I’m planning on venturing soon into “Contest enrolment mode”. This is the crazed frame of mind in which all formal writing is abandoned, and a furious search is made for any word form which offers fame or money. You’ll notice I place fame first, because as a writer, I can’t afford to think about money. If I were to dwell, for even a little while, on the unpaid hours I’ve spent…

ARGH!

Don’t go there, ND. Go instead to those competition pages, where the promise of fame might lead to eventual fortune. Submit. Submit. Submit.

Small problem with writing competitions these days: most of them charge to enter. They charge to pay for their prize at the end. It may be called a “reading fee”, but we all know better. You’re paying for your road to glory…

And some of the biggest competitions, with the world-renown-type outcomes, charge outrageously.

That does limit the competition a bit - not exactly a level playing ground, though.

Next week, I begin my Anthro classes again at Uni. Yay! Love that stuff. In the meanwhile, it’s work on novel #25, promote, website design, promote, submit to Bowkers/Bookdata, promote.

Sigh.

I am so sick of me and promoting me, myself, and I. Despite the multiple pronouns, it can be a very tedious and lonely place.

Can’t wait till next week!!!

I’ll leave you here with another excerpt, and hopefully, a very happy week ahead!

Happy reading!

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my EBOOKS…except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my PRINT books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Excerpt: TROLLS (EPPIE Award Finalist!), chapter 3

Chapter Three

John Colton watched as Luke Hamilton played out his explanation in his head. It was obvious he found it lacking.

Colton had some theories of his own. Hamilton had been picked up in an alley, and his gun, phone, wallet, and watch were missing, but his injuries weren’t consistent with a mugging. Besides the concussion, he’d been badly scratched and bitten by something. The lab was still trying to make sense of the dust and dirt particles trapped in his clothes.

It may have been a kidnapping. The Hamilton clan could singlehandedly bankroll a small nation, and their heir apparent had just returned to the fold. At that, Colton felt a twinge of guilt. He’d manipulated Hamilton Senior as much as the man had manipulated him. Colton knew he’d been acting for the good of the ISEA, but whether he’d actively considered Luke Hamilton’s welfare was another matter.

Nor was Luke doing much talking this morning. He had an excuse, but so far his only questions had involved Sebastian Devery. He wanted to know whether Devery had sought medical treatment during the last twelve hours, and the name of the admitting physician. Since Devery had neither been seen in the Emergency Room, nor admitted to any local hospitals, Colton couldn’t help him. On a hunch, Colton had included a photo with his inquiry, but the results were still negative.

Luke had been insistent enough that Colton had ordered an agent to pay Devery a visit, but there was no one home—because Devery was at work. He’d answered his own office phone on the second ring.

After his report, Luke had refused to say any more. Other than exchanging pleasantries, he’d just lain there silently. There was a look in his eyes which Colton put down to amusement. He’d seen it too often over the years, and it usually meant Luke was admiring someone else’s technique.

It also usually preceded a breakthrough on one of their cases.

Colton nodded to him, said, “I’ll be in touch,” then walked quietly out of the room.

Sometimes, it was better just to leave a man to his thoughts.

*

Zeb glanced at his watch—for the tenth time. He sensed Ephron’s eyes on him again, and headed for the inoculation room. None of the techs were doing agar pours today, and it was one place he could get some time alone. Good excuse, and the best one, for having someone else catch the phone.

Once there, he sank onto the stool, and leaned his head against the side of the cabinet. He would have dropped his head onto the benchtop if the idea of bending that far hadn’t made him shudder.

He shuddered anyway, then just kept on doing it—unable to stop.

With a shaking hand, he dug out two more aspirin and chewed them down. Not the best way to handle it, maybe, but he knew if he tried to get to the coffee room right now he’d never make it.

My fault. His mind kept replaying bits and pieces of last night’s fiasco, that had culminated in Rio’s announcement that Hamilton was government issue. All the hype over family connections, and him launching out on a business proposition of his own was just so much talk. The gun was what had tipped him off, but the ID had finished it. Zeb didn’t know how Mario knew, but he’d claimed Hamilton’s affiliation with Atherton Traders was a direct link with the ISEA—the Investigative Security and Enforcement Agency. If any of them had had any doubts, Mario had finished them with a quick scan before they’d left the cave. Hamilton had two transponders—one in his upper arm, and another in his thigh. Rio had made sure they were out of operation for the time it took to get Hamilton to his alley.

Ness had been adamant about a hospital, but they all knew what it would mean. If they were under surveillance, and they would be as soon as Hamilton recovered consciousness, they had to play this out—make it look as though whatever inquiry had originally brought Luke Hamilton into this, was now fixed in his head. Magnified, elaborated upon, and obviously confused by his head injury. There couldn’t be anything to back him up.

Zeb gave a low groan as a stabbing pain shot through his shoulder. He’d lost so much blood that Ness had had to transfuse him, but he still felt as though he were walking underwater.

Underwater. He chuckled. Ness would appreciate that…

Then, he chuckled again. It was so damn funny.

He sat, staring blankly at the wall for a minute, the loopy grin still on his face. There was a distant whine in his ears. His vision was blurring, doubling, beginning to overlap…

No! In a near-panic, he jumped, jolting pain through his chest and gut. He shuddered, with fever and fear. “It” had always been triggered by a specific location before—a cave, a river, a forest. Some location with “vibes”. Never in the lab, or any other place he frequented.

There were sensations associated with certain locations which other people could sense as well. Haunted houses, sacred sites, forbidden forests. He’d always wanted to consider himself a little more receptive than they, that was all. Maybe an amplifier for what was already there. Not an initiator.

The thought of that—of acting as anything other than a medium for some existing spatial displacement—was terrifying. If he could initiate contact anywhere, he’d never have any peace. He’d always be afraid that he’d be triggered somehow.

I’d never feel safe again…

He tried to focus on his watch, but his head was aching and his vision a blur. The digital numbers on his cellphone were larger, and he set his alarm. A few minutes of sleep…

He’d be safer asleep than awake, if drowsy was going to send him over the edge. He tipped his head back, against the side of the laminar flow cabinet, and let the circulating air take some of the sweat from his face. When he left here, he’d spend a few minutes in the lab, then head for the Men’s room.

Spent so much time in there already today, Ephron’s gonna be wondering…

He shivered again, hating the way it tightened his aching shoulder.

Got to hold on…to protect us all…

*

“He’s still in the Pour Room?” Ness asked impatiently. It was the third time he’d called. Either Zeb was getting a hell of a lot of work done, or he was passed out in there.

Or he’s not taking your calls…

Ness tuned in again, and he realised he’d blown it. His repeated calls were about to backfire. Zeb must look bad, because now the other guy in his lab—”Ephron”, as he’d answered the phone—was going to leave him on the line while he went to see what was taking so long.

“Don’t—!” Ness started to say, then realised he couldn’t think of a single logical reason for Ephron not to check on a co-worker. “No need,” he babbled. “I’m meeting him for lunch, and I was trying to convince him to make it a long one, so that I could show him this new club on forty-second.” He added brightly, “He’s probably trying to squeeze in as much as he can so he can make it a short afternoon.”

It sounded good, and Ness was priding himself on his inventiveness, until he was greeted by Ephron’s silence. Then he recalled Zeb mentioning his boss, Giles. Dickhead Giles, as Zeb preferred to call him, who worked with plants because he had no people skills.

Giles Ephron.

Ness winced. No pay raise for Zeb this year…

Ephron cleared his throat, and answered brusquely, “Tell Zeb Giles said to enjoy his lunch. Apparently, the tip’s on me.”

In that moment, Ephron reminded Ness a lot of Randy. They both tended to intersperse their conversation with growls.

*

Fifteen minutes later Ness was upstairs, looking for Zeb. Ephron himself had cleared it with the security guard, but had merely suggested he wait for Devery, “…the way we’ve all been waiting around for him this morning.” So, Ness had obligingly sat in the coffee room until Ephron had left the room.

Obviously, Ephron thought he was taking Zeb somewhere sordid for lunch. Apparently, the “club on forty-second” carried some connotations in Ephron’s mind which Ness had never considered. The inference to Zeb’s performance could only mean Ephron thought Zeb was on a bender last night. He was hungover, and it was interfering with his work.

Not what Zeb might want, but he could undergo a miraculous dry-off later. For the next few days, “hungover” would cover a lot of sins.

Ness was still checking doors ten minutes later. Ephron had called it the Pour Room, but that must be a nickname. Pouring what? Chemicals? Agar?

Media.

There was a media prep room that Ness had passed earlier. He pushed open the door. Walls of chemicals, sinks and benches, a microwave—and a door on the far side. Ness walked quietly across and put his ear against the door. Then, he punched in Zeb’s cellphone number.

“Greensleeves” began playing on the other side of the door, but Zeb wasn’t answering. Ness reached for the handle, then froze.

The door was knocking; wobbling open and closed. There was a thud and a thunk as something rammed the door, fell to the ground, then went into motion again. The thud-thunk was interspersed with a pop-hiss.

Ness hadn’t heard that sound in over a year.

Shit!

He didn’t waste time. He punched in four for Ty’s number. “Ho, Ty!” he said anxiously.

“Not exactly circumspect,” Ty remarked.

“I’ve got a pop-hiss!” he whispered.

“Where?” Ty asked immediately.

“Zeb’s lab. Problem is, he’s in there with it,” Ness said worriedly.

Ty didn’t waste time, either. “I’m leaving now,” he said. “Find some way to get me in. If you can’t, I’ll find my own.”

*

Ty was there in ten minutes, which meant he’d driven like a maniac. Ness didn’t make any of his usual remarks about debriding festering wounds from asphalt burns, and he didn’t even comment about Rio’s presence. He was too busy pacing outside the door.

They’d all known it could come to this some day. They were like a bunch of wreck divers, always after the next adventure, the next thrill, the next piece of brass. No one blamed Zeb, though they could have. He’d been a victim as much as any of them. Typhoid Mary to their group, spreading the disease that had them hooked. Junkies, waiting for their next fix. It was what Ness was thinking when Ty came through the door. Rio was at his back.

All of them pretended it was scientific, and they did their best to catalogue each event. Truth was, they all got something out of it, but they also knew how dangerous it was. They were playing with unknowns, as much as any explorer who’d taken a step into a jungle. And Zeb might be the key, but he was far from being in control.

And there wasn’t one of them who hadn’t, at one time or another, set him up or conned him into “just one more trip”. Zeb hadn’t become what he was by choice, and of them all, he was the most susceptible to capture. Because, when it came on him, he had an instinctive reaction. However he might fight it, he couldn’t stop it, once it was underway. The only chance he had was if he realised it at that first flicker. Then, he could walk. Since his reaction seemed to be triggered by place rather than circumstance, most of the time he didn’t have that choice. He was in the right place at the right time.

And, more often than not, one of them had brought him there.

Randy was the worst. His books and classes were full of the stuff he gleaned from their expeditions, and he did have an eye for detail. Shea went on the guise of cataloguing, but she like to throw a little light on the subject. Ty? Quantum theorist with a trigger fuse—or defuse, depending on his “state”. Plus, he liked to collect. God help them if the ISEA ever visited Ty’s place. Like the divers who hoarded brass plates and fixings off sunken ships, Ty had bits and pieces of hair and nail clippings and iron feathers and now, moth dust. Mario? He was also into physics, and like to predict and plot their next encounter. Photography was his passion—and profession—and Kirlian photography his newest hobby. He got a charge out of it all—electrically speaking, that is. What Ty couldn’t defuse, Rio could frequently counter. And, Ness thought, in cases like this, Mario’s gift for countering electronic locks was invaluable.

What about you? Ness thought guiltily.

Water. Anything water. Almost automatically, he went over to the sink. Seeing nothing but flasks filled with questionable goo, he stuck his head under the tap and drank heavily. Hydration was everything with him. Then he went back outside the door and paced nervously, while Ty and Rio squeezed inside.

“He can’t take any more blood loss,” he warned to their backs. Then, he just paced. He couldn’t help but think that without Zeb, none of them would be like this.

Excited, unpredictable, tolerably insane, ridiculous risktakers, both “gifted”, yet reliant on each other. Dedicated to secrecy, and to their next “trip”. Friends, in the truest sense of the word, in a world where friendship was frequently an anachronism.

Dammit! Ness fidgeted nervously.

Whatever happened now, they owed him. Because Zeb was smart, and knew when he was being conned. Whatever risks they took, he took five times over. None of us would be like this?

It suddenly seemed to Ness that if it weren’t for Zeb, they’d all be nothing.

*

“…a pop-hiss.”

Ness had called it. It was a “pop-hiss”, all right, and one of the worst kinds. A Hsigo. A winged monkey, but far from the cute little spider monkeys Ty had seen in zoos. This kind had far more in common with the spider than the monkey.

Furred, with wings that made its dexterity almost laughable. Its squiggly legs were in constant motion, and its primate face looked downright evil. Hsigos fed on carrion, but if there wasn’t any available, they made some. Ness had been right, and Zeb was in real danger.

Ty glanced at him. Zeb was in real danger anyway. His face was as white as his lab coat, and beaded with sweat. “One guess why the Hsigo didn’t go for him,” Ty whispered.

Rio nodded. “Tainted meat. I say we get him out the door to Ness, before we do anything else.”

Ty shook his head. “If It gets away—” he began.

“I’ll hold It off—”

“No!” Ty cut in sharply, pointing to some liquid-filled containers holding forceps and needles. “Check it out. That’s alcohol.” He considered it. “Maybe you should leave, too.”

“And let you blow up all by yourself? Uh-uh. And Zeb’s in no shape to send It back.”

Rio sounded almost excited, and Ty looked at him askance. “Do I detect a bloodthirsty note?”

“Your collection extend to taxidermy?” Rio retorted.

“You’re a sick man.”

“I’m not the one collecting toenails. Ooh, look,” he mocked, “a wad of mucous! Wouldn’t want to miss that!”

