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From Chapter One: An Urgent MessageLyra almost deleted the email marked urgent, suspecting some virus that might take control of her computer, but stopped when she realized the sender was her lover—a 220-year-old wizard, who rarely used a computer. She couldn’t open the message fast enough.Lyra,Alliance mortals and lower magicals are taking violently ill. I’m leaving the bookstore for a while to offer aid. DO NOT come to Dragonspeir. Stay safe in your world.Love always,CullenShe stared at the screen, twisting a strand of her long hair. Leaning forward, she gripped the armrests of the chair. Her breath caught when she noticed how the dragon’s sapphire eyes on her new bloodswear ring sparked from the energy of her concern. His message left her undecided, reading between the lines and weighing the choices.Those affected—mortals and lower magicals—seemed to place her in the risk group, obviously Cullen’s concern. However, those mortals were all born in Dragonspeir, while she originally came from Tampa. Lower magicals did include members of both worlds. But as the current Scribe, Lyra possessed inherited power at least as great as high-order wizards. She just didn’t fully grasp how to command her magic yet.She did want to help. Since her parents and dear Aunt Jean died, the Guardians, wizards, dragons, and other residents of the Alliance were her only family. Lyra’s unique powers might be useful, especially since they now lacked an alchemist.Eburscon disappeared after he attempted to steal her scribal aura, and she’d heard no reports of him since, so he was presumed dead by many. According to Cullen, no one wanted him back. However, living without a person capable of creating remedies for a plague or widespread illness had left many residents uneasy. Some talked about trying to persuade Tarom, the Dark Realm’s alchemist, to switch his allegiance. Two centuries ago, he served the Imperial Dragon, leaving only when he couldn’t tolerate working under Eburscon any longer.Despite ranking as the top wizard, the Imperial Sorcerer in the Alliance High Council, Cullen lacked alchemical skills. Even though untrained, Lyra possessed a keen intuitive sense in the craft. She could help him. Aries guided the fire in her scribal powers and also fueled her impatience.Lyra checked and secured Aunt Jean’s cottage since the last gasps of late winter storms in the upper peninsula of Michigan could be brutal.Dashing off a few emails to her college students in Florida, she gave them feedback on their independent study in the Fantasy Lit course. She was glad her leave from on-campus teaching responsibilities continued until the next fall term.Lyra saved and printed the chronicle draft of her bloodswear quest, completed at the end of last year. It was mid-March, and she’d almost finished the written account, storing magic in her words that would empower the Alliance—her role as a Scribe. The hard copy she stuffed into a commuter bag to work on later with the Imperial Dragon and the other three Guardians. She needed to sort through their research details that had helped her kill the heir to the Black Dragon. Additional supplies could be conjured from memory.Outside, the dock in the backyard looked weather-beaten but sound. Waves from Lake Huron lapped at its old boards. In the flower bed, the first spring perennials peeked through the packed ground and would require plenty of care soon. Lyra hoped to be back in time to maintain what her aunt had loved so much. Crocuses stood bravely against the melting snowpack—a reminder.As she turned from the garden, a large black butterfly flitted around her head. It was the same type that had spied on her before and been in her aunt’s room when she was killed—purple spots like eyes on its wings. Suspecting it was a transformed magical from Dragonspeir’s Dark Realm, Lyra swatted at the insect. Thinking that someone watched her leave caused a chill to run down her spine.Finally shooing it to the nearby bushes, she lifted her head high, put her bag inside her silver Subaru sport wagon, and drove straight to Drake’s Bookstore.After parking in back, she twisted her dragon ring to unlock the back door of Cullen’s shop, no longer needing the magical skeleton key. “Sheridan, I’m using your portal,” she called out.From his cage on the showroom counter, the cicada chirped, “I already knew it was you, sweetheart. Nice perfume.”Lyra shook her head. Darned bug never stopped flirting.“By the way, Sire Drake told me to not let you pass. Something about an illness in the Alliance. Don’t make me use my magic on you.”“I’m going anyway,” she replied as she prepared herself in the storage room.