Nicole Kimberling's Blog, page 5
June 9, 2015
Binky and Brutus Are Back
I know it’s been quite a while since the boys have been around. But now they’ve come home from their long quest to discover new ways of being completely ridiculous for the benefit of others.
Now they’re over visiting with Barb Gilmour at Live Your Life, Buy the Book.
Come on over and see what they’ve gotten themselves into now.
March 17, 2015
In honor of St. Patrick’s Day–an excerpt of my new story
Exciting news! I have been chosen to be part of a special secret project TBA sometime in the next couple of months. And that means I am writing a sequel to my Irregulars story, “Cherries Worth Getting.”
My new story doesn’t have a title yet, but it features the return of Special Agent Keith Curry and…..at least three leprechauns.
So here’s a peek, in honor of the day!
**************
Special Agent Keith Curry didn’t like going nowhere. But where else could a guy go on a stationary bike? Not that he didn’t like to work out. He liked free weights just fine. Cardio day? He wished he could pass on it. But even when he was in top shape being one hundred percent human in NIAD had some disadvantages. When arresting an extra-human suspect he could not turn invisible, shoot geysers of flame or fly. The only magic he had access to resided in his shoulder holster in the form of his mage pistol.
And besides he had to try and compete with Gunther. Well, he couldn’t compete with Gunther, but he could try not to look too bad by comparison.
Tall, dark, handsome and naturally fit, Gunther did not need to tag along with Keith to the company gym, but most mornings he did anyway. He sat his duffel bag down on the gray carpet and started scrolling through the messages on his phone.
“Looks like strike force is on call for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade again,” he commented.
“Damn leprechauns,” Keith muttered.
“Their labor dispute looks like it’s getting intense,” Gunter observed. He showed Keith a photo of six nasty-looking specimens forming a three-layer pyramid that stood about knee high to a normal man. The one on top held a sign reading, “Pixies Go Home.”
“I do not envy you. They look like ball-biters,” Keith said. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful. And I’m a good planner. I brought you some breakfast.” He reached into his gym bag and pulled out a can of MNA Power Drink and waggled it at him.
“That’s not breakfast. It’s a meal-replacement product.” Keith pushed the pedals harder as his velocity-free vehicle simulated a steep incline.
“But it has nine grams of protein and it tastes like a ray of creamsicle-flavored sunshine.” Gunther sat on the bike next to his and idly pushed one of the pedals around. Insofar as Keith knew, Gunther only ever worked out to be social. His perfect physique had been bestowed on him by the mages who had transmogrified his goblin body in utero so that he could be consistent with the human world.
“It tastes like baby aspirin sprinkled on sawdust. Besides I’ve got my own breakfast.”
“I hope you don’t mean that tofu dog in a baggie I saw you put in your pocket this morning.” Disapproval darkened Gunther’s expression.
“No, that’s my lunch.” Keith grinned at Gunther, unable to stop himself from winding him up. They’d been living together for one year now and although many of their domestic conflicts had been smoothed out, Gunther still found Keith’s eating habits appalling. Which Keith thought was pretty rich coming from a guy whose goblin origins allowed him to eat cigarettes and swig lighter fluid.
“Are you sure you used to be a chef?” Gunther asked.
“Either that or I just loved wearing checkered pants.” Keith grinned up at his boyfriend. “Seriously though, I’ve got a hard-boiled egg as well. And a couple of mustard packets. I’m fine.”
Keith reached a plateau in his imaginary bike ride and took the opportunity to get his wind back. He glanced out the fifth-story window. If he looked between two buildings he could just see the Washington
Monument poking up at the end of the National Mall. Dismal winter fog still clung to the tops of the buildings around them. Dirty slush coated the sidewalk below.
As a native Californian, Gunther had been game about his first east coast winter, getting very excited about owning his first pair of snow boots. But then Guther’s outgoing nature and high spirits were hard to deflate by any means—the exact opposite of Keith’s own inborn pessimism and suspicion.
“Is there any more news on the security breeches?” Keith asked.
Gunther shook his head. “No one has claimed responsibility and the spells leave no residue to analyze. Pixie-pure magic. That’s what they say.”
