As the Moon Climbs

Part 9 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * * *

“I think I heard a scream upstairs,” Booker said. Six sets of eyes turned to him, including the icy blue ones of the newcomer stuck in the magic circle. He did his best to disappear into a corner of the basement.

Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes shut. “You left the landlord up there alone?”

Booker started to shake his head, then nodded.

“Go check on him,” Anthony said. Booker was happy to oblige.

“Thank goodness the great Anthony Singleton is here to guide us in our hour of need,” Miranda said with a bright smile.

“Oh, come on–”

“No, really! Without you we might do something wild and crazy, like trap one of the fey in a containment field!”

Kitty giggled. “He’s not fey, he’s one of the Ljósálfar.”

“You say álfr, I say elf.”

The captive straightened up. “I am right here and can hear you quite well, witch.” His voice was like running water over pebbles, fluid and lilting, but with a throaty undertone. “I am called Eldir.”

Miranda shot him a look that would have wilted dandelions. Anthony put a hand on her shoulder, which she shook off.

“Let him out, please,” Anthony murmured.

She harrumphed and stepped over to the circle. Raising her arms, she muttered something under her breath and then lowered her arms again, stretching out a foot to scuff the ground where she’d closed the circle.

Quicker than thought, Eldir’s sword was at her throat. “Now,” he said. “You will explain why the contract has been altered.”

“What contract?” Miranda asked, hardly daring to breathe.

“I was not addressing you.”

“It’s the human owner of the house,” Anthony said. “He’s restricted from selling it but he can basically charge us whatever rent he likes.”

“Rent,” the elf mused. “That is the gjald you pay to the lord of this land.”

“Well, this particular land, sure,” Parker said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Anyway, we three couldn’t afford it by ourselves so we sublet some rooms.”

“You have contracted with the young völva and the shieldmaiden and–” Eldir looked at Kitty, who beamed at him. “–the strange haired one because you lack gold?”

“It’s not like the old days, is it?” Parker said. “We can’t just go off and pillage a town or something. It takes work!”

“And they consented to be part of your urðr? Of their own volition?”

“Part of your what?” Miranda asked.

Anthony looked away. “Not as such, no.”

“Your what?”

“You thought you would bring them into this place and keep your duties as secrets?” The elf raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Your what?”

“Oh, stuff it, Miranda! You know very well what’s going on here!”

“The hell I do!”

Beatrice, who had been leaning against a wall, stepped over to Anthony. She was a bit shorter than him but she managed to loom like a giant.

“What is this about?” she asked.

“It’s… a long story,” Anthony said hesitantly.

“Summarize,” Miranda hissed.

“That’s the last open door in the world to the lands Below and we’re guarding it,” Parker said.

Miranda almost asked “From whom?” but stopped because she already knew the answer. And it was, well, from just about everyone.

“Lands Above,” she whispered. “Who else knows?”

“No one,” Anthony said quickly.

“Well,” Parker said, scratching his neck. “Maybe a few people.”

* * * * *

“I didn’t know you spoke Chinese,” Faustino said crossly.

“Japanese,” Booker said.

Faustino stood off to the side while Booker crouched next to the now very conscious and nearly hysterical girl who kept trying to get up from the settee.

“I did tell her I was sorry!”

Booker winced. “In English, of course. She doesn’t speak it.”

“Is she another new tenant?”

“No!”

“Girlfriend?”

“I don’t… she just…”

“Answer me!”

Booker’s breath came in ragged gasps. He fumbled in his pockets, pulling out an inhaler and taking two hits in rapid succession. Both the girl and Faustino watched him in silence.

“Listen,” Booker gasped. “Anthony will be up in a minute to explain. I’m going to… have a sit down.” He collapsed into a chair, sending up a puff of dust.

Faustino stroked his mustache furtively. “I think I have seen more than enough.”

* * * * *

Miranda eyed the elf, who still held the sword at her throat. “You going to leave that there all day?”

“My arm never wearies,” Eldir replied. “But I do tire of your questions. And so I pose one to you: why are you and your sisters here?”

“They’re not my–”

“Answer the question.”

“We needed a place to live.”

“Yet surely there are many others you could have chosen? Why this one?”

Miranda looked away. “It was on a convergence,” she mumbled. “I knew we could use the power.”

The elf smirked. “An honest answer. And now that you know of the way between your land and mine, would you use that power as well?”

