Chapter Three

Pluscarden Abbey
Scotland

If someone had told Denver Beck that a poor boy from South Georgia would spend a full week hanging with Benedictine monks at an abbey in northern Scotland, he’d have told them they were drunk or stoned. Or both. Nevertheless, he had done just that at Pluscarden Abbey. Now that he was at the end of his studies as a grand master initiate, this last week was a time to reflect, maybe even say a few prayers of his own.

The abbey had been established in the thirteenth century and became a Benedictine priory in 1453. It’d had its ups and downs, but as best as Beck could tell, these monks had been sending prayers to Heaven for well over five hundred years. It was sobering to realize that was almost twice as long as the United States had been in existence.

Beck had found it easy to fall into the monastic routine. He’d rise at 4:15 when a monk politely tapped on his door, dress, and then make his way down to Vigils at half past to listen to the good friars chant their Latin. He knew a few words now, though not as much as his fiancée, so he followed along as best he could. Even if he didn’t understand every word, there was a pure sort of magic in their voices that never ceased to run chills down his spine.

After Vigils, the monks would spend roughly an hour in peaceful contemplation. Beck did the same, but in his own way: He took himself on a walk in the frosty morning air. Sunrise was an hour away, so he had the joy of watching the day begin as he hiked on the vast grounds surrounding the abbey. He found that it was on these walks that his mind and body continued to deal with all that had been thrown at him over the past year. Over the course of this week, he’d come to understand why he’d been given this most daunting task, and why he had to undertake it.

The job of grand master wasn’t for everyone. In fact, you had to have killed a Fallen angel to even be considered for the position, and the odds of surviving such a battle were damned slim. If you did survive but were injured, you were sent to Hell where Lucifer did his best to claim your soul for eternity. Some died and their souls were lost.

Others did gain their freedom from Hell, their souls still their own. Of those, a few went insane after witnessing the horrors of the pit. The rare few that made the final cut, and wanted to take on this most special job, were sent to Scotland to train. Even after all the months of study and preparation, it was not a foregone conclusion—the initiate had to make a final decision to take up the Task, as the grand masters called it, or to step away.

In all his wildest dreams, Beck had never believed that he would slay a rogue Fallen, one of Hell’s craziest bastards, who’d declared war against Lucifer. Seriously injured, he’d been sent to Hell, and only because of his dead mother’s efforts had he found his way back to the land of the living.

He knew that being a grand master was like walking a cosmic tightrope in gale-force winds. It would be his task to balance the Light and the Dark. He’d interact with angels and demons, heads of state, everyday people. He’d have to discover ways to keep Hell in check and to prevent certain antagonistic angels in Heaven from pushing for war—a conflict that would decimate this world.

Sometimes, deep in the night when he lay in his bed, staring at nothing, Beck was sure someone had made a mistake about him. Other times he knew, deep down, that this was his destiny.

As the abbey’s day progressed, the monks would continue their prayers, ending with Compline in the evening. Devotion and work, a simple life. There was much to envy here. As Beck saw it, one of his tasks as grand master was to ensure that these holy men had the freedom to live as they chose without interference from anyone, be that Heaven or Hell.

Now, as the sun rose through the trees in the distance and bird song filled the woods, Beck turned back toward the abbey, knowing he’d miss this place. Maybe next year when he returned to Scotland for more training, he could spend time here. Since the monastery had a separate residence for female guests, Riley could even come with him. He hoped she’d find her own kind of peace here just as he had. It troubled him that in the last few months she’d grown more solemn, less full of joy. Weighed down by the responsibilities of a master trapper, and by being Paul Blackthorne’s daughter.

Once they were married, he’d try hard to bring laughter back into their lives. God knew they both needed it for the years that lay ahead.

*~*~*

Once Beck had packed his belongings, said his goodbyes, and caught the train south, he made sure to pay attention to the magnificent scenery. Scotland held a beauty that was hard for him to put into words, always stunning in its own way, whether it was raining, snowing, or brilliantly sunny. On one of the hills in the distance, tiny white dots of sheep moved at random. Farther on, there were snow-capped mountains, rugged in their beauty. Towns and villages passed by, often just a blur through the train window. This place had become a second home, and he would miss it.

They’d just gone over a grade crossing where a beer lorry waited patiently for the train to pass when he felt something cold reach out to him. Something far too familiar, and unwelcome. When he looked across the table at the previously empty seat opposite him, he swore under his breath. A quick glance proved that the other passengers in the train car were ignoring the newcomer, or for those more sensitive, unconsciously shifting away from his presence.

“You know, my day was perfect up until now,” Beck said, folding his arms over his chest.

Lucifer, the Prince of Hell, smirked. He wore his usual dark clothes, his black hair collar length, midnight-blue eyes sparkling with a blend of both mischief and malice. “Ah, my favorite grand master wannabe.”

“What brings you to paradise?” Beck asked, his good mood souring instantly.

“This is Scotland, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Same thing.”

“Cocky as ever, I see. That will change soon. Frankly, I can’t wait until you speak that oath.”

Beck knew he shouldn’t take the bait, but he couldn’t resist. “And why is that?”

“Because that gives you more to lose,” the Prince replied. “The sum of a human’s resistance is easily weighed against how much he or she has to forfeit. I find the right lever, and a soul is easy to claim.”

“Some souls, not all.”

“Paul Blackthorne wasn’t strong enough. Why do you think you will be?”

Beck didn’t like hearing his friend’s name on this abomination’s lips, but he held his temper. The Prince would poke at you until you lost your cool, then maneuver you into doing something you’d best have avoided. When he didn’t reply, the Adversary went for another target.

“I have been keeping an eye on Master Blackthorne—the one that is still alive, that is.”

“I hear she’s doin’ well,” Beck countered.

“Until today. She made a mistake, one that may cost her dearly.”

Beck’s fear kicked in, but he tried to cover it. “We all make mistakes, you included. The difference is that most of us learn from them.”

The taunting expression in Lucifer’s eyes turned flinty. “You skate a fine line, mortal. There is nothing to keep me from killing you at any time I wish.”

“I know, but then you’d lose the chance to mess with my head.”

“Yours is only one of countless heads I can ‘mess with,’ as you put it.”

“Yes, but how many are gonna be a grand master?”

“True,” the Prince conceded. “I’m glad you didn’t accept my offer when you were in Hell. When the time comes, your fall from grace will be almost as dramatic as mine. I, for one, will welcome that moment.”

“You have nothin’ I want, angel.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Not even the identity of your father?” he said slyly.

Before Beck could reply, the Prince of Hell vanished as quietly as he’d first appeared. The few passengers who had felt something wrong began to relax now, resuming their conversations.

You bastard. I bet Heaven threw a party the day you left.

Lucifer knew how to get to him, though. Beck had always wanted to know the name of his father, maybe even meet the man. But no matter what the Prince believed, it was not worth his immortal soul. He returned to enjoying the scenery, knowing that usually the best way to deal with that infernal pest was to ignore it. Still, he made a mental note to check in with Riley. Lucifer often knew things before anyone else did.

*~*~*

Demon Central
Atlanta, Georgia

After the shock of discovering a “free” demon, the rest of Riley’s day had seemed mundane—paperwork, more paperwork, then trappings with her apprentices. To her relief, the one in the early evening had forced her to cancel Mort’s next lesson. Riley’d made sure not to sound happy about that, but she was. She still had a dull headache from the night before.

This time it’d been Jaye’s turn to trap a Three and she’d done it successfully. She’d also acquired a couple deep gouges on her arm from the Three’s claws, so Riley made sure she’d been treated with Holy Water and warned her that she’d feel sick for the next couple of days.

“How bad?” Jaye asked, her face registering her worry.

“Because this is your first time at this, it’s a light-case-of-the-flu type bad, but only a couple days’ worth. Use fresh Holy Water every two or three hours and have your mom keep an eye on you. If the wound becomes infected, call me immediately.”

Jaye looked up at her as she leaned against her car, Kurt and Richard hovering nearby. “This kind of thing can kill you,” she said gravely.

Riley could hear the resignation in her voice. “Yes, it can if someone doesn’t keep an eye on you. In your case, you’ll feel icky and then you’ll be good.” She didn’t bother to add that her apprentice would bear the scars for the rest of her life.

The young woman looked over at the two guys. “You had this happen too?” Two nods returned. She’d missed witnessing those injuries because she’d been taking care of her mom. “Well, then I’ll just suck it up.”

“Best way to face it,” Richard replied. “Part of the job.”

Jaye sighed. “Can I go home now? I’m not feeling good.”

Riley nodded. “You guys go on. I’ll take the demon to Fireman Jack. Just make sure someone is watching over our friend here.”

“Consider it done,” Kurt replied.

Riley turned back to Jaye now. “I’ll have the Guild’s doc swing by and check on you later tonight. You’ve never met Carmela, so it’s time that happened.”

“You’ll like her. She’s cool,” Richard added.

Jaye gave him a dazed look and didn’t respond, then headed for her car, cradling her arm.

“I’ll let you know how she’s doing,” Kurt said.

“Thanks,” Riley replied.

As her apprentices pulled away in Kurt’s car, she looked down at the slavering demon inside the steel-mesh bag. “Boy, do you stink. What do you do, bathe in sulfur?”

In response, the fiend howled at her, all its rank fur rippling to cause the stench to increase exponentially. Holding her breath, Riley dragged the thing to the rear of her car, then deadlifted it into the trunk, trying not to gag in the process. Luckily, she’d been hefting Beck’s weights each morning, making this feat possible—only a year earlier, it wouldn’t have been.