“Where?” Ty asked.

“And you say I’m sick.” Mario thought about it for a moment, then muttered, “I wonder how Hsigos do in the dark?”

“Fuck it, Rio! If you turn out the lights—!” Ty squawked.

“Don’t worry,” Rio assured him. He rested his hand on the wall. “I’ll just give it a little flicker…”

“Wait! They’re fluorescent—!” Which meant they’d hum—and buzz.

The Hsigo squawked, nearly as loudly as Ty had a moment before. In the next second, it attacked.

*

Ness couldn’t stand it any more. He yanked at the door, just as it was pushed open abruptly from the other side. He was rammed back, into the lab bench.

It had been a loud one, and Ness figured the only reason they hadn’t been caught out owed something to the lunch exodus, and the rest to the radio playing in the next room. Music to grow fungus by…

Or something.

Ty was standing there, a yellow plastic bag clasped in his hand. The bag was marked biological hazard, and was still smoking, but Ness knew better than to ask. Mario’s hair was standing on end, and he looked a little the worse for wear. Both his and Ty’s clothes were slightly singed.

As was Zeb’s lab coat. Ness took one look at him and with a sweep of his arm, cleared the paraphernalia off the lab bench. “Up here!” he ordered. He stripped off the lab coat and pulled back Zeb’s shirt, to check the dressings. They smelled foul, and Ness felt a sinking in his gut. “How fast can you get us to the hospital?” he asked Ty quietly.

“Eight minutes,” Ty told him. This was Ness, who was always complaining about the unfortunate likelihood of one day having to extricate Ty’s bent body from his steering column. Ty’s eyes met Mario’s, and saw his own concern mirrored there.

Ness nodded. “Let’s do it,” he said.

*

Luke looked up as John Colton came into the room. Colton slapped a folder onto the bed and commented, “Lab says they’ve never seen anything like it before.” He sat down in the chair. “Traces of it in your clothes, and on your skin. They’re trying to break it down further.”

“You want to know where I was.”

Colton mused, “There were a few traces in the alley—a surprising amount of it on the roof. Tracking says you were out of touch between 2113 and 2351 hours.” He opened the folder to a map printout. “2113 here,” he said, pointing to what Luke recognised as the cave entrance, “and 2351 here, in the alley. Miracles do occur,” he said dryly. “You just suddenly reappeared, only moments before the ambulance did.”

Luke gave him a lopsided smile. “Did you check out the cave?”

“Luminescent traces in the entry. No sign further in. Some of your ‘dust’ scattered here and there. That the source?”

“Not exactly.”

A flicker of impatience creased Colton’s brow.

Luke wouldn’t let Colton rush him. He said seriously, “I’ve got some gleaning to do. I can’t tell it the way I remember it.”

Colton told him, just as seriously, “I’ll send Matrisson in later.”

Luke managed to hide his irritation, but it wasn’t easy. Matrisson was a psychiatrist.

Colton went on, “It’ll be his job to do the ‘gleaning’.”

If Luke were to tell Matrisson the unabridged version, the only kind of medical release he’d get would be to permanent disability, especially if Matrisson realised how much of the episode Luke considered “real”.

As Colton was leaving, he said more kindly, “Think of it this way, Luke: it’ll give us somewhere to start.”

*

The haves and have nots.

Again, Colton felt that surge of irritation at the requisite connection with Hamilton Industries. James Hamilton was flexing his muscles, if the document on his desk was any indication. Hamilton was objecting to the latest government inquiry into his company’s research practices, and he actually expected the ISEA to pull the plug on it. To “…circumvent the staid and outdated political policies…” and “…embrace molecular technology, with all its enormous potential.” It went on to point out areas where nanotechnology might give the ISEA the edge in weapons research, and remind them how much Quantum Ethics (Hamilton’s quantum physics research branch) had already contributed to the development of new construction materials. There was also a reference to QE’s “donations” to the ISEA: their contribution to the counterterrorist effort.

Colton sighed, then flung the file down on his desk, disgusted. The entire document was open to misinterpretation, and one of those “misguided bureaucrats” whom Hamilton had mentioned could well interpret it as evidence of collusion, bribery, and internal corruption. The time to refute it would be now, with an equally carefully-worded rebuttal. It wouldn’t put him or his department entirely in the clear, but it might at least negate some potential charges.

If he did as Hamilton had suggested—object, on his behalf, to the government investigation—he’d be digging himself a hole. If he did nothing, the newly-established cooperative network between Hamilton Industries and the ISEA would probably show up on an inquiry anyway, and he’d still be in a hole. It was what James Hamilton was counting on: that John Colton would act to save his ass.

And, in doing so, would seal the deal.

Luke Hamilton was acting as a facilitator, whether he realised it or not. Luke’s work with the ISEA had made him invaluable to his father. Whatever he might lack as a son, he possessed in connections. James Hamilton intended to take full advantage of them.

Colton suspected Hamilton was also in need of his “heir apparent”. Some of his deals required a degree of continuity, and only so much trust and loyalty could be purchased. The remainder had to be earned. Whether or not Luke agreed with everything Hamilton did, the familial bond would buy a certain amount of commitment.

Colton pulled out the other folder—the one on Luke. He’d been a valued agent for many years, but John had known for the last five that it would probably come to this. He’d been preparing for that eventuality, and it was no accident Luke’s ISEA work had links which would be of interest to his father.

Things James Hamilton would want to use.

Again, John Colton felt a twinge of guilt. He was using Luke to make inroads as much as James Hamilton was using his son to cement a formidable business and legal connection. It was Luke who was being caught in the middle, and he’d already begun to figure it out. Eventually, there’d be a test of loyalties, but Luke was smart enough to jump off a sinking ship…

I hope.

The most recent step in Colton’s long-waged campaign to punch through Hamilton’s fortress walls had been what seemed like a relatively easy assignment to Luke Hamilton: that of tracing some unusual activity which was producing bizarre magnetic signatures on their satellite pictures. Preliminary investigation had turned up equally bizarre traces of unrecognisable compounds—among them crystals which held remarkable potential for the microchip industry. Colton had hinted at weapons research, and suggested some new development in quantum physics might be responsible for these anomalous compounds—some rearrangement of molecular structure like the “Bucky Ball”.

Luke Hamilton was enough his father’s son to show an interest right away.

And John Colton had known James Hamilton, with his recently reawakened interest in his son, wouldn’t be far behind. Especially since most of the anomalies were on newly-purchased Quantum Ethics’ land. Colton didn’t know whether QE was the source of the anomalies, or whether they also considered them of sufficient interest to pursue. Whatever the reason, James Hamilton would no doubt suspect that John Colton had tossed him a bone.

“The tie that binds…”

Not only was his son involved in the “case”, but it was one which could directly benefit Hamilton Industries, and any of its “partners”.

Luke would already realise there were Hamilton holdings in this area, but the file he’d studied had omitted the connection between his father’s company, and the anomalies. Colton had consoled his conscience with a reminder that the land purchases were of recent origin. The files Luke had in his possession were only a year old. He’d have no reason to suspect the land had changed hands since then. After all, the anomalies had been on record for at least two years.

Luke would have no reason to suspect he was actually working for his father.

It was a tricky situation. John Colton was counting on Luke’s loyalty to the ISEA, in order to hang Hamilton Industries. But if Luke were to discover how Colton was using him, his loyalties would be torn.

And the last thing Colton wanted right now was for Luke to walk away from them all.

*

Luke was standing at the window, staring a little blankly out at the long shadows of late afternoon. Matrisson would be here before five, which meant he didn’t have much time to develop a coherent story. For a moment he was tempted to blurt all, and leave it for Matrisson to sort out, as Colton had suggested. But something was holding him back. Something besides self-interest.

It wasn’t guilt. He’d done the right thing: hinted at Devery’s involvement, and inquired after his whereabouts. Colton had taken it from there. But, either Devery was not as seriously injured as he’d seemed, or, Luke thought, one hand pressed to his forehead, Zeb Devery was made of sterner stuff than one Luke Hamilton. Apparently, Devery was back at work while he was lounging around on paid leave.

Luke stumbled over and sat on the edge of his bed. He’d been feeling so much better this morning that the headache had become more background noise than the pulsing vice-grip it had been before. In the last hour or so, though, the ache had returned, and brought with it a weird buzzing in his ears. He didn’t know what was going on, but he guessed the bruises from his run-in with the moth were finally catching up with him. Every scrape, every damn place the moth’s wings had touched was stinging now, and his lungs felt full of the lousy dust. His chest was hurting nearly as bad as his head.

He stared a little dully at the wall. Outside his room he could see someone leaning against the wall—probably Brian Kirkegaard. Someone else was coming now and his guard straightened up.

Must be Matrisson, he thought. He watched blearily as the man entered, and his eyes widened at the core of heat emanating from the man’s head and heart. His own heart started to pound, and he felt it thunder in his head. “Saw you coming,” he gasped in disbelief. He had a sudden vision of the woman’s light show, bony legs dancing on his belly, and giant moths passing through walls. “No!” he whispered.

Not me!

What the hell had they done to him?

Luke glanced at the wall, but found no reassurance there. The hot water pipes were glowing red blurs and the wires were doing a fine-line electrical dance. Beyond the wall, someone strolled past Kirkegaard and on up the hall.

Luke panicked. It was one thing being among freaks, and quite another being one yourself. Whatever they’d done to him, they’d better take it back. He gripped the front of Matrisson’s jacket in his fist. “Make ‘em take it back!” he yelled. At least, he’d intended to yell it. It actually came out more like a wheeze.

Matrisson was yelling now, too, but Luke could barely hear him. He was dimly aware that Kirkegaard was on his other side, and Matrisson was shoving an oxygen mask over his face. “Don’t need it,” Luke tried to say, but apparently, Matrisson didn’t agree.

By the time they’d replaced his IV, tubed him, and wheeled him to ICU, Luke wasn’t in any shape to say anything.

*

Randy walked cautiously down the hospital corridor, then veered off, at Zeb’s room. Silently, he pushed open the door and peered inside. Ness was absorbed in reading Zeb’s chart, and oblivious to Randy’s arrival.

Randy couldn’t resist. He moved just as quietly across the floor, then tapped Ness roughly on the shoulder.

The chart went flying, and all the bits and pieces—lab results, referrals, comments, nurses’ notes—splayed across the floor. “You dumb fuck!” Ness hissed, looking angrier than Randy had ever seen him. Randy smirked, but hid it behind shuffling up the papers.

Ness was still angry. He began to pace. “Damn it all to hell, Markington!” He stomped over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. Then another. As he gulped them down, he said something that sounded suspiciously like a gargled “Never again.”

“Any of your doctor friends ever ask why you drink so much?”

Ness put his hands under the tap, then splashed water over his face and neck. “If they knew you, they’d probably ask why I don’t drink something stronger.”

“No, seriously.”

“I was being serious,” Ness said.

“All I get are insults. And here, I brought you something.” Randy reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle of Perrier, and tossed it his way. “Peace offering,” he said, grinning.

Ness unscrewed the sipper and took a long gulp. A look of bliss came over his face. “Thanks,” he said. “But you’re still a dumb fuck.”

“So Shea says.”

“Please, no details. I’ve been stuck in here for the last forty-eight hours.”

“Why?” Randy went over to the bed. He looked down at Zeb worriedly. “I thought you said he was better!” The last came out with an angry growl.

“He is, but he has to stay on the zanthogliomycin for at least another twenty-four hours. It’s the only one that’s worked.”

“So?”

“So, it’s setting him off. Whenever he dreams, things start popping through the walls. Did you hear about the Hsigo at the lab?”

Randy grinned. “Yeah. Even saw it. Ty has it in his freezer.”

Ness looked long-suffering. “That was just the beginning. I managed to shoo ‘em back, but last night I had Gueranas in the room. It stunk like hell.”

Randy’s grin faded. “How’d you get them out of here?” He sniffed the air. A trace, maybe, but that was all.

“Chased them back through.” At the question in Randy’s eyes, Ness shrugged. “Long dream.”

Randy looked puzzled. “Not his usual locale, either.”

Ness ran a nervous hand through his hair. “And he’s always had to work at it before.” Usually, Zeb’s efforts left him sweaty and bleary-eyed.

“The lab was before the zanthoglio stuff,” Randy pointed out.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ness said sarcastically. “I’m putting that one down to fever.”

Randy brightened. “Maybe they’re all fever. Maybe that’s the trigger.”

Ness shrugged. “Maybe. I think I’d rather believe we’re seeing a drug reaction. He was on an antibiotic at the lab—just a different one.”

“He’s doing better, right?”

Ness nodded. “Yeah,” he said, with a trace of relief.

“He’s not in any danger? No one’s been in asking questions?”

“Nope.”

Randy looked impatient. “Then what’re you so worried about?” Ness appeared both exhausted—and wilted. Randy guessed he was dehydrated. If he went down it’d be no joke—especially given their surroundings. “You remind me of a jellyfish stuck on the beach. You know how floppy those things get?”

“Shut up—”

But Randy was already shoving him toward the door. “Go home, drink some water, and have a swim.”

Ness’ eyes brightened. He reached for the door handle, then turned back. “What if—?” he began.

“—some of Zeb’s visitors come calling through the wall? Think I can’t handle it?” Randy’s chuckle ended in a low howl. “Think again.”

TROLLS (EPPIE Award Finalist!)
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I can’t believe I finished BoneSong yesterday! It seems like I’ve been writing it forever. I’m not sure, even now, that I tied up all my loose ends. Hopefully, any dangling scenes will resolve themselves in the rewrite.

In a minute I’m going out with my daughter to buy some chippies.

Oops - bought them. They’re gone. Sour cream and chives - the only kind to get.

We ate M&Ms and drank Diet Coke to celebrate finishing my book.

