Flash Friday: “Gatekeeper”

Flash Friday: “Gatekeeper”  – Excerpted from Project Prometheus: BETWEEN WORLDS

copyright 2008 by Esther Mitchell

She was so cold.  The wind here on the shore was bitter, chilled by the storm that raged around her.  Csilla huddled in the cavern, watching as sthe boats were made ready.

“Are you ready, Gatekeeper?”

She turned at the sound of a masculine voice, to find Sargon beside her, tall and strong in his armor, the glow of his charge shining around him even from where it rested, secure in the scabbard at his side.  She shuddered to think that, of them all, only she was a real danger.  Only her charge could bring them all back to this place, and only her charge could be forced from her grasp by any manner besides death.

“Go, Warrior,” she whispered, already aware of what she must do.  And yet, she could not tell these men, her soul-brothers, what she planned.  They would surely halt her plan, if they knew how she meant to protect them all.  “I am weary, and will bide here a while.”

He frowned.  “It is not safe, Csilla.  Already, Arachaena swarm the mountain above us.  They must not find us here.”

She looked out toward the storm-tossed waves whose peace she once found solace in.  Sadness gripped her that she would leave this behind, and she hugged her cloak tighter about her shoulders.  There was no help for it.  This was as it must be.

“I shall follow directly.  Have Mykalos tie me a boat in yon rocks.”

Sargon sighed, but relented.  Truly, he was too tender to a woman’s comfort; she feared that would bring him to ill ends.  “Do not linger too long, Csilla.”

She smiled up at him, careful that he did not read her sorrow.  “I will be gone before they arrive.”

With a nod, his eyes wary, Sargon left her and headed for the boats beyond.  Csilla sighed, and shivered slightly as she rested her back against the cool rocks.  She felt the weight of the knife concealed beneath her cloak.  She would keep her promise.  Only, it would not be as Sargon believed.

Find out more about this series at www.esthermitchell.com/projectmain

Read IN HER NAME, HOPE OF HEAVEN, and SHADOW WALKER today!  Find them at:

www.aspenmountainpress.com/in-her-name/prod_73.html

www.aspenmountainpress.com/hope-of-heaven/prod_128.html

http://www.aspenmountainpress.com/paranormal/romance/shadow-walker/prod_219.html

Flash Friday: “Trooper’s Crusader”

In honor of my signing tomorrow at the Tucson Festival of Books, today’s Flash Friday is a little piece from one of my most popular series, the SF series Underground.  Hope you enjoy… As always, leave a comment and let me know what you think! – Esther

“Trooper’s Crusader” – Excerpted from Underground #1: TAMIA

copyright 1992 by Esther Mitchell

Barely five minutes after she settled herself into one of the plush lounge chairs, she heard someone enter the room, and looked up to find a man in his mid-thirties leaning against the doorframe, a curious expression on his stubbly face.  His strawberry-blond hair was in disarray, and his half-hearted attempt at a suit was rumpled enough to convince her that he’d slept in it at least once.

“You’re the lady asking about the Altura piece?”  He sounded suspicious.

“Yes.  My father left some paperwork—”

“I’m not as gullible as Pete, out there,” he snapped as he stepped the rest of the way into the room, and the glass door slid shut behind him.

Tamia straightened instantly as a shot of fear skimmed through her veins.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Carey Feldar.”

She gasped.  She’d heard of him.  Carey Feldar was one of print news’ top-rated war correspondents during the Divide, and the troops were always eager to talk to him.  He was sympathetic to their troubles – “the Trooper’s Crusader,” they called him.  Feldar won four Pulitzers for his coverage of the disaster in Montreal.  “The Carey Feldar?”

He smirked.  “There sure as hell ain’t two of me, honey.  And I’m the man who snapped this pic,” he held up the clipping she’d given Pete.  Feldar’s eyes narrowed.  “I know who you are, too, Lieutenant.”

“Captain,” she corrected automatically, and then sighed.  “Okay, so I was there.  I didn’t really want to advertise that fact, Mr. Feldar.”

“I’d already figured that out, but I think I’m going to enjoying hearing why.”  A brief grin slashed his face, and was gone.  “And congratulations on your promotion.”

