#feeling.........feeling myself......slide into the dragon age pit again..........

[queenofbaws]

uh oh. my fears were correct: the new varric design did it.

im shifting back into da mode...............

[illbefinealonereads]

Blog tour day! Today I’m sharing some information about Lobizona by Romina Garber, as well as an excerpt. Scroll down to learn more.

Some people ARE illegal.

Lobizonas do NOT exist.

Both of these statements are false.

Manuela Azul has been crammed into an existence that feels too small for her. As an undocumented immigrant who's on the run from her father's Argentine crime-family, Manu is confined to a small apartment and a small life in Miami, Florida.

Until Manu's protective bubble is shattered.

Her surrogate grandmother is attacked, lifelong lies are exposed, and her mother is arrested by ICE. Without a home, without answers, and finally without shackles, Manu investigates the only clue she has about her past—a mysterious "Z" emblem—which leads her to a secret world buried within our own. A world connected to her dead father and his criminal past. A world straight out of Argentine folklore, where the seventh consecutive daughter is born a bruja and the seventh consecutive son is a lobizón, a werewolf. A world where her unusual eyes allow her to belong.

As Manu uncovers her own story and traces her real heritage all the way back to a cursed city in Argentina, she learns it's not just her U.S. residency that's illegal. . . .it’s her entire existence.

Early Praise: “With vivid characters that take on a life of their own, beautiful details that peel back the curtain on Romina's Argentinian heritage, and cutting prose that shines a light on the difficulties of being the ‘other’ in America today, Romina Garber crafts a timely tale of identity and adventure that every teenager should read.”–Tomi Adeyemi New York Times bestselling author of Children of Blood and Bone

“Romina Garber has created an enthralling young adult fantasy led by an unforgettable Latinx character Manu. In Manu we find a young girl who not only must contend with the injustice of being undocumented she also discovers a hidden world that may explain her very existence. I fell in love with this world where wolves, witches and magic thrives, all in a rich Latinx setting!” –Lilliam Rivera, author of Dealing in Dreams and The Education of Margot Sanchez

Buy Link:https://read.macmillan.com/lp/lobizona/

Author bio:

ROMINA GARBER (pen name Romina Russell) is a New York Times and international bestselling author. Originally from Argentina, she landed her first writing gig as a teen—a weekly column for the Miami Herald that was later nationally syndicated—and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Her books include Lobizona. When she’s not working on a novel, Romina can be found producing movie trailers, taking photographs, or daydreaming about buying a new drum set. She is a graduate of Harvard College and a Virgo to the core.

Social Links:  Twitter: @RominaRussell // Instagram: @rominagarber

Excerpt:

2

I awaken with a jolt.

It takes me a moment to register that I’ve been out for three days. I can tell by the well-rested feeling in my bones—I don’t sleep this well any other time of the month.

The first thing I’m aware of as I sit up  is an urgent need  to use the bathroom. My muscles are heavy from lack of use, and it takes some concentration to keep my steps light so I won’t wake Ma or Perla. I leave the lights off to avoid meeting my gaze in the mirror, and after tossing out my heavy-duty period pad and replacing it with a tampon, I tiptoe back to Ma’s and my room.

I’m always disoriented after lunaritis, so I feel separate from my waking life as I survey my teetering stacks of journals and used books, Ma’s yoga mat and collection of weights, and the posters on the wall of the planets and constellations I hope to visit one day.

After a moment, my shoulders slump in disappointment.

This month has officially peaked.

I yank the bleach-stained blue sheets off the mattress and slide out the pillows from their cases, balling up the bedding to wash later. My body feels like a crumpled piece of paper that needs to be stretched, so I plant my feet together in the tiny area between the bed and the door, and I raise my hands and arch my back, lengthening my spine disc by disc. The pull on my tendons releases stored tension, and I exhale in relief.

Something tugs at my consciousness, an unresolved riddle that must have timed out when I surfaced . . . but the harder I focus, the quicker I forget. Swinging my head forward, I reach down to touch my toes and stretch my spine the other way—

My ears pop so hard, I gasp.

I stumble back to the mattress, and I cradle my head in my hands as a rush of noise invades my mind. The buzzing of a fly in the window blinds, the gunning of a car engine on the street below, the groaning of our building’s prehistoric eleva- tor. Each sound is so crisp, it’s like a filter was just peeled back from my hearing.

My pulse picks up as I slide my hands away from my temples to trace the outlines of my ears. I think the top parts feel a little . . . pointier.

I ignore the tingling in my eardrums as I cut through the living room to the kitchen, and I fill a stained green bowl with cold water. Ma’s asleep on the turquoise couch because we don’t share our bed this time of the month. She says I thrash around too much in my drugged dreams.

I carefully shut the apartment door behind me as I step out into the building’s hallway, and I crack open our neighbor’s window to slide the bowl through. A black cat leaps over to lap up the drink.

“Hola, Mimitos,” I say, stroking his velvety head. Since we’re both confined to this building, I hear him meowing any time his owner, Fanny, forgets to feed him. I think she’s going senile.

“I’ll take you up with me later, after lunch. And I’ll bring you some turkey,” I add, shutting the window again quickly. I usually let him come with me, but I prefer to spend the morn- ings after lunaritis alone. Even if I’m no longer dreaming, I’m not awake either.

My heart is still beating unusually fast as I clamber up six flights of stairs. But I savor the burn of my sedentary muscles, and when at last I reach the highest point, I swing open the door to the rooftop.

It’s not quite morning yet, and the sky looks like blue- tinged steel. Surrounding me are balconies festooned with colorful clotheslines, broken-down properties with boarded- up windows, fuzzy-leaved palm trees reaching up from the pitted streets . . . and in the distance, the ground and sky blur where the Atlantic swallows the horizon.

El Retiro is a rundown apartment complex with all elderly residents—mostly Cuban, Colombian, Venezuelan, Nicara- guan, and Argentine immigrants. There’s just one slow, loud elevator in the building, and since I’m the youngest person here, I never use it in case someone else needs it.

