Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Mutable: Prologue and Chapter One

Notes: A new sci fi story, yay! This isn't Bonded universe, guys, but I hope you'll find it intriguing regardless. I'm excited to be starting it!

Title: Mutable: Prologue and Chapter One


Mutable: Prologue

Four hundred years ago, seven generation ships set out from known space to colonize the distant Tiresias System, one great sun around which orbited seven habitable planets. A charter was made between them before setting out, that each people would restrict themselves to their designated planet and refrain from imposing themselves on each other.

After a hundred and fifty years of travel with their inhabitants in cryosleep, the ships reached their destinations. Six planets were colonized successfully, but the seventh, dubbed Delacoeur by the distant stargazers who had first discovered it, turned out to be a barren ball of ice, without the liquid water and lofty, warmer plateaus they had been promised. A third of their people died during the crash landing, and another third died over the next twenty years of subsistence living that it took to repair enough of the ship to make a run for another planet.

Eventually the survivors left Delacoeur for their nearest neighbor, Leelinge. They arrived hoping for compassion, and a new place to call home. They were met with xenophobia and violence, and after a terrible battle they took shelter in the caverns underground that the original colonists had shunned. The caverns held creatures that almost killed the survivors off for good before some of them learned how to control them, and fought back.

This began a period of guerilla warfare that lasted almost a hundred years. By then, other planets had reached out, connecting the Tiresias System for trade and travel. The most powerful of these planets was Imperia, where the people let themselves be ruled by a king and his elected aristocracy. Imperians were the first to initiate interplanetary trade, but they refused to deal with Leelinge until they had settled their civil war.

It took another eighty years, but eventually the Delacoeurians, whose original settlers were long dead, were subdued in a final, brutal battle. The Leelingers would have killed them all outright if the Imperians hadn’t refused to deal with them if they did. Instead, every survivor was given a new assignment on another planet, mostly as agricultural workers, or to do the dangerous tasks that bots couldn’t handle. As long as you were healthy, you would have another chance at life.

If your blood work showed any signs of sickness or genetic oddity, however, you would be denied transit off planet. If that happened, well…

The Leelingers knew the truth about what those signs were. They couldn’t tell the Imperians, not if they wanted to preserve their bargaining power, but they would be watching for everyone who was turned away.

Those people were the Delacoeur assassins, bonded to dark creatures.

Those people would be marked for death.


You could tell an Imperian by the way they dressed. They wore layers upon layers, some thin and some thick, some long-sleeved and some short, all matching, all pressed, all bearing the royal red representing the Imperian king in some way. They carried swords that looked like they were never used, and held stunners on their hips that seemed far more comforting to them. They wore their hair long, and they pierced their ears with shining red gems.

You could tell an Imperian by the way they walked. There was a natural confidence to their stride, the motion of a person who never needed to be covert, because there was nothing to fear for them in the darkness or the light. They held their shoulders square, looked each other in the eye when they spoke, and used their voices like they were foghorns.

You could tell an Imperian by the way they spoke. Calm. Collected. Forceful when need be, but rarely unkind. Thoughtful. Compassionate.


You could tell an Imperian by their ignorance, because they would look you in the eye and sign your death warrant with a smile.

“Denied?” Cas stared at the glowing red X that had been embedded in the top of his visa paperwork. “You’re denying my exit?”

“Your blood work came back questionable,” the Imperian officer on the other side of the desk said apologetically. “There were traces of a foreign substance that our medics couldn’t identify. We can’t risk the spread of any sort of disease to your new colony.” She pushed the papers closer with a commiserating smile. “You can apply to retake the test in six months.”

“I won’t last six months here,” Cas said slowly, testing to see if she really was as ignorant as she looked. “I won’t last another day if you make me leave this camp.”

She shook her head. “We have assurances from the local government that all Delacoeurians who fail to garner an exit visa will be treated humanely.”

Yes, humanely shot in the back. “Can I retake the blood test now? It’s possible that something else contaminated it, isn’t it? Maybe the needle wasn’t clean.” Maybe I shouldn’t have let them take blood from me when I was trying to heal a fucking knife wound fast enough that they wouldn’t notice it.

“The six-month waiting period is mandatory, I’m afraid. No exceptions.”

