The Murder Meets at Dusk Playlist

Her gaze rolls over him as it would the map to the Fountain of Youth. He can feel her magic stir with the presence of death. Brown fingers twitch against white gauze and the door. All the lines soften around her. Aleister experiences a nauseating desire to bleed again. She makes it feel okay. His arm aches. His clothes are heavy.

Marisa slowly steps back and the gravity in her eyes pulls him forward. They are all intense connection and strange silence. Everything seems off about him. He is dirty and smudged, torn, injured. Her spirit calls out to him, urging him toward soft death. Hunger wraps around him like shadowy fingers from within her.

He finds himself stepping toward her, ushered across her threshold by a force both menacing and inviting. Their surroundings are a blur, her personal life smudged away by malevolent undertones radiating from her depths. A warmth envelops his tingling limbs, warmth with a certainty that she will help him leave everything forever. She will make pain and weakness pass from him. She will take away the dawn’s dominion over him and she will take him away from hell.

“Aleister,” she whispers in her way, rolling the last syllable into a subtle ebb and flow of tension. It is her nature to urge the souls she faces down her unearthly path, reserved for those who take their deaths and escape servitude. “What has happened to you?”

She stops, so he stops. He warily watches her, intrigued. She seems to be standing on needles as her body leans forward slightly. Her fingers reach toward him and then stall halfway, hanging in the humming air. Aleister notices her blood has soaked through the dressing on her hand. He steps away from her reach, though his body screams to yield to her touch. And he would reopen his veins and die.

“Would you grant me my own death, Marisa? Do you have a place to keep fellow crows?” he asks pointedly, muscles awakening with adrenaline. His instinct is to fight, though she’s supposed to be his ally. He has made a mistake, misjudged this force. He must still stink of death to her. She’s weak and he has tempted her.

An angry light splits the jungle sky in two. Violent winds pelt water droplets from a recent rain in all directions so that, suddenly, it stings against the delicate skin of his eyelids. He has been thoroughly entranced in her gravitational summons. There are no stars. There is no sky, only the drab haze of mist on a hot, humid night. He’s compelled to squint through the assault to meet her eyes.

  She takes another step toward him, unaffected by the fury, and earnestly asks, “Do you want to die?”

Nighttime dances around her like dark smoke. Her feet are bare and brown against the lush green. He feels a rising certainty that the goddess in her would not be able to resist his suicide, if he would just consent.

“I came to bring you this,” he says.

He reaches the large wrapped-up leaf holding Izavel’s blood powder into the gap, doing his best to shut down his sensory responses to her power. He can almost ignore the sound of slow slithering.

Simultaneously, he attempts to grind his emotional response system to a halt. Emotion is a hole in his defense big enough for her finger, enough to shatter him with a touch. His goal is utter indifference toward her and the fact that, at the moment, she would like him dead. He achieves, rather, a gut-wrenching impulse to give in, to see if he can look death in the face and defeat it.

His fingers release the leaf and he jerks his hand away just as she reaches for him. The packet falls to the floor between them, unharmed. If she touches him, she’ll win. A familiar sluggishness is creeping over him. The sun is beginning to rise. He has to go, or dawn will drag him to sleep on her porch.

“It’s best brewed as a tea,” he says as he takes slow steps backward out of her door. She watches him leave her, hand outstretched in a failed attempt to let him die without a god.

Music has always been an integral part of my writing. It helps set the mood and represent the tone of a scene. Sometimes a song will fit a character perfectly. In this case, I did my best to reconstruct what I was listening to twelve years ago. These aren’t all the songs and albums that contributed to The Murder Meets at Dusk, but it’s a decent representation of where my head was. I will say Muse was the prominent band that played while I was writing. Like…several albums straight through on repeat. So a special shout out to Showbiz and Origin of Symmetry specifically and the band in general for, in fact, speaking to my muse. Hope you enjoy!

View playlist here:

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSgJKLWWisA8JjHz48vx3bYSpaQzfku5J

The Murder Meets at Dusk, excerpt

“Aleister,” Montague sighs, his whole form rising and falling, “I cannot say I have brought them all back. Not everybody can withstand the way, especially humans. Seeking knowledge this way could kill you.”

Aleister stares into the giant sunglasses, denies to himself that he is human, and says, “Just keep a firm hold and I’ll be fine.”

Montague’s old black features harden. He can’t refuse a formal request. He is the tree of knowledge.

“I never wanted your blood, kid,” he says as he pulls a large silver basin from a nearby shelf without turning his head.

The thing emits a dull, ambient shine, a reflection that is perhaps from another place. He sets it on a small table at his side, then moves both the table and the basin between them. His movements never falter despite his lack of physical sight.

Aleister dares not exhale his relief, so he stands steadily instead. He removes his coat with forcibly deliberate movements and places it on the back of the chair. His sarcasm rises to mask his nerves and he says, “Are you kidding? I know my blood will keep you for many years to come.”

Montague is in the process of removing a foot-long wooden case from the shelf when he turns a nasty, narrowed look on Aleister. He bitingly asks, “What good is that when I watch the strong souls kill themselves with their own vanity?”

He removes a long gleaming kukri blade from the case with grace that reveals he has used this tool for a time immeasurable. The curved tip could split a hair. Its handle is wrapped in black cord, and the blade literally glows of its own power.

He says, “Pull up a seat.”

Aleister scoots his chair forward and the noise is like an explosion as it bounces around the space. He has rolled up his button-down sleeves above his elbows. The black fabric makes him look like a ghost, even to himself. He extends his left arm in offering, wrist facing upward, hand shaking, and somberly says, “Thank you, old friend.”

Montague grumbles in a language Aleister doesn’t recognize as he reaches into his pants pocket. He extracts a gold pocket watch with a long chain and “3 x 3” engraved into its top. He plops the watch into Aleister’s palm, where it shines like a large chunk of lost treasure in the hand of a child. He says, “You have three minutes, less if you bleed out first. For fuck’s sake, don’t dawdle.”

Aleister flips open the huge thing. The clock face bears only the numbers one through nine and they are spread evenly around it. There are middle and quarter markings between the minutes. Its big hand keeps the minutes instead of hours, the small hand counts away the seconds. The watch is almost to the seventh minute of its cycle.

Aleister pockets the clock, though he wants to study it more, and Montague wraps the long fingers of his right hand around Aleister’s thin wrist. He positions their arms above the basin and squeezes. He says, “Get ready, kid.”

He raises the knife in his left hand and plunges it into the white flesh of Aleister’s forearm.

For this excerpt I chose a continuation of the first one I posted. This is a glimpse of how Aleister’s journey begins, dramatically and mysteriously. It’s also the beginning of the first time the reader gets to see him travel the planes.

Allow me to give a little history on this story. I started writing it somewhere back in 2009. In roughly ten months I finished my first draft. After a brief and mostly failed publication, the story stalled and I lost a lot of heart. It took me…six years, maybe, to finish the second book, and another five or so to finish the third. I kept writing it, though, through life’s ups and downs. To say I’m ecstatic to finally share it with the world is an understatement.

