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Purely Paranormal
A sample of first chapters from award winning
YA author Patti Larsen
Smashwords Edition
Find out more about Patti Larsen at
http://www.pattilarsen.com/
Compilation cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
http://www.dog-earbookdesign.com/
RUN edited by Ashley’s Freelance Editing
All other works edited by Annetta Ribken, freelance Goddess
http://www.wordwebbing.com/
***
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase
your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
***
Reviews of the Author:
“Patti Larsen is my most favorite author of all time. Seriously the woman's head is so chock
full of stories she'd keep me in reading matter for decades.” – T.G. Ayer, author of the
Valkyrie series
“Patti Larsen has clearly made a deal with the demons she sometimes writes about. Part
most-prolific-author-ever, part paranormal writer of awesomeness, she will keep you begging for
more. Like crack or chocolate, once you've had a taste of her addictive stories and dynamic
characters, you'll never get enough.” – Kimberly Kinrade, award winning YA author of the
Forbidden series
“From cover to cover, Patti Larsen draws you into a world where the impossible is an
everyday occurrence and the unbelievable is an acceptable reality. (Her characters) make you
laugh out loud, grip the edge of your seat, and make you want to scream "NO!" They also make
you shed a single tear or sob your heart out. But when they leave you, you'll miss them and crave
more. Genre hopping is one of Patti's many talents and it’s exciting to explore a new paranormal
sub-genre by the hand of a favorite author. If you pick up a YA Paranormal by Patti Larsen, I
guarantee you won't want to put it down, not even when you've reached 'The End'.” – Erin
Cawood, author
Family Magic:
"A great, inventive plot, a deeply flawed, self-deprecating, heroine, many wondrous subcharacters and a constantly-evolving world of madness and magic (with a goodly side order of
teen angst thrown in!). What more could you want?" –
from Amazon reviewer
Hobbitual
" Thank you Ms. Larsen, for an excellent read....please please please tell me there will be
more about these characters!" –
from Amazon reviewer Michelle William
" ...this book was incredible. I was sucked in from the very beginning. I fell in love with the
characters. The plot twists and the way it was written kept me turning pages well into the night."
–
from Amazon reviewer Misty Harvey
Smoke and Magic:
“Patti Larsen fires the imagination with her imagery and captures your heart with her
compelling characters. This book flirts and teases drawing you deeper into a shadowy, magical
world in turn-of-the-century England. Curiously scandalous... I have to say I'm in love!” –
from Amazon reviewer Cathi
“The pacing is fast, the plot thickens as you turn the page and Burdie never fails to bring a
smile to your face. Patti Larsen brings old London to life, from horse drawn coaches to fancy
balls to Whitechapel. I honestly can't wait to read the next book!” –
from Amazon
reviewer Toni D
Clone Three:
“What a knock your socks off adventure. It literally never stops in the action, suspense, twists
and turns… A fabulous intro to what looks like a fast paced, intriguing series.” –
from Amazon reviewer Literary Vixen
“I dare you to not fall in love with the characters Ms. Larsen has created for us and brought
to life.” –
from Amazon reviewer JacquieMT
“This is a fantastic story for lovers of YA dystopian. Better than The Forrest of Hands and
Teeth, better than City of Ember, both of which I enjoyed immensely. I really can't wait for
Clone Two.” –
from Amazon reviewer Kirstin
RUN:
“Patti Larsen's ability to get inside a character is uncanny - she doesn't just tell you a story,
she merges you with her main character.” –
from Amazon reviewer Tammie
“…it was amazing. I couldn't stop reading it. After finishing it I realized that it was part of a
4 book series and instantly bought the other 3 books. I am going to begin immediately!!” –
from Amazon reviewer Stratus1011
“I'm a huge fan of Hunger Games and found the pacing and thrill of this book to follow
along those same line. This story is uniquely its own… the fear, the thrill, the emotion that comes
through in the writing is amazing. There is never a dull moment in this story of survival and I
very much look forward to the sequel.” –
from Amazon reviewer Angela Scott
Fresco:
“Fresco grabbed me at the throat from when I first started reading it. Patti Larsen has veered
away from the cookie cutter dystopian genre and given the reader a story that is raw, visceral and
haunting.” –
from Amazon reviewer Kim Koning
“I have come to the conclusion that if Patti Larsen writes it, I have to read it! (Fresco) is a
story of addiction, loss, recovery, life and death. It's a magical book that is well worth the read
and like all Patti Larsen books, leaves you searching for the sequel!” –
From
Amazon reviewer Dee
“I love all of Patti Larsen's books and this is no exception. It's darker than the others, dealing
with topics like drug addiction and experiencing great losses. The end is a great cliffhanger and
I'm really looking forward to reading the next book in the series.” –
reviewer J. Pastoor
***
from Amazon
Introduction to the worlds of Patti Larsen
I love all of my books. The voices in my head who beg me to write their stories feel like
friends, family. I call them my hitchhikers—because that’s what they feel like. With me long
enough to complete their tales and then they are off again. Maybe to return with more stories to
tell.
This collection is for you, new reader. For the ones who haven’t found me and my hikers yet.
A way for you to dip your toes in my worlds, where paranormal is always the driving force.
Whether it’s sci-fi, soft steampunk, New Adult horror or an epic journey with a reluctant young
witch, you’re in for a supernatural ride with some of the coolest teens I know.
***
Family Magic: Book One of the Hayle Coven Novels
http://bit.ly/FamilyMagic
Copyright 2011 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) Stephanie Mooney. All rights reserved.
***
The first in a twenty-book saga, Family Magic’s Sydlynn Hayle is my dearest character,
dragging me from one misadventure to another, always with sarcasm, snark and a heavy dose of
fun despite the danger she’s in.
At publication of this compilation, fourteen of the Hayle Coven Novels are now available.
***
Chapter One
I batted at the curl of smoke drifting off the tip of my candle and tried not to sneeze. My
heavy velvet cloak fell in oppressive, suffocating folds in the closed space of the ceremony
chamber, the cowl trapping the annoying bits of puff I missed. I hated the way my eyes burned
and teared, an almost constant distraction. Not that I didn’t welcome the distraction, to be honest.
Anything to take my mind from what went on around me.
Being part of a demon raising is way less exciting than it sounds.
The bodies of the gathered coven pressed close, shrouded in the same black velvet, the
physical weight of their presence making it hard to breathe. I struggled to censor my clichéd
thoughts and focus on the task at hand. The glow of other candle flames floated around me,
barely lighting faces, enough for a serious case of the creepies. A low hum sounded from every
throat, filling the room with an almost physical presence. I participated half-heartedly, wishing I
was anywhere but here, knowing despite my personal preferences I had no choice whatsoever.
The group swayed as one as the hum grew in volume. The first hint of power made its way
around the half-circle. I felt my own power being drawn away, connected and shared despite my
reflexive attempt to pull free. As much as I suppressed my magic from day to day and refused to
use it at all, the draw of the coven and my attachment to it made it impossible to deny.
Totally crappy. Especially since anything to do with magic always made me feel slightly
nauseated and off balance.
I wiped a smoke-laced tear from the corner of my eye and blinked at the pentagram etched in
the stone at my feet. The lines of the star began to glow faintly blue, the candles at each point
flaring as though with the heartbeat of the whole, the breath and life of each and every soul in the
room. I wondered if anyone ever checked to see if our hearts really did beat in sync. Wouldn’t
that be special?
I stifled a sigh as a tall, elegant form flowed forward from the circle to the center of the
pentagram. She swept back the hood of her cloak, her long, thick and perfect black hair a
flawless halo around her gorgeous face. Her eyes glowed with joy, cheeks flushed from the rush
of energy coming from the coven, her coven. Miriam Hayle was everything every woman
wanted to be. Beautiful, graceful, commanding, the perfect witch, the perfect leader, the perfect
everything.
My luck? She was my mother.
I blew on the smoke from my candle as subtly as possible while barely managing to still the
jiggle starting in my left knee. Somehow I always ended up in exactly the spot where a tiny little
breeze pushed the white vapor the wrong way. A part of me was sure it was somehow contrived
that way as an extra level of punishment piled on to my particular little corner of hell. And forget
the sacrilege of blowing the candle out. It’s not a whole lot of fun being the center of the
displeasure of fifty-odd witches of varying power, so I suffered.
Oh believe me, I suffered. Every day, every moment, every breath. I, Sydlynn Hayle, sixteenyear-old all-American girl, was a witch. My mom was a witch. My grandmother was a witch, if a
crazy one. My sister, my mom’s best friend and every single other person in my life, much to my
disappointment, fell in that category, with a couple of exceptions. Lucky me. Except I spent my
entire life wanting nothing more than to be normal, average, ordinary and just like everyone else.
Hard to do in a family like mine.
So there I was, another Saturday night, no friends, no social life, just the stupid coven and
another stupid coven ritual. Could one girl’s life really suck that much?
I glanced down at my little sister as she stared at our Mom, rapt in attention, beaming a
smile. Meira glanced up at me, red-tinted skin and amber gaze aglow as the power in the room
built, triggering her demon blood. In the ‘real world,’ Meira had to disguise her unusual coloring,
her overlarge eyes and cute little horns peeking out of her silky black curls. Within the safety of
the family she was free to be herself and I know she loved it.
I always envied my eight-year-old sister her eagerness to embrace her birthright while I
simply did everything I could to ignore it. Easier for me, I suppose, with my plain, dark brown
hair and ordinary blue eyes, my white skin and handful of freckles. I did what I could not to look
the part, to forget our dad was a demon.
Meira grinned at me, her candle’s trail curling perfectly upward toward the ceiling in an
endless swirl. I waved at my smoke again, the tickle in the back of my throat and nose getting
worse. Meira watched me struggle like she always did. With laughter wrinkling her upturned
nose, she waggled her fingers at my candle. I felt her power reach out, the thin film of it forming
a delicate tube around the wick. My smoke immediately behaved. She winked before turning
back to Mom.
I felt stupid. So that’s how they did it…! Sixteen years of this crap, and it took my little sister
taking pity on me to finally get the joke. Of course, if I ever paid attention or agreed to do magic,
maybe I’d have known about it a long time ago. But the fact my suspicions were so dead on, that
Mom obviously instructed the others to let me figure it out on my own or continue to suffer,
made me grind my teeth in frustration. She would do anything to get me to use my talent, short
of putting me in danger, and I even wondered about that.
I tried to focus on the stupid ceremony and not my urge to throw the dumb candle in her
flawless face.
Yeah, that would go over well.
Mom, either unaware or not caring about my present state of mind, raised her arms, robe
falling into a perfect puddle at her feet, revealing her model’s figure in a black satin gown,
polished silver jewelry at wrists and throat. She positively glowed with power, vivid blue eyes in
rapture. How pathetically stereotypical. I wanted to throw up.
I felt the strength flow out of me in a rush and struggled as I always did to control the
weakness in my knees and the slow roll in my stomach. I tried to catch my breath as secretly as
possible, furious this always left me on the verge of passing out. Of course, no one else showed
any discomfort, just little old me. I guess knowing how to use your magic and being willing to
share made the whole transfer easier. That’s me, fight tooth and nail, even to the point of pain.
Sometimes I wondered why I was even invited.
At least I had the diversion of being responsible for my grandmother. She stood next to me,
as usual, about as into the whole thing as me, but for different reasons. She hummed softly under
her breath, her watery blue eyes crossing and recrossing as she studied the tip of her protruding
tongue. She turned to me, wisps of white hair escaping from the edges of her black cloak,
fanning back and forth with a life of their own. Her powder white skin fell in crumpled folds, but
her expression was pure childishness. She cackled, winning me a silent warning from my
mother. I rolled my eyes at Mom before sneaking a caramel out of my pocket and slipping it to
Gram. She made a face. Chocolate was her favorite, but I hadn’t time to track some down. Okay,
honestly, I forgot and raided the candy dish on the way. I prayed the offering would be sufficient.
Ethpeal Hayle had once been an influential witch. When I was just a baby, an evil coven
challenged our family. She stood against them alone, cutting herself off to protect the rest of us.
The Purity coven fell thanks to her, but the fight scrambled her sanity. So, I waited for the old
woman to make up her mind about the candy and tried to be patient. It wasn’t her fault she was
nuts.
I saw the flicker of rejection as her wrinkled old mouth puckered and knew if I didn’t act
right then the scene she could create would probably level the house. The fight with the Purities
may have left her one fortune cookie short of a combo plate but it did nothing to reduce her
power. Knowing I only had one chance, I curled my fingers and started to pull away.
Her hand shot out, dagger-like nails brushing my palm as she snatched the sweet and stuffed
it into her face. She grinned at me, nose wrinkling, eyes full of mischief. I tried not to react,
knowing yet again we were saved by careful manipulation of my crazy grandmother.
I returned my attention to Mom with some relief as, oblivious to the disaster I averted, she
turned slowly, pivoting on manicured toes. I made a face at her fuchsia piggies, just in time to
catch her disapproving frown. I could practically hear her whole body screaming at me to pay
attention, the little hairs on my arms vibrating from it. I flashed her a half-grimace, half-smile so
she would stop. Her expression softened. She turned away. Thankfully. I wasn’t sure how long I
could keep up the whole fake happy thing without bursting into flames.
She faced the altar at the back of the room and the life-sized stone effigy of an impossibly
perfect and handsome man with large muscles and tiny horns on his smooth forehead. She
pushed magical force toward it.
“Haralthazar,” she glided closer to the statue, “we summon you this third night of Power,
nine days and nine nights from Samhain Eve, to tighten our bond with you and your realm.” She
knelt at the foot of the altar, the picture of the submissive handmaiden. Could she be any more
ridiculous? Seriously. “My love, come and be welcome.”
The blinding flash leaping from her to the statue continued to pour out of her in a deep blue
rush of light. I turned my head slightly to the side, squinting against the glare, grateful for the
edge of the cowl and the shadow it made. The whole room started to thrum, the floor vibrating
with condensed magic as Mom used the energy we gave her to make the doorway permitting my
father through to this plane.
When it happened we all felt it rather than seeing it. The power swirled around us, drawing
us all closer, forming us into one entity, one spirit, a seamless conduit to the other dimension. I
always hated this part, the total and utter lack of self that came with the opening of the door.
Every time I went through it I tried to pull back, but my own demon blood wouldn’t allow it.
Even more so than the other witches in the room, my being was tied completely and without
choice to what was happening at the altar. I was always helpless, tapped into, taken, and ended
up on my knees behind my mother, Meira at my side, as the effigy of my father came to life.
The blue flared to gold and Haralthazar, Demon Lord of the Seventh Plane of Demonicon,
flushed and filled out. Still with the properties of stone but the appearance of flesh, he
materialized from a burst of light as the gateway to his plane slammed open. For a heartbeat he
stood there, haloed in the back glow of his dimension before the power propelled him the rest of
the way forward and he stepped through and into his statue.
***
Chapter Two
There was a certain presence to my father, a weight, a physical feeling to being around him
that always made me uncomfortable, especially when the door first opened. I hated to admit it,
but I think it made me feel that way because I was afraid it could be me someday traveling
between worlds.
Haralthazar took the time to look over us. His chiseled face creased in a soft smile, gentle
even, welcoming. Hard to believe, but true. My dad was a nice demon. Forget the whole pit of
burning despair thing. Demons simply come from another plane, a different realm of existence.
There are good guys and bad guys like here on Earth. Lucky for us, when my Mom decided to go
unconventional after the attack leaving her own mother crippled, she fell in love with Dad.
He raised one arm over Mom. She stiffened as the energy rippled out of her in visible strings
of light, flowing over the pentagram and back into each of us. I flinched as the thread hit me, out
of breath and more than a little dizzy. Dad always gave back more than he took, at least to me.
“My love, well met.” He bent and took my mother’s hand, helping her to her feet. “Miriam,
rise and stand with me.”
She took her place beside him. Emotion swirled between them. Dad beamed at us.
“I am well pleased, my friends,” he said. “Our coven grows and is strong. I offer power to the
bond and love and protection to you all.”
“Our thanks to you,” the crowd murmured, my voice joining slightly late.
He turned to me.
“Sydlynn Hayle,” he held out one hand, “come to your father.”
This part always made me feel like I was being dissected by all the eyes staring into my back.
I despised being the center of attention. There was a definite slouch in my stance as I climbed to
my feet and dragged myself unhappily to my parents.
“The first gift of our joining, welcome and my thanks for the sharing of power. With you, our
light grows.”
“You bet.” My father frowned for an instant, enough to make me feel like a spoiled rotten
little kid. How did he do that? I was happily cynical with my mother but Dad could reduce me to
a child with one raised eyebrow. I guess he was mostly a great father and a really good guy and I
hated disappointing him.
I drew a breath and tried harder.
“My light to you,” I said, louder.
He smiled secretly. I smiled back as he bent over me and touched his lips to my forehead.
“Hi, cupcake,” he whispered through the official kiss. “How’s soccer going?”
Seriously. Cupcake. “Fine, thanks,” I whispered back. “And you can stop calling me that.”
He grinned pure evil.
“Whatever you say. Cupcake.”
Ooh. Dads.
“Don’t piss off your mother,” he said.
“Doing my best.” I rolled my eyes.
Dad straightened up and addressed the group.
“This is my child, truly born, a member of this coven. Who speaks against her?”
In the silence that followed, I half-heartedly hoped someone would kick me out.
“All is well,” he said. “Our love to you, Sydlynn Hayle.”
I made a face at him for the whole stupid thing.
“Thanks,” I said. Dad dropped a small wink as I stepped back.
“Meira Hayle, come forward.”
My sister stepped up eagerly. I heard her soft giggle as our father repeated the kiss he gave
me. I’d ask her later what he said to make her laugh. Not that I’d ever admit it, but we didn’t get
to see our father all that often and I was a bit jealous of her time spent with him.
Dad straightened over her.
“This is my child, truly born, and a member of this coven. Who speaks against her?”
Meira must have said something cute because our dad struggled not to laugh in the silence.
“All is well,” he repeated. “Our love to you, Meira Hayle.”
Meira stepped back, her little hand slipping into mine. She grinned up at me as the ceremony
continued.
I tried not to laugh when Gram, up next, planted a wet, sticky one on him. He had the good
nature to hug her back and smile at her with real warmth and love. She tottered back to us, so
pleased with herself she wriggled like a little girl.
I struggled with a case of the fidgets as the validation process continued but couldn’t help the
impatient shift from sneaker to sneaker making its way through my defenses. Witch after witch,
male and female alike, professed their undying love and loyalty to our family, etcetera, and so
on, ad nausem. It took forever. And to think we had to go through this twice a year. According to
Mom, with the dying of the summer at Samhain and its rebirth at Beltane, the connection
between our plane and Dad’s was closest. It made the bonding easier and more powerful.
Blah, blah, blah.
The only problem? It was the epitome of boring. Besides, I had homework to do. I could
hardly explain to my science teacher I didn’t get my chemistry done because I was helping my
coven renew its bond with my demon father. Who knew? Maybe Mr. Sinclair would give me a
better mark if he thought I packed that kind of firepower.
Finally, and I do mean finally, the ceremony ended with the last of them stepping back from
Haralthazar. He turned to my mother. The love in their eyes as they gazed at each other was, if I
have to be totally honest, sickening and way over the top.
“My love.” He held her hands to his chest, the top of her head reaching his chin, the flawless,
perfect lovers, channeling a bad romance novel.
Meira poked me. I knew I was making faces in disgust. It was just so embarrassing. Normal
people didn’t do that kind of thing in public. Meira and I exchanged a knowing smirk and I
pretended to gag.
“My life,” Mom said with bated breath.
Another grimace. Meira giggled.
“Our circle is whole. Our power is renewed, and our love.” Even Dad was in on the
nonsense.
“Yours always, my love.” Mom stretched up on her tiptoes.
I quickly found something else to look at, horrified by the open attraction my parents had no
problem sharing with the rest of us. Didn’t they get public displays of affection were the height
of icky? I’m sure if it were me, I’d be grounded.
Meira sniggered and made a little kissing noise. I choked on a laugh and had to struggle not
to cough.
Dad winked at us.
“My people, my family, I embrace you with my love.” I felt the warmth flow through me as
his presence wrapped around us all. It made me want to fidget again but this time I won.
“Love to you,” we all said at once. I hated this part, too, and did my best not to battle against
the power flowing in a great circle from one witch to the next, passing between us like a hug,
connecting us in ways too personal for my liking. I shuddered when it was done, skin crawling.
Personal space meant nothing to them.
“Joy and peace to you all.”
“And to you,” I murmured along with the others. I glared at my candle and fought the urge to
run away.
“We are one,” he said.
“And the same,” the coven answered.
“Power to blood.” Dad raised his arms.
“Blood to power.” The coven swayed.
“Family for eternity.” I scowled at him.
“Family forever,” I stared him down, but this time he wasn’t smiling. I didn’t like the serious
expression on his face but shrugged at him. He finally looked away.
“Joined together, my soul to your soul, my heart to your heart, past, present and future, one
and the same.”
The coven sighed as a whole as the warmth slowly left. Dad lowered his arms and embraced
Mom. She turned, a light sheen of sweat on her cheeks and a huge smile on her face.
“Thank you all.”
The crowd murmured and started blowing out candles. My stomach slowly unclenched as I
extinguished mine with relief and tossed it at Meira.
“Thanks, Meems.”
She blew delicately at her own, leaving behind a heart in her smoke. I poked it with my
finger, but couldn’t break it. We looked up together at our parents and for a heartbeat the four of
us connected, just us, in the remains of the power in the room.
I actually felt like I belonged.
***
Smoke and Magic
Blood and Gold: Book One
http://bit.ly/smokemagic
Copyright 2012 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Stephanie Mooney. All rights reserved.
***
If you liked Syd, you’ll adore her great-great-great grandmother, Auburdeen. Wrapped up in
her own soft steampunk adventures in Victorian England, teen witch Burdie’s first three novels
are available, with six more to come in 2014.
***
Chapter One
I leaned over the railing of the steam powered vessel for my first look at London, even as the
sun set behind me, casting the towering buildings and arching bridge in shades of orange and red.
My sturdy travel case stood by my feet, my silver Persian in his wicker carrier. I could hear him
snarling and grumbling to himself and suppressed a grin, knowing he would make me pay for
stuffing him into his prison as soon as we arrived at our destination.
But that was for later. Right now I focused on the deepening shadows filling in the cobbled
streets and stretching long shadows down the rippling waters of the Thames. Smaller vessels
bobbed past us, looking worn and miniscule in comparison. I drew a breath, so accustomed to the
piercing clarity of sea air by now, I came close to gagging over the side as the taint of rot rising
from the river assaulted my nostrils.
But even the rising stink of dead fish and worse did little to dampen my enthusiasm. It was
the first time in my four-week trip across the Atlantic that I had something new and exciting to
focus on and I wasn't about to miss a moment of it.
“Miss Burdie?” Mr. O'Brien, my over eager porter, smiled his easy smile, the one I'm sure he
thought made him irresistible. I'd found it easy enough to resist him, thank you. “A shame about
the view. We're almost twelve hours early, makes for a dark entry into the harbor.”
“Does that happen often?” I did my best to be polite despite my discomfort. His eyes
wandered downward and I knew he wasn't examining the buttons on my new black velvet
shortcoat. I gritted my teeth and thought of my mother. She would be very disappointed in me if
I turned him into something I could squash with my heel.
Being a witch had its benefits, but not when it came to punishing normals for nasty behavior.
“Not often,” he continued our conversation, heavy Irish accent making him difficult to
understand. “You'll not have a chance to see the city like this again, more's the pity.”
I didn't bother to tell him I'd be leaving the way I came and would have ample opportunity.
My temper was known to get the better of me more often than I'd like and this boy was only
making things worse.
Choosing to ignore him and his apparent desire for more conversation, I stepped away from
the rail, the odor finally getting to me. How could my mood alter so quickly? I was suddenly
feeling as sour as the air. The Thames stank like a cesspool and I began to wonder how
Londoners could stand it.
Not that my native New York was perfect, by any means. But I didn’t recall our harbor
smelling like this. My feelings of charity toward the old world and my trip here slid back into the
gloom plaguing me the entire voyage—that I had been, in effect, shipped off to jolly old England
when I should, in fact, have been home helping my parents with the transition of our coven.
