A.L. Knorr's Blog, page 2

Sneak Peek 2: Shadows of the Fallen

My current work-in-progress will follow Petra’s story. Here’s chapter two (chapter one here) with the usual disclaimer that it is unedited and subject to change.

Chapter Two

 Jesse pushes into the Alfama Haven, the boutique hotel he has picked especially to rendezvous with Petra to celebrate. They’d done it. Sixty-six field stations—reduced to rubble. A three-year mission, orchestrated by a hacker and a hurricane. And now? Lisbon, a hotel room, and a little ring burning a hole in his bag. For the first time in three years, Jesse feels like the future isn’t a mirage. It’s right there, waiting on the other side of a hot shower and a pastel de nata. He glances at his watch. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like Petra is on a plane. She is traveling Euroklydon style, which means, arrival time: whenever she pleases.

His heart beats with anticipation as he looks around the quaint lobby. Azulejo tiles adorn the wall behind the small front desk. Wooden beams arch overhead, almost low enough to reach up and touch, dark and rustic. Wall sconces reminiscent of the streetlights in the Alfama district cast a soft glow over the space. There’s not a soul in sight. It’s like stepping into a magazine spread entitled: “Places to Propose Before the Demons Catch Up.”

Jesse rolls his luggage to one of the armchairs and sits down, checking his watch again. He hopes she is waiting for him in their room. Maybe she is already having that shower. Maybe he will step into the room just as she is stepping out of s steamy bathroom with wet hair. Maybe she’ll throw her towel in his face and tell him to stop narrating his own fantasy fiction.

“Olá!” A bright, friendly voice jars Jesse from his daydream. “Welcome to the Alfama Haven. Sorry for the wait.” A young woman bustles into the lobby through a low wooden archway and plops into the chair behind the desk. She gives him a wide smile as she wakes the computer. “How was your journey to Lisbon?”

“Good, thank you.” Jesse moves to the chair opposite her.

“Wonderful.” She gestures to the small bar where an espresso machine sits beside an array of coffee paraphernalia. “May I offer you bica, or a complimentary glass of vinho verde? A little taste of Portugal to begin your stay?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll take água, though, if you have it.”

“Certainly.” She spins in her chair to open a small fridge beneath the counter and sets out a cold mini bottle of water before him, along with a glass and a paper coaster printed with the hotel’s logo. She returns to the computer as he twists the cap off the water and drinks. “Now, let’s get you settled. We’ve upgraded you to a suite overlooking the Tagus River. Very beautiful, especially at sunset. Here is your key—”

“Sorry, to interrupt, but can you tell me if my girlfriend has already checked in?”

A line appears between her perfectly tweezed brows. “Let me see… I’m not sure, as my shift just began but perhaps my colleague assisted her.” She scans the screen, clicking a few buttons and trailing the mouse.

“Gorgeous woman with black hair, silver-grey eyes, a smoky voice.” Jesse is in such a good mood, he can’t help but brag a little. She’s like dating a natural disaster—if hurricanes wore black hoodies and rolled their eyes a lot.

She smiles knowingly at him. “Well now, there’s no way we would have missed such a lady, but I’m sorry, no. Do you know when she’s set to arrive? We can call the airport, even arrange for a limousine service, if you wish to surprise her. We have a driver stationed—”

“No, that’s alright. I’m sure she’ll be along soon.” He finishes the rest of the water in a few gulps.

She slides a packet toward him. “I’ve got a map for you here, along with some recommendations for exploring Alfama—hidden gems, our favourite pastelarias, and the best places for live fado music. The Wi-Fi password is inside as well. If you need any help planning your time here, don’t hesitate to ask. This is a very romantic neighbourhood. You’ve chosen well. Just take the stairs or the elevator up two flights, down the hall on your right.”

Jesse thanks the hotel clerk and drags his luggage into the tiny elevator. He is a mixed bag of feelings and emotions. Exhaustion after his five-hour flight from Tel Aviv—the location of the second-to-last TNC exploit—excitement to have Petra in his arms again, and the anxiety that is his ever-present companion whenever she travels long distances.

He uses his key card to let himself into their room, reminding himself that she’s in no danger. There is no distance she cannot cover safely, and at astonishing speeds, too. She is not as fast as a plane, but she’s no slouch either. She is detectable by many different kinds of technologies—Jesse fell down that particular rabbit-hole at the beginning of their vigilante days—LIDAR systems, satellite imagery, Doppler radar and AERONET stations which measure dust movement and concentrations using photometers. There are more, but it’s all irrelevant. Petra looks like a sandstorm, even to the most advanced detection systems, because that’s what she becomes, although it’s a good thing weather satellites can’t track emotional baggage. He has asked her many times to describe what it feels like to blow apart into trillions of particles but she doesn’t have the words, just like she doesn’t have the words to describe how she generates an EMP. The one thing she has no trouble describing is the headache that results when she uses her telepathy for more than a few seconds at a time. “Picture a swarm of bees trapped inside a Coke can. Now give them opinions.”

The hotel room is just as quaint as the lobby; decorated with blue and white tiles, wrought-iron chandeliers, deep olive-green paint with splashes of mustard yellow. A double bed fitted with a pristine white duvet sits beneath an enormous painting of Alfa’s winding streets, with colourful laundry crisscrossing the alleys.

He unpacks and sets out his laptop, the one he has allowed himself to bring. He has left a lot of equipment locked up in a storage facility in Tel Aviv. In fact, he has high-tech equipment stowed in random places all over the world: Burner laptops, Faraday bags, USBs disguised as rubber duckies—he has gear stashed on four continents, and multiples of everything. If MacGyver and Edward Snowden had a baby, it would be Jesse’s luggage. Hacking means gadgets, and hacking on Jesse’s level means the latest tech available.

He and Petra have burned through a lot of his money over the last three years. Of the four million US dollars he was paid for the Saharan job, he has less than five hundred thousand left. Destroying a corporation is expensive, even when you have the world’s most powerful supernatural on the roster. But they still have plenty left to take a good long holiday. Petra wants to live a normal life for a while, and Jesse will do pretty much anything as long as they’re together. Maybe they’ll take French classes, move to Paris, open a cafe. Maybe they’ll buy a little vineyard in Tuscany and learn how to make wine, or press and bottle olive oil.

Jesse takes a hot shower, pausing to listen when there are footsteps in the hall, but the door to their suite never opens. He towels off, his stomach rumbling as he rifles through the clothing in his bag, picking out a plain blue polo and khaki trousers. He fiddles dubiously with his hair, which has gotten unruly. He feels certain Lisbon has plenty of good barbers, as he is overdue for a trim. Petra gave him his last one, and while she has some impressive talents, cutting hair isn’t one of them.