Keith rolled his shoulders to try and remove tension building there. For the past three weeks, seven NIAD agents had been attacked by a bizarre and completely incapacitating spell that caused severe hallucinations that lasted several days. During that time the agents became convinced that they’d been abducted, recognized no one around them and often had to be physically restrained. Afterward the agents remembered little about the experience, but seemed mostly to be unharmed.
While it was true that many extra-humans, especially in the fey community, might regard this sort of attack as more of a prank than a terrorist assault, NIAD took a dim view of any kind of breech of security.
“I suppose they haven’t bothered to interview the local pixies yet, then,” Keith asked.
“Anybody with a handful of jelly beans can score a thimble-full of pixie dust these days,” Gunther replied, giving a shrug. “It’s half of what the leprechauns are so pissed about. All that magic dust flying around is completely ruining the market for three wishes, or so they say.”
“I would say the three wishes racket also suffers from some credibility issues that are unrelated to pixies as well.” Keith didn’t like to think of himself as prejudiced, but the antics of leprechauns often rubbed him the wrong way.
“Such as?” Gunther glanced up from his phone.
“Oh, like a bald guy wishes for hair and ends up getting a rabbit. You know, a hare? Douchebag leprechaun humor.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true. Still if the pixies don’t get on the self-regulation ball, our brass is going to step in and do it for them. Then nobody will be happy. Especially not that sugar junkie Buttercup.” Gunther pocketed his phone and picked up the MNA again. “If you’re not going to drink this I will.”
“Knock yourself out.” Keith bore down on the pedals again, pushing against the last incline in the computerized interval training. Sweat slicked his palms. Beside him Gunther cracked the top of the can and chugged the entire twelve ounces. Even then he looked good, like a guy in a commercial. He finished, crumpled the can in his hand and gazed out the window.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing the cherry blossoms this spring,” he said. “I just missed them last year.”
“They’re pretty good… if you like pink trees.” Keith dismounted from the bike and scrubbed his face with a dry towel. When he glanced back up he found Gunther’s expression fill with sadness. He’d screwed it up again, damn it. He should be more appreciative of Gunther’s more sensitive nature. To make up for his callousness he said, “You okay?”
Gunther didn’t reply. He moved closer to the window until his forehead was pressed right against the glass. Keith could see how Gunther’s breath fogged the pane. Gunther’s lips moved but Keith couldn’t hear what he said.
Keith glanced around the workout room. They were hardly the only guys there. Eight or nine other agents occupied the space. A couple of Gunther’s strike force buddies were toward the back, pumping iron. One of them noticed Gunther’s dejected posture and gave Keith the stink eye.
Keith ignored him and turned back to Gunther. Quietly, he said, “Hey baby I didn’t mean to make you sad. We’ll go have a picnic out there under the cherry trees just like the Japanese exchange students do. I’ll make sushi.”
Slowly Gunther turned to face him. His blue eyes shone with tears.
“Baby?”
“I have to get out of here,” Gunther whispered.
“Out of DC?” Sure, he thought, the city could be dreary at this time of year but he thought Gunther might be overreacting a little. Could it be homesickness? Trans-goblin families were very tight-knit and Gunther had left his behind on the west coast.
“Out of here!” Gunther’s voice rose with each word. “I have to get out!” He spun to face the window and smashed his fist directly into a window designed to withstand a mage blast. Blood exploded across the glass as his knuckles split and popped against the unyielding surface.
Gunther howled with rage and threw himself at the glass thrashing against it like a fish caught in a net. Keith lunged forward and caught him around the waist, pulling him back from the impenetrable barrier.
“I need some help here!” Keith bellowed.
Gunther fought him, throwing an elbow that caught him like club in the gut. Keith curled over in pain, but managed to keep hold of his boyfriend long enough for Gunther’s strike force buddies and a couple other agents to get across the room and help restrain him. Someone hit the alarm. A red light coalesced in the center of the room, flashing like the light atop a cop car.
Gunther struggled against them wailing and writhing on the gray carpet. His already injured hand smashed against the pedal of an elliptical trainer. Blood spattered across the device. Being goblin inside, Gunther’s strength easily overwhelmed the men restraining him. He kicked one of his friends back against a weight rack, sending dumbbells crashing down.
On-duty security came through the door, mage pistols drawn.
