

INDELIBLE

# by Mark Carver

Books by Mark Carver:

THE AGE OF APOLLYON

BLACK SUN

SCORN

INDELIBLE

CYN

BEAST (with Michael Anatra) – coming Fall 2015

THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES (short story series)

COLONY ZERO (multi-author short story series)

INDELIBLE

Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either

the product of the writer's imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal

manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Aaron Morenz, my brother-in-ink.

I would like to thank Brian Barnes, Peter Bridgens, Vicki Sampson, James Foster, Roy Giles, and Steve Michaud for their valuable input on what life is like with facial tattoos.

And special thanks to my old college roommate Hilton Howard Hobby III for letting me use his handsome mug on the cover of this book.

### CHAPTER 1

The book smacked onto the table next to Toby's plate.

"Crap. Pure, utter crap."

Toby looked up from his filet mignon and smirked. "So you liked it?"

Cameron snorted as he collapsed in the chair across the table. "It was like Martin, Rothfuss, and Rowling had some kind of sado-masochistic orgy together."

Toby paused mid-bite, then dropped his fork in exaggerated disgust.

"Thanks for that image. You just ruined a sixty dollar steak for me."

"Come on, man." Cameron leaned forward and gestured towards the book. "You can't tell me that thing was good. I mean, how does garbage like that get printed?"

"I don't know," Toby answered, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. "I didn't read it."

"What?"

"I only read biographies. Lincoln, Gandhi, Whitney Houston. I thought I told you that before."

Cameron shrugged.

"Besides," Toby said as he tapped the book with his finger, "it's garbage like this that pays your rent."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Cameron sounded like a despondent teenager. He looked like one with the way he slumped in his chair.

Toby licked his teeth for a moment, then decided to break the news.

"And you're about to get a whole lot of rent money, because the studio just greenlit the movie adaptation."

Cameron's mouth fell open. "Are you kidding? For that?"

He pointed at the massive book like it was a defendant on trial.

"Yep," Toby nodded, "and they want you to design the Ravenblade."

"You mean that wimpy dagger he uses at the end to kill the witch?"

Toby nodded again. "But it's your job to make it not so wimpy, and watch the money roll in as the fanboys duke it out on the nerd forums about whether or not the movie version matches what's in the story."

"Man, I don't know," Cameron groaned.

"Sure you do. You're one hot tamale, my friend, after you made that twisty, corkscrew double-bladed sword for that movie with What's-his-face in it. That thing still sells out at all the conventions."

Toby noticed a small smile pulling at the corners of Cameron's mouth, and the hustler spark inside him caught fire. No one is immune to flattery.

"And with this one," he continued, "you can go nuts. You've got the rep; you can take liberties that other designers can't. You can't make it a huge broadsword or anything, but you can make it the most wicked dagger anyone's ever seen. And I know you can do it. You got skills, son."

Cameron stared vacantly at the white tablecloth covering the table.

"Listen, my friend," Toby said with a serious tone, "I came to you with this because I like you, and I think you've got what it takes. You're a rising star, but you've got to be smart about it. This business is brutal, and the people who make it happen don't wait."

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily.

"And you know, if you really don't want it, I'll have to look at other options. Say, perhaps, Sha – "

"All right," Cameron blurted, "I'll do it. But only because it's you doing the asking."

He pointed at Toby. "And if I take a hit because the movie sucks, I'm going to poison your koi fish."

Toby tossed his napkin over the barely-eaten steak and rose to his feet.

"Don't worry, my man. Either way, you'll be making a nice stack of paper on this."

Cameron stood up, and Toby reached out to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Cameron winced, and Toby frowned in surprise.

"You getting soft there, buddy? I barely touched you."

Cameron shook his head. "I got a new one yesterday."

Toby's eyebrows rose. "Really? Come on, let's see it."

"Here? This is a classy place."

"Yeah, I'm surprised they even let you in the door."

Cameron snorted again and rolled up his right shirt sleeve. Toby nodded with approval as he studied the ornate Japanese dragon tattoo.

"Not bad."

"Hurt like a mother, though," Cameron said as he pulled the sleeve back down.

"What's that, three now?"

Cameron nodded.

"You better be careful," Toby said with a wag of his finger. "Don't go to any of those sketchy places. You know what happened to Tommy Lee."

"He became a douchebag?"

"Yeah, a douchebag with Hep C."

Cameron shrugged into his denim jacket. "Come on man, I make weapons for a living. It's good for my image."

"The tattoos or hepatitis?"

Cameron chuckled. "See you later."

"Stay cool, bro."

Toby waved for the waitress to bring him the check and Cameron headed for the exit. He stepped out into the bright California sunshine and for a moment, he forgot about everything.

****

The drive back out to South Pasadena took thirty minutes longer than coming in to LA because of the noontime traffic. Cameron had hoped that by some stroke of luck the Pasadena Freeway would be clear, but of course it wasn't, and the glare from the sun and the symphony of car horns only added to his irritation.

He fumbled with the radio dial, trying to find something that would fit his mood and make him feel better at the same time, but all he found was gangsta rap, country music, and right vs. left talk show hysterics. He flicked off the radio and ran his fingers through his hair. He stared at the chain of red lights in front of him, and for some reason, a thought popped into his head.

What if I could make a blade out of red metal?

No, that wouldn't work. Blades are supposed to be silver, or gold if the storyline called for it. They're not lollipops.

An angry horn sounded behind him and he jumped.

"I'm going, I'm going!" He glared at the driver in the rear view mirror as he crept forward.

You're lucky I don't have my Wrathskull battle axe with me, prick...

After an agonizing forty-five minutes, he extracted his car from the freeway traffic and took the off-ramp to South Pasadena. He heard Conan baying with excitement inside the house as he pulled into the driveway. He'd only been gone for four hours, but in dog hours, that was more than a day.

Cameron grabbed the mail from the mailbox and jogged up the driveway to the front porch. As he sifted through his keys, he glanced towards the house next door.

Mrs. Goldstein's geraniums were dead. If there was anything in this world that Mrs. Goldstein cared about, it was her precious flowers. Sometimes she would talk to them like children.

Cameron heard the door open. It wasn't Mrs. Goldstein. It was a young woman in her late-twenties. Cute and bouncy, like a former cheerleader. She was wearing a blue and yellow jogging outfit that looked like it had been painted on her body.

Cameron watched her, puzzled and intrigued. The woman glanced at him and threw him a polite smile as she sprinted down the driveway and jogged down the street.

Cameron raised his eyebrows as he looked at his keys. His face felt warm.

Mrs. Goldstein has a daughter? How come she's never been here before?

Conan's howling was becoming more impatient.

"Okay, buddy," Cameron called as he slipped the key into the lock. "Hey, big man," he said as he stepped into the house.

Conan ambled up to him as if he just realized that Cameron had returned. Cameron had heard something about canine Alzheimer's somewhere, and for a thirteen-year-old beagle, Conan was definitely pushing his luck.

The dog nuzzled his leg and Cameron bent down to scratch behind his ears.

"Come on buddy, I'm always coming back. Haven't you learned that by now?"

He stood up and dropped his keys into the lobotomized metal skull that sat on a shelf next to the door. Like a butler satisfied that his master had returned safe and sound, Conan shuffled off towards the kitchen.

Cameron started to follow him, but he stopped. He sniffed once and his face twisted with disgust.

"Conan!" he cried, batting the air with his hand. "Not cool, buddy!"

Conan looked back at him with a bored expression, then continued on his way. Cameron rushed past him, eager to find some clear air. He dropped the bundle of mail onto the slate countertop and opened the fridge, snatching up a bottle of Cheez-Whiz and a pack of Ritz crackers. In thirty seconds, he wolfed down five cheese-smothered crackers. Conan watched him like a disapproving mother.

Cameron washed down the crumbs and salt with several gulps of orange soda, then turned his attention to the mail.

Convention invitation, pre-approved credit card offer, cell phone bill, convention invitation, monthly newsletter from Metalworkers United.

Cameron tossed the envelopes onto the counter with disinterest.

"Hungry?" he asked the beagle, who answered by simply walking towards his empty food bowl and plopping down next to it.

A few minutes later, he was happily stuffing his muzzle with Tasty Chow while Cameron munched on a rising-crust frozen pizza with equal enthusiasm.

After finishing the pizza, Cameron tossed the empty box into the dangerously full trash can, then grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed towards the living room. He picked up a small remote from the coffee table and aimed it at a tower of sound equipment.

Like a hurricane, the pummeling sounds of heavy metal shook the walls, and Cameron sank into his Italian leather sofa. He took a swig of beer and closed his eyes, letting the soaring, violent majesty of Blind Guardian assault his senses and fan the flames of his imagination. He could almost taste the blood in the air and see the sparks flying as gleaming swords clashed and battle cries were shouted towards the heavens.

He opened his eyes again. He saw his drab living room, the IKEA-inspired furniture, the black electronic entertainment boxes. The walls were decorated with more than two dozen knives, swords, and axes, but they would never be used. They were just toys.

In ages past, men like him forged swords out of raw steel for kings and warriors. Now they were pretty little things for collectors to catalog and trade.

He took another sip of beer.

Man, the 21st century sucks.

A flash of movement outside caught his attention, and he glanced out the window.

There she was again, coming up the street from the other way. She must have made a circuit of the entire neighborhood, at least an hour.

Cameron sipped his beer and glanced down at Conan.

"I've seen this movie before," he said flatly. "She's a serial killer."

Conan stared up at him for a few seconds, then turned and meandered towards the kitchen.

Cameron raised the bottle to his lips, then stopped and wrinkled his nose.

"Conan!"

****

Cameron angrily swatted the mosquito away and burrowed his face deeper into the pillow.

The little bastard didn't give up. It continued to circle around his head, dive-bombing his ears.

Buzzing...buzzing...buzzing...

Cameron jerked his head off the pillow. A strand of saliva tethered his mouth to the fabric, then snapped. He blinked twice as his eyes tried to focus. It wasn't a mosquito that was making that noise. It was...

He reached towards the nightstand, grunting as he stretched the skin on his newly-tattooed shoulder. His hand fumbled with the cell phone for a moment and flipped it open.

"Yellow?" he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

"Happy Beltane, sweetheart!"

Cameron winced. "Hi Mom. Thanks, you too."

"Remember to light a Beltane fire. Over in Scotland they'll be having a wild celebration."

"Yeah. Thanks Mom, I'll do that."

"You sound groggy. Did I wake you up?"

"Uh...yeah, actually."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Well, you shouldn't be in bed this late anyway. It's almost lunch time!"

"Mom, I'm on Pacific time. It's three hours earlier than New York."

"Well, regardless, it's the early bird that catches the worm."

Cameron rubbed his eyes. "Yeah Mom, you're right."

"Okay, I'll let you go now, sweetheart. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Beltane."

"Thanks Mom, that's real sweet."

"And don't forget to tell your girlfriend, too. That's part of the custom: you have to wish everyone that you know a happy Beltane."

"My girlfriend? Mom, what are you talking about?"

"You know, that girl that was in those pictures in that email you sent me. My downstairs neighbor June Allston showed me how to work the computer."

"Mom, she wasn't my girlfriend. We weren't even really together. I haven't seen her in like two months."

"Oh well that's good. I never felt right about the prospect of my son marrying a Japanese."

Cameron struggled to suppress the rising tide of exasperation.

"Mom, she isn't Jap... We weren't getting married, anyway."

"Well sweetheart, I keep telling you to stop wasting time on these foreign girls. You need to listen to your mother and find yourself a proper lady from the old country."

"Mom, a Scottish girl in America is considered a foreigner too."

"Well you know what I mean. You keep playing around with those California hussies but I'm telling you, it's all empty calories. You're a McConnell, Cameron, and you've got red blood in your veins, and nothing but a red-blooded girl is going to make you happy."

Cameron massaged the bridge of his nose, attempting to keep the headache at bay.

"Okay, Mom, whatever you say."

"Oh, that reminds me. Uncle Aiden's been doing some serious work on the family history. He says he's uncovered some interesting tidbits about your father's ancestry."

That William Wallace was his 9-greats-grandfather?

"Really, Mom. I'd love to hear about it sometime. But I can't today; I've got a lot of work to do."

"Ok, sweetheart, I know you're busy. Don't let me keep you from your work."

"Thanks, Mom. B – "

"I told all the girls at the bridge club that you designed that sword from that film with that handsome actor in it. What's his name? Anyway, they were all very impressed. Do you think you could get a picture of you with him? Maybe the two of you shaking hands?"

"Mom, he's really busy, doing other films and things. He doesn't have – "

"Well, that's okay. Maybe later."

Cameron didn't bother to smother his sigh. "Yeah, maybe."

"Okay, sweetheart. Happy Beltane. I love you."

"Love you too, Mom. Bye."

Cameron slapped the phone closed and rolled over.

Why?

He turned over again and hugged the pillow.

He felt a presence.

One eye popped open and focused on Conan staring up at him.

Cameron groaned his refusal and turned his head to face the other way. His cheek smeared the cold puddle of saliva across the pillow and he sprang from the bed like a spider.

"All right, all right, I'm up!"

### CHAPTER 2

Cameron's fingers made a dull squeaking sound as they wiped the condensation from the mirror. He stared at his reflection and studied the new tattoo on his shoulder for a couple of minutes, feeling exhilarated, masculine, and regretful at the same time. It certainly was a badass tattoo. But was it as badass as it could be? Should he have chosen something edgier, less curvy, less colorful, more colorful, something else entirely?

A small voice piped up inside his head.

You made your choice. Now buck up and live with it.

Cameron exhaled slowly, and he knew the voice was right. His eyes were drawn away from the tattoo on his shoulder, down to his forearm emblazoned with a rather weak rendering of the first knife he had ever designed. There was also a spring-break inspired Chinese character on his left shoulder that was supposed to mean "strength," but who knew with those things.

His eyes started to roam over the white, virgin skin that remained so blatantly un-tattooed, as spotless as a sacrificial lamb, if one didn't count the dozens of freckles that seemed to afflict redheaded people, as if their fiery crowns didn't make them stand out enough.

Cameron didn't see the tattoos that he had; he saw all the tattoos that he didn't have. It had only been two days since he had gone under the needle, and the results still stung, but something inside him felt the hunger for more.

Exhaling loudly, he shook his head to clear his mind, then snatched the towel from the rack.

After shaving and preparing breakfast for himself and Conan, he stepped out the back door onto the neglected patch of grass that constituted the backyard. It existed solely for Conan to do his business, and Cameron wisely kept to the slate stone path that wound around the sparse tufts of grass pebbled with the petrified remains of Conan's meals.

He turned his face towards the glorious California sunshine for a few moments, then headed to the gray storage shed nestled in the far right corner of the yard. Conan followed closely on his heels, though the ancient dog's age was catching up with him and Cameron could hear him wheezing slightly. He made a mental note to take him to the vet this week for a check-up.

As he fiddled with the sturdy padlock on the aluminum doors, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance towards Mrs. Goldstein's back porch. No sign of the mystery girl.

He looked down and glanced at Conan.

"Just curious," he stated offhandedly.

Conan sneezed.

Cameron snatched the lock away and threw the doors open wide. Warm rays of morning sunshine streamed into the workshop, and the air sparkled with the glint of brilliant steel. Countless swords and knives in various stages of completion gleamed in the glow, and several plastic garbage bins were filled with coiled silver shavings.

The aluminum shed was only eight feet wide and ten feet long. But when it stood open like this with the sunlight illuminating the weapons, lathes, bores, drills, belt sanders, chunks of foam, and shapeless mounds of modeling clay, it seemed like a soaring cathedral.

And to Cameron, that's exactly what it was.

He breathed deeply, staring absently at the tiny dust motes drifting through the air. He loved his job, more than anything in the world. Even more than Conan, he had to admit to himself, though he threw a worried glance over his shoulder, in case the dog could hear his thoughts.

He stepped inside and tossed the padlock onto a work bench and donned a well-worn pair of leather gloves. After a moment's consideration, he took them off.

His eyes focused on a lump of clay covered by a damp piece of cheesecloth. He approached it like a hunter stalking its prey. He slowly removed the cloth, peering down at the half-finished demon head resting on the lazy Susan, its mouth open in a silent snarl, as if protesting its ignoble perch.

Cameron scooted over an ancient wooden stool and sat down, never taking his eyes off of the sculpture. He turned the lazy Susan inch by inch, studying every angle and groove of the disembodied head. He looked up at the wall covered with sketches, and he frowned.

This one was giving him a lot of trouble. He had been commissioned by the publishers of Doom Rift, a very popular graphic novel, to replicate the Sword of Abaddon, a key weapon in the story. This would normally be a piece of cake, something that Cameron had done at least half a dozen times for various clients.

But the problem was that the graphic artist who had illustrated this particular novel had a very sparse, almost sketchy artistic style, with an emphasis on movement rather than detail. This meant that it was hard to get a clear picture of the Sword of Abaddon as it sliced through angels and heavenly sentinels. And to make matters worse, the artist who had conceived of the sword died in a car accident only two months after the graphic novel's publication. The book became an instant best-seller, but it was now impossible to request a more detailed drawing. It was up to Cameron to interpret what he saw on the page and turn it into a three-dimensional life-size weapon that would be immediately recognizable as the Sword of Abaddon.

This where he found himself today, staring at a ferocious demon head that was situated where the blade met the hilt. He had made several scans of the panels from the book where the sword was prominently featured and had them blown up and mounted on the opposite wall as references, but it was of little help. He had shown his own sketches to a few buddies who were hardcore Doom Rift fans, but all of them had differing opinions about the placement of the demon's teeth, whether or not it had horns for eyebrows, etc.

He sighed as rubbed his temples. He knew he had to get this job right. One does not screw up the Sword of Abaddon and expect to keep one's reputation. He turned around to look at Conan, who sat patiently outside the workshop. For some reason, the dog never came inside. Maybe it was because Cameron had once joked that he was making special dog-carving knives for restaurants in China.

The gray, lumpy demon laughed at him from atop the turntable, like some kind of magic trick from hell. Cameron glowered back and cracked his knuckles.

You know what? Forget it. I'm going to do it the way I see it, and if the fans have a problem with it, then they have a problem with it.

****

"Cameron McConnell! I love it! It's incredible!"

Every inch of the man's watermelon-sized face seemed to be smiling. Cameron smiled back.

"Aw, c'mon Peter, you're just saying that because it's true."

Peter turned his mountainous body towards him.

"You're damn right it's true. Look at this thing! You know, this is exactly how I imagined the demon's head when I read the book."

A huge weight in the pit of Cameron's stomach vanished. If Peter Kowalski, essentially the god of the Doom Rift universe, liked his work, then everyone else would as well, or else risk being ostracized by their peers.

"I'm really glad to hear you say that, Peter," Cameron said. "I'll be honest, that thing kept me up at night."

Peter held the sword aloft, studying it like a jeweler examining a gem. "You and everybody else. I can't tell you how many blasphemous drawings I've seen on the internet. One kid, probably some loser in junior high, drew it smiling. Can you believe that? Smiling? It's a demon, for crying out loud. It's screaming, not smiling. Even my two-year-old could tell that."

Cameron nodded as he looked over Peter's shoulder.

"This is going to be quite a show," he said.

Peter turned around to glance at the hubbub behind him. A seething mass of people were scurrying about, assembling booths, hoisting banners, laying out merchandise, adjusting their costumes.

"Yeah," Peter said proudly, swaying like a gun-slinging sheriff, "last year, RiftCon had only twenty booths. This year, it's over sixty. Plus, the new writers are going to make a surprise appearance later tonight. Keep that on the DL."

Cameron nodded and watched two scantily-clad Hell Sirens prance by. One of them cast a sizzling glance towards him with her blood-red eyes.

Cameron swallowed roughly and turned back to his friend. "Well, listen man, I've got to take off. I have some new things I'm working on..."

"What? You're leaving? Dude, we're going to unveil the sword in a few hours! Everyone will want to meet you and take pictures with you!"

Cameron shifted nervously from left foot to right. "Yeah, I know, but that's not really my thing. I'm not into the whole pictures and autograph scene."

Peter wasn't listening. "Dude, dude, you have just immortalized a priceless piece of Doom Rift history! This is it, the end of the squabbling! You have made the definitive Sword of Abaddon. This thing is beyond wicked! You're like that guy, what's his name?"

"What guy?"

"You know, that dude who made those awesome motorcycles and had all those chicks and TV shows..."

"Jesse James?"

"Yes! You're the Jesse James of Doom Rift!"

"Seriously, Peter, that sounds ridiculous. Plus, a lot of people hate that guy."

"But he made killer bikes. Who cares about the person behind the mask; it's all about what the hands produce."

He clutched the sword close to his body, even though he and Cameron were tucked in a corner away from any prying eyes.

"I'm telling you, man, people would kill to get their hands on this thing. It goes up for auction at two o'clock. I'm calling ten grand, easily."

Cameron's eyebrows rose but he didn't give in. "I'm sorry Peter, I like to stay in the background. You know, part of the mystique."

Peter frowned thoughtfully as he mulled Cameron's words.

"Yeah, I can see that."

He slipped the sword into a sheath of black velvet and placed his hand on Cameron's shoulder.

"Last chance, bro. There's going to be one hell of a party afterwards, and once people find out who made this beast, you're going to have hordes of demon chicks fighting each other to get their hands on your other sword, if you know what I mean."

He winked and jabbed Cameron in the ribs with his elbow. Cameron disguised his pain with a smile as he rubbed his side.

"Yeah Peter, I know what you mean. Thanks anyway, but I'm going to roll. I'll check out the pictures online later."

"You got it bro," Peter said as he shook Cameron's hand. "This is awesome man, I really mean it. I've seen a lot of your creations and this is the best, by far."

Cameron felt a warm feeling swelling inside his chest. "Thanks Peter."

"You're welcome." He pointed at the envelope corner sticking out of Cameron's jeans pocket. "Don't spend that all in once place."

He winked lasciviously again and stalked towards the convention preparations, trying to look inconspicuous with the sword pressed against his massive thigh. Cameron chuckled to himself, then took the check out of his pocket. His face lit up like a star.

Five thousand dollars...

Not bad for three weeks' work, and that's along with the other well-paying projects he was working on at the same time.

He strode out of the convention center with his head held high. He surrendered his work pass at the front desk and marched out to his car in the parking lot. Peter's words echoed in his brain.

"Don't spend it all in one place..."

A Cheshire cat smile spread across his face as he yanked out his phone and flipped it open.

"Carl?" he said after a few rings. "Carl, it's me...Yeah...tell me you've still got it... All right, that's what I want to hear. Get her gassed and ready; I've got the full amount... Yep, see you tomorrow."

He closed his eyes as he ended the call.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

****

"WAAAH-HOOOO!"

Cameron leaned into the curve and felt a tingle rush through his nerves. The Ducati Diavel Carbon motorcycle seemed to melt into the road, and for a moment he felt like he was gliding over the asphalt like a boat on water. Trees, signs, and cars whipping past were just indecipherable smudges of color, but Cameron's eyes were glued to the road.

This was an absolutely awesome feeling. He'd ridden many bikes before, and even owned a couple, but nothing even close to this. The Ducati seemed to purr and roar at the same time, a gentle beast that was completely aware of its power but supple to its master's touch. Cameron leaned right, then left, then right... Every curve was as smooth as butter.

He sliced through a swooping horseshoe curve like a razor and glanced down at the speedometer.

Sixty miles per hour!

His heart pounded as quickly as the pistons beneath his seat as he revved the throttle, blasting through a straight stretch of road and doing almost ninety. He saw another curve up ahead and he shifted down. The motorcycle seemed to sense just how much speed was necessary to take the curve at a safe yet exciting velocity.

His helmet muffled his cries of exhilaration as he zoomed down the road, a black and crimson bolt of speed and adrenaline.

Three hours later, he rumbled back into his driveway. The bike purred impatiently; it was clearly not ready to go home.

Cameron reluctantly shut off the bike and whipped the helmet off his head. He mussed his hair with an excited howl.

A voice chuckled behind him. He turned and froze.

"Hi," his new neighbor said, squinting in the sun as she studied his bike.

"Uh, hi," Cameron replied, holding his helmet like a thief caught shoplifting.

She was wearing a spray-on jogging outfit again. This time it was black and gray. The words "Dream Body Inc." were stretched across her chest.

Cameron blinked rapidly. Dream body...

"Cool motorcycle," she said. She had a strong Southern accent.

"Thanks. I, uh...I just got it."

The woman nodded as if she already knew, but she didn't say anything.

Cameron cleared his throat to head off the impending awkward silence.

"You, uh, you know motorcycles?"

She shook her head. "Not really. My daddy had one but I barely saw him. I had a friend in high school that got pretty banged up when she wrecked while riding her with her boyfriend, so I've tried to stay clear of them."

Cameron's face fell. "Oh."

Strike one.

"My name's Mindy," the woman said as she stuck out her hand.

Cameron shook it politely.

"Cameron. Nice to meet you."

Mindy nodded again, keeping her eyes on him without speaking. It was starting to make him a bit uncomfortable. Maybe where she came from, girls waited for the men to steer the conversation.

Cameron's mind raced furiously. He didn't want to bore her or come across as a dumb brute who couldn't hold a conversation, but his mind felt like a great empty cave with only a few bats flying around. He found himself wishing her jogging clothes were a little bit, well, more.

"So, uh, Mindy," he stammered, "are you... are you related to Mrs. Goldstein?"

"Yeah, she's my aunty. Or she was."

Cameron nodded absently. "When I saw you before, I was wondering if you were... Wait, what do you mean 'was?'"

Mindy squinted up at him with an odd expression. "You don't know? You're her next door neighbor."

Cameron felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever the problem was, he had been derelict in his duties as a neighbor, and Mindy, coming from a long tradition of Southern hospitality, would certainly not excuse such behavior.

Strike two.

"I, well, I've been really, really busy, and..."

His words trailed off as he noticed Mindy looking down at his bike, then back at him. Her eyes said, Yeah, real busy.

"My aunty died last week. You didn't know she was sick?"

Cameron grasped for the only straw he could. "Well, I did notice that her flowers weren't looking so good, and she is borderline OCD about those things..."

Mindy cocked her hips and glared at him with a very unamused expression.

Cameron cleared his throat again.

"I'm sorry, I should have come over. I feel really bad. She was a wonderful lady with a sweet heart. She was a nurturer, taking care of anything that grew, whether it was people or flowers."

He didn't realize he was holding his breath as he watched Mindy and hoped for a miracle.

He must have said something right, because her expression softened immediately, and she stared wistfully over Cameron's shoulder at her aunt's house.

"You're right, that's exactly the kind of person that she was. Always caring, always giving. She was Jewish, and you know what people always say about the Jews, that they're greedy and everything, but she was completely the opposite."

Mindy sighed as she continued to gaze off into the distance, oblivious to Cameron's surprised expression.

She's definitely got a lot to learn about what she can and can't say in California.

"I'm afraid to ask, but how did you aunt die?"

"Leukemia. She'd been battling it for years, but she never told anybody. She was a trooper. I guess she didn't want to come across as weak. Her family came to America to escape the Nazis. Did you know that?"

Cameron shook his head.

"My aunty said that when they came here, she swore she would never run from anything again. And she didn't. Now she's up there in heaven, surrounded by as many pretty flowers as she can imagine."

Cameron didn't exactly know what to say to that, so he just nodded.

Mindy's whole body lifted, then slumped with a heavy sigh. Cameron was struck by how cute it sounded, and the thought made him blush. Mindy took notice and turned away for a moment to hide her smile.

A cluster of birds flew by, their playful chatter disrupting the silence. Mindy turned back to Cameron, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"My aunty didn't have any children, and most of her family is still in Europe, so she left me her house. I was always her favorite niece," she added with a note of pride.

"Well, you shouldn't have any trouble turning it around," Cameron said. "The market around here is hot as jalapeños."

Mindy nodded thoughtfully. "Good to know. But I'm not sure I want to sell it just yet. I'm not from around here, you might have guessed, and I think it would do me some good to see a different part of the country and just, you know, get away from it all and clear my head."

Cameron wasn't sure what she meant, but he nodded his agreement. He opened his mouth to say something but Mindy pulled out in front of him.

"After I quit my job selling insurance, I just felt this need to explore myself..."

Cameron raised his eyebrows.

"...And then I caught my deadbeat boyfriend sleeping with his old girlfriend from high school who had just moved back into town. It was like a sign from the universe, you know? Telling me to shed the old skin and see what's out there waiting for me. So I kicked his two-timing ass to the curb, and I'm sitting alone thinking to myself, 'What am I going to do now?' I almost called him to see if he would take me back but this voice inside me kept telling me, 'Mindy, girl, be strong. He's the problem, not you.' And then my aunty died, which is terrible...I'm not saying I'm glad or anything, but the timing was just right for both of us, I think. I got a call from the lawyer saying I had this beautiful house out in California, so I threw everything in the Jeep and hit the road."

She locked eyes with him.

"And here I am."

Cameron closed his mouth with a snap. "That's...I'm sorry you had a rough time. But you're right, the timing is good."

He realized how that sounded and he started to get flustered. "I mean, I'm really sorry about your aunt, and you're right, your boyfriend was a jerk to cheat on you... I mean, it's none of my business, I just..."

Mindy smiled a bright, beaming smile. "I know what you mean. Thanks. You're sweet."

Cameron exhaled with relief and smiled back. He decided it would be best to end the conversation on a high note.

"Well I've got to get this beast inside and clean it up."

Mindy nodded. "Boys and their toys. I better be going too. It was nice to meet you, Cameron."

She bounced lightly down the road towards her aunt's house. Cameron looked around, as if searching for some words that he had dropped.

Say something! Before she goes inside, say something!

"Mindy!"

She paused just as she was opening the front door.

"Yeah?"

Cameron swallowed roughly.

"I, uh, I like jogging too."

Liar.

"If you ever want some company, maybe we could, you know, coordinate our schedules."

His stomach tightened. Somewhere inside, his subconscious was shaking its head in disbelief.

Mindy smiled the same sunshine smile as before.

"Sure. I hit the road in the afternoon, usually around three. I like to sweat."

Cameron swallowed again.

"Three. Okay, great. I'll see you out here sometime."

"Sure." Mindy disappeared into her house.

What's with you, man? Cameron asked himself as he began wheeling the bike towards the garage. You're single, you're a stud, and now you've got an Italian-made chick magnet. She's just a girl. You've dated girls before.

He exhaled in frustration as he closed the garage door.

I know, I know. Why do I always get like this?

Conan's baying jerked him out of his self-interrogation.

"Coming, buddy."

### CHAPTER 3

The sound of loud knocking jolted Cameron awake, demolishing his thrilling dream of scaling a Hawaiian volcano. Conan began howling in annoyance, and Cameron grumbled as he staggered out of bed.

The knocking didn't stop, just one continual rhythm of impatience.

"I'm coming!" Cameron called out, preparing to make his displeasure perfectly clear to the delivery man or Mormon who was disrupting this otherwise tranquil morning. He rubbed his eyes and cursed as he grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open.

"Bro! What's going on, man?"

Cameron barely had time to react as he found himself wrapped in a hairy, sweaty hug. He concealed his grimace with a weak attempt at a smile.

"Chucky...hey buddy."

Chucky released Cameron from his death grip and took a step back. His real name was Patric Albert Hausenhoffer III, but he had received the nickname "Chucky" in junior high because he looked like the murderous doll from the movies, minus the sinister leering expression. Chucky didn't mind, though; he loved those films and took it as a compliment. As he grew up, he didn't seem to age; he just became a larger version of his younger self, except now his beefy arms were covered with horror-themed tattoos, including a very excellent rendition of Chucky the doll wielding a kitchen knife on his right forearm. In fact, it was Chucky who had persuaded Cameron to get his first tattoo.

And now he was smiling like a Girl Scout on Cameron's porch.

"What's brings you here at this fine hour?" Cameron asked, squinting in the glare of the morning sun.

Chucky cocked one eyebrow, giving him an eerie similarity to his namesake.

"Dude, I came here to see the monster. I saw your Twitter pic and I was in love."

Cameron blinked twice, then realized that he was referring to the motorcycle.

"Oh, the Ducati. Yeah, it's pretty sweet."

Chucky grinned like a dirty-minded frat boy.

"I'll bet it's sweet. You're a lucky son of a gun. And I'll wager it's like catnip for the kitties, huh? Am I right?"

Cameron unconsciously cast a glance towards Mindy's house. What was he going to do about his offer to go jogging with her?

His mind snapped back to the present moment.

Chucky. Big, sweaty, tattooed, lovable Chucky, smiling on his porch.

"I don't know, man," Cameron said. "I've been too busy lately for any of that stuff."

Chucky snorted with disbelief.

"Whatever man, you're never to busy to heed the call of the wild."

"What?"

Chucky answered by howling very loudly. Conan returned the howl, as did a few neighborhood dogs. Then Chucky resumed his wolfish leer.

"Let's hit the town and show the honeys what the busy bee does when the work is done."

Cameron stifled a yawn.

"Yeah, let's do that sometime."

Chucky nodded, apparently satisfied, and stood there smiling and rocking on his toes.

Cameron rubbed his eyes again. He loved the guy, but he wasn't in the mood for guests right now. But he couldn't be rude either.

"You, uh, want to come in? I was just going to make some breakfast."

He hoped the reference to the time of day was clear enough for his friend.

Chucky slapped him on the shoulder. "Nah, you can eat. I just want to see the bike. Garage, right?"

He slipped past Cameron before he could say anything, pausing for a moment in the foyer to pat Conan's head.

"Hey man," he called over his shoulder, "you need to change that dog's diet. His farts are nuclear."

Cameron mumbled some sort of reply as he stepped back into the house and closed the door behind him. Chucky had disappeared, but after a few moments, the house rang with a booming "DUDE!"

Cameron stood in the doorway that linked the garage to the kitchen, watching Chucky hover around the bike like a predator deciding where the sink its fangs.

He looked up at Cameron with flashing eyes.

"This is killer! Dude, you'll be blowing girls' underwear off just by driving down the street!"

Cameron sighed with mock exasperation. "Everybody's got a bike around here."

"Yeah, but not like this one."

Chucky circled the machine once more, then nodded like a sage.

"You are definitely the man."

Cameron couldn't help smile with pride.

"I've wanted a bike like this since my first year at SVA in New York. We had to do an advertisement for a graphic design class, and I saw a picture of a wicked sports bike when I was flipping through a magazine."

"And it only took you twelve years to achieve your dream."

Cameron nodded, feeling a little embarrassed, though he didn't know why.

"I'm going to make some bacon and eggs; you want some?"

"Dude, forget breakfast. I want to see this baby on the road! We can get something to eat later, my treat."

Cameron opened his mouth, his mind racing for any reason to refuse. But the sight of Chucky standing there, practically bouncing out of his shoes...well, why not. He reached out and snatched the keys from the hook on the wall and tossed them to his friend.

"Please be gentle."

Chucky snapped his Doc Martens and saluted. "I'll treat it with more care than I would my own mother."

Cameron shook his head with worry. "Give me yours."

Chucky fished his own keys out of his grimy jeans pocket and threw them across the garage. Cameron snatched them out of the air, noticing how greasy they felt.

"After riding something like this," Chucky said, "mine is going to feel like a five dollar hooker."

"Yeah, you would know," Cameron remarked as he grabbed his helmet.

Chucky's eyes flashed. "Yes, I would."

Cameron smacked the switch on the wall and garage door opened, revealing Chucky's fifteen-year-old Honda Rebel 250 standing in the driveway like a shy schoolboy. Cameron sighed silently, feeling his heart flutter as Chucky started the Ducati and revved the engine.

Just this once, Cameron assured himself. He's your friend, after all. Just let him get it out of his system.

"Come on, man!" Chucky shouted over the roar. "We're burning daylight!"

Cameron waved, then retreated back into the house. Two minutes later, he emerged wearing a black T-shirt, well-worn blue jeans, and black construction boots. He slipped his helmet over his head and mounted Chucky's Honda, and he had to admit that this wasn't such a bad idea. It was a perfect morning for riding, and riding with a buddy made it even better.

Chucky slowly emerged from the garage, slapping the garage door switch on his way out. He revved the engine again and his smile was so wide, it looked like his cheeks were going to split.

"Dude, I just came in my pants!"

Cameron shook his head. Chucky pulled out in front of him and waited for him to back his way out of the driveway. Chucky's helmet was just a flimsy skullcap helmet, something that Cameron repeatedly chastised him about.

"So where to?" he asked.

Cameron shrugged. "I don't know," he said loudly, though his voice was muffled by his helmet.

Chucky's child-like grin darkened with mischief. "I've got an idea. Follow me."

He gunned the throttle and left a black rubber strip on the asphalt as he sped down the street.

"Chucky!" Cameron cried, then clenched his teeth in frustration. He revved the Honda, grimacing at its embarrassingly low horsepower, and raced off in pursuit. As he passed Mindy's house, he thought he saw her looking at him from the window.

He hoped his mind was playing tricks on him.

At the entrance of the neighborhood, he caught up with Chucky and pulled up alongside him.

"Dude, seriously," he shouted through his helmet, "don't get us busted. I like my low insurance rates."

Chucky nodded absently, tilting his head and listening to the music of the engine. "Sure man, no problem. I tell you what, though - this thing can move."

"Yeah, I know. Listen, I've got some stuff I need to do later, and I haven't even eaten yet, so..."

"Don't worry about it," Chucky answered with a wave of his hand. "I know this place a few miles up the road. It's a subdivision they're building on this mountain and the road has some great twists and turns. The construction company went bankrupt so there's nobody up there now."

Cameron nodded. "Okay, let's do it."

Chucky revved the engine in response and tore out of the neighborhood like a demon. A few irate morning commuters honked their horns in annoyance, and Cameron rushed after him.

After about ten minutes, Chucky turned left onto a freshly-paved road marked by a large white sign that said "Lakeshire Terraces – Coming Soon!" Cameron followed him into the development, which was exactly as Chucky had described it: an abandoned subdivision construction project. About three hundred lots had been marked out, and work had begun on about fifty of them, but it was clear that nobody had been around for at least a couple of weeks. The road, however, was pristine, and it sloped and rose and curved like a smooth black river.

Chucky was clearly enjoying himself as he roared around the bends, his stringy hair whipping behind his head. Cameron had trouble keeping up, but despite the fact that his heart was in his throat every time Chucky took a sharp curve, he was having a great time. And despite Chucky's recklessness, he was an excellent driver and never came close to losing control.

The pair made two circuits of the development, and then Chucky lurched to a halt near the entrance.

"Dude!" he exclaimed, kicking down the stand and cutting the motor. "You are my hero, man. This is without question the finest machine I have ever had the pleasure to ride."

Cameron pulled off his helmet and mussed his hair. "Thanks, man."

He knew he should have said, "You can borrow it anytime," but he just couldn't bring himself to say it.

Chucky didn't care; he was still riding a wave of adrenaline. "All right, I know you want your baby back."

Cameron breathed a grateful sigh of relief as they switched bikes. He glanced down at the seat, momentarily afraid that Chucky actually had come in his pants like he had said.

"Well, I'm a man of my word," Chucky declared as he started his motorcycle back up again, "and I am not one to let a bro go hungry."

Without another word, he raced out of the subdivision. Cameron quickly put on his helmet and started his bike and gave chase.

An hour later, they exited The Doo-Wop Diner with bellies full of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and orange juice. Cameron looked over at his friend, who still seemed to be feeling the effects of the morning ride.

"Thanks for the food," he said, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

"Sure thing," Chucky answered, though he seemed distracted.

Cameron was about to ask him what's up, but Chucky turned and looked at him with imploring eyes.

Uh-oh, Cameron groaned.

"Hey man, can you spare a few more minutes? I know you're super busy and all, but I really need your help with something."

Cameron let his shoulders slump, but his face didn't betray his reluctance.

"What do you need?"

Chucky brightened instantly. "Look, there's this cat that's been doing my work for the past couple years, but he's only in town for like a week at a time. I've got an appointment with him at 10:30, but I need your help choosing a design."

Cameron's eyebrows rose. "My help?"

"Yeah. I want to get a wicked skull design here, on my shoulder above my armpit." He attempted to reach behind him and point out the spot, but he only succeeded in looking like a freak show ballerina. He gave up after a moment and faced Cameron.

"This guy's made two designs for me and I can't decide which one I like more. You know skulls better than anyone I know, and I would really appreciate it if you came to the shop and helped me choose."

Cameron shifted from one foot to the other. "Man, Chucky, I...I've got to pick up a blade from the finisher today..."

"Dude, twenty minutes max. I promise."

He held up his hand like he was taking an oath in court.

Cameron held his breath for a moment, then exhaled loudly.

"All right, I'll check it out. But I'm serious though, I can't stick around."

"You take a look, you give me your thoughts, and that's it."

Cameron nodded and hopped on his motorcycle. "Let's get going."

****

Cameron had never been to Cloak and Dagger Tattoo, though he had driven past it a few times. It was sandwiched between a Chinese take-out place and an adult video store. From its outward appearance, it seemed like a thousand other tattoo shops around the country, with heavily tinted windows, a glaring neon sign that said "Tattoos and Piercings" and an impressive assortment of band logo stickers adorning the windows and door.

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Chucky admonished as he and Cameron parked their bikes. Cameron frowned with surprise at Chucky's psychic powers.

"Why'd you stop going to Luck o' the Irish?" he asked.

Luck o' the Irish Tattoos was Cameron's preferred ink den; in fact, all of his work was done by an obese Iranian woman curiously named Monique. Cameron had found himself dragged along to one of Chucky's appointments there and walked out with a tattoo of his own. With all of the scary news stories about sketchy tattoo parlors and scratchers slinging ink without certification, Cameron figured that Luck o' the Irish was good enough for all of his future tattoo needs.

"I told you, man," Chucky said as he yanked open the door, causing a small copper bell to tinkle cheerfully, "this cat's been doing all my new work, and he's awesome. Nothing against Luck o' the Irish, but this guy's in a class by himself."

Cameron nodded, curious to meet the source of Chucky's excitement.

The smell of cigarette smoke, incense, and a dash of weed slithered into their nostrils as they stepped into the shop. Cameron took a quick look around as they stepped into the lobby.

The decor was typical tattoo-shop aesthetic: tribal masks, large posters of Japanese body-suit tattoos, shelves lined with skulls that could have been real or fake, numerous band stickers and fliers for local music events, and a bright white poster displaying California's regulations governing the world of tattoos.

The air was also buzzing with the electric hum of tattoo needles penetrating skin. Just a few millimeters deep and more than ten times per second. There were six tattoo stations in the shop, and three were hosting customers. In the far left corner, a short muscular man with spiked blonde hair and full tattoo sleeves glanced up from his workbench.

"Chucky," he called, turning his attention back to whatever he was working on. "Come on back."

"That's him," Chucky whispered.

"Yeah, I guess that," Cameron answered with a smirk.

They walked past the front desk where a young woman with multicolored hair smiled at them, and they made their way towards the rear of the shop.

The stocky tattoo artist put down his pencil and stood up, slapping his hands together like a woodworker cleaning away the sawdust.

"Ivan," Chucky said, "this is my buddy Cameron. He's the one I told you about."

Ivan shook Cameron's hand.

"Chucky tells me you're a swordsmith."

Cameron smiled, caught a bit off-guard. "It's not really as interesting as it sounds."

