A blue norther had ripped through in the night, bringing biting cold and snow that already lay soft and clean across the Ember.

Alan shrugged into his heavy coat and picked up the gray Stetson. He ran his fingers carefully along the brim. Ellie had dragged him into a hat shop in Wichita Falls one afternoon and made him try on dozens until she found the one she insisted fit him perfectly, then paid for it over his loud protests. He had never thought of himself as a cowboy-hat man, but somewhere along the way the gray felt had become a quiet comfort. He settled it carefully on his head, walked softly through the pre-dawn dark of the house, and slipped out the front door without a sound.

Remy stood in the front yard, snow drifting down around him, fists on hips, addressing the roof with absolute seriousness, “If you slip off that roof and break your neck, you bag of chili fixings, you do it quiet where she can’t hear you.”

A soft, contemplative snort from the roof.

Remy said without turning, “‘Morning, Alan.”

Alan listened to the tiny hiss of snow hitting the brim of his hat, “‘Morning.”

He looked at the maroon pickup, engine already running, a round bale spiked and ready, “Feeding?”

“Yeah. That, and checking the heifers on the east pens.” Remy sighed, a low sound that fogged in the cold air. “And then she’ll stubborn at me about who takes the first bite at breakfast.”

Alan felt his hands curl into fists inside his coat pockets, the words came out before he could stop them, “I was there when her mother taught her that. She was eight years old. ‘Hands in lap. Don’t fidget. Wait for your father and me to start the meal.’”

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, “Eight years old, and she already had to make sure everyone else’s tea glasses stayed full.”

He rubbed a gloved hand over his face, angry and suddenly, painfully sad, “I suppose you’re going to tell me I should have stopped it.”

There was a long pause. Snow continued to fall in soft, perfect silence. Remy’s voice, when it came, was quiet, “Figure you’ve already figured that part out.”

Alan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The cold air burned his lungs in the best way. “You need help?”

Another long pause. Alan was already turning back toward the house when Remy spoke again.

“I won’t turn down help. Shotgun does gates, though.”

Alan felt something in his shoulders finally unknot. He snorted, relieved, invisible in the dark, “I grew up in the oil field, Remy. I know the rules.” Then he walked with his son-in-law across the snowy yard to the waiting truck.

They climbed in without another word. The heater hummed; Remy put the truck in gear, as the first soft gray of dawn was just beginning to lift over the pens and they rolled out into the crisp new morning.

She heard them come in, the rumble of quiet conversation warming her in a way the house furnace never could.

“… Santa Gertrudis has the heat, parasite, and disease tolerance that you need in Texas.”

“Okay,” she could hear the entrepreneur in her father’s voice, “So why the cross-breed?”

Her wolf’s soft rumble answered, “Carcass quality. It’s a trade: Santa Gerts give us all the resistance, plus good maternal quality, and they’re tough -- but their beef loses out to other breeds.”

“Ah.” Her father mused, thoughtful. “So you’re cross-breeding in the Red Angus for improved beef …”

“Exactly.”

Ellie set three plates and three cups of coffee on the table, then sat in her chair with her hands folded in her lap, waiting the old way without even thinking about it.

Remy came into the kitchen first, green eyes calm, snow still melting in his short blond beard. She tipped her head back, smiling, and he kissed her gently, “‘Morning, kitten.”

She purred, “Good morning, my wolf.”

Her father was right behind him, “‘Morning, punkin.”

“‘Mornin’, Daddy.”

She looked at her husband, already bracing for the long, familiar wait. Remy and her father pulled out chairs and sat, “Ellie and I figure a seventy-five percent Red Angus crossed with twenty-five percent Santa Gert …”

She blinked as her wolf calmly picked up his mug, winked at her, and took a quick, deliberate sip.

“… Should give us the best of both breeds. It’s a risk, but we think it’s a good one.”

The warmth in her chest turned into bubbling, almost giddy happiness. She picked up her knife and fork without the old knot of anxiety, and she almost hugged herself.

Her father’s voice carried genuine respect, “It’s a smart risk. Canny. I like it.”

“Your daughter has good ranch instincts.”

Ellie nibbled a piece of bacon, smiling so hard her cheeks ached.

I hope you brought earplugs, Daddy, she thought, pure wicked joy curling through her, Because I’m climbing that man like a jungle gym tonight.

Drove through Clarendon on the way out of State, and suddenly realized I had taken the stadium at Clarendon High School and put it at Clarendon College.

Ah, well, an easy-enough fix, but it drove home the point that I should probably go do some research on places that I haven’t been since 1996 before I go writing about them.

Which means that I may need some help on the Gunsite scenes coming up, although most of that them will actually take place at a hotel in Chino Valley.

This is also becoming more ranch-y as I write it. So, now instead of just balancing the story between the romance readers and the adventure/tactical readers, I have to balance it between the romance, the adventure, and the horse/cattle/Western/ranch people.

Ugh.

Ian

Ellie closed her eyes gently and sighed. “Hello, Mother.”

A long pause. She felt her insides knotting up and focused on the damned bolt.

“What … are you wearing?”

“It’s a hundred and five degrees, Mother, and I’m inside an uninsulated shop trying to repack a water pump.” The annoyance felt … wrong. And good. “And once I get it repacked, I have to climb into a stock tank to reinstall it. So I’m wearing a halter top and shorts.”

Her mother’s voice was chilly, judgmental, “And what is that man doing while you’re performing manual labor? Drinking on the back porch?”

Oh, bitch, Ellie thought. You did not just — “Remy is in town on ranch business. And he’s also picking up some hay bales that weigh more than I do.”

The wrench slipped suddenly. Ellie cursed softly under her breath — where did that … ah.

“Noelle Ruth! Language, young lady!”

Ellie sighed and closed her eyes again.

“And stop rubbing that disgusting mark! I raised you better than this!”

Ellie felt the tingle of the sensitized skin under her fingers and sighed gently, “Mother, my husband is not here, and you’re stressing me out. Deal with it. What do you want?”

“Stop fooling around with that thing and talk to me like a civilized young lady!”

Ellie paused and looked over the pump at her mother, “It’s still a hundred and five degrees out there, mother. We have twelve head of very pregnant cattle who need water by this evening. This pump has to be fixed, and our animals don’t have time. You can talk while I work on this thing. Or not.”

She could feel her mother’s glare, then the quiet resetting, the reacquiring of the target. Ellie tensed.

Her mother’s voice softened into something that tried to sound sensible, “If you’re going to run around pretending to be married, at least trim your hair. Married women shouldn’t wear their hair that long.”

The wrench finally found the flats on the bolt. Ellie cautiously applied pressure… ah! All her focus stayed on the bolt. “My wolf likes my hair long.”

The pounce, “So you just do anything he says?”

The bolt snugged in, “Sometimes. Mostly I like how growly he gets when he runs his fingers through it.”

“Noelle Ruth!”

The wrench went on the workbench. Ellie found the T25 torque head and a driver, and turned back to the pump, “Mother, what do you want?”

“Fifteen minutes of my daughter’s time!”

“I don’t have fifteen minutes today. Next time, call ahead so you don’t waste a two-and-a-half-hour trip.”

Ellie felt her mother tooling up and her shoulders tensed. Here we go …

The hesitation was unexpected. The clipped “Fine. Answer the phone next time” was not.

Her mother turned and stalked out of the shop. Ellie dropped to her knees, breath whooshing out of her.

Two shuddering breaths later she heard him — cool, calm, just outside the open door.

“Afternoon, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth stopped short. Ten feet away, leaning against the front of a pickup with his arms folded across his chest and those eerie green eyes fixed on her, was that man.

“Afternoon, Elizabeth.” His voice was chilly, metallic. Just barely civil. She felt a shudder run through her, and she straightened her shoulders, throwing every bit of scorn she could muster into her voice.

“My daughter said you had business in town.”

Too still. Too calm. A long pause, “I did.”

She took a breath, “And?”

“It’s done.”

“And you just left my daughter — ”

“Nope. Goodbye. Tell Alan I said hello.”

With that he moved — too smoothly, too evenly — away from the truck, past her, and into the shop. She heard his voice, too low for words, but warm for her daughter where it had been ice for her.

Elizabeth got slowly into her Cadillac and pulled out of the tiny ranch.

“Hello, kitten.”

His voice was warm. He knelt beside her, just close enough.

Her arms went over his shoulders, careful not to get grease on his shirt, and she kissed him urgently. His hands landed properly — gently, possessively — on her hips, and she felt that glorious tingle of sensitized skin, of belonging.

A shuddering breath, “Mother was here.”

A slow stroke, “I saw.”

Another shudder, less this time.

“How did things go?”

He stroked, and her body squirmed slowly. She heard the soft grin in his voice, “Well, I should help you get that pump installed, but first you need to see something.”

She smiled, feeling something warm and wicked kindle in her belly, “I’d love to see it, but not the hay loft this time. My back itched for a week.”

His chuckle was dark, possessive, and made her stomach do those slow rolls, “Mmm. Yes. However, what I need to show you is in the trailer.”

“It is?” Realization suddenly dawned, and she looked up at him with those gorgeous eyes. “She is?”

“Yes, kitten. One Appaloosa mare. Our bid won.”

I’m writing her first time to gun school scene right now. She’ll be attending Gunsite 250 — which is roughly 13 hours away from their ranch. Remy is about to discover that Ellie has reset his baseline, and he can’t be away from her for more than 48 hours; he will show up at her hotel in Arizona, halfway into Trigger Phase.

Which will be the impetus behind Alan hiring Dr Hampson to find out exactly what Remy is.

The knowledge that he is a berserker, her role in regulating his neurology and biochemistry, plus the ranch will kick her developing agency into high gear. Dr Hampson will casually reveal some relevant historical information about why berserkers are rare, which will cause Ellie to get really invested in learning how to fight, shoot, and protect Remy.

And then Carter will get a Terminal Case of the Stupids.

I hope this will be worth it.

Ian

He knew she wasn’t in the bed before he woke up.

He was already scanning when consciousness fully arrived, eyes still closed, apparently still asleep. She was in the kitchen. Heels on floor. Metal softly moving against metal. No frantic or stressed movement.

Good.

The rest of the house was quiet. No odd currents of air, no strange smells, no out-of-sorts noises. Nobody else in the bedroom.

He opened his eyes. The air smelled of water, her shampoo, her bodywash. She’d had a shower. Without her in it, the bed held no interest for him, and he slid out, headed for the bathroom.

On a cutter, you learn how to shower efficiently, and he was dressed in less than fifteen minutes. Getting a little sloppy, son, he thought.

He went to the kitchen and stood in the doorway for a moment, watching. She was wearing a sundress that he didn’t remember, and he approved of the way the skirt flowed around her legs. She had her hair up in the high ponytail that meant she wasn’t doing ranch work at the moment, and he was briefly jealous of the way it caressed her back.

She turned and smiled at him. He crossed the room to kiss her, and she returned it with a little heat and a little purr.

She slipped around him, picked up two coffee mugs, and set them at the table, returning to the stove with a little hip-bump on the way by.

He wasn’t the smartest guy in the room, but he recognized a “You’re in the way, Coastie,” so he sat down at the table, leaned back in the chair, and admired his wife.

Pretty quick she carried two plates to the table, set one for him and one for her, then sat primly in her chair with her hands in her lap and looked at him, level and direct.

Ok. Time to cheat. He sliced a chunk of breakfast sausage, speared it, stuck it in his mouth … then leaned sideways and kissed her. She squeaked and melted, and he palmed her breast just to drive the point home —

— She wasn’t wearing a bra.

