#to be fair old books is not the only thing that causes me unbearable headaches

[boneless-mika]

If reading really old literature is a necessity of reading then I will simply quit reading. People seem to be unaware that old literature is difficult to read and if something is difficult to read it causes me unbearable headaches often after less than a page.

For context I really wanted to read Sherlock Holmes because I love detective stories and I’ve enjoyed a fair amount of adaptations and retellings. I bought a collected edition for my kindle so I could make the text big and wouldn’t get a headache from not wearing my glasses. I didn’t make it through ten pages.

This is also why I still haven’t finished Lord of the Rings. It is exhausting for me to read. It takes me an hour to read 30 pages (my normal speed is between 60 and 100 pages per hour).

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night: Part XIX

A/N’s at the end:

Parts I-XVIII:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV

Part XV

Part XVI

Part XVII

Part XVIII

.XIX.

Earlier that evening…

After seeing his mother to her room for her afternoon nap, Alastair retired for the remainder of the evening in the Institute library. It was the one room in the house, other than the unbearably small closet sized guest bedroom that the Herondales so graciously gave to him, where he could be alone.

After the past week of excruciating pain while the runes and Silent Brother’s magic repaired the bones in his leg, the damage to his head, waiting for Cordelia to wake up, and answering the barrage of questions from anyone with a tongue to speak, he craved the precious minutes he could find of peace. Charles, unfortunately, conducted most of the questioning, which often left Alastair with a headache worse than the one he’d woken up with after being thrown by the demon and cracking his head on stone. Even when it was just the two of them alone, Charles remained callous and professional, only bothering to ask how Alastair was fairing, but he directed most of the questions to the Brother Zachariah rather than Alastair himself. It felt as if their relationship had been nothing more than a figment of Alastair’s feverish imagination. Alastair began to question if it all had, in fact, all been a dream.

Most moments of quiet were spent beside Cordelia. When his mother retired for the night, Alastair would take up her position beside his sister and watch her chest rise and fall like he’d done when his parents brought her home as a baby. She was so tiny then. As delicate, round, and soft as a baby bird with tufts of red hair that already curled around her ears. Only a year and a few months older than his baby sister, he’d sit next to her crib and watch her sleep. He’d listen to the small shushing noise her breathing made, until he’d fall asleep. At some point in the night, he would be placed back in his bedroom, tucked under the blankets, and left under the glowing stars his bedside witchlight made across his ceiling. It wasn’t until Cordelia was a year old, and he was nearly three, that he stopped falling asleep on her floor, but only because his parents made him.

When Cordelia was awake, he wasn’t much different. The first few months weren’t terrible. She slept most of the time except when she was hungry or needed a change. It wasn’t until she was four months that Alastair thought he’d keel over from anxiety. His irresponsible mother would just place her on a blanket on the floor where anything and everything could fall or step on her. Not only that, but as time went on she’d begun to put everything in her mouth from leaves that had fallen off the giant fern in the corner, to splotches of mud from boots, and pieces off of the rug. Alastair was always there to fish out the foreign object from her gummy mouth before she could choke. He’d give her a proper scolding and she’d respond with a toothless laugh and gurgle that made Alastair’s insides feel like mush.

Cordelia was the first word out of his mouth when he woke up from his injuries. He wasn’t certain, but he felt he’d dreamed about her. The remnants of nightmares lingered underneath his skin like he’d been submerged in ice cold water for too long and couldn’t shake the chill. When he woke up and found Cordelia being held in an induced coma while her body healed from injuries inflicted while he’d been unconscious, unable to rescue her, made it difficult for him to breathe or to think. He’d felt like that little boy again sitting beside her crib afraid that the moment he looked away, she’d stop breathing.

When she’d finally woken up, he’d felt a rush of relief. He needed a moment to compose himself in the hallway before he went through her door to find her sitting up in bed, smiling at him with her own relief. But she’d forgotten everything that happened to her since the moment they left the institute, since she broke her engagement with James after he’d properly humiliated her.

He’d meant to warn James against ever speaking to his sister again, but the boy was like a shadow. He slipped in and out of the Institute before Alastair ever had the chance. He visited Cordelia when Alastair was asleep or bathing or being interrogated. And now, she was off galavanting with him and there was nothing Alastair could do to stop it. He wasn’t about to upset his mother by demanding that Cordelia not go with James.

On his way to the library, he practiced the speech he’d give James when they returned. He may be able to worm his way into the good graces of his sister, but not Alastair. It would take a lot more than his pathetic sallow looks and natural wind blown curls to win Alastair over. After everything James has done, he didn’t deserve Cordelia and Alastair made it his mission to make sure that James knew it.

By the time he reached the library, his leg throbbed under his weight. He’d been trying to use his crutch less despite Brother Zachariah’s advice to keep off of it. The sound of his grunt echoed mockingly through the library as he pushed open the door with his shoulder and stumbled inside with a curse.