Ivan shrugged. "I didn't say it sounded interesting."

Cameron stared at him.

"Anyway," Chucky broke in, "I wanted Cameron to help me pick out the design. Why don't you show him what you drew up?"

Ivan eyed Cameron for a moment, then turned to his workbench and began shifting around some papers. Cameron got the idea that this guy didn't like being evaluated, especially by someone who wasn't a tattoo artist.

"Here you go," Ivan said, shoving two papers into Chucky's hands. "Personally, I think the one with the flames would look best."

His tone made it clear that he expected his advice to be heeded.

Chucky turned towards Cameron and showed him the drawings. "What do you think?"

Cameron glanced at the two designs. They were both well-drawn, with one being a roaring demon skull with horns and blazing fire, and the other one being a human skull with a sinister fang-filled grin.

"Where's it going to go?" Cameron asked.

Chucky promptly stripped off his sweaty T-shirt, unleashing a torrent of body odor. Cameron suppressed a cough and studied Chucky's back.

"I've got the 'Day of the Dead' skull on the opposite shoulder," Chucky pointed out, "and I wanted something to balance it out on the other side, but I didn't want the same kind of tattoo."

Cameron nodded, narrowing his eyes and staring at the expanse of pale white skin. Quiet gears began turning in his mind, and flashes of creativity sparked like electricity. Ivan studied him.

"May I?" Cameron asked, snatching the pencil from the desk before Ivan could answer. He took the sketch of the flaming skull and he knelt down in front of the table. Chucky and Ivan peered over his shoulder as he drew a bit here, erased a little there, added a bit of detail...

"There," he said, jumping to his feet and brandishing the paper for inspection. Chucky and Ivan leaned closer.

Chucky's eyes grew wide. "Dude..."

Ivan's eyebrows rose, though his face darkened. "That...looks pretty good, man."

Cameron stepped back, unable to hide the artistic pride radiating from his face. "I did something like this for a dagger hilt a few years ago."

Chucky jumped, as if he had just remembered something important. "Yeah, Ivan, did I tell you? He designed that cool sword in that movie with that guy, the one that was in the news last week...man, I'm terrible with names. Anyway, that double-bladed-twisty-sword thing came right out of Cammy boy's head here."

He tapped Cameron's skull with a bit more force than he realized. Cameron smirked and stepped back out of range.

Ivan squinted at him for a moment, then a small smile forced its way to the surface. "Yeah, I remember that. Good job, man."

Cameron grinned, feeling a lot lighter. "Thanks."

Ivan took the drawing from Chucky and studied it carefully. "This is bitchin.' You guys chill for a moment while I get the stencil made."

"Sure thing," Chucky said as Ivan stepped away. He turned towards Cameron with worshipful eyes.

"You rock, dude! I knew it was a good idea to bring you. That was pretty ballsy, too, man. I mean, you just corrected an Ivan Stockton tattoo sketch. That's like telling God that Eve wasn't hot enough."

"Whatever you say. Listen, I'm going to head out. I really have to get to the finishers before the afternoon."

Chucky wrapped him in a meaty, shirtless hug. "Take it easy, bro. I'll swing by later and show you how it turns out."

Cameron took a breath of fresh air as he extracted himself from Chucky's embrace. "Just post a Twitter pic. I've got something to do later."

"Ah," Chucky said with a grin, "time to the let the tiger out of its cage, huh?"

Cameron smirked. "No, more like putting a thirteen-year-old dog in a cage. Conan needs a check-up."

"I'm telling you dude, that dog's got a noxious colon. Check the dog food bag: maybe it's skunk meat that got mislabeled as 'beef.'"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it. Enjoy the pain, man."

"You know I always do."

Cameron snaked his way through the other grimacing customers. He could feel the buzzing needles in the nerves of his teeth, and he was grateful to step out into the lobby. The girl at the front desk caught his eye for a moment, and he smiled shyly.

"Don't be a stranger," she said as he passed.

Cameron turned around and nodded a polite goodbye, then turned again towards the door. He jerked to a halt just as the door flew open and a man blew into the shop like a gale.

"Hey, look who's here," the girl at the front desk announced, her voice sounding much sweeter than when she had spoken to Cameron. "The General returns home."

Cameron had only a fraction of a second to get a glimpse of the newcomer, but the image burned into his brain like a scorching brand.

The man's eyes were black as night but they gleamed as if they were illuminated from within. His strong, chiseled jaw was adorned with a beard that could only be described as fantastic. He wore a studded black leather vest, black jeans, and motorcycle boots that looked like they weighed fifty pounds each. His massive arms were covered with incredibly detailed tattoos of all styles, yet they all fit seamlessly together, as if they were all part of one design. Tattoos even crept up his neck like vines clinging to an indomitable tree trunk.

But that's not what made Cameron stop and stare with awe and wonder.

Curling around the man's piercing eyes were intricate, tribal-inspired tattoos that trailed down over his cheekbones. They gave him a frightening, yet incredibly mysterious appearance.

The man called the General strode into the shop like a king in his castle. His presence was undeniable, and everyone in the shop turned and looked up at him. Cries of "Hey, the General's back!" and "Hey, looking good, man!" floated towards him like roses from an adoring audience.

Cameron was too awestruck to realize that he was holding the door open and letting the air conditioning escape. The General looked like some kind of mythical hero from an epic fantasy tale. There were plenty of tough guys skulking around California flexing their tattooed muscles, but this guy...

It's like he's from another realm.

Cameron blinked, realizing that he was gawking like a star-struck teenager. He pulled the door open wider and made the little bell tinkle. The General looked up from his crowd of admirers and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes smoldered from within their tattooed caverns, and Cameron felt a shiver trickle down his spine. He inhaled a quick breath and stepped out of the shop, squinting for a moment in the sunshine.

His eyes came to rest on the behemoth in the parking lot.

Whoa...

It was the baddest Harley chopper he had ever seen, and in California, that's saying a lot. A gleaming giant of chrome, black high-gloss paint, and flames so life-like, they looked like they were shimmering. It was beautiful and savage at the same time, and it seemed to be more than twice the size of his own motorcycle.

For a moment, he imagined the General blazing down the highway, a soul-withering nightmare of doom.

He blinked again, feeling very embarrassed.

Dude, what are you, thirteen? He's just a guy with cool tats and a wicked ride. It's all cosmetic. You could be just like him if you wanted.

Cameron looked at his own motorcycle parked a few yards away.

His own motorcycle, which just yesterday had seemed like heaven on wheels, and which had almost made Chucky come in his pants.

He looked back at the chopper, thinking how invincible he would feel astride that monster.

Forget it, man. Just forget it.

He exhaled slowly and walked over to his bike. When he started it, he felt a reassuring thrill of adrenaline.

He peeled out of the parking lot, feeling the breeze whipping against his chest. Yeah...this was the way to do it. Lumbering down the road on a metal mastodon was for He-Man wannabes with small...

The General's face flashed through his mind.

Wannabe, huh?

### CHAPTER 4

The gilded hilt looked amazing, and Cameron zipped home from the finishers with the hilt stowed in a backpack that he borrowed from one of the workers. It was covered in punk rock patches, just like his had been in high school.

Tonight was his bi-monthly poker game with a few buddies from SVA that had migrated to California, one after the other. They had all realized that they were really California souls from the beginning, and the cold New England grayness just didn't suit them. Cameron had been one of the first, landing an apprenticeship at a prominent custom cutlery shop after his sword and battleaxe homework designs had caught the attention of one of his teachers, who was happy to give him a good word with a friend out West. Cameron had leaped at the chance and found himself with the title of head designer after less than two years. When his name started becoming a brand itself, he realized that he could make more money as an independent, and he struck out on his own and didn't looked back.

As his college buddies had filtered out to the land of beaches and sun, he began to realize just how lucky he was, and he was determined not to squander any opportunities. At the same time, he told himself that he wasn't going to become a cold-hearted workaholic who would let his friendships wither as he chased fame and fortune.

He soon realized that this was pretty much all he needed. He didn't date much; he was too absorbed in his work and the world of fantasy. He had a few semi-serious relationships in the past, but something just never felt right with him. He had never really known what to do with a woman. Not like that...he just wasn't sure how to keep the fires of mutual interest burning.

He liked heavy metal, he liked motorcycles, and he really liked weapons...and that was it. And Conan, of course. He had never really felt any longing to become a husband and father. He didn't have anything against raising a happy family in a quaint suburb somewhere, but he was already doing that, minus the happy family. His work and Conan were all the family he needed. He wasn't sure if a wife and kids would make him more or less happy, but he wasn't really willing to take the risk to find out.

As he pulled into the driveway, he spotted Mindy stepping out of her house for a jog. He had to admit that she looked better every time he saw her.

She looked his way and smiled as she jogged over.

"Hey neighbor," she said with sunshine in her voice as she jogged in place.

"Hey," Cameron said as he pulled off his helmet.

Mindy jerked her head towards the street. "I'm heading out for a run...you want to join me?"

Cameron wished he still had his helmet on so he could scan her body without her noticing.

"Um, well, I, uh..."

Her smile was beautiful. Cameron narrowed his eyes.

"Sure. Let me just grab the mail and put my bike away. Give me three minutes."

Mindy nodded, making her ponytail bounce like a rabbit. "I'll get your mail for you."

She bounded over to the mailbox and extracted a bundle of letters and a magazine, which she handed to Cameron. He took the mail without looking at it.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He looked at her for a moment, strangely transfixed by her infectious energy as she hopped from one foot to the next, though she didn't sweat or breathe heavily at all. Then his eyes fell away, and he gripped the motorcycle's handle bars to push it into the garage. As the garage door rumbled shut, he watched her white running shoes still hopping in the driveway.

He stepped into the kitchen and tossed the mail onto the counter with a slap. He had to admit that he was excited, kind of like when a new blade design suddenly flashes into his head and he can't wait to sketch it out...

Come on, man, grow up. You're just going for a jog in the middle of the afternoon. It's not a date or anything.

Cameron frowned. I know, I know. But still, she's nice, and she's hot...who knows?

Something inside him snorted with contempt. Dude, seriously? Miss Southern Belle? Come on man, don't flip out just because she has a nice -

Hey, that's enough, Cameron scolded. This conversation's over.

As he knelt down to give Conan a pat on the head, something in the stack of mail caught his eye.

A name.

He brushed aside the bills and junk mail and snatched up the magazine. The title, BladeSmith, glowed in bright, fire-hued letters at the top. Below it was a grim-faced man with long hair and muscular arms folded across his bare chest. His forearms were wrapped in black studded leather, and he looked like a blacksmith from a Viking movie.

Cameron knew exactly who he was.

His fingers gripped the page as his eyes read and re-read the name on the cover.

Shane Calhoun.

Cameron wrenched open the magazine and found the cover story.

Six whole pages...

In the middle of the article was a centerfold poster. Cameron popped it out without a thought to what damage the staples might do to the paper and unfolded the poster.

You've got to be kidding me.

Shane Calhoun was bare-chested like the magazine cover, his tawny skin flecked with sweat as he raised a massive hammer over his head, preparing to smash it down upon a glowing blade he held against an anvil. His eyes flashed with fire and the veins in his neck and arms bulged out. His dark hair flew wildly, contrasting sharply with the mountain of flames that roared behind him. The words "Shane Calhoun: Master of Metal" were branded across the image in white-hot letters. The left side of the page faded to darkness and several of Shane's signature weapon designs were displayed along with their ridiculous names.

Cameron's eyes were riveted to the man's scowling face.

Shane Calhoun.

He crumpled the poster and flung it to the ground, almost hitting Conan. The dog looked up at him with a curious expression.

Cameron's knuckles were white as he gripped the countertop. He stared into space, feeling the flames of anger spreading across his soul.

Shane Calhoun... that lying son of a -

"Hey Cameron! The road's a-waitin!'"

Cameron stepped out onto the porch. His face was as dark as a storm cloud. Mindy's smile vanished.

"I...I can't go with you today," he said with a sullen voice. "I'm sorry."

Mindy opened her mouth to ask what the problem was, but his expression let her know that he wasn't interested in explaining himself. She just nodded and smiled again, though it was much weaker than before.

"Okay, no big deal. I'll catch you next time."

"Sure." Cameron turned and headed back inside.

Mindy watched him leave, then turned with a shrug and sprinted down the street.

****

Cameron didn't hear the crushing chords of Megadeth's latest opus. His tongue didn't taste the beer that he poured into his mouth every few seconds. All he saw were the words on the glossy magazine pages.

"...Innovator in the world of weaponry... Pays reverence to his predecessors while blazing his own fiery trail... Boasts a celebrity client list longer than the Spear of Algendorn... Guest of honor at DragonCon in Atlanta..."

Cameron gulped another mouthful of tasteless beer. His eyes fell upon a short paragraph near the end of the article.

"And when Shane isn't pounding steel into submission or scaling boulders in his custom Jeep rock crawler, he likes to kick back and shred some killer riffs with his heavy metal band Mother Mothra, named after the famous flying monster that gave Godzilla quite a thrashing. 'Everything in my life is extreme,' Shane says as he takes in the view from his home in San Bernardino. 'If it's not full-on full throttle, I don't want anything to do with it.'"

Cameron threw the magazine onto the table in disgust. He brought the beer bottle to his lips, but it was empty. He started to throw it too but he stopped himself and set it down on the table beside the sofa. His eyes glowered like coals as he stared into space, clenching and unclenching his fists. Conan watched him with lethargic sympathy, giving his leg a nuzzle just to remind him that the world wasn't over.

Cameron glanced down at the dog and inhaled deeply.

"I swear, buddy, if that guy was here now, I'd..."

His clenched teeth cut off the rest of the sentence, and he felt the mercury rising in his brain.

"That guy owes me everything!" he shouted to Conan. "I gave him a seat at the table, and what does he do? He grabs all his chips and runs for the door. And now look at him."

Conan's eyes lazily drifted towards the cover that Cameron held in front of his nose.

"He gets the BladeSmith cover story, he gets to become the next Kit Rae, and it's all because he stole my – "

The cell phone on the table buzzed with an irritating pop song. Cameron grabbed it and looked at the number. He closed his eyes and cursed silently.

"Hey Tyler," he said as he answered the call. "Yeah, yeah man, sorry, I just... Today was pretty hectic for me and I came home and crashed... Sorry man, I totally forgot about the game... Nah, you guys go ahead, I think I'm going to sit this one out... No, yeah I'm fine, just got caught up in some stuff... Yeah I know... All right man, tell the guys it's my bad... I'll bring a case of the good stuff next week as an apology... Okay, good luck... Later."

He slumped back against the sofa and rubbed his eyes. Crap.

He looked down at the magazine. Shane Calhoun smirked up at him victoriously. Cameron threw the magazine in the trash and walked over to the window. He could hear the music now, and it started to soothe him a little. He could feel himself slamming a hammer down on a glowing steel blade with the rhythm of the song.

That's what he needed to do to get Shane Calhoun out of his head.

We'll see who pounds steel into submission.

His exit from the living room was arrested by the cell phone buzzing again. He frowned and looked at the number.

Toby?

"Hello?" he said.

"Hey bro, how's it going?"

Something wasn't right. Toby didn't sound like his usual slick-talking self.

"Uh, not much," Cameron answered warily. "Just chilling at home. What's up?"

There was a pause for a moment. Cameron thought he could hear Toby scratching his head.

"Listen, Cam, I...I've got something important to tell you, and you're probably not going to like it."

Cameron didn't know why, but he glanced down at the magazine in the trash can.

"What's up?" he repeated.

"It's about your old pal Shane Calhoun."

Cameron winced. "Okay."

"He, uh...did you see the latest issue of BladeSmith?"

Cameron paused. "Uh, no, why?"

"Well...the feature story is about Shane, and the studio...listen, I hate this guy as much as you do, and I know it should be you up there with your name in lights, but the fact is...well, that it's his name in lights, and the studio suits were really impressed with it all. He's been very visible lately, showing up at all the conventions, doing guest appearances on the roundtable discussions after that fantasy show that everyone's into these days..."

"Toby, just give it to me straight."

Toby sighed. "They're giving the Ravenblade project to Shane."

Cameron exhaled slowly through his nose.

"If you had come up with something, even a sketch or two," Toby continued, "maybe you could have held their attention, but I told you about it weeks ago and you haven't even made a peep. I know you're busy with other things, but I told you before, these people don't wait. And now they think that Shane is the Star of Bethlehem and that's what they're going to follow. These guys don't care about quality or legacy or any of that stuff...they just want to make the biggest splash as soon as possible. That's showbiz, man, and sometimes it comes back to bite you."

There was silence for several moments.

"Cam? Cameron, you there? Come on buddy, say something."

"It's their movie," Cameron answered quietly. "They can hire whoever they want."

"Come on man, don't be like that. And believe me, I fought for you, but these guys...when they make up their mind, that's it. Anyway, it'll probably flop, right? I mean, you said it yourself, the book sucks. You didn't want the job anyway. Who knows, maybe this is a blessing. Maybe Shane will crash and burn along with the movie."

"Maybe."

Silence.

"Listen," Toby said, "I don't mean to bum you out. Just keep doing what you're doing, and I'll poke around and see what turns up. And hey, you can scribble something on a napkin or whatever and I'll get you compensation from the studio for your time and services. Maybe just be a couple of Ks but it's something."

"Don't worry about it."

"What, you're Honest Abe now? Come on, I feel bad. Let me make it up to you this way."

"Sure, okay, whatever you say."

"Thanks pal. Listen, you know I got your back, right? We've still got that glowing ember from that first movie, and we're going to fan it into a roaring fire. Shane Calhoun can eat a bowl of – "

"Listen Toby, I've got to get to work. Thanks for calling."

"Work? Now?"

"Yes."

"Um, okay. You do what you gotta do. I'll hit you up later for that sketch."

"Sure. Good night."

Cameron ended the call and stared through the blinds towards the dark, quiet street.

Toby was right - he had never liked the Ravenblade job, which was why he had put it off for so long. He wasn't angry about losing the project and the money and recognition that would come with it.

He was angry that they gave the job to Shane Calhoun.

He heard a crack and looked down at the cell phone in his hand. A long white line sliced through the touchscreen. He hadn't even realized that he was squeezing it so hard.

Conan ambled up to him and nuzzled his leg. Cameron glanced once more out into the darkness, then headed towards the kitchen. He didn't feel like working right now.

"Come on boy, let's go do your business."

Conan followed obediently behind him.

### CHAPTER 5

"You know," Mindy said, her voice surprisingly steady as she ran, "I was beginning to think you were never going to come jogging."

"Hmm." Cameron's eyes stared straight ahead.

"To be honest, it was getting a little boring running here by myself. I mean, people are friendly and all, but not like where I'm from. People here wave hello but they rarely say anything. I guess I'm just used to a bit more conversation."

"Hmm."

Mindy looked sidelong at him. "You okay? You seem distracted or something."

Cameron kept his gaze on the road ahead. He didn't notice Mindy's clingy pink jogging outfit, or the way the sun gleamed on her golden hair, or how smooth her skin looked with the slight film of sweat. His eyes were glued to the hot, shimmering asphalt, and his ears heard only the pounding rhythm of his heart.

"I'm fine. Just something going on."

Mindy smirked. "Okay, Mr. Strong Silent Type. I should warn you - I'm a chatterbox, so don't be afraid to jump in there and stop me if I start rambling too much."

"Hmm."

They jogged in silence for a few minutes, then Mindy spoke up again.

"So I found a job here."

Cameron might have nodded, or his head could have just been bobbing with his steps.

"I'm working the front desk at Jax's Gym," she went on. "It's only part-time for now, but it's not too bad...plus I get to work out there for free."

"Hmm."

"I've also joined a yoga class. A lot of people back home think yoga is all New Age, mushy hippie stuff, but people are a bit more open-minded out here."

"Hmm."

"It's kind of hard to make friends, though. I don't know if people think I'm just a ditzy Southern gal who doesn't get California, or if they just take longer to warm up to you out here. People are polite and all, but where I come from, people have house-warming parties and mixers and barbecues. I thought California was going to be one endless pool party but it's been a little dull, to be honest."

Cameron imagined ramming one of his intricate custom daggers through Shane Calhoun's temple.

"You like pie?" Mindy asked.

"What?" Cameron asked, blinking quickly.

"Pie. You have pie out here in California, right?"

"Um, sure."

"Well, I absolutely mean to brag when I say that my pecan pie won first prize at the Nashville Farm Fair two years in a row. I don't know how the pecans out here stack up to those back home, but I'm like Michelangelo when it comes to pie."

Cameron imagined smashing a pie in Shane Calhoun's face.

Mindy narrowed her eyes at him as a faint smile stole across her lips.

"If you'd like, you can come over sometime and try some. I bet you've never had pecan pie made with true Southern hospitality."

"Um, no, I haven't."

"How about tomorrow?" she said.

"Tomorrow what?"

"Have some pie, silly."

She gave his arm a playful smack.

"Oh, yeah. Sounds great."

He managed a quick smile.

Mindy smiled back, though her eyes still regarded him with suspicion. "You sure you're all right?"

Cameron coughed, even though he didn't need to. "Yeah, sorry. It's just...work stuff."

"You know, you've never told me what you do."

"Do what?"

"Your job. What's your job?"

Cameron's face flushed red, though it was pretty red already from the exercise.

"You'd probably think it's silly."

Mindy pursed her lips. "I doubt that. Here, let me take a guess."

She stared at him like a detective sizing up a suspect.

"You obviously work at home," she said, "and you obviously make a decent salary. Computer programmer? Web designer?"

Cameron shook his head. His cheeks felt hot.

"Credit card scammer? Identity thief?"

Cameron jerked his head towards her. "Of course not!"

"I'm kidding," Mindy said with a laugh. "I give up. Come on, tell me. I won't think it's silly. Promise."

Cameron looked up and saw that they were in front of his house. He breathed out and wiped his brow.

"Here," he said as he motioned with his hand, "let me show you."

Mindy put her hands on her hips as she caught her breath, then she followed Cameron up to the front door of his house.

Cameron unlocked the front door, feeling like his legs were on fire. He heard Mindy's footsteps behind him and he quickly entered the house, hoping that she didn't notice his quivering knees. She did this every day?

Mindy paused at the open door and looked down at the sad-eyed beagle staring up at her.

"It's okay," Cameron said, "he doesn't bite."

Mindy smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, I get kind of nervous around dogs. I had a bad experience as a kid."

"Well Conan's so old, he couldn't hurt you even if he wanted to. He's quite the charmer, actually."

"He learn that from his owner?"

Cameron didn't know how to read her expression, and he disguised his confusion with a smile that looked like he was baring his teeth for the dentist.

"Come on, the shop's out back."

He was grateful that he had picked up a bit around the house that morning, and he hurried Mindy through the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't notice the sink full of dishes. If she spotted all of the weapons hanging from the walls, she didn't say anything.

"Stay on the path," Cameron said as they stepped out into the backyard. "The rest belongs to Conan."

Mindy tensed instinctively, glancing down at her brilliantly white running shoes. "Got it."

She stared curiously at the small building made with aluminum siding. "You work in there?"

"Yep." Cameron yanked the lock away and flung open the door. Mindy let out a short scream, then clamped her hands over her mouth.

"What?" Cameron asked with concern.

Mindy stared at the assortment of knives, swords, axes, and every manner of sharp metallic thing glinting in the late afternoon sun. Then she saw the tools and the workbenches, and the sketches and diagrams on the wall.

"Nothing," she said sheepishly. She stepped into the workshop, staring around in amazement.

"Did you make all these?"

Cameron nodded, beaming with pride. Mindy walked with slow, measured steps as she studied the fearsome weapons hanging on the walls and lying on the shelves and benches.

She turned around to face him. "So this is your job? You're a...a blacksmith?"

Cameron chuckled. "Well, sort of. I make weapons by hand, but I use a lot of modern equipment and techniques. It's not like in the movies about the Middle Ages."

A cloud passed over his face.

Or in the magazines...

Mindy's mouth hung open as she gazed at the weapons, each one as beautiful as it was lethal.

"This is so cool!"

"Really?" Cameron asked, hoping he didn't sound too much like a high school boy who just landed his first prom date.

"Yeah!" Mindy exclaimed. "You get to make swords for a living! Most people sit at a desk or behind a cash register, but you're in here making things that could totally kill someone!"

Cameron kept his smile steady but his eyes betrayed his confusion.

"Um, yeah, I guess so."

Mindy walked over to a shelf. "Can I touch it?"

Cameron nodded.

With wide-eyed reverence, Mindy picked up The Sword of Nine Souls, a piece he had made about five years ago. It was based on a series of fantasy novels that had since faded into obscurity, and there wasn't really any more demand for the sword.

Mindy's eyes flashed as she grasped the sword with both hands and brandished it in front of her. For a moment, Cameron had a vision of her as a warrior clad in a physically impossible metal bikini, standing over a heap of dismembered corpses...

"Wow, it's light."

Cameron snapped back to reality, feeling that irritating heat in his cheeks again. "It's normalized steel," he replied. "Stronger and more flexible than regular steel."

"So who do you make these for?" she asked as she admired the blade's sharpness.

"Lots of people. Collectors, conventions, sometimes just for fun." He paused for a moment, then added, "Sometimes I make them for the movies too."

Mindy's mouth fell open. "Seriously?"

Cameron nodded. He felt as if he had just scored the winning touchdown. "I don't know if you saw it, but there was a movie last summer with – "

"Whoa!" Mindy blurted, rushing towards the corner. "That is gorgeous!"

Cameron's words crumbled in his mouth, and he looked helplessly towards the new-found object of her excitement.

Mindy gazed up at an extremely delicate dagger hanging over an assortment of axes. She placed the Sword of Nine Souls on a nearby workbench without taking her eyes off the weapon on the wall.

"What is that?" she asked breathlessly.

Cameron squinted at the dagger. It was one of his most feminine designs, which was probably why it had attracted her attention. It was in fact a dagger wielded by a heroine in a popular graphic novel and was still selling well. Cameron didn't hate it but he didn't love it either. It had just been a job and he didn't put too much heart and soul into it. With the way Mindy was looking at it now though, he was wondering if perhaps he had without realizing it.

"That's called Bel-dorien," he said, reaching up to take it down from its perch. "It's technically a dagger, but the character that uses it is pretty small, so it's like a sword to her."

He handed it to Mindy, who held it like a bouquet of flowers. Her eyes sparkled as she studied the delicate engravings on the blade. The entire weapon seemed like it came from nature, not from a machine.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly.

Cameron didn't know why, but he was surprised to hear himself say, "If you like it so much, you can have it."

Mindy gasped. "Really? I mean...no, no I couldn't. Something like this has got to be real special to you."

"Well, actually it was just..." Cameron stopped, wondering if dismissing the dagger would hurt her feelings, since she clearly adored it. "Yeah, it's special, but I've got a lot of special things here. I want you to have this."

"Wow..."

Cameron was starting to feel awkward. It wasn't really that beautiful, was it? Especially compared to the rest of his repertoire. There was the Vengeance of Lucifer, and Kaldor, and the battleaxe of Throthfeliel the Vanquisher, and...

"I'm going to make you more than just pie," Mindy said, staring at him with determination. "I'm going to make you the best meal you've ever had in your life. And then I'm going to make pie."

Cameron didn't know what to say, so he just mumbled, "Um, sure."

Mindy beamed. "Tomorrow at seven?"

Cameron looked over her shoulder at Conan, who had been standing in the doorway the entire time. He reminded Cameron of a sage, and he could hear his voice drifting across the wind.

A great warrior never refuses pecan pie...

"That sounds great," Cameron said with a nod.

Mindy hugged the dagger to her chest, though she was careful to avoid the sharp edges. "Awesome. Tomorrow, then."

She walked out of the shop, cradling the dagger like it was a newborn baby. Cameron watched her leave, feeling a flurry of feelings. Conan watched her too.

She had her hand on the back door when she stopped and turned around with an embarrassed smile.

"Is it all right if I go through your house?"

Cameron laughed. "Sure."

He knew he should have offered to walk with her, but for some reason, it seemed more perfect to watch her leave like this.

Mindy smiled, and with a bounce of her ponytail, she disappeared inside.

Cameron looked down at Conan.

"Pecan pie," he said thoughtfully. "Hmm."

****

Cameron didn't think about Shane Calhoun at all the next day. He spent most of the day in the shop adding a micrometer edge to a two-and-a-half foot sword blade. He was quite pleased with how it turned out, and he was tempted to see if it could indeed split a proverbial hair, but he knew his skills weren't that incredible.

Yet.

He felt too mentally and physically exhausted to continue working past the late afternoon, so he headed back inside with Conan faithfully at his heels. He knew it was too early to head over to Mindy's house, but he didn't know what to do with himself until seven o'clock rolled around. He considering going over and offering to help, but he thought he might come across as too eager, like a clingy teenager who has finally found a member of the opposite sex who tolerates him. Besides, he knew he would be worthless in the kitchen.

So he plopped himself down on the sofa in the living room and aimlessly surfed the channels for a little while. He found himself craving a beer, but he decided against it. He wanted his taste buds to be fresh and alert for whatever delicacies Mindy was whipping up.

The TV program about rednecks-gone-wild disappeared from his vision and was replaced by an image of Mindy swirling and twirling through the kitchen, humming a country ditty as she baked, whipped, stirred, and fried up a down-home feast.

But why was she still wearing her jogging outfit?

Cameron frowned, then smirked in amusement. He realized he had never seen her wearing anything else. Would she wear a dress? Or maybe Daisy Dukes and a flannel shirt tied above her belly button? Or just a t-shirt and sweatpants?

His reverie was interrupted by a sharp, stabbing odor. He made a disgusted face and bolted out of the sofa.

"Conan!" he cried, looking down at the dog in annoyance. Then he felt a flash of embarrassment. He was the one who had been sitting there in the dark fantasizing about his neighbor.

Dude, this is getting pathetic.

He glanced up at the clock and gasped. 6:55.

He scolded himself as he dashed upstairs to change. Why hadn't he done it earlier?

****

Oh crap, he thought as he rang the doorbell. He was standing on her doorstep completely empty-handed.

Mindy opened the door and he cracked a smile that he hoped was charming.

"Come in," she said breezily, heading inside with a flutter of her pale pink sundress.

Cameron stood there for a moment, admiring her fetching figure, then hurried after her before she got too far away. A dozen savory smells slithered into his nose, and he felt like he could taste the food already.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to bring anything," he stammered, immediately regretting bringing it up in case she hadn't noticed.

"Oh don't worry," she said with a dismissive wave as she tied an apron around her waist and hovered over pots and baking dishes cooling on the counter. "I told you, this is my thanks to you."

She glanced up at him as she suddenly remembered something. Cameron was struck by her prettiness, especially with her hair down.

"Go look in the living room," she said with an excited smile. "That way."

Cameron turned and poked his head around the corner to peer into the living room. It was decorated with a quaint antique touch which clearly reflected Mrs. Goldstein's personality rather than Mindy's. Yet in the midst of the candlesticks, oil paintings, and porcelain, one item stood out.

Bel-dorien was suspended horizontally above the mantle. Cameron had to admit that it looked better that way, since the blade was curved and didn't hang down symmetrically. He couldn't hold back the smile that crept across his face. It was certainly unique among the well-worn antiques and fine lace, but for some reason, it also seemed to fit in with the rest of the decor. Even dominate.

Cameron looked back at Mindy, who was busy extracting a hot glass plate from the oven. Her eyes met his and his heart jumped.

"Did you see it?" she asked.

Cameron nodded. "I don't know if your aunt would have approved."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Mindy chuckled. "I found what I think is a pirate pistol in the attic."

"What?"

"Yeah. My aunt, the buccaneer."

Cameron laughed loudly, even though it wasn't funny. Mindy seemed pleasantly startled by his amusement, and she joined in. Then she gestured with her mitted hands towards the assortment of food spread across the counter.

"Hungry?"

Cameron licked his lips.

Oh yes...

****

"Wow," he half-spoke, half-groaned, leaning back and rubbing his full stomach.

Mindy beamed with pride. "Oh, this is nothing. You should see me during the holidays. I'm a machine. All the women in my family know a thing or two about making happy stomachs."

Cameron smiled. "A lot of people out here would call that backwards thinking."

"I know!" Mindy lamented, her shoulders falling. "There is nothing wrong with a woman that enjoys feeding her friends and family. Sometimes you west coast folks take your progressiveness a bit too far."

"Hey, my stomach is definitely on your side."

Mindy's face brightened again. "Well I hope you saved room for pie. It's my mother's secret recipe."

Cameron looked down at his stomach, which was pressing almost painfully on his belt.

"Bring it on."

Mindy flitted into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a dinner plate. On it was the largest slice of pie that Cameron had ever seen. Something inside him groaned with excitement and reluctance, like a guy being forced to down too many shots at his birthday party.

Mindy set the plate in front of him and stood over his shoulder like a mother waiting for her son to finish his vegetables. Cameron looked up at her with eyes that begged for mercy. She beckoned towards the pie slice with a nod of her head. Cameron exhaled, then dug his fork into the slice and took a bite.

One word flashed through his mind: magic.

He devoured the pie as if he hadn't eaten a thing all day. Even Mindy was a bit surprised.

"Another?" she asked cautiously.

Cameron nodded, his mouth too full to speak.

When the second slice had disappeared and the plate was scraped clean of every delicious particle, Mindy leaned forward from across the table.

"I said it was my mother's secret recipe, didn't I?"

Cameron nodded. He was on the verge of vomiting but his head was swimming with ecstasy.

"You want to know the secret?"

Cameron nodded, not really listening.

"Marijuana."

Cameron jerked as if he had just woken up. Then he saw Mindy's poorly-suppressed smile.

"Come on, don't do that," he said with a playful wag of his finger.

Mindy let the smile conquer her face and she sat back in her chair. "I thought you'd be excited. This is California."

"Hey, not everyone in California smokes weed."

"You mean you don't?"

Cameron shrugged. "I used to, but I found it slowed down my creativity. I like a beer at night and I'll have a hard drink every now and then, but I like to keep my mind clear."

Mindy nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I have this buddy at the gym who has the hook-up to the best stuff in town, so he says. It's definitely better than the bud back home."

She glanced around, as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers. Then she smiled sheepishly at herself and looked again at Cameron.

"You can come over sometime if you feel, you know, stressed or something."

Cameron nodded politely. "Thanks."

Mindy slapped the table lightly with her hands. "So, would you like anything else?"

Cameron adamantly shook his head. "Oh no, please. I think I'm going to have to roll home."

"Oh, do you want to go so soon?"

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that. I meant when I have to go, I'll need to roll out because I ate so much and I feel like a ball..."

His words died away as he realized how stupid he sounded.

Mindy's face brightened again. "Well, how about some coffee in the living room?"

"That sounds great," Cameron answered, relieved that his error hadn't done any damage.

They migrated to the living room and Mindy set a saucer with a delicate coffee cup on the small table in front of Cameron. He regarded the cup with an artist's eye. It was finely crafted and probably quite expensive. A "pinky-in-the-air cup" as Chucky once said.

Mindy took a sip from her coffee and regarded him with soft yet intent eyes.

"So what's your story?" she asked casually as she set the cup down and crossed her legs.

Cameron cocked his head. "My story?"

"Mm-hmm. I know where you live, I know what you do for a living, I know you have a dog, but I don't know who you are."

There was a strange glimmer in her eyes. Cameron could tell that all of her attention was focused on him, and that made him nervous. He didn't know why; he should have been glad. She was certainly very attractive, even beautiful, and the evening was heading down a very desirable road.

So why did he feel like the room temperature had just jumped ten degrees? And why did the sofa suddenly feel so hard and lumpy? And why did his cheeks feel so warm?

"My story..." he said, his tongue feeling like lead. "Well, I...I was born in Maryland, near D.C. My parents were from Scotland, but I made sure I didn't pick up their accent. I didn't want to get made fun of at school. I played football in junior high but I wasn't really into it. I loved drawing so my folks sent me to art school in New York."

He stopped. Mindy was nodding and watching him with keen interest, even though he knew that what he was saying wasn't interesting at all. He felt self-conscious, exposed.

Dude, you're on the five-yard line. A touchdown is almost guaranteed. What are you waiting for?

Cameron looked down at his coffee.

Mindy noticed his silence. "Would you like some more coffee?"

Cameron shook his head, still keeping his head bowed.

"Are you okay?" Mindy asked, leaning forward and placing her hand on his knee.

Cameron would never know why he said the next words.

"When I was in New York, going to art school, my...my dad died."

Mindy gasped. Her hand moved to his arm.

"Oh Cameron, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...we don't have to talk about your life if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay," Cameron said, his voice quivering slightly. "I just don't think about it too much, that's all."

"Oh, gosh, Cameron," Mindy said with genuine sympathy, "I am so sorry."

Cameron nodded and smiled gratefully. He was also strangely relieved that she seemed to have lost the hungry gleam in her eyes.

Dude, don't kid yourself. Chicks always dig wounded guys.

As if on cue, Mindy leaned forward and hugged him. It was a light embrace separated by the coffee table between them, but it made Cameron stiffen instinctively. Mindy didn't seem to notice though, and she rubbed his back comfortingly. She pulled away after a few moments but her face lingered close to his. She stared deep into his eyes and her hand touched the side of his face.

She was waiting for him.

Cameron knew this was that crucial moment, and he deliberately killed it by looking down and hanging his head, as if overcome by a fresh wave of grief. Mindy swallowed and clasped his hand in hers. Her face flushed with a slight twinge of embarrassment.

"I feel so terrible," she sighed. "I ruined the whole evening."

"No, no," Cameron said quickly, feeling a little bit of regret for letting the chance pass by. "Our stories are woven with threads of sadness and happiness, and it's the sorrow that makes the fabric strong."

The contents of his stomach lurched. Are you kidding me? Did you really just say that?

Mindy's eyes sparkled again. "Wow. That's beautiful."

"I...read it in a book somewhere," Cameron lied.

Mindy's smile diminished slightly with disappointment. "Well it's very true. And I'm glad you told me about your father, even if it put a damper on the evening. Like you said, our happiness and sadness makes us who we are. We would be lying to ourselves if we only focused on the good times."

Cameron nodded, but he didn't say anything.

Mindy eased back into her chair and looked at him for a moment. "Would you like another cup of coffee? I'm afraid that one might be cold."

Cameron glanced down at the cup. "No thanks. I think I should probably be heading back. I've got to get up early in the morning."

Another lie, but he really did want to leave. He felt something inside him cursing him for being such a sissy, but he ignored it.

Mindy smiled, though her eyes were still sad.

"Sure." She rose from her seat and smoothed her dress. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No, of course not. We're friends, and friends tell each other these things."

She glowed. "Really? We're friends?"

Cameron glanced sideways at her. "Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't we be?"

Mindy reached out and gave him another hug, a full body embrace. It wasn't sexual, just warm and grateful.

"Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome," Cameron answered. He was feeling a lot better.

Mindy led him to the door. "Next time I'll break out the key lime pie. You think the pecan pie was good – wait till you try my key lime pie."

"I'm looking forward to that."

He reached for the door handle, but he stopped. She looking like she wanted to ask him a question.

"What is it?" he asked.

She glanced at her feet for a moment. "Could I maybe come by and watch you work sometime? I promise I won't be a distraction."

Oh, you certainly would be.

"Of course. Anytime."

"Thanks," she said with a warm smile.

Cameron opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

"Good night. Thanks for dinner. It was awesome."

"I'm glad you think so. We'll do it again soon."

Cameron nodded and headed down the walkway towards the street. He didn't turn around but he knew that she was still watching him. When he made it to his house, he glanced to his left. Her door was closed and the light was out.

He exhaled heavily and opened the door to his house. Conan was waiting for him in the foyer. The dog stared up at him with a disappointed expression.

Cameron tossed his keys into the lobotomized metal skull and raised his hands.

"What?"

Conan turned and shuffled towards the kitchen.

### CHAPTER 6

The alarm clock only shrieked once before Cameron slapped it silent. He rolled over and gazed up at the ceiling for a long time.

The voice in his head was as loud as the clock.

You blew it, man. Big time.

He knew the voice was right. And not because he had blown an opportunity to hook up with a sexy chick. He had sabotaged the evening on purpose.

And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.

There were several reasons swimming in his mind. Relationships with a neighbor were never a good idea; it was too soon; she might be too clingy considering her recent separation; she might actually be a man...

Cameron shook his head as he threw back the blanket.

Whatever.

He had work to do.

****

The voice in his head would not shut up for the whole day, like a needle in his brain.

You wimped out, man. And you deliberately backed away.

Cameron gritted his teeth as he slid the dull steel bar in and out of the power hammer.

What are you afraid of? She's a girl. There have been many like her before, and she'll probably not be the last. She was ready for you, man.

"I know!" he growled, whipping the unfinished blade out and throwing it to the ground.

Conan stared at him from the doorway.

Cameron squeezed his eyes shut and leaned on the work bench. What was wrong with him?

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open and saw a text message from Chucky asking him if he wanted to grab some wings and beer later that night. His fingers flew over the keypad.

Sorry cant, too busy.

He sent the message and slapped the phone closed. He glanced around the shop, staring at all the beautiful instruments of death.

You made these, he told himself. With your own hands. Look at this stuff. You're a badass, not a wimp. That guy last night, that wasn't you. That was some leftover high school hormonal confusion just working its way to the surface, like a bubble floating in oil. The real Cameron McConnell makes weapons with his bare hands. The real Cameron McConnell is a badass.

He caught his warped reflection on the chrome surface of a large broadsword. He stared at his compressed face, studying it like an artist studies a block of marble.

Like a flash of lightning, an image blazed through his brain. He nearly gasped, it was so shocking. His hand moved like a mechanical device, sliding a dirty piece of paper and a pencil in front of him. He quickly sketched a rough depiction of his face. He had done it so many times in art school, it was almost as easy as folding a paper airplane.

He stared down at himself for a moment, then raised the pencil again. With fine, delicate strokes that contrasted with the hastily-drawn face, he drew three sharp lines like claw marks trailing down his left cheek. Then he drew a swooping crescent that arced around his eye and came to a point above his eyebrow. He paused for a moment, and then drew several small triangles rimming the outer edge of the crescent.

Cameron stared down at the drawing for a long time. He glanced up again at his reflection in the sword blade, then snatched up the paper and started to crumple it.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said out loud.

But for some reason, he stopped. He remained still for several moments, then gently unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the workbench. His eyes gazed down at the simple sketch, and he could feel something growing in his mind. A seed taking root.

Something inside him whispered with awe.

Now that's badass.

Cameron's eyes didn't move from the paper. The gears and pistons in his mind were churning and whirling like they do when he hammers crude steel into art. After several long moments, he had to admit it was pretty sweet.

Like someone tapped him on the shoulder, his mind snapped back to reality.

Okay, fantasy time is over. As if you're really going to tattoo your face like that guy at the tattoo shop.

He felt embarrassed, even though he was alone.

His reflection stared at him from the broadsword.

No. No way...

****

Cameron didn't know how or why, but all day long, he could feel the seed taking root in his mind. Maybe it was the artistic spirit inside him, seeking a new outlet. Or maybe his subconscious was trying to redefine his appearance and, by extension, who he was inside.