His brain tried to short-circuit.

He sat back in his chair, trying not to pant. Oh kitten, he thought, You are putting the safety of this table in serious jeopardy.

Her eyes were hot and wicked, but she looked at him again, chewed the piece of sausage, swallowed, then arched an amused eyebrow. She looked down, bit her lip, looked back at him, and then wiggled in her chair. The oscillations …

Fuck it. I’ll build another table.

The green slammed awake, the old hyperawareness roaring back, and the room got suddenly … more. The lust was banked hard, still there, but no longer accessible under a feeling that tasted like: Unacceptable. She will get hurt.

She was sitting, still watching him, and the hyperawareness spoke of satiation, contentment, and amused stubbornness.

He wrinkled his nose at her, cut another piece of sausage, and started chewing — first to eat, losing this game of hers again.

The green whispered to him of her amusement taking on a triumphant shade as she took a sip of her coffee and took up her knife and fork.

Idly, as the green checked for threats in the house and yard again, he wondered why she did this. Irrelevant, whispered the green. It makes her happy.

After the meal he sipped his coffee as the green slowly went back to sleep, the hyperawareness fading; then she whispered, “Penny for them?”

He stopped his head from snapping around, looking at his wife slowly, carefully. His hand, he suddenly noticed, had somehow slipped along the table, and her tiny hand was resting on the back of it, fingers woven lightly between his.

“Figured on taking a half day.” Her eyes were bright, drinking in his. “Processor called yesterday afternoon, said that hog you shot would be ready for pick-up before noon. Figure we should get it in the freezer.”

She sipped coffee with her left hand, right never leaving his, then set the mug down. “Cheap pork chops will make the budget happy.”

He smiled at her. “What are your plans?”

She looked down, biting her lip for real this time, her left hand dropping to her thigh, fingers stroking the tattoo.

Kitten, he thought, stay with me.

She looked up, licked her lips, and said softly, “I thought I’d take the pickup into the city for a grocery run.”

He stomped hard on the part of him that wanted to pick her up, swing her around, and celebrate.

Instead he smiled — no big deal — and said as casually as he could, “Would you mind going by the ranch supply and getting me a pair of extra-large leather gloves and a set of fencing pliers?”

“Can I …” She cut herself off, looked at her lap.

You’ve got this, kitten.

She looked up, opened her mouth, closed it, then said softly, “I’ll get a pair of gloves, too. And a second set of pliers.”

Inside, he was exulting in fierce pride. Baby steps, kitten.

He smiled, “Ok.”

I meant to be working on the college section today, but this showed up during my morning shower, so here you go.

Tomorrow we’re off to visit some friends out of State, so updates may be a little sparse.

Ian

Keep your eyes down; Cover up in baggy clothing; Never act like a whore.

Being a quiet mouse around the edges had worked for Noelle Taylor for two years, then the big, quiet man with the pretty green eyes had patiently tolerated her squeaks every time he asked her out … until the day he simply sat down next to her at the coffee shop, set a cup of the exact coffee she liked in front of her, opened a textbook, and read for an hour in companionable silence.

When he closed the book Remy Moreaux said, gently, “See you here tomorrow,” and left.

The next day she watched the door, half-terrified he would come, half-terrified he wouldn’t. The moment she saw him she hurried to the counter, bought the drink he had ordered the day before, and set it carefully in front of him. Then she stood there, hands folded demurely, fingers twisting, staring at her shoes.

She felt him look at her. His big hand rose slowly, carefully, as if she were made of glass, and guided her down to sit beside him. The heat of his body made her heart race. He vanished for a moment and returned with a coffee for her, placing it as carefully as possible in front of her.

They sat for another hour -- him reading, her watching, trying to memorize every line of his face. Handsome? Not exactly. But the fall of blond hair made her fingers twitch for a comb, and the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he glanced up sent shivers deep inside her.

It took her days to work up the courage to sit with him in the cafeteria. The first time she almost fled, and he had simply slid his arm around her waist and waited. Her mother’s voice screamed shame in her head, but she finally leaned into his heat.

Then it happened.

They were sitting close, heads together, Ellie explaining the finer points of quarter-horse conformation he hadn’t quite grasped, when a sudden flare of pain ripped through her scalp. Someone had yanked her ponytail hard enough to jerk her head back.

She froze.

She never saw him move. One second he was beside her; the next Remy was standing over the unconscious body of a football player. And his eyes --

There was madness in the gold-ringed inky black. Rage. An unholy hunger for blood and breaking bones and screams.

He crouched ... too still, too relaxed, scanning the room with pure predator calm, the entire cafeteria had gone silent and still in startlement. Ellie understood why no one moved … and also that the longer he stood there, the more certain someone would try something stupid. The police would already be on their way.

She rose slowly. Moving toward him was terrifying; doing it slowly was the only way she could make her legs work. Someone hissed, “Girl, are you nuts?” but she saw the gold-ringed hunger flicker and ease the moment she stepped into his line of sight.

She placed both palms flat on his chest and whispered, “Can we leave?”

The gold-rings flickered, then stilled. His arm slid around her waist, careful not to drag her, and he walked her out of the cafeteria and two blocks to the little house he rented.

By the time they reached the door the madness had drained out of his eyes, leaving him almost sleep-drunk and staggering. She had to take the keys to open the door.

Inside, the house was spartan: bed, table, one chair, a bookshelf made of cinder blocks and planks. She helped him lie down, lifted his feet, and tugged off his boots. Half-thrilled, half-panicked, she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

He murmured. One big hand rose, took her wrist with impossible gentleness, and pulled her down onto the bed. She froze. He simply tucked her against his chest, patted her once, tucked his face into her hair, and sank into deep, exhausted sleep.

She lay in his arms for almost an hour, thoughts racing, then carefully tried to slide away. His arm tightened and he murmured again. She froze.

A ridiculous thought flickered through her mind: He’s fully dressed. You’re fully dressed. In your house-mouse camouflage. Assaults on your virtue would be … logistically challenging.

She stifled a giggle, then -- brave for the first time in years -- softly traced the warm muscle of his arm and thought, Well… just for a while.

She woke at dawn. It was the slowest, most comfortable waking she could remember … until she realized she didn’t recognize the wallpaper, felt the heavy arm across her waist, the scrape of his beard against her scalp, and remembered everything.

“Oh no!”

She flung the arm off, rolled out of bed, and spun to meet startled green eyes. “Oh God -- I’m sorry!”

She bolted, snatching a jacket from the back of the chair as she ran.

A blue norther had blown in overnight, and she was grateful for the jacket as she hurried across campus to her dorm. Only after a quick shower, standing in a towel, did she notice the jacket on the bed was not hers.

Denim. Far too big. Moreaux stitched cleanly across the chest pocket.

She flushed scarlet, mortified … then stopped.

On the top shelf of her closet, neatly folded and long-hidden, were the clothes she had bought once on a wild impulse and never dared wear.

“Well,” she whispered to her reflection, “I’m not exactly a decent girl anymore. In for a penny …”

She pulled them on.

The jeans were snug -- far too snug for any proper young lady. The sweater skimmed her figure and brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. She stared at herself in the mirror, heart hammering.

“I can’t … I can’t …”

Her gaze fell on the denim jacket. Moving like someone in a dream, she slipped it on and rolled up the sleeves. His scent wrapped around her like armor, and before she could lose her nerve she left for class.

The two jocks were at the auditorium doors, as always. Normally she would wait for a group of girls to hide among, but today she was late, and there was no cover. She fixed her eyes between them and walked forward.

“Well, hello there!”

“Dude. Look at her jacket.”

“Dude, I am. Lord have mercy.”

“No -- dude. That’s Moreaux’s jacket. If she belongs to him, she’s off-limits. I ain’t getting my head ripped off because you’re a horn-dog.”

"Oh. Well, hell. I don’t suppose you want to help me with my homework?"

There a grunt as he was elbowed firmly in the ribs, but they parted amiably, and she slipped into the auditorium.

There wasn't any dramatic silence, but she heard the sudden whispers, the whistles, and the comments. She hurried up the steps to the upper row, where everyone would be in front of her. At the top, she turned to go down the row, and the girl at the end stood up, planted her fists on her hips, “Oh, little hausfrau is wearing his jacket now?”

Ellie froze.

A calm, familiar voice came from right behind her, “No. She’s wearing her jacket. Move.”

His hand settled gently on her hip -- warm and solid. Ellie sighed, soft and happy, and let him guide her down the row.

Ugh.

I’m starting to build out Act 1, and that’s the rough draft for the opening sequence.

It just has to last long enough for me to hang the rest of the first third of the book on it, then I’ll go back and flesh it out. The rest should move pretty quickly.

Ian

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a dress, little Ellie,” Carter’s voice was reasonable, and she wanted to scream at him, “I don’t like you wearing jeans. You should dress like a lady.”

“My wolf likes them, so too fucking bad.”

He walked past her, dropping the white cloth and the strappy sandals on the cot, “Put it on, and you’ll see your hubby tonight.”

She looked at the cot, then at his face, chewed her lip, “Get the fuck out.”

He stepped into her personal space, looking down at her, “You’ve got five minutes.” Then he turned and left the room, the clunk of the door locking loud off the warehouse walls.

Exactly five minutes later he opened the door without fanfare. Ellie was standing by the cot, in the dress and heels, arms folded, glaring at him.

He nodded, “Better.”

She smiled – all teeth, savage – “You know what I like about this dress?” Without waiting for a reply, she flicked the skirt hem on her left thigh. There it was. Black, smaller than the palm of her hand, sharp, precise. Permanent. He felt his teeth grinding, looked at her face.

“Every time I move you get reminded that I belong to another man.”

He moved before he realized, back into her personal space, knuckles popping as he clenched his fists. Her gaze was cold, contemptuous. She didn’t flinch.

“Something you need to get through your pretty little head, Noelle,” Carter ground out, “I hold all the cards. I have all the time.” He bent closer, snarling, “And you were broken once. You can be broken again.”

She hissed a short, vicious laugh in his face, “You wet your pants when my wolf got ahold of you.” Her blue eyes flashed, “Broken?” Another mocking laugh, “Not by you.”

He took a deep breath, shoulders shaking, stepped back. “Get in the truck. Remember: If you do anything stupid, everyone close to you dies.”

He took her arm firmly, Bertrand opening the door to the room, and pulled her across the warehouse slab to the open driver’s door of his pickup, shoving her at the door, “Get in the middle.”

She planted her feet, pivoted from her hips, and her palm cracked across his face.

Startled, he blinked, and she stalked around the front bumper, opened the passenger side door and climbed in; fastening the seatbelt and glared at him.

Behind him, he heard a slight huff of air, and he spun to scowl at the huge bodyguard, scanning his face for any sign of humor. The giant regarded him with a face that might as well have been carved from marble.

Carter climbed into the driver’s seat, pushed the ‘Start’ button, looked at Ellie.

She regarded him, eyes frosty, and flipped the skirt, stroking the tattoo.

“Cover that up,” he grated.

“Fuck you.”

He saw red, gritted his teeth, “Cover it up, little Ellie,” He forced his jaw to unclench, “Or we stay here and I take it off with a wire wheel.”

Ellie showed her teeth again, flipped the hem back, then laid her hand possessively on the cloth over the tattoo.

It was thirty minutes to the lease, Ellie looking out the window, stroking her thigh; Carter steaming behind the wheel; and Bertrand stone-faced in the back.

