Tag: March FADness

The Letter

“Did you see this?” Martin asked.

“See what?” Sal responded, not looking up from his laptop.

“This letter,” Martin answered in a sing-song voice, flapping it back and forth in the air.

“Dude. I’m under deadline!” Sal snapped.

“Fine, fine,” Martin said airily, not surprised at Sal’s waspishness. “Princess.”

Sal snorted.

Martin walked into the kitchen. “I’m gonna start dinner, okay babe?” he called back.

“Whatever. Yeah. Sounds fine,” Sal agreed absently.

“I’m going to cook your cat,” Martin added.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Sal muttered.

Martin smiled to himself and sat down at the kitchen table. He used the letter opener to slit the heavy paper and slid the letter out.

Dear Mr. Martin McAllister,

Schwartz, Greene, McAllister and Stone wishes to inform you that your Uncle Harrison McAllister named you in his will, executed 5th March 2008 in New York City. A sum has been placed on hold for you at the Bank of New York in the numbered account, #—79Zyy48, with the enclosed password.

Please respond soonest as to when you can stop by our offices to collect your Uncle\’s remaining possessions.

Kind regards,

Mr. Johnstone Bartholomew Greene

Martin sat back in his chair feeling like he’d been punched. He had an uncle in New York? He glanced at the paper again. An Uncle who was a lawyer? Who’d left him money?

He set the paper on the table and started dinner, lost in thought. Sal wandered in a little later and picked it up to read. “Hmm. We could go this weekend,” he said thoughtfully.

Martin turned around, stirring the stew one-handed. “Go where?”

“New York,” Sal said like it was obvious. “When will dinner be ready?”

“Sal, are you serious? We can’t just go to New York!”

Sal cocked his head. “Why not? It’s only an hour or two to drive.”

“I know how long it takes,” Martin snapped, exasperated.

Sal shrugged. “There you go then.” He pulled a diet soda out of the fridge and went back to his computer, muttering about his work.

Sal wouldn’t discuss the trip any more that night, or the next two days. He just booked them a hotel in Manhattan and told Martin he would do most of the driving since Sal was under deadline.

Saturday morning, Sal got up like nothing was out of the ordinary and got packed.

“Sal. You don’t think this is the least bit odd?” Martin demanded, stuffing some underwear in his overnight bag.

Sal shrugged. “Nope.” He grabbed Martin’s toiletry kit and headed out to the car.

They didn’t talk much on the drive. Sal was buried in his laptop almost the entire way there. Martin pulled into the Valet line at the hotel and stopped. Sal looked up, smiled, and stowed his computer.

“Let’s go, hun,” Sal chirped and got out of the car before Martin could say anything.

Sal checked them in while Martin got the car and luggage taken care of. Rather than having a Bellman take their bags, Sal navigated the cart himself. Martin followed, increasingly grumpy. The elevator opened and Martin froze.

The elevator opened onto a huge private suite. French doors stood about six feet in front of the elevator, opening onto a spacious bedroom. Smack in the center of it stood an enormous king-size bed, with what were obviously silk sheets adorning it and more pillows than the Sultan. Hanging like bunting from the doors was the sign: Schwartz, Greene, McAllister and Stone welcome you to New York.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Sal murmured into Martin’s ear, sending chills up and down his spine. He walked past Martin into the bedroom and maneuvered the cart to one side.

Martin, dumbstruck, got out of the elevator when it started beeping shrilly. The doors shut behind him and he heard it rumble back downstairs.

“Sal?”

“Hmm?” Sal rumbled over his shoulder as he rummaged in his bag.

“Sal, what is going on?”

Sal turned and came over to Martin, circling him in his arms. “I just figured you needed some mystery in your life. You are turning forty, and you were moping about it.”

Martin felt himself grin. “So there’s no creepy lawyers, no uncle to go see?”

Sal bent forward. “None at all. No reason to leave the suite. They have,” he brushed his lips against Martin’s, “room service…” He captured Martin’s mouth with his and Martin responded, happier than he’d been in days.

Sirens

Nick had considered himself a lucky guy, until now. He pressed his hand against his partner’s throat, blood pooling up around his fingers in a warm flood.

“Come on, Sally, hang on, dammit!” He thumbed his radio again. “Sampson, hurry up! I’m gonna lose her!”

“We’re en route!” Sampson’s voice snapped back, the siren sharp in the background. “Just keep pressure on it!”

Nick heard the gurney wheels before he saw the two EMT’s barreling down the gangway. He recognized Pat Mallek in the front, but couldn’t see the second one.

“Hey, Nick,” Pat greeted absently, kneeling by Sally. He moved Nick’s hands, his own gloved ones cool against Nick’s sweaty skin. Nick sat back on his heels.

“Hi, Pat. Thanks for coming.”

“This is my partner, Luiz,” Pat said, nodding sideways, his attention on Sally.

Luiz handed Nick a wet-nap that he used to get the blood off his hands.

“How are things here?” Luiz asked softly, handing things to Pat as he asked for them.

“Tense. Two shooters down, but we’ve still got at least one inside. I can’t tell how many hostages.”

“When’s the Negotiator get here?” Pat asked, proving he’d been paying attention.

“Stuck in traffic on the 80,” Nick muttered.

All three of them ducked. Nick heard the sharp whine of a bullet whizz overhead and frowned. “Get clear, guys. Now.”

“Yup,” Pat snapped, glanced once at Luiz, and then both EMT’s ran in a crouch up the gangway, Sally bouncing a little on the gurney.

Nick drew his backup piece out of his calf holster and crept forward. He pressed himself against the building and peeked. The house across the street glowed an unhealthy orange in the sulfur-colored streetlights. Three storeys tall, the shooters had been using the first floor. No one was sure if the rest of the building was vacant or not. That uncertainty kept the police pinned down.

“Any word on that Negotiator?” Nick asked into his radio, scanning the street for movement.

“No. Nick, you clear?” Nick recognized the voice of Captain Joiner, the ranking officer on the scene.