Aleister Corigan is hands down my favorite character I’ve written. He has been a part of my life for so long that he feels like much more than just a character. Sure, there have been times when his reluctance to accept the role that has unfolded has been palpable. That’s understandable, considering I’ve never taken it easy on him. Quite the opposite.

What else is there to say about this story? Well, it’s huge. For my first venture beyond fan fiction one-shots and ridiculous high school vampire tales, I didn’t just bite off more than I could chew. I took the whole cake and ran. There are nine members of the Order of Crows, not to mention all the peripheral characters and the villains in the shadows. It was overwhelming at times to try to develop everyone. Hell, when I started the first installment, I actually believed I was going to fit everything into one book. That didn’t work at all. It took me three books to tell the story arc I started in Dusk, which then produced a fourth (WIP) book that I wasn’t even expecting. I’m so glad it did. As I said, the Crows have been with me for so long that now I can hardly imagine a world in which I’m not writing them. Here’s hoping that you love them as much as I do, and that they’ll never stop talking.

As always, many thanks to those who have been there along the ride, reading unedited files on a computer screen, supporting me, and pushing me to keep writing. Cheers to those who have believed in the Crows’ story. Here’s hoping the polished, published version lives up to those expectations.

The Murder Meets at Dusk Cover Reveal!

Synopsis:

The Order of Crows has existed for generations to protect the magical and divine community of New Verona. The current Order is mostly young and untested, having lost their parents in a tragic and mysterious event. Not surprisingly, they don’t get along very well.

Aleister Corigan is at the heart of the discord. The Murder’s planar-walker black mage, he has made it a point to alienate himself from the others. He is rude and stand-offish at best when they meet. That is until an obviously powerful enemy makes an attack on the city’s protective shield. As the enemy remains in the shadows, Aleister’s domain, the Corigan is forced to put aside his natural distrust of others and step into the spotlight. Just as he has to learn to put some trust in them, they must do the same for him.

As the Murder finds some footing in their cooperation, they also begin to uncover an ominous bigger picture. It’s not just one enemy at their doorstep but seemingly an army. They are the ones who have to make the choice, do they willingly put their city in the middle of a war, or do they try to avoid the enemies who won’t back down so easily? Can they trust Aleister in his element or will they crumble from within before they ever get a chance to defend the city and the plane as a whole?

Excerpt:

Before him is a man who appears to be two-hundred years old, with black, leathery skin and ash-colored dreadlocks that reach almost to his waist. He wears a white linen shirt over tan linen pants and giant black sunglasses. He smells like garlic. He pauses for a heavy moment, then smiles so large he could swallow the city.

He says, “You’ve been busy, kid,” in a thick Caribbean accent.

He has grown fatter since the last time Aleister saw him and he leans on a cane these days, which hinders the don’t-give-a-damn stature that always captivated Aleister’s attention. The man isn’t much taller than he, but he feels the presence of countless secrets and feels small in their shadow. Aleister knows that despite the appearance of this being, immeasurable power lies beneath it.

So Aleister says, “Of course I have. You know, idle hands and all that.”

The old man chuckles like rolling thunder and says, “Why else would it take a massive attack to bring you back to my door?” He gestures in the air with his free hand. His giant smile is firmly in place when he continues. “I know, I know, you have business all over. You Corigans are all the same. Fucking with the vampires, the skates, the shadows, but you always come back.”

Aleister’s proper posture eases the tiniest bit and his shoulders relax. Already he has been granted access to the truths the old man can see. The attack was a huge deal and, regardless of the magnitude of this information, the pale one can’t help but grin. His host’s energy is contagious, and those who cheat death have one thing in common: they’re always bat-shit crazy from the wisdom they achieve.

“It seems you are also as lively as ever,” Aleister says, feeling the gravitational pull of the force in front of him, a being who surely knows more details about what has happened than any of the parties involved. He probably knew Aleister would come, for he sees many things.

The old man shrugs his whole form and gestures the other closer. Aleister breaks to the inevitable and allows himself to be drawn near as the other pulls up his giant shades to reveal pearly white-covered eyes. A heavy arm falls around Aleister’s shoulders, and the old one says, “Pshhhh, no one has come to see me in some time, but I’ll still be here to see your son’s son. Now let me have a look at you.”

He falls to introspective silence.

Aleister bites down on the surprise that rises at the sight and the news. The blindness that covers the other’s eyes is far worse than the last time Aleister saw him. He doesn’t stare into those wide, opalescent orbs, and still he feels himself being measured.

“You’re a bit skinny, don’t you think?” the man says finally, slightly crinkling his wide nose.

Aleister laughs, softly. Again, he can’t help but do it.

“If you say so, Montague,” he answers, shying away from the long, skeletal hand that pokes unerringly at his ribs.

“You’ve always been skinny,” the seer says. “You boys couldn’t gain weight if you ate a fifty-pound block of dry cheese. Let’s go.”

Then he heaves himself along with aid of a fat cane made of blackened, polished wood, into which are carved long, exaggerated characters engaged in all types of sexual encounters. Aleister watches the thing and lets the crude statement further amuse him as he follows. He’s also aware of the underlying tension in the other, a sense he attributes to his highly agitated energy. He does not, however, permit his memories to play along the vaulted ceilings that open above them, or the elaborate stone moldings that tell of a much older time. They both know there is a darker reason for this visit.

“Listen, Gue,” he says to the old man’s back, and he feels like the kid who first walked in this room. “I’ve got a real bad feeling about this one, bigger than anything before. I need your help.”

Montague hesitates at the use of his old nickname, one Aleister used to use when he was just a small child, one Aleister’s father had also used. Aleister wonders if the same memories of his youth are what gives Montague pause, or if it’s something else. He thinks the old one is about to speak, but he just presses onward with the rhythmic, dull thuds of his cane on tile flooring.

They enter a room where the ceiling again opens to something larger, and the air is slightly better. Montague navigates onto a large, tiled dais to his right. He hefts his old bones onto a huge ornate chair whose arms and legs are made of carved cherry that’s surrounded by a dusty, carved sculpture of a tree made of the same red wood.

Aleister takes a smaller but no less antique chair from its waiting place on the opposite wall and places himself a few feet in front of the old man upon the dais. He sits, then waits respectfully.

“What is it that you seek, child?” Montague asks. The joviality is gone from his tone and his smile has straightened itself into neutrality.

Aleister knows the only other eyes in the room are physically glazed over by time, but he feels great attention on him. Not a facial expression nor hitch in breath would be lost on this ancient being before him. He proudly pushes shoulders back and his chin upward.

He says, “I seek the city’s greatest enemy.”

“Are you sure you do not seek your own greatest enemy?” Montague asks. His head cocks to the side just a bit, but his expression doesn’t change.

“They are the same,” Aleister answers.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Aleister steadfastly refuses doubt, but he finds he’s gripping his thighs to keep his hands steady. The air is suddenly stifling. The old façade crumbles into an open expression of disdain, and Montague’s hand grips his cane tightly. He looks as though spider webs should veil him and dust should cover him from view, like he’s been there for centuries.

The blind man says, “I have seen that look of determination so many times, and I have seen many enemies as well. If this happens, your blood must spill. There are paths to what you seek other than mine, especially for you.”

The Murder Meets at Dusk available 02/16/22!