And this leads into the scene where Remy is getting off of the helicopter at the lease.

One of the issues I’m running into is making Ellie’s transformation from the house-mouse that Remy takes care of in the first act into the woman who takes care of him in the third act.

I can do it — no problem — I just have to keep it interesting.

Sigh.

Ian

The humidity of the Vermilion Parish night always crept into the church sanctuary by midnight, turning the ancient cypress pews damp and leaving the smell of beeswax, river silt, and stale incense to hang thick in the air.

In the depths of that dark, well after midnight, Father Jeremy woke to a sound that shattered the heavy silence of the rectory.

It wasn’t a standard break-in. It was a rhythmic, wet, and heavy thud-slide echoing from the main nave, followed by the metallic, terrifying clatter of a heavy brass candelabra striking the altar rail.

The young priest -- barely twenty-six, fresh from the seminary in New Orleans -- threw on a robe, thinking some local parishioner was in deep trouble, perhaps a drunk shrimper looking for sanctuary or a broken soul seeking late-night confession.

He pushed the heavy oak doors of the sanctuary open, the hinges giving a soft, agonizing groan in the dark.

“Hello?” Father Jeremy’s voice was a tight, tentative whisper that died instantly against the vaulted cypress rafters. “Is someone there? The church is open to those in need.”

He flicked hte light switch on, illuminating the nave and the high altar, and the priest’s breath left him in a single, freezing gasp.

Etienne Moreaux stood before the tabernacle.

He was barely nineteen years old, but his broad, raw-boned frame already carried the muscle of the Moreaux lineage. He was stripped to the waist, his skin glistening with a thick, volatile sweat that smelled of scorched copper and marsh mud.

He was entirely covered in blood. Dark, thick, oxygenated blood was smeared across his chest, caked beneath his fingernails, and dripping from his forearms onto the polished floor.

Etienne didn’t turn around. He was half-crouched over the sacred rail, his body vibrating with a terrifying, rhythmic intensity, his head tilted back as he stared blindly up at the large crucifix hanging in the shadows.

Then he began to snarl.

It wasn’t a human sound, and it wasn’t the anger of a common man. It was a low, guttural, and vicious vibration that tore softly from deep within his chest -- a sound carrying so much raw, primeval rage and unadulterated fury that the air in the church sanctuary instantly turned heavy, pressing down on the young priest like a physical weight.

Father Jeremy took a panicked step backward: Etienne’s absinthe-green irises had completely compressed into thin, glittering gold rings around absolute, pitch-black pits. His head snapped toward the doorway, his lips peeling back over his teeth as that soft, vicious snarl hissed through the shadows, cutting through the silence with a terrible, absolute intent.

The priest didn’t pray, and he didn’t offer confession -- he turned on his heel, his robe twisting around his legs, and fled from the church in absolute, animal panic; sobbing into the dark Louisiana night while that quiet, menacing vibration continued to echo through the sanctuary behind him.

Sigh.

I was writing a scene where Dr Robert Hampson was talking to a priest from the parish Remy is from, setting up some explanatory stuff, when I suddenly had to write a scene from past where the — much younger — priest first met Remy’s father.

There is a scene I’ve already written from the first act where Remy is showing Ellie the brands for the ranch he’s dreaming of. The personal brand is a broken ‘R’; and Ellie says the ‘R’ is for ‘Remy’, and then asks why the ‘R’ is broken.

Remy replies that one day he’ll get to ask God that question.

I guess that scene stuck around in my head a bit.

Ian

“Definitely Midland, boss.” Bukowski was already pulling off the highway when he saw the pickup parked in front of the Ember gate and the young couple staring at the lock. His stomach tightened, “I’ll call you right back.”

He swung in behind the truck, shut the engine off, and stepped out, “Evening, folks.”

“Evening,” the man grunted, still frowning at the padlock.

The young woman squinted, then brightened, “We met at Ellie’s wedding … Buk-something?”

Buk grinned, easy and automatic, “Bukowski. Buk’s fine, though.” He held out his hand.

“Hello, Buk!” She gave him an enthusiastic shake. “Bobbi Ann Monroe, and this is Joe.” She waved toward her boyfriend, who was still trying to force a key into the lock, “Lock’s less than a year old and it’s completely gummed up.”

Amateurs, Buk thought, and stepped forward, “Mind if I try?”

Joe grunted, stepped back, and handed over the key ring. Buk knelt, sniffed lightly at the keyway. Even over the Texas dust he caught the faint, acrid bite of cyanoacrylate.

Fucking amateurs.

He stood, heading for the rear of his 4Runner, “Somebody super-glued the lock.”

Bobbi Ann blinked. “What?”

Buk pulled a small hard case, extracted two thin shims and a pair of channel-locks, and walked back to the gate, “Y’all out here for any particular reason, or just visiting?”

“Remy called us,” Bobbi Ann said. “Asked us to look in on their livestock for a bit. We figured he needed to go somewhere and get his head straight over this Ellie-disappearing mess.”

Buk grunted, sliding the shims over the shackle bars where they entered the lock body. He seated them with the channel-locks, twisted once, hard. The padlock snapped open, he dropped it in the dirt and pushed the gate wide.

“He sound okay when he called?”

“About as good as Remy is ever going to sound,” she answered, “Being away from Ellie more than a night.”

Buk looked at Joe, then at Bobbi Ann, “Bobbi Ann, why don’t you give the Sheriff a call. Please ask them not to shoot at us when they get here, all right?”

She already had her phone out. Buk patted the air gently where she couldn’t see; Joe nodded once, understanding the silent wait.

Buk climbed back into the 4Runner, pulled around the pickup, and rolled hard down the gravel lane.

The front door of the house hung crooked on its hinges, kicked in hard. Buk drew his pistol and cleared the house fast and quiet — living room, kitchen, bathroom, both bedrooms. He was coming out of the master when he heard the pickup crunch to a stop outside.

“Coming out!” he called, and waved an empty hand before stepping onto the porch.

Joe stood behind the open driver’s door of the pickup, shotgun pointed at the dirt. On the far side Bobbi Ann held a small lever-action carbine, muzzle safely down.

Buk holstered his pistol, appreciating their safety, “He’s gone. Found his phone on the bedroom floor.”

“This is bullshit,” Bobbi Ann snapped. “Sheriff’s on the way.”

“Complete bullshit,” Joe agreed quietly.

Buk pulled his phone out of his pocket, “Please pardon me. We’ve got calls to make.”

He hit speed-dial, “Mari. Get to the boss. Work clothes.”

A short pause.

“Remy’s been grabbed.”

He hung up and walked over to Bobbi Ann and Joe, “I don’t expect you to trust me, but I can’t do any good talking to the Sheriff for four hours …”

“Go,” Bobbi Ann said immediately, “We’ll handle the Sheriff.” She looked him straight in the eye, “Bring Ellie and Remy back, okay?”

Buk nodded once, “I’ll do my best.”

Wrote this last night. I must be getting used to rough drafting my work, because when I looked at it just now, my eye only twitched a little.

In this scene, Bukowski has finished having a chat with the Russian security types Remy put in the hospital in a previous scene.

Remy is currently on a helicopter out of Wichita Falls, headed to a lease south of Midland, where things are going to rapidly go to hell — as seen in an earlier snippet I posted.

Ian

Ellie was walking out of the bedroom when she heard the knock. Curious, she went to the front window and peeked through the curtain.

Carter Stephenson was leaning nonchalantly against the front fender of a black Chevy Tahoe, looking for all the world like he had every right to be there.

Are you freaking serious?

She yanked the door open, “Are you delusional, or just stupid?”

Too late she saw the knuckle-dragger in the cheap suit standing just to the left of the doorframe; his size-fourteen shoe planted firmly over the threshold the second she tried to slam it shut.

“Now, Ellie …” Carter began, that smooth, patient voice she already hated.

She pivoted hard, darting for the side table and the .357 that lived there. She only got two steps before a thick hand locked around her upper arm and dragged her bodily out onto the porch.

Carter looked amused, “Now, Ellie, if you’d just listen to me --”

“Get the hell off our ranch, you dumb bastard!”

He held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture as the thug hauled her across the gravel and planted her in front of him. A second security type climbed out from behind the wheel and took position at Carter’s shoulder.

“Do you kiss your husband with that mouth?” Carter asked, almost fond.

“Funny you should mention my wolf,” Ellie spat, “because if Goon McNugget hasn’t let go of my arm by the time Remy gets here from the barn, he’s going to rip your heads off.”

Carter sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man tired of dealing with unreasonable women, “Yes, little Ellie, I’m sure your big, scary husband is going to absolutely murder two highly-trained former Spetsnaz.” He gestured. “Ivan, please let go of the lady.”

The thug grunted and released her arm.

“Now, Ellie, as I was trying to say earlier … damn it.”

Ellie spun on her heel and bolted for the house. Carter’s face twisted with visible frustration, as he barked something sharp in Russian. The thug grabbed her arm again.

“Ellie, I swear to God, if you don’t listen to me ...”

Remy left the ground at a dead sprint.

He hit the driver in the shoulder blades knees-first with his full two-hundred-fifteen pounds of bone and muscle, smashing the man face-first into the gravel, sliding six feet before Remy’s elbow came down once, hard, into the back of his skull. The thug’s legs went rigid, arms locked in front of him, body vibrating.

The second thug had already let go of Ellie, hands clawing for the gun under his cheap coat, when Remy rolled off the first man, darted past Ellie, caught the gun hand, and used the man’s own momentum to whip him around and off-balance. Then he threw him bodily into the side of the old carport.

The thug hit the century-old lumber with a crash and staggered. Remy was already accelerating -- shoulder down, back leg driving. He went through the Russian like a freight train through a paper wall.

The 2×6 planks exploded in a cloud of dust and splinters, Remy and the thug vanished through the hole. There was a short scream cut off by a wet, final sound like a cantaloupe hitting concrete.

Remy reappeared in the ragged opening, absinthe-green irises compressed into thin gold rings around black pits. Dust and blood freckled his forearms.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck?!” Carter gabbled, staring.

Remy crouched slightly, gaze locked on Carter with pure predatory stillness.

“Ellie ...” Carter started.

“Don’t touch me, Carter!”

Too late. His hand clawed at her sleeve.

Remy moved with savage, liquid smoothness.

Carter turned and ran, whimpering. Remy passed Ellie at a low, predatory lope and dealt Carter an open-handed slap that spun him halfway around and dropped him onto his stomach in the gravel.

As Remy stopped and turned, Carter twisted onto his side, one hand stretched out toward Ellie, terror naked on his face.

Remy dropped, shin across Carter’s back like a steel bar, one hand locking around the back of his neck, the other fisting in the hair at his forehead.

Then he began to pull.

Carter’s neck popped. Pain shot white-hot through the base of his skull. His head was being forced back, back, any second the vertebrae would separate and the back of his skull would meet his spine.

Ellie saw it clearly: He’s going to kill him.

She stepped into Remy’s field of vision, walking slow, hips loose, palms open and empty. Her voice came out soft and clear and absolutely steady.

“My wolf. Please let him go.”

Behind the gold rings she saw faint, crystalline calculations. The request registered as Irrelevant.

She bit her lip once, hard, then stepped as close as she dared.

“My wolf … I’m scared.” The lie tasted metallic, “Please take me away.”

The geometry behind the gold flickered. Something older and deeper than rage recognized Safe / Soft / Mine.

Remy rose in one fluid motion, took her arm with careful, iron gentleness, and began scanning the yard for further threats. He moved her firmly toward the house, then stopped just short of the porch. He placed her behind him, turned back to Carter, and jerked his head once toward Ellie.

