2. Complications

Rafe let go of the rope several feet from the ground, dropping easily to the wooden dock.  He didn’t have to glance back to know it had been quickly draw up behind him; no one would be given the slightest chance to board the Dark Wind in his absence.

Nearly a head taller than most of the local residents, he tried not to draw attention to himself.  Rounding his broad shoulders and stooping slightly, he walked toward the center of the city and in the quiet of the early morning had no trouble sensing the three shadows at his back, men he’d easily spotted while being lowered from the airship. Although expecting the unwanted company, he had no intention of arriving at the el-Ahmar compound until he was damn good and ready, so losing them was vital.

But first, a good strong cup of caffé was in order and if things hadn’t changed over the last thirteen years, he knew just the place.

Half an hour later, Rafe sat at a small table under the awning of a colorful orange and yellow tent, sipping his second cup of the dark, rich brew Ha’Roon was famous for.  One side of his face remained hidden, but he’d loosened a corner of the cloth to drink the caffé.  Savoring the delicious drink, his gaze focused on the Dark Wind in the distance. Surrounded by the other ships—large frigates, provision carriers and a few pleasure balloons—tethered along the harbor pilings, she stood apart from them like a jewel.  Watching a large wooden pallet, laden with bundles and baskets, being hoisted to the supplies hold, Rafe didn’t need his spying glass to see that Treb and Hamson were directing the lift and that Aman’s skill in procuring anything, anywhere remained true, even in Ha’Roon.  She would be ready to sail well before nightfall.

Rafe’s eyes wandered over the sleek lines of his ship as he took another taste of the strong, potent drink. Her hull gleamed with a richness that rivaled the ebony hue of his caffé, the Piedra wood light as air, durable as stone; her sails, black silk woven from the strongest threads, had been made in a tiny village on an obscure island in the Sea of Storms by a handful of ancient, skilled women—repayment for saving Jai-Li, though in truth, she had saved him first.  The Dark Wind’s decks and rails were hewn from the Canela tree, the heady scent of cinnamon permeated the air whenever it rained.  There was nothing more exhilarating to him than watching those sails fill with wind, and feel the power surge beneath his feet as she raced through the skies, glorious and free.

Never could he have imagined, as he lay dying in the jungles of Amazonia, that his fevered dreams and ramblings would result in such an exotic and beautiful vessel, the one thing left in this world that he truly loved.

His musings were interrupted by a slight shift in the air behind him. Leaping to his feet, Rafe pivoted and grabbed the man’s raised arm in one fluid motion, twisting it painfully until the cudgel dropped with a clatter onto the table before rolling to the ground.  Hard, icy gray eyes narrowed on his assailant.  “You spilled my caffé.”  Pulling the struggling man toward him, Rafe hissed, “Tell your Mor’Abat I will see him soon.”  Then he bent lower, purposefully allowing the shemagh cloth to shift, revealing the whole of his features.  He only had to wait a moment before shock washed over the man’s face, his eyes wide in disbelief.  Satisfied at the reaction, Rafe shoved the man away, waiting until the el-Ahmar spy had disappeared before quickly covering his face and entering the caffé seller’s tent.  Nodding to the old man seated next to a large samovar, Rafe slipped out the back, the delicious aroma of freshly brewed caffé floating in the air behind him. 

Standing in the gloom between two large tents, Rafe looked across the dusty market street and watched as two men joined the one who had tried to bash him over the head a few moments ago.  Agitated, the man punctuated his account with wild, slashing gestures toward his face as the other two listened in dawning horror. Rafe chuckled quietly to himself, perversely amused that all it had taken to rid himself of the Mor’Abat shadows had been to show his face.

~~**~~**~~

A few hours later, Rafe had managed to slip past the compound’s armed guards, then narrowly avoided a run-in with his three shadows, fortunately too busy hurrying toward the great tent at the end of a long, wide avenue to notice him.

After carefully searching numerous tents for Elissa, he was concerned to hear she was being kept isolated and under guard in a small tent next to the Mor’Abat’s pavilion.  Rafe had hoped for a simple rescue, though that had been more wishful thinking than a belief that things would ever be that easy.

With one final look over his shoulder at the Dark Wind, Rafe stepped out of the shadows and walked across the avenue toward the two men standing guard on either side of the pavilion’s main entrance.  They stiffened when he approached and drew their swords, bristling with hostility as if he had appeared from thin air by some foul magic.

“The el-Ahmar’s most illustrious and benevolent ruler is expecting me.”  He nodded his head slightly, glad the shemagh hid the grin behind his bullshit. “Tell the exalted one that Batiste is here.”

One of the guards turned sharply and strode into the tent while the other blocked the opening with his body and the wicked scimitar used by all the desert tribes.  Rafe waited patiently, appearing completely at ease though he was aware of everything around him even as myriad obstacles, plans and scenarios played through his mind.

