Flash Friday: “Mystery Man”

Today’s post is excerpted from my upcoming new release (next year) with Desert Breeze Publishing.  This is a brand-new Fantasy series I’m working on.  Enjoy!

“Mystery Man” – excerpted from DAUGHTER OF ASHES

            Raiador.

            “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

            Her gaze whipped to her left at that query, to find a man standing beside her.  He had the long, plaited hair of a Borderlander, and his tarnished armor screamed mercenary loud enough the dead could have heard it.  And yet, something told her he was neither.

            “Excuse me?”

            He nodded toward Raiador.  “The mountain.  Never seen anything quite like it.”

            She peered closer in the diming light, trying to discover what it was about him that convinced her he wasn’t exactly who his appearance said.  He was tall, even to her with her Bathron blood.  That could be a Borderlander trait – the few she met were easily as tall as she was.  His mud-brown hair was woven into the traditional Borderlander plaits, and hung midway down his back.  But there were secrets in his smoky-green gaze that told her he wasn’t who he appeared.  Something inside of her reached out in kinship to this man – she was more than she appeared, as well, even if she wasn’t sure what that was, yet.  There was a charisma to this man, however, that told her he was far from the mercenary his garb declared him to be.

            A well-worn scabbard hung from an equally-abused leather belt, but his sword hilt had the gleam of care, and the glint of metal at the top of his scuffed black boots hinted that he was well-armed.  This was not a man to be taken lightly, and she had to wonder if he was friend, or foe.

            “And you are?”  She frowned up at him, daring him to meet her gaze.

            He did, but those eyes remained shuttered, not allowing her access to his thoughts.  “No one of consequence, Sera.”

Flash Friday: “Unfinished Business”

October is Domestic Violence and Abuse Awareness Month.  Because this is a cause very near to me, every Friday this month will feature stories (or excerpts) about abuse and overcoming it, starting with today’s.  I encourage everyone to learn the warning signs of abuse, and get active in helping to remove this scourge from our homes and streets.  To that end, I am donating the entire proceeds of every purchase of BURDEN OF PROOF from my website to organizations that help victims of domestic violence and abuse.  To learn more, visit http://www.esthermitchell.com/HanoverInvestigations/Burden.html

“Unfinished Business”  – Excerpted from BURDEN OF PROOF

copyright 2003 by Esther Mitchell

         As the paramedics loaded Chelsea onto a stretcher, Justin dug the number Sally had given him out of his pocket and punched it into his cell phone.  The line had barely begun its second ring when Sally’s breathless, anxious voice answered, “Hello?”

            “It’s Justin Blakely.  I found your sister.”

            He heard her shuddering sigh of relief.  “Thank God.  Where was she?  Let me speak to her.”

            “Sally…” He stopped, swallowing hard.  Damn.  He wasn’t any good at this stuff, and he was still too torn up inside to be objective with Sally.

            “Oh, God,” she whispered.  “She’s not dead… please tell me she’s not dead.”

            The pleading in her voice tore at him.  He knew what that fear felt like.

            “She’s alive,” he assured her gently.  “Sally, she was attacked, here at her apartment.”

            “Damn it!”  The sudden, violent oath from Sally surprised him, but not near as much as her next angry, unguarded statement.  “I told her she had to put him away.  I told her…”

            “Put who away?”  Justin demanded harshly, gripping the phone tight as he followed the paramedics out of Chelsea ’s apartment.  “Talk to me, Sally.  Tell me what’s going on.”

            “I can’t,” she said miserably.  “I made a promise to Chels that her secret was safe.”

            “Damn it, Sally,” he ground out the words in fear and frustration.  “I found her in the damned closet, bleeding and nearly catatonic, with her clothes shredded.  I want to know who the son of a bitch is!”

            “No.”  Sally’s voice rang with steel.  Then, softening her tone, she said, “Don’t you think I want a piece of the bastard?  I’ve been trying for years to get Chelsea to let me track him down; but she doesn’t want her battles fought for her, and she’s convinced that one’s already lost, anyway.  She doesn’t want anyone’s help with this.  Not mine, not her friends’, and especially not yours.  I’m sorry; I can’t tell you anything more.  Mom and I will be there soon.”

            Before Justin could ask why not him, Sally had hung up.  Grimly determined now, Justin ignored the protests of the paramedics as they loaded Chelsea into the ambulance, climbing in beside her.  He’d told her he wasn’t going to leave her and, dammit, he was going to keep that promise.

