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Diamond Part 3: Frank's Diner

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 DH finished the next part in the Drake Diamond Saga. I like the set-up for this character, but I am biased. hard not to be excited about what DH is working on, but I could see a series of fun, snarky, gritty stories about an undead detective. Flesh out the world. The people in it.

Part1 and Part2  are available if you want to read them for the first time or get a refresher.       

Ace

Frank’s Diner

            Outside, the gray sky matched the wet pavement.  Cold, dirty puddles covered the sidewalk beneath dim, flickering street lights.  I fished my pack of smokes out of my pocket, raised it to my lips, and took one between my teeth and pulled it out.  I was about to light up when I remembered my manners.

“You want a smoke?”  I’d never been raised from the dead before.  Wasn’t familiar with the etiquette.  Figured the least I could offer Betty Malone for bringing me back to the World of the Living was a cigarette.

“Sure, thanks.”  I hold the pack out and she takes one between her fingers.  I notice her nail Polish is the exact same shade of red as her lipstick.  She holds the cigarette up and stares at it for a second.  It lights itself, tiny curls of smoke raising from the now glowing end, and she gives a slight smirk and puts it between her lips.

“Neat trick.”

“Want me to teach you?”  She raises an eyebrow at me, with a coy smile.

“I’ll stick with my lighter, thanks.”

“I thought you lost yours.”

She’s right.  I remember being hit in the jaw by an entire side of beef at the end of someone’s arm, sending me, my thirty-eight, and my lighter in three different directions.  And then some bullets decided to move into my chest cavity, ruining the whole neighborhood.

“Damn.  Guess I’ll have to start carrying matches until I can get a new one.”

“We’re not to far from Frank’s Diner,” Betty says.  “You can get some there.  It’s just as well.  Doubt you’ve got the patience to learn magic anyway.”

Betty’s probably right.  I never believed in it before.  Now, with my reflection in the puddles below an eyeless skull grinning back at me, it’s kind of hard to remain a skeptic.  But time spent learning how to light my smokes with a snap of my fingers is time I’d rather spend tracking down Thorne.

 

Frank’s Diner is one of those places you can tell exactly what it is from the outside, and the inside is just what you’d expect.  Hash browns, steak and eggs, grilled ham and cheese sandwich…you can have whatever you want as long as it ain’t fancy.  Its open late, and never very crowded.  There’s a few other customers there, getting their late night fix of greasy food and cheap coffee.  Betty picks us out a few stools at the counter, down a ways from the other patrons.  First thing I do when I sit is pocket a few books of matches, and strike one to finally give myself a light.

Seconds later, Maxine appears with an order pad and a pen at the ready.  Forty-something, dishwater blond hair up under a hair-net.  Been a fixture at Frank’s for all the years I’d been eating there.  An incurable gossip, she’s both a good source of information, and a bad source of misinformation.  On a number of my past cases, I’d come to Maxine to check what she’d heard.  Can’t always trust her info, but it’s a place to start.

“And what can I get you folks tonight?  The apple pie’s fresh, and we have…Drake?  Drake Diamond!”  It would be cliche to say she looked like she’d seen a ghost.  But saying she’d seen an old acquaintance back from the dead doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

“The usual, Maxine.  And a slice of that apple pie, too.”  I tap some ashes from my cigarette into a tray and turn to Betty.  “You want anything?”

“I am positively ravenous,” she smirks, narrowing her eyes.  Maybe bringing a vampire to a public place was a bad idea.  But then she says, “Pastrami on rye, and a cherry cola.”

“One pastrami on rye, cherry cola,” she says as she scribbles on her pad, “and Mr. Diamond’s usual: black coffee and a fried egg sandwich with ham and Tabasco sauce.”  She winks at me.  “And a slice of pie.  I’ll be right back.”

Betty watches Maxine hustle off and turns to me.  “You two have a history?”

“Nah.  She winks at everybody like that.”

“Good.  Don’t get too involved with the Living, Drake.  You’re not one of them anymore.  It wouldn’t end well for either of you.”         She crushes out her lipstick-stained cigarette in the ashtray.

“Sounds like the voice of experience.”  I don’t mean to pry, but it never hurts to throw out a line.  You never know what you might catch.  Betty looks at me and shakes her head.

“Not me.  I’m not the same as you.”  She glances around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping, and lowers her voice.  “You’re Undead, Drake.  You were Dead, then I undid your death.  That’s what Undead means.  That’s not what I am.  I was never Dead.  Not entirely.  No one Undid anything that had happened to me to make me what I am.”

I purse my lips into a frown as I try to recall what I know about vampires.  Nothing, that’s what.  I never believed they were real.  There were some stories about them in a few of the pulp magazines I read as a kid, but I’m guessing those were more full of misinformation than Maxine on a bad day.  But I think I get the basic idea.