I came up here hoping for a breath of fresh air, but since it’s summertime, there’s no caress of a breeze to greet me. Just the suffocating embrace of Miami’s humidity.

Smothering me.

I close my eyes and take in deep gulps of musty oxygen, trying to push the dread down to where it can’t touch me. The way Perla taught me to do whenever I get anxious.

My metamorphosis started this year. I first felt something

was different four full moons ago, when I no longer needed to squint to study the ground from up here. I simply opened my eyes to perfect vision.

The following month, my hair thickened so much that I had to buy bigger clips to pin it back. Next menstrual cycle came the growth spurt that left my jeans three inches too short, and last lunaritis I awoke with such a heightened sense of smell that I could sniff out what Ma and Perla had for dinner all three nights I was out.

It’s bad enough to feel the outside world pressing in on me, but now even my insides are spinning out of my control.

As Perla’s breathing exercises relax my thoughts, I begin  to feel the stirrings of my dreamworld calling me back. I slide onto the rooftop’s ledge and lie back along the warm cement, my body as stagnant as the stale air. A dragon-shaped cloud comes apart like cotton, and I let my gaze drift with Miami’s hypnotic sky, trying to call up the dream’s details before they fade . . .

What Ma and Perla don’t know about the Septis is they don’t simply sedate me for sixty hours—they transport me.

Every lunaritis, I visit the same nameless land of magic and mist and monsters. There’s the golden grass that ticks off time by turning silver as the day ages; the black-leafed trees that can cry up storms, their dewdrop tears rolling down their bark to form rivers; the colorful waterfalls that warn onlookers of oncoming danger; the hope-sucking Sombras that dwell in darkness and attach like parasitic shadows . . .

And the Citadel.

It’s a place I instinctively know I’m not allowed to go, yet I’m always trying to get to. Whenever I think I’m going to make it inside, I wake up with a start.

Picturing the black stone wall, I see the thorny ivy that

twines across its surface like a nest of guardian snakes, slith- ering and bunching up wherever it senses a threat.

The sharper the image, the sleepier I feel, like I’m slowly sliding back into my dream, until I reach my hand out tenta- tively. If I could just move faster than the ivy, I could finally grip the opal doorknob before the thorns—

Howling breaks my reverie.

I blink, and the dream disappears as I spring to sitting and scour the battered buildings. For a moment, I’m sure I heard a wolf.

My spine locks at the sight of a far more dangerous threat: A cop car is careening in the distance, its lights flashing and siren wailing. Even though the black-and-white is still too far away to see me, I leap down from the ledge and take cover behind it, the old mantra running through my mind.

Don’t come here, don’t come here, don’t come here.

A familiar claustrophobia claws at my skin, an affliction forged of rage and shame and powerlessness that’s been my companion as long as I’ve been in this country. Ma tells me I should let her worry about this stuff and only concern myself with studying, so when our papers come through, I can take my GED and one day make it to NASA—but it’s impossible not to worry when I’m constantly having to hide.

My muscles don’t uncoil until the siren’s howling fades and the police are gone, but the morning’s spell of stillness has broken. A door slams, and I instinctively turn toward the pink building across the street that’s tattooed with territorial graf- fiti. Where the alternate version of me lives.

I call her Other Manu.

The first thing I ever noticed about her was her Argentine fútbol jersey: #10 Lionel Messi. Then I saw her face and real- ized we look a lot alike. I was reading Borges at the time, and

it ocurred to me that she and I could be the same person in overlapping parallel universes.

But it’s an older man and not Other Manu who lopes down the street. She wouldn’t be up this early on a Sunday anyway. I arch my back again, and thankfully this time, the only pop I hear is in my joints.

The sun’s golden glare is strong enough that I almost wish I had my sunglasses. But this rooftop is sacred to me because it’s the only place where Ma doesn’t make me wear them, since no one else comes up here.

I’m reaching for the stairwell door when I hear it.

Faint footsteps are growing louder, like someone’s racing up. My heart shoots into my throat, and I leap around the corner right as the door swings open.

The person who steps out is too light on their feet to be someone who lives here. No El Retiro resident could make it up the stairs that fast. I flatten myself against the wall.

“Creo que encontré algo, pero por ahora no quiero decir nada.”

Whenever Ma is upset with me, I have a habit of translat- ing her words into English without processing them. I asked Perla about it to see if it’s a common bilingual thing, and she said it’s probably my way of keeping Ma’s anger at a distance; if I can deconstruct her words into language—something de- tached that can be studied and dissected—I can strip them of their charge.

As my anxiety kicks in, my mind goes into automatic trans- lation mode: I think I found something, but I don’t want to say anything yet.

The woman or girl (it’s hard to tell her age) has a deep, throaty voice that’s sultry and soulful, yet her singsongy accent is unquestionably Argentine. Or Uruguayan. They sound similar.

My cheek is pressed to the wall as I make myself as flat as possible, in case she crosses my line of vision.

“Si tengo razón, me harán la capitana más joven en la his- toria de los Cazadores.”

If I’m right, they’ll make me the youngest captain in the history of the . . . Cazadores? That means hunters.

In my eight years living here, I’ve never seen another per- son on this rooftop. Curious, I edge closer, but I don’t dare peek around the corner. I want to see this stranger’s face, but not badly enough to let her see mine.

“¿El encuentro es ahora? Che, Nacho, ¿vos no me podrías cubrir?”

Is the meeting right now? Couldn’t you cover for me, Nacho?

The che and vos sound like Argentinespeak. What if it’s Other Manu?

The exciting possibility brings me a half step closer, and now my nose is inches from rounding the corner. Maybe I can sneak a peek without her noticing.

“Okay,” I hear her say, and her voice sounds like she’s just a few paces away.

I suck in a quick inhale, and before I can overthink it, I pop my head out—

And see the door swinging shut.

I scramble over and tug it open, desperate to spot even a hint of her hair, any clue at all to confirm it was Other Manu— but she’s already gone.