A snarl trying to shape itself into human words: “Safe.”

His other hand pointed at Carter, still sprawled and shaking in the gravel; a soft, harsh, barking sound that was almost laughter: If you are still here when she is safe … I will come back and finish you.

Then he turned, shepherding Ellie into the house, gold rings already beginning the slow, pulsing fight back toward green.

I do much better with fight scenes, although this one is a little rough.

After this scene, a desperate Carter moves from trying to talk Ellie into using her influence on her father, to kidnapping her and dealing directly with Alan.

Like I said before: That may sound like a really dumb plan, but idiots have done it before.

Ian

“Why do you call him that?”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“You call him ‘my wolf.’ Why?”

She looked down, almost shy for a second, then met his eyes again.

“My mother made me take French lessons. ‘Mon loup’ is a common French endearment women use for the men they love. ‘My wolf’ is just the direct English translation.”

“Ah.”

Ellie spread her hands, waiting.

Robert huffed softly, almost a laugh, then recited in a low, careful voice:

“Hlaðnir váru þeir hǫlða ok hvítra skjalda,
vigra vestrœnna ok valskra sverða.
Grenjuðu berserkir; guðr vas þeim á sinni;
emjuðu ulfheðnar ok ísǫrn dúðu.”

Ellie blinked. “Well … that wasn’t French.”

Robert smiled, “That’s from the Hrafnsmál, a poem written in the ninth century about the Battle of Hafrsfjord.”

Ellie looked at him for a long moment, “… Okay?”

He translated, voice steady:

“They were loaded with men and white shields,
Western spears and Frankish swords.
The bear-shirts roared; a god was with them.
The wolf-coats howled, and the iron rang out.”

Ellie shrugged, “Still not helping.”

Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face completely earnest.

“What everybody has been gently tap-dancing around is right there in that poem -- and in a dozen others like it. Your husband is a berserker.”

Ellie stared, “I’m sorry… what?”

“Not just any berserker,” he continued. “The poem is careful. It names two different kinds. The berserkir -- the bear-shirts -- fought in the front ranks and were as dangerous to their own side as to the enemy. And then there were the others, the ones who wore wolf-coats. The úlfheðnar. They were trusted even in the height of their fury to protect the king.”

The low, careful voice again:

“Wolf-skins they are called, who bear bloody shields in battle;
Their spears redden when they come to fight.
There they sit together.
The prince, in his wisdom, trusts under their shelter
The one who has the skill to strike through shields.”

Ellie was very still. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes.” Robert’s voice was quiet but absolute. “This is not a surprise. Humans are vicious primates who tend -- as a whole -- to select for aggression when they breed, with the added evolutionary pressure of combat and war. It is inevitable that men like your husband will appear from time to time.”

Not sure about this part — I don’t know that the story actually needs to state what he is, but I wrote it, so here you go.

Ian

Ellie walked up to the maître d’, “I hate to be a bother …”

“What can I do for you, Mrs Moreaux?”

She hesitated, “Can I get an escort to my pickup? There’s a man in the parking lot …”

“Of course, ma’am. Give me a moment.”

A voice from behind her, “Mrs Ellie Moreaux?”

She turned, an older, barrel-chested man was standing there, thick silver mustache, weathered face, sharp gray eyes, “I don’t know if you remember me, Ms Ellie, but we met at the Ranch Roundup …”

She interrupted him with a smile, holding out her hand, “7T Ranch. Mr Drummond, isn’t it?”

He grinned, taking her hand, “Yes, ma’am. Ben Drummond. This is my wife, Brenda.”

“Hello, Ellie,” Brenda said taking Ellie’s hands in both of hers, “I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I saw your ride on Yardbird.” A steady look, “Did we hear correctly that you need an escort to your pickup?”

Ellie looked at Brenda, small and slim next to her husband, and felt the tenseness in her shoulders relax, “Yes, but please don’t trouble yourselves …”

“Nonsense,” Ben rumbled, “It’s no trouble at all.” He looked at the maître d’, “We’re going to escort Mrs Moreaux to her pickup, and we’ll need a table for four when we get back.”

“Very good, sir.”

Brenda took Ellie’s arm, and they began walking to the parking lot, Ben on the other side and two 7T hands falling in behind.

They stepped out into the Texas afternoon sunshine, and Ellie felt a stab of relief. And a wash of sheepishness. The man wasn’t there. Silly, dramatic girl, she thought. “I’m sorry for wasting your …”

“Boss,” the hand’s voice was soft, but firm, “Left.”

She looked, and he was there. Black baseball cap, sunglasses, surgical mask, jeans, hands in the front pocket of the gray hoodie. And she could feel his gaze on her, her shoulders tensed in response.

“That him?” Ben Drummond’s voice was mild.

“Yes, sir.”

“Paolo, Jimmy.”

“Boss.” Both cow hands started moving towards the man, spreading out.

The man’s head turned slightly, observing the cowboys moving to flank him, then his hands came out of the pocket, the fingers of his left hand curling under the hem of the garment.

Drummond moved quickly, faster than a gentleman his age and build should have, stepping in front of the women, balanced, left foot slightly forward, right hand sliding under his sport coat to land on the butt of his pistol.

The man paused, his head moving from Drummond to the advancing cowboys, then he let go of the hoodie and both hands came up to chest level, palms down, fingers spread. Faintly Ellie heard the pop as Drummond unsnapped the retention strap on the holster and he slowly shook his head at the man.

Abruptly a white van pulled in front of him, blocking their view, the sound of a sliding door slamming closed, the van pulling out of the parking lot, horns sounding from the street.

Ellie blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, “Well, that was certainly something” she gave a brief relieved chuckle, “Thank y’all, I’ll just …”

She stopped as Brenda took her hand, “Aw, hell no, Ellie honey.” Her eyes were fierce, “You’re going to come inside, sit with us, and drink a glass of tea until Fort Worth PD gets here.”

Ben let go of the butt of his pistol, and turned, spreading both arms and making chivvying motions, “Thinking bourbon myself,” he herded the women back inside the building, “but, sure, tea is good, too.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure there’s actually anything here.” The Ft Worth PD sergeant looked skeptical.

“Now, see here,” Drummond sounded irked, and the sergeant raised his hand in a peace gesture, “It’s a busy city parking lot. We all know it’s dumb, but people wear those masks,” He looked at Drummond steadily, “Your hands were closing on him in what some might consider an aggressive manner, and you had your hand on a gun.” He shrugged, “I’d’ve … pardon me.”

He turned slightly hand coming up to his lapel mic, the faint crackle of static in his earpiece. Brenda laid her hand on her husband’s arm, and Ellie wished she were anywhere else.

The sergeant blinked, activated the microphone, “Merge those case numbers, please.”

He let go of the mic, and got his pen out of his pocket, looked at Ben Drummond, “My apologies, Mr Drummond. That van was reported stolen this morning.” He switched his gaze to Ellie, “So, Mrs Moreaux. Any idea who might want to kidnap you?”

Ellie blinked, Oh, she thought, an unusual glow of anger lighting her stomach, That bitch.

This is actually a red herring. Everyone thinks Elizabeth is behind this attempt, but it’s actually Carter Stephenson.

We are introduced to Carter in a scene I’m currently working on at the Fort Worth Petroleum Club, where Elizabeth was trying to arrange for him to have an affair with Ellie. What Elizabeth doesn’t know is that Carter has screwed-up by double-selling shares in a Midland-to-the-Gulf gas pipeline called Solstice Midstream. He needs Alan’s contacts with the Texas Railroad Commission and the financial backing of Taylor Oil and Gas to calm his investors down long enough to start making money, which will allow him to fix the situation.

If he doesn’t get Alan’s backing he’s looking at financial ruin, civil lawsuits, and probable criminal charges.

Ellie shuts him down pretty hard at the Petroleum Club, but he knows how fond Alan is of Ellie, so he thinks that he can schmooze Ellie into talking her father into backing Carter, and he decides to “run into” Ellie at a cafe in Henrietta so he can enlist her aid.

Ellie thinks it’s further attempt at an affair, there’s a bit of a scene — I think, still working on that one — and storms out of the cafe. Carter follows her to the ranch, where one of his security team grabs her arm to make her sit and listen to what Carter is actually trying to say.

Remy does Remy things, and both security types1 become kinetic meat shields long enough for Ellie to stop Remy from turning Carter into a Pez dispenser.

Carter’s family gets him out of jail, get the charges dropped — “misunderstanding, and all that” — and Carter (justifiably scared of Remy)2 decides that kidnapping Ellie to force Alan3 to help is the next best course of action.

This scene is his first attempt, but everyone is set-up to believe that Elizabeth is behind it, which gives Carter the breathing room for a second — successful — attempt.

I’m at the stage where I can’t write fast enough to get the scenes out of my head.

Sigh.

Oh, and I’d like to remind everyone that these are literally just passages I’m brain-dumping onto the page. Yes, they need editing. Badly. Yes, there seem to be some character inconsistencies. Yes, I overuse some words. First Draft, guys.

Ian

“I don’t know why you keep this thing.”

Alan Taylor wiggled the trailer wiring connector, muttered to himself, and a coffee mug appeared beside his face.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” He took a sip, stood up, and smiled at his wife, “Because it’s the first brand-new thing I ever bought with my own money.”

“I know,” Betsy was still in her robe, looking mussed from bed, “But if you absolutely need a truck, you can afford something modern, with a warranty, that won’t leave you stranded on a highway somewhere.”

Alan straightened up, patted the tailgate of the 1996 Ford Bronco affectionately, “It only happened that one time.”

He took another sip, watching Betsy chew her bottom lip. He wondered if she realized how much she looked like their daughter when she did that.

“If you give her money, you won’t be doing her any favors,” she looked him in the eye, “The longer she persists in this fantasy of hers, the more it will hurt when it fails.”

“They won’t take money, love,” He took another sip, “I tried.”

“Why, Alan?”

“Because she’s my daughter, sweetheart.”

“She can’t keep grubbing in the dirt, Alan. That’s no place for your daughter.”

Alan set the coffee mug on the trailer, settled his hands on Betsy’s waist, “I did my fair share of grubbing in the dirt, honey.”

She sighed, trying to make him understand, “You’re a man, husband. Noelle is not.”

She settled her hands on his forearms, “The world is not kind to girls of her station. Common men are not kind to girls like her. That man --”

He set a gentle finger on her lips, “Remy.”

She frowned, sighed, “-- Remy is a common man. He will leave her broken-hearted, pregnant, and ruined. That’s what common men do.”

Alan, smiled softly, brushed a lock of her hair out of her face, “I’m a common man, darling.”

“Alan Michael Taylor, you are no such thing! You are not common now, nor have you ever been!”

He touched his forehead to hers, huffed fondly, “I grew up in a trailer park, sweetheart. I was roustabouting in the oil patch at 15. Navy enlisted. Roughnecked my way through college. You don’t get much more common than that.”

She pulled back, looked him fiercely in the eye, “You built Taylor Oil and Gas from nothing to an industry power. You rub shoulders with Senators and Congressmen. You have had international movers and shakers sitting at our dinner table. A common man didn’t do that.”

“Yes,” he kissed her, gently, “But I wasn’t doing any of that when I was 26.”

She sighed, frustrated, and stepped back, waved at the trailer hitched to the Bronco, “So, tell me about this thing.”

“This,” he twanged the tie-down strap, “Is a two-seat 4x4 UTV.”

