Sapphire - Chapter 1

The first chapter book I ever read was the unabridged edition of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum. I begged for it for my seventh birthday after seeing MGM's The Wizard of Oz (1939) a couple of times.

And as I read it, I discovered that the movie only adapted the first two-thirds of the classic novel. Then, I found out Mr. Baum had written many more books about the characters and the land of Oz. He'd also left many tantalizing, and often inconsistent, clues about the history of the fairy tale land.

One of those clues was that Oz was ruled by King Pastorius and there were eight witches, two in each of the four countries of Oz. Pastoria's queen died in childbirth, the king died shortly thereafter, and the heir Princess Ozma disappeared. A civil war broke out between the witches, leaving supposedly four alive. When the Wizard arrived in Oz, his presence was the start of a cold war between the combatants until a tornado dropped Dorothy in Munchkin Country some years later.

I've always wondered what happened during the hot war. My imagination started filling in the blanks.

Sapphire isn't the first Oz story I've published. It won't by the last either. I hope you enjoy this tidbit.

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A light-blue umbrella shielded Beryl’s pale skin from the spring sun’s morning rays as she inspected her gardens. Dark blue brick paths wound their way around each section of freshly sprouted greenery or rich loam awaiting new transplants. Munchkin lads paused to bow or tip their hats in respect as she passed before they continue to weed the perennials and plant the seedlings of the annuals. The young men were strong and limber, as delightful to look at as the blooms in her hot house, but with a much earthier smell as they worked the soil.

She had no doubt they watched her, too, after she passed them. A quick glance at her ward revealed Nimmie was not as enthralled with the morning inspection. Pink suffused the girl’s cheeks. Whatever was the matter with her would wait. Beryl wasn’t in the mood to deal with any petty problem that troubled Nimmie at the moment. It was simply too beautiful of a morning for any worries.

Boq, the supervisor of the garden crew approached them. A middle-aged man with a bit of gray in his dark beard, he removed his pointed blue cap, jingling the silver bells hanging from its brim in the process, and bowed.

“Is there anything I may assist you with, Lady Beryl?” he asked as he straightened.

She smiled. “I need someone to help me with transplanting some herbal seedlings in my greenhouse this afternoon. Could you recommend one of your crew for the duty?”

The supervisor blushed and stammered. “Surely, you would want someone with a more delicate touch to handle your valuable herbs, m’lady, than this crew. I can—”

“Pull someone else from their duties?” Beryl flicked her fingers dismissively. “It’s planting season. Everyone in the province is busy as well this week, and these gentlemen are already here at my manor.”

“I’ll volunteer, m’lady.” A young man in the iris bed pushed to his feet. His blond hair gleamed beneath the morning shine. The locks were pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck, secured by a blue silk ribbon. The color matched that of his heavy cotton trousers. An undyed apron of the same material protected his white shirt. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off his muscular forearms.

Yes, he would do. He would do very nicely.

“Come to my private greenhouse after your lunch…”

“Fedall, m’lady.” He inclined his head.

“Very well, Fedall.” She nodded. “After your lunch hour then.”

She continued walking along the path. Nimmie scurried to catch up with her.

“Mother Beryl,” the girl murmured. “Must you use the people working on your estate in such a manner?”

“And what manner is that?”

“U-u-using them for your pleasure,” Nimmie whispered.

“Hasn’t the king commanded all citizens to support the royal protectors of Oz?” Beryl asked.

“Yes,” Nimmie stammered.

“I can focus better on my duties when I am relaxed.” Beryl stopped and stared at her ward before continuing her lecture. “Certain pleasures relax me. Yes, the people I choose give me pleasure, but I do the same for them in return. How is that not a fair trade?”

“I-I suppose it is.” Nimmie’s face was nearly as red as the southern witches’ tresses. If the girl wasn’t so loyal and valuable, Beryl would have sent Nimmie to one of the other protectors years ago.

“Are you finished criticizing your own guardian?” Beryl asked.

The girl stared at her shoes. “I apologize for my impertinence, Mother Beryl.”

“Very well then.” Beryl sighed. “It’s time for your lessons anyway.”

They took the left hand path back toward the manor. From the horrible odors drifting from the open windows on the first story, her sister witch protector for Munchkin Country worked in her laboratory.

“Maybe we should do your lessons on the north terrace.” Beryl wrinkled her nose. “Neither of us need to be gagging from Allophane’s current experiment.”

“My lady! My lady!” One of maids ran toward the pair. She skidded to a halt and barely remembered to bow in her trepidation. The instant she straightened, she thrust a brilliant white envelope sealed with green wax. “A message from the capital.”

Beryl accepted it, noting the imprint in the cooled wax was that of the royal vizier, not that of the king. She broke the seal, pulled out the letter, and scanned the contents.

“Lessons are canceled for today, Nimmie.” She eyed the girl. “Go see the cook about finding a task to occupy you.”

“What’s wrong?” her ward whispered.

“Nothing you need to worry your silly little head about.” Beryl forced a smile as she placed the letter back inside the envelope. “Unfortunately, my duties to Oz take precedence at times.”

Nimmie curtsied before running in the direction of the manor’s kitchen.

Beryl turned back to the maid. “This is not addressed to both me and my sister. Does she know about this letter?”

The maid gulped. “We received two letters, one addressed to each of you.”

“Thank you,” Beryl murmured. “You are dismissed.”

The maid also curtsied and ran in the same direction as Nimmie.

Beryl tapped the corner of the envelope against her right palm. The royal vizier had been smart enough to notify each of the eight protecters individually. Perhaps he was too smart. He would need to be eliminated before she and Willis launched their plan.

For now, she needed to display the appropriate mien of mourning when she spoke with Allophane. Then she’d use young Fedall to release her growing tension before she and Allophane traveled to the Emerald City for the funeral.

A Cup of Conflict - Chapter 1

I know people are patiently (or not so patiently in some cases) for the next volume of the Justice series. So here's the unedited first chapter of A Cup of Conflict!

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I watched as Sister Yin Li of Love threw herself into the arms of her lost paramour, who we all thought had died with Reverend Father Chen’s doomed expedition. Their young son Yin Shang followed suit. The reunited family laughed and cried and hugged.

High Brother Shang of Conflict was quite a handsome man. I could understand why Yin Li was physically attracted to him. But the wave of emotion emanating from the pair was something far deeper. I leaned close to Luc and whispered, “So that’s Shang?”

I could feel my love turn to look at me. Could you tone down the level of lust for another man you’re sending my way?

That isn’t amusing.

I don’t think so either. At least, you’ve now confirmed you were never physically attracted to Quan.

“That’s what it took!” I glared at Luc.

Behind him, the Skoloti Sister of Thief Darys looked at us in confusion. Luc’s warden Yar smirked. I had a feeling my own warden Jonata wore the same smirk behind me. Sister Yin Li of Love and High Brother Shang of Conflict were too busy kissing to pay any attention to the rest of us.

The merchants, who had stopped here for the night on their way from the coast to the capital as we did, drifted through the courtyard of the caravanserai and took inventory of their wares and stock that survived the battle. Shop keepers who resupplied travelers did the same. If it weren’t for the forethought of Darys, Shang, and the rest of their rescue squad, everyone at this rest stop would be dead.

Crown Prince Bao Quan Po, heir to the Jing Empire’s Dragon Throne, walked over and stood at my left side, but his attention was also on Yin Li and Shang. “She never kissed me like that.”

“You were a worshipper, not her true love,” I snapped.

“But still, with the size of my donations, I expect more,” Po complained.

“I should be the only one receiving your donations, my husband.” Bao Shi Hua, the soon to be empress consort of Jing, stalked through the mayhem, her bow still in her hand. She glared at her spouse as if she considered using her weapon on him.

A sly grin filled Po’s face. “You never kiss me like that either.”

The tiny woman reached up, grabbed the edges of his robe, and yanked him down for a thorough kiss. When she released him, she also smirked. A glance at his silk pants said why. “What were you saying?”

“Not a blessed thing, my wife.” He released a deep breath. “Should we rent a cell for Yin Li and Shang so we may have some privacy?”

“I’ll take care of it.” I made a shooing motion. “Please go back to your room before you feel the need for another public display of affection.”

The royal couple held hands as they retreated to the spiral stone staircase leading to the second story. It was good to see them showing some affection. While Shi Hua was only interested in women and Po was interested in anything that moved, I was glad they were trying to make their political marriage work.

“Should we interrupt?” I asked Luc.

“Quan and Shi Hua or Shang and Yin Li?”

I eyed my own paramour. “If you interrupt the prince, he will ask you to join them.”

“Unfortunate, but true.” Luc shot me a wicked grin. “Maybe if we both join them?”

I held up my hand. “You are on your own for this one, High Brother. I’m going to take a soma tear and try to get some sleep.” I turned to head up the same stairs the prince and his wife had just climbed.

“Wait, Chief Justice,” Sister Darys called out. “Aren’t you going to question me and my party? We could be renegades for all you know.”

I pivoted to face her. “Sister, I already know you aren’t a skinwalker. If you’re a demon, you would have ripped out both my throat and the Lady Shi Hua’s a few moments ago when we were standing next to each other. And if you’re a renegade, all I ask is that you let me have a good night’s sleep and a cup of Jing black tea in the morning before you poison me. Again.”

I turned and walked toward the staircase once again. Frankly, Reverend Father Jin and Reverend Father Biming were responsible for truthspelling the newcomers in order to protect their soon-to-be crowned emperor since I was technically a foreign ambassador. And Balance help me, I was mightily tired of doing their job.

“Excuse me!” Shi Hua’s shout from the third-floor balcony actually broke Yin Li and Shang’s embrace.

I looked up to find the empress-to-be leaning over the balcony railing. Everyone in the courtyard quieted.

“Can someone please remove the dead assassin in our bed? The crown prince and I are trying to conceive an heir!”

