Roberta Trahan's Blog, page 2

Marketing Monday: Accidental Advertising

Authors, like every other person or company plugging their products, are constantly refining their marketing message and dry-running new social media strategies, trying to figure out how to engage our potential readers – whoever they are. It’s all a very frustrating exercise in futility, most of the time, because who knows? No one, really.

There are paid services and books and blogs with tips-o-plenty, but the truth is no one knows what makes a video or photo or post or tweet go viral, just like no one knows which books will hit the best-seller lists or get made into blockbuster films. The only thing we know for sure is that there IS a cultural stream of consciousness out there that everyone is tuned into on some level, and if you’re lucky enough to accidentally tap that vein, anything is possible.

Accidental advertising is just what the term implies – unintentional. You can’t plan for it or pay for it or pick the place or time to show up. It happens organically, but oddly enough, not necessarily randomly.

One of the universal truths in marketing is that people respond to messaging with their emotional right brains more than their practical left brains – even when making a perfunctory purchase. They respond to things based on how those things make them feel more than anything.

Take as study the most amazing example of accidental marketing I’ve seen in years – the case of Dillon Josephsen, who inadvertently blew up the internet last week by tweeting something kinda silly-sweet he noticed about his dad’s business Facebook page. Dillon discovered that his dad, a flooring guy in New Jersey, had been taking pics of dogs he met on the job (in his clients’ homes) and posting them on the page as his “employee of the week”. Super cute, right? Dillon innocently tweeted a collage of the photos to his friends, and inadvertently staged a mega marketing coup.

EVERYONE LOVES DOGS! Who knew right? I know *I* do. When I saw that tweet retweeted in my feed by someone I follow, I clicked on it SO FAST. And then I clicked through to Dillon’s dad’s Facebook page because I just had to see it for myself.

And now, like over 14,000 (!) other people across the globe, I am a fan of Stairfaces & Josephsen Hardwood Floors for no good reason, except DOGS, and of course one day I might move to New Jersey and need some reclaimed barn door planks refinished and installed as flooring in my home office. It could happen, right?

But, even if it doesn’t, my heart has been warmed by some guy I’ll never meet and the pets he posts on his business page. I’m ALSO now following his college-age son on Twitter, because this kid? He’s trying to make something of himself, maybe in the media/entertainment industry, and I’ve got a daughter his age who is trying to make her mark as a vocalist. ABN (always be networking), people!

See how this works? Sometimes it’s just about being yourself and sharing information that matters or moves YOU. If it makes YOU happy or sad or mad, odds are pretty good it will affect others the same way. Being a member of the audience you are trying to reach and engaging in honest dialogue without contrivance or artifice or hidden agenda is the easiest form of social media marketing and networking there is. And it works surprisingly well!

To learn more about Dillon and his dad, here’s a great article (one of many) that popped up after that tweet went viral:

[image error]

 

Blooded – Episode Two: What Evil Lurks

The crossing is quick, but excruciating.

The portal transports matter across the dimensional planes by compressing its mass into an energy stream. It’s a lot like shoving a spike through a pinhole. The cellular distortion is brutal. It would also be fatal, without the gossamer.

This second skin is better than magic. Besides making me mutable, the sheathing enables my body to morph in response to a whole host of external forces. It also gives my regenerative abilities a hypernatural boost, which can come in handy when one is out of her realm and all on her own. Most importantly, it has chameleon qualities which allow me to adapt to any alien environment. In the mortal realm I will appear to the most scrutinizing observer to be as human as any other inhabitant of this world, even though I am not human at all.

I land hard, coiled in a sprinter’s crouch beside the same kedge stone, but in an entirely distinct and separate reality. The same and yet totally different – just one of many paradoxes that transect the realms.

A sudden gut-wrenching convulsion throws me forward onto my hands and knees, and I hurl all over the pine needles and leafy dust that litters the forest floor. Nausea is a normal aftereffect of the crossing, but I am still mortified. Over two dozen training excursions and three covert ops missions in the human realm, and every time it’s the same. I should be able to hold it together better by now. I’ve never seen Violet puke.

I want to rinse the bad taste from my mouth. I need water. But first, I need to get my bearings. It takes a few deep breaths before I can force myself back on my haunches and get a look at my surroundings. The crossing key is still curled in my clutch, and I am quick to loop the lanyard back around my neck. This key is my lifeline, the only connection I have to my home realm. If it were lost, I could be stranded here and next to failing this mission, I have no greater fear. I will never let this key out of my reach.

The moon is high and gleaming bright white through the dense evergreen canopy of the Olympic National Forest. This time of year, the climate in the Pacific Northwest is ever changing – cloud covered and rain soaked one minute, crisp air and clear skies the next. The weather is working with me tonight.

We fae are not nocturnal beings by nature, not in our home realm, but it is easier to operate at night in the human dimension. Less chance of being detected, of course, but it is also easier to function when there is less noise – the static interference created by the frenetic energy discharges of daily mortal life. Preternatural beings are super sensitive to it.

While the moon and the stars make it easier to set a course, I don’t need them to navigate. Like all sylph, I have a hyper-developed sense of smell. EDL reconnaissance and recovery expeditions usually deploy an advance scout team, often a cross gender pair. A sylph’s olfactory abilities partnered with a satyr’s superior nocturnal vision make for highly accurate covert tracking. A kind of sensory GPS, I guess. But I have only myself to rely on this time.

Nose to the sky, I snuffle the scents on the damp night air. The salty smells of sand and sea creatures are mingled with the piney perfume of the evergreens. Beneath these pungent aromas, I catch the faint, distant tinge of satyr sign. It is unmistakably Auger’s. The scent is stale; days, maybe even weeks old, the lingering trail left by his last trip to this realm. Squad members are each assigned a monthly sector tour as a part of our regular duties, for reconnaissance mostly, but also to resupply the forward operations bevies. Sector Five is on Auger’s watch, and one of our support stations is nearby. This is my first checkpoint.

A warbling caw in the boughs overhead jump-starts my heart and sets my teeth on edge. I’m being watched. It was only a matter of time until my presence was detected, but I am surprised the sentinels have spotted me so soon.

They are everywhere here. Preternatural souls trapped in the form of a crow, banished from the Empyrean realm and condemned to eternal internment in the human world. The can only be released from this purgatory by the Empyrean being that cursed them, and if it should happen that a sentinel outlives their jailor, they are essentially damned for all eternity.

Some of the sentinels are ancient. By human measure, the preternatura appear immortal, though we can and do die. We have our vulnerabilities, but we are less susceptible to injury and illness, and our post-adolescent cellular degeneration progresses much more slowly than that of humans. Given the right circumstances, magical beings can live a long, long time – eons even. So when I say these earthbound souls are ancient, I’m talking centuries old, maybe even millennia.

It isn’t all bad; sentinels do have the freedom of flight. But they can never return to our dominion, and this is the cruelest of all fates. I truly cannot imagine anything worse than never being allowed to go home.

These disenfranchised spirits could be useful too, though not completely trusted. Beings without belonging lack the loyalty that naturally comes from a sense of solidarity with your own kind. This makes them mercenary, and prone to make alliances that serve their need to have purpose. They are not alone in this realm. Others among the preternatural races have been banished here, for crimes against the home realm. Still others have escaped here, looking to infiltrate human economic and political systems and manipulate them in order to create their own power bases.

Some of the more nefarious deserters are actually on the EDL’s most-wanted list and known known to use the sentinels as lookouts. The last thing I need is an off-mission confrontation with a fae fugitive who thinks I’m here to drag them back. I didn’t have the time. There is no way to know whether this fowl is friend or foe without getting up close and personal, so I decide to play it safe.

I burst out of my crouch, sprinting full-force for the heart of the nearest stand of trees. The sentinel has the advantage of moonlight and a birds-eye view but I have stealth on my side, and the camouflaging the gossamer sheath provides. I run low, slinking deeper into the forest undergrowth until I am fairly certain the sentinel has lost sight of me, and then cut a zigzag path all the way to the tree line on the other side of the forest.

By the time I reach the tree line, I am remembering standard infiltration procedure. Before entering the open, I throw a scatter charge to disguise any residual energy signature I might be sloughing. The charge is effective for a radial mile or more, enough to ensure I won’t be followed.

From the forest, I walk along an abandoned access road toward the checkpoint. My first objective is to collect some solid intel, but for that I need transportation. I also need some real protection from the elements. Gossamer is waterproof, but it isn’t much good in chilly weather. It isn’t exactly fashionable either, and I need to blend in with the mortals in their communities.

Auger’s scent leads me two miles west, to the tiny tourist town of Port Angeles and the lonely parking lot at the ferry dock. The town is tourist driven, nearly derelict in the off-season, and all but abandoned at night. The perfect staging area – within easy reach of the kedge stone, and populated enough to provide cover and the means to secure any basic supplies the team might need.

The ferry-runs to and from Victoria are suspended until later in the spring. I won’t have to worry much about avoiding chance encounters. Then again, if I wander around in the open too long I risk drawing the suspicion of local law enforcement. I need wheels to get myself inland. There’s a lot of ground to cover between Port Angeles and the Emerald City, and not a lot of time.

Three vehicles are parked in the lot – a road-weary jeep, a tricked-out newer model crew cab pickup, and a powder-blue vintage replica roadster convertible. The truck and convertible likely belonged to locals or tourists, but the jeep is an EDL stash vehicle.

