Raven sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. “Medicine, science, and even alchemy do not hold all the answers. Sometimes things happen that can’t be explained.”
“Like what?”
“The heir apparent has asked I take that boy to the Wood Witch in the hopes his demon can be removed.”
Gregory laughed. “Demon?”
Raven nodded.
“Surely you must be joking. How could a nine-year-old boy harbor a demon, even if there were such a thing?”
“I didn’t want to believe it either. And maybe there is a scientific explanation for what happens to the boy, but I’ve seen it happen twice.”
Gregory’s eyebrows knitted. “Seen what happen twice?”
“Machines, especially automatons...malfunction around him.”
“That’s got to be purely coincidental.”
“Apparently it happens often enough that the boy’s father wants him dead.”
Gregory paled. “The duke? Killing his own son? You must be joking.”
“No. The boy has been to the bishop for a failed exorcism. The Wood Witch is his last hope.”
“The Wood Witch is a gross exaggeration of good alchemy gone bad.” Gregory shook his head. “The fact the exorcism failed should be evidence for an explanation other than demon possession.”
“It makes no difference,” Raven said with a yawn. “I have a mission I was paid to complete, and in three days I’ll be out of your hair.” She neglected to mention the fact she’d lost the payment when the horse ran off.
“Three days is hardly a fortnight.” Gregory said through clenched teeth as he paced the floor. “You can’t just do whatever you want to, Raven. You’re not a teenager anymore. Your father isn’t even around to care if you’re becoming the kind of reaper he wanted you to be. You are killing yourself for no reason. When will you stop this?”
Her eyes stung and her chest tightened. She had wanted to stop. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. But she was too late. How much had changed in the past two years? She had no need for stopping now.
At least when she was on a mission she felt confident in her abilities. She had no idea how to keep a home. Would she get bored? She could hardly console the nine-year-old boy in her care. What kind of mother would she be? She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see his green eyes boring into her soul as they always did.
She could be strong and not show her weakness. It was one thing she knew she was very good at. She finally answered in a nonchalant tone. “Maybe never.”
Chapter 8
If the enemy knows one's weakness, he can use it to his advantage.
If a stone lodges in one's shoe, do not limp. Walk with head held high.
Run if need be.
SHE WANTED TO run. Three days later, Raven walked the row between the fields, ignoring the searing ache in her thigh. That pain was miniscule in comparison to the vacant place in her chest where her heart used to be. Boy and dog bounded in front of her, stretching their legs after such a long time cooped in the farmhouse. With his haircut and farm boy overalls, Darius no longer looked like a baron. She smiled at his brilliant, unplanned disguise.
The doctor walked with her. “Wait at least a week before you think of removing those stitches. Please get as much rest as you can.” He stopped walking for a moment and whispered, “I wish you’d stay.”
Could he make the void in her chest hurt worse? Raven doubted it. She kept walking, forcing him to jog two steps to catch up.
“What is your plan?”
She swallowed. If he were found out by the guard and questioned, she would rather he knew nothing. Besides, who knew how trustworthy his prattling young wife would be? She could let a word or two go by without a thought of how it would affect things. After spending three days with the woman, Raven judged her a definite gossip. She decided that since she hadn’t completely made up her mind yet, it wouldn’t be a lie. “I’m not sure.”
Gregory nodded as if he knew she chose not to say.
“Gregory!” Amelia called him from the porch. Did she fear he might not return?
“Well, I’ll leave you to your path then. It’s not as if you wouldn’t know the way.”
Raven stopped and turned to him. She didn’t know if she’d be able to speak. The words she had travelled all this way to tell him were still hiding on her tongue, wanting to break free from the prison of her lips. Instead she said, “Thank you.”
His half-smile reminded her of the hundred times they’d said good-bye in the past. “I won’t let her talk me into moving. I will always be here for you.”
His reassurance washed over her with more relief than she’d have thought possible. She smiled and said, “Then I’ll be back.”
“And maybe you won’t be half-dead, next time.”
“Maybe.” She turned on her heel and withheld the urge to run again. The boy and dog waited at the bramble of the rose bush. She met them there, sneaking a peek back. Her doctor hadn’t left his spot yet, even with his wife calling his name again.
“Which way do we go?” the boy said breathlessly. His face had gained some color after nearly a week of doing farm chores with the doctor’s wife.
Raven glanced back at Gregory and watched him turn away. Happy that she could make the decision without him watching, she looked both ways down the field rows. The late afternoon sun had dipped below the boundary of trees. They had a few hours of diminishing daylight left.
The Duke’s Guard would still be looking for them along the road, so they’d have to take the wooded paths. Raven decided to go to the one place they wouldn’t be searching. She turned right and started back toward New Haven.
