Week Three and Better Prepared for Challenge

Okay, last week was rushed. This week, not as rushed.

Tami Veldura's Weekly Prompt this week is Space Themed, with a picture of a starry sky, the whole nine yards. 700 word allotment, though I cheated, coming in at 890.

I went with a Sci-Fi future piece (Tami, you might guess why sci-fi space is on my brain) New story, new characters.

Heads up on the term LINAR. It's a play on SONAR, which stands for SOund NAvagation and Ranging. In the vacuum of space however, light measurement would be more accurate and useful than sound. So. LIght NAvigation and Ranging. See me be clever?

The Art of War Among Diamonds

An alert at ET-Nav pinged. "Con-LINAR The destroyer's changing course, Skip," Decker announced.

Captain Avery turned. "New bearing?"

"Coming portside bearing two niner two."

"Speed?"

"Thirty."

"They still haven't spotted us then."

"Permission to speak, Cap?" Athens asked from her charts.

"What's up, XO."

"Shyjin class destroyers have detailed LINAR operations in this quandrant. There's no way she missed us."

The captain gave it quick consideration. "She's acting as bait then. Any other contacts, Decker?"

"Negative."

"Give me status update every two or every Ivan."

"Aye, Captain."

"They want to play, we'll play. Helmsman," the captain said, "bring us on course to two niner two. Make your speed 30."

Helmsman Boyar replied, twisting the nav-stick. "Aye Cap'n, turning two niner two. LeeHelm, increase speed by five"

The ship banked to the leeward. The coms-speaker answered, "Aye sir, increasing by five."

Helmsman Boyar twisted the navigation stick again. "Current course bearing two niner two."

"Hold her steady," replied the captain. "Keep us in her baffles."

"Aye Cap'n, holding steady at two niner two."

"Sound general quarters," the captain ordered as the ship righted. "Battlestations torpedo."

"Aye cap." Athens triggered the GQ whistle as she keyed her comslink. "This is your XO. Calling General Quarters GQ GQ GQ. All hands General Quarters. Battlestations Torpedo. Ready Weps." 

Captain Avery nodded. "now for the infernal waiting."

Athens gave a thin smile. "There's a lot of that out here in the deep."

His laugh was void of humor. "We travel light years to what, spread our civilization? We're playing the same damned wargames."

"It's why they pay us the big money, Sir," she said. After a tense beat of relative silence, she asked, "Do you remember when the stars were diamonds?"

He snorted. "Never had the pleasure, XO. Didn't see many stars in Nuevo Angeles. I enlisted to see some up close. That was a lifetime and a half ago. I'm still looking to see stars up close. You're from the Old Place, though, aren't you."

"Yes, Sir," she said, with a small measure of pride. Half the crew were farmed from the settlements, the other half from the New Water, but she was an Earther, through and through. "I was born in a nowhere town in the middle of a nowhere desert. The Milky Way is still crystal clear and full of dreams back there."

The ET-Nav desk lit up in flashing red lights. "Con-LINAR new contact bearing one one three. Alit class battleship, locked and loaded, running hot."

The captain didn't flinch. "Stay on course. Sound battlestations."

"Aye." Triggering the gong, Athens keyed the comlink. "XO calling Battlestations. All hands Battlestations."

"Prepare starboard guns, forward guns. Prepare countermeasures."

Controlled action and voices flurried through the bridge, carrying out the captain's orders. Athens keyed the comslink to relay orders to the torpedo decks. Red lights arced at the ET-Nav again. Decker shouted his update, "Our destroyer is turning, 15 degrees, make that 20 degrees starboard."

"Well, shadows don't last long in vacuums." The captain locked in his chair, triggering everyone on deck to follow suit. "On my mark, release countermeasures. Roll and punch, Tokyo drift style, to starboard at 15 degree up-angle, in 5, 4, 3, 2, mark."

The helmsman and leehelm shouted responses and their spaceship rumbled with turbulence. The captain moved on to his next batch of orders in rapid succession. "Foreward guns, auto lock and fire. Starboard guns, track for movement. Prepare weps port and aft."

Athens repeated the orders to the torpedo rooms and listened for the relay back. "Fore Weps answer hot, straight, and narrow, Sir."

Decker shouted. "Receiving fire!"

The captain swore. "Sound collision. Flare deflectors. Emergency blow."

Athens was mid-sentence on the comlink when light flooded the room and the simulation came to a grinding halt. Shocked and disappointed swearing came from everywhere at once. The captain slammed his fist against the armrest of his chair. "What the Sam Hill was that about?"

Communications Officer Ramirez rose from the ET-Coms computer. "Sir, that was an external program termination initiated by Sec-Nav. They're sending us orders."

"And? Don't keep us in suspense, Ramirez."

There was a delay as Ramirez listened to his headset. "Sec-Nav says to report to the Alamo at zero-eight-hundred hours. Congratulations on your new command, Sir. We're going to war."

The captain nodded. His shoulders heaved with his silent sigh. "Well, we can't say we're surprised. You have a few hours of liberty, but keep it simple. Embrace those you love, prepare them for the worst Report to bravo dock fifteen at zero-eight. Time to earn our pay, ladies and gentlemen. You're all dismissed."

Grumbles of anxiety and fear echoed through the sim-deck. Athens felt her heart sink into her stomach. War was what they prepared for in peacetime. Hopefully, peace was what they were preparing for in wartime. 

"Why the long face, XO?" the captain asked. "Those stars of yours looking less like diamonds?"

"Even nightmares are dreams, Captain. Just means some of the diamonds have flaws is all."

"A week ago you asked me why I insisted on you for XO?" The captain clapped her shoulder. "That's why. Your infernal optimism. If we're going to win this war,  we're all going to need your contagious hope."

Athens breathed and saluted. "Thanks Cap. I'll see you at oh-seven hundred."

Okay, that's my piece. Now you say yours. Whatchya got for me?

A New Year, A New Writing Prompt:

Today I begin 2016 in earnest

For those of you who know me, that I've been neglecting my site is old news. I wish I could say that I've been so overwhelmingly busy that my little blog has had to take a back seat. That would be a lie and excuses such as those are never becoming. 

Since Write on Edge dissolved on me, I have been at a loss for a writing community that I can fit in with. Chuck Wendig's site Terrible Minds is good for inspiration on occasion, but it still feels more like the one-off as opposed to the weekly habit that I'd like to get back into. 

