So, a bit of news. I have been frozen out of Instagram and Facebook, so the only way I can reach out is through here or my newsletter. (Which you should totally join, access to your right.)

Not sure how long it will be, but I wanted to give a little cookie to everyone. The first two chapters from the next int he Starlight Series!

Blood of Starlight, probably going on sale some time in the beginning of the year. I will have a pre-sale going up and will announce on my newsletter…(Another reason to join, if nothing else) before I send it out here.

They are a little rough, but, nothing wrong with that.

I hope you are all doing well!

Until next time!

 

Blood of Starlight, Chapters One and Two:

1.

“Think the cabin is unguarded, Blue?” Kesh asked, looking at the small cabin tucked under the overhang of the red sandstone. There were no lights on, yet that meant nothing.

Blue gave a chirp and looked at Kesh for a moment before lunging towards a small furry vole that streaked by. The scytheclaw snapped up the critter with ease. Kesh turned away before Blue bloodied his maw with the vole.

“Stay here, Blue. I’ll be back in a minute,” Kesh said, holding his hand up in a signal to the scytheclaw. Kesh then slipped away from the shadows on the other side of the small canyon. He kept his head on a swivel, looking around to make sure that no one was around. Knowing that even though he signaled Blue to stay, the scytheclaw would watch his back.

The Martian air was chilly enough to see his breath when he got to the cabin. When he got to the cabin, Kesh waited fora full Earth Standard Minute before he tried the door. And not surprising, locked.

There was a window that was close to him on the side of the cabin. He slipped underneath it and then peeked inside.

There were no shades on the window, and the light of the twin moons gave just enough light to see some shadows and a small pile of something under a tarp.

Breaking the lock was easy. He was sure that he could get in and out with no one knowing he was there. According to the man who tried to turn him in, the cabin was a dead drop and those that were supposed to pick it up had been picked up by the local militia.

Once inside, he made his way to the tarp and pulled it off and then whistled.

He revealed three crates under the tarp and called Blue into the cabin. As the dark shape of Blue skittered towards him, Kesh rubbed at his cheek. His left hand buzzed with the need to take ordinum. He tried to shove the feeling aside, yet that roaring need would start soon. He gripped his left hand and tried to be rational about this.

He pulled off the tarp and tried all three crates. All of them locked. One he discounted right away, feeling the lightness of the crate as he gave it a small push. He then looked at the two below it and saw the small streak of darkness across one crate’s face. It was leaking a slight greenish powder and knew that wasn’t what would come out if filled with ordium. It would be a yellowish hue. He crouched next to the last crate, his left hand tingling so badly he had to grip the knife awkwardly in his right.

Kesh slid the knife along the seal of the crate. His left hand itched and burned until he had to switch to his right hand. He shook his left hand out a few times, trying to get the feeling to come back. The tingle meant he had to hurry to get into the crate.

Hearing the click click click of Blue beside him, he snapped a glare at the syctheclaw. “Don’t have time for your ‘impatience,’” Kesh said. He gritted his teeth in pain as his entire left hand burned.

The scytheclaw let out a mewling whine, nudging Kesh with his snout. Kesh wanted to yell at Blue for making a noise, but knew the critter was just worried about him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, shoving the pain aside. Gently settling his left hand on the scytheclaw, he stroked the snout, running his tingling hand over the scaly feathered snout of Blue. Rubbing along the ridge that went up and over the skull, down the back to the tail. All the scaly feathers had a dry satin quality to them. The deep blue of the scale-feathers reminded Kesh of the stories of Earth.

“Sorry, Blue. I’m alright, needing this damn box open.” He took another wild stab at the lock with his right hand, though it wasn’t as dexterous as his left. One reason his left hand was affected by the withdrawal first.

The blade bit into the metal, wedged into the seam, unable to move. There was a squeal of metal on metal that put Kesh’s teeth on edge as he tried to pry it open. Still wouldn’t budge.

Blue then butted hard against him.

“Think you can do better?” He asked, glaring at Blue.

Blue then let out a warbling cry, one foot striking down hard on the crate with his killing claw. The tearing and squeal of metal echoed in the small shack. The claw was stronger than Kesh’s composite knife, which had successfully escaped damage from the scytheclaw. He stopped glaring at Blue when the contents of the crate spilled out and he could get access to the prize inside. Ordinum. It was in a coarse yellow-orange caked lumps, which was fine with Kesh.