The first guard reappeared and motioned him inside, holding wide one side of the tent flap.  Rafe ducked through the opening, then stood for a moment to get his bearings while his eyes adjusted to the more subdued lighting after the harsh desert sun.  When his weapons were taken, he didn’t protest, nor did he volunteer the blade in his boot when the guards overlooked it in their excitement with his pistol and Jambiya.  Rafe made a mental note of which guard held the dagger.  He didn’t care about the pistol, but he definitely wasn't going to lose a weapon that had been earned under fire and paid for in blood.

A prod at his back moved Rafe forward into an opulent and flamboyant space. Blood-red dominated, in the silken cushions and pillows, in the beautifully woven carpets, and the long, gossamer streamers that covered the walls and draped in billowy folds from the vaulted ceiling, the slightest hint of air giving them graceful movement.  Several women worked at various chores around the fringes of the room, and a score of tribal elders sat cross-legged on the floor, divided equally along both sides of the central aisle. 

At the far end of the room on a raised platform, lounging casually against a mound of cushions, Kardeeb, leader of el-Ahmar, the Red Tribe, was being fed large, ruby-colored grapes by one of his handmaidens.  An ugly man, with an enormous, bulbous nose, small black eyes, and hair of an odd, burnished shade of copper that hung in dozens of braided tangles past his shoulders.  A long, thin mustache, framing a cruel mouth, was woven into a wiry beard that reached the middle of his chest.  His robe was brilliant red, the hem and sleeves edged with intricate designs stitched in gold thread.

Rafe wasn't fooled by the nonchalant posturing.  The malevolent glitter in the man’s eyes was clearly evident, even from a distance.  Out of respect, he partially uncovered his face, bowed deep, then carefully said, “I am arrived, Mor’Abat, as requested.”

Kardeeb slapped the girl’s hand away, several grapes bouncing down the steps of the platform and rolling across the carpet.  He sat up, stiff and angry.  “You are here, but not as requested!  You should have come before me the moment you arrived in Ha’Roon, as is required by tribal law.”

Slowly walking down the center of the room, Rafe said softly, tempering the edge of his own anger. “I have not broken tribal law.  I am not the accused, I am the negotiator.”

Murmurs rose and fell between the elders.  Kardeeb waved a hand for silence.

“And yet, your past transgressions have assuredly broken—”

“I am not here to answer for whatever crimes you imagine have been committed in the past, Kardeeb.  Although, if you want to get personal, I could lay several at your feet.”

Leaping off the cushions, Kardeeb began shouting and stomping across the platform, sending pillows flying as he viciously kicked them out of his way, servants cowering from his rage.  Swallowing his loathing of the man, Rafe took a deep breath, determined not be goaded into making a mistake…like killing the bastard in a room full of his loyal tribesmen. 

When Kardeeb paused in his rant for breath, Rafe interjected calmly, “You have my brother’s woman.  I am here to pay the death penalty fees as required by your laws. There is nothing else to discuss.”  He hesitated, his next words risky if he was wrong, but he had to keep Kardeeb from doing something stupid, and right now, stalling was the only idea he had.  Certain the flag of el-Azraq—the Blue Tribe—had not been flying over that ruler’s pavilion—meaning the Mor’Abat wasn't in residence for a legal ruling on tribal law—Rafe murmured, “Don’t force me to call for an arbitration of the Four, Kardeeb.  All it would take is one word.”  

“You dare threaten me?”  Kardeeb spat, hate thick in his throat.

Ignoring the question, Rafe said, “Instead, here’s my proposal: You take the money, we go merrily on our way, and I don’t bring the wrath of the Dark Wind down upon your heads.”  At Kardeeb’s shout of outrage, Rafe raised a hand to forestall another long, boring tirade and walked determinedly to the base of the platform.  Coldly he said, “Enough, Kardeeb.  I want to see my brother’s wife.  Now.”

The two men faced off, barely an inch between them as the anger grew; a small spark—a word, a gesture—and the fire would ignite.

Sensing the danger, six of the elders quickly approached.  Rafe allowed one old man to push him back a foot or so, then ignoring the furious hissing and sharp rebuttals of the group, he was contemplating how best to retrieve his dagger with a minimum of bloodshed, when Kardeeb barked an order.  In the sudden silence, Rafe heard a small commotion at his back.

Turning, he watched as a tall, slender woman was brought into the tent.  Completely covered in the drab brown robes of a servant, with a veil hiding her face, she shuffled toward him, held at the upper arms by two of his shadows.  When the figure was a few feet away from where Rafe stood, Kardeeb ordered them to halt.

