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More stories may soon appear from my archive of projects as they are dug up and polished. See my blog for more details.
The following is an excerpt from an upcoming urban fantasy novel titled Lost Lamb.
From Chapter 1
The sound of the motorcycle rumbled into my driveway, the noise of it reverberating against my workshop's walls. I put my tools down and slid the blade I had been grinding aside. The engine sputtered to a stop as a boot kicked a kickstand, the metal groaning in the socket. I reached across my worktable and unplugged the lamp suspended over it. Shadows fell and blended with those of the night. I drew a short-barreled handgun from the back of my pants and clicked the safety off before checking the slide. A round was already chambered. My Ruger S&W is a small but heavy forty caliber handgun. The weight of the black rubber handle and slick oiled finish of the chrome slide were comforting in my grip.
Heavy leather boots came thudding up my stairs, booming rhythmic and deep like the beat of war drums. My workshop is separate from my house. It seemed whoever was coming hadn't spotted the light. I pulled the hood of my black sweatshirt up and elbowed my workshop door open a crack. The boots belonged to a tall muscled figure in faded jeans and a spiked leather jacket. He paused at my mailbox probably checking the name.
The golden letters were visible from the shop. Jaden Ingram. He approached my front door, carrying some kind of zipped nylon that hung from a strap on his shoulder. He wore a full face helmet, the shiny black visor was lowered, a scuff shining white against the tinted finish. The bike in the gravel driveway was the domestic type, studded black leather along the seat with saddle bags that matched, long chrome exhaust pipes blackened with soot and dust. For a moment, I thought a flagpole was mounted on one saddle bag, but the metal of a spear point glinted in the dim glow of my porch light. The handle of a shotgun rested next to it, angled to be an easy pull while riding.
The biker stood at my front door, beating a ham-shaped fist against the wood, the spiked leather of the riding glove scoring the paint. He repeated the knock a few times before turning and walking into the gravel. He slung a leg over the seat, adjusting the strap on the bag, and brought the engine to life. His bike would be easy to follow in the dark, but I couldn’t let him get too much of a head start. Someone had sent me a messenger. I needed to know whom.
I found my car where I had left it, parked out of sight behind my workshop. I opened the door to the 1980 Honda Prelude and something sharp brushed my pant leg. The front fender was still jagged where large claws had shredded it like aluminum foil. Every other panel on the driver side had already been replaced, but my mechanic was still waiting on the fender.
The sound of the motorcycle was enough to drown out the whining of my Honda's engine. I left my headlights off as I backed the car out, following the lone taillight along the woodland road that leads to the highway. My Honda is painted the color of graphite. At night, it doesn't draw much attention to itself at all. I tailed the biker as he merged onto Georgetown Road and kept my distance. After a mile or so we took an on-ramp that connected to the highway, driving uphill into the wooded mountain road.
I live in the outskirts of Placerville, near the Sacramento area. My house is on a lonely forested foothill with no other neighbors. I didn’t get many visitors and I didn’t think he had been trying to sell me Girl Scout cookies. My professional life is dangerous. I hadn’t stayed alive this long because I was stupid.
The biker and I drove alone on the long mountain road. Occasionally a set of headlights would pass—often belonging to square-nosed semi trucks or tankers, but mostly I kept the glaring red taillight fixed in my view. After driving up a steep slope of road, he stopped at the crest of the mountain highway and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. I kept my distance and slowed the Honda, hoping that he hadn't noticed me. He seemed to be driving away from the highway, probably onto one of the many old logging roads that snaked through the mountains.
The single taillight was barely visible at the distance I kept from him, but I managed to see it often enough to follow him to a rutted dirt road. A hedge of dandelions and blackberry vines bordered the logging road as it continued downhill into the valley, the bank on our side sliding away to show a stretch of the river, running black and wavy. The wide illuminated cone from his headlight halted, a metal gate appearing pale in the dark. I maintained my distance and stopped the Honda, killing the engine near a tall bushy oak tree. Hopefully the leaves would block enough moonlight to hide the shine of the metallic paint job. We were far from any streetlights and the cool radiance of the stars cast an alabaster blanket on the hillside. The oak leaves in the shadowed valley were silver, shivering in the mountain breeze.
The biker left his motor running and dismounted, raising a hand to wave at another tall oak tree near the gate. The light of a flashlight clicked on and off high in the boughs of the tree. I figured they had a guard watching this gate. I’d have to continue my pursuit on foot. The biker unlatched a chain and pulled the gate open before driving through. My fingers groped for my backpack in the backseat. The moonlight spilling through the windshield was enough to see by. The ziplock bag still had a few nuggets of rock salt tumbling inside, my nose wrinkling from the crisp scent of a bundle of dry sage. My last job had been an exorcism and I'd evidently forgotten to repack my bag afterward. I took a spare clip for my pistol from the front pouch and found my mask where I had left it. I tied the black bandanna over my nose and mouth, pulling my hood up to cast my eyes in shadow.
I stepped out of my car and closed the door with a slow hand, trying to reduce the sound of the latch. A swath of shadows cast by the numerous oak trees concealed my steps as I crossed the road. The tall underbrush was sharp through my clothing, but it covered my approach toward the guard's tree. A silhouette in the branches brushed an oak leaf, a thick arm visible as it reached back. Moonlight gleamed along the edge of something metal and pointed, the shaft of the spear rustling a twig that cracked. I pawed my hand into the leaf litter hoping for a nearby rock, but there was none. I tried under a strangled leafy vine and found the jagged end of a stick. It was soft with rot but it was thick and heavy. I lifted it in one hand and flung it at the base of an oak across from me. The loud cracking thud could have been a gunshot in the silence.
Something in the tree branches jerked, the spear streaking out of the shadows to lodge into the oak tree, the shaft humming as it quivered. After a few long seconds, the silhouette in the tree uncoiled a rope ladder and clambered down, heavy leather boots landing quietly in the soft earth. He started toward the jutting spear with long strides that left deep marks in the soil, crossing through a beam of moonlight that etched his features against the shadows.
He was tall like the other biker had been, I guessed almost seven feet, and also wore faded jeans with another version of the black leather riding jacket, ragged leather at the shoulders where the sleeves had been torn off. His face was broad with a thick jaw, the lower lip fat and protruding. Yellowed tusks pushed upright, overlapping the upper lip. The wide nose was turned up and flat like the snout of a pig. His head was round and hairless, pointed ears with large lobes thrusting out from either side. Under the moonlight, his skin was like thick gray bull hide.
He might have been wearing a Halloween mask, I almost hoped for it, but his breath puffed in hot steam and the skin at the corners of his eyes puckered as he blinked. He was an orc. I'd heard of them and read descriptions, but I hadn't known we had any in California. I had to decide what to do with this one, very little time to debate the pros and cons. I shifted my weight forward and sprang from the shadows, aiming my arms and shoulders at his waist like a football tackle. Hopefully the surprise would be enough to topple him. It wasn't.
About the Author
Steven Jay Hamilton lives in Northern California where he works part-time for his local school district. He has always loved reading and
fiction, discovering an interest for fiction writing when he was in the fourth grade. He has studied creative writing and other story-telling mediums at his local college.
When he's not writing, he can either be found barbecuing or reenacting medieval European history. He's had a love for martial arts (the more full contact the better) since high school, and has been a fantasy geek since forever.
He's currently living with his girlfriend and their huge black dog, hoping to buy the next house they move into. He is constantly working on something, whether some piece of fiction or some other craft. He likes Chinese food.
Blog: https://writingtodowithsomething.blogspot.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StevenJayHamiltonAuthor
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