HUGE thanks to The Illustrated Author for this amazing cover design!

https://www.theillustratedauthor.com

Title and Synopsis Reveal!

Hey everyone! I’m super excited to start sharing goodies about my upcoming release. So excited that I’ve decided to drop the title and synopsis here, now. I don’t actually have a definitive release date, but I can say SOON. Very soon. There are just a few more details that need to fall into place, so I feel confident in putting this out there.

Let me start by saying this book is a long time coming. About twelve years. After a brief, failed publication when it was still a young story, these words have been quietly waiting for me to release them to the wild once again. Since then, I’ve been steadily working on sequels, among other series. This is a modern fantasy story that borrows elements from myths and magic of all kinds.

So without any more delay, I give you book one in the Order of Crows series, The Murder Meets at Dusk.

Synopsis:

The Order of Crows has existed for generations to protect the magical and divine community of New Verona. The current Order is mostly young and untested, having lost their parents in a tragic and mysterious event. Not surprisingly, they don’t get along very well.

Aleister Corigan is at the heart of the discord. The Murder’s planar-walker black mage, he has made it a point to alienate himself from the others. He is rude and stand-offish at best when they meet. That is until an obviously powerful enemy makes an attack on the city’s protective shield. As the enemy remains in the shadows, Aleister’s domain, the Corigan is forced to put aside his natural distrust of others and step into the spotlight. Just as he has to learn to put some trust in them, they must do the same for him.

As the Murder finds some footing in their cooperation, they also begin to uncover an ominous bigger picture. It’s not just one enemy at their doorstep but seemingly an army. They are the ones who have to make the choice, do they willingly put their city in the middle of a war, or do they try to avoid the enemies who won’t back down so easily? Can they trust Aleister in his element or will they crumble from within before they ever get a chance to defend the city and the plane as a whole?

Stay tuned for more details on cover reveal, release date, and availability!

Home for Wayward Writers: Ascension

It’s late. It has been a long day. I’m not exactly feeling inspired. I find myself sitting in an overstuffed chair, staring at a fireplace that never seems to run out of fuel. 

I can smell the books that line the shelves around me. There are infinite worlds here and they are constantly changing. The writing tables are empty now, but they’re not neglected. Admittedly, it has been a while since I visited this creation of mine.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here when I notice the mist creeping along the floor. I make a small smile. I guess it’s not surprising that he would notice me first.

“All this time, I imagined my muse to be…something else, but you’ve been around longer than most. It might as well be you, wizard,” I say quietly.

I feel him pause somewhere behind me to my left. The air shifts and a slight chill surrounds me despite the fire. There’s suddenly a glass of white wine in my hand. My fingers are cold.

“I know, I left you again,” I add without looking for him.

“You used to fear me,” he says, his deep voice like a haunting lullaby.

“That’s true,” I say then take a sip. The wine is crisp, just a little dry, exactly the kind of white I like.

“You don’t anymore,” he says.

He’s still playing in the shadows. Maybe he thinks I’ll search for him. I won’t. I don’t need to. I say, “Not at all.”

The tiniest laugh comes from him. The sound sends the usual chills through me. He’s confident if a little forlorn. He steps into the edge of my field of vision. There was a time when that would have seemed menacing. Now it just seems coy in an entirely different way from the Genie.

“It may be true that you haven’t been here in a long time, but I’ve been everywhere that you’ve been,” he says.

That’s enough to garner a turn of my head. I realize he’s not wearing his robes and I can’t quite stop the little gasp that results. His black curls shiver against bare shoulders, and his olive skin is cast in flame-and-shadow variance. There are silver runes glowing along his arms, across his chest, and along his stomach until they disappear beneath a pair of black pants. It’s so fitting I’m not even surprised.

“So no brooding this time?” I ask with a smirk.

“Not exactly,” he answers. His eyes finally slide sideways to land on me. He doesn’t match the sentiment.

“Did you come to offer me the moon yet again?”

I don’t know why I’m teasing him. He just looks so serious. He usually does. It shouldn’t be so jarring.

“You keep taking it,” he says with a shrug I know is exaggerated.

“That’s true,” I say again.

I draw my legs up into the chair. I’m barefoot. Of course. I haven’t had much to drink but my head already feels a little fuzzy. My gaze trails from him to the fire.

“The same words on the tower walls run along these shelves,” I say.

Is that me sounding so far away? It’s a thought that bypasses all filters and comes straight across my lips. They have the feel of an epiphany.

The Muse chuckles and says, “That’s true.”

There’s the sly boy I’m used to. Of course I recognize his echo of my own words. The motion of him stretching out his hand inevitably steals my attention from the dancing flames. He looks from me to the fire as silver script extends along the floor from him toward the fireplace, then it scrawls up the mantel. The symbols on his skin glow brighter. 

He’s beautiful and mysterious, his midnight curls framing his slender face and the intensity in his silver-green eyes. The light of a full moon shines from him and, suddenly, I can hear whispers as though the books themselves are speaking.

“You wrote a novel since I saw you last,” he says. His eyes slip back to me.

“Another beginning,” I answer with a half-shrug then take a sip of wine.

“A lesson in discipline,” he says and his lips twerk at the corners.

I cock my head to the side and angle toward him so there’s no mistaking that I’m looking at him. I deposit my wine glass onto a table I just decided should be beside me. I reach my chilled, damp fingers toward the floor.

The curl in his lips falls. Now his attention is calculating. Could it be I’ve surprised him?

A thread of script veers away from that which is moving toward the mantel. The tight cursive snakes across the floor in my direction. The words are moving too fast for me to read. They weave through my fingers then twine up my arm. They make it to my shoulder before they start to absorb into my body. It’s my turn to smile.

“Yes it was,” I answer.

One of his eyebrows slowly lifts.

“Allow me to do the honors this time,” I say. “Dear readers, for this prompt I bid you talk to your muse. Literally. Write out dialogue with your muse. Do you want to ask why you have writer’s block? Maybe you want to discuss a certain character who’s misbehaving and doing his/her own thing. Perhaps you just want to chat over a drink at a fictional bar. It’s up to you. Or should I say it’s up to you and your muse. Have fun with it. Happy writing.”

I lift a questioning eyebrow in his direction. How’s that? I don’t need to actually say it.

He lowers his arm and the script flowing toward the fireplace slowly grows faint, then fades. He doesn’t retrieve the cocky smirk either. His eyes glow a pale green. They have me pinned in place. The words flowing from him to me get brighter.

“Not bad,” he says.

Exciting News!

Wow, it has been a while since I posted anything here. What can I say? Life is full and some things fall through the cracks. The good news is that I spent the last five months feverishly devoting any time scrap of free time to writing a new book in a brand new Urban Fantasy series. That book is currently waiting out its mandatory down time and I’ve redirected my attention to another exciting project.

Fantasy in general was really my first love despite the fact that my Cadillac Payback series is decidedly non-magical. Urban Fantasy, though, was where I really found myself at home some twelve…thirteen years ago when I got really serious about my writing. That’s why I’m ecstatic to announce that I’m currently working on releasing the first-ever book that I finished writing and the first in my oldest series. First round revisions are finished on Order of Crows: The Murder Meets at Dusk. I’m working now with the fabulous Genie Rayner at Magic Lamp Editing as I await the cover from extremely the talented Illustrated Author Melissa Stevens.

