Can a street-thief-turned-cat defeat a dragon and regain her human form?
Life was tough but manageable when orphan Nat had to pick pockets to stay alive. But a house-breaking attempt gone wrong leaves her covered in fur and sporting a tail.
The only way to break the curse? Drip some dragon’s blood on her paws.
In the process of facing a beast who has conquered hundreds of knights, Nat will have to come to terms with her deepest fear.
Appropriate for children, Burgling the Dragon is also enjoyed by adults who read Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’ve always loved middle-readers and young-adult fantasy that uses a physical journey to bring characters through an emotional growth. Plus, who doesn’t want to write about dragons?
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I tend to base my characters on aspects of my own personality and of people I know. While I don’t know anyone exactly like the protagonists in this story, Thorn reminds me of myself and Nat reminds me of my best friend.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Nat stood in front of a darkened house in the capital city. She was a dirty, gray figure—one of those children over whom the king’s eyes slid as quickly as they could, one-third from guilt and two-thirds from distaste. Waif, guttersnipe, and ragamuffin—three words were quite enough to dismiss her from view.
Now Nat was doing an even better job of disappearing. Aided by darkness and posture, the girl seemed to fade into the brick wall behind her. She moved with the exaggerated slowness of the crouching hunter and, had she been in a forest creeping toward a deer, the animal would have stared long and hard, perhaps even stamped a front hoof to lure the intruder into revealing motion, but at last it would have continued grazing, unalarmed.
People, of course, were not even that observant. This is almost too easy, Nat thought. She had staked out this house for over a week, watching the comings and goings until she knew when the young master would disappear for a night of drinking, when the servants would slip out the back door to go home to their own families, when the maid and butler would turn out their respective lights and join in the chorus of snoring.
Tonight all of the inhabitants had already left or fallen asleep, but Nat was reluctant to give the signal to invade the silent house. This was her first big housebreaking and her nerves were keyed up to a fever pitch. After tonight, she would be more than a pickpocket with a small band of co-conspirators. After tonight, she would be worthy of notice.
Nat bit her tongue between her front teeth, not very gently, to get her mind back onto business, and at last gave the signal—a sharp nod of her head. After counting to ten thrice over so the message would have time to be relayed around the house, she slipped forward, hugging the shadows and dodging street lamps until she arrived at the front gate.
The barrier was barely worthy of her consideration, but she’d already slipped between the bars a few times that week to test the cavity’s size. Now she did so again and dropped to the ground in the shadow of a large bush. The house didn’t even contain a single guard dog and Nat grinned the ferocious grin that always sent her second lieutenant, Thorn, cowering. Thorn was not there to see—she was around the corner perched on a wall, watching for anything out of the ordinary.
A near-silent tongue click alerted Nat to Tad’s arrival. Tad was the smallest and youngest of Nat’s motley crew, and the word on the street was that Nat had taken him in because she felt sorry for him. To that, Nat had merely responded with a particularly ferocious grin—she never felt sorry for anyone nor looked out for anyone but herself. Tad was useful—he was quick and he had the innocent face, the quivering lip that would make a rich lady take pity and unhand him if he got caught snitching her diamond bracelet.
Now he lay silently on the ground nearby and Nat waited for the boy’s breathing to match her own. She could have danced a jig to the beat of her heart, but her inhalations were carefully slow and even and near silent.
A minute passed. Two, and she raised herself onto one knee…only to flatten her body again at a warning whistle from around the corner. Thorn had a knack for throwing her voice, so the whistle wasn’t as dangerous as it might have seemed.
With the alert came the sound of footsteps. Not Thorn, obviously, because Thorn knew better than to walk like a great ox with heavy boots that thumped like hooves. The walker slowed in front of the gate, and Nat curbed her breathing further. Not that she feared getting caught, but precautions were always worthwhile.
The boots belonged to the constable. Nat had expected him by at some point, not that it mattered since she didn’t plan on getting caught. As if responding to her defiant thoughts, the boots moved on, clomping away down the street until they faded beyond the limits of her hearing.
Nat gave it another ten counts of ten, mostly to let Tad recover his equilibrium, then she stood and slipped silently to the half-open window in the pantry. A boost from Tad and she was through, dropping silently onto cold clay tiles. She reached an arm back out the window and Tad followed her, landing every bit as silently as his leader had before.
The two thieves had no need to speak—the entire plan had been talked out and memorized back in the deserted house in which Nat and her fellows gathered. Tad would remain on the ground floor listening for Thorn’s signal and stealing the silver while Nat searched for the master’s gold and the mistress’s jewels.
Moonlight shone in cracked slivers through the stained glass windows to lie upon the stairs, and Nat didn’t bother to dodge around the light as she ascended. In the scanty illumination, her spiky hair cast shadows like daggers, or so Nat liked to believe. Her chin was not much less pointed, nor was her nose. Nat opened her mouth into a grin and was disappointed that her teeth weren’t sharp as well. Perhaps she would file them into points like the fangs of a wolf, or of a dragon.
The thief pranced up the stairs—silently—her feet pointing so she moved as she imagined a master swordsman might. But then Nat snapped her mind back to the present. It wouldn’t do to become too cocky and to get caught. Might as well snag the cash and jewels and scat before Thorn worked herself up into a real worry—the girl was anxious far too much, and about people other than herself too. Nat shook her head at the madness of such a concept.