After they parted ways in Tel Aviv, he went to the Diamond Exchange District in Ramat Gan and picked out a ring. It is intricate and beautiful. Petra is drawn to all things delicate and feminine, probably because her destructive talents have made her feel indelicate and masculine. He doesn’t know yet how he is going to ask her, the time isn’t right, but the moment has to be as special and unique as she is. He will dream up something spectacular. They are still young, he is not yet twenty-five, and Petra not yet twenty-three.

He straps on his watch, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety in his gut. If anything has happened to waylay Petra, they have only one way of getting in touch: a mutual email account where they write draft messages to one another without ever hitting send. For messages that need additional secrecy, they use a cipher they created out of the King James Bible, but now that they don’t need to be so covert, he suspects they won’t need the cipher any more.

He boots up his computer and logs in to the hotel’s Wi-Fi service, then their email account, but there are no messages in the draft folder. His stomach growls again, and when he stands, he sways from light-headedness. He needs to eat. Loathe to dine without Petra, he turns on the television and finds a movie to distract himself. But Skyfall isn’t enough to keep him from spiralling. Finally, he orders room service, with dessert, and eats while he refreshes the draft folder over and over until he’s sure the arrow icon is judging him.

Jesse unwraps the pastel de nata with only half his heart in it. It’s sweet, flaky, exactly the kind of thing he and Petra would bicker over in a train station or a market stall somewhere, both pretending they didn’t want the last bite. He takes a slow chew, refreshing the draft folder out of habit more than hope.

Then—a draft does appear.

He freezes, and for one perfect second, his heart leaps.

Then he sees the subject line.

I love you. I’m sorry.

The pastry drops from his fingers, landing custard side down on the tile. He swallows the bite in his mouth and takes a swallow of water, unable to tear his eyes from the subject line. He is more terrified to click on the draft than anything else he has ever faced, but—with a shaking hand—he opens the message. It is short, but Jesse doubles over in actual pain when he reads it. Every part of his body rejects what he’s reading.

Jesse,

I love you. You know that. I’m sorry. This isn’t about us—it’s about who I am, and what I might be. I can’t risk finding out too late that I’m… well, I don’t know. Something bad. I have to know what I am before we decide what we can become. Please don’t look for me. If you do, they might use you against me. And I won’t survive that. You’ve always believed in me. Let this be the proof that you’re right. I’m doing this because I’m still me. I’m the Petra you know, but I have a fight to win before I can be more, and I have to do it alone.

—P.

His chest caves inward. His heart is screaming. The screen goes blurry, but the words don’t change. He pushes away from the laptop, stumbles toward the window, as if he’s been punched. His knees nearly buckle. Somewhere outside, the bells of Lisbon’s cathedral begin to toll. Low, mournful, merciless.

He braces his hands on the windowsill and drops his head.

She’s not coming.

And he never got to say anything at all.

#

Jesse slouches in a booth in the hotel’s breakfast room, sunglasses perched on his nose—to shield his red-rimmed eyes from the light. And from pitying glances. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants a black hole. He is chain-chewing his way through a pack of gum like it’s an Olympic event. Cinnamon, the hottest he could find. His tongue is numb, his jaw aches. He doesn’t care. Better that than the rawness underneath.

An empty coffee mug sits on the table, his laptop open but forgotten beside it. He stares out the window, looking at but not seeing the sky. White napkins are strewn at his elbow like casualties of war—or in this case, heartbreak—each one scrawled with ink, scratched through in frustration, balled up and abandoned.

I love you. I’m sorry.

He read it forty-three times before he fell into an exhausted sleep last night. He doesn’t need to read it again to remember the words.

He still hasn’t replied. Can’t. Doesn’t know what to say. Her message is so final, so surgical. It opened him up with clinical precision and left him bleeding on the foundation of what they’d almost built together.

I have to know what I am before we decide what we can become. Don’t look for me. If you do, they might use you against me.

Who?

The question seethes beneath his skin.

What was more dangerous than what they’d done together in the last three years? Where was she going that he couldn’t follow? How long had she known she was going to leave? Jesse chews his lip as his vision blurs, but he refuses to let more tears fall. She’s made her choice. She didn’t leave because she doesn’t love him. She left because she doesn’t trust him.

He deserves this.

He betrayed Petra before he ever loved her. They met under false pretenses, pretenses he’d knowingly agreed to. He’d infiltrated her life as an agent for a company that wanted to dissect her, own her, control her. She was angry when he told her everything—it would be weird if she hadn’t been—but she’d forgiven him and accepted his help. Or so he thought. Helping her with TNC wasn’t just his way of trying to atone for what he’d taken part in, it was the only way he could be with her. It was his fault that she had gone on the rampage anyway. He was the one who had presented her with the research showing what TNC were really all about, and what they had done to Petra’s birth parents. When she vowed to destroy them, he’d had no choice to but to help. And now that it was all over, their mission completed, she had recalled his betrayal and left him for it, finally. She would never say so, but deep down in his heart, he believed that that’s why she left. No matter what he did, she would never fully trust him.

He rests his forearms on the table, shoulders hunched, sunglasses sliding down his nose. His mind flickers through old wounds like flipping channels on a broken TV. He doesn’t have to think about what he’s about to do. He does it almost on autopilot. There is one thing that he can do to help her, to show her that he loves her. Waking up his computer, he types his bank’s URL into the bar. His fingers are steady, even if nothing else is. He transfers eighty percent of his remaining funds to her, almost everything they hadn’t spent torching their way across the world. A final act of service. Of his love.

In the message box he types: You’ll need this more than me. I love you. Please be careful.

He hits send and it feels like the closest thing he’ll get to a goodbye.

Jesse powers down the laptop, packs up his things and wanders out of the hotel like a ghost and hails a taxi. There’s nowhere he needs to be anymore, but he can’t stay here.

At the airport he approaches the first empty ticketing desk. The man working the desk smiles at him. “Welcome to Emirates, how may I help you?”

Jesse sets his bag down with a thump. “Stick me on the next flight out please.”

“Where to, sir?”

Jesse shrugs. “Don’t care.”

The man’s smile falters, then disappears. “Sir… are you alright?”

“I’m fantastic. Just had my heart ripped out of my chest cavity and pummeled by a Cat 5 typhoon, so.” After a beat, and in the face of the agent’s obvious alarm, he adds: “Somewhere warm. Luxurious. Good parties. Reasonable odds of forgetting who I am for a while.”

Frowning, the man clears his throat and rattles off a few keystrokes. “A direct flight to Dubai boards in twenty-five minutes. Or one to Ibiza leaves in two and a half hours.”