This isn't right, Rafe thought. Granted, he hadn’t seen Elissa in well over a decade, but how would she have grown taller in that time?  Surely his memory of a small, delicate woman held more truth than this female standing before him now.

“Take off the veil,” he ordered. “Let me see your face.”  When she made no move to comply, Rafe began to laugh.  He glared over his shoulder at the treacherous Mor'Abat.  “You think to trick me with one of your slaves?  You will get nothing but dishonor for this deceit, Kardeeb.”

The promise of a reckoning in his voice, Rafe stepped close to the woman. “Where did you get my brother’s ring?”  Before anyone could react, his hand shot out, ripping the veil off her head. The hood of the robe kept him from seeing her clearly, though dark green eyes met his, swimming with unshed tears, bright with pain.  He growled low in his throat. “Who are—?”

 His words were choked off when she wrenched away from the guards and threw her arms around his neck.  “Please,” she whispered frantically in his ear, “you must help me.  Elissa was taken in the desert. She gave me the ring, made me hide, told me to find you.”  Rafe felt every tremor in the body pressed against him; felt heartbeats racing in her chest, felt the struggle as she tried to breathe.  “Please, you have my vow to tell you everything, just help me get away.”

With her voice ringing in his ears, Rafe pulled back and looked full into her face, just in time to watch her eyes roll back in her head and he found himself reluctantly holding an unconscious stranger in his arms instead of the woman he’d come to rescue.  

Damn.  Here was a scenario that had never crossed his mind.

1. Demands Are Made

Tales From The Dark Wind

Prologue

      At the dawn of time, the earth was a vast supercontinent surrounded by churning seas. Over millions of years, in endless cycles, the land shifted, broke apart and reformed; islands rose and fell, mountains crumbled, oceans ebbed, ice conquered and retreated. 

Eventually life, in all its myriad diversity, covered the earth. Dinosaurs ruled with a ferocious tenacity until falling stars burned through the skies destroying everything in lethal balls of fire.

The land drifted, the seas boiled, air became a poison that eradicated most living things, though not the burrowers or denizens of the deep oceans.  They survived and became stronger, more adaptable, deadlier.

Eons pass, the earth settles, and humans begin to evolve.  After thousands of years the structure of civilizations are built; laws and politics are established; wars are fought in defense of ideologies; borders and boundaries are claimed and disputed.

But then, without warning, another star falls from the sky, striking the southern ice cap, shattering the enormous plate, melting unimaginable tons of ice in mere seconds. The cataclysm that followed scoured the land as tsunamis tore around the globe in relentless waves, drowning countries, erasing entire populations, ravaging and reshaping the earth once again.

In the aftermath, climates changed, air and water currents shifted in wild, turbulent eddies.  And Mankind was brought to its knees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The New World 
One Thousand Years Later

Tethered fore and aft to iron rings attached to docking poles, the airship Dark Wind, swayed gently in the warm breeze wafting off the desert. Leaning against the railing, Rafe Batiste absentmindedly wound several lengths of the shemagh around his head as he stared down at the bustling port below.  

     The early morning light sparkled on the water of the wide seaway that divided the Great Desert from Ha’Roon, the thriving tent city of the Four Tribes.  From his vantage point, fifty feet above the harbor, the city's colorful layout was beautiful to see.  Like a giant wheel with four spokes, the individual bands of color vividly identified each tribe in reds, blues, greens and golden yellows. At the hub of the wheel, like the many facets of an exotic jewel, the market tents circled the oasis fountain in a burst of rainbow hues.  

Rafe could see the merchants rolling up their tent flaps, preparing to open for business; watched groups of women with jugs and baskets gathering at the fountain to draw water, laugh and gossip.  With the sun warming his back, he idly followed the meandering trail of red tents down the south spoke of the wheel, narrowing his eyes at the largest tent, the blood-red flag of el-Ahmar fluttering listlessly in the desert air above the Mor’Abat’s stronghold.

Of the Four, the el-Ahmar were the most mercenary, the least likely to negotiate.  Die now, talk later was their preferred method, unless substantial amounts of money, jewels or favors were involved in the bargaining.  In Ha’Roon, the leaders of each tribe ruled with ruthless authority, none more so than the man Rafe was soon to meet. 

Leaving a long flap of cloth hanging over his shoulder, Rafe gripped the rail and stared into the distance at the endless, undulating sand dunes that filled the horizon past the city gates.  He let his thoughts wander, running through every possible scenario as he tried to anticipate what might arise in the coming meeting, but there were just too many variables, too much that didn't add up.

                                                                                                                         

“I reckon this could be a trap, Cap’n,” Treb murmured, coming to stand beside him.  “Any one of those desert rats would sell their favorite harem girl to get their hands on you again.”