“I’m Undead.  You’re the Living Dead.”  Betty thinks about that for a second, then nods.

“Yes.  And there are Rules for each of us.  But the Rules I have to follow aren’t the same as the Rules you have to follow.  And the consequences for breaking our rules aren’t the same.  You don’t have to drink blood or avoid direct sunlight, like I do.  But trying to reestablish the close personal relationships you had when you were alive…will turn you back into a sack of bones.”

“I…what?”  It takes me a minute before I realize my cigarette has fallen into my lap.

Maxine comes by and gives us our sandwiches and drinks.  “I’ll be back with your pie in a sec, hon!”

Betty waits until she’s gone, then speaks.  “Acquaintances are fine: people you worked with, or passing familiarities,” Betty takes a bite of her pastrami, then continues, “But interacting with any close friends or, worse, loved ones, risks undoing the magic keeping you intact.  I doubt I’d be able to bring you back again after that.”  She somehow has a way of speaking clearly even while she chews her food.  “So…if you and that waitress had anything beyond casual meaningless flirting, every word she says to you…or that you say to her….increases the risk of you getting sent back the the Other Side.”

Taking a bite of my own sandwich, I chew in silence for a long time.  This is a lot to to take in.  The sandwich isn’t very satisfying, even though it’s dripping with Tabasco.  I swallow, washing it down with a gulp of coffee.

“I don’t remember being dead.  I just remembering dying.  Three forty-four magnum rounds to my chest, and the next thing I know I’m sitting up on a marble altar surrounded by ritual candles.  You say I’ve been dead three years but I didn’t feel any time passing.  Now you tell me I can only have professional relationships, or superficial ones.  Any real genuine human connection…could end me?”

Betty shrugs.  “With the Living, yes.”  She takes another bite of her pastrami, speaking with her mouth full.  Still, she manages to pronounce everything flawlessly.  “You know how people who’ve lost a close friend or relative sometimes regret an apology never made, or a hatchet never buried?  Something important that needed to be said or resolved, but they never did, and now it’s too late?”  I nod, taking another bite of my sandwich.  It’s not bland or tasteless.  It’s just that I don’t seem to enjoy the taste anymore.  I don’t dislike it either.  It’s just…a sandwich.

“Turns out that’s one of reality’s biggest Rules: if you’ve got something important to say to someone, you have to say it while you still have the chance.  Once they die, or you die, anything left unsaid stays unsaid.  And you died, Drake.”

“I didn’t die.  I was murdered.”

She shrugs again.  “Getting murdered is one way of dying.  Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still bound by the Rules, Drake.  I know there’s a lot of ghost stories where there’s a spirit that’s restless from some Unfinished Business, and needs it taken care of before they can pass on.  And those are just stories.  If you wanted to Finish your Business, you needed to do it while you were still alive.  I’m not trying to rub it in, Drake, but you’re not alive anymore.  Any Business you left Unfinished is going to stay that way.  You’re not allowed break that Rule.”

Lana.  I never told her…I never…she…

And now it’s too late.  I should…should’ve said…should’ve let her know.  But it’s too late now.  I’m…gone.

I put the fizzed cigarette from my lap into the ashtray and light up a new one, inhaling deeply.  It’s rich and satisfying in a way the sandwich wasn’t.  I look up to see Maxine is back.

“Here’s your pie, hon!  And the check.  Now, don’t you worry.  You take your time and enjoy, and just take care of it at the register on your way out.  Glad to have you back in town, hon!”  She hustles off, other diner patrons to see to.  I’m just another customer.  A familiar one, maybe, but just a customer.

And that, apparently, makes her safe.

The pie is warm and sweet.  The crust is crispy, the apple filling just right.  It’s just not…satisfying.  It’s as if I no longer enjoy warm and sweet.  Take no pleasure in a crispy pie crust.  I take another long drag off my cigarette.  Now that feels good.  Betty’s slurping up her cherry cola through a straw until nothing is left in the glass but ice.

“I thought vampires drank blood,” I whisper.

“We do,” she whispers back.  “But we still need to eat and drink.  The blood doesn’t replace the need for other nourishment.  It’s an additional requirement.”

“What about me?  Do I need to eat?”

“Well, apparently you can eat.  I honestly wasn’t sure about that, before.  But as far as needing to?”  She shakes her head.  “No.  You’re not the Living Dead, like me.  You’re Undead.  It’s a subtle distinction.”

“But apparently a profound one,” I say.

She nods.  “I’ve heard it said that to the Undead, all food tastes like ashes.  Is it true?”

I take another drag from my cigarette and shake my head.  “Nah.  I can taste it just fine.  All the flavors, all the textures.  It’s all still there.  I just don’t enjoy the flavors or textures anymore, you know?  But cigarettes?”  I stop to take another deep inhale and let it out slow through my nostrils.  “Those are just like they always were.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” she says, taking the guest check between a finger and a thumb.  “Food nourishes and sustains Life.  You’re not alive, so it doesn’t do anything for you.  But tobacco is tied to Death.  Now that you’re Undead you may actually get some kind of nourishment or energy from it.”