The jewelry, what there was of it, was not hard to find. The young master’s wife was off somewhere in the country, and most of her gems had gone along for the ride. What few were left had been slipped into a little safe behind the mirror, with the combination recorded on a scrap of paper wedged under the dial. Did the lady have no sense (Most likely not, thought Nat) to put a safe in such an accessible location? Likely she wanted it accessible so that the jewelry could be got out and tried on daily. If I ever own jewels, Nat’s internal dialogue continued, (though why I’d want them is beyond me), they’ll go under something heavy so the servants will hear when a thief comes in and moves the bed away to get at them.
Baubles removed from the mistress’s sub-par hiding place, Nat found the master’s safe in his study, and it, at least, did not have a combination slipped under its dial. But the lock was no better made than the other and Nat’s ear had no problem finding the right sequence of digits to spring the latch.
Inside were piles of coins, loosely stacked, and Nat ran a hand through her hair in excitement. She’d certainly picked the right house! The thief opened her purse to accommodate the money, but even in her excitement and greed she was careful to hold the first handful of coins firmly so as to prevent clanking as she took the riches from the safe. The butler’s room was located just above the master’s study, and for all Nat knew, he might be a light sleeper.
As it turned out, the question of the butler’s sleeping habits was moot. As soon as Nat’s clenched fist left the safe, a cacophony of bells and hoots erupted, startling her enough that she dropped the coins.
Magic! I should have known! wailed Nat silently. She might have guessed, but the young master hadn’t looked rich enough to hire a magician. Drat and blast! she raged, even as her hands quickly swept the remainder of the coins into her pouch. No point in wasting good money.
The thief was out the window in seconds, but even so it was only a moment before the first servants entered the room. Efficient, thought Nat as she clung below the window ledge, her fingers clinging to cracks in the stone wall. But not efficient enough to catch me.
In fact, the servants gave no thought to the open window. After a hurried discussion in which the obvious was stated—the safe’s wide open! There’s money on the floor! There must be a robber in the house!—the maid let out a shriek of alarm that nearly loosened Nat’s grip on the wall.
That’s a relatively effective defense, thought Nat sardonically once she had recovered her balance. By this time, the maid seemed to have regained her equilibrium as well and was demanding that the butler go in search of the thief. “He can’t have got out,” she declared. “The doors’ll’ve locked as soon as the ruckus started.”
“Or so the master said,” grumbled the butler, but he obeyed, and a few seconds later thunder on the stairs marked his descent. Nat chuckled quietly and began her own descent more nimbly and quietly. Before the maid managed to summon sufficient courage to follow the butler, Nat had dropped to the ground, squeezed through the gate, and high-tailed it for home.
Author Bio:
Aimee Easterling has been spoiled by four dogs, has spoiled six cats, and has largely been ignored by two guinea pigs, four turtles, a cockatiel, and a slew of fish during her thirty-some year life. Studying biology and working as a naturalist have both informed her writing, but she’s quite willing to let reality slide in favor of a good story. When not writing, she loves to read and always keeps books by Robin McKinley, Patricia Briggs, and Elizabeth Peters on her shelf. She is currently hard at work writing her next novel. Visit her at wetknee.com/aimee.
The Iron City is the industrial city at the heart of an empire ruled by the wealthy and the politically powerful. An urban dystopia where the poor and the disenfranchised are used for cheap labour.
The rich elite plot and scheme amongst themselves, while one of their number plans something terrible, and aims to use the rebel faction of idealistic freedom fighters known as the Fist of Truth as a pawn in his scheme. Meanwhile, a young man inadvertently steals an item which may bring those plans tumbling down. In the run-down slums of the Skein, one woman will lead the Fist in a daring plan to rescue their leader, and in so doing, set up a confrontation which will have long lasting implications for the entire city.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I grew up in the industrial heart of England and some of my earliest memories are being taken on school trips to see the old steam trains and earliest mechanical inventions. Aside from that was the architecture that was still around as a reminder of those days. All of this was a huge inspiration for me in writing my novel, which is set in a steampunk, semi-victorian setting.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I knew that I wanted at least one strong female character, as there are never enough of those in books. As it turned out, I ended up with several of them. The main character, Abel, however, is the one that is meant to be more identifiable. He is the common representative, living in a harsh, difficult city where the privileged get everything and the poor must suffer.
Book Excerpt/Sample
A blanket of inky darkness lay across the crumbling and time-worn buildings of the Skein. Night had fallen two hours earlier and the streets were, for the most part, quiet and empty. Shadows clung to the dirty brick façades of the dreary and tired tenements, their shapeless forms broken only by the flickering of gas lanterns that sent pulsing, dancing pools of light out over the cracked grey cobblestone of the streets. Ominous black clouds obscured much of the moon, though in places, lances of thin, silvery phosphorescence pierced the drifting gloom. Stray dogs, wandering forlornly, would occasionally bark, splintering the silence.
In some places, where pubs and taverns plied their trade, life could still be observed. Drunken forms, swaying home from a night of revelry meant to ease their pitiful existences, would stagger from corner to corner. Voices would rise in song, or argument, the shrill noise echoing around the labyrinthine streets and avenues. Light still spilled from windows here, though it was a dull, subdued light, meant to lull people in, rather than provide warmth.
Still, for most people, the night wrapped them in slumber, and it would be many hours before the trials of the day pulled them from their beds.