Whatever it was, it wouldn't let go. He had pushed the scrap of paper aside and finished his work for the day, but he kept glancing at it, as if it were a tempting morsel of food. When he had wearily shuffled inside to fix a highly-processed microwave dinner for himself, he kept glancing at his reflection in the windows, which acted as mirrors against the darkness outside. He considered himself to be neither handsome nor ugly, but he knew that he wasn't unpleasant to look at. Throughout his life, he was usually thankful for his nondescript, though at least symmetrical, face and expression. He had never entertained the idea of changing his face, despite being in American's most cosmetic surgery-obsessed state.

But now, he didn't see completeness. He saw a vacancy. It was the same feeling after he had gotten his first tattoo. He had come home wearing the ink as a badge of honor, and he had marched into the bathroom to behold its splendor. And he did, for a couple of seconds. Then his eye gravitated towards the rest of his unadorned flesh. It was like a yawning white room with only one picture; the rest of the walls were naked.

So he went out and got more pictures. But with every picture he hung on his dermal walls, there were so many more that remained empty. He had always been attracted to "busyness" in art: compositions where every nook and cranny was filled with intricate, though necessary, details. He remembered being in awe of photos of the Taj Mahal, with every square inch of its pristine interior carved and painted with incredible detail. He knew his body was no Taj Mahal, but the principle was the same.

This penchant for adornment carried over into his work. He was quite well-known in the fantasy weapons world for the delicate engravings he etched into his sword blades, and it was one of his signature gimmicks to sign his name on each weapon in a place that was nearly impossible to find. It was always a race among the collectors to locate his John Hancock and crow their triumph on the Internet forums. To date, no one had yet found his name on the Kahl Dath'i'ienen.

As he stared across the table at himself in the window, he felt that same familiar uneasiness, the compelling feeling that something was missing. Askew. He had always shaken his head as his mother had marched around their house when he was a child, meticulously straightening every picture that was even a millimeter crooked. He didn't even know how she could see such tiny imbalances in the first place.

But he felt it now. There it was, staring back at him. A blank canvas thirsty for paint, an empty blade waiting to be engraved.

He rolled his eyes as that annoying voice piped up inside of him again, like he knew it would.

Cameron, buddy, you can't be seriously considering this.

Cameron angrily stabbed his macaroni.

Well, what if I am?

The voice practically shouted.

Have you lost your mind? Why on earth would you want to TATTOO YOUR FACE? To prove what? That you're not a wimp who chickens out when an attractive girl gets a little frisky? Think about this! Everyone's going to think you're a freak or an ex-con or something. Think of the stares and discrimination you'll run into. Do you want to go grocery shopping looking like a barbarian?

Cameron's eyes were dark as he glared at his reflection.

Yes.

The voice was speechless.

Cameron shoved another forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth and chewed harshly.

That's what he wanted. He couldn't put his finger on it before, but it was clear now. He was tired of being just the blacksmith. He wanted to be the barbarian.

He pushed his dinner away and rose to his feet.

I make instruments of death my bare hands. I'm not a meek, polite suburbanite who goes jogging every day and TiVo's American Idol. I'm not like the rest of these people.

He looked outside but he could only see the kitchen and himself in the windows. For a moment, his nerve faltered. Then he clenched his jaw in determination.

Who cares what they might think?

He paused.

Who cares what she might think?

He didn't answer to anybody. He wasn't an office drone or retail worker who had to keep up appearances.

He was tired of being a wimp. He knew he was, even if no one else did. A wimp who was uncomfortable around women, who liked staying at home with his beer and heavy metal, who didn't have any best friends, just chums to play poker or get tattooed with. A wimp who pretended he was cool just because he made weapons in his backyard and drove a motorcycle. A wimp who was losing money and respect to that media-whore charlatan on the magazine cover.

Cameron closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt like he was on the precipice of the first hill of a roller coaster. He wanted to be there, but it was still terrifying. After a few measured breaths, he forced the fog of emotion and euphoria to dissipate and let the sunshine of logic warm his mind.

What would happen if he went through with this? He would look incredible, for one thing. He would also give old folks heart attacks and make mothers cling to their children when he would go out in public.

What about his business? He thought hard for a moment. Actually, people would think it was pretty awesome. And think of how he would look on the centerfold poster in BladeSmith.

A sly smile crept across his face. Yeah...

Electricity raced through his nerves. He bolted to the den and grabbed his camera. He mounted it on the tripod and stepped back a few yards. He took a few pictures of his face from different angles, then plugged the camera's USB wire into the computer.

He usually used the $2,000 state-of-the-art design program for work, but he was on a different kind of creative mission now. He loaded his photos onto the program's clipboard and shoved the keyboard aside to make room for the digital stylus and drawing pad. With careful strokes that were as crisp and fine as if they were drawn with ink on paper, he watched his vision come to life.

His eyes gleamed with the glow of the computer screen.

"Oh man...oh man..."

****

When Cameron opened his eyes the next morning, his thoughts immediately flitted to last night's burst of insanity. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes, and he let out a small chuckle.

Really. Tattoo my face...come on...

He rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Conan followed behind him like a butler ready to help his master with his toilette.

Cameron rubbed his eyes as he flicked on the light switch. He glanced in the mirror and froze.

The insanity came flooding back.

He took a step forward and peered closely at the image hovering above the sink. He didn't see what it was; he saw what it was missing. Just like last night in the kitchen window.

Where was this coming from? He had been perfectly content with his face up till now. And he still had plenty of available skin below the neck. So why the face?

He stared at himself as if he were bewitched. He saw it...dark shapes twisting around his eye, sharp spikes radiating away and tracking down his cheek.

It was awesome.

He shook his head to clear away the ridiculous vision.

You can't tattoo your face, man. You just can't. Now let it go.

He looked at Conan standing in the doorway. The dog never came in the bathroom, just like he never entered the workshop. He stared up at Cameron with a blank expression.

Cameron turned back to the mirror, staring keenly at his reflection. His heart was beating rapidly and he felt strangely anxious, as if a tattoo needle was hovering above him.

Well, if you insist on turning yourself into a freak, at least take a while to think about it. Don't do something that you'll regret later on. Though you'll regret this no matter when you do it.

It was sound advice. A good tattoo is never the result of a rushed decision, and it would be best to let this idea simmer for awhile.

Cameron smirked and shook his head. Am I seriously considering this?

After a quick shower and breakfast for himself and Conan, he headed out the back door to the workshop. He had a delivery to make to a well-known weapons shop in Pomona. He wrapped the sword in careful packaging and slung it over his shoulder. It was such a nice day, it would be criminal to waste it in the confines of a car. He remembered hearing somewhere that bikers referred to cars as "cages." On a day like this, that was a very appropriate term.

As he wheeled his motorcycle out of the garage, he glanced warily towards Mindy's house. He didn't know why he was leery of coming in contact with her. She didn't seem upset or disappointed when he left last night, and it's not like they were an item or anything. He didn't have any obligation to her feelings. If they were both on different pages, that was her problem, not his.

Is that so, hotshot? So who's thinking about scarring his face just to prove that he's really a barbarian?

Cameron frowned. Shut up.

The motorcycle purred smoothly as he headed out of the driveway onto the street. The precision tuning was almost musical, and he smiled to himself. He didn't need a big, lumbering chopper that rumbled on the verge of stalling out. To prove it to himself, he revved the engine and laid down a patch of rubber in front of Mindy's house.

His heart fluttered. What if she saw that?

He clenched his teeth as he sped down the road. Let her think what she wants. He wasn't going to goose-step around her feelings.

The wind whipped at his clothes as he zipped past slow-moving cages and raced out onto the highway.

He thought of Chucky. What would he say about his crazy idea?

And would he be able to help him set up an appointment with Ivan?

****

When he returned that evening, he bounced over the curb a little too fast as he sped into his driveway and the jolt caused him to rise out of his seat a little bit. As he shut off the engine, he thought he heard someone laughing, but it was difficult to tell with the helmet on.

He turned to his left, towards Mindy's house. He pulled off his helmet and squinted in the setting sun.

Mindy was kneeling down in the bed of geraniums, hard at work digging up the long-dead flowers.

"Take it easy there," she said with a smile. "You looked like a cowboy trying to break in a mustang."

Cameron felt sheepish and irritated, though he didn't really know why.

"Yeah, I, uh, get a bit too enthusiastic sometimes."

"Most men do," she said with a wink.

"Um...okay."

There was a pause for a moment and Mindy exhumed the roots of a withered patch of flowers.

"Look, Cameron..."

Cameron's stomach tightened. Oh great, here it comes...

"...I hope you don't have a bad feeling about me because of last night. I really am your friend, and I didn't mean to upset you."

Cameron watched her with a blank expression.

"So anyway," she said as she resumed her digging, "anytime you feel up for it, we could hang out again. You know, maybe a barbecue or something. It'd be a shame to let all this beautiful sunshine go to waste."

"It's California. There's always sunshine."

Mindy's eyes dropped, and she didn't say anything in reply. Cameron knew he sounded harsh but he wasn't going to change his tone.

Oh, look who's the big bad barbarian now? You don't need a facial tattoo; just act like a jerk all the time and people will get the message.

Cameron hopped off the motorcycle and started to wheel it towards the garage. He glanced at Mindy huddling in the dirt, her face shadowed by her wide-brimmed hat. He felt something prick at his emotional shell and it popped like a bubble.

"Mindy."

She looked up.

Cameron cleared his throat. "I cook a mean T-bone. If you've got time this weekend, maybe we can throw something together."

Her face brightened like the sun emerging from the clouds. "That'd be great. I'll definitely make some time this weekend."

Cameron agreed with a nod and a small smile. As he parked the bike in the garage, he heard that irritating voice again.

Come on man, why are you being such a drag? Just let your guard down for once. She's just your neighbor, and she wants to be friendly. There's nothing wrong with that, and it doesn't mean anything, at least not yet.

Cameron dropped his helmet into a basket. But it will later. At least for her. He opened the kitchen door and stepped inside.

How do you know that? And how do you know how you'll feel? You're thirty-two years old but you live like a grouchy old man. Like you said, this is California. Just chill, man. Don't go carving your face or anything stupid like that just to prove a point that no one's interested in anyway.

Cameron glanced around the kitchen, a little surprised that Conan wasn't waiting to greet him.

I want to do this for me. I'm not making a statement to the world or anything.

The sarcastic reply almost made him wince.

Psshh. Yeah right.

He peered around the island in the kitchen and saw where Conan's food and water bowl were resting on the floor. But no dog.

"Conan! Here, boy!"

He waited for a moment, expecting to hear heavy feet padding on the hardwood floors. Nothing. Only silence.

"Conan? Where are you, buddy?"

He tried to calm the rising current of worry that welled up inside him as he walked through the kitchen and into the living room. He was probably just taking a heavy-duty nap somewhere, maybe in the back bedroom.

Or maybe he was dying in the back bedroom.

Come on man, don't think like some paranoid mother. He's probably just zonked out somewhere and he can't hear you. After all, he's...

Cameron froze in the living room doorway.

"Conan!"

He rushed towards the entertainment center. Conan was sprawled out beneath the TV, lying in a puddle of vomit. His eyes were rolled white and his breathing was very shallow.

"Conan! Oh no..."

His eyes filled with tears as he hoisted the dog into his arms and rushed towards the garage. He bundled Conan into the back seat of the car and he frantically started the engine.

"Come on, come on," he breathed, tapping the steering wheel as he waited for the garage door to open. He reversed out of the garage with squealing tires, and Mindy's head jerked up from a cluster of freshly planted tulips.

"Cameron?"

Cameron didn't hear her as he raced down the street. He didn't even remember to close the garage door.

****

Mindy was doing yoga in her spare bedroom/workout room when she heard a car drive up. She wiped a thin film of sweat from her forehead as she peered through the blinds and saw Cameron's car pull into the driveway and stop. She saw him in the driver's seat, a lost, vacant look in his eyes. She watched him sit there for almost three minutes, then he blinked rapidly and drove slowly into the garage. There was a faint hum as the garage door closed, then silence.

She stepped away from the window and stood on the yoga mat. Should she go over there and see if he was okay? Something was obviously going on with him, and it had looked like an emergency from the way he had peeled out of his driveway a few hours earlier.

As she turned to head to the bedroom to change her clothes, something stopped her.

What if something terrible has happened? She wasn't exactly a close friend and she certainly wasn't a relative. What if he thought she was being creepy? What would she say, anyway? "Hey Cameron, I watched you sitting in your driveway looking sad. You want to talk about it?"

Mindy huffed loudly, blowing a strand of blonde hair away from her eyes. Why was it so hard to be nice sometimes?

With slow, almost reluctant movements, she rolled up the yoga mat and left the room to go take a shower.

### CHAPTER 7

The loud knocking rang in Cameron's head like a fire alarm. He winced and grabbed his ears as the headache barreled through his brain.

"I'm coming, I'm coming..."

He stumbled out of bed, bumping into the nightstand and jostling the whiskey bottle that miraculously did not tip over. He staggered like a caveman, his hands hanging down below his knees. His foot knocked against an empty bottle of Bacardi, and he frowned with confusion.

What...?

Then he remembered.

His knees trembled and he rushed to the wastebasket and expelled everything in his stomach. He coughed and spat, trying to dislodge a trail of spittle.

The knocking continued.

Cameron wiped his eyes and forced himself to stand.

Damn this stupid world...

He yanked the front door open and squinted as the sunshine stabbed his eyes.

"Dude!" Chucky exclaimed, wrapping Cameron in a suffocating embrace. "I'm so sorry, man."

Cameron gasped for air, and for a moment, he forgot about his blazing headache.

"How...how did you know?"

Chucky whipped out his phone. "Your tweet last night. Don't you remember?"

Cameron peered closely at the single line of text.

RIP Conan. You wer the best dog in the hole world.

"You spelled 'whole' wrong," Chucky said, "but you're grieving so it's fine."

Cameron rubbed his eyes. "I...I don't even remember writing that."

"It looks like you were hitting it pretty hard last night," Chucky observed as he wrinkled his nose.

Cameron nodded. "Listen, can we talk inside? I need some coffee and something greasy."

Chucky's face lit up. "Music to my ears."

In the kitchen, after piling his plate high with bacon and scrambled eggs, he looked at Cameron with a stern face.

"So dude, tell me what happened."

Cameron poked weakly at his own food, then gingerly nibbled on a slice of bacon.

"When I came home last night, he was just... He was lying on the floor in the living room, barely alive. I rushed him to the vet but he was gone in less than an hour."

"What was it?" Chucky asked as he filled his mouth with egg.

"Old age, mostly. He lived two years longer than the average beagle, so I guess he was lucky. He also had some kind of heart disease called sub-aortic stenosis. It can be fatal but I never knew he had it. He wasn't a purebred; I just got him from the pound."

"How'd he get it?"

Cameron shrugged. "How do we get cancer or an aneurysm? It just happens. Nothing we can do."

Chucky stared at him for several moments. "That's kind of a bummer, man. I know you're sad and all but you sound like some German philosopher or something."

"Well it's true, isn't it? We're here and then we're not."

"Come on man, don't think like that. Conan was an awesome dog. You got him right after college, right? That's a long time, man. I think something like that endures, even if it's just as memories. It's sad that he's gone, but you got to think positive. Think about all the great times you had with him. Remember when you fed him those pot brownies?"

A small smile cracked Cameron's stony expression. "No, you fed him those pot brownies after I told you not to bring them to the party. Dogs can't eat chocolate anyway, you idiot."

Chucky laughed so hard that scrambled eggs fell out of his mouth in like a yellow waterfall. "That was too funny, man, the way he was stumbling around the house. He wouldn't stop humping that one girl's foot, remember?"

Cameron had to chuckle. "Yeah. She was so pissed. I kind of liked her too but Conan ruined any chances of that."

Chucky wiped his eyes. "Ah, too funny, man."

"Yeah."

Their laughter dissipated like an echo and they ate their food in silence. Cameron chewed his bacon thoughtfully, then tilted his head as if he was listening for something.

"Chucky."

"Yeah?"

"I had an idea yesterday. I don't know where it came from, but I can't get it out of my head."

"Uh-oh. I know how you get with new ideas. You're like a leech, man. You latch on and you won't let go. Maybe that's why you're such an awesome weapons designer."

Cameron swallowed uncomfortably. "Yeah, uh, thanks. Anyway, I wanted to run it by you. It's going to sound crazy, but I want to know what you think."

Chucky set down his fork with a clatter. "Shoot."

"I'm thinking about getting a tattoo on my face."

He watched Chucky's reaction closely. But there wasn't any reaction. Chucky was as still as a stone. Even his eyes didn't move or blink.

After several seconds, Cameron leaned a little closer.

"Chucky?"

Chucky's face broke into a huge, toothy smile. "Dude! That would be incredible!"

Cameron's eyebrows shot up and he moved back to avoid the tiny food particles that came flying out of Chucky's mouth.

"Are you serious?" he asked cautiously, afraid that Chucky was kidding.

Instead, Chucky grabbed his shoulders and shook him like a doll. "Dude, you're insane! Insane! But I love it!"

Cameron was totally unprepared for this kind of enthusiasm. "But...but don't you think there are some downsides? I mean, it's going to be on my face."

"I know! And everyone will see how awesome you really are!"

"Chucky, seriously." Cameron was beginning to feel like Chucky was the one getting the tattoo and it was his responsibility to talk him out of it. "What are people going to think? I don't want to be some kind of freak."

"Dude, who cares? Screw everybody else. It's your face, man; do what you want!"

Then Chucky's expression transformed from over-the-moon to stern headmaster.

"Are you really thinking about doing this or is this just a half-baked 'maybe I'll do it one day when I'm rich and famous and don't care what anyone thinks' never-actually-going-to-happen idea?"

Cameron's mouth hung open for a moment as he tried to process the torrent of words. "Well, I told you I only thought about it last night, but it's really in there, man...Like a weevil, eating at my brain."

Chucky leaned forward on his elbow. "You know what my brother told me before he left for Iraq and got blown up in a spice market?"

"Um...no."

"He said, 'You don't need a reason why. You just need a reason why not.'"

Cameron furrowed his brow. "That doesn't – "

"Of course it does! The absence of a reason not to do something is actually a reason to do something!"

"Now wait a minute, Chucky, I don't think that's what your – "

"Do you have a reason why not?"

"Huh?"

Chucky stabbed the counter with his meaty finger. "Right now, can you tell me a reason why you should not get a tattoo on your face? And don't give me any crap about what people might think, what your mother would say, blah blah blah. Tell me, right now. Is there a reason why you should not get a tattoo on your face?"

Cameron stared at Chucky and his mind raced. He felt like a schoolboy rushing to finish an exam but was stuck on one impossible question.

What were the reasons why not? The most obvious answer was people's reactions. Would people still want to be friends with him? And what about his family? How could he show up at Christmas dinner looking like some tribal warrior?

His thoughts broke through the haze. This is your face. You don't have any obligation to anyone to keep yourself all clean and presentable.

He felt like rolling his eyes. Oh, now you change your mind. But he listened anyway.

Chucky's right. If you want to do it, then do it. Don't think about the consequences. People might be a little weirded out at first, but they'll get over it. They might respect you more. This is a pretty ballsy thing you're thinking about here.

Cameron sighed. "I don't know, man. I think I really want to, but I also think I should wait a while. It's not like a shoulder piece that I can easily cover up. This is going to change my face forever."

Chucky nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. But don't chicken out on me, man. It's not cool to get my hopes up for nothing."

"Then why don't you get a tattoo on your face?"

"Me?" Chucky scoffed. "No way. I'm not that crazy."

"Oh, you think I'm crazier than you are?"

"Absolutely."

Cameron had no reply, so he just looked down at his bacon.

"One question, if I may," Chucky said.

"Sure."

"What the hell put this idea in your head in the first place?"

Cameron opened his mouth but was silenced when Chucky's hand flew up.

"It was that guy at the tattoo shop, wasn't it? I saw you watching him when he came in. That dude's a maniac, man. They call him 'The General.' I think he used to be a mercenary or something down in South America."

Cameron snorted in disbelief. "Oh come on."

"It's true!" Chucky said with wide eyes. "He got those tattoos from some Indian tribe in the Amazon."

His eyes narrowed. "That better not be your reason, man. It's bad tattoo manners to copy someone else."

"It's not, all right?" Cameron said with exasperation. "I just wanted...it just came to me, when I was working. You know me, how I like decorating things. Why not decorate my own face?"

"There you go!" Chucky declared with a slap on the counter. "That's what I want to hear! 'Why not?' Screw this keeping-up-appearances world and its rules that everyone thinks they have to follow. Life is short, man! You were reminded of it last night. That's what Conan would have wanted!"

"My dog would have wanted me to get a tattoo on my face?"

"No, man, he would have wanted you to seize life by the balls and stop tip-toeing around wondering if you're going to break the eggshells. Stomp on those eggshells, man! People pay you lots of money to make things that can kill people! I'm telling you, you're a badass! Let 'em know the moment they see you!"

Cameron found himself becoming infected with Chucky's excitement. He was doubly surprised that the voice of reason inside him raised no objection. Chucky's words rang in his ears: "It's what Conan would have wanted..."

"So," Chucky said as he hopped off the kitchen stool, "what are you going to get?"

Cameron licked his teeth, then retreated to the den and brought out the doctored photos of himself. Chucky's eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

"Dude...dude..."

Cameron felt the fires of pride glowing hotter with Chucky's admiration.

"What do you think?" he asked, almost rhetorically.

Chucky turned slowly towards him, holding the photos like they were the Declaration of Independence.

"Cameron," he said gravely, "if you don't get this tattoo, I will publicly disown you as my friend."

****

Their feet smacked the pavement in unison, and their panting breaths were synchronized almost exactly. Mindy was the first to notice the accidental harmony, and she glanced sideways at Cameron.

"You know, I was wondering if you would come out anymore," she said. "I thought you lost interest after that first time. You didn't seem to enjoy it much."

Cameron shrugged, though the gesture was lost by the movement of his body as he ran. "It's always a good idea to stay in shape."

"So how do you exercise?"

"I don't, really. I guess I'm lucky that I'm not a fat slob, because I definitely don't eat right. It'll catch up with me one day though."

"Not if I have any say in it," Mindy said with a strange smile.

They jogged in silence for about ten minutes. Cameron found his mind wandering again, but his thoughts weren't diverted by Mindy's curvy figure or Shane Calhoun's increasing publicity.

He was thinking about his appointment tomorrow with Ivan.

For some reason, he had a nagging compulsion to tell Mindy. He felt like he was keeping a secret from her. In fact, he was. But what could he say? "Hey, next time you see me, I'll have a different face."

No way.

Ever since Chucky's unrestrained enthusiasm the day after Conan died, he had felt that seed take root in his mind and grow taller and stronger with each passing day. After almost a week, he decided he was going to take the plunge. The nagging voices in his head had remained largely silent, but the clearest confirmation came when he glanced at the doctored photo that he had taped to his bathroom mirror. Every time he saw it, it seemed like the photo was the mirror, and that his own reflection was an unfinished project.

He was excited, too. No one would look at him the same again. He would be revered and hated by people who normally would not look twice at him. He might lose friends, and probably make a lot more. And what would this do for his business?

That reminded him to contact that computer geek who set up his website a few years ago. That thing looked like a high schooler's blog that hadn't been touched in months. It was time for a face lift.

He smiled. A face lift.

"Cameron?" Mindy said.

"Yeah?"

"I haven't seen or heard Conan for several days. Is he all right?"

Cameron's mood darkened instantly, but he told himself that she was just being polite.

"Actually, he, uh, he died. That day you were planting the flowers."

Mindy figured as much, but she still gasped with surprise. "I'm so sorry, Cameron. He seemed like such a nice dog."

Cameron nodded. "He was pretty old, and it was just his time."

Mindy placed a hand on his arm as they ran. The gesture struck Cameron as extremely gentle, and he was grateful for her kindness.

"Mindy..." he began.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes were beautiful. He lost his nerve.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"You're welcome."

Don't do it, man. She'll probably try to talk you out of it.

Cameron glanced at her, but she didn't notice. She probably would try and talk him out of it. And he would probably agree. And he would go on being the pansy that he always was.

He clenched his jaw and quickened his pace. He suddenly felt like being alone. Mindy noticed his acceleration and rushed to catch up with him.

"Want to make it interesting, huh?"

Cameron looked at her for a moment. She thinks I want to race. He slackened his pace a bit, because he knew she would beat him with minimal effort and he didn't want that kind of humiliation.

"Just wanted a little cardio jolt," he said.

Mindy squinted at him. "Okay..."

They ran the rest of the way without talking, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Cameron's house. Her face flushed with a rosy hue, Mindy turned towards him and smiled.

"You want to come over for a glass of lemonade? Hand-squeezed."

Cameron looked at her for a moment. He fought the urge to follow a bead of sweat as it streaked down her neck, falling lower and lower...

"Thanks," he muttered, "but I have a couple calls I need to make."

Mindy held his gaze, and she nodded once. "Okay. But don't forget our barbecue. You think Saturday evening will work?"

"Saturday. Sure." You might not recognize me, though...

She gave him a soft punch in the shoulder. "I put a picture of the sword online. Everyone loves it. Some of my friends back home want you to make something for them. I told them you're out of their league but I told them I'd ask you anyway."

Cameron stared at the palms towering over the rooftops as the wind rustled their leaves.

I wonder how much it will hurt...

"Cameron?"

He blinked. "Yeah?"

Mindy studied him with a curious expression. "Never mind. Well, go get your calls made. I'll catch you later."

Cameron nodded and walked up his driveway. Mindy watched him go inside, shivering slightly as a strong breeze slithered across her skin.

### CHAPTER 8

Ivan looked at Cameron, then at the picture in his hand, then back again at Cameron.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, more than a hint of caution lacing his voice.

Cameron licked his lips, which seemed very dry all of a sudden. "Yes. I am very sure."

Ivan glanced down at the paper and shook his head. "I mean, I really dig it, but this is just your fourth tattoo. Chucky told me that you came up with the idea only a week ago."

"Cameron's a stand-up guy," Chucky piped from behind Cameron's shoulder. "When he makes a commitment, he follows through."

"This isn't a wedding vow or construction contract," Ivan replied, narrowing his eyes. "This is your face."

Cameron folded his arms. "Listen, Ivan, I appreciate what you're saying, but my mind's made up. This is what I want, and I would you like you to put it on me."

Ivan didn't say anything for a few moments. He just stared at Cameron like a police detective sizing up a suspect.

"All right," he said as he flicked the picture with his index finger. "Let's rock this."

Chucky gave Cameron a powerful smack on the back. "This is it, man! This is going to be awesome!"

Cameron felt like a baseball was lodged in his throat.

Fifteen minutes later, he was laid back in a reclining tattoo chair, squinting at the neon lights overhead as Ivan put the finishing touches on the design with a pen. It was impossible to create a tattoo stencil for this particular piece so Ivan had to use the pictures as a reference and draw it directly on Cameron's face.

"All right man, go check it out."

Cameron stood up and turned towards Chucky.

"How's it look?"

Chucky's eyes were wide. "Man...that's crazy."

That did little to reassure Cameron's fluttering stomach. He inhaled a deep breath and walked over to the mirror. He knew he had no reason to be nervous; he hadn't gotten the tattoo yet, and if he didn't like it, he could just ask Ivan to change it.

Or he could forget the whole thing entirely...

He stepped up to the full-length mirror and raised his eyes. His heart jumped.

Whoa...

He saw his own reflection looking back at him, but at the same time, it wasn't him. Even though the pen lines on his face were rough and not filled in, the simple design had completely transformed his appearance.

He felt a surge of adrenaline race through his veins. He turned around and faced Ivan and Chucky.

"I...I don't know what to say..."

Ivan's eyebrows rose. "So...is that a yes?"

"Yes." Cameron looked back at his face in the mirror. "Oh yes."

"Well," Ivan said with a clap of his hands, "let's make that bad boy permanent."

Cameron was transfixed by the image in the mirror. A flurry of words rushed through his mind: terrifying, crazy, macho, primitive. But in reality, Chucky had got it right the first time.

It was awesome.

He eased himself back into the chair as Ivan began prepping his work station. Two machines were laid out, one with a single needle for the outline and one with multiple needles to fill it in. He poured out one color into the tiny ink cup: black.

Chucky perched on a stool next to Cameron. "You're my hero, man. You've got some major balls, I'm telling you."

Cameron smiled for a moment, though his attention was diverted to his pounding heartbeat. He was only seconds away from altering his face forever.

Forever.

Ivan hooked up the tattoo machine and pressed the foot pedal to give it some juice. The needle buzzed sharply and Cameron gasped. Ivan glanced at him with a smile.

"Not going to lose your nerve, are you?"

Cameron shook his head, unable to slow down his breathing.

I'm really doing this...

Chucky squeezed his shoulder. "Hang in there, buddy."

Cameron gave him a look of gratitude. He was really glad to have a friend sitting next to him right now.

"All right," Ivan announced with the tone of a judge about to pronounce sentence. "It's go time."

Cameron clenched his jaw and sucked in a strong breath through his nose.

Don't chicken out, don't chicken out, don't chicken out...

The needle touched his skin, just above his eyebrow. Blazing balls of fire exploded in his eyes.

"HOLY MOTHER...!"

Ivan chuckled as he dipped the needle in the ink cup. "Pretty gnarly, huh?"

Cameron laughed weakly. He could feel sweat already beading on his forehead. Then a shock of ice cold fear raced through his body.

I've got a tattoo on my face...

On my FACE!

His heart was thundering so hard, he thought his his ribs were going to crack.

I've done it... I've really done it...

A firm, resolute voice broke through the noise echoing in his brain.

Yes, you've started it, and it's too late to back out now, so don't freak out and cause Ivan to make a mistake.

Cameron gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight. The pain was incredible. Scorching. Buzzing. Raking. It felt like the needle was white-hot, scalding his flesh as it gouged his skin a dozen times per second.

His hands were shaking. Ivan noticed and said, "You hanging in there, pal?"

Cameron nodded faintly as Ivan pulled the needle away. "It just really, really hurts."

Ivan smiled, revealing several gold teeth. "That's the best part. The adrenaline rush from getting tattooed is a lot different from the high you get from something like bungee-jumping or skydiving. It's the pain, man. It's like an orgasm or something. It's so awesome and terrible at the same time, it's like...man!"

Cameron couldn't help but smile at Ivan's almost religious fervor. "Well I'm waiting for the adrenaline to kick in. Right now it's just pain."

"Oh, just wait my friend." The needle buzzed with sinister excitement. "Just wait."

****

Pain. Lots and lots of pain.

Ivan was right; there were moments of near-euphoria, but they would vanish instantly as the needle stabbed his cheekbone or rattled his temple.

Cameron fought to keep the tears at bay. His knuckles were white as he clung to the armrests as if he were in a plane spiraling out of control. He imagined a demonic monster laughing maniacally as it split his skull with a massive chainsaw, blood and bone and hair spattering against the walls.

Fire... Blood... Pain...

He heard a voice, distant and hollow. He couldn't trust his senses; every nerve in his body was tingling, and the left side of his face felt like it was melting. He was certain he could smell burning flesh.

"That's it, man," Ivan declared, scooting his chair back a couple of feet. "You're done."

Cameron was paralyzed. He lay on the chair like a corpse, staring blankly at the white lamp hovering above his head.

"Cameron?"

It was Chucky's voice. Cameron slowly turned his head, stretching the neck muscles that had been clenched as tight as bowstrings for the past two hours.

His mouth felt dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He swallowed, but there was nothing. His vision was swimming, but he could see one thing very clearly.

Chucky's eyes. They were as big as dinner plates.

"How...how does it look?" Cameron rasped.

Chucky blinked with wordless astonishment. Then he said, "Dude...you've got to see it to believe it."

Cameron's heart lurched. A single thought raced through his mind.

What have I done?

He felt something cool and stinging press against his throbbing cheek. Ivan gingerly wiped the tattoo with several cloths that quickly became dark with excess ink and Cameron's blood.

After it was clean, Ivan rose to his feet and motioned towards the mirror.

"Go check it out, man. Tell me what you think."

Cameron had to force his body to relax before he could move. The fire was spreading across his entire face now, and stars flashed before his eyes as a great wave of nausea crashed into his brain. For a second, he thought he might black out.

He felt Chucky's firm hand against his back. With his friend's help, he stumbled to his feet, tottering dangerously.

"Take it easy," Ivan advised. "You'll feel a bit dizzy for a while."

Cameron trudged towards the mirror, shuffling his feet like an old man.

What have I done? What have I done?

Chucky gave him a gentle push. "Take a look, Cameron."

Cameron's stomach was as tight as a drum. He didn't want to look. He wanted to believe that his face looked like it did in the doctored photos, but he didn't want to see the real thing.

But he knew he had to.

He raised his eyes, feeling more nervous than he had ever felt in his entire life.

He looked in the mirror.

His knees buckled, and he would have fallen down if Chucky hadn't kept him upright.

"Chucky..." he gasped.

Chucky's face split into a broad, toothy grin. "I know, right?"

Cameron couldn't believe his eyes. Despite the redness and swelling, the tattoo was...

Awesome.

His heart thundered like a jackhammer. He stared at his reflection in a daze. He couldn't have looked away even if he wanted to. He reached up and gingerly touched his face, as if to reassure himself that what he was seeing was real.

Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away and looked back at Ivan. The tattoo artist smiled.

"Well?"

Cameron couldn't speak for a moment. "I can't believe it," he finally sputtered. "It's...I feel like I've been transformed!"

"Well, you have," Ivan said as he pulled off his black tattoo gloves and unhooked the machine. "You have a new face, my friend."

A new face...

Cameron leaned closer, the artist in him finally taking control of his mind. He gazed keenly at the incredibly steady line work and marveled at the excellent ink coverage. Not a stray squiggle, not a single patchy spot. The three sharp lines streaking down his cheek contoured perfectly to the curvature of his skull, and the wide crescent arcing around his eye was flawless. The tiny triangles ringing the outside of the crescent were completely symmetrical, and the entire design flowed perfectly with the shape of his face.

"Ivan," he said, triumph ringing in his voice, "I love it!"

Ivan nodded sagely, though his eyes sparkled. "I've done some sick face tattoos for homeboys and bangers, but this is my best by far."

He pulled out a digital camera and snapped a couple of pictures to show Cameron how it looked in real life, rather than reversed in the mirror.

Cameron felt that flood of adrenaline that Ivan had promised. Chucky was beaming like a child at Christmas, and he pulled out his phone to take Cameron's picture as well.

"This is going on Twitter and Facebook right now," he announced as his chubby fingers flew over the touchscreen.

Cameron knew he had to let Ivan apply some healing balm to his face, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mirror.

Something stirred in his soul. This is who you really are...

"Cameron?"

Now everyone will know.

"Cameron?"

He turned around and looked at Ivan, who held up a white tube. "You can go all Narcissus later. Right now, we need to clean up your face."

Cameron smiled with embarrassment. He sat down like a schoolboy waiting for the teacher's instruction. Ivan smeared some mucus-colored cream on his face, causing him to wince. The cream felt a little hot when it touched his skin, but it was soothing. He could feel a ring of tightness around his eye where the skin had swelled, and he imagined he would look pretty strange later.

Well, more strange than he did right now.

Ivan cut a few bandage strips and stuck them on his face. The tattoo was obscured when he glanced in the mirror again. He looked like a burn patient now. Since this wasn't his first time around the block, he knew the drill with tattoos, and Ivan gave obligatory advice about lightly washing his face a few hours after getting home and to be sure to keep it clean and coated with ointment. Cameron agreed, still trying to sort out the chaos buzzing in his brain. A thousand thoughts collided in a neuron traffic jam: regret, excitement, residual pain, pride...

He turned towards Chucky. "Ready to go?"

Chucky laughed. "Me? You need to get some rest, pronto."

Cameron nodded, then dug into his wallet and slapped $600 into Ivan's hand.

"Thanks," he said. "It looks amazing."

Ivan flashed a gleaming smile. "Let me know how it heals. And remember to mention my name when people ask you about it. Something tells me you're going to have a lot more fans now."

"You think?"

"Sure. You look like some dude out of a movie or something."

"Yeah. I guess I do..."

He and Chucky left the tattoo shop, but he didn't feel like he was walking. He was floating, gliding above the ground. The sunshine seemed to focus on him like a spotlight.

He had done it. He had looked the beast in the eye and didn't blink. And now he wore a trophy that no one could miss.

He opened the passenger car door as Chucky stepped into the driver's side. He regarded his reflection in the side mirror, then turned to his friend.

"I look like I just got beat up."

Chucky laughed. "Imagine explaining your face to an ER doctor."

Cameron laughed as well, careful not to stretch the skin too much. As Chucky started the car and began to drive, Cameron looked back at the tattoo shop.

He felt as if he had left something back there.

****

When they pulled up to his home, Cameron peeked through the windshield at Mindy's house. Thankfully, she was nowhere in sight. He felt a new emotion: guilt. How would she react? Yesterday they were jogging buddies, and now he was wearing a different face. She would at least be extremely surprised, if not shocked and horrified.

He gave Chucky's shoulder a friendly pat. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Hey, no problem man. I still can't believe you did it. You're a maniac!"

Cameron glanced at his bandaged face in the side mirror. A maniac...

He got out of the car and peeked back in. "I think I'm going to stay inside for a couple days, till this thing looks presentable."

"Well it'll look good for a couple of days after the swelling goes down, but then it's the scabbing and flaking. You're going to be pretty gnarly for at least a week."

Cameron smirked. Pain spread across his cheek as even that tiny movement stretched the traumatized skin and muscles. "I'll call you later."

Chucky waved and drove away. Cameron exhaled, then realized that he was standing out in the open. He jumped like a rabbit and raced into the house. He still missed Conan greeting him like a condescending butler, but he was grateful that his beloved dog didn't see him like this. How would he have reacted?

The adrenaline from the tattoo was wearing off, and Cameron started to feel incredibly tired. He poured himself a glass of water to soothe his parched throat, then he staggered to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed with a grateful sigh, careful to lie on his right side. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he could still hear the tattoo needle buzzing in his ear...

****

He didn't know how long he slept, but he felt something pulling on the left side of his face, as if the tattoo ink were made of lead. He pried his eyes open and looked towards the window.

He didn't see the window. He saw his closet. His closet on the right side of the bedroom. Which meant that he was...

He clenched his eyes shut, cursing through his teeth.

He was lying on his left side, and his face was stuck to the pillow.

Uttering a continuous stream of curses, he tried to lift his head ever so gently. Instantly, blinding pain flashed through his face and he groaned. He couldn't let his head fall down on the pillow, since that would cause even more fabric to adhere to his tattooed skin. His eyes roamed his bed and he saw the bandage crumpled below his chin. Why did he have to be such a restless sleeper?

He tried to lift his head again, but with the same result. Grunting with exasperation, he picked up the pillow and held it against his face as he got up from the bed and headed towards the bathroom. He grabbed a hand towel from a rack on the wall. He soaked it in warm water, then held it above his head and squeezed it. The water ran down the side of his face and began soaking the pillow. He soaked the towel and squeezed it again and again until the pillow was saturated. Clenching his jaw and cursing once more for good measure, he slowly peeled the pillowcase away from his face. It wasn't as painful as before, but it was still agonizing. He felt like he was flaying the skin right off the bone.

Luckily only a few square inches of his face had adhered to the pillowcase, and after a few seconds of torment, he was free. He looked down at the pillow and frowned. A smudged crescent of ink and blood decorated the middle of the pillowcase. It was ruined.

He yanked the pillow free from its covering and tossed the pillowcase in the garbage. He looked down at the naked pillow and groaned.

"Oh, come on..."

The blood and ink had soaked through onto the pillow as well. He considered it for a few moments, then leaned out of the bathroom and tossed it back onto the bed. It was still a good pillow, after all.

He flicked on the bathroom light, afraid of what he would see in the mirror.

And for good reason. He was hideous.

The blood had smeared across his face and dried in dark clumps across his cheek. Dark clots rose like boils where the ink had seeped out and bonded with the congealed blood. His face looked as if he had been attacked by a rabid animal that had raked its claws across his cheek. He picked up the already-soaked hand towel and dabbed lightly at his face. The water stung his skin but it was soothing as well.

After a few minutes, his face was clean. He found the tube of healing cream still in his pocket. With slow, careful movements, he applied the cream to his skin, then he stood up straight and looked at himself.

The swelling had gone down a bit, though the skin was still red and irritated. But at least he didn't look like Quasimodo anymore.

He liked it, he really did. Perhaps "tattoo remorse" would kick in later, but right now, he was over the moon. He shook his head in disbelief.

You did it. You actually did it.

A knock at the door made him jump.

He looked around in a panic. He couldn't let anyone see him like this.

He rushed to the living room and peeked through the blinds. His heart sank.

Mindy.

He couldn't let her see him like this. Maybe he could just ignore her and she would go away...

"Cameron?" she called as she knocked again. "Cameron, you all right? I saw you come home with something on your face. Are you feeling okay?"

Cameron breathed a silent curse. She had seen him, but at least she didn't know what was going on. He raced back to the bathroom and draped the damp towel over the left side of his face. Demanding that his heart rate slow down, he opened the door.

Mindy's eyes widened immediately. "Oh my gosh! What happened?"

Cameron licked his lips. "Uh, allergic reaction. Bee sting. My face is kind of freaking out right now, but it should be fine in a day or two."

"Oh, oh well that's good." Her voice was heavy with concern. "Does it hurt?"

Like a mother. "Yeah, a little bit. The bee sting was the worst part, though."

"Well, do you need me to bring you anything? Food or medicine?"

"No, thanks, I've got some stuff. It's nothing really."

Mindy's head nodded like a bobble head doll. She still seemed pretty surprised. "Okay, well I just wanted to come by and see if you're all right."

A shadow of disappointment flickered across her face. "I guess this means we'll have to postpone our barbecue, right?"

Cameron's heart sank. The barbecue.

A forceful thought pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Listen, the old Cameron is gone. You left him in that tattoo shop. She's going to find out sooner or later.

He looked Mindy right in the eyes. "No. We're still on for the barbecue. I'll be tip-top by then."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay," Mindy said with relief. "Okay, well I'll see you on Saturday then. Take care of yourself, and if you need me to bring you anything, let me know."

Cameron nodded, pressing the towel against his head to keep it from falling off. He watched her step off the porch and walk down the driveway, his gaze lingering on the curves of her hips in her cutoff shorts. He felt something snarl with hunger inside him. Something wolfish...

He closed the door and took the towel off. His eyes flashed as a shadow clouded his brow.

The old Cameron is gone...

### CHAPTER 9

For the next few days, Cameron didn't leave the house at all. He had enough food in the fridge to last for a while, and he worked in the shop during the day and stayed inside and watched TV at night. He had to bail on the poker game again, but for some reason his buddies didn't seem too disappointed.

He only went outside to get the mail, and only after he was sure the coast was clear. Even still, he would always keep his head low, his eyes scanning the concrete driveway rather than looking up to see the sunlight slicing through the palm fronds or the soft, creamy clouds meandering across the sky.

After retrieving his bills and industry newsletters, he would dash back inside, expecting any moment to hear a neighbor's voice call out, "Hey Cameron, what happened to your face?"

One neighbor in particular.

He saw Mindy jog by a couple of times when he would peek out of his living room window like a house-bound senior citizen. She would usually throw a quick glance towards his house, and once she even paused for a moment, though her feet kept pumping like pistons. He caught a strange, almost sad expression in her face, and then she disappeared down the road.