Death Goddess Walking - Chapter 1

Death Goddess Walking will be the first book of my upcoming The Books of Apep series. This will be my next Kickstarter campaign, but after the issues I had with the Soccer Moms of the Apocalypse campaign (it's bad when nothing was remotely in mine, Kickstarter's, or my backers' control), I will write all four books before setting up the campaign.

However, I wanted to give you a taste of the first book. I actually started writing it fifteen years ago, and I got some bad advice about it, which is why I don't show my work-in-progress to other writers anymore. This person said it sucked.

When I was cleaning out some old files on my computers at the beginning of the pandemic, I started reading it again. It was pretty damn good considering my level of writing back then. Not to mention I was 41K words into it. So, I decided to finish it.

So, here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

P.S. The pic above is a magnet I designed from the cover artwork.

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Our love was a story mortals never heard. – The Lost Books of Selket, Djehuti’s library at Akasha


Thirty years later…

Billie Edmunds, Wilhelmina only to her late grandmother and only when she was in deep trouble, blew out a deep breath. She was definitely in trouble now. Clinging to the last shreds of her patience, she faced her client. Former client, she reminded herself.

Outside her office window, the red neon of the Columbus Dispatch sign winked to life as the October twilight deepened. So much for getting home at a reasonable time on a Friday evening. She pushed the reminder today was also her birthday to a remote corner of her mind.

She should have left work early. A blanket, a novel, and a cup of hot tea would have been preferable to the earful she was currently getting.

“He’s cutting my wife from my estate. My pregnant wife!” Outrage filled Cyrus Johnson Senior’s transparent face.

You mean your knocked-up former secretary who’s the same age as two of your granddaughters, you old goat. She swallowed the insult before it popped out of her mouth. He’d be the type of ghost who’d would freeze her out of her bedroom after he made the walls drip with blood if she didn’t calm him down. “Mr. Johnson—”

“She won’t get a single penny by the time that bastard’s through. I paid you, paid you well, to make sure this wouldn’t happen!” The cup of pens on her desk jiggled in time to his words, and his stained-glass appearance turned milky.

Not good. Extreme emotion allowed a ghost to physically affect his surroundings. If Johnson put two and two together, he may start destroying her office out of spite.

She clamped a hand on the cup and dragged it away from the edge. “No, Mr. Johnson, you paid me to write your Last Will and Testament. I believe I counseled you not to make your oldest son your executor. Your business partner would have made a better—”

Her logic did nothing to appease his temper. “Looking out for my family isn’t Les Wyatt’s job. It was yours. What are you going to do to fix this?” Cyrus demanded, slamming his ectoplasmic hand down on her desk. He didn’t even notice that it passed through the fake maple veneer. Thankfully, he also didn’t notice the sheaf of documents his ghostly energy rustled, threatening to send the sheets flying through the room.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the paperwork she had been proofing when Johnson walked through her door. Literally.

“There’s nothing I can do, Mr. Johnson. Your wife and each of your three children hired their own attorneys. I don’t represent anyone currently involved in the estate.” She might as well have been whistling the Buckeye fight song for all the impact her reasoning had on her dead client.

“It’s my fucking property, little girl!”

“Mr. Johnson, under the laws of the state of Ohio, once you’re dead, you no longer own the property.”

Translucent arms waved in exasperation. “You’re a con artist just like every other lawyer in this town! And now, I got this-this thing following me around.” He jabbed a crooked finger toward the corner of her office where the tiny bird made of white light bobbed as it waited for its charge.

The odd bird looked like the other guides she spotted following a new ghost around. If the soul it was supposed to deliver to the afterlife got too stubborn, it would leave the ghost to his or her own devices.

If the ghosts only knew there were worse things waiting for them.

Pain spiked between her eyes. She could only hope the ache was a brain aneurysm instead of a stress headache. She returned her attention to Johnson and took a deep breath. “Has it occurred to you that haunting your son might be more effective in solving your problem than harassing me?”

Her sarcasm was totally lost on the ghost. “Except he can’t see me. You can, you traitorous—” The chiming music of the guide’s laughter rained out the rest of Johnson’s insults.

Billie rubbed her temples. “I see dead people” was a great punch line unless you really could see them. If they knew you could see them, they wouldn’t leave you alone. Why, oh why hadn’t she ignored Johnson when he showed up in her office last week? His wrinkled ass hanging out of the hospital gown should have been her first clue he’d died. The fact that she could see the spine of her Ohio Probate Code through his wrinkled ass should have been the second. At least, now he wore the phantom equivalent of the suit in which the gold-digging son had buried him.

Ectoplasmic spittle sprayed from Johnson’s lips as he continued his rant. “I’m telling ya both, I ain’t leaving ‘til you fix this, young lady!”

Frustration forced out whatever empathy she had for her former client. She lurched to her feet to her feet. Planting her hands on the desktop, she leaned forward until her nose nearly touched the mist that formed Johnson’s. “Are you saying you’re my responsibility, Mr. Johnson?” Venom and steel filled her voice.

He eased back from her, his eyes wide, fear oozing from him in waves.

Even the spirit guide sparked at her question. The white light flared to a brilliant crimson.

No. She closed her eyes to hide her own fear and confusion. She was just a human. She couldn’t possibly be a threat to Johnson or his guide.

Resolve filled Billie, enabling her to cling to her sanity. When she opened her eyes, a freaked-out Calvin Johnson hovered under the outstretched wings of the guide. “You-you can’t do anything to me.” Except if was very obvious under his bluster that’s exactly what he was afraid of.

Even if Vanna White spotted her twenty-one consonants and five vowels, she wouldn’t have a fucking hint about why she triggered Johnson’s panic. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t take advantage of it. “Then, Mr. Johnson, I suggest you leave with your friend.” When Johnson hesitated, she yelled, “Now!”

Not bothering with the door, Johnson dived through her office wall into the reception area.

The guide’s light shifted back to its normal white. Humor tinkled like a Mozart sonata, a song only she could hear. It bobbed once before it floated after Johnson.

Take a soul? The last thing she wanted was cranky Calvin Johnson calling her every name in the book for the rest of her life, even if she knew how to keep him. Besides, things worked the other way around. She usually couldn’t get rid of the suckers until she figured out how to help the ghosts with their problems.

Assuming they came to her in time.

For crying out loud, she was only human. Albeit a human with one funky talent. Weariness rushed through her as she dropped into her second-hand office chair. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to plain old incandescent lamps after the near-blinding brilliance of the spirit guide. How the hell was she supposed to fix this one? It was almost as frustrating as the dead children in the cemetery near Nettie’s place.

And Billie damn well couldn’t tell Nettie about tonight’s incident. Her landlady definitely would not let this one go. Especially since it involved Calvin Johnson’s unborn child.

Billie’s head fell forward and landed with a muffled thump on the trust papers she’d been reviewing when her guests had appeared. Why, oh why, was this happening to her? Maybe she should check herself into Ohio State University Hospital’s psych ward. Maybe she should ask Nettie the name of her therapist. Maybe she should hit the state store for a bottle of tequila on the way home.

“You okay, Ms. Edmunds?”

Billie’s head jerked up at the sound of Maggie Shaw’s voice. From the look on the receptionist’s face, there was a distinct possibility the guys with the special white jackets were already on their way.

“I thought I heard you shouting,” Maggie added.

Maggie’s wary look made Billie drag in a shaky breath and smile. “I guess I’m a little frustrated with myself for taking the Johnson case. It’s turned into a will contest, and whoever loses will probably file a malpractice claim against me.” She tapped the two subpoenas lying on the corner of her desk. The eldest son had filed the will contest before Johnson’s body was even cold. Cyrus’s daughter had the grace to wait until after the funeral. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

Sympathetic understanding filled Maggie’s hazel eyes. “Unfortunately, evaluating potential clients is one of those things young attorneys have to learn the hard way.” And Maggie would know after working as a legal assistant for the last forty years. She waved a hand toward the kitchenette. “Do you want another pot of coffee before I leave?”

Billie shook her head. “I’m going home, too.” She stood and started gathering the files she’d need to review over the weekend. “I think I need something stronger than coffee.”

##

Four hours later, Billie winced at the bass thump that rattled her toes from two blocks away and hesitated. Why had she let the twins talk her into going out for her birthday? She and her housemates hadn’t even entered the club yet, and she could feel the music pounding in time with her headache. “I don’t know about this.”

The twins each latched onto an arm and dragged her forward.

“You need a break,” Reyna said.

“We all need a break.” Kyra nodded. “Especially Professor Tightass.”

“Calling her names won’t get Nettie out of the house,” Reyna chided her twin.

Kyra rolled her eyes. Her talent for sarcasm and the difference in eye color were the only ways Billie could tell them apart. That and Kyra’s penchant for Goth wear. Maybe it was a side effect from working in the morgue.

“Yeah, well, she’s about to turn as moldy as her history books. Geez, she’s only forty-three, and she acts like our great-grandmother.” Kyra released Billie’s left elbow to clutch her leather jacket at her throat. She shuffled along the sidewalk like an elderly woman and started whining in a high, quivery voice. “I’m telling you children, you must take your responsibilities seriously in order to save mankind.”

Billie laughed despite her foul mood, the same way the twins had laughed at Nettie the first time the professor, their mutual landlady, had brought up her “belief” to them. Billie had a couple of years of living with the eccentric woman and was used to Netanya Soren’s peculiarities. She was on anti-anxiety meds thanks to her post-traumatic stress disorder from her military service in Afghanistan. Billie made a point of picking up the refills herself every month. Nettie off her meds wasn’t pretty.

But Billie couldn’t live in a world where her crazy landlady’s insane ramblings were true, even if the OSU history professor had been the first person to accept Billie’s own peculiarities. So, despite her own reservations, she felt compelled to defend Nettie to the twins. “She’s had a rough time the last few years.”

Kyra snorted. “Assaulting a fellow professor falls under the heading of creating her own damn problems.”

“Professor Hildebrand snuck up on her from behind in a dark parking lot. He deserved getting his nose broke,” Billie protested.

