NDblogging

Gilded Folly Less in Paperback than E?

2009-02-19T21:16:59+01:00

It's a muggy and rainy day here in Auckland. Phew!

I was scrolling through my emails today, and found some posts from Terry Odell and Sharon Horton, some of my fellow Cerridwen Press authors. Apparently, CP is having a big sale at the moment.

I checked on my books, and sure enough, the paperback copies of Gilded Folly are less than the ebooks (only $3.50!). This is a scary - and funny - fantasy. Very suspenseful at times, too. I've posted 3 excerpts below.

I don't know how long this sale will last, so forgive me if it's run its course before you have a chance to get there.

Regards, and best wishes,

Norah/ND/Melody

Review

1 - "Fantastic imagery, suspenseful plot, tension to beat all tension, incites the reader to sit on the edge of the seat and read until the last letter, the last dot, until THE END. ND Hansen-Hill weaves a tale of the battle of good versus evil that seems so real the reader will look askance at his/her neighbor and wonder. ND does a great job balancing the story elements and creating a story worth reading. Unexpected statements are written and/or made throughout the whole story instilling humor and a bit of surprised delight. Great for the fantasy lover, the sci-fi lover, or even the romantic one. What can be more romantic than a woman being protected from an assassin? Loved this story!" Reviewer: Lucille PRobinson

http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors%3A%20H

Excerpts

It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.

Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless—like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.

Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...

Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

She ran for the steps—for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them—landed on your knees.

Get it right, Girl...last chance...

The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.

Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.

The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.

The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...

...arising out of rock.

Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps—only to find they’d beat her there.

They’ve been in the dark so long...

It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.

...but mostly, they wanted food.

Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.

AND

Humans! he thought, with a sigh. It had been a long time since he’d made any distinction between himself and these others he called friend. Today, it seemed, he was destined to call attention to it, if he were to be of any help to Rom...or the woman.

At that moment, in the middle of Wick’s dire reflections, Fitz sat down in a chair, his eyes drooping. Wick held off maybe ten seconds, then slipped one foot out of bed, his toes touching the cold floor.

Fitz didn’t stir. Hopeful now, Wick passed a shaking hand over the top of the monitor, effectively silencing it. He was grinning triumphantly at his own success when he twisted his head, and met Fitz’ eyes.

Uh-oh...

Humans could be truly intimidating at times...

Fitz was so angry his face was set, in a way Wick had never seen before. It would appear that however determined Wick was to leave, Fitz was equally determined to keep him here.

Plikva!

When Fitz turned his back, to fiddle with the machine in a furious, frustrated, what-the-hell-did-you-do-to-it, I-refuse-to-look-at-you way, Wick decided it was time to make amends. He was undervaluing Fitz’ efforts—something he’d never intended.

I’m destined to cause trouble wherever I go...

Regretful now, Wick reached past Fitz and snapped his fingers. The monitor took up where it had left off.

Wick, for his part, was exhausted by the small effort. Shivering, he leaned back on the pillows, desperate to retain any dignity he had left.

Fitz was still refusing to look at him. He was watching the monitor angrily, adjusting it with stiff fingers, and ignoring Wick completely. It wasn’t until he noticed something in the readings, though, which alarmed him, that he hastily turned back, and grabbed a glass by the bed. “Drink,” he ordered sternly.

Vinegar water!

Wick was too weak to argue. He drank deeply, unable to control a shudder which started somewhere in his centre. “Th-Thank you, F-Fitz,” he whispered. “F-For everything.”

Fitz continued to watch both him and the monitors. “You’re a damn fool, Wick,” he grumbled, a note of concern in his voice that Wick was certain he must have misheard.

This human friend was more right than he knew. As Wick’s eyes drooped closed, he murmured mockingly, “Both a fool, and damned. There was never such a kavlklakt as I...”

AND

The idea sent a shudder down his spine.

A lone bat strayed through the low branches and Wick jumped. Any movement was suspect. Had something chased the bat from its perch? He squatted down, his back pressed against the coarse bark of a Monterey pine. The solidity of it gave him an illusion of safety. The night remained still, as though holding its breath.

Sucking in the sound and holding it hostage...

It was like a black hole in his surroundings: sucking in sound, and light, and life.

When the night quickened once more, and the insect chorus returned to clicked and chirped mating signals, Wick moved on, nesting his feet in the thick needle beds so he wouldn’t accidentally tread upon a branch.

He never saw It come. It was camouflaged in the nightsound clutter, which took him by surprise. The night suddenly darkened, and the stars were blotted out.

He was slammed back, against a tree. Slammed and pounded to centre the blood beneath the skin. Wick kicked and punched and pounded back, but he was blinded by smoke. It rose around him, while bony fingers raked at his clothes. His eyes ran, his lungs screamed, and a howl was choked off in his throat.

He was falling now, dimly aware of pine needles jabbing his skin. Awareness faded quickly, displaced by the lassitude which was filling him. He knew he should fight the feeling; knew what it signified, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

It was the Hambre Muerte, the Death Gorge.

No!

Tradition demanded he lie here and die now, grateful for the mercy of last-moment oblivion. It was the way these things were done...

No! Not here! Wick’s fingers were already growing numb. He gritted his teeth, forcing the digits to close on a pointed branch. Then he jabbed it, into the bony head. There was a satisfying crunch and thud.

The Mictlampa ripped back, with an audible slurp, its jagged teeth torn away from Wick’s muscle. Its moment was past, and instead of a wily predator, it was confused and disoriented—flailing and blind.

Tastes of a leech, and eating habits to match...

Wick lay there limply, worried about the demon’s reputation for persistence, and worrying more about its companions. Was it alone?

He recalled another sorry fact from his past. Micts never travel alone...

He wriggled his fingers, clenched his fists, bent his toes, and jiggled his limbs—determined to lose the lassitude. The blood scent would bring the others in.

No way! He crunched the bloodsucker with his foot, right in the face. The creature flopped back, writhing in agony, all the while making a low-pitched grunting sound.

Wick pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbed another branch, and whopped the thing again.

The beast was knocked back, onto the pine needle carpet. Silent now, it did what tradition claimed: melted away, into the undergrowth. At least, Wick was sure that was what it had intended. Its actual disappearance looked a lot more like a wobbling retreat.

Wick sat there, in bloodied triumph, listening to the crunch and thud as it ran into branches, shrubs, trees. He wondered if, ten years ago, he would’ve had the balls to offer a challenge.

Too indoctrinated.

He savoured his victory a few minutes longer. That’s what he told himself, anyway, but himself knew he was actually waiting for his heart to stop that erratic flopping in his chest. He leaned back, impatient, but unwilling to risk his life on a quick escape.

If I pass out here, I’ll never get up again...

When the stars reappeared in the sky, he tugged himself up the rest of the way, using the trunk for support. Cursing and swearing, he staggered back the way he’d come.

http://www.jasminejade.com/pm-3140-223-gilded-folly.aspx

Comments

My 2008 in Excerpts

2009-01-28T19:54:49+01:00

Comments

title-3993097

2008-04-03T23:36:44+02:00

News & Networking

It's been a busy week as usual. Of Dragons was released by Red Rose last Thursday, and it's been full on ever since. I have to admit I've learned a fair bit about promotion this week, and networking with other authors and author sites. Some of the romance sites, like Simply Romance , are extremely generous with both their time and their space. I finished the first round of edits on Gray Beginnings, and will be hastily contriving a suitable blurb. The edits for GlassWorks should be in the Inbox shortly, too. In a few minutes I'll be posting on Tales of the Trade. My blog post is due there today.

WIP & Other Things: Only a thousand words added this week to my "Nocturne Bites" effort, but I did submit a blurb for Art & Soul to the open call at Nocturne. This is a quick in effort, with decisions being made by April 16th. I love these mini subs and competitions because they spur me on either to try new genres or venues or to finish what I began months ago. The Nocturne "call" only lasts until the 8th, I believe, so it's time for a quick decision if you're a paranormal pennist.

A new, and quite exciting, Yahoo loop opened this week called "Paranormal Monday". Enthusiasm by authors, with excerpts being greeted enthusiastically by readers.

Oh, wrote an interesting poem this week entitled, "Fragile". I'm in the finals for the Poetry.com Editors' Choice competition, and to qualify, I needed another poem. It was the second poem for the week?the first being the one for Gray Beginnings. I was waxing poetic all over the place, LOL!

Authors of Note: Today's Author of Note/Publishing-Promotional Guru of Note is Jean Lauzier. Here's the info for Honor Due, from author D. H. Brown. D. H.'s website is www.dhbrownbooks.com, and Jean is giving away away the rest of chapter one to anyone who requests it.

The excerpt, of course:

Chapter 1

2230 hours ? Saturday

It was a typical Saturday night at the Spring Tavern. Lots of locals playing pool, dancing to the jukebox, smoking and drinking beer. Jimmy poured a lot of it on weekends, and little during the week. Men who use axes and chainsaws don't do much drinking on work nights. Most of them start in the woods before 0400, so early to bed is the norm.

Except for a knot of local Indians at one of the pool tables, it was a pretty white crowd. There were four fresh Coasties from the Coast Guard station up at Neah Bay, and other than that, I knew or had seen everyone else before. That's why the little wannabe shark slipping into my small pool stood out. When the door swung open and the kid sidled through, I knew I was going to have to kill him. How did I know? Why? Instinct and almost forty years experience. The why? He might look like a minnow now, but little fish grow up fast and are harder to swallow when they're full grown and think they're Great Whites.

This was my isolated pond he'd swum into and I didn't intend to become the main course at anyone's table. Since I'm a carnivore, I tend to eat first and ask questions later. I may not have a high school diploma, but I've earned several doctorates in the killing arts. I prefer to be the predator than the prey.

The kid was around twenty-five, six feet plus a bit, and maybe a slim 180, in a worked-out kind of way. His dark hair hadn't grown out enough to hide what had been a military buzz. He wore a supple, thigh-length black leather coat, unbuttoned, and by the way it was cut, I figured he was packing. Probably a large auto-loader of some type with a suppressor in a custom rig in the left armpit. He didn't look exactly comfortable wearing civvies.

The way he moved told me this was someone who didn't feel threatened, and thought he could eat anyone in this puddle. I've been around somewhat longer and knew there were several in this crowd I wouldn't want to tangle with, on my best day. Guys who work with axes and chainsaws in the deep woods are very tough nuts, and will break your teeth if you bite on 'em wrong.

I watched the kid's eyes travel slowly around the room and pass me by without a flicker of recognition. There was no reason he should know me on sight, although for him to be here, I knew an advance team had swept the area and put together a package on the lay of the land. That's the way it worked, so now I had to figure out if he was solo, or had backup out in the dark.

He was giving off a nervous kind of energy. Not fear. Just a twitchiness. The way he put money on the bar and kept kind of shrugging his shoulders. Frustrated would be one way of putting it. Maybe a bit worried. I wondered what might cause a reaction like that from someone who probably wouldn't duck when the lead was flying. Interesting.

I watched Jimmy behind the bar, wiping glasses. He wasn't acting any different. He was, however, two feet closer to the register than where the glasses were racked. That meant he was standing directly in front of the Government model .45 Auto he kept cocked and locked under the bar. Jimmy, I'd learned, knew when trouble walked into his place of business.

BUY LINK

Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): Those shiny and reflective fish which so draw our eyes, and frequently take a starring role in our aquariums? A new study has determined that the unique shape of the skin's guanine crystals is what provides that intense reflectivity. This is an anti-predator camouflage response, for fish which swim near the water's surface. There's no point denying that these are flashy fish! I went to the zoo last weekend, and in the penguin enclosure, where wee penguins were swooping after their food, it was the food?flashy fish?which kept catching my eye! It should have been birds that fly underwater, instead! For more information, visit http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/01/080114100008.htm.

Save Your World: Free rice (learn new words and donate rice as you do it! Always a favorite!) http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Excerpts: From Gilded Folly

It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.

Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn?t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren?t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless"like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.

Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...

Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn?t give up without a fight.

She ran for the steps"for where she hoped they?d be. You fell down them"landed on your knees.

Get it right, Girl...last chance...

The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn?t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.

Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.

The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.

...arising out of rock.

Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps"only to find they?d beat her there.

They?ve been in the dark so long...

It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.

...but mostly, they wanted food.

Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.

www.NDHansen-Hill.com
www.MelodyKnight.com
www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts
www.lulu.com/ndhansen-hill
Thanks to www.mikesfreegifs.com and www.wilsoninfo.com for the use of the animated gifs!

Comments

New Release: OF DRAGONS

2008-03-28T19:55:47+01:00

AUTHOR: Melody Knight
GENRE: Mainstream Romance Sci-Fi/Fantasy
PUBLISHER: Red Rose Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-60435-077-7
RATING: Explicit sexual content

BLURB: Ryon Colley can't understand what's happening to his life. This morning he was a policeman investigating a potential hazard: a sparking, flashing, rainbow-spitting light show in the sky overhead. The source of the odd light appeared to be an unruly-haired blonde hellion, who couldn't figure out what normal was. Her radiant display scared him, but his physical reaction to it scares him more. By lunchtime he's gone from having coarse brown hair, to sporting a head full of blond locks—and from facing felons, to fending off thousands of voracious dragonflies.
Glynt has been sent to Earth to guard the dimensional gateways, but her arrival spawns nothing but trouble. Quite accidentally, she's summoned swarms of dragonflies, and lured in captors determined to return her—clearly a mischief maker—to her own world. Only Ryon—her gilded hero and the object of her newfound dreams—can rescue her from certain death.

BOOK LINK: http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=83&products_id=144

AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill | Melody Knight

EXCERPT:She was nearly dressed when she heard them. The vibration rattled the shiny Christmas ornaments on her dressing table, making the glass ping harshly against the table top.
No! Her fingers clasped the adamantine dragonfly encircling her neck, as terror quickened her heartbeat. Chills raced down her limbs in spiky little arrays. That sound—that horrifying, buzzing thunder—was one she recognized, deep inside. The fear of them—and their appetites—had been bred into her through a hundred generations.
Glynt ran. Panicked, she fled the bedroom with its flimsy-looking glass and raced for the balcony doors. They were thick fire doors—surely, they could resist the impact?Ten thousand dragonfly wings…The daylight went. The thickness of the horde—the sheer mass—was blotting out the sun. Desperate, near-petrified, she yanked the curtains closed. The ramming slam of ten thousand exoskeletonned bodies splintered the glass, but it didn’t stop the beating—that horrific, mechanical swish of their wings. They were driving themselves at the doors, at the glass, frenzied. Day sounds were lost in the ceaseless roar of overlying wing beats. In the bedroom, the glass imploded. Shatters of refracted light caught her eye, as they showered the door jamb.As they blasted through, onto the carpet.I didn’t close the door.Her eyes widened in horror, and she raced for the exit. She was nearly to the front door when it began vibrating. They were in the hall, in hunting mode, and desperate to get to her. Hide.Where?! Frantic, she ran back to the curtained windows, in hopes of fooling Them. She was out of her element, and hidey holes were nowhere to be found. She cowered down, wrapped herself in curtain fabric, and scrunched into her smallest form. Already, she knew it wouldn’t help—couldn’t help. They were lured. Starving. Driven. Those multifaceted eyes would find her.Ever hungry, they’d hunt her…on the wing.

Comments

Hi, there - just a greeting

2008-02-18T20:00:54+01:00

On today's agenda:

Add a bit to my Lotus Circle WIP
Begin a new Nocturne Bites
Add a bit to Hunter
Review edits
Perhaps a bit of editing???

Yikes!

Oh, BTW, ErRatic releases this week.

Cheers,
ND
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://MelodyKnight.com
http://www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts
Hunter http://www.protagonize.com (under action/adventure)
Nocturne Bites http://community.eharlequin.com/forums/write-stuff/guidelines-new-nocturne-bites
The Lotus Circle http://www.thelotuscircle.com

Comments

Interviews and Articles and Excerpts...

2008-02-15T20:13:23+01:00

News & Networking
Shelley Munro was kind enough to request an interview with me this week on her blog. Now, Shelley is not only multipublished, but extremely versatile. She is also a Kiwi, and I sometimes see her at our monthly writers' meetings. Being on her blog makes me feel as if I've "arrived". Her books are very popular! I have a newspaper interview next week. I don't get nervous at interviews, but want to do my best. I'll have to remind myself to think before I speak, rather than blurt. My last interviewer even included some of my "uh"s and "what I meant to say"s . It's sometimes a little embarrassing to see how your words come across when you don't write them yourself .

WIP: I finished my ghost story this week, and decided to name it "A Spirited Encounter". This is my first finished book for 2008, and I'm quite happy about it. I also finished a novella and want to get it re-written fairly quickly, so I can submit it to Nocturne's open submissions call (Nocturne "Bites"). Definitely worth looking into if you're a writer, aspiring or established. If you're seeking an agent, pop over to BookEnds this week, and pop in 100 words in the appropriate category. You never know what will transpire.

Other things: My short story, Cut & Polish, came out early from All Romance eBooks! Oh, and I finished the second round of edits for The Hollowing last week and now have an April 17th release day. Joy!!!

Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): From Rapunzel's hair to eliminating sound waves, this article discusses how many of the magical aspects of fairy tales may actually be true. Carpets can be carried aloft by vibrations, and steered via pulse beats. For fantasy writers like me, who like to base their stories on facts, this really supplies a fascinating jumping off point. To read more, visit http://www.livescience.com/strangenews/080211-fairytales-science.html

Save Your World: Disaster Relief Volunteer Match (need a hands-on solution to disaster? find one close to home here) http://www.volunteermatch.org/opportunities/disaster_relief.jsp

Excerpts: From In Flames, the sequel to In Trysts, a Romantic Suspense novel published by Linden Bay Romance

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air. “Marco!”He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.A death’s head grin. It was Gerald Beaumont. “Sophie!” he cried, clawing at her head, her shoulders, climbing her like a bobbing tree. She was going under, down, when Marco snatched her out of Gerald’s grasp and flung him aside.But Marco’s hold on her was tenuous, and Beaumont’s frantic antics cost him. Scratch, tear, rip, fling, but in the wildly swirling muddle, of dirt and bone, ash and wood, filthy foam and churning backwash, Sophie was jarred loose from Marco’s grasp once more, out of his reach. He heard her choked off “Marc-!” as she vanished beneath the rising waters. Cheers,
ND - Melody
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://MelodyKnight.com
http://www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts

Comments

Best Wishes and Holiday Fun from ND|Melody!

2007-12-22T22:24:20+01:00

Your Holiday Gift - Download a Free Copy of my Full-Sized Novel Vision from Fictionwise!
Happy Holidays from N. D.

Hansen-Hill, the Author of:

Fantasy
The Trees Series
Trees
Crystals
Mud
Shades
Fire
Light
The Elf Chronicles
Elf
Trolls
Kaituku

Gilded

Folly

Science Fiction (SF)
The Light Play Trilogy
Light Play
Light Plays
Lightning Play

a>
BloodWorks
Relic
ErRatic
BoneSong

Horror
The Grave Images Series

Grave

Images
Graven Image
Grave Imagery
Grave Image

Vision

The Hollowing

Romance (writing as Melody Knight)
Romantic Suspense
In

Trysts
In

Flames

Romantic Fantasy
Of Dragons

SF Romance
GlassWorks

Paranormal Romance
Art & Soul

Novella (writing as Melody

Knight)
Erotic
Artifact
Emerald City

Comments

Red Rose Publishing signs GlassWorks!

2007-12-02T22:03:24+01:00

GlassWorks, my 28th or 29th novel (not really sure which, LOL!) has now been contracted to Red Rose. I'm really happy about this. RRP has a really good reputation among authors.

I'm beginning the 30-day countdown for In Flames. Linden Bay Romance is releasing it on January 1st. What a way to start the year!

In Flames is the sequel to In Trysts, which was my first romance, released last year. Both novels are romantic suspense. I don't seem to be able to write anything without an element of horror/thriller to it. One of my WIPs (Works In Progress) is a comedy/horror/romance. I can't even write comedy without horror!

I'll leave you with an excerpt from In Trysts.
Peri’s mind went blank with terror when she saw that cigarette. This wasn’t some stranger she’d researched, for whom she’d invented a destiny—this was someone real. A greedy someone who could kill as easily as smoke. Who was devious enough to hide a victim within a dead woman’s shroud.It’s real. Peri wanted to throw up.When the headlights hit the headland, the panic percolating in her veins exploded. Her panic fed her as she shimmied down the rope, and chased Sophie down the slope. The two of them tumbled all over each other in their frenzy, and Sophie had to drive, because Peri...simply...couldn’t. Her life wasn’t conjecture any more. It was real.

And confrontation? Not even on the list.

From In Trysts, published by Linden Bay Romance

Cheers,
ND | Melody
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://MelodyKnight.com
http://www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts
In Trysts (ebook or paperback)
http://www.lindenbayromance.com/product_details.php?product_id=108
In Flames
http://www.lindenbayromance.com/comming_details.php?id=99
Red Rose Publishing
http://www.redrosepublishing.net
Linden Bay Romance
http://www.lindenbayromance.com

Comments

Trying to get to the halfway point!

2007-09-05T21:01:31+02:00

Hi, All!

I'm really trying hard to get to the halfway point (25,000 words) of a YA novel I'm attempting for a competition that Random is sponsoring. I'm having great fun, but I'm not sure it's really much different from my adult stuff, except perhaps my characters don't mull over their decisions as much. I've having great fun with the action adventure aspect - haven't worked on one of those for a while.

Gray Beginnings has gone to Cerridwen Press, and will be published sometime next year, along with The Hollowing. That gives me 3 with them, which I like to think of as my minimum with any one publisher. That means I owe Linden Bay Romance one more book, and Five Star two, but I'm working on it.

I'm going to try to have Art & Soul seriously considered by one of the romance giants. I'm not sure how well I do in the romance field, though I generally pull 4 to 5 star reviews. Cross your fingers. I'll be sending it off tomorrow or Monday.

I want BoneSong out next week as well, but that's a major rewrite. Writes and rewrites at the moment. I have an erotic short I want to force out by the end of September, too. Yikes!

Back to chocolate ice cream for breakfast and work, work, work!

Cheers, and best wishes,
ND | MelodyPS BTW, if you want to see ErRatic's new cover, check out Myspace

Comments

The Hollowing has been contracted!

2007-04-27T20:48:54+02:00

The Hollowing has just been accepted by one of my publishers. I won't announce which one yet, till the contract is safely in their hands once more, but it's easy to guess - they're the same onew who are publishing Gilded Folly.
I finished Of Dragons, and am now working on Glass Works. In Flames is under consideration, as are BloodWorks and Relic. I need to begin thinking about publishers for Of Dragons, BoneSong and Gray Beginnings. I've been thinking about sending Gray Beginnings to the same publisher who's just contracted The Hollowing, and I also want to send Light Play there as it becomes available.
In Trysts is going to be available in paperback soon, as will Gilded Folly. Very exciting!

Went on an archaeology field trip to a dormant volcano yesterday to map a kumara storage pit - great stuff!