Stowed in the rear compartment of the jeep is a small supply of bottled water and a duffle stuffed with a selection of coverings and foot gear to suit the varying seasonal climates of this realm. Underneath the compartment decking is an emergency munitions cache, in case any of us run into serious trouble. But for now, all I need is the water, and a little extra protection from the elements.

An unlined black canvas trench coat and black jump boots appeal to me, partially for the added layers but also because they give off a particular vibe. I like black. The gossamer bodysuit and tactical vest are organically mimetic and automatically adapt to match the coat. The total look is a bit too dark and edgy out here in the sticks, but once I get to the city no one will even look twice. But before I drive all the way to Seattle, I have a stop to make.

*

 

I head east, along the tree-lined highway, with my eyes on the road and my head tilted into the breeze.

The scents that filter in through the half-open window are pleasing, but they also help me acclimate. This part of the human realm is actually kind of delicious, with its earthy musk and sweet air. But even with these swaths of unspoiled forest and open water, this place is an acquired taste and I still haven’t developed an appetite for it.

There is a reason the preternatural races abandoned this realm so many ages ago, when they finally realized they could no longer counter the elemental imbalances created by manufactured magic. Humans and their technologies and their never ending quest to manipulate nature – it is an abomination. This place is barely habitable as far as I am concerned, but the exiles and escapees have managed to adapt. There are even some of my own crew members who have come to appreciate this realm. I just don’t get it.

About ten miles outside Port Angeles, I find the scent I’ve been seeking. Not satyr sign this time, but something closer to yet still not quite human. Adrenaline pumps a renewed sense of urgency through my veins, and I press harder on the gas pedal. I’m on the right road. And I’m close.

“The turnoff has to be here somewhere.”

I ease up on the jeep’s throttle, scanning the dusky brush along the north side of the road for the guardian tree, an ancient cedar that marked an otherwise anonymous gravel drive angling off the highway into the forest. It is hard to distinguish, especially from a distance. Dozens of times I’d made this same trip, but never alone and never without Auger’s night vision.

Though the sky is clear, moonbeams filtering through the thickly needled evergreen boughs overhead actually cast more shadow than light. A few dozen yards a head, I detect a dark mass – a huge conifer with a slight lean to the north. This has to be it.

I guide the jeep across the center line and then let it slow to a crawl along the left shoulder. Closer up it’s harder to tell which tree is my marker, and the tingle at the nape of my neck is telling me to be cautious.

“Shit.”

I would have missed the freaking crow if my headlights hadn’t been angled just right. A hard yank on the parking brake stops my ride short. I throw the gear shift into neutral and snap off another scatter charge from my vest as I jump out of the idling jeep and advance toward the sentinel’s red-eyed gleam.  Whoever or whatever is tracking my movements wants me to know about it.

“Back off, you corpse-picking parasite.”

A flutter just behind and to my left knocks me off guard. There’s more than one, I realize, as a big ugly whiff of crow- feather dust and dry, crusty preening oil assaults my nasal passages. Three more, at least.

Crap. A whole murder of damned souls are perched in these trees. They aren’t just watching me, they’re stalking me, and somehow they got here first. It’s as if they were expecting me, and that’s not good.

I back toward the jeep and the relative open of the highway, scanning the spindle-branched canopy for signs of threat. The cawing begins – a single cackle at first, and then the others join in, louder and louder until the screeching is unbearable.

A scatter charge won’t help me here, there are too many for me to track. I deactivate the grenade by tucking it back into the empty retention ring on my vest. I’ll have to use some of my own magic this time.

There are a couple of choices. I could cast a dispersion spell, which would essentially cause the crows’ cellular cohesion to diffuse and disperse on the air. But this is only a temporary solution to the problem – the sentinels’ physical patterns would eventually coalesce again somewhere else, and they would all return to vex me again another day. The other option is far more effective, but infinitely more cruel.

Conjuring a darkening is a serious, last resort measure that no Realm Wraith takes lightly. Snuffing the life force of any being is the last thing I ever want to do, but these sentinels are drawing some kind of deadly, otherworldly trouble my way. Better them than me.

Fae magic is much harder to work in the human realm – the harmonic resonance here is fractured, which is part of what is so wrong with this world to begin with, but basically, the fracturing interferes with the coursing of natural energy. All magic is based on manipulating that natural energy, no matter what realm you’re in. It’s all about focus and control, and a lot can go wrong even when all the conditions are right.

I hold out my open hand and concentrate on gathering a whorl in my palm, infusing the spell with the power of my intent. As the spiral takes form, the condensed energy combines with the intensity of my purpose and begins to burn. I need to unleash the conjuring at just the right moment – after it gains enough strength to be brutally effective, but before it grows too powerful, and too painful, for me to contain. The whorl fires red, then surges a searing orange. The skin of my palm feels as if it is melting.

Giant, feral fangs gnash the air millimeters from my face, so close that wolf spittle sprays my left cheek. The stench is repulsive but it is an instinctive recoil that sends me reeling. I am on my ass before I realize what is happening. The attack might still have blind-sided me even if I hadn’t been working the spell, but the distraction made me vulnerable. I never sensed danger coming.

By the time I scramble to a defensive crouch, the lupine is already turning to make another strike, menacing me with feral eyes that glint with malice. Lurking behind that deadly glare, however, is something unexpected.

It really is all in the eyes, you know. Every sentient being is revealed through its oculus, no matter what physical form it takes. This wolf is daemon, not mammalian. A cursed naiad sylph, from what my senses can gather in the frenzy, and then I recognize more than the mélange of animal musk and deadly intent carried on her scent. It happens sometimes, in this realm, that my hyperactive olfactory receptors will behave in unusual ways. I sense an intimate hatred fueling her intent.  This is personal, somehow, but if our paths have crossed before, if this is some sort of vendetta, I have no clue when or why. But that doesn’t matter now. I don’t need to know her story to undo her. All I need is my blade.

The Auraen steel dagger is already in my hand, although I don’t remember drawing it. My training has prepared my reflexes for situations like this. They are every bit as sharp as the wolf’s, and my blade even sharper.

As she springs, the wolf unleashes a howl so shrill and soul-rendingly tortured it rattles my bones. Her agony startles me, and if she weren’t lunging for my throat I might have made a different choice. Instead, I duck and slash, gutting her from breast to tail as she soars over my head.

It’s not the cut that kills her; it’s the iron in the steel blade. The slightest touch of iron can be deadly to all Empyrean souls, including mine, which is why the knife handle is silver. The gossamer body armor offers some protection as well, but I still have to be careful.

Only then, as the wolf carcass lands with a dead thud, do I realize how silent the forest has become. At first I assume it’s just that the sentinels have fled, but then I remember the whorl. The attack came so quickly I hadn’t had time to extinguish the spell. It had gone wild when I had fallen off balance. Just how many souls have I snuffed tonight?

I don’t want to know.

*

 

Just past the guardian tree, the mouth of the drive opens up to the highway.

I gun the jeep and pull a hard left turn into the gravel. The Caretaker is expecting me. No doubt I have been on his internal radar ever since I first got on the road. He has freakishly amped sensory perception of his own, far superior to any full-blood fae in spite a couple of human incapacities, and he is only a halfling. He is also so old no one can recall his origins.

After securing supplies and equipment, the Caretaker’s cottage is always the first stop on any mission. He is an ancillary, a civilian ally to the Defense League. A hub of information, Caretaker is the central point of contact for all of the intelligence operatives in this sector and the facilitator of essential communication between the realms.

The wolf encounter has me more than a little unsettled. Certainly no coincidence, but was she there for me, or him? The Caretaker will know.

Auger brought me here on my first incursion with the team, early on in my training. That day I’d learned two important lessons: the only person to be trusted blindly in this realm was the Caretaker, and when there was nowhere left to run, run to him. He’s a little quirky and definitely takes some getting used to, but I make it a point to stop in even when I don’t really need to. It has to be a little lonely out here in the woods, and I genuinely like the guy.

Where the narrow road grows too narrow and overgrown for the jeep, I secure the vehicle and take to the root-bound footpath that begins where the gravel drive ends. A hundred yards wading through fern fronds and forest duff brings me to the edge of a small clearing framing a tiny ramshackle cabin that appears abandoned, at least at first glance. Wood smoke wisps from the river-rock chimney and a lantern glimmers through the single front-facing window. He waits for me.

I hesitate on the squatty stoop. As I reach out to knock on the weathered wood door, it swings in on its own. “You decent?” I call. “I’m alone.”

I always wait for him to invite me in. It’s a respect thing. The old man is a bit of a recluse, and though he never seems to mind my visits, he generally avoids contact with everyone – human and fae.

“You might as well come on in,” he shouts. “It took you long enough to get here.”

“I had to shake a tail.” I step inside, but only as far as the doormat. “A naiad exile trapped in lupine form. Nasty bitch.”

“Hah. Funny. Wolf…tail…shake a tail.” The Caretaker slouches in a wooden rocker facing the woodstove with his back to the door, in the ratty gray wool cardigan and wide-brimmed floppy felt hat he always wears.

“Yeah, I’m frickin’ hilarious.” I’d forgotten to grab another bottle from the back of the jeep. I’m literally dying of thirst. Empyrean beings need two or three times the hydration a human does. “Water?”