~*~
Jack Grant hated his latest mission. There could hardly be a viler town in all of the duke’s reign than Channing. The cobblestones of the street were slippery, damp, and uneven, making the walk difficult. It seemed the seaside city had a perpetual layer of fog. Accosted by the smell of refuse and human waste, Jack held a sleeve to his mouth with left hand, while his right rested on the butt of his pistol. Rupert and Colton held the same stance as they made way for the tavern.
Over the past week of searching, Jack had mulled over the fact that the woman, a trained assassin, spared their lives rather than taking them. The woman had moved faster than any of the guard, and she’d been injured. Jack shook his head as he thought about the grotesque shard of brass protruding from her leg as she’d first run into the woods.
His conscience could not agree with what he was about to do. But orders were orders. And as captain of the guard, Jack always followed them to the letter.
The smell of vomit, alcohol, and urine grew worse within. The dim lighting of the interior seemed bright in comparison to the spotted gaslight outside. Two musicians played a gentle, broken ballad that feigned an upbeat tempo. Iron bars stood between the band and the general crowd, as though the owner feared the tempers of his patrons should they dislike the choice in music.
Removing his sleeve from his face, Jack straightened and stepped up to the bar. “Tender, I’m looking for Jasper Hollow.”
The barkeep stopped wiping the grimy top with his yellow stained rag. He peered at the guards with his one brown eye. The other, covered in an amalgam of glass and steel, spun as if focusing on Jack in particular. “Who’s asking?”
“The duke has sent us with a mission for him.”
Two grey brushy eyebrows rose like wooly caterpillars ready to climb over the bartender’s bald head. “What business would the duke have with a reaper?”
Jack swallowed hard but wished he’d spat instead. “I’ll tell Hollow himself and no other.”
The bartender’s face showed no mirth, but his belly bobbed up and down with his laughter. His raspy laugh stopped suddenly as the bartender slapped a wide hand on the table. The resounding smack caused even the band to pause for a moment before they continued.
Jack suddenly found the tip of a short sword under his chin, pressing against his
throat. Rupert and Colton both drew their guns on the bartender. The barkeep had moved as fast as the woman, and Jack knew before the man even said it.
“You’re talking to him.”
Jack swallowed and felt the tip of the sword break his skin. “The duke offers you free access to all his territories and a full pardon if you will complete his task.”
A smile grew across the man’s unshaven cheeks, exposing his brown, checkered teeth. “And that would be?”
Jack tightened his jaw. He hated himself for what he was about to do. “Recover Baron Darius of New Haven and kill Raven Steele, the reaper.”
FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT:
The Chronicles of Steele: Raven is a steampunk fantasy novel that was over two years in the making. I’m so glad it’s finally making it to your hands! It has been written in four episodes which will be released about 2 weeks apart and FREE on the day of release. To find out when the next episode is available, please sign up for my spam-free mailing list at:
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XGeneration 1
You Don’t Know Me
Brad Magnarella
© 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Damonza.com
Description
In the fall of 1984, Cold War tensions between Washington and Moscow are close to breaking.
But in sleepy Gainesville, Florida, fourteen-year-old Janis Graystone is mainly worried about starting high school, earning a spot on the varsity soccer team, and keeping her older sister from running her life. And then there are her paranormal experiences. Experiences where she awakens in her backyard — out of her body — with the disturbing sense that someone is watching her.
For Scott Spruel, the start of high school means the chance to start over. And he’s willing to ditch everything — computer hacking, Dungeons & Dragons marathons, even his comic book collection (well, except for his X-Men) — if it means getting closer to Janis, the secret love of his life. But what about the eerie delay on his telephone, a delay he senses through powers he is only beginning to understand?
As clocks tick down, Janis and Scott will need the other's help. But first they’ll have to find one another, and that means traversing Thirteenth Street High’s caste system — a system that can be as brutal as it is unforgiving.
XGeneration is a teen paranormal mystery series, inspired by classic superhero comics and the 1980s.
1
Gainesville, Florida
Sunday, August 26, 1984
8:05 a.m.
SCOTT SPRUEL LEANED nearer the window and parted his bedroom blinds a little more, not wanting to lose her. She had already set a canvas bag in her sister Margaret’s car and disappeared down her driveway, to the garage side of her house — the side he couldn’t see.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he whispered.
He stole a look back to the car, where Margaret was sorting through the trunk. A red cooler came out then went back in along with a tasseled blanket and a second canvas bag, this one with sandals poking out.
Scott resumed his vigil over the distant driveway, the blinds trembling above his ink-stained fingers. He hoped to see her again — had to see her again — if only for a moment. Of course he told himself that every time, didn’t he? If only for a moment. But what did he ever do with those moments? He could never make his legs move toward her, could not even premeditate the words he would say or how he would say them. He’d once spent half a day in front of his mirror trying to practice his greeting: “Hi, Janis,” followed by an easygoing smile. He gave up when all he could manage was a Jokeresque parody of a grin.
