Saturday, June 30, 2012


I glanced from the thing that looked too much like me to the bar, now tacky with blood and alcohol.

“No worries,” it said, “The drunks are bewitched.”

My jaw clenched. “I don’t make deals with monsters.”

It chuckled. “Not even yourself? Or the angry man beside you?”

“He’s not like me.”

“No one is, so they all want to kill you. Even him.”

Nate started to protest.

I held up my hand. “Him, I’d allow.”

“Let him go. He can marry, breed, retire with a fat pension.”

“Bite me,” Nate snarled.

“First, I’ll have a word with my son.”


Thursday, June 28, 2012


She was pregnant when she left me, no note, no trail. Josette had been good at covering things up, but she’d slipped at the end. That’s how I knew she was carrying my child. I didn’t think she had it in her to run. My mistake.

I expected a daughter. Witches always have girls. There’s a bunch of lore about why, including prophecies warning of the First of Many – the male witch whose son would have a son who would have a son who breaks the world. Never had a male witch been born nor likely would be.

My own mother had tried to pass me off as the First, but that wasn’t why I was special. Wasn’t the spells she fed me, either. It was the father who didn’t belong in this world who gave me my power, such as it is.

I use illusion to fool folks into seeing what they fear most. Demons are a big favorite – proof that most have never experienced the terror of meeting an angel. The cast-out are easier to face than God’s precious warriors, but not much.  

The young man facing me wanted to see a demon, a monster, a foe. At first, I let him. Then he tried to banish me using his mother’s words. I barely kept from laughing at this terribly serious boy.

My boy.

My son.

The First.

I let him see the real me, so like him.

“No,” he prayed, but God doesn't hear aberrations like us.

Written for Thursday Threads, found here. Romance, erotica, dark fiction, good people. Check it out.
Note: this is from the POV of Seth's father.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012


“Put on the glasses,” Kendra pleaded.

I knew what would happen, had heard others speak with wonder of the world made new. They could see it all, each blade of grass distinguished from the next, the flowers ablaze with color.

“I can’t.” It was a prayer for understanding she could not grant.

“Why don’t you want beauty?”

My calloused hand stroked her once-soft skin. “I see it every day, love, even now.”

“I won’t suffer anymore.” She donned her specs and left me behind.

Resigned, I surveyed the barren landscape and wondered why I’d been chosen to keep the Truth.

My entry for Tuesday Tales, hosted here

Friday, June 22, 2012

Tripping the Snare

Another bar fight. Naturally.

“You aren’t immortal,” I growled at Nate.

He ducked a punch, landed another. “Nothing is. Not really.”

The girl Nate kissed whipped a bottle at his head. It winged me, instead. I hardly felt it.

Bright light permeated the grimy, faceted window, sending dirt-tinged rainbows to dance with dust motes. I considered leaving Nate behind as recompense for poor choices. Then I saw the demon in the corner, feeding the rage.

I murmured a spell to banish the fucker.

Nate’s head snapped up. “Seth, don’t!”

Too late.

The thing that was not a demon smiled. “Gotcha.”


Thursday, June 21, 2012


“Five dollars!” Dan’l whistled. “What you gonna do with it, Kitsy?”

“Bet on Joe-bee’s mare.”

“That nag can’t win.”

“Can too, and I’m gonna build my fortune off this race!”

Twenty-five years later, Kitsy sat in her luxury box, remembering. One foray through the stables, unsupervised, had ensured her lifelong taste for winning. The black locust powder had cost a dollar and a handshake with a man whose accent made him hard to understand.

Most of the horses had lived. She had no regrets.

Twenty-five hours later, Kitsy Malone was found dead, a horseshoe-shaped hole where her heart should’ve been.


Candy hated the outfit, pumpkins, small town idiots who mocked her gifts.

“We need a Miss October, and Halloween is your holiday, right?” Like Samhain was a joke.

Gran always said ‘Go along to get along.’ For years, Candy obeyed. Tonight, she’d give them real magic, starting with the blood-thirsty pixie by her side.

 Written in response to the 55 Word Challenge here.

For those following the story of Nate and Seth, Candy plays a part.

Friday, June 15, 2012


The bathroom doors were labeled Stallion and Mare.  Of course. I locked the stall door, ignored the state of the toilet, and counted the cash Nate had won. If we were lucky, we’d leave the hick bar before anyone attacked Nate.

I try not to brawl, partly because I’m so big, but mostly because I like it too much. Even as a kid, I was never left unsupervised on the playground. Then again, I was never really a kid, but the doctors liked to pretend. Helped them sleep better.

They all sleep fine, now. It was my parting gift.


Friday, June 08, 2012

At the Edge

Lake water churned, washing away my blood as the crane lifted Nate’s car. He hadn’t said anything about the spell I’d used to keep my insides inside, but I knew his mind was traveling the labyrinthine path that ended in the center with the monster. 

Nate invests heavily in denial when it comes to my magic. Witches are just above demons in his estimation, the slightly less evil twin, but still worth killing. Except for me – so far.

“Seth,” Nate’s mild tone was a warning. “You make this right.”

I didn’t know if he meant the car or my magic.


Tuesday, June 05, 2012

Parlor Tricks

I swore I would never get inked again, was still swearing when Jax put needle to flesh.

“Quitcher bitchin’.” Crumbs fell from Nate’s mouth. “You left your talisman in the trunk, which is now at the bottom of the lake with the rest of my friggin’ car.”

“Not my fault,” I grunted.

He swallowed everything but his outrage. “You were driving!”

“And having my guts rearranged by hellspawn,” I spat. “It was averse to water, so I went off the bridge.”

The protective tattoo sank beyond skin, settled deep, thrumming.

I didn’t tell Nate how it burned my compromised soul.