From Dagger of Drani, the new book in the World of Drani series by Melonie Purcell.

A sharp pain in her arm made Taymar gasp. She opened her eyes and stared in horror at the blood dripping down her arm. Another stabbing pain shot through her hand and a new stream of blood trickled onto the table. Taymar glanced up in dismay at the blue Shreet who was now staring at her in confusion. But that was all it was. Confusion. Not shock at seeing her suddenly bleeding and no rush to see what was wrong. Only confusion. Why?

A new slash appeared on her arm. Taymar wanted to scream out, to clasp her hand over the cut and stop the bleeding, but the Shreet’s utter lack of response kept her still. It isn’t real. It’s my own mind doing this. Just like in the corridor that day. But how? Was it the exact same way Taymar used other telepath’s thoughts to trap them? Or some version of that, perhaps? Making them think it was real, making them believe they were trapped.  The result was, they created their own prison. But this time, it was the other way around. Rydon was using Taymar’s thoughts. And not just to trap her. She intended to kill her.

As complete realization hit her, she stared down at her arm once more. This isn’t real, she told herself. Another stab of pain shot to the surface, but Taymar grabbed hold of it with her thoughts. It felt alien in her mind and she smoothed it out until it didn’t exist. It took a second to quiet the panic in her mind, but once she did, a feeling of perfect control filled her thoughts—her entire being. She watched with satisfaction as the gashes and blood faded away.

Taymar glanced up at the blue Shreet again. They made eye contact and from the back of her mind, she saw him elbow one of the older Shreet who was bent over her band on the bench. It didn’t matter, she would handle that later. Right now, she needed to deal with Rydon.

She closed her eyes and gathered the tiny blades still hanging in her thoughts into a solid molten ball. If Rydon could manipulate mental images, Taymar could as well. And she could do it better.

Another rush of panic washed over her, but this one didn’t come from Taymar’s own mind. Rydon tried to pull away. The ball in Taymar’s mind formed into the creature that had attacked her in the corridor. Its jaws snapped and bit as it tried to claw its way out of Taymar’s mental grip, but it no longer held any power over her. Taymar knew the secret now, and she wasn’t going to be fooled again. In her mind, she reshaped the beast, melting it back into the strings and ropes of thought that she was used to dealing with. The creature’s eyes grew wide as it struggled to hold its beast form. Gleaming yellow eyes stared straight at Taymar and she knew what she was really seeing was Rydon. And if she could see Rydon, she could teke her.

Holding Rydon’s mental gaze, Taymar used her telekinesis to shove the woman away. She just needed a moment of unconsciousness. A few seconds was all, and she would be free to wind those threads into a twisted ball that would keep Rydon silent and hopefully give Taymar time to find the memories of the Yarnit’s intentions and erase them.

A Bite of... Taymar of the World of Drani series.

Question One: So, Taymar. You can move things with your mind. What’s that like?

Really? That’s your question? I’ve been close enough to a Shreet to smell their breath and you want to know how I pick up a glass? Okay. You know how when you pick up something, you reach out and grab it with your hands and lift it up? Yeah? Well, it’s nothing like that at all. Now, what else do you want to know?

Question Two: Okay. Well then tell us about the Shreet. What are they like?

You know what’s weird, they’re just like us. Okay, that’s not exactly true. They have a flat face, and their nose is sort of a squished up slit on either side of their face, and their lips face inward, and their eyes are freakin’ huge, and they have these hair-braid things coming out of their heads like a bunch of snakes, but when you talk to them, they’re like us. They just want a place to call home and people to care about. I mean, yeah. True. They don’t really care if someone is already living in that place and has to be kicked out so the Shreet can move in, but at their core, it’s a basic need, right? They also have this really amazing claw thing on the back of the leg. I so wish I one of those.

Question Three: Who would win in a fight between you and Nevvis?

