

The Kiss

## An anthology about love and other close encounters

## Edited by C. A. Newsome, Robert Thomas and Jacques Antoine
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places and events portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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The Kiss

Copyright © 2014 by C. A. Newsome

Smashwords Edition

Edited by C. A. Newsome, Robert Thomas and Jacques Antoine

Cover by Elizabeth Mackey

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All stories used by permission of authors of each story. All rights are otherwise reserved. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the Authors or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

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# Table of Contents

True Love's Kiss by Ben Cassidy

(4,273 words) Enchanted Kiss: A humorous romp through a traditional fairy-tale quest.

This Moment by J. L. Jarvis

(6,670 words) Highland Kiss: Stranded during a snowstorm, Mackenzie finds shelter with a Highland warrior misplaced by time.

A Kick Ass Kiss by Shirley Bourget

(1,143 words) Kiss Off: When you're riding the train, it helps to know when to get off.

A Father's Kiss by Colleen Hoover

(6,260 words) Newborn Kiss: Now that baby Julia has come along, Will and Layken need their friends more than ever.

Death Kiss by George Wier

(3,087 words) Criminal Kiss: Ericka's unfortunate taste for losers could make this bar hook-up her last.

For a Soldier by Jason Deas

(2,271 words) Redemptive Kiss: Back from the war, Morgan has yet to truly come home.

How to Knit Yourself a Husband in Five Easy Steps by Traci Tyne Hilton

(2,809 words) Prelude to a Kiss: When a woman is this desperate to be with the one she loves, anything can happen.

Mom's Kiss by Jacques Antoine

(2,462 words) Post-Apocalyptic Kiss: Maia believes there is little hope for humanity after an alien -invasion. But maybe she's looking in the wrong place.

More Than a Couple of Camels by Suzy Stewart Dubot

(8,092 words) Regency Kiss: Firmly on the shelf, Bathsheba is bound by the rules of propriety to turn away from the romance she secretly craves.

The Kiss by Saxon Andrew

(1,613 words) Good-Bye Kiss: An unearthly creature visits a utopian planet to deliver a gift to end all gifts.

Kiss No. 43 by C. A. Newsome

(2,243 words) Painted Kiss: An artist milks her obsession with lost love to fuel her art.

Moving On by Anna J. McIntyre

(1,723 words) Second Chance Kiss: Sometimes, a kiss is all that it takes for someone to know what's in his heart.

Midnight Snack by Molly Snow

(1,752 words) Fanged Kiss: On a horror of a dinner date, Maggie still looks forward to dessert.

Friends with Benefits by Kate Aaron

(5,763 words) Confusing Kiss: Tobias and Liam have been friends all their lives. Can they be anything more?

A Kiss Through Time by Robert Thomas

(6,619 words) Lost Kiss: A military wife distracts herself with an unusual quest.

Songs From the Heart by Mona Melissa Ingram

(5,369 words) High School Kiss: Country Music sensation Mandy Malone has everything except love.

That First Kiss by S. Patrick O'Connell

(2,952 words) Dream Kiss: Merrick is willing to make a deal with the devil to get off-planet. But his new client has him thinking of another destination.

Divinity's Kiss by Brandon Hale

(6,594 words) Fiery Kiss: Sister Abbie believes she knows what it means to be ordained until an encounter with vampires shows her the truth.

How Jessica Met Simon by Chris Ward

(2,701 words) Dystopian Kiss: In a brutal world, it is still possible to find comfort in a kiss.

The Riddle by Alison Blake

(2,559 words) Soul Kiss: Choosing between two men is more than a matter of life and death for Erin.

Dark Visions: The Paladin's Kiss by Jeanette Raleigh

(2,897 words) Medieval Kiss: When rich, odious Thindle sues for her hand, Isabelle has other ideas.

Friday Afternoon by Elizabeth Jasper

(1,496 words ) Stolen Kiss: It's another busy shift for George, the barman.

Just One Kiss by Suzie O'Connell

(2,153 words) Remembered Kiss: In the final hour of a marriage, a spark remains. Is it enough?

Strangers by Holli Marie Spaulding

(3,639 words) Butterfly Kiss: A chance encounter changes everything for Stella.

The Gift of Gab by Sharon Delarose

(2,041 words) Kiss of the Blarney Stone: When George kissed the Blarney Stone, what he wanted was the Gift of Gab. What he got turned his world upside down.

The Graveyard Kiss by Meghan Ciana Doidge

(7,035 words) Kiss of Death: When Colby takes his Goth inclinations too far, Luci decides enough is enough.

True Love by E. B. Boggs

(1,453 words) Eternity's Kiss: It is not only the living who grieve for lost love.

Revelation of the Angel Queen by JRC Salter

(2,449 words) Sealed with a Kiss: Cõran is a leader of men, a true paragon, but something is missing.

My Contact by Cleve Sylcox

(1,555 words) Cloak and Dagger Kiss: A bumbler on his first covert mission gets the surprise of his life.

The Call by Corrie Fischer

(3,502 words) Final Kiss: When tragedy strikes, what does it take to go on?

The Slave Who'd Never Been Kissed by Jess Mountifield

(21,388 words) Space Kiss: Auraylia takes to the stars in a desperate bid for safety, only to learn that her true journey is within her heart.

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# True Love's Kiss

## Ben Cassidy

The tower stairs were dark, and thick with dust and cobwebs. Dirt and grime covered the stone walls on either side. Something small and fast scurried away into the shadows.

Sir Giles climbed the stairs, his face set with grim determination. In his right hand was a deadly longsword, ready to spill the blood of the wicked. In his left was a blazing torch which scattered the shadows of the stairwell as he ascended. On his back was strapped a large kite shield, battered from the blows of many foes and beasts.

Giles stopped and frowned. He turned to the two people that followed behind him. "I fear some foul magic blocks our path," he said in a low tone. "Some ancient evil that may deny our passage."

"Really, Sir Giles?" A beautiful Elf woman in gleaming white and gold armor stepped up behind the knight. She tossed back her flaming red hair. "What was your first clue, that shimmering blue force field of magic energy right in front of you?"

Sir Giles looked back up the tower steps at the wall of blazing blue light. "Please, Ella, watch your sarcasm. It does not befit a servant of your fair and benevolent goddess."

Ella looked carefully over her armor and plucked off a stray spiderweb. "Whatever."

Another woman, a human girl of about sixteen summers in a long purple robe, glanced around Ella at the shimmering field of energy. "So," she said hesitantly, "what exactly do we do now?"

Sir Giles took a step back. "It will need a strong counterspell to break the field, Lily. We will have need of your powerful magic."

There was a beat of silence.

"My... _magic_?" Lily said uncertainly. "Right. My magic. Got it." She fumbled at her belt, unclasping the leather book holder there. "Right on it, Sir Giles."

Ella hooked her mace onto her belt and crossed her arms. "Oh, this should be good."

"Shut up," Lily hissed. She balanced her long wooden staff against the stairwell wall, and opened the book in front of her.

"Hurry, Lily," Sir Giles urged. "We don't have much time."

Ella looked up at Giles with a cocked eyebrow. "What in the name of the Forest Spirit are you talking about? We have all the time in the world."

"Well," said Sir Giles uncomfortably. "There is Torval. I believe he is still down below, fighting that demon-beast from the fourth plane of fire."

Ella gave a disinterested nod. "Oh, right. I thought it was the third plane of fire."

Lily almost dropped her book. She stared at Sir Giles. "Wait. You left Torval down there? All by himself?"

Giles hefted his sword. "His rage will give him strength to defeat his enemy."

"But..." Lily glanced down the dark stairwell behind them. "Couldn't he use our help? Some assistance, or something?"

"He has Nedric," Sir Giles said with a certain degree of impatience.

"No he doesn't," Lily said quickly. "Nedric is outside with the baggage. You told him to stay put, remember?"

"Your fear is unfounded, Lily," Sir Giles said confidently. "Torval is a barbarian of the North. He has wrestled vicious beasts since his youth and torn them apart with his bare hands."

"Ew," Ella said with a shudder.

A roar echoed up from below, followed by what sounded like a scream.

Sir Giles scrunched his forehead in thought. "All the same, though, we should probably hurry. Lily, the counterspell, if you please."

Ella gave a sweet smile. "No pressure."

Lily flipped the pages of her spellbook. She looked up to see both Giles and Ella staring at her. "A...counterspell. Right. Totally got it." She flipped another page and swallowed hard. "Any second here—"

"I would strike at it," came a gravelly voice from the darkness, "but the field has no discernible anatomy."

"Hey," said Ella as she rubbed some dirt off her breastplate, "at least you might be able to actually sneak up on it, Dirk."

A hollow, mirthless laugh came from all around them. "You mock me, Elf? You should _fear_ me. For I am one with the shadows. The invisible hand of death. Darkness my shroud, terror my—"

"Oh, Talrilla's Pearls, Dirk, we can all totally _see_ you." Ella tilted her head and glanced back down the stairwell. "You're right there."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"The unseen hand of fear," came the voice again. "A living shadow of—"

"She is right, Dirk," Sir Giles said. "We can all see you."

A man in a black, hooded cloak stepped away from the wall. An evil-looking dagger was in his hand. "It's not fair," he mumbled. "There's nowhere to bloody hide in this stairwell. Just look at it. Would it have killed these people to have put a few pillars in here, or some loose hanging tapestries, or... _something_?"

"It's all right, Dirk," said Sir Giles consolingly. "No one's blaming you."

Ella raised her hand. "For the record, I totally am."

Dirk threw back his hood angrily. "It doesn't help that you're carrying that blasted torch with you everywhere we go."

Sir Giles straightened. "I need it to see by, Dirk. You know I have poor night vision."

Lily pointed a hesitant finger at the black-clad rogue. "Shouldn't...Dirk be helping Torval out? I mean, he's not really useful to us here, is he?"

Dirk snorted and crossed his arms. "Are you kidding? Did you see the size of that demon-beast? It was bigger than the last tavern we went to."

"Dirk's a scaredy-cat," Ella sang. "Scaredy-scaredy-scaredy cat."

"I'm not scared." Dirk glared at the elf cleric, then looked at the wall. "I just...pick my battles carefully, that's all. The element of surprise is wasted on a demon-beast. They have no appreciation for the proper application of stealth and ambush techniques."

Another booming roar came from down below.

Lily looked up at Sir Giles. "Torval could be _dying_ down there."

"Would that we could be so lucky," Ella sighed.

Sir Giles gave a slow nod. "Perhaps Lady Lily has a point. Dirk, go and give Torval some support."

Dirk quickly uncrossed his arms. "Excuse me?"

Giles made a shooing motion with his sword. "Strike from the shadows, and whatever else it is you do. Go on now."

Dirk gave an uncertain glance down the stairwell. He tugged at the fastening to his cloak. "Right...now?"

"Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat," Ella whispered. "Dirk is a scaredy-cat."

"I am not!" Dirk shouted.

"Please, please," Sir Giles said with a heavy sigh. "Both of you stop it this moment. Dirk, help Torval out. That's an order."

The rogue scowled, then glared over at Ella. "Your time is coming, Elf."

Ella shrugged. "Whatever."

Dirk moved down the stairs and vanished.

There was a long moment of silence.

"We can still see you, Dirk," Ella called.

_"Dragon's fire_!" the thief cursed. He jumped out from the wall again. "You want a piece of me, Elf? Is that what you want? Let's do it, right here, right—"

"That's enough!" Sir Giles bellowed. "Now Dirk, _go_."

Dirk gave Ella a hateful look, then turned sulkily back down the stairs.

"All right, Lily," said Sir Giles. "Do you have the counterspell prepared?"

"The... _what_?" Lily said. She looked down at the book. "Oh, right. The counterspell."

"Come on, mage," said Ella sweetly. "We're all waiting for a powerful display of your magic."

Lily cleared her throat. "I...think this is it." She held the book up in one hand, straining to read the strange runes in the flickering light of the torch. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure, anyways."

Sir Giles gave her a confused glance. "I do not understand. Surely you can identify a basic counterspell, Lily?"

Lily paled. "Sure," she said with a faltering smile. "Of...course I can." She reached for her staff with a slightly trembling hand. "I mean, it's just a stupid little counterspell, right?" She glanced down again at the spellbook. "How hard can it be?"

Ella popped open a small hand mirror and examined her face. "For a powerful, experienced mage like you? Not hard at all."

Lily gave a slow nod. She took a deep breath and looked up at the shimmering wall of energy. She looked down at the book and gritted her teeth. " _Nallis Oli Garrellis...Octanus_!" She thrust the tip of her staff forward.

The wood blazed with a bright greenish light.

The field of energy flashed green.

Sir Giles took a step back, a smile on his face. "There, Lily, I knew you could—"

There was another flashing green glow, and an animated tree-man appeared in the narrow stairwell. Its roots snaked and whispered over the stone steps. Branches shaped like hands grasped and lashed out in all directions. Two eyes blazed in the knotted bark of its trunk-like torso.

"Oh, Pixie Flickers," Lily whispered.

The tree-man roared. It lunged forward at Sir Giles.

Giles swiped with his sword, deflecting the attack.

The tree man bellowed in anger. Its leaves swished as it lurched on the stones of the stairway.

"Don't just stand there, you idiot," Ella said. She adjusted her hand mirror to examine the other side of her face. "You summoned it. Get _control_ of it."

"Get control of it," Lily repeated numbly. She frantically turned a page in her spellbook. "Right. Get control of it—"

Sir Giles buried the edge of his blade deep into the trunk of the creature.

The tree-man lashed out a branched hand with a roar.

Giles crashed back onto the stairs, his armor rattling. His sword was still lodged firmly in the trunk of the creature.

Lily flipped wildly through her book. "Get control of it, get control of it, get—"

"Oh, Pearls," Ella exclaimed. "Do I have to do _everything_ myself?" She closed her hand mirror and reached for her mace.

Sir Giles climbed back to his feet. He waved his torch at the tree-man. "I will keep it at bay," he called back behind him. "Lily, cast a fireball!"

Lily turned even whiter than before. "A fireball?" She flipped faster. "A _fireball_. Ok, I think I can—"

Ella unstrapped the shield on her back and shoved Lily aside. "Oh, you are so utterly _useless_."

The tree-man gave a deep, thrumming howl. It swiped its arms at Sir Giles.

"From the darkness, death!" Dirk emerged from between Lily and Ella. He dove past Sir Giles, tumbled around the side of the tree-man, then drove his dagger up to the hilt in the trunk of the creature. "Ha!" he shouted triumphantly. He took a step back and struck a dramatic pose. "One with the shado—"

The tree-man whirled and whipped his spindly arm across Dirk's face.

Dirk gave howling cry. He stumbled backwards, his hands over his nose, then crashed into the wall and fell to the floor.

Ella rolled her eyes. "You can't backstab a _tree_ , Dirk."

Dirk wailed. He rolled back and forth on the steps.

Sir Giles thrust his torch forward. The fire raked across the tree-man's outstretched branch arm.

The leaves on the tree-man's hands smoldered and burned. The creature gave a pitiful cry. It shrank back towards the shimmering blue field of magical energy.

"It doesn't seem to like fire!" Sir Giles yelled triumphantly.

"Fancy a tree not liking fire," Ella mumbled. She gave Lily a cutting glance. "Now if only we had a _fireball_ —"

Lily thrust the open book towards the Elf. "You think it's so easy? Why don't _you_ cast it then?"

"My nose!" Dirk screamed. "Oh gods, it broke my nose!"

"Have at thee, foul tree-thing!" Sir Giles slammed the fiery end of his torch straight into the tree-man's trunk.

With a strange warbling scream, the tree-man stumbled backwards, trailing smoke and embers. It crashed into the shifting field of magical energy.

There was a horrible screeching sound, followed by a blue flash that was brighter than the sun. A smell of burnt ozone filled the stairwell.

Sir Giles lowered the arm that he had thrown in front of his face. "Well. I say. Good job, Lily."

Lily rubbed her eyes, coughing from the drifting smoke that hung in the air. She peered up the stairwell.

The shimmering blue field of energy was gone. In front of it lay the burnt and charred corpse of the tree-man.

Sir Giles prodded the blackened remains with his foot. "Not very...traditional. But it gets the job done, I suppose."

Ella lowered her mace. "You're giving her _credit_ for that? Pearls, she had no blinking idea what she was doing."

Sir Giles retrieved his sword with a grimace. He tried his best to rub the ashes and soot off the handle of the weapon. "Come now, Ella. No need for pettiness." He raised his weapon. "Onwards!"

Ella glared at Lily.

Lily shut her spellbook. She gave an apologetic shrug.

"Oh, my nose." Dirk stood up. His hands were still cupped over his nose, muffling his voice. "I need healing, Ella."

The Elf cleric strapped her shield on her back again. She glanced up at Dirk. "Yeah, that's going to happen."

Sir Giles led the way up the stairs.

Ella and Lily followed dutifully behind him.

Dirk just slouched against the wall and sobbed softly.

The stairs of the tower opened into a large room. There was one small, barred window, which let in a stream of moonlight. Spider-webs and dust hung heavy and thick, covering the sparse furniture. In only one place had no dust gathered.

In the direct center of the room was a large altar-like bed, draped in white silk. On it laid a beautiful young woman. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hands folded serenely on her breast. Golden hair fell over the pillow under her head, curled and radiant. The blue dress she wore was of silk, undimmed and unfaded by the obvious passage of time around her. Her eyes were closed. She showed no signs of life.

Ella wrinkled her nose. "Is she...dead?"

Sir Giles shook his head. His eyes were fastened on the beautiful creature in front of him. "Nay, dear Ella. She but sleeps a sleep as deep as death, waiting to be awakened."

"Is that all?" Lily pushed forward and grabbed the woman's foot. She shook it fiercely. "Hey! Wake up."

Sir Giles laughed. "Sweet, ignorant Lily. This maiden can only be awakened by a kiss from her true love."

Ella closed her eyes. "Please, tell me this isn't the reason why we climbed up all those stairs."

Sir Giles turned with a frown. "I am a knight of the realm, fair Ella, lest you may have forgotten."

Ella sighed. "How could I?"

If Sir Giles heard, he didn't show it. "It is my duty to rescue those who are in peril. To defend the weak and innocent. To be the savior of those who are in evil's grip."

Lily peered at the sleeping woman's face. "Especially if they're young and beautiful, I suppose?"

Sir Giles cleared his throat. "That...is one of the benefits of the job, yes."

Lily gave Giles a cold glance. "And I suppose that _you_ are this woman's true love?"

Sir Giles shuffled uncomfortably. "I...well, I suppose that I could well be." He lowered his voice. "I think it's the kiss that's the really important thing."

Lily crossed her arms. "Are we talking like a forehead kiss? Or the cheek?"

Sir Giles began to grow red in the face. "Well, I was thinking her lips, I suppose."

Lily's mouth dropped open. "Are you serious? The woman's insensate. What if she doesn't _want_ to be kissed by you?"

_"Not_ want to be kissed?" Sir Giles gestured towards the unmoving girl. "Are you suggesting this woman would rather be trapped in a death-like sleep for the rest of her life than be kissed by me?"

Ella had opened her hand mirror again and was adjusting her long hair. "I know _I_ would."

"It just doesn't seem right," Lily protested. "Anyone could come barging into this tower and...and...do all manner of unseemly things to this poor woman—"

Sir Giles straightened. "It's a _kiss_ , Lily. For the purpose of saving the poor woman's life."

Lily tapped her foot rapidly against the ground. "Oh, so you're saying it's a pity kiss? You don't find her at all attractive? You have no desire to kiss her whatsoever?"

"Well, I—" Sir Giles fumbled for a moment, his mouth working without words. "I didn't actually say that. I just—"

"I suppose," continued Lily hotly, "that you're just planning on kissing _every_ beautiful girl in a sleep as deep as death that we come across? Is that your plan?"

"I—" Sir Giles turned bright red. He turned. "Ella, help me out here."

Ella continued adjusting her curls. "Don't drag me into this. _I'm_ not kissing the tart."

"No surprise," came a gravelly voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "You could never be anyone's true love, Ella."

Lily closed her eyes with a sigh. "Dirk, what in the Seven Kingdoms are you still doing up here? You're supposed to go help _Torval_ , remember?"

"I go where I please," came the voice again. "A shadow, just out of sight. A wraith that—"

"Oh please, Dirk," said Ella without looking up from her mirror. "You're right over there behind the dresser."

There was a long beat of silence.

A mocking laugh floated through the room. "Am I? Am I indee—"

"Now you're behind the couch," said Ella.

There was another beat of silence.

Sir Giles sighed. "Come on, Dirk. Stop hiding."

Dirk practically exploded out from behind the couch. A bloodstained piece of cloth was jammed up his right nostril. "That was a guess, admit it. You had no idea I was back there."

Ella snapped the mirror shut. "Pearls, Dirk, I can tell where you are by your breath alone."

"I hate to interrupt," Sir Giles said, "but we have to save this poor girl." He glanced back at the stairwell. "And soon, too. I am starting to think I made the wrong call about leaving Torval behind—"

"Fine," said Lily as she turned her back. "Kiss the girl. See if I care. I hope the two of you fall in love and are desperately happy and that she bears you a whole breed of little brats that look exactly like you!"

Sir Giles looked over in confusion at Ella and mouthed a silent question.

Ella threw back her head with an exasperated sigh. "Am I really the only one here who isn't hopelessly stupid?"

Dirk leaned over the girl. "She's a real looker, for sure. Can I have a go at her?"

"What?" Sir Giles stiffened. "No...absolutely not. It...well, it wouldn't be proper at all."

"Why not?" Dirk looked over at Sir Giles slyly. "Who says you're this girl's true love? Maybe I am."

Ella laughed. "You wish."

"I have just as much chance as Sir Stuffy-Pants here," said Dirk. He gave a cocky grin. "Besides, you know the girls all love the bad boys."

Sir Giles raised a hand. "No, Dirk. I forbid you to touch that fair maiden."

Lily spun around. Her eyes gleamed with tears. "Oh, why can't we? Why don't we all just take turns kissing her?" She turned back around again, arms folded.

Dirk raised his eyebrows. "Okay, I vote that Ella and Lily go first."

Ella shook her head. "You are so sad, you know that?"

A scream echoed up from the stairwell, followed by a large roar.

Sir Giles lifted his head. "Oh, right," he said uncomfortably. "Torval."

Ella waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Well, tell you what," said Lily as she grabbed her staff. "How about you all take turns making out with this poor defenseless girl here and _I'll_ go help Torval." She started for the stairs. "It's better than being in here with you cretins."

Sir Giles waved both arms. "That's enough, everyone!"

Lily paused. Dirk and Ella both looked at the knight.

"Now," said Sir Giles with a cough, "I'm going to kiss the girl."

"Did you want us to break out into spontaneous song and dance for you?" Ella asked sweetly.

Sir Giles ignored her. He crossed over to the unconscious girl, hesitated for a moment, then bent over and kissed her on the lips.

The room was silent.

Sir Giles stood back up. He watched the girl's face carefully.

She didn't move. Her eyes stayed closed.

Lily turned her head away.

Ella gave a deep sigh. "Well...this is awkward."

Sir Giles touched his lips self-consciously. "I—hmm. Perhaps it needs...I mean maybe I have to—"

"My turn!" Dirk dove in and planted his mouth on top of the girl's.

"Pearls of Talrilla, Dirk," Ella squealed. "Get _off_ the poor woman!" She slapped him hard on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Dirk pulled away, rubbing the back of his head. "What the blink is wrong with you? I should get a chance too."

"Oh, sure," Lily shot over her shoulder. "Let's sell tickets, shall we?"

"Now that's enough, Dirk," said Sir Giles as he pointed a finger at the rogue. "You can't—" He stopped mid-sentence, staring down at the unconscious woman. "Wasn't—wasn't she wearing some kind of crown just a moment ago?"

Ella glanced down. "I believe the proper word is _tiara_. And yes."

Sir Giles looked around. "Well...where did it go?"

Everyone looked over at Dirk.

"Oh, sure," Dirk said angrily. "Go ahead and blame me. I'm a _thief_ , so I must have taken the woman's jewelry, right?"

"Dirk," said Sir Giles sternly, "the tiara is sticking out of your vest pocket."

Dirk glanced down at the glinting gold. "Dragon's fire," he mumbled.

"Put it back, Dirk," said Sir Giles loudly.

"Oh, come on." Dirk stared down at the woman. "It's not like she _needs_ it or anything. And we're not exactly getting paid for this little expedition of yours."

"You know," said Ella thoughtfully as she raised the woman's arm in the air, "this _is_ a nice bracelet. I think those are real sapphires."

"We are not robbing a defenseless woman!" Sir Giles cried.

"It's not robbing," said Dirk brusquely. "It's...property reallocation."

Lily spun around again. "Rob her or kiss her, what's the difference? Should we go get Torval and see if _he_ wants to kiss the girl too?"

Sir Giles turned a deeper shade of red. "Now see here—"

"This whole thing seem a bit suspicious if you ask me, anyways," said Dirk with a furtive glance around the room. "I mean, how did this girl get here?"

Sir Giles gave an exasperated sigh. "I...don't know. I imagine some witch or sorcerer cast a spell on her and—"

"But why?" Dirk looked around the room with a frown. "Seems to be a lot of trouble to go to. Why not just kill her and be done with it?"

Ella held out her hand. The sapphire bracelet dangled around her wrist. "What do you think, Lily? Does it go with my armor?"

"Ella!" said Sir Giles, shocked. "What would the goddess you serve have to say about that?"

Ella searched the ceiling for a moment. "I don't honestly know. I think I skipped that day at the temple."

"That a girl," said Dirk. "Come on, let's get her rings."

"That's _it_ ," said Sir Giles furiously. He pointed at the stairs leading down. "Everyone out. Now."

"Oh, this isn't about that silly old Torval, is it?" said Ella as she adjusted the bracelet on her wrist. "I'm sure he's dead by now."

"I won't have us profaning this place and this poor woman any longer," said Sir Giles hotly. "Now everyone out."

"You didn't seem so concerned about not profaning her _earlier_ ," Lily said as she stormed out of the room.

Ella started forward, then stopped. She leaned down and gave the unconscious girl a quick kiss.

Sir Giles stared at the Elf.

Ella waited an expectant second, then shrugged. "Oh, well. Couldn't hurt." She followed Lilly out of the room.

"That is so hot," said Dirk under his breath.

"That's quite enough," said Sir Giles. "Now put that tiara back."

"What?" Dirk pointed towards the stairs. "Ella got to keep the bracelet!"

"She has been corrupted by your malign influence, no doubt," said Sir Giles. He hefted his sword. "I mean it, Dirk."

"This is so unfair," Dirk grumbled. He pulled out the glittering tiara and set it on the side of the raised dais. "There? Happy?"

A roar sounded from down below, followed by a hideous screeching noise.

"By the Seven Lords," Sir Giles breathed. He dropped the torch, then reached for the kite shield on his back as he raced out of the room. "I'm coming!"

"So am I!" called out Dirk. He craned his neck to look down the stairs, then snatched the tiara again. "Sorry, babe. Easy come, easy go." He started forward, then paused. He turned back towards the girl and gave her another kiss. "One for the road," he said with a smile.

Dirk raced out of the room.

The sounds of shouts, an explosion, and the clanging of metal came from below, echoing up the stairwell. There was another scream, a roar, and someone begging for mercy. Finally there was a thud, and the sound of ragged cheering.

Then there was silence that dragged into several long minutes. The torch sputtered out, leaving the tower room in darkness once again.

The girl on the bed suddenly blinked her eyes. She sat up. The silken sheets spilled down onto the floor. She raised a hand to the place where the tiara had been on her head, gazing around the room as she did so.

"Hello?" she said.

Her voice echoed in the empty room.

She stared at her wrist for a moment, then put two fingers to her lips. She frowned and gave a deep sigh.

"Oh, _Pixie Flickers_ ," she said.

## * * *

Ben Cassidy is the author of the fantasy action-adventure novels in _The Chronicles of Zanthora_ , as well as the "sword and planet" _Tales of the Two Rings_. He lives in Vancouver, Washington, with his wife and three children, all of whom are deeply concerned about him. He is desperately attempting to make something significant of his life, to drown the bitter regrets of paths not taken, and to get his downstairs toilet to flush properly. He can be found lurking in dark alleyways on moonlit nights between the hours of 2 am and 4 am, as well as online at his facebook page, which you should not visit under any circumstances whatsoever.

 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ben-Cassidy/393172364133550?ref=hl

## *

#

# This Moment

## J.L. Jarvis

"You're not trying hard enough," Cam hissed.

"I shouldn't have to try hard," answered Mac.

"Barton Hillman is perfectly suitable," Cam said.

"For someone."

Cam narrowed her eyes.

"Look, either it's there or it isn't." Mac shrugged. "Tonight it wasn't."

"Or the time before this, or the time before that. Do you realize how many times I've tried to find someone for you?"

"Do you realize how many times I've told you to stop?"

Frustration lined Cam's forehead. "I don't want you to be alone."

"I'm not. Every day I'm surrounded by people who love me."

"You're a kindergarten teacher." Cam rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"But do you know what I mean?" Mac glared at her sister. "If I'm meant to be with someone, it will happen. If not, I'll be fine. Thank you. I love you. Now leave me alone." She grinned until Cam smiled back, and they hugged.

Hearing footsteps approach, Cam pulled the guests' coats from the closet. Her husband, in a well-rehearsed dance, helped Mac shrug into her coat. He leaned back just in time to avoid her sable tresses as she whipped them from inside the collar. Cam handed a coat to their other guest.

While she slipped on her gloves, Mac watched the affable man layer one side of his cashmere scarf neatly over the other, fringed ends matching precisely. As he buttoned his coat, Mac was tempted to give the scarf a tug just to make it askew. Resisting, she offered her hand and her most charming smile. "It was so nice to meet you, Martin."

"Barton." The corner of his mouth curved, but he gave her gloved hand a cordial shake.

"Barton. I'm so sorry." She winced as she felt a flush creep into her cheeks.

Their hands slipped apart awkwardly. He offered a patient smile and turned his attention to donning his gloves. Barton Hillman was an executive at the same corporation where her brother-in-law worked. He seemed smart enough. He was friendly, well bred, and impeccably groomed, as her sister had promised. Cam could have been describing a canine.

After a kiss on her brother-in-law's cheek, Mac said, "See you at Christmas."

"It's so early," Cam said. "Are you sure that you want to go now?"

Nodding, Mac said, "Yes, I want to beat the weather." She peered at the sky, where the lightest flurry seemed to mock her. She fought back a frown as she willed the weather to support her excuse. The weatherman had predicted a wintery mix, turning to four to six inches of snow. Cam tossed her a wry look, but Mac looked right back. Lame as it was, she would own her excuse.

After being escorted to her car by the perfectly suitable Barton Hillman, Mac drove down the long, private road that led from the affluent Westchester County home.

Mac's older sister had married her rich college boyfriend, according to plan. After losing their parents two years earlier in a car accident, Cam had set out with dogged determination to rebuild a life that was safe and secure. With both of her children in preschool, her life was in order, so she turned to Mac's.

Mac pulled into a gas station off I-84. While waiting for the tank to fill, she watched the snow fall. The large flakes had begun nearly an hour earlier—just before she had started to cry—and had flown at her windshield and covered the ground in a thickening coating. That had really cut into a perfectly good cry. With an eye roll for Cam, who had reminded her yet again that she was single, Mac set thoughts of the evening aside. After following slushy grooves in I-684, she had made it around the sharp curve to I-84 and was minutes from home. Sweats and fuzzy socks waited for her by the fireplace with a good book. The best part was that it was only Friday. She had the rest of the weekend to enjoy being alone. All alone. Best part. Mac sighed.

Finished pumping, Mac slogged through the freezing slush to her car door and got in. She cursed as she fishtailed out of the station, and she proceeded more carefully down the highway.

"Okay," she said to herself. "Let's just get home safely." A car passed with its brights on. "Thanks! No problem. I didn't need to see, anyway." She tightened her grip on the wheel. "Sheesh, Mac, if you're going to be one of those single ladies who talk to themselves, you should at least get a cat so it'll look like you're talking to someone."

Pulling off the highway, she headed down the winding road to her home. Snow weighed down the branches of evergreen trees. Mac had to remind herself that such beauty could also be deadly. She had stood on her deck on such nights and looked into the woods when the cracking of ice-covered limbs cut through the stillness.

"Mind the road," she told herself as a tire caught a slick spot. Plows had not been through yet, and the snow was well over four inches and still falling.

Mac wondered how long ago it had started. The weather was always worse at her house than at her sister's. She regretted leaving Cam's before she remembered why she had made the decision. Cam had cornered her in the kitchen.

"Is that fictional man you're waiting for worth spending your life all alone?"

"I won't be alone. I'll have you." Mac grinned.

Cam did not. "But you need your own life."

Those were the words that had cut her. They had always been a team, named Cameron and Mackenzie after their mother's Scottish ancestors. Love for their ancestral home had been passed down through the generations. Their great-grandfather told his children, and they in turn told theirs, that in each generation, one child would long for the homeland. Mac had always known she was the one, and Cam had always made fun of her for being born in the wrong place and time.

## *

Mac had once made the mistake of leaving her book on a table when her sister came over. The cover showed a muscular hunk wearing nothing but a kilt and clutching a small-waisted woman while the wind blew his hair and left hers untouched.

With a derisive wave toward the book, Cam said, "Is that what you want for a husband?"

"Of course not!" Mac dismissed her with a smirk. "He can be wearing a shirt."

Cam rolled her eyes and exhaled, but she also gave up. Score one for Mac.

Mac smiled at the memory but grew somber when she recalled what else Cam had said in the kitchen.

"You can't live life alone."

"And why not?" Mac asked.

"You'll be lonely."

"Not as lonely as I'd be if I married without love."

Cam's face showed no inkling of understanding.

Mac said, "I don't know where to find it—or if I ever will. If I can't, then I'll live alone; if I can, then I'll know it was meant to be."

Cam shook her head. "It's not like in the novels."

_For you._ Mac bit back those words. "Maybe not. But I know what I want."

"And what's that?"

"I want someone whose arms feel like home."

"And how will you ever know, when you won't let a man within arm's length?"

## *

Mac's eyes misted with tears. She feared her sister was right. Even so, she would rather live alone than with Martin—Barton. He was nice, but if she wanted to live with someone nice, she'd go back to college and get a roommate. She didn't want a roommate; she wanted a soul mate. That was the part that made Cam smirk. Well, Cam could do what she wanted. She'd made the life that she wanted, and she was happy.

"And I'm doing what I want," Mac said to herself. _Going home to my empty house._

She drove past the old stone chamber, one of dozens scattered about Putnam County, NY. A person might drive by one without noticing. They blended into the landscape. Some were deep in the woods; others sat like lonely relics beside country roads. Some thought they were built by ancient Celts, but no one knew for sure.

Up ahead, moonlight gave the chamber a magical glow. Beside it, something moved. Deer?

"No, they're too smart to be out in weather like this, unlike me."

Her headlights lit up a man clad in a kilt and black doublet. He stepped onto the road and held his arms up to signal her to stop.

"What the hell?" Mac said.

She slammed her foot on the brake pedal and went into a skid that spun her. The car moved too fast and bounced too much for her to see which way to steer—not that steering would change anything. With a slam, she stopped, and the airbag deployed. She had run into the side of the mountain. That would have alarmed her if the acrid smell from the airbag had not overpowered her senses. She waved her hands, trying to clear the cloud of dust while "Sleigh Ride" played on the stereo and her horn blared from the impact. She turned the stereo off and leaned her head back against the headrest to steady her breathing and her pounding heart.

Through the steam rising out of her car, she spied a large tree that had fallen across the road. If the kilted man had not stepped into the road to stop her, she would have plowed head-on into the tree. Kilted man? Mac looked about. He was gone.

"Great. I'm hallucinating. That car horn is real, though." She needed to get out of the car. She struggled to get the keys out of the ignition, but they wouldn't budge. The car was still in drive but crunched into a boulder that jutted out into the road. After a struggle with the gearshift, she got it into park and pulled out her keys. Her horn didn't stop. Dizzying frustration roiled within her. "I can't think with that noise."

Her head swam. She pulled the door handle, but it was stuck. She had to get out of the car. She leaned her throbbing head back on the headrest and turned toward the passenger side. It was too close to the rocks. She would have to ease her way out through the driver's side window. Mac's hand trembled as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Her vision blurred and began to go dark. _Don't faint now._

The door creaked and then opened, and a deep male voice said, "Come, lass." Strong arms pulled her from the car. "Can you stand?"

He set her on her feet, but her legs buckled. He scooped her up. Fuzzyheaded, Mac leaned on his chest. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and her fingers traced a fold of wool draped over his doublet.

"Nice kilt, Scotty. But just so you know, real Scotsmen go shirtless." She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.

## *

She awoke to the smell of wood smoke and the feel of strong arms holding her. She tried to sit up, but the arms tightened.

In low, calming tones, he said, "You're safe. I'll not harm you."

"Not harm me?" That brought her fully alert. "Why would you even say that? Who are you? Where are we?" She winced as pain shot through her temple.

"You've bumped your head."

"With what, a ten-pound hammer?" She tenderly touched her head to assess the damage.

Fire lit the rough ceiling and walls of what looked like a cave—a cave barely large enough for the two of them. She was nestled over his lap. Mac's situation did not look good. She was trapped in a cave with a large, rugged man. How she got there, she didn't recall. He'd probably clubbed her over the head and dragged her there by her hair. But where was there? Past the fire, rough-hewn stones framed the falling snow.

"The stone chamber," she whispered.

"I beg your pardon, lass?"

"Lass"? And a Scottish brogue? That was cute.

Mac turned to look at him but quickly turned back, refusing to be drawn in by his looks. Dim firelight or not, she knew handsome when she saw it. Tousled brown hair brushed his temples. Those eyes were dark and warm, and they'd searched hers a little too deeply. She had to work hard to resist him. Her practical side was, thank God, stronger.

"I'm a black belt," she warned. "If you try anything, I can kill you." She prayed he wouldn't ask her what she had a black belt in. She had one—in her belt drawer. It came with her little black dress.

He laughed at her threat, and his laugh was full and infectious. She forced a stern look to hide the urge to laugh with him.

"I'll be careful not to anger you, then." Even his smirk was good-looking.

Mac nodded. "See that you don't."

He answered her nod with his own, while suppressing a grin. With that settled, she became aware of his body against hers. Her inner sirens sounded. With a jab of her elbows into his chest, she pushed up, grabbing his thighs for leverage. She lifted a brow. _Don't let those rock-hard muscles distract you. Keep moving._

He leaned back, raising his palms in surrender. "Dinnae fash yourself, lass. I was trying to warm you. You were shaking before you awoke."

"I'm not fashing myself—whatever that is. But if I feel like fashing, I'll fash as much as I want." Fashing or not, she felt cold away from his arms. She wouldn't think about that. "I would like an explanation, if that's not too much to ask."

"Of what?"

"Of why we're here, for starters."

"I pulled you from your carriage and brought you here for shelter and warmth."

She glared at him in disbelief.

"Here you are, sheltered and warmed. I've not hurt you, have I?"

"Maybe you were waiting for me to wake up." She eyed him with more mistrust than she felt, but she wouldn't let him know how strangely unthreatening he seemed. Sick bastards counted on trust to lure victims. Of course, he had no need to lure, since she was already in his lair. They were inside a shelter too far from houses for anyone to hear if she screamed, which was all the more reason not to trust him. He might be some perv who'd wandered off the Appalachian Trail. It ran past her house, which unfortunately, was still too far of a walk in a storm. "Are you a hiker?"

"Nay, lass."

The soft light in his eyes and his quiet confidence unsettled her more than she dared to let on. He met every skeptical look, every challenging edge in her voice with a calm hint of a smile.

She turned away, afraid the firelight might reveal the color he brought to her cheeks. He had clouded her thinking, so she latched onto the last thing he said. "What's with the lass stuff, anyway?"

He looked quizzically at her.

"The way you're talking. You're good, but I've been to Scotland. That accent's a fake."

That seemed to amuse him. "Is it, now?"

She squinted as she scrutinized him. "Where have I seen you before?"

"In front of your carriage."

"My carriage? Oh, you mean my car. Yeah, I guess that's it." Their eyes met and lingered too long. She glanced down to avoid the power of his gaze. "What's up with that kilt? Are you in a pipe band?"

"It's a plaid."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was right. She shrugged. "Sorry, plaid. Who are you? Do you live around here?" The houses in that area were so far apart that a person could go months without seeing a neighbor. Perhaps that's how she knew him.

"Nay."

Without even looking, she felt his guileless look, and it held her. Despite her efforts to keep him at bay, he drew her to him. She couldn't come up with her usual quips that put guys off. She felt lost. She didn't like that sensation. "Why do I feel like I should know you?"

"Do you?"

Something in his searching look made her want to say yes. She puzzled over it then exhaled and shook her head. "That bump on the head did a number on me."

He gave half a nod and stared into the darkness—but not before Mac saw his disappointment. She found herself wishing she hadn't been the cause. A gust blew in some snow, and Mac shivered. In one motion, he slipped the end of his plaid over her shoulders. She stiffened and turned to defend herself, but his stern look cautioned her not to.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked.

"Hurt you?" He looked annoyed. "Lass, do you not think I'd have done it by now if I wanted to?" His anger faded as he saw the fear in her eyes. "Och, you wee fool. I told you that I wouldnae harm you, but I will keep you warm if you'll let me." He looked at her, arms suspended between embrace and retreat. With a nod, he lowered his arms. "Aye, well, I'll not put you in fear. I'll stay over here by the wall. Warm yourself by the fire. I give you my word, I'll not trouble you."

She eyed him as he put distance between them. She drew farther away, as close to the fire as she could get without snow falling on her. She needed to make her way home. He might fall asleep, and she could steal away into the darkness. With any luck, the snow would keep up long enough to cover her tracks. Her house wasn't far down the road. If she could make it there, she could call someone for help.

But what would she tell them? _A stranger pulled me from a wreck and warmed me by the fire, where he proceeded to not lay a hand on me?_ There must be a local ordinance against unsolicited gentlemanliness. Yeah... and those long, powerful legs ought to be outlawed. She'd had quite a good look at them. Under normal circumstances, she'd be wary of him for far different reasons. Men like him drew attention from everyone. Who would want a lifetime of being judged unworthy beside someone as good-looking as him? _Whoa, Mac. You're supposed to be planning your escape, not your marriage!_

She glanced at him. True to his word, he hadn't moved, nor was he even looking at her. The firelight caught his profile as he stared into the night. She studied him further. Hair dark as black coffee, full lips—probably soft and warm. _Good grief, Mac. Get a grip._ As though hearing her, he turned and made eye contact.

He said, "'Tis wise for you to be cautious. You dinnae ken me, so you've no reason to trust me. But I wish you'd not fear me. I've done naught to harm you."

"So far." She hugged her knees.

"Mac? Do you not ken me?" His expression was tinged with frustration. "I mean know."

"I know what ken means." His gaze troubled her. Unbidden sorrow haunted his eyes. Her heart ached as she whispered, "Please stop."

He shook his head slightly. She might not have seen it had he not turned to the fire with clenched jaw.

Mac said, "Don't look at me like that."

He let out his breath and gave a casual shake of his head. "I'm sorry. The firelight must have played tricks with my eyes. For a moment, you looked like someone I once knew." He smiled, but it was forced.

"Did she hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Och, no."

"I'm sorry, I thought—"

"She would never have hurt me." He stared at the snow.

"You loved her?"

"I love her still. I've risked everything to find her."

"Oh. The way you talked, I thought she might have died."

"Perhaps she did, in a way." He glanced at her. "We were parted and lost one another."

Mac nodded. A pang of longing took her by surprise. Such emotions could only distract her, along with the little things she was noticing—his strong jawline stubbled with a day's growth of beard and those lips. Her eyes kept coming back to those lips. He turned toward her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his knowing look. He had noticed her studying him, and he did not object.

Doing her best to look neutral, Mac said, "So she lives around here?"

"Aye." He hesitated, as though forming just the right words. "We met not far from here."

"Oh?"

He looked away. "It has been a long time. I was daft to think we would be as we were."

"So you've seen her already?"

"Aye." He stared into the flames and smiled to himself. "It was not the right time. And what of you?"

She frowned. "Me?"

"Is there a man?"

She didn't like that question and made a sharp turn to miss it. "I'm with a man right now—a very strange man." She grinned.

With an answering grin, he said, "Aye, a strange man who found you shelter and then made a fire to warm you."

"Thank you, but—stop me if I'm wrong—you'd have done that anyway for yourself. So if you're thinking I owe you anything, I don't."

He let out a full-throated laugh. "You misunderstand me, my lady."

"Really? Like a little 'my lady' will make it all better. You Brits think we all get stupid over an accent—"

His eyes blazed. "Madam, I am a Scot."

"Well, Scotty, last I looked, Scotland was part of the U.K."

His face went ashen. "The what?"

"The United Kingdom. Hey, are you okay?" _Other than being unhinged_...

He looked away and suppressed whatever shock he felt. "Oh, aye. I am well." He returned his focus to her. "But you're shivering. Come here, lass." He opened his arms and beckoned her to him.

Mac eyed him. His expression was open and honest. She found herself trusting him for no reason other than her gut feeling. Despite his sturdy physique, he was gentle. It was in his eyes. They were large and deeply set, looking at the world with guileless kindness and sympathy—perhaps even sadness. Once more, her gaze fell to his mouth. Her eyes darted away as she tried to think clearly. He stretched out his hand.

She had doubts, but she placed her hand in his and let him draw her closer. Despite her pounding heart, she assured him, "I'm just in it for the warmth. Don't get any ideas."

"Dinnae fash yourself over me."

Mac's face wrinkled. "I give up. What does fash mean?"

Suppressing a grin, he said, "Dinnae trouble yourself, my lady."

"My lady"? Damn, he had charm. The sort of charm serial killers must have to lure their victims into the dark and stormy woods. She glanced at him, and his admiring look made her feel stupid, a fact she did her best to conceal. Her best wasn't good enough. She exhaled a little too loudly.

"Why do you sigh, lass?" They'd drawn close—for the warmth—so he needed only to tilt his head down to peer at her.

His warm breath brushed her cheek, and she shivered. "I, uh, oh, I'm just sighing from the cold. Whew! It's cold!" She made a great show of rubbing her arms.

Outside, thick flakes drifted noiselessly down. A person could die out there without anyone knowing. Their body might not be found until the spring thaw. His arm tightened around her, and he pulled her against his broad shoulders and chest. The man was a furnace.

"How is it you're not freezing your... whatever off in that kilt? Sorry, plaid. From what I hear—never mind." She had heard that they wore nothing underneath.

"Might I ask you a question?" he said.

She looked up with a start.

"To distract us, you ken, from the cold." His mouth spread into a boyish grin that lit his face.

If he was a creep, he wasn't a very good one. She hadn't felt such ease with a man since... well, ever. For all of the dates her sister had arranged for her, none had looked at her and seen her—or made her feel—the way he did. He was—something she couldn't even think.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

Her posture stiffened as she shrugged.

"You were shaking your head."

She averted her eyes. "I'm shaking. It's freezing."

"Och, 'tis not so bad." He grinned. "We're inside."

"I suppose you could call it that," she said, looking at the stones.

"Aye, and we've a fire to warm us."

As he repositioned his arms, Mac gave in and leaned into his embrace. She was cold—cold enough to reconsider her options. "Look—" She lifted her chin and peered at him. "What's your name?"

"Ciaran."

"I'm—"

"Mac," he said.

Slowly, she nodded. "But most people call me—"

"Mac."

She flashed him a suspicious look. "Yeah."

His eyes sharpened as he looked outside. "When I pulled you from your carriage—your car—a bag fell out."

"Oh, my purse."

His face relaxed.

"Where is it?" she asked.

He pulled it from the shadows and handed it to her.

She rummaged through the leather bag and pulled out her phone. "There's horrible coverage around here, but we could get lucky." She pressed the screen a few times and held it to her ear. She looked out at the falling snow, waiting. She tried texting. "Nothing. Why would I get lucky tonight?" Mac turned to assess her companion. "I live down the road. I think we could hike through this snow in an hour."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that I'm freezing my butt off. In an hour, we could be inside by a fire with some blankets and whisky to warm us."

He eyed her three-inch heels. "You'll not get far in those."

She gave him a frank look. "I'm motivated."

"Hand me your slippers."

Mac's brow creased. "Why?"

Without a word, he held out his hand. She slipped them off and handed them to him. He hit them against the rocks and pried the heels off with his dirk. He ripped two strips from his plaid and tied her shoes onto her feet, crisscrossing the plaid about her calf and tying off the ends. Ciaran doused the fire and offered his hand to Mac. Then off they went.

With careful steps, Mac moved through the snow, trying not to show how biting the cold was on her legs and feet. The ground was uneven beneath the snow, testing her balance and strength. Her feet grew numb.

After several laborious steps, Ciaran said, "My lady—"

"I am not your lady."

"Mistress—"

"I'm nobody's mistress."

After low, exasperated sigh, he said, "Lass."

Did he have to say that? She had read enough Scottish romance novels to go weak in the knees at the sound, which was something she couldn't afford at the moment. She kept up her slow tromping.

"I cannae let you go further. Your legs will stiffen soon, if they haven't already. You'll get stuck, and your skin will turn black—if the bears dinnae get to you first."

She stopped. Bears? There had been a few sightings... "Oh, good try. They're hibernating." She felt satisfied with herself until she looked around. There was only a sliver of moonlight. She could barely make out the road. If she took a wrong turn, they could become lost. The house lights could guide them, but there were none. "The power must be out."

"Lass?"

"The power. There's no light."

He cautiously said, "Well, 'tis night."

Mac squinted at him. Was he joking? Mac turned and looked into the darkness. She looked in the opposite direction. "Okay, I give up. Where's the road?"

"This way." He took her elbow to help her. "Are you sure you can do this?"

With a careless shrug, she said, "Sure, why not? I'm fine." A few steps later, her foot landed in a rut, and Mac fell.

Ciaran caught her and heaved her up over his shoulder.

"Wait! What are you doing?" she asked as he turned back toward the stone chamber.

Without missing a step, Ciaran said, "I'm keeping you safe."

"But I want to go home."

"Aye, well, staying alive will have to do for the now." His brawny legs made quick work of the rest of the hill. He set her down at the stone chamber's entrance.

"Well. Here we are," she said, brushing snow-dampened hair from her eyes. "Would you like to come in for some coffee?" She laughed. "Just kidding."

He looked at her blankly and then led her back into the stone chamber. Mac shivered, unable to stop.

"I'll light the fire." He crouched and pulled a tinderbox from his sporran.

She had slept through the previous fire-lighting procedure, so she watched with interest. "Where did you come from? I know you said Scotland, but what century?"

"Eighteenth."

Mac looked for a sign that he was joking. "Yeah, right."

Mac watched the fire-making process with wonder. He smiled at her, but a hint of sorrow seemed to linger behind it. The fire started, the Scotsman rose and unwrapped the plaid from his shoulder and waist.

"Hold on there, Rob Roy. Keep your plaid on." She held her palm out with as threatening a look as she could muster.

He stepped back and raised his palms, still holding the fabric between thumb and forefinger. "If you share this with me, we might both stay warm through the night."

"I wish I had a dollar for every guy who's said that."

He made no effort to hide his smile. His gaze swept from her hair to her lips, and his face shone with amusement.

"What?" she said defensively. His gaze lingered until she blushed. "You don't believe me? It could happen." His eyes rested on hers with a soft look that warmed her, though she wouldn't admit it.

"Lass—"

"Call me Mac."

"Very well. Mac, will you share the plaid with me? It's very warm."

Mac was cold enough to do anything to stay warm. She nodded and let him wrap the plaid around her. Her teeth chattered, and he held her.

When she warmed up enough to talk, she smoothed her fingertips over the leather that covered his chest. "Nice jacket."

"My doublet?"

She grinned and lifted her eyes. "Come on, 'fess up. Did Cam send you over as a joke?"

"Cam?"

"Because I read Scottish romance books. I get it. Tell her I laughed out loud. Ha." When he looked at her strangely, she smirked. "Are you some sort of singing telegram, only without the song? Oh, you're not one of those—y'know—stripping telegrams are you?" She glanced at him and averted her gaze. "Cam's gone too far."

"I dinnae ken what you mean," he said.

She studied him, unsure whether to believe him. She shook her head. "Never mind." She stared into the fire. Mesmerized by the flickering flames, Mac yawned.

The Scotsman guided her head to his shoulder. "Try to sleep." His warm breath gave her a chill, but not the cold kind.

Mac nodded. She didn't need convincing. "I would like to know one thing, though."

"And what would that be?" His voice sounded amused.

"Who are you?"

"I've told you my name."

"Ciaran what?"

"MacRae." He rested his cheek on the top of her head.

"Ciaran MacRae," she said softly. "I can't figure you out."

"You can sleep on it, lass." He brushed his lips over her hair, and then she closed her eyes.

## *

Bright sun shone into the stone chamber's entry. Mac awoke next to Ciaran, warmed by his body. On her arm lay his large hand, rough and well-shaped. She felt safe and at home in his arms. The feeling was foreign, and she didn't trust it. He stirred and repositioned his arms about her. The plaid was coarse and uneven, as if woven by hand. Mac touched the fabric. Not even Cam would have gone to such trouble.

In response to her touch, he planted a drowsy kiss on her forehead and drifted back to sleep. Mac gasped, shut her eyes, and exhaled. She should wake him, but his breath was so warm on her neck. She wasn't quite ready to lose the belonging she felt in his arms. That in itself was good reason to leave. She was experiencing some sort of Stockholm syndrome—not that she'd fallen in love! Nor was she held captive. She could leave. It was light out. She could find her way home without him, and she would. Mac eased Ciaran's hand aside, taking care not to wake him. She was about to slip out of his arms when he murmured something and cupped his hand on her breast.

Mac scrambled to her feet. "Now you're in trouble."

Ciaran rose abruptly and looked outside for signs of danger. Seeing none, he took hold of her shoulders. "Are you all right, Mac? Och, 'tis not a proper name for a woman so fair." His words trailed off as he gazed into her eyes.

She should say something glib to put distance between them, but she just stared, slack-jawed. Too many moments later, she forced her gaze away. "Don't flatter me, Ciaran. It won't work." If she said it enough, she might believe it.

"No, I ken that you wouldnae countenance flattery. 'Tis why I spoke only the truth."

_God, he's good_. She turned back to him, ready to toss out her best sarcastic quip, but his weightless gaze disarmed her. She lost herself in it, unable to speak. Ciaran smiled an admiring, trustworthy smile. She almost believed it.

Mac wiped snow from the seat of her jeans, turned, and kicked snow onto the fire's glowing embers. "I've got to go."

Ciaran wrapped and belted his plaid then joined her outside the stone chamber. He squinted as the bright snow reflected the sunlight. "Would you leave me here then, to fend for myself?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can manage without me." Mac turned to find Ciaran inside her personal space. Her voice lost its self-assured tone as she looked at him. She lost track of her purpose when his full lips parted. Unsettled, she drew back, but he touched her chin. She began to protest, but his gaze was so tender that her breath caught.

"Mac." He made no move to kiss her, but his soft gaze fell to her lips.

She found her eyes drifting to his mouth as well. The kiss was there, waiting for her. "No." She had built a life. She controlled it. Who was he to disrupt it? She turned away and stared at the brilliant snow and the stark winter trees.

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he said, "I must leave you soon. May I kiss you good-bye?"

Her cautious look was his answer.

"Can you not trust me by now?"

Fear would not drown out the drumming of her heart. Tears stung her eyes. How dare he... How could he affect her so? "You're a stranger."

With a pained nod, he said, "Aye, that I am." He searched the sky and exhaled. "If there were but words to tell you—"

"Please don't." She was surprised by the chill in her voice. Was Cam right? Had Mac become so adept at keeping men distant that she didn't know how to let one get close?

Quiet and sure, he closed the distance between them. "You've spent the night in my arms."

"For the warmth."

"You ken as well as I do that there was more."

She did, but she wouldn't admit it. She shook her head but stopped when the tip of his finger traced her lips. Against her will, her lips parted. She grasped his hand. Even the scratches and scars on his hand were appealing. Why couldn't she breathe?

He turned his hand to grasp hers. He drew her palm to his lips. "Mac, I ken that you dinnae remember me."

She was breathless but managed to shake her head. "Oh, I think I'd remember you."

His eyes shone with a hint of a smile, but it faded. He placed Mac's hand on his chest. "Do you feel that?"

She nodded, feeling the strong beat against her palm.

"That is my heart, and it's yours."

She stared at his chest. "Please." _Stop_. She couldn't voice that word.

"How can I win your trust?"

Scarcely a whisper came out. "Give me time."

He lifted her chin. "Och, lass, I dinnae have that to give."

"It's too much, too fast—"

"Aye, I ken it." His expression softened.

"But you can't—because I don't understand it myself."

He brushed a tear that had slid to her cheek. He frowned at the sunrise. "There is no more time for us now." Snow caught sparks of sunlight around them. Gripping her shoulders, he took in the sight of her hair, cheekbones, and mouth. "I must leave."

She couldn't let him go without knowing his kiss, how it tasted and felt. So with a gasp, she lifted her face and kissed him. Souls can join with a kiss, but the hearts that housed them would break the next instant.

With a groan, he spoke against her lips. "It is not our time now, but I'll come back for you, Mac." He smiled at her name. "Lovely Mac, I will love you, and you will love me." He glanced at the bright sun shining into the stone chamber. "Och, 'tis time."

Mac opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but he stole one more kiss.

"Remember this moment. I promise you more." He turned and walked into the stone chamber.

Mac put her hand on the stone entryway to steady herself. She felt dizzy and weak. "Ciaran, where are you going?"

He turned to look back, and he smiled. "I'm a traveler, lass. I cannae stay here."

"I don't understand."

"You'll think me daft if I tell you, but you'll ken when I'm gone."

"No, I think you're daft now." She smiled, but tears blurred her vision.

"I live in the past."

"Me too. That's what Cam always tells me, but—"

"Mac, listen to me." With a flinch, he pulled back. "'Tis too late." He held his palm up to caution her to stay back.

Ignoring his warning, Mac rushed toward him and held his hand. A shock traveled through her. She pulled back her hand.

"Dinnae touch me again."

"But why?" She rubbed her wrist, which was tingling and numb.

With a sad smile, he said, "Will you wait for me?"

"Yes, if you kiss me like that again." Mac's lips spread into a smile that would not be repressed.

"You're the one who kissed me."

The last thing she saw was his smile. Blinding light shone from the sun behind her and from inside the chamber, like two mirrors reflecting each other. The brilliant light washed over Ciaran.

And he disappeared.

She could still hear him saying, "Lovely Mac, I will love you, and you will love me." The last part of his promise was already true. He was gone, and she may have gone mad, but she knew he would come back. Until then, she would remember that moment.

## * * *

J.L. Jarvis graduated from the University of Illinois and worked in opera and musical theatre (New York City Opera, Houston Grand Opera, national tours of Broadway shows, and summer stock). When she tired of starving, she attended the University of Houston, where she obtained a teaching certificate, a law degree, and a love of research and writing. A year of family law practice convinced her that she should instead teach and write, which she now happily does. Visit J.L. Jarvis online and sign up to get new release news at:

http://news.jljarvis.com

## *

#

# A Kick-Ass Kiss

## Shirley Bourget

"Kiss Ass. Kiss Up. Kiss Off. Momma shoulda named me The Kiss. I've learned to do it more ways than a pack of whores who've been turning tricks 24/7 for years.

"It gets confusing sometimes, and sometimes I forget the true nature of things, but most times I can paint my lips the brightest red, or dull 'em down to the palest pink, depending on what you, or I, need.

"Need to feel good about yourself? No problem. I'll sidle up and plant a big juicy one right on your ear! That way you'll think I'm the damnedest thing, and reward me just for being here.

"Not feeling too generous lately? Got it covered. I'll untuck those cheeks and nibble your buns 'til wealth's pouring outta that rear! And if I'm real careful..., and take my time..., I won't have to eat any shit!

"And when I'm finally done with you, I can slip away and make it all seem like it's your fault that I'm leaving. I'll raise a ruckus so emotionally adept that you'd put yourself in the doghouse just for treating me that way!

"Yep, I got this kissing thing down. 'Sept when it comes to for real... The dead can't kiss for real. Their lips are too numb. And there's no Prince Charming in the world with enough heat to melt that kinda permafrost.

"I've been dead for years. Truth is it's been so long, that I can't really remember living. That's why I said that sometimes the kissing gets confusing. I've been giving people what they want, and sucking face for what I need for so long now, that I can't remember what it is just to be kissed.

"Hell, maybe I never really was just kissed. Maybe it's only ever been for something that would get me somewhere. I don't really know...

"Every now and then though, the glimmers of a dream kiss filters into my brain. A kiss that's warm and sweet, full of love and respect. Full of the want of me. Not the me that makes people feel good physically, or makes 'em feel attractive, or young, or happy, but the me that I keep locked away. Yeah... that me dreams of being kissed for real..." The woman heaved a big sigh, "...but it's been so long since I let that girl out, I can't even find the key." Her brows knit together as she looked at me sideways.

What was I to say to this woman sitting next to me? Had life really been that hard on her that she had simply stopped living? What could have caused her to go through the motions of living without the warmth and comfort of actually being alive?

Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at her. I watched her mouth move with her ramblings. I began to notice the fine lined groves cut deeply into her skin. Each heartache, each disappointment, was etched on her face. There were lines around her eyes too, set with the dark blue-grey color of lost sleep. She looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place her. I was sure I'd seen her before, maybe even here on this train.

I felt guilty. I'd just received a wonderful kiss. There hadn't been a lot of tongue action or even any heavy breathing during it, but it carried the kind of want, the kind of love, that this woman spoke about. At least it did for me.

She'd seen it. My fiancé had given it to me just before I'd boarded the train. We'd stood on that platform and said our goodbyes without paying attention to anyone else who might be near. She was one of the others. Then she'd followed me into the passenger car, and had sat next to me. She started to talk about kissing as if we were old friends.

I've taken this same train every Monday after my weekends with him. Maybe she'd watched us before, and that's where I'd seen her...

"Now don't you start cryin' for me! I didn't mean to make you feel bad." She reached in her handbag and took out a tissue, handing it to me. "It's just, when I seen you and your man out there, I thought 'Now there's a Kick-Ass Kiss!' How long you two been married?"

"We're not married yet, but we will be. This November in fact... if everything goes okay." I tried to smile pleasantly as I took the tissue from her, but turned my gaze away in embarrassment.

"He's already married, ain't he?"

My head snapped up and I looked at the woman nervously. The look of recognition mirrored back on her face frightened me.

"Yes. But he's getting a divorce..." My words sounded ridiculous even to me. How many times had I heard that argument before, with other people?

The woman shook her head and sighed. "They all say that darlin', and we stupidly believe 'em. Dry your eyes baby. You know you don't believe it deep down. I can tell by the way you're lookin' at me now.

"He's been stringin' you along like them Christmas lights I got hanging on my porch. I ain't took them things down in years, 'cause I'm too lazy to have to hang 'em back up again. I just keep changing the bulbs that blow every year with others that I pull from a second old string. It's easier than buyin' new."

I wiped my nose and eyes with the tissue. "How did you know he was already married?"

"'Cause I was you once. 'Bout thirty years ago. I believed then too. Think that's when I first learned to kiss the way I do now. Oh I get by, but it ain't the same as for real." She closed her handbag, as the train lurched to a halt.

"This is my stop darlin', and I gotta get off. You might want to think about that too. There _is_ such a thing as a Kiss-Ass Kiss, but it ain't attached to a third pair of lips." She placed a leathery hand on my cheek and lifted my face. "Don't end up like me sugar. It ain't no fun bein' dead."

I watched her leave the car and I moved to the window so that I could follow her movements through the crowd of people exiting the train. She turned and waved at me as the train started to move again.

Then she did something that surprised me. She blew me a kiss. A Kick-Ass Kiss. One that knocked the wind right out of me. I was looking at a picture of myself in about thirty years. I decided then and there that this would be my last time riding this train.

## * * *

Shirley Bourget is the Author of epic paranormal fantasy and romance titles. Her books carry unusual themes like her tattoo series, Living Ink. She lives in East Texas with her husband and is learning how to be 100% Redneck Lake Trash and loving it. When not writing, Shirley likes taking long walks around the lake, reading, painting, and photography. To read more of her writing, and to follow a listing of her books, please visit her website:

www.shirleybourget.com

## *

# A Father's Kiss

### (A Slammed Series Epilogue)

## Colleen Hoover

### Prologue

I pull the collar of my shirt up to my eyes and wipe them again. I know how much Mrs. Katie hates it when I do that. She says it stretches the collars of my tops and ruins the shirts. I don't want to ruin all the nice shirts she bought me, so I've been trying not to cry as much as I used to. I quickly glance up at her, hoping she didn't notice, but she just smiles and squeezes my hand.

"Now Olivia, you knew when you came to stay with me that this was only temporary. I'm getting too old to keep foster children and I hadn't planned on taking any more children at all before you came." She bends down and puts her arms around me. I automatically tense up at the gesture, like I do every time. I've been here three months and, although I'm still not used to it, I've been hugged more in these three months than I have in my entire ten years of life.

"I knew it was only until they could find me somewhere else to live again, Mrs. Katie. I was just...I was hoping you would change your mind." I plop down onto the bed behind me and fold my hands in my lap. The fingernail polish on my thumb is already starting to chip. When Mrs. Katie painted them last weekend, I couldn't decide which color to choose, there were so many. She told me that sometimes the best choice is when you choose all the choices. So that's what I chose. All of them. Each one of my nails is painted a different color, like a rainbow.

Except now that rainbow is chipping.

"Olivia," she says, lowering her voice. She sits beside me on the bed and lifts her hand to my chin, pulling my focus to hers. "You knew when you came that this wasn't an option. Not with my age and my health. I've been completely honest with you since the moment we met, haven't I? I'm moving in with my daughter now so she can help take care of me. I'm getting too old to take care of myself, much less you."

I nod and try to appear understanding. She has been honest with me, I just didn't expect to...to love her. I try to turn away from her but she places her palm against my cheek and refocuses my attention back in her direction.

"Remember, Olivia, you need to be strong." She taps the area over my heart, looking me in the eyes and says, "You need to be strong in here." She moves her hand up to my temple and taps it. "And especially in here. Your happiness isn't determined by where or who you live with. Happiness comes from within, and only you can control that. No one else."

I squeeze my eyes shut as soon as I feel the tears building. Her arms go around me again, and I melt into her this time. "I'm scared," I cry into her shirt. "I'm so scared. What if they don't like me? What if they don't want to keep me? What if I just keep getting moved from family to family like I have been all year?"

She continues to hug me and strokes my hair. The feel of her hands against my head instantly comforts me. I've never felt as secure in my whole life as I do when she strokes her hand across my hair. I wish my mother had been a mother that would do that. I don't ever remember her touching my hair. If I ever have kids, I'm going to make sure I stroke their hair every single day of their life.

"Oh, Olivia," she says, squeezing me tighter. Her voice cracks when she says my name, so I instinctively pull back and look up at her. She's crying, too. I've never seen her cry before. Her expression softens and she smiles at me, then pulls out the collar of her own shirt and wipes her tears away. It makes me giggle, seeing her do the very thing that she tells me not to do. When she realizes what she just did, she laughs, too.

"You see?" she says, smiling. "That right there is why I don't worry about you. You always find the positive in every situation. That right there is why you shouldn't worry about you, either." Her eyes narrow and her smile fades. She takes my hands in hers and brings her face down until it's level with mine. "You have been dealt a very tough hand in life, Ms. Olivia King. A very tough hand. But you know what? Instead of spending the rest of your life complaining about the hand you were dealt, you are the type of person who will spend the rest of your life feeling lucky that you were even dealt a hand. And that, my dear, is what will make you rather than break you."

Sometimes the things Mrs. Katie says don't make a whole lot of sense to me, but I try to remember them anyway. For some reason, everything she says seems important, so I always try to repeat her words in the back of my mind.

"I'm going to miss you so much, Olivia. So, so much. But as much as I'll miss you, I'm not going to worry about you. I know for a fact that you'll be just fine." She stands and picks up my suitcase. She holds out her hand, gesturing her head toward the bedroom door, indicating it's time to leave.

I don't know why I believe her, but I do. No matter what happens or where I go from here, I'm going to be just fine. I know I will, because Mrs. Katie said so.

### Chapter One

Names mean a lot to me, which is strange, considering I don't even go by my own birth name. No one calls me Olivia anymore, and I'm perfectly okay with that. I've been going by Eddie since shortly after I left Mrs. Katie's, thanks to an early-life crisis. I tried to find Mrs. Katie a couple of years ago to let her know what an impact she'd had on my life, but sadly, she passed away just a few years after I moved out. I'll never forget the wisdom Mrs. Katie instilled in me, though, which is why I named my own daughter after her.

And now that Layken and Will have had their first child, they've done the same by naming her something that means something to both of them. They agreed on Julia, after Layken's mother. Julia was an incredible woman, so their baby is lucky to be named after her.

She's two weeks old, but I've only seen her twice since they came home from the hospital. Katie has been sick, and Gavin and I didn't want to pass it on to Layken and Will, so we've kept our distance. Tonight is the first night we'll actually get to spend time with the gang again, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it. I insisted they come over here for a change and let me and Gavin cook for them, but Layken has something to prove, I guess. She said she wants to cook because it's been weeks since their kitchen has been used, so I conceded. She's stubborn and I've learned not to argue with her once she gets something in her head.

I open the front door to Will and Layken's house, but as soon as I step inside, I do a quick double take. This house doesn't seem like the same house from before two weeks ago. This house looks like a hurricane tore through it.

There's laundry piled on both couches, there are unopened gift boxes piled in the corner, and the worst part is, both Kel and Caulder are in the kitchen, looking like they're about to lose their minds. Kel is running a pot from the stove to the sink and Caulder is staring down at his hands in disgust, which are covered in what looks like a thick paste.

"Eddie!" Caulder yells with relief when he sees me. "Help us!"

I hesitantly step inside the living room and walk toward the kitchen, afraid of what I'm about to get myself into. "What happened over here?"

Kel is at the stove again, turning on a burner and pouring something into a pan. He glances at me, then returns his attention to the stove. "We told Layken and Will we'd cook dinner tonight so they could sleep, because that baby never sleeps and they've been walking around like zombies. But then she started crying, so we picked her up before she could wake them up and we couldn't get her to stop crying because all she does is cry. Now we're trying to cook but...we don't really know what we're doing."

I look around the kitchen and assess the situation. There are measuring cups and bowls spread out on the counter, along with what looks like an entire bag of spilled flour. I glance into the living room, but there's no sign of an infant anywhere. "Where's baby Julia?"

Caulder and Kel both look at each other, then look back at me. I don't like the looks on their faces. They look guilty, and guilt is never good when it involves an infant.

"Where is she?" I say again, scared to hear their answer.

Caulder nudges his head in the direction behind me. "She's asleep. On the dryer."

My eyes grow wide. Surely I didn't hear that right. "The dryer?!"

Kel shrugs. "She's in her car seat. And don't worry, we put the dryer on the cool setting and strapped it down so it wouldn't fall off. It's the only way she'll stop crying," he says defensively. "I think she really likes the sound of the dryer."

I roll my eyes and rush to the laundry room. Sure enough, her car seat is strapped to the top of the dryer with bungee cords. I start to reach over and undo them, but then I notice Julia is actually passed out. It's only the third time I've seen her since they brought her home, but it's the first time I've actually seen her not crying.

I decide to leave her there and I walk back into the kitchen to help Kel and Caulder finish whatever meal they've started.

"Where's Gavin?" Caulder asks.

"He's changing Katie's clothes. She found the ketchup bottle again."

Caulder laughs. "You guys are gonna have to get rid of all your condiments."

I nod in agreement. If it's something that squirts, Katie will find it, no doubt.

I look at the mess laid out across the counter and stove. "What is this supposed to be?" I ask.

"We were trying to make a casserole," Kel says. "But it's not working out too well."

I try to figure out a way to salvage it, but it's impossible. It's turned into some sort of paste. "We could just order pizza," I say.

Caulder doesn't even hesitate. He grabs the phone from the bar and starts dialing the number from memory as Kel switches off the oven and the burner on the stove.