All that remains is a wisp of red smoke that vanishes with the swiftness of a morning cloud.

Excerpted from Lobizona by Romina Garber. Published by Wednesday Books.

[lifestones]

Project Eden Chapter 1

Unfortunately, I was unable to finish the one shot I had originally planned in honor of Red’s birthday today. So instead, I will be sharing the first chapter of Eden! Happy birthday Red!

Rated M for swearing. 

Sunday, April 12th, 2015.

Subject: Red Dragon.

There was no better way to start my day than by getting a bullet pulled out of my fractured radius… without anesthesia. Sounds fun, right? It was thrilling. Best thing to happen to me all year. Needless to say, Charlotte was efficient at the job. She was, after all, studying to be a nurse. I was used to pain, but… this hurt like a motherfucker.

I was just sitting on a stool in the infirmary in our base, which was under the nightclub, Euphoria, that we run to bring in funds and disguise our true identity.

Who are we? The Dragon Girls, of fucking course. Only the best girls-only gang in all the boroughs of New York City. And I just so happen to be the boss. But that was why I was getting treated here and not in, say, a hospital. I called us a gang, but it was a loose term. I preferred thinking of us more as a team of vigilantes. Yeah, we were criminals to the cops—for taking out the real criminals they couldn’t touch because of lack of evidence. We did the public a service, even if they didn’t fucking see it.

“You are seriously lucky, Red,” Charlotte muttered as she looked at the bullet she had pulled right out of my bone. “It wasn’t in as deep as I thought it would be.”

Charlotte D’Amore was her name, and she was the same age as me—well, until tomorrow when I turn twenty-one. We went to high school together, until we both dropped out when we were sixteen. She was originally from some hick town in Alabama. Her family moved to the city four years ago, when her father got a big promotion. But her father was an abusive piece of shit who beat both her and her mom, and her younger brother could never do anything about it without ending up in the hospital.

We first met at a hospital before school started. I was there for a physical. She was there due to an "accident"—aka her asshole father beating her so badly, he broke her nose, left arm, and gave her a concussion. We met at school after that, and we sort of became friends. I ended up helping her run away and we pretty much started the Dragon Girls together. She became my new best friend. We tried dating for a bit, but we decided it was better to stay as friends.

I would’ve said something if I didn’t have a washcloth inside my mouth to bite onto while she worked on my arm so I wouldn’t take a chunk out of my tongue. So I just gave a shrug, which I immediately regretted as the movement triggered sharp pain to shoot through my right arm. I could feel the blood dripping down my skin from the open wound, but I didn’t dare look down to see for myself. Seeing my own skeleton was not a life goal of mine.

“All right, I’m going to stitch you up now,” she said, turning to get the-

I stopped that train of thought. I really did not want to think about it.

Instead, I just focused on watching her, as long as I did not look at her hands or arms. Charlotte was absolutely gorgeous. She had thick, wavy golden blonde hair that fell to the small of her back, with fringe bangs, tied back in a half ponytail like usual, and her eyes were a calm shade of blue. Even though it was like three in the morning, she was fully dressed, wearing a black turtleneck that hugged her figure, black leggings, and stiletto boots that added like two inches to her height.

She was my second-in-command, and I relied on her to ensure that our communications were running smoothly while we were out on missions. She stayed behind the scenes more than I did. She was also better at staying behind the scenes than I was. I needed… action. Part of it was having ADHD and needing to be on the move.

I needed to be directly involved, even if it put me in danger—which was how I got shot in the first place. Bullet wounds were nothing new to me, but this time, it had been because I saw one of the ass wipes we were taking care of about to make a death shot on one of my girls, and I pushed her out of the way, taking it in the arm instead. Nobody was going to die on my watch.

But even watching Charlotte wasn’t enough to distract me from her work, so I ended up just closing my eyes and biting down on the cloth to keep quiet from the pain. It seemed to last hours, but it was probably only a few minutes. But it was a relief when I felt her wipe down my arm with a wet cloth to clean off the blood, and then she splinted it, before wrapping it up with bandages. She had set the bone before going in for the bullet, so that was all that needed to be done. A few minutes later, my arm was in a makeshift sling and she yanked the washcloth out of my mouth before I could do it myself.

“Y’know, I normally don’t like bein’ gagged,” I joked.

Charlotte rolled her eyes before smacking me on my shoulder. “Very funny, Red.”

“In all seriousness, thanks,” I said, sliding off the stool. “We’re really lucky you’re studyin’ to be a nurse.”

Out of all the high school dropouts here, Charlotte was the only one to pursue her GED. She was also the only one interested in a normal life. I was dreading the day she graduated, got a job, and moved on from us. I knew it was a life better suited for her, but at the same time… I was tired of being left behind.

“Yes, well, if someone quit being so damn reckless, this wouldn’t keep being a problem,” she stated bitterly, turning her back to me. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to wash up and head to bed. You should do the same.”

Ouch. She was pissed. I didn’t blame her, but damn. Charlotte was rarely hostile to me. But I also knew she really had not liked today’s mission. It was, after all, making trouble with the Battaglia crime family. She hadn’t been particularly vocal about it, but considering that I rarely ever change my mind, there was no point in arguing with me in the first place.

Charlotte had always been the sensible one out of the two of us. I’m not gonna lie—I can be a little crazy. Originally, she had just wanted to get away from her abusive home life. So had I. But I had also fallen into an extremely unhealthy pit of shit at the time, and after I snapped out of it (after nearly dying in the process), I had wanted to do something to fix this shitty as fuck world of ours. So I came up with the idea for the Dragon Girls—a vigilante gang that does what the cops can’t. She had supported me, but not without her own reservations.

Did I have blood on my hands? Yes. But only of monsters worse than me.

Still, there was no point in staying up when it was so late. I left the infirmary, and headed downstairs to the second basement floor under Euphoria, where all the bedrooms were. A lot of the girls had their own places, but some of us lived here. Not everyone was a fighter like me. We took in a lot of runaways as well—mainly girls who had abusive homes.

