No Less Days

by Amanda G. Stevens

  PRAISE FOR NO LESS DAYS

  “No Less Days is unlike anything I have ever read before. Alluring and timeless, it is punctured with bittersweet nostalgia and rumination on eternity as well as the ripples we cast into the fabric of the world. A hero that captures from page one, a universe populated with dimensional characters and so well-crafted it never once breaks its own rules, a fantastical look at questions of faith and the vastness of eternity. With No Less Days, Stevens is on the brink of changing faith-based fiction as we know it forever.”

  –Rachel McMillan, author of the Van Buren and DeLuca Series

  “Amanda G. Stevens has written an amazing story. Even though the premise is fantasy, there is a grit and realness to the characters and plot that immediately pulled me in and wouldn’t let me go. And there was a natural and touching inclusion of faith, the believers imperfect but true, that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I hope there will be more.”

  –Julianna Deering, author of the Drew Farthering Mysteries

  “Enigmatic and imaginative, No Less Days captivates readers’ attention for a beautifully written story that boldly touches on the real—and hard—things in this life. Amanda G. Stevens delivers truth and creativity in equal measure, balancing the speculative with the contemporary in a way that will keep you turning pages until the end.”

  –Emilie Hendryx - Create Explore Read

  “Amanda G. Stevens has penned a gripping and thought-provoking story of life, death, and the burden of sin. These characters reeled me in quietly, chapter by chapter, and then—BAM!—hit me right between the eyes. I couldn’t put it down!”

  –Katie Donovan, blogger at Fiction Aficionado

  “No Less Days by Amanda G. Stevens introduces a cast of characters with an unexpected and challenging life journey. Bookseller David Galloway feels particularly alone, unaware of others with his condition and unable to fully engage with those he cares about. The story unfolds in clever and intriguing ways till the very end, in the distinctive voice of a talented author.”

  –Kristen Heitzmann, Christy Award winning author of historical and contemporary suspense novels, including the Told You Series

  “This book contains every element I seek in contemporary fantasy. Honestly, I’m not sure how my brain will resist exploding as I await the next book in the series! Stevens expertly executes a fresh take on the immortal hero story, giving an amazing sense of realism to this vividly characterized fantasy. If you’ve been looking for something new, fresh, and simply awesome to read in Christian speculative fiction, THIS IS YOUR BOOK. Amanda G. Stevens is an author to put on your absolutely-must-read list! Grab this book and hold it tight!”

  –Serena Chase, author of the Eyes of E’veria series

  © 2018 by Amanda G. Stevens

  Print ISBN 978-1-68322-551-5

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-553-9

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-552-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Published in association with Jessica Kirkland and the literary agency of Kirkland Media Management, LLC, P.O. Box 1539, Liberty, Texas 77575.

  Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Now unto the King

  eternal,

  immortal,

  invisible,

  the only wise God,

  be honour and glory for ever and ever.

  Amen.

  1 TIMOTHY 1:17 KJV

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  ONE

  His books were burning.

  He let the glass door slam behind him and charged into the shop. The smell of smoke wafted around him. Where was the fire? He turned a circle at the bookcases in the front. The new books, not burning. In the back then—old books there. Irreplaceable books. He barreled up the two steps to the main landing and darted down the nearest aisle, sci-fi on one side and Westerns on the other. Save them all, hundreds of them, open a window and pitch them outside if necessary, and it would be necessary. Fire didn’t hesitate, didn’t sate itself, didn’t tire. His scalp prickled.

  The smell was fainter back here. He headed along the back wall, boots tracking rain over the old green carpet. No flames. No visible smoke.

  “I hope that’s you, David.” The voice drifted from the children’s shelves.

  “Tiana.” He detoured toward her, and the smell almost disappeared. No, he had to find it first. Strongest at the front. He went that way and called back to her. “Something’s burning.”

  “Um, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “I promise, there’s not …” Tiana poked her head into the main aisle and then followed him. “Are you talking about my incense?”

  David halted halfway to the front. “Your … what?”

  “Behind the counter.”

  He stepped over to the checkout counter and then behind it, and the aroma assaulted him, infiltrated his skin as well as his senses. The burner was a small glazed ceramic kiln the color of a robin’s egg. Smoke drifted up through holes in the tooled copper lid. David backed into the counter.

  “Get rid of that thing.”

  “It’s perfectly safe.”

  “Tiana, get it out of my store right now.”

  “Okay.” She shuffled around him, and he edged over to give her room. “I know that tone.”