Our present leader's power was waning and quickly, the coven suffering from her lack of
ability and her increasing dementia. And while my mother, Thaddea, was certain the take over of
power would transition smoothly from one family to the next, she wasn't willing to offer anyone
an opportunity to end our family’s control after only one generation. The moment the coven
elected her as successor, she set in motion her plan to promptly remove me from harm's way.
I stomped my way across the deck toward the gangway as the ship eased into dock, my
thoughts as dark as the evening sky. I understood why Mum and Da sent me away. As the only
female Hayle, I was next in line after my mother. And while they hoped the acquisition of the
family power from the Tremere's would go smoothly, Mum wasn't taking any chances.
It just wasn't fair. My brothers, Damon and Pharo, had been permitted to remain behind. Not
for the first time, I railed at the fact I was a girl, and the youngest at sixteen. Da always indulged
me, at least according to Mum and the coven, but I agreed with him and often argued the point
with my mother. Coven leaders must be strong and fearless, capable of controlling the kind of
power that came with such a great responsibility.
And since I knew Gramps had taught her to ride a horse in trousers, Mum had very little she
could say in the matter.
I was the first in line to disembark. My feet itched to set foot on soil again, to still the
constant roll permeating everything about sea travel. I conveniently forgot the two days I'd spent
during heavy seas disgorging the contents of my unhappy innards into the lavatory. I was sure it
happened to everyone.
I strode down the ramp, bag in one hand, cat in the other, eyes roving the dock for my
greeting party. As I set foot on the glorious ground, I felt my whole world shift sideways and had
to catch myself from falling. If the roll of the ship was bad, this sudden heaving was worse, as
though the very earth shook beneath me.
“Allow me.” A hand met my elbow and O'Brien was there, holding me steady. I glanced up,
knowing my shock showed on my face and hating the weakness behind it, especially in his eyes.
But he made no effort to take advantage and simply smiled, dark hair falling over even darker
eyes. “Rather disconcerting, isn't it?”
I merely nodded, feeling the sway of the ground lessen as a few moments passed. “Whatever
is it?”
“Merely your body adjusting to the stillness of land again,” he said, letting me go slowly to
assure I was still upright and not about to collapse on him out of the blue. How hideously
embarrassing. And, for the moment, I feared I'd misjudged him. “You'll adjust again, soon
enough, I wager.”
Already feeling better, the vague, nauseated feeling I remembered from my two days of
sickness lingering with unhappy clarity, I reclaimed my balance on my own and offered my
hand.
“My thanks,” I said. “For all the courtesies you showed me on board.” I swallowed my pride
and tried a smile. “I know I wasn't the most genial of passengers.”
“Not at all, Miss Burdie. It was surely a pleasure.” He really was much kinder than I'd given
him credit for and my good feelings toward him grew. And then he went and ruined it all again
by looking at my chest. Anger surged within me. I was no object to be admired, but a power to
be feared. When he asked, “May I escort you?” my first reaction was cold arrogance.
“Thank you, but I have an escort.”
His eyes flew wide, cheeks red under the lamplight. “My apologies for being so forward.” He
retreated with a bow and I instantly regretted my anger. “Have a safe and pleasant visit to
London.”
As O'Brien retreated back up the gangway, my anger went with him. I sighed at my own
foolishness. I could at least have made sure he secured my baggage for me while I waited for my
escort to arrive. My eyes scanned the hansoms lined up near the dock, searching for some
indication that one of them was for me.
Then, like a ton of bricks falling from the sky, it hit me. What had O'Brien said? We were
half a day early. Which meant no one even knew I was in London yet.
I could have used O'Brien's offer of escort after all.
Not to be undone by a simple matter of time, I shuffled myself off to one side out of the
jolting pile of people and dug into my bag. Fortunately, I retained my mother's correspondence
with my hosts here. Neatly printed on the crisp envelope was the address I needed.
I marched purposely to a hansom and nodded to the black-clad driver. “Have you been hired,
good sir?”
He immediately took my bag, smiling and bowing, teeth yellow from an excess of tobacco,
breath vile but face kind. “My pleasure to drive you, lady,” he said. My bag quickly found the
top of the carriage as I handed him my baggage claim. The door closed beside me. I settled into
the cracked leather seat, my blanket over my knees, wicker cat basket on the opposite bench.
Within moments the hansom rocked, once then twice. My driver's face appeared at the
window, the soft harbor breeze carrying both the scent of his smoke laden breath and the stench
of the quayside into the carriage, enough to make me momentarily dizzy.
I quickly told him the address in question and, to my great relief, he disappeared from my
window and mounted the front of the hansom, clucking to his horses and we were away.
Perhaps it was merely paranoia, from being in a new place all alone, but I was certain for a
moment a figure in a hooded black cloak watched me from beneath the glow of a gas lit lamp
post, head turning as we drove by. Surely it was my overactive imagination and my need for
some small comfort, so far from home.
I shrugged it off, certain I was mistaken. And it wasn’t as if I were in any sort of danger.
Instead, I gave one last look back toward the ship that brought me to London, wishing suddenly I
could simply buy passage back to New York and my family. The jab of homesickness was
unexpected and made tears rise in my eyes. I firmly grasped my welling emotions. It would not
do for the daughter of Thaddea Hayle to show such pathetic sorrow in the face of an adventure.
I turned around and squared myself for the journey ahead, a ride that had nothing to do with
the hansom.
***
Chapter Two
The moment we were alone, Sassafras started his usual complaints.
“You could at least hold me in your lap so I could look out the window. But no, you don't
think of things that help others, do you, Auburdeen? You are the most selfish witch I've ever had
the misfortune to be stuck with.”
Even though I hated it when he used my full first name, I still snickered at my silver Persian
and leaned forward to tap the edge of his cage with one hand. “You were the one who backed
Mum on this particular adventure, I seem to recall. No complaining allowed, cat.”
Amber eyes glowed briefly as the demon soul within him showed his anger. “Not fair,” he
grumbled.
I reached through the slats and gave his left cheek a good rub. “Life's not, is it, Sass?” I
sighed, feeling very much at that moment that he was, indeed, correct. In a fair world, I would
still be in New York at my mother's side, standing up against the Tremere's, assisting in the
coven takeover. But no use dwelling further.
“We simply have to make the best of this,” I said. “Both of us.” I glanced out the window at
the shining electric lights. “We are in London, after all. Surely there's something to do here that
won't bore us to tears.”
“Bore you, you mean,” he shot back, pink tongue just visible in the passing light as he
reflexively groomed one spotless paw. “I fully intend to take advantage of this little vacation and
catch up on my rest.”
“You already sleep most of the day,” I laughed at him, tapping his cage again and winning a
hiss of displeasure. “How much more rest do you need?”
“I'll have you know,” he sniffed with clear indignation, “I've been assisting your mother with
the power fluctuations Olive has been allowing through the family magic.”
I knew it wasn't greed driving Mum toward leadership of the coven. In fact, she tried to step
aside for another to take control, but no one would listen to her. And Sass was right—as amazing
as our power was, it was equally as dangerous to have a declining witch at the reins of so much
energy, especially when she lost control of said energy on a regular basis, forcing the rest of us to
cover her tracks.
“I just wish I was there to help.” A sudden surge of protective anxiety rose inside me, forcing
my hands to clench in my lap to keep them from shaking.
“I know,” Sass said in his soft, velvet voice. “So do I. But your safety is the most important
thing right now. Thaddea has all the support she needs and I know Marcus won't allow anything
to happen to your mother.” Da was quite the knight in shining armor when Mum was at any kind
of risk. “This was the best choice.”
Not that they had given me a choice. But I stayed quiet. This conversation had happened far
too many times in the transatlantic voyage, in a variety of emotional forms, for me to desire to
cover it once more.
At least I had Sass with me to not only keep me company and, in his mind, protect me, but
also as a magic connection between my family and myself. While I was perfectly capable of
contacting them, the amount of power required to handle that much air magic was daunting and
would leave me exhausted after only a short transfer. Sassafras's demon origin allowed him
access to different levels of power and an alternate way to communicate he always refused in his
obtuse and arrogant way to explain.
My mind couldn't help but go to my family, my mother and her long red hair, the source of
my own thick auburn locks, Da, tall and broad, so handsome some of my dearest girlfriends
blushed when he walked in the room. It didn't help my two brothers shared his good looks. I
adored them and they me, though Damon, Pharo and I had shared enough battles over the years. I
knew they too would look out for Mum when the time came.
And whether she wanted me out of it or not, I would have no choice when the power built
and the takeover happened. Every living member of the coven would be drawn in for the final
transfer.
Thinking of them naturally took my thoughts in the direction of my host family. I felt an
uncharacteristic jolt of nerves and wondered whatever was becoming of me that I was suddenly
turning into such a coward.
I hadn't really expressed any interest in the Brindle family since Mum shoved the letter from
her friend Georgina in my hand and told me her diabolical plan.
“I love you,” she said, “and I wish it could be otherwise. But you are too important to risk in
this nonsense.” Nonsense, she called it. Mum was wonderful at understatement. Only she would
call the fight brewing in the core of our family nonsense.
But it was Da who convinced me. Sneaky bugger. “Your Mum, she can’t concentrate if
you’re here and at risk,” he said in his deep voice, using his very best father persuasion to win
me over. “If you’re off, safe and sound in England, she can put all of her energy into the coven.”
I wanted to argue. Until he twisted the final screw. “The faster you go,” he said, “the faster
this can be resolved and the faster you can come home to us.” Though neither he nor Mum knew
how long things would take, not for certain. I was sure this was no casual jaunt across the
Atlantic. My whole summer would be spent here, minus my brothers, my horses and my favorite
freedoms.
Completely unfair. In the interim of sulking—yes I could admit that to myself—and
complaining about my lot, I'd failed to really wonder at all about my final destination.
“Have you met them?” I sat back against the stiff seat, releasing the scent of old leather and
pipe tobacco. “The Brindles, I mean?”
“Finally curious, are you?” Sass loved to be superior and this time was no different.
“Just tell me what you know.” I glared at him as he glared right back. “Please.” A concession
which irked me, but it worked.
“Yes, I've met Georgina.” Sass's tail slid out from between two slats, the end twitching in his
continued irritation. “She's... very nice. A little backward.”
“Backward how?” If Sass was criticizing her it either meant she insulted him somehow or
there was something very wrong with her.
“You'll see.” What was this need he had to be so cryptic? It was the bane of our relationship
and one of these days I would do something about it, by force or magic if necessary.
“Very well then.” I could be just as stubborn. I looked away, trying to recall what Mum told
me. How she and Georgina attended college together, shared their witch's training here in
England. 'Dear old George' had been Thaddea's very best of friends. And that said 'dear old
George' was the head of her very own coven, a quiet and peaceful group who would make the
perfect guardians for me during the event of the takeover.
“Bloody hell,” I whispered into the street, barely heard over the clopping of the horse’s
hooves and the creak of the old hansom.
“Now that is exactly the kind of behavior your mother is hoping you'll watch while you're
here.” Sass's tail gave an irritated thrash. “You know how Thaddea feels about making a good
impression, Burdie.”
I rolled my eyes. “As much as Mum would like me to be different,” I said, “she can either
have a lady or a future coven leader, but she can't have both.”
“Just mind your manners for once, would you? It's important for the Brindles to remain
friends with our coven. Important to your mother. Besides, you're here for your own protection.
I'm not in the mood to rescue you from some childish scrape or another you might find yourself
in.”
I knew he was only baiting me. He was a master of dancing along every one of my nerves.
Even so, it made my blood boil and my temper rise to the surface.
“Childish!” I'd had just about enough of that.
“Auburdeen Perneila Hayle,” he hissed, the amber glow from his eyes growing until the front
of the wicker cage shone with it, “you will do whatever you can to behave yourself, to not
embarrass me or your mother and to absolutely under every circumstance maintain a firm hand
on your horrid temper.”
My anger simmered. Yes, I had a temper. And yes, it had taken me into situations in the past
that perhaps I shouldn't have been part of, situations that usually devolved into fistfights and
incoherent yelling at the offender. Sassafras should be grateful I always kept control of myself
enough my magic never came into play. Except that one time. But it wasn't my fault. Not really.
And the offender recovered. Eventually.
Mostly.
I struggled to come up with a coherent and calm reply, but before I was able to arrange my
thoughts in a more acceptable manner, the hansom suddenly and abruptly jerked to a halt. I heard
the driver shout and I reached for Sass and his cage on instinct, but wasn't quite fast enough. His
wicker prison crashed next to my feet, drawing out a sharp grunt of his unhappiness.
I retrieved him immediately, holding the cage up so I could see him. He looked ruffled, but
unhurt.
“What happened?” He shook himself with little room to spare inside the confines of the cage.
“I'm not thinking much of the driver you chose.”
Before I could yell at the man, he called back to us. “Apologies, lady,” he said. “Bit of a
roadblock ahead. Won't be long.”
I leaned out the window to have a look for myself. I saw a narrow street, the building next to
me only a few feet away, but enough for a person to pass. Ahead were at least three other
hansoms, all halted, and a handful of what looked like policemen milling about.
“Any idea what's happening up there?” Not that it really mattered to me. But I was beginning
to develop a headache, tired from all the travel and ready to finally reach the Brindle's home.
“Shouldn't be long, lady,” the driver repeated then ignored me.
I settled Sassafras on the opposite bench before sitting back again, arms crossing over my
chest, not caring I was probably wrinkling the lovely new velvet of my coat. “Police for some
reason,” I murmured to Sass, keeping my voice down now that we were stopped and no longer
had the noise of the ride to hide his voice.
Sass nodded and settled his head in his paws with a sigh.
I was about to hop out and find out for myself what was going on when the door to my
hansom eased open and a dark shape snuck in, pulling it shut behind. I caught one glimpse of
blue eyes and a mop of unruly hair when I heard the tap of shoe leather on cobbles and the sound
of a policeman saying, “Need to search the cab.”
Those blue eyes filled with fear. It was then I understood—here was the reason for the
roadblock. And he chose my hansom in which to hide.
***
Clone Three
Book One: The Clone Chronicles
http://bit.ly/clonethree
Copyright 2012 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
***
Post-apocalyptic writing calls me as much as it freaks me out. While I have nightmares about
zombies and the end of the world, the occasional hitchhiker appears to share her story and I just
can’t resist telling it.
The Clone Chronicles are all available now, beginning with Clone Three and ending with
Clone One (deceptive? You have no idea…)
***
Chapter One
I open my eyes. It’s the first thing I think to do. The world is tilted sideways, the angles all
wrong. I turn my head, feel hard, thin metal behind me, hear it bend and warble as I move. My
whole body is limp, useless for the time being. Where am I? What is this place? The walls used
to be blue, now coated in crusts of mold and running rust like an old disease left to fester.
On my left, what remains of a toilet bowl, the top smashed, jutting jaws of jagged porcelain
teeth aimed at the ceiling. One single, flickering fluorescent bulb dangles overhead, swinging
softly back and forth from the wires holding it suspended just past the dented frame.
A bathroom stall? The floor is icy cold under me, my fingers registering the stickiness of old
traffic and a film of moisture left behind.
There, opposite where I half-lie, half-sit, my back propped against the wall of the stall, I see
something waver at eye level, a hologram of some kind, projected onto the pitted and angry
metal.
A man’s face. Do I know it? I feel I should know him, from somewhere. I’m just not sure
where.
“Clone Three.” His voice is a softly echoing sound, volume and pitch altering as he speaks,
as if over a great distance. “Pay attention, dear. Final instructions.”
Is he talking to me? He must be. His eyes seem to be meeting mine, he looks at me with great
expectation. And yet as I lie here and begin to regain sensation and control, I realize I not only
have no idea where I am, I haven't a clue what I’m doing here.
Who am I? Clone Three. Is that me?
“Not again.” His face isn’t angry. Why did I fear he would be angry? Instead, even through
the unclear and twitching image, I see his desperate concern.
“What’s happening?” The view seems to widen as a woman’s face joins him. I’m smiling
suddenly. I know her, and very well. She’s tied to my heart, isn’t she?
Isn’t she?
My smile fades as her own worry reaches me. “Clone Three,” she says, her voice calling to
me as much as her words. “Please, you must listen.”
“It’s useless.” The man sags. “She was our final hope. There is no more.”
She ignores him, focused on me. I’m happy she’s still there. I’m worried myself. What if she
leaves me? And why does the idea of that make me feel so afraid?
“It’s going to be all right,” she says, smiling. I smile back. Yes, this is better. This is right.
“You just need to listen carefully to what I say.”
I listen with every cell in my body, every single thread of my being, because she's asked it of
me.
“This is so hard.” She looks at the man. “We have no idea how much she remembers.”
“We are lost. We’ve failed.” He turns away from her, leaves the image. She sighs and meets
my eyes again.
Distress makes my body shake. I want to reach for her, feel my fingers twitch in response.
My body is coming (back?) to life.
“Don’t listen to him,” she says. “Just to me. You must find the others. Do you hear me?
Clone Two and Clone One. It’s imperative you find them. Do you understand?”
I nod. My head and neck seem to work just fine.
“You’ll know them,” she says. “Just trust me.”
I do. With everything.
Her image begins to crackle, waver, breaking up. A soft grunting whine escapes me as my
fingertips scrabble on the dirty floor, my mind reaching for her as my body tries to obey.
She is speaking, but her words are garbled, cut into bits and bites, and I cannot understand
her. A film covers my vision, the blur disappearing as something wet runs down my cheek.
I’m crying.
She looks afraid, so afraid, and she is reaching for me too. She finally points at me, then at
herself and her image fades. In her place is the vision of a statue, a tall woman, mottled green,
holding a book and a torch, crowned in thorns.
It too fades, softly, shrinking until it flickers once like the flame of a candle and goes out.
***
Chapter Two
The tears continue to flow as I lie there, struggling to understand. I’m alone again. The
woman is gone. My heart has left me and I am lonely.
One of my knees jerks in protest to that understanding. My body is wakening faster now. I
am able to lift my hands and look at them, if only for a moment. The muscles feel atrophied, as if
I’d been lying here an eternity, like I've never known movement.
My fingers are long and thin, my skin pale. Veins run across the backs, bones and tendons as
I flex them to watch them move. I’m fascinated by myself, though I know it’s foolish. I’ve seen
this before.
Why does it feel like the first time?
The stall wall makes a loud metallic protest as I lean forward. My fingers press against it as I
use it to rise, wobbling and weak, to my feet. The boots I wear feel heavy, the soles an inch thick
with sturdy treads. My jeans are also rugged, camo green jacket as well. Someone has dressed
me carefully.
I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.
By the time I’m able to exit the stall, my body is much more stable. A few steps take me to
the dilapidated counter. One end has detached from the wall, the sinks hanging from their pipes.
A quarter of a mirror remains in the frame, if not completely intact, and I pause, drawn in by the
reflection. The edges of the glass are spider-webbed with cracks, throwing back odd images of
my hands and the shoulders of my jacket. I tilt my head to the side, enough to fit my face into the
one small square of unbroken mirror.
I have dark brown eyes. And dark brown hair. It’s long, in a ponytail. Everything else about
me is unremarkable. Who am I? I know my face. But I don’t know who I am.
It isn’t until I drop my eyes, head tilting back that I feel a thrill of recognition. I look back
again, eyes searching for the flicker of memory as my face, now cut apart in the broken glass,
stares back at me.
I understand in a moment. My face. I know it. But it’s not just my face.
It’s her face. The woman from the image, my heart. I have her face, if a much younger
version of it.
Is she my mother?
I shudder all over, muscles protesting, aching for a moment before full control returns. I’m
suddenly strong, feeling recovered. A deep breath expands my lungs, exits in a rush.
Now what? She told me to find them. Clone Two. Clone One. And I am Clone Three. What
does that mean, clone? Are they my friends? My sisters? She said I would know them.
But how to find them? Indecision holds me tight. I stand in place, surrounded by old
destruction, trying to decide what to do. My eyes fix on the door. It’s mostly off its hinges,
hanging to one side. A dark space beyond. I feel safe here, uncertain but unwilling to move.
Except she expects it of me. And I can’t let her down.
Stumbling at first, from nervousness this time, I make my way to the door and peer out into
what seems to be a hallway. Left, more black. Right, what looks like a glimmer of light. My
hand rests on the door jam, fingers locking on the rusting metal. I brush it away, watching the
flakes fall to the floor, feeling the sting as one scratches me. A tiny pink line on my palm. No
blood.
I think that’s probably a good thing.
It’s easy to step over the corner of the door, at least physically. I clasp my shaking hands
together as I pause in the darkness on the other side. The light from the bathroom calls me back,
but I resist. I have a job to do. Maybe the two I seek are only down this hallway. The idea of
seeing the woman again is enough to drive me forward.
I choose the direction offering some light. It’s faint, a gray, cold tinted brightness, but grows
stronger the further I progress. A patch of it shines across the hallway and, as I draw closer, I
realize it’s coming through a small, square window.
A heavy door, much like the one to the bathroom, guards the way. Only this time it’s intact.
Something catches my eye. I turn and look across the hallway, to the opposite wall. There hangs
a sheet of paper. It used to be red, I think, but now is faded pink in spots. Someone drew on it
with a marker. I come closer to it, fingers brushing over the turned up edges.
Stick figures. A girl maybe, what looks like a dog. Two taller people, one with long hair.
Mom and Dad? And a box with a triangle on top. Swirling lines out of what has to be a chimney.
The words, so faint, but I can read them still.
Home Sweet Home.
I back away, feeling my throat tighten. Why? I don’t know. Only that this makes me horribly
sad and want to collapse to the floor, hug my knees and sob. Confusion wars with frustration. I
tear my gaze from the image and go back to the door with the window. It’s crusted with dust, I
can’t see through it, but the light is enough of a temptation. My fingers find the flat handle and I
push down.
The door swings inward. I follow it, letting go as I drift into the room. It’s so quiet. At least
the bulb in the bathroom buzzed softly. Here there is nothing, just dead air stinking of mold and
age and the absolute silence of being alone.
The room is full of debris, but I ignore it for now. Three large plate windows look outside. I
rush toward them, craving the view, to see the outdoors. Other people. Other places. To know
I’m not alone.
The glass is cold when I press against it and I have to use the cuff of my jacket to clear away
some of the dust. I’m expecting a certain view, though I have no idea why or from where my
expectation feeds. But what I see sends a shock through me so powerful I almost crumple again.
This can’t be right. The emptiness. The burned out and rusted cars in the cracked and
buckling parking lot. Grass and weeds grow through, a huge patch in the center tipped over
where a tree has grown. The sky is heavy, gray, darkening by the moment, the glow of it fading.
Night time? Perhaps.
The street beyond is just as horrible. It seems packed with debris in places, the surrounding
buildings crumbling. I’m amazed as I look out how these three windows I peer from remain
intact. Others I observe across the street and, as I lean closer, glancing right and left, in this very
building are mostly broken, glass gone completely.
For a moment my mind leaves me, wandering elsewhere. To a sunny street, a green park,
laughing people, the chime of an ice cream truck—what is ice cream?—and the warmth of the
sun. The gray wins, the falling night crushing my memory and leaving me shaking, breath
fogging the dirty glass, looking out over a world I know nothing about.
I back away from the window, heart speeding up, hands clenching into fists as I struggle to
control my breathing. I stumble over a desk. Yes, it’s a desk. With a heart carved in the top of it,
old and fragile, bits of wood and Formica splintering away. A + M. How sweet. How charming.
It makes me want to throw up.
My gaze lifts, settles on the far wall. A sheet of black covers it, a silver shelf beneath now
tarnished, though untouched by whatever disaster has fallen here. A blackboard. So this is a
school.
A school has kids in it. Children come to school to learn, don’t they? I shake my head,
clutching it in my hands. I know so many things, much here is familiar. And yet the most
important details are gone, lost to me.
The frustration is incredible. Anger rises behind it. I lash out with one boot, kicking the dying
heart from the crumbling table and watch in horror as it spins off to crash into a pile of others.
I sob once, but still it quickly. There is no time to feel sorry for myself. She has pinned her
hopes on me. Her needs. And if the rest of the world looks like this now, so very wrong, I must
be here to make it right.
The hall is darker than before. The sun is almost down behind the bank of gray. My sight is
failing in the dark. I must get outside before I’m trapped in here. That thought makes me twitch.
Someone screams. It’s a distant sound, echoing and impossibly far away. But it’s a sound.
Was it a scream for help or merely a shout of some kind? Irrelevant. This is the first offer of
contact I’ve had. I’m not alone. And that makes me feel immensely better.