I knew what it was like to be powerless, and I would do anything I could to make sure these girls stopped feeling that way.

As soon as I stepped into my room, I pulled my holsters off my belt and dumped them on the table near the door where I kept all my guns. It took some effort with only one usable hand, but once that was done, I kicked off my boots and jeans. Actually putting on pajamas was too much effort, especially with one hand, so I climbed into bed as is. And within moments, I was out.

~ * ~ * ~

I ended up sleeping in until like noon, which was fine with me. All we did on days following big missions was celebrate. So I hauled myself out of bed, took a shower—which was a pain in the ass to do with a broken arm—and got dressed. I threw my leather jacket over my shoulders before heading out; I may not be able to wear it properly, but Euphoria could get cold and that’s where I was going to be.

I headed out to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. When I got there, several others were already chowing down.

“Ey, good mornin’, boss,” Hector Espinosa, the one guy in our group, greeted me. “Glad to see you’re doin’ better.”

Now you’re probably wondering why a guy was doing here when I said that we were females only. Well, Hector originally came to us as a girl. He was one of the runaway cases, and after living with us for a few months and befriending one of the girls who just so happens to be transgender, he finally realized that he’s trans. We’re girls only, but I knew that just kicking him out was against what morals I do have and I knew he would be even worse off. So, I let him stay and gave him a job to be a bouncer for Euphoria so he could have money for medical bills that would come with his transitioning.

Despite being born female, Hector had always been a behemoth; the kid was only nineteen but he stood over six feet tall. He was built on the stocky side, which had to make binding a pain in the ass. He was, as his name suggests, Hispanic. He kept his straight black hair nice and short, his skin was bronze, and his eyes were deep brown.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I waved him off as I sauntered over to the stove. I paused, and sniffed the air. Something… had been burning. “God, did Maya burn the eggs again?”

“H-Hey! It was an accident!” the girl in question exclaimed defensively. “Hector distracted me!”

Maya was one of the younger members, a junior in high school. Her family life sucked ass, so she legally removed herself from her mom’s custody when she was sixteen and has been living on her own ever since. She’s also been in and out of Juvie, for drugs and other stupid shit. She joined us about six months ago, so she was relatively new here as well. She was seventeen now, and she had her wavy black hair pulled back into the usual low ponytail, her skin was darkened with tan, and her eyes were brown.

“Give the jailbait a break, Hector,” I scolded jokingly as I walked over to the fridge. “God, what am I, your babysitter?”

That earned laughs from everyone in the room. Everyone knew that Hector and Maya had a thing, but the extent of that thing wasn’t something I knew. It was none of my business, anyways. I was their boss, not their nanny, no matter how much I joked about it. Rummaging around, I found the egg carton and took it out.

“Guess I’ll just have to show you how to properly do eggs,” I said, shutting the fridge door with my shoulder.

“You would know, boss,” Hector snorted.

I laughed. “Good one. Yeah, I would, wouldn’t I?”

I set to work then, deciding that I wanted sunny side up eggs for a change. We usually just scrambled or fried them, since it was easier. But if I wanted to show off—which was the entire point of this exercise—I would have to make something fancy. An omelet was too much work for one arm, so this would suffice.

“Uh, boss? Do you need help?” I heard Maya ask.

“I got it,” I said, setting the pan down on the burner and turning on the stove. “You nerds forget I’m ambidextrous.”

Besides, if I was going to deal with this broken arm for who knows how many months, I needed all the practice I could get with using my left hand. God, this was going to be weird.

~ * ~ * ~

After breakfast was done and the kitchen had been cleaned up, I headed upstairs to Euphoria. We had a secret back entrance in the employee only area that had stairs leading downstairs to our headquarters. Even though it was fairly early in the day for partying, it was also a Sunday, which meant more guests than usual during this hour. Kaylee, one of the girls who worked as bartender, was behind the bar, washing some glasses. I headed over to the bar and plopped down on one of the barstools.

Kaylee turned towards me. “The usual, boss?”

I nodded. “You know me.”

Yeah, I was underage and I drank alcohol. Nobody could stop me. And my birthday was tomorrow, so it wasn’t a big deal anyways.

Kaylee slid a glass of 1994 Taylor Fladgate Vintage Port—my current favorite wine that I had allowed to be opened this year in honor of my approaching twenty-first birthday. It was, after all, made the very same year I was born. I was the only one who could drink it, though. You could say I’m very… possessive about my wine. It was the only booze I really liked. Guess once crème de la crème, always crème de la crème. Growing up filthy rich stuck with me in some ways, I regret to admit.

I lifted the goblet to my lips to take a sip of the wine as someone else sat down on the stool to my left. I didn’t really pay attention to who it was, until they spoke.

“I’ll have a glass of champagne, darling.”

My gaze darted over to my left. Just like I suspected—it was Astrid Glaisyer, an infamous assassin who we had worked with in the past. She was in her mid-twenties, tall and curvaceous, with long, curly mahogany brown hair, fair skin, and striking light green eyes. She was wearing a black lace bralette with a leather jacket over it, jeans, and a pair of black stiletto boots. She could pull off any look she damn pleased, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think she was hot. But I don’t mix work with pleasure.

Kaylee slid a flute of our finest champagne over to Astrid, who continued to completely ignore me to down the entire glass. “Ah. Refreshing.”

“...What are you doin’ here, Astrid?” I asked warily.

She laughed lightly, head turning towards me. “Oh, darling, I thought you would be delighted to see me.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m really not in the mood to play your mind games, Astrid.”

Like I said, Astrid was a trained assassin. I didn’t know the full story, as it was none of my business, but there were rumors. It was said that there was this kingpin in Russia who had young girls kidnapped from their homes, all over the world, to be brought to him and trained to be killers. Astrid was supposedly one of these girls, and while I wasn’t one to immediately believe every single thing I heard in the criminal underground, this rumor was so rampant, it was probably true. We ended up working together due to sharing the same target—a corrupt millionaire who was secretly involved in human trafficking.

