He paused for dramatic effect, then bowed theatrically. Not only had he come to the end of his speech - an address he would be making soon at a school assembly - but he had also located his target.
The target hid behind the moss-covered tree, arms pressed against her sides. Her back moved against the bark as she heard someone approaching. The rustling of leaves ushered the footsteps toward her. Slow. Cautious. She held her breath, sliding down to sit on a buttress root protruding from the earth. It occurred to her to invoke her powers, but she dismissed the thought.
“There you are!”
A deep male voice had come up behind her, making her leap onto her feet. He caught her in his arms, intent on making sure she wouldn’t escape. She wrestled with him for a few moments, realizing all along that she wouldn’t be able to free herself from his grip.
“Alright, John. You have me. Let me go now.” Dana tried to sound stern. But she was too happy to pull it off.
“I’d never dream of it,” he said, “I was sure you would cheat. You almost used your powers, didn’t you?”
“It never even crossed my mind.”
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You can read about it today in Shake, Book One of The Great Keeper series!
Here is a sneak peek into Shake...
Chapter 1
Philippe turned a street corner, following the old fashioned lampposts to the side of town where he would find a place to rest. The soles of his shoes were worn down, so that he could feel the curve of the cobblestones on his feet. His body ached, having spent most of the day walking and heaving around a bag full of paints and brushes, and a canvas nearly as tall as he was.
He reached a church that was fairly modest in size. He knew that there were much grander, more elegant churches in the area, and so he chose to squat in one that would receive less attention from tourists and policemen. He slipped in through an unlocked door on the side of the building.
Despite being younger and smaller than some of the cathedrals nearby, this church was still beautiful inside. The walls were adorned with paintings. A life-size sculpture of Mary stood to the right of the pulpit. Philippe dropped his things and reached inside the podium for candles and a lighter. He lit a few tea lights and sat them on the floor near his belongings, and proceeded to light a few of the bigger candles that lined the walls near the pews.
He knelt before his bag and laid its contents out in a neat row. There were seven tubes of paint, a palette, and three brushes. He got to work on the fresh canvas. There was always a degree of pressure with Philippe’s work, because he only ever made enough money off his paintings, to eat a meal or two and buy more canvas. He barely broke even, so he knew that there was no room for error, no chance to paint poorly.
At the same time, Philippe felt liberated in his painting. The words implied in his art were just about the only ones anyone ever heard from him. He had friends and a family when he was younger, but his art isolated him, and once he became homeless, any tie to society was pretty much severed. No one wanted to listen to what Philippe had to say, or make sure that he had something to eat or drink. Most of the time, he received little other than dirty looks and insults spat at him as he walked past. Street rat, he remembered hearing a particularly beautiful woman say earlier that day.
He remembered admiring the woman when he walked past. She was tall and thin and had short, choppy black hair. He met her eyes and could have sworn that they made a connection, as if she had seen more than his dirty clothes and paint stained hands. He could almost feel her soul lingering with his. But just as he walked past, he had heard her insult, followed by her and her friend’s giggles.
He decided to paint the woman. Philippe had curated his own brand of painting. It wasn’t quite abstract, but it certainly wasn’t literal either. He would paint an object and surround it by an idea. For example, he painted the beautiful woman, but not in detail. Her features were geometric, and her body was surrounded by beautiful, but violent swirls of color. He was pleased with the end result. He blew out the candles and went to sleep on the floor.
The following morning, Philippe woke up early as usual, so that he could get out of the church before anyone might notice. He gathered his things and carried his painting out to the street. He visited two art galleries, but was rejected immediately. Frustrated, he continued into the city center. He wondered why he was cursed to live in a world that didn’t appreciate how much of his soul was given to his work. He thought that this was unfair. There were bankers and stockbrokers and government workers who went to work each day and didn’t give a single ounce of their souls away. Sure, those people may work occasional 14-hour days, but an artist was never off the clock. An artist was tasked to experience every second of life more intensely than the rest of the world, and countless hours trying to convince others that this was worth something.
By 15:00, Philippe’s stomach was growling and the skies were turning gray. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but that wasn’t unusual for him. Five shops had rejected him so far. He had two euro left in his pocket from the previous day’s sales. He had been saving it, hoping that he could just sell this painting and come up with enough to get a whole meal.
Just then, it began pouring rain. Philippe felt fear coarse through his veins. He gripped his painting and bolted into the nearest storefront, the painting having only caught a short burst of the rain. He examined it, and it had survived. He turned around to see what store he was in. It was an upscale clothing store. The employees were looking at him like he was mad.
“Sir,” a tall, thin woman scoffed, “If you’re not going to buy anything – and we all know you aren’t”, - she paused to allow the other employees to laugh, - “then you need to leave.”
