It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
The Writers Cafe Press (January 5, 2009)
Aaaah! Finally! I have waited for this book to release since the day I set down "Never Ceese" after finishing it in record time. I have always been a little fascinated by the whole vampire/werewolf stories. Do I believe they exist? No, probably not. Do I think they are fascinating to my imagination because most fiction is steeped in some kernal of fact? Absolutely. My issue has always been that most people consider the whole vampire/werewolf thing to be "evil" and so you shouldn't waste your time on books about that kind of stuff. Sue Dent is filling in a gap with her Thirsting For Blood series. It is all vampires and werewolves but with a twist... what if the cursed wanted to lift their curses? How would they do that? Book #1, Never Ceese, introduces us to the cursed werewolf, Ceese, and her cursed vampire brother, Richard. They leave Europe for America where they try to have their curses lifted. Can that really happen?
Book #2, Forever Richard, picks up right where Never Ceese left off and throws us right back into their world and brings us full circle back to Richards castle in Europe as they try and lift the vampire curse off one of their new New York friends. Back in the castle we find someone unexpected waiting for them. And then of course, Ceese is being trailed by the werewolf that originally cursed her and also a New York professor that followed them because her wants her for experiments.
I love that this is very Twilight-esque, only book #1 came out before Twilight was even something anyone knew about. I have loaned my copy of Never Ceese to some girls I know that love Twilight because Sue Dent's writing has all the mystique, but with lots of hope and faith intertwined in it. I can not wait for book #3 "Cyn No More" and just hope I don't have to wait as long for it to come out. My one word of advice - when you read these books (which you must), just make sure you read them in order!
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I have a copy of "Forever Richard" to giveaway!!!! Just make sure that if you are the winner that you read "Never Ceese" first - please, please, please! To be entered leave a comment, with your email address of course, telling me what unusual fantasy type of book you have enjoyed in the past. It doesn't have to be vampire/werewolf (like Twilight) but even something more centaur/goblin/unicorn... (like Chronicles of Narnia or Lord of the Rings...). I love reading what you amazing people have to say! Thanks and good luck!
******NEWS ALERT!!!**********NEWS ALERT!!!**************NEWS ALERT!!!***********
Sue Dent, the author, just contacted me and offered to include a copy of "Never Ceese" as well! So the winner will receive BOTH books! What a great deal - good luck!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sue Dent hails from Mississippi. She graduated from Mississippi College in 1983. Since graduating she’s sold computers, taught computer classes and has worked as a Technical Specialist IV for the Mississippi Department of Natural Resources.Forever Richard is the second book in the Thirsting for Blood series. The prequel, Never Ceese was short-listed for a Bram Stoker Award and also voted the ACFW’s book club choice for April 2007. Ms Dent is currently working on the third book in the series.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 350 pages
Publisher: The Writers Cafe Press (January 5, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934284033
ISBN-13: 978-1934284032
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The blazing mid-morning sun laid a haze over the southwestern landscape. José squinted at the distant horizon. “Mirada que está viniendo,” he said. “It’s him.”
The day laborers loitered on corners hoping for work in the fields—backbreaking work that paid little. Not the type of work they wanted but because most of them lived in the country illegally, they hadn’t a lot of choice. The laborers worked long hours for little pay, which was attractive to employers—so attractive they’d risk breaking the law to hire them.
The men had to watch for Border Patrol agents, so they scrutinized every gringo with a careful eye.
José’s buddies squinted in the direction he’d indicated. Raul pushed himself off the wall where they sat. “I thought you saw him leave town—for good.”
“Yeah,” Antonio seconded. “Qué tal? You can’t see good or something? Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For several weeks they’d watched this stranger. No one knew when he’d arrived or how long he planned on staying. They did know they wanted him gone. Both a gringo and an outsider—the combination usually meant trouble.
José watched the giant of a man approach. His long black duster billowed; his boots stirred up a dust storm around him. José boldly took a step forward. Raul watched and his lips curled into a smirk. Who did José think he was kidding anyway?
“What you gonna do, hombrecito? The little man gonna take the big man on? He’ll squash you like that little bug.”
José, desperate to earn respect among his peers, ignored the comment and squared his shoulders.
* * *
The small immigrant town of Rio Lobos could have easily been a mirage. Surrounded by dry, flat desert, like the desert he’d spent the past two days walking through, he considered this possibility. Not until he stepped onto solid pavement did he believe otherwise.
Heavy boots marked each step as he moved along. His long duster no longer billowed but flapped freely. He’d tucked his left sleeve into a front coat pocket to prevent it from blowing about but with no left arm inside, the sleeve hung slack.