I don’t have a definitive release date just yet but keep your eyes open early next year for this dark and far-reaching tale of a magical Order who must step up to save their world. As an added bonus for the future, this is a series that already has two sequels and one in progress. These books have a little bit of everything from vampires to gods and the Fey. Stay tuned for news, teasers, and an inside look at the characters from this series.

Happy holidays, folks! Don’t forget, especially this year, to consider your indie authors and local artists when doing your Christmas shopping.

Random Acts of Poetry: Dark Greens

Occasionally, I write poetry. It’s mostly just exercise for my brain, but why not share it. Enjoy!

Dark greens make clean lines around the bend

In my vision.

Shade-addled blurs of browns,

A little fuzzy around the edges.

If I reach far enough

The ground speaks,

A rumbling teacher who seats me

Front

And

Center.

The light splinters far away,

Refracting parts of a day

That’s finally fading.

The echoes are shrouded in blues and purples,

Pink shaded dusty,

A brief lust ending in a lightning storm

On a horizon still not clarified.

I tried.

At least that’s real.

The wheel never stops.

It doesn’t matter the angle.

Impact can still shatter

A face set in stone.

The Fox, an excerpt

It has been a while since I shared anything in blog form. I’m not much for journaling and I don’t have any exciting news (yet). So I’ve decided to share an excerpt from a WIP that I don’t actually work on much. It’s a piece I wander back to every once in a while, write a little, and wander off again. It may never see completion and probably won’t see an actual book page, but it’s a fun(?) side project. The setting is futuristic, sort of post-apocalyptic in that the human race has depleted our home set of planets and colonized others. Seven mega-corporations have funded the big move, privatized literally everything, and also function as government. Most people are just happy to still be alive, however and of course, there are dissenters. Our story begins on a prison moon called Oberon. I love this character so much and I hope you enjoy him, as well. My only disclaimer here is that it IS a work-in-progress and has NOT been through an editor. Yes, mistakes and commas abound. Happy reading!

Part 2 The Fox

Muffled cries and heavy breathing are all I can hear of the others, running somewhere ahead. Running, that’s all we ever do. There’s a pain in my side that’s a grand mix of hunger, dehydration and overworked muscle, and it makes breathing hard. If I stop, though, I’m a goner.

Behind me, the soldiers are chasing us, flashlights and laser sights searching the ruins of what was once a school. The noise of helicopters above is crushing. It distorts what’s left of my senses, the tiny part of me that hasn’t given in to panic.

The small cell of free people that I’ve gathered, they’ve looked to me for leadership, for calm in the midst of chaos, and I’ve led them here. I’ve failed them. Sleep deprivation and starvation are stacked against me. Everything is falling apart.

The Hope Academy has been abandoned for decades, like most of the cities on Pan, forsaken planet of red sand deserts and eroding rock formations that stretch for miles of nothing. There were thriving colonies here once, but they were obliterated by a natural, particularly nasty predator beast. The Jakka.   

Still, Pan is a last ditch haven from the conglomerate, who rarely sends the military here except for the occasional training drill.

“There’s one!” a soldier shouts somewhere to my right.

A spatter of gunshots rings out into the darkness. Just a burst before a second voice calls a halt order.

“We do not shoot at children, soldier!”

No! Nealie! She’s only six. She’s the only child I’ve seen survive this planet in the year I’ve been here. Where is everyone?

I veer toward the sound of the guns without a conscious thought. I can hear her crying as the pounding of boots draws closer. God damn this cursed planet, and all the other planets that have been raped and left for dead by the corporations.

I dump all remaining strength into my legs. Each step forward feels like an earthquake threatening to shake me onto my face into the still-warm dirt. Just as I scoop her off the ground and pivot to the left to run, a spotlight glares down onto us. Gun shots ring out again, and again they’re ordered to stop. They don’t want us dead, they want us for the bodies in work camps.

Still, it’s enough to kill my momentum. All around me is light and darkness, the noise of the chopper blades beating the air, and distantly, screams. I put myself between the child and the hundred tiny, red dots that dance around me. As if my body would shield her from a hundred speeding bullets. I lift the tonfa in my right hand like a shield.

Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe it’s my blood sugar taking a nose dive, but a full body buzz makes me feel like puking. Not that there’s anything in my stomach to come back up.

“Drop the weapons!” a loud speaker booms.

The men with the guns are advancing. Nealie wails behind me, terrified more than I’ve ever seen her. There’s nothing I can do to try and save her without getting us killed. There’s nothing I can do. The tonfa hit the dirt and in the spot light, I can see the cloud of sand that rises when they land.

I think I’m falling from exhaustion before anyone touches me. Someone smashes me with the butt of a rifle anyway. All I see are stars, but I feel myself crash to the ground.

I sit up with a rasping gulp for air that feels like drinking ground glass. My chest heaves like I’ll never get another chance to breathe. I scrub my hands down my face and a lance of pain answers me, a reminder that there’s a deep tissue bruise on my left cheekbone. It might be fractured.

My thoughts rattle against the inside of my skull like dice in a cup. The bruise, the pain, it’s so reminiscent of something older. Another life – just three months ago and yet it feels like forever – on another planet. An actual planet and not this pathetic chunk of moon they call Oberon. I’d take my chances with the jakkas over this, hands down.

It was a dream. A dream that was also a memory. I haven’t thought of Nealie in weeks, of how I let her down. Her and the rest of the group. I shake my head hard, hoping to loosen the hold of that nightmare, but it just makes my brain tissue hurt.

I can feel the imprint of the tonfa against my palms. They were already ancient weapons when I found them, and I fitted them with blades, the flat of which paralleled my arms. They worked so well fending off the vicious jaws of the jakkas that hunted us on Pan. Their throats were the only part of them where their natural scales were thin enough to use a blade.

Those beasts are the kind of nightmare that make you wonder why educated people would choose to use their credit account to colonize that planet. Sure, the atmosphere is almost perfectly fit for human life. Except for the giant fucking reptilians with the poisonous venom and also the really sharp teeth.

I sling my legs over the edge of the slab of concrete they call my bed. My eyes are still adjusting to the gloom. I’m stuck somewhere in the small hours of morning when the air is deathly still and always slightly used. It’s a quiet, tepid time when I wish nothing more than that I could sleep through, just once. Except like clockwork, the dreams come, sometimes worse than the present. This was one.

Pan. I spent a long year there trying to scrounge up survivors for the cause. I found them and got them out of there. I saved a few, watched with a twinge in my gut as they slipped away into the night on a stealth-modified transport ship that only dropped every few weeks. I sacrificed my own desires and responsibilities to the cause, for the cause. Audacity got me caught. Maybe I got lazy. Now my face is in the system and I’m as good as dead to the fight.

Meeting Norna – Hawk – and the strange circumstances surrounding her, has brought it all back. I bite down on a groan just before it escapes. The worst thing about this place is the hopelessness, the fact that I’m powerless against every turn of the minutes, every little fucking detail about my days. I go where they tell me, stay where they tell me. I eat when they say I can, shower when they let me. Rage is all I have left, and it only gets me in trouble.