“Let me get that,” I say, pointing to the check, and grateful to have something so mundane to talk about.

“Drake, you were murdered by one of Papa Thorne’s thugs.”  So much for mundane topics.  “Did you really think that when I found your remains that you were buried along with your wallet?  And that it was full of cash?”

“Err…hmm.”

“Swallow your macho pride, Drake.  I’m paying.”

 

Suburban Horror (Off-Topic)

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As I was folding clothes, my oldest child points out the patio window.

“Momma, what’s that?”

Understand that this is the child that will point out sticks, ants, leaves, flowers, whatever to get me to stop what I’m doing. Once she has my attention, she’ll use it as a segue into me not doing whatever chore I need to get done and playing with her.

Crafty kid.

And it works.

So well, in fact, that I have three weeks worth of laundry to get through and a desperate need to get it done as my sock drawer is awfully low.

But I go over anyway, and I have to swallow back the nausea.  There, on my back patio, are squirrel bits. Some paws (yes, paws *shudder*), a couple tufts of fur . . . I couldn’t look any more as I was reminded of this garish scene in an early Laurie Hamilton book.

“So mommy, what it is?” asks my daughter, her nose pressed against the glass.

And like any good parent, I lie. “Looks like some bird was cleaning out their nest. Kind of like you need to clean your room. Oh, and take your pants I folded with you.”

After a bit more dialogue, she concedes and goes to put her pants away while I scurry off to get DH.

DH agrees. Yup. Squirrel paws. And … other… bits. He thinks it’s related to the hawk nest we saw in our backyard.

I live in suburbia. Not the city, okay, but not the country. I should not have squirrel . . . parts . . . on my back patio. And no, it doesn’t matter that I kill characters in my stories from time to time. Sometimes violently.

That’s different. Totally.

 

red-shouldered-hawk-1243387_640
He just looks innocent.

 

Critquing Manuscripts: 3 Things I Have Learned

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I have learned quite a few things, but here are the top three things I have learned so far from critiquing, beta reading and editing other people’s manuscripts.

 

Characters

I have read a lot about characters and how they need to drive a story. They need motivation. Foibles. Secrets. Whatever.

Here’s something else. I need to like the protagonist. Or at least sympathize with them. I need to want them to reach their goal. Otherwise, I’m putting the book away.

This might not be true for every genre, but I write, read and critique romance.  If the hero is a jerk or the heroine unlikable… Well, you just lost me as an audience.RedRiding

This also applies to secondary and tertiary characters, but to a lesser extent. I’d still like to know if the heroine’s “friend” really is. When characters are written a certain way, it has ramifications. And I’m going to want to see a nasty “friend” get her comeuppance by the end. If she doesn’t, I’m going to feel as if there’s loose ends not tied off.

 

Dialogue

There are rules to dialogue. They really do need to be followed to make work understandable.

Also, I find it ideal to take a moment to read dialogue out loud. Not all of it, but at least a few conversations. If it doesn’t read easily, if it doesn’t sound like real people talking, it probably needs some work. If one area needs work or sounds stilted, other areas probably do, too.

In my world, people don’t make a snarky comment and get their reply 5 minutes later after everyone in the room has contemplated its meaning.

 

World Building

I have read a lot of advice telling writers not to give a lot of exposition about the world, even if it’s science fiction or fantasy. Let the world take shape around the characters.World

I get it. I hate exposition and tend to skim it. But, I still need to know where we are and if this is a fictional world, our world, or some hybrid. I’ve finished entire first chapters and still have not known. That’s an issue. I should feel like I am there with the character, and part of that, is knowing where I am.

My First Submission

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I did it.

I stopped reworking my query.

I quit poking at my synopsis.

I stopped staring at the Writer’s Market book.

I sent out my first query . . . And it got rejected in less than 5 minutes. I’m assuming this was some sort of software that reviewed the document for keywords and rejected it accordingly.  Interestingly, it doesn’t bother me all that much. I guess because I am all but certain no human ever saw the query.

So, I sent it out somewhere else. Took most of my writing time to go through the Writer’s Guide and put together my submission package. Butterflies kept trying to escape my stomach the whole time. Even remembering JK Rowling’s scathing rejection letter, I just . . . Ugh.

 

Demon
I call him Doubt.

I hate this part of writing. Putting myself out there and waiting for someone to tear apart all the hard work I put into it, and really, tear at a little bit of me. Most writers put so much of themselves in their work that it’s hard to compartmentalize the rejections. Practice will make me better at it, I’m sure, but what an unpleasant thing to practice.

I slept poorly all night, although that may have had as much to do with the little one being up all night with a cold as my nerves.