A fire burned behind the elaborate grate and already had a decent bed of coals forming underneath it as though it had been burning for some time. A stack of books sat on the coffee table that stood in-between the fireplace and the two wingback chairs.

“Christopher,” said a familiar voice. “Is that you?”

Alastair seized and turned for the door. He was nearly there when the library occupant emerged from the middle isle and stopped when Alastair came into his view.

“Oh,” said Thomas, closing the book in his hands. “It’s you. What are you doing here?”

“I thought the room was empty,” said Alastair, adjusting his weight to his good leg. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“How is your leg?” asked Thomas and tucked the book under his arm.

Alastair patted it with his hand. “It’s still there.”

“And your head?”

“Also there,” said Alastair. “The bandages itch something awful and I fear I’ll always have a slight pain in my knee when it’s about to rain, but otherwise, I am nearly mended.”

Thomas slid his hand into his trouser pocket. “Good. That’s good.”

“I never did thank you properly for coming to our aid,” said Alastair, braving a small chance at having a conversation with Thomas after not speaking with him since…well, since the night Matthew revealed Alastair’s deepest regrets. “I’m afraid of what would have happened if you had not come.”

“We did it for Cordelia,” said Thomas, without a note of sympathy in his tone.

“Right.” Alastair nodded. “Of course. Still, I offer you my thanks—“

“I don’t want your thanks,” said Thomas, turning his back to Alastair to return the book to the empty spot on the shelf. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Thomas,” started Alastair as he braved a step closer. He felt as fragile as the thin ice that blooms on a lake at the start of winter. One wrong step and he’d break through. “I know what I’ve done to your family is unforgivable and if there is ever anything I can do to unravel the mess that I’ve created—“

“You can’t.”

“I understand but if there is—“

“My mother cried herself to sleep for months because of the lies you told,” said Thomas, calmly. “She locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn’t let my father in no matter how desperately he begged or how strongly he claimed the rumors were false. She made herself sick to the point where father left only so that she would come out of her room or let someone in to bring her food and water.” Warmth bloomed across Alastair’s face. He wanted to hang his head in shame and fall to his knees, broken or otherwise, and beg for Thomas’s forgiveness, but he did no such thing. Instead, he lifted his chin and continued to listen to the consequences of his actions. “She looked so frail when she finally emerged. Barbara was the first one she spoke to; the only one she spoke to. It took several more weeks before she’d even acknowledge my father. I think she had to convince herself that it wasn’t true before she could believe anyone else. I’m ashamed to admit that even I questioned the validity of it.”

Thomas took a deep breath, his eyes were rimmed with tears, and his mouth set in a hard line. “I just want to know why? Can you tell me at least that? Why attack me— my family?”

The truth dangled on Alastair’s tongue. The truth that would uncover every secret that Alastair buried deep inside and fought his whole life to remain unknown, to everyone, including his own beloved sister.

Because my father is a drunk.

Because I was afraid of anyone finding out the shame he’d caused my family for years.

Because the four of you: Matthew, James, Christopher, and you had something that I never had and would never have because I cannot allow people to get close enough to me in fear that they will be able to see the shame of my family; and they would see what I am. So I took the attention off of my family—off of me— and put it on yours and Matthew’s.

And I can never take it back.

“Tell me!” Alastair shuttered at the pain in Thomas’s voice. He’d never heard him shout, not once, even after Barbara died.

Maybe it was better if Thomas hated him. It meant his secrets were safe. In doing so, he’d keep Thomas from more ridicule and his family as well. Even if Thomas didn’t know it, he’d be doing him a favor. A small one that might cause more pain than redemption or forgiveness which they both seemed to be after.

So he’d let him hate him in hope that maybe one day the truth would be enough.

“I should go,” said Alastair, turning towards the door. “Cordelia should be arriving soon for supper.”

“You’re really going to walk away?” Thomas scoffed. “Are you such a coward that you can’t just tell me the truth?”

“What good would it do?” spat Alastair, the defense he’d carefully been building all of his life built up with even more strength. “You think there is some deep meaning behind my actions? Some explanation that will make me less of a monster. You were an easy target, the four of you. You were defenseless and weird and Matthew was the most irritating of you all. And I heard a rumor and I wanted to humiliate him, because I was bored, and because I could.”

Alastair’s chest ached as the tears spilled from Thomas’s eyes. He quickly wiped at them with his sleeve and when he looked at Alastair again, he recognized the hate that boiled behind his eyes. It was the same hate in his own eyes whenever he looked in a mirror.

“Get out,” whispered Thomas, his voice so low, Alastair almost didn’t hear him.

“Gladly,” said Alastair and pulled open the door. As he turned down the hall towards the staircase, he heard a loud bang hit the wall. He didn’t stop or hesitate, the tapping sound of his crutch hitting the wood flooring echoed through the hallway.