Perhaps whoever it is will know what she wants me to do. And I won’t be alone anymore.
I turn and follow the sound, deeper into the darkness.
***
Sassafras
A Novel from the Hayle Coven Universe
http://bit.ly/sass-afras
Copyright 2013 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
***
The Hayle Coven Universe has grown and expanded past the original idea Sydlynn Hayle
brought to me five years ago. Now with multiple spin-off series both in publication and
production, and single books sharing the backgrounds of some of the most beloved characters in
the collection, I have no doubt I’ll be writing books from this world for a very long time.
Sassafras is at the top of the list for favorites when it comes to reader’s choice. And so his
story is first. But, I do recommend you read to the Hayle Coven Novels #7, Flesh and Blood,
before continuing with this book as it does contain spoilers.
***
Chapter One
I stretched to my full height, magic rippling around me, blood burning with the need to draw
more power from my foe, grinning down at the fallen demon at my feet.
“Well fought.” My hand reached for his, but when Peridesenchal tried to grasp it, I pulled
back with a laugh. Heart swelling at the echoed sound of my own mirth, surrounded by it as the
watching crowd of fighters pointed and smirked, I prodded the fallen demon with the toe of my
very expensive boot and winked. “You really thought I was serious?”
Peridesenchal's answering scowl was worth the taunt. “You're a bastard sometimes,
Sassafras,” he said.
The grin splitting my face almost hurt. “Sometimes?” I spun, arms out, welcoming the
watcher’s adoration.
“Always!” Their roar was delicious.
I stayed close, in Peridesenchal's space as he fought to rise. Stumbling, falling back, magic
and feet making it impossible for him to retreat with dignity, finally ending up at the edge of the
circled crowd of onlookers, my fans. I bent over him as he panted and scowled, letting out some
the magic I'd taken from him, just a thread of it, winding it around his neck while inside I roared
my triumph.
“Next time you think to challenge your betters,” I let the thread tighten until he choked, my
teeth clamping together as I fought the need to grind this piece of filth under my foot, “think
again.”
The thread snapped with a crack so loud some of the gathered demons covered their ears, but
it was music to mine. I let Peridesenchal go then, losing interest in the fallen, turning to the
reverent faces surrounding me.
“Who's next?”
“Sassafras!” She had to go and ruin it. The moment my sister shoved her way through the
ring to face me, my friends dispersed, most with a hand raised in salute. A few answered with
snarls I knew meant fights were coming my way. I yearned to go with them, to keep the burning
joy of victory fresh and hot.
Damn her for interfering. “You have terrible timing, Avenesequoia.”
She dusted the front of my triple breasted jacket with both hands, adjusting the row of spines
on each shoulder with a long-suffering expression.
“I have perfect timing. You are a scoundrel who will make me late.” My sister sighed and
looked up into my eyes. “And why?”
“I had important business, Bitty,” I said with my best smile.
Her small hands packed a punch as she whacked me. “Don't tease me,” she said. “And don't
call me Bitty.” My little Itty-Bitty. Torturing her was my favorite pastime when we were very
young and I found I'd not lost the taste for it. “I'm the only one who loves you.”
Love. The concept itself was as foreign to me as losing. Thanks to my delightful family. And
my entire race, actually. Love. What a joke. Leave it to her to use such a manipulation.
“You were playing.” Avenesequoia hooked one arm through mine, her pole-thin body a head
shorter than mine, the most delicate demon I'd ever met. “Mother and Father will be vexed. And
don't think I didn't see who crawled away with his tail between his legs.”
I bowed a little to her at the entry to the sky train, following as she swept inside, shining
black skirt so full she barely made it through the door. My sister knew how to dress well, I had to
admit, with her sparkling bodice crusted in gems shooting off beams like stars as she sat under
one of the overhead lights. I stood before her as the transport began its run to the Parade at the
base of the Seat. The sight of the mountain, the center of Demoniconian leadership, always made
my stomach clench, though I'd never admit it to anyone.
Showing weakness was a quick way to invite a challenge. Not that I was afraid of a
challenge. I'd beaten most of the so-called royals who hid themselves away in the upper
echelons, including some third planers, though I'd yet to get my chance at Cypherion, the heir to
Second Seat.
What a coup that would be! If only I could convince him to challenge me. Wouldn't my
family lose their minds if I was able to best the heir to the Second throne of Demonicon?
Delicious, truly delicious. And within my grasp. When I was ready.
Avenesequoia must have known I was still deep in the throes of battle, but she wasn't letting
me off easily. “When Ruler finds out you've been challenging above your plane again, she'll be
forced to take steps, Sass.”
I snorted and looked away, eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching polished stone of the
mountainside. In my opinion, the weakling fifth plane lord I'd just bested was not worth another
moment of my thoughts. “Peridesenchal challenged me, just so you know.”
“After you tortured him for months until he decided to do something about it.” She crossed
her arms over her chest and rolled her very expressive eyes, larger than most. It was hard not to
adore my sister, though to me she appeared more like a doll than a real demon. “Why aren't you
happy being a Seventh?”
“Not my fault he decided to challenge.” I offered my hand to her, hoping she'd just drop the
subject. My happy after-battle mood faded, leaving behind the familiar feeling of loathing. The
dark and angry core of me, bubbling, asking to be fed. With power. “Besides, I have six more
planes to climb. Can't possibly do that without challenging.”
She stopped me, placing her hand on my arm. “You're the best fighter anyone has ever seen.”
Her fingers tightened. “No one contests that, Sassafras. Even Ruler has honored you. But she
personally asked you to back off, only two weeks ago. And you've continued as usual. You know
she doesn't like to be pushed.”
Ahbi Sanghamitra, of all people. She valued those who fought their way to the top. And
despite what she said, I knew it was only family pressure that led her to order me to stand down.
She understood me, and I her. I wasn't worried. Obligation or not, orders or not, I'd be out
fighting again tonight. No question.
Avenesequoia eased up on her grip, face sad, but she kept her peace as we swept our way out
of the train and down the steps to the Parade. I spotted Father and Mother on the elevator
platform, my brother Jabuticabron between them. His glare was enough to finish the job my
sister started.
Just what I needed. A lovely family reunion. Not like any of us normally spent any time
together. This sham was for Ruler's sake, for the sake of the royal family. Appearances for
Ahbi’s favorite pet scientists, my parents, and their constructed brood.
Mother's eyes traveled over me before she nodded once as I took my place beside her.
“You're late.”
“Actually,” I said as the elevator began its ascent, “it appears I'm exactly on time.”
She didn't comment, though Father sighed and shook his head.
My brother didn't have the same restraint. Jabuticabron leaned past Mother and jabbed me in
the ribs before I could stop him, a scowl on his enormous face. If my sister was the tiniest demon
around, he was the opposite. It still shocked me anyone in our family could be Guard material,
but from the way Jabuticabron was growing, that was where he was headed. And it suited his
personality perfectly.
Troglodyte.
Then again, since Mother and Father grew the lot of us in test tubes as experiments to satisfy
their scientific curiosities, it made total sense my brother and sister were polar opposites.
With me stuck in the middle.
“Don't embarrass us,” Jabuticabron snarled. “We don't get invited very often.” He gave me
the impression, with his heavy-handed tone, he blamed me for the lack of invitations.
“And you remember to answer with words and not grunts,” I shot back with a smile.
“Enough, you two.” Mother's power crackled around us while Father ignored the
conversation, fingers scratching at the air, calculations floating before him in amber fire.
“Theridialis.”
Father twitched, round face guilty, before his fingers flickered and the writing disappeared.
I would never know what Mother saw in Father and why the pair of them decided to have not
one, but three offspring with each other. Or why they would ever even want to perpetuate the
faked image of our "happy" family when everyone knew we were just their personal DNA
experiments. The only time we were happy was when we were apart.
And since my happiness was of utmost importance, I'd be going my own way the moment I
had the opportunity. Which happened right after the windbag porter announced us.
With a wink and a grin for Avenesequoia and a snarl for my brother, I dodged Mother's
grasping hand and disappeared into the crowd of gathered demons.
Keep it civil, Mother sent in a very tight beam. Don't go looking for trouble.
Who? Me?
***
Chapter Two
The crowd parted for me and I had to smirk. The stink of their fear smelled sweet. Nothing
could be better, actually. I reveled in it, purposely sidling up to a few of my fallen foes, laughing
to myself when they realized I was there and scuttled off to avoid a confrontation.
Like I was going to challenge anyone here. Now. With Ruler watching from her throne, that
slug Vandelarius slouched in the Second Seat next to her. Not likely. While I chose to ignore
Ahbi's order to behave myself outside in the city, the idea of pushing her under her own roof
dulled even my need for excitement.
Honestly, there were only two demons present I even had a remote interest in challenging
anyway, and both of them sat, in their safe little chairs, at their royal father's feet. Tanasharia
actually blew me a kiss, one I accepted with my usual flair. Nice to see her scowl as I wiped the
imagined kiss from my shoulder with disgust.
Her lurking brother, Cypherion, had no such offerings for me. As much of a worthless moron
as my brother and equally as big, the heir to Second Seat glared in my direction, though his
father's hand on his shoulder was enough to hold him back. Vandelarius smiled at me, showing
teeth, before sinking back into his throne to scratch at his wide stomach, his belch audible from
where I stood.
So much class. I could hardly stand it.
The disgust on Ahbi's face was almost an invitation. I was well aware she despised the
demon who sat next to her, but she refused to act against him or do anything about it. The reason
for her stubbornness grasped my shoulder in one large hand and turned me to face him.
Haralthazar, Lord of the Seventh Plane, grinned down at me. His curving horns shone in the
light of the suns reflected through the rooftop shielding as he turned me gently away from the
tempting target of Cypherion. One of his strong hands steered me toward the banquet table.
“Another day, perhaps,” he murmured.
“Most definitely,” I said with my finest smile.
Haralthazar handed me a glass, filled it with his own hands. “I understand we recently
became plane mates.” His amber eyes glittered with amusement over his own glass as he saluted
me and drank.
My shoulders shrugged, pulling against the tight jacket my sister forced me into. “Being an
Eighth was such a bore.” I faked a yawn, winking.
Haralthazar laughed, soft and deep, though our old family friend seemed less amused and
more sad. “Clever boy,” he said. “Just make sure you're not too clever one of these days. I'd hate
to lose you.”
“How kind,” I said. “But I have no intention of taking my leave any time soon.”
“Sassafras.” Haralthazar's hand settled on my shoulder again, face now very serious. Which
told me some kind of well-meant lecture was coming. Typical of my father's friend. “Theridialis
asked me to speak to you.”
“Of course he did.” I set my glass down, already turning away. “Because he cares about me
that much.” Anger bubbled inside me as Haralthazar's hand tightened. He'd always been an ally,
someone I could turn to. The favored son of Ruler was as much a rebel as I was, denying his
mother’s wish for him to take Second Seat. And though I rarely asked him for help, he
understood me, so we got along for the most part.
But as his thick fingers squeezed my shoulder, I shrugged him off in a surge of temper, my
magic snapping a spark of rage between us. Subtle enough only the two of us would notice, but a
slap in the face nonetheless. Haralthazar backed off, nodded, expression so full of worry I
immediately felt terrible, though I crushed my empathy with bitterness before he could see it.
“Perhaps some other time,” I said, keeping my words light, my tone bright as I turned from
him. He didn't follow me as I lost myself once again in the press of the demon ruling class.
Time for some fun. There was just way too much seriousness going on for my liking. Within
a few moments some delightfully attractive young demon girls stood captivated by my battle
stories. I happily imbibed Ahbi's finest nectar while my throng of admirers oohed and aahed over
my tales of prowess.
When the band struck up, I was the first on the floor, blood buzzing with the addictive and
power-enhancing nectar, three girls alternately swinging from my arms. How easy to tell myself
I was having fun, that this was all there was to life. Endless years of nothing.
Curse it, curse all of them. My happy mood, carefully cultivated, shattered, the thin veneer of
my need to hide behind laughter and drink and the facade of civility crushed as I released one of
my partners. Who were they to me? Who was I to them? Horrible, relentless, the pressure of my
existence surged inside me, fed by nectar and the press of so many of my peers, all as useless as I
was.
There had to be more. Life couldn't be this endless dance of emptiness. My eyes rose, met
Ahbi's.
A desperate need to feel, to act, to perform and be seen, drove me forward. A huge smile split
my face as I tossed back the last gulp of my present goblet of nectar, throwing the stone glass to
the side. Three strides took me to the thrones where I beamed up at my Ruler.
Time to push my luck.
I swept into a deep bow, arms outstretched before I winked at Ahbi and held out one hand.
“Most glorious of Rulers,” I said, “may I have this dance?”
Well now. That got their attention, didn't it? Even the band paused, the whole room
watching, waiting for the lightning strike of power, my untimely demise for having the audacity
to approach Ahbi in such a manner. I could practically feel Mother's wrath, Father's
disappointment.
But they didn't matter to me, not while Ahbi sat with her expression of stone, staring at me
with her amber eyes.
Was that the hint of a smile? Indeed, it was. Ahbi rose, taller than me, taller than Haralthazar,
her long, silver braid swinging over one shoulder, the rest of it piled in elaborate curls. I think
her fancy coif was part of her show, making her appear even larger. While the entire gathering
gasped, she shed her royal robe, exposing her muscular bare arms, broad shoulders and the lean,
powerful body she still had after all these centuries. My heart quivered in a mix of anxiety I was
getting away with my pertness and excitement as she descended the three steps to the polished
stone floor and accepted my offered hand.
I wasn't sure if I should laugh out loud in victory or be afraid. But she smiled for certain this
time and, not surprisingly, took the lead, pulling me out into the center of the rapidly emptying
dance floor with a nod of command to the band.
“Well, my naughty Sassafras,” Ahbi said, voice deep and low, light glinting on her horns
curved in three spirals, a mark of her great age, “what mischief is this?”
“You simply looked bored,” I quipped as she led us through the steps of a dance I'd never
done before, trusting she would never allow either of us to look foolish. “I thought to lighten
your mood, dearest Ruler.”
Her laughter rumbled, fed by her incredible power. “Don't for a moment think I will ever
underestimate your need for trouble making,” she said. “But in this instance, I will tolerate it.
Because I was bored.” One wide eye winked slowly at me.
If there was anyone I could love, if there really was such an emotion, it would be Ahbi. If
only because she didn’t judge me. “How do you do it?” My words came out in a rush, unbidden,
unchosen. “Survive this. For so long.” Bitterness burned down my aching throat. “What more is
there?”
She didn't answer right away, only danced the last few steps before the band wound down.
When she stopped, she didn't release me immediately, instead holding my hand in hers while her
cold face softened ever so slightly.
“Darling boy,” she said in a whisper only I could hear, “I wish I could answer you. Power
calls, duty.” Her fingers squeezed. “You are so powerful, have so much ambition, confidence in
your magic. You could be a force to reckon with, a valued advisor someday.” Such a compliment
I’d never received. Until the sparkle left her eyes as she went on, a warning flaring in them. “I
fear for you, though, for the arrogance your lack of direction drives you to. It will be your
downfall. And I will be very sorry to see you fall, Sassafras.”
Ahbi left me then, sweeping her majestic way back to her throne while the stunned group of
demons slowly went back to their pretend jocularity, leaving me to stagger to the outer rim of the
room while my heart hung heavy inside me.
Duty I cared nothing for. But power? That I understood. I seized on her words, shoving aside
her warning, and took my leave of the farce she'd created around her.
Avenesequoia met me at the platform, her tiny body quivering as she grasped my hand and
pulled me to a stop. “Stay with me,” she said. “Sassafras, please. No fighting tonight.”
“Enjoy the party,” I said, jerking my hand free. “I'll see you in the morning.”
“Let him go.” My brother joined her, Jabuticabron overshadowing her as he always did.
“He's out to ruin himself and we don't need to go down with him.”
Arrogant? Me? My brother wore the label as well as I did. I saluted them both as the elevator
descended, turning my back on them to stare out over Ostrogotho, but not seeing the vast city
stretching out below me. Not while I found myself lost in the need to hurt someone just to feel
anything but despair.
Ruin myself? That had already been done.
***
RUN
every step counts
http://bit.ly/runhunted
Copyright 2011 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Stephanie Mooney. All rights reserved.
***
This was the first book I published under my own label, the three sequels quickly following,
all available now. I have to warn you, Reid doesn’t give you much time to stop and breathe. This
supernatural thriller’s title is apt.
Prepare yourself to RUN.
***
Chapter One
Reid wakes in darkness. But not quiet, steady darkness like he’s used to, the kind that lulls
him to sleep and keeps him there. This blackness is full of motion and sound. Mind fog drifts
around him, keeping his thoughts from forming clearly. He has only a moment to wonder what is
happening when he is spun sideways and slammed into something hard. His right shoulder
protests, recognizing the pain. It was a blow like this one that woke him in the first place.
He knows he has to sit up, instincts warring with the disorientation and confusion in his
mind. Flickers of memory only taunt him, offering no answers through the curtain of mist
keeping him helpless. His hands and feet feel tight, almost numb. Reid shakes his head a little,
cheek pressed to something harsh that scratches against his face when he moves. It smells like
plastic and rusting metal. And someone else’s vomit.
At least, as far as he can tell it’s someone else’s.
This time when the motion sends him flying, he realizes he is in a vehicle of some kind. His
mind guesses a van. Even though he can’t see, he can feel the space around him, hollow and
empty. Reid blinks, trying to restore his vision, but his eyelashes meet fabric over and over,
fluttering against the blindfold like a desperately trapped bird. Everything he does to work it
loose fails, his coordination missing. The throbbing in his temples makes it impossible to focus.
A moan rises in his throat. He can’t stop it. His stomach clenches against a wave of nausea,
heart beat pounding one moment before skipping erratically the next. Panic joins the party,
taking him and shaking him until he finds himself thrashing against his bonds in an all-out
struggle for freedom. The pounding in his head gets louder and more insistent and he can’t keep
it in anymore.
“Hey!” His voice is raw and jagged, throat burning. He only then realizes how thirsty he is.
“What the hell! Let me out!” His protests devolve into wordless yelling, as desperate as his fight
against his captivity.
It’s not long before only silence emerges from his tortured throat. His strength is gone in
moments. The fog in his mind is lifting, but with it comes a horrible, creeping weakness. Reid
collapses, gasping for air, voice completely gone. This can’t be happening. Stuff like this only
happens in the movies, right? Besides, he has nothing anyone would want. Orphaned, broke,
barely sixteen.
His mind spikes fearfully at the thought of being in the hands of some kind of sick pervert
before shying from the idea. He does his best to flex his fingers and feet while his mind battles
him for control of his body, feeling the subtle tingle of blood trying to reach his extremities. He
finds if he keeps his attention on the job and it alone, he can stuff down a measure of the panic
and hold himself in check.
Reid swears to himself then and there, if he is under the control of a monster like that, he will
fight until one of them dies.
Someone laughs. Reid freezes, a lump of ice slamming into his already queasy stomach. But
the sound is muffled, coming from in front of him, as though through a wall or panel. Another
voice laughs with the first. Two of them then, as far as Reid can tell. Pedophiles don’t work in
pairs, do they? He has no idea, but decides not just to settle his mind.
He rolls forward as the driver hits the brakes. Reid impacts the front of the compartment with
his head, his neck buckling under the strain. He cries out, twisting his body forward, face tucked
to his chest. His torso slides in a semi-circle as the van comes to a hard halt, shoulders absorbing
the rest of the impact. A flicker of light makes it past his blindfold and he instantly strains toward
it, begging for it. More voices, new ones this time. Still muffled though, and impossible to
identify.
“Help me, please! Somebody!” Reid’s dull and crusty shout for attention gets him nothing.
No one answers him, saves him. He is on his own.
The van starts forward again, Reid at the mercy of its momentum. He is already covered in
protesting bruises and is just grateful nothing feels broken. The ride is rough and at one point he
is almost weightless. Reid cries out from the shock of it, just before the van slams to a halt once
more. He tucks just in time so his back bears the brunt of the assault, his body curled into a tight
‘C’. Weight shifts at the front of the van. Two doors slam in rapid succession. Reid takes one
more panicked moment to tear at the bonds holding him. He needs to get free before they can
reach him. But they are already there. The door creaks near his feet, and cool, fresh air floods the
back of the van. He wishes he could welcome it as it washes over him, but he fears the end of the
journey.
Until he catches a familiar scent that shifts him into happy memory. Reid isn’t sure why the
smell of trees and the outdoors makes him feel better, but it does. Hands grab his feet and jerk
him out horizontal, dumping him on the ground, while his father’s face swims in his mind. He
cries out, attempting to lash around with his legs and hands, hard to do with them tied so tightly.
“Quit it, you,” one voice tells him, rough and old like the edge of a rusty saw.
“Aw, let him struggle,” the other laughs, nasal and piercing in the quiet. “He’ll be needing
the fight in him.”
They both laugh then. Like this whole thing is some big joke. Reid kicks out when hands
settled on him again. Bright lights flash in his head as something bony and hot impacts his jaw.
He drifts into the fog, wanting to fight back, but lost in the darkness. He is only aware enough of
his surroundings to understand he is being carried somewhere, but has no way to stop his captors
from doing with him as they wish.
His mind tells him to quit. Reid almost listens. But his heart is too strong, his instincts taking
control where his thoughts fail him. The moment he is able, he begins his struggle all over again.
“Tough little bugger,” the first voice says, then grunts as Reid feels his sneaker impact
something soft but firm. “Ruddy bastard!”
The second voice laughs.
“That’s it,” the first grouses as the world tips and shifts so Reid’s feet are pointed almost at
the ground, his stomach aching from the disorientation of it, “you get the damned feet next
time.”
The hands on him vanish. For an instant he hangs suspended in time and space. Gravity
reasserts and he lands hard, flat on his back, the wind in his lungs gone from the sudden stop.
Hands loosen his bonds, but he is too breathless to react to the chance of sudden freedom.
“Good luck, kid,” the first voice says. One of them hocks up phlegm and spits noisily.
“You’re going to need it.”
“Luck?” The other says, footsteps and voices fading in the distance as they leave him there.
“Ain’t no luck going to save him now.”
Their laughter leads them out.
Alone, Reid gasps in a deep breath, then another. It hurts his ribs, his lungs. He manages to
roll over on his right side and regrets it. His shoulder roars in protest. Still, he is finally able to
wriggle his numb hands loose from what holds him and claw at the cloth around his eyes.
Darkness. But not complete. The moon is up. Trees loom over him, the smell of spruce and
fresh air so sharp it almost hurts. He doesn’t take the time to look around, not yet, but jerks at the
plastic ties that hold his ankles, gasping in pain as the circulation returns to his useless fingers.
His vision swims through a veil of pain-laden tears, but he manages somehow to force his
screaming hands to work the ties loose and he is free.
Reid’s first instinct is to bolt. When he tries, he collapses immediately. His feet suffer the
same fate as his hands. He spends a long time writhing on the ground in the dirt, suffering the
agony of long-lost blood flow.
By the time he is able to wipe the tears from his face and sit up, the moon overhead has
moved a fair distance. Reid tries to stand again and manages to get to his knees. He half walks,
half crawls his way forward, his aching hands finding the bark of a thick tree. Touching it makes
everything worse, because the roughness of it proves this nightmare is real.
Reid uses the support of the oak to haul himself upright. He leans back against the gnarled
trunk and fights to get his bearings, physically and mentally. His tongue runs over his teeth, furry
with bacteria, an odd taste in his mouth making him gag. He works up some saliva and swishes it
around, spitting it out like his captor did. The act of leaning forward to do so almost puts him
back on his knees as a wave of dizziness sends him reeling.
Reid clutches at the trunk again and hugs it, keeping himself upright, desperately grateful for
its steadfast strength. He would have never thought before that night a lowly tree could be his
best friend.
He is feeling better, more alert, but the weariness still clings to him, the haze in his head slow
to lift. He wants to collapse to the ground and close his eyes, to sleep and pretend this isn’t
happening. But he knows that isn’t an option. No more than letting some pervert have his way
with him. Reid has to get out of there.
Where is there exactly? He has no way of finding out, not from where he is standing. In his
struggle to be upright he got turned around and hasn’t a clue which way the voices went when
they left him. And why kidnap him only to dump him in the woods? None of it makes sense. But
Reid doesn’t care about any of that right now. All he cares about is going home.