“She should have been fired,” Kyra shot back.

” Like they fired Woody Hayes after he smacked around a player in the middle of a football game?” Billie said.

“Maybe Nettie’s incident was an innocent mistake.” Reyna’s soft voice entered the conversation. “But she can’t keep hiding in her house, any more than you can.”

“Or maybe not everyone are the party animals you two are,” Billie grumbled.

The twin’s unsettling green eyes bore into Billie’s soul. The last thing she wanted to admit was the twins were right. Her earlier encounter with Mr. Johnson still bothered her. Maybe she needed to learn how to deal with the living before the dead drove her as bonkers as Nettie.

Latching on to a quick change of subject, she nodded toward the red brick structure ahead. “Have either of you been here before?” The parking lot was already packed, and twenty-somethings swarmed toward the door. A handful matched Reyna’s fashionista garb from what Billie could see below coat hems, but most wore the standard grad student uniform of jeans and tennies.

Kyra shook her head. “It just opened. Porter recommended it.”

“Porter? The hot body mover?” Reyna waggled her eyebrows.

“Yeah, he’s working here part-time now.”

Billie swallowed a groan. She might have known the twins were on a beefcake hunt. If it weren’t for her crankiness, their behavior would be a lot more amusing. Her heels dragged of their own accord. “Why don’t you girls go on? I’m not sure I’m feeling up to this. I have a headache—”

“What? It’s your birthday. You can’t go home and bury your nose in your briefs,” Kyra mocked.

“Yeah, we’ll find you something much more fun to bury in your briefs,” Reyna said as Kyra grabbed Billie’s elbow again. They continued dragging her toward the front door of the club. “Besides it’s too damn cold to stand outside and debate your lack of partying skills.” A razor-sharp October gust emphasized Reyna’s point.

Some battles just weren’t worth the fight, but Billie couldn’t help her worry. The nagging sense that something was about to happen gnawed on her nerves while the twins hauled her the last few feet. She shook her head. Maybe it was leftover discomfort from the ghost materializing into her office earlier. Kyra yanked the door open, and together, the twins shoved her inside. Moist, hot air enveloped her, making it hard to breath.

“IDs, ladies?”

Billie jumped at the voice. The city and university kept the street lights in good working order, which only made the dark foyer even more oppressive. Her eyes adjusted to find a man towering over her. Black t-shirt and black jeans encased his body, the clothing leaving nothing to the imagination. Shaggy blue-black hair framed dark skin and high cheekbones. But it was the eyes that drew the most attention. Hazel eyes so pale they could qualify as liquid gold.

She blinked.

Ice white teeth gleamed in the black light. “Your ID?” He held out a large hand.

She gulped at the massive paw. No wonder Kyra was obsessed with the correlation of men’s sizes.

The twin in question elbowed past Billie. “Oh puh-leeze! You know me, Porter.”

His grin widened. “Yeah, I do, which is why I wouldn’t put it past you to drag some overimpressed and underaged college student in here.” His fingers waved. “ID?”

Billie had to give him credit. He’d nailed Kyra’s tendency to flaunt her family’s money and power, sometimes to the younger students’ detriment. Reyna was slightly more circumspect, but she had the same tendency to push to get her way. Billie still hadn’t figured out why the twins roomed with Nettie rather than renting some luxury condo off campus. And neither her landlady or the girls were forthcoming with the information. They couldn’t possibly be drowning in student loan debt like she was.

Kyra sniffed and handed over her driver’s license along with the cover charge. Porter flicked a glance at it before returning the card. He reached for the proffered I. D. and money in Billie’s hand.

Electricity shot up her arm at his warm touch and closed around her heart, her lungs, her mind. She knew him. The illogical feeling grew stronger. She didn’t know how or why, but she felt him deep in her soul.

She shook her head, wishing she could as easily shake the odd feeling. Impossible. They’d never met until a minute ago.

He gave a far closer examination of her license, as if he were memorizing every detail and comparing the information to who stood before him. Those golden eyes focused on her midsection. No, they bore through to her backbone. Could he really know she kept a knife sheathed against the base of her spine? Her cousin Mitch’s gift had been the one thing that kept her foster father’s perverted advances at bay. The steel hunting blade was more precious than any security blanket.

But if she were caught carrying the illegal concealed weapon, the conservative Franklin County judges wouldn’t just throw the book at her. They’d make an example of how an officer of the courts could not flaunt the law in their jurisdiction.

She wished she could make her own example on some annoying ghosts. Too bad the knife wouldn’t work on them.

The mysterious Porter said nothing and handed her card back with an odd, secretive smile. Another electric touch flooded her nerves endings, this one setting off such intimate sensations heat spilled across her cheeks.

He gave a quick look at Reyna’s ID before he stamped the backs of each of their right hands and waved them into the club. “Have a good time, ladies.”

Dryness filled her mouth at the wink he gave her. Billie turned and stumbled after the twins. A peek over her shoulder showed him still watching them. No, not the twins. Just her.

The heavy beat resumed its throb in her eardrums. Only then did she notice the sounds of the club had been missing in the foyer. If it hadn’t been for the encounter with Cyrus Johnson earlier, the situation wouldn’t have garnered any more of her attention. Why on earth were her nerves on overdrive tonight? She shot another glance over her shoulder, but the man had melded into the shadows of the entrance. Only the golden eyes and white teeth showed through the gloom.

A high-pitched whistle broke the spell. She turned her head to find a smirking Kyra.

“Told ya we’d find someone to get into your briefs.”

Heat flared again, and not just in her cheeks this time. “He was only being polite.”

Reyna snickered. “And you were politely undressing him with your eyes.”

Billie shook her head, as much to clear her own wayward thoughts as to negate the twins’ salacious remarks. “Go find us a table. I’ll put in our order.”

Squeezing through the press of male bodies lining the dance floor, she approached the main bar. The crowd would only grow as the night slid into the wee hours. She surveyed the crowd as she waited for the drafts she ordered. The young men hadn’t consumed enough alcohol yet to approach the girls gyrating on the dance floor. Swallowing her smile, she paid the bartender, grabbed the three mugs, and headed for the table the twins had claimed.

Except Kyra sat by herself. It only took a second to spot Reyna swaying on the main floor, a jeweled peacock among barnyard chickens. Her dance partner definitely had the fresh-off-the-farm look, signifying an Ag College teaching assistant.

“Didn’t take her long.” She passed a mug to the glowering gothette.

“Never does.” Kyra gulped down half of her beer. Her actions didn’t disguise the bitter jealousy. “She usually does better than a TA though.”

Billie couldn’t identify with the sisters’ love-hate relationship. Maybe if she had siblings, she’d have a hint. She dropped into the chair next to Kyra and sipped her own beer. “If you toned down the attitude—”

Kyra shot her a look that should have incinerated her gray matter and boiled her eyeballs.

Despite the warning bells in her own brain, Billie pressed on. “—and the make-up, you wouldn’t scare off all the Mr. Greenjeans here.”

“Do I detect a little self-hatred, Counselor?”

Leave it to Kyra to stab the most vulnerable parts of her psyche. Billie had done her damnedest to ditch the Appalachian accent along with her entire past. “Touché, Doctor.” She held up her mug. “Truce?”

Kyra smirked before she clinked her heavy glass against Billie’s. “Truce.”

##

Two hours and another beer later, Billie’s head pounded worse than it had at the office. None of the men who’d approached her for a dance remotely appealed to her. The unnerving sensation that the doorman still watched her from the foyer didn’t help.

And maybe that was the problem. No man had ever ignited such a sense of desire. Desire was something she avoided. The couple of times she’d given in, the chaotic emotion had screwed up her ordered life.

She rose and tossed some bills on the table. “I’m heading home.”

Both Kyra and the gentleman she’d been kissing looked up at Billie. Kyra reached for her leather jacket draped across the back of her chair. “I’ll get Reyna.”

The third-year pharmacy student who’d been examining Kyra’s tonsils laid a possessive hand on her wrist. “My roommate will be here any minute. He’d be happy to walk your friend home.” He wore what he probably thought was a charming smile.

The gothette jerked her arm from the idiot’s grip. Billie bit back her own smirk despite her headache. He’d lost any chance at nookie tonight with that caveman act.

Billie shook her head. “You guys stay and have fun. It’s only a few blocks, and both the city and campus police are out in force this close to Halloween.” Pulling on her wool coat over her cardigan, she eyed Kyra. “See you in the morning.”

Kyra nodded back. “Be careful. And tell Nettie not to wait up for us.” She turned and glared at Mr. Caveman. “We’ll be home early.” The idiot pharmacy student’s face fell.

A genuine grin stretched Billie’s lips. “Like that’ll do any good.” She waggled her fingers and headed for the main entrance.

Disappointment pitted her stomach when a different bouncer stood guard at the door. She paused, the question of where Porter was on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she returned the new guy’s friendly nod and braced herself for the change in temperature. Plunging into the bitter night air, she chided herself. Someone as good-looking as Kyra’s acquaintance from the morgue probably had lots of girls after him.

She searched her memory of what else Kyra had said about the guy. Besides that his body was made for sin. Oh yeah. He was working his way through mortuary school.

All the more reason not to think about him. The shiver that rippled across her skin had nothing to do with icy wind forcing its way down her collar. Only the stars above knew what may follow this Porter home from school. She didn’t need anymore ghosts in her life.

Another gust brought a sharper tang to her nose. Snow.

The wind ripped away the wispy white cloud of her sigh. What had possessed her to turn down the offer from the law firm in Phoenix? She could have been a damn sight warmer right now.

She paused at the intersection and stared at the dark cemetery across the street. Could she take her shortcut without the residents wanting her company all night? She didn’t blame the children. Eternity must be pretty damn lonely.

Another gust of wind brought a couple of flakes swirling in the passing headlights. Swallowing her aggravation, she crossed the street and headed for the gate to the Hess Cemetery. The distinct click of the bolt sounded over the traffic on Olentangy River Road and her own bootsteps as she approached the graveyard. After a quick glance around for police, she slipped through the gate.