I hear the shuffling of feet and look up to see Will slowly making his way out of the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looks up at me and I try to stifle my laugh, but he reminds me of how Gavin looked for the first few weeks after Katie was born. Scruff on his face, unkempt hair and stains all over his t-shirt.

Will looks at the three of us preparing dinner in the kitchen, then spins around, looking for Julia. "Where is she?" he mumbles.

Caulder stands up straight as if he's about to give a speech. "You know how she's never slept for more than five minutes straight?" Will arches an eyebrow, suspicious of what Caulder is getting at. "Well, we think we figured out the answer. She's been asleep for over an hour."

"Where is she, Caulder?" he asks, almost threateningly.

Caulder nudges his head again toward the laundry room. Will's head slowly turns in that direction.

"She likes the dryer," Caulder says.

"Don't worry, Will," I tell him. "I checked on her. She's fine."

Will ignores my reassurance and heads into the laundry room. I watch him as he stares down on her. A slow grin spreads across his face and he leans forward and gives her a kiss on her forehead. I smile, because there's nothing like watching a man kiss his baby girl. It's my favorite thing to see Gavin do.

Will walks out of the laundry room. "Who would have thought she'd love the laundry room?" he says. "She's just like her mom." He smiles to himself, then turns his attention toward the front door when it opens.

Gavin walks in with Katie on his hip. As soon as she sees Kel and Caulder, she's struggling to break free from Gavin's arms. "Want down, Gabin," she says.

He rolls his eyes and sets her down. "It's Daddy," he says to her.

She's been on a first-name kick with him for about a month now. I think it's funny, but Gavin hates that she hasn't been calling him Daddy. I think it's even cuter that she can't pronounce Gavin, so she calls him Gabin. I've caught myself doing it on more than one occasion.

Katie runs right past me and into the kitchen, where Kel scoops her up and tickles her. "Want to help us clean up this mess, Katie-bear?" he asks her. She nods and he walks her to the counter and plops her down on top of it. He gives her a rag and tells her to start wiping the counter, so she does, even though she's making more of a mess than she's cleaning.

"You look like hell," Gavin says to Will.

Will shrugs and falls into a chair at the kitchen table. He runs his hands through his unkempt hair, then folds his arms across the table and rests his head on them. "I did just get my first solid hour of sleep in two weeks," he says. "So things are looking up."

If he's this tired, I can't imagine how Layken feels. "Is Layken still asleep?" I ask Will.

Will lifts his head and shakes it. "She's awake. She's just trying to pull herself out of bed."

With that, I make my way to their bedroom. I open the door and it's almost dark inside, but I can see her motionless under the covers. It doesn't look like she's attempting to get out of bed at all. "Layken?" I whisper.

I hear the covers rustle, then her head appears. She smiles and I hop onto the bed next to her. "You finally get some rest?"

"Kind of," she says with a groan. She scoots herself up and props herself up against the headboard. "I'm starting to wonder if maybe Julia is a vampire, because she never, ever sleeps. Was Katie like this? I can't remember that long ago."

I laugh. "Yep," I say, rolling onto my back. "Remember that day I came over to your house in my bra?"

Layken laughs. "I forgot about that."

Katie was about three weeks old and I was so frazzled and tired, I walked right across the street with her in my arms and was completely unaware that I wasn't wearing a shirt. She had spit up on it a few minutes before and I had every intention of putting a different one on, but it just slipped my mind. I didn't notice until I walked through their front door and Will looked at me, wide-eyed and nervous, and said, "Eddie? You're kind of almost naked."

The sad part is, I looked down at my bra and I just rolled my eyes and walked back to my house to put on a shirt. I wasn't even embarrassed. You lose your ability to be embarrassed when you have an infant. Suddenly, things that once seemed important become not so important when you're being peed and pooped on daily.

"How are the boys doing with dinner?" Layken asks.

"Well...that's debatable. They seemed pretty frazzled, so we ended up ordering pizza."

Layken laughs and throws the covers off, then picks her pants up off the floor. "I guess I should go relieve Will. He's been giving me a break since this morning so I could catch up on sleep. He starts work again on Monday, so I'll be waking up with her alone after that."

I sit up on the bed. "Actually, she's been asleep for a while. I think Kel and Caulder may have found her weakness."

Layken looks at me curiously.

"The dryer."

Her eyes bulge. "They put her in the DRYER?" She begins rushing toward the door.

"On the dryer," I clarify. "She likes the vibration."

She pauses at the door and turns to face me. "She's on the dryer?"

I nod.

"And she's asleep?"

I nod.

"And she's safe? She can't fall off?"

"She's fine. And very peaceful looking."

Layken sighs, relieved, then walks back toward the bed. "That's good. Come get me when the food is ready. I'm gonna steal fifteen more minutes of sleep."

I stand up and head toward the door, but turn back to face her just as she's pulling the covers over her head. "Layken?"

She looks at me and waits for me to continue.

"Isn't it amazing? Seeing Will with her? I saw him kiss her earlier and it was just the sweetest thing. It reminded me of when Gavin would hold Katie as an infant and kiss her on the nose. I used to love seeing that."

Layken smiles endearingly. "Will being a dad is the sexiest thing I've ever seen," she says. "It's killing me to know we have to wait four more weeks. I assumed we were done with countdowns forever."

I laugh. "Go back to sleep," I tell her. "I'll come get you when it's ready."

## *

"Tuck and tweet," Katie yells.

Katie has no idea how to play suck and sweet, but since she turned two years old, she's always been the first to demand we play it as soon as we sit down to eat, only she's not very good with her pronunciation of it.

"As soon as Layken gets in here, we'll play," I tell her.

"I'm here, I'm here," Layken says from behind me. She makes her way to the table and pulls the chair out next to Will. He already has her plate ready. "You first, Katie," Layken says to her.

Katie is sitting between Gavin and me. She usually sits next to Caulder, but for some reason, Kiersten took that seat tonight. Which is strange, because she usually sits next to Kel, but Caulder is between them now. I can tell by the way Kiersten is poking at her food and staring down at her plate that something is wrong with her.

I hope it's not an issue between her and Kel, because I'll make sure Kiersten marries into this family if it's the last thing I do.

"What's your suck, Katie?" Gavin asks her.

Katie pulls her finger to her chin as if she's actually contemplating an answer. We all know she isn't really contemplating, because her answers never make any sense.

"Poo poo bird!" she says loudly, then begins clapping.

Everyone laughs other than Kel and Kiersten, which really makes me nervous.

"Yes, poo poo bird is definitely a suck," Gavin says. "What's your sweet?"

"Poo poo Gabin!" She squeals and Gavin shakes his head, then gives her a squeeze.

"Well, my suck is that my daughter doesn't call me Daddy anymore," Gavin says. "My sweet is that she sleeps through the night and Eddie and I don't have to walk around like zombies anymore."

"Rub it in," Will says.

"Speaking of sleeping babies, is she still on the dryer?" Layken asks. She stands up and walks toward the laundry room.

"Let her sleep," Will calls after her.

Layken walks into the laundry room to check on her, even though we can all see her from the kitchen table. I forget what it's like to be a brand new mom and always having to be within eye contact of your infant.

We'll see how long that lasts.

"What's yours, Caulder?" Gavin asks.

Caulder drops his eyes to the pizza on his plate. "My suck is that I actually thought I might want to be a chef when I graduate high school, but now we all know that's not in the cards."

I laugh, because at least he realized this early on.

"My sweet," he says with a grin, "was kissing Ariele Simpson under the bleachers today after school."

This gets Will's attention. He snaps his gaze in Caulder's direction and Caulder just smiles even wider. "With tongue," he says. "It was awesome."

Gavin stands up and reaches across the table to high five Caulder. Will intercepts and pushes Gavin's hand away. "Don't reward that," he says. "He's only fourteen!"

"Exactly!" Gavin says. "It's about damn time he frenched a girl."

Will looks horrified.

Caulder is still smiling.

"I can't believe I've been missing out all this time," Caulder says. "I want to do that again. Every day. Maybe even with a different girl every day. Do all girls kiss the same?"

"Make him stop," Layken pleads to Will, covering her ears as she sits back down to the table.

"Stop," Will pleads to Caulder.

Caulder shakes his head. "Dude, you're my brother. You should be happy for me."

Will drops his head in his hands. "Caulder, I'm also raising you. I'm not about to reward you for making out with a girl. I swear to God, if you make me an Uncle/Granddad before I'm even twenty-five, I'll kill you."

Caulder laughs, but Kel and Kiersten are still quiet, staring down at their plates.

"What's your suck, Kel?" I ask him.

He doesn't look up when he responds. "I don't want to play tonight."

I move my attention to Kiersten. "What about you, Kiersten?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I don't want to play, either," she says. "You guys go ahead."

I can't take it anymore.

I stand up and push my chair back. "You two," I say to them. They both look up and I point down the hallway. "Follow me." I head toward the hallway without giving them an opportunity to object.

I walk into Kel's bedroom and wait for them. Kiersten walks in first with her arms folded tightly across her chest. She doesn't even look at me. She marches over to Kel's bed and sits. Kel walks in, but not far. He pauses in the doorway and stares at Kiersten, then looks over at me.

"What's up with the two of you?" I demand.

Kiersten rolls her eyes and Kel stares hard at Kiersten, waiting for her to answer.

"Ask Kiersten," Kel says. "Maybe she can enlighten us both."

Kiersten stands quickly and turns toward Kel. "Are you serious?" she says loudly. "You're gonna pretend you don't know what's wrong with me?"

Kel takes a step toward her and I back up a step, because two angry fourteen-year-olds is something I didn't realize I was afraid of until now.

"Kiersten, everything was fine this morning. Then when I sat next to you at lunch, you give me the silent treatment like we're kids."

"You are kids," I interject.

Both of them look at me and roll their eyes.

"Listen," I say. "I think I know what the problem is."

They both swing their eyes in my direction, so I continue. "There's something both of you should know about men and women. Kiersten...men are idiots. You think they should know what you're thinking or what happened to upset you, but believe me, they never do." I face Kel. "And Kel, women are smarter than men. They always know what happened and they always know what you should be thinking, but you're more than likely thinking about sports or cars or boobs." I face both of them. "So the only way for a guy and a girl to get along is if the girl spells things out like a five-year-old to the guy, so that the guy knows exactly what's going on at all times." I face Kiersten again, but point at Kel. "So spell out whatever problem you have with him and give him the chance to fix it, because he'll never guess what's wrong with you. Men's brains are like T-Rex brains. They're very tiny."

Kel is glaring at me now. "I'm not sure I agree with your advice this time, Eddie."

I shrug. "The truth is hard to swallow."

I walk out of the bedroom and leave them to fix whatever issue it is they have in private.

"What's your suck, Lake?" Will asks Layken.

She looks at Caulder. "My suck is the realization that we're raising a womanizer."

"I'm not a womanizer," Caulder says defensively. "A womanizer is someone who objectifies women. I appreciate them," he says with a smile. "A lot."

Layken shakes her head. "My sweet is that, despite my exhaustion and how incredibly tired I am, I've never been this happy in my whole life. I love being a mom. I love seeing Will be a dad. It's incredible."

I smile, knowing exactly how she feels. I also know how exhausted she must be.

"Let me take Julia for the night," I say to her.

Layken looks up at me, but her expression is nervous. "I can't do that. She's only two weeks old."

"Oh, come on. The two of you are exhausted. I'm right across the street."

Will shakes his head. "It's not that we don't trust you, Eddie. Like Lake said, she's only two weeks old. You wouldn't get any sleep."

I laugh. "You guys forget I've been through this before. Besides, I'll stay up with her all night, then as soon as one of you wakes up in the morning, I'll bring her home. You guys just need a good solid eight hours of sleep. Believe me, it'll make a world of difference."

They both look at each other hesitantly. I can tell Layken is waiting for Will's approval and Will is waiting for hers.

"If she cries too much or I can't calm her down, I'll bring her right back home. It's just for a few hours."

Layken inhales, then lets out a huge sigh. "Oh my God, that sounds incredible, Eddie. You are seriously the best friend I've ever had."

Now that Will sees the relief on Layken's face, he shares his own relieved sigh. "Wow," Will says. "I don't remember what it's like to sleep a solid eight hours. This is gonna be weird."

Kel and Kiersten walk back into the kitchen and take their seats. They both look more at ease, which relieves some of my worry.

"Ready for your suck and sweets now?" I ask them.

Kiersten nods. "My suck is that sometimes I'm really stubborn," she says. "My sweet is that my boyfriend loves that about me."

Kel puts his arm around her and kisses the side of her head.

"Stop!" Layken says. "What did I say about physical contact?"

Kel rolls his eyes. "God, Lake. She's been my girlfriend for two years now. We kiss. Get over it."

"Which is exactly why I won't allow physical contact," Layken says. "It isn't enough we have to worry about the two of you, now we have to worry about Caulder, too!"

Caulder smiles again. "I'd worry more about me than the two of them," he says.

Will throws a breadstick at him to shut him up.

Kel glares hard at Layken. "My suck is that my sister won't accept the fact that I can kiss my girlfriend without getting her pregnant. My sweet?" Kel looks at Kiersten and smiles, then holds her hand. "My sweet is right now."

As soon as the line passes his lips, a breadstick smacks him in the face. "That's my sweet, you thief," Will says. Kel laughs and Will looks over at Layken. "My suck is that your little brother stole my sweet."

I look around the table at everyone, taking the opportunity to appreciate what we all have. I look at Will and Layken, who have overcome more heartache than most people even experience in a lifetime. I remember back when I first had my suspicions about the two of them. I didn't know Layken all that well, but I knew Will and I had never seen a girl make him more nervous and uneasy as Layken did. The odds weren't in their favor when they met, but everything ended up working out for the best. I'm convinced it's because they're just like Gavin and me. Meant to be.

Yes, that may be cheesy, but it's true. The first time I met Gavin, I knew he'd be the boy I would end up marrying. Granted, he was stuck under my car with a broken leg, thanks to me, but one glance at his contorted, pained face and I knew I had run over the man of my dreams.

Katie puts her hand on my arm and I look down at her and watch her shovel another pepperoni into her mouth. She slaps the table playfully, then reaches for her sippy cup. Gavin grabs it and hands it to her and they exchange smiles. "Tanks, Gabin," Katie says to him.

"Thanks, Daddy," Gavin responds, correcting her.

"I not Daddy. I Katie," she says, correcting him. He just laughs and leans down to kiss the top of her head.

There is nothing in the world like seeing the love of your life loving his daughter. I'm convinced of that. As much as Gavin and I struggled to finish college while raising Katie, we were able to do it. I know we couldn't have done it without each other, so seeing how far we've come makes me love our little family even more.

I look at Kiersten...the little sister I never had. We've grown really close over the past two years and Layken has no idea how much Kiersten shares with me. Layken doesn't have to worry about things progressing between Kiersten and Kel just yet, but you can bet I'll be the first person Kiersten talks to about it, and I'm glad for that.

"So...Ariele Simpson, huh?" Kel says to Caulder. Caulder winks at him and Kel looks impressed. It's nice that not only are they best friends, but they consider themselves brothers now. Baby Julia solidifies that bond between them. I feel sorry for her in a way, because I have a feeling Kel and Caulder are going to be ruthless protectors of that girl. And of Katie, too.

The best part of the two of them, though, is the fact that they realize how much Will and Layken have fought for them to all stay together. To stay happy.

I think about Mrs. Katie and what she once told me when I was a child.

Your happiness isn't determined by where or who you live with. Happiness comes from within, and only you can control that.

Mrs. Katie was absolutely right, but I view her words in a different way now that I'm older. All the years I was in foster care and had virtually no one, I repeated her words in my head. Knowing that I could be happy if I chose to be happy, despite my external circumstances, is what kept me going all those years.

Now I actually do have family, thanks to my father, Joel, who stepped in when I was fourteen and finally gave me a stable environment. I have a wonderful group of family and friends who mean the world to me, and while happiness may not be determined by where or who you live with, or the people that surround you...it certainly adds to it. So many people have friends and family who love them, but they spend their lives blaming them for everything wrong in their life.

None of us do that in this room. Maybe it's because we've all been dealt a bad hand once or twice in our lives and it taught us to appreciate what we have. Maybe it's because we know how lucky we are to have found each other when we did. I don't know what sets people's attitudes apart in this life, but just like Mrs. Katie wasn't worried about me...I'm not worried about any of these people. I'm not worried about a single one of them, because they all know how to find the positive in every situation.

I just hope Gavin can find the positive in what I'm about to tell him.

"You're last, Eddie," Layken says. "Suck and sweet."

I inhale slowly and decide to just get it over with. Rip the band aid off. It's the best way. I look over at Gavin and he's smiling at me, unsuspecting of what's about to hit him.

"My sweet is the same as Gavin's. That I'm relieved Katie is already three and we're not having to suffer through sleepless nights anymore."

"Amen to that," Gavin says.

I shake my head, silently telling him he shouldn't be so quick to respond. His eyes grow wider.

"My suck, is that in about seven and a half months...we'll be eating our own words."

The table goes quiet. Even Katie is quiet for a change. Gavin faces forward and rests his elbows on the table, then covers his face with his palms.

I know it's unexpected, but I was kind of hoping he'd react positively. Which may be why I chose to tell everyone at the same time. We've both graduated college. We both have good jobs. I'm not sure how unexpectedly having another baby could be all that bad. Especially since we've talked about giving Katie a sibling.

Gavin slowly stands and I'm afraid he's about to bolt out of the house to have a meltdown. He turns to face me and his arms go out as wide as the grin that appears on his face. "You're pregnant?!" he yells. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me out of my seat, then steps away from the table and spins me around before setting me back down again.

He grabs my face and forces me to look him in the eyes. "Seriously? We're having another baby?"

I nod and he laughs. He reaches down and lifts Katie out of her seat. "Katie, did you hear that? Mommy has a baby in her tummy!"

Katie looks at me. "Baby Julia in your tummy?" She looks horrified at the thought.

"No, sweetie," I tell her. "This is a new baby. This baby doesn't have a name yet."

Gavin is beaming. "We get to name the baby ourselves," he says. "Whatever we want. We'll let you help us pick the name."

Katie grins. "Poo poo bird."

Gavin laughs, then reaches toward me and pulls me in for another hug with the two of them.

## *

It's been three hours since we left Layken and Will's house with Julia. I finally got her to go to sleep and she's passed out on my chest. I'm watching reruns of I Love Lucy and Gavin and Katie are passed out together on the other couch.

There's a soft knock at my living room door, followed by it opening slightly.

"Hello?" Will whispers.

I laugh to myself, thinking they did good to make it three hours without her.

"It's open," I say.

Will walks in and sees Julia asleep on my chest. He smiles a bashful smile; like he's embarrassed that they couldn't stay away from her for eight hours.

"It's fine," I say. "I figured you'd be back for her."

He laughs and reaches down to lift her up. He pulls her to her chest. "Layken couldn't sleep without her in the room with us," he whispers.

I nod and watch him as he lifts her away from his chest and adjusts her into the fold of his arms. "Or maybe Daddy couldn't sleep without you there," he whispers to her. He brings her forehead to his mouth and kisses her, then turns and walks toward the front door. When it closes behind him, Gavin wakes up from the noise. He looks at the front door, then looks at me and sees I'm not holding Julia anymore.

"Suckers," he says, laughing. "I knew they couldn't do it."

I smile. "Come here," I say to him.

He rolls Katie onto her back, then stands up and walks over to the couch I'm sitting on. He lowers himself down and rests his head in my lap. He turns toward my stomach and gives it the perfect kiss, then places his hand on it.

"This is one lucky kid, Eddie."

"Why?"

"Because," he says. "He's gonna have the best big sister in the world and the best mom in the world."

I smile. "And the best Gabin in the world."

## * * *

Colleen Hoover is the author of five New York Times bestselling novels. Her first series was published in 2012 and includes _Slammed_ , _Point of Retreat_ , and _This Girl_. Her second series, published in 2013, includes the #1 NYT's bestseller _Hopeless_ and the companion novel, _Losing Hope_. She has released a free novella, _Finding Cinderella_ , as a thank you to her readers for their continued support. The novella is a companion to her _Hopeless_ series, but can be read as a standalone.

Colleen lives in East Texas with her husband, their three boys, their dog, Pacey, and their zombie, Steve. Colleen loves Diet Pepsi more than all of the things, and is a ninja in her spare time.

You can follow Colleen on Instagram if you want to watch her pointless, random videos, or on Twitter, but she rarely tweets anything worth following. You can also find her on her blog or on her very active Facebook page where she loves to give away free stuff when her husband isn't looking.

http://colleenhoover.com

## *

#

# Death Kiss

## George Wier

The Loser had the kind of face that made tougher guys want to use it as a punching bag, and his face bore the evidence that a series of such men had been unable to resist the temptation to do so in the past. His acne scars didn't help matters, either.

He leaned with his backside against the chalk table and held an arm extended parallel with the plank floor of the place to grasp the cue stick held at perpendicular such that he could have been doing an audition for the part of Pharoah in some local theatre troupe, except for the fact 'loser' was practically written on his face. One corner of his mouth turned up to give him a know-it-all, sardonic, self-satisfied grin.

Erica saw him standing there like that, surveying the lay of the billiard balls before him, and was instantly drawn to him. That was Erica all over again ― always going for the losers.

Erica didn't learn his name until after she'd completed her first treatment and after the FBI had finished grilling her there in the hospital. But that was later, after she'd made a complete ass of herself by throwing herself at the guy.

His name was Lonnie Wayne Smith, although she didn't know his name at that point. Still, she recognized him instantly for the kind of guy who would make her father want to stomp him into the dirt, and after that she couldn't help herself.

Her friends, Lori, Matt and Kyle, thought she'd gone off the deep end. She was supposed to be there with Kyle, Lori's selection of a match for Erica, but Erica and Kyle had taken an instant disdain for one another in the couples department, and so on the pretext of needing to use the restroom, Erica had left the bar up front and gone wandering through the place, back towards the pool tables. She had thought that maybe there was a rear exit back there somewhere which let out onto Fifth Street. This night, Sixth Street was beyond boring and there had to be something, somewhere for her.

And then there was The Loser. He was hers.

She saw that he was drinking a beer and went to the bar and got him another one. When she approached him and put it in his hand, his eyes met hers and he smiled. She then slipped under The Loser's arm holding the pool cue and pulled it arm down around her waist. The Loser seemed to like it, as she knew he would. Erica wasn't sure just when she started calling him The Loser in her mind, but that was also part of the whole enchilada.

Erica smelled something then, something either on The Loser or about him, underneath the sharp tang of beer and cigarettes. She didn't know what it was, but it called to her mind... something. She couldn't recollect quite what, but it was there and images of raw force and power pervaded her vision and made the tableau of the pool game and the bar seem like a fake picture, a bright patina, possibly, painted over some older, deeper and darker yet unknown masterwork. The Loser was a force of nature, this she knew instinctively.

Lori entered the room first, followed by Matt, then Kyle. The three of them stood looking at her. The Loser had his forearm pressed hard against one of her breasts.

"You're up, Lonnie," one of pool players said. He was just another loser, but much less of a loser than Lonnie, who was The Loser.

The arm came from around her and The Loser did what he did best: he acted the part of the infinitely bored as he ran the last four balls on the table, walking each ball into a pocket as though doing so was as inevitable as the summer sun.

Lori came over to her.

"Just what the hell are you doing? Kyle likes you!"

"No he doesn't," Erica said. "Besides, I think I found someone."

"Yeah. I know," Lori said. "I don't like the looks of that guy." Lori's eyes turned to watch him strut around the pool table to grab a cube of chalk and flick-flick-flick it against the tip of his cue stick, as if aligning the molecules of blue chalk there just right. Her upper lip twitched spasmodically. No, Lori didn't like The Loser one tiny bit.

"But I like him," Erica said. "So do me a favor and fuck-off for awhile. I'll catch up with you later."

"No," Lori said. "We're you're friends. And that guy ― he looks like a serial killer or something."

"I like him."

"Your screwed-up hormones like him," Lori said. She turned and then over her shoulder said: "We'll be in the bar a few more minutes. If you're not back by the time we're done, we're coming for you."

She looked over Lori's shoulders at Kyle and Matt, and both of them slowly shook their heads at her in unison. The two could have been twins.

"Fine," Erica said.

## *

After the game Lonnie The Loser crowded Erica between the dark hulk of the defunct Ms. Pacman machine and the overly loud, partially blown-speaker Blasteroids game, and spent a bit of time French-kissing her and feeling her up. She had one brief orgasm there, his fingers doing the walking, which ended abruptly when he tried to stick his tongue so far down her ear that he almost contacted her eardrum.

"Come on," Lonnie The Loser said. "You're coming over to my place."

Erica nodded.

But that never happened. The instant Lonnie turned around, Kyle was there. He punched Lonnie The Loser in the face. Lonnie collapsed to the floor, grasped at his nose with both hands and bleated like a sheep mid-slaughter.

"Erica!" Lori yelled. "We're getting out of here. Now!"

Lori grabbed Erica's arm in a vise-like grip and pulled her from between the two game machines. Matt came from the other side and lifted Erica up over a writhing Lonnie The Loser, threw her one-ten pounds of weight over his football-player shoulders and the four of them made their way quickly out of the bar. Erica wouldn't remember until much later — about the time she was having to tell the whole tale from start to finish for the FBI guys ― that she had screamed bloody murder the entire length of the bar and halfway to their car.

## *

All that occurred Saturday night. By Monday morning there was something decidedly wrong with Erica's face. Besides the tender puffiness, her skin was rapidly streaking with strange marks. Her lips swelled up like little purplish cocktail sausages. She was also losing hearing in one of her ears. And Erica itched — badly.

Lori took her to the Emergency Room at Brackenridge Hospital, again not taking no for an answer.

Lori stayed with her there in the ER for ten hours after the ER doc took skin samples. Meanwhile Erica's face and head got worse. She itched and burned and she wanted to scratch her face off, but Lori kept holding her hands down. Lori wore latex gloves the whole time. That alone should have tipped Erica off.

Erica was sure they were going to give her some topical ointment, some sedatives ― hopefully Vicodin, which she would be able to sell to one of her friends ― and then let her go. But that idea, like many another of Erica's ideas, was shelved when she was told she was being admitted.

About the moment she asked "Why?" in abject frustration ― and it came out sounding more like "Aye?" because of the way her lips and tongue were swollen ― in walked a man wearing a blue dinner jacket flanked by another man in a police uniform. The fellow in the blue dinner introduced himself as an FBI agent, and she instantly forgot his name. But it was the uniformed officer who would stick in her mind for the rest of her life.

"Before we get your signed consent and knock you out, Ms. DeWare," the ER doctor said, "because we do have to get you to surgery right away ― you need to tell the whole story to these gentlemen."

"What story?" she asked, only it came out "'Ott 'owey?"

The uniformed officer introduced himself Ralph Bigham. "About the guy in the bar who was kissing you," he said.

## *

Ralph Bigham was with the Office of the Travis County Medical Examiner. Although he was no doctor he was, nonetheless, a forensics expert. Ralph mostly handled the cold cases, those files still open but that were, officially, at a dead end.

Ralph had moved to Austin a couple of years back after a stint as a Sheriff's Deputy in Brazos County. He'd left not long after he'd loaned his sidearm to a convicted felon who was intent on solving a murder case that the local powers-that-be wanted closed. Even though Charles Lyman, the felon, had solved the case, took down one of the two killers and helped send the other one to prison, Ralph had seen the writing on the wall. Ralph was no longer welcome in the Brazos County law enforcement community.

The next step up was Austin. He had packed his bags on a Friday afternoon, drove to Austin on Saturday morning, and by Saturday night had gotten a job with the Coroner ― a job that few others would have accepted for any amount of money, much less actively sought.

Now, two years later, there was a chance that the little red-haired University of Texas sophomore, Erica DeWare, was going to help him put most of a shelf of cold case files to bed. And it was the shelf that had bothered him the most since arriving, as three of the cases had occurred during his brief watch.

Ralph sat on the edge of her Erica's bed and smiled at the girl.

"You suffer from a flesh-eating bacteria," he said.

When he saw that Erica was going to get hysterical, Ralph said "tut-tut-tut. They've caught it in time to save your face and your hearing. You'll be fine. Just fine. But it will take up to a four-week stay here in the hospital for you to fully heal. Now, you have to listen to me carefully."

Erica nodded.

"You have a bacteria called Necrotizing fasciitis. There is only one place to find such this particular strain of the bacteria. Are you following me?"

She nodded again, and Ralph Bigham could see that he had Erica's full and complete attention.

And then he told her.

## *

They came for Lonnie Wayne Smith in the middle of the night and quietly surrounded his home. Two dozen men and women were in the team, eleven Federal Bureau of Investigation agents, a five-man crew from the Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms Division of the Department of Justice, four from the Austin Police Department Hostage Crisis and Sniper Unit, two Travis County Sheriff's deputies, and Ralph Bigham and a bookish little woman ― Ralph's assistant ― Delores Rogers. Delores gripped her twelve-gauge riot gun in a white-knuckle grip.

On a pre-arranged signal Ralph and another man wearing black over bulging kevlar gripped a miniature battering ram between them, counted to three in a whisper as they swung it back, swung it back, and then slammed it into the wooden panel next to the doorknob.

The door slammed open and seven black shapes poured into the house.

When they entered his bedroom, Lonnie Wayne Smith was just getting out of his bed. He was in his George Foreman underwear.

"What?" Smith asked. But then the dark shapes poured into his room and tackled him, rolling him off the backside of his bed and into the wall.

"We got him!" a voice said into a tiny microphone and was picked up by forty different sets of ears — the men and women both in the house and outside, and the backup team around the block.

"What? What? What? What?" Smith yelled and continued to long after he was cuffed.

"Lonnie Wayne Smith," Ralph Bigham stated. "You have the right to remain silent..." Ralph continued the Miranda warning and at end of it, after one of the ATF guys had turned on the bedroom light and they all lifted their night-vision goggles to rest perched atop their foreheads, he continued with the rest of it.

"Additionally," Ralph said, "this is a search warrant signed by a District Court Judge, duly empowering me to search this premises for certain evidence."

"What? What evidence?" Smith stated. Smith looked a sight. His hair was disheveled and his face was purplish and swollen, no doubt from where Kyle Anders had punched him the face in the bar on Sixth Street on Saturday night. But, then again, Lonnie Wayne Smith did have a face that looked terribly punch-able.

"Well," Ralph said. "This warrant is not general at all. It says here very specifically," and Ralph pointed at the line of fine handwriting. "We're to search for human remains." Ralph Bigham keyed the microphone below his lips.

"Parchman, bring in the dogs."

## *

"There is only one place to find such a bacteria. Are you following me?" Ralph Bigham said, there behind the billowing curtains in the Brackenridge Hopital ER that Monday night.

And Erica nodded.

"Good," he said. "Dead people, Ms. DeWare. The rotting flesh of dead people. Your Lonnie is the serial killer we've been looking for these last five years."

And at that moment, although there was zero for contents in Erica DeWare's stomach, she began yarking up every bit of fluid to be found there. Ralph Bigham hopped up and grabbed a towel for her. Her friend Lori grabbed the plastic tray beneath the rolling dinner tray by the bed, but they were both too late.

## *

Another day going down. Ralph Bigham breathed in the air over Ladybird Lake, locally referred to as Town Lake. All those health-conscious people down there running the long jogging trail around the lake. So many of them.

Ralph lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. He had taken to smoking after moving to Austin, mostly because several of his favorite co-workers were smokers.

Six bodies had been recovered from Lonnie Wayne Smith's basement. It was interesting to him that the house even had a basement―there were damned few basements in Austin, likely due to the rocky nature of the soil. But Smith's house had been built around 1895, and while it may not have been one of the architectural jewels of the Victorian Era, it was spacious, well-made and solid. Someone, somewhere back in that previous lost century, had been determined to dig. Unfortunately, all these years later, someone else had chosen to stock the place, but with exactly the wrong thing.

Lonnie Wayne Smith had been indicted by the Grand Jury that morning. Three of the Grand Jurors, all men, had thrown up at the pictures. That's when Ralph Bigham knew the case was going to be a slam dunk. Some lawyer would no doubt latch onto the case and try to plead it out to insanity. But then again the insanity defense usually didn't go over well in Texas courts. Particularly for serial killers.

"The smell," Ralph said. The sun was going down across the lake and to the west, and most of the canoes and kayaks were plodding their way across the surface back towards the various boat ramps dotting the shore. "Why don't the neighbors ever notice the smell?"

Delores Rogers was there. She took the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out. "These things will kill you. Besides that, there's a Burn Ban in effect. That includes smoking outdoors."

"Oh. Forgot."

"They don't smell it because they're kind of use to it," Delores said.

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose we are talking about Smith's neighbors, right?"

"Right," Bigham agreed.

"Maybe in the back of their minds they know something is there. That it's something very, how shall we say, not right. It's there when they go out to their cars in the morning to go to work. Maybe they think 'It's coming up from the ground' or 'It's those trashcans across the way.' Something like that. Or maybe they're afraid to know what they know. Like the neighbors must have known near Buchenwald or Auschwitz."

"That's a pretty bleak look, don't you think?" Ralph said.

"Well, you asked," Delores said. "But I'll tell you what. What gets me is that girl kissing him. Letting him feel her up and everything. Like she said, she knew there was some smell there. Something 'underneath', she said. She just didn't know what it was, though."

"Underneath," Ralph said. "Yeah. That fits.

The two lapsed into silence for a moment.

"By the way, dogs do it," Ralph said.

"Do what?"

"They do what Lonnie Smith did. They find a carcass like that, then they play with it and roll around in it and get the dead smell all over them. I never figured that one out satisfactorily for myself. Why dogs do it, that is."

"Dogs don't do that!" Delores said.

"You have never lived in the country," Ralph said.

Delores paused for a moment.

"True," she admitted.

"But I think I know why," Ralph continued. "It's only a theory, and in this instance it only applies to the dogs."

"I'm dying for you to tell me," Delores said.

"I am willing to bet that Necrotizing fasciitis bacteria is nature's only true and effective flea and tick treatment."

Delores raised her eyebrows. "Ahh. I get it. But what about Smith? Why would he act like a dog? And why the hell didn't his flesh start rotting?"

Ralph shook his head. "Since we're having him held at the hospital pending a full toxicology report, I will guess that he'll be found to be a carrier. And, by definition, carriers are immune. Classic Typhoid Mary syndrome."

"Fleas and ticks," Delores said, and shivered.

"Probably," Ralph said, "he has skin problems when he isn't messing around with dead bodies."

Ralph detected Delores' shudder.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get back down to the hospital and see what the lab guys have got so far. I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

"You're on."

## * * *

George Wier lives in Austin, Texas with his lovely wife Sallie, two dogs and two cats. He has been writing in earnest for more than twenty-five years, and is the author of the _Bill Travis Mystery_ series and co-author of _Long Fall From Heaven_ (2012). He also writes science-fiction, steampunk, and is an avid short-story writer.

Visit his website at http://georgewier.com

## *

#

# For a Soldier

## Jason Deas

The war ended and kids streamed home. All of them left something behind—some more than others. Morgan returned with tattered baggage.

His parents drove him home from the airstrip. He didn't say a word except that he wasn't ready to talk. His mom and dad seemed to understand.

At home, Morgan went upstairs alone, shut the door, put his kit bag down and sat on his bed as a rush of images flooded his mind. Fear, joy, pain, brotherhood, loss. He'd never felt more out of place and surreal than he did at that moment. Homesick for the jungle, he sobbed quietly into his hands. He had a love/hate relationship with the bush and at that moment his heart splintered in new directions. He felt as though he'd been chewed up and spit out and wished he'd been swallowed like his best friend Crimson.

Morgan put on a Black Sabbath album and stared at a picture of the two of them as he wondered what Crimson would be doing if he'd made it home. The song tickled his ears and he shuddered with pleasure as he peered into the faces in the photograph.

Morgan took off the Sabbath album, put it back in its sleeve, and replaced it with a Jackson Browne record and turned off the lights. Even before sleep his head began to spin as if he were already in dreams. It was the first time in memory he'd gone to sleep without a gun. Sitting up in the dark, he blindly felt around under his bed until he recognized the familiar form that comforted him like a pacifier. He retrieved a gun his father had bought him on his eighteenth birthday. Rubbing his finger past the trigger he wondered how many times he'd pulled the one on his military weapon. Without doing so, Morgan knew exactly how it felt, what it sounded like, and even what it smelled like. With the gun in his right hand and his dog tags in his left, missing the night sounds of the jungle, he slept.

After six hours he awoke on the floor beside the bed. In the middle of the night he'd ripped off the sheets and moved to the comfort of the hard floor. With his gun still in his right hand he thought about the day ahead and all the proper things that should be done by a soldier home from war. His parents would want to have the entire family over for a homecoming dinner and the thought soured his mood.

I don't want to talk about this. How would they ever understand? What if somebody asks if I had to kill someone? Of course I did! We all did. What will my sister think if she learns I killed nearly a hundred men? She'll probably be scared of me.

Morgan was sure he'd be watched like an animal in the zoo. The idea of the dinner grew uglier in his mind. He knew the family would all claim to understand what he was going through. His older uncles and aunts would offer advice. As the scenario played out in his mind, he knew at some point he would get annoyed, boil over, and explode, saying something cruel and hurtful to them all. He imagined himself storming out of the room, pounding up the stairs, slamming a few doors, and sitting on his bed missing Crimson. Morgan made a mental note to ask his mother to postpone the party until he was a little more adjusted.

Morgan also thought a phone call to his ex-girlfriend would be the customary and polite thing to do. The war had ripped them apart after a year of letters came from an evolving soldier who began to deny life existed elsewhere in the world in order to survive. Morgan wrote her regularly at first and she wrote him daily. A feeling of separation began growing inside him at boot camp and intensified with his deployment. The line that connected them became so thin it snapped as he came to the point where he didn't know who she was anymore because he didn't recognize himself.

The break happened early one morning on watch, long before the sun rose. He'd been staring at a tree for minutes, hypnotized by fatigue when he saw something move to his far left. As his heart pounded wildly and his muscles tensed, Morgan tried to catch his breath. Camouflaged by a neatly devised cover which left open enough space to see and shoot, Morgan studied the young face of the combatant creeping toward him. The young man jittered with fear. Knowing what he had to do, Morgan lifted his weapon, aimed and fired. The slug hit him in the mouth, collapsing his head and exploding it at the same time. Morgan froze. A mind shattering confusion rocked his entire being as he witnessed the death. His first kill. A part of him snapped and became disconnected from everything he believed about himself and the heavens. From that moment on, he began the process of tearing himself apart and putting the pieces back together again.

Morgan never wrote his girlfriend again. He dropped her unopened letters in odd places in ceremony, disregarding the life he'd known. The idea of the two situations existing simultaneously boggled his mind and enraged him. So, he forgot about it and accepted the fact he was involved in one of the strangest human activities imaginable—war.

Morgan looked at his watch to discover it was 5:10 a.m. Darkness covered the windows with no hint of a rising sun. After six hours of physical inactivity his body was ready to go. Not so sure about his mind, his thoughts slipped away to Crimson and a promise they'd made a year before in the jungle. The two had been away from cities, barracks, and alcohol for nearly two weeks. The friends missed alcohol almost as much as they missed home. Shaking hands, the two promised that their first day back in the United States would be one of record breaking alcohol consumption. Since Crimson didn't make it, Morgan decided he would have to drink for two.

He tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen to search for the alcohol which would be his breakfast. The first place he checked was the cabinet over the magnet-covered fridge. Bingo! A half gallon of rum and a bottle of whiskey brightened his morning as he immediately turned his thoughts to a mixer. Quickly finding soda, his next task was to retrieve glasses and ice. Morgan filled two glasses with ice, one for Crimson and one for himself. Crimson's favorite drink was rum and coke. Sitting down at the kitchen table with the two drinks in front of him, he didn't waste any time and took a good long drink from both glasses, one after the other. A deep breath escaped his lungs as the rum ran down his throat.

Putting his hands behind his head, Morgan stretched, smiled, and let out an incredible sigh. It was a sigh of disbelief, awareness, new beginnings, and power. What will the world do with me now? I guess the real question is what will I do with the world? The last time Morgan had been in the United States he was nineteen years old. He'd graduated high school and was working in a warehouse when his country called. His life was pretty boring besides his girlfriend and his guitar, and he was certain they'd both be there on his return. And now he was back, years later with an uncertain future.

Remembering the drinks, he picked them up, one in each hand and made a toast to Crimson, wishing him well, wherever he was. Feeling his presence, he laughed as he lifted one drink to his mouth, and then the other. Morgan knew that wherever he was, Crimson was missing him just as much. Morgan knew one day their paths would cross again. If there is such a thing as soul mates, we were mates. Mates get separated at times, but they always reunite.

Finishing the two drinks, he looked at the whiskey and decided to have two more rum and cokes. The ice hadn't had time to melt, and he played bartender again, refilling the two glasses. A tiny hint of a buzz began in his head and trickled all the way down his spine to the floor. Wiggling his feet and picking up the two glasses, he clinked them together again. "Cheers," he said as he held the glasses up for the empty room. Morgan wondered what time his parents would be up and knew he'd be drunk.

Standing up, he walked to the window to admire God's work as light filtered through the window and into his eyes. Gripping the cold porcelain sink a shiver moved his entire body as he heard Crimson's laugh in his head. Crimson had laughed more than any person Morgan had ever met. He had the ability to find humor in just about any situation. He'd been clever as a master thief, yet honest as a monk. Hearing the laugh again, Morgan turned away from the window.

It was whiskey time. After finding two shot glasses, he filled them both to their limit. One of the shot glasses had Big Ben on the front with the word "London" written in dark blue. The other was the Statue of Liberty and read, "Visit New York." Morgan designated Lady Liberty for Crimson in honor of his newfound freedom and took Big Ben for himself as a reminder of his time left on earth. He thought about how much he hated whiskey as he stared at the two glasses. His stomach shuddered. He thought of Crimson and the jungle promise of drunkenness as he tossed the shots back in succession. Breathing hard out of his nose he filled them up again and made an imaginary toast to the great cycle of life and death before draining them again.

Feeling highly awake and alive, he jumped up for more ice, soda, and rum. Before sitting back down at the kitchen table, Morgan opened the fridge and grabbed two cans of beer. As he sauntered across the room the alcohol coursed through his body and twinkled in his head like a small piece of heaven. The sun made her daily appearance. It was the same sun which beat down on him and Crimson in the jungle.

When the four drinks were finished the clock read 6:50 a.m. and Morgan's head spun—a hurricane heading for an unsuspecting shore. Barefooted, he stumbled out of the kitchen and onto the front lawn. Looking down, Morgan admired the gorgeous green between his feet. Twitching his toes, the cold wet morning dew sent a quiver through his body all the way up to his scattered, electrified brain. Morgan's eyes scanned the neighborhood and the houses along the street. Raising his fist he screamed, "I've lived more than any of you ever will. You sleep like happy babies and don't know what you've put your children through. I made it back and now you have to deal with me."

Spying a baseball bat in the carport, he sprinted toward it as his feet tried to keep up with his head. Too slow to get the message, he tumbled across the driveway smashing and scraping his elbow. Warm blood trickled down his arm. Back on his feet he grabbed the bat and raced successfully toward the first mailbox in sight. Taking a left-handed stance he swung. The wooden bat struck the metal box. The second swing knocked it to the ground. He yelled toward the mailbox owner's house. "How about that you blind complacent asshole?" Morgan strutted toward the next mailbox as he changed form and smashed it like he was chopping wood. "I want my best friend back!"

Feeling an incredible wave of nausea, he stumbled back to his yard and fell to his knees. The neighborhood and world began spinning as he felt his liquid breakfast beginning its journey out of his body. Feeling a hand on his back he turned to see his concerned mother staring into his eyes. She rubbed her fingertips up and down his back as he watched the grass dance and twirl before him. Morgan's stomach contracted. He dug his fingers into the grass as pure liquid emptied itself from his body. His mother continued to caress his back as his body heaved again, dispelling more of the alcoholic breakfast. Sweat poured from his face and tears began to run down his cheeks as he mumbled Crimson's name over and over. A colorful array of profanities followed.

Turning his attention to his mother, with his head still facing the ground, he began to speak. He gave her a figure of how many people he possibly killed in the jungle and what a savage he'd been. He told her he'd shot, stabbed, and beat other men to death with his bare hands. She listened and never stopped rubbing his back as he babbled on as if he was at confession.

Every so often he would stop for a moment to throw up, but he always picked up right where he left off, laying his sins out at his mother's feet. She never interrupted or said a single word until he was entirely finished. When she sensed he was, she kissed him on top of his head and said, "Thank you, son."

## * * *

Jason Deas has taught art in elementary schools for over a decade. He is a songwriter, sculptor, and makes a mean pot of chili. Most of his writing used to take place at Georgia campgrounds, inside a three-man tent or sitting at an uncomfortable concrete picnic table. He wouldn't have had it any other way until he one day found a 70's-model camper where he now writes in luxury. After writing _Birdsongs_ , a mystery for adults, his nieces asked him to write a book for kids. He granted their wish and wrote _Camp Timber View_. He had so much fun writing it he wrote another middle grade novel titled _The Big Stinky City_. He recently finished the _Benny James_ mystery series with books titled _Pushed_ and _Brushed Away_. Jason is currently putting the finishing touches on a new mystery titled _Private Eye_.

www.jasondeas.com

## *

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# How to Knit Yourself a Husband in Five Easy Steps

## Traci Tyne Hilton

### Step 1

Heidi Lowe fingered the soft skein of wooly yak yarn. It would give her a rash but it was the kind of yarn the professionals used. The puce-y greenish color, a sort of heathered nuclear vomit washed her out, so she wouldn't want to wear whatever she could make with it, even if she hadn't been allergic. But it was on clearance, so if she wore non-latex disposable rubber gloves while she worked with it, she'd definitely fit in at the Knit-In for Peace.

She wanted peace, in theory. War meant a lot of people getting maimed and killed. But with her double major in economics and history she saw the need for war. It built economies, (for the winners and the losers, in the end.) Germany wouldn't be the EU powerhouse it was today if the Nazi's hadn't lost the war.

She put the green yarn down. Thoughts of Germany brought a pang like heartburn to her chest. She had left Wolfgang in Germany. She grabbed a skein of grey yarn. She didn't care what the price was, or the fiber content. The puce-y nuclear vomit green was too cheerful. She was knitting for peace, not for the circus.

At the checkout she regretted not checking the fiber content at least. Silk blends didn't come free.

The yarn store professional (sales person? yarn guru? knit-master?) stared at Heidi over her half glasses as she counted out her quarters. At least the silk blend would lighten the load of the sock she carried her change in.

She was good at knitting socks.

The saleslady (whose nametag said Purl) licked her lips. "Need a little extra to finish your project?"

"What?" Heidi jerked her head up. She had lost count on her quarters. She reached across the counter to start adding up the little piles of four again but the floppy sleeve of her peasant blouse spilled the stacks with a rattle.

Purl sighed. She looked at her watch. She rolled her eyes and looked to the heavens. "That's a tiny little bit of yarn. Did you need it to finish something else up?"

Heidi dropped to her knees to gather her scattered money. "What? No, I just needed something for the Knit-in."

"Well that little bit of yarn isn't going to last you long. What are you going to do when it's used up?"

Heidi poured her armload of quarters back on the counter and then spilled the rest of the sock onto it as well. "I'll unravel it and start again." She waved the empty-sock at Purl and ran out. With the quarters gone her lunch plans were busted, and she'd have to walk home, but the five mile hike up Soggy Hill suited her mood. If Wolfgang was in Germany and she was stuck here, what was the point of ever trying to be happy again?

### Step 2

The real knitters had established huge territories for themselves. The most serious of the protestors had brought their recliners. All of them had rolling luggage as big as Heidi's apartment filled with yarn.

Heidi squeezed between two larger groups, hoping that she'd be taken as a member of one or the other by any passers by. The group to her left sat in beach chairs with attached umbrellas and wore matching tie-dye t-shirts that said Knitting for Paradise.

The group to her left were younger. Most of them were nursing babies while they knit. One of them was nursing a preschooler while the preschooler played angry birds on an iPhone. They were protesting in their rocking chairs, though one of them was relaxing on the seat of a recumbent bike.

Heidi sat on the curb. Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl. Don't think of Wolfgang.

The protestors hunkered down around the little islands of green grass and trees in the parking lot in front of the Army Recruiting Office. Heidi hoped they'd get arrested for their efforts, but there was a rumor swirling that the event had the proper permits.

The preschooler in the mommy group detached from her mothers chest and ambled over to Heidi.

"Whatcher in for?" She lisped.

"Peace." Heidi didn't make eye contact.

"Where's your mommy?" The milk-breathed one asked.

"She's at home." Heidi snuck a peek at the child. Her blonde baby curls had gone the way of the Do-Do and were replaced with a bird's nest of tangles. Or, at least, Heidi thought the child must have once had curls.

The child gave Heidi a sad, sad look. "But what will you do when you get hungry?"

Heidi shrugged. She didn't have an answer to that one. For the last ten years, when she was hungry, she made some kind of food. That was what independent adults did when they were hungry. But the last three days had been different. "I'll make do."

The child patted Heidi's arm and found herself a seat on the curb. She pulled a fat pink crochet hook from the pocket of her overalls and started in on a ball of cherry red yarn.

Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl. Don't think about being hungry.

Heidi liked the feel of the silk blend yarn, but her hands were starting to itch.

A woman in her mid fifties leaned out from under her umbrella, "That's a real nice yarn you have there." She held out a granola bar. "Need a snack?"

Heidi stared at the granola bar. She didn't need a snack. She needed to reboot her whole life.

"Thanks." She took the chocolate covered treat and stuck it in the sock that used to have a lot of quarters in it.

"I'm Phoenicia. Good to meet you" The granola bar lady waved her knitting in a friendly greeting.

"Heidi." Heidi waved her thin strand of knitting in return.

"Making a belt?" Phoenicia snorted.

Heidi tucked her gray yarn under her legs. "No, just knitting. In solidarity."

Phoenicia nodded in approval. "I've got a cooler, if you need something to drink, help yourself. Just finish that row first." She snorted again. "If you drop a stitch you'll lose a whole row!" She guffawed. Phoenicia was knitting an afghan that already covered her whole lap and puddled on the ground at her feet.

Heidi fingered her thin length of knitting. A belt. Perfect. If anyone else asked she'd say she was knitting a belt.

### Step 3

The next anti-war activity was three weeks away. She'd signed up online to take part in it, but three weeks was a long time to wait. And from all of the online chatter she'd come across it was all above-board. Arrest was unlikely.

Heidi tore out all of her stitching and started again. The eye of the partridge, so good for keeping your sock heel strong, would make a much better belt. All of her papers were tucked safely in a locker in the gymnasium on her campus. If she could get arrested they'd have to deport her.

She longed for them to deport her.

Knit. Slip. Knit. Slip. Knit. Slip. A free trip back to Germany. That's all she asked.

The door to the recruiting office swung open and two uniformed men came out. They frowned at the crowd gathered in the parking lot. They were both silver haired and handsome. If they had been boys, Heidi might have been able to get into the spirit of the event, but they had clearly lived through Desert Storm at least, and looked no worse for the wear. Jamie turned back to her yarn.

The nursing moms hissed at the men.

The beach-chair knitters booed at them.

The preschooler looked at Heidi with a lifted eye brow. Heidi mouthed a "boo" and the preschooler nodded her approval.

"A bit out of your element, eh?" Phoenicia asked.

"A bit." Heidi scrunched up her nose.

"You're a good kid, coming out here all alone. Few introverts make that kind of sacrifice. BOO!" Phoenicia turned to the soldiers.

"Make blankies, not war!" the moms began to chant.

The toddler scooched back over to Heidi. She leaned in and whispered "I don't like mommy's scratchy blankies. Can I have your granola bar?" Her fat little fingers snuck into Heidi's sock and pulled out the snack.

A rush of panic washed over Heidi. Would the mom get mad? She didn't usually give snacks to strange kids. Would she get in trouble? Her heart raced. If it looked like she was trying to snatch a child she could get herself deported.

Or would she?

She looked over at the chanting moms. She might just get locked up forever if she kidnapped an activist's kid. "Better not." Heidi slipped the bar back out of the child's hand.

The preschooler's face crumpled in slow motion. First her brow wrinkling. Then her eyes disappearing into slits of anger. Then her mouth. First, a compressed line, lips white. Then a big black "O" of disappointment. A wail of anguish like a siren rose out of the tiny person.

The woman who had been nursing her flipped in her chair. Two women next to her pressed their hands on their chests. "Great," one said to the other, "Now I'll have a wet shirt all day."

"What did the bad lady do to you?" The woman's voice carried even over her child's crying. She gave Heidi the evil eye.

"She took my sna-a-a-a-a-ack!"

The ruckus caught the eye of the taller of the silver haired soldiers. He narrowed his eyes at the women.

"Heidi?" Phoenicia said. "I would have given you another one." Her voice was disappointed.

"I just, I didn't want to give her food. I'm a stranger." Heidi held out her hands in confusion. Her yarn slipped off of the needle.

The mom wrapped the preschooler in her arms. She held her against her bosom and rocked her. "Now, now, Honeyblossom, mummy has more snacks for you." She whipped up her shirt and pressed the child to her chest.

The preschooler looked over her mother's shoulder for just a second and gave Heidi the evil eye—her face a perfect match to her mother's.

The soldier turned red. He spoke in a low tone to the man he was standing with, very few of his face muscles moving.

Heidi rolled her yarn back up.

"That was a no-win situation, Heidi." Phoenicia said. "What would that woman have done if you HAD given her kid food?" She shook her head, then shook out her blanket, a vibrant rainbow of yarn daisies.

Heidi wrapped yarn around her needle again. Just make a belt and hope to get arrested. That's what you are here for.

### Step 4

The men stood at the door like sentinels. No knitter dared approach them.

A row of aqua blue plastic temporary toilets were lined up somewhere behind Heidi. After two bottles of Phoenicia's water, she really needed one.

The Army Recruiting Office was in a little, mostly empty strip mall. The office would have a bathroom, unless holding it in was an important skill for soldiers that they wanted to teach early. And two doors down, the only other occupied space in the mall might have one as well. Did she try and storm the recruiting office or make her way to the Urgent Shred Center?

If she went to the Urgent Shred Center she'd catch the eye of the soldiers, which might make her a candidate for arrest, should things get sticky.

If she stormed the Recruiting Office she'd could get arrested right away.

Heidi stood up. She stretched her cramped legs.

"If you're going to the toilet, bring your knitting! This only counts if we all knit continuously." Phoenicia called out.

Heidi picked up her needles. They had been considered a weapon when she had flown from Germany last summer.

Wolfgang.

Her heart sunk. He was her motivation and her driving force, but she couldn't—absolutely couldn't—let her think about him until she was on her way back.

But if they were a weapon on an airplane surely they'd be one at a protest.

She shook her feet a little before she stepped across the sidewalk to the two distinguished gentlemen in the doorway.

She licked her lips. She pulled up her knee socks up. She wrapped her yarn around her hands and looked at her feet.

"Yes?" The taller gray haired man had a young face and gentle eyes.

Heidi cleared her throat. "May I use your rest room?" She chewed on her bottom lip. She had hoped to demand the bathroom with a strong voice instead of petition for it with a quaver.

The kind-eye soldier held the door open. "Of course."

The other soldier frowned.

She passed through to the recruiting office. She went straight to the bathroom. Her knees shook. Her whole body shook.

She stood at the door for several minutes before she went back out. The man with the kind eyes didn't seem at all like he was going to arrest her.

When she summoned up enough courage to leave the bathroom, he was sitting in a waiting chair. He smiled at her. "I hear a little accent...can I guess where you are from?"

Heidi nodded.

"Stuttgart?"

Heidi smiled. "Yes. How did you guess it in one try?"

"I've spent some time in Germany."

"You're a very lucky man." Heidi held her knitting limply at her side.

"I went with the Army, of course."

"Of course. We German girls love the US Army men." She looked at her fingernails. She had always loved them, anyway.

"Then why protest? If you have fond feelings for my brother soldiers, why protest war?"

Heidi looked to the heavens. Why indeed? "It's complicated."

"Go ahead." He inclined his head towards the crowd outside his building. "We've got time."

### Step 5

Heidi sat in the chair opposite the soldier and crossed her legs. American skirts seemed so short on her long, German body, and she was very aware that it crept up even higher whenever she sat.

"I'm in America working on my PhD in the Economic History of British Columbia."

A look of confusion crossed the soldier's face, but he nodded.

"There is no such program of study in Germany."

"Sure." He nodded again.

"And I am homesick." She let her needles drop.

Wolfgang.

It was more than homesickness. It was heartbreak and ennui.

"Stuttgart is a beautiful city."

Heidi rocked her head back and forth. "I suppose so."

"You're missing someone back home?"

Heidi nodded. "Yah. I am."

"Tell me about him." A very brief look of disappointment crossed the soldier's face.

"He's three years old."

The soldier sat up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Pureblood."

Confusion crossed his face this time.

"A huge, hairy furball, but I love him so much. I thought I could leave him with my sister while I studied, but I can't take it much longer. I really can't."

"A dog?"

"Yes. Wolfgang. My St. Bernard. I raised him from a pup." She dabbed at the tears forming in her eyes, glad that she hadn't worn gloves after all. Rubber gloves were cold comfort to a broken heart.

The officer leaned forward. "But what does that have to do with the protest?"

Heidi leaned forward and lowered her voice. "War is an economic necessity. Of course it is, but if I protest the war, someday I will be arrested and then they will deport me. I can go home."

The soldier laughed, his hearty tones rocked Heidi back in her chair. "Why not just fly home for a visit?"

Heidi held out her empty money-sock. "The program I study with has been cut by the government. No more funding. I'm out of money and stuck here. My visa is good for two more years. I'm legal, but broke."

The officer held out his hand. "Hello Legal but Broke, I'm Captain John Banks. After this little shin-dig can I take you out to dinner?"

Heidi looked down then up then down again. Then up. Her face was thirty degrees hotter than it had been two seconds ago.

""I'm Heidi." She shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you Heidi. How about dinner?"

Heidi fanned herself with her knitting needles to cool down. "That sounds very nice, thank you."

Captain Banks pulled a little table between them. "In the meantime, I think we'll be here a while. Do you play cards?" He opened a deck of cards and shuffled.

Heidi dropped her needles. She'd get back to Germany and Wolfgang somehow. All of a sudden she had no doubts about it at all.

## * * *

Traci Tyne Hilton is the author of _The_ _Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery Series_ , _The Plain Jane Mystery Series_ , and one of the authors in _The Tangle Saga_ series of science fiction novellas. She was the Mystery/Suspense Category winner for the 2012 Christian Writers of the West Phoenix Rattler Contest, a finalist for Speculative Fiction in the same contest, and has a Drammy from the Portland Civic Theatre Guild. Traci serves as the Vice President of the Portland chapter of the American Christian Fiction Writers Association.

Traci earned a degree in History from Portland State University and still lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director, their two daughters, and their dog, Dr. Watson.

http://tracihilton.com/

## *

#

# Mom's Kiss

## Jacques Antoine

"Eww, ew, ew, Mom," Nero squealed. "That's gross."

Maia stood up from the stream where she'd been trying to catch one of those fish with the pink gills and a yellow tail. A glance up at her little brother clued her in right away.

"The little weasel," she thought. "Spying again." Of course, she envied his climbing ability. He scrambled up and down the lower branches as though he were running along the ground. Creeping silently through the foliage was nothing to him... and he couldn't be more than five or six years old, all pink and fleshy, barely any hair on him. Maia could climb too, but in her case it involved using hands and feet to wrestle herself up the trunk and through the branches.

She turned to see what he found so disgusting. Her mom had her face pressed up against the hairy face of the guy they'd met the day before yesterday, her hands pressed his cheek and the back of his head. His hands held her waist and pulled her hips into his. She pushed him gently away, whispered something in his ear, and watched as he wandered off into the woods.

"Come down here, young man."

Nero scampered along the branch until he could hop to a large frond hanging below and slide down into his mother's arms.

"Now what have I told you about spying?"

Nero's face turned a brighter pink than normal, and he buried his head into the hair on his mother's neck.

"He's right, Mom. That was gross."

"Oh, Maia, there's nothing wrong with showing affection."

"That guy was so hairy and ugly. How could you let him touch you? And his face..."

"He's not ugly, sweetheart."

"And how did you know he wouldn't hurt you? Is that what Dad was like?"

Maggie rubbed her son's head, gave him a squeeze, and set him down on his feet. He scampered back into the tree.

"I'm not sure there's anyone left like your father... well, except maybe your brother. And he was hairy, too." Maggie reached out for her daughter's hand, and pulled her close. "Do you really not remember him?" she asked, with an arm draped over Maia's shoulder.

"Oh, Mom..."

"Sweetheart, unless we can open up to our own kind we'll never recover what we lost."

"But, Mom, why can't we just be like we are? I mean, how do we know this isn't better?"

"Not this," Maggie exclaimed with a self-deprecating gesture. "This isn't better. We can be so much more. We used to be so much more... before they came."

"But how can you be so sure? That was before you were born, and your mother, too, right?"

"Because your father believed it, and I saw the truth of it in his eyes, and every time I look at your little brother."

"Yeah, right," Maia snorted, "because he's like so evolved. Besides, when have we ever met anyone like him?"

## *

It was already two years since Nero died, and her mother's words still rang in her ears. But without him, what was the point? She'd fought so many battles, against the stragglers from the ships that finally fell to Earth, against the wild animals that had grown accustomed to eating people, and especially against others of her own kind. They were the worst of all, the most vicious, the fiercest... but then, they'd have to be. How else could they have prevailed?

"Keep him safe," her mother told her. "He's the best hope for the future." But she failed at that one task. A mere moment's inattention in the heat of passion—she took her eyes off him just long enough to slash through those hunters and their beasts, and when she turned back, he was gone. She found his body a few hours later, saw the telltale signs, and hunted down his killers over the next few days, relentless, cruel... aggrieved... ashamed.

"Maia, come back," he whispered in her ear. "We're safe. It was just the wind."

"That's the problem, Noah. It's like I hear him in the branches."

"You've got to let him go."

She pushed his arm away and stalked off into the jungle, then turned to glower through the undergrowth at him. "He can't understand," she muttered. "Stupid knuckle-walker." Her eyes felt wet. "It's time to move on, before he starts to think I belong to him."

She turned and ran, not as fast as she could, just as fast as she could sustain for as long as it might take to get away from him. "Don't look back. I don't care if he's following." Her machete rattled inside the sheath slung across her back, the rifle on her shoulder bounced with each stride, only three bullets in the clip, one in the chamber. She always kept track.

The jungle refreshed her sense of the possibilities. Lush, vibrant, life everywhere, bursting at the seams... on a good day, the filtered light caressed her face; on a dim day the shadows beckoned, offering a safe harbor. The meadows her father used to speak of—she remembered that much about him—with the sun bright in her eyes, and smaller insects flitting about, they formed so small a part of her experience, as if they were merely some fading dream of a lost world. How could a world so alive be sick? If she wanted to see the big sky, all she had to do was climb up to the canopy and stick her head out.

"It's not about breeding," her mother used to say. "It's about training. We have to learn new habits." Maia had no idea what she meant.

"So we're supposed to train the whole world, Mom?" she would say, as if her words would have the effect of a refutation if only she could get the tone of voice right.

"No, sweetheart, just the people we meet."

These words echoed in her cavernous heart, making her chest throb until she couldn't run any further. Maybe if she hadn't reacted so quickly to that hunting party, slashing at them before they could raise their crossbows... maybe Nero would still be with her. But she couldn't risk doing anything else.

Rainwater collected in a broken leaf rinsed the salt from her eyes. A sharp kick to the tree trunk brought a fine drizzle down. She shivered it off and followed a stream along the jungle floor until it broadened out before the falls she'd heard a few minutes earlier. With a vine wrapped around one arm to steady herself, she leaned out over the edge to gauge the height of the cataract. Mist obscured the pool at the bottom, but judging from the trees and the path of the water flowing away it couldn't be more than sixty or seventy feet. Now to find a way down.

## *

When she righted herself, having to tug harder on the vine than she expected, they came into view. The noise of their approach must have been obscured by the rushing water. Maia looked them up and down.

"How could I have been so stupid, gaping over the falls like an innocent," she growled.

Two men and a mangy dog stared at her, armed with guns and bows, but perhaps they didn't have any ammo. Lots of folks carried weapons for show. Bullets were a much scarcer commodity.

"Look what we got here, Jake," the ugly one said. "A girl, all by herself in the woods."

"Chui, you idiot," the other one snarled, swinging the rifle off his shoulder. "There's bound to be others. Keep 'em behind those rocks while I suss it out. And do what you can to keep her quiet."

Maia shrank down into her least threatening posture while she sized Chui up. "If I hand him my gun," she thought, "it might distract him long enough to slide the machete out under my arm. After that, I'll have to run for it. But run where?"

She glanced at the falls behind her and mulled the prospect of going over. "Would there be rocks at the bottom?" she asked herself. "And even if there weren't, the pool at the bottom might not be deep enough to land in safely."

A darker voice spoke inside her: "What does it matter whether you survive, now that Nero's dead?" This question had presented itself to her before, and she'd had no answer to it, though its obdurate fatalism helped her find the ferocity to fight through more than one nasty encounter. But this time, for reasons she couldn't bring into focus, the question felt not quite the same, as if the voice spoke in an ever so slightly different register. She shook her head and loosened the band holding the machete in the sheath.

Just as she slid her rifle down to hand to Chui, a snap in the underbrush caught her attention. There were more of them! Her eyes scanned the foliage behind a nearby log. Chui turned to look, giving her an even better opening, until she saw a little head peek out.

"Uncle Chui, we're hungry," the boy muled. "And Zane's tired."

"Stay down," Chui growled, and then turned back to Maia, who breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the band back over the machete handle.

From the other side, loud noises and a simulated birdcall turned both their heads toward Jake, who had raised his rifle and trained it on whatever might emerge from behind the foliage.

"It's not about breeding," Maia muttered, and then cried out "Don't hurt him! He's with me."

"Maia," Noah called out. "Is that you?"

"Please don't hurt him," she implored Jake, though she had no notion that he would care what she said. Why should he? Two strangers in the woods—the law of the jungle was clear: kill them or make whatever use of them you can. But don't burden yourself with their baggage.

If she followed this line of thought any further, it led back to her original plan, gutting Chui like a fish in front of the children, and she no longer had the stomach for it. But could she really risk trusting these people?

"Noah," she cried. "I'm over here, with some... new friends." As she said these words, still uncertain how they'd be received by Jake and Chui, an unexpected sensation washed over her, dissolving her bitterness and carrying all her recriminations over Nero out with the undertow.

## *

Later, sitting around the fire with Jake and Chui, and the boys, Zeke and Zane, she leaned on Noah's shoulder. And when he reached his arm around her neck and began to pick some nits from her head, she didn't push him away. Maybe her mother had been right all along. It _is_ about training, even if the only person she could really train was herself.

"What happened to their mamma?" Noah asked.

"Dunno," Jake replied. "We lost track of her in the last battle on the big island. Lost our sisters, too."

"You mean they're...," Maia caught herself before she finished that thought in front of the little ones.

"Dunno," Chui said. "We've been afraid to go back there with the kids, you know, in case there's any ETs left over there."

Jake glowered at him, as if saying too much might bring their worst fears to pass. Maia picked her head up and looked at Noah. He nodded.

"We're on our way down to Port Lucie to see if we can find a raft to take over to the big island. Or maybe build one out of whatever scrap we find down there."

"You wanna come along?" Noah offered. "It just means building a bigger raft."

"We only got a dozen bullets between us," Jake moaned. "If we come across any ETs that won't be hardly enough."

"We got nine between us," Noah said. "But most of 'em are incendiary rounds. I think that'll be enough for any ETs we run across. But, to tell the truth, I doubt there's any left over there."

"What makes you say that?" Chui asked.

"Because we haven't heard anything in months. If they'd survived, we would've heard. Once the ships crashed, they were out of time."

Chui glanced nervously at Jake, seemingly as frightened of the prospect of taking them up on their offer as of not doing it. When Jake finally nodded, Maia realized how young they were, hardly adults at all—little more than callow adolescents. "It's so easy to misread people," she thought.

"C'mon, guys," she said, with a merry note in her voice. "Let's go find your mom."

The journey down the river felt like going home, even if she had no idea where, or even what, home was. But she had a large party to take care of—no longer just herself—and there were kids, too. All her ferocity, her ingenuity, and her alertness could be deployed once again, to protect her new "family" without any of the bedeviling reservations and paradoxes that had beset her since Nero.

And Noah didn't fail to notice. One moonless night, under a rock ledge curtained with vines, while the others slept under a blanket of fronds around the embers of a dying fire, Maia kept watch. He crept over to her.

"You seem content," he whispered.

"I feel better. The world doesn't seem so empty."

"What's different? Is it finding the boys?"

"I dunno. Maybe. It's just that I feel like I have a purpose again, something to live for."

"What's our purpose now," he asked, genuinely curious.

"I haven't a clue," she laughed. "Whatever it is, at least it feels like it's leading me somewhere."

"To the big island, you mean?"

"Nah, bigger than that... way bigger."

"Am I part of this bigger purpose?"

"Of course you are, dummy," she said, and grabbed his head to push her face into his. With eyes wide, she nuzzled a nostril against his cheek, and then her lips brushed his hairy mouth and her eyes drifted shut as she dreamt of eternity, if only for an instant. When she let go of his face to look at him, he seemed all out of focus, like he'd forgotten everything except the sensation of her mouth touching his.

She patted his cheek and said "Your watch," then darted for the nearest tree, which she scampered up almost as fast as her little brother. Other concerns would have to wait. At the top of the canopy, she poked her head through the last layer of foliage, gazed at the vastness of the starry heavens and said "Thanks, Mom."

## * * *

By day, Jacques Antoine is a professor at a small college in the southwest, by night he writes thrillers. At first, he wrote "kung fu" tales just for his daughter, when she was a little ninja studying karate. As she grew up, the tales evolved into full-length novels focusing on the dilemmas of young adults in extreme circumstances. His latest series, _Taking Back Earth_ , follows Maia, a young woman burdened with the task of protecting humanity's last hope in the aftermath of an alien invasion.

When he's not writing or teaching, he enjoys walking his dogs in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains outside Santa Fe.

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6433641.Jacques_Antoine

## *

###

# More Than a Couple of Camels

## Suzy Stewart Dubot

### Chapter 1

#### London, 1818

Bathsheba Baxter pushed her eyeglasses higher on her nose as she prepared to peer at the painting. Usually, she did not appear in public wearing the glasses as she felt that they were a sign of weakness and were certainly not flattering. Their use was normally reserved for reading in the privacy of her home, but today the picture had caught her attention the moment she had entered the room. Being in the museum's art gallery, she felt that if anyone were to see her, she with her glasses might be mistaken for the intelligentsia.

When she had reached that nearness which allowed her to bring the figure on the canvas into focus, she jumped back.

"Oh!" She said rather more loudly than she would have liked. She looked around to see if anyone had heard her exclamation due to the startling image of a naked woman. That in itself might have passed without too much ado if there hadn't been a satyr standing next to the woman with a hand on her bared buttock.

Bathsheba quickly removed the glasses, folded them and placed them in a case taken from her reticule, all as she eased away from the shocking painting.

"It is always a good idea to take a programme," a man's voice spoke to her, "which should give you fair warning as to the picture's content.

"According to this," he waved the programme for her benefit, "this one's entitled 'The Satyr's Seduction'."

The man was standing with his back to the bright light of the windows and Bathsheba couldn't at first see him clearly. She had to look up, so knew he was fairly tall.

"Are you speaking to me, sir? Do I know you?"

He chuckled.

"Miss Bathsheba Baxter, if I'm not mistaken? Alistair Hutton, your new neighbour. We were presented by your cousin, James. Admittedly, it was in the street, but as James is also a long-time friend, I felt that I might approach you."

Bathsheba glanced around a little nervously and located her maid, Peggy, standing near to the archway leading into the next room. She was in discussion with the curator. Sometimes Peggy was _very_ brazen, but then, maids were known for being bold. She wished that she, herself, were a little braver.

She returned her attention to Alistair. There was no point in hiding the fact that she was still recovering from her close examination of the suggestive painting and that he had witnessed her embarrassment.

"I can't imagine why they would exhibit such a picture among all these other delightful paintings," she sounded indignant as she gestured around her with a limp hand.