Above one such silent street, known to the denizens of the Skein as Knocker’s Way, where the stained brick of a three story tenement met the sloping, tiled roof, shadows moved. One of them detached itself from the darker shadows beside the chimney and scurried across the angled rooftop. When the clouds parted briefly, letting a sliver of light break apart the clinging darkness, the formless shadow resolved into the shape of a young boy. He moved sure-footed across the cracked tiles, apparently heedless of the dizzying drop that yawned beside him, until he reached the far edge. Here the tiles jutted out above the gaping blackness of a narrow alleyway, a small gap between two buildings that was filled with piled refuse. The boy dropped to his hands and knees and peered across the chasm at the building opposite.
He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen and in that brief glimpse it was obvious that he was dishevelled and unkempt. A ragged old flat cap perched atop his head, and lank, thick dark hair hung down beneath it, plastered to his skull. He wore a black jacket atop a faded and dirty white shirt. Dusty, half-mast trousers that barely reached his ankles covered his legs and a pair of roughly stitched leather shoes completed his outfit. His face, framed by the silvery glow of the moonlight was thin and gaunt and covered in a layer of grime. It was roughly outlined, angular and sharp but still with the softness of youth. There was not yet any hint of facial hair on his chin or cheeks. Beneath the clothes, he appeared thin and lank.
The boy crouched beside one of the iron drains and peered down at the neighbouring building for a brief moment, then turned and waved. A second shadow, this one a little taller, dashed across the sloping surface and joined him. The second boy was more heavily built, a fact that could perhaps be attributed to his age - two, maybe three years older than the other. His shoulders sloped down from a wide neck, then merged with arms that were thick and ropey with muscle. He was dressed much the same as the younger, though he was without a cap, and his head was shaved. Unlike his companion, the chin of this boy was shadowed by a few day’s growth of ginger stubble. He knelt beside the other boy and glanced down at one of the darkened windows of the house.
The first boy stirred and turned to his companion. “That’s the place Abel,” he whispered. There was a hint of excitement in his voice and the last word came out almost as a squeak.
The older boy raised his hand, rubbing at the stubble on his chin for a moment before replying. “I don’t like this Jimmy,” he said at last. Unlike the smaller boy, there was no sign of any eagerness in his words. He sounded worried and nervous. “You sure he don’t have no dogs?”
Jimmy shook his head quickly. “I told you Abel, I watched that place for the last two days. I ain’t seen no dogs, nor any hired muscle. And when the ol’ fella came out, he was dressed all fine like. He looked more like one of them blokes from up in the Heights. Top hat and cane. And I swear Abel, just afore he left, I saw him tuck away a pod key. It weren’t no iron key either.”
Abel grunted at this, but peered back down at the building, scrutinising it with a little more interest. “If you ain’t seeing things and he had a key like that, then he has to have a pod in there. Maybe a Gravewood model even.”
Jimmy nodded excitedly and grinned, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the fading moonlight. “Yeah! We can lift one of them easy. In an out while the old duffer sleeps. Winnie’ll treat us like kings if we bring back a Gravewood, right?”
Abel smiled at that, though it was a thin smile, tinged with doubt, then nodded. The thought of coming home with a piece of machinery as expensive as a Gravewood pod was enough for him to push away his doubts. Or rather, squash them beneath a wave of need. He hadn’t had a good meal for as long as he could remember and they were running out of coals back at the squat he and the other boys were living in. The money they would get for selling tonight’s potential bounty would be enough to see them through the next few months. He rose from his crouch and pointed to the drainpipe nearby. “Come on then, let’s get it done. And you just see to calmin’ down. Ain’t no sense gettin’ all overeager like. He might be an old duffer, but that don’t mean he’s a heavy sleeper.”
Jimmy nodded at this, though there did not appear to Abel to be any diminishing of the boy’s twitching excitement. He moved to the rusting iron pipe and wrapped his lanky arms and legs around it. He moved down rapidly, with all the skill of a squirrel. Abel followed more slowly, his bigger bulk making him far less agile. There was still something niggling at the back of his mind. It was same thing that had been bothering him all day, ever since Jimmy had come back with his report. If it was true that the old man was as well off as the boy made him out to be, why was he living here in The Skein, instead of up in the Heights? More to the point, why was he living here with no protection? There were folk in the Skein that would knife you in the gut for the shoes on your feet and think nothing of it. Abel had a scar or two himself to prove it, and he didn’t have two brass bits to rub together. It didn’t make sense. But Jimmy had been adamant, and the potential haul was rich enough to chance it.
He reached the bottom at last and dropped the last couple of feet to land on the uneven cobbles of the alley below. The two boys scurried across to the shadows on the other side and peered up. During his watch, Jimmy had noted the window on the third floor. It was open, just an inch or two, but enough for a set of slender fingers to squeeze through. Likely the old man didn’t think it was a risk, being up as high as it was, and had kept it open enough to let in a little air. Well, it was his mistake. The two of them had gotten into higher places before with little difficulty.
”Once we’re in, cut the chatter,” Abel whispered. “Got it?” Jimmy nodded somberly in response. The small boy spat onto his hands then gripped the drainpipe on the wall and began his ascent.
Going up was a lot more difficult than going down, and his progress was slower. The pipe was slick with grease and slime, and in places it was rusted almost completely through. Abel watched him until he was a decent way up, then set off after him. The drainpipe was several feet away from the window they needed, and getting across to that would take some skilful manoeuvring. They climbed in silence until at last, Jimmy craned his neck and whispered down that he was in place.