Miranda considered this. If she could somehow gain access to the unbridled, chaotic magics that governed Below… the things she could do! Reality would be hers to mold. She could make crops grow, change weather patterns, maybe even cure diseases. Or perhaps she was thinking too narrowly. Could she control global warming? Re-mold landscapes so that resources were equally shared? Turn every nuclear warhead to dust? End war and crime and poverty for all time?

“What’s the catch?” Miranda asked.

“I believe I was asking the question.”

“And I’m answering it! I was raised to use magic to help people. I’ve been all over the world doing just that. I could use magic from Below but what would it do to me? To the worlds Above and Below? To you?”

Eldir searched her eyes and she stared back defiantly. Slowly, he lowered his sword and stepped away.

“Know that in living here, his fate is your own,” he told her, gesturing at Anthony.

“I think I can deal with a few dragons.”

Now, the elf laughed. “I suspect that you can, Miranda Sullivan, with the help of your comrades. May your norn be kind.”

With that, he bowed to all of them and turned, stepping through the open door behind him. He seemed to walk down a long tunnel until about twenty feet in, when he vanished.

* * * * *

They found Booker upstairs, still consoling the miserable Japanese woman.

“He’s gone,” Anthony said.

“Yes,” Booker said.

“I mean Eldir.”

“Oh. Well, Faustino, too. He said something about raising our rent again.”

Anthony ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “We’ll figure it out.”

Miranda put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, we will.” Then she punched him. “Any more secrets we should know about?”

Anthony rubbed his arm, grinning. “Maybe a few. Come on, don’t you want a little mystery in your life?”

* * * * *

Part 10: The Cats Meow

Calliope Cervantes: The Art of War begins with Know Thy Enemy, or you can see the full list of Calliope Cervantes stories.

* * * * *

Calliope reclined in a cushy chair at a local IRS office, watching Okame’s eyes flicker under closed eyelids as the woman skimmed through the data she had downloaded from the unfortunate Lorenzo Pratt. If she hadn’t been instructed to keep quiet, Calliope probably would have tapped her foot impatiently. As it was, she tried to focus on a streamed holovid, some period piece about terraforming Mars; the only thing that made history less boring was watching people shoot each other or get naked.

“Hmm,” Okame said finally.

“What’ve you got?” Calliope asked.

“Not much, I am afraid.” She cocked her head to the side and frowned. “I broke the encryption easily enough, but the financial information is useless.”

“How?”

“It is fragmented, unlabeled. Incomplete arrays of numbers that could be anything–dates, credit amounts, file numbers. Impossible to say, unless you had access to all of the discrete files.”

“Dead end, then.” And a dead man, too, unless Lorenzo had a personality backup done recently.

Okame smirked. “Perhaps not. I was also able to access some of his mail. There appears to be a transaction occurring tomorrow night.”

“What kind?”

“Weapons.”

“Ah, the best kind.”

“I am sending you the coordinates now.”

Calliope tapped her comlink and pulled up a map. “Santangeles, huh? Last time I was out there, someone threw me off the Andreas Cliffs in a pair of broken hoverboots.”

“What did you do?”

“Fell, mostly.” She grinned at the memory. “West coast, here I come.”

* * * * *

Calliope stood on a platform across from the delivery site, leaning on her portable bike. They were only ten stories up, swimming in unbreathable smog, with the buildings packed so closely together that she wondered how a transport was going to maneuver around the walkways that criss-crossed from one entrance to the next. Traffic was mostly cars and bikes, small personal transport like hers. It helped that there were so many places for her to watch from, but she knew it meant there were that many more places for others to watch her.

At a few minutes past the scheduled time, the truck dropped down into the surface smog; it had been using regular traffic lanes above, apparently. Most militias didn’t bother to patrol this low, and the private police forces were more concerned with solving crimes than preventing them. The skivers had the run of the place, and she was on her own.

She watched the truck hover, wondering why it was taking so long for the building doors to open so it could get inside. With a whir, the back door of the vehicle slid up and someone pushed a small box until it fell over the lip of the truck bed and slowly descended into the smog below.

“Son of a–” It wasn’t going into a building, it was just dropping the cargo here. There must be someone waiting on a lower level to receive it. Calliope fumbled to get a tracking drone off her belt, smacked it against her hip to activate it, and tossed it at the truck. She couldn’t be in two places at once, but if she couldn’t catch the culprit red-handed then maybe she could double back and find the delivery boy.