“Clear off!” One shouted.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith rushed forward, but not in time. The point man leveled the gun and fired. A blue bolt of magic flared from the muzzle, slamming into Gunther’s chest. Gunther went still.
Keith launched himself at the shooter, screaming. “I’ll kill you you stupid fuck!”
Gunther’s friends caught Keith by the arm and held him back. One of them was shouting something in Keith’s ear.
“…he’s been compromised. It was on stun. Calm down. He’s fine.”
Keith stopped stilled as he saw a medical team also coming through the door going toward Gunther’s limp body.
“Let me go,” Keith growled.
“No, you’ll just get in their way,” Gunther’s friend said. “They’ll take him to the medical unit. You can see him there.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I think he just became the eighth agent to get pixie-dusted.”
September 30, 2014
Two Down, One to Go
September’s been a pretty busy month for me. First I attended Yaoi-Con in Buringame, CA (which is always a fantastic time) then came back up to Seattle to participate in Gay Romance North West (or GRNW for short).
GRNW’s second year went even better that the first, with two sessions of panels followed by a great author meet-n-greet at the Hotel Monaco.
Next I will be back in Seattle again for Geek Girl Con, the weekend of October 11 & 12. Blind Eye Books will have a table in the dealer’s room. I will also be on a panel Sunday afternoon along with Ginn Hale, Langley Hyde, Astrid Amara, Amber Dawn, and J Tullos Hennig.
It’s my first time attending Geek Girl Con and I’m excited to see how it goes. In the mean time please enjoy these pics from Yaoi-Con 2014 brought to you courtesy of Ginn Hale, who is a master of the “camera” function of her cell phone telephone.
One of the many lovely heroes of Y-Con
A nearly-full set of DRAMAtical Murder Cosplayers.
Lovely ladies.
These two are just plain awesome. Different matching costumes EVERY DAY!
August 19, 2014
I’m a “participant!”
The ever-insightful KJ Charles and friends have organized an event in October called Queer Romance Month that I am participating in.
How will it go? Only time will tell, but they’ve got a fantastic lineup of authors, so it should be pretty good. Check back for more details.
July 17, 2014
Time Flies
Ten years ago I was lucky enough to be able to participate in what was then called the Clarion East Writer’s workshop sponsored by MSU in East Lansing Michigan. Me and around 15 other aspiring writers holed up in a Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house and wrote like crazy while visiting writers and editors attempted to dispense wisdom that most of us were to tense and clueless to understand until weeks—or even years—later.
For those of you who don’t know Clarion is a six-week intensive short story writing workshop focusing on science fiction and fantasy writing. It has been rightly compared to boot camp. Basically you write all night and critique all day. Occasionally you take time off to drink gin and tonics or try to eat things. (This was especially difficult in our sorority house, since the management had put “do not enter” tape all over the kitchen in an effort to stop us from using any of the appliances. They’d also padlocked most of the refrigerators in order to keep us from impuring their virgin spaces with our dirty cases of diet coke and fritos. I lost 15 pounds from sheer lack of interest in microwave burritos alone.)
It’s not hyperbole to say that I wouldn’t really have a writing career right now had I not done my time in the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house. I started writing my Lambda-winning novel, “Turnskin” there. Encouraged by Gordon Van Gelder’s statement that I had “good editorial instincts” I first tried my hand at editing.
I made friends and business connections who to this day continue to help Blind Eye Books keep hurtling toward our own ten year anniversary. (2017 or Bust!)
Clarion East packed up and moved to San Diego a couple of years after I attended. The students there get to attend Comic Con and are probably even allowed to use the kitchen but to me every July I’ll be thinking of those halcyon evenings I spent hanging around on the roof with my Clarion peeps watching the fireflies rise up from the weird little ditches of East Lansing. I will recall with fondness getting drenched—drenched, I tell you!—in frequent afternoon downpours. And I will sigh a happy little sigh whenever I see a movie about killers invading sorority houses.
Oh, fellow 2004 classmates, I wish you luck and joy for the next 10 years as well.
March 17, 2014
Brutus and Binky up on the GRNW site
June 18, 2013
Bellingham Mysteries 5: Birds of a Feather is on sale today!