Once upon a time, in my distant past, I was a shining scholar. I attended medical school on a conglomerate funded grant, which, in short, meant they bought me. I’m something of a genius. I aced every test I ever took. But by the time I graduated young, I was so inundated with their doctrine that I couldn’t shit without thinking of how it affected the great masters in the sky. 

It never sat right when they taught me that my working class parents would be beneath me if I just followed their rules. I was destined for the best corporate hospitals, tending to the prolonged health of the wealthy. I could have a nice plot of land on a properly terraformed planet, make the big credits, have a cushioned life – that never would really belong to me.

It didn’t work then, and it doesn’t suit me now. But now, all my rebellion gets me are bruises. Then, I chose to say fuck it all, took what money I could and disappeared. Vanishing from the eyes of the conglomerate isn’t easy, but I’m a genius. Mostly. I guess a true genius wouldn’t get caught. Maybe a really smart guy wouldn’t fight. I guess I’m a working class genius.

Three loud clangs on my cell door make me jump. Breath catches in my throat and the fetid air around me reverberates the sound. What the fuck? What could these assholes want before the red sun even dawns?

With a heavy sigh, I shove myself to my feet and half-heartedly lift my hands in the air. Seconds later, the door screeches open and the harsh, artificial light clicks on above me. I squint despite myself as the washed-out brightness blinds me. A gush of fresh – well, fresher – air blasts me from the corridor beyond my pathetic living quarters. The sound of heavily booted feet in the hall sends shivers through my limbs, calling back to the dream I just woke from.

“Laborer number zero-three-five-zero-gamma-seven-Medic, assume position for transport!”

Transport? All the muscles and liquids in my gut somersault. My back teeth grind together. What holy hell is this? I haven’t done anything particularly disobedient since they beat the shit out of me for talking too boldly. 

“You are to be sanitized. Comply.”

I frown even as I turn toward my bed and put my hands behind me. It’s not my bath day, not unless I lost a chunk of time somewhere. I glance at the tally marks I’ve carved into the wall every day since I arrived.

One of the guards advances, so heavy-footed I wonder how he doesn’t trip on himself. I hear the jangle of the thick shackles before he clamps them on my wrists. Then there’s a beep that tells us they’re locked.

“I don’t know why the Captain cares to see him so fuckin’ early,” he mutters, maybe to himself, maybe to the other guards. Like I’m not even here.

My nerves do another messy roll. There’s not much in my stomach, so I do my best to ignore it. I cock half a grin that they can’t see, though the sentiment doesn’t scratch beneath the surface. I don’t know for sure, but I have a good idea why. Maybe if I can put on a good enough show, he’ll never know more than I want him to. Maybe I can do my part to save the Hawk, and the good Captain will never be the wiser.

Regardless of what I told her – Norna, the name still feels strange – it’s better to save one of us than neither of us. She has more of a chance to work her way back to the fight, and remain unknown. She’s smart enough to do it from the inside, if she hasn’t completely lost the will to make it back. I don’t believe that she has. It’s always been my fate to save someone, even if – no, especially if it’s not the way the conglomerate snakes had in mind.

She couldn’t believe I knew her face. Those crazy, golden eyes gave her away. I wasn’t completely honest when she asked how they got me. I left out where they got me, and the reason I went there at all. I didn’t tell her that I signed on for the Pan gig because I was a field operative in a campaign to find her. A campaign funded by the very upper echelon of the resistance, and one kept extremely hush-hush. The leaders in the fight have been missing her something fierce, for tactical reasons: and if I have my guess, funding. I’ve seen rare pictures of her, I’ve seen those eyes before.

She wasn’t quite honest with me, either. Like her name. It’s another alias. I know all her aliases, though true to protocol, I don’t know her real name.

I’d gotten several leads that said she was last seen on Pan, doing exactly what I signed up to do. It’s funny – in a ha, ha, blow your brains out kind of way – that I got picked up on a mission, doing something other than my mission, to come face-to-face with the real reason all this shit went down. A fat chance. It’s almost too coincidental to be called luck.

My half-grin hurts my bruised face. It’s gone by the time I turn to be led out of my cell.

Decontamination is more or less as unpleasant as it always is. Maybe it’s worse, because this time I’m fighting with a churning mass of panic deep down in my gut. For the first time since they nabbed me, I’ve identified some goals beyond to stay alive. Adversely, the more contact I have with anyone of rank, the more of a chance of them figuring out why I disappeared.

I’d like to say the prospect of a slow, torturous death doesn’t scare the shit out of me. I’d like to be that hero I played on Pan, but it’s not me. That’s partially why I developed skill in slipping out of reach at the last minute. That and I’m smarter than most people I meet.

My eyes clench closed in anticipation of the sensation of being sand blasted by hot bits of glass. The decon machine whirs and buzzes around me. As someone medically trained, I know this part of the process is not strictly necessary. They could just as easily give us a shower.  This “dry” method saves time and water that they don’t want to waste on prisoners.

Next comes the antibacterial, antifungal, catch-all mist. I hold in a long breath. I learned the hard way that the stuff tastes like cheap brake fluid. Air hangs suspended in my lungs, and all I can think is that I have to pull off this performance or I’m a dead man.

The hiss of the chemical spray dies. My chest is tight, but I hold it is as long as I can. If I passed out, would I somehow get out of this? Not likely. I’d just feel like a bigger pile of shit.

An ear-splitting alarm blasts my skull. Moments later, the chamber door slides open. I stumble out into the holding area where a set of clean pants, shirt, and underwear wait folded on a bench. They’re grey, and without fail, too big.

My mentor in the resistance taught me meditative breathing damn near as soon as I was assigned to him. Everyone who joined up had to become a shadow, to learn protocol and basic survival. Old Crow was the only name I ever knew him by, which was how it was supposed to be. He died a few years back. Shot himself so he wouldn’t be captured. 

I force my breaths in through the nose, slowly out from the mouth. It’s such an old habit now that the jitters in my limbs are immediately soothed. It’s no new thing, either, to appear perfectly calm on the surface when a giant storm rages within. Crow used to say, “Ya got nothin’ if your poker face is shit.”

The guards rush in to slap the shackles back on then we’re out into a corridor. Offhandedly I wonder why they fuck with the hand cuffs. The entire prison could riot and win, but not a single one would survive outside of the prison walls – not without the oxygen generators and the poisonous gas purifiers. If anyone escaped, they would die out on the raw moon.

By the time I’m sitting in the back of a transporter, I’m as rocky as the brown and grey landscape. My eyes feel like I’ve been face-first in a desert, and I have to really concentrate to force my hands out of fists. We’re hovering along at something like ninety-miles-an-hour, but the scene outside my window is so vast and barren that it hardly looks like we’re moving.

I have to admit that it was smart to build a prison on an uninhabitable chunk of space junk. It completely negates the chance of an uprising. That’s why we have to travel to get to the base. They keep themselves at a distance from the “camps,” remotely controlling life support. Smart.

My gaze drifts to the big, empty entrails of the transporter. It’s a bunch of benches and me. And I’m pressed against the cold wall and window. Why would the military spring out of their purse for windows on a prison transport anyway? Like everything, it must be a way to crush the spirit.