That done, she grabbed her bike and vaulted over the edge of the platform. The wind rushed past her ears as she used her hoverboots to stabilize her fall so she could get the bike between her legs. It started with a shrill whine, pulling her out of her swan dive in time to see someone else on a bike strap the cargo to the back and take off.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Calliope murmured, gunning the engine. The sound was apparently loud enough for the other rider to hear, because a dark helmet swung around to glance in her direction before speeding up.

The two bikes dodged walkways and careened around buildings, narrowly missing other vehicles and the occasional pedestrian. Given that he was riding with cargo, his speed told her that he was using illegal boosters. Naughty, naughty, she thought. Gradually the chase led them up toward the regular lanes of traffic, fifty levels above ground; if they made it to the skyways, hot pursuit restrictions would mean Calliope would have to let him go. Gritting her teeth, she powered up the thrusters and shot forward, flanking the other bike.

“Pull over!” she shouted, her voice amplified by her helmet. The fugitive responded by trying to sideswipe her. She grinned. “Try that again and I’m authorized to use deadly force!”

As if in response, a shot rang out behind her. So her new pal had brought a friend? The more, the merrier.

The lead bike took a sharp turn and she used her hoverboots for extra stability, edging closer even as she weaved to avoid her pursuer. She didn’t dare risk a glance back to see where he was, and while she probably could have blown him to pieces with a smart SCID, she’d already hit her excessive force quota for the year. Still, if she couldn’t dazzle him with her brilliance…

Calliope pulled a small sphere off her belt, nearly dropping it as her target’s fancy flying forced her into a sudden barrel roll. She leveled out and waited for the right opportunity–there, a set of parallel walkways coming up. She squeezed the sphere and tossed it over her shoulder, where it flashed bright white as the sun. A scream behind her confirmed that the rider was blinded, and the sickening crunch that followed suggested that he wasn’t going to trouble her further.

Unfortunately, in concentrating on ditching the shooter, she hadn’t noticed that her target was heading straight for the wall of a building.

At the last second, he pulled up, and she tried to follow suit. Again, she had to use her hoverboots to give her the extra push needed to keep from crashing. Her portable bike whined in protest; it wasn’t designed for that kind of abuse, and it made that clear by shuddering heavily and powering down.

Calliope’s boots kept her from falling, but there was no way to follow the much faster bike with them. She tried anyway, fiddling with her bike’s controls in a desperate attempt to get it working again. By the time it groaned to life and she made it to the skyways, there was no sign of her target.

Still, she told herself philosophically, at least she had a backup plan. She synced her tracking device with her helmet and watched as a map appeared, the red dot that was the delivery truck reflecting in her eyes like an inner fire.

Part 8 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * * *

“Who’s the Chinese babe?” Parker asked.

“Japanese,” Booker grunted as he and Miranda entered the house carrying the unconscious girl between them.

Anthony raced down the stairs, his volunteer fire department t-shirt proclaiming his destination. “Have to run, fire over in–” He skidded to a halt. “What the blazes? Here, let me have her.” He grabbed the woman under the arms and tossed her over his shoulder with a strength that surprised Miranda. She massaged her aching arms while they walked.

“She was possessed by a kitsune,” she explained. “She should be fine soon enough, but we have to get her back to Japan.”

He gently lowered the girl onto a chaise longue in the sitting room, which was dusty and gloomy with the thick embroidered curtains closed. Miranda hadn’t been in there since she’d warded the windows–two weeks earlier? Time flew.

“Booker, get Beatrice in here,” Miranda snapped. “Parker, find Kitty. We all need to talk. Now.”

The two men looked up at Anthony, who nodded. They left and Miranda knelt beside the woman, placing a hand on her forehead.

“Let me do that,” Anthony said. “Firefighter, you know. They train me for this stuff.”

“I’m trained as well,” Miranda protested, but he nudged her aside. With a sigh, she stood up.

“Can I get some light in here?” Anthony asked.

“Yes, master.” Miranda stalked over to the curtains, which had an old-fashioned rope pull. She gently tugged at it and the curtains slid open smoothly, showering her with dust.

She was shaking her hair and slapping at her clothes when she noticed movement outside the tall window. “Who’s that, then?” she asked, pointing.

“Who’s wh–” Anthony looked up and blanched. “Oh, hell, it’s the landlord.”

* * * * *

Faustino Castaldi eyed the lion’s-head door knocker with distaste. He wished his tenants would install a doorbell like normal people. Using only the tips of his forefinger and thumb, he gingerly lifted the iron ring in the lion’s mouth and let it fall.