He smiled at Betsy’s Interested Wife Expression.

“Did you know that our daughter hunts?”

Betsy looked at him, puzzled, “Hunts what?”

He smiled, proud, “Feral hogs, mostly. They’re tearing up the south part of the ranch. And, I suspect, padding out their freezer.”

Her hand came up, covering her mouth, eyes wide in shock, “Alan, no!”

“The deck on this thing will haul a dead hog with ease. And hay, feed sacks, calves, and a whole bunch of things a small ranch needs.”

He looked her in the eye, “So I’m going to take my daughter hunting in it, and then I’m going to forget to bring it home.”

She took a deep breath, paused, chewed on her lip. Alan walked to her and put his hands on her waist again. She looked up at him, trying to get him to understand, “Alan, that man – Remy – he doesn’t love her.”

Alan rubbed his face gently in her hair. “Betsy, did you know that they have a goat that spends most of the time on top of their roof?”

He looked at her, “Remy doesn’t like Roof Goat, so every morning he stands in the front yard and cusses Roof Goat – but he does it quietly, so Ellie doesn’t hear him.”

Alan smiled, gently, “But she does, and she giggles.”

Betsy looked at him, “If he doesn’t like it why doesn’t he just get rid of the filthy thing?”

Alan brushed her cheek with his thumb, “Because Ellie likes Roof Goat.”

“I … I don’t understand.”

Alan sighed, softly, sadly, “I know you don’t, sweetheart.” He kissed her. “I love you. I’ll give Ellie your love. See you Tuesday afternoon.”

Wrote a scene yesterday that I’m not happy with. I badly explained something that seems integral to the plot and to Ellie, so I need to work on it a bit. In lieu of that one here’s something I threw together this morning.

And, yes, I’m already getting cussed for making Elizabeth complicated. You’re welcome!

Ian

Alan Taylor had stepped outside the barn to lean on a fence and look at an old tractor when the man walked up beside him. The other man was shorter and more solid than Alan, dressed in carefully pressed blue jeans, a fitted sport coat, and a silverbelly Stetson. An impressive mustache cascaded down from his upper lip.

He held out a hand. The handshake was firm; the hands were a working man’s hands, “You must be Ellie’s pa.”

“I am,” Alan said. “Alan Taylor. And you are?”

“Hello, Alan Taylor. I’m Seth Monroe.” He tilted the hat back with one finger. “My Bobbi Sue was your girl’s roommate all through college.”

Alan nodded, not quite sure how to answer that.

“Bobbi Sue figured out real quick that your Ellie wasn’t going home when school closed, so she brought her out to our place.”

“Thank you, Seth. That was kind of you and your wife.”

Seth snorted, fond, “My Rachel gave me five kids -- three boys and two girls. Then your Ellie showed up, and Rachel … well, she just figured Santa Claus had snuck a sixth kid into her stocking when she wasn’t looking.”

Alan blinked. “Mr. Monroe --”

“Personally,” Seth went on as if Alan hadn’t spoken, “I didn’t even realize there was a sixth kid around the farm the first couple of times, your girl is so quiet. Regular little house mouse.”

He spat accurately, knocking a juvenile skink ass-over-teakettle off the bottom fence rail, “Then I heard her talking to my Rachel and the girls a few times, and I figured out that your little girl is damaged.” He looked at Alan directly. “The sort of damage it takes a mother to do.”

Alan felt his jaw tighten, “I thank you for the care of my daughter, but I don’t think her relationship with her mother is any of your business.”

Seth sighed, gentle and rueful, “You’d think so.” He straightened the Stetson on his head. “But if your wife throws a monkey wrench into Ellie’s wedding, my Rachel is going to drag your wife out into the parking lot and beat her ass.”

He smiled at Alan, easy and completely serious, “And then it’ll be my business.”

He patted Alan on the shoulder, “Better go get ready, Alan. You’re walking Ellie down the aisle in that barn in twenty minutes.”

Sigh. I keep writing secondary characters who are more interesting than my protagonists. Bloody Muse.

Ian

EDIT: It’s completely illogical, but I feel bad for the skink.

Ian

Noelle’s brothers and sisters-in-law had run interference between her and her mother when they first arrived at the house, but at the dinner table she was trapped in a chair with no one able to get between them.

“Really, Noelle Ruth, what sort of alleged husband lets his wife parade around in something like that?”

Noelle looked down, fingernails biting into her palms. He likes this dress, she thought.

“What will people think? My daughter, dressed like a common streetwalker? Did you not think of how your appearance would reflect on this family? On your father?” A pause, cold and precise. “You’re not the only person in this family, Noelle Ruth.”

Ellie felt the nausea rising. Through her hair she shot a desperate glance toward the chair they had shown him to.

He wasn’t there.

Her hand dropped reflexively, fingers stroking the tattoo on her thigh. His, she thought frantically. His, his, his.

“Stop touching that disgusting thing, young lady.” Her mother’s voice was practically a hiss. “I have told you before: well-raised young women don’t. Fidget.”

Panic surged. She felt herself starting to hyperventilate --

Then large hands settled softly on her shoulders, and a gentle kiss pressed to the top of her head.

“Say your goodbyes, kitten. It’s time to go.”

Ellie felt her mother’s shock, then heard the note of triumph.

“Young man, you are causing a scene.” A poisonous pause. “Do sit down.”

Her chair moved back, gently. She felt herself stand, his hand settled at the small of her back, guiding her. A cold metallic undertone threaded through his voice: “You’re being a bitch at my wife.”

Shock rippled around the table. One of her brothers made a small, involuntary sound. A sister-in-law’s fork clattered against her plate. Ellie kept her eyes down and let him guide her.

Her mother’s voice, no longer triumphant: “Young man, what do you think you are doing?”

A pause. She felt her purse strap settled carefully into her hand. Then he took her chin gently and lifted her face, “Anything else, kitten?”

In a daze she looked into his eyes and saw the warm green. She shook her head.

That mild pressure at the small of her back started her walking; she tucked herself under his arm.

“You will not take my daughter out into the rain dressed like that!” Elizabeth’s voice scrambled, her demeanor cracking. Her script isn’t working, Ellie thought distantly.

“Leave if you wish, but I will not stand for my daughter to catch her death! I forbid it!”

Ellie clung to him. He moved, shifted, and weight landed on her shoulders. His sport coat. Still warm, smelling of him.

She grabbed the lapels, clinging like a drowning man clings to a life-preserver, burying her face in the warm, familiar scent of him. Her mother’s voice faded into background noise.

The sound of the rain grew louder. Cool air hit her lower legs -- he had opened the door. Then she squeaked as he picked her up.

“Tuck under my chin, kitten.”

Obediently she snuggled her face against his neck, feeling the scrub of his short beard. His boots splashed through puddles, rain rattled on the brim of his hat. Drops hit her shins. The heat of his body and the solid thump of his heartbeat under her cheek were the only warm things in the world.

She wondered, distantly, why she wasn’t feeling the rain on her face … then the sound of rain on his hat and the way she was tucked under his chin …

Oh.

He paused. Still pressed to his neck, she reached out blindly, found the cold glass of the pickup window, slid her hand down until it bumped the window ledge, then moved it back and forth.

“To the right, kitten.”

Her hand found the door handle. Fingers wrapped. Thumb landed on the unlock button, clunk of the locks. She pulled as he stepped back, the door opened, and he placed her gently on the seat.

The moment he let go, her eyes snapped open. She scooted across the bench seat and twisted to watch him.

He slid in, shut the door, and pushed the start button. He took off his hat and set it in the back seat; his shirt was soaked. She stared at the wet cloth, nausea pooled in her stomach.

He’s wet because I took his coat. Selfish, selfish, selfish… A small, stubborn voice (newer, quieter) whispered back: If he wants his coat, he’ll take it. He put it on me.

The anxiety smoothed … then returned as another thought took root: That’s three hours. He’s tired. It’s dark. It’s a long way to drive. There’s a perfectly good bed. You’re being selfish … Distantly she heard herself ask, “Can we go home?”

She kept her eyes shut. Silly, selfish …

“I was thinking about that exact thing, kitten. Let’s go by the hotel, get our things, check out, and go home.”

Her jaw unlocked. She snuggled against his side as he drove.

“Thank you, my wolf.”

His arm tightened gently. His hand patted her hip, then settled possessively.

The nausea fled.

*****

“Oh, I like him!”

Elizabeth spun on her daughter-in-law, “Rebecca, you are pregnant and not thinking clearly.”

She drew herself to her full height and turned to Alan, “That man is trash. He is uncouth, ill-bred, and clearly no match for my daughter. What was she thinking? Did you see that rag he dressed her in?”

Alan thought, No more or less modest than any other woman her age wears, but kept the thought carefully off his face.

Rebecca smiled.

Oh, dear, Alan thought.

“If you think the dress was bad,” Becky’s voice was almost a purr, “what she was wearing under it would probably give you an aneurysm.”

Elizabeth stared at her for a moment, then snapped, “James Alan, do you let your wife speak to your mother that way?”

Janet, Alan’s other daughter-in-law, smiled wickedly.

“Becky and I replaced her entire lingerie drawer as a wedding gift. Amazing how much very little cloth costs, but …” She nodded thoughtfully. “Worth it.”

“Robert William!”

Janet’s husband, Rob, pondered for a moment. “Bet Remy appreciated that.”

His wife bumped his hip. “From the way Ellie looked at him, I’d guess she appreciated it more.”

Elizabeth drew herself up, back rigid, “It seems,” Cold, injured tone, “That I am a laughing-stock in this family. I’m going upstairs. I suddenly have a headache.”

She swept out of the room. Silence held for three heartbeats.

Then Becky looked at Janet, eyes sparkling, “Worth every penny,” she murmured.

Janet grinned and clinked her water glass against Becky’s.

Alan sighed, long and quiet, and reached for his drink.

*****

Remy drove, Ellie tucked tiny and precious against his side.

I had control, he thought. Is this what Dad felt with Mama?

He gently poked at the green part of his mind. His triggers were … less sensitive. Still there, just … quieter. Hmm.

He pulled the pickup under the porte-cochère at the hotel, turned it off, and climbed out. Ellie slipped out behind him, her tiny hand seeking his. He took it gently and they went inside.

“Do you mind if we leave it there for a moment?” he asked the desk clerk. “We’re checking out, and I don’t want to walk my wife through the storm.”

“No problem, sir. Everything okay?”

Words. He could use words, and taste the meaning in people’s faces. He nodded thoughtfully, “Everything’s good.”

They went upstairs. Ellie let go of his hand and packed quickly and deftly, then sat on the side of the bed and watched him with large eyes. He threw his things together with Coast Guard efficiency and stood their luggage by the door. She stood, walked to him, and took his hand again.

He looked down at her, tiny and lost inside his sport coat, and tipped her chin up.

“Do you want your coat?”

She looked at him a moment, chewing her lower lip, then gave a slight shake of her head. Her hand tightened in his. He had a brief image of her sitting with her fists clenched. The green shifted -- just a soft shift.

Remy smiled at his wife. “Okay.”

He watched the tension in her shoulders -- tension she probably didn’t even notice anymore -- ease a fraction.

They took the elevator down. Ellie stood next to the luggage, tiny and beautiful, and watched him with those eyes while he spoke to the clerk.

“Everything okay, Mr. Moreaux? I see you’re checking out early.”

“Fine, thank you. Our business was concluded early, and we’re missing our bed.”

“Very good, sir. You’re checked out. Please remember us the next time you and your wife are in town.”