Abel moved to just below the smaller boy, then wrapped one arm all the way around the pipe, bracing himself in place. With his other hand, he reached out, holding it palm upwards. Jimmy placed one foot gingerly onto the hand, testing it briefly before resting his full weight on it. Abel grunted, the muscles in his arms straining. Jimmy leaned outwards, holding onto the pipe with one hand. “Ready!” he muttered. The two of them counted to three quietly and then Jimmy leaped. As he did so, Abel pushed with his hand, allowing the younger boy to use it as a springboard. It gave him the reach he needed and as he moved through the air, his hands shot out, grabbing onto the lip of the window. He swung beneath it for a moment, then heaved himself up onto the narrow ledge.
Abel scrambled upwards, taking the place that the smaller boy had vacated. His job was a little more difficult, not having the benefit of a bracing hand beneath him. His height was an advantage however. He pressed his left foot on one of the metal moorings that held the pipe in place, then crouched a little before leaping. His long arms sprang out and his fingers closed over the ledge.
Jimmy was already sliding his fingers beneath the open window as Abel scrambled up beside him, and a moment later, the window had been slid up far enough for the two of them to scramble inside.
The room beyond the window was pitch black, forcing the boys to crouch in silence for long minutes until their eyes adjusted. Gradually, the contents of the room came into view. It was a bedroom. Abel could see a single bed pushed up against the wall. There was a mattress, sagging a little in the middle, but no sheets. Clearly it was not being used. Opposite the bed was an old oak wardrobe. It was one of the fancy ones, ornately carved and sturdy, but it had long since lost it’s sheen, and Abel would not have been surprised to find it was starting to rot. These old tenements were prone to damp. The floor was wooden, covered in part by an old, faded rug. Abel nodded to the door and the two boys moved stealthily towards it.
Beyond was a dark corridor terminating at one end in a steep staircase. Two other doors led off the hallway, the nearest perhaps ten feet from where they were. They crept out into the hall, scurrying silently to the door. Abel placed his ear to the wooden panels, listening intently. Jimmy shuffled his feet and the older boy shot him an irritated glance. Jimmy froze at once and Abel returned his ear to the wood. He spent a moment concentrating and at last was rewarded with the sound of someone snoring quietly. He indicated the next door with a slice of his hand and they crept along the edge of the hall, as silent as mice.
The ritual was repeated at the next door, only this time, Abel was greeted with silence. He pulled his ear away and reached for the handle, turning it quietly. It gave a soft, though alarming creak, and Abel paused, holding his breath. He was greeted only with silence. Swallowing, he twisted the handle the rest of the way and opened the door.
Inside was another bedroom, much the same as the one they had left, only this time with a double bed. Sitting shoved up against the wall opposite the bed was a heavy wooden desk, varnished, with drawers set into it on either side. On top of the desk was the very thing they had come here looking for. It was a gleaming brass box, finished with silver bolts. In front of the box, and connected to it by a thick tube of metal, was a pair of expertly woven gloves, each one covered in small, circular copper disks, each one just barely touching it’s neighbour. Resting to one side of the box was a pair of shining metal goggles with thick lenses. Another tube of metal, this one much thinner, led from the goggles into a slot on the back of the box. Finishing the strange contraption was a large oval of metal standing upright on top of the metal box. Fitted inside the oval was a thick, slightly curved sheet of glass. It was a Hive pod, and one of the more expensive models, just as they had hoped and predicted.
Jimmy had a look of pure glee on his face as they flitted quietly into the room. Two sets of hands reached out, running over the gleaming metal finish of the box and up the curved sides of the viewing window. Both boys were giddy with excitement, and Jimmy was forced to clap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from giggling. It was enough to sober Abel quickly and he slashed a hand downwards towards the door twice in quick succession. It was the signal for Jimmy to keep watch. The younger boy moved to position and opened the door a crack so that he could peer out into the hallway.
Abel reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a bundle of thin, tangled twine. He spent a moment shaking it out then set about fitting it over the station. When he was done, it resembled a harness of sorts, with two loops of twine on the front, into which he slipped his arms. He hoisted it up onto his back, grunting a little at the weight. The Gravewood pods were among the lightest that money could buy, but they were still unwieldy and bulky and he knew it was not going to be easy climbing down the drainpipe with it on his back. They would have to chance the stairs and hope to find a window that they could unlatch on the bottom floor.
The risk was minimal, he decided. The home owner was fast asleep, and it appeared that Jimmy was right; there was nobody else here. As long as they did nothing foolish, they could be downstairs and out of the house with nobody the wiser. He crept over to the door and made a series of quick motions with his hands. Jimmy nodded his understanding.
The hallway was just as dark and as silent as they had left it, and they made their way along it to the stairs with little difficulty. As Abel stepped down onto the first step however, it groaned loudly in protest and the old wood sagged inwards from his weight. Both boys froze, staring at the bedroom door behind them in sudden panic. Neither of them moved for several minutes, but at last, when it was clear they had not been heard, they let out a deep breath of relief and turned back to the stairs. They shuffled quickly to the outer edge of the steps and began moving downwards. This time, there was no noise. They were going to do it. Abel could feel his elation rising and he struggled to keep it under control, at least until they were free of the house.
It was as they rounded the bend at the halfway point in the stairs, that everything came crashing down. Jimmy was just ahead of him, and as Abel took his first step, the younger boy suddenly stopped dead. A voice, deep and powerful, and filled with menace, drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. “You thieving little bastards. You are going to want to put that pod down nice and slow, or I’ll fill you both full of holes.”
Abel, terror suddenly lancing through him, peered over the younger boy’s shoulder into the darkness below and could just see the shadowy outline of a tall, powerfully built man. A tiny shaft of moonlight breaking through from a high window fell on the cold metal barrel of a pistol gripped in his hand and pointing directly at them. “Run, Jimmy!” he screamed, and without waiting for a response, turned and bolted back up the stairs.