"You _are_ in the 'Exotic Room'," Alistair explained.

"What! How did that happen?" Bathsheba looked suitably aghast so that Alistair had no trouble believing that she had accidently gone astray in the museum's labyrinth of rooms.

"Allow me to lead you to the tearoom. It will give you time to recover your emotions before facing the world."

_He is very presumptuous_ , Bathsheba thought. She wasn't sure she liked the way he, he... presumed.

"Thank you Mr. Hutton, but I really should be returning home now. Papa will be expecting me."

It was only a little white lie as her father _would_ be expecting her, only not until seven this evening. It was also a polite way of telling him to go hang himself. She needed more than an introduction in the street before considering being seen with him in a teashop. Her cheeks flushed at the thought.

"In that case, let me escort you home. We do live next door to one another."

Now she'd done it. She'd backed herself into a corner. Think. What would Peggy do in such circumstances?

_She'd probably jump at the chance to be escorted by a gentleman,_ Bathsheba thought. Well, she did have Peggy with her, which would give a stamp of acceptability to being accompanied by Mr. Hutton.

Suddenly, she felt quite audacious.

"I do think a cup of tea might put me into a different mood before returning home. Most kind of you to offer," she said in a tone as pleasant as she could muster.

Peggy jumped to attention as she saw her mistress coming her way. She spoke a few last words to the curator before joining her and a rather well-dressed man. The man was familiar to her and she suddenly realised that he was their newly arrived neighbour.

"Mr. Hutton has invited me to take tea with him, Peggy, so we are going to the tearoom. I'm sure you are ready for a cup by now, with all the chatting you've been doing," Bathsheba reprimanded in a mild way. She was a wee bit irked about the way she alone was to blame for her present situation. If only she had paid more attention to the museum's rooms and programmes.

"Yes, Miss. I could fair do with a cuppa," Peggy agreed good-naturedly.

She was fond of her timid, twenty-six-year old employer and the idea of her having a cup of tea with a gentleman was a step in the right direction, in a humble maid's opinion.

Peggy understood that her mistress's usual reluctance to engage in most social encounters made her seem staid and unapproachable to the outside world. Twenty-six was already considered to be spinsterhood. She had been her maid for eight years and had experienced Bathsheba's various enthusiasms and disappointments, all of which had contributed to her unwillingness to currently engage, in any way, with men.

Now she was curious as to what had happened for Bathsheba to have agreed to take tea with a relatively unknown man. Hopefully, she might find out later.

Bathsheba made a point of heading towards a table that would seat at least three. Now if it had been left up to Peggy, she would have sat at the adjacent table and left the two of them a little privacy. Mr. Hutton seemed content enough.

A waitress came over to take their order, and because Mr. Hutton insisted so pleasantly that it was the perfect hour to have cakes with their tea, the young woman returned with their tea service on a trolley laden with cakes, pies and biscuits.

Peggy didn't need prompting twice to choose something from the selection, which annoyed Bathsheba.

_She really is lacking in restraint_ , Bathsheba scolded Peggy in her thoughts. _Now I shall have to choose a cake to show that I am appreciative of Mr. Hutton's generosity too. Blast! The last thing I wanted was to be in his debt. Tea was one thing, cakes were another._

She chose the _tiniest_ fairy cake on the tray and then regretted it because she had to watch Peggy eating her slice of rich chocolate cake with fresh cream. If she hadn't so many petticoats tangled around her feet, she'd kick herself.

"I was delighted to meet you here," Mr. Hutton said to Bathsheba. "May I assume that you are a fan of the fine arts?"

"I was until today," she answered. But the way she'd said it, made it sound as though he were the reason she was reconsidering.

"I mean - I still am, but it was - the painting - a subject that I wasn't expecting," she tried to explain. She quickly looked at Peggy to see if she were following the conversation and was happy to see that she was thoroughly occupied with her cake.

He laughed at her obvious discomfort, in spite of himself.

"We have all had moments that have been a shock because we have not been expecting them. As a young man, my worse moment came after I had asked a young lady to the theatre and she declined because of a cold. I went alone as I already had the loan of a box.

Imagine how I felt to see her in perfectly good health in the box opposite with another man. It wasn't so much the rejection that hurt as the fact that she had lied."

"Oh, how humiliating that must have been," Bathsheba sympathised.

"The humiliation was for the young woman, because she didn't expect to see me staring at her. She had supposed that I wouldn't go without her. During the interval she came with a woman friend to make some excuse but soon left when I said not a word of what I was thinking. In fact, I said not a word at all."

Bathsheba had relaxed a little while listening to Alistair. She had been taught never to lie so felt somewhat outraged on Alistair's behalf. She too had experienced the untruths of certain suitors. For her, a life riddled with lies had no value. She looked at Alistair a little more discerningly.

Her cousin James was twenty-five, so she supposed that Alistair was about the same age, perhaps a little more. He had removed his hat in the tearoom so she was able to admire his head of thick brown hair. His jaw was square and freshly shaven. Dark brown eyebrows were well placed above hazel eyes. His teeth seemed to be good too. On the whole, he was a decent looking man.

_All right_ , she was forced to admit, _he's better than decent looking_. _But he is rather forward when it comes to society's rules._

She'd sipped her tea the time it had taken to examine him.

"Thank you, Mr. Hutton, for suggesting we take tea. It has comforted me. I am sure that I would be able to face any number of 'Exotic Rooms' now."

Her dazzling smile left him speechless for a moment.

When she frowned, she looked positively daunting. The serious look she wore the rest of the time did not encourage conversation either. But, from their first meeting in the street, he had been drawn to her inexplicably, seriousness and all. Now, this smile actually seduced him. He was feeling much like the satyr in the picture. He was going to have to rein in his rampaging urges because this was indeed a naïve young lady and if he wanted any chance with her, he would have to go slowly.

Bathsheba was a dark blond with blue eyes. Her figure was slim but shapely, which was not in the Rubenesque fashion of the day. Alistair was wary of those women who were well-endowed at an early age. They quite often finished by being overly endowed in later life. He liked to feel the solidness of a woman when he held her. He also related it to a solidness of character.

"Do you enjoy music, Miss Baxter?" It had occurred to him that they might share that pleasure.

"Yes, I do, Mr. Hutton. I am fortunate in that I have friends who often invite me to their musical soirées, some of which are of a very high standard. I have my mother to thank for introducing me to fine arts in all its forms. My father was an unpolished rock until he met her."

"Do you play an instrument or sing? I have been known to sing on the odd occasion but I have had no training," he informed her. He was pleased to have found a subject that encouraged her to reveal a little of herself.

"I play the pianoforte but I'm afraid my voice is not very strong, although I am told I sing well."

"Perhaps I may have the good fortune of hearing you play and sing at some time?" he paused.

"I wonder... could I interest you in coming with me to a concert? You may know Mrs. Pemberton?" He saw her nod her head.

"Yes, I know her casually. Mrs. Pemberton was an acquaintance of Mama's. When Mama died, my father lost his connection with the family as he had no desire to socialize with Mama gone. I was too young at the time to entertain."

"Well, Mrs. Pemberton is having a musical evening on the 21st of this month and I am invited. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me?"

This afternoon's outing had developed into much more than she had expected. Now she was in a quandary. Having tea with Mr. Hutton was one thing. Suddenly being asked to spend an evening with him entailed more. She didn't know him. He must be very sure of himself to ask her after such a short acquaintance.

"May I give you my answer tomorrow? I must see if there are commitments on our calendar. My father may already have other things planned, you understand."

It was the best she could do to delay giving a reply. She would have time to think on it and possibly contact her Cousin James before committing one way or another. He could enlighten her about Mr. Hutton.

Alistair smiled softly. She was skittish and needed time to reflect. He was hopeful, however, because she had changed her mind about having tea with him, hadn't she? That was a good indication.

"Naturally, Miss Baxter. I admit that it was a rather spontaneous invitation prompted by our mutual like for music. I shall look forward to your response tomorrow."

Bathsheba felt the tension leave her body. His pleasant answer relieved her of any pressure.

She remembered her previous dealings with Gregory who had been very demanding and a little threatening with it. He had been a great disappointment to her. In the beginning, she had hoped that they might rub along well together and had even considered marrying him.

She shuddered involuntarily. Thank goodness he had revealed his true self before it had been too late. Her hand went to the wrist that he had twisted leaving a mark for several days and some of his cruel comments came to mind also. That was more than two years ago and seemed like a good while longer now.

Alistair could see that Bathsheba was lost in thought, so didn't interrupt.

Suddenly she realised that he was watching her and wondered if he were waiting for her to add something else to the conversation. Until now, he had been the one to keep their exchange flowing.

"How do you know James?" she asked. As she intended to contact him, the question had come out of her mouth without thinking.

"James and I have known each other from boarding school days. I am two years older and there were moments when he needed someone older to look out for him. There are a lot of bullies in boarding school. I don't care what anyone says about bullies toughening you up. There are better, more intelligent ways of developing 'depth of character'."

Bathsheba hadn't realised until then that James and Alistair must have known each other for more than ten years. Why hadn't she crossed paths with Mr. Hutton sooner? Now she was decidedly curious.

"I am reasonably close to my cousin James, Mr. Hutton. How is it we have never met before, do you know?"

"I expect it is because I have been out of the country for the last five years. We may have met when you were younger but I doubt I would have made much of an impression on you then," he commented.

She didn't respond with the obvious social retort that she was sure to the contrary that he _would_ have made an impression on her. She was too busy wondering where he had been for five years. To go anywhere out of England was an achievement, in her opinion, let alone live abroad for any time.

"May I ask where you have been for the last five years?" she dared to enquire.

"You may, but you might not like my answer...." He had lost his smile.

### Chapter 2

Bathsheba knew immediately that she had touched upon a subject that was better to be avoided.

His words along with the tone of his voice alerted her. Even Peggy had stopped sipping her tea. Bathsheba could swear that the whole tearoom was holding its breath as it waited for Alistair's answer.

"No!" The word came out more forcefully than she had intended.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hutton. It _really_ is not my business and I shouldn't have asked. Please forget my impertinence for asking."

_These bloody skirts_ , she thought again. _If only I could kick myself once and for all, perhaps I'd stop embarrassing myself._

"Well, Miss Baxter, I don't mean to be a mystery, so I'll simply say that I have been in our ex-colonies."

In fact, his statement only confused the issue more, because the war in North America had only ended three years ago, a few months before the war on the continent against Napoleon. Now she was more than curious, she was intrigued. Her mind was racing.

Alistair watched the expressions that passed fleetingly over Bathsheba's face; first surprise and then alarm followed closely by indecision and then, curiosity. If only she knew how much her face gave away. He was surprised that she didn't chew on a finger as she thought things through. He could see the wheels turning and he smiled to himself.

_Oh, Miss Baxter, if only you knew how much you have told me without saying a word, you would be more careful with your reflexions_ , he thought.

_All right,_ Bathsheba thought, I'm _hooked. What was he doing in North America during the war years?_ She knew that her curiosity would be her downfall one of these days, but she couldn't help it.

"It _is_ rather silly of me, Mr. Hutton. Now that I think about it, I am sure that Papa would have mentioned an engagement to me had he accepted one for this month," she explained rather lamely.

"I would like to accept your invitation now as I am sure I would enjoy Mrs. Pemberton's concert." She realised then how her statement had omitted him in the equation, so quickly added as social niceties obliged, "And of course, it will be all the better for sharing the event with someone who enjoys music, too." Again that stunning smile.

There was nothing untoward about going to an evening's entertainment at a known matron's home. She was considered out of the marriage mart now, so the fact that she would be accompanied might give rise to speculation the time it took to raise eyebrows and then lower them. No doubt, those knowing her would assume that her cousin James had coerced his friend into escorting her as a favour.

It was Alistair's turn to smile in such a way that her stomach turned over, in spite of her stays.

"If you are quite sure? I don't mind waiting until tomorrow," he proposed, more from politeness than conviction.

She nodded with a blush tingeing her cheeks.

"Yes, I'm quite sure, Mr. Hutton. I seriously doubt that there is anything of any consequence planned."

_What have I done?_ she wondered. _I do believe that there must be something in the stars because I have been behaving quite out of character today._ Her cheeks even ached from her unaccustomed smiles.

Peggy had finished her tea and cake, and although she'd pretended that she hadn't been paying attention to them, she'd heard every word the two of them had exchanged. It was easy to see that they were both attracted to the other.

_This should prove interesting,_ Peggy was thinking as she was a romantic at heart.

As no one wanted more tea, Mr. Hutton offered, yet again, to accompany them home. He hailed a cab easily, and they were soon on their way. A half hour later, they were back at the terrace of Georgian houses where they lived side by side. Peggy rushed ahead to knock on the door, while Alistair came up the flight of steps with Bathsheba. Patterson, the butler, opened the door for the women.

They had already established in the cab the details for their evening at Mrs. Pemberton's so there wasn't a lot left to say.

Bathsheba thanked him one last time for the tea and stepped over the threshold.

"Miss Baxter," Alistair caught her attention one last time before the door shut.

"You may like to keep this as a souvenir or as an indication of what is still awaiting your perusal."

He thrust the gallery's programme into her hands with a chuckle and left without waiting for a comment. It was probably just as well because Bathsheba had been caught off guard and didn't know what to say. She watched him turn right at the bottom of the steps before Patterson shut the front door.

Her stomach was doing strange things once more.

"Blast!" she said, much to Patterson's surprise, who quickly opened the door again, afraid that he had been too hasty in closing it.

She was not aware though, because her mind was already focussing on the 21st of the month. Patterson stood wondering if his mistress was ailing? In any case, she was behaving most peculiarly.

### Chapter 3

The first thing Bathsheba did was to search for her father to quiz him on any upcoming events in which they might be involved. The search barely took a couple of minutes as Mr. Baxter was in the library, where he spent the majority of his time. He confirmed that the Baxter family did not have anything on their agenda for the 21st of the month, which didn't really surprise Bathsheba. His attention returned to what he had been doing without so much of a raised eyebrow. That was her darling father, who loved her dearly, but who was ever consumed by his latest business endeavours.

As soon as she had reached her bedroom, she'd gone through her wardrobe in search of suitable evening wear, but had found nothing to her liking.

_This is ridiculous. Why am I bothered about what I wear? My clothes are decent and Mrs. Pemberton is known to be unimaginative when it comes to fashion. She usually wears something quite unsuitable._ She was talking to herself as she re-examined her dresses a third time.

If I am honest, it is because I don't wish to disappoint Mr. Hutton. I like him. There, I've said it.

She put both hands to her cheeks. She could feel that the admission had warmed her face. She wanted to cry because she knew that it would end badly, once again. If she were classified as a spinster today, there was a good reason. The men she was drawn to were almost inevitably, all wrong for her. Years had been lost with trials and errors through no fault of her own. The duds had always come to her.

Well, this will be my last attempt at socialising. It will be agreeable for a change to be escorted to a soirée on the arm of a gentleman.

She'd made a feeble attempt to contact her cousin James hoping to learn more about Mr. Hutton. It was feeble because contacting him had made her feel guilty, like she was going behind someone's back, which she was, of course. James wasn't in London, so she had been able to breathe a sigh of relief. She had committed to going to the concert and that was it. It hardly constituted a declaration or obligation of any sort.

As nothing in her closet pleased her, she made a trip to her dressmaker's to see what she would be able to offer. She had two weeks to produce something.

As everyone knows, the servants are always aware of what is going on in neighbouring households. It was Peggy who casually informed Bathsheba that Mr. Hutton was away on business. She had guessed that her mistress was disappointed that Mr. Hutton hadn't called since their afternoon in the museum. As a result, she quietly patted herself on the back as she saw Bathsheba's mood brighten. She would love for her mistress to find someone with whom to settle down and make a home. She wasn't yet too old to have children, either. Peggy was projecting herself onto her mistress because there would be little chance for a maid to marry now that she was thirty-five and without a prospect in sight.

The morning of the 20th, Mr. Hutton left his calling card with the intention of returning in the afternoon to see Mr. Baxter and his daughter. It was all Bathsheba could do not to giggle upon seeing the card. She was no better than a sixteen-year-old.

Her dress had been delivered the day before and she had tried it on twice; just to make sure it had nothing wrong with it. Her dressmaker had worked wonders in a short time. She had had the advantage of adapting a dress that had been ordered and then declined by another client. It was a smidgen more extravagant than Bathsheba would normally have considered, but only a wee bit. In a way, she was glad that her hand had been forced, because the dressmaker couldn't promise anything else in time.

Because of her age, Bathsheba could now wear dresses of a darker colour. This dress was a deep burgundy silk crepe over a deep burgundy sarsenet. Its body was cut low and square around the bust with the bosom trimmed with a slender roll of crepe intermixed with jet beads. The skirt was not too full. It finished in fairly wide scalloped edges, each scallop with an embroidered burgundy rose. The weight of the embroidery contributed to the attractive way the skirt fell to her feet. The jewellery she would wear with it was of jet to match the dress's trimmings. The aigrette headdress was also trimmed with jet.

Bathsheba had never felt this elegant - or nervous.

Mr. Hutton called in the afternoon as his card had indicated.

Her father came out of his library to make his acquaintance, only to discover that he had already met Alistair Hutton some years previous. They immediately fell to talking about things that had taken place since their last meeting. The conversation then turned to current affairs, leaving Bathsheba waiting patiently to garner Mr. Hutton's attention. In the end, she laughed and went about making sure they both had sherry rather than tea.

When Hutton mentioned the next evening's event, her father finally realised that the man might have come to see his daughter too. He made an excuse and left them for a quarter of an hour or so in the salon.

Bathsheba was wearing a soft blue day dress made of shantung silk which flattered her figure and brought out the colour of her eyes. For Alistair, there was no doubt that she stirred something within him. All the time he had been talking with her father, he had been aware of her on the periphery of his vision. It had been hard to concentrate on everything her father had discussed because he had been imagining how his life would be with her at his side.

As soon as they were alone, he apologised for not having been in contact sooner.

"I am sorry to have left it so late before seeing you again. I do hope that you had no misgivings about our tryst tomorrow evening? Urgent business meant that I had to leave the city rather precipitously. I needed to make a trip to Portsmouth about one of my ships and its cargo."

"I do hope that your business went well?" Bathsheba quipped. She hadn't imagined that he was in shipping. It could be a prosperous venture as easily as a disastrous one. Many were the ships that were grounded, wrecked or even pirated.

"Yes, this time all was well with the cargo. The problem came from a dispute with the crew. My agent and I managed to sort that out without too many hard feelings."

She was tempted to ask more, hoping the subject would veer towards his five years in North America. Since the afternoon in the teashop, her imagination had run rampant. She had invented all manner of motives for him being in the ex-colonies and then again, why she might not like to hear why he had been there five years. She could invent until the cows came home, but if she never knew the real reason, it would be wasted time.

"Has your shipping enterprise anything to do with your five years in the ex-colonies?"

There. She'd asked.

"I suppose you could say that it has," he replied as though he had never thought of it before.

"I was a privateer for his majesty's government during the war with the United States."

Bathsheba drew in a sharp breath involuntarily. She had not imagined something quite that dramatic. A privateer was the next step up from a pirate.

Alistair heard her and gave a sardonic smile. He did not like lying, which might be considered a defect in a privateer, however, he'd preferred taking the risk and being honest with her. He was preparing a solid foundation for any future dealings they might have - if any were to be had after this revelation.

"I imagine, then, that you have lived an exciting life..." she trailed off comparing her own inconsequential life with his.

"I was young and longing for adventure. Adventure was served to me on a silver plate for six months until a storm put the ship out of commission. Couldn't have been better for the Americans as we became easy prey. I don't know if you know, but captured crew of privateers are treated as prisoners of war?"

She shook her head. She didn't know a lot about the particulars of war and even less about the particulars of the high seas. Women were kept ignorant of anything that might hurtle their sensibilities. She certainly didn't have easy access to much except perhaps newspapers, which were known for their sensationalism. Her father was reluctant to discuss anything of any political consequence with her, so she was pretty naïve when it came to anything outside her own domain. He must have guessed that. _The Satyr's Seduction_ should have told him a lot.

"Does that mean that you were taken as a prisoner of war?" she asked.

"Yes. That is what happened. I was in a prison for nearly two years. Just as well that I was young and healthy because the conditions were atrocious." He wasn't smiling as he remembered the filth and the rats.

"At the end of the war, the survivors were released and left to fend for themselves. I managed to sign on as crew on 'The Dainty' which was headed for the southern hemisphere. Difficult to be subservient when one has been master of his own ship, but I had no choice. I had no proof of my identity and even less money."

"What a remarkable life you have lived," Bathsheba said enviously.

"Did you not want to come back to England?"

"Ohhh, yes, but no one would take me on, except that one captain heading south. I was a scrawny specimen by the time I got out of prison. The captain's second journey, however, was back to our fair isle, so I signed on again and worked my way home with the same man. He was good to me, perhaps believing me when I told him I had funds in England. I just couldn't get at them without proving who I was."

"How extremely frustrating for you. It would seem that you are now back to your old self, though."

"No. I don't think my old self would have been in a museum and had the good fortune of meeting you," he answered almost to himself. He then grinned at her and her heart missed a beat.

"I must tell you that I am looking forward to our musical evening tomorrow," he added.

"So am I," she told him without the tiniest doubt in her mind.

"Do you know who else will be attending?" she asked.

He mentioned a few names, but none of them were familiar to her. They spoke of Mrs. Pemberton's fondness for unsuitable colours and a number of other amusing points, but both agreed that she was a generous woman when it came to entertaining. The supper was guaranteed to be sumptuous.

Bathsheba's father returned and it was the signal for them to part company. Both were a little sorry because they had talked so easily that they hadn't noticed the time passing. It was going to be a long twenty-four hours until they met again.

### Chapter 4

Bathsheba slept badly that night with visions of sailing the seven seas with swashbuckling pirates. The scenario was entertaining in itself, because she had never been on a ship before. The pirates might have been anybody; she didn't know any of the faces - except for one, who was definitely Mr. Hutton.

That wasn't what disturbed her sleep.

It was Mr. Hutton's obvious connection to her, his possessiveness of her. She was his woman; there was no doubt about that.

Upon waking in the morning, she was left feeling restless. It was a dream that had her desperately trying to remember how it had ended. She wasn't silly, though. It was like most dreams one had – interrupted. She felt cheated.

Peggy commented on her pale complexion, hinting her mistress looked tired.

"I really must have a nap this afternoon, Peggy, if I am to look decent for this evening."

"Yes, Miss. I was going to suggest it anyway, especially as you're not accustomed to late nights. We don't want you wilting before any of the other 'moiselles. That Mr. Hutton strikes me as a prize worth having."

"Don't be silly, Peggy. One evening out with the man hardly means I am competing for him or am serious about him."

"Aren't cha, Miss? Could've fooled me." Peggy chuckled.

"Peggy! I won't hear of such a thing, and please don't go spreading the idea around," she chided. Bathsheba blushed.

"No, Miss. As you like." Peggy had only been teasing but from Bathsheba's reaction alone, she could tell that she'd been right. Her mistress was smitten and, with good reason. He was a good-looking man and, from what was being said, wealthy too. He _was_ a prize and perhaps she could help her mistress win him. _Hmmm_....

## *

Bathsheba's nap hadn't really done much good. Her sea-faring escapade had continued, but it'd had nothing to do with her previous dream. She woke up more frustrated than rested.

Peggy had known how to put her in the right mood, however.

A bath with relaxing salts, which smelled of roses, did wonders. A shampoo with a light head massage, a soft towelling followed by a massage with Peggy's own special oil left her relaxed and drowsy. Peggy left her for a half hour before bringing her a tisane and sweet biscuits. The special treatment did its trick and she felt renewed.

By six o'clock, she was standing nervously in front of the cheval mirror wondering if she hadn't overdone it with the new dress. Thankfully, Peggy was there to 'ooh and ahh' and to generally make a fuss of her.

"You're a pure delight for the eyes, Miss. I'm sure all the gentlemen will be envious of Mr. Hutton."

"Please, Peggy. Don't exaggerate. This is only a musical evening and, besides, I'm too old to imagine any such thing. I just hope that I do Mr. Hutton honour, and if so, I will be happy."

Bathsheba rapidly turned to her right and then to the left just to make sure that the skirt hung properly, and then she sighed. It was a sigh of resignation. She mustn't read more into the evening if she didn't want to be disappointed.

### Chapter 5

Mrs. Pemberton had exceeded herself with the event.

At least a hundred people had been invited and catered for. She really was an outstanding hostess, and somehow, her unflattering attire, which tonight was deep purple with a black fringe hanging from the strangest parts of her, had become an integral part of any of her evenings.

She greeted Alistair graciously and then turned to his companion.

"Why, I do believe that it is Bathsheba Baxter! What a pleasant surprise, my dear."

"Good evening, Mrs. Pemberton. How amazing that you should recognise me. I'm flattered," Bathsheba responded.

"You have grown into an attractive gel, ain't she, Mr. Hutton?" she prompted him but then didn't wait for his reaction.

"Of course, I would recognise you. You look so like your dear Mama that I hesitated for a second."

"What a lovely thing to say. Mama was highly considered, I have heard. I would be happy to resemble her even the tiniest portion," Bathsheba smiled.

"Enjoy yourself, my dear. We have an exceptional quartet playing this evening as well as the contralto, Mrs. Franks. I am sure Mr. Hutton will make sure you are perfectly at ease, won't you, Mr. Hutton?"

"Of course, Ma'am. I am most grateful for your 'do' as it has given me the opportunity to invite Miss Baxter to accompany me." He smiled at both women and charmed them in doing so.

They wended their way upstairs to the double salon, which was impressively furnished with gilded chairs, each with a red cushion. Some seats had already been claimed but there were still guests milling around greeting one another. The musicians had already begun to prepare their equipment on a rostrum waiting for Mrs. Pemberton to give them the signal to begin.

Alistair was accosted several times by acquaintances wondering who his companion was. They weren't quite that blatant when introducing themselves, but it was obvious to Bathsheba and Alistair that she had caused a small sensation.

Her choice of dress had been perfect for the evening. She felt completely comfortable among all the other regally clad women. The rich burgundy colour put her pale complexion to advantage, while the shape of the dress flattered her figure.

She felt herself blushing yet again as another couple approached them, but the pink that had tinted her cheeks drained away instantly.

She was suddenly confronted by Gregory, whom she hadn't expected to see ever again. She had thought herself invulnerable until that instant. He was leering at her with a lop-sided smile. Sneering wouldn't be too strong a word to describe his look.

Alistair immediately sensed her discomfort and drew nearer to her.

"Well if it isn't _Miss_ Baxter, all turned out in her best dress, hoping to attract a little attention," Gregory said speaking directly at Bathsheba with little regard to Alistair or his own companion.

His scathing approach suddenly made Bathsheba stronger rather than intimidating her. He was a bully, and now that she'd understood that, she was more capable of combating him.

The thought that Peggy would certainly find sharp words to cast him off gave her the incentive she needed.

"Mr. Hutton," she said turning towards Alistair, "it would seem that this is someone I used to know. Unfortunately, I cannot introduce him to you as I have forgotten his name."

"Come, Miss Baxter. I have just spotted my sister over by the window. I wanted to be sure that we sat together." Whereby, he gently took her elbow and guided her away without so much of a word or acknowledgement to Gregory or the woman with him.

Bathsheba's cheeks were warm again now that the encounter with Gregory was over. As they headed towards the windows, they were soon separated from the scene by all the other guests.

"Thank you, Mr. Hutton," she whispered.

"The pleasure was mine, believe me. I know of the man." He said no more.

Finally, as he didn't approach anyone near the windows she finally asked, "Which lady is your sister?"

"Did I not tell you that I am an only child?" He chuckled seeing how startled she looked.

"It was a white lie. They are permitted – sometimes," he justified the untruth.

Bathsheba grinned. A man had come to her rescue! She was twenty-six-years old and yet a handsome, charming man had defended her. She was on a cloud.

Mrs. Pemberton had made it clear that the soirée was about to commence. Those who had been conversing in small groups found places to sit. When Mrs. Pemberton wanted something done, it was done. Invitations to her evenings were much sought after so no one wished to risk displeasing her. In a matter of five minutes, everyone was seated and she stood at the front of the rostrum, ready to announce the programme.

The room itself was dazzling with the hundreds of candles reflected in the mirrors lining the walls. Mrs. Pemberton might be a widow, but she was a wealthy one. She never gave a second thought to the cost of candles used throughout her house for one of her 'soirées.'

Bathsheba had been taken aback at seeing herself in the mirrors. She hadn't immediately recognised the person she was looking at, but a thrill ran through her when she realised that she was that elegant woman next to Mr. Hutton. She breathed easier; no longer worried that she would embarrass him. They looked a fine pair, which gave her pleasure while at the same time making her sad. After the unpleasantness with Gregory, she wondered if he would still want to pursue their acquaintance. She hadn't noticed any change in his attitude, but then, being a gentleman, he wouldn't spoil her evening regardless of what he thought.

She decided that she would put that consideration aside and enjoy the music. There was no point in delving into future complications or repercussions now. Nights in bed were made for that.

### Chapter 6

Once the music had begun, Bathsheba had no difficulty in letting herself be drawn into it. Her whole being was enveloped by harmonies, high notes and low. Mrs. Frank's deep melodious voice struck a chord in Bathsheba's chest which brought her very near to crying. She would remember Mrs. Pemberton's 'do' for a long time to come.

At the interval, she excused herself from Mr. Hutton's company. Her headdress needed re-adjusting and she wanted to take advantage of the break to relieve herself. When the second half of the musical ended, it would immediately be followed by supper, and it was not a good time to go off to the ladies' room. A lot of people would be bustling to be served at dinner and Bathsheba did not relish the idea of being separated from her cavalier.

A servant indicated the direction to the reposing room for ladies, which she found without any problem. A maidservant was able to remove the headdress, re-coif Bathsheba satisfactorily before returning it to her head and pinning it. The whole process had taken a little more time than she had anticipated, though, as she'd had to wait her turn for assistance. She hoped that Mr. Hutton was a patient man.

On her way back along the corridor, she was completely taken by surprise when an arm snaked around her waist and grabbed her. The action so startled her that she didn't have time to cry out before a hand covered her mouth, and the next thing she knew, she was being dragged backwards into a room off the passageway. The door slammed shut behind them.

She knew who it was before he'd released his hold and pinned her against the wall with his body, wrists held tightly each side of her.

Gregory.

"No one slights me and gets away with it," he seethed inches away from her face.

And then he covered her mouth with his own.

## *

The kiss was a violation of all her senses.

## *

She struggled futilely. His fury gave him strength to which hers was no match.

The dimly lit room began to fade as she was unable to breathe, stifled by his unleashed passion.

And then he was gone. She slipped down the wall unable to remain on her shaking legs. She was aware of a ripping sound and all she could think was that she would never wear this dress again. Now sitting on the carpet, back against the wall, she looked at her hands resting in her lap; very white against the burgundy. Nicely shaped hands.

"Bathsheba, Bathsheba, dear. Please look at me."

She could hear a man's voice penetrating her incoherent thoughts.

The room was still dim but she saw that the man leaning down to her had changed. His voice had changed as well. It was Mr. Hutton.

He had come to defend her yet again.

A sob caught in her throat as she whispered his name.

"Mr. Hutton? You have saved me. Thank you."

And then she couldn't stop from crying as the enormity of the evening overflowed.

He took her up in his arms as best he could and carried her to a sofa. He sat and, instead of releasing her, kept her snug in his arms.

"Please don't cry, my dear. It is over and I won't let it happen again," he promised.

"Where did he go?" she managed to say in between sobs. Her cheek was pressed against his chest and she felt contented and safe.

"He's there, out cold," he said as he nodded to a limp lump on the floor.

"You won't have to worry about him anymore. I have ways of enforcing threats I make, and if I'm not mistaken, you will find that he'll be leaving the country in short order. Otherwise, he will find himself as crew on one of my ships leaving for India."

Bathsheba pressed herself even closer to Mr. Hutton's chest, appreciating the strong heartbeat and the security of his arms. It might be the only chance she would ever get.

"You do realise that you are obliged to marry me now?" he said laughing.

She sat up abruptly.

"What do you mean?" She wasn't sure that she had heard him correctly. Now she was completely alert and in control of her wits.

"Marry you?"

"Well, you _have_ been found in a rather compromising situation and I'm afraid your reputation _is_ shot," he explained quite succinctly.

She looked around the room. It was quiet. The lump on the floor was hardly breathing.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute... There's no one else here. _Who_ found me in a compromising situation?"

His grin said it all.

"Will you marry me, Bathsheba?" He insisted.

"But we don't really know one another," she said a little hesitantly.

"Would you like me to enumerate all those foreign countries where the bride only meets the groom on the day of their marriage? Or the countries where the bride is bought for a couple of camels? Or..."

"Stop! You've made your point."

"Does that mean 'yes', you _will_ marry me?"

"I am sitting on your lap in a torn dress. Just _who_ is in the compromising situation?" she teased.

And then she leaned towards him and gently placed her lips on his.

He pulled her nearer and as she savoured his kiss, she knew that her interrupted dream about swashbuckling pirates had just found its satisfying end.

## Epilogue

Gregory did find he was needed on the continent for important business, and so he left the next day with the tide and a broken nose. Alistair had insisted that he never mention the incident to anyone, and when Gregory realised just who Alistair Hutton was, he never did.

Peggy would never know what had happened to precipitate Bathsheba and Alistair's wedding. She suspected that the gypsy oils she had used on Bathsheba might have worked after all. She had been saving them for herself, but didn't regret one second using them on her mistress. There had still been hope for Peggy, nevertheless, because Alistair's valet had been particularly attentive to her once she was part of the Hutton household.

Bathsheba was delightful in a cream and apricot coloured wedding dress. She would never be seen wearing burgundy again. Alistair often kidded her about having to marry him, but she would make him admit that she had been worth a whole lot more than a couple of camels.

## *

Bathsheba and Alistair's grandchildren would never tire of hearing the magical story of their grandparent's marriage, and especially of hearing how a pirate fought for and won his lady, on their very first evening together.

* * *

An Anglo/American who lived in France for over 30 years, Suzy Stewart Dubot began writing as soon as she retired. Before then, she worked at a variety of jobs, some of the more interesting being : Art & Crafts teacher, Bartender, Marketing Assistant for N° 1 World Yacht Charterers (Moorings), Beaux Arts Model, Secretary to the French Haflinger Association. With her daughters, she is a vegetarian, a supporter of animal rights and an admirer of William Wilberforce.

http://suzystewartdubotbooks.weebly.com/

## *

#

# The Kiss

## Saxon Andrew

The small creature arrived in orbit above Allowen and gazed at the giant cities gleaming far below her. It had taken a long time for her to find it and she smiled, knowing the time was well spent. The vision she saw was something most beings would never see in their lifetime. The cities were gleaming gems of crystal that soared thousands of feet into the sky and reflected the rays of the bright yellow sun into brilliant beams of rainbow colors that added light and an ambiance that was too breathtaking for words to describe. The cities were perfectly laid out and the huge gardens were perfectly placed with blooming flowers displaying a riot of colors. The gardens added their piece to the beautiful mosaic of a marvelous civilization. She stared at the planet's species and saw they were a vibrant and growing life form, who had achieved peace and happiness that was unequaled in this sector of the universe.

The creature flapped its small gossamer wings and wiped a tear from her dainty features. She was small and, in another place, she would have been mistaken for a mythical creature called a fairy. Her wispy blonde hair was tied back in a bun on the back of her head and her blue eyes were bright and opened wide to see all the wondrous sites on the planet below. She flapped her wings faster and moved a short distance through subspace and arrived above another city. The view continued to be breathtaking. She made ten quick jumps around the planet taking in all the wonderful Allowen creations and was amazed that no two cities were alike; but they all shared a common trait; they were extraordinarily beautiful.

She arrived above the largest city and, after a moment, decided to do some exploring. She flew down to the surface and landed in a space between two of the giant crystal buildings. She closed her eyes and listened to the thoughts of the city's inhabitants as they passed on the nearby sidewalk. They were filled with peace and thankfulness for the riches they had been blessed to receive. She sensed the adolescents playing in the park nearby and she could feel the love flowing from their attentive parents. Everyone possessed enough wealth to just enjoy doing whatever they chose. No one had to work.

She focused on the physical structure of those walking close by and morphed into a Allowen female. She walked out from between the crystal spires and turned toward the park located across a wide, spotlessly clean, thoroughfare. The Allowen males, who saw her emerge from the buildings, stopped in their tracks and stared at the beautiful female as she walked gracefully toward the park. She was almost too beautiful to gaze upon and they couldn't pull their eyes away from the vision. Several of the female Allowens punched their mates and forced their attention elsewhere, but the single males watched her until she moved out of their sight. She was in no danger; crime didn't exist on this most peaceful of worlds.

She strolled into the park, touching the perfectly placed hedges, and was overwhelmed with the scent of flowers. She turned and walked to a large garden, sat down on the closely mown grass, and closed her eyes. She really wished her twin sister was with her to enjoy the moment, but knew she was elsewhere and wouldn't be able to join her. She shed a tear, realizing her sister would never experience the wonder of this amazing planet and what it was capable of being.

She sat there for the remainder of the day, until darkness arrived and the city took on a new life. The lights lit up the night and made the city even more beautiful than the sun had during the day. She felt the thoughts of all the Allowen moving around her and felt their peace with the universe. She opened her eyes and knew it was time to go.

She stood and morphed back into her normal form and flapped her wings to lift her over the park. She stared down at the flowers and locked the view in her memory. She turned and slowly moved over the giant metropolis, until she saw a huge structure just beyond the city. It was different than anything she had seen; it appeared more purposeful than any of the wondrous buildings she observed during her brief visit. She realized it must be the power facility for the Allowen Civilization. That one incredible creation powered everything on the planet. The power flowing out of that single structure was unbelievable. She flew quickly toward it and marveled at the feat of engineering that produced it. She flew through the force field surrounding it and landed on the roof. She looked lovingly at the building she was standing on and knew her long search was finally over. She leaned down and caressed the roof with her right hand; it felt wonderful to touch. This is what she had come so far to find; she closed her eyes and gently kissed the roof.

## *

The massive explosion ripped the planet apart and blew giant pieces of it out into space in a massive shock wave. The nuclear explosion that killed the planet grew hotter and began feeding on the remains of the planet starting a fusion reaction. Soon, a small star appeared where a vibrant, beautiful civilization lived just a few moments earlier. The thousands of Allowen Warships that jumped in from the Defense Globe arrived in time to see the shockwave blowing out into space. They looked on with horror at what had once been their home world.

## *

The Allowen Command Center on the planet's fifth moon was in turmoil. The Defense Fleets that surrounded the planetary system inside the force field was in disarray and shock. The Commander of the facility yelled at his subordinates, "HOW DID THAT MUCH ANTIMATTER GET THROUGH OUR FORCE FIELDS!?!"

"We don't know! Nothing appeared on our sensors!"

"What civilization uses antimatter as their main power source!?"

The subordinate ran a search in the databanks and looked up, "There was a planet that was the third planet out from a G-Type Star that used it before we destroyed it."

"When was that done?"

"A century ago."

## *

The small creature sat on the hull of the moon sized defense facility and had her ear pressed to its surface to hear what was being said. She was identical to the being that visited the planet. She raised her head and looked off in the distance at the shockwave moving rapidly toward her and knew she would never see her sister again. She put her ear back down to the hull of the Defense Facility and cried as she heard the torment of the beings inside at the destruction of their home world. They were so sad! So incredibly sad!

She looked out at the giant force field used to protect the former planet and marveled at the power of a facility that not only produced that force field but also powered all of their massive fleets of warships. The technological discovery of sending power to their ships through subspace was an advancement beyond anything ever done in the universe. It made the Allowen all powerful. The facility also provided power to all the commercial transports that brought back riches forcibly taken from other civilizations they destroyed to enrich their population.

She cried at the sorrow taking place on the huge structure and leaned down and softly kissed the hull. The explosion of the giant structure ripped the moon apart and moved at an incredible velocity through space, where it merged with the planet's shockwave, and destroyed every Allowen Ship floating powerless in the star system.

The millions of Allowen Ships scattered across the universe suddenly found they were stranded with no energy to power their jump drives or any other system. The planets being invaded by the Allowen Landing forces discovered that the invader's blasters and force fields stopped operating. The Allowen on those planets were quickly killed. Most of the crews on ships stranded in open space survived on emergency generators, which were designed to only power their communicators and life support systems. The millions of ships tried to contact their home world and, after enough time had passed, they knew they were never going to answer. It wasn't long before fights broke out on board the stranded ships as they struggled to take possession of what little food remained.

Even those that turned to cannibalism to extend their lives, at the end, died a slow and painful death. Unlike the sisters, they did not receive a goodbye kiss. The twin's creator kissed them gently before she released them. Doctor Miriam Weaver watched the twins fly high into a crystal blue sky and wept for what she had been forced to do. They had been created to bring joy to children; not to be a weapon of destruction. They disappeared from view and she continued to stare at the sky, as she wept for them and what they were forced to become.

She finally lowered her head and wept for herself and her planet. An hour later, she was vaporized by a nuclear explosion fired by Allowen Warships still in orbit above Earth. The Allowen knew if no one lived, no one would come seeking revenge later. They were an hour too late to stop the goodbye kisses sent by the Earth Scientist to their doomed civilization.

## * * *

Saxon Andrew has written several popular science fiction series, including _Annihilation_ , _Ashes of the Realm_ , _Lens of Time_ , _The Fight for Creation_ and _Star Chase_.

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3407413.Saxon_Andrew

## *

#

# Kiss No. 43

## C. A. Newsome

Joss and I were sipping lattes in the little kitchenette when the bells on the front door chimed. I set my cup down and peered around the corner, into the gallery. Amalie Rogers (soon to be Mathers) stood just inside the door, taking in the gallery with a rapt expression on her acquisitive little face. She took a few steps further inside, turning left, then right, experiencing the impact of the canvases from across the room. She basked as if she'd just stepped off a plane in Saint Bart's.

The woman had marvelous taste, but I didn't like her. To her I was just Phillip's peon, a messenger boy, one of the army of insignificant sub-humans who were necessary to provide her life with sufficient grace and style. I always thought she secretly envied our talents and therefore must subject us to subtle forms of debasement whenever possible.

She cooed over Phillip because he was filthy rich and a member of her class. Phillip wasn't here. She'd have to deal with me. But she'd play nice today. Joss was here.

Amalie was leggy for a short woman, and delicately boned in a build the Goths called 'fairy.' Joss joined me in the little hall and we watched as she removed her gloves, then slowly unwrapped a motley cloud of immense proportions from around her head and shoulders, unveiling herself like Venus emerging from sea foam. She draped the scarf over her arm, and shook out her hair. The razor-cut blonde streaks fell back perfectly in a trendy, layered hack-job, her pink and blonde coloring set off by NYC de rigueur black. Her leather jacket was matched with over-the-knee boots and leggings. She must have decided to go 'edgy' this season. I thought of the look as 'Suburban Dangerous'.

"Does she know we're watching her?" Joss whispered. "This is like a performance."

"Every moment of that woman's life is a performance. The audience is optional. Hush, darling, It's not your moment yet."

Amalie nodded at the canvases, approving as she circled. She should approve. Joss's paintings were aching squares of anticipation, each four foot by four foot panel featuring the exquisite tension just before a kiss, a macro of approaching lips. Each held a universe of yearning in the negative space.

Amalie tilted her head at Kiss #43 and walked slowly up to it while unzipping her jacket, her mouth in a moue. The jacket fell open, silky color flashing between her lapels. She stood squarely in front of the panel, leaned back a bit and stroked the scarf on her arm as if it were a cat.

"Showtime, darling." I tossed my head towards Amalie and took Joss's hand. I led Joss out of the cubby, deliberately clipping my leather heels on the ancient wood floor. The sound echoed in the 3,000 square foot gallery, and Amalie turned.

"Amalie, darling, how marvelous to see you. I'm sorry you were out of town for the opening. It was wonderful. Phillip is so disappointed he couldn't be here today. I want you to meet Joss, the creator of these marvels." I let go of Joss's hand and gestured toward her in a classic 'Vanna White' flourish.

Amalie took Joss's hand and squeezed it in greeting as she looked the artist over, much as she had reviewed the paintings.

Joss stood five eleven, with sable hair falling to her waist. The elegant line of her cheek was offset by a bump in her nose and a wide mouth that found humor in everything. Her skin was tawny and exotic, speaking of a rich and diverse heritage.

She wore a moss green fisherman's sweater over her Levi 501s and Doc Martins. The green of the sweater picked out hints of green in Joss's misty silver eyes. Her entire ensemble cost less than Amalie's socks.

Amalie of the surgically perfect nose would never be able to compete with Joss's unadorned mystery, and she would never understand it.

"These are wonderful," Amalie cooed. "Where ever did Phillip find you?"

"Oh," Joss said, "It wasn't Phillip. I'm an old friend of David's from college." Joss placed her free hand on my arm, reminding Amalie of my existence.

I caught the microscopic wrinkle in Amalie's nose before she drew Joss before the canvas in a deft maneuver, cutting me out of their conversation.

She stood next to Joss, and patted her arm. "I adore this one," She inclined her head towards lips caressed by a roguish mustache, the hint of a soul patch below. Who is he?"

Joss tilted her head. I could imagine her wistful expression. "Just a memory, I'm afraid. It's rather private."

"You can tell me. If I'm going to own this painting, I should know the story behind it, shouldn't I? I promise not to repeat a word of it." I had moved off to the side, ostensibly to give them privacy. Really, I wanted a better view. Amalie's Delft blue eyes sparkled with avidity as she coaxed.

Joss's mouth twitched with uncertainty as she considered. "I really don't know if it's much of a story."

"Were you in love with him?" Amalie primed.

"I still am. "Joss made a sad twist of her mouth. "He's the inspiration for this entire series. These paintings are the only way I can deal with my feelings."

"Unrequited love? Like _Bridges of Madison County_?"

I rolled my eyes. Discretely, of course.

"I was in a show in Boston two years ago. I rode up on the train for the opening," Joss confessed.

"Do tell."

"Another artist and I were talking and I saw this man across the room. A little voice inside my head said, 'That's him.'"

"Really? A voice?

"It was audible; a tiny, female voice in my left ear. I've never heard voices in my life, before or since. Sounds a bit crazy, doesn't it?"

"Love at first sight, how romantic!"

"That's what was strange. He was very handsome, a lot like Christian Bale, but I didn't feel any attraction to him just then. So I just shrugged it off and went back to my conversation."

"I adore tall, dark men. What happened?"

"He was with this burly blond Viking with all this hair, and they made their way around the room and approached us. Apparently his friend knew Lia, the artist I was talking to. So his friend walks up and starts hitting on Lia, and Lia is having fun with it, but I can tell she's not interested. We were just standing there, looking at each other, a pair of third wheels, while this sculptor, Ralph . . . "

"Ralph? Ralph Mays? Is that who you're talking about?"

"I don't know, I never got his last name."

"I bet it was him," Amalie tossed off, "There aren't too many sculptors named Ralph in Boston."

"So you know him?"

"I only know of him. Was your Christian Bale an artist, too?"

"No, that's the funny thing. I never did find out exactly what he did, but he wasn't an artist."

"Don't let me interrupt, I'm dying to know what happened next."

"Well, we just stood there looking at each other, and Ralph is still trying to pick up Lia. He seems to be getting off on the challenge. Lee, that's his name, rolls his eyes and shrugs, then he nods at the bar. So we wander off to get a glass of wine, and we start talking, and it's like we knew each other in another life. We went outside into the sculpture garden, and . . ."

"And?"

"We had this moment. We looked at each other and our conversation stopped. You know that moment, when the air is alive with tension, when you know what's going to happen next, but everyone is still poised on the edge of deciding whether or not they want it to happen? That second that seems to last forever? It's like being at the top of a roller coaster, right before it plunges over the edge."

"That sounds extraordinary."

I detected a hint of jealousy in Amalie's voice.

"It was. There was such clarity in that moment. He kissed me, and it was bells ringing, the earth moving, and that kiss became the center of the universe, like my entire life had been leading up to it."

"That sounds like some kiss."

"I've never experienced anything close to it. He confessed that Ralph hitting on Lia was a set up so he could get me alone. Can you imagine? We had this magical night together, and then we both had to go home. He was from out of town, too. We lost contact. I never saw him again."

"Lost contact? In this day and age?"

"I know, it's weird. I woke up and he was gone, but he'd left this sweet note to meet him at Top of the Hub. Then he never showed. I think something must have happened, and then there was no way for us to contact each other. So this was more _Serendipity_ than _Bridges of Madison County_.

_"Serendipity_?"

"John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale? I've never been able to get him out of my head."

"So tragic! How do you stand it?" Amalie's face was all sympathy. I knew she was lapping up Joss's pain like a tasty cre`me brûle´e.

"I keep thinking, somehow we'll be together again. You've given me hope. I can track down Ralph Mays, and maybe he can help me. It's a long shot, but it's worth a try, don't you think?"

Joss's story was interrupted as the bell on the door tinkled. A tall man sporting a dark mustache and soul patch entered. He had a lean, interesting face that lit up when he spotted the women.

"Lee!" Joss clapped a hand to her chest, eyes wide with shock. "I can't believe it's you! How did you find me?"

He looked confused. "Excuse me? I uh, came here to meet Amalie . . ."

Joss spun to face Amalie's raised eyebrows and folded arms. "This," Amalie pronounced imperiously, "is Jonathan. _My_ Jonathan."

Joss looked from Amalie to Jonathan. "Lee?" She pleaded, "Don't you remember me? Boston? Painted Vision at the Patrick Davis Gallery? Walking along the Charles? That lovely fountain? You said we were soul mates."

"Miss, ah, I think you have me mixed up with someone else."

I was about to intercede when Amalie spoke, gluing me to my spot.

"Does she, Jonathan _Leighton_ Mathers?" Amalie asked, her voice dangerously soft, her posture rigid. "Didn't your wingman, Ralph, call you Lee back at Harvard?"

"Amalie, I don't know this woman!"

"Then she isn't your soul-mate? How tedious, Jonathan."

Joss's chin trembled as her ideal love was exposed as a sham, a chimera invented out of a tawdry one-night stand, her magnificent passion, her raison d'etre, mocking her from every wall.

"Lee?" she implored, her voice not penetrating the domestic squabble.

Amalie remembered I was there. "David! You can tell Phillip we are not buying this painting, or anything else from him. I am not coming back, ever!"

She grabbed Jonathan by the arm and hauled all six feet of him to the exit, her Persian cat of a scarf fluttering behind her like a banner of war. Jonathan looked over his shoulder at Joss as he was being dragged, still trying to place her.

The chime jangled as the waif-turned-Hulk wrenched the door open. "Really Jonathan. That woman isn't even white."

I walked up behind Joss, placed my hands on her shoulders as the door slammed. We watched through the glass as Amalie stormed away, Jonathan dogging her heels while she shrilled at him, the sound diminishing as they distanced themselves from ground zero of this disaster.

"Joss, darling," I said. "When are you going to stop doing this? Phillip is going to be furious when he gets back from Baja. Amalie was his favorite customer."

Joss turned and took my hands. She kissed my cheek. Her eyes sparkled, but not with tears. "I know. Isn't it wonderful?"

"That's three sales you've blown this week, in rather spectacular fashion. Are you going to tell me what's going on? This show is going to be a bust if this keeps up. I could get fired."

"Exactly. And if I alienate enough customers, Phillip will dump me. If he fires you, it voids the non-compete clause in your contract." She took my hand and placed it on her arm, patting it as she led me back to our abandoned lattes in the kitchenette.

"Ralph and I decided it's time for you to open your own gallery, and I want to go with you."

"You're destroying your career for me?" I was aghast.

"This is a plot of many layers. After you introduced me to Ralph, we sat around comparing notes. Turns out he knew Amalie back when her name was Amelia.

"Amelia? You're joking!"

"She's a 24 karat gold digger. Ralph hates her even more than you do. He's been hoping something would happen to open Jonathan's eyes before the wedding. So we sat around drinking beer and dreaming up crazy scenarios, and the more we drank, the wilder they got. Then, all of a sudden, we realized we could pull it off, and the results would have some delightful ramifications. One of which would be to get you out from under Phillip's thumb."

"But, darling, why didn't you tell me?"

"Plausible deniability, sweetie. Besides, you can't act your way out of a paper bag. Ralph knows the owner of a lovely little space that's going to be available in two months. It's near The New Museum. Aren't you tired of Soho?"

"So this whole 'emo' thing you've been doing has been an act? I thought I was going to have to get you medicated!"

"'Fraid so. Do you forgive me?"

I pulled a bottle of Phillip's special reserve out of the cabinet and poured two shots.

"You know," David ventured, lifting his glass, "I really must confess, I rather enjoyed the look on Mrs. Vaughn's face when you told her you'd found the lover who inspired Kiss No. 24, dead in his apartment after his pugs had been dining on him. She'll never be able to look at her Louie the same way again."

## * * *

C. A. (Carol Ann) Newsome writes the Lia Anderson Dog Park Mysteries, a series of mysteries inspired by mornings at the Mount Airy Dog Park with her trio of rescues.

She is also an artist with an M.F.A. from the University of Cincinnati. You'll see portraits of some of her favorite four-footed friends on the covers of her books. She enjoys creating community-based public artworks. As an artist, she is best known for her New Leaf Global Good-Will Guerrilla Art Project.

Her other interests include astrology, raw food and all forms of psychic phenomena. She likes to sing to her dogs. The dogs are the only ones who like to listen.

http://canewsome.com

## *

#

# Moving On

## Anna J. McIntyre

"Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it," Maddison said as Vincent pulled his car up in front of her townhouse. The sun was just starting to set, and the skeletal figures of the leafless trees lining the quiet street swayed slightly from the breeze.

"Hey, no problem. Anytime." Vincent put the vehicle in park and reached for the key. He held his hand on it for a moment as if trying to decide if he wanted to turn off the ignition or leave the motor running.

"If you want to..." Maddison was about to ask Vincent to come in for a glass of wine when she glanced toward her townhouse. She had left the front blind open that morning. Her husband, Lucas was standing at the window, watching them. Her unfinished sentence ended in a little gasp of surprise. These days, she never knew when Lucas would show up.

Vincent glanced in the direction of Maddison's fixed gaze and frowned. He removed his hand from the key and placed it back on the steering wheel. The car's engine remained running.

"Umm... thanks again." Without saying another word, Maddison hastily unfastened her seatbelt and hurried to get out from the vehicle.

"Maddison," Vincent called out just as she was about to close the car door. She stood on the sidewalk. "Are you still going to Cindy and Chad's New Year's party?"

Before answering, Maddison glanced from the car back to the townhouse. Lucas was still at the window, looking out, watching.

"I think so," Maddison told him, yet her tone was uncertain. "Thanks again, Vincent."

He flashed a sad smile, then put his car in drive and pulled away from the sidewalk.

Instead of going immediately to her front door, Maddison stood by the side of the road and watched him drive away.

She had known Vincent since high school. He and Lucas had been best friends. The two had joked about being brothers separated at birth, which Maddison had always found amusing considering they looked—and acted—nothing alike. Lucas was tall and dark with brooding brown eyes and darker hair. In high school, he'd been a member of the band; in college, he'd studied music and gone on to be a music teacher.

Vincent was the high school quarterback, and while he pursued law in college instead of football, he remained active in recreational sports, which kept him physically fit. His sandy-colored hair, clear blue eyes and perpetually tanned complexion made him look like he belonged on the beach rather than in the courtroom.

When Maddison married Lucas a week after graduating from college, Vincent was best man. When Vincent married Cheryl a year later, Lucas was his best man. The two couples were inseparable—spending holidays and vacations together. It came as quite a shock to Maddison when Vincent's wife asked for a divorce. A week after the divorce was finalized, Cheryl married her boss.

While Maddison no longer saw Vincent's ex-wife, he remained a constant in her life. Until recently, the thought of Vincent as anything but a platonic friend was never a consideration. Yet, all that had changed.

Maddison shivered from December's chilly breeze. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging the wool coat tighter to her slender body, her purse hanging from one shoulder as she turned and made her way up the walk to the front door.

"Why didn't Vincent come in?" Lucas asked when Maddison entered the house and closed the door behind her. No longer standing by the window, he stood at the edge of the living room near the entry.

"You know why," Maddison said as she hung her purse on the brass coat rack in the entry and removed her coat.

"That's silly, Maddie. You need to get over it."

Maddison rolled her eyes at his comment and walked passed him into the living room, where she took a seat on the rocking chair. Lucas followed her into the room, making his way back to the window. He looked outside. It was almost dark.

"How long will you be here?" she asked.

"I don't know. I never know." Lucas turned and faced Maddison. "Would you prefer I didn't come back?"

"I love you, Lucas," Maddison insisted in a quiet whisper. Lucas turned to face her. He smiled sadly.

"Have you kissed him yet?" he asked.

"Why would you ask something like that?" Maddison scowled.

"I don't know. I guess I keep thinking of the first time we kissed."

"I don't want to talk about this." Maddison bit down on her lower lip; she didn't want to cry. She refused to cry. Damn him.

Ignoring her discomfort, Lucas continued. "It was homecoming. I couldn't believe you agreed to go with me. I wasn't one of the popular jocks. Just a band nerd."

"You were never a nerd," Maddison said with a dry chuckle in spite of the tears filling her green eyes. She remembered how her girlfriends swooned over the quiet band boy, with his dark good looks and unique musical ability. There was not an instrument he couldn't play.

"After that first kiss, everything changed between us, Maddie. I knew I loved you. And you knew you loved me. Sometimes, a kiss is all that it takes for someone to know what's in his heart."

"We had some wonderful times, didn't we?" Maddison's voice was barely a whisper. A tear escaped and slid down her face.

"Yes, we did. But some things don't last forever."

"I still love you, Lucas. For me, our love is forever."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Would you just kiss him, damn it."

"I would rather kiss you."

"I don't think so, Maddie. It's too late for us now."

## *

Reluctantly, Maddison agreed to go to Cindy and Chad's New Year's Eve Party. She wondered if Lucas would show up. She had asked him to go with her, but he'd only laughed at the request and told her if he went she would never get around to kissing Vincent. A New Year's Eve Party, Lucas reminded her, was an ideal place to steal a kiss.

When Maddison arrived at the party, she had to admit she was happy to discover Vincent hadn't brought a date. By the way he greeted her, it was obvious he was happy she'd come to the party alone.

"Did you have a nice Christmas?" Vincent asked after the two made their way to a quiet alcove off Cindy and Chad's living room.

"I spent it with my sister's family. It was strange not having Lucas there." _He could have been there,_ Maddison said to herself. _I don't know why he refused to go_.

"I almost called you."

"I wish you had."

Before Vincent could respond, several of their friends join them and the conversation shifted into another, less personal direction. Cocktails were served, appetizers consumed, and the evening moved toward midnight.

Maddison couldn't recall the last time she had laughed so much—or laughed at all. Vincent had a way of making her smile. For the first time in months, she felt happy and hopeful. Perhaps things hadn't worked out for her and Lucas, but maybe they weren't meant to. She wondered what Lucas would say if she shared that bit of insight with him.

Wanting to escape the swelling crowd of party guests, Vincent and Maddison slipped out onto the back patio. It was almost midnight. The night air was frigid but the propane heater Chad had set up on the patio earlier made it tolerable. Vincent wrapped his arm around Maddison and pulled her close as the two looked out to the swimming pool. Its lights were on, yet the water did not look inviting.

"I'm glad I decided to come," Maddison said at last. She leaned against Vincent, comfortable in the intimacy.

"You weren't going to?" Vincent asked.

"I wasn't sure. It feels strange to come to these things alone."

"You aren't alone now," he reminded her.

"You're a good friend, Vincent. You always have been."

Vincent turned to face Maddison, his one hand moving from her waist to her shoulder as he looked into her eyes.

"I want more, Maddison. Do you think it might be possible... that someday..." Vincent searched her eyes without finishing his question.

Maddison lifted her hand and lightly caressed the side of Vincent's face. When had the friendship shifted, changed, blossomed into something deeper? Was Lucas right? Had the feelings she had for Vincent grown into love? Love not for a brother but the love a woman has for a man.

Sounds of noisemakers drifted from the house, with shouts and calls heralding the arrival of the New Year.

Maddison didn't clasp Vincent's face in her hands and bring his lips to hers because the clock struck midnight but because she needed to know. Was she in love with Vincent?

His lips met hers, hesitant at first, familiar and yet so different. Something burst within Maddison's heart, and she pulled Vincent closer.

Wrapping his arms around Maddison, Vincent returned the kiss with all the pent up passion and longing that had been festering in his heart for months. Neither was certain if the fireworks going off overhead were real–or simply their hearts rejoicing at the discovery of their love.

When the kiss finally ended, Maddison rested her forehead on Vincent's chest. She heard the rapid beating of his heart. It matched hers.

"Wow," Vincent said at last, finally catching his breath.

"Yes, wow," Maddison said with a laugh, still trying to catch her breath.

Once again, Vincent looked into Maddison's eyes, his hands firmly on her shoulders.

"Maddison, I know it's been a rough year. Losing Lucas in that accident, well... I hated to see you suffer like that."

"We both loved Lucas. You were hurting, too." Maddison reached out and caressed Vincent's face.

"I just... Well, I didn't expect this to happen, but I've fallen in love with you." Then he added with a chuckle, "Do you think Lucas would kick my butt?"

Maddison gave him a soft smile and said, "I love you Vincent. And I imagine Lucas would be rather pleased." _I never realized my dearly departed husband was such a matchmaker._

## * * *

Anna J. McIntyre's Coulson Series is a family saga, with romance, mystery and murder. Look for the fifth book in the series - _Coulson's Reckoning_ in 2014. The saga begins in 1900 and brings the reader to current times. Her Sensual Romance Series is light romance with happy endings. Currently there are three books in the series. Each is a standalone story. Anna J. McIntyre is a nom de plume used by non-fiction author, Bobbi Ann Johnson Holmes.

http://annajmcintyreauthor.com/

## *

#

# Midnight Snack

## Molly Snow

Maggie spoke to her reflection in the long mirror hanging on a wall in her bedroom. "I love your hair. I love your eyes. I love your rear, and your beautiful thighs." She posed all sexy in her little black dress that stretched over her ample figure, before smothering her full lips with shimmery hot pink gloss. "Oh, yes—you, Maggie, are the bomb."

The doorbell rang, and on time. Seven o'clock on the dot. She stepped through her apartment in her pink heels, and grabbed a little purse off the couch on her way to the door. Through the peep-hole, she could see him clearly. Tall, but not too tall. A beautiful face with black hair sweeping over deep, dark eyes. Bedroom eyes, if she had to be exact.

Maggie rubbed her hands together in anticipation and took a deep breath before opening the door. Right away he offered her a rose, and introduced himself. "I'm Ryder. You look absolutely stunning, my dear."

"Oh, thank you!" She took the flower and smiled brightly while batting her eyes. "What else?"

"Pardon me?"

"More compliments, please."

"Okay...." Ryder stepped closer to her, so close she could smell his heavenly musk scent as he looked down into her eyes with pure confidence. "Your lips are like this rose," he wrapped a hand around hers that held the flower's stem, "whose petals are soft and full."

Maggie pinched herself. She wasn't dreaming. "Go on..."

"I haven't been in the presence of such beauty, since my time in the Appalachian mountains. You're breathtaking . . . ."

"Yes?"

"Heart-stopping . . . ."

"Do go on."

"Sublime."

She pinched his arm through his dress shirt. There was rock-solid muscle. He looked down, wondering what that was for. "Just making sure you're real, this time," she said.

He smiled glistening white teeth, and they stood there sort of hypnotized in each other's gaze, when Maggie broke free, saying, "I would ask you to come in my apartment, but I'm a lady. I expect dinner first. Will fast food work for you?"

"The faster the better." His dark eyes gleamed in satisfaction.

Maggie ate her Big Mac hamburger, sitting in the passenger seat of her delectable date's black and luxurious car. He bought a burger as well, though it still sat in its to-go sack on the back seat, untouched. Her purse vibrated, and she knew it was because of her cell phone. She licked a finger after finishing off her food, so she could grab the thing to see who called.

It was a text from her best friend Alex. "Are you okay?" it said.

Maggie huffed and typed with her thick fingertips, "Yes, I am. I'll give you all the details later."

Ryder smoothly but quickly drove through town, back to Maggie's apartment complex. He opened Maggie's door for her, like any proper gentleman would, and offered his elbow for her to hold. The night air was surprisingly warm on her cold skin, and even the stars were brighter than usual. Fairytales do exist, she thought. Let's hope this one stars a werewolf. She needed a werewolf kiss to cure her of her condition.

Upon entering the apartment, they wasted no time. It was like one of those cliché scenes in movies, where they couldn't contain themselves. They made out like rabid teenagers. Maggie was enjoying it all oh-so much, but the logical part of her brain was screaming a warning at her hormones: They're cold! His lips are cold! She tried silencing her thoughts, but couldn't. Ryder had her pressed against a hallway wall, kissing her neck, when suddenly she pushed him off.

"What's the matter, dear?" His black hair was disheveled, and there was slight irritation in his dark eyes.

"You are cold," she said.

He nodded knowingly, and turned to the heater's thermostat, turning it up. "No worries." He leaned into her, kissing her neck with his icy lips some more.

She pushed him back again. "Who are you? What are you?"

"I'm a desperate man, desperate for your touch, your lips, your love. Desperate, I tell you." He moved in closer, his eyes pleading. "Charmed by your beauty, your grace—"

Maggie so wanted to believe all that, but her baloney detector went off at the mention of her 'grace.' "I am not graceful."

"Of course you are, dear." He put out his hands, in hopes of acceptance.

"If I'm graceful, then I'll be the queen of England!" she said sarcastically. "Did you miss how I gobbled down my hamburger? Licked my fingers afterward?"

He shrugged. "Eh?"

"You also missed the fact that while waiting at the drive-thru, I couldn't help but cut the cheese, right on your shiny, leather seats?"

"You did?" His eyebrows went up.

"Who are you really?" Maggie crossed her arms, feeling disgust. "A spy? From another district?"

"Spy?" Ryder waved his hands around like it was both absurd and like he had no clue what the heck she was talking about. He then placed his arms on either side of her, leaning his hands against the wall. "You want to know who I really am?"

"That's what I've said twice now. Spill the beans. Your charm no longer holds power over me."

He leaned down and kissed her neck a couple times, as if testing the truth of the matter. When he looked up, Maggie shot him a hard stare. "Okay," he said. "We'll do this the hard way. I enjoy the sexual thrill of women desiring me while I do what I do, so this is a bit disappointing. It will be the first time someone has refused me. I'll just have to get on with it, then. I won't waste any more of your time." He opened his mouth, showing a set of fangs descending.

"A vampire?" Maggie cocked an eyebrow. "You goons actually exist?"

He pulled his neck back, narrowing his eyes in surprise. "Goons? Honey, we are the sexiest creatures in existence."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes.

"What? You don't believe me? You wanted me like a frantic school girl moments ago."

"That was then. This is now."

"Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Antonio Banderas. Do you really think they were just acting in Interview With The Vampire? That's who they really are. They go to our underground Hollywood mixers all the time."

"I'm more of a Taylor Lautner girl. You're boring me."

"Boring you? Ha!" Now he stepped back and crossed his arms.

"How many of you are really left in the entire world, anyway? I never hear news reports about vampire holes in the necks of young, unsuspecting women."

Ryder rubbed his hands together and smiled wide, looking at the floor before saying, "We have our ways of covering that stuff up. Different vampires have different methods."

The news story at the deli flashed through Maggie's thoughts. Cut-Throat, the serial killer, slashing women's necks. Women met through personal ads. So Alex had indeed been right. "So your method is slashing the neck afterward?"

"Very discerning," he said, again moving in close.

Maggie surprised him by tilting her chin up for him. "Go ahead. Have a bite," she said.

Ryder's eyes went wide with arousal. He leaned in ever-so-slowly, his fangs pressing gently against her skin, before she felt them penetrate. It didn't hurt much, actually. It felt like little pin pricks.

"Do you like it?" Maggie asked.

The next second, he recoiled in disgust, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "Foul!"

"I know, right? I warned you. I'm not like other girls."

He wiped some more before gaining a bit of composure. "It was like I put a straw into the dirt and slurped up moldy worms. I wish I could vomit! I wish I could get the (cough) taste (cough) out of my mouth (cough)." He then took off to the kitchen, whipped open the refrigerator, and downed half a liter of Pepsi.

Maggie was ticked. That bottle was supposed to be her after-dinner nightcap. "What do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to go into a stranger's fridge and start taking stuff for yourself."

Ryder slumped to the ground, and guzzled some more. He paused to say, "I'm in your apartment, I just revealed I'm a vampire who wanted to suck your blood, and you have an issue with me opening your refrigerator?"

Maggie took off her shoes that were pinching her toes a little too much, and threw them in the corner of the dining room. "You are pathetic, you know. I thought you people aren't supposed to eat or drink anything other than blood anyway."

Ryder set the liter down, finally, and looked absolutely spent. "That's true. I'm drinking it through my incisors. I'll be in a world of pain, but it won't harm me this way. Anyway, Foul Girl, what are you supposed to be, if you are neither human nor a vamp?"

Now it was time for her to have fun. She crouched down as best she could in her tight dress, and said, "A zombie."

His eyes went wide. "Well, if I cannot have the delight of your blood, I will take pleasure in tearing you into shredded card board." He rose, his feet no longer touching the floor. There was mania in his eyes as he floated toward her, his countenance revealing the inner dimensions of a demon . . .

## *

Maggie's cell phone rang. Before answering, she finished topping her treat off with plenty of whip cream from a can. "Hello?"

"Hi, Maggie," Alex's concerned voice came through. "I couldn't wait. I was too worried. Tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay."

She heard him breathe out in relief. "Good. It's after midnight—is your date over?"

"He is done with." She smiled and added a cherry on top of the whip cream.

"How was it?"

"It sucked."

"What are you doing now?"

She looked down at the odd-shaped brain of a serial killer sitting in her bowl, loaded with toppings. Oops, she almost forgot the hot fudge. She sniffed the sweet and pungent aroma of her delicacy, before grabbing the hot jar of chocolate, and poured the stuff all over. It had been so long since she last had a brain. "I'm eating... some ice cream."

"A little midnight snack."

She chuckled to herself. "More like a monster midnight snack, if you ask me."

"Okay, then have a good night."

"I will. Nighty night."

## * * *

_Midnight Snack_ is a modified chapter from Molly Snow's _To Kiss a Werewolf_ spin-off novel, _To Date a Werewolf_.

## *

Molly Snow is a Top 10 Idaho Fiction Author, awarded by The Idaho Book Extravaganza. Her works include quirky teen romances _Beswitched_ , _Head Over Halo_ and _To Kiss a Werewolf_. Also a speaker on writing, her school assemblies have been featured in The Contra Costa Times and The Brentwood Press. Snow is married to her high school crush, has a set of silly twin boys and a bobtail cat named Meow-Meow. She also co-writes with her mother _Z & C Mysteries_, the first in the series being _The Riddles of Hillgate_.

http://mollysnowfiction.blogspot.com/

## *

#

# Friends With Benefits

## Kate Aaron

He's using me. I'm not so dumb I don't know it. He's always used me, ever since we were teenagers and he'd tell his parents he was staying at my house to cover his nights out at clubs and bars, dates with older men, drinking and dancing 'til dawn. Used me when he copied my homework on the bus the next day, a pirate smile on his face as he whispered scandalous details of what he'd been up to. Or maybe it started earlier, when he was the one who kicked the football through the side of his neighbour's greenhouse and I took the blame; or earlier still, when he glued Hannah Jones' pigtails together with PVA. Yes, Liam McGinty has been using me since we were five years old, at least. And all that time, over all those years, I've let him.

Tobias Black, doormat, at your service.

I'm not bitching. Honestly, I'm not. I'm grateful. I started school six months late, thanks to a poorly-timed transfer at Dad's work which saw the whole family—me, my parents, my two older sisters—relocated from the rolling green hills of the Cotswolds to the grimy grey of Manchester when I was just four years old. I was the new boy, an oddity with a strange accent. And to make matters worse, I was a fat kid, of course, a tubby barrel of lard topped with a shock of hair as dark as my name, and NHS glasses. My peers, quite rightly, shunned me. All except Liam.