But figuring out a seating chart that won't result in homicide isn't Peter's only problem. He's a reporter and reporters need stories. Fortunately Peter has one. When he finds a dead, dismembered bald eagle near his home, he's on the case. As guests converge upon his home, Peter searches the county for the person responsible...
Available from Loose Id right here!
June 10, 2013
Giveaways!
http://liveyourlifebuythebook.wordpress.com/2013/06/10/nicole-kimberling-qa-a-twofer/
January 24, 2013
Heir of Starlight Excerpt
Here is the blurb:
It’s been seven years since Karl Alton sublet his human body and let his soul be transferred to an orangutan. Now that the contract is up, Karl is ready to live a less hairy existence. Except his body has been stolen.
Devastated, Karl turns to his boss, Lord Adam Wexley, for legal advice. But instead of using his noble connections, Adam realizes they need to fight magic with better magic. And there’s only one man for the job: Adam’s ex-lover, Grand Magician Zachary Drake.
Once, Drake sacrificed his prized independence to save Adam’s soul. Now under the thumb of the West Court, he’s been forced to create a terrible weapon and bound to a vow of silence. Yet when Adam comes to him for help, no amount of bitterness over his lot will let him refuse.
Soon they discover that Karl’s missing body is only one thread connected to a plot to destroy the kingdom. And now the desperate race is on to find who—or what—has a finger on the trigger.
Warning: Contains vengeful bankers, noble lawyers, waxed divers who don’t wear wetsuits, and one trip to the vice principal’s office.
So I thought it would be cool to post an excerpt.
Chapter One
Far from the opulent Malachite Palace, in a strip mall in the waiting room of Portia Blanding’s Soul Services Center, Karl Alton shifted in the plastic chair. His orangutan legs were too short to sit properly on furniture made for humans. His arms were too long. His left shoulder and wrist ached from arthritis.
He was uncomfortable.
And hot.
Though he’d worn this elderly ape’s body for nearly seven years, he had never before allowed himself to think about how wearing the body felt. He couldn’t have reflected on the downside of living as an orangutan and still been happy working as a chauffeur. He hadn’t considered whether or not he liked the pedal extenders required for him to double-park his boss’s, Lord Adam Wexley’s, black, four-door Stallion-Brilliant sedan in front of all the best courthouses in town. Above all, he had avoided dwelling on how much he longed to say a single human word.
The clock read 11:59. At noon, in one short minute, his contract would expire. His body must be in the building by now. Maybe in this very room.
With a sense of intense trepidation, he glanced around at the various people assembled. Most of them looked like they were there to sell, not to return. He didn’t spot his body among them.
Probably, Karl thought, they had his body in back someplace. Maybe it had already been returned and given a good wash, like any other sort of rental.
Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered and hummed.
A man walked in. He looked the right age and height. And he had the right coloring. But unless Karl had lost the ability to recognize his own face, this body was not his.
Unsettled, Karl wondered if he would still be able to remember his own face. What if he’d been scarred? His nose broken? What if whoever had sublet his body had tattooed it?
What if they had let it smoke?
He twiddled with one of the bolts holding the chair together, unconsciously twisting it counterclockwise.
At the best of times, the orangutan whose body he inhabited could barely be prevented from disassembling any object with moving parts. When made nervous by Karl’s own discomfort, nuts and bolts seemed to appear, like magic, in his dark-skinned fingers.
The second hand of the clock ticked over. A receptionist called his name. Karl rose, knuckle-walked down past the service desk to a dull, beige office containing three desks, a water cooler and a noisily rattling air-conditioning unit.
Portia Blanding, Corporeal Sublet Agent, glanced at him and then her appointment book. She was a plump woman in her midfifties with a kind face and the same rigid blonde flip hairdo Karl remembered her sporting when he’d signed the sublet contract seven years prior.
Portia said, “Expiring contract?”
Karl signed, “I’m Karl Alton, I’m here to retrieve my body.”
Portia’s smile grew slightly strained. Karl thought he could see her hairspray stiffening further.
“Mr. Alton, yes, I was expecting you. I think we should move to a more private room.” With a decisive wave of her hand, she indicated a door to her left.
The change of venue aroused Karl’s suspicion. He signed, “Where is my body? Can I see it?”
“If you’ll just come through here—”
Karl slammed his fist down on her desk. All motion in the office ceased.