“Dubai.” No hesitation. He wants distance. Anonymity.

“Okay.” The agent returns to his screen. “I have three economy seats available and one in first-class, but…” He sounds almost apologetic. “The ticket runs €9600.”

“Perfect.” Jesse pushes his card across the counter. “I hope the champagne is cold.”

 

 

 

Their bond? Complicated.
Their chemistry? Irresistible.
Their enemies? Biblical.

The first book in a new series scheduled for release Spring of 2025.

Pre-order

Sneak Peek: Shadows of the Fallen

My current work-in-progress will follow Petra’s story. Here’s chapter one to whet your appetite, with the usual disclaimer that it is unedited and subject to change.

Chapter One

 The final TNC station has been destroyed. Mission accomplished, which was supposed to bring her peace. Instead, she’s running scared.

She mounts the steps of the public bus, too upset and distracted to even note the vehicle’s destination. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to get away from here, to clear her head. Her palms feel clammy, and she is oddly out of breath, though it’s been a good thirty minutes since she’s used her powers. Maybe she is coming down with something. Or maybe existential dread comes with cardio benefits.

A little girl at the front of the bus looks at her a little too long, her eyes too observant, too knowing. Petra shivers, and takes a seat at the back, far from the other passengers, but the little girl still stares. Petra slouches down, bracing her knees against the back of the seat in front of her, the way she used to as a teenager on the school bus. She half expects the driver to turn and yell at her in Portuguese for having muddy shoes. Just like old times.

The bus drones slowly through the darkness of the Portuguese countryside, its headlights casting weak beams over the crumbling bitumen. They pass beneath the occasional streetlamp but otherwise the vehicle seems to crawl through a vast darkness, the road a path through an abandoned universe. Petra looks out the window where there is nothing to see, and suppresses the urge to throw up. She sees her own reflection in the dark glass. It’s not happy—shadowy and distorted, her pupils too large, like a guilty cartoon character. Closing her eyes, she takes deep even breaths, willing her racing mind to slow. Jesse’s visage flashes in her mind’s eye: his smile, his dimples, his three-day beard growth making her palms long for his face. Jesse’s last message surfaces unbidden—warm, teasing, reverent.

“When this is over, I want to see what your hair does on a slow morning.”

Her throat closes. He sent that just two days ago, through an encrypted draft in their shared inbox. It had been half joke, half vow.

“I want to fight about where to keep the mugs.”

She supposes that is what normal couples argue about—hair and coffee mugs. He is planning their future. And here she is—on a bus to nowhere, no luggage, no explanation, no goodbye kiss. She wraps her arms around herself. The bus rumbles over a pothole, but the real jolt is internal.

“You’ve saved the world,” he wrote. “Now, just be my girl.”

He doesn’t just believe in her power—he believes in her goodness. Her humanity. The problem is… she’s not sure she believes in it herself. What if she was never meant for that kind of ending?

“I love you. Let’s finally live.”

Resting her forehead against the cold glass, she whispers, “I’m sorry, Jesse. You deserve someone who isn’t radioactive on the inside. Someone who is as good as you are.”

Getting onto a random bus outside of a small town in rural Portugal had never been part of the plan. But then, having a conversation with a demon hadn’t been part of the plan either.

While forging her destructive path through The Nakesh Corporation, she had, from time to time, sensed the presence of restless disembodied spirits, but it had always been in passing. They were defeated remnants. Inconsequential. Scavengers feeding off residual energies left behind in the wreckage. The powerful ones—the archons—had abandoned TNC long ago, after she and Jesse had dismantled the major installations.

It had been a brutish but effective mission, and she and Jesse were a partnership made for destruction. Team Annihilation. The Demolition Duo. Jesse hated that one. Said it made them sound like a pro wrestling team from the eighties. Yet it was apt, he couldn’t deny that. He’d done the research, pinpointed the locations, prepped her with anything she needed to know before hand, and did his best to minimize human casualties. He was a master at penetrating security systems and setting off red alerts that sent living bodies fleeing every which way, out of danger so that Petra could wreak her havoc without worrying. Body counts of zero were always their goal, but once in a while, there were those who hadn’t gotten out in time. She and Jesse weren’t omniscient. They could make mistakes. And they had. Petra regrets those, but she told herself that they would save a lot more lives by erasing TNC from the face of the earth than if they took no action at all.

Destroying this final field station—an abandoned facility in a remote stretch of Portugal—had felt like a victory lap. She’d moved through it with practiced precision. She had honed destruction into an art form: crushing, breaking, ripping apart everything still remotely functional. She’d even allowed herself a small smile—freedom was within reach. Her mind had wandered into the future, something that she’d allowed herself to do more and more as their mission neared its end. They were to rendezvous in Lisbon, celebrate their victory and allow themselves to finally, finally discuss their next move. They’d made a pact not to talk about their future until they were done. That was Petra’s favorite proverb at play: Let not he who puts on armor boast as he who takes it off.  At the root of it, she hadn’t wanted to jinx the project. Nevertheless, Jesse had slipped in suggestions from time to time. A cafe in Paris, a villa in the Mediterranean, beekeeping on a tiny Greek island. All of his ideas were nice. Peaceful. Pastoral, even.

Yes, she’d let her mind wander, and was nearly finished the job when she’d felt it: a malevolent energy. She’d ignored it. She was on her way out. It would be on its way out too. No need to be concerned.

A low rattling hiss had filled the stale air.

She turned instinctively, knowing she’d see nothing. The little hairs on the back of her neck spindled to standing. Petra flicked her fingers. A wall groaned and twisted inward, sending racks of dead servers crashing to the floor. Satisfied, she walked toward the exit, clearing a path with the power of her mind.

Then a sizzling light had appeared in the air in front of her, tracing a shape before her eyes. She watched, intrigued, unafraid. This was new. When it was fully drawn, it formed a symbol she didn’t recognize.

No. Wait.

She did recognize it.

She had seen it before. Not often, but enough to register—a scratch on a cracked wall in Algiers. A black scorch mark on a steel door in Tangier. Once, flickering on a shattered monitor in a Moroccan desert base, there and gone again. It would always vanish when she did a double take, like static, like a whisper. Like something trying to get through to her but never quite making it.

She’d always dismissed it.

TNC had been a nest of occult-obsessed lunatics, and the glyphs they carved into walls had long stopped bothering her. Sometimes Petra would catch a familiar shape, but chalk it up to pareidolia—that harmless phenomenon where a tired brain sees meaningful shapes in meaningless crap. Smiley faces in pancakes, hell runes in dust. Clearly, her overworked mind just loved seeing demonic graffiti in rust stains and smudges of dirt.