Sarah Jane’s translucent face smiled up at Billie. The little girl’s hand pushed inside the lock to slide the bolt back into place. She then curtsied, her dress and pinafore shining under the reflected glow of streetlights on the lowering clouds.

“Good evenin’, Miss Billie. Have you come to play with us?”

Pale heads peeked from behind or through various stones, markers, and trees. Apparently, the pint-sized residents had already started a round of hide-and-seek.

Billie shook her head and returned the girl’s smile. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I need to get home before the weather gets too bad.” A splash of icy wetness hit her cheek. Great. Freezing rain before the actual snow.

Tommy walked through the wall of the mausoleum where he’d apparently been hiding for the game. He tugged his suspenders as he contemplated the growing wetness on the cemetery’s concrete driveway. “We’ll walk you home then, Miss Billie.”

The boy’s polite concern widened her smile. “That would be very gracious of you.” She strode forward, and within a few yards, a dozen of the ghost children escorted her down the single-lane road snaking between the memorials.

Tommy trudged on her left. More icy rain passing through his bare feet before splatting on the asphalt. “You really shouldn’t be out this close to the Devil’s Night.” On her right, Sarah Jane nodded agreement to Tommy’s solemn proclamation.

“Halloween’s got nuthin’ to do with any old devil.” Little Marcus shoved his round wire-rimmed glasses further up his sharp nose. “It’s the ancient Celts’ last harvest celebration.”

Billie choked back her laughter as the two boys launched into a debate over the holiday. The argument was more reflective of the one hundred-fifty-year difference in their respective times than their actual knowledge. Traffic sounds faded as she passed further into the graveyard.

The wind and slushy rain picked up, slickening the asphalt. She pulled her scarf from her pocket and wrapped it over hair and ears. The weather folks had definitely called this front wrong. Even the boys’ debate faltered and died as the sleet-rain mix turned to real flakes of snow.

A frown tugged the corners of Billie’s mouth. The silence of the storm felt wrong. There should be the faint clacking of branches. The hushed whisper of falling snow. Even the faint sloshing laugh of the nearby Olentangy River.

A slithery wailing shredded the quiet and stopped her in her tracks. The wish she’s been imagining the sound died when the children froze as well, peering in all directions.

“I tain’t never heard anything like that.” Sarah Jane’s voice quivered, and she stepped closer to Billie. Ice seeped through her gloves as the ghost clutched her hand.

Tommy eased forward, his head cocked. “Almost sounded like a bobcat. Or a panther.”

“There aren’t any wild cats left in Ohio.” Marcus tugged on the waist of his bell bottoms, but even he cast nervous glances at the surrounding gloom.

The peculiar cry tore through the night from Billie’s right, closer this time, and deeper. Two of them? Some instinct told her whatever made the sounds was far from friendly. She opened her mouth to tell the children to go back to their graves, then snapped her jaw shut. Whatever was out there hunted, and her gut said it wouldn’t be too picky if its meal was living or dead. It wasn’t logical, but she couldn’t break the certainty inside her.

“Stay with me, kids.” Now why the hell did she say that? If the things in the cemetery hunted ghosts, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop them. And if they hunted the living…

Curling her fingers around the frozen hand embedded in hers, she broke from the lane and jogged as fast as she dared across the dying grass glazed with ice.

The ghosts raced with her through the graveyard. Nothing penetrated the eerie silence, not even the honking horns from Olentangy. Nothing but her own jagged breaths as she ran for the back gate.

The nails-on-blackboard wail warned her a split second before something crawled from behind the mausoleum ahead. She skidded to a halt as did the children. The nightmare rose on its hind legs, black eyes glittering. Scales covered a reptilian body and tail.

Logic said the weather was far too cold for such a thing to be prowling around the cemetery.

It took another step forward and raised its head, its mouth open in another eerie cry.

An answering keen came from behind Billie, and she whirled to find another creature perched on the stone angel marking one of the Hess family. A third slunk from the shadow of a nearby tree. Billie and the children were surrounded.

Queer Eye for the Super Guy (888-555-HERO #11) - Chapter 1

Here's the first unedited chapter of the next 888-555-HERO book!

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Jeremy Harkness examined the business plan his husband Leonardo had set on the counter while he chopped mushrooms for their breakfast omelets. The idea was sound, but… He set aside the knife and looked up at Leo who perched on a stool on the opposite side of their kitchen island. “But why, darling?”

“Why, what?” Leonardo frowned.

“I don’t understand why you’d want to design for the hoi polloi, baby doll,” Jeremy answered.

“The general public is not the hoi polloi, and no offense—” Leonardo hesitated a moment before he blurted, “I want a little something to call my own. I hate feeling like I’m riding on your dress train.”

“You’re not—” Jeremy started to protest.

“If we don’t promote Elaine, she’s going to leave to start her own salon.” Leonardo pantomimed trading one thing for another. “Besides Rey already set aside space for us in the new Canyon Block shopping complex.”

Rey Garcia, aka the superhero Black Falcon, was generous to a fault. He, or rather his attorneys, finally managed to close on the city block that had housed Canyon Industries, Canyon Pointe’s largest employer until the company collapsed nearly three decades ago. Rey was making sure the homeless folks he knew had jobs and places to live since he had been one of them not so long ago.

Not to mention Rey made Jeremy’s foster sister Aisha so damn happy. It was hard to hate the man for being good-looking and a total sweetheart, too.

Jeremy nodded. “All right. We can withdraw the money from one of our money market funds—”

“No.” Leonardo held up his right palm. “I’ve already set aside the capital I will need.”

“Leonardo Chen Harkness!” Jeremy laid his palm on his chest. “You have secret money I don’t know about?”

“Quit being a drama queen.” Leonardo scowled. “I’ve been squirreling away money in my fun account for years.”

Jeremy sighed and bit his lower lip. He’d been the one to insist they have separate accounts for their own personal use so neither of them had to justify such spending to the other spouse. His bio parents had some rather nasty fights over Dad’s race track betting and Mom’s shoe shopping before they tossed Jeremy out of the house. He sighed. The ’rents probably still had those same fights.

Assuming they were still together. Jeremy hadn’t bothered checking up on them.

“Don’t give me the sigh of disbelief,” Leonardo said crossly.

Jeremy leaned his elbows on the counter and took Leonardo’s hands in his. “It was the sigh of self-disgust that I was on the verge of acting like my bio ’rents. And for that, I sincerely apologize, my love.”

Leonardo flashed a sweet smile. “All’s forgiven.” He leaned closer and pecked Jeremy on the lips.

“Can I see some of your designs?” Jeremy asked when they parted.

“Not yet,” Leonardo said.

A little twinge of anxiety raced along Jeremy’s nerves. He knew it was a stupid reaction to what Ryan had done to him fifteen years ago. And it definitely wasn’t fair to compare that asshole to Leonardo.

“I’m actually working with Susan Kennedy,” Leonardo continued. “She’s been designing jewelry on the side.”

“She is?” Jeremy blinked, but he didn’t know why he was surprised. His foster sisters’ law partner was a fountain of odd talents. “Wait a minute! Was she where you came up with the idea for the earring comms for the supers who wear jewelry?”

Leonardo nodded. “I said one set she showed me was big enough to hide Timmy’s equipment, and we got to talking.”

Jeremy was a big enough queen to admit his feelings were hurt, but he also wanted his husband to be happy. “Just make sure you have someone look over any partnership papers before you sign anything.”

Leonardo’s eyes widened. “Do you really think Susan would screw me over?”

Jeremy chuckled. “Only if she really wants Harri and Aisha to pound the crap out of her. But this is your baby, and I’ll stay out of your way, muffin.”

His phone chose that moment to dance along the surface of the island’s granite countertop to the tune of Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.” Even odder was the caller ID showed Melanie’s personal number, not their alter ego, Ultramegaperson.

He tapped the answer icon. “What’s up, doll?”

“I have a personal question for you and a request,” the throaty voice of the world’s most powerful super said. “Remember that producer Dale I’ve been dating?”

“You’ve mentioned him.” Jeremy grabbed his phone and stepped back to lean against the sink counter. Leonardo pulled the cutting board towards himself and started mincing the garlic.

“He wants to know if my designer would like to be involved in a nationally televised reality show where eight designers for superheroes would compete to dress twelve brand-new supers.”

“Mel, you know I like my privacy when it comes to designing supersuits,” Jeremy said.

“Which is the reason I’m calling you instead of my boyfriend Dale calling you.” Mel gave an exaggerated sigh. “You know I’d be the last person on the planet to out your secret designing skills, but since you design for a large number of other heroes, he really wants you to participate in his show.”

“What’s the catch?” Jeremy said.

“One of the twelve people the contestants will be designing for is a supervillain.”

A Hint of Thief - Chapter 1

An issue with my left eye slowed down my writing progress this week. It turned out to be a scratched cornea. So while I take frequent screen time breaks, here's a little preview of A Hint of Thief.

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I breathed in the air of my home world through the wave of vertigo caused by the Grey Ladies’ portal. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms and other spring flowers brought tears to my eyes. Not from the pollen or the fading dizziness, but from the release of my emotions. Deep down, I had feared I would never be able to return.

The Grey Ladies deposited me where I had left my world, at the edge of the royal gardens near the square in front of the Crimson Palace in the capital of the Kingdom of Ryukyu. However, I was still thousands of leagues from Issura. I prayed to the Twelve I wasn’t alone in the island nation.

As usual, none of our deities bothered to answer me.

The lack of sound in the royal square of the Ryukyuan capital of Naha unnerved me. Blood still stained the pavers of the square, and the gates of the Crimson Palace itself were closed. How long had it been since I fell through the portal the skinwalker had opened to allow one of the demons to escape?

Or perhaps the skinwalker’s real goal had been to summon reinforcements from the demon realm. Either way, neither the demon nor I ended up in the demons’ home dimension. What had happened while I was gone? How long had I been gone?