At least there is a path. He can see it winding through the trees. Reid tries to scan further
ahead and spots an upgrade. He remembers being carried like he was descending and a wave of
relief, his first since this started, washes through him. His lips twist into a grin. Idiots. They
totally gave it away. Now he knows where to go.
He gathers himself for another moment before trying to walk. It’s surprisingly easy
considering what he’s gone through. His feet have recovered enough he can feel the roughness of
the path through his sneakers. Reid is grateful his captors didn’t do any permanent damage. A
broken bone or two would have made what he is trying much harder, if not impossible. But he is
in relatively good shape, a natural athlete, and figures with enough time and rest he’ll find his
way out.
After a few staggered steps, he gets his stride back and heads down the path. The moon is
behind him, lighting his way, casting his shadow forward and to the left. He knows that means he
is traveling in a certain direction, can hear his father telling him about it, but can’t concentrate on
it and lets it be. Not like it matters much, anyway. He has no intention of needing that
information. The path should take him where he needs to go.
Reid stumbles over a large root dividing the path and takes a sudden fall to the left. His hand
instinctively reaches out for support and finds the bark of a tree. It saves him from falling, the
hand that caught it sliding over the coarse coating of moss and loose wood. As it does, he feels a
change in the contact. Something soft protrudes from the trunk. He turns to look, eyes settling on
the moonlit gaze of a boy.
It takes Reid a moment to register and another to process. The kid is as tall as he is, but looks
a lot younger. His eyes are wide open, staring, glaring. There is something wrong with the front
of his shirt. Reid takes in the blank stare, fingers still traveling over the boy’s clothing until they
come to rest on the large, dark patch over the kid’s stomach. Wetness resides there. Reid pulls
his hand back and looks. The liquid is black in the moonlight but has a distinctive aroma.
Coppery. And now that he is paying attention, he notices another smell. A heavy and angry scent
that makes his nose constrict, his stomach flutter, his mind shriek in fear even as he looks down
and notices the boy’s sneakers are a good foot off the ground.
The kid smells like road kill, like some squashed skunk or car-flattened raccoon left too long
in the sun. Reid backs away in a hurry, slips on something slimy underfoot, stumbles and falls,
not noticing the impact, eyes locked on the gaping wound in the boy’s stomach. Someone is
screaming into the darkness. When he realizes it’s him, Reid shuts down. His own belly lurches,
tries to expel something, anything, but only bile comes up. Reid hastily wipes his fingers on the
ground, desperate to get the boy’s blood off of him. It seems very important for some reason.
The kid is pinned to the tree trunk with what looks like big metal spikes. He dangles there, a
sick and twisted art project, thought up by a madman.
Reid tries to rise, but the slick something that sent him to the ground is still stuck to his
sneaker. He looks down and screams again. A length of sausage-like intestine clings to him. It
drags after him like an obscene and putrid snake as he back-pedals on his hands and feet further
from the dead kid. When he understands he is bringing it with him, he kicks out. The coil flies
off, the contents splattering into the forest with soft, wet sounds, the flattened section landing in
the middle of the path, ridged with the impression of his shoe.
Reid gasps for breath, chokes on the fresh air tainted with decay. He scrambles to his feet
again, scraping his sneaker against the uneven ground, digging into the dirt of the path to get the
boy’s insides off of him. It isn’t until he backs into a tree that his real fear kicks in.
The boy stares at him, warns him with his empty eyes, blood running in black rivers from his
gut and where the spikes hold his collarbone taut. Run, he seems to whisper. Run before it’s too
late.
Reid can’t. His body is frozen from dawning realization. The boy is dead. Dead. How, who,
why, when…? The questions sputter through his mind, spin and twine around his fear and drive
him to panic. But none of this matter. Not really. After the initial shock settles over him, all that
really gets through to Reid is that he must be there for the same reason as this boy and that means
he could be next.
The very thought drives his heart to race harder, faster, so much so he struggles to stay
conscious, feeling the darkness reaching out to grab him and drag him under. He almost gives in
to it, would have, he is sure of it, if it weren’t for the noise.
It is nothing, really. The crack of a small branch, easily explained away by the shifting of the
wind or the natural release of deadwood. But, to Reid, it is a gunshot right to his flight instinct.
He doesn’t think or breathe or flinch. Instead, Reid turns and runs.
***
Chapter Two
Reid runs until his lungs threaten to cave in. Reid runs until his ankles lose their feeling. Reid
runs, the flight of a terrified animal, flinging himself forward into the unknown because he has
no other choice and simply isn’t able to stop himself.
Reid runs until he can’t anymore. His body betrays him at last, the exertion too much for his
weakened state. He staggers to a halt in the near dark of the path, barely catching himself from
falling over as his equilibrium rushes to keep up with the rest of him. He collapses forward,
hands on knees. What is left of his lungs heaves for air. Adrenaline pours through his system,
sharpening his senses, driving away the last of whatever drug his kidnappers gave him that
dulled his mind.
At least he can think now. But he isn’t sure that’s a good thing. Especially when he looks up
and finds himself so exposed. What the hell is he thinking? He ducks into the trees off the path,
suddenly not sure if hiding is even an option. Did that kid try to hide? If so, it didn’t work out so
well for him. Reid’s mind continues to spin with questions he has no way of answering. Still,
they are more coherent than they were before his headlong dash.
Who was that boy? Where did he come from? More importantly, who killed him? And why
was he left on the path?
As a warning. Reid’s brain works that much out. Of course. But why warn him at all? If he is
prey for something or someone, if this is some kind of sick game and he is the target, why tip
him off?
They want me afraid. More fun for the hunter.
His mind refuses to accept it. He has to be over reacting. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen in
real life. It’s way too Hollywood. Any second now someone will show up and flash a camera in
his face and laugh, telling him how stupid he looked running from a movie prop. Reid shudders
from the memory of the boy’s entrails. No. That was real. Too real. It isn’t possible. And yet,
here he is, alone and abandoned in the dark, deep in a forest he knows nothing about, left there
by two men who seemed to think his luck has run out. How do they know?
He’s still in shock and fights the affects, knowing it is slowing him down, keeping him
stupid, forcing him to react instead of doing what he needs to do to survive. He thanks his father
silently in the dark for teaching him how to handle himself in the woods.
To a point. Good old Dad never mentioned being kidnapped, dumped and hunted in the
wilderness survival boot camp he made Reid run through for two weeks every summer. It had
been fun, then. This is most definitely nothing like that.
Still, his father’s levelheaded nature wins through and shakes Reid into some kind of calm.
Enough he is able to work some things out.
I need answers. But first, I need to find out where I am and if I can get away.
It isn’t much of a plan, but it makes him feel a little better. Just the idea of acting settles his
mind and helps him focus. Reid turns and looks up at the moon. First thing’s first. Bearings and
direction. If he can figure out which way is north, he will at least be able to pick a goal and
follow it consistently. Lost In The Woods 101. Basics, really. Stuff he’s known most of his life.
But at the moment, those basics are the only lifeline he has to cling to. Not for the last time, Reid
whispers another thank you to his dead father.
His eyes register a flicker in the trees across the path. It’s only the barest of movements, but
it freaks him out and forces him deeper into the surrounding forest. Reid struggles for calm. He
needs to focus. Everything that happens from now on is important and if he doesn’t keep it
together, he will die. The kid with the empty gut and the rotting entrails convinced him of that.
The flicker gets closer. Just a brief shadow passing, something darker than night moving
through the trees, weaving in and out of sight. At times it disappears for so long Reid is sure it’s
his imagination until it shows up again. He holds his breath and eases himself low to the ground,
ignoring the scratches he gets from the underbrush and the risk of poison oak or ivy, keeping to
the full shadows. Every movement crushes needles, stirs the dirt at his feet, filling his nose with
the smell of the forest. He does his best to be silent. After all, it could be an animal. Tons of big
cats and even bears in these woods, he’s sure. He desperately tries to remember what his father
told him about surviving animal attacks, all the while trying to convince himself it must be some
sort of carnivorous predator looking for dinner.
For some reason, he’s pretty sure it isn’t.
When the flickering shadow emerges from the darkness and sets foot on the path, Reid softly
exhales through his mouth in a combination of fear and relief. Not an animal then. A man,
dressed all in black. Reid half wishes it was some kind of wild creature. On the other hand, if it
were, he might have a harder time. A bear or a mountain lion could take him out with little
chance of defending himself. There is hope he might escape from a man.
Reid watches the dark figure glide silently down the path, everything about him screaming
predator and he suddenly wonders if he’s right to think there is any escape from this enemy. The
hunter’s clothing is tight to his body, right down to a full hood that covers his head but leaves his
pale face exposed. Reid doesn’t see any weapons. He knows that means little. Besides, it’s not
the man’s attire that freaks Reid out the most. It’s the way he moves. Every motion is so fluid
Reid shudders. There is no way a man can move like that, not even the best-trained commando.
There is an unnaturalness to it, more animal than human, but even beyond what a skulking cat
could pull off.
Reid’s panic takes him over for a heartbeat, screaming at him to get away. The man is a
monster, has to be, something out of a horror novel or a scary movie, a creature that only looks
like a man. Reid spends the next ten seconds being wrenched back and forth between his terror
and his need to understand. He finally manages to wrestle himself back under control just as the
hunter comes to a halt across from him.
Every cell in Reid’s body demands he run, and now. He holds himself in check, his father’s
patient voice telling him over and over, never run from a predator. Always best to hide or play
dead. Although supposedly making loud noises would do the trick as well, but somehow Reid
doesn’t think that will do him any good. The idea is so ludicrous he almost giggles from the
stress. His skin vibrates with the agony of keeping still.
He has to tell himself over and over that this is just a man. Nothing special. Just very well
trained. He has no way of knowing if he can outrun this hunter and hiding seems his best choice.
Playing dead will only end with him being dead. Hiding is it. But his instincts are on fire and he
desperately needs to put distance between them any way he can.
Sweat forms on Reid’s upper lip, tricking down the corner of his mouth. Not thinking about
it, he licks it away, eyes never leaving the man on the path. The dark head cocks to the side as
Reid’s tongue moves over his skin, as though hearing the near silent swipe of flesh on flesh. Reid
freezes and holds his breath. No way. There is no way the man heard him. And yet, the dark
figure turns further toward him and lifts his head. Reid hears snuffling. Impossible. Crazy. But
it’s the only explanation.
The man is searching for him by smell.
For a moment an irrational thought crosses Reid’s mind as he crouches there in the darkness,
watching the hunter come closer and closer. What if this man can help him? Reid is running only
because of the boy he found. What if this man wasn’t involved but is here to save him? Reid has
no idea what is going on. Maybe if he cries out he will be saved. He catches himself as his
weight shifts forward unbidden, his frantic mind searching for the logic in what is happening to
him. He holds himself still and quiet again, battling his terror while he resists wiping the sweat
from his face.
He’ll hear me.
How, Reid hasn’t a clue. But he knows it is true. And when the man’s face turns toward the
bushes where Reid hides, when he freezes on the path and focuses on Reid crouching in the
shadows, though there is no way he should be able to spot anything in the heavy black, Reid is
grateful he stilled that impulse.
This man is deadly. There is no question of that, no doubt. Trusting this man would be like
handing himself over to the devil. For all Reid knows, that’s exactly who the hunter is. And he is
hunting. Everything about him yells it out loud despite his body’s silence. There is no mistake,
no misunderstanding.
And he knows Reid is there.
Run. He needs to run. But he is trapped in the underbrush. He can feel the prickle of thorns,
the tug of the branches around him, as though the very forest has turned against him and will
serve him up as a sacrifice to the hunter. Reid knows he might be able to escape deeper into the
trees, but without light to see by he will most likely fall in his flight and be caught. He stays
frozen, new indecision tearing him in half. He is unable to act as the man takes one sliding step
closer, then another. It’s like the battle between flight and terror cannot be won and Reid is
caught in the middle with certain death only a breath away.
His heart is about to burst from it, he is certain. He needn’t wait for the hunter to catch him.
His own body might kill him first. But even while he thinks it, Reid is also sure of one more
thing. If the man catches him, Reid will die. And no one will ever know.
Something starts out of the bushes further down the path. The sound is so sudden and loud in
the stillness, Reid has to clamp both hands over his mouth to keep from crying out. His eyes
immediately go to the source, expecting a deer or maybe a fox. Instead, he spots a skinny figure
staggering onto the trail. It’s a boy, about the same age as the other, the dead one on the tree. He
stills like a terrified rabbit, face turned back toward Reid for a second before he tries to run.
He is clearly terrified.
Where the hell did he come from? Reid’s mind can’t keep up. No so the hunter. The man is
in liquid motion without hesitation, prey in hand before the boy is able to take a step.
“Please!” The kid’s voice is high-pitched and catches at the end. “Please!” Reid can see him
between the man’s legs, sneakers beating useless time against the ground, small fists thumping
against the hunter’s chest, his struggles ignored. His face is just visible in the moonlight. He
looks like he’s dead already, skin ghostly pale where it isn’t streaked with filth, eyes sunken pits
of black in the dark. “Don’t kill me, please!”
The man says something. At least, Reid thinks so. It sounds partway between words and a
chuckle. But the hunter can’t be laughing. Can’t be. Not while his arm lifts, hand raising high
above his head, his intent obvious. There is nothing funny about the way he holds his body, how
he clutches the boy so tightly there is no escape. The edge of a knife shines silver in the
moonlight.
Reid knows what is coming. Feels his own guts wrench in sympathy and fear as he
remembers the coils of intestine, the black, gaping hole in the abdomen of another boy. It can’t
happen again, not here, not now. And if it does, he can’t be there to watch.
Reid tries to hold back but his self-preservation is somehow overridden by his need to save
the kid. He yells, surges forward, tries to get to them but he is too late as the knife descends with
startling speed.
The boy screams, his cry driving Reid’s panic to take over control of his mind. As the shriek
ends abruptly, sighing to an endless gurgle, Reid spins and bolts down the path, instinct finally
winning over valor, the sound of the strange boy’s death urging him on.
***
The Hercules Project
http://bit.ly/herculesproject
Copyright 2012 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Christina G Gaudet. All rights reserved.
***
The first in a series, The Hercules Project blends the paranormal with one of my favorite
topics—super heroes. Look for the two sequels in 2014.
***
Chapter One
I hated Bring Your Parent to School Day.
Yeah, yeah. It’s not like I was in the same boat as the Brandson twins. But at least they were
exempt because of their stay in foster care. I unfortunately had zero excuses, having at least one
parent.
If you could call him that.
And what kind of freaked-out high school still held Bring Your Parent to School Day? I
thought I’d left the embarrassment behind in elementary. But oh no. My principal was one of
those guys who thought parental participation was a good thing.
He had no idea.
I winced as Miss Kelley bent over my wheelchair and smiled, raspberry seeds lodged in the
slim gap between her front teeth. Her sympathy was as obvious as what she had for breakfast.
“Maybe we can try again next week, Wyatt?”
The giggles and snickers from behind me crawled over my skin like a physical attack. I
wished my already withered body would just dry up and blow away so I didn’t have to deal with
the humiliation.
“Sorry,” I said. “Guess he forgot.”
Again. And again. My father was nothing if not absent. No, not absent- minded. Absent.
“Shall we get into our next lesson then?” Miss Kelley left me to simmer. When the class
groaned, I knew I was in for it later.
Boy, was I ever. It didn’t take long after I wheeled my way to my usual hiding place on the
nerd side of the student parking lot for my more disgruntled classmates to express their
dissatisfaction with my father’s habit of being a no-show in my life.
“Why Gnat.” Jimmy Anders should have graduated already. Nearly a head taller than most of
the other kids, he towered over me like an old oak, shaggy mud colored hair hanging in clumps
around his wide face. “I didn’t feel like learning anything today, Why Gnat.” He thought his
nickname choice so clever. Which was why he was still, and probably always would be, in
eleventh grade. “Parent’s Day is like a day off and you screwed it up. Where’s your daddy?”
I considered trying to escape. The benefit of having a place to hide was being outdone by my
need for notice by a teacher. But my chair only moved so fast and my arms were already
exhausted just from moving over the pitted asphalt.
“Good question.” It seemed the most non-offensive comeback from the variety of lines
popping into my head. Sarcasm and snark would only put me in deeper trouble, experience
warned me. I didn’t feel like waiting for a teacher to find me just so I could brush the dirt from
myself and get help back into my wheelchair.
Anyone who thought being disabled was some kind of bully defense had never met Jimmy
Anders.
“Probably too busy with all those alien dissections.” Jimmy’s best friend, Paul Kramer,
snorted his donkey laugh, gapped teeth showing as his lips peeled back.
Jimmy smacked Paul’s chest hard enough to make him back off a step.
“That true, Why Gnat?” Jimmy bent closer to me. His deep-set eyes showed not a glimmer of
intelligence. Blackheads sat in his sullen pores, wisps of hair hanging from his chin. I shuddered.
He had an odor reminiscent of old cigarette smoke and cabbage that reminded me of my dead
grandfather’s casket.
“Not as far as I know,” I said.
He grunted right in my face. I tried not to gag and held my breath, easing my head to the
side. Apparently a toothbrush had nothing to do with his daily routine.
Quite a crowd had gathered by then. I spotted Melody Adams looking at me and forgot all
about Jimmy for a moment. She even smiled, twirling a perfect blonde curl around her index
finger and giggling to someone next to her as she posed like a super model in her skin-tight jeans
and t-shirt, contact-tinted blue eyes sparkling like rare jewels in the sun.
She had the best giggle.
My chair shook and me with it, the personal earthquake caused by two huge fists grasping
the arms until the metal groaned in protest. I jerked my attention back to Jimmy.
“Answer the question, Why Gnat!”
Oops. There was a question? Melody and her friend giggled again.
“Um… no?” Best guess. I had a 50-50 chance.
Wrong answer.
“You being a smart ass?” Jimmy shook my chair again, the front wheels clearing the ground
for a moment as I popped an involuntary wheelie. “You said your daddy is a secret scientist.”
“He is,” I backpedaled, trying to guess his question. “Works for the military.”
“So why’d you say he wasn’t?”
Melody played with her gum. Lucky gum.
“Sorry, my mistake.” I hunted through my brain for something to make him stop shaking me.
“Top secret stuff, you know? Can’t tell me anything.”
Wouldn’t, that was.
“Cool,” Paul said, head bobbing. “Area 51, right?”
I didn’t bother to answer. Santa Fe was two whole states from Nevada. But it seemed to do
the trick for Jimmy. He backed off, still annoyed enough to kick my front tire.
“I missed out on a free class because of you.” Jimmy snuffled some mucus and spit to the
side, just missing my sneaker. “Instead I had to take notes.” Right. Like he even had an idea
which end of a pen to use, let alone what the term “notes” even meant. “Tell your daddy he
better show up next time.” He reached around and liberated my lunch from the back pocket of
my chair, proving just how grown up he really was. “Or else.”
So original. And yet, despite knowing how tiny his imagination could be, “or else” to Jimmy
likely involved physical harm and I was in bad enough shape.
Show over, the crowd quietly dispersed. I settled further into my seat and ignored the
rumbling in my stomach. This wasn’t the first time my lunch was stolen. I'd previously tucked a
snack bar away for just such emergencies, but didn’t have the energy to fish it out.
“Is your father really a scientist?”
I looked up to find Melody standing nearby. A small knot of her pretty and popular friends
hovered just behind her, whispering to each other and looking at me like it was funny. I didn’t
care. I may have been dying by inches every day, but at least I didn’t look like a wannabe clone
of the prettiest girl at school.
“Yes,” I said. “He really is.”
“That’s cool,” Melody said. “I’m sorry Jimmy is so mean to you.”
She was talking to me. The girl of my dreams, the head of the cheer squad and shoe-in for
prom queen no matter what grade she was in, was talking. To. Me. The disabled kid in the
wheelchair.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s not so bad. As long as he doesn’t breathe on me.”
She laughed at my joke. My heart jumped out of my chest and landed at her feet, panting like
an adoring puppy.
“Does it hurt?” She eased a bit closer. I wasn’t sure what she meant, distracted by the breeze
carrying the fragrance of her shampoo to my nose. There were cherries involved.
I loved cherries. Well, I did now.
“What?”
She laughed, covering her mouth with one hand, pointing at my wheelchair with the other.
Her friends' chatter fell silent.
Now I got it. The freak show was being called on to perform.
“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes.” All the time, but Melody didn’t need to know the details. How
sometimes I woke up screaming from the agony in my useless legs, or the knife-like stabbing in
my spine traveling to the base of my skull.
As much as I was sure telling her would win me sympathy, her compassion wasn't exactly
what I was after.
“Were you always… you know?” I could tell she was really curious, and not in a nasty way.
So I answered her.
“It’s genetic.”
She stared openly, like I’d given her some kind of permission. So did her friends. I never
realized before how much it bothered me most people just glanced at me and looked away rather
than being honest. But the staring? Yeah, just as bad.
“Will you get better?” Her sympathy was almost more than I could take. I'd never win
anything other than pity from Melody and I knew it. My happiness fizzled.
“No.” I looked away, wishing she would leave. The curiosity in her eyes ruined my fantasies
about her.
She took the hint. “Okay, well, see you, Wyatt.”
Melody turned and went back to her friends, making some remark I couldn’t hear, and they
all laughed. I didn’t want to consider what she told them probably wasn’t nice and instead
retreated to my imagination, letting it take me where my body couldn’t.
***
I waved as I ran, the football bouncing in my hand, the crowd going wild as I bounded the
last stride, well ahead of the panting pack, to score the winning touchdown.
Melody ran to me, her perfect body quivering in her cheerleader uniform, long lashes
blinking rapidly at me as she clutched my arm.
“Oh, Wyatt,” she breathed. “You're amazing!”
Jimmy jogged up, a goofy grin on his face, both hands outstretched as he fell to his knees
and offered me two bottles of water. “Wyatt,” he said, “you're my hero!”
As the team and the audience cheered and clapped, Melody grabbed my face in her hands
and pulled me down, her warm lips pressing against mine while other parts of her joined the fun
—
***
The bell rang, jerking me out of my happy creation.
Sad and pathetic, yeah. But it was how I made it through my days.
“Wyatt Simons?”
The sun went out. Probably because a big, hulking guy in a black suit filled the sky where it
used to be.
“Yes?” I took note of the standard issue sunglasses and the transparent coil running to his left
ear.
“Your father sent us.” Only then did I notice there were two black suited men blocking my
light. The government probably had a clone program for this type of agent. I could never tell
them apart. “You need to come with us.”
Make that triplets. My chair started to move as someone behind propelled my chair forward
before I could ask another question. That didn’t last long.
“Where are we going?” I hated the squeak in my voice.
“I’m afraid it’s classified,” Black Suit No.1 answered in his deep voice.
Visions of a zombie apocalypse double-tapped my heartbeat.
“Is everything okay?” I twisted around as much as my body would allow. The guy pushing
me had the same tank-like jaw line of his two buddies. “The world’s not, you know, ending or
anything?”
“Dr. Simons will explain everything when we get there,” Black Suit No.2 said in a similar
rumbling voice.
I felt heat flush my cheeks as my chair rolled through the parking lot and toward the front of
the school. It seemed like everyone watched and even though it was kind of cool having three
military agents escort me to some secret rendezvous, I wasn’t sure if I should be embarrassed or
not.
My appreciation would have been more forthcoming if I wasn’t so freaked out. Especially
considering Jimmy and Paul gaped like dying fish. They both backed off immediately when the
suits walked by them as if the two boys were invisible. I caught a glimpse of No.1 glaring at the
local bullies like they were in some kind of trouble. My last look at Jimmy was most satisfying. I
think he may have had an accident.
But Melody’s wide stare and little wave felt the best of all.
I think that's why I didn’t protest until it was too late. They wheeled me up to a giant black
SUV even before any of the supervising teachers had time to react. I spotted Mr. Pendergast
huffing his way over, but knew my physics instructor was outclassed before he even reached us.
“You can’t just take this boy,” he wheezed around his walrus mustache, round glasses fogged
up from the exertion it took him to haul his bulk to the SUV.
No.1 flashed a slick black ID holder. I caught a flicker of gold and an official-looking
document inside. Impressed the hell out of me, though I’d seen stuff like it my whole life, thanks
to Dad’s involvement with the army and his research. Still, there was nothing like having agents
and soldiers show up for secret meetings in the middle of the night to embed a feeling of awe and
apprehension at their presence.