She could have asked one of the guys to help her, but it felt good to handle her own demons. Plus, she was worried about Jaye. That first wound was always a shock. Now Jaye knew she wasn’t invincible, that she could get hurt, and that this was the price you paid for hunting Lucifer’s monsters. Some trappers dealt with that okay, but others didn’t. Time would tell how it was for Riley’s red-haired apprentice.

The Three snarled and clawed at the bag, gnawing on the metal rings as if it could get loose. Riley slammed the trunk with more force than necessary, and then, feeling ornery, she opened it and slammed it again. Inside, the demon howled, long and mournful.

“Shut it, furball. You sliced up one of my people, so you get zip sympathy.”

*~*~*

Once she’d sold the Three, Riley’s least favorite time of day had finally rolled around. It was nearing ten when she parked her car in Beck’s driveway, an early night by her standards. While she loved spending time with his rabbit, the rest of the evening would be impossibly lonely. It astounded her how quickly she’d become accustomed to having Beck around, sharing a life with him.

He’d sit across from her at the breakfast table, razzing her about not being a morning person. Send her text messages during the day. Cuddle with her at night.

Then he wasn’t here anymore—off to Scotland because somehow fate had decided this man was to become a grand master. It felt selfish to want him all to herself, but sometimes Riley gave in to that totally self-centered emotion. It was hard to share him with so many when he was as much a part of her life as her next breath.

Riley had vainly tried to fill her free time to stave off that loneliness. Even though she’d graduated from high school and was no longer taking a college course, she still had Latin homework, courtesy of Mort. Then there was spell practice, trapper paperwork, laundry, and housecleaning. Still, without Beck, she was lonely.

After dealing with the alarm, Riley refilled her pack with supplies before placing it by the front door. Toting Rennie out of her cage in the second bedroom, she put the rabbit in the larger playpen in the living room. Riley’s shower came next, followed by feeding both herself and Rennie. Then it was couch time for both of them.

In between fawning over Beck’s beloved bunny, she checked her e-mail messages. His were always read first, even if there was an URGENT BULLETIN from the National Guild. Those people were a lot less of a problem now, but she still distrusted bureaucracy. There was a great deal of irony there, as she was now part of that same bureaucracy.

Beck’s e-mail spoke of his train trip back to the manor, how he’d enjoyed most of it. He didn’t explain why there was a portion of the trip he hadn’t enjoyed, but she knew he’d tell her down the line. In many ways, he was still a very private person, and she respected that.

Riley wrote a quick reply, letting him know about Jaye’s injury and that all was good with the house and Rennie. She knew better than to mention Isra in an e-mail—the Vatican had big ears. Once she’d sent the message, the loneliness grew.

With a sigh, she realized she hadn’t heard from Kurt so she called him.

“Hey, boss,” he said.

“This is a welfare check on Jaye. She settled in with her mom and doing okay?”

“Oh crap, I was supposed to call you. Sorry! Jaye’s fine, but she’s not at home. She spaced off that her mom was at her aunt’s house tonight because of a dialysis appointment in the morning, so I kidnapped our fearless trapper and brought her to my place. The Guild’s doc has been here and gone. Now we’re watching Ghostbusters.”

Riley smiled at that image. “Which one?”

“The newer one. She’s enjoying it, I think, at least in between chills and trying not to throw up.”

Riley remembered that part all too well. “Thank you. My level of worry just dropped to zero.”

“No sweat,” he said. “Jaye was all for staying on her own, but there was no way that was going to happen. She can be too stubborn sometimes.”

“I heard that!” their subject called out in the background.

“You know what to look for if she’s getting sicker. The Holy Water I gave her was freshly blessed, so it should do the trick. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I will. Don’t worry, boss, we got this covered.”

“Oh, and you are off the hook for tomorrow. I’ll let Harper know you’re keeping an eye on her.”

“We’ll make it a movie marathon, then. I’ll send you updates.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear. Later, guy.”

After putting Rennie back into her cage, it was close to eleven thirty. Riley had run out of things to do, and that left her the one issue she tried to avoid: Isra the supposedly “free” demon. She’d gone back and forth over whether her decision to leave him at the school had been wise. For a time, she’d thought of dropping the dilemma in either Master Harper’s or Grand Master Stewart’s laps, but that plan held its own perils. What if they decided Isra had to go? Or what if the Vatican found out and sent someone to kill him? Would that be her ex-boyfriend Simon Adler, now a lay exorcist, or one of the Demon Hunters?

From what she knew about Rome, it was a good bet they were already aware the Unbounds existed, because there was little those folks didn’t know. Nevertheless, the Vatican’s stance on demons was ironclad—that they were all destined for destruction. Could Rome accept the idea that one of Lucifer’s henchmen gave his boss the middle finger and took off on his own?

“No,” she muttered to herself. Not likely.

After flip-flopping a dozen times, Riley gave up. She’d done what she thought best at the time, and she would have to live with the consequences. Hopefully those consequences didn’t result in any students being harmed.

Making sure the doors were locked, she climbed into bed. Scooping up Beck’s pillow, she pulled it to her chest and inhaled his scent, as a hint of his aftershave still lingered. She’d purposely not washed the case after he’d left in December for that very reason.

Two nights from now, she’d be on a plane heading east across the Atlantic, where Beck would hold her close, remind her that life was more than just trapping demons. In his own quiet way, he’d help her navigate all the changes they both faced. First, his investiture as a grand master. Then their marriage.

That would be the most welcome change of all.

*~*~*

International Guild Manor House
Scotland

Beck quickly learned that his habit of rising with the abbey’s monks meant that he would wake at 4:15, even when he didn’t have to. He’d always been an early bird—unlike Riley, who would sleep in if he let her be.

So, at 4:16 a.m. Beck found himself staring at the ceiling in his room. Sighing, he rose, dressed, and retrieved the book he’d been reading. He silently made the trek down the three flights of stairs to the main floor, then down another long hallway to the Guild’s library. He creaked open the heavy wooden door and found that the massive space was chilly, as expected.

Flicking on a few lights, he decided not to turn on the portable heaters or light the fireplace. Instead, he collected one of the woolen lap robes stacked on a shelf nearby and placed it on the seat of his favorite leather wingback chair. Then he paused, as was his habit, and took in the scene around him. Most people wouldn’t bother—it was just an old library after all. He took in the stacks of shelves, both on the main floor and up on the second floor, accessible by a narrow cast-iron stairway. A catwalk ran around the room, the ironwork meticulously maintained. A glance up at the glass dome showed that night still reined outside.

Beck settled into the chair, the lap robe in place to ward against the chill. A click of the Tiffany lamp on the small table next to him and he was ready. With more than the usual solemnity, he opened the book at the aged leather bookmark.

He was now reading at a pace that pleased him. He’d never be as fast as other folks, but still, it was quite an accomplishment for someone who couldn’t figure out a menu a year or so before. Much of that change had come because of Riley and her father, neither of whom had ever talked down to him. Instead, they’d patiently instructed him, taking it at his pace. Once that door had been cracked, Beck had shoved it open with a thirst for knowledge that knew no boundaries.

Because it was still an effort to read, he’d found that he retained the knowledge more than others, mostly because he had to concentrate on every word. The book in his lap, a reprint of All Manners of Demons and Angels, had been written in the late nineteenth century by a man named Arthur Varnery. Varnery’s brother, Edwin, had died at the hands of a Fallen, and to honor that sacrifice, Varnery spent two decades of his life researching and writing about the power struggle between Heaven and Hell. This wasn’t the only book on the subject that Beck had read—he’d been assigned a staggering amount of homework over the last seven months—but this one he’d chosen on his own.

It’d been a slow read, maybe twenty pages or so a night, partly because the prose was so dense. Beck was currently re-reading the ninth chapter, for it had intrigued him more than the others. One particular phrase had caught his notice because he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it:

The madness of angels in highest Heaven, the cunning of demons in darkest Hell. The two are separate, yet twain, for the Light gives and the Light destroys, all in equal measure.

Since it had puzzled him, he’d written it out on a piece of paper and stuck it in his wallet. Once a day or so, he’d pull out the paper, study it, then put it back. Who knew, maybe by the end of his life he’d have a clue what it meant.

*~*~*

It was close to six when the library door creaked open. At this hour, it was probably Grand Master Kepler, the archivist for the International Guild. As Beck’s granddaddy would say, Kepler was “older than dirt.” In his mid-seventies, he moved at a snail’s pace now and had served as a grand master since his early twenties—over fifty years.

But to Beck’s surprise, the man who joined him wasn’t Kepler, but Trevor MacTavish. Trevor was a lean, muscled sort of man with a ponytail of silver hair and blue eyes. He was Beck’s superior, one of the most respected grand masters in the International Guild. This morning, he looked half-awake.

“How soon can ya be packed and ready to leave?” he asked. Trevor’s lack of courtesy was unusual, as was the anxiety in his voice.

“Fifteen minutes. Why?”

“We’ve been requested by the Vatican. They have a matter of some concern they wish ta speak ta us about,” he said, his strong Scottish brogue overlaying the words.

The Vatican? Did this have something to do with Riley? No. If Rome had an issue with her, as they’d had in the past, they would have contacted her directly. As of yesterday morning, everything had been fine in Atlanta. Still, Lucifer had issued that cryptic warning . . .

“They bother to tell you exactly what this is about?” Beck asked as he headed out of the library with Trevor at his side.

“Ya know them. They’re close-mouthed even if ya ask what time it is. In this case, all I was told is that the matter was vitally important and that a jet would be waitin’ for us at the nearest airport.”

Beck came to a halt at that news. “They sent a jet for us?”

“Aye, laddie. That should tell ya somethin’ is verra wrong.”

(c) 2017 Jana Oliver – All Rights Reserved

Demon Trappers is a registered trademark of Jana Oliver.