Flash Friday: “Mistaken Identity”

Here’s a little something to make your Friday run more smoothly… .   The hero of this story, Colt Michaels, made himself abundantly known while I was writing SHADOW WALKER.  Jaye’s big brother has a real macho attitude problem that I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with… Not, that is, until I met a very interesting Project Prometheus agent, capable of handing Colt back his attitude in spades…   Just have a look…

“Mistaken Identity” 

copyright 2008 by Esther Mitchell

            Someone in charge was insane.  Marine Colonel Colton Michaels Jr. scowled at his computer screen, willing the offending e-mail back to whoever over at the Secretary of Defense’s office sent it to him.  According to the e-mail, he was supposed to roll over for some civilian investigator who’d be here at the Pentagon to dissect every man who worked for him.  Like that wasn’t going to piss him off.  Already, he could picture some four-eyed geek with a pocket protector and a calculator, and some secret book of rules to apply to any situation where rules didn’t apply.  Fuck.

            “Sir.”

            Colt glanced up to find his aide, Nathan Whittaker, with his head poked through the door.

            “Spit it out, Corporal.  I’m busy.”  Figuring out how to get rid of the Inquisition before it shows up.  Colt would have felt bad for snapping at the kid, if he wasn’t so pissed.  Of all the high-handed political tactics…

            “Sir, Agent St. John is here.”

            Sonuvabitch!  Colt returned his scowl to the computer screen.  Well, it sure didn’t take them long to get their man through the Pentagon’s doors, did it?  But the name of his visitor surprised him.  St. John was the last man he expected.

    Not that he knew the elusive spy personally.  But he had heard scuttlebutt about Project Prometheus as an organization, and St. John in particular.  Fortunately, what he heard was all good.  Hell, it was better than good.  St. John was supposed to be some kind of James Bond.  Not a government geek at all, but a man who understood danger and judgments made in the thick of it.  A man had to respect St. John’s level of expertise – but not when it threatened his men, or his command, Colt decided sourly.

            The sound of a throat clearing jerked Colt’s attention back to his nervous aide.  “Sir… Agent St. John?”

            Colt sighed.  Hell.  Might as well bite the bullet.  “Send him in.”

            Whittaker looked as nervous as a virgin in a bar full of Libertied sailors – unusual for the sedate Iowa farm boy.  “Ah, sir…”

            Colt frowned.  “Is there a problem, son?”

            “No problem,” announced a new voice, before Whittaker could speak, and a petite,  curvy bundle of strawberry-blonde hair, form-hugging halter top and jeans, and the most amazing mocha eyes that zinged through him like high-octane espresso slipped past the Corporal and into his office.  Warning bells went off in Colt’s head as his scalp prickled and a warm shiver worked up his spine.  Hell, she was like an entire bottle of Go pills, her presence so electrifying he knew he had to get rid of her ASAP.  And, as his gaze focused on the Cheshire cat grin spread across her mauve-tinted lips, he nearly groaned.  This lady spelled trouble, in capital letters.

            Colt settled a scowl on his face that had intimidated better than her, unwilling to admit he was intrigued.  “Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?  This is a restricted area, lady.”

            “Sir-” Whittaker’s voice rose a nervous octave, drawing his attention in time to watch the Corporal’s eyes dance toward the new arrival, his expression telling.  Colt broke out in a cold sweat as the truth tickled the edges of his mind.

            Aw, hell.  He barely bit back his groan of disbelief.  “You’re St. John?”

            The wink she tossed Whittaker’s way made the young man smile in spite of himself, and Colt scowled  at the pair of them.

            “As charged.”  Her voice had a husky, sensual quality that raced invisible fingers up his spine, even as she strode forward, one hand extended.  “Sarah St. John, to be precise.”

            Colt’s gaze darted to his e-mail again.  Had he missed something?  New panic twisted in his gut when he saw nothing to contradict what she said.  There had to be some kind of mistake!

            “Why?”

            His head jerked up at that amused query.  “What?”

            “You just muttered something about this being a mistake.  Why would you think that?”

            Because he couldn’t see her as a spy.  And because, try as he might, he couldn’t stop wondering what she’d look like wearing nothing but that mischievous little grin.  He was in so much trouble.

            His eyes narrowed.  There had to be a logical explanation for this SNAFU.  Maybe it was just a coincidence.  “You have a brother, Miss St. John?”

