigging the ship for fast running. “Rourke! Report!”
The old man greeted her with an unexpected grin, which stopped her in her tracks. “It ain’ tha Dread. It’s tha Asp.”
Jaysa took up the offered glass, to find a small two-masted ship coming up fast on their aft side. Rourke’s grin was contagious. Though it ran with no flag, she knew that ship. The small band of privateers made a point of harassing anyone they could catch, and they had chased the Avarice before with no luck. This would be fun. “Get her set, Rourke, I want to see them eat wake.”
The impending chase seemed to brighten everyone’s mood as the sleeping portion of the crew was roused to aid the rest. She could see Etienne already aloft in the riggings to keep a lookout, calling orders down to the crew below. Nite had thrown his hand in at the sails, Pascal tight on his heels like a little barnacle.
The crew of the Asp knew they had been seen, and like the Avarice, the ship was being prepared for a chase. Through her telescope, Jaysa watched the men scamper into the ropes as easily as walking on land, and laughed when she caught their captain staring back at her through his own spyglass. She gave a jaunty wave and received one in response. It was to be a lark then. To be sure, the pirates would rob them if they caught them – though they had little enough on board worth value – but in the end it was the chase that mattered, the thrill of flying over the waves after a long winter ashore.
She nudged Rourke away from the wheel with a wicked grin, and raised her voice. “Hard to port, boys, make ‘em work for it!” The answering roar from her men was the sweetest thing she had heard in months.
The Avarice responded as eagerly as the men, leaping across the smooth water ahead of the smaller ship. They were in flat open sea, and in a straight run, the Asp was lighter and would most likely catch them. But the larger Avarice plowed diagonal swathes across the wind and current, never letting the pirates draw alongside for fear of being crushed under. The crew and ship acted as one creature, the barked orders from Jaysa only serving as extra motivation. Even Pascal found himself a place next to Nite, doing his small part to keep the ship speeding along.
Jaysa lost herself in the moment, steering by instinct, calling out commands without truly thinking about it. This was what she loved, what she lived for. Nothing could stop her, not with the Avarice under full sail, not with the Lady’s waves calm and beckoning. She could feel the pull and tug of each rope on each billowing sail through the soles of her feet, feel the rudder buffeted by the hidden currents through her hands on the wheel. In all of it, the Avarice spoke to her, guided her, and together they were unstoppable.
Each time the Asp got within shouting distance, the Avarice would change course hard to the opposite side, leaving the smaller ship scrambling to catch up in the larger vessel’s wake. Some of Jaysa’s crew hung over the rear railing, cat calling and whooping to the Asp below, and the pirate crew yelled back jibes and taunts. Certainly, any of them could have opened fire with pistols or cannons at any time, but neither crew seemed to wish it, both finding joy in the contest the chase had become.
Why then, in the bright light of the noonday sun, was she suddenly freezing?
It was on their next turn to starboard that Jaysa heard the warning shout. “Ware to starboard!” Knowing very well that the Asp was on the port side and behind, she jerked her head in that direction to see what new threat approached. The sight chilled her to her very core.
The Dread loomed to their right, tattered sails full and barreling toward the embattled pair with deadly purpose. No matter what condition the rest of the haphazard vessel was in, there was no missing the gleaming spike adorning the prow.
“Shit!” Jaysa spun the wheel without warning, jerking many off their feet and sending the boat reeling toward port again. She cut across the Asp’s path, barely missing crushing the smaller ship beneath the Avarice’s keel. The pirate captain jerked his wheel to starboard, and the pair of ships skimmed along each side of the Dread as it passed between them within touching distance.
Where the seven hells had it come from?! A ship could not just appear from no where on an empty sea, and yet Jaysa would swear to her dying day they had not been so involved in the chase as to miss its approach.
“Man the guns! Everyone out of the rigs!” The game had suddenly turned serious, and with the maneuvers that would be necessary, any unwary sailor could be pitched from the high ropes into the sea, a death sentence in these suddenly crowded waters.
There was a thump as Etienne hit the deck beside her, and the pair of them exchanged grim glances. “Get Pascal and Nite below.” The Basque sailor nodded and moved to give the order.
The captain dared a glance behind to see that the Dread had already come around from its near collision and was now moving to flank the Asp, herding the pirate vessel back toward the Avarice. Sweet Lady, they couldn’t truly think to take both ships?
The captain of the Asp darted his ship behind the Avarice abruptly, putting the larger ship between his and the Dread. In return, Jaysa cut her ship hard right, ducking the abrupt spray of water as she again passed within spitting distance of the ship of horrors. She had one glimpse of the Dread sailors, standing eerily silent at the rails of their own ship with the boundless patience of a stalking shark. She caught the sight of shark’s teeth, of impossibly large mouths beneath the same empty black eyes as the keshiel. Predators, merely waiting. A hook hit the port railing and caught, only to have its rope neatly severed by Selby’s belt knife. That was too close.
“We gotta split from tha Asp, they can only chase one a us!” Rourke appeared at her elbow, cudgel slung at his belt in preparation for battle.
He was right, she knew, but that still gave even odds that the Dread would pursue them instead of the Asp. And if the Asp could break free, she could easily outrun the Avarice, leaving the larger ship to its fate.
“We could fight them together. They cannot take both ships at once.” Etienne’s argument was also sound, save that it depended on the crew of the other ship stopping to aid once the battle was joined.
The odds were against them, and Jaysa liked it not. There was only one way to ensure that the Dread did not dog their wake all the way to Jeranthin.
“Port side gunners! Load ball and chain!” She heard the order passed from man to man down into the hold and took a firmer grip on the wheel. They only had one gun on that side. They would only get one shot.
“Those masts are too thick! The chains will not take them down!” Etienne was right. While a whirling ball and chain, fired from a cannon, would shatter smaller masts, the Dread was made of sterner stuff. Nevermind the common knowledge that the Dread was unsinkable, inescapable. “Jaysa, are you listening to me?”
She listened, of course, but her mind was set. The Dread could not be allowed to overtake the Avarice. She knew that Etienne and Rourke were exchanging worried glances behind her back, but she did not have time to explain. Nor did she want to try.
“Ready for hard to port!” The men on the decks below moved, shifted, taking positions to accomplish whatever their captain asked of them. Jaysa watched their wake, keeping the Asp and the Dread in her sights, waiting for just the right moment. It came. “Now!” The wheel spun under her hands and every man heaved at the ropes. With a tortured groan of timber and line, the Avarice turned broadside, not into the path of the Dread, but to face the Asp. She could hear the moment her men grasped her intent, the tumult of shouting changing to shock and incredulity.
“What are you doing?!” Etienne gaped at her in horror.
“Fire!” The order was passed and carried out, the gun below thundering in answer. Jaysa watched as the ball and chain, only a blur to her eyes, spun through the air to wrap around the Asp’s foremast with a sickening crunch of wood. For a heart stopping moment, she thought the shot had failed. Then the mast began to list and suddenly toppled, trapping who knew how many men beneath the fallen sails and lines. The smaller ship lagged behind them, crippled.
As she had hoped, the Dread dropped pursuit, circling back to descend on the Asp like sharks to blood. She watched for no longer than that, turning her attention back to her own vessel. They still had to get away.
“Sweet and merciful Lady, Jaysa, what have you done?” Etienne still stared at her, face pale beneath his dark hair. “Those men…”
“Those men aren’t mine. And mine are still alive.”
An explosion sounded behind them. Perhaps the Asp had fired their small guns in an attempt to stave off boarding. But dead in the water as they were, there would be no escaping the Dread’s mad crew. More than one man leaned out over the rails, trying to see behind them, murmurs of disbelief replacing the cacophony of impending battle. Jaysa never turned to look back. She did not want to see what fate she had condemned them to. “We run full sail to Jeranthin, all watches.” They could not afford to stop now.
Sorry for the length, but this is one of my favorite scenes. You shoulda seen the one that came before it, it was pretty pimp too. Too bad the overall plot of the book is unsalvageable as it stands now.
Ah well, maybe someday.
~*!*~
She was still buckling her sword on when she hit the deck to find her men already at the ropes, rigging the ship for fast running. “Rourke! Report!”
The old man greeted her with an unexpected grin, which stopped her in her tracks. “It ain’ tha Dread. It’s tha Asp.”
Jaysa took up the offered glass, to find a small two-masted ship coming up fast on their aft side. Rourke’s grin was contagious. Though it ran with no flag, she knew that ship. The small band of privateers made a point of harassing anyone they could catch, and they had chased the Avarice before with no luck. This would be fun. “Get her set, Rourke, I want to see them eat wake.”
The impending chase seemed to brighten everyone’s mood as the sleeping portion of the crew was roused to aid the rest. She could see Etienne already aloft in the riggings to keep a lookout, calling orders down to the crew below. Nite had thrown his hand in at the sails, Pascal tight on his heels like a little barnacle.
The crew of the Asp knew they had been seen, and like the Avarice, the ship was being prepared for a chase. Through her telescope, Jaysa watched the men scamper into the ropes as easily as walking on land, and laughed when she caught their captain staring back at her through his own spyglass. She gave a jaunty wave and received one in response. It was to be a lark then. To be sure, the pirates would rob them if they caught them – though they had little enough on board worth value – but in the end it was the chase that mattered, the thrill of flying over the waves after a long winter ashore.
She nudged Rourke away from the wheel with a wicked grin, and raised her voice. “Hard to port, boys, make ‘em work for it!” The answering roar from her men was the sweetest thing she had heard in months.