Scooping up a sample with his blade, dumped it into a small cylinder from his belt. Part of him knew he wanted to test it first. Yet the flare of heated pain shot through his left hand, making him to ignore the potential danger. He connected the cylinder to his injector. The solution inside the cylinder, a slurry of ordinum, water, and a catalyst to speed up the reaction with water, grew hot far quicker than Kesh thought possible. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered while giving the injector a hard shake with his right hand before slamming the bulbous tip into his left palm and squeezed the trigger.

There was a hiss, then a nip of pain like the stinger of a sandbug, and the pain in his left hand receded. He let out a small sigh of relief as he looked at the crate, letting the effects of the ordinum slurry sharpen his senses.

Letting his eyes de, even in the wan light of the cabin, something that he’d not seen before, stomach dropping when he realized there was a  sigil on the inside of the crate lid and on the outside as well.

The sigil of House Marzal stared back at him, and above that was the sigil of the Bloody Empresses herself, Katherine Batorie.

“Looks like we screwed up on this one, Blue,” he hissed, looking at the scytheclaw.

Blue quirked his head at Kesh. Twisting one eye towards Kesh, then the other one to him.

“Yeah, should have looked. But, we can—”

Before he could finish, there was a loud cacophonous boom. Bolting outside, he winced as a bright, searing flare of light exploding above him. Followed by several more booms.

“That ain’t something you see every day,” Kesh muttered to Blue. “Big capitol ship exploding.”

Branches of light and smoke shot away from the massive ball of fire in various random directions. Kesh followed the streak away with his eyes, his lips quirked in a grin. Then, a total of seven other pieces streaked away from the major explosion.

Blue quirked his head at Kesh.

“You’re right, Blue. We should head off and find what fell,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We get salvage rights and might find some ordium.”

 

2.

“Jonica, wake up!” Meph shouted into her head.

Jonica opened her eyes, regretting it immediately. On her back, the sudden harsh light caused throbbing pain in her head.

“Where are we, Meph?” She sent, though it was hard to do, and hurt her head.

There was no answer. She reached out again, trying to probe the part of her mind she shared with Meph.

“Slagging Hells, Meph! Where are you? Where’s Ophelia’s pod? Respond dammit!”

Still no response.

She closed her eyes, trying to take a breath. She hurt everywhere. Her body felt like one giant knotted muscle. A clattering of beads and the whisper of voices only intensified the pain in her head. “Slag. Where am I?” Jonica muttered; her tongue thick in her mouth.

The last thing she remembered was escaping the dying Dauntless, rescuing Ophelia from the Collector Torvash. There was an explosion. Images of Gryss and Meph. Mars looming ahead in the escape pod as it plunged toward the red planet in an uncontrollable spiral flashed through her mind.

The whisper of voices grew closer.

Her hand went for her thrower. It wasn’t there. She sat up, but her body rebelled against the movement. Her vision blurred as she struggled to take in where she was.

Around her, she heard Olde Martian—Red Tongue—spoken. An elderly, cracking voice said, “She stirs,” in Red Tongue.

The pain in her body confused the words for a moment. It had been some time since she had been on the tiny rust ball of the Terra system or heard Red Tongue spoken. Blinking away tears, she could make out the vague gaunt outlines of Martians surrounding her. Then the group came into focus. Their hard eyes glared down at her with hatred, making Jonica’s shoulder blades constrict. There was another clattering of beads and a hiss of sand as someone moved closer behind her.

She looked up. Hovering over her was a gaunt, dried out husk of a Martian woman, smiling down at her with a mouth full of missing teeth. Offering her a canteen, she rasped, “Sancha, Ashakal, sancha.” Drink up, Skygirl, drink up.

Jonica drank greedily from the skin. Tepid, it still diminished some of her sudden thirst. Then she stopped, for her tastebuds confused by the volatile sensations before her stomach rebelled. What’s this dross? Milk? Vomiting what she’d consumed, breath came in ragged gasps of breath before she collapsed onto her back again, thirstier than ever.