A hopeless sigh steamed the glass. It had been a long summer.
Something flickered beyond the blur — a flame. Heart pounding, Scott wiped the window clean, wiped her into view.
Janis Graystone.
Her fiery-red ponytail swished over the straps of her white tank top as she jogged into view on lean, athletic legs. She bounced a soccer ball along the asphalt driveway, an act as natural for her as chewing gum. The sound reached Scott’s ears a split second after each impact. It was the distance, that impossible distance between his house and hers — one hundred fifty yards, give or take.
He began to sigh again but clamped his breath off.
Janis stopped where the driveway met the cul-de-sac and, before Margaret could prevent it, punted the ball. The ball disappeared into the car’s trunk. Margaret said something Scott couldn’t hear though it was apparent from the stern thrust of her body she was peeved. Janis ignored her, raising her arms at her feat.
Silent laughter parted Scott’s lips from his braces. For a moment, it felt as though he and Janis were connected again, time and space snapping away. But then she was climbing into the passenger’s seat and closing the door. Margaret slammed the trunk closed and joined her on the driver’s side. To Scott’s ears, the faint start and rev of the engine signaled another opportunity slipping away.
The Honda Prelude rounded the cul-de-sac and came straight toward Scott, whose house faced the short street on which the Graystones lived. He drew back into the darkness before stopping himself.
“Who are you kidding?” he mumbled. “She’s not going to notice you.”
After all, she hadn’t noticed him since the end of fifth grade, more than three years earlier. Why would she start now? He pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and parted the plastic blinds once more.
When the dark blue car arrived at the top of the street, morning light illuminated Janis’s face. A clean glow shone over the pull of her hair, her perfect brow, cheeks Scott could only imagine himself caressing, her full lower lip. The light caught the depth and pensiveness of her chestnut eyes as well, even as they squinted. It was the most clearly he had seen her in years.
Then the car turned, and the square of sunlight slid from Janis, and only the street remained.
Scott let the blinds snap closed. It took several seconds for the green glow of his computer to reclaim his bedroom, to redefine the heaps of clutter around him. He swiveled back to the blinking cursor on his TRS-80. With burning, sleep-deprived eyes, he scanned the lines of commands and responses that had delivered him to his present point, the same lines he had been staring at since late the night before. The modem clicked and hummed.
“If you want true power,” Scott whispered to himself, “you have to finish this. You have to go back inside.”
He hesitated before closing his eyes. Behind his sealed lids, he was startled to find an afterimage of Janis’s face, no less stunning for being a negative. But by then, his consciousness was already squeezing through the computer modem, being shot along the network. And though Scott struggled to hold on to her image, it was soon lost to a cold and bewildering storm of data and electrical current.
2
Crescent Beach, Florida
Later that day
“DO YOU EVER think we’re being watched?” Janis asked.
She lifted her head from her soccer ball and squinted past her toes, still slick with sunblock, to where the beach crowd thinned near the crash and rumble of the ocean. For the first time, she and Margaret had the beach blanket to themselves, and she knew it wouldn’t last. Beyond her feet and off to the right, her sister’s three friends squealed and pranced from the water’s edge, breasts bobbing inside new bikin
is. The bright pastel colors made them hard to miss. They would probably be running back this way any minute.
“Well, we are at the beach,” Margaret said.
Janis turned onto her elbow. In contrast to her airhead friends, her older sister lay in quiet repose, brunette hair tucked into a neat bun that cushioned her head and opened her lithe neck to the sun. Black Wayfarers hid her eyes. When the breeze stirred, the strings of her apple-red bikini fluttered against her hip.
“Not here, I mean,” Janis said. “In the neighborhood. At home. I keep having this feeling that we’re—”
“Being watched? Like the song?”
Janis groaned. She had walked right into that one. “Somebody’s Watching Me” had played on the boom box a half hour before, the deejay at I-100 FM using a creepy ghoul’s voice when he recapped the song and artist.
“Not funny,” she said.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist. Go on.”
“All right, but no more jokes. This is serious.”
The corner of Margaret’s glossy lips tipped into a half-smile. She sat up and checked her stomach before dripping tanning oil into her hand and spreading it around her golden belly.
Janis became aware of her own stomach starting to burn and reached for the sunblock. She had tried to wear Umbro shorts and a T-shirt, but Margaret insisted she wear something more grown-up. “You’re starting high school tomorrow,” she’d said with the chiding authority of an older sister and senior, and then she dug out one of her old bikinis for Janis to wear.
“There are just these… dreams I keep having,” Janis continued, rubbing sunblock above then below the lime-green bottoms. She tested the fading bruise on the side of her thigh — softball casualty. “But they’re not dreams. Not exactly. They’re more like out-of-body experiences.”
Riot Girls: Seven Books With Girls Who Don't Need A Hero Page 66