The Avarice responded as eagerly as the men, leaping across the smooth water ahead of the smaller ship. They were in flat open sea, and in a straight run, the Asp was lighter and would most likely catch them. But the larger Avarice plowed diagonal swathes across the wind and current, never letting the pirates draw alongside for fear of being crushed under. The crew and ship acted as one creature, the barked orders from Jaysa only serving as extra motivation. Even Pascal found himself a place next to Nite, doing his small part to keep the ship speeding along.
Jaysa lost herself in the moment, steering by instinct, calling out commands without truly thinking about it. This was what she loved, what she lived for. Nothing could stop her, not with the Avarice under full sail, not with the Lady’s waves calm and beckoning. She could feel the pull and tug of each rope on each billowing sail through the soles of her feet, feel the rudder buffeted by the hidden currents through her hands on the wheel. In all of it, the Avarice spoke to her, guided her, and together they were unstoppable.
Each time the Asp got within shouting distance, the Avarice would change course hard to the opposite side, leaving the smaller ship scrambling to catch up in the larger vessel’s wake. Some of Jaysa’s crew hung over the rear railing, cat calling and whooping to the Asp below, and the pirate crew yelled back jibes and taunts. Certainly, any of them could have opened fire with pistols or cannons at any time, but neither crew seemed to wish it, both finding joy in the contest the chase had become.
Why then, in the bright light of the noonday sun, was she suddenly freezing?
It was on their next turn to starboard that Jaysa heard the warning shout. “Ware to starboard!” Knowing very well that the Asp was on the port side and behind, she jerked her head in that direction to see what new threat approached. The sight chilled her to her very core.
The Dread loomed to their right, tattered sails full and barreling toward the embattled pair with deadly purpose. No matter what condition the rest of the haphazard vessel was in, there was no missing the gleaming spike adorning the prow.
“Shit!” Jaysa spun the wheel without warning, jerking many off their feet and sending the boat reeling toward port again. She cut across the Asp’s path, barely missing crushing the smaller ship beneath the Avarice’s keel. The pirate captain jerked his wheel to starboard, and the pair of ships skimmed along each side of the Dread as it passed between them within touching distance.
Where the seven hells had it come from?! A ship could not just appear from no where on an empty sea, and yet Jaysa would swear to her dying day they had not been so involved in the chase as to miss its approach.
“Man the guns! Everyone out of the rigs!” The game had suddenly turned serious, and with the maneuvers that would be necessary, any unwary sailor could be pitched from the high ropes into the sea, a death sentence in these suddenly crowded waters.
There was a thump as Etienne hit the deck beside her, and the pair of them exchanged grim glances. “Get Pascal and Nite below.” The Basque sailor nodded and moved to give the order.
The captain dared a glance behind to see that the Dread had already come around from its near collision and was now moving to flank the Asp, herding the pirate vessel back toward the Avarice. Sweet Lady, they couldn’t truly think to take both ships?
The captain of the Asp darted his ship behind the Avarice abruptly, putting the larger ship between his and the Dread. In return, Jaysa cut her ship hard right, ducking the abrupt spray of water as she again passed within spitting distance of the ship of horrors. She had one glimpse of the Dread sailors, standing eerily silent at the rails of their own ship with the boundless patience of a stalking shark. She caught the sight of shark’s teeth, of impossibly large mouths beneath the same empty black eyes as the keshiel. Predators, merely waiting. A hook hit the port railing and caught, only to have its rope neatly severed by Selby’s belt knife. That was too close.
“We gotta split from tha Asp, they can only chase one a us!” Rourke appeared at her elbow, cudgel slung at his belt in preparation for battle.
He was right, she knew, but that still gave even odds that the Dread would pursue them instead of the Asp. And if the Asp could break free, she could easily outrun the Avarice, leaving the larger ship to its fate.
“We could fight them together. They cannot take both ships at once.” Etienne’s argument was also sound, save that it depended on the crew of the other ship stopping to aid once the battle was joined.
The odds were against them, and Jaysa liked it not. There was only one way to ensure that the Dread did not dog their wake all the way to Jeranthin.
“Port side gunners! Load ball and chain!” She heard the order passed from man to man down into the hold and took a firmer grip on the wheel. They only had one gun on that side. They would only get one shot.
“Those masts are too thick! The chains will not take them down!” Etienne was right. While a whirling ball and chain, fired from a cannon, would shatter smaller masts, the Dread was made of sterner stuff. Nevermind the common knowledge that the Dread was unsinkable, inescapable. “Jaysa, are you listening to me?”
She listened, of course, but her mind was set. The Dread could not be allowed to overtake the Avarice. She knew that Etienne and Rourke were exchanging worried glances behind her back, but she did not have time to explain. Nor did she want to try.
“Ready for hard to port!” The men on the decks below moved, shifted, taking positions to accomplish whatever their captain asked of them. Jaysa watched their wake, keeping the Asp and the Dread in her sights, waiting for just the right moment. It came. “Now!” The wheel spun under her hands and every man heaved at the ropes. With a tortured groan of timber and line, the Avarice turned broadside, not into the path of the Dread, but to face the Asp. She could hear the moment her men grasped her intent, the tumult of shouting changing to shock and incredulity.
“What are you doing?!” Etienne gaped at her in horror.
“Fire!” The order was passed and carried out, the gun below thundering in answer. Jaysa watched as the ball and chain, only a blur to her eyes, spun through the air to wrap around the Asp’s foremast with a sickening crunch of wood. For a heart stopping moment, she thought the shot had failed. Then the mast began to list and suddenly toppled, trapping who knew how many men beneath the fallen sails and lines. The smaller ship lagged behind them, crippled.
As she had hoped, the Dread dropped pursuit, circling back to descend on the Asp like sharks to blood. She watched for no longer than that, turning her attention back to her own vessel. They still had to get away.
“Sweet and merciful Lady, Jaysa, what have you done?” Etienne still stared at her, face pale beneath his dark hair. “Those men…”
“Those men aren’t mine. And mine are still alive.”
An explosion sounded behind them. Perhaps the Asp had fired their small guns in an attempt to stave off boarding. But dead in the water as they were, there would be no escaping the Dread’s mad crew. More than one man leaned out over the rails, trying to see behind them, murmurs of disbelief replacing the cacophony of impending battle. Jaysa never turned to look back. She did not want to see what fate she had condemned them to. “We run full sail to Jeranthin, all watches.” They could not afford to stop now.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Teaser Tuesday Ocho
That time of the week again! This teaser is a direct continuation of Teaser 4 from a few weeks ago. It’s another excerpt from the one and only chapter I have written on Tactile, and I think it shows a bit more of the world I have in my head for this book/series. (and yes, for those Canadian readers, I know that the whole “restraining order” thing isn’t quite how it works in Canada, but I’m having to fudge things just a teeny bit. Mea culpa)
And since I brought it up, would a small detail like this be a deal breaker for you as a reader? As a writer, I know that most readers would chalk this up to me (the author) doing shoddy research (or no research), when in fact, I DID do the research, but I had to alter reality a bit to make it work for my world. It bothers me that someone might think I didn't care (stupid American, trying to make Canada look like US North).
Then again, I could just be touchy.
~*!*~
“Corporal Redfield. To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”
“Kate.” He offered a polite nod and smile, the dimple in his left cheek showing briefly. “You’re looking well.”
“Considering the last time you saw me, I was just coming out of a ten-day coma, I’m not sure that’s saying much. Don’t I have a restraining order against you?”
“It expired last month.” He actually looked apologetic. Maybe he should have called to remind me why I hated him, so I’d have remembered to reapply for the order.
All I had to do was stand in the doorway, and he couldn’t come in. It was that easy. Even James Redfield wouldn’t breach etiquette enough to touch me. But that would trap the little Constable inside, and honestly, I was afraid she’d cry. I stepped back inside, leaving Redfield to follow me if he wanted. Of course he wanted.
Raleigh bared his teeth as the tall Corporal stepped through the door. Apparently I’m the only one who realized the dog was smiling and not growling. Little Constable Sikes ducked behind her superior. I’m not an empath, and even I could feel the waves of relief coming off of her.
“He’s not going to bite, is he?” Redfield eyed my dog warily.
“Not if I don’t tell him to.” I went to stand near the fireplace and Raleigh, and with one hand, I made the visual command for Raleigh to lie down. The big dog flopped down on my foot with a sigh. “I don’t know what you want, Corporal, but you should go ask someone else.”
“I did.” He fished a manila folder out of his coat, and it was my turn to be wary. Nothing good ever came out of those folders. “I wouldn’t come to you if I hadn’t exhausted all other options. You’re the strongest tactile in the world.”
“Marissa Day is the strongest tactile in the world.” Weak argument, I knew. Marissa had been in a constant vegetative state for the last two years, Su-Pressed out of her gourd. Sometimes, our minds just break under the strain. I was just waiting for my turn, really.
“I actually contacted her people. There’s been no change.” Redfield looked around my living room for a place to sit, and I saw the frustration when he realized he couldn’t. No touching my stuff, you know the rules. “I also contacted Sister Selena, and her people have promised to have her get back to me sometime in the next six to eight weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. Sarah Moore, more popularly known as Sister Selena, was the worst kind of charlatan, mostly because she possessed a considerable talent. Instead of using it for the greater good, she exploited desperate people, and turned the whole thing into a three ring circus complete with fog machines, dramatic lighting, and a theme song. “Jason Vandermeer, then.”
“Very funny.”
“Why is that funny?” I frowned at him.