Before my arrival he was a loner; a strange, reclusive child—not shy, Liam McGinty was never shy—but he looked down on the other kids like they were already beneath him, infinitely inferior in every way. It was like he _knew_ , even then, exactly what he'd grow up to be.

I can't remember the first time I noticed him, really _noticed_ the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist, the way his jaw had squared out beneath the jut of his cheekbones and the dimples which showed either side of his full lips when he smiled. He smiled often, and I began to long and live for those smiles dripped in sin. Even at fourteen, he looked like a wanton. By eighteen, thoroughly debauched and long schooled in the art of seduction, the illusion was complete.

Not that we were eighteen anymore, but even ten years on Liam still looked like a man in his prime. It simply wasn't fair. I'd morphed from the chubby kid into a skinny twink, from one cliché to another. These days I couldn't seem to put on weight if I tried, and God knows I'd tried. At fourteen I hit a growth spurt which rearranged my body from round to tall, and while I wouldn't complain about that, I wished I had _some_ muscle, some small hint of definition. Naked, I feared I still looked like an adolescent, all ribs and bony points. The kind of men who found me attractive were usually older, seedier and, dare I say, _predatory_ in their attentions. They made my skin crawl—would have done, even were I not hopelessly in love with my best friend.

In my defence, he leads me on. And yes I know I get a say in the matter and I know I can always say no but, well, who could possibly say no to him? Certainly not me.

We'd always been close, even as kids. Not only in the sense that we lived in one another's pockets, but we were affectionate; 'touchy-feely', as my dad put it, with increasing concern in his voice. Changing for PE or at the swimming pool I was always conscious of my body, but never before Liam. Maybe that was odd, when most people are on edge around someone they're attracted to, but Liam has such an easy, open nature. He never shied away from me, never expressed disgust or revulsion when I unveiled first my flab and then my scrawny frame. I was, I guess, a nonentity to him; my body simply didn't matter because it was hardly like he'd be interested in me, was it?

So when he made that first move, back when we were fifteen or so, it shocked me to my very core.

He knew I was gay already—I'd made a tearful confession some six months previous, and he hadn't seemed surprised. Indeed, it was he who ended up surprising me, admitting he was bisexual himself.

"What?" I'd started out of his arms, tears shocked into submission.

Liam shrugged, ran a hand up through the back of his medium-brown hair then carefully rearranged the artfully-mussed strands. "I'm bisexual," he said, like he couldn't understand why I thought it a big deal.

"You're attracted to men?" I heard the scornful edge twisting my tone, but I couldn't help myself. I mean, nobody's bisexual, right? Not really. For a horrible moment, I thought he was making it up just to make me feel better.

"Yeah, sometimes."

"Like who?" I demanded, seeking proof.

His pouty lips pursed in a wicked bow. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

It was such a desperate bluff I didn't even bother calling it. A wild and unauthorised hope sinking in my breast, I turned away, trying to find it in my heart to be grateful he'd been supportive enough to make up a story so I didn't feel like I was the only one.

"I thought you'd be happy," Liam protested, a hand on my arm halting my movement. "I've been wanting to tell you for ages—"

"Whatever." I shook him off and spat the word at him, a wounded animal lashing out. For the briefest of moments, I'd allowed myself to hope...

"Toby? I, I thought you'd understand—"

"What is there to understand?" I asked. "How do you even know—you haven't even kissed a guy!"

"Actually, I have."

With those three words, the bottom dropped out of my world.

"What do you mean, you have? Who with? Who is he?" I was going to kill the mystery man, just as soon as I found out who he was.

"It doesn't matter. That's not the point, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

I still remember the pain, the anguish, all my grief seeping into those two little words. Liam was attracted to men, had even _kissed_ one. I hadn't even done that and I couldn't help but wonder why it hadn't been me; why I hadn't been good enough for him.

Why I would never be his first kiss.

His flinty blue eyes fixed on my too-plump lips, his mouth twisted at the corner. It wasn't hard to see he was contemplating kissing me, contemplating just what an awful experience that would be. Like I didn't know he could do a million times better than me; like I didn't know he was completely out of my league. Even if I wasn't his best friend, with all the platonic intimacy that includes, he wouldn't have been interested. Who would?

And he hadn't kissed me, never mind I was holding my breath in hopeful anticipation. Of course he hadn't. He'd laughed it off and changed the subject and if I went home afterwards and cried myself to sleep, well, he didn't know about it because I never told him just how strongly I felt. Friends were easier: if we were friends I got to have him in my life, keep him close in the only way I knew how. And if, one day, he found a boyfriend, a man he wanted to get serious about, I'd smile and be supportive and love him all the more in the privacy of my own breaking heart.

Then, six months after the Big Revelation, it had happened. We'd been to a party, got drunk on a bottle of god-awful White Lightning cider, he'd struck out with his then girlfriend—Hannah Jones, it really is true boys flirt by being mean—and afterwards, in the shadow of my parents' front porch, he'd kissed me. I can't pretend it was anything special: my main recollections are of the bittersweet tang of the cider, too much spit, and him, overwhelmingly _him_ , his scent and the strength of his body when I plastered mine against it. It only lasted about ten seconds before he pulled away and, with a cocky grin, left me standing there in the cold and drizzly March night.

We didn't speak about it, despite my hoping and longing that we would. I wanted to know what it meant, why he'd done it, when we were going to do it again. Instead Liam was all business as usual, and when I saw him cuddling up with Hannah _bloody_ Jones at school Monday morning, I wanted to kill them both.

I didn't, of course. I'm not a homicidal maniac, no matter how close I sometimes got to feeling that I could be, that I might have turned into some demented bunny boiler and screamed that if I couldn't have Liam, no one could. I went on being the perfect friend by day while my heart broke over and over at night. The kiss we'd shared had taken on a dreamlike quality, something examined and re-examined from so many angles, over so many hours, that it barely seemed real to me anymore. Kinda like how you write the same word a dozen times and it loses its meaning; a splintered fragment of a once-known language.

Then he did it again.

Another girlfriend, another party, another knock back and another convenient excuse to come to me to get what he knew I was ready and far too willing to give. That time, he was sleeping over at my house and we spent what felt like hours necking on my bed. Just kissing. We were sixteen years old and horny as hell, but I swear all we did was kiss. I don't know why. Maybe we were afraid of going further.

The next day he acted like it had never happened, and so the pattern began.

Over the years I've made a thousand excuses—to myself, to others—for his behaviour. I've tried to explain it in a hundred different ways; told myself he was scared to admit his feelings, scared to come out. Except he wasn't. The bastard came out even before I did. And had a boyfriend first—a real, live, actual _boyfriend_. His name was Will and I hated his guts. It didn't last long but he took Liam's virginity, stole it from me.

I gave Liam my virginity in return, during a dry spell when it seemed any warm body would do. He only wanted a quick leg-over, but to me, it felt like making love.

And so the years passed. College, A Levels, university. We both stayed in Manchester, although we moved out of our parents' houses to rent a flat together. He went to Manchester University because he's smart as well as beautiful, and eventually got a job in some trendy little advertising company writing copy for million pound campaigns. I took my more average exam results to Salford and studied journalism, then got lucky enough to land a job with the BBC when they moved their operation up north.

We have our own places now, although we live pretty close. I bought a boxy little new build in Hulme, whereas he lives in The Edge, the swanky plate-glass building located right in the city centre, whose sail-like structure used to dominate the landscape before some developer built the Beetham Tower. I think Liam's parking space cost more than my entire house.

So we worked hard through the week and played hard through the weekend. When Liam had a boyfriend we went to the Village, but the women he dated thought gay bars passé, and with them we went to the trendy hotspots at Deansgate Locks instead. I'm not sure if he ever told them about himself, or if they thought he just humoured his gay best friend. It turned my stomach to think he was earning brownie points for being okay about me when he was screwing me behind their snotty, stuck-up backs.

I wasn't single through all that time, of course. I got a boyfriend of my own after college, a couple through uni and one or two afterwards, but they never lasted long. Just until they worked out that they'd never replace my best friend in my heart, and as Liam never seemed to get along with them anyway, it was for the best. The simmering hostility gave me a headache, and it was easier to break up and remove the complications they brought into my life.

Which is how I ended up here: lying naked on my sweaty sheets, listening to Liam let himself out of my house. It must have been four or five in the morning—we hadn't left the club until two—but he'd refused my offer to sleep over as he always did, and was probably right now getting into the taxi he'd called while I was still wiping the evidence of our tryst off my chest.

_I'm not upset_ , I told myself, curling around a pillow which smelled faintly of him, of his cologne and sweat and musk. I'd done this a hundred thousand times over the years we'd been fooling around, and I could handle it. I just had to remind myself that I could handle it.

If I didn't get to sleep until the sun was up and the birds outside were singing, well, that was just my own stupidity, wasn't it?

## *

"I can't do this anymore."

I froze with my pint half-raised to my lips. "What?"

"This. Whatever it is we're doing. I can't."

"Why not?"

I lifted the pint the last couple of inches and sipped, willing my hand not to shake. If either of us was to call time on our little arrangement, I'd always imagined it would be me; I'd be the one to break. What had Liam got to lose?

"Viv suspects something, I'm almost sure of it."

"So?" I returned the pint carefully to the raised table against which we were leaning.

"So I care about her, Toby. I want this one to work."

My guts twisted. "When did you decide this?" I asked, trying to keep the bitter edge out of my tone.

"You know I like her," he protested, not really answering my question.

"You like them all, Liam. That hasn't stopped you before." I was hissing the words, the venomous, sibilant accusation slicing through the thumping bass of the Village bar.

"Well maybe Viv's different," he snapped, blue eyes flashing with angry light. "We can't keep doing this, Toby. We're too old."

Screw him, 'too old'. We were twenty-bloody-eight. We'd been doing whatever it was we did for almost half our lives. We couldn't just... _stop_.

"We should be...friends. Real friends."

"We are friends," I snapped. "Friends with benefits."

His laugh was utterly humourless. "Is it a benefit, though? Or was it all a big mistake?"

I recoiled like he'd slapped me. If he'd slapped me, it would have been easier to deal with.

"Do you regret it?" I asked, unable to bite my tongue and make myself stop.

"No... I don't think so." His smooth brow furrowed in a frown and suddenly it seemed he found the scratched tabletop the most interesting thing in the world.

"Then why?" I asked, plaintive and a little whiny.

"When did you last date someone?" he asked instead.

I shrugged. "I don't know. A year ago, maybe."

"Exactly. Don't you think that's a problem?"

"It's not my fault every guy I meet is a prick."

Liam sighed, long and loud. "What if they're not, Toby? What if they were just nice guys who really liked you but couldn't get close because we've got this crazy co-dependent thing going on and we wouldn't let them?"

We?

I stammered half a response.

"I'm as much to blame," Liam admitted. "Probably more. I started this whole thing, after all. That's why I think it's got to be me who stops it."

"What if I don't want to stop?" I whispered the words, my eyes wide and beseeching.

"Oh, Toby." He cupped my cheek and I butted my head into his hand like a cat seeking comfort. "That's why we've got to, don't you see? Before one of us gets hurt."

Before?

Something in my irritated snort and eyeroll must have given me away, because I can't say I'd ever seen Liam contrite before, but that's exactly how he looked. Instead of speaking, however, he rose from the high stool on which he was half-sitting, took my hand and led me onto the small, crowded dance floor. With the bass thumpa-thumping in our ears and the heat of a hundred closely-packed bodies surrounding us, he kissed me, in public, for the very first time.

It felt like goodbye.

## *

We didn't see each other for two whole months after that night. We kept in touch via occasional text messages and one strained phone call early on, but it was too painful, too raw for me to engage. Liam had his life and I had to let him lead it. I also needed to find a life of my own.

I went out with other friends, acquaintances, even escorted a receptionist from work who wanted a guided tour of the Village with some of her loud, obnoxious girlfriends. It was the longest separation from him I'd ever know and I missed him like a limb, like I'd lost one of my senses, given it up after he took me home and left me standing in the doorway, the ghost of an impression of his lips against mine the last thing I had to hold onto.

I vacillated between extremes for a while, yo-yoed from going out every night desperately seeking a man to help me forget, to staying in, closing the door and locking myself away from the rest of the world. My friends thought it a good thing Liam had called time on the physical side of our friendship, convinced he had been poisoning my other relationships. They took me to the cinema and for meals at ethnic restaurants, even bowling. Anything to provide an alcohol-free distraction.

I even thought I was starting to get over him. Starting to... Until he called.

Just the sight of his name on the screen of my phone was enough to stop my heart. His husky hello jump-started it again, a rapid tattoo I was sure he must be able to hear through the connection.

"Toby? Toby?"

I swallowed thickly. "Hey."

"Hey. Um... I was wondering... Do you fancy doing something tonight? We've not seen each other in ages and, well,"—he cleared his throat—"I miss you."

"I miss you, too." The words slipped out, too keen and too honest. "But what about Viv?"

"We, ah, um, we broke up."

"I'm sorry." A small part of me probably was, even if the rest was doing a happy dance.

"Yeah, well, turns out she wasn't the one for me after all."

_I could have told you that!_ my inner voice screamed, but I bit down on actually speaking the words.

"Water under the bridge." I could practically see him shrugging, the shoulders of his beautifully tailored suit rising with the rippling movement. "So, tonight? You doing anything?"

_You_. "No."

"The Village?"

"Really?"

"Why not?"

Why not, indeed? "I'll meet you there."

I spent forever getting ready. The dress code for the Village is generally lax, but that didn't mean nobody made an effort. Liam would be in jeans and a black, close-fitting T-shirt if I knew him, and my own attire was similar, although the dramatic graffiti-style wings stencilled onto the back of my top added a splash of colour. It was early June so I left my jacket at home, the short capped sleeves of the T-shirt showing off the new tattoo an old uni friend had talked me into getting a few weeks earlier. The itching had finally stopped, my skin healed, and I wanted to show it off while it was still new and vibrant.

Liam noticed it immediately, grabbed my arm and shoved my sleeve up over my shoulder to examine it.

"What changed your mind?" he demanded. I'd been talking of getting it done for months, but had always put it off.

I shrugged. "Just seemed time to bite the bullet."

Liam nodded, frowning in concentration as he traced the outline of the dark blocks of colour.

I waited with baited breath for his response. He wasn't tattooed himself, but several of his exes had been. I wished I could have had some gorgeous twining, tendriled thing, but I lacked the definition in my biceps to make such a design work. Instead I'd opted for a more Celtic, tribal theme, large blocks of blue-black covering my upper arm and shoulder with stripes of unmarked flesh forming striking geometric patterns through the ink.

"I love it." He released me with a broad smile that I returned in kind, secretly relieved, even though I hadn't got it for him.

I made tentative enquiries, as the night passed, what had gone wrong with Viv. Personally, I thought any twenty-something woman named Vivian was bound to have been born with a stick up her arse, but Liam had seemed to really like her. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about what had gone wrong, although I had my suspicions cemented when he insisted on acting—in his own words—as _queer_ as he possibly could.

For the record, Liam doesn't flame. By appearance alone you'd say he was a quiet, staid, nice boy you could take home to meet your mother. Only those closest to him knew he'd probably promptly seduce her, and your father, too. He was irresistibly attractive, smart, wealthy, softly-spoken and unfailingly polite. Who would suspect that beneath such a polished exterior lurked a playboy party animal with a wicked—in every sense—sense of humour? Certainly few people would guess his sexuality was as fluid as the fine-spun silk from which his suits were tailored.

I loved that I was privy to those details, that I alone knew every facet of his complex personality, and loved him anyway. Loved him because of all the things he was, not despite them.

I stood at the crowded bar and simply watched him. It was three in the morning and he was dancing at the front of the club's raised stage, surrounded by a host of squabbling admirers. The music had turned hard and heavy, mirroring the atmosphere, the dirty bass dripping down the walls. Liam was lost in a tangle of limbs, some Hindu god come to life. Hands were groping, hips slamming, bodies writhing as Liam ground against the guy next to him, their faces close. My heart thudded in time with the slowing bass and the room began to tilt sideways as they danced closer, arms snaking around each other, and Liam crossed the last of the distance between them to claim a hot, sweaty kiss.

I was across the club in a trice, elbowing revellers out of my way left and right, spilling drinks and getting shoved back as I shoved them. I didn't care who I trampled in my haste to get to the foot of the stage. Not so long ago I'd have sighed to myself and let Liam get on with it, but not this time. He wasn't doing this to me again. We'd been best friends since we were four years old, lovers for half our lives and dammit, it was about time he gave me a chance for more. I was done passively letting him use me, letting him think he could pick me up and drop me whenever a better offer came along. I might not have the muscles or the looks of the guy currently slathered all over his face, but I must have something to offer, some worth. Liam was always telling me I'd make someone a great boyfriend. It was time he put his money where his mouth was.

The stage being some four feet high, I was at knee-height to Liam when I stood on the dance floor in front of him. Any other time that might have seemed a disadvantage, but I was not in the mood for feeling daunted. I slapped his legs and tugged on his jeans until he finally surfaced for air and decided to investigate. Looking down and seeing me, he dropped his new friend and crouched, our faces close.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I demanded.

"What?"

"Him." I indicated the other dancer, who was watching us with undisguised interest. I wondered briefly who I thought I was, if I was Liam's boyfriend, if he cared.

"What about him?" Liam backed away far enough for me to see his confused expression.

I almost gave up. If he really didn't know why I was upset... But this felt important, it felt like a turning point. Passive little good-time Toby was dead.

"Get down here." I half-helped, half-hauled Liam off the stage. He landed on his feet, steadied himself against a stranger and turned back to me, his expression still bewildered. The bass thumped and bodies swarmed around us and there was no way I was going to say everything I wanted to say in front of dozens of curious strangers—none of whom were even bothering to hide their interest in our conversation—even if I could have made myself heard above the music.

Liam followed placidly as I led him out of the club. The sun wouldn't rise for another hour but already the sky was paling, the deep violet fading and the tall buildings of the city centre standing in stark relief to the night like watchful guardians, the twinkling red and orange and white lights at their extremities shining brighter than the stars.

The five-minute cab ride seemed to last forever. I refused to talk to Liam until we were in the privacy of my home, but he refused to give up asking me what was wrong. With every word he uttered, my mood grew blacker, a dark and malevolent thing riding in the backseat between us.

By the time I opened my front door and ushered him into my house, I don't know which of us was angrier.

"Are you going to explain yourself?" Liam demanded, pacing the room like a caged panther. "I was in there!"

"Exactly." I also remained standing, too tense to sit.

"What does that mean?"

"If you think I'm going to spend the rest of my life watching you get off with other men, you've got another think coming. I can't do it, Liam. You can't make me."

"Toby—"

"No, Liam. I know you, you're not this stupid."

He stopped pacing, suddenly apprehensive.

"You must know how I feel about you?"

"I, I..."

"I love you, you idiot. I've always loved you."

We stood facing each other in the silence which followed my words. I was holding my breath, my heart hardly daring to beat, waiting for the axe to fall. Liam—my brash, beautiful Liam—looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, wide-eyed and terrified.

After the longest of pauses, he finally spoke. "I know."

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better. If anything, it made me feel worse.

"What the hell do you mean, you know?" I snarled. "You mean you've been using me all this time—"

Liam winced. "It wasn't like that."

"Then explain it to me." I sat, arms and legs crossed, right foot tapping furiously against my left leg. I couldn't have made my body language more defensive if I'd tried.

"You're my best friend... I don't want to lose our friendship."

"That's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. Try again."

"It's the truth!" he snapped, glaring at me.

"Whatever we are, Liam, we're not friends." Friends didn't use each other, didn't take advantage of someone's feeling just to get an easy lay. Friends weren't that cruel to one other.

"What are we then?" he demanded. "You put a name on it, since you're the one who's so keen to label us."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I countered.

"I know you've told everyone about us. I know what you want—"

"Is that such a terrible thing?"

"What if it goes wrong?" His eyes were wide, haunted by untold fears, and for a split-second I saw into his very soul, before the shutters came down and he locked me out.

"Is that all that's stopping you?" I asked, heart in my mouth and hardly daring to hope.

"Isn't it enough? We've known each other since we were five, Toby. What if we break up after six weeks and I never see you again?"

"What if we don't? What if everything works out and fifty years from now we're celebrating our golden anniversary?"

Liam laughed, cutting some of the tension from the room. "You think you'd put up with me for that long?"

"Forever," I said, perfectly seriously. I hardly remembered my life before Liam entered it, and couldn't imagine a future without him.

"How..." He swallowed thickly. "How would that even work?"

"You've had relationships before," I replied sardonically. "Cards on the table, Liam. I love you. I love you and it's killing me. If you don't feel the same way then I'll understand, but you can't treat me like all your other mates, you can't expect me to sit back and watch you pick up other guys when we're out. And you can't pick me up and drop me whenever you feel like it, either! I deserve better than that."

He was nodding frantically. "I know, I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not enough. 'Sorry.' I don't care that you're sorry, Li, we have to stop doing it! And,"—I took a deep breath—"and if you don't want anything more, you need to give me time to accept it."

"Would you?" he asked curiously. "Accept it, that is?"

I fought to keep my face from breaking and revealing just how much it hurt to hear him say he didn't want me. "Yes," I said thickly, choking on the word. "I, I think I was starting to, before tonight."

"We could still be friends?"

"Yes, dammit!" I closed my eyes, concentrated on the sharp sting of my nails digging into my palms, the sensation grounding me in the present. "But I can't, I can't see you. Not for a while."

"For how long?"

"I don't know, Liam!" How long does it take to mend a broken heart? "Just, please, go. Please."

"Now?"

"Yes." I ground out the word through gritted teeth, my eyes still closed. The room was utterly silent. Liam wasn't speaking, but he wasn't leaving, either.

I startled as he touched my knee, the heat from his palm branding me through my jeans. When I opened my eyes, I looked straight into his.

"What if I don't want to leave?" he whispered.

I was trembling, I noticed with strange detachment. My hands were curled into tight fists, palms sweating. I'd crossed my legs so tightly my foot was going numb. On his knees before me, Liam tipped his head to look deeper into my eyes, a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

"Wha-what?"

"Fifty years, you say?" He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, flushing out the colour. Outside, a car turned into my street, momentarily illuminating the room with its headlights. It would take less than a second for me to lean forward and claim the kiss I knew he was thinking about giving me.

"Is this a joke?" I asked weakly, clinging onto my last shreds of strength and dignity by my fingernails.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Why, then?" I had to know, had to be sure he was really considering giving us a chance. I had to know this wasn't just another cheap ploy to get me into bed.

"Because I've been going crazy missing you these last two months. Because whoever I'm with, I always come back to you. Because maybe you're right that this can work and I've been an idiot all these years for being afraid."

We shared a small, indulgent laugh at that, the idea of Liam being afraid of anything too absurd to contemplate.

He touched his forehead to mine and I sobered in a second. "Is this really what you want?"

"How many times, yes. Yes I want it, I want you. I think I always have."

I still had a hundred questions tripping over my tongue, a hundred answers he owed me—why he'd waited so long, why he hadn't said something, why he left it until I was ready to give up before speaking his heart. I was still mad at him, and there was still an argument waiting for us after all of this was over, but right in that moment I couldn't articulate a word of it. Not with Liam kneeling at my feet, nuzzling my face, his stubble scraping over my jaw as he smothered me in butterfly kisses, working his way slowly but surely to my lips.

"Wait."

His breath ghosted over my lips, our mouths so close we were almost touching.

"If you hurt me, Liam McGinty, I will have your balls on a plate."

Liam chuckled at that and caressed my cheek. "If I hurt you, I'll serve them up myself."

It was all I needed to hear.

I surged forward, my arms around his neck as I threw myself into the kiss. Not our first, by any means, but still something new and scary-different: so good I felt my heart might explode. I couldn't turn back the clock and make myself the first man Liam ever kissed, but God help me, I was going to be the last.

## * * *

Kate Aaron lives in Cheshire, England, with two dogs, a parrot, and a bearded dragon named Elvis.

Find her online at http://KateAaron.com

## *

####

# A Kiss Through Time

## Robert Thomas

### Chapter 1: Guns of Mortain

#### August, 1943

The rain eased as the heat of the day began to give way, the winds and water having been swept in from the channel. What had surged over the U.S. 30th infantry the past several days had stolen what little strength and resolve they had remaining. The setting sun began to chisel its fading light out from behind the gray wall of clouds before its fall would once again bring darkness to this tiny forgotten town, this backwater in Normandy. Pfc Willy McGuiness slid his hand across his dirty forehead wiping away the water that had dripped from beneath his pot helmet into his eyes.

"You fixin' to sleep your turn ta' night?"

"I most certainly am." Willy looked up at his companion and smiled. "One of these days I'm going to teach you how to speak proper English, Hooker."

"What?" The smile from the big southern boy rivaled the setting sun. "It's the only English I knows." Hooker stretched his frame out across the first dry patch of ground he had seen in days. "If'n I talk like you, I'll never be 'llowed back in Alabama."

"There's other places to explore in this world, Hooker."

"Likes where? Here? Where we even be at?"

"Well, maybe not here." Willy looked quickly for a dry patch but was too tired to even care and plopped his butt down into the wet muck. "We're on the outskirts of a little French town called Mortain."

"How you know that?"

"I read the sign." It was Willy's turn to smile this time. He wearily shook his head and held up his hand. "No, I can't read French."

"Then how ya know..." The sudden and unmistakable sound stopped Hooker in mid-sentence. It was a sound they knew all too well; the grinding metal of wheels on tracks. "Maybe it's one of ours," he said in a low whisper.

"We don't have anything in front of us, not ours anyway."

Hooker rolled to his left off the dry bump into a shallow depression, his right hand bringing his other companion, his M1 up to his side. Willy slipped forward splashing water on Hookers back as he fell into the same depression, his rifle, covered with oil and grime at the ready. They had faced a fire-fight each of the last six days. Reinforcements had been promised. Lieutenant always said they were on their way. That was the running joke; they were, but for someone else.

The sun slinked back in behind the sullen sky and ensured the night world would come quickly. Willy slipped his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out the tattered photo. No matter the situation, she always brought a smile to his face. He kissed her softly and slid it back in his pocket. As he looked up, the flash from the Panzer's 75mm gun was the last thing they would see in the light of day.

## *

The sun broke through the low clouds beating back the morning haze. The end of August was always her favorite time of the year. The New England weather cooled August much quicker than most other parts of the country. She preferred it that way, not one for the hot summer months. She was more of a winter girl, a winter girl waiting for her soldier to come home, her lover, her new husband.

Kathleen McGuiness was flush with a new life. She had married her sweetheart, the only boy, the only man she ever loved. It was a hurried affair but she didn't mind. There were much larger issues in the world; the war, the rationing and the hardship. But she was a girl to stand on her own two feet. Her family had known hardship before, having fought through the depression when she was just a child. She chuckled at the notion, not much more than a child still, her mother had thought the day she married Willy McGuiness.

Her thoughts ambled back to the day of their wedding. The small church on Main Street across from the seawall in the heart of Camden looked as perfect as any girl could imagine. Its white facade had withstood the pounding weather for over seventy years. It had seen the celebrations of baptisms and christenings, weddings and its share of funerals many of those fishermen, their lives lost to the brutal Atlantic.

She hummed a tune that was a favorite, the melody light but haunting, the words soft and poetic as her fingers danced across the white ribbon as she flipped the last loop and tied the bow. The paper was a crisp blue and adorned with angel's wings. Her heart raced as she realized it would be Willy's first Christmas present from his wife. The melody of 'Ave Maria' echoed through her thoughts as she remembered words to a song she dearly loved and knew the days and nights would be long as she awaited the first Christmas with her husband.

She felt the warmth of the morning sun as it lit the entrance to the hallway through the open screen door. It would be a wonderful day it seemed but the sounds of the street were slightly louder than she cared to hear this early. She laid the small package on the hallway stand, the extra bit of weight making it rock forward. She would need to even the legs out sometime, or perhaps move it to a better spot.

The idling engine sounds so close to her door were annoying. She peered out as she neared the screen and slipped the hook up out of its ring. She paused as her eyes fell to an olive-green vehicle stopped on her side of the street, one house away. Two men dressed in army uniforms stood on the sidewalk looking down at a piece of paper then up again at the houses. Her heart fluttered as she took a deep breath. "They're not in front of my house," she thought. Kathleen pushed gently against the wooden frame and stepped out onto the porch, the worn wood creaking beneath her feet. The single white star painted on the door seemed faded. As she looked toward them their eyes rose in unison and came squarely to rest on her.

Their first steps came her way and her heart sank into the depths of hell itself. Her face streamed with tears immediately as they neared; she knew at once they had come for her. As they began the walk up the sidewalk her legs could no longer support her and she slumped to the porch. Her cries of torment echoed down the street as she clutched the front of her yellow dress and brought nearly all passersby to a halt. Everyone knew what it meant, knew the heartache that came with the message. The first soldier reached her and placed his hands on her head, his knee bending as he came down to meet her.

"My child." His rosary slipped out of his pocket and fell onto the porch. Captain Michael Meyer, an army chaplain and a Catholic priest had done this what seemed a thousand times, yet he could never get used to it. "God holds him now in the palm of his hands".

Her sobbing continued until she had nothing left to offer, her tears exhausted, her dress now torn from a nail poking up from the planks. A trickle of blood ran down her leg and stuck her stockings to her skin. Captain Meyer slid his arms down about her shoulders and held her in a gentle embrace. Her head came to rest against his chest as the last of the tears left their mark on her skin.

"Ma'am?" the second soldier offered, "are you Kathleen McGuiness?"

"Lieutenant!" Captain Meyer's tone was curt. "Not now."

"Captain, we need to be sure." Lt. Brandon Walker took no notice of the rebuff. They had done this many times together and he knew the captain's heart was in the right place, but he had been wrong once. It was a difficult moment. Captain Meyer nodded in agreement, his eyes downcast.

"Kathleen?"

"Yes." She choked back the words, fighting the tears she wished now not to show.

Captain Meyer's eyes lit with a loving fire. His faith was strong and his will unshakable to his duties. He had seen others give this information to a grieving new widow and simply walk away. He vowed he would never do that, not to one who suffered so.

"How," she paused, choking back the words.

"It's all in the letter, but I don't like doing it that way." Captain Meyer reached up to Lt. Walker and retrieved the official notice. "He was fighting in a little French town called Mortain just south of the channel. It's in Normandy. They were surprised by a counter assault from German tanks." He took a deep breath, holding it ever-so-slightly. "I'm sorry."

The official visit lasted nearly thirty minutes. As she gathered herself in the end, she managed to offer them a cup of tea. Captain Meyer's heart ached and his faith told him he had made the correct choice in life. They politely declined and said their goodbyes. The last thing she saw of them was the rounded trunk of the army sedan driving off down the street as the sounds of the Atlantic returned to the seawall.

Kathleen McGuiness stumbled back into her home, a structure that now had no feel, no heart; it was empty. She stared down the hallway where thirty minutes before she had been a happy bride with her future in front of her. Now, she had nothing. She staggered down the hall, her hand brushing the small package as she passed, knocking it to the floor. She took no notice, her thoughts in a jumble.

## *

She tightened the white belt of her coat as she stared blankly at the closet door before her. The last several months had been difficult, to say the least. She often found it hard to focus and lived day to day with no conviction, no sense of purpose. She knew she could no longer go on this way. As the summer closed and the last three months of the year took hold she had made her decision, one that would change her life forever. It was time to move on.

Her gaze passed over the surfaces of the hallway, a place that for a few months held all the hope she could imagine. Now it was empty, yet she couldn't take her eyes off the stained door at the end of the hall. As she finished wrapping her belt, her hand slipped to the small package on the wooden table. It had been there for months. She gingerly picked it up and felt its weight. The bow was nearly perfect, the blue paper still crisp. Without another thought she purposefully strode toward the closet with the package in hand, opened the door and closed it behind her. She came out, letting the door slip behind her as she leaned back against it, the latch clicking as it closed. She stared ahead, the front door calling her to a new life, a life she desperately needed, and another door closed behind her as she made her way out into the world.

### Chapter Two: Uncovered

#### September, 2003

The door creaked as it opened, the hinges rebelling against the movement, the stale air forcing a weak cough from the home's new owner. It was evident it had been unoccupied for many years. The long hallway was covered with a fine layer of dust and cobwebs hung from the center light. She looked around for a switch to see if it even worked. Fortunately the midday light was enough, as the first switch she tried returned an empty click. Nothing. That single touch told her what she needed to know, the place hadn't been updated in likely fifty years.

Even with that, she smiled. It was home, a home she could afford. Vicki Sumter stepped fully into the hallway, jumping back quickly as the webs she hadn't seen clung to her hair. The eerie shake started at her neck and slid all the way down to her toes. She hated spiders! With a deep breath and a new resolve she stepped again into the hallway opening the door so the day would penetrate as deeply as possible.

The flood of light illuminated the musty hall with a soft glow, the polish of the old wood hinting at what once had been. She didn't know much about the property but she didn't need to. It was a roof over her head, a roof she desperately needed. She was alone, at least for now, and she had a week to clean and get the place ready before the kids would join her from their grandmother's. She dropped the one bag she had on the floor and heard the thud of solid wood beneath her feet. Perhaps the place had promise after all.

The next week was a flurry of activity as she worked to bring her musty old house back to life, a life she intended to live to the fullest. She was a young captain's wife and she had a husband to be proud of. He was a stickler for order and precision and he liked a house that matched. Each step she swept, each window she cleaned, felt as it was one step closer to bringing him back from the Middle East. He was in his third tour of duty and he promised it would be his last, at least in that part of the world if he could help it. She stepped back from the window, the sill now clean and shiny as the old wood came back to life. "This sure beats the housing on a base," she thought.

As the week wound down she began to look forward to her kids coming home. She had been so busy cleaning and looking for a part time job, she nearly forgot about them. But they would be here soon, the day after tomorrow. Their rooms were ready and what little they had was put in its proper place. Her own bedroom would be the last thing she tackled. It had no urgency. There were more important things to do.

The next two days passed quickly and one last sweep of the main hallway was finished with a quick step. The door to the closet was opened and she stepped inside. Such a large space, but she was happy for it. The closet was obviously a throwback to a time where homes needed a large storage area for coats and shoes, boxes and bags and the other necessities of life. The other rooms had little storage, and in times past, their walls were lined with furniture for that reason. Closets in a bedroom were tiny if they were there at all. It would be nice to have a newer house, but that was out of the question.

She looked around, spying the boxes she had carefully stored. Each now had its place and the size of the closet made for easy organization. Hats and coats there, a vacuum and cleaning rags there and plenty of extra shelves and cubby holes for boxes and bags. She stood with her hands on her hips and smiled. "And a good place for Christmas presents," she thought. She looked up at the light; "one thing I forgot to dust," she smirked. She slid the simple chair at the back of the closet beneath the light, grabbed hold of a thick wooden shelf and pulled herself up. A quick dusting now finished, her hand again reached for the shelf, but this time, she drew back quickly, startled. What had she touched? The thought of a spider unsettled her, made her shiver, but her curiosity was more than she could tame.

Lifting herself up on her toes, she craned her neck to see what she touched, reaching out gently. Her fingers gingerly nudged a small package; a wrapped one, she could now tell. Vicki pulled it forward and stepped off the chair. The blue wrapping was faded and the bow thin from years of neglect, yet with a look to the tag on the side, it was obvious what it was; a Christmas present. She stepped into the light of the hall and closed the door behind. The light of day fully revealed the neglect this little package had endured. She turned the tag over to read the name; Willy.

## *

The day dawned to a soft rain coming in from the sea on a gentle breeze. She could feel the change in the air as day by day, the month began to slip away. Autumn would quickly be upon them, and here in New England, that meant cold. She stamped her feet to keep them warm, her slippers offering little protection against the wet breeze. She looked up and down the street, the ocean providing a perfect backdrop for the coming season. She had grown up in the South, away from the harsh realities of winter and this would be a new experience. "Nope, no kids yet."

The morning gave way to noon and as she sipped warm coffee from her ceramic cup she heard the distinctive sound of the forties-style doorbell. With the cup quickly returned to the saucer she headed out of the kitchen and down the main hall. The door swung open as the first of her children burst into their new home.

"Sarah." Her face lit with a broad smile. She bent her knee to the hardwood floor as her youngest daughter crashed into her at a dead run.

"Momma, you're hurting me," she giggled as she squirmed in her mother's arms.

Vicki was slow to release her child, the pangs of heartache giving way to sheer joy as she embraced her 'baby'. She unwrapped Sarah and extended her arms toward her eldest. Her smile was returned with muted silence.

"Natalie, come give me a hug." Vicki stayed where she was, still as a statue waiting for her daughter. "Come oooon." Her smile was more than Natalie could refuse and a gentle smile lit her eyes. It was only moments later that she was enveloped in her mother's embrace. "I love you so much," she whispered. "I know it has been hard these last few months, but we'll get by."

Natalie pulled back and cradled her mother's face in her hands. Her smile was tenuous; she didn't believe it, and Vicki could see it in her eyes. They had struggled through some tough times and she knew there were more to come. The harder she tried to mask her fears the more her mother saw through her front. Vicki looked up as Patrick's mother stepped through the door. She dropped her grandchildren's bags and immediately looked around.

"Nice place you have here." Holly's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"It's clean, and it's ours." Vicki rose and walked toward her mother-in-law, who stood rigidly in the doorway. "Here, let me take those." She reached down and took the two bags from the floor, turned and placed them against the wall supporting the staircase. At that instant the sun broke through the round window high on the staircase wall and flooded the entryway. It made Vicki smile.

"I suppose if you insist." Holly smiled wide and broke her stoic look. Vicki stepped up quickly and wrapped her arms around her. She was the only mother she had left. "Now, where's my room?"

## *

The weather started downhill quickly as September faded and October took hold. The rains in the final weeks of the month continued into the first week of the next. Vicki opened the back door and looked out into the quagmire that had become her yard. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as her hand ran up the wood door fame. A splinter made her jerk her hand away suddenly. She eyed the slit in her finger and leaned her shoulder against the frame. Winter was coming on quickly.

She turned as the whistle from the teapot caught her ear. She casually walked to the stove, poured the steaming water into her cup and returned to the table. The smell of the green tea eased her nerves as she rested her head in her hands. The check from the government was late and the expense of moving had added unexpected bills which demanded to be paid. Another heavy sigh escaped her lips. She picked up the cup and lifted it, blowing softly across its surface as her eyes stared at the other end of the table. Holly stood across from her, a letter in hand.

"What's that?"

"A letter." Holly's reply seemed vacant while her eyes scanned the page. She laid the envelope on the table as she lowered herself into the chair opposite her daughter-in-law. Finished, she dropped the paper on the wood, leaned back and took a deep breath.

"Well?"

Holly did not answer immediately and the short pause seemed interminable.

"Pat's not coming home for Christmas." The emptiness in her voice was unmistakable.

"What do you mean he's not coming home?" Vicki's eyes widened with her own shock. "He, he promised."

"He has new orders."

"I don't give a damn about new orders." Vicki's voice nearly raised the roof. "He's got a family, a wife and children."

"And a mother...."

Vicki closed her eyes tight, fighting back a scream. The tea cup in her hands began to shake as her grip tightened about the porcelain. She set it quickly into the saucer and took a deep breath.

"And a mother, of course."

"We'll get by. I have my own income to help out with."

"But Christmas is coming." Vicki let her forehead fall into her hands, her elbows resting on the table. "I wanted a nice one this year for the girls. They're getting so much older now."

"We'll do what we need." Holly stared straight ahead not hearing her own words or believing them. "Gifts are for little children, not young ladies."

"I would hardly call either of them young ladies. They are children and they deserve a proper Christmas." Vicki's voice trailed off. "It's been so long since they had one." With those words the sky opened and the rains that had been held back by the morning clouds released their measure upon the grounds as a single drop added its chorus down her cheek.

## *

The weeks passed slowly as the house began to take shape. It was the only thing that she could hold onto. It kept her mind busy, busy not thinking about her husband, a husband kept away by circumstances beyond his control. That was the life of a soldier and the life of a soldier's wife. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, her hands on her hips as the light from the setting sun flooded the painted upper windows, letting the rich colors float toward the floor.

"Beautiful." Holly stepped into the hallway from the kitchen, a cup of tea in her hand. "Want some?"

"No, not in the mood."

"I'll bet those windows haven't been cleaned in fifty years."

"I wonder how many families have come through this door over the years?"

"A few I'll bet. Here, let me get you a cup."

Vicki relented as she wiped the dirt from her hands, the wet cloth nearly black from the grime. Holly nodded and with a quick turn of the head, slipped back into the kitchen, her daughter-in-law in tow. They each sat down in their familiar chairs, looking across the table at each other.

"Now, what's on your mind?" Holly leaned back in the chair, her back coming to rest against the spindles, and brought the steaming cup to her lips.

"It's surprising how well you know me. My own mother never knew me that well."

"Your mother only knew you as a child. I know you as an adult. That makes for a very different person."

"I'm not sure how you will react." Vicki set her cup down on the saucer and leaned back. "I have a job offer."

"That's wonderful."

"You don't mind?"

"Mind? Of course not." Holly leaned forward with a gracious smile. "Besides, we can use the money."

"But that means you'll be watching the kids more often."

"I think I can handle it, Vicki." A turn of the head downward with raised eyes was a knowing gesture to her new daughter. "I've raised kids before, you know. Who's offering?"

"It doesn't pay much. It's the county office down on Walker Street. I would be the receptionist for them."

"Why, that's wonderful."

"You haven't heard the pay yet."

"It doesn't matter. It's more than we have coming in now. We'll manage."

### Chapter Three: A Lost Past

The rain stopped just long enough for her to dash from her parking place to the drab, stocky building two blocks away. Like many buildings constructed along the coast, it was built to withstand the harsh realities of New England weather in all seasons. It made a suitable government office, drab and dreary. But it was a job, a paying job.

"May I help you?"

Vicki turned back to the small office after she closed the door, the rains erupting just as she stepped inside. She dropped her umbrella into the can, slipped off her coat and hung it directly on the hook above the radiator heater.

"Oh, hi Vicki. Glad you could make it."

"Hi George. I'm just not used to so much rain."

"That's what comes from living in these parts." George laid the papers he had been scanning back down on the tall counter and slid around its side, out into the small room. He pushed through the two-way panel-door holding both a big smile and a welcoming handshake. "Welcome to government work."

"Thanks," Vicki replied with a big smile of her own. "My husband is a captain stationed overseas. I'm used to government work." Her hand met George's and she felt like she was home.

"I'm going to give you some quick, hands-on experience. Where do you live?"

"Why?"

"I'll show you." George put up his hand and motioned with his finger. "Come."

They walked behind the counter and stood over a wide, square table covered with all manner of drawings and permits for buildings around the town. George tidied up the pile, stacking the drawings in an organized manner.

"Where do you live?"

"Over on Front Street, number 45."

George moved over to a series of gray steel cabinets lined up against the rear wall. As he rifled through the drawers, she let her eyes explore her new office. The walls were painted a stark government white but they were clean. The heating ducts were large and exposed and kept the room comfortable, at least for now. She was sure a heady New England winter would change that. George was back at the table within minutes, a fistful of documents in his hands.

"What's all this?"

"This is the history of your current home." He spread the papers out and sorted them. "These tell who owned it and when, if there were any permits taken out for significant structural changes or repairs made, such as electrical upgrades or things like that."

"And you're telling me this, why?"

"Because this is some of what you will be doing for others who may have questions about their home. Look these over and you can get a sense of what some people may be looking for." He stepped back and motioned with the wave of a hand. "I hate to throw you into the deep end on your first day, but I need to step out for a few minutes."

"What?" Vicki's face went pale as she stood staring at George, her mouth hanging slightly open.

"Oh, now don't be alarmed. I won't be gone but for an hour or so. If anyone has any questions, which I don't think they will, just tell them I'll be back shortly."

"Whatever you say." Vicki looked at him, her eyes as wide as pie plates.

"I'll be back soon." George was quickly at the front wall and lifted his coat off the hook that was nailed to the old slat-wall. She sighed as her new boss slipped on a slicker that looked every bit of twenty years old, then turned and nodded with a gentle smile. His face was full, but aged as that of an old sea captain. He looked like a true New Englander, almost an old salt if there ever was one.

The hour passed quickly as she dug into the paperwork. To her, it was like looking back into an hourglass of time. She walked back through each owner, the deeds taking her back over fifty years. There were a few gaps, a noticeable one during the war years. She was started as the bells above the door tinkled, the steel top pushing past. She hadn't even noticed them when she came in to start the day.

"That didn't take long."

"I told you it wouldn't." George turned and replaced his coat on the same hook he took it from. She immediately sized him up as a creature of habit. "Any visitors?"

"None."

The next few weeks went quickly at work as she learned the ins and outs of a new job. Her schedule varied little other than the days of the week. Some weeks she worked three days, some four and others, all five. She was relieved that offices were closed on the weekends. It wasn't long before she felt as if she had been there for years. It was comfortable, one of the few things in her life that was.

## *

The weeks dragged by as she went about her days, the routines of life taking hold. Having a degree in history, this job had a special calling for her. This place held the history of the town and what happened within, and that got her to thinking about the little package she had found.

The next few weeks became nearly a cloak and dagger mystery. She had kept the package unopened, the faded paper and bow resting on her nightstand. She looked at it every day. It called to her, the one word written on the tag; Willy. She had made up her mind, she would find its owner.

During her lunch times or when it was just generally slow, she delved into the drawings and paperwork that told the story of 45 Front Street. She was impressed at how much paperwork a little old house brought to life. Then, the Monday after Thanksgiving, she pulled a roll of paper from a file drawer in the basement of the building. She could smell the must folded into the paper. Several large drawings were rolled together and tied with string, the words '45 Front' written in grease pencil on the outside.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat as she ran back up the stairs, sprinting to the center table. She fumbled with the string, at last just cutting it with a scissors. The pages remained curled but she gingerly spread them out, weighting them down at the edges. Her eyes scanned the top page, coming down to the bottom corner and the name, Willy McGuiness.

## *

The next week began a new adventure as Vicki Sumter had a new passion in life; she was now a detective. Knowing it would be too large of a job for just herself, she enlisted the help of her daughters and her mother-in-law. It soon became a game; who could find a clue? They poured over every list and form they could to find a clue to Willy McGuiness. After two weeks and endless internet searches, she was ready to give up until the door to the office opened, the bell a revealing tell. "Leave it to the pros," she thought. That's when she knew her words rang true as she turned and came face to face with the Chief of Police.

"Morning, Vicki."

"Good morning, Chief." Vicki laid her forms down and gave him a warm smile. "What brings you in today, Chief?"

"Just waiting for George. He's to meet me here."

"Well, since you're waiting, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, shoot."

"Suppose I was looking for someone, someone from a long time ago." Vicki leaned on the counter, crossing her arms on the top. "What's the best way to find them?"

"Got a name?"

"Willy McGuiness."

"From how long ago?"

"I don't really know, the forties, perhaps? I found something in the house that belongs to him. I'd like to return it."

"That's a long time ago," he said, "But let me see what I can find." The Chief turned as the bell behind chimed. "I'll let you know."

The next two days were near agony for her. Every time she walked by the phone she stared at it, willing it to ring, yet it stayed silent. The dreariness of New England weather started to take its toll as well. The pretty winter scenes on mugs and tapestries now hung only on calendars as the dark skies covered her world. She lifted a warm mug of coffee to her lips as the bell rang at noon and she watched the Chief step into her office.

"Got a name for me?"

"You don't mince words, do you?" That quickly brought a smile. "Willy McGuiness fought in the war. He purchased that house you live in when he got married. He was killed in France."

"Oh, that war."

"Yes, that war. It was a long, long time ago."

"What happened to his wife? I'm sure she married and changed her name." Vicki's posture said it all as she slumped onto the counter.

"His wife remarried, yes, but it was never the same. Her second husband died a few years ago."

"How did you find all this out in just two days?" Again, her body language said it all as did the smile on her face.

"My uncle was a priest back in those days for the army. One of his duties stateside was to deliver the unfortunate news to families about their loved ones."

"Oh my." Vicki raised her hand to her lips. "That must have been terrible."

"It is a burden he lives with to this day. He remembers every one of the families; has kept in touch with many of them over the years, as a matter of fact."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Nothing to be sorry about. That was his life."

"Where can I find her?"

"She lives in the retirement home at St. Stephen's. All I know is, she is very old and frail."

"Do you think she accepts visitors?"

"Couldn't rightly say. I'd call the place and see what they say."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Vicki said with a playful smile as she turned back to her work.

"My pleasure, Vicki", the Chief said as he tipped his cap and headed out the door.

### Chapter Four: Home Again

She sat nervously in her car as the light snow built up on her windshield, the defroster having little effect. The call she made the day before to St. Stephen's was met with polite acknowledgment. The lady she had come to know as Kathleen McGuiness was now Kathleen Asner, a very old woman at the end of her life. She had outlived two husbands and one child. Something no mother and wife should have to live through. Vicki opened the door and stood, letting the soft snow fall onto her shoulders. The building before her looked austere, as drab and unfriendly as the city building she worked in. She closed the door and sighed. The short walk to the front door covered her shoes with a layer of fresh white. The door handle was about as cold as the greeting she received inside from the receptionist.

"Down the hall to the right, room 141."

Vicki only nodded in return, pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her coat. Her hand felt the bulk of the small package against her stomach. St. Stephen's was silent as she walked, the only sound the clicking of her heels against the wet tile floor. She could smell the age of the place, the tell-tale odor of a place where people go to... She stopped as the number before her caught her attention. 141. The heavy brown door was ajar and swung slightly as she knocked.

"Hello?" Her inquiry was returned with a feeble moan. She stepped inside, her eyes struggling to adjust to the low light. "Kathleen?"

"Yes?"

Vicki stepped forward looking around the curtain that hung from the ceiling like those in a hospital room. Not much of a retirement home, she thought. What she found nearly brought her to tears, a feeble old woman sitting in the dark in a wheelchair. Vicki stooped, lowering her eyes to Kathleen's level.

"Kathleen?" The old woman lifted her eyes, the look a blank stare. "Are you Kathleen Asner?" The woman nodded slowly. "I mean," Vicki cleared her throat to say the next words. "Are you Kathleen McGuiness?"

"Yes?" The sound of her name brought a spark of recognition. Her eyes lit and a faint smile caught her lips. "Who are you?" The words stumbled out of her mouth.

"My name is Vicki. I have something for you." Vicki leaned away from Kathleen as she steadied herself on the wheelchair. She reached inside her coat and pulled the package into the dim light. "I live in your old house. I found this and I thought you might like to have it back." Vicki brought the package up so she could better see it. "Do you remember it?"

Kathleen's eyes lit, her mouth opening in wonder. She lifted her arms from the chair, her hands trembling beneath their own weight. Vicki moved it toward her and helped to lay it in her lap. Kathleen lifted the faded paper, turning the tag over with her wrinkled fingers. Tears immediately streamed down her cheeks. She ran her hands over the thin ribbon, placing the package back in her lap.

"Can I open it for you?" A wide-eyed nod was all the encouragement Vicki needed.

The paper tore easily leaving only the box behind. A gentle tug separated the top from the bottom, revealing white tissue paper. Kathleen placed her hands within the box and peeled back the layers. Her fingers slipped beneath the contents as the box fell away to the floor, her hands holding firm to the frame Vicki could only see from behind.

Kathleen simply stared at what the frame held before lifting it to her lips, a gentle breath, a kiss long lost as her hands fell back to her lap. Vicki reached out, stroking Kathleen's white hair as she turned to see the photo in the golden frame, a photo of a young soldier in his dress uniform kissing his bride for the first time in a ravenous embrace.

A slight sigh escaped from Kathleen's lips as the frame slipped from her hands and fell to the hard floor. Vicki leaned forward and holding Kathleen's face in her hand, kissed her on the cheek as she reached up, and gently closed Kathleen's eyes for the final time.

## * * *

Robert currently resides in the United States' Midwest and is an author of fantasy and epic fantasy books, including _The Crystal Point Legacy_ trilogy, and a new series, _The Last Elf Prophecy_.

Visit http://robertthomasbooks.com to see all of Robert's books.

## *

# Songs From the Heart

## Mona Ingram

### Chapter One

"Pete?"

"Yes, Miss Malone?"

"Pull over here, would you?" Mandy edged forward on her seat as the limo approached her old high school. The schoolyard was empty now, in the middle of the summer. The grass was already making its annual comeback; it would be lush and green by the time September rolled around, and the cycle would start all over again.

Her gaze drifted to the trees at the far end of the yard. Noticeably taller now, they'd spread until their branches interlocked. She and her friends had spent many an hour under those trees, discussing whatever they'd decided was the vitally important topic of the day. She smiled at the memory.

"A bit farther along, Pete."

The limousine inched along and Mandy lowered the tinted windows.

"Now what are you doing?" Simon had been silent thus far, which was surprising. But his need for control won out. "We have to get out to the Sage Bowl and do a sound check."

Mandy ignored him. They had plenty of time and he knew it. "I'll get out up here, Pete."

"Christ, Mandy. If anyone recognizes you, we'll be mobbed."

It was all she could do to keep silent. Her manager loved any type of mob scene. As a matter of fact, she was fairly sure that he instigated them from time to time to drum up interest in her performances. Foolish, really, as her concerts consistently sold out within a day of the tickets going on sale. She still pinched herself every time one of her songs raced to the top of the charts, and more than once she'd wondered if she really deserved the adoration of her fans, or the accolades for her work. But having the best songwriter in the business didn't hurt...

A low stone fence rimmed this end of the playground. Every fifty feet or so there was a break to walk through and she did that now, admiring the craftsmanship of the stonemason. The School Board had wisely decided to preserve the fence, which had been built in the first half of the twentieth century by a family of Italian craftsmen who had settled in this part of the Okanagan Valley. She wandered along toward the swing set and then sat down on the fence, lost in memories of those days spent here in Gold Creek.

Stirred by a gentle breeze, the trees whispered in welcome, and for a moment she drifted back in time. She was sitting on a swing, pushing listlessly against the ground with the toe of her sneaker, listening as the other side presented the final argument on the topic _du jour_. The memory was so real, she could feel the sturdy chain links of the swing support under her palms, hot from the sun.

It had been her turn to lead the team arguing the 'pro' side. She couldn't even remember what the discussion had been about, but she'd lost the argument, and her friends applauded the winning side, then turned to her.

"Matthew wins!" chirped her best friend Sunny. "You have to forfeit."

"Thanks a lot." Mandy pretended to be angry, but she'd known from the outset that she was arguing a lost cause. She turned to Matthew. "So, what's it to be?"

"I think a kiss would be appropriate." He shoved up his glasses, but not before she saw something bloom in the depths of his eyes.

"A kiss?" It was all she could do to get the words out. Matt Williamson had come to Gold Creek in mid-year, and she hardly knew him. Tall and lanky, he seemed uncoordinated, and yet there was something about him that made her think a kiss from him might not be such a hardship.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" The crowd supported Matt's choice.

Her hands tightened around the chain of the swing as he approached. She imagined herself to be a bug trapped in amber, and yet she was a willing bug.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Her schoolmates weren't letting up.

Matt grasped the chains of the swing, covering her hands with his. This close, she saw the flecks of gold floating in the chocolate of his eyes, and her breath caught in her throat as he leaned closer.

"We don't have to do this, you know." His gaze held hers, then moved slowly down to her lips. "Although I can't think of a forfeit I'd rather have."

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" The words echoed across the schoolyard.

"Okay, what's going on here?"

Mandy was vaguely aware of the Vice-Principal's voice as he strode toward the group. How could she be expected to hear when her heart was pounding so hard? She and Matt looked at each other for several long seconds and then he pulled away to face 'Adolph.'

Steve Manley was the Vice Principal from hell. Pumped up by his imagined self-importance, he marched as he patrolled the halls of the small school, and had adopted a silly-looking moustache that resembled the one worn by Hitler. The nickname was inevitable.

Mandy stood, surprised that her legs would hold her. "Nothing, Mr. Manley."

He glared at Mandy, then Matt, as though trying to make up his mind. Waving a hand in the air, he dismissed them. "That's enough for today. You kids go home now."

Matt opened his mouth to argue. After all, school was over for the day. But Mandy had given him a subtle shake of her head, which he acknowledged with an imperceptible nod.

She hadn't thought about that day for years.

### Chapter Two

"Are you all right, Miss Malone?"

Startled, Mandy looked up and acknowledged the limo driver. "Yes, Pete. I was remembering when I went to high school here." She rose. "Doesn't seem like seven years ago."

His glance took in the entire area in one sweep. "I'll bet it was nice, going to a small school like this."

"It was." She stretched, and they started walking side by side back to the limo. "We used to hang out right here, by the swings, and discuss the problems of the world."

She didn't know why she was being so forthcoming. She'd found over the years that it was better not to share personal stories. There were too many tabloids willing to pay for snippets of conversation, which by the time they were printed, rarely resembled any conversation she recalled.

Simon was fuming by the time she crawled back into the limo.

"What was that? A walk down memory lane?"

His caustic tone, coming on the heels of such a gentle memory, was too much for her. She rolled up the glass partition between the back and the driver and turned to Simon.

"Simon, let me remind you. You are my manager. You work for me, and if you weren't damned good at what you do, I would have fired you long ago."

He tried to look offended, but he was wise enough to remain silent.

"I made the mistake of getting personally involved with you, only to discover that you can't keep your pants zipped. That part of our relationship is over, thank goodness, so all that's left is a business arrangement. And that does not include me putting up with snide remarks." She reached for a bottle of water and took a long drink. "If you can't handle that, then I _can_ and _will_ get another manager."

"You need me," he blustered.

"No, Simon, I do not." She held his gaze until he backed down. "And in case you've forgotten, my friend Sandy is stopping by the sound check this afternoon, and I don't want any theatrics from you while she's there."

He mumbled something unintelligible.

"What's that?"

He stared out the window for a few moments. "I was going to tell you later, but since you're in such a pissy mood, I'd better fill you in."

She opened her mouth to object to his comment, but he'd piqued her curiosity. "Tell me what?"

"Well." His shoulders went back and he gave her a triumphant look. "You're finally going to get to meet the songwriter."

Was this one of Simon's distractions, or the truth? If what he said was true, it was something she'd wanted for several years now, ever since that first song that had skyrocketed her to stardom.

Back then, when she and Simon still liked each other, she'd tried to explain how _Close Enough To Care_ had affected her. That, and every song which followed spoke to something deep inside her. It was as if the songwriter had written those first songs specifically for her, that he understood what moved her in a way no other songwriter could hope to equal.

When she'd asked to meet the elusive songwriter, Simon had acted strange, informing her that he desired to remain anonymous.

"But that's ridiculous," she'd argued. "What if one of his songs gets nominated for a Grammy?"

He frowned, and from what she could tell, he was genuinely puzzled. "He's let it be known that he doesn't want to be nominated."

"You're making this up, right?" She gave a nervous laugh. "Nobody would do that."

"I agree, and I can't explain it." He spread his hands in defeat. "But that's the way it is."

No wonder Simon was uncomfortable discussing the songwriter. He'd finally come up against someone he couldn't manipulate.

As Mandy's star grew brighter, she became less comfortable with the situation. Finally, at the beginning of the year, she'd managed to get a few minutes alone with her producer in his studio. Simon might be a jerk in his personal life, but he'd surrounded her with the best professionals in the business.

The legendary producer shook his head. "I swear, Mandy. I don't know who he is." His fingers drifted over the soundboard as he spoke. "His agent acts as go-between, and as you know, we rarely if ever need to ask for re-writes." He shook his head. "I don't understand it, either."

"But how can he keep his name a secret? I mean, what about getting paid?"

"That's easily enough arranged. He uses his company name." He tapped a score. "You must have noticed his company name. SwingTime Sound."

Mandy made a sound of disgust. "Sounds like a name from the forties. Glenn Miller or something." She gave the producer a look of mock horror. "What if he's some old geezer? Maybe I don't want to meet him after all."

"Hey, don't knock Glenn Miller. He was one of the best."

Mandy's gaze lingered on the music. "I know, I'm just frustrated."

The producer raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be complaining if I were you. This guy is probably the best songwriter I've come across in the past twenty years. And if I'm not mistaken, he writes exclusively for you."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I agree, but he must be content. Besides, with your sales, he's doing just fine."

"I suppose so..." Her voice drifted off.

A group of musicians arrived and pushed through into the studio. Mandy knew her time was up. "Thanks, Benny," she'd said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll let you know if we have any luck tracking him down."

### Chapter Three

She turned disbelieving eyes on Simon. "You're serious? I'm actually going to meet him? How did you finally get ahold of him?"

Simon held up his hands. "Whoa, there. I didn't actually talk to him. I talked to his agent, but he assured me that he'd meet with you this weekend."

Mandy slid back on the leather seat and tried to calm the butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach. Now that she was finally going to meet him, she was nervous. What if she didn't like him, or worse yet, what if he didn't like her? She supposed there was only one way to find out.

As they drew closer to the Sage Bowl, the irony struck her. That she would finally meet him here. Here, where her career started.

Her friends had urged her to enter the amateur night of the music festival. Terrified and elated at the same time, she'd sung her heart out with a medley of Patsy Cline songs. Simon Preston, an aggressive up-and-coming manager, had spotted her and the rest, as they say, was history.

The limo crested a hill and she caught sight of the venue. It took her breath away every time she saw the transformation that took place in the valley below. High sandy cliffs provided the perfect backdrop for the gently sloping 'bowl' of the valley floor. The stage was large, but it was dominated by the cliffs. Over the years, the festival organizers had experimented with various lighting schemes to illuminate the cliffs, and it hadn't taken long for the performers to realize that nature's backdrop couldn't be improved upon. As an informal site, where people brought their own seating, it was unparalleled.

As they approached the gate, Mandy rolled down her window.

"What are you doing?" Simon had reverted to his old self.

"I want to talk to the guard." She smiled at the young man. "Hi!"

He bent to look inside the limo and his eyes widened. "Oh, hello Miss Malone. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to be sure you have my friend's name on your list. Sonja Larsen, but she'll probably identify herself as Sunny."

The guard checked his list. "Sorry, I don't see her." His pen trailed down the sheet of paper. "Oh, wait. Here she is. Last minute addition."

"Great. And she might bring one more friend. Can you make a note of that?" Sandy's boyfriend was trying to make it to Gold Creek for her performance, but he wasn't sure if he could get away.

"Sure thing. Have a good one, Miss Malone."

"Thanks, Cory."

The guard glanced self-consciously at his nametag, then offered a brief salute as they pulled through the gate.

"Okay," she said, scanning the stage with a practised eye. "Let's get this done."

## *

The sound check went flawlessly. This was Mandy's fourth year performing at the Sage Bowl Music Festival, and it always amazed her that they could set up such a large venue out in the middle of nowhere.

British Columbia was becoming known for its successful festivals, and this one had grown over the twelve years it had been running. The promoters had turned it into a three-day weekend of performances. This was her second year as headliner, and she didn't think she'd ever get used to the excitement of performance day.

"Sounds great, everyone." Yankee Bob, her drummer, had expressed an interest in taking on the secondary job of Stage Manager, and she was glad she'd agreed. He was respected by the other musicians, as well as the back-up singers, and he knew his way around a stage. "What do you think, Mandy?"

"Sounded good to me."

"All right, everyone," her drummer turned to the band and the back-up singers. "Be back here at seven thirty for eight."

As he spoke, Mandy noticed Sunny sitting off to the side in a rare patch of shade thrown by a Ponderosa Pine. She was with a man, and they were deep in conversation.

Prickles of anticipation crept down Mandy's neck. The man looked vaguely familiar, but something told her this wasn't Sunny's boyfriend. She crossed the stage, ran down the side stairs and started walking toward her friend.

"Mandy!" Sunny opened her arms. "Get over here and give your best friend a hug."

Engulfed in Sunny's embrace, Mandy glanced over her friend's shoulder toward the man. He was watching the reunion with a gentle smile.

"Look who I found!" Sunny pulled away and reached for the man's arm. "Matthew!" She turned back to Mandy. "You remember Matthew Williamson from school."

His gaze flickered to Sunny, then returned to Mandy's upturned face. "Hello, Mandy. Great to see you again." He extended his hand.

This was Matt Williamson? She couldn't believe her eyes. Her hand disappeared into his, and heat bloomed in parts of her body that had seen little action in the past couple of years. The tall, un-coordinated youth had morphed into a well-muscled, well-dressed man. But the eyes were the same; dark brown with intriguing hints of gold.

"Matt." She pulled her hand away, hoping he hadn't noticed the way her pulse ratcheted up at his touch. "What are you doing here?" She regretted the words the moment she uttered them. "Not that I mind, but I was wondering..." She looked to Sunny for help.

"I found him sitting in the schoolyard." Sunny made a disgusted face. "Just sitting there, on the old stone fence."

Mandy laughed. "You're kidding."

"Noooo." Sunny drew the word out.

Mandy waved a hand in front of her face. "I'm laughing because I did the same thing on the way out here." She smiled up into Matt's eyes. "I was remembering that day." She could tell from his smile that she didn't need to explain which day.

"Me, too." His voice had turned husky. "You still owe me a kiss, you know."

Sunny watched them, her gaze moving back and forth. "I told him I was coming out here, and we decided to drive out together."

Mandy tore her gaze away from Matthew and acknowledged her friend. "So did you hear my new song? What did you think?"

_"Always?_ " Matt spoke before Sunny could respond. "It was amazing, but then I knew it would be."

"What do you mean?"

He flushed. "I mean, I've never heard you sing a bad song."

Now it was Mandy's turn to blush. "You know my work?"

"Oh, yeah." His gaze held hers. "I know every song you've ever done."

His intensity unnerved her. "My songwriter gets credit for that." She scanned the area. "I was supposed to meet him today, but now I don't see Simon."

"You're finally going to get to meet him?" Sunny knew of her quest to find the elusive songwriter. "Where?"

Mandy threw up her hands. "I'm not sure. Simon can be frustrating, but this time I don't think he's jerking me around. I think he really doesn't know." She checked her cell phone. "He said he'll contact me when he hears from the guy's agent."

Matthew was beginning to look uncomfortable. "Listen, if you'd like me to vamoose, I can."

"No." Mandy realized she didn't want him to leave. "He'll probably be here tonight." She checked her watch. "What I'd like to do is get something to eat. If you guys aren't busy, we could pick something up at the drive-thru and eat in the park."

Matthew looked at Sunny and she nodded. "I'd like that too," he said, "but won't people bother you?"

Mandy shook her head. She'd willingly put up with a few autograph seekers to have a hamburger in the park. "Not really. People around here usually leave me alone. If you'll give me a minute, I'll tell my driver where I'm going." She checked the line of cars parked up against the security fence and turned to Sunny. "Which one is yours?"

"We used mine." Matthew pointed out a dark green Land Rover.

"Okay, I'll be right there."

### Chapter Four

They chose a picnic table under the trees. The sound of seniors playing horseshoes in the adjoining pitches provided the soundtrack to their meal.

"So, Matthew. Tell me what you're up to these days."

He wiped his mouth before answering. "I play guitar in a band in Vancouver." He smiled easily. "Down in Gastown."

"Really? Have I heard of it?"

He gave her an indulgent smile. "No, I don't think so." He shook the ice in his cup and drained the remaining soda. "At the risk of sounding like a fanboy, I'd like to hear about your work."

She sensed that he was embarrassed by his band's low profile. She shrugged. "Not much to tell, really." In spite of her fame, she'd never been comfortable talking about herself. She looked directly at him and wondered if he knew how handsome he was. "Is there anything in particular you were wondering about?"

He ran his finger down the condensation on the sides of the cup. "When I heard you sing this afternoon, I was thinking that with your voice maturing the way it is, you might try some crossover stuff. Lots of country artists are doing that now."

She tried to hide her surprise. "I've been thinking the same thing. That's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to the songwriter."

He nodded. "There are always other songwriters."

"Easy for you to say."

He gave her an odd look, and she gave her head a quick shake. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound snippy." She glanced over at Sunny, who was watching them with interest.

She fell silent. "I don't know how to say this," she said after a few moments.

"Try." He drew the straw out of his cup and sucked off the droplets of moisture. His lips were full and sensuous; she regretted not having kissed him all those years ago.

"It's just..." She paused to collect her thoughts. "He seems to understand me. There are times when I'm singing his songs and it's as though he's invaded my body. As though he knows everything about me." She gave a short, self-conscious laugh. "Does that sound crazy?"

"No, not at all." There was something in his voice. "I get it."

Neither of them noticed when Sunny got up and headed for the restroom.

Mandy exhaled slowly. "Thank goodness. When I've tried to explain it to Simon, he says I'm delusional."

His eyes flashed angrily. "Why do you put up with that? He sounds like an ass."

Tears pooled in her eyes; it felt good to have someone stand up for her. "Thank you."

He gave his head an angry shake and reached for her hands. "I'm serious. You deserve better." His thumb caressed the back of her hand.

She looked at their hands linked on the table, then raised her eyes. "Too bad you had to move away when we were young." Her mouth curved in a lop-sided smile.

He released her hands and she wondered what she'd said to offend him. "Funny you should say that," he said after a moment. "I had such a crush on you on high school."

"You did?" Her words came out high-pitched and breathless. "Then I have a confession. I wish you'd kissed me that day. Something tells me we would have been good together."

He leaned forward on his elbows and stared into her eyes. "We are good together."

She glanced around, confused. "I didn't mean like this..."

"I know, Mandy." He took a deep breath. "It's my turn to confess."

There was something in his tone... something in the intensity of his gaze.

"Mandy, I'm your songwriter."

Mandy blinked several times. Had she heard him correctly? The rustling of the trees and the soft 'clink' of horseshoes faded into the background as his words sank in.

"You?" Something bloomed deep in her chest. "You're my songwriter?"

He raised both hands in a gesture of resignation. "Guilty."

"But how..." She had a million questions. "You're SwingTime? As in–"

"As in that day on the swing." A slow grin transformed his face. "In a way, I'm glad my family moved away. I probably wouldn't have tried writing if I hadn't been mooning around about you."

"Are you serious?" She wanted to believe him, but it was all so sudden. "You wouldn't kid around about this, would you?"

"No, Mandy. That's why I'm here this weekend." He raised his eyebrows. "Well, two reasons, really. One, I wanted to hear you debut the new song, and secondly, I decided it was time to meet with you. I'm serious about trying some crossover tunes."

"But why wouldn't you meet with me before this?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's never made sense to me."

"Maybe not, but I was writing songs from the heart, trying to capture the way I felt all those years ago, when we were young. I was afraid that if I met you again, all of the fame would have changed you."

"And has it?"

He grinned. "Not that I can tell."

She exhaled slowly. "Thanks, I think." She turned to see Sunny striding toward them, a big smile on her face.

### Chapter Five

"David's coming after all." Sunny waved her cell phone. "He finally got away." She stopped at the table. "What? You guys look guilty."

"Sunny," said Mandy, speaking slowly. "Matt just told me he's my songwriter."

"Get out!" Sunny made a face, then looked from Mandy to Matthew, then back to her friend. "You're serious!"

They both nodded.

"Uh, oh." She slid onto the bench beside Mandy.

"What do you mean, 'uh-oh'?" Mandy nudged her friend.

Sunny rolled her eyes. "What I mean is, how does this affect whatever is going on between you guys? I mean, sheesh, I've never seen so many sparks fly." She paused to consider. "Well, maybe between David and I, but that's different."

Mandy couldn't meet Matt's gaze. She'd been wondering the same thing.

Matt answered smoothly. "It doesn't change a thing." He waited for Mandy to look at him and gave her a look that curled her toes. "It looks like we're going to be working together, so we'll have lots of time to get reacquainted." He checked his watch. "I should take you back out to the bowl to get ready, and I have some apologizing to do. My agent is going to be disappointed that he didn't get to introduce us." He rose, walked round the table and offered Mandy his hand. "Speaking of which, let's exchange cell phone numbers." She rose and he gave her a meaningful look. "Call me after the concert if you need a ride."

## *

Mandy arrived to pandemonium. Clustered around Clete, the band members didn't realize she was standing behind them.

"What's going on?" If the guitar player's expression was any indication, he was in a lot of pain. He was clutching his left arm.

Yankee Bob straightened up and turned to Mandy. "I think his arm is broken." He raked his fingers through his long hair. "The guys were playing touch football. Clete lost his footing and fell."

Mandy remained calm. "Let's get him taken into the hospital then." She gave Clete what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

"I'm sorry, Mandy." The drummer looked miserable.