“Mr. Simons is coming with us. National security. Back off, please, sir.”
No.1’s “please” wasn’t all that heartfelt from the tone of his voice and the way he and No.2
blocked my teacher with their considerably massive bodies. Mr. Pendergast didn’t stand a
chance. No.3 transferred me smoothly to a soft leather seat in the third row of the vehicle,
stowing my chair and slamming the door shut before the concerned teacher could even say my
name. I watched him argue with the two agents through the heavy tint of the glass, but his words
were muffled. I caught his brief “call the police” as the agents entered the front, only to be cut
off again as the passenger door closed firmly in his face.
No.1 turned the key, No.2 beside him while No.3 climbed in to sit directly in front of me,
blocking my view. His shoulders probably had their own time zone.
I wasn’t opposed to adventure, but these guys were seriously freaking me out.
“I want to talk to my dad.” The SUV pulled smoothly away from the curb, building speed,
forcing me back into the padded seat.
“Just try to relax, Mr. Simons,” No.3 said.
“I want to know what’s going on.” Now I wasn’t in a position to do anything about it, my
fight or flight reflex decided to make an appearance. Helpful.
“I’m afraid it’s classified,” No.3 said. “We would appreciate it if you remained calm and
quiet.” He glanced back at me over his shoulder, sunglasses still hiding his eyes.
Yes, I was scared of him. He didn’t do anything threatening, but it didn’t matter.
I sat back in my seat and tried not to worry.
Fail.
***
Chapter Two
They drove me out into the desert. I didn’t get to visit often, so I did my best to enjoy the
ride, though my view was blurred by our speed and the depth of the window tint, distorting the
scrub and dull gray of the soil.
If I hadn’t been looking, I would have missed the "No Trespassing" sign. We slowed briefly
before racing ahead. I caught a glimpse of a homemade gate manned by two men in plain
clothes.
“Subtle,” I said.
No.3 grunted at me, but it was all the reaction I received.
My pocket vibrated and I jumped before I realized it was only my phone ringing. It was
obvious to me who was calling before I even checked the number.
Abigail. Of course, the school contacted her. My primary caregiver, she had to be terrified.
Not like my father to give her any advance notice, either. Before I could answer and tell her I
was fine, a massive paw descended over the back of the seat and liberated my phone.
“I’m afraid that’s not permitted, Mr. Simons.” He hit end before killing the power and
tucking the phone into his inside pocket.
Fear or no fear, if I had something to hit him with, I would have.
“My nanny will be worried about me.” Abigail was way more than a nanny. Friend, teacher,
support staff, surrogate mom. She kept me going. I couldn’t just let them leave her in the dark.
“Ms. Franks has been informed,” No.1 said from the front seat.
Yeah. Right.
“Then how come she’s calling me?” I thought it a good question.
No.1 either wasn't permitted to or, more likely, couldn’t be bothered giving me an answer.
I was working on some smooth comebacks when we finally came to a halt, the force of
No.1’s braking rocking me in my seat. The front driver's window hummed down and his badge
flashed.
I could just make out the face of a camouflage-clad, rifle-wielding soldier on the driver’s side
while the dusty-edged windshield two seats away revealed a nondescript chain-link gate straight
ahead. My whole body convulsed in a shudder at the hum of electricity in the air. The tingle from
the fence made my hair stand on end. They must have been running enough volts through it to
take down an elephant.
A second guard sat behind the glass, watching from the small booth on the driver's side.
Another big black SUV sat parked beside it. I tried not to grin. The conspiracy theorists would
have a field day. If they were ever allowed to make it this far.
“Priority clearance,” No.1 said.
“We didn’t receive any orders.” The guard’s voice sounded deep and ground over my ears
like gravel. Exactly how I imagined a gate guard to a secret government facility would sound. I
wondered if they picked him for that reason. He peered in the back. “Who’s the kid?”
“Subject,” No.1 said. The guard looked at me again.
Hang on a second. Subject?
The soldier retreated to the shack and exchanged a few words with his partner. When he
returned, he seemed less grim.
“All clear,” he said.
The window hummed back into place. I felt the truck vibrate as the driver tapped the gas.
“What did he mean?” I found myself shaking.
No.3 refused to answer, just sat and stared straight ahead. I caught the two guards trying to
see inside, to catch another look at me.
When the steel-frame slid open just wide enough, the driver gunned the engine so hard the
tires spun on the old asphalt, sending up a plume of windblown dust and pebbles as he drove
through.
“You have to tell me what’s going on.” I was so overwhelmed by the implications of what
“subject” meant, I found it hard to order my thoughts. “I want to know what's going on.”
No.3 turned around and looked directly at me for the first time. He slid his glasses down
from his cold, empty green eyes.
“I said quiet.”
I didn’t appreciate the threat. But I was helpless and he knew it. I glared at him and sat back
again, turning my thoughts to my father. What was he getting me into? Whatever it was, it had to
be good or my father wouldn’t involve me. Right?
Um. Gulp.
My only consolation, and a small one at that, was we were getting close enough I’d have all
my questions answered shortly anyway.
We crested a small rise, a glimmer ahead catching my attention. Shock replaced curiosity
when we pulled up to what amounted to a shack in the middle of the desert. The dull gray,
corrugated metal had the odd rust spot showing. A shabby door wobbled on damaged hinges. I
found myself staring at the dilapidated building when the SUV door whooshed open beside me.
The heat hit, stealing my breath after the cool of the air-conditioned truck. My black-suited
babysitter jerked my door wide and easily lifted me from the seat, depositing me in my chair.
No.2 climbed back in the truck and the driver spun away. I choked on the dust of their departure,
even as I was wheeled toward the shell and through the creaking doorway into cool darkness
beyond.
So much for a run-down shanty. The shell was just that—a fake. The walls looked like thick
concrete, the ceiling and floor the same lifeless gray. A soldier lurched from his chair in the
corner, one single exposed bulb lighting the book he read.
He saluted abruptly as his eyes slid sideways and met mine.
“Sir.”
No.3 ignored him and keyed a panel beside two shining metal doors. A soft chime and a
whoosh of air revealed a large elevator. The soldier on guard didn’t have time to say anything
else before we were inside and falling. My stomach did slow turns as the number on the lit panel
above us tracked the floors. I was glad I missed lunch. At twenty the heavy drop slowed. At
twenty-four, the elevator came to a soft bouncing halt and the doors hissed open. No.3 rolled me
into a huge hallway of pale gray cement, fluorescent bulbs buzzing far above us. The walls
echoed with the agent’s footsteps and the hushed hum of my tires on concrete.
“ID,” a deep voice said as we came to a halt next to a heavy metal desk. A soldier with dull
eyes and a blonde crew cut blocked our way, one hand outstretched, the other resting on the gun
at his waist. To me, he seemed huge and intimidating and I hated feeling intimidated.
“This is the subject?”
When he looked away, I admit I felt relieved. The soldier’s cold gray eyes were the exact
color of the walls and reminded me of a hunting shark.
“As ordered.” No.3 handed over some paperwork.
“He’s just a kid.” The soldier seemed angry for some reason and I kind of hoped he’d hold us
back. It felt more and more like this was a very bad idea. My eyes drifted to his desk where a file
peeked at me. All I caught were the initials "HP".
Before I could ask what it was, with a swipe and a salute we were on our way, though I felt
the man’s eyes on me as we rushed past.
“So I shouldn’t be worried, right?” I tried to make it a joke, but leaned toward open panic.
The words “subject” tied to “project” sounded suspiciously like my father brought me here for an
experiment.
Surely not. My father would never expose me to danger or risk. He may not have paid much
attention to me my entire life, but I was sure in my heart he really did care about me and would
never do something so thoughtless and irresponsible.
The belief lost credibility as we cleared a last set of doors and entered a large lab.
There were so many white coats running here and there mixed in with uniform clad bodies
hovering around, I wondered how No.3 managed to maneuver me through them. Narrowly
avoiding a handful of near collisions, by the time we traveled halfway through the room, I was
no longer paying attention to the activity going on around me. I only had eyes for the huge,
glassed-in area at the end of the lab. Five soldiers in green t-shirts and boxers sat inside strapped
into chairs. I was so focused on them I almost missed we were rushing toward a glass door.
When we passed through it and to the last empty seat in the chamber, my heart was ready to
jump out of my body and make its own dash for safety.
“What are you doing?”
No.3 plucked me out of my wheelchair and securely strapped me into a three-point harness
before I could even think to fight, not that I could have struggled much. He ignored me and left
me there, carrying my folded chair out with him. I gaped, unable to breathe or think, watching
him exit and approach a white-coated man who turned when No.3 spoke to him.
I knew that scientist.
“Dad!”
He glanced at me and I felt a shudder of cold drive through my stomach. It was like he didn’t
see me at all. Dad approached the glass, standing behind a console while No.3 said something
else, but my father waved him away, his normal look of annoyance at least familiar. The agent
didn’t even glance my way as he left.
It was all happening so fast! I tugged against the harness, knowing I was far too weak to free
myself let alone escape without my chair, but unable to stop struggling. My focus was so intent
on trying to get my bent fingers to depress the clasp I almost missed the hiss. I looked up in
horror to see the glass door seal shut.
Whimpering escaped me as I fought harder. “Dad!” I felt my heart rate running dangerously
high, forced by years of illness to be conscious of my body's weaknesses. All this stress meant a
nosebleed at the very least or worse, a seizure, at any moment.
I watched in stunned understanding as my father stopped beside a big man in a welldecorated army uniform. They exchanged a few heated words while the pressure inside the
chamber increased. I swallowed hard, ears popping right away as the conversation between my
father and the big man ended. The burly officer met my gaze, held it. I stared into the strange
man’s eyes, knowing mine were terrified. He didn’t care to acknowledge my fear because it only
took him a moment to look away.
Panic overwhelmed me, sweat leaping to the surface of my skin, my pulse racing faster and
faster, a soft panting whine escaping my throat as I continued to struggle. “Dad! Please, what’s
going on? Dad!”
Someone whispered beside me, then a deep voice said, “Hey, kid, who let you in?”
My head whipped around. One of the soldiers looked at me, deep brown eyes warm, face
concerned. He grinned, bright lights from the ceiling of the chamber making his dark skin glow.
“It’s okay, I’m just teasing,” he said, voice like old velvet. “Your dad is Dr. Simons?”
I bobbed my head, unable to speak, suddenly breathless and cold.
“Just hang in there,” he said. “You’ll be okay. Your daddy wouldn’t do anything to hurt you
or any of us, okay?”
I nodded again, swallowing hard. The pressure increased further, pushing against me from all
directions, squeezing my body in a fist of compressing air. The telltale trickle of heat slid down
my throat and out my nose over my lip as a blood vessel burst.
Seizure imminent.
“Just breathe, kid,” the soldier said. “It’ll happen any minute now.”
I swiped my nose against my shoulder to get rid of the blood and managed to squeak a
question out as the light inside the chamber grew brighter.
“What will?”
Before the soldier had a chance to answer me, the floor started to shake and hum. My chair
vibrated as the light flared and blotted out the world. I struggled one last time with the remainder
of my strength, reaching out to my father as the light pulsed once with a deep thrum of sound
from beneath me.
Then everything went black.
***
Guardians of the Edge: Last of the Portal Keys
http://bit.ly/lastoftheportalkeys
Copyright 2012 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Christina G Gaudet. All rights reserved.
***
I’ve always been fascinated with stories of high-stakes thieves and how they break through
security systems. Not to mention thieves then influenced by the paranormal. The perfect
combination…
Guardians of the Edge is aimed at middle grade, but awesome for all ages. Look for the two
sequels to The Last of the Portal Keys in 2014.
***
Chapter One
He ran, close to forgetting everything they taught him in his panic and confusion. The alarms
blared around him as he hit the stairway, clutching the prize to his chest, weighted down by their
equipment and his, not caring the closed circuit cameras had him square in their sights.
Something had gone horribly wrong, worse than even they had anticipated could go wrong
in all their careful planning and years of experience. He was unable to wrap his mind around it.
There was no way he had seen what he had just seen. It was impossible they were gone,
impossible. And yet…
They were gone and he was alone and the guards were closing in.
***
Fifteen minutes earlier
***
The park outside the museum was quiet, the air still in the midsummer warmth. The tall brick
wall surrounding the grounds hummed with electric life as the fine strand of wire running across
its surface channeled power around the perimeter. If the resident frogs and sleeping crickets
registered the sudden silence of that hum, they raised no alarm. Nor did they react when a small,
slim figure in deepest black appeared at the top of the wall, pausing long enough for a quick
glance around before dropping to the lush grass on the other side.
It was only moments before the intruder was joined by two more. They were taller, one slim
and graceful, the other heavier, but just as silent in movement.
Twelve-year-old Aiden Trent, his every nerve focused on the job at hand, gave the tallest of
the three his full attention. Eric Trent gestured, palms down, to his son and wife. Both nodded
without hesitation. They followed their leader in a silent crouch across the grass to the thin line
of decorative trees rimming the old brick museum.
They paused to scan in their pre-appointed directions as Antoinette Trent pulled a slim black
device from one of her pockets and switched it on. She flipped the thumbs up sign, a strip of fair
skin and her blue eyes the only part of her face visible. The coast, for now, was clear.
Aiden checked the straps on his pack one last time, ensuring they were securely tightened
before easing himself toward the darkened light-pole on the other side of the tree line. He didn’t
bother sparing it a glance, avoiding the shards of glass on the pavement. He tried not to grin at
the memory of throwing stones at it that morning, being reprimanded by his elegantly dressed
parents when a guard caught him.
Kids these days, Aiden thought.
He slipped into the hole of darkness he created in the line of lights, approaching the wall as
he looked up. The building was very old red brick, the design a thief’s dream. It was solid for the
first floor. From there alcoves housing the tall windows punctured the surface. The convenient
slices in the outer walls were a perfect sheltered entry point reaching all the way to the roof.
Aiden had estimated it at fourteen feet to the lip of the depressions that morning, only to find
the blueprints indicated fifteen. He assured his parents as they stood over those cold, blunt plans,
studying them with impartial eyes, he could make it. It was the highest wall run he had
attempted, but he was confident in his ability. As it turned out, so were they.
Aiden drew a deep breath as he backed up three paces while the familiar double zing of
excitement and anxiety drove goosebumps to the surface of his skin. A successful wall run was a
mixture of skill, speed and equipment. One had to hit the wall at just the right angle, with the
perfect amount of lift and no hesitation. There would be no second attempt, he knew, in their
carefully timed assault. Failure was not an option. The idea of missing crossed his mind as the
thrill of the hunt mixed with ever-present caution. Aiden forced one last slow, even breath and
settled into the calm he'd trained for. Even at twelve, he was a master.
Aiden tensed his muscles for action as he ran at top speed toward the wall, pushing off from
the ground just as he reached it. Fingers scrambled for grip as his silicone-coated climbing shoes
touched brick, his toes pushing off and up. The pads of his gloves, also silicone coated and
embedded with barbs, gave him just enough purchase to reach the lip of the alcove. He pushed
down the surge of adrenaline so he could focus, sliding over the edge and getting to work
immediately.
Within heartbeats, a coil of knotted black rope slithered down the brick wall, his parents
silently ascending. Aiden didn’t stop to watch, heart rate rising as he addressed his next task,
already tackling the alcove. This was the tricky part. He slung himself upward, hands pressed to
one side and feet to the other, and began his ascent up the column of brick. His body wriggled
like a worm as he supported himself with only his feet and hands. A grin twisted his lips before
he could control the surge of triumph he felt when he settled in to climb. He'd carefully measured
the distance, knew what the blueprints told him. But blueprints were known to lie and he had no
way of really telling if what he read was reality.
Luck and good engineering were with him. The alcove sides were the perfect distance apart,
almost like a chimney, and he made short work of the trip.
Aiden hopped his hands higher than his feet at the top and pushed off, grasping the slippery,
metal-coated edge of the roof, pulling himself up and over. Again, he unslung knotted rope, dug
in a titanium piton and dropped the length over the side.
He had seconds to catch his breath before Eric was with him, followed by Antoinette. His
father gestured for them to follow. Antoinette paused for one moment, her hand squeezing
Aiden’s shoulder before they followed.
Aiden’s heart leaped at the touch, knowing he was doing very well. Again, he stifled his
excitement as his father’s voice echoed in his head.
A distracted thief is no thief at all, Eric always said.
Aiden refused to let them down, even for a moment, struggling to maintain his cool and
measured exterior so his parents wouldn't see just how much fun he was having.
A moment lost is a moment failed, his father said.
And so, Aiden took his appointed place and waited, pulse doing jumping-jacks as he focused
on his mother. She used her hand-held device to tap into the museum’s security system. Studying
the blueprints helped a great deal, he knew, something his parents always insisted on. The Trents
were cautious, especially now they had begun to share the family business with their only son.
Their source promised the schematics were current.
Aiden suppressed his disdain at the shoddy security in the museum, already far enough into
success his arrogance shone through. Privately owned by a recently-deceased philanthropist, the
Domino Center for Art and Antiquities was slated to close under the ownership of the dead
man’s daughters who had no desire to further their estranged parent’s pet project. The system
was only two years old, but in technological terms it was ancient. Aiden knew his parents could
tackle the project on their own and, for a moment, had been concerned as they bent over the
plans they might leave him home because of it.
Not to worry. Antoinette jabbed her finger at their best entry point and flashed him her
brilliant smile, lighting her sparkling blue eyes.
Time to fly, she said.
Aiden grinned.
And now, crouched beside his father, watching his mother work, he felt a rush of pride wipe
away all of his other surging emotions. They were a well-oiled machine, the three of them, where
once there had only been one, then two. His parents met on a job and had instantly fallen in love
over a tray of priceless coins. Ever since then, the couple had been inseparable, an invincible
team sought out by the most discerning of clients. And when Aiden came along--Antoinette
swore he was conceived on a job and was made for their line of work--they raised him to be the
best of both of them. A physical mixture of his father’s dark, chiseled handsomeness and his
mother’s pale beauty, he had any number of girls at his school chasing after him. Not that he
cared. His whole life was focused on what he did at night with his talented parents. School was a
cover for his real world.
Antoinette nodded once. She was in the system. Eric slid a small tube from his front pocket
and slowly extended it. The telescopic tube finished at about three feet long, topped by a small,
flat magnet.
Antoinette nodded again and led them to the rooftop entry to the stairwell. Aiden heard the
hum of the air conditioning unit as it kicked into high gear at his mother’s urging. He knew from
the specs the stairs were guarded by stationary cameras, the door itself by a magnetic proximity
alarm. Problem with magnetic alarms, they weren’t connected to the system, relying on
mechanical movement to trigger them. In this case, the door opening.
Antoinette made short work of the simple lock then backed away. Crouching next to the
door, she twisted the handle and eased it open a crack, making sure she kept the edge of the
connection between the magnet and its sensor. They all paused, Aiden's heart skipping one
painful beat as he held his breath. This was the moment of truth, always. If the blueprints were
wrong, this would be the first indication. Eric slid the thin magnet through the crack, canceling
out the seal between the door and the sensor, rendering it silent.
He eased the pole back, now magnet free, and bowed a little to Antoinette. Aiden could
almost hear his mother’s silent laughter and caught himself grinning again behind his mask.
Antoinette slid the door open another crack, and then pushed in all the way. A lift in his step and
his heart back to pulse-racing normal, Aiden followed his parents through the door, easing it
closed behind him.
***
Chapter Two
Dim emergency lights lit the stairwell, the main system shut down for the night. Aiden knew
there was still plenty of light for the cameras and hovered in his place, breathing through his
eagerness to move as Antoinette unslung her backpack and retrieved the mobile data unit. The
plan had been to hijack the connection from the originating transmitter and route it through
theirs. The system was wireless, making the takeover simple for one of Antoinette’s tech savvy.
He had every confidence in his talented mother and flashed her a wave when she again gave the
thumbs up. Antoinette left the transmitter at the top of the landing, easing her way down the first
step as she checked and rechecked her hand-held while Eric and Aiden performed constant visual
sweeps to make sure they hadn’t missed anything the blueprints may have left out.
Aiden slipped the spiked gloves from his slightly trembling hands, stowing them in one of his
pockets as he waited and shook out his fingers, knowing he had to steady himself if he was going
to pull off his next part of the plan. No time for excitement. He focused instead on the feeling of
the floor under his feet, the smell of the air filtered through his mask and the steady quiet of the
stairwell. The silicone sleeves on his shoes were silent and ensured a better grip once he reached
the marble of the main floor.
Antoinette continued to make her way down the stairs to the first camera. Aiden noted with
satisfaction the light on the unit shone amber, meaning it was in replay mode. He laughed to
himself they of all families would resort to one of the oldest tricks in the thief’s book.
If a gambit works, Eric always said, don’t mess with it.
Aiden ignored the cameras from then on, fully trusting his mother, focusing on his own work
and letting Antoinette do hers.
Your task is the most important thing you can do, Eric’s voice rang in his head. Keep your
wits about you, but forget everyone else’s.
When they reached the landing of the second floor, Antoinette and Eric repeated their magnet
trick and disabled the mechanical door alarm. Aiden, prepared for their move, slid through the
open door and down the hall of the second floor office complex. He sensed rather than heard his
parents easing away behind him, with their own jobs to complete. On his own, he felt his
eagerness rise and had to scold himself to return to calm. Aiden counted doors to the first corner
then hung a left, pausing to ensure there weren’t cameras after all. Again, the blueprints turned
out to be accurate.
Aiden crouched next to the door to the second office, sliding a pair of skin-tight gloves over
his hands. No trembling, perfect. He allowed himself a little jolt of confidence as he tried the
handle. Unlocked, as he knew it would be.
Trust is our best friend, Eric said. Other people’s that is.
Aiden slipped into the office, closing the door behind him, feeling the first stirrings of haste,
knowing his timing had to match his mother’s. But hurrying would only get him in trouble.
Balance was the key.
He removed a small hand-held device from one pocket and activated it while he drew and
expelled steady, even breaths. It registered the proximity of electronics, the more powerful the
more visible. Counting steps, he reached a small desk halfway into the room before crouching
below it. The display on his hand-held flashed. Aiden checked his watch, bouncing slightly on
his haunches to expel some of his pent-up energy. Three minutes.
Aiden unhooked his backpack and pulled free a small knife. Rechecking with his hand-held,
he made three decisive slits in the carpet before using the edge to pull back the flap. His
minicomputer pinned the fold of flooring as he replaced the knife and slid a compact hand-drill
out of his bag. His fingers fumbled the specially designed bit for a moment, but he caught it
before it could drop. Aiden hissed at himself through his teeth before carefully loading the thin
cylinder of metal into the drill. Eric had calculated the length of the bit to a hundredth of a
millimeter, measuring and re-measuring the distance between the wooden floor and the ceiling
panel below.
Aiden switched on the drill and gritted his teeth. This was another risky part. The bit made a
great deal of noise. It was up to his father to make sure Aiden was alerted if the sound brought
anyone running.
It took seven nervous seconds as calculated for him to drill down to the ceiling tile. Aiden
disassembled the bit and drill more slowly to ensure he didn't fumble again, still berating himself
for the slip up, until his father's voice broke through.
Bygones are bygones, Eric said. Don't let the past's mistakes let you get caught in the future.
Aiden shook off his self-anger and carefully stowed his tools away before rechecking his
hand-held. He grinned to himself. Right over the target. He looked at his watch. One minute.
The hand-held went back to press down the flap of carpet while Aiden rummaged in his bag
once more. Out came a thin insulated tube. Despite the layers of protection, he still felt the bite
of cold coming from it. Aiden slid the stopper from the cylinder and attached a funnel-like head
to the top, this time without hesitation or worry, his confidence rising back to normal levels. He
sat on his haunches, fighting the bounce in his knees, counting his breaths like his mother taught
him and the ticking of the seconds. Once again his need to hurry grabbed him and shook him. He
had to be on time. One moment either way and they failed. Aiden waited, counting down. He
knew his mother would be at the electrical panel on the other side of the building. They had to be
in sync to fool the alarm system in the room below.
Ten seconds. He inserted the funnel head into the hole, happy to see his hands were steady.
Five seconds. He adjusted his grip on the tube, breathing speeding up despite his best efforts.
Four seconds.
Three.
Two.
One.
Aiden twisted the tip of the tube as he exhaled deeply, opening the top to allow the tiny dry
ice pellets inside to slide free and down the hole.