Nick frowned, tucking himself back into his corner. “No.”

“Well, get clear, God dammit! Why aren’t you in the ambulance?”

“Because I wasn’t shot, Joiner. Keep your shirt on.”

“Do not engage,” Joiner shot back.

Nick didn’t answer. He saw a flash of white moving across the street and concentrated. He thumbed his radio off so a stray bit of sound didn’t give him away. He saw the white again.

It was a teenaged boy. Latino, about sixteen, black hair cut short. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, no shoes. His nose and one ear were bloody.

Nick thumbed his radio. “I think we have one hostage coming out, South side of the building. Latino male, teenager about sixteen, appears to be injured. Barefoot, heading toward Position Three.”

“We got him,” a different voice answered. Nick recognized Bart Jenkowiac, one of the guys from his own precinct. They’d called in everybody on this one.

Nick saw another person come out of the shadows at the same spot the boy had. This time is was an older woman, graying hair caught up in a bun that was coming out in whisps all over her face.

“Second hostage, same location. Woman, approximate age mid-fifties, navy dress.”

“Got it,” Bart confirmed.

A gunshot sounded from inside the building and Nick saw the flash against the window opposite his position. A body fell half-in, half-out of the balcony door.

“Hello?” a voice called.

“Hold your position, this is the Metro Police,” Nick shouted. “You are covered on four sides. Do not approach with a weapon or you will be shot.”

After a moment, the voice responded. “Okay.”

Nick sighed. Of all the days for traffic… “Do you have a weapon?” he shouted.

“Yes. But I’m not one of them!” the voice shouted. Nick hazarded a guess that the speaker was around twenty, male, and of Latin ancestry based on the slight accent.

“Are any of them still alive?” Nick called.

“I think so, but they’re not awake. My brother and I took care of them. Is my mom okay?”

Nick glanced down the street but couldn’t see the woman. “Yeah!”

“I’m coming out!” he called.

“Slowly!” Nick yelled.

A man in his mid-twenties approached the sliding door and stopped, blinking out at the night. “Are you there?” he called.

“Hands laced on your head. Now!” Nick shouted, aiming center-mass.

The man did it, moving like his left arm pained him. He stepped onto the balcony, still not able to see Nick. “It’s just me and my brother in here,” he said. “The other three are down.”

Three? Nick swallowed. This was looking less and less like a domestic problem and more like a deal gone bad.

“Tell your brother that he should lay on the floor, hands on his head,” Nick instructed. “Officers are going to come in and I don’t want there to be any mistakes.”

He nodded a little wildly. “You want me on the floor too?”

Nick shook his head. “No. I want you right where I can see you.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

“Tomás,” came the answer.

“I’m Nick, Tomás. Are there any other injuries inside?”

“I don’t know,” Tomas answered. “These guys just broke in and started shooting, I don’t know why or if there were any others.”

Nick nodded. He could hear the door splinter from behind Tomás and knew the police finally had it under control.

When they brought Tomás out of the building, Nick came over to the ambulance. “You were very brave today, son,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. I just want to see my mom and little brother.”

Nick nodded. He moved away and pulled his own keys out of his pocket. It could have gone a lot worse tonight. Maybe his luck was turning. He just hoped Sally would be okay. He hit the siren and headed for the hospital, praying.

Dear Dad

It’s been thirty-five years since I married her. I know every freckle on her face. They’re like stars, these freckles, you should see them. They’re not white, like stars are, but they’re just as thick as the Milky Way, especially across her nose. Her nose is tiny, sort of pointy, and when she’s tense she gets pimples around the sides of it. (Don’t tell her I said that, she’ll kill me.)

Jana is still the only woman for me. I’m so lucky. She’s upset, though. Her hair is going gray. She went to the Aveda Institute last week and they did a great job. It’s kind of chocolatey now, darker than it was but just as gorgeous. It’s really natural-looking. How they do that, I have no idea. They use all botanical products, so maybe that’s the secret. Nature in a bottle, who knew? It’s longer than it was, too, nearly down her back. It’s really soft. I’m not supposed to tell anyone she had it dyed. Mikey loves to play with it. He’s got a good, strong grip too – you should see her grimace when he grabs hold and yanks! He’s only two but he’s got a hold like a wrestler.

Jenny is already ten – God, can you believe it? She’s gonna be a looker, Dad. What am I going to do? Was it like this with my sisters? I feel like I’ll kill any of these snot-nosed little punks that look at her funny. She just rolls her eyes and says, “Come on, Dad.” I never talked back like that, did I? She’s not into “boys” (she sneers it). She is into horses. Holy cow, I never knew they had so many horse posters! They’re plastered everywhere. I honestly think she’d put them in our room, the boys’ rooms, the kitchen, even the garage. I mean, how many pictures do you need? A horse is a horse. (Don’t say it.)

And Bobby. The middle child. He looks like the oldest! Good Lord, what a pistol! He’s going to be like you, someday, you just wait. He’s already a star on Little League. He’s got me coaching his team now, did Jana tell you? What the hell do I know about baseball? The other coaches help me out but these kids are brutal. They’re worse than guys in a bar! And the parents! They fight about every little thing. “My kid this. My kid that.” It’s enough to make me want to knock their heads together. And that’s just the women! (Don’t tell Jana I said that either.)

I painted the house. We picked the colors together, as a family. It looks good. I didn’t let them pick anything like the gingerbread man’s house, it’s pretty sedate. Kind of a slate gray, with a slate blue on the shutters and stuff. The windows were a pain. They make a new kind of tape, though, that’s easier to take off. Masking wasn’t such a hassle the way it was when you and I did Grandma’s place last summer.

I don’t know what else to tell you.

Jeez, Dad. I really wish I could give you your sight back. Damn the Army. That shrapnel should have been stopped by the armor on your Humvee, but the Army just couldn’t spend the money. You’ll never get to see them the way I do. Captain Wilkins came over yesterday to talk to us and bring cookies the wives made. I wanted to throw them out after he left but Jana wouldn’t let me. Says I’m bitter. I’m not, I’m just pissed off.