  She grabbed a blue pot holder she must have brought from home and carried the burner outside. David trudged to the closest chair, a wobbly old wooden thing made for a child’s height. He folded down into it, knees poking up, and let his chin hit his chest. He could lecture himself for his overreaction or he could move on and hope someday he’d believe incense wasn’t dangerous. Candles weren’t dangerous. Fire didn’t have to be followed by explosion and sizzling skin, where skin was left at all.

  A third option did exist. He could admit that a century of overreacting to fire was a strong indication he always would.

>   However, he wasn’t a third-option sort of man.

  The bell chimed over the door, and David stood. An apology might be in order. She had to think him neurotic.

  Tiana set the burner behind the counter, lid off, cleaned out, smokeless. She leaned one hip against the counter and tugged her plaid work shirt. “You stick your finger in some incense as a kid, or what?”

  “Exactly that.”

  Her head tilt said she didn’t believe him. Good for her.

  “And what tone did I use a minute ago?”

  “You know. The David-Galloway-is-not-happy tone. You don’t use it much, but when you do, it thunders off the walls.”

  “I don’t want fire in a store full of books.”

  “There was no actual fire in the burner.”

  “Smoke isn’t good for them either.”

  A long look, and then she shrugged. “Jayde wanted to come by after classes tomorrow and start training, if you’re good with that.”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s like you about books. She’ll want to touch all the first editions and have a moment of communing with literary history.”

  A laugh filled his chest. “Appropriate for a lit major. Is her track American?”

  “Yeah. Mid-nineteenth century is her area of interest.”

  “Civil War?”

  “The whole thing. Popular fiction of the time, slave narratives, Underground Railroad, Reconstruction. Apparently people made time to read even in conflict like that.”

  David leaned against the shelf behind him and crossed his arms. “It’s only recently that people don’t make time to read.”

  “Oh, here we go.” She smirked.

  “Digital distribution cheapens everything,” he said. And reclaiming esteem for the written word would require something universal. A blackout, perhaps. Some days David enjoyed the possibility—the death of digital, the forced return to reading paper, no more screens.

  “And while you rail against it, some of my friends who would never read a physical book are addicted to their Kindles.”

  That was always her argument. And she wasn’t wrong. Still, he wished people valued books—paper, ink, effort, art, knowledge—the way they used to.

  He pushed away from the bookcase. “So you want to give me another of your Sunday afternoons?”

  “No other plans.” Tiana shrugged. “Show me the haul.”

  He stepped outside and held the door for her, and she let him. She pointed to a patch of dirt to one side of the entrance, smudged with a dark-gray stain.

  “Look at that. The big bad pile of ashes already got rained away.”

  David sighed. Tiana walked around the building to the rear parking lot where he kept his work van. He opened the doors, and she clasped her hands in front of her. Boxes of books filled the van all the way to the front seats. He’d long since removed the back ones.

  “How many trips will you need?”

  “This is the whole lot.”

  “It’s a lot of a lot.”

  “And a steal of a lot. Five dollars per box.”

  They both leaned into the van, reached for a box at the same time. Their arms could have brushed but didn’t. He’d never know if she was deliberate about things like that. The way he was.

  They kept the boxes shut and hunched over them to protect the books, but the rain had slowed to a light mist. They each made over a dozen trips from the van to the store and back again, quiet while they worked until David brought in the last box. Tiana had already opened several.

  “Aw, look at all the children’s books. Can I read some?”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “But you’re paying me.”

  “And I owe you two years of breaks.”

  She sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled one of the boxes to her side. “Make Way for Ducklings. Do you know this one?”

  “It’s a classic.”

  She didn’t bother to throw sarcasm at him. The illustrations had already captivated her.

  The afternoon passed like a few heartbeats. They unpacked and inventoried like treasure hunters, which they were, and the pleasure of discovery filled the air around them. Then Tiana glared over David’s shoulder at the regulator clock on the wall, ticking all this time beneath their voices.

  “I hate that it’s already after five,” she said.

  Could it be? He turned. 5:37p.m. David rose and stretched. “Should I have been keeping track?”

  “Of time? You? Right.”

  Tiana slid a nearly new illustrated children’s edition of The Red Pony back into a beaten cardboard slipcase. A 1945 edition unless he missed his guess. Not a rarity, but not a common find either. David blinked. Right. Emerge from the books, give her his focus, try not to prove her crooked smile was justified.

  “I do have to go,” Tiana said, “but while I’m thinking about it, are you going on vacation next month?”

  Caution settled on his shoulders. “Why do you ask?”

  “Seems to be your habit.”

