or through select online book retailers. Your ongoing support is much appreciated.
Urban Fantasy and Sci-Fi titles available so far:
Brink (Maverick Trilogy)
Dominion (SOS series)
The Crone's Stone (The Sacred Trinity Trilogy)
Trouble with Angels (Free Novella)
A Darker Shade of Grey (Free Short Story)
Kaleidoscopic (Free Short Story)
Coming Soon:
Bain’s Creed (Second in the Maverick Trilogy)
The Warriors’ Pledge (Second in the Sacred Trinity Trilogy)
Silver Mage (Second in the SOS series)
Chapter One
Nic gunned the engine, the wheel spinning before gaining purchase in a spray of gravel. The bike careened up the driveway, motor whining tinnily, and he cursed his father’s cautiousness yet again. It had him piloting what amounted to a two-wheeled ride-on lawn mower. His heart popped spastically in his chest.
At the end, their house blazed, every light in every room revealing its innards through walls of glass like some yawning monster in the dark. Sam was the only one home, their father’s car absent despite ink painting the sky hours ago. No surprises there. And that was just the way Nic wanted it. He preferred the expected.
His anxiety spiked and he wrung the accelerator in the vain hope of bleeding an ounce more speed. Since their mother’s death from breast cancer three years back, his fifteen-year-old little brother had been what dad termed “fragile”. A good day after school saw him immersed in COD, the blue halo flashing reassurance from down the road. A bad day was anything else. Right now was more “anything else” than ever. Nic felt familiar guilt at staying out so late. It competed with the dread contracting his gut.
Finally, he reached the turning circle, laying the bike over in a tinny whine of cylinders to leap off without bothering to kill the ignition. It spluttered to a halt. He pelted to the door, fumbling keys.
“Sam?”
After an obscenely stretched few seconds, metal slid home and he wrenched the knob. The door sprang open, jerking to a stop on the chain. His brother was more inclined to leave every access to the house a gaping invitation to trespass than remember the dead-bolt.
“Sam!”
Nic attempted to wriggle his hand through. He’d been able to do it what seemed only months ago, but an adolescent growth spurt abruptly added bulk to his lean form. Hours spent rowing probably didn’t help. He belted out every expletive he’d ever heard. Thanks to footy team-mates, he'd heard a few.
“Shut up,” Sam urged from behind the door. “Move your hand!”
The chain rattled and he whipped it open, hustling Nic in with unfamiliar urgency. As soon he’d breached the threshold, Sam shut the door and re-bolted it. He put a finger to his lips and collected the pump-action Remington leaning the jamb. The shot-gun clashed with his ‘Bolt Your Poon, Newb!’ t-shirt and fuzzy striped socks peeking from acid-ripped jeans.
“Dad will have a stroke if he sees you with that!” Nic whispered. “You’re scaring me, Sam-Well. What’s going on?”
“Something’s spooking the horses. Something big.” His brown eyes were wide beneath a shaggy blonde mop.
“Ah, crap. Not this again.”
“It’s true! I’m telling you, Nic. This time it’s true!”
Nic sighed. “Fine. Show me, but hand-over the gun.”
Sam held it vertically as they’d been trained and reluctantly pushed it his way. Nic turned from his line of fire and removed the magazine. He cracked it and emptied the loaded chamber, slotting the gun in the umbrella stand, cartridges next to that day’s unopened mail on the foyer table. On second thought, Nic swiped the rounds into a drawer in case dad happened to arrive home and phoned his SWAT buddies in alarm.
“How are we going to protect ourselves?” Sam asked.
“Never fear. I’ve got some moves,” Nic said glibly.
As they headed out back via airy open-plan living spaces and stylish modern furniture -- a wealthy architect mother equalled design perfection -- Nic switched off lights. He’d rather live in a tumble-down shack if he could just have her back, alive and healthy. Often he missed her so bad, the ache wrung the oxygen from his body.
This day telescoped and he still hadn’t eaten or started on the hours of homework breeding on his desk. He had a looming Chemistry final that weighted heavily towards pre-Med. Yet with rowing drill, two time-devouring jobs and proxy parenting, Nic hadn’t eked enough time to study. Sleep became expendable.
Irritation eclipsed his initial worry. Sam was a dreamer, inclined to put too much stock in fairy tales and urban legend. He could explain the origins in fact of a million mythical creatures. Some stories were even entertaining. Nic’s favourite was of the Countess Bathory, a Hungarian murderess with a penchant for the blood of her serving girls -- a real live vampire from the seventeenth century. Of course, nowadays she’d be locked up as a particularly vicious homicidal maniac, rather than bricked in and fed bread and water through a slit.
His father didn’t help, recounting a local tale he’d known as a boy. Back in the Dark Ages. A derailed circus train. Some mythical marauder prowling the hills. But stressing its fictitiousness was as effective as telling a kid not to watch the horror movie to avoid nightmares. Sam was obsessed and refused to listen to reason. Every falling branch, snapped twig, animal growl or insect screech morphed into sinister omen.
And their acreage was surrounded by forest on three sides. The closest residence was a Georgian mansion nestled in dense foliage high in the hills, uninhabited for ages. They shared a single road in and out. Normally Nic tolerated the fantasy, but playing with lethal weapons went too far.
“You don’t believe me,” Sam mumbled.
“Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? We’ve two mares in foal. They get skittish.”
“I’m not stupid!” he snapped.
“Did I say you were, Sam? We’re looking, aren’t we?”
“The horses were screaming. I saw its eyes.”
They’d reached the gleaming stainless steel kitchen, a huge barn visible under spotlight out dining windows. Three meals congealed beneath plastic on the bench. Nic stopped and stared down at Sam. The boy was petrified, his voice quaking. He draped an arm about skinny shoulders and gave him a brief hug.
“I’ll take the shovel. Give it good nine-iron swing if a butterfly comes within spit. Okay, Welly?”
Sam shook him off, even more terrified. “You’re not going out there!”
“Oh, have mercy! What do you want me to do, Sam? Malinger at the back door like a frightened child for who knows how long, while the thing from the pit eats our horses? Should I believe you and go check? Or we can sit down to dinner and forget about it.”
“I’d rather it took the horses than you!” he yelled.
Nic regretted the outburst, but he’d been up since five this morning and his patience waned. “Look. I’ll take a torch and the shovel, go out and give the barn a quick scan. See the horses are okay. We’ll get Hank to have a proper ground’s inspection tomorrow. How’s that?”
Sam swallowed hard and nodded. His face was pale and brow puckered. “Can I have the gun? I’ll cover you.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Don’t say that!” Sam trotted to the butcher’s block in the middle of the kitchen. He extracted a huge carving knife from the sharpener and returned to offer it handle first to Nic. “Only if you take this.”