From CRIMINAL FROM BIRTH SEQUEL (UNTITLED) - novel
Brint’s smile sent a fiery shiver down Silen’s spine, its intensity compounded by his casually confident, “You will kill me while my people stand here to defend me?”
There was no time to register the following heavy sound before Silen’s arm exploded in pain. The bolt penetrated his arm, but he didn’t have more than a breath to register it.
Talents and weapons were bared. A heavy wind tore through the clearing, courtesy of Bossy. Silen instinctively lashed out with one of his Talents, though he couldn’t tell and didn’t care which it was at first. Had he sent out his Leech or the Cold he’d stolen from his mother as a newborn?
The freemen on the other side called them Knacks, not Talents, but the name did nothing to change their effects. A fire sparked behind Bossy, small at first. The dry foliage that had so recently secreted Silen and Bossy became a conflagration. Heat washed over them, accompanied by the violent snapping of twigs, branches, and some of the smaller trees breaking as sap and water turned to steam inside them.
Despite the throbbing, volcanic pain ripping through Silen’s arm, he clutched his knife and threw himself forward. The torn-air sound of another crossbow bolt let loose, straight through where his neck had just been.
His thigh burst into red pain, less of a shock since he was already in agony from his pierced arm. He almost didn’t register the third explosion and definitely didn’t bother to identify just what part of him was the source. What mattered was that less than a finger’s width of space remained between the point of his knife and Brint’s right eye. The former general hadn’t moved from his seat; the scrap of mussel meat from his interrupted meal was still in his fingers.
Something jerked Silen backward. He staggered as his leg buckled under his weight. Bossy’s voice pierced the cloud of rage that had encased his thoughts.
“We need to go before we both die!”
Against his will, Silen was dragged away from the monster who fathered him. Brint hadn’t even shifted his weight on his tree stump seat. His brutish laughter followed Silen until the clearing was well behind them. Long after he should have been able to hear them, Brint’s words reached him.
“That’s right, boy. Run.”
Brint’s smile sent a fiery shiver down Silen’s spine, its intensity compounded by his casually confident, “You will kill me while my people stand here to defend me?”
There was no time to register the following heavy sound before Silen’s arm exploded in pain. The bolt penetrated his arm, but he didn’t have more than a breath to register it.
Talents and weapons were bared. A heavy wind tore through the clearing, courtesy of Bossy. Silen instinctively lashed out with one of his Talents, though he couldn’t tell and didn’t care which it was at first. Had he sent out his Leech or the Cold he’d stolen from his mother as a newborn?
The freemen on the other side called them Knacks, not Talents, but the name did nothing to change their effects. A fire sparked behind Bossy, small at first. The dry foliage that had so recently secreted Silen and Bossy became a conflagration. Heat washed over them, accompanied by the violent snapping of twigs, branches, and some of the smaller trees breaking as sap and water turned to steam inside them.
Despite the throbbing, volcanic pain ripping through Silen’s arm, he clutched his knife and threw himself forward. The torn-air sound of another crossbow bolt let loose, straight through where his neck had just been.
His thigh burst into red pain, less of a shock since he was already in agony from his pierced arm. He almost didn’t register the third explosion and definitely didn’t bother to identify just what part of him was the source. What mattered was that less than a finger’s width of space remained between the point of his knife and Brint’s right eye. The former general hadn’t moved from his seat; the scrap of mussel meat from his interrupted meal was still in his fingers.
Something jerked Silen backward. He staggered as his leg buckled under his weight. Bossy’s voice pierced the cloud of rage that had encased his thoughts.
“We need to go before we both die!”
Against his will, Silen was dragged away from the monster who fathered him. Brint hadn’t even shifted his weight on his tree stump seat. His brutish laughter followed Silen until the clearing was well behind them. Long after he should have been able to hear them, Brint’s words reached him.
“That’s right, boy. Run.”
From SOUL PAINT - short story
“No problem. This only takes a minute.” He smiled and leaned forward. His hands moved, scratching away soundlessly. His eyes never left hers. How was he drawing without looking at the paper? Kelly fidgeted again, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. The strange staring contest continued despite repeated blinking from them both. Finally, Silver nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, she could finally look away. “I think I’ve got it. Are you sure you want this?” His voice cracked a little.
She nodded automatically and glanced at his hands. There was nothing in them. Had she imagined him sketching? He claimed he would paint souls, but there wasn’t even an easel here. No paint, no brushes. There wasn’t a single art supply here. This had been a mistake. Kelly wanted to leave, but something made her nod again.