But deep down, a quiet part of her had started keeping count.

Yes. She’d seen this mark—this strange geometry, somehow ancient and modern at the same time—five times now. This was the sixth, floating in the air like a drawn breath. Waiting. Not disappearing, but waiting for her to acknowledge it… finally. Except, if it was of demonic origin, as it seemed to be, she wanted nothing to do with it.

“Nice trick,” she’d muttered, walking straight through it. It dissipated like cheesy dance club fog. If she stopped to investigate every spooky thing that happened, she’d never get anything done.

She’d emerged into the cool night, feeling victorious. Even the crickets and night insects had begun to sing again—now that the whine of twisting rebar had finally faded—filling the air with an eerie serenity. She’d admired the view, taking a short break before the next phase; traveling in sandstorm form toward Lisbon where Jesse had stashed clothes and money for her. From there she would take public transport to the hotel where he was waiting.

The hiss had come again.

She’d turned. The symbol was back, hovering in the air to her left, crackling with dark energy. It flashed at her like an accusation, alight with some malevolent power.

“Still here?” She’d scoffed with a curled lip. “TNC is dead. Crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.”

I’ve been waiting for you, came the answer in a velvety purr, making Petra’s body stiffen with repulsion.

This one sounded different. This one sounded… smarter. More calculated.

“We’ve been through this,” she said with waning patience. “You can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt you. So why don’t you slither off and leave me alone.”

The symbol shimmered, its edges retraced by an invisible finger.

You mean to tell me you don’t remember this? There was something mocking in its tone. It’s your name, Euroklydon. The way it was first recorded by those who made you.

A chill slid down her spine, but she refused to satisfy it with a reaction. “My parents made me, demon whelp. Go peddle your lies elsewhere.”

Sure. The mocking whisper deepened into a chilling laugh. You think you were born special? That your power belongs to you? The voice dripped with sarcasm, curling around her like a sulfurous smoke. Now that you’ve destroyed TNC, you figure you can move on with your life? With that kind of power? It made a series of reproachful tsking sounds. You think that the ones who made you are just going to let you keep it?

She’d rolled her eyes. “If they wish to divest me of it, I’d like to see them try. Then again, maybe I’ll let them. You act like it’s a blessing.”

Ungrateful child. We made you for a purpose.

We? Petra cocked her head, mildly amused at the suggestion that she was the result of some dark collaboration. She stalked away.

Go ahead, run to Jesse. Lead us right to him. See how he likes the family you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. The voice turned sneering. It’s about time he met his in laws. The Tindalls are going to love us.

At the mention of her partner’s name—not even his alias, but his true given birth name—she’d frozen in terror. Lead us right to him? No demon had never threatened Jesse before. They’d harassed her from time to time, but they’d never hinted that they knew anything about her, or her partner, or his family… whom, she herself had yet to meet. The Tindalls are going to love us.

Her palms began to sweat.

Start your life, pursue your bright future. But know this—you can’t run forever. You carry our mark in your blood. You are ours. It’s only a matter of time before you come back home.

“Lies,” she’d hissed through gritted teeth.

Though it had no face, she could hear the smile in its voice. Then why can’t you destroy me?

“Because you’re disembodied.”

Guess again, little tempest. It’s because we are bound by an ancient pact, agreed to long ago under different stars. You are of me, and I am of you. You’re one of us. You can only fight your destiny for so long.

Her hands trembled and she clenched them into fists. Great. Add “possibly demonic” to her bio. Right between “likes thunderstorms” and “can dismantle your lab with a glance.”

“I’m nothing like you. I don’t feed on suffering and chaos.”

But even as the last word had slipped from her lips, the hypocrisy gave her pause. No, she didn’t feed on suffering, but she had fed on chaos and destruction for the last three years. She shook away this thought as well. She was helping people, bringing an end to an organization that had covenanted with evil.

“Nothing like you,” she muttered again.

Prove me wrong then, whispered the voice as it faded away. If you’re so much better than us, prove it. Prove it.

The sigil, renewed by a snake of light retracing its shape over and over throughout their conversation, finally disappeared, though Petra was sure it would be burned into her memory forever.

She’d stood there until long after its poisonous presence had oozed away, her mind racing. Could there be any truth to its words? Demons were known for spewing lies. She’d learned that when she’d gone through a short research phase, trying to determine how they might be destroyed. She learned that she couldn’t destroy them because they were without physical form, but somewhere along the way she’d also learned that the most convincing lies were wrapped up in just enough truth to make them appetizing.

In the early days, she tried to learn about her abilities but the Euroklydon was only ever mentioned in one place, the Bible, and no information was given about it there other than it was a storm that shipwrecked the Apostle Paul’s boat—she’d felt actual remorse about that, which was ridiculous because she hadn’t been the Euroklydon at that time. She’d been identified as the Ghibli by the locals in North Africa, but researching that led nowhere too. The Ghibli was a seasonal wind—a strong one, sure, one that wreaked havoc on desert cities, filling their streets with sand—but there was nothing supernatural about it. The rest was local legend, undocumented, unreliable; a boogie man.

Now, sitting in the back of the bus, she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, conjuring up the sigil in her mind’s eye, comparing it to her mental library of cuneiform and hieroglyphs. She’d abandoned her dream career in archaeology—of course, none of her professors or textbooks ever prepared her for sigils that talk back—hoping to one day pick it up again. But since then, her memory has grown a little rusty. The origins of the symbol are elusive, unfamiliar, unlike anything she has in her knowledge banks, but it will have an origin. Everything has an origin.

She lets out a frustrated groan, opens her eyes, and draws the sigil on the window—exhaling to conjure a small patch of condensation—dreading the idea that the spirit might have been giving her a tiny crumb of truth that would set her on a path she didn’t want to go down. Was it a door better left closed? Even if the answer was ‘yes’, it was not in Petra’s nature to leave doors closed. Not knowing where she came from was like standing on a cliff in the dark—she had no idea how close she was to the edge.

She thinks about Jesse, waiting for her at the hotel in Lisbon, waiting to celebrate, waiting to plan whatever was next for the two of them. What if she does lead a demon straight to him? It claims she can’t hurt it and it can’t hurt her because they are family…. But according to that logic then, Jesse could be hurt by them, harassed, tortured. Worse?

She thinks about Devin Nakesh, who was lured into making a pact with them, and when his end came, the archon he’d been in league with cared nothing for the man. The entity did nothing to prevent his human chattel from being swallowed into a crack and crushed by the earth. Devin had been used and discarded. Demons and archons had no empathy, no loyalty, couldn’t be trusted, could wreak only havoc and wickedness. She knows this.