He could hear the younger boy dashing up behind him, panting and gasping in panic. A loud roar crashed over him and he saw a sudden and brief flash of light over his shoulder. Something smashed heavily into the brick wall behind him, showering both boys with dust. Abel had never been so scared in all his life, and the fear that was pulsing through his veins gave him extra momentum. He reached the top of the stairs in a few bounds and turned into the hallway, skidding around it in an almost blind panic.
”Albert!” the voice yelled. Abel could hear feet pounding on the stairs as the man with the gun gave chase. “Get your arse out ‘ere!”
Their only chance was the drainpipe after all. He wasn’t sure they could make it, but they had been left with no other option. It was either that, or getting caught, and that was no choice at all. He knew only too well what happened to thieves, particularly those that came from the Skein with no money or influence to protect them. He briefly considered dropping the pod, but even now he was loathe to let go of the prize. If they could only get out of the window and onto the drainpipe, he felt sure they could shinny down it quick enough to avoid the gun. The pistol needed reloading after every shot, he was certain, and even now he could hear the man cursing as he struggled to slot another slug into the chamber.
He slid to a stop outside the bedroom door and flung himself inside. Jimmy, his face pale and terrified in the dim light, dashed in after him. He took a brief moment to slam the door shut, then bolted for the window. “I’ll go first, but you follow me right quick. Don’t even think about it, just get down that pipe.” Jimmy could only nod in response. He was darting fearful looks at the door, as though expecting at any moment that the man would come bursting through it, aiming the long, dark barrel of the pistol at them.
Abel wasted no more time in clambering through the window and clinging to the face of the wall as he inched quickly along the lip. He sensed Jimmy moving out beside him, trying to move along it and out of the way of the window. There was no room, not until Abel jumped. He tensed for a moment, preparing to leap.
”Gotcha, you little weasel!” The voice startled Abel enough that for a moment his fingers left the wall and he was forced to scrabble to maintain his balance. He heard Jimmy yell beside him and he turned his head, staring in horror as the younger boy leaned backwards precariously. The boy’s arms wind-milled in a frantic effort to save himself. Abel made a sudden lunge, his hand reaching desperately for Jimmy’s jacket.
Everything seemed to slow down. He could see his friend tipping slowly backwards, the face a mask of pure terror. The man - whose round, scarred face was now in full view - was reaching out of the window, swiping for the boy. Abel saw his own hand grasp at the jacket. But it was too far. His fingers missed by less than an inch and they swung down uselessly. “No!” he screamed, his voice breaking as he watched Jimmy tilt back a few more degrees. The angle was enough that the boy’s feet slipped forward, sending him reeling backwards.
For a split second, less time than it took for Abel to draw a breath, Jimmy was framed in the silvery glow of the moon. His arms reaching for the older boy and a look of child-like pleading on his face. But there was nothing Abel could do. Time resumed its normal course, and Jimmy was gone. He did not even have time to scream as he vanished from view. Abel heard a sickening crunch as his friend hit the ground, three stories below.
Abel’s heart thudded in his chest. He could not understand what had happened. Only a few minutes ago, both he and Jimmy had been filled with the glow of success, their prize in hand. Now Jimmy was dead. He knew it as sure as he knew the sun was going to rise in the morning.
He cast a glance at the man, whose face seemed as shocked as Abel felt. He was staring downward, his eyes wide. Abel saw his chance. He leaped, grabbing the drainpipe and clinging to it like a leach. The act seemed to stir the man out of his surprise and he turned his ugly face in the boy’s direction. Abel watched as the gun rose. He stared into the black barrel, and counted his next heartbeat, knowing it would be his last. The finger squeezed. The hammer drew back. He watched it’s slow arc, unable to move. At the last moment, as the hammer reached it’s zenith, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry Jimmy,” he whispered. He heard a click, and then…nothing.
Abel opened his eyes, blinking in surprise. The man swore and drew the gun back, fumbling to open the chamber and check the shell inside. Abel wasted no time. Moving faster than he had ever moved in his life, he began a frantic scramble down the drainpipe. The weight of the pod on his back was all but forgotten. In a few moments, his feet touched the ground. He cast the window above one final glance, the man’s hateful face staring back at him in undisguised fury, then turned and fled.
“I’m sorry Jimmy,” he said again, and the tears began to fall.
Author Bio:
John Donlan was born in 1977 in Manchester, England. Growing up in a city that was synonymous with the Industrial Revolution gave him an appreciation of that era. The architecture, the rapid growth of industry and the changing attitudes of the population of the British Isles. It was this interest that eventually led to his first novel, a steampunk thriller named Iron City Rebels. He now lives in Scotland with his partner, and is looking forward future writing endeavours. Currently he is working on the second volume in the Iron City series: Iron City Uprising.
From the prizewinning finalist in the global Hugh Howey Booktrack competition – a Half Way Home short story
Born into fire and chaos on a strange new world millions of miles from Earth, herdsman Peter owes his life to the heroism of geologist Mica.
The precarious condition of their fledgeling civilisation causes tensions to rise in the rag-tag band of fifteen year-old colonists, and when Peter witnesses an opportunistic crime, he makes a powerful enemy.
Dangers increase when they discover that hidden perils lurk below the surface of the seemingly-benign planet they’re trying to tame, and a near disaster forces Peter to decide whether there really is safety in numbers, or if he should strike out with Mica in search of their destiny, and the chance to be her hero in return.