In town, he stepped onto a sidewalk. Worn and beaten by the elements, sections of it were in dire need of repair—the curbs, crumbling chunks of concrete. The entire town needed a facelift. Colorful pennants, strung about and flapping in the hot, arid breeze did little to disguise this.
The most modern building was the bank. It sat on the adjacent corner and boasted a display below the bank name that alternated time and temperature: 9:47 AM and a scorching 97 degrees. Sweat beaded and rolled down into his thick beard. He scratched at it but stopped short of complaining. After all, the beard had offered his face some protection against the stark rays of the blazing desert sun. Yet, a curse for the one responsible for his present condition was never far from his lips.
Blasted werewolf! If it hadn’t been for the creature, he wouldn’t have to worry about hair that grew twice as fast as normal. The bite wasn’t the only thing to worry about when battling a werewolf.
His stomach growled. Two days had passed since he’d eaten anything. The five young migrant workers on the corner watched him arrive and stared belligerently as he drew near. One of the five took an aggressive step forward. The stranger slowed when he saw the young worker but walked on by. No one followed.
La Tienda sat next to the laundromat. The tantalizing aroma of authentic Mexican cuisine lured him across the street.
Those standing around the entrance scattered. Startled patrons inside moved as far away as possible as he stood between them and the door. Mothers gathered their small children. The young lady who worked the counter wore a nametag, Maria. She stifled a scream and backed up against the wall. Someone hissed the word gringo and he understood.
“Aye, gringo,” he said, his Scottish accent strong. “I get that. I’m different. But I don’t want any trouble.”
Trapped in bodies that wanted to run, a dozen pairs of eyes watched him go about his business. Careful not to make any sudden moves and frighten the patrons further, he walked slowly to the counter and gathered up foil-wrapped burritos from beneath a heat lamp. One by one, he placed them in a deep pocket of his coat.
“See,” he told them. “I just want to eat . . . and now I’m going to pay.” He reached into his pocket for cash but had to guess at what he owed. Maria wasn’t talking. He laid down a ten, grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with coffee, then headed to a group of tables and chairs near the back of the store and sat. A mass exodus followed as anxious patrons darted out. Maria disappeared into the back.
A ceiling fan warbled overhead and kept the hot air circulating. He set his coffee down and took the burritos from his pocket. He devoured the first one in no time. After a few more bites of another, he could finally think about more than his next meal—like the events of the previous evening.
Tobias had eluded him for years, but he hadn’t given up looking. The werewolf had information and he was desperate to hear it. After nearly a century of traipsing across continents—Europe, Asia and now North America—he’d finally found him.
Tobias knelt and drank from a stream, his shirt beside him. The moon’s glow heightened the appearance of well-defined muscle. Tobias could easily overtake him. He had to move with care.
He took a cautious step closer, pushed the fabric of his duster back giving him easy access to the pistol-grip sawed-off shotgun holstered on his thigh.
Tobias tensed; he sniffed the air—his cupped hands froze in mid-drink. His head turned a sliver to stare at the abstract reflection in the stream. The stranger drew his weapon and in one fluid motion Tobias stood and turned. Eyes black and narrowed, his nose wrinkled at the odor of silver.
“Aye, did ye think I’d come unprepared?” When Tobias didn’t answer he asked, “Do ye speak English, lad?”
Tobias tilted his head, his thick brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe his accent confused, so he worked to tame it before speaking again. This time Tobias nodded.
“Then tell me why ye have run from me all these years.” He kept the shotgun level. “All I ever wanted was to ask some questions.” Why had Tobias let me sneak up on him tonight? Maybe it’s a trap? He pressed the gun barrel against the chest of the werewolf. “Ye don’t have friends around waiting to pick me off, do ye? If so, then ye should know—I’ll kill ye first.”
The breath of the werewolf turned to vapor in the cooler night air. “Tobias alone.” Stilted werewolf English, but still English. “Tobias wait for you. Tobias need—help. Help Tobias.”
Stunned eyes stared back. “Help Tobias? Away with ye! Why should I help when ye have been running from me for so long?”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder and found the moon where it hung, crescent in shape. “Tobias forget.”
“Tobias forget?” He followed Tobias’s gaze then nodded. “Ahh, Tobias forget—forgotten how to become the wolf. Ye have gone too long without transforming.” They never saw the danger until it was too late. “Yet ye remember ye need the moon, don’t ye . . . to draw the blood up, to get things going.”
Tobias turned back to face him. “You help Tobias remember more.”