The corporal blinked at me in obvious surprise. “God, you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
He sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Jason Vandermeer was committed two months ago. He tried to amputate his own left hand with a band saw. He’s actually in the same facility with Marissa.”
I sank onto the arm of my sofa with lead in my stomach. God… It had been coming for a long time. Even Jason had known that. Male psychics were uncommon and never lasted as long as the females. No one knew why. Jason was almost thirty. I had started to hope he would beat the odds. “No…I hadn’t heard…” Raleigh, sensing my distress, pushed his head into my lap and I sank my hands into his thick fur to anchor myself. Warm doggy thoughts trickled through my skin, simple and content. No one else had touched him, to contaminate his fur with their own psychic taint.
Redfield came over to crouch in front of me, careful not to touch my furniture or myself. “I’m sorry, Kate. I truly thought you knew.” The sympathy in his eyes was genuine. I could tell that much.
Powerful psychics were rare. Very few had the mental fortitude to exist with other people’s lives streaming through their heads. We were an elite community, one that was never as much fun as it looked on the outside. More than that, I could count on one hand the number of friends I had in the flesh (not counting strictly online acquaintances) and Jason had been one of them. No, he wasn’t dead, but if they’d committed him, his mind was likely beyond recovery. My tiny world had just gotten a little smaller.
“Kate, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but I’m out of options unless I go to RAPT, and that’s going to take time we don’t have. Please, at least look?” He laid the folder on my coffee table and stood, giving me room.
He was right. The Refuge Agency for the Psychically Talented would tie him up in paperwork that would make Sister Selena look like a tea party before they would give him the identities of any other helpful psychics.
“Raleigh, fetch please.” The big malamute went out of his way to shoulder the good officers aside, and returned from the kitchen with my rubber gloves dangling from his jaws.
Protected as much as I could be, I flipped open the folder.
And since I brought it up, would a small detail like this be a deal breaker for you as a reader? As a writer, I know that most readers would chalk this up to me (the author) doing shoddy research (or no research), when in fact, I DID do the research, but I had to alter reality a bit to make it work for my world. It bothers me that someone might think I didn't care (stupid American, trying to make Canada look like US North).
Then again, I could just be touchy.
~*!*~
“Corporal Redfield. To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”
“Kate.” He offered a polite nod and smile, the dimple in his left cheek showing briefly. “You’re looking well.”
“Considering the last time you saw me, I was just coming out of a ten-day coma, I’m not sure that’s saying much. Don’t I have a restraining order against you?”
“It expired last month.” He actually looked apologetic. Maybe he should have called to remind me why I hated him, so I’d have remembered to reapply for the order.
All I had to do was stand in the doorway, and he couldn’t come in. It was that easy. Even James Redfield wouldn’t breach etiquette enough to touch me. But that would trap the little Constable inside, and honestly, I was afraid she’d cry. I stepped back inside, leaving Redfield to follow me if he wanted. Of course he wanted.
Raleigh bared his teeth as the tall Corporal stepped through the door. Apparently I’m the only one who realized the dog was smiling and not growling. Little Constable Sikes ducked behind her superior. I’m not an empath, and even I could feel the waves of relief coming off of her.
“He’s not going to bite, is he?” Redfield eyed my dog warily.
“Not if I don’t tell him to.” I went to stand near the fireplace and Raleigh, and with one hand, I made the visual command for Raleigh to lie down. The big dog flopped down on my foot with a sigh. “I don’t know what you want, Corporal, but you should go ask someone else.”
“I did.” He fished a manila folder out of his coat, and it was my turn to be wary. Nothing good ever came out of those folders. “I wouldn’t come to you if I hadn’t exhausted all other options. You’re the strongest tactile in the world.”
“Marissa Day is the strongest tactile in the world.” Weak argument, I knew. Marissa had been in a constant vegetative state for the last two years, Su-Pressed out of her gourd. Sometimes, our minds just break under the strain. I was just waiting for my turn, really.
“I actually contacted her people. There’s been no change.” Redfield looked around my living room for a place to sit, and I saw the frustration when he realized he couldn’t. No touching my stuff, you know the rules. “I also contacted Sister Selena, and her people have promised to have her get back to me sometime in the next six to eight weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. Sarah Moore, more popularly known as Sister Selena, was the worst kind of charlatan, mostly because she possessed a considerable talent. Instead of using it for the greater good, she exploited desperate people, and turned the whole thing into a three ring circus complete with fog machines, dramatic lighting, and a theme song. “Jason Vandermeer, then.”
“Very funny.”
“Why is that funny?” I frowned at him.
The corporal blinked at me in obvious surprise. “God, you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
He sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Jason Vandermeer was committed two months ago. He tried to amputate his own left hand with a band saw. He’s actually in the same facility with Marissa.”
I sank onto the arm of my sofa with lead in my stomach. God… It had been coming for a long time. Even Jason had known that. Male psychics were uncommon and never lasted as long as the females. No one knew why. Jason was almost thirty. I had started to hope he would beat the odds. “No…I hadn’t heard…” Raleigh, sensing my distress, pushed his head into my lap and I sank my hands into his thick fur to anchor myself. Warm doggy thoughts trickled through my skin, simple and content. No one else had touched him, to contaminate his fur with their own psychic taint.
Redfield came over to crouch in front of me, careful not to touch my furniture or myself. “I’m sorry, Kate. I truly thought you knew.” The sympathy in his eyes was genuine. I could tell that much.
Powerful psychics were rare. Very few had the mental fortitude to exist with other people’s lives streaming through their heads. We were an elite community, one that was never as much fun as it looked on the outside. More than that, I could count on one hand the number of friends I had in the flesh (not counting strictly online acquaintances) and Jason had been one of them. No, he wasn’t dead, but if they’d committed him, his mind was likely beyond recovery. My tiny world had just gotten a little smaller.
“Kate, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but I’m out of options unless I go to RAPT, and that’s going to take time we don’t have. Please, at least look?” He laid the folder on my coffee table and stood, giving me room.
He was right. The Refuge Agency for the Psychically Talented would tie him up in paperwork that would make Sister Selena look like a tea party before they would give him the identities of any other helpful psychics.
“Raleigh, fetch please.” The big malamute went out of his way to shoulder the good officers aside, and returned from the kitchen with my rubber gloves dangling from his jaws.
Protected as much as I could be, I flipped open the folder.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Teaser Tuesday Lucky 7
With internet and home phone on the fritz at the moment, I am reduced to posting from the public library. (there are SCARY people here! And I don't mean just me!) To tide you over until regular blog posting can resume, here's another Teaser from Peacemaker. It's a bit long, but I just kept wanting to include more!
~*!*~
He wasn’t even aware that he was dreaming until the Indian woman walked out of the doorway next to him, glancing about the town curiously. All sound faded away, leaving the two of them alone in the morning’s first light.
“You again?” She gave him a smile, pointing toward the mountains. “No, not this time. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you either tell me what you want, or go away and leave me in peace.”
She pointed again, her smile fading into an insistent frown.
Caleb stood, and the chair beneath him vanished as if it had never been. “No. I’ve had enough of your folk for the time being. Lacking in hospitality, I must say.”
A look of frustration crossed her lovely face, and she seemed to be debating something. Finally, she held her hand out to him, asking him to take it with a pleading look.
“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you? Every time I close my eyes, you’re going to come walking into my dreams until I do what you want.”
She stepped closer, offering both hands now, silently begging him to take them.
With a resigned sigh, Caleb placed his hands in hers.
They were in the mountains, that much was clear. Walking hand in hand, she led him down a rocky path that meandered aimlessly through the tall trees. She had no regard for the darkness of the night, save to smile each time she heard a night bird call.
As the trail headed steadily upward, Caleb climbed beside her, realizing belatedly that all his aches and pains had faded. He felt like he could have climbed the entire mountain, and the one beyond that as well. She tugged at his hand as he lagged behind in his reverie, and he walked faster to catch up.
“Where are you taking me?” She didn’t answer, which was no more than he’d expected. “What is so important?”
She turned and pressed a finger to her lips, imploring him to silence, and walked on.
It felt like they walked for hours, wending their way up the mountain, climbing through rocky crags and twisted gnarled pines by the end. Caleb could tell they were nearing their destination, because she motioned for him to stay and crept ahead, disappearing from view for some time.
When she returned, she again motioned for him to be silent, her grim face telling him how serious this was. Then she led him forward.
They crouched at the top of a rocky outcropping, looking down in to a vast chasm in the mountainside. A few hardy bushes clung to the steep sides, but for the most part it was a graveyard of fallen, shattered boulders, a river of jagged stone flowing through a deep canyon.
Nothing stirred. No birds flew over head, no agile mountain goats braved the peaks. It was deathly still.
The woman reached a hand out, passing it lightly over Caleb’s scarred eye. The touch was gentle, almost a lover’s caress, and when she was done, she pointed again into the rocky abyss.
A giant slumbered there. He had not been there only moments before, but he was there, now. Made of the same rock as the chasm itself, the behemoth slumbered at the bottom of the canyon, cradled as tenderly as any child. His face was formed of chiseled boulders, hard planes of granite and shale. The full moon caught crystals of quartz on his surface, and he sparkled. His craggy hands could have crushed an entire house with little effort, and the entire mountain vibrated with the force of his breathing.
Sleepily, the massive creature shifted its shoulders, barely moving at all, and further down the mountain, a rocky avalanche crushed all that lay before it.
Oh how Caleb wanted to ask her what the giant was, but he suddenly understood the danger. God forbid that thing should wake and find them there.