A fair fight? Me. All day. Have you seen him fight? He’s slow. That’s why he cheats. If he didn’t have his Dran telepathy to help him, I’d drop him in ten moves… maybe less. Although, he did hold out longer than I’d have thought possible against Kellin. But I’d still win. For sure.

You can meet Taymar in Shield of Drani which is only 0.99 at the moment and then follow her adventures in the newly released Dagger of Drani.

About Melonie Purcell: As a Las Vegas native--a rare species to be sure--Melonie grew up riding horses in the Nevada desert, camping and fishing her way through the state of Utah and chasing reptiles in Arizona. As an adult, she still traipses around the desert and the mountains, but now she does it in cooler shoes, a better backpack and usually carrying a camera. Author of the children's fantasy Hand and Talon, you can find Melonie on Goodreads, Twitter and her own website.

They set out for Brighton bright and early on Saturday morning, and Sam found himself more nervous than he was willing to admit, although he didn’t quite know why. A rather giggly lunch in a tiny pub on the downs, where Anna and Bonnie were obviously well known, did a good deal to restore his equilibrium, and he was able to sit back and relax as Anna drove the last few miles to Downsview, and their meeting with Ted.

Sam hadn’t been to sure what to expect a private facility for the care of dementia patients to be like, and he was pleasantly surprised by the homely look of the place. They parked the Audi, and a large young man came quickly over to the car. Anna opened the door.

“It’s only me Pete.”

The man smiled.

“Sorry, Miss Marshall. I didn’t recognise the car, and we’ve been having a bit of trouble recently with prying eyes.”

“Bastards. This is my partner Doctor Henderson. Sam, this is Pete Moss, who stops people from making money by publishing stuff about the folks who live here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Pete.”

“Likewise. Doctor? Of medicine?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you do sewing? Justine has cut her hand badly, and the local NHS dragons are refusing to send anyone out over the weekend.”

“Sewing is my forte. I’ll get my bag and have a look.”

 

Sam followed Anna and Bonnie towards the noise of a small disturbance inside the big, rambling house. There seemed to him to be entirely too many people in the room.

“Clear the room please, Anna. Ideally just me and Bonnie.”

Anna swung into action, and the room cleared. Sam went in with Bonnie at his heels. He saw a very lovely woman with blood dripping from her left hand. She seemed to have that hand clenched around something, and he set about getting her to let him look at the damage.

“Hello Justine. I’m Sam. Me and Bonnie have come to see to your hand.”

“Bonnie. Bonnie come.”

Sam signalled, and Bonnie stayed at his side.

“Bonnie doesn’t like the blood on your hand. Let me clean it up and then she’ll talk to you.”

Justine extended her hand and slowly unclenched it. He saw a large piece of glass embedded in her flesh. Opening his bag he donned surgical gloves and took out a dressing pack.

“Okay Justine. Bonnie and I are going to clean you up now.”

He used disposable forceps to remove the glass from the wound, then swabbed the hand with strong disinfectant. Bonnie wrinkled her nose, but stayed still beside Sam.

“Good dog” he whispered.

The hand was bleeding sluggishly, and he decided it definitely needed stitches.

“Does it hurt, Justine?”

She thought for a moment.

“No.”

“Can I sew it up then, so Bonnie will come and give you a cuddle?”

“Sew. For Bonnie.”

Being unsure whether or not his patient was on any medication, Sam opted to try and suture the cut without  local anaesthetic. He called Bonnie a little closer then tried a stitch. Justine didn’t flinch, keeping her eyes fixed on Bonnie’s elegant, black face. Sam heaved an inward sigh of relief and set another dozen stitches as quickly as he could. Then he cleaned Justine’s hand again, and wrapped it in a clean bandage, fixing the bandage in place with elastic strapping.

“You’ll do. Now Bonnie will come and see you.”

He motioned the dog forward and Justine buried her face in the soft black fur. Anna re-entered the room followed by a big loose-limbed man and a uniformed nurse.

“You were brilliant. Nobody could get her to even open her hand.”