As a subtle reminder, he shoved the gun barrel against Tobias’ chest. “Tell me what I want to know. Besides, what makes ye think I can help?” He could help, of course. But he didn’t give this information away freely. He didn’t need every werewolf who’d forgotten tracking him down.
“You help Gideon.”
His expression fell. “Great. Gideon shared.” Even after he promised that he wouldn’t.
“Help Tobias like you help Gideon.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye, but first, ye pay my price. Tell me. You know the werewolf Joachim. Ye ran with his pack. What became of him? Where is he now?”
“Joachim? Joachim is no more.”
The words hit him hard. All these years of waiting, hoping—it couldn’t be true. “Ye lie!” he growled. He had to be. He moved in closer to Tobias and forced the end of the gun under his chin. “Ye’ll tell me the truth or I’ll blow your head clean off!”
“Tobias show you.”
“All right.” He brought the gun back down to chest level and allowed Tobias to put an open palm to his forehead.
The first image: two wolves thrashing it out, teeth bared and bloodied, eyes blazing with intent. It ended when one of the wolves went down and she rushed forward. He gasped and Tobias removed his hand.
“She killed Joachim,” Tobias spat out. “She the reason he is no more.”
“Ye will not speak of her like that. Ye won’t!”
“Joachim is no more because of her! He fight Zade for her.”
“Where is she now? Ye have to know.”
Tobias reached into a pocket, took out a trinket on a thin chain and held it up.
A lump formed in his throat; moisture played in the corner of each eye. “Where’d ye get that, lad? Where in the world did ye get that?”
“Tobias take it from Joachim.”
He batted back the moisture to regain some composure. “Doesn’t prove anything. Ye still haven’t told me where she is or if she is.”
“Hold tight. If she is, you know. If she isn’t, you know too.”
He considered this. “Aye, but I’ll need my hand for that and I canna say I trust ye enough to holster my weapon. But—” he said, “if ye hold the locket—maybe that will work.”
Tobias placed his left palm back to the stranger’s forehead and held the trinket tight in his other hand.
Images flashed. A castle, a feeling. “Aye, I see her. She’s alive.” He furrowed his brow. “. . . sort of.” Tobias took his hand away. “Now put that necklace in my breast pocket.”
“You help Tobias?” the werewolf replied.
“Aye, of course.” After all, that was the deal. He couldn’t use the information himself. He wasn’t cursed. But, having the information and the ability to share it—on occasion there had been a definite advantage to that.
He’d have to holster the shotgun to free up his hand to initiate the action. “This is going to be bit tricky,” he admitted, not certain he wanted to risk putting his weapon away and give up the advantage. But Tobias seemed ready to cooperate. He put his apprehension aside and slid the gun back into its holster.
With his hand on Tobias’ forehead, the flow of information could begin. Several attempts to get things going ended in failure. What was wrong?
“Ye block me. I canna help if ye block me.”
With no more coercion than that, Tobias let his mental guard down.
“Aye, that’s better.” He’d helped several other werewolves remember the way. Some took the information quickly. Some didn’t. Often he could help speed things up by focusing. He closed his eyes but they shot back open when he felt sharp claws dig into his wrist. Tobias had already begun the transformation.
“Aahh!” He fought the instinct to pull away. Tobias could take his only arm if he wasn’t careful. The pressure increased. “For the love of God,” he exclaimed.
Tobias stiffened and his hand jerked before he fell backwards onto the ground. The stranger ratcheted his shotgun from his holster. “Aye. That’d be a word ye canna tolerate.”
On the ground, Tobias continued the rapid transformation—the human form faded further until the new looked at home on all fours. Soon, it sprinted off into the woods.
“Good riddance,” he yelled out after him, “you ungrateful beast.”
* * *
The migrant workers still loitered. The same young man who’d shown aggression the first time moved directly in his path.
When he angled to go around, the guy matched him step for step. Dark intimidating eyes met his. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I just want to get by.” He searched the young man’s face for any sign of compromise.
“You gotta pay to get by, gringo.”
That word again. “I can’t give ye what I don’t have.”
A quick look over his shoulder to the others and the young man tensed his forearms. “Well, you better come up with something or you’ll have to deal with us, right, muchachos?”
Arms crossed, they nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I do have one thing.” He reached into a pocket and drew out his hand, closed. Slowly, he opened it to reveal—nothing. In another instant, his palm covered the young man’s forehead and the ringleader sank to the ground, unconscious.
The others backed away. “¡Él lo mató!” he heard one say before they all broke and ran.
“Nay,” he yelled after them. “He’s not hurt. It’s not what ye think.”