Time ran differently in different universes. I needed to remember to relay that information to my fellow justices Elizabeth, Yanaba, and Erato back at the Temple of Balance in Orrin. That was assuming I had access to Lady Shi Hua or another distance speaker. And that was assuming I’d arrived within a few hours of my unfortunate departure as the Grey Ladies had promised.

I took another deep breath, mainly to calm myself, and looked up at the sky. It was blank, a plain dark blue. No clouds impeded my vision. Definitely no bloody orbs floating above me. I released the air in my lungs. It was night. The next question was which night.

The best course action would be to go back to the harbor. Surely, Captain Titus wouldn’t have left Ryukyu without me. Luc wouldn’t have let the Mars Tranquilus leave if I weren’t onboard.

Except once again, I assumed both my love and the captain were still alive.

I considered calling out in silent speech, but I could end up attracting demons if the Ryukyuan Temples didn’t vanquish the demon army that had attacked us in the square. I examined the walls of the Crimson Palace once again. No sentries. No lights.

Had Naha become like the handful of island villages of the western Peaceful Sea? The citizens had disappeared without a trace, taken by either skinwalkers or demons. Or maybe something worse.

My best chance was to return to the harbor where the Mars Tranquilus had been berthed. I started walking down the main boulevard. The Ryukyuan Government House was actually divided into six different one-story buildings, three on each side of the street. There was no evidence of any humans, but of course, the bureaucratic offices would be closed after First Evening regardless of any demon attack.

The Ryukyuan government district bled into their Temple District, which again was oddly quiet. Night was the high time for worship at the Temple of Love. The paper sculptures the Ryukyuans used to light their streets were gone from their poles in this part of the city.

However, the wardens guarding the entrances to Vintner and Death raised the alarm the moment they spotted me walking down the thoroughfare. I stood still and clenched my fists to keep myself from reaching for my sword or knives as they converged on me. Unfortunately, my skill with the Ryukyuan language was far worse than my skill with Jing, so I remained silent at the shouted questions I couldn’t comprehend.

As much as I wanted to resist the wardens’ manhandling, I allowed myself to be shackled. Someone yanked back my hood, and a torch was thrust near my face. Squinting against the obscene brightness was totally involuntary on my part. A warden wrapped their arm around my throat, and another warden roughly forced my right eye open.

The wardens muttered amongst themselves, and then they reported their findings to the clergy who poured out of the nearby Temples. I blinked away the yellow afterimages of the damn torch. However, the yelling in the Ryukyuan language stopped.

“What day is it?” I asked in the Peaceful Sea trade tongue.

“You are breaking the island-wide curfew. Identify yourself,” one of the Death priests demanded.

“I am Chief Justice Anthea DiBalance of Orrin from the Queendom of Issura. Which your wardens confirmed by poking me in the eye to make sure it was red,” I added dryly.

Instead of introducing himself as etiquette demanded, he glared at me. “The Issuran chief justice fell into a demon summoning portal yesterday evening. For all I know, you are a demon wearing her skin.”

The Temple bells started tolling. Not a demon alarm, but the time. First Night. If the Death priest spoke truly, I’d been gone for a little over a day in my world’s time.

Despite the urge to argue with a priest simply performing his duties, I took another calming breath. “Before you toss me in whatever gaol cell you plan to use, would you please send a message to the Mars Tranquilus to let my associates know I’m alive?”

The Death priest barked an order in Ryukyuan, and two of his wardens took off in the direction of Naha’s harbor. “I am High Brother Gajoko. We will escort you to the Temple of Balance for additional questioning.”

“That is satisfactory, High Brother.” I couldn’t bow with the chokehold around my neck. I hoped the priest didn’t take offense to my failure to be polite. I’d encountered such illogical behavior before in Issura.

The forearm across my throat was removed, the warden divested me of most of my weapons, and I shuffled from the weight of the shackles on my wrists and ankles down the street in the grip of two wardens. I merely hoped my friends were still alive and would arrive at the Temple of Balance before the Ryukyuan Reverend Mother decided it was better to behead me rather than take the chance I was under demon influence.

Invasion! - Chapter 2

Here's the next unedited chapter in Invasion!

And don't forget Pestilence in Pumpkin Spice is free on Amazon until Friday, November 18th!

Link to Pestilence in Pumpkin Spice on Amazon

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Greenwich Village, The Island of Manhattan, New York, The night before Samhain

Shan Wong-Washington jerked awake at Cu Chulainn’s low growl. The Irish foxhound lay at the foot of the brown comforter on hers and Jamal’s wrought iron bed. Ambient light of New York City filtered past the closed blinds of the bedroom’s only window and displayed the dog’s alert posture.

“What’s wrong, boy?” she whispered. Cu Chulainn jumped down from the bed.

Or rather stepped down. The dog was so huge her sister-in-law Tanja and cousin Livvy rode him when they were toddlers. He padded down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living room of the loft.

Shan slid out from under the covers. The hardwood floor was oddly cold against her bare soles, considering the building’s cranky furnace had been blasting so much heat before bedtime she’d resorted to a sleep t-shirt and shorts instead of her sweats. She listened carefully, but there was only silence from the loft’s living room. Were the girls up to something? Was that what riled Cu Chulainn?

The wolfhound wouldn’t have growled if it were something minor. He would have trotted out to the living room and stopped whatever mischief the girls were up to.

Shan followed the dog out to the living room. The night light in the kitchen gleamed yellow, softening the harsher glow of Manhattan from the skylight.

No shenanigans here. Both girls were out cold. Tanja was curled in a tight ball, sound asleep. Only a few of her dark braids poked out from under her blanket. Livvy lay beside her, blond hair and limbs sprawled across the couch and chair cushions the girls has placed on the living room rug to form their bed. They had convinced their respective parents Shan needed the company while her husband Jamal trained at the Johnson Space Center. It definitely wasn’t the two nine-year-olds who woke Cu Chulainn.

The wolfhound stood at the top of the narrow steps leading from the second-floor loft down to the store. Another low growl rumbled deep in his chest. Something was definitely wrong in the shop.

Shan had double-checked all the doors and windows of Morrigan’s Cauldron, the store Jamal’s mother co-owned. Everything had been locked, and the steel gates pulled into place and secured. As much as she loved Manhattan, and Greenwich Village especially, she wasn’t stupid about safety. Especially not with two little girls under her care. The wolfhound place a paw on the first step, his hackles raised.

“No,” Shan commanded in a whisper. “Stay.”

Cu Chulainn gave her a look that obviously said he disagreed with her, but he did as she ordered.

Shan went back to the bedroom to slip on her canvas shoes. A slight hum came from the closet. Crap. If Lexi was indicating danger, things were worse than Shan feared. She carefully slid open the closet door. The scabbard hung from its peg, and Lexi’s hum became even more urgent.

Shan drew her husband’s sword from its scabbard. The steel gave off a slight golden glow in the dim room. The blade had gone through many titles over the millennia. The Sword of Lugh. The Spear of Destiny. Excalibur. Now, the family simply referred to it as Jamal’s crazy singing sword. Or Lexi.

And she was a much better weapon than Shan’s aluminum baseball bat.

“Tone it down, girl,” Shan whispered. “You’re going to give us away to whatever is downstairs.

The sword’s glow dimmed, and she stopped the eerie humming.

“Thank you.” Shan retrieved her charmed copper knife and crept back out to the living room. The girls hadn’t moved at all. Cu Chulainn remained on guard at the top of the stairwell.

Maybe she should call her mother-in-law Phylicia. As a witch, she could handle whatever was down there.

No, there was no sense waking up the in-laws if she was blowing something out of proportion.

A bang came from downstairs. Cu Chulainn growled low in his chest.

“What was that?” Livvy whispered.

Crap. Both girls sat on their makeshift bed, wide awake and staring at Shan.

Another crash resounded through the building.

“Lock yourselves in the bathroom, and call 9-1-1,” Shan whispered. “Cu Chulainn, guard the girls.”

The wolfhound still didn’t look happy, but he padded over to Tanja and Livvy. He let the girls grab their phones before he herded them toward the bathroom.

Shan crept down the narrow steps, Lexi providing her only light. While some of the objects Morrigan’s Cauldron carried were expensive, a thief couldn’t easily fence a one hundred-pound block of purple quartz. Phylicia took the receipts for the day for deposit on her way home. So, why the hell would anyone break into the store? Everyone in this neighborhood knew better than to mess with Phylicia. Or Grandmother Wong.

So it had to be someone desperate. Or whacked out on drugs. Or both.

Shan opened the door at the foot of the stairs and froze when the hinges creaked. She held her breath and listened. Someone shuffled around in the storefront. Whoever it was hadn’t heard her. Thank goodness for old creaky buildings in the village.

She carefully locked the door to the stairs and crept through the storeroom. The beaded curtain hung between her and the invader. Odd chittering came from the dark figure standing behind the cashwrap. The light from the street showed the gates over the door and windows closed. Had her potential thief jimmied the front door and its gate and closed them so the NYPD didn’t get suspicious? Or had he come in through the back door? Were there others with him?

None of her conjectures made sense. Phylicia’s wards would have deterred someone trying to come into the building after hours and much as the locks and gates.

The rustle of parchment came from the top of the cashwrap. For a split second, the figure’s mumbled words that sounded like the similar language spouted by the woman who had brought in a strange grimoire.

The customer claimed she found the volume in a dead aunt’s attic and had wanted an appraisal. Of course, the woman came in after Phylicia had left for the day. Was someone trying to steal the grimoire?

Or worse, had the woman cast a spell inside the store without Shan realizing it to get the intruder past the after hours wards?

The more she watched, the less the thing flipping through the grimoire resembled a human being. Its moves were jerky, and its joints seemed to move in unnatural direction. The smart thing would be to retreat to the loft stairwell, lock the door behind her, and wait for the cops. But between the locked gates and the warding, the thing was trapped inside the building with Shan, Cu Chulainn, and the girls.