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Chapter Two

In contrast to Riley’s nocturnal sojourns into rural Georgia, the school’s front lobby was bright and cheery. As she saw it, anything would be an improvement as long as there wasn’t a necro throwing spells at her. The last time she’d delivered a presentation at a high school had been right after the first of the year. Beck had just returned to Scotland for his grand master training and she’d found it hard to be upbeat for that school visit. Now there were only a few days left before she was headed to Scotland for her fiancé’s investiture, so Riley found herself smiling for the first time in a week.

Though her primary job was to trap Hellspawn and train new trappers, community outreach had become increasingly important, especially in a city where the populace was all too aware of the kind of damage that fiends could wreak. Her superior, Master Harper, would never have done a school talk, because for all his trapping skills, the man just wasn’t into being civil. Harper talking to a roomful of teens about demons? That was just asking for trouble.

Which is why when Riley made master demon trapper at the end of last year, Harper had given her one of his incredibly rare smiles and told her this part of the job was now hers. That because of her “notoriety”—in particular all her run-ins with Hell and its minions—and her age, she was the ideal candidate to take the message to the civilians. Since there were no less than seventy-eight YouTube videos of her trapping Hellspawn out on the internet, she really couldn’t argue that point.

Riley understood the public’s fascination with the fiends, and by extension, the trappers. Sort of. To those outside the Demon Trappers Guild, it probably seemed like a really cool job to take on Lucifer’s murderous horde. Heaven vs. Hell. The Grand Game. But it was never that simple. She’d learned that lesson even before she made journeyman trapper.

With the economy finally turning around, a few more schools had reopened. This location had been one of the first, and it looked to be in pretty good shape after years of being shuttered. Sunlight flooded through the windows, and the floors gleamed. The staff looked happy too—no doubt pleased to be teaching in a building designed for education instead of in an abandoned shopping mall or a defunct grocery store.

“Here’re your badges,” the smiling lady behind the reception desk said, pushing them over the counter. She wore cat-eye glasses with black and red stripes, which should have looked weird but didn’t.

“Thanks.” As Riley parceled out those badges to her apprentices, three solemn faces studied her. No doubt, they’d already noticed that her makeup was heavier than usual and that she was moving slower than normal, yet so far not one of them had asked why. Bruises were the norm for a trapper, but for once, these weren’t caused by any of Lucifer’s fiends.

Riley’s current group of trainees was a mixed lot: Richard Bonafont was the eldest, in his thirties, and sported a pair of wire-rim glasses, while Kurt Pelligrino was in his twenties and had the muscled bulk of a devoted gym rat. Jaye Lynn, the third apprentice, was slim, red-haired, and about Kurt’s age. She was just back from family leave and still had some catching up to do with the other two, who were close to the end of their yearlong training period. The guys would soon be taking their journeyman’s exams. Once they passed those, Riley would start training a new group of apprentices.

While they were waiting for the teacher who’d invited them, Riley felt it was time to dispense a few warnings. She waved them away from the reception desk and then asked, “What can go wrong with this talk today?”

“Worst case?” Kurt said. “Some parent goes completely ballistic because we mentioned Hell in front of their darling overly sheltered offspring. Said parent then goes to the school board and throws a major hissy fit.”

“Always a possibility.”

“Unless said parent has been under a rock for the last couple years,” Jaye added, “they’d know there really are demons running around this city.”

“Sometimes people live in their own little happy bubble of ignorance,” Richard interjected.

“Right up until a Gastro-Fiend tries to eat them.”

“That too,” Riley said. Jaye’s reply had reminded her of the other issue. “Best to keep the black humor to a minimum,” she cautioned.

Doctors, nurses, cops, paramedics, soldiers, or firefighters, they all had to blow off steam. Demon trapping was no exception, but outsiders didn’t understand their macabre sense of humor and thought it disrespectful.

“The last thing I want to do is explain to Master Harper why this visit went off the rails. You know how well that will go. He’s a bear on a good day.”

“But it would be you doing the explaining, not us,” Kurt replied with a mischievous grin.

She eyed him. “Trust me, I won’t be alone if that happens. You three will get the full Harper bitch session, just like me.”

“Oh.”

“Master Blackthorne?”

Riley turned to find a woman headed their way wearing navy slacks and a rather cool multi-patterned shirt that had this flowing thing going on. Her hair was in an afro and her skin a light mocha.

“Ms. Marburg?”

“Yes! I am so happy you’re here to talk to my students today,” the woman gushed. “They’re really looking forward to it.”

Bet they are. Anything different from the norm had been readily welcomed when Riley was a student. She did a quick introduction of her apprentices and then they were herded toward a classroom at the far end of the hall.

“It’s great to see the school being used again,” Riley said.

“We’re loving it. Last fall I was teaching in a church basement, and now we’re back here. We’re so backlogged they’re holding classes on the weekends now,” Ms. Marburg exclaimed.

“That’s good news.” Riley waited a few steps and then asked, “Anything we shouldn’t talk about?”

“No, you should be good,” the teacher replied. “I had the students get signed permission slips from their parents to be in class during your talk.”

Smart woman. She’d probably learned that lesson the hard way.

As expected, the room was sparse, the few posters and other additions no doubt coming out of Ms. Marburg’s own pocket. School districts never received enough money to function, and the teachers tried to pick up the slack.

Riley did a quick head count: twenty-nine kids, all sizes, shapes, and colors—a cross section of Atlanta’s citizens.

“Juniors, right?” Riley asked, and Ms. Marburg nodded. It was hard to believe that Riley had been one of those not so long ago.

Moving up to the front of the room, she felt all eyes on her. A couple of the students held up their phones and took pictures. Once she’d been introduced, Riley began her talk like she always did.

“Some people are teachers, some are doctors or lawyers, work at the local convenience store, or do landscaping for a living. Some become cops or firefighters, or stay home to raise their kids. Others join the military to keep us safe.” She took a step closer to them now. “Me? I chose to become a demon trapper because my dad was one. I was in awe of what he did, day after day, night after night. He’d come home tired, chewed up, sick, and exhausted. But every time he did his job, someone was safer. And that’s why I became a demon trapper.”

Riley heard a few muttered “whatever’s,” which didn’t surprise her. Her fellow teens could be a cynical bunch. After a full four beats, she added, “Okay, let’s be honest. You want to know why I do this job?” She grinned. “Because I just love kicking Hell’s ass.”

“All right!” one kid called out.

Like she’d planned, the group lightened up from there. As the hour passed, her appreciation for her parents rose even further, if that was possible. Before he’d become a master demon trapper, Paul Blackthorne had been a teacher, as had Riley’s mom. Riley had always known their jobs had been hard, but dealing with a classroom full of seventeen-year-olds drove the point home. Some were serious, others were silly, and a couple were downright obnoxious. The usual mix for any classroom.

Ironically, Riley was only a year older than these kids, but the difference between her life and theirs was immense. She was an orphan, had crossed paths with the Prince of Hell and a couple Fallen angels, and had prevented Armageddon. All before she’d turned eighteen.

The photographs of the various demons the teacher put up on the screen held the class in awe while Riley patiently explained the differences between the five grades of fiends and how they were trapped. The students especially loved the video of one of the Grade Fives. Geo-Fiends were always impressive, especially when they were generating mini tornadoes and earthquakes, leveling buildings right and left.

The next video was one of her and a couple trappers grounding a Five. As it twisted and fought the magic that sent it back to Hell, the students cheered. It was an awesome video. How anyone had had the guts to get that close to film the action, Riley had no idea.

“That’s all CGI, you know, like in the movies,” one of the boys called out.

Riley shook her head. “Nope. They’re for real.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“If you had, you’d probably be dead,” Kurt called out. “I’ve watched Master Blackthorne ground one of those things, and trust me, they’re seriously bad news.”

“And they act like cuddly puppies when compared to an Archfiend,” Riley said. “Next question?”

“Did you really kill an angel?” a girl asked, her curly brown hair dancing around her shoulders.

“Nope, I didn’t.” But her fiancé had, and that was why Beck was about to become a grand master.

Riley knew it was time to wrap it up when one of the girls asked for Kurt’s phone number—though she was proud when he handled it like a pro, politely refusing without embarrassing the student.

Riley hid her smile as various students filed up to the front of the room to get autographs. Her apprentices hadn’t expected that.

Once the class ended, they followed the teacher to the school’s front entrance.

“That was really great,” Ms. Marburg said, beaming.

“It went well,” Riley replied, pleased.

Better than a presentation she’d done at a local library a few weeks back. Of course, a Biblio-Fiend had shown up for that one and begun throwing books at the attendees while swearing its head off. She’d warned the head librarian to ward the doors and windows with Holy Water, but sometimes folks just didn’t listen. Next time, she’d take care of those precautions personally.

Trailing behind the others, Riley felt an uncomfortable twitch along her spine. When the twitch persisted, she turned and found a tall man standing near a doorway at the end of the adjacent hallway. He was probably forty or a bit older, a teacher perhaps, with pale auburn hair and a slight goatee.

Then his eyes met hers.

Demon. One carefully hiding his true appearance, which meant he was probably a Grade Four—a Mezmer, as the trappers called them. A skilled one, it seemed. Mezmers were masters at worming their way into your head, making you do what they wanted while draining away your life force. Once you were weak enough, they claimed your soul.

How had it gotten inside the building? The school laid down Holy Water wards on each entrance, which was standard procedure now.
At the moment, Ms. Marburg was chatting with Jaye, while the other two apprentices were discussing their plans for the evening. This was Riley’s problem, not theirs.

“Ah, guys, I’m going to hit the restroom. I’ll catch up with you,” she said, ensuring nothing tipped off her apprentices that something was wrong.

“We’ll be at the office,” Ms. Marburg called out, and they headed away down the hallway.