“Like I knew you would,” he snapped.She gave her ring another twist and stated, “Pateo porta!” In response, two metal bookcases moved apart. Between them lay the connector to Dragonspeir. She stepped across. The familiar tingling sensation now felt invigorating, when last summer it had frightened her. Her jeans, t-shirt, and jacket transformed into a full-skirted gown of light blue cotton under a navy cloak.It was her first time back since being publically honored for completing her bloodswear quest and sorcery studies. She’d have to wait to find out if her new abilities could alter the clothing she acquired at the portal.Lifting one side of the long garments, Lyra ran the short distance along the wooded trail to the location of the old, sentry tree, Gatekeeper Cranewort. Reminding her of the shape of grand live oaks in Florida, his branches spread wide and high, taller than any nearby. His large, flat leathery leaves were turned to collect the warm morning rays.“Hello, Cranewort,” she called ahead. “I don’t mean to disturb your sunbathing, but I need to pass to the Imperial Dragon’s lair, or to the Meadow—whichever place I can help most with those who are sick.”“Not sunbathing, child, merely enhancing my immune functioning to bolster my health after the harsh winter. Sire Drake instructed me to not permit your passage. He and all of us fear you will fall ill.” He lifted extensions of his roots into a spiky barricade, one of his gate-keeping defenses.“Perhaps I can help,” she maintained, hands on her hips.“It looks to be a horrible disease—elevated fever, chills, vomiting blood. Some are dying. Please stay here, Adalyra.”“I’m not like any from Dragonspeir. I won’t get it.” Lyra hoped what she said was true but couldn’t turn her back on thousands who were ill.“Well…you most certainly are unique.” He folded his leaves and tipped his trunk forward to look at her directly. “The Alliance relies on your special scribal abilities to battle the Dark Realm. Losing you to illness would risk too much. Be wise and stay back.” He smoothed down his bark and held out a twigged hand to her.She stepped beyond his touch. “The entire Alliance is my family, and I need to help them.”The gnarled tree let out a sigh and lowered his roots. “Very well. You have your own mind, and it is one of a leader. That is your inheritance from the four female Scribes in your family. But, I expect you to use every caution available. Sire Drake is in the Meadow. Stay with him.”“I promise.” Lyra hurried toward the crossroads, which connected dozens of trails. There she selected the short path leading to the Meadow.Pluch trees lined the trail. Their weeping branches, active with new sap, swept after Lyra in attempt to caress her golden hair, now grown almost to her waist. Flower buds on the bell flowers peaked out. The air held gentle notes of fragrant jasmine from the vine’s first purple flowers. She took a deep breath as she sped down the familiar walk. She had missed Dragonspeir.Along the way, Lyra thought about her action, entering the land without permission. Although she recently passed sorcery training for all crafts except powerthrowing, Lyra only elevated her immortal status. In Dragonspeir, they used the term afflation—having received divine impartment of knowledge and strength to endure more physical hardship than a non-magical. Until gaining enough afflation to become fully immortal, she needed to be invited by the Imperial Dragon to be his guest in Dragonspeir.As a new Alliance sorceress, the Imperial Dragon decided when he needed her. Lyra clearly broke his established protocol. But she often bent Alliance customs to suit her needs while working for the greater good. So far, she had only raised eyebrows, and no one troubled her. She hoped this time would be the same, but entering a plague-ridden land against orders was a bit different than wearing jeans or hugging dragons.
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Read another excerpt:“I wish that I didn’t want my family’s love so bad. I wish I could be one of those people who wore leather jackets and didn’t give a damned.”
Tak shot her a look. “You’d be musty if you wore a leather jacket in this heat.”
Deena grinned. “You know what I mean.”
He shrugged. “Who doesn’t want a decent family, Dee? It’s not much to ask for.”
Tak paused to pluck a seashell from the sand. Chipped and polished by time, it shone under the glint of a fast setting sun. “I don’t know the answers,” he said. “But they seem to be in things like this,” he held up the shell.
She frowned. “I don’t follow.”
He shrugged. “Well think about it. What’s a shell? It’s just a—a hard, protective outer layer.” He hurled it in the ocean. “The same is true with family. They’re an outer layer, a protection from the world. At least that’s what they’re supposed to be.” He paused. “Think about what happens when you screw with an animal that has one of those hard shells. What does he do?”
“He goes into it.”
“Right. He retreats.” He thumbed the shell thoughtfully. “Now imagine if you were to rip the shell off a turtle and expose him. What do you think you’d find?”