Cameron let the blinds snap back into place, and he glanced down at the warm beer in his hand.

He felt guilty, like an ex-convict trying to hide his seedy past from the neighborhood. His fingers squeezed the beer bottle as he scowled at himself. The whole purpose for getting the tattoo had been to break open his safe little cocoon, to go out there and seize life by the balls rather than just coast along like a car stuck in neutral but with the good fortune to be on a downward slope.

Yet here he was, hiding like the Phantom of the Opera, ashamed of his disfigurement but yearning for the world to know and admire him. Of course, he reasoned that the tattoo still looked pretty crappy, especially now that it was scabbing and starting to crack in places. It really did look like a healing wound and Cameron wasn't ready to reveal the painting while it was still wet.

But Saturday was tomorrow, and there was no way he could blow off Mindy again. Cameron's shoulders sagged wearily, and he gulped a mouthful of warm beer. He wished he wasn't nervous about it, but he was.

At least he had steaks and seasoning in the kitchen, so he wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of going to the supermarket looking like the victim of an animal attack.

****

Mindy smelled the delicious barbecue smoke as soon as she stepped onto the porch. She knocked loudly even though she knew Cameron wasn't inside the house.

"Cameron?" she called out.

"Out back!"

Mindy took that as her invitation to go inside. She deposited the picnic basket she carried on the kitchen counter and quickly unloaded a mouth-watering spread of casseroles, pie, cole slaw, and other Southern specialties.

Her stomach was starting to rumble as her nose filled with the scent of marinated steaks sizzling on the grill outside. Taking a moment to step into the tiny bathroom adjacent the kitchen to make sure her hair and light makeup were in order, she winked at her reflection for good luck and fluttered towards the door to the backyard.

Cameron was standing over the grill with his back towards her. Savory smells wafted around him like some kind of delicious mist, and Mindy couldn't stop her heart from fluttering. She stared at his muscular back stretching his white t-shirt, and she was impressed as he flipped a small steak into the air and caught it on the spatula before setting it down on the grill like a sleeping baby.

If he heard her approach, he didn't make any indication, and he didn't turn around.

Mindy clasped her hands behind her, hoping she looked cute in her fluttery yellow dress.

"Smells great," she said, her ears prickling the sound of sizzling meat.

"Mm-hmm," Cameron said. "Tastes even better."

Mindy took a step forward. "So, how's your face? Better now?"

Cameron turned his head a little to the right, hiding the left side of his face.

"Mindy," he said with a serious tone, "I need to tell you something. I wasn't honest with you before."

"About what?"

Cameron set down the spatula and tongs. "About my face. I...I didn't have an allergic reaction to a bee sting."

Mindy frowned, confused. "So what happened? Were you in an accident?"

Cameron's shoulders heaved once and he sighed silently. There was going to be no easy way to do this. Better get it done all at once.

He turned around.

Mindy gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes were so wide, they looked like they might fall out of her head. She took a step backwards, and Cameron felt terrible.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," he said, holding out his hands as if asking for her forgiveness. He instantly became mad at himself. Why did he have to be such a wimp?

Mindy could only stare at him in disbelief. After a few moments, she found her voice and stammered, "Cameron, you...why...why did you do that to your face?"

Cameron shrugged, his irritation deepening. She wasn't his wife or mother. He didn't need to explain himself to her.

"I wanted to do something different."

Mindy blinked rapidly as a gust of wind blew smoke in her eyes. "But...but you looked so handsome before..."

Cameron's face darkened. "Listen, it's my face, and I can do what I want with it."

Mindy sensed the bristling tone in his voice and she held up her hands in supplication. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say you were...I mean, it's such a big change..."

Her hands fell at her sides. "Cameron, why did you tattoo your face?"

Cameron turned away. His face felt as hot as fire.

"It's my life," he said defensively, as if to convince himself more than her. "I was tired of being the same old person."

Mindy walked towards him slowly and reached out to touch his face. He flinched and turned away, but the softness of her touch quickly melted his wall of ice. She used her hand to turn his face towards her and she looked at him with gentle eyes.

"Don't be mad," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I was so rude; I just didn't know how to react. You have to admit that it's a pretty big shock to come to your neighbor's barbecue and find out he has a huge tattoo on his face."

Cameron tried not to get infected by her smile, but he failed. He wished the tattoo was done healing, and he was sure he looked pretty disgusting. About half of the tattoo scabs had fallen off, and the fresh skin beneath was shiny and taut. He imagined he looked like a burn victim.

Mindy glanced towards the smoking grill. "Meat's probably done."

Cameron flinched, then turned and quickly swiped the sizzling steaks from the grill. The savory smells were irresistible, and Mindy's mouth began to water.

"So where do we set up shop?"

Cameron grimaced slightly, chastising himself for not having any backyard furniture.

"The dining room," he said, a little bit glumly.

But Mindy didn't seem to mind at all. With a smile and a nod, she headed towards the house, and Cameron followed her with a plateful of steaks in his hand. He really liked the way the dress fluttered playfully over her legs, like it wanted to fly up...

"Did it hurt?" she asked, looking over her shoulder as she walked.

Cameron nearly dropped the plate. His face flushed and he hoped she hadn't noticed him staring.

"Yeah," he said after he cleared his throat. "Pretty bad, actually. But only for a couple hours."

Mindy winced and sucked in her breath through her teeth. "I went with my cousin to give her moral support for her tattoo. The sound of needles drove me crazy, like demon mosquitoes in your ear or something."

Cameron chuckled. "Demon mosquitoes? Well, when you put it that way, that's pretty much how it felt, like demon mosquitoes buzzing underneath my skin."

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "You're an interesting man, Cameron. I thought I was starting to figure you out, but here you go and toss another mystery into the mix."

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him like he was some kind of foreign language.

Cameron coughed to disguise his discomfort. "We should get inside before the bears get attracted to the smell."

Mindy's eyes widened. "What? There are bears around here?"

Cameron stared at her for a moment. "Yeah. California surfer bears."

"Don't tease me," Mindy scolded, giving his arm a firm poke.

Cameron laughed, and they headed inside together.

****

He could still see her beaming sunshine smile and hear her light, airy laugh after he stepped out of the shower, having washed away the charcoal smoke from the barbecue. Even as he wiped the steam from the mirror and leaned forward to peer closely at his tattoo, he remembered how the setting sun reflected over her astonishingly glossy blonde hair. And that body...all those hours of jogging and yoga were certainly worth it.

Cameron shook his head once, as if to shake her image loose from his mind. He gazed carefully at the tattoo in the water-streaked mirror, and he was pleased with how it was turning out. No splotchy areas, and the outline was holding together well. He had noticed how Mindy's eyes would drift almost imperceptibly towards the tattoo during their dinner conversation. He had tried to read her face, looking for disgust, curiosity, contempt. But he couldn't draw a bead on what she was thinking. She made several remarks about it, and it was pretty clear that she was curious, but it still didn't explain what she thought about him.

He didn't even know what he thought about himself.

He raised his fingers and gently touched the bold yet simple design permanently etched onto his face.

What have you done?

****

"Hello?"

"Toby? It's Cameron."

"Cam! What's going on, brother? I've been waiting for you to send me those sketches so I can get you compensated by – "

"Listen Toby, forget about that. I don't want anything from them."

"What? Why not? You okay, man? You sound a little...different."

"I...something is different. I want to talk to you about some things. You free anytime soon?"

"Yeah, yeah, I had a client cancel on me for lunch tomorrow. How about one o'clock at the usual place?"

"Sure. Sounds good. See you then."

"You're not in trouble or anything, are you?"

"No, Toby. I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow."

****

The waitress glanced up as she heard footsteps.

"Table for..."

Her words vanished. She could only stare.

Cameron spoke quietly, his voice steady and a little cold.

"My friend is already here."

The waitress swallowed roughly and looked behind her. "Um...is he...?"

Cameron moved past her without waiting for her to finish. He marched towards the table where Toby hovered over a plate of pasta.

The chair scraped on the wooden floor as Cameron moved it back, and Toby looked up.

"Cameron! Hey bud..."

Like the waitress, his words died in his throat. His eyes grew wider and wider and didn't seem to stop.

Cameron sat down heavily. "Come on Toby, this is California. Land of the freaks, home of the bizarre."

Toby's fork fell from his fingers. "Cam...what did you do?"

Cameron was starting to get pissed off. It wasn't just Toby or the waitress; it was everyone. He hadn't been out in public much since it wasn't completely healed yet, but everyone who saw him looked at him as if he was an escaped convict or something. And he was right: this was California, not Amish country.

"I wanted to make a change," he said flatly.

"A change? Dude, dye your hair a different color. Remodel your kitchen. Don't tattoo your face!"

"And why not?" Cameron snapped. He knew Toby would be surprised, but he expected a bit more of an open mind from a guy who schmoozed with crazy Hollywood types all day and night. "I'm just taking what's on the inside and putting it out there for everyone to see."

Toby's eyes narrowed and he studied Cameron's face carefully. "Are you trying to get noticed? This is about Sh – "

"No!" Cameron smacked the table, causing Toby's fork to jump on the plate. "I did this for me. I was tired of living the same old life, being the same old guy, and this is my way of giving me the jump-start I need."

Toby sat back, steepling his fingers like a sage. "Well, I have to say it's pretty badass. You've definitely got the whole Viking warrior thing down."

Cameron glanced at the waitress who was trying to hide her curiosity as she pretended to arrange a stack of menus. He looked back at Toby and sighed.

"It was a bit impulsive, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it."

"Well it's a little too late for remorse," Toby said with a mirthless chuckle.

"I know, and that's what I tell myself." He leaned forward, a serious look on his face. "And that's why I wanted to talk to you."

Toby's cocked his right eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I didn't just want to get a tattoo on my face. There are a million pictures on Facebook of people completely covered. But there's no one with a face like mine in the fantasy weapons business. I want to stand out from the rest of the herd."

A hungry look spread across Toby's face. "You mean you want an image makeover?"

Cameron nodded. "You know people. Publicists, people like that. I'm good at what I do, but I don't know how to sell it. How to sell myself."

Toby opened his mouth, but Cameron interrupted.

"No hooker jokes."

Toby's mouth snapped shut and he smiled sheepishly. Then his expression changed. "Well, you're certainly thinking in the right direction. Branding and image is what it takes these days. A good product will only get you so far. I hate to bring it up, but Shane Calhoun's visibility is what landed him the Ravenblade gig."

"I know. And I want to do the same thing, only better. Having a tattoo on my face doesn't make me a better weapons maker, but it certainly makes me stand out."

Toby nodded slowly. "You have learned well, grasshopper."

His eyes narrowed until they were almost closed, as he seemed to be looking through Cameron rather than at him. Cameron waited patiently – Toby always did this when he was thinking, and it usually meant something good.

After a few moments, Toby's face brightened again. He grinned wolfishly. "I know just the guy. Or gal, actually. She knows all the right people."

He paused, then shook his head slightly as if in a daze. "I can't believe you went and tattooed your face..."

Cameron sighed with exasperation. He looked over at the waitress again. This time she smiled at him and her eyes sparkled. Cameron frowned, then threw a small smile back. She held his gaze for a moment, then let her eyes fall to her clipboard.

"See?" Toby broke in, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "It's starting already."

"What is?"

Toby laughed heartily and jabbed his fork into the tangle of noodles on his plate.

"You'll see."

****

As Cameron guided the Ducati into the driveway, he saw Mindy sprinkling water on her flourishing geraniums, standing over them like a proud mother. He waved at her and she waved back, then set the water can on the ground and walked towards him.

He didn't know why, but he wished she didn't.

"Hey stranger," she called out, wiping her forehead with her gardening gloves.

"Hey," Cameron replied. He wanted to leave his helmet on, but he knew it would be awkward. He pulled the helmet off of his head and Mindy leaned closer.

"Hmm," she said with an approving nod. "Looks better than before. Pretty much healed."

Cameron resisted the urge to cover his cheek with his hand. "Yeah. It feels fine now. A little itchy, but that's normal."

Mindy leered at him. "Do people freak out when they see you?"

Cameron closed his eyes for a moment. Seriously...is this how it's always going to be?

"A little bit," he answered, "but this is California. There are lots of strange types everywhere, especially the closer you get to LA."

Mindy looked around and wrinkled her brow. "But South Pasadena is as Mom-and-Pop, true-blue apple pie America as you can get. You'll stand out like a sore thumb."

Cameron rubbed his temple, commanding the blossoming headache to get lost.

"Yeah, probably. Mindy, I've had a pretty long day, and I need to wash the road off me, so..."

"You need some help?"

Cameron's eyebrows flew up. "Excuse me?"

"Standing out like a sore thumb."

"Oh," Cameron mumbled, letting his shoulders relax. Then he frowned. "What do you mean?"

Mindy cocked her hips and blew a golden strand of hair out of her eyes. "Well it's pretty obvious that you're trying to make yourself more visible, and I thought you might be doing it to get more exposure for your work."

The back of Cameron's neck felt itchy. "Yeah, well, um, that's...kind of..."

"I can help you."

"You can? How?"

"I know some PR people at the gym. They call themselves 'personal branding experts' or something like that. Basically everybody's a brand in their eyes, and they keep pestering everyone to 'maximize their brand potential.' It sounds lame but I googled it and it's a pretty hot thing. If you're wanting to put yourself more out there, so to speak, you should talk to these guys."

Cameron turned the helmet over in his hands. "Thanks Mindy, but I've already started talking to someone about...that kind of stuff. And all this..." He gestured towards the tattoo. "...isn't for attention."

"Oh? Why did you get it?"

Cameron's eyes fell away from hers. "It's complicated..."

Mindy nodded slowly. "I guess something that serious would have to be. Not like an 'I'm drunk on Spring Break and I'm going to get a tattoo' kind of thing."

"No. Definitely not."

Mindy inhaled deeply. "Okay, well I'll let you go so you can grab that shower."

Cameron nodded and he watched her walk back to her flowers. Then she turned around and he hastily flung his gaze in another direction. Why did she keep doing that?

"If you want to hang out again sometime, I'm free this weekend," she said.

"Okay. Sure, I'll let you know."

She smiled, then scooped up the water can and disappeared into her house.

Cameron sat on his motorcycle in the driveway, looking down at his reflection in the helmet visor. He was starting to get used to the new face he wore, but he didn't like how he felt around Mindy. Like he was embarrassed or something. And even worse, she didn't seem to care at all now. She looked at him with the same bright eyes and warm smile as before. It's like he was still the same person to her.

You are the same person.

A shadow passed over his face.

No, I'm not.

### CHAPTER 10

The first thing Cameron noticed about Robyn Chu was that she was wearing a turtleneck sweater and full-length calico skirt in the middle of June. He found himself thinking that was a shame, because she seemed to have a killer body. Her name indicated that she was Chinese but she seemed to have some other ethnicity sprinkled in, though he couldn't figure out what. Persian, or maybe Arabic. She looked gentle and severe at the same time with her narrow glasses and hair pulled back in a perfect bun. He chuckled to himself, thinking that she looked like the hot schoolteacher that he and his high school buddies used to fantasize about.

Robyn stared at Cameron like a disapproving mother. She tossed a glance at Toby standing by her side and sighed loudly, intending for Cameron to hear. Toby looked at her meekly and shrugged her shoulders.

"This isn't what I do," Robyn said, sounding a bit annoyed.

"Come on," Toby said, "remember when you worked your magic with that weight-loss guru after she gained a hundred pounds? Anything you touch turns to gold."

Robyn's hand flew up in front of Toby's face. "Spare me the flattery."

She looked again at Cameron, glaring at him from behind her designer lenses. She huffed again and bared her teeth in what could have been a smile.

"Mr. McConnell is it?"

Cameron nodded.

"Let's sit down," Robyn said, motioning towards a cluster of overstuffed furniture. The three of them sat down, and Cameron couldn't help but be impressed. The lobby of the building looked like an art gallery. A pulsating fiberglass sculpture of a nude woman hovered above them, and an assortment of highly-polished metalworks were scattered among the exotic plants and comfortable modern furniture.

"Cameron," Robyn began without asking if she could address him by his first name, "Toby tells me that you make weapons."

"Yes...ma'am," Cameron said, throwing the formality in there just to be safe, though he noticed from Robyn's expression that it was pointless. "I make fantasy weapons for collectors."

"And the movies," Toby broke in. "You remember the one last summer with – "

Robyn's hand silenced Toby again and she looked into Cameron's eyes. He realized that she had never let her gaze linger on his tattoo for more than half a second.

"Cameron, what is it exactly that you would like for me to do for you?"

Her tone made it very apparent that she was doing him a huge favor, but Cameron didn't back down. "I am very good at what I do," he said, "but I'm not naive. I know that image is a big factor in success or failure, especially in an industry like mine where aesthetics are so important."

She cocked an immaculate eyebrow and a small, almost mocking smile spread across her lips. "So you got a tattoo on your face so all the nerds and fanboys would think you were cool?"

Cameron stared at her for a moment, unable to speak. He almost got up and left that instant but Toby quickly spoke up.

"Robyn, Cameron's a player, and the fantasy weapons business is huge. All he needs is a little nudge in the right direction, maybe some help throwing together a website, and that's it. And come on," he said as he gestured expansively towards Cameron, "you have to admit that he's an eye catcher."

Cameron thought he caught a twinkle in her eye behind her glasses as she said, "Yes he is."

Who are these people? Cameron cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. "So will you work with me?"

Robyn sank back in her chair, regarding Cameron like he were a piece of art that she wasn't yet sure if she liked. She took off her glasses to clean the lenses, and Cameron was surprised by how attractive she was, in a mysterious, seductive way.

Pretty much the opposite of Mindy, who was all sunshine and Southern charm.

Cameron frowned at himself. He really needed to get her out of his head...

"I'll tell you what, Mr. McConnell," Robyn said, "bring me some pictures of your work, and get some professional portraits made of yourself. I know a guy who does great work and won't charge you an arm and a leg. Just tell him Robyn sent you."

Cameron accepted the card she held out to him and put it in his pocket. "Okay."

"I'm booked solid this week but I'll have my assistant clear some time for coffee say, next Tuesday at ten o'clock?"

Cameron nodded, then asked cautiously, "That's in the morning, right?"

Robyn looked at him for a moment, then turned to Toby and the two shared a hearty laugh.

Cameron scowled.

"Sorry, Cameron," Robyn said, waving her hands in front of her face as if to clear the mockery away. "Yes, ten o'clock in the morning at the C _afé_ del Monte. Toby knows where it is."

Cameron exhaled slowly, hoping he looked fierce as he held her gaze. "Well, next Tuesday then."

He rose to his feet, and Toby sprang out of his chair. Robyn looked at Cameron, unsure whether to be impressed or insulted, but she stood up slowly and offered her hand.

"I look forward to helping you maximize your personal brand potential."

Cameron paused. Mindy was right – these people were really into themselves.

He shook Robyn's hand, his fingertips savoring the incredible softness of her skin. For some reason, he felt embarrassed that his hands were so rough and calloused.

Toby shook Robyn's hand as well, and he guided Cameron towards the glass doors at the entrance of the lobby. Once they stepped outside, they both shielded their eyes from the sun.

"Well?"

Cameron looked at Toby, then glanced up at the building soaring over their heads. "She seems pretty...intense."

Toby chuckled. "You have to be to get anywhere in LA. It's not like New York, where everyone's all about the power suits and game faces. LA is a little more like a fashion show: no matter how ridiculous you look, you have to prance around like your outfit was made by God himself."

A bird swooped gracefully through the air, catching Cameron's eyes for a moment.

"Toby," he said, "am I making a mistake?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean all this. Turning myself into a 'brand.' I do all right as it is, and all I did was get a facial tattoo that doesn't really mean anything."

Toby turned and faced him directly. "Cameron, listen to me. Do you want to spend your life 'doing all right?' Do you want to be just another blip on the radar, where people go, 'Hey, Cameron McConnell, yeah, I heard of that guy. Didn't he make a sword or something for that movie with What's-his-name?' I keep telling you, you've got the winning ticket. Your swords are awesome and you like a Viking warrior or something. Robyn's right about the nerds and fanboys – they love stuff like this. Hell, I love it! You've got more balls than most, and that's the truth. Robyn's good, man; she can make you into a rock star in no time."

Cameron looked down at his shoes.

"You do want to be a rock star, don't you?" Toby asked.

The question lingered in the air for a moment. Cameron looked up, squinting at the sun. "Yes, I do."

Toby slapped him on the back. "All right. This is the start of something big, Cameron. I can feel it."

The bird came fluttering back and it dove between two small trees before launching itself across the sky and disappearing from sight. Cameron felt a tightness in his stomach that he only felt when he was really excited.

Or really frightened.

****

Cameron was thankful that his mother wasn't online, though he had little doubt that word would reach her soon. She hadn't called in a few weeks, and he knew she would dial his number the second she found out about his tattoo.

She would probably unleash a barrage of words that included phrases like "ill-advised," "impulsive," "alienating," "desecration," and so forth. She might even throw out a "What would your father think?" which she only did in extreme circumstances.

Now he found himself staring blankly at a row of fruit in the grocery store. He blinked twice, wondering what he was doing there ogling a row of overripe bananas.

He glanced to his left and saw a little Indian boy holding a Sponge Bob balloon. The child was staring at him as if he were a gorilla at the zoo. Cameron could only stare back, but the boy's face was made of steel. He didn't even blink.

Smothering a groan, Cameron scooped up his basket and scowled off in search of snacks. The little boy's mother swooped in like a hawk and pulled the child towards her, chastising him in their native language. As Cameron rounded the corner of the aisle, he caught the woman glancing towards him. Her eyes were large and very pretty, but they burned with disdain. Cameron turned away and hurried towards the chips.

Hardly anyone who looked at him could hide their surprise. Some people were pretty good at muffling their shock, but several jaws fell open as if Cameron's head was in his shopping basket. One elderly woman lost her grip on a can of soup and it fell to the floor, missing her foot by less than an inch.

Cameron was growing tired of their reactions. After all, he wasn't an alien or anything.

And like he kept saying, this was California. If you weren't quirky, there was something wrong with you.

There was obviously something wrong with everyone at the supermarket, and Cameron felt like he was running a gauntlet of stares every time he turned down an aisle. Every disapproving glance, every hard eye aimed towards him felt like a needle prick, and by the time he arrived at the cashier's counter, he was scowling like a cornered dog.

The cashier looked up from her register with a smile. "Good aftern..."

Her smile wilted, but she quickly composed herself. "Good afternoon, sir," she said with a nervous cough. She hastily dumped the contents of Cameron's shopping basket onto the lane and scanned each item with surprising quickness.

Cameron stood there, glaring at her. She didn't look at him once.

"$26.18," she chirped, looking at his chin. That was as high as her eyes could go.

Cameron held out his bank card, wishing that she would look up and see the scowl darkening his face. But she didn't. She scanned his card, handed him the receipt for him to sign, and bagged his groceries without looking at his face. Even when she said, "Thanks, come again," in an unnaturally high voice, she was already turning her attention towards the next customer.

Cameron snatched his shopping bag from the small aluminum bay at the end of the checkout lane and skulked out of the store. He found his car in the parking lot and threw the groceries into the backseat, then slumped in the driver's seat.

He glanced up into the rearview mirror. He could only see his eyes, but he was struck right away by what he saw.

Menace.

He didn't mean for it to be there, but he saw it. His heavy brow, and the dark crescent arcing around his right eye... He looked fierce.

Barbaric.

As he sat there gazing at the reflection, he thought, This is what you are. This is what you've always been. It's just now coming to the surface.

A car horn startled him. He looked over his shoulder and saw an SUV waiting for him to vacate his parking spot. A middle-aged man with a mustache gestured impatiently. When he saw Cameron's face, his expression dropped and he drove away.

"That's right, sucker," Cameron sneered. What a bunch of pussies, scared out of their senses by a little ink. He cringed at the realization that he had wanted to be like them once: another face in the crowd with a tidy suburban house, leisurely workdays, evenings spent sipping cheap beer and watching sports.

If he was really honest with himself, he had never felt completely at home here. He was friendly with his neighbors and polite with everyone he came in contact with, but he never felt like one of them.

Now he knew why: because he wasn't. And now they knew it too.

He looked in the rearview mirror again. This was just the beginning.

He pulled out the small white card that Robyn had given him and dialed the number inscribed on it in Gothic lettering.

After a few rings, a British-accented voice answered, "Dmitri's."

"Uh, hi," Cameron said. "I'd like to make an appointment with Dmitri Carmichael. Robyn Chu recommended him to me."

"One moment please, sir."

****

When Cameron pushed open the door to the C _afé_ del Monte, he immediately set his face into a scowl, prepared for condescending glances and sidelong stares. But no one seemed to pay any special attention to him. He felt a little bit disappointed, though he didn't know why.

He glanced at his watch. 9:55 am. Not late, not early, just punctual enough to let Robyn know that he wasn't desperate.

A quick scan of the coffee shop showed him that Robyn hadn't arrived yet. Cameron expected that she would probably be late, and he had brought along his sketchbook to work out an engraving while he waited.

He stepped up to the counter and noticed a curious smirk tug at the corners of the barista's mouth, but the young man didn't gawk or stare.

"What'll it be today, sir?"

Cameron ordered a large mocha with extra cream and cinnamon, and when his order was ready, he selected an empty booth near the window.

Just as he took his first sip, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He almost spilled the coffee but managed to set it on the table without incident, and he dug into his pants for the phone, cursing his jeans for being too tight.

"Hello?" he said.

"Cameron, Robyn. Sorry to reach you so late. My day's imploded already, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to reschedule our appointment."

Figures. "I understand," Cameron answered, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice. "When do you – "

"Tonight, Bennington Hotel. Eight o'clock. Sound good?"

It wasn't really a question. Cameron stared straight ahead, the gears churning in his mind. He was probably going to be getting home tonight after midnight. He heaved a silent sigh, but he knew that opportunities like this didn't come along too often.

"Yeah, sounds great. I'll – "

"Thanks sweetheart. See you then."

There was a click, and Cameron looked at his phone as if Robyn had reached through it and slapped him. He didn't like it that she had called him "sweetheart." Only his mother could call him that. He set the phone down on the table and lifted the coffee cup slowly to his lips. He supposed he should be grateful that she hadn't canceled outright, but it was hard to feel any benevolence now that he had to waste nearly half a day in LA, half a day where he would be away from his workshop and tools.

With a huff that was a bit too loud, he exited the booth after grabbing his cup of coffee. He wasn't going to sit around moping, not when the sunshine was so gorgeous.

He just hoped that the citizens of LA had seen enough facial tattoos to let him enjoy his day in peace.

****

At 8:07 pm, Cameron pulled up to the entrance of the Bennington Hotel. He got out and handed his keys to the startled valet, who looked at the car as if it were filled with snakes. Cameron brushed past him and headed towards the revolving doors. The doorman gulped when Cameron gave him a cold glare, almost daring him to stop him and ask him what his business was.

But the doorman said nothing, and Cameron stepped into the opulent lobby. He looked towards the sofa and chair in the waiting area, but again, no Robyn. Shaking his head, he chose a sofa and sat down heavily.

The day had been eventful, though not exactly productive. He had tried to seek solace in a park so he could work on his sketches, but there were too many sun worshipers around, and he quickly abandoned the idea. Inspired by a flash of vanity, he decided to head towards a little shopping center that consisted mostly of hobby shops and collectibles. He was curious to see if anyone would recognize him.

As soon as he stepped into Dragon Storm Collectibles and Replicas, the shop clerk looked at him with wide eyes, making no attempt to hide his awe.

"Dude, sweet tattoo!"

Cameron smiled in spite of the cold facade he tried to maintain. "Thanks, bro. Got any new swords?"

The shop clerk waved Cameron to the counter. "What are you looking for? Something based on a movie or book or...?"

Cameron motioned towards a delicate yet fierce blade hanging high on the wall. "Let me take a look at that one."

The clerk flashed a knowing smile and brought the weapon down.

"That steel's tempered twenty times," he said proudly as Cameron gently hefted the weapon.

"Twenty-five."

The clerk looked puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"It's tempered twenty-five times."

The clerk's eyes fell and he shifted his feet. "Oh."

He was silent for a moment, then asked, "How do you know?"

"Because I made it," Cameron answered, keeping his eyes on the weapon.

The clerk's mouth fell open. "Nuh-uh."

Cameron pointed to the little monogram on the blade, right where the gleaming steel disappeared into the hilt.

"That's me. CMC. Cameron McConnell."

With a flourish, he produced a business card and handed it to the awestruck clerk. It read: Cameron McConnell, Fantasy Weapons Designer and Metal Worker.

The clerk clutched the card like it was a winning lottery ticket. "Dude, you're Cameron McConnell!"

He stared directly at Cameron, and his eyes narrowed a bit.

"I saw a picture of you online a while ago. You didn't have...that."

He motioned towards his own face, indicating the area where Cameron had his tattoo.

Cameron nodded. "It's a new addition."

The clerk looked around in a panic. "Dude, can I get a picture with you? I left my phone around here somewhere..."

He found it under a stack of magazines, clutching it to his chest.

"Is that all right?" he asked.

Cameron leveled a cold glare at him for a moment, then broke into a smile. "Of course. Anything for a fan."

The clerk practically vaulted over the counter and squeezed next to Cameron.

"Could you hold up the sword?" he asked. "Like a warrior pose or something."

Cameron felt a bit silly, but he obliged, twisting his face into a mask of barbarian fury. The gangly clerk struck a muscular pose, which only looked ridiculous. He held the phone at arm's length and snapped three pictures.

"Thanks, man!" he chirped, barely able to conceal his excitement. "My friends are not going to believe this. All of us are huge fans. Your creations are epic!"

Cameron grinned. He was used to praise and compliments, but they were usually on internet forums and collector's blogs. Face-to-face flattery felt quite different, and he liked it.

"I appreciate that. It took me almost a month to crank out that little number there." He indicated to the sword resting on the countertop.

The clerk reached out and stroked it with reverent fingers. "It's beautiful," he whispered.

Cameron smiled again. He had never spent much time talking with fans, and it was nice to see that his work was appreciated.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

"Lucas."

"All right Lucas, what else have you got here that's good?"

Cameron spent nearly two hours in the shop, talking swords, books, movies, even Mexican food with Lucas and several customers who stopped in. As soon as the bell above the door would tinkle, Lucas would rush forward and inform the startled customer that the Cameron McConnell was in the store at that very moment!

Some customers were ecstatic, some were baffled, and some tried to maintain their geek-cred by pretending to know who Cameron was, but their ignorance would quickly become apparent. Cameron wouldn't take offense though, and he happily awed the teenage fantasy fans with his extensive knowledge of weapons and replicas. Lucas even unearthed a cluster of wrinkled promo posters for Cameron's movie sword, which he happily autographed for free.

Quite a crowd had started to gather, since every star-struck customer immediately tweeted Cameron's appearance to all of their friends, and those in the vicinity would rush down to the shop as quickly as they could. A bidding war erupted when Cameron signed his sword and Lucas announced an impromptu auction. Cameron was stunned when the sword sold for three thousand dollars, nearly double its original price.

Despite all of the fawning and adoration, especially from the young female fans, Cameron found himself craving his own space. He had posed for nearly fifty photos and signed at least as many autographs that afternoon, and he was starting to get a bit claustrophobic. He glanced over at Lucas, who was in geek heaven.

"Hey man," he said loudly over the din, "I've got to run."

Lucas looked crestfallen, but he nodded his understanding. "You're the best, man," he said as he shook Cameron's hand. "I can't believe this is real."

"I'm not a rock star," Cameron said, feeling a little hypocritical.

Lucas looked at him incredulously. "Yeah, you are!"

After Cameron escaped the mob and drove away in search of something to eat, he found Lucas' words echoing in his head.

Yeah, you are!

A rock star.

And now here he was, waiting in the lobby of a fancy hotel, hoping that a tardy publicist would get his name put up in lights.

A small thought crept into his mind like a worm: But you saw what happened at the hobby shop...that was just word-of-mouth fan buzz. No media hype, no PR blitzes, no press kits. Why do you need -

"Robyn," he said as he rose to his feet.

Robyn sighed and flopped down in the chair across from him. "Sorry sweetie," she said distractedly as she fiddled with her purse. "It's LA, what can I say."

Cameron nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. He was a bit surprised by her outfit. It was a drastic contradiction to her austere apparel the last time they met: now she wore a clingy black mini-dress with a swooping neckline, high-heeled knee-length boots, and a pale red shawl to cover her shoulders. Cameron couldn't help thinking she looked like a high-priced hooker.

But hey, this was LA.

Robyn exhaled deeply and composed herself. "So, show me the goods."

She leaned forward, giving Cameron a glimpse of the goods that her dress barely concealed. He swallowed nervously and began digging through his satchel.

"I saw that guy you told me about," he said as he handed her a portfolio containing several headshots. "He's got a really good eye."

"That's why I sent you to him," she said dismissively. She peered closely at the book, flipping each page quickly.

"I like these," she declared, "especially the black and whites. Makes you look dramatic."

She tossed the portfolio back onto Cameron's sofa, and leaned back and crossed her legs.

"So let's get to it, Mr. McConnell." Her eyes narrowed at him from behind her designer glasses. "I told you that this isn't usually what I do. I work with actors, actresses, musicians. You are my first sword maker, and I must admit that I'm intrigued, but I want to know what your expectations are."

Cameron threaded his fingers together and searched for the right words. "Well, I'm not entirely sure myself. I just want to be more than I am."

Robyn leaned forward again. "And what are you?"

"I'm a sword maker."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing."

"So what then?"

Cameron let out a long slow breath. "It's not enough."

Robyn nodded slowly. "Good. That's the way it starts. I see it everyday. And I'm going to help you, for two reasons: I'm a nice girl, and I don't think it will be too hard. I had my assistant look up some of the people in your industry, and no one seems to have too much of a media presence, except for one guy - what was his name? Shane something..."

"Shane Calhoun."

Robyn sensed the edge in Cameron's voice. "Yes. It seems that he's quite the rising star. I don't know anything about the quality of his work, but the point is he's putting himself out there and cultivating opportunities for visibility and exposure."

She looked directly at him. "Is that what you want?"

Cameron nodded.

"Good," she said with a smile. "I think this will be a breeze. And from what I gather, you're already a pretty big deal in the 'geek circles,' as Toby put it. I think you just need a bit of a push in the PR department."

"So when do we start?"

Robyn wagged a playful finger at him. "Hold your horses, sheriff. First things first. We need to get the little matter of our contract taken care of."

Cameron felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hated contracts. Of course they were necessary, but he got burned pretty badly once in a business deal and he had been leery of them ever since.

"Sure. Let me have a look."

Robyn glanced at the elevators. "I don't have it here. It's in my suite, upstairs."

Cameron's eyes widened. "In your suite?"

"Yes," she answered, rising to her feet. "Let's go have a look at that contract."

Without waiting for Cameron's response, she turned on her heel and walked towards the elevator, her hips swinging playfully with each step.

Feeling like a dog on a leash, Cameron stood up and followed her.

### CHAPTER 11

Toby shoveled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and succeeded in getting most if it in. A dirty napkin lay next to his plate and he used it to dab at his mouth, though he missed a large chunk of egg stuck to his lower lip.

After taking another bite, he glanced up at Cameron sitting sullenly across from him.

"Hey man, you going to eat that bacon?"

Cameron kept his eyes on the table and shook his head once, and Toby snatched the bacon strips from his plate.

"So why the long face?" he asked as he folded the bacon and stuffed it into his mouth.

Before Cameron could answer, Toby continued, "You look pretty worn out. You hit the clubs or something? Spend the night resting your head in a valley between the pink-topped mountains?"

Cameron looked up at him and wrinkled his brow. "What?"

Toby chuckled, his laughter muffled by the bacon. "Don't play coy with me. What's a single guy with a wicked face tattoo going do to in LA? Hmm, let me think..."

Cameron's eyes fell down to the table again. Toby reached across and smacked his shoulder.

"This is why you need to get out more. The world can be your honey pot, Winnie. Speaking of which, did you find that coffee place all right? The one where you were going to meet Robyn?"

"Yeah, I found it."

"And what'd she say?"

Cameron shrugged. "She threw out some ideas."

"She's a bulldozer," Toby said, pointing his finger towards Cameron. "She can double your fan base in a week."

"But she said it herself, I'm not her usual kind of client."

"Doesn't matter, the game is the same. And when she's through with you, you will be her usual kind of client."

Cameron sighed and looked at his untouched breakfast.

"Did she give you any kind of dollar amount?" Toby asked, returning his attention to his breakfast.

"Yeah. Couple grand up front, and five percent of pretty much anything I make for the rest of my life."

"It's all worth it, man. To tell you the truth, you're getting an unbelievable bargain. It's almost pro bono as far as she's concerned. She won't even talk to most clients unless there's at least five figures involved. Of course," he said with a sly grin as he leaned back in his seat, "you have your amigo to thank for that."

"Oh?"

"I've been banging her for more than a year."

Cameron gulped a scorching mouthful of coffee and coughed violently for a moment.

"You okay, buddy?" Toby asked, handing him a napkin.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he sputtered as he wiped his mouth. "You mean, you and Robyn..."

"Yeah man. Wouldn't you?"

Cameron said nothing.

Toby looked off in the distance, his eyes flashing with vivid memories. "Yeah man, she's a fireball. I met her for a quickie at the Bennington Hotel yesterday afternoon."

Cameron's stomach twisted. "The Bennington Hotel?"

"Yeah, we had lunch and then headed upstairs for dessert."

He laughed wickedly.

"You should have seen the outfit she had on. Remember the last time you met her, and she was wearing that spinster/schoolteacher outfit? Not this time. She had it going on, man. Slinky little dress, FMBs, everything. The guys at the restaurant were practically drooling on their food."

Cameron's mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. "So yesterday afternoon..."

"I won't kiss and tell," Toby said, looking very pleased with himself, "but I wish I had a camera in that room. We got done around five o'clock. She said she had to meet some people for lunch and then she had something planned for later that night. Otherwise I would have come back to the room and given her a second helping."

The blood drained from Cameron's face. Five o'clock...only three hours before he...

"Dude," Toby said with a frown, "you really need to eat something. You look a little pale."

Cameron didn't answer. He just grabbed the coffee cup like he was afraid it was going to fly away.

"You should have called me," Toby went on. "We could have painted the town red. I know this sweet little Mexican dive with the hottest senoritas this side of the border, I'm not kidding. I could have hooked you up big time."

Cameron nodded, though he didn't know why. He just took a timid sip of coffee and stared vacantly at the table surface. Only three hours...

Toby scraped the last bit of food from his plate and devoured it, then set his fork down.

"This is the start of something big, Cam," he said, "I can feel it."

The only thing Cameron felt was nausea.

****

After a long drive through LA's infamous traffic, he arrived home feeling dirty and grimy.

And used.

He parked at the foot of his driveway and stepped out of the car to retrieve his mail from the mailbox.

A cheerful voice called out, "Hey neighbor."

His heart was seized by an icy fist.

"Hey Mindy," he said as he turned around slowly. She was her usual bright and perky self, but today she seemed even more radiant. She was sweating lightly from a morning jog around the neighborhood, and her navy blue jogging outfit clung to her like her own skin. For a moment, he thought of how different she and Robyn were.

Her eyes flickered to his tattoo, but just for a moment. The smile never left her face.

"So what's new?" she asked, her feet beating rhythmically against the pavement.

Cameron couldn't meet her eyes. Pangs of guilt pricked his heart and he scowled at himself.

"Not much," he said in a low voice as he studied his shoes. "Just work."

"Been getting a lot of weird looks?"

Cameron chuckled dryly. "Yeah. A lot."

"Well, are you surprised? You do look pretty radical, even for California."

Cameron suddenly felt annoyed with her being there, bouncing up and down like an eager child, looking so cheerful and chipper and delicious...

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Mindy, I've had a long day. I just fought my way through LA and I really need to chill for a while."

"Oh, sure," Mindy answered. "Go get some rest. I'll catch you later."

She jogged down the street. Cameron watched her, his eyes roaming her curves. He wanted her to turn around and catch him staring, but she didn't.

****

Cameron slept for four hours, and he woke up ravenous. He stumbled to the kitchen and yanked open the freezer, settling on a snack of microwavable mini-pizzas. As he munched on the piping hot bagels smothered with sauce and cheese, he thought of how much he missed Conan. Even though the dog had only weighed thirty pounds, the house seemed so much more empty without him.

The daylight outside was starting to dim, and Cameron glanced towards the workshop in the backyard. The aluminum structure was tinted with dusky colors that made it seem a little more inviting than usual.

He stared at the shed for a moment, then crammed the rest of the pizza into his mouth and rose to his feet.

The familiar smells of steel and chemicals wafted into his nose as he opened the door to the workshop. He looked at the clusters of swords, daggers, axes, and sabers scattered across the walls and benches. A warm sensation crept over his skin, and he smiled.

A furious burst of inspiration possessed him like a demon as he worked long into the night, working on half a dozen projects at once. When he finally surrendered to fatigue, it was well past midnight. He hadn't eaten anything, and the energy stored in the mini-pizzas had long since been exhausted. Looking around at all of the work he had done, he wiped his slick brow and smiled with satisfaction. There really was no substitute for the feeling at the end of a productive day.

He headed back inside and took a quick shower, then crept back into the kitchen to scrounge up some food. He glanced at his phone and saw that he had a missed call and a voicemail was waiting. As he rustled through the fridge, he pressed the phone to his ear.

He heard the smooth, syrupy voice and his blood went cold.

"Cameron sweetheart, this is Robyn. Just wanted to check in with you and see how you feel about our...arrangement. I've already talked to a few of my people and shown your photos around, and they're intrigued. I'll get a small team working on your social media and internet presence. Your website needs some serious help, I'm not going to lie. I'll shoot some screenshots your way and you can tell me what you think.

"Give me a call when you can. And no rush on the down payment; I know you're good for it. Take care, sweetheart."

He could almost see her serpentine smile as she said those last words. He hung up the phone and stared at the open refrigerator. Something inside him told him that he was getting in bed with a tiger.

Literally.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Toby...only three hours before...

He needed food. He grabbed a package of lunch meat, a block of cheese, and a croissant and quickly made himself a ham and cheese sandwich. It had hardly any flavor, and he gulped it down in five bites.

His body was tired, but he knew he couldn't sleep. He kept hearing Robyn's voice in his head, kept seeing her icy, intoxicating smile, kept remembering the way she...

Angrily snatching a beer from the fridge, he headed to the spare bedroom that he had converted into an office and woke the computer. The room glowed with an alien light radiating from the monitor, and Cameron impatiently swallowed a mouthful of beer.

He didn't know what he wanted; he just needed something to distract him. Then he remembered that he hadn't updated any of his profiles with pictures of his new face. Perhaps he had been unconsciously putting it off, knowing that once it was out there, everyone would know.

Everyone.

As he debated his course of action, he absently logged into Facebook. He stared at the screen in surprise.

He had more than thirty friend requests, and the Facebook page that Chucky had helped him make had received more than two hundred "likes."

Cameron scratched his head and stared at the number. What had happened?

Then he knew. The hobby shop.

A warm rush of pride flooded his nerves, and he logged into Twitter. Sure enough, he had more than fifty new followers. He felt his heart beat faster with excitement as he searched for #cameronmcconnell.