Portia’s kindly expression hardened and her eyes turned flinty. “Mr. Alton, if you come through, I will help you. If you continue with this display, I’m afraid I will have to phone the police.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just a little bit anxious.” Head hung in shame, he knuckle-walked across the institutional gray carpet into a small room containing an oblong table and two more uncomfortable molded-plastic chairs. Karl climbed up into one and waited for the bad news.
Ideas and images raced through his mind. Was his body crippled? Deformed? Burned over forty percent of its surface? Royal law decreed he should be informed should his body die while in the custody of an inhabitant, so he knew his flesh still lived somewhere. But what state was it in?
Portia closed the door behind her and sat opposite him. She folded her hands. “I’m afraid, Mr. Alton, that your body has been stolen.”
For the next few minutes, Portia spoke. She gave him a copy of the police report her company had filed and passed a few brochures across the table for organizations that might help him locate his body. She told him they’d done all they could.
Karl could barely process her words.
His body had been stolen.
That meant he would not be leaving this body today. He would not get his old body back, however broken and used it might be. He might never see his own true face again.
It was as if a window had opened up in his chest and allowed a cruel and bitter wind to sever his dreams.
The sensation resembled the moment he had been separated from his original flesh—a sorrow so intense it felt like dying, like losing everything that had ever belonged to him. And even though he’d only been disembodied for moments, the agony of the loss had stayed vividly with him throughout the years he’d been in this ugly, hairy, quasi-controllable orangutan.
He’d managed to separate himself from the feeling of constant turmoil that the presence of the orangutan’s spirit caused. Though subdued, the animal’s mind rose up like a psychosis, robbing him further of his humanity. And when he grew weary, it took control.
He found himself watching Portia’s lips move, not hearing or understanding her, receding into the safety of his mind. Then the other spirit in his body assumed command.
Rage exploded through him. He seized the edge of the table and flung it against the far wall. Instantly, security guards burst into the room. From his place in the back of the orangutan’s mind, Karl thought they must have been waiting outside the door, anticipating his reaction.
One of the guards got a noose around his neck. Karl’s animal body howled and clawed at the choking thing. He—the orangutan he inhabited—must be disappointed too, Karl thought.
For years he’d been telling the beast he’d be free to move his own limbs, soon. He had promised to buy the animal from Portia and set him free in a sanctuary. He hadn’t thought the orangutan understood him, but now perceived the animal had comprehended those thoughts after all. It was just as the animal advocates at the nonprofit where Lord Wexley worked, The Integrity Foundation, had said all along.
Above it all, he could hear Portia yelling. “I know you’re disappointed, Mr. Alton, but please—you have to get control of your body before it gets damaged. You will be charged for all veterinary care provided because of this outburst.”
As if they were emerging from some other body, Karl heard the orangutan’s choking cries. His host body didn’t deserve this. He had to pull himself together.
With force of will greater than he realized he possessed, Karl pushed the orangutan back down. He regained use of his hands and signed, “It’s all right, I’m back in charge now.”
Cautiously, the security guards loosened the noose incrementally. Karl straightened the cargo vest he wore and began to gather the papers scattered across the floor.
Apparently reassured by this, Portia dismissed the guards and helped him retrieve the sheets of paper that lay scattered like fallen leaves all over the room.
Almost without speaking, they reassembled his file, making sure everything was in order. Then Portia drew herself up. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Alton.”
Karl lifted his hand and signed, “Me too.”
Laden with papers, he left the office and, failing to find any motivation to go anywhere or do anything, he returned to work. He drove to Lord Wexley’s house, parked the car and went searching for his boss. He started in the backyard.
Bent in the garden, trowel in hand, Lord Adam Wexley could have been mistaken for hired help. He had the shoulders for it, the tanned skin. He wore jeans, tawny leather gardener’s gloves and a printed T-shirt advertising the Inhabited Animal Defense League. His blond hair glinted in the warm sunlight. He seemed solely focused on turning the soil beneath an ornamental butterfly laceleaf.
Karl clapped.
Lord Wexley didn’t respond.
Obviously, he’d removed his hearing aids. Karl knuckle-walked across the mossy ground cover. A great green willow tree occupied one corner of the garden. The orangutan with whom he shared a body desperately wanted to swing through that tree. Karl resisted. He had other things to discuss.