Deena cringed. “Something soft and hurting.
“And dead, if not close to it. So, our hypothetical turtle, who’s able to stand our shell transplant, needs another shell, another form of protection. And so do you.” Tak handed the grooved and sand-polished subject to Deena. She looked down at it.
“So, how’ve I been surviving all this time? What’s my shell?”
Tak grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know when I crack it.”
A slender, striking man of Asian descent was on the wrong end of Anthony’s .32. With arms raised, his hands were splayed in a show of defenselessness. His expression was calm, despite the growing crowd of onlookers and the pistol in his face. Behind him, an old woman made the sign of the cross.
“Anthony!” Deena cried, rushing towards them. Her brother cast a single sideways glance but kept his gun level.
“Get back in the house,” he said.
Deena turned her attention to the Asian man. She was struck by his eyes, wide and heavy-lidded. His mouth was generous, his square face softened by layers of thick black hair. He had boyish good looks and a long, lean athletic frame.
Japanese.
She was certain he was Japanese.
Deena turned to her brother. “Will you put that thing away?”
The two stared at each other, older sister, young brother, eyes narrowed. When he didn’t move, Deena stepped between the gun and the stranger, her eyes level with the barrel. Anthony lowered the gun with a sigh and Deena seized the opportunity to snatch it.
She turned to the stranger. “I assume that’s your car,” she said, nodding towards a sleek gray convertible parked haphazardly, a shiny nickel in a murky puddle. He nodded, his glossy black tresses falling into wide almond eyes.
“Yeah, um, about that.” He cleared his throat. “He uh, took my keys.”
Deena turned to her brother, hand extended. He dropped the keys in her palm with a sigh, a new Ferrari slipping from his grasp with reluctance.
She passed the keys to the stranger and their fingertips brushed. Something warm and foreign turned over in her and her lips parted in surprise. She thought she saw the makings of a smile in his eyes, but she dismissed it. He took the keys and thanked her. And as she watched him peel off with the top down on his sleek convertible, Deena’s pulse skittered then and long after.
Your Mark On The World
Chapter 3Rabbi with HEARTNathan Pingor was completely out of control. He admits it. At seventeen, he was smoking cigarettes, sleeping around, street racing cars, flunking out of school and had completely abandoned his Jewish faith. i
The root of Nathan’s troubles may lie in his parents’ divorce at age two. Though he doesn’t recall that being so difficult, when he and his mother moved from El Paso, where his father lived, to Houston, when he was seven, he began to feel his world unwind.
As a reform Jew, Nathan’s mother, Melissa Fertel, felt strongly that she wanted to have her son educated in a Jewish day school where he would be taught values and history that would provide a “familial” connection, she felt was especially important following the divorce and the move to Houston. Ultimately, they chose a conservative Jewish day school that felt warm and welcoming. ii
Although Nathan had a bar mitzvah at age thirteen, as is the custom, the family was not particularly religious; they didn’t keep kosher or attend Shabbat services weekly.By the tenth grade, Nathan was in real trouble. While he is very bright and even won the school-wide poetry contest that year, he failed every class. He was acting out, desperate to find a foundation for his life.
Finally, when he was 17, his mother sent him to Utah to participate in a short-term program for troubled teens at Outback Therapeutic Expeditions. Why Utah? Utah law allows parents to send their minor children to residential treatment centers where the teens are not allowed to leave; most other states allow the teens to walk out if they choose.
The program helped, but trouble continued so Melissa began looking for a boarding school in Utah where he could get the help he needed to finish high school and get his life back. While virtually every program she considered was non-denominational, she wanted to find a school where he would not be the only Jewish teen and where the program would be open to religious practice. She settled on Discovery Academy Boarding School in Provo, Utah when they told her about a Rabbi that regularly visited the school.
Nathan had been at the school just a few days, feeling angry and isolated, when one of the faculty told him that he had a visitor. Nathan says, “I had nothing else to do.” He then met Rabbi Benny Zippel for the first time.
Within three weeks, Nathan had completely reconnected to his Jewish roots, he says he “picked up all the religion that I’d totally lost.”