            She shrugged, looking perplexed but unconcerned.  “Four of them.  What does that matter?”

            He settled back, letting a triumphant smile pull at his lips as he figured it out.  Mystery solved.  Now he could get rid of this bundle of trouble.  “If you’re looking for your brother, he’s not here.”

            She laughed, and  the husky murmur of it slid over him like a live wire across his skin.  An erotic jolt passed through his system, and that annoying prickle returned to the base of his skull.  He scowled at her as she slid gracefully into the chair opposite his desk, treating him to a perfect view of those amazing legs.  She settled back with an undeterred smile, as if she could see right through his anger, to the real conflict going on beneath.  That was an entirely disturbing thought, and he shoved it aside, feeling like a dirty old man.  How old was she, anyway, and why wasn’t her elusive brother keeping her out of trouble?

            “Didn’t you hear me?  Your brother’s not here.”

            “I know.”  She looked amused, those mocha eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.  “Mick’s probably half-way to covered in dirt in some tomb in Egypt, Greg’s completely buried in his books and theories, Liam’s on a marine research ship in the Arctic, and Scott better have his butt in class, if he doesn’t want me to kick it there.”

            Colt blinked, nonplussed.  None of those sounded like the former spy supposedly descending on his command.  “Which one works for Project Prometheus?”

            That gut-tightening smile widened, and her eyes sparkled as she pulled a dark leather wallet from her pocket and flipped it open before handing it over.  “That would be me.”

Flash Friday: “Love So Deadly”

This week’s Flash Friday is the culmination of two of my favourite areas – history, and the paranormal.  Opening in Rhode Island shortly before the start of the Revolutionary War, the Work-In-Progress this passage is taken from, LADY’S LAMENT, it absorbs all the history of the period, and the danger of being a privateer in an age of upheaval.  Then, it fast-forwards to modern day, as a paranormal investigator takes on a challenge she never saw coming – tangling with the ghost of a man determined to make her remember.

“Love So Deadly” 

copyright 2009 by Esther Mitchell

            “The Cap’n, he be acomin’, Mistress!  An’ he look fit for the storms of Hell, he does!”  The brogue-laden words of Brigit, Caroline’s Irish lady’s maid, reached Royce’s ears, even as he mounted the stairs, and his lips twisted in a dark smirk.  Oh, aye, he was in a fit, and his lady-love should well know why, if the rumors he heard were true.

            Ah, Caro, how could you?  Cold comfort enough, the news borne by the Continental Congress, that the Colonies were to go to war.  Normally, war would profit him most fortuitously.  Hadn’t he procured the funds for this lavish estate from the war between England and France, ended just twelve years ago?  Even as young and new to the fine arts of the privateer as he’d been, back then, he secured his fortune in those turbulent waters of the channel, and then added to them by plundering French merchant vessels from the West Indies in the name of King George, in the years since.  And still, Caro would not marry him.  Though he gave her lush estates, and provided her with everything she could want, she claimed she could not marry a man who made his fortune on the blood of another.

            She was returning to Boston.   His scowl returned in force, and rage prowled his soul.  He gave her everything, squandered his immortal soul at the Devil’s table, for nothing more than her love.  And now he learned she could not be bought.

            “Damnation!”  He spun on the stair, his fist flying of its own will, to crash against the timbered walls with a terrible splintering of wood.

            “Royce!”  The voice from above him on the stair was sweet, and laced with shocked disapproval.  Ah, how he wished to truly offend his lady’s delicate sensibilities!  Images flooded his mind as he stared up at her, standing at the top of the stairs like a goddess over her erring petitioner.

            “You’re leaving.”  He spat the words out in a fury as he lunged up the remaining steps between them, heedless of the mud on his boots upon the expensive carpeting.

            She stood her ground, which drew a grudging smile from him.  That was one thing he loved most about his Caro.  She never backed down.  “Yes.”

            A simple enough statement.  Another man might have taken it at its worth.  But he was not another man, and he already made a bargain with the Devil, to have her here.  Without Caroline, he was already damned.

            “No!”  He roared the word as he covered the final inches between them, and yanked her hard against his body.  “You belong here.”

            “Unhand me, you beast!”  She shoved at his chest.  “How can you say I belong here, when here I am nothing but miserable?  I am not your property, and you cannot buy me – not with coin, and not with demands.”