But that’s okay, Dad. That’s okay. You just get better. The hospital will help you best they can. I’ll describe them to you, and anything else you want to look at. I love you, Dad. Come home soon, we miss you. I’ll come over and paint your room with a “textured” paint they have now. It’s weird, but cool. You’ll love it.

Jana and the kids and I will come over this weekend, okay, Dad? We’ll bring you some good food. The VA still can’t make food worth a damn. Some things don’t change, huh? But we’ll be there, and Mom too. I’ll pick her up on the way. Just get well, okay?

Happy Easter,

Your son,

John

Sasha waited outside the County Courthouse building. The session ended twenty minutes ago, but everyone was still inside. He scrubbed a shaking hand across his face, trying to remain calm. The sheen of sweat smeared across his cheeks and stung his eyes. He blinked furiously, trying not to tear up.

His uncle Nikolai was the first out of the door, followed by his lawyer, Mr. Jenkins. Sasha shrank back. He needed to know the outcome, though he had little doubt.

“Get the car,” Nikolai snapped at the lawyer.

“Kolya,” Mr. Jenkins admonished softly. “A continuance isn’t a bad thing, necessarily.”

Nikolai whirled on the black-suited man, face beet red. “If Alexander Mikhailovich succeeds in his suit, there will be nothing. Nothing, do you hear?”

“I know, I know,” Jenkins mollified. “Just calm down. I’ll get the car. Don’t excite yourself.”

Nikolai turned away angrily and Jenkins spoke quietly into a cell phone.

Sasha moved back into the shadows, shaking. A continuance. A continuance! He couldn’t believe it. Silent tears slid almost unnoticed down his cheeks. He did turn toward the bushes, in case anyone was near enough to see.

“See, Father? Maybe it will work,” he whispered. He heard a car door slam and looked over his shoulder.

Nikolai and Mr. Jenkins were getting into a black sedan, the driver a large Black man that Sasha had never seen before. He watched them drive away, still shaking.

It took another fifteen minutes to be able to stop.

He made his way, finally, back to his car. It sat, forlorn among the Mercedes and Porches. He got in, feeling small and insignificant, and dug his mobile phone out of the glove box.

“Celia,” he whispered.

“Sasha?” His girlfriend sounded startled. “Already?” She paused. “Did it go… badly?”

“Continuance.” He managed to spit it out. “Continuance,” he said again, just to hear it. “I heard Uncle talking outside the courthouse.”

“Oh, Sasha! That’s good news!”

“I don’t know when it’s for, though,” Sasha whispered. “Celia, what if…” He couldn’t say it.

“I’ll call. Just give me a moment. I’ll call you back.”

He nodded, then realized she couldn’t hear it. “Okay.” His voice was hoarse.

They hung up. Sasha started the car and threw it into gear. He pulled onto the main drag, tension flowing through his body like poison. He cleared his throat, trying to think. He’d go back to his apartment and… He didn’t know what next.

He pulled into his parking spot and got out. He locked the door and looked around, by reflex checking for anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t live in a very good part of town, but it was all he could afford right now. His father hadn’t liked it, but Sasha had insisted. He wanted to make his own way in the world. He wanted to make it on his own. He hadn’t expected his father to die so soon…

Sudden tears choked him and he blinked furiously. He shouldn’t think about his father. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and walked over to the gate in front of the door to the apartment. His keys rattled against the metal and then he was inside.

He was inside the apartment, the door locked and bolted, before Celia called back. “Celia?”

“Sasha.” She didn’t sound very good.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… don’t know what to say, Sasha.”

“Just tell me!”

“It’s not a Continuance on the inheritance. They decided already. It’s a Continuance on the payout schedule. The Court wants time to decide whether it should be a lump-sum or a series of payments.”

Sasha fell onto the couch, feeling punched. “What?”

“I’m so sorry, Sasha!”

“It’s okay, Celia,” he murmured. The phone fell from his ear, and he thumbed it off. “It’s okay.” He put the phone on the coffee table, shaking again.

He wanted to pace the floor but couldn’t get up. How had it happened? His uncle had appeared out of nowhere, claiming that his father’s fortune was his. He claimed that Sasha’s grandfather had gifted both sons equally, and that meant that he was the heir before Sasha. Sasha couldn’t afford a lawyer and his uncle’s challenge had gone before the Judge, and now…

“Papa,” he whispered. “Why did you leave me now?” Sasha wished he could figure out what to do, but emotions clouded his thoughts and he slid to the floor, his back against the couch. His eyes fell on the phone.

Maybe…

His fingers were dialing before he could stop himself. It started ringing and his heart began to pound.

“Allo,” the voice answered, heavily Russian.

“Mozhno govorit na Dyedushku,” he said, translating in his head: may I speak to the Grandfather. ‘Forgive me, Papa,’ he added in his head.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Who is this?” a new voice demanded.

“Alexander Mikhailovich,” he responded as firmly as he could manage.

“Sasha,” the voice purred. “What can I do for you?”

“I…” Sasha faltered, then swallowed. “I was calling because my Uncle’s challenge succeeded in court today.”

“I see,” the Grandfather said softly. “And you come to me. Your father would not approve, Sashka.”

Sasha flushed. He hated that the Grandfather added the diminutive to his name, like he was a little boy. He kept his temper in check. “Please. I need your help. I can’t challenge it.”

“And what can I do, Sashka?”

“Can you help?”

“Yes.”

The Grandfather said nothing further. “What do you want?” Sasha asked, fearing the answer.

“Semyon will be by to pick you up in fifteen minutes, and we will discuss it, Sashka. Be ready.”

Sasha swallowed, second thoughts flooding him. “I’ll be ready,” he said bravely.

The Grandfather laughed. “You’d better be.” He hung up.

Sasha sat, trembling painfully, unable to move for a long time. He checked his watch and, five minutes before Semyon was to be downstairs, he pulled himself to his feet and started downstairs.

