Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (34 page)

A part of Jonathan wanted to run over, haul the man from his seat, and wail on him. It was a distant echo of any real rage.

Even from where he stood, Jonathan could see the man’s guilt, his horrified disbelief that it had happened. He babbled about the ice, even as he continued to try to get out.

The police had taken his statement. The paramedics, his blood pressure. Neither got more than the basics. There was nothing more to Wendell’s story now.

Jonathan had walked away, leaving the flashing lights, the squawk of radios, and the jumble of voices.

He had ridden the elevator to his own floor. Pulling both doors closed behind him, he sat at his desk.

He filled his glass and emptied it. He filled it and picking it up again, he slung it across the room.

He looked at the shards of glass that now lay over the protection circle.

He saw the symbols, drawn so carefully, melting under the bourbon.

Jonathan lit a cigarette, pulled the bottle of bourbon towards him, and turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into shadow.

Sheila van den Heuvel – for her time, wisdom, and patience, which she always gives freely. Without her guidance, this novel couldn’t have happened.

Heather Cox and Tracy Haidle – my beta readers, and first fans, for their insight and support.

Thanks as well to: my family, on both sides of the marriage, for aiding and abetting me in this endeavor. Ray Bondy, for technical logistics. My editor, McKenna Gardner, for making me do those rewrites. And to all my friends who supported and encouraged me.

R. M. Ridley
 lives with his wife on a small homestead in Canada, raising chickens and sheep. He has been writing stories, both long and short, for three decades, the themes of which range from the gruesome to the fantastical. As an individual who suffers from severe Bi-polar disorder, R. M. Ridley is a strong believer in being open about mental health issues and uses his writing to escape, when his thoughts become too wild.

www.facebook.com/rmridley

www.twitter.com/RavenMRidley

creativityfromchaos.wordpress.com

At The X, we pride ourselves in discovery and promotion of talented authors. Our anthology project produces three books a year in our specific areas of focus: fantasy, Steampunk, and paranormal. Held winter, spring/summer, and autumn, our short-story competitions result in published anthologies from which the authors receive royalties.

Additional themes include:
Mr. and Mrs. Myth
(Paranormal, fall 2014),
Out of This World
(Fantasy, winter 2015), and
Losers Weepers
(spring/summer 2015).

Visit
www.xchylerpublishing.com/AnthologySubmissions
for more information.

Relative Evil
, a romantic thriller by Debra Erfert. July 2014

Black Sunrise,
sequel to
Shadow of the Last Men
and second book in the Next Man Saga by J. M. Salyards. August 2014

Accidental Apprentice
, a wizardry fantasy by Anika Arrington. September 2014

On the Isle of Sound and Wonder
, a Shakespearean steampunk rewrite by Alyson Grauer. October 2014

To learn more, visit
www.xchylerpublishing.com
.

Now for a sneak peek of

Debra Erfert’s Relative Evil

coming in July 2104 to Xchyler Publishing.

One

Late February

Phoenix, Arizona

It stood motionless, less than ten feet away from Ryan. The sallow, blotchy skin barely hung on its bones. The not-quite-human’s lips were gone, eaten away by the fleas that had given it the virus. Now, only broken teeth, dripping with blood, glistened in the hot sunlight, and forced an aberrant smile onto its face, like a gruesome Halloween Jack-o-lantern. The tiny bugs still feasted on what was left of its healthy membrane.

It stared at him through clouded blue eyes, the whites jaundiced with disease. Ryan wanted to run away from it. He knew he had time, but watching it kept him riveted to where he thought was his hiding place behind a forgotten industrial garbage bin. He shivered as gooseflesh coursed over his sweaty skin.

This one appeared cognitive, unlike some of the other altered creatures. When it lifted its boney left hand, something shiny caught the sun, refracting the light into minuscule rainbows onto the broken window by its fetid arm. A diamond. Her wedding ring—
their
wedding ring.   

“No, no,
no
! This is so stupid,” I said out loud, and I began tapping the delete key with more force than necessary to get rid of the last disgusting paragraphs I’d written. I glanced at Paddles, my three-year-old polydactyl cat, who trilled at the noise my excessive pounding produced. We’d been together since I graduated college.

“Why can’t I just be happy writing romance? Or living my own romance,” I asked him. “Maybe then I would stop trying to write in a genre I know nothing about.”

He didn’t answer me in words, of course. But I interpreted his pointy ears rotating backwards and half-closed his eyes as his way of saying, “
You should be happy, Claire, my pet
.”

Switching hands, I continued hitting the delete button, maybe not with as much enthusiasm. “My publisher liked my first two books, but this . . . she probably won’t take a second look at this drivel.” I looked back at Paddles. “Would she?” I sighed. “What was I thinking? Moonwriting Publishing doesn’t even accept horror.”

My cell phone rang, and it gave me a temporary excuse to stop beating up the keyboard. My fingers were starting to hurt, anyway. When I saw Dad’s picture on the screen, I glanced at my watch. Two in the afternoon was a strange time for him to call. Being a CPA, he should be totally submerged in someone’s taxes. I opened my phone, connecting our call. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

“Hey, baby girl. You busy tonight?”

I stared at the cluttered breakfast bar, and then took in the rest of the messy kitchen, including the dinner dishes stacked on the counter from last night. After one last tap of the delete key, I shook my head at Paddles, and said, “No, I’m free. Did you want me to come over and whip up my special clam chowder?” I closed the computer’s lid, putting it to sleep. “I could stop by the store on my way and pick up fresh rolls.”

“No, I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight—you and your brothers. Let’s say—Postino Central at seven?”

I could’ve been wrong, but he sounded excited. So very little excited him since Mom died ten months ago. But I’d need to see his face before I knew for sure. “I’ll be there.”

After I hung up, I lost track of time and arrived late. I expected to see Dad, of course, but what I didn’t anticipate was my oldest brother Neil bringing a date with him. The new woman was a pretty blond, and looked to be close to Neil’s age—twenty-nine, maybe. She squinted up at me as I came around the table like she had a dirty, dark secret. A sudden shiver coursed its way through my body. Jarrod, my younger brother by two years, stood up, reaching for me. The tremor quickly passed before he touched me, though.

“Are you okay, Clarrie?” he whispered, as I sat down in the chair next to him.

I nodded, feeling embarrassed. Everyone stared, like they were waiting for another seizure-like episode. Even my older brother, Grant, watched with the ever-present scowl on his face. Emma, his sweet wife, sitting between him and Jarrod, was busy lifting a glass of water to me. Drinking got rid of the dry mouth that developed after the odd look Neil’s new girlfriend had given me. That was when I noticed that she was holding my dad’s hand, and not Neil’s.

The next swallow of water didn’t exactly go down the right way, and I choked. My coughing elicited a smirk from the blond. Dad didn’t notice the strange look she’d given me. It seemed nobody else had either. I continued to cough as Jarrod patted my back, until my gasping became only rasping.

“Claire?” I looked up at my dad through watery vision, but I managed to tack on a smile, although I didn’t dare try to speak. “You haven’t met Addie yet.” He gazed at his new friend with startling hungry eyes. “This is Adelaide Walker Harris.”