But, who and what am I? Why do I seem specially made for destruction and chaos? What if I did spring from some demonic power? What does that mean for my future? What does it mean for Jesse?

If it is lying, if this is just psychological warfare, I’ll be leaving Jesse for nothing. But if there is any truth in it… if there is a chance that I am more monster than woman…

She has to make a call.

If she explains this to Jesse in person, she will lose her nerve, and she can’t afford that, because this is something she has to do. And she has to do it alone.

If I don’t know where I came from, how can I know where I’m supposed to go?

The bus rattles on, taking her away from the only place that’s ever felt like home—his arms.

 

 

Their bond? Complicated.
Their chemistry? Irresistible.
Their enemies? Biblical.

The first book in a new series scheduled for release Summer of 2025.

Pre-order

Cover Reveal

My next work-in-progress will follow Petra’s story. Click/tap for more details.

 

 

 

The first book in a new series scheduled for release Summer of 2025.

Pre-order

A Star of Darkness teaser

An edited, but not yet proofed, excerpt from my WIP (work in progress), A Star of Darkness.  

Regalis peeled off his dusty travel clothing, leaving it in a heap on the floor. He glanced at the clock. He had just enough time to bathe and eat before reporting for duty at tonight’s ball. He hadn’t been scheduled for it, but one of the other Fahyli was ill; so when the crofter had asked if he had the energy to work tonight, he’d said yes. Now he wished he hadn’t. The journey back from Archelia had been windy and arduous, and debriefing King Agir and the crofter had been tense.

He crossed to the long set of windows lining one wall of his apartment and lifted the latch of the one nearest Ferrugin’s perch. His familiar had fed herself and was now on her way home. Regalis continued into his bathing room and opened the taps over the copper tub, letting it fill with steaming hot water. Easing into the bath, he groaned as the heat soaked into every muscle and joint, all the way to his marrow. Wishing he could soak until his fingertips pruned, he instead scrubbed away the dust and grime of the journey before tackling his hair. Windblown from the long ride, it seemed to take forever to get the tangles out. As he got out and wrapped himself in a thick green robe, he heard Ferrugin land at the window.

A twinge of pain in his shoulder made him wince, but the sensation had a ghostly quality. Ferrugin had picked up an injury. Her pain manifested in a dull and distant way, sometimes not at all if he was focused on something else. He draped a towel around his neck to absorb the water streaming from his hair and crossed to her perch. His hawk sat on the top rung, her wicked claws curled around the wood. Her beak was open as she watched him, golden eyes unblinking in her pain, one wing partly outstretched.

Thorn, she thought.

Regalis ran his hands along the feathers, probing gently until he found the offending object and pulled it out. It was nearly three inches long and curved.

You were hunting in the ringstrake again, he admonished, referring to a stretch of mountainside where thorny shrubs grew in odd crooked stripes across the land, like someone had tried to plant them in rows after drinking too much ale. A species of plump ground squirrel, one of Ferrugin’s favorite meals, lived beneath the unfriendly shrubs. It wasn’t the first time she’d picked up a puncture wound on the mountainside, and it wouldn’t be the last. It seemed the rodent was a dinner worthy of a little pain.

She didn’t bother to reply, only tucked her head beneath her wing and let out a long sigh, relieved to have the thorn gone. Regalis spun the lid of the healing tincture that Lyndis, one of the palace healers, had made for them after Ferrugin had been injured during Faraçek’s Folly. The tincture was almost three years old. He took a tentative sniff. Satisfied that it hadn’t gone rancid, applied a little to the puncture wound. Ferrugin was already asleep.

Regalis dressed in plain black leggings and a dark green tunic, lacing it up to his throat. He pulled a supple long-sleeved jacket on for warmth, and was just pulling on a boot when a tap came at his door.

Kite didn’t wait for an answer; she pushed her way in, Panther at her heels. Erasmus, Kite’s familiar, swooped over their heads and went straight for Ferrugin, landing with a squawk. The hawk didn’t lift her head to acknowledge the kite, only squatted down closer to the rung beneath her. Erasmus squawked again and shuffled closer to her, blinking and cocking his head, wanting to socialize.

“I could eat an entire hog,” said Kite, her own hair undone and still damp as it lay in waves across her shoulders, a thick brown mass. It was rare to see it out of braids. “Ready to eat?”

Regalis nodded, pulling on his final boot and getting to his feet.

Panther held something pinched between his ribs and arm. He let it drop, caught it in his hand then held it out, grinning. “Happy birthday, Reggie.”

Regalis hated being called Reggie, which was precisely why Panther would never stop using it.

Regalis took the package, a book-sized gift wrapped in white paper and tied with a blue bow. “You shouldn’t have.”

Pan gestured that he should open it, so Regalis took off the wrapping and read the title.

“Erotic Poetry by G.R.T. Wood. Great. Thanks.” He deadpanned. “I love ironic gifts.”

Panther’s grin stretched wider as he slapped Regalis on the back. “It’s not ironic. It’ll help you get back in the game.”

Kite held out another gift, this one small and square, and wrapped in gold metallic paper. “If that doesn’t work, this should do the trick.”

Regalis took it, suspicion mounting. It was surprisingly heavy. “Why am I suddenly afraid of whatever is in this box?”

 

 

A random accident in the fog, a murder mystery, and a kidnapping lead Vesper and Regalis down unexpected paths…

 

This standalone novel in the world of The Scented Court series will release Sept. 30, 2024.

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Second Sneak Peek: A Star of Darkness

An unedited excerpt from my WIP (work in progress), A Star of Darkness. [Content subject to change.]

Prologue

She stumbled through the trees toward the river, half blind with tears. She clutched her father’s hunting knife in its sheath, but it would be no good to her. There were too many, she was too weak, and they were gaining on her. She could hear them calling to one another. A panicked look over her shoulder and she counted four torches bobbing through the forest. Branches tore at her face, her breath came hot in her throat, her head throbbed and her thoughts were muddled. Was there smoke on the wind?

Her boots sank into softer soil, mud sucking at her feet. She bent to strap the knife to her thigh. She was almost at the river, and had to swim. She could hear it’s waters as they rushed by. A dog bayed somewhere behind her, someone called something to his companion. Overhead, her moth fluttered, keeping track of her, but where she needed to hide, he could not follow. He would wait and let her know when it was safe for her to come out, but she had to make it there first.

She reached the river and stumbled into it, the cold water rushing into her boots and up her legs, then swallowing her body. She let the current carry her downstream where the banks were thicker with old growth. She glimpsed the night sky through the canopy overhead, the many stars winking at her, celestial bodies who cared nothing of her plight. They’d seen worse come and go.