A discussion of my woes with a friend of mine sparked the idea for her to create such a place where once again, participants can write for the joy of writing, offer critique that is constructive and supportive, and discover authors at every level of their writing careers. The first prompt went live this week on my friend's website, so until the audience grows, it may seem a bit lonely for a while. But. This first prompt, wow, so good.

With a directive to concentrate on setting, this first week's theme is Barcelona. There is a photo and a quote, as well as basic facts of the city included in the prompt. The idea is to provide inspiration to write. Participants can use either the facts, the photo, the quote, or any combination thereof.

I chose the quote as my inspiration, 

Everyone’s got unfinished business with Barcelona.  

-Frank Lampard

and I'm taking you back two years to characters I dearly miss. This is the continuing story of Essie Dorely, recently deceased, and her new career as a reaper of souls. To get caught up or to refresh your memories, previous installments in order as follows:

Installment One

Installment Two

Installment Three

And now without further ado, I offer the following in response:

(word count 578, genre: angels/paranormal)

Ah, Paris

They gathered on the Champs-Elysees. Essie felt the winter sun grace her skin. Truly felt it warming her pores. She felt alive, more alive than when she was alive.  And Paris was far more vibrant than she remembered it being. The drowsy trees stirred in a breeze, the breeze that carried with it the perfume of baking bread, hearth fire, and geraniums damp with morning dew. 

Essie wanted to run through the streets, splashing through puddles, scattering pigeons. She wanted to climb the steps of the Sacre-Coeur and jump from a widow’s walk to see if she could fly.  But mostly, she just wanted to claim the sun. 

"Ah, Paris," Abilene said. sighing deep. Her eyes rolled skyward. "You stuffed shirts can keep your pearly gates. This city is heaven to me."

Reaper shimmered in the sunlight, a marvel of perfection, so Essie thought. A drunken butterfly landed on the sleeve of his pristine suit. He raised it to eye level, and with a wistful look, watched it fly away. "Everyone has a Paris they remember," he said. "For some, Paris is the City of Lights."

Essie sensed a history older than the city in his words. "And to you? What is your Paris?"

His eyes were kind, but round with sorrow. "There are plagues mankind suffers that never make your history books, I have the rare privilege to know them all, and Paris...well, I shan't dwell on the ugliness of the business."

"Thank your mother's golden girdle, Essie. Here is where Reaper would bore you with the inane details of that silly little revolt when Paris tore down a perfectly sound prison." Abilene hooked her arm around Essie's. "Come Sweetness, there's an adorable little lingerie boutique around the corner and it's been way too long since I was last shopping."

Essie looked to Reaper for guidance. "Wait. We can shop?"

He smiled. "Time is of little consequence. You may do as you wish, after your training." 

Abilene stuck out her tongue. "Killjoy. I've been a very good girl you know. I haven't corrupted anyone in hours. Can't you let me have this small, insignificant pleasure--"

Reaper shook his head. "I know better than to turn you loose with my new associate before her training is complete."

Abilene mocked a whisper behind her hand, her breath hot and dry like drifting ash against Essie's hair. "Don't mind Reaper. He's still sore about Barcelona."

"Why? What happened in Barcelona?" Essie asked, searching for details in Reaper's expression. She resolved never to play a hand of poker against him. He had no tells.

"His last apprentice wasn't Reaper material," Abilene said, "at least for your team."

Reaper cocked his head, calm and cool as if molded from marble by Michelangelo's own hands. "Now Miss Fortesque, a little hiccup in the midst of training is to be expected, especially in the presence of one so enchantingly formidable."

"Aw, Reaper, you flatter me." The air around her charged with a hint of brimstone and her voice doubled, as if possessed by another, sending a shiver of fear through Essie's spine. "I won that day, Reaper. Poor David's business went unfinished."

He bowed with a slight concession, though there was a victorious glint in his eyes. "Yes, well...Everyone has unfinished business in Barcelona, don't they, Miss Fortesque? How many centuries are left on your sentence?"

She hissed and the brimstone dissipated. "Fine. Let's get this over with before you ruin Paris, too."

So that's this week's installment. Give me what'chya got!

Five Timelines and a Ghost

Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds posted it was time for a sub-genre boogie. Out of a list of twenty literary sub-genres, we are to select two from a hat or other random number selection methods, and merge them together.

My random number generator gave me a Haunted House and Time Travel.

I just want to say this up front: I make no guarantee that this result is fit for human consumption. Probably NSFW as I channeled my inner cuss-monster. Mostly because I wasn't finished swearing at the random number generator.

And the only things that came to mind were the movies Ghostbusters and Timeline, and I realized I have had little exposure to either of these sub-genres. Over 400 movies stacked on my shelf and maybe three of them fit these elements. So this will either help me or hinder me. I'll let you decide which.

Anyway, we have 1500 words, which I know is 500 more than Chuck usually gives us, but I could easily have used more. I apologize for throwing you in the middle, but here's where the action is. Just go with it.



Without further ado, I give you:  Consequence and Convergence

“Get those lines in place!” Kate’s handheld radio screamed with Matthew Jenks’s voice. 

A different voice responded, “North side anchored.”

Jenks’s voice returned. “East-side?”

Hold your horses, Jenks! Kate thought, skipping a keyed reply as she foisted hurricane -rated straps through the eye of the anchor. The pulleys made things easier, but it was still a seventy-pound draw and Kate’s muscles burned through her arms and shoulders, unaccustomed to the physical labor. Of all the days to be short-staffed, equinoxes and solstices were the worst. And this vernal equinox was a stark raving bitch.

The farmhouse twisted, struggling to maintain integrity against the forces that raged war against it. A slate tile from the gabled roof stripped free, catching Kate’s cheek as it spiraled to the ground, throwing her off-balance. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She scrambled to reclaim her grip on the straps, feeling the fire of friction as they slipped through her elk-leather gloves. 

Collier – shirtless, again – ran from the north-side of the farmhouse and slid in beside her, raking dirt in a rooster tail. Kate welcomed his solid weight on the lines. “Where the hell’s Manu?” she asked.

“Dunno. Your Danny’s working the Rift, trying to splice – Whoa! This fucker’s strong!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she scowled.

Seizing the wild strap, he dug his heels into the berm of the anchor and leaned back, grunting from effort, the veins of his arms bulging. “Now or never, Kate!”

With the slack Collier provided, Kate maneuvered the knot with much more authority, shackling the lines to the anchor.  “All right, she’s fastened.”

Kate and Collier’s radios both crackled with Jenks’s urgent voice, “Status, Kids?”

Collier panted, clutching his knees, as Kate keyed the voice-out, “East side anchored.”

