The spaceship rattled again, the second violent vibration in as many minutes. Leaves fell from the trees above, and water from the large koi pond splashed my spacesuit. Vibrant colors danced and pulsed in the transparent dome of the garden’s ceiling, which offered a view of nearby space.
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“One more time. Please, Dude.”
“You’ve already tried ninety-nine times, John!”
“No sweat, Dude. One hundredth time’s the bomb.” John paced in the only open area the lab equipment left them.
“I don’t know. Dr. Perrault’s due back in the lab soon.”
“In this town, folks know better than to lie.”
I peer at the scruffy, middle-aged man over the top of my sunglasses. “P-pardon?”
“No need to take offense. I was only giving you some friendly advice.”
“And what happens if I lie? The lie police come drag me off?”
The man grimaces and glances over his shoulder, as if expecting someone.
“All first-class tickets are sold out.”
You blink.
The grey-haired cashier shakes her head and purses her lips. “All first-class tickets in that direction are sold out, ma’am.”
“But I wanted to…” You step closer. “I need to…”
The cashier lowers the shutters in your face. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but all tickets are sold out.” She retreats deeper into her booth.
“Henry, it’s okay. You can come out now.” Margarite peered under the bed, only to find it empty.
Henry Willoughby was proving to be quite the challenge. He reminded her more of her original husband than any of the others so far, right down to the puppy-dog eyes that had lied to her face when she’d asked him where he was going that night.
March 1st
Dear Jenna,
I’m deeply saddened that you’ve blocked me on every messaging app, so I’m writing you an old-fashioned letter. Speaking of which, I think old-fashioned is a good thing. It carries traditional values and all that stuff. Don’t be upset because I called you old-fashioned. Let’s go on a second date.
Jamison chuckled and released a handful of dice. He didn’t bother watching the table, instead casting his gaze around the room. Young men filled the space, drenched with sweat.
Some couldn’t stand the humidity.
Most couldn’t stand to lose.
My name is Spade. Samara Spade. Tonight was supposed to be my first undercover without Dod—dear old Dad, in other words. But I had backup. At least until someone slipped him a mickey.
The case started this morning. A lady—I’m still trying to get Dod not to call them dames—came into our office distraught.
Hundreds of intermeshed triangles emanated from Veyja’s hands, then locked with those of her fellow shieldmages to form a glowing wall. The first wave of scalewolves crashed into the barrier. Blood and spittle sprayed into the air. Veyja winced at the impact, but the wall held firm.
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An end-of-a-hot-day smell lingers in the air and the scattered clouds turn gold as I set off from my apartment. Easy route for my first run through the neighborhood in too long. The August weather is nice, and I revel in the familiar rhythm of feet pounding pavement.
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