“I had Bonnie.”

Then he turned to the nurse.

“Is she on any medication?”

“Nothing.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“I’ll give her a shot of penicillin then, just in case. It looks clean, but a shot wouldn’t hurt. I’ve put in self-dissolving sutures, so you won’t have the problem of getting them taken out.”

He turned to Justine, and taking a syringe from his bag he rolled up her sleeve and neatly popped an injection into the muscle. Justine didn’t twitch, but Bonnie regarded him approvingly.

 

The man beside Anna spoke.

“Thank you very much, doctor. I didn’t think they were sending anybody.”

Anna laughed.

“They didn’t. This is Sam. Sam, this is Ted.”

Sam drew off his gloves and put them in a disposal bag with the bloody swabs, used needles and other detritus. Then he held out his hand to Ted.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Ditto. And even more thanks. Justine can be very difficult to deal with, but you handled her beautifully.”

“I had Bonnie.”

“You did. And she also has a weakness for handsome young men.”

Sam laughed.

“Not guilty. I reckon it was all down to a sagacious hound.”

After that the time passed easily. While Anna and Bonnie visited with Justine, Sam and Ted took a walk in the grounds. For a while they walked in silence then Ted cleared his throat.

“There were a lot of things I was going to say to you about Anna, but I don’t know if I can now. I saw the way you dealt with my poor empty wife. I saw kindness mixed with professionalism. Then I saw the way you looked at Anna. I think you two have a shot. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose her.”

“I won’t. I had a lousy marriage. It ended. I managed alone. Then I met Anna. I’ve got a second chance. I won’t do anything to jeopardise that. And I love her.”

“Then I hope we can be friends. I think a great deal of Anna, and I’d like to keep her friendship.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. And I do know that you were lovers. I don’t have a problem with that either. I just wanted you to know that Anna and I have no secrets.”

Ted coloured, then grinned.

“I’m glad you know. But I wasn’t using her.”

“I didn’t think you were. She wouldn’t be as fond of you if you were.”

A voice from the building interrupted their talk, it was Anna. “Come in, you two. Justine wants a tea party.”

Jane Jago

 

If you would catch a husband, they said
You must be compliant in bed
But once in the sack
He just lay on his back
So she made him a sandwich instead

© jane jago 2018

The first time he had seen it, from above, Stin thought the far-spreading sprawl of low rise, square, flat-roofed buildings looked like someone upturned a truckload of children’s play blocks. Or not. The shapes were too uneven. Maybe more like a skip full of builders’ rubble, emptied out in the middle of nowhere.

The buildings were all shades of ochre, the newer ones more brown or orange, the older ones yellowed and greying. Some close pressed along narrow streets. Others, more segregated in their own patch of land with courtyards and walls. The double dome of the tiny spaceport bubbled up, incongruous, in the midst of it all and anywhere else in the galaxy there would be ninety million health and safety regulators screaming that the residential buildings were too close. Here, though, there was no one with sufficient authority to object – even if anyone had actually cared. From the domes, a street ran to the main square and then continued pretty much straight on until it came to the only other building of real substance. Dominating the mud-brick built housing and offering a kind of low-tech counterpart to the spaceport domes, the stone-built citadel stood as a testament to local architecture, with its odd half-cylinder tower and its own microcosm of courtyards and housing gathered around the curtain wall.

This was the city of Keran. The planetary capital of Temsevar which was surely the most grimly benighted world in known space. It stood – or more sort of slumped – in a vast plain which stretched, dizzyingly, as far as his eyes could see in every direction, bleak and empty with nothing taller than knee-high bushes and an odd grey-green grass which grew all over.

Someone told Stin that before the spaceport, the settlement had just been a trading post centred on the citadel. Back then, it had only a scant handful of permanent residents and a high turnover of the weird tattoo covered nomads, whose tribes ranged the plains around, moving all the time to avoid their livestock over-grazing the sparse foliage. In some ways, he reflected, nothing much had changed – only the city had grown and now the nomads came from beyond the sky and were much fewer in number.

