Cinnamon-scented steam still wafts from my basket of freshly baked muffins. A light breeze ruffles the brunette bangs peeking out of my crimson bandanna. I hope the checkered towel tucked into the wicker will keep the goodies warm for the short walk through the woods to Granny M’s.
A gray figure emerges from the
“A bowl of stew can’t save the world, sis.”
Miriel Takkenridge slammed a pot on the stove. “How about you leave the world saving to me, Todd?” Frowning, she diced two onions before her eyes had a chance to water. “Unless you’ve been crowned Chosen One in this universe?” Her chopping stilled as she
High noon at Cato Pass, dust billowing from horse hooves and stalled stagecoach wheels. No wind to blow it down the valley, out of the lungs of the passengers or the outlaws.
Ty herded the travelers against the sheer red walls of the canyon. The driver, his guard, and an elderly woman and her
“Ethel! It’s me! I’m at the Capri-Whitestone.”
No one stayed at the Capri-Whitestone for pleasure. The motel was the city’s most notorious site for drugs, prostitution, and public intoxication. With Hilary Cotton it could be any of the three. Or maybe all of them at once.
“What now?” Ethel asked.
“I can’t say
Ethel Grieves knows people don’t really see her. Not past the limp, the freckled nose, the coke-bottle glasses. In the boardroom of Carmichael Holdings, she is just a secretary. The mousey little thing who files reports and pours coffee for men who sit in chairs too expensive to belong to them.
She watches their hands.
“Are you kidding?” barked Reynolds, the editor of the Gazette as he looked up from the tablet. “I send you to get photos of the Flag Day ceremony, and you give me a conspiracy theory?”
Gavin shook his head. “Not theory. Fact. You see her?” He zoomed in on a short lady with
Of course, Ethel would have a lockpick in the heel of her shoe. And, of course, she would use it to pick the lock of the metallic box she had found under a panel in her parent’s closet. What would you expect from a Grieves?
People on the street only whispered “Grieves,” as if
My heart pounds against my ribs. I am oddly aware of the blood laboring through my veins. My head feels like it’s floating, not actually attached to my body.
I’ve been poisoned. I can only seem to fill my lungs halfway. My limbs don’t respond when I try to move them. Voices slowly seep
“For too long, the pigs have slammed the door on us wolves. They’ve got us by the chinny-chin-chin!” Burly gray wolf Bigsby Badham paces the stage in a huff before a towering jumbotron showing the rotating logo of his company, Wolf Works. “But this is the year we blow them away!”
The auditorium erupts
Phezznibbet tucked his tail away from the edge of the bell tower. The market below rang with the clamor of eager merchants and haggling buyers―plenty of noise already without the ineludible racket of Big People spotting a Xintixa. Between those cheering for some exploit and others screeching in confusion at the sight of him
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Phezznibbet rested his elbows on the church tower windowsill, staring into the boughs of a giant maple. A light breeze caressed his fur as he dreamed of a quiet life running a treetop inn, a hint of smile tugging at his lips. Out of habit, his finger jolted to the dark scar that traced
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At first glance, it looked like just another broken branch—one of many in the forest canopy due to the previous day’s windstorm. However, Phezz noticed it twitching within a tangle of vines in the fork of an ash tree. The Xintixa’s eyes widened. That’s no branch. Too round, too smooth, and there’s straw
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