Had a marketing meeting today, with some other NZ authors. We’re all desperate to find ways to get our books onto NZ bookshelves. It’s just so expensive to have books shipped here from overseas, and it prices us out of the local market. We could ask our publishers to produce them here, but it’s difficult to find a competitive printer for POD - and even harder to find printers who will produce books a few at a time. That’s the rate at which bookshops order them.

These are good authors, too - finalists, award winners. But they’re - we’re - making a pittance, because we haven’t been able to get much name-recognition overseas. We’re trying to figure out a way to boost sales, by hitting our local market. Besides, there’s something about seeing your book(s) being read on the bus, or playing fly on the wall in the bookstore.

Part of our meeting was about name recognition, and getting our names into the marketplace. I have some fans (it sounds weird to say that!), and my books have been compared favourably with Koontz, King, and Anne McCaffery, but that doesn’t assure me readers.

Bizarre…

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks…except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my print books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt from Trolls (chapter two) - to celebrate the completion of book#24!

Chapter Two

Randy slammed his fist against the sofa back. “Dammit, Shea!” he complained.

“Keep your ‘dammits’ to yourself, Markington!” she said impatiently. “You’re the one who wanted geological strata. I’ll have the readouts in less than a minute.” She muttered, “Though it’d’ve be better, in my opinion, if you’d considered the water table instead.”

“Always a whinger,” Randy retorted. He knew how much it irritated her. “You know how people relate their well-being to crystals—”

“New Age stupidity,” she put in.

“—and how frequently peasant superstitions have been backed up by—”

“—superstitious stupidity. Save the lecture for your class, Randy. Zeb’s out there in the dark.”

Randy’s voice rose. “And whose fault is that? I ask for a readout, and she gives me the Periodic Table.” He added sarcastically, “Or maybe it’s the Richter Scale, A to Z.” He considered that for a moment. “Any unusual tremors in that area? Might give us an idea of—”

“Randy—” she cut in.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up!” Without another word, she tugged the paper out of the printer and headed for the door, Randy at her back. She reached for the knob with one hand, and tossed Randy a pack of gum with the other.

But when she opened her mouth to say something further, Randy beat her to it. He smiled with saccharine sweetness, then pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket. “I’m all ready for you.” She barely heard his added, “Even if you ain’t too bright.” She was grinning as she slid behind the wheel.

*

It wasn’t until he was already inside that he remembered the snake he’d seen that afternoon. At the time he’d been “distracted”. He had a jumbled memory of wriggling reptile, inhaled dust, ancient lamps, and broken bones—the present overlapping with the past.

At this moment, the most important part of his present was a beady-eyed scaly slitherer with a forked tongue. That damned rattlesnake wasn’t the kind of animal he’d come looking for.

He shone the light lingeringly into the dark recesses along his way, and then, more cautiously, under the jumbled rocks. A glint of eye refraction, and a slithering movement made him jump. He scrambled backwards, toppled onto his rear, realised it made him more vulnerable, and leaped, fell and rolled down the passageway.

He was still on his knees when the tremulous warble whispered in the distance. As his flashlight spun and settled, its light painting shuddery etchings across the uneven surface, the whistle grew in intensity. Zeb cocked his head to listen, then crawled quickly along—forgetting all his resolutions about waiting for the others.

Forgetting everything except The Whistler, and his need to get there—before the music stopped.

*

Randy’s stomach sank as soon as he spotted Zeb’s car. “He’s inside.”

“Who’s that?” Shea was looking at a sleek sportscar, parked just beyond Zeb’s.

Randy climbed out, and sniffed the air. “My business partner,” he said. “Too curious for his own good.”

“Is he inside with Zeb?”

“More or less.”

She sighed. “So Zeb doesn’t know he’s there,” she said.

Randy nodded. “That’s what I think.”

“I think we better get to them first. If we don’t, Zeb will’ve—”

“—started without us.”

She turned to him a little desperately. “Did you bring a flashlight?”

“No. Why would I?” he retorted, with a trace of sarcasm. “Dammit.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, but there was that same hint of excitement in her voice that had been in Zeb’s earlier.

“When are you two going to learn some restraint?” he hissed.

“About the same time you and Ness do,” she replied.

“I should have called Rio,” Randy said worriedly.

“Think we’re gonna need him?” she asked seriously.

“He’s good at diffusing things.”

“I notice you didn’t mention Ty. There’s restraint for you!” she hissed.

“I prefer my stalactites on the ceiling, rather than sticking out of my head—” he began.

They were at the cave entrance. Abruptly, she turned around, grasped the front of his shirt and yanked him down for a giant kiss.

Tradition. “I love you,” she whispered. The air around them shimmered with a sudden frosty glint that brightened the stirred-up dust to blinding sparkles.

He ran his hands over her, then sniffed longingly at her nape and hair. “I know,” he replied. He inhaled deeply, then coughed on the dust. “Damn!” He coughed again, but this time, it sounded more like a growl.

She heard it. “Sly, aren’t we?” she muttered as he took over the lead.

He chuckled, as he stared at the refracted sheen of crystals along the roof. No doubt Luke would have a question or two about the source of light. He shook his head and tightened his grip on her hand. “Absolutely devious,” he said.

*

Luke couldn’t figure out how Devery was doing it—or why. There didn’t seem to be any point to the man’s movements—yet they were made with a kind of desperate urgency. He was crawling, scrambling, and at times practically running between the rocky layers.

At first Luke had thought he was aware of being pursued, and that it had sent him into some kind of panic. Now, he’d decided the man was largely oblivious to anything but his goal. He hadn’t slowed, nor had his speed picked up when Luke had yelled his name.

Maybe he’s wearing a Discman? Can’t hear a thing over his “sounds”?

Or maybe he just wants to throw me off his track—to lead me away from what he’s really after.

From whatever he’d found in the cave that afternoon. Happy accident, or had Markington’s bumbling concern led to some secret cache? That Devery didn’t want anyone to know about?

There was another possibility: this may have been Markington’s way of admitting some healthy competition. Maybe Devery was getting too greedy, or too dictatorial. Maybe Markington felt the only way to protect his share was to admit someone else to the mix.

What else were they hiding? This wasn’t Luke’s first pursuit, but it was certainly his strangest. He’d been trained in lipreading, and the conversation this afternoon hadn’t been difficult to interpret. There was something here, and instinct told him it must tie in to his investigation. But, now that he was God-knows-how-many feet under the ground, he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d followed Devery too soon. Now, he could well have Markington on his tail. Luke’s “divide and conquer” approach was beginning to feel more foolish all the time.

But, he couldn’t forget his discomfort, when confronted by them both. Markington had changed from “bumbling” to “dexterous” in the blink of an eye. As much as Luke wanted to catch them in the act, he had very definite qualms about confronting them together in a place like this. He had no desire to make this his burial ground.

He had a choice: follow Devery further, and literally drive him underground—or get out, before Markington turned up.

Get out…

He’d never liked caves, even if this one was worth investigating. Catching Devery in the act suddenly didn’t seem nearly as important as catching a breath of fresh air. He’d find a way to track Devery’s path tomorrow, with a team for back-up.

Now, the big thing was to retrace his steps, before Markington wiped out his trail. Luke slipped on the glasses and stared at the infrared markings. A bright red beacon to the exit…

He’d taken only a few steps when the weirdly screeching screams sounded in his ears.

*

Zeb slammed his hands over his ears, then stood shaking. He was drenched with sweat, weak and nauseated.

Displacement. The rock beneath his feet was wobbly, and his eyes were seeing two places at once, both dressed in shimmers of glimmery blue light. The scenes, so distinct in everything from time of day to climate, were overlapping, and in those moments, he couldn’t decide which was which, or where he belonged. As always, he was terrified at his own confusion, but experience had taught him there was only one way to resolve it. He forced his focus to narrow. Like a horse with blinders, he looked straight ahead, ignoring the scene playing out beyond.

Nothing but rock. Coarse rock, of white limestone with crystalline intrusions, weird fans and pointed stalactites, swirls and bubbles and irregular holes. Rock with light and shadow; pools of unseen depths lying just beyond the reach of his flashlight. It was all a puzzle, a maze.

He could hear them now. The crunch and tap of claws on rock. Almost automatically, it seemed, his eyes sought the scrabbling creatures his ears had promised.

They were small and unbelievably wary. At first, they were indecipherable from the limestone, but he knew it was like a Magic Eye puzzle, where a 3D image is hidden in plain sight. As Zeb’s eyes rested on the rock surface, his vision blurred and his focus changed. The features—faces, feet, claws—were suddenly there.

Now you see it, now you don’t…

The wee things surfaced, arising out of the blue-tainted rocky molecules, just as, at other times, in other places, they sometimes lifted out of water or wood. Arising, taking shape, becoming distinct, like multicoloured patches lifting from an irregular quilt. Only a mirage, until they formed shadows.

Until they began to move. These were sparsely-haired, with huge, saucerlike eyes, long beaked noses, and spindly arms. The arms were gesturing wildly now, in his direction. Not angry, and not curious. Frightened.

Uh-oh.

He had to make this quick. At any moment they could scatter. And if he didn’t record what he was seeing, Randy would never forgive him.

I should have waited…

But he couldn’t, and Randy would understand. His resistance this afternoon had been a first.

Maybe it fooled Randy as much as it did me.

Which is why he’s taking so damn long to get here… The ignoble thought made Zeb feel like a prick. And it didn’t help—he still felt guilty. He’d been too impatient, and hadn’t bothered to wait. There was no getting around it: Randy would have wanted to see these beasties himself; to put a name to them. Something to drop into a lecture, with a lively description that would capture his students’ imaginations. The kind of legendary invention that had earned Randy his reputation—and an overload of students.

Zeb smiled. And if by some chance these gnome-types were unidentified—unknowns, by folktale standards—Shea would have wanted to list their characteristics, and enter them in her database.

The least Zeb Devery could do was capture them on film. He pulled the camcorder out of his pack, but each little movement seemed to set the gnome-types off. They were skittish, uneasy, and something in their fearful energies transferred itself to him. The click and scrape of their nails seemed unnaturally loud, and he noticed the way they were peering around; those big eyes squinting in the brightness of his flashlight. He watched as three separated themselves from the others, and crawled, batlike, up the steep walls: their bony limbs jutting at awkward angles as they clung to the rock face. They were staring at the pooling greys and blacks, beyond the reach of Zeb’s light—ears perked at an angle towards something he couldn’t hear.

A sibilant whisper cut the air, and gooseflesh danced down Zeb’s arms. The gnomes were suddenly frozen in place, like barnacles to a rock. Zeb realised the only thing still in motion in the cavern…was him.

Maybe not. The sibilant sound came again, and Zeb could have sworn it was closer.

They hadn’t come alone. There was a predator lurking—something he hadn’t seen.

It wouldn’t be the first time. When the damned whistle came, it set Zeb off—and he was out of control. Driven. The need to follow it through became a compelling force, and he couldn’t let go. They all knew it—Randy, Shea, Ty, Rio, Ness—so they mounted expeditions now, to document and catalogue. They’d left the wild, slack, dive-in-with-the-sharks stuff behind. They let Zeb chum the waters, but nobody went for a swim. They’d had too many injuries in the early days, with too many unexplainable repercussions.

This afternoon was a first, and it had fooled them all. Zeb had thought, for once, that he was doing things on his own terms. But it was no different from before. He should have realised that once he’d been touched by the whistle, he’d never be able to walk away. Not without seeing it through…

He flushed. It had been years since he’d acted this irresponsibly. He knew better than to go it alone.

Dammit if he hadn’t blown it again…

The background sibilance echoed briefly, then suddenly rose, to a low-pitched, reverberating hum. It was all the gnomes needed. In a panic, they dove off walls and leapt, in a scurryingly awkward frenzy, across the rocks. Their screeching cries filled the cavern.

Send them back! Send them all back!

Zeb fought to concentrate. He focussed on the rock wall; focussed on that particular zone of deafness where the only sound was a peculiarly sweet whistle…

He was nearly there. The displacement, the confusion, the overlapping frames of movement…

He might be deaf, but he wasn’t blind. If anything, he was seeing too much right now—on too many levels.

Something was coming at him. The hair lifted on the nape of his neck, and his heart pounded with terror. His legs twitched with the need to flee.

Sweat broke on his brow, but he stood his ground.

Overlap it with that other vision…the one that would lure it away—that would make It as driven as he’d been moments since.

He had it. The wings fluttered irregularly as the predator turned. The beast was so close he could feel the wind ruffle his hair—could smell the rancid breath of the carnivore…

He’d done it, and the knot in his gut loosened. It was heading back towards the rock face, and it was being chased by its small gnome-prey. For an instant, Zeb felt a qualm of dismay. The gnomes, drawn just as the hunter was, were unable to stop themselves. They’d be walking right into the predator’s mouth—returning to certain death…

*

Luke ran. He’d never heard anything like it before, but he knew it wasn’t bats. Some kind of animal, maybe, but he couldn’t take a chance. If it was a human animal, the guy was in terrible pain.

He nearly outran his light, and twice he stumbled, and nearly fell. By the time he made his way to Zeb’s hiding place, he was panting and furious.

And more than a little sure he was being played for a fool.

*

A beam of light suddenly burst into the cavern—and right into Zeb’s eyes. He lost it all—his vision, his qualms, his equilibrium, his focus. His hearing was back—he knew, because an angry voice bellowed his name.

That’s not what he was listening for, though. There was another, underlying wash of sound as a soft sibilance gave way to a vibrating hum. The next moment it was all clouds of choking dust and gnashing teeth, yells and screeching cries, skittering bony legs and arms, and yelps of human disbelief. A heavy body slammed Zeb back, into the rock, and jagged claws pinned him there. He opened his eyes, as unbelievably jagged teeth came down.

Tearing teeth…

He gagged at the stink of ordure, kicked and squirmed, but the thing was sucking up its victory now, and draining him dry.

Wizened Devery husk littering the cave floor…

In the background there was a furious howl.