During the short summer the locals told him Keran was a dust bowl and throughout the long winter, it was a frozen hell. For Stin, it was all alien. A place of exile. First impressions always count and he had been left here in the winter. Adjectives that sprang to mind when he thought how he would describe it to people when – if – he got home again were: bleak, desolate, barren and bitter – like finding himself stranded in a gigantic cold-storage compartment. The memory of standing in the vacant dock looking at the empty space that had been occupied by the ship he arrived in earlier that same day, was still vivid. And that of the voice behind him full of friendly sympathy.

“She left without you? Well, no worries, it happens here. You’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last. You’ll get off in a year or two, just might have to earn yourself a bit to pay the passage.”

He turned to see the speaker, a short man with a round face and a balding fuzz of dark hair.

“I don’t know why she – “

The round face broke up into a gnomish smile.

“You’d not be standing here if you did, would you? Anyway, I’m Agernilio Tavi, but everyone calls me Gernie. I’m the one-man band who keeps the port here running.”

“Stin. Stinian Sabas. I’m the dumb fool who just got dumped by his girlfriend. Now I guess I’m stranded.”

“You and me both, only I’ve stuck it out here the last two and a half decades. Oh man, your face. Don’t look so worried – I chose to stay.”

Gernie, he discovered, was the unofficial deity of the spaceport. He ran the place as his own private business venture and that made him the most important person in the whole of Keran. He was the gatekeeper. The one who controlled access to the rest of the galaxy, the one who could arrange for cargos to be shipped in or out.

Everything offworld was prized here – as long as it wasn’t high-tech dependent. The most highly sought after offworld items were weaponry and medical supplies. These would be purchased or exchanged for whatever local trade could offer – exotic food and drink, art and artefacts, some semi-precious stones and metals. Most of what was traded out didn’t come from Keran or even from the same continent. Most trade came – and went – on the backs of the local beasts of burden. These ponies were ugly beasts, with short, stubby ears, broad backs and thick coats, but had peculiar looking split-hooved feet which could spread and grip on soft ground or ice. They would carry trade goods in pack trains, along the single broad road which stretched to the seaport of Vinbrith, just out of sight over the horizon.

Stin went to Vinbrith the once. It had a pretty sounding name and looked totally picturesque from a distance, the cute cottage-like dwellings clinging to the cliffs above the harbour, the little ships bobbing on the tide and the huge wooden wheels turning slowly. It was perhaps only when you saw the wheels, used to lift the cargos on wooden platforms up the sheer cliff face, were treadmills with three ranks of six men chained in together, that the illusion began to fall away. That and the stench. Pretty as a picture from afar, but close to Vinbrith was worse than Keran – and that was saying something. But from there, wooden-built sailing ships carried goods of all sorts to and from the other continent of the planet, which, Stin had been told, was ruled by someone they called ‘The Overlord’ and held the vast majority of the planet’s population and most all of its resources.

Gernie found him the work. There were a lot of things that needed doing which the locals lacked the technical skill to achieve. It wasn’t good pay, but at least it would earn him passage offworld – eventually.  Stin was roped in to help keep the port functional and to spell Gernie manning the archaic transceiver which was set up with the one solitary comms satellite in orbit above the planet.

The system was so primitive that it couldn’t even access regular link-based FTL transmissions. That meant that the only real contact the planet ever got with the rest of the galaxy came via the few ships that visited Temsevar each year. But those incoming ships had to communicate through the satellite as the spaceport couldn’t talk directly to them, it was too far behind modern link technology to do so.

It was when he learned that particular fact that Stin finally realised this place wasn’t just at the back of beyond like most Periphery worlds, it was actually a good few kiloparsecs behind the back of beyond.