He turned in time to catch Ellie give the clerk a soft smile. The man nodded politely. “Mrs. Moreaux, a pleasure.”

Outside, he was walking her around to the passenger side when she stopped at the driver’s door, a firm grip on his hand. He blinked, then opened it and helped her in. She scooted over just far enough to give him room behind the wheel and snuggled under his arm the moment she could.

They pulled out of the parking lot and headed north.

About twenty minutes later he remembered what he’d seen on her plate when he extracted her from the table. He swore gently in the vaults of his mind and felt the green alert.

She hadn’t eaten anything.

He pulled off the interstate. Ellie stirred. He smiled down at her, “We need to eat. Window food okay?”

She nodded.

“What would you like, kitten?”

Her voice, soft, “I don’t know.”

“There’s that chicken sandwich place you like. Sound good?”

She nodded again.

He ordered. She shook her head when he asked about fries. She unwrapped his sandwich and put it in his hand before she unwrapped hers, then waited, hands in her lap.

He took a bite. Only then did she start to nibble.

They ate in silence.

When her sandwich was gone, eyes lost in thought, Ellie reached into the bag, came out with one of his French fries, took a dainty bite, then froze.

“I’m sorry!”

The green flowed, twisted, settled. He reached for words and found them, “You didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

She blinked at the non-sequitur and whispered, “What?”

He wrinkled his nose at her. “On the marriage license. Down at the bottom. It clearly states that you are obliged to steal my French fries.”

She frowned. He crossed his eyes at her.

A brief moment … and she giggled.

Then she nibbled the rest of the fry, watching him with big blue eyes.

This is the week after Remy and Ellie’s honeymoon, they’ve been married for about five days, and that’s five sleep cycles of skin-to-skin contact, resulting in five nights of massively-increased oxytocin levels. His amygdala has become significantly less reactive, and his insular cortex has started treating her touch as the default “Home” signal.

Neurologically she has reset his berserker baseline — his triggers are significantly less sensitive, and his prefrontal cortex has a stronger vote in things, including his day-to-day interactions.

The problem — well, one of them — is that Ellie is a much stronger regulator than the old coping mechanisms he had developed, and those old mechanisms that let him function in society simply won’t work anymore if she’s away from him for extended periods. More than 24 hours without skin-to-skin contact and Remy becomes, quote: “A real problem”.

30+ hours means the special music on CNN.

Anyway, I’m not certain about this scene — it feels a bit “over the top” to me.

I’m at P-Con, trying not to listen to my Muse. I’ll revisit this chapter when I get home.

Ian

Barbara Ann Monroe shoved the dorm room door open with her usual bubbly energy, dark hair bouncing, eyes bright with campus gossip.

“Oh my God, girl, did you hear what your boyfriend did to that creeper?”

Ellie jumped like she’d been shot. The little box of bandaids flew out of her hands and scattered across the floor. She spun, frantically pressing a finger to her lips, eyes huge and terrified as she stared at her closed bedroom door.

Barbara Ann’s eyebrows shot up. She carefully stepped around Ellie, padded across the small living area, and eased the bedroom door open just enough to look inside.

Remy was curled on the narrow dorm bed, facing the door, body tight even in sleep. It wasn’t normal rest. It was the deep, almost-coma crash that came after a storm -- heavy, absolute, the kind of sleep a body only fell into when every chemical had been burned through.

Barbara Ann quietly shut the door, and turned. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hide a delighted smile. In her best (terrible) Scarlett O’Hara drawl she whispered,

“Why, Ms. Ellie … you have a man in yo’ bed.”

Ellie made frantic shushing gestures with both hands, “Shh, Bobbi! And he’s not my boyfriend.”

Barbara Ann looked at her for a long moment the way a fond teacher looks at a particularly slow but beloved pupil. Then she reached out, gently took hold of Ellie’s sleeve, and tugged her into the bedroom.

She positioned them so they were both facing Remy’s curled form. Waited a beat. Then, still holding Ellie’s sleeve, she pulled her slowly along the side of the bed, across the foot, and up the other side until they stood looking at Remy’s broad back.

A short pause.

Remy stirred. A low mumble. Then, with careful, almost painful effort, he rolled over until he was facing Ellie again -- even in that near-coma sleep, his body reoriented to her like a compass finding north.

Barbara Ann turned to Ellie and made a triumphant “Ta-da!” gesture with both hands, “If he isn’t your boyfriend you might want to tell him ... because I don’t think he got the message.”

Ellie twisted her fingers together hard. She grabbed Barbara Ann’s sleeve and towed her back out into the living area, voice soft and almost convincing even to herself, “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

Barbara Ann planted her hands on her hips. “Girl. I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but in these parts if a gal wears a guy’s jacket she is telling the world: ‘I have chosen my man; the market is closed, no trespassing.’”

Ellie twisted her fingers harder. Her lip went between her teeth. The panic rose fast and frantic, the old terror of Elizabeth flooding back.

“My mother is going to find out. She’s probably on the way. I can’t be here, Bobbi. I can’t!”

Barbara Ann reached out and gently captured Ellie’s twisting fingers.

“Stop.”

Ellie stopped. Breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

Barbara Ann let go and fished her phone out of her pocket, punched in the passcode, “Joe’s folks have a little place in Amarillo. Joe and I go there when we need some ‘us’ time. Your man going to be safe to move?”

Ellie nodded so hard her high ponytail flew. “As long as I’m there.”

“Good.” Barbara Ann was already typing. “Pack whatever you need for a couple of nights. I’ll have Joe bring his pickup and we’ll stick your man in the back seat. You’re going to sit in his lap the whole way, though. We don’t need a meat grenade going off on 287.”

Ellie stood frozen for half a second, then the practical part of her -- the part that had kept her hidden for two years -- kicked in. She turned toward the closet, hands still shaking, and started pulling clothes.

Behind the bedroom door, Remy slept on, facing the place where she had just been standing, waiting without knowing he was waiting for her to come back.

I really ought to sit down and write a blog post, but every time I get in front of the screen, I start writing scenes.

This is from Act 1, right after Remy throws the private investigator down the stairs.

This weekend I’ll be at P-Con in the Metromess, so I probably won’t have any snippets up.

Or … I might. Sigh. Ask my muse.

Ian

Donley County Sheriff Cody Reed looked over his reading glasses at the teletype printout, then hooked his phone and dialed a number.

“Vermillion Parish Sheriff’s department. How can we assist you?”

Sheriff Reed shifted comfortably in his seat, set his feet on this desk, “This is Sheriff Reed in Donley County, Texas. I need to talk to your sheriff real quick.”

Her voice was soft, Southern-professional, “Hold on one moment, let me check.” Hold music, then a raspy baritone, “This is Sheriff Hebert.” It sounded like A-bear, and Reed sighed.

“Howdy, this is Cody Reed, in Clarendon, Texas. Got a couple of questions if you’ve got a couple of minutes.”

Sound of a sip over the line, “I’ve got coffee and a free morning. Shoot.”

“Got a kid named Remy Moreaux in my town. Name ring a bell?”

Long pause, then: “Yeah, I know him. Knew his pa and his nonc, too.” Reed’s feet came off the desk, Hebert’s voice had gone stiff, guarded. Reed suddenly felt very interested.

“NCIC says y’all hooked him up once for an assault. No conviction, though.”

“Yep. Got him a couple of times on juvenile for the same thing. No convictions.”

Sheriff Reed opened the bottom left drawer of his desk, pulled out the cigars his wife didn’t know about, felt for his cutter, “Sheriff Hebert, I’m just a cowboy. I hate dick-dancing around, so I’m just going to get to the point: Is this kid going to be a problem?”

Long sigh over the phone, “If Remy wasn’t a Moreaux, he’d be a good kid. But he is a Moreaux, and that’s not his fault, but it is a fact.”

Reed clipped the end off the cigar, felt for his lighter, “I hate to say this, but that’s not helpful.”

A grunt, “Maybe not, but nobody ever believes me. Why don’t you tell me what he’s done, and I’ll tell you what the butcher’s bill is going to be.”

Reed paused, lighter held still short of the cigar, “If I were a trained law enforcement person, I’d call that ‘a clue’.”

Long pause, slow sip over the line.

“Okay,” Reedm said, lighting the cigar, “Some football player yanked a young lady’s ponytail, and your Remy tried to put him through a wall.”

“Young lady you say?” the Louisiana Sheriff’s voice lost the edge, “Well, well, well.” He cleared his throat, “Remy seem … interested in this young lady?”

Reed voice was dry, “I’ve got a football player shaped dent in a cafeteria wall that seems to suggest so.”

Rough chuckle, “Any other casualties?”

Reed puffed on the cigar, “Nah, she walked him home.” He examined the coal on the end of the cigar, “Something I need to know about?”

“Glory be.” Sheriff Hebert’s voice went gentle, “I’m going to give you a bit of free advice, Cody. Don’t touch that girl. If you have to talk to Remy, have her sitting there. Don’t touch that girl. Don’t make him feel trapped, insulted, or threatened. And most importantly – don’t ever touch that girl.”

Reed blinked, “That’s … odd.”

“Sheriff,” the voice was tight now, and dark with old memories, “Remy’s nonc – his uncle – was a fucking nightmare wrapped in a human suit. His pa was worse, until Desiree figured out she could slow him down. When a Moreaux’s eyes go weird, you can’t hurt them enough to stop them.”

Sheriff Reed sighed, “I hear that a lot.”

“Let me tell you a story. There was a man named Justin Guidry here. Old money, connected. Liked to drink, the Sheriff at the time liked to get re-elected, so Justin’s little … issues got overlooked.”

“Until he was coming home from the bar one night, drunker than a waltzing pissant, crossed the yellow line and hit the car that Étienne Moreaux, his wife, and his daughter were in.”

Reed closed his eyes, “Jesus.”

“Desiree and Ada died instantly. Etienne took the steering wheel to his chest at 70-plus miles per hour, and his face went through the windshield. His injuries were – to quote the coroner ‘Not compatible with life functions’.”

“Poor kid.”

“Then that dead man crawled out of a twisted-metal grave and tore Justin Guidry apart.”

“… What?”

“And by ‘tore apart’ I mean it took us an hour to find Justin’s head.”

“I find this … a little hard to believe. I guess you’re going to tell me he survived.”

“Oh, no. We found him holding Desiree’s hand, dead as a hammer.”

A long, slow slurp, “Point of the story is: You need to be praying to anyone who’ll listen that Remy has found his Desiree, and that she figures out how to turn him off. Because if his eyes go weird, he’ll stack bodies until she stops him. And nobody else -- including you -- is going to have a say in the matter.”

Tried the voice to text function on my way into work this morning. Cleaning it up took every bit as long as just writing it would have.

Ah, well. Backstory, with explanation!

Ian

The private investigator sat behind the wheel again, heart still hammering from the earlier encounter. He stared at Ellie’s photograph and the crumpled notes in his lap, debating whether to call Elizabeth. The sheriff’s warning still rang in his ears. If Sheriff Reed found out he was still in the county …

A sharp, precise tap sounded on the driver’s side window.

He jerked so hard the photo fluttered to the floorboard. He had never seen the blond man approach — one second the lot was empty; the next Remy Moreaux stood there, six-foot-two of unnatural stillness, absinthe-green eyes calm and level through the glass.

Remy’s voice came through the closed window, flat and metallic, like something forged rather than spoken.

“You scare her.”

The investigator rolled down the window and forced a sneer. “What the hell is ‘her’ name, punk? Lie to me! Tell me her name isn’t Taylor!”