Rafe reached inside a pocket in his djellaba. “It most likely is a trap,” he said quietly, “though I don’t plan on being caught.”  He gazed thoughtfully at the black onyx ring laying in the palm of his hand.  The gold band around the stone gleamed in the sun as he murmured, “I would have ignored the ransom demand if this hadn’t been wrapped inside the note.”  Slipping it back inside his robe, Rafe said, “The last time I saw that ring was thirteen years ago on my dead brother’s finger. It would have been given to my sister-in-law on his burial day.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “An event I did not attend as my father had disowned me, throwing me out of his house the previous night.”

Treb felt anger burn hot for a moment.  He had been there, remembered that night, remembered the lost, broken young airship captain, and a cruel, heartless father.  Shaking his head to clear the past, he asked, “I just don't understand why his widow would have come to this blighted land?  How could she, a pampered society woman, have traveled halfway round the world to this place?  And what was she doing out in the desert?”  They looked toward the massive eastern wall, a barrier fiercely guarded from all but members of the Four Tribes. To gain access to the land beyond the formidable gates required permission from one of the Mor’Abat who ruled in each region, and much money in exchange for the privilege.

“The note said she’d been found wandering alone in the el-Ahmar region without authorization.  That’s a death penalty transgression, but because she’s not dead and I have the ring, I’m assuming Elissa told them who I am.”  Rafe tugged the scarf lower over his forehead and wrapped the last piece of cloth across his face, leaving only a narrow opening for his eyes.  “The Mor’Abat no doubt thinks he’s stumbled upon a fabled cache of lightning gems.  Not only does he have an aristo woman at his mercy for breaking tribal law, but his enemy, the devil Batiste is coming to bargain for her.”

“I don’t like it, Cap’n.  I don’t like it one little bit.”

“Nor do I, but if he has Elissa, I can’t leave her to die.  I owe my brother that much, at least.  If she's not here and this is some kind of el-Ahmar plot to seek revenge?  Well, I haven’t been in a good fight to the death lately and I’m in the mood.”

 Briefly scanning the scene below, he focused once again on the blood-red tents, the colors wavering now in the rising desert heat.  “If I’m not back by nightfall, you know what to do.”  Rafe turned to his ship’s master.  “See that she’s ready to take off at a moment’s notice, Treb.  I don't know how this will play out, but smooth or rough, I'll want out of here quick.  Make sure Aman gets the food stores list from Bertoni, have him talk to Jai-Li about medical supplies and tell Hamson to load as much lifting gas as the old girl can hold in her ballonets.  Without fail, I want everything on board today.”

Nodding at his orders, Treb handed over a small cloth bag. Rafe hefted it, judging the value in the weight of the heavy coins, then slipped the pouch next to the onyx ring and quickly checked the pistol at his back, the blade in his boot, and the wickedly curved Jambiya knife strapped in a sheath on his left side.  Reaching for the hawser attached to a winch near his shoulder, Rafe swung over the railing, looped a foot around the thick rope and nodded at two crewmen standing by to lower him to the ground.

Ten feet below the airship, Rafe looked up and met Treb’s eyes.  “Tell Henri to get the guns primed and the cannons ready, just in case.” 

Sunlight glinted off the small diamond embedded in one front tooth as Treb grinned broadly.  “That’ll make her day, Cap’n.  I’ll go tell her now.”  But before he turned away, the man glared down at him and said roughly, “Expect you back before dark, boy, no excuses.”

Rafe barked a laugh, gave Treb a mocking salute, then cleared his mind of everything except the immediate trouble.  His misfit crew would take care of the ship; now his job was to get everyone out of Ha’Roon alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[FYI:  At the top of the page, under the Scribbles blog title, there's a link 

to a map and brief intro of the Dark Wind world, if anyone is curious]

It's A Big Box

I spend a lot of time thinking before I go to sleep.  I'm not one of those people that fall asleep the minute their head hits the pillow.  I mull, cogitate, review; rehash what's happened during my day, consider what I have to do the next day.

Last night, in the midnight dark of clear thinking, I wandered through the plot of the story I'd posted earlier in the day. And arrived at the jarring conclusion that I don't like it or where it's headed; that somehow I missed the signs this isn't the tale I want to tell.

I'd been working on a different story, one wafting in and out of my head for a week or so, but yesterday morning whilst walking the dogs, the wraith story popped into being. Intrigued, I came home and wrote it. Unfortunately, I wish I'd thought it through before posting, figured out beforehand that it wasn't really going to work...or just ignored the distracting whispers in the storytelling part of my brain and stayed focused on my original idea.

However, the beauty of writing--or the agony, more often than not--is that, as the goddess in charge, these are my creations, my worlds, characters, stories.  I can do whatever I want with them and if I don't like any of it...well, into the box at the back of the closet it goes, along with all the other notes and research, lost chapters and stories to nowhere that have filled my head over the years.