Mandy held up a hand. "Don't go there. We agreed, remember?" They normally carried two guitar players on tour, but RJ's wife was due to give birth any day, and they'd given him time off. She lowered her voice. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." He gave a short, desperate laugh. "Can you pull a spare guitar player out of your bag of tricks?" Mandy carried a kit containing everything from buttons and thread to crazy glue and aspirins. The crew loved to tease her about it.

She grinned. "As a matter of fact, I do." She pulled out her cell phone.

"Come on, Mandy. I was kidding. We can't let just anybody up there on the stage."

"This isn't just anybody." She held up a finger.

"Mandy?" His voice sounded like liquid velvet.

"Matt. Do you have your guitar with you?"

He chuckled. "I'm never without it. Why?"

"Well, we need you. Our guitar player broke his arm. How would you like to play tonight?"

"Bad luck. Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes, he's already on his way to the hospital."

"I'm all yours. Tell the security guys to let me in, okay?"

"Will do."

She turned to Yankee Bob. "There. All taken care of."

"Jeez, Mandy. What are you doing?"

"Trust me, Bob. You're going to love this guy." She decided she'd better put him out of his misery. "His name is Matt Williamson, and he's a guitar player in a band in Vancouver."

"Well, that's something, anyway."

"And he's the one who wrote every hit song I've ever had."

The drummer's mouth fell open. "Are you shittin' me?"

"No." She tipped up his chin to close his mouth. "Good enough for you?"

"How did you – oh, never mind." He gave her a quick, fierce hug. "I'll go over the playlist with him while you change." He grinned. "Simon's going to freak."

## *

Mandy emerged from her dressing room to find Matt going over the playlist with Yankee Bob. They were chatting together like old friends.

The door opened and Simon strode into the room, his face flushed. He looked disappointed to see everyone calmly going about their pre-show routine.

"Who the hell is that?" He launched himself across the room and prodded Matt in the chest. "You. Out."

Matt gave him a withering look. "I don't think so."

Simon looked from the playlist to Yankee Bob. "What gives?"

Matt stuck out his hand. "Matt Williamson. Mandy asked me to take Clete's place tonight."

"She had no right to do that." Simon ignored Matt's outstretched hand, and searched for Mandy. "What do you think you're doing?"

She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Saving the show, Simon." She gestured toward Matt. "Matt is a professional guitar player. He also happens to be my songwriter."

The expression on Simon's face was priceless.

"Oh, and Simon?"

"Yes?"

"You're fired."

Cheering erupted from the band and the backup singers. Mandy hadn't realized the depth of their dislike for the manager. A stagehand knocked on the door, announcing that it was time for the band to take their places.

"Let's do this," said the drummer, and they filed out. Matt gave her a long, heated look, then followed.

## *

Mandy shouldn't have been surprised by Matt's proficiency on the guitar, but she was. By the end of the first song, the band members were following his astonishing riffs with an amazing performance of their own. They played as if they'd been together all their lives.

After ninety minutes, she stepped to the edge of the stage and spoke to the crowd. "And now," she said, eyes shining with pride in her crew. "We'd like to debut our new single, just for you." She stepped back and took a breath while Matt played the intro. "It's called Always," she said, and started to sing.

The huge crowd was silent as the last notes floated out over the bowl. Then the entire audience was on their feet. These were her fans; she loved every one of them. She lowered her head and waited for the applause to die down.

"Thank you," she said simply, then turned toward the band, and the back-up singers. "But I'm only one part of what you heard tonight." She applauded each person individually. "I'm nothing without my back-up singers, and my band." Her eyes sparkled as she walked toward Matt, microphone in hand. "I know some of you are wondering where Clete is. He had an accident, but I can assure you he'll recover soon." She took Matt's hand. "In the meantime I'd like to introduce you to the man who made my career what it is today. This is Matt Williamson. He not only wrote the songs you've all come to love, he's an old school friend of mine." Her eyes sparkled. "And he reminded me today that I owe him something from back then." She turned to the audience. "A kiss."

Matt's lips twitched. "What are you doing?" he murmured, as she led him across the stage.

"I'm making sure you don't back out." She raised her lips.

He brushed his lips against hers, slow and tantalizing, with the promise of more to come. "That's not happening," he said as he picked her up and twirled her around. The audience roared their approval.

Safe in his arms, she looked into his eyes and saw her future.

## * * *

Mona Ingram is the author of 20 romance novels, including two novellas. Many of her stories take place in British Columbia, where she has lived since the age of twelve. In recent years she has lived in the Okanagan Valley and on Vancouver Island. In addition to reading and writing, traveling and bird watching are among Mona's favourite pastimes.

Check out Mona's blog:

http://www.monaingram.blogspot.com

and sign up for special offers at

http://tiny.cc/h6gfnw

## *

#

# That First Kiss

## S. Patrick O'Connell

The air in the tavern was a little too still in the warm autumn afternoon. An aroma of baking bread and roasting meat mingled with the sweet smell of fermented beverages and strong tobaccos. Merrick sat in the semi-darkness nursing a mug of thick foamy ale and pondering his ill fortune.

It had been thirteen months since he had landed in this nasty little backwater city-state and in that time he had found little employment for his skills. His purse was nearly empty and he wasn't looking forward to another winter in this place―especially a winter with no means to pay for his warmth. His tunic was faded and torn in places; his leggings were grimy and stained; there was a hole in the bottom of his right slipper that simply would not stay mended, no matter what, and he had lost his hat somewhere along the line. A change of luck was more than overdue.

The curtain that covered the doorway in fairer weather pushed aside and a woman strode in and stopped to gain her bearings. She was tall and fair, with brown hair pulled back in the spacer style and a posture that showed confidence and authority. Her tight flight suit followed the curves of her muscular body, hugging her like an exoskeleton. A pair of gold ellipses on her shoulder announced her rank as captain.

After a moment to allow her eyes to adjust, the young woman approached the bar, leaning across to speak to the innkeeper. He gestured toward Merrick.

Could this be the appointment Merrick was waiting for? Most of his assignments on this world, so far, had involved lost goats and family feuds. Whatever the job, it would likely pay more than he had made in a year.

The woman looked Merrick over and then approached with what appeared to be an air of resignation.

"Are you the thief?" she asked.

"Please," Merrick said, "I prefer 'paladin' or 'advocate' or 'man-at-arms.'"

"I would prefer those things, too, but on short notice, you're what I'm stuck with."

Merrick signaled for the woman to have a seat.

"I am Merrick of Owsley," he said. "And you would be?"

"I am Captain Severide," the woman said. "Just call me 'Captain.' It's what I answer to."

Merrick was nearly overcome by the woman's intense green eyes. He drew a deep breath to compose himself. Negotiating with authority figures required a special cleverness. Negotiating with a beautiful authority figure was going to require all the slickness Merrick could muster.

"So, I understand you need my help," he said.

"Against my better judgment and all that I hold holy, it appears that I do. If I had time to spare, I believe I would hold out for someone a bit more . . ." she looked him up and down, "professional," she finished, after a pause.

"Please, don't let my appearance fool you," Merrick said. "I am a traveler and not of this place. I do my best to fit in, but I assure you I am no simple bumpkin."

"I certainly didn't mean to imply that Olafston was to blame for you, simply that you couldn't possibly be the best refuse the trash heap has to offer."

Merrick's cheeks grew hot with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I'll have you know, I have been educated at the best universities in the Seven Systems. I carry two degrees of mastery and have been dangerously close to completing a doctorate!"

"Don't tell me, let me guess," the captain said. "Art history and ancient literature."

"Well, yes, actually," Merrick said, ducking his head, "but I wore the Sash of Honors."

"I just bet you did. So how does any of that help me?"

"What exactly is this, um, task you require accomplished?" Merrick paid careful attention to his grammar.

"My first officer got into a bit of a scrape in Olafston and landed in their brig on a month's sentence. I need him broken out."

"A month's sentence is hardly anything. He would probably be released after twenty days just from bad accounting."

"I don't have twenty days," the captain said, impatiently. "If we don't sail at noon tomorrow, we'll lose our window and we could be stuck here for months. A screw-up like that could cost me my ship and my career."

"So sail without your man. It seems it would serve him right."

"Oh, would that I could," the captain said, frowning. "Regulations. A ship may not sail without a captain and a first mate. No one else aboard holds the necessary rating. I wouldn't even be allowed to break moorings."

"I see," Merrick said, rubbing his chin, feigning thought, while secretly reveling in the sense that he had the captain over a barrel. "So, what is it you want from me?" he asked, knowing full well.

"I need to break my crewman out of the brig. I loathe to say it, but I'm afraid I need your help to accomplish that task."

Merrick fought back a smile as his mind went into overdrive. It was exactly the opportunity he needed. He appraised the woman carefully. She had revealed far too much. It was unlikely she would be that tough to bargain with.

"I will have to go it alone," he said. "A spacer would draw too much attention and there would be three of us in the brig. I will have to creep into the castle in the night, overpower any number of guards, free your man and smuggle him from the city undetected."

"I've got a bad feeling about this," the captain said.

"Don't worry. I can do this."

"And what will it cost me?"

"Fifty goldies and passage on your ship to any one of your next ten ports of call."

"Fifty silvers and passage to our next port of call," the captain said.

Merrick opened his mouth to counter offer, but the flash of the woman's green eyes told him he had heard her final offer. "Done."

"If you fail," she said, firmly, "I will hunt you down and gut you. Remember, I'll have plenty of free time on my hands."

"We'll meet you on the departure deck at first light," Merrick said. He watched as she rose and strode from the tavern. The last he saw of her was her lingering scowl.

## *

Merrick had a nap in one of the sleeping lofts so he would be rested for his night's work. When he awoke and climbed down, the innkeeper served him a mug of ale, a bowl of thick stew and a half loaf of dark, musty bread.

"So, you've found work," the innkeeper said, stroking his long red beard.

"A small job. I've been hired to break some spacer out of jail."

"Decent pay?"

"Enough," Merrick said, lying.

The innkeeper threw back his head and laughed a deep, barking laugh. "You were taken by the lass' beauty, weren't you? You're taking a whit of your asking price."

Merrick felt his face warm. "She was a shrewd negotiator," he said. "She made sure she got value for her money."

"She's a shrew, I'd wager," the man said. "A woman wearing captain's gold could never stoop to rut with the likes of you." He laughed again.

"It's not about rutting," Merrick said, indignantly.

"No, I'm sure it's not," the innkeeper said. "Believe you me, I was taken by those sharp green eyes myself. If she asked me to come mop her galley, I'd be off this world in a minute."

"She does have nice eyes, doesn't she," Merrick said, cradling his mug between his hands.

The barman laughed his hearty laugh again and went off to serve other guests.

Merrick sat drinking ale and daydreaming about the captain until it was time to go.

## *

With the waxing moon high overhead, Merrick donned his pack and followed the cobblestone road to the city gates. Olafston sprawled in lazy circles around a central butte atop which stood the castle. The lower levels contained the many city offices and the wealthier businesses. King Olaf XXXVIII lived in the highest levels and his board of directors lived just below. Carved down into the butte were the jail and the quarters of the king's guard. The system of rule in Olafston was a bit chaotic, but it had worked for thirty-eight Olafs, so there was little likelihood it would change anytime soon.

Merrick greeted the guards at the gates and, after shaking hands and patting backs, he passed through into the outer circle of the city.

The harvest festival was in full swing and the streets were full of revelers, performers and vendors―all in high spirits. Merrick picked his way through the crowd, getting caught in a circle of dancers a few times, accepting a flagon of wine here and there and generally enjoying the spirit of the celebration.

At festival time, the population of the town more than doubled, with farmers coming from surrounding farms and outlying villages. It was the biggest party of the year and few chose to miss it.

As Merrick wound his way through the straw-strewn streets, he thought about the captain and those incredible green eyes. There was something about her he had never experienced before. Certainly, in the Seven Systems there were as many bold women in authority as men. As far as physical strength, all spacers applied themselves to regular exercise―it was part of the job. Green eyes were hardly rare, that wasn't it. No, it was a package deal. There was something about the combination of boldness, authority, strength and green eyes―as well as gender, of course―that he found intoxicating. This was the woman for him. The one he had waited for all these years.

Merrick chided himself for developing a schoolboy crush, but he couldn't help it. The captain had certainly caught his attention, if not his heart.

There were few direct paths to the castle, but Merrick managed to keep the route as short as possible. A time or two he got lost in a fantasy about sailing the universe at the captain's side and ended up having to backtrack, but for the most part he made good time.

At the base of the butte, the road began to spiral and quickly led to enclosed stairs, winding their way to the great concourse in the lower level of the castle. Guards at the stairways to the upper levels slept quietly, having not had a siege, revolt or assassination to deal with in hundreds of years.

Merrick found the stairs down into the butte and began the long hike to the jail.

He passed a few guardsmen coming and going, mostly staggering and got confirmation from one that he was indeed on the correct path to the cells.

The castle had been built over many, many generations. Plans had been drawn; plans had been lost; plans had been ignored. In the end, the entire structure was a patchwork of starts and stops, additions and subtractions, brilliance and idiocy. If the plan had been to confuse and confound an invading army, then the goal was achieved. If the plan had been to confuse and confound the residents of the castle, that goal had also been achieved.

Fortunately, some helpful soul had marked the walls in charcoal, at intervals, so the path to the jail wasn't a complete mystery.

At last, the corridor opened onto a well-lighted office with a desk. The jailor sat behind the desk eating a sandwich and chatting with a guardsman who leaned against the wall.

"Greetings," Merrick said.

"And a hearty good evening to you," the jailer said.

The guardsman nodded and grunted a greeting.

"How may I help you?" the jailer asked, smiling pleasantly with his mouthful of snaggled brown teeth.

"I need to break the spacer out," Merrick said.

"I'm listening," the jailer said.

Merrick pulled a wine-filled skin from his pack and dangled it in front of the man.

The jailer accepted the wine skin with a bow of the head. "Help your self," he said, holding out a big ring with a key.

"Um, it's just that . . ."

"Say no more," the man said. "I completely understand. You need a scuffle, some yelling and you want us unconscious on the floor."

"Exactly," Merrick said. "I would greatly appreciate it."

"In order to make it look good, we'd need five coppers apiece," the guardsman said.

"Three," Merrick said.

"Done."

The jailer and guardsman began to simulate the sounds of a fight. A few curious passersby looked in, but said nothing and went on their way. Once the two men had settled into uncomfortable positions on the floor, Merrick went through an archway and back to the row of cells.

There were few prisoners and he easily figured out that the man in the flight suit, stretched out on a straw mattress on the floor, was the one for whom he had come.

He unlocked the cell door and went inside. Before Merrick could explain him self, the man sprang to his feet and punched him in the face.

"Stop!" Merrick said, grabbing his nose with both hands as the man hit him again. "Hitting! Me!" Merrick scrambled to put the cell door between him and the crazed spaceman. "Your captain sent me. I'm here to break you out."

"I don't think so," the first officer said. "The captain would never do business with a filthy peasant like you."

"She hired me because she needed someone who would fit in. I'm a professional, um, problem solver."

"Fine. Prove it. Tell me something about the captain to prove you two met."

"Green eyes," Merrick said.

"Okay," the mate said, relaxing at last. "Get me out of here."

"Follow me and try to be very quiet."

They slipped down the hallway and through the office where the two citizens pretended to be unconscious. Merrick and his escapee cautiously moved out the door, checking both ways before proceeding.

Merrick could barely contain his smile at the thought of the rewards awaiting him. Once he had proven himself with the rescue of the crewman, the captain would undoubtedly lower her guard a bit, allowing their relationship to blossom.

Someone was coming. Merrick signaled the spacer to press back into the shadows of a recess.

He felt some sense of relief when he saw it was a giant. They were well-known for having poor eyesight and little sense of smell. As long as Merrick and the spacer stood still and didn't breathe, the creature would pass by without noticing them.

When it was clear, Merrick led the way, keeping his back to the wall for effect. Once or twice on the way up, they managed to dodge drunken guardsmen stumbling down to their quarters.

On the concourse level, the guards were all snoring loudly and Merrick led the way to the stairs and ramps that wound down to the city streets.

Making their way along, they hid in the shadows of doorways when they encountered people. A time or two, Merrick used ropes from his pack and they rappelled to the next level down, just to make the escape seem more difficult.

The streets were still filled with dancing, singing, cheering hordes, when Merrick and his charge made it into the open. They had no problem keeping to the darkness and getting to the city gates was little more than a long walk.

For a brief time, as the moon neared the horizon and they were in a dark space between the city lights and the brightness of the spaceport, Merrick could see the Frog Nebula in all its colorful glory. Even though it was so small and distant he could hide it behind his thumb held at arm's length, it was still a magnificent sight.

Their walk from Olafston to Spaceport City was a long haul, but they made it just as the first rays of morning light were peeking over the horizon. Merrick already had his few meager possessions in his pack, so he was ready to go. His excitement grew as he drew closer to the green-eyed woman and his destiny.

From the outskirts of Spaceport City, they took a shuttle to the departure lounge. The captain was waiting. Merrick was breathless at seeing her, but she had personnel problems to deal with first.

The spaceman drew to attention and saluted his superior officer.

"How dare you?" the captain said. "You nearly cost me my ship, my command and my career." She slapped the man's face. "I've a mind to clap you in irons for the rest of this trip."

The first officer stared at his feet as the captain continued to berate him. Merrick tried to pretend he wasn't there, but they hardly seemed to notice him anyway. All at once, the captain grabbed her crewman by the front of his flight suit, yanking him to her and pressing her mouth tight to his in the most passionate kiss Merrick had ever witnessed.

With that kiss, Merrick was completely deflated. He was not only getting silver instead of gold, he also wasn't getting the girl―plus, he hadn't even asked what the next port of call might be. He found a comfortable chair and took a load off his feet while he waited for the kiss to end.

## * * *

S. Patrick O'Connell is a writer who lives by a lake on the planet Lee in the fifth system. _That First Kiss_ is an introduction to his Seven Systems series, soon to be released.

## *

#

# Divinity's Kiss: A Day Soldiers Short Story

## Brandon Hale

### A Small Village in Ireland

#### November 1, 2017

Sister Abigail Reid quietly cleaned the chapel's pews as she listened to the conversation between Father O'Reilly and Tim. Abbie didn't know Tim's last name. The chapel was currently full of volunteers, all of them helping to prepare the church for the coming food drive. Tim was one of those volunteers. To Abbie, he looked to be in his late teens.

"I'm telling you, Father," Tim was saying, "it was a werewolf. An actual werewolf. It was all over the news."

Father O'Reilly chuckled. "My boy, you really should stop calling tabloid programs 'the news.' "

Abbie quietly shook her head as she continued to clean the pews. She didn't like Father O'Reilly. As far as she was concerned, he represented everything that was wrong with the church. His every decision – including the coming food drive – was based on whether or not that decision would further his political career. Still, even politicians were right from time to time. "He's right, Tim," she said. "When you say something was on the news, it really should be an accredited news source."

"It was the real news, Sister," Tim said. "And not just one station. It was on all of them. Some fella in America filmed it. A man in a cage turned from a human being into a werewolf."

"It was a hoax, Tim," Father O'Reilly said.

"How can you be sure?" Tim argued. "You haven't even seen the video."

"I'm sure," Father O'Reilly countered, "because werewolves don't exist."

"Well," Tim said, slightly deflated, "it looked pretty real to me."

"Tim," Father O'Reilly said, "I'm willing to accept the possibility of the Loch Ness Monster or the Yeti. There are potential scientific explanations for those things. But a werewolf... that's simply not possible. There's absolutely no scientific explanation for a man who can turn into a wolf."

"There's no scientific explanation for God," Tim said. Abbie could see he immediately regretted his words.

"Don't test me, son," Father O'Reilly said.

"I'm not testing you, Father," Tim said. "I know God's there. I just meant there are some things science hasn't figured out yet. I would've thought a man who devoted his life to worshipping something he's never seen would be more open to the mysteries of the world."

O'Reilly pointed toward several crucifixes hanging on the church's wall. "Are you here to help prepare for the food drive tomorrow or are you here to blather on about werewolves?"

"I'm here to help," Tim said. "I meant no disrespect, Father."

"Those crucifixes aren't going to clean themselves," O'Reilly snapped.

"Yes, Father," Tim said. He walked to the wall and began cleaning the crosses.

O'Reilly looked at Abbie. "If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen, checking their progress." Without another word, he spun around and exited through the door behind the podium at the front of the church.

"Not sure what got his britches in a bunch," Tim said.

Abbie chuckled. "He's probably just stressed. Tomorrow is a big day. It's our first official 'feed the poor' event. I'm sure he just wants it to go well." So he can brag about it to his superiors, she thought.

"I thought priests were supposed to be nice," Tim mumbled.

"Priests are human beings," Abbie said. "They have devoted themselves to God, but that doesn't make their flaws disappear. Priests have bad days too, Tim."

"I'm sure he's right," Tim said. "About the werewolf, I mean. I'm sure it's a hoax."

"I'm sure it is," Abbie said.

"But it's still interesting," Tim said. "How often do you see world news organizations reporting about werewolves?"

"Not often," Abbie admitted.

"And I didn't even get to the best part," Tim added.

"There's more?" Abbie asked. "I would think a live werewolf transformation would be a hard story to top."

"Earlier today," Tim said, "someone released a video. It was an older man who claimed to be a werewolf. According to this fella, the werewolves are furious about the televised transformation. He said the werewolves were declaring war on all of humanity."

"Did this big event happen in America?" Abbie asked.

Tim nodded. "They filmed the transformation at a baseball stadium in New York City."

"I see," Abbie said with a smile. "I think I know what's going on."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a marketing campaign," Abbie said. "I suspect there's a movie coming out about werewolves attacking humanity and this is just a way for them to promote it."

"It was on the news," Tim said. "The real news."

"I'm sure it was," Abbie said. "If the movie studio treated the entire thing like it's real, I'm not surprised the media picked it up. Yesterday was Halloween, after all. I'm sure they thought it would be a fun Halloween story."

"I guess that makes sense," Tim conceded.

"Of course it does," Abbie said with a smile. "I'm a very smart woman."

Tim laughed.

Abbie looked around the chapel. Several other volunteers were in the room, all of them happily cleaning. "I must admit, I'm impressed with the amount of volunteers we have. And the donations to the drive were far beyond what I expected."

"Good people live here," Tim said. "We just needed someone to give us a little nudge."

"Are you still in school, Tim?" Abbie asked.

Tim shook his head. "Nah. Graduated last year. I'm actually considering joining the church."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "I'm not sure about being a priest or anything as heavy as that, but I would like to work for the church in some way."

"That's wonderful," Abbie said. "What brought you to that conclusion?"

"I was kissed by divinity last year," Tim said.

Abbie stopped cleaning and looked at the young man. "That's a unique way of putting it."

Tim shrugged. "It's just the phrase that shot into my head. That's really what it felt like. It was before you came to town, but construction had already begun on the church. I was watching the workers build the foundation when something just... I dunno... happened."

"And it felt like a kiss?"

"Not physically," Tim said, "but it was the same emotion. Love just poured through me, Sister. I knew in that moment I wanted to help people and I knew the church was the best way I could do it."

"Well," Abbie said, "I'm sure you'll be a wonderful addition."

Tim smiled. "Thanks, Sister."

Abbie looked at one of the church's windows. "Wow. It's already dark outside. I suppose I should let you folks go home for the night."

"The drive's tomorrow morning," Tim said. "I think most of the people here are fine with staying until everything's ready."

"I'm already glad I came to this town," Abbie said with a smile, "if for no other reason than it allowed me to meet the people of this village. I've been teaching at the school for a week now, and the children here are among the brightest I've ever taught."

"You're not what I expected," Tim said.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't act like a nun," Tim explained. "And you don't look like one."

Abbie looked down at her clothing. She was wearing blue jeans and a pull-over sweater. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The only thing that even suggested she had religious connections was the rosary around her neck. "Well," she said, "it's not always practical to dress like a nun. As far as how I act, I have no idea what you mean."

"Most nuns I've met," Tim said, "were much older than you. And if I'm being honest, they weren't the most friendly women in the world."

"People are different, Tim," Abbie said. "I thought I explained that. Giving yourself to the service of God doesn't mean you cease to be the person you were. As far as my age, I'm almost thirty. There are plenty of nuns younger than me."

"I suppose," Tim said. "I guess I'm just saying I like you, Sister."

Abbie's smile grew a little bigger. "Thank you, Tim. I appreciate—"

Before Abbie could finish her sentence, all the lights in the church flickered once, then went out, leaving them in darkness.

"If there are any smokers here," Abbie said, speaking loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the chapel, "take your lighters and start lighting some candles. This is a church, after all. We have plenty of candles."

As several people lit candles around the chapel, Father O'Reilly ran into the room from the kitchen. "What happened?"

"We lost power," Abbie said flatly.

Even in the candlelight, Abbie could see the annoyance on O'Reilly's face. "I'm aware of that, Sister," he said slowly. "Why have we lost power?"

How should I know? Abbie thought. "I don't know, Father," she said.

O'Reilly looked around the chapel. "Does anybody know where the breaker is located?"

"The basement, Father," Tim said as he picked up a candle. "I'll go check it."

"Please be quick about it," O'Reilly said. "We can't let that food spoil."

Tim had taken two steps when the front door of the chapel burst open...

And a thing stepped inside the church.

Blue veins spider-webbed across its white skin, which was pulled tightly over a skeletal face and body. It had long, pointed ears and absolutely no hair. Its eyes glowed red in the candlelight.

It smiled, revealing a mouth full of very sharp teeth. "Hell has come to this house of God," it hissed in a serpentine voice.

Two identical creatures stepped into the church and stood behind the first.

Several people in the church began to scream.

"Everybody, be quiet!" Abbie yelled.

She quickly evaluated the situation before her. All her life, Abbie's greatest strength was her ability to adapt to any situation. Five minutes earlier, she lived in a more or less "normal" world. Five minutes earlier, her greatest enemy was poverty. Five minutes earlier, her life's mission was to feed the hungry.

Not anymore.

Within the span of a few seconds, everything changed. Abbie suddenly found herself thrust into a world where monsters were real. And these weren't metaphorical monsters. They weren't serial killers or wife abusers. They were actual monsters, straight from the depths of Hell itself.

It took Abbie roughly one second to accept this new reality. As the three creatures made their way toward the group of cowering humans, Abbie wrapped her hand around the rosary hanging from her neck.

"What are those things?" O'Reilly stammered. The terror in his voice indicated he wasn't quite as good as Abbie when it came to adapting to a new reality.

"I bet it's connected to that werewolf video, Father," Tim said. "Apparently, some monsters are real."

"Are you suggesting these things are werewolves?" O'Reilly said.

"Yes, Father," Abbie said, no longer able to hide her sarcasm. "Those completely hairless creatures are werewolves."

Despite the horror of the situation, Tim laughed.

"Come now, holy man," the lead creature hissed. "Your people have hunted us for centuries. You really don't know what we are?"

"Everybody," Abbie yelled, "grab a cross. They're all over this place. Find the nearest one and pick it up!" Her mind raced with memories of old movies and books. Anything that might give her a hint about fighting these things. It wasn't exactly a scientific approach, but it was all she had. "And if you see anything that might serve as a wooden stake, grab that too."

Father O'Reilly wrapped his hands around the crucifix at the end of his rosary and fell to his knees.

"What are you doing?" Abbie said.

"Taking your advice," O'Reilly answered.

"Get up," Abbie ordered. "The crosses aren't for praying, Father."

O'Reilly looked at her with confused eyes.

"They're vampires!" Abbie screamed. "I hope you're just in shock, Father, because if you're normally this stupid, I fear for our religion."

The lead vampire laughed. "Save your fear for more tangible things, Sister. Like the fact that we're about to kill you all."

Abbie took a step forward, putting herself between the creatures and the humans. She snapped the rosary from her neck. Most of the beads fell to the floor. "You won't be killing these people tonight."

The vampire laughed. "Yesterday, you didn't know we exist. What makes you so sure the old legends have any impact on us?"

"I'm not sure," Abbie said. "I simply don't see the downside to trying."

Without another word, Abbie slammed the top of her crucifix against the vampire's face. The creature screeched and fell back, a trail of smoke wafting up from its face.

"How did you do that?" someone asked. Abbie wasn't sure who said it.

"I have no idea," Abbie said as she looked at the bubbling vampire flesh attached to her tiny cross.

"Looks like I'm not the only person who's been kissed by divinity," Tim said.

"Okay," Abbie said. "Crosses work. We can check that off the list."

"You'll die for that, bitch," the vampire said as it climbed back to its feet. The shape of a cross was burned into the right side of his face. His two companions stood silently behind him. Abbie wasn't sure if they were intimidated or just waiting for orders.

"You were going to kill me anyway," Abbie said, "so it's not really honest to say you're going to kill me because I burned you with a cross."

"True," the vampire said. "Allow me to rephrase my statement. You'll die painfully because of that."

"That's definitely more believable," Abbie said.

"Back, you creature of the night!"

Abbie glanced back to see Father O'Reilly slowly walking toward the lead vampire. He held his own crucifix in a trembling hand.

"You got that from a movie," the vampire said. "Please tell me you didn't come up with that on your own."

"I said, back!" O'Reilly pressed the cross against the vampire's forehead.

Nothing happened.

The vampire flashed a toothy grin. "Looks like yours is defective, Father."

O'Reilly looked at Abbie, shock and terror evident in his eyes. "I don't underst—"

The vampire grabbed him by the shoulders, spun around, then shoved him toward the two creatures standing by the door. "Turn him," it said. "Then we'll kill the rest." The door-vamps threw O'Reilly to the ground, then dropped to their knees and sank their teeth into each side of his throat.

O'Reilly's screams echoed across the chapel.

## *

Several seconds passed. O'Reilly eventually fell silent, but the other vampires remained crouched over his fallen body. The lead vampire paced back and forth in front of the group of humans, but he didn't attack. Abbie wasn't sure if he was concerned about the cross or if he was simply waiting for his friends.

Making sure to stay between the vampire and the humans, she stole a glance around the chapel, looking for anything that might help. She saw nothing.

"I'm so glad we found the church," the vampire hissed. "The others can have the crowds outside. I've always had a taste for religious blood."

Abbie's heart sank. So there were more of them. This wasn't just an assault on the church. It was an assault on the town. "Tim," she said, still looking at the vampire.

"Yes?" Tim answered from somewhere behind her.

"There are two tables behind the podium."

"I see them."

"Knock them over," Abbie said. "Break them up. See if you can break off the legs."

"On it," she heard Tim say.

The vampire smiled. "If you're looking for makeshift stakes, you're wasting your time. Stakes or no stakes, you won't leave this church alive."

"You're probably right," Abbie said, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do everything I can to stop that from happening."

The creature cocked an eyebrow. To Abbie, it felt strange to see this monstrous thing make such a human gesture. "I'm impressed. The people outside are screaming and running, but you and your friends are handling this remarkably well."

"Oh, I think we both know I'm terrified," Abbie said, "but I have responsibilities I can't walk away from." She extended her arm, pushing her cross a little closer to the creature. "And don't think I didn't notice you trying to inch your way closer."

The vampire laughed and took a step back. "What responsibilities?"

Keep him talking, Abbie thought. Keep his attention away from the others. And pay attention to what he says. There may be clues about how to kill these things. "My first responsibility is to the people in this church. While I'm alive, you won't touch them."

"That won't be a problem for me," the vampire said. "I fully plan to kill you first. What's your second responsibility?"

"You're a real Chatty Patty for a monster," Abbie said.

The creature pointed a clawed thumb toward the vampires at the door. "Turning a human into a vampire can be a time-consuming process. We have to feed him our blood, so the more vampires we have, the faster it goes. Since there's only two of them—"

"No," Abbie whispered.

The vampire laughed again. "Wait a minute. You didn't know that's what we were doing to the good Father? I thought I had made that very clear."

"It has been an eventful night," Abbie said. "I must've missed it."

Abbie instinctively knew it was time to act. She knew she had to do something. The problem was, she had no way of knowing whether or not Tim was ready. One wrong move and they were all dead. With a deep breath, she decided it was time for faith.

Still looking at the vampire, she raised her right arm and opened hand. "Now, Tim."

She prayed Tim was ready and she prayed he understood what she was asking for.

"Heads up!" Tim yelled.

Abbie risked a glance behind her. A makeshift stake – which was actually just a broken table leg – flew toward her.

With agility she didn't know she had, Abbie caught the stake and quickly drove it into the heart of the lead vampire. She was surprised by how easily the leg plowed through the creature's chest. The vampire's eyes widened in horror and pain.

"My second responsibility," Abbie spat, "is to rid the world of vampires. It's a brand new job. Just started tonight, actually."

The vampire fell to the floor, dead. Abbie calmly reached down and pulled the table leg from its chest. She looked back at the others. For the first time, she noticed just how young they all looked.

Seven of them were holding table legs.

She turned back toward the front entrance. The two vampires were now standing above Father O'Reilly's body. "She killed him," one of the creatures said. "She actually killed him."

"Run?" the other vampire asked. "Get help and come back?"

"No," his companion said. "It's a church full of children and one nun. They must be punished for what they've done." He pointed a claw at Abbie. "Especially her."

"Kids," Abbie said, "we came here to clean this chapel. So let's clean it."

With a roar, Tim and several others sprinted toward the creatures. Abbie joined them.

The remaining vampires moved with startling speed. Before Abbie and her mini-army were halfway across the room, the vampires leapt to the ceiling, using their claws to stay there. "Your murder of our brother has given you false confidence. You didn't kill him because of speed or skill. You killed him because he underestimated your willingness to attack."

"We won't make that mistake," the second creature added.

"Then it looks like we're at an impasse," Abbie said. "We can't catch you, but if you get close enough to attack, we'll kill you."

"You think so?" one of them hissed.

With blinding speed, he dropped to the ground, swiped a claw across the throat of a young woman standing beside Tim, then leapt back to the ceiling. The girl fell to the ground. Blood poured from her sliced throat.

"No," Abbie whispered, her heart aching. I'm failing them.

"Still think we're at an impasse?" the vampire said from the ceiling.

"Go to the front of the church," Abbie said to the others. "Now."

"There's a door up there," Tim whispered. "We could run to the kitchen."

"No," Abbie said. She didn't bother to whisper because she was quite sure the vampires could hear them, no matter how quietly they talked. "The back rooms are likely in total darkness. We need to keep these creatures in the chapel, where we at least have a chance of fighting back."

"Smart decision," a vampire said from the ceiling.

Abbie looked at Tim. "Why are you standing here? Get to the front. Now!"

They all ran to the area behind the chapel's podium. Abbie stayed beneath the vampires. She looked at the young woman on the ground. A girl, really. No more than sixteen.

"Sister," Tim yelled, "come on."

Abbie looked at the vampires on the ceiling. "You'll pay for what you did to her."

One of the vampires laughed. "Just her? Sister, there are hundreds of people dying outside as we speak. Across the globe, millions are dying. Right now. Will you avenge them all?"

"Yes," Abbie said.

With a hard flick of her wrist, Abbie threw her crucifix at the vampire. The small cross spun through the air until it embedded itself in the vampire's left eye.

The creature howled in pain as it fell from the ceiling. As soon as it hit the floor, Abbie slammed her stake into its heart. She put her foot on its chest and pulled the stake free, then put her foot on its forehead and pulled her cross free.

She looked at the remaining vampire. "Come on down here and get it over with."

"Wouldn't you rather deal with me?"

Abbie turned around to see Father O'Reilly standing in front of the church door. More specifically, it was the toothy, pale monster that had taken over Father O'Reilly's body.

"Oh, good," Abbie said as she walked toward O'Reilly. "You're up."

"I gotta admit, Abbie," O'Reilly said, "I find your enthusiasm a little disturbing. The entire world just went to chaos and you're strolling around like you enjoy it."

"I don't enjoy it," Abbie said. "I also don't hide from reality when it presents itself to me. And don't call me Abbie. We are not friends."

"I'm glad you'll be my first kill," O'Reilly said. "I never liked you."

"Since we're having a share-moment here," Abbie said as she continued to walk toward the former priest, "I never liked you, either. More than once, I wanted to punch you in the teeth. I know, I know. It's inappropriate to think such thoughts, especially for a nun. Thing is, right now... I don't care so much about what's appropriate."

"Abbie, look out!" It was Tim.

Before Abbie could turn around, she felt two clawed hands grab her arms from behind. "Here you are, priest," the vampire's serpentine voice whispered as his grip tightened. "Have your first drink."

Abbie tried to break free, but the creature was simply too strong.

O'Reilly looked at the others behind Abbie. "If any of you take a single step toward her, I'll ask my new friend to snap her neck." He looked at Abbie. "Just to be sure, tell them to stay away."

"Stay away, kids," Abbie said. "I mean it. I have things under control." She was, of course, lying. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do, but as long as the vampires were focused on her, the kids were safe. Considering the slaughter outside, Abbie couldn't think of another alternative. She was very literally living minute to minute and her decisions were appropriate to that outlook.

O'Reilly smacked the crucifix from Abbie's hand. As the cross bounced along the floor, he grabbed her makeshift stake and threw it across the room. "I think you can release her now."

The vampire behind Abbie let her go.

"Let's make a deal," O'Reilly said. "If you don't fight this, we'll leave without harming the others."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" Abbie asked.

"I have a world to explore," O'Reilly said. "Those children don't interest me. You, however, need to learn humility."

"This is because the cross worked for me, but not for you," Abbie said. "You're pouting."

"Abbie, Abbie, Abbie," O'Reilly said. "I don't care about your trinkets any more than I care about your God. I used to preach about the 'power of God.' After my recent transformation, I realize what a joke that phrase is. There is no power in being a servant." His red eyes were wild and excited. "But this new state of existence... this is beyond anything you could imagine. This is power! Keep your trinkets, Sister. I'm perfectly happy without them. Truth is, I always was."

In that moment, Abbie understood. She understood why the cross had worked for her, but not for Father O'Reilly.

It's not the cross.

It's me.

"You're suddenly quiet, Sister," O'Reilly said. "Have you finally run out of things to say?"

"No," Abbie said. "I have one more thing."

"I'm listening."

Summoning all her strength, Abbie looked into the monstrous priest's eyes and quietly said, "God damn you to Hell."

"Sister," O'Reilly said with a laugh, "I wouldn't have expected blasphemy from you. I understand this is a stressful situation, but that's no excuse to turn your back on—"

"That wasn't profanity," Abbie said. "I was making an honest request." As soon as she saw the confused look on O'Reilly's hideous face, she reached forward and grabbed his throat.

Smoke began to rise from the area where Abbie's skin touched O'Reilly's. He tried to speak, but couldn't. Abbie couldn't tell if she saw pain or confusion in his eyes. She decided she didn't care. Either one was just as satisfying.

"You're a channeler!" the vampire behind Abbie screamed.

Abbie released O'Reilly and turned to face the other vampire. She had absolutely no fear that O'Reilly would attack. As a human, he was a coward. She suspected that was still true.

"I don't know what a channeler is," Abbie said.

Before the vampire could answer, a table leg burst from his chest. He coughed blood for a second or two, then fell to the ground, dead.

Tim stood behind him.

"Thank you," Abbie said.

Tim gave her a single nod. "No problem." He looked behind her. "I think Father O'Reilly's feeling a bit under the weather."

Abbie turned around to see the creature that used to be Father O'Reilly on its knees. Its hands were cupped over the burns on its neck.

With hatred so powerful it caused a pang of guilt, Abbie drove her table leg into O'Reilly's chest.

As she pulled the leg out, Tim said, "You burned his flesh with a touch. You really are kissed by divinity."

"I'm not sure if it was the power of God or something inside me," Abbie said. "The other vampire called me a 'channeler.' That makes me think I'm not unique. For all I know, you can do it, too."

"I doubt it," Tim said. "You might not be unique, but you're definitely something special. As soon as that thing saw you burn O'Reilly, it was terrified."

"Oh well," Abbie said. "Either way, it was a gift from God and I'm thankful."

"No argument here," Tim said. "So what now? If they were telling the truth, all we really did here was buy some time."

"Stay here," Abbie said. "Protect the others."

"Where are you going?" Tim asked.

"Outside."

Tim shook his head. "The town might be overrun with those things. Why in the hell would you go outside?"

"I'm going outside to kill them," Abbie said quietly.

"There could be hundreds out there," Tim said. "You seriously think you can just go outside and kill them all?"

"Yes," Abbie said.

## *

#### Two Hours Later

Tim sat with the other volunteers at the front of the church. "I should've gone with her," he whispered.

"I get the feeling you'd have just been in the way," Amber, a girl Tim knew from school, said.

"She's been gone too long," Tim said. "I could've helped."

"What are we gonna do?" Amber asked.

Tim shrugged. "How should I know? I suppose we just stay here and hope the sun comes up before one of them decides to check the church again."

"I didn't mean tonight," Amber said. "If we survive the night, then what? If those things were telling the truth, they're attacking all over the world. It really is a war, like that guy said on TV."

"If it's a war," Tim said, "we'll win. People are tough. I bet it won't last a week."

"I hope you're right," Amber said.

"Yeah," Tim said. "Me too."

The front door to the church opened.

Tim jumped to his feet, table leg in hand.

Abbie stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She was covered in blood. She turned around and looked at the others. "It's over."

"No," Tim whispered. "They're dead?"

"They're dead," Abbie said. She was clearly exhausted.

"What are we gonna do?" Tim asked.

"The others are outside," Abbie said. "We're taking you all to the school. It's got a basement that can be barricaded in case more show up before dawn."

"Wait," Tim said. "Who's outside?"

"Your family and friends," Abbie said. She thought for a moment, then added, "Most of them, anyway." The sadness in her voice was unmistakable.

"You're not making sense!" Tim snapped. "Who's dead?"

"Oh dear," Abbie said. "You thought I meant the townspeople. I'm sorry, Tim. It's been a very long night. Most of the village is fine. The vampires are dead."

"You killed them all?" Amber asked.

Abbie nodded.

"Holy shit," Tim said. "How many were there?"

"I don't know, Tim," Abbie said. "Too many to count. Now, follow me. I'm very tired."

"You don't look so good, Sister," Tim said. "Maybe you should sit down and rest for a moment."

"I'll rest when the sun is in the sky," Abbie said. "Let's go."

She turned toward the door, took one step, then fell.

"Abbie!" Tim yelled as he ran across the room.

"Is she okay?" Amber asked.

"I think so," Tim said as he knelt over Abbie's unconscious body. "She's breathing."

"What happened to her?"

Tim shrugged. "I'm not sure. I think she fainted."

## *

Abbie woke to find herself in a hospital bed. Every inch of her body ached. She was alone in the room for several minutes before the nurses realized she was awake. Once they saw she was conscious, they began the process of checking her vitals while asking her a million questions.

After about an hour, a doctor came to see her and ultimately told her she was fine. He explained that she had simply fainted. "It was shock," he said. "And exhaustion. You took a real beating. Emotionally and physically."

"How long was I unconscious?" Abbie asked.

"Two days," the doctor said.

Abbie was floored. "Two days..." She was quiet for a moment, then said, "The town... was it... I mean, did it really happen?" Abbie prayed it had been a dream.

"It happened," the doctor said.

"Damn," Abbie said.

The doctor nodded. "Yeah. Damn."

"Where exactly am I?" Abbie asked.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," a man with a deep voice and an American accent said.

Abbie tilted her head toward the voice. A powerfully built man stood in the hospital room's doorway. He was an older man, maybe fifty. He had short gray hair and a hard face, but gentle eyes. Caring eyes.

"Who are you?" Abbie asked.

"Geoff Wallace," the man said. "Most folks just call me Wallace."

"Why are you in my room, Wallace?" Abbie asked. "I seriously doubt you're a member of the staff."

Wallace chuckled. "You're right about that. As to why I'm in your room, I'm here to recruit you."

"Recruit me for what?"

Wallace looked at the doctor. "Is she well enough for a one-on-one?"

"Sure," the doctor said. "As far as I can tell, she's fine. A few bumps and bruises, but otherwise, she's tip-top." The doctor looked at Abbie. "Do you have any questions before I leave?"

"I suspect," Abbie said, pointing toward Wallace, "he will have the answers to most of the questions I have."

The doctor smiled. "You're probably right. Well, if you need anything, just let us know." With a nod to Wallace, the doctor left the room.

"So," Wallace said, "do you want to do this with a question-and-answer session or would you rather I just launch into my sales pitch? I'm fine either way."

Abbie smiled. She liked this man. "Let's start with my last question. Where am I?"

"We're in the medical wing of an underground military facility," Wallace said. "The exact location isn't important. What is important is the fact that you're safe."

"What about the others?"

"They're here, too," Wallace said. "I suspect you'll get a visit from that Tim kid as soon as he hears you're awake. He's asked about you nonstop for the past two days."

"He's a good boy," Abbie said.

"I agree," Wallace said. "He'll make a fine soldier."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Abbie said.

"Me either," Wallace said, "but these are desperate times."

"What happened? Those things... are they really..." Abbie was surprised to find she had trouble saying the word.

"Vampires?" Wallace said. "Yes. As for what happened... well, we're now at war with creatures we thought were bedtime stories this time last week."

"War?" Abbie asked. "I do hope you're being dramatic."

"I wish that were true," Wallace said. "A lot of people have died while you were asleep, Sister. Millions."

Abbie felt sick.

Millions.

It just didn't seem possible.

"I know it's a lot to take in," Wallace said, "but I don't really have time to break it to you slowly."

"Tim mentioned werewolves," Abbie said, "not vampires. That whole TV thing..."

"It was real," Wallace said. "And yes, it's what started this. Dr. Bates should have never televised the transformation. If the declaration video is any indication, the werewolves are in charge. From what we've seen, vampires aren't exactly thinkers. They run entirely on instinct. Most likely, the wolves are using the vamps as foot soldiers."

"Did you know this was coming?" Abbie asked.

"Humanity had no idea this was about to happen," Wallace said.

Abbie cocked an eyebrow. "You're hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything," Wallace said, "but I am leaving out some details, for security reasons. You can trust me, though. This attack was a complete shock to the human race. We lost several major world cities on the first night. Since then, we've gotten our footing, but things are bleak, Sister. Very bleak."

"Why do you want to recruit me?" Abbie asked. "I'm not a soldier. I'm a nun."

"The two professions aren't mutually exclusive," Wallace said. "Not anymore."

"They told you, didn't they," Abbie said. "They told you what I did."

Wallace smiled. "Of course they did. You're a hero to them. Hell, you're a superhero to them. You have a very rare ability."

"Can you explain it?"

Wallace shook his head. "Not really. During the first assault, we got a few reports of others who could do what you did. They were able to hurt vampires with a touch. We don't really know why. This is all very new. We're still trying to separate myth from reality."

"The others who could do it," Abbie said. "Were they religious people?"

"Some," Wallace said, "but not all. As far as we can tell, there's no correlation between religion and this ability. We've found Christians, Jews, Muslims, and atheists who can do it. The only thing we know is that it's very, very rare. Probably less than one percent of the population."

"Interesting," Abbie said.

"And," Wallace added, "we know the vampires call you 'channelers.' Whatever that means."

"That's why you want me to join you," Abbie said. "Because I have this ability."

"That's one of the reasons," Wallace said, "but it's most certainly not the main reason."

"What's the main reason?"

"You're a warrior," he said flatly.

Abbie laughed. "I'm many things, Mr. Wallace, but a warrior isn't one of them. I despise war."

"Spoken like a true warrior," Wallace said with a smile. "Sister, I don't know how much you remember from the other night, but you killed hundreds of vampires. Hundreds."

"I simply did what I had to do," Abbie said.

"Exactly," Wallace said. "The world isn't what humanity thought it was. Evil creatures exist. In the past week, humanity has learned that evil is not a point of view. It's a tangible thing. A thing that must be stomped out of existence. There are other channelers, Sister, but there aren't many like you. You're not just a channeler. You're not just a warrior. You're both."

"What exactly would I be joining?" Abbie asked. "An army?"

"We don't have a name yet," Wallace said. "At least nothing official. Right now, we're simply a coalition. Every military organization in the world is working together. We're pooling all resources, from information to soldiers."

"So it took an invasion of vampires to make us finally stop killing each other," Abbie said.

Wallace chuckled. "I suppose so."

"I'll think it over," Abbie said. "I have a thousand more questions, but I suppose they can wait."

"I hope that's a yes," Wallace said. "I really don't have time to court you. Just know, we need you, Sister. Humanity needs you."

"Of course it's a yes," Abbie said. "It's not like I have a choice."

Wallace sighed, obviously relieved. "I'm sure the doctors will want to keep you for observation for another day or so. As soon as they release you, we'll start your training."

"So when I join your group of soldiers," Abbie said, "what will I be doing? I have no military training."

"All that stuff can be learned," Wallace said. "And let me be clear about something... I'm not asking you to join my soldiers. I'm asking you to lead them."

Abbie fell back onto her bed and stared at the room's ceiling. "Nothing will ever be the same again."

"You're right," Wallace said.

"Do you really think we can win a war against an army of monsters?" Abbie asked.

"Yes," Wallace said. "I do. And when you meet the men and women signing up to fight this war, you'll believe it too."

"I don't need to meet them to believe it," Abbie said. "I've always believed the human spirit is the most powerful force on this planet."

"That's precisely why we need you," Wallace said. "But for now, I'll let you rest. Get some food. I'm sure you're starving. Welcome to the team, Sister."

"One last question before you go," Abbie said.

"Sure."

"You said there's no official name for this coalition of armies," Abbie said. "Is there an unofficial one?"

"Yeah," Wallace said. "Several of the soldiers have adopted a nickname based on the fact that we're fighting the darkness and protecting the light."

"What's the nickname?"

"They're calling themselves Day Soldiers."

"Day Soldiers," Abbie echoed. "You know, I think I like it."

"Yeah," Wallace said. "I think I like it, too."

## * * *

Abbie's story is just the beginning. If you'd like to read more about the War Against the Darkness, _Day Soldiers_ , the first book in Brandon Hale's action-packed _Day Soldiers_ series, is free at most major online retailers.

## *

When he's not writing post-apocalyptic adventures, most of Brandon Hale's time is spent with his wife in the mountains of Virginia. Brandon loves to dabble in all forms of art, from drawing to sculpting, but writing will always be his first, best love. Most of his time is spent writing novels and keeping up his blog:

http://booksfromhale.com

## *

#

# How Jessica met Simon: A Tube Riders Origins Story

## Chris Ward

### Jessica

It was a risk to go looking for the boy again, especially after the pitiful smudge of hazy sunlight had dropped behind the high rises to the west, leaving only the few working streetlights and the trash fires to illuminate London's streets. Camden Market, once a buzzing hive of subculture, wasn't the place her father said it had been forty years ago, before the Governor took power. It was as dangerous at night as anywhere else, but there had been something in the boy's look, those bright eyes, that was tugging on her like a fishhook embedded in her heart. The boy had cast his line and now was reeling her back in.

With a defiant sigh, Jessica put down the book and stood up. She switched off her reading lamp and went to the window, drawing back her curtains to reveal the quiet Richmond street outside.

The streetlight at the front of their house had gone out again. Jessica frowned. The loss of power was never a good sign, but it did mean it would be easier to get out without her parents noticing.

She took her jacket from the hook behind her door and slipped down the stairs. In the living room, her father was snoring on the sofa, his head resting on his shoulder. Her mother was watching the TV with the sound turned down low, a blanket over her knees. Jessica slipped back into the shadows, pressed the temporary deactivation button for their security system and slipped out.

The street was dark, the night thankfully quiet. She zipped up her jacket and pulled the hood over her face, even though it was neither raining nor especially cold. In a pocket in the inner lining something heavy jostled – the knife she never left home without. Her parents might consider it bad form for the daughter of a respectable family to carry a street urchin's weapon, but if they knew they would understand.

They lived in London Greater Urban Area too.

A hollow whump sounded from a few hundred metres away and a glow appeared above the line of houses to her right. Jessica sighed, pulled the hood lower over her face, and hurried for the tube.

There was some kind of commotion going on by the entrance, but she ignored it, easing her way through the crowd and down into the station. She had just passed

through the turnstiles when a gunshot rang out from above. Several security guards appeared from nowhere and hauled huge sliding riot doors across, blocking off the exits behind her.

'Get on the next, lass,' the nearest guard said. 'All further trains tonight will be diverted until that mob clears out.'

She wanted to ask what was going on, but one glance at the three security guards halted her tongue. Between the escalator down to the platform and the riot doors were just her, a pretty posh girl, and three disillusioned men. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. She nodded and hurried down to the platform.

No one got off the next eastbound train as it pulled in, the notification of the station's temporary closure obviously having been announced. She climbed up into the sticky warmth blasting from a broken air conditioner, took a seat in the corner and folded her arms over her chest.

The train rumbled off into the tunnel. Gazing out at the blurred advertising hoardings rushing past, Jessica wondered whether she would even be able to find the boy again.

'Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you... but do you have the time?'

His words had been so mundane, so throwback, so antiquated. Jessica had stared into the piercing blue of his eyes, the words bouncing around in her head like fragments of a long forgotten song.

And she had felt something she had only ever read about before, something which terrified and excited her at the same time.

### Simon

He slammed a fist against the wall as tears welled in his eyes. The door to his flat hung loose on one hinge, swaying back and forth. A huge puncture in the centre showed where the Department of Civil Affairs had broken it open.

He listened for a few moments but only silence came from inside. He crept in through the open doorway and looked around. Their things were strewn everywhere. Everything that could be smashed had been, and all their cupboards and drawers had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor like flotsam on a beach after a powerful storm.

Only one thing seemed to be missing.

His father.

'I told you, I told you...'

They won't find out, his father had said, over and over, crouched in front of the computer and its illegal internet connection. How could they? Stop worrying, Simon.

They had. The computer was in pieces and his father taken by the government's henchmen, dragged away into whatever hellhole of interrogation now awaited him.

Simon turned at the sound of footsteps beating out a heavy rhythm on the stairs below. Simon looked up, frowned, and hurried inside, grabbing what he could, stuffing a few clothes and some personal items into a hold-all. He made it back out on to the landing as the first of the looters – maybe alerted to the arrest by the DCA cars in the street – appeared on the landing below.

He had just scrambled up to the higher landing and ducked down behind the metal railing before they barged into his flat and began to ransack it, taking everything they could, pushing each other aside to grab handfuls of food cans, clothing, pieces of furniture. Simon grimaced as a fight broke out, wincing as heavy fists landed with hollow thuds. While the men were distracted he took his cue, hurrying down the stairs and out into the cool autumn air, his bag of belongings wedged under his arm.

He ducked into the nearest alleyway and leaned back against the cold concrete of the building he no longer lived in, sucking in a couple of deep breaths.

Everything he knew had turned on its head. His father would never return, and he would never be able to find him. When the DCA took you, you were gone for good. His father had demanded a modicum of respect in the community, but now the gangs would move in, take over his flat, and steal or sell everything he and his father had called theirs. Simon felt strangely empty; not angry, not disappointed. Relieved, even. While his father had ploughed the digital airwaves looking for some shred of news that Europe gave a crap about life in London GUA, Simon had felt the watching eyes of the DCA hovering at his shoulder.

It could have been worse, he supposed. They could have sent the Huntsmen, and half the building's tenants would now be dead.

He glanced up at the thin sliver of grey sky peering down at him from between two grimy walls of concrete. It would be dark soon. He had to find cover before then.

St Cannerwells London Underground station, where the Tube Riders hung out, would do. With a bit of luck Marta, Switch, or Paul would be there, and while he couldn't rely on any of them for somewhere to stay, they could at least help him out with some gear until he found a new place. London was filled with abandoned buildings, so it wasn't difficult to find a roof. The hard part was finding a safe one. Wraiths that had once been respectable people haunted the dark corridors of derelict apartment

blocks and factories, preying on anyone not resourceful enough to put a lock between them and the outside.

It was only a handful of tube stops to Hopewell, the nearest operating station to St Cannerwells. He could jump the tube and be with his friends in half an hour.

He headed out on to the street, threading himself through the piles of rubbish and abandoned cars, the stench of rotting food and decaying flesh so familiar it barely registered. At the end of the street he turned left, dodged out of the way of the rusty, lumbering hulk of a government-run bio-bus, and hurried across the street to the nearest Underground entrance.

At the top of the steps he paused, his heart sinking. A notice taped to the metal shutter doors at a crooked angle flapped in the breeze.

## STATION CLOSED

## NO FURTHER TRAINS TODAY

Simon ran a hand through his hair. It was a long way across London to St Cannerwells on foot, and he didn't dare risk a government bus once twilight set in.

There were too many shark operations that would sell you a ticket and then cut your throat.

The market where he worked during the day was halfway there. Perhaps he could find somewhere nearby to sleep. It was worth a try.

Feeling a leaden weight hanging about his heart, he hurried off into the gloom. Around him, the fires and the lights of London crackled into life.

### Jessica

She hung back in the shadows, the hood pulled down over her face. The market was dark, most of the streetlights broken, only a couple of trashcan fires further down and a tired, indistinct moon illuminating the closed market stalls, the awnings pulled down over them and tied up.

The boy who had asked her for the time had been working on one of these little stalls. She immediately felt foolish for coming back here – after all what had she expected, the market to still be bustling with people and the boy to be standing there warming his hands over a paper cup of steaming coffee? She knew London. Nothing savoury happened after dark.

'I'm a stupid little girl,' she muttered. 'Dad's going to kill me.'

A clattering dustbin lid somewhere behind her brought more immediate danger to mind. She glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide. Several pairs of running feet were approaching, but she was too far out in the open to make it to an alleyway before whoever was coming reached her.

'Shit,' she muttered, spinning around, assessing her options. A friend of hers had been raped and murdered just a few streets from her house. London was so dangerous that even in her up-market part of town the schools had armed guards. At nineteen she was unemployed, but hopeful of getting a lower office position in her father's government office so she could ride the same armoured transport to work and avoid the dangerous streets.

She heard the crash of breaking glass, and the whump of a fire igniting. It was another rampant mob, protesting their frustration at the government in the only way they knew how: by causing wholesale destruction.

The only options were to run or to hide. She started to walk through the closed up market stalls, only to hear shuffling footsteps coming from up ahead. Perhaps this was an organized gang fight, two groups meeting in the closed up market to settle old scores, or simply to take their anger out on other people. Father always condemned them, but the cause of all the unrest depended on who you listened to. Father blamed the people of course, while the people blamed the government.

As the footsteps were joined by others, she darted to the nearest market stall, dropped to the ground and crawled under the tight awning into the dark space beneath. If they searched for her they would find her, or if they torched the waxed canvas awnings that covered the closed stalls she would burn with it, but she had no other

choice.

In the near pitch darkness she lay there, heart pounding, tears running down her cheeks, as the sounds of a riot filled the air around her.

As she heard the whump of a stall igniting not far away, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. She was such a stupid, stupid girl. She should never have left the house. Running off to find a boy was the most ridiculously hair-brained reason to go out on to London's dangerous streets at night, but of course she knew that now.

'It was a dream,' she whispered, wishing now she could through all the stupid romance books in her bedroom into one of these riot fires. As a whistling sound came from beside her, she wondered if it wouldn't be quicker to just step out from under the awning, put herself at the mercy of the mob, close her eyes and give up.

'Shhh...'

Jessica jerked her head around as the sound came again. Someone was lying in the dark a few feet away. She tried to shuffle backwards but found only the wooden side of the market stall at her back.

'They'll hear you. Then we'll both be dead. Just stay quiet and they'll pass.'

'Who are you?'

'I'm Simon.'

She stared at him, but it was too dark to make out anything other than a silhouette.

'What are you doing under here?' she whispered.

He made a sound that could have been a wry laugh. I think I live here now.' He pushed something towards her. 'Here.'

It was a sweatshirt, folded up into a ball like a pillow. She put it under her head and lay facing him, the cold tarmac of Camden High Street beneath her. 'You're him, aren't you?'

'Who?'

'The boy who asked me for the time.'

'Yesterday?'

'Yes.'

She thought she saw the silhouette nod. 'Yes.'

Jessica's heart seemed to swell out of her chest. 'You're him.'

'You just said that.'

'I know.' Her lips worked, searching for words. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? To find him. Yet here she was, in the most unlikely of situations, unable to think of anything to say.

'You didn't know,' he whispered.

'What?'

'You didn't know the time. You didn't have a watch.' He chuckled. 'I had to guess.'

'Why didn't you ask someone else?'

'I didn't want to.'

Her cheeks flushed. 'Why did you need to know? Like anyone ever cares what time it is anymore.'

'I just wondered. I wondered what you'd say. Whether you'd look me in the eyes, whether you'd smile. I just... wondered.'

'Why did you wonder?' she whispered back, feeling weird and awkward, but at the same time almost euphoric.

'Because... in your eyes... there was something that I haven't seen for a long

time.'

'What?'

'Hope.'

'Hope?'

'I wanted to talk to a girl who had hope, and I wanted to know why she had hope in her eyes.'

'Because things can always get better, right?'

'Right.' Simon moved a little closer. 'What's your name?'

'Oh. Um, Jessica. Jessica Woods. But you can call me Jess.'

'It's nice to meet you, Jess.'

'And you too. Why are you really under here, Simon?'

He sighed. 'My father got arrested, and then a gang took over my flat. The usual kind of thing. Not like it doesn't happen every day, does it?'

Jessica swallowed. She shuffled a little closer and tentatively reached out a hand. 'I'm sorry, Simon. That must be awful.'

'These things happen. You have to make do, don't you?'

Jessica reached up and felt first Simon's arm, then his shoulder, and finally the cool, soft skin of his face. She stroked his cheek, the tiny button of a tear bursting over her fingers.

'I don't think I can make it better, Simon. I wish I could, but–'

Simon's fingers closed over hers. 'You already have,' he said.

Jessica closed her eyes. When his lips touched hers, all the infinite troubles of the world seemed to melt away.

The kiss seemed to last forever. Jessica never wanted it to end, but like everything, eventually it did, and she stared at Simon in the dark, his face just inches from her own.

'Listen,' he said.

'What?'

'Nothing. There's nothing to hear. They've gone. The mob's gone.'

'I told you, didn't I? Things always get better.'

Simon smiled. 'They do,' he said.

## * * *

The rest of the story of Jessica and Simon is told in Chris Ward's novel, _The Tube Riders_.

## *

A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004. There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat. He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.

In addition to _The Tube Riders_ series, he is the author of the novels _The Man Who Built the World_ and _Head of Words_ , as well as the _Beat Down!_ action/comedy novella series under the name Michael S. Hunter, and the _Tales From the Village Green_ (cricket short stories) series under the name of Michael White.

Chris's Blog: http://amillionmilesfromanywhere.blogspot.jp/

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 Mailing List

## *

#

# The Riddle

## Alison Blake

Crash! Spinning! Turning over and over. Pain. Oh God, the pain. Flashing light, crushing weight. Her head vibrates like a tuning fork. Blackness. Something wet and sticky. Flashing lights again but now they are all the colors of the rainbow. Too bright, stabbing into her head. Blood dribbles out of her mouth. Her head crushed by a giant vise. Terror, terror, terror.

_Help me!_ The scream echoes in her head but no sound waves carry it beyond her tortured body.

Help me!

Now she hears voices. Thank you, God.

"There's someone in there," says a man's voice.

"Christ," says another. "How are we going to get her out?"

Help me!

"They can't hear you, Erin."

What?

"I said they can't hear you. Isn't that right, TooTrue?"

"Probably," agrees TooTrue.

"Here, let me help you." A tall, strong looking young man offers his hand. She reaches for it.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," says his companion. "That's the first step on the road to a terrible destination." He shudders.

The helpful young man, snorts, an oddly inelegant sound coming from someone as courtly looking as he. "That's the self-righteous for you," he tells Erin, "strong on advice but short on practical help." He reaches out his hand again and she grabs it fiercely. Anything to escape the wreck.

Now on her own two feet she looks down at herself. There is no blood, no broken bones, and no lacerations, only a nasty headache and a slight dizziness. "Thank you," she says to the beautiful young man. "I thought I was dead for sure."

"That remains to be decided," says TooTrue gesturing with his head. All three turn to observe the first responders. They are working frantically over her poor car which is wrapped obscenely around a battered Hummer.

"I don't understand," she says, although she is afraid that she does. "I'm alive." Her voice is high pitched verging on loss of control.

"Yes, yes." TooTrue is impatient, perhaps irritated at being pulled away from something more important. "For now," he adds.

"What does he mean?" she appeals to the good looking, elegantly dressed, young man.

Before he can answer, TooTrue says, "Touch and go, don't you know." He sounds bored. But it's her life he is talking about.

The young man smiles gently at her, a beautiful smile, warm and inviting with a hint of humor. "It's a choice, you see."

"I get to choose between living and dying?"

"That's pretty much up to them," says TooTrue. He gestures again at the men now working with the Jaws of Life, tearing apart her little car, trying to reach... but there is no one there.

"If I'm dead, where's my body? The car is empty. I'm out here not crushed in my car."

"As I said, it's a choice."

"I don't understand."

"I'll explain, sweetheart."

Now TooTrue snorts. He says in a high pitched, scratchy voice "You, girl, I would like to point out that everything Nick says will not necessarily lead you to the truth."

"Nick?"

"Nicholas," says the handsome, young man with a graceful bow. "TooTrue is a clever fellow. Even his name is clever, and not to be taken literally." He sighs rather theatrically. "I regret to say you find yourself smack in the middle of one of the oldest riddles known to humankind. An unenviable position.

"What riddle?"

Nick smiles at her. "There once were two identical twins. One twin could not tell a lie, the other could not tell the truth. Each twin stands before a doorway, guarding it. In the middle is a sign saying, one door leads to safety, the other to death. Ask what you will, but only one question per twin. Choose wisely.

"But everyone knows how to solve it."

"Do they?" Nick smiles.

TooTrue glowers.

"Yes," she says. "It's easy, the traveler asks one twin, 'If I ask your brother which is the safe door, what will he say? The twin answers, 'He will say take the left door.' So the traveler walks through the right door and is safe. Easy."

Nick smiles at her again, "Of course it's easy."

"You're a fool," TooTrue grunts at her.

She is beginning to dislike TooTrue.

"But what's the point of it? What do I win when I solve your riddle?"

"You get to choose," say both Nick and TooTrue almost, but not quite, simultaneously. Their words echo each other.

"I just want to live," she cries.

"Then don't choose him," says TooTrue. "He'll waltz with you on the path to Hell."

"On the path, yes. But in which direction," says Nick with a laugh.

"Hell?"

She looks uncertainly at Nick.

"Don't you recognize him?" asks TooTrue. "Look at his fine clothes, his sly expression, his graceful form and handsome face. Where do you think following him will take you?"

Nick has stopped smiling and is staring at TooTrue, shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger.

She looks from one to the other.

"A fair question," says Nick. "Another questions is, where do you think following TooTrue will take you, Erin?"

"You know my name."

"I know everything about you."

"Except how you will choose," says TooTrue.

Erin takes a good, long look at TooTrue. He is a tall, skinny man, surprisingly young considering his gruffness. As she watches, he scratches his arms and neck. His skin is a blotchy pink, as if he suffers from the heartache of psoriasis. His hair is thin and dry looking, mousy brown in color. He wears what looks like a grubby bed sheet, his feet are bare and his toenails need cutting. There is a faint odor of garlic and sweat. Erin fights a horrible urge to giggle. _A blind date nightmare._ She looks back at Nick.

He winks at her. "I agree TooTrue doesn't look like much, but he and his gang have an incredible PR machine."

"Are you saying I have to choose between the two of you?"

"Give that girl a cigar," Nick waggles his eyebrows and smiles, pleased with his rather feeble Groucho imitation.

"And one of you always tells the truth and one of you always lies?"

"Too damn literal," mutters TooTrue.

Nick laughs. "No, my beautiful Erin, we both are capable of telling the truth."

"And lying?"

"Actually no," says Nick. "Tell her, TooTrue."

"We tell the truth, yes," says TooTrue grudgingly.

"But do we tell the whole truth?" Nick shrugs. "It's up to you to ask the right questions. After all, it's your soul."Nick is enjoying the situation. It's obvious to Erin that he lives for these duels of possession.

TooTrue, seems self-righteously bored. But something tells her he that wants to win as badly as Nick.

Erin looks around her. The first responders are still working on her car. They have strung lights around the area so it's as bright as day. She can see the sweat staining the underarms of their shirts and rolling off their red faces as they fight desperately to save her.

But beyond the string of lights all she sees is a gray, hazy mist. It's as if the broken cars and the desperate men exist on a tiny, solid asteroid adrift in a haze of infinity or fantasy... Or madness. Looking down she sees only as far as her feet.

There's nothing below. I'm standing on nothing!

Vertigo sweeps over her, she sways as a cold sweat slicks her body, nausea threatens. She reaches out her hands for support but to her surprise both Nick and TooTrue take a step back from her.

What?

Then she sees that they too are standing on nothing. They are adrift in nothingness! "Help me," she pleads.

For the first time TooTrue looks pleased. "Of course I'll help you, you poor dear soul."

_A soul?_ "Am I dead?"

Nick studies the men working on her car. "Not yet," he says. "Your time is slipping away. Once your body dies, the choice is no longer yours to make."

"Have you been a good girl?" asks TT.

"Yes. No...Sometimes."

TT smiles, his teeth are brownish, she notices.

Nick looks at her thoughtfully. "Just how bad have you been?" he asks gently.

"I've never killed anyone." _Wonderful, what an epitaph! She Never Killed Anyone_.

TT looks at her suspiciously. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks.

"I shopped-lifted a few times, but nothing really expensive. It was a dare. Just to prove I could do it." Her voice pleads for understanding. "I was a kid...just a kid."

TT is absolutely glaring at her now. "Pathetic."

"Oh, give the girl a break, TT. I'm sure she can find something that will suffice."

TT whirls on Nick. "Listen you, stick to your own parameters and I'll take care of mine."

Nick turns to Erin, who is watching them anxiously. "I suppose you went to church and confessed your crimes?"

"I don't go to church," she admits in a whisper. TT narrows his eyes at her. "But I'm truly sorry. I would never do such a thing now."

Nick is humming along to some music only he can hear. "Repentant, are you?" he asks.

"Yes, I am."

"And you'll never steal again?" TT demands.

"No, I won't. Truly I won't."

"Well then―"

"Not really your type, is she TT?" asks Nick.

TT glares at his opponent. "I could squeeze her in."

"How about sex?" suggests Nick. "That's always a rich field."

Erin freezes. "Sex?"

TT leans forward, his hungry eyes fixed on her face. "Tell me about your sex life, Erin." When she flushes with embarrassment , he smiles with satisfaction. "You're a whore."

"No!"

"Don't worry about it," says Nick. "If you go with him, there'll be no sex . . . ever. On the other hand, if you choose to come with me, there'll be sex galore." Nick suddenly jumps high and shouts, "Hallelujah!" His jump takes him almost ten feet high.

TT looks up at him sourly. "Bursting with joy," he mutters bitterly.

As Nick floats back down to wherever they are he asks, "Do you like to dance?" He starts to dance himself, whirling an imaginary partner around the misty galaxy.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see TT scowling? It's obvious he disapproves. "No," she says, "I don't dance."

Both Nick and TT look at her sharply. "You're lying." TT's eyes gleam.

"Why are you bothering to lie?" Nick asks gently.

"We can see through you like a piece of glass," sneers TT.

"A beautiful, fragile piece of glass," Nick amends.

"Yes," she says. "I like to dance."

"And sing?"

"And sing."

Nick is delighted. "Wonderful. My home is filled with song and dance. Laughter and―"

"―Drinking," TT breaks in. "Filthy louts lie about all day, drunk as sailors."

"In actually fact," Nick corrects him. "We seldom become drunk, simply happier." He turns to Erin. "You haven't been very happy lately, have you?"

She shakes her head.

He comes closer, but is careful not to touch her. "If you choose to come with me, there will be music and dancing, singing and laughing. Racing across the cool grass. There are sea- blessed breezes that blow across the velds. Dogs to romp with, horses to ride, but only if they want you to ride them. And the food." He kisses the tips of his fingers. "Ah the food."

"I'll get fat." She tries to joke.

"No one is fat in my house. Everyone is a perfect soul."

"Ha! If you believe that, you deserve to be his victim. Hasn't anyone warned you about signing a contract with Old Nick?" TT is in a rage, clenching an unclenching his fists, he bares his teeth at Nick.