Remy said nothing. He just watched him with that same impossible calm. His eyes were a black hole surrounded by a gold ring. The investigator blinked. Hadn’t they been …? Remy’s irises slowly expanded, green filling back in the black.

The earlier nervousness came flooding back, crawling under the investigator’s skin -- and it made him angry. Punk-ass college kids. Thought they were invulnerable. Not a clue how the world really worked. Okay, time for a lesson. He reached below the window line, out of sight, and pulled on a pair of sap gloves -- leather weighted across the knuckles. Then he shoved the door open hard. Remy slid back smoothly.

He heaved himself out of the car, chest puffed, voice loud and mocking. “Yeah, now you back up! That’s what I fucking thought, you punk-ass college bitch!”

Arrogance made him stupid. He stepped in and jabbed his index finger hard into the center of Remy’s chest.

The world exploded.

Remy’s open hand whip-cracked the investigator’s arm with almost surgical precision. A wet crack shot up into his neck; the arm went numb.

Before the scream fully left his throat, Remy’s backhand smashed across his mouth. Teeth broke; blood sprayed. The impact spun him halfway down to one knee. A blur, and Remy’s open hands hit him high on the chest -- a shove, Remy’s legs coiled and driving. The investigator slammed into the side of his car. The crump of metal was distant in his panicked ears. The rain of safety-glass squares almost soft and gentle.

His hand came up, begging through a bloody mouth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry …”

A vise grip seized the front of his jacket. He gurgled as another hand clamped on the inside of his thigh. Weightless for a second, then the explosion of pain as he was slammed down onto the hood of the car hard enough to buckle metal. In pain-streaked slow motion he felt himself dragged forward, his head suddenly hanging unsupported, his neck exposed. Remy cocked a fist for a hammer punch that would have ended everything.

The investigator’s eyes went wide with pure animal understanding: He’s going to kill me.

He rolled hard, desperate, the pain making him gasp, tumbling off the hood, and hit the asphalt on hands and knees. Terrified, trying to scramble, a boot drove into his armpit, ribs cracked like dry sticks. Then big hands seized him again and threw him. Off-balance, his feet danced across gravel.

The gravel went away. He was briefly weightless again … and he hit the top step, tumbling down the concrete steps of the football stadium, each impact a fresh explosion of pain. He came to rest at the bottom in a broken heap, blood in his mouth, vision swimming.

Remy came down the stairs after him.

Not running. Not rushing. Walking with the slow, deliberate gait of a predator that already knew the outcome. Too calm. Too still. Gold-ringed eyes empty of everything except purpose.

The investigator knew, with absolute clarity, that he was about to die.

Remy stopped two steps above him, crouched in one fluid motion, observing. His face dipped toward the collar of his jacket. A pause.

His face came up. He looked at the investigator, his irises pulsing -- green to gold-ringed to green. A slight frown, as if he were trying to remember how to form words. He leaned closer.

His voice was no longer metallic. It was a snarl trying to shape itself into human words.

“You scare her.”

The investigator babbled, blood and broken teeth making the words wet and desperate. “I’m going! I’m gone! She’ll never see me again -- I swear to God -- I’m leaving -- I’ll never come back – please --”

Remy held the stare for three more heartbeats.

Then he stood. Crushed his bloodied fists deep into the pockets of his jacket. Head down in the collar. Turned without another glance and walked back up the stairs, already scanning, already hunting for a tiny dark-haired girl.

At the bottom of the concrete stairs the private investigator’s eyes rolled back.

He lost consciousness with Elizabeth’s name still half-formed on his ruined mouth and the absolute certainty that he had just met something that should not exist.

Not sure about the last line, but it’s a first draft.

This is the second time we see Remy in the berserk state, and the first time he’s using Ellie to regulate it — she was wearing his jacket in the previous scene, and he’s using her scent to give his pre-frontal cortex a vote in things. The pulsing irises (technically called “pupillary hippus”) indicate that the various parts of his brain are vying for control — green means the pre-frontal cortex is in charge, gold-ringed is when the amygdala and periaqueductal gray part of his brain are in charge.

“When the gold ring appeared, the thinking part of Remy’s brain had gone dark. Only the oldest, hungriest parts were left in charge.”

As I mentioned on the Livestream, Acts 1 and 2 look like they’ll be putting the “romance” in “Tactical Romance”, and I’m not sure if snippets from those two acts will be as interesting or fun as the snippets from Act 3.

We’ll see.

Ian

“You saw the video, you cleaned up the mess,” Alan took a deep breath, “Now I need to know: is Remy a threat to my daughter?”

“And if he is?” Marisol asked, gently.

Alan looked at her and Bukowski, calmly.

“You’re asking the wrong question, boss.” Buk got up, poured three cups of coffee.

“I am?”

“Yes, sir,” Mari accepted a cup, “You are.”

Alan took his cup, “Enlighten me.”

Buk sipped, blew on the cup, “Ellie has excellent training, but she is -- well, was -- inexperienced. That inexperienced girl in her first combat engagement, at night, made head shots on two moving men at about 21 yards.” He sipped again, looked into the distance, “Because they were threatening her husband.”

Mari tore the top off of a packet of turbinado sugar, stirred her coffee, “She also paid the insurance on several wounded who were a possible threat to her husband. No hesitation.” Sipped, smiled approvingly, “Rather proud of her for that, by the way.”

Alan blinked.

Buk took a long slow sip, “And here you are ... threatening her husband.” He sighed happily, scootched comfortably in his chair, “If you do something about Remy, and Ellie shows up at the house with a carbine, you’re on your own. Just saying.”

Alan snorted a chuckle.

“I see how Remy looks at Ellie, sir,” Marisol’s eyes were direct, “He’s not going to hurt her.”

Alan raised his cup in acknowledgement, “That makes me feel better. Thank you.”

Phones are not good for writing on, by the way.

That’s either a bit of backstory for my own edification, or foreshadowing a sequel. I do not have time for a sequel. I haven’t even gotten this one written yet. I have other writing projects that I’m behind on.

Sigh.

Ian

Alan Taylor glared out the corner window in his office and called his secretary, “Marie, get a hold of the security desk and have them call you when Carter Stephenson has left my building. When he’s gone, have Mr. Bukowski and Ms. de la Guerra come see me.”

Minutes later the office door opened. A striking Tejana woman with shoulder-length black hair and hazel eyes stepped in first, wearing an elegant, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Behind her came a slender, athletic blond man, clean-shaven, blue-eyed, dressed in pressed jeans and a crisp button-up shirt. Both carried themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had long since stopped needing to prove anything.

Alan didn’t waste time. “Carter Wilson Stephenson just informed me that he is the one who kidnapped Noelle. He says she is safe and will be returned as soon as I use my capital and my influence with the Railroad Commission to close the Solstice Midstream deal within the next thirty days.”

Marisol de la Guerra froze, “What?”

“He also claims he has a contract out on me, Betsy, and Ellie. If he ever disappears, dies, or goes to jail, a private military company will kill all three of us.”

Wesley Bukowski raised one eyebrow, completely unflappable, “I’m … sure that sounded better in his head.”

Alan’s gray eyes were ice, “I need options.”

Marisol opened her laptop and started typing, the corporate in-fighter part of her already moving, “Legal’s official suggestion is that Buk snatch that piece of shit off the street and beat his shins with a length of rebar until he squeals.”

Bukowski fished his flip-phone out of his pocket, looking thoughtful.
“Mari, if I didn’t know you were happily married, I would perform the mating dance of my people right here.”

He dialed, spoke quietly, “Max. I need the file on the Carter Stephenson ‘miscommunication’ at the Moreaux Ranch last month. And your cousin’s carpet van. Thanks.”

He hung up and sniffed contemplatively in Mari’s general direction, “You would be smitten.”

Alan nodded once, briskly, “As much as that was my first instinct, I will not risk Ellie or Betsy. Does he actually have a contract? If he does, how do we kill it?”

Marisol’s intent eyes stayed on her screen, “He’s over-leveraged to hell. Unless PMCs take credit cards, he doesn’t have that kind of ready cash. We’ll dig through his companies and start leaning on his lawyers.”

“Thank you, Mari. Buk?”

“This at least narrows where Ellie probably is.”

“Midland area. I’ll fly out this afternoon.”

“No, boss.” Buk’s voice stayed calm and flat, “Forty-eight hours. Then we fly into Odessa.”

“I fucking said Midland this afternoon, Buk.”

“Yes, sir, you did.” His eyes, cool and calm, matched his voice, “However, you’re going to give me forty-eight hours to talk to those two idiot bodyguards who were involved in Carter’s screw-up at your daughter’s place, and you’re going to give me time to slip you away from whatever leg-breaker he’s got watching you.”

He nodded thoughtfully, met Alan’s gaze, “Then we fly into Odessa, because Stephenson Energy and Solstice Midstream are both based in Midland. If we get spotted at the Midland airport this whole operation gets complicated fast.”

Alan closed his eyes, blew out a long breath, and opened them again.
“I’m sorry, Buk. Thank you.”

“De nada, boss. I’m going to grab someone who can keep his knuckles off the carpet and go have a chat with a couple of idiots.”

Ivan Petrov opened his eyes. The concussion rolled nausea through his gut. He tried to turn and discovered he was strapped tight to an ambulance backboard with yellow cargo straps. The one across his legs didn’t give at all.

Harsh Texas sunlight poured through a dusty window, bringing scorching heat that pressed down like a weight. A slender blond man of about 5’9” sat on a stool against the wall, absorbed in an American gun magazine. Clean-shaven, blue eyes, fashionably short hair — completely unbothered.

“Hey!”

The blond turned a page and didn’t look up.

Minutes crawled by. A vehicle stopped outside. A much larger man with curly black hair and a matching beard walked in carrying a big brown box across one burly shoulder.

“Ah,” the blond said, setting the magazine aside. “Thought you got lost.”

“Nah. Highways in this city are stupid.” The big man opened the box and started lining up gallon jugs of brown liquid on a set of saw-horses.

“Seriously? Tea?” the blond asked.

“They’re running out of water, Buk. I got store brand.” He held up a jug. “Even got the Splenda version.”

The blond sighed, stood, and walked over to Petrov. Even standing, he looked lean and precise rather than imposing — until you noticed the absolute calm in his eyes.

“Okay, Zippy. Here’s how your day is going to go.”

Petrov sucked in a breath to spit. The blond popped him cleanly on the Adam’s apple — hard enough to make him cough, not hard enough to break anything.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. Then I’m going next door and asking your buddy the exact same questions. Company you work for, the man who hired you, everything else. That sort of thing. If your answers don’t match,” he nodded at the big man, who waved a jug, “We waterboard both of you with carcinogen-enhanced sadness water until I think we’ve come to an understanding.”

He leaned in close, voice mild, “I see you counting jugs and thinking six isn’t so bad. Bad news, Zippy: I’ve got a corporate credit card and a sincere desire to protect the citizens of Wichita Falls from chemical-laced poor life choices.”

He pulled out a notebook.
“Let’s get started.”

The first part is the last half of the scene where Carter tells Alan he’s the one who kidnapped Ellie, and issues his demands.

The second part is Alan’s problem solver having a quick talk with the two bodyguards who were with Carter when he tried to strong-arm Ellie into interceding with her father on his behalf, and wound up getting thrown through a barn wall by Remy.

Work, work, work.

Ian

Ellie kept the burner phone wedged against her shoulder, one hand on the wheel, the other stretched across the console so her fingers never left the bare skin of Remy’s forearm.