I'll leave you with an excerpt - from Crystals:

They were moving deep into the caverns. The air tasted of damp, and to Trevor, the smell was distastefully reminiscent of the mouldy scent his dirty laundry emitted after a week in his laundry basket. Strong and malodorous, it was made particularly noticeable because Trevor wasn’t able to see. The darkness was intense, and he was relying on the sounds, and his sensitivity to the others, to find his way. He just hoped Gyris was as sure-footed as he sounded, and that holes were not part of the terrain.
He first noticed it as a dimming of the intense darkness, a trace of less-than-black, and wondered if he was imagining it. Soon, though, a bluish cast became more apparent, and he could detect stars—stars and squiggles decorating the high ceiling of the cave; each a small effort to push back the black void. To Trev, the effect resembled a soft blue rendition of his home world’s Milky Way—sharing the same lack of definition, but undoubtedly lighting up the distal spaces. Trevor wondered at the source—whether these emanations were from living creatures, or rocks with special phosphorescent qualities.
   Trevor appreciated the beauty of the scene, but his eyes demanded more clarity. It was the same feeling of frustration he often had when trying to view the Milky Way—his eyes wanted to bring it into better focus; to lessen the vagueness that distance wrought. His next action was almost instinctive; a product of the dark, frustration, insecurity in their mission, and for want of something to channel his nervous energy. He summoned a part of his being that had shown itself to have some control over animals in his own world, and placed his energy into what was now a recognisable thought pattern—a particular emotional stance. He loosed it on the small entities in the cave, if entities, indeed, they were. The result was almost instantaneous, and—to Trevor’s mind—gratifying. The blue lights flared, intensity and numbers both increasing multifold as others of their kind who had been quiescently dark flared to life.    The small group halted, and the cave was bright enough for Trevor to see the others now. Thyme shot a quick question at Gyris, who grunted and indicated his head in Trevor’s direction. Thyme remarked, “Playing with lights again, Bonehead?”
   “Just tinkering.” It was Trevor’s turn to sound smug.   “Just don’t forget how you did it, Sieve Brain. This is one of your rare talents that may be considered useful.”
   The repetitious moist dripping was its own form of water torture. Trevor was actually pleased when the sound of moving water was lost in a cadence of chanting: rumbling, monotonous, repetitious. The texture of the rock beneath their feet also changed, becoming firm, smooth, and less fragmented, which led Trevor to suspect that the former roughness owed more to years of mining, rather than to any natural formation.
    A dull glow broke the darkness ahead, and Trevor released his hold on the blue ceiling dwellers. Gyris’ steps were quiet now, aided as much by the terrain as by any conscious effort, and the human was glad to get his first glimpse of the Valners while their attention was focused elsewhere.
Entering a massive cavern, domed with enormous gypsum-like crystals that emitted subdued light, Trevor was astounded at the size of the famed Valners. He’d somehow thought of them as small miners—hardy, perhaps stunted by years of subterranean living; tiny enough to take advantage of narrow shafts in the rock. This was not the case. None of the Valners present at this ceremony—for such it obviously was—was less than two metres in height, and many of them topped three. Save for the dense fur on their feet, which Trevor guessed was important to their ramblings through the sharply pointed stones that littered their workspace, the Valners were hairless, with milky white skin. Albinos, the human thought. Save for the eyes. Valner eyes were enormous, saucer-like, and dark as an unlit cavern.    Valner bodies were strange to Trevor’s eyes. True, they had legs, and feet, but they also boasted appendages that would put human limbs to shame in a challenge of dexterity and strength. Like humans, a single “arm” sprouted from each side of their tall forms, but their flexibility more closely resembled that of an octopus or squid. The long, unjointed appendages writhed and coiled; constantly in motion, even as the Valners concentrated on this important religious ceremony. The three fingers at the tips of these arms were arranged triangularly, and Trevor’s eyes were drawn to the way the ceremonial leader used these fingers to manipulate a spiny opalescent crystal, that was apparently at the core of this ritual.
    Trevor was surprised that the Valners seemed unaware of their presence. True, for once his own small group was making an effort at discretion, but the Valners didn’t even glance in their direction. Surely, if they can heal, they must be capable of enough sensitivity to recognise we’re here, Trevor thought.
   Thyme, seeing his curious expression, explained it to him. “This is one of their most important religious ceremonies,” he said. “‘The Cleaving of the Crystal’, in which they fragment that rock into smaller, more easily usable, parts.”   Trevor looked at the dainty narrowed spike that the religious leader was moving with great precision, making signs that must have special meaning to the people watching. “He’s going to break that big hunk of rock with that small spike?”
   “Not break—cleave. Crystals will generally maintain the same form, if they are pure. He’s merely cleaving it into similar, but smaller, components.”   Trevor nodded in understanding. “A similar thing happens in our world. Diamonds are one of the hardest substances, yet they can be ‘cut’ for rings by taking advantage of the crystalline faces.” He smiled, thinking of the money some people paid for, and the way they hoarded, diamond jewellery. “Diamonds have a near-religious significance for some people in our world, too,” he commented. He indicated the glitzy stone at the centre of the ceremony. “Is that a healing crystal?” he asked reverently.
   “Yes, Human, and even a small piece of it would be enough to restore Peter—in the right hands, of course.”
“How’re we going to do this, Thyme?” Trevor asked. “Is there any way one of us could sneak up there and snatch a piece—once he’s finished cleaving it—while they’re still in this trancelike state? Maybe Qualice—?” he suggested. The gnome looked at Trevor in horror. He chattered excitedly, shaking his small head, before taking a firm grip on Cliso’s tail, while she coiled around him in support. She hissed at Trevor, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings on the subject. Trevor raised his hands, “Sorry, Qualice, Cliso. It’s just that Qualice is so swift and deft with his hands,” he said placatingly, remembering how Qualice had deftly removed both his belongings from his pockets, and his food from his plate.
   “No, Trevor. We have a better plan.” Thyme smiled, and Trevor suddenly realised how pleasant the fairy was being to him. He instantly became wary. Thyme reminded him of a book he’d once read: Sybil, about a woman with multiple personalities. And I never know which one is speaking to me, Trevor thought. He spared a moment to think of Mari, with Lily to protect her, wondering if Lily also had unknown personalities lurking within. Shaking his head at the idea, he tried to figure out the best method for wresting a confession out of a fairy who, all too obviously, wanted to keep him ignorant.
   “What plan is that, Thyme?” he asked with an attempt at a friendly return, but then spoiled it by adding rather acerbically, “And why wasn’t I told?”
   Thyme’s jolly attitude was almost enough to make Trevor turn around and run. But there was Peter to consider, and the necessity of hurrying their venture to return to Mari and Katy.
“I can’t tell you here,” Thyme said dramatically, as though the Valners were listening. “I’ll fill you in on the whole thing later—when we’re alone,” he said in a stage whisper.
   Oh, no, Trevor thought. He’s up to something. And whatever it is, he doesn’t want me to know about it. Thyme is doing devious, and apparently, the devious starts with me.

Comments

Writing mania & WIPs, writing for a market, + an excerpt from LIGHT PLAY (chap. 3)!

2006-07-12T01:37:19+02:00

This month is really fun for me, but quite hard work. I'm attempting to write 1000 words a day on each of 5 books - that's right, 5000 words a day. Most days I only average 3000, though. Very disappointing! I want to have all 5 3/5s finished by the end of July so I can safely enter them in a competition, without fear that I won't complete them. That means (for the shorter ones) approximately 30,000 words. The longer one will get my full attention after the others are finished, so hopefully, now worries.

No names for these yet, but they involve dowsers, mediums, clairvoyants, archaeologists, Egypt, Lapita, spies, and range from fantasy to sf to horror to romantic suspense. Phew! I'm tailoring these a bit (all but one) toward the romance market, because the competition I'm entering them in has mainly romance judges from the big houses, with a few mainstream tossed in.

I learned something from having Gilded Folly published by a romance house: no matter how good the publisher, and how good they are at selling their genre, don't get caught up in the first wave when they're branching out into a new genre. In Gilded Folly's case, it's a mainstream book with very little romance in the mainstream line of a romance publisher. The publisher's fantastic, but Gilded Folly is not what their readers want. From what I've seen, the rest of the mainstream offerings are much more romantically inclined that GF. It's taught me something, though - it's not enough to be published if you don't do your homework. It's not publication that's important - it's sales. So now, 25 books on, I'm working to get my books into the hands of readers who enjoy the genre.

But that's a good thing, because it also helps us expand as authors. I needed to explore other genres. "Of Trysts & Treasure", #25, was one of the most difficult books I've ever written. I could put in paranormal, SF, or fantasy elements, it had to be less than 60,000 words, and the focus needed to be on the two main characters. Very difficult for me! I tend to write story/action-driven, rather than romance/character-driven. Now, though, I'm working on 4 more romances. It's a market that pays, and with a fast turnover. You're writing books people will consume in a day. Interesting, eh?
As always, I'll leave you with an excerpt.

Regards, and best wishes,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
EXCERPTS http://ndhansen-hill.50webs.com
EBOOKS http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm
PAPERBACKS www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill
GILDED FOLLY http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4
(entry in) THE COMPLETE WRITER'S JOURNAL http://www.redenginepress.com/

Light Play
Chapter Three

Vizar had been at the glass for an hour, staring at what remained of Caroline Denaro and wondering just what he could do to defuse this situation. There was no question now about the nature of her accident, and someone would have to shoulder the blame. The female form lying so quietly in the next room was no longer specifically human, to the extent that "specific" referred to Homo sapiens. She looked to be another species altogether.

He’d handled it wrong, but he could have handled it worse. There was a policy for incidents like this, but he’d almost overlooked it, to send Denaro to the local hospital. No one had recognised the nature of her illness, until she’d begun to manifest an alarming set of symptoms, that no medical texts would have been able to explain away.

What had Caro put into her little genetic cocktail? They’d run gels and blot tests on her tissues, and come up with an alarming number of plant proteins. Daniel didn’t understand how she’d been able to mesh them so well with her normal complement of proteins and enzymes, or how she’d avoided a resistance reaction. According to Tom Denning, signal transduction should have been stopped at the cell membrane. The normal conduction—of substances across the plasmalemma—shouldn’t have been able to function.

Denning had no idea, of course, that they were talking about Caroline Denaro. But, Denning had scoffed at the concept of incorporating large quantities of plant DNA into animal tissues. "It always results in resistance," he’d said. "The plant guys use that resistance to selectively stimulate antigen production in rats and rabbits. Then they use the antigens to test for the original pathogen."

Denning was wrong. Not only had foreign transcripts made it across Denaro’s cellular membranes, but they’d managed to do their damage without any resistance from her immune system. And the process had functioned well enough to keep her body from shutting down completely, while it underwent massive changes. While she mutated.

Aaron Solomon watched until Daniel Vizar’s face was no longer lingering in the glass, then walked into Denaro’s room. He had no desire for communication with his employer. To his way of thinking, the daily notations he submitted were all the contact necessary in this situation. The less said, the better.

He was worried he might inadvertently reveal his aversion to both the man and his company. The anonymity of the protective gear he was forced to don every time he went into the room was usually enough to conceal his misgivings, but for the last two weeks—since Denaro had mutated beyond all recognition—he’d studiously avoided any face-to-face confrontations. It was too difficult to hide what he knew, or at least suspected, about how Caroline Denaro had arrived at this state.

How the hell did I get stuck with this? he wondered, for the hundredth time. The last thing he’d wanted, when they contacted him, was to be caught in some weird genetic mess.

"I’m an oncologist," he said aloud, but he didn’t know if he was saying it more for his own reassurance, or to dispel any spectres that might be lurking in the room. Of late he’d wished he were double-qualified in the metaphysical as well as the medical. Though, he thought, looking again at the weird texture of his patient’s skin, neither degree’s worth shit in this case.

He’d seen Caroline’s spectre not once, but many times, over the past month. Even though she no longer looked the same as her extant image, the memory of the lady, as he’d first seen her, was still with him. Enough, anyway, to feel pretty confident with his ID of her restless spirit.

All I want is out.

It was obvious there was nothing he could do—nothing anyone could do. In his opinion, Caroline Denaro’s condition was terminal. The creature lying on the bed went far beyond his expertise. Even the rate of her cell growth was out of sync with what he knew of cancer cells.

Vizar’s insistence—that he stay on—had begun to terrify him. Vizar might be doing it for appearance’s sake, so that he could offer proof regarding their management of what was obviously a serious mistake. But, Solomon was no fool. He had a good idea what Genetechnic was about. According to rumour, it was only surprising that "mistakes" like this one occurred so infrequently.

In his mind, they should be closed down. Activity that could spontaneously alter the human form so completely must be subversive—an obvious hazard to other living things.

For the second time that day, Cole heard Jason’s voice as he walked into his house. Jason sounded tired. "This is Jason, Cole. Simon rang me about—"

"—that damned fool who’s determined to kill himself?" Cole interrupted Jason’s monologue.

Cole could hear the smile in Jason’s voice. "Something like that. You didn’t have any luck, either?"

"No. He’s huddled back in his stacks of books. Did Simon tell you about that?"

"Yeah. He said Rick’s house had changed about as much as he had. Stacks of books and papers everywhere."

"And Rick’s taken up smoking. He’ll probably burn—"

But Jason was thinking about Rick smoking. "Smoking? With pneumonia?" he asked incredulously. "What the hell’s he thinking of?"

"Too much. Nothing he’ll talk about."

Jason was silent for a minute, then asked Cole, "That stuff he was saying last night—do you know what he meant?" Jason had just remembered Cole’s promise to explain it to him later.

"Some of it. But it’s a weird story." Cole fiddled with the phone, mistakenly pushing one of the buttons as he tried to decide where to start. He suddenly understood a little better why Rick might be having trouble talking about all this.

"Quit hitting the buttons. You’re hurting my ears."

"Sorry. Look, Jace, why don’t you come over here?"

"Okay. Simon was going to stop by, so I’ll just drag him along. Are you feeding us?" Jason was always looking for a free meal. He was still paying back his loans for med school.

"Only if you want to be on the sick list with Rick," Cole replied. "Of course, I’ll feed you, you dumbass."

"In that case, I’ll be there in ten minutes—as soon as I let Simon know." Jace chuckled. "He can find his own way to your table."

"Glutton."

"Damn right. See you soon." Jason put down the phone.

Drenal Morris scanned the pink sheet, then sighed. She was behind already, and now this one was going to take a while. There was a sample of the guy’s blood-tinged sputum, but Peasdale had also sent down a scraping from the oesophageal wall.

Morris looked at the list: Peasdale wanted her to test for everything from Pneumosystis to Aspergillus. Apparently, the good doctor was clueless. She needed to know if it was protozoans, fungi, or bacteria making a mess of her patient’s lungs. Morris wondered if Peasdale had any idea how long these tests took, or how much they cost.

If it was either a protozoan or a fungus, it should be easy to see under a microscope. Drenal was no expert with either, but she figured she’d at least be able to ID one enough to tell if that’s was she was working with. She prepared a couple of slides—one from the sputum, and one from oesophageal tissue—and slid one under the lens. She couldn’t see anything as distinct as a protozoan or a fungus in the sputum, but there was a lot of bacterial growth. She smiled. That simplified things. Unless the bacteria were secondary to a viral infection, it should be fairly straightforward to plate out the bacteria and discover what it was.

Almost as a second thought, she took a look at the slide made from oesophageal tissue. She stared at it for a long time, moving the slide to peer into different cells, and seeing the same pattern repeated over and over. Quickly, with shaking hands, she prepared another slide—hopeful that the intracellular crystals she’d seen had been artefacts of her slide preparation.

The crystals were still there. They were unlike anything she’d ever seen before, and she wondered if it meant the patient had inhaled some kind of foreign substance.

This was beyond her expertise. She tagged the samples and boxed them up—to be sent to the University laboratory via courier in the morning.

"It was weird, all right," Cole told Jason over his second beer. "The ghost lady seemed to home in on Rick—"

Simon had been silent for a long time. Now he asked, "What about Rick? Why didn’t he run away?"

"Couldn’t," Cole said grimly, gesturing with his bottle. "She had him backed into a corner. There wasn’t anywhere he could go."

"What did you do?"

Cole looked slightly embarrassed. "After I saw that Rick was stuck, I tried to grab her." He grinned as he remembered. Then he sobered, as he recalled why it had seemed so urgent. "She was reaching out to touch him, and all these thoughts about possession and zombies started running through my head."

"What happened then?" Simon still couldn’t quite see the connection between the ghost lady and Rick’s weird behaviour today.

"When I got back off the ground, Rick was real quiet," Cole said, remembering how pale the other man had been.

"Was he okay?" Jason wondered if maybe the experience had been enough to trigger some kind of breakdown.

"No," Cole said. "He wasn’t. He was down on his knees, like he couldn’t stand up." Cole frowned. "He had one hand on his chest. I thought he was having a heart attack or something." He looked at Jace. "I almost brought him over to see you then, but he refused."

"I wish you had," Jason said.

"Anyway," Cole went on, "I didn’t see him after that. Not until yesterday, and we all know about that." He added remorsefully, "I just always figured he’d ring me, if something was bothering him."

"What are we going to do about him now?" Simon asked. "It’s obvious he can’t stay there by himself."

"Maybe I can convince him to stay here," Cole said.

Jason grinned. "How are you going to ‘convince’ him? By slinging him over your shoulder and dumping him in your car again?"

"Better than dragging him out feet-first," Simon remarked. "I’ll help you do the ‘convincing’ if you want."

Cole relaxed for the first time in hours. "I think I’ll let him feel guilty for a while. Then, if a few hours, when he’s sleepy—"

Simon interrupted, "—and suitably remorseful?"

Cole grinned. "—and suitably remorseful, I’ll go get him and drag his ass back here." He turned to Jason. "Will you come see him in the morning?"

"Yeah. I’ll stop by before I go on duty. If you’ve managed to convince him to go back to the hospital, I’ll deliver him."

Cole wasn’t able to sleep. It was while he was lying there, trying to get a few hours’ rest before wresting Rick away from his work, that he remembered their last basketball game. It’s only been a few weeks. It was just that, in terms of their friendship, it seemed like years had gone by—years in which they hadn’t seen each other.

He thought about how sick Rick had been. So sick, in fact, that Jason hadn’t bothered with Rick’s own doctor, but had taken him straight to the hospital. Rick should still be there.

The last thing Cole wanted to believe was that Rick had suffered a mental breakdown. Could there be another reason? Cole wondered. Like money?

Cole knew that was part of it. Rick’s insurance only covered a portion of his hospitalisation, and he didn’t want to build up a big bill. And he’d already made it clear he didn’t want to rely on his friends. Cole tried to imagine what other things could be affecting Rick—putting him under such pressure. He hated to believe that Rick had gone off his rocker over the sight of some ghost.

The Richard Lockmann he knew would be more likely to analyse how such an event was possible. Cole recalled some of the titles on the stacked-up books in Rick’s rooms, and smiled grimly. That was Rick, all right. Needing to figure out what made his ghost lady tick.

That thought led to another, as Cole recalled another facet of Rick’s character: his friend was as patient as the devil when it came to one of his precious plants, or—Cole smiled—the foibles of his friends, but he had no patience whatsoever with people who played that game of neglecting themselves, only to get attention. Rick’d had a girlfriend like that once, and he’d hated it when she tried to play him for sympathy. No, Rick wasn’t doing this to focus their eyes on him. It was just that his own eyes were so focused on something else, that he couldn’t spare the time to get over his illness.

There was that weird look in Rick’s eyes, too—the look that Cole had never seen before. Something was eating at him—tearing him up. Something he didn’t really want to talk about. And there was his sudden obsession with time—like he couldn’t afford to be sick, because it would jeopardise what he was attempting to do.

At that moment, Cole decided he’d waited long enough. It was time for Rick to tell all—whether he liked it or not.

Cole got dressed and went out to his car. It was nearly midnight, and he wondered if maybe he’d waited too long. It wouldn’t do Rick any good to think a burglar was raiding his house.

No, he decided, as he gunned the engine. If Rick was where he was supposed to be—in bed—he wouldn’t know whether it was eight o’clock, or two in the morning. Being sick, Cole reasoned, he won’t know that it’s too late for me to come around.

Cole, for once, made a point of being quiet as he moved through the hallway. Quiet, at least, until he reached Rick’s bedroom. Rick wasn’t there.

"Rick?" Cole turned on all the lights. "Where are you?" He looked around, not quite believing that Rick wasn’t stretched out on the sofa, or in his bed. It occurred to him that Rick might have passed out again, so he searched between all the stacks of books and journals, but no Rick. He even went out in the dark, tripped over a chaise lounge, then picked himself up and did a thorough search of the back yard.

Suddenly she realised that the man, Rick, knew she was there. In some way he sensed her being, the way none of the others had been able to do. She’d had to be blatantly obvious in order to be seen by Tom or Sutte; had to expend a major portion of her energy to throw that scare into Daniel Vizar.

How? How could he know? She considered it objectively, trying to remember what little she’d ever troubled to read about spiritualism—then promptly discounted it. This isn’t a seance, and I’m not a ghost. "I’m not a ghost!" she screamed. Rick jumped.

Maybe her out-of-body experience wasn’t that far removed from those of Buddhist monks, or Indian fakirs. The thought gave her a small germ of hope. I could deal with this better if there were some precedent for it.

But, she wasn’t exactly in a position to pick through books, or scan the Internet. She’d never dealt with the esoteric. In fact, most of her life she’d laughed at things like ESP, transcendentalism, out-of-body experiences, ghosts. No, she thought bitterly, I was certain such foolishness had no bearing on my life.

To date, the only person who’d seen her with any regularity was Aaron Solomon. Her so-called physician had done so little to help her body, that it gave her a perverse pleasure to torment him. At that proximity to her body, she had little fear of being unable to "go the distance"—of missing her last opportunity to re-enter her flesh before death. So, Caroline made a point of flashing herself at dear Dr. Solomon, whenever she had sufficient strength.

When her body had first ejected her, all she’d wanted was to get back in. Wandering around unfleshed, unanchored, and, for the most part, unseen, made her feel, literally, like a lost soul. Depressed, hopeless, and full of despair, her focus had been on finding her way back—on guiding her fellow scientists in the restoration of her body, without losing her hold on her flesh.

But, the flesh that had ejected her had changed. And Caroline Denaro was beginning to reject her flesh as much as it had rejected her. The idea of ensconcing herself within the confused genetic amalgam her body had become was losing its appeal. She found herself lingering more and more in the doctor’s presence—an invisible observer—before forcing her way back into her body. She’d even considered handing her notes over to the man, but it was obvious he considered her a hopeless case—the only thing holding him here was Vizar’s insistence. Solomon would do nothing to help her get back to what she’d been.

No, there must be some other underlying reason why this Rick could detect her presence when all the others could not. Some connection between them—something that bridged the gap between his life and her lack of it.

She remembered that touch—the moment when she’d unintentionally penetrated his chest, before recoiling in horror at her own invasiveness. Did I leave more of myself with him than I intended? At first, the idea was so macabre that Caroline once again perceived herself as some sort of ghoul.

But, then she saw how it could work to her advantage. How she could manipulate this one man in a way she’d never be able to with anyone else. Might even manipulate him into finding a way to get her back.

With this small bit of hope to sustain her, Caroline hovered unseen, conserving her strength until the man, Rick, was in a more approachable position. Until he was in the position where a single step would lead him to her notes.

"Rick?" Cole called out again. Could Rick have gone back to the hospital? Cole picked up the phone.

He laid it down five minutes later. No Rick.

Where was he? Suddenly, Cole knew. He was at the house. The other one. The one that made him nuts, Cole added to himself.

Seven minutes later he pulled up in front. Every light was on. Talk about advertising your presence, he thought. Uncomfortable with barging into this place the way he customarily did at Rick’s other house, Cole rang the bell.

Rick wasn’t asleep. He answered the door almost immediately.

He looks like shit, Cole thought, studying his friend. But, he knew better now than to say anything. "Are you ready?" he asked simply.

Rick looked back over his shoulder, at the steps leading up to the floor above. He turned back to Cole. "More than ready," he answered, relieved. A trace of humour in his voice brought an answering smile to Cole’s lips.

"What about the lights?" Cole asked, as Rick came out and shut the door.

"Leave ’em."

"I’d hate to see your electric bill."

Rick smiled grimly. "Believe me—there are things you can see, Cole, that are infinitely worse."

Her sigh drifted through the front hall, frustration and despair echoing against the blank glass panels of the cold entryway. I should’ve known better than to rely on a stranger. Tom would’ve understood.

But, she knew it wasn’t true. It was a fiction she clung to because it gave her hope. She’d tried to reach Tom, but the man was scared. He didn’t want anything to do with the half-life she’d entered. Maybe all he ever wanted was a good fuck. And maybe I was the only one who’d have him. The bitterness of it ached as much as the tears she could no longer shed.

It was obvious to her that Rick had come to help out; that he’d believed her words about being alive. Caroline quickly realised he was sick, but the only pity she could spare was for herself. At least he’s alive. What she worried about most was whether his weakness would overtax her strength. The strength she needed to make him follow this through.

As laborious and important as it had seemed at the time to have a hard copy of her notes, she wondered now whether it had been a mistake. Maybe if they’d had the information, they could have stopped it from happening to me—

Maybe they could have slowed down my mutation.

Caroline was spending more and more time outside her body. The sight of it now disgusted her. She couldn’t be objective about her own disintegration. But, even though the idea of returning to that altered form carried its own feelings of horror, the thought of having nothing to return to horrified her more.

When she materialised, it was always in mimicry of her old form—never the new. Never to let this Rick, or anyone else, see what she had become. Never to force herself to acknowledge just how much of Caroline Denaro was left in the mutant lying so still on the bed.

Once Rick was installed on Cole’s sofa again, Cole brought him a glass of juice. "Just to lubricate your throat. So you won’t have any trouble talking."

Rick hid his smile at the inference. "You have juice? This must be a first." Rick looked at the glass from the side, as though he didn’t trust it. "I thought your eight daily glasses of water had to be flavoured with Coke."

"I got the juice for you. Jason said that if I couldn’t convince you to go back, then I’d better force lots of liquid down your throat. He recommended juice."

Rick looked embarrassed. "It must seem like I’ve been acting like an ass."

"Yeah. You ready to tell me why?"

Rick nodded. It was important that Cole understand what was bothering him. So he won’t just think I’m losing my mind. "Remember the woman?" he asked hesitantly. "At the house?"

"Duh. How could I forget?"

"Before you came in," Rick whispered, "she spoke to me."

"Jesus! Hold on a minute." Cole reached over and turned up the heater. "A chill just went down my back."

Rick grinned. "I’ve been having chills for days." He grew serious. "She’s not dead, Cole."

"Rick—"

"No. It’s something else. I’ve been researching it. I think she was having one of those out-of-body experiences."

"Don’t a lot of ghosts think they’re still alive? I thought that was why they wandered around scaring everybody, because they didn’t have enough sense to lie down and die."