So. I'm forging ahead to write something else, though what that might be is unclear at the moment. Writing is not rocket science...it's much, much harder.

Every Dog Has His Day

The wraith stood motionless beneath the trees, his form indistinguishable from the dark shadows under the thick canopy.  His gaze narrowed, intense and piercing as he focused on the woman angling toward the parking lot as she crossed the east edge of the college campus.  His fists clenched as an old, vicious rage swept through him.  The centuries of torment, the years of searching, the cruelty in the endless chase. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep, quiet breath and willed those bitter memories away. None of that mattered.  Not now.  At last he had found her and nothing was going to stop him from taking her.

Nora Carter glanced uneasily in the direction of the small grove of oak that marked the end of the campus property.  For some reason she felt nervous and unsettled as she stared into the deep shadows. When a voice called out behind her, she jumped in fear, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. Spinning, she aligned her car keys into small, metal weapons that poked out between her fingers.

“Dr. Carter, I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to frighten you!”  Her research assistant, Ben Jolson, had been running toward her, but one look at her face and defensive stance had brought him to an abrupt halt. Eyes wide, he held up both hands as if she were pointing a gun at his head.  “You forgot to give me the encryption code so I can access your manuscript files,” he murmured cautiously.

Taking a relieved gulp of air, Nora dropped her hand and patted the large laptop case that hung off one shoulder.  “I decided to take the manuscript with me instead, Ben.  I forgot to tell you earlier today.”

“But, how can I proof your research if you have the manuscript?”

The wraith, impatient for the boy to leave, paused for a moment and cocked his head.  Was there something...not quite true in the question?  His focus shifted from the woman to consider the male.

“Ben,” she said gently, “I’m going to be gone for eight weeks.  I’m sure at some point in my vacation I’ll be able to find the time to edit the manuscript myself.”  Nora patted his arm and smiled.  “Time for a break, to enjoy yourself.  There’s more to collegiate life than slaving over a boring old manuscript about ancient rites and rituals.”

“Please, Dr. Carter, I’ve been looking forward to this all term.  You know how interested I am in your work.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for final edits next term, Ben. Now go, have a great summer and I'll see you in September.”  Nora turned and resumed her walk toward the parking lot, missing the tight fists as Ben stared darkly at her receding back. 

The wraith saw his reaction, however, and was edging out of the shadows to have a quick chat with the boy when his senses were overwhelmed by the familiar and unwelcome stench of an abattoir.  He stiffened, braced for the confrontation he’d been expecting for days.

Hot, rancid breath curled over his nape and around his throat like a garrote.  “You went over my head, dog.”  The voice was more a growl of words than actual speaking, though the wraith had no trouble understanding, he’d been listening to it for close to four thousand years.

“You left me no choice, Malphas.  We struck a bargain, you and I, which I have fulfilled three times over but you still fail to honor.”  He turned and met the red, fiery gaze of the foul creature he’d called master for far too long.  Unflinching, he leaned in. “I gave you the one thousand and two hundred years of our pact and did everything you asked of me.  My reward for services rendered was her.”  Though the wraith jerked his chin toward the parking lot and the woman just unlocking her car door, he never took his eyes off the demon.  “Whenever I got close, you killed her and I had to wait for her rebirth, try to find who she was, when she was.”  Fury in every word, he hissed, "For over two thousand years you played this game, you bastard.” Straightening, he spared another quick glance for the woman, then faced Malphas again. “Mistreat a dog long enough and eventually he'll go for his master's throat.”

“Unless the master has bigger teeth, Niare.”  The chuckle was low and grating, the acrid stink of sulfur burned the back of the wraith’s throat though he refused to acknowledge the demon’s threat.

“Prince Seire, your master, has released your hold over me.  He also sent me here, to claim what should have been mine centuries ago.”  He turned his back and walked out of the shadows, his eyes fixed on the car just driving out of the parking lot.  “We’re done, Malphas.  Go find someone else to play fetch.”

The ground trembled, but Niare ignored the demon’s tantrum.  Shrugging off the concealing shadows, he began walking toward the boy who was staggering across the sidewalk, a look of shock on his face as the pavement undulated beneath his feet.  “What is it?” Ben asked.  “An earthquake?”  Then he froze as he looked up at the very tall. very large man who had just materialized out of the trees.  Long blond hair, the sides braided away from his face at the temples to hang behind his ears; strong jaw, arrogant nose, and eyes the icy blue of a glacier that were currently glaring down at Ben like some kind of Norse god. Ben’s first thought was all the guy needed was Thor's hammer to complete the picture, which caused him to flinch involuntarily when the giant reached for him.  His mind went blank before he could form his second thought.