Purchase on Kindle / Paperback / Nook / SmashwordsBefore long, Nathan wrote a letter home asking his mother to send his siddur (prayer book), Hebrew dictionary and tefillin (artifacts used for a Jewish tradition that connects participants to God and to their heritage). Melissa was blown away by the request, and took it as a sign that her son was not only connecting with his roots, but finding a purpose in his future.i Phone interview with Nathan Pingor, July 3, 2012.ii Phone interview with Melissa Fertel, July 3, 2012.
RevampI felt like I was being reborn when I crawled out from the manhole.The cool air caressed my mucky face. I wanted to scream, but I held onto it, not letting it pass my lips.Rudy looked us over, guilt and relief waltzing across his face. He was shiny clean. No hermits had ventured up here. I wanted to use his untouched skin as a rag to clean myself. Then he would be dirty and I would be less dirty and maybe it would help me feel better. Maybe. It would probably turn him on, I thought, and that was where my musings ended.My arm hurt so much that it didn’t hurt at all. It was as if my body couldn’t quite register that level of pain, so it gave up trying. No argument from me. The wound hadn’t stopped bleeding, though, and the thin strip I had wrapped around it was soaked through. With shaking hands, I cleared my sodden hair away from my face and grabbed a fistful of shirt. Cooper stepped up.“Let me help,” he said.I could hear again, though Cooper’s voice sounded distant, like I was underwater and he was safe on shore. I obliged and he peeled the wet fabric away. I winced.“You were shot?” Cooper asked, shock on his face.“Guess so,” I said. “The team’s already trying to get rid of me, huh?” I laughed. Cooper didn’t. He eyed the others. “You could have been killed.”“Well, better by one of your own than, um...you know.” He did.Cooper moved his face closer to the wound. “It doesn’t look so bad. Just a nick, no arteries.” I became worried that my wound might spit at him, like an angry camel. That would be embarrassing. I inched away.“Stop fidgeting,” he said.“Okay, I’ll try,” I said. “How are you? Are you okay?”Cooper glanced up from my arm. “Fine. Got any bites?”He asked this as casual as one would “Cream with coffee?,” “Biscuits with tea?,” “Change for that dollar?” Got any bites with that bullet wound? It was the furthest thing from a casual question, and both he and I knew it.“Sure. I mean no. Definitely not.” Cooper locked eyes with mine. “No,” I said, again.Satisfied, Cooper went back to my wound, discarding the used fabric onto the forest floor and wrapping the clean, new strip around my arm several times. He made a knot at the end.“That’ll do it. A couple stitches, you’ll be fine,” he said. “Good job down there.”“Sure…thanks.”Cooper moved on to help the others. We all conceivably could have just been in a fight with a butcher, but none of us were bitten and thankfully most of the blood had come from the enemy. Topps had a laceration on his forehead that had brought down a sheet of blood over his face, like Satan pulled a curtain. It was starting to dry but looked no less grisly. Charlie’s lips were collagen implants gone wrong, and he casually mentioned twisting his ankle. I caught a glimpse of it, and the thing could have been the size of all the hunters’ ankles put together. Seven was seated on a fallen tree, running her hands down her ponytail. She was the cleanest (apart from Rudy), and when and if the time came that we were friends, I’d ask her how on earth she did it.