It was pointless to explain further. They’d disappeared around the corner. He sighed deep and pulled the young man along by an arm. He left him to rest under the shade of an awning.
* * *
On the outskirts of town sat the Alamo Plaza Apartments, remnants of a not-so-successful motel chain that dared defy the odds. No traveler would stop here now, only locals. You could pay by the week or ten dollars an hour, maximum two. His third prepaid week at the motel. He headed straight back to his unit.
When the stranger saw another tenant leafing through mail, he quickened his pace. He was expecting something. Perhaps it had arrived. The mail had come, but no package waited. A notice stuck to his door, the “Attempted Delivery” box marked. Tomorrow the post office would try again. He pushed past disappointment and went inside. Calling the post office did little good. The mail truck with his package was still out making deliveries and wouldn’t return until after the post office closed.
He removed his duster and let it fall across a chair near the door. He placed his shotgun on a table next to the unmade bed and lay down. Two days of walking through the desert had taken its toll. He needed to rest.
Sleep came easily enough. He recalled waking up once to find the room dark. The sun had set. The next time he awoke, it was morning, 9:45 according to the digital clock on the small bedside table. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt rested but antsy. How would he kill time until his package came? A long shower helped, as did shaving his thick beard. But he still had at least an hour.
He settled onto the end of his bed, television remote in hand, and began channel surfing. Jeopardy. He stopped to watch. The category: Famous Wars.
The unyielding presence of this single Highland regiment caused the Russians to abandon their intention of taking Balaclava.
The contestants jumped all around the correct response. “What is the Charge of the Light Brigade?” one said. “Who fought the Crimean War?” another chimed in. The third contestant merely shrugged.
His deep-set eyes misted over in remembrance. “Aye, the thin red line—what was the thin red line.”
The thunder of hooves, the smell of death, he remembered it all. To die like they did. That would be an honor. Yet dying wasn’t an option for him. Neither was aging in a timely manner. It had something to do with the battle he had with that werewolf. He did age, though much more slowly—about a year for every fifty he’d lived, but death never came. He’d been run clean through during the battle at Balaclava, an injury that left more than a few men dead where they fell. Not something he understood—in fact, quite frustrating. He switched the television off to avoid further memories.
A solid thump against his door and then a knock. “Aye. I’m here,” he said jumping to his feet. A short sprint to the door and—no one there. He looked down to see a package at his feet.
He checked the box and brought it inside. The postage showed it had come all the way from New Delhi, India. He carefully opened it. The seller had done such a fine job of packing that it took him more than a minute to reveal the knife inside.
Its pitted blade and wooden handle reinforced with bone plates attested its authenticity. He ran his fingers over the traces of Aramaic and Hebrew inscription. “Aye,” came his breathless whisper. This had to be it, the knife of the Aqedah, the very one used by Abraham on Mount Moriah. The one he’d been searching for. He’d combed sacred parchments for any mention of the knife past Abraham, looked around at Djebel Thebeyr, where a granite block, purportedly split in two by the touch of this knife, drew tourists. Still the knife had eluded him . . . until now.
“Finally.” He stared at what he held in reverent awe.
“Finally I can end this madness.”
The day laborers loitered on corners hoping for work in the fields—backbreaking work that paid little. Not the type of work they wanted but because most of them lived in the country illegally, they hadn’t a lot of choice. The laborers worked long hours for little pay, which was attractive to employers—so attractive they’d risk breaking the law to hire them.
The men had to watch for Border Patrol agents, so they scrutinized every gringo with a careful eye.
José’s buddies squinted in the direction he’d indicated. Raul pushed himself off the wall where they sat. “I thought you saw him leave town—for good.”
“Yeah,” Antonio seconded. “Qué tal? You can’t see good or something? Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For several weeks they’d watched this stranger. No one knew when he’d arrived or how long he planned on staying. They did know they wanted him gone. Both a gringo and an outsider—the combination usually meant trouble.
José watched the giant of a man approach. His long black duster billowed; his boots stirred up a dust storm around him. José boldly took a step forward. Raul watched and his lips curled into a smirk. Who did José think he was kidding anyway?
“What you gonna do, hombrecito? The little man gonna take the big man on? He’ll squash you like that little bug.”
José, desperate to earn respect among his peers, ignored the comment and squared his shoulders.
* * *
The small immigrant town of Rio Lobos could have easily been a mirage. Surrounded by dry, flat desert, like the desert he’d spent the past two days walking through, he considered this possibility. Not until he stepped onto solid pavement did he believe otherwise.