The Rescue

“Stay behind me,” Fernando snapped. He caught Adana’s wrist. “It’s not safe here.”

Her eyes flew to his face and she stepped back obediently. “But it’s empty,” she protested softly.

He glanced down at her. “No, mija. It’s not.”

She paled and fell silent. He smiled at her and turned back to the stairs. The door at the top stood closed. He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck and swallowed. He started up.

Light gleamed from under the door and he put a hand out to slow Adana. “Careful now.”

He could feel her tremble against his arm and wished he could spare her the fear, but they had no choice. The only way to get out was past the so-called ‘soldiers’ upstairs. He cursed her father and brothers, who let her be taken. Now they were dead, killed in the endless street violence.

The door was locked, but he’d come prepared. It had been twenty years since he’d used the skills of a thief, but his fingers remembered the picks like they had never left them behind for a legal life. After a few moments of probing, the lock clicked softly. He opened the door slowly, just a crack, so he could see out.

The kitchen on the other side of the door was harshly lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, its cover long-since broken and forgotten. Dishes stacked in the sink gave off a sour smell, matched by the trash can overflowing in the corner. He heard the television on the other room and the sounds of a football game. Denver vs. Miami. He briefly wondered at the score and nearly laughed at himself.

He slipped out of the doorway, Adana a silent shadow at his back. “Out the back door, quickly. Run straight to the woods. You can find your way from there, right?” he whispered.

She nodded. She looked out the door and then back at him. “You’ll be okay?”

He smiled. “Of course I will. Just go. I’ll be along.”

She nodded and padded over to the door. It was unlocked and she slipped out. He watched her run straight into the woods, her hair streaming behind her in a black curtain. He smiled to himself.

“Hey!” The shout startled him, made him turn.

“Hello, Ricardo,” he purred.

Ricardo blinked. “Fernando?”

“I told you I’d be back to get Adana. You never should have started taking girls, you know. Drugs, fine. I don’t care if you poison yourselves. But you take the daughters of my people and I’ll kill you.”

Ricardo laughed. “Right. You can’t kill anyone, old man. You’re legit now, haven’t fought in twenty years.”

Fernando flipped a knife in an underhanded throw and it thunked with a satisfyingly solid sound into Ricardo’s stomach. Ricardo stumbled and fell to one knee.

Behind him, the others raced into the kitchen and saw Fernando. Paulito was the first through the door, the knife in his hand as long as Fernando’s arm. He dodged a sideways swipe and smashed his fist into Paulito’s face. The younger man crashed into the wall and slid down it, unconscious.

Fernando turned toward the last attacker, a newer member of their gang. He knew the boy’s name was Juan, but that was about it. He’d come from New York and was reputed to be a strong knife fighter.

Fernando felt something impact his stomach and stumbled backward. The sound of the pistol-shot deafened him. Juan fired twice more, the gun jumping in his hand. The look on his face was part horror and part surprise.

“You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?” Fernando sneered as he fell to his knees.

The boy stumbled backwards, dropping the gun. “I…” He trailed off.

Fernando fell onto his stomach, his hands not working to stop him. He landed with his face to one side, staring at the door.

At least Adana had gotten out safely. Fernando felt himself grow cold and the room dimmed. He heard others moving into the room behind him, and someone swore. Then his vision went black.

This story continues, here.

Phylar looked back at the slumbering form in the bed. Jonesh curled around the pillows, her long black curls askew across the sheets. Phylar slipped the keys from the table and shrugged into his robe. He took one final look around at the chamber he’d spent the last four years living in, and shut the door.

He ran down the hallway. This was the only danger: that some guard, zealous and careful, would be prowling the halls of the King’s section of the castle, intent on finding a stray servant. Phylar couldn’t be found. He streaked past the stairs that led down to the receiving rooms and on toward the kitchens. Luck was with him; no one was about.

The second stairs were dark. He knew them by touch, padding down each one carefully lest he slip on the slick stone. He opened the door to the covered walkway, the wooden pillars dark and the carvings shadowed. He scanned the nearby rooftops, but no sentries yet walked. It was another half-hour til crow’s call, and he’d timed his escape perfectly.

He sped down the walkway, still shoeless, his sandals held by the laces in one hand. He reached the bottom and paused. The courtyard radiated light from the moon, silver and bright. The inlaid pattern in the stone seemed shadowed, ominous. He bent and slipped the sandals over his feet, lacing them with sure movements. The postern gate was ahead of him, shadowed by the tall hedge. He heard the snort of a horse, outside.

Phylar streaked across the courtyard, his heart pounding. He pulled the keys out of his pocket, found the right one, and unlocked the gate.

“Phylar. You’re late,” the gruff voice greeted him.

“Only by a little, Captain Lorgin. Better that than discovered.”

“Is all in readiness?”

“Yes,” Phylar confirmed. “I left her sleeping in the chamber; the King is unattended.”

Lorgin regarded him with a black eye, his eyebrow ridge shadowing his gaze and making it sinister, threatening. “You betray your lover so easily, then?”

Lorgin flushed. “She’s not my lover. I was captured, I’m a slave like you.”

Lorgin grunted, but didn’t correct him. He didn’t have to, Phylar heard it anyway. He knew what the conscript soldiers thought of him, a too-pretty boy with the eye of the King’s daughter. “Just stay out of the way, Boy,” Lorgin grunted.

Phylar moved to the side, intimidated despite his brave talk. The soldiers were all large men, clad in rough boiled leather and bearing knives and short swords. Only Lorgin had a mount, but one of the lower-ranking soldiers came to take it away. Lorgin nodded to the men behind him and disappeared through the gate. Phylar counted thirty men with him and felt his stomach clench with fear. Despite what he said… He looked up at the windows of the castle, high above where he stood.

He was a slave. Nothing more. He turned away, to run to the village and hide, but something made him stop. A flash of light flared behind him and he turned. A bunting, bright and woven of beautiful lambswool, waved forlornly as it was consumed by fire.