“Brady?” the radio asked. “Brady, come in! We need that south-side secured!”

Kate took a deep breath and one last tug to check the knots. Collier heaved a sigh. “Worst equinox ever,” he said, and broke into a run for the south station. Kate was fast on his heels.

The south-side straps flapped loose in the wind like writhing snakes, slamming the pulley casings into the side of the farmhouse. Kate felt her heart in her throat. Both Manu and Brady? Where the hell were they?

Collier leapt, muscled arms outstretched like a flying squirrel, and plucked the lines from the air, making it look easy. Kate dove for the anchor and snapped the locking bar into place. Collier tugged and pulled, Atlas carrying the world, to get her the lines. Without verbal cues, they repeated the routine. When the straps were anchored, Kate radioed the report.

The farmhouse still strained at the straps, but once anchored, the struggle lost most of its strength. A rushed job, the team hadn’t had much time to set things up properly, and with the turbulence of three converging timelines trying to rip the house apart, the situation was far from stable. 

Jenks stood at his computers when Kate returned to base station with Collier. Kate expected to see Manu and Brady behind the blast shield, bruised maybe, but gearing up for the sweep of the farmhouse. It was just Jenks though, with Patel on the tuning forks. Patel flashed her a glance. “You’re bleeding.”

“Damned shingle,” she said, wiping her cheek. The overlapping timelines folded and fractured, distorting visibility. Kate toggled the settings for the blast shield but saw little improvement. “You see Manu anywhere? Or Brady?” Kate asked, straining to see through the haze.

Jenks growled from his computer screen, “I think they got sucked into the house. Manu said something about a stowaway or a trapped girl before he disappeared. Running tracers now, but there’s a lot of interference.”

“No way this is just a T-3,” Collier said, tone full of skepticism. “It feels more like five timelines.”

“Check the readings yourself,” Jenks pointed at his computer screen. 

“I haven’t trusted that software’s readings since the crack-house incident in Baltimore.” Collier folded his arms, challenging. “It tell you where the epicenter is yet?”

Jenks made a face but said nothing, and typed at his keyboard so fast Kate thought the keys would catch fire. Turbulence howled around them, and Kate felt tremors starting in the earth. “Hey Patel,” she turned, “we in over our heads or what?”

“Always. Radio Belekov,” Patel chirped from his forks. “See where he is on that splice.”

Kate flicked her look of pleading deference to Collier. She wasn’t ready to talk to her husband yet. Collier shot her a knowing smile and fished his radio from its belt holster. “Danny,” he said, keying the mic, “Ravi’s asking for status.”

A minute of solid static replied. Collier changed position, divining a better signal and gaining words. “--got the splice to the minor, working the major now. Patel got a song for me yet?”

Collier spun, the question repeating in the look he gave Patel. Patel waggled a hand. “A solid almost,” Collier replied.

“Okay. I’ll be ready. Oh, tell Kate I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

Kate snatched the radio from Collier’s hands, fueled with venom. “The term I used was ass-hat and I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”

Jenks tossed a curious look over his shoulder. “Trouble in paradise?”

Kate groaned. “Do yourself a favor. Marry the girl next-door. This long-distance, crossed-time bullshit wears thin most days.”

“The girl next door is already married.” Jenks’s computer screen lit up with a waterfall of code. “Thank you Gorgeous! Epicenter is top of the staircase.”

“It’s always the top of the staircase.” Kate handed the radio back to Collier. “Since Manu and Brady aren’t here, you and me get to go wading in the dark.”

Collier turned pink. “So many ways to take that, Kate.”

“Oh for—“ she held up her left hand, “married, remember?”

“Whose fault is that?” Teasing her sparked a light in his eyes and she hated him for it. “Oh come on, you know you left yourself open for it.”

Jenks broke up the exchange. “Do I need to remind you that Manu and Brady are probably trapped in that house?”

Collier tossed her a time-hazard, reflective suit from the prep box and she flipped him a bird. It made sense at the time. He laughed, suiting up. “I’m surrounded by ass-hats,” she muttered.

The farmhouse roared and crackled as another tremor passed beneath them. She zipped up the suit just as Patel shouted “Eureka!”

“Got a song?” Kate asked.

“All five notes.”

Collier clapped Jenks’s shoulder. “See, I told you this wasn’t a T-3.”

“Yeah, no one likes a smartass.” Jenks shrugged him off. “Watch for Manu and Brady. The tracers still haven’t located them. My guess is that they’re both too close to the epicenter of this whale to get a reading.”

Kate zipped up the suit and engaged the tracking cuff, its vibrations against her pulse both annoying and reassuring. Patel handed two pre-programmed tuners to Collier, one of them Collier passed along to her. “Lower frequencies first,” Patel reminded them, though it wasn’t necessary.

“Thanks,” Kate said, securing the tuner to her suit. She waved her cuff. “Jenks, you picking us up?” 

“Loud and clear. Take her slow and steady, but hurry it up will you?” 

Jenks was full of contradictions. Kate sighed and fell into Collier’s shadow, using him as a turbulence shield. Time screamed as they punched through the fractured folds, the history and future of the house fighting for dominance. Though he was less than a foot in front of her, Collier began to disappear in the haze. She picked up pace and gripped his belt. There was no way she was going to lose track of him.

Visibility plunged to zero as the epicenter sucked all the light from the surrounding space. Collier inched Kate forward, and she could hear the faint ripple of his echo-location sensor. They found the staircase and climbed. She felt the moment they crossed into the eye: the turbulence dissipated and visibility returned, air fled her lungs and her suit breathed for her. It was a sensation she never quite got used to. 

Collier stopped short. “Shit, you seeing this?” his whisper echoed around her.

She peered out from behind her living turbulence-shield. A specter stood suspended a foot above the landing at the edge of the stairs. “No way! The epicenter is a ghost? How is that possible?”

“It’s not. Bloody fucking scientists! Who in their right mind looks at time travel and thinks, no way that could go wrong. Let’s punch a hole through time and hang the consequences.”

“We’re not Ghostbusters, Collier. How do we fix this? And where are Manu and Brady?”

“Idiots probably thought they could un-stick Casper and ended up in the wrong time zone.”

Jenks’s voice crackled through Kate’s radio. “Patel says there’s a sixth timeline converging. You making any progress?”

She keyed up, “Engaging tuners now. Let us know when Patel cracks the last frequency. But Houston, we gotta problem.”

Okay so that's what I've got. Feel free to leave a comment if you like, or not. It's fine either way. Thank you for stopping by!