The woman rested her hand on his arm, her eyes asking if he’d seen enough. He nodded, and they were suddenly gone from that place, returned to the thick of the forest.
“What the hell was that thing?”
Once again, she did not answer, and motioned him to follow. Their trek this time was faster, and she stopped them in a thicket of dense foliage. Pushing one branch aside, she pointed ahead.
This time, Caleb knew just where he was. They looked down on the nullstone mine, and he could even see the small rise where he’d watched them the night before. There was no one visible, but the sounds of picks on stone were loud in this strange dream stillness, sharp enough to hurt his ears and make his teeth ache in his head.
Tink-tink-TINK! On and on it went, even when he pressed his hands over his ears. Tink-tink-TINK! TINK-TINK-TINK!
He felt it before he heard it, rising up through the soles of his feet, shuddering through his hips into his chest, where his heart went cold with a deep primal fear. And when the roar reached them, the trees themselves bent nearly double in terror. The great rock giant was bellowing in pain.
High above them, near the cloud-covered peak, the mountain was moving. Great sheets of shale and granite were shifting, sliding, gathering momentum as they plunged down.
“We have to run! Go, go!” He tugged at his companion, urging her to run, but she only looked at him with sad eyes. And he knew there was no where they could hide. “What do we do? We have to do something!”
~*!*~
He wasn’t even aware that he was dreaming until the Indian woman walked out of the doorway next to him, glancing about the town curiously. All sound faded away, leaving the two of them alone in the morning’s first light.
“You again?” She gave him a smile, pointing toward the mountains. “No, not this time. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you either tell me what you want, or go away and leave me in peace.”
She pointed again, her smile fading into an insistent frown.
Caleb stood, and the chair beneath him vanished as if it had never been. “No. I’ve had enough of your folk for the time being. Lacking in hospitality, I must say.”
A look of frustration crossed her lovely face, and she seemed to be debating something. Finally, she held her hand out to him, asking him to take it with a pleading look.
“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you? Every time I close my eyes, you’re going to come walking into my dreams until I do what you want.”
She stepped closer, offering both hands now, silently begging him to take them.
With a resigned sigh, Caleb placed his hands in hers.
They were in the mountains, that much was clear. Walking hand in hand, she led him down a rocky path that meandered aimlessly through the tall trees. She had no regard for the darkness of the night, save to smile each time she heard a night bird call.
As the trail headed steadily upward, Caleb climbed beside her, realizing belatedly that all his aches and pains had faded. He felt like he could have climbed the entire mountain, and the one beyond that as well. She tugged at his hand as he lagged behind in his reverie, and he walked faster to catch up.
“Where are you taking me?” She didn’t answer, which was no more than he’d expected. “What is so important?”
She turned and pressed a finger to her lips, imploring him to silence, and walked on.
It felt like they walked for hours, wending their way up the mountain, climbing through rocky crags and twisted gnarled pines by the end. Caleb could tell they were nearing their destination, because she motioned for him to stay and crept ahead, disappearing from view for some time.
When she returned, she again motioned for him to be silent, her grim face telling him how serious this was. Then she led him forward.
They crouched at the top of a rocky outcropping, looking down in to a vast chasm in the mountainside. A few hardy bushes clung to the steep sides, but for the most part it was a graveyard of fallen, shattered boulders, a river of jagged stone flowing through a deep canyon.
Nothing stirred. No birds flew over head, no agile mountain goats braved the peaks. It was deathly still.
The woman reached a hand out, passing it lightly over Caleb’s scarred eye. The touch was gentle, almost a lover’s caress, and when she was done, she pointed again into the rocky abyss.
A giant slumbered there. He had not been there only moments before, but he was there, now. Made of the same rock as the chasm itself, the behemoth slumbered at the bottom of the canyon, cradled as tenderly as any child. His face was formed of chiseled boulders, hard planes of granite and shale. The full moon caught crystals of quartz on his surface, and he sparkled. His craggy hands could have crushed an entire house with little effort, and the entire mountain vibrated with the force of his breathing.
Sleepily, the massive creature shifted its shoulders, barely moving at all, and further down the mountain, a rocky avalanche crushed all that lay before it.
Oh how Caleb wanted to ask her what the giant was, but he suddenly understood the danger. God forbid that thing should wake and find them there.
The woman rested her hand on his arm, her eyes asking if he’d seen enough. He nodded, and they were suddenly gone from that place, returned to the thick of the forest.
“What the hell was that thing?”
Once again, she did not answer, and motioned him to follow. Their trek this time was faster, and she stopped them in a thicket of dense foliage. Pushing one branch aside, she pointed ahead.
This time, Caleb knew just where he was. They looked down on the nullstone mine, and he could even see the small rise where he’d watched them the night before. There was no one visible, but the sounds of picks on stone were loud in this strange dream stillness, sharp enough to hurt his ears and make his teeth ache in his head.
Tink-tink-TINK! On and on it went, even when he pressed his hands over his ears. Tink-tink-TINK! TINK-TINK-TINK!
He felt it before he heard it, rising up through the soles of his feet, shuddering through his hips into his chest, where his heart went cold with a deep primal fear. And when the roar reached them, the trees themselves bent nearly double in terror. The great rock giant was bellowing in pain.
High above them, near the cloud-covered peak, the mountain was moving. Great sheets of shale and granite were shifting, sliding, gathering momentum as they plunged down.
“We have to run! Go, go!” He tugged at his companion, urging her to run, but she only looked at him with sad eyes. And he knew there was no where they could hide. “What do we do? We have to do something!”
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Teaser Tuesday Sex! (no really, it's six in Swedish)
I've been a horrible blog-owner this past week. Real life has...not been good. But we're adapting, rolling with the punches, all that sort of thing. Remember that rant about writers writing during stress? Well, that's me, and I'm failing miserably.
In an effort to maintain a sense of normalcy, I'm going to go ahead and post a Teaser. This is probably the worst kind of teaser, because it's the ONLY thing I have written for this particular piece of work. No build up, no lead in. I only have the vaguest idea of what came before to bring these two characters to this place. It was just something that was stuck in my head and needed to come out.
If I ever finished this, it would be a YA urban fantasy revolving around the reincarnation of King Arthur and his knights, with my own personal twist, which you'll catch in the excerpt. Yes, the Lance in the snippet is THAT Lance. And Quen is...more than he ever dreamed.
~*!*~
He rested his hand on my shoulder, and I felt it all the way to the soles of my feet. “Dude, did I do something to piss you off?”
“No.” He just needed to go away. I couldn’t deal with the end of the world and him too. I kept my eyes firmly on my sneakers and my hands clenched at my sides.
“You sure? ‘Cause you’re acting like you wanna take my head off.” Dammit, why didn’t he take his hand away? He was standing close enough that I could smell his cologne, the same one that half the team wore, but on him it was different.
I didn’t want it to be different. I didn’t want him to be different. Why couldn’t he just be like all the other guys? Why couldn’t I? The unfairness of it all made me snap, when I really hadn’t meant to. “I’m fine! I just need to be left the fuck alone right now!” Need to breathe, without you staring at me with those gorgeous freaking eyes.
“Oh. Ok.” His hand left my shoulder, and I could hear the puzzled hurt in his voice. “Um…you’ve got my cell if you need anything, I guess.”
Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked away, and I felt like the world’s biggest asshole. It wasn’t his fault I was fucked up in the head, or that I was some big reincarnated legend. We were still supposed to be friends if nothing else. Teammates. “Lance!”
He stopped and turned to meet my gaze, one brow raised curiously.
“Look, I’m sorry, I’m a dick. I just…there’s shit going on and…”
“You know you can talk to me, right?” He came back, tilting his head to look down into my face. “I mean, you can tell me anything.”
I shook my head. “There’s just…some heavy stuff, and I can’t go into it, really... I just gotta get my head wrapped around it, y’know? Get it sorted.”
A faint frown crossed his face. I wondered if he knew his green eyes got two shades darker when he did that. “And you can’t do that when I’m around? I thought we were friends, Quen.”
“We are.”
“You’re not acting like it. You don’t push your friends away like this. When the heavy shit comes down, that’s when you need them the most.”
“I know that, I really do, I swear, and as soon as I get this all figured out…”
“Then I’ll help you figure it out.”
He tried to reach for me again, to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I just couldn’t take it again. I took a step back, trying to pretend like I wasn’t half running away. “You can’t!”
His jaw clenched. “Why the hell not? I’m a dumb jock? Can’t grasp this deep intellectual bullshit you got happening in your life?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Then what the hell is your problem? Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Because I can’t think when you’re around!” His eyes got wide, and only then did I realize that I’d spoken out loud. My face went hot, and I turned and walked away as fast as I could. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear his footsteps on the gravel, catching up at a fast trot.
“Quen…”
“Go away, Lance.” Please, just go away so I can find a hole to sink into.
“No way.” He caught my arm, jerked me to a stop. I yanked my arm out of his grip, but I held my ground. “What did you mean?”
I prayed for a black sorcerer to show up and incinerate me, but no one was obliging. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything, you didn’t hear anything.” I stared him down, daring him to dispute my version of events. Maybe, if he’d just let it go, I could salvage this.
I didn’t expect him to laugh. Sure, it took him a few moments of searching my face, and it was only a small chuckle, but I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Nausea rolled in my throat, watching him shake his head in amusement. That was me, the laughingstock of Avalon High.