“Aw, you’re no fun, Red.” She pouted dramatically. “I thought we had something.”

I rolled my eyes, and took a sip of my wine. “Seriously, what’re you doin’ here?”

She sighed disappointedly, reaching up to brush her hair behind her back. “I came here for business, but was hoping for pleasure—that is, if you would care to satiate my curiosity~.”

“Business sounds great,” I deadpanned.

“Well… suit yourself, then.” Astrid reached into her jacket and pulled out a manila envelope. “I thought you would be interested in seeing this. It’s a new hit we received yesterday.”

Frowning, I took the envelope from her and set my wine glass down on the counter. I opened it up carefully, and slid out the contents. I looked over the papers quickly, only for my eyes to widen in shock as I realized who the photograph and information files were about. A sickened feeling sunk deep into my stomach, like I was going to vomit. All I could do was stare at it in shock for a few moments.

It was my little sister, Clarisse.

I almost didn’t recognize her in the picture, but after a moment of studying it, I realized it was definitely her. It had been five years since I had last seen her... I had been sixteen when I ran away, and she had only been eleven. She was fifteen now, a few months shy of her own sixteenth birthday. The photograph was clearly a school portrait, with the blue background and my sister wearing her school uniform. She had long, pin straight naturally platinum blonde hair pulled back into a perfect—and I mean fucking perfect—high ponytail that was angled to the side. Her skin was pale, like she didn’t get outside much, and her eyes were dark brown, like coffee. I noticed that her clothes were hanging loosely from her body, like she was too thin.

“You… got a hit… on my baby sister?” My voice was like ice as I looked up from the picture. “Who the fuck ordered this?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Astrid answered calmly, unfazed by my icy rage. “Our clients are all anonymous to protect their identities. I don’t like killing children, regardless of how high the pay is. So I thought I’d hand this over to you, so you can find the sick bastard who wants your sister dead. Though… you don’t appear to be in the best position for that right now.”

I scowled, my good hand clenching into a fist. “Do I look like I fuckin’ care? I’ll slit the bastard’s throat myself.”

Again, my bloodthirsty comment did not bother her. “I did spend most of yesterday trying to figure out just who sent this order in.”

“And?” I prompted brusquely.

“EDEN, Co.’s enemies are not so desperate they would want a teenage girl to die,” she stated grimly, her green eyes meeting mine. “I’m afraid that this could be an internal attack.”

Ugh… EDEN, Co was part of the Pendragon conglomerate that my family, the Pendragons, owned. Like I mentioned earlier, I came from a filthy rich family. And my family was not only one of the richest in the world, but one of the largest.

We had three “branches” if you will—the European branch in France, the Asian branch in Japan, and the American branch in, well, America. The Pendragons originated in Great Britain, but moved to France sometime before the American Revolution. Then on a business venture, they visited Japan. One of the sons of the CEO—or whatever the hell the equivalent was back then—fell in love with a woman there, and as part of the business venture, married her. We had a place in the east ever since. Our family became divided then, to the point where our bloodlines had become so distant, we were only related through legal means. So my grandfather, Osamu Pendragon, the heir of the Japanese line, married Caroline Pendragon, the heiress of the French line, and they moved to America to create a new branch that would regulate the other two in hopes of reuniting the entire family.

Their dreams did not come true. Hell, relations between both sides were worse now. But still, going to assassins to off the heiress seemed a bit… much. The hatred in our family was not that strong. Or at least, that was what I liked to believe.

“What the hell makes you say that?” I demanded.

“Most businessmen are not murderers, Red,” she stated coolly. “But your uncle? Something about him makes me… uneasy. And it is extremely difficult to unsettle me.”

I bristled at the mention of my uncle. Basile Pendragon was his name, and he was the younger brother of my dad, Xavier Pendragon, who died about eight years ago. I was only thirteen years old at the time—much too young to claim my inheritance and become the new CEO of Eden, Co. So Basile took the position in my place. I lost my position as heiress when I ran away from home, leaving Clarisse as the only American Pendragon left to take over.

It wasn’t something I thought of often anymore. That part of my life was long gone. But if my sister was in danger, I would have to suck it up and dive back into that shitty as fuck world.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know,” I muttered.

My issues with Basile ran deeper than him taking my position away from him. But that was something I really did not want to think about. It was why I was the leader of a gang, and not the youngest multi-billionaire in the world.

“But Basile wantin’ to murder his own niece?” I shook my head. “He may be a bastard, but she might as well his heir. What the hell would he gain from that?”

“You tell me, Red.”

I scowled. “Well, sorry, I don’t have the fuckin’ answer.”

It was… complicated. Dad and Basile had a falling out at some point after my dad returned from a two year old business trip. Then, eight years ago, during the holiday season, for whatever reason, my dad decided to make amends with his brother. He invited Basile to spend Christmas and New Years with us. One day, when I came home from present shopping with my mom and sister, I… found my dad in his study, dead. Everything went to shit after that.

Astrid shrugged. “You know him better than I do. And you’re smarter than you let on. I’m pretty sure everyone who has ever worked with you knows this.”

...Considering that I have an IQ of 150, that was a bit of an understatement.

I scowled, picking up my glass of wine to take a long drink, and then set it back down. Ugh. I needed alcohol just to get me through having to think about this shit.

“The only reason I can think of is total bullshit,” I retorted.

“And that is…?” she prompted.

“Basile would want Clarisse dead if, and only if, he had his own kid somewhere…” I glowered at my glass of wine, before looking over at her again. “He isn’t married, which doesn’t mean shit, but I’m pretty sure the whole world would know if he had a kid. Which doesn’t make sense. Why the hell would he hide it?”

Unfortunately, I could think of a few reasons. All of which I quickly pushed out of my mind.

“Does it really?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow, like she could see right through me. “Your uncle has always displayed a desire to take over your family’s conglomerate. Perhaps he’s hiding something.”

“That’s an understatement.” I fought the urge to down another gulp. “A blind person could see he’s a shady motherfucker.”