Touched by the Gods

Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds a week last Friday asked for opening sentences, the intent of which was to provide the prompt for this week's challenge.

We are to pick someone else's sentence contribution, and turn it into a story. The good news is Chuck gives us 2k words this week instead of his standard 1k. The bad news?

There are over 400 opening sentences to choose from.

Quite the challenge. But since I donated an opening sentence last week, I feel obliged to provide a story this week.

So I chose the following, a donation from Susan Adsett: They said everything went right the day his mother died.

And after binge watching episodes to get caught up on Vikings from the History Channel, I could not help but use the show for additional inspiration.


So without further ado, I give you: Touched by the Gods

"They said everything went right the day his mother died." Earl Hugi pointed to a red-headed youth splitting logs into spears for the repair of the village’s fortifications. "As if her death was a good omen."

Ricci raised a hand to shield her eyes from the summer sun, "That is a cruel thing to say."

The earl cracked a half-smile. "Oh they never say it to his face. That lad has been a force to be reckoned with since he kicked free of his mother's womb. During his eighth summer, he killed the man who butchered his brother. With his bare hands, they say."

The red-head dripped with sweat, but he seemed focused, driven. The stack of logs at his feet dwindled at a quick and steady pace. "You speak of what they have said. But have you seen him fight, Uncle?"

He nodded. "He may not have the stature, but the lad's part bear. His hide is unmarred not because he runs from a fight, but because nothing can touch him."

"Why do they never take him raiding, I wonder?"

Her uncle shrugged. "The men grumble that he does not play well with others. Possibly they just feared his mother's curse." 

She turned and fetched up her water pitcher. "The man looks thirsty, does he not?"

"His name is Vegard," she heard Hugi say as she climbed around the moat, "and you're welcome." 

The mud sucked at her feet as she crossed the field to the lumber stand where Vegard worked. Ricci circled around him until she made eye-contact. "Water?"

His storm-colored eyes measured her. He tacked his axe into the log, a makeshift frog to free his hands, and slipped his drinking horn from his belt. "Thank you."

She poured a ration into his horn. "My name is Ricci."

"I know who you are. Princess." He cocked his head towards her uncle. "You and the king’s brother have been watching me. Am I a concern or a curiosity?"

"Perhaps you are both." She tapped her fingers against the pitcher she held, debating. "If you know me, do you know my intent?"

He gulped from his horn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The villagers say you are to make the pilgrimage north, to pray at the shrine and offer sacrifices to the gods."

"I am."

"Dangerous, this trip," he said.

"It is."

He finished his horn's portion and secured the vessel back to his belt, waving off her second offer. "So why do you watch me?"

"I am not defenseless, but undertaking such a journey...It is wiser to have an escort, someone to help get me there and back." She chewed on her lip, hoping.

He removed his axe from the stump and resumed his work, splintering a plane from the tip of the log with ease. "Does not your father have warriors?"

"They are raiding still."

"And your betrothed?" His look was challenging, daring.

"Yes. Yes Lunt has warriors."

He hoisted another log to position with a grunt. "Well?"

"I do not trust him or his men," she said. 

"A dilema, that." He settled in with a rhythm to both his breathing and his axe strokes, sharpening the log into a dangerous point. He spoke words between breaths like one reciting an edda. "What has this to do with me, I wonder? Why is it you watch Vegard the Cursed, hmm? What is it you think I shall do for you?"

"Will you go with me?"

"No."

His refusal stung. She stifled a sigh. "Then I am sorry I disturbed you. May Odin be pleased with all your victories."

She walked some paces away before she heard the axe sink into the stump again. "Wait, Princess."

She turned. He mopped sweat from his brow and sauntered toward her. She held her ground, even as he stopped within inches of her, his eyes boring into her soul. "What?" she asked, unflinching.

He said nothing, but reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, exposing her deformity and her reason for seeking the gods’ favor. She tried to turn away, but he gripped her chin and twisted it to the light. At the edge of her vision she could see his stormy eyes inspecting the mark on her cheek, where the cruel hand of Fate had touched her. There was something soft in his expression. Understanding? Or maybe pity? Did he pity her? "My advice, Princess?” he said. “Do not spurn the gift the gods gave you."

"You think this scar a gift? A blessing?" Her gut simmered with anger.

"I do, and yet you hide it behind hair."

"It is ugly."

"It is different."

"Our people look upon me with dread and fear. My father is all too happy to rid himself of his ugly daughter. So I am to wed Lunt, and he shall bring me to his mead-hall where I shall have no father and no friend." She blinked her tears back. She would not cry. "I will go to ask Freya for protection and hope she takes pity on me."

"And I say let them fear you if that is their only ability." He let go of her chin and took a step back. "It is not so bad to be cursed. There’s power in that. Embrace it and they can’t hurt you.”

Water splashed from her pitcher as she pulled her hair back over her scar. "I thank you for your advice," she said and turned away, tears scalding her cheeks.

Her uncle joined her as she approached his longhouse. "He refused?"

"He did. But I don't need him. I don't need anyone. I can make the journey fine on my own."

"Wait, Ricci," he grabbed her arm. "Just wait. Your father should be back soon. The raids will have put him in a better mood. Let me speak with him again. He is not an overly cruel man. He will listen to reason."

"It could still be several days before his homecoming, and yet several days more before his final decision is proclaimed. If I want to make it there and back before the first snows of winter fall..."

"Please, Ricci."

She shook her head. He meant well, but he could not protect her forever. "My betrothed made it clear that he is disappointed with my face. I have no choice if indeed my father insists on this marriage. Look, they have the grain stores and we have the warriors. It is a good match withal, good for our people. The gods have to intervene. They have to.”

He frowned, sorrow lining his face. “In my experience, the gods don’t have to do anything.”

A commotion broke out behind them. Ricci wiped her tears away and took a breath before turning. A crowd had already formed a line and blocked her view. But above a wave of cries and shouts, she heard Lunt call someone to combat by blood right.

“That can’t be good,” Hugi said, nudging Ricci’s elbow. “Come, I am the law while your father is away.”

Ricci set her pitcher down and jogged after her uncle to the circle where they clawed their way through to the middle. There, Lunt hurled insults with puffed chest and wild arms at the red-headed Vegard, who stood steadfast and silent at his lumber stand. “I will not allow such an insult from a Leiding to go unanswered” Lunt held a hand out and asked his shield-brothers for a sword. “I shall teach this one the consequence of seducing another man’s wife.”