“Well, that went well,” she said while coughing, then spat out the last of the foul milk-like drink. Again, she scanned the group of lanky, stretched-out human natives of Mars. It was the only thing that made sense. She had crashed on Mars, somewhere in the wastes, which were huge stretches of the planet. The only question was where, Northern or Southern hemisphere? If it was South, she was safer, and knew she could talk with some people. North, that was a different story.

She tried Meph again. “Meph, you there furball?”

Again, silence. The small part of Meph that was always in her head was furled tight, and no matter how much she touched it, it wouldn’t open.

A warm, rough, calloused hand touched her forehead, jerking Jonica’s consciousness back to her predicament. All those surrounding them were male. When touched, Jonica’s hands clenched, ready to attack. Turning her right leg into the sand, she felt the hidden blade still there. Like it does much good there? She thought to herself. Yet, the moment the Martian touched her, Jonica felt a soothing prickle of cool air ripple across her face and chest, driving away the worst of the pain and thirst.

“Awaken, child. Hurt badly, are you?” the female voice behind her rasped in broken Trade Tongue.

She nodded, and the hand pulled away, allowing Jonica to see the drawn cheeks and rough weather-worn face of the elderly woman smiling at her still, barely a tooth in her head. The old woman wore a simple poncho and body paint in the color of woad, then blended into other colors as well as it covered the bits of her exposed body. Jonica’s eyes went to the woman’s hair. The old woman festooned it with various fetishes, and reassurance flooded Jonica when she saw a small, curled shell of some deep purple creature long dead. “Shellback tribe?”

The woman nodded softly, gripping a gnarled staff, bracing herself a bit more than she squatted down.

“Good. Thought I was in trouble for a moment,” Jonica said, letting out a sigh.

“Try again to stand, slower?” The cracked voice of the woman said in Red Tongue again with a slight admonishment, as if she spoke to a child.

Jonica took up the canteen again, fighting to keep from rolling her eyes at the tone. She drank slower this time, breaking her swallowing every few moments. It helped to keep the strange sour milk from making her stomach rebel…much. The stench of unwashed bodies hit her at that moment, along with the tang of something like mesquite, which didn’t help the nauseous feeling roiling her stomach.

Looking at the others gathered around, a warning klaxon went off in her head. Jonica’s heart jumped into her throat. The men’s tribal hair knots were of the Sharptooth tribe. Unlike the Shellback tribe, which were the most peaceful of the Mars tribes, the Sharptooth were much more likely to eat a foreigner like herself. She racked her brains to drum up any customs that could save her, but all she got was a headache.

The tallest Sharptooth’s body paint was a deep green. She guessed he was their leader. And his teeth were filed, she noted as he smiled at her.

“Slag, cannibals, wonderful,” she muttered.

His smile reminded Jonica of a shark. “You need to be alive so we can gain your power,” he said in Red Tongue.

“Why would you gain power?” Jonica asked, pushing away, butt-crawling backwards as best she could. Her back hit something solid. She looked up to see several more members of the Sharptooth tribe standing around her.

“I’m dead. Slagging hells, I’m dead,” she muttered, panic sweeping over her.

“You fell from the sky. You a Sky Woman. You have power. We eat you and gain that  power,” the Sharptooth leader said. He smiled again, and she couldn’t help but tremble seeing the horrid shark-like teeth, and his equally dead dark eyes.

She concentrated on the woman, Mother Shellback. The Sharptooth tribe surrounded them both. “Be calm,” Mother Shellback hissed in Trade Tongue, the press of bodies triggering Jonica’s panic again. A brisk wind came in. The reek of iron and copper tainted the wind, and the scent of the old blood the tribesmen used as body paint made Jonica tremble for a moment. Concentrating on the old woman helped Jonica ground herself.

“Do not ask, child,” the woman said. Her words surprised Jonica, more than anything, because they weren’t in Olde Martian. It was more Trade Tongue. A bit garbled, yet it was Trade Tongue.

“Mother Shellback, she lives?” the first voice asked, clearer this time.

“Yes. And she can understand,” the old woman said, looking to one side. She switched back to the Red Tongue. Jonica pushed the thought aside to ponder later. She and Mother Shellback weren’t alone.

“Good,” the deeper male voice said. A male’s face took the place of Mother Shellback and smirked down at Jonica’s prone form like he would try to eat her right at that moment.