“Glasses above the sink. Help yourself,” he says, pulling his rickety frame to a stand. He looks frail, but it never occurs to me that he actually is. Experience has shown me that it is foolish, and dangerous, to underestimate him. “Figured you’d be bringing your enforcer friends.”

“You figured wrong this time,” I tease. “And here I thought you knew everything.”

“Most things,” the Caretaker says as he turned to face me, a half-whittled twig in one hand and a small knife in the other. A smoldering cob pipe dangles from the corner of his grizzled mouth. “Not all things.”

“Good to know.” I draw a glassful from the rusted tap and suck the water down while the Caretaker shuffles across the plank floor to place the twig and knife to rest on one of the narrow shelves mounted on the back wall. He then turns and shuffles two steps to his right, to a small square plank table.

“So what was the deal with that lupine?” I ask. “I’m surprised you let her sniff around so close.”

“Honestly? I never sensed a threat. She’s been slinking around these woods for weeks. I took her for a lost soul just looking for a little refuge.”

I refill my glass and try to remember if there was anything I had done to provoke a random attack. I hadn’t, which only made me wonder more about the personal connection I’d sensed. “Maybe my entering the realm somehow triggered her territorial instincts,” I rationalize, not really believing myself. “You don’t think she was waiting for me, do you?”

“I doubt it,” he says. “Who could have known you were coming?

“You’re probably right,” I agree, not all that convinced. None of it feels coincidental to me, but the Caretaker’s point is a good one. “I didn’t know myself until a few hours ago.”

“Likely it was just an unlucky encounter with a hungry stray. Maybe she’d gone rabid,” The Caretaker pulls out one of two mismatched slat-back wooden chairs stationed at the table and waves a hand in my direction. He seats himself and tugs the velvet bag containing his divining tools from his left shirt pocket. “Sit down already.”

I finish my second glass of water before joining him, watching with morbid curiosity as he shakes the bag and dumps the polished bone runes onto the tabletop. I never actually look forward to these readings; the Caretaker’s insights aren’t always pleasant, although they are usually helpful. This time, though, I am in full dread.

The Caretaker pulls the pipe from his mouth and looks straight at me, his gaze focused and expectant. “What do you want to know?”

“I need to locate a rogue operative, fast.” I hadn’t intended to buffer the details, but the sudden reluctance to divulge the whole truth is fierce. I tend to resent my relatives, but I’d never felt embarrassed because of them. “We’ve got a meddler.”

“So I’ve heard.” The Caretaker gives a slow bobbling nod, cocking his head slightly to the right. He appears to be puzzling at the runes, which makes me wonder just what he sees. The Caretaker, as it happens, is as blind as a bat.

What does he know? Before I can stop myself, my tongue darts over my lips, dry from the crossing, and now parched from the sudden ratcheting of tension. It’s a nervous habit, licking my lips, one I have been trying to break. Tells are a liability in my business and it is a constant aggravation to me that I have even one. “What have you got for me?”

The Caretaker straightens his head to look at me again. “You still haven’t told me what you want to know.”

His piercing stare is particularly unsettling. It’s like he’s peering right into my soul. For all I know, he is. “Like I said. I need a last known location, for starters anyway.”

“That’s what you need to know.” He begins selecting runes seemingly at random, positioning them one by one in an arced span on the table in front of him. “What you want to know is why you were selected for this mission. You want to know if you’ll succeed.”

“Wow. You just get right to it, don’t you.” I am still not used to his weird, random blurts of wisdom. There are depths to this man that no one can know and that is more than a little frightening. “I want to know the secrets of the universe too, but I’m on a timeline. Can we just stick to business?”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, but he is not really apologetic. “But if it didn’t need saying, I wouldn’t say it.”

“Yeah, I know.” I regret my defensiveness, but I like it better when his attention is focused on the runes instead of me. “For a blind guy you have a remarkably clear view of things, but I didn’t come here for a personal consult.”

“Didn’t you?” The Caretaker is still staring at me even though I am doing everything I can to avoid meeting his gaze. “Whether you realize it or not, everything about this mission is personal.”

“Okay, let’s just say that’s true,” I say, a half-assed attempt at self-preservation by misdirection. “I still need that intel.”

The Caretaker nods and returns to picking stones from the scatter pile and positioning them on the table. “You’ll need to go see Spade. He’s on the inside now, part of the underground militia Zeta 379 has organized. He’ll get you where you need to go.”

Spade is a known familiar, a long-time member of the Caretaker’s intelligence network, and a particularly gifted halfling who embraces his daemon ancestry as much or more than his human blood. I have never met him, but the Caretaker trusts him and that is enough for me. Interesting, though. Clearly the Caretaker knows all about Melody’s activities.

“You’ll need to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

I wait, expecting an explanation, but the Caretaker just keeps picking bones. “What do you mean, there isn’t much time?”

He shrugs, still staring at the tabletop, still sorting runes. “Can’t say for certain. Just something the runes are telling me.”

“So,” I have to ask. I am growing more anxious to leave with each passing moment, and not just because the mission clock is ticking. “Where do I find this Spade dude?”

“In the city.” The Caretaker nods again and finally looks up from the rune stone pattern he has created. “I see it now.”

“What?” My palms have gone dewy with the wary anticipation that generally accompanies a sense of foreboding. “What do you see?”

“Your father is testing you.”

“Uh, yeah. Of course he’s testing me.” The obvious statement and the Caretaker’s cryptic tone are confusing. “That’s pretty much the whole point of the solo mission.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that.” The Caretaker sweeps his open hand through the air above the runes, indicating the bigger picture. “He’s not just testing your skill. He’s testing your loyalty.”

Gooseflesh ripples beneath the gossamer sheathing, an unexpected involuntary response to what sounds like a sinister implication. “That’s ridiculous. He knows how committed I am to the corps. I’ve dedicated my whole existence to it. Everyone knows that.”

“To him,” the Caretaker counters. “This mission is about proving your loyalty to him.”

“You’re not making any sense.” Feeling trapped, I push away from the table and stand, fighting the urge to escape. Since that would be beyond juvenile, I decide to pace around the tiny room instead. “This mission is about my sister’s loyalty, not mine.”

“I suppose that depends upon your point of view,” the Caretaker points out. “It’s all in how you look at things. Take the runes, for instance.”

I turn to look, though I keep my distance. I’m not even a little bit okay with the twists and turns this conversation is taking, but I am curious. “What about them.”

The Caretaker brings the stem of his pipe back to his lips and leans back in the chair, drumming the tabletop with the fingertips of his free hand as he considers his next words. “Divination is an art, not a science.”

He bends forward and picks up one of the runes in the first arc. “This stone here, īhwaz, represents change – a turning point, a transformation, even death.”

The Caretaker puts back the first rune and picks up another, this one from the second arc. “This one is halgalaz. It indicates loss, destruction. They both make sense, don’t they, given your situation. What the rune casting reveals about your journey is open to the interpretation of the seer. Even that, however, is only part of the story. Every circumstance, or destiny if you want to call it that, contains within it a multitude of outcomes. How any situation resolves is a matter of choice, and the choices we make are a matter of perspective.”

“Just what are you saying?” I am fairly certain there is good advice hidden in his ramblings, but I honestly have no idea what it is.

“I’m trying to widen your vision,” the Caretaker says. “Things are rarely what they appear to be at first glance. Look a little deeper. Imagine all of this from Melody’s perspective. She has lived most of her life here. It’s what she knows.”

“Okay, even if I agreed with you, which I don’t, by the way, it’s her actions that are at issue now, not her motives.” I realize I am nearly shouting and take a deep breath. “Melody is a member of the Empyrean Defense League. She has taken an oath to protect the realms, both realms. She’s out of control.”

“Maybe she is,” the Caretaker concedes. “But maybe she’s not so wrong. Her actions are ill-advised, even disastrous, but her intentions are admirable, as far as I can see. This place can use all the help it can get. It’s growing more and more painful every day, and I’m only half human.”

Guilty concern overrides my indignation. “I don’t know how you stand it. It must be awful for you. The resonance here is unbearably out of tune.”

“Beings adapt,” the Caretaker says. “Or they die.”

“Or they leave.”

“But humans don’t have the ability to escape their realm,” the Caretaker reminds me. “That’s the issue here.”

In all honesty, I have far more empathy for the Caretaker than I ever will for Melody, but their views really aren’t so different when it comes to the plight of humanity. He could leave this realm, with my help, but he never would. It was his home.

“I’m sorry, but I still say that’s exactly why mortals should have taken better care of their domain.”  As far as I am concerned, humans deserve the consequences of their own recklessness. In general terms, of course.

Generation after generation, humans have sought new ways to manipulate their world. Their technologies and their arrogance fail to respect the only existence they have. And this is the point where my sister and I part ways – philosophically speaking. We stand at a crossroads on the suicidal trajectory humanity has taken. I fin Melody’s bizarre affection for the mortal world and its inhabitants offensive, even blasphemous, but apparently our father has dismissed it as an inevitable byproduct of her prolonged exposure to human culture. Until now, anyway.

“Melody isn’t human. She owes her allegiance to her own race.”

The Caretaker smiles to himself. “And yet, she is still here.”

I sense that he is trying to lead me to some sort of moral epiphany but I don’t really care why my sister has gone rogue. It doesn’t matter whether Melody’s intentions are well meaning or not. I suppose she genuinely believes it’s her duty to help these creatures change their course – and from what I knew, she had. But her misguided philanthropy has put both realms in real danger, and she has to be stopped.