She glanced around.  “Is there somewhere else we can talk about this?  I need some information from you, about that photo.”

His gaze fell to the clipping in his hand again, and he frowned.  “Why do I get the feeling it isn’t aesthetic appreciation that brought you here?”

“Because it’s not,” she confirmed grimly.  “It’s a lot more important than that.”

He looked resigned, but interested.  “So what’s in it for me?”

“The chance to help prevent another war.”

He smirked.  “Haven’t you heard, Captain?  War means news.  Why would I want to put myself out of a job?”

“Because you’re playing a game with me, and maybe even yourself, right now.  You’re the Trooper’s Crusader, and that wasn’t a title you earned, or ever took, lightly.”  She met his green eyes head-on, reading the discomfort there.  “You saw enough of war and death to never want to see more.”

His shoulders slumped as he nodded.  “All right, you got me there.  Let’s go on up to my office.  I’ve got plenty to show you.”

Flash Friday: “Christmas Ghosts”

For about as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fan of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.  It’s not just the glimpse inside the paranormal energy of the season, but also about the spirit of humanity, and the magic of how the season can reach deep inside of people and pull out both the best and the worst of a person’s soul.  How it makes us face our deepest demons.  In the spirit of that, here’s a glimpse inside the thoughts of a man who knows all about personal demons… 

“Christmas Ghosts” – excerpted from SHADOW WALKER

copyright 2002 by Esther Mitchell

Left alone in the empty family room, still surrounded by the scents and sights of the home he should have had all along, Trevor stared sightlessly at the dancing lights of Jaye’s Christmas tree until the image blurred before his eyes.  He’d thought he could put things right, that if he cared enough, and paid enough, he could wipe out the debt he had, and start over.  Have a real chance.

     But the frightened little voice now echoing in his ears, and the worried frown that didn’t belong on a nine-year-old’s face, haunted him.  Jordan’s love was immediate and unconditional.  But the boy’s trust was another matter, and in that Trevor saw himself again, a twelve-year-old boy faced with his father’s absence, and his mother’s distance as she lost herself in a bottle.  Had he ever really forgiven either of them?

     The answer was a resounding No.  He’d pitied his mother, but he still couldn’t forgive her for choosing alcohol over her children.  Even after his own bout with that demon, he couldn’t let go of the pain.  And Jerome’s chronic selfishness – bitterness and rage stirred in Trevor’s chest.  The man abandoned them.  Disappeared.  And now Trevor managed to prove himself as unreliable as either parent.

     The disgust he felt for himself shook Trevor to the core.  He’d hurt Jaye and Jordan in ways he couldn’t erase.  There was no clean slate, and he was a fool to think there could ever be one.  He would spend the rest of his life earning Jordan’s trust, and probably still fail in the end.  But Jaye – Jaye’s fears, he could set right.  She was afraid he blamed her for Somalia.  She thought she wasn’t worthy of him.  The mere thought caught in his throat.  As if he was such a great catch.

     With a resigned sigh, Trevor levered himself up from the sofa and turned off the Christmas lights, plunging the room into near-darkness.  How appropriate.  He lived in shadow, chained far away from the light.  But if he was very lucky, tonight he might just win a reprieve.

Flash Friday: “Unexpected Spy”

“Unexpected Spy” – excerpted from Project Prometheus: MISSION OF MERCY

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 room 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 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.

Building the Dream: Inside Project Prometheus

I’ve never really gotten inside the workings of the Project Prometheus organization.  I’ve explored what makes it tick, a bit, but not into the meat and bones of what the organization is, or how it came to be.

It all began about ten years ago (you see, the genesis of Project Prometheus actually predates the creation of the book that would eventually become its launch point, IN HER NAME).  As a military enthusiast, I’m fascinated by the inner workings of both military systems around the world and the politics that are often an influence on them.  And then, in passing, I read something regarding stated US policy, and it surprised me.  The US Government neither condones nor participates in the use of mercenaries.  In fact, the stated policy is that any American citizen who joins a mercenary unit loses his/her citizenship as an American.