"I'm not that old," Nick protests. "Besides, what do you offer her?"

"I? I offer nothing." He turns to the girl, for once his expressions softens, his scratchy voice tries its best to be soft and warm. "Haven't you been told all your life that Paradise must be earned, not just given as a silly gift?"

"We don't talk much about Paradise in my home," says Erin. "Just, you know, making a living, getting ahead, not being taken for a sucker."

TT leans forward, getting right in her face. "Exactly! And now you are on the very cusp of your reward."

Behind her Nick laughs. "Ask him what his Paradise is like," he says.

"Unimaginable to the likes of you," TT sneers at Nick.

"Are there angels?" she asks TT.

"There are saints in my Paradise."

"Saints!"

"Ask Old Nick what you'll find at his place," TT's voice drips with contempt. She turns with a questioning look.

"In my, ah, place, as he calls it, you'll find writers and painters, dancers and singers, poets and lovers, dreamers and doers. People who have occasionally been played for suckers and survived. In my house no one prays. Do you know why?" She shakes her head. " Because everyone is a prayer."

"They don't pray because they know they haven't a hope of getting out," TT snarls. "And that's your choice girl. Paradise or a place without a prayer." He points to Nick who is looking off into the mist, a smile on his handsome face. "Would you buy a used car from him?" TT asks her.

Yes, I probably would, she thinks sadly.

Nick looks at her with love. "TT may call his home Paradise, but others have another name for it."

"You can't cheat," screeches TT. "If you cheat I win."

"Don't worry," says Nick. "I never cheat," he tells Erin. "And I don't sell used cars."

"Times up," says TT. "Look." He points to where the rescue workers have stopped working and are standing around staring into her dismantled car. Her sprawled, bloody body is clearly visible.

"But I don't want to be dead!"

"Too late," grins TT. "No choice now." He reaches for her.

One of the men leans into her wrecked car and presses a stethoscope to her chest. "There's a faint heartbeat," he says. His voice is not hopeful.

"Nooo," screams TT, stamping his dirty feet in rage.

"It's now or never, Erin," Nick says to her. He holds out his strong hand to her.

"No! I am your only possible choice you stupid girl," says TT holding out his thin, talon-like hand to her. "Remember, everyone knows who Nick is."

She is reaching for Nick when TT hisses, "Don't be a sucker."

A sucker?

She hesitates a moment then grabs hold of Nick's hand, leans forward and kisses him on his cheek. There is a screech of a nerve racking high-pitched sound. Instantly she is whirled away. Then blessed silence as she is carefully lifted from her car and placed on a stretcher. And the pain. Oh God, the pain is back. That means . . . she is alive!

## * * *

Alison Blake is Irish-American but somewhere, not too far back, there must be some gypsy in her blood. Her aim is to live, for a short while, in every town. state, and country that ignites her imagination. Today the USA, next year the rest of the world. She's also mad about horses, dogs and kayaking. Find out more about Alison Blake and her novels, and short stories at:

http://www.alisonblakewriter.com

## *

#

# Dark Visions: The Paladin's Kiss

## Jeanette Raleigh

Isabelle lifted her skirts and stepped across the field, anxious for a glimpse of Luke. She'd seen little enough of him since he joined the ranks of the paladins. Straining on her tiptoes to see through the crowd toward the tournament fields, Isabelle missed what was right in front of her: Thindle Perkins. He had asked her father for her hand in marriage, never mind that Isabelle was waiting for Luke.

"My dearest Izzy. I'm so glad you decided to accept my invitation."

_Why, the little toad, the weasel_. "I am here of my own accord and on my own behalf." Isabelle would have stepped away, but a rather large woman and her brood of children were just now pressing through the crowd to Isabelle's right. Even if she made a decided bolt for it, she'd not get far. She ground her teeth.

Thindle grabbed her hand, his own fingers thick and clammy. "So I suppose your father has told you of our engagement."

Isabelle pulled her hand back, "We're not betrothed."

Thindle smiled with a triumphant and nasty pride. He had all of his teeth, and while short, very short, and somewhat round, he was rich. Of course, he expected Isabelle's father to agree to the marriage. "It is only a matter of time, my dear. Certainly your family will approve of such an illustrious match."

"You made an offer. I have not agreed to a betrothal." Isabelle found the opening she needed and with a sharp, "Excuse me," she slipped into the space in the crowd, hoping Thindle wouldn't follow.

"Izzy!" The nasal whine behind her rose in pitch and power while Isabelle darted between a pair of farmers. Dodging around three women, she rushed through the crowd. After a quick check behind to make sure she was hidden, Isabelle ducked into the stables.

"You made it!" Stefan, Luke's best friend and likely the reason her beloved became a paladin in the first place, grinned from the back, where he was caring for his horse's hooves. Her intention had only been to hide, but finding Stefan here gave her a sense of unbridled joy. Where Stefan went, Luke was sure to follow.

"Where's Luke?"

"Out moping. He went to buy some meat and cheese."

Isabelle liked Stefan. He always had a kind word and high spirits. But Luke had captured her heart long ago. "Why would he be moping? You said he was looking forward to seeing me here."

Stefan raised an eyebrow at Isabelle over MudFlank's rump. "You went and engaged yourself to another man. You can see how that might not sit so well with Luke. I'm sure he'll get over you, but visiting him now will rub salt in the wound."

Isabelle crossed her arms. "Just because a man offers for me does not make me engaged. I do have some say in the matter, and how would he find out anyway?"

"The gossips have you wearing the wedding wreath in a matter of weeks. Good 'ol Thimble Perkins, rich and eager. He's been bragging up and down the coast about the lovely girl he's planning to marry." Stefan returned to MudFlanks, sliding his hand along the foreleg of the horse while he chuckled.

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are." Isabelle stood quietly. She couldn't very well sit in the stables in her new dress. She'd stitched the hem herself, though her mother had done the sleeves and bodice. Everything had to be perfect.

Now that she had found Stefan, she'd just wait for Luke to show. It couldn't be terribly long. She didn't count on Thindle blustering into the stables.

"There you are, my Sweet. You do realize that things will go worse for you if I have to follow a merry chase every time we attend a function together." Thindle curled his lip as he stepped into the stables in his finery.

"I came alone to the tournament." Isabelle said, "And I don't appreciate being followed."

"Not entirely alone." Stefan popped his head out from behind the horse and gave a quick nod to Thindle. "You must be Isabelle's merchant. Thimble? I've heard so much about you."

"My name is Thindle."

"Stefan..." Isabelle's voice lowered in warning.

Thindle's eyes narrowed at Isabelle as he looked from one to the other, "I forbid you to spend another moment with this man."

Isabelle's skirts swished as she turned on Thindle, anger sparking in her eyes. "How dare you. You are nothing to me. You'll not forbid me to do anything. I am here waiting for my beloved and you can leave. This moment."

"Your father will agree, and more importantly, he said no to your paladin. A few months and you'll come crawling back to me on your hands and knees." He turned and stomped out of the stables, his boots thumping against the dirt until he was out of sight.

"What did he mean?" Isabelle turned back to Stefan.

Stefan was no longer looking at Isabelle but deep in concentration on MudFlanks. _The coward._

"Stefan, quit pretending you didn't hear me and tell me what he meant. Did Luke offer for me?"

Stefan's muffled voice came out from behind the stall. He clearly was planning to keep the horse as a barrier between them. "Last Festival of Lights. Remember when Luke and your father disappeared for a few minutes while we were playing games?"

"Just for a moment. I knew he was upset after. I thought it was because you had to leave so soon."

"No, the only reason we left as early as we did was because of the answer your father gave. Luke couldn't bear to be near you, knowing that your father rejected his suit. We made an excuse."

"You told her?" Coming from behind Isabelle, Luke had heard the whole of the conversation. He was a tall man with golden eyes and skin that looked tan in winter. Isabelle's heart beat faster at the sight of him. It had been so long.

"We've got to stop holding private conversations in the stables." Stefan joked, his eyes merry with laughter. "You are both here. It's cause for celebration. Don't waste it."

"You would have left me ignorant?" Isabelle felt several disjointed emotions. Anger, love, frustration. She'd not seen Luke in months. He'd stopped writing. She wouldn't have even known the men would be in town for the tournament had Stefan not written a long letter with that last bit about how much Luke looked forward to seeing her. Now she knew why. He thought she was claimed by another.

"Your father said I wouldn't be able to care for you." Luke's voice was low and thrumming with pain.

Stefan slid around his horse, "I'm going to the baker for a treat. Why don't you two find a private place to have this conversation."

"You're still a gossip." Luke muttered.

"He didn't tell me. Thindle did." Isabelle sighed, wanting very badly to lean against the thick wood of the stable wall. If she were dressed for riding, she could. Seemed a waste to get all dressed up, only to go unnoticed.

"Your betrothed?" He spit the word out like it was poison.

Isabelle smiled then, for Luke's eyes flashed rage. "No, I am not betrothed to that little toad. So you _do_ still like me. I'd wondered. You haven't written yourself and apparently did not break your hand?"

"My hand?" Luke stared at Isabelle, confused for a moment, then he thought of all of the letters Stefan had been posting. Stefan wasn't normally a letter writer. "Oh―no, my hand is fine."

She took his hand shyly, a smile on her lips while she looked into his eyes, and ran her fingers along his thumb and to his wrist.

"And you didn't even know Stefan was writing to me. You would have left me alone without a word." Isabelle let go of his wrist. She wanted to storm out of the stables, but she couldn't very well make a dramatic exit if the fool wouldn't follow her. How would that feel, never to see him again after an argument like this?

Looking over his shoulder to make sure Stefan was well and truly gone, Luke stepped closer, "I've told you plenty of times how I feel, but your father clearly has different plans for you.

Luke's hands touched her arms. With an anguished look, he shook his head. Isabelle knew he was going to pull away. She felt shy and uncertain, afraid that this was the moment when she would lose him. Before he could move, she stepped into his embrace and pulled him closer. Wrapping her arms around him, she lifted her head, "I'm glad you're here."

They kissed, gently at first. She felt astonished at how sensitive her lips felt as they pressed against his. He tasted of cinnamon and honey, his lips warm and gentle. Isabelle's heart sped while she pressed closer to him, her hand wrapped around the back of his neck while she eagerly kissed back. Her first kiss. She never wanted it to end. She couldn't believe how much feeling seemed to soar in her heart, how warm and safe she felt in his arms, the excitement rushing through her body.

He couldn't get enough of her. She welcomed his hands, trailing down her neck and pausing at her bosom.

Then he stopped and pulled away. "I'm so sorry, Isabelle."

"Sorry?" It came out more like a squeak than she intended. She'd been so engrossed in touching him that the sudden absence of his body left her feeling unbalanced.

"Your first kiss shouldn't come to you in a stable. It was ungallant of me, knowing that we will never be married." The desire in his eyes raged, an inferno that threatened to burn her where she stood.

She had thought the kiss would seal the deal. Maybe she'd made an error in judgment. "I will not marry another. My father will see reason. And then we'll kiss in the stables, and on the porch, and at our breakfast table." She took a step toward him and lifted her hand to his shoulder, kissed him lightly again and whispered, "in the gardens. I had no idea how much I liked kissing."

Desire raged. Isabelle could feel the tremor in Luke's arms when he pulled her into his embrace. "Isabelle, I love you. If you'll wait for me, I'll build you a house. You'll have a garden and a closet full of the finest clothes."

"I don't need closets. I just need you. Come, we'll speak to my father together." Isabelle's request was a challenge. Luke accepted the challenge with a nod. Pressing close to her he leaned down for another kiss.

"What is this?" Thindle blustered into the stables, removing his velvet hat in a clenched fist. His boots were somewhat high heeled to give him a few more inches, and what he lacked in height, he made up for in clothing.

Luke stepped between Isabelle and Thindle, ever the protector, not that she needed protection from the likes of Thindle Perkins. "My apologies. We will go elsewhere."

Isabelle took Luke's hand and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "This is Thindle Perkins"

Luke glanced down at Isabelle, and she couldn't help but grin at the expression of sheer shock. She nodded.

He was so busy watching Isabelle that he missed the velvet hat smacking him across the face. "Take that."

"Hey!" Luke grabbed the hat out of Thindle's hands. "Stop that."

"Unhand my woman, you wretch." Thindle's brows knit to a fierce scowl and his fists were clenched while he pranced around as if he were a boxer, "We're going to fight for her, you and me."

Isabelle took the hat from Luke's hand and threw it at Thindle. "I'm not your woman."

Thindle grabbed her arm. "I'm the richest man in the region, and I want you."

With the whole of her strength, Isabelle thrust Thindle from her. He tripped backward on his boots and fell onto the dirt. He picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his clothes."Your father will be interested in hearing that your maidenhood is at risk. I look forward to my conversation with him."

Isabelle grabbed Luke's hand. "We'd better hurry. We need to get to my father before Thindle."

## *

Thindle delighted in the opportunity. Once Edward learned of his daughter's loose morals, he would have no choice but to marry her off. He found Edward walking with his wife through the vendor booths.

With a nod to Edward's wife, Thindle made his request. "Edward, may I speak with you for a moment?"

"I only have a short time. My wife has not dragged me through all of the tents yet, and I'd like to have supper before sundown." He winked at his wife, whose face was as fresh and pretty as the day they met. Maybe an extra laugh line or two about the eyes.

"Indeed. I've heard that wives can be a bit of trouble. Looking at the crowd, Thindle tugged on Edward's sleeve. "We need a spot of quiet for the news I bring."

In a low whisper in the small space between two tents, Thindle gravely spoke of seeing Edward's daughter, Isabelle, kissing a paladin in the stables.

"I see. That is terrible news." Edward said.

"Imagine my shock when I saw her wrapped around him like a scarf." Thindle's face flushed, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you such an image."

"Does that mean you are withdrawing your suit?" Edward asked.

"No. But if you need her married sooner rather than late, I'm willing to take on the challenge. I won't allow the girl to run off once she's mine." Thindle slapped Edward on the shoulder as if they were old friends.

Edward rubbed his beard, "I still haven't spoken to Isabelle yet. I want her to be happy above all."

A sudden commotion in the crowd drew Thindle and Edward's attention. Luke and Isabelle were holding hands and out of breath as they arrived. They had gone left when Thindle went right. He'd been lucky and found Edward first. "Have you seen Papa?"

Edward stepped into the open, Thindle right behind him.

"There's the miscreant." Thindle pointed to Luke.

Edward took a deep breath when he saw Isabelle's flushed face and the look of adoration she gave Luke. He reminded himself that he couldn't very well kill someone for loving his little girl. "Luke, you will meet us for dinner at the dining tent where we will discuss today's events. Isabelle, you'll be accompanying your mother and I until that time. Good day, Luke, Thindle."

Isabelle squeezed Luke's hand . "Don't look so worried. Everything will be fine."

"Isabelle!" Edward called her impatiently to his side.

"Sorry." Isabelle didn't look the least bit sorry. She actually looked quite pleased with herself. And Edward couldn't help but see the stunned expression on Luke's face when he looked at her. So, Thindle had told the truth. As a father, the idea brought with it a painful melancholy. His little girl was a woman now and ready to make her way in the world.

## *

The next afternoon as contestants were taking position on the field, Isabelle waved at Luke, the other hand shielding her eyes from the sun. He carried her favor, a cheery yellow ribbon, for good luck.

"So are you two betrothed or not?" Stefan handed her a tart and took a bite of his own.

"My father said that if he earned enough coin to buy a house and land that he would allow us to be married. Until then, I am free. Father doesn't want to tie me to a betrothal in case I change my mind."

Stefan nodded, his mouth full of tart.

"Why aren't you in the tournament? Swordplay is your best event." Isabelle daintily took a bite of the blackberry tart and watched Luke step into the ring.

"I'm a better swordsman than Luke. He's been talking since yesterday about buying land, and every coin counts. Told him I pulled my shoulder. He'll be taking this tournament's purse at the least." Stefan's eyes laughed with true joy while he stretched his perfectly fine shoulder muscles.

Isabelle thought of the adventures a man might seek when scratching for coin. She cheered for Luke when he won the round and smiled at Stefan, "You're a good man. Watch after him, will you?"

Stefan tilted his head, "Funny. Your father stopped in the stables this morning and asked the very same."

"What?"

"I'm to make sure Luke stays safe while at the same time keeping an eye out when you visit. Your father must know you well. He's afraid you'll fall under a paladin's sway." Stefan teased, finishing up his tart and wiping his hands on a kerchief. "I guess that mean's I'm to make sure you don't kiss. A hug or two would no doubt be appropriate."

Covered in dirt and grass stains and sweat, Luke strode triumphantly from the field. Lifting her skirt, Isabelle shoved her half-eaten tart into Stefan's hand."Close your eyes."

She ran to the field and was swept into Luke's arms for a paladin's kiss.

## * * *

Stefan's story can be found in _Dark Visions: First Love._ Luke and Isabelle also appear in the _Dark Visions_ Series.

## *

Jeanette Raleigh has been spending much of her time writing. This year Book 2 in the series, _Dark Visions: Lost_ _Love_ will be published. when not busy at work, she loves painting, hiking and reading.

## *

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# Friday Afternoon

## Elizabeth Jasper

George the barman, with nothing much to do, walked round to the customer side that opened out onto the garden and leaned against his bar, contemplating the river. Another Friday afternoon. Actually, it wasn't that bad. There were only two regulars sitting nearby putting the world to rights. Their voices rose and fell on the light breeze that ruffled the surface of the water, scattering sharp points of light over the riverbank and against the outside wall of the bar.

Summer afternoons at the bar were OK and George enjoyed working his shift - so much he'd been doing it for several years now. He liked to keep his evenings free and was a bit of a telly-addict, if truth be known, but not always and he liked to go out on Friday nights.

The customers weren't too bad either; most of them, anyway. They certainly got a mixed bunch in there and on early summer afternoons such as this he liked to be able to work in the fresh air and sunshine. When the weather was bad the atmosphere indoors became thick and uncomfortable; particularly when the workers from the nearby car factory came in. They brought the smell of the place with them and if there were a lot of them and they stayed for a long time he felt a bit queasy.

He'd been leaning there for a while almost dozing in the warm air, when the side gate creaked open. There were voices, sharp and grating. He straightened up and walked round to his own side to wait for the newcomers. Once the factory closed, always an hour earlier on a Friday afternoon, some of the workers called in for a few drinks to set themselves up for the weekend.

Eventually they came into view and, with many false starts, decided on the table in the far corner nearest the river. There were two couples and the females sat opposite their partners, settling themselves down with a lot of fidgeting and rattling of bright, expensive accessories. There was no sign of anyone getting up to order so George took his pad and pencil and wove his way between the empty tables until he stood beside them.

He waited. it must have been a long, hard week in that factory. The foursome looked a little worn around the edges and there was a metallic tang in the air surrounding them in spite of the breeze. Too much time cooped up on the assembly line, thought George, as he continued to wait. Finally, they decided on their drinks and he went back to the bar to set them up.

With a full tray, George started once more on his journey through the maze of tables. The two regulars, who had fallen silent, watched as he set out four cans of the very best on offer. There were two glasses for the females and they waited while he poured the golden liquid. The regulars stared. How could that lot from the factory afford to drink the best while they had to do with the regular stuff out of the tap, which looked pale and weak compared to the golden richness of the stuff the newcomers were drinking? Nevertheless, they ordered two more of the same as George made his return journey.

The drinks went down very quickly and the two couples re-ordered. Another journey through the tables and back. And then again. By the time the third lot had gone down the four of them had mellowed somewhat. Not surprising, considering the strength of what they were drinking, thought George. Their voices had slowed and they were leaning towards each other speaking in confidential tones. Their skin gleamed in the afternoon sun and their movements were becoming smooth and languid as the golden liquid continued to disappear at an alarmingly fast rate.

As George cleared the pile of cans from the table, they ordered more. He began to wonder how long they would be able to keep up such a pace. And the bill was mounting up. The regulars, still at their table, were fascinated by the quartet in the corner. They ordered more drinks, too, determined to sit the newcomers out.

By this time the bar was filling up and George was kept busy. He rushed from bar to tables and back trying to serve everyone as quickly as possible, It was turning out to be one of his better days and he knew his boss would be pleased if the takings were up. He kept an eye on the four in the corner and each time they reordered he scrutinised them, looking for signs they'd had enough. They seemed fine, so he got on with his job, fetching and carrying, wiping and clearing, until eventually he was able to pause for a short break.

The sun had passed over and the shadows of the weeping willows on the riverbank were lengthening before he had a chance to assess them again. He checked the tally and realised they had spent an awful lot of money over the pasts few hours. He hoped they were good for it but when he finished his break and went to clear the table they ordered more and he decided to let them get on with it.

They were slumped across their table in a very relaxed fashion. One of the females was having difficulty speaking and the other kept interrupting, trying to anticipate what the first one wanted to say. The males started to laugh at her and she became angry and turned away, refusing to respond to their placatory words. Then the conversation turned to other matters and she was soon taking part again, the imagined insult forgotten.

The two regulars, who had been drinking longer than anyone, were becoming troublesome. They started arguing with one another then butted into a conversation the people at the next table were having. George was obliged to tell them to pipe down or he would have to ask them to leave. They turned their attention on him and made a few weak jokes at his expense. He ignored it. He was used to being insulted by customers on a regular basis and it was all part of the job. After a short but heated discussion, he agreed they could have a final drink each, so long as they didn't disturb the other customers.

So welcome earlier in the afternoon, the breeze was growing chilly. Tables began to empty and it wasn't too long before there were only the four in the corner and the two regulars still there. All six had slowed down and the levels of liquid in glasses remained steady. George totted up the takings for the afternoon and realised that it was the best session he'd ever had. He was well up on his previous best and knew he would be getting a bonus for his efforts. Happiness flowed through him as he anticipated the evening ahead. With a bonus he would be able to stay out longer than he normally did and maybe even treat himself to a woman. He grew warm in anticipation of this rare treat.

In the corner, the female who had been angry earlier looked ready to slide under the table so the other three finished their drinks and waved to George for the bill. He printed it off from the computer and took it over on a small saucer. He was mightily relieved when they paid up without fuss and started to gather themselves together to leave. Eventually, they were all on their feet and, if a little unsteadily, they managed to leave without knocking over any tables or chairs. George took the signed tab back to the bar and got a tray to clear the table.

The regulars stared, glassy-eyed, as he gathered up the remaining cans and glasses. As he headed back to the bar, one of them called him over.

'They got well-oiled, didn't they?' he said.

His companion, pretty well gone by then, nodded in agreement. They then got up from the table with much groaning and stretching of stiff limbs, shoved a card at George to pay for their drinks and eventually shambled off.

George sighed, his mind on the evening ahead as he took a cloth to the table in the corner. He was just about to wipe it down when he noticed a small, wet spot exactly where the drunken female had been sitting. Glancing around to make sure there was no one to see him, he dipped his forefinger into the wetness and rubbed it against his thumb, noticing the oily smoothness. He looked around again before holding his fingers to his face. He kissed them then inhaled deeply, before wiping them on his waiter's apron in a gesture of disgust.

'Bloody robots,' he said, rubbing hard at the oily stain on the seat.

## * * *

UK native Elizabeth Jasper spends much of the year in a remote mountain village in Granada Province, Andalucia, Spain with her husband. She has penned several novels, including _Bed of Knives_ , _Lying in Wait_ and the YA _Meggie_ series.

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5085622.Elizabeth_Jasper

## *

#

# Just One Kiss

## Suzie O'Connell

Tears prickled Alicia's eyes as she stared at the image in the picture frame. In it, a young couple stood at the end of an old ferry dock with a blustery wind whipping at their hair and clothing and the lights of Seattle twinkling dimly in the distance. They stood with bodies locked together, lips curved in anticipation of the kiss to come, and eyes only for each other. The man was tall and fit with sandy blond hair, warm blue eyes, and a sexy dusting of stubble. The woman, shorter by several inches with long, dark chestnut hair and laughing green eyes, was beautiful, but it wasn't either's physical attributes that made the photo so gorgeous. It was the love radiating from them both.

How can a love like that fade so quickly? she wondered, hastily wiping away the single tear that slipped down her cheek.

Sighing, she tucked the photograph in the box alongside the dozen others that chronicled her six-year marriage, folded the flaps down, taped them closed, and labeled the box, "Memories." She stood and carried it out to her car. With each step, it felt heavier in her arms, like it didn't want this to be the end of her life with Tucker. Squaring her shoulders, she lengthened her stride and tucked the box safely in her trunk before returning to the house. There was little left to do now but shampoo the carpets and vacuum one last time.

The house, a rental sitting atop the bluff and overlooking the Indianola dock, Bainbridge Island, Agate Pass, and Seattle, was small but cozy and had been her home since Tucker had proposed seven years ago. It had been his for longer, but they had decided they'd both give it up because there were just too many memories here. All the furniture had been moved out, and all the pictures had been taken down and boxed up, and even though the house looked like an empty shell, it still felt like home.

The walls were a pale blue-gray adorned with pristine white trim and accented by the dark-stained, rough-hewn ceiling beams. The color scheme should have made the place feel cold and uninviting but the beige carpets and golden oak floors added plenty of warmth, as had the laughter that had once danced through the rooms. Her cheeks warmed as she recalled other, hotter encounters with her husband that had been sparked by something as simple as a wink.

Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she wandered from the entryway through the living room and peeked into the office beyond. After visiting the dining room, she stepped into the kitchen and smiled sadly, recalling how they'd flirted and talked about their day while they cooked together. Finally, she went upstairs to their empty bedroom, the guest room, and the room that might have been their child's if they hadn't grown apart.

With nothing left to do until Tucker returned with the shampooer, she sat on the bottom step with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms folded around them, staring out the picture window. The weather system that had brought a week of nonstop rain had finally poured itself out. Tattered clouds, tinted with subtle gold by the early afternoon sun, scuttled eastward out of the Puget Sound area. The tide flowed out, leaving pools of reflected sky all across the broad sand spit below the decommissioned ferry dock. She missed her evening walks on the beach with Tucker. Rain or shine, they had taken a stroll after dinner along the rocky shore or the sandy spit if the tide was low or out to the end of the dock if it was high. But it had been a long time since they had maintained that ritual with any regularity.

Abruptly, the front door opened, startling Alicia out of her reveries. She hadn't heard him pull up.

"Hi, babe," he greeted as he set the shampooer beside the door. Though he smiled and kissed her cheek, his voice was sad.

"We agreed, remember? No more caresses and no more pet names," she replied, wishing she could say how much it hurt that she might never hear him call her that again. "It'll only make this harder than it is."

"I guess it's going to take some getting used to." He glanced around the empty house. "Old habits die hard."

Together, they walked through the house to make sure they'd left the place as spotless and empty as it had been before Tucker moved in.

"This is wrong," he said.

Frowning, Alicia turned to him. "What's wrong?"

He gestured around the vacant living room. "Everything about this."

"I know it's not easy," she said, "but it's over. Somewhere between you travelling so much for your job and me working so many hours at home for mine, we just... fell out of love."

He shook his head. "Maybe we didn't try hard enough."

"Tucker, we've tried. We've searched and we've fought, but whatever used to be there to fight for is gone."

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue the point, but instead, he nodded and murmured, "I guess you're right."

Disappointment seeped through her, chilled by the finality of his surrender. He turned away and headed back out to his car to grab the box fans, and she shrugged off the regret as she prepared the shampooer. They'd begun the process of filing for divorce, found new places to live, and almost completely moved out of the house they'd shared. What was the point now of holding on to something that was gone?

By the time they'd shampooed the carpets, the sun was setting, and the world outside was awash in crystalline pastels of lavender, peach, and rose. The undulating waves sparkled with the dying light of the sun, and Alicia nearly broke down in tears at the beauty of it.

"Take a walk with me," Tucker said, joining her on the front steps. "One last stroll for old time's sake."

"Sure," she replied.

The dock was three long blocks from their house, and they walked the distance in silence, not holding hands like they once did. Not touching at all. They paused at the top of the stairs, hesitant and unsure. Should they descend to the beach or race to the end of the dock? How many times had they sprinted down its length, feet pounding on the boards, and found themselves breathlessly caught up in each other's arms at the end?

Alicia moved toward the stairs but Tucker took a step toward the dock, and they collided, no longer in sync. She turned to him, gazing at a face that had been more familiar than her own reflection for so long, and saw things she hadn't taken the time to notice. The smile lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered and there was a regret in his gaze she hadn't ever seen before. Where was her Tucker who was always laughing, always smiling? When had he become so serious?

"Race me?" he asked, and a flicker of that old humor returned to his face.

Without waiting for her response, he trotted down the dock. Ten yards away, he glanced back over his shoulder at her and winked, challenging her. Shaking her head but grinning, Alicia took off after him, lengthening her stride to catch up. When she finally caught up to him, he was already waiting for her at the end, resting with his hands braced behind him on the railing and his legs crossed at the ankles. Alicia grabbed the railing beside him and leaned out over the water for a few minutes to catch her breath. It felt good, and when she turned around to face the bluff, she was grinning.

"That was fun. Not fair," she said, "but fun."

"Yeah, it was. Almost like it used to be before life got in the way."

Something in his voice made her glance sharply at him. He studied her with a quizzical frown, and she shifted her weight, unsettled by the intensity in his eyes.

"What?" she finally asked.

"I haven't seen that smile in a long time. I didn't realize how much I missed it."

She dropped her gaze, and her smile shifted into something more poignant.

"I guess I missed it, too," she murmured.

They stood quietly for a long while, staring up at the houses sitting atop the bluff. They looked like a crown of sunset-hued gems, their windows reflecting the fiery sun. She couldn't remember it ever looking so stunning, and added this moment to her list of things she was going to miss. Time slipped away as the sun disappeared and the colors of sunset darkened into early twilight. Beside her, Tucker pushed off the railing and moved to stand in front of her.

"This is what we missed," he said. "The simple things we used to love to do together. We let them get lost in the shuffle of bigger things."

Alicia only nodded and chewed on her lip as tears again threatened.

"Babe, look at me."

Reluctantly, she met his gaze, and the protest about his use of the pet name died in her throat.

"I can't just let you go. I still love you too much."

"Tucker, we've already talked to a lawyer, and we've already started filling out the paperwork for our divorce."

"I don't care. I have to know that there is absolutely nothing left between us to fight for." He took her face in his hands, tenderly brushing his thumbs across her cheeks. "And I don't. I know there's still something."

She closed her eyes to keep the tears locked inside. She wanted more than anything to give their love one more chance, but they'd given it dozens of chances, and every one had failed. This would be no different because what little remained wasn't strong enough to overcome the rift that had opened between them. They'd proven that time and again.

"Just one kiss, Allie," Tucker whispered. "One kiss to prove there's nothing left. If there isn't, I'll let you go, but if there's even a spark of what we used to have... please, let's start over and find what we lost."

"How can one kiss prove anything?"

"It can prove a lot."

"This is insane."

"Maybe it is, but I have to try. But I won't without your permission."

His blue eyes searched hers, begging her to comply. The hope inscribed in his lopsided smile reminded her of the boy she'd first fallen in love with in high school, and despite the months of fading romance, her heart melted. The part of her that was resigned to their divorce thought this was ridiculous, but the rest of her fervently hoped there was enough love left to give them a reason to try again, so she nodded.

With enchanting tenderness, he tilted her chin up and lowered his head. When he angled his body against hers, desire flashed through her, but it was nothing compared to the enveloping flood of emotion that rampaged through her when their lips met. She moaned and pressed her body more tightly against him, giving in to her instinctive need to be close to him. The tears streamed down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing herself up on her toes to kiss him more deeply.

It was far more powerful than a spark, and her heart soared as joy mingled with desire. That single kiss conveyed his enduring devotion, and for the first time in longer than she could recall, she felt cherished, adored, like she was the only woman he'd ever need or want.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips. "I love you so much. But how do we fix this?"

"We start taking walks again, every night. We make time for us. Because I love you, and now I know you still love me."

"I never stopped loving you. I just... forgot why I did."

"Let me help you remember."

Without warning, he picked her up, swung her around so she was straddling his waist like a horse, and took off up the dock at a trot. Laughter spilled out of her as the tears continued to flow, and relief coursed through her with sweet intensity. He was right. They had let the simple delight in each other slip away, and all those times they had tried to rediscover what had brought them together in the first place, they had overlooked it. Never again, Alicia vowed, resting her cheek against Tucker's back. Closing her eyes, she smiled. Maybe there were no guarantees that they could make it work, but the relief and this spark of lost passion rekindled her hope that they would.

## * * *

Suzie O'Connell is the author of the Northstar Angels series, contemporary romances set in scenic Montana. The first three books in the series, Mountain Angel, Summer Angel, and Twice Shy, are out, with the fourth book, Wild Angel, to be released in early 2014. When she isn't writing, Suzie can be found with a camera in hand, playing in the mountains with her husband, daughter, and golden retriever. Visit her site at:

www.suzieoconnell.com

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# Strangers

## Holli Spaulding

We all start as strangers. Whether we meet on a bus, a train, work, in line at Starbucks, or on a park bench, we all have to start somewhere. Most strangers come into our life for a brief moment, just passing through like leaves in the wind. But some strangers come into our lives when we need it most. Just when we think our lives might be over or when things can't get much worse, a stranger might just walk by and change everything you thought you knew.

## *

I'm sitting on a bench at what used to be my favorite park. My dad would take me here every day after school when I was a kid. Now I come here every year on the anniversary of his death, trying to remember a happier time in my life. It's littered with trash, broken bottles and graffiti. The weeds have grown so tall that they brush my shoulders as I sit. Cuss words, penises, and gang signs are drawn all over the slide and tunnel. Kids these days are so unoriginal. If you're going to leave your mark on something, make it memorable, passionate, or at least funny. It doesn't look like it's been used in years. The park has just withered away and died.

I sink back into the bench, close my eyes, and allow myself to remember my dad. I can almost feel the wind in my hair as he pushes me higher on the swing. As I pump my legs faster and faster, I swear they can reach the clouds. I used to think if I could swing just a little bit higher, pump my legs a little bit faster, I could jump out of my swing and land among the clouds.

"Ready to jump on the count of three, Stella?" My dad says. He's talking in a serious tone, like we're in a life or death situation. He was always so dramatic, adding excitement and drama to my everyday life. "If you choose to stay in the swing and not jump, the planet will face mass destruction. A spell will be broken, causing all the zombie's to rise from their graves. But if you choose to jump, if you choose to take that leap of faith and soar into the sky, you'll save everyone from the mother of all zombie apocalypses. You'll conquer your fear of flying, as well as saving your fellow Americans!"

"YES! I'm ready. Give me a countdown." I giggle. I grip tightly to the chains, willing my beating heart to calm down. Excitement courses through me as my dad begins his countdown.

"One, two, two and a half, two and three quarters."

"DAD! Just count to three already. I'm growing old up here and I think I see zombie hands trying to come out of the ground. Hurry up and count before it's too late!"

"Three, JUMP!" I get my momentum and leap from my swing into the air. I stretch my fingertips out as far as I can, and try my hardest to swipe my fingertips through the fluffy clouds. I land in the soft sand, and roll over onto my back and stare up at the sky that seems so far out of reach. My dad walks up and lies down beside me in the sand.

"You did it my sweet, brave girl. You saved us all. How will I ever repay you?" He takes his hat off and holds it over his heart.

"If you really want to repay me, you'll tell mom to let me have ice cream for dinner for one week, with chocolate syrup on top. Oh, and sprinkles."

"Deal. We most definitely can't forget the sprinkles." He reaches over and kisses my forehead. "What you did today was very brave. Most kids can't say that they saved an entire planet." He looks over at me and gives me a small wink.

"But daddy, it was just pretend. I didn't really save the planet today. I just jumped out of a swing."

"Yes, you're right. You did just jump out of a swing. But remember last week how you were scared to jump? You were scared you were going to fall and hurt yourself. I want you to always remember that you are good enough. If you can learn that, then you will never be afraid to try new things and you will never be too scared to fail." I look over and smile at my dad and I am so happy because I have the best dad in the whole wide world.

I am rustled out of my daydream by the slow creaking of the swing set. As I lift my head I see a boy about my age staring at me. He is wearing faded jeans, a Depeche Mode t-shirt, and a worn pair of converse. He has a small smile playing on his lips but it doesn't reach his eyes. His eyes look like they hold years of sadness. I bend my head down and wipe the tears that I didn't know were streaming down my face.

"What were you thinking about just now? You looked so peaceful lost in your daydream. Then your face became sad and you started to cry." He has his head tilted to one side as if he's studying me.

I lift my face up to meet his and I just stare at him. This is my place of peace. Why is he here? Nobody is ever at this park. I only come here once a year and allow myself to remember a happier time in my life, and I don't want to share this day with anyone.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him rudely.

"Well, the last time I checked, this was a free country. I can be at this park if I'd like. Why are you here? It's obvious to both of us this park has been abandoned for years, so what brings us both to this park today?" He says thoughtfully. Smart ass.

I take a deep breath, and remember what my dad told me years ago. I need to not be so afraid to try new things. This boy is a complete stranger, one who I will never see again after today, so I choose to take that leap off the swing and open myself up to someone, in hopes that I can relieve some of this pain I carry around with me every day.

"I come here once a year to remember my dad. This park used to be beautiful. There were wild flowers growing all around this very bench, and there was a stone walkway leading to that swing set your sitting on, and of course it didn't used to creak like it does now. I'm too chicken shit to actually visit his grave, so I come here instead." I whisper out. "Your turn, why are you here?"

"I've been coming to this swing set every day for about 5 months now. I come here to escape my reality. There is something peaceful about this place." He softly says. He's right. He's so very right. The park is like its own little sanctuary. A sanctuary that allows sinners like me inside.

"How did your dad die?" Oh shit, we are entering really personal territory.

"We are just diving right in with the heavy questions aren't we? How about we start with something simple. What's your name?"

"My name is River. What's yours?" A small smile creeps up on my lips. I love that name.

"Estelle, but people call me Stella."

"Well Stella, it's nice to meet you." He hops out of the swing and extends his hand to me. I look down at it, weary to reach out and grasp him. I slowly reach out and grab his hand and his fingers softly curl around my own. The moment our hands touch, I find myself never wanting to let go. I think he can sense it too because we stay there grasping hands for what seems like an eternity.

We sit and talk for hours. About books, music, school, our childhoods. He plays guitar, and I play the piano. We have a lot of things in common. We leave the heavy topics aside, and for that I'm grateful. The sun is starting to set towards the west, and I close my eyes and take in that last few minutes of the sun's warmth hitting my face. I look over towards River and he is doing the same. While he has his eyes closed, I study his face, knowing this is the last time I will see him. I want to remember everything about this day. How he made me smile, laugh, and actually feel emotion again. But I know that as soon as I leave, the feeling of loneliness will wash over me, and the darkness will creep back in.

"You asked me how my dad died." He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and nods his head. "We were playing at this very park. I just did my first jump out of a swing and he was so proud of me. I told him I wanted ice cream for a week because I jumped out of the swing and saved the world." He gives me a funny look and I just laugh and continue. "And he of course told me yes. We walked home that night and after dinner my dad tells me he will be right back in a few minutes with my ice cream. Well, he never came back. He was in a car accident and he never came back. River, he never came back." I choke back the tears, willing myself not to cry. If I didn't have to have ice cream that night my dad might still be here. I carry around so much guilt for what happened. Rationally I know it wasn't my fault that he died, but I ask myself the what if questions daily, and I drive myself crazy with guilt. As each day passes, the guilt consumes a little bit more of my soul.

River puts an arm around me and guides my head to his shoulder. He doesn't say anything. He just wraps his arm around me and lets me cry.

"God, I'm so sorry. We don't even know each other, and here I am crying like a girl on your shoulder." How embarrassing. There's another emotion I'm not used to. Embarrassment.

"Well, you are a girl, so it's ok. At least I hope you're a girl, this whole day might be a little awkward if you aren't." I laugh and shove him in the arm. "That shove you just gave me totally proves you're a girl." I give him my best scowl.

"You might want to watch yourself. I've been known to throw a nasty punch." He is laughing at me now. Well I'm glad one of us thinks I'm funny. "Well thank you. For today; for everything." I give River a small smile and get up to leave to go home. He gently grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him.

"Same time tomorrow? Please meet me back here tomorrow. I'd like to spend the day with you again." He is pleading at me with his eyes, and it's tugging at my heart. Damn you River. I give him a slight nod and turn to leave. I know I won't be meeting him back here tomorrow. I don't plan on being here after tonight. I want it all to end. The pain, guilt, and grief have taken its toll on me and I don't think I can do it anymore. I'm drowning and I can't pull myself up.

"Estelle." His voice holds a command that makes me stop in my tracks and turn around to look at him. "Remember that the beauty of life is, while we can't undo what has already happened, we can try to understand it, and change for the better because of it. So that every moment after isn't spent in guilt, fear, or regret, but in understanding." I slowly nod my head, and turn to walk away.

The walk back to my house seems like it takes forever. River's words hit me like a punch in the gut and the emotions I am feeling are starting to freak me out. When I finally reach my house, I walk inside, up the stairs, and into my bathroom. I open up the medicine cabinet and take out the bottles of pills that I've been saving for today. I planned on going to the park, coming home and taking this bottle of pills, and then sleeping forever. As I am staring at this tiny orange bottle, a million different emotions are running through my head. Ending my life tonight would end all possibilities of my life ever getting better.

River's words mean a lot to me. Everything he said is so true. I shouldn't spend my days living in fear and guilt. I need to look forward and look towards tomorrow. If my dad could see me now, he would not be proud of the girl I have become. What if I never met River today? I would have already taken these pills, and my mom would have had to wake up in the morning and find me in my bed. God, I didn't even think of how this would affect my mom. She's already been through enough in this life time. When did I turn into such a selfish bitch?

I take the cap off the pill bottle, and slowly pour the contents into the toilet. As each pill falls out of the bottle it feels like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders. I still have a long road to go, but tonight I'm taking that first step in the right direction. I walk into my bedroom and crawl into bed. I fall asleep tonight, for the first time in years, with a sense of peace. I fall asleep dreaming of a green eyed boy pushing me on a park swing.

I awake the next morning and rush to the park to meet River. As I round the corner to come up to the park, I stop dead in my tracks. The grass around the park bench has been cut down, and freshly planted flowers are all around it. Whereas yesterday there were weeds and dead grass, today flowers of all colors are softly swaying in the wind. I walk up to the bench and sit down, deeply inhaling the scent of the flowers. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, landing like raindrops onto my jeans.

I can sense him watching me before I see him. I look up and see him leaning up against a tree about 20 feet away. He has a blanket draped over his arm, and a picnic basket sitting in the grass beside his feet. I get up from the park bench and make my ways towards him.

"I'm so glad you came back. Do you like the flowers?" He reaches out and softly runs his thumb underneath my eyes, drying my tears.

"I more than like them, I love them River. Thank you so much." He leans down and kisses my forehead and pulls me in for a hug. I wrap my arms around him and cling to him for dear life. "Thank you for being here at the park yesterday, and for spending the day with me. I can't even begin to tell you how much it meant to me."

"Are you up for a picnic today? I want to take you somewhere, but you can't get mad. You promise?" He looks nervous to tell me where he wants to take me, which in turn makes me nervous.

"When someone starts off a sentence with you can't get mad, usually they are going to get mad." How could having a picnic possibly make me mad?

He clears his throat a couple of times before speaking. "I um, I uh, want to go have a picnic with your dad. I thought we could go have lunch with him today." He barely whispers the last part out, so I struggle to hear what he is saying.

My mouth pops open and I think I gasp, but I'm not sure. I all of a sudden feel lightheaded. He wants to go to the cemetery and have lunch with my dad? He does realize he's in the ground right? As in he won't be there? As in he's in a coffin, six feet under.

"Let me explain first before you freak out, or pass out. I thought maybe we could go eat a picnic near your dad's grave. Yesterday you said you were too scared to go visit him, so I thought maybe we could do it together. I think visiting his grave will help you let go of the guilt you carry around with you. I thought it might be nice for you to visit him regularly, and talk to him about your day, or problems you might be having. I just want to help you get over the hurdle of visiting him for the first time." He is speaking really fast and rambling. I think he might be nervous, and if I wasn't completely freaked out, I would think it was cute.

"I don't know River." I'm nervous to visit my dad because I'm scared he will be disappointed in the person I have become.

"We don't have to. I know I just met you yesterday, and I shouldn't stick my nose in places it doesn't belong, but I feel a connection with you. I know we were meant to meet yesterday. I just want to help you in any way I can." he sincerely says.

"You're right. We were supposed to meet yesterday. Yesterday we were strangers, but today I feel like I've known you my whole life." I grab his hand and start walking in the direction of the cemetery. "I can't promise you we will stay for very long, but I'm willing to go visit his grave."

The cemetery is a short walk from the park, so it takes us no time at all to get there. There is a huge angel statue right in the middle of the graveyard. She has her head bowed low like she is weeping for the souls who have left this earth. I know my dad is buried near the angel, so it doesn't take us long to find his grave. When we find it, I fall to my knees in front of his tombstone and place my palms flat on the ground. So this is it. This is where he has been the whole time. I thought I would be scared to come here, or nervous. But I feel a sense of closeness with my dad. I know he is near me and that puts me at ease. We scoot over a little, that way we aren't sitting on top of him, and lay out our picnic blanket. River packed peanut butter and jelly, Cheetos, and Pepsi for lunch. I smile at his food choice, there is no way he could have known it, but he packed all my favorites. It couldn't be a more perfect day.

"River," I whisper out. He looks up at me and gently brushes the hair out of my face. "Thank you for bringing me here. My mom has been trying to get me to visit my dad for years. She will be happy to know I came here today. I just miss him so much, and I thought it would be hard coming here, but you know what, it's wasn't. I don't think I would have been able to do this if it wasn't for you."

"There is something special about you Stella, and I want to get to know you better. I've only know you for one day, but I find myself thinking of the next thing to do to make you smile. I now live to see that smile." He softly cups his hand behind my head and pulls me in for a kiss. It's a soft and tender kiss. I reach my arms up and wrap them around his neck, silently begging him to come closer. I pour myself into this one kiss. I want him to know that he saved me, that he makes me feel special, that he is healing me. How can someone I barely know already mean so much to me? I slowly pull away from him and rest my forehead against his. I see a subtle movement out of the corner of my eye, and as I pull away from River to see what it is, I gasp in shock. Sitting all over our blanket, and flying above our heads are dozens of beautiful butterflies.

I slowly lean my head back and stretch my arms out. Butterflies land in my open palms, and I start to cry and laugh all at the same time. River is watching me with a smile on his face, and this time the smile reaches his eyes.

I believe that butterflies symbolize a new life and a new beginning. This isn't a coincidence that all these butterflies are around us right now. I open my eyes and look towards the sky. A ray of sunshine is peaking through the clouds, shining right down onto River and I. I know without a doubt my dad is looking down on me with a smile. I can almost hear him telling me to take that leap of faith and jump off the swing, but instead of saving the world, this time I'll be saving myself.

## * * *

Holli Spaulding is a writer, mother, Coast Guard military wife, nerf gun ninja, Guns and Roses addict, and an avid reader. She resides in the beautiful state of Hawaii with her husband and four kids. When she isn't writing or being a mother, she enjoys lying on the beach and relaxing with her latest book find. Be on the lookout for her first novel, _Alive,_ coming soon _._

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# The Gift of Gab

## Sharon Delarose

George, a mediocre insurance salesman, was desperate to land a big account that he'd been assigned to go after. This was do or die. If he failed, he'd lose this job as he'd lost so many others, so he hatched a radical plan. He'd travel to Ireland, kiss the Blarney Stone, and be blessed with the Gift of Gab. Then he'd be a Blarney Certified Professional Salesman. With the money and prestige that the gift promised, he'd be all set to propose to his girlfriend, Rose.

Without telling anyone, George drove 531 miles from London, England, to County Cork, Ireland, which took him over the Irish Sea on a three-and-a-half hour ferry trip. He envisioned the stone itself to be a giant boulder in the middle of a field. After all, it was called the Blarney Stone, so he expected a hunk of rock. The Blarney Stone, as it turned out, was actually a stone set high up in the outer wall of Blarney Castle, and the waiting line to kiss it stretched for a mile outside.

He waited with a thousand others who hoped to rise above their mediocrity, and when his turn came, he paid the fee and entered the hallowed halls, where he was whisked into a room out of sight of those still waiting. The walls were plastered with photos of the Blarney blessed: Laurel and Hardy, Winston Churchill, and even Mick Jagger.

"It's decision time, laddie! What sort of kiss are ya going to plant on old stoney? Are you going to give her a modern Pop Kiss, or follow the ancient tradition with a Medieval Kiss? We need to know how to prep you."

"How to prep me? What do I get with a Medieval Kiss, a red rose or something?"

"Or something..." the doorman chuckled.

"Ah, what the heck. I've traveled all this way, I might as well go big. Let's plant a juicy Medieval Kiss on her!"

The doorman slid a piece of paper across the table, "Okay then, a Medieval Kiss it is. Sign here, please."

George frowned. It was a consent form releasing Blarney Castle in case he came to any harm. "Would I have to sign this for a Pop Kiss?"

"Look laddie, you're kissing a stone high up in the wall of a ninety foot castle. You saw how many people come through here. We're just protecting ourselves from daredevils and suicide missions."

"I'm not here to jump off the edge. I'm just looking to get blessed with the Gift of Gab, no craziness here."

George signed the waiver, and was given a red rose for his buttonhole. It was a good omen, as he was doing this for his beloved girlfriend, Rose. Then he joined the line inside, which wound all the way up the spiral stairs. Slowly he ascended the steep, narrow steps, giving him the opportunity to look out over the surrounding countryside from the windows.

Finally, he arrived at the top of Blarney Castle, with only a woman in front of him. An older gentleman took the woman's hand and asked, "Are you ready to kiss the Blarney Stone? Here we call it the 'Stone of Eloquence'."

"Yes!"

He laid her on a lounge chair face up, and instructed her to scoot through the hole in the side of the castle wall, into an iron-barred basket. The stone was across a gap in a parallel wall, and all she had to do was raise her head up, and kiss the underside. Every precaution had been taken to keep it safe and simple, and George wondered why a man on his way out had warned, "Don't go up there! They'll try to kill you! It's not worth it... don't go!" The man must have been afraid of heights.

George's big moment arrived. The old man took one look at the red rose, and hollered, "Brutus! We've got a casket case! You'd better get over here!"

A hulk of a man appeared, with scraggly whiskers and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He kicked the lounge chair off to the side, pulled a rope, and the iron basket slid sideways out of sight.

"You!" the hulk pointed to George. "Over here, and stand with your back to the parapet!"

"Back to the parapet? I thought I was supposed to lie down and slide through a hole?"

"C'mon man, we ain't got all day! Lotsa people waitin'. Hup to!"

Confused, George looked over the edge of the parapet, getting a little dizzy as he saw how far down the ground was. The Blarney Stone was in the outer wall, with a gap between the two walls. Even on your back, you slid through the first wall, and out over the gap to get to the second wall. Hence the iron basket underneath you.

George couldn't fathom why they'd stand him with his back to the edge, so he just stood gaping down at the ground far below. Brutus grabbed George's arm and spun him around. "Don't move, until I tell ya."

Brutus knelt down, grabbed George by the ankles, and hoisted him up over the edge, so that George was dangling upside down from the top of the castle. Nothing stood between George and his head smashing into the ground like a Halloween pumpkin, except for Brutus holding his ankles.

"Kiss it! Kiss the Blarney Stone, quick, before my fingers slip!"

George swayed back and forth trying to reach the stone with his lips, and the red rose slipped from his buttonhole, falling ninety feet to the rocks below. George's face was dripping sweat, and he could see the stones below, darkened with human blood. "Oh dear God," he prayed, "please don't let my ankles start sweating!" He kissed the stone and hollered, "I'm done! Pull me up!"

"If you weren't so red in the face, I'd swear you'd turned Irish green!" Brutus laughed, exposing stained, crooked teeth.

George was sweating hard. "Is that blood on the stones below?"

"Hell yes, matey! That'd surely be blood, didn't they tell ye? I've never lost my grip, but the man before me, he lost somebody once — a man by the name of Jack. They say you could hear the man hollering all the way down until his head hit bottom. He hit so hard that his head went splat, and there was nothing left of it. He was like the Headless Horseman, he was, when they dragged his dead body away! I'm sure you've heard of him... Jack Splat."

Brutus laughed, and the man in line behind George turned around and hightailed it back down the stairs. "No refunds!" Brutus hollered as the man disappeared out of sight.

"Don't go up there! They'll try to kill you!" the man warned as he fled.

George was right behind him, though George hoped he'd gotten his money's worth. Surely this was just some silly old legend, and kissing the Blarney Stone couldn't possibly bless you with the Gift of Gab. Nevertheless, everyone swore by the legend, so he held on to the glimmer of hope.

On his first night back home, he tested his newfound ability. He'd never been good with words, and he was ready to romance Rose as he'd never been able to do.

He smiled, and caressed her face, building up the words to tell her how beautiful she was, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her nose. That mole on the end of her nose, it was the only blemish on an otherwise perfect face. She should have it removed. It was simple, in-and-out surgery. Snip, snip, and the mole would be gone. Ah well, back to the business at hand, romancing his darling Rose. He was about to utter words of beauty, poetic all, but the color had drained from her face.

"Plastic surgery?" she spat. "You think I should have plastic surgery? Snip snip?"

"But... but... I was going to tell you how beautiful you are!"

"That's how you call someone beautiful? You son of a bitch!" She slapped his face and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

He hadn't realized that he'd said the words out loud, those ugly words about the mole on her nose. He'd only been thinking it, but somehow it just popped out. That hadn't gone at all as planned. Instead of setting the stage for a marriage proposal, he'd just insulted the woman of his dreams. He'd gotten so excited, that his thoughts just slipped out.

The next day was the opening at an art gallery for Bertie Butte, an artist from Grimsby that his company was trying to land as a client. Her paintings sold for thousands of dollars each, and signing her would be quite a coupe. The only reason that George had even been allowed to pursue her, was because the top salesman was out of town on holiday, and George was all they had. Against their better judgement, they'd sent him to the gala.

He hung back watching Bertie, gauging his approach, and saw that she was drinking some sort of fruity tropical drink, so he went to the bar.

"Excuse me, do you know what Ms. Butte is drinking?"

"Why yes, she's drinking Mai Tai's this evening. What a sweetheart she is, too! She gave me a $50 tip and told me to treat my wife to dinner. A rare bird, to be so nice!"

"Could you mix up another one for her? I can't tip you $50, but how about a fiver?"

"Sure thing, boss! Thanks!" The bartender handed George the Mai Tai with an Irish green umbrella stuck through a pineapple and cherry. George was relieved to hear that Bertie was nice. This would be easier than he expected.

He handed Bertie Butte the drink with a gentlemanly bow, and she smiled. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. He'd rehearsed what to say, but first, he had to make small talk and crack the door a little.

"Your falcon painting is stunning! I could almost hear its talons ripping into the fox."

Bertie laughed. "Yes, hunters love the falcon series. It's the most popular. They'll all be sold before the night is over." She spoke with pride for creating something that others loved. You could tell that it wasn't about the money for her. As they chatted, his mind drifted.

She was a big woman, with rolls of fat bulging over the neckline of that hideous red dress. Gaudy, and cheap looking. You'd never have taken her for an artist whose paintings commanded thousands of dollars each.

Rumor had it that Bertie liked to play blackjack, and he had no doubt that the casino staff joked about "the whale" in red. She was the meat that stuffed sausage jokes were made of. His mind had drifted, and he needed to steer the conversation to the business at hand.

"Well I never!" She looked horrified. Never what, he wondered? What had they been talking about?

Sticky red liquid hit him in the face, and dripped down his white shirt inside the suit jacket. He'd done it again! He'd uttered his ugly thoughts out loud! He'd just called Bertie Butte a big, fat whale to her face! He could kiss his job goodbye, just as he'd kissed Rose goodbye the night before.

He'd never been good with words, but he'd never said such ugly things out loud before, not until he'd kissed the Blarney Stone. Something had gone wrong, terribly, awfully wrong, and he had to go back and fix it. So George drove 531 miles back to Blarney Castle.

"You've got to remove the spell! It's horrible! You wouldn't believe the awful things I've said to people. I lost my girlfriend. I lost my job. I'll lose my sanity if you don't get this blasted curse off of me!"

"But didn't they tell you, laddie? Didn't they explain it to you? If you kiss the Blarney Stone upside down, the effect is reversed. You aren't blessed with the Gift of Gab, you're cursed with the Gift of Blab!"

## * * *

Sharon Delarose is the author of several books including two non-fiction alien books: _Alien Nightmares_ , and _Ancient Aliens and the Lost Islands_. Sharon has also written a nature series called _An Acre of America Backyard Nature Series_ with full color photos, each with a story or legend, shows you the really cool entities that might live in your own back yard. Look for _The Wizard of Awe_ , _Over the Hummingbird's Rainbow_ , and _King of the Forest_. Also available are dog books, humor, and how-to's such as _Wedding Anniversary Gifts for Coin Collectors_.

You can find Sharon's books at http://books.gityasome.com. Or check out the blog, under her narrator name of Allie Mars at http://www.alliemars.com. Thanks!

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# The Graveyard Kiss

## Meghan Ciana Doidge

When she turned twelve, Lucy changed her name to _Luci_. Then, at fourteen, she added the little heart over the letter _I_. But now at sixteen, she was starting to worry that the name itself was a little... frivolous. Not that she condemned anyone else who liked being frivolous, and she certainly thought of herself as being fun. She totally cheered for school teams, painted her toes in bright pinks, and — since she'd started wearing one two years ago — always made sure her bra matched her underwear.

Still, she was about to enter her last year of high school — after she got through this spring and summer, but still, soon — and maybe Luci-with-a-heart-over-the- _I_ just wasn't her anymore. Unfortunately, when in search of a more serious moniker, she'd asked her mom what Luci was short for, or who she'd been named after. Her mom hadn't had any interesting answers — except that Luci could change her name after she turned eighteen and at her own expense.

Thus foiled, she was forced to sign her most recent love note Luci-with-a-little-heart-over-the _-I_ even though it conflicted with the serious tenor of the message.

How do I love thee? Let me count the —

Her pink sparkle pencil slid with a smooth sort of grip across the register tape. Luci always liked writing in pencil. Not that she ever had to erase anything, but because she liked the sound of it. The register tape, pilfered from the register of the card shop where she worked, was streaked with red, though in some other stores those warning lines were streaks of green or blue. They let the cashier know when the tape had to be changed. And since the end bits were unenvironmentally thrown out, Luci had no issue with using the neat little rolls to pass love notes. Or, much more specifically, to carry a bit of her heart and poetry to her boyfriend Colby. When starting one of these notes — as she just had — she always made sure to draw the _O_ in Colby's name as a heart as well. She was really big on symmetry.

Luci had gotten the job at the card shop after the Christmas holidays. She would have preferred working at the Body Shop or Lush, but they hadn't been looking for anyone when she was looking for a bit of cash. She was lucky the card shop had been hiring. Their regular part-timer had taken off to travel for a year. Having an extra excuse to be out of the house on Thursdays from five to nine and Sundays from one to five was a bonus for Luci. Sundays, according to her stepfather, were supposed to be family days.

Years ago, she'd been the one who rubbed garlic powder all over the roast and made the gravy, but now she was a vegetarian. Well, she'd eat chicken if it was free range and fish if it was certified Ocean Wise. But other than that, no meat. Despite her stepfather's insistence, this no-meat policy wasn't simply an ongoing attempt to piss him off, but rather the result of recently viewing a bunch of documentaries that had really grossed Luci and her friends out. That it pissed off her stepdad was a bonus.

Anyway, the card shop carried cool gift things, including great recycled-paper bags and pencils. Her latest sparkly pink pencil had a fluffy hair poof attached to the end where the eraser usually was. Luci had done her nails during study period today in sparkly pink to match this pretty pencil. But then she'd worn her wristwatch wrist warmers — hand knitted on request by her grandmother — to add an ironic touch to the ensemble. She liked that none of the sewn-on watches — there were three different faces on each warmer — displayed the same time.

Currently the shop was dead, as it usually was on Thursday nights. Luci had her fifteen-minute break, along with a fruit-and-nut chocolate bar and a root beer — her latest favorite combo — before the owner went home for the evening at six. She didn't mind closing by herself. She liked the responsibility and the bits of organization that came with the task.

As she paused to assess the wording of the love note — she was attempting to personalize the famous Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem with her own list — a woman wearing Lululemon as a style choice, not just workout clothing, rushed into the store. She was laden with multiple packages and carrying a large bouquet of white lilies. At a quick glance, based on logos and thicknesses, Luci estimated the woman was carrying close to eight hundred and eighty dollars in her paper bags. She stopped midstore and looked about frantically.

"I need... I must have a card for a funeral. Or not a funeral... a prefuneral. A card for the actual event of a death," the woman said.

Now, the store was pretty simply laid out and the woman hadn't even taken a moment to look around, but Luci — dutifully — glanced up from her note and gestured to a bank of cards about halfway back along the western wall.

"Bereavement cards. Past the thank-yous, but before the birthdays," she said. The woman bustled farther into the shop, following her instructions.

As she returned to adding more hearts to her note, Luci recognized the woman as Vanessa, a vague friend of her mother's. Probably from a Zumba class.

Vanessa spared a couple of seconds to peer at the indicated section, but hesitated to pick out a card. Luci was always amazed at how people made a big deal out of such simple things. She had long ago decided it was because everyone wanted to feel more important than they actually were. They therefore infused their card selection with that performance pressure. Even thus personally forewarned, she waited until Vanessa actually spoke before offering to help.

"But... but which one is the most popular one?"

Luci abandoned her note with a bit of a sigh, but she was actually always happy to help pick out cards.

Crossing around the counter and deeper into the store, she reached by Vanessa's elbow and picked out a light blue card from the wall. Vanessa opened and read the proffered sample.

Unable are the loved to die, for love is mortality.

"Emily Dickinson," Luci said, offering this enlightenment with a satisfied sigh.

Vanessa thought about the sentiment for as long as she could stand to — about seven seconds, Luci judged — and then distractedly fanned herself with the card.

"I just don't know... What do you say to a mother whose son has just committed suicide? 'So sorry you weren't paying attention?' Oh, that's awful of me... never mind." Vanessa pressed the card back into Luci's hands and exited the store in a rush very similar to how she entered.

Luci carefully replaced the card in the rack, then straightened a few others before she returned to the desk and her note.

Her phone, neatly, but unobtrusively tucked beside the cash register, vibrated. Luci ignored it. She carefully rerolled the note, which was now as long as her arm, back into its tight tube and tucked it beside the phone. As she did so, she glanced down at the screen and noted that she'd now missed ten calls and had twenty texts waiting.

The thing was, she knew exactly why everyone wanted to check in with her all of a sudden, but she wasn't much interested in actually talking to anyone. She wasn't interested in the confirmation. And she certainly wasn't interested in the daunting task ahead of her now. A task that was too much to ask of anyone, even her. Not that he'd actually asked.

He had — obviously and always — left her a note.

Luci wasn't going to get away with ignoring everyone and their condolences for very long. She was lucky that Vanessa hadn't seemed to recognize her. Though it was part of a much larger metropolitan sprawl, West Vancouver was ultimately a small — even incestuous — municipality. There was only one high school worth going to at all.

She had a feeling someone would be picking her up from work. Someone else would be making sure she got to school and through the day okay tomorrow. Actually, someone was probably going to suggest she skip Friday's classes all together.

But she knew better. She knew what was really going on — or at least what he'd hoped was going to happen. And she had her own plan. Or at least the beginning of one.

## *

Luci hadn't spent a lot of time in church before this. In fact, this might be the longest she'd ever sat in a pew. But she'd at least known what to expect from movies and TV, so she'd worn her black dress and nylons even though she didn't like them. She also wore the pink flower bracelet that Colby had given her for her birthday, balancing it with a pink rhinestone clip in her hair and a light pink lip gloss. She opted to sit with her friends, not her family, who were behind her and to the right. She figured her friends needed her more right now.

There had been some talk of not having a funeral under the circumstances, but Luci was glad they'd chosen to go ahead so that everyone had a traditional time and space to mourn. She was also glad to have the extra preparation time for herself... before she had to say a final goodbye.

A massive gold cross loomed over the open coffin at the front of the church sanctuary. Luci tried to pay attention to the minister rather than the edge of the white waxy profile she could see just above the side of the coffin.

The church was really full. Luci doubted that many of the people there had even known this church existed before today. Vanessa — who Luci recognized from the card shop, of course — sat right behind Colby's parents, Candace and Abram, who along with their daughter Cicely occupied the front row. Every now and then, depending on what the minister was saying and whether or not Colby's mother was slumped over her handkerchief, Vanessa placed her hand on Candace's shoulder and squeezed. It appeared that Vanessa had figured out what to say and do even without the bereavement card.

From her vantage point two rows behind, Luci couldn't see the faces of Colby's father, mother, and sister unless they turned toward the coffin, but she could read their body language. Candace dabbed her eyes regularly with a black lace handkerchief, which Luci was sure her grandmother would proclaim gauche. Abram looked disconnected and maybe a little bored. Cicely wasn't currently crying, but by her crazy puffy eyes fixed on the coffin, it was obvious she had been.

All of Luci's friends had come, of course, and they hadn't even bugged her about what to wear. She was glad to see they'd managed to dress well without her supervision. It was a respectful gesture, even though not one of them felt Colby deserved that respect — even before he was dead. At least half the school was in the church, though none of them had been close to Colby. Luci wondered where the other half were.

"John, a close friend of Colby's, will now read a favorite poem," the minister said, finally voicing the words Luci had been waiting to hear. "Friends and family are invited to visit and say their good byes."

The minister beckoned to John, who was sitting on Luci's right. John, his suit too tight across his shoulders, nervously pulled the cheat sheet Luci had typed up for him from his pocket. John was one of Luci's oldest friends, and he hadn't been even remotely close to Colby. But, reading a poem was the correct thing to do, and though she could pick it, it wasn't for her to stand up and read.

John glanced at her — she saw him in her peripheral vision — and she nodded slightly without meeting his gaze. He lumbered to his feet, only doing so because she asked it of him.

As John pushed through to the aisle to approach the podium, other mourners glanced around, not knowing what to do.

Finally, Candace stood, inhaling her newly renewed sobs as she practically dragged Abram with her toward the coffin. Cicely dutifully followed her parents, scuffing her feet on the fine-piled carpeting.

John stood at the podium, tapped his finger on the microphone even though it was obviously on, and cleared his throat. "Okay. Here it goes ... I have no idea what it means, but this was, like, one of Colby's favorite poems from English lit. I think he wrote a paper on it..." He glanced up from his cheat sheet to Luci, and she nodded to encourage him to continue.

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good will be the final end of ill, to pangs of nature, sins of will, defects of doubt, and taints of blood...

A line had begun to form up the center aisle toward the coffin. Mourners shuffled over to look at Colby's body, then crossed away down a side aisle to exit the church. It was old-fashioned and ritualistic. Luci had made sure that Colby's mother intended to subject herself to such a display. It was part of the plan.

That nothing walks with aimless feet; that not one life shall be destroy'd, or cast as rubbish to the void, when God hath made the pile complete.

Luci straightened her skirt and started to rise, only to be immediately pulled back to her seat by her girlfriend, Melinda, who was sitting on her left.

"You're not going up there!" Melinda hissed. "This is all just sick. Looking at him and everything. You aren't going up there. Are you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. I'm coming with you."

Luci stood. She had steeled herself to move forward but was now forced to wait to step into the aisle. It was blocked by a wave of stragglers who had decided to brave the trek at the same time as her.

Thus stalled, she was forced to listen to John not understanding a single word coming out of his mouth, but continuing to recite the poem as requested. Because ultimately, that's what true friends did for each other.

That not a worm is cloven in vain; that not a moth with vain desire is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, or but subserves another's gain.

This was the best Luci could do on short notice. The best she could do under the circumstances. Abram had almost convinced Candace that an open casket was obscene. She'd heard their fight from the front yard, though Colby's parents had assumed she'd left after delivering her mother's tuna casserole.

She hadn't. The light had been on in Colby's room. Luci had waited, but he obviously hadn't appeared at the window to grin down at her. Colby wasn't prone to smiling, but he'd always smiled at her from that window.

Melinda, never the patient one, shoved by Luci to hiss at the slow-moving line of people blocking them from the aisle. "Wake up, people. Girlfriend here."

She gave Luci a little shove to urge her forward, but people seemed super slow to understand that they needed to move out of the way.

"I'm okay going to the end of the line," Luci said to placate her fierce friend.

"Forget it. If you're doing this, then do it. We have to get to the wake, don't we? I thought you made cheesecake."

People shuffled enough for Luci to step into line. Melinda pressed in behind her while hissing like a cat at the guy at her back. Luci wrapped her hand around her friend's wrist, and that seemed to settle Melinda a little. No one knew how to protect her, so they were going off in all the wrong directions. She knew she wasn't helping, but she didn't feel much like talking it out.

Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall. At last — far off — at last, to all. And every winter change to spring.

After what seemed like ages, Luci stepped up to look down at the pale boy, forever seventeen now, in the gleaming mahogany coffin. Colby would have loved this coffin. Luci had made sure that Candace knew that before meeting with the funeral director. It was atrociously expensive, but they wouldn't be splitting an inheritance between two children now, so the money probably didn't matter.

Yes, that was morbid. Luci had to be careful that she didn't get sucked down into all of this death and darkness. Colby's face was a little too thin and his dark hair looked recently cut and traditionally styled. He wouldn't have liked that at all, but Luci — limited in time and hindered by weighty decisions — could only fight the important battles.

Melinda, who'd been hanging off her arm, turned her back to give Luci some privacy. That gesture alone let her know she'd been staring too long. But it was harder to look away than she thought it would be. Suppressed emotion threatened to break through her cast-iron resolution. She fought the urge to reach out and stroke Colby's cheek. She would never have done such a cheesy thing in life, so why do it in death?

So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: an infant crying for the light: and with no language but a cry.

She took a deep breath and placed her hand on Colby's chest. It would never rise with breath again. She exhaled, tucked the register roll that contained her final note to him in the breast pocket of his new pinstriped suit, and turned away from her first love.

## *

Though her mother had smoothed the collar of her hated black dress and fussed with her hair clip, Luci had insisted on driving to Colby's parents' house with her friends. Melinda had gotten an old BMW — originally her brother's car — for her sixteenth birthday. Luci slid into the passenger seat at the church. John, his girlfriend Trina, and Trina's friend Zoe had piled into the back.

Melinda didn't need directions to the updated Craftsman-style home. They'd all driven to and from Colby's place hundreds of times over the past four months. Colby's parents had been surprised and overly delighted, when his friends started coming around. Cicely had always hung around the edges of the group, for the store-bought — but still tasty — treats that Candace provided.

Colby had a pool, but it hadn't yet been warm enough to swim since his family moved into town in November. Luci had taken him to the Christmas dance. Her friends thought she'd gone crazy, but they didn't say anything outright. He'd only danced the slow songs, gently rubbing against her during _Don't Stop Believing_ at the end of the evening. By then, Luci had already decided to like him long term, and not just because he was the newest, most interesting boy she'd laid eyes on in twelve years. He stirred something within her. Hormones, probably. Love, maybe.

Various people from the church service were parking along the street as Melinda pulled up to the house. They were carrying casserole dishes, or baking, or flowers from the church. Lilies dominated.

Melinda double-parked, then turned to look at Luci in the passenger seat. Luci gazed out and up at the house. The afternoon was gray enough that she could see the light was still on in Colby's room.

"We could just blow this totally off, you know," Melinda said.

"I know," Luci answered. She didn't feel remotely ready for everything that was going to happen next. Everything else she hoped she'd planned perfectly, but didn't actually want to do.

No one else spoke. Trina started texting or tweeting in the back seat. The beeping of that had always bothered Melinda, who threw a dirty look over her shoulder.

John elbowed Trina and tried to change the subject. "Yeah, um. I really didn't get that poem you had me read, Luci."

Zoe piped up. "Isn't it about death and God and stuff?" She was fairly new to the group, and wasn't completely sure yet when it was a good time to contribute.

"Obvious much?" Melinda sneered.

"I think it's about love and life," Luci, ever the peacemaker, said.

"It's about being a cry baby, which Colby totally was. Who kills himself? Only a baby loser!" Trina snarled. She hated not being able to tweet.