From Haruspex III: A Walking Shadow part of the Fortune's Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Do you think the planet minds
if you live or die?
Do you even think it feels, your tears
if you should cry?
You may be glad, you may be sad
that is your own choice
For no one in the firmament
has pity on your voice
Do you think it helps you out
to cry and sigh and moan?
In case an angel hears your tears –
it won’t, you’re quite alone
Do you think the planet minds
in any shape or way?
I don’t, so I’ll just live my life
as happily as I may

©️ JJ

Howdy y’all.

It is one. Your perspicacious pedagogue. Your towering tutor. Your world-travelling writer. Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author of the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Man of means. Man of moods.  Man of delicious madness (of which more later).

One is, needless to say, back chez maman – that muscular and impressively mustachioed female of uncertain age and equally uncertain temperament – who was nonetheless flatteringly pleased to see one, and absolutely thrilled to learn that the guns of one’s skinny, wrinkled, orange sperm donor have been so carefully and completely spiked courtesy of a small man with a Bronx accent and hairy earlobes. The woman even went so far as to throw her arms around one and blow draconically alcohol-laden breath in one’s face. However, I digress and I know my adoring students will be agog to know the wellspring of their beloved maestro’s ecstatic madness. Learn patience my children

One’s distaff parent. Having fed one a lucillan repast of gammon, oven chips and corns (which always evacuate in precisely the same state as that in which one ingested them), mater took her increasingly humongous hips and breasts to the  Bear and Bare Breast to celebrate the safe return of her ewe lamb. One declined the kind invitation to accompany her, having very little taste for darts, cribbage and warm beer, preferring to sit snuggled beside a roaring fire with an improving volume and a small glass of Tia Maria penning your latest lesson in the epistolary art.

Lesson 31: The Write Adjectives

Adjectives. How beloved of the sane and how abused by the unimaginative. Let us consider for a moment something as prosaic as grass. One could say grass is green, but how unimaginative. How much better to wax lyrical about its verdant and virtuous viridiannness. Or it’s sleek, sensuous, smooth coolness. Or how it’s tiny saw teeth can lacerate the delicate soles of a loved one’s feet. Or how laying in its lush greenness can leave a delicate tracery of greenish lines on the pale goldenness of a lover’s skin. Or how it’s fragrance can fill one’s nostrils as one is laid face-down under the delicious firmness of a lover’s hand. Or… But I need say no more, need I. Adjectives are called add-jectives for a reason. That reason being that you add them in order to add texture, colour and sensuality to your otherwise stagnant prose…

And this was as far as one had progressed when it happened. IT: that thing which has changed forever the heart which beats in the breast of your beloved teacher. IT: that light that has shone into the darkest corners of one’s psyche. IT:…

I think I shall leave you there waiting with puttering heart and wetted lips and damp little palms to learn what may have occurred to stir the heart and loins of your beloved tutor. And wondering why he should chose to greet you in the parlance of our transatlantic cousins.

Thou shalt wait and see…

Gold skin
Eyes like amber beads
Voice that
Uplifts
Understands one’s needs
Sighs and
Skin
Eye to eye
Thigh to thigh
Is this madness?
Or reality at last?

Next time we shall investigate that sink of moral turpitude that is the cliffhanger.

One can tarry no more. Dream of amore…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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It was ten times ten years since the day when the oasis ran red with blood, and an exquisite woman sat in a red silk tent out on the white shining sands. She was a realist, for all her transcendent beauty, and she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that this was the last sunset she would ever see.

Fayruzi, named for her remarkable turquoise eyes, stared unseeingly out at the cruel whiteness of the sands and carefully considered her options. She was surrounded by the various means by which she could take her life, and all that remained for her was to choose the one she found least repugnant. There was poison, there were sharp blades, there was even a tiny decorative pistol taken from some long-forgotten ajnabi who had fallen foul of the desert, and there were the sands themselves. The killing sands. The unforgiving mistress of every creature that ran, crawled, swam or flew on her breast.