                                                             ____

The door to the staff hall groaned open just as Alastair walked down the last step. Lucie Herondale, shaking the rain from her hands and muttering something to herself, looked up in surprise to find Alastair standing at the end of the staircase. Her elegant blue dress was stained black at the hem and discolored with rain. Droplets glistened on her skin as she came to a stop underneath a glowing witchlight orb hovering above her. He waited a moment for Cordelia to come in behind her, as she so often does, but when she didn’t his eyes narrowed on Lucie.

“Where is Cordelia?” he asked, subtly gone from his tone as he was far too tired to pretend any longer.

“She was just behind—“

He didn’t wait for her to finish. He had an idea that he already knew.

He moved around Lucie, still muttering her excuses, and pushed open the staff hall door. A few of the maids gossiping in the hallway quickly moved out of his way. Teeth clenched, Alastair followed the trail of rain droplets that Lucie brought in with her until they came to an end at the staff exit. Before he could stop to think for a moment, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open.

A blind rage consumed him at the vision standing on the little porch. James Herondale with his hands around Cordelia’s waist and mouth consuming hers while her own hands were tangled in his hair.

They broke apart like two dropped links at the sudden intrusion of light.

A high pitched whistle filled his ears. With hands trembling, he reached out and grabbed Cordelia’s arm, wrenching her inside. When James attempted to pursue, he pressed the end of his crutch into his chest and pushed. “Haven’t you done enough to ruin my sister’s reputation?”

“Alastair,” said Cordelia, gripping the arm that kept her behind him.

After a few steps backward, James regained his balance, and smiled a malicious grin that was void of any kindness. “Haven’t you grown tired of causing other people pain?”

“Pain?” Alastair seized with disdain. “What do you know of it in your privileged little life? I’ve taken responsibility for what I’ve done. Have you?” He took a limp step out onto the small brick laid porch. The witchlight lantern flickered with the energy crackling between the two of them. “You may have beguiled her into forgetting what you’ve done, but I certainly have not.”

“Alastair,” cried Cordelia as a crack of thunder rumbled through the sky. He heard the pain and desperation in her voice and he ignored it.

“You’re toxic and dangerous,” continued Alastair as he stepped out into the rain, advancing toward James. “Everything you touch becomes ruin. Trouble pursues you. You use people for your own selfish gain. I may have turned a blind eye before when I knew the engagement was a farce to repair my sister’s reputation, but I will not allow my sister to come into an honest romantic entanglement with the likes of a half-demon sycophant who is only using her for his own selfish gain.”

James’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared down at Alastair as though at any moment he would hit Alastair square in the jaw. Alastair wondered how much farther he’d need to push. What other buttons he’d need to press. “Walk away, Alastair.” James growled so low it was difficult to hear him.

“Or what?” Alastair met his glare. “Are you going to hit me? Go on then, do it.”

“I’m not like you,” said James as rain dripped down his face. “I won’t let you drag me down to whatever miserable level of hell you currently reside. I care about your sister and I’m trying to right my wrongs; I’ve made a lot of them I’ll admit, but I am trying. Can you say the same?”

The question shook through Alastair. The rain dripped down James’s face reminding him of the tears that spilled from Thomas’s face only moments ago because of Alastair’s words. It seemed the people he cared about were evaporating from his life, he wasn’t about to lose his sister too.

“Stay away from my sister,” said Alastair. “I won’t ask you again.”

“Alastair,” Cordelia hissed as he pushed her back into the house and closed the door before James could stop him. He clicked the lock into place as James jiggled the knob. With his crutch securely tucked under his arm, he grabbed Cordelia’s hand with the other. But before he could drag her along, she ripped free from him and pressed her back against the door.

“Don’t be stupid, Cordelia,” hissed Alastair. “You have to be smarter than this. Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to get back at me for what I did to him at the academy by hurting you!”

“I’m not stupid,” she spat back. Her hair hung in limp curls around her face. Her cheeks had more color in them than he’s seen in months. It irritated him further. “And he’s not. Unlike you he’s trying to move past all of that. You’re not children at the academy anymore, grow up! He cares about me and I care about him and neither of those things have anything to do with you.”

Alastair felt his chest explode, but only laughter burst from his lips. “He doesn’t care about you, Cordelia. He doesn’t. You don’t matter to him. You have to see that.”

“I do matter to him!”

“You don’t,” demanded Alastair. “I’ve seen the way he looks at Grace Blackthorn and it’s not the same way he looks at you. Have you forgotten what he’s done?”

“That was a misunderstanding,” said Cordelia, her eyes brimming. “He explained everything to me.”