Desperately, she reached out to Meph in her head through the mind-link once more. “Damn cat, where are you?” She touched the small, furled part that was Meph’s mind-link in her head. Nothing. “Better not be dead, Meph.”

She looked down at herself, shocked. Her clothes had survived the crash better than she expected. Her leather jacket torn in places, dungarees scraped and torn as well, but still good. She wasn’t sure how she’d landed without breaking every bone in her body. How?

Jonica’s mind raced for a moment, sorting through anything that could help her. She looked at Mother Shellback. Might work. “Why would the Shellback help—”

“She is our gost. She has mydel to the tribe,” the leader said.

Slag. Jonica looked at Mother Shellback. How would a medicine woman of the Shellback have a debt, mydel, to the Sharptooth and be their servant, gost? Jonica looked around and realized without the ability to establish a mind-link with Meph, she was alone and in danger. Where is that damn cat?

Mother Shellback stood up slowly, clutching a gnarled eldritch gray wood staff in her hands. There was a dark blue orb embedded in the staff that Jonica didn’t see until the staff moved and a glint came off the glass-like orb from the sun. When Mother Shellback took a step forward, she faltered a moment. She looked down at Jonica and smiled. “Come dear, let me help you.”

“Help me be eaten?” Jonica asked, narrowing her eyes. Though the pain did lessened, there was still a dull ache behind her eyes.

The older woman leaned down, “I help you,” she whispered in Trade Tongue. Switching to Olde Martian, she said, “You must be stronger for the Sharptooth to feast on your power.”

Jonica studied the old woman, confused. Covered in scraps of clothing layered with dirt, the same multihued body paint continued down from her face and arms. A strange kinship sparked in that half second before Jonica took the offered hand to stand up. Mother Shellback was small but wiry, helping Jonica up more than she thought possible. Jonica thought, only for a moment. She caught a soft glow coming from the top of the staff. Shaking her head, she blamed it on a trick of the far-off light of the sun.

A loud cry went up from the Sharptooth clan when Jonica stood. Some took up their spears of hardened wood; some raised makeshift slug throwers. All focused on Jonica. All kept their eyes on her as she watched the display. Mother Shellback tried to get them to put their weapons down without success.

Jonica shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Can she walk?” the leader asked Mother Shellback, brows furrowed.

“I’ll live, and yes, I can walk.” Jonica said in Olde Martian, to the amusement of the leader.

“To camp,” the leader said, gesturing toward the plains with his short spear.

Looking around, Jonica knew she needed to stow her attitude. Either she could escape, or possibly talk her way out of the situation. She let the Sharptooth clansmen point the way. When they prodded her for moving too slowly, she slapped the spears away. “I’m going,” she hissed, picking up the pace.

There was another shark grin from the leader. “Good, you still have strength and spirit.”

Jonica bit her lip to stop from jumping at the catlike grace of the leader. He smirked. “You are not as jumpy as some.”

“Know how to handle myself against bullies like you.”

His smile grew. “You think you are better than my people”

“No, just not looking forward to being snacked on,” Jonica said.

“It is an honor, Skygirl.”

Jonica frowned at him. “What are you talking about? What is this Skygirl?”

“You fell from the sky. You were glowing, and Mother Shellback said the gods sent you for our Mooncross Ceremony.”

“The gods?”

“Gods, people falling from flying skimmers, same difference.” The leader shrugged.

“You know what—”

“We aren’t backwards,” the leader said. “We choose to live in the old traditions.”

Jonica let out a sigh. “Great.”

“You will make a fine meal.”

“Aren’t you afraid of. . .” Jonica struggled with the Olde Martian and simply used the word she knew in Trade Tongue. “. . . kuru?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know that one. But, if the gods sent you, we will only grow stronger and more mighty.”

“You just—”

“If the gods do something, they are kind. If they don’t listen and don’t answer prayers, then they are capricious. Yet, they still deserve to be worshipped in the old way.”

“Which one is this?”

“The Triad. Father, Son, Spirit. He gave himself, his son, to us. ‘Eat of this bread, for it is my flesh.’”

“I don’t think he—”

“A ceremony that has been going on for some time. You can’t break tradition, especially when the gods give you what we were praying and looking for.”

Jonica shook her head. “You probably already have it. You’re talking like an insane person.”

The leader let out a laugh. “You will be part of the stew tonight, regardless.”