            “Have I not given you everything I have to give, ungrateful wench!”  He could not control his tongue.  After weeks of fear, terror that he would arrive to find her already gone, his temper ran unchecked.  “Perhaps I should just take what I have already paid for, then!”

            He would not harm her.  It was not in what little remained of his soul to ever cause her harm.  Yet, he craved one taste of her, and the chance to convince her to stay.  Yanking her hard against him, he slanted his mouth over hers, and plundered willfully, the pirate he truly was. 

            Caroline’s body went rigid against his, and he heard a soft snick, like a knife loosed from its sheath.  Breaking his hold, he barely heard her soft whisper, before heat pierced his chest, and the world began to darken.  But, as he stared up into her tear-filled eyes, he knew he was betrayed, and her words were his last companion into the darkness.

            Forgive me, my love.

            He would not.  He could not.  She had consigned him to the Devil, but as life ebbed away from him, he made a promise to them both.  One day, he would return.  And she would pay for what she did.

Flash Friday: “On Guard”

“On Guard” -excerpted from Project Prometheus’ SHADOW WALKER

copyright 2002 by Esther Mitchell

     The dark woman pushed open the door to Starbuck’s and stepped out into the busy street of downtown Washington D.C.  It was midday, and the local restaurants and coffee shops were bursting with the midday crowd.  The two people in the non-descript sedan exchanged looks.  The man lifted his cell phone and punched the speed dial before lifting the unit to his ear.

     “This is Wolf One, checking in.  Den mother secure.”

     The woman in the passenger seat shifted restlessly.  “This is a waste of time, Ryan.  She’s not in any danger.”

     Ryan McCauley glanced at his partner, his lips flickering up in a small smile.  “I know you hate babysitting details, Shayne, but the boss has a feeling about this one.”

     She scowled and flicked strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder.  “You mean his wife has a feeling.  Why aren’t they the ones out here, letting their asses go numb in a rented car?”

     Ryan chuckled.  Shayne loved dramatics, and the profiler in him enjoyed the challenge of dealing with her shifting moods.  “They’re not even in country, Shayne, and you know it.  Besides—”

     What he was about to say was cut off as a dark van sped toward Gayle as she stepped from the curb at the cross-walk.

     “He’s going to hit her!”  Shayne was out of the car before Ryan could react, sprinting across the distance between them and Trevor’s sister like the distance runner she was.

     “Son of a bitch!”  Ryan slapped the steering wheel and punched the redial button even as he gunned the car to life.  “Control, this is Wolf One.  We have a situation.  Request back-up.”

     There was a screech of rubber on icy asphalt, and Shayne’s scream for Gayle to get back, before the redhead threw herself toward Gayle, tackling her in a roll that carried them both out of harm’s way.

     “Back-up enroute, Wolf One.  Please advise of situation.”  Julia Williams’ clipped voice filled his ear as Ryan jammed on the brakes and stared after the van that almost ran Gayle Burman down, unable to believe his eyes.  The van screeched around the corner, and he saw a familiar face through the open side door of the van, before it slammed shut.  Sickness lurched through him.  No way was Matt going to like this.

     “Be advised, there’s been an attempted kidnapping.  The Brotherhood just tried to pick up the den mother.”

     “You’re sure?”

     His mouth set in a grim line.  “I saw Red Widow.”

Flash Friday: “Fatal Conspiracy”

This scene comes to you courtesy of my next book in the Project Prometheus series.  As the danger mounts, can the Prometheans hope to stop the tide of destruction the Brotherhood of Spiders leave in their wake… Or even hope to save the life of one of their own?

“Fatal Conspiracy” – excerpted from Project Prometheus: STILL WATER

copyright 2006 by Esther Mitchell

            “Your man in the camp is fucking up all our plans!”  The scientist shook an accusing finger in the stone-cold face of Dimitri Lapinov.  Would it really kill the younger man to display a human emotion, occasionally?

            Younger man.  Hah!  He snorted as he glared at the tall Russian.  If the rumors he heard were true, Lapinov was old enough to be his grandfather.  Which made it even more disgusting that the man didn’t look a day over forty.

            “Calm yourself, amigo.”  The soft voice soothed him against his will, even as a gentle, unlined hand rested on his forearm, lowering it and his shaking digit.