The screen instantly filled with photos of him snarling and smiling with customers at the hobby shop. He saw Lucas in several pictures, but most were with random fans that he didn't remember.

As he scrolled through photo after photo, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. He was admired, respected, but not from a distance. He almost never interacted with fans and could count on one hand the number of times he had posed for pictures. But here he was, sticking his tongue out, flashing the metal horns, looking downright frightening with his menacing facial tattoo.

But they loved him. They were in awe of him, but that didn't keep them away. Sometimes he was barely visible amidst the jumble of smiles, raised fists, and weaponry. It looked like a photo album from a medieval-themed party.

Cameron sat back, resting his hands on his knees. He knew now what he had been missing all this time.

He would call Robyn in the morning. He had a lot of ideas bouncing around in his head, and she was the person who could make them come to life.

****

Robyn wasn't available to meet until the following Friday, which gave Cameron four days at home with his ideas and his weapons. He worked furiously, hardly venturing out of his workshop except to eat and use the bathroom.

He also didn't see Mindy that whole week, though he occasionally glanced up at her back porch as he made his way from the shop to his kitchen door. She had a quaint little patio set and she would often sunbathe and read up there, but he didn't catch a glimpse of her, despite the incredibly gorgeous weather.

He didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved. Well, all the more reason to forget about her. Every time he caught his reflection in a mirror, a window, or a polished blade, his heart skipped a beat. He still couldn't believe that he was looking at his own face, and that the world saw this face, too.

Something was changing inside him. He could feel it. It wasn't caused by the tattoo...at least not directly. He had felt a prickling of this same feeling after he got his first tattoo, the miniature sword on his forearm. It was a feeling of otherness, of separation from the rank-and-file. But it wasn't just that, especially since so many of the rank-and-file had tattoos of their own. It was more of a statement to himself, a brand of sorts, proving that his life was his own, to be manipulated as he saw fit.

And now he had proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. He had taken an irrevocable step, cutting himself off from normal society, even the part that had tattoos. No one could deny that a large facial tattoo was an extreme statement. Throughout human history, an individual's identity has been their face, and to change that manifestation is to change the identity it contains.

Cameron could feel the change creeping over him day by day. Every time he caught a shocked glance, every time he saw a child staring in disbelief, that spike was driven deeper and deeper into his mind. He was different than the rest of them. He always had been; it had just taken him so long to realize it. It wasn't just his enviable job or his carefree bachelorhood. It was him, the barbarian inside that had always crouched beneath the surface.

The tattoo wasn't the cause.

It was the result.

But Cameron wasn't going to let himself become self-absorbed and pretentious. He had seen this happen too many times in too many situations.

He was going to harness the barbarian, and channel its energy to serve his purposes.

And now, it seemed his purpose was to wait outside of Robyn's office while she finished her meeting. He perched himself on the edge of the taupe loveseat, amused at the receptionist's poorly-concealed curiosity about his tattoo. The girl stole one or two glances at him every minute, and she would quickly avert her eyes amidst a flurry of fluttering eyelashes if he looked at her.

Part of him simmered with contempt. Would she look twice at him if he didn't have the tattoo? The other part was flattered. She was pretty cute...

The door opened and a middle-aged man stepped out with Robyn, a boyish smile splitting his face. He shook her hand enthusiastically, then turned and marched past Cameron with his head held high.

Cameron frowned and looked up at Robyn, who hastily swathed cherry red lipstick across her lips.

"Mr. McConnell," she said loudly, like a teacher calling a student to the front of the class. "Come in please."

Cameron snuck a final glance at the receptionist and, on impulse, gave her a wink. The girl beamed, and Cameron's heart fluttered. This was too easy...

Robyn shut the door and stepped around him, her hand trailing across his back as she rounded the desk.

"You're looking mighty fine this morning, Cameron," she cooed, staring at him hungrily.

Cameron's masculine confidence wilted like a dead flower.

"Um, thanks. You're...looking lovely this morning, too."

Robyn leaned her head back and chuckled. "'Lovely.' Haven't heard that word spoken outside of a movie in a long time."

She gave him an approving nod. "And thank you."

Cameron looked at the very uncomfortable-looking chair positioned in front of Robyn's sprawling desk. She caught his glance and motioned towards the chair.

"Please, sit."

As Cameron sat down, he took a moment to scan the room. He had a hard time believing this was in fact her office. She was slinky and smooth, but the office looked like it had been decorated in the 1970s by a middle-aged Hollywood bigwig. The desk was massive with an office chair to match, and the wall was littered with photos of Robyn at every kind of party and awards show imaginable. A large ficus tree struggled in the corner, but there was hardly a woman's touch to be found anywhere. Perhaps all of Robyn's feminine instincts were directed towards herself...

The way she looked at him now made Cameron think of a cat sitting on the lap of a villain in one of the James Bond films, flicking its tail and eyeing its prey with absolute self-confidence.

At least she was dressed appropriately this time. Then he remembered the man who had just left, the silly grin plastered on his face. And Robyn's smudged lipstick.

Cameron shook his head to clear his mind. He knew all too well how she could put that kind of smile on a man's face, and he didn't want any distractions now.

"You sounded pretty enthusiastic on the phone," Robyn said, taking a small sip from a large coffee mug branded with her firm's logo.

"Uh, yeah," Cameron answered after clearing his throat. "I don't want to be the kind of customer who sits back and expects you to wave a magic wand and make me into a superstar overnight."

Robyn's eyebrows rose slightly. "Well, that's a refreshing attitude. And most clients expect me to do just that. They usually don't realize that they shoulder a big part of the responsibility. I'm not the creator; I'm the facilitator."

Cameron coughed again. "Right. So anyway, it hit me the other day when I was here in LA to...to meet you. Before we met at the hotel, I had some time to kill, so I decided to check out the hobby shops."

Robyn already looked bored. "Is that right? What happened next?"

Cameron balked at her tone, then continued. "Well, when I went in, the clerk recognized me, or, well, he recognized me after I told him who I was – "

"Because you hide like a troll under a bridge."

"I don't..." Cameron stifled the anger flaring inside him. "Perhaps I do, but that's beside the point. The point is, this kid recognized me, and told a bunch of his friends, and pretty soon, the shop was filled with customers. My fans."

Robyn's eyebrows rose a little higher. "Interesting," she said, and she meant it. "What then?"

"I signed a bunch of autographs and took a bunch of pictures." He whipped out his phone and showed her the screen.

"Here, check it out."

Robyn leaned forward as Cameron scrolled through the Twitter photos marked with his name's hashtag. A strange smile that was both sinister and excited spread across her face.

"And all this just...happened? No planning?"

Cameron shook his head. "Friends just told their friends. They even auctioned an autographed sword for double its retail value."

Robyn leaned back in her chair. The leather creaked luxuriously. "So what do you have in mind, Mr. McConnell?"

"Okay look, I know I look like a scary guy, and maybe I am a little bit. But I had fun at that shop, connecting with the fans, taking goofy pictures. I look at a lot of the guys in my industry and they're all high on themselves, as if they forge lightning bolts for Zeus or something. They're arrogant and aloof, only coming down from their mountains to mingle with the riff-raff at important conventions. They cultivate a sort of mystique about them, but they're just regular guys who give the impression that they're gods. Kind of like rock stars, wearing sunglasses everywhere they go, never smiling, refusing interviews left and right. But I want to be different."

"How so?"

"Well, it was obvious from people's reactions at that hobby shop that my tattoo was pretty shocking. In the fantasy world, a formidable appearance is essential. Just look at all the characters in the games, or the covers of the books. This tattoo gives me a very striking appearance, and people were in awe."

"But you're not a nobody, Cameron. People know you already, and you probably would have caused a commotion if you went in there with your un-tattooed face."

"Perhaps, but the tattoo was certainly a huge draw. Everyone wanted to take pictures with me, and the tattoo was talked about almost as much as my weapons. They were drawn to me by my reputation, but also by my appearance."

Robyn steepled her fingers. "So what are you getting at?"

Cameron took a deep breath. "If I were a fan in the shop that day, I would have thought, 'Whoa, this guy looks gnarly, but here he is taking photos and cracking jokes!' I could see it on their faces: they were surprised. They were expecting me to act like some bigshot rock star, but the fact that I wasn't was even more appealing. That's what I want to do, to show everyone that I'm different from the rest of the guys in the business."

Robyn narrowed her eyes. "I'm not following you, exactly."

"Look, I know I'm a good swordsmith. But I don't want people to think I live on Mount Olympus. I want to be elite, but not aloof. I want to have the most interesting appearance, but also be the most approachable. I want to connect with the fans, not just at conventions, but at the small trade shows and hobby shops."

"The People's Sword Maker?" Robyn said with a chuckle.

"Exactly. You have no idea how huge this step is for me. I'm not a recluse, but I've always liked my privacy. I live alone, I don't go out and party, but the other day, being with all those people... It felt cleansing, you know? Like..."

"A king among his subjects?"

Cameron smiled sheepishly and looked at the floor.

"Don't be ashamed," Robyn said, rising from her chair and walking around the desk. "You are very good at what you do, and there's no reason to be shy about it. I can see that people already think highly of you, and I think you're really on to something here. I see it all the time: people get too full of themselves and look down their noses at everyone. It can work that way, because people naturally gravitate towards confidence, but after a while, people get tired of being looked down upon, and they move on. If you can maintain your 'eliteness' but also let people know that you value them as your fans, you may just hit the jackpot."

Cameron looked up at her and smiled. "Really?"

Robyn grinned slyly, then leaned down and kissed him hard. Her lips smacked loudly as she stood up, flicking her black hair over her shoulders. Cameron was stunned but he certainly didn't regret the kiss.

"You're an interesting guy, Mr. McConnell," Robyn said as she walked slowly towards the window, letting Cameron's gaze linger on her slim figure. She turned around with flashing eyes.

"And I am going to make you a superstar."

### CHAPTER 12

Cameron yanked his front door open just before Chucky knocked it off his hinges.

"Dude!" Chucky cried, smothering Cameron in a sweaty bear hug. "You're everywhere, man!"

"What do you mean?" Cameron asked as he closed the door behind his friend.

Chucky spread his arms wide. "That hobby shop party for one. Can't believe you didn't invite me!"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I promise I'll bring you along to the next one."

Chucky's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You mean you're going to do that again?"

Cameron nodded, amused at his enthusiasm.

"When?" Chucky asked. He sounded like a child who had just been told he was going to the circus.

"Not sure," Cameron answered as he led the way to the kitchen. He popped the tops off of two cold beers and handed one to Chucky, who frowned.

"I don't understand."

Cameron took a deep breath, then informed him of his meeting with Robyn. He and Robyn had talked for more than an hour that day, and they both had become infected with each other's excitement. Robyn was captivated about the challenge of entering a world that she was completely unfamiliar with, calling it a "nerd-ruled alternate universe," but when Cameron told her how much cash those nerds throw around, that hungry look flashed in her eyes.

She was also very well-connected in Hollywood, and she knew of a few major fantasy and sci-fi pictures that were in development but were still hush-hush. She said that she would look into the possibility of securing a design contract for Cameron, especially since he already had his foot in the door with that commission from the film a couple years back.

Cameron could also see the spark of creativity flaring to life within her, and though it was channeled in a much different direction than his was, he still marveled at the energy that she exuded. His discomfort around her melted away, and she caught him staring at her a few times. Of course her body held no secrets from him, but this was a different kind of stare. It wasn't lust; it was the seed of attraction.

He had felt cheap and tawdry after their romp at the Bennington, but there was something different this time. There was little doubt, however, that she was a sex addict, and she probably needed professional help.

No wonder Toby was so smitten.

Cameron did feel a small twinge of guilt about the secret he kept hidden from his friend who was responsible for bringing him and Robyn together in the first place. He wondered how Toby would react if he found out about the two of them. He certainly couldn't have any illusions about Robyn's monogamy, but sharing a fling with one's friend felt like overstepping the boundaries.

The important thing was that he didn't know, and Cameron had no intention of telling him. He wasn't expecting this to go anywhere with Robyn, except professionally, but he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he was enjoying it.

Mindy hardly entered his thoughts these days. It was easy since he still hadn't seen her since their last conversation, and it was only with neighborly curiosity that he wondered where she was. He would send her a text tomorrow if she didn't show up, just to tell her that he noticed she hadn't been around lately and if she needed him to water her flowers or something. He didn't have any intentions about her either, but it was still nice to have options.

Something inside him winced. Was that all she was to him now? An option?

Cameron gulped a hasty mouthful of beer to wash away unpleasant reflections. He concentrated on Chucky's wildly dancing eyebrows and the flabby cheeks that quivered with each excited smile.

"Dude, that sounds awesome!" Chucky slammed the rest of the beer and wiped his mouth. "I can feel it, man. You're going to blow up huge!"

Cameron had to make an attempt at modesty. "Come on, I just got a facial tattoo and met a well-connected publicist."

"That's more than almost every other person on earth has."

Cameron had to admit he was right. Things were looking pretty rosy right now. The tattoo wasn't the cause, but it certainly started the ball rolling, giving him the confidence to carry himself to where he was now.

He glanced at the kitchen window, which was a mirror against the creeping darkness outside, and he stared at the face that still seemed to belong to a stranger.

"Cameron?"

Cameron glanced back at his friend. "Sorry, what?"

"I said when are you going to the shops?"

"Probably this weekend," Cameron said after thinking a moment. "I got a lot of fan buzz from my appearance at that hobby shop downtown, and I want to keep the momentum going."

Chucky rubbed his hands with glee. "This is so awesome. Stealth personal appearances. Where is he going to pop up next?"

"That's the idea. I just hope people will be excited when I show up."

"Dude, I got that covered. I'm going to case all the shops in the Valley, asking if they've got your merchandise, just getting your name on their minds. Then you'll show up and they'll be like, 'Whoa, some guy was just in here asking for you!'"

Cameron smiled. "Thanks man. You rock."

Chucky returned the smile, adding a smug little sneer. "I know. You can thank me by bringing me to all the wild parties you're going to get invited to."

"Parties?"

Chucky held up his phone which displayed one of Cameron's wild photos with the fans. "Come on dude, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Once word gets around that you make awesome weapons and you have the sickest tattoo anyone has ever seen, people will be begging you to show up at their cribs. And you've got to start hitting the conventions, man. I'm telling you, that's where the serious dough is."

"I know," Cameron said, rubbing his brow. "Robyn and I talked about it. If I'm going to become a public figure, I have to make myself public. I just..."

"Why do you hate going to those things?"

Cameron studied his hand resting on the marble countertop. "Because...because he's always there."

"He?" Chucky's eyes widened with understanding. "Ohhh... Dude, you're going to have to face him sooner or later. You can't let him hold you hostage like this. And come on man, you're on the way up. You're way cooler than him now. He's probably green with envy."

Cameron looked away and said nothing.

Chucky slid off the stool and walked to the fridge. "He's a ham," he continued as he retrieved another beer and popped it open with a fshh. "You're the real deal. He's the one who gyped you, not the other way around."

Seeing Shane Calhoun's face in his mind made Cameron see red. He clenched his fist around the beer bottle, then relaxed. Chucky was right. He wasn't going to be able to hide in hobby shops forever. He needed to steal some of Shane's thunder.

The same thunder that Shane originally stole from him.

He let out a long, slow breath and looked at Chucky. "You hungry?"

Chucky's face broke into a broad smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

****

That night, Cameron lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His head was buzzing. Chucky's infectious excitement, Robyn's sly confidence, the internet pulsing with his pictures... Chucky was right; he was on the way up. And he felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

At the wings joint where Chucky had inhaled three plates of the hottest wings on their menu, Cameron realized that he was noticing people staring at him less and less. Their shock wasn't diminishing; he was becoming less aware of it, like a monkey at the zoo who ignores the children shouting at it and rattling the cage bars.

Of course, not all of the attention was negative. He caught the eye of a few hotties scattered around, and one of the waitresses even wrote her number on the receipt. He wasn't going to call her; she looked a little too rough for his tastes, sporting several tattoos and an array of piercings. She probably had some that weren't visible...

Cameron had to laugh at himself. He was intimidated by a rough-and-tumble vixen who obviously wasn't afraid of pain, while he was the one walking around with a face that could get him a job as a villain in the next James Bond movie. Maybe he wasn't as extreme as he looked. Maybe he was looking for something a little more down-to-earth.

Like Mindy...

Cameron rubbed his eyes. He couldn't get her out of his head, and it annoyed the hell out of him. He had to admit that he liked her, and she was cute and sexy and nice to be around. But he couldn't understand why she always had to pop up in his thoughts. He wasn't lonely or anything, and it was obvious that he could easily find someone to scratch his masculine itch whenever he felt the urge. She wasn't dazzlingly brilliant, though she certainly wasn't a bimbo, and the two of them had pretty much nothing in common, besides sharing a property line.

So what was it, then?

Cameron sat up quickly, scowling at the Caribbean travel poster on the opposite wall. He needed to draw something, to clear his head.

He got up and went to his angled drawing desk. The seed of a new design had been taking root in his imagination for several days now, and he knew that the best way to get it to bloom was to give it the attention it needed. He snatched a pencil and leaned over the paper, sketching quickly with a loose wrist.

Mindy really wasn't that special. This was California, after all...any park, beach or shopping mall was crammed with perky blonde babes strutting their stuff. Though Mindy wasn't like that... She was hot and she knew it, but she wasn't an attention whore flaunting her assets or prancing around like she was always on a catwalk. She was just...real. She wasn't trying to impress anyone, and she wasn't ravenous like Robyn. She just loved running and sunshine and barbecues.

There weren't too many girls like that, in California or anywhere.

Cameron stopped drawing and glanced at his phone. She had been gone for nearly a week. And he missed her. Exactly how he missed her was still a mystery, but he was starting to feel a little worried.

He grabbed the phone but his thumb paused over the screen. He glanced up at the digital clock on the wall. 11:43. It would be very easily misinterpreted if he sent her a message this late. He could send her a quick message on Facebook, but that would require going to the living room and firing up the computer. Besides, he hadn't even sent her a friend request yet. He hadn't even looked for her on Facebook or Twitter or anywhere.

It was stupid, but he felt like a bad friend.

He put the phone down, exhaling slowly and pressing his fingers against his eyeballs. He wasn't going to do this. He had seen too many friends get all wrapped up in the "maybes" and "what ifs" of a relationship. It usually never worked out anyway, and all they were left with was a patchwork of good and bad memories.

His gaze drifted across the paper and he gasped. He stared at the drawing for several seconds with wide eyes, holding his breath, as if the paper might blow away with the slightest gust.

It was a sword, but more than a sword. It was ferocious, delicate, terrifying... He didn't know how to describe it.

One word popped into his head, a word that Chucky would certainly endorse: awesome.

Cameron's heart was pounding. This was it, this was what he loved most in this world. The tattoos, the fans, the promises of wealth and fame...that was all just wrapping paper and pretty bows. Designing and creating handmade fantasy weapons that rocked was the real satisfaction in his life. He wasn't going to be like the countless clowns that came before him who had the barest ghost of a good idea and tricked the masses into thinking they were hot stuff because of slick marketing campaigns and smooth-talking publicists.

His spirit burned as he stared at that simple yet monumental sketch.

Power and fame and riches were going to be his. But not because of his tattoo, or because Robyn knows the right people, or because the fans thought he was a cool guy.

His lips curled into a hungry smile.

He was going to have it all because he was awesome.

****

The phone buzzed on the nightstand, yanking him out of his warm slumber and throwing him into a freezing pool of reality. He fumbled with the phone and pressed it to his ear, speaking the first name that popped into his mind.

"Mindy?"

There was a pause, and Cameron's sleepy haze immediately dissipated. Why did he say that? What if it was her?

The voice on the other end spoke.

"Mindy? Who is Mindy? It's your mother, Cameron."

Cameron's stomach sank like a stone. He bolted upright in the bed, his fingers squeezing the phone like it was covered in oil and could slip out of his grip any moment.

The day had come. It was time to face the music.

"Hi Mom. I was going to – "

"What did you do to your face?"

Cameron winced and held the phone away from his ear. His mother's piercing shriek rattled his brain for a moment, and he took a deep breath to give him time to compose himself and come up with the right words.

"How did you find out?" he asked cautiously.

"Greta Markowitz's son showed her a picture online. She printed it out and gave it to me. Cameron, what is wrong with you?"

"Mom, listen, let me – "

"There's nothing to explain! You go and scar your face for life and you don't even tell me! Greta's son told her that the picture was almost two weeks old. Two weeks! My son is walking around with a different face and he doesn't even tell his own mother! The mother who gave him his beautiful face to begin with! I can't – "

"Mom!"

There was silence on the other end. Cameron's eyes blazed and he stared at the phone like a bull about to charge. He spoke in a slow, measured voice, commanding the anger flaring in his heart to stay below the surface.

"I know this is a big surprise, but I am an adult, and I have been for a long time. I made this decision with a clear head and I don't regret it. It doesn't mean that I didn't like my face before, and I'm not trying to shock or scare anyone. It's just something that I wanted to do and I did it. I know I should have called you sooner, but I was afraid of your reaction, and it seems that I had good reason. I'm still Cameron, Mom. Nothing important has changed. I'm still the same person."

"Nothing important?" his mother cried. "You have a different face! How can I show my friends your picture now? They'll think you're a killer or insane! And what about Christmas? Oh mercy, what will the relatives say? Maybe they already know! Nothing stays a secret on the computer anymore. Oh mercy, oh mercy..."

She sounded like she was hyperventilating. Cameron felt a little guilty about his outburst, and he took a more sympathetic tone.

"Mom, please calm down. I didn't want to cause any stress for you, but you have to believe me that it's not as crazy as it looks. It's just a tattoo, Mom. You always told me not to judge a book by its cover, and it's what's inside that counts, right?"

"That's a load of malarkey! Of course appearances matter. Why do you think we haven't elected a president with a beard for almost one hundred years? Why do people who look like you have a hard time finding jobs?"

"That's not an issue for me, Mom. Actually, it looks like I'll be getting even more – "

"That's not the point, Cameron! When you got those tattoos on your arms, I bit my tongue, even though I didn't approve. But this...this is going too far."

Cameron gritted his teeth as he felt the anger begin to boil again.

"Well it's too late, Mom. I've made my decision and we're both going to have to live with it."

There was silence again, and Cameron thought he might have heard a quiet sob. Finally his mother spoke with a wilted, pleading voice.

"Oh my son, how could you do this to your mother? Don't you care about how I feel? Don't you care about how this makes me look, how it makes our family look?"

Cameron looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. He knew this was only going to collapse even further.

"Look, I'm sorry Mom, but I've got a lot of work to do today. We'll talk more about this another time, but now I've got to go."

"Cameron..."

"It's nice to hear from you, Mom. I'll talk to you later."

He hung up the phone and tossed it on the bed. Frustration clenched his chest, and he was as mad at himself as he was at her.

What did you expect? That your Catholic mother was going to give you a "thumbs up" for stepping outside the norm?

Cameron rubbed his eyes, which still felt puffy from sleep. He knew he was foolish to hope that she would have reacted with anything less than shock and sorrow.

Still, he was glad that she knew. He had been dreading this moment, but it was nice that it was all out in the open now. Secrets were much harder to bear than a cruel truth.

The phone buzzed again, and Cameron grabbed it with a scowl.

"Listen Mom, I really – "

"Mom?"

Cameron jerked his head back and looked at the phone. He saw Robyn's number.

"Oh, huh, sorry," he sputtered. He felt an embarrassed blush creep over his face, and he was glad she couldn't see him.

"Trouble with family?" Robyn asked, a hint of amusement lacing her voice.

"Um, yeah, a little," Cameron said as he scratched the back of his head. "Just got off the phone with my mother. She wasn't too thrilled with my recent...aesthetic alterations."

Robyn laughed. "Can't say I blame her. She gave you that face in the first place."

Yeah, she just reminded me. "So what's up?"

There was the sound of rustling papers.

"Do you know of Inkling Magazine?"

"Yeah."

"I talk to someone who knows someone over there, and they're interested in doing a feature on you."

Cameron's eyes widened. "You mean, like a cover story?"

"Mm-hmm. Interested?"

"Definitely!"

Inkling Magazine. Shane Calhoun would be green with envy. Inkling's circulation was much larger than BladeSmith, and they did creative, vibrant photo spreads.

Cameron smiled wickedly. The sourness in his heart from the fight with his mother dissolved away, replaced by the feeling a skydiver gets when they perch on the edge of the airplane door, about to launch themselves into adrenaline-fueled ecstasy. This was it...this was the beginning of a new dawn.

"Definitely," he repeated, his voice urgent and serious. "I'm ready when they are."

He could hear the smile in Robyn's voice. "Wonderful. I'll get back to you at the end of the day with more information."

"Great." After a moment, he added, "Thanks Robyn. You've already done a lot for me."

"Oh sweetheart, it's just a job."

"Well, you're very good at your job."

She laughed warmly. "You haven't seen anything yet. Take care, hon."

Cameron hung up the phone. His eyes aimlessly scanned the room and came to rest on the travel poster at the foot of his bed. He studied the immaculate beach, the delicious sunshine drizzling through the palms, the mouth-watering curves of the caramel-colored beauty walking across the sand.

He inhaled a deep, strong breath through his nose.

He wasn't going to waste time dreaming and hoping. He was going to make it happen.

No matter what.

### CHAPTER 13

Cameron knew it was going to be a good day when he heard Guns N' Roses on the supermarket PA system. He couldn't ever remember hearing a hard rock song played there, but it was a pleasant surprise and a nice start to the day.

He turned and saw a small child staring at him with a blank expression. Not with wide eyes like the Indian kid a couple weeks ago. This little girl regarded him as a squirrel might observe a couple of old men playing chess in the park.

Her parents were nowhere in sight. Cameron wrinkled his brow.

"You okay, kid?"

The little girl cocked her head slightly with a thoughtful gleam in her eyes.

"Are you a pirate?" she asked.

Cameron tried in vain to suppress his smile.

"No, kid, I'm not a pirate."

"You look like a pirate."

"Well how do you know? Have you seen any real pirates?"

The girl looked at her pink shoes. "No," she said in a quiet voice. "Just in the movies."

"Well there you go," Cameron answered, feeling like he had just won an important debate. "You can't believe what you see in the movies. Real pirates wear suits and ties and drive nice cars."

The girl blinked. "My daddy wears a suit and tie."

Cameron couldn't resist. He leaned forward and spoke in a low, secretive tone. "Well then maybe your daddy's a pirate."

The little girl's eyes grew wide and she took a step back.

"Nuh-uh," she murmured, shaking her head in defiance. "My daddy's not a pirate."

"If you say so," Cameron said with a shrug and he turned his attention back to the song as he browsed the produce section.

As he examined a cluster of grapes, he felt a firm tap on his shoulder and an irritated voice say, "Hey pal, my daughter says you called her father a pirate. Is that tr..."

The man's words evaporated as Cameron turned around and glared at him like a wolf. His eyes grew wide just as his daughter's had and he swallowed nervously.

"Come again?" Cameron asked in a voice meant to channel Clint Eastwood.

The man glanced down at his daughter by his side, then looked up at Cameron's tattooed snarl.

"Nothing, nothing," he stammered as he grabbed the girl's hand and backed away. "Sorry to bother you."

The pair hurried off to the other end of the store.

Cameron smirked as he scooped up his shopping basket. He felt like his skin was glowing. That was the barbarian coming out. As he headed towards the checkout counter, he thought that he would never have dreamed of staring someone down before today. He felt a warm sense of satisfaction. This was what he had wanted – a true transformation. It wasn't just on his skin anymore.

It was inside.

When he pulled up to his house, he was startled to see Mindy's car in the driveway. He was even more startled when he noticed her peek her head out the door as he drove into the driveway. She closed the door behind her and walked across her lawn, stepping carefully over the tulips.

"Hey," she said. A little cautiously, Cameron thought.

"Hey," he answered as he grabbed the grocery bags from the back seat. "Where've you been?"

Mindy licked her lips and her eyes fell away. "I...I went back Tennessee for a while. There was some stuff that I needed to deal with."

Her eyes sparkled sadly as she looked at him, and Cameron knew that she wanted to tell him more but was afraid to continue without his approval. And that made him annoyed.

"Oh," he said simply. "Did you get everything taken care of?"

Mindy squinted at him, a little disappointed with his terse attitude.

"Kind of," she said in a small voice. She glanced around for a moment, then flicked her hair out of her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

"You want to have a cookout this weekend?" she asked, trying to be nonchalant but there was still an echo of hurt in her voice. "It'd be nice to talk with a friend, and you're the closest one I have around here."

Cameron looked at her for a moment, sensing the plea in her eyes. Something tightened inside him; he didn't like it when people opened up to him, and he knew something was going on with her. He was curious about her absence, but he was afraid to open that door, and he didn't know how far she would come in. He wasn't ready for this kind of emotional commitment...he didn't know if he was ready for anything.

And then there was Robyn. He didn't know what that was about, but he knew Mindy wouldn't be happy if she found out. Not that he would ever, ever tell her.

But the way she was looking at him now, trying to appear strong but looking so vulnerable... His shoulders slumped, and he spoke with obvious reluctance.

"Yeah, sure. Whenever."

Mindy didn't seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, and her grateful smile was so dazzling that he immediately felt remorse for being so selfish.

"Thanks Cameron," she said as her whole body relaxed. "I don't want to put you on the spot or anything. I just...it would be really nice to talk to someone I trust."

Cameron was quiet for a moment. "You really think I'm your closest friend?"

"Well, yeah. I left all my friends back home when I came out here, and to tell you the truth, I'd been drifting away from them for years now. A lot of girls don't know how to act around guys, but I feel like I don't have to worry about what you think of me. Maybe it's because you don't worry about what others think of you."

Cameron tried to return her smile, but he could only think about how wrong she was.

"So...maybe this weekend?" she asked.

"Sure, maybe," he said with a shrug.

"Great." She took a deep breath. "So how've you been? Do people clear a path when you walk down the street?"

Cameron's thoughts flickered back to the confrontation in the supermarket, and he smiled to himself.

"Nah, nothing like that," he said, "just been busy with work. I've been looking into how to 'maximize my brand' as you put it and I've made some promising connections."

Connections, huh? So that's what you and Robyn were doing at the Bennington? "Connecting?"

"Hey, those weren't my words," Mindy pointed out. "That's what the power-tie crowd calls it."

"Well, it certainly helps to have a distinct appearance. People are showing a lot more interest in me recently, and my designs have gotten a bit of a boost as well."

"That's great! I'm proud of you, Cameron. I'll be honest with you – I was a little freaked out when I first saw you with that tattoo on your face. But I realized that it doesn't change who you are inside. It's just like wearing a different colored shirt. The important thing is what we look like without our shirts."

Cameron blinked.

"That's...very true."

He realized that he was still holding his grocery bags, and his arms were getting tired. "I should probably put these things away," he said, hoisting the bags to prove their heaviness.

"Okay," Mindy said. "I'll let you get to it."

Cameron nodded and turned to go.

"Cameron?"

He stopped and looked back at her.

There was the faintest glimmer in her eyes, like tears threatening to spill over. "I'm not a bad person, right?"

Cameron frowned. "What?"

Mindy smiled quickly. "Nothing. Sometimes I'm too girly. Go inside and get your food put away."

She waved her hand impatiently, though Cameron could clearly see that she was frustrated with herself. As she turned her face away from him, he wondered if he should ask her if something was wrong. It would be a stupid question because the answer was obviously "yes."

A callous fist closed over his heart again, and he turned and walked up to his front door. He didn't look back to see if Mindy was still standing in the driveway or if she had gone to her own house. As he opened the door and dropped his keys in the bronze lobotomized skull, he exhaled with annoyance. Why did women have to be so...so...

He didn't even know how to finish his thought, but he knew what he felt. This wasn't good, but at the same time, he saw that she was clearly distraught and she had turned to him for help. She had even called him her closest friend. Whether her feelings were misguided or not was beside the point; she felt that Cameron was the only person she could turn to.

Affection like that shouldn't be thrown aside.

Cameron hauled the bags to the kitchen and began unpacking the groceries. Women always complicated things. His mother was probably expunging his name from her will at that very moment, Robyn was probably putting a smile on someone's face, and Mindy was probably thanking God that she had a male friend she could confide in.

Life is much simpler when you're a dude, he thought as he moved some boxes of pasta aside to make room for the beer.

Unless you're a dude with a huge tattoo on your face. And you purposefully hire one of these life-complicating women to help you become more visible in the public eye.

Cameron tucked the butter in the fridge door and closed it. His days of peace and quiet were over. It was impossible to have it both ways. He had signed that contract when the tattoo needle punctured his skin. There was nothing to do but see this ride through to the end.

He looked out through the kitchen window at the workshop sitting meekly in the corner of the backyard and he immediately remembered the late-night sketch he had drawn in a flash of inspiration. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was just past eleven o'clock. Plenty of time to get some work in before lunch.

His hand was on the back door when the phone chirped on the kitchen counter. He glanced at the number and groaned.

"Hi Robyn," he said as he held the phone to his ear.

"Good morning, Mr. McConnell. Are you free for lunch?"

Cameron let out a long slow breath. "Umm...yeah, sure."

"Wonderful. Think you could come downtown for a bite? I've set up a meeting with a hotshot web designer and he wants to show you some templates for your new homepage."

Cameron looked wistfully out at the workshop, wishing he hadn't answered his phone.

"Yeah, okay. Where do we meet?"

****

Cameron's mind was a jumble of thoughts as he snaked through LA traffic on the way to the photo shoot for Inkling Magazine. He mulled over yesterday's meeting with Robyn and the web geek, but he found it hard to organize his thoughts. The impressive website display, the web designer's thrice-pierced lower lip, Robyn's incredibly tight white cotton blouse, the strange coffee that tasted like it was spiced with incense from a Buddhist temple... And to top it all off, he was now late for his appointment at the photo studio.

Sweat trickled down his temple despite the blasting air conditioner, and he unloaded a withering torrent of curses at the obnoxious driver of the SUV that just cut him off. He glanced nervously at the dashboard clock, afraid of what he would see. He winced. 2:10. Ten minutes late and he still had a long way to go.

He peered up through the windshield at a police helicopter soaring past. For one brief, idiotic moment, he imagined a rope ladder tumbling down to whisk him away to his destination like a spy.

Dropping his eyes, he felt foolish for even imagining it. He saw a space open up in the next lane and he revved the engine, scooting into the gap and promptly stepping on the brakes. Immediately, the lane he had just exited began slithering forward again. He threw up his hands.

At a quarter to three, he burst through the doors of Lucky 13 Studios, red-faced and clutching an armful of deadly weapons. The startled secretary nearly screamed.

A middle-aged man with a distinctly European vibe stepped forward, his eyebrows held aloft as he looked Cameron over.

"Mr. McConnell, I presume?"

Cameron nodded breathlessly. "I'm really sorry I'm late. The traffic, and there was construction so I had to take – "

The man waved his excuses away. "Think nothing of it. No one has even been on time in Los Angeles in the last forty years. I'm Raphael. And before you ask, yes, my mother was a big fan of the painter. Follow me and we'll get you all set up."

He spun on his heel with military precision and led Cameron into the depths of the studio. His brisk pace made it hard for Cameron to maintain his hold on his jumble of weapons, and it was pretty difficult to concentrate on where he was walking. They walked past several photo rooms where shoots were going on, and light bulbs popped over gorgeous models wearing the flimsiest clothes imaginable, and sometimes nothing but the light itself. A voluptuous redhead gave Cameron a sultry glare as she struck a pose.

His heart was pounding as Raphael led him deeper into the building. He felt like Dante being guided by Virgil through the depths of the Inferno. All at once, he felt scared and thrilled. His eyes almost popped out of his head as a parade of glassy-eyed vixens wearing the most ridiculous costumes marched past, unconcerned with the amount of flesh they were revealing.

Cameron's eyes drank up every curve, every stretch of silky skin. How could he function in this...

His mind crashed like an overloaded computer as Raphael parted a curtain to reveal an elaborate photo set. It looked like the entrance to a Gothic crypt, majestically crumbling and utterly fearsome.

But that's not what caused Cameron's meltdown. He almost dropped his bundle of swords as he spotted three women straight from the cover of a fantasy novel loitering in front of a gargoyle. When he had been merely a fan, he had gone to several conventions and sexy women in leather bikinis were a common sight, but not like this. He could hardly believe that these girls were real.

They were more than real; they were perfect. Robyn, Mindy, and every other woman he had ever lusted after melted away. He felt like a mortal who had suddenly found himself on Mount Olympus.

"Mr. McConnell," Raphael addressed the room as much as Cameron, "let's get to work, shall we? These lovelies are your background models. Kara, Emily, and Patricia."

The women turned towards him and looked him over as Raphael had done. They nodded politely, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Kara's black lips.

Cameron was frozen. He felt like a child at a party for grown-ups.

A large man with a pleasant face and arms completely wrapped in tattoos stepped forward and stuck out his hand.

"Bennie," he said with an Australian accent, taking the hand that Cameron cautiously extended beneath his bundle of weapons. "I'm the assistant editor at Inkling. Robyn Chu had a lot of good things to say about you."

Cameron blinked and then nodded quickly. "Oh, right. Yeah, Robyn's a...she's a trip."

Bennie's wide face cracked a smile. "You're telling me. Oh, this is Cherish," he said, gesturing to a petite girl with purple hair and a large chest piece tattoo perched above her red corset. "She'll be doing the interview after the shoot."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. McConnell," Cherish said with a sweet voice as she also shook his hand. "Bennie, could you give him a hand?"

Bennie jumped as if someone had pricked him with a needle. "Oh, right, sorry mate. Let me help you with that there."

He carefully scooped the swords out of Cameron's aching arms and deposited them on a nearby table.

"Sweet hardware, mate," he declared with an approving nod.

"Thanks," Cameron said.

"And great tattoo, by the way," Cherish said, leaning upwards to get a closer look. Cameron almost took an instinctive step back, but he didn't want to offend her, so he remained where he was. His body was tense, though, and Cherish seemed to notice, because she quickly backed away with a shy smile.

Before Cameron could acknowledge her compliment, Raphael clapped loudly.

"Okay everyone, let's make it happen! Eleanor, please take Mr. McConnell to make-up."

Cameron felt a strong hand grip his arm, and his first thought was that Eleanor must be a guy. He turned to his right and was surprised to see a tiny dark-skinned girl looking at him with fiery eyes. Sucking in a deep breath to calm his thundering heart, he let himself be led to a corner of the room illuminated by a vanity mirror standing tall above a table full of cosmetics.

As he sat down, he heard a clattering noise to his left. He turned and saw a young man wheeling over a rack of clothes straight out of the Middle Ages: oily black leather, rows and rows of polished silver studs and spikes, and countless straps, buckles, and belts.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was glowing.

****

Two hours later, he collapsed onto a sagging sofa, exhausted. His eyes ached from the continual assault of flashing lights, and his skin felt slick and clammy beneath the thirty pounds of leather and metal strapped to his body. How could people do this everyday?

But he had to admit that he had enjoyed it. The fantasy girls were even more tantalizing up close, and Cameron had to make a conscious effort to keep his tongue from hanging out of his mouth. As they had twisted and posed according to the photographer's directions, Kara wasted no opportunities to press her body against Cameron whenever she could. It was all Cameron could do to look tough and macho when he felt his heart melting like butter.

He knew the pictures were going to be amazing. After he started getting used to the photographer's prodding while three sirens slithered and coiled around him, he reached deep inside and drew out the barbarian that got him there in the first place. He snarled at the camera, imagining the photographer's head arcing through the air after being sliced off by one of his weapons. The women struck provocative poses around him, their hands roaming across his studded chest, grasping at his tightened legs. He was really getting into it, and despite the heat from the models and lights roasting him in his leather shell, he was almost sad when the photographer announced the end of the shoot.

A pretty girl brought Cameron a cup of cold mineral water, which he downed in two gulps. He watched hungrily as the models crept away to their dressing room. Kara tossed a simmering glance over her shoulder as she walked slower than the others, letting Cameron's eyes roam over her sweat-slicked body.

Cherish coughed once behind him.

Cameron bolted upright like a student caught sleeping in class.

"Hey Cherish," he said a little too loudly.

Cherish stifled a smile, completely aware of the situation. "You were great up there. Like a barbarian."

Cameron's eyes went wide. "You think so?"

"Sure. That was straight out of a black metal video."

"I don't listen to black metal," Cameron admitted sheepishly.

Cherish laughed. "Don't worry, neither do I. But I have to say that those guys have quite the flair for the dramatic. Our readers are going to love this."

Cameron was glad he was still flushed from the photo shoot, because it disguised the blush that spread over his cheeks. "So when do you want to do the interview?"

Cherish shrugged. "Whenever you feel ready. But you probably should change into something a little more...21st century."

Cameron looked down at his nearly-bare thighs. The blush on his face was too deep to hide.

"Yeah," he said, rising from the sofa, feeling very exposed, "I'll get right on that."

Cherish nodded with a smile that spoke volumes.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in a comfortable meeting room with Cherish and Bennie. Raphael had provided the room for them and had even laid out a spread of cheese, crackers, and red wine. Bennie didn't touch any of it, and Cherish only nibbled on a slice of cheese, but Cameron was famished. And thirsty.

As he felt the warm wine coursing through his body, he found himself staring at Cherish's intricate chest piece tattoo. It spread from shoulder to shoulder and brushed the tops of her breasts. Flowers, birds, water, and poetry swirled and danced together in a mosaic of color that was equal parts Japanese technique and American traditional. Cameron was so mesmerized that he didn't realize he was staring.

"Cool, huh?"

He froze, and his eyes immediately raced up to meet hers. Guilty.

"Uh, yeah. Lots of detail, but everything is clear and easy to make out."

Cherish looked down with pride. "Took twelve hours. Ivan Stockton did it. I had to make the appointment six months in advance."

"Ivan did that?"

"Yeah. Do you know him?"

Cameron pointed to his face. Cherish's confused expression suddenly brightened.

"No way!" she cried. "Dude, we rock."

She leaned across the table to give Cameron a knuckle bump. In a corner, Bennie chuckled, his massive stomach quivering like Jell-O.

"Bet it hurt like a mother, though," she said.

"Oh yeah."

"Ivan's got a pretty soft touch, but there's no way to make a facial tattoo feel good."

Cameron nodded, amazed at the coincidence.

For a moment, Cherish held his gaze, then she reached down and grabbed a very customized canvas bag. She pulled out a voice recorder, a printed sheet with several questions, and some pictures of Cameron's creations. Robyn had probably given them to her.

"So," she began as she pressed a button on the recorder and folded her hands in front of her. "Who are you, and what do you do?"

Cameron's mouth opened a little but he didn't answer right away. He glanced at the pearl-colored light hovering above them.

"Well, I'm Cameron McConnell, and I design and create fantasy weapons for collectors and hobbyists. I've also been commissioned by movie and television studios to do some work...for them...sometimes."

Wow. You not only look like a barbarian, but you also talk like one.

Cherish only smiled, and Cameron felt a little more relaxed.

"How did you get into the fantasy weapons business?" she asked.

"I've always had a thing for knives and swords and I was always drawing them. When I was in art school in New York, my teacher saw me doodling and put me in touch with a specialty blade manufacturer after I graduated. I guess I was pretty good at fabrication, and soon I was working independently. It's a pretty sweet job but it's also a lot of work."