“I think he’s talking about you, Ricci,” Hugi whispered before stepping into the ring. “I am the earl and I am the king’s voice while he is absent. You will tell me your grievance and I will tell you what action you can have as retribution.”

“Only moments ago, I caught this man touching my bride, your own niece, as if he had liberty to do so.” Lunt made a show of testing the balance of his sword, dancing it between his hands.

“The princess is not your bride. Not yet.” Hugi twisted about, addressing those gathered. “It is true our king intends for his daughter Ricci to wive this man. The bond will unite two communities and make them stronger. But, it is not yet official and such a union cannot and will not be held in the king’s absence.”

“That man's intent was to despoil my property before I receive her,” Lunt growled. "I will have justice."

Ricci caught up, shaking her head free of confusion. “I assure you, my husband, my future, Vegard has done nothing—“

Her intended interrupted, “You are fortunate that I will still champion you. That mark on your face will earn you no other suitor as fine as me.”

“I do not need your protection, Sir,” Ricci shouted, unable to swallow her anger any longer. “I am a shield-maid in my own right and--”

“Oh shut up! All of you,” Vegard broke his silence and stepped forward, still unarmed. “If this man is eager to die, let’s just get on with it.”

Hugi shook his head. “Vegard, my word—“

“I said shut it. Let the bastard spill my blood if he thinks he can.” Vegard spit. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t waste my time on his ilk, but I haven’t killed anyone since the quarter moon, so why not?”

Before either Ricci or Hugi could protest further, Lunt, a great beast of a man, lunged toward Vegard like a bear at a hound, his sword raised for a swipe down across the shoulder blade. Unarmed Vegard stepped forward and twisted, wrenching away Lunt’s blade with his right hand while his left elbow struck Lunt’s nose. The sound of breaking bone resonated and Lunt pitched to his knees. Vegard plunged the sword down into Lunt’s neck, completely severing the spinal cord.

Lunt was dead; his body a sheath to his own blade, the hilt jutting out atop blood--soaked shoulders. Vegard nodded and took his axe up at his lumber stand, 

The people dispersed. Lunt’s shield-brothers glowered at the red-headed Leiding, but made no additional challenge as they collected their brother’s corpse. Hugi looked bemused. “Well. That’s one solution, I suppose.”

“Provided Lunt’s cheiftan does not retaliate.” Ricci watched Vegard for a time considering their conversation and the advice he gave. With dexterous fingers, she plaited the hair she once hid behind. 

“When Father returns, Vegard will want for nothing.”

“My brother will not like it.”

“He will have no choice. You and I will show him he has no choice.”

“And how exactly do you plan on convincing him without getting us both executed? It was a good union for our people. Our warriors. Their grain stores.”

Ricci smiled, no longer burdened by Fate. “It is a simple matter, Uncle. We appeal to Father’s blood lust. We have warriors. We will have their stores.”

“You speak of conquest.” Hugi chuckled. “My brother will wonder why he did not think of that in the first place. And your pilgrimage?”

“It is no longer necessary. I have already been touched by the gods.” 

So that's what I got this week. Feel free to leave comments or constructive criticism if you would like. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

And She Sang the Marseillaise

Chuck Wendig over at Terrible Minds challenged us to write a 100 word flash fiction this week. Actually, he double-dog-dared us.

How could I refuse?

Here you go!


And She Sang the Marseillaise

Sunshine spilled into the courtyard, forcing the last vestiges of winter from the prison. Elaine raised her chin to the light, embracing the day. Tyranny could not break her, and her mortal coil would not keep her. She faced her firing squad and smiled. How could she not be happy on so glorious a day?

She drew a breath and sang La Marseillaise, her last act of defiance. “Amor sacre de la Patrie –“

The Vichy officer drew his saber. “—Bereit! –“

“—Liberte. Liberte cherie –“

“—Richten! --”

“—Combats avec tes defense--“


“—Schiessen!”



So feel free to comment if you like. Thanks for stopping by!

Something Different: A Poem

And I break radio silence to bring you this poem. Weird for me, I know, but it's been one of those weeks.

My Broken Calendar 

I woke this morning and noticed the hour 

And it was then I realized with a mood most sour

That somehow my calendar had skipped a few days

And huge blocks of time have been completely erased

It was only yesterday, you see, that winter begun

But today there is rising a late summer sun

So where, oh where did the missing time go?

On holiday perhaps, or maybe a show?

Or perhaps the days simply weren't included

In the calendar when its publishing concluded

Maybe for April or May I was supposed to pay more

or to avoid interruption, pay a full season before

Or maybe inflation has levied the summer

And shortened the season with no hope to recover

My springs are shrinking as well as my falls

And as for my winters, there's no hope at all

Someone is stealing the time from my clocks

Perhaps in league with the gremlins who steal all my socks

From the dryer. If so, forgive me for being crude

But if they are in cahoots then I'm royally screwed

For I have yet to find a single stitch of heel or toe 

Of any of the socks that a-missing go

So if these same gremlins are stealing my days

I must put an end to their thieving craze

But how is the question I find I now ask.

How does one take sneaky gremlins to task?

How does one stop these thieves so subtle in crime

When to hunt where they hide takes a great deal of time?

Time I don't have for September is waning

And so I guess I should cease my bitter complaining

But I urge you, dear reader, when a new calender you seek

Please make sure it is not missing a single week

Come the Storm (WoE week 21)

Write at the Merge challenge this week is themed with Abandonment.

First the quote:

"Go off to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path." Ralph Waldo Emerson

and now the photo:

photo by Liam Andrew Cura courtesy Unsplash

Now, this scene is going to be weird. I wrote a short scene some time ago for a WoE prompt (week 20 of 2013) starring new characters: Sofie and Tiko. That scene to me felt like something post-apocalyptic but I didn't give it much thought until this prompt. I promise you, there is a ton of backstory for this scene, but it won't fit in 500 words. Well, to be honest, I'm a tad over that because I didn't want to chop anything out.

If I haven't completely befuddled you yet, read on. But. Since I've only written about Sofie and Tiko once before, and since it doesn't explain anything, I'll give you the Cliff Notes version.

Sofie and Tiko are on their way to Amarillo. (previous installment) Sofie's father, at some point in the past, released something horrible into the world and he died. (not included in previous installment)

I offer the following in response: Come the Storm

Turbulent clouds choked the sickly-green sky. Sofie shivered despite the heat, remembering how the sirens echoed through her hometown under such a canopy. The hairs on her arms and neck stretched in the charged air acknowledging the power in the brewing storm. She stepped up the pace in her hunt for shelter, moving through the derelict businesses of Downtown McCormick.