  “Two consecutive years doesn’t make a habit.”

  “Three pretty much does.” She pushed to her feet. “I noticed while I was looking at the inventory logs from three years back. You didn’t acquire or sell anything the first two weeks of October.”

  He’d hired her for her attention to detail. He couldn’t scowl at it now. He went to the coatrack behind the long counter and shrugged into his trench coat, dug his keys from a pocket. Time to lock up, eat, head home.

  “I’d just like to know if I’ll be off work a few weeks.”

  “I know,” he said. “And yes, I’ll probably be away next month, but I can’t give you a date yet.”

  “September’s almost over.”

  He forced a smile. “Call me spontaneous.”

  Tiana grabbed her purple peacoat and followed him outside, watched as he locked the store. The rain had stopped, but the clouds overhead guaranteed this was only a temporary reprieve.

  She looked up at him, coat buttoned to her throat, breeze riffling her hair. “So you’ll do what you did last year. No planning, just call me the day you leave and the day you’re back.”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  “You’re very frustrating sometimes.”

  No arguing that.

  “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She rambled across the parking lot, crunching fallen leaves, zigzagging her stride to step on as many as possible. Her legs were long, lean muscle defined by the slim-fit jeans above her cowboy boots. Her two-inch-long hair flared out from her head in black coils. Her skin was deep umber and smooth. Two years of knowing her, and the sight of her only grew dearer to him. It could be a problem, if he were the kind of man to let it.

  She saluted him before ducking inside her little khaki-colored Ford. He returned the gesture.

  Then he walked. The wind still tasted like a storm, and the gray clouds overhead weren’t empty yet, but his coat was resistant. Only two miles home, and he’d walked to the store early this morning. The damp promise of rain had blown through his hair and filled his nostrils, his mouth as he drank the air with his head back. He did it again now, his lungs glad for each deep breath. Satisfied. However long he lived in Michigan—ten years or less, of course—he’d enjoy each change of season.

  Another block, and he stopped at the family-owned sandwich shop on the corner. He stepped in and scuffed puddles from the soles of his boots.

  Bobby, the owner’s youngest son, grinned at him from behind the counter. “The usual?”

  “To go.”

  David had tasted every sandwich on their menu before settling into his rut. He waited only minutes for Bobby to hand over a white paper bag with the receipt stapled over the fold.

  “North Atlantic cod on grilled ciabatta and cream of asparagus soup.”

  “Thanks, Bobby.”

  “Have a good night, Mr. Galloway.”

  The sky began to spit again, speckling the restaurant bag, as he traversed the la
st mile home. A few hundred feet from his door, the clouds gave in altogether. He tramped through the downpour, drew up his collar around his neck. He unlocked the door and squinted up at the heavens, let the drops fall through his hair, into his mouth and the creases around his eyes. He blinked the rain away. Water, one thing that was always older than he was.

  He went inside and shut the door, shed his coat, had dinner sitting at the desk in his library. Shivered a few times, but he couldn’t begrudge the rain when he’d chosen to walk in it.

  He should catch up on news. He opened his computer and settled into his overstuffed chair, feet propped on the leather ottoman. At his favored news site, he clicked headlines. World. Local. National. He read the stories. Heaviness fell on his shoulders. Accidents and crimes. Terror and war. Suffering.

  Nothing changed. Or rather, nothing improved.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

  One story of kindness. One, and he’d stop reading. He opened his eyes and searched.

  Breaking story. Happened today around noon. DAREDEVIL ATTEMPTS TO CROSS GRAND CANYON, FALLS TO DEATH.

  Don’t go there. Don’t.

  He clicked the link.

  A man’s grinning face filled the top of the screen—white guy, blond, keen blue eyes, no older than thirty. Zachary Wilson. The article called him “popular,” but David had never heard of him.

  Then again, David ignored entertainment news.

  A daring stunt. No net, no harness. Unexpected winds. The body hadn’t been recovered yet.

  David set the laptop aside and surged to his feet. He tried to work his jaw, but his teeth were locked. He stopped at his cherry-wood bookcase and braced his hands on a low shelf, let his shoulders cave under the weight of everything he’d just read, absorbed it, every life that had been ended today. He straightened and pressed his palm to the spines of his books. Ran a thumb over his first editions of Vanity Fair and War and Peace.

  He scrubbed one hand through black hair that gave no sign of thinning or graying, over a face he’d worn for two lifetimes—strong cheekbones, straight nose, no wrinkles. He sank back into his chair, using muscles and bones and joints that refused to wear out.