Steam from the cooling air rose from the hole as he dispensed the pellets into the floor. Two
seconds. Four. Six. At the eight-second mark, the pellets ran out. He pulled the funnel free and
disassembled it from the now empty tube, stuffing it into his backpack. He allowed one glance at
the hand-held, one reassurance he'd done his job right. The pulsating spot had gone dark.
With the desire to shout and cheer raging inside him, Aiden replaced the device in his pocket
and slid free a tube of epoxy. Within two heartbeats he drew three wavy lines of glue with his
now shaking hands, capped it and tossed it in his pack, grinning so hard his face hurt. Aiden
turned to go before turning himself around with a soft curse, shaking his head at his lack of
control.
His last act in the room was to flip the lip of carpet back and use the toe of his shoe to press it
in place.
We never let them know where we were, came Eric’s voice. Just that we have what’s theirs.
Aiden shouldered his backpack, tightening the straps firmly as he left the room, reminding
himself he needed to keep focused. He slipped out and back down the hall, arriving near the
stairwell exit at exactly the same time as his parents.
Antoinette made the okay circle with her fingers as they went back into the stairwell. He felt
the warm pressure of Eric’s hand on his shoulder and knew they had done it.
They still had far to go, but he allowed himself a further moment of joy before following his
parents to the first floor.
***
Cat City
Book one of The Adventures of Susan and Tucker
http://bit.ly/cat_city
Copyright 2011 by Patti Larsen
***
I adore cats, have five giant boys of my own. But when my lovely veterinarian asked me why
I hadn’t written a book about cats yet, I had a flash of an image.
And Susan and Tucker were born.
There are two more books to come in this middle grade trilogy. Look for them in 2014.
***
Chapter One
Susan stood on the top step of the back porch, horribly upset with her circumstances.
Ever since Mom and Dad moved them so far from all her friends at Grand Point Elementary
to spend a dismal summer in a rundown old place with zero neighbors except for the creepy trees
that were everywhere, Susan’s life had become boring, boring, boring. She tried really hard not
to take it out on Mom, but it was so easy to be temperamental and feel sorry for herself,
especially considering she hadn’t had a say in the matter.
So Dad was offered a new job in a new place. So it gave Mom the chance to stay home and
renovate “the project,” a musty and distinctly creepy big house at the end of the endless lane of
trees, just like she had always wanted. What about what Susan wanted?
Like anyone cared what Susan wanted.
Stupid house, she thought. Stupid yard. Stupid rain.
The very last thing in the world she would choose to do was go out into the wet and
surprisingly cool June morning. But Mom hadn't given her a choice. After listening to Susan sigh
all morning, Mom finally had enough.
“Susan!” Mom said. “Outside!”
And that, Susan knew, was that.
So there she stood in her shiny red raincoat and matching red plaid mud boots Dad gave her
the first day they arrived. Susan despised them. She was, after all, ten, thank you very much, and
no civilized ten-year-old would be caught in red plaid rubber boots. At least no one would see
her in them besides Mom and Dad, and they didn’t count.
Susan pulled up the hood of her jacket, heading out into the yard. Everything was soaked.
Wet leaves clung to the slippery steps in bad need of a coat of paint. The grass lay limp and
heavy, brown in patches. Even the trees looked black, bark darkened by the never-ending rain.
Susan took one look at those wet and creepy trees and shuddered inside her red raincoat.
She made her way with tiptoeing steps through the grass. But no matter how hard she tried,
before long her new boots were coated in old brown twigs and stray leaves.
Ew, Susan thought. Gross.
There wasn't much for her to do outside either. This really was a silly idea, she decided as the
raindrops pattered noisily against her hood, the knees of her jeans catching the water so drips ran
down into her boots.
Susan turned around and trudged back to the kitchen door. She stopped at the bottom step
and examined herself. There was no way she was going back inside with so much junk clinging
to her. She took a seat on the lowest step, resigned to the fact she would have to be hands on to
get the job done.
She pulled free her first boot and began gingerly scraping off the wet mess with one finger.
And suddenly stopped, ears perked. She was sure she heard something, an out of the ordinary
thing. Rustling, maybe, and squeaking. Susan waited, head tilted, as she listened in the rain. Her
hood muffled most sound, making the raindrops so loud she was finally convinced she imagined
it and turned back to her dirty boot when she heard the sound again. Susan froze. The rustling
sounded louder, like whatever it was making the noise was coming closer to her.
Dirty boots or not, Susan wasn’t waiting around to see what nasty critter was headed her
way.
Just as she was about to pull her boot on and make a dash for the kitchen door, she heard
another noise. This time, the sound that made her pause was totally different.
It was the soft, pathetic mew of a cat.
Susan looked around, scanning the back yard for the source of the cry. No cat. She pulled her
boot back on absently, shifting first to her right then her left, her peripheral vision blocked by the
red hood. Still no cat. Susan waited and waited, almost but not quite giving up on the sound,
when it came again and closer than she first realized. So close, in fact, she thought the cat must
be right next to her.
Susan stood up and turned, but couldn’t see anything. She even lowered her hood so she
could hear better, the rain beading on her ponytail and across her freckled nose.
The cat mewed again, and this time Susan saw a flash of fur. It was hiding under the stairs.
Susan fell to her hands and knees, totally forgetting she hated being wet and dirty, and peered
through the riser of the steps into the dark, damp and filthy space between the porch and the
house. She could only see leaf piles and bits of garbage. She leaned closer still just as a bright
green eye and a handful of whiskers appeared on the other side.
Susan jumped back, startled, landing on her backside in the wet grass. She could clearly see
the cat, now, soaked and bedraggled, whiskers hanging low, as he made a soft, pleading mew,
one paw raising toward her as he shivered.
Susan’s heart reached out and her hands did too and the cat found his way into them and
against her raincoat. She cradled him against her, rain dripping from her onto him as he looked
up at her with his bright green eyes and started to purr.
Which, of course, sealed the deal for Susan. All that was left was to convince Mom he had to
stay.
She carried the wet bundle up the steps to the kitchen door. He was heavy, obviously well
fed, but she was sure he needed a home and was going to be her cat. Susan's heart swelled and
for the first time since she arrived in the old house, she was completely and utterly happy.
Mom stood in the kitchen, mouth open, cleaning supplies and yellow rubber gloves forgotten
as she took in the soaking, dirty cat in Susan’s arms. For an instant, Susan was afraid. What if
Mom said no? She was never allowed a pet before. Mom always thought they were too much
work. Susan bit her lower lip.
“Mom,” she said, not knowing she herself looked as lost and forlorn as the cat she clutched
in her arms. “Can we keep him?”
And to Susan’s delight, Mom smiled.
As it turned out, he was a cream tabby once he was cleaned up and dried off. Susan loved his
fur, the color of warm butterscotch with light reddish stripes through it, so soft it was almost cold
to the touch. Once dry, Kitty, as Susan decided to name him, was medium haired with a bit of a
mane and a thick, fluffy tail as long as he was. She loved to watch him coil it around his paws,
the fullness of it hiding half of him in a soft, furry cloud.
Her new friend changed her for the better. Susan actually started to enjoy the old house.
What was once boring and a little scary was now a grand adventure. Susan and Kitty spend
endless hours exploring the rooms and closets and hallways of the house, while she made up
stories and created adventures for them to play. She actually didn’t care so much about the rain
anymore. She was having so much fun, she actually sometimes forgot about her old life and her
old friends and even that Dad was gone all the time.
Susan loved Kitty so much she forgot about being sad.
Even Dad approved with a ruffle of Kitty's ears and a smile.
By the time a couple of days passed, Susan was so used to hiding out from the rain she was
annoyed to be woken one morning by a bright golden light. It was such a long time since she saw
the sun it took her some time to realize it was actually finally a nice day and she could go
outside. She didn’t realize until she was half-way down to the main floor that Kitty, who never
left her side, was no where to be found.
Susan made it to the kitchen, eyes going immediately to his bowl, but no Kitty. A feeling of
panic hit her. Where was he?
Susan went to Mom who was flipping pancakes.
“Have you seen Kitty?”
“No, honey,” Mom said, handing her a loaded plate.
“I can’t find him,” Susan said, tears welling. She was being silly. Ten years old and upset
because she couldn’t find her cat?
My best friend, her mind said as her lip twitched on its own.
“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” Mom said, giving her a push with her plate toward
the table. “He’ll probably show up before you finish your breakfast.”
Susan picked at her fruit-covered pancakes, appetite gone. “What if he doesn’t?”
Mom sat down next to Susan. “We’ll find him, honey, it’s okay.”
Susan glanced out the window at the sunshine and saw Kitty running through the grass into
the trees behind the house.
Mom must have seen her expression light up. “Okay, go on,” Mom said to Susan’s back. She
was already away like a shot.
Susan paused only long enough to put on her plaid boots and red coat. Then she was out the
door and running across the grass.
“Kitty!” Susan called as she ran. “Here, Kitty!”
She paused only briefly at the edge of the forest. It seemed not quite so scary anymore now
that the sun was shining.
At least until she was in them. The heavy trees were thick with leaves blocking out most of
the sunlight and making the air dim. And she thought she heard noises, soft scraping and
scuttling noises, and was sure for an instant she saw a pair of glowing red eyes in the bushes
ahead.
“Kitty?” Susan called. “Where are you going?”
She almost decided to turn back when she stumbled into a clearing, the center of which was a
huge oak tree.
Susan looked up and up the giant tree, unable to see its top. It was very old and very big and
she was almost afraid of it standing there, all alone in the middle of the woods.
Susan turned to leave when she heard a soft mew from up ahead. She froze, listening.
“Kitty? Is that you?” Susan walked closer to the tree. “Are you there?”
She heard it again, but this time from above her. Susan looked up and was sure she saw the
flash of Kitty’s tail disappear into the thick leaves of the tree.
“Kitty!” Susan was close enough now to touch the tree, tripping a little over the huge roots.
“Come down here right now!”
When Kitty didn’t appear, Susan tried to decide what to do. The smart and safe thing, she
knew, was to just go back to the house and wait for him to come home. That would be what
Mom would want her to do. But she worried Kitty wouldn’t come home, that he was only
waiting for the rain to stop to leave her.
She looked up the big tree and at the large branches she was sure would hold her weight, and
Susan, not always the bravest girl, decided going after Kitty was worth it.
She realized almost immediately rubber boots were not the best choice for climbing still-wet
tree branches. Even though the first one was low enough for her to get to easily, the slippery
soles of the plaid boots made going scary. Still, she didn’t think she had time to go back to the
house for a change of shoes, not with Kitty so close.
It didn’t take long to get to a good height in the tree. Susan reached for the next branch and
slipped, hitting her shin so hard tears sprang to her eyes. She clung to the bark and, for the first
time, looked down.
And quickly looked back up. Her heart pounding, Susan held on to the branch in front of her.
She clenched her eyes shut, suddenly so afraid she didn’t think she could go up or down, but
would remain stuck in the tree forever.
There was a soft mew from above. Susan unclenched her eyes and looked up. Kitty needed
her, she was sure of it. Susan swallowed her fear and reached for the next branch.
“I’m coming, Kitty,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
As Susan struggled for balance, red eyes appeared in a hole in the tree. She cried out, feeling
a sharp sting as something bit her hand. Susan screamed, her grip on the branch slipping. The
rubber of her boots slid along the wet bark and she fell as if in slow motion, the canopy of the
tree getting further and further away as she toppled backwards to the grass below.
Susan hit the ground hard, the back of her head meeting a rock. She felt darkness close in and
a soft, warm calm fall over her. She heard the scuffling, scuttling noises again as her world went
slowly black around the edges, along with harsh whispering voices and nasty giggles.
And then, nothing.
***
Chapter Two
The first thing Susan became aware of as the darkness left her was how the ground seemed
soft and warm, nothing like the wet hardness she remembered at all. And despite the fact she
knew she should at least try to get up, Susan was so comfortable and relaxed, she had no desire
to open her eyes.
Probably just a dream, she thought.
And what a dream! Bits and pieces floated back to her. Chasing Kitty through the woods,
finding the tree, being so afraid of how high she climbed… and, finally, the sting of the bite and
the evil red eyes laughing at her in horrible scratchy voices… Susan struggled to suppress the
memory as she came closer and closer to being all the way awake. Surely she imagined that part.
But, as she found her way all the way back, she realized her hand hurt exactly where whatever it
was had bitten her.
Now that she was more aware, Susan realized she was no longer out in the forest, but inside a
room. Most likely on a bed, she discovered, fingers exploring the edges of a quilt.
Susan was about to open her eyes and look when she became aware for the first time of softly
whispering voices not far away.
Her fear that the speakers were the same ones who hurt her were quickly set aside. Whoever
argued over her also weren’t Mom and Dad.
“You have no idea how much trouble you’ve brought here,” a female voice spoke.
“I told you,” a younger, male voice insisted, a little louder than the first. “I had no choice.
She was hurt—“
“Keep your voice down!” The female hissed. “Honestly, dear, the child would have been
fine. The mother would have found her.”
“In the sacred grove?” The young male spoke a little more softly, but he was obviously upset.
“You know Mom wouldn’t have been able to enter there.”
“Tucker is right, Cynthia,” a third, deeper male voice said.
“See?” said the one named Tucker.
“There were, however, other ways to deal with this, son,” Tucker’s father continued. “Ways
that wouldn’t have put us in this difficult position.”
“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.” Tucker tried to defend himself.
“Honestly,” Cynthia said. “Do you think the Council will care? There hasn’t been an incident
in…”
“You told the Council?” Tucker sounded very anxious which made Susan anxious.
“You didn’t give us much choice,” Cynthia said. “Bringing her here like this.”
“Mom!” Tucker didn’t even try to whisper. “I was going to take her right back! They didn’t
have to know!”
“Your mother made the right decision.” Tucker’s dad didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Despite your best intentions, son, it’s now up to the Council.”
“I have to see to the preparations, George.” Cynthia’s voice was moving, although Susan
couldn’t hear any footsteps. There was the sound of a door opening. “I could use some help.”
“Coming, dear.” George’s voice moved as well, but again in silence. There was a pause, then
a sigh from the direction of the doorway. “I’m sorry, Tucker.”
The door softly closed.
“Yeah, I get it. Whatever.”
The voice fell silent. Susan listened carefully for more, but the room was very quiet. She
startled badly when something heavy landed beside her, disturbing the bed.
“You can open your eyes now,” Tucker said. “They’re gone.”
Susan did. And stared in absolute amazement at the familiar butterscotch tabby she knew as
Kitty staring back at her.
“Kitty?” Susan couldn’t wrap her head around it. In fact, she was certain she was dreaming
now.
The tabby winced, whiskers twitching as the end of his tail rose and fell once, hard.
“No offense,” he said. “I hate that name. I’m Tucker.”
“Susan,” she said.
Tucker sneezed what Susan decided with absolute astonishment was his laugh.
“Yes,” Tucker said. “I know.”
They stared at each other for a long time, Tucker’s tail twitching ever so slightly.
“You have a lot of questions,” he said at last, lids closing once over his bright green eyes.
“You think?” Susan said.
“I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you.” Tucker's tail flipped forward to wrap
around his paws.
“I got you in trouble,” Susan said.
Again, the sneezing laugh. “Seriously, Susan. You’re sitting in my bedroom having a
conversation with a talking cat and all you worry about is you got me in trouble?” He laughed
again, one paw rising to swipe across his nose.
“I guess,” Susan said. “I still think this is all just a dream.”
“I wish I could tell you it was. Then you wouldn’t have to go to the Council…”
For the first time, Susan looked around as she struggled with what to say. Tucker’s room was
all honey-colored wood—walls, furniture, floor—with a stained glass window in the shape of a
cat’s head, soft light coming through. His bed was human sized, oddly enough, covered in a
patchwork of beautiful colors. Susan immediately felt at home in his room and knew she would
love to live there herself.
What am I thinking? Susan wondered. There’s no such thing as talking cats. Especially not
talking cats with bedrooms.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and absent-mindedly reached out to pet Tucker. Her
hand froze just above his head.
“What?” He said.
“I just… is it okay?” Susan bit her lip, not wanting to insult him. Was she dreaming or not?
“It’s okay,” Tucker said.
Susan gently stroked Tucker’s fur and his familiar huge purr started up. Susan almost
laughed, it was so unreal and yet, here he was, sitting next to her, purring.
“I was worried about you,” Susan said as Tucker’s green eyes closed over.
“I was worried about you, too,” Tucker told her. His eyes snapped open and the purr stopped
instantly. “I still am.”
“Tucker, what happened? Where are we and why am I here? Where did you go? I think
something bit me…” Susan looked down at her left hand and the angry red wound in the soft
skin between her thumb and first finger. “Ouch.”
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.” Tucker sounded a lot like she did when Mom and Dad told
her she wasn’t to do something she really wanted to.
Susan’s heart skipped as she remembered the glowing red eyes. “I think it was a rat. Did a rat
bite me? Why?”
Tucker never got the chance to answer. His door opened in that moment and two cats entered
the room.
Susan struggled not to laugh out of shock and nerves. One of the cats looked very much like
Tucker, but with darker stripes and a heavier build. The other was a crisp white with a pushed in
nose and deep amber eyes that fixed Susan in place the moment she entered. Susan knew
immediately this was Cynthia, Tucker’s mother, and that she was in very deep trouble indeed.
“Tucker!” Cynthia’s tail snapped back and forth. Susan noticed it was she who had the huge,
fluffy tail, not Tucker’s father. “Tell me you haven’t been talking to the girl!”
Tucker’s own tail slapped the covers, brushing Susan’s hand. “She has questions.”
“I bet she does,” Cynthia said. Her amber eyes fixed on Susan again, pushed in nose giving
her a distinctly angry appearance. “You are not welcome here, little girl. I was against Tucker
being sent to watch your house in the first place and now I know why. You are trouble and have
brought trouble on us.”
“Now, Cynthia,” George’s voice was mild, but Susan heard the weight of it. “It’s not Susan’s
fault.”
“None of this would have happened if we had just left well enough alone.” Cynthia’s tail
twitched violently, her pupils down to little slits.
“Too late,” Tucker said. “She’s here.”
“Not for long,” Cynthia said. “Tucker, out.”
The butterscotch tabby tensed, falling very still.
“Why?” Susan had used rebellion toward her parents before and knew it when she heard it.
She winced. It never went well for her, either.
“Tucker!” Cynthia’s voice climbed octaves as a whining growl echoed around it. “OUT!”
“Let’s go, son,” George said. The older cat made his way to the door. Tucker looked up at
Susan, ears flickering, one paw resting on the back of her hand, his tail wrapped around her
wrist.
“Susan…”
“It’s okay,” she said, sounding much braver than she felt. “I don’t want you to get into any
more trouble.”
Tucker waited one more moment before bumping her in the arm with his head and jumping
down from the bed. Susan watched Tucker make it to the door. He took one last look and left.
George followed behind him, softly closing the door.
Afraid, Susan turned to face Cynthia.
“You are to stay in this room,” Cynthia told her as the cat also made her way to the door.
“We will come for you when the Council is ready.”
“But!” Susan called after Cynthia as the white fluff of her tail disappeared, this time
thumping the door firmly shut behind her. “Wait!”
Susan went to the door. The handle was strange, a hole with four round impressions.
“Paw print,” Susan said aloud. And try as she might, she couldn’t get the door to open.
Finally, after a great deal of prodding and pushing, Susan gave up, going back to the bed. Her
hand was really aching and her head started to hurt now. Her exploring fingers found a large
lump where she hit the rock. Susan curled up, cradling her sore hand, trying not to put too much
weight on the pillow, feeling very lost and more than a little afraid.
For the first time since she was a very small girl, despite her best intentions and telling
herself over and over she would not, Susan cried herself to sleep.
***
Fresco
Book One of The Diamond City Trilogy
http://bit.ly/frescoDCT
Copyright 2010 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Stephanie Mooney. All rights reserved.
***
I grew up writing epic, not urban, fantasy. Then Fresco hitched a ride. Paranormal abilities
and drug addiction meet in the middle in this three book series.
The full Diamond City Trilogy is available now.
***
Chapter One
Fresco swallowed a mouthful of fresh-baked cookie as his best friend burst through the
kitchen door. Justin was early for once. The Lighting’s star linebacker drew a big breath,
expanding his substantial chest as he savored the aroma.
“Who’s the best mom ever?”
Fran Conte giggled. Fresco’s mother dished hot treats onto a plate with a bright pink spatula.
He snagged another as his friend engulfed her in a massive hug, lifting her from the ground.
Justin planted a big on one her flushed cheek.
“Justin Collins, you put me down this instant!” Fran giggled even as she threatened him with
her oven mitts.
He winked at her but did as she asked. Fran’s left hand, still sheathed in puffy protection,
went instinctively to her short brown hair.
Like anything could mess it up, Fresco thought. His mother always appeared neat and tidy,
petite, compact, and flawless, if ordinary, in dress. She totally radiated ‘mom’ vibes.
Justin took terrible advantage of her.
“But, Mrs. Conte,” he said as he flashed her his most charming smile. “You know I can’t
resist you.”
“My cookies, you mean.” She tapped his wide T-shirted chest with her spatula. She peered
up the height he had on her over the rim of her round glasses, hazel eyes sparkling. He was an
easy six foot two where she barely called it at five one. “I’m on to you, Justin.”
Fresco grinned around his cookie, enjoying the exchange. Justin tossed back his dark brown
hair and clutched one hand to his chest in mock horror.
“Mrs. C! Your cookies mean nothing to me!”
Fresco laughed. “You been sneaking into drama class while I wasn’t looking?”
Justin rolled his eyes at his friend before smiling angelically at Fran. Fresco, blond to his
friend’s dark, had the innocent smile down pat, but Justin raised it to an art form. His deep brown
eyes shone with sincerity, handsome face full of charm. Fresco tried not to laugh again. Justin
was a natural.
“Oh, here.” Fran dumped a cookie into his waiting hands. “You’ll be into them in the car
anyway, the pair of you, so you might as well have one now.” Justin stuffed the whole thing in
his mouth as Fran turned and slapped Fresco’s fingers with her spatula when he tried to take a
third. “At least pretend they are going to make it as far as the door.”
Fresco dodged the dancing utensil and grabbed another cookie, devouring it in one bite,
brilliant blue eyes full of humor.
“’Kay,” he mumbled around it.
Fran rolled her eyes as Justin snuck another.
“Enough you two!” She chased the both of them away from the island in the center of the
bright and cheery kitchen. “Let me finish or you’ll be leaving without them!”
Fresco bent his lean body to the side, dodging her wrath. He made the stairs, laughing around
his cookie. Justin, with twenty pounds on his friend, thundered up behind him, stuffing down his
own. He followed Fresco to his room and leaned against the doorjamb.
“Your mom’s cool,” he said.
Fresco rolled his eyes. “She’s right. You just want cookies.”
Justin’s grin was no longer innocent, more devil than angel when parents weren’t around.
“Maybe.” His eyes went to Fresco’s desk, flashing nasty. “Done your homework yet?” His voice
melted honey.
Fresco groaned at the sight of his unfinished math questions. Playing football was the most
important part of his life, and there was no way he was missing it because he hadn’t done his
algebra.
“Don’t tell and I won’t,” he said. Justin smiled a devil’s smile.
“Show me up on the field and I might.”
Fresco made a rude gesture. Justin was a real jerk sometimes. Fresco wouldn’t put it past him
to screw him over. And his father’s rules were pretty strict around homework and football.
School came first.
The scent of cookies reached Fresco’s room. He wondered how many of the delicious
morsels his mom was lovingly placing in plastic containers would make it to the game. Justin
always drove and still managed to down half a box himself before they even got to the field.
Still, Fran kept making them, called them good luck. They had to be fresh baked, nothing cold or
packaged for her boys. Fresco grinned to himself, knowing the team would be all over him as
soon as he hit the locker room. Fran Conte’s cookies were legendary.
Seeing Justin’s eyes were still on his homework, he flipped shut the cover on his tattered red
binder, a disaster already despite the fact school only started six weeks before. He ignored the
knowing smirk on his friend’s face and grabbed his denim jacket.
Fresco loved living in California, where the days stayed nice pretty much all year round, but
late November brought cooler weather after the sun went down, and he didn’t want to catch a
chill. He expected to be run ragged in a few short hours on the football field. Keeping warm after
the game was important to tired muscles.