As soon as the kid went still, Niare began to search his mind for the meaning behind the tension he'd noticed just before Malphas appeared.  Probing beyond the surprise and unease of the moment, he easily found the reason: Ben had planned to steal the research, selling it to someone willing to pay well for the information in the manuscript.  Disgusted at the betrayal, Niare pulled Ben forward and whispered an incantation into his ear, then shoved him away and told him to get out of his sight, watching the traitorous little weasel until he was gone.  Then he smiled. The woman’s assistant had just forgotten he’d ever worked for her.

“Dog.”  The voice rumbled up through the ground, thick and hot.  “Don’t think you’ve won the game.  I might not be able to touch you, but no one said anything about her.”

A cold awareness crawled into Niare's belly as his wings snapped sharply, painfully, out of his back.  He shot into the dark skies, the sound of hellish laughter chasing him through the night.

Three Plots to Nowhere

Still stymied with imagination deficit, though I've had a glimmer or two lately.  Too bad I can only do a few paragraphs before my thoughts dry up again.

Behold!  Three plot ideas.  And that's about the extent of it...

Snow Blind

The snow swirled in dizzying eddies, tossed by a wind that grew stronger as the RV lumbered across the plains of eastern Montana.  As the light began to fade toward evening, visibility became more obscured, the headlights drawing the flakes with hypnotic allure.

Joanne Henderson peered at the Rand McNally road atlas in her lap, the map light over her head shining a meager beam as she tried to find them a place to hunker down until the storm abated.

“Got anything?  Rest area, side road?”  The slight concern in Jack’s voice caused Jo to raise her head and look over at him.  Both hands tightly gripped the wheel as the RV briefly lost traction on the road and slid toward the ditch.

(Retired couple caught in a blizzard. They rescue a woman with little girl, a bounty hunter/soldier type guy, and an innocuous little salesman. One of them is an assassin after the woman and child. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the woman was running from or who wanted her dead. Besides me.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mystery in Blue

In a small exhibition room at the Tate in London, a tall, distinguished man stood in front of a painting.  Hands clutched tightly behind his back as if he struggled to contain himself, he appeared completely absorbed in the image of the woman who held him captive.  Half-reclining on a velvet chaise with her lower body swathed in diaphanous blue silk, the woman presented her exquisitely naked back while sapphire eyes looked over a flawless shoulder; her full lips curled in lush temptation as a tendril of auburn hair caressed her cheek.

Maxwell Coleridge had been in love with this woman for over thirty years.  He had tried—in every way possible—to find her.  Most believed she was just a figment of the dead artist’s imagination, not a real woman at all, but Max knew different.  He could see the life in her eyes, across her mouth, down the breathless curve of her spine.

(Guy has been chasing her around the world--wherever the portrait is exhibited--hoping to find her or someone who knew her. A woman heavily veiled in widow's weeds strikes up a conversation with him. They discuss the woman, the tragic death of the artist, the portrait. I know the ending. I just can't figure out how to get there.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripples

“What is this?”  Growling, irritated, the duke’s voice was as dark and unforgiving as the midnight shadows in the garden.  The gleaming toe of his boot nudged the lump at his feet.  “Why have I been called from the festivities?”  He could hear the musicians preparing for the last dance; he’d chosen his partner and had anticipated a long and pleasurable evening after the ball.  Now, however, she would be claimed by someone else while he stood in the garden prodding dirty rags.  He turned to glare at his lieutenant.  “Surely you can handle a pile of debris, Crayl?”

“Sire, you know I would not have interrupted unless urgency required it.” The guard swallowed, loud enough to hear over the strains of the waltz.  “She…she just fell from the sky!”  Crayl raised his head and whispered, “And she’s clothed in both the blue and the gold.”

Two things dropped Duke Harcourt to one knee for a closer look.  She?  This tangle of cloth encased a female?  Garbed in blue and gold?  No one but the highest ranks of the elite were allowed to wear both colors and even that was rare. As he fumbled in the tattered, voluminous cloak, searching for the body within, he didn’t spare a thought for the absurd notion the female had fallen from the heavens.

(This almost-plot came to me the other day whilst walking the dogs. Then I fried my worthless brain with a hundred different scenarios on how to proceed after these three measly paragraphs. Apparently I'm only good for sparks...I can't make fire.  Buggers.)

Sunday Morning

She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to scowl at him.  Lowering the newspaper, he regarded her over the top of his glasses, admiring how perfectly his shirt draped on her body, how transparent it became in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows as she approached the table.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” she accused.  “It’s Sunday.”

“The newspaper guy woke me up.”  He shook his head.  “I’m going to have to cancel the paper or be forced to buy a muffler for his crap car.”

“But why didn’t you come back to bed?”

“It was too early, believe me, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“We were going to read the paper, have coffee and breakfast in bed.  Stay there all morning if we wanted.  Because it’s Sunday.”