It was the last thing Zeb remembered.

*

Jesus H. Christ!

He couldn’t take it in—couldn’t assimilate the scene. All his training, all the scenarios, all the crime scenes, all the test runs: nothing could have prepared him for this. In those other times, those other places, there’d been evil, and premeditated wickedness, passionate blood and butchery, and dispassionate termination. Dispatchers and dispatched, killers, victims and would-be homicides, depravity and cold-blooded amorality…but at least the fuckin’ predators were human!

And then, he couldn’t think any more. His world became a scrambling, screeching mass of bony arms and legs as the gnomes latched on and climbed him like an overgrown stalagmite. They were panicked and tiny, but in sheer numbers, their weight far surpassed his own. Luke tried to shake them off but they clung to him, as they’d clung to the rock only moments before. Clung to him and froze. His world was suddenly a place of beak-nosed bald monsters with acetone breath and terror in saucer-shaped eyes.

In slow motion, Luke and his weighty burden toppled—landing in a crunch of rock and squirming bodies. At the same moment, his gun went off, resonating the roof with a horrendous blast. The gnomes—the ones that could, anyway—that weren’t crunched beneath him—scattered. Luke was left lying there, with the stink of gunfire strong in his nose.

A shudder of movement fixed his eyes on Sebastian Devery. The man was still squirming weakly, but there was no way he was fighting his adversary off alone. The monster—th-the Thing—had him pinned.

Luke knew he would never look at moths the same way again. This one was enormous, with a heavy body, dusky brown wings that twitched continuously, and enormous antennae. It had clawed feet, and a siphon tongue, that was sucking the life out of the man—Luke was close enough to see the dark pulsing through the tongue. As it fed, the antennae uncurled, then coiled up again with each gulp. Luke had a sudden urge to gag.

He rolled over on to his stomach, and pushed himself up on his knees. Devery wasn’t going to last long. He lurched to his feet.

It was the stuff of nightmares, but it wasn’t the first time he’d tackled a killer. Don’t think…

As he dove for one of those enormous, jagged brown wings, he heard a horrible howl at his back.

Oh, shit!

Then it was all wing dust and flapping and scraping, claws and slamming rock. He sucked in wheezing breaths, of mingled moth dust and earthy air, but he hung on. The overgrown moth was squirming and giving out some kind of shrill whistle, and the tongue was curling over the thing’s head and trying to poke at his eyes now.

Luke was flopped from side to side. It was deliberately trying to scrape him against the stalactites, he realised, and he froze. He’d never expected it to be smart—never expected it to have more than a moth’s reasoning power. The idea of a monster with a brain was so much worse than an animal acting merely on instinct.

It’s not real, Hamilton. None of this is real. You hit a pocket of bad air, or had one too many run-ins with rock.

The moth whipped him around so fast, that he could barely cling to the wings. Apparently, those clawed feet were a lot more manoeuvrable than he would have ever guessed. It was trying to break him off now, in any way it could.

Luke’s head whammed against the rock, and his world went momentarily black. When he opened his eyes it was to a whirr of motion as a man—Luke could swear it was Markington—hit the moth with a blow that send dust and blood flying everywhere.

Luke lay there, staring a little blankly at the scene, as Markington picked up the moth as though it weighed nothing, and flung it, Frisbee-like, across the cavern.

Not real, Luke thought distantly. He pushed himself up on one elbow, and sought Devery’s body.

There was a woman with him, and they were surrounded by light. Through aching eyes, Luke surveyed the rest of the room, and he wondered that he hadn’t noticed the radiance before. If someone had brought in some fluorescents, it wouldn’t have been any brighter.

The woman must have heard him, because she looked up, and met his eyes across the distance. Luke could swear hers were glowing.

Hell of a dream I’m having, he thought, stumbling to his feet.

The world seemed to tilt and he latched onto a stalactite for balance.

“Hold it, Hamilton,” a voice said.

“Markington?” Luke muttered.

“The same. Sit down while I look at Zeb…”

Luke leaned against the rock. “Go—” he whispered, relieved. His brain was assessing what he’d seen; putting it in terms John Colton could accept. “…into rare animals—maybe endangered exports. Some kind of bat, and a big moth…” Smuggling endangered animals was big money, but it also carried big fines.

The cave had developed a wobbliness he hadn’t noticed before. He squinted against the pain in his head, and had a sudden feeling someone was watching him. He turned, to find himself face-to-face with one of the little “bats”. Its eyes were squinted, too, but against the light.

It was squatting against the wall like the bat he’d claimed it to be, but there was nothing batlike about its toothy grin. “Zshaylok,” it said, in a screechy voice.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” came Markington’s sarcastic voice, from the background.

It’s real.

Luke shuddered, and then suddenly, he was sick, and the little bat shrieked and scuttled away across the rock. Luke knew he was going down, and put out a hand to break his fall.

“Gotcha!” a voice growled near his ear, and there was a trace of humour in it Luke couldn’t miss. “Damned ‘business partners’ are more trouble than they’re worth.”

*

“Zeb!”

Shea.

Zeb gave a weak grin. “Head tow’rd th’ light?” he whispered.

“Not if I get there first.”

Randy.

Zeb forced open his eyes. “Glad you c’d make it.”

“If that’s a comment on my dilatory arrival, save it.” Despite the sarcastic note, Randy sounded worried. “You really did it this time, Zeb.” He was applying pressure to Zeb’s shoulder, while Shea applied a makeshift bandage. “If you were gonna run into a Mahr, you could have waited till we got here.”

Shea shook her head. “The med kit.”

“If there’s no stopper,” Randy told her softly, “get some cobwebs—” The fear in his eyes belied the calmness of his voice.

Shea forced a smile, for Zeb’s sake. “Ness’ll have your hide for this one, Zeb.”

Randy asked her worriedly, “Can you find the way out?”

Shea’s eyes flicked to Luke and back, her expression grim. “Somebody left a trail,” she said.

“Don’t look at me,” Zeb muttered.

“We all know what kind of trails you leave,” Randy remarked, sniffing distastefully.

“Slurs…s’all I get.”

Shea grinned. Her wave was a sudden sparkling of light. The next instant she was gone, racing back the way they’d come.

“Oww!” Zeb grunted to Randy. “Not so hard.” It felt like he was trying to push his shoulder through the rock.

“Wuss.” But, Randy didn’t release the pressure. The Mahr must have had an anticoagulant in its saliva, and Zeb was still bleeding heavily. Randy’s hands were shaking, but it wouldn’t do for Zeb to know it. Luckily, the cavern was dark now that Shea had left.

Except for the dull glimmer of Zeb’s blood. Randy had seen it before, but it never failed to shock him anew.

“Where’s the Mahr?” A detached voice arose out of the blackness.

“Uh-oh,” Zeb whispered.

“Yes, you’re right,” Randy told him calmly. “We’re screwed.”

“It’s dark in here,” came the voice again.

“Observant, isn’t he?” Zeb whispered. “So astute.”

Randy grinned, then said loudly, “The light will be back shortly. Don’t move, Luke, before you damage yourself more. That was one hell of a fall you took.”

“Slick,” Zeb hissed. “I’m impressed.”

“How’s Devery?” Luke asked.

“Devery’s fine,” Zeb replied, “considering you knocked me down that hole.” He grinned.

A cover-up. They were actually going to try to cover this up. Luke gave a snort of muffled laughter, then grunted as yet another bony leg kneed him in the side. He thought about what John Colton would say, if he could see him now, and gave another amused chuckle. Then, he just coudn’t stop. He snorted, chuckled, grunted, “oww”ed, and laughed. It hurt like hell, and he didn’t know which was making his eyes weep more, his hilarity or the pain.

“What’s with him?” Randy asked disparagingly. Dammit if he’d let Zeb bleed to death while he found out.

Zeb couldn’t take it. With trembling fingers, he fished the lighter out of his pocket and flicked it.

Luke Hamilton was surrounded—piled high with gnomes, who’d decided he was synonymous with safety. He was an island of bony arms and legs in a sea of rock.

“Dammit,” Randy sighed. “Nunus.”

Luke’s head was still spinning, and he would forever blame his next comment on his giddiness. “That’s Nunus to me,” he said.

*

“I’ve got to send them back,” Zeb said grimly.

“Damn right you do, but not till Ness gets here.” Randy knew it was a mistake, as soon as he’d said it.

“No!” Zeb gritted his teeth and tried to shove Randy away. “Get off!”

“Nope.” He tightened his grip. “You’re so fuckin’ prejudiced!”

If he’d hoped to get results with that one he was disappointed. It was true that Zeb hated doctors—had a phobia about them almost as bad as his fear of rattlesnakes. It didn’t help that Ness was one of his best friends. They got along because neither of them mentioned it. The times Ness had been called upon to patch up other members of their expeditions, Zeb had always made himself scarce. “Is that what Shea’s doing? Waiting for Ness?”

“Quit squirming. We need Ness for dumbshit there—”

“Good! Haul him out to the entry, so I don’t have to watch!”

“I can’t,” Randy told him practically. “He’ll have too much company.”

“Shut up and take your medicine like a man!” Luke said loudly, then burst out laughing again.

Randy growled.

Zeb, meanwhile, was silent. He’d never tried to do this in the dark, but there was always a first time. He stared in the general direction of the rocks, where the Nunus had emerged.

“Zeb!” This time, the growl was directed at him.

The overlap came, but Zeb couldn’t hold onto it. His eyes were aching, and he felt tireder than he ever had in his life. “Rand—” he muttered.

Then, he was confused because it was daylight—no, it was Shea. Someone else was swearing softly, and sticking a needle into his arm. “Go ’way, Ness,” Zeb muttered.

“Fuck you, too,” Ness said, but he didn’t move. “You should start to feel better in a minute, Zeb,” he went on, checking the IV. “Stay with him, Randy, while I check on the other guy.”

“Megalomaniac,” Zeb grouched to his back.

“Mediphobic. You’re right, though: just give me a white coat and I can rule the world.”

“His name’s Luke,” Randy offered. “And those are Nunus.”

Luke noticed that the man “Ness” didn’t seem in the least surprised to see a load of Nunus on his chest. All he said was “Zeb, you’re an idiot,” before waving one hand to shoo them away. After a few minutes’ examination, he told Luke, “Hit your head pretty hard, did you?”

“Concussion?”

Ness nodded. “Hurt anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Good,” Ness said, and patted his shoulder. “Stay awake. We’ll get you out of here soon.”

In the background, Zeb was saying in a querulous tone, “They go back!”, and Shea was arguing, with obnoxiously saccharine sweetness, “We’ll see what your ‘doctor’ says.” Then came Zeb’s weary “Shut up, Shea!”, and Randy’s “Quit squirming, you dumbshit!”, and finally, just a growl.

Luke watched as Ness raised his eyes in a bid for patience, before asking loudly, “Anyone have a drink bottle?”

There was instant silence. Ness grinned. “Gotcha.”

Shea kicked him. “You moron!”

Randy was grinning wolfishly, and even Zeb looked amused.

“Now, Sebastian,” Ness said with a false smile, “let’s take care of that other little problem, shall we?”

“‘We’ll’ just do that,” Zeb retorted. He focussed on the wall. It was a lot easier with the light. “Light helps,” he commented.

“No excuses this time,” Randy muttered.

Zeb smiled. He focussed, and the smile faded as he concentrated. The whistle was starting up now, but he was shivering so hard he was having trouble holding it.

Ness was watching him closely. “Not much time,” he whispered to Randy.

Randy nodded, and moved to the other side of the cavern where the Mahr lay. He was nearly there when, with a whirring of wings, the seemingly dead Mahr lifted from the rock.

Randy was taken by surprise. It grabbed at him with talon-like claws, and—the wings whirring ferociously, started tugging him back across the uneven floor.

A blaze of light entered Shea’s eyes. In a wave of fury, she waved her hand, and a brilliant white flare exploded in the Mahr’s face.

The Mahr, temporarily blinded by the burst, dropped Randy like a stone and flopped feebly, navigating now by sound. As the Nunus scurried across the distance, the Mahr followed the sweet whistle toward the cavern wall.

Luke watched, stunned, as first the Nunus, and then the man-eating moth, hit the wall. They seemed to cling, briefly, then were somehow sucked into, and disappeared through, the solid rock.

What amazed him most was the way the others ignored it.

“Didn’t you see it?” he gasped, worrying for the first time just how bad his head injury was.

Shea leaped over the uneven stalagmites and dropped to her knees at Randy’s side. Randy, half-blinded still by the intensity of that last light, grabbed her roughly and yanked her into his arms. “Help,” he whispered. His hands fumbled over her breasts then worked their way south. “Blinded by your beauty,” he explained.

She grinned.

Ness’ voice was long-sufferingly patient. “You okay, Randy?”

“Better all the time…” At Ness’ silence, he added, “A few scratches, and lots of—”

“—‘research for your next book’,” Ness interrupted. “I need to get Zeb out of here. You up to it?”

In answer, Randy stumbled over, and cautiously lifted Zeb up off the ground. Zeb was limp, but Randy did his best to hold him steady. “Still a little blind,” he admitted seriously.

“Shea?” Ness asked.

Shea took Randy’s arm. Her expression held a trace of remorse. “Sorry,” she told him. To Ness she said, “Ready.”

“What about him?” Randy asked, indicating Luke with a nod of his head.

“I’ll get him.” Ness was taking Zeb’s pulse. He didn’t look happy. “Let’s hurry. The sooner we get him out of here, the better.”

*

Luke lay there in the dark, the scent of stale urine strong in his nostrils. He shifted his leg, and heard the rustle of plastic bag and the tinkle of broken glass. They’d dumped him here in the alley, and hauled Zeb Devery away, presumably to the hospital.

He would have been feeling pretty damned vulnerable right now if he hadn’t overheard them talking. Somewhere nearby, Randy Markington was lurking; standing guard until help arrived.