“Wait!” he cried, running forward a step. “You didn’t say you’d burn them…” He stumbled to a stop. A palace guard lay ten feet from him, his throat a bloody mess. Phylar stumbled away, vomiting into the hedge, its rough branches pricking his skin.

He turned in spite of himself to look at where Lorgin disappeared. The screams started and he could hear Jonesh among them, demanding to see the leader, demanding… demanding to know what they’d done with Phylar.

Phylar caught his breath on a sob. She didn’t care about him, she couldn’t. She was a spoiled daughter of kings, used to taking boys from their families as Phylar had been taken. He’d been forced to do her bidding, to father three children on her body. He hated her. He turned to run and couldn’t make himself get even as far as the gate.

Lorgin appeared, dragging someone by the hair. With a start, Phylar recognized Jonesh. He threw her, nose bloodied, to land on the stones in a heap. Her head came up and Phylar met her gaze, felt the shock of recognition as she saw him, realized what he was doing, where he stood. The keys felt cold in his hands, a mute accusation.

“Phylar!” she cried.

Lorgin’s hand cracked sharply across her mouth and she fell flat on the stones at his feet, weeping. “Silence! You will speak when told to, Slave, and at no other time!”

Jonesh looked up at Lorgin, her nose streaming blood. She said nothing, but stared at him with hatred and tears in her eyes. Lorgin ignored her and turned to Phylar. He tossed something and Phylar caught it out of reflex.

“Your payment, Boy. Go and spend it wisely.”

Phylar stared at Jonesh, then looked at Lorgin. “What of her?”

Lorgin laughed. “You care nothing for this whore, you said so yourself. You were nothing more than a slave in her bed, a breeding stallion for the King. What does it matter what we do with her?”

Phylar gaped at him, at a loss for what to say.

“Go, Boy.” Lorgin tossed another bag and it landed at Phylar’s feet. “Take an extra payment and find a real whore to sate yourself.”

Several of Lorgin’s men laughed cruelly. One, standing near Phylar, grabbed Phylar’s arm roughly and dragged him toward the postern gate. A second scooped up the bag that Lorgin had tossed and threw it out of the gate. It slammed shut behind them, the locks sliding home with a sound of finality.
Phylar clutched his bags to his chest and stumbled toward the village, trying to shut out the sound of the screams behind him. A great gout of flame sprang up, lighting the trees around him with an eerie glow. Phylar began to run.

Wedding Day

“Hold still!”

“I’m trying!”

“Just do it!”

Your skin glows when you’re irritated. It’s cute. I struggle not to smile, but you sigh with exasperation and put your hand down, the eyeliner cocked like a pen.

“Lauren, will you quit it?”

“Haley, how can I? You’re cute when you’re mad!” I know you hate it when I say that, but I can’t resist tweaking you.

You frown at me, but I can see your eyes are twinkling. The little radiations of yellow through the hazel and green are bright today. You have small crow’s feet starting in the corners of your eyes but I think they make you look happy, not old.

“Lauren, if I screw this up…”

“Can’t have that, can we?” I close my eyes obediently.

I can’t look at you anymore, but I can see you in my mind’s eye. Your brown hair is all up in hot rollers. Your skin, the color of clover honey, is soft and radiant, ready for your own makeup. You’ll do it with quick, efficient strokes after you finish mine. Your bra and panties match, a lovely sage green with a whisper of lace. I found them after hours of searching the mall and you wear them today especially for me. You’ve put on your stockings and I grow aroused just thinking about it.

“There,” you say, unaware of my thoughts. I open my eyes to see you studying your handiwork. “Tilt your head.”

You rearrange this or that on my eyelids with feather-light brushes of the eyeliner and shadow sponge. Then you start on my eyebrows. Overcome, I lean forward to catch your bottom lip in my teeth. You squeak, startled. It’s a noise I love to hear from you, though I’m never sure when you’ll make it. I could spend the rest of my life figuring out. You taste like cherry pie and lemon crisp, and your tongue is tantalizing. You finally pull back, laughing.

“We have to get ready, Lauren.”

“Haley, I’d rather stay here and make love.”

You smile. “We have to get ready. The Pastor is going to be here in less than a half hour.”

“That soon?”

“Yes, dear. That soon.”

You kiss my nose and attack my other eyebrow. Then it’s on to the cheeks and then my lips. Then comes the gloss. It’s like lubricant, I think, growing more aroused. You smile slightly, now aware of how much I want you. Instead of commenting, you stand up and pause, giving me time to focus on the mounds of your backside right in front of me, and then you stalk away on your high heels. I hadn’t seen you put them on, but you look hot in your underwear and stockings.

“Get dressed, Lauren, please. I don’t want to be late.”

I sigh, but do as you ask. My dress hangs, fluffed and ready. It’s an Easter egg yellow that you picked because you like how it looks with my black hair. My skin, a ‘medium-toned mocha’ you say, looks good next to the paleness of the yellow. I unzip the back and hear you walk up behind me.

“Let me help you,” you whisper.

“Haley…”

Your hands on my hips hold me steady. You lean into my back and reach for the dress, your skin warm and silky. You press yourself against me and bend forward, forcing me to lean over. Your hand strokes up my thigh and I start to breathe faster. You slide right past my innermost spots that are aching for you and keep going, around my side and down the front of the leg.

“Lift your leg.”

I do so, and you slip the skirt around my foot. Then your hands slip down my other leg and stop at my knee. I moan but you are relentless, slipping the dress onto my other leg.

“Stand up, honey.” You slip the dress up over the rest of my body, making sure to cup my breasts. You zip the dress closed and then turn me around with your hands on my hips again. You stand there, dressed in your panties, bra, stockings and heels, with nothing else on. I can’t bear it.

“Haley, please…”

“Lauren, we have to go.”

I step forward, bringing our bodies together, and possess your mouth. You groan, inflaming me. Your taste is like ambrosia and I close my eyes, lost in it.