Heavy boots marked each step as he moved along. His long duster no longer billowed but flapped freely. He’d tucked his left sleeve into a front coat pocket to prevent it from blowing about but with no left arm inside, the sleeve hung slack.
In town, he stepped onto a sidewalk. Worn and beaten by the elements, sections of it were in dire need of repair—the curbs, crumbling chunks of concrete. The entire town needed a facelift. Colorful pennants, strung about and flapping in the hot, arid breeze did little to disguise this.
The most modern building was the bank. It sat on the adjacent corner and boasted a display below the bank name that alternated time and temperature: 9:47 AM and a scorching 97 degrees. Sweat beaded and rolled down into his thick beard. He scratched at it but stopped short of complaining. After all, the beard had offered his face some protection against the stark rays of the blazing desert sun. Yet, a curse for the one responsible for his present condition was never far from his lips.
Blasted werewolf! If it hadn’t been for the creature, he wouldn’t have to worry about hair that grew twice as fast as normal. The bite wasn’t the only thing to worry about when battling a werewolf.
His stomach growled. Two days had passed since he’d eaten anything. The five young migrant workers on the corner watched him arrive and stared belligerently as he drew near. One of the five took an aggressive step forward. The stranger slowed when he saw the young worker but walked on by. No one followed.
La Tienda sat next to the laundromat. The tantalizing aroma of authentic Mexican cuisine lured him across the street.
Those standing around the entrance scattered. Startled patrons inside moved as far away as possible as he stood between them and the door. Mothers gathered their small children. The young lady who worked the counter wore a nametag, Maria. She stifled a scream and backed up against the wall. Someone hissed the word gringo and he understood.
“Aye, gringo,” he said, his Scottish accent strong. “I get that. I’m different. But I don’t want any trouble.”
Trapped in bodies that wanted to run, a dozen pairs of eyes watched him go about his business. Careful not to make any sudden moves and frighten the patrons further, he walked slowly to the counter and gathered up foil-wrapped burritos from beneath a heat lamp. One by one, he placed them in a deep pocket of his coat.
“See,” he told them. “I just want to eat . . . and now I’m going to pay.” He reached into his pocket for cash but had to guess at what he owed. Maria wasn’t talking. He laid down a ten, grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with coffee, then headed to a group of tables and chairs near the back of the store and sat. A mass exodus followed as anxious patrons darted out. Maria disappeared into the back.
A ceiling fan warbled overhead and kept the hot air circulating. He set his coffee down and took the burritos from his pocket. He devoured the first one in no time. After a few more bites of another, he could finally think about more than his next meal—like the events of the previous evening.
Tobias had eluded him for years, but he hadn’t given up looking. The werewolf had information and he was desperate to hear it. After nearly a century of traipsing across continents—Europe, Asia and now North America—he’d finally found him.
Tobias knelt and drank from a stream, his shirt beside him. The moon’s glow heightened the appearance of well-defined muscle. Tobias could easily overtake him. He had to move with care.
He took a cautious step closer, pushed the fabric of his duster back giving him easy access to the pistol-grip sawed-off shotgun holstered on his thigh.
Tobias tensed; he sniffed the air—his cupped hands froze in mid-drink. His head turned a sliver to stare at the abstract reflection in the stream. The stranger drew his weapon and in one fluid motion Tobias stood and turned. Eyes black and narrowed, his nose wrinkled at the odor of silver.
“Aye, did ye think I’d come unprepared?” When Tobias didn’t answer he asked, “Do ye speak English, lad?”
Tobias tilted his head, his thick brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe his accent confused, so he worked to tame it before speaking again. This time Tobias nodded.
“Then tell me why ye have run from me all these years.” He kept the shotgun level. “All I ever wanted was to ask some questions.” Why had Tobias let me sneak up on him tonight? Maybe it’s a trap? He pressed the gun barrel against the chest of the werewolf. “Ye don’t have friends around waiting to pick me off, do ye? If so, then ye should know—I’ll kill ye first.”
The breath of the werewolf turned to vapor in the cooler night air. “Tobias alone.” Stilted werewolf English, but still English. “Tobias wait for you. Tobias need—help. Help Tobias.”
Stunned eyes stared back. “Help Tobias? Away with ye! Why should I help when ye have been running from me for so long?”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder and found the moon where it hung, crescent in shape. “Tobias forget.”
“Tobias forget?” He followed Tobias’s gaze then nodded. “Ahh, Tobias forget—forgotten how to become the wolf. Ye have gone too long without transforming.” They never saw the danger until it was too late. “Yet ye remember ye need the moon, don’t ye . . . to draw the blood up, to get things going.”