John elbowed his girlfriend a second time. He went through girlfriends really quickly. It didn't help that he was the captain of the basketball team and handsome in a completely well-fed, clean-cut way. He was Colby's opposite, actually. It also didn't help that he was Luci's best friend. Not many girls measured up to Luci, who was — and always had been — strictly off limits. Friendship came first for both of them.

"What?" Trina asked. "Everybody's thinking it."

"He really was an asshole," Melinda said. They all continued to watch people clump together, then walk up the sidewalk to the house. "Offing himself when supposedly he loved Luci so much ... well, you know."

Luci finally managed to wrap her hand around the door latch, open the door, and step out of the car. The others piled out of the back seat in a jumble of limbs and curses behind her.

"Okay," Melinda called through Luci's open door. "I'll just park up the street."

Luci, her eyes still on Colby's window, closed the car door and walked toward the house.

## *

Inside, the wake was in full swing. People were eating and drinking, wandering around the main floor and conversing in hushed tones. The traditional floor plan of the Craftsman — with the living room situated across from the dining area — was perfectly designed for formal occasions such as this.

Luci attempted to slip in through the open front door and dart up the stairs. However, the moment she entered, Candace spotted her. Colby's mother swooped over to grab her by the shoulders and fake-kiss her on each cheek.

"Luci!" Candace cried for the benefit of her mournful guests. "Ah, Luci. Colby's little love. Thank you for coming."

John, Trina, and Zoe stood waiting behind Luci. A solid guard at her back. Candace impatiently waved them farther into the house. They ignored her by casting their gazes in the direction she indicated but not moving.

More guests arrived.

"You come see me before you go," Candace said. "I have something... Colby, my boy, would want you to have..."

Luci nodded as she delicately disengaged herself from Candace's grip. Colby's mother now seemed to be actually choking on actual remorse that had finally cracked through her veneer. Luci pushed away the reciprocal emotion that she felt rise underneath her own facade. She needed to hold on just a few hours longer. Just until sunset. Then, one way or the other, it would all be definitively over for her.

Vanessa appeared out of the dining room crowd to rub Candace's back and greet the guests waiting behind Luci's wall of friends.

Luci, thwarted from her upstairs trajectory, crossed in the opposite direction, through the living room toward the kitchen.

Abram, who was sharing a bottle of expensive single-malt scotch with a group of dads huddled around the TV — including Luci's stepfather — impeded her passage. "Luci! You hanging in there, kiddo?"

"Yes, Mr. ... Abram."

"Good, good. You see the Canucks beat Philly 2—0 last night?" Though he clapped Luci on the shoulder as he asked the question, he was already turning back to the other men. "Luci's brother, Pete, is on the farm team —"

"What is wrong with you?" Candace shrieked from the entranceway.

Luci — along with Abram and the entire room — turned to see Candace swoop down on Colby's father.

"Your son is dead. Dead! Dead! And you're talking about hockey! All you do is drink and watch TV. You haven't even cried!"

People shuffled uncomfortably and quickly distanced themselves from the couple. Luci took the opportunity to slip back the way she came, behind her wide-eyed friends — John was actually frozen with a cucumber tea sandwich an inch from his open mouth — and upstairs. She'd already seen Colby's parents in action, even before her boyfriend's suicide, and she had no interest in seeing it again.

Also, time was short. The sun set early this time of year.

## *

The echoes of their fight followed Luci up the stairs. More voices rose to join the fray as other adults tried to intercede, but no one really knew what to say or do. Pictures of Colby and Cicely lined the stairwell, so Luci chose to stare at the carpet runner that protected the hardwood of the treads.

She had to pass by the — thankfully — closed doors of Colby's and Cicely's rooms as well as the main bathroom to get to Colby's parents' room, which was at the end of the long hall. The house boasted four bedrooms upstairs and a guest suite downstairs — but then, all the homes of Luci and her friends did. The neighborhood might not be cookie-cutter identical, but its affluence was obvious all the same.

The door was slightly ajar, which was good, because Luci didn't want to feel as if she was breaking in and stealing any more than she already was. The stealing was justified. The room, its decor gender neutral and recently tidied by the house cleaner, was so large that the king-sized bed looked stupidly small.

Luci made a beeline over the thick carpet to the antique dresser against the far wall. Despite its plushness, the perfectly clean carpet didn't have any vacuum lines. Luci's mother would be jealous. She was always going on about how her housekeepers never seemed to do as good a job as other peoples'. She only hoped she wasn't leaving footprints as she leaned over to open the jewelry box on the dresser.

She lifted the top section out of the box to reveal a velvet case. Colby had shown her this case and its contents — his mother's antique jewelry collection — one day when his parents were out. It had just been a make-out ploy on his part, but because she loved all things with a connection to the past and romantic symbolism, Luci had been pleased with the gesture. And then rewarded him well and fully on his parents' bed.

She stared down at the antique rosary nestled in the velvet case. Then she took it, tugging it over her head and around her neck. It was a tight fit, but it hid beneath the high collar of her hated black dress and no one would get it off her easily. She returned the empty case and closed the jewelry box, hoping she'd be able to return the rosary without Candace having yet another loss to mourn.

Then she retraced her steps out of the room.

## *

After closing the door softly behind her, Luci crossed from Colby's parents' room back along to a door she'd skipped the first time she passed through the hall. The room she wasn't sure she even wanted to enter. The closed door bore a jigsaw-puzzle sign that spelled the name 'Colby' in colorful letters. Luci knew she should stop staring. She knew that this sign didn't even remotely represent her dead boyfriend, but she felt as if she was frozen. The light would be still be on inside, though she couldn't see so from the hallway where the thick carpeting blocked any bleed... was it his bedside table lamp?

Only a few more steps, she urged herself. Still, the doorknob didn't turn beneath her resting hand, nor did the metal warm to her touch. She hadn't been aware of being so cold —

"Even you couldn't make him happy."

Though she knew who had spoken, Luci slowly pivoted away from Colby's bedroom door to see Cicely standing in the open doorway of her own bedroom across the hall. Cicley turned and crossed to her bed. The rumpled covers made it obvious that she'd been sitting there for some time. Cicely's eyelashes were spiky and slick with her unshed tears. Luci tried to tamp down the inappropriate relief she felt at the rude — quite nasty, really — interruption. She tried to not relish the distraction.

"Everybody thinks you're so perfect. So pretty," Cicely said. Her fifteen-year-old sneer was practiced and faultless. "But even you couldn't fix him. Why didn't he let you fix him? Why did he need all that... that..."

Luci couldn't think of anything to say to Cicely that would make finding her brother dead any better. The siblings shared a bathroom. Colby must have known that Cicely would be the one to find him. It was a terrible thing to do to his little sister. An event that would haunt her forever after. Luci turned away and pressed her forehead against Colby's bedroom door. If she pressed hard and long enough, would the jigsaw 'C' forever emboss itself into her forehead? Did she want it to?

"Empty bags of blood and buckets," Cicely continued. "And... and he cut himself all over. Like some sick ritual."

Luci hadn't needed this extra image added to the images she'd already conjured. She was quickly sliding into the emo realm, and it didn't suit her or her life at all.

"I know you know why." Cicely started to sob.

"I don't, really," Luci finally responded. "Not in a way that makes any sense." She was talking more to the door than to Colby's little sister. "I have to do something, but then I'll come back. Okay?"

"I don't care," Cicely cried.

"I'll come back."

Cicely curled into a ball on her bed and buried her face in her ruffled purple pillow.

Luci, thankful to still be moving through her grief and not incapacitated on her own bed, turned the door handle and slipped into Colby's room.

## *

Colby's room didn't look any different from the last time she'd been here... four days ago now. Still, she took a moment to just stand and stare. She had to take these moments. She had to understand the choices they were both making. She'd thought they could build something between them, something that a poet would one day choose to immortalize...

The walls and ceiling were painted black and covered in neon-white handwritten death-poetry quotes. Colby had always heavily favored Tennyson, while Luci adored the words of Browning and Keats. She'd read something into that, once — something that was obviously just whimsy on her part, because reality was so pained and dark now.

She moved past the bureau. The black paint on the antique was already flaking off. Colby had said that one side had gotten scraped when his family moved from back east. She ran her fingers across and along the books that lined the top shelf of the bookcase as she approached the bed. Colby had mixed the King James Bible, a satanic bible, and the Koran in with books on witchcraft, mythology, and — oddly — Darwin. She didn't understand his filing system. The entire second shelf was occupied by Victorian poetry, along with a number of secondhand books she'd bought him.

Colby's bed wasn't made. The sheets were black, but the duvet was an old Star Wars print — from the first movie, obviously. He'd thought it ironic, given his carefully constructed outward persona, but it wasn't. The bedside lamp was still on. Luci knew that no one else had been in the room since Colby's death, otherwise the bed would have been straightened and the clothes hung. It was rude for him to have left the light on like that, when he knew he wasn't coming back from the bathroom. Of course, it was rude to kill himself in the tub and have his sister find him, so the lamp didn't really matter at all.

Luci knelt beside the bed, flipped back the messy sheets, and pulled a carved wooden box out from underneath the frame. She thought the carvings might be Celtic, but it was what Colby kept in the box, not the box itself that mattered.

Still kneeling, she placed the box on the edge of the bed and flipped open the lid. She tossed a bottle of black nail polish, a couple of chewed black pens, and a condom onto the mattress.

Then she gathered Colby's collection of rubber-band-wrapped poetry-and-love-note-filled register rolls into her hands. She carefully dug through past school awards, action figures, and old pennies to make sure she had every last one. These were her and Colby's words. No one else ever needed to read them.

She stuffed the love notes into her book bag, stood, swiftly crossed to the lamp before she could think about it further, and clicked off the light.

## *

Luci dodged various faceless adults who patted her on the shoulder and murmured condolences as she passed through the living room. She noted that her friends were huddled together as a group by the cookies and pastries in the dining room, so she'd chosen to loop to the kitchen by way of this route. The adults were still annoying.

She had a plan, and she didn't need to get distracted now.

The caterers had taken over the kitchen. Luci imagined it hadn't seen this much activity since Colby's family moved in. She dodged one guy carrying a tray of food, as she pretended to need something from the fridge. The second caterer finished plating her tray of cookies and left.

Luci darted over to the knife rack, grabbed a large chef's knife, and placed it in her book bag.

She then hustled over to the back door that led to the yard, the pool, and the garage. After glancing over her shoulder to determine that she hadn't drawn any attention, she slipped out of the house.

Outside, a boy's bike was carelessly propped against a neat pile of firewood. Candace had actually tripped over this bike two weeks ago while carrying groceries in from the garage. Colby had been grounded for a week.

Perfect.

## *

The sun was setting. Not that Luci could see it from the low vantage point where she now sat, but the gray day had gotten darker and darker as she'd biked to the graveyard.

She'd walked the bike along the path as far as she could, then propped it neatly off to the side as she continued across the grass the few steps to the fresh grave. Her uncle — her mom's brother — was buried somewhere in this cemetery. It was pretty, but all the headstones were flat mounted, so she wasn't a true fan. It was too tidy, too understated for something as dramatic as death.

Luci sat cross-legged on the grass at the foot of the freshly filled grave. This would hopefully ruin her hated black dress. She'd turned off her phone before she'd even climbed onto the bike. She wished she'd grabbed her jacket, but that would have telegraphed her intentions far too much.

This was something only she could do. Why, she didn't know, except that no one else would understand.

She pulled the rolls of love notes out of her bag, which she'd slung across her chest while biking and didn't bother to remove now. Again, she made sure that she had retrieved every last one.

One at a time — taking a brief moment to read a snippet of each — she unrolled note after note until she was surrounded by waves of red-streaked white paper. Each rolled note was covered in two alternating handwritings — Colby wrote in black ink and she wrote back in pencil. She and Colby had discussed love and death in Victorian poetry for the last four months, ever since Luci had turned around in English lit class and scrawled her first note across Colby's test paper.

Luci had thought her arguments and love poem quotes were slowly wooing Colby.

She'd obviously been wrong.

She folded her hands in her lap and tried to ignore the chilly spring evening. She tried to be peaceful, to think of nothing at all now. There were no more arguments to make.

The ground of the grave began to shift and move.

Luci didn't bother screaming. Even though she'd been hoping it was a prank or a joke. And when it wasn't, and when he was actually dead, she hadn't known whether to hope his claims were real or pray they weren't.

Two pale hands appeared in the loose dirt. Hands she'd once wished he'd use more... once wished he'd been more adventurous with his caresses...

Colby, covered in dirt, pulled his upper body free from the grave. His face was tortured, stretched across his cheekbones and jaw as he fought free of his burial site. Then his too-pale skin smoothed into a too-perfect mask of his former self. He opened his eyes, but they weren't his eyes anymore. They were twin pools of swirling blood.

Utterly rabid, Colby pushed off his hands, launching himself across the edge of the grave toward Luci.

She didn't flinch.

However, Colby did — right before his teeth closed on the rosary she was wearing around her neck. She'd pulled it out from her collar to make sure he'd see it.

"That my grandmother's?" Colby asked. His teeth were still a breath from Luci's tender neck.

"Yes."

"Logically, that shouldn't work with me. I'm agnostic."

"I know you say you are."

Colby grinned at her. Then he backed off and sat on his haunches over top of his grave, as a cat would.

Luci had always been more of a dog person.

"What are you doing here?" her newly-risen-from-the-dead boyfriend asked. "You wanted nothing to do with this, remember? Change your mind? Want to join me?"

"Is it everything you ever wanted?"

"Now? With you here? Yes, yes, yes."

He flipped backward, landed on his feet, and bowed to Luci. Then he tried a handstand and a cartwheel. His hand landed awkwardly on the neighboring headstone and the corner snapped off under his fingers. He laughed, wrenched the entire plaque from the ground, and crumbled it into dust between his hands.

"Look at me! The strength. The agility. The power!"

"Yes," she answered. "It's amazing what you can get off the Internet these days."

"And you thought it wasn't real vampire blood ... plus, you totally annoyingly sound like my parents."

"I am quoting them."

"I hate it when you do that, and don't tell me I sound 'just so teenage typical'. Look how I've reinvented myself! Darwin over God; I'm living proof —"

"Living might not be the best word —"

"No one will ever tell me what to do, ever again!"

"They're your parents, you know. Telling you what to do is kind of their job."

"Fuck them! I'm going to suck the last drop of blood from their still-beating hearts!"

Luci sighed.

"Oh, I know you don't like it when I talk like that. Don't worry — I'll make the actual death part quick. I've got to eat, don't I? Better to slay evildoers."

Impossibly quickly, he was once again by her side.

Luci flinched. She was unprepared the second time.

"Umm... you smell good," Colby said, as he gently tugged Luci to her feet.

The paper rolls crumpled beneath their dirty shoes. Luci doubted that Colby had even noticed them. She doubted that such things meant anything to him now.

Colby pressed his lips to her wrist and inhaled deeply. Then he did the same at her elbow... then up her arm... to nuzzle a kiss just beneath her ear.

Luci sighed with a tired sort of ecstasy.

Colby turned his head to hover his lips over her mouth.

She leaned into him, closed her eyes so that she couldn't see the blood whirling in his, and whispered, "I left you a note. In your pocket."

Delighted — as a child getting a new toy would be — Colby pulled the rolled note from his pocket. As he read, the smile slowly slipped from his face.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

While Colby was reading, Luci had pulled the chef's knife from her bag. Now, as he was still puzzling over her final love note, she swiftly stabbed him in the chest.

He howled, stumbled, and fell to one knee.

"That hurts like fuck!"

He yanked the knife from his chest and threw it away. Blood flooded his white shirt, and trickled out of his mouth.

"You know that won't kill me."

Colby touched his tongue to the blood on his lips, then bared his now-revealed fangs in a grin.

"I know," Luci said with another sigh. "But this will."

She pulled the pink, sparkly pencil — the one with the fluffy pink end — out from her bag. Then, using the hole she'd created with the knife, she stabbed it into Colby's heart.

## *

Luci knew as she stared down at the pile of goo that had been her ever-so-briefly-vampire boyfriend that she should have brought a shovel and matches. Granted, she hadn't been exactly sure that the outcome would be so messy.

This was why friends and cellphones were so important.

She also knew that it was seriously unlikely she was going to walk away from all of this with only her heart in pieces. Vampires didn't just randomly establish contact with teenaged boys via gaming forums and offer them their ancient blood, as well as the immortality that came with it. Certainly not without a long-term goal.

Good thing that no one beat her when it came to executing a plan.

## * * *

Meghan Ciana Doidge is an award-winning writer based out of Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. She has a penchant for bloody love stories, superheroes, and the supernatural. She also has a thing for chocolate, potatoes, and sock yarn. Her novels include _After The Virus_ , a post-apocalyptic love story, and the urban fantasy _Dowser_ series. For giveaways, news, and glimpses of upcoming stories, please connect with Meghan on:

Her new release mailing list, http://eepurl.com/AfFzz

Her personal blog, www.madebymeghan.ca

Twitter, @mcdoidge

http://www.facebook.com/MeghanCianaDoidge

## *

#

# True Love

## E. B. Boggs

Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of her. He glanced at his computer clock; 5:08 PM. Time to go home.

"Hey Bob, how's it going?" Pat, his supervisor, asked him.

He quickly looked away and wiped the tears from his eyes. He couldn't let anyone know he was such a wussy.

"I'm doing well, thanks Pat," he answered quickly. Pat cocked his head and looked at him curiously.

"It's been a year today hasn't it? Since Nora . . ."

"Tomorrow," Bob interjected, "a year tomorrow." Pat studied him for a moment before continuing.

"You know Bob, you really should move on. Nora's not coming back and there are plenty of other women out there who would really like to hook up with a guy like you."

"You don't know that," Bob answered. Pat shook his head.

"I'm pretty sure. A woman might help you get back into the swing of sales again. Your sales have dropped significantly in the last year. Upper management has taken note of that."

"I'm sure they have." Bob glanced at his wrist watch. "Okay if I go now? I'm ten minutes past my normal quitting time."

"Sure," said Pat. "Why don't you come over to the house tomorrow evening and have supper with me and Phyllis? You look like you could use a good home cooked meal."

"Thanks, but no. I'm usually pretty tired by the time I get home."

"Okay, but the offer stands if you change your mind."

Bob nodded to him as he put on his coat and walked out of the building. The weather had turned much colder the last couple of weeks. His car was covered in frost. He opened the door and started the car, retrieving his ice scraper from under the front seat and started scratching at the ice on his windshield.

He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up. A woman was approaching him.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said. Bob turned to face her.

"Yes?" he said.

"I'm sorry, but I bumped into your car with my car a little bit ago. I waited to give you my insurance information. I figured you'd be out shortly."

"What happened? I don't see any damage. Do I know you?"

"Oh, my car slid some as I was backing out and it hit the rear bumper on your car. Dented it pretty good. And my name is Valerie, I work in receiving. I'm so sorry."

Bob walked around to the back of the car. There was a sizable dent in the bumper with one end twisted in a slightly upward position.

"Ahh, it's no big deal. Don't worry about it. It's an old car," he said.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, I mean that's why I have insurance anyway." She smiled weakly.

"I'm sure," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get home, it's getting colder by the minute."

"Can I buy you dinner some evening? Anything to make this up to you."

Bob looked at her carefully for a moment. She was attractive, slim body build, looked to be late thirties or early forties. In another time and place he perhaps would have felt honored and jumped at the chance to spend time with her. He shook his head and held up his left hand. He still wore the silver Celtic knot wedding band that Nora placed on his hand all those years ago.

"I'm married," he said. "Don't worry about the car. I really have to go now."

"Sure. I'm so sorry, if you change your mind just let me know, okay?" she said as she moved toward her car.

Bob nodded and slid into his seat. Ten minutes later he turned onto his driveway. He parked the car right in front of the house not bothering to put it in the garage.

Going inside he began to get comfortable by removing his work clothes and wrapping himself in a house coat. Moving to the kitchen he got some beans, a can of Pepsi and a plastic spoon. He then went to the den and plopped down in front of the TV. There was an Andy Griffith marathon playing.

He sat there eating beans and looking at the TV. But his mind wasn't on the show. All he could think of was Nora. He missed her so much. Why did she leave him?

He got up, turned on a lamp, and retrieved an old photo album and started looking through the pictures. Nora and him, much younger and happier. The faded pictures portrayed them in their youth, their love just starting to bloom. There was a pair of pictures, one of each of them, from the night they spent on Flag Rock. He smiled at the memory.

She had been hesitant to go with him. He had knelt before and kissed the back of her hand.

"Don't you think it's beautiful up there?" he asked her.

"Oh yes," she responded. "It's gorgeous."

"Then you have to go with me. I won't let you get hurt, I promise."

"Why do I have to go?"

"Because I want it to see just how beautiful you are so it will know true beauty."

She smiled, tip-toed and kissed him. "I'd follow you anywhere."

That was their first night together, and it was glorious.

Bob looked at the pictures a while longer. He began to get depressed again.

'I'm as faded as these pictures,' he thought to himself. He sat looking through them, eventually falling asleep in his chair.

He suddenly startled awake. The TV had gone to a white screen with static and his Pepsi had overturned in the floor. He looked at his watch; 2:38 AM. He reached over to turn off the lamp, but the bulb blew before he touched it.

Then he felt it; a presence in the room. He was struck with a strange fear, but turned to face an image that he knew well. His fear melted into joy as he looked at the apparition of his wife.

"Nora?" he said weakly, not believing his own eyes. "Is that you?"

A peaceful light shone in her eyes as she reached out her hand to him.

"I've come to soothe you," she said. "We'll soon be as we once were."

He stood, on wobbly legs, and moved toward her. She was moving, floating, toward the front window.

"Don't you think it's beautiful?" she asked him, looking toward the silver maple tree in the yard.

"Yes, but not as beautiful as you," he answered.

"Oh Bobby, you say the sweetest things. You must come with me now. It is time." She floated up to eye level with him and kissed him, long and deep.

Her touch was cool on his skin but Bob felt young again. He felt like he could do anything.

"I'd follow you anywhere," he said. "My soul feels rejuvenated!"

She looked at him for a moment and then said, "Bobby, we don't have souls. We are souls. We have bodies that are fragile and wear out after a time. We'll be fine, we are going to be as one again. Come . . ." She drifted through the window and toward the tree in the yard.

'She always did love that tree,' Bob thought as he headed toward the door. He didn't bother to put on shoes or a jacket, but just went out the door into the yard.

The stars were icy and bright in the sky but he didn't feel the cold. He saw Nora heading to the stone beneath the tree and he followed her there.

"I'm going now and you will follow shortly. I love you Bobby!"

"Wait! Nora! Don't leave me again!" He fell to the ground and lay prone with his arms wrapped around the stone. The inscription on it read: Nora Hopkins, Beloved Wife and Mother. The frost on the stone and the ground melted from the warmth of his body as his tears froze to the stone.

## *

Deputy Ferguson could hardly believe what he saw at the Hopkins's house that morning. Bob Hopkins froze to the ground hugging his wife's tombstone. The door to the house was wide open and the TV was still playing.

There was no evidence of any foul play and no sign of drinking or drug abuse. He made his report to the sheriff and they sent out an ambulance to get the body. All his kids lived away. The last time they were all here was last year when Nora passed away. That was a year to the day. Strange how things happen sometimes.

## * * *

E.B. Boggs currently resides in the mountains of south-western Virginia. He is the author of various short stories and one novel, _The Chronicles of Vinland_. You can find his Facebook page at the following link:

https://www.facebook.com/EBBoggs?ref=hl

## *

#

# Revelation of the Angel Queen

### From the Calnis Chronicles

## J R C Salter

Throughout Cõran's life I had been there. From the moment he was born screaming into the world with his unusually deep voice, the Fates had marked this man for something, and it was my task to find out what, and to help him when I could.

I often disguised myself as a neighbour, or visitor; sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes old, sometimes young. Occasionally I interacted with him; I passed him in the street and he asked directions, or he wanted some information about a new city he was visiting. He was a traveller, you see, which is a little odd considering who he ultimately became.

I watched him as he saw the world; Egypt, Babylon, Persia, even to the farthest reaches of the East, and he never knew I was there...

Until he settled down to lead the tribe that would become one of the greatest civilisations the world had ever known.

## *

'Go!' Cõran shouted, his booming voice echoing through the ravine.

'I'm staying,' Damariya said.

'Oh, just do as you're told, woman. I need someone to look after the children. They can't stay here. You can't stay here.'

'I've got a sword. I can fight.'

'Exactly! Which is why you're the best person to defend them. These things will destroy you all.'

Damariya stood there, looking at Cõran, defiant.

'Cilnawn,' Cõran said, 'escort her back to the temple. Make sure she does her duty, and then get back here.'

Cilnawn saluted, his fist pressed to his chest, and grabbed Damariya's arm. She protested and struggled to get free of his tight grip, but he was too strong for her.

Cõran shook his head, and looked to Atharron, 'Got any sisters?'

'No,' Atharron said, 'I guess my parents thought they couldn't get better than me.'

Cõran laughed, 'Lucky you. Lord, I wish she was someone else. She's used to defying me, that's what it is. She's been hounding me for years to join the army, and when I give her that sword, she does nothing but disobey my orders. And because of her, I'm sure some of the men are questioning my authority. If any of them were like that, I'd discipline them for insubordination. But she's my sister. I can't clap her in irons. Instead of directing that rage at me for giving her an order, she ought to put it into protecting them damn kids,' he sighed, 'What do the scouts say?'

'The army is half a mile west. They have twice our numbers, but no coordinated battle plan. We should be able to finish this one and be home before sunset.'

'Lord, I hope that's true. These attacks are getting more and more frequent. And none of the damn captives can tell us what they want. Their only motive seems to be just plain destruction. I hate it. An enemy with no desires makes negotiations impossible.'

The noise started off as a low murmur in the air, but over the next few moments, it grew to a loud cheering as of many men crying out for blood. Cõran held his sword in one hand, his shield in the other, and he turned to face the oncoming animals.

The ravine was narrow, defensible, but not without its flaws. The enemy didn't seem to ever show intelligence, but he looked up to the hills on either side of him, and worried what would happen if the monsters took a moment to think. He would be surrounded and forced into a pit to be picked off one by one. Luckily for them, the things didn't think; or couldn't do much besides charge.

He saw them in the distance, a rabble of assorted vermin; vaguely human shaped, but with odd features, horns or tails or sharp fangs, that made them more animal than anything he could call a man. They ran with a selfish desire to rip flesh and stamp it to the ground. They didn't even eat the dead. Cõran wasn't even sure what they did eat.

Any second they would be upon him, and he would protect the small community. With his life if need be.

Just a few yards away, now. He saw the chipped teeth of the snarling beasts, the red veins pumping through their eyes, the mud beneath their claws. And he swung with his sword, drawing first blood.

## *

Cõran performed the final coup de grâce on the last remaining... thing. He slid his sword out from the body, and it scraped along the animal's broken bones. Cõran looked around the small battlefield and sighed, 'We can't live like this,' he said to Atharron, 'Too many dead. Too many have lost families and friends. And too many have had their lives ruined. If I knew they wouldn't follow us, I'd suggest going somewhere else. Starting afresh.'

Atharron nodded, 'Emigrating may still be the best thing to do, regardless.'

Cõran tore a small rag from one of the creatures and wiped the blood from his sword; 'Gather the dead!' he ordered, 'Everyone is on grave digging duty and we will build a monument for the battle here. Burn the enemy and salt the ground. Curse their souls.' He sheathed his sword and walked farther into the gorge, 'If they even have them.'

He and Atharron followed the valley until it became too narrow for them both to comfortably walk side by side. Half a mile later, the ravine widened into a large round bowl with a small lake in the centre surrounded by a few rudimentary huts and one large stone building; each one blackened and falling down as bodies lay around the bowl; young and old alike.

Cõran surveyed the scene, and dropped to his knees. He absently felt a tear fall down his cheek, stopping as it reached his beard.

Atharron walked into the carnage, 'It was a diversion,' he said as he hung his head, 'They are getting clever.'

Cõran heard the falling of wood as it tumbled from the wall of a hut. A young girl staggered from the opening. She couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. It was strange how he didn't recognise her. He knew everyone from the village.

The girl stumbled over to Cõran, limping with a leg that could not hold her weight. She fell into Cõran's arms and looked up at him, 'I did what I could,' she said. Her voice was strong, but still showed a little grief that she held back; 'Your sister, she was magnificent. She ordered all the women to gather the children into the huts and to form a circle around them. I used whatever power I could and we eventually defeated them, but only a few survived. They retreated into the caves.'

'Atharron,' Cõran said, looking in his lieutenant's direction, 'Get some of the men out here to carry the dead to the grave. I need to see to my people.' He turned back to the girl, 'Lead the way... sorry, what was your name?'

'Galvahha.'

Cõran held Galvahha on her feet as she led him up the hill to a cave in the side of the bowl. They had hidden deep within so as not to be seen by any enemy. A clever tactic, but it made finding them difficult. He shouted out for them and eventually a few of the adults appeared, 'Damariya!' he shouted.

'This way!' said a voice in the darkness. He followed the sound until he found a small boy holding a torch. The light drowned everything in a pale orange hue; in the light, he saw the body of his sister lying against the wall of the cave, her middle covered in dark, red blood.

'Damariya!' he said, running towards her, leaving Galvahha to be tended by another girl. He dropped down to his knees and held his sister's hand, but she didn't move; 'Mari, please. I'm here. We're safe.'

'I'm sorry,' the boy said, 'she died shortly after getting here. Not even Galvahha could save her.'

Cõran looked behind him at the girl, 'Why? Who is she?'

'She's Afirian.'

'She's what?' He dropped Damariya's hand and walked over to Galvahha, 'You have the power to heal,' he said to her, pointing in his sister's direction, 'Use it.'

Galvahha looked down at the floor, 'I can't.'

Cõran grabbed her shoulders, 'Why not?'

Galvahha pushed him away, tears in her eyes, 'Because I've been sent to Earth as a mortal. I have some minor abilities, but healing is not one of them.'

'Why?'

She looked into his eyes, 'Because I would have wanted to use it. You are a leader, their chief, a king. Even you cannot deny that immortality for all would destroy everything you've created here.'

Cõran turned around and sighed, 'You may be right. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.'

'You think I do? Being suddenly powerless to stop suffering when one once had that ability is not a pleasant experience.'

Cõran nodded in defeat and walked back to his sister.

## *

Cõran supervised the cleanup, even pitching in to help dig graves, or to rebuild houses. Even before I stumbled from that hut, I knew him to be a good king. I'd heard tales of him, I'd witnessed his transformation from vagabond to leader, seen him settle down and build a community.

But he could be so much more. The Fates had given him a gift, but he would need to give the world a legacy before he could receive it. I knew my task, but he had to make the choice with no guidance from me.

## *

Cõran looked up to the edge of the bowl and saw his men digging. He ordered them to position the graves to face the rising Sun, so they would remember their ancestry in the East. All of these people followed him across the waves to an unknown place for an unknown reason. They were fools; but so was he. It was a dream that led him here; but they all wanted away from the wars, so they believed as strongly as he did. It was a message from God. This land itself was a gift from God. It had just been left alone so long it was now infested with parasites.

'Perhaps they would have been safer back home,' Galvahha said beside him.

'So, you leave behind your gift of healing, but keep your skill at reading thoughts?' Cõran said, a little scorn in his voice.

'It wasn't my decision. Soon, someone may be sent who is allowed to keep that ability, but that is not now.'

Cõran turned to face Galvahha, 'Then why are you here? What is your purpose?'

'I was sent to help you; to shape your destiny; to build your legacy.'

Cõran scoffed, 'Great start. I've barely begun this community and already half of them are dead.'

'And why are they dead?'

Cõran looked at Galvahha as if she said something incomprehensible, 'Because I ordered them to fight for me.'

'And they had every chance of turning back. You are not their leader. You command the army, but that is all. And yet, they follow you. They believe in this land. It is their home now, and they will protect it and shape it for their futures and the futures of their children. And there is barely a human being on this Earth that will not protect that with their lives.' Galvahha looked up to the graves as the Sun rose above the crest, 'Their sacrifice was not done without thought. They died knowing the children hiding in the caves would grow up. And each one was happy to give them that chance.' She looked back to Cõran and he felt the dampness of tears form in his eyes, 'They did not fight because you ordered them to, they did it because they wanted to. Because you gave them the hope of a beautiful future.'

Galvahha rubbed Cõran's shoulder and he fell into her arms.

## *

A few months after the attack, the village had rebuilt the houses, replanted the crops, and held onto their civilisation. A few years went by with no attacks, and Cõran sat at his table, alone with his supper, a roll of bread and cheese. It was a small roll, the harvest hadn't been good last year, though the crops seemed to be flourishing ready for the coming autumn. Their fortune fluctuated like this, but they had never experienced a truly bad year.

He looked up as the door opened, and Galvahha walked through; 'How's the bread?' she asked.

'Stale,' Cõran said through a mouthful.

'I could get you some fresh if you would like?'

Cõran shook his head and indicated for Galvahha to take a seat; 'A king shouldn't feast while his subjects starve.'

Galvahha smiled, sitting down next to him, 'They're not exactly starving.'

'No, but it's the thought that counts. I don't expect them to eat what I'm not prepared to.'

'There's been another engagement.'

Cõran laughed, 'What is it about hard times that makes people want to get married. I'll perform the ceremony tomorrow.'

Galvahha took Cõran's hand and he looked at her, smiling.

'It also makes everyone wonder why you don't have a queen yet,' she said.

'Because I'm not a king.'

'You're their leader, and they'll call you what they will. And don't change the subject.'

Cõran grasped hold of Galvahha's hand and absently rubbed it, 'I just don't have the time.'

Galvahha laughed, leaning towards him; 'That's the point of a queen. To share the burden of leadership.'

Cõran looked at her and his eyes flicked to her lips for a second before going back to her eyes; 'It is a lot of work.'

Galvahha closed in, and Cõran felt her breath on his moist lips as she spoke, 'I can handle it.'

Cõran smiled and his mouth brushed hers, 'I have no doubt you could.'

## *

And in that one moment I became the angel queen, Galvahha Afiræna. Cõran's fate was sealed with mine, and we would leave our descendants to achieve great things. I watched them all from above, the kings and queens of Calnis, forging a great nation that would shape the history of the world. I mourned its destruction, but my people lived on and it is in honour of them that I now write the Chronicles, the history of Calnis and its legacy.

And I knew at Cõran's coronation that his statement to the people was God's truth; 'This small community, this country... this entire nation... will live forever.'

## * * *

UK author J R C Salter trained as a chef and practiced for ten years before quitting to pursue a writing career. His epic series, the _Calnis Chronicles_ , depict the adventures of different characters surrounding a mysterious artifact. During any spare time, he likes to dabble in photography, build giant Star Wars models from Lego, and make cookies. J has an unhealthy thirst for knowledge, and has been known to waste time on Wikipedia and YouTube.

www.calnis.com

<https://www.facebook.com/jrcsalter>

<https://www.facebook.com/thecalnischronicles>

## *

#

# My Contact

## (Excerpted from _The Package_ )

## Cleve Sylcox

My name is Dave Winter. I work, or should I say I worked for, a snake of a lawyer named, Bill Tinsley better known as BT. He gave me the package to give to Al. He said he would do it himself but had a pressing engagement. With whom he didn't say. He told me all about the forty G's and then rushed off.

Shit, I didn't have anything better to do and who couldn't use that kind of money, so I hurried to the wharf.

BT told me to go into Moe's, a flea trap of a joint at the edge of oblivion. The bar is built at the end of the wharf which hovers some forty feet above the bay. If you stagger the wrong way it might be your last because just below the bay's surface lays Elizabeth, a sunken Russian vessel which exploded some years back. Her jagged belly points up toward Moe's. I stared down at her in disbelief. Only thing separating me and a date with those sharp points was a thin railing. I turned and went into Moe's dark ambience. You've seen joints like this. They keep the lights down low so you can't see any...dealings, if you know what I mean.

BT's instructions were clear, go to the back of the bar to a table with a painting of a pirate above it. I was to sit there. Not talking to anyone and most defiantly not drinking anything. My first contact was to give me further instructions. Cloak and Dagger...kind of find this stuff exciting.

I did as I was told. I sat straining to see through the dim lighting and smoke. The place smelt stale, dirty. A bartender stood behind a makeshift bar made from lobster crates. A long plank rested on top of the crates forming the bar top. Dirty ashtrays along with bowls of shelled salted peanuts sat on a thin cloth used as a bar cover. As the patrons walked around the bar, peanut shells crunched beneath their shoes.

A large rotunda of a man with a patch on his right eye flicked his cigar in the peanuts, then tossed back a double Scotch. He slammed the shot glass on the plank with a sharp clack. He nodded approvingly at the bartender, and then limped out of the bar through a mob of patrons who mingled, drinking and chatting loudly, most of whom looked like dogs after a hard fight, hair unkempt and ragged clothes.

Behind the bar was a makeshift wooden shelf holding bottles of Scotch, and whiskey. A fish net draped down from the wall covering a corner of the shelf, an obvious attempt at decoration. Oddly to say, it worked. At least it fit in with the tables made from old lobster crates with a small plank laid across them. These tables filled the place. On each table sat a candle in a bottle, which most used to light their stubbed cigars or cigarettes. The chairs were wicker and old. I felt if I move too fast theses would-be assassins would collapse, killing me.

Adding to the ambiance are the walls. They were made of old planks with tight lines of grain with a knot or two. Rough prints of pirate ships hung from old nails driven into their knotted mass. I sat beneath the only painting not of a ship, it was a pirate.

I looked at the black bearded pirate in the painting, wondering who he might be. That's when I heard a voice that somehow didn't fit in the surroundings. The voice was soft and sweet. I turned to see an absolute angel.

Her young face smiled at me from beneath two large blue eyes. Her blonde hair lay on her shoulders like a layer of golden cream. As I gazed down her perfectly proportioned figured, I was instantly enchanted. Jessica Simpson holds nothing on this dame.

"Excuse me," she said in an English accent, "May I get you something to drink."

I sat gazing into her eyes wondering if she had a name ...or a price. Her perfume, sweet and alluring, danced in my nostrils. I liked it.

She asked again, "Sir...would you like a drink?"

I smiled, "Sure, Scotch straight up."

She smiled back, twirled on one foot then trotted up to the bar.

I watched her walk away...and nearly fell off my wicker. Then I remembered the package and patted my shirt pocket, reassuring myself. I opened the top of the pocket and stared in at it. It was a small manila envelope with the top-glued shut and stamped with a wax seal. I jiggled and heard something rattle inside.

"Here's your drink," said the waitress.

I looked up into her eyes while her perfume drew me toward her, "Thanks." I mumbled, and start to pay for the drink but she stopped me.

"The lady at the table by the door paid for it," my young infatuation told me as she pointed to a woman dressed in a body length overcoat and wearing a large brim hat. Even in the dimly lit room, she wore dark sunglasses, more cloak and dagger. I was intrigued.

The woman raised her glass to me.

I raised my drink to her, thanking her, "Who is she," I asked the waitress.

"I don't know, never seen her here before." Then she trotted off, with my eyes watching her every step. That's when the mystery woman made her move by stepping into my line of sight. All I saw was her black overcoat. I followed the line of buttons up the coat to her face, which sat recessed in the shadows of her large brim hat.

"May I sit down?" she asked with an unusual, heavy accent. Her voice was feminine but deep as if suffering from a cold.

"Sure, I mean, please do."

I watched her slide gracefully onto the wicker chair across from me. The candle did little to cast a glow onto her face. Her red lips shimmered in the light but the rest of her face remained cloaked in the shadows of the hat.

I sipped on my Scotch with my eyes fixed on her. "So, what brings you here tonight?" I asked.

She didn't answer right away but sat motionless in the candlelight. "You," she finally said in almost a whisper.

"Me," I questioned, "Why, I don't even know you."

"You have the package," she said.

BT's instructions came rushing back to me. No talking. No drinking. I sat the glass down with hardly two sips out of it. She might be my contact but how would I know. Something inside my chest told me she wasn't.

"The package," I questioned trying to de-rail her suspicions.

"You're known as, 'BT,' aren't you," she said, sliding the sunglasses off her thin nose, revealing deep brown eyes. You know the kind, the kind that melts your soul with a passing glance.

"No, I'm sorry...I...I'm not him. My Name is...Will....Willard Humphrey. I work with the offshore men...HR issues." I tried making things up but no matter what I said it sounded like a lie. Not even I believed it.

She stood, "Quit with the fun and games. Give me the package," she demanded while patting her side coat pocket. "I'm sure you know what I have in here. Don't make me use it."

I wasn't sure of anything except that I was in deep shit. What had BT gotten me into? As for her pocket, it could be a gun or maybe a bluff. I was willing to take a chance. Besides, we were in Moe's; too many people for her to kill me here. "Listen, Dark and Mysterious, I have no idea what you're talking about...but hey, I'm willing to forget it. Why don't you sit down and I'll —"

"Enough of this," she snapped, then stepped next to me reaching for my shirt pocket.

I reached for her wrist, but my reach was intercepted by the waitress who sat down on my lap, wrapped her arms around me, pressing her body against mine. She winked before kissing me deep and long. I was surprised to say the least. Our lips parted and she leaned back and said dramatically, "Darling I knew I would find you here," then she kissed me again. Believe me, I wasn't complaining. I could do this all night. It crossed my mind several times.

The dame with the hat stepped back and pulled the .38 snub nose from her pocket, "The packet, give me the packet," she demanded.

Without hesitating, my new found friend kicked the pistol from the dame's hand and punched her in the nose. The dame fell back into the makeshift bar, spilling peanuts and knocking the plank off the crates. Drinks tumbled to the dirty floor, and the bartender did not look happy. The dame was knocked out cold. Then the blonde Rambo turned to me, and kissed me again.

I said to her, "I kinda understand that you're my contact and you kissed me to ward off the dame but what was that last kiss for?"

"Me," she said and kissed me again.

## * * *

Cleve Sylcox is the author of six books with many more on the way. To read his short stories and poems check out his blog,

http://csylcox.wordpress.com

## *

#

# The Call

## Corrie Fischer

### (Based on a True Story)

I suppose I should start from the beginning. How does one define such a point? Does it truly start at conception or perhaps at birth? Of course the question here is not where life began. No, it is something far more. Where did the pain arise? For that, we must go back to my first memory.

It was a cold November morning and I was four years old. I do not remember playing in the gym's daycare. One may hypothesize they did not have memorable toys there. It was most likely filled with donated objects that scattered across a plain, ordinary carpet. The scene must not have been within my mental capacity to hold dear.

Debra arrived there to get me. My mother, Nancy, was standing behind her, yet she was a world away. I cannot picture their faces or the words they spoke to me. The thoughts simply vanished from my young mind. All I have of the missing pieces is their own, distorted accounts. After all, memories are a tricky, fragile thing. This is part of what makes eye witness statements so unreliable. One person may see a red ball cap while another swears it was a tan cowboy hat on the suspect. The causes of such distorted recollections have baffled scientists for years. They have theories of course, but that is what they remain. They are hollow speculations to provide answers to one of humanity's greatest phenomenon. Of course, I am getting off topic.

From what their combined memories recollect, the three of us ventured into the gym parking lot. Arriving in front of the beaten, blue car, it was obvious my mother could not drive. Something was wrong with her, something very wrong. Debra plucked the keys from her hand and helped her into the passenger side of the metal contraption. She opened the door for me, but I refused her help and crawled in of my own will. They always said I was stubborn. The fact is certainly true in recent times.

The vehicle began to move. I cannot recall how long it traveled or the number of turns it took to reach our destination. I would like to believe I asked my mother if she was okay. I hope that I told her how much I loved her and that everything was going to be alright. Unfortunately, I was only four. My mind was unable to process such complex thoughts. One can only assume I sat in the back, playing with some now irrelevant toy that meant the world to me then. Isn't it funny how things change like that? At one point in life, a simple object can be everything. It is lovingly carried from one place to another, attached at a child's side as though it was a section of their soul. If anyone attempted to remove such a thing, they would be hated, revoked as horrible and most likely subjected to a terrible tantrum. At the moment in that car, my mother would have probably welcomed such torture compared to the daunting reality of what came next.

Then it happened. The car stopped in front of the familiar house where my mother, father, and I all lived. I knew the place well. From this point forward, I may alas, speak of my own memories. I must warn you though they are certainly not pleasant things, not in the slightest. By the time I stepped out of the car, my mother was already halfway up the porch steps. My attention was drawn to her and the sight of my father standing at the top of the concrete structure. He was waiting for her, he was ready. Or was he?

The sights and sounds that followed have haunted my memory for years and can never be forgotten; never be erased. In that moment, it filled my soul and cut through my young core. I did not hear the words my father had spoken. Even if I had, my forming mind could not comprehend their full meaning. I will tell you what I do remember. I remember my mother and that sound, that horrible aching noise. In that instant, I watched as her knees buckled and she fell onto the cold concrete below. A scream of sheer terror and agony flowed through the air like a sonic boom, sending sound waves across my ears. The words that left her lips will never leave my mind. They still often arise in my nightmares. After all, this was the day I lost my mother. This was the day everything changed.

## *

Her workout was proceeding quite nicely. Debra raised the treadmill level up a notch as she continued to gossip with her beloved friend Nancy. The woman on the neighboring piece of equipment cranked her own device up a level. Both women were truly competitors at heart. It was a commonality that had brought them together, among other things. Everything was as it should be; nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just another November day in the gym. She could have never anticipated what would come next.

Debra watched as a gym employee approached, staring right at them. The woman looked fully prepared to interrupt their exercise routine. Debra felt annoyed. The young, blonde walked straight up to the two ladies. Debra had seen her here before and sized her up as just another bimbo with a nice, young figure. Debra's defensive state caused her to push the treadmill to a higher pace. As she watched the girl's expression, her own attitude changed.

"Nancy? Are either of you Nancy?" The girl seemed afraid to ask the words. Was that truly fear?

Debra's friend answered the question and had the treadmill off in a matter of seconds. "Yes, I am Nancy. What's going on?" Now it was Nancy's face that seemed filled with fear. Debra lowered her own treadmill setting down to a walking pace.

"There's a man on the phone. He says he is your husband and that it's an emergency." The girl's hands shook as she stated the words, clearly nervous. In fairness, Debra knew this was not the sort of thing one expects when taking a job at a gym. Of course, now, her focus was drawn to her dear friend. Nancy was already off the treadmill, ready to follow the ditzy employee. Debra was going to ask if she should go along as well, but the look on Nancy's face implied she would not have been heard. It was as if she knew, as though she had already heard the news echo in her ears. Debra stopped her own treadmill and opted to watch her friend approach the phone on the other side of the gym. Nancy was not on the phone long. Debra could not be sure if she had spoken into the device at all. She watched as Nancy's arm weakly placed the thing back onto its appropriate location. Nancy was never weak; she never carried herself like that. After all, Nancy was prior military. She was a strong, determined woman. It was a quality Debra adored about her. Something was wrong here, truly wrong.

Debra did not hesitate any longer and plucked up her bag, rushing to her friend's side. Nancy was not herself. Her eyes were glazed over and she seemed lost in some distant land. "What is it?" Debra did not know of any other way to ask. She needed to know what course of action to take next.

Nancy's expression drifted toward her friend. She still wasn't there, not truly. "It was Paul. I need to go home." The words seemed to have drawn the last bit of energy from the woman's body, mind, and very soul. She needed Debra now more than ever. Debra was more than willing to step up to the plate.

"Let's go get Korina." Debra hoped that hearing her daughter's name would draw Nancy back to reality for the moment. It did not. The woman remained as though the living dead. Her face was pale, her mind was gone. Debra put her hand on the woman's shoulder and led her to the facility's daycare.

"I need to pick up Korina." She handed the attendant the tag that identified the young girl. Something about that concept seemed sick. It was as though she was picking up a lost bag, not a living person. Nevertheless, such random thoughts were not where her mind needed to be. She had to be here, in this moment, for the sake of her friend.

Debra led her friend and the woman's young daughter through the gym doors and out to the parking lot. She scanned for the car. She was desperately trying to think on her feet and move as efficiently as possible. She could not remember where the darn car was parked. Irritation arose within her, she needed to hurry. She looked down and saw the young girl clinging to her mother's weak hand. They needed her; they both desperately needed her right now. She had to keep it together. There was simply no other option. At last she identified Nancy's beaten, tan car. She rushed toward the vehicle, half pushing her friend along. Nancy walked much like a robot. Her body seemed to be following Debra's directions but at a loss for its own movements.

As they approached the car, Debra did not even ask. She knew the woman was in no state to drive, certainly not with a child in the car. She plucked the keys from Nancy's hand. How they had even gotten from the woman's purse into her clinging fingers, she did not know. It didn't matter. She opened the passenger door first and eased her friend in, keeping a close eye on Korina the entire time. She then opened the back door, ready to help the young child.

"I do it myself!" Korina half screamed the words as she crawled into the backseat. Debra considered getting onto her for being rude, but it wasn't the time. After all, the young child was probably aware something was wrong with her mother. Debra had always had a way with children. She understood them in a way many could not, granting them more credit for their understanding than the average, arrogant adult. Letting the slight disobedience slide, she closed the door and rushed to the driver's side. Keys in hand, she whispered a silent prayer under her breath, then crawled in.

She started up the car and glanced once more at her friend. Nancy was staring straight ahead. Her mind wasn't in the car; it wasn't even in the vicinity. She was gone somewhere far away. Debra was thankful she did not need to ask for directions. She knew the way to her friend's house well. Pulling onto the main road, her foot pressed the pedal hard. She looked in her review mirror and was reminded of the child in the back seat. The young girl stroked the doll's red yarn hair, seemingly oblivious to the situation that awaited them. Debra lessened her foot's pose against the pedal. She attempted to stay within the boundaries of limited speeding and safety. Every turn seemed to last an eternity and each red light felt like it stretched on for hours. She was eager to complete her mission, to get her friend and the young girl home safely.

Finally, they were arriving in the familiar neighborhood. Suddenly Debra almost wished the venture had taken longer. Deep down she knew this day would change everything for her beloved friend. It would change everything for them all.

She stopped in front of the split level home and saw Nancy's husband, Paul, waiting on the steps. Even from afar, the look on his face said it all. It was worse than she could imagine, worse than her most terrible nightmares could concoct. Before Debra could move, her friend was out of the car and rushing toward the porch. Finally Debra's body caught up to her mind and she hopped out of the vehicle, quickly opening the back door for the clueless young child waiting there. Then she heard it. She had not even turned around yet, but the scream froze her in place. It echoed with a pain that surpassed centuries. A desperation held within that would forever haunt Debra's thoughts. In that moment, Debra knew beyond a doubt her friend was experiencing a level of grief few have ever known.

## *

It was just another class, unlike any other. Paul was studying the work of God like always. Theology was his calling. He knew deep down this was exactly where he was meant to be but he had no idea how much his faith was about to be tested.

"Paul Fletcher?" The voice was distant from the back of the classroom, interrupting the lecture. Paul wondered if the man had really just said his name.

"Yes, that is me." Paul did not understand the reason for this intrusion. It seemed very out of place, and he suddenly felt something was seriously wrong.

"There is an emergency call for you." The man's words confirmed his concern. He rushed out of the seat and was through the hall in minutes. His journey from the classroom to the phone flew by in a blur. As he picked up the telephone receiver, Paul felt a physical rush of pain shoot through him. He just knew something was wrong. It was his wife's sister on the other line. Her words were weak as she conveyed the news. The phone dropped from Paul's hands. He knew what this meant. His wife would never be the same, and worse, he had to deliver the news that would devastate her. He walked out of the building with horror filling him. How was he going to do this? How could he possibly speak the words that must be said?

Finally sitting in his car, he prayed to God for strength. He needed His help to get through this. There was no other way. He could not do this on his own. He started the car and was home in no time. He knew his wife was at the gym. She and Debra had made a tradition out of going every Monday and Wednesday. He plucked up the phone to call her and hesitated. He desperately wished this was all some terrible nightmare, a dream he could awake from. It was not. Paul dialed in the numbers and waited as it rang several times. He then sat on hold while the employee went to get his wife. He could picture the look on her face and, deep down he knew there was no reassurance that could be offered. There was nothing he could do but wait to deliver the ultimate blow till she arrived in person.

After getting off the phone, the moments seemed to creep into eternity. His mind searched for the best way to tell her the news. He already knew the way. He would simply have to force the words from his mouth. There was no easy way around this. Nancy needed him to be a man now more than ever and he was ready to do just that. Well, as ready as anyone could ever be.

He heard the car pull up and rushed to open the door. He was tempted to approach her but Nancy was nearly to him now. He took a deep breath and prepared for the misery that would cloud all of their lives for years.

## *

The workout was going as normal with Debra being her usually competitive self. Nancy was more than willing to step up to the challenge as both ladies raised the levels on their treadmills. From the corner of her eye, Nancy then saw a gym employee approaching them. She was looking directly at her. As their eyes met, Nancy knew something was terribly wrong. Over the last few months, she had a growing sense that something terrible was in her future. She had been anticipating bad news for some time, but still a wave of fear boiled up within her.

As the girl approached them, she eked out her required question. "Nancy? Are either of you Nancy?"

Nancy felt her fear rise to a new level. "Yes, I am Nancy. What's going on?"

The girl straightened her body but her eyes flickered to the floor. She seemed aware she was dealing a vital blow. "There's a man on the phone. He says he is your husband and that it's an emergency."

Nancy began following the girl back to the front desk. She could see the phone's handset from here. It sat on the counter like any other object, but something about it was ominous. In a strange way, the thing was almost evil incarnate. Nancy hesitantly picked up the phone. She held it there a moment then remembered the need to speak. "Hello." It was all she could get out.

Paul's voice sounded through on the other end. There was an eerie desperation and pain in his voice. Something had gone terribly wrong. Nancy just knew. "Nancy? Honey, hurry home..." His words were simple, but they cut her deeper than a knife. She weakly put down the phone. Her mind was in a fog and began wandering a million different directions.

Before she could process one full thought, Debra was at her side. "What is it?" Her friend was clearly concerned. Nancy did not even know how to respond. She stood there a moment feeling blank, much like the living dead. Finally words formed across her lips, which seemed to be operating from some inner auto pilot. "It was Paul. I need to go home."

If Debra responded, Nancy was unaware. Everything around her faded and darkness swarmed in. She had known something like this was going to happen. She had felt it building, as though some force was attempting to prepare her. Her mind immediately rushed to thoughts of her family back in Virginia. The faces of her sisters and father flashed in her mind.

Before she knew what was happening, she felt the light touch of a small hand against her own. It was her daughter, Korina. She momentarily realized they were out of the gym and her other hand instinctually reached into her bag. Her mind faded again. She had never felt such a confusion of emotions flow through her. She feared the news that was coming, yet desperately wanted to know. She needed to know. She barely felt the keys drift out of her hand and the encouragingly light push into the open passenger door.

The drive lasted an eternity; yet was over in an instant. They were here. Nancy saw the door above the porch open and she rushed up the steps. She wasn't ready to hear the news. Nothing could ever prepare her for the words, but she had to hear them. She had to know. The thought kept replaying in her mind as the faces of her loved ones flashed across her unseen vision.

Paul spoke with a deep mixture of love and pain. He did not want to say the words. They both knew it, but he had to. "Your father and two of your sisters, Loraine and Evelyn, have all been shot."

It hit her like a flying bullet. He may as well have just pulled the trigger. Pain shot through her entire body and Nancy fell to her knees and screamed out. "Oh God!"

The next three days passed in a complete blur. The details of the news had been conveyed. Loraine and Evelyn had both been shot and had passed on to another place. Nancy's father remained in critical condition. Nancy's body was now standing in front of her sister Loraine's coffin, though her mind was somewhere else entirely. It was not until her form shifted and she stood in front of her youngest sister Evelyn's coffin that she came back to reality. The young woman resting in the casket had only been 21 years old. Nancy leaned over to kiss her sister's cold forehead and say goodbye. As she leaned up, her eyes were met by those of her daughter, Korina. Nancy felt a million emotions and thoughts boiling within her but one suddenly dominated them all. "She needs me."

## *

### As the Colors Fade

The shots were fired,

The deed was done,

She knew she would never again see the sun.

Her eyes were open,

Her mind was numb,

The act could never be undone.

Never.

The word reached into her soul,

There it took its hold,

An eternity of black,

From which there was no going back.

The pain sank in,

She wanted no more than to die within.

In an instant she watched the colors fade away,

There was nothing left now but shades of gray.

## * * *

Corrie Fischer is the author of the _Shattered Skies_ series. She lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas with her two dogs and a leopard gecko.

http://corriefischer.com

## *

#

# The Slave Who'd Never Been Kissed

## Jess Mountifield

### The Captain's First Contact

"All right, all right, the lot of you can have an hour in the market. Then I want you back to your stations." The man said with an Irish lilt and chuckled. The five people Auraylia had seen badger him for the last few minutes grinned and dispersed into the crowds.

Despite knowing none of them she found herself smiling at their exchange. He wore the uniform of a Unified Federations ship captain, and the deep blue shirt and trousers brought out the blue in his eyes. Complete with the black ankle-length coat and insignia on the right shoulder, he had many young ladies turning their heads in his direction, her included.

She saw him pull out an ornate pocket watch and glance at the time before making his own way into the market area right past her. The scent of spiced aftershave marked his path and tantalised her senses. Intrigued, she followed him.

For several minutes he merely browsed and didn't buy a single item, but eventually he haggled for a small packet of herbs from a specialist stall. It disappeared somewhere into his coat, leaving her no reason to engage him yet. She kept back and continued to watch, only half sure she wanted to approach but convinced the risk would be worth the nerves making her shiver already.

## *

Dylan made his way through the pressing crowds, inspecting the wares of many of the market stalls. Although he'd held out on his crew and pretended to be concerned over their wishes to explore the market town, he was pleased at their desire. It gave him the free time to browse alone and gather his thoughts.

The few purchases he had already made were tucked into the deep pockets of his coat and weighed it down a little more than usual, but it helped keep them safe from the little hands that snuck about the place.

As he glanced over some ornate necklaces on one stall and wondered if they would make a good gift for his third officer he noticed a familiar figure amongst the masses; a young woman, barely of age yet dressed in the usual female slave outfit, a pale coloured top and pantaloons, leaving her mid-riff and arms barely covered by the partially transparent organza overlay, to hint at the body that lay beneath. Unlike most of the girls nearby, who wore oranges and yellows to stand out, she wore a pale blue ensemble. Ironically, the contrast made her easier to spot and it was the third time he'd noticed her meandering along behind him.

He frowned but didn't confront her yet. So far she had kept her distance and appeared to be alone.

At the next few stalls he picked up more of the items he wanted, including the necklace he'd spotted and two more books for his miniature library in his cabin. With the newly acquired bottle of wine and jars of his favourite foods he had his arms full and started looking around for something to carry his purchases in.

The slave girl chose this moment to close the final gap between them and he steeled himself to reprimand her or prevent her stealing his items.

"Can I help with those, sir?" She turned her bright green eyes on him and they flitted across his face like a nervous cat's. Her words startled him to silence and for a moment he could only stare back at her. Before long she broke the eye-contact and lowered her head, allowing him to think about the question she asked.

"How do I know you won't run off with anything I hand you?" he asked.

She pulled back the organza sleeves that covered her wrists and most of her hands and showed him the black rose tattoo on the soft inside. He frowned. Such a tattoo in so delicate a place must have hurt.

"My master and owner trades under this mark. If I displease anyone they can find him easily in the nearby district." She pointed to the buildings rising up in the west. Several tall wooden houses rose up, each with a different symbol on the side of it. The matching black flower covered one of the constructions, although, like many of the others, it looked as if it had seen better days.

When he looked back at her, she was shivering and her head was bowed. He couldn't tell if it was respect or fear, but he decided to take pity on her.

"How much will such a service cost me?" he asked. Her head lifted and showed him her widened eyes.

"Nothing, sir. I... If I help to your satisfaction..."

"All right. Carry these for me and keep up."

She nodded and flicked her brown hair back behind her shoulders so it wouldn't become entangled before taking the few parcels he sent her way and cradling them against her body.

"You've been following me for quite a while," he added as he made his way to the next stall of interest to him. She had the good grace to blush at this challenge but didn't respond at first, giving him time to purchase some food for the fish he kept. The wrapped up item was added to the stack already burdening her.

"I saw you earlier, sir, with your crew. I liked the way you talked to them. I can tell you are a good man," she said as he moved on again.

"Being a slave cannot be easy."

"It is not always bad, but I am for sale and that worries me sometimes. I want to be bought by someone who won't hurt me... or... What is space like? I've always wanted to see it."

"It's large, and empty. Some say it is beautiful but its charm soon wears off," he replied, starting to get a sense of where this conversation was going. Despite her sweetness she wasn't very subtle.

"Do you need any more crew? I'm not very expensive and I work hard."

He stopped walking and gave her his full attention. For a moment she met his gaze again but she soon lowered her eyes to focus on his booted feet.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot buy you," he replied. "You're very sweet, but..."

"I understand." She turned her face back to him and he could see the tears threatening to fall from her green eyes. Such a reaction was unexpected.

"What do you do for your owner when you're not helping Captains with their shopping?" He carried on with his browsing and tried not to dwell on her emotions.

"Mostly I help him with his stall here at the market, selling, wrapping the valuables and sometimes with selling other slaves. I'm good at haggling."

He stopped their conversation to purchase his final item, a bottle of strong single malt whiskey. A special crew member who'd never had a present appreciated a good drink. Once it was wrapped and in the slave's arms she resumed her list of skills.

"I also run messages and other errands a lot, as well as some management tasks. On top of that, I've been trained to look after a household and keep its books in order."

She stopped talking and followed on so he figured the list was finally complete. It wasn't what he'd expected. Most of the slaves here were for companionship or other relational services but she seemed to have genuine intelligence and skills. It occurred to him that as a free person she'd have made a good addition to his crew.

"I'm surprised you're still for sale with a resume like that."

"There have been a few offers, but my owner rejected them when I asked him to."

He raised his eyebrows and she noticed.

"I didn't want to be bought by the men who offered money. I persuaded my owner that I could fetch a higher price elsewhere for the other things I can do. In the mean time I've orders to earn as much as possible."

As she finished speaking they reached the edge of the market and the transport from his ship. She helped him load the packages in the cargo space and smiled at him.

"I'm really sorry I can't buy you. As a Unified Federations Captain it's just not something I can do. Slaves aren't allowed on our ships, but I'm sure someone will come along who can." As he spoke he placed a small credit note into her hand, then kissed the back of it. She smiled and thanked him but he could see the disappointment in her eyes.

He had to push it from his mind as he glanced at the time and saw he only had five minutes to present himself to the Federations building, and the admiral residing there, for his next mission.

His ship had docked earlier than expected so he'd had time to use up, but now he was forced to hurry the small hovering transport along to the only building in the area that looked well kept. It was also the only one made of materials other than wood, and the brick and stone stood out for him to travel towards.

This planet had been colonised for over fifty years, but other than the working class farmers, slave owners and various officials stationed here, the rainy climate hadn't attracted many people and the indoor market was one of few tourist attractions for off-world visitors.

He rushed up the steps and through the archway to the atrium of the building where a receptionist greeted him before he could look around.

A minute later he was shown into the commanding officer's room. A balding man sat behind a desk with a built in display. When Dylan walked in it showed a map of the nearby star systems, with enemy territory in red and their own in blue. The map had a lot of red on it.

"Sir, Captain Dylan Gray, reporting for orders."

"Ah, Captain Gray, come in, sit down." The commander waved his wrinkled hand towards the chair nearest to him. Dylan did as he was told. Until now all his orders had come from his previous captain, the now Admiral Keane. Before him sat someone who'd been an admiral for over ten years and probably didn't hold out much hope to be promoted further.

"What mission have you got for me?"

"We need you to take some food from here to another planet of ours. It's a relatively new colony and the planet's recent crops failed due to drought. They're also having problems with a few diseases and need medical aid."

"That sounds more like a job for a cargo runner. I have a reasonable amount of space for cargo but my ship's outfitted for battle not deliveries."

The admiral didn't reply but motioned towards the map. On the other side of all the red was a blue blob that spread around one solar system and towards the left edge. Somewhere off the map he knew the blue connected up.

"That's where I need you to take it."

"Across all that area?"

"Yes. The supplies need to be there in as few days as possible. A transport could take it around the edge and be there in just over a week but you could go through the middle in half the time."

"When do I get started?"

"Right away. The cargo is already on its way to your ship. We can go there now and talk over the rest of the details on the way."

The admiral stood up again and Dylan had to hurry to his feet. For an old man he could move faster than Dylan expected.

The two transports joined the hyper-way back to the docks and his ship. Long before they got there Dylan could see the container of cargo sitting right by the main hold of his ship. Beside it was his logistics officer already overseeing the loading of the food and other resources his crew would need to replenish their mandatory stores.

As soon as Dylan got out of his transport he noticed a group of slaves there to help with the transfer process. Walking out of the loading hatch came the same slave girl he'd met only an hour or so earlier. She gave commands to several of the men around her in a language he didn't understand, and they lugged the boxes and crates wherever she directed.

Not wanting her to notice him, Dylan led the admiral into the ship while she was in the container, They went up to the higher deck where they could observe the progress without being directly involved.

After making polite small talk the admiral handed Dylan the electronic tablet with his official orders and a stored list of all the cargo he was loading and where it needed to go.

"Did you also get my request for extra crew?" Dylan asked before the admiral could leave.

"Yes, but there's no one here of the right level. You'll have to keep going with what you've got. We're expecting some recruits in the next few months but none have arrived and many more Federations ships are asking for extra hands."

Dylan nodded. Admiral Keane had said similar words last time they'd seen each other.

"I hear you picked up some crew on your last couple of missions? A Thorian as well?" the admiral continued.

"I did. All of whom are now working on the Sapphira in my service. And on that note, do you see that girl down there?" Dylan pointed at the slave. The admiral looked her over as she helped Dylan's logistics officer work out where the cargo should be stowed.

"What of her?"

"She's a slave. If I bought her, could we call her a recruit?"

"No slaves are allowed on a fleet ship. You would have to declare her free, but if you think she would help." The admiral took another look at her as she issued more orders to the men helping with her.

Dylan knew this wasn't the normal way to acquire crew but so far every new recruit had been found in some inventive way. Buying a slave was possibly one of the simplest.

"You'll need to get enough information from her to sign her up as one of our staff and she will need to pass the background check, but it's up to you what you spend your money on."

The meaning wasn't lost on him. There would be no refund if she proved to be a reliable member of his crew. All he might get is gratitude, and a little recognition, but the money would be gone. He also suspected the admiral thought he had further ideas about the pretty girl but that line of thought was nothing new from men like the admiral.

With the important hand-overs done, Dylan escorted his superior to his transport and then went to see his logistics officer, another of his new recruits. She smiled when she saw him.

"Captain, the cargo is safely stowed and we're ready for departure."

"Excellent, thank you, Trell. The girl, in the pale blue, was she helpful?"

"Very. I couldn't have done it without her. Everyone here speaks a muddle of languages and not very good English. She was brilliant with them as well as keeping track of what went where."

"I'm thinking of hiring her," he said, not mentioning her current slave status.

"A brilliant idea, captain." The enthusiastic crew member beamed and bounced on the spot, as she often did when she was excited.

With the extra boost of confidence from one of his own trusted crew, Dylan's uneasiness at buying the slave diminished enough for him to act, and he hurried over to her before she could leave.

"Hello, sir," she said to cover her surprise.

"Hello..."

"Auraylia, sir."

"I'm assuming you're still for sale, Auraylia?" She nodded her head and the edges of her lips twitched up in a barely restrained smile. "And you still want to see space?"

Again her head bobbed up and down vigorously.

"How much will you cost?"

"Well, my highest offer so far was nine hundred credits, but I'm advertised at fifteen hundred." Dylan winced at her words. The price was significantly higher than he'd expected when she'd said she was cheap. Her beauty must play a large part in her cost and if he paid her asking price it would almost entirely wipe out his savings.

At his hesitation she lowered her eyes again.

"It's too much isn't it?" she said, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Your asking price is higher than I expected."

Instantly her head bobbed back up again, another gleam of hope on her face.

"Oh, you won't have to pay that much. If you haggled you could easily get me for closer to a thousand."

"All right then. If you're sure I can get you cheaper. Let's go see your owner." He motioned for her to head into his transport and found himself grinning at her reaction to the inside. She stroked the leather seats with her hands as she perched on the edge.

"You've never been in one of these have you?" She shook her head and gazed around her like a small child discovering a toy stall for the first time. "Wait until you see my ship."

It took less than a minute for his vehicle to pull up outside the building with the large black rose. The inside teemed with many more slaves and workers, all hurrying to and fro. There were many women, most of them beautiful, but few wore clothes that looked to be made for their bodies. He suspected the slave beside him had been lucky in her handed down outfit. It fit her well.

While he walked along beside her, through the passageways and up rickety stairs, he wondered what he was doing there. Buying a slave was something foreign to his mind and just being there in a slave house made him feel dirty and unfit to wear the uniform of a Unified Federations Fleet Captain. Despite these emotions he knew there was no turning back. This girl had turned her hope-filled eyes on him too many times for him to stop and see them disappointed again.

The owner was a large man who didn't look like he should be able to get up from the couch he half lay on, but as soon as Auraylia explained Dylan's presence several slaves rushed forward to help him to his feet. The scent of thick perfumes filled the air but underneath it he could still pick up the worse smells of sweat and urine. He had to fight with his own body to hide the gagging it wished to do.

The owner ran his eyes over the blue inform and Dylan saw the calculation as he spotted the insignia designating his rank. If he'd been a captain for a while this might have some bearing on the money he had but being new to the rank and its benefits meant Dylan was poor for his station.

"Auraylia is one of my best girls, very obedient and hard working and has been valued at two thousand credits," the owner stated in an offhand manner. Either the slave had been lying or her owner was, but he knew it was more likely to be the latter. He doubted many people of high status came in here to buy a slave.

"She is obedient from what I've seen of her, but she's thin and could be stronger. For the tasks she'll be doing for me, I'll need to put time and effort into training her. I'll give you seven hundred and fifty credits for her." Dylan knew this was lower than previous offers but still high enough the slave master couldn't ignore it. With time he could increase his offer enough to tempt him and that's what Dylan was counting on.

"She's trained in many things and can do them all right away. Many men would find her price reasonable and everything already to their satisfaction. If you intend to use her for other tasks then it is a cost entirely of your own making. Seven hundred and fifty is an insult to her."

The emphasis on men buying her wasn't new to him and he knew the implications. Trying to gain time to think about his response, he looked Auraylia over. Ever since entering the room, she'd stood stock still, her head lowered and her hands clasped behind her back. Even now she didn't move or speak and he knew why. If she gave anything away and lost this sale or potential money for her owner she would be punished for it, but equally pushing the price higher and being bought anyway could lead to new owners acting harshly. Staying silent and passive was her only option.

"She's not as young as many of your slaves. If she were really worth two thousand credits you would have sold her already. Nine hundred." Dylan folded his arms across his chest.

"I cannot let her go for so small a sum. The extra experience she has gained only adds to her value, but I can see you desire her and it is important to me that she goes somewhere she is truly wanted. You could say she is a favourite of mine. For fifteen hundred I will gladly hand her over."

"She's not worth that much. No matter how much I want her, a thousand is a lot for her."

"You'll break my heart for her. See how beautiful she is and how patiently she stands there waiting for us to decide her fate. I really can't let her go for less than fourteen hundred." The owner lifted her chin up with his fingers so he could see her eyes better.

"Eleven hundred. It's my final offer. I will go find another girl if I can't have her for that much and I know you are getting more than she's worth." Dylan clenched his jaw to try and look like he was losing patience. In truth he really didn't want to go higher but he knew he would if he had to. He was in too deep to back out now and meeting her owner only made him more determined to take her away from this planet and allow her the chance at a real life.

Her master waddled back to his chair and sat back down, eyeing the Captain up and stroking the goatee on his chin. Eventually he nodded his head and waved for another of his slaves to bring the relevant paperwork. Dylan had her for eleven hundred credits.

It took another half an hour to sort out all the details including getting her registered with the Unified Federations as a probationary recruit but he sighed with relief when they were stepping into his transport again.

As soon as they were alone she beamed at him.

"Thank you. I've always wanted to go into space." He chuckled at her enthusiasm. "I promise you won't regret buying me. I'm going to work very hard. What do you want me to do for you first?"