            He turned his gaze to the source of that hypnotising calm.  She wasn’t anything much to look at, on the surface.  A soft face – she might actually be pretty if she did something with that stringy, unkempt hair and used a few cosmetics to take care of the dark circles under her eyes.  Surprisingly delicate hands and wrists that hinted she was more slender and attractive than those frumpy, wrinkled clothes and the stained lab coat indicated.  He couldn’t help the stir of interest.  Never mind that she was so far out of his league they weren’t even in the same division.  If Lapinov was old enough to be his grandfather, this pale-faced woman who looked like a lost child playing dress-up was old enough to be great-grandmother to every living human being on the planet.  And her status, at least, was no rumor.

            Magdalena – God alone knew her real name, anymore – claimed the only direct blood tie to Onuris in all the Brotherhood.  She was his daughter – a child spawned of a magical union, incapable of aging, or dying.  And seemingly entirely content to retreat into her world of plants and potions and let the rest of the world slip by her, until Red Widow traipsed into her territory and started hunting prey.  He smirked.  Nothing like competition to get a Widow all riled up.  Magdalena’s lips flickered in return, a soft smile that said she knew what he was thinking, as she moved a step closer to him.

            “Dimitri cannot be blamed for the incompetence of his associate,” she said in that quiet, husky voice of hers.

            “Can’t he?”  He wasn’t mollified by her deference to the Tarantula leader.  “Thanks to that bumbling idiot, Babin, our target is suspicious, now.”

            “Not of you,” Lapinov interrupted coldly, the first words he’d spoken since arriving an hour ago.

            “But that whore Banks has taken up with is.  Or didn’t you listen to the tapes your man brought in?”

            Lapinov snorted derisively, as if to say that he had no need of such trivial things as the tapes Babin routinely supplied from the bugs planted all over the Angelis Fund camp.  “The Daughter of the Star of Heaven would be suspicious even had Rurik not erred.  She is a vessel of the Musir, and a catalyst in the Healer’s life.  You failed to cover your own tracks well enough to evade her intuition.”

            Rage poured through him, and he fought to keep his expression neutral in the face of this bald-faced attack.  There was no way he’d rise to this bastard’s challenge.  But, as he opened his mouth to toss a retort back in Lapinov’s face, he was cut off by another voice.

            “Enough!  Both of you.”  The room’s only other occupant, who’d been strangely silent until now, spoke up sharply, reminding them all of her presence.  Red Widow turned from the office window to pin each of them in turn with her icy glare.  “I refuse to lose this artefact because you two want to have a pissing match.  We need a plan.  Though,”  she favored Lapinov with a censuring look, “he does raise a valid point, Dimitri.”

            Smug humor burst in his as he watched Lapinov bristle with indignation.  So the pet wasn’t above censure, after all.  Interesting.

            “Okay.  So, what’s the plan, then?”

            Red Widow’s scarlet-tinted lips twitched, but he couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a frown that marred her cosmetically-altered face.

            “The plan hasn’t changed.  The Daughter of Heaven must die, if we are to succeed.”

Find Project Prometheus at Aspen Mountain Press, or by visiting www.esthermitchell.com

Flash Friday: “Dangerous Bait”

“Dangerous Bait” – excerpted from DEAD MEN…

copyright 2006 by Esther Mitchell

“What are you doing, Calli?”  Cade murmured the words into the headset, aware she could hear him, but that she couldn’t respond while the mark was with her.

“Sounds to me like she’s got his number.”

Cade turned toward MCAR Homicide Detective Stefan Theonides, seated next to him in the surveillance flier, and scowled.  None of these people got Calli – not like he did.  Even the people she worked with; hell, even her own brother, from what he saw of Lance McKinney, didn’t get Calli like Cade did.  He knew what drove her, how isolated she felt out here in the real world.  It wasn’t that she couldn’t relate, either.  She tried harder to be noticed than anyone he ever met.  Like now.

Cade swore beneath his breath, wishing he knew more about Martian culture, so he could properly profile how dangerous this creep was.  The anxiety that threaded through Calli’s voice told him he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

He heard Calli’s sharp intake of air, and a noise like some kind of weapon being released, and tensed.

“Talk to me, McKinney,” he ordered in an undertone.  They’d been unable to set up visuals, in case the perp was watching the park beforehand, and now that lack could put Calli’s life in danger.

“What do you need a shankblade for?”  Calli’s voice came through clear, but Cade frowned at the unfamiliar reference.  He glanced at the man beside him as Theonides swore beneath his breath.