Each building was branded with the FEMA search and rescue code, though the orange paint was starting to fade after…had it really been fifteen years? Sofie paused to read the symbols on a condominium complex: 13/5/76, TX, 25 DOA, NE. Every possible entrance, windows included, was boarded up.

“Find one?” Sofie barely heard Tiko over the wind.

“No,” she shouted back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Dead-on-arrival. No entry.”

“What?”

Sofie drew her finger across her throat – her own perverted sign language – and moved on to the next building, and then the next, and the next, trailing orange x-boxes and DOAs in her wake.

“Sofie!”

She turned. Tiko formed a W with his fingers and tapped his chin before pointing to a crumbling cement structure on his side of the street. Sofie ran best she could through the driving wind, light-headed with joy as she read the symbol for herself: 13/5/76, TX, 0-0, F/W. The Texas Home Guard finally identified an unoccupied building with both food and water.

Sofie giggled. Even if after 15 years, the food and water was gone, it was still a building unscarred by death. It meant shelter for the night and with any luck, a functioning storm-cellar. Tiko helped her navigate through the hole in the chain-link fence and over the rubble of the building’s crumbling exterior. With a little effort, they pried the boards off a window cavity and climbed inside.

Tiko turned his flashlight on. “Office building, maybe? Condemned long before the plague hit, I think.”

Sofie crossed through the amber light and peered through the blackened solar window at the other end of the hall. “There’s a courtyard. And there’s ivy or moss or something climbing up the sides.”

“Woot! Green means water source. Now we can weather the storm.”

They found the lobby. Exposed concrete floors told the story of missing carpet, but Sofie sighed with relief. She preferred cold seeping through her sleeping bag to bugs infesting her slumber. As she unrolled her pack,  Tiko pulled out his salvage bag and began preparations for a salad of dandelions and wild onions, the fruits of their many stops along the abandoned roadway.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Tiko, honestly.” She averted her gaze from shame. “People try to avoid me, or hurt me, because of what my father did.”

“People are jackasses. You are not your father. You don’t know a virus from a volleyball.” Tiko selected a fungus from their salvage salad and chucked it across the room. “Or a mushroom from a toadstool, apparently.”

“They’ll never forgive him, will they.” The words tasted bitter across her tongue. For all his sins against mankind, Dmitri Kerov was still her father.

“No.” Tiko shook his head. “They never will. But I hope I can. Someday. When I can exchange my anger for peace.”

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it.

Fading Luxury (WoE week 20)

After a brief hiatus, Write at the Merge is back again and so am I! With 500 or fewer words, we are challenged to create a story or part of a story that explores either or both of the provided topics. First: a quote:

"Are you really sure that a floor cannot also be a ceiling?" M.C. Escher

and then the photo:

photo by Keith Misner courtesy Unsplash

I love wood floors of all varieties. Each plank has a character all its own, perhaps a memory of the tree from which it is hewed. So that's the aspect of the challenge that I've decided to focus on this week.

Now, I want to return to characters I introduced here, although I will need to warn you there is a giant chunk missing from last time we saw them. Patience is still on the path to get her sister back, but this scene comes after her time with the Natives from the last scene. Jeb Grayson is preparing for a showdown against the Lassiers.

If you're new to the story line, and you would like to start at the beginning, follow the Label: Patience.


I offer the following in response: A Fading Luxury

Patience sucked a breath of private pleasure as her feet, unhindered by house-shoes, connected with the wooden floor. She couldn’t remember when last she walked barefoot across planks polished to a shine. Her trials took her all over the wild and uncivilized territories to rescue her sister, and Boston, once a part of her very blood, seemed a distant memory.

A wooden floor, creaking beneath her weight, was pure luxury.  She appreciated it even more than she did her cavalry hosts stationed at Fort Atherton.

A light rap sounded at the door, followed by Jeb’s graveled voice. “Boston, you awake, girl?”

Patience reached for her dressing gown and opened the door just enough to converse through.  “Mr. Grayson, you’re early. I am not yet presentable.”

He averted his eyes and removed the hat she had come to believe was permanently affixed to his head. Jeb appeared nervous, anxious, coaxing concern from the pit of her heart. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this and I’ve never been one to dance about a subject. I came to tell you goodbye.”

His words stung. She tasted bile in her throat and pulled the door inward. “Goodbye? I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

He ran his fingers around the brim of his hat. “Look, I promised to help you git yer sister back, but where we’ve gotta go next…where I gotta go and what I gotta do…a lady like yerself shouldn’t be any part of.”

His tone was so earnest. Panic seized her soul. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Grayson. I’m coming with you.”

“Now the captain said yer welcome to stay here, or there’s a stage arrivin’ tomorrow that could take you home.”

“No, I can’t go. Not without Charity.”

Her protests ignored, Jeb continued. “Now if I succeed, Miss Charity and I will be back before long.”

“If you succeed. If?” Patience flung the door wide on its hinges and gripped her dressing gown tightly about her shoulders. “What do you mean if?”

“Whatjya think I meant?” he barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He took a breath and his tone softened. “Look Boston, I told you a hunnard times the Lassiers ain’t for messin' with. I kick that hornet nest and there’s a very real chance that the devil’ll be there to collect what I owe him.”

“I can help—“

“I don’t doubt that. I’ve seen you shoot. But we’ll be outnumbered thirty to one and there’s no use in gitting us both shot full of holes, or worse.” He finally met her gaze. “They take you, like they took yer sister? No. This is where we part ways. You stay safe, Boston.”

Jeb turned, leaving her alone at the doorway. “How could I ever be safe without you?” Patience whispered as he retreated, his silhouette dark against the rising sun. She held her breath until he cast a long look back from the fort gates. In one fearful beat, her porcelain heart shattered.

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

Ten Chapters, Terrible Minds

Back again to Chuck Wendig and his blog over at Terrible Minds. I enjoyed this week's challenge. We get the standard thousand words, but there's a catch. Those thousand words need to be divided into ten chapters.

I've been wanting to write a story for a while that includes a Kelpie. I decided this would be the challenge for a Kelpie Story. When I sat down to write this, I expected to struggle with the word count and chapter breaks the most, but I almost found it easier than to write a straight, no-chapters short story. So now I pass it on to you. How did I do?



I offer this response:  The Forest of Shadows

I.

The woods lacked the sun's warming grace. Estlyn glanced over his shoulder as a flock of sparrows flushed from the undergrowth, gripping the hilt of his dagger in readiness, and heaved a sigh when a stag emerged. Estlyn rubbed his eyes and wondered if his fears were unfounded. No sane man stepped foot in the Forest of Shadows. It was a good place to get lost, and a horrible place to die.