"I know who she is." Rick leaned back and took a sip of juice. This was even harder than he’d thought. He was pretty sure Cole believed he’d dreamed all this up, in one of his delirious moments. Did I? Rick suddenly wondered, doubting himself. It seemed like there’d been a lot of those delirious moments lately.

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who was she?"

"Dr. Caroline Denaro. A geneticist. She worked for Genetechnic until a month ago. One of their top researchers, in fact." Rick leaned forward. "There’s no record of her death, Cole." Rick started to cough.

Cole thought about it. "That doesn’t mean she didn’t die, Rick. Maybe she wants to haunt that place because somebody murdered her—and she wants them brought to justice." Cole was warming to his theory.

"Why is it easier for you to believe in a ghost, than in an out-of-body experience?" Rick hacked out.

Cole threw another blanket over him. "All I’m saying, is that it’s a better bet she’s dead than alive. I’d be a little careful about taking the word of a ghost—"

Rick was trying not to cough, and Cole had to strain to hear his words. "It wasn’t her words that convinced me, Cole." Rick rubbed his chest, much as he had that afternoon in the house. "It was her touch."

Cole had been awake most of the night, thinking about what Rick had said. When he finally did get to sleep, it wasn’t for long, and when he woke up, he was mad, and ready for a confrontation.

"Wake up, Rick." He nudged him. Rick grunted and turned over, so he was facing the back of the sofa. Cole poked him. "Dammit—wake up, Rick. I’ve gotta go to work. And Jason’s going to be here any minute."

Rick opened one eye. "Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sick people need sleep?"

"Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s stupid to get in over your head?"

"What’s bugging you now?" Rick sat up.

"You." Cole stomped around, but Rick didn’t have to strain to hear him. He’d started to yell. "First of all, tell me one thing—this isn’t one of those weird things, like that guy who fell for a statue, is it? Because, from what I saw, that lady was old enough to be your mother."

It took Rick almost a minute to figure that one out. Finally, he got it: either Cole was referring to Pygmalion, or, more likely, he was talking about the movie where the guy fell in love with one of his display mannequins. Rick started to laugh. "Not a chance."

"Then, what the hell is this? If this lady was tinkering around with genes, then she deserves what she got. It’s not like she’s some dying kid in Africa, for crissake!"

"And I shouldn’t get involved, right?" Rick added evenly.

"Right! The reality of it is: people today don’t get involved."

"Then, why am I here, on your couch? Why’d you bother?"

"Because we’re friends, and I’ve known you forever. Besides, if you’re stupid enough to get yourself into this kind of shape, then it’ll make me better than you for at least the next ten years." Cole grinned. His smile faded as he added earnestly, "You don’t even know this person, Rick. And don’t give me any Crusader shit about damsels in distress. You’re the one who always talks to me about how women have to stand on their own."

"You’re right."

Cole looked like he didn’t quite believe him. "Which part?"

"All of it."

Cole looked relieved. "Good. Because I’ve got to get to work." He reached up in the cupboard and pulled down the rejected cheese crackers from two days before. Tossing them to Rick, he said, "Food. Eat. There aren’t any books on plants or fungus on my shelves, so don’t even bother looking. The TV remote’s at your feet. Jason’ll be here soon." He’d been about to say "to drive you back to the hospital", but he changed his mind. Let Jason do the talking on that one. He finished with, "He’ll let himself in, so you don’t have to get up." Cole hesitated. "Just don’t go out, okay?"

"Wouldn’t think of it."

Cole took a long look at him, noticing the way Rick still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Rick had taken his little speech on non-involvement seriously, all right. He was going to do whatever he felt he needed to—only he wasn’t going to involve Cole, or any of the others, if he could help it.

Rick didn’t even remember falling back to sleep. The next thing he knew, Jason was turning him over, much as he had two days before, to put a stethoscope against his chest.

"Hi, Jason," Rick said grouchily.

"Shut up. I’m trying to listen." Jason grinned.

"How am—" Rick started to ask, but Jason stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

"Can you sit up?"

"Of course I can sit up," Rick spat out around the thermometer. Jason put the stethoscope against his back. Rick jumped. "That’s cold!" he grumbled.

"It only feels cold because you’re so hot," Jason said reasonably.

When Jason had finished a cursory examination, Rick asked him, "Where’s your bedside manner? Aren’t you going to do that doctor thing—you know—give me a kindly smile and ask me how I feel?"

Jason was putting away the thermometer. "Nope. Because I can damn well guess how you feel. What are you going to do about it?"

Rick reached over to the table and picked up the bottle of pills Peasdale had prescribed. "Let’s be reasonable, Jace. All they’d do in the hospital is give me pills and make me rest. I can do that at home." He saw the expression on Jason’s face, and went on, "Or here, since Cole’s so insistent."

Jason picked up the bottle and studied it for a moment. "How long have you been on these?"

"Since yesterday. She had me on something else before."

Something that didn’t work. "Do you know whether Peasdale got back your test results?" Rick shook his head. Jason sighed. "I think you should go back to the hospital," he said bluntly. "I don’t like the way your chest sounds."

Jason looked so solemn, and so much the medical practitioner that Rick wanted to laugh. The impulse turned into a cough. Jason went into the kitchen and brought back a cup of water. "Here—" He opened the bottle of antibiotics. "Have you had one this morning?"

Rick shook his head, and stuck out his hand. "Thanks."

Jason checked his watch. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he planned on having a talk with a friend of his who was a psychiatrist. Maybe he’d have some idea how to handle this.

In the meanwhile, though, Jace’s friendship with Rick took over. He wasn’t about to let Rick die from his own stupidity. He stood up, and told Rick firmly, "You have today, you pig-headed asshole. So do what you need to do. I’m telling you right now, Rick—if there’s not a big improvement by tomorrow morning—you’re going back, even if I have to dope you up to do it." He gave Rick a parody of the kindly smile he’d requested, then grabbed his gear and walked out the door.

"Hey, Cat," Rick greeted the skinny tom. He pulled a can of cat food out of a bag. "It’s party time." He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then squatted down, and yanked Cole’s can opener out of his pocket. "Something tells me you were Caroline Denaro’s cat." He sniffed the air. "I wonder if you stunk this much when she had you." He grinned. "At least I won’t have any trouble coming up with a name for you."

Rick gave the smelly cat another pat, then stood up and took a look at the stairs. He figured that if the woman were going to contact him again, it would probably be in the lab. Right now, though, the upper floor seemed an awfully long way above him. He wobbled over to a designer chair by the fountain, and plopped down into it. He leaned back and closed his eyes, resting until he could get back his strength. He didn’t even realise he’d dozed off, until the cat startled him awake. It was sharpening its claws on the back of the leather seat. "Cut it out!" Rick complained, as the cat’s claws jabbed his right bun. But he made no complaint a few minutes later, when a bony, warm, furry body crept into his lap. Smelly or not, it was a helluva lot better than being alone.

His stinking companion was the one who warned him. At the rattle of a key in the lock, the feline hissed, then sprang off Rick’s lap and raced around the corner. Rick absently rubbed the cleat marks on his leg. "Damn cat," he muttered, then suddenly realised he was no longer alone.

A man had joined him near the fountain. Rick, startled, jerked fully awake.

Justin Sacchara hadn’t thought there was anyone home. There was no car in the drive. The last thing he’d expected was to encounter Lockmann under these circumstances. He’d come to do a little discreet nosing around in the man’s possessions—and into his computer files, if he was lucky enough to gain access.

Richard Lockmann hadn’t set the alarm since he’d moved in, so Sacchara couldn’t gauge when he was in residence. If the alarm had been on, it would have been recorded at Genetechnic, and Justin could have felt a little more secure about timing his breaking-and-entering act.

Once Lockmann had seen him, there was no point in subterfuge. The man was bound to encounter him if he took a position at Genetechnic. It’d be better to see if he could talk his way out of this.

Sacchara stared at the other man for a moment, before Lockmann realised he was there. Justin wasn’t impressed with what he saw. Lockmann didn’t look capable of standing up, let alone running a lab. Sacchara concealed his disappointment. Unless Daniel could get someone to replace Denaro, things would remain in this limbo state, and the pressure would never be off. They needed to move ahead, find out what went wrong. Vizar was certain they had the beginnings of an incredibly profitable venture on their hands, but only if they could find a way to manipulate it. Lockmann didn’t look capable of manipulating anything.

Sacchara took the initiative. "Hello," he greeted the other man. "I’m Justin Sacchara—from Genetechnic."

Rick started to get up, but Sacchara put out a hand to stop him. "Don’t get up—"

Rick was embarrassed. Even though the other guy was, in essence, trespassing, he was the one who felt at a disadvantage. "I’m Rick Lockmann." He held out a hand. "Your new tenant."

"Sorry to just barge in, but there’s something wrong with the alarm system."

"I haven’t used it—"

"We were running a routine check of the system, and found a glitch—probably a loose wire or something." Sacchara looked apologetic. "We usually house our employees in these premises. When something goes wrong, we just run by and fix it." Sacchara smiled. "I guess I forgot to consider who our tenant was this time."

Rick nodded. "I guess I should be grateful for such an efficient landlord." Who barges in uninvited. Aloud, he added, "Next time, though—if you could give me twenty-four hours’ notice—"

"Of course, Dr. Lockmann."

Rick glanced up at him quickly. So Sacchara had remembered about his title. He wondered what else Sacchara knew about him. "There’s no point in your coming back. Feel free to check it out now."

Sacchara went over to a panel on the wall, and fiddled with a few of the wires. Rick had the impression he was doing just that: fiddling around to make it look like he was doing something.

In a few minutes, Sacchara closed the panel and joined him. "All fixed."

Rick pushed himself up out of the chair. Time to get this joker out of here. "Thanks." He moved toward the door. "Everything else seems to be working great."

"Don’t you work at Entadyne Research Centre?" Sacchara asked. "I saw it on your application," he explained.

Rick knew Sacchara was really asking, Why aren’t you at work? What’s the matter, Sacchara? Afraid I won’t be able to keep up the rent? "Usually," Rick said, smiling, "but I’ve had pneumonia, so I’ve taken a few weeks off." So I’ll be here, if you decide to "inspect" anything else.

"How bad?"

"Not bad. I’m on antibiotics now."

Sacchara hesitated in the entryway. He studied the empty room behind him, his eyes lingering on the stairs to the second floor.

Rick turned to see what Sacchara was looking at. He gasped, at the sight of Caroline Denaro staring with intense hatred at the man by his side.

Sacchara heard him and said in concern, "I didn’t mean to keep you on your feet so long, Rick. You’d better get some rest now." Rick started to close the door, but Sacchara stopped him. "If you see anything—anything at all—that might need our attention, please let us know."

"I will," Rick said quietly. He closed the door.

Caroline Denaro was still on the stairs. Rick slid down along the glass, and sat on the floor, reluctant to move too far from the door. He’d seen her several times now, but never with that look of malevolence on her face.

One thing he knew now, however. He’d been able to see Denaro very clearly, but Sacchara hadn’t seen her at all. For better or worse, Caroline Denaro was becoming his problem, and he had no intention of mentioning it to Justin Sacchara, or anyone else from Genetechnic. Whatever was going on, it apparently wasn’t anything that Genetechnic had been able to fix.

LIGHT PLAY http://www.lulu.com/content/83662

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Anthropology & local villages, Yvonne Walus, & an excerpt from LIGHT PLAY (chapter two)!

2006-04-19T01:01:22+02:00

I received word last week I'm being published again! Yay! This time, it's in a non-fiction book - THE COMPLETE WRITER'S JOURNAL - and on the email loop for the book, there's some pretty esteemed company! I feel honoured to be included...

Other things...
Still loving anthropology, and it's making me think. Yesterday, we were studying local villages, dating from 1100 to 1200 AD. I wasn't all that interested, because I kept comparing the artefacts to those of cultures 3500 years old, which I'm studying in another class.

I neglected the people...entirely forgot about them. This was their "stuff", and I somehow diminished it. Did it take time and effort to carve those fishhooks from bone? Yes! Was the carting of rock thousands of miles any less arduous in this case, than it was for someone five thousand miles and three thousand years distant? The effort, the sweat, the compulsion to move mountains (or, at least, quarry them!). I forgot the hhuman condition. These were people, and if I were to be placed in their situration, my needs would be much the same as theirs.

And I can imagine that during the journey, there were many times when the traveller just wanted it all to be over. Are we there yet?

On writing...
Still working on #25, and I'm actually a third of the way there. It's one of those books I won't feel confident about, I can tell you right now. It's not the fact that's it's a "real" romance, because I still think it's more adventure than romance, or the fact that I'm attempting to write steamy in places! It's the fact that it's so short - only 60 to 65K words. My brain has set a standard on "real" books at 80K words, and I'm struggling to break that, and wind it up in 60,000.

We'll see...

On writers:
If you haven't read Yvonne Eve Walus, you should. She writes well, knows how to toss in a tricky ending (I've read her award-winning short story, you see!), and she's prolific! Seek her out on Amazon - she's worth the effort! Here's an interview with her on stress and burnout (she gave me permission to post it).
'Interviewer: What do you personally do when you feel stressed?
Yvonne Eve Walus: Grump at my husband a lot.
I: I meant, what is your coping strategy?
YEW: LOL, so did I. But seriously, stress and burnout are two different things. To combat stress, I go for a long walk or shut myself in the bedroom and read fiction. When I'm burnt out, I go to sleep or watch TV (mindlessly).
I: What does the heroine of your murder mystery cosy, Murder @ Work, do to de-stress?
YEW: Get an aromatherapy massage, of course. That's how she got hold of the fennel essential oil that became the murder weapon.

Yvonne Eve Walus

yve@xtra.co.nz
http://yewalus.kiwiwebhost.net.nz/index.html

Author of “Murder @ Work”'

I'll leave you with an excerpt, as always...

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my EBOOKS...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my PAPERBACKS)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)
Included in “The Complete Writer’s Journal,” available in late April or early May from Red Engine Press (http://www.redenginepress.com)