She knew the tree she sought by heart, she could find it in the light of day or the dark of night, though it looked like so many others. She and her brother Finador had discovered it years ago, before any other siblings had been born. They’d sworn to keep it secret, but when Galborn was old enough, they’d shown him too, delighting in his horror and fascination of the place. They would have shown Haleron and Finrae too, given the chance.

Gasping for air, her lungs burning, she reached the tree. It’s thick, twisted roots looked haunted and frightening, but just then they were the most welcome sight in the world. The riverbank here was a vertical mud cliff, a little more than half the height of a man, riddled with stones and laced with gnarly roots that had been exposed over the years by waters rushing by. She could hear the men arguing over which way she’d gone. Branches and twigs snapped as they approached the riverbank.

She hooked a hand under a root of the ancient bazrosh tree, pulling herself under. Water filled her ears and the sound of men was drowned out. It was too dark to see anything, but she knew what to feel for. Her mind quailed, as it always did when she went into these roots, her imagination conjuring toothy predators, water snakes, flesh-eating fish. Her fears warred with the truth: this was her home; she knew this river and this forest as well as she knew the color of her own eyes. Nothing would hurt her here, and best of all, no one would find her.

She pulled herself down first, hand over hand, she gripped the roots, pulling herself along. She slithered through until she’d felt the root with the sharp bend and knew she’d gone far enough. Now she needed to ascend. Her head broke the surface and she sucked in a gasp of dank, earthy air. She opened her eyes but remained blind as she crawled out of the water, dragging herself up into the pocket of air trapped beneath this great tree. She could hear nothing of the outside world in this cradle of roots and mud, it was fully insulated and felt as far from reality as the stars were from the soil. She lay down, panting, sensing for Morpho. He was so faint, barely a wisp. Her wet hair had wrapped itself around her neck and felt like a noose. She scraped it away and closed her eyes. Her body rested; her heart began to slow. Her head ached where she’d been struck and she found that herself unable to think. When she tried to process why had run, why she was hiding down here, her mind hit a wall. She only knew that she had to stay down here until there was no air left, because behind that wall was something very bad. It meant that she’d lost everything and everyone. She and Morpho were now utterly and completely alone in the world. She listened to her own breathing and tried not to remember. It hurt her head too much.

Eventually, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Over her head, the men searched and the fires burned.

Vesper’s past is locked away, and she’s sworn  to  never give away the key. Not even for love.

Is he prepared to betray all that he stands for in order to protect her?

Vesper must decide if vengeance is worth the price of her soul, and Regalis must make the impossible choice between duty and love.

 

This is a standalone novel in the world of The Scented Court series.

Pre-Order Now

Sneak Peek: A Star of Darkness

An unedited excerpt from my WIP (work in progress), A Star of Darkness. [Content subject to change.]

Once the gown had been fastened around her, Vesper was sent to a vanity table where a makeup artist would paint her face, her back, and down one arm. Portia favored body art and the enhancing of the Calyx’s already exotic features with cosmetics. Vesper had overheard some of the older Calyx complain privately about it, apparently it wasn’t something the previous royal gardener had ever used. But the younger and newer Calyx loved how it further enhanced their beauty. Vesper didn’t care either way, she just wished it didn’t take quite so long or tickle quite so much. Still, the balls and performances were where popularity was forged, customers cultivated, and royalties boosted. Whatever would help Vesper leave the Calyx with the fattest purse possible, she would willingly endure.

Her costume completed, her dancing slippers donned, Vesper left the tailor’s hall and made her way to the lounge where the first shift of Calyx waited for the flutes to trill. Pushing her way through the big double doors, she cast about the parlor for Morpho. She saw Jessamine, Aster, Rose and Lily sitting on the overstuffed upholstery, sipping nectar and chatting, each dressed in one of Olinya’s jaw dropping creations. Skimming over them and a cluster of male Calyx, looking dashing and colorful, Vesper frowned when she didn’t see her moth. She expected he’d be here, ready to perform.

“What’s wrong, Vesper?” Aster held a delicate flute of green liquid held in her long, thin fingers. Her familiar, a white butterfly named Cabbage, sat on top of her dark curls, flexing its wings.

“Have you seen Morpho?”

Jessamine looked over her shoulder, her gray eyes lined with sparkly kohl, her long brunette curls stacked on top of her head. Her bat sat on her shoulder, a tiny dark shape no larger than an acorn, watching Vesper with glistening ink-drop eyes. He shook his head at her. Vesper wasn’t sure if he was shaking something out of his ear, or saying No, we haven’t seen your moth. She guessed it was the latter. Jessamine’s familiar was frightfully intelligent, or so she’d been told.

“Not since earlier today, in the garden,” said Jessamine.

Vesper thanked them and left the room, hurrying so that she would be back in time for the Calyx’s formal entry to the ball. She returned to her suite—the only other place he was most likely to be right now—calling for Morpho as she entered. Some Calyx knew where their familiar was at all times through the magic that linked them, but Vesper and Morpho had never been connected in that way. He could pick up on her thoughts if they were directed to him, but he couldn’t return any thoughts back at her…or rather, she couldn’t read his mind. She didn’t know whether that was her failing or his. They could feel one another’s presence only when they were physically close to one another, like in the same room, which was a pitiful tether if the other Calyx and their familiars were anything to go by, however they had developed other ways of communicating, utilizing Morpho’s unique magic. Unfortunately, she had to be looking right at him for it to work.

As she crossed the room, looking around, she sensed an increase in anxiety that did not belong to her. It was coming from her writing desk. She spied her familiar there, perched on the side of a feather quill, and moved toward him with relief. But Morpho’s antennae twitched madly, and she covered a cry with her hand when she saw the reason for her familiar’s agitation.

On the blotter, making small individual circles in perfect unison, were a bunch of large black houseflies, more than a dozen for sure. Fat, with wings that buzzed, also in unison, and little hooked feet that Vesper could actually hear scratching the surface of her blotter. A cold feeling swept through her. Flies didn’t particularly bother her, but here in her private quarters, she disliked having any insect that wasn’t a familiar. The fact that these flies were acting strangely didn’t help. It made her wonder if they were under some kind of spell, which was a most unwelcome thought.

“Shoo,” she said, waving a hand over them hoping they would break their strange formation and leave through the open window. “Before I squash you all flat.”