And unless Shan unlocked the gates, there was no way for the police to enter Morrigan’s Cauldron and apprehend the intruder.

Which still left the question of how the intruder got into the building in the first place.

None of her conjecture mattered. An unannounced night visit wasn’t good, and surprise was still on her side. She eased her left hand past the strands of bead and nudged the light switch.

The antique fixtures flared to life. The thing messing with the grimoire jerked. It was definitely not human. It was covered in greyish—well, the dermis wasn’t exactly scales, but it wasn’t skin either. And its limbs were tentacles tipped with wicked-looking talons.

One of the tentacles shot toward Shan, ripping off several strand from the bead curtain is the process as it tried to grab her. She deflected the appendage with Lexi. Both the sword and the intruder screeched. A thin trail of smoke curled from the blade. Even more smoke poured from the lengthy cut on the now-drooping tentacle.

Whatever the thing was, it was vulnerable to magic. Too bad she didn’t have her grandmother’s talents.

The intruder backed away from the cashwrap and began chirping and chittering, the noises reminiscent of locusts. The sounds were rhythmic. The damn thing was casting a spell.

Anger and protectiveness of her family fed Shan’s strength, and she charged the creature. It dodged both the Tuathan blade and her blessed copper knife while dragging its disabled tentacle.

A swirling vortex of white and blue lights appeared behind the intruder. The tone of its speech changed. A fifth tentacle shot from its body and wrapped around her right ankle. Nausea raked her at the alien feeling of its epidermis.

Before she could bring Lexi down on the tentacle, the intruder yanked her off balance. Her hip landed hard on the polished wooden floorboards, but she managed to keep her hold on both the sword and knife.

The sounds changed again to chittering broken by huffs. Laughter. The damn thing was laughing at her. She knew it in her bones as the damn creature dragged her into the vortex with it.

Death in Double Mocha - Chapter 1

War in White Chocolate is done, so I'm chugging away at the last novel in the Soccer Moms series, Death in Double Mocha. Here's the unedited first chapter.

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Irritated as hell, Dani Elante jabbed the button to open her garage door. Mark had forgotten to haul the garbage can out to the curb for tomorrow morning’s trash pick-up.

Again. Her normally conscientious son seemed to have totally lost his mind with the onset of puberty. He had barely acknowledged her presence when she marched into his bedroom and lectured him, his earbuds jammed in his ear canals and his nose firmly affixed to his phone screen as his thumbs typed messages to his friends. If her brother Marty hadn’t put her and Mark on his family’s unlimited phone plan, she would have had to take a second mortgage out on the house to pay for her son’s excessive usage.

She should have grounded Mark, but guilt nagged her. He pretended to be okay with her being the avatar of Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Or rather the Soccer Moms of the Apocalypse, as Wila had coined them.

But the four women’s kids only had each other to talk to when it came to the weirdness of what was going on in Oakfield over the past couple of months. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t take those relationships away from Mark. It was his only outlet for dealing with madness.

A cold wind rattled the tree branches and the handfuls of leaves clinging to them in the dark. The dang bitter breeze also cut through her sweatshirt and jeans and raised goosebumps along her skin. She should have grabbed her coat before she came out.

The scent of smoke blew along the freezing air along with the hint of the coming winter to Illinois. Someone in the neighborhood was fighting the late fall chill with a cozy wood fire.

A sense of regret whispered through her. Maybe she shouldn’t have sold the old Victorian she and Heath had started to refurbish before his accident. She loved the odor of pine and the crackle of real wood burning while cuddling with her husband in front of the flickering flames. But there was no way to pay two mortgages on just her salary, and Mark needed consistency with the loss of his father.

Dammit, Heath had been gone for six years. She was not going to wind herself into another depressive funk. Just because nearly everyone else she knew had family members rise from their graves, it didn’t mean she’d get that lucky. Except the question was almost as nagging as her guilt. Had Heath not been righteous enough to deserve resurrection with the Second Coming of Christ?

Or was he still in his grave because she was Death?

Dani grabbed the handle of garbage can and dragged it out to the curb before she went back for the recyclables container. She wheeled the blue recyclables can out to the curb and set it beside the pink trash can that promoted breast cancer awareness. Why did she miss Heath so much when she barely thought about Mom?

The better question is why hadn’t either of them risen when half of the Oakfield Cemetery’s residents had come back to life back in the middle of October. They were both good people. Why did Penny get her mother-in-law and Wila get her grandmother back, and Danielle was still alone? It wasn’t fair.

But then, it wasn’t fair she had been chosen as Death, one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse either.

A gust slapped her ponytail in her face. It was too damn cold to bemoan her luck in life outside. She’d make a hot cup of green tea and pout under her favorite blanket. Nope, she’d binge her favorite sitcom until she fell asleep. Marty would understand as both her brother and her boss when she called in sick in the morning. She turned to head back into the garage.

The oak tree in her front yard moaned, and a shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the frigid wind. It was the same sensation of wrongness she felt around one of the newly risen dead. She whirled around, looking for the cause, wishing for the first time the city of Oakfield had installed more streetlamps in their subdivision.

A dark figure stepped out of the shadow of the fence-lined right-of-way running between the Cassadines’ and the Jones’s houses across the street. She was on the verge of summoning her scythe when the shape shuffled into the square of the light cast by the fixtures in her garage onto the asphalt pavement. The blonde hair was as dirty as the clothes and face, but the piercing blue eyes were the same as the first time she met him.

Her heart threatened to choke her. “Heath?”

“Hey, baby.” He looked terribly confused. “I think I had an accident.”

War in White Chocolate - Chapter 1

Now that Famine in French Vanilla has been released into the wilds, I'm hard at work on the next volume of the Soccer Moms of the Apocalypse. Enjoy!

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On Sunday evening, Wila Ardale sat in the lotus position on the thick, plush carpet of her family room with her eyes closed. Despite the nag champa incense wafting through the air and her yoga pose, she jerked when pots banged in her kitchen. Her role as War, the third Horseman of the Apocalypse, or rather Soccer Mom of the Apocalypse as her friends preferred to call themselves, seemed to feed on her PTSD. The same PTSD she believed she had mostly dealt with after she left the army nearly fifteen years ago.

Her right eye opened and peered up at Grandpapa’s antique clock on the stone mantel above the fireplace. Five frickin’ minutes. It had been five frickin’ minutes and she couldn’t even get into the first level of a meditative trance. Not with her grandmother rattling around in the kitchen.

Her recently risen from the dead Gammy.

Wila knew Gammy had dealt with her own stress by cooking when she was alive. Apparently, it held true in her resurrection. But the damn noise was driving Wila crazy. She was used to total silence on her days off work while Derek was at school or at his father’s house like right now.

And the ex-louse would be bringing her son home at any moment. She trusted Derek to remain silent about Gammy living with them, and the ex-louse avoided talking to her. He would probably drop Derek off at the door as usual.

“Me-arow,” Malcolm complained at another bang. Wila glanced at the couch. Her seal-point Siamese sat on his haunches on the middle cushion, cocked his head, and repeated his complaint. His blue-point brother Martin lay on the back of the couch and swished his tail in agreement.

“I know, I know,” Wila muttered. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Martin sniffed to indicate he didn’t think anything Wila said to Gammy would work. With another round of banging from the kitchen, he had a point.

Wila stretched out for a count of fifteen before she rolled to her feet and padded into the kitchen. Gammy crouched before the open pots and pans cupboard, shuffling things around loudly.

“Whatcha looking for, Gammy?” Wila asked.

“Don’t you have a colander, girl?” Gammy straightened.

Wila walked around the breakfast bar. A large bundle of collard greens sat in the sink. Yep, her grandmother was cooking again.

“Gammy, I told you that you don’t have to cook every meal for us,” Wila said. “And especially not tonight. Derek is eating dinner with—” It took all her will not to refer to Deion as the ex-louse in front of her grandmother. “—with his dad tonight.”

Gammy shook her head sadly. “I can’t believe you and Deion are divorced. I remember you two being so happy that day your blessed little baby was born.”

“Well, that was before I found out he was screwing my best friend Rashida, our babysitter Kristy, and his secretary Eileen,” Wila grumbled.

“Eileen?” Gammy’s forehead wrinkled. “She’s your mama’s age, and she’s white.”

Wila crossed her arms and leaned her left hip against the counter. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Still need a colander for the greens.” Gammy waved at the leafy vegetables in the sink.

“I can throw in a pizza from the freezer for dinner.” Wila stalked over to her refrigerator. “That’s plenty for the two of us.”

“That processed food isn’t good for you,” Gammy lectured.

Wila took a deep breath before she turned to face her grandmother. “I can pick up soup, salad, and sandwiches from the café down the street. That would be healthier, right?”

Gammy shook her finger at Wila. “It’s a waste of money eating out all the time. How are you going to save up Derek’s education by spending willy-nilly?”

“The money for Derek’s education is already set aside.” That had been the one thing she refused to compromise on during the divorce negotiations.

“Fine, but that doesn’t take care of these collard greens, girl. And I bought a nice ham hock, too.”

Wila tensed at the reminder her friend Francine was doing more for Gammy than she was. Like buying Gammy clothes and taking her grocery shopping while Wila was at work. She didn’t need a white savior to take care of her own damn family.

“I have a strainer I use for pasta,” Wila pointed out.

“Too small.” Of course, the old woman wanted a bigger colander. She was used to cooking for her eight children, their spouses, her grandchildren, and all the cousins. However, Mom and most of the aunts and uncles had passed. Dad lived in Florida with his girlfriend. And all the cousins had scattered across the fifty states to wherever their jobs took them.

“How about we go shopping in the morning?” Wila said. “We’ll find you a colander you like, and I’ll help you with cleaning greens before I head into work. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you can cook to your heart’s desire.”

Grammy stared into Wila’s eyes before she rested a warm callused palm against Wila’s cheek. “You always were a good girl, Wila.”

Her eyes burned, and she laid her own hand over Gammy’s. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Gammy laughed. “I admit I never thought the sounding of the trumpets on Judgement Day was going to be like this.”