And he was already lost.

II.

Hedwise stepped from the carriage and stretched. “That’s far enough, m’Lady,” Ogive said. “We are on the Forest Road. There are dangers here.”

Hedwise obeyed with reluctance, peering through the undergrowth into the darkness. “I thought I saw something.”

Ogive pulled her back towards the carriage. “Please. Your father will take my head if we don’t deliver you to your wedding.”

“A small delay won’t start a war, Ogive.” Hedwise didn’t believe the tales of the Forest of Shadows, where evil thrived and twisted trees blocked out the sun. Still, with strange noises rattling on the wind, perhaps it wise not to test Fate.

III.

The throne appeared red in the window's light, a bad omen. Ayman looked to the foul-tempered king and braced for the worst.

The king paced. “I’ve a mind to try him for treason when we find him.”

“We tracked him to the Forest of Shadows, Sire.” The guard shifted his weight. “He’s as good as dead. The devil is in those woods.”

“A ghost story scares grown men from their duty to their king! You will enter those woods and you will drag my son back by his ears if need be, or I will have your heads on spikes!”

“Sire.” The guard spun about and hastened from the chamber.

Ayman genuflected. First a red throne, and now the crowned-prince running away on the day of his bride’s arrival…

IV.

Estlyn checked the water, suspicious. Although the water smelled clean, the pond’s surface failed to ripple at his touch. He struggled with his thirst but decided not to risk it.

In the center of the pond, a pale hand appeared and beckoned. Estlyn’s heart lodged in his throat.

V.

Ayman greeted the young Hedwise and her governess upon their arrival. “I’m afraid the king is engaged at present,” he apologized, “but I can answer any questions.”

“Grammercy.” Ogive made introductions. “The journey was exhausting, but uneventful.”

“You’ll want to freshen up. If you care to follow me, I’ll show you to your chambers.” Ayman bowed.

Hedwise stood fast. “I am a Countess in my own right. You will address me accordingly.”

Ayman gulped. The young countess would not be so easy to tame as the king thought. Could the day get any worse?

VI.

The hand belonged to a body clothed only in dripping water and bearing eyes that pierced Estlyn’s soul. “You disturbed my sanctuary.” She spoke in an ageless voice. “I demand the reason for your trespass. Your sacrifice will befit your sin.”

“Sacrifice?” He shivered. “Please, I meant no harm. It’s my wedding and my father—“

“I smell deceit. Betrayal. Treason.” She whispered these words and he felt the sting of them. “You have until the morrow. Mark your tribute, or I shall choose you.”

VII.

“I apologize for my son’s absence,” the king said.

Hedwise silenced her governess with a raised hand. “Your Majesty, I am still a babe to court politics, but it seems to me that a king should never apologize for another’s actions, especially if it is rare for him to apologize for actions of his own.”

A smile grew in the king’s expression. “My son could learn from your example. Your beauty, I fear, is wasted on him.”

“Where exactly would my betrothed be? Is he aware that he belittles our marriage contract?”

The king snorted. “Unlikely. He’s always been a contrary prince. My men place him in the Forest of Shadows.”

“Why would he go there?”

He rolled his eyes. “To be worthy of you.”

VIII.

The gate guards did not recognize Estlyn until he flashed his signet ring, but he didn’t blame them. If he looked as miserable as he felt…

He stumbled into the throne room, disappointed to see his bride speaking with his father. Her presence made what he had to do more difficult.

His father jumped from the throne. “You look…where have you been?”

“Majesty.” Estlyn bowed, addressing his bride. “M’Lady, my late arrival could not be helped, but I have procured a gift for you.”

His bride smiled. “A gift? From the woods?”

“A wild horse of such rare beauty, it should be yours.”

“Can I see it now?”

“It’ll be delivered on the morrow, m’Lady.”

IX.

Hedwise joined her betrothed and the king in the meadow beyond the castle gate, where a horse of rare beauty indeed drew near. The pale mare glistened as if wet. Hedwise felt the presence from the forest’s edge again.

Estlyn didn’t look at her. “Can you ride, m’Lady?”

Alarm shivered through her spine. “It is unseemly without a saddle, your Highness.”

The king stepped forward. “My son, you fool. You would give an unbroken horse to your bride?”

The prince placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “But you are the finest horse trainer in the kingdom, Father. You will train her.”

X.

Estlyn watched, nervous, as his father mounted the bareback mare. She reared and stamped and the king gripped her mane.

His bride turned from the scene. “Please say you never meant that horse for me.”

He sank to his knees. “You know what she is?”

“I do. I didn’t believe…I’m the fool.”

“My father intended to impose First Night Rights. And he is the sort of man who breaks wild horses.” Estlyn kissed her fingers, fighting tears. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

The kelpie broke towards the forest; the king stuck and screaming the entire way.

“The King is dead,” Hedwise kissed Estlyn’s brow. “Long live the King.”

The End

The Tamsind Affair, Terrible Minds

Chuck Wendig is a writer I love to hate, or hate to love, or however the saying goes. I don't always agree with what he says, and I rarely agree with how he says it. In spite of this, I can't help but like him.

His blog over at Terrible Minds keeps me entertained, and while I use many of his weekly writing prompts to fuel my inner-muse, I don't always post and link-up. This week though, my piece feels polished enough to share.

Warning: This is the beginning of a story, not a complete story, but the seed of it has been floating around my mind for a while. Thank you Chuck for giving me the kick it needs.

We were given 1500 words this week, along with 2 lists of must-have choices. Follow the links for the original lists. I decided to go with 1. a mysterious picture, and 2. a pair of detectives. The result is my attempt at Raymond Chandler-esque noir.

I offer the following in response:

The Tamsind Affair
Chapter 1

The door opened and in walked a pair of forever legs and dangerous eyes. Gloved hands unclasped a beaded handbag and withdrew an old photograph from its shallow confines. She didn’t bother with introductions. The picture, she snapped on my desk. “My sister is missing, Mr. Bishop,” her voice was honey. “I am prepared to pay twice your standard fees to find her and bring her home.”

It was difficult to break away from her gaze. “Please have a seat, Miss – er?”

She didn’t sit. “There’s a substantial bonus in it if she returns in three days.”

My partner leaned against his desk, eager, no doubt salivating. I couldn’t blame him. We were three months behind in rent and owed twice that to our secretary. “A photograph isn’t much of a lead, Ma’am.”