He stood and carefully took the mug out of her hand before lifting her in his arms.  He began to nuzzle her neck as he walked out of the kitchen.

She sighed contentedly.  “How long has it been since we stayed in bed on a Sunday?”

“Last week,” he grinned.

“An eternity then,” she murmured against his lips.

As Luck Would Have It

Sliding down the cold metal front of the old-fashioned refrigerator, Carmen settled on the floor.  Resting elbows on her bent knees, she covered her face with her hands.  What else can go--  No.  Don’t even think it.  She’d already said it twice today and both times something worse had happened.

Carmen tangled fingers in her curly blond hair and stared abjectly around the kitchen—more specifically, what used to be the kitchen.  Not only had the contractor torn the kitchen apart, but this morning while she was out getting ideas for cabinets and counter tops, he’d helped himself to her new gourmet six-burner range, the microwave, espresso machine and the oak table she had found at a garage sale several weeks ago and lovingly restored.

What a wretched streak of bad luck she was having.  Pausing at the thought, she wondered about that word, streak.  To her mind, it implied quick, fast, here and gone, though if that were the case, why was hers going on six months with no end in sight?

She blamed her ex-fiancé.  It had started with him.  Carmen cringed at the memory, the embarrassing cliché of coming home early from a business trip to find Dave and Tiffany, his twenty-something secretary, banging away on the leather sectional in the living room.  Then to add insult to injury, she was stunned to hear, a month after moving out, that not only had the happy couple gotten married, but sweet little Tiff was pregnant.  She’d lost count of the times Dave had said marriage was superfluous in this day and age, and having a kid?  Never.

 

Carmen stewed for days after the news, but one night, caught completely off guard by the phone call, everything had changed. 

Her beloved grandmother, her only family, had died unexpectedly.  Devastated, she flew to Seattle, arranged the funeral, and spent long hours wandering in the old, familiar house, stunned by her loss, overwhelmed by memories in every room, around every corner.  She’d come to live with her grandmother when she was eight, orphaned and grieving.  Only this time there was no comforting warmth to help her mourn.

The old Victorian house belonged to her now.  Taking the advice of her grandmother’s attorney to “doll the ol’ girl up” before making any immediate decisions about selling the place, Carmen quit her job in Los Angeles and moved back to Seattle to settle her grandmother’s estate and upgrade the house.

 

Over the next several months, she’d scraped and sanded, painted and polished, sorted and discarded, working her way from the attic to the main floor where the serious remodel work needed to be done, beginning with the kitchen.  For a short time, she forgot about her bad luck streak as the house started to shine with her efforts.  But no.  Back with a vengeance when the first contractor took the deposit he insisted was necessary to purchase supplies, then disappeared with half her inheritance money.  Now today, the second contractor had stolen her new appliances and the table she had so painstakingly restored to glowing life.

But worse, once she got past the shock, talked to the police for the second time—and how stupid did she feel getting ripped off twice?—she finally noticed her grandmother’s cat Bubba hadn’t met her at the front door, winding around her legs, purring his welcome.  Racing from the top of the house to the slightly creepy basement, Carmen frantically called for him, but it wasn’t she opened the back door and walked across the grass toward the alley that she realized the gate had been left wide open. The contractor had used the alley to load his stolen goods, and Bubba was gone.

After two hours, twelve blocks, and fifty hastily printed flyers tacked to every telephone pole in the neighborhood, Carmen had dragged herself home just as ominous rain clouds began to darken the skies.  Desperate for a cup of tea, a hot bath, and some food, Carmen had walked into the kitchen.  And stopped abruptly as grim reality washed over her once more.  No stove, no microwave, no table.

Defeat drained the will to keep standing right out of her legs.  Quietly sliding to the floor, she was gratified the old fridge—too unworthy to steal—was still there to ease her way down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, not sure how long she’d been sitting on the bare, cold floor while her mind drifted over the events of the past months, she was abruptly brought back to the present by a persistent rapping at the front door.   Startled, she realized full night had fallen and heavy rain was beating against the windows as the wind howled around the eaves.  Shivering, Carmen got stiffly to her feet and slowly walked down the dark hallway toward the thick oak door.

 

Through the beveled glass panes in the upper section, she could just make out the shadowed outline of a large figure standing on the porch.  She flinched when a sudden barrage of knocks, loud and impatient, echoed around the foyer joining the noise her heart was making as it pounded in her ears.

Had the police come back?  Before Carmen could decide what to do, a bolt of lightning flooded through the windows with a cold, brilliant light, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder that made the house tremble.  The knocking stopped and a face pressed closer to the glass.

“Hello?  I saw you standing there when the lightning flashed, so could you answer the door please?”  The man’s voice was low and deep, a bit gravelly.  And edgy with irritation.