You finally pull away and look at my lips. Then you push me backwards onto the chair. You straddle me, bringing our eyes to the same level. “Now I have to fix your lipstick.”

You ignore any other movements I make until I’m nearly crying with need. Then you kiss my nose. “After we’re married, darling.”

That gets a laugh out of me. You slip off me and dress, your movements sure and authoritative. God, I love the way you move. You apply your own makeup in a fraction of the time you took to do mine and it looks as lovely.

“You guys ready?” Lou calls from the door, not quite opening it.

“Yes,” Haley calls. “Is the pastor here?”

“Just walked in. You guys are on in five. Better hurry, it’s a madhouse.”

We meet each other\’s gaze, nervous for the first time all morning.

“You ready?” I ask.

You nod, your hair bouncing. The curls are fat and all over your head like a halo.

We head outside.

“There they are!” The cry comes from a knot of reporters standing to one side.

“Lauren!” one calls. “How does it feel to be the first lesbian married in the City of Chicago?”

I look at you, standing next to me in a confection of a dress, and feel myself grin. You echo me. I look back at the reporter. “Fantastic!”

We head into the chapel together, at the head of a crowd of well-wishers.

What Is It?

Brother Guillermo locked the store room door, the iron key cold in his hands. A branch snapped behind him and he turned. His heart pounded against his chest but he saw nothing moving. Twilight oozed through the trees like smoke.

But nothing moved.

He shook his head and stuffed the key in his belt pouch. The rough wool itched his fingers. He set off for the dormitory, his sandals slipping on the rough ground. Spain had not faired well under Franco, that was no secret. But Mother Nature herself seemed to rebel, punishing them with a harsh winter and late spring. The trails all over the monastery were littered with fallen branches and leaves.

Guillermo heard another crunch behind him. “Who’s there?” He swept the gathering darkness, but saw nothing. No one answered him. “Answer me!” he commanded in his best imitation of Father Miguel. Still nothing.

It must have been some animal, disturbed at his passing. Guillermo wished that Raul, at least, had stayed behind. But the young monk nearly danced with excitement at the prospect of seeing the Archbishop in the town square, so Guillermo agreed to stay behind alone to keep an eye on things. Franco’s soldiers hadn’t been seen in three weeks and the rebels in the area wouldn’t bother the monastery.

A branch snapped, this time so close that it seemed loud to him. He whirled, but saw only shadow. Abandoning his dignity, he turned and ran for the dormitory. His breath whistled painfully in his chest and a stitch stabbed his side but still he ran. He stumbled up to the back door and fumbled with the key. He nearly sobbed with desperation as it stuck in the lock. He pushed frantically at it and it finally gave. He fell inside and kicked the door shut.

Guillermo heard a footstep. A heavy tread moved up to the door and tried the handle. Shaking like a leaf, Guillermo got to his feet and slipped his sandals off. He ran quietly for the stairs and went up them two at a time, the stitch in his side forgotten. He threw open the door to the kitchen and slammed it behind him. He tried to still his breathing as he listened, but his heartbeat drowned everything out.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” Guillermo prayed. He recited the entire Lord’s Prayer and started on a Hail Mary when he heard it. A footstep on the stair on the other side of the door.

He fell backwards, tripping over his robes, and scrambled out of the kitchen. He ran through the refectory, slamming the door behind him and throwing the bolt. He raced for the stairs and took them two at a time, his knees complaining. At the top, he flashed down the hall, the bedrooms on either side of him appearing like dreams in his peripheral vision. He wrenched open the door to the attic stairs and slammed it shut behind him, fumbling in his pouch for the secondary ring of keys.

By the time he got the correct key out and fitted into the lock, his breathing had calmed enough to listen. He pressed his ear to the door, trembling so hard the rosary tucked into his belt rattled faintly. He had very nearly decided the coast was clear when a footstep sounded in the hall on the other side of the door. He put both feet against the door and set his back against the wall opposite, his arm leaning on the stairs beside him. He stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming.

The door handle rattled slightly.

“Go away!” Brother Guillermo shouted, his voice much higher than its usual baritone.

The handle moved down, then up. Nothing happened, since Guillermo had locked it, but it happened twice more.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Guillermo recited under his breath, tears coursing down his cheeks. His body shivered painfully as he said the entire Psalm.

The footsteps paced back and forth outside the door, every so often stopping in front of it. Sometimes the handle would jiggle, sometimes it wouldn’t. Once came a knock, the sound so sudden and sharp that Guillermo cried out.

“Go away!” he yelled, spots in front of his eyes. “Go away…”

The footsteps continued. Back three. Forward three. Stop. Rattle the handle. Pause. Back three. Back another one. Forward three. Pause. Back three. Stop. Forward again. Rattle.

“Guillermo!”

The shout brought him out of a cramped sleep, wedged at the bottom of the attic stairs and the door. His neck burned from the constriction and his right hand fell numb.

“Guillermo!” Raul’s voice sounded panicked.

“Raul?” Guillermo gasped. “Raul!” Guillermo fell as he tried to stand, his left leg asleep. It erupted in pins and needles as he struggled to rise. “Raul! I’m in the attic!”

Raul’s light steps raced up to the door and tried the handle. “It’s locked, Guillermo! Are you okay? Father Miguel! I found him!” Raul’s voice carried, loud even through the door.

Guillermo’s hands couldn’t hold onto the keys they were so slick with sweat. They made an almighty crash when he dropped them.

“Guillermo!” Raul shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Raul, calm down. I dropped the keys, is all.” Guillermo found the right key and fitted it in the lock.

Raul nearly fell through the door when he opened it. He flung his arms around Guillermo’s neck and squeezed so tight Guillermo had trouble breathing.

“Raul, calm down!”

“We thought you were dead!”

“What?” Guillermo echoed in shock.

Father Miguel strode up, face grave. “Brother Guillermo. We had feared for your safety.”

“Why?”