Now the waiting game begins. Three to six weeks and I should get my first rejection from a person rather than a machine.

 

Diamonds Part 1: Ace of Diamonds

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DH finished an opening to his story Undead Gumshoe. We met in a creative writing class, and he has been writing for as long or longer than I have. This blog and my own endeavors have inspired him to write again, and I am excited he’s letting me share this update!  

Ace

Ace of Diamonds

Even though the August heat had already won the battle, the air conditioner in the window of my third-floor office refused to give up when faced with a lost cause.  I could sympathize.  No offense to the appliance’s hard work, but I needed to find another way to cool off.  Something involving ice cubes in a glass.  Maybe a little bourbon poured over ’em.  Checking the bottom drawer of my desk leads to the discovery of a bottle that’s still half full.  No ice or glasses though.  Shame, but it’ll have to do.

A couple of swigs later I put the bottle down and loosen my tie.  It’s important to look professional when a client could come in at any time.  Or so I’m told.  Which is why I’ve stopped caring about my tie.

Clients have been scarce since Boss Malone started scaring ’em off.  Apparently he doesn’t like me getting enough honest work.  Fair enough.  I don’t like him getting plenty of dishonest work.  Guess it’s my fault for starting our feud, busting up his money-laundering and diamond-smuggling operations the way I did.

Maybe calling it a feud isn’t right.  I’m still breathing when a lot of folks think I ought to be a dead man.  All Malone’s doing is scaring away my clients.  Maybe he’s enjoying killing me slowly.

That’d fit his twisted mob boss code-of-honor nonsense.  I may have shut down his operations, but I couldn’t get enough evidence to prove he was the brains behind ’em.  It cut off a big hunk of his revenue stream, but he’s still a free man.  So now he’s cutting off my revenue stream, but I’m still breathing.

Like I said, killing me slowly.  So he can enjoy my suffering.  Well I don’t give up that easily.  You and me, air conditioner.  Together, we’ll show ’em.

 

A knock on the office door wakes me up.  I guess smooth bourbon on a hot August day wasn’t the best way to stay awake.  The dark outside the windows tells me I’ve been out longer than it felt like.  A distant rumble of thunder counters that it might just be dark clouds gathering rather than nightfall.

Maybe feeling competition from the thunder, the knocking turns to pounding.  Adrenaline sobers me up quick as I take my thirty-eight out of its holster and clear my throat.  Looks like I may have given Malone too much credit.  To enjoy watching an enemy die slowly requires patience, after all.

“Come in,” I say, ready for it to be some of Malone’s goons.  The knob turns and the door opens….

…And It’s Lana, my secretary.  I put my thirty-eight back in its holster.

“Lana, what are you still doing here?”

“Working late.  Your case files are a mess, Drake.”

“Lana, there are no case files.  There are no cases.  Go home.”  I’ve told her she’s fired a half-dozen times this week.  Not that there’s anything wrong with her work.  I just can’t afford to pay her anything without clients.  She refuses to listen.

Lana prattles some nonsense about ordering more paper clips and file folders, but she takes a pen and a piece of scrap from my desk and writes: FIRE ESCAPE GO NOW

She makes urgent gestures towards the windows, but keeps her voice calmly discussing office supplies.  Damn it, there’s no way I’m running away to save my own ass while she’s still here.

I nod, take another pen, and write: YOU FIRST.  And while you’re at it, keep going.  Don’t come back, Lana.  You’re one in a million.  Find someone who deserves you.

Someone else clears their throat this time.  Ignoring the feeling of a sinking ball of lead in my stomach, I look up at the open door to see none other than Boss Sonny Malone himself casting his shadow.  Well, well.  Either he wanted the pleasure of pulling the trigger himself, or he didn’t trust his boys to do the job properly.

 

“Mr. Drake Diamond,” he grumbles, “Private Investigator.”  He squints at me, and looks around my office like he’s disappointed in it.  His lower jaw thrusts out and he frowns like he’s chewing on earwax.

Seconds pass like hours, and nothing happens.  Lana’s discreetly glaring at me for the audacity of being in my own office, in my own chair, behind my own desk.  The nerve of me.  She’s a good secretary, so I know for a fact she can read the words “YOU FIRST” and know what they mean.  I do some glaring of my own right back at her.  It doesn’t work.  Meanwhile, Malone is just standing there, opening his mouth, then closing it again.  He does this a few more times, and I realize he’s trying to say something but can’t seem to get the words out.

The lead ball in my stomach untwists.  I reach for a cigarette…slowly.  Malone doesn’t react.  His hands are in his pockets.  It occurs to me that he may not actually have a gun on him.  Of course, his goons do.  Maybe he told them to wait downstairs.

I put the cigarette in my mouth, light it, and take a long slow drag.  I exhale through my nose, blowing two columns of smoke down my face, then lean back in my chair.