Riley turned back and tracked down the demon. To her surprise, it hadn’t moved and in fact seemed to be waiting for her in front of a classroom.

“Are you lost?” he asked as she approached.

It was a curious question. “No, are you?”

The hint of a smile appeared. “Some might think so, but I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Because I have no knowledge for these young people?” the fiend replied.

Another curious question.

“Why didn’t you hide from me?” she asked. “You had to know I was in the building.” Her hand was tucked inside her trapping bag, fingers wrapped around a sphere of Holy Water.

“I felt your presence, but I did not hide because I chose not to. I no longer serve the Dark,” it replied.

“The Dark, as in . . . Lucifer?”

Most fiends reacted negatively when they heard the Prince’s name. This one didn’t even wince.

“I no longer am chained to Hell in any way.”

That made her pause. “So you’re saying you found a way to break your contract with the Prince?”

A nod.

“Then you thought, ‘hey, I’ll just become a teacher’?”

The demon chuckled. “Yes. That shouldn’t surprise you. You found a way to break your contract and remain a trapper.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?” it asked, then gestured around. “Here, the students are so filled with light. I have knowledge; they have a thirst to learn. It is a fair trade.”

Now she understood. “You’re continually pulling life force from them.”

The Mezmer looked down at the floor now. “Only in very small quantities. I don’t wish to harm them. I find that since I’m no longer one of Hell’s own, I need far less.” It looked down the hall, past her. “Being in the sunlight and fresh air, hearing laughter, and seeing the love in this world is enough for me.”

Riley opened her mouth, then closed it. Was that even possible? A Mezmer could collect small bits of life essence to sustain itself, though they usually just sucked it down like a strawberry shake—

and the supplier suffered for that gluttony. Perhaps this one had truly discovered a way to live on much less.

“I understand your skepticism,” the demon said, looking back at her. “I will always be what I am, but it is my decision as to how I will live my life. In return for that life force, I give the students wisdom.”

Riley blew out a stream of air. Now what? She couldn’t leave a demon inside a high school, no matter how well mannered it was. It went against everything a trapper stood for.

“I promise I will not hurt them,” the Mezmer said. “If I harm them, I will return to the Dark and I will die before that happens.”

She frowned. “That’s exactly what your kind would say.”

“I know, but how many of my kind can cross a holy ward?”

“They can if the Holy Water is fake.”

“It isn’t. I feel it every day when I walk over it. I will never cease being what I am. I can only stop behaving like one of his servants.”

Well, since the fiend had mentioned it, there was one way to test that claim. Riley shifted her trapping bag off her shoulder and pulled out her own bottle of Holy Water. Every trapper carried one or two, on top of the various spheres used for capturing Hellspawn.

The Four stepped back, and for a moment, she thought he was going to make a run for it.

“In here,” it said, indicating the classroom.

Riley weighed that suggestion. The last thing she needed was for a Mezmer to lose its glamour and create a panic. If it did go on a rampage, she’d have a better chance of trapping it in a confined space.

When they stepped inside the room, she closed the door behind them, hoping she hadn’t made a serious mistake. As she turned, the images on the walls caught her eyes immediately—they were all

pictures of Mother Nature. A massive waterfall in Venezuela, the Cascade Range, the Sahara Desert, a single island in the center of a sapphire-blue ocean.

“Is this your classroom?”

The demon nodded, which only confused her more. These were not the images she’d think Hellspawn would want to see day in and day out. Or maybe they were, if that fiend had spent an eternity in Hell’s bleak and sulfurous halls.

Disconcerted, Riley uncapped the Holy Water—she’d just bought it that morning, so it was freshly blessed—and poured a line on the floor. Stepping back, she left the lid off in case she needed a weapon. The sacred liquid wouldn’t stop the thing, but it would burn it, giving her time to pull out her steel pipe.

The demon took a deep breath, murmured something, then walked right over the Holy Water, purposely stepping on it as it passed. Still in its mortal guise, it grimaced, then looked up at her. Its eyes had shifted for a fraction of a second from human to that weird goat-slit thing, then back.

“Hell no longer owns my soul,” it said simply.

She blinked. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Except she had. “Wait a minute—a Fallen can do that.”

“You know I am not one of them.”

No, it wasn’t. Her experiences with the Fallen had ensured that she’d never be fooled again. “How many of your kind are there?”

“A few hundred in this country, more around the world. There are not that many of us. Breaking our shackles is uncommon, and it immediately marks us for death.”

“Is there some special way you do that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Apparently the Four wasn’t going to share that with her. Now she was back to the original dilemma: what to do with the demon. Teacher.

Riley recapped the Holy Water and returned it to the pack. “I need to think about this.”

The demon’s tight posture relaxed a notch. “I understand. But if you tell anyone I am here, it is likely other trappers will come after me. Or those hunters from Rome certainly will. They don’t understand us Unbounds.”

Unbounds. Now this kind of fiend had a name. And the demon was correct: The Vatican’s Demon Hunters had only one way to deal with Hellspawn: kill them. It didn’t matter if they were the small ones that stole jewelry or the huge ones—dead was the only way Rome tolerated them.

Den, I wish you were here. Her fiancé would have a lot better idea of how to handle this. In fact, she bet his grand master training had covered this situation. He’d learned all the secret and arcane knowledge about Heaven and Hell while she’d gotten the “here’s how to trap a Pyro-Fiend and not get fried” lectures.

Trust your heart. It was her father’s voice, and Paul Blackthorne never steered her wrong, even from beyond the grave.

Riley sighed. “Okay, I’m going to act like I don’t know you’re here, and I’ll trust your word that you won’t harm these kids. If I find out you are, I will hunt you down and kill you myself. Rome will never get the chance. Do you understand?”

The demon nodded solemnly. “I understand. I know how many Archfiends you have killed, so that is no idle threat.” Then its shoulders relaxed even more. “I won’t hurt them, I swear. They are the brightness in this world. The future.”

There was so much truth in his words.

“Then we’ll be fine. Out of curiosity, are you male or female?”

“Male.”

“And your name?”

The demon seemed pleased she’d asked. “My old name is no more. My new one is Isra. It means freedom.”

That wasn’t surprising.

“You changed your name when you broke the bond with Hell.”

He nodded. “You may not realize it,” Isra said, “but we are the same, Blackthorne’s daughter. We have both come out of the pit, and we both seek the Light. We will either triumph or fail, but at least we made the journey.”

“The Prince is never going to forget either of us.”

“No,” Isra said, more solemn. “He will not. However, I will savor every free day I have. You should do the same.”

After another long look at the enigmatic demon, Riley left him behind in his colorful classroom, even as her heart and mind warred with each other. She should have done her duty and removed the Mezmer from the building, protected the students.

But as a master trapper, she’d learned that things weren’t always black and white. At best, they were a confusing shade of muddied gray. Last December, an Archfiend had sought her revenge because Riley had killed the she-demon’s “mate.” A mate that a demon wasn’t supposed to have, not if the Demon Trappers Guild or the Vatican were to be believed.

Now it appeared that Lucifer wasn’t as all-powerful as they’d thought, and that some of his Hellspawn had broken free and quietly integrated themselves into human society. All Riley knew was that for the time being, Isra’s secret was safe.

Unless he breaks his word.

(c) 2017 Jana Oliver – All Rights Reserved

Demon Trappers is a registered trademark of Jana Oliver.

WHERE TO BUY THIS BOOK

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Print Edition:

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Book Depository (will be posted as soon as available)

Chapter One

March 2019
Atlanta, Georgia

Riley Blackthorne wasn’t alone in this dark and desolate Georgia pasture. No, she had a companion out here in the middle of nowhere, a friend. In this case, a necromancer—one who wore an extremely worried expression.

That’s not good.

Senior Summoner Mortimer Alexander was a little shorter than Riley’s five-seven, rather wide, and currently covered in a black hooded robe. Not only was the garment a decent barrier against the chilly night air, but its color announced that this man was a serious magical threat.

“You ready to do this?” Mort asked.

“Sure, why not? How hard can it be?” Riley replied.

Her companion winced.

On the magical power scale, Riley rated a light blue robe, as she was just a beginner—albeit one with a bit of talent. Which is why this “let’s test your magical wards” exercise had made her uncommonly nervous. It would be like a robin trying to defend itself against an eagle. The raptor almost always won.

It hadn’t helped when Mort had suggested she leave off her robe and wear dark clothes. Something “washable,” he’d said. Having seen his magical wards decimated by a much stronger necromancer, Riley knew why he’d made that suggestion. She was in for pain, and probably an epic nosebleed.

She took a deep breath, trying to relax. And failed.

Mort fiddled with his robe, nervous as well, then lowered his hands by his sides. They were already beginning to glow a brilliant blue. At any other time, Riley would have thought that was cool, even pretty, but soon that magic would be racing toward her.

“Do your best,” he said. Then he cast his spell.

A second later Riley was on her back staring up at the stars, trying hard to catch her breath. It’d been like being body-slammed by a semi.

Mort had insisted that learning how to ward against an attacker’s spell was much like training for a marathon. The first time you ran five miles, you whimpered in pain and prayed to die. However, each subsequent run was a little less horrific as your body grew accustomed to the strenuous exercise. In this case, if Riley “exercised” her magical wards regularly, her ability to protect herself would grow stronger.

Riiight.

As her breath evened out, she stared up at the glorious night sky. The last time she’d seen stars this bright was in Scotland, the evening she’d battled a necromancer. It’d been the day after she’d turned eighteen. She’d lain on her back on the cold ground and stared up at the heavens. The stars had sat embedded in the velvety black sky, and there’d even been a meteor painting a lacy trail of white in its wake.