The Wedding Wager
PART IDOMINIONChapter OneSome say I am a stain on your history, a nameless statistic―a grotesque misfortune that is alluded to in your textbooks. I cannot disagree. Allow me to introduce myself as I am. Patience Annabel Horton is my given name, though I refer to myself as Annabel, never much caring to claim a virtue I do not possess. I am in spirit form for the most part, though it was not always so.It was in the year 1692, in the village of Salem, in the state of Massachusetts, that I swung by my neck. Many of us died there, such needless, senseless tragedies.There was evil in Salem Village in 1692, but it was not in the soul of any of those women they hanged. Poor Goodwife Nurse, now she was the saddest of the lot to be taken to the tree. No more of a witch than poor Bridget Bishop. No one was safe from the devil’s fire; certainly I was not, not with my detachment, my disinterest in the other girls of my village and their silly games. You see, I knew I had powers, and it kept me apart, but I told no one my secrets. Of course, I only tell you now because it no longer matters.But I am not here to condemn anyone for my suffering. So do not be alarmed. As you may or may not know, men who believed they were doing God’s work chastised many of Salem's citizens as witches and brought us to trial. Many, like myself, were hanged. I was eighteen years old.I will tell you what really happened in Salem Village before the century turned. You never learned the truth of it. Your history books do not contain the truth, but I will open the veil of time for you.* * * *Before my death, one year to be exact, a presence came to me.“Who goes there?” I called in the dark. The form was like mist. The answer was like wind.“Leave me, ghost,” I whispered coarsely.The wind became a breeze and caressed my lips. I knew I had been kissed and I shuddered.“Who are you?” I asked softly. The form appeared to be that of a man.“Yours,” I thought I heard him say.“You hold me in your arms, and yet I cannot see you.” I looked around the room. I felt his movement. Once again, he came so close.The wind was like a dance as it lifted the hair from my brow. The air around my body felt so light and sensual. I seemed touched by a gentleness. It caused my heart to pound.“Show yourself,” I commanded.He circled the room, a tall gray mist. I was sure his hair was black, his eyes as dark as evening.After that, I waited for him every night, and almost every night he came to me. It was not long before I fell in love with this spirit, as helplessly in love as any restless young woman can be.These ghostly visits continued right up until my physical death. I always knew when he was near because the air would become faint with the scent of fresh rain and I would feel drugged with the fragrance that lingered in my room.“You smell like late afternoons in summer, after a rainfall,” I told him, but he did not answer. He spoke to me so seldom. It was quite by chance that I heard his whisper.“Matthew,” he said.“Matthew is your name?” I asked.I listened so carefully as the shutters moved and some papers on my bureau fluttered like wings.“Matthew?” I asked again. “Oh, please speak more. Tell me where you come from?”My illusive shadow was silent.“Matthew. Matthew, speak to me! Show me your face. Let me see the hand that strokes me.”Suddenly, the wind returned. “I am so far,” he uttered.“Surely you must be a spirit from another time," I said.Miraculously, the papers on my bureau flew around and around again, as if chasing each other in a playful game of tag.I knew he could not reach me, could not fully pass beyond the barriers between us. Yet I felt him like an artist must feel his subject.“You are tall,” I said. “Your shirt has cuffs of white and I have images of your smile. Does time part us, Matthew? Are the centuries between us too vast?”I saw a shadowy light. It shone before me and revealed a man of great height, but in a split second the light was gone, the image within, too oblique to recall.* * * *Soon after his first visit, I received letters. They appeared out of nowhere. I would find them all over the house, always beginning: To my wife.“What’s this?” I stammered as I held the letters in my hand.Know that I love you and I’ll come to protect you. He had written.His notes were always signed with the letter M, for his first name.“Matthew,” I whispered. “How is it that you can leave notes about the house and yet not show me your face?”But my ghost was silent and could not find a way to answer me.“Why do you sign only with the letter M? I asked. “Is Matthew really your name?”Silence remained, as still as the night wind beyond my window.I began to think that I had truly gone insane. Oftentimes, I doubted the presence of my ghost and I questioned Father about the mysterious letters. For surely, I thought, the sun must be too hot and had affected my brain.“Father, I have received notes of affection. Do you know who sends them?”Father laughed. “A neighbor’s boy must surely be culprit to the bow of Cupid, daughter.”Ha! I knew better. No neighbor’s boy in Salem would dare call me his wife. I frightened the boys of my village. They thought me haughty and illusive. Oh, there was a young man from Andover with the courage to court me, and I might have married him if not for my fascination with my ghostly lover, but I never got that chance.It must be you who writes me. Mustn’t it be so, Matthew?If only I had known then that it would be centuries before I would see the face of my beloved. But in 1692, I could only cherish his words, so I made myself a wooden box and covered his letters with a beautiful purple cloth. I placed all the letters inside. I then covered the box with a square piece of coarse fabric and hid it under the tallest elm tree by Frost Fish Brook. Many afternoons that year I read the letters in the shadow of the branches. The writer’s hand was full of lovely twists and loops, and the ink was black.Had I not of died so soon I might have lived my life with my ghostly lover and never come to know him as a man of flesh. I would have assumed that some lost spirit had written the letters and had found a way to leave them inside the house. But, that innocence was not to be, and it was not fate that made it so.It was Urbain, Urbain Grandier, and the power given him.
The Bridge Club