It was the oddest rescue Luke had ever been involved in. They’d treated him well—brought him back to town to within three blocks of the hospital. Brushed him down before stealing his phone and ID.

Buying time.

They’d also rung for an ambulance. Now, it was a waiting game. Markington was marked with Devery’s glimmery blood (glimmery?), so he’d put on Ness’ jacket, and was skulking out of sight. He wasn’t about to abandon Luke Hamilton to the elements—human or otherwise. He was waiting because he might be a thief and a Mahr-murderer, but he had principles. The thought made Luke chuckle.

Which brought a shift of movement in the alley.

Not Markington. This was another scavenger, out for whatever he could get. He’d steal the jacket off Luke’s back, the shoes off his feet, the belt off his pants—if he could get close enough. And if Luke didn’t have enough to offer, the scavenger would make him pay in some other way. Luke didn’t feel strong enough right now to rout a rat—of any kind. He tensed, sickness in the pit of his stomach.

Until he heard a warning growl nearby. He could have sworn Markington was watching from the roof—he didn’t know how he’d descended so fast. It was, however, undoubtedly the man’s voice. “I wouldn’t touch him, if I were you,” he warned quietly. Another growl. “Back off.”

Who the hell were these people?

Luke was still wondering it the following morning, when he woke up to John Colton’s unsmiling face.

***

Trolls (read it all!)

http://www.lulu.com/content/84796 Print books
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook9508.htm Ebooks

*If you’d like me to post a few more chapters, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!

Below is an excerpt from Trolls - to celebrate its new print release!

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks…except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my INTERNATIONAL print books - so far, ELF & TROLLS )
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)
***
Prologue

A dust devil whirled lazily in the heat, spinning in aimless gyrations.
Devils without…devils within? He scuffed the dirt, watching the dust motes drift across the cave mouth—bright bits of sunlight curtaining the darkness…
Idly, he scuffed his way inside. Only a few steps, from there to here, and his mother would never know. The dirt he’d stirred swirled around him, and he blinked to clear his eyes.
He heard it before he saw it. Behind him, there came a whisper in the dirt, and the first of the incessant rattles began. The dried husk rasp was joined by another, and another.
The boy twisted slowly, his limbs unnaturally stiff. The day was so hot…yet he’d never felt so frozen in his life. His heart started pounding in racing thuds within his chest.
He wasn’t the only one who’d come inside to escape the heat. Gooseflesh danced across his skin as the rattling tempo increased.
Snakes, and more snakes. He’d scuffed his way into a nest…
The biggest snake was in the entrance now, blocking his way. Two smaller ones slithered toward him, and one slid over his shoe. He stood there, trying not to move…trying not to do anything. Outside, beyond the snake guardian, another dust devil rose, swirled and died.
Like me. Eleven-year-old immortality vanished in an instant, as death rattled at his feet.
One was coiled up near his toes now. When he twitched, its coils tightened, and the head lifted into strike position…
Reason fled. He leapt for a dark gap in the rock, slid in a rain of snakes and dirt and ran for his life. Faster and faster, finding his way by feel alone, panic nipping at his heels with the sharp-fanged tension of a serpent’s bite.
Down, through the dark, away…
He was moving far too fast, and he should have anticipated obstacles. But he was only a child, trying to outrun his monsters. When he tripped over the lamp, he never expected to fall…and keep on falling.
There are things far worse than a serpent’s bite…