“A shankblade is a weapon crafted up on Satan’s Tit.  It’s a titatone blade, housed in something innocuous-looking, and undetectable to contraband scanners.  Usually, the blades are coated in nuerotoxins.”

Cade’s blood froze.

“Calli, get the hell out of there!”

“I think you know,” came the cold voice of their mark, closer than it shoud have been to the microphone.  Hell, it sounded like the asshole was breathing in her ear.

“What do you want?”  Calli’s snapped response was followed by a rustle of movement that Cade hoped like hell was her moving out of range.

“Why, the Muse, my dear.  She will make such an interesting addition to my…collection.”

That tore it!  Cade was on his feet, and across the surveillance flier’s bay before he heard another word.  He’d just reached the door when a scream reverberated  through the vehicle that sent terror slicing through his soul.

Flash Friday: “The Score”

“The Score” – Excerpt from Hero’s Hope (Underground)

copyright 2007 by Esther Mitchell

He told himself he was ready for this.  And he knew he was full of shit.  No one was ever ready to tangle with a dude like Terrence Walker.  One wrong move, one wild card in the mix, and it would all end in a bloodbath.  Matt Clipper sealed his lips in a grim line over the worried oath that pressed against his tongue as he primed his Colt Racer – a recent addition to street warfare, the weapon was a cross between a conventional handgun and a Super Taser – and double-checked that he had his backup.  He glanced into the rearview mirror of the Lincoln Continental.  “Y’all ready?”

“Let’s roll.”  Snooks brandished his weapon with a grin just this side of sadistically gleeful, and Matt bit down on the wave of nausea that spiralled through him at the sight.  Similar anticipation preceded too many of his nightmares.  He resisted the urge to shudder.  He was getting way too old for this shit.  Problem was, he didn’t see how he was of any use to the Commandos if he left the streets behind.  He didn’t have Blade’s skills, or Jen’s brains, or Red’s background.  He had nothing to offer but what he learned out here, and the one thing Matt Clipper wasn’t was a leech.  So he did the only thing he knew how to do.  Even if it killed him.

To combat the queasy uncertainty in the pit of his stomach, he pasted on his most cocky grin and reached for the driver side door.  He was about to put it on the line to get Big T to this meet-up.  The Man had best represent.

“Let’s go.”

Like a pack of wild animals, the gang-bangers piled out of the vehicle with none of the stealth or finesse Matt grew accustomed to as a Commando.  He winced inwardly, and triple-checked his weapons again.  He had a bad feeling this was about to go to Hell, and Jen would kill him if he got sloppy.  Hell, the voodoo woman would probably dig him up just to kill him again, if he got himself whacked.

A snort of dark laughter nearly broke his lips, and he caught the wary look the kid beside him cast his way.  Rance stuck close to him since JT went down.  Poor kid wasn’t cut out for this life; too bad Matt didn’t know how to get him out.

Matt’s gaze went to the building before them, and the scene was far too familiar.  Rundown and solitary among the empty lots that flanked it on three sides, this pre-World War Three tenement was where JT was murdered, and Matt’s fall into Hell began.  No one knew how much he hated every time he had to come back here.  The queasy sensation in his gut talked loud and clear.  When Matt Clipper checked out, it would be in a place just like this one; a building on the edge of forgotten.

Damn.  He was dipping into the morbid, again.  That was a distraction he didn’t need.  Matt shook it off and cocked his weapon with a grin only he knew was forced.

“Playtime.  Just remember, the Big Man wants T alive, or we’re in deep shit.”

He wasn’t worried they’d fuck it up.  These boys might need some lessons in finesse when it came to assaults, but they were far from incompetent novices.  They had their own silent language, and while it didn’t have the sophistication he’d learned by hanging with Booters like Blade and Ace, he was comfortable with it.  These were streeters.  They knew the score.

The gang fanned out to surround the front door, waiting for Matt’s signal.  He edged up to the door and listened intently.  The sound of an old building settling, and the drip of water somewhere in the distance, reached his ears.  No voices, no footsteps.  Relief wound through him.  No ambush; and that was good news to him.  He jerked his head toward the door, then eased it open to scoot inside cautiously.  The same couldn’t be said for his gang.

Snooks barreled through the door like a maniac.  Damn it, was he high?  Matt couldn’t tell; he couldn’t see the other man’s eyes, but Snooks was sweating.  That was a bad sign.