I’ve never seen Oberon from outside the walls and fences that surround each work camp. It’s a shit show. Everything is grey rock and dust, craters and jagged mountains in the distance that remind me of the gnarled mouth of a jakka. I watch the morose scape glide by from the back of the cruiser, on the way to see Captain Deep Pockets. I could have lived forever without having seen Oberon and it would have been great.

I’m feeling some kind of way. It’s not really nervous. Maybe. It is. But it’s the kind of nervous an actor has before a live performance. Step into character. Remember the lines. If shit goes awry, lie, lie, lie. Be the artist and the art. Don’t get myself killed.

The only real reason Redding would want to see me is a report on Norna. His initial rescue of her is a mystery to me, but his interest in her body’s response to the chemical was clear. My nerves hit a patch of static at the thought of that pompous prick’s hand on my throat.

He’s a decorated captain. Decorated in what? There hasn’t actually been a war since he’s been alive, since all of human-kind had to accept the terms of seven galactic corporations in order to survive.

There’s a fantastic light storm on the distant horizon. There’s no thunder. The view is nice, because those roiling clouds are the only thing around with a little color. They’re just beginning to feather with a dusty pink, accented in blood red.

It doesn’t take long to arrive at the base. Not long enough for me to gain complete control of my nerves. My face, at least, is cold. Impassive.

When they come to get me, they blindfold me.

Motherfuckers. My jaw tightens and my stomach flips. They drag me forward by a grip on each arm. There’s no grace to be had. I feel like a lamb or a calf, freshly dropped into the mud by my standing mother. Panic makes a play for my self-control as my legs shake beneath me.

Suddenly, I can hear too much at once. Beeps, and buzzes, and a din of voices at different frequencies. At any moment, anything could hit me and I’d never see it coming. I bite back on the urge to fight. That would a good way to get dead. 

The time that follows feels like a mix of forever and parts of a second. All the noise becomes a slur, until the only thing I’m sure of are the hands gripping my arms. Breathe in through the nose, out slowly from the mouth. In, out. In. Slowly out.

We stop. There’s some talking. Military jargon. I recognize my prisoner number. Then we move forward and it’s quiet. The blindfold comes off roughly.

I don’t dare move but my eyes are everywhere. It’s an office. There’s a window that must let in a considerable bit of natural light when the sun is up. And there’s the captain, parked behind a starkly kept desk, reading a projected screen. He sits so straight that he can’t be comfortable.

I just hope my expression isn’t quite as wide open as it feels. I’ve worked past the point of trying to bolt, but there’s still an unpleasant jitter in my limbs. The last time I was blindfolded, I was hanging by my bound wrists from a chain. Then they used the tried and true method of electrocution. I didn’t talk, just screamed a lot. Somehow, I didn’t die either.

I think of her, as I seem to be doing a lot lately, when she told me they’d rape me, too. She was trying to warn me away from the fire-fight attitude that was so celebrated in our old lives. And I think of the white-hot fear I saw in her eyes when she realized I knew her. I understood her then, though she couldn’t know it. I can relate.

“Uncuff him,” says Captain Redding as he clicks the screen away.

The three seconds of hesitation that pass between the guards are apparently unacceptable, because the captain’s eyes snap to them and they jump into action. It isn’t much, but that tiny detail tells me that it’s not exactly standard protocol to remove the cuffs inside the base. Of course, the first question is why has he chosen to break the rules. 

I was a fool to believe I ever had any ground with this money’s son. I’m so far beneath him I couldn’t reach him in a long-range cruiser transport. I couldn’t catch him in a fighter ship. I’m sure as hell not stupid enough to speak first, so I continue to not move as the pressure disappears from my wrists.

Strategy. That’s what I was talking myself up to on the ride here. I sure did. That doesn’t mean I have one. 

“Dismissed,” the captain says in a tone that sounds honed on twenty years of telling servants to fuck off. He doesn’t even look at my guards as he says it.

He doesn’t look at me either. He’s picked up a hand-held and is pecking some sort of directives or notes into it with his thumbs. He could be talking dirty to some trophy trick from the conglomerate’s upper wrung of debutantes. He could be activating troops to certain places. They both sound about as equally dry.

The guards hesitate again, maybe for only two seconds this time. They salute and their boots make heavy thuds as they leave. He doesn’t look up, so I do a quick scan of the room.

There are no decorations. No digital pictures of anything, no Academy graduation or family. There’s nothing. This guy is four walls and a desk that he looks like he owns, but at which I don’t believe he spends much time.

When the door closes, Captain Redding sets down the hand-held and nails me with a level gaze. Strategy. Don’t give him more than he asks for. Don’t give him exactly what he asks for. Don’t fuck up.

Was he quick enough to realize I was staring at the window?

Don’t move. Don’t speak. What the fuck is he playing, just staring at me? Of course, it has to be a tactic of some kind. I’m staring back, thinking I’m about to get myself killed because this is going to be an epic stare-down.

“The first question is why?” he says.

Why? There are a million becauses and no answers I want to give him. Wait it out, don’t be a dumbass. I’m concentrating so hard on not looking away that I let my right eyebrow inch upward; an implied echo. Why? Why fucking what?

He says, “Justin Makara. You were the top of every class. You earned everything you could ever want because of academic scores alone. Yet you ran.”

Some fucking strategist I am. I never considered we’d be talking about me. I haven’t heard someone say my name in so long that it sounds strange. I’ve spent the last few months being extremely relieved that they didn’t know my ties to AnCon, completely ignoring the nightmare that comes with my legitimate past.

Lie, or scrape some hide off of the truth? More importantly, don’t make a face. In the nose, out the mouth. 

I say, “I guess helping old, rich people live longer wasn’t my style.”

Well, there it is. I can’t say I thought that response through. You know what else isn’t my style? Strategizing. Sometimes, I wish I could be patient enough to think through a situation, be more like Old Crow. Except I never do. I just run with it.

For another agonizing stretch, we stare at each other. At least I took something from my old mentor. I developed a mean poker face and a knack for bullshit. Something tells me it’s a good thing. I bet the good Captain plays chess for fun.

Finally, his eyes narrow just the slightest. He says, “Your parents participated in a multi-conglomerate program that paid for the genetic engineering of thousands of children. The money they received from that program allowed them to live more comfortably than a lot of people at their income level. In exchange, you graduated medical school, which they still couldn’t afford despite the program. Here you are, because old, rich people funded everything.”

Several reactions fire at once: My body feels like the bottom end of my esophagus drops into the lowest pit of my gut; cold, familiar rage rears its head and roars; and my inner dialogue says, “He’s good.”

The rage is directly related. My parents basically sold me to the system before I was even born. They were paid so that the conglomerates could breed a doctor. Then they followed through and sent me to med school. I lived most of my life not knowing that, thinking I was naturally intelligent. When I found out…he has the gaul to ask me why.

“They funded a system that gave them slave labor, I doubt it hurt that much,” I say. I hear myself form every word in an even enough tone, while my brain screams in horror at each one.

Maybe he never rushes to speak. He watches me with open calculation, so straightforward that I’ll knock myself off-balance if I don’t focus on something. I’m not even sure if he’s blinked since I walked in, his expression has changed so little.