Chapter One

Zeb was only half-listening, and Randy knew it. When Zeb’s eyes strayed back to his computer screen, and he absently shoved another chocolate chip cookie in his mouth, Randy said darkly, “He deals in dirt.”
Zeb choked on the cookie, coughed, swallowed, then looked at him through narrowed eyes. Randy Markington’s words had conjured up all kinds of nefarious dealings, from drug-trafficking to pornography.
Not Randy’s style.
Then Zeb noticed his expression. I’ve been had…
He returned Randy’s amused look with a dubious frown, and another mouthful of cookie. “I’m not into soil science.”
Randy grinned. “Right on the money—and lots of it. You wouldn’t believe how lucrative dirt can be. In many parts of the world, pica is a way of life. People pay big for their exotic blends.”
“Sounds illegal.”
“It’s not the legalities, so much as the potential for lawsuits. He needs you, Zeb. I’ve told him you freelance.”
“Crock.” Zeb turned several cookies over, searching for the one with the most chocolate bits.
“If growing all that mould in your homemade incubator isn’t freelancing, what is?” Randy argued. “All he wants is a guarantee, that his ‘mother-lode’ isn’t full of some weird fungus or bacteria. He doesn’t want to kill his clients.”
“How novel,” Zeb said dryly. “A responsible scumbag.” He held out the bag. “Sure you don’t want one?”
Randy took a handful, but it didn’t stop him from scowling. “I think you should trust my judgement. How the hell are we going to fund our little research projects if we don’t take a risk?”
Zeb shook his head. “I said one, not ten. What’s in it for you, anyway?”
“For us—and it’s ten percent.”
“This ‘test’ was your idea, wasn’t it?” Zeb asked suspiciously.
Randy looked pointedly at Zeb’s rundown living room. “Science isn’t ‘pure’ any more, Sebastian. It’s okay to make money at it.”
“How would you know? Been consulting your oracle again?”
“Damned slander. You know it’s ‘Grimms Fairy Tales’ or nothing.” Randy grinned, and popped two cookies in his mouth. “Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about ‘science’. That’s why we need you.”
*
Zeb looked at the map once more, then up at the layered rock in the highway cut. When Randy had enthused over the find yesterday, then plopped the map on his coffee table with a dramatic, “It’s up to you, Zeb,” he’d felt a glimmer of excitement. By the time Randy had left, Zeb had been almost as enthusiastic about this venture as Randy himself. He’d tried to hide it, but Randy knew him too well. His whispered “I’ll tell him you’re ‘in’,” hadn’t even seemed melodramatic, any more than his “Let me know as soon as you get back. I want to see it.”
“You’re in for ten percent and you haven’t even seen your ‘product’?”
Randy had frowned. “I’m the idea man—” he began.
Zeb gave a rude snort and went back to studying the map. “What’s this one?” he asked, holding up a second piece of paper.
“Detailed instructions. He figured you might have trouble with ‘X marks the spot’.”
“Doesn’t ‘he’ have a name?”
Randy clapped a hand on Zeb’s shoulder. “’course he does,” he said kindly. Then, without another word, he sniggered and strolled out the door.
Skulduggery. Pirates. Thieves. Zeb left the highway and followed a dirt track for what seemed like miles. Hell, it was miles. How had the man ever found his “motherlode” in the first place? A glance in the rearview mirror revealed only dust. Clouds of dust trailing behind him as far as he could see. How damned discreet.
He pulled to a stone-crunching halt as he realised he’d nearly overshot his mark. Once again, he studied the rocks overhead. Two big holes, behind what could have been a vulture’s beak.
Charming. There was a comical rendering of a vulture’s head on the print-out. At least Mr. X had a sense of humour. This had to be the place.
Feeling a little foolish, Zeb started pacing off the distance. He re-thought it, decided that he couldn’t afford to make a mistake at this point, and retrieved the tape measure he’d tossed in the trunk.
He repeated his measurements five times, but there was no way around it. Cautiously, he yanked the tumbleweed out of the way, and rolled a mini boulder to one side. He peered into a gaping hole in the damned vulture’s belly.
A cave. No one said anything about a cave.
Zeb rechecked the “detailed instructions” sheet.
Minor omission. Don’t bother mentioning your “product” is underground.
If I were smart, I’d turn around right now…
But of course he wouldn’t.
All I need now is another complication. Their last effort had nearly hung them all, and they were still trying to live down the notoriety. They needed to let things sit for a while, and wait for the dust to settle. How appropriate, Zeb thought wryly, wiping grit out of his eyes.
He squinted down at the map. “Non-involvement” might not be an option, now that he’d seen the map. He didn’t know who the hell this Mr. X was, but he might not take too kindly to having his mother-lode revealed, without some kind of payback.
Dirt? Hardly seemed lucrative enough to worry about. Zeb was having a little trouble swallowing Randy’s claims about pica.
Maybe it’s really uranium, Zeb thought. Maybe Mr. X doesn’t want to do the radioactive dirty work himself…
Excuses. If there were a uranium deposit, someone would have picked it up on an assay a while back.
Get your butt in there, scoop up some soil, and get out. Ten feet in, ten feet out. Easy. No reason to go any further…
Zeb scuffed through the dirt and watched warily for snakes. He hated the things. Years ago, when he was a kid, he’d been trapped in a cave, much like this one. He hadn’t known he was visiting a snake den until he was surrounded. Terrified, he’d headed for the hills—which, in that case, had been synonymous with the bowels of the Earth.
It was a nearly forgotten memory: suppressed by time, delirium, and the horrifying events which had followed. He had only a dim recollection of that seventy-two-hour ordeal, and no memory at all of the rescue. All he knew for certain was that it had changed him—one of those formative events after which he could never be the same.
He’d been terrified of snakes ever since.
This little trek would have been easier with a flashlight. That hadn’t been on his “detailed” instruction sheet, either.
He shook his head as he recalled Randy’s expression. Bet he didn’t know it was a cave. If he had, he would never have let me come alone…
Sending him out to do some boring dirt collection was one thing—a thing good ol’ Randy no doubt wanted to avoid.
He’ll casually “turn up”, after I’m finished with the nitty-gritty…
Zeb lifted his shirt over his nose, and sucked in a deep breath of hot, filtered air. He held it as he ducked in under the crusty roof.
*
The visibility was poor. No flashlight, and way too much dust. What hadn’t been stirred up by his car, and helped by the breeze, had been sent flying by an incautious scrape of his shoulder against the dirt-caked entry. His view was now disrupted by gritty, watery eyes, and dim lighting. He frowned in frustration, and heard the nasty crunching of high-flying dirt between his teeth. Supposedly, that’s what this deal was about: selling soil on the black market to all those nearly fanatical soil ingesters around the world.
There were elite coffees, teas, and special waters; connoisseurial repasts with unique ingredients. Why not specialty dirt? Try as he would, though, he couldn’t get the definition of pica out of his head. A craving for dirt and clay—and it was considered a disease. His conscience was twanging now. Am I contributing to someone’s illness, the way tobacco companies contribute to lung cancer? People with pica, who nibbled dirt for pleasure, were frequently addicted to the habit. Was he about to become a supplier?
How sick. He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. And froze.
There was a weird sound—a kind of high-pitched whistling noise that hummed, rose in fast tempo, then fell once more. Like the resonance of a particularly sweet-throated bird…
It was a sound he’d heard many times before.
Zeb’s skin tingled with excitement, and he realised he was smiling.
Dammit, Fool! Get out—while you still can…
The hell with the dirt. He had bad feelings about these soil samples anyway. There was something not quite right in the transaction—something he couldn’t reconcile with his conscience. His contribution might be as inconsequential as pouring a cup of coffee for a caffeine addict, but he was opting out.
He could guess how Randy would react, and felt a momentary qualm. Dammit if he wanted to disappoint his best friend, but it wouldn’t do Randy’s rep any good if he were to get involved in something illegal.
Eyes enough focussed our way already…
He froze. There it was again: that warbling trill that left an echo, like a pleasant aftertaste, in his ears. He closed his eyes, letting his ears do the tracking.
Caution reared its ugly head, in the form of a hiss and rattle. Zeb’s mouth went dry, and his muscles locked up. Snake.
Rattlesnake!
And I can’t see a damn thing…
Panic set his heart pounding, and a bead of sweat ran down his sweat-streaked face. Where the hell is it?!
Listen…
His panicky pant was drawing dirt into his throat and he coughed and wheezed. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth again and fought for control.
It was coming. The sweet echo was there again, luring him on. In that moment, the rasp of shivering rattle became a background noise. Zeb took another step.
He shook his head, in an attempt to clear it.
Don’t do this…
But his feet weren’t listening. He stumbled along, oblivious now to the snake, until he’d left it far behind. He couldn’t see a bloody thing, and the air was thick around him, but when the passage narrowed, he dropped to his knees and crawled on.
Never alone. They’d warned him, begged him, pleaded with him, and in his head, whispered caution mingled with that trilling warble.
Have to get there, before The Whistler gives up…
They’ll understand. Sweat streaked his face as compulsion warred with guilt. They know what you are…
He had to be there. Before the last of his marrow melded with the soil. While there was still enough of him remaining within to summon from without.
Zeb was nearly there. The sound in his ears was deafening now, but there was suddenly no sweetness to it. No whistling lure—only a hideous scream of human agony.
One loud crack, and then another. Snapping bone…
There was a harsh yelp, the scrape of gravel, and a thud as the body was tossed into a hole. Tossed away like refuse and left to rot. Zeb covered his ears. Now, he covered his nose. Rotting flesh. Rotting carcass. Fuckin’ hell!
Zeb struggled to his feet—and took a hasty step. The next second he tripped and went sprawling.
Must be the lantern… He remembered how they’d left it burning, so he could watch himself die…
Shit!
He shivered, and scrunched his eyes closed—suddenly terrified his eyes would get as much feedback as his ears and nose. Afraid that the visions flickering behind his eyes would somehow gain substance.
It was one of the worst. He hadn’t had an episode like this in years.
Get out…now! Before it’s too late.
His heart thumped. Run!
He did. Arms outstretched to deflect obstacles, he turned back determinedly the way he’d come.
*
“It’s his damned odometer,” Randy explained, glaring disgustedly at Bertha’s dusty rusty hood. “I told him he should get it fixed. He went too far.” He slapped his hand angrily against the top, and a wave of dust flew skyward. “Zeb!” he bellowed.
But Luke Hamilton was looking at the footprints in the dirt. He followed them, noting how Devery had walked back on his own trail repeatedly, before a singular set of prints entered the dark hole ahead. He pictured his instruction sheet, and saw how the mistake had been made. He glanced up. No doubt about it—from this angle, the rock made a better bird head than the one half a mile back.
He squatted at the entrance to the cave and peered warily within. “Devery!” he yelled.
Only a whisper of sliding gravel answered him.
Randy came running. “You think he’s in there?” he asked, a resigned note in his voice.
“Know anything about spelunking?” Luke retorted, annoyed. “Get the flashlight and rope out of my trunk,” he ordered harshly. When Randy returned, Hamilton reluctantly handed him his phone.
“I’ve got my own—” Randy argued.
Luke sighed, and looked at the long shadows etched in the rock face. “I have an appointment later,” he admitted. “If I’m not out by seven, punch in ‘one’. Someone’ll pick it up.”
Randy shook his head. “I’m going in after him! You handle your own damn phone!”
Luke gripped the front of his shirt so tightly he was choking. Randy swung at him. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, and Luke was peering down at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He said calmly, “Tell them I’m in a cave, and that there may be a ‘situation’.”
Randy frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “And if I don’t?”
Luke shrugged. “They’ll turn up anyway, but it’ll take ’em longer.” He grinned. “At least this way, they’ll come prepared.”
Randy gave him a five-minute head start. There was no way he was going to let Luke Hamilton find Zeb first. A little reluctantly, he punched “one” on Luke’s phone, spat out “there’s a situation in a cave”, and propped the phone at the entrance. Satisfied, he grabbed the other flashlight, and followed the dusty footprints into the cave. If he were lucky, he’d have Zeb out of here long before Hamilton’s friends ever turned up.
*
The trail tapered off on hard rock, and Luke didn’t dare take it any farther. He turned back, disturbed and more than a little confused. What the hell was Devery doing? Was he so ignorant of cave exploration that he’d take off on his own? Even a novice should know the hazards…
Stupid. Ignorant. Panicked.
None of it felt right. He had a dossier on Sebastian Devery, and he’d read it thoroughly—hell, half a dozen people, from psychologists to statisticians had read it thoroughly—before they’d arranged this contact. The man was neither stupid, nor prone to panic attacks. Maybe he suffers from some kind of claustrophobia.
No wonder. This wasn’t Devery’s first cave exploration. He’d visited many of the caves in this area, until he’d been lost in one as a kid. It was the only record in Luke’s carefully-acquired dossier with any indication of instability. Devery had been brought out, semi-delirious, on a stretcher. He’d raved on about weird whistles and broken bones. Imagination gone wild in the confines of a narrow crevasse. Understandable, considering the kid had been in there three days.
Now, the man claimed to hate both snakes, and the holes in the ground that harboured them.
How the hell had he coaxed himself into this one? Luke watched the light throw the hard rock into eerie relief. Devery must be more greedy than any of them had thought.
There was a sound behind him, and Luke jumped. He realised he’d let his mind wander. “Devery!” he called out.
It wasn’t Devery. That irritatingly loud gum-chewing couldn’t belong to anybody but Randolph Markington. Nervous habit, purported to be worse since his recent divorce.
The man was ill-equipped to deal with this kind of situation. Hell, he taught “cryptozoology”, and wrote books about fairy tales. Too damn trusting for his own good. He’d allowed himself to be suckered into this soil scheme for a quick buck.
A whiff of raspberry bubblegum confirmed the man’s identity, and Luke flicked the light his way—hiding his derision behind the beam.
Snap. Pop. Chew. Crack.
Hope there’s grit in it… The man had talked non-stop all the way out here, and just about driven him nuts. At this point, Luke was thinking of him as a weak link: loquacious, difficult, and definitely open to bribery. He sniffed the overly sweet scent again. A very weak link.
But, he’d come in after Devery.
Or maybe, he just didn’t want to be left alone…
Luke knew he was sneering, and he deliberately relaxed his facial muscles. Markington was weak—not stupid.
“Randy!” he called out.
“Any sign of him?” Randy asked.
“Not yet.” Luke could resist adding, “If you’d keep the noise level down a little, I might have more—”
It was as far as he got. Something in Markington’s expression stopped him. The man had tilted his head and was now sniffing at the air. A glint in his eyes, and a tensing of muscle, and he was gone. Luke was left there alone, his flashlight aimed at a rock wall.
He shook his head, and took off after Markington. Caves, he thought. Never again…
*
“It was the fuckin’ whistling, wasn’t it?” The hollow echo of their conversation hit Luke’s ears. “Must have been bad if you left your brains back at the entrance.” The last was said derisively, in a rumble that was almost a growl.
“Bad, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I was on my way back.” Devery’s voice became enthusiastic as he added, “It’s a good one, Randy. Really promising.”
Markington groaned. “So? You were supposed to be digging up dirt—only. Of the soil kind.”
Zeb chuckled. “We all have our weaknesses.” There was a pause. “At least I don’t chew gum to hide mine—”
“No—you just go wandering into ca-” His voice stopped abruptly. “Company.”
Luke hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d been standing there, shamelessly eavesdropping. How could he know? Hell, I’m downwind…
Even as he thought it, gooseflesh lifted on his arms. The dossiers had always been fairly accurate before, from physical habits to psychological profile. With all that information, Luke should have been able to predict everything from their reactions to their next bowel movements. Instead, he was left uncomfortably aware that he was here, in the near-dark, with two unknowns.
And he was suddenly very glad help would be waiting outside.
That’s if Markington followed instructions…
Sweat chased the gooseflesh across his skin.
He was still standing there, wondering what to do when Randy Markington’s voice rang out. “Come on out, Hamilton,” he bellowed cheerfully.
There was a pause, and then Devery’s voice followed. “Yeah, Hamilton,” he said, with a trace of amusement. “We won’t bite.”
*
Luke moved quietly along the passage, and climbed through a narrow hole. As he reached through, their hands yanked him up and out. It surprised him to feel how hot they both were. His own fingers and toes felt like ice.
He was still finding his balance when Devery grinned. “Zeb Devery,” he said.
“Luke Hamilton,” he said abruptly. He cursed himself for his clumsiness. Devery hadn’t missed the harsh note. The man was looking at him strangely.
He had a sudden feeling the time for subterfuge was past. If he wanted their cooperation, he’d have to buy it—with honesty. Devery would never believe the story he’d given Markington.
He heard a snigger from that direction. Apparently, Markington didn’t believe it, either. Luke had been considering him a fool, but now he realised Markington had actually been playing him for one. “You seem to have taken to spelunking rather well,” he told him acerbically.
“Not my first cave,” Randy admitted.
Zeb Devery looked from one to the other. “Did you come in after me?” He sounded surprised.
“What did you think?” Randy retorted. “You blew it, Zeb. This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”
Zeb shrugged. “Oops.”
“Yeah,” Randy said caustically. “For all we knew, you could have lost your way, or been lured underground by some weird sounds.” He smirked. “Strange places, caves.”
Zeb’s eyes glinted. “Trick the eyes—and ears. A man might even think he overheard something he didn’t.” He looked at Luke. “Echoes, you know.”
The warning was clear, and a trickle of fear went down Luke’s spine. “Let’s move,” he said brusquely. “We can talk outside.” He took a few steps in what he thought was the right direction. When he turned around, Markington and Devery were still standing there, looking amused. “Well?” he asked.
“Wrong way,” Markington told him.
Luke frowned and waited.
Devery listened, then told Luke, “Better hurry, before your ‘help’ stomps down here to help us out.”
Luke looked startled, but Zeb’s grin was a flash of white in the dim light. “Randy told me you’d called out the troops.”
No, he didn’t. If he had, you wouldn’t have been surprised we were searching…
The man hadn’t been startled by Markington’s appearance—merely at the reasons for it.
Luke trailed along behind them, back through the narrow passages, listening to… nothing. He couldn’t hear a thing—no distant footfalls, no shuffling, no voices to warn of rescue. The weight of rock around him seemed increasingly threatening—heavy and sombre. So were his thoughts. He realised that somehow, and for some reason, he’d been out-manoeuvred.
*
They emerged into a cloud of dirt. The whup-whup of the helicopter’s engine died away, but the dust stayed a while. Somehow, during those last few feet, their roles had become reversed. Luke was now leading the way.
The faces greeting him were both concerned and relieved. Apparently, the man was well-liked. It wasn’t until the third inquiry about Hamilton’s health that Zeb was able to put it together, though. “Hamilton”, AKA “Mr. X”, was The Hamilton. He was either the founder, the owner, or the heir to the company.
Maybe some of his popularity is gold-plated, Zeb thought, a little cynically.
Hamilton was being beckoned to one side now and Zeb saw him nodding reassurances to the helicopter pilot. Apparently, someone was on the radio who wanted confirmation from the man himself.
The heir. He’s definitely the heir. Zeb found it amusing. It was even more amusing to see how Hamilton took all this—from the equipment, to the personnel—in his stride.
All in a day’s profiteering…
Whatever Hamilton was saying on the radio included a few gestures in their direction, and Zeb dawned his best mea culpa look. He managed to convey fear mixed with embarrassment—just enough to dissuade Hamilton from revealing his suspicions.
Hamilton had a hint of anger in his expression now. He knew, just as Zeb did, that if he were to mention the conversation he’d overheard, he’d look like a fool.
Zeb glanced at Randy to see how he was taking all the notoriety. He was smiling a little grimly—still chewing gum that by now must be both flavourless and gritty. And when his eyes flickered in Zeb’s direction for the third time, Zeb forced a smile.
Randy wasn’t fooled. Zeb was still pale. It must’ve been a bad one. “Worse than usual?” he asked quietly.
Zeb nodded.
“Nasty places, caves,” he replied.
“I want to go back.”
Randy didn’t look surprised. “When?”
“If you’re not too busy making millions,” Zeb said, that glint in his eyes, “how about tonight?”
Randy sighed. “Ever eager, aren’t we?” he hissed.
“Tourists will have left by then,” Zeb muttered.
Randy gave a small nod. “I’ll bring the light.”
At that, Zeb gave a rude snort. “I’ll bet you will.” he replied.
*
Unfounded suspicion. It would take him a while to word his report—to offer a hint of some deeper involvement by Markington and Devery, so that once he had the facts, the suggestions of duplicity would be there.
Luke had seen the look in Devery’s eyes. It was the same one he’d seen a dozen times before, as people made the connection between his surname and the logo on the helicopter. His predecessors were neither excessively modest nor particularly subtle. His grandfather might be pushing ninety, but he still insisted on displaying his “crest” on everything he owned.
It was one of the reasons Luke had left it all behind. For ten years, he’d worked with the sordid and corrupt while his family had labelled him temporarily depraved. It was only six months ago, when he’d taken two bullets in the gut, that he’d been forcibly brought back into the fold. For weeks he’d been too ill to argue, and the department had been happy to limit their fiscal responsibility for his recovery, while his family put him in the hands of specialists.
Now that Luke was back at work, John Colton was using his corporate ties to provide a cover. It made sense to utilise the connection to his—and the ISEA’s—advantage. Luke, for his part, was forced to comply, but he’d added a codicil: neither his ties to, nor his activities on behalf of, the ISEA could be allowed to unfavourably influence the firm’s standing—nor could any intimate knowledge of Hamilton Industries be used to drag the corporation down.
Now that he was fully recovered, Luke found he was chafing at the constraints. Maintaining a pose at Hamilton might make sense, but it damn well limited his usefulness. One identity could only go so far, and the more notoriety, the less he’d be able to function undercover.
During his recuperation, in those weak moments when he’d thought he’d never regain his strength and endurance, he’d sometimes wondered whether his father and Colton had struck a deal. James Hamilton was no fool, and he knew Luke was playing both sides of the fence. There might be merit in his son’s accomplishments, but he couldn’t see why the hazardous tasks of following through on an investigation couldn’t be performed by someone else. Someone with less to lose.
But, Luke was his own man, and had seen too much of both coercion and extortion to be susceptible to his father’s manipulations. The best way of accomplishing James’ goals was to get his son involved. From James’ point of view, as long as Luke kept his hand in, the day would come when tracking down felons would become secondary. A mental exercise only, which could eventually be turned over to Colton and others like him, while the real “players” manipulated currency and commodities.
Luke nodded to his escort, then—at a thumbs up from Markington—climbed into the helicopter. He was irritated because he’d informed Colton about the cave situation, yet Hamilton Industries had responded. Oh, there were a few ISEA people around, but, by and large, this was his father’s show. If he’d needed any further evidence of duplicity, it had just been shoved in his face.
And it was the first time in years he could recall feeling any embarrassment over the trappings of wealth that surrounded him, and the apparently store-bought concern of his “employees”. It was as though he’d punched “911”, and the Queen’s Royal Guard had responded. He felt like a fool.
Markington and Devery know nothing about you…
And it wasn’t necessary for them to approve of his fiscal arrangements or business concerns. His eyes narrowed, and he focused on the investigation. The proposition to Markington and Devery had been much simpler than that: they were either in, or out.
What bothered him now was how little he really knew about them. It was the first time he could ever recall being so misled by someone’s dossier. The facts might be there, but the interpretation was entirely wrong.
An unreasonable solution would be to have both of them tailed. Surveillance was expensive, and he’d have to justify it to Colton. Unless he funded it directly from his own pockets. Colton would never agree to funding for something so impractical—and there was hardly a rationale for such a precipitate move.
Except his suspicions, unfounded as they were, that Markington and Devery were hiding something. Something very important, that might, in the end, prove nearly as valuable as underground sources for unusual crystals.
Luke’s eyes glinted. Maybe Colton’s arrangements had nothing to do with a golden handshake between the ISEA’s strained finances, and Hamilton Industries’ overflowing ones. Maybe it was much more simple than that. John Colton had always encouraged his agents to act justly, reasonably, and intelligently within the budget.
It could be this is what he’d intended all along. Luke Hamilton’s budget constraints had just been lifted.
*
The moon perched, half-full, just above the mountains. The jagged silhouettes were etched in a faint orange glow from the city beyond. Now that the dust had cleared, he could see the sharp crystalline glints of stars, and the milky streaks of galactic turbulence. Hot day, but chilly night. It ate through his thin jacket.
Unprepared again, Zeb? He couldn’t afford to be—not tonight. Tension knotted his stomach. The afternoon’s experience was still too fresh—and too familiar—to dismiss.
Relax. He perched on the bumper, then scooted back onto Bertha’s hood. The metal gave an unpleasant metallic thunk, but it didn’t faze him—his car was riddled with rust, dents and creases. One more wouldn’t matter, and it was a small price for the engine warmth, and satisfied any anticipatory nigglings of claustrophobia. Every time he thought “cave” he admitted to nervous trepidation at the memories of confined space. It was the greatest of his spelunking fears, and the one he guessed would always be hardest for him to overcome.
For now, it was enough to soak up some residual engine heat, lean back against the windscreen, and watch for low-flying bats, night birds, and pollinating moths.
And headlights. He’d never been one for patience—not since he’d been trapped in a hole with bones and blood. No, patience had never been his strong point. Waiting merely made anticipation worse.
Get it over with…
Damn, it was tempting! He picked at a bug splat on his windshield. Randy would find him—no doubt about it. He glanced at his watch, gave the hood an impatient thud, then slid to the ground. He had work in the morning, and there was no telling how long this would take. He picked up his flashlight, a rope, and a bag of Snickers, then headed back into the cave.
***
*If you’d like me to post a few more chapters, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!