“Oh.” She swallowed a giggle, a small part of her still wired and shaky. “It’s going to be easy to find, daddy.”

“It is?”

“It’s the one with the dead body tangled up in the cattle-guard.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, dry: “Did you have to be that thorough?”

Remy groaned again, low and broken. His arm shifted, uncoordinated, sliding off the armrest. Ellie caught it, laid it carefully back in place, and smoothed her palm along the hot skin, “Shh, my wolf, I’m here. Shh.”

Alan’s voice softened, “Is he going to be okay?”

“Not until I get him somewhere cool, dark, and private, daddy. Ready for the lease information?”

“Go ahead.”

She glanced at the side of the road, reading the sign in the headlights while her thumb kept stroking Remy’s wrist, “Mason and Reed Oil Company, Sunset #4 lease, Well #4.”

“Ok, Punkin, hang on.”

A long pause. Ellie leaned over the seat as far as the seatbelt would allow, hunted behind her with one hand, and found a jacket. She folded it carefully so the inside lining was tucked away -- nothing that might smell wrong -- and laid it gently over Remy’s face to shield his eyes from any light. His breathing stayed deep and even.

Alan came back on the line, “Punkin, you’re about 30 minutes south-ish of Midland. I can be there in 20 minutes.”

“That’s still an hour before Remy is somewhere he can shut off. He doesn’t have an hour.”

“Ok. That should be 116 in front of you. Go right until it dead-ends at a state highway. That’ll be 349. Right on 349 straight into Midland.”

She checked the dark road ahead, “Right and right.”

“Do you remember the Permian Regency?”

“Yes, daddy, you took us there several times.”

“Drive straight into the underground garage. The concierge will be waiting for you. Do you still have the gun?”

“Yes, daddy.” Her free hand brushed the pistol still in the cup holder, then returned to Remy’s arm.

“Good girl. When you park in the garage, leave this phone, the gun, anything else you picked up, and the fob in the glove box, and leave it unlocked, ok?”

“Thank you, daddy. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Punkin. See you in a bit.”

Ellie ended the call, and set her palm back on Remy’s forearm. The highway stretched black and empty ahead of her. Thirty minutes. She kept stroking, kept talking under her breath, and never once took her eyes off the road for more than a second.

The Tahoe hummed along State Highway 349 under a black West Texas sky. Thirty minutes. Farm-to-market dark, then the first thin lights of Midland.

Remy never stirred beyond the occasional deep, shuddering breath or a faint tremor that rolled through him. She stroked his arm every time it happened, murmuring the same soft scraps.

“I’ve got you, my wolf … just sleep … Kitten’s here … almost there …”

His pulse under her fingers stayed fast but steady. The green was quiet. The gold was gone. He was all the way under.

The concierge was standing next to a wheelchair when Ellie pulled into the underground parking, and stepped around to open her door. “Good morning, Mrs Moreaux. My name is Sam, welcome back to the Permian Regency.”

Ellie put the Tahoe in park, killed the engine, popped the glove-box and threw in the pistol, the burner phone and the key-fob, then unbuckled Remy with careful hands. The concierge and a silent bellman appeared at the open passenger door without being asked. Between the three of them they lifted the completely limp 215-pound body into the wheelchair, Ellie keeping her hands on his chest or neck.

The concierge’s eyes flicked once to the broken handcuffs still locked around Remy’s wrists. Without a word he produced a heavy key-ring, sorted through it with practiced fingers, selected a small silver key, and unlocked the cuffs. They dropped into the floorboard of the Tahoe with soft thuds.

Ellie stared, numb, “Why do you have handcuff keys?”

The concierge’s expression did not change, “Romantic couples with very poor preparation skills, madam.”

She almost laughed. It came out as a tired huff.

They wheeled Remy the short distance to the private elevator Ellie walking beside the chair, one hand still on the back of his neck. The suite was already open, dark, cool, and waiting. The bellman helped her get Remy onto the wide bed. Her long, slow strokes down his back resumed immediately.

The concierge paused, nodded to Ellie, respectfully.

“Lastly, Mrs. Moreaux,” he asked, diffidently, “if the authorities should come asking …?”

Ellie blinked at him, too exhausted to parse the words, “What?”

He sighed, eyes carefully never leaving hers. “Madam. It is after midnight, and you are barefoot in a sundress. You have a large blood-stain on the skirt,” He closed his eyes politely “And you have forgotten that you stored a spare magazine in your décolletage.”

She looked down.

Oops.

He held out his hand, “If you wish, I shall dispose of that for you.”

“Can you … do that?”

“Mrs. Moreaux,” he sounded mildly insulted, “This is Midland.”

She pulled the magazine free and placed it in his palm. He inclined his head again, stepped out, and closed the door softly behind him.

She pulled the sundress off, then stripped him enough for full skin-to-skin contact, crawled in against him, and pulled the covers over both of them. Ellie curled tighter against Remy’s overheated body, pressed her face into his neck, and kept stroking.

“We’re safe, my wolf,” she whispered. “Sleep.”

He made one low, broken sound and settled deeper into the crash.

And now onto writing scenes for Act 2.

Ian

Ellie swore as the pickup containing Carter disappeared down the road. She looked at her pistol.

Slide locked back.

She scanned for the open grave, then hurried to it, dropping beside the dead man. She yanked a fresh magazine from his belt, dropped the empty, slammed the new one home, and racked the slide.

Pistol up. Scanning.

A shriek from behind the black Tahoe. Remy ...

Ellie fumbled another magazine from his belt, felt her hand swipe her waist where a carrier should have been, swore again, and shoved the spare into her cleavage.

She half-giggled at the sudden irrational thought --Thanks, Mamaw Gigi -- took four deep breaths, and advanced on the SUV.

Remy was half-crouched, tense, scanning the dark. She moved slowly into his field of vision.

He can’t understand faces or words. Movement and tones.

She took a deep breath, walked slowly up to him, hips loose, and spoke gently. “Hey, my wolf. I’m here. You’re safe.”

His eyes -- still gold-rimmed black, predatory -- watched her. Then his hand came out slowly, took her wrist, and moved her behind him.

Thank you, God.

He let go. She could feel the heat radiating off him, hear his rasping breathing, see the pulse hammering in the side of a neck that was too red.

She moved slowly past him, let him watch her walk away, and heard his stalking footsteps following.

Passenger side of the Tahoe: one extremely deceased thug, and one gibbering. “Help me. I can’t feel my legs ...”

Ellie shot him.

She went through his pockets. Burner flip-phone. No fob. Damn it.

Going through the pockets of the other pile of hamburger was considerably squishier. She found the fob in his front pocket.

Moving as quickly as she dared through Remy’s field of view, she climbed into the passenger side of the SUV, dropped the fob into the cup holder, reached across and -- praying softly -- punched the Start button.

The engine purred. Ellie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She dropped the pistol into the other cup holder, cranked the A/C on high, scooted out, and hit the button to lay the seat all the way flat.

Remy was pacing -- feral, five steps, turn, five steps, head casting, hunting.

She walked up to him slowly, “Hey, wolf. I need you to protect me. Come with me, okay?”

She laid her hands on his bare forearms, rubbing gently, then gave a soft tug, “Come on, baby. Come with me. Come on.”

He began to follow as she backed towards the open passenger door, watching her face, a slight flickers of puzzlement in the feral black.

“Thank you, baby.” She rubbed her palms gently up his forearms, “Couple more steps. Just a couple more.”

His steps were getting shorter. His knees dipped slightly. In his eyes a flare of green before the black slowly returned.

The edge of the door hit her legs. She almost gasped, turned, pulling him gently. “Climb up, my wolf.”

He turned, back to the seat … and she heard the quiet sniff in her hair.

Shit.

“Remy, baby, get your heavy ass in that seat. Now, baby. Remy, now!”

In the green-yellow wash, the movement wasn’t a Threat. It also wasn’t Irrelevant. He watched it. A distant part of his mind whispered: Soft / Safe / Mine.

Soft / Safe / Mine touched his arms, and electric coolness sparkled along the nerves. Under the surf roar in his ears he heard … words. Distant, like a radio in another room.

Gentle tug. He followed Safe / Soft / Mine. The electric coolness spread.

His legs were heavy. His head hurt. Safe / Soft / Mine turned -- it took years and it happened immediately.

An electric shock as his legs touched something, then …

Smell. His lungs, acting on their own, drew in a huge draught.

The green wash flickered. The surf roar began to thin. Heat and a deep, spreading ache flooded back into his body as the analgesia cracked. Her -- She! Her eyes bloomed a sudden blue, her lips red, the green vanishing like fog, and he heard… words. She needed … vehicle? In?

He felt for something with legs that suddenly weren’t listening, jammed, felt himself slide, felt her shove, and landed on something as his arms and legs just … disappeared. The world tunneled -- a blur of dark hair and blue. Then nothing.

Ellie shoved his legs into the cabin, climbed into his lap, and pulled the door shut. She yanked open his shirt and began slowly stroking his chest.

A sudden low, broken sound -- half groan, half sigh -- and he began trembling violently. Ellie kept stroking, whispering gently, until the shaking stopped. She gently lifted an eyelid. Green. No gold. Finger to the side of his neck -- way too fast.

She slipped out of the cabin, pulled the burner phone, found the text function, and sent:

Daddy. Call me.

The phone rang three quick breaths later.

“Punkin?”

“Daddy!”

“Punkin, what breed was your dog?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, “Mother wouldn’t let me have a real dog, so you bought me a stuffie named Pepper.”

“Thank God. Punkin, are you okay?”

“There’s a lot of dead people. I need to get Remy somewhere cool and dark and quiet. I don’t know where we are.”

“Okay. What does it look like?”

“Looks like an oil lease. Smells like Permian Basin.”

“All right, Punkin. Can you get to the main road and read me the lease sign?”

“Yes, but there’s a problem, daddy.” She took another shuddering breath. “Remy hurt some people pretty bad, and then I … I shot them.”

Long pause.

“Daddy?”

“Still waiting to hear the problem, Punkin.”

She almost fell, relief washing through her, “I think they call that murder, daddy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s on them. You listen to me: You did the right thing. I am so very proud of you, Punkin.”

Soft, small, relieved: “Okay.”

“What are you driving?”

“Black Chevy … umm … Tahoe.”

“License plate?”

“HYT 1034.”

“Texas?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Drive to the public road. Keep talking to me.”

Looks like this is shaking out to be a book in three Acts.

Act 1 will be the introduction. Remy and Ellie meet. She’s a house-mouse fleeing from her narcissistic mother. We’ll see two brief berserk episodes, and they’ll discover that Ellie can regulate his rages. Marriage, and purchase of a 40-acre “starter ranch”. Elizabeth (her mother) is the Bad Guy.

Act 2 will be Remy gently noodging his traumatized wife into more agency, including — because his problem-solving tends to be simple and direct — sending her to gun schools. Elizabeth is still the Bad Guy. “Roof Goat” scene is in this act.

Act 3. Whoops, Elizabeth isn’t the Big Bad, Carter is. The kidnap of Ellie, attempted execution of Remy. Key sentence:

After all, Carter thought, She had been broken once, she could be broken again. And Alan Taylor’s beautiful, compliant, obedient daughter would be the perfect wife for a man rising in Society.

At least, that seems to be the plot so far. This thing keeps changing as I write scenes.

There probably won’t be updates here for a couple of days — it’s my weekend, and I’m going to bunker up and pound on the keyboard.

Ian