"Most jobs are," Cherish said pleasantly. "You're fairly well-known in the fantasy weapons realm, but what would you say to the average Joe who doesn't know the difference between a Skullbreaker and a Razortongue?"

Cameron had to laugh. The girl knew her blades. "I'd say that it's not just for nerds and geeks. I see my creations as art, pure and simple. I want them to look fierce and deadly, but I also want them to be beautiful and appealing. People collect weapons for different reasons, but for me, it's a combination of power, beauty, lethality, and craftsmanship."

"Deadly art," Cherish suggested.

"Exactly. I think anyone can appreciate what we do as designers. It's no different than designing a dress, or a car, or a house. Aesthetics blended with functionality. Like a mixed drink that has been blended to perfection. You can't taste the individual ingredients, but they all work together and compliment each other, so that the whole is more than the sum of the parts."

Cherish sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on Cameron's words. She seemed mesmerized. Cameron was surprised to hear himself say it, too. Where had this profound wisdom been hiding all these years?

"So what's the weapons business like?" Cherish asked. "Are you guys all chummy, or is it ruthless and cutthroat? Figuratively, not literally."

Her attempt at levity was lost on Cameron as a shadow darkened his eyes.

"We're all friends, by and large. But there is fierce competition. I mean really fierce. People will do anything to get ahead. Even if it means crossing some lines."

One person in particular...

Cherish sensed the turn the interview was taking and she quickly guided it in another direction.

"Let's talk about your tattoo," she said with a tight smile. "You had a couple already, but then one day you show up all over the internet with a totally awesome tribal design by the world-famous Ivan Stockton. What's up with that?"

Cameron inhaled though his nose and reached up to touch his face. "I keep asking myself that same question and to be honest, it's hard to say. I didn't do it to draw more attention to myself or to show the world that I'm extreme or anything. I guess I did it to push myself, to be more than I was."

"How do you mean?"

Cameron mulled his thoughts carefully before speaking. "I've always been kind of a shy person, and I don't always feel comfortable around people. But I didn't want to devolve into some kind of hermit troll living under the bridge, just cranking out weapons and hiding in the shadows. I mean, I had friends and everything before the tattoo, but I felt like I was just kind of stagnant. This tattoo became a visual reminder for me to show the world who I really am, to be bold and fierce, to take the world by the balls."

Cherish scribbled quickly on the question page. "So...you're saying that this tattoo is an outward expression of how you feel inside?"

It was amazing how women could explain things in such simple terms. "Yeah, that's exactly it."

His tone made Cherish smile proudly. "All right, let's talk about your life outside of work. What do you do when you're not playing with red-hot steel?"

"Well, when I'm not pounding metal, I'm usually listening to metal. I've always been a metalhead...maybe that's what got me into this in the first place. I don't really have any interesting hobbies; I usually just stay at home and read, have a beer, watch a movie. I hang out with friends sometimes but I like my quiet space."

"Your Fortress of Solitude."

"Yeah, something like that."

"So what can we expect from Cameron McConnell in the future?"

Cameron paused a moment to think. He could almost feel Robyn standing behind him, breathing down his neck. This is one of those "moments that count," as she put it – those important opportunities to lay the foundation, to set the stage for the future.

"Lots of original weapons, of course," he answered, leaning back in his chair, "and I've realized that if I want to be successful in this arena, I need to put myself out there, connect with the fans and collectors on a personal level. I've become a bit notorious for avoiding conventions and trade shows, but that's going to change. I'm not just making weapons for corporate entities with no face; real people collect my creations, and I owe it to them to see what they're about. I think it will help me as an artist too, to feel the pulse of this awesome world I'm in."

Cherish gave him a sideways smile. "Wow, that's great. I'm sure a lot of people will be glad to hear it."

She glanced down at her paper, then looked again at Cameron. "That about does it for us...any final comments or shoutouts you want to give?"

"Yeah. Thanks to Ivan Stockton for this awesome tattoo. I'll definitely be back for more. Thanks to Robyn Chu for helping me see the bigger picture, and thanks to Inkling Magazine for this wonderful opportunity."

Cherish nodded once and pressed the "Off" button on the recorder. She smiled at Cameron and then looked over her shoulder at Bennie.

"How was that?"

Bennie clapped his hands. "Wonderful." He looked at Cameron. "That was good, mate. I'll be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect when they told me we were going to interview a weapons guy. I go to those conventions and most of those guys are pretty lame, no offense. You'd think they made the halberds for the Swiss Guard at the Vatican or something. But you're a real down-to-earth bloke, and I like that. The readers will like it too."

Cameron nodded his thanks and rose to his feet as Cherish stood up.

"We done?" he asked.

"Sure," Cherish said. Cameron thought he saw a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

Bennie motioned towards the door with his hand. "My lord, my lady."

Cherish giggled as she left the room, followed by Cameron, and then Bennie, who checked his watch and gasped.

"Hey Cher, I've got to jet. Cameron, sorry to rush off like this."

"No problem," Cameron said as he shook the man's hand.

Cherish waved goodbye as Bennie darted down the hall with startling quickness. Cherish giggled again.

"He's a character," she noted as they headed down the corridor. When they rounded the corner, they nearly smacked into Kara, one of the models who had joined Cameron in the photo shoot.

"Oh, excuse..."

Cameron's eyes bulged. Kara was wearing a hip-length translucent shirt that did a terrible job of concealing her eye-popping body.

"No problem, Mr. McConnell." Her accent was Eastern European and her voice sounded like whiskey.

Cameron could only stand and stare like a mannequin. Then he felt Cherish coil her arm around his bicep.

"Cameron," she cooed in a soft voice meant to contrast with Kara's husky tones, "there were a couple of questions I forgot to ask. Would you mind if we walked to my car?"

The electricity radiating from Cherish's soft touch pulsed through Cameron's skin and Kara seemed to fade from his vision.

"Sure," he said as he turned like someone in a trance and let Cherish lead him away.

"Where is your car?" Cameron asked as they stepped out into the sunshine.

"Around back." Her arm was still locked with his.

Cameron could feel his heart pounding. He suspected what was really going on, but he had to play it cool.

"So, what questions do you still need to ask?"

Cherish reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of keys. She aimed the remote at a neon yellow SUV and it unlocked with a chirp. She looked up at Cameron and he saw it again – that sparkle in her eyes, dangerous yet inviting. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure she could hear it.

"Just one question, actually," Cherish said as she reached out and opened the door to the back seat.

Cameron gulped. He was a prisoner of those eyes.

"Yeah?" he stammered.

Cherish pressed herself against him. "Do you want to see the rest of my tattoos?"

### CHAPTER 14

Cameron's body ached as he unlocked the front door and stumbled inside. The traffic, the leather costume, the hours of posing, the...well, just everything.

He rubbed his bleary eyes as he shuffled through the foyer towards the kitchen. For a moment, he almost called out for Conan, but immediately demanded that his heart be still. He needed at least one part of him to function normally.

His ears heard the desperate calls of ice cold beer in the fridge, and he realized that he had a blazing thirst. He opened the refrigerator door, opened a beer, and downed half of it at once. He knew that beer was a terrible choice to quench one's thirst but he didn't care at all.

Lurching like a zombie, he made his way to the living room and turned on the lights. He collapsed onto the sofa and stared at the empty TV screen. The remote was sitting innocently at the other end of the coffee table. Nearly three feet away. Too far.

He gulped another mouthful of beer and sighed. His nerves were frayed and his shirt reeked of sweat and exhaust.

The stillness surrounded him for several minutes, even after he had finished his beer. His eyes were like snow globes with nothing in them. Even his left leg, which often bounced up and down when he was sitting, didn't move an inch.

Exhaustion. Fatigue. These words rolled over and over in his mind like rambunctious children. He glanced at the wall clock. Only 7:45 pm. Still plenty of time to fix a quick bite and catch up on some work.

Except he didn't have an ounce of motivation to get up off of that sofa. His mind felt empty, like a porcelain vase that's cracked on the underside where no one notices and spills water all over the table. He searched his mind and couldn't find a single shred of inspiration. He felt as dumb as a tree.

And he needed another beer.

As he got up from the sofa, grimacing and creaking like an old man, he reached out and turned on the computer. It automatically logged into his email account, and his mouth fell open.

Two hundred and fourteen new messages.

A tiny whimper escaped from his parted lips. Forget the beer. He was going to bed.

****

He awoke with a start, turned and listened.

Nothing.

No vibrating phone, no meaty fist hammering on the door. He glanced fearfully at the clock on the wall, preparing for the unwelcome news that it was still early in the morning.

9:23.

He'd slept more than twelve hours. And he was ravenous.

He didn't even shower and shave before heading to the kitchen and fixing a mammoth bowl of oatmeal, which he devoured in less than two minutes. Feeling infinitely better than he had last night, he stretched his rejuvenated muscles and looked through the window at the workshop in the backyard.

The shower could wait.

Cameron worked for three hours without taking a break, not even for a drink of water. He finalized the design that had been pricking at his mind and had only seen the light of day as that tiny little midnight sketch. Now he could see it in his mind's eye for the first time, feel every razor-sharp edge, trace every sexy curve.

He didn't like the word "epic." It was way overused, especially in the entertainment industry. But this sword was the incarnation of "epic."

This belongs in a movie, he thought. He made a mental note to contact Toby later and see if he could plant any seeds.

A familiar tingle sang within his nerves. He recognized it immediately: the thrill of creation. It felt good to just hunker down and get some work -

The phone buzzed. Cameron smiled wearily as he put down the oily rag he was using to polish the edge he'd just made.

"Hello?"

"Hey Cameron, it's Troy over at Skyson's Collectibles."

"Oh yeah, hey, what's up?"

Skyson's Collectibles had bought the license for about a dozen of Cameron's designs a couple years ago and was his largest source of income outside of personally commissioned work. As he listened to Troy, his eyes grew wider and wider. After a few minutes, he said, "Thanks, Troy. Take care," and hung up the phone.

He looked at his tattooed face in the reflection of a chrome-polished battleaxe.

Orders for Cameron McConnell weapons had almost doubled in the past week.

His fingertips were tingling again, though not with the ecstasy of creativity. With excitement.

The beginning of the surge...

He grabbed the phone again and quickly dialed a number.

"Chucky?"

"Mmm, yeah?" a groggy voice answered.

Cameron checked his watch. "Are you still asleep? It's almost one o'clock!"

"Man, I got hammered last night. Wasted, baked, stoned, trashed, whatever is physically possible, it happened to me."

Cameron could only shake his head. "Listen, you remember that idea I was telling you about? Going to hobby shops unannounced?"

"Yeah."

"Feel like taking a drive?"

Cameron could almost hear Chucky's eyes pop open. His voice was as clear as crystal.

"Oh yes!"

They hit three major shops that day. Chucky would slip inside to see if they had a decent weapons display, which meant they would probably know who Cameron was, especially in light of his recent publicity. He would browse around for a while, during which time he would give Cameron a call and then hang up. Cameron, who was waiting in the car, would then stroll through the door, looking positively ferocious in his leather bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses.

The clerk on duty would invariably freak out, gush about how much he loved Cameron's work, beg him to sign everything in the story that bore the initials "CMC," and then text every single person that he knew. Ten or fifteen minutes later, people would start to show up, and then the autographs and photo sessions would start.

Cameron and Chucky knew that eventually someone would realize that Chucky was showing up in all the pictures, but they didn't care. In fact, Chucky was kind of hoping that people would eventually recognize him too, kind of like the herald for the knight. If someone saw him meandering through his store, Cameron couldn't be too far behind...

There were a couple shops that Chucky felt were not worthy of Cameron's presence, and he would bail after a few minutes of aimless browsing. But they really hit the jackpot with the third store they visited. It had a large black-and-white photo of Cameron's face in the window. Cameron recognized it as coming from the header of his new website that Robyn had commissioned. Beneath his simmering gaze were the words "Cameron McConnell Swords Sold Here!" in giant Gothic script.

When Cameron walked through the door, the clerk shrieked.

Cameron and Chucky were both exhausted by the end of the day, and they celebrated with a pile of bacon cheeseburgers and spicy fries at a beach-side burger joint. They silently watched the bikini-clad bodies for several minutes, and when the twilight began fading into night, it became too dark to see so they turned their attention to each other.

"This was the best day ever," Chucky declared through a mouthful of fries.

Cameron averted his eyes. "Yeah, yeah it was."

He couldn't believe it himself. He guessed that he'd autographed more than two dozen swords, a hundred posters, and the chests of a few enthusiastic female fans. He'd also been slipped several phone numbers, which he graciously accepted with no intention of calling. He may be a blossoming rock star, but he wasn't about to go down the groupie road.

Chucky had had a blast as well. He photo-bombed every picture he could, and he openly bragged about his status as Cameron's best friend. Cameron was a bit hesitant at first because he wanted to preserve the illusion of spontaneity for these hobby shop invasions, but in the end, he just thought, screw it, let him have a good time. He doesn't get many chances for attention like this.

As Chucky munched on a burger and squinted in the twilight in hopes of one last glimpse of sun-kissed skin, Cameron realized how glad he was that he had someone to share this with. It would have been great if it had just been himself, but it was even better to have Chucky along.

"Thanks for bringing me," Chucky said, as if reading his thoughts.

Cameron smiled and lifted his cola in a toast. "To my spotter."

Chucky knocked his cup against Cameron's. "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"So now you need to get a tattoo like mine."

"Fat chance! You're loco, man. I'm the one with a level head on his shoulders."

Cameron laughed, and Chucky laughed too. Their voices faded away and they ate their food in silence again.

"Chucky?" Cameron said, his voice hesitant, almost timid.

"Yeah?" It sounded more like "Yaww" through the mouthful of food.

Cameron looked down at the table, unsure if he should say anymore. "I'm...kind of starting to feel overwhelmed. A little nervous, you know?"

Chucky frowned as he dipped several fries in ketchup. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Cameron leaned back and shrugged. "I guess this is all happening really fast. I mean, you know me; I'm not a crazy seat-of-my-pants kind of guy. I just like to hang back and do things at my own pace. It used to just be me and my tools and my blades. But now...my face is on hobby shop windows, I'm being tweeted and retweeted... I've got a publicist, for crying out loud. Me. A publicist, like I'm a freakin' Hollywood wannabe."

Chucky licked his fingers with a loud smack. "Dude, it's all in your hands. I mean, no one's making you do anything. You don't have a manager who tells you what to make or where to show your face. I think you've got the best of both worlds, to be honest."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, everyone wants to be famous on their own terms. Some people hit it big but they're just a puppet and they get jerked around day and night by fatcats in suits who don't care about their health or sanity or friendships. But you're not like them. You can still do what you love, and you're already making a lot more money than you were before, and it's only been a few weeks since you brought out this...this...new Cameron. New on the outside anyway."

"But that's just it. I'm afraid that it will change me on the inside. What if I become like those phonies and puppets walking around with the million dollar smile and a black heart the size of a walnut?"

Chucky reached for another burger. "If that happens, I'll personally put you down myself."

"Wow, I'm touched. You'd do that for me?"

"Yep. You wouldn't even see it coming. Just an ice pick to the base of the skull. Pow!"

Chucky jabbed his index finger into the hamburger bun to make his point. Cameron smirked.

"Well, I'm going to keep my guard up. I've seen too many movies to know how easy it is to get all money-crazy. It never ends well."

"Good thing you've got a spotter," Chucky observed as he slurped his cola.

Cameron nodded. "Yes I do."

****

After another productive morning in the shop, Cameron microwaved his lunch and went to the living room to watch Masters of the Universe. He'd loved it ever since he was a kid, and he found that it always gave his creativity a bit of a boost. There was just something about this film that he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he never got tired of it.

Maybe it was because this was the first film that he and his father saw together in the theater.

He brushed away the crumbs of nostalgia and shoveled a forkful of tortellini into his mouth. A flash of movement caught his eye and he glanced away from the TV and looked towards the window.

Mindy's ponytail didn't seem to bounce as playfully as usual. Her steps seemed a little slower and heavier. He couldn't see her face very clearly, but he knew she wasn't smiling, despite the gorgeous sunshine and refreshing breeze. She seemed...lost.

Cameron took another bite of pasta and set the tray down on the coffee table. He hadn't really confirmed their dinner date yet. On a whim, he grabbed the phone and called her. He knew she wasn't at home, but that was good because he just wanted to leave a message.

"Hey Mindy, it's Cameron. Um, I was just wondering if you'd like to do our cookout tonight. I don't have anything going on and it's a good day for a barbecue, so if that works for you, give me a shout. I know it's a little bit short-notice but better late than never, right? Call me back."

As he dropped the phone on the sofa, he looked again out the window. She was gone, heading deeper into the bowels of the neighborhood. He frowned, displeased with himself for letting her mood affect his. He glanced at the TV. He didn't really feel like watching the movie anymore.

His phone buzzed, and he jumped. Mindy? No, it couldn't be; he just saw her running the other way. Unless she turned around and -

Answer the phone, you moron.

He grabbed it and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Cameron? It's Ivan Stockton at Cloak and Dagger."

"Ivan? Oh hey, how's it going?"

"Good, man. I was back in town and I just wanted to check with you to see how the tattoo healed up."

"Yeah, yeah, it's great. You're a magician."

"Yeah, I'm Harry freaking Potter. Listen, are you busy later? If you've got some free time, maybe you could pop on down to the shop. I'm with a couple of buddies and they'd like to check out my handiwork."

Cameron stared up at the wall clock. There was still so much day left, and he was really getting into the groove at the shop...

"Sure, no problem," he heard himself say. "How about around three o'clock?"

"Sounds good. Anytime is fine; I'm going to be here all day."

"All right. I'll catch you later."

"Later."

Cameron looked up at the clock again. He could get a couple more hours of work in, stop over at Cloak and Dagger for a bit, then head to the grocery store and pick up some food for the cookout. He was sure Mindy would answer him by then, and he was certain she'd say yes.

With renewed energy, he sat down and began rapidly consuming the rest of his lunch.

****

When Cameron eased the Ducati into the parking lot at Cloak and Dagger, his heart froze.

Parked between a Honda compact and an SUV was a badass Harley chopper. A nightmare scenario rushed through Cameron's mind.

"Hey Cameron, how's it going? Let me introduce you to the General. Don't know if you've met him. Hey, you guys both have facial tattoos. That's so cool. Of course, the General's is way bigger and kind of makes you look like a poser."

He felt like the skinny kid at school who worked out all summer and packed on some extra muscle, but finds out that another kid got totally ripped and is getting all the cheerleaders' attention. What could he do? He was already here, and it would solidify his status as a poser if he turned tail and ran. Besides, what if it wasn't the General's chopper?

Yeah, right. Cameron glowered at the chrome-smothered beast, then got off his bike and cut the engine. Tucking his helmet under his arm, he strode toward the door with his head high and a cold-eyed stare. He wasn't going to let anyone steal his thunder.

The bell above the door tinkled cheerfully, but the sound was instantly swallowed by the pounding thrash metal being vomited from the sound system mounted on the walls. Several heads turned in his direction as he walked in.

"Cameron! Come on back."

Cameron followed Ivan's invitation, warily scanning the shop for his rival. He felt pretty foolish. He'd only seen the General once in passing. So why did he feel threatened?

Two other clients were being tattooed, and from their twisted expressions, they were in too much pain to notice Cameron's arrival. He weaved his way to the back of the shop to Ivan's station.

"Looking good, man," Ivan declared as he shook Cameron's hand and peered closely at his face.

Cameron's cheek began to feel hot, and echoes of the excruciating agony reverberated through his skull.

"Yeah, it healed up well," he said. "I took really good care of it during those first few days." Though I did get my cheek stuck to the pillow when I got home and fell asleep.

Ivan nodded his approval. "Good stuff. Let me take a picture."

Before Cameron could agree, Ivan whipped out his phone and snapped three rapid photos.

"I've been hearing your name quite a bit," he said as his fingers flew over his phone's touchscreen.

There it was again, that warm flare of pride. "Oh really?" Cameron said in his best nonchalant voice.

"Yeah. Chucky's been tweeting a million photos of you and a bunch of people holding up swords and making faces and stuff. What's that about?"

So much for pride. "Um, well, it's kind of a marketing thing. I make surprise visits to hobby shops where they sell swords and I just connect with the fans. You know, taking pictures, signing autographs, that kind of thing."

Ivan looked up and his eyebrow arched. "Fans, huh? Sounds pretty heavy."

Cameron didn't exactly know what to make of Ivan's comment. He scratched the back of his head and mumbled, "Yeah, kind of. I...they're not really my fans...well I guess they are."

"Hey man, no need to be modest. I've got fans too. There's no reason to be ashamed of your popularity."

Cameron nodded with relief, and then said, "Oh, speaking of fans, I ran into another one of your satisfied customers."

"Oh yeah?" Ivan's attention was back on his phone.

"Yeah. A girl who works at Inkling Magazine. Name's Cherish."

Ivan perked up. "Cherish? You met her?"

"Yeah, she interviewed me for the magazine. They're doing a feature with a photo spread and everything."

Ivan's body went slack. "No way, dude."

Cameron couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his face. "Way."

Ivan stared blankly for a moment, then reached out and slapped Cameron's shoulder.

"Dude, that's awesome! Way to go, man. That's a quality publication, too. They were a big part in helping me get where I am now."

"I'm hoping it will do the same for me. The fantasy fans already know who I am, but I want to reach a larger audience and let people see that what I do isn't just for nerds and collectors."

"I'm sure you can make it happen," Ivan said sagely. "There's probably no one like you in your line of work."

The compliment was like gasoline thrown on the fire. Cameron felt his cheeks flush. "Thanks man. It's nice to hear that."

Just then, the back door opened. The General and the girl who worked the front desk came in, trailing fumes of marijuana smoke after them. The General looked as calm and stone-faced as an Indian chief, but the girl was red-eyed and giggling. Ivan shook his head with disapproval as he turned towards his station and began packing his needles.

Cameron watched the General march into the shop, craving a better look at the mysterious man that had inspired his drastic choice. The man seemed larger than life, just a hulking mass of muscle, leather, and tattoos. He was like testosterone incarnate.

As if sensing Cameron's eyes sweeping across his broad back, the General stopped and turned around. He locked eyes with Cameron, then smiled.

"Nice ink, cowboy."

Cameron blinked. The man's voice was as deep as he expected, but it wasn't gravely and rough. It was clear and surprisingly friendly, with a bit of a Texas drawl.

"Thanks," Cameron replied. He felt like he should say something else, but his mind went blank.

The General took a couple steps closer. "Ivan do that?" he asked, motioning with his hand.

Ivan nodded proudly. "Yep. Came out clean as a razor."

The General studied Cameron's face for a moment, then stuck out his hand.

"I'm Neil. People call me the General."

Cameron shook his hand. "Cameron McConnell."

The General nodded, then frowned. "Do I know you from somewhere? Your name sounds familiar."

Cameron hoped he wasn't beaming too brightly. "Well, I'm kind of well-known in some circles. I create specialty weapons for collectors."

"Specialty weapons?"

"Fantasy swords, axes, things like that. Handmade."

"Sounds intense." The General seemed genuinely impressed. "You ever do anything for the movies?"

"Well, actually I did design a special sword for – "

The doorbell chimed merrily and the red-eyed girl behind the desk turned and hollered, "Frank, your appointment's here."

Cameron and the General stepped aside to allow a middle-aged woman to pass. She glanced curiously at the two men, smiled politely, then sat down in Frank's chair.

It was hard for Cameron not to stare at General's mesmerizing face. His tattoos were simply incredible. A combination of Polynesian geometry and modern tribal curves covered his cheeks, forehead, brow ridge, and jawline. The rest of his exposed tattoos were done in a broad assortment of styles, but they all seemed to flow together into a unified whole.

This is the barbarian, Cameron thought.

Ivan snapped the clasps shut on his suitcase containing his tattooing equipment. "All right, I'm out," he announced.

Cameron looked around. Ivan had told him that there were a few friends that he wanted him to meet, but there was no one else around except a few other artists engrossed in their work.

"Um, Ivan," he said, unsure if he should mention it, "I thought you said you had some buddies here that wanted to see the tattoo."

Ivan nodded. "Yeah, but they're not here."

"Where are they?"

A devilish gleam twinkled in Ivan's eye and he glanced at the General. "We're going to a party."

Cameron's stomach tightened and he took a step back. "Whoa, whoa, I don't think I can go to a party."

The General glared at him with disapproval. "Why not?"

Cameron looked out through the tinted shop windows. It was still the late afternoon, and parties that start this early were usually epic events.

"Well," he said, regretting how whiny his voice sounded, "I...I was planning to..."

He instinctively felt for his phone in his pocket. Mindy still hadn't returned his message, so technically his plans weren't set in stone. Why hadn't she called?

Ivan and the General watched him like frat boys staring down a pledge, waiting to see if he would crack.

Cameron set his jaw. "You know what? Screw it. I'm down for a party."

Ivan's craggy face broke into a wide smile, and the General nodded like a guru approving of his student.

"Awesome," Ivan declared with a clap of his hands. "Let's roll."

Cameron followed the pair of tattooed men to the door.

"Don't be a stranger," the girl at the front desk sang out. Cameron glanced over his shoulder and caught her dazzling smile. Her pink-hued eyes shone like jewels.

Cameron, Ivan, and the General stood outside the shop, squinting in the late afternoon sun. Cameron just now realized how quickly his heart was beating. He didn't get excited like this too often.

"So where are we heading?" he asked.

The General motioned with a thick hand tattooed from the wrist all the way to the fingernails.

"Follow us."

Ivan got into a custom late '70s Thunderbird. It roared to life with a throaty bellow, and was joined a moment later by the demonic roar of the General's chopper. Cameron could feel the rumble in his bones, and he felt almost embarrassed to fire up his motorcycle. It was fast and had excellent torque, but it didn't have the swagger of the American machines.

You're not in high school anymore. Hold your head high like a man.

He shoved his helmet down over his head and brought the bike to life, revving it a few times. The General, who defied the law by not wearing a helmet at all, grinned at Cameron over his shoulder. He signaled forward and rumbled out of the parking lot with Ivan close behind.

Cameron could hear his heart beating over the roaring engines. He felt like he was at the top of a roller coaster, hovering a moment before careening into a wild unknown.

### CHAPTER 15

They drove out to a sprawling estate several miles outside of town. The General led the procession down tree-lined roads and around swooping hairpin turns until they arrived at a gate that looked like it belonged in front of a plantation in the Deep South. The wrought iron gates were open and there was no one in sight, although several cars were scattered across the lawn. The General roared up the driveway and parked his motorcycle on the lawn next to a cluster of trees. Ivan drove in between a pickup truck with a lift kit and a pearl-white Cadillac and cut the engine. Cameron lurched to a stop on the driveway, unsure of where he should park. The General spotted him and gestured to the patch of grass beside his chopper. Cameron complied, a little hesitant about leaving his helmet on the seat. He hoped the people at this party were honest folks.

He looked up in amazement at the Colonial-style house that loomed over them as they approached.

"Who lives here?" he asked.

Ivan grinned. "He does," he said and jerked his thumb towards the General.

Cameron's jaw fell open. The General just shrugged.

"Just because I look like a freak doesn't mean I can't make money in the stock market."

"The stock market?"

"Yep. Amazon, Apple, Alibaba... The letter 'A' has been pretty good to me."

Cameron whistled under his breath and stole another peek up at the house.

This could be you someday. Someday soon.

A smile crept across his face.

Even before they reached the door, he could hear music pounding the walls like angry fists. The General opened the double doors and gestured humbly for him to step inside. Cameron's ears were immediately bombarded by ferocious heavy metal chords, but his eyes were drawn to the opulent foyer. A colossal chandelier hung above the entryway, and an original Matisse hung on the left wall, opposite a mirror with a gilded frame.

A swooping double staircase circled like arms reaching out to embrace the guests. Everywhere was marble and limestone and silk and velvet. Cameron had to wonder if he was really here and not asleep on his workbench at home. It was impossible to believe that this was where the General lived.

"Nice place," he said loudly, though his voice was barely audible over the sonic assault.

"Thanks," the General said as he stepped inside. "Come on in, I'll get you a beer."

Cameron followed him into the depths of the house, and he could hear the sounds of laughter, merry voices, and occasionally playful squeals.

And then he heard the splash.

He followed the General and Ivan to the back of the house where a carnal feast was splayed out around a massive infinity pool. There were about thirty partygoers, and at least two-thirds were women. Extremely attractive women wearing extremely small bathing suits. Some wore no bathing suits.

Cameron's eyes popped out of his head. The General came up beside him and shoved an ice cold beer in his hand.

"What do you think?" he asked, slapping Cameron's shoulder.

Cameron took a sip of beer to lubricate his parched tongue. "This is incredible."

The General nodded proudly. "Out here, I can be me. No one judges me; no one cares what I look like. We're all freaks here."

He was right. Nearly everyone sported multiple tattoos and piercings, and several heads of hair blazed with multiple colors. It looked like a party after a rock concert in Vegas.

The General fixed Cameron with a serious expression. "You ever regret getting that thing?"

It took a few moments for Cameron's ears to process the question. His mind was occupied at the moment.

"What, this?" He pointed to his face. "Maybe a little at first, but not anymore. It's changed my life."

The General laughed heartily and clinked his beer against Cameron's bottle. "I'll drink to that."

After swallowing a large gulp, he motioned to a petite girl walking past.

"Rochelle," he called out over the music.

Rochelle turned and faced the two men. She looked like she was still in college, but her dark eyes flashed with intelligence and wisdom beyond her years. She was wearing a yellow two-piece that complimented her olive skin, though it competed a bit with the streaks of pink that practically glowed in her black hair.

"Come meet my friend," the General said, extending his hand like a pastor inviting a member of the congregation.

Rochelle walked over to them. She seemed like a vibrant blend of feminine grace and combustible energy. Her smile revealed perfect teeth.

"Is this your younger brother?" she asked playfully.

The General laughed. "No, this is Cameron."

"Nice to meet you, Cameron."

Cameron was amazed at how dainty her fingers felt in his rough workman's hand. "Likewise."

The General finished his beer in one large gulp and shook the empty bottle. "I'll let you two chat. Tell Rochelle about your sword," he said with a wink.

Rochelle turned to Cameron with a sly smile. "Your sword?"

Cameron silently cursed the blush spreading over his face. "Swords. I make fantasy weapons."

"Really? Like the kinds they use in the movies? Like Lord of the Rings and stuff?"

"Well no, not specifically. I've designed some weapons for movie studios before, but I usually make things for collectors. Usually they're based on books or graphic novels, but I have my own designs as well."

Cameron clutched the beer, bracing himself for the moment Rochelle's eyes would glaze over and she'd excuse herself in search of less nerdy company.

He was very surprised when her smile grew even wider.

"That's so cool!" she exclaimed. "I love things that are sharp and dangerous."

The flash in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Let me introduce you to my friend," she said as she waved to a tall blonde girl in a black bikini top and billowing beach skirt. "Melanie! Come here and meet this guy. He has the coolest job!"

Cameron's heart was thundering louder than the music.

****

It could have been the tequila shots. It could have been the four or five beers. It could have been the massive joint that Melanie made for him.

It was probably all of the above.

Whatever the reason, Cameron's head was swimming. The parade of flesh, the endless barrage of heavy metal, the incredible house... His senses were overloaded. And he loved it.

As evening fell, the party moved indoors, and several couples (and a few trios) escaped to quiet corners of the house to have their own private parties. Cameron found himself on a massive sofa in the living room with a very drunk Rochelle. She was curled up next to him, aimlessly tracing her finger over the tattoo on his face.

The General emerged from the bathroom with a tall redhead in a skimpy black dress. They were both laughing through their teeth as if they had a secret that no one else knew. The girl gave the General's tattooed ear a playful nibble and then scampered off.

With a loud, satisfied groan, the General sank down onto the sofa next to Cameron. He shoved a warm beer into Cameron's hand and tapped it with his own.

"Enjoying yourself, my friend?"

Cameron nodded slowly, or perhaps quickly. He couldn't really tell. Numbness was starting to creep through his nerves, though Rochelle's finger caressing his skin felt like soothing fire. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation.

The General smiled, then looked down at Cameron's leg.

"You're vibrating."

Cameron burst out laughing, then stopped. His phone. In his pocket. It was vibrating. Which meant someone was calling.

Mindy.

He clenched his teeth as he pulled the phone out and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Cameron? Where are you? I called you like five times."

"What?" He looked at the display screen. In the corner was a little phone icon and the number "5."

Crap crap crap...

He jerked his head away from Rochelle's seductive fingers. "I'm so sorry, Mindy. I didn't hear my phone."

"Where are you? I can barely hear your voice."

"Me? I'm...um..."

"Are you at a party?"

Cameron licked his lips. "Kind of."

"Well, what about tonight? Our cookout?"

"Yeah, that. Um, listen, can I take a rain check on that? I didn't really mean to stay here so long and..."

"Who are you talking to, baby?" Rochelle cooed, leaning forward to lick his tattoo.

"Who's that?" Mindy demanded.

"No one," Cameron said as he shrugged Rochelle off in annoyance.

"Didn't sound like no one."

Cameron sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Listen Mindy, I know I'm a jerk for forgetting about our dinner. But this isn't a good time for me right now."

"Oh, sure, fine, enjoy your party!"

"Min – "

The line went dead. Cameron closed his eyes and left the phone fall to his lap. Rochelle scooped it up and held it at arm's length and began taking photos of herself.

"Give me that," Cameron growled, snatching the phone away. Rochelle made a face at him and left the room.

Cameron rubbed his aching temples.

"Lady trouble?"

He turned and looked at the General, who regarded him with amusement as he chugged his beer.

"Something like that," he answered sourly.

The General put his empty bottle on the glass coffee table and sat forward.

"Let me tell you something, my friend. I've lived all over the world, met all kinds of people. Even been married twice. And you know what I realized?"

Cameron looked up at the ceiling. He wasn't in the mood for a sermon.

"What?" he said after a moment.

"That this world is full of beautiful women. I'm serious. I mean, you think California's wild, you should check out Eastern Europe. Or Asia. China, Japan. Every two seconds, pow! And South America, too. Man..."

The General licked his lips and his eyes looked far away. Cameron smirked and looked down at his beer. He had been hoping for something a bit more profound.

"Thanks for the heads-up," he said as he took a drink. "I'll put those places on my 'to-go' list."

"Wait, wait, you're not getting my point."

Cameron paused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes.

"My point is this," the General said. "There are lots of women, and lots of choices. Some people make their choice, and some people keep trying the free samples. But the question you need to ask yourself is this: do you need a woman to be happy?"

Cameron stared at him and considered the question. He hadn't really thought of it before.

"I'd have to say no," he answered.

"So there you go. If you are able to enjoy life with only yourself as your lifelong companion, then there's no need to involve yourself in any female drama. It doesn't mean you can't appreciate women or enjoy being with them, but your first obligation is to yourself. If a woman is getting in the way of your happiness rather than bringing you happiness, then that relationship needs to end."

He leaned back in the sofa and stretched his arms across the back. "Now, sometimes you meet someone and you realize that you need them in your life if you're going to continue to be happy. It doesn't mean that you weren't happy before, but after you meet them, you can't un-meet them. And that's when you take the next step in the relationship. But only if you know what you're doing. I've seen too many knuckleheads get pussy-drunk and wind up locked into a life with someone they don't enjoy being with. There's nothing wrong with commitment, but it has to be with the right person.

"And with so many lovely ladies in the world," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "the odds of finding that right person are pretty small."

Cameron pondered this. It made sense, though he didn't feel any better about letting Mindy down. The General's attitude seemed a bit selfish, in his opinion.

"So what about you?" he asked. "You have all this but no one to share it with?"

"Are you kidding?" the General laughed. "I share it with everyone! I'm not just seeking my own happiness; I'm Santa Claus."

Cameron had to smile. Now that would be a strange sight.

"I'll tell you a secret," the General said in a low voice. He leaned closer, and his eyes drew dark. "Women are always trying to pin me down. They look at me and think that I'd be a pretty good catch. They think, 'He's got a lot of dough, plenty of friends, a wild, free spirit. He's the kind of guy who could give me the thrill of a lifetime.' But what they don't realize is that I am the way I am because I don't have a woman chained to my ankle. The moment I take that plunge, I would lose everything that made me appealing to them in the first place. I'd be just a regular guy with a big bank account who has to be home every night by ten o'clock."

Cameron was borderline depressed now. He swirled the beer in the bottle and exhaled heavily.

"So what do I do?"

The General stared at him meaningfully for several seconds. "Only you can answer that, my friend. But remember this: you come first. And don't change that unless it's your decision."

Cameron nodded. He could feel the buzz starting to evaporate, and he gestured to the nearly empty bottle.

"Thanks for the advice." He looked at his watch. "It's getting kind of late, I should probably head out. Got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

The General nodded, though he didn't stand up. He just stared at him with a curious smile. "You okay to drive?"

Cameron probably wasn't, but he didn't feel like partying anymore. A headache was starting to blossom between his eyes.

"I'm fine. Thanks for the party."

"You're welcome. Come back anytime."

Cameron turned and headed towards the kitchen to look for Ivan and tell him he was leaving. He shouldered his way through the cluster of people standing around and laughing over their drinks, but he couldn't see Ivan anywhere.

Then he saw Rochelle. She was talking with another girl, but her eyes instantly locked with his. He expected a cold, icy stare, but he was surprised when she gave him a foxy smile and a wink.

Cameron finished the beer and set it on the counter. He knew he wasn't going anywhere.

****

He couldn't breathe. Something was wrapped around his lungs, like a homicidal squid, just squeezing and squeezing and...

His eyes snapped open. He was in a strange room, and a strange person was lying on top of him. He groaned and shook his head to clear away the haze.

What a party.

The last thing he remembered was getting all cozy with Rochelle and she pressed a little yellow pill onto his tongue. He looked at the motionless body sprawled across him. Was that Rochelle? He couldn't see her face, but she was about the same size as Rochelle, and she had black hair too, but he couldn't tell if there were any pink streaks.

Whoever it was, she was suffocating him. He pushed her off and she rolled completely across the bed, wrapping herself in the sheets like a mummy. Cameron still didn't catch a glimpse of her face.

He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. They felt sore for some reason. He opened his mouth in a colossal yawn and glanced down at his watch. His eyes nearly fell out of his head.

1:37 pm.!

He jumped to his feet, knocking the girl's legs back. She moaned but didn't wake. Cameron yanked on his clothes, which thankfully were in a small pile near the door. What was in that pill?

He stalked out of the room and found himself in the middle of an apocalyptic war zone. The house was trashed. Literally trashed. Amazingly, nothing seemed to be broken, but every chair, table, and rug were covered with cups, bottles, chicken bones, paper plates, and naked or nearly-naked bodies. No one was awake, though a few people stirred or mumbled in their sleep.

Cameron swallowed in a futile effort to lubricate his parched throat. Standing on his tiptoes, he crept through the garbage and partygoers until he reached the foyer. He put his hand on the giant brass door handle and pulled on it as forcefully as he could without making too much noise.

"Drive safe."

He whirled around and saw the General standing behind him, bare-chested and cradling a bottle of Jack Daniels like it was a baby.

"Hey, um, great party," Cameron mumbled. "You need me to help you clean up or anything?"

The General shook his head. "Don't worry about it. The housekeeper will take care it."

Cameron nodded, relieved.

"She's the girl you woke up with," the General added, unable to hold back a smile.

Cameron's jaw fell open. "Are...are you serious? The housekeeper?" He felt a little disappointed that it hadn't been Rochelle.

"That's just one of her jobs. Did you like the pill she slipped you? I get them imported from Belgium."

Cameron's head was spinning. Rochelle gave him that pill, so that meant she was the...

This was all too loony for him. He just wanted to get home.

"Tell her..." he began, then coughed roughly. "Tell her thanks for a good time. And you too."

The General nodded humbly. "Don't be a stranger. You're a stand-up guy, and you're welcome anytime."

"Thanks." Cameron opened the door and stepped out into the warm, refreshing sunshine. It was like emerging from a burning building. He shook his head in amazement as he walked towards his motorcycle. These people were nuts.

He drove cautiously on the way back home. He was pretty sober but he still felt a little light-headed, and who knew what would show up in his system if he got arrested for driving under the influence. Thankfully, he made it home without incident, though he felt pangs of guilt as he drove past Mindy's house.

He was glad that she wasn't outside, because he didn't know what he would say if he saw her. He parked the bike in the garage and watched as the garage door rumbled shut, hoping he wouldn't see her feet walking up his driveway.

His first mission was to get some food in his stomach. A quick inspection of the fridge and pantry left him with few options. He finally decided on peanut butter and banana sandwiches. He made three. The next order of business was a shower.

Feeling clean and rejuvenated, he headed out to the workshop. He wasn't particularly in the mood to do anything, but he felt that he had wasted too much time already. Plus he wanted to get his latest creation out the door as soon as possible. He was nervous that Robyn would send him on a world tour or get him a role in a movie or something. None of which would be bad, but it would take him away from his shop and his tools. This was where his heart was.

As he worked on an impossibly sharp point jutting away from the blade like a curved thorn, he found his thoughts continually falling back to Mindy. She had seemed so upset on the phone. More than just jealous. He got the feeling that she had really wanted to talk to him about something important. It made him nervous more than anything.

After a couple hours of busy work, he threw down his tools and wiped his hands on a rag. He marched across the backyard, though his house, and out the front door. He didn't walk across her lawn, choosing to head down his driveway and on the street for a few steps before walking up her driveway to his house. He glared at a neighbor across the street who was checking his mail and stopped to stare at Cameron's tattoo.

His footsteps were loud as he stepped onto her porch. He didn't use the doorbell, knocking insistently with his knuckles. A moment later, Mindy opened the door. She looked startled.

"Cameron! What..."

"I want to take you to dinner."

Mindy's mouth hung open a little, but her eyes were hard. "You want to take me to dinner?"

"Yes."

Mindy looked around, as if she expected to see a camera and find out that this was just a TV prank. Her eyes fell to her bare feet, then she looked up at him again.

"Why?" Her tone told him that he had one chance to make this right.

He took a deep breath. "Because I'm a selfish jerk who wasn't there for you when you needed someone to talk to."

"How do you know I needed to talk to someone?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, though some of the coldness had left her voice.

"Come on, I'm not stupid. You said so yourself that you wanted to talk to me about something, and I didn't realize how it important it is to you. I may have a hard time showing it, but I really do care how you feel."

Mindy tried to hold onto her anger, but Cameron could see it drain away from her expression. She smiled softly.

"Okay. I'd like that. But it's not a date. Just...two friends enjoying each other's company."

Cameron returned the smile. "You won't be afraid to be seen in public with me?"

"Are you kidding? I can't wait to see the waiter's face when we walk in."

Cameron breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"So how about tomorrow night?"

"Works for me."

"Okay, I'll come by at eight."

"Eight. Got it."

Cameron turned to go, but Mindy reached out and touched his arm.

"Cameron?"

"Yeah?"

Her eyes reflected the setting sun. "I think you're a good guy. I really do."

Cameron smiled with gratitude, then stepped off her porch and went home.

### CHAPTER 16

He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a tie, and he was ashamed that he had to turn to the internet for help. Now, as he struggled in front of the mirror, he was considering abandoning the idea altogether.