I’m so close to finishing BoneSong, my latest WIP, that I’m already listing in some places, “Author of 24…”, but that’s a bit of a cheat, isn’t it? As books go - mine, anyway - I could have another 5K - 10K - 20K - words to go.

That’s another thing -
I wrote my first several books in chapters, but then I realised I was changing the locations of chapter endings, so it was all a little artificial and fluid. It wasn’t long before I began waiting until the end of a book, dividing it into +/- 10-page sections, and putting in chapter headings at breaks in the action. Oh, there are places which you can see are perfect for a chapter ending, and every once in a while, I’ll put in a notation for the “Later Me”, but the majority of the time, I can “chapterise” my finished novel within 10 minutes. Since my action goes up and down, I can always find peaks and dips to address!

And I write in Ks…

I discipline myself to write in Ks=thousands of words=minimum 1000K/day (’course, I blow this all the time, but I try!).

Enough about writing methods! About BoneSong: think non-extinct Neanderthals with a superiority complex…and difficulties in separating body and soul. Think walking dead…and coercion beyond the grave.

All my published books are in print again (save Gilded Folly - Cerridwen Press will bring the print version out in a few months) here in New Zealand! And ELF and TROLLS are in print INTERNATIONALLY! woohoo!

It’s summer here and I’m loving it - kids are home, and that’s the greatest! So much fantastic time together - the best thing in the world!

Cheers, and best wishes to y’all,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks…except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my INTERNATIONAL print books - so far, ELF & TROLLS )
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt from Elf - to celebrate its new print release!
***
Prologue

He jogged along in the mostly dark. The infrequent orangy streetlights didn’t do much to brighten his path, but they suited his mood. He’d spent the last three hours stocking shelves with cans of dog food and boxes of cereal, and his day had been spent running lab tests. Night job, day job.
His eyes ached from the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, and his nose burned from all the chemical scents in the lab.
Here, he had the illusion of being away from it all. He smiled, and sucked in a deep breath of clean air. This might be the industrial section, but after midnight it was the quietest place in town.
The day-drudge buildings were empty shells at the moment. In a few minutes he’d get clear of the factories and loop past the old city cemetery.
More empty shells.
The moon was rising and it was as fat and yellow as he’d ever seen it. The wind ruffled his hair, and touched him briefly with an icy breath. Autumn was coming. The rustle of scattering leaves was loud in his ears. Yellow moons, yellow pumpkins. Children’s laughter and costumed invaders at his front door. His smile widened.
He’d outgrown his fear of all things dark a long time ago. His eyes were keener than most, and he’d found that what was bleak and black to others was seldom fearful to him. He was certain he’d left all his childhood fears behind.
He was nearing the graveyard now, and he could smell it on the wind. Old flowers, new blossoms, stagnant water, fresh-turned earth. None of these bothered him. What snagged him was the light.
Little flickers of dancing light were hovering in the windswept night. Maintaining themselves against a wind that was tearing at his clothes now, and making his eyes stream.
What the hell?!
Not mere light—flickers of flame. Scattered across the cemetery and beyond—buried in the shrubbery landscaping and rising from the shadowed skeletons of cross and stone.
Oh, God! His breath caught and he missed a step.
The fitful clouds ripped apart, and moonlight etched the staring figures on his vision—confusedly silhouetting vacant buildings, angel wings, and snarling beasts.
Teeth and claws and flaming eyes.
In that moment, an eardrum-shattering howl hit his sensitive ears. It was both obscene and mournful, carrying with it the scent of rotten meat and ordure. At his back…
Some part of him recognised the sound, the stench, and his body broke into a sweat.
No mere memory—something worse. They say the smell brain never forgets…
Hunters. Hounds.
And in that moment, he was suddenly certain they’d been waiting for him…