Excerpt: LIGHT PLAY, chapter two

Chapter Two

Cole stood for a moment in the doorway. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
The place was a wreck, and for a moment he thought the worst: that someone had ransacked Rick’s house, and Rick along with it. Then, he spied a kind of order within the disorder. Books stacked, papers spread—not flung. “Rick?” he called out hesitantly.
“Here,” Rick mumbled.
It took Cole a moment to segregate Rick from the piles of junk around him, but when he finally did, his startled whistle was enough to alert Rick.
You knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Rick told himself. You must be looking guilty as hell.
But, Cole hadn’t even noticed the guilty look. He was too stunned by the change in Rick’s appearance. “Rick?” he repeated uncertainly.
“Nice of you to visit, Cole. Now, go away. I’m busy,” Rick answered, opting for avoidance, rather than confrontation. He began to shuffle through some of the books on the sofa, and was quickly side-tracked into looking for a specific passage. If only I could sleep, he thought for the hundredth time. My brain would be a helluva lot clearer.
Cole wasn’t sure what to do. Rick looked like hell: unshaven, haggard, exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes made his face look gaunt. Cole began to wish Jason had come along.
“Didn’t you pick up your messages?” Cole asked, frustrated, trying to hide his concern. I should’ve come by sooner—When Rick hadn’t come to help him move. When Rick didn’t return his calls. When Rick’s office said he was home sick—
It had only been two weeks.
Okay—three. But, Rick might have been busy. Cole looked at the room. Correction—he was busy. And I was too busy with Gena to realise how much time had gone by. Gena lived in the house next door. Cole’s affair with his new neighbour had been short, sweet, and time-consuming.
Cole shrugged away the twinges of guilt and went right to the point. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
“Nothing—” Rick began.
But, by this time, Cole was already picking his way through the stacks of books, looking at the titles. “What is this shit? ‘Metaphysical Encounters’?” He picked up another one. “’The Conscious vs. the Unconscious Mind’?” He glanced over at his friend, who was still refusing to look at him. “Trying to find out if fungus have an afterlife?” he joked. At his own words, Cole paled. Rick wasn’t still thinking about that “close encounter”, was he?
Rick didn’t even seem to hear him. Cole picked up a plate, that was piled high with cigarette butts. “And what the hell is this?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t smoke!”
“Didn’t,” Rick corrected.
At least he’s listening now. Cole took a look at the stubborn expression on Rick’s face, and decided to opt for a more subtle approach. He walked over to a chair, and tipped out its load of paper. Rick didn’t even flinch at his spilled research. Cole plopped down, stretched out his legs, and leaned back—striving for a relaxed pose.
“Rick—you don’t need to worry. If you’ve listened to any of my messages, you know I didn’t rent that place.” Cole’s sigh of relief was gusty, as he admitted, “Believe it or not, they gave me my money back.” He chuckled. “Some fool came in and offered twice what they were asking. Being Genetechnic, they took it.”
Rick had been avoiding Cole’s eyes—afraid that his friend, who knew him so well, would be shocked by the haunted look in his own. It scared me, the last time I looked in the mirror. Rick had flung a shirt over the mirror in the lounge—uncomfortable with his own fear. Now, he looked at Cole, knowing that he had to tell him the truth—or Cole might never forgive him. Cole’s last words had given him the opening he needed. All he had to do was take it.
“Cole—”
Cole glanced at him quickly, glad that Rick was finally going to talk to him. Maybe I can find out what’s bugging him—
Rick’s small smile was as grim as the look in his eyes. His words were hesitant, uneasy. “Twice and a half.”
Cole was startled. “What—?”
“The fool offered two-and-a-half times what they were asking.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because that fool you were talking about?” Cole nodded, and Rick could tell from his expression that he was already guessing the rest of it. “That fool was me.”
*
Sacchara sat in Vizar’s office. He stubbed out yet another half-burnt cigarette. As a way of cutting down, it wasn’t all that successful, but this wasn’t exactly the time in his life for Sacchara to break a bad habit. He figured his bad habits were all that was holding him together.
“I tell you,” he repeated insistently, “I’ve seen her.”
“That’s impossible.” Daniel Vizar’s voice was husky. He wasn’t about to let Sacchara know it all, either—the “all” being that no less than five of his employees had been up here to report Caro’s presence. That Caro had popped in to visit him—or threaten him, depending on how you looked at it.
It was easier with the others. All of them more or less believed Caroline Denaro was away on sabbatical. Her presence had been explained by variations on a theme: late departure, surprise visit, and anything else he could think of. What he couldn’t explain away had been why Denaro had chosen to visit in her birthday suit.
Let them think she’s flipped. And the sabbatical is actually extended leave. It could actually work in their favour, when she eventually died. Or if we need to terminate her.
Vizar decided to change the subject. “I’m still looking for a replacement.”
“Hell! It’s been nearly a month, Daniel! How long are we going to let this go on?”
“As long as it takes. I can’t afford to use anybody from inside the facility. It has to be someone who didn’t know her—and wouldn’t understand any messages that she might have left.”
At that, Justin glanced at him sharply. “Do you think that’s a problem? How close are you to deciphering her notes?”
“Deciphering is no longer the problem, Justin. We’ve got them translated, but at least half of her notations are missing.”
“Smart.”
“And greedy.” Daniel shook his head. “I knew Caro would give us problems. I just didn’t know how many.”
“What do you think her chances are?”
“Of recovery?” Vizar frowned. “Nil. We can’t afford to let her replacement know just how sensitive the situation is.”
“In other words, you don’t intend to try to bring her back, do you?”
“I don’t know how the hell we can. I just want to make sure that whatever happened to her will at least prove to be a learning experience.”
“In that case, you damn well better keep her alive. We can learn a lot more from continued observation and testing, than we can from dissection.”
*
Rick had been expecting Cole to stomp around, giving his “How the hell could you?!” tirade. It bothered him that Cole didn’t react the way he’d expected, and his tired brain couldn’t puzzle out the reason why.
Instead, Cole quickly looked away, stood up, and began to pace back and forth. Rick didn’t know what to say. When Cole was agitated, he usually moved randomly; seeming to fill up the space around him with his unpredictable, hit-or-miss, movements. Never in this orderly, almost abrupt, manner. It made Rick wonder if maybe Cole was even angrier than he thought. He dropped his head briefly into his hands and sighed. Was it worth it? he asked himself. Nothing would be worth losing his best friend’s trust.
Rick lifted his head to watch Cole’s feet—his eyes staring in zombie-like fashion at the repetitious back-and-forth action of Cole’s running shoes. I’m taking this too seriously, he finally decided, unaware that his thought processes weren’t functioning at their normal level. Of course he’s pacing. Rick looked around at his surroundings. In this mess, there’s no room to do anything else. And, being Cole, he could never just sit still.
Cole turned in time to see Rick’s head drop into his hands once more. Rick had rented that place! It just didn’t make sense. He paused long enough to pick up one of the books on metaphysics. Or, maybe it does—
“When was the last time you ate?” Cole asked abruptly.
Rick was startled out of whatever reverie he’d fallen into. He turned vacant eyes on Cole. “Huh?”
“Let’s go—”
“Where?”
“Not to play basketball—that’s for sure,” Cole muttered. He grabbed Rick’s arm, yanking him up roughly off the sofa.
Rick gave a token objection, but Cole ignored him. Rick had always been on the lean side, but it had been balanced by a firm set of muscles. Now, he was so lean he was bordering on bony. The thought of leukaemia, or some other wasting disease, crossed Cole’s mind. “Have you been to a doctor?” he asked tersely.
“Doctor? I’m not sick,” he argued.
“That’s not what your office said,” Cole countered. Rick’s mouth snapped shut, and his gaze finally focused, becoming mutinous.
“That was an excuse—”
“Have you looked at yourself?” Cole glanced over at the mirror, and saw Rick’s shirt slung across it. “I can see you have. Let’s go,” he repeated.
“Where?” Rick said. He gestured at the stacks of books littering the floor. “I have work to do—”
“Like hell,” Cole said grimly, giving Rick a shove toward the door. “We’re going to my place—my new place, that you were supposed to help me move into—”
Rick’s eyes widened. “I forgot, Cole—” His expression was genuinely apologetic.
“I can see that,” Cole said calmly, and Rick was confused by the determined evenness of Cole’s tone. Either he’s planning to kill me, or I must look worse than I thought. When Cole put a hand in the middle of his back, propelling him toward the door, he decided it must be the latter. Cole muttered, “I should’ve known, when you didn’t turn up, that something was wrong.”
This is ridiculous. “Nothing’s wrong!” Rick argued, in one last, angry burst of adrenaline. He side-stepped Cole, then turned to face him. “Get your hands off me.” Rick’s hands were clenched into fists. Some part of his brain told him he was being unreasonable, but the rest of his brain didn’t want to listen. Cole had no right to come in here and interrupt his research. It was too important.
But, so is Cole’s friendship, his brain argued back. Rick strove for a calmness that would match the determined look on Cole’s face. The best he could do was a feeble, would-be explanation. “God damn it, Cole! I can’t leave. I have things to do—” Anger bested him once more when he realised Cole was intent on ignoring his arguments. Rick gave Cole a shove. “Get out!“
Cole just stood there silently, watching him. Almost as if he were waiting. Waiting for what?
Rick didn’t know what that last blast of anger had cost him. A vibrating column of black dots invaded his vision, and tried to fill it up. At first, still angry, he refused to yield. He staggered, and put out a hand to the wall for balance. Only it wasn’t the wall that gripped him and held him up.
He shook his head, confused now. The vibrating dots had invaded his ears, and were buzzing there, filling his head with shifting blackness.
For just a moment, he held on—fighting for consciousness, and trying to control what was happening to him. He shook his head to clear it, and the gesture finished him. The last thing he remembered was the startling recognition that he was upside down, and then someone was lowering him into a car. The next sounds he heard were the roar of an engine and the squealing of tyres. It’s got to be Cole, he thought. But, why’s Cole driving in my lounge? “Cole?” he mumbled, confused.
Cole’s voice sounded strained. “I’m here, Rick.”
Rick had a flash of memory. “Sorry, Co—” he started to say, as he was struggling to sit up. The blackness came back with a vengeance, almost like it’d been waiting for him. Rick didn’t remember anything else.
*
Sacchara decided to change the subject. The idea of an autopsy, or a dissection, didn’t equate well with his memories of Caroline Denaro. “Dr. Solomon tried to give me his resignation again.”
Vizar gave a grim smile. “What did he think this was—a house call?”
Sacchara chuckled. “Maybe he thought he could just write out a prescription.”
Vizar thought about that for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Wouldn’t it be great, Justin, if that were true?”
Sacchara looked at him with surprise, then something akin to horror. “You’re referring to a cure—I hope.”
Daniel looked at his expression and laughed aloud. “What did you think I meant?” he asked. A little more seriously he added, “Though, you have to admit, a few of our customers might prefer otherwise.”
*
Cole went over and checked Rick for the tenth time. It seemed to be taking forever for Jason to get here.
Should I have taken him to the hospital? Cole wondered. He put a hand briefly on Rick’s forehead. Maybe he had meningitis or something.
“Get your hand off my face—” Rick murmured. His eyes opened a slit. “What the hell happened?” He started to sit up.
Cole watched Rick’s eyes begin to lose focus and he hurriedly shoved him back down against the cushions. “Wait—”
Rick laid an arm across his eyes. He felt like hell. Everything he owned ached—from the top of his head to the tips of his toenails. He hoped Cole couldn’t see how much his hand was shaking.
Cole could, and he moved to the microwave. He pulled out the hot dog that he’d put in a few minutes before. It’ll do for a start, he thought. He shoved the bread-wrapped dog into Rick’s hand. “Eat,” he commanded.
Rick took several ravenous bites before Cole snatched the hot dog away.
“What’d you do that for?” Rick asked, still chewing. “Give it back—”
“Uh-uh. When you haven’t eaten for a while, you have to take it slow—”
“You don’t even take it slow after you’ve already eaten—” Rick argued. When Cole didn’t respond, Rick sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Rick?” Cole asked in concern.
Rick opened one eye, and quickly snatched the hot dog out of Cole’s hand. He shoved another bite into his mouth.
Cole decided it was time for some explanations. “How’d you get so much time off work? Won’t you need a doctor’s certificate to go back?”
Rick chewed while he talked. “Got one,” he admitted. Cole didn’t say anything. He was waiting for Rick to finish. “Anything more to eat?” Rick asked hopefully.
“Heaps. After you tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“Well—I’ve had a cold. Sort of a flu-cold, actually.”
“A flu-cold?” Cole wasn’t buying it. “How bad a cold?”
“Pneumonia-bad.”
“Pneumonia?”
“Just a slight case.” Rick coughed lightly, not letting it get to his lungs. “See?”
“You must’ve needed help. Why didn’t you call me?” Cole was genuinely upset. “You could’ve stayed here while I was at work.” All Rick’s family lived at the other end of the country.
“Did you forget that your ‘here’ was ‘there’? You were moving, remember?”
“Bullshit.” Cole was angry now. “Are you better?”
“Sure—”
“Well, you look like hell. What does the doctor say?”
“She put me on antibiotics. No big deal.”
“When do you go back?”
Rick shifted uncomfortably. “Just mind your own business, Cole.”
Cole nodded. “That’s what I thought. You forgot, right? Or were you just too sick to get there, and decided to get better on your own?” He went over to the cupboard, grabbed out a bag of potato chips, then changed his mind and grabbed cheese crackers instead. Healthier, he decided. He shoved the box under Rick’s nose. “Eat. Then you’re going back to the doctor. But Jason’s going to take a look at you first.”
Rick pushed the box away. “No, thanks,” he said firmly, and Cole didn’t know whether he was refusing the food, or his friends’ help. Rick added, “One of the reasons we stay friends is because we don’t stick our noses into each others’ business.”
Cole put the crackers on Rick’s chest. Reading between the lines, he said, “You don’t have any money, right? What about your great insurance coverage?”
“What are you—a mind reader?” Rick asked grouchily. But, he admitted, “It’s pay now, reimburse later.” Rick shoved the box of crackers back into Cole’s hand. “Keep your damn crackers,” he grumbled, and turned on his side. “Wake me up when you’re ready to talk sense.”
But it wasn’t Cole who rolled him over on to his back, and put a stethoscope against his chest. “When did you get here?” Rick mumbled. “I already have a doctor.”
“Who?” Jason asked, shooting a worried look at Cole.
“Peasman—or Peasdale. Something like that.”
“We’re going to pay her a visit,” Jason said. “Let’s go.”
“Damn it, Jace!” Rick told him grumpily, “I don’t even have an appointment. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
Cole saw the concern in Jason’s eyes. “No way, Rick,” Cole said. “Even if I have to carry you out of here, you’re going. Up.”
Rick sighed, admitting defeat. He hated the idea of imposing on his friends, and he felt like a fool being sick in front of Jason. The only thing that irritated him more was the idea of borrowing money from Cole, but he was feeling so rotten he couldn’t even think. And I can’t afford to lose any more time.
Cole gave him a hand up. Rick staggered and almost fell, but Jason was already on his other side, supporting him. Cole pulled Rick’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him outside. Rick’s cheeks were flushed now, but Cole knew it wasn’t with good health. He could feel the heat emanating through the other man’s shirt. “I still can’t understand why the hell you didn’t call me,” Cole said. “Or Jason,” he amended, when he caught Jace’s look.
Rick didn’t even hear the last. He needed to explain—to make Cole understand. “Because I’d rented your house,” Rick said.
Jason looked confused. “I’ll explain later,” Cole told him.
Rick went on as though Cole hadn’t spoken. “I needed to do it, Cole,” he said earnestly, and Cole wondered if his mind was starting to wander, from the fever. “She’s not dead, Cole,” Rick added. “And she needs to be one or the other. I think I can help her—”
“It’s okay, Rick,” Cole said. His friend’s ramblings were scaring him, and he didn’t know what to say. “It’ll be okay—”
“No, Cole!” Rick pulled away, with surprising strength. “It won’t be okay. Not until she’s alive again—or dead. It’s in the genes! Don’t you see it?”
Jason had most of Rick’s weight now, but Rick had forgotten he was there. He was so agitated that Jason mouthed to Cole, “Say something.”
“You can explain it to me later,” Cole said soothingly. “Right now, there’s no point—”
Rick shivered, even though the day was hot. “You’re right, Cole,” he said, his teeth beginning to chatter. “There’s no point in both of us going crazy.” Jace caught him before he hit the ground.
*
Daniel looked up when Justin Sacchara came hurriedly into his office. What now? he thought, momentarily worried that something else might be wrong. No, the man looked better than he had in days—and certainly better than he had the day before, when they’d talked about dissecting Denaro.
“There’s something here you’ve got to see!” Justin was carrying a rental agreement, and he plopped it down on Vizar’s desk. “Look who’s rented Denaro’s house. Not only insisted on it, but has already moved in.”
“Dr. Richard Lockmann.” Vizar looked momentarily confused. “So?”
“Look at his occupation!”
“Plant pathologist.” Vizar frowned. He pushed his chair away from the desk, leaned back, and read through Lockmann’s application. “It’s too much of a coincidence. Do you think our Dr. Lockmann might be looking for employment? If so, he’s certainly taken an innovative approach.” He handed the papers back to Sacchara. “See what you can find out. He’d need to have a shitload of molecular biology, and a strong grounding in genetics, to pick up where Denaro left off.” As Sacchara turned to go, Vizar called him back. “One more thing, Justin. If you can, discover whether this Dr. Lockmann ever met Caroline Denaro.”
*
Jason’s voice, on Cole’s answering machine, was unmistakably angry. “Where the hell is Rick, Cole? The damn fool’s left the hospital!”
Cole came in just in time to hear the last. He picked up the phone. “What did you say?” he asked, incredulous.
“Rick’s left the hospital. Simon went to visit him, but apparently he’d just left. What the hell’s wrong with him, anyway?”
“You heard him. He has some fixation about that house. If I get him back to the hospital, can you dope him up so he doesn’t leave again?”
Jason sighed. It was obvious he was fighting an inner battle against what he wanted to do for a friend versus the limitations of his position. “I’m not his doctor, Cole,” he said. “And Rick wasn’t delirious when he left—”
“He wasn’t in his right mind, either—” Cole argued.
“Tell me about it,” Jason said. He thought about it for a moment. “If you or Simon can find him, try to talk some sense into him. If you can’t, ring me. I’ll see what I can do.”
*
Rick groaned when he heard the roar of Cole’s racing engine. It didn’t take the unmistakable thunder of Cole’s footsteps in the hall for Rick to realise just how angry his friend was. He attempted to defuse the situation. “Hey, Cole!” he called out.
“Hey, yourself,” Cole grumbled, as he came into the room. “What are you doing here?”
“Recovering, in the comfort of my own home.” It sounded prim, even to his own ears.
“Jason rang me,” Cole said grumpily. “He’s mad as hell. So’s Simon. He’s looking for you right now, over at the mausoleum.”
Rick didn’t bother to ask. “Mausoleum” was an all-too-appropriate term for the other house he’d rented.
“Simon’s right here.” Simon’s cool voice preceded him. He came into the lounge, and leaned nonchalantly against the door jamb. “Well, you look a helluva lot better than you did last night.”
Rick didn’t say anything. He’d been unconscious the night before.
Simon took an appraising look at the room. “If I were you, Rick, I’d definitely choose the hospital. Their interior decorating sure beats what you’ve done with this place.”
“I came home because I have work to do,” Rick told them seriously.
Cole began to pace. Simon warily watched the stacks of books, and shook his head. This was the wrong place for Cole to take out his frustrations.
“What can you possibly have to do that’s so damned important?” Cole fumed. “You’re acting like a lunatic.”
“Just because you don’t see it the way I do—”
“Nobody sees it the way you do, Rick,” Simon interrupted.
“This is the way I see it, Rick,” Cole said angrily. “Simon stopped by to visit you, only to be told that you’d left.”
“‘On his own recognisance’.” Simon repeated the words the nurse had said.
“In other words, against medical advice.” Cole was livid. “What’s your problem, anyway?”
“No problem.” Rick picked up the bottle of pills off the table. “I’m covered.”
“Dammit, Rick—” Cole started to say. “Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I don’t want any part of it. If you’re going to act like an ass, you can do it alone.”
Simon crossed his arms. “You won’t be able to do anything for anybody if you’re dead,” he said bluntly.
Rick was silent.
Cole noticed that the haunted look was still in his friend’s eyes, but he refused to let it sway him. There was no way he was going to let Rick kill himself out of stupidity.
It still rankled that Rick hadn’t explained why he’d rented the house Cole had coveted. In fact, when Cole had visited him this morning, he wouldn’t explain any of what was bothering him, saying only that he’d talk about it when they were in a less public place than the four-bed hospital ward. Well, it was less public now. But Rick was still so sick Cole was reluctant to push him.
He shook his head, refusing to let Rick’s weakness sway him. Rick obviously needed a boot in the butt, if that’s what it took to get some sense back into his head. Cole admitted it: if it had been Simon who’d rented the mausoleum behind his back, he would have understood, because that was the way Simon’s mind worked. But Rick—Cole couldn’t believe it—Rick and he had always been open with each other.
*
Simon was at a loss to explain Rick’s behaviour. When he’d first heard what Rick had done—renting the house Cole had wanted—he’d been secretly amused by the previously unsuspected deviousness of Rick’s mind. But, when he’d thought it over, he’d quickly realised how out of character Rick’s actions had been. Rick had risked Cole’s friendship: something that Simon was sure meant more to him than any mere possession. No, there was something really wrong here, and it bothered him. Rick, along with Cole and Jace, had always been there for him, even when his sometimes irreverent attitude had irritated the hell out of them. No, something was eating at Rick—something serious. Simon couldn’t help but be concerned by the change in Rick over the last few weeks.
*
Rick knew what they wanted, but was having trouble forming the words. How to spill your guts in one sentence or less, he thought. How to tell the truth without sounding like you’re still delirious—or worse.
Especially not in front of Simon. Simon hadn’t been there. Simon didn’t have any idea what it had been like—
*
Rick shifted uncomfortably, torn between gratitude that they’d come by to check on him, and embarrassment at all the attention. The strain was beginning to wear on him, though, and after a few minutes, he began to wish they’d just leave.
Simon noticed, and decided Cole could probably handle this better alone. Cole knew Rick better than any of them. Simon glanced at his watch. “I have to go,” he said tactfully. “Give me a call later, Cole? Bye, Rick.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Cole muttered.
Rick nodded. “Bye, Simon. Thanks.”
After Simon had left, Cole plopped down in the chair he’d occupied the day before, and idly booted some of Rick’s papers out of the way, hoping to stir some kind of reaction. “Rick—” he began, but it wasn’t any easier for him to talk about his concerns than it was for Rick. “This is all bullshit, you know,” he said, then realised that wasn’t exactly the best way to get Rick to talk about what was bothering him.
Now that they were alone, Rick knew he should level with Cole. But, Cole’s vitality was at such odds with what Rick had to say, that he couldn’t think how to begin. The episodes of fever and weakness had confused what had once seemed alarmingly clear. He didn’t know if he could untangle his theories from what he thought were the facts.
Rick was pretty certain Cole wouldn’t believe him, either. He had a dim memory of his rantings the day before. Anything he could say now would only add to Cole’s incredulity.
Cole stood up abruptly. “Are you coming with me or not?”
“Not,” Rick said quietly. “Sorry, Cole.”
Cole fidgeted for a minute, uncertain what to do. Short of forcing Rick to come with him again, there wasn’t much he could do. He had the uncomfortable feeling that dragging Rick back to the hospital would be a fiasco. Rick, in his present state of mind, would only turn around at the first opportunity to come back here. It was obvious to Cole that Rick’s mindset was what needed changing. He had to be made to see that his goddamned work wasn’t worth the risk. Cole just didn’t know where to begin. He needed time to think about it; maybe to talk it over with Jace.
It was Rick’s continued silence that finally decided him. He and Rick had always been able to talk, even if it had only been joking around. The silence unnerved him. He went over and picked up the phone, making a big point of listening to the dial tone. “Oh,” he said grimly, “it does work!”
Rick smile was strained. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Cole muttered, much as he had to Simon. He waited for a moment more, hoping that Rick would say something—anything—to break the silence.
He didn’t. After a final disgruntled thump on a stack of books, Cole decided to go. “See you, Rick,” he said. He turned around and stomped out of the room.
Rick slouched back on the couch, sighed, and buried his face in his hands.

Comments

Anthropology & writing challenges, Jane Beckenham's books, & an excerpt from Light Play!

2006-03-09T16:47:58+01:00

Anthropology class started me thinking today. We were learning more about the arrival of Maoris to New Zealand, and the debunking of myths.

It surprised me to discover how many of the significant findings and theories were put forth by those who came from a considerable distance away. It is difficult to see past tradition - difficult to recognise that something tacit (so ingrained that you never even consider questioning it) almost requires outside agency to point out subtle cues. All cultures possess their creation myths - their voyages of discovery and settlement - and these are frequently predated, expanded, enriched, by oral tradition, according to that culture's expectations of grandeur/greatness.

Another thought - one of the aspects of humanity which allowed us to broach harsh terrain was that of carrying our environment with us. This is what allowed our encroachment onto every continent - our adaptability, and the way we adapt the environment to suit our needs. This is why it's so difficult for people to stop modifying their world to suit themselves, even at the cost of the ozone layer.

It's what we do. We may hustle the coming Ice Age along (hey, we're in the middle of one right now - they actually come and go quite frequently), but sometimes it's easier to adapt to what we perceive as disaster, than modify on an individual basis what we consider a group problem. Too often we feel our impact is insignificant, given the weightiness of the problem (and all that ice!).

Writing: I've been working on some short story writing, particularly competition stuff. as nice as it would be to exist in a vacuum, where the writing is pure and artful, the reality is we all like to eat, and competitions seem to cycle in at certain times. March is a big month for closing dates, so any of you who want a little extra promotion help for your writing, Google the contest pages. That's what a professional writer should consider a competition - an opportunity for a few new readers (even if it's only the judges!), and the chance to get your name a few places it wasn't before.

I'm still working on book #25, and have given myself a 15 April deadline. There's a publisher who wants to see it, after reading the prologue. Woohoo!

Other writing news:
There are some New Zealand published writers I'd like to introduce. You've probably heard of them, but if not, Google them or check them out on Amazon. Today's writer is Jane Beckenham. Jane is one of those people it's impossible not to like. She's got a great sense of humour, and works hard as both a writing teacher, and a novelist (romance genre). I'll leave you with her here, then follow with another book excerpt.

Excerpt:
LIGHT PLAY (a Franklin Ebook Award Nominee!)
PAPERBACK http://www.lulu.com/content/83662
EBOOK - READ THE REST NOW! http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook4094.htm

Prologue

The woman stood quietly at the window, gazing unseeing at the day’s yellow glare. A sudden jolt stirred her from an unnatural stillness, and she turned away with a swift gasp of fear. "What next?" she wondered aloud.

Her dash from the room was halted by the recoiling of the cat, which cowered, hissing, near her feet.

The woman’s lips creased in a self-deprecating smile. "Damned cat," she whispered, recalling yesterday’s words. "Which of us is damned now?"

The feline slunk away—hiding its tomcat’s boldness beneath spiky hair and flattened ears.

Angry with the cat’s reaction, the woman moved swiftly toward the far wall.

The cat—hidden now beneath a chair—dared a backwards glance, just in time to see the human figure drift through the solid plastered wood partition. He chased her departure with a bold yowl.

The walls echoed his cry, seeming to hold it for just a second too long. When it came back to his ears, the distorted wailing was no longer alone, but held the lonely misery of a human’s despairing sigh.

Chapter One

"Ho, Rick!"

Rick could hear Cole’s footsteps thudding up the hall.

"Wanna shoot a few?" Cole’s shouts were interspersed with the pounding rhythm of a basketball.

Rick grinned, glanced at the pile of papers he had yet to read, and shook his head. "Go away. I’m busy," he yelled back.

Cole, certain now that Rick was home, jogged into the room. Rick was determinedly reading through some article—highlighting what must have been—for him—particularly edifying passages. "That’s not busy—" Cole argued. He threw the ball at Rick’s chair. It missed, rebounding instead off Rick’s arm, and onto his Coke can. "Now, you’ll be busy," Cole muttered, as he watched the sticky liquid flow towards Rick’s stack of journals.

"Dammit, Cole!" Rick looked around for something to mop up the spill.

Cole pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and threw it to his friend.

Rick looked at it dubiously. "Got any forceps?" He took the cloth by the corner, and dropped it in the path of the runaway Coke.

Cole laughed. "If it sticks, it won’t be because of the Coke—"

"If it sticks, I’ll use your face to scrape it off."

"If you had more dirty clothes laying around, I wouldn’t have to donate my stuff to the cause."

"Go away. I’m trying to concentrate."

"Why? Because you’re on some fool fungus hunt?" Cole reached over, and flipped through the pages of the article Rick was trying to read. "What is this, anyway? ‘Protein synthesis during spore formation in Aspergillus’? I hate to tell you this, Rick, but I think your brain is warped."

Rick gave him a shove. "At least with me, it stops at my brain."

"You should get a burglar alarm—"

Rick interrupted him. "To keep out unwelcome guests?"

Cole grinned, then grew serious. "I mean it, Rick. Half the time, you don’t even remember to lock your door."

Rick shrugged. "Then, what’s the point? I’d probably forget to set the alarm, too." He gestured at the stacks of books and journals. "What are they going to steal? My computer?" he asked seriously. "I’m insured, and all my files are backed up at the lab."

"What about your TV?" Rick shook his head. Cole tried again. "Your stereo?"

"Old. They wouldn’t be able to unload it."

Cole grinned. "What about you? Isn’t any of that so-called science worth something?"

"Only if you’re in horticulture." Rick jumped up and plopped his journal on to the floor. Creeping to the window, he took a quick, guarded look outside, then flattened himself against the wall. "My God, you’re right!" he whispered loudly, infusing horror into his voice. "The farmers—they’re massing!" He fumbled with the cord to the drapes, as though his fingers were slippery with sweat. With a grand gesture, he yanked it, while the rod squeaked in protest. Dropping to his knees, he wiped his brow, and said dramatically, "I think we’re safe now!"

Cole threw the basketball at him, and missed again—this time knocking over a stack of photocopied articles.

Rick looked at the mess and sighed. "I give up," he said. He swooped up the basketball, and shoved Cole ahead of him out of the room. "Someone’s got to teach you some basketball, and it might as well be me."

I’m too damn tired for this. Dark spots in the room shivered and writhed, under the doubly potent assault of fatigue and nerves. Daniel Vizar found his eyes shifting again and again to those elusive centres of activity. Beneath his brooding self-derision, there lay a very real fear. Relax, Danny Boy, he told himself. Aberrant genes don’t lurk.

Justin Sacchara’s entry was noisy. Shaking hands restlessly jiggled his keys, and he slammed the door unnecessarily loudly in his efforts to ensure it was fully closed.

Daniel didn’t know whether to be relieved by Sacchara’s company, or annoyed by the man’s irritating nervousness that rubbed so gratingly against his own.

It didn’t take him long to decide. Go to hell, Justin, Daniel thought. He sensed the slight, but unquestionably envious, resentment that was always part of Justin Sacchara’s personality in this office. The resentment that always triggered Vizar’s own feelings of guilt at the plushness of his surroundings. The reaction bothered him—especially now, when he had so many other things to worry about. His claims to all this re-emphasised just how much responsibility sat on his shoulders. Daniel Vizar would have relinquished the lot right now for just one moment of unburdened peace.

He was over-reacting, and it didn’t take him long to realise it. Sacchara didn’t give a damn about their surroundings—his quick glance around the room was merely to reassure himself that they were alone.

Guilt and fear were obviously weighing heavily on Sacchara’s shoulders as well, and Daniel guessed the other man was fighting a losing battle against his doubts regarding their work. Vizar thought back to the days when his own personal convictions had raised havoc with his work habits. It had taken years before the guilt associated with his job had faded—carefully suppressed by the firm conviction that he was actively moulding the future.

"What the hell are we going to do?" When Justin Sacchara finally spoke, his voice was almost strident. Vizar could see the panic in his dilated eyes; in the sweat glistening on the other man’s brow.

"Calm down, for crissakes! You look like you need a fix!"

"You familiar with junkies, Vizar?" Sacchara retorted nastily. "Should we add them to your list of would-be consumers?"

Vizar sat down behind the desk, and dropped his face into his hands. "There’s got to be a way out of this, Justin. None of this should have happened." His words were earnest. "Caroline just—" He left it hanging.

"Caroline just opted for a little self-experimentation."

"Not exactly," Daniel muttered.

Sacchara stopped his pacing and whirled to face the other man. "What do you mean?" he asked incredulously. "What’s this ‘not exactly’?"

"It got away from her." Vizar’s eyes were grim as he corrected himself. "Into her."

"Jesus Christ!" There was whispered horror in the words. "How?"

Daniel Vizar shrugged. "I don’t know. I tried to decipher her notes, but they’re encoded." He gave a grim smile. "I don’t think Caro trusted us."

Sacchara started to pace again. "So you’re saying there might be some of these rogue genes running around her lab? Waiting to do this to someone else?" He glanced at Vizar. "Do we even know the method of acquisition? What vectors she was using?"

Vizar shook his head. "We can establish some parameters, and we’ve locked down the lab against contamination."

"Not good enough—" Sacchara began.

"You’re right," Vizar agreed. "If it’s airborne, we might still be in trouble."

Something in the other man’s tone made Sacchara look at him hopefully. "But you don’t think so—" Vizar’s smile was strained, but Sacchara read what he wanted to see. "So it’s a one-off. A singular event." Sacchara rubbed tense fingers across his unshaven chin. "Unless Caro dies." He dropped into a chair, and looked at Vizar with tense eyes. "Are we going to be able to put this behind us?"

Vizar met his inquiry squarely. "No," he replied firmly.

"Why the hell not? Are you worried about the doctor? The technicians?"

Vizar shook his head. "Nobody knows enough to put it all together, Justin."

"Then why?" The strain was back in Sacchara’s voice.

Daniel Vizar shook his head in disbelief. There were times when Sacchara could be really obtuse. "Because, Justin—for better or worse—Caroline’s damned procedure worked."

Cole did a body builder’s flex, showing off the line of sweat staining his T-shirt. "It all goes to show you," he began. He tried to spin the ball on the tip of his finger—only to have it wobble off and bounce on to Rick’s foot.

"What?" Rick grunted, trying to rub his big toe through the fabric of his shoe. "That the hoop’s only slightly bigger than the hole in your head?"

"You’re just hacked off because you were going to refine my game, and I beat your tail off—"

"Just because you can push someone around on the court, doesn’t mean you win—"

"Sure it does," Cole replied casually. "I didn’t score, but I didn’t let you score either—"

"What about that one I sank at the beginning?"

"When we were warming up? Doesn’t count."

"’Warming up’ my ass—"

"I don’t give a damn about your ass, but mine’s getting cold." Cole grinned. "Want to come over to watch the game?"

"What game?"

"Typical. Don’t you ever keep on top of anything?"

Rick grinned. "Not recently. Or a-breast of it either—"

It was an old joke. "There’s this girl—"

"No, and no, and no."

"But—"

"No," Rick said firmly. "If you like her so much, you take her out."

"I tried," Cole said mournfully. "She turned me down."

Rick grinned. "In that case, maybe I would like to meet her. At least she’s selective."

It was happening again, and Caroline Denaro had no way of stopping it. Vaguely, in her somnolent state, she was aware of her existence, in some subconscious world far from the tubes and respirator that were keeping her alive. In that dim world she was at least able to find peace.

It was now—at times like this—when the separation was about to happen—that Caroline felt the agony. Screams that never brought help. Torture that went on and on and on.

None of it was physical. She could have borne it better if she could have rid herself of it by chopping off a leg, or surrendering an organ. No, it was the uncertainty of eternity that ripped at her. The knowledge that she wasn’t dead, yet had no prayer for living. The ever-present danger that her body wouldn’t accept her back.

She’d tried to puzzle it out—to determine where the gene had come from that could make the transition from body to out-of-body so easy to accomplish. The one that could turn a normal existence into a dual one. The one that could forever lay to rest any doubts about the human soul.