Like the rest of his team and his very enthusiastic coach, Fresco took football more seriously
than anything else in his life.
Justin had drifted away. Fresco stepped out into the hall, looking toward the back stairs, but
didn’t see him. He glanced further down the hall and watched, too late, as his friend walked into
Daniel’s room.
Heart in his throat, it took him a moment to react. When he did, Fresco’s panic rose even as
his feet dragged him without his consent to the open door.
Justin stood in the middle of the room, looking around with curiosity. After the initial shock
wore off, Fresco took a hesitant step inside himself. He hadn’t set foot in it for two years, not
since Daniel left. He frowned in the sunlight streaming through the half-open curtains. Small
dust motes hung in the hot, heavy air of the room echoing with their footsteps.
Daniel’s room was empty except for a smallish cardboard box, spun off to one side. The top
was open and a trophy poked out. It was this very thing that caught Justin’s attention too. He
lifted it free and blew on it, thumb running over the front plate to remove the last of the dust. He
glanced at Fresco.
“Huh,” he said. “Didn’t know Daniel got MVP.”
Fresco couldn’t move, could barely breathe. The air in the room was choking him, pressing
on his chest, trying to drive him to his knees. He managed a nod.
Perhaps there would have been more if they hadn’t been interrupted.
“What are you boys doing in here?” Raymond Conte’s voice cut deep, sharp with anger.
Justin dropped the trophy and plastered on his most innocent and respectful expression.
“Hello, Mr. Conte.” He inched away from the box.
Ray’s face struggled against fury behind his heavy glasses.
“Thought you had a game.”
“Yes, sir,” Justin said with false cheer, taking a step to the door, moving out of the
oppression of the room. “We were just leaving. Right, Fres?”
Fresco listened to Justin go, brushing past his father, his heavy footsteps thumping over the
thin Berber carpet in the hall and at a pounding jog down the wooden stairs. He remained frozen,
eyes locked on the discarded trophy.
He heard his father move, the soft shuffle of sock feet on hardwood, saw Ray drift past him
and approach the box. His father hovered over the remnants of his oldest son while Fresco, lost
in his own pain and cycle of grief torn raw by the emptiness of the room, watched.
Finally, Ray sighed, a deep and heavy breath, before turning to Fresco. He was lit from
behind by the sunlight. Fresco couldn’t see his expression, only a dark, slim figure, faceless,
unreal.
“You’d best be going, then.”
Fresco managed to jerk his head in a nod. He staggered backward as though his father’s
words released him, unsure later how he managed to stumble into the hall.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath around the pounding of his heart. He seemed unable
to shake the past in spite of the time gone by. Daniel’s room, the room he remembered, was as
long gone as the brother he adored.
While he fought himself and the memories threatening, he heard the door swing softly shut
behind him.
***
Chapter Two
Daniel’s betrayal was fresh again and despite all his efforts to the contrary his brother’s rapid
spiral into drug addiction still sat inside him, eating Fresco up as surely as it took Daniel. His
sudden and complete reversal from happy and loving older brother to hard-edged addict who
Fresco barely recognized flashed through his mind in a series of painful images.
Daniel smiling, ten years old, helping Fresco up after a nasty fall, wiping his tears away
the dark haired brother defending the smaller, fairer from bullies on their block
Daniel, his gray eyes laughing, tossing Fresco the game ball of which he was the star
the tall, thick-shouldered brother he so adored withered and hunched, stunning smile
missing, spirit sold to the drug taking him over
It seemed like overnight they lost him. When Daniel vanished, Fresco was desperate to find
him. Despite his parent’s best efforts, it wasn’t until Daniel showed up, a shadow of himself, that
Fresco finally understood what his brother valued.
at the back door, hiding from the full light, eyes haunted, sunken
begging for money, help from what was eating him alive
his mother sobbing, father furious, sending Fresco to his room
watching his brother from his bedroom window, powerful body reduced by the hunger,
slinking away into the black
It was the last time Fresco saw him.
That night, the handsome, dark hero of Fresco’s life, once his idol and confidant,
disappeared, devoured by the drug he chose over his brother.
Fresco shivered despite the warmth of the second-floor hallway. He succeeded in the past
two years to block his brother from his mind. He absorbed himself in school and football. His
parents practically smothered him in love and attention, as though doing so would prevent their
youngest from following in Daniel’s footsteps. They even lied to everyone they knew, told
neighbors and friends the older Conte was away at college and doing well, thank you very much.
Since there were no uncles or aunts or cousins to pry, no grandparents living to ask the hard
questions, everyone simply nodded and smiled and believed.
It hurt Fresco the first time his parents lied about Daniel in front of him. He was so floored
by their deceit he hadn’t been able to say a word to the contrary.
“Best for everyone,” Ray told him in the stuffy station wagon on the way home. Fresco
watched the flash of the passing streetlights on the wet pavement, ignoring them.
“Honey,” Fran said, reaching back to pat his knee, “you know we love you. We’re just trying
to protect you.”
And had been doing so, he realized with a start, quite effectively, even from himself. When
did they clear out Daniel’s room? He fought the rising anger. Where was Daniel’s stuff? He
started to shake from the rage. A headache, teasing him the last few days with jabs of pain, flared
into life. And with it, a heavy feeling in his chest and a sensation of burning deep inside.
Fresco didn’t know how long he stood there, absorbed in his hurt.
“Fres!” His mother’s voice broke his concentration. The headache eased, retreating to its
familiar and ignorable ping.
“Coming!” He got a hold of himself. He needed to have a talk with his parents. But they
trained him well. He would wait until they were alone.
Fran must have seen the trouble in his face when he made it to the kitchen. Her smile melted
to concern but, like him, she held her tongue. Instead, she pressed the containers of cookies into
his hands, her eyes radiating love and concern. Fresco risked the inevitable backlash and leaned
down to kiss his mother’s cheek.
“Love you,” she whispered.
“You too.”
Fresco refused to meet Justin’s eyes as they walked out the door. He continued to ignore his
friend as they made their way down the neat, gravel path to the driveway, past perfect flowerbeds
and fresh-cut grass. Fresco heard the double beep of Justin’s car alarm as he stepped up to the
passenger door of his friend’s massive and perfectly polished black truck. The thing was a gift
from Justin’s parents for his seventeenth birthday.
Fresco’s folks gave him a watch.
He fumbled his jacket and the containers, managing to get the door open without
fingerprinting the paint. Justin would be sure to check later. A tall hop and he was in the leather
seat.
Justin relieved him of the top box of sweets, sliding it into the console between them. He
popped the top. Two cookies vanished in rapid succession before he even turned on the ignition.
Fresco fastened his seat belt and waved at Fran who watched them through the front window.
Justin made kissing noises around the cookies, his expression nasty. Fresco punched his
shoulder, hard. Justin winced.
“Lay off! That’s my catching arm!”
Fresco felt his evil nature well up, part of him enjoying his friend’s pain. “What arm?” He hit
him again as Justin turned the key. Heavy music blared through the speakers. Fresco knew from
experience the bass blasted outside the sealed windows.
Justin hit him back. It hurt like hell, but Fresco refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he leaned
forward and turned down the music. Justin turned it back up, twisting the knob even louder.
Fresco sighed. His friend was such a child sometimes.
Justin jerked the monstrous truck backward into the street without looking, not even stopping
at the urgent blat of a car horn. He gave the angry driver the finger and, laughing, spun away,
tires squealing.
The rumble of the big engine roared as Justin sped through the suburban neighborhood.
“Better have your game on tonight,” he yelled at Fresco over the music.
“I know, finals.” He refused to grab the chicken bar as Justin took a corner too fast, tires
humming. The seatbelt dug into Fresco’s side with bruising force.
“Damned right, finals.” Justin crammed in another cookie, face dark. “Can’t afford to have
any weak links. Those bird lovers are going down this year.”
The Madison High Raptors were their most bitter rivals and held the prized regional school
trophy for the past four years.
“Our team’s stronger,” Fresco hollered back. “We’re kicking ass.”
“Just don’t screw up,” his friend threatened him with his typical heavy-handedness. “I’ll have
to kill you or anyone else who keeps us from winning our senior year.”
Fresco was equally as driven, so he forgave Justin his enthusiasm. This was their last chance
to win one for their school. Graduation meant college and not necessarily football.
The thought of college made him think of Daniel, and the headache came rushing back.
Fresco squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. When he opened them, he felt better, but the dull
throb of it for the last few days felt worse than ever. He helped himself to a cookie to distract
himself. Justin slapped at Fresco’s hand, his own busy in the container, when his cell phone lit up
and bounced its way across the dash. Fresco couldn’t hear the ring over the pounding music but
its activation was obvious. Justin grabbed for it.
“Jen,” Justin said with a smirk. “Wants to know what I’m doing after the game.” His new
conquest was firmly in hand. Fresco rolled his eyes. He preferred to hang out with the girls, not
tear them apart one by one.
Justin punched buttons, texting her back. Fresco saw the stop sign approaching, felt the
acceleration of the truck, and knew Justin didn’t see it or the car with the right of way. Before he
had a chance to shout a warning, the headache took him over and fire filled his vision.
Everything was gray as time moved in slow motion. The car, a mid-sized blue sedan, sped in
quarter time toward him as they cleared the stop and entered the intersection. Fresco watched,
detached, as the pretty blonde woman behind the wheel opened her mouth in a large “O” he
guessed backed a scream. Her eyes were huge and stared into his. Just as her bumper touched
the passenger door of the truck, time stopped.
Fresco looked around. Justin grinned, checking out his phone, the open box of cookies
beside him. Over his friend’s shoulder, through the glass, Fresco saw a robin paused in flight,
preparing to land on the street sign. He looked down at his hands. He seemed transparent to
himself, ghostly and unreal. He looked up again at the woman. Such naked fear shone in her
eyes he wanted to call out to her, to reassure her, but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t
until he dropped his eyes from her that he noticed the toddler secured in the back.
In a flash of terror, Fresco reached out with his mind and grabbed the child.
He had a heartbeat of time to register he now stood on the sidewalk next to the stop sign. The
sun beamed down on him, warming his face. The world was silent, a jolting change from the
blaring music. Justin’s black truck roared past in the next breath, careened into the intersection,
T-boned by the blue sedan. The impact rippled the air, rushing over, through and past him in a
shockwave. He felt it before he heard metal shriek and clash, the deep thrum of humming tires,
the sharp bellow of shattering safety glass, the thrum of releasing airbags. The two vehicles
melded together with enough force to spin them 180 degrees and come to a screeching halt
against the opposite curb. Smoke billowed from the front of the blue car, bits of yellow and red
plastic scattered as though tossed with casual disdain. Something within the crippled four door
hissed and sputtered its way down to death, its bonnet compressed, embedded in the passenger
side of Justin’s 4x4. The truck bent inward where the cab met the box but appeared almost intact
compared to the crumpled mess of the family midsize.
People rushed from houses, from hastily parked cars, pouring over the scene. Fresco heard
voices, harsh with shock, calling for help on multiple cell phones. An older woman, a stranger,
hovered in front of him. Her mouth moved, face lined with concern, but he couldn’t make out
what she was saying. He stood frozen, lost and empty of emotion. How? Where? He tried to
make sense of what happened. The woman gestured to Fresco, but he was still having trouble
understanding her. She reached for him, tugging on him, on something he held. His arms
tightened reflexively. He could not, would not let go.
It was hard to think. Someone cried, and the crying distracted him.
Fresco looked down.
The boy from the back of the car bawled in his arms.
***
Best Friends Forever
http://bit.ly/best_friends_forever
Copyright 2011 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
***
There are two more books in this series. And I have as yet to write them. Or think about them
too far. Emily just freaks. Me. Out. This is my only New Adult novel—tackling really nasty
issues. So be warned: friendship can have a dark side...
***
Chapter One
A train whistle mourned in the distance. Their ride was calling.
Emily ran, flew, soared. Her friends flickered around her, bright and beautiful. And ahead,
long black braids streaming, Sam led them on.
The sound of the rushing river. The pounding of their feet on the wooden bridge. Ahead, the
train tracks shone in the bright light of the full moon. Sam’s piercings flashed as she spun to a
halt, teetering close to the cliff and the ravine below.
Tara panted beside Emily. The tip of her joint glowed in the darkness. She passed it to Sam.
Her face blurred behind the cloud of smoke making her look like an angel. If angels were Goth
and wingless with a taste for whisky and weed.
Liquid sloshed against glass. Emily accepted the bottle from Madison’s tiny hands. The
familiar fire filled her mouth, burning a path to her stomach.
Sam belched a work of art, echoing back from the trees.
The train sobbed in answer.
Perfect.
“Em.”
The joint had made it to her. The drag burned as much as the whiskey. She struggled not to
cough, held in the requisite four count, letting it out in a rush of air.
And instantly felt lighter.
Sam stared at her over the rim of the newly acquired bottle. Emily could almost see her
thought process. The weed made everything.
So.
Clear.
Sam spun in a circle of anticipation, her short tartan skirt swaying, fishnets torn at the knees
above her army boots. Emily smiled in wonder. She was gorgeous! Moonlight flashed on chrome
buckles, black nail polish, silver piercings.
Amazing.
“I love you.” Sam’s voice echoed, repeating in Emily’s head over and over. Her favorite
thing when they were drinking. Emily understood. Sam needed love. It was okay with her.
“Love you too.” Her own voice fascinated. Did she sound like that? She giggled.
“You are my sisters. The only ones that will ever matter to me.” Sam took the time to meet
their eyes, gesturing with the bottle. Emily felt a few droplets hit her face. “Always and forever.”
“Always and forever.” She could feel their energy connecting. Binding. Pulling each other
close. She wanted another hit on the joint, sure she would be able to complete the connection if
she just had a little bit more. But it was clutched in Tara’s hand like she’d never let it go.
Sam dropped the bottle, the precious stolen liquor draining out onto the ground. Emily
couldn’t stop staring at it as it gulg-glug-glugged its life into the grass.
The train whistle echoed closer, making Emily’s head ring.
“Hear that?” Sam laughed. “Our destiny.” She took a step closer to the edge of the grass,
leaning over the tracks a short drop below. “I love you guys. I’d do anything for you.”
“Us too.” They all said it. Emily was sure she spoke. Her lips felt funny.
“Together, then.” The skull ring on Sam's finger caught the light as the train whistle blew.
***
Jake Hind was late, damn it. The wife already called twice to bitch and he still had the sweet
young girlfriend to see before he went home. He felt tired, strung out. The caffeine wasn’t doing
the job anymore. Neither were the uppers. He slammed the engine down another gear. The tires
hummed beneath him, late-night country music bleeding sorrow and heartache all over him from
the radio. The road was his favorite place, but he’d been on it two weeks and it was time to stop.
Just a few more miles.
Up ahead, warning lights began to flash.
***
The train was getting closer. Emily heard the wheels on steel, felt the vibration of it through
the soles of her bare feet. Sam perched on the lip of the hill overlooking the track.
“Rite of passage!” She waved them forward. Laughed at her own pun. Sam loved making
them prove they loved her. Emily knew why. And that was okay, too. But the train was coming
and everything seemed so wavy around the edges…
Cold fingers wrapped around her wrist. Madison huddled next to her, pulling her back.
“I’m scared.” Her whisper carried. Sam was there before Emily could answer.
“I’ll take care of you.” Sam hugged the tiny girl and winked at Emily over Madison’s head.
She was so tall, she loomed in the darkness. Queen of the Black. The whistle sounded so close
Emily put her hands over her ears. It bounced around in her head anyway.
Tara hopped up and down on the balls of her feet, her short blonde bob sticking to her lipgloss. Her eyes were huge, glistening.
“Let’s do it!”
The train pulled around the bend.
***
There was no way on God’s green earth Jake was waiting the ten stupid minutes for the
damned train to go by. He had lots of time. He gunned the engine, gearing down, giving the truck
full fuel. It roared toward the tracks. He grinned to himself. The gate wasn’t even down.
Plenty of time.
He hit the tracks doing 60 miles an hour and felt the lurch as the right front tire gave way.
The weak front axel had rolled its last mile. The metal sheared away with an ear-piercing scream.
One half embedded itself under the lip of the rail and dug in.
“Some bitch!” The truck jerked to a halt, the tractor spinning sideways, trailer jackknifing,
sliding into the divot of the rails. The whole world tipped and slid and for one crazy moment he
wondered what the hell just happened.
The truck came down with a metallic screech, sparks flying outward as it ground its way
twenty feet on its side, colliding with the barrier posts, taking out one of the red flashing lights
before coming to a stuttering halt.
It laid there, a downed behemoth, its carcass blocking the track.
Jake unclipped himself, landing with a thud against the far window. He scrambled for the
driver’s door, using the last of his strength to get to the smashed window. He crawled out,
leaving behind parts of himself on the shattered glass, landing heavily between the two rails.
His head rang. This wasn’t happening. He had plenty of time.
***
The train always slowed for the river bend. Just enough so they could jump on board. Lots of
kids did it. Made a dare out of it. Bragged about it at school. But this was the first time Sam
mentioned it. Until there they were, the locomotive coming around the turn. Passing them. A flat
bed car empty and perfect, begging to be made their landing place.
Sam’s smile was everything. Emily was so caught up in it she missed Tara’s leap.
Before Emily could act, Madison was gone, too. Sam spun on her, taking her hand.
Emily’s heart constricted. Fear cleared her mind for a heartbeat.
When Sam jumped, she went alone.
Emily watched her friends riding away. They picked up speed again, the train safely around
the turn. Emily ran after them, stumbling in the dark. Three voices screamed at her to run. They
laughed and called for her and she did run, as fast as she could. But the moment was gone, lost,
her ability to fly burned away.
Her last view of her friends as they disappeared into the night was the three girls hugging
each other and reaching for her.
***
Jake shook, but not of his own doing. He looked up. Bright light blinded him. The whistle
pierced his mind like the keen edge of a knife blade. He made it to his knees. Felt the bite of
gravel in his palms. Got to his feet. Staggered a step. Tripped. Fell face-first. Stone ground some
skin from his cheek. He sobbed panicked breaths, heart overwhelmed. Bile rose. Terror emptied
his bladder.
His knees brushed the rail, hands grasping at the other side. Safety at his fingertips. The grass
was cold and wet with dew. A breeze rose. Jake smelled lilacs. His eyes were full of light, head
ringing with screeching steel and the high-pitched whistle announcing his death.
He threw himself at the grass. His toes topped the rail, cleared it.
Jake rolled over and over in the darkness as the giant engine rammed into the fallen truck and
jumped the track.
***
Emily heard the whistle. The squealing metal. The impact. Their screams.
She knew what it meant.
Emily ran.
***
Chapter Two
The warped metal door requires slamming. She barely has the energy. The flimsy locker
rings like a bell when she finally gets it right. Her forehead descends to meet the cold, thin panel,
fingers fumbling to close the lock. The world moves on around her, laughter, voices, but it’s only
muffled white noise.
Her battered backpack digs into her shoulders as she turns and makes her way down the busy
hall. The masses part, no one meeting her eyes. They couldn’t if they tried. Hers are locked on
the floor where they have been for four long and hurtful months. The blur of people is just that, a
wash of color, light, and darkness which surrounds her, but never touches her.
She knows what the therapist thinks. Has heard the whispered conversations between the
older man who smells of wood smoke and peppermint and her anxious parents. Words like
‘depression’ and ‘medication’ and ‘hospital’ mean nothing. They register, but she doesn’t care.
None of it matters. Not anymore.
She failed them, failed herself. Let fear sever the sisterhood.
It’s her own fault she’s alone.
Class is droning hell. She gets the desk with the broken chair, the one no one else wants. It’s
cracked on the left side, the sharp plastic digging into her thigh through her jeans. She ignores
the discomfort. And the stares. It is too much, this living, faking, pretending to care about
anything. She isn’t sure how much longer she can go through the motions. Life isn’t worth it
without them.
She has known Sam since they were in first grade and is the only one who witnessed Sam's
dad’s special interest in his little girl. She hid in a closet in the dark and cried to herself as Sam
cried, her drunken father not knowing she was having a friend for the night. Sam’s mother was
passed out and unable to tell him.
Sam joined her in the closet when it was over and hugged her and hugged her until the
morning.
She never slept over again. But, then again, Sam’s dad wasn’t allowed to live there either or
even see Sam anymore after Emily told her parents all about it.
Tara she met in junior high, an unlikely friend for a loner and a Goth banger. Her rich parents
were never around. And beautiful Tara liked them far more than the pops and jocks despite her
expensive wardrobe and perfect blonde good looks.
It was about Sam, of course. It was always about Sam. And how much Tara loved her.
Another night in a closet, this time listening to the girls. Blushing, embarrassed when she was
invited to join them.
Madison was as much an anomaly. A Chinese orphan adopted by American parents with a
brilliant mind but no desire to fit the mold her mom and dad created for her. Again, it was Sam’s
charisma, her shining light and utter darkness that drew Madison to them.
The perfect fit.
This is the hardest part. She has never been alone. They are with her still, but echoes of them,
echoes making her heart ache and the rumbling pain rise. She clings to them, needing them, but
does her best to drown them out for a moment of peace.
Just a moment.
She wakes to screams some nights. It’s then she feels the most alive. Dreaming of running
and running, knowing she has to get to them, that she’s responsible and if she can just reach them
in time… those nights she crouches next to her bedroom window and breathes the still, quiet air,
hoping for a breath of smoke or whisky or Tara’s expensive perfume. And when she is
disappointed yet again, she ponders the kitchen knife she keeps under her mattress and wonders
how much it will hurt when she finally works up the nerve.
The bell jolts her from her private limbo. She waits for the others to leave, gathering her
strength, forcing herself to get up, to move, to walk into that bustling hallway again where life
goes on without her.
Something touches her shoulder. She is so surprised by the physical contact she spins and
actually looks up.
“Hi, Emily.” He towers over her. His light brown eyes are so melty warm and concerned she
feels for a heartbeat all the sadness and fear and loneliness rise up in a wave, cresting in her
throat, pushing against the gray place where she exists. Unable, unwilling to let it out, not yet, if
ever, she drops her eyes.
“Hi.” She forgot the sound of her own voice.
“We haven’t really met. I’m Todd. Brandsom. Transferred this year.”
What does he want from her? She needs to leave but can’t make her feet work.
“We have a couple of classes together.” She never noticed. Until now. Doesn’t know how to
ask him to leave her alone.
The uncomfortable silence is like a sharp razor to her wrists. Exquisite pain.
“Anyway.” His feet shift on the worn plastic tile. A sound like his throat clearing. “I think
you dropped this.” His large hand extends toward her. Sparkling pink lips on a key chain dangles
from his fingers.
Panic. Tara! She snatches it away, cradles it to her chest, shaking. How could it have
happened? She almost lost Tara. Are the others safe?
But Todd is speaking and she can’t check. Not in front of him.
“I wanted… I wanted to tell you.” He pauses, running his hands through his hair. There was a
time she would have thought Todd beautiful, when she would have giggled secretly over the new
guy’s broad shoulders, his chiseled jaw line, long, thick lashes. Out of Sam’s hearing, naturally.
None of that matters now.
She stares at the floor between his sneakers and waits for it. The sympathy she can’t live
with. The words driving madness into her heart.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. About your friends.”
He didn’t even know them. They died before he transferred. Somehow, it makes it easier.
“Thanks.” Tara’s pink lips warm in her hand.
“I guess I’ll see you around.” His feet shuffle, pause. Retreat.
She watches the place where his sneakers were long enough to be sure he really is gone then
hurries to the bathroom.
She finds an empty stall, slams the door, then the toilet seat over floating cigarette butts and
small plastic bottles empty of their vodka. She carefully examines her backpack, heart thudding
an uncomfortable rhythm in her chest.
The pocket where she keeps them. The zipper. It’s open. Somehow. Someone has… she
chokes on her terror as she pulls it open and looks inside.
And sobs, once. They are there. Safe. Madison’s diamond earrings glitter against the square
of black velvet. Sam’s gold skull ring rests next to them. She sags against the wall and draws a
deep breath. She gently kisses Tara’s mouth and slides her home, back with the girls, safe and
sound.
She has been foolish to keep them in so obvious and vulnerable a place. But she wants them
with her, is that too much to ask? Wearing them is out of the question. She has already lied about
having them at all. Their parents would never understand her need to keep them close.