Carmen walked closer to the door, but had no intention of opening it to a cranky stranger on a stormy night.  Not the way her luck had been running.  “What do you want?”  She was annoyed at the wobble in her voice.

“I have something of yours, something I’m sure you want—”

“Go away!  I’m calling the police!”

She heard a series of low-pitched curses, then a large hand slapped against the door, plastering one of her flyers to the wet glass.  “Is this you, or not?  I’ve got things to do tonight and hanging out on a crazy woman’s porch in a thunderstorm isn’t one of them.”

Making sure the chain was in place, Carmen switched on the porch light and carefully cracked open the door.  In the soft glow she meant the eyes of the most handsome guy she’d ever seen.  Tall, wearing a long black coat, raindrops sparkling across the broad width of his shoulders, she barely registered his firm jaw, cleft chin and tousled black hair on her way to his deep, brown eyes.  He was pale, though so was everyone in Seattle at this time of year.  Except on him, the contrast of light and dark just made him even more attractive.  Speechless, she could only stare.  Was he conjured from the storm?  A god of thunder and lightning?

Lowering his hand from the glass pane, he waved the now-disintegrating piece of paper and asked brusquely, “You lost your cat, yes?”  Shaking her head to clear it, he misunderstood the movement and scowled.  “You haven’t lost a cat?”  He stepped back to read the house numbers to the left of the door, then looked at the sodden flyer where the address was still visible.

“S-sorry,” Carmen stuttered.  “Sorry.  Yes, I lost my cat.”  She cleared her throat, then closed the door to release the chain and quickly reopened it.  “I’ve had a very bad…”  Her soft murmur faded and she took a quick step back when he reached inside his coat. Frowning at her, he slowly pulled out a wet, bedraggled Bubba wrapped in a soft towel.

“You’ve had a very bad…?”

Day?  Week?  Year?  Carmen wasn’t sure how to answer.  She reached for the cat, glad that at least one thing had worked out today.  “It’s just been one of those days where nothing has gone right.”  A frisson of awareness went through her when their fingers connected as she took the cat from him.  She knew he’d felt it too when he smiled down at her, his eyes like soft glowing embers as they silently regarded each other.

Bubba wiggled in her grasp, wanting to be let down and no doubt hungry from his ordeal.  Carmen set him on the floor and watched him walk regally down the hall. Suddenly shy and unsure about what to say or do next, she tossed the towel onto a side table and turned back to the door.  “Where did you find him?”

Smile still in place, he cocked his head.  “I live a few blocks over,” waving his hand vaguely down the street, “and noticed the flyer on the telephone pole as I was backing out my drive.”  He chuckled.  “Just as I was pulling away, my headlights caught the cat crouching on my front porch.”  He shrugged, the gesture eloquent, easy, as if no more needed to be said.

Carmen smiled.  “Thank you for bringing him home.  I’ve been so worried and upset.”

He still gripped the remains of the flyer.  Holding it up, he said, “Was your name on this?”

“No.”  When he raised a brow, waiting, she laughed and felt her cheeks redden.  “Carmen.  My name is Carmen Winters.”

“Will,” he said, taking her hand.  “Will Blaine.  It’s lovely to meet you, Carmen.”

The spark flared between them again as he gently ran his thumb over her knuckles.  “Do you think I might come in, Carmen Winters?  It’s a bit wet out here.”  As if his words had made it happen, lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

Carmen jumped, her hand slipping out of his grasp.  Flustered, trying to be cautious when all she really wanted was to drag him inside and lock the door…for a week or so…she said flippantly, “I don’t know.  You could be an axe murderer, or an escaped criminal.”

Will laughed and held his coat open, wide enough for her to see his broad chest, his trim waist and long legs.  He was wearing a yellow tee shirt and black jeans.  “No axe,” he said, spinning in a circle, his coat flaring out around him.  It took her a moment to register what was printed on his tee shirt.  “Do you work at Renegades?” she asked, admiring the artwork of the most notorious faces of villains and outlaws throughout history. The faces were drawn in such a way that they formed one face, supposedly the owner of the hottest club in Seattle.

“You could say that.”

As he dropped his hands, Carmen suddenly realized something.  “Wait!”  She reached out and opened his coat, staring at the tee shirt.  Then she laughed and looked up at him.  “It’s you!”

“Guilty as charged.”

Stepping back into the foyer, still smiling, Carmen had a wonderful, exhilarating moment wondering if her luck was finally changing, if this long streak of bad was finally over.

“Do you think I might come in, Carmen Winters?” Will softly asked again.

Hesitating for only a moment, Carmen stepped aside and opened the door.

Her invitation drew him over the threshold.  Carmen turned to shut the door, missing the gleam of sharp, white fangs as his smile widened behind her.