Please note:
* PG / PG-13 content
* This is a short story of approximately 5,500 words / 22 pages
“Nobody’s Hero” is based on the novel “Half Way Home” by Hugh Howey, telling the story of Mica and Peter, two minor characters in his book. It is published with Hugh’s kind permission.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
After I read Hugh’s novel, “Half Way Home”, I found myself wondering what had happened to Peter and Mica to make them take the actions they did?
A short story competition run by Booktrack and Hugh Howey was the perfect opportunity to dream up the answer. I wrote this and another story (“The Final Solution”) as competition entries, and was absolutely delighted to be named as one of 5 finalists !
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
In this case, the characters had already been created by Hugh Howey; I just added some extra description, story and conflict to explain why they acted the way they did.
Book Excerpt/Sample
“Back on Earth, gold is precious. Very precious,” Mica continued. “Kingdoms are lost, men are killed, and people’s humanity is consumed by their lust for more of it. And yet here, on this godforsaken planet, it’s so common that we eat our dinner from it.”
I was starting to see where she was headed.
“I think Colony wants to send the rocket with news about the find, so that they — our mission sponsors — can come and plunder this planet.”
“And what happens to us, then?”
“Exactly,” she said.
Author Bio:
A finalist in the global Hugh Howey Booktrack competition, Roz lives in Scotland with her husband and the obligatory dog and cat. Her writing experience includes screenwriting, songwriting, web pages and even sentiments for greeting cards!
*Due to sexual content, this book is not suitable for readers under 18.*
Secrets. Lies. Betrayal.
How much heartbreak can one heart take?
Melisa Dane has made it through the worst. Her heart was broken, but Florian Dane, better known as “Heat”—and the man of her dreams—returned to mend it. Now, with her family almost complete, Melisa is ready to sit back and enjoy life.
But fate isn’t done with her yet. The perpetual smile on her face freezes when the second man to steal her heart shows up in her life once again. Scott Bergfeld, the husband she buried and grieved for years ago, is not dead, and he comes back bearing secrets.
Heartbroken and confused, Melisa tries to find answers to questions she never thought she’d ask, but what she learns throws her life into turmoil. Soon, cracks start to form in her marriage with Heat. As her heart is torn into two halves—between the man she loved first and the man she married first—she comes dangerously close to having her whole life destroyed again. How many people will end up getting hurt? This time, does she have the strength to make it through?
*Although this novel is a sequel to Bittersweet Moments, it can be read as a standalone.*
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The whole Moments In Time series was inspired by Learning to live again, a song by Garth Brooks.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Melisa, the main character, made an appearance in Entangled Moments and Rekindled Moments, the first two books in the Moments In Time series. So, I allowed her to tell her story in her own books.
Author Bio:
Dori Lavelle, is a mother, wife, and a sucker for happy ever afters and mint chocolate. Give her a great romance novel and a mug of hot chocolate and she’d be one happy woman.
Growing up, Dori read a lot, and when she wasn’t happy with a particular ending, she wrote a different one, just for herself. Before long, she was writing stories when she should have been doing homework. The time has come for her to share the stories she cooks up in her head.
Sex, food, and money make or break most relationships. Too bad Ginny and Jack have only the first item in common.
Ever since she was orphaned by a heart-attack-induced car wreck, Ginny has turned healthy eating into an art form. At twenty-four, she’s still struggling to make ends meet, but takes time out of her busy schedule to save her neighbors from a proposed coal-fired power plant…even if those neighbors don’t want to be saved.
Jack represents everything Ginny hates. He lives on junk food, thinks money solves everything, and is the driving force behind the power plant that Ginny detests. But despite their differences, the political opponents share an undeniable attraction, and Jack is convinced that they can work things out.
This warmly sensual romance ends with a happily ever after!
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My husband came home one day with a story from the grocery store, and his experience quickly turned into a what-if session. What if a grocery store checker rated all of her customers on the health content of their food? Could she still fall in love with a man who was buying frozen pizzas and breaded fish sticks?
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Although the initial impetus for the heroine came from real life, I was soon left filling in the blanks. Why might a woman be so obsessed with others’ dietary choices? Perhaps she’d been orphaned as a child since her father had a heart attack while driving with her mother to pick up take-out Chinese food.
Book Excerpt/Sample
When I was eight and dreaming of adulthood, I never planned to be a Food City checker. But here’s the thing — when your parents kick the bucket and drop you into foster care before you become a teenager, you find out fast that life is a struggle to stay on your feet. You lower your standards, take whatever job is offered, and find a way to entertain yourself in the process.
At the ripe old age of twenty-four, I now filled my days by silently ranking the nutritional quality of the grocery items that rolled toward me down the black rubber conveyor belt. It was a depressing statement on our nation’s food choices that most folks rated a D or F, maybe a C if I felt generous. Value packs of soda, frozen dinners that weren’t as healthy as their packaging liked to suggest, and plenty of white bread seemed to be my neighbors’ staples. You might remember that big brouhaha a few years ago about folks on food stamps buying junk with their benefits, but who ever judged the people paying full price for such crap? I figured that was my job…or at least a way to make the long hours of my real job pass more quickly.
So when my hands started picking up olive oil, avocados, bags of apples, and shelled walnuts, I couldn’t help myself. The words were out of my mouth before I could call them back.
“Wow, you’re the first person I’ve ever known who made an A plus on the quality of your food choices!” I exclaimed, raising my eyes to see what kind of paragon chose tuna over tortiglioni. (Not that our backwoods Food City even stocked that kind of fancy pasta, but a girl could dream….)