Time to find them a new resting place. The thought of someone seeing them… touching
them… the image of Tara’s lips dangling from Todd’s fingers is a punch in her stomach. It is
several minutes before her hands stop shaking and the pressure in her throat dies away.
She failed them once. She refuses to do so again.
She has to keep them safe.
***
Horizon
http://bit.ly/horizonscifi
Copyright 2013 by Patti Larsen
Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
http://www.dog-earbookdesign.com
***
I wrote a TV pilot called Safe Harbor several years ago. Had some great feedback from a
writer/producer who told me to change the name and move to the ‘big city’ to work in television.
I almost did. But books called me and I listened (thank you, Universe). Still, the eight
teenagers at the core of this story wouldn’t stop badgering me. So, I converted their TV show
Horizon into a book. That feels like a TV show.
More to come from this series throughout 2013 and 2014.
***
The great ship lies silent and forgotten, a shell of her former glory. Occasional visitors come
to see her and are welcome, but they never stay long nor encourage her to fly. Her dreams of
doing so again grow dim, her hearts falling still. She sleeps more and more, giving in as the
dirty planet slowly eats her alive.
***
Chapter One: Sun
Sun wakes in violence, heart pounding as she is thrown to the deck of her tiny cabin. Red
light floods her quarters from the emergency beacon flashing over her head. A strident alarm
pierces her to the bone, her terror gripping her like a fist and squeezing out her breath.
She staggers to her feet, almost falling again as the ship shifts around her, shuddering with
an unknown impact. Clutching her bunk to keep from dropping to the floor, she waits it out. She
can’t decide what to do, so afraid her mind retreats to instinct. She settles on flight without
knowing she’s done so.
Sun finds herself in a darkened corridor, the same harsh crimson warning lighting the haze
descending toward her. She chokes on the smoke stinking of chemicals and fear, clinging to the
wall as she pads barefooted toward the other end of the hall.
At the corner she peeks around, not realizing the wavering film in front of her vision is from
her tears. She sees only more of the same while a groan of protest echoes through the hull of the
vessel, increasing her panic.
Sun is grabbed from behind by frantic hands and spun to face her mother. Her fear gushes
out of her in sobs as she realizes she is safe. Lily shakes her abruptly, her voice deep.
“Come!” She says.
Sun is half-dragged by her tiny parent down the corridor only to be jerked to a halt. Lily
turns and pushes against Sun, her face a mirror of her daughter’s desperation as she forces their
retreat.
“Go!” She hisses.
Sun obeys, returning to the corner, finding her way back toward her quarters. She wants to
ask her mother what is happening, but is unable to form the words. Lily pulls her to a stop next
to an access vent and bends, popping it free. She shoves Sun deep inside and replaces the panel.
Her tiny fingers hook through the vent holes as Lily meets Sun’s eyes.
“Stay here,” she says. “I’ll be back for you.” She glances over her shoulder at something
Sun can’t see, then runs the other way. Sun crouches inside the cramped crawlspace, massive
shudders gripping her body. She hugs herself and cries silently into the darkness, waiting for her
mother to come back.
Sun hears a scream and a thud somewhere in the corridor. She freezes, tremors stilled as her
heart skips a beat. She holds her breath, panic rising like a ball of fire within her. Sun wants to
bolt and run as she hears something drawing closer, a shuffling, dragging sound.
It is black and angular and glides past her hiding place. She is at floor level and can only see
to its knees, but it is enough to terrify her even more. Sun is so overcome by it she can barely
comprehend what the thing drags behind it until she recognizes her mother’s vacant eyes staring
back at her as the creature takes Lily away.
Sun’s mind screams into the dark while she rocks herself into oblivion.
***
Eight Hours to Contact
The spaceport teemed with people, the bright sun shining in the full glass walls, adding an air
of celebration. It was a special day, in a lot of ways, for a number of families. The last of the
travelers bound for Zandia—Colony Marker 134—assembled for their voyage to their new
home.
Sun Chang couldn’t tear her eyes from the sleek form of the shining, silver transport ready to
carry her and her parents to the orbiting space dock high above Earth’s atmosphere. She had
never been off world before in all her sixteen years and was looking forward to the trip. She felt
fortunate her parents, Lee and Lily Chang, were selected out of thousands to become the new
doctors for the colony. Now that the core of the community was up and running, the hospital
built and waiting, it was their job to run the health care programs for Zandia as well as perform
research into any local flora with possible benefits.
Sun was thrilled when her parents told her two years before they had been chosen for the
program. She liked Earth well enough. It was her home after all. But the idea of space travel
greatly appealed to her carefully hidden sense of adventure.
Her mother recognized her enthusiasm immediately and laughed at her excitement.
“This child has her head in the clouds, never on planet,” Lily commented to Lee.
Sun’s father was much more tolerant than her traditional Chinese mother. Lily still held to
the old ways of thinking. Be brilliant, but silent. Do your work and forward your people, but
don’t stand out. Lee, on the other hand, passed his own liberal beliefs on to their daughter.
“She will thrive,” he said, patting Sun’s hand. She was used to their habit of speaking of her
as though she weren’t there. “She has greater potential than this world can challenge her to
uncover.”
Sun had beamed at him, earning her name and a small smile from Lily.
She pressed both hands against the glass and memorized every line of the ship, though she
studied it in holographic models a million times in the past two years. Pulled tight to the
transparent wall, she stayed out of the way of other travelers as she had been taught and indulged
her fantasy. She pictured herself disembarking from the giant vessel she would be boarding in a
few hours, where the great ship Day Wanderer waited far above her, setting foot in the lush
landscape the vids of Zandia displayed. From the promotional material her parents shared with
her, the new colony was an idyllic place, a picturesque landscape of lush vegetation and lavender
tinted blue skies, dotted with the smooth, white domes marking the original settlement. She
sighed over the brave men and women who were the front line of colonization and hoped there
was still some exploring for an eager new resident.
She was so wrapped up in her own little world she almost missed the young woman waiting
nearby. Sun caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see the girl,
about her age, also looking at the ship.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Sun spoke up before she thought about it.
The other girl shot her an annoyed look, frowning. “It’s a ship,” she shrugged her shoulders,
her expensive polyfiber dress swaying in time with her movement. Sun felt in instant awe.
Artificial fibers were so rare in clothing these days. She herself wore sturdy recycled cotton and
hemp. Sun lowered her gaze, feeling chastised and like a silly girl.
“I think it is,” she whispered to the glass.
The girl tapped her bright pink nails on her forearms as a burly man approached her and
lifted four bags from the floor.
“About time,” she snapped at him as she strode off without waiting for him to follow. She
gave Sun the once-over on her way past, her look of arrogant sympathy making Sun quiver. And
then she was gone in a wash of synthetic perfume.
Sun’s cheeks heated with embarrassment she spoke up, but was more appalled the girl
appeared so blatant about her thoughtless use of Earth’s resources for her own entertainment.
Since the near-collapse of the planet’s ecosystems in 2019, the population finally united and put
an end to the destruction of their only home.
Now, a hundred and twenty four years after the first colony ship left Earth, Sun was
embarking on her own adventure and not even the rude girl’s attitude could put a permanent
damper on her excitement.
Besides, Sun thought, tracing the shape of the transport with her fingertip on the glass, we
are the last of the new colonists to emigrate. There will be plenty of other people my age to make
friends with.
“Ready?” Lily and Lee appeared, her mother holding out her hand. Sun extended hers so Lily
could swipe her index finger over her daughter’s palm. She felt a tingle as her personal chip
updated, downloading her flight pass.
“Ready,” Sun said, unable to keep from smiling. On such an amazing day not even her
mother could begrudge her an outward show of emotion.
The port fell silent as a soft chime rang three times.
“All passengers for Colony Marker 134, please prepare to board.”
Before Sun knew it, she stood in line with her small bag clutched to her chest, her heart
pounding. As she neared the front of the line, she spotted the other girl again, this time with a big
man in a lovely suit. They disappeared through a side door, bypassing the line all together.
It was then Sun realized the mysterious girl was more than just wealthy. She recognized the
markings on the man’s baggage as diplomatic in origin. Sun tried to make friends with the
daughter of the colony’s new governor.
She flushed, embarrassed all over again. The young woman in the crisp security uniform
scanning for passes smiled at her in sympathy, misunderstanding the redness in her cheeks.
“It’ll be fine,” she whispered to Sun as she slid the pen-sized scanner over her palm. “Just
remember to breathe.”
Sun didn’t bother correcting her. She forgot all about it only a moment later anyway as she
set foot on the deck of the transport.
The deep blue seat felt cramped even to her slim body, the fabric new and stiff, but Sun was
small so she didn’t mind. She carefully placed her bag into the pouch provided and clasped her
hands in her lap, forcing them to stillness. There was a peculiar odor to the vessel, a mix of fuel
and people, triggering a slight headache, but she stirred with too much excitement to let it bother
her. She was grateful her father took the seat next to her. Not that she didn’t love her mother. But
now she could relax and enjoy the trip to the colony ship and not worry her enthusiasm annoyed
Lily.
The captain wasted no time. As soon as the big door hissed shut, the engines powering the
ship hummed to life. Before Sun had a chance to say goodbye to Earth she rose above it, the nose
of the transport turning away from the only home she ever knew and pointing her toward space.
Sun watched the atmosphere thin and fade to black and stars, straining over her shoulder to
catch the view of blue and white falling behind her. She struggled for patience the two hours it
took to reach the moon base and space station, but she found herself fidgeting anyway. Lee was
kind enough to offer her a book with the swipe of his fingertip when scanning through her
implant revealed she forgot to download anything besides textbooks. It didn’t matter. Sun
couldn’t concentrate anyway, finding herself scanning the same paragraph over and over. At last,
she closed her hand over the holo display and gazed out the porthole at the stars and tried to
imagine she was there already.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice interrupted their trip, “if you will look to your
right, you will have your first view of the next leg of your journey.”
Sun felt so happy to be in the right place for viewing she turned her whole body around and
plastered herself to the window. Just coming into sight was the curve of the moon and, in front of
it, a long, narrow scaffolding of shining metal with two large constructs on either end. In the
middle, docked to the grid, was the Day Wanderer. Sun already knew what it looked like, too.
She’d done extensive research and looked into the ship as soon as she found out which one
would be taking them to their new home. It could hold up to a thousand passengers, had a crew
of two hundred, and was the newest and fastest built in the fleet. Sun also knew the captain’s
name, Patrick O’Malley, and that he had been the ship’s one and only commander since her
maiden voyage.
But there was nothing like seeing the real thing, not compared to reading about it. The Day
Wanderer hung, massive and shining, in the reflected light of the moon. She thought the
transport was sleek. The Day Wanderer looked like a shining silver bullet, tapered at the prow
and wider at the back. Glass shone all over the hull, the many windows of the vessel pouring
light into the darkness. Sun sighed deeply as they drew nearer and leaned back, slouching herself
as small as possible as passengers from the other side of the transport fought for a look at their
ride.
Sun barely felt the bump as they connected with the Day Wanderer and before long the hiss
of the seal connection alerted her they firmly docked. She stood up and waiting despite being
halfway back in the big vessel, much to her father’s amusement. She caught her mother frowning
from the next row behind, but for once chose to ignore Lily’s displeasure. Sun felt so excited she
could hardly contain herself.
She followed the exodus of colonists, trying not to push, keeping herself as small and
compact as possible. Sun smiled shyly at the crewman who waited at the portal. He winked back,
making her blush. A stumble over the lip of the transport just made things worse, as she blinked
into the bright light of the Day Wanderer’s promenade. She slowed, overwhelmed by the sheer
size of the ship. The main docking corridor narrowed but opened into a massive space, the
ceiling vaulted all the way to the top, fifteen decks above. Sun felt herself being jostled from
behind and realized, just as her mother’s iron hand took a grip on her arm, she was blocking the
exit.
Two men and a woman stood in the center of the main deck smiling and nodding, their
shining uniforms identifying them as crew. Sun followed her parents forward as her mother
studied her hand-held for directions. Sun realized with a start the man nodding and saying,
“Welcome aboard,” to everyone, the man with the blonde, glossy hair and easy laugh, was
Captain O’Malley himself. She very much wanted to meet him, but her mother was quicker.
“This way,” Lily said, heading out with purpose, Lee close behind. Sun paused one more
moment, her eyes settling on the spacer standing behind the captain.
He was as blonde as the commander, with the same chiseled face and blue eyes, and very
handsome, maybe a little older than her. His gaze met hers and he nodded to her with a big grin.
Sun blushed and hurried after her parents before her mother could notice she hadn’t already.
She was determined to meet that boy again and find out his name. She giggled to herself as she
thought of how bold she was becoming.
Lily would not approve.
It seemed like forever before they found their quarters near the outside edge of the ship. Her
parents took the room with the porthole, to her disappointment. Still, Sun was grateful to have
her own small space with its plain bunk and tiny sink and mirror.
As she settled in, putting her few belongings away, testing out the comfort of her bed with a
few good bounces, Sun’s mind turned back to the handsome young man and what an amazing
adventure she found herself on.
She only left her room and her fantasies when she heard her mother calling her to dinner.
***
Chapter Two: Minnesota
It’s dark when Minnesota wakes. She feels lost, disoriented. When she looks around her, she
realizes she fell asleep in the engine compartment of the old ship. Shaking the last of the
weariness from her mind and stretching out the kinks from sleeping against the hard metal hull,
she makes her way to the corridor and the exit hatch. Her parents will be very worried about
her. They don’t know about her visits to the abandoned colony ship, Horizon. As a matter of fact,
if they found out, she’d be in big trouble. The ship is supposed to be off-limits, though she knows
not everyone obeys the rules.
Minnesota looks outside as the first explosions bloom in the night. She stares, mouth gaping
open, as her colony is attacked by tiny, whirring ships bobbing and dodging against the
darkness, spewing fire. It takes her a long moment to understand what is happening. When she
does, terror rips through her and moves her forward, to leap to the ground and run for home.
A shadow emerges from behind her, engulfing her in arms of black before hauling her back
inside the darkness of the silent ship.
***
Seven Hours to Contact
Minnesota happily leaned back from her examination of the fuel pump and gave her father a
big smile.
“No problem, Dad,” she said. “Just needs a new bearing. Give me a minute, okay?”
“You got it, kiddo,” Noah Jordan grinned back at her. “My little genius. You must get it from
your mother.”
“Nope,” Angelique flashed her very white teeth at her pale, red-haired husband as she leaned
in to kiss his cheek, her jet-black skin on his a startling contrast. “This woman is strictly
theoretical engineering, no getting the hands dirty.” She winked one deep brown eye framed in
thick lashes at her daughter. “This need to do things the old fashioned way is your fault,
husband.”
Minnesota loved the way her mother talked, her deep voice and accent still strong despite
fifteen years on the colony. Angelique Mombasa arrived unannounced on a cargo ship and made
a niche for herself in the tight-knit community, immediately attracting the attention of the
handsome head of mining and marrying him shortly thereafter.
“Well, wherever she gets it,” Noah said, slipping one arm around his wife’s thin waist and
pulling her close, “I’m damned grateful. Got it fixed yet, muffin? Shaft two is shut down until I
get that part in and we’re already behind quota.”
Her father constantly fretted about quota and was the source of endless teasing from his wife
and daughter.
“The cargo ship just left,” Angelique rolled her eyes, one hand on her hip, the other stuffed
into Noah’s back pocket. “I think we have time to catch up in the next ten months.”
Minnesota giggled as she fished out a bearing from her stockpile of new and scrounged parts
and finished installing it in the pump. “All done, Dad,” she said, handing him the part, good as
new. Noah bent and kissed her soundly on the cheek, did the same for his wife, only on her full
and waiting lips, then strode out of Minnesota’s workshop, already on the com to the mine telling
them he was on his way.
Angelique blew her daughter a kiss. “Don’t stay in the shop too long,” she told Minnesota.
“Dinner at dusk, don’t be late, bad child.” She winked and grinned before retrieving her own
recently repaired part and leaving for her office.
Minnesota sighed, content. Only thirteen, she showed such knack for repairing equipment
from a young age that by the time she was ten she tackled jobs other mechanics couldn’t fathom.
A master scrounger and repair artist, Minnesota took great pride in her work. So did her parents,
who willingly set her up with her own shop and left her to do her thing, knowing her sense of
responsibility when it came to mechanical objects was far stronger than to living, breathing
beings.
Caught up for the day, Minnesota shut up her little shop, stuffing a pair of thick gloves in the
pockets of her dull brown coveralls and headed for the scrounging ground. She capped her short
mess of tight black curls with a woven hat her mother made for her, dark eyes shining in
anticipation. While she looked more like her mother with her dark, glowing skin and full, wide
lips and nose, Minnesota took far more after her father when it came to dedication and focus. She
knew the cargo ship carrying the most recent load of siminite from the processing factory made a
dump just prior to leaving, like they always did. She hadn’t had a chance to scour their new pile
since they departed two days before. Cargo ships always unloaded their unwanted goods before
leaving a planet, all the better to take on more product and increase their weight limit.
Their loss meant the colony’s gain, and Minnesota’s. By the time she rounded the last of the
warehouse buildings and reached the edge of the dump, the skinny girl practically skipped with
excitement through the red dust of the street.
The dump pile wasn’t as huge as it could have been, sorted and recycled by the colony. It
hunched, a blot against the pink tinted sky, bulking high compared to the flat plain where the
colony perched. The empty, red-soiled landscape reached as far as the eye could see in every
direction, not a scrub brush or hill in sight. The vast, open expanse covered half of the planet and
happened to be the perfect place to mine. Minnesota had never been to the lush, tropical part of
her world and didn’t see the point. To her and most of the colonists, the wasteland was home.
The dump itself was well contained within a bunker of locally mixed concrete. The deep
orange walls were intended to contain the waste, not keep anyone out. The pile was usually quite
small, dwindling as the contents were reused. But to Minnesota’s delight, it seemed substantial
again. For the most part, the dump contained the refuse left behind by the cargo ship. New Paltos
was the first colony ever established and despite its unforgiving seasonal changes, from desert
conditions to arctic winters in a matter of days, the colony huddled, deeply embedded and more
important than any others. It was the source of the mineral siminite that, when refined, powered
the great star drive engines allowing humans to explore the rest of space.
Minnesota loved her home despite its drawbacks. She didn’t like the freezing cold so much,
or the searing heat. But there was a bare, stark beauty to the place, the deep red of the ground, the
pink tinted skies blazing like fire when the sun set and rose. An inbuilt sense of freedom to the
colony, something Minnesota took for granted. Everyone was so close and knew each other so
well there was no theft, very little crime of any kind at all, and children were allowed to roam
free when they weren’t put to work or in school learning how to help the colony grow and
prosper.
Minnesota felt perfectly designed for life on New Paltos. She loved to find new and exciting
things in the junk pile sharing secrets with her about life elsewhere, but her heart was in her
home.
She hopped over the concrete wall and gazed up with sheer pleasure at the heap of junk,
feeling acquisitive and eager to unearth new possibilities. She scrambled up the pile, ticking off
her wish list as she thought ahead to what she needed when she heard laughter nearby. Pausing,
she slipped around the side and caught sight of Miguel and Manuel, the Diego twins, messing
around in her dump. The fact made her instantly cranky and it took her a minute to shake it
off.By then, Miguel noticed her and waved an object in her direction. She moved closer, trying to
keep her temper in check. Miguel had a habit of not valuing the colony or the things it took to
keep it going. She always thought he was lazy and his casual sprawl on an abandoned ship seat
didn’t change her opinion.
“Found a magazine!” He said, holding it up again. “Real paper in plastic!”
Minnesota came to an angry halt, fists on hips and glared at him.
“Aren’t you to supposed to be at the mine today?” She knew she sounded crabby and bossy,
but she didn’t care. She wanted the dump to herself and hated that the Diego twins beat her to it.
Miguel, the wiry, skinny twin with the big mouth and bad attitude made a face at her,
dropping the book into the pile of junk at his feet.
“Piss off,” he said, suddenly sullen.
His giant brother, Manuel, towered over his twin. Some accident of growth genetics made
them so different no one outside the colony ever believed they were identical twins. He simply
looked at her, dark eyes quiet. He rarely spoke, at least to her, but she caught him staring at her a
few times and wondered why he didn’t just talk to her.
“Your father will be furious,” she told them. “You skipped out yesterday, too, and the whole
colony heard him yelling at you.”
Miguel shrugged his skinny shoulders. “So what?” He grinned at her, good humor returning.
“How come you’re not working either, smart ass?”
“I am,” she snapped. “I’m scrounging. It’s part of my job.” Time to get back to it and leave
these losers to get in trouble. She turned her back on them when Miguel took another shot.
“Freak girl,” he snapped. “Heard you like stuff better than people. Heard Kurt Martin tried to
kiss you and you hit him with a wrench.”
Minnesota’s cheeks burned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to kiss her. But she was in the
middle of a repair he pretended he was interested in and when he leaned toward her so quickly
she panicked.
“Piss off yourself,” she fired off over her shoulder, putting distance between them. She threw
a glance at them just before she rounded the pile again.
Manuel still stared at her.
Frustrated and out of sorts, Minnesota wasn’t in the mood for picking over the dump after all.
She quietly cursed Miguel Diego for being such a jerk and ruining her day. A pile of refuse
offered her a seat where she sighed deeply, eyes scanning the sky. When she did, her gaze caught
a familiar sight out on its own on the other side of the junk pile.
The huge, wasting hulk of the Horizon stretched across the dirt, filling half the distance with
its bulk. Her heart lifted as she looked at it.
She loved the ship, loved everything about it. New Paltos may have been her planet, but
Horizon felt like a home. Every time she snuck on board the old colony ark, she felt a thrill of
history, like she was walking through the spirits of the colonists who came to New Paltos first
with all their hopes and dreams.
Knowing she only had a couple of hours until supper and would be in big trouble if she was
caught, Minnesota gave in to the pull of the vessel and went to hang out with her old friend,
remarking wryly to herself as she made her way across the distance maybe Miguel was right
about her and machines.
###
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed these samples. If so, you can find the full versions
on Amazon, Kobo, Smashwords, the iBookstore and Barnes and Noble.
I’ve also included a listing in order with links (Amazon only) to the series above, just to
make things easier for you.
You can find me at www.pattilarsen.com and on my Facebook fan page at
www.facebook.com/pattilarsenauthor. I also have a mailing list for new releases (no spam, I
promise—just new releases!). You can sign up at [email protected] or through my website
contact page. Or just drop me a line—I’d love to hear from you.
I adore the paranormal in all its aspects. And no matter how I’ve tried in the past to write
outside the genre, it keeps calling me back. So here I am, picking up another hitchhiker.
You’re welcome to join us. Any time.
Happy reading,
Patti Larsen
***
The Hayle Coven Novels
Family Magic http://bit.ly/FamilyMagic
Witch Hunt http://bit.ly/witch_hunt
Demon Child http://bit.ly/demon_child
The Wild http://bit.ly/the_wild
The Long Lost http://bit.ly/thelonglost
Gatekeeper http://bit.ly/gate_keeper
Flesh and Blood http://bit.ly/flesh_blood
Full Circle http://bit.ly/f_circle
Divided Heart http://bit.ly/divided-heart
First Plane http://bit.ly/firstplane
Light and Shadow http://bit.ly/light_shadow
Queen of Darkness http://bit.ly/queenofdarkness
Dark Promise http://bit.ly/darkpromise
Unseelie Ties (coming February 2013)
Ancient Ways (coming March 2013)
The Undying (coming April 2013)
Shifting Loyalties (coming April 2013)
Enforcer (coming May 2013)
Coven Leader (coming June 2013)
The Last Call (coming July 2013)
Blood and Gold Trilogy
Smoke and Magic http://bit.ly/smokemagic
Fire and Illusion http://bit.ly/fireillusion
Steam and Sorcery http://bit.ly/steamsorcery
The Hunted
RUN http://bit.ly/runhunted
HIDE http://bit.ly/hidehunted
FIGHT http://bit.ly/fighthunted
HUNT http://bit.ly/hunthunted
The Clone Chronicles
Clone Three http://bit.ly/clonethree
Clone Two http://bit.ly/CloneTwo
Clone One http://bit.ly/CloneOne
The Diamond City Trilogy
Fresco http://bit.ly/frescoDCT
Wasteland http://bit.ly/wastelandDCT
The Diamond City http://bit.ly/diamondcityDCT
***
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any
manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for
the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
***
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.