That night, and the attack by a necromancer, had taught Riley a bitter lesson: If she wanted a future with Denver Beck, the man she loved, she’d have to embrace magic. That certainly wasn’t the path she’d ever envisioned. She was the daughter of a master demon trapper, and her family had trapped Hellspawn for centuries. But her interactions with Hell, and especially with Lucifer, had made her the ultimate bait for those who just couldn’t resist summoning evil.

Which was why, instead of finalizing plans for her upcoming wedding, she currently lay on her back, every muscle aching.

A face came into her line of sight, then a hand. Riley rose to her feet with Mort’s help, sure her chest was on fire. Looking down, she saw that her navy sweatshirt was lightly singed. Luckily, she’d worn one of her old ones.

“We’ll do it again,” he said, trudging back to his spot some fifteen feet away.

Two more times, she ended on her back, despite casting a warding spell. Her spine signaled that it thought this whole thing sucked, and her hips were in agreement.

This time, Riley rose on her own, straightened her shoulders, ignoring the ache in her head and chest, and focused on the fact that she didn’t want to land on the ground again. She put that intention into her spell, mentally building a wall between her and Mort. Maybe that would work, because nothing else was.

The third strike flew toward her like a flaming blue bomb. Then, to her surprise, it shattered against her ward, spreading those blue flames into the night.

Mort smiled, nodding his approval. “Well done. What was different this time?”

“Ah, more visualization,” she replied, still surprised.

“Good. Then do it again.” The blue on his hands became brighter now, which meant he’d upped the power of his spell.

Oh crap.

Riley made herself visualize a protective bubble and had the spell up before his reached her. This time, Mort’s began digging into her ward as if it had claws, and her bubble abruptly collapsed, knocking her flat on the ground again.

She stared up at the heavens. “Are we dooonne yet?”

“No. Sorry.”

Aggravated, Riley struggled to her feet as her temper flared. Before realizing what she was doing, she fired off a spell at him. Mort’s near instantaneous ward easily repelled hers.

“No dark-side stuff, grasshopper,” he said, waving an index finger in admonishment.

Her anger fell away and she couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re mixing movie quotes, you know.”

Mort grinned. “But you got the message.”

Yes, she had. Anger wasn’t going to get her anywhere tonight, but calm, rational planning would. Magic, it appeared, wasn’t much different from the rest of her life.

A year ago, she’d been more hotheaded, inclined to anger much faster. The past fifteen months or so had taken their toll, what with the death of her father, her working through the ranks of the Demon Trappers Guild, becoming a master trapper. Beck’s steady presence, and that of Mort and her other friends, had helped as well.

The Riley who’d first been handed her trapping license when she turned seventeen had been shaped into the one who stood in this clearing in rural Georgia, casting spells in the dark night.
With a sigh, she raised her magical shields to maximum. This time it was nearly thirty seconds before Mort finally ended his spell, and he never broke through her ward.

Bending over to catch her breath, Riley managed to croak, “Is that what you were hoping for?”

“Yes,” he said. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could hear the pride in his tone. “Better, much better.”

Not from her point of view. Riley’s arms twitched and her chest felt like someone had parked Beck’s pickup truck on it. But if it kept her and her fiancé alive, let her continue to be a master trapper, then it was worth it. At least it would be once she’d soaked in a tub and taken some aspirin.

“Not bad,” a new voice said a moment before she felt his presence.

Oh no.

Riley straightened up to find Lord Ozymandias standing near Mort now. The most powerful summoner on the East Coast—if not the whole country—watched her with faint amusement. Ozy, as she called him, wore his trademark black robe with an oak staff in hand, which always made him look like he’d just stepped out of a Tolkien novel. The first time they’d met, Riley had asked him if he’d bought the staff at a Necromancers“R”Us shop. That was before she knew exactly how powerful this man was. Of course, he’d called her a heartless bitch during that same meeting, so they were probably even.

Tonight his robe’s hood was back, revealing his silver hair and the strange glowing sigil on his forehead that seemed to pulsate of its own accord. His eyes were still green with hints of brown, but darker somehow.

“Lord Ozymandias,” Riley said, trying to catch her breath. “What brings you to the middle of nowhere?” Please don’t say it’s me.

“You, of course. I wanted to see how Mortimer is progressing with the training.”

“And your verdict is?” she asked.

The high lord gave her a nod of approval. “Not bad. I’ve seen apprentices give up after two blasts. Your stubbornness does you credit.”

“My stubbornness will probably get me dead someday,” she said, dusting off her pants. “So what am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing that I can see. You’re learning how to judge the strength of the magic ranged against you, how to respond. It’s all a matter of practice.”

She caught Mort’s expression and he seemed apologetic. Then she realized exactly why His Lordship was here.

Riley was barely able to get her ward in place before the senior necro’s spell struck her. The force of his magic shoved her back six feet, her shoes skidding in the grass. This spell wasn’t like Mort’s—each necromancer was different—and it constantly changed, adapting as hers desperately tried to find a way to compensate.

Sweat broke out on her forehead and ran down her face. Her head roared and her arms shook as she tried to hold her spell intact. Ozymandias changed his spell’s characteristics again and her ward nearly imploded. As the pressure grew, she felt her nose sting, and her breathing grew shallower.

As if on instinct, Riley stopped pushing back, knowing it was futile. Instead, she tried to think of herself as a rock, allowing the powerful spell to roll off her. For a few seconds it actually worked, his gray magic surging over her lighter purple magic, but not penetrating it. There was a sharpness to his spell, like thousands of pinching scorpion claws, each capable of drawing blood and ripping flesh if he so desired. Still, she held on and had just begun to think she had found the way to sustain this resistance for a few seconds more when Ozy called out a single unintelligible word and her ward shattered like a piece of fine crystal.

Riley dropped to her knees, then bent forward, gagging, her nose bleeding and her heart beating so hard she thought she’d suffocate. Her own fractured spell blew through her like a sirocco, finding no release.

“Ground the magic,” Mort ordered, his voice tense.

It took a few seconds to realize what he’d said. Then she stretched out her shaking hands and placed them against the ground. Peeling open her aching eyes, she watched as purple magic flowed into the red Georgia clay, highlighting individual blades of grass as it did so.

Gradually Riley’s heart rate began to slow as her breathing eased. Finally, when the spell was fully grounded, she dug in her jeans pocket for the tissues she’d stashed there. Pressing them to her bleeding nose, she looked up to find the two necromancers watching her closely. Ozy actually seemed pleased, the creep. When he delicately touched her head, the pounding in her skull diminished.

“You could have given a girl some warning,” she said, talking around the tissues. Before he could respond, she added, “I know. No one is going to announce a spell ahead of time. But . . . geez, did you have to nail me like that? I’m just a newbie here.”

“You are anything but a newbie, Summoner Blackthorne,” Ozymandias said. The senior necromancer looked over at Mort for his verdict. “Your thoughts?”

“She held out longer than I anticipated. The way she began to channel your spell there at the end was intriguing. I’ve not seen anyone do that before.”

“A few are capable of it.” Ozy looked at her now. “What were you visualizing?”

“That I was a rock and you were a river. I figured I could just let you slid by and it’d hurt less.”

“Huh. Slippery magic. I like that,” he said. “I knew you’d come at this differently than the rest of us. You’re unique, Summoner Blackthorne.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she mumbled, dabbing at her nose again. Luckily the bleeding had stopped, probably because of Ozy’s intervention. “How often are we going to do this torture?”

“As often as it takes until you can handle someone of Mort’s level.”

She eyed His Lordship. “Not your level?”

“No. The last thing I want is someone who thinks they have as much power as I do. I can only imagine where that would lead.”

Of course, they all knew what might happen. In his infinite arrogance, Ozymandias had summoned a high-level demon last year. Instead, he’d gotten a psychotic Archangel who had nearly brought on Armageddon. No, they didn’t need anyone else coming close to Ozy’s level of magic, at least not anyone who hadn’t learned such a sobering lesson.

Mort offered his hand and Riley rose on unsteady feet. “I have orange juice in the car to help combat the dizziness.”

She frowned. “I hear the dark side has cookies. You guys need to up your game here.”

Mort laughed. “I’ll remember that for the next time.”

“Keep practicing,” Ozymandias said. “And now I bid you two good evening.” He promptly vanished.

“That was a sending? He wasn’t even here?” Riley blurted. Mort nodded ruefully. “How much power does that guy have?”

“More than you want to know—trust me.”

Thank God he’s on our side.

(c) 2017 Jana Oliver – All Rights Reserved

Demon Trappers is a registered trademark of Jana Oliver.

WHERE TO BUY THIS BOOK

E-Book Editions:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble (will be available ASAP)

iBooks

Kobo

GooglePlay

Print Edition:

Amazon

Book Depository (will be posted as soon as available)

Dali Dec. 2016

Cats have it made. At least the indoor ones. They sleep most of the time, are fed regularly with on-demand scratches, playtime, treats. You name it, cats got it. All because they’re adorable furry tyrants who were smart enough to cozy up to some primitive humans and rid their caves of rats. Seems like a good bargain to me.

This is my cat, Dali, who is now nearly 11 years old. She’s a rescue who started out way skittish and now she’s queen of all she surveys. As it is with cats. Right now I wish I was here because napping on this gray, rainy day would be perfect.

Thanks for reading my books and hanging on social media with me.

Hope your Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa are bright. On to the New Year!

Now that I’ve completed the first draft of VALIANT LIGHT (Demon Trappers #6) I’ve “marked up” about 100 pages of it as I work on Draft #2.  So far I’m happy with it.

That doesn’t mean the story won’t slide off the rails further into the edit, but so far folks are doing what they should. Riley’s snarkiness (missing in the first draft) is fully engaged and Beck is being his lovable self. Lucifer is all things creepy, as one would expect of the CEO of Hell.