Before he could finalize his decision, the phone rang. He sandwiched it between his ear and shoulder as he desperately tried to tuck the fat end of the tie into the constantly tightening knot.

"Hello?"

"Cameron, it's Robyn."

"Robyn. Hey."

"Are you busy?"

Please don't tell me you're in the neighborhood and would like a quickie. "Uh, yeah, kind of."

"Well I won't keep you long. I just wanted to see how you were coming along with that new sword you told me about."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I've been cranking it out on that one. I got a lot of work done on it today in fact. I think I'll have it finished this week."

"Good. That's good. Because I've got a surprise for you that I think you'll love."

Cameron smothered a grunt of frustration as he pulled on the tie. "What is it?"

Robyn laughed and Cameron thought of the evil queen in that old Disney cartoon. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it? Just get that sword done this week, send me some pictures, and I'll rock your world."

Cameron gulped. "Sure, okay."

"Okay sweetheart. Talk to you again soon. Kisses."

Cameron didn't know how to respond, so he just mumbled, "Mm-hmm," and hung up the phone.

What he had told her was true. Last night, after asking Mindy out, he felt rejuvenated, and the memory of the previous day's debauchery seemed like a fading dream. After a heavy sleep, he had awoken just after dawn and immediately went out back and began working. He was a demon, unable to work fast enough to release the energy that seemed to be leaking from every pore in his body. He finished the hilt and almost had the final shape of the blade sharpened to deadly precision. All that was left was some extremely delicate engraving, but this was going to be the tricky part. He wasn't going to etch the design onto the blade; he was going to weld it onto the surface so that the design would be slightly raised. This was going to be extremely difficult but he was confident he could make it happen.

He did feel a little nervous though about Robyn's insistence that he finish it this week. That irritatingly familiar tightness returned in his gut, but he told himself to relax. Work could wait; he had more important plans this evening.

If he could only get this damn stupid freaking tie to look halfway decent...

When Mindy answered the door, his heart stopped. Her hair was curled in bouncy blonde ringlets, and a tasteful black dress with just the right amount of sexiness hugged her body. Her feet were sheathed in strappy high-heeled shoes that matched the color of her lipstick.

She still looked sporty somehow, in a way that Cameron couldn't figure it out. He liked it that way.

Mindy smiled shyly when she saw his startled reaction. "Come on, stop it, I feel like a parade float."

Cameron chuckled and pointed to his face. Mindy had to laugh too.

"You look wonderful," Cameron said. His heart was thundering like a train. He wondered if he would ever grow out of this boyish excitement around beautiful women.

He hoped not.

"Thanks," Mindy answered, "and you too."

A slight frown darkened her face, and Cameron saw her eyes fall to his necktie. He huffed with annoyance.

"I know, I know, it's hideous. I tried my best."

Mindy gave him a knowing smile. "Come on in, I'll help you fix it."

Cameron stepped into the entryway and turned to face a small circular mirror mounted on the wall. Mindy stood in front of him but angled her body a little to the side so that Cameron could watch her hands.

He felt warmth spread from her fingers where she brushed against his collarbone. She didn't touch his skin, but it felt as if she had. Her perfume drifted around them like mist. Cameron didn't move and he barely breathed.

It took only a few moments, and it was over too quickly. Mindy patted his shoulder and stepped back. "There. Much better."

Cameron let his body relax. He hadn't realized how tense his muscles had been. It was the same feeling when a tattoo is finished. Every muscle in your body aches slightly but a euphoric sensation lingers. You almost regret that it's over.

"Thanks," Cameron said, turning towards her. She looked up at him with approval. They locked eyes and found themselves frozen in that moment. With a nervous cough, Mindy blinked and looked towards the door.

"Shall we go?" she said, a little too quickly.

They walked down the driveway to Cameron's car parked on the street. A neighbor was taking an evening jog with her Labrador retriever, and her mouth fell open when she saw them. Mindy just flashed a beaming smile, and Cameron waved casually. The woman returned the wave, though her eyes were as big as tennis balls.

Cameron helped Mindy into the car, then got in and started the engine.

"So," she said with an undertone of excitement, "where are we going?"

"You ever been to Pepe's on the Riviera?"

Mindy's face glowed. "No, but I've been wanting to go there ever since I came here! That place looks gorgeous."

Cameron smiled proudly. He'd never been there either but he figured it was a good occasion to try something new.

"Computer," he said. "To Pepe's. Maximum warp!"

Nothing happened. Mindy gave Cameron an awkward glance, and he laughed.

"Sorry, I just felt like doing that. I'm a nerd, I know."

Mindy cracked a confused smile. "Yeah, you are."

Cameron shifted the car into drive and drove down the darkening street. His veins were practically pulsing with excitement.

Screw the General. And screw the barbarian too.

****

Pepe's on the Riviera was both swanky and accessible, a relaxing blend of unpretentious luxury. It was the kind of place where you would find married couples celebrating anniversaries, nervous high school kids trying to impress their dates, and friends and business partners laughing over wine as they shed the tensions of the day. The lighting was low but not explicitly romantic, and the menu was expensive but not heart-stopping.

Cameron knew he was sending a pretty clear message to Mindy by bringing her here, but he didn't care. After the way he'd bailed on her before, she deserved a little emotional pampering. And if he was honest with himself, he was excited to see where the evening would go. Mindy's beauty was intoxicating, but even more rewarding was the smile on her face. Whatever ugliness had passed between them before was a forgotten memory.

But he still saw a sparkle of sadness in her eyes. She kept licking her lips as if she wanted to say something, but she would always change her mind at the last moment. Cameron was very curious, even impatient to know what was on her mind, but he knew he would have to let her open up when she wanted to. A flower can't be forced to bloom.

He opened the double doors of the restaurant and ushered Mindy inside. She nodded with exaggerated courtesy and giggled. The pretty hostess inside the lobby looked up and smiled.

"Good evening. Table for two?"

She froze when she saw Cameron's face. Her smile didn't waver, however, and she quickly turned her gaze back to Mindy.

"Yes," Cameron answered, forcing her to look at him again.

"Very good," she declared with a high-pitched voice. She hurriedly gathered two menus. "Follow me, please."

The restaurant wasn't too crowded, which was fortunate since Cameron didn't think to make a reservation. Most of the tables were occupied by only two or three people, and the conversations were low and light-hearted, peppered with frequent laughter. This made Cameron relax a little bit. This was the kind of restaurant that could be romantic or just friendly. A little bit of amorous atmosphere was okay but he didn't want Mindy to be smitten before the salad arrived.

Come on, don't flatter yourself. You're not catnip or crack cocaine, you know. Just because a few women jump your bones doesn't mean Mindy's going to feel the same way with a little candlelight and soft music.

Cameron wasn't listening. He was hypnotized by Mindy's loose, athletic stride as she walked in front of him.

"Here you go," the hostess said, keeping her eyes low.

Cameron pulled out Mindy's chair and helped her sit down. The hostess stood to the side, surprised by Cameron's chivalry.

When both of them were seated, she said, "Your server will be with you in just a moment," and hurried away.

Cameron took a deep breath, savoring the dozens of delicious smells. He cast a quick glance around the restaurant. Everyone seemed absorbed in their food and companions; no one was taking any notice of him. It was a bit strange to be anonymous again. He'd gotten used to standing out wherever he went, weathering stares and gasps, but this was nice. They were just two people have a quiet dinner together.

Their server blustered over with such grace and fluidity that he seemed to be on roller skates.

"'Allo, my name is Francissss. It is my 'onor to serve you tonight."

His eyes flitted from Mindy's face to Cameron's, but his expression didn't register any surprise.

"Can I start you off with something to drink? Wine, or perhaps champagne?"

"What would you recommend?" Mindy asked, hiding a smile with her hand.

Francis looked off into the distance, as if recalling a happy moment long forgotten. "Our 2003 DeSuisse Merlot is magnifique."

"Sounds good," Cameron said. He didn't know a thing about wine, but he wasn't about to look indecisive in front of Mindy.

Francis nodded and fluttered away like a leaf on the breeze. Cameron and Mindy exchanged glances and grinned.

"You like it here?" he asked.

Mindy looked around and nodded. "Yeah. A bit swankier than I'm used to."

"Me too. My idea of splurging is three toppings instead of two."

"So why did you bring me here?"

Cameron mulled his words before answering. "I feel really bad about forgetting about our dinner plans the other night." He paused for a moment, then decided to go for it. "And you wanted to talk about something."

Mindy looked down at the table, as if he had discovered a dark secret she kept hidden away.

"Yeah..." she said distantly. Her face brightened with relief as Francis returned with a bottle of wine and a white cloth draped over his arm. He poured a little bit for them to taste, then left the bottle at Cameron's request. They told him that they still needed time to decide on their food and Francis left them again.

They looked over their menus in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Cameron ventured, "What looks good?"

Mindy pursed her lips like a professor examining a student's paper. "The Chateaubriand sounds tasty, and I think I'll add a side of mostaccioli. And I'm going to hate myself later, but the chocolate mousse cake is singing my song."

She glanced up at Cameron over the top of her menu. "Um, I mean...is that too much? I don't want to take advantage..."

Cameron waved her words away. "Come on, go nuts. I'm just glad that you're not one of those girls who orders a side salad and then eats only half of it."

Mindy snorted with contempt. "Those women make me sick. It's simple: just burn more calories than you take in. I like to eat, and I like to exercise. Matter and antimatter. No diets, no 'Eight Steps to a Thinner You!' or any of that nonsense."

She cocked her head when she saw Cameron staring at her. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said, blinking as if awakening from a trance. "You have no idea how nice it is to hear a woman say that."

Mindy blushed, then looked down at her menu. "On second thought, I'll just order a salad."

"Don't you dare!"

****

The food arrived and they dove right in. Cameron ordered a massive swordfish steak with all the trimmings, but Mindy gave him a run for his money. He actually ate quicker than usual because he was afraid she would finish before him.

Whatever was weighing on Mindy's mind was lost in the food and wine, and they laughed and joked like old friends. Cameron hadn't felt this happy in a long time, and all of his recent successes seemed trivial compared to the feeling of enjoying a nice meal with a lovely lady. There was something that bothered him a little bit, though. He noticed that a few of the other patrons had begun staring at him when they thought he wasn't looking. When he'd glance their way, they would quickly avert their eyes. It was only one or two people at first, but it seemed to happen more frequently as the evening went on.

As Mindy attacked her chocolate mousse cake, Cameron sat back and let his full stomach settle. He watched her eat and savor each bite with an expression of pure joy illuminating her face.

What can be more beautiful than a healthy woman shamelessly enjoying a piece of chocolate cake? He had to laugh at himself. He wasn't used to thinking like this.

After she had scraped her plate clean, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and looked across the table at him. Her eyes shimmered in the candlelight, and Cameron saw a twinkle that made his blood race.

"Had enough?" he asked with a grin.

Mindy looked down in amazement. "Yeah. That was incredible. Orgasmic."

Cameron gulped. Mindy stared at him intently for a few seconds, then laughed.

"You should see your face. I'm sorry, I'm terrible. Girls like to make guys squirm sometimes."

Cameron laughed nervously. The room felt about ten degrees hotter.

She seemed to have forgotten all about the pressing matter that she wanted to share with him. He thought about asking her if she'd like to talk about it, but he didn't want to throw a cloud in front of her sunshine.

As if she could read his mind, her beaming smile wilted and that glimmer of sadness returned in her eyes.

"Cameron," she said, "there's something I need to tell you."

Here it comes.

"What is it?" he asked, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt.

Mindy threaded her fingers together, then unclasped them and took a nervous sip of her wine.

"I'm not really sure why I feel like I have to tell you this, but I really need to."

"Tell me what?" Cameron was starting to get nervous.

There was a moment of tense silence that hovered over the table like a fog. Then Mindy spoke in a low voice.

"It's about why I left town for a while."

"What happened?"

Mindy took a deep breath. "Promise you won't think I'm a terrible person," she pleaded.

"Mindy, I promise. Now tell me what's wrong."

"My ex, Danny..."

Uh-oh.

"...He was in a pretty bad car accident a few weeks ago. Nothing life-threatening, but he was pretty banged up, in bed for days and all that. He was a jerk pretty much the whole time we were together before, but I was in love with him then, and when I found out he was hurt, well...he begged me to come visit him, saying that his accident had changed him, that he realized how badly he had treated me, and..."

Her voice trailed away. Cameron's chest felt tight. He knew what was coming next.

"So I went back to Tennessee," Mindy continued, unable to look him in the eye. "I went and saw him in the hospital, and he looked so small and weak, and...it broke my heart. All those old feelings came back and swept me away. He told me he loved me, how sorry he was, how it would make him the happiest man in the world if I would give him another chance."

Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering in the candlelight like liquid diamonds.

"And I did. I stayed with him until he got better, about a week. And then...I went home with him. Every step of the way I was doubting myself. On one hand, I remembered all those terrible things he used to say and do to me. But when I looked into his eyes, I swore I could see a changed man. And when we...became intimate again, it was...I was in love again. I forgot about California, my home here."

She looked up at him, tears clinging to her long black lashes. "And I forgot about you."

Cameron looked at her, unable to sort out his feelings. "So why did you come back?" he asked.

She sighed and gently wiped her eyes. "After a few days of living in dreamland, he... I didn't do anything wrong...I just..."

"Mindy, what happened?"

"He hit me!"

Several patrons turned at Mindy's outburst, then quickly looked down at their dinners.

Cameron couldn't move. He tried to imagine that punk striking this gorgeous, fragile woman sitting across from him, but he couldn't. It seemed impossible.

He clenched and unclenched his fists. "So you left."

Mindy sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Yes. Oh Cameron, I'm so sorry. It's not fair to dump this on you. It was my fault for being a stupid, lovestruck girl who didn't stop for a second to think about what I was doing. I deserved it for being such an idiot."

"No."

Mindy gasped at the anger quaking in Cameron's voice. He seemed to be trembling, but it could have just been the heat from the candles distorting his face.

"You did not deserve what he did to you," he said. "No one deserves to be abused, ever. No matter what you did to provoke him, it's completely his fault. The only thing you deserve is to be respected and recognized as the incredible woman that you are."

Mindy stared at him, and Cameron stared back. The air practically crackled with electric energy.

Francis appeared at their table, seeming to materialize out of thin air.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, but I am afraid I must ask you to leave."

Mindy's neck twitched and she looked up at him with furious eyes. "What did you say?"

Francis fidgeted nervously. "I am afraid I must ask you to leave. The other patrons have...made some complaints."

Cameron's head snapped around. "Complaints? About what? We've just been talking and eating like everyone else."

A middle-aged man with a managerial expression appeared next to Francis.

"I am terribly sorry about this," he said in a weary tone, "but the complaints weren't about your conduct. They were about..."

"Well?" Mindy demanded impatiently.

"Your tattoo," the manager declared, looking just as irritated. "This is a family establishment, and your appearance conflicts with our standards."

Cameron leaped to his feet. "My 'appearance?' You mean because I have a tattoo on my face, I'm not good enough to eat at your crappy restaurant?"

"Sir," Francis begged, "please lower your voice."

"No!" Cameron roared. "You simple-minded idiots need to take your standards and shove them up your ass!"

The other patrons looked up from their tables. Several whispered to themselves and pointed towards Cameron, and this only threw gasoline on the fire.

"Do I offend you?" he bellowed, challenging the room with his fierce eyes. "You come here with your mistresses and your fake friends, and I'm the one who offends?"

Mindy tugged on his arm. "Cameron, maybe we should just go."

Cameron snatched his wine glass and drained it in a single gulp. He dropped it to the floor where it shattered loudly.

"Good idea," he grumbled, helping her to her feet and pushing her towards the door.

The manager reached out helplessly. "Sir, the bill..."

Cameron whirled around, his eyes blazing like a demon. The manager froze with terror. Cameron glowered at him for a long moment, then hurried Mindy out of the restaurant. He huffed across the parking lot and got in the car without opening the passenger door for her.

She opened the door and got in next to him. For a moment, they sat there in silence. Then she turned and looked at him.

"Are you all right?"

Cameron took a deep breath. He was furious. Not so much about being kicked out of the restaurant, but the timing of it all. Sharing that moment with Mindy, even though it was painful for her, made him feel more real than he'd felt in a long time. He realized in that instant that this is what people need. Not work, not money, not the ability to sculpt steel at will... People need to connect with other people. It seemed so simple yet so complex at the same time.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm all right."

He turned towards her. "I'm sorry for that. I don't know why I overreacted. I feel pretty embarrassed."

"They're the ones who should be embarrassed. If they had a problem with your tattoo, they should have said something right away, instead of waiting until after our meal to say something. That's just rude."

Cameron nodded. He felt incredibly sad for some reason.

"Let's go home," he said quietly. He started the car and shifted into reverse.

Mindy put her hand on his. Cameron looked at her and smiled half-heartedly.

"Thanks," she said.

He nodded, then reversed out of the parking space and drove out of the lot.

### CHAPTER 17

A dark crescent arcing around the outside of his eye, tiny triangles of black light radiating away from it. Three long claw marks like scars coursing down his cheek. Two hours of pain, then a week of inconvenient healing. And now...

Collectors clamoring for his creations. Strange women throwing themselves at him. His name and face on posters in shop windows.

And he was here, alone, staring in the mirror in a dark, quiet house. The light filtering through the blinds seemed cold and weak. He studied the shadows on his face. He hardly recognized himself. His mind hummed with rapid-fire thoughts of the past few weeks, how his life had changed so much in such a short time.

Was that even me?

Was this his face, staring back at him from inside the mirror frame? He reached out and touched the cold surface, as if he expected to touch skin and not glass.

A quick red motion above him caught his eye. He glanced up as the clock advanced one minute.

Was it too late to call her? It had only been a few hours since he dropped her off at her house. She had given him a quick peck on the cheek, but it seemed sad. As if she were saying goodbye.

He grabbed the phone and found her name in the contact list. His thumb hovered over the "Call" button, quivering like a piece of metal caught between two magnets. With a silent sigh, he closed the Home button and let his hand drop to his side. He cautiously peeked up at the wall clock. A slow, steady countdown to extinction...

He set his jaw as he brought the phone's touchscreen back to life and found the number. It probably wasn't too late to call.

The phone rang three times before a small, distant voice answered.

"Hello?"

Cameron swallowed dryly. His heart was hammering, and he almost hung up the phone.

"Mom? It's me....Cameron."

A long pause.

"Hi sweetheart." Her voice sounded like it was coming from behind a thick piece of glass. Like a prison visitation room.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart. How about you? Are you all right? It's a little late."

Cameron winced. He'd forgotten about the time difference. She was probably asleep when he'd called her.

"Yeah, I'm sorry Mom. I just...I just felt like calling."

"Well I'm glad you did, sweetheart."

Another pause.

"Mom," Cameron began, unconsciously rubbing his face, "I don't want you to think I'm crazy or anything. I might do some crazy things, but I'm always me."

"I know, Cameron. I overreacted last time we spoke, and I'm sorry. It's just a bit hard for a mother to accept a new face on the boy she raised. But you're my son no matter what, and compared to a lot of other sons, you're a pretty darn good one. I suppose a little tattoo is nothing compared to what some other mothers go through."

Cameron closed his throat to prevent a sob from spilling out. "I want you to know that I love you Mom. I appreciate everything you did for me."

There was a small sound on the other end like a sniffle, and his mother spoke with tears in her voice. "I love you too, sweetheart. It's nice to hear from you."

Cameron smiled, and he knew she was smiling too. Neither one of them spoke for a few moments.

Finally Cameron said, "Well it's late, I'll let you get back to bed. Sorry to wake you."

"No, don't be. You've made this old woman very happy."

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Cameron."

Just before Cameron ended the call, he heard her cry out, "Oh, Cameron, wait! Don't hang up!"

"Mom, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetheart, nothing. I just wanted to tell you what your Uncle Aiden found out. You know, he's been doing some research on the family line, and guess what?"

"What?"

"He found out that our family is descended from the Picts. They were a group that lived in northern Scotland. Now here's the interesting thing: experts believed they loved to tattoo themselves, even their faces! So I suppose you could say that you're carrying on the family tradition!"

Cameron had to smile. "That's great Mom. You can tell that to your friends at the bridge club."

"You bet I will. They can have their boring children working in banks and law firms. My son is a Pict and I am darn proud of him."

"Thanks, Mom. Good night. I love you."

"Love you too, Cameron.

Cameron set the phone on the dresser and looked at his shadowy face in the mirror. His mouth curled into an ironic smile.

A Pict. He'd have to call Robyn and let her know. She'd be able to spin that into gold.

His heart felt infinitely lighter. There was still a lingering twinge of guilt about ruining Mindy's night, but he was glad that the other woman in his life didn't hate him. One relationship at a time.

As he burrowed under the blanket and felt his mind spiral towards sleep, one final though pierced through the thickening haze. It was the General's voice.

Is it worth the trouble?

Before he could answer, he was asleep.

****

When he awoke, he didn't think about Mindy or his mother. As he showered, shaved, and prepared a simple breakfast of sweetened cereal and milk, he only thought about one thing.

The Doomsong.

The name had popped into his head as his mind pulled away from sleep like a scab. A name that called to mind delicacy, fluidity, and lethal terror. There was certainly something musical about the deadly blade. It looked like it was always moving, even when it lay still on a table.

He was going to finish it today, or at least as much as he could. The rest would be up to the chrome finishers. Yet he was already considering keeping the chrome to a minimum. A few ideas played around in his head, and he would call on them when the time was right.

He didn't emerge from the shop for the entire day, stepping outside only to relieve himself in a cluster of bushes. He didn't want to go into the house for fear that he would lose his mojo.

Mindy crossed his mind once or twice, but he was too much in the groove to consider calling her. Besides, what would he say? He didn't know how she felt about him, or if she even wanted to talk to him anymore. She didn't seem particularly mad when he dropped her off last night, just...disappointed. He couldn't tell if it was in him or just in the way the evening went.

Don't kid yourself. You're the one who made that scene. Sure, they were rude, but they weren't raving like a madman. She probably thinks you're a bigger jerk than her ex.

Cameron's lips curled in a sneer as he snapped the welding mask down over his face. As harsh blue light illuminated the workshop, he tried to push her out of his mind.

You're probably better without the drama anyway. Just you and your swords. This is your time to shine; don't let things get complicated for no reason. There's a time and place for everything, and right now there's only room enough for you.

Cameron pulled the flame away and admired his handiwork. It was gorgeous. And he realized something in that moment: throughout his entire life, he had never experienced any happiness greater than the satisfaction of a job well done.

So...get the hint yet?

Cameron nodded his head quickly and the mask slapped back down over his face. He wasn't interested in a conversation with himself. He had work to do.

****

Several hours later, the Doomsong was finished.

It lay on the table like a newborn child. So fragile and delicate, yet so resilient and beautiful. Invincible. Sweat trickled down his chest heaving with weary, ecstatic breaths.

He wished that Chucky were here. He was confident that this was even beyond "awesome."

Wiping his hands on a rag, he took another long look at the sword. It was his best yet. He couldn't wait to share it with the world.

His feet barely touched the ground as he floated back inside the house. The fridge beckoned to him like a long lost friend, but he was too excited to eat. He just grabbed an ice cream sandwich from the freezer and wolfed it down, then popped open a beer. He could feel his fingertips glowing.

Speaking of fingertips, they were filthy. He looked down at himself and wrinkled his nose. Shower first, then he would see about dinner. He stripped off his shirt as he walked to the bedroom and was in the process of taking off his pants when he spotted his phone on the dresser.

A little message icon flashed on the screen. He picked up the phone and opened the message.

Hey C, just wanted to let you know that Im going on a yoga retreat w/ a few friends from work. Gonna be gone for a few days. Could you water my flowers? Thnx. Don't feel bad about last night, those guys were jerks. OK c ya soon.

Cameron tossed the phone on the bed, feeling a little annoyed. He tried to sort out his thoughts but he couldn't. She hadn't said anything about a yoga retreat before; was she trying to keep some distance between them?

Well, whatever she was up to, it was her business. She could stay gone for a month for all he cared.

He stepped into the shower and turned up the heat.

After two days, he brought the Doomsong home from the finisher. He felt like a proud father. He was even more proud when he got a copy of Inkling Magazine in the mail with his snarling face on the cover. He flipped through it like a ten-year-old boy getting a new comic book. There he was on page twelve, his oiled body sheathed in leather and studs, three sultry vixens pawing and twisting around him like serpents.

A celebration was in order. He called up Chucky and together they finished two cases of beer and three pizzas. They watched both Conan the Barbarian movies back to back, per Chucky's drunken suggestion that they dedicate the night to Conan the Beagle, the best damn dog that ever lived. They both fell asleep in Cameron's living room sometime in the early morning.

Cameron hadn't mentioned his new creation, and he felt guilty about keeping the secret from his friend. He knew Chucky would hit the roof when he saw the Doomsong, but he wanted the moment to be right. He even had a chance to play with his emotions a little after they had consumed a greasy breakfast to combat their hangovers.

"What've you been working on?" Chucky inquired drowsily. "Don't tell me all you've been doing is posing for pictures like an underwear model."

"Oh, well, you know, I've been working on a couple of things," Cameron answered, watching his friend's face closely. He would know from Chucky's reaction if he suspected anything, but Chucky seemed more interested in the new tattoos across his knuckles that weren't healing fast enough.

"Oh yeah?" he answered absently. "Anything good?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'll show you sometime."

Chucky just nodded, and that was the end of it. Shortly after mid-morning, he announced that he had to go to his latest part-time job. He went through about two a month.

Cameron saw him off, then ducked back inside. He told himself he was still sensitive to the sun's glare, but the truth was that he didn't want to look at Mindy's flowers.

He stared at the sword reposing in his closet as he called Robyn.

"Robyn, it's Cameron."

"Mr. McConnell! How are you?" She sounded unusually formal.

"Uh, I'm good. Listen, I want you to help me with something."

"Anything."

"I finished my new sword, and it's amazing. I mean, really amazing. I want to unveil it at MasterCon next month. I didn't register my own booth but I've got a buddy that I'm sure would let me make an entrance. Anyway, I want to do something special for this unveiling, not just the usual show with a fog machine and girls and music and all that. Something that no one's done before."

There was a pause for a moment. Cameron could almost hear the gears of her mind turning and grinding.

"Okay, I might have a couple of ideas. Send me some pictures of the sword and I'll talk to some people. I'll get back to you in a few days. Sound good?"

"Great, thanks."

"Take care, Mr. McConnell."

She's a weird one, Cameron thought as he hung up the phone. Then he remembered that he needed to give Peter Kowalski a call and see if he could let him borrow a corner of his booth at MasterCon.

As he dialed the number, he realized this was going to be his first convention in a long time. And he was thrilled.

What was wrong with me before?

Then he remembered.

Shane Calhoun.

He clenched his teeth, imagining the back-stabbing traitor surrounded by adoring fans and swooning women. A dark cloud passed over Cameron's face.

That was all going to change now. Chucky was right - he wasn't going to be held hostage. He was going to...

A deep voice that sounded slightly out of breath answered the phone. "Peter Kowalski."

Cameron's mind switched gears. "Hey Peter, it's Cameron."

"Cameron! Hey man, I've been hearing a lot about you. That's something crazy you did to your face man, but everyone's going wild about it. I've been moving your replicas as soon as they come in."

"That's great. Listen, I have a favor to ask."

"Name it."

Cameron smiled.

****

After three days, Mindy still wasn't back from her yoga retreat. This irritated Cameron, and it irritated him even more because he didn't know why he was irritated. He tried to channel his energy towards other unfinished projects, but he found that after finishing the Doomsong, his creativity bank was drained. The thought of forging a blade or carving a gilded sword hilt wasn't as appealing as it used to be. Perhaps he was afraid that anything he made would be inferior to the masterpiece that lay tucked away in his closet, sheathed in bubble wrap.

So he did what any aimless bachelor would do. He turned on the computer. He'd never thought of it before, but the idea to start a blog suddenly struck his mind. He had been given the administrator's password to his personal website, but he'd never written any blog posts or news updates since the site was launched.

He figured now was a good time as any. It would be a good way to drum up publicity and keep fans and collectors on edge. Robyn had mentioned something about controlled information release, kind of like what fishermen do when they let a little bit of line out, just a few feet at a time.

Cameron cracked his knuckles and began typing. He went through several drafts, and the final post was pretty bare-bones:

"Just finished my best work yet! Excited to unveil it at MasterCon next month. See you there!"

It felt more like a tweet than a news update, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He didn't dare post a picture or anything. He wished he had some photos of himself working in the shop. It was a good idea, and he filed it away in his mind to discuss with Robyn sometime.

He spent several hours that day and the next browsing the internet, popping in at fan forums, updating his Facebook page, tweeting about nothing in particular, and answering emails. His inbox was flooded with orders, and he had to decline most of them. There were a few intriguing offers from some heavy hitters, including a movie studio that was interested in discussing a possible collaboration in the near future. Cameron told them he would consider it and get back to them.

By the fourth day, he was starting to feel worried. Maybe Mindy hadn't gone on a yoga retreat. Maybe she fled back into the arms of her abusive ex-boyfriend...

He gasped when he heard a car pull into Mindy's driveway. He parted the blinds and spotted Mindy getting out of a car filled with smiling people. They looked like they had just returned from a yoga retreat.

He watched her as she headed up the walkway towards her front door. He hoped she would throw a glance towards his house, but she didn't. She opened her door and disappeared inside.

Cameron let the blinds snap shut, and he looked around, as if searching for his next move. Should he call her? No, it was too soon; it would seem a little creepy, and she might suspect that he had been waiting for her. Had he been waiting for her? She was just his neighbor, after all.

Well, she was back now, and she looked like she had had a nice time. Good for her. Now he could get back to work and stop thinking about her.

Except that's not what happened.

The nagging urge to give her a call gnawed at the corner of his mind all day, even when he went out to the shop and made half-hearted attempts to work on some special orders. He gave up after a couple of hours and skulked back into the house.

It was so easy. All he had to do was pick up the phone, find her number, and press call.

So what was the problem?

He clenched his teeth in frustration and grabbed the phone. Just a quick call to see how she was doing, a little chit-chat, nothing more.

Just as he picked up the phone, it buzzed violently in his grip. He almost dropped it, he was so surprised. Frowning, he peered at the number.

Robyn.

"Hello?" he answered, trying to sound casual, but the reality was that he was very excited to hear what she had to say. All thoughts of Mindy vanished from his mind.

"Cameron, sweetheart, how are you?" Her voice was very pleasant and sunny, in sharp contrast to her tone during their last conversation.

"I'm good, thanks. What's up?"

"I've got some great news for you. I remember you telling me that you're a rock and roll fan."

Cameron's eyebrows rose. Where was she going with this? "Yeah, I'm a bit of a metalhead."

He could hear the proud smile in her voice. "Well I think you'll be pretty excited about this. Are you ready?"

"Yes." Come on, I'm not a child.

"Okay. Are you familiar with the band Hammer Star?"

"Of course. Who isn't?"

"Well me, for one. But I'm not into that sort of thing. Anyway, I talked to a friend in the music business, and they told me that Hammer Star is releasing a new album next month."

"I know, I've already pre-ordered it. But what does that have to do with me?"

"Patience, sweetheart, patience. My friend told me that Hammer Star has just finished filming a music video for their new single. Now here's where you come in. It's genius, by the way."

"Robyn, you're killing me here."

"Okay, sorry. I'll cut to the chase – they want to add you to the video."

Cameron was stunned. "What?"

"They want to add some clips of you to the video. You won't actually be on screen with the band, but it's a medieval/fantasy-themed song, and my friend thinks it would look pretty rad if there were some clips of you forging the sword in some sort of blacksmith costume. You know, fire, bellows, the whole thing. All keeping in tone with the video and the song. There will be shots of you making the sword, then the band doing their thing and rocking and rolling, then back to you, etc. At the end of the video, we get a look at the sword. It's brilliant. Kind of like product placement. What do you think?"

Cameron's fingers were trembling. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"Cameron? Are you still there?"

"Y-yeah," he stammered. "Robyn, are you being serious? This isn't a joke or anything?"

"I'm dead serious. I was pretty excited myself when I heard the idea, and I'm not even into rock music. I'm an 80's pop girl myself."

Cameron had to take a couple of deep breaths to make sure his brain was getting enough oxygen.

Hammer Star. I'm going to be in a music video with Hammer Star.

When the wave of euphoria had subsided to a manageable level, his mind clicked back into work mode. "So what do I need to do?"

"Well you need to get some other swords made in various stages of completion. Probably two or three. It will be pretty dark on the set I'm told, so you don't need to make anything too detailed. They'll provide all the props and your costume and things. Filming should probably only take half a day."

Cameron didn't realize his face had broken into a big dopey smile. "Wow, this is unbelievable. Thanks Robyn, you're awesome."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me, so I'm guessing it's true. So how about next week?"

"Yeah, that'd be fine. I'll bust my butt and get some new swords made."

"Great. I'll let them know you're on board. Oh, Cameron, before I forget, there's one more thing. It's kind of important."

"Okay?"

"This isn't for free. You're going to need to pony up some cash for the shoot."

Cameron's stomach fell a few inches. "How much?"

"My friend says they'll need $15,000."

Cameron gulped. "$15,000..."

"Is that doable for you? I could talk to some people about maybe loaning you some – "

"No, no, that's fine. I've got it."

"Okay. I'll give you a call next week with times and places. Cool?"

"Yeah. Thanks Robyn."

"Okay sweetheart, take care. Kisses."

Cameron hung up the phone. He was ecstatic and worried at the same time. Where was he going to get $15,000? He could ask his mother, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. He was just grateful that she wasn't angry at him anymore, and he didn't want to take any chances with their relationship.

He frowned as he stared at the living room carpet. Then his eyes grew wide. His muscles tightened and a small voice inside cried out. No! Please...!

He knew where he had $15,000.

It was sitting in the garage on two wheels.

He sighed and hung his head.

### CHAPTER 18

It rained for the next four days straight. This gave Cameron an excuse to stay in the workshop from morning till night without going over to see Mindy. The second night after she got back, she sent him a text message.

How ya been? Want to have dinner sometime?

Cameron was relieved that she had made the first move, and that let him take control of the situation.

Love to, but can't. Working on something really big, very busy. We'll hang out soon.

Mindy's reply was short and simple.

Okay. Take care.

Cameron didn't know how he felt after that little exchange. He didn't want to push her away but he didn't want her complicating his life either. He wanted to see her on his own terms.

Yeah, that's not selfish at all.

Cameron smirked as he threw the phone on the bed.

He spent at least fourteen hours a day in the shop, cutting, grinding, welding, and polishing. He was glad that he didn't have to recreate the Doomsong exactly, because he didn't think he could make it look as good as that first effort. All the while, his nerves were tingling with excitement. He was going to be in a music video with Hammer Star. The Hammer Star. This was going to be the catapult that launched him to new heights. He could feel it.

When the rain abated for a few hours, Cameron took his motorcycle to the dealer where he'd purchased it. It was killing him but it was the only way.

One hour later, he walked out with a check for $12,000. The sales rep seemed to sense his urgency and he knew Cameron wasn't in a position for a long drawn-out bargaining session. It was all Cameron could do to wring twelve grand out of him. He was afraid he was going to have to settle for ten.

He had enough savings to cover the remaining $3,000 but it didn't leave him with much left. He knew he had some royalty checks coming his way and plenty of customers were lined up outside his proverbial door, but the Doomsong was his sole focus right now. He wasn't worried, though. He had the key to a very profitable door. All he had to do was make sure everyone else knew it too.

The next day he got a call from Robyn, telling him to be at Cutthroat Studios downtown first thing in the morning. At the crack of dawn, Cameron bundled his swords into his car and languished in LA traffic for a couple hours and got lost three times before finally finding the studio. It wasn't a sprawling movie studio complex, which is why it was so hard to find. It looked like three small airplane hangars tucked amongst a cluster of Mexican grocery stores and wig shops.

The people inside were very laid-back and patient, quite different from the crowd at the photo studio for the Inkling shoot. Filming took about four hours, and Cameron had to shake his head in disbelief. Four hours of filming, and only about one minute of footage would actually be used.

He had secretly hoped that the guys from Hammer Star would be there, though he knew better than to get his hopes up. But he did run into an unlikely person as he was bundling his swords back into his car.

"Toby!"

His friend looked up, squinting even though the sky was still overcast. He walked over to Cameron with a slow shuffling walk that seemed reluctant, even sad.

"Hey Cameron. What brings you here?"

Cameron frowned. He had never seen Toby look this low, but he didn't want to mention it. Maybe he just had the flu or something.

"I'm going to be in a music video," he answered. "They're going to use this new sword I made in the video and it's going to premiere at MasterCon next month."

Toby nodded, looking at something in the distance.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Cameron dove in. "Hey man, you okay? You look kind of down."

Toby looked at him as if he'd just noticed him standing there. "No, I'm all right. Just a lot of stuff..."

He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Actually things could be better. Alicia found out about my thing with Robyn and threw me out. It's kind of funny though, since Robyn was screwing pretty much everyone that I knew as well."

Cameron held his gaze, not daring to move. But Toby's expression seemed to indicate that he didn't include Cameron in that list.

"She's a predator, man. I wouldn't even be surprised if she and Alicia were going at it. Anyway, I think I'm going to take a break from everything for a while. I'm due for some vacation time. I'm heading to Argentina next week."

Cameron looked at him skeptically. "Argentina? Well, you're coming back, right?"

Toby shrugged. "Eventually. I've got a buddy there with a pretty sweet setup. I think I just need to clear my head. This place gets to you after a while."

"Yeah, I know. Well, don't be gone too long. I've got some big things in the works and I'll want someone to celebrate with."

Toby's face brightened, but only a little bit. "I've been hearing about you a lot. Some of the studio suits were even throwing around your name. Looks like that thing is your good luck charm."

He gestured towards Cameron's face.

Cameron smirked. "Luck had nothing to with it. You know as much as anyone that it takes hard work and good ideas."

Toby shrugged again. "Well, I've learned that luck doesn't hurt either." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got to split. Good luck with everything, man. I'll let you know when I'm back in town."

Without waiting for a reply, he walked away and disappeared around a corner.

He could almost feel the General breathing on the back of his neck. See what women can do to a man?

Cameron shook his head and slammed the car door. He wasn't like the rest of them. He wouldn't let anyone get that deep under his skin.

****

It was raining again when he pulled up to his house. A glance at the dashboard clock showed that it was approaching 9:00 pm. He hadn't gone shopping for several days and he hoped there was at least one more microwave dinner left in the freezer.

All thoughts of food vanished as he saw Mindy running out of her house. She was dressed in a very attractive blouse and matching slacks. She shielded herself from the rain with her jacket as she rushed down the driveway and jumped into a waiting car. Cameron couldn't see very clearly through the rain-streaked windshield but there was no mistaking the profile of an admittedly handsome man in the driver's seat. Before he could get a better look, the car drove away. He thought he saw Mindy throw him a quick glance, but he couldn't be sure.

He licked his teeth, then guided the car up the driveway and into the garage. He headed into the kitchen and opened the freezer, staring through the misty vapor and spotting a lonely hamburger with macaroni and cheese dinner box. But he didn't take it out. He just stared for several moments, then he slammed the door angrily.

Come on, man, get a grip!

He closed his eyes as he leaned his head against the refrigerator door. He was furious with himself, but he didn't know how to turn these feelings off.

If she means that much to you, go tell her. Otherwise, let her live her life and you live yours. It's pretty simple.

Cameron remained still, breathing through his nose.

Looks like she's already made her choice.

****

Even though the rain cleared up the next day, Cameron didn't go out of the house. He spent several hours on the internet tweeting about the convention, building hype for the unveiling of the Doomsong, and hinting at the Hammer Star music video collaboration. Even though the house was dangerously low on food, he didn't feel like making a quick trip to the supermarket.

He was pleased to find that he was generating quite a bit of buzz about his upcoming mystery project. Many fans had pledged to seek him out at MasterCon, and his catalog of weapons was selling better than it had in years. His inbox was flooded by requests from manufacturers for new designs, but he didn't answer any of these. He knew that once the Doomsong made its debut, there would be only one thing on everyone's mind.

As the day of the convention approached, Cameron was almost giddy with excitement. He lamented the loss of his motorbike but he knew it was worth it. It gave him comfort to think about his sword bundled safely in his closet like a hostage. His ticket to the top...

Mindy was on his mind less and less as he ran around like a madman, trying to check everything off of his to-do list. Get posters made, visit hobby shops, choose which weapons he wanted to sell. Of course, he still had plenty of time at home alone with his thoughts. He considered giving her a call once or twice, but he would always remember Toby and the sad look on his face, and he would put the phone down. He didn't want any part of that.

Every once in a while he would see her jog past, her ponytail bouncing like a happy child. She always jogged alone, and Cameron would peek out the window every now and then when he'd hear a car drive by. But they never stopped at her house.

He almost wished she would start seeing someone, then it would take the pressure off of him. He didn't know why he felt guilty for avoiding her. They were just neighbors, for crying out loud. She was free to do what she wanted, to seek her own happiness. What was she waiting for? Why did she just keep jogging past his house, like a fish hoping to get hooked? Why couldn't she leave him alone?

The day of the convention finally arrived, and Cameron felt like a huge boulder had rolled off his shoulders. The wait had almost driven him insane. He hadn't been in touch with his poker buddies for weeks, and Chucky had gone to Oregon to stay with his family after his grandmother died. Luckily, he returned the day before the convention, excitedly texting Cameron and asking what's been happening lately. Cameron sent back a simply reply.

MasterCon tomorrow. Want to go?

He could almost hear Chucky shrieking with delight.

AAAAAAHHH!!!! I luv you bro!

At 5:30 the next morning, Chucky pounded on his door, creating enough noise to make the porch lights on neighboring houses switch on. Despite the early hour, Cameron was already up and ready to go. He opened the door and nearly dropped his coffee.

"Chucky...are you serious?"

Chucky looked down at his tight-fitting Roman gladiator costume, complete with circular shield and rubber short sword.

"What?" he asked with a shrug. "Everyone dresses up at these conventions."

"Yeah," Cameron said with a smile, "but it's called 'MasterCon.' You know, fantasy and..."

He cut off his words when he saw the blank look in Chucky's eyes. "You know what, it's awesome. You're going to need that shield to fend off the ladies."

"You know it! Come on, let's get going."

After piling the posters, catalogs, and an assortment of weapons (including a long box that Cameron offhandedly said contained "a roll-out banner") into the car, they headed down the road as the awakening sun lightened the sky. Morning commuters stared in amazement at the humble Toyota carrying a heavy-set gladiator and a man with a fierce-looking facial tattoo.

The morning sun bathed LA County in warm, crisp light, and traffic into downtown was a little bit lighter than usual. Cameron and Chucky were practically bubbling with excitement, and Chucky gasped like a little girl as they approached the convention center.

"Dude..." he whispered reverently as they navigated through the parking lot filled with orcs, mages, knights, elves, and witches. "This is geek heaven."

"I thought you went to these things all the time," Cameron said.

"Yeah, but this is MasterCon. This is like...like..."

"Like Mecca?"

Chucky made a face. "That analogy is so cliché. Give me a moment, I'll think of something more interesting."

Cameron laughed. "Forget about it. Help me find a parking space."