Tobias turned back to face him. “You help Tobias remember more.”
As a subtle reminder, he shoved the gun barrel against Tobias’ chest. “Tell me what I want to know. Besides, what makes ye think I can help?” He could help, of course. But he didn’t give this information away freely. He didn’t need every werewolf who’d forgotten tracking him down.
“You help Gideon.”
His expression fell. “Great. Gideon shared.” Even after he promised that he wouldn’t.
“Help Tobias like you help Gideon.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye, but first, ye pay my price. Tell me. You know the werewolf Joachim. Ye ran with his pack. What became of him? Where is he now?”
“Joachim? Joachim is no more.”
The words hit him hard. All these years of waiting, hoping—it couldn’t be true. “Ye lie!” he growled. He had to be. He moved in closer to Tobias and forced the end of the gun under his chin. “Ye’ll tell me the truth or I’ll blow your head clean off!”
“Tobias show you.”
“All right.” He brought the gun back down to chest level and allowed Tobias to put an open palm to his forehead.
The first image: two wolves thrashing it out, teeth bared and bloodied, eyes blazing with intent. It ended when one of the wolves went down and she rushed forward. He gasped and Tobias removed his hand.
“She killed Joachim,” Tobias spat out. “She the reason he is no more.”
“Ye will not speak of her like that. Ye won’t!”
“Joachim is no more because of her! He fight Zade for her.”
“Where is she now? Ye have to know.”
Tobias reached into a pocket, took out a trinket on a thin chain and held it up.
A lump formed in his throat; moisture played in the corner of each eye. “Where’d ye get that, lad? Where in the world did ye get that?”
“Tobias take it from Joachim.”
He batted back the moisture to regain some composure. “Doesn’t prove anything. Ye still haven’t told me where she is or if she is.”
“Hold tight. If she is, you know. If she isn’t, you know too.”
He considered this. “Aye, but I’ll need my hand for that and I canna say I trust ye enough to holster my weapon. But—” he said, “if ye hold the locket—maybe that will work.”
Tobias placed his left palm back to the stranger’s forehead and held the trinket tight in his other hand.
Images flashed. A castle, a feeling. “Aye, I see her. She’s alive.” He furrowed his brow. “. . . sort of.” Tobias took his hand away. “Now put that necklace in my breast pocket.”
“You help Tobias?” the werewolf replied.
“Aye, of course.” After all, that was the deal. He couldn’t use the information himself. He wasn’t cursed. But, having the information and the ability to share it—on occasion there had been a definite advantage to that.
He’d have to holster the shotgun to free up his hand to initiate the action. “This is going to be bit tricky,” he admitted, not certain he wanted to risk putting his weapon away and give up the advantage. But Tobias seemed ready to cooperate. He put his apprehension aside and slid the gun back into its holster.
With his hand on Tobias’ forehead, the flow of information could begin. Several attempts to get things going ended in failure. What was wrong?
“Ye block me. I canna help if ye block me.”
With no more coercion than that, Tobias let his mental guard down.
“Aye, that’s better.” He’d helped several other werewolves remember the way. Some took the information quickly. Some didn’t. Often he could help speed things up by focusing. He closed his eyes but they shot back open when he felt sharp claws dig into his wrist. Tobias had already begun the transformation.
“Aahh!” He fought the instinct to pull away. Tobias could take his only arm if he wasn’t careful. The pressure increased. “For the love of God,” he exclaimed.
Tobias stiffened and his hand jerked before he fell backwards onto the ground. The stranger ratcheted his shotgun from his holster. “Aye. That’d be a word ye canna tolerate.”
On the ground, Tobias continued the rapid transformation—the human form faded further until the new looked at home on all fours. Soon, it sprinted off into the woods.
“Good riddance,” he yelled out after him, “you ungrateful beast.”
* * *
The migrant workers still loitered. The same young man who’d shown aggression the first time moved directly in his path.
When he angled to go around, the guy matched him step for step. Dark intimidating eyes met his. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I just want to get by.” He searched the young man’s face for any sign of compromise.
“You gotta pay to get by, gringo.”
That word again. “I can’t give ye what I don’t have.”
A quick look over his shoulder to the others and the young man tensed his forearms. “Well, you better come up with something or you’ll have to deal with us, right, muchachos?”
Arms crossed, they nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I do have one thing.” He reached into a pocket and drew out his hand, closed. Slowly, he opened it to reveal—nothing. In another instant, his palm covered the young man’s forehead and the ringleader sank to the ground, unconscious.