Hoping to have the second draft done before Christmas. That’s being *very* optimistic. Still, it’s nice to have goals. As the late Douglas Adams once said, “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” #VALIANTLIGHT

Beginning today, SOJOURN (the first book in the multi-award winning Time Rovers series – a mashup of fantasy, science fiction, romance and historical mystery) is on sale at Kobo. 

Set in the mean streets during the Autumn of Terror (think Jack the Ripper 1888), SOJOURN introduces us to Jacynda Lassiter, a Time Rover who is one time hop away from insanity. But when her lover is killed and his body thrown in the Thames, Cynda vows to find his killer, without screwing up history.

Reviews:
Casebook: Jack the Ripper
“Sojourn is a rare, well-researched and entertaining tale of time travel set against the backdrop of Victorian England and the Whitechapel Murders.”

Romantic Times BOOKreviews – 4-1/2 Star Top Pick (Science Fiction/Fantasy)
“Oliver’s first Time Rovers book is a spellbinding, multilayered mystery with a bit of romance that will delight fans. She’s done her research, skillfully recreating the sights and sounds of Victorian England with perfect detail, and she’s equally adept at fast-forwarding into the future. Strong characters and realistic dialogue add to this exciting page-turner.”

Winner of the:
*Bookseller’s Best Award (Greater Detroit RWA)
*Daphne du Maurier Award (Kiss of Death Chapter RWA)
*Golden Quill Award (Desert Rose RWA)
*Prism Award (Futuristic, Fantasy & Paranormal Chapter RWA)
*ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Award (Editor’s Choice – Fiction)

Welcome to the world of the Time Rovers® www.TimeRovers.com

Pseudonym: nom de plume/pen name, alias

Short version: Chandler Steele is a pen name. The actual person behind the Veritas Series is me.

And who is me?
Jana Oliver. I’ve been in the publishing biz since 2001, been writing since 1998. My books have been published by small presses, big presses and independently. My most successful endeavor to date is the Demon Trappers, which is a young adult urban fantasy series and has been published worldwide. I’ve won quite a few awards, including ones in the mystery genre. In short, I’m not a newbie.

Why Publish Under Another Name?
Why did I create Chandler and keep her a secret? Much like J.K. Rowling (though my royalty checks are **considerably** less hefty), I wanted to do something new without any preconceived notions as to what the story might contain. Rowling knew her fame with Harry Potter colored readers’ expectations of her Cormoran Strike series, so she published as Robert Galbraith. These books are classic British mysteries, set at a different pace than the Potter ones, with not a jot of magic or the paranormal. Once her pen name was “outted”, reviewers complained that the Strike books weren’t anything like Harry Potter. Which was the whole point.

I’ve run into this issue myself as often my non-Demon Trapper books are compared to the series, which is much beloved. I understand the sentiment, but I wanted to have free rein. Chandler was “born” so I could write pure romantic suspense/thrillers, based on current events, stories that include adult language and (gasp) sex.

From this day forward, Chandler and Jana are one person. No more hiding that fact in Facebook posts or on Twitter, Instagram, etc. Chandler will continue to “live” in Chicago, writing her rom suspenses with hunky heroes and kick butt heroines (and blowing sh*t up.) Jana will continue to live in Atlanta and write spooky paranormal urban fantasy stories. They will happily co-exist as Jana and Chandler both like scotch and the occasional cigar.

The Other Reason I did This
This was an experiment, of sorts. I wanted to find out exactly how hard it would be for a new author to find readers in 2016, without using an existing network of friends and acquaintances. Tyra Burton (best buddy and university marketing professor) and I used many of social media’s tricks, tools and platforms in an effort to build readership. And found it was just as hard in 2016 as it was in 2001 because there is so much competition. In fact, we’re presenting a workshop on our findings today, complete with all the grimy details. We both learned a lot of new things, lessons that we will be applying down the line.

SOOOO…..
For Jana’s readers, you have two books and a novella you didn’t realize existed (CAT’S PAW, KILLING GAME and BROKEN DREAMS in the Veritas series). These are NOT young adult stories. Currently they are only available on Amazon and Createspace, but will be rolling out on iTunes, B&N, Kobo and GooglePlay in December, along with a boxed set. More details can be found at Chandler’s website (www.ChandlerSteele.com) along with some informative blogs that cover “ripped from the headlines” topics like domestic terrorism, what it’s like in prison, prostitution and drug running in New Orleans, what it’s like to be a sniper, etc. And yes, the next Demon Trappers book (VALIANT LIGHT) will be out in the spring of 2017.

For Chandler readers, well now you’ve got a lot more selection to choose from (www.JanaOliver.com). Twelve books are currently available, ranging from young adult urban fantasies, to paranormal murder mysteries, and an award-winning trilogy about time travellers in Victorian London.

Eventually Chandler’s website will be integrated into a section of Jana’s (once that site is completely reworked). From now on I’ll be doing events as both JO and CS. But I have to admit being CS has been a blast, mostly because I had the joy of writing books I’ve always wanted to write while running completely under the radar.

So it’s ALL GOOD!
Jana & Chandler

Thank you for being part of the DEAD EASY launch!

DEAD EASY

CHAPTER ONE

May 2015

New Orleans

Jessie Kilpatrick was beginning to regret her plan. It’d been a great idea: drag her hermit of a sister out on a sultry May night to take a stroll around the French Quarter. Maybe even have some fun together, like it used to be. Anything would be better than watching Katarina curl up in her bed, nose deep in another book of ghost stories. Unfortunately her identical twin wasn’t playing along.

“Can we go home now?” Kat asked, her tone dangerously close to a whine. “You know I don’t like Bourbon Street. It’s too weird.”

Weird? That was saying something coming from a girl who led ghost tours on New Orleans’ streets and into its spookiest cemeteries, during which Kat would regale the rapt tourists with tales about Voodoo queens, zombies, black curses and the spirits of dead pirates.

“Come on, it’s early,” Jessie said. “Let’s stay a bit longer.”

Kat wasn’t listening to her now, staring at nothing, her forehead wrinkled as if in pain.

“You okay?” No reply.

She’s zoning again. She knows that creeps me out.

“Let’s see if we can grab a table at Johnny W’s up on the gallery,” Jessie urged, hoping to bring her sis back to reality. “We can split a burger and fries. I’ve got my fake ID. We can get some beer and—”

“No!” Kat said, exhibiting a rare flash of anger. “No on the drinking. No on being down here.”

“Because of them, right?” Jessie asked.

“Yes.”

The “them” being ghosts, which Kat claimed she could see. It hadn’t always been that way: It was only after Hurricane Katrina that her sister had begun to change. Their mom had said it was to be expected after all that had happened during the storm: the loss of their father, watching as New Orleans reeled from the horror of the dead, the maimed and the abandoned. In fact, Kat had grown even quieter, more withdrawn in the two months since Ian, their brother, went missing.

Now it was as if Kat and Jessie were no longer identical twins. Her sister had dyed her hair blue-black and went uber Goth with her clothing. Black, with occasionally a bit of dark blue. An odd choice for New Orleans’ steamy summer weather.

Jessie’s hair was still caramel brown, currently pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face. Jeans or shorts were her thing, along with colorful T-shirts, preferably those with statements like Chicken Little Was Right. As Jessie saw it, black was for mourning.

She loved being with people, loved hanging out, talking and dancing. She’d gone through three boyfriends in her senior year because she was easily bored. Kat? Not a steady guy since eleventh grade, and that one was only because she was seriously into the dude’s pet iguanas.

Kat rubbed her temples as if she had a headache, frowning. “I only came along because of you. It hurts to be here.”

Hurts? That was new. Jessie rolled her eyes. “You’re going drama queen on me.”

“No, I’m not,” her sister replied, steel in her voice now. When a tourist bumped into her, she stepped to the side to allow him to pass. “Can’t you feel how much it’s changing?”

Jessie turned to survey the heart of New Orleans, trying to picture it through Kat’s eyes. It didn’t work. Bourbon Street was Ground Zero for strange behavior in this city. At a little past nine-thirty, it already brimmed with bodies, mostly inebriated tourists. Go a block or two either way and it was quieter, but this street was considered the heart of New Orleans.

Most locals avoided this stretch of real estate on a Saturday night, but not Jessie. It was pure sensory overload. As you walked along it alternated between hot and humid to icy cold when you stepped in front of the open doors, all because the restaurant and bar owners blasted their air conditioning to compensate.

Jessie took a deep inhalation of the tantalizing scent of fried fish that wafted out of one establishment, followed by the yeasty smell of beer at another. Music flowed out of the bars as well—country, rock, blues or jazz. It was as if Bourbon Street didn’t know what it wanted to be, so it was trying to be everything at once.

“Nothing’s different,” Jessie said. “Same weird. I don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.”

The neon signs sent shafts of colored light along the rain-dampened pavement as couples wandered along, some toting alcohol, others just staring into the various bars, restaurants and sex shops. A brass quintet fired up a blaring version of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In,” which had Jessie humming along.

She gazed up at the closest gallery where people sipped their drinks and watched the stream of humanity below. One woman pointed and laughed when a hairy dude on inline skates rolled along the street. He wore a grass skirt, two coconut shells for a bra, and a long purple wig. His wiry gray mustache somehow seemed to fit.

“You really can’t feel it, not at all?” Kat said, gesturing around her.

“No, to me it’s just home.”

New Orleans in all its gaudy glory.

There was always a vibrancy here, a pulse of life echoing around them, a visceral electric buzz Jessie could feel deep in her veins. It was weird, but she got high off it, a triple Grande espresso with a side order of an adrenaline rush. Something she could never quite explain to her sister. She’d tried and failed. Repeatedly.