At the sound of her voice, the flies broke out of their dizzying circles. They began to crawl in different directions, and as they did so, their bodies lit up, turning first red, then orange, like fireflies. But these were not fireflies, Vesper was well acquainted with the nocturnal beetle, the way they blinked their tiny lanterns on and off in the darkness. She loved them, but these insects were different, much less pleasant. Her breath caught when tiny columns of smoke began to drift up from their bodies. She swore under her breath. This was magic for sure, there was no mistaking it for anything else. Fear gripped her throat as the fireflies began to burn up, each leaving a trail of ash and soot behind, until there was nothing remaining but the line they’d left behind them on her blotter—a line that came together to form words, as though written by an invisible hand. The message made her blood turn to ice.

I know where you are. I know what you’ve done. Your time is short, Darkstar.

She stopped breathing as she stared at the words, her heart like thunder in her ears. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“It’s not real. I’m seeing things.”

But when she opened her eyes, the message remained there on her blotter, glaring out at her in charred cursive… the threat of it seemed to crawl off the page and lunge at her throat.

Morpho fluttered to her and she put out a hand for him to land. His antennae waved madly as he crawled up her arm, and his anxiety was now also hers.

Someone had discovered them. Someone knew her surname… her real surname, not the one she’d given Portia when she’d been hired.

Your time is short, Darkstar.

What did it mean? Her time was short for what? For being in the Calyx? For being Vesper? For living in Solana? For living at all?

Vesper shivered, suddenly freezing in the warmth of her apartment.

 

Vesper’s past is locked away, and she’s sworn  to  never give away the key. Not even for love.

Is he prepared to betray all that he stands for in order to protect her?

Vesper must decide if vengeance is worth the price of her soul, and Regalis must make the impossible choice between duty and love.

 

This is a standalone novel in the world of The Scented Court series.

Pre-Order Now

Cover Reveal: A Star of Darkness

Vesper’s past is locked away, and she’s sworn  to  never give away the key. Not even for love.

Is he prepared to betray all that he stands for in order to protect her?

Vesper must decide if vengeance is worth the price of her soul, and Regalis must make the impossible choice between duty and love.

 

This is a standalone novel in the world of The Scented Court series.

Pre-Order Now

Sneak Peek #2 from Ultramarine

Spring, 1939

My mother, Sylvana, had a gorgeous tailfin. At least, I thought it was beautiful. Of course, I was not yet twelve and had never met another siren, but I could not possibly imagine scales more beautiful than hers: ink-blue. Near her flukes, they’re so dark they’re almost black. When the moon was full and there were no clouds, I enjoyed the way the light turned her fins from onyx to navy. Some patches of her scales glinted with the deepest, richest shade of ultramarine blue, so intense that it looked like an artist had mixed the pigments. I wasn’t sure how my tailfin ended up the color of a not-quite-ripe peach—pale greens, oranges and pinks blur together in a patchwork across my flanks. Mother said it’s far more beautiful than hers, but I disagreed.

On this night I chased the ink-blue and ultramarine tail that I loved so much across the floor of the Hudson river, dodging scrap metal and clumps of seaweed. We passed beneath an Atlantic sturgeon, looking like a creature straight out prehistory as it lurked beneath the waves. I giggled as I followed the pattern Mother left for me in the form of bubbles, forcing me to practice banking up and down, left and right, working the musculature of my fins to make me fast and strong. I was beginning to pant because we were swimming against the current, heading home after hours in the glorious water of the Atlantic.

“Keep going, Mother,” I called between breaths as I saw her bank toward the concrete walls that channel the Hudson past Manhattan. “Just a little longer. Please?”

Her laugh drifted back to me, and I was gleeful when she swam past the ladder that would, when our adventure was over for the night, take us up to the pavement where our clothing was stashed. Fresh energy surged, thrilled that we got a little more time together as sirens. As sirens we were free. We could forget life for a while, and Mother was playful and adventurous in a way that she couldn’t be in her human form. I worked to catch up to her. She slowed, letting me come alongside. We swam in companionable silence, still heading upriver.

I didn’t get to swim with my mother as much as I would like. It was dangerous to enter and exit the water in a city as busy and crowded as New York, even in the middle of the night, but she knew how to be invisible. She’d taught me where the most secluded access points were, what times of night were the best for sneaking out and back in again, and how to use shadows to stay hidden. Only once had she had to chase down a human and wipe their mind of what they saw: a mermaid taking her human shape as she emerged from the Hudson.

We never went upstream, always down, so I’d always been curious about where the other direction led.

<spoiler content removed> 

I was about to tell her I was ready to go home when a strange shape on the river bottom caught my eye.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

Before we got much closer, Mother took my hand, saying in a strange voice, “It’s nothing, Ginevra. Let’s go home.”

“It’s not nothing,” I said, feeling her grip tighten.

Pulling free, I drew close enough to get a proper look. My heart cased over with ice as I recognized what I was seeing: two pale sticks standing upright on the bottom of the river; a set of human legs from the knees down, the bones of its feet and ankles encased inside a cement disk. The flesh had decayed away, leaving the tibia and fibula exposed. The sight chilled me to the core.

Mom let me look for a while, then said, “Let’s go, Ginevra. Let him rest in peace.”

“How do you know it’s a him?” I asked in a voice that didn’t sound like mine. Death was somehow repelling and fascinating to me at the same time. I’d never seen a dead body before, let alone body parts, at the bottom of the Hudson. Nonna passed away before I was born, and my mother’s parents were long gone. I’d seen drawings of skeletons inside a collection of fairy tales on my bookshelf, but that was the extent of my exposure to human remains.

“The bones are small. It was a girl, don’t you think?” I said.

“This kind of thing doesn’t usually happen to women, Ginevra.”

“This kind of thing?” The statement was enough for me to stare at my mother in surprise. “You say that like this is an everyday occurrence. The only way for his or her feet to get locked in cement like that is to step into it while it’s wet. This is a murder.”

“Yes. Which is why we should leave.”

“Why, do you think the murderer is going to come back?” I said, with more snark than I should have. Mermaid or not, I was still a pre-teenager.

“Ginevra, don’t be sarcastic with me,” my mother chided. “Someone lost their life in a horrible way. I don’t need you having bad dreams about it. Andiamo. We’ve already been gone too long.”

Reluctantly, I turned away from the corpse, but as I did a glint in the sand caught my eye. Brushing away the sludge and sediment of the river bottom revealed a wristwatch. Thinking of Nonno, I picked it up then sped to catch up to my mother.