Frustration overload forces a sigh of exasperation past my lips. “I don’t get it. Are you defending her, or condemning her?”

“Neither.” The Caretaker shrugs again. “Maybe both. Hard to say. Either way,” he says, pulling himself to his feet. “It’s time for you to go.”

The Caretaker’s ambivalence rattles me, but he is right about one thing. It is time to go. I am not as sure of the situation as I want to be, and the Caretaker has given me more cause for doubt than anything else. Maybe I will get the answers I need from Spade. “So where do I find your guy?”

The Caretaker shuffles past me to the door and drags it open. “Spade will be waiting for you at the Cherry Street Coffeehouse, in the Sodo District. You know the place?”

“First Avenue South, near the train station. Yeah, I know it.” Despite my better judgment, I hesitate, glancing with suspicion at the rune array on the table. “What else do the bones tell you? About my mission. Will I get the job done?”

“Didn’t you hear anything I said?” The Caretaker shakes his head. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out what looked like an old watch case, and holds it out for me. “Here, take my compass.”

I take the polished silver compact from his hand and examine it more closely. The circular case is beautifully flourished on both sides with hand-etched scrollwork, hinged on one side and latched on the other. I depress the latch and the lid pops up, revealing a round dial scored with seven rune symbols, a directional marker for each of the sectors of this realm, and a free-spinning needle anchored in the center. “How does it work?”

“The needle always points to the nearest kedge stone. No matter where you end up, you’ll be able to find your way back to your own realm.”

The Caretaker pauses, apparently weighing his next words. “Look, Bliss. You’re more than capable and plenty determined, but you’re being manipulated. I think you know that. There’s more to this mission than you’re being allowed to know, and that troubles me some. It should trouble you more. I gotta tell you, the odds don’t look good.”

He tucks his chin and glances at me sideways. “You sure you shouldn’t call in the reinforcements?”

“No.” It comes out quick, completely on gut instinct. Not necessarily the best foundation for a good decision, but it is too soon to give up on myself, especially before I’d even gotten started. “Not without a lot more to go on than just your bones and your instincts. No offense, but I’ve got a lot staked on this solo gig.”

“Well, do what you gotta do then, kid,” the Caretaker says. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

∞

Want to know when the next episode is posted? CLICK HERE to sign up for my newsletter and get special updates, news, contests and other announcements! 

Blooded – Episode One: Leap of Faith

Welcome to my Writing in Real Time serial novel experiment! This first story in the Realm Wraith Trilogy will unfold here on my blog in weekly episodes, and is yours to enjoy! Feel free to invite other readers to participate by linking back to my blog.

Friendly discussion and thoughtful comments are welcome. Who knows – your ideas might just help shape the story as I write.

*

I’ve had better days.

The instigator of my current demise steps back to re-center herself, dominating the training mat with that cold, clear confidence I envy so much. Sergeant Velvet Firethorn outmatches me in more ways than rank – something she takes every opportunity to reaffirm. But from where I stand, or have just landed a little harder than I want to admit, it’s only a matter of time before I figure out how to best her.

Velvet’s lanky limbs instinctively form a modified horse stance, an autonomic defensive posture hard-wired into her nervous system by discipline and experience. With one hand Velvet sweeps shaggy, white-blonde bangs from her eyes and waves me forward with the other. “You’re gonna have to come at me harder than that, Cadet.”

That last elbow jab to my nose had knocked me off balance, but it was the fall that really hurt. Ignoring the sticky trickle congealing on my upper lip, I scramble back to my feet, hoping it isn’t obvious how much I’m struggling. Not that Velvet doesn’t regularly kick my butt during close-combat drills, but today is particularly ugly. I am not at all on my game.

“Ok, ready.” I’m lying. I can’t quite catch my breath, but I am riding an adrenaline rush that has me so amped I can’t quit. “Let’s go again.”

“Yeah?” Velvet flashes a crooked smirk, mocking me with her expertise and the spunk that comes from knowing her own strengths. Nearly half an hour now and my whole body is dripping with sweat. She isn’t even glistening. “So bring it, already.”

Where Velvet is all long and lean, I am compact and curvy. She has reach and overview to her advantage. I am learning to use that against her, but not fast enough. I’m going down again, no doubt about that, but I am not about to make it easy for her.

I need time to rethink my strategy, so I begin a slow, sidling circle to my right hoping to stall long enough to come up for a fresh approach. I’ve used all the holds I know. Velvet is already anticipating my moves and every scenario I envision ends with me on my ass again, or worse.

Somewhere below gut level stirs the uneasy realization that once again, I am stuck in an analysis loop. I overthink things. It’s what I do. Often enough, I catch details that other people miss. But sometimes it’s just a self-defeating trap, and right now I can’t seem to escape it. Then I remember – sometimes a girl just has to give in to blind instinct and roll with the hits. It won’t be pretty, but she might just get out alive.

Following the impulses as they come, I fake right and then lunge left, rushing Velvet’s stand with a sliding tackle. My foot clips her ankle and she drops, but not backward as I expected. Velvet launches her weight forward and lands on me in a classic pelvis straddle, pinning me to the mat with a forearm choke I can’t break. In a matter of seconds I feel myself losing consciousness, but she won’t let up. Not even a little.

“Girl, please.” The harder I struggle, the more pressure Velvet applies to my throat. Her eyes are steel-edged this time. She’s not playing. “This can end one of two ways. Either you submit while you’re still conscious, or you pass out. Either way, I win.”

For a moment, I consider resisting until I pass out. At least that way I can claim I never gave in. A jolt of panic-fueled energy instantly obliterates that thought and I feel the fight instinct surge through the lack-of-oxygen haze. With what breath I have left, I attempt a double ankle-grab sweep by wrapping my legs around her waist to leverage my weight. Suddenly, I am the alpha. Somehow I manage to flip the hold, and I don’t know which of us is more surprised. Velvet is stunned, but only for a moment. Before I can get a good hold, Velvet bucks and pulls a reverse sweep. Just as suddenly I am the beta again, but this time, she is grinning down at me.

“Not bad, Bliss.” Her fist bumps my chin, a little harder than necessary. “Not bad at all.”

“That’s enough for now.” The Realm Wraith squad leader charges into the gym. Auger Mangrove’s normally brooding expression is more surly than usual. “Hoarfrost, go suit up. You report to central command for mission briefing in fifteen minutes.”

“What?” I’m not sure I’m hearing the lieutenant right. Oxygen is still working its way back to my brain.

Velvet rocks back onto her heels, and straightens to a stand. She offers me a hand up, but I am still trying to process what Auger said. He’d made it pretty clear earlier that morning that he wasn’t going to sign off on the assignment that had come down for my first solo mission. He didn’t think I was ready. “Now?”

Auger scowls at me like I am wasting his time. “You got a problem with that, Cadet?”

“No, sir.”

I don’t, and he knows it. Everyone knows it. I had been on the career fast track ever since enlistment and took an early lead in the over-achievement department. It helps that I’m smart and capable, but Auger worries I don’t have the life experience to gut out the tougher scenarios an ultra-elite covert strike team can face. But even if I am the youngest candidate to ever be put up for a commission, no one would ever say I haven’t earned it.

And that’s no small thing, either. The Realm Wraith Squadron is the best of the best in the EDL. But then, any post in the corps is considered an honor. For thousands of years the Empyrean Defense League has fought like hellfire to keep the mortal races from annihilating themselves and taking the magical world out along with them.

Humanity, in its infinite hubris, has been systematically dismantling its only livable environment for countless generations. The only reason their realm has survived this long is that a force far beyond their ken has been holding the line between chaos and order. All I have ever wanted is to serve.

I roll off the training mat and bounce to my feet. “On my way.”

*

“Oh, come on!”

This can’t be happening, not now. Fifteen minutes have easily passed, and I’m still fighting. With myself.  For a third time, I attempt to stretch the protective gossamer body sheath up from my ankles, but just as I manage to inch it over my knees the fabric slips through my fingertips and snaps back around my ankles.

What is my problem? Months of tactical training, skill tests, and trial runs, and I can’t even manage the basic readiness task.  I am one objective away from making the squad for good, and the opportunity is literally sliding out of my hands. And along with it, my self-respect, my dignity, whatever admiration my father might ever have for me, probably the rest of my career.  I can’t crash and burn now, not before the mission even begins.

I can do this. The clingy, iridescent casing is literally a second skin, which makes it a struggle to get into under the best circumstances. Stuffing sweaty, girly body parts into this suit should be a medal-worthy accomplishment. I’ve done it before, plenty of times, and in record time. I just need to chill.

“Hurry up, Cadet.” Auger’s fist pounding against the metal door ratchets up my nervous system and the razor-edged bristle in his tone makes my mouth go dry. “The CIC is waiting on you.”

I am dangerously close to screwing myself out of this mission. “Two minutes, sir. I swear.”

He leaves, but I sense his escalating aggravation. This is so not turning out the way I had planned. It’s not like I’m looking for anyone’s approval, but earning Auger’s admiration matters. Too much, probably, and if today is any indication, I’m nowhere near earning it. I am not in control of this situation, and I need to be.