“I’m a freakin’ idiot.” It took me a bit to really process what he’d said. It wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Excuse me?” This was the part where he was supposed to look disgusted, call me names, let everyone in the school know I was a fag. He wasn’t supposed to stand there, just smiling and showing off his dimples.
“I didn’t know, man.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair, his cheeks turning faintly pink. “Seriously, I thought… I thought it was just me.”
“You…wait, what?”
Lance shook his head, stepping back to lean against the brick wall. “Man, I’ve been watching you since the day you got here. I just…y’know, I don’t assume. I figured you were into Gwen.”
My brain was having a problem catching up to events. “You…you’re into guys.”
He shrugged. “I like both.” He grinned a little. “I’da asked you out weeks ago if I’da known.”
I couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, so I just stared at him. Apparently, long enough to make him squirm. “You gonna say anything?”
“I…don’t have a freakin’ clue what to say.” The absurdity of the situation hit me, and suddenly I was laughing. A moment later, Lance was laughing with me. We howled until our sides hurt and we just plain ran out of air.
Lance leaned against the wall, looking at me, still shaking with sporadic chuckles. All I could do was grin back at him. “We’re both freakin’ idiots.”
“Yup, we are,” I agreed.
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, and reached out to me again, this time to take my hand. His thumb brushed across the back of my knuckles. “Listen…”
There was a humming in my ears, and I had the absurd fear it was going to make me miss whatever he was going to say next. I could feel my heart beating somewhere around the neighborhood of my throat, and all I could do was watch his tan hand, holding mine.
Too late, I realized the humming wasn’t inside my head. With a crash, the lightning bolt exploded the trashcan at the end of the alley.
For terrifying moments, I was deaf and blind. Then the pain seeped into the back of my skull where it had collided with the brick wall. Everything smelled like burned hair.
In an effort to maintain a sense of normalcy, I'm going to go ahead and post a Teaser. This is probably the worst kind of teaser, because it's the ONLY thing I have written for this particular piece of work. No build up, no lead in. I only have the vaguest idea of what came before to bring these two characters to this place. It was just something that was stuck in my head and needed to come out.
If I ever finished this, it would be a YA urban fantasy revolving around the reincarnation of King Arthur and his knights, with my own personal twist, which you'll catch in the excerpt. Yes, the Lance in the snippet is THAT Lance. And Quen is...more than he ever dreamed.
~*!*~
He rested his hand on my shoulder, and I felt it all the way to the soles of my feet. “Dude, did I do something to piss you off?”
“No.” He just needed to go away. I couldn’t deal with the end of the world and him too. I kept my eyes firmly on my sneakers and my hands clenched at my sides.
“You sure? ‘Cause you’re acting like you wanna take my head off.” Dammit, why didn’t he take his hand away? He was standing close enough that I could smell his cologne, the same one that half the team wore, but on him it was different.
I didn’t want it to be different. I didn’t want him to be different. Why couldn’t he just be like all the other guys? Why couldn’t I? The unfairness of it all made me snap, when I really hadn’t meant to. “I’m fine! I just need to be left the fuck alone right now!” Need to breathe, without you staring at me with those gorgeous freaking eyes.
“Oh. Ok.” His hand left my shoulder, and I could hear the puzzled hurt in his voice. “Um…you’ve got my cell if you need anything, I guess.”
Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked away, and I felt like the world’s biggest asshole. It wasn’t his fault I was fucked up in the head, or that I was some big reincarnated legend. We were still supposed to be friends if nothing else. Teammates. “Lance!”
He stopped and turned to meet my gaze, one brow raised curiously.
“Look, I’m sorry, I’m a dick. I just…there’s shit going on and…”
“You know you can talk to me, right?” He came back, tilting his head to look down into my face. “I mean, you can tell me anything.”
I shook my head. “There’s just…some heavy stuff, and I can’t go into it, really... I just gotta get my head wrapped around it, y’know? Get it sorted.”
A faint frown crossed his face. I wondered if he knew his green eyes got two shades darker when he did that. “And you can’t do that when I’m around? I thought we were friends, Quen.”
“We are.”
“You’re not acting like it. You don’t push your friends away like this. When the heavy shit comes down, that’s when you need them the most.”
“I know that, I really do, I swear, and as soon as I get this all figured out…”
“Then I’ll help you figure it out.”
He tried to reach for me again, to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I just couldn’t take it again. I took a step back, trying to pretend like I wasn’t half running away. “You can’t!”
His jaw clenched. “Why the hell not? I’m a dumb jock? Can’t grasp this deep intellectual bullshit you got happening in your life?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Then what the hell is your problem? Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Because I can’t think when you’re around!” His eyes got wide, and only then did I realize that I’d spoken out loud. My face went hot, and I turned and walked away as fast as I could. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear his footsteps on the gravel, catching up at a fast trot.
“Quen…”
“Go away, Lance.” Please, just go away so I can find a hole to sink into.
“No way.” He caught my arm, jerked me to a stop. I yanked my arm out of his grip, but I held my ground. “What did you mean?”
I prayed for a black sorcerer to show up and incinerate me, but no one was obliging. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything, you didn’t hear anything.” I stared him down, daring him to dispute my version of events. Maybe, if he’d just let it go, I could salvage this.
I didn’t expect him to laugh. Sure, it took him a few moments of searching my face, and it was only a small chuckle, but I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Nausea rolled in my throat, watching him shake his head in amusement. That was me, the laughingstock of Avalon High.
“I’m a freakin’ idiot.” It took me a bit to really process what he’d said. It wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Excuse me?” This was the part where he was supposed to look disgusted, call me names, let everyone in the school know I was a fag. He wasn’t supposed to stand there, just smiling and showing off his dimples.
“I didn’t know, man.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair, his cheeks turning faintly pink. “Seriously, I thought… I thought it was just me.”
“You…wait, what?”
Lance shook his head, stepping back to lean against the brick wall. “Man, I’ve been watching you since the day you got here. I just…y’know, I don’t assume. I figured you were into Gwen.”
My brain was having a problem catching up to events. “You…you’re into guys.”
He shrugged. “I like both.” He grinned a little. “I’da asked you out weeks ago if I’da known.”
I couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, so I just stared at him. Apparently, long enough to make him squirm. “You gonna say anything?”
“I…don’t have a freakin’ clue what to say.” The absurdity of the situation hit me, and suddenly I was laughing. A moment later, Lance was laughing with me. We howled until our sides hurt and we just plain ran out of air.
Lance leaned against the wall, looking at me, still shaking with sporadic chuckles. All I could do was grin back at him. “We’re both freakin’ idiots.”
“Yup, we are,” I agreed.
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, and reached out to me again, this time to take my hand. His thumb brushed across the back of my knuckles. “Listen…”
There was a humming in my ears, and I had the absurd fear it was going to make me miss whatever he was going to say next. I could feel my heart beating somewhere around the neighborhood of my throat, and all I could do was watch his tan hand, holding mine.
Too late, I realized the humming wasn’t inside my head. With a crash, the lightning bolt exploded the trashcan at the end of the alley.
For terrifying moments, I was deaf and blind. Then the pain seeped into the back of my skull where it had collided with the brick wall. Everything smelled like burned hair.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Teaser Tuesday Cinco
Teaser Tuesday once again! Per popular request, today's excerpt comes from Project NaNo, or Peacemaker.
As a bit of set up, our intrepid hero Caleb has been captured by Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. The old shaman that leads them has forced Caleb into a magical duel with one of the braves, and things have gotten a bit out of hand.
~*!*~
The Indian man threw one hand out toward the remnants of the large fire, and the flame answered, rising in one sinuous line like a great serpent, the head weaving back and forth menacingly. In the trees overhead, leaves and twigs popped softly, the sap in them boiling in an instant. The scent of burning foliage permeated the clearing. They had only moments before the entire forest ignited, tinder-dry as it was.
“No!” Horrified, Caleb watched the serpent, careful not to be entranced. Like the snake it resembled, fire could ensnare the mind, luring people to their deaths with false promises of escape. The trick was not to look it in the eyes.
Regardless of where it originated, fire was pure energy, and this Caleb could grab. The hungry monster within him gleefully launched itself at the serpent of flame, gulping greedily. He felt the searing heat of it as it entered his body, and the blue flames around his fists turned orange, singing the hair from his forearms. The fire serpent hissed and writhed, coiling over and over itself in an effort to escape, but Caleb had a large gaping hole within himself. There was more than enough room to capture and hold it.
Dimly, he heard Ernst yelling for him to give it over, to bleed off the power that was never meant to be encased in a human form. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had to. Give it up, or burn with it. But oh, it felt good, the heat coursing through his veins. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the world tinged in shades of red and gold and at the very depths of his vision, the blue of hottest flame. If he let go, he could be part of it forever, his energy blended with the eternal energy of flame. He’d known, ever since Chicago, that this would be his fate.
Something struck him across the face, hard enough to jar his senses. When he opened his eyes, he found the ancient shaman standing before him, hand drawn back to slap him again. Seeing that he had Caleb’s attention, he shoved Ernst into the Peacemaker’s arms, the jackalope’s antlers gouging him through his shirt. His blood steamed where it oozed from those scratches, and others.
“Caleb, please give it to me. Please.” Ernst sat up on his haunches, quivering little nose nearly pressed to Caleb’s. His voice echoed, taking on the crackling sound of a burning fire. “You have to give it to me, or you’ll burn. Please.”
Yes. He’d seen men burn from within. Their fingers turned black and the skin curled, flaking away as ash. The fat bubbled, and they smelled like sizzling bacon. That was why he could never eat it. And to a man, they’d died with smiles on their faces, seduced by the very power that devoured them alive.