“I think it’s still something to keep in mind,” Astrid stated. “Because someone wants your sister dead, and there must be a reason why. I’ll be keeping in touch.” Standing up, she reached into her purse, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and slapped it down on the counter. “Keep the change.”

I watched as she slinked off, lithe as a cat. I swore it was like she wasn’t even human sometimes. And honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. More and more aliens—as in the kind from outer space—were coming to our planet every day.

Looking back down at the papers resting on the manila envelope, with her school picture on top, I picked my glass back up. I was going to at least finish this wine before going to do anything about this. And of course, I had to talk to Charlotte.

But there was no way I was just going to stand back and let my sister die.

~ * ~ * ~

“Red, are you sure this is a good idea?”

We were sitting in Charlotte’s car, parked on the side of the road in front of the Pendragon mansion on Carnegie Hill in the Upper East Side. It was an elaborate French Renaissance style mansion, four stories high, right down to the gargoyles on the roof. My grandparents bought it when they immigrated to America. When I was a kid, I used to be terrified of the gargoyles, thinking they came alive at night and would eat me if I left my bedroom. It was one of the few mansions in the city still used as a home.

“No, but I needta get to the bottom of this.” I turned my head to look at her. “Clarisse could be in some serious trouble.”

Charlotte sighed, glancing down at the steering wheel. “Just be careful, Red.”

I flashed her a bright grin. “Babe, I’m always careful!”

She gave me a flat look. “Every time you say that, you do something reckless and get yourself hurt.”

“...Look, Charlotte, all I’m gonna do is go up, knock on the door, and ask if Clarisse is home. Mamoru always answers the door. Well, he will if he’s still the butler…”

The thought of Mamoru no longer working in the place I once called home made me very sad. A bit pissed too, but mostly sad.

“All right,” she sighed. “Just hurry up.”

I unbuckled my seatbelt, pushed open the door, and heaved myself out of the car. Shutting the door behind me, I walked down the sidewalk and scaled the short set of stairs that led up to the front door. I stopped in front of the door, suddenly unsure if this was really a good idea or not. It had been five years—five long as fuck years. I had no idea what my sister even would be like.

Clarisse has always been Diana’s favorite. Ever since she was born, it was always Clarisse Clarisse Clarisse. She was the perfect one—the daughter Diana had always wanted. Me? I may have the IQ of a genius, but having ADHD made it almost nearly impossible for me to function in a classroom environment. But Clarisse had everything—beauty, intelligence, no mental issues, supportive parents. Yeah, Dad had been hard on her, but he was hard on both of us. It wasn’t like how Diana treated me. I struggled in school, got detention at least once a week, frequented the principal’s office… I could go on and on.

Clarisse had always adored me, despite all the contempt I felt for her initially. I did love my sister—and I still do—but after being treated like complete shit and being told I was doomed for failure, while she got raised on a golden pedestal… It was really hard not to be bitter. But we were still close, and deep down, I was worried how me leaving had changed how she felt about me.

But… I couldn’t stay away forever. She was my sister and I would have to try to make this right eventually. Now was a good a time as any.

So, steeling myself, I lifted my hand and pounded the door knocker.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard someone begin to unlock the door. Moments later, it opened, revealing a stately older Japanese man who was, without a doubt, Mamoru Nakajima, who had helped run the Pendragon household since before my dad was born. He seemed to have aged considerably since I had last seen him, as his dark hair was now silver, and his face was creased with age lines. He was wearing the usual black suit with a black tie.

His dark eyes widened as he saw me. “Miss Ellie?”

I almost cringed at my old nickname. My full name is Elysia Pendragon, and growing up I went by Ellie. It was a painful reminder of who I used to be—who I would never be ever again. That little girl was long gone.

“Uh, hey, Mamoru.” I let out an awkward laugh, reaching up to rub the back of my head with my good hand. “I know, I know… it’s been forever… but I was wonderin’, is Clarisse home?”

Mamoru grimaced. “Ah… I’m afraid not. She is currently out with… friends.”

“Oh, Aimee and Gigi?” I asked, recalling her childhood friends.

He shook his head. “No. She has made… new friends. I believe it is the very same crowd you ran with before you left us.”

“WHAT?!” My voice cracked up an octave. “God, are you serious? Is she stupid or somethin’?! Ugh, sorry Mamoru, but I’m gonna go haul her ass outta there. We’ll have to catch up some other time.”

~ * ~ * ~

It was an understatement that this was one of my least favorite places in all of New York City. It was in one of the sleazier areas of Hell’s Kitchen, where people only go if they want to get shot up—by a gun or a needle. I used to come here all the time with the new “friends” I made in high school late freshman, early sophomore year. We’d go to this old abandoned townhouse to drink, smoke, do a variety of recreational drugs, and have sex.

I am not proud of what I did that year, and it stuck with me even when Charlotte managed to convince me to run away. It started out simple, like always. First it was just getting drunk and doing stupid shit—like letting one of the guys fuck me without protection. Then they got me into smoking pot. Then I tried out coke. And then I jumped right into heroin. I was so desperate to numb all the internal agony tormenting me, I was willing to do anything. I abandoned my childhood friends for these dipshits. If it wasn’t for Charlotte, I would either still be in this pit or I’d be dead. Probably the latter.

I hated being reminded of my weakness. I couldn’t even remember how I went cold turkey without dying. And yet here I was, about to step back into this hole of dark memories just to drag my sister out of hell. That was going to be a feat with a broken arm.

“Are you going to be okay going in there?” Charlotte asked warily. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want you in there anyways.”

Not feeling like discussing it further, I got out of the car. This place was so damn shady, and I was used to shady. Charlotte had her gun on her, and I had mine hidden in my jacket just in case. But if anyone recognized me, they would wisely give me a wide berth. I headed up to the front door of the shoddy townhouse that had definitely seen better days. I could already smell cigarette smoke. I tried not to cough. I hated that shit so much.