Philippe turned to face the woman. He gasped. It was the woman from the day before. They met eyes and her smile quickly vanished. She glanced down at the painting, attempting to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She jumped, clearly recognizing herself in the painting. She met his eyes, looking hurt.
“Well?” she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I just need a bag,” Philippe mumbled, pointing to a long plastic garment bag a woman was carrying out of the store. It was wide and must have held a wedding dress or some sort of formal gown.
“Right,” the tall woman whispered, making her way to the counter to grab a bag for him.
“Aren’t you forgetting something,” her coworker poked her arm, grinning.
“Right, sorry. Sir, we charge one euro for the bags.”
Philippe exhaled sharply and retrieved one of the two coins from his pocket and placed it gently into the woman’s hand. She returned a moment later with the bag. She opened it, helping him to get the painting inside. Her coworker scoffed and walked to the back. Philippe tied the ends of the bag to seal the painting and headed for the door.
“Sir, wait,” the woman stopped him. He turned to face her, but she was silent, a look of regret on her face.
“Merci, madam.”
Chapter 2
Adele marched into Palais de l’Éysée wearing a smart red pantsuit. She wanted to stick out from the other interns ever since her first day, but had never really come out of her shell. She was shy, but incredibly intelligent and hard working. She hoped that this would be enough to get her recognized.
She logged in on the computer at the front of the intern room. The computer only had access to the time clock. The palace had tight security, and despite interns having gone through intense background checks, they were trusted with precious little technology.
“Good morning Adele. I need a favor,” Rebecca, one of Adele’s bosses, instructed, pulling Adele into the hallway. “You know where the kitchen is, right?”
“Yes,” Adele replied,
having memorized the entire layout of the palace as soon as she found out she landed the internship.
“Great. They’re short a hand today, and yes, that means someone is getting fired, but I need you to go down there and run coffees to the meeting the President is in. He’s in Salon Murat. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Adele replied quickly, doing her best not to look too excited. She hurried off to the kitchen, adjusting her straight blonde hair on the way. She didn’t know very many other women who got to meet the President at age 21.
When she reached the kitchen, she could hear chaos, as a few cooks scrambled to do the work of a whole crew. On the counter, she found a large silver platter containing two upside down mugs, a carafe of coffee, another carafe of cream, sugar cubes, and a plate of scones. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a dome the same size as the platter. She instinctively grabbed it and placed it on top, making her way to Salon Murat.
She moved as quickly as possible, but focused nearly all of her attention on not dropping the tray. She reached the end of a hallway and turned right, expecting the room to be just a few feet past the turn. She walked slower and composed herself. As she approached the double doors, she could hear the President’s voice. Her stomach flipped. She took a deep breath. Just as she went to open the door, she noticed what was being said.
The President was instructing the other man to transfer funds into his own personal account. It was an offshore account and no one would notice. The other man said that it would be risky. The President said that he would make it worth his while, and that if he didn’t do it, he would pay. Adele felt sweat pool beneath her armpits. She could not be caught eavesdropping on the President and didn’t want to hear anything worse. She balanced the tray against her hip and used her free hand to knock on the door.
Want to read more?.. The novelette Shake is waiting for you eagerly!
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Through The Bloodless Case short story (exclusive to Mrs Dracula anthology), The Great Keepers are connected to Urban Fantasy world of The Coven Unleashed.
The anthology releases on October 13th, but you can read the start of The Coven Unleashed in The Ritual today.
We are all looking for a little magic.
It was love at first sight for Stella and Camille. Stella finally feels ready to come out of the closet, when she discovers skeletons in Camille’s.
Camille is a devoted witch who uses an empty grave to communicate with what she calls “the other world.”
But how much does Camille really know about the coven? Can Stella learn to accept her, or will this romance darken? Find out, in this thrilling Urban Fantasy clean FF romance.
Here is a sneak peek into The Ritual...
“WELCOME TO THE OFFICE, Stella!” Eugene chimed, making sure the new girl had enough pens and sticky notes.
“Uh, thanks,” she chuckled, clearly eager for him to leave her cubicle. It was a small, breathy chuckle, the kind that you hardly pay attention to when uttered by someone like Eugene. Days like this made me want to give Eugene a massive wedgie, or throw balled up paper at his head. Eugene brought back my inner mean girl.
But Stella was not Eugene. When Stella chuckled, it was like a soft breeze that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. Her lips curled politely, revealing prominent dimples. She was the kind of beautiful that left you shaken, wondering if dimples had always been your thing, or if she had just thrown you into an alternate universe.
I didn’t get much work done that day. Isaacs & Rowe was the kind of place where you could get away with things. We sold home décor for young hipsters, and on our floor, we were responsible for dealing with all of their complaints.