“Yes.” His own voice was barely audible, the air in his lungs too hot for his vocal chords to handle. “Take it!” Inside, the fire roared its denial, and it scrabbled at him with searing claws, not wanting to relinquish a ready meal.
Through the heat, he could feel Ernst’s forehead pressed against his, antlers pricking painfully. The brown fur was blessedly cool to the touch, and it cleared away some of the heated delirium from Caleb’s mind. The fire left him, kicking and screaming, but drawn inexorably out nonetheless. That tremendous power funneled through the tiny form that was Ernst and away into wherever a familiar put such things.
Caleb was left cold and sweating, hugging the furry form close to his chest. There was no need for him to say thanks, unless it was to the Almighty for sending him Ernst in the first place. He would be so lost without him.
Someone touched his shoulder, and he looked to find the old Indian peering intently into his eyes. After long moments, the ancient one nodded. “Epeva’e.” Whatever it meant, he was obviously finished with Caleb. He handed the staff back.
As a bit of set up, our intrepid hero Caleb has been captured by Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. The old shaman that leads them has forced Caleb into a magical duel with one of the braves, and things have gotten a bit out of hand.
~*!*~
The Indian man threw one hand out toward the remnants of the large fire, and the flame answered, rising in one sinuous line like a great serpent, the head weaving back and forth menacingly. In the trees overhead, leaves and twigs popped softly, the sap in them boiling in an instant. The scent of burning foliage permeated the clearing. They had only moments before the entire forest ignited, tinder-dry as it was.
“No!” Horrified, Caleb watched the serpent, careful not to be entranced. Like the snake it resembled, fire could ensnare the mind, luring people to their deaths with false promises of escape. The trick was not to look it in the eyes.
Regardless of where it originated, fire was pure energy, and this Caleb could grab. The hungry monster within him gleefully launched itself at the serpent of flame, gulping greedily. He felt the searing heat of it as it entered his body, and the blue flames around his fists turned orange, singing the hair from his forearms. The fire serpent hissed and writhed, coiling over and over itself in an effort to escape, but Caleb had a large gaping hole within himself. There was more than enough room to capture and hold it.
Dimly, he heard Ernst yelling for him to give it over, to bleed off the power that was never meant to be encased in a human form. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had to. Give it up, or burn with it. But oh, it felt good, the heat coursing through his veins. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the world tinged in shades of red and gold and at the very depths of his vision, the blue of hottest flame. If he let go, he could be part of it forever, his energy blended with the eternal energy of flame. He’d known, ever since Chicago, that this would be his fate.
Something struck him across the face, hard enough to jar his senses. When he opened his eyes, he found the ancient shaman standing before him, hand drawn back to slap him again. Seeing that he had Caleb’s attention, he shoved Ernst into the Peacemaker’s arms, the jackalope’s antlers gouging him through his shirt. His blood steamed where it oozed from those scratches, and others.
“Caleb, please give it to me. Please.” Ernst sat up on his haunches, quivering little nose nearly pressed to Caleb’s. His voice echoed, taking on the crackling sound of a burning fire. “You have to give it to me, or you’ll burn. Please.”
Yes. He’d seen men burn from within. Their fingers turned black and the skin curled, flaking away as ash. The fat bubbled, and they smelled like sizzling bacon. That was why he could never eat it. And to a man, they’d died with smiles on their faces, seduced by the very power that devoured them alive.
“Yes.” His own voice was barely audible, the air in his lungs too hot for his vocal chords to handle. “Take it!” Inside, the fire roared its denial, and it scrabbled at him with searing claws, not wanting to relinquish a ready meal.
Through the heat, he could feel Ernst’s forehead pressed against his, antlers pricking painfully. The brown fur was blessedly cool to the touch, and it cleared away some of the heated delirium from Caleb’s mind. The fire left him, kicking and screaming, but drawn inexorably out nonetheless. That tremendous power funneled through the tiny form that was Ernst and away into wherever a familiar put such things.
Caleb was left cold and sweating, hugging the furry form close to his chest. There was no need for him to say thanks, unless it was to the Almighty for sending him Ernst in the first place. He would be so lost without him.
Someone touched his shoulder, and he looked to find the old Indian peering intently into his eyes. After long moments, the ancient one nodded. “Epeva’e.” Whatever it meant, he was obviously finished with Caleb. He handed the staff back.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Teaser Tuesday IV
Posting a Teaser Tuesday way early, mostly because the last couple weeks I totally forgot.
This one is a snippet from the first chapter (the only chapter, really) of what I was calling Project 4, tentatively titled Tactile. What would your world be like, if every touch told you the story of a thousand lives?
~*!*~
I was in the middle of eating lunch, and halfway through the Lady Cassandra’s forced wedding to the Duke Debarge, when Raleigh raised his head from his dish with a curious whuff.
“What’s up?”
“Rowl,” he said, quite firmly, and walked to the door.
I frowned but let him out, trying to peer down the winding drive to see who was intruding on my solitude. I couldn’t hear the diesel rumble of the McGoverns’ old truck, so I knew it wasn’t my neighbors.
Raleigh went bounding down the hill to vanish around the curve in a flurry of white and gray fur. I heard no screams of terror, so I assumed whoever it was would be walking up the hill shortly. With a heavy sigh, I started packing my pizza away in neat plastic bags.
It was ten full minutes before the quiet knock came at the door, and I wondered if Raleigh had given the unknown visitor a hard time. “Who is it?”
“Royal Canadian Mounted Police, ma’am.” A woman’s voice, young, hesitant. When I opened the door, my impression was confirmed. She was shorter than me, by a good deal, with a cute pageboy haircut and freckles across her pert little nose. Freckles! Her dark uniform gave her nothing at all in the way of authority. She looked like a kid playing dress up.
Her face lit up upon seeing me, as if she’d been afraid I wouldn’t open the door at all. “I’m Constable Sikes. May I come in?” She stuck her hand out at me.
You don’t offer to shake hands with a tactile psychic. It’s like offering to greet the queen by sniffing her crotch. I eyed the offending appendage until she blushed and withdrew her hand.
“Beg your pardon. I wasn’t thinking.”
I thought the girl might weep if I kept her on the doorstep any longer. “Come in, Constable.” I stepped away, keeping a very clear distance between the two of us.
She hovered just inside the door, and I went on about cleaning up the kitchen, plunging my hands under running water to wash my dishes. The water was soothing, easing away the tension that had sprung up between my shoulders. I didn’t like strangers in my house. I didn’t like familiar people there either. Who knew what kind of psychic bile they’d dribble all over the place?
Behind me, Constable Sikes attempted small talk. “You have a lovely home, ma’am.”
I turned in time to see her reach to pick up the little wolf figurine from the shelf by the door. “Don’t touch that!” It came out a bit harsher than I’d intended, and she jumped, snatching her hand back. “Dear God, what are they teaching you at Depot these days? Why would they send you here to meet with me, and not even tell you how to behave?” I dried my hands on the towel, scowling at the world in general now.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m nervous.” I watched her gather herself, drawing up to stand straighter. “You’re right. I should be thinking.”
“What is so important that they sent you here all by yourself?” I stopped myself from adding “little girl” to the end of that.
“I’m not by myself. My superior is in the car, ma’am.”
“And why is your superior not coming to talk to me?”
She blinked at me, as if I should have already known. “Your dog, ma’am. He won’t let him out of the car.”
I groaned, and my stomach tied itself into three or four intricate knots. There was only one person Raleigh reacted that strongly to. I gestured for the little Constable to move away from the door, then poked my head outside.
“Raleigh, let him go!” My voice echoed off the hills around the cabin, mockingly. Let him go, let him go! A moment later, Raleigh came bounding up the hill, tongue lolling happily. As far as he was concerned, he’d done a good deed. “Go lay down, trickster.” I ruffled his fur as he muscled through the door past me, getting only feelings of playfulness and contentment from him. That’s why I love animals. They’re such uncomplicated creatures.
Unlike the man now marching up my driveway. His dark coat flapped around his legs, taking the gravel road in strides twice as long as my own. He’d cut his hair since I’d seen him last, the tiny fringe of dark curls at the back of his neck now gone. It looked good on him. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
“Corporal Redfield. To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”
This one is a snippet from the first chapter (the only chapter, really) of what I was calling Project 4, tentatively titled Tactile. What would your world be like, if every touch told you the story of a thousand lives?
~*!*~
I was in the middle of eating lunch, and halfway through the Lady Cassandra’s forced wedding to the Duke Debarge, when Raleigh raised his head from his dish with a curious whuff.
“What’s up?”
“Rowl,” he said, quite firmly, and walked to the door.
I frowned but let him out, trying to peer down the winding drive to see who was intruding on my solitude. I couldn’t hear the diesel rumble of the McGoverns’ old truck, so I knew it wasn’t my neighbors.
Raleigh went bounding down the hill to vanish around the curve in a flurry of white and gray fur. I heard no screams of terror, so I assumed whoever it was would be walking up the hill shortly. With a heavy sigh, I started packing my pizza away in neat plastic bags.
It was ten full minutes before the quiet knock came at the door, and I wondered if Raleigh had given the unknown visitor a hard time. “Who is it?”
“Royal Canadian Mounted Police, ma’am.” A woman’s voice, young, hesitant. When I opened the door, my impression was confirmed. She was shorter than me, by a good deal, with a cute pageboy haircut and freckles across her pert little nose. Freckles! Her dark uniform gave her nothing at all in the way of authority. She looked like a kid playing dress up.