The others backed away. “¡Él lo mató!” he heard one say before they all broke and ran.
“Nay,” he yelled after them. “He’s not hurt. It’s not what ye think.”
It was pointless to explain further. They’d disappeared around the corner. He sighed deep and pulled the young man along by an arm. He left him to rest under the shade of an awning.
* * *
On the outskirts of town sat the Alamo Plaza Apartments, remnants of a not-so-successful motel chain that dared defy the odds. No traveler would stop here now, only locals. You could pay by the week or ten dollars an hour, maximum two. His third prepaid week at the motel. He headed straight back to his unit.
When the stranger saw another tenant leafing through mail, he quickened his pace. He was expecting something. Perhaps it had arrived. The mail had come, but no package waited. A notice stuck to his door, the “Attempted Delivery” box marked. Tomorrow the post office would try again. He pushed past disappointment and went inside. Calling the post office did little good. The mail truck with his package was still out making deliveries and wouldn’t return until after the post office closed.
He removed his duster and let it fall across a chair near the door. He placed his shotgun on a table next to the unmade bed and lay down. Two days of walking through the desert had taken its toll. He needed to rest.
Sleep came easily enough. He recalled waking up once to find the room dark. The sun had set. The next time he awoke, it was morning, 9:45 according to the digital clock on the small bedside table. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt rested but antsy. How would he kill time until his package came? A long shower helped, as did shaving his thick beard. But he still had at least an hour.
He settled onto the end of his bed, television remote in hand, and began channel surfing. Jeopardy. He stopped to watch. The category: Famous Wars.
The unyielding presence of this single Highland regiment caused the Russians to abandon their intention of taking Balaclava.
The contestants jumped all around the correct response. “What is the Charge of the Light Brigade?” one said. “Who fought the Crimean War?” another chimed in. The third contestant merely shrugged.
His deep-set eyes misted over in remembrance. “Aye, the thin red line—what was the thin red line.”
The thunder of hooves, the smell of death, he remembered it all. To die like they did. That would be an honor. Yet dying wasn’t an option for him. Neither was aging in a timely manner. It had something to do with the battle he had with that werewolf. He did age, though much more slowly—about a year for every fifty he’d lived, but death never came. He’d been run clean through during the battle at Balaclava, an injury that left more than a few men dead where they fell. Not something he understood—in fact, quite frustrating. He switched the television off to avoid further memories.
A solid thump against his door and then a knock. “Aye. I’m here,” he said jumping to his feet. A short sprint to the door and—no one there. He looked down to see a package at his feet.
He checked the box and brought it inside. The postage showed it had come all the way from New Delhi, India. He carefully opened it. The seller had done such a fine job of packing that it took him more than a minute to reveal the knife inside.
Its pitted blade and wooden handle reinforced with bone plates attested its authenticity. He ran his fingers over the traces of Aramaic and Hebrew inscription. “Aye,” came his breathless whisper. This had to be it, the knife of the Aqedah, the very one used by Abraham on Mount Moriah. The one he’d been searching for. He’d combed sacred parchments for any mention of the knife past Abraham, looked around at Djebel Thebeyr, where a granite block, purportedly split in two by the touch of this knife, drew tourists. Still the knife had eluded him . . . until now.
“Finally.” He stared at what he held in reverent awe.
“Finally I can end this madness.”
28 comments:
Hey girlie girl! LOL Send me your address and I'll send you a copy of Never Ceese to give away with Richard. How's that sound? :D
I'd love to be entered in your draw. Thanks so much!
wandanamgreb(at)gmail(dot)com
BTW you are da bomb! Go check my latest blog at suedent.blogspot.com
I'm game! Recently I read S.J. Day's Marked series and they are pretty unusual for the urban fantasy/paranormal genre--really good though!
Sounds awesome! Please enter me!
Anna W.
writer_weaver at yahoo dot com
Janna, I'm going to enter to win this book, but am extremely hesitant. I am NOT a vampire book reader. I refuse to read Twilight, especially after reading certain reviews of the series.
I'm wondering how this topic can be covered in a Christian genre. That's why I'm entering.
I felt the same way when I picked up Sharon Hinck's "The Restorer" and Donita K. Paul's dragon series. I wasn't sure how fantasy would blend with, well, God. I loved "The Restorer" series and was convinced that stories with dragons could involve God. :)
So, even if I don't win, I may have to check into this series just to quench my curiosity. ;)
Blessings & thanks to Sue for the offer of her 1st book as well.