"It must have been the meristematic genes," she whispered, wondering by what means she could hear her own voice—all accomplished without the aid of a larynx, or those lovely, tiny bones of the inner ear. "Something about my body chemistry changed them. Gave them a purpose they were never meant to have. God!" she cried out, all the while wondering how a concerned deity could allow someone to suffer like this, "Please, God! Find a way to get me back! To make me whole again!"

They were tearing through the quiet streets at Cole’s customary gravel-spinning speed before Cole spoke again. "Hey, Rick," he said, a little too casually. "While we’re out, what d’you say we go by the house I want to rent?"

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"That once I left the house I’d never get back to work. I need to finish that report by Monday, Cole."

"That’s almost forty hours away. Plenty of time." He added reasonably, "You said you’d help me move in. How’re you going to do that if you don’t know where it is? Don’t you even want to see what you’re letting yourself in for?"

Rick replied, just as reasonably, "Sure, I want to see it. I just don’t want to see it right now—"

"Great!" Cole replied, turning into the driveway of a newer stucco Spanish-style residence. "This is it!"

I should’ve known I was wasting my breath. But, in spite of his irritation, Rick couldn’t help being impressed. "Nice place!" Then he remembered what Cole had said about the rent. "Why is it so cheap?" he asked curiously.

"It’s owned by some corporation. They usually house their own people here, but for some reason, it’s come up empty." Cole grinned. "I guess they’re worried about vandalism. They think I’ll keep out ‘undesirable elements’."

"They figured once you were in, there wouldn’t be room for any more?" Rick asked innocently. "What corporation did you manage to mislead?"

Cole pulled a tattered business card out of his ashtray. Everything in Cole’s car tended to get tattered. "Genetechnic Industries—"

Rick snatched the card out of his hand. "Genetechnic! They’re headliners in the gene machine market."

"Didn’t I tell you you’d like this place?" Cole pulled a tagged key out of his pocket.

Rick looked at it. "You had this all planned, didn’t you?"

Cole shrugged. "Sure." He pushed open the door, and gestured at the interior. "This place is me—"

"Vacant?" Rick interrupted, grinning.

"No—great looks, flash exterior—"

Rick poked his head into the stark entryway. "Any piles of bullshit in there?"

It was no good. God wasn’t listening. Caro fled, unable to endure the sight of her empty body poised on the edge of non-existence.

She drifted through the halls of the facility, searching for Tom or Sutte, the only people who understood her research enough to do something to correct it. If she could locate one of them, she’d find a way to make them acknowledge her—just as she had with the cat. She’d fought hard to develop some physical presence—so that she could access her lab book and research notes, still hidden in her former residence. Without them, no one would have a hope of deciphering the route her research had taken.

When she’d hidden her lab notes, she’d felt slightly paranoid, but she had to admit that the fear of industrial theft wasn’t her real motivation. Caro knew her successes were big, and probably worth a helluva lot more than she was being paid. Encryption was a small effort for what could have eventuated into a large reward.

Caro thought of the greed and recognition that were so important to her then. It took an incorporeal existence to put me in my place, she thought. Religious fervour arriving on the tail of desperation. Some things about her hadn’t changed, however. I’d do anything—say anything—to get myself out of this non-living hell—

The thud was muffled, but it still sounded loud in the empty room. "Shit! What was that?" Cole was feeling jumpy, and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it’s just because I want Rick to be as impressed with this place as I am. Impressing Rick—at least in this small respect—was important to him. And a little twinge of envy on his part wouldn’t hurt either.

He knew that Rick had worked hard to become a scientist, but sometimes Cole got a little sick of it when Rick was introduced as Dr. Richard Lockmann. Somehow, he couldn’t equate his old friend with the fancy title. And, his work ain’t all that fancy either. Cole couldn’t imagine working with fungus and bacteria all day, any more than he guessed Rick could imagine doing marketing.

Rick never expected to be called by his title, and he hated it when Cole ribbed him about it. Cole used to ridicule Rick’s use of dung as a model substrate for fungal growth, and had taken to calling him "Dr. Dung." The name had stuck, and Cole still used it whenever he thought Rick was getting too aware of his title.

"Well, what do you think, Dr. Dung?"

"Unfair. I haven’t rubbed your nose in my Ph.D. for at least a week." Rick squatted down and wriggled his fingers. "Here, Cat—" When the cat slunk across the floor to sit by his feet, Rick picked him up and rubbed the top of his head. "Here’s your intruder. There’s probably a window open."

Cole nodded, reached over and gave the cat a quick scritch on its belly. The cat promptly tried to bite his hand. Cole chuckled, and scritched its belly again, deftly avoiding the claws.

"Quit bugging the cat. Are you going to show me this architect’s delusion, or do I have to show myself?"

"I’ll give you the tour, as long as you remind me to lock that window before we leave. I don’t want any vandals ripping apart my little hi-tech lovenest." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Wait till I get my furniture in here."

Rick snorted with laughter. "By that do you mean your Sega Megadrive, or your model railroads? You’ve heard of ‘Babes in Toyland’? Wait till the ladies get a load of you: ‘Toys in Babeland’."

Cole grinned. "You wouldn’t believe how a hot arcade game can put ‘em in the mood."

Rick grabbed his shirt and gave him a shove. "Lead on, Don Juan. Next thing you’ll be telling me is how they toggle your joystick—"

On a previous expedition, she’d discovered that her lab was sealed—locked down against the possibility of her little toxin escaping into the environment.

God damn it! she’d sworn at the time. How can they fix me if they’re not even trying to find out what went wrong?

She’d been there when Vizar and Sacchara had had their little meeting. She knew that Vizar wanted someone to carry on where she’d left off—because, as little as they understood the mechanics of it, in Vizar’s estimation her procedure had worked. That means he must see some dollars and cents value to it, she reasoned. It didn’t matter to him what price she’d had to pay.

She’d even tried to approach Vizar personally, to demand action. The most she’d been able to do was squawk out a raspy "Help me!", which now seemed to her to have been overly melodramatic. Maybe a "Do it, or else" would have worked better with Vizar. He’d been so startled, all he’d been able to do was nod his head, which she’d optimistically taken for agreement.

Why don’t they get on with it? she wondered. She was terrified that they’d decide to terminate her body instead: to destroy any incriminating evidence. Knowing Vizar and Sacchara as she did now—after seeing the way they conducted business when no one else was present—she had no false impressions any longer about the personalities that ran Genetechnic. Most people viewed the future with a hint of awe—Vizar viewed it with an eye to control, even ownership. Control what went into the genetic make-up of a being, and you also managed its strengths, and its limitations. Vizar was playing at some levels that not even his closest cohort, Sacchara, knew about. Levels Caro had never suspected her research could sink to.

What if they were to destroy her body, during one of those times when her being was somewhere else? What would happen to me then?

At this point, she would welcome death, but she had the horrifying suspicion that, even if her inner self was in residence, the very act of her body dying would be enough to trigger another one of these little jaunts. Not in the normal fashion of the soul leaving the body, to travel away on those white lights death-freaks were always harping about, but on one of these empty wanderings, which would leave her without any hint of future: heaven, hell, purgatory—whatever was beyond.

Rick whistled. The cat, startled, jumped out of his arms. Rick let it go. "This place is incredible, Cole." He was looking up at the high ceilings, and large windows. "With all this light, it’d be a great place to work—" Rick was thinking about the poor visibility in his own, artificially-lighted lab.

"Uh-uh. No fungus is going to wriggle its slimy way in here." Cole stepped over and fiddled with a switch on the wall. "Wait till you see this." A fountain, in the middle of a tiled pool of water, began to spurt streams of water.

Rick’s tone was sincere. "I’ve never seen anything like it—at least, outside of one of those architecture magazines. Congratulations, Cole."

Cole’s eyes were shining. "Yeah. Not too bad, is it?"

Rick grinned. "Not too bad at all."

I’m back. Caro was filled with a nearly overwhelming sense of poignancy, as she stared at the tiles where her feet had so often tread. There was that one rough tile. She could remember the cool feel of it under her bare feet—the rippling unevenness that made it different from the others. Funny how important the little things can be.

The one thing that had eluded her wayward senses was smell. Vision wasn’t a problem—only the overwhelming endlessness of it. At this point, she would have given a lot just to be able to close her eyelids, and shut out the world for a moment. It made those times of residence in her body seem almost restful.

Tactilely, she found she was able to experience far more than she would have believed possible. The key seemed to be intense focus, in order to assume some semblance of her former being, and her hopes lay in eventually gaining some ability to manipulate. Intangible as she was, she didn’t know whether she really needed her previous form: whether her arms and fingers were essential to achieving her goals. But, the thought of using any other shape—of seeing herself as a formless blob—horrified her. Even at her most detached, she couldn’t concede that much of her identity.

The soft swish and trickle of the fountain drew her attention. Someone must be here. The fountain was on a timer, and someone had activated it. She wondered who it was.

They’d been quick enough to empty her house. It went along with the fiction they were spreading—the one about her sabbatical abroad. It had also given them an excuse to search the structure for her notes. She had no doubt that, wherever her furniture had ended up, it was getting the same treatment.

If the intruder was that dipshit real estate agent, then Caro knew she was wasting her time. All she’d get out of it was the rumour that the house was occupied by something more than dust mites. Still, the idea gave her pleasure, and if they failed to rent it, it would give her the time she needed. Time to perfect her manipulation of the crude senses that were left to her. Time to learn how to regain her lab notes, and use them to her best advantage.

Cole was practically jogging through the upstairs rooms, in his enthusiasm to show them off. "I could even take in boarders," he said, "as long as I was discreet about it. There’s lots of extra room."

Rick tried to picture Cole being discreet, and failed. He asked, "Did you show this place to Jace yet? Or Simon?"

"Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to let Simon know until the day I move in."

Rick looked at him curiously. "Why not? Mr. Hi-Tech would think this was great."

"That’s the point. He’ll want to be my first boarder. I just want to make sure he approaches me for lodging, and not Genetechnic. He’d probably want to interrogate them on everything from how cheap the rent is, to why they’d rent such a big place to one person." He grinned.

Rick smiled. Approaching Genetechnic would be Simon’s way of expediting matters—and of double-checking the landlord.

Cole always told Simon he was a cross between a control freak, and a suspicious son-of-a-bitch. Rick agreed with Cole’s assessment, but he understood Simon’s reasons better than Cole did. Knowing what Rick did about Simon, however, it sometimes amazed him that the man put up with as much as he did from Cole. It said something for the depth of their friendship that Cole could call him names, and Simon would stand there, imperturbable as always, and take it.

Still, Cole was right about this house. It would be just like Simon to want to ensure that everything was on the level—and Cole didn’t believe in delving too deeply into lucky opportunities that just happened to fall in your lap.

"What about Jace?"

Cole snorted in disgust. "Jace is as addicted to his work as you are." He added obnoxiously, "I can almost understand it in his case. At least his patients are flesh-and-blood."

Rick ignored the jibe. "What’s that got to do with living here?"

"Too far from his work. Besides, I don’t think he’s even noticed he lives in a rat-hole. He’s not there often enough to see the rats."

Rick looked intently around a small room on the second floor. For its size, the place had numerous counters and sinks. Superior lighting, and bench-high power points. He rubbed the marks on the bench, where it was obvious a moderately heavy piece of equipment had sat. He knew there’d be similar marks in his own lab, where a PCR machine had residence.

Excited now, he inspected the rest of what he was certain had once been someone’s personal laboratory. Knowing what he was looking for helped. He found a spot that was perfect for a small autoclave, and a refrigerator-size space where a large, refrigerated, high-speed centrifuge would have been used in his own lab to isolate RNA from viruses in plant cells.

It took Cole a minute to realise he was giving his tour to himself. Impatient, he ran back in search of Rick. "Wait’ll you see—"

Rick interrupted him enthusiastically. "This was a lab, Cole! A fairly state-of-the-art one, too, for a small premises."

Cole shrugged, glanced briefly around at the counters and sinks, then up at the numerous windows. "If I can find a way to block out some of that light, it’ll make one hell of a good darkroom." He grinned and dodged out of the room, as Rick threw a wadded-up rag in his direction. Cole poked his head round the corner. "Sucker!"

Sacchara walked into Vizar’s office without knocking. "The real estate agent called. Some guy’s made a deposit on the house."

"In that case, I want to get a crew in there, to give it one last going-over, before he moves in. Arrange it."

Sacchara nodded. "Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get someone on the crew who knows what kind of stuff we’re looking for."

After he’d gone, Vizar walked over to the window, and stood there, lost in thought. He was recalling an uncomfortable encounter he’d had several days before. He muttered, "Maybe, if you’re lucky, Justin, Caroline herself will come along to show you right where she left it."

Someone’s in the lab. Caroline saw the stranger come running out of the room, but not before he called something to someone still within. Caroline moved intently in that direction, hopeful that one of her co-workers might finally have worked up enough enthusiasm to look for answers on his own.

Cole, laughing, jogged back up the hall, oblivious to what lurked behind him. He walked into the master bedroom, and decided to make his mark, so to speak, by using the master bathroom. "I’m staking my claim!" he yelled loudly to Rick.

Rick, still in the lab, heard him, grinned, and shook his head. The only part of this place he really envied Cole was this lab. The rest was modern, beautiful, but too big for his tastes. He was really happy for his friend, though. Cole had a knack of filling whatever space he went into. He’d have this one full of either people, or junk, or both, in no time at all.

Rick became aware that the light in the lab had dimmed. He glanced up at the windows, to see if some clouds had rolled in. No, the sun was still shining brightly. Rick felt a shiver of uneasiness travel down his back.

He was suddenly certain he was no longer alone in the lab. And this other presence had none of the charged momentum that he associated with Cole. Dimly, he registered the distant flush of the toilet. No, whoever was here, it wasn’t Cole.

Rick turned slowly, hesitantly. Every hair on the back of his neck stood erect, and there was gooseflesh dancing down his arms. He’d felt like this before—late at night, on a dark street in a bad area of town. He knew he was being watched.

What he saw was almost enough to make him choke. It was a woman—but not all of a woman. He’d almost made the mistake—at first—of thinking she was flesh and blood. It wasn’t until the light faded from her—in the most inconvenient places—leaving lurid visions of bone and flesh in her centre, that he realised how little she owed to the tangible. "Not much time—" she rasped. He found himself watching her lips with a kind of lurid fascination. They were so totally out of sync with her voice.

He backed up against the lab bench. He wanted to say, "Get back," but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was suddenly so terribly dry.

She drifted toward him, and Rick wanted to run. He found he couldn’t, but it wasn’t only the hard bench at his back that held him. It was the agony in the woman’s eyes—the need.

"Help me!" she begged. The effort was obviously draining her—in more ways than one. She was really beginning to lose it—her would-be flesh dissolving, in an array of exposed reddish gashes. "The meristematic genes," she rasped, loudly, and it seemed to echo in his brain. "Indeterminate. No time. My notes—here—"

One of her hands reached out toward him. Rick, his eyes wide and wild, arched away as far as he could.

"Rick!" Cole’s voice broke through the trance that was holding him. Rick saw Cole standing in the doorway. His face was as white as Rick knew his own must be. "Rick!" Cole screamed. "Get the hell out of there!"

Caroline knew she had only a moment more of tangibility. She’d watched Rick moving around the lab, with a sureness and pleasure that had mirrored her own in this place. He hadn’t shown any shock at her words—only at her delivery of them. Or, she conceded, maybe he was just so shocked by the sight of her that he didn’t even realise what she’d said. Still, he was the best hope she had. "Not dead," she tried to tell him, uncertain whether he could still hear her. "The genes—"

Frustrated at her fading being, she gathered herself together in one last frenzied burst. Focusing on her hand, she brought all her strength to that one spot—determined to let him know just how real she was.

Cole moved. He saw Rick arch away as far as he could, but dammit, there was nowhere for him to go. Cole made a dive at the fading phantom.

At the same moment, Caro lurched forward, to touch Rick’s chest. But her hand no longer had the structure of flesh and blood. In her panicky haste, she passed through Rick’s chest wall, directly into his lungs.

With a hiss, she withdrew, horrified at herself for the intrusion into another’s body; seeing herself for the first time as these strangers must see her—as a ghastly spectre to be feared and hated. With a sob she dissipated, into her invisible, intangible, out-of-body nothingness—to flee through Rick’s stiffened form, and back to where she could mourn her lost mortality alone.

Cole pushed himself off the floor. "Is it gone?"

Rick was silent. Cole looked over at him in concern. Rick was on his knees—one hand hanging on to the lab bench for support, the other pressed against his chest. "You okay?" Cole grabbed his arm. "Rick—talk to me. Are you okay?"

Rick nodded, and started to get up. Cole helped him. "Let’s get out of here." Rick didn’t say anything, only nodded again.

Rick’s legs were wobbly, but Cole didn’t say anything more. Rick noticed, though, that Cole walked ahead of him down the stairs, as though he thought maybe Rick might take the most direct way down—headfirst.

Once they were outside, Rick tried to act normal. The only problem was, he felt like he was looking at normal from the outside—trying to figure out exactly what the real Rick would say and do. Apparently, it was enough to satisfy Cole. The tension lines began to ease out of his face. Cole didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. Cole wanted to believe everything was okay.

Only it wasn’t. Rick’s brain was already puzzling over what the woman had said. "The meristematic genes." Only plants had meristematic cells: cells that were indeterminate, with no other function than to produce more cells. The cells they produced could express their genetic heritage in a number of ways, according to the chemical environment in which they developed. In the case of the cambial meristem, for example, xylem, phloem—even other meristematic cells—were all somehow derived out of the same genetic pattern.

It meant that, whatever genetic cocktail the woman had been whipping up, it had at least partially contained plant DNA. Plants had been genetically altered to produce mass quantities of animal products. Could she have been working on a project to make animals express some qualities of plant DNA? Rick shook his head. Was it possible? Or even likely? The results of such a project could be disastrous.

Genes can be inserted into tissues easily enough. Rick had done that kind of research himself, and successfully combined plant protoplasts with fungal cells. Was it likely that someone had gone a step further? With a single gene, or with an entire damned strand? Some life form caught between two worlds. The thought was nothing short of appalling.

I’m extrapolating. Taking one line, and what I’ve heard about Genetechnic, and making far more of it than I should.

But, the woman must have been a Genetechnic worker—she lived in a Genetechnic-owned building, and was obviously familiar with science. Particularly plant science, he thought, remembering her words.

And, he recalled, she sought me out in the lab.

Rick glanced over at Cole, just in time to catch Cole looking at him.

Cole asked casually, "What do you say we go by Jason’s?" Cole might joke about his dedication, but he knew Jace was a damn good doctor.

Do I look that bad? Rick, embarrassed, forced a smile, and tried to act casual about the whole thing. It wasn’t easy. "Can’t today, Cole. I have work to do," he mumbled. He saw Cole glance at him again, then frown. Rick could guess the reason why. Cole had his colour back, but Rick had the feeling he was still looking pasty—right down to his lips.

Rick had a strong feeling about something else. Cole was sure they’d seen a ghost, and any silence on his part was probably disappointment that his lovenest had come with a few rotten eggs. A ghost wasn’t exactly a welcome bedfellow—female or not.

But, the lady hadn’t touched him. Cole hadn’t had the little pleasure of feeling his flesh probed by those icy hands. She also hadn’t asked Cole for help. Cole might be able to sleep tonight.

But Rick knew he wouldn’t. Not a chance. Not when he was sure she’d worked for Genetechnic. Not when she’d asked him for help. Not when he was certain, as impossible as it seemed, that the lady was still alive. And that her time was running out.

Cole picked up the phone. "Calloway domicile. Head domiciliac speaking."

Jason laughed. "I was wondering if you wanted to stop by tonight. We can watch the game at my place."

"Does this mean you’re actually taking a night off?"

"Sure thing. Simon’s coming, too."

"What about Rick?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing. Where is Rick, anyway?" Jason sounded puzzled. "I’ve been leaving messages for him all week. Simon said he hasn’t talked to him, either."

Cole was surprised. "Usually I see Rick on the weekends, but I’ve been kind of busy."

"Yeah," Jace said. "Simon told me about Gena. Is this one serious?"

"Not likely," Cole replied, but his mind was still on Rick’s absence. If Cole didn’t go over to Rick’s, Rick usually made a point of stopping by. "It has been a while, hasn’t it?"

It took Jason a second to realise they were talking about Rick again. "Maybe he’s found himself a ‘Gena’. Hey—you never know—Daphne might’ve turned up on his doorstep."

"Daphne only exists inside his computer," Cole said, a little derisively. "His e-mail girlfriend’s probably fat and fifty. He should go for one he can get his hands on."

"Is that what you use?"

Cole chuckled. "It’s not the part they like best, but it’s a start." He was silent for a moment, then said abruptly, "I wonder what maggot he’s got in his brain this time."

"You know how he gets when he’s working on something—"

"Maybe," Cole said, suddenly worried. "But remember how pissed off I was when Rick didn’t help me move? He didn’t bother to call, so I thought he’d just forgotten."

Cole could hear the smile in Jason’s voice. "Typical. Lost in his research, was he?"

"Probably. But he’s still not picking up his messages. Are you sure that you and Simon haven’t heard from him?"

"It’s only been a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, but it’s not like Rick. I tried his work—oh—over a week ago. He was off on sick leave that day. I never got around to ringing back." Cole added regretfully, "I thought he was home with the flu. Maybe I should have checked."

"Maybe I should pay him a visit."

Cole didn’t like the professional tone to Jason’s voice. "No way, Jace. If you show up there, acting all doctor-like, you’ll make him feel like a fool."

"Thanks," Jason replied sarcastically.

"Think about it, Jace. Rick must have realised by now that I’ve already moved, and that he screwed up." A new thought occurred to him. "Hell, I bet he doesn’t even know where to find me now. The last thing he knew I was moving into that mausoleum." The architectural dream had lost its charm after Cole had discovered it was haunted. "Either that, or he’s too embarrassed to show his face. I think it’s about time I go bother him."

"Cole?" For the first time, Jason sounded worried. Richard Lockmann was his friend, too, and he had the feeling something was wrong.

Cole put the phone back to his ear. "Speaking."

Jason felt a little foolish. "Let me know if he’s okay."

"Sure thing." Cole slammed down the phone and loped out of the house.

LIGHT PLAY (a Franklin Ebook Award Nominee!)
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Contests, Writing Woes, + a bit more Gilded Folly (Chapter 3)

2006-02-20T10:29:26+01:00

I'm planning on venturing soon into "Contest enrolment mode". This is the crazed frame of mind in which all formal writing is abandoned, and a furious search is made for any word form which offers fame or money. You'll notice I place fame first, because as a writer, I can't afford to think about money. If I were to dwell, for even a little while, on the unpaid hours I've spent...

ARGH!

Don't go there, ND. Go instead to those competition pages, where the promise of fame might lead to eventual fortune. Submit. Submit. Submit.

Small problem with writing competitions these days: most of them charge to enter. They charge to pay for their prize at the end. It may be called a "reading fee", but we all know better. You're paying for your road to glory...

And some of the biggest competitions, with the world-renown-type outcomes, charge outrageously.

That does limit the competition a bit - not exactly a level playing ground, though.

Next week, I begin my Anthro classes again at Uni. Yay! Love that stuff. In the meanwhile, it's work on novel #25, promote, website design, promote, submit to Bowkers/Bookdata, promote.

Sigh.

I am so sick of me and promoting me, myself, and I. Despite the multiple pronouns, it can be a very tedious and lonely place.

Can't wait till next week!!!

I'll leave you here with another excerpt, and hopefully, a very happy week ahead!

Happy reading!

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my EBOOKS...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my PRINT books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Excerpt:
GILDED FOLLY, chapter 3.

Chapter Three

The Mict!

It was on his face, about to bite off his nose. Wick flailed and fought, tore the oxygen mask off his face and the needle out of his arm. In the background, someone was screaming.

The Mict was pinning him down. Bony fingers, to gouge out his eyes. Jagged teeth to suck him dry. Wick gagged and clawed and punched.

"Nooooo!" he yelled. Blood was spattering everywhere and still Wick fought. Fought the damn Micts and fought the lassitude...

"I need help in here!" That was Fitz’ voice. The Micts were after him, too. Wick kicked harder. Blood spattered the curtains.

Wick reached out, and grasped the front of Fitz’ coat. Then he rolled them both away from the Micts—off the bed, onto the floor and under the curtain.

It was no good. The next second the Mict got him again, with those jagged teeth—and jabbed him right in the butt.

Rom jolted into wakefulness. His fingertips were burning...

Warily, slyly, through slitted eyes, he studied his surroundings. Not alone. There were three occupied beds in the room.

He turned on his side, gauging the reaction.

Oblivious...

He lifted his right hand and stared at the palm. It was embedded with iridescent particles. Miniature glitz stolen from...

...the paper. His heart beat faster, and he pulled open the drawer to the left.

Where? In a frenzy now, he threw back the covers, and opened the cupboard door. No glow, no guidance.

His fingertips were on fire.