The customer was as delicious as his food choices…and that was saying something! Broad shoulders filled out a fitted sports coat, a gleaming blue shirt underneath brought out the guy’s eyes, and dark hair drifted down to brush against one cheekbone. He was movie-star handsome, and not dressed for a rural grocery store either. If I hadn’t sworn off men years ago, I would have written my phone number on the back of the receipt after circling his value-card savings and then begged him to check this checker out.
“Ahem.” A throat clearing off to the left broke my gaze, which was probably a good thing since I’d stared at the customer long enough to embarrass even myself. But how often did you see so many fresh fruits and vegetables rolling down the conveyor belt? Never — that’s why I was staring, I protested silently. Right. Now, if I could just convince myself of the innocence of my actions.
“An A, huh?” said another male voice, this one attached to a forty-something farmer whom I’d noticed passing through other checkers’ aisles several times over the last few weeks. The older customer stood at the credit-card reader, waiting for me to push the button on my cash register that would send his information up the phone line and into whatever database in the sky made sure the customer wasn’t exceeding his credit limit. (Yes, I’d spent a lot more time learning about nutrition than about credit cards. I mean, who really cares why credit cards work?) “I’m sure my wife will be glad to know that her list-making skills pass muster,” the farmer added with a kindly smile.
For half a second, I envied his wife. Sure, the man was two decades my senior, but he was also clearly going to live a very long time rather than dying of a heart attack while driving his wife home from buying Chinese takeout, leaving his daughter to make her own way in the world. Not that I was speaking from personal experience or anything.
So the smile I returned was a trifle tremulous. Usually at this point in an interaction, I’d be cheerfully chattering with the customer, trying to lend a little brightness to his or her day — after all, positive social interactions were bound to boost longevity, and most of my customers needed all the help they could get in that department. But the food options currently filling the farmer’s cloth bags (yes, he’d brought his own satchels from home…and they were hand-stitched) ensured that he’d live a long and happy life. Plus, I was fighting back tears due to slipping and thinking about my departed parents, so I kept the small talk to a minimum as I waited for the customer to sign the digital display, then handed him the receipt.
“So, how do I rate?” asked the movie-star look-a-like, yanking my attention away from the farmer, who I was pretty sure was heading to a very unfarmerly Prius instead of to a gas-guzzling pickup truck like the ones that 99% of my customers drove. His wife really had found a keeper.
But the new customer was demanding my attention, making me realize that I’d forgotten all about pretty boy as soon as I realized that the walnuts belonged to another man. So I glanced down to take in hunky guy’s offerings. Frozen pizza. Boxed French fries. A six-pack of beer. “Well, I don’t usually tell people their ratings….” I back-pedaled, not wanting to have this guy call the manager and complain about me when I let on what he really ranked — an F minus. I was already skating on thin ice with the higher-ups since I’d gotten involved in the fight against a coal-fired power plant soon to be located in our town. Most of the community was in favor of the economic opportunity, so my stance hadn’t exactly made me popular with my neighbors…or with my boss.
And, unfortunately, I really couldn’t lose this job if I was going to pay the lot rent on my forty-year-old trailer. I’d managed to save up enough money to eliminate the debt on my mobile home last year, making me the proud owner of a bedroom, kitchen, and living room at the tender age of twenty-three. But without anywhere else to park the hunk of junk, I was still out a couple of hundred bucks a month to lease the earth beneath its wheels.
Luckily, my customer hadn’t taken offense. “Hey, this is fish!” the guy teased, lifting up a box of fish sticks that I was pretty sure contained more breading than seafood. “Good for the heart,” he added, rubbing a hand over his chest.
I rolled my eyes in an attempt to draw my attention away from the chest in question. High school had taught me that the cutest guys were usually either dumb or mean. Since I couldn’t stomach either option, that manly chest was a turn-off rather than a turn-on…or so I wanted to believe. Still, the hunk in front of me seemed as witty as he was beautiful, and despite my reservations, I bantered back: “Not with all those trans fats and carbs.”
The customer smiled, and I found myself leaning toward him without conscious volition. Get a grip, I berated myself, and suited actions to words by latching onto the counter in front of me. Letting go with one white-knuckled hand, I started sliding cardboard boxes (for the record, real food does not come in cardboard boxes) across the scanner as quickly as possible. Beep, beep, beep. The sooner I got this guy rung up, the sooner he’d take the temptation of his unhealthy body out of my sight.
I worked in silence for a minute, trying to figure out who could eat ten pizzas before the cheese succumbed to freezer burn, but any effort at making my hormones jump off their current track was a dismal failure. Even though I kept my eyes down, scanning his “food” (and I use that term loosely), I could still feel the hunky customer’s blue eyes boring into my body. I’d like to be snarky and say that he was staring at my boobs, but the truth is that a few subtle glances seemed to instead catch the guy watching my face as if I were a jigsaw puzzle missing all the edge pieces.
“So, you don’t think much of me,” he said at last, pulling out a credit card that, by its shimmer, seemed to be made out of silver. I started to tell him that we didn’t take…whatever that was…but even though the sliver of metal lacked both numbers and letters, my machine didn’t complain as the card passed through. My nerve endings told me I also wouldn’t complain if this guy’s hand slid across my skin….
Whoa! Down girl! Eyes on the ball! Or, rather, eyes on the cash register. Yes, everything I said, even within my own mind, seemed to be loaded with innuendo today.