Lord Wexley started when Karl came into his field of vision. He straightened, rubbed his back and cocked his head quizzically. He removed his gardening gloves to reveal his broad, strong hands.
“Karl! I wasn’t expecting you,” Lord Wexley signed. Then Wexley looked closer, as if he was taking in Karl’s entire demeanor. “Are you all right? Has something happened?”
Karl managed a shaky nod. Lord Wexley crouched down and laid a hand on Karl’s shoulder. Finally, Karl was able to force his hands to speak.
“When I started working for you, I told you that my body had died. That wasn’t true, boss. I just said that because I didn’t want you to think I was the kind of idiot who would sublet my body.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would you think I would think that?”
“Everybody thinks that.” Karl’s gestures grew emphatic, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Even you thought that before you got involved in working for the rights of the disembodied.”
At first Wexley seemed like he might protest. Instead, he shrugged. “I guess you’re right. I used to be more shallow.”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now anyway.” Karl slumped forward, staring at the ground.
Wexley squeezed his shoulder to get his attention then continued to sign. “Tell me what’s happened, please.”
“I went to complete my contract today—to get my body back. Turns out the fucking thing has been stolen. Whoever did it removed the tracking chip implanted in the thigh. It was a professional job. The agency has put me on a donor list and says that I can have the use of this ape’s body until a human body becomes available.”
“Do they have any idea when the theft occurred?” Lord Wexley’s fingers seemed to be flying, compared to Karl’s slow and painful signing.
“I guess the soul-services agency lost track of it two weeks after I signed the contract. They hired a body hunter to find it. He managed to track down the chip in a corpse. The police have already been informed. I have the reports and contact names.”
“So your body is dead?”
“No, that’s the hell of it.” Karl puffed in frustration. “The blood type on the body was wrong. It’s not mine. It was my chip in somebody else’s body. A real professional job, so the cops said.”
Wexley nodded. “I’m very sorry, Karl.”
Karl shrugged. “You’ve seen a lot of people in worse situations than mine.”
“That doesn’t make your loss insignificant.” Wexley sat back on the edge of a raised planter. “There has to be something you can do.”
“You know the drill, boss. I go down, refile this report as a legal owner of my body, and they never call me back. It’s been years. My body could be anywhere.”
“What about hiring a magician to search?”
“I don’t have that kind of money or those connections. And it’s been so long that it would most likely be a waste anyway. My body is probably sitting at the bottom of the ocean someplace.”
Wexley smiled kindly. “Well, I happen to have both money and a few connections in that area, and I don’t think it would be so much of a waste.”
Karl’s eyes widened. Deep in his heart he had held a hope that Wexley would take pity on him—that he would agree to use his contacts at the Integrity Foundation to help. Karl’s sudden relief and elation spilled over into his counterpart. The ape launched himself across the back garden and into the willow tree. Hand over hand he brachiated through the branches, ignoring both the arthritic stiffness in his shoulders and Karl’s own mental commands to cease. When he finally came back to earth, he somersaulted up to Wexley’s feet.
“So, should we go to your office, boss?”
Wexley shook his head. “Eventually, but I think I know a faster way. We’re going to collect your identification samples. Then, this evening, we’ll go to the Black Tower.”
The witness gallery for the execution chamber at the Malachite Palace was surprisingly full for such a low-grade criminal, Drake thought. Not that the pasty, egg-shaped pathetic kneeling before the hooded axeman hadn’t committed heinous crimes. For six weeks Leonard Cowrie had terrorized the city population with a string of shootings aimed at eliminating the soulless. His manifesto, when discovered, turned out to be a nine-hundred-page argument that dispatching these empty bodies qualified as righteous mercy.
Though Cowrie had acquired the usual cadre of extremist sympathizers, most members of the population had still managed to take exception to the murders.
It warmed the cockles of Drake’s bitter black heart to know that after only fourteen sniper attacks in parks, shopping malls and sporting events, the nobles of the Courts of Four Directions had finally deemed the case worthy of investigation. The King’s Police had been given the necessary funds, and the magician-detectives there had captured Cowrie within the week.