But wait. Do I hear you ask why such loveliness would choose to die? Of course she did not so choose, it was simply her ill luck to be the jewel of the zenana in a year when sacrifice was called for to propitiate the god and in remembrance of those whose blood stained the waters of the oasis all those years ago. It had been an easy choice for her husband, having no love for women, to give that which another man might have prized beyond his own life as his gift to the pitiless sands.

Fayruzi studied her own white hands and thought about the last possible choice: to simply do nothing. To sit and watch the moon on the face of the desert and await the coming of the dawn and the death priests in their blood-red robes. To await those who would slit her nose before dragging her by the hair to the oasis where they would stone her to death.

She sighed. Just once. And determined to await moonrise before making any decision.

As the moon lifted over the dunes, turning white to silver, Fayruzi lifted the pistol in one pale hand. It would, she reasoned, be the least painful and degrading way to meet her end.

She thought herself fantasising when the sound of hoofbeats came to her ear, and hallucinating when she saw a tall, black horse coming across the sand towards her. Unthinking she stood, and walked out onto the sand to meet her fate. The rider of the horse reached down a hand and she grasped it in both of hers, making a graceful leap onto the saddle in front of the burnous clad figure.

He smiled down at her and she saw his eyes were as black and lightless as the night sky.

As the bedou wheeled his horse and galloped back from whence he had come, it would have been apparent, had there been anyone left behind to see, that the horse left no footprints in the soft shifting sand.

It was ten times ten, and one more, years since the day when the oasis ran red. It was dawn, and the red tent once more stood on the white sand where the desert wind ruffled its silken walls. This year there was no sacrifice but the priests still came as tradition demanded.

The chief among them bent his head and entered the empty tent, except it wasn’t empty. An exquisite woman sat on a pile of cushions in the centre of the floor. She had a babe at her breast.

The old priest felt his heart leap into his throat as he recognised Fayruzi.
“Lady,” he said respectfully.
She turned her face to him, and he saw her eyes – as black and lightless as a desert night.

©️jane jago

Rubaiyat Sonnet

Alas the Muse must vanish with the light
And close the manuscript of youthful fire
Why must I have so many thoughts in flight?
Why will not my Muse simply me inspire?

For every night a glass I have turned down
On this inverted bowl I call my desk
And bent my head for the laureates crown
To birth another written arabesque.

But whence the bird forth from the branch hath flown?
How is’t Her brightness hence from me doth go?
Now here, abandoned, weeping, I do groan,
To ask why my Muse doth despise me so?

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Fill up your Kindle for less dosh today!

All the books below are only 99p/99c on May 1st. Why not check them out and see if anything floats your boat?

Fantasy

Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago
Wyrd Creatures and overweening ambition.

Dark Space Opera

Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook
The ‘City has always been a dangerous place to live: now it’s lethal.

Sci-fi

Generational by Norman Turrell
Things are not as they seem on Eos.

Fantasy

Salvation’s Dawn by Joe Jackson
War is coming to seven worlds…

Fantasy Romance

The Lion and the Tiger by Lyra Shanti
Lovers and warriors, immortal in love.

Fantasy

Royal Tournament by Richard H. Stephens
To win, you must be prepared to die.

Medical Sci-fi

Bud by the Grace of God by S. E. Sasaki
Could you love an android willing to sacrifice itself to save you?

Fantasy

Wrath of the Fury Blade by Geoff Habiger
Inspector Lunaria must stop a serial killer wielding a powerful magic sword. 

Fantasy

Light’s Dawn by Yvette Bostic
Evil never rests for those strong enough to fight against it.

Urban Fantasy

Be Counted by D.R. Perry
Be Counted: Life sucks and then you die.

Young Adult Fantasy

Heart of the Mountain by Jeanette O’Hagan
A lost realm deep under the mountain.

Coming of Age Fantasy

Running Toward Illumia by Angel Leya
Astrea would do just about anything to feel like she belongs – even hunt a unicorn to feed her starving tribe.