So I put on my fakest smile, forced myself to look the customer in the eye, and replied, “I was only kidding about the food rating.” I tried to add a “sir” on the end of that sentence, but I just couldn’t force myself to build that layer of distance between us. “You could have saved $3.23 today if you’d used a value card,” I added. “Would you like sign up?”
“If I put my phone number on the application, will you call me?” he asked, leaning on the check-writing station, his lips so close that the breeze of his breath tickled against my skin. The guy reached over and pulled a value-card pamphlet out of the slot, pretending to leaf through it while looking up at me from under striking eyebrows.
Deliberately misunderstanding the customer’s flirtation, I assured him that, no, his phone number wouldn’t be added to any marketing list if he applied for a Food City value card. “And you’ll save on gas too,” I continued, deep in my sales patter. “Fuel bucks are a great way to…”
“Come out to dinner with me,” he interrupted, the unmarked application fluttering down to the floor as he reached out and took one of my hands in his. The guy’s palm was tremendous, big enough to hide most of my fingers as well as the base of my hand, and his skin seemed to emit a heat that sent tingles running down my arm.
I knew I needed to tell him no. Or to feign obliviousness and keep talking about business. But the few guys I’d dated in the past hadn’t made me feel like this — I thought I might melt into a puddle of desire on the hard tile floor at the mere touch of his hand. And when I opened my mouth, no words came out.
“You know you don’t want me to eat this crap,” the guy continued, pointing at the pile of frozen offerings that had built up beside the bagging station. It was a slow time of day, so I didn’t have a designated bagger, usually doing that job myself unless the one pimple-faced teenager in the rotation hit my aisle at a propitious moment. Now, the packaged fish sticks and French fries sat and slowly melted, ignored by both their new and old caretakers alike. “I’ll even let you order for me,” the guy added, sweetening the pot. “You can get…vegetables.” The final word seemed unbearably salacious coming from his mouth, and my own lips turned upward into an honest smile.
There’s no restaurant in town that serves food worth eating, I thought, but stopped the words before they could leave my lips. I should be telling the customer that this conversation was grossly inappropriate since it had nothing to do with value cards, especially given that I didn’t even know his name. Instead, I was smiling and preparing to state a culinary preference?
No, no, NO! I wasn’t going out to dinner with a random stranger, no matter how hot he was. Especially because of how hot he was. Guys like that coasted through life, and I wasn’t a coaster — I was a bulldozer. I knew where I was going, and a man would only slow my journey down.
“No,” I finally forced out, the sound more like a cough than a word. But I’d done it! I could feel the spell that had pulled us together dissipating into the cold grocery-store air, our bond wiped out by tile cleaner and windex.
My hand slipped away from the customer’s grasp and I surreptitiously wiped my palm on the leg of my jeans as his eyes narrowed. I could tell my handsome customer wasn’t used to being turned down, probably because of the expensive cut of his suit and the credit card that screamed “more money than you’ll ever see in your life!” Women could be so shallow.
Yes, like most girls, I’d dreamed about being taken care of, about never having to worry about paying the electric bill again. But I’d “enjoyed” a brief stint as a live-in girlfriend a couple of years ago, and I didn’t relish the complete lack of control that came with the territory. Sure, being a kept woman was easy, but I wanted more from life than “easy.” I reminded myself that, like his broad shoulders, the number of zeroes in this guy’s bank account balance was repellent to me.
Keep telling yourself that and it just might come true.
The customer could see that I was wavering, so he smiled and moved in for the kill. “The restaurant doesn’t have to be in town. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said, the words loaded with double meaning.
Mutely, I shook my head, looking away from the stranger at last and paling as I noticed the manager bearing down on me. Shoot. I was taking way too long with this customer, and even though there was no one else waiting in line behind him, I knew I was in for a tongue lashing. I just hoped against hope that this rich guy wasn’t still around when I was torn back down to my rightful place on earth — at the very bottom of the social pecking order.
The guy followed my gaze and his cute-boy charm faded into a frown, his eyes turning cold and hard in an instant. My manager was no milquetoast, but he paused as he met my customer’s stare, then turned to straighten a display of vanilla wafers. Scary but effective. I was glad that dark glare wasn’t pointed at me — yet another reason to let this customer disappear into the void where I’d (hopefully) never see or hear from him again.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” the stranger said when my silence began to stretch to epic proportions. “Here.” He handed me a business card as shiny as his credit card had been, a number strewn across the paper but no words in sight. “That’s my personal line. Call me if you change your mind.”
His personal line? As opposed to his impersonal one?
The glass doors drifted closed behind the movie-star look-a-like as my manager shifted back into gear and stomped toward me. From the expression on his face, I knew my customer’s non-verbal rebuff was just going to make my dressing-down more painful. Thanks, oh nameless one, I thought sarcastically.
But, despite my best intentions to flick the hunky customer’s card into the trash, it wound up sliding down into my jeans pocket. There, the card’s hard corners poked me at intervals for the rest of the day.
Author Bio:
Aimee Easterling has been spoiled by four dogs, has spoiled six cats, and has largely been ignored by two guinea pigs, four turtles, a cockatiel, and a slew of fish during her thirty-some year life. Studying biology and working as a naturalist have both informed her writing, but she’s quite willing to let reality slide in favor of a good story. When not writing, she loves to read and always keeps books by Robin McKinley, Patricia Briggs, and Elizabeth Peters on her shelf. She is currently hard at work writing her next novel. Visit her at wetknee.com/aimee.