He says, “That sentiment earned a hefty sentence for you.”

For all my bravado, the truth is raw and bleeding at this point. There’s another little lie I told to Norna. Resisting Arrest was my initial charge when they picked me up on Pan. Once they figured out I had a record, the list rolled out like a red carpet. That spot-lit, dusty moment spawned a field of regrets.

Strategy. If I had planned anything at all, I might have noticed how stupid it was to volunteer for such a high-profile gig. I might have really thought about the fact that if I got caught, it would be a death sentence. At this moment, I wonder if she might have a similar story. All that time spent mending her broken wings, and I didn’t ask once about the useful facts. How did they get her? Who was she before? How did Captain Miloh fucking Redding become so involved in her recovery?

This is not an argument, so I say, “Yes, it did.”

Humility is not a hat I try on often. I’m pretty sure my tone doesn’t match. Anger flashes in my eyes brighter than the standard super nova. The anger is painful, in a way. There’s no outlet for it. I can’t fight, can’t even raise my voice. I sure as hell can’t fuck the pain away. The truth at the bloody bottom of it all is that I’m never leaving this rock, not unless they take me to another “prison planet” – as they optimistically call them.

Redding is still watching me. His person as a whole hasn’t moved, but now I believe there’s a hint of amusement, or something akin to it, in his eyes. Time ticks past and my belief that he’s testing me grows less ethereal. If he’s read my record, he knows I’m smart, so what’s his deal now?

Finally, he moves. He rests his arms on the desk in front of him, and his hands slide together. He reminds me of some old, old school gangster, except for all the decorations that adorn his uniform.

He says, “So we’re back to the first question. Do you have a better answer?”

Into what fresh hell have I woken? I don’t even give a shit that I’m giving myself away. I let my eyes drop to slits of suspicion. It’s as open of a reaction as his heavy, silent attention.

There’s only a certain degree of intelligence to which I’ll stoop. By his rules, I’m already less than him. I’m not in the mood for some beginner intimidation. Mostly, I don’t actually have myself together to withstand a direct onslaught.

Do I have a better answer? What is this, some kind of interview? I think I will presume my silence is enough of an answer.

Once, lawyers were required before you were sentenced for crimes. Now, only people who can afford them get a defense. Everyone else is simply guilty. I don’t have a lawyer and I don’t have a better answer. That one was perfect. This is a fine mess of shaky nerves and stubbornness. 

He takes a slow, inaudible breath that I can only trace by the slight movement of his shoulders.  He says, “I don’t have the time to waste on this child’s game of wits. The ultimate truth is that it’s a waste of ability to have you here, treating hopeless prisoners, when you were born for the medical arts.”

For an indefinite stretch of time, my thoughts chug slowly like a stern wheel – spewing out the back as the rest get caught in the momentum. This feels like the beginning of what you could call a bad time. Comply or die. That’s what we said in the – 

“So you have a better idea.”

I say it. It could have been a question. It sounds more like a challenge. What am I doing?

“Yes, I do,” he says, as flatly as he’s said everything else.

When he doesn’t continue, I bite my tongue. This is the part when I’m supposed to ask what his grand scam is. I hold my scrutinizing gaze, as least I hope my expression is what I think it is. I don’t believe him and I don’t want him to think I do. If this were a game of Faces, I’d have a bunch of low number cards to his royal run.

If I had pockets, I’d casually slide my hands into them and wait. But I don’t even have pockets. That’s what my life has amounted to. I’m feeling a little awkward, standing here with hands hanging useless at my sides.

He says, “I’ve petitioned to reassign your sentence duties. I don’t have the official approval back, but let’s say I have it on good authority that I will not be denied.”

He’s spoon feeding me, still baiting me even after he said he didn’t have time for such things. Most likely, he’s trying to get a good read on the real me, not the idiot upstart who ran his mouth at all the wrong times.

Nobody gets off this rock. Yesterday, I said that. What had she said? You do if you make a deal with the devil. Does anyone even believe in omens any more? It’s not those words that bring the goose bumps to the surface of my skin. It’s what else she said. A true enemy of the establishment would take the chance to attack from within.

“You will be under my supervision, tending to soldiers. We’ll start small, and if you can handle it well, maybe I won’t send you back here to the mines,” he says, unperturbed that I haven’t even wiggled close to his trap.

Thoughts fire like scatter shot. How many could I let die without repercussion? How much information could I gather about the inner workings of the military, and how useful would it really be? Now how am I going to keep my word about getting her out of here? How would I reestablish communication with those who sent me to find her?

I think I love and hate her. Why did I tell her my real name? She didn’t tell me hers. Maybe it was her raspy voice, or those startling eyes. Or the way she’s broken, but a stubborn beauty still clings to her.

“What’s the catch?” I say.

“The catch is that if you don’t screw up, you get to serve your time nobly,” he says without missing a beat.

This is happening. On the surface, his move is real fucking stupid. Why would anyone trust a guy who shook the system to suddenly turn coat. Of course, they don’t know what I’ve been up to since I scooped. Inevitably, I wonder what the odds are of escape.

“When do I start?” I ask, carefully keeping the sarcastic edge in my tone. I don’t want him to think I’m eager. I also don’t want him to think I’m reluctant. If I can scale back on the attitude just a bit, not lose it completely but slip it in here and there, I’ll get a good idea of what I can get away with.

There’s a tiny twist playing with his lips. It could almost be a smile, and not a friendly one.

He says, “When I get the approval the process will begin. There are certain precautions we will take to prevent escape attempts, and some psychological examination.”

Shit. Well, there’s that. How to handle this with a little finesse?

He has a level gaze out of brown eyes that haven’t shied from mine since the guards left. It’s unnerving and I’m sure that’s the point. He says, “I’d say you’ll have just enough time to see your last patient back to her yard.”

The breath I’ve controlled so well to this point hangs in my throat. My eyes widen despite myself. I’ve been trying to figure out how to bring her up and he’s just beat me to it. Finesse be damned. If it’s the real me he wants, I might as well give him a little. Just a glimpse of the fury that sparks at his nonchalance.

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense to save her if you’re just going to send her back to the same place,” I say. That feels like something a doctor would say, someone who cares about helping people.

His eyes narrow and his head cocks an inch to the left. He’s still holding the damn eye contact. Maybe that’s why his slight reaction is so glaring. I’ve caught him off-guard, even if just the smallest bit. It’s impossible to know in what way. Again, I’m wishing I had at least gotten a few details on how or why the captain is involved in her recovery.

“That … is not of your concern, nor mine,” he says. The hesitation is so slight I could have imagined it.

Bullshit. Send me in to put my eyes between some broad’s legs, knowing immediately that she would die if you don’t act fast, then tell me I shouldn’t care what becomes of her once I’ve saved her. My teeth grind.

“Then why save her at all? Why not let her bleed out? Surely it cost more in medical supplies to treat her than it would to toss another body into the incinerator,” I say. My voice is strained from my effort not to let it get louder.

He’s quiet long enough for me to start believing that I’ve already made a grave mistake. It’s harder than ever to be still. Any sudden movements could get me shot, and any other outlets for anger can’t help me now. When he stands and walks slowly around the desk until he’s in front of me, I’m waiting for the blow to fall.