“Those sounding trumpets are what we’re trying to avoid, Gammy,” Wila said sternly.

The security system beeped, and Derek shouted, “Mom, I’m home!”

“In the kitchen!” she responded.

He raced in, skidding on the hardwood, and hissed, “Dad’s here.”

His warning was too late to rush Gammy upstairs to her bedroom. Sure enough, the ex-louse walked in behind Derek. His confident swagger had first attracted Wila to him, but now, it just pissed her off.

She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Deion? None of your girlfriends are here.”

“Ah, Wila, always a pleasure to speak with you.” His equally confident smile faltered when he noticed who was standing beside her. “Gammy Latricia? B-but you’re dead!”

“You got no right to address me with any familiarity, Deion Jackson.” Gammy shook her index finger at him. “If my great-grandson weren’t standing right here, I’d be giving you a piece of my mind.”

Wila crossed her arms. “It’s been three weeks since the dead started rising from their graves. You may not have a lick of compassion, but I’m not about to turn my grandmother away from my home.”

Something alien shone from Deion’s eyes, but this was normal human malice. He wasn’t possessed by a demon.

“Derek, get in my car,” he demanded.

“What? No!” Derek protested.

“You had your weekend with him, Deion,” Wila said. “You’ve delivered him safely home. It’s time for you to go.”

Deion said nothing. None of his usual attempts to intimidate her or threaten her with legal action. Nor did he reprimand Derek for giving him lip. No, Deion pivoted and stalked out of her kitchen. She followed to make sure he exited her house, and she watched him back out of her driveway.

His silence indicated he planned something. Something she wasn’t going to like.

Too bad her flaming sword didn’t work on living ex-husbands.

Famine in French Vanilla - Chapter 1

Hero Ad Litem was released today on Amazon. The other stores are still waiting for me to upload it.

In the meantime, here's your first tast of the next Soccer Moms novel!

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The buzzing of her phone drew Francine Coy-Astin out of a deep sleep. The barest light passed through the sheer white drapes of her bedroom. God help her, she hated autumn. The shorter days meant she wasn’t getting enough sunlight, which in turn meant a lack of vitamin D and a corresponding lack of energy.

Whoever it was calling her would leave a message. She snuggled deeper into the lavender-scented pillows and reached for Neal, but her body only met cooler sheets. That’s right. Her husband left early this morning for his monthly meeting with the sales team. Bless him, he’d managed to get dressed and leave without waking her.

Nor did their daughter Brittany have school today. Francine made a point of setting up all her appointments with Brittany’s teachers on Thursday so they could have this one Friday to sleep in a little.

The buzzing of the phone stopped, only to start again. Francine groaned and rolled over to reach for the device. If it was Mom calling to complain about the “hooligans” next door at their Florida condominium again, Francine would turn off the damn phone.

Instead, the caller ID said “Penny”.

That jerked Francine out of her semi-conscious state. Penny knew better than to call this early in the morning, which meant it was something she couldn’t handle as Pestilence. Francine sat up and tapped the answer icon. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother-in-law just showed up on my doorstep.” Penny sounded like she was about to hyperventilate.

“Girl, you had a nightmare,” Francine said soothingly. When the hell had she switched roles with Penny? She was Miz Practical, not Francine. “Your mother-in-law passed away. She’s in her grave in Oakfield Cemetery—”

“No, she’s not,” Penny hissed. “She’s sitting in my living room. Edward and Justine are eating breakfast in the kitchen, and they’re going to discover Laura any moment.”

“That can’t be.” Despite all the weirdness with demons over the last couple of weeks, this went one step too far. “She died. We went to her funeral—”

“Francine, what’s the fifth seal of Revelations?” Penny’s voice had an edge of hysteria.

The rising of the dead from their graves. That rhetorical question swept away the last sleep cobwebs. “Shit,” Francine muttered. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll be right over.”

##

After warning Brittany to stay inside and keep the doors locked until Francine returned, she pulled into the Hudson’s driveway fifteen minutes later. She wasn’t about to put her own daughter in danger if Penny’s zombie mother-in-law was actually inside the Hudson’s house.

Stopped at a traffic light, Francine’s favorite local radio station broke for news. She didn’t pay attention until the announcer chuckled. “On a local note, police arrested a man at the Oakfield court house. He claimed he was one of our city’s founders, Jebediah Hauser, and demanded that people get off his property. My assistant Kat did a little digging on this one, and Hauser did in fact own the land where the courthouse sits. His widow sold the property to Ebenezer Dorchester in 1799.”

Francine bit her lower lip. She didn’t find mental illness funny at all. She hoped the man got the care he needed. But what if Penny was right and the Fifth Seal had broken? What if the man the police arrested was the real Jebediah Hauser risen from the dead?

The light turned green, and Francine pressed the accelerator. Her skin tingled, an indication her Horseman Famine wanted to rear her ugly head. She tried to focus on the two boxes of crème-filled Long Johns sitting in the passenger seat to keep her alter ego in check. The other girls had to concentrate to bring forth their Four Horsemen personas, or rather their Soccer Moms of the Apocalypse as Wila liked to call them. Francine had the opposite problem. She had to concentrate to keep hers in check. As she found out the hard way when she accidentally started a riot at the Oakfield Buffet one afternoon with her supernatural hunger.

Francine pulled next to the curb in front of Penny’s house. The construction workers who replaced the splintered front door and its frame had done an excellent job. They just needed to be painted to match the shutters and trim, and no one would know anything had happened.

Except she did. She’d smacked Penny’s husband Gene with her scales right through the old door. The only reason he was still alive was thanks to the bastard demon who had possessed him.

Francine cut off the engine of her minivan, grabbed one box of the pastries, and a wad of napkins. Her seat vibrated, an indication Sable sensed something out of the ordinary. If Penny really did have her mother-in-law inside, Sable undoubtedly picked up on the dead woman’s presence.

“You need to stay here and behave yourself.” Francine patted the dashboard. “Penny would know if it was a demon.”

She exited her vehicle/horse and jogged up the couple of steps to Penny’s front porch. The wind carried that first sharp hint of winter and seemed determined to pull off the remaining red leaves from the oak trees along the street. Not bothering to ring the doorbell, she pressed the latch of the new front door and shoved it open.

The door to the formal living room was closed. Penny only closed off the living room when Gene had his medical colleagues over for one of their get-togethers. Muddy footprints caked the entryway mat, and more dirt was scattered on the hardwood flooring in a direct path to living room.

Francine closed the front door, unsure of how to proceed. If she knocked, she’d alert Edward and Justine something was going on. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, turned off the sound on the device, and texted Penny.

I’m right outside the living room door. Safe to come in?

A second later, Francine’s phone vibrated with Penny’s reply.

Yes

Francine sucked in a deep breath, pushed down in the latch, and opened the door. A woman with disheveled brunette hair and wearing a very filthy pale blue linen spring suit sat on the couch next to Penny. She resembled Penny’s mother-in-law if you erased twenty or thirty years and the ravages of her ovarian cancer. Both women clutched mugs of coffee, Penny’s favorite pumpkin spice and peppermint for the other woman from the odors.

Penny’s shoulders relaxed a bit at Francine’s entrance. “Thank you for coming over.”

The other woman looked at Francine and smiled. “Hello, Francine.” She may have needed a shower and clean clothes, but with that pleasant expression, she definitely looked just like Penny’s late mother-in-law Laura Hudson.

Francine held up her box. “Anyone want a Long John?”

Hero Ad Litem - Chapter 1

While I catch up on some necessary administrative tasks around the office, here's an unedited preview of June's release.

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Five months ago

#

Byron S. Trubble would have laughed if his life didn’t depend on his silence. The old battleax and her stooges thought they’d broken him. He’d only given one real name and location to Peggy Reinhold. One of the kids that died in a training accident. The rest of the information he supposedly spilled was total bullshit.

If anyone should have known that torture wasn’t a reliable method of extracting information, it should have the woman who used to be Rue Liberty.

And if she were smarter, she would have recruited more people with powers than just her daughter. Maybe even a telepath to dig through his head.

Like he did in Corvus.

He slunk along the dry limestone wall. The fishy smell meant he was getting close to the bunker’s entrance.

His last escape attempt failed because he was stupid enough to believe the new Ghost Owl was Pablo Inunza’s son. Nope, it had to be the Garcia kid’s twin brother. With their ties to the Winters and Franklin law firm, the goodie-two-shoes brothers would have had Professor Venom trace his call to Aisha Franklin.

What if the bitch didn’t tell them about his call? What if he really miscalculated and Franklin was part of Reinhold’s little organization?

Trubble blew out a deep breath. If he wanted to keep breathing, he needed to move. He stepped into the night and waited for his vision to adjust. Beneath the moonlight, rust covered the steel escape stairs. The damn things were nearly as old as he was. One step onto them, and he could plummet into the Rio Cristo fifty feet below. If he didn’t hit a rock on the way down, the rapids would drown him.

However, free-hand rock climbing a canyon wall in the dark was an even stupider option.

Trubble grabbed the railing.

He didn’t touch rust. It felt more like paint. He gently flicked the railing with his forefinger and snickered at the bell tone. The old biddy had replaced the escape stairs and painted them to look like they were the original decrepit ones.

Still, he tapped the landing with his foot in the stolen boot to make sure. Yep, damn solid.

Trubble eased down the steps, not out of worry of plummeting to his death, but so the sentries above and the possible ones below didn’t hear him. He could handle a couple of punks as long as they weren’t supers.

Air came in short, desperate gasps when he reached the trail at the bottom of the stairs. Despite his best efforts at exercise and diet, he was seventy. This getting old crap sucked, but the torture hadn’t helped either. Maybe he was too stubborn to die.

Trubble chuckled at his own idiocy as he ducked under the “No Trespassing” sign. He headed north along the canyon trail for Logan Grove. Normally, the ten-mile hike would be three hours or so. With the guard drugged and in his cell, Trubble estimated he’d have four hours until they missed him.