“Lana,” I say calmly, “go put on a pot of coffee.”

“Drake!”

“Lana, you know it’s polite to serve coffee for our…”  Guests?  No.  “…clients.”

Malone looks at the floor.  He doesn’t move.  He doesn’t say anything.

Lana’s eyes go wide for second, then narrow.  She looks at Malone, then at me, then back at Malone.  She frowns, and walks out past Malone.  He’s still staring at the floor and doesn’t seem to notice she even exists.  In a few moments, I hear her fussing with the coffee-maker.

Malone continues frowning at the floor.  His nostrils flare.

“Mr. Malone, can I offer you a seat?”

He finally responds, looking me in the eye.

“I’d rather stand.”  I give a half-shrug to show that’s fine by me.

“Cigarette?”  He nods.  I take one and hold it out for him.  He takes it and I flick my lighter, holding it out at arm’s length.  He lights it and raises it to his lips, taking a few puffs as he starts pacing.  Several times he’s got his back turned to me.  Tempting.  But I ain’t no cold-blooded murderer.

“I’ve always hated you, Diamond.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“I…I need your help.”

“And yet you open with how you’ve always hated me.”

“Well….I have.”

I shrug.  He’s being honest.  That’s worth something, I guess.  I lean forward and put my elbows on the desk, arms crossed.  My chair creaks.

“Well, Mr. Malone, I’ve got to tell you, business has been so bad lately I’ve been thinking of getting out of the private investigations business altogether.  Maybe you should go to someone else with whatever problem it is that you have.”

He stops pacing and turns to face me, hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips, shoulders slumped.

“My daughter’s been kidnapped, Diamond.”

“So go to the police.”

“I can’t trust the police.”

“I thought you bought the police.”

“I thought so too, Diamond,” he snarls.  “Turns out those rat bastards can be bought by anybody.”

I can’t help but chuckle a little at that.  “Well ain’t that a damn shame,” I say through a smug grin.  “When you can’t trust a cop on the take, who can you trust?”

“The kind of man who quits being a cop when he learns all the others are bought.”

I take a drag and exhale it out my nostrils again.

“Isn’t that why you hate me, Malone?  Because you couldn’t buy me?”

He frowns thoughtfully, then nods.  “Yeah.  But I got no one else I can to turn to for this.”  He drops his cigarette onto my rug and crushes it out with his foot, thoughtlessly smearing hot ash into the carpet fiber.  Classy.

Lana nudges the door open with her foot, carrying two ceramic cups and a pot of fresh brewed hot coffee.  She looks at me, and I can tell what she’s thinking.  I’ve just known her that long.

Her plan was to throw a pot of scalding hot coffee right into Malone’s face, and maybe follow up by hitting the back of his skull with a cup, then we’d make a break for it out the fire escape.  But I’ve taught her the practical virtues of eavesdropping.  She overheard about Malone’s daughter.  I frown at her and shake my head “no” ever so slightly.  She nods and approaches my desk, not looking at him.

Malone’s not the kind of guy who opens up easily about his own vulnerabilities.  And here he is doing just that to me, one of his bitterest enemies.  Lana wisely chooses not to make it even harder for him by making him do it in front of an audience.  She puts the pot and cups down on my desk, and leaves without saying a word.  Good girl.

Of course, what I’d like for her to do is go somewhere safe and stay there.  Like maybe back home to Nebraska.  But she never had the good sense to back down from a dangerous situation.

If Malone even noticed she’d come and gone, he shows no sign of it.  He’s got a faraway look in his eyes, and not a happy, wistful one.

“Can I offer you some coffee, Mr. Malone?”

“I don’t care, Diamond.”  He thrusts his hands into his pockets.

I shrug.  “It wasn’t a sincere offer.  I just wanted to hurry this along to the part where you get the Hell outta my office.  If you wanna sulk because you hate me but need my help, I’m gonna start charging a sulking fee.”

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you, Diamond?”

“Enjoying this!?”  Bourbon I enjoy.  A leisurely cigarette after a meal I enjoy.  A Drama Queen wasting my time I do not enjoy.  “Did you hear the part where I want you the Hell outta my office?  Or did I accidentally say that part in Mandarin Chinese?”  That would be particularly impressive, on account of my not knowing a word of it.

Malone grits his teeth and his face turns beet red.   He smashes his fist into an open hand.  “I want to know where she is!  I want her back!  I want whoever took her to suffer!”

“I’m not one of your goons, Malone.  Making people suffer isn’t a service I offer.”  I calmly crush my cigarette out in the ashtray and pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Fine.  I guess two outta three ain’t bad.  I can handle the suffering part myself.  But if… you can find her, Diamond…”  Oh for crying out loud.  He’s starting to get tears in his eyes.  “If you can find my little girl…then as far as I’m concerned everything is square between us.  I’ll make sure none of my boys ever hassle you again.”