~Mimi B
mnjesusfreak at gmail dot com
Awesome! We LOVE the book "Never Ceese"! 11yo McKenna just finished it in the last couple of days, and is not too happy that I don't have "Forever Richard". She would be soooooooo thrilled to get both of these books! :) Obviously, this is one of our favorite fantasty stories, but we have many. Chronicles of Narnia & Lord of the Rings are old favorites, while The Door Within trilogy, Donita Paul's DragonSpell series, Dragons in Our Midst series & Oracles of Fire are some recent books we've greatly enjoyed.
asyouwiiiiish@gmail.com
I would love to be entered in the drawing. I enjoy fantasy and paranormal and often lament that there are no Christian ones. I have enjoyed Sharon Hinck's work and Donita K. Paul's series alogn with some secular books such as CL Wilson's Fading Land series. Thanks for this wonderful giveaway.
cherierj(at)yahoo(dot)com
I would love to be entered in the drawing! I guess Narnia would
be a fantasy I've enjoyed.
le15307@msn.com
I can not believe I forgot to ask you to PLEASE post this review on Amazon. I can't pay for those kind words. I get absolutely no help from CBA promoting my work as Christian because my publisher isn't affiliated yet I have many of their readers. Both of my books have been approved for distribution to the Christian market though. I can use all the help I can get to get the word out. Please help Richard and Ceese live on. :)
Also, isn't Donita's work awesome! She's one of the few affiliated authors I love, love, love!!! And many general market Christian readers I know lover her work as well. :)
I can't wait to see who wins.
Sue,
My review is up at amazon and barnes & noble.
I'll be seeing Donita Paul at the ACFW conference in Denver this weekend. I have to have her autograph "The Vanishing Sculptor" for me :-)
I just recently finished Blue Moon by Alyson Noel. It is the second book in her Immortals series which is also very Twilight-esque. Only its not about vampires but about a girl who is saved by an Immortal who drinks a special potion to stay immortal. In this book she has to decide if she is going to save her boyfriend Damen, or her parents and sister who died a car accident.
I loved twilight thats kind of why I picked up the Immortas series which is also good.
I would love to read these books also.
lizzard_698959@yahoo.com
ahha i would have to say harry potter!!!
thanks!
nicolemarielum @gmail.com
My all time favorite fantasy books are Anne MacCafrey's Dragon Riders series. This book sounds like something I'd like.
theresa N
weceno(at)yahoo(dot)com
Janna, when you see Donita you tell her Sue Dent, Frank Creed's fellow writer friend said hello and wishes her well. ;) Now I feel bad I didn't get to sign the blog tour copies. Guess I'll just have to come visit. :)
I was going to attend the ACFW on the side, as they won't let me sell books at the booksigning unless I pay for two days of a conference that has nothing to offer a non-affiliated Christian author. :( I can't afford that even though many of my readers have begged me to show.
But you'll have fun. Go find Lena Nelson Dooley too and tell her I said hi. I've got lots for you to do. LOL
I have never read any of Sue Dent's books, so I would love to win! :)
Fantasy books I loved reading are the Twilight series and Ted Dekker's 'The Circle' Series.
Janna,
Thank you for posting about Forever Richard and for such a fine review:)
Cynthia MacKinnon
This author is new to me. I'm an avid reader and would love to win your giveaway. Thanks for the chance.
dianad8008 AT gmail DOT com
One of my favorite fantasy stories is the Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.
And if I have to name one with vampires then Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles is on top of my list.
I would very much like to read also the Sue Dent's books. Thank you for the chance. dikatzen at yahoo dot fr
One of my favorite fantasy books that I read again and again is Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. I have purchased this amazing book for just about all of my friends. I just have to share it. :)
kalea_kane(at)yahoo(dot)com
I'm currently reading In the Arms of Immortals - rather interesting book...
janemaritz at yahoo dot com
Just a note that we've posted about this at Winning Readings:
http://winningreadings.blogspot.com/2009/09/forever-richard.html
Oh, this book sounds great! I'd love to win! Thanks! I enjoy reading stories of the undead. Especially those with fangs. XD
aikychien at yahoo dot com
This sounds like a great read!
Fantasy books -- Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Vampire Diaries, etc. I bounce around a lot.
marielay@gmail.com
I would love to enter your contest. I have not read any of this author's work but would love to. Thanks aprilr
tarenn98[at]yahoo[dot]com
Love the idea of this series. I read the Twilight series and enjoyed them but love that this series incorporates faith! Would love to pass this on to my daughter!!! Thanks for introduing this to me, Janna.
And the winner is...
Wanda!
Congratulations!
Can you send me Wanda's address so I can mail her a copy of Never Ceese or did you already take care of that? :)
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