I lifted my good hand to pound on the door. When there was no response, I scowled to myself. I really was not in the mood for this shit. I tried the doorknob, and the door opened with ease. God, anyone could walk in here and just murder them. Idiots.

As I stepped inside, I was hit by a mix of cigarette and marijuana smoke that immediately made me cough. I covered my nose with my sleeve for a moment before proceeding further in. This place really hadn’t changed much over the past five years, except for there being more chips in the ugly floral wallpaper and more unidentifiable stains on the walls. The floorboards creaked under my boots as I walked further in, making my way to the main room.

I could hear laughter as I got closer. Once I reached the open doorway that led to the living room, I saw just what was going on. I only recognized a few faces. Two of my old classmates were smoking weed. Two others who I recognized from the grade below me were shooting up something. There were a bunch of high schoolers drinking beer in the far-right corner, laughing and joking amongst themselves. And then there was my dear baby sister, on her back on one of the ratty, flea infested couches, half naked, with only her bra and panties on, while a guy, also half naked with only his boxers on, was on top of her, sucking on her neck.

…’Kay, this was not what I expected when I came looking for her.

“CLARISSE WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’?!”

Not gonna lie, the reactions to me screaming were priceless.

Clarisse shoved the guy on top of her away so hard, he fell right on his bare back on the rough wooden floor. Several of the drunk high schoolers fell off the table they were sitting on. The smokers dropped their pipes. And the junkies looked up drowsily.

“ELLIE?! What the hell are you doing here?!”

I scowled darkly, and walked right up to her. The guy hastily scrambled out of my way. At least he wasn’t completely stupid.

“What the hell do you think?” I snapped. “I hear you’re in some kinda trouble, so I stop by to see if you’re at the mansion, but no, Mamoru fuckin’ tells me you’re here in this shithole!”

Clarisse looked exactly like her school portrait, except for a few things. Her ponytail was no longer so perfect, mussed up from the foreplay I had interrupted. And she had some rather bold makeup on—thick black eyeliner, silver eyeshadow, and red lipstick that had left marks all over that guy’s body. Still glowering at me, she hastily grabbed her shirt and pulled it back on. But she wasn’t quick enough to hide the fact that she was almost skin and bones.

“Aren’t you being a little hypocritical, Miss Crimson Dragon,” she retorted icily. “They’re your friends too!”

“Friends? Friends? Really?” I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Clarisse. There’s a reason why I’m not still here. They’re not your real friends!”

Clarisse stood up, hands clenching into fists, and I realized she was at least two inches taller than me. “Shut up! SHUT UP! Why do you even care?! You left me!”

Her explosion ricocheted across the entire room, making literally everyone freeze. I was so used to being the angry one, I wasn’t sure how to react to… to my sister’s rage. She was trembling, her fists clenched so tight, her knuckles turned white. Tears slowly began to pool in her dark eyes, reminding me of how she tended to cry whenever she got pissed off. All I could really do was, well… stare at her in shock.

“You’re gone for five fucking years without saying a word!” she spat venomously. “And you think you can just waltz back into my life and tell me what to fucking do?! I don’t need you, Ellie! I don’t need anyone! I can do whatever the hell I want, and you can’t stop me! I’m better than you, and you know it!”

Her words were like daggers, piercing right into me, but I deserved all of it. Because she was right—well, about that part. She was still a fifteen-year-old girl spouting probably the same attitude I had at her age. But it was obvious that nothing I said was going to get through to her.

So I just nodded, shoving my good hand into my pocket. “Suit yourself, then. Have fun fuckin’ up your life, Clarisse.”

With that, I turned around and walked away before anyone else could say anything to me.

[gotmudonyou]

OCR World Championships 2019 3K Report

Last year’s OCR World Championships saw some of the most glorious weather you could hope to see in October. Could we be that lucky 2 years in a row??!! In a word...No. It was colder, wetter and muddier than last year and those elements combined to make this a very different race.

With the injury plagued season I had last year I had worked hard on my pre-hab and very slowly increased my mileage across the year. Following the 2018 World Championships I’d been experiencing shoulder pain which limited the amount of hanging work I could do. In fact it hampered many elements of my training and was finding it hard to bench press or bicep curl without pain. This turned out to be a mixture of biceps tendinitis and rotator cuff instability. It took roughly 4 months of physio and rehab to sort this. Everything was going great until knee pain reared its ugly head again around July. With no chance to take time out to properly sort the issue I agreed with my physio that damage limitation was the key, I needed to go into the event with as little knee pain as possible. This meant very reduced running mileage which I made up for in functional obstacle training over longer periods and walk/run/bike sessions to get ‘time on feet’.

The 3K was a short but obstacle heavy course. It was certainly more technical than last year’s 3k. Before my race I managed to watch some of my wife Jo’s race. Seeing many competitors struggling with some of the obstacles in the rain was worrying me but I needed to focus. I’d been out on a walk of the course with Team UK the day before so I knew my race plan and how I was going to attack each obstacle.

With the 3k each age group are set off in waves of  around 10 competitors to ensure the course doesn't get any queues. Having agreed to film the pro waves for the official live stream a short time after my finish I wanted to be near the front. I stood in the start pen next to my good friend Stuart ‘El Capitan’ Neail who had cleared the final obstacle at the same time as me the year before. 

This year there was little pre-amble from Spartan Phil and we were off. The first few obstacles were designed to drain you and spread the field. A set of ditches into a tyre pit and then Monty’s Hurdles. These are a set of wooden hurdles around chest height that you have to go over and ensure your feet touch the ground in between each hurdle. There are around 10 of them and they take it out of you! 

Next up was the first technical obstacle, the first Force 5 Rig .

                                                         Force 5 Rig 1

This was a fairly simple obstacle with some pivoting holds and rings to swing across but a nice obstacle to warm up on. After another Nuclear Races obstacle ‘La Gaffe’ it was a little run up through the woods to meet the first proper rig -The Nuclear Nitro Rig. This was a a rig of various holds and ropes. It wasn't particularly difficult or grip sapping but it was fiddly and I’m not sure there was a graceful way of completing it. I got it done going for safety rather than speed.