“Did he?” asked Alastair. He pointed his finger at the door where James last stood. “How convenient that when he can’t have the girl that he’s actually in love with, he comes groveling back to the girl that gives her love so freely.” Cordelia’s cheeks bloomed red as she tore her eyes away from him. “He’s a liar and he’s trouble and you’re not to see him ever again, do you understand me?”

“You cannot forbid me to see him.”

“Yes, I can.” Alastair glared. “Because if I find out that you are seeing him, I will tell everyone that he was the one that burned down Blackthorn manor and the night we left it was he who was in Grace Blackthorn’s bedroom when you walked in.”

Cordelia looked at him as if he had struck her. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being this way?”

Alastair shook. “I am trying to stop you from making a horrible decision.”

“Stop trying to protect me!” Cordelia demanded. “I don’t criticize you for your choices on who to involve yourself with and I do not appreciate being told who I can or cannot love anymore than you do.” She smoothed the wet hair away from her face. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t say a word of those secrets. How dare you throw them in my face to accomplish your own vindications. I will not be your pawn in this long standing war you have with him. If you say a word of those secrets to anyone, I will never speak to you again. Then you will truly be alone.”

She shouldered around Alastair, her skirts dripped water as she passed him, and this time Alastair didn’t reach out to stop her.

A/N: Good evening! I hope your October is going splendidly so far. I am experiencing some moderate to extreme anxiety due to work related issues. My job before quarantine has not asked me to return yet, so I found and started a freelance writing job, which in theory should be really exciting, but I have ZERO self-confidence in myself or my writing. So, I’m working through that. This chapter was a fun escape for me. I hope you guys enjoy it! Please hit that cute little heart, drop a lovely comment, and reblog if you feel so inclined. As always, be safe, take care of yourself, and stay healthy out there. Next update will be in two weeks, Nov 1.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Three

Hung atop aside, hinged off a chiseled face of a cliff rest a vestige some know as home – a domed structure, bolted on by nails and years of structuring and reconstructing. Inside lie bodies, torsos and limbs, abreast a bereft vestibule. Bodies moving, some stationary. Animated, alive, lively for all the motions and immobile actions.

Without the use of movement, chromatic machinery lit up a main hall, where piles of ancient manuscripts lie among magazines of a bygone era (beside a pile of magazines ready to be loaded into weaponry).

“We have been assigned a new mission,” One such figurehead, poised in such a figurative manner, walked in with a voice of a sultry honey badger in heat.

“Out with it, Virgil!” Roared an uproarious uproar amongst munches of an ultra rare steak. One human poised seated, having counted her losses and after counting her winnings had decided she had earned an ultra rare steak, but therein lies the problem – one should never count winnings amongst their losses.

“Very well,” veracious Virgil henceforth found footing. “Underway, we have been requested to assassinate Hemingway.” Overhead, stiff air in a stuffy room supported a cough. “Should we...?”

“Accept it, dammit!” Growled and howled a huff from a mouth stuffed.

“Now Adeline, I know you have a personal vendetta against the Hemingways, but we must remember those words we read on the side of the mechanic caterpillar, written through the use of an aerosol can. 'Love comes close, but it eludes me'. Do you remember what that means?”

“As our leader has said, 'love is a labor and we are indentured servants'. But I've always hated how she said that! Tryin' to pretty up her words!”

“Yes, and as such, if we deny this mission, we may lose funds for the month. However, if we accept it and fail, we may lose lives in the process as well as our funds. Is such a high risk worth the reward?”

Adeline, fulfilling a carnal desire, tore into the pieces of meat, ravaging and pillaging what once belonged to a cow. Deep down, remnants of cow burrowed within the conscious and melded the mindset, a just cause for such a lass to be on the prowl.

“I know you have been voted best girl in the wake of Virginia's illness, however, she still makes the final decision.”

“She better say yes is all I'm sayin'! After our loss against the Plaths the other night, we gotta show this town our fangs!”

“I will pass that message along and inform you of her decision.”

Virgil walked over to the console just two footprints away, where Adeline could still see. Silent hums from the machine greeted the two. Displayed in the air were options, in which Virgil knew just which combination created the recipe to speak with the ill.

“Dear leader, mission request to assassinate Hemingway. Should we accept it?”

On the other end, crisp and clear as less than apple and closer to day, yet still miles apart, enshrined the vocal choral reef of an undersea beauty. Or, that of a tenor.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to brew potions. Some drink glitter, I find porcelain dolphins in my lobotomies; vases taped shut to suitcases, some know of my return, but only upon your graves shall I utter the names of all the best breads for those to eat. Under each table are necessary supplies. Glue to hold us all in times where we can feel the cracks from the Earth. Ground beneath our little toesies. We know of the days spent, shrouded in cement, unbearable societies, yet we chisel away. If we are to work as a union, we must commune in each room, rooms of our own.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“I know you all will betray me!”