Kat squinted now, as if her headache was growing worse. “It feels different. More . . . dark. The ghosts are uneasy and they only get that way when something bad is going to happen.”

A spectral early warning system?

Jessie gave in. “Okay, let’s go home.”

“Look, maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know. You stay and do whatever it is you do down here. I’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. But be home before Allie or you’ll get another lecture,” Kat said, acting more like their aunt, the cop, than someone who had just turned twenty. Then she must have realized how she sounded. “Look, I’m sorry I’m a bummer.”

Bummer? No, you’re way worse than that. Which Jessie didn’t dare say or her sister would go into pout mode and stay there for a day or two.

“I just worry about you,” Jessie said. “You’re so . . . ” She couldn’t find the right word, at least not one that wouldn’t piss off her sister.

“Reclusive, introverted?” Kat offered, doing her human thesaurus thing.

“Yeah, all those. I don’t want you to become some lonely old lady with a hundred cats, you know?” She caught hold of her Kat’s chilly hand and squeezed it. “I just want you happy, and I don’t think you are right now.” Because I’m not.

Her sister looked away, confirmation that Jessie was closer to the truth than either of them liked. “I just want . . . ” Kat began, then shook her head. “Never mind. It’s okay.”

No, it’s not. What hurt more was that Jessie didn’t know how to make it right.

“I wish Dad was still alive and I want Mom to get better, be more like her old self.”

“And we both want Ian back,” Kat replied. “I miss him so much.”

Jessie found her eyes clouding at the mention of their brother. “I miss him too. If Ian’s alive, where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he called us?”

Kat shook her head. “Maybe someday we’ll know the truth.”

Not until they find his bones at the bottom of Irish Bayou.

While they walked back down the street, Jessie and Kat fell silent for a couple of blocks, each caught up in their own thoughts. As kids they’d always chattered back and forth, finishing each other’s sentences. They’d dressed alike, just to mess with other peoples’ heads. It was fun. Their triplet, Ian, had played along—the Third Musketeer, they’d called him.

It had all changed two months before when the car containing their mother, brother and their dog, had plunged into Irish Bayou during a heavy spring thunderstorm. Their mom had been badly injured and was now recuperating in a rehabilitation facility in Kenner. The doctors said her mind might never be the same.

Ian had disappeared, as in no trace of him. The divers had done their best to find him once the storm had passed, but he hadn’t been in the car when they’d winched it out of the water. With the heavy rains, the current could have easily pulled the body away from the crash site. As one of the cops had so callously observed, “There’s gators in there. I wouldn’t put too much stock in finding anythin’ left.”

“He’s alive,” Kat murmured, eyes wider now. “He feels closer now.”

Please God, don’t let her be wrong.

“You guys always kinda creeped me out,” Jessie admitted. “I don’t know how you could get into each other’s heads like that. I mean, if it was you and me, sure. That’s a twin thing. But Ian isn’t identical to either of us. How could you two have such a connection?”

Kat shrugged. “Always did. I’m not the only one who thinks he’s alive. Even Mom says he is.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “Our dear mother was talking to a grapefruit during breakfast the other day and acted like it talked back. You know what she’s like now.”

“I know,” Kat said quietly.

“But, ah . . . she’s better,” Jessie added. “I mean, she remembers us now. That’s good, right?”

A curt nod was the response.

They parted company at St. Peter Street and Kat headed toward the family bookshop and their home above the shop. It was difficult for Jessie to let her go on her own—that came from losing Ian—the fear that somehow her other sibling would be taken from her. She waited until Kat vanished from site, then she headed to Johnny White’s. A few minutes later a text arrived from her sister.

HOME. STOP WORRYING

“Not a chance.”

Jessie paused at the doorway to a bar, spending a few moments listening to a smoky jazz trio, then wandered on. She and Kat had just turned twenty, a birthday made bittersweet as their brother wasn’t around to share it. There’d been no cake, no celebration. No joy.

After the wreck, they’d dropped out of their second year in college. There was no other option, what with their mother so badly injured. Though they both had enrolled for the fall semester, Jessie knew she wouldn’t be attending.

Too soon. Not until we know about Ian.

Her sister had disagreed and there’d been some heated arguments about the issue. Arguments that would continue until Kat understood how things really were, and that it wasn’t going to be Jessie who went back to school. At least not for a while.

As she grew near to Johnny White’s, she spied a former high school classmate, now a student at Tulane University. Lisa Timmons was easy to spot: She was tall and her blond hair hung to her waist, supermodel straight, as if the gods had gifted it to her just to annoy the lesser mortals. It did annoy Jessie, whose hair always turned unruly in New Orleans’ unrelenting humidity. Then she’d learned Lisa spent a crap ton of money on some special treatment to make it look like that, and had to spend even more every six months to keep it that way.

Not happening.

Even from a distance, Lisa didn’t look happy, not with that cocked hip and the “You’re not listening to me” expression she adopted whenever she wasn’t getting her way. They might be friends, but they weren’t close because it was All Lisa, All the Time.

She was arguing with a guy, probably the latest boyfriend. All through high school Lisa had attracted boys like mushy apples did fruit flies, and cycled through them every few months or so. This one was as tall as her, about five eleven, with broad shoulders and dark hair that curled along the open collar of his blue shirt. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans that were shiny at the knees. A denim jacket hung off Lisa’s shoulders, covering her skimpy tank top.

As Jessie drew near, she heard her say, “Don’t be like this.”

The young man frowned. “I should have known you’d be just like the rest of them.”

“Listen to you! All rich and famous, but you don’t give a damn about anyone else.”

Rich and famous? Jessie slowed her pace, taking another long look at the guy. Smoky brown eyes set off his face, moving it from every day to unique. Still, he didn’t ding her “Ohmigod, that’s so-and-so” meter.

“I ask for one little thing and you get pissed at me. Is it because I wouldn’t sleep with you?” Lisa demanded.

Okay, that’s awkward. Jessie actually felt bad for this dude.

The guy’s face colored, his posture tensing. “That wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. No way am I doing what you want. Just drop it!”

Knowing now wasn’t the best time to say hi, Jessie paused long enough for someone to move out of the way on the sidewalk, then stepped around the couple. Lisa’s guy suddenly shifted to the right, and a second later Jessie was hit full on with a cupful of cola and ice, courtesy of her outraged buddy.

“Wow. Great aim. I’m impressed.” the guy said, smirking.

“Really? Was that necessary?” Jessie called out, dripping liquid in all directions.

Lisa stared at her. “Oh, Jessie, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I was aiming at this piece of . . . crap,” she said, glowering at the young man as if it’d been his fault. “We’re done, Sayer. Hit the road.”

“Works for me,” the guy replied. “Jacket?”

Lisa slung it at him. “Go to hell.”

“You first, babe,” he said. After he delivered a blistering glare at Jessie, he stalked off into the crowd.

Jerk. “What was all that about?” Jessie asked.

“Nothing . . . well, I need to know the truth about something and I thought Sayer would help me. Obviously not.”

So you drowned me because you didn’t get your way? Of course you did.

Lisa’s phone pinged and she scrolled through the message. “All right!” she crowed, smiling now. “I got what I needed, no thanks to that dick. Look, I gotta go. Call me, okay?” Then she scurried off into the crowd while Jessie drip dried in the New Orleans’ heat.

“Yeah, thanks, glad I could be part of your little psychodrama there.”

Jessie carefully wiped her face with a tissue, hoping her mascara hadn’t done a runner. The evening was shot. No way could she hang around looking like she’d bathed in cola as it was already becoming sticky.

As she turned to go home, someone brushed by her, moving quickly toward the business district, like they were following Lisa. Jessie found herself shivering uncontrollably for a few seconds, as if Death himself had just walked past her.

She’d felt that way two other times in her life, when her dad had died, and the night of the car wreck. Coupled with Kat’s premonitions, Jessie swore she felt the darkness increase, despite the bright lights and the drunken laughter.

Now I’m going crazy too.

Chapter Two

After the inadvertent baptism in soda—and having to explain to her sister exactly how that had happened—Jessie needed to escape. Despite Kat’s plea that she stay home, she took a quick shower, then hopped in the family car and headed out of the city. It was late, just after ten, but if she was lucky, she could make the trip and still be home before midnight. She was too old for a curfew, but she respected her aunt’s paranoia. As a New Orleans’ street cop who saw some really bad stuff go down late at night, Allie didn’t want her nieces to be part of that.

By the time Jessie reached Highway 90 northeast of the city, a brief rain squall had run its course, now just a misty drizzle. As she cut off onto Highway 11, the Toyota’s wipers dragged across the windshield, revealing the pavement in brief patches. She usually had the radio on, but she’d purposely left it silent to concentrate because of the rain. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly they ached. They always did when she drove here. The pain kept her focused, kept her mind from playing games.

Nearly every night for the last two months she’d made the trip along this two-lane road, slowly driving past where the accident had occurred. If the traffic was light, she’d pause and leave flowers behind. Coming here during the day didn’t feel right, and Kat didn’t want to join her, so she’d made the pilgrimages into the dark Louisiana countryside on her own. Jessie never really understood the need she felt to visit this place. It was dangerous out here. What if something happened? What if she landed in the water and drowned like Ian?

My. Brother. Is. Not. Dead.

That had been her mantra ever since the call from the parish police, telling them of the accident. It was why she drove along the same stretch of water, praying for a miracle.

Kat insisted this was an irrational obsession. Her sister didn’t understand. Once Jessie stopped making this journey, Ian really would be gone. This was her way of keeping him, and her hope, alive, feeding the dream that had her brother materialize out of the darkness like nothing had ever happened.