Drake had followed Cowrie’s trial with vengeful interest. His own father’s empty body had toiled among the soulless for many years. Drake should have been happy to be invited to witness this deviant’s execution. And he would have been, if his role here had been that of a spectator, sitting, sipping cocktails in the gallery beyond. But he hadn’t come to watch. Drake had been summoned only to perform a task for his West Court masters.
Drake stood just behind the executioner, staring at the man’s broad, hairy back. He adjusted his rings, pretending to check them, though he didn’t need to. Neither one of the slave souls bound into his rings had gone anywhere. Spider sat on his left hand and Talon on his right. His blood diamond locus still glinted redly up at him.
The executioner glanced back at him. Even through the hood, slight nervousness showed in his eyes, though Drake found the idea that this axe-wielding hulk should be cautious of him hilarious. Scrawny, small and pale, Drake could never offer any physical threat.
Spider and Talon, on the other hand?
Well, he supposed he could see why a stranger would not care to be confined in a small room with him.
Bound and kneeling before them, Cowrie muttered and moaned. The tiny, white-tiled room felt close and hot. Drake noticed for the first time that even the ceiling glittered with ceramic glazing and also that there was a drain in the floor. Compared to the tastefully decorated viewing gallery, the execution chamber seemed surreal and abattoir-like, which fit the room’s purpose.
Glancing through the viewing window to the gallery, Drake took note of the more prominent faces present. The nobles crowded in the gallery had not been assembled to witness Cowrie’s death either. They had gathered to watch Drake demonstrate a prototype smart gun.
Drake’s smug and hideously well-composed mistress, Lady Langdon, was there, her tasteful woolen suit of muted gold protected from the impending burst of arterial spray by thick safety glass.
Bearded and bedecked in jewels, King Louis lounged in an armchair, attended by his current underaged man-candy attendant—some brunet whose name Drake had not bothered to learn.
Also present was Lord General Wakeman of the North Court, flanked by various aides in royal green uniforms. He had silver hair, a gray handlebar moustache and so many gold medals attached to his uniform that the fabric sagged under their weight.
Wakeman’s cousin, Grand Magician Arthur Drysdale-Martin, had come dressed in his usual reactionary getup—archaic purple magician robes that no one, not even the loony artists of the South Court, wore anymore.
Last, Drake spied the ancient, despised Lord Roscoe of the South Court, pale as a mummy, done up in burgundy velvet and looking every bit the decrepit old pervert that he was. Two young ladies—his muses, he called them—sat alongside him, holding and alternately offering Roscoe supplies of hashish and liquor.
It was Roscoe who had ordered Drake’s father’s soul to be stripped from his body. Roscoe had kept Drake’s father housed in the body of a lapdog for years while his soulless body cleaned cigarette butts from the palace gutters.
Overhead a gong shattered the silence of the execution chamber, startling Drake so much that he jumped. Invigorated by fear, Cowrie began to wail. The sound bounced off the walls, echoing and amplifying. The axeman didn’t seem to notice, but there was no way Drake would be able to talk above this noise. He knelt and jabbed the point of his ring, Talon, into Cowrie’s neck.
Instantly Cowrie went silent and still. Drake caught the executioner regarding him with what might have been an approving expression. Though with the hood, it was hard to be sure.
Drake walked to the window and switched on the intercom.
“Your Highness, Lords and Ladies of the Courts, I will now demonstrate the future of small arms, the Zero.” He held up his own five-shot revolver. “This revolver is a joint effort between the North and West Courts. The goal was simple: to create a self-aiming weapon. To this end I, with my North Court counterparts, developed a gun that is perfectly safe and perfectly reliable.”
Privately Drake thought the Zero was neither, but he continued undeterred.
“The Zero works on captured-soul technology such as the spells that fuel my own rings.” Drake held up his hands to display Spider and Talon. “Inside each of these is a soul stripped to a specific magical purpose. Today I will demonstrate how that is done. First, I use Spider to create a spell web that will catch this man’s soul at the moment of separation. Go ahead, Spider.”
The moment he granted permission, Spider began to move. She unhooked herself from the silver band around Drake’s finger and dropped from his hand to the floor. Her eight silver legs flashed as she scuttled toward Cowrie and began to weave. Though the spell threads were invisible, Drake watched her climb and build.
