Carl rested his head against the passenger window of the family-sized hovercraft, wishing he was anywhere but the middle of the Pacific Ocean, traversing the Ring of Fire. Family road trips were the worst.
He glanced at his younger sister. Stella sat beside him, happily braiding her hair. That would be one way to pass the time
Surprises are few here in Valhalla, the afterlife Odin has provided for those worthy warriors slain in combat. As a Valkyrie, I know each fighter by name—generally Sven or Bjorn. I know what they want, too—victory or a fresh opponent for battle each day, and more meat or mead during their nightly feasts.
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“Sorcha, wait!” Mr. Devereaux calls. The pompous old duck is always telling me to wait. “Feudal Japan isn’t safe for foreigners. Europeans could be killed on sight.”
“Did anyone warn my brother of that?” I yell over my shoulder.
I plunge through the dripping trees to the road beyond.
“The wax man’s face is melting off!” Another one for the list of weird things that I say with surprising regularity.
“Melting how?” James Prothero asks.
I scowl at him over my shoulder. “How many ways can I mean melting?”
“Are we talking Wicked Witch of the West or Ark of the Covenant?”
Waking to a kiss sounds romantic. I mean, I had no problem with the kiss itself—soft lips, tickle of a mustache, faint licorice flavor. But oh my goodness people, what was a man doing in my bedroom?!
I sat bolt upright. My forehead smacked against his.
Ouch.
He staggered back from
Two minutes until the session begins, and the folding chairs circling the gym are already filled. It’s going to be a long night.
Horatio’s seated to my left, which is good. Of all my patients, he tends to be the most level headed. Last session, Frank had that chair, and he packs
“Show me how to save Jem!” Sorcha snarls.
“Call off your men first.” I match her glare, ignoring the ropes chafing my wrists. “I want to speak to your leader.”
It’s my fault Sorcha’s brother is hurtling through the time vortex in a wayward time machine, bound for God knows where… and
On his way into town one hot, sticky Saturday, Paul Bunyan stopped short at a river. Well, not short—Bunyan was a giant who towered over the forest’s biggest trees. He didn’t do anything short. He did stop, however, and point to a logjam in the river, made of oaks and pines
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Melvin trudged through the downpour, head down in an effort to avoid the wind and wet.
Getting fired wasn’t enough. He’d returned home to endure yet another lecture from his parents. Over dinner, they again complained about his lack of potential and the detrimental effects of his juvenile obsessions, specifically “that stupid role game
“Bow-Shock, your arrow-neous ways are off target! Seeing you quiver before justice is my aim!” Arms akimbo, I stand astride the ledge of the shattered window of the jewelry store.
Clad in a neon-green jumpsuit, Bow-Shock responds to my o-pun assault with a hail of arrows.
I backflip over the onslaught, my
Steve leaned against the wall of the elevator and checked his watch. Just a few minutes after 2 a.m. A weird time to be alone with Genghis Khan and Cleopatra, but as a late-night standup comic, he’d seen stranger things. Maybe the situation would provide good material for his next bit. Sure sounded like
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Jane poked at the arrangement of boulders that formed an archway in the middle of the room.
“This is the portal?” She lifted her glasses and peered at one of the boulders. “It doesn’t seem like it should stay upright, and yet it appears solid.”
“Don’t try to understand Xaether magic,”
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