The stinging heat travelled up his arms and into his chest. Find it or die.

No—find her. Every cell was vibrating now, answering a molecular call. If he didn’t complete the sequence, if he didn’t find a chemical balance, he was going to explode.

Do it. Now.

He swung his feet off the bed, and sat up. The room spun, addling his brain—but for just a moment, he saw things clearly.

It’s wrong. I can’t...

At the same time, he knew he would. They’d given him something, and it had broken the barriers. He clenched his fists and waited for the room to settle. God help anyone who got in his way...

He took a step, wobbled, and grabbed the side table for support. Again, he felt that flicker of apprehension, and something like regret. As he staggered for the door, all he could think was God help them.

God help me...

"So, what is it?" Fitz asked. He sounded as impatient as he felt. His replacement had managed to run into a tree on his way in, and had been too shaken up to work, so Fitz had been stuck with a double shift. And everything had been going to shit since midnight, when Rom and Jeremy had been brought in the door.

Then Wick had been brought in, too, and proceeded to nearly bleed himself out in the ER. He’d had slice marks on his chest and arms, and what could only be a bite mark on his leg. He’d been pounded pretty hard, too. "Tenderised," Wick had remarked, in one of his more lucid moments.

That was right after he’d toppled them both onto the floor.

He was sedated now, but you’d never know it. He was talking nearly nonstop about rifts and Micts; babbling over Lands of Lies, bat defences and shattered moons. He was also jovial as hell.

But his vital signs were far from normal. There was average, and then there was the norm, and Wick was well outside both. He wasn’t the only one, either—Rom’s vitals had been all over the place since the paramedics had picked him up.

Fitz concluded that something else was responsible—like the gold stuff dusting Rom’s and Jeremy’s hands. They’d tried to remove it, but it was embedded, and nothing—from alcohol to nail polish remover—would take it off. Fitz hadn’t found any on Wick—yet. That wasn’t necessarily conclusive, though.

Addicts are good at hiding their addictions...

As soon as the words popped into his head, Fitz dismissed them.

"Suspicious bastard," he mumbled. But he couldn’t stop his weary thoughts from focussing on the "signs": Jeremy’s recent and largely unexplained change in occupations, and the amount of money he was throwing around. Fitz had seen his artwork.

There’s no way anyone would pay him two dollars for it.

Jeremy claimed he’d been paid two thousand.

Rom had regained consciousness, but it was the sleepwalking Rom in charge: wary, suspicious, and silent. He’d refused to answer any questions, and his hands had been clenched in fists. Fitz wondered now whether this was the only Rom they would see until the drug was out of his system.

You have no proof...

Whacked chemistry; weird vital signs.

And Wick had been insane tonight. "Bizarre" didn’t even begin to describe it. He’d been certain he was saving Fitz from danger, but the real danger had been at Wick’s hands.

Jeremy’s vitals were depressed, but he didn’t seem to be in any danger, and he was certainly the most lucid of the lot. Fitz stood next to his bed, unable to hide his anger. He felt like shouting, but there were other people asleep in the room. It frustrated him, trying to vent his ire in a whisper. "You must know what the hell is on your hands," he said sarcastically.

Jeremy frowned. "I think it was the paper," he supplied.

"Paper," Fitz repeated flatly.

"Gold paper," Jeremy confirmed. "The bat had it."

Fitz rolled his eyes.

The door opened silently, and at first they were both unaware of it. Then Rom was there. Fitz watched in disbelief as Rom ignored them completely and headed for the wardrobe. He grabbed the paper sack with Jeremy’s clothes, and ripped it viciously, scattering the contents across the floor.

Fitz came up behind him then, and had reached out, to tap him on the shoulder, when a hand gripped his arm and yanked it back.

Wick.

Fitz opened his mouth to say, "You shouldn’t be—", but Wick shushed him. With an "I-told-you-so" look, Wick tapped lightly on Rom’s arm.

Rom sprang with a snarl. He aimed a kick at Wick which should have knocked him flat.

Fitz’ eyes widened as Wick deftly sidestepped it, injured leg and all. He dropped Rom to the ground and pinned him with his knees, using Jeremy’s shirt to wrest the envelope from his grasp. Over Rom’s head, Wick clicked Jeremy’s lighter. "If you want it, Rom," he growled, "you’ll listen."

Rom froze, aware of the threat.

"The Micts are here," Wick told him harshly. "You can’t leave."

Rom’s teeth bared in anger. He writhed beneath Wick’s grip.

"We go together." Wick looked unbelievably weary at the thought.

"When?" Rom asked angrily.

"I’m free now," Jeremy chirped up.

"Tomorrow. ‘When the dead no longer walk’. Go back to bed," Wick ordered gruffly. He shoved the envelope into Rom’s hand, then tried to stand up.

He couldn’t. Fitz reached out—a little nervously, Wick thought—to help him.

"No more drugs," Wick warned. "For him or me."

"What’s with the paper?" Fitz asked darkly.

"Death," Wick replied baldly. "Solutions, to someone else’s problems."

Fitz summoned two orderlies to haul Rom off to bed. He was asleep again, and snoring loudly on the floor.

Jeremy, on the other hand, was chuckling. "Great show," he said enthusiastically. He sniggered. "A real floor show."

"Shut up, Jer," Fitz ordered. He took Wick’s arm over his shoulder, and Wick peered at him closely.

"Who beat you up?"

"You," Fitz retorted.

"Oh," Wick replied, then was silent as Fitz helped him back to his room. A trace of shame made his face burn. This seemed to be his night for discovering things he’d rather not know.

"Some new designer drug?" Fitz blurted, into the silence. He avoided Wick’s eyes.

Wick looked shocked, then amusement brightened his eyes. "You could say that. Definitely designed."

"You on it, too?"

Wick didn’t answer, and Fitz took it for assent. He looked disgusted, and he wasn’t exactly gentle helping Wick back into bed. "You can’t leave," Fitz said flatly.

"Until we’re ‘clean’?"

"Something like that." Fitz rehooked the IV, pulled the curtain and stomped out of the room.

Half an hour later he was still seething. He’d been called away, but now he’d come back, determined to wrest the envelope from Rom’s grip. He edged into the room.

Rom wasn’t alone. Wick was there, flopped across the end of the bed. He came instantly awake. "’s you," he murmured.

Fitz reached for the crumpled envelope, but Wick shook his head warningly.

Fitz jerked his gloved hand back, disturbed. For a moment there, he’d felt almost afraid, and it triggered his anger once more. He asked—an edge to his voice—"What’re you doing in here?!"

Not for the first time that night Wick wished the drugs hadn’t loosened his tongue. It seemed he was destined to blab his head off. "A fool’s errand," he admitted, with a glint of amusement. "Curb him or kill him: that’s my job."

It was an hour later and Phil was sitting in the coffee shop with Fitz. Fitz had rung him and blabbed on about designer drugs and psychotic tendencies until Phil had urged him to take the conversation outside.

"So what did you do?"

"Drugged the shit out of him," Fitz admitted with a shrug. He shook his head, then added, with a trace of hysteria, "Can’t have him acting out his fantasies."

Phil frowned. "I can’t believe he’s walking around. After that scene in the ER..."

"Neither can I," Fitz admitted. "By rights he should be flat on his back. I just don’t get it."

Phil showed a flicker of amusement. "What? No ‘the human body has remarkable resilience’, or ‘near-miraculous cures do happen’?"

"No," Fitz admitted bluntly, "because most of the time they don’t. Their vitals are so crazy they oughta be in ICU."

"‘They’?"

Fitz looked disgruntled. "Must you play policeman all the time?"

"I thought you wanted my advice."

"Will you lock him up?"

"Not likely."

"Then that’s why, Dumbass," Fitz told him impatiently. "Your advice, I mean."

"Good thing I’m not a violent man." Phil’s laughter was a deep rumble.

"Good thing I don’t have to work the ER every time you’re on duty," Fitz replied sourly.

Phil’s laughter rumbled again.

"The ‘they’ includes Rom. Jeremy’s okay."

"Or as okay as the ‘artist’ ever gets." Phil frowned, and shook his head. "Can you believe he’s an artist now? I think I liked it better when he was pushing used cars. At least then he didn’t buy his own bullshit."

"Maybe it’s a form of chemical lunacy."

"Selling cars?" Phil grinned.

Fitz glowered. "I knew I should’ve called Dacey. Jeremy’s not the one we’re talking about."

"Okay, try this one: egomania manifested in psychopathy."

"I don’t think Wick fits the profile."

Phil answered his phone. It was Dacey. He listened for a moment, looked absolutely dumbfounded, then asked, "What about Jeremy?" When the call ended, he just sat there, looking sombre.

Fitz tried to respect it, but after about thirty seconds he couldn’t take it any more. "What?!" he asked impatiently.

"Wick doesn’t have a record..." Phil began.

"I could’ve told you that!" Fitz said sarcastically.

"...of any kind."

Fitz looked at him blankly. "So?"

"So he doesn’t exist."

"Rom?"

Phil shook his head. "Jeremy, yes; Rom, no."

"But Rom teaches. How the hell did he get the job?"

Phil shrugged. "Easy enough to get ID." He rested his arms on the table and slowly sipped his coffee.

Fitz read his expression. It wasn’t hard to guess what Phil was thinking.

Ridiculous! He tried to make it sound that way. "They’re not terrorists." But it didn’t come out with the certainty he’d intended. Fitz had always ridiculed the popular sport of seeing terrorists in every corner. To him it smacked of Nazis and McCarthyism and Big Brother.

He also knew it would be the first conclusion Phil would leap to. And Dacey must have already made the leap, if she was giving Phil a call.

"The drug could be the means, or the trigger."

"Shit." Fitz paled. "His research."

"What’re you talking about now?"

"Rom’s a scientist. He says he’s working on plants, but who knows? He went crazy over the paper—tore things apart to find it."

Phil frowned. "And Wick?"

"Nearly tore him apart." At Phil’s expression, Fitz grinned. "Merely an exaggeration, Dickwit. He didn’t hurt him." He hated to suggest it, but he would have hated more suggesting it to someone else. His smile faded. "Wick says his job’s to ‘curb him or kill him’."

"So you think he’s after Rom’s research?"

Fitz shrugged, unwilling to commit himself to a theory which might land one of his closest friends in jail. "Maybe. If so, Jeremy got caught in the middle." Fitz’ pupils were huge. He considered it further, realised he was overtired and getting caught up in theatrics. "I don’t believe this," he said, disgusted. "My paranoia’s working overtime. Rom wasn’t a scientist ten years ago—and if you’re right," he said doubtfully, "he didn’t have records any more then than now. Ergo, this is all a crock of shit."

Phil didn’t answer. He just sat there, his expression both suspicious and resigned.

"Hell, you’ve already decided! Helllooo!" Fitz waved his hand in front of Phil’s face. "Wick, a terrorist? Refugee is more like it."

Phil’s face had closed up, so Fitz couldn’t read his expression. Fitz reminded him, in a voice thick with disgust, "He’s one of your best friends."

"Convenient, having the local constabulary on your side," Phil said. "Remember, some places train ’em early—start ’em off young." He took a big slurp of his coffee, added more sugar, stirred it slowly, then slurped again.

Buying time, Fitz realised. Wondering how to phrase it so it won’t antagonise the witness. It bothered him the way Phil was avoiding eye contact.

Phil said slowly, "He looked like he’d been beaten to me."

"So now it’s information you want?" Fitz spat. His lips had thinned, and there were red patches high in his cheeks.

So this is what Fitz looks like, Phil thought—when he’s furious.

"Outa here," Fitz muttered.
"What’re you gonna do?" Phil asked suspiciously, as Fitz turned to go.

"I’m not gonna start flinging accusations," he retorted angrily.

Phil’s jaw tightened. There was an angry glint in his eyes now, too.

"Let’s say I’m going to find a way to get them back in their right minds," Fitz said, through gritted teeth. His eyes were mere slits, and his tone frosty as he flung, "Shame the same can’t be done for you."

The sky cracked, ripping apart in a cacophonous concussion of sound. Rom watched, as the layers of troposphere ruptured, spilling methane and noxious waste, spewing forth fragments of matter. The sky was bleeding now; great gashes leaking pestilential hordes...

Rom jerked and twitched in his sleep, coming awake with a panicky gasp. His fingers closed on the envelope, reassured by its crinkling proximity. There was no consolation for the guilt, though. He recalled the ground littered with bats, the flopping and flailing of grounded wings.

I did it.

The admission nearly killed him. His heart gave a jolt, then thudded, hard, so he could barely breathe. The room grew dotted and buzzy; filtered black around the edges.

"The worldspanners wear destruction, and bleed the land..."

Rom had arrived here a sacrificial virgin, imbued with a viewpoint as unshakeable as it was unrealistic. Religious ideals and political philosophies that barely worked for his own culture. He’d been trapped into sleep and brought here, for reasons he could not remember. And he’d been left with only sketchy memories—artificial memories—which he’d assumed were all that anyone retained of one’s youth.

His mission had been slumbering, too. He’d made a life for himself, and a purpose for that life—little suspecting that his purpose was for something else altogether. Never suspecting that all his ethics and hard-won beliefs would be meaningless, against the irresistible molecular activity driving his body chemistry.

Time was running out, and all that had gone before was devalued by the needs of today. The life he’d built here was now supposed to become secondary—as inconsequential as his forgotten youth.

The intensity of his mission was still with him, but the drive was running thin.

And what happens once you finish it, Rom? He tried to think beyond the moment, and his need to fulfil his programming. It was dehumanising; made him feel like a bloody robot.

I don’t want to kill anyone.

He had a feeling his personal ethics wouldn’t matter, should he get close enough. All the good intentions in the world wouldn’t be able to conquer the strength of his bloodlust. It was so hot in his blood now that he could feel it eating him away inside.

And afterwards?

A murderer. Condemned by this world and outside the bounds of the other. No religious fervour to cover his tracks. No special credo to excuse murder. He simply wasn’t holy enough, or devout enough, to couch his guilt in religious prudery. No hiding, and no forgiveness.

Nowhere to go...

He stood up, and took a tentative step, testing his weakness. He was shivering uncontrollably, but however heatedly he burned inside, his limbs felt ice cold and weighted. He’d be lucky if he had enough in him to finish the job.

Nowhere to go?

Death was his guide.

Maybe it would also prove his destination.

Wick jerked awake.

Almost. His limbs were too heavy and his lids glued shut. Inside his slumbering body his spirit was writhing.

Rom was leaving. Wick knew it by the pattern of things, and if someone like Fitz had asked him to be more specific, he would’ve had a hard time explaining why. Over the years he’d become imbued with Rom’s signature, and Rom’s wavelength was going walkabout—becoming distant, with more interference.

From day one, Wick had made it a point to keep tabs on the assassin, just as he’d once tried to keep tabs on his intended victim.

It had come to Wick in his restless sleep that if Rom were as gifted as the woman, then he had as much obligation to protect him from harm as he did her. This wasn’t merely a matter of friendship: he had an oath to uphold, and beliefs to sustain. He could protect Romulus without compunction. It was his duty.

Except the damn fool would be out trying to ruin it all. Luring in the bats was bad enough; summoning the hunters was worse. Once a Mict went into hiding, there was no finding the foul thing, unless it wanted to find you. Micts were the punishers of the irreligious.

In this case, they were the executioners for the indiscreet.

Only, they’d gotten it wrong.

Nice to know they can make mistakes. They weren’t omniscient.

A little more of Wick’s superstitious conditioning chipped away.

He sniffed—aware, even in his sleep, that something was wrong. He should have been focussed on Rom’s sensory camouflage, yet all he could think of now were Micts.

It was coming. His eyes were closed, but he sensed it drift through the doorway. He could see it, shifting behind his lids, moving toward him across the room—wanting to finish the job before the daylight finished it. Wick mentally scrambled to the far side of his bed. Physically, all he could do was lie there and flinch.

The dark smoke was rising now, concealing the evil deed from watching eyes. Couching a simple act of feeding in some vainglorious exhibition of smoky retribution.

Wick felt the teeth pierce his shoulder even as the first rays of daybreak spiked the skies.

Fitz left Phil and went straight to Rom’s room. He knew it was stupid, and wouldn’t do his rep any good.

Go home, get some sleep, and talk to them when you’re calm...

Only, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. Whatever these fools were taking, it was killing them. They had to know. Confrontation came a lot easier when you were tired and irritable.

Besides, I already blew it. Wick had requested no drugs, but Fitz had doped him up anyway. A fool’s solution to a difficult problem, but without it, Fitz would have been concerned about leaving. He would have felt even more remiss if he’d left Wick to strangle Rom in his sleep.

Rom was gone. His bed was empty.

Fitz’ eyes were narrowed as he stole into Wick’s room. The door was closing behind him before he realised he needn’t have bothered with being sneaky. Wick was already awake. He was standing at the closet door, and Fitz crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

"Going somewhere?"

Wick jumped, muttered something under his breath, then said, with attempted nonchalance, "Just heading for the head."

"Uh-huh," Fitz said, frowning like thunder. "Where’s your IV?" he asked.

For the first time, Wick noticed that the bag of blood, which had been transfusing into his arm, had disappeared.

"Someone must have taken it," he said lamely.

Damn Mict! Couldn’t resist an after-Wick snack.

"Go."

Wick looked at him blankly.

"You said you needed to visit the head," Fitz told him angrily. "Go do it." He smiled irritatingly. "I’ll just stay here, to make sure you don’t slip...away."

Wick looked from Fitz to the closet door and back again. "No," he said. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down...

Fitz looked down. Blood was dribbling out from under the closet door, and pooling onto the floor. Fitz lifted his head, and looked at Wick in dawning horror.

Rom!

"...curb him or kill him."

Before Wick could comment, Fitz had slammed him back, against the bed. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for a grisly discovery, then yanked open the door.

And was sent flying. The Mict was slurping fatly on the bag of blood, and didn’t take kindly to having its meal interrupted—or its body exposed to the light. Growls erupted from a dense black cloud as the Mict, concealed within its personal fog, leapt at Fitz’ chest.

Wick grabbed a chair, and slammed it across the Mict’s back.

The Mict came after him then. It pinned him down, then ripped into his shoulder once more, following the scent trail to fresh blood. Wick could feel the lassitude hitting him again, and this time, there was no hitting back.

Die with honour...

He closed his eyes, with a long sigh.

He never saw Fitz wield the IV stand like a lance.

For the third time that night, Phil received a call from Dr. Douglas Fitzgibbon. This time, Fitz was more than angry—he was hysterical. When he got to the part, "I think it may’ve taken Rom," Phil picked up Dacey and tore back to the hospital.

Fitz was holed up on the third floor. He’d pulled the curtains around Wick’s bed, and wheeled the other patients out. He’d given orders to find them new rooms, claimed there might be something infectious in this one, and generally, did all kinds of things for which he’d undoubtedly catch hell.

At the moment he didn’t care.

He greeted Dacey’s knock dressed in oversized pants and shirt. At her look, Fitz had only mumbled angrily, "Better than bloodstains", and hastily closed the door.

Phil knocked peremptorily, then strolled in a second later. He’d taken a moment to peek at Jeremy, and Rom’s empty bed.

He arrived just in time for the unveiling. Phil felt a tightening in his gut when he saw the massive amounts of blood staining the sheet. Whoever was under there couldn’t possibly be alive.

With shaking hands, Fitz drew back the cloth.

It had a distorted, scarcely-fleshed skull. Dacey stared at the sinews, muscles, and tendons, readily apparent under translucent skin. What caught and held her eyes most, though, were the teeth: massive, pointed incisors. They were multilayered, like a shark’s, with new ones to revolve in where the old ones broke off. "My God!" she gasped.

The body had been well-muscled and rounded, but at the moment appeared compressed, almost deflated. The torso was massive, compared to the undersized legs and arms. The legs were thin, like a spider’s; again, barely ensheathed in some kind of heavy black muscle. On the torso, the black lengths of connective tissue were so exposed that the nearly-transparent skin seemed inadequate to protect it.

It doesn’t need protection, Dacey realised, spying the long, curved hooks on the tips of the skeletal fingers. In her police work, she’d seen humans in all kinds of tragic circumstances, from shotgun-blasted corpses to victims of incendiary explosions. But nothing like this.

She bent over, to examine it closely. What the hell was this thing? It was repulsive, and the only emotion it inspired in her was repugnance to the point of abhorrence. Phil must have been similarly affected. The hand he placed on her shoulder was tense to the clampdown point. He was prepared to yank her back if the corpse so much as twitched.

She felt none of those sympathetic leanings she had to suppress in her work—the empathy for human tragedy.

Because this Thing isn’t human. This Thing. She shuddered. "It’s not human," she said flatly.

Behind her, Phil was silent so long that Dacey turned to look at him. He just shook his head, for once without comment. When he finally found his voice, it was to whisper, "Where’s Wick?"

Fitz opened the door to the closet. Wick was sitting on the floor, propped up against a wall. Phil squatted down and felt his pulse. "Slow," he whispered.

"Lost a lot of blood," Fitz explained. "I kept him in there, just in case." He looked sick.

"‘It’ came back to life?" Phil asked. He grimaced, and used the sheet to poke the creature on the bed. "Don’t think that’s an issue."

"How much of this is Wick’s?" Dacey asked, staring at the rusty red pools drying on the cloth.

"I’m not sure," Fitz replied, again with that note of hysteria in his voice. "But it was d-draining him d-dr-ry." He sank into a chair, and put his hands over his face, so when he spoke next, his voice sounded muffled. "I couldn’t yank it off him," he groaned, obviously distressed.

Dacey gave his shoulder a squeeze. "So what’d you do?" she asked quietly.

"It was like a tick," Fitz admitted woefully. He sighed loudly, and gestured at the stained stainless of the IV stand. "I was only going to jab it," he said, throwing his hands up in despair. "T-To get it off Wick. But it was so engorged—"

"So you hauled off and popped it," Phil said dryly. He was examining the creature now, using a pencil to shift a flaccid arm. The only picture he’d ever seen which remotely resembled the beast in the bed was some photo of an aborted foetus, that had been partially developed and embedded in tissues outside the womb. The foetus had been more of an undifferentiated mass, with distinct teeth. This thing, however, was far from undifferentiated. Everything from its multirowed teeth to its claws was purposeful.

"Oh, hell..." Fitz groaned.

"Don’t sweat it, Fitz," Phil told him, shaking his head in appalled incredulity. "Something as nasty as this, sucking on Wick like that? I sure as hell would’ve popped it, too."

*
GILDED FOLLY
Ebook http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4

Comments

End of Copy for BoneSong + excerpt from Gilded Folly

2006-02-05T12:08:13+01:00

I'm sitting here eating an apple with a big grin on my face. Last night, I finished BoneSong!!! My 24th novel! Ecstatic doesn't begin to describe the feeling...

It's been really difficult to keep up my enthusiasm lately. All writers have down time, when you worry whether you're ever going to become a household name. Whether your books will ever have a chance of being found in every library, and every bookstore. For most of us, it's never going to happen.

Novice writers, and non-writers, generally have the wrong idea. They believe that publication is everything! When you begin writing a novel, you never realise that you're signing on to be a website designer, publicist, salesperson - and many times - agent. The reality in today's world of independent publishers is no money upfront, and minor moneys quarterly. Promotion is generally totally via the Net, your book is one of thousands on Amazon, and availability does not equate to sales. Good reviews and contest placements make little difference. If you do get your book into a real bookstore, and your publisher isn't willing to pay $10,000, to have your book in a front display, you'll be lucky if anyone sees it.

An author who was published by one of my former publishers once said she could count on 250 sales from family and friends. She wanted the publisher to tell her where she should go from there, to make sales. Frankly, I wondered what planet she came from! 250 sales??? Most of the time, my friends want to read my books for free, and I haven't the heart to ask these financially tapped-out creatures to buy a book. In fact, most relations/friends actually feel hurt if I hint at such a thing. The reality (painful, yes), is that many of our publishers don't offer us free copies - they make us buy them. My first publisher made us buy 25 at a time, if we wanted any kind of discount! Needless to say, I didn't see my first print books for years! I finally found them at a library, and stood there goggling. It was an incredible moment, to hold my print books in hand! Wonderful!

I suppose writing novels can be compared to purchasing a lotto ticket. During that time your book is under consideration by a publisher, or out there, awaiting sales, you have the potential for being a winner. The dream is alive and well, and hope is ever-present. It is only times like this, when I'm tired and slightly burnt-out, from finishing a book, that I question what I'm doing.

Instead, I suppose, I should be grateful. I'm 18x published, and the people who read my work, generally enjoy it.

And I have enough hope, and enough projects ahead, to keep going. I suppose, if it comes down to it, I'm a writing junkie, with the next fix just around the corner.

Tomorrow, in fact.

Talk to you soon.

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my INTERNATIONAL print books - so far, ELF & TROLLS )
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt from Gilded Folly - to celebrate completion of book#24!

Chapter Two

Not goo. It was his first rational thought. That was dirt, and scalped grass beneath him. His fingers twitched, grasping the soil.

Real...