Her face lit up upon seeing me, as if she’d been afraid I wouldn’t open the door at all. “I’m Constable Sikes. May I come in?” She stuck her hand out at me.
You don’t offer to shake hands with a tactile psychic. It’s like offering to greet the queen by sniffing her crotch. I eyed the offending appendage until she blushed and withdrew her hand.
“Beg your pardon. I wasn’t thinking.”
I thought the girl might weep if I kept her on the doorstep any longer. “Come in, Constable.” I stepped away, keeping a very clear distance between the two of us.
She hovered just inside the door, and I went on about cleaning up the kitchen, plunging my hands under running water to wash my dishes. The water was soothing, easing away the tension that had sprung up between my shoulders. I didn’t like strangers in my house. I didn’t like familiar people there either. Who knew what kind of psychic bile they’d dribble all over the place?
Behind me, Constable Sikes attempted small talk. “You have a lovely home, ma’am.”
I turned in time to see her reach to pick up the little wolf figurine from the shelf by the door. “Don’t touch that!” It came out a bit harsher than I’d intended, and she jumped, snatching her hand back. “Dear God, what are they teaching you at Depot these days? Why would they send you here to meet with me, and not even tell you how to behave?” I dried my hands on the towel, scowling at the world in general now.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m nervous.” I watched her gather herself, drawing up to stand straighter. “You’re right. I should be thinking.”
“What is so important that they sent you here all by yourself?” I stopped myself from adding “little girl” to the end of that.
“I’m not by myself. My superior is in the car, ma’am.”
“And why is your superior not coming to talk to me?”
She blinked at me, as if I should have already known. “Your dog, ma’am. He won’t let him out of the car.”
I groaned, and my stomach tied itself into three or four intricate knots. There was only one person Raleigh reacted that strongly to. I gestured for the little Constable to move away from the door, then poked my head outside.
“Raleigh, let him go!” My voice echoed off the hills around the cabin, mockingly. Let him go, let him go! A moment later, Raleigh came bounding up the hill, tongue lolling happily. As far as he was concerned, he’d done a good deed. “Go lay down, trickster.” I ruffled his fur as he muscled through the door past me, getting only feelings of playfulness and contentment from him. That’s why I love animals. They’re such uncomplicated creatures.
Unlike the man now marching up my driveway. His dark coat flapped around his legs, taking the gravel road in strides twice as long as my own. He’d cut his hair since I’d seen him last, the tiny fringe of dark curls at the back of his neck now gone. It looked good on him. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
“Corporal Redfield. To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Teaser Tuesday the Third
A scene from Project 3, Muse. Heracles goes hunting, and instead encounters a stranger in the dark. Or is he?
~*!*~
Heracles whirled at the sound of a voice behind him, and found a rather odd looking character lounging against the alley wall. The man might have been short and spry under the moth-eaten fur coat, but it was hard to tell. His face was mostly hidden by the wide brim of a garish fedora, but his snaggled teeth gleamed white as he grinned at the demigod.
Heracles frowned. “Who goes?”
“Who goes? Well, nearly everyone goes, sooner or later. Nearly, of course, not all, because there are always exceptions to prove any rule, wouldn’t you say?”
The hound growled softly, a barely audible rumble, and Heracles tightened his grip on the collar. Distantly, on Olympus Tower, the clock chimed first bell. “Curfew comes, you should be off toward home, citizen.”
The jaunty little fellow sauntered toward Heracles, twirling a thin cane in one hand, tapping out a subtle rhythm. “Home is where you lay your head, I say. That way, you’re never far from it.” Something about the tilt of his head, the pattern of his speech seemed familiar, but try as he might, Heracles could not place it. “Except you of course. You’re far from home and hearth, and into strange territory here.”
“All the city is my territory, at the Lady’s behest.” Still, the little man advanced on him, and he had to marvel at the nerve. Very few humans would face down one of the Lady’s hounds.
“And of course, when the Lady snaps, we all jump to, sharp as nails. Keeper of the world pillar, long may she reign and whatnot.” The strange man stopped within arm’s reach, and fished inside his mangy coat, finally emerging with a beaten grimy flask. “Have a belt?”
“No, thank you.” Heracles tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. It had been a long time since anyone spoke to him thusly. Hells, it had been a long time since anyone outside the tower had spoken to him at all.
“Suit yourself.” He helped himself to a swig of whatever was in the flask, and the aroma of alcohol filled the alley. Up close, the scruffy man had a scruffy goatee to go with his scruffy coat. They were the same color too, apparently some shade of dun brown, though Heracles could see darker curls beneath the gaudy hat. “Never did appreciate the simpler pleasures in life.”
The world seemed slightly out of joint, Heracles realized, as if a lens had fallen a hairsbreadth askew. Perhaps it was simply the reverberations of the muse’s high emotional state, but the demigod felt a haze around his thoughts. They skittered out of reach like water beetles on a pond. “Do we know each other, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t think we do.” Again, the odd fellow flashed the toothy grin that at once seemed jovial, lecherous, and snide. “Sure you won’t have a belt, before you go?” He offered the flask again.
“Who says I’m leaving?”
With a weary sigh, the scruffy man shook his head. “Perhaps I’m not making this plain. Shall I use smaller words?” He tipped the brim of his hat up, and while his voice remained as jocular as ever, there was something dark and hard behind his watery eyes. “You are not welcome here.” He pocketed his flask and sauntered out of the alley, turning to look back once as he stood in the street. “This place….it’s for people who can appreciate it. Not for old soldiers who sold out their own kind.”
Perhaps he flinched, the stranger’s words echoing thoughts he had never voiced about himself. Perhaps there was a ratcatcher nearby that wanted chasing. Perhaps the hound just sensed his distraction. Either way, the great beast gave a lunge at his lead again, and it took a good while to get the dog under control again. The ebon hound growled, the muted sound promising to become a roar if he was truly provoked, but he finally yielded to the demigod’s superior strength.
When Heracles looked up, the strange man was gone.
~*!*~
Heracles whirled at the sound of a voice behind him, and found a rather odd looking character lounging against the alley wall. The man might have been short and spry under the moth-eaten fur coat, but it was hard to tell. His face was mostly hidden by the wide brim of a garish fedora, but his snaggled teeth gleamed white as he grinned at the demigod.
Heracles frowned. “Who goes?”
“Who goes? Well, nearly everyone goes, sooner or later. Nearly, of course, not all, because there are always exceptions to prove any rule, wouldn’t you say?”
The hound growled softly, a barely audible rumble, and Heracles tightened his grip on the collar. Distantly, on Olympus Tower, the clock chimed first bell. “Curfew comes, you should be off toward home, citizen.”
The jaunty little fellow sauntered toward Heracles, twirling a thin cane in one hand, tapping out a subtle rhythm. “Home is where you lay your head, I say. That way, you’re never far from it.” Something about the tilt of his head, the pattern of his speech seemed familiar, but try as he might, Heracles could not place it. “Except you of course. You’re far from home and hearth, and into strange territory here.”
“All the city is my territory, at the Lady’s behest.” Still, the little man advanced on him, and he had to marvel at the nerve. Very few humans would face down one of the Lady’s hounds.
“And of course, when the Lady snaps, we all jump to, sharp as nails. Keeper of the world pillar, long may she reign and whatnot.” The strange man stopped within arm’s reach, and fished inside his mangy coat, finally emerging with a beaten grimy flask. “Have a belt?”
“No, thank you.” Heracles tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. It had been a long time since anyone spoke to him thusly. Hells, it had been a long time since anyone outside the tower had spoken to him at all.
“Suit yourself.” He helped himself to a swig of whatever was in the flask, and the aroma of alcohol filled the alley. Up close, the scruffy man had a scruffy goatee to go with his scruffy coat. They were the same color too, apparently some shade of dun brown, though Heracles could see darker curls beneath the gaudy hat. “Never did appreciate the simpler pleasures in life.”
The world seemed slightly out of joint, Heracles realized, as if a lens had fallen a hairsbreadth askew. Perhaps it was simply the reverberations of the muse’s high emotional state, but the demigod felt a haze around his thoughts. They skittered out of reach like water beetles on a pond. “Do we know each other, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t think we do.” Again, the odd fellow flashed the toothy grin that at once seemed jovial, lecherous, and snide. “Sure you won’t have a belt, before you go?” He offered the flask again.
“Who says I’m leaving?”
With a weary sigh, the scruffy man shook his head. “Perhaps I’m not making this plain. Shall I use smaller words?” He tipped the brim of his hat up, and while his voice remained as jocular as ever, there was something dark and hard behind his watery eyes. “You are not welcome here.” He pocketed his flask and sauntered out of the alley, turning to look back once as he stood in the street. “This place….it’s for people who can appreciate it. Not for old soldiers who sold out their own kind.”
Perhaps he flinched, the stranger’s words echoing thoughts he had never voiced about himself. Perhaps there was a ratcatcher nearby that wanted chasing. Perhaps the hound just sensed his distraction. Either way, the great beast gave a lunge at his lead again, and it took a good while to get the dog under control again. The ebon hound growled, the muted sound promising to become a roar if he was truly provoked, but he finally yielded to the demigod’s superior strength.
When Heracles looked up, the strange man was gone.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Teaser Tuesday, pt. Deux
As usual, I'm posting early. I seem bound and determined not to grasp this "timed posting" thing of which you speak.
This is an excerpt from Chapter 3 of Project NaNo, titled Peacemaker at the moment. It was one of those scenes I didn't plan on; it kinda gave birth to itself out of no where, and I loved it. It still gives me chills.