I sat at my cube until lunch, with my chair raised all the way up, pretty much just staring at Stella, watching her foxlike features contort as she thought hard about something, or the adorable grin that snuck across her lips as she figured it out. She seemed too caught up in the newness to notice my staring, and I was grateful, because if I had to look away, it felt like everything inside me would collapse. At 11:59, I was out of my chair and in front of hers.
“Hey, new girl, I’m Camille. Wanna grab lunch?” I leaned against the side of her desk, doing my best to play the part of a gal pal.
“Oh, I brought a, um,” she looked awkwardly at her lunchbox, still sitting on her desk.
“Honey, whatever you brought ain’t good anymore. Let’s go grab sandwiches.”
“Okay,” she blushed.
I walked her down the hall and we entered an elevator. She was reserved, looking away. I, on the other hand, still couldn’t stop staring. I had to break the silence.
“So,” I turned to face her, my arm brushing hers. I shivered, but my skin felt warmer. “So you’re into home décor, or just here for the cute coworkers?”
“I am actually more into customer service than anything else. You know, I just got out of college a year ago and have been living with my parents, so once September hit, I said to myself, ‘you know, normally I’d be going back to school; it’s time to quit working crap jobs and get serious.’ So I moved out, got my own place and took the first decent job I could.”
“Nice. Well, I think you’ll like it. There is certainly no shortage of complaints here. Lots to do.” We laughed. The elevator stopped, opening up to a busy Portland street. We turned the corner and arrived at one of my favorite cafés.
I insisted Stella let me pay for her lunch, as a first day treat. She reluctantly obliged. We sat at a window table and bonded over sandwiches and lattes. I gently navigated the conversation from friendly compliments to flirting, studying her reactions to see if she understood. I was pretty sure that she did.
“Thanks so much for lunch,” Stella reached across the table and grabbed my hand. I looked down. Her hand was smooth and fair, like porcelain, in beautiful contrast to my olive skin. I admired our hands for a moment. When she noticed me, she jerked hers back. With that, lunch was over. On my way out, I snuck her used napkin into my purse, suspecting I might need it at some point.
The following day, some of us decided to go out after work for drinks and karaoke. We had a few favorite spots in rotation around the office but the karaoke bar was my favorite.
“Hey Stella, are you going to karaoke tonight?” I popped my head into her cubicle.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just afraid I’ll feel out of place. Still new here.”
“Come on! It’ll be great. We could sing a song together.”
“Fine. I’ll go, but it’s going to take a few drinks to get me on stage. Oh God.” Stella buried her face in her hands.
“Okay. First one’s on me.” I looked her up and down, thoughtfully. “You like whiskey sours.”
“Oh!” She laughed, “Do I?” She looked at me incredulously.
“Yeah.” I winked. “It’s obvious.”
Just before time to punch out, I rushed to the bathroom to freshen up. I pulled my wispy black hair from its messy bun and shook it out. I pulled a compact out of my purse and touched up my makeup. I had chosen brown shadow for work, to compliment my pale hazel eyes. For the evening, I decided to turn it into a smoky eye, with a fuchsia lip. The last touch was a fresh spritz of my favorite honey vanilla perfume. The end result was not half bad. I hurried back to my desk.
“Alright Stella, ready to go?”
“Yeah, let’s do it.” She turned around and did a double take. Success.
We decided to take the bus. The bar was a few stops down, and my house was in the same direction, so on karaoke nights, I would typically just take the bus home at the end of the night. The ride to work in the morning was a little bit slower than driving, but I didn’t mind it now and then. When we got to the bar, several of the others were already there. As we walked in, they were cheering, clearly already having had a few.
“Why don’t you join them? I’ll get drinks.” I nodded towards the table. A few minutes later, I was by her side, w
ith drinks.
“Ooh, a whiskey sour?” Stella grabbed a glass and winked. “I heard I love those.”
I smiled and we clinked our glasses, downing large gulps of the cocktails. Whiskey was my drink of choice. It didn’t really matter how it was served. It just felt right to be drinking it. It felt right to be drinking it with Stella. This thought brought on another set of butterflies. I quickly redirected my thoughts.
“So who has signed up for a song?” I asked the table.
“You sign up, Britney,” Carol, a woman who worked on the other side of our floor, shouted, pumping her fist in the air. I burst into laughter.
“Alright, let’s do it. Stella is helping this time.” I pulled her over to the bar, where they kept songbooks, tiny pieces of paper and pens.
“Why do they call you that?” Stella grinned, her honey-brown eyes sparkling.
“Tradition.” I shrugged. “So today, I’m thinking Toxic?”
“Sounds good,” she buzzed. “I know all the words, and there’s probably room for a dance number.”
“Fun!” I shimmied my way up to the DJ and slid the slip onto his table. I shimmied my way back, Stella shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
“You’re ridiculous. The dance number has to contain moves from this century.”
“True. And your hand has to contain more alcohol.”
Drown: YA science fantasy short story (The Great Keeper) Page 3