The executioner grew increasingly nervous. And who wouldn’t be, Drake mused, with Spider crawling through midair. When at last she’d finished, she dropped to the floor. Drake bent to snatch her up before she could crawl up his pant leg. She never resisted an opportunity to bite him in the groin.
“Now, the executioner will separate the soul from the body.” Drake leaned down to recall Talon from Cowrie’s body. Then gave the executioner a nod. Cowrie managed one raspy whine before the silencing axe swung down, severing Cowrie’s head from his neck and his soul from his body. As Drake had predicted, blood blasted from the man’s open jugular and carotid arteries. Hot, metallic blood sprayed across the white tile and up Drake’s pant leg.
At times like this, he always congratulated himself on his ruthless adherence to an all-black wardrobe.
Cowrie’s soul floated up, only to be caught in Spider’s barely visible web. Drake took hold of the insubstantial strands and gathered Cowrie’s soul into a neat packet.
“Now, the crucial thing to remember about this sort of technology is that the soul chosen must be suited to the purpose. This particular soul enjoyed wielding a gun in life. Therefore he will not inherently fight being essentially made into a gun now. First, I strip the soul down to a single desire.” For this, Drake employed his switchblade.
“Excuse me.” Lord Roscoe’s voice filtered through the intercom. “Exactly how do you strip the soul? What spells are written on that blade?”
Drake smiled. “I’m afraid that is proprietary knowledge, Lord Roscoe.”
Roscoe turned to Lady Langdon, who merely shrugged. “The West Court owns Drake’s soul, not his memory.” Then to Drake, “Please proceed, Grand Magician.”
“Thank you, madam. Once the soul is stripped, I place it inside a ring. Normally it would have to be forged into the metal, in the manner of souls united by wedding rings, but in this case we’ll simply install the soul fragment inside a gem. I’ve chosen amethyst whose purple color honors our North Court partners.”
“With the gold band symbolizing West Court,” Langdon finished.
“Yes, we all gathered that,” Roscoe said dryly.
While Drake fed Cowrie’s soul into the gem, the executioner’s team dragged the headless carcass away. Lastly, the executioner threaded his fingers through Cowrie’s scant hair and raised it up for the king’s approval. The king dismissed his axeman with a wave, and the executioner departed, leaving Drake momentarily alone on the bloody white tile.
Then the side door opened, and a North Court operative entered, holding a small paper bull’s-eye target, which he pinned to the wall behind Drake.
The blood that soaked Drake’s pant leg began to chill.
“This particular ring is worn on the upper index finger. When the jewel engages with the trigger, the targeting device is locked in. I could now hit any target of my choosing simply by pointing the muzzle in the target’s general direction. The gun takes care of the rest.” Drake resisted the urge to brandish the gun at the assembled nobles. While he generally enjoyed engaging in pointless acts of bravado, he now had consequences to consider. Langdon’s wrath at being embarrassed in such a way would be formidable. So with hapless unconcern, he pointed the gun behind him and pulled the trigger. The gun yanked up and over. The report was deafening, but Drake did not wince. With supreme showmanship, he turned and saw that the bullet had hit the target’s center.
Muted applause filtered through the intercom.
“So you see, this new technology has the potential to end accidental and friendly fire deaths,” Drake finished.
“Provided that enough snipers can be located,” Roscoe said.
“More to the point,” Wakeman said, “it could be very useful to agents operating in targeted neutralizations.”
“Assassinations, you mean,” Roscoe clarified.
“The new technology has potential in many areas,” Langdon said. Rising, she continued, “Thank you very much for the demonstration, Grand Magician. That will be all.” She turned to her servant, a big silverback gorilla whose sad, long-suffering expression belied his vindictive streak. “Draw the curtains, Milton.”
“It was my pleasure to serve my lady,” Drake replied. As the drapes of the viewing gallery fell closed, Drake dropped into a deep, theatrical bow.
The ring on his finger vibrated with sheer excitement and anticipation of the next time the gun would fire. The amethyst pulled as if drawn against the trigger by a magnet.
Drake disengaged his trigger finger and transferred the ring to his pinkie, whispering, “Not tonight, villain.”
Unobserved at last, Drake straightened and took in the gore. Bile rose in his throat. The stench of blood clogged his lungs, choking the breath from him. He staggered toward the wall and, leaning against it, was violently ill.