Silver rose and loomed over her, his skin tinted crimson from the light filtering through the tent canvas. “Okay… I need you to be still.”
His hand rose to her face, and Kelly braced herself, uncertain how he would touch her. His hand hovered half an inch over her shoulder. His palm traced the contours of her arm, down to her lap and further, to the ground. He changed hands, tracing up her other side. He paused upon reaching her face. Both hands reached out, waving through the air as if he were polishing something. He did this from her forehead to her toes. Straightening, he adopted a pose. Though he held nothing, his right hand poised like he was holding a tray with globs of paint. In his left hand was an invisible paint brush. He went through the motions of scrutinizing Kelly and considering his nonexistent color options, dabbed his brush into the air, swirling and mixing. Finally, the brush Kelly couldn’t see hovered over her hair. A bead of sweat popped out on Silver’s forehead.
Indigo poured warm on her skin. Streaks of fiery gold danced across her face and shoulders. A creamy sensation enveloped her, sinking into her veins while something she couldn’t name crackled in her bones. It tingled across her foundations, stimulating every cell. Seconds crawled by as layers of sensation coursed in her: warmth on her skin, salt water penetrating her flesh, silk mixing with her blood.
Before she could fathom what was happening, it was over. She took Silver’s sweaty face. A shaking hand held something out to her. She accepted the item, every speck of her still dancing at the attention.
“No problem. This only takes a minute.” He smiled and leaned forward. His hands moved, scratching away soundlessly. His eyes never left hers. How was he drawing without looking at the paper? Kelly fidgeted again, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. The strange staring contest continued despite repeated blinking from them both. Finally, Silver nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, she could finally look away. “I think I’ve got it. Are you sure you want this?” His voice cracked a little.
She nodded automatically and glanced at his hands. There was nothing in them. Had she imagined him sketching? He claimed he would paint souls, but there wasn’t even an easel here. No paint, no brushes. There wasn’t a single art supply here. This had been a mistake. Kelly wanted to leave, but something made her nod again.
Silver rose and loomed over her, his skin tinted crimson from the light filtering through the tent canvas. “Okay… I need you to be still.”
His hand rose to her face, and Kelly braced herself, uncertain how he would touch her. His hand hovered half an inch over her shoulder. His palm traced the contours of her arm, down to her lap and further, to the ground. He changed hands, tracing up her other side. He paused upon reaching her face. Both hands reached out, waving through the air as if he were polishing something. He did this from her forehead to her toes. Straightening, he adopted a pose. Though he held nothing, his right hand poised like he was holding a tray with globs of paint. In his left hand was an invisible paint brush. He went through the motions of scrutinizing Kelly and considering his nonexistent color options, dabbed his brush into the air, swirling and mixing. Finally, the brush Kelly couldn’t see hovered over her hair. A bead of sweat popped out on Silver’s forehead.
Indigo poured warm on her skin. Streaks of fiery gold danced across her face and shoulders. A creamy sensation enveloped her, sinking into her veins while something she couldn’t name crackled in her bones. It tingled across her foundations, stimulating every cell. Seconds crawled by as layers of sensation coursed in her: warmth on her skin, salt water penetrating her flesh, silk mixing with her blood.
Before she could fathom what was happening, it was over. She took Silver’s sweaty face. A shaking hand held something out to her. She accepted the item, every speck of her still dancing at the attention.
From VOTING RIGHT - novelette
"Carmela?" Luzia stared at her living reflection.
Her clone smiled her own smile back at her. "You really thought I was a waitress," she laughed, a rich, genuine sound Luzia never managed herself. An arm took hers— an identical arm— and Carmela escorted Luzia out of the cafe and back into the street. They had walked arm-in-arm for a block or two before Luzia came to her senses enough to wonder where they were going.
Dumbly, she followed Carmela back to her tiny apartment, palming the door open when they reached it. Would Carmela be able to get the door to unlock with her palm? Their DNA was identical, but what about the patterns on their hands? That was supposed to be created from motions inside the womb or something, right?
More importantly, though, how did Carmela know where she lived? Her address since her release from prison was different from the one on file at the lab where Carmela had been born. How had she tracked her down?
"It's great to see you," Carmela said. Luzia mumbled something, but the words felt like mud in her stomach. She's known Carmela existed, but they'd never met. It was one thing to donate DNA. A prick of a needle, some blood drawn, and she got the money she'd needed so desperately at the time. But to see the person that donation had created… Luzia rubbed her arms, trying to bring back some warmth.