“Then can I at least stay in this camp until then?” Cas was getting desperate.

“Our camp is disbanding in another three days.” She sounded like she was starting to get irritated with him. “Every Delacoeurian who stays here will be monitored for health and wellness. You’ll be fine.”

No, he wouldn’t. He would be murdered in a heartbeat, and it would be blamed on something else. A fire, an earthquake, a tragic accident. And these Imperian assholes would just tut-tut from up in the sky and let the Leelingers get away with it.

Cas wasn’t afraid to die, but he wasn’t ready to either. He had too much to do. Too many people to find.

Too many people to avenge.

“Please, there must be another way.”

“I’ve given you your options. Now, if you’d leave the tent, I have other matters to attend to.”

“Listen to me, just listen, let me—”

“Guardsmen!” Two of the red-coated, guards from outside the tent came inside at her call. “Escort this young man out of camp, if you please, and see to it that he connects with the Leelinger authorities on the other side. They’ll take care of him.”

“No!” Cas would have begged further, but she was already moving away from the desk. The guards took ahold of him, each pressing a heavy hand on one of his shoulders, and turned him about-face.

“Don’t do this,” he said to them as they marched him outside into the rainy gloom of a typical Leelinger day. “Please, don’t give me to them, they’ll kill me.” He had to make someone see reason, and fast, or he was going to have to incapacitate these fools and find a way to sneak on board one of the Imperian vessels. That would present a lot of challenges, and worse, a lot of distractions. Cas was on a mission, damn it. “I’m telling you, they’ll kill me. Please!”

He let himself sag between them, making it as hard as possible for them to haul him out of the way of a passing group of officers. “Let me take the blood test again,” he begged as they got closer to the electrified gate surrounding the camp. “I’ll pass, I know I will, it only takes a moment, doesn’t it? I swear to you, if you put me outside that gate no one will ever see me again!” Because I’ll have to kill everyone who gets in my way.


It wasn’t one of the guards who spoke, which Cas had been expecting at this point, if only to tell him to shut up. Instead, one of the men in the group of officers had turned toward them.

“Oh, for king and common’s sake, Rone,” another officer said with a sigh. “We’re almost off this hellhole. Don’t get distracted now.”

“What are your orders concerning this man?” the first officer—Rone—addressed the guards. The one on the left answered.

“He failed the blood test, Captain. He’s to remain with the Leelingers for another six months.”

“That’s almost a third of a year. A long time, by the standards here.” The officer looked Cas in the eye. They were almost the same height, but his shoulders seemed twice as broad as Cas'. Maybe that was just the epaulets, though. His uniform was more decorated than anyone else Cas had seen so far. “You’re confident that you could pass the blood test?”

“Yes.” Cas had done far harder things under far easier circumstances.

“And you have a good reason for thinking that you won’t last another six months here?” His tone was light but his face gave nothing away

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm.” Violet-blue eyes considered him thoughtfully. “Interesting. Let’s see if there’s any merit to your argument, then. Gentlemen, escort this man to my tent.”

“Lieutenant Commander Jepson said we were to see him out, sir,” one of the guards said.

“Lieutenant Commander Jepson will be informed of the possible change in outcomes when I’m done speaking with Mister…” He frowned. “What’s your name, then?”

“Beren,” Cas said without missing a beat. “My name is Beren Farling.”


Monday, January 22, 2018

Preview for Next Week

Hey there!

So, life is pretty crazy at the moment. Rather than half-ass the first chapter of a brand new story, I'm going to give it another week so I can do it right. But I've got a few pictures down below to help set the moos for next week! Fair warning, this story is going to be trope-y as hell, but I think I can do it justice. 😉

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

The Tower: Epilogue

Notes: Oh my word, it's the epilogue. The end! At least of this chapter of Anton and Camille's epic journey. There are more adventures to come and crimes to solve, but for now, we're done.

I hope you enjoyed the ride. Next week we'll start something new. Thanks for reading, darlins!

Title: The Tower: Epilogue


The Tower: Epilogue

There was an unspoken but powerful code of behavior that went along with being a lumière. The conduct of the emperor’s investigators had to be beyond reproach, both personally and professionally. Slipups led to mistakes, and mistakes led to people thinking they could get the better of you through intimidation, blackmail, or subterfuge. Such a thing was inexcusable.