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                                                  Nuclear Nitro Rig

After a little A frame it was into the huge tent for one of the new signature obstacles, Valkyrie. This was a a set of rings going up and down that you can only traverse with your hands. Watching the earlier waves I noticed many missing out rings on the way down so this was my plan as well, my thinking being the less time spent hanging the better. This is largely a strength based obstacle but good technique can make it easier. I flew up and missed a couple of rings on the way down as planned. Damn that was fun!

                                                        Valkyrie

Being a short course there was no let up now, following Valkyrie it was straight into another new signature grip obstacle, the wonderfully named Sabretooth. This was a set of monkey bars that went up and down twice and it was long! Earlier in the day it had rained and I'd seen many racers struggle with this obstacle. I decided on using a side on technique on the incline sections for safety. This meant I could clamp my hands on either side of each bar which meant there was less chance of slipping off. Thankfully the rain held off for my wave and I sailed through.                              

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                                                       Sabretooth

I knew this section would be intense but wow! Straight in to another rig! The Force 5 Rig 2 had a variety of T-bar attachments which pivoted and a spinning wheel to finish. I’d been planning my approach since I’d seen some photos of this obstacle a week or so before. The key element was the flat T-bar before the wheel which swung towards you. My plan was to reach to the furthest part with my stronger hand and pull it towards me. Then once I had a firm grip I’d 2-tap (quickly grab with my other hand) before grabbing the wheel with an alternating grip. No hesitation, just go! Swing, swing, swing, grab the wheel, hit the bell, ding! 

                                                      Force 5 Rig 2

This section was always going to be demanding with so many grip obstacles in a row but I was feeling good. I’d managed my heart rate in the run up to the village to ensure I was in a position to hit each obsatcle running. With barely 10 seconds of running it was into another new obstacle, the Force 5 Low rig. Last year there were complaints that the low rig was far too easy, consisting of a bar to ring to bar. So this year they upped their game by bringing a more technical low rig. This was a lot of fun. I’d decided to go head on the whole way which worked out well but required some real core strength to keep my legs from dropping to the ground on the final transition.

Force 5 Low Rig

Next up was the new obstacle everyone was talking about in the run up to the event. The Gibbon Experience. This consisted of 5 swinging metal holds where you had to move along using 2 dowels that fitted into each hold. Essentially like keeping hold of monkey bars and placing them in each hold. This was a totally new obstacle that no one bar those at the North American Championships (where this had debuted) had attempted. Not wanting to try this for the first time in a race I’d ordered a set from obstacle builder Foz Sug. This was a tricky obstacle as it involves hanging on a single arm on a bar that can twist. This causes your hand to open up and your grip to fail quickly. So over a 2 month period I’d been practicing hanging on a single arm from one gibbon hold until my grip failed. Once I felt confident holding onto a twisting bar I worked on my technique. It became clear that swinging like you usually would on monkey bars wouldn’t work, it puts too much force through your hanging arm. So the key was a very controlled movement to place the bar into the hold with light fingers. It also involved a lot of concentration as if you miss putting the bar into the hold you are left swinging on one arm with no forward momentum.

Watching the footage from the North American Championships the majority of racers used a technique that has become known as the ‘Chicken Wing’. This involves hooking your elbows over the bars rather than hanging from it by your hands. This allows you to complete the obstacle if you don’t have the grip strength but it hurts so I had no plans to use this unless absolutely necessary.

I approached the obstacle and took a moment to collect myself. I really wanted to nail this first time. I took two wooden dowels and placed the first one into a hold. I swung out and placed the next one first time. So far so good. I then swung to the third hold but just missed it. I was left hanging on one arm, not where I wanted to be! I stayed calm as I prepared for this scenario. I tried again and got one end of the dowel in the hold. The other end was precariously placed on the edge of the hold but not properly seated. One wrong move and it would fall out and I’d be likely needing to drop and start again. Thankfully I managed to manoeuvre it into the hold. I seated the 4th first time which left one final hold. I decided to get a good swing and reach for the bell from the 4th hold, missing out the final one. Ding! Success!

                                                 Gibbon Experience

Next up was another new obstacle Force 5 over and Under. This was a very simple idea but made for an enjoyable obstacle. The premise was simple, start on top, go under and end up on top.

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                                          Force 5 Over & Under

Then it was into Triumph, this was 2 dragons backs into an under and up net climb. The Nuclear dragons backs are nice and close together and you only really need to lean out to grab the bar (although if you are afraid of heights that’s easier said than done). This one had a serious gap to jump, add to that the fact that the bar was pretty low and this was more than just a mental obstacle to overcome. 2 leaps of faith and a crawl under and up the cargo net and ding, the bell was rung.

Next up was an improved version of Skitch. Skitch debuted at the Worlds last year and consisted of 2 handheld hooks that you hang from and traverse along a bar which has a chain attached to the middle where you need to unhook each hook and transition to the other side of the chain. They clearly decided that this wasn’t hard enough so this year added a second transition. Thankfully I had practiced this and managed to clear it first time.

Not more than 30 seconds of running and it was into Skull Valley. This was a new version and arguably easier than last year’s obstacle. It had a really fun flow and was really enjoyable to complete.

                                                         Skull Valley                         

After smashing the Ninja Rings there was a short run through the wood to the next obstacle, the aptly named Snaked Pit. This took a page out of Hang-on Run’s book in that it was lots of ropes. I missed out every other rope and remembered Coach Scotty’s advice to get as high as possible on the rope traverse to ensure I didn’t end up sitting on the knot of the next rope.

Snake Pit

A short carry and then it was onto a new balance obstacle which was simple enough. A weaver and some tubes to slide down and it was over the final wall to the finish line. I crossed in 56th place out of 189 which put me in top 30%. Could I have pushed harder on the running between obstacles? Possibly, but would I then have cleared each obstacle first time? That’s the balance of obstacle course racing. In any case I felt strong on all the obstacle and most of all, I enjoyed myself!