Adeline was slurping on fat. Loud and clear; queer findings, she heard it all.

“So in other words, yes,” Adeline concluded.

“Indeed,” Virgil was somewhere nearby, having made a reply.

“Excellent!” Added a line, aggressive in the grin department. Teeth spread, some sharpened on the ironing block. Forged ahead was a stomp across the base hall.

Plump aplomb, plum bedsheets plopped a volatile, stomach first, face smushed down against down pillowcases. Middling mutterings uttered outside an open mouth, drool exiting stage right.

“I won't rest until I hear an adverb...”

From outside a room of her own, two shapes with two sets of limbs gestured to one another.

“How could you let her just accept the offer?” Gyrated gruff giving of words.

“Adeline is best girl. It has been decided,” replied other set of limbs.

“That may be so, but look at us! We've taken a shitton o' hits over here! At this rate, we're gonna need new members! Remember when one Ka wanted in? Y'know what Virginia said?”

“'Only fools Russian'?” Virgil took a guess and hit outside the target.

“Excuse, em, me?”

“Apologies. I know no enunciation.”

“Anyway, no! She said, 'we cannot allow practitioners of magic.' Yet magic ain't even a thing! Did'ya see Ka claim to be a churchgoer? Nah! Ka ain't nah churchgoer! Far from, Ka a free woman!”

“Yes, however, Ka married. As she said, 'love is a union inside a megacorporation.' Under those circumstances, suspicion becomes necessary caution.”

Vinny volunteered to vanish; Virgil followed suit. Pinstripe, tuxedo, two-piece. All there inside closets. Both made their turns down the aisles, Virgil reassured.

“I will ensure this mission is as close to success as possible.”

Plan underway, assassinate Hemingway.

Adeline had a way, then lost it. Made one again so as to meet the main hall where members conversed. Virgil, unconsumed with conversation, consumed instead in an ancient manuscript well before days of neon.

“What's that ya got?” the best girl addressed.

“Research material on the Hemingway gang.”

Within Virgil's hands rest a book titled 'The Importance of Being Earnest'.

“What's it say?” Insistence increased.

“Unsure just yet. From what I gather it is a biography on the gang's leader, Ernie.”

“That bastard oughtta gimme an adverb 'fore he bites the dust, all's Im'ma say on that!”

Added to the tension was the pace meat muncher found herself in. Add a line and Adeline followed. Two steps one way, two steps back.

Preceding preparations post-declarations, another bold statement was made:

“Remember: if he breathes, he's a thought.”

“All gang leaders are queens,” Virgil made due diligence to remind those with high steaks.

“This one's diff'rent. Doesn't use adverbs. Shorter than the rest. Merely a thought.”

Virgil nodded a virginal nod. Sole male sorely knew his place.

“I shall sit this one out.”

Fruits of labor at times may involve blue. While quiet and sulfuric as the night, certain arrangements could be made to blue gear armed to the teeth, about 26 of them, give or take a few here and there depending on how many punches had been served. Blue hats, blue vests, blue as their cold, dead hearts.

Knocked upon one door of an aromatic adornment stood a blue, awaiting the pace of a refined romantic enamored with the allure of romance in times of war.

So soon, frozen. Door opened, quiet creak. No bells and whistles. Just wood application.

“Your purpose?”

“I have a report of smuggled narcotics in the area,” blue blathered before blasting barrels of bionic explosives packed into a tangible L-shaped device, small enough to fit inside such small hands.

Swaths of graceful age, reduced to meaty chunks and disintegrated charred bits where once stood tall a perfect paragon to the finer things in life. Also gone, were parts of the door. Door hinges, unhinged.

Surrounded in response were other gentlemen, prior sharing cups of tea, now enraged at the blue at the door. Shotguns in tow, cocked and barreled past the point of reason. One blue life, no more.

“Shameful,” one bearable bear body decreed, observing in equal measure dead hired hitman in blue as well as one who understood preciousness of presentation.

“Highest esteemed gentleman breathes,” a relief voiced by one who could wrestle bears with words.

“Attack meets retaliation,” forewarned one higher up on the respectable ladder. Rungs wrung out followed a pattern, polka-dots unruly, all things considered. One atop such a ladder may have sat, whiskey in hand, whispering of days of old.

Sure, just, fair, and true to form, each and every one of the single employs and envoys met such a lament, seated on a throne of regret. Sipped and chipped away at old days, one known as a leader of Hemingway. However, one day, Hemingway knew not the way. Such a day was an older day, when blood lay in a more sporty pool where all could drink and swim from sans the sanguine anxiousness of urination.

“We fight,” Ernie avowed, having taken to declaration.

Such strutted men, taken to streets. Outside, street lights with camera lens flares and a crimson radial temperature. Men in heat, overall, such men wore overalls.