Now I grew up in the military – I’ve seen enough, heard enough, and lived through enough that this information really surprised me.  From the Swamp Fox during the Revolutionary War to Somalia, I’m aware of dozens of instances in which the US either made us of or worked in co-operation with mercenaries.  This contradiction sent me searching deeper, and inspired an idea.

What would happen if a mercenary organization fought for the same thing official US policy stands by, and was based in the US?  What would happen if the men and women recruited by this organization were some of the most decorated personnel in both military and civilian Law Enforcement channels?

From this thought came the idea of Project Prometheus, though I wasn’t sure at the time what I’d do with it.  The first thing I decided was that these were mercenaries.  The second was that they wouldn’t all be US citizens.  These men and women would be chosen for their skills, and their dedication to a common cause – peace and safety for the world, no matter the cost.

Now, Prometheus isn’t anywhere close to your typical mercenary unit.  I’ll grant you that. Most mercenary units are available to the highest bidder, and don’t draw a lot of moral lines regarding what they will and won’t do for their pay.  Most are modern equivalents of land-locked pirates.  But I didn’t want that for Prometheus.  These had to be men and women you couldn’t help but admire and respect – people with histories and lives that lent themselves to the moral codes so often ignored.  So, what to do?

  It was simple enough.  By giving them a face - the mythical face of Prometheus himself, they learned to help others, to work for the betterment of all humanity.  They aren’t all warriors, either.  Prometheans come from all walks of life – they are protectors, healers, investigators, teachers and so much more.  As many of their non-Promethean counterparts soon discover, there’s a lot more to being a Promethean than the willingness to fight.

Flash Friday: “Memory”

“Memory” – Excerpted from Project Prometheus #3: SHADOW WALKER

copyright 2003 by Esther Mitchell

Senses he didn’t understand told Trevor Watkins that there was someone outside the door, even before it opened.  He had no idea where the heightened sensations came from, but sight, sound, and smell were intensified to the point of overload.  He smelled fear, deep and earthy, and the salty scent of grief.  He could hear a heartbeat, loud and fast, and female.  Whoever she was, the woman on the other side of that door had something to hide.

The door opened, the motion a badly needed distraction for his growing disquiet.  He didn’t like the emotions and sensations whirling in his mind.  He was edgy and out of place, unable to remember how he came to this place, or why he had these strange senses.  He felt… well, hollow.  That hollowness terrified him and comforted him at the same time.  It told him he once had a life, full of friends and family.  What scared him most was that all the people he should know were strangers to him.  He agreed to see the psychiatrist only because he wanted – no, he needed – his past.  He was lost without it.

One glimpse of the woman in the doorway, however, convinced him that desire, at least, was not confined to his past.  Her warm, cinnamon scent filled his lungs, and his body responded with a primal force that nearly flattened him.  His eyes roved over her and he decided this was the closest he’d ever been to perfection.  She was tall – probably only an inch or so shorter than his own six-foot stature – with shapely legs that, beneath the starched hem of her uniform skirt, seemed to go on forever.  Her skin was the flawless, lightly burnished tone of a deep tan; but why did he think she was that same shade all over?

As he studied her, his eyes narrowed.  He picked up the scent of fear and guilt again, and heard the subtle alteration of her breathing.  Then she shifted, and he became aware of her body, beneath that regulation uniform, all toned curves and supple lines.  No woman he saw in the past year could carry off the pure white of a Naval uniform like this woman could.  She had smooth, high-boned features, and full, lush lips that made him think of sultry whispers and sinful kisses.  Her head was held proudly erect, the raven-wing hair coiled into a tight braid around her head.  The image of his hands, tangled in dark, waist-length hair, assaulted Trevor and cranked his already-elevated temperature up another degree.  Who was she?  The flash of vulnerability, and confirmation of guilt, in her amazing jade-green eyes sent a chill of fear through Trevor.  They obviously had a past, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall what it was.

“Hello, Trevor,” she greeted him familiarly, confirming his fear.  Her voice, even softened by pain and uncertainty, lanced through him in a way nothing since he awakened had.