Behind the door, he heard angry whispers, and it made him smile. Always good for the tenants to be a bit anxious about a visit from him. The whispers stopped, and the door was opened by the pale rumpled-looking fellow with the black hair. What was his name…?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fry,” Faustino said.

“It’s Parker.”

“Yes, of course.” Faustino’s smile broadened as he noticed the women standing behind Parker in the foyer. “May I come in?”

As he entered, Anthony appeared from one of the back rooms with yet another woman, who looked as if she’d eaten a lemon. “Mr. Castaldi, hello,” Anthony said. “I did send the rent check last week–”

Faustino waved a hand. “I received it, do not be concerned. This is more of a… social call.” He flashed white teeth at the ladies and nervously stroked his mustache. “While you are within your rights to sublet space, I feel it is my duty to be familiar with all who occupy the premises. For legal reasons, you understand.”

The sour brunette smiled and offered her hand. “Miranda Sullivan, a pleasure to meet you.” She introduced the other two women, one built like a sailor and the other with her long, curly hair dyed every color of the rainbow.

“Shall we sit and become better acquainted?” Faustino asked, gesturing at the sofa in the living room. A general shrug went around like a yawn and they seated themselves–the brunette primly on a chair, the burly one standing in a corner with arms crossed and the strange one on the floor with legs tucked under her. The men arrayed themselves similarly, quickly making the room feel cramped.

Faustino turned to Miranda. “So, Miss Sullivan–”

“Ms. Sullivan.”

“Yes, just so. What is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m a consultant for–” She froze and glanced at Parker for some reason. They both looked flustered.

“For?” Faustino looked at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered,” Miranda said. “I, uh…”

“Was helping me brew beer in the basement!” Parker interjected. “Completely slipped our minds. It’s a very delicate process, you know, have to time things just right or–” He blew a raspberry and gave Faustino a thumbs-down.

“Right, yes, we have to check that. Sorry!” She and Parker rushed out.

Faustino watched in shock. How rude! Could the beer not wait a few minutes? He was about to make a nasty remark when a strange rumbling jiggled the foundations of the house.

“What the devil was that!” he exclaimed.

“You must excuse them,” Anthony said. “They’re very, em, intense about their brewing.”

“Three weeks!” Kitty said cheerfully.

“Really? How long have they known each other?” Faustino asked.

“Oh, gods below, I’m sorry,” Kitty said, standing up.

“Kitty, your, uh…” Anthony inclined his head meaningfully. “Why don’t you go see if Miranda and Parker need any help?” Without another word, the colorful-haired girl left.

Faustino was completely lost. Had she answered his question before he asked it?

“Anthony,” Parker said, peeking his head around the corner. He seemed more disheveled, if such was possible. “Can you come down to the basement? We, uh, need another pair of hands for this, uh, beer. Thing.”

“Sorry, Mr. Castaldi.” Anthony followed Parker out, leaving Faustino with the burly woman and the red-haired man.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, your name again, miss…?”

“Beatrice Hardy,” she answered. She certainly was, Faustino thought. Muscles like a pit bull.

He stroked his mustache. “And you, eh, for a living you–”

“I teach martial arts,” she said. Another rumbling shook the house but she ignored it. “Sometimes I’m a bouncer.”

“Beatrice!” A voice called. “We need you!”

She shrugged and stalked out.

Faustino stared at the remaining man, who smiled uncomfortably. They sat in silence, shifting and looking around. Faustino opened his mouth to speak a few times, then closed it. He checked his watch. Booker abruptly stood and ran off.

This was ridiculous. He could hear raised voices coming from under the house. How many people did it take to brew beer? And what was that bizarre rumbling? He knew these boys were eccentric but they’d never done anything to make him question their honesty and integrity before.

Perhaps he should have a look around. Just to be sure that the house was not falling further into disrepair, of course. Not that he suspected anything nefarious, no. Perish the thought. Faustino rose and stepped back into the foyer. He peeked into the dining room, whose table was piled high with old leather-bound books. He poked around in the kitchen, wondering at the pots and pans full of strange-smelling residues. At last he made his way to the sitting room.

An attractive Asian woman reclined on a settee. As he approached, her eyelids fluttered open.

“Hello?” Faustino said. “And you are?”

The woman took a deep breath and screamed.

* * * * *

“I told you I was sorry,” Miranda said, glaring at Anthony and pointedly ignoring the newcomer who stood behind her, trapped inside the basement’s magic circle. He was taller than all of them, with skin so pale it nearly glowed and long hair the color of white gold. He leaned against a giant sword reaching nearly to his waist, a bemused expression on his inhumanly beautiful face.