Lana’s coffee goes down almost as smooth as bourbon.  I put the cup down, and consider his offer.  Square things between us?  His idea of ‘square’ is to call off his thugs, and expect me to be grateful enough to stop trying to put him behind bars.  My idea of square is him and his thugs all put away for the crimes they’ve committed.  Not having goons hounding you isn’t a reward.  It’s a basic expectation of civilized society.  Would you go to work for someone if your paycheck consisted of your boss not punching you in the face?

I take out another cigarette, place it in my lips, and flick my lighter.  I’m still gonna take the job.  But I’m gonna be crystal clear as to why.  And as to my rates.  I raise the lighter’s flame to my cigarette, then flick it closed.  A slow deep inhale makes the end glow warmly, then fade as thin curls of gray rise through the air.

“Malone, I am taking this job.  If your daughter is still alive, I will find her and return her to you.  If she’s dead…well, then I will still find her.  And I will still return her to you.  For a proper burial if nothing else….”

He grits his teeth again.  He’s trying not to face that she might be dead already.  He opens his mouth to say something, so I raise my voice.  I ain’t finished.

“But you will pay me in cash, just like all my other clients.”  I take out my cigarette and point at Malone with it.  “My standard daily rate, plus expenses.  Non-negotiable.  I will not accept ‘squaring things between us’ as payment.  Because I ain’t doing this for you, you dirty son-of-a-bitch.  You ain’t worth it.  You’ve brought so much pain and suffering to this city, the way I see it you deserve plenty of your own.”

“Your daughter, on the other hand, has not.”  I stand, and take another puff before I continue.  “It ain’t her fault she was born with you as her old man.  She’s innocent.  And I won’t turn my back on an innocent, no matter how vile their relatives may be.  The fact that finding her might actually help a rat bastard like you feel better is an ugly fact I’m just gonna have to stomach.”

Malone glares at me angrily, his mouth screwed up into a wrinkled frown.  He flares his nostrils.

“Thank you, Diamond,” he sneers with a voice like gravel.  “I hope you can find my girl.  She means the world to me.  But you’re right.  This’ll be easier for both of us if we can keep hating each other.”

I nod.

“I never let my professional obligations mix with my personal feelings, or vice versa.  I ain’t about to start on your account.”

The Choice Part 3: Lost Daughter

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The Choice Part 1 and the Choice Part 2 can be found here. This post was inspired by Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge.

 

Lost Daughter

Oblivious to her nana’s discomfort, Sylenea skipped along next to Jyss, Vaundryn’s hand in hers, as they walked back to the kitchens.

Sylenea stared at the long trestle tables, the massive hearth, and the rows of cabinets filled with pots and pans. Rich scents of cooking meats and baking breads filled the kitchen. Rubbing her tummy, Sylenea craned her neck upward as she looked at the high ceiling with thick wooden beams running across its length.

Her eyes saucered. “Our whole house would fit in here.”

“I could show you the rest of the castle, if you like,” Vaundryn said. “This is only a small part of it.”

“After cake.”

Sylenea let go of his hand and clambered into a chair, swinging her legs and giggling when her feet danced above the floor.

Looking down at his now empty hand, Vaundryn frowned.

She patted the chair next to her, and Vaundryn slid into it with a controlled and practiced elegance.

Sylenea’s eyes widened as Jyss brought her and Vaundryn each a large slice of chocolate cake and a glass of milk.

“M’lord, my dear,” Jyss said as she set the cake in front of them.

“Thank you, Aunt Jyss,” Sylenea said between mouthfuls. “This is the most wonderful cake ever.”

“It’s very delicious,” Vaundryn agreed.

Sylenea devoured her cake and gulped down her milk. She fidgeted as Vaundryn cut neat bites before eating them. He saw her waiting and pushed his plate away.

As if that was the magic to spring her from her prison, Sylenea slid out of her chair. “Wanna go play?”

“Play?” Vaundryn asked.

“You know, games. What kind of games do you play here?”

“Chess.”

“I don’t know that one. What else do you do for fun?”

“I have my lessons, there is the library, and I ride.”

“We could play seek and go hide, but this place is so big we’d spend the whole day searching. There’s a big oak tree out front.”

“You will not climb trees while you’re at Aunt Jyss’s,” Rhianna said, her voice sharp and brooking no argument.

“You climb trees?” Vaundryn asked.

“Sure.”

“Why?”

Sylenea shrugged. “Why not? I like to see what’s up there, and sometimes you can find bird nests with baby birds.”

Jyss knelt beside Sylenea. “Promise me that you will not take Lord Vaundryn tree climbing. His father would be very upset.”

“All right, but can we go outside and play if we promise not to climb any trees?”

“M’lord?” Jyss asked as she looked at the boy.

Vaundryn lifted his shoulders. “I can show her the horses.”