After parking the car, they headed towards the entrance marked "Convention Participants Only." Cameron gave his name and showed his driver's license, and he was provided with two badges dangling from a black lanyard. He hung it over his head, then looked at Chucky. His friend held the lanyard like it was the Holy Grail.

"Uh, Chucky, you put it around your neck."

Chucky's eyes were wide as he stared at the small card encased in plastic. "I'm going to hang this above my bed like a crucifix."

"Come on, save the drama for later. Let's get inside."

They pushed open the doors and gasped with amazement. Chucky was right: it truly was geek heaven.

Elaborate costumes, movie-quality make-up, swords, spears, life-size collectible figures, miniature figurines, books, posters, celebrities...there was nothing than any self-proclaimed fanboy or fangirl wouldn't swoon over.

Cameron felt Chucky seize his arm. "Cameron...am I dreaming?"

A sultry alien temptress with green skin floated by, winking one of her purple eyes at them.

"I hope not," Cameron drooled.

They were rooted to the spot, soaking up the flurry of activity around them.

"I feel like a kid in a candy store," Chucky said breathlessly.

Cameron had to smirk. "Now who's using clichés?"

"Give me a break, man. My mind is overloading."

It was too much to take in. Cameron had never seen anything like this, even when he used to visit conventions. As he scanned the room, he noticed several pairs of eyes turn towards him, and mouths leaned close to neighboring ears and whispered with excitement.

A wave of panic rushed through his nerves and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Chucky glanced at him and frowned with concern.

"Dude, you all right?"

Cameron swallowed nervously. People were tugging at their friends' arms and gesturing towards him. Their faces were bright and cheerful, but to Cameron, they seemed like hungry predators.

"Come on," he said, feeling a little dizzy, "let's find Peter Kowalski."

It took them nearly half an hour to find Peter's Doom Rift booth, and when they arrived, Peter was nowhere in sight. A young Asian man with green hair peered at them through his narrow glasses as they approached. He seemed a little bit wary of all the weaponry in Cameron's arms.

"Welcome to Doom Rift," he announced, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. He blinked rapidly as he studied Cameron's tattoo.

Cameron cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Chucky stepped in front of him.

"This is Cameron McConnell, master swordsmith. We're looking for Peter Kowalski."

The green-haired young man looked over his shoulder at a shimmering purple curtain stretched tightly beneath a large plasma screen TV. Peter emerged from behind the fabric, his face splitting into an enormous smile.

"Cameron! I was wondering when you were going to show up. Get in here."

Cameron stepped into the booth, and Chucky glared at the young man as he followed his friend.

"Peter, this is Chucky. He's my right hand man today."

Peter's eyebrows rose as he scanned Chucky's outfit, then he slapped his fist against his heart.

"We who are about to die, salute you."

Chucky blinked twice, then brightened with comprehension. "Oh, right. Yeah, I'm not really a gladiator. I just didn't have any time to get a decent costume put together. This guy here..." He gave Cameron a slightly irritated punch on the shoulder. "...didn't tell me about this until yesterday."

Peter grinned. "Don't worry, it's better than half the stuff these freaks wear around here. I swear, some of the outfits I've seen look like they were made by their mothers for their elementary school play."

Cameron glanced around the booth, impressed with the tantalized display of Doom Rift merchandise.

"So what's the plan?" he asked.

Peter jerked a thumb towards the massive TV screen. "You bring the video?"

Chucky looked surprised as Cameron handed a disc to Peter. "Video?" he asked. "What video?"

Cameron flashed him a quizzical smile. "Patience, my good man, patience."

****

Chucky was enthralled by the Doom Rift display, but there were many other temptations scattered around the convention floor, and he scampered away like a schoolboy on the first day of summer. Cameron told him to be back at three o'clock sharp, and Chucky promised that he would.

Using the purple curtain as a screen, Cameron opened the box that contained the Doomsong. Peter's eyes gleamed with the light reflecting off the blade.

"Cameron...it's miraculous."

Cameron glowed. "Do you think people are going to like how we unveil it today?"

"Are you kidding? Heavy metal and a totally awesome sword by the renowned Cameron McConnell? They're going to go nuts."

"So how are we going to get people to come to the booth?"

"They're going to make an announcement over the PA at 2:30 and 2:50. Plus I've got all my little elves tweeting about it like crazy. I'm glad we got a booth in the corner, otherwise there wouldn't be room for all the spectators."

Cameron stood up and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Thanks for doing this. Really. I wish I could pay you but I had to fork over a lot of cash for the video. I had to sell the bike."

Peter's face fell. "What? That sucks! I saw the pictures you put online. That thing was sweet!"

"Well, money is sweeter, and that's what I needed to make this happen. I'll make it up you to, I promise."

Peter gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Just get out there and sell some crap. Your being here is payment enough. You're a superstar now, you know."

Cameron grinned. "We'll see."

He stepped out from behind the curtain and almost ran into a petite young woman with braided pink hair and an anime-inspired costume. She looked like she just came from a cosplay photo shoot.

She gasped and hugged her very realistic dragon prop. "You're...you're Cameron McConnell!"

Cameron grinned. This day was going to be amazing.

****

A lanky fellow with flowing black hair and a sharp goatee peered through the sea of people, then tapped his companion on the shoulder.

"Not now," the other man scowled, turning his attention back to the buxom warrior princess who seemed more interested in getting his phone number than in looking at his sword collection.

"Shane!" the black-haired man persisted. "It's him! He's here!"

Shane Calhoun turned around, glaring angrily at the slender man. His balding head gleamed under the bright lights overhead and his face looked like it was carved out of granite.

"Who is here?" he demanded.

"Cameron McConnell! I swear I just saw him."

Shane's eyes narrowed. He had heard the online chatter, but he didn't believe his old friend would actually show up. Cameron was famous for avoiding conventions.

"Well," he murmured as he ran his finger along the edge of his sword, "I guess I'll have to stop by and say hello."

### CHAPTER 19

Cameron's face was pouring sweat, and he cursed himself for wearing his most uncomfortable boots. But his spirits were soaring. He had gotten a taste of this at the hobby shops, but that was just a snack. This was a full-course meal.

The air was thick with a bubbling kind of joy and excitement that some would consider childish, but to those in the midst of the swirl, it was paradise. There were no distinctions between blue collar and white collar, housewife or career woman, slacker or go-getter. They were all just fans; even the army of authors, sculptors, sellers, and models blended in and mixed with the swarms of eager faces. MasterCon was their church and they had all come to kneel at their respective shrines. They may disagree about which mage is more powerful, whether or not a bestselling author deserved their accolades, or which video game character could kill the other, but they were all one big nerdy family, and they didn't care what people on the outside thought about them.

Peter couldn't have been happier. Inviting Cameron to join him at his booth was certainly the right call. They had sold nearly half of Cameron's cache of weapons by the time the 2:30 announcement chirped over the loudspeakers:

"Attention, MasterCon attendees. Renowned swordsmith Cameron McConnell will reveal his latest signature sword at the Doom Rift booth in Section C, Row 13 at three o'clock. That's the Doom Rift booth at three o'clock."

Cameron felt like orcs and goblins were battling each other in his stomach. He had seen the video and he personally thought it was the most incredible music video ever made, but what would everyone else think? He looked out at the sea of costumes and screen-printed t-shirts. They all seemed so happy. Would they gasp with awe or laugh with contempt?

He looked down at his watch. The reflection of his tattooed face seemed to tremble in the crystal watch face. Then he realized that it was his arm that was trembling.

2:45.

He stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck. Where was Chucky? Cameron thought he'd feel a lot better if his gladiator friend was around.

He felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

"Getting nervous?" Peter asked. Cameron turned around and smiled weakly. He could almost see the dollar signs in Peter's eyes.

He shook his head. "Can't wait," he said, forcefully injecting his voice with artificial enthusiasm.

Peter nodded like a sage contemplating age-old wisdom. "Yes..." he said in response to nothing in particular. Then his eyes refocused and he looked at Cameron closely. "At about five minutes till three, you'll go behind the curtain and get everything ready. I'll make sure everyone's standing clear outside when you make your grand entrance."

Cameron smirked. "That's good. I don't want to kill anyone by accident."

"But think of the buzz that would stir up," Peter said with a sly twinkle in his eye.

"You're sick."

"You just now realized that?"

Cameron chuckled as he turned back to the line of fans looking for a photo op or an autograph. Maybe it was the fantasy vibe hanging in the air, but for some reason, he thought he might be able to send a telepathic message out to Chucky, wherever he was.

Hurry up, man. You don't want to miss this...

****

"Cameron, it's time."

Cameron shook the young fan's hand as he handed back the autographed poster, then turned around and looked at Peter. He suddenly felt sick.

"I'm nervous," he confessed.

Peter's broad face offered a comforting smile. "I promise, everyone's going to love it. Look at that crowd. You think they're here to see me?"

Cameron looked behind him at the dozens of people clamoring for a good view. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans.

Come on, Cameron, where's the barbarian? Barbarians don't get stage fright!

He inhaled a long, slow breath and looked at Peter with determined eyes. "All right. Let's do this."

As he turned to head behind the curtain, he heard a wheezy voice shout, "Cameron!"

He looked back and saw Chucky shoving his bulk through the crowd.

"Chucky!" Cameron said with a smile of relief. "I was wondering where you went."

Chucky's hair hung in dark stringy strands over his eyes and his cheeks were flushed, but he looked like he had just seen the face of God.

"Dude," he panted, "you won't believe this place. I saw Kyle Hendrix, and Jerry Philmore, and Sandra MacPherson is here too! You won't believe what she's wearing...or not wearing I should say."

"Psst!" Peter hissed. "Cameron, let's go!"

Cameron pointed at the screen behind him. "Sounds awesome Chucky, but I've got to go get ready. Just watch the screen. You're going to flip."

Chucky clapped with glee. He reached his hand out as Cameron turned to go. "Cameron, wait! I saw him."

"Saw who?" Cameron snapped.

Chucky smiled darkly. "Your oldest worst friend."

Cameron's jaw tightened. He had completed forgotten about him.

"Cameron!"

He jumped at the sound of Peter's voice and rushed behind the purple curtain just as a thundering riff blasted from the speakers set up around the booth. Every eye stared up at the plasma TV.

A hooded figure in red materialized out of a black background. He held his hands out by his sides and tongues of flame danced upon his palms. The figure raised his eyes. Chucky squealed with delight as he saw the tattooed face.

"Cameron! Dude!"

The camera cut to the members of Hammer Star rocking out on top of a mountain. The sun blazed over the crest as hair swung wildly and power chords serrated the majestic scenery. The crowd gathered at the booth was headbanging in an instant.

As heavy metal riffs galloped in the background, the video cut to Cameron, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat in a medieval blacksmith's forge. He raised his hammer high above his head and brought it down in slow motion against a red-hot metal blade. Sparks flew, ricocheting off his skin and the studded leather armbands that encased his forearms. The women in the crowd gasped and grinned as Cameron's muscles rippled with each blow, but no one was more enthusiastic than Chucky.

"Yeah!" he bellowed. "That's my best friend right there!"

As Hammer Star chugged and wailed in heavy metal glory, Cameron forged the Doomsong with rhythmic fury. Fires raged and sparks exploded. Cameron's tattooed face glowed in the red blaze, his expression hard and grim. The Doomsong began to take shape, but the video was careful not to reveal anything more than shadowy snippets. A flash of steel here, a peek at the elaborate handle there. All the while, Hammer Star jammed on top of the snow-capped mountain.

The crowd was loving it, cheering every time Cameron appeared in all his sweaty, tattooed glory. Chucky could hardly believe it was his friend up there on the TV. The song built to a thrashing, frantic crescendo, and as digital flames erupted around him, Cameron thrust the newly-forged Doomsong into the air.

At that moment, bursts of silver confetti showered the booth and the Doomsong sliced through the purple curtain. Cameron leaped through the gash and hoisted the sword high for everyone to see.

Cheers and applause erupted from the elated crowd. Chucky was almost delirious with delight.

"You rock, Cameron! That was awesome!"

Cameron was smiling so widely, his cheeks were beginning to ache. He watched as eyes widened with awe and mouths fell open.

They love it. THEY LOVE IT!

Peter stepped forward, his bald head covered with silvery snow.

"Ladies and gentlemen... The Doomsong, a Cameron McConnell original!"

More cheers and applause. Everyone was clamoring for a better look, and Chucky defiantly held his ground. The crowd was pulsing with energy, and Peter was determined to milk it for all it was worth.

"Forged in the fires of Cameron McConnell's diabolical imagination, the Doomsong is one of the most beautiful and terrifying swords ever created!"

"Is that a fact?"

Everyone turned around towards the voice at the back of the crowd. Cameron blinked away the confetti that had fallen over his eyes and peered at the figure moving through the sea of people.

His heart froze.

Shane Calhoun strode forward like a conquering warrior, a massive broadsword resting on his shoulder. His eyes simmered with contempt as he glared at the peasants who scurried out of his way. He shoved Chucky aside, who bared his teeth at him like an angry dog, but he took no notice.

Cameron lowered his weapon, though he held it in front of him as if poised to strike.

"Hello Shane."

Shane nodded in reply, then jutted his chin towards the Doomsong.

"That's a nice little trinket you've got there. The entrance was a bit dramatic though, but that's what it takes these days to get noticed."

"You should know, Shane. You've been whoring yourself out to anyone with a camera and a pen."

Shane snorted. "Me? Look who's talking! I saw your pathetic photos in Inkling Magazine. I've heard about how you've been showing up at hobby shops, pretending to be everyone's buddy just so they can put you on their Facebook page. You've spent more time getting your name and face out there than actually making things. That little toothpick is the best you could come up with after all this time?"

"Hey!" Chucky was red-faced with anger. "Cameron is a master! His swords are the best!"

"Shut up!" Shane snapped, whirling around and pointing his sword at Chucky's face. The rock-steady blade hovered inches from his nose. Shane's eyes blazed as they took in Chucky's gladiator costume. "Children like you shouldn't be out of the arena, anyway."

A few people in the crowd snickered. Everyone else was silent, captivated by the drama unfolding in front of them. Cameron's eyes darted back and forth, wondering what direction this was going to take. He didn't like the hostility written on Shane's face.

With a click of his tongue, Shane turned towards him, eyebrows arched in haughty contempt.

"Your swords are the best, huh? Care to prove your friend right?"

Cameron's eyes darkened. "What do you mean?"

"Just a little friendly duel."

"What, here?"

Shane laughed loudly. "Don't be an idiot. Of course not here."

He turned around and gestured towards the door.

"Out there."

The crowd murmured and gasped, and Cameron's jaw dropped. Every eye was on him.

Shane leered at him. "What do you say?"

Cameron's heart hammered inside his chest. "I'm not going to fight you, Shane."

"Who said anything about fight? This is just a test of our swordsmithing skills. First sword that breaks is the loser."

Cameron could feel the bloodlust radiating from the crowd. Shane felt it too, and he smiled coldly.

"I won't do it, Shane," Cameron declared, tightening his grip on the sword's handle. "Someone could get hurt."

"You're right. Most likely that dainty little butter knife you're holding."

"I won't do it, Shane."

"Fine." Shane slapped his own sword against his shoulder with a meaty thwack. "You always were a coward, Cameron. Getting that moronic tattoo branded on your face didn't change a thing."

He turned to leave, challenging the crowd to even consider blocking his path.

"Hold it!"

Shane stopped, then slowly turned around. The Doomsong was pointed right at him.

Cameron's eyes were venomous. "Let's go."

Shane grinned, then motioned with a sweep of his hand for Cameron to step in front of him. Chucky gasped as Cameron marched past, his eyes smoldering with hatred.

"Cameron..." he cried, reaching out to his friend, but Cameron didn't even look at him. Shane followed behind, and the crowd trailed after them. Peter stood in the middle of his confetti-strewn booth for a moment, then jerked as if from an electric shock.

"Caleb, watch the booth!" he commanded the green-haired young man as he rushed after the crowd.

Cameron and Shane marched shoulder to shoulder through the front doors of the convention hall and out into the blinding sun. The attendants at the door watched in speechless wonder as a throng of spectators followed the two men brandishing swords. One of the attendants raised a walkie-talkie to her mouth.

A large concrete plaza stretched out in front of the convention hall, and Cameron and Shane stood in the middle of it, facing each other. The crowd quickly formed a ring around them, though they were sure to keep their distance.

Cameron blinked away a drop of sweat that trickled into his eye. He had a hard time not swinging the Doomsong right through the smug little smile on Shane's face.

"First sword that breaks, huh?"

Shane nodded. Then the smile disappeared. He swung his broadsword high over his head and brought it down with all his force. Cameron jumped back and thrust the Doomsong forward to counter the blow. The sword rang in his hands as Shane's blade crashed down like a hammer but the Doomsong held together. The crowd gasped.

Shane took a step backwards, one eyebrow raised with mild surprise.

"Impressive," he admitted. "Not many swords can withstand the crushing power of the Cross of Winterdark."

Cameron blinked, then laughed with scorn. "'The Cross of Winterdark?' Is that what you call it?"

A wounded expression flashed across Shane's face. "What, you think 'Doomsong' is better?"

"Hell yeah!" Chucky shouted.

Cameron nodded his appreciation, then swung the Doomsong in a lethal arc towards Shane's weapon. Steel met steel with a piercing shriek, and the crowd jumped back.

"You were always a hack," Cameron grunted as he swung with all his might again and again.

"Don't take your frustrations out on me," Shane retorted, deflecting Cameron's blows. "I know why you did that to your face. Jealousy always leads to rash decisions."

"Hah!" Cameron crashed the Doomsong against Shane's sword, causing it to shimmy and wobble like a saw blade. He saw an anxious look cross Shane's face, and he smiled.

"Jealousy? You want to talk about jealousy? How about we go back a few years, huh? When we were apprentices at Mike's."

Shane clenched his jaw as he struggled to counter Cameron's attacks. He noticed with dismay that several pieces of steel had been chipped away on his blade.

"So what?" he snarled, lashing out and landing a ferocious hit against the Doomsong. He felt confident it would be the killing blow but he was shocked when the Doomsong held fast. It hardly even seemed damaged.

"So what?" Cameron's veins flooded with rage and he lunged forward. "You stole my work! Right off of my art desk! You know what Mike said when I showed him my drawings? He said, 'Cameron, copying someone else's work is a felony in this business.' Me! Copying you!"

The eyes of the mesmerized crowd shifted towards Shane. He felt the weight of their angry stares.

"Say what you want!" he snarled, lashing out blindly. "That's a lie! You're just making that up to cover your own inadequacies!"

At that moment, the Doomsong swooped down like a steel bird of prey. It bit into the Cross of Winterdark and the broadsword severed in two. The blade fell to the ground like a decapitated head.

Shane and Cameron stood frozen, their feet rooted to the ground. Sweat streamed down their faces, and their chests heaved with panting breaths. The crowd was as silent as a graveyard.

Shane stared at the decimated weapon he still clutched tightly with both hands. He looked up at Cameron, then at the Doomsong trembling in his hands. Hatred roared like fire in his eyes, and his muscles twitched as he started to raise the broken blade.

"All right, break it up!"

Everyone turned as four gruff security officers shouldered their way into the middle of the circle.

"You know the rules," one of the men barked, staring down at Cameron and Shane. The two men wilted under his fierce gaze. "What do you think this is, a Renaissance fair? No fighting, period. Put those things away and get back inside before I write you up. And the rest of you, too!"

The crowd instantly dispersed, leaving Cameron and Shane alone with the guards. Moving like an arthritic old man, Shane reached down and picked up the broken blade lying on the ground. The guard pressed a ham-sized hand against his back and shoved him forward.

"Back inside, hotshot."

Peter came alongside Cameron and squeezed his neck.

"Cameron, that was crazy, man!"

Cameron glanced over at Shane, who was walking like a man condemned to die. He held the jagged sword in his hands as if it were a shattered Ming vase. For Shane, it probably was.

He looked at Peter and forced a smile. "Thanks. That felt good."

It was the truth. He had just defeated his worst rival in a public swordfight.

"Cameron!" Chucky piped up, rushing up to them. "Dude, you are a maniac! That was straight out of a movie or something."

Cameron handed him the Doomsong. He took it and held it gently, his eyes shining with reverent awe.

"It's beautiful," he whispered in a shaky voice.

Cameron grinned as he walked back into the buzzing convention. He shot a quick glance towards Shane, who didn't turn around as he made a beeline for his booth at the other end of the hall.

Cameron didn't see him for the rest of the day. In fact, no one did. Some people later said they thought they saw him leave out the back and drive away. Cameron didn't care. He was just happy that he had won this battle. He knew he would have to deal with him again in the future, but maybe that was a good thing. Competition is the forge that produces the finest work.

The Doom Rift booth quickly became MasterCon's star attraction once word got around about Cameron's epic battle. People waited more than fifteen minutes to take their picture with him. Peter was delighted that nearly every piece of merchandise at the Doom Rift booth, whether it was Cameron's or not, sold out by the time the convention wrapped up at the end of the day. Several eye-popping offers were made for the Doomsong, but Peter advised Cameron to hold on to it.

As the green-haired young man bundled the booth away, Cameron felt Peter's colossal arm wrap around his neck again.

"Now the real party begins," Peter declared with a sly grin.

Cameron couldn't have smiled wider if he wanted to. Ever since his victory, he felt his spirits soaring higher and higher. He felt like a true hero, not just a guy who makes things out of metal. He saw it in the eyes of the fans - he was more than a cool dude they wanted to take their picture with. He was an inspiration, and not just because of how he looked. Because of who he was.

So who are you?

Cameron looked down at his beloved weapon. He had hardly set it down since the fight. He knew he couldn't keep it with him, and he reluctantly handed it to the green-haired young man.

"Take care of it," he said quietly.

The young man gasped as he took it. He held the sword for a few moments, then lovingly set it down on a blanket of bubble wrap.

"Hey Peter," Cameron called. Peter turned around. "Can I bring my friend?"

Peter nodded. "Better warn him though. This one's going to be a rager."

"Oh, don't worry, he can handle himself."

He turned to his left and spotted Chucky flirting with a six-foot-tall warrior chick. "Hey Chucky!"

Chucky bounded over. "What's up?"

"Want to go to a party?"

Chucky's face glowed.

### CHAPTER 20

Peter pulled up behind the club and the three of them stepped out of the car. Dance music thundered through the walls as if a maniacal herd of elephants was trapped inside. Cameron's and Chucky's mouths fell open at the same time.

Peter chuckled at their expressions. "The owner of this club is the biggest nerd I know. His daddy is some bigshot in China."

Cameron gulped as he watched a steady parade of smiles, cleavage, hips, legs, and high heels stream into the club. Some of them wore their costumes from the convention, others wore more club-appropriate outfits, but none of them wore anything that their fathers would condone. Chucky was almost drooling like a dog.

"C-Cameron," he stammered, "am I dreaming?"

"You will be soon," Peter said, shoving them towards the door. The bouncer waved them past, eyeing Cameron's tattoo with envy. Two slinky hostesses dressed like kittens opened the double doors, and every one of their senses overdosed all at once.

Deafening music. Gyrating flesh. Tobacco and marijuana smoke. Drunken laughter. Blazing lights and lasers. More music. More flesh. More smoke.

Chucky clung to Cameron's arm like a child. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."

Cameron glanced up at a short pillar. On top of it, three women gyrated against each other and playfully tried to remove each other's clothing.

"I can't believe it either," he shouted over the rumble.

It was like a monster invasion in the club. Zombies bumped and grinded with elves, aliens lounged in a booth and smoked hookah pipes, a drunken orc was making out with a sorceress in the corner, and the dance floor was filled with dwarves, heroes, ghouls, vampires, and ordinary club-goers.

Cameron had never seen anything like this. Combined with the elation that had been steadily rising all afternoon, he thought his head was going to burst. Then one thought pierced through the haze.

Mindy.

He wanted her to share in his excitement. He wanted her to be here with him.

"Peter! Hey Peter! I've got to make a call. I'm going to step outside for a moment. I'll be right back."

Peter nodded and steered Chucky towards a booth in the corner overflowing with sultry women.

After getting stamped on the hand, Cameron pushed his way outside. He still had to plug one ear even though he was several yards from the club.

"Come on, pick up, pick up," he muttered, pacing around like a little boy who has to go to the bathroom.

"Hello?"

He closed his eyes. Everything he had been feeling or wondering if he felt for the past several weeks melted away. It was just good to hear her voice.

"Mindy? It's...it's Cameron."

There was silence for a moment.

"Hey Cameron. What's up?"

Cameron licked his lips. "Well, uh, I, uh, I was just thinking about you and..."

"You were thinking about me?" Her voice sounded a little softer than a moment ago.

"Uh-huh. I'm downtown right now, celebrating with some friends, and I thought...well, I thought it would be nice if you could join me."

"You mean right now? Come downtown?"

Cameron realized what an idiot he was. Girls aren't like guys; you can't phone them up and expect them to be there ten minutes later. There were outfits to consider and make-up and...

"Sure."

Cameron choked on a little bit of saliva that pooled in his mouth. "What?"

"Yeah, I'll come down. Where are you?"

Cameron looked up at the throbbing monstrosity behind him. "Knukkle's Nightclub on Seminole Way. Do you know where that is?"

"I'll find it on the GPS. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay. Drive safe."

Cameron hung up the phone in a daze. She was coming here. Right now. What kind of woman drops whatever she's doing and agrees to meet you downtown at a moment's notice?

The voice was loud and clear over the heaving bass.

The kind you keep.

Cameron smiled as he turned to go back inside. He wasn't thinking about the music video or the Doomsong or his victory over Shane Calhoun. He was just thinking about how nice it would be to see Mindy's smile after all this time.

Every pounding bass note felt like a punch in his gut, and a dizzying cocktail of sweat and liquor slammed into his nostrils as soon as he stepped into the club. It was intoxicating. He couldn't believe the abundance of shockingly hot women slithering and writhing everywhere...

Dude, you just called Mindy and invited her down here. Keep your head in the right place.

Cameron's eyes fell, but just a little.

I know. I'm just enjoying the view in the meantime.

He squeezed and shoved his way through the human swamp. He wondered if this was how cattle felt on those factory farms. On at least two occasions, he felt someone squeeze his butt, but he knew it was pointless to turn around and identify the culprit. He wasn't sure if he wanted to, anyway.

For a brief moment, he spotted a break in the crowd, and he leaped through it, practically barreling into Chucky.

"Duuuuude!" Chucky exclaimed, his dilated pupils shimmering like a neon kaleidoscope. He flung his arm around Cameron's neck, nearly dragging his friend to the ground. "This place is awesome!"

"I know," Cameron shouted back, extracting his head from Chucky's grip and helping his friend find a more steady position against the bar.

"Dude," Chucky said with a limp-handed gesture towards a platinum blonde in a space-age bikini, "this is Estelle." He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "I don't think that's her real name."

Cameron nodded a greeting. "Nice to meet you."

Estelle stared at him with a leering smile. "I love your tattoo," she cooed, tracing the rim of her martini glass with her tongue before taking a dainty sip.

Cameron smiled his thanks, and quickly turned back to his friend.

"Where's Peter?" he shouted.

"What?" Chucky's eyes were riveted to Estelle's chest.

"Where's Peter?"

Chucky shrugged. "He asked me to go with him to a room in back, but I wanted to stay out here."

He gestured expansively like a king delighting in his realm.

"I mean, look at this place!"

Cameron sighed, then felt a soft finger stroke his arm. He turned and saw Estelle hold out her hand. A tiny orange pill rested on her palm like a jewel.

"Oh, no no no no," Cameron said, waving his hands and taking a step back. Memories of the General's party tumbled through his mind. "I'll just have a drink."

"Come on, man, don't wimp out!" Chucky took the pill and threw it in his mouth like a piece of candy. Cameron's eyes went wide.

"Chucky! You don't even know what..."

Estelle turned her face towards him with a gentle caress, then leaned forward and kissed him. Cameron gasped, and for a moment, his instinct was to pull away. But damn, she was sexy. Her kiss was like fire, and Cameron felt his head swim. Her tongue twirled in his mouth and pushed a tiny pill towards his throat. He reluctantly broke away from her, staring into her ravenous eyes as he swallowed the pill.

Chucky slapped him on the back, smiling like the Cheshire cat. "Yeah, man, that's what I'm talking about! Let's party!"

Cameron looked at Estelle, tracing every curve with his eyes. Her body swayed like a drowsy snake, and she licked her lips.

"Are you ready to fly?" Her voice was like sweet, sticky syrup.

Cameron could only stare at her. Strange feelings started to blossom beneath his skin, and the music and lights were becoming more vivid. Every beat felt like a warm breeze caressing his skin.

With a lazy wave of her finger, Estelle motioned to her left. Cameron turned slowly, and his eyes bulged. Estelle was walking towards them, her hips swinging loose and free with each step. He blinked, then turned back to the bar. There she was also, where she had been in the first place.

His mind struggled with this impossibility but he couldn't find the words to describe what he thought. Or felt. Or thought he felt.

Estelle's mirror image came up behind her. Estelle turned around and kissed herself. Cameron and Chucky gaped in awe.

"This is Krista," Estelle explained. "My twin sister."

Cameron's heart was threatening to burst out of his chest.

Krista waved hello, then stepped around Cameron and twined her arms around Chucky. "Fight any lions today?" she purred.

Chucky stammered some sort of reply, but he was understandably having trouble thinking. Krista just smiled.

"Let's dance," Estelle purred, taking Cameron by the hand and leading him to the dance floor. He followed her like a child.

A small voice inside him was trying to say something, but he didn't hear it. The music was too loud.

From a glass balcony above the club floor, Peter watched and smiled. He knew Cameron would love his gift. It was the least he could do for all the business he had brought his way today.

With a satisfied grin, he turned and headed back to his private party.

****

Mindy stepped out of her car and nearly rolled her ankle. She never liked wearing high heels, and she wondered what kind of insanity had possessed her to buy five-inch heels all those years ago. She also felt naked in her slinky pink mini-dress. It covered all the important parts but little else. Her subconscious tried to convince herself that she looked hot, but it was hard to listen when every step was potentially fatal.

She hobbled her way to the front of the club, trying to ignore the hungry glances thrown her way. The bouncer at the door looked her over slowly, and his eyebrows rose with approval.

Mindy did her best to appear self-possessed and confident. "Um, hi," she said with a smile and a toss of her hair. "I'm here to see a friend."

"I'll bet you are," the bouncer said with a wink. He opened the door without another word and stood to the side.

Mindy suppressed a cough as the stew of smoke and sweat brewing inside rushed out. "Thanks," she said with another nervous smile. She crept inside, feeling like a mouse that had been invited to a cat party.

She'd partaken in her share of wild revelry in her college days, but nothing like this. Her eyes were wide like a frightened rabbit's as she inched her way inside, trying to remain on her feet as she was jostled from every direction. The dance floor was a Halloween carnival, and she fought a strong urge to turn around and run back outside.

Cameron's here, she told herself. He was surrounded by all of this, and he called you.

Mindy set her jaw and forced her way through the crush of dancers. She emerged without any serious damage, then straightened her dress and looked around.

She froze when she saw Cameron.

He was sitting on a small velvet couch in a flickering nook with numerous mirrors. A breasty blonde slut was seated on his lap, kissing him passionately as his hands roamed over her body.

For a long, terrible moment, she stood in front of them, rooted to the spot. Her limbs trembled but she couldn't move.

Cameron finally came up for air, and he turned lazily towards her. The bleary joy on his face melted in a flash, and he bolted to his feet.

"Mindy!"

Mindy clenched her teeth, fighting to keep the tears contained. She shook her head once, then turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.

"Mindy!" Cameron called after her, flinging away Estelle's clutching hands. His head spun as he frantically scanned the bobbing heads and whirling faces, but he couldn't see her.

He called her name again, but his voice was immediately swallowed by the hammering dance music. He found himself trapped in a tangle of arms, hips, and hair, and he struggled in vain to free himself.

"Mindy!" he cried out in desperation. "Mindy!"

It felt like an eternity before he yanked himself free from the throbbing swell of bodies. He crashed through the doors and scanned the street.

She was gone.

He staggered as if he had been struck. With quivering fingers, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called her number.

"The number you have called is powered off. Please try..."

Cameron snarled with rage and smashed the phone on the ground. He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

"Cameron? You all right?"

He spun around, grabbing Chucky by the throat.

"Dude!" Chucky shrieked. "It's me!"

Cameron's face flooded with anger. He flung Chucky away and collapsed against a pole. Chucky rubbed his neck and stared at him with a mix of worry and anger.

"Dude," he spat, "what's wrong with you?"

Cameron shook his head, unable to lift his eyes from the dirty sidewalk.

"I don't..." His voice was weak and distant. "I..."

Chucky put a protective arm around his friend. "Come on. Let's go find Peter."

Cameron's chest heaved with a silent groan, and he let Chucky lead him back inside. He threw one final glance over his shoulder at the long lonely road that stretched out into the night.

She wasn't there.

****

Light stabbed through his eyelids and he tried to wave it away. He reluctantly opened his eyes and was instantly terrified.

He didn't know where he was. His head whipped back and forth as he scanned the room. It looked like a mid-level hotel suite; the decorations were too generic to be someone's living room. There were two beds and an indeterminate number of people asleep in them. He looked down and was relieved to see that he was still clothed. He wasn't on a bed, though. It looked like a sofa, and judging from the cramps in his back, not a comfortable one.

Swallowing a stale taste that clung to the inside of his mouth, he stumbled to his feet and lurched towards the bathroom. He vomited violently, expelling all kinds of food that he didn't remember eating. After a few minutes, he felt more balanced, but his head felt like it was being ripped open by a chainsaw.

He staggered to his feet and made his way back to the bedroom.

"Whoa!" he said as he spotted Peter standing in front of the window wearing nothing but a tiny pair of black briefs. He winced and shielded his eyes.

"What?" Peter spread his arms, holding a large pastry in each hand.

Cameron shook his head, trying not to stare at Peter's enormous belly. "Where are we?" he asked as he rubbed his forehead.

Peter took a huge bite and mumbled through the crumbs. "The Cascade. It was all I could get, and I booked it two months ago. These conventions are brutal."

Cameron looked back at the bedroom, trying to identify the sleeping shapes. "So...what happened last night?"

Peter snorted, unaware of a large dollop of cream stuck to his lower lip. "You tell me. You and Chucky were enjoying those little tarts I sent down, then the next thing I know, Chucky drags you up to the second floor and you start blubbering about some girl. You were halfway out of your mind. I gave Chucky the room key and you two got in a cab and came here."

"Where's Chucky?"

Peter jerked a thumb towards the door. "Krista came later and took him to her room. This whole hotel was one big geek orgy last night."

Cameron grimaced. He slapped his pocket in search of his phone, then he remembered, and his heart sank.

"Listen, Peter, thanks for everything, but I've got to head out. There's something I have to do."

Peter frowned. "Well now, hold on for a second. There was something I want to ask you, but I was hoping we could at least have breakfast first."

Cameron sighed. "What?"

Peter scratched his bulging stomach. "I want you to come on a convention tour with me. MasterCon is just the first stop. I'm booked for the next three weeks. San Francisco, Vegas, Denver, Kansas City, Austin. It's going to be epic. And I want you to come with me."

Cameron closed his eyes as the headache intensified. "Peter, I...I don't know..."

"Wait." Peter rushed into the next room and returned with his phone. "Check this out."

He held it up to Cameron's face. The screen showed a video of his sword fight with Shane. He noticed a number in the lower right corner of the screen.

140,000 views. The video was made less than twenty-four hours ago.

He looked at Peter in amazement. Peter nodded, reading Cameron's thoughts.

"Crazy, huh? And we can't waste it. This is your time, man. Everyone's going to want to see that awesome sword. We can take it on a trip around the country and then sell it for a fortune when we get back. Or not sell it. I tell you man, that thing's legendary now. I can call my guy to come down today and make a cast for replica production. You won't believe how many inquiries I've gotten about it. I even got a personal call from the lead singer of Hammer Star."

Cameron's mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. Come with me, man. We'll tear it up out there."

Mindy's welling eyes flashed through Cameron's mind. He swallowed a sour taste and took a deep breath.

"Okay, I'll do it. But I've got to get some things from home."

Peter nodded, his face glowing with happiness. "Yeah, no problem. Do what you got to do. Just be back here before five o'clock."

"Sure." Cameron headed towards the door and opened it after fumbling with the handle.

"Cameron?"

He turned around.

Peter licked the last bits of cream from his fingers. "Don't forget to change your shirt."

Cameron looked down and frowned at the flecks of vomit that dotted the front of his shirt. He nodded his agreement and left the room.

The hotel was thankfully only a few blocks from the convention center, and after finding his car, he was soon mired in LA traffic. He cursed the heat, he cursed the idiot driver in front of him, and he cursed himself. A lot.

Why was he so stupid? Why didn't he just tell that girl to get lost? Why did he eat that evil little pill?

Why was he such an asshole?

He pulled up to his house slowly, feeling like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.

He almost expected to see Mindy scowling at him from her front porch. But instead, her house seemed empty and quiet. He didn't know why he felt that way, since he hadn't even stepped out of the car yet. But he definitely felt something. He felt...unwelcome.

He steered the car into his driveway and got out. What should he say to her. What could he say to her?

With slow, bashful steps, he crossed her lawn and went up to her front door. He raised his hand to knock, then paused. Deep breath.

You're an asshole, but you're a repentant asshole. Just be straight with her and let her make up her own mind.

Cameron thought that was the best piece of advice he'd heard in a long time.

He knocked twice, and waited. His ears strained to hear any sound coming from inside, any sign that she still considered him worthy of her time.

Nothing.

He knocked again, waited, and knocked again. He wilted like a dry flower, then turned and shuffled back down the walkway. Somewhere deep in his mind, he heard the General's voice start to say something, but he didn't want to hear it.

Shut up. Just shut up.

He headed back into his house and began packing. Every time a car drove by or a dog barked, he rushed to window, hoping and fearing that he would see her. After a couple of hours, he gave up hope. He could go see her at work, but that would be pushing the boundaries. Besides, he didn't know exactly where she worked anyway.

The familiar sights and smells comforted him as he threw the doors to the workshop wide open. He looked at the gleaming blades, the stacks of metal, foam, and wood, the saws and files and rags and drill bits all tucked away in their places.

He breathed deeply and smiled. This was his home. These were his children. Here, in this little world encased by four aluminum walls, things made sense. There were no women to confuse him, no judgmental supermarket shoppers and restaurant managers, no nymphomaniac publicists, no arrogant tattooed party animals.

He caught his reflection in a broadsword blade.

Well, maybe one...

He filled his arms with every sword, dagger, and axe that he could bear to part with. As he staggered into the kitchen, he saw a pad of paper lying on the counter. After a moment's consideration, he carefully set down his bundle of weapons and grabbed a pen.

When everything was packed into the car, he went back over to Mindy's house. He was about to knock once more, but something stopped him. His shoulders sagged and he slid the note under the door. As he headed back to his car, he cast one more look back over his shoulder. He hoped she would be looking at him through a window.

The empty house seemed to glare at him. He let out an uncomfortable cough, then got in his car and drove away.

****

It was raining when he got back three weeks later. He was tired, sore, and his beard looked like rusty steel wool. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing on the steering wheel and falling asleep in the driveway. He could practically hear the shower and bed singing to him from the bedroom.

But there was something he had to do first.

He jumped out of the car, hunching his shoulders against the rain. He hadn't heard from Mindy the whole time he was away, even after he had replaced his phone and left several messages for her. Three weeks was a long time, though and he had lots of time to think about things.

About how much she meant to him.

He shut the car door and looked at her house.

In the middle of the freshly-cut grass stood a white sign. It read "Home for Sale – Stenson Realty."

It might as well have been a tombstone.

Cameron stared at the sign swinging lazily in the rain. With slow, robotic motions, he pulled out his new cell phone. He didn't care about the rain pattering on the screen.

He dialed the number on the sign.

"Uh, yeah," he said when someone answered the phone, "I'm calling about the home on Stonewood Drive, number 214."

"Yes," said the pleasant voice on the other end. "Would you like to schedule a walk-through?"

"Um, no, thanks. I'm just wondering where the owner is."

"Oh. Are you a family member?"

"No. I'm...her neighbor."

"I'm not sure exactly where she went. She said something about heading back east, though. She said California just wasn't the right place for her."

Cameron let the phone fall to his side.

"Hello?" the voice said. "Hello?"

Cameron ended the call. He stood there in the rain, staring at the sign, silently pleading for an answer.

He looked down at his rain-streaked phone. His tattooed face looked distorted and frightening.

His thumb scrolled through a list of names. He chose one and raised the phone to his ear.

It rang six times before a drowsy voice answered. "Yeah?"

Cameron blinked away a raindrop. He felt it trickle down his tattooed cheek.

"Chucky? It's Cameron. I just got back. You, uh...you want to hang out or something?"

Chucky was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was warm and comforting.

"Sure thing, man."

### EPILOGUE

"Hey boss, you want to take a look at this?"

Cameron looked over the young man's shoulder, carefully studying the detailed sketch.

"Looks good. But the hilt seems a little simplistic compared to the blade. Work on that part a bit more, then come and find me."

The young man nodded, looking pleased with himself.

Cameron walked past the row of craftsmen grinding and polishing steel blades to razor-sharp beauty. He turned right and exited the workshop area, stepping into the well-lit foyer.

The attractive receptionist glanced up from her computer. "Heading out?"

Cameron nodded as he handed her several printed pages. "Got a few new orders coming in this week. Put these on the schedule at the earliest date possible. We don't want to get backed up like we did last year."

The girl nodded and took the papers from him. "Anything else?"

"Keep smiling."

She did just as he said. Cameron glanced up at the new sign hovering above her head.

CMC Custom Blades.

He frowned. The lettering wasn't what he'd asked for. It wasn't the last two times either.

Well, it would have to wait. He had an appointment to keep.

He scratched his freshly-shaven chin. He missed the beard, but he was excited about the jawline tattoo that Ivan was going to begin this afternoon. He caught his reflection in a burnished plaque that hung on the wall by the door.

Both cheeks were tattooed with designs that complimented each other but were still different. The dagger that pointed downwards between his eyes blended seamlessly with the intricate pattern that decorated his forehead. And after today, the lower half of his face would no longer be naked. It had been bothering him for the last six months.

His phone rang as he stepped out into the priceless California sunshine.

"Hello? Hey Robyn. Yeah, things are going great. Did you get that last batch of info I sent you?... Okay, when? All right, sounds good. And who knows, maybe we can stretch it out a few extra hours... Ha ha... All right, I'll call you later. I've got somewhere I need to be. Okay, take care."

He shoved the phone in his pocket and swung his leg over the custom leather seat of his Harley chopper. After putting on his black skullcap helmet, he gave the kick start pedal a firm kick with his boot and the metal beast roared to life. He paused, listening to the musical rumble for a moment, then engaged the throttle and drove out of the parking lot.

As he gunned the engine, he could almost feel the fingers of the wind drawing dark lines across his face.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MARK CARVER spent more than eight years in China before returning

to the USA with his wife and two children. Besides writing, Mark is passionate

about art, tattoos, heavy metal, Gothic literature, and medieval architecture.

He lives with his family in Atlanta, GA.

You can find Mark online:

http://www.markcarverbooks.com

http://www.facebook.com/markcarverbooks

http://www.twitter.com/ageofapollyon