“Yo, Snooks, hold up a min-” His caution fell on deaf ears as Snooks took the stairs three at a time, disappearing into the upper levels of the old building.  There was a loud crash, and the Snooks’ voice echoed down the stairwell.

“Prayer time, muthafu-”  His words died in a spray of gunfire that lit up the stairwell and echoed off the tile walls.  Matt immediately dropped behind cover, his instincts honed to self-preservation by years of Commando missions.  He knew what that gunfire meant.

“Damn it.”  Anger tightened his chest.  It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.  God damn it, Snooks knew better than to get high right before a hit.

“Shit, dude!”  Rance dropped back as well, his face a shade between green and gray.  Kid was scared.  Smart.  “What was that?”

“That,” Matt responded grimly, “was trouble.  Everyone, hang back.”

With that quiet instruction, Matt started slowly up the stairs, forcing himself to draw even breaths as he went.  This was it.  He’d never told anyone, but he always knew he’d die alone.  And here he was, climbing into the lion’s den, alone.  Still, if he wanted this to go down without any higher of a body count, he had to go it solo.

As he reached the first landing, Matt flipped his Racer to stun.  He didn’t want anyone going down for a permanent nap, least of all his mark.  The Man would never forgive him for that, and nor would anyone else.  Set to stun, the energy weapon would release a non-lethal electrical charge in a beam that would render the target unconscious.  He wanted Big T down, not out of the picture.  He had orders, after all.

Flash Friday: “Immortality”

“Immortality” – Excerpted from IN HER NAME

copyright 2001 by Esther Mitchell

Matt found himself staring at a vision made to stop a man’s heart.

Manara sat beside a small pool of water, looking like an otherworldly vision of wistful sadness, bathed in desert moonlight as she stared into the water’s mirrored surface.  Gone were the fatigues he hadn’t realized he hated until this moment, replaced by something dark and filmy that flowed around her like wisps of smoke on the slight breeze, to catch the light in a fall of stars.

Matt’s breath caught, and his chest squeezed with a primal lust that drove away all memory of death and battle.  How could any man remain morbid in this presence of this beauty?

Reality slammed home with the force of a speeding train.  He was lusting after a woman forbidden to him – a virgin who wanted nothing to do with him.  A woman whose trust he so blatantly misused.

He froze as his courage fled completely under the weight of regret and shame, and he knew he had no right to approach her, or to beg her forgiveness.  Especially when he couldn’t yet reconcile who she was with how he felt about her.  Instead, he watched her silently, absorbing her beauty, as regret for all he let slip away from him welled up, followed by one violent thought.  Damn you, Rachel.

“She is a beautiful woman.  The kind men spend lifetimes composing poetry about.”

Matt started, his attention jerked sideways by the sound of a new voice, speaking in Arabic.  Mustafa stood beside him, a knowing smile curved on her weathered face.  Matt nodded, and swallowed against the regret that stung his throat. “Have you ever made a mistake you knew was wrong?”

Mustafa sighed.  “Once, many years ago.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to own a woman already owned by the world.  She belonged to the wind and, deep inside, I always knew it would carry her away from me.  Still, I did terrible things, threatened terrible consequences, in my attempt to keep her.”

Matt nodded slowly, as the guilt of his actions toward Manara closed around his throat.  He doubted Mustafa had done anything so terrible, but he would not insult the man by belittling his experience.  “What did you do?”

“In the end, you mean?  I let her go.”  Mustafa glanced Matt’s way.  “Celia taught me a valuable lesson about belief, and that my family is not always correct.”  He sighed again, a wistful sound that didn’t escape Matt.  His curiosity was piqued.  What did Mustafa find so alluring about this Celia he mentioned?

“Why wouldn’t she stay?”

Mustafa chuckled.  “There are powers at work in this world far greater than any mortal man can control.  Celia taught me that my family’s narrow views of the world merely masked their lack of concern for the fate of others.  With my eyes open, I could not stay, so I left in search of the truth, and here is where I found my destiny.  I have Celia to thank for that.  My only regret is that I could not save her from hers.”

Matt’s brow furrowed.  He didn’t like where this was headed.  “What power?”

“Come,” Mustafa laid a friendly hand on his shoulder.  “Let us walk as we talk.  The exercise does my old bones well.”

Matt kept easy pace with the older man’s stroll through the camp.  They walked in silence for a time, before Mustafa drew a deep breath, and sighed again.