“Get a grip on your aura, girl.” Hearing my own voice fall small and flat in the priming chamber is a cringe-inducing experience. My thoughts sound even more weak and whiney outside my head than inside, but the self-shaming is unexpectedly motivating.

A deep exhale and the willful steadying of my breath puts my panic on pause long enough to assess what is going wrong. My nervous system seems to be overpowering the calming effect of the alabaster that lines the walls of the room. The spell charged stone tiles are supposed to nullify any errant energy discharges so that the fae natural form can be contained. But anxiety is oozing from my skin and pinging off every surface.  My palms are sweaty, even though they shouldn’t be.

In moments like this, I am my own worst enemy, and yet I can’t stop myself from wallowing in self-pity. Sometimes it feels like I have to work twice as hard just to prove myself half as good as everyone else. Others tend to assume family connections have paved my career path, but the truth is my father has never used his position in the Empyrean Defense League to help me. Not even the one time I asked. In fact, I’m fairly certain he has leveraged his influence against me more than once. But in spite of everything, in spite of him, I have gotten myself this far. I have every right to be proud.

Okay, so maybe not so much right now, as I fumble around like a total newb. I’m better than this. I swear I am.

At last, my dew-fingered grip on the gossamer holds and I manage to work the sheathing up my calves and over the uncooperative curves of my hips and backside. But the process is slow going. A full sixty seconds to wriggle the rest of me into the suit, and another thirty to jog across the glass-ceilinged skybridges linking the crew barracks and briefing rooms in the outermost ring to the control hub at the center of the compound.  The complex resembles a giant spider web. Sometimes it functions like one, too.

A top-level security clearance or an official escort is required to access the command core, but my gossamer sheathing produces a biogenic signature that allows special access. The organic defense system should recognize me or at least it had better. The last thing I need today is to be swarmed by six-legged sentry beetles and cocooned in security webbing.

The doors to the General’s briefing room slide open as I approach and my heart skips half a dozen beats. All my hard work is about to pay off. It’s really happening. This is my moment. So why is there a clump of terror stuck inmy throat?

Auger stands at attention in the far corner. A reluctant advocate, but I know he has my back. General Erebus Hoarfrost, Commander-in-Chief of the Empyrean Defense League, is seated behind his command bridge. He shifts his attention away from one of the monitors embedded in the desktop to acknowledge me, but not with the familiarity a daughter might expect from her father.

I override the impulse to glance at Auger for reassurance and present myself. I need them both to see me as capable and confident, but it’s kind of hard to convince others of something I don’t totally believe myself. “General, sir. Mission Specialist Hoarfrost, Operative beta-five-nine-five, reporting as ordered.”

Reproach raises the naturally disdainful arch of the Commander’s grizzled eyebrows even higher, and my gut tweaks a little. The last thing I want is to add weight to Auger’s arguments against this assignment. I am ready.  Late, but ready.

General Hoarfrost nods as though he is still assessing his decision. A tap on one of the implanted modules on his desk brings up a holographic image of the mission dossier. He and Auger wait while I review the file.

One of our specialized infiltration operatives, also known as a changeling, violated the neutrality protocol of her watch-and-report assignment and interfered with events in the human realm. The timeline of the breach of conduct isn’t clear, but recently the situation has gone critical. It is my job to find the operative and bring her back before she does something really stupid.

General Hoarfrost shifts in his seat, a clear signal that he wants me to redirect my attention. “You understand what is being asked of you, Specialist?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” It seems fairly straightforward. “I’m to intercept and apprehend operative zed-three-seven-nine and return her to the home realm to face charges and possible disciplinary action.”

“Yes, essentially, but I doubt it will be as simple as that,” he explains. “This isn’t just any changeling.”

That much I had already gleaned that from the dossier. This particular operative was originally part of the long term reconnaissance team: a group of specially trained agents who were planted in human families, usually under the guise of a fostering program for homeless youths with sketchy pasts, to keep eyes on potential trouble spots. This particular operative had gone under cover as a tween, and now, nearly fifteen years later, was a fully functioning citizen of human society. She had achieved a level of integration no other agent had ever been able to manage, but something had driven her way off track.

“Of course not, sir.” I mean for my response to reflect a strong grasp of the situation but my tone is more aggressive than I intend. “We’re talking about a highly capable agent who is at home in the human world. I don’t expect it to be easy, but I do expect to get the job done.”

The Commander’s brow furrows deepen. “We’re talking about our most successful undercover operation in decades, maybe even generations. But we should have seen this coming.”

By ‘we’, the Commander means ‘he’. According to the dossier, the signs were there along – small sidesteps and unorthodox judgment calls overlooked because of the complicated nature of the assignment and the agent’s stellar record. But, over the last few years, the operative had taken on a personal crusade. A handful of incidents involving benign environmental activism escalated to full-on eco-terrorism.

The operative’s handler sent a spy to spy on the spy, and the reports were alarming. By combining her fae powers with her human education, the operative had invented a magic-infused technology that she was using to disrupt industrial operations harmful to the human environment.

But whether she knew it or not, the technology the agent created was disrupting the invisible filament wall separating the realms. Every time it was deployed, layers of the filament peeled away, putting both worlds at risk. Even the tiniest perforation in the realm wall could create a dimensional implosion – destroying the very thing the operative was trying to protect.

After receiving orders to cease and desist, the agent cut off all contact with command.

“Now we have a volatile situation, and limited options.” The Commander’s glower is focused on me, but I don’t know what he’s thinking. Is he assessing me or his decision? Both, maybe. Probably. I never have been able to decipher my father’s expressions. To me they are all a variation on the same theme – his general disappointment with everyone and everything.

“There’s something else you should know … something that isn’t in the dossier.” He sucks in a deep breath and forces it out through his nose in a long and deliberate stream of dissatisfaction. As if circumstances are forcing him to reveal things he does not want to share.

“Zed-three-seven-nine is your sister.”

“Melody?” I don’t remember the last time I said her name out loud. My sister is older by nearly seven years and left home to enter the intelligence service when I was only five. I barely remember her. All I know of the person she has become are the monthly status reports detailing her accomplishments — feats my father is eager to boast about. Until now, at least.

“I trust that won’t be a problem for you.”

I assume he is asking if lingering sibling affinity will impact my ability to execute my duties. “No, sir. No problem at all.”

“Is that so?” General Erebus cocks an eyebrow, challenging me. “No problem at all.”

For a moment I wonder whether he is concerned about my ability to detach, or his. This is a complication neither of us would have ever expected to face. Melody is the last being in all the fae races I could ever imagine running afoul of the great Erebus Hoarfrost. She is his legacy, his greatest achievement. To me, she is a painful reminder of what I will never be, at least in his eyes.

My mind begins to piece together the subtext, and all of a sudden, the entire scenario coalesces like a fractal – a random pattern that isn’t really random at all, once you step back to get a good look at it. I’m the right person for the job, but for all the wrong reasons. My father isn’t sending me despite the family connection, he’s sending me because of it.  I have no idea how this works to his advantage, but I should have known. My father has no problem with nepotism, when it suits his own needs.

Whatever. No way am I taking this bait. “The identity of the target is of no consequence, sir. It’s the mission that matters.”

This satisfies him, I think, although any conflict or uncertainty or regret he might be experiencing is too well masked by his unshakable sense of decorum. My father is a cold man, completely committed to his career. Nothing else matters to him, except maybe Melody, and even then it’s all about how her successes, and now her failures, might reflect on him. I am fairly certain he is incapable of experiencing most emotions.

“Carry on then, Specialist.” The Commander turns his attention back to the screen on his desk. “Stop the rogue before she destroys us all, whatever the cost.”

“Yes, sir.” I offer the answer he expects, but his order is disturbing. Recall missions sometimes go bad, very bad. Extreme measures are often unavoidable. But take out my own sister? That is an outcome I can’t wrap my head around. Surely he can’t expect it will come to that.

“That will be all.”

I have been dismissed, but the conversation feels unfinished. I have no idea what I want to say or hear, but the need to resolve my sense of dread holds me in place. It is pointless to wait for him to acknowledge me further. As far as he is concerned I am no longer in the room, and the gentle swish of the door opening behind me prods me into motion.

Auger leads me into the hall, and I force myself to wait for the doors to close before letting the rush of confusion and disbelief spew. “What the –?”

“It’s like I said. You aren’t ready for this.” Grim-faced and stern, Auger holds up a crossing key hung on a gossamer lanyard. He slips the lanyard over my head and around my neck, staring hard at me with those ice-blue eyes. “I sure hope your father knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah.” The steady, nothing-rattles-my-cage façade I work so hard to maintain is cracking under the pressure. “So do I.”

*

 

“Well, THIS is a freaking nightmare.”

The words gush over my lips before the doors to the crew’s ready room slide closed behind us. I feel Auger’s warning glare burning through the back of my head and try to reign myself in. The other five members of my team are gathered around the briefing table, evaluating my every move. Each of them has had a hand in my training these past months. How I handle myself now is critical.

“So.” A steady exhale traps the emotional eruption at the base of my throat. My lungs burn, but I manage to avoid embarrassing myself. “You old-timers got any advice for a rookie who’s totally screwed?”

“Rookies are screwed on general principle,” Rip quips. He gives the empty chair across the table from him a shove with his boot, indicating it is for me. Auger’s second-in-command, Captain Ripsaw Buckhorn is the only being I know who has any real sway with Auger. So far he has been my ally and an unexpected source of support and encouragement.