“Horses? You have more than one?”

“She would like the stables if it pleases you to show them to her, m’lord,” Jyss said.

“Horses!” Sylenea squealed.

Jyss ruffled Sylenea’s copper curls. “Or I can take her down to my quarters if you have other obligations, m’lord.”

Sylenea crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t promise horses and then not show them to me.”

“Sylenea,” Rhianna started.

The look of sadness on the girl’s face stabbed at Vaundryn. “I will show her the stables.”

Vaundryn slid out of his chair with a practiced grace and offered his arm to Sylenea.

Grabbing his hand, Sylenea waved to Rhianna and Jyss, then skipped along beside him as he led her back through the castle and out to the stables.

“You like horses?” Vaundryn asked as they walked over the emerald carpet of grass.

“Very much.”

“Do you know how to ride?”

“Nana taught me on Solidar.”

Vaundryn frowned. “What’s a Solidar?”

“He’s a gentle creature, but so very strong. He pulls the cart and helps Papa in the fields.”

“A draft horse?”

Sylenea shrugged, but there was a fondness in her voice. “He’s Solidar. He’ll never win any races, but he’ll always get you there.”

“We have hunters, coursers, rounceys, and my father’s destrier.”

“Destrier?”

“A kind of horse. Father’s has a nasty temper.”

The entered the stables and the rich scent of fresh hay mingled with the earthy smell of horses. The walkways were swept clean, and grooms were tending to the coats of several of the animals. They stopped when Vaundryn entered, and their eyes fixed on the little girl holding his hand.

Sylenea’s eyes widened. “There are so many horses here. More than in my whole village.”

Vaundryn smiled, glad he could make her so happy. He walked up and down the rows with her, telling her about each horse. She listened, enrapt, talking and cooing at each of the animals.

“Who’s that?” she asked and pointed to a massive black stallion stabled well away from the other horses.

“Vlad,” Vaundryn said. “Nasty beast. He’ll only let my father ride him.”

Sylenea walked quietly through the dim stables and stopped outside of Vlad’s stall. The stallion snorted, kicked the stall wall behind him, and bared his teeth. She murmured to him, cooing and talking gibberish.

The destrier nudged forward, flicking his ears as he watched her. Sylenea vaulted up the side of the stable and seated herself on the high wall so she was level with the stallion’s head. She stroked his nose, and rather than biting her, Vlad nuzzled her hand and moved closer so she could stroke his ears.

“He’d like a green apple, if you have any. Not a red one. It has to be green.”

“My father always gives him green apples,” Vaundryn said as he motioned to one of the grooms.

“They’re his favorite,” Sylenea said as a groom handed her an apple.

She laid it in the palm of her hand and offered it to Vlad. He lipped it off her palm and nudged her. The gentle push almost sent her sprawling off the door.

“You don’t know your own strength, do you?” Sylenea laughed and patted his nose. “Now you be good, Vlad.”

Vaundryn watched her slide off the door and land beside him. Vlad nickered and butted the stall door.

“He really likes you,” Vaundryn said. “I didn’t think Vlad liked anyone.”

“He’s a big horse, and he learned he could get his way by throwing his weight around. He misses when he was ridden more, and he’s sad spending his days in the corner all by himself.”

“He’s there to protect the other horses,” Vaundryn said. “He can be very aggressive.”

She turned and looked at Vlad. “If you’d behave yourself, they’d let you back by the other horses. You might even get ridden more often.”

The horse snorted.

“You know you like being ridden. You just don’t want them to know.”

The horse nudged his stall door with his head.

“I’m not riding you until you can prove that you’ll behave yourself.”

Vlad bobbed his head

“What do you think, do you believe him?” Sylenea asked Vaundryn.

“You could never control him. Your feet wouldn’t even reach the stirrups.”

She frowned as she thought about that. “But it’s not about control. More a meshing of needs and wants.”

“There’s a pretty little mare over here,” Vaundryn said as he took her hand and led her away from the destrier. “If you can win over Vlad, you can win her over.”

Sylenea waved goodbye to Vlad and followed Vaundryn through the stables to a lovely grey mare. Within minutes, Sylenea had the mare eating apples and begging for ears to be scratched.

“You have a way with horses,” Vaundryn said as a groom saddled his gelding while another saddled the grey mare.

Sylenea beamed as a groom helped her up into the saddle. “Just have to know how to talk to them.”

Nudging his horse forward, Vaundryn led her out of the stables and across the wide fields surrounding the castle. He tried to set a quiet pace, but Sylenea raced past him as she gave her mare her head.

Vaundryn caught up to her, the exhilaration of the ride rushing through him and being amplified by Sylenea’s enthusiasm.

The breeze ruffled her copper curls and the sun sparkled in her emerald green eyes. “This is so much fun.”