He’s half a foot taller than I am, so he’s looking down at me. His expression seems more or less the same, but his eyes have hardened.

“That is something you either understand already, or never will,” he says, soft in volume, but firm of word. “It comes down to moral code, Justin Makara. I don’t believe rape is ever ok, but it’s not my responsibility for whatever charges landed her out here. You would do well to remember in the future that there will never come a time when I need to explain myself to you.”

I seem to have struck a sore spot. If I’m not mistaken, that’s defensiveness in his reaction. My inner fox smiles. Wouldn’t it be a beautiful thing if he’s so hard on the surface, yet soft inside. It would make sense. He’s young to be so ranked, probably hasn’t seen a lot of real action.

I don’t know if he expects me to start driveling like a soldier – yes sir, no sir, whatever you say, Captain. It will never happen. I won’t cower in his presence, though it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to step backward.

I told myself I wouldn’t give him much of the real, but the words are a big, smoking locomotive that force themselves out into the high-quality air of his office.

“My moral code says most of the people I’ve met in here were grabbed for minor infractions that were hardly worth the harsh sentences handed out. My code wonders how many women did bleed out because some degenerate piece of shit got off on shoving a rifle inside of them? My gut says those guards will be gunning for her.”

I find that I’ve clasped my hands behind my back to keep them out of trouble. Don’t want the captain getting spooked. He could beat the holy hell out of me for less. I think he might, if he weren’t such a control freak.

“You are surprisingly idealistic, perhaps a little naive,” he says, regaining that sharp, calculating look.

That’s not exactly right, but I can play the fool. I’ll let him believe that’s what fuels me.

“I have a heart, that’s all,” I answer with a shrug.

“As I’m sure they will be missing your heart at the infirmary if I keep you too long. You are dismissed to await further direction.”

That’s his answer to my grand performance? I’ve definitely hit a nerve.

I don’t say another word as he retrieves his hand-held and presses a few buttons. As the guards put the shackles back on, I keep my eyes on the captain. He watches me, too, and I feel like his gaze is a little softer, maybe more speculative. Maybe that’s my expression.

I don’t believe I’ve made any kind of step toward getting her out of here. That’s when it really sinks in that soon, if I can’t figure something out, I’ll never see her again.

When they blindfold me this time, I don’t even flinch.

A New Idea

I haven’t written a blog in a while. Life got a little hectic after my book releases, as you might expect from life at times. I don’t have much to share now, but it’s been so long that I wanted to leave something here. I had this idea the other night, the first fresh story idea in a long time. It’s only a handful of paragraphs right now, but I would love any thoughts on this little scrap of an idea. Here goes:

When I round the corner to the backyard, I have to sidestep to avoid running directly into Gabney. I bite back a curse. The aggravation chokes in my throat when I realize she’s staring at the sky and the water hose is hanging in her right hand. There was a time when I would’ve made fun of her for looking so dumb, but after she warned us of the last storm – the one nobody believed and then a lot of people died – I don’t bother her.

The hose has a nozzle on it but it leaks. For a moment, all I can hear is the water dripping on the sand. I follow her gaze upward, trying my damnedest to find something significant. She always watches the sky and trees like she sees something else. As far as I can tell, it’s a little windy, there are some clouds, and it’s hot even though it’s fairly early in the morning.

“The winds have changed direction,” Gabney says in the measured way she says most things.

“You mean-“

“They’re coming from the sea,” she cuts me off like I didn’t even speak. Likely, she didn’t notice that I did.

I try to treat her like a kid, like she’s eleven, but then she uses that tone when she says stuff like that. I check her sideways. Her ash-blonde, wispy curls are tossing around her long, sun-browned face, and her eyes are the same color as the sky is whenever the clouds break.

My stomach churns when I look up again. I don’t want to, but I wonder, “Should we be worried?”

She’s quiet for a while. I’ve gotten used to it when she does this, but she still claws at my impatience. I hear the water drip become a spray, then the spray hit the plants in the back bed. She says, “Not yet.”

Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide Excerpt

I hear voices behind me, but I don’t have room for any more bodies in my space, so I ignore them. When I look back to Maria, she flings her eyes past me. She’s mad, too, that much is easy to see. But then the tension melts, her eyes drop impossibly wide, and her mouth silently opens.

Her obvious shock is like a PTSD trigger, and it blindsides me so that for a moment, I can’t move either. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that look on her, and somehow I expect that if I turn around, I’ll see her brother risen from the dead.

Josh moves closer to her, so that he’s almost touching her, and he glares past me. The voices behind me die, and so does the movement. Abruptly, I’m right in the middle of a silent firefight that I don’t comprehend.

I step to the side as I turn around, so that I’m at her other shoulder. Abuela’s directives be damned, I will always be her right hand. I fight the urge to draw arms within these walls as my vision lands on the offending party. 

For a moment that lasts longer than I would ever admit, he looks like just another guy – an uppity thirty-something in a snob’s clothes, not packing any heat on his hip or shoulder. But the moment passes, and those angular cheeks and broad jaw are too familiar. He’s barely been gone long enough for me to forget that I took his seat only because he left.

He’s a bit thinner, a lot browner, and all kinds of dressed up. I can’t say I was torn up when he left us, but he did leave us. He turned his back on what was supposed to be his crew. Never mind that I was willing to do the same thing, on one tiny difference of condition. I wouldn’t leave without her, but he did. It made sense, but that didn’t make it OK.

Then the details begin to click into place like a well-oiled machine. The man beside him is Jorge, our most recent heroin hero, on the scene with a deal to end all deals. The guy worthy of a family dinner in his honor.

Jorge is skinny, greasy, and appalling in a general sense. He wears his long hair in a slick, low ponytail, and sports a long, equally greasy goatee. At the moment, he’s standing half a step behind Isaiah, openly assessing the threat that hangs vaguely between the other four people in the hallway.

Isaiah, here, in one of the most guarded and secret locations under Abuela’s extensive network. With Jorge, who just made a really impressive connection and got a pat on the back. What the fuck has Izzy been into this past year? 

Isaiah isn’t armed, so there’s no threat, but Josh and I are formed up on Maria as though a SWAT team is about to storm the windows and doors. Whatever internal hang-ups we have be damned, nobody from the outside will ever get a glimpse of that. We stand together.

Except this isn’t even my division anymore.

Izzy’s eyes scan over the three of us, slow and methodical as one might expect, and brave. He looks each of us directly in the eyes. He doesn’t shove his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t walk away. There’s no cigarette in his hand. He just stands his ground. He’s different in his stature, more comfortable, less cautious. 

He was always the best among us at reading people, but he was only barely better than me, and that’s just because he had a little empathy where I had no time for that shit. It only takes me a moment to see what Maria did to him.

She destroyed what little he had left, from whatever life he had before. He’s more like me than ever, and all it takes to tell me that is the reckless gleam in his eyes. Maybe for the first time, I can relate to him, and no one has said a word. I think he wants someone to say something. I think he wants to snap. 

What righteous hell is this?

Rising Tide available on Amazon in paperback, Kindle, and KindleUnlimited April 15, 2021.