World weary childlike syntax stopped the men in their tracks before reaching too close to the liminal space between Woolf and Hemingway.

“Stop,” commanded one without subordination and to his subordinates.

On the ground rest many pairs of mittens made of leather the size of a mouse, or smaller. Such mittens small enough to fit a foot (a pair fitting feet) who had given their introduction from out of a womb. In spite of having been strewn across the grime of the ground, such leather mittens fitted for feet were in such a condition as to suggest having not having a pair of feet placed inside of them.

“Baby shoes, never worn,” observed over three feet, yet less than five feet tall a man who looked to be between 10.2 and 12.9 years of age yet bore the voice of one with at least five ten's worth or greater years lived as a breathable human.

Men looked at each other. In unison, looked toward their miniscule pioneer.

“What must be done?” Question given.

“Stand back and ready shotgun.”

Command placed upon a chess board meticulous as the one which does not exist and all men were knights in the absence of pawns or bishops. At once and arms drawn before bidding them farewell; arms raised, as if to wave goodbye. So too, baby shoes.

Explosion in response to removed baby shoes from the battlefield. Erupted choruses of men who forged ahead.

Moon above and bereft. Sky of sulfur.

Once threshold had been crossed, howls took form. Henceforth Hemingway gang on guard, arms raised, scanning their environment once more. Dense streets ought have been arid, or lucrative, yet instead, invalid. Buildings best sat where better to stand and homeowners would have fled. Better yet were those without homes who could have found temporary residence within their wits. Instead, homes of abandonment.

Cascading howls hinterland. In earnest, Ernie sent signals to extraordinary gentlemen and such gentlemen took residence searching for shadows in each home.

“Dens for wolves,” muttered breaths.

Blood sprinkled, an inverted rainbow in only one color as howls from both friend and foe sprang forth once more. Fashioned by the Woolfs were claws used for burrowing into chests of burly men. Such claws, equipped with electricity, stacked with static. Even those to stand and breathe would see immobility.

Upon noticing injury and deaths of comrades, shot into the air spiked forward, launching itself forth as a gleeful missile would.

More Hemingway sprang.

“Jolly good,” all sang.

From afar, two jars in place of binoculars, a line added in the line of danger.

“Damn,” damned the one handing out damnations. “Curses,” cursed the same person.

To top things off, to even the odds, the 1's and 3's became 2's and 4's. In other words, rugs, carpets, and mats, make for good deceptive works of art. All one has to do is lay them flat and the world gives itself a pat on the back.

Wolves got to work working carpentry just in time for bundled burlap surgery to unfold. Backed away was a way with hemming. All rest were irons struck hot and forged ahead of schedule.

One step and a splintered acorn fission created flame and flash alike. Spectacle of smoke, specifically of the destructive variety.

Vicious visage which was voted greatest seized the confusion or upstaged clarity to make leaps and bounds across building tops and plunge to the bottom with her claws spread. Observant owl watched such a display.

“Carpet bombs,” his two words said and his look of disapproval said everything else.

Stepping forward once more were the Hemingway men, unscathed.

Unable to deny, Adeline, awe, star, and dumbstruck, struck a look of disgust.

“How the fuck?”

“Shielded clothing,” sang jolly good fellows.

“Thought you fuckers 'ere against modern shit!” Feral lady gave a series of barks which translated rather well into English words and phrases albeit some creative liberties taken.

“Everything with purpose,” next verse.

“Men,” preached a prophet little more than four heads tall.

Ways of hems aimed and took potshots at wolves inside buildings. Claws could not save those without shield.

Last whimpers made by canines slain. Growled a displeased pooch, lines added were diminished by the one who adds lines via combinations of finesse, razor sharp claws, and a ducked head.

Joyous chorus became showered confetti of blood crystal droplets, which Adeline collected and lavished.

“Your gang's mostly toast! You're definitely next!” Proud roar of a wolf.

“T'is Sunday,” gave a friendly reminder from a gentlemanly gentleman. Hiding underneath Ernie's underpants rest a righteous rod which he pulled out gracefully for all the world to see. Split into two, one rod became two, smaller rods. Each rod lit up, beams of pure energy, until the energy took the shape of a blade.

Ernie on a Sunday, blades of energy in tow, sliced down upon the arms of the one always adding lines. She saw two limbs dropped, plopped, and a jetstream of ruby liquid, tasting of salty iron shot forward before fizzling out.

“Farewell,” saluted a man in earnest.

She, in response, took to knees, and/or a scream.

“Does this mean defeat?” She asked of Ernie.

“Absolutely.”

[turningpagebooks]

BLOG TOUR | EXCERPT & GIVEAWAY: “The Fever King” by Victoria Lee

The Fever King by Victoria Lee Published by: Skyscape Publication date: March 1st 2019 Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult

In the former United States, sixteen-year-old Noam Álvaro wakes up in a hospital bed, the sole survivor of the viral magic that killed his family and made him a technopath. His ability to control technology attracts the attention of the minister of defense and thrusts him into the magical elite of the nation of Carolinia.