Father Miguel pointed. There, clearly outlined on the wood slats of the floor, lay large footprints. They weren’t human.

“What was it?” Raul asked, eyes huge.

“I don’t know,” Guillermo whispered. “I never saw it!”

I sat down at an unoccupied stool and ordered an ale and some stew. It came hot and thick with turnips and spices and a slab of bread thick enough to build with. I sighed deeply. It had been a long day.

“Mind if I join you?” an old man’s voice said near my elbow.

“Sure,” I mumbled around a too-large bite of bread. I know it’s rude to talk with your mouth full, but this bread!

I looked over and a wizened little man stood next to me. As our eyes met, I saw a flash of blue, then he blinked and sat. He was short!

“You’re not from round here, are you, Boy?” he asked me after he ordered the same thing I had.

“Not really,” I hedged, not wanting to tell him the whole truth.

“Me neither,” he grunted. “Come here for the bread.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “I could see that.”

He smiled, a brief flash of white in his beard. “Too bad old Sam’s not here,” he commented.

I swallowed my bite of stew. “Old Sam?”

The old man regarded me with his blue-eyed gaze. “Aye. Give ‘im an ale and he’d tell you stories, he would. Seems he went…” he dropped his voice, “travelin’.”

I smiled at the hint and obliged, getting myself an ale too.

“There was this dragon, see,” the old man started. He saw my expression. “Now, don’t be like that. You’re form the White City, you’ve seen things, I’ll wager.”

I blinked. “How –”

“Your coat of arms. Recognized the insignia. Wore it meself, once.” He took another bite of bread. “Now about that dragon…”

The tale he told me was fanciful enough for my daughter Palondril. “That’s quite a story,” I allowed.

“Sam’s got it all written down, you see.”

My heart started to pound. “You’re not serious!”

He twinkled at me and I started to get the impression our encounter wasn’t as casual as he’d let on. “Aye.”

“Could I… could I talk to this Sam?”

His eyes grew sad. “No, more’s the pity. He passed on in his sleep last Spring, he did.”

We drank a toast to Sam.

“I can take you to meet his son, if you’d like,” he offered. “He’s got the book. Might let you see it.” He took another sip of his ale, which though the same size as mine, made his hands seem small in comparison.

“Who are you?” I asked, afire with curiosity. “How did you know I’d be interested in this?”

He shrugged. “You’ve got your father’s eyes.”

I blinked. “What?”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Peregrin Took. Call me Pippin.”

It all clicked into place and I laughed. “Figures.” I took his hand. “I am Arandorn, son of Aragorn. I bid you greetings from my parents and from Faramir.”

By the time we left the pub early in the wee ours of the morning, he managed to drink nearly every patron under the table. It was an incredible introduction.

The twilight softened the house into shadows, the lights within not illuminating so much as providing beacons. Molly walked toward the front door, hitching her backpack more comfortably. Her muscles ached from track practice.

She opened the front door, the key turning with a squeak. She stepped in but slowed. It seemed too quiet, like just after an electrical storm.

The front door closed with a faint click and she shot the deadbolt home. She set her pack down in the foyer and walked into the kitchen. It was empty.

“Mom?” she called.

No answer.

Molly walked through the kitchen, the oven and stove both cold. The table hadn’t been set for dinner. She entered the hall and froze.

On the baseboard, two black streaks marred the pristine white. It looked like rubber from the tread of boots.

“Mom?” she shouted, starting to get nervous again. Still no answer.

She entered her mother’s room. The bed was pushed to the side, diagonally to the room. The lamp from one of the two bedside tables lay on the floor, its shade askew and the bulb broken. Molly heard the toilet flush.

“Mom?”

“Molly, you’re home,” her mother said in a normal tone of voice. The tear-tracks on her face stood out like tire marks.

“Mom, what happened?”

Her mother looked at the bed and tears oozed out of her eyes. “John is drinking again.”

Molly felt rage flood her like some kind of poison, except it didn’t feel lethal, it felt powerful. Her hands balled into fists. “Where is he?” she demanded.

Her mother looked startled by her tone of voice. “Molly!” she admonished.

“Where is he?” Molly repeated.

“I don’t know,” her mother answered, deflating. “I think he might have left.” She sounded dejected.

“He should leave!” Molly shouted.

“That’s not your business!” her mother flared.

Molly didn’t answer, just turned on her heel to find her stepfather. She stalked through her house like a hunter, every nerve tingling. He wasn’t in any of the rooms. She pulled the back door open so violently it wrenched her shoulder, but the pain felt good. It helped clear her head.

He stood in a corner of the garage by the door, trying to open it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Molly screamed, her rage boiling out of her.

John turned. His nose was a bloody mess. “Leaving!” he cried, tears in his voice.

Molly stepped down the short stair into the garage. “What happened to your nose?”

“She hit me,” John answered, yanking at the garage door lock. It gave with a squeal of metal and the door started to raise grudgingly.

“Who hit you?” Molly asked, for a moment totally confused. Then her mind cleared and she knew the answer, even as he said it.

“Your mother.”

My mother hit him, Molly thought to herself. Her stomach boiled, the acid nearly a living animal inside her, coiled and ready to strike. She trembled, hard shudders that were almost painful.

“Why?” she wanted to know.

“How should I know?” John shouted, digging in his pocket for keys.

“She said you’re drinking again,” Molly accused.

“Well, I’m not. I went to the bar with Mike and Steve, is all. She started screaming at me and we got in a fight.”

Molly whirled, her mind too full of it. She stumbled down the stairs beside the house, down to the patio. She ignored her stepfather’s call, ignored the lights of the house, and moved into the night on autopilot. The anger felt like electricity, that if somebody were to take her picture, they’d see it coruscating around her hair like a plasma ball.

She set off into the woods behind their house, not caring where she went. She just needed to get away.

The house, behind her, glowed its light out into the night, oblivious.