Digger and Torch sit at the far end of the table, barely holding back the shit storm of mockery they are no doubt dying to fling in my direction. These two have more cycles of service in the squad than I have in this realm, and are far more likely to be amused at my expense than empathetic.  But they were all rookies once and they know what I’m up against. They’ve also got my back – no matter what.

Even though I am too wired to sit, I plant my butt in the chair. It is an offering, and the right thing to do is accept it.

Rip looks over my head at Auger, who is still standing near the door.  “I see she got her crossing key.”

It hadn’t registered at the time, but Auger’s hanging that lanyard around my neck in the hall outside my father’s office was a big deal. With that gesture, he had essentially signed off on the mission and cleared me to go. I knew he was still uncomfortable with the situation, but he was backing my play anyway.

“So, kid.” Velvet, who was the resident communications specialist when she wasn’t kicking my butt, yanks a chair back from the table and whips it around to straddle the seat backwards. “What’s the job?”

“Kid? Seriously?” I flash a scowl in Rip’s direction. Intended or not, the implication in Velvet’s comment is a slight. I may be a newbie as far as this crew is concerned, but at nineteen cycles I am already two years into a stellar military career, and a decorated officer candidate. “What is she, like, three rotations older than me?”

Velvet kicks the leg of my chair so hard it almost shoots out from under me, but I manage to keep my seat. The warning glare I level in her direction is met with cool calm.

Rip wasn’t about to help me out. “Sarge asked you a question, Cadet.”

I adjust my attitude and my ego a few degrees south of arrogant, just to be safe. Velvet’s personality is only slightly more paradoxical than her full name suggests – as smooth and subtle as she is sharp and combustible. She and I get along okay, partly because I admire her, but mostly because so far I have been smart enough not to push her too far. Velvet had my respect long before I got here.

Only a handful of female operatives have won commissions in the Realm Wraith squadron. Not that sylph recruits aren’t common in combat divisions, but tactical assault squads like the Wraiths are specialized units that attract a certain personality type – generally reckless misfits or legacy brats with something to prove. It was no secret why I was busting my ass to make it. But Velvet had already made her mark and so far, she’d been willing to show me the ropes. It didn’t make sense to screw with that.

“Personnel retrieval and reintegration,” I answer.

“Yeah, I meant the part we don’t already know.”  Velvet tilts a taunting look in my direction and rakes her hair back with the fingers of both hands – a nervous habit, I think. Like the rest of her, her hair is a contradiction in terms – long on top and shaved short on the sides and back, framing the soft edges of her pixie-ish face with hard angles. “Who’s the rogue?”

“A changeling who’s been under cover so long she’s forgotten which side she’s on.”  Auger interrupts, as if he wants to shut down the conversation. “And the CIC’s oldest daughter.”

“No shit?” Velvet snorts. “The kid’s sister?”

Auger’s sneer underscores his obvious irritation with the entire scenario. “Giving Bliss this assignment violates about a half dozen regs, not to mention some pretty basic command protocols, if you ask me. But nobody’s asking me.” He crosses the room to the armory lockers lining the back wall and roots through the gear. “So, here’s the run down. Our Cadet here is going to jump solo, as planned, and track down this rogue just like any other.”

Auger flings a loaded tactical vest onto the table and levels the full measure of his commanding gaze directly at me. “Once you’ve got eyes on the target and have fully assessed the situation, you tap into the interdimensional com network and report your status before you intercede. You got that?”

“I got it,” I said.

“I mean it, Hoarfrost.” Auger shoves the vest across the table, hard. “First sign of real trouble, or you even think you might be about to get in over your head, you call in the team. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” My full-throated bellow is less impressive than intended, but there is conviction in my voice. I think.

Auger’s stare is a laser-focused bullshit detector, scanning for even the slightest indication of uncertainty, but I refuse to give him so much as a flinch to use against me. Still, knowing he isn’t a hundred percent on board with the mission is making it tough to be tough.

He turns his attention to the rest of the team. “For the next forty-eight hours, this squad is on standby. No lockdown yet, but no one leaves the Wraith command hub without my say-so until mission resolution.” He looks at me again, this time with steely resolve instead.  “Gear up, Cadet.”

*

 

The fae have always existed alongside mankind.

Eons ago, all the races – magical and mortal –even shared the same realm. Although, not without conflict. The never-ending struggle for dominion eventually threatened to drive us all to extinction, so the magical societies joined together and decided to wall off a world of our own. We’ve been fighting to keep it safe ever since.

Only seven active kedge stones remain in the Empyrean Realm, where once there were dozens. Each of these giant sarsens is an anchor that literally exists in two places at once, tethering the preternatural dimension to the mortal one. The distinction between a kedge stone as it exists in the Empyrean realm and its corresponding state in the mortal realm is a matter of perception. The preternatural races know what the stones are and how to use them. Humans no longer remember.

For the fae, kedge stones are markers indicating trans-dimensional connection points in the ley line array, a metaphysical energy grid that crosshatches both dimensions. In the human world, the grid map is divided into seven patrol sectors, one for each kedge stone.

I stare at the north face of the kedge for Sector Five, Melody’s last known location, re-running the mission parameters in my head while Auger hovers. It’s his responsibility to monitor my crossing, but he hasn’t said a word since we left the compound.

“Stop worrying,” I say. “I’ve got this.”

“Yeah.” He sounds resigned, maybe even defeated. “I know you think you do.”

I know what Auger thinks; I’m headstrong and impulsive, not disciplined enough to respond calmly in unexpected situations, and not seasoned enough to know how to get myself out of real trouble. Like it or not, I still had a lot to prove.

“You should know I flat out refused to send you when your father first asked me to assign you this mission.” There is no apology in his words or expression. “The Commander overruled me. That’s the only reason you’re here.”

“I know what I’m doing.” I feel a little betrayed, but frustration compels me to plead my case.  “I’m smart, I’m well-trained, and I’ve got great instincts. Most recruits wash out long before they get to this point. You said so yourself, more than once.”

“Most recruits aren’t sent to hunt down their own siblings.” Auger is always direct, but not always so blunt. “I’m not so sure you’re processing this the way you should.”

“Are you serious?” My head snaps around so fast I don’t have time to wipe the snarl from my scowl. The implication is insulting and it’s a struggle to keep my pride from overriding a respectful response, but on some level I know his point is not entirely off target.  “You really think I can’t set aside family loyalties to do my job? Have you met me?”

Auger’s narrow lips twitch without shifting the clench in his acutely angled jaw. As near a smile as I was likely to get from him today. “You don’t think there might be a conflict of interest here?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “If I was sympathetic to my sister’s cause, but I’m hardly even sympathetic to my sister’s existence. So I think I’m good.”

Auger winces at my snark. “Yeah, that’s not exactly where I was going with that. You may not be soft-hearted where your sister is concerned, but your father is. And I know how you feel about your father.”

“No love lost there, either.” To avoid his critical glower, I reposition my gaze and my indignation on the kedge stone, pretending to examine a particularly bushy clump of cap moss.

“Right,” Auger quips, a little too sarcastically. “You forget it’s my job to know you better than you know yourself, Cadet. And I’m telling you right now there are two things driving everything you do: earning your commission and impressing the great General Erebus Hoarfrost.”

There is no point denying these particular truths, but I still resent his pointing them out. “So?”

“Hey,” Auger’s tone softens. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. There’s something a little twisted driving all of us, if you want to know the truth. But I am saying you might just be a little short-sighted where the general is concerned. He’s not doing you any favors here. He’s got his own agenda. You get that, right?”

“Yeah, I get that.” I don’t want to talk about my father anymore, and I certainly don’t want to admit that I am already seeing this mission as an opportunity to step out from under the total eclipse of my sister’s life and accomplishments – at least in our father’s eyes. She’d finally gone too far afield of the wide, sheltering embrace he’d always held open for her. This is a chance, finally, for me to be seen. “I don’t really care what his ‘agenda’ is, as long as I get my sigil.”

The Realm Wraith sigil is an unofficial rite of passage, a ritual blooding performed by the ranking members of the team that signifies a recruit’s acceptance by the squad. Each Wraith is branded with the squad’s insignia – the rune symbol ehwaz, for loyalty.

Auger falls quiet, thinking. It’s hard to tell what is really going on in his head. When he has something he thinks you need to hear, Auger speaks his mind without reservation. Otherwise he tends to keep his thoughts to himself, even when asked for his opinion. His silence can be crazy making.

“I knew it,” I snap. “You seriously don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can do this,” Auger snaps back. “But the whole setup feels a lot more like a career ender to me than a career maker. And frankly? You aren’t looking at this from all the angles, and that’s a concern for me.”

His criticism stings, but I’m pissed that he thinks I’m so naive. “I think I’ve got a pretty good grasp on how big a jerk my father can be. It’s not like I don’t get how assigning me this mission makes him look tough. Duty or death, that’s my dad, right? Only a total hardass would send one daughter to hunt down the other. All due respect, Lieu, but nobody knows the CIC like I do.”

“Oh, ok.” Auger’s expression hangs between amusement and annoyance, which only infuriates me more. “So you’re totally cool with him putting you between him and any potential fallout.”

Though I hadn’t considered mission failure might mean I would take the political and professional hit instead of him, I shrug it off. “I’m used to it.”