There was no hint of suggestiveness to her question but it didn't sound as innocent to his ears as it should have and he found his cheeks flushing.

"You've been set free, Auraylia. That means you're not a slave any more. Now you work for me, like a job, so you only have to obey me and your other superiors in the crew when it's related to the work we do."

"So I can do what I want when I'm not working?"

"Exactly. When you're not on duty you can do as you wish, within reason. There are certain rules of conduct for fleet crew but you get a wage and spare time just like everyone else."

"I get a wage?" Her eyes went wide.

"Yes. It's not huge, but it's enough to live on when you're not on the ship." Every second that passed made Dylan more comfortable with his decision. Her delight in being free to earn and do as she pleased only some of the time was beyond anything he'd expected. Using up most of his savings wasn't something he'd thought he'd enjoy.

"How soon would it add up to eleven hundred credits?" she asked a minute later. At first he wasn't sure what she meant but he soon realised her intention.

"Many months but you better not save it all up to pay me back. I don't want your wages. You'll be earning them for you."

"I'd like to pay you back. If I am free you get nothing for the credits. Let me give you some, please."

"How about a small percentage of what you earn while you're on my ship? If you work hard and get promoted you will pay me back even faster so I know you will be a crew member I can count on."

She nodded vigorously at his suggestion and gave him the largest smile he'd ever seen. He knew this was one of his best moments since he'd become a captain.

### Once a Slave always a Slave

As Auraylia sank into the cafeteria seat she sighed. Her feet hurt from all the running about. So far she'd mostly run messages from one area to another as well as tools and equipment. If it needed taking from one place to another it was for her to move it. In three days she'd learnt the entire contents of every hold, cargo space and engineering room all over the ship so whatever was needed could be fetched.

The work kept her occupied and all the while they travelled in space, somewhere she'd dreamed of going. On top of that, the food was the best she'd ever tasted.

While she munched on the macaroni cheese several of her crew mates sat down next to her. So far most of them had been busy with their own tasks but they were being allowed time to grab food and rest before they would be called to stations again.

"Hello, gorgeous," Ben said as he scooped the first forkful of his lunch into his mouth. She gave him a small smile. So far he'd been friendlier to her than any of the others, but she wasn't used to having people talk to her like he did. She found him attractive and being unguarded towards men was new to her.

With him came many of the crew who were friends. So far she found most of them hard to talk to and wasn't sure how much effort to make.

Ben pushed the book she had aside so she couldn't read it and put it out of her reach.

"You need to read less. It's anti-social. We want to hear your pretty voice." As Ben spoke another man sat down opposite her and she had to suppress a shiver. She recognised him from her dormitory and knew he was in charge of the Crime and Punishment division but no more. Beside him sat a bulky woman. Auraylia couldn't remember ever seeing her smile. She shifted in her seat and tried to think of something to say in reply.

"So what do you think of being in space?" Ben continued and gave her a grin.

"It's not what I expected. I thought it would be more... calm."

"Not in enemy territory it's not, but don't worry, you're safe with me." He put his arm around her shoulder and leaned in so close she could feel his breath on the side of her face.

"She's a slave. We'll be sending her into combat first," the nearby woman retorted. Auraylia sucked in her breath. The Captain had told her no one should know she was a former slave and promised no one would find out from him.

"Really? Our Auraylia is a slave? Why didn't you tell us? I've got some things I'd love you to do for me." Ben's eyes roved over her body. "Maybe when we get some down time we can have some fun."

"I was a slave. I'm not any more." She returned her attention to her food, not sure she wanted to go down this route of conversation, especially with what Ben was implying. On her second day someone had caught her looking at him and made a comment about her stare. Not knowing what to say, she'd flushed red. Everyone had taken it as a sign of her interest and the news had travelled straight to Ben. Ever since he'd been flirting with her. Only now he seemed to want more of a slave and master relationship. Being bought by Dylan was meant to save her from that sort of forced usage.

As soon as she'd finished eating she got up to go. Ben grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the table.

"Going so soon, sweetheart? Why don't we go find somewhere private so you and I can get better acquainted. You can show me some of those tricks slaves get taught."

"I've got work to do," she mumbled, but he didn't let her go. A second later the canteen door opened to admit the Thorian officer who was acting Captain when Dylan wasn't awake. Immediately, Ben lifted his hand off hers. Not wanting to give any of them a chance to say or do anything else, she hurried off.

It took her several minutes of walking through the ship's corridors for her heart to slow to its normal pace and along the way she almost crashed into the logistics officer, Trell.

"Oh, hello Auraylia, are you enjoying the book?" Trell asked in her usual overly cheerful manner.

She nodded before she remembered she'd left it in the canteen in her haste to get away from Ben and his friends. Both him and the Crime and Punishment overseer had looked at her like she was a toy to be handled.

Fortunately for Auraylia, Trell didn't notice anything wrong in her response and moved off along the corridor towards the bridge. Auraylia took several deep breaths and continued on her way to the engineering area. The Third Officer had mentioned something about needing help with the security commands for one of the storage rooms off the laboratory there. For now Trell's book would have to wait.

An hour later she stood outside the storage room pressing the buttons on the door's key pad as she was directed to by the officer.

"There, that seems to be the problem," Beth said as she read the information on the device connected to the wiring. "It thinks it's locked from the inside by a member of staff."

"Is that fixed easily?" Auraylia asked, hoping the answer was yes so she could go back and fetch the forgotten book.

"Very. I have a higher rank so I can override it."

"That's all it takes?" Auraylia tried to hide the shock from her voice but wasn't sure she'd succeeded.

"Yes. Anyone can lock a door, but to be on the safe side, everyone of a higher rank can open it again. That makes it harder for crew to do anything out of regulations." No sooner had the Third Officer finished explaining than the door shot open. Inside, the walls were covered in the black gun blast marks of errant fire as well as several repair bots working on a shielded hole on one edge.

"What rank am I?" she asked, a few minutes later when their tests of the door were done and it appeared to be functioning as normal again.

"I think you're probationary. It's not technically a rank, but if it was I guess it would be the lowest."

Aware her task was finished, Auraylia asked to be dismissed and hurried away almost before she'd got her affirmative. Ever since her first moments on board this ship and finding out that low ranks all slept in bunk beds built into the walls of a common room, she'd lost her ease at being on a Unified Federations Fleet ship. The bunks had a metal panel that slid across to give the sleeper privacy and some sound proofing and there were a few cupboards built into it for possessions, not that she had anything besides the three uniforms she'd been given, but it wasn't private enough for her liking.

As soon as she'd realised where she was expected to sleep and the sorts of people around her, she'd decided she needed to find somewhere else. It hadn't taken her long to settle on a small half-empty cargo hold off the edge of the rear engineering room. While she thought she could lock herself in it had seemed like the perfect safe haven. Now the thought of being discovered and... She shivered and pushed the memory from her mind before it could fully form. Dwelling on the past wouldn't help her live through the present.

When she reached the empty canteen she searched every table, seat and aperture for the book she'd borrowed, but it was gone and it didn't take long to search the small room enough to be certain it must have been moved by someone else. She just hoped Trell hadn't found it abandoned there.

Before she could think of another place to search, the battle alarms sounded throughout the ship. Once she had gathered her thoughts and rubbed her shin where she'd banged it in her jolt, she hurried out of the canteen and back down the corridor to the engineering room, her official station in battle.

Two seconds later the Thorian charged the other way. When he reached her he stopped and handed her a small gun.

"Do you know how to use it?" he asked. She nodded. "What about hand to hand combat?"

"I've been in plenty of fights. I grew up rough."

"Good, come with me."

Without waiting for her to reply, he jogged onwards down the corridor and she had to sprint to keep up, his long legs taking two-thirds of the strides she had to. They reached the edge of the ship in time for them to duck down behind two supports and avoid the weapons fire of the alien race attacking them.

Until now she had only heard stories of the Myreen race and their grey skin, tusk-like protrusions and brute strength. They weren't like she imagined but were still ugly. The Thorian waited for a lull in shots and popped his head out to return fire a couple of times before she got the hang of what he was doing and joined him.

Each time she looked at their foe she saw more of them and her shooting did little to slow them down. Even when her blasts hit the creatures they rarely stopped their advance, their armour absorbing the energy or their tough skin blistering and charring but not causing enough pain or damage to slow them.

This exchange continued for several minutes, until the Myreen weaponry ran out of cells and they charged the defending pair. The Thorian came out of hiding, handed her his much larger gun and drew two large swords from the sheaths on his back.

As the enemy came pounding towards them she shot off as many blasts as she could into the mass of bodies and waited beside the Thorian for the aliens to get close enough to fight hand to hand.

Several Myreens dropped down, too injured to continue, but it wasn't long before the remaining were too close to shoot. The Thorian joined the fray, making it even more difficult for her to aim without risking hitting him.

For a few seconds she watched him fight and block most of the corridor with the blades he wielded, but her attention was stolen by a single Myreen as it snuck past and charged at her.

She used the gun as a club and swung it up under the creature's jaw, sending it over onto its back before it could stab her with the short blade it had. Before it could recover she slammed the butt down into its face using her body weight to give it extra momentum. The force of the blow knocked the alien out, as well as splattering most of its nose across its face.

Its dagger became hers and she got to her feet again. The Thorian had pushed the Myreen back, giving her room to advance before she re-joined the fray. Armed with a blade she did more damage, but the aliens kept coming through the hole they'd created in the ship's hull, their own battle-pod just visible behind it. Soon she and the Thorian forced to retreat through a nearby doorway.

As soon as they were clear he locked the mechanical door and informed their Captain of their predicament, calling for reinforcements at the same time.

It took over a minute for the Captain to reply and by then the Myreen were bashing on the door to the dormitory they were in. Auraylia also noticed the Thorian had a shallow cut down his left arm that was dripping blood onto the floor. She grabbed the first aid box off the shelf by the door, something every dorm had.

"Understood, Varl. We've two other security breaches. Will send crew your way as soon as I can. Try to hold them off."

The Thorian didn't bother to respond but grabbed the few tables in the room and Auraylia rushed forward to help him push them up against the doorway. Behind that they placed anything else that could be moved.

With that done and nothing else to do but wait he allowed her to bandage his arm and then they sat down on the floor, with their backs against the far wall.

"You can fight better than I'd have thought," he said after another couple of loud bangs as something slammed into the other side of the door. She gave him a wry smile. Growing up in the area of Lantock planet where her parents had lived had prepared her well for fighting, and it had only got worse once her parents had died. Being a slave had saved her from the fights but brought other problems of its own.

If his genetic code hadn't been manipulated to make him stronger and faster than the standard human breed she came from she'd probably be a match for him. None of this was information she wished to share, however, so she kept quiet. As he offered no other attempt to start conversation they waited with only the regular loud bangs of their enemy to break the silence.

Twenty minutes later the door was a mushed shape of metal that looked nothing like it should. Several dents littered the surface and the lock mechanism shook and rattled each time another blow was struck. The Thorian got to his feet.

After taking a couple of deep breaths to try and steady her heart rate Auraylia stood up as well, the dagger she'd stolen still gripped in her right hand.

"We need to hold them off long enough for help to get here," he said, glancing at her but focusing back on the door less than a second later.

"We can do that, right?"

"Of course." He gave her a slow nod as the final bang caused the lock to shear and the door to give way. It slammed into the tables but already Myreen body parts could be seen pushing at the opening and shifting the mass of objects on the inside back an inch.

Both her and the Thorian rushed forward and used their blades to cut off body parts. Howls of anger came through the door and more shoving pushed the tables back even further, causing a table-leg to almost knock her off her feet.

The Thorian steadied her and then the Myreen were in the room. She ducked a swing but needn't have bothered. It caught on a Thorian sword before it would have reached her head and turned harmlessly away from both of them.

The next fifteen minutes disappeared in a whirl of fighting as she used every scrap of her knowledge and experience from her childhood to defend herself and kill the aliens. She tried not to think, allowing her body to react on its own and anticipate the situation without needing her brain to instruct her body.

Tiredness crept through her limbs and made her more clumsy. A stroke from a smaller Myreen drew blood from a light cut on her arm but the pain barely registered in her mind. Adrenaline flowed through her too much to feel the full extent of the damage.

She pulled back anyway, allowing the Thorian to defend her alone for a few seconds while she gathered herself. Just as she entered the fray again and launched herself at a Myreen side, dagger first, she heard the sounds of running feet out in the corridor.

The Captain and Trell came rushing around the corner and shot the last four Myreen in the backs of their heads before any of them could realise their opponents had doubled.

While none of them were looking Auraylia slid the dagger she carried into her boot and got to her feet again. The Captain reached for the first aid box she'd raided earlier as soon as he saw her wound and the Thorian's collection of battle mementos. Although she didn't think her scratch warranted a bandage, she allowed it to be cleaned and dressed and took the opportunity to sit and let her body rest.

"We're out of enemy territory now and into the neutral area they have over here, so I'm hoping that will be the last we see of the Myreen this journey," the Captain said once he was finished. Trell was still trying to get the Thorian to sit still long enough to treat his wounds.

He helped her to her feet again and the Thorian joined them.

"I'll heal soon enough," he said in a gruff manner and waited for their Captain to give them more commands.

"I need the ship checked over and her integrity confirmed before we can rest. Get the crew split into groups of four and have them take a sector each. Our repair bots are over-taxed so we may need to fix some parts ourselves."

Dylan strode off as soon as the Thorian nodded. For a few seconds Auraylia didn't know what to do with herself, but the Logistics Officer soon handed her another small handgun and took her along to check the hull breach nearby.

A barrier already formed over the opening and gave an orange sheen to the view outside. She gasped as she got her first glimpse of stars and planets. So much blackness lay between them that her eyes were overwhelmed. Trell's chuckle broke the enchantment and brought her back to the lower deck on the Sapphira.

"First sight of space?"

"Yes. On Lantock we never saw the stars or space because of the shield. It made everything dark blue at night."

"And you never left the planet?"

Auraylia shook her head and gazed at the universe outside, taking a step closer so she could see more. A few seconds later the sound of scraping metal made her jump.

"Oh dear, the Myreen must have hurt one of our repair bots," Trell said as she picked up the scurrying metal object responsible for the noise. It wriggled in her hands, making her giggle, until she found its control switch and turned it off.

Once the bot was deactivated and no longer trying to drag its broken leg behind it she placed it back on the floor. Auraylia watched the alien woman examine the breach and make notes on the pad she had. It was linked to the ship's database so the Captain would be able to see what they were finding from the bridge.

Before they could move on a crew member she didn't know very well came up behind them.

"Another one!" He picked up the repair bot and slung it into the box he had propped under one arm. "The Myreen knew where to do the damage. Half our repair bots are broken. It's going to take ages to get them all up and running again and there's too much work for them as it is."

"How many breeches are there?" Trell asked.

"Five in total now, and the bots are only working on three of them. The shields keeping us alive are going to drain the solar cells real fast."

"Can we make it to our destination in time?"

"Maybe, but we might need to seal off a part of the ship to buy us some more time. Beth is working on the details now."

Trell nodded, finished her notes, and the three of them moved on to the next signs of damage. Trell and the guy talked non-stop, allowing Auraylia time to herself to think over the last twenty four hours. She'd not slept in all that time and had been on her feet and rushing around almost constantly. When she was doing more mundane tasks, like now, where she pointed out damage and did little else, she felt so sleepy she wasn't sure she could keep her eyes open, but the two aliens with her chattered on like this was normal. Even as a slave Auraylia had never been awake this long in one stretch.

Two hours later they met up with another squad of the crew travelling in their direction. They helped Auraylia and her companions finish up their sector, as it was the most damaged, and as soon as they were finished a ship-wide announcement from their Captain called the entire crew to the canteen.

She shuffled along behind the rest of the crew and officers and tucked herself into a corner of the already filling up room. From her vantage point, seated on the edge of a dining table, she could see many of the faces around them. Most of them were human but besides Trell with her fur and tail, the engineer who'd joined them with his almost human features, and the Thorian, there was also an array of small grey aliens that were new to her. She'd not seen them about the ship yet and was fascinated by their small wiry bodies and narrow tall heads. They spoke in a language she couldn't understand and a few of the crew nearby conversed with them in it as well. Before she could ask someone what it was and if she could learn it, the Captain and the Thorian came striding into the room.

"Thank you all for your hard work. I know many of you have been awake longer than you are used to. The threat from the Myreen is now over and we're not far from Federations space. As many of you are aware, our ship has undergone a large amount of damage and we're still a day out of port. I want all non-skeleton crew to get some rest and I am making that an order. Everyone else should focus on repairs and energy preservation."

He waived his arms and ushered them all back out of the canteen and she found herself right next to him as they left.

"Auraylia, I hear you fought well earlier. Our Thorian says you were useful to have around in hand to hand combat." He gave her a smile similar to the one he'd given her when she'd listed off her abilities in the market and she did her best to return the gesture, but had no idea what to say in response to praise, although it made her pulse race to hear it from him.

"Is there anything else I can do to help, Captain? There's a lot to do."

"You look shattered. Get some sleep like everyone else." He motioned for her to go through the doorway to their dormitories ahead of him and then he stood and waited as the crew moved into each of the separate rooms off that. Each dorm room had twelve beds, three on each wall and hers was in the middle of the three identical dorm rooms.

Her bunk was on the left, and much to her distress, Ben's was the one above and the Crime and Punishment overseer below. She glanced at the nameplate beside the bottom bed and committed Thomas to memory. Both of them were men she wanted to avoid, but with Dylan and the Thorian outside, ushering everyone in, she knew she wouldn't be able to hide from them this time.

The crew around her were already getting into their bunks and closing their hatches while she pulled over the small cube the people higher up used to give themselves a boost up. Being a slave and never eating that well had left her shorter than most and she struggled to get into the bunk, although she had no intention of staying there.

Before she could get her hatch open Thomas and his girlfriend came in, followed only seconds later by Ben. Both men gravitated towards her, and in her prone position half in and half out of her bed she couldn't do anything to stop Ben grabbing her around the waist. He gave her a yank and she crashed back to the floor, barely landing on her feet.

"Careful there, Auraylia," he said, making it sound like she'd slipped. He wrapped an arm around her which helped steady her but she didn't like being so close to him. "Still having trouble getting into your bunk? Why don't you use mine? The middle's always the hardest to get into."

"No thank you. I'm sure I can manage," she replied and turned to use the cube again. Before she could, he was standing on it and swinging himself up into his own.

"Suit yourself, but you know where to find me if you get bored of trying yours." He shut his hatch and allowed her to go back to trying hers.

"Sure you don't want to try mine, either?" Thomas asked and reached out to stroke her arm. She pulled away but it meant the cube was even further away from her. He moved to stand in between them as she realised everyone else was in their bunks and the pair were alone.

Thomas came up close to her so he could whisper in her ear and she froze to the spot.

"I bet you're not used to sleeping alone are you? I imagine you slept with your masters, warm in their beds. I know Dylan freed you but you must be missing them. Why don't you join me in my bed? I can be your new master."

"I think I better obey our Captain's orders and get some sleep. We both ought to," she said and pulled back from him. He let her go and got into his own bunk, but a familiar feeling crept through the pit of her stomach and she no longer wanted to even pretend to get into her own bed.

Ever since arriving on the ship she'd obeyed every order she'd been given. She knew she owed Dylan a lot and the hope of a new life had been a risk worth taking. It wasn't the Captain's fault the same sort of men were here as on her home planet, but now she had to try and keep herself safe, just like she had to there. It came down to a choice. Disobey the Captain or risk a repeat of an experience she'd rather forget. No part of her could argue for obedience over safety.

After checking the room outside was clear, she made her way out of the dorms and headed for the crew showers and toilets. If she was going to keep her body awake she needed to give it a boost and she could think of nothing better than a shower. It had also been several days since she'd had one. So far there had been no good opportunity to use the facilities while she could be sure no one else would enter. Although the men and women had designated washing times, the other gender could still go to the toilet during that time, and she hated the idea of men walking in on her while that vulnerable.

Despite the heat from the water pouring over her body she stood and shivered the entire time, her arms wrapped around her torso. Thomas had looked at her exactly the way her uncle had. Although, she supposed he hadn't really been her uncle. He'd been friends with her parents and he'd taken her in once they'd died. She'd called him uncle but that wasn't the sort of relationship he'd wanted.

Once dressed again she hurried down a corridor, trying to look for a good place to tuck herself out of the way and maybe get a few hours sleep. Or find someone she could work for who wouldn't question why she was out of bed; someone who might think she was part of the skeleton crew.

She tucked her head around the doorway of the weapon laboratory and couldn't see anyone in there, so wandered inside. Before she heard him the Thorian came out of the engine room behind it and his eyes met hers. She smiled, not sure what to say. He was the second in command and would know she wasn't meant to be up.

"Are you looking for something useful to do?" he asked while she was still frozen in fear. She nodded and came towards the workbench covered in scattered weapons.

"You can help me with these then. They need fixing." He motioned to the assortment of gun parts, wires and battery cells. A few seconds later he asked her to hold something steady so he could solder it in place.

"So, why are you disobeying a direct order?" he asked. She kept her eyes fixed on the chip she held and tried to appear as calm as possible.

"I'm not tired and I wanted to help. You're up as well."

"I'm a Thorian. I need a lot less sleep. You, on the other hand, are exhausted."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Of course, and that is why your eyes are bloodshot, your hands are unsteady and you've yawned three times in the last two minutes."

She didn't add the headache she had or the way her limbs seemed clumsy and unresponsive, but let silence fall between them.

"What are you afraid of?"

Still she said nothing. His question alarmed her in how accurate it was. Fear kept her awake and he must have somehow picked up on it, although, it shouldn't have surprised her. Thorians were different. They were designed to be faster, better, and stronger than any human and she realised it was why she felt safe with him. No Thorian would ever shame their breed and sleep with a normal human. Even the risk of producing an inferior offspring would keep him from considering the slightest physical contact with her.

Knowing this, she decided to trust him and tell him what bothered her. It might give her the protection she needed.

"I... You're right. I am afraid. The other men, in the dorm. They scare me."

He glanced at her but went back to his work, allowing her to help and talk as she wished.

"When I was younger, before I was a slave, I lived with my uncle. Well I called him Uncle. He'd been friends with my father. He took care of me until I was a teenager and almost finished normal education. We were poor but I had a job as a shop assistant and gave him most of my credits to help out." She knew she wasn't getting to the point but even now she wasn't sure she wanted to.

"He hurt you?"

"One evening when I came home from work he was waiting for me. He'd drunk a lot of alcohol, he often did, but this time he looked at me differently. He went on about how much I owed him and how grateful I should feel and then he... he proposed I join him in his bed and do... certain things for him, to pay him back. I said no and went to my room to sleep, and I thought he'd left it at that, but I woke up a few hours later..."

She gulped and paused and they stopped working.

"He'd tied my hands and feet to the bed and he climbed on top of me and... well, I'm sure you can imagine what he did." She wiped the tears from her eyes and picked up the tool he needed.

"I ran the next day. When I was in the main city four days later and starving, one of the slave masters offered me food in return for owning me. I knew things couldn't get any worse so I said yes."

"And that's why sleeping scares you?" She nodded and helped him put the casing back on the repaired handgun. "I think it would scare me too."

"Please, don't tell anyone. I... I've never told anyone before."

"I won't, if you really don't want me to."

"No one, ever." She finally looked at him and let him see the emotion in her eyes.

"I'm going to be here for a while, so why don't you get some sleep? The engine room back there's nice and warm." His gaze moved to the door and then back to her face. She nodded, grateful for his understanding. He'd done exactly what she'd not dared to hope; offered her some protection so she could rest.

As soon as the door was shut behind her she curled up in the corner, used her uniform jacket as a pillow, and allowed her eyes to close.

### A Captain's Work is Never Done

Dylan sighed as he went over all the damage reports. His crew was exhausted and sleeping, and his ship was shot up so badly it didn't have the energy to go as fast as he wanted to. On top of that, a planet full of people were relying on him to get there in time.

With only half his repair bots working and no extra energy to recharge the weapon cells, his ship couldn't take another battle without spending a significant amount of time soaking up some starlight. And they were still almost a whole day away from Federations space proper, where he could hide behind other fleet ships.

The Myreen had known he was coming. They were responsible for the last ship not getting through to its destination, something the admiral had neglected to mention in his reports. With an untrained crew that couldn't man a full set of stations Dylan had almost lost everything in the last battle, and he knew he had to keep how close they'd come to dying to himself. A lucky shot from an engineer had blown up a small but deadly Myreen vessel before it got too close. If it had latched on and torn another chunk out of the hull, they'd have had too many breaches to patch them up before they ran out of power.

As he was going through the calculations for energy conservation, he heard a knock on his cabin door. His Thorian second officer came in.

"Is anything wrong?" Dylan asked. The Thorian rarely came to speak to him alone.

"I'm worried about one of our crew."

"Who?"

"The slave girl, Auraylia."

"What about her?" Dylan sat forward. Of all the names it wasn't one he'd expected. So far he'd only heard good things about her and plenty of it. Her enthusiasm and desire to please her superior officers was something a lot of the lower ranks didn't share.

"I think you ought to talk to her."

"She's sleeping, along with the rest of the crew."

"Except she's not, and I don't think it's the first time she's gone without sleep."

Dylan raised his eyebrows. The Thorian was a man of few words, but his tale was so cryptic Dylan found himself wanting the genetically modified human to elaborate.

"She's in the lower deck engine room at the moment."

"What's she doing there?"

"You really ought to go see for yourself, sir."

"All right," Dylan said as he grabbed his outer top and put it on. It wouldn't be a good idea to appear out of uniform even if most of the crew were sleeping.

The Thorian went with him as far as the corridor and Dylan entered the weapons lab alone. The remnants of work were out on the benches but nothing out of the ordinary. Beyond was the small security door to the engine room, a room off limits to most personnel.

He opened it, trying to do so as quietly as he could, and stepped through. The engine's hum filled the room and in the dim light he could only make out the outline of it. He couldn't see Auraylia.

As he considered going back out to ask the Thorian what he was playing at, he noticed someone might be able to hide behind a pipe that stuck out from one wall. As he moved closer he heard the sounds of someone moaning in their sleep and he walked faster.

On the other side lay Auraylia in the grip of some sort of nightmare. Reaching down, he touched her shoulder and whispered her name.

In a flash she opened her eyes. The green looked even darker in the low light and the fear was evident. Before he could say anything she shuffled back into a crouched position and drew two blades from somewhere inside her clothes. One was Myreen and reflected the reddish light back to him but the other was dull and rusted.

As he took all this in, she snarled and launched herself at him. It took all his skill to dodge as the daggers sliced at the air where he'd been only seconds before. Undeterred, she rushed him again, and again he moved out of the way just as the metal would have cut into him.

The third time she flagged and he managed to knock the Myreen blade from her hands, sending it clattering onto the metal floor several feet away. With only one weapon to contend with he managed to grab her wrist and yank it from her grasp. She hissed in pain and lashed out at him with her finger nails instead.

As they caught him on the side of the face he used his body weight to overpower her and pin her up against the wall, both hands gripped within his.

At first she thrashed against him, hissing and snarling as she hurt herself in his unrelenting grip.

"Auraylia, stop this, now!"

His words registered somewhere in her mind and she went still and limp, her eyes wide and fixed on his face.

"Captain?" He nodded, but didn't let her go. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise it was you."

Attacking him was a crime, but his gut told him something was wrong and her apology was so full of remorse he was positive she meant it. However, she had unauthorised weapons, one of which she could only have taken from the invading forces earlier. As captain, he knew he had to take action.

"Why did you have those daggers on you? They weren't authorised. No fleet staff on probation are allowed weapons."

She didn't answer.

"I need you to tell me, Auraylia. Why did you attack me?"

"I thought you were... I didn't realise it was you. I didn't mean to, Captain." The pleading tone to her voice almost made him melt and relent then and there, but he knew regulations and he had to get to the bottom of this.

"Who did you think I was, another crew member?"

"No, sir."

"Then who?"

She closed her mouth and looked away from him. Whatever the reason she wasn't going to say.

"If you don't tell me where you got the blades and why, Auraylia, I will have to charge you with unauthorised possession."

"I understand, sir," she replied, barely above a whisper. He finally let her go and her arms fell to her side.

"Put your uniform back on." Disappointment filled him. When the Thorian had told him something was wrong, he'd been expecting she needed help, not to find her sleeping somewhere she wasn't meant to be.

As soon as she was fully dressed he walked back out to his second in command. She followed and had the good grace to keep her head down and look ashamed of herself.

"Take her to the brig."

"The brig, sir?"

"Yes, the Brig. She can be locked up there until we can hold a trial, and make sure she gets some sleep."

The Thorian nodded and didn't ask any more questions, leaving him to find someone to watch her until the morning. Whoever it was wouldn't be happy about having their sleep cut short.

## *

Auraylia tried not to shiver as the Thorian led her into the brig and locked her in. The room didn't have a single bit of privacy. Even the small toilet was out in the open. The bed had a short blanket and no pillow. She sat on it and tried to think of something to keep her brain occupied and awake.

"What the hell happened?" the Thorian asked a minute later. She looked up to see him leaning against the door post, his arms crossed. He must have been staring at her the entire time.

"It was an accident. I didn't realise it was the Captain."

He shook his head in disgust and looked like he might say something but before he could, Thomas turned up. He was pulling his uniform straight as he did.

"The Captain asked me to watch her. Apparently she attacked someone."

The Thorian nodded, handed him the key to her cell door and glared at her for a second before leaving her alone with Thomas. She wanted to scream and beg for him to stay, but she just ignored him and paced instead. With Thomas in the room she had to stay awake.

"Well, this is an interesting situation. Do you want me to come in there and help you relax. You might find it easier to sleep."

"Didn't you hear the Thorian? I'm in here because I attacked someone. Do you really want to unlock that door?" she countered and did her best to look fierce. Although he didn't look scared, he backed away from the bars and sat down. Once there he stared at her and she stared back.

Hours passed and she had to break off the glaring match and pace several times in an attempt to get herself buzzed with enough adrenaline to keep her eyes open. Just as she thought she couldn't take any more, the Captain came through the door. She stopped moving and stood in the middle of the cell. Inside she felt awful. She knew she had let him down and he had every right to be cross, but self-preservation had to come first.

"In the morning, once all my crew is well rested, you'll be tried for your actions. Do you understand?"

She nodded and fought the desire to cry and beg. Just in case he might see the emotions within her she kept her eyes fixed on the speck of dirt less than a foot in front of her.

"Now you've had some time to think about what's happened, do you have anything to say?"

She shook her head.

"Auraylia, you really aren't helping yourself." He almost growled the last word and his shadow moved across the floor towards her. She took a step back before she could stop herself.

"Why won't you sleep? I've ordered you to twice now."

She closed her eyes, wanting to block him out, although she felt relief at this question. The Thorian must have kept her secret if the Captain was still confused by her behaviour.

"Answer me, Auraylia. Why won't you sleep?"

"I don't want to," she whispered, finding her voice didn't want to come out any louder. "But please, can I be guarded by the Thorian?" For this request she lifted up her eyes and stared at him, hoping he would be moved somewhere inside. She knew it was wrong to try and manipulate him like that, but it was all she could think of doing. With the Thorian there she could at least relax a bit.

After focusing on her face for a minute he nodded his head.

"All right, I will ask Varl if he minds guarding you, but it will be his choice, if he feels any compassion for you."

"Thank you," she said and gave him a smile. He didn't return the gesture, instead leaving her alone again with Thomas.

"What do you want with the Thorian?" Thomas got up and came to the bars. She fixed her previous glare back on her face.

"That's between me and him."

"Was it him you attacked?"

"Perhaps, but if it is, you've got to wonder why I've been locked up. Surely a Thorian wouldn't need protection from a slave?"

Thomas didn't back up this time but she hadn't expected him to. His male ego wouldn't let him show her any fear. It would, however, keep him from going any further and it bought her some time for the Thorian to show up.

The Crime and Punishment Officer left her alone and paced while she sat and waited. Seeing the Captain and having to respond to his questions had charged her body with enough emotion that she felt more awake. She also felt more afraid.

A trial would mean she might be punished. Or, if she could explain her actions well enough without having to admit the truth, it would lead to her being released and forced to sleep in her bunk amongst the others. Even if she could gain some respect for attacking someone, she'd attacked the Captain and all of them appeared to like him. Unless she could stop the trial, she was in danger of being severely punished or putting herself at the mercy of one or more of the men in the crew.

Telling the Captain the truth would be tough and in her previous experience, telling tales of what superiors had done only ever made the situation worse. Her slave master had always forced her to sort out her own problems in her own way. She also knew the Captain was kind and would expect her to try and get along with her fellow crew mates, and that was exactly what she was trying to avoid.

Another option came to her mind. The Captain liked her and was a protective sort of man. If she gave him something in exchange for his protection he might halt the trial and give her some leeway. It would also provide her with an alternate place to sleep. It appealed to her more than being forced to share someone else's bed sometime, whenever they decided to take it that far.

Before she could formulate an exact plan of action the Thorian came through the door and dismissed Thomas. Within seconds the knot in her stomach unwound and she found she could sit down.

"You can't let something like this lead to a trial," The Thorian said as soon as they were alone.

"I know." She frowned.

"Talk to the Captain. He can help you."

"You think so? He won't be cross with me?" She stood up, surprised the Thorian was on the same wave length as her.

"I know you can change his mind. He doesn't want to see you harmed, but you've got to give him something to work with."

She nodded. His comments made her feel better, even if it was unexpected to have him agree with her.

"Will you take me to his room?"

"Now?"

"I think it's better to do this while I feel like I can."

The Thorian stopped leaning and fetched the keys from the pocket he'd stowed them in.

"Stay close to me. I don't want to have to catch you," he warned as she walked over the threshold of her cell. She nodded her acquiescence and allowed him to lead the way to the Captain's quarters.

As she went she felt the first flutterings of nerves in her stomach, but she knew she had to ignore them. This was the best decision to make considering the place she found herself in. Since the moment she'd set eyes on Dylan she'd sensed she could trust him, and the time had come to rely on that initial hunch.

When they arrived at the cabin the Thorian knocked but no one answered and when they stepped inside they found the cabin empty. She took in the desk, small dining table, sofa and bed, and small bathroom off to one side.

"We'll wait here for him to get back." The Thorian sat down on one of the chairs while she stood in the middle of the room, not sure what she dared to touch.

"Can you leave me alone in here?" she asked after a few minutes.

"I don't think I should."

"You can wait on the other side of the door. I won't be able to get out or go anywhere. I just... I'd appreciate some time alone to prepare for this. It won't be easy for me."

"All right, but no violence and no trying anything else. You just wait here and sort this predicament out with the Captain."

"Of course, that's why I came." She nodded at the Thorian and he stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. After taking a couple of deep breaths, she hastily pulled all her clothes off, folded them up in the corner, and slipped beneath the crisp sheets of his bed. It bothered her that the bed had been perfectly made but it couldn't be helped. She needed him to understand what she was offering without her having to say it. A part of her knew it would be difficult to get the words out. With the covers arranged neatly around her she lay back and waited for the Captain to come and discover her.

### From Bad to Worse

The ship sounded eerily quiet as Dylan made his way through its halls. Other than a few staff, all of which were hard at work, the crew still slept and any non-essential functions had been switched off to conserve energy.

All he could hear was the gentle tapping of a repair bot as it tried to bend a panel back into the right shape. It sounded strange echoing through the corridor but not out of place given their situation.

After visiting Auraylia in her cell he'd needed to calm himself down, so he'd visited each of his staff who were still awake and talked to them for a few minutes. They appreciated the concern and he now had a better idea of what state his ship was in.

With each hour that passed they also put distance between themselves and the Myreen scouts. With this in mind he felt a bit better than he had since the first attack less than forty eight hours earlier.

Finally feeling like he might be able to get some rest himself, he headed back to his cabin. When he saw Varl standing outside his door with his arms crossed Dylan sped up.

"Auraylia is inside. She wanted to talk. I think she has something important to tell you and I think it will help," the Thorian said as Dylan closed the last of the gap.

"So you left her alone in my room?"

"She can't go anywhere."

"Varl, she attacked me!"

"Only because she thought you were someone else. You did wake her up."

Dylan sighed. The Thorian never gave any indication that he cared what his Captain thought of his actions. Without changing the look on his face Varl opened the door and moved out of the way. Dylan heard it close behind him but it took him a second to locate Auraylia.

When he saw her lying in his bed he froze, not sure if this was some kind of joke. Then he noticed her stack of clothes in the corner.

"What are you doing, Auraylia?"

"I thought we could talk about this trial thing," she replied as she ran her hand slowly over the space in the bed beside her.

"Well, not like that we aren't. I'm going to step out of my cabin for a couple of minutes and then I'm going to return. I expect to find you fully dressed again."

"Captain, I... Let's just talk about this."

"No. Up. Dressed. Now!" He stomped back out of the room and slammed the door. Varl raised an eyebrow.

"She's... Why on earth did you bring her here?"

"She said she wanted to talk to you. She had something to say."

"Well, she must have changed her mind. I found her in my bed."

"Captain, I really thought she was going to talk to you."

"It's all right." Dylan shook his head at Varl's discomfort. "Would you go find Thomas and ask him if he'd mind watching her in the brig again, at least until we can sort out a rota of guards. Varl nodded and hurried off.

After giving her another minute to make herself decent he walked back into his own cabin. It felt strange to be apprehensive in a place that had always felt his and safe, but he fought back his emotions. Auraylia stood in the middle of the room, dressed. As he strode in she wiped away what looked like tears.

"One last chance. Tell me what all this is about and what is bothering you."

She shook her head. "There's nothing I can tell you."

"Then you will face trial as soon as it is convenient."

He took her arm in his hand and escorted her back to the brig. This time he locked her up personally and waited for Thomas to come back.

"Sorry about this," he said as he handed over the key. "Hopefully we'll figure this all out soon."

Dylan walked out without so much as a second glance at the slave. Inside he was furious, but he couldn't show it. She had let him down. After all her gratitude and promises about being worth the credits, he'd wasted most of his savings on a woman who was likely to get kicked out of the Fleet before she'd even completed a week of probation. Never before had he judged a situation or person so badly.

On his way back to his cabin his comm device went off.

"Go ahead," he said as he activated it.

"Captain, I thought you might like to know we've entered Federations space and have been hailed by the Conchita scout ship. She's going to watch our back and let us have a free run into port."

"Thank you. That's very good to know." Being out of danger made him feel a little better, but he knew he had plenty to plan. Finding time for a trial where all who wanted to could attend wouldn't be easy, and he knew if she were found guilty it would be his responsibility to drop her off at the next Federations planet, stripped of rank and any money. For someone like Auraylia and the planet they were heading to, that could be a death sentence. At the least, taking her back to Lantock might mean she could get a job.

Instead of scheduling the trial immediately he decided to hold off until after their current mission. To recharge the ship's weapons and support systems they would want to spend a few hours near the solar system's star and the downtime then would be perfect to hold the trial.

Despite this resolution he found he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts to dwell on the case. Once back in his cabin he invited his officers to join him for dinner.

In less than ten minutes the Thorian, Trell, Beth, Doug and the ship's doctor, Kaiden, were in his cabin with him. Although the Thorian never said much, Dylan could tell he was annoyed at himself and saying even less than usual in conversation.

As soon as they'd finished eating, where they only talked of inconsequential things, as Dylan made it a rule not to talk about work while eating, Trell launched into something that had obviously been on her mind the whole time.

"Is Auraylia really on trial for unauthorised weapons possession?"

"Yes, the girl's the most foolish excuse for a human I've ever met," Varl said before Dylan could respond. The Thorian got up, nodded at his captain and left the room.

"Did she attack him, then?" Trell continued, even more interested after this reaction.

"No, she attacked me." Dylan motioned to the scratch down one side of his face and the line of dried blood that formed the scab.

"But she was so lovely before. I spent hours talking to her and she borrowed several of my books, although I found the last one dropped in the women's toilets." Trell pouted.

"I don't know what's happened. Hopefully we'll get to the bottom of it, but I'm equally disappointed in her."

"Do you think there's more to it, that something we don't know about might have caused the change?" Kaiden asked.

"Perhaps. Varl seemed to think so, but she won't tell me anything. I'm hoping the trial will get her to talk about it."

Dylan sat back and allowed the conversation to wash over him. Kaiden's question was important and he knew the Thorian must believe something had happened. It wasn't like him to free a prisoner, much less bring her to his cabin, unless there was a reason behind it. For now, however, he needed to let his second in command cool down.

When everyone had eaten, talked, and left, he snatched a few hours of sleep before their arrival on the planet Etam. It felt like no time at all before Trell was waking him to tell him they'd arrived and landed in the main docking area.

Once outside he noticed the horrible conditions. The planet was even drier than he'd expected, and everywhere he looked the ground was cracked and dusty. The few buildings in the area were weather beaten by sandstorms, and even inside the plantation dome the inhabitants had set up, the ground was cracked and the plants withered.

The planet's Unified Federations official came out to meet him before Dylan could even start removing the cargo from his own ship.

"We're very glad to see you, Captain. It's been weeks since we last had supplies and we're very low on water."

"Well, I have a ship full of cargo and Admiral Dokar assured me a larger cargo ship was coming around on the safer route. They should be here in about three days with even more."

The official beamed and pumped his hand up and down for the second time. The gratitude and cheerfulness helped Dylan feel like the journey was worth it. Up until this point it had seemed like a chore he could have done without.

Trell oversaw the workers to unload everything and stash it where the planet wanted as the sun beat down on them. Dylan kept in the shade as much as he could and encouraged the rest of his crew to do the same, but they were all soon sweating with the heat.

An hour later the cargo was all off his ship but they were delayed from leaving by confusion on the exact location of all the supplies. It took him another half an hour, with Trell's help, to double check the inventory and reassure the people on the planet they had everything they were sent. Although Trell was competent and experienced, it couldn't have contrasted more with Auraylia's efforts in having the cargo loaded in the first place. She'd somehow kept track of every box, container and barrel, despite carrying little of it herself.

"We've not much to offer, but your crew and yourself are more than welcome to stay and share a meal with us," the official said as Dylan turned to go.

"Thank you for the invitation, but we cannot stay. The sun is about to set here and our ship is in dire need of recharging. We were attacked three times on the way over. If we don't leave now with the energy we have, we will be stuck here until this time tomorrow." Dylan allowed the man to shake his hand again and thank him for the fifth time since arriving and said goodbye.

Although it felt good to help people and normally he enjoyed spending time off on a planet, he wanted to put the trial and the mess with Auraylia behind him. He also suspected she wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer, as he'd found out from Thomas that she still wasn't allowing her body to rest.

On the way back to his cabin he ran into the Thorian.

"Can you gather the officers. I want us to perform the trial as soon as we're stationary and re-charging."

"As you wish, Captain."

"And, Varl, do you know something more about this?" Dylan tried to read the Thorian's face for signs of information but the features remained impassive.

"She told me something, but I don't think it is my place to speak of it. I brought her to you because she led me to believe she wanted to tell you as well, but she chose not to. It is her choice."

Dylan nodded, pleased there was more to the situation. If she would reveal it on record they might be able to stop her being dismissed. It surprised him that the desire to keep her was less tied to the money he'd lose otherwise and more about her long-term success.

## *

The soles of Auraylia's feet ached as she continued to move them across the brig floor. She'd lost count of the hours she'd been pacing, but despite how much it hurt her, she knew she couldn't stop. Thomas sat in one corner of the room. There were bars between them but there might as well have been nothing considering how vulnerable she felt.

Every time she paused and allowed her body a moment to try and catch a standing power nap, the memories of her uncle flooded into her head and jarred her awake again. Sleeping would have to wait until she felt safe, if she ever did again.

She jumped when the door clattered open and the Thorian came in.

"We're performing the trial," he said at Thomas, not even looking at her. Within seconds she was being escorted by the pair of them towards the main canteen of the ship.

When she arrived she noticed most of the tables were moved to the sides and almost the entire crew sat at them awaiting the proceedings. The officers sat along the back wall. She was taken to a solitary chair in the middle of the room and asked to sit in it.

She did as she was asked and sat as still as possible. The room was hushed but she could hear the odd whisper from amongst the crew to her sides, and knew they were talking about her. To stop herself from shivering and becoming emotional she looked down at the ground in front of her feet and focused on the pattern on the floor.

If she'd been on land she'd have considered running from the room but on a spaceship there was nowhere to go. She had to face this.

Dylan took his place amongst the officers and spoke, "Auraylia Mellarn, you have been called here today to answer charges put to you of unauthorised weapon possession, assault of a senior officer and indecency."

"Indecency?" Beth queried.

"Yes, I found her in my cabin, not wearing any clothing. She tricked one of our officers into thinking she wished to talk over these charges."

"And you were the witness in all of these cases, and the officer attacked?" Beth asked.

"Yes, which is why I shall be abstaining from any voting today. I am not unbiased." Dylan said this directly to Beth but loudly enough the whole room could hear. Auraylia wished the chair could swallow her up at the murmurs this extra charge created. Never had she expected him to mention it and she had to fight to keep herself calm under everyone's watchful gaze.

She sat unmoving and mortified as Dylan recounted in detail for the whole room to hear, everything from her disobedience and reluctance to sleep, to the Thorian encouraging him to see where she did finally sleep, to the attack, and finally her strange behaviour that led to her being naked in his bed. Several of the crew sniggered at this last part and she flushed red. None of the officers spoke in response and she finally dared to look up. Dylan stared at her, but he wasn't the only one. Ben, Thomas and many of the other crew were concentrating on her every reaction. A shudder ran through her at the things they might be thinking and she quickly lowered her gaze to the patterned tiles, trying to lose herself in its swirls.

"Are there any witnesses to any of these events?" Trell asked. "It sounds like you were alone with Auraylia every time."

"He was, but I was nearby every time. I heard the sounds of fighting and I also saw the weapons she was relieved of. I'm also the officer responsible for taking her to the Captain's quarters and she did indeed do as the Captain said." The Thorian spoke up, although he didn't look pleased about it.

"As is customary at this point, the person being charged can now tell her version of events. I understand you only have me as the primary witness. Perhaps with explanation from both parties everything can be resolved without needing to find further evidence or witnesses." Dylan turned from the officers to her and she looked up again. It made sense that she would have to speak but she had no idea what to say. "Auraylia, what do you have to say regarding these events and charges?"

"It is all true. I did as the Captain described. There is nothing I can add to what has already been said, except that I am sorry for my actions. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. Since being on this ship I have learnt that I am not cut out for life in space."

She stared straight forward, knowing she couldn't look down at this point but not wanting to look at the Captain's face either. Her brain felt like it was trapped inside a swamp. No defence would form and she knew she couldn't say the real reasons in front of so many people. They could never know what had happened to her.

"So you are not going to explain yourself, why you attacked me and why you refuse to sleep, even now when you have been awake for almost two days straight?"

She shook her head.

"If there is a reason, and something is wrong, we will help you, but if you don't tell us anything we will be forced to find you guilty. You will be stripped of rank, employment, and money, and left on the next planet where we make port."

"I understand," she replied and wished the Captain would stop talking and let her be taken back to the brig. Pain fluttered in her heart at being unable to defend herself, at him thinking she'd let him down, but she couldn't tell him the truth. Allowing the others to think she was weak and an easy target, yet remain in the crew would be a thousand times worse than having just one person think of her as a liar and a cheat, no matter how much she liked that one person. Whatever happened this ship could no longer be her home. She wasn't safe here, and this might as well be the way she left it.

"Then, officers, with no evidence to the contrary, it is put to you all to decide whether Auraylia Mellarn is guilty of the charges as described," Dylan said as he put his back to her.

"I would like to put forward some evidence that might explain events." The Thorian stood up and her eyes went straight to his, begging him to keep silent, but he also presented his back to her and faced the rest of the officers.

"Auraylia told me something when I first found her disobeying orders and not sleeping. I believe it explains her actions, all her actions, and would change the outcome of this case."

"Then why hasn't she presented it to us herself?" Beth asked. More mutters and whispers rippled around the room. Auraylia wanted to scream, to yell at them all, but nothing happened, her body stayed fixed, frozen to her chair with her hands limp beside her and her mouth glued shut.

"I don't think she finds it possible to say to the crew or even the Captain alone, but she told me how she used to live with someone she trusted, someone who was evidently attracted to her, but she rejected him as she didn't see him that way. This person tied her up while she slept and she woke, unable to prevent him from raping her." Gasps filled the room and she saw Thomas grin in delight. She stared at the Thorian, knowing it would seal her fate to react. She had to stay impassive. If Thomas or Ben saw that it might be true, they'd assume they could do the same.

"She woke, completely powerless. I think if I were her I'd be scared of sleeping too," the Thorian said, finishing up and sitting back down again. Dylan looked at her, pity on his face, but she had to deny it. No part of her could own up to the tale.

"Is this why you attacked me? When I woke you up?"

"I..." She tried to speak, but her mind struggled between a lie and the truth. After the opportunity Dylan had given her she didn't want to lie, but she knew she had to stop Thomas and the others from thinking it was true.

"When the Thorian found me and I wasn't sleeping, I had to tell him something. I knew he'd be the protective type and wouldn't report me if I provided the right story. He had picked up on my fear of being aboard the ship and I told him that was why." As she said it she tried to look at the Captain, willing him to believe it and let her leave the room, but a small part of her hoped he wouldn't, hoped that he'd understand why she had to deny it.

"So you lied to Varl?" Anger flashed through Dylan's blue eyes. She dropped her head, hoping it would signal her guilt. The words to confirm it didn't want to leave her mouth, but he took her slump how she intended it, as did the rest of the room. Conversation erupted all around her and the Captain had to call everyone to order again.

As the room quieted the Thorian stood up and spoke, "As Auraylia Mellarn has admitted to the charges and no solid evidence has been found in defence of her actions, she is hereby dismissed from Fleet staff. From this point on she is stripped of rank, and uniform and a record of this trial will be attached to her official citizen reports."

"Thomas, have Auraylia taken to the brig until we reach our next planet," Dylan said as soon as the Thorian had finished speaking. She stood up as panic filled her.

"M... m... may I have a final request?" she stammered out. The Thorian raised an eyebrow but no one spoke. They all went silent waiting for her to voice it. "Can you be the only person with a key to my cell, Captain?"

"Why?" He stared at her and she tried to plead with only her eyes.

"I would prefer it."

"No, I have far more important matters to attend to than be bothered with minding you."

"Then the Thorian... Please?"

"No, unless you can explain your request."

She looked away again, trying to find the words, but he motioned for Thomas to fetch her, and the officers all left before she could think of a way to ask without arousing suspicion. Lifting her head, she tried to look unfazed and emotionless about the decision. Despite her best efforts, by the time Thomas reached her and took her arm to escort her back to the brig she shook so violently she had trouble walking.

### Innocence Unravelled

A headache threatened to overpower Dylan's thoughts as he tried to look over the reports Doug had sent him. The bots had repaired almost eighty percent of the damage since the last battle and the fuel cells were already over half full after only four hours in the intense sunlight, but there were a few anomalies in the level of power use. Doug suspected something hadn't been repaired quite right and was draining extra energy. Until he could figure out what it was, he recommended they stay near the star.

Reports had never been Doug's strong point, however, and it had already taken Dylan an hour to get half way through the information. Someone needed to give the Engineering Officer a dictionary and show him what the words he was using actually meant.

Giving up, Dylan put the data pad down and sat back. He needed more sleep, but most of all he wished he could reverse time. In his career he'd made a few mistakes and chalked them up to lessons learnt along the way, but this latest one left him feeling sour and unhappy. It wasn't even that buying a slave had cost him so many credits, but her betrayal had hurt. Trusting her and then finding she was deceitful and manipulative made him feel like someone had smeared slime on the essence of him.

A knock on his door disturbed him from his thoughts and a second later Beth and Varl walked in. They both looked at each other before Beth took the plunge to tell him whatever bothered them both.

"We think there's still more to this case with Auraylia."

"I think I've had enough of dealing with her."

"Yes, I kinda thought you might, but... I think I've found something important."

Dylan sighed and motioned for the two of them to have a seat.

"I didn't remember it earlier but after our Thorian here said his bit about her not wanting to sleep, I remembered some strange behaviour of hers from before."

"We know she's been behaving strangely for a while," Dylan said, interrupting.

"Bear with me, Captain. I am going somewhere with this." She put her hand up and gathered her thoughts. "A while back I explained how a person could override the lock on any door if they ranked higher than whoever locked it. At the time she seemed understandably curious about it but not long after I'd explained she asked what rank she held. When I told her she was on probation, she got a little funny and practically ran off."

"Is that it?"

"I did some searching on the database. It seems every night since being on the ship she's gone to a small cargo hold on the bottom deck and locked it with herself inside, at least right up until I told her that wouldn't work to keep out anyone higher ranked. Since then we don't think she's slept."

"So she is scared of sleeping unless she's alone?"

Beth nodded.

"I went to the cargo hold. There's a blanket there and one of her spare uniforms. She's been sleeping in there." The Thorian grimaced. "I think what she told me was true, but it makes no sense for her to have denied it in front of you."

Dylan thought over this information for a few seconds, wondering how they could confirm her odd behaviour, before he remembered that there would be video evidence. Grabbing his pad he used his Captain's access to pull up footage of the cargo hold Beth had mentioned.

With it on the desk in the midst of them, they sped up the footage and watched the first three days on the ship. Each night she did as Beth suggested, bringing the blanket on the first night and everything else on the second. Then, as suddenly as the behaviour began it stopped and she never visited the hold again.

"All right. She's definitely scared of sleeping. We need to find out why for sure." Dylan gritted his teeth, cross with himself as much as her.

"I've got an idea, if you'll let me try it?" the Thorian said.

## *

It didn't take long for Thomas to express an interest in the trial and the story the Thorian had told. She ignored the first three questions and sat on the bed with her back to him, but he didn't give up.

"Slave, I'm talking to you. Did some master really rape you?"

"No! It wouldn't be rape if it was a master, would it? And I'm not a slave, not anymore," she snapped back. "If you don't mind, it's been a long day and I'd like to get some sleep."

She curled up with her head against the wall and her back to him so he couldn't see her eyes were still open and prayed she could stay that way until someone else came to watch her. Thomas couldn't be awake all the time just like she couldn't. She hoped whoever relieved him would be someone she could trust, although she knew it wouldn't be the Thorian or the Captain.

If Thomas was planning anything, he decided not to act on it right away, and for an hour she was left to fight off sleep. A couple of times she drifted off, but the image of her uncle's face soon woke her again.

When she got up to pace once more Thomas raised his eyebrows but didn't ask any annoying questions. She only stopped when the Thorian burst into the room. He dismissed Thomas and settled into his usual position, leaning against the door post.

The anger in his face was only reinforced when he crossed his arms. She backed up and sat on the bunk, not knowing what to expect from him. After Dylan's final words she hadn't expected to see the Thorian again.

He continued to stare at her and her mind came up with reasons why he might be there, things he might intend to do with the anger he felt. She'd admitted in front of the crew that she'd taken advantage of his protective nature and it occurred to her that he might be there to teach her a lesson.

"I'm sorry," she said, no longer able to cope with the silence.

"Don't... I forgave you once for lying to me and making me look the fool in front of the Captain, but a second time. You made me look a fool twice!"

"I've not lied." She couldn't tear her eyes away from his face, watching for the first sign that he might do something to hurt her.

"Either the story you told me is a lie, or you lied during your trial."

"I never said I lied, I just didn't answer when I was asked if it was a lie. The Captain assumed I was admitting it was a lie."

"That's the same as lying!" He rushed forward towards the bars and slammed his fists into the door, making it rattle. She shrank back against the far wall and tucked her legs underneath her. "You've done nothing but lie, since the moment you got on this ship. You either lied to me to get me to protect you or you lied in trial."

"I couldn't let the crew think it was true."

"Bullshit!"

"Didn't you see their reaction? Whenever I have told someone what happened to me, they've always reacted in one of two ways. Either like you, as I said in the trial, with the desire to protect me, or like the rest of the crew, with the intention of using that information to get what they wanted. If I'd let them think it was true and gone back to work, at least two men on this ship would have taken the opportunity to do exactly what my uncle did. Finding out I'd been weak once, just makes people see me as weak now, and unlike you, and maybe Dylan, they'd have taken advantage of that. I never lied!"

The Thorian growled and shook the door again, but it only made her angrier herself.

"And on top of that they knew I'd gone to the Captain's bed, like a slave does for a master. They'd have treated me like a slave and I'd have been unable to stop it."

"This crew would never do something like that. Dylan wouldn't have allowed it."

"They've already been doing it... I've been invited to be their slave because I must miss the warmth of a master's bed. I've been told I'd be the first to enter a combat zone because I'm an expendable slave, and many more things. I've already been leered at and touched, and propositioned by men who think I'd be willing because they think I must want to be treated that way."

"If what you are saying is true, there's no way you'd have gone to the Captain's bed. Someone so scared of what men might do to her doesn't offer herself up like that."

She shook her head at his anger. Explaining herself was draining and she didn't think she wanted to do it.

"And you lied to me about wanting to talk to him. You intended no such thing."

"I thought you were encouraging me to go to him."

"I was... to talk!" he yelled and once more the cell door rattled. It wouldn't take many more shoves from the extra strong Thorian.

"You told me to give him something he could work with. I thought you were agreeing with the idea I'd had."

"You seriously thought it was a good idea to try and seduce the Captain?"

"Yes!" She stood up, determined to make him see why she'd acted the way she had even if nothing could be done about it now. "I had two choices. I could offer myself up to a man I respected and gain his protection as well as a safe place to sleep, or I could continue to trial, which had two possible outcomes, be pardoned and then used by the crew who found out my secret, or dismissed and abandoned on a planet with nothing, where I'm likely to have to sleep with men I don't want to just to survive. I was trying to choose the man I had to give my body to. Can you really blame me for that choice?"

The Thorian didn't say anything but backed off. For the first time she felt like she had got through to him. Rather than making her feel better and allowing her to stop spewing her thoughts out loud she found her mouth continuing, wrapped up in the outpouring of emotion.

"If I'd thought you would want me, I'd have offered myself up to you. If you'd been human not Thorian you wouldn't have your rank and your breeding to keep you from considering a relationship with me, but the Captain was the most sound risk, and I really thought you were encouraging me to try it as well. None of my risks worked out. I took a risk on this ship and space but the uniforms made me feel safe and I let my guard down with your crew. I really thought a Fleet ship would be different, but the men here are just like the men on my planet." She stopped, feeling better for the outburst.

"Why didn't you tell Dylan what the crew were doing and saying?"

"The last time I had a problem with my fellow slaves and I told my master, he punished me and let them know what I'd said. It made it a thousand times worse. After that I learnt to sort my own mess out as best as I could. Not that it really matters anymore. The trial has happened and I'm being taken to a planet. If I'm really lucky my old master will accept me back and I'll get another few months to find someone who'll buy me for something other than my body."

"You want to go back to being a slave?"

"No," she said and sat back down again. Saying what was going to happen out loud made it seem more real than it had before and the full weight of her situation crashed in on her. "I am unlikely to have another choice."

"You could get an honest job, rather than using your body to get what you want."

"This trial is going on my record. No one will give me a job after being dismissed from the Fleet for attacking my Captain. I'll find it difficult to be a slave with any respect. A job is impossible now." Her eyes welled up and she lowered her head, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"So that's it? You're just going to sit there and cry? You've wasted the Captain's money and put him and several others of us through days of problems to get to the bottom of this. I should come in there and..."

"There's nothing you could do that would make this any worse. If you'd feel better using me as a punching bag for a while, go ahead." She glared at him, almost daring him to try. "Maybe you could pimp me out to the crew before you drop me off and the Captain can earn back his money that way. I can go along with that if you need me to. Might as well start the rest of my life a few days early so the Captain gets his credits back. Then maybe I wouldn't owe him anything and I could stop feeling so guilty for screwing this up."

The Thorian's expression changed and softened and for a while neither of them spoke.

"You already know I couldn't hurt you." He sat down in the nearby chair. "Get some sleep. I'll stay with you to make sure nothing happens."

His kindness diffused the majority of the emotion in her and after sitting for a few minutes, trying to take in what had just happened, she found herself unable to fight off sleep any longer. Knowing she was safe with the Thorian her mind stopped showing her old memories and she drifted off, propped up against the back wall.

### The Magic of Christmas

It took Dylan half an hour to think through all the information he'd just overheard. The Thorian had suggested Dylan observe and listen in on the conversation between him and Auraylia, and, although it was deceitful, he was glad he'd done it. Her fear had been evident as she'd shrunk back from Varl and told him of the crew's reaction to her being a slave. In light of the new information her actions finally made sense, but he needed more than her word for it. He needed someone in his own crew to give an indication she'd been treated like a slave.

When she'd revealed her reasons for getting into his bed, he hadn't been able to decide if he was embarrassed or flattered. She'd sought him for protection since the moment they'd met and so far he'd let her down and made the situation worse by being open with the rest of the crew. Until now he'd believed that being honest and forthright with everything was always better, but he'd put her in danger from people who wouldn't understand her actions.

Somehow he had to put it right for her.

After thinking for a few minutes, he opened a channel through to his officers and called them all to his quarters. As soon as they were seated, he started the video from the beginning.

Once they'd seen the footage of her conversation with the Thorian, he asked them for their opinions.

"Sounds like she's had a rough ride and doesn't trust anyone," Beth said and clucked her tongue against her teeth. "We can't kick her out if all that's true."

"I agree. As much trouble as she's caused, we can't just drop her off at the nearest planet to fend for herself. You let me, Trell and the Thorian join your crew in a slightly unconventional manner." Kaiden folded his hands together like the matter was settled.

"It's not that simple. We had a trial and the whole crew witnessed. If the crew have abused her or made her frightened, we'll need more evidence than just her word."

"She's your slave. Surely you can keep her either way?" Trell asked and then frowned "That sounded more innocent in my head."

"In theory, I could keep her as a slave myself, but I've got no home on any planet, and I can't afford one. She'd be mine in records only, and the idea of keeping her as my personal slave..."

"It would be a strange possession for a Fleet Captain." Beth finished his sentence.

He nodded and they went silent as he thought about what they could do to help her. Suddenly it came to him, he turned to the officers.

"We need every crew member to write a report on their observations of Auraylia and how the crew responded to having a slave on board? Have them to upload the information to the database for my eyes only. I want to see if they shed some light on her behaviour. Also, tell them it's to study the effectiveness of buying slaves as recruits for manual labour."

"All right, that should help. We might even find ourselves able to get some of the not so savoury crew re-assigned. Shall we get on it now?" Doug got up, more eager to help than Dylan had expected.

"Yes, tell them I'd like the report as soon as possible."

With nods and encouraging smiles they all hurried out to make his request happen. His officers appeared as sympathetic to her as he felt.

"Oh, before I go," Beth said with her head around the door. "Are we doing a crew Christmas dinner tomorrow, or just the officers?"

"I'll think about it and let you know. I'd forgotten it was Christmas Eve."

She grinned and shut the door behind her, leaving him alone with his emotions.

Dylan picked up his datapad to look over the ship reports and check on the repair bots' progress but every few minutes he found himself checking his inbox to look for messages from the crew. After an hour he gave up even pretending to work on other concerns and sat refreshing the screen at regular intervals.

As soon as the first account arrived he opened it and started reading. It wasn't as detailed as he'd hoped, but mentioned the talk of her being a slave causing arguments amongst some crew. Most of the crew thought she was still a slave, but owned by the Fleet, although a couple of engineers argued that she must have been set free. The woman who'd written it didn't appear to have interacted with Auraylia at all, but there were another two messages waiting for him as soon as he'd finished reading.

Dylan spent the next five hours reading crew logs of Auraylia and the crew's reaction to her. By the time he was half way through the reports he had four names of people who'd taken extra interest in her in ways that seemed unhealthy. Thomas, the officer in charge of Crime and Punishment and watching anyone in the brig, was mentioned as having made suggestive comments to her, which explained Auraylia's requests for someone else to have the key to her cell. The lower ranked of the two Bens aboard, was reported to have invited her into his bunk and frequently put his arm around her waist or shoulders. One report from another female suggested Auraylia had asked for the attention but most mentioned her looks of discomfort.

By the time he'd gone through every report he knew she must have been telling the truth and his discoveries sickened him. Bringing her aboard had seemed like a great way to help her, but his trust of his entire crew had put her in danger. He felt like a fool.

At the least, he could let her know she wasn't going to be dismissed with a criminal record. The news would prevent her worrying quite so much and give him the impetus to sort out the rest.

When he entered the brig, the Thorian put his finger to his lips and glanced at Auraylia. The room was darker than normal but he could see the shape of her body, half-sitting and half-leaning against the back wall. It didn't look like a comfortable position to sleep in but she'd been awake so long he wasn't surprised the tiredness had snuck up on her.

Varl opened the cell door for him and he tiptoed in until he was only a couple of feet away. From there he reached out to her and stroked her shoulder.

"Auraylia," he whispered, on guard in case she tried to attack him again once she awoke. After calling her name three more times, each a little louder than before, she stirred and reacted to his presence.

In less than a second she gripped the hand he'd stroked her shoulder with and bent the fingers back as she shifted the rest of her body out of reach. He tried not to cry out in pain, in case it would alarm her further.

The lights brightened, making her blink and let go of him. When he glanced towards the door, he noticed the Thorian at the room's main console and nodded his thanks.

"Sorry," he said as he turned back to Auraylia and noticed her shivering and panting for breath. He needed to get better at waking people without making them jump. "Can I sit? Here, on the end?"

He motioned to the end of the bunk and waited for her to give him some sign of at least acknowledging his words. When her head moved up and down he slowly perched on the edge.

"I wanted to come tell you I heard everything you said to Varl, and I believe it all. I wish you'd told me what the crew, Thomas and Ben in particular, did to you." Her eyes went wide at his mention of the names. "The rest of the crew told me how they'd acted towards you, and it's more than enough for us to drop the charges against you, but I figure you don't want to go back to the dormitory you're assigned to sleep in."

She shook her head, but her eyes remained wide and her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Is there somewhere you would like to sleep? Somewhere you would feel safer?" Dylan expected her to ask for his quarters or the Thorian's if she wanted to go anywhere, but for a few nights he didn't have any qualms about sleeping elsewhere or on the floor. He'd messed up and he owed the frightened girl some peaceful sleep that didn't come with any conditions or strings.

"The engine room. Where you found me before. Can I sleep in there? I like the hum the engine makes."

"If you'd like. We can go there now. I'm sure Varl can fetch your bedding and we can make it more comfortable."

"Now?"

He nodded and stood up. It took a little while for her to uncurl herself and get to her feet but he didn't mind waiting. The Thorian left them without needing any more prompting, and Dylan led her back to the engine room she'd requested.

He was thankful they didn't meet any crew along the way and they were soon at their destination. Dylan turned to the console near the door and tapped away until he'd set the room to only be unlockable and lockable by himself, her and the Thorian. As soon as he'd finished he explained it to her.

"Thank you," She said and stood in the middle of the small room. He felt as awkward as she looked.

"I hope this arrangement will only be temporary, but you can stay here as long as you feel you need to," Dylan said as they arranged the bedding Varl turned up with. The Thorian had brought her mattress as well as everything else she'd had in her bunk, so she would be as comfortable as possible and wouldn't have to go to the dorm for anything if she didn't want to.

By the time she had something resembling a bed in the corner, the second officer had snuck out and left the pair by themselves again. She sat on the bed and gave him a brief smile.

"If I decide to press charges against Thomas and Ben, would you be willing to answer questions for their trial? You might not need to, if I can show the video of..."

"Please don't," she interrupted him.

"Don't press charges, or don't show the video?"

"The video."

"I'll need you to present evidence somehow. I want them gone from my crew before we leave port again. I'd do the trial right away but I've not got enough officers of a higher rank."

"Can it be kept private?" Deep furrows appeared in her forehead at the thought of people knowing her secret.

"Yes, I can request no audience from uninvolved people."

"Then I'll give evidence, but I don't want to run into them again. Can I stay here until we reach port. I'll work from here. I'm sure I could do something useful."

"You can stay here if you really want to. You'd have been in the brig anyway, but you may want to come out tomorrow for dinner."

"Why tomorrow?"

"It's Christmas." He gave her a lopsided grin, but she just looked away.

"I'll stay here. Christmas isn't something I normally celebrate anyway."

"You don't celebrate Christmas? Why ever not?"

"My parents were too poor and slaves don't really get days off. I've only got one or two memories of Christmas. There was this plant, with white berries, mum used to hang on her bedroom door and we sometimes got to eat a turkey, but not every year. It was the only time mum and dad wouldn't argue with each other."

"The plant was probably mistletoe," he explained, but he didn't get to explain what it was for. A buzz sounded from the door and Trell called out from the other side.

"Auraylia, can I come in?"

"Seems you have your first visitor." Dylan got up, and when Auraylia nodded he opened the door, leaving as Trell bounced in. In her arms was her favourite novel.

"I thought you might like to read this. It's the only one I've got left that you've not devoured, but it's my favourite," he heard her say as he walked off. He grinned and it gave him an idea for the perfect Christmas present for Auraylia.

He yawned and hurried off to wrap up hers and everyone else's. With all the events of the last week he'd forgotten to prepare for Christmas. Glancing at the time on his pocket watch, he realised he would be cutting into his sleep to get his task done but it couldn't be helped.

## *

"I'm about to burst," Dylan said, as he put his knife and fork together. The paper hat on his forehead fell forward once more and this time he took it off rather than readjusting it. Around him sat the rest of his officers, each with various amounts of food on their plates, and around them was strewn the wreckage of wrapping paper, cracker remnants, and spray on snow.

As soon as all of them had finished eating he excused himself and grabbed the made up tray. It held another plate, piled high with the traditional Irish Christmas dinner and beside was his present for Auraylia, wrapped in the same snowflake covered paper already littered about the room.

"I'll be back in a few minutes." Dylan nodded at his officers and Trell jumped up to get the door for him.

"Say Merry Christmas from us."

He grinned at her enthusiasm as he walked along the corridors. On the way to the lower deck's engine room he passed the main canteen and heard the laughter and noise as the rest of the crew also celebrated the season, which only widened his grin further.

Auraylia answered his knock within seconds of him arriving and smiled as he passed the tray over to her.

"I know you said you didn't want to celebrate Christmas with us, but I thought you might like the food and all that. He pointed to the cracker and present."

"Thank you. Is this all for me?" she asked, barely able to get the sentence out. He nodded and followed her into the room. Since the day before she'd rearranged the bed slightly and laid out her spare uniforms so they wouldn't crease. The covers showed wrinkles where she must have been lying and Trell's book was open on her pillow.

As she sat back down on her bed and balanced the tray on her lap, he noticed the odd creation, pinned to a metal support girder for the floor above. He came closer and inspected it for a moment before he realised she'd used discarded gun parts to make a metal version of mistletoe.

"You made this?" he said, and sat down on the bed beside her. She nodded.

"You said it was Christmas and mum used to hang it up, so I thought I would too. It's part of a happy memory." She shrugged.

"Do you know its tradition?"

"No?"

"Well," Dylan stalled for time to think, wanting to phrase it right and not imply anything that might frighten her. "Traditionally if two people find themselves under mistletoe, they're meant to share a particular display of affection. A kiss in particular. Often women, or men, hold it above their heads and approach someone they've been interested in for a while, to let them know. The person being invited for a kiss, in theory, can't say no."

"Oh, that would explain why mum and dad disappeared into the bedroom for a few hours whenever she hung it up." She stared up at it, her tray forgotten. He laughed.

"Well, traditionally it is only a kiss."

"So it doesn't have to lead to sleeping with someone?"

"No, it's not meant to," he replied, wondering where she was going with her question.

"That's a relief. I've never had a kiss but I think it would be more pleasant than sex."

Before his brain could think about what he was doing, Dylan leant over and pressed his lips to her cheek. When he pulled back he smiled.

"Merry Christmas."

## * * *

Jess Mountifield was born in the quaint village of Woodbridge in the UK, has spent some of her childhood in the States and now resides near the beautiful Roman city of Bath. She lives with her husband, Phil, and her very dapsy cat, Pleaides. During her still relatively short life Jess has displayed an innate curiosity for learning new things and has therefore studied many subjects, from maths and the sciences, to history and drama. Jess now works full time as a writer, incorporating many of the subjects she has an interest in within her plots and characters.

website: www.jessmountifield.co.uk

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jess.mountifield.author/

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