She gaze twisted and her chin followed on delay. She lashed my partner with a sharp tongue. “I was not speaking to you, Mr. Pratt. Your opinion is unsolicited and not required.”

Her attention returned to me. I sighed and inspected the scene in the photograph. It was a high class studio print, a boudoir pose popular with gals sending cheer to their soldier boys. The subject looked sixteen, maybe, but worked a pout like she was born with it. She had the same pair of dangerous eyes partially obscured by a Veronica Lake hairstyle. Strategic shadows only just protected the girl's modesty, and I felt like a peeping tom. I returned Veronica to my desk. “No dice.”

The temperature dropped and the space between us iced over. “Mr. Bishop, if you’re expecting to haggle for better terms, I assure you—“

“No, your terms are acceptable. I said ‘no dice’ to the case, not the money.” My partner twitched. I shot him a look. The last thing I needed was for him to open his stupid mouth. Max Pratt was a fair detective, but a lousy partner, often reacting to situations with the wrong brain.

She sat, flipping her fox stole across her shoulder. “Very well, three times your standard fee.”

“Hold it, Max,” I held up a hand to the charging bull. “Lady, you can make it five times my standard fee or eighteen times my standard fee. The answer is still no.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a liar.”

She flinched. Her sister’s pout graced her perfect mouth.

I had her attention now. I leaned forward. “Look, lady, I don’t trust you. Now, my partner, he doesn’t trust you either, but you’re offering us enough bread that he's itching to overlook his misgivings. But me, I'm not buying it, for any sum. I’d ask the real reason you walked through this door of all the doors in a city of private dicks, but you’re not the sort to give answers. I don’t think anyone has ever questioned you. I don’t think you’ve ever heard the word no either.”

Her cold expression had yet to melt. “So, I’m a liar and I’m spoiled. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No, but I wouldn’t want to wound your delicate ears.”

“Very well, Mr. Bishop. I will play your game. What is it I am lying to you about, I wonder? I don’t recall giving you details of any kind. Unless you believe she isn’t my sister.”

“No I see the family resemblance.” I reached for my pack of Lucky Strikes and lighter. “The lie is in the money. Your sister ain’t missing; you just don’t know where she is and she’s just not coming home. You need to someone -- maybe us, maybe your parents -- someone to believe that you love your sister. That you want her back. That you’re willing to do anything in your power to see her safe. The reality is, it really wouldn’t bother you to see her on a slab in the morgue. Am I warm?”

“Scorching.”

I paused to light a cigarette and savored the instant burn in my lungs. “That good family name you’re trying to protect isn’t helping either. It’s a big, rich, name. The sort of name that comes with well-known and very old and deep pockets. So you come to the wrong side of town, gambling that we don’t know who you are, so we can make discreet inquiries that don’t involve the police dragging their muddy boots through your rhododendrons.”

“Ah but there’s where you’ve slipped up,” she leaned forward and mocked a whisper behind her hand. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping rhododendrons.”

“Well, I am from South-Side, I wouldn’t know an orchid from an aphid.” I blew a ring of smoke towards the ceiling. Max gave me the evil eye. I could be mean, throw her to him, let him deal with the yes ma’amin’ that comes with the expensive zip code. “So, no thank you, Miss Tamsind. Since you let yourself in, I trust you can see yourself out.”

She smoldered, her ice exterior yielding to subtle cracks, “You know who I am.”

Max was impressed too: I felt the weight of his glare shift and he gaped like a codfish. “Not formally, no. I'm sure you're aware I don’t get many invitations to your kind of parties. I do, however, pay attention when Miss Brown reads the society page aloud in the mornings. Your engagement was announced last week, no the week before. And this week, a small, one-line correction to the wedding date, placing it further out. So, your fiancé Michael, Michael, something two-faced ran off with your baby sister.”

Whether I was right or not, I struck a nerve. She rose and collected the photograph. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bishop. I will not require your services after all.”

My under-paid, overworked secretary, Miss Betty Brown exploded through the door. “Yes! Mr. Bishop will take your case. And you needn’t worry about reputations. He’s the very soul of discretion.”

They usurped me, Max and Betty. I took a long drag out of irritation while Max and Betty renegotiated terms with Miss Gayle Tamsind. Miss Tamsind was of the Smithsfield Tamsinds that perched atop North Hill in their alabaster shrines to the gods of wealth and excess. The same Smithsfield Tamsinds that settled in Smithsfield two hundred years ago and made a fortune in textiles and tobacco. Miss Tamsind’s ancestral roots may have been populated with hard-working, blue-collar farmers, but the present day branches hadn't possessed calluses since the tree was planted. Smoke ring after smoke ring wisped to the ceiling while I simmered in my own skin. Max made a mistake of course. My gut told me there was a storm coming, and that this dame was more trouble than she was worth.

“One and a half times his usual fees,” I heard Miss Tamsind say. “And you can keep the photo. Unfortunately, the studio made several copies at Delilah’s instructions.”

“Delilah?” The name rang familiar.  I put my cig out in the ashtray, the set-up becoming clear. “Max, you’re a damn fool if you take this case.”

The comment earned me three extremely toxic looks.

I ignored them. After gumshoeing for a decade, I learned a few things about human nature. Poor girls ran from home hoping to find something better. Rich girls ran from home because they can’t wait to get anything worse. And if Delilah Tamsind was the Delilah Black that checked into Ricardo’s Club for Gentlemen last week, worse was exactly what Delilah was going to find. And what that meant for Michael Two-Face, the fiancé-on-hold, I didn’t know, but I knew damn sure I didn’t want to find out. I rose and crossed the room to my coat rack to grab my hat and coat. Pushing by Betty, I called out over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to lock up.”

“Where are you going?” Betty followed me out to the closet-sized reception area. “Why are you being so beastly?”

I took her aside and whispered. “Listen Betty, Max and I are a great many things and none of them good. You're too good for us. I know we don’t deserve your loyalty. I’ll find some other way to pay you. I promise. Double even, what I owe you, but please get Max to see reason and drop this case. There’s no way this is going to play out to a happy ending.”

She folded her arms and squared off to me, her eyes narrowing behind her budget eye-wear. “This fear talking? This could open doors for us in the right society. You won't have to struggle anymore.”

I shook my head. “Gut instinct, Betty. That dame – this case, it’s trouble.”

"We need that money, Bish." Betty sighed, her chin drooping to her chest. "But all right. I’ll convince Max to drop the case.”

“Thanks, Bet.” I kissed her forehead. “Trust me. It’s for the best.”