Tik-tik shivered and ruffled his fur in a wave from his whiskers to his tail. He sneezed. Rain again. Four suns of the stuff! He started forward again and stepped through a patch of dead leaves into yet another puddle, burying his paw up to the first joint. He hissed involuntarily.

Kao turned his head and clicked his teeth, black tail lashing. “Quiet!”

Tik-tik glared at him and heaved himself out of the indentation. “Knock it off, Kao. You’re not the boss of me.”

Kao whirled on one hind paw and swiped his claws past Tik-tik’s nose, making his whiskers wave in the wind of their passing. “Not yet, maybe,” he purred. The white fluff on the end of his foot was spattered with mud.

“Your feet are dirty,” Tik-tik noted.

“Pheh!” Kao spat and turned back to the path.

Tik-tik licked his chops and started after Kao again. The rain continued relentlessly.

“Tik-tik!” Mai-mai squealed, loping out of the cave to meet them. “You’re back!” She whizzed past Kao without acknowledging him and pressed her nose into Tik-tik’s shoulder. “It’s raining!”

“You only realized that now?”

“Hi, Mai-mai,” Kao greeted.

“Hi, Kao,” Mai-mai said without looking. “Tik-tik. Paw-paw is here.”

Tik-tik’s ears lowered. “When did he arrive?”

“Start of sun. He’s not well.”

Tik-tik, looking right at Kao, saw the flash of hunger in his eyes. Kao said nothing, just turned and went into the cave. Mai-mai watched him go.

“Tik-tik. Kao–”

“No, Mai-mai. Hush.”

“But…” She trailed off, worried.

“Come,” Tik-tik said. “I’m hungry and dirty. Let’s go in, see the others.”

Mai-mai clearly wanted to argue but followed him docilely enough.

Kao had walked over to the circle where Paw-paw lay and touched noses. Paw-paw barely responded.

Kao turned and saw Tik-tik. His lips were curled up in a smile. He looked to his left, past Tik-tik, to where Bo sat with his two females.

“Kao,” Bo greeted, his voice carrying in the small space.

“Bo.” His tongue curled out insolently and licked his chops. “Paw-paw isn’t doing well.”

Bo blinked and stood up, tail lashing. “Show respect, Kao.”

Kao glanced at the ailing form behind him. “He can’t hear me, Bo. He’s nearly gone.”

Bo stepped forward and growled. “You are out of order!”

“Tik-tik!” Mai-mai whispered urgently.

“Shh.” He stepped between her and the impending fight.

Kao saw him move. “You can’t protect her anymore, Tik-tik!”

Tik-tik blinked as Mai-mai’s tail lashed angrily. “Why do I need to protect her, Kao?”

Kao snorted. “Coward.”

Tik-tik roared. It came out of him almost from his claws and felt good, powerful. The sound filled the cave and Bo laid his ears back. Kao, on the other hand, looked satisfied. “I can’t fight Bo until I challenge you, Tik-tik. You’re his second.”

“Paw-paw is not dead!” Bo shouted.

Kao whirled and one paw shot out, his claws extended. The spray of blood flew all the way to the cave wall and Paw-paw collapsed in the gravel, his throat a bloody ruin.

“He is now,” Kao spat.

Bo stepped forward, his fur on end and his hackles bristling. “You should not have done that!”

“Why?” Kao sneered.

“Because now I can help Tik-tik, Kao! You are out of order!”

A brief flicker of uncertainty went through Kao’s eyes, but Bo didn’t give him a chance to react. He sprang forward with a deep, coughing roar. Tik-tik leaped with him.

The fight was unlike anything Tik-tik had fought to that sun. Kao seemed half mad with a wild insolence. Bo moved next to Tik-tik like they’d rehearsed it, but Kao was faster than both of them. His claws were everywhere and he nearly snapped Tik-tik’s foreleg with his jaws, missing by a whisker-length.

Tik-tik crouched, preparing to leap onto Kao’s back so Bo could take his throat. Some sound or movement made his eye dart to the side. “Mai-mai!”

Mai-mai, ears flat to her head and fangs clearly visible as she growled, stalked forward, front low to the ground. She hissed, a low and angry sound unlike any Tik-tik had heard from her. Kao paused, startled.

Bo jumped forward and his jaws fastened on Kao’s throat. He bound Kao’s forelegs in his own and curled onto his back, his back claws tearing bloody rents in Kao’s side and stomach. Mai-mai darted forward and swiped her front paw, all five claws out, across Kao’s muzzle.

“You will never have me!” she screamed.

Bo growled and tightened his grip. Kao’s struggles became wilder as he fought now for air. Bo strained, and Kao’s breath exhaled on a gurgle. He collapsed, dead.

Bo stood and shook himself. Glancing at Paw-paw’s body, his ears flattened momentarily. He met Tik-tik’s gaze and Tik-tik bent forward in a bow.

After a moment he heard the others do the same. When they all were bowing, Bo stood up to his full height and roared, deafening Tik-tik. Tik-tik straightened.

“Bo. You are leader,” Tik-tik said, his voice loud in the silence that followed Bo’s roar.

Bo looked at him, whiskers forward. “I…”

Tik-tik took a step toward him. “Bo. Paw-paw was old and his time was close. It would have happened anyway.”

Bo licked his chops and sat, his tail curling around his paws. “Tik-tik. I choose you as second.”

Tik-tik’s ears perked forward. “Thank you.”

“Mai-mai. Will you take Tik-tik?” Bo asked then.

Mai-mai blinked and stepped forward. She sat next to Tik-tik, her tail brushing his side. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Tik-tik blurted.

Mai-mai looked at him, her pupils dilated. “What did you expect?”

“I…” Tik-tik didn’t know what to say.

“Go, my friend,” Bo coaxed. “We will clean up the home. You chase your mate. You’ve earned it.”

Mai-mai was purring. She glanced at Bo and then swiped a paw across Tik-tik’s flank. “Catch me, if you can.” She whirled and was gone.

Tik-tik took off after her. The rain didn’t seem so bad, anymore. His tongue lolled out briefly and he sped up.