Steampunk

The Dragon Lady by Angelique S. Anderson.
Dragons, and gadgets and corsets, oh my!

Arthurian Fantasy

Anya: Healer Of Camelot by Jacqueline Simonds
Sent to Camelot by Morgaine, Anya finds an unlikely love.

Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Sci-fi

Only the Few by L.N. Denison
Post-apocalyptic yarn, with a twist in the tale

Urban Fantasy

The Temptation of Dragons by Chrys Cymri
A priest and a dying dragon, what could go wrong?

Poetry

Stained Glass by Joanne van Leerdam
Feed your soul with poetry that reflects all the colours of life

Short Stories

Tales from Suburbia by Claire Buss
A collection of humorous human foibles & folly.

Space Opera

Shield of Drani by Melonie Purcell
One planet rich in fuel. Two psychic talents are required to mine it. Three species seeking control.

Some of these authors have other books available at 0.99 today too, so do take a moment to browse what else they have on offer!

An extract from ‘Clara’s Diary’ by Angelique S.Anderson.

Clara. He picked up the photo and rubbed his finger over it gently. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Having been unable to solve his daughter’s murder, he felt like a two-bit yegg, a crook unworthy of the title Detective, anymore. Clara stared back at him from the photo as if she were about to tell him everything he needed to know.
“I wish you could, Clara. I wish you could tell me everything. Like what happened to you that night. I wish you could tell me who hurt you that way.” How often had he said that to her fading photo over the past six years? When he’d discovered her diary, he’d thought it might have the answers he needed, but all he found were more dead ends. He yearned for some version of her to jump from her photo and wrap her pale, thin arms around his waist. Some version of her that could explain everything, including the mystifying book he kept locked in his bottom drawer.  Just then his office resounded with persistent knocking on the heavy oak door. Desmond put the photo back on his desk and tucked the key under his shirt.  “Who is it?”
“Er, Detective Desmond. We need you. We have a situation.” The voice on the other side of the door sounded desperate.  
“Arthur?” Detective Joseph called out, startled by the intrusion.
“Yeah, boss. It’s me.” Arthur’s voice was shaking like a weak tree in a gale force wind, and Joseph felt a shudder run through him. He hadn’t heard Arthur’s voice shake like that since… well since the day he refused to think about anymore. The day his whole world was ripped out from under him, and he was left drowning in grief, forever trying to catch his breath. It was only in the past year that he’d felt less like the waves were sucking him under, but the tone of Artie’s voice told him everything was about to be bad all over again.
“Well, come on in. What is it Arthur, what’s happened?” Detective Desmond put a firm hand on the gun at his side. A standard Smith and Wesson revolver, the cool metal provided him some comfort. Arthur began rambling, but making little if any sense, “Alright, Arthur. Slow down and tell me what’s up?”
“It’s happened again, Joe.” There it is, there were the words Detective Desmond was waiting for, and yet dreaded for years. At the same time, they were words he needed to hear. Even though the words were clear and concise, the sentence was like a punch in the gut. He didn’t need Arthur to say anything more to confirm his suspicions.
“How old?” Detective Desmond asked. Already knowing that Arthur was about to tell him another girl had been found in the same situation as his daughter, Clara. Dead.
“Around seventeen.” Arthur’s short answer confirmed the Detective’s worst fear. It had been six years since his daughter’s death, and though he hadn’t solved it, he’d finally begun to make peace with her death.

Angelique S. Anderson – is an award-winning author, who writes books aimed at young adults. As a fan of steampunk and fantasy, her recent releases The Dracosinum Tales featuring The Dragon Lady, The Phoenix Lord, and A Steampunk Christmas Carol are her favorites. Though you can find her personal story in the pages of Little Lost Girl: The Complete Series.
She has four children, and several rescue animals ranging in species. She is an advocate for foster children, and anti-bullying, and she tries to include bits and pieces of that in every story she writes.
Her hope is that through her writing, people will find help, healing, and great storytelling.