~*!*~
A bird called somewhere above him, the first sound of forest life he’d heard since entering the trees. Another answered it, directly to the south. It dawned on Caleb that he’d left the homestead behind in his search, so much that he could no longer hear the men’s voices behind him. The bird called again, to his right this time. Two careful notes, low then high, as if the creature was questioning.
And he knew, suddenly, that it was questioning. It was a signal, asking what to do about him, the stupid white man all on his own in the wilderness. He froze, waiting for the answer. The forest was eerily silent and seemed to hold its breath along with Caleb.
They were watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, imagined he could hear the hum of bowstrings held taut. From the south, the bird called again, the same two notes. “Low-high?” The nearer one answered with a cheery trill, “High-low-high!”
The runes on his staff flared to life as he channeled into it, markings of blue glowing against the dark wood. They provided a path, forcing the chaotic power into patterns, logical forms that could be used with exquisitely fine control. “Schild,” he murmured.
Like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place, he could feel the air around him solidifying into a shield, crystal clear and impenetrable. Only the sight of a few bushes curling their branches against an unseen surface indicated where the boundaries of his bubble were. His breath sounded tinny, as if his head was inside a large jar, and he knew he had a limited amount of time before his air ran out. Impenetrable meant that nothing got in, not even air.
Something moved to his left, and he snapped his head in that direction.
She sat not ten yards distant on the back of a painted horse, the animal’s brown and white markings seeming to be more of a pattern cast by the leaf-dappled sunshine than anything meant to be seen on a living creature. Her raven hair was twined into twin braids, hanging forward on each side of her neck, and her garments were clearly of supple hides, decorated in subtle patterns with yellow and green quills. Her black eyes held no animosity as she stared at him, her head tilted slightly to one side.
Caleb stared at the Indian woman, the first one he’d ever seen in person. He could see her tanned legs, bare between her high moccasins and the hem of her dress, muscled and strong. Her hands were clenched in the horse’s mane, and the animal’s ears were perked forward, obviously waiting for some command from his rider. Where the sun touched her face, her skin glowed like warm honey.
They gazed at each other for long silent moments, two worlds touching for perhaps the first time. She didn’t seem angry, or even afraid, merely curious. And the longer he looked, the more a glint of humor crept into her dark eyes. She found him amusing.
Abruptly, her head jerked up, staring over Caleb’s head in the direction of the Anderson homestead. A heartbeat later, he heard the voices too.
“Peacemaker?” “Agent Marcus?” They had come looking for him, finally.
The southern bird called again, the question taking on an imperative tone. “Low-high??”
The Indian woman hesitated for one moment, glancing between Caleb and his would-be rescuers, and something in Caleb’s chest clenched. Go! Don’t let them find you here! Almost as if she heard him, she pursed her lips, whistling an answer. “High-low-low.” Nudging the horse with her knees, she backed him into the underbrush and disappeared.
This is an excerpt from Chapter 3 of Project NaNo, titled Peacemaker at the moment. It was one of those scenes I didn't plan on; it kinda gave birth to itself out of no where, and I loved it. It still gives me chills.
~*!*~
A bird called somewhere above him, the first sound of forest life he’d heard since entering the trees. Another answered it, directly to the south. It dawned on Caleb that he’d left the homestead behind in his search, so much that he could no longer hear the men’s voices behind him. The bird called again, to his right this time. Two careful notes, low then high, as if the creature was questioning.
And he knew, suddenly, that it was questioning. It was a signal, asking what to do about him, the stupid white man all on his own in the wilderness. He froze, waiting for the answer. The forest was eerily silent and seemed to hold its breath along with Caleb.
They were watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, imagined he could hear the hum of bowstrings held taut. From the south, the bird called again, the same two notes. “Low-high?” The nearer one answered with a cheery trill, “High-low-high!”
The runes on his staff flared to life as he channeled into it, markings of blue glowing against the dark wood. They provided a path, forcing the chaotic power into patterns, logical forms that could be used with exquisitely fine control. “Schild,” he murmured.
Like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place, he could feel the air around him solidifying into a shield, crystal clear and impenetrable. Only the sight of a few bushes curling their branches against an unseen surface indicated where the boundaries of his bubble were. His breath sounded tinny, as if his head was inside a large jar, and he knew he had a limited amount of time before his air ran out. Impenetrable meant that nothing got in, not even air.
Something moved to his left, and he snapped his head in that direction.
She sat not ten yards distant on the back of a painted horse, the animal’s brown and white markings seeming to be more of a pattern cast by the leaf-dappled sunshine than anything meant to be seen on a living creature. Her raven hair was twined into twin braids, hanging forward on each side of her neck, and her garments were clearly of supple hides, decorated in subtle patterns with yellow and green quills. Her black eyes held no animosity as she stared at him, her head tilted slightly to one side.
Caleb stared at the Indian woman, the first one he’d ever seen in person. He could see her tanned legs, bare between her high moccasins and the hem of her dress, muscled and strong. Her hands were clenched in the horse’s mane, and the animal’s ears were perked forward, obviously waiting for some command from his rider. Where the sun touched her face, her skin glowed like warm honey.
They gazed at each other for long silent moments, two worlds touching for perhaps the first time. She didn’t seem angry, or even afraid, merely curious. And the longer he looked, the more a glint of humor crept into her dark eyes. She found him amusing.
Abruptly, her head jerked up, staring over Caleb’s head in the direction of the Anderson homestead. A heartbeat later, he heard the voices too.
“Peacemaker?” “Agent Marcus?” They had come looking for him, finally.
The southern bird called again, the question taking on an imperative tone. “Low-high??”
The Indian woman hesitated for one moment, glancing between Caleb and his would-be rescuers, and something in Caleb’s chest clenched. Go! Don’t let them find you here! Almost as if she heard him, she pursed her lips, whistling an answer. “High-low-low.” Nudging the horse with her knees, she backed him into the underbrush and disappeared.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Teaser Tuesday
Ok, I know that it isn't quite Tuesday yet, but I wanted to post this before I forgot in my rush to get to work in the morning. This is my first attempt at a "Teaser Tuesday" so be gentle. Here is a small snippet from chapter 1 of Project 3 (titled Muse at the moment):
A skittering noise in the corner drew her attention, and she caught a flash of white fur as one of the ratcatchers went about its deadly work. Mink. Once, they were called mink. There was a pained squeak, and the faint scent of blood reached her. A tiny life cut short under the sharp fangs of a predator. It made her smile softly. That was how things should be. The hunter always triumphed over the prey.
As if it felt her gaze, the white ratcatcher scampered out of the shadows, back arched playfully. A spot of bright red marred its fur beneath its black mask. Kneeling, Artemis scooped the animal into her arms where it curled contentedly. She stroked the fur, smelling the pungent musk it emitted. It brought back faded memories that drifted away like smoke when she tried to grasp them.
There was a forest once, the floor dappled with light filtering through the canopy. She remembered running, lithe as the deer she paced, remembered planting her feet and drawing her bow… A hiss of a shaft in the air, the thrum of a string… Blood on her hands… A dark-haired man with swarthy skin smiling down at her, and a blond man with her green eyes full of pain, asking her why… No sooner did she reach for it than it was gone, and try as she might, the lost days would not return to her.
She was not aware of the passing minutes until the clock atop her own tower chimed the final bell. Far below, the Factory groaned and clamored as a team of workers turned the wheel to shut the valves. Beginning at the outer walls, the yellow gaslights dimmed and extinguished, the wave of darkness moving inward. It sped toward the base of the tower, the blackness halted only by the shining Greenery. The greenhouses held the never-ending night at bay, and the tower would gleam throughout the long Dark. Any who might open their eyes would see it, Olympus shining through the night. And within it, their golden goddess, their Lady watching over all.
The ratcatcher was limp in her hands, its tiny neck snapped.
A skittering noise in the corner drew her attention, and she caught a flash of white fur as one of the ratcatchers went about its deadly work. Mink. Once, they were called mink. There was a pained squeak, and the faint scent of blood reached her. A tiny life cut short under the sharp fangs of a predator. It made her smile softly. That was how things should be. The hunter always triumphed over the prey.
As if it felt her gaze, the white ratcatcher scampered out of the shadows, back arched playfully. A spot of bright red marred its fur beneath its black mask. Kneeling, Artemis scooped the animal into her arms where it curled contentedly. She stroked the fur, smelling the pungent musk it emitted. It brought back faded memories that drifted away like smoke when she tried to grasp them.
There was a forest once, the floor dappled with light filtering through the canopy. She remembered running, lithe as the deer she paced, remembered planting her feet and drawing her bow… A hiss of a shaft in the air, the thrum of a string… Blood on her hands… A dark-haired man with swarthy skin smiling down at her, and a blond man with her green eyes full of pain, asking her why… No sooner did she reach for it than it was gone, and try as she might, the lost days would not return to her.
She was not aware of the passing minutes until the clock atop her own tower chimed the final bell. Far below, the Factory groaned and clamored as a team of workers turned the wheel to shut the valves. Beginning at the outer walls, the yellow gaslights dimmed and extinguished, the wave of darkness moving inward. It sped toward the base of the tower, the blackness halted only by the shining Greenery. The greenhouses held the never-ending night at bay, and the tower would gleam throughout the long Dark. Any who might open their eyes would see it, Olympus shining through the night. And within it, their golden goddess, their Lady watching over all.
The ratcatcher was limp in her hands, its tiny neck snapped.
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