He sucked in air desperately—choked, coughed, and vomited. His throat was so swollen he was nearly asphyxiated once more, and his hands latched onto his neck as he wheezed for air.

He lay there limply then, taking shallow breaths of bat-tainted air.

"Rom!"

With a shaking hand, Rom pried open an eyelid once more, and saw Wick’s anxious face above him, etched in moonshadow. "Hi, Wick," he tried to say, but his mouth and throat were too swollen. It came out as a sharp croak.

He croaked again when a bat tumbled onto his chest.

Wick didn’t waste any more time. He took Rom’s arms and hauled him upwards, then bent to catch him over one shoulder. "Can you breathe?" he asked worriedly. He felt, rather than saw, Rom’s nod. Relieved, he gave a small smile. "Bats’re a nice touch," Wick muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Rom flinched, the spasm making him cough once more. He knows.

He can’t know. How could he? How could Wick know something Rom wasn’t sure of himself? It was his last conscious thought.

Wick stumbled back the way he’d come. Rom’s breathing did one of those harsh, shuddery wheezes, and he picked up speed. Rom was in a bad way.

Jeremy was around here somewhere, if he hadn’t been spooked by the bats. Wick guessed he was still hanging in close by, searching for Rom—even if it meant wading butt-deep through bats.

Wick broke into a slippery, uneven jog. He dodged dense pockets of mosquitoes and swoops by low-flying mammals, all the while searching for Jeremy’s silhouette. He was so busy watching around him, that he missed what was under his feet.

Jeremy was just getting up when Wick rammed into him.

They did a spectacular topple. Rom went flying over Jeremy’s head. Wick flipped and landed on top of him. Jeremy was back where he’d started—on the ground—only, this time, he was facedown in the mud.

An impatient hand yanked Jeremy’s hair, tugging his nostrils clear, and he roused himself. Someone grasped under his arm now, hoisting him up. Jeremy was barely to his knees when his helper froze. The other man was so tense his fingers gripped like iron, digging into Jeremy’s armpit.

Jeremy’s caked eyelids shot open, and he tore at the iron grip.

Wick’s.

"Let go!" he yelped.

No response. At this rate, Wick’s damned fingers would puncture the flesh. Jeremy had always thought of himself as strong, but he had nothing on Wick. He swore, all the while pounding on that helpful hand.

But Wick didn’t seem to notice. He shuddered with the impact, but stayed there, frozen in place. He was staring—oblivious to bats and battering alike—at something in the distance. He was so tense he was shaking, and when Jeremy finally tore himself free, Wick remained oblivious.

It was then, when his own eyes had cleared enough to focus, that Jeremy noticed Wick’s expression. It was one he’d never seen before, and at first he couldn’t place it. Aversion? Revulsion?

No, Jeremy realised, and he tensed, much as Wick had. That peculiar grimace reflected an uncommon emotion...something the modern world rarely saw.

Horror...

Jeremy followed Wick’s line of sight but he never had the chance to see what was scaring him. Wick exploded into action with a suddenness which sent Jeremy toppling once more. When he looked up this time, Wick was kneeling, shaking Rom so hard the man’s teeth were rattling.

"What’re you doing?!" Jeremy yelled.

"Clearing his airway!" Wick puffed, vigorously shaking Rom again. There was more than a hint of panic in Wick’s shadowed expression. "They’re here!" he shouted harshly, in Rom’s face. "Rastic plikva!" Shake. "You have to stop!"

In the dim light, Rom’s swollen face looked like a pulpy raspberry, and his breathing was coming in shallow rasps.

Jeremy dove at Wick. "You’re killing him!" he bellowed.

Rom flopped to one side, doubled-up now in those choking gasps. It sent Wick’s panic up another notch, and his temper wasn’t far behind. "Rastic quoring!" he swore, landing a punch on Jeremy’s jaw. "I’m—saving—his—goddamn—life!"

Jeremy returned the favour with a kick, which sent Wick flying. Then he sat up, and rubbed his aching jaw. "By shaking his fool head off?!"

Wick was fuming but silent as he hoisted Rom back onto his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his words were stilted, his expression wary. "Go home," he warned. "This place is no longer safe."

Jeremy had the impression he was referring to more than the bats and mosquitoes.

Crazy. Insane. But no more insane than what followed. Wick’s eyes swept their surroundings once more. Whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t bats. Apparently, though, the worrisome thing was gone, because he relaxed a little, drooping slightly under Rom’s weight. There was even a glint of amusement in his eyes as he extended his hand to Jeremy. "Farewell, my Friend," he said, his tone almost formal.

Jeremy looked at him incredulously. "You’ve lost it," he said flatly.

Wick nodded, again with that odd formality which was so foreign. Then he turned to go, hesitating only briefly as though there was something else he wanted to say.

The moment passed. Wick shrugged, and started to walk away.

Jeremy was still so angry he didn’t know how to respond. "That’s it?" he managed.

Wick staggered slightly, then admitted, with a side glance at Rom, "For him." There was no amusement in his voice now, only regret. "And almost certainly for me."

The moonlight etched planes in his face Jeremy had never noticed before. For a moment, he had the impression he was looking at a stranger. Before Jeremy could figure out what to say, Wick had gone, vanishing—with Rom—into the bat-fraught night.

Jeremy stood there, momentarily stunned. Gooseflesh crawled up his spine once more, and he let it come—there was no one here to see it. He was feeling the same reluctance to call out now as he’d felt when the luminescent runner had passed him on the street.

It’s Wick.

He couldn’t be afraid of Wick. This was no stranger. They’d known each other since college—ten years now.

He felt like a fool for letting himself get spooked. Given the circumstances, it was no wonder if Wick was acting strange.

The bat rain had stopped, and the bats which were still able to fly were leaving nearly as swiftly as they’d come.

Some of Jeremy’s tension faded. They’d all been a little weirded out by the bat migration. Wick’s madness had been born of panic, and the spookiness edging the bat deluge had dredged up Jeremy’s concerns.

At least they ate the mosquitoes...

Jeremy was suddenly certain he had only to go back to Rom’s house to find him—and get him the medical help he needed.

He sniggered a little at his own foolishness, and Wick’s bizarre reaction. It didn’t stop him from pausing, though, to stare intently into the darkness, his eyes following the direction Wick’s had taken.

Where he almost immediately spotted the glowing bat. It was haloed, in a weird glittery underlighting, and as it crawled across the ground it left a trail of sparkling glimmers.

Jeremy’s eyes widened in horror. The bulging, ratlike eyes were glinting. Every twitch of the ears, every shuffling movement of those creeping wings was highlighted.

It was heading his way.

Jeremy took an involuntary step backwards, slipped, tripped and over-compensated, then ended up sprawled on his back. Beneath him, wings squirmed, claws ripped, and small teeth gnawed at his clothing.

Worst of all, though, was the Glowing Avenger. It was coming towards him; an immutable force over which he had no control. It didn’t matter that his size dwarfed the bat’s, or that he could easily have meted out the same kind of crushing blow the bats were getting under his rear. This bat was different. That wicked light, highlighting all those features humans associate with evil, and it was coming for him...

Delivering a letter. He sat there stupidly, and stared at the bat’s leavings. The thing was trailing glitter, but when it rose on its spindly limbs, its personal underlighting faded, as it left a crumpled—and radiant—envelope behind. With shaking hands, Jeremy bypassed the bat, and swiftly snatched up the paper.

Instinct told him to drop it. The moment his fingers brushed the glitzy surface, his breath caught in his throat.

Leave it...

Instead, he scooted back away from the bat, and straightened the crumpled sheet against his knee.

Some new gimmick, he thought, mentally making light of it. Paper you can read in the dark.

Except there was nothing to read. It was blank, save for the watermark. Jeremy flicked on his lighter, to see it better, only to find the watermark had disappeared. When he flicked off the light, it reappeared, embedded in the paper—a glistening and eerie purple, backlighted by the glitzy luminescence.

When he reached Rom’s house, the lights were still out. Jeremy paused outside the door. A little nervously, he flicked on his lighter again. The flame danced in the window glass, and he dropped it, startled by the reflected glare.

Still jumpy, Dipshit...

No Rom, and Jeremy’s phone returned no answer at Wick’s house either. He hesitated, then sat outside on the porch, uncertain what to do. He tried Wick’s cellphone again, but no luck.

Wick’s smart. Panicked or not, he’d have hauled Rom off to a hospital.

Jeremy couldn’t settle. He rang the police about the bats, and phoned a few hospitals trying to locate Rom. After the third call, he decided he was acting like a fool, and rang Wick again instead. "Call me," he commanded the answering machine.

He sat on Rom’s porch a few minutes longer, on the off-chance that Rom or Wick would turn up. He hadn’t slept yet, and he was dog tired. Settling back in Rom’s favourite lounge chair, he unconsciously fingered the letter.

Unbelievable. He rubbed a finger across it, enjoying the rough texture. Glints of gold flickered through his jacket flap, and he froze, distracted. What is it about gold?

It’s not your letter...

No, it belongs to a creeping bat. I’m just holding it for him...

Jeremy gave in to temptation and pulled the envelope out of his pocket. He stared at the contents, then dropped the paper, stunned. The metallic flecks shone as brightly as ever.

But that glowing watermark—that iridescent purple face—had moved.

Wick sat in the dark, knees up, face buried in his folded arms.

In hiding...

Cursing himself for a coward, he pushed himself to his feet, and wandered over to the window, to stare warily into the darkness beyond. The moon had waned, hours since. There was too much blackness without, and too much uncertainty within.

In the background, Rom’s breathing was a harsh rattle.

"Plikva!" Wick murmured.

All those years of watching, and hiding in the open. Better than this...this sequestered darkness.

He’d never met Her, but in the impassioned stupidity of overzealous duty, he’d made the mistake of meeting Rom. Worse still, in his eagerness to camouflage his business, he’d made it a point to insinuate himself into Rom’s. What had begun as a casual acquaintance had been mutated somehow by shared experience and laughter. Suspicion had given way to a grudging trust, which had built over the years into something stronger. Brotherhood, with its requisite commitment. The kind of bond Wick wasn’t supposed to feel for his enemies.

Wick didn’t even know when his mission had changed—when his task had evolved from saving her from Rom to saving Rom from himself. When one hunter had resolved to free the other from his trap...

I’m a fool.

Only now Rom was sicker than Wick had ever seen him. He’d touched the paper, and it was killing him: the chemical signal to his neurological pathways. That glittering sheet was gone, but the toxin had already infiltrated his skin. He was drowning in histamine, and writhing in withdrawal. Wick didn’t think he had a chance of surviving both.

I need to find it. The paper wasn’t on him, but Wick didn’t want to leave it for anyone else.

So foolish, Wickenham, to look for the trigger to a loaded gun.

I’ll stop him. Keep him from chasing his nightmares until he’s strong enough to fight back. Determined, Wick went over to Rom’s flailing form and lifted him up off the boxes.

Jeremy will help...

Or die trying. Stupid, to bring him into this. More stupid, perhaps, than fighting Fate. Wick could acknowledge his errors, even as he moved to compound them. The problem was, his loyalties had changed, years before. The victim of this particular drama—the one he’d been sworn to protect—was neither hapless nor helpless—or, at least, no more so than Rom. Those mosquitoes hadn’t been a natural phenomenon.

And self-preservation had stirred Rom into a supernatural response, while his unwillingness had caused him to forfeit control.

Now, they’d be hunting him. Rom’s reaction had been both unexpected and overblown.

Bats, Wick thought, amusement momentarily brightening his expression. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. Talk about black humour. Rom had exhibited the very thing he’d been sent here to eliminate.

In that moment, Wick couldn’t wait to tell him. It was the kind of joke Rom would have appreciated.

And, if Wick guessed right, Rom’s awakening might be confused, but for the first time in years, his sleeping self would be alert.

Romulus would be a whole person. No more schizoid episodes. No more hiding in his dreams.

His own worst enemy.

Jeremy held the paper a while longer—reluctant to tuck it away. The feel of it beneath his fingers was oddly satisfying, and it bothered him that he couldn’t figure out why. It bothered him even more that he was focussing so much on a stupid sheet of paper when Rom was still in trouble.

You can’t be certain of that, his conscience assured him, as he stroked the paper soothingly. He watched the flashes of light—like mini fireworks—no, sparklers—dancing in the darkness. Why the hell would anyone crumple it?

He ran a finger over the creases and shook his head admiringly. Even the dents looked good. Dammit if he wouldn’t incorporate some of these refinements into his artwork. He knew he was more of an opportunist than an artist, but a man can change.

That weird watermark had startled him at first, but it was obviously some new optical effect, illusory in its novelty. He stared at the woman’s face, enjoying the way her eyes met his. The next stage in optics...

He was still stretched out on Rom’s chaise lounge, and he lay there, relaxed and supremely content. The envelope was crunched securely in his pocket, but the letter was on his chest, one hand holding it protectively; a stupid, and somewhat vacant, smile on his face. He had to rouse himself to look at the figure which stepped noiselessly onto the porch.

It was almost enough to startle him out of his reverie. He stared at her, then lifted the paper and stared at her again.

No doubt about it. The reality was devoid of opalescent greens and purples, of course, but it was, nevertheless, her.

All kinds of thoughts flitted through his head—wonder at how she’d wandered from illusion into reality; curiosity over why she’d had her face embedded in the paper; confusion about why she was here in the middle of the night on Rom’s porch. His brain didn’t seem to be able to wrap itself around any of the words, though. The only thing he managed—alone with that exquisite in the middle of the night—was a lamely mumbled, "Bat had it."

She smiled at him then, or at least, he thought she did. His brain was so foggy it was hard for him to get past her presence.

When her gloved hand touched the paper, though, he frowned and grumbled. When she tried to withdraw it from his grasp he wrapped his arms around it protectively.

She was insistent, and in the end, he had no choice. His lassitude wasn’t up to her persistence. She plucked it away like a prize flower, shedding sparkling petals across his chest.

"Steal away like a thief," he murmured angrily.

Her eyes flashed then, and he guessed she wanted to retort in kind. Something held her back, though, and he suspected it was reluctance, to leave anything with him: her thoughts, her touch, the sound of her voice. He was to be left with no sense of her self; with nothing but foggy memory.

He saw her go, yet it seemed but an instant before she was there again. Eyes closed, he grinned, and blindly groped for her form.

Her form booted the chaise lounge and toppled it onto its side.

"Paws off, Fool." Wick. There was a moment of pained silence, then, "If you couldn’t guess from my looks, all you had to do was ask." Wick’s voice was thick with amused disgust. "No wonder you have so much trouble with your art." Grimacing, Wick hoisted Rom a little higher, pushed off from the wall, and staggered in through the front door.

Jeremy wandered in after him, slammed the door awkwardly, then stood there, wobbling, pondering Rom’s raspy breathing. "Needs a doctor," he offered sagely. He tried flicking on the light, remembered the electricity was out, and leaned against the wall, crossing arms that for some reason, no longer folded properly. "Lights," he mumbled stupidly. "Hallooo!" he shouted to Wick. "You still here?"

Wick was momentarily silent. Then there was a squeak of the sofa springs and he was in Jeremy’s face. He sniffed loudly. "You been drinking?" he asked, confused. Not like Jeremy to drink away his worries.

"Drinking in the night," Jeremy told him poetically, with an elegant sweep of his arm which clipped Wick across the nose. Jeremy sat down on a chair, forgot there wasn’t one, and thudded loudly on the floor.

No booze on his breath, and Jeremy hadn’t done drugs since college. "You on anything?" Wick asked him suspiciously.

"The floor," Jeremy replied promptly.

Wick frowned. He squatted down and gripped Jeremy’s shirt. Concussion. "How’s your head?" he asked worriedly.

Jeremy sniggered. "Dark in here," he said practically.

"Yeah," Wick muttered. "Call it a precaution. They’ll have it back on by tomorrow."

Jeremy took a long moment to absorb that, while Wick’s deft fingers checked his scalp for bumps or bruises. Becoming impatient, he shrugged Wick off and complained, "Damn dark."

Apparently, he hadn’t absorbed it after all.

Absorbed. Wick’s eyes widened. "Did you find anything after we left?" he asked Jeremy urgently.

Jeremy’s eyes took on a crafty glint. "Bats," he hissed slyly, then spoiled it by laughing.

"Anything else?" Wick gripped his shirt again. "Jeremy, listen. It’s important! Did you find something...maybe some paper?" Wick’s sharp eyes had no trouble perceiving Jeremy’s crestfallen expression.

"She took it," he told Wick angrily. He gazed up, at a spot two feet over Wick’s head and grouched, "Ripped it right out of my hands."

"She?" Wick prompted.

Jeremy rolled his eyes at Wick’s abysmal stupidity. "Yes," he confirmed loudly. "Duh-h."

Wick’s lips twitched. "Do you know who she was? Have you seen her before?"

"Sure."

Rom’s breathing had become a shuddery whine.

"Where, Jer?!" Wick asked urgently. "Where’d she go?"

"My dreams," Jeremy replied wistfully.

Wick released him abruptly and stood up, running a hand nervously through his hair. Then, he stooped down and turned over Jeremy’s hands, to look at his palms.

If he’d had any doubts, they were gone in that instant. Jeremy’s palms were glowing, much as Rom’s were: a pallid, luminescent gold.

Moments later, Wick grunted as he hoisted Jeremy into a chair. Jer was snoring loudly, his mouth gaping open and drool running down his chin. When Wick lifted him, he nearly snorted himself awake, chuckled, mumbled something about "ought to see me with my chisel", chuckled again, then went back to drooling.

Wick studied him worriedly. He’ll be all right...

It wouldn’t have the same effect on Jeremy as it’d had on Rom.

No worse than a hangover. Different physiologies, different molecuflora. Tomorrow Jeremy would be sluggish, and carry only dim memories of tonight’s events.

It was a comfortable conclusion, and one Wick could walk away with—if he could convince himself it was the truth. Involving Jeremy was only going to take the man down. That much was evident in what had already happened. Jer didn’t need that.

No friend would do that to another...

And Wick hadn’t used him for years. So long, in fact, that he’d gotten out of the habit.

Jeremy had been an asset ten years past, when Wick’d had a cover to establish. Rom, that innocently lethal newcomer, had gravitated into Jeremy’s orbit. Rom’s blend of naiveté and dark wisdom had been mixed, even then, with a healthy sense of the ridiculous, which had lured people to him. He could laugh at himself, and laugh at them, and no one ever took offence. There was no harm in it...in him.

If they only knew...

If Rom could but have seen it, his situation was the most ridiculous of all: lofty principles and lethal purpose. A self-directed tool, Wick thought bitterly, who would toss his life away for a wisp of paper.

But Jeremy’s popularity, and his wide circle of friends, had given Rom credibility. That would never have been Rom’s intention, of course—he’d have baulked at the idea of using someone else, merely to establish himself. Not so Wick. Rom might have no idea who he really was, or what he was designed for, but Wick did. Wick’s principles weren’t as lofty as Rom’s, but they were a lot more honest, because they were founded in truth.

Truth? If Rom was a lofty-principled assassin with no idea of his own status, and misplaced confidence in his own ethics, what was Wick McClintock? An accidental friend? An Assassin-Buster with a heart of gold?

I’m a realist...

"There are no realists in the Land of Lies." It was something he’d heard long ago, and it came back to haunt him now. There could be no realists because there was no truth. The reality Wick had been trained for listed Rom as an enemy, and Jeremy as a useful nonentity, but there’d been no truer friends to him, over the years.

It’s all a lie. Jeremy might not die from the poison, but death by letter would have been a convenient garrotte for all those loose ends: Rom, any unwanted witnesses...and me.

It was difficult to accept. For over ten years, Wick, too, had been playing a role, that had become more a part of him than he’d ever realised. Underlying his daily activities, however, he’d been proud of his nobility of purpose—of his determination to save her life, and—later—Rom’s.

Now it all seemed like so much hogwash: dirty, confused, and stinking with shit.

Wick stood there, irresolute. For a man with a multitude of friends, he was suddenly feeling more alone than he had for the last ten years. Back then, he’d had a Cause to support him, but now he needed another kind of support entirely.

Play the game...

It was, really, the only choice he had left.

He picked up the phone and called for an ambulance.

"What the hell happened?!" Wick could hear Douglas Fitzgibbon’s voice all the way out in the waiting room. Late as it was, the ER was still pretty crowded. Had the man no discretion? Wick vowed to give him hell, then realised he’d never get the chance. He wouldn’t see him again after tonight.

Wick slumped against the chair back, feeling the weight of his decision. With panic no longer driving him, he could only view his planned departure with regret.

Nothing will ever be the same. He didn’t want to think about how much he’d miss it.

There was another loud grumble. It was late enough that Fitz didn’t care. He’d always joked about what he’d do to them if any of ’em showed their faces in his ER. Apparently, he wasn’t joking now.

Wick twitched nervously. His uneasiness was showing, and he wondered whether Rom was in a bad way. Had he waited too long?

I didn’t save you to kill you, Rom, he thought morosely.

But he’d known Fitz was on duty tonight. He’d wanted to outlast him; to wait until his shift was over, and avoid the kind of scene which might lead to questions.

So when you walked away, hauling Rom’s sorry ass, nobody would take much notice.

Someone must have given Fitz an explanation, and Wick guessed it was Jenny. He’d known her since college, too. Just his luck she’d been working reception. She’d wanted him to stay, and have Fitz look at his bat scratches.

Wick thought it was ridiculous, and he’d be damned if he’d let Fitz look at his scratches or anything else. But the Rom Protection Plan called for proximity. As soon as Rom got his brains back, they’d whoosh out the door.

"Is he still here?!" Fitz’ voice roared.

My cue to leave, Wick thought, all his plans vanishing in a moment of panic. His carefully-acquired camouflage was failing him. He was too exhausted, too worried, and too scared to cope with Fitz’ questions.

And too damn confused. Rom could sort this one out on his own.

Wick sprang out of the chair, and sprinted for the doors. They’d whisked closed behind him before he acknowledged he was an idiot. He’d ridden over here in the front of the ambulance. He had no car, and no money. His wallet was lying somewhere at the bottom of a pond, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for hitching—not with a nose swollen from Jeremy’s poetic fist-flinging, mosquito bites dotting his skin, bat lacerations lining his limbs, and damp clothes from his little swim. There were dead mosquitoes in his hair and splatted across his face, and he’d already guessed from the twitching noses in the waiting area that he was wearing bat guano down his back.

Resignedly, Wick sighed and headed across the parking lot, his shoes squelching in complaint. Now that he was alone, with no one to protect, the night seemed a lot more threatening.

Definitely easier to be staunch in company...

And the hunters were out. Hard to discount the spectral forms he’d seen in the park. Wick hastened his step. It was all he could do to hold himself to a walk. His pounding heart was insisting he run.

You can’t be sure...

It had been too dark, and the air too thick with insects; the moon obscured by bats.

And you were freaked out of your mind. Addled by Rom’s display; confused by what it signified.

Doubt slowed his steps. All he’d had was a glimpse, really—half-obscured in a pocket of smoke. A distant view of sunken tissues strained over bone.

Had he really seen it, or was this, simply, what he’d feared to see—one of the spectres which had haunted his memories these many years?

Ghouls...in any world.

Had his imagination been triggered by Rom’s unexpected display, so he was designing demons from wraiths of smoke?

I’ve lived here too long, Wick accepted morosely. He’d grown accustomed to safety and freedom from fear. His, he now recognised, was a negligent acceptance of self-determination. Plunging back into the woes of his abandoned world had never been part of his plans.

He’d nearly convinced himself he’d been imagining things by the time he’d made it halfway home. Duty wouldn’t let him rest, though. He needed to know whether he’d been fathoming phantoms. Rom’s life could depend on it. Reluctantly, he turned his weary steps back toward the park.

Once there, Wick moved silently between the trees. The scent of newly mown grass wafted his way from the grass verge beyond, and mingled with the sharper tang of the pine needles beneath his feet. He hugged the darker patches of night, reluctant to be doing this at all.

If I had any sense, I’d wait until daybreak...

But, of course, he couldn’t, because then he’d wonder. Procrastination would only carry his fear through tomorrow. He wanted to be rid of it tonight.

He glanced at his watch, sighed and shrugged. All right, today, then. It was two am and all was not well in the depths of the forest...

His lips quirked with amusement. It had been so long since he’d needed to be wary like this that it could all have been a bad dream.

Maybe it is.

He pinched his skin and sighed. Awake enough, then. Too bad he couldn’t be like Rom who vented his angst in dreams he could never remember.

You don’t want to be like Rom right now, Wick. If that demon was real, he’s a wanted man.

The idea sent a shudder down his spine.

Sucking in the sound and holding it hostage...

It was like a black hole in his surroundings: sucking in sound, and light, and life.

He never saw It come. It was camouflaged in the nightsound clutter, which took him by surprise. The night suddenly darkened, and the stars were blotted out.

It was the Hambre Muerte, the Death Gorge.

No!

Tradition demanded he lie here and die now, grateful for the mercy of last-moment oblivion. It was the way these things were done...

Tastes of a leech, and eating habits to match...

Wick lay there limply, worried about the demon’s reputation for persistence, and worrying more about its companions. Was it alone?