“The desert air holds many secrets, but the earth holds the greatest secrets of all.  Treasures that are both amazing and dangerous, in the wrong hands.”

Those words roused disturbing images in Matt’s head, of a blue-white sword, and tablets marked with strange characters unlike any he’d ever seen.  He had to clear his throat twice, to ask, “Like what?”

“There are many tales.  Tales of Djinn trapped in magical lamps, and mystical races with horses that run like the wind.  But the most powerful tale is terrifyingly true, of a secret entrusted to the temple of a dying religion.  It is a secret many have coveted, and men have wasted a lifetime in search of, yet have rarely unlocked even a fragment of.  It is a dangerous secret to guard.  One of my ancestors, according to family legend, stumbled across the secret quite by accident, in a tablet crafted in ancient Babylon.”

“Cuneiform?”

Mustafa nodded.  “He paid dearly for his knowledge, even after he passed it back to its guardian.  Men of Rome came, and killed him for his secret.”

“What was it?”

“A recipe.”  Mustafa stopped as he reached the edge of the camp.  “A recipe to give immortal life.”

Want to read more?  IN HER NAME is available for sale at Aspen Mountain Press

Paranormal Fiction Mistake #6

I Love You, I’ll Kill You

Paranormal Hunters & Love Affairs

            This is a fun area, likely to get a lot of protest from the Paranormal Romance community simply because it’s one of the least-researched problems of paranormal fiction.  But after reading hundreds of books in which “Buffy” (an exaggeration for example only) falls for the very creature s/he is hunting so avidly, I decided something had to be done.

             The pairing of Hunter and Prey is one of the most implausible in all of the Romance industry.  Why, you ask?        It’s simple, really.  Hunters are a special breed, whether they’re human, or Stregoni Benefici (a vampire-hunting vampire), or any other kind of creature.  What makes a Hunter so special is his/her obsessive dedication to the eradication of an entire group of paranormal creatures.  This very trait is also what makes it highly unlikely s/he would ever fall for his/her prey.  The idea is a lot like a female cop who’s dedicated her life to ridding the streets of every rapist falling in love with a multiple-conviction offender.  That’s going to take a huge leap to even consider, and as a reader, you’re not likely to buy it, even then.  My advice to paranormal authors looking to create a love affair between a Hunter and his/her Prey is to forget the idea of succeeding within a single title – not unless you have one hell of a plot device or character twist up your sleeve.  Getting a Hunter to fall for his/her prey is a series commitment, if I ever saw one.

             Now, let’s tackle some of the basics of a Hunter.  First off, they’re not all buff, athletic types with gun/sword master skills (though woe be to the Vampire Slayer who doesn’t at least know how to use a sword, even if they haven’t mastered it).  Hunters come in all shapes and sizes, a variety of ages, and a literally limitless pool under the “walk of life” category.  What sets the Hunter apart is his/her dedication.  Without exception, they’re dedicated to their cause – which is invariably the extinction of some form of paranormal being or another.

             Hunters aren’t alone, either.  Along with them come Investigators, and what I like to call “Collaborators.”  A Hunter may start his/her paranormal career as an Investigator or Collaborator (though this is in no way a requirement), and may even continue to investigate other forms of the paranormal while Hunting one type.  By the same token, at any point in his/her career, a Hunter may become, either buy choice or necessity, a Collaborator with another group of paranormal beings, in order to better hunt his/her prey.

             It’s possible for an Investigator who is not a Hunter to fall for a paranormal being s/he is investigating.  It can come with the territory to be fascinated with and even obsessed with the idea of interacting with a particular entity or type of creature.  In this same vein, it’s more than likely that a Collaborator will form at least some kind of connection to those they collaborate with.  They are the most likely of all to end up in love with a member of the paranormal society they empathize so well with.  However, it’s almost unheard of for a Hunter to fall for prey.

             The case of the Hunter/Prey love affair leaves an author who insists on doing it with only a few choices: write a single title that’s likely to have either very flat/inaccurate characters, write a series with a lot of traumatic upheaval that’s going to eventually, over time, wear down your Hunter’s resistance (and ergo require tons of research over the course of the series), or admit that the idea is more involved than you first thought, and change the Hunter to either an Investigator or a Collaborator. 

             Oh, and as a final note, if your Hunter at any point works with the paranormal being in question against someone else, that instantly makes him/her a Collaborator, which a Hunter would never willingly do with chosen Prey.