The son of undocumented immigrants, Noam has spent his life fighting for the rights of refugees fleeing magical outbreaks—refugees Carolinia routinely deports with vicious efficiency. Sensing a way to make change, Noam accepts the minister’s offer to teach him the science behind his magic, secretly planning to use it against the government. But then he meets the minister’s son—cruel, dangerous, and achingly beautiful—and the way forward becomes less clear.

Caught between his purpose and his heart, Noam must decide who he can trust and how far he’s willing to go in pursuit of the greater good.

Goodreads / Indigo / Amazon CA / Amazon US / Barnes & Noble

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

Outbreaks of magic started all kinds of ways. Maybe a tank coming in from the quarantined zone didn’t get hosed down properly. Maybe, like some people said, the refugees brought it up with them from Atlantia, the virus hiding out in someone’s blood or in a juicy peach pie.

But when magic infected the slums of west Durham, in the proud sovereign nation of Carolinia, it didn’t matter how it got there. Everybody still died.

Noam was ringing up Mrs. Ellis’s snuff tins when he nearly toppled into the cash register.

He all but had to fight her off as she tried to force him down into a folding chair—swore he’d just got a touch dizzy, but he’d be fine, really. Go on home. She left eventually, and he went to stand in front of the

That evening he locked the doors, pulled chicken wire over the windows, and took a new route to the Migrant Center. In this neighborhood, you had to if you didn’t want to get robbed. Once upon a time, or so Noam had heard, there’d been a textile mill here. The street would’ve been full of workers heading home, empty lunch pails in hand. Then the mill had gone down and apartments went up, and by the 1960s, Ninth Street had been repopulated by rich university students with their leather satchels and clove cigarettes. All that was before the city got bombed halfway to hell in the catastrophe, of course.

Noam’s ex used to call it “the Ninth Circle.” She meant it in Dante’s sense.

The catastrophe was last century, though. Now the university campus blocked the area in from the east, elegant stone walls keeping out the riffraff while Ninth and Broad crumbled under the weight of five-person refugee families crammed into one-room apartments, black markets buried in basements, laundry lines strung between windows like market lights. Sure, maybe you shouldn’t wander around the neighborhood at night draped in diamonds, but Noam liked it anyway.

“Someone’s famous,” Linda said when he reached the back offices of the Migrant Center, a sly smile curving her lips as she passed him the morning’s Herald.

Noam grinned back and looked.

MASSIVE CYBERATTACK DISABLES CENTRAL NEWS BUREAU

Authorities link hack to Atlantian cyberterrorist affiliates.

“Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Say, have you got any scissors?”

“What for?”

“I’m gonna frame this.”

Linda snorted and swatted him on the arm. “Get on, you. Brennan has some task he wants finished this week, and I don’t think you, him, and your ego can all fit in that office.”

Which, fair: the office was pretty small. Tucked into the back corner of the building, with Brennan’s name and DIRECTOR printed on the door in copperplate, it was pretty much an unofficial storage closet for all the files and paperwork Linda couldn’t cram anywhere else. Brennan’s desk was dwarfed by boxes stacked precariously around it, the man himself leaning close to his holoreader monitor with reading glasses perched on the end of a long nose and a pen behind one ear.

“Noam,” he said, glancing up when the door opened. “You made it.” “Sorry I missed yesterday. I had to cover someone’s shift at the computer store after I got off the clock at Larry’s.”

Brennan waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t apologize. If you have to work, you have to work.”

“Still.”

It wasn’t guilt, per se, that coiled up in Noam’s stomach. Or maybe it was. That was his father’s photograph on the wall, after all, though his face was hidden by a bandanna tied over his nose and mouth. His father’s hands holding up that sign—REFUGEE RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. That was in June 2118, during the revolt over the new, more stringent citizenship tests. It had been the largest protest in Carolinian history.

“Linda said you had something for me to work on?” Noam said, tilting his head toward the holoreader.

“It’s just database management, I’m afraid, nothing very interesting.” “I love databases.” Noam smiled, and Brennan smiled back. The expression lifted the exhaustion from Brennan’s face like a curtain rising from a window, sunlight streaming through.

Brennan oriented him to the task, then gave up his desk chair for Noam to get to work. He squeezed Noam’s shoulder before he left to help Linda with dinner, and a warm beat of familiarity took root in the pit of Noam’s stomach. Brennan might try to put up boundaries, clear delineations between professional life and how close Brennan had been to Noam’s family, but the cracks were always visible.