“Honestly,” she continued. “How was I supposed to know you had two landlords?”

* * * *

Part 9: Lord of the Land

Like many, many other people around these parts, I’ve done NaNoWriMo a few times now, which means I have about five incomplete manuscripts lying around collecting dust. Those of you who have actually finished and edited yours have my unmitigated jealousy and you shame me intensely. That’s why I recently started working on one of my older drafts, the one I’ve talked about here a couple of times: The Blue Lady’s Children. It’s been fun and sort of liberating to tear it apart and put it back together better.

But oh, my most recent novel attempt, The Lamanai Codex. Why must you try to seduce me with your pulpy antics and your charming main characters? Your dangerous love interest and your icky creature feature violence? Your devil-may-care dialogue and your crazy cult members? Don’t you realize that I am working on a different novel right now?

Once again, I assume that many others have experienced a similar dilemma: which of my multiple manuscripts should I work on first? I started with the one I wrote first, but that’s about as arbitrary a reason as any other. I could have started with the one I liked the best, or the one with the most interesting characters, or the most fully developed world, or even the one that I thought would require the least amount of work to complete. Given the struggle I’m having with the one and the siren song of the other calling out for attention, I can’t help but wonder: did I choose poorly? Or is my frustration with the one fueling my enthusiasm for the other?

So, my comrades-in-arms, how do you decide which of your manuscripts to work on first? Do you have any specific criteria in mind, or do you go with your gut, or what? Do you stick with one at a time or switch it up when you lose steam? Share your methods and madness!

This is for the “Let’s Talk” Blogfest, which I just discovered despite its making the rounds for a month. While probably half my writing is dialogue-heavy anyway, I figured I would post something new(ish) instead of just linking to an existing post. This is from my last NaNoWriMo novel, which is still very much in progress. The main character is Dr. Katherine Lancaster, a literature professor trying to recover a stolen occult book that can bring about the end of the world.

* * * * *

The door opened after the third knock and Kate met the briefly astonished gaze of Rey Hernandez. He was half-dressed and looked to have been reading with the television on. His expression quickly turned neutral and he smiled slightly.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

“You said you’re not the one trying to kill me,” Kate snapped. “I’m giving you a chance to prove it.”

His expression soured. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. If you really think I’d do such a thing, we have nothing to talk about.” He began to close the door but she pushed against it.

“This has been a very trying few days for me,” she said in a low voice. “Either you can help me get to the bottom of this, or you can be the stubborn, cowardly mercenary you always were and I will be sure to leave orders that you are not allowed within fifty miles of my funeral.”

His eyes scoured her face, settling on the bruise that had begun to look especially purple and angry against her latte-colored skin. “Not an accident in the shower, I take it?”

Kate shuddered. “Please do not mention showers around me for at least the duration of this already gods-forsaken cruise.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying,” Hernandez said. “I was going to jump ship at the next port and fly back home.” He grinned. “But maybe you’ll have a drink with me first, for old times’ sake? I might let you persuade me to loosen my lips.”

“I know very well how loose your lips can be,” Kate said, wrinkling her nose. “As well as certain other portions of your anatomy.”

He shrugged, his dark eyes looking her up and down. “That’s a shame. Have a nice trip then.” He closed the door.

Kate sighed. She really did need to get him to talk. Acting had never been her forte but perhaps just this once… She sighed again, more heavily, and leaned her forehead against the door with a gentle knocking sound. The door suddenly opened and she fell forward, right onto Hernandez, who steadied her with a muscled arm.

“Don’t even think of making the joke that is traipsing from your brain to your mouth at this moment,” Kate said. “I will absolutely sic Eliza on you and I do not give you good odds in that match.”

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Not even two to one?”

“More like ten to one.”

“Is she seeing anyone?”

“Release me this instant.” Kate struggled to regain her footing, fuming. “I had thought to take you up on your offer of drinks but now my second thoughts are telling me it’s a terrible–”

“No, no, wait,” he protested. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Tell your second thoughts to take a hike. Give me a minute to pull myself together and we’ll head up to the Skybar. It has a nice view.”

“Yes, fine,” she said. They stood looking at each other for a moment. “Please stop rubbing my arm,” she said finally, and he released her as if she burned.

“I’ll be right back,” Hernandez said. Kate nodded. He closed the door and she heard some rummaging sounds inside.

“You’re a fool, Kate,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head and touching the spot on her arm where he had held it.