Chapter One

Quist picked up the phone reluctantly. “I’m not here,” he said, with a sigh. “This is a recording. Call back next year.” He added sarcastically, “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s the middle of the night—”
But it wasn’t the damned fool he’d thought—it was his damned fool of a brother instead.
“Have you seen Zander?” Mac’s voice was worried.
Quist smirked at the phone. “What—no ‘hello’?” he retorted. “What’s this sudden fascination with Zander?” He sniggered. “’s there something you’re not telling me?”
“No joke, Quist!” The concern in Mac’s voice made Quist frown. “He’s in trouble.”
Quist shook his head, still unwilling to accept it. “What kind of trouble? Have you been sniffing something nasty again?” he asked kindly.
“Find him,” Mac ordered. “Now.”
“I’ve got company. I can’t just go off and abandon a beautif-”
Mac cut across his blathering, to say harshly, “If we don’t find him—soon—he’s going to die.”
*
Quist ripped out of his driveway with a squealing of tyres. This kind of night affected him much the way it did Zander. Truth be told, he was happier being out on a windswept evening, than cloistered in the so-called safety of his house.
He wondered, briefly, whether he should be worried about Mac. He’d had these premonitions or whatever they were, before, and they’d always proved out. If he said Zander was in trouble, chances were he was. Shame Mac couldn’t be a little more specific, though. It would be nice to know whether Grocery Man was facing the long end of a knife, or the short end of a gun. Things that might make a rescue a little more difficult.
He glanced around. Who the hell would mug somebody in a place like this? Maybe ol’ Zand had changed his route, and was now jogging through the red light district.
I would, if I worked nights…
Mac sometimes acted like Zander was his kid brother as much as Quist. Maybe he felt that way. Both Zander’s parents had died when he was sixteen, and Mac had been watching out for him ever since. It had been years now, but Mac still kept tabs on him. They’d never lived very far from Zander, either.
Quist raised his eyebrows. Mac had always seemed flamboyantly heterosexual to him, but there was no accounting for tastes. Maybe Mac did have a thing for Zander. He thought about it: my best friend and my brother. And grimaced. How totally unappealing. Appalling, even…
He was still silently berating Mac when he reached the locked gates of the supermarket loading yard.
No Zander—and stupid Mac was supposed to have met him here. He felt like a fool for chasing down a grown man, who’d no doubt elected to spend the night at some lady’s house. And I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him where he’s been! he thought. Mac could be a real dumbass sometimes.
It was obvious there was nobody here. Quist’s eyes were as keen as Zander’s and it was easy to scan the parking lot. For thoroughness’ sake, he climbed off the motorcycle to make a better search.
He’d no sooner lifted the helmet than he heard it. Gooseflesh danced along his skin at the long, drawn-out howl in the distance. His nostrils flared and his gut tightened. Some part of him recognised the sound.
He also knew what it meant.
Mac was right…
He listened for a moment longer—his keen ears picking up the direction. Then he hopped on the bike and tore out of the lot, as though the hounds of hell were at his back.
*
He ran. The wind whistled in his ears, but it couldn’t tune out the pounding feet at his back. The running pace that matched his heartbeat. The howls were louder now—practically on top of him, and his eyes wept in terror. Streaming, not crying, with the wind and the salty sweat and the strain of his exertion.
It was one thing running home and another pounding flat out across the paving. He was beginning to feel the strain. He’d worked all day.
He couldn’t run all night.
He needed an advantage—any advantage. They’d have him in seconds…
He dove off the sidewalk, tripped and rolled, then wobbled to his feet, and swung up, momentarily out of reach, onto a flimsy tree branch. In that second, they lost him.
It was enough. It told him what he needed to do. This perch would never hold.
The park. He needed the trees…
He dropped, and was toppled off his feet as a heavy body plunged into him, jaw-first. Shark-like teeth gouged into his thigh—slicing muscle and tendon. His blood poured between locked teeth. He could see the glitter in the dark.
Blood? Glitter? No, that wasn’t right…
He screamed, and pounded on the head that was deadlocked on his leg. Pounding, pounding. Hard bone and eye hollows. He socked and pummelled and poked and pounded till the brain box should have been mush.
He’d lifted his arm to hit it again, when teeth locked on his raised arm and dragged him back, so his head went crashing against concrete.
They’d be at his throat next.
The trees. I need the trees.
He fought. Fingers in eyes and up nostrils and gouging into ears. Kicking and punching, snarling back, fighting back. He was coated in saliva and blood and hair.
Then, it got worse. At the point of the bites there came a burning, that traversed his nerve endings in an agonising frenzy of pain, that was nowhere and everywhere at once. He arched his back and howled, as loudly as the beast that was now at his breast.
It was coming. His ears filled with a roar that came not from without but within. His eyes widened as a growl issued from his lips.
The hound—the one whose saliva was dripping in his eyes—froze.
At his core, where the burning of the bites formed an escalating pyre, a shard of ice jagged and seized. Like a seed crystal, its surface grew, layer on layer.
The frozen mass weighed him down, but as it spread, it must have made him unpalatable. One by one, the hounds spat him out and shook their heads, spraying him with a splattering of saliva and blood. Zander clasped his ripped arm against the gouge in his chest. Rolling onto his stomach, he managed to push himself up and stumble to his feet.
He looked back—a dozen flaming eyes were watching him hungrily—padded feet moving restlessly.
They were eager—anxious—desperate, even—to taste him again.
The tree…
Zander limped away in a stumbling, tumbling run—trying to put as much distance between them as he could. Panting, he kept his eyes focused on the big tree in the distance.
He was halfway there, when the howling broke out again.
*
The howls were broken by the roar of a powerful engine, yelps, the squeal of tyres, and a scraping of metal. Zander twisted, and saw Mac’s car go side-sliding into the pack. Hounds were jettisoned across the road, and one ploughed into Zander, tossing them both back on the ground. The hound continued to writhe, and Zander, panicked, rolled away.
Mac’s car was still in motion. It slammed into a curb, which sent it rolling over and over. The whining squeals of the hounds were drowned by the clanging bang, the crunch and shrieks of torqued metal and shattered glass. As the car came to a shuddery halt, upside down, there was a hissing sigh, as though the engine had given its last breath.
Mac…
Get him out. Zander hitch-crawled across the paving toward the car, as fast as he could. He was in a shocky daze, filled with glittery blood spots and whining canines with glowing eyes. With cars that sighed out a last breath, and fetid panting at his back.
At his back…
The last things he remembered were the now-familiar teeth tearing into his shoulder.
*
Quist roared into a scene from hell. He was on his phone to emergency services before he’d even slowed the bike. There was Mac’s car upside down, and there was Zander, being savaged by a massive black dog. As Quist drew closer, he saw the giant beast lift Zander off the ground and shake him. In his headlight, froth and saliva and blood flew everywhere. Quist felt sick.
And angrier than he’d ever been in his life. He opened up the throttle and gunned the engine. As the dog turned flaming eyes his way, Quist ran it down, in a satisfying crunch of meat and bone. The teeth were yanked free of Zander’s skin, and in his periphery, Quist saw Zand linger briefly on his knees, before toppling over, onto the asphalt.
Where the bristly dog hair had brushed Quist’s hand, his skin reacted, in a hair-standing, gooseflesh-dancing wave of revulsion. His nostrils flared in a sneer at the dark-haired mass now crushed beneath his feet. Lips curled in aversion, he leaped off the bike, then moved swiftly to haul Zander’s bleeding body out of contact with that vile form—and away from the now-slackened jaws.
Quist lifted Zander up, and balanced him over one shoulder. He could feel the warmth of his friend’s blood pulsing down across his back. It was in such contrast to his centre, which felt abnormally chilled. For a moment, Quist tensed, scared, until his keen ear picked up the irregular thudding of Zander’s heart.
Still alive. But for how long?
“Mac!” he yelled worriedly at the car.
“Still,” came a mumbled response. “Zander?”
“Not good. You?” Quist heard a low rumbling growl, and squatted next to the broken windscreen, his back to the crunched metal. Around him, there was a shifting in the blackness, and his eyes searched their surroundings warily. The hounds were coming back for more. He was beginning to wish he’d left his bike running. “Can you get out?”
There was a grunt, and a thud, and Quist flinched. He had a feeling Mac had just landed headfirst on the roof. “You okay?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Mac replied, but his voice sounded strained. “I’m coming out.”
There was a warning snarl to Quist’s left, and he felt a tremor as a heavy body bounded onto the car at his back.
Near Zander’s head.
“Negative,” he hissed to Mac. “Move over! We’re coming in!”
*
The next few seconds were something out of nightmare. Quist had no sooner shunted Zander in past the broken windscreen, than he felt the first jab in his side as the canine to the left lunged. Teeth, clamping down on his hip. At the same time, the hound above decided to take advantage of his bent position, to come in for the kill. Quist was halfway in, halfway out of the window now, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance. Mac was tugging and grunting to yank him in through the gap; Quist was yelling and shrieking as the slavering jaws snapped at his face and neck. He jerked sideways, and thunked heads with Zander, who gave a low groan. Mac, meanwhile, was stuck—caught by the crunched seats and Zander’s limp form. He was panicking at the thought of his brother becoming dog chow, and was beating and pounding on any exposed flesh he could find. Some of it was Quist’s.
Zander was roused by the hollow thudding of Quist’s head against his own, and dazedly opened his eyes. It took him a moment to figure it out—it was all snarls and howls and ows and yelps and thuds and curses as Mac added his bit. In the distance, there was another sound—the whine of an ambulance.
It wasn’t going to make it—not in time. Quist was in the position Zander’d been in only minutes before, but the hounds were here for the hunt, and they wouldn’t be satisfied without some kind of reward. Quist was about to provide it.
Quist squirmed onto his stomach and tried to pull himself inside. Zander’s keen eyesight caught the panic in Quist’s eyes as he was tugged backwards out of the car. Mac was clinging to him, yelling, with tears running unchecked down his face. Quist’s fingers were white at the effort to hang on.
And then, the dogs had him. They yanked him back and pounced. At the first snarl, Zander felt something inside him snap.
It went beyond rage, or horror, or outrage at the bestial brutality. It was something else—something he’d felt just a short while ago.
A chilling resolve. Mac, sobbing, tried to hold him back as he squirmed out of the car. Zander stilled him with a look.
The dogs would want him. Him—not Quist. He didn’t know why or how, but the knowledge was there. Innate. He cleared the car, somehow pushed himself to his feet—and whistled.
It was a shrill whistle, a demanding whistle, and the dogs froze. Zander’s flesh crawled as they dropped Quist’s squirming form and turned—as one.
The chilling resolve had a home—in his gut. Cold, implacable purpose. The most terrifying thing of all was that he suddenly wasn’t afraid.
He felt the cold move, filling him up, and he wondered in the back of his mind if he was going into shock. Shock numbs the pain, so you don’t even feel it…
Then this wasn’t shock. Because he felt every gouge, every slice. But what hurt him most of all was that terrible cold. It was like a freezer burn that makes you flinch and sting. Like the icy ache behind your eyes that made him want to double over with the pain. When it reached his throat he was choking. The frost was blocking his throat, occluding his airway. As the first padded foot stomped on his, he opened his mouth in a silent scream…
Only, it wasn’t silent. It was a shrilly horrifying banshee cry, and Mac slammed his hands against the sides of his head—forgetting all else as he sought to cover his ears. He only hoped his little brother was doing the same.
The echoingly hollow screech went on and on. Now that the chill was thrusting out of him, Zander couldn’t stop it.
The dogs howled, turned tail, and ran—but they didn’t get far. Zander’s eyes were squinted nearly closed, he was gripping his middle, and he knew the dogs were in retreat—but he couldn’t stop it.
Nor could he avoid seeing the outcome.
The flaming-eyed monsters were writhing in agony as they ran—and at the last, one of them turned back with a snarl, desperate to demolish the instigator of this pain. As it clamped down on Zander’s calf, the shrill song went up a pitch. The dog released him, jerking in spasms.
But it was too late—for that hound—for all the hounds. Zander flinched in pain and horror as the flames in the eyes suddenly expanded, and the closest canine burst into flame. One by one they ignited in masses of yellow and blue flames, that seethed sideways in the breeze, flared—before imploding into a splaying of wind-driven ash and pale grey smoke.
Zander’s song died, and in the end, it sounded as though he was choking once more.
He dimly heard Quist mutter “hot dogs”, and Mac call his name, but he wasn’t hearing too well right now. He could feel a trickle tickling his neck, and he guessed that blood was now running out his ears.
It was running down his throat, too. He gagged and choked and dropped down onto the asphalt.
He never heard the ambulance arrive.
*
“Dog pack.” It was all the man—Maculley Craigen—would admit to. Nothing more. He’d been driving along (at one am?) and seen a friend of his, Alexander Brody, being savaged by a pack of dogs. His brother Quist had been following him on a motorcycle, and had been brought into the fracas, too.
No medical records—on any of them—so they’d had to do a work-up from scratch. Quist Craigen, who’d been more garrulous than his brother, had openly admitted he’d never been to a doctor. “Never been sick,” he’d said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Apparently, he’d never needed immunisations, either.
Well, he was sick now. He and Brody had some infection from the dog bites that Dr. Benjamin Lowry had never seen before. Foul smelling and invasive—and nothing seemed to work on it.
It was driving the older brother out of his mind. Maculley had some internal damage—Lowry was sure of it—but he’d refused tests. They’d set his leg and stuck him in a bed, but he was unwilling to stay there. He also seemed desperate to avoid further exposure of any kind. No x-rays or imaging, no blood tests, no police reports, no interviews with the local paper. The nurses were starting to complain because he was never in bed—always either in his brother’s or Brody’s room.
Watching, listening.
It would have made Lowry angrier, if he hadn’t seen the fear in the other man’s eyes.
Maculley had good reason to be fearful, and the paramedics had been the first to point it out. They’d been startled by the extent of blood loss, and stunned by the quality. By the oddly luminescent glitter.
Ben Lowry hadn’t believed it until he’d seen it for himself. Then, he’d used it. After an initial clean-up, he’d hauled the Craigens and Brody into dark rooms to find further tears in tissue. Convenient.
But scary as hell. Who were these men?
Not normal, though Quist Craigen seemed to think he was. His ears were attenuated, as were the others’. There was also an odd slant to their eyes that Ben had at first attributed to some Asian forebear. But wherever their forebears derived from, he’d decided now it wasn’t Asia.
No records, so no idea of allergies. Ben had nearly killed them with an antibiotic infusion this morning. It had been mild—an attempt to get the infection under control—but both Quist Craigen and Zander Brody had gone into anaphylactic shock.
It had been close. Maculley had refused to leave the room since.
That was the other odd thing. It wasn’t his brother’s room he’d refused to leave. It was Brody’s. Ben couldn’t figure it out.
He poked his head in the door, and glanced at Maculley’s bed, already knowing he wouldn’t be there. He detoured to Brody’s room. Supposedly, Zander Brody wasn’t having visitors, but that didn’t stop Maculley. Hadn’t stopped him all day. Somehow, he was getting in, cast, nurses, orderlies and all. The man was there now.
He was asleep in the chair, the casted leg up on the bed. He looked sick and exhausted. There were bruised marks under his eyes, his foot was swollen, and he didn’t stir when Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. Concerned, Lowry checked his pulse, then shook him, gently. “Maculley!” he hissed.
Mac opened his eyes blearily. As awareness seeped back in, alarm replaced the pained look. “Zander—” He jumped, and let out an unwilling groan.
“He’s fine.” Ben looked at the bed, checked the monitors, and sighed. Mac’s sharp ears picked it up.
“No, he’s not,” Mac said raspily. “I’m not going.”
“Room’s off-limits,” Ben told him curtly. “If you don’t like hospital policy, you can leave.”
Mac shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, and in that moment, Ben guessed how desperately he wanted his bed. The man was sick, and worn, but for some reason, he couldn’t let go.
“It’s not going to help either of you to stay,” Ben told him reasonably. “You know,” he added almost conversationally, “I’ll have to discharge you soon anyway—if you won’t agree to treatment. Whole lot less trouble for everyone.”
“Covering your ‘ass’ets?” Mac growled. His eyes grew distant and he turned to the window. His attitude told Ben he was listening, to something beyond Ben’s hearing.
A chill went down Ben’s spine.
“They know where Zander is now,” Mac whispered. Ben knew he wouldn’t have admitted it, unless he’d been desperate. His eyes were pained, and Ben could tell he was scared. Maculley Craigen didn’t know how he was going to cope. “They’ll be coming.”
*
Zander woke in the dimly-lighted hospital room. He was shivering, and his chest was on fire. In that moment he wished he could return to sleep. He didn’t want to think—didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to remember.
Maybe it was all one with his restless dreams. Anything so he wouldn’t have to recall the way it had felt. That icy slough in his guts, his limbs. The ear-splitting notes of his own screams.
How he’d killed, incinerated the dogs so easily, without lifting a hand.
Only by lifting his voice.
He was terrified. Horrified that anger could bring him to this. For that’s what it had been: fury, at the damage to himself, to Mac, to Quist. Fury that the pain was being visited on someone he cared about.
But he couldn’t forget the stench of roasted dog hair, or the anguish in the beasts’ eyes.
Some things you should remember…
It was a voice from the past. Six years past. From the day Mac’s dad had died. He’d said it solemnly, seriously, but sadly, as though he’d known what was coming.
Maybe he had. Maybe he, like Mac, had been a victim of dreams. All Zander knew was that Mac’s dad, nearly as close to his heart as his own father, had driven away like a madman. His body had turned up a thousand miles away, in a wild stretch of forest.
He’d been savaged by some animal…
Zander went cold, and for an instant, he felt as chilly as he had the night before.
Brian Craigen had been killed by a wild beast. Too big for a dog, they’d said. Possibly a bear or a cat of some kind. It had been a terrible end for a good man; a horror story for family and friends. They’d never talked about it much, but that day had marked a change in Mac’s behaviour. He’d gone from playing annoying “big brother” type to Quist and Zander, to even more annoying self-proclaimed protector. He’d been doing it ever since. For the most part, Zander had been able to ignore it—to build his own life and ignore Mac’s warnings and worried expression, but now he wondered.
For he knew how it felt to be savaged by wild beasts. Those black hounds hadn’t been domesticated puppies gone bad. They were bad to begin with. And it was too much of a coincidence to have two attacks like that to people he knew. People he’d lived with.
He lay there, wondering what had wakened him. It seemed he’d arisen from the depths of a near-comatose slumber, and he guessed Ben Lowry had drugged him. Whatever had stirred him, had penetrated those depths.
It was then he saw it. One of the windows was open to the night—the glass missing and the frame bent and mangled. He’d been awakened by a tapping, a banging. A strong wind had risen and was slamming some of the metal framing back against the wall. The chill he’d felt—the iciness that was beginning to invade him—was real. His blankets were gone, and he lay there in his hospital gown, exposed and shivering. One of his sheets was halfway out the window hole, and he wondered confusedly how the hole—the sheet—the mangled frame—had gotten there.
Outside, a storm was brewing. Thick clouds roiled just beyond the glass, and the dangling metal slammed harder, in loud, clanging bangs. There was no way to keep the cold out now. He shivered, so hard it hurt.
Have to get warm…
At least, the cold was sharpening his senses. Zander felt for the call bell where it had been pinned to the sheet, within easy reach of his hand. The search became a little desperate when he realised it was gone, too—and horror set in when he saw that it had been yanked out of the wall.
Outside the window, lightning blasted the night. His breath came in panicky gasps as he saw the impossible—the black clouds, thick with mist, were slithering in through the gap.
Get out!
He rolled on his side and yanked out the IV. If memory served, his movements—the yanking of connections and wires—should send a warning to the nurses at the desk. They should come streaming down here en masse, crash cart in hand.
He watched as the machines ticked merrily on, though all connections with his own body were severed.
There’d be no nurse, no doctor. No help.
He slid out on the side nearest the door—and took a lurching step before he noticed the chair—or what was left of it. The mangled metal legs had been ripped off, and jabbed into the floor. Four legs, four spikes behind the door, to act as barricade.
There was only one exit, and it was by air.
Zander froze, hearing something over the wind. It was a sound he was sensitive to now, after last night. It would be a long time before he’d forget the scratch and click of claws. Unwillingly, his eyes seemed to turn of their own accord toward the window—and he saw the sheet tugged and stretched, as some heavy weight sought entry from below.
The sheet was snagged in the metal. Rip it loose. Toss it out…
Almost as though the climber could read his thoughts, the tugs on the sheet became more vigorous.
Too late…
As much as he wanted the light, instinctively, Zander now sought the dark. He slammed his fist hard into the nightlight, shattering it. Then he stood unsteadily in the darkness, buffeted by wind, and waiting as the night sky poured into the room.
*
“He’s restless,” Steven Kern told him.
Ben nodded and looked at Mac’s chart. “What about the other Craigen?”
Kern grinned. “Ya mean, is he a pain in the ass like his brother?” He nodded toward the monitor. “Sleeping like a baby. Same with Brody.”
Ben stood there for a minute, watching the monitors. Quist Craigen’s showed some normal variation from movement, but Brody’s remained constant. No ups, no downs, no jags, just a regular rhythm.
Too regular. “When’d you last look at Brody?” he asked.
“Thirty minutes. Why?”
“Just a hunch.” He was halfway up the hall, heading towards Brody’s room, when one of the monitors started to scream.
“Craigen!” Kern yelled.
Ben tore into Quist Craigen’s room.
Only to find him out of bed. He had an ear—one of those weirdly attenuated ears—against the wall, and he was agitated, panicked. He ignored Lowry entirely and slammed a fist against the plaster. “Zander!” he bellowed. When Ben tried to grab his arm, Quist shrugged him off. “Help him!” he yelled.
Something in the other man’s eyes told Lowry this wasn’t hysteria. “Stay here!” he ordered. He tore out of the room, and pushed against Brody’s door—stunned when it wouldn’t open. Some of Craigen’s panic had hit him now and he latched onto Kern’s arm as he came by with the crash cart. “Help me!” he said, and the two of them thudded shoulders against the door.
“Brody! Open up!”
*
They can’t get in.
Quist saw the whirling black clouds outside his window—the ones that must be outside Zander’s as well. He didn’t know what it was—all he knew was that he couldn’t sit here and calmly listen to his best friend die. He grabbed a chair and slammed it into the glass.
As Lowry came running back in the room, he was just in time to see Quist Craigen disappear out the window.

***

*If you’d like me to post a few more chapters, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!