Carmela was prettier than she was, she realized. Her clone hadn't spent two years in prison. Carmela's skin was smoother, finer, lacking the loose folds of a woman who had dropped a lot of weight when her eating habits changed during imprisonment. Carmela's breasts were perkier. She did her makeup better. The tan tone of her skin was even, without blemish or mark. Hours of effort on Luzia's part couldn't have achieved such a result. Her time in prison had aged her too much.
Without asking permission, Carmela sat on Luzia's beaten-up couch. "I was really hoping I'd get to see you today. We need to talk. Can we have some coffee or something?"
Mechanically, Luzia went to the kitchen. In the few moments of privacy that provided, her shock broke. Once the drink was in mugs, she headed back to the couch and her expectant duplicate. "What's so important about today?" she asked.
"Well… you didn't notice?"
"Notice what?" It wasn't her birthday, nor any holiday. She didn't think it was the anniversary of her DNA donation. Not that she would celebrate that sort of thing.
Carmela leaned close. "You didn't get to vote?"
How on Earth did Carmela know that? Luzia stiffened. Her clone's face relaxed, taking that reaction as her answer. "You did. Good. For a second I was afraid I'd messed up."
"What do you mean?" She set down her coffee untouched.
"This prop… It has to pass. So I, well… Every vote makes a difference, and I know that if you could, you'd vote for legalization. If it passes, amnesty will be granted for all existing clones. I need that."
"And you think I'd break the law so you can have amnesty? Carmela, what did you do?"
Her clone made blushing pretty. Luzia flushed in envy. "I got some government access to personal files. A few tiny changes to your profile, and you're unlocked for voting rights. I have connections."
"What did you change? I'm going to get in so much trouble!"
That pretty pink blush turned a deeper red. "No, no! It's untraceable. At least, that's what Marten told me—”
Luzia’s head reeled. “Marten! How do you know Marten? This is— I can’t— Carmela, this can’t happen! You had Marten—”
“Don't worry about it! No one will know. And you can vote now. In everything, not just this. Luzia, I freed you. Now I need you to free me."
"Carmela?" Luzia stared at her living reflection.
Her clone smiled her own smile back at her. "You really thought I was a waitress," she laughed, a rich, genuine sound Luzia never managed herself. An arm took hers— an identical arm— and Carmela escorted Luzia out of the cafe and back into the street. They had walked arm-in-arm for a block or two before Luzia came to her senses enough to wonder where they were going.
Dumbly, she followed Carmela back to her tiny apartment, palming the door open when they reached it. Would Carmela be able to get the door to unlock with her palm? Their DNA was identical, but what about the patterns on their hands? That was supposed to be created from motions inside the womb or something, right?
More importantly, though, how did Carmela know where she lived? Her address since her release from prison was different from the one on file at the lab where Carmela had been born. How had she tracked her down?
"It's great to see you," Carmela said. Luzia mumbled something, but the words felt like mud in her stomach. She's known Carmela existed, but they'd never met. It was one thing to donate DNA. A prick of a needle, some blood drawn, and she got the money she'd needed so desperately at the time. But to see the person that donation had created… Luzia rubbed her arms, trying to bring back some warmth.
Carmela was prettier than she was, she realized. Her clone hadn't spent two years in prison. Carmela's skin was smoother, finer, lacking the loose folds of a woman who had dropped a lot of weight when her eating habits changed during imprisonment. Carmela's breasts were perkier. She did her makeup better. The tan tone of her skin was even, without blemish or mark. Hours of effort on Luzia's part couldn't have achieved such a result. Her time in prison had aged her too much.
Without asking permission, Carmela sat on Luzia's beaten-up couch. "I was really hoping I'd get to see you today. We need to talk. Can we have some coffee or something?"
Mechanically, Luzia went to the kitchen. In the few moments of privacy that provided, her shock broke. Once the drink was in mugs, she headed back to the couch and her expectant duplicate. "What's so important about today?" she asked.
"Well… you didn't notice?"
"Notice what?" It wasn't her birthday, nor any holiday. She didn't think it was the anniversary of her DNA donation. Not that she would celebrate that sort of thing.
Carmela leaned close. "You didn't get to vote?"
How on Earth did Carmela know that? Luzia stiffened. Her clone's face relaxed, taking that reaction as her answer. "You did. Good. For a second I was afraid I'd messed up."
"What do you mean?" She set down her coffee untouched.