“Maybe you are, Cadet,” Auger says. “But you forget: you’re a Realm Wraith. What you do affects all of us. We stand together, and we fall together – even when one of goes a solo.”

A heaping pile of humility isn’t exactly what my ego wants right now, but I get it. “Guess I’ll just have to kick ass, then.”

This brings a sparkle to his eyes, like gold flecks dancing on a cerulean pond. Yeah, it’s true. Faeries sparkle. Just not in a glittery, rhinestone kind of way. It’s more of a glimmer, really. And we all have the same cerulean blue eyes. It’s a fae thing.

The barely perceptible slackening of Augur’s jawline makes me think he’s coming to terms with the scenario. “We’ve got your back. Just don’t wait until you’re in too deep before you reach out.”

“Thanks, boss.” I am relieved, although my gut argues that I shouldn’t be. It is going to be okay. I am going to be okay. “Don’t worry. I’ll call in the team if I need to.”

“Right.” Auger juts his chin at the tactical vest slung over my shoulder. “Secure your gear.”

Anticipation trills through me, and I am suddenly eager. If I don’t go now, I never will.

The gossamer harness snugs my shoulders and torso, layering a sense of calm over my inner frenzy. As I cinch the straps tight, I take a quick mental inventory of the vest’s load – an assortment of magical energy distortion charges, standard issue silver-plated iron shackles for prisoner transport, and a spell-charged dagger with an Auraen steel blade for close combat. The tools of my trade are confidence builders, and I feel powerful. “Good to go, Lieutenant. Let’s do this thing.”

“All right then,” he signals. “Initiate the jump sequence.”

The jump order triggers an adrenaline surge. It’s really happening. I remove the gossamer lanyard from my head and take hold of the silver crossing key by the crescent shaped bow.

On the surface of the kedge is a narrow, hand-hewn channel concealed in a rune glyph. I am looking for raidō, which represents ‘journey,’ but it is difficult to see the ancient etching in the weather-worn stone.

A subtle contrast in the mottled grays and browns near the top catches my eye. In a darkened spot near the center of the kedge, I finally see the shadowy outline of the channel. My heart is pounding so hard I feel it thudding in my head, but somehow, my hands are steady.

Aligning the double-sided pin so that the protrusions on either side connect with the corresponding recesses inside the lock, I press the key in until the shank drops into place. The stone begins to thrum, raising a tingle in my fingertips as magic worms a passageway from one dimension to the next. In the shadow of the sarsen, a faint shimmer appears as the glassine membrane separating my realm from the human world thins.

With one hand gripping the gossamer lanyard attached to the key, I take a single side-step and scrunch my legs to jump. Once the crossing key is pulled from the lock, I have only an instant to leap through the thin place before the opening closes. My timing has to be precise. If I miss the window even by half a breath, I’ll be crushed in the collapsing vortex.

The risk is as thrilling as it is terrifying. Even my toes curl as my coiled body waits. I suck air deep into my lungs and hold my breath, yank the lanyard, and launch myself into the void.

“You’ll rock this job, Cadet,” Auger calls out as I slip between the realms. “Just don’t lose that key.”

∞

Read Episode Two

Want to know when the next episode is posted? CLICK HERE to sign up for my newsletter to get special updates, news, contests and other announcements! 

 

Marketing Monday: Measurable Results

A measurable result is one of the touchstones of any successful marketing campaign. But how do you define it? Most folks look at number trends before, during and after a promotion and look for an uptick in sales. Metrics are an obvious measurement of whether or not our marketing efforts (and investment) have paid off. But, they are not the only yardstick of success.

Increasing your sales, and ultimately your bottom line, is the prime objective. However, specific marketing efforts rarely correspond directly to an increase in units sold. A lack of a sales spike, however, does not necessarily mean your ad plan has failed. There is more than one way to measure success. For example:

Increased Visibility in the marketplace – every campaign or promo you run will at the very least garner you attention. Most of the people who see a sponsored post, tweet or Instagram ad respond impulsively to the concept if it interests or appeals to them. They will “like” your promo, but don’t click through to purchase. They aren’t actually shopping. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t make an impact. The hope here is that when they are looking to buy, they’ll remember you. There are sales conversion formulas that calculate how many impressions (number of times someone sees your ad) it takes to convert a sale. It varies, but every person who notices you gets you one click closer to that purchase. In  the long run, how many “likes” you get matters.

Audience Capture is just a sexy term for saying followers or fans, and is another important measurable result. These are folks who aren’t yet ready to buy, but have more than just a passing interest in what you have to offer. They take the extra step of connecting with you – becoming a fan of your FB page, following your blog or Twitter or Instagram account – in order to keep you and your offerings in their que for later reference.

Referrals (or “shares”) are also a powerful measure of a successful ad or promotion. It’s harder to track these results directly because there’s no way to follow the sale back to the source, but every time someone retweets your Tweet or shares you FB ad or blog post, you are reaching a new potential market you had no way of reaching otherwise. It’s essentially free advertising, and should be counted as a win.

The biggest mistake you can make when it comes to evaluating your marketing plan is to expect a dollar for dollar return on your investment. Factor the long term payoffs from increased visibility, audience capture, and referrals into the equation. In other words, don’t sell yourself short. Building a customer base or audience takes consistent effort over time. And remember, sales metrics are not the only measurable result that matters.

 

The Week in Review

A return to some forgotten routines this week, including everyday writing. Though I might not have managed much in the way of word count, but I kept my pledge to myself and spent time with my work in progress each day. It was good to get reacquainted with the story and I even found some new inspiration.

I also completed my Marketing Monday task list, and put the finishing touches on an exciting new blog feature for readers that will launch next week. 

You writers out there should also check out the FB page for my sister project, Lit Chicks Editorial. for resources, contest announcements, and calls for submissions. We also offer editorial services for fiction writers working toward publication.

That’s this week in review. See you all next week on Marketing Monday!

Marketing Monday: #WriterProblems

One of the things I struggle with most as a writer is consistency. Creative people have ideas, lots of them, all the time. If you are of the goal oriented ilk, mustering the discipline to stay on task and see each one through to a timely conclusion comes easy to you. If you’re like me, and you’re of the passionate-about-process persuasion, not so much. I tend to follow inspiration from idea to idea, herding my many projects like sheep along a meandering road at their own pace. Some of them get lost along the way. Others die from neglect, and sadly, precious few reach the end of the process path.

After many MANY failed attempts at regimenting my work day with accountability tools and word count goals and self-imposed deadlines, I have come to accept my creative wanderlust as less an affliction to be cured and more an attribute to be better utilized. We all need structure and context, just like our stories, but we also need to let the muse lead now and then.

I don’t mind boundaries, but I don’t like fences. So, to keep myself from jumping the rails, I have decided to pencil some loose parameters around my writing week. Today, I’m going to kick things off by resurrecting Marketing Mondays – a blog column I abandoned quite some time ago for no good reason. To bookend that feature, I’ll be returning with the Week in Review post on Fridays.

Marketing Monday is all about shameless self-promotion. Each Monday, I am going to do my level best to accomplish a short-list of marketing tasks. To be effective, and manageable in the long run, these tasks should be specific, actionable and have measurable results.

Here’s the list for today:

Promote Amazon SFF Summer Reads sale (featuring my books) via social media
Update blog with promo post and refreshed Marketing Monday feature
Activate FB ad

What about you? Do you do Marketing Monday, or do you have a different strategy for promotion? I’d love to hear your ideas – goddess knows I need the help!

So far I’ve completed two of those three tasks for this Marketing Monday, and I’m feeling pretty good about it. I should have that third bullet checked off by the end of the day. My “to do” list for the rest of the week is pretty long, and I’ll let you know how it goes on Friday, with my next Week in Review post. See you then!

#WriterProblems: Marketing Mondays

One of the things I struggle with most as a writer is consistency. Creative people have ideas, lots of them, all the time. If you are of the goal oriented ilk, mustering the discipline to stay on task and see each one through to a timely conclusion comes easy to you. If you’re like me, and you’re of the passionate-about-process persuasion, not so much. I tend to follow inspiration from idea to idea, herding my many projects like sheep along a meandering road at their own pace. Some of them get lost along the way. Others die from neglect, and sadly, precious few reach the end of the process path.

After many MANY failed attempts at regimenting my work day with accountability tools and word count goals and self-imposed deadlines, I have come to accept my creative wanderlust as less an affliction to be cured and more an attribute to be better utilized. We all need structure and context, just like our stories, but we also need to let the muse lead now and then.

I don’t mind boundaries, but I don’t like fences. So, to keep myself from jumping the rails, I have decided to pencil some loose parameters around my writing week. Today, I’m going to kick things off by resurrecting Marketing Mondays – a blog column I abandoned quite some time ago for no good reason. To bookend that feature, I’ll be returning with the Week in Review post on Fridays.

Marketing Monday is all about shameless self-promotion. Each Monday, I am going to do my level best to accomplish a short-list of marketing tasks. To be effective, and manageable in the long run, these tasks should be specific, actionable and have measurable results.

Here’s the list for today:

Promote Amazon SFF Summer Reads sale (featuring my books) via social media
Update blog with promo post and refreshed Marketing Monday feature
Activate FB ad

What about you? Do you do Marketing Monday, or do you have a different strategy for promotion? I’d love to hear your ideas – goddess knows I need the help!

