“Can I help you, young man?”
Her calm voice surprised me. I’d expected her to scream.
Inhaling sharply, I waved my revolver to the right. “Hands on your head. Move in front of the counter. Now!”
The middle-aged cashier ducked to the side, her hands behind her head.
No one notices a lamp. Like, you wouldn’t look at the lamp in your living room and think, “Wow, I really need to watch what I say.”
Of course not. You’d say whatever the heck you wanted.
That’s why I’m currently on Senator Harold Altenstein’s coffee table, listening to him explain
Late again, late again.
Andrew Ashton rushed from his parents’ two story, cookie-cutter home, his Converse sneakers scuffing the sidewalk. He struggled to hoist his backpack on, and the straps slid against the nylon of his bomber jacket. He frowned. Everything was harder since the accident that had taken half his left arm.
I whistled as I stepped from my house. Per usual, I was clad in my nano-suit, a second skin to protect me from harm. You couldn’t see it—to most eyes I looked like any kid walking the street. Well, any kid in a trench coat with goggles perched on his forehead.
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The building shakes, but I don’t look up from my touch display. When you live in a city with supers long enough, you stop paying attention. My coworker Ben isn’t from here though, and it shows by the way he jumps up, looking out the window.
“Ben, this customer’s name is Jezzica, spelled with Zs.”
The dungeon reeked. Two large, scaly Inlans held my arms in painful grips as they escorted me to my brother’s cell. When I tripped, the shapeshifting aliens urged me to move faster. The cell door stood open, and Harren Den, the Inlan king, entered first. The other Inlans dragged me in next.
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It’s not the end of the world.
That’s what her brother would have said if he were here.
But he wasn’t.
Corbin had been called in to work a late shift at the warehouse thirteen miles away. Nora knew because the GPS locator on her phone told her.
If only her phone could pinpoint the monsters, too.
A small bell rang, and Joe looked up from his cup of coffee to the front door of Bob’s Stellar Diner. Darcy and Ben Jackson had stopped at the hostess’s desk, and Lucy smiled before leading them to the same booth they occupied at 7 a.m. every Saturday. As the elderly couple moved past,
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Calen had been told by everyone he would defeat the Dark Lord Katar. Everyone said he was worthy, but now—especially now—he questioned it.
A blade flew at him and he twisted to one side, escaping with only a nick on his cheek. As Katar’s dark figure leapt over him, he extended his arm, defending himself with an intense bolt of golden lightning.
I don’t realize we’re under attack until it’s too late.
I leave work, heading for my car. How much longer can I put up with the stress and dissatisfaction of this dead-end job? Why can’t I figure my life out? I’m so done with all this crap. My thoughts, like always, are an emotional jumble,
Ral stumbled into the smoky tavern and allowed himself the indulgence of sitting next to one of the blazing torches mounted along the walls. Dangerous, perhaps, but at this point he didn’t care. He needed to get away from the presence of the Shadow.
A barmaid brought him a glass, but he didn’t drink,
Eamon pressed his back against the stairwell’s cold cement wall, an icy chill brushing between his shoulder blades.
Of all the other spawn-filled dredge pits in Chicago, why did this particular sceallóg have to spirit Lorna away to the fae market?
Reaching inside his leather coat, he fingered the grip of the handgun
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