He recalled another sorry fact from his past. Micts never travel alone...

He wriggled his fingers, clenched his fists, bent his toes, and jiggled his limbs—determined to lose the lassitude. The blood scent would bring the others in.

No way! He crunched the bloodsucker with his foot, right in the face. The creature flopped back, writhing in agony, all the while making a low-pitched grunting sound.

Wick pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbed another branch, and whopped the thing again.

Wick sat there, in bloodied triumph, listening to the crunch and thud as it ran into branches, shrubs, trees. He wondered if, ten years ago, he would’ve had the balls to offer a challenge.

Too indoctrinated.

If I pass out here, I’ll never get up again...

When the stars reappeared in the sky, he tugged himself up the rest of the way, using the trunk for support. Cursing and swearing, he staggered back the way he’d come.

An hour later, he’d covered about a fifth of the way back to the hospital. Rom couldn’t be alone—not now. Wick trudged along, resentful but resigned. He could think of a dozen places he’d rather be, and ten dozen things he’d rather be doing.

If Rom hadn’t decided to go into crazy-man mode...

Not his fault. As soon as you heard about the letter, you knew.

"Heard about the letter"? Gooseflesh raced down his back. From whom? How had he known?

More importantly, who’d sent it?

This is not the way these things were done. Rom could be expected to be determined, but not insane. Hell—the man was barely rational.

That glittery substance coating his hands? Wick was only glad he hadn’t been stupid enough to touch it.

Not like Rom...

He was hit by a sudden longing to gloat. For once, he’d been brainier than Romulus. It was damned unfortunate that the only one worth gloating to—the only one who’d understand—was presently out of his mind.

Wick sighed and attempted to put such unworthy thoughts aside. Pity. I ought to be pitying the poor fool...

The fact remained: someone had sent him a lethal package. Given his programming, who would bother? He was already programmed to inflict damage—why drive him insane en route?

Someone had taken the time, to physically deliver the damned thing. Could they want her that badly now? After all this time?

His duty wriggled before him and he frowned, uncertain. Mosquitoes were no defence against the Micts. A damned lame offence, too, he thought, scratching resentfully.

Maybe she had another weapon in her arsenal that he didn’t know about. Hell, he didn’t seem to know very much these days. Everyone seemed to have acquired some special skill since they’d arrived: her, with her insect horde; Rom, with his bat brigade. Only one of them had remained, more or less, the same—except, perhaps, for attitude. Me. It made him feel like a useless defender, more likely to become victim than saviour.

You, too, have a use, Wick, he thought groggily: sacrifice. Feed you to the Micts so the others can make their getaway.

Plikva!

He’d barely left Rom’s neighbourhood when they had him cornered. Wick knew there was no way out.

Phil pulled over the police car with a quick howl of the siren.

Well, he showed me, Wick thought wearily. Irritated, he ignored them and kept on walking.

Phil blocked his path. Arms crossed, he said angrily, "Did you ever think Fitz might be worried—?!"

"—ya thoughtless bastard," Wick finished for him.

Dacey’s lips twitched. "Worried enough to get the rest of us out of bed," she said pointedly.

"Tsk, tsk," Wick retorted sarcastically, but he couldn’t quite conceal his surprise. He’d had a lot on his mind, and the idea of causing them worry hadn’t occurred to him. As far as he could recall, no one had ever worried about him before.

He wasn’t sure he liked it. It made him feel as though he were in the wrong. He frowned, uncertain how to respond, and annoyed because his thought processes were running at quarter speed. Dacey’s expression suggested she required more of an explanation, though, so Wick made an effort. "Didn’t really think about it," he said lamely. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion.

"Didn’t think at all," Phil retorted. He studied Wick for a moment, taking in the white look. He was a mess—masses of swollen mosquito bites under a coating of mud. "You okay?" he asked gruffly.

"Sure," Wick said, squirmingly uncomfortable with Phil’s appraisal. He didn’t know how to handle the man’s concern.

Dacey’s eyes met Phil’s. Good ol’ Wick didn’t even know how far gone he was. Fitz had been right. He was in shock. "Fitz wants to talk to you," she said diplomatically. She had a feeling Wick would object to anything else.

"No way," Wick said. "Got plans."

Just then, his keen ears picked up a sound in the distance. Wick’s skin paled further, taking out even the ruddy colour of the bites. He turned milky white, sick with fear.

"Wick!" Dacey said, worried.

"What?" Wick asked distractedly. During the last half-hour he’d been thinking a lot about Rom, and the danger he was facing. Wondering how the hell Wick McClintock was going to protect him from the Micts—and how to protect him from himself.

Now something else occurred to Wick. Protecting Rom might not be his only concern.

The Micts don’t know...

They wouldn’t know it was Rom, at the park. It hadn’t been Rom who’d stood there, silhouetted against the night.

Whose scent was thick on the air...

Whose blood they’d sampled beneath the trees.

So it might not be Rom they’d be hunting.

Wick’s legs started shaking and his stomach tied up in knots. Embarrassed over his weakness, he tried to brace himself on the streetlight.

Only to have Dacey grab his arm, and pull it over her shoulder. Phil came up on his other side, so the two of them had his weight.

Embarrassment. Something else he’d never experienced.

Just then, the high-pitched whistle sounded again, and the bite in his leg began to throb. Wick’s keen eyes picked up a shifting in the blackness—coils of seething movement, traversing the ground.

Coming...for him. Blood was running down his leg again. He could feel the warm trickle as it pooled in his shoe, then leaked onto the sidewalk.

"Holy shit!" Phil exclaimed.

Wick didn’t blame him. The blackness was traversing the ground—obsidian fog. They’d picked up his scent in the park; now they were hunting his blood. The blackness was closing in.

"Run—" he warned them.

He realised too late the blackness came not from without, but within. No way to stop it now. Wick’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he sagged into their arms.

*If you'd like me to post a few more chapters, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!

Comments

Working and wagging...but it's summer downunder!

2006-01-24T22:47:40+01:00

It's summer here, and it's been beautiful! My daughter and I went for some scooter rides, so I haven't been doing as much writing as I should, but I've certainly been enjoying myself. It's great living right in town, because there are always people to talk to. No reason to ever be lonely. Writing can sometimes be such a solitary profession that I feel living urban balances the solitude.
***
On the book front: ELF and TROLLS are finally in print! I can't tell you how much this means to me!
Oh, BTW, if you get a chance hop to one of the websites below and look at the covers. I did the bookcover paintings and design work. What do you think????
Other bookish stuff:
BoneSong - nearly finished

We have a present-day Homo neanderthalensis, because in my novel, they are not extinct. They are actually in control, and the Primate Wars have been the dominant social issue of the past 150 years...except humans - Homo sapiens - are unaware of it.

The Neanders control politics and the economy, but they have issues. They've refined their culture to the point where they retain specially trained assassins to eliminate negative influence - a euthanasia, of sorts, over their own wayward
members. They are also unable to bury their dead - and keep them in the ground. The zombies of fiction? It is sourced in these Neanders, who are unable to dissociate body from soul. They need the help of their despised brethren and their half-bred
children to do that. They need the BoneSong.

Will the Neanders blend, with other humans? They've had 35,000 years to selectively breed, picking those traits which will allow them to successfully mingle with their aggressive, and more fecund, hominid relations. If you picture the diversity in
human culture - from 7-ft basketball players, to pygmies - you get the idea. Neanders have no trouble blending whatsoever - they no longer sport the low forehead and recessed chin.

No problem at all.

PS How should this book end? I'll let you know...as soon as I do!

Cheers, and best wishes to y'all,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt from Gilded Folly - just for fun. The formatting was lost...but you get the idea. It's the only book (so far) I published by Cerridwen Press.
***
Prologue

The woman dug frantically in the rich soil, the earthy scent making her shiver. There was an underlying sourness to the dampness, which spoke of death...
It’s here. It has to be. This was where panicky instinct had led her.
More than intuition...
No. A bad dream. That’s all it was. Sleepwalking again. Gritting her teeth, Glys forced herself to withdraw her hands—to fight against impulse. She knelt there, rigid with compulsion, and lifted her eyes to the moon.
It nearly choked her. The light was so cold it chilled to the bone, and gooseflesh rode reckless across her skin. Moonshadows gloomed everywhere, leached from the innocent silhouettes of tree and shrub.
One of those silhouettes was moving. Her breath caught, finishing what that frozen moon had begun. All rational thought fled in the face of need.
Her fingers tore at the soil once more, as she dug like a caged animal. Only one way lay freedom....
The next moment her fingers had closed on it and a wash of cold relief cleared her mind.
Then, for an instant only, she could see pursuit clearly, racing across the slope.
It’s a dream...only a dream.
A nightmare.
The difference was, in this one, she could run.
***

Chapter One

“Cynic,” Rom muttered absently. Jeremy had dredged him out of the soundest sleep he’d had in weeks. “No...Sadist. Go to hell and let me sleep—” He forced open bleary eyes.
The room was no longer dark. The cheap wooden jamb was illuminated in a soft golden glow.
“Hang on, Jer—” Rom whispered. He set down the phone and climbed silently out of bed. Muscles tense, he tiptoed to the doorway, across the hall, then hesitated just outside the lounge.
The Source.
How theatrical, an inner voice mocked. But it didn’t stop his heart from pounding, or his palms from growing wet.
Rom took a deep breath, then peeked around the corner.
The light was coming from beneath his desk. From the goddamn wastebasket.
A joke. Wick.
Jeremy, to get back at me for the cracks about his art...
Rom relaxed a little, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. Damn, if they hadn’t had him going there...
He pulled the wastebasket from beneath the desk. Nestled within the load of paper—ad sheets, bill collectors’ demands and gardening magazine lures, that he’d tossed away en masse—the crumpled envelope sat fatly crunched, and brightly luminescent. It was embedded with glowing particles, which shed a glistening radiance to the darkened room.
Glittery.
Like gold...
Rom’s hands were shaking, as he reached into the bin.
Don’t touch it. Objectively, he knew should keep his distance, but something else was driving him now. His smile faded, and his heart started pounding once more. Again, there was that glimmer of uncertainty, of déja vu; the feeling of something left undone. His skin glowed orange as he clenched the crumpled parchment, and extricated the single sheet of paper—the one he’d casually dismissed without so much as a perusal.
Just one more advertising gimmick...
He sat on the floor and flattened the creases with his palm. The paper felt hot beneath his hand, and as he rubbed it, glittering trails crumbled, flared, and sizzled, with little hissing pops.
What is this stuff?
Beneath his fingers the paper changed, no longer blank. In the centre was a brilliant watermark, elaborately wrought in opalescent shades: blues, magenta, greens, purples. It was a holographic face, three-dimensional and shocking in its realism.
And the eyes were looking, directly at him.
“There is no wisdom in repeated mistakes...” The words echoed hollowly in his memory, and in that moment, all amusement fled. His breath turned to ice, and some of it trickled through his veins, awakening his body to something it had long forgotten. He moved uneasily back into the bedroom, all the while watching the darkened corners. The phrase “repeated mistakes” was throbbing in his head now, keeping time to the drumming of his heart.
Somewhere outside there was a scrabbling at the window glass, an unexpected thud, the crackling of a branch. The skin on his arms tightened, as the hairs lifted—gooseflesh dancing down his limbs.
Run...
The abandoned phone squawked, and Rom could hear Jeremy’s shouted “Didchou fall asleep?”, but he couldn’t answer.
Not now.
Maybe not ever. He pulled on his pants, and slipped into running shoes like a zombie. His eyes were wet with fear, but his mouth was dry as the desert sands. In the background, Jeremy’s tinny voice was squawking, issuing harsh “wake up!” commands over the phone. Rom glanced back at it, once, then lifted the receiver with sweaty palms and placed it silently on its cradle.
Silence. It was all important now.
He replaced the letter in its showy envelope, buried it in his T-shirt pocket, and crept swiftly out the door. In the distance, there was a humming whine.
Familiar, like the letter. Something he’d heard before.
His hand pressed the letter to his chest.
“Guard it, with your life...”
His life. It had come to that.
Rom leapt off the porch, stumbled, then broke into a run.
*
The night was crisp and clear—and filled with a thousand voices Rom couldn’t recall. Commanding voices he couldn’t resist.
Doomed...
It wasn’t a thought—it was a heavy weight lodged in his gut—a portent of the inevitable.
An inevitable wrong. Guilt weighed on him, for a deed he’d not yet committed—for the instincts which quickened to unspoken commands. His brain had not yet acknowledged his task, yet already he knew. His mission this night was death.
And if he didn’t succeed, the forfeited life would be his own.
Unacceptable. It echoed in his head. Not a moral call—merely the judgement call for failure.
Rom sprinted, racing out of reason, running to meet his destiny. He was only dimly aware of the asphalt beneath his feet now, and totally oblivious to the windows lining the street. He needed to outrun it: the righteous anger smouldering in his chest, the fury clenching his fists.
Unjust...evil. Words he’d acquired over the last ten years, to describe what was swiftly becoming compulsion. If he could drench the hatred in sweat, he might yet be able to out race his malice; to chill this misplaced passion in exhaustion.
He picked up speed. Running in hate, in fear; in mixed, deluded dreams...
...which were driving him mad. Only insanity would run through the dark without reason—outdistancing a threat which owed more to inner turmoil than any outside intervention.
He nearly believed he would make it—until the persistent background hum became a nagging, insistent whine. His skin crawled in anticipated terror.
So many...hundreds, maybe thousands. Rom was panting now, his course erratic, his brain repeatedly filled with jarring flickers of memory: Technicolor images in flashes of light and sound. Bright contrasts to the duotone shades of night and moon. With every vision, he’d lose pace a little, weaving like some madman across the landscape.
Here and now. Now and then.
At this moment, with the demons at his back, he no longer knew what was real. Those scenes—bright moments out of a time he couldn’t remember—were intended to save him—to draw rational thought out of panic, and sense out of dread.
As were the warnings, sounding through his brain. “So much easier to use a natural means; to inveigh it with purpose.”
To give it a purpose so aligned with its own. “To hide darkness within the shadows.”
The shadows clotting his world were mosquitoes: winged bloodsuckers in this part of the country—a harmless nuisance.
Now vested with new resolve, and a tenacity which clouded the moonscape.
The whining tickled his ears.
Vested such, they’d be here to drain him dry.
*
Jeremy threw on a jacket and headed out the door. It wasn’t the first time Rom had sleepwalked and it wouldn’t be the last. Jeremy had strongly suggested he visit a sleep clinic, to get his sleeping patterns realigned. Rom should’ve learned by now how to manage his problem.
Only, Rom didn’t see his sleepwalking as a problem—or refused to admit it was one. Part of that was Wick’s fault. Wick had always downplayed it; joked about it, and acted like it was no big deal. Phil was worse—he treated any suggestion of therapy as a feeble-minded admission of weakness.
Rom, for his part, didn’t even want to talk about it. However lightly Wick and Phil might treat the problem, though, it was the reason, Jeremy was sure, that Rom ended up spending most of his nights alone. One exposure to Rom’s night-time antics would be enough to put most women off for good. Not too many of them would trust a double personality, or put up with a man who wouldn’t recognise them the next day.
It was a weird dichotomy, and Jeremy felt responsible for dredging it up with that phone call tonight. The Rom who emerged after a few moments’ sleep was usually wary and suspicious, but also a match for Jeremy’s ten years of martial arts training.
The mild-mannered professor playing out a secret identity?
Five minutes later he was at Rom’s house. He knocked loudly, then took the key from under the brick and went inside.
“Rom!” Jeremy shouted. No answer. He flicked on the lights and made a quick perusal. No Rom. The only marks of disorder were the wastebasket’s contents, scattered under the desk. Given Rom’s fanatical neatness, it meant Mr. Sleepwalk was in charge.
Mr. Sleepwalk was a slob.
Again, Jeremy felt a nudge of guilt. Not only had he awakened Rom, but he’d given his brain a focus.
Jeremy tore out the door, his eyes searching the silhouetted hardscape of the quiet, suburban street. There was something wrong...
It was the quiet. There were no lights. No streetlights. Not a single bulb behind the numerous windows. Jeremy reached back inside, and flicked the switch.
Odd. They’d worked a second before...
But now there was nothing. No lights, no power. Only the loud hum of a transformer in the distance.
Jeremy was looking east when a grey cloud passed across the moon. A grey cloud which was moving way too fast.
What the hell?
That hum...it’s no transformer.
Across the distance, muffled on the night air, curses and threats rang out.
Jeremy was already in motion by the time the threats rose to howls of pain.
*
They were on him—a whining, malicious horde, dressed in membranous wings with needlelike proboscis. They were on his skin, on his clothes, penetrating the flimsy fabric of his shirt with spearpoint accuracy. Injecting enough anticoagulant to bleed him out. Even now, as he smashed and slapped, he could feel the slippery wash of blood.
A thousand needle pricks, jabbing his skin. Rom stumbled, and nearly fell. Already, he was growing weak. His body was one massive itch as his histamine response went crazy. There was too much anticoagulant being injected into his system. Too much foreign protein being put in, and too much blood being taken out.
He cursed, felt the winged bodies light on his tongue, and spat.
Use your brain. Pyrethrin. Insect repellent. Daisies.
I’m in the park, for crissake! Daisies, and a pond.
Life.
Rom fell, then crawled, toward the white patch in the distance. He hated the stink of daisies.
He spat again, then blew his nose. Little life signs tickling his nasal passages. He choked on a sucked-in breath—thick with runny mucous and wriggling bodies.
I’m drowning...
He dove, headlong, into the daisy patch.
*
His footsteps had an echo. As Jeremy pounded up the road, he could hear the other runner. No one in sight, but there was no mistaking the sound.
He glanced around, but didn’t slow his pace. Rom’s howls had faded into an ominous silence.
The steps tore past him, but he still couldn’t resolve the runner. The tree branches yielded only patchy moonlight, splotchy and confusing. Jeremy’s eyes caught traces of frenzied movement, streaks of luminescence clinging to the moonglow just a shade too long. For a moment, Jeremy’s already pounding heart quickened its beat. There was an eeriness to the other figure and its determined pace.
It outdistanced him in seconds—slipping past without so much as a panting breath to mark its passage.
No one can move that fast...
He was shaken, as the barely-seen glow shifted and fled in the distance.
What freaked him most, though, was the familiarity. Something in the shape—that ill-lit phosphorescent image, which existed more in sound than sight—had been so damned familiar.
For an instant, he had the impression he recognised it...him.
He’d been almost certain it was Wick.
*
Rom crawled through the daisies, burying his face in the turgid branches. He snatched at flowers with mosquito-bitten hands, crunching the heads and rubbing them over his swollen face. The pastel masses of blooms were crushed and flattened, leaving streaked and bloodied blossoms in his wake.
His breaths were panting rasps, ragged and uneven. His chest was filling, his throat was closing, and he couldn’t breathe. Using his elbows and his knees, he squirmed his way along.
The water. If he could just get to the water. He could see it now through squinted eyes—a black wash in the foreground. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head, and peered at the moon reflected on the surface. The castaway radiance beckoned him forward, and he crawled, his breaths coming in whiny wheezes.
Mosquitoes danced into his vision, feathering his eyelids, tickling his eyebrows, darting in stinging raids to feed on his scalp. In such proximity, it was difficult to put them into perspective. They were garish monsters come to steal his life force away. Dancing devils, gossamer harbingers of death...
He had a defence, but only if he lived long enough to use it. Only if he could reach the reflected moon. It had always been his trigger...before.
Stay the impulse. The warning sang loudly in his ears. It will bring them in. You will no longer be able to hide in your dreams.
Surely, it was too late to hide. What was happening to him tonight had forced him to emerge from the shadows.
Shivering incessantly, Rom pushed himself to his feet. Gagging and choking, he lurched forward, nearly falling on his face. In a stumbling near-run, he took five long, loping strides and leapt, soaring across the dark, watery surface of the pond.
At the same moment he stretched out his hand, aiming desperately for that bright white globe of reflected light.
His fingertips touched, then pierced the surface.
The pseudo moon shattered, into a thousand dancing pieces.
*
Jeremy was winded by the time he reached the park. It was so quiet he didn’t know where Rom was. He stopped, listening for sounds of struggle.
Frustrated, he tried to follow the other runner’s lead. That phosphorescent image was long gone, but the regular thudding was still a faint tremor through the soil.
The annoying background hum was growing louder, and it was accompanied by a sibilant whine which made his skin crawl. Only one insect made a noise like that: mosquito. What was worse was the vibration. This wasn’t one mosquito, or even one thousand. Jeremy had a sudden urge to turn tail and run.
Instead, he buried his hands in his sleeves and his face in his shirt. Then, he forged ahead.
They were on him now. In the overwhelming assault, he barely heard the splash, or the one which followed. All he knew was that the whining persistence of his winged adversaries was giving way to high-pitched squeaks.
Hundreds of them...
Then it was raining. With a cheerless insouciance the skies filled, all without benefit of wind or cloud. This was a pelting rain—haired bodies with leathery wings. They plummeted limply, as though stunned, then abruptly spread wings and took off in devour mode, to consume the insect horde...
Jeremy dropped to his knees, arms shielding his head. Mosquitoes were no longer a concern. He was being pounded by something far larger.
Insectivores, ravenously hungry and navigating by sonar.
He’d been around the world, but he’d never seen anything like this.
It was raining bats.
*
Rom’s fingers scrabbled in the mucky sediments, stirring up swirls of mirey mud, to thicken water still choppy from his thrashing. Mud oozed into his mouth, but he couldn’t taste it. His tongue was as swollen as his face.
Like the lag from a poorly dubbed film, reality finally registered, as his fingers dug into the goo. I’m on the bottom! Panic shattered his nearly comatose reverie, and he clawed his way to the surface once more, to gasp for breath.
Drowning...
His feet kicked wildly as he fought to stay afloat. It’d been hard to breathe before—now, it was impossible. The urgency was still with him, but there was little to drive it. No strength, no breath...
...no life.
His next breath was water, and he savagely kicked his way to the surface again.
Find the shore. He was lost, in a mini lake. Blind navigation, with safety but a few short lengths away.
Find it. He forced open one puffy eye with the heel of his hand.
And saw the moon. That bright orb was nearly eclipsed by a scavenging horde of swooping bats.
And they were still coming. He realised that, in his panic, he’d made a horrible mistake. As he tilted back his head, to stay afloat, he was barraged—pelted by a dozen falling bodies.
He lost his focus then, and the shore became a distant memory. He lifted one arm, to shield himself from the thudding bodies—the claws, the teeth, the scratchy wings—only to sink beneath the waves. The water was choppy now, asplash and agitated by his own movements—and those of the panicky bats.
To whom he was the one island in a choppy sea. Claws clung to his nose, and bat wings occluded his mouth. The high-pitched, frantic sonar filled his ears. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe...
Rom pawed weakly at his face, but there were too many of those small feet.
I did this...
It was his last thought, as he sank beneath the waves.
*
“Bloody hell!” Wick swore softly, dodging the stinging blows of toppling bats.
Chiroptera, but not like any this place had seen before.
“Rom!” he bellowed. He gagged, nearly choked, then spat. Damned mosquitoes.
He’ll be in the water. With grim certainty, Wick tore across the grass, slipping and sliding as he went. Writhing bodies squirmed beneath his feet, and he gagged again at the crunching and squishing of fragile forms.
Rom’ll be sick...
Rom. Wick picked up speed. In the distance he spied the broken moon, glazing a thousand pieces onto the ruffled water.
At that moment, Rom’s head broke the surface, one arm flailing weakly. The next, he was gone.
Wick was in the water before the swirling wash could follow Rom down.
*
Rabies.
Revulsion curled his lips. Jeremy had thought he could tolerate anything, but he’d never seen anything like this before. He didn’t know what had brought the bats in, but they were migrating, en masse. If this was some kind of frenzy, brought on by hydrophobia...
He gave an involuntary shudder. Rabies. He choked down foamy saliva, then recalled how some people were allergic to the vaccine.
Don’t think about it...
Mosquitoes were still thick on the air, he had no insect spray, and like a dummy, he’d left Rom’s flashlight at the house. He was stuck with nothing but a cigarette lighter and his knife.
Damned useless...
There are some situations for which you can never prepare.
He’d have had to be equipped with a flame thrower to counter this kind of assault.
The bright moon didn’t help, either. All it did was highlight the bats’ tufted ears and flapping wings—the swooping, diving, squeaking, bashing. Jeremy had a confused black-and-white impression of broken skies and shifting soils. The Earth moved beneath his feet, and nothing in the sky stood still. Even the distant moonscape was marred—the swooping bats appearing like black parasites invading his lunar view.
Thwack! Distracted, Jeremy took a blow on the head, and toppled onto all fours. He realised he may have been overly optimistic. Rabies was the least of his concerns. Right now he was in far more danger of being buried by bats.
It may have already happened to Rom. Jeremy weighed the wisdom of crawling forward, and opted for altitude. He’d be no good to anyone lying under a tonne of bat flesh and guano. Once he found Rom, he wanted to be able to run.
*

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