But deep down, Jessie feared that dream was being suffocated with each passing day. Soon it would no longer have the oxygen needed to survive, probably like Ian when the car had sunk deep into the brackish water.

I’m so messed up.

As she drove closer to the accident site, Jessie murmured a prayer. If only God would hear her, just once. Movement on the road ahead caught her notice, probably a raccoon or an alligator. She sucked in a sharp breath when a dark figure appeared in the glare of the headlights. Moving too fast, she had to swerve to miss him. The car instantly rebelled, going into a long skid on the wet pavement.

“No!”

Time slowed as the vehicle edged toward the rain-swollen marsh, toward where her brother’s bones might rest. Finally the car lurched to a stop at an angle across the two lanes. Heart pounding and her breath coming in short pants, Jessie laid her head on top of her hands clenched around the steering wheel. Her stomach rolled over, threatening to eject its contents. Swallowing heavily, she slowly raised her head to find she sat in the middle of the two-lane road, the perfect place to get flattened if another driver wasn’t paying attention.

Unwilling to turn around in the dark, not with water on either side, she eased the car to the shoulder on the proper side of the road, and put it in Park with a shaking hand. Flicking on the emergency flashers, only then did her eyes go in search of the person she’d nearly hit.

As if she’d conjured him out of her dreams, a form moved out of the darkness and into the headlights.

“Ian?” she whispered. The figure was about her brother’s height, tall and leggy, and clothed in a dark denim jacket, no doubt to thwart the mosquitoes. He staggered, as if disoriented.

“Oh, God.” Jessie flew out of the car, bashing her elbow on the door. “Ian?” she cried.

As she ran forward, he looked up and she saw his face clearly in the lights. Hope flipped to fury as she skidded to a halt on the wet pavement. It wasn’t her brother. No, it was Lisa’s boyfriend, the guy from Bourbon Street.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she shouted, her blood boiling. She marched toward him. “You stupid moron! What are you doing out here?”

He blinked at her, confused. “Getting drunk. What does it look like?” he replied, holding up a six-pack of beer with his other hand, three of which were already gone. Then he blinked again, this time recognizing her. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to run over your stupid ass, what do you think?”

Jessie took a long breath to hold back the tears. For the barest of moments she’d thought her prayers had come true.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

The sound of chorusing frogs grew louder around them. The marsh had a strong, sulfur stench and the mosquitoes buzzed her face unmercifully, eager for fresh blood. A low rumbling noise indicated there was a gator nearby.

Jessie put her hands on her hips. “I could have killed you.”

The young man shrugged. “Whatever.” He stumbled toward her. When he grew closer, he veered toward the other side of the car, as if being close to another human was painful.

“You’re wasted,” she said.

“No, but I’m getting there.”

He set his cans of cheap beer on the hood, then heaved the empty into the water. With much effort, he freed a full can from the plastic holder.

“Does Lisa know you’re out here?” Jessie asked.

He popped the top on the brew. “Why the hell would she care? She’s just another skank. I’m better off rotting in this bayou than—”

“Don’t say that!” Jessie shouted, slamming a fist down on the car hood. “Don’t ever say that.”

He blinked at her. “Hey, chill.”

Jessie wrapped her arms around her body, trying to extinguish the images roiling in her mind now.

“Someone would miss you,” she said, her voice quaking. “Someone would wonder how you got hurt . . . how you . . . died.”

“No, you’re wrong. No one would miss me,” he said, shaking his head.

“I would,” she said defiantly.

He looked at her, frowning. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t care.”

He looked down the highway, squinting. “There’s another car coming. You need to get moving or you’re going to be the one who’s dead.”

He wasn’t lying: There were headlights in the distance. “You want a ride back to town?”

“No. Just want to be left alone.” He took a few steps, then halted. “I’m Sayer . . . Arceneaux. The last name is spelled with an ‘x’”. He stifled a burp. “A-r-c-e-n,” he paused, “e-a-u-x. Make sure they get it right in the obituary, okay?”

“The what?” she blurted.

Then the guy whose last name ended in an “x” headed for the other side of the road, swigging his beer as he walked. Jessie returned to her car and waited as the other vehicle passed by. To her relief, the drunken fool didn’t jump in front of it.

“I don’t care if you are an idiot,” she muttered to herself. “No way I’m leaving you out here on your own.”

It took her a while to find a place to make a U-turn, then she headed back toward Lisa’s ex, passing two cars along the way. Neither had bothered to stop for him. When Jessie caught up with him, she slowed the car to a crawl, realizing he had something in his hands.

What are you doing?

Sayer straightened up now, holding a big turtle. He walked it to the water’s edge, away from the road, then set it down. It snapped at him as he pushed it into the bayou with a foot. As if realizing he was being watched, he turned and stared at her now, the remaining beers still hanging from one hand. Jessie clicked on the flashers again, and rolled down the passenger side window.

“The offer of a ride is still open,” she called out. “Even if you are a royal jerkface.”

As he wiped his hands on his jeans, Sayer scowled. “Go away,” he said. “I just want to be left the hell alone.”

“You could die out here.”

“Works for me.”

That does it. Jessie slammed on the brakes, put the car in Park and launched out the door. Pointing at him over the roof, she shouted, “No way! You get in this car or I’ll call the cops on you. They’d just love busting your ass.”

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Yeah, I would. This pity party of yours has gone on long enough. Get in the damned car.”

He gaped at her. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The name’s Jessie. Looks like I’m your guardian angel tonight.” He didn’t move. “Get. In. The. Car. Now!”

When he still didn’t move, she grabbed her cell phone from off the seat and began punching in numbers, like she was calling the police. Because she would.

“All right, dammit.” A round of creative swearing erupted, then Sayer swung open the passenger door.

“Lose the beer,” she ordered, ending the fake call. “I do not want to spend the night in jail. My aunt, the cop, would skin me alive.”

More swearing, but the cans went flying into the water. Sayer slid into the Toyota and slammed the door with great force. Jessie got into the car, shaking so hard it was difficult to click the seat belt. She pointedly waited until her passenger had done the same. He smelled of marsh, cheap beer and aftershave, a strange combination.

“Thank you,” she said, just to piss him off.

Sayer glowered at her. “You’re as crazy as I am. I could be some pervert and you just let me in your car. You can’t go around doing stupid stuff like this. It’s not safe.”

The car picked up speed. “Oh, stupid stuff like drunk-walking on a dark road in the rain?”

“What you’re doing is dangerous,” he insisted.

Jessie eyed him for a second before turning her attention back to the road. “You’re right. I won’t do it again.”

He huffed. “Good.”

“Here’s where you’re supposed to say you won’t either.”

“I don’t give promises I don’t intend to keep.”

God, you’re stubborn. “If this is about Lisa, you just need to get over her. She goes through boyfriends like crazy.”

“It’s not just about her. It’s . . . more complicated than that. And not your problem.”

“It would have been if I’d hit you. I’d see your face in my nightmares for the rest of my life.”

Sayer looked over at her, surprised. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Clearly. Why was Lisa so mad at you?”

Sayer’s body sagged as if he was exhausted. “She wanted me to get some information for her. She thought since I was Harmond Arceneaux’s kid, it’d be easy. I told her no.”

Arceneaux. This time the name clicked. “Your dad the guy that owns the fertility clinic or the attorney who was up on bribery charges last year?”

“Attorney. Those charges were dropped,” he said tersely.

“Okay. How’d you get way out here?”

“I hitchhiked. Bought the beer at a bait shop.”

“Fake ID?”

“Duh.”

Jessie caught sight of a nutria ambling its way across the road in front of them. “Giant freakin’ rats. I hate those things,” she said. Then she remembered what Sayer had been doing right before she’d picked him up. “You moved that turtle off the road so it wouldn’t get squashed.”

“Yeah. So?”

What’s with this guy? Jessie growled under her breath. “Fine.” You save turtles, I save jerks.

Her passenger stared out the window, his jaw clenched while Jessie concentrated on her driving. He’d been right—picking him up had been totally insane. But at least he was safe for tonight.

This guy wasn’t her problem. Or at least Jessie was trying to convince herself of that. Something about Sayer got to her, and it wasn’t because she’d found him near where Ian had disappeared. His odd behavior told her there was more going on with him than a fight with his girlfriend.

Though it was getting late, Jessie wasn’t going to drop him off on some street corner, fearing he might just hitch another ride back to the bayou. After much prodding, Sayer finally gave her directions to his house and, no surprise, it was in the Garden District, the old money part of New Orleans. As she pulled up to the curb in front of a tall, bay-front Italianate home, she guessed that the house dated from before the Civil War, maybe the early 1860s. It sat in the middle of the block like a queen, and all the other houses were mere attendants.

“Nice place. Apparently those bribes are paying off,” she said.

Sayer glared at her. He climbed out of the car and was about to slam the door when she called out, “A thanks for the ride would be nice.”

He eyed her, his brows furrowed in thought. “Yeah. Thanks. For nothing.”

“Stay alive, Sayer Arceneaux with an ‘x’. Trust me, somebody loves you, even if you are a totally selfish butthead.”

“Go away,” he said, then slammed the door.

“Consider me gone.”

(c) 2016 Jana Oliver

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However, while doing some research about Ms. Clare turned up an interesting article about “fantitlement”, the curious process where authors hit “critical mass” when it comes to readers, who then get very vocal about nearly everything related to the author’s books. I refer to this as the “Twitter Syndrome”. Early on, Twitter had a small, friendly community, sort of like your neighborhood bar. Then suddenly it became very popular and the “rules” of engagement changed. People became abusive, threatening.

I’ve seen this happen to a couple of author friends of mine — everybody was cool and civil in the beginning and then they reached a certain level of popularity and the gloves were off. In Ms. Clare’s case, she came with previous fanfiction baggage, which certainly didn’t help.