“I suppose it is,” Vaundryn said. “Perhaps because there are two of us. It’s not this much fun to ride alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

Vaundryn glanced back at the stable hand following a safe distance behind them.

“Not what I meant.” She stroked her horse’s neck and tipped her face up to the sun. “It’s so much different to ride a horse that wants to run.”

“I can’t imagine a plow horse would have been much fun to ride.”

“Fun in a different way.” Sylenea glanced over at Vaundryn sitting erect and proper in his saddle. “Race you to the fence post!” she cried, and her mare shot off across the field.

“Hey!” Vaundryn laughed as he gave chase.

Their happiness floated across the fields, and soaked into the castle and its grounds.

Caenner looked up from his work and walked to the window in time to see his son ride past with a smile on his face as he galloped after a girl child.

 

Caenner pounded down the stairs and wheeled toward the kitchens. If anyone would know who the strange girl was, his housekeeper would. Servants scurried away from him, and he ignored them. Throwing open the kitchen door, he stormed in and loomed dark as night in the center of the room.

“Your Grace?” Jyss asked, forcing her voice not to quaver.

“There is a girl in my home that wasn’t here yesterday.”

Jyss paled. “Yes, Your Grace. She’s my niece.”

“Your niece?” Caenner echoed.

“My sister Rhianna Nightstar, Your Grace,” Jyss said as she motioned to the other woman. “She and her daughter have come to visit me on their way home.”

“Home from where?” Caenner asked as his eyes bored into Rhianna.

She swallowed and searched for her voice, but words failed her as she stared into the cold face of Duke Darkshield.

“The Temple of Thalia, Your Grace, up in Two Rivers,” Jyss said for her.

His eyes narrowed to slits, and menace poured from him. Despite the heat of the fire, the room felt cold and his breath puffed around him. “That’s the regional temple.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rhianna said, her words little more than a squeak.

“Why were you at Thalia’s temple? For what sin were you seeking redemption that a local priestess could not cleanse you?”

Rhianna gripped the table, but she met the duke’s stare. “No sin, Your Grace. I had thought perhaps Sylenea had the Calling.”

“The priestesses at your local temple would have known.”

Rhianna looked down at her feet. “So they told me she didn’t, but I didn’t believe them.”

“And the priestesses in Two Rivers confirmed that she didn’t have the calling,” Caenner said and started to pace. “So you’re bringing her back home.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rhianna whispered. “But they have agreed to teach her to heal.”

He stopped and faced her again. “They have?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Why did they agree to that if she doesn’t have the Calling?”

Rhianna swallowed the ice in her throat. “They called her a life mage, told me to inform my local lord and he would see to getting her properly trained.”

Caenner arched a brow black as a raven’s wing. “Your lord doesn’t already know about her?”

“No, Your Grace,” Rhianna said.

Caenner snorted. “He’s either an idiot or . . .” Realization dawned as Rhianna’s fear clawed through the death magic hanging in the air. Caenner reigned in his temper as he looked at the small woman clasping her hands on her lap. “You’ve been hiding her.”

Rhianna looked down at her intertwined fingers. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Who is your lord?”

“Lord Emberfall, Your Grace.”

The name balled his fists. Emberfall had not reported a life mage in his lands. He’d reported far fewer mages in his lands than any other lord, and Caenner had been assisting in an investigation into the disparity. Mages were T’analear’s greatest asset, and whether through neglect or something more nefarious, Emberfall undermined the Empire by secreting budding mages.

But only those in the Mage’s Circle would know that, and Rhianna was definitely not in that circle.

“Why are you hiding her?”

Rhianna bit her lower lip and looked toward Jyss who nodded once. “I don’t know, Your Grace, but I never wanted him near her. Was afraid he’d take her from me if he knew.”

“Good instincts.” Caenner stopped pacing. “I want to meet young Sylenea.”

“Her and the young master went out to the stables,” Jyss said. “I can send for them.”

“No need,” Caenner said.

Rhianna smiled as she thought of her daughter. “Sylenea loves horses. Loves all animals, really. Always bringing home injured birds or whatnot and tending them. That’s why I was so sure Thalia had Called her. So sure.”

Caenner nodded once, turned on his heel, and left the two women as he strode out of the castle. His long steps ate the ground to stables, and he walked over to Vlad. As he approached the destrier, he felt it. The golden stirring of life magic. Untrained, undisciplined, but life magic so strong it pulsed against his death magic and sent shivers down his spine as if a thousand ants crawled along it.

“Where is Vaundryn?” Caenner demanded of the stable hands.

A groom slunk out of a stall, bits of hay clinging to him. “He took his gelding out, Your Grace.”

“I know that. Where did he go?”

“The young master didn’t say, Your Grace. Sent a stable hand along with him.”

“Send another to bring him back. When he returns, send Vaundryn to me.”

The groom bowed his head and Caenner strode back to his office. He paced the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists as he waited for his son.