Lumières were chosen in part because they had something about them, usually some loss, that made the work a prime candidate for their fulfillment. Numerous lumières were the sole surviving members of their close families, while others had families that were taken care of because of the admittedly hazardous job. A small percentage of them were special people, like Camille—people with a trait that set them outside the normal human experience.

Camille was the only lumière he knew of, though, that could claim his particularly interesting lineage.

It hurt to leave Anton alone in his bed, but Camille didn’t plan to be gone long, and the young man needed his rest. He had been through hell and back in the past few days.

And whose fault is that, he asked himself as he headed out into the cold, blustery darkness. He drew his collars up more tightly, then headed for the area of town that sold what he needed, even at this hour.

Camille wasn’t a fool, or prone to self-delusion. He knew exactly how much of what had happened to Anton as a result of this investigation was his fault. He should never have brought an outsider in, should have resisted Anton’s desperate deal back on the train four months ago and forced a stop, given him up to the gendarmes. It was cruel, but if he had been cruel then, most likely Anton wouldn’t have nearly died tonight.

You would miss him.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t even realize what you missed, and life would have gone on grey and alone and safe. Safe for him, at least.

Ah, well. The past couldn’t be undone. Anton was in this up to his neck now, and Camille wasn’t the only one who knew it anymore. Dr. Grable would help look after him here—the professor had done his time in the imperial army, and Camille knew there was more to his distinguished service record than met the eye. After his recent shaming, he would work harder to ensure the safety of his students. He would protect Anton when Camille couldn’t.

You’re setting yourself up to be his keeper, when you know full well what he wants is a partner.

Camille pulled his coat tighter and picked up the pace.

He ended up in a small, smoky gaming house not far from the river, a combination gambling den and tavern. Camille went to the bar and ordered a drink, then turned around and watched the games. He looked for patterns, for who won when, for how they did it, and for their demeanor in general. After a few minutes, he saw what he was looking for.

There. Four out of five of that particular man’s wins, his throws of the dice were accompanied by a peculiar twist of his wrist. When he lost, there was nothing. Minor magic powered by a simple action, just what Camille needed. When the bartender came back his way, Camille had a drink sent to the man in question. It should be enough to get his attention. If it wasn’t, well…no one liked to be taken by a cheater. Camille could make this gambler’s life very uncomfortable.

The beer was delivered, a question asked and answered, and a moment later the gambler looked Camille’s way with one eyebrow raised. Camille smiled and wiggled his hand slightly. The gambler frowned, but he excused himself from the game and joined Camille at the bar a moment later.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded in a low voice, leaning in close. He smelled strongly of alcohol, but it seemed to come mostly from his clothes, Camille noted. A true professional, then.

“I simply have need of a little special assistance,” Camille replied. “It won’t take more than a moment of your time, and I will pay for it.”

The man eyed him suspiciously. “Assistance with what?”

“A very simple bit of spellwork.”

The man began to shake his head. “Ah no, I don’t do that sort of thing. I’m not trained for it, and what you don’t know can kill you in this game.”

“Trust me, the spell in place is impeccably safe. All it needs is a bit of energy.”

The man eyed him. “You know of such things, and yet you cannot charge it yourself?”

“A man can understand the mechanics of flight without being a bird. Come now.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a twenty-franc gold Napoléon. “This will be yours for the work of a moment.”

The gambler’s eyes widened. “That’s more than I’ve made all night.” He looked up at Camille again. “A moment’s work, you say?”


“Fine.” The gambler tilted his head back and downed the beer in one long go, then set the tankard back on the bar with a sigh. “But not in here. I have a reputation to think about.”

“Of course,” Camille said dryly. “Come with me.”

They ended up in an alley that let out next to the river, filthy and abandoned at this time of night. The gambler chafed his arms with an irritated grumble. “Whatever the object is, better give it to me fast before my hands entirely lose their ability to feel.”

Camille reached around his neck and pulled out a chain. On the end of the chain was a dull, lead-covered locket. He handed it over to the gambler. “Open that, feel for the edge of the spell inside, charge it, and then lay the locket on the ground.”

The man looked at it curiously. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What is this thing?”