He blinked at her, suddenly afraid to know who she was, or how they hurt each other.  Maybe, he realized with a shiver of apprehension, not remembering the past was a good thing.

Read the stories that started it all in IN HER NAME and HOPE OF HEAVEN, available now from Aspen Mountain Press at www.aspenmountainpress.com

And look for SHADOW WALKER, coming soon from Aspen Mountain Press!

Flash Friday: “Instinct”

copyright 2006 by Esther Mitchell  – Excerpted from SHADOW WALKER

It was a ten-minute drive from her home in Kensington to the NNMC, and Jaye prayed no cops were out tonight as she sped toward the hospital.  The nagging sense that Trevor was alone and in need of help was her only companion as she raced to the facility.  She was on autopilot, with little awareness of her actions as she showed her ID to the guard at the NNMC’s gate, parked and locked her car, and headed toward the inpatient wards.  She was just at the door into the building when something in her peripheral vision stopped her in her tracks.  She turned, her eyes scanning the bushes beside the building and her brow furrowed.  What was out there?

She shrugged when she saw nothing, but her skin prickled with awareness she didn’t want to acknowledge as she turned toward the door again.  A  whimper, followed by a moan, sent a chill through her that wracked Jaye to the core.  It sounded like an animal, and a man, in pain.  She spun around, and her eyes searched the bushes again, until she saw one move.

Heart in her throat, praying that she was about to find a wounded dog, Jaye eased toward the bush.  Whatever she found there, she already knew she wasn’t ready for it.

A warning growl faded into a whimper of pain and fear as her hand touched the bush, and she eased it aside, expecting an injured animal.  A dismayed gasp left her at what she found, instead.

Trevor lay in a tight huddle between the bush and the wall.  The moonlight touched his dark, bare skin, and he shivered from the bitter winter cold.

“Trevor!”  Immediately, she yanked off her warm trench coat, aware it still wouldn’t be enough if he’d been out here long.  She glanced up as the hospital door opened and an orderly stepped outside.

“Hey!”

He turned toward her, and Jaye barked out a single order.  “Get some blankets, stat!”

She returned her attention to her patient.  There were no outward signs of trauma, which did nothing to explain why he was out here in the freezing cold and as bare as the day he was born.

“Trevor?”  She laid a cautious hand on his shoulder, and felt the shudder that lunged through him.  “Trevor, can you hear me?”

His only response was a low whine, and Jaye reassessed the situation with a muttered oath.  It was worse than first appearances.  Last time she found Trevor huddled in fright, he’d come around quickly, and he was still fully clothed.  But he was weak then, and they only just made it back to his room from the medical storage down the hall, taht time.  Clearly, his situation was deteriorating.  She didn’t want to know how, why, or where he lost his clothes, and his animal instincts were sharper now than his human ones.  There was no way she could count on his help getting him back to his room, and she certainly couldn’t do it herself.

Resolutely, she reached over and pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her coat draped over Trevor’s broad shoulders.  He growled and yanked away, but she had her phone in hand, already.  Biting her lip, she punched the speed dial for Inpatient’s trauma unit.

“Naval Medical Inpatient trauma ward.  Chief Petty Officer James speaking.”

“Chief, this is Dr. Michaels.  I found our missing patient.  I need a gurney, and a couple of orderlies.”

Lydia was a professional; Jaye had to give her that.  Though the other woman didn’t deal with psychiatric patients very often, she kept her curiosity to herself, and her focus on the patient’s care.  “I’ll call down and have ER get one out to you, ASAP, Ma’am.  Where are you?”

“Right outside the lower entrance to building ten.”  Jaye clicked off the phone as the orderly she summoned earlier arrived, his arms loaded with blankets.

“Thanks.”  She took them and turned to Trevor.  He still looked oblivious to her presence, or his own humanity, and only stirred enough to voice a warning growl as she replaced her coat with the warmer blankets.

“Ma’am… Is he all right?”  The orderly’s worried voice reached her.

“He will be,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and soothing as she stroked Trevor’s head gently.  She kept her eyes on him, aware that taking her gaze off this wild animal would be a mistake.  She only prayed her words were the truth as she again whispered, “He will be.”