Logan Grove might have only consisted of a few houses and a general store in the Seventies, but now, it was a decent-sized town with a vehicle or two he could steal. Then it became a matter of disappearing until he could access the money he deposited offshore.

After two hours by the moon, his legs cramped something fierce. He didn’t want the break, but he couldn’t afford falling out here. A thigh-high boulder provided a resting spot. He perched on it and rubbed his calves.

“Not so easy running away from your past, is it, old man?”

Trubble froze at Monica Reinhold’s voice behind him. So much for his brilliant plan.

“Kill me and get it over with, Miss Purrception,” he snarled. “I’m not going back with you.”

Monica dropped in front of him. She had her mother’s classic hourglass figure, but she was so more…flexible. A matte black bodysuit with a matching cowl and boots covered her from head to toe. Eye black cover her exposed skin around her orbs.

“Tell her what she wants to know, Byron.” Weariness coated her words.



“We both know the minute I do, I’m dead.” “Tell me then. I’ll tell her I killed you and disposed of your body. We all get what we want.”

“She’s not going to believe you killed me, Monica.” His breath clouded in the cold mountain air. “For your vaunted reputation as a murderer and thief, we both know you’re not cold-blooded enough to kill an unarmed man.”

“I’ve killed before,” she snapped.

“An accident while defending yourself is not the same thing.”

“Maybe I should toss you in the river,” she said. “With that cold mountain water, hypothermia is a fairly easy way to go.”

“I can’t let you do that,” he said.

“What are you going to do? Kill me?” She snorted. “And everyone calls me a supervillain.”

“What prison did we break out of?” he shot back.

“Either you kill me or you tell me the names. Those are the only ways you get to leave here alive.” Monica sounded deadly serious. There was none of her usual mockery in her tone.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Trubble said, and for once, he meant it. “But I’m not betraying those people. Harriet and I made sure they were well out of your mother’s reach. They lived normal lives. You and your daughters are an experiment to her.”

“If you hadn’t taken my girls, she wouldn’t have gotten custody of them,” she sneered.

“That’s because Byron’s a blunt instrument,” a husky feminine voice said. Another dark figure landed on the trail, well out of Monica’s reach. “I should have known you’d betray me, too, my dear.”

“Why do you have to spoil all my games, Mother?” Monica complained. “I could have gotten the names for you if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“Because you’re even more a sentimental idiot than he is?” Peggy Reinhold raised her arm, a gun in her hand.

“You promised I could kill him once you got the names from him,” Monica screeched.

“I promise a lot of people a lot of things.” Peggy’s laughter was still as low and throaty as it had been fifty years ago. “Including your father. I didn’t keep those vows either.

The muzzle of her gun flashed--

A Measure of Knowledge - Chapter 1

Book 9 of the Justice series, A Measure of Knowledge, is trundling along quite pleasantly despite being relegated to whatever end-of-the-day writing time I have left after working on Soccer Moms of Apocalypse. Quite honestly, the next three books of Anthea and Luc's adventures will be their own trilogy now that Queen Teodora is assured of the pair's loyalty to the human race.

Which is what the whole side trip to Dine was all about in A Hand of Father.

Anyway, here's an rough taste of an unedited draft of the first chapter.

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Chill rains had settled over the city of Orrin after the Winter Solstice, and everyone who didn’t have to be out in the drizzles and downpours stayed close to their fireplaces and braziers. Those same storms had halted ship traffic in and out of our harbor, and the fierce waves made it too dangerous for the fishers to launch their smaller boats. That left repairs and crafts to occupy idle hands until the weather broke.

I found myself with four justices in residence where there had only been me at Orrin’s Temple of Balance last winter. Justice Erato and Brother Wolf Run, who currently rode circuit in the east side of the Duchy of Orrin, had come to my Temple to resupply in the late fall, but early and deep snows in the foothills forced them to retreat and spend the season here rather than Mountain Gate as they’d planned.

However, our visitors were not bored. The bonding of the city’s clergy over the difficulties of the last year had led to spending our free time together on the long, dark nights. Each Temple took turns hosting games, story telling, and music except on Rest Day. We’d gather after First Evening, and a competition of a different sort had broken out among our head cooks and chefs over the quality and variety of dishes served.

On this Sixth Day, we were gathered in the sanctuary of the Temple of Thief for a Mill tournament. Quite simply, wagering on games of skill and chance was His domain. Therefore, there was never any question that a great deal of betting would occur any time we assembled at Thief.

The spiced roasts of beef and venison filled the air of the Temple with a hearty aroma. Dried cranberries imported from the eastern side of the Northern Long Continent flavored the extravagantly expensive wheat bread. Turnips and potatoes were boiled and mashed together before butter, milk, and black pepper were added. Instead of Pana Valley wine, Thief’s cook served Kemet-style beer from an inn in Nastine. The yeasty drink complimented the meat and vegetables’ savory taste.

Since the Temple of Thief did not have an eternal flame before the statue of the god they represented, the architects compensated by building two large fireplaces on the northern and southern walls of their main sanctuary. Oil lamps with reflectors hung from the ceiling. Unfortunately, they all made a vast amount of heat, which meant I spent most of the night squinting against their uncomfortable pink glares. Only the obsidian statue of Thief Himself remained cool enough not to bother my odd eyesight.

My head of household Sivan watched Baby Kosumi so my junior justice Yanaba could attend the festivities. I rather suspected it was my assistant’s way of suggesting she and my chief warden make their relationship more permanent with a babe of their own.

The pleasant thing about Mill was everyone from Balance could play, too. Talbert made a point of creating game pieces of two different types of material so my sister justices could study the board by touch.

I was the odd one, a justice who had vision, though my perception was different from other sighted humans. I perceived differences due to relative heat exuded by the things, people, and animals around me. Therefore, I could actually see the game set and the pieces clearly.

“Your move, Anthea.” Sister Cedar Grove smirked at me from across our table.

That was the other thing I loved about our gatherings. We agreed to drop all titles for the duration of our entertainments. It was freeing not to have to worry about etiquette and status for a few candlemarks.

It also helped that none of us wore Temple robes to these gatherings. Cedar Grove wore a skirt and a loose tunic to keep her growing belly warm. I wore a velvet dress, also for warmth and not fashion. The garment had been made by an Orrin seamstress named Jaci. She wanted to gift it to me for saving her family from being eaten by two wechuges. I insisted on paying for the dress. In the end, we agreed I would pay for the material and thread, and Jaci could spend her free time as she wished.

“I am aware, thank you, Cedar Grove.” I growled as I stared at the board. Mill was less complicated than chess, but it still required a certain amount of strategy. It didn’t help that this was the last game. As the two finalists, Cedar Grove and I were tied at two games apiece. The winner would take the tournament and the prize gold.

As I said before, no games could be played at Thief without some gambling involved.

The staff of Thief paused in their removal empty dishes from the serving table and watched the game. The crowd of clergy pressed closer and murmured among themselves. Secondary betting among the clergy, staff, and wardens impinged on my awareness. I saw the trap Cedar Grove was about to spring. The question was finding a way out.

Or maybe I was looking at the problem from the wrong perspective. Maybe I needed to go around. I slid the copper peg into the hole.

Cedar Grove’s breath came out in a whoosh.

“Are you all right, my love?” Garbhan’s hand was on her shoulder.

She frowned at the board trying to figure out my plan. Both of her palms rubbed her swollen belly. “I would be if our daughter would stop kicking my lungs.”

“Do you concede?” I smirked at her.

She snorted. “To you? Never!” Still, the Thief priestess took her time, which set off another round of wagering among our peers. She took the space I’d expected, and I made my next move.

Her face fell. She had only two moves left. One where she would lose the match and one where she would tie. Cedar Grove had too much pride to deliberately lose.

So did I.

Pandemonium exploded as we inserted our last pegs into their squares. No one was expecting us to tie. The brothers and sisters of Thief were laughing as they took the gambling proceeds to dais at the foot of the statue of Thief in order to count them.

Cedar Grove and I stood and bowed to each other. I stretched my arms over my head, and arched my back to pull out the knots. Garbhan guided her over to the food table. He’d become rather overprotective of the priestess since he’d seeded her womb. I’m sure it was difficult not to form an attachment when bringing a new life into the world.

My thoughts dragged my attention to Luc, the High Brother of Light. He stood next to the seat of Thief Talbert, and they both grinned like fools. I realized why. After the Temple of Thief took its cut and the prize gold was split between Cedar Grove and me, the remaining coins were being divided between the two high brothers.

I stalked over to them. “What is going on here?”

“Collecting on our bets,” Luc said innocently.

“Y-you bet I would lose?” I’d never thought of myself as being that egotistic, but his judgement of my skill hurt.

He leaned on his left crutch and cupped my cheek. “I know you. And I knew you wouldn’t lose.”

Confusion rippled through me. “B-but—”

“Balance in all things, Anthea,” Talbert teased. “You of all people should know that.”

“You bet that we would tie?” I shook my head at their foolishness. Or wisdom, depending out one’s point of view. “You two are—”

“Brilliant?” Luc offered.

“Ingenious?” Talbert said.

“Pains in my backside,” I retorted.

Shi Hua’s screams interrupted our byplay. Jeremy cradled the Light priestess as she collapsed to the marble floor of the sanctuary.

I raced over, knelt next to Shi Hua, and tried to absorb her pain. Fire ripped through my belly as if sharp claws had gutted me. Breathe with me, Shi Hua. What’s wrong?

It took several moments for the young woman’s agony to recede. At first, I feared a complication from childbirth though she’d delivered little Chao nearly four weeks ago. But it wasn’t her pain I was feeling. It was someone else’s. Someone who couldn’t see her attacker. Someone who had either passed out or died from her injuries. But before she did, I felt the distinctive rasp of demon magic.

“Mei Wen!” Shi Hua gasped between her words and tears. “She tried to—tried to warn me. A demon army has invaded Chengzhou.”