"This prop… It has to pass. So I, well… Every vote makes a difference, and I know that if you could, you'd vote for legalization. If it passes, amnesty will be granted for all existing clones. I need that."
"And you think I'd break the law so you can have amnesty? Carmela, what did you do?"
Her clone made blushing pretty. Luzia flushed in envy. "I got some government access to personal files. A few tiny changes to your profile, and you're unlocked for voting rights. I have connections."
"What did you change? I'm going to get in so much trouble!"
That pretty pink blush turned a deeper red. "No, no! It's untraceable. At least, that's what Marten told me—”
Luzia’s head reeled. “Marten! How do you know Marten? This is— I can’t— Carmela, this can’t happen! You had Marten—”
“Don't worry about it! No one will know. And you can vote now. In everything, not just this. Luzia, I freed you. Now I need you to free me."
From ASSASSIN'S TOOL - novelette
"Gun or no, you will not leave here alive."
"I'm not fond of that idea, and I'll wager you aren't either, Lukey. So how's about we settle this like gentlemen? You a betting man?"
Luc raised an eyebrow. "No, and I doubt you have any inkling what it is to be a gentleman, but I am listening."
"Knife fight. You versus me. He tilted his head down, looking at the knife still held at his crotch. "No poison. Either of us."
Once again baffled at how this Neanderthal knew something he shouldn't know, Luc pulled his right hand back. The barrel of the pistol retreated from Luc's face, and then he brought his other blade back. He made the two knives disappear without any flourish or sign. That kind of showmanship was for the media. "Terms?"
"I win, you leave Melzer alone. Permanently. And, you swear never to harm an innocent again. And that applies to all your people, too. I know you've got a whole cadre down there."
"And when I win?"
Statford either missed the "when" or didn't care. "If you win, I back off. You'll never see me again. But I won't protect you from the consequences of your actions."
"Either way, you are banned from setting foot on my property in the future." Luc produced one knife again, unpoisoned, of course. He studied the edge. "If it is to the death, these terms do not matter, naturellement. So how do we decide who wins?"
"Would you consider fighting to the pain?"
"I am not familiar--"
"Screw it," Statford interrupted. "Fencing rules, then."
Luc's eyebrows rose. "Fifteen points? One point for drawing blood?"
"Let's make it five points. Total. No sense in us both ending up bloody messes. So whoever gets to three points?" Luc nodded his agreement. "Do you have another knife handy?"
Luc couldn't hold back his snort. "Haven't you heard the phrase, 'Don't bring a gun to a knife fight?'"
"Don't try being cleverer than me."
"It is hardly trying." Luc pulled a second knife and held them out for Statford to choose first. "Shall we begin?" Luc asked.
"Gun or no, you will not leave here alive."
"I'm not fond of that idea, and I'll wager you aren't either, Lukey. So how's about we settle this like gentlemen? You a betting man?"
Luc raised an eyebrow. "No, and I doubt you have any inkling what it is to be a gentleman, but I am listening."
"Knife fight. You versus me. He tilted his head down, looking at the knife still held at his crotch. "No poison. Either of us."
Once again baffled at how this Neanderthal knew something he shouldn't know, Luc pulled his right hand back. The barrel of the pistol retreated from Luc's face, and then he brought his other blade back. He made the two knives disappear without any flourish or sign. That kind of showmanship was for the media. "Terms?"
"I win, you leave Melzer alone. Permanently. And, you swear never to harm an innocent again. And that applies to all your people, too. I know you've got a whole cadre down there."
"And when I win?"
Statford either missed the "when" or didn't care. "If you win, I back off. You'll never see me again. But I won't protect you from the consequences of your actions."
"Either way, you are banned from setting foot on my property in the future." Luc produced one knife again, unpoisoned, of course. He studied the edge. "If it is to the death, these terms do not matter, naturellement. So how do we decide who wins?"
"Would you consider fighting to the pain?"
"I am not familiar--"
"Screw it," Statford interrupted. "Fencing rules, then."
Luc's eyebrows rose. "Fifteen points? One point for drawing blood?"
"Let's make it five points. Total. No sense in us both ending up bloody messes. So whoever gets to three points?" Luc nodded his agreement. "Do you have another knife handy?"
Luc couldn't hold back his snort. "Haven't you heard the phrase, 'Don't bring a gun to a knife fight?'"
"Don't try being cleverer than me."
"It is hardly trying." Luc pulled a second knife and held them out for Statford to choose first. "Shall we begin?" Luc asked.