#

The next morning, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was that wristwatch sitting on my bedside table. Instantly awake, I reached for it. It was heavy, and of course broken. The arms had stopped at eight minutes after three. I had a pretty good imagination, and developed a story that it had belonged to the skeleton, that it had been fastened to his wrist—it was a man’s watch—when he was thrown into the Hudson to drown, marking the time of his death shortly after three a.m., because who would throw someone with their feet locked in cement into the Hudson at three in the afternoon? The watch had fallen off and drifted a short distance away, pushed by the currents. I examined every inch of it. Had I seen this watch in a magazine advertisement or on some actor’s wrist in a picture? If I told my mother that it was familiar, she would kiss my forehead and call me fanciful. I was fanciful, I was told so all the time, but that didn’t change the feeling that I’d seen this watch—or one very much like it—somewhere before. It had a metal band and a rectangular face. A brand name was written in tiny letters just below the twelve: GRUEN, and just beneath that, VERI-THIN. Hoping for an engraving, I turned the watch over. I was rewarded with the initials M.P.N in fine script. I ran my thumb over the tiny letters, sifting through all the people I knew for a possible fit. A girl at Brearley, my all-girls school, one grade below me, whose name was Meredith Nicholson, but that’s the only acquaintance I came up with, and she was very much alive and not tied to this watch.

“Ginevra, breakfast!” Nicoletta knocked on my door. “Out of bed lazy bones.”

To find out what happens next…

Ultramarine releases March 31, 2024.

 

 

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Sneak Peek: Ultramarine

Still subject to further editing. For context: Gina and the triplets have retreated to the bedroom to discuss how to explain Gina’s appearance to Seth. Gina’s point of view.

I turn to them after shutting the door tight.

“He doesn’t know,” says Eadie in a rush. “He never saw your tail. He can’t remember. You must have glamoured him. I’ll just tell him—”

“We cannot tamper with his memories, Eadie,” I say. I look at Larimar and Lazuli so they know I mean it includes them. “No one uses siren magic on him. Got it?”

The impact of my words shows on their faces. They exchange looks of suppressed panic, and it’s remarkable how alike they are.

“What do we tell him then?” Larimar whispers, tugging her sleeves over her hands, so only her fingers poke out, though the house is warm.

Lazuli grips her elbows with her palms. “We have no reasonable explanation for how you can be here.”

Eadie opens her mouth but Lazuli goes on: “You can’t have just washed up on shore. This isn’t some halfwit we’re talking about here. It’s Seth. He’ll know we’re lying.”

Eadie snaps her mouth closed and her shoulders drop.

“Even if it was plausible that you washed up on shore, we have no explanation for why we haven’t taken you to the authorities after all this time,” says Larimar.

Eadie is visibly trembling. “He can’t know, though. I’m not ready for that.”

“I don’t think you have a choice, Eadie,” Lazuli says simply.

I squeeze Eadie’s shoulder. “She’s right. I’m sorry.”

There is fear in her eyes as she whispers, “But what if he hates me?”

“He won’t hate you, Eadie,” Larimar says, though she sounds unconvincing.

At the same time, Lazuli says, “That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

Eadie’s fingers twist and twist. “Why, though?”

“Seth has information that I need. I don’t remember anything about that night, but he does. If we tamper with his memories, the truth—my truth—will be lost forever.”

I watch it sink in. Eadie nods.

“I need Seth’s memory to be as intact as possible, which means if I glamoured him—which sounds pretty likely—then I need to remove that glamour.”

Larimar bites her lip. “He’s not just going to learn what his girlfriend is, but what all of us are, and Jana, too. We’re in this together.”

From downstairs we hear Warren yell, “Girls? I thought we were supposed to be having a barbecue?”

To find out what happens next…

Ultramarine releases March 31, 2024.

 

 

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Sneak Peek at Aquamarine

Henrietta’s espresso machine and I are in the throes of a competition to see which of us produces the most steam. So far, its neck and neck.

Almost twenty-four hours has passed since my sisters chastised me in the kitchen. Why they think the minutes that separate us in age give them the authority to lecture me about anything is beyond me. As if either of them have pearls of wisdom to offer when we’re in the same place in life. I was present, accounted for—and even took notes—when our mother taught us how to behave in a human world.

Anger simmers in my gut as Lazuli and Larimar’s whispered conversation burns in my memory;

What joy can there be in beating everyone when they’re human and you’re half-fish?

You did the same thing when you were little.

I was just a kid. I quit before anyone noticed anything weird. Eadie is almost seventeen. She shouldn’t need the swim team by now.

“You okay, Eadie?” Jennifer, my coworker, pulls cartons of half-and-half and almond milk from the mini fridge under the counter and refills the carafes. “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah, sorry. My sisters sometimes drive me crazy, that’s all.” I scoop grounds into a filter lined basket and slide it into the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot.

“Hey, I’ve got four older brothers. Believe me, I get it.” She tosses the empty cartons in the trash and screws the lids back onto the carafes.

“At least they’re actually older than you.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. You and your sisters are the only triplets I’ve ever met. I hate sharing a bathroom with my brothers. Never mind a birthday.” With a lighthearted laugh she whisks the carafes away, winding her way to the self-service station.

My sisters and I share a lot of things. I don’t mind that. What I mind is their inability to understand that the differences that make us fraternal triplets on the outside, exist on the inside too.

Business at the cafe picks up and I welcome the distraction. The hiss of steam from the frother, the gurgle of the automatic drip and the whir of the blender. It helps to drown out my sisters’ voices, and by extension, my mother’s too. By my seventh half-caf frozen double-whip mochaccino, I’ve all but forgotten why I’d been upset at the start of my shift.

Then Seth walks in.

My heart doubles its pace. I’ve never had the nerve to talk to him outside of taking his order at the cafe. He’s a loner, and projects a friendly but cool please-keep-your-distance kind of vibe. I don’t need to ask him what he wants. Much like his facial features, his preferred drink is etched into my brain; double espresso with a side of steamed milk that he can add himself. I think of it as the flat white for coffee lovers with trust issues. I give the requisite opener anyway, smiling.

“Welcome to Henrietta’s. What can I brew for you?”

He surprises me by squinting above my head at the chalkboard full of cartoony drink possibilities instead of asking for his usual.

“Yeah, I’ll try an…umm.” Seth glances over his shoulder as if to gauge the patience of the line behind him. Except there isn’t one. He spears me with a look. “What’s your favorite drink?”

“My fave…favorite…drink?” I stammer, brain misfiring from the shock. Seth Foster wants to know what I like. This is literally the first time he’s ever said anything to me besides ‘the usual, please’. I’m lucky when I get that much. Half the time it’s Jennifer working the till and I have to settle for putting bubbles into milk that will shortly go down Seth’s gorgeous throat.

“Yeah, I mean, you work here,” he says. “You know all the best drinks, you’ve probably even invented some.” He leans forward, a smile spreading across his face. “Got anything off-menu that’s good?”

I fight back a laugh. The only secret in Henrietta’s is the fact that I’m a mermaid.

Aquamarine releases Nov. 30, 2023.

 

 

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