“None of your concern, except with regards to making it function.”

The gambler held up a hand. “Aye, aye, I see the way of it. Fine. One moment.” He opened the locket, looked inside, and frowned. “Hmm. Clever.” He closed his eyes, cupped the open locket in both hands, and shook it for a moment. A glow began to emanate from between his fingers. “Aha! There you are.” He went to hand it back, but Camille forestalled him.

“On the ground, please.”

“Right.” He set it down, straightened up and held out a hand. Camille pressed the Napoléon into it.

“My thanks. Go back and warm yourself. Have another drink on me.”

The gambler grinned. “With this I could have a hundred drinks on you! Good luck in whatever the hell it is you’re doing.” He turned and sauntered away, leaving Camille alone with the glowing locket. He knelt down on the cobblestones beside it and stared into the glow. Soon, he would receive an answer. It never took more than ten minutes.

This time it took five, and the face that appeared inside the locket was yawning, clearly woken up by Camille’s call. “Rather late for a check-in, isn’t it?”

“Forgive my intrusion, sir, but time is of the essence. Things have become complicated in Zurich.”

This wasn’t the sort of call Camille made lightly, and the tired eyes staring at him sharpened with curiosity. “Go on.”

He quickly recounted the tale since his arrival: the winding resolution of the murders, the connections that went deeper than expected, Montgomery’s use of dark magic and subsequent flight with the palimpsest. Things being what they were, the man he was speaking with pressed where Camille had hoped he wouldn’t. “And the young thaumaturge? What is his status?”

“Taken aback.”


He sighed. “Forgive me. He’s…recovering. Feeling responsible.”

“And so he should be.”

“It was I who—”

“I’m not absolving you of responsibility either. I’m simply pointing out the facts. Do you think he can still be of use?”

“He has extensive notes on the palimpsest and will continue working on them.”

“That isn’t what I’m referring to, and you know it.”

“I would rather not involve him and more deeply than is necessary.” Camille had to force the words out past his lips. He always hated confiding things he regarded as precious, as his. “He has a future here. Let him live it.”

“At this rate, he will be involved one way or the other. If not through you, then through Grable. Are you abdicating all responsibility for him, then?”

Camille had considered it, cutting off all contact with Anton and leaving him hurt but whole. Anton would recover in time. The dark, shameful secret of it was that Camille wasn’t at all certain that he would recover. He had never had someone like Anton in his life before, a life of duty and sacrifice, and the thought of losing him was breathtakingly painful. “No.”

The man nodded. “Very well. But be sure, Camille. This is likely your last chance to set him loose. I have too much need of skills such as his otherwise.”

“I understand.” I am selfish, so selfish. I would be damned if I had a soul.

“Fine. For now, leave him be. Hunt down Montgomery and retrieve the palimpsest by any means necessary. We need to keep that information from spreading.”

“I understand.”

“Check in with me again when you have something substantial to report. Do you need anything sent to you? Money, equipment?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then go and get some rest, Camille.” The man smiled slightly. “Your mother would slap me from beyond the grave if she could see you now.” His face vanished. Camille carefully tipped the locket closed, handling only the leaded side, and the glow cut off entirely, leaving Camille alone in the dark.

The die was cast. Anton was in deeper than he knew. Camille should tell him more, would tell him more, but…not yet. He had an education to finish, research to do, a normal life to live. There would be time later, time to explain, to bring him in deeper.

Camille would not spoil what they had before it was absolutely necessary.

He made his way back to his guesthouse and up to his room, entering quietly and stripping down. Anton was still asleep in the bed, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The darkness hid his contusions, his cuts and wounds. He had almost died tonight. Unthinkable.

I will not let that happen.

Camille joined him in bed and, unable to resist, settled in so that their sides touched. Anton turned to him like gravity, pressing his face against Camille’s neck before startling slightly. “Cold,” he slurred.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Camille kissed his forehead. “Everything is well, go back to sleep.”

“Mmm.” Anton was out again in moments, and Camille shut his eyes and breathed in the scent of him, tried to memorize the warmth of his body and the feel of his strong, slender limbs. He had to leave in the morning, and who knew when he would see Anton again?

That he would, though, was inevitable.

He would make sure of that.