So far I’ve completed two of those three tasks for this Marketing Monday, and I’m feeling pretty good about it. I should have that third bullet checked off by the end of the day. My “to do” list for the rest of the week is pretty long, and I’ll let you know how it goes on Friday, with my next Week in Review post. See you then!

Books on Sale (for a limited time)!

Through July 31st, both books in The Dream Stewards Series are specially priced. If you’re a fan of quasi-historical epic fantasy, there’s never been a better time to give these stories a try. Get the first book in the series, THE WELL OF TEARS, for $1.99 and then pick up THE KEYS TO THE REALMS for just $ .99 – click the image to go to my Amazon author page and get both books at the best price ever!

 

 

Skill Building Workshops for the Determined Writer (Seattle Area)

I’ll be hosting a series of single session focused workshops with my long-time writing/publishing friends and colleagues Jennifer McCord and Scott Driscoll. For more information, or to register, contact me via email at info@robertatrahan.com –

Seattle Area Writer Friends!

Are you a fiction writer envisioning publication and struggling to make sense of editorial notes or reader feedback? Hearing that your story lacks a sense of urgency, a call to action, or that it falls a bit flat? That your main characters are unlikable or uninteresting? Not sure how to turn things around? We can help.

It’s all about story. Publishing and readers expect more from writers than ever before. Every writer must carefully consider how they are inviting the reader into their novel, and then deliver an experience that hooks them and doesn’t let go. There are no secret keys to success, but there are some skill sets you can hone to get your book on track.

Sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest differences. Feedback is essential, but it can also be difficult to know how or where to start. Rewrites and revisions don’t necessarily mean a major overhaul of your book. Often all that’s needed is a closer look at one or two critical story elements, such as impact, pacing, or character motivation.

Knowing what those areas are is one thing – figuring out how to work around them is another. Ready to tackle the tough job of addressing agent/editor notes or early reader response? We are now offering a series of single focus workshops that address some of the most common trouble spots in any manuscript:

The Inciting Incident: A successful novel opens with a “hook” – a call to action or specific event that launches the protagonist into the central conflict that propels the plot. In this session, you will learn how to identify, assess and refine the inciting incident in your story to create a stronger sense of urgency and ramp up the tension from the very first scene.

Next Session: January 29, 2017 / 7-9:30 pm

The Desire Quest: Once an inciting event throws the protagonist’s everyday world into chaos, how he or she responds becomes the foundation of the plot. But what is it that drives the protagonist to accept the challenge? In this session, we’ll delve into the complex traits that define a multi-dimensional protagonist who is not only capable of carrying weight of the story, but also of fulfilling your reader’s expectations.

Next Session: February 12, 2017 / 7-9:30 pm

The Point of No Return: Plot is essentially a sequence of events that confront a protagonist with obstacles they must overcome in order for the story to move toward its climax. How these obstacles are presented determines a novel’s pace and should naturally create the escalating tension that keeps readers captivated. This workshop will help you analyze and assess your book’s major plot points and the protagonist’s progression toward the story’s proverbial point of no return.

Next Session: March 19, 2017 / 7-9:30 pm

Reserve your space today!

Affordable Customized Instruction & Support – Attend only the workshop/workshops you need – sign up for individual sessions or all three at a special discounted rate.*
Small Groups Sessions: Class size is limited to 7 student to allow for more in-depth presentation of the course material
Proven Techniques & Tools: Developed specifically to meet the expectations of today’s publishing world
Professional Teaching Team: Work closely with three respected publishing industry professionals, experienced instructors and published writers.

The fee for each individual workshop session is $125.00. Space is limited and offered on a first come/first served basis. Workshops will be hosted at a private North Seattle area residence (address provided upon registration).

  Register now and receive an early-bird enrollment discount or purchase all three sessions at a special package price of $300.00. 

About the Instructors:  

Scott Driscoll is an award-winning instructor with an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington, has taught creative writing for the University of Washington Extension for twenty years and makes his living as a freelance writer and teacher. Scott’s debut novel, BETTER YOU GO HOME (Coffeetown Press 2013) was selected as the Foreword Reviews First Book Contest winner, March 2014. Scott has also been awarded nine Society of Professional Journalists awards, most recently First Place in the Western U.S. in 2014 for arts and entertainment reporting. For more about Scott, visit www.scottdriscollwriting.com

Jennifer McCord is a 30 year veteran of the publishing trade. Throughout her career, Jennifer has worked in nearly every aspect of the industry—as a writer, editor, instructor, and consultant. Jennifer lends her expertise in the book business to writers and publishers through her consulting and coaching business, Jennifer McCord Associates. Currently, she is also an Associate Publisher for Camel Press and Coffeetown Press. Jennifer can be contacted at www.jennifermccord.com

Roberta Trahan is the best-selling author of THE WELL OF TEARS and THE KEYS TO THE REALMS, the first two books in her quasi-historical epic fantasy series from 47North. Her post-apocalyptic science fiction novella AFTERSHOCK is also available through Amazon Publishing’s digital-first short fiction imprint, StoryFront. She is also a frequent guest at SFF fan conventions and writing events. For more about Roberta, visit www.robertatrahan.com.

 

Practicing Objectivity – A (Very) Liberal Discourse on How to Think For Yourself

“There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.”  (Julius Caesar Act 4, scene 3, 218–224)

I am proud of my liberal arts education. As much as it prepared me for life as a professional communicator, it also prepared me for adulthood in ways many other people never get the chance to experience. A liberal arts education doesn’t just produce teachers and journalists and historians and scholars, it produces thinkers.

As a student of the arts, I was introduced to a vast array of social, political, historical, cultural, philosophical and theological perspectives. I was expected to examine opposing schools of thought and expose myself to disparate experiences across the whole of human existence. I was required to acknowledge my limited understanding and reach beyond it, to explore outside myself. These lessons translated to life skills, and I was made better for the objectivity that my university education instilled in me. Who wouldn’t be?

The liberal arts approach to learning helped me to develop a willingness to question and challenge my personal perceptions. I discovered that by framing my beliefs and values with a scope much wider than my individual view would ever allow, whatever my conclusions might be, they are informed by the cumulative wealth of fact, historical record, and the collective experience of the greater world, not just one thin slice of it. The result is a justifiable and defensible confidence in my own convictions.

I think most everyone believes they are already engaging in this kind of analysis. Maybe they are, but my experience is that while people generally believe they are regularly exercising their critical thinking muscles, in actuality, they are not. Let’s be honest. If they were, our society would not be in the muck it is today. Sadly, too many have succumbed to the persistent and perpetually self-sustained illusion that our virtual inter-connectivity keeps us informed and involved. But the reality is we really aren’t as connected as we think we are – not to each other, or the big issues that matter to our well-being.

Social media allows people to feel engaged without having to show up, do the work, or give any of it much thought. It encourages reflexive responses. We are too quick to take Talking Heads at face value (especially the orange one), or maybe we don’t, but then neither do we hold them accountable for what they say – even when they lie. Somehow information and propaganda have become indistinguishable from each other, and hard facts are now fluid. We invest our funds and our faith in whoever tells us what we most want to hear, no matter what the real outcome might be.

But that’s not how things work in a functioning republic, at least not for long. Eventually the consequences of abdicating our duty to make informed decisions catches up to us. And yet, even when the consequences are inescapably dire, too many of us are still willing to be blindly led rather than look directly at the facts, draw independent conclusions, and act accordingly. And apparently, given recent election results, we’re okay with that. Except that some of us aren’t.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that I am incapable of turning a blind eye to anything. Believe me, I’ve tried. But in the end I came to accept that how I walk and talk in this world matters. I believe that I am accountable to and for others, and I strive to conduct myself with that thought first and foremost in my mind. To do that, I practice objectivity in my daily life, the same way others practice spiritual or religious tenets. For some of us, objectivity is a core value.

Objectivity is not a state of being or a quality of character. It is not tolerance or neutrality or acceptance. Objectivity is, simply put, a method for evaluating everything you encounter – people, places, ideas, information and events – without bias or prejudgment. It is exhausting, exasperating, and often overwhelming. But it is the only path to truth.

Becoming a critical thinker is only one of the many civic duties in a democratic society, though it might be the most important. Do you practice objectivity? Everyone should, often if not always. If you do, some or all of the steps on my personal checklist will sound familiar. If not, you might want to give some or all of them a try.

A 7-Step Guide to Critical Thinking:

Seek first to understand – not just to validate your preconceptions and prove yourself right.
Gather all of the available data, not only the information you’re comfortable with or that which is easily found.
Challenge the veracity of your sources, no matter how tried and trusted they are.
Do the tough work of separating fact from opinion and acknowledge the truth of things, even when that truth contradicts what you already believe. Especially then.
When your conclusions don’t align with those of people you generally respect, wonder why. Re-examine your point of view before dismissing someone else’s.
Weigh what you learn against what you know, but keep your finger off the scales. Let them tip on their own. One side will usually outweigh the other.
Then and only then, make up your mind. Whatever course of action you follow from there depends upon what you hope to gain, but at least you’ll know what you’re getting yourself, and others, into.

It’s time for everyone to show up, do the work, and give everything some real thought. Use my guide, or create your own. Share it. Challenge people to follow your lead. Hold yourself and others accountable for the decisions they make and the actions they take. THAT’S how we make America great again.