That was pretty much the only reason Noam didn’t tell him up front: database management was mind-numbingly boring. After you figured out how to script your way past the problem, it was just a matter of waiting around. He’d have once maybe emailed Carly or someone while the program executed. But they were all dead now, and between the Migrant Center and two jobs, Noam didn’t have time to meet new people. So he sat and watched text stream down the command console, letters blurring into numbers until the screen was wavering light.

A dull ache bored into Noam’s skull.

Maybe he was more tired than he thought, because he didn’t remember what happened between hitting “Execute” and Brennan shaking him awake. Noam lurched upright.

“You all right?” Brennan asked.

“What? Oh—fine, sorry. I must have . . . dozed off.” Noam seized the holoreader, tapping at the screen until it lit up again. The script was finished, anyway, and no run-time errors. Thankfully. “It’s all done.”

The thin line between Brennan’s brows deepened. “Are you feeling okay? You look . . .”

“Fine. I’m fine. Just tired.” Noam attempted a wan smile. He really hoped he wasn’t coming down with whatever it was Elliott from the computer store had. Only, he and Elliott had kissed in the back room on their lunch break yesterday, so yeah, he probably had exactly what Elliott had.

“Maybe you should go on home,” Brennan said, using that grip on Noam’s shoulder to ease him back from the computer. “I can help Linda finish up dinner.”

“I can—”

“It wasn’t a request.”

Noam made a face, and Brennan sighed.

“For me, Noam. Please. I’ll drop by later on if I have time.”

There was no arguing with Brennan when he got all protective. So Noam just exhaled and said, “Yeah, all right. Fine.”

Brennan’s hand lingered a beat longer than usual on Noam’s shoulder, squeezing slightly, then let go. When Noam looked over, Brennan’s expression gave nothing away as he said, “Tell your dad hi for me.” Noam had arrived at the Migrant Center in the early evening. Now it was night, the deep-blue world illuminated by pale streetlight pooling on the sidewalk. It was unusually silent. When Noam turned onto Broad, he found out why: a checkpoint was stationed up at the intersection by the railroad tracks—floodlights and vans, police, even a few government witchings in military uniform.

Right. No one without a Carolinian passport would be on the street tonight, not with Immigration on the prowl.

Noam’s papers were tucked into his back pocket, but yeah, he didn’t need to deal with Chancellor Sacha’s anti-Atlantian bullshit right now. Not with this headache. He cut through the alley between the liquor store and the barbecue joint to skirt the police perimeter. It was a longer walk home from there, but Noam didn’t mind.

He liked the way tonight smelled, like smoked ribs and gasoline. Like oncoming snow.

When he got to his building, he managed to get the door open—the front latch was ancient enough it probably counted as precatastrophe. Fucking thing always got stuck, always, and Noam had written to the super fifty times, for what little difference that’d made. It was November, but the back of Noam’s neck was sweat-damp by the time he finally shouldered his way into the building and trudged into his apartment.

Once upon a time, this building was a bookstore. It’d long since been converted to tenements, all plywood walls and hung-up sheets for doors. The books were still there, though, yellowing and mildewed. They made him sneeze, but he read a new one every day all the same, curled up in a corner and out of the way of the other tenants. It was old and worn out, but it was home.

Noam touched the mezuzah on the doorframe as he went in, a habit he hadn’t picked up till after his mother died but felt right somehow. Not that being extra Jewish would bring her back to life.

Noam’s father had been moved from the TV to the window.

“What’s up, Dad?”

No answer. That was nothing new. Noam was pretty sure his father hadn’t said three words in a row since 2120. Still, Noam draped his arms over his father’s lax shoulders and kissed his cheek.

“I hope you want pasta for dinner,” Noam said, “’cause that’s what we’ve got.”

He left his father staring out at the empty street and busied himself with the saucepans. He set up the induction plate and hunched over it, steam wafting toward his face as the water simmered. God, it was unbearably hot, but he didn’t trust himself to let go of the counter edge, not with this dizziness rippling through his mind.

Should’ve had more than an apple for lunch. Should’ve gone to bed early last night, not stayed up reading Paradise Lost for the fiftieth time.

If his mother were here, she’d have dragged him off to bed and stuck him with a mug of aguapanela. It was some sugary tea remedy she’d learned from her Colombian mother-in-law that was supposed to cure everything. Noam had never learned how to make it.

Another regret to add to the list.

He dumped dried noodles into the pot. “There’s a checkpoint at the corner of Broad and Main,” he said, not expecting an answer.

None came. Jaime Álvaro didn’t care about anything anymore, not even Atlantia.

Noam turned down the heat on the stove. “Couldn’t tell if they made any arrests. Nobody’s out, so they might start knocking on doors later.” He turned around. His father’s expression was the same slack-jawed one he’d been wearing when Noam first came in.

“Brennan asked about you,” Noam said. Surely that deserved a blink, at least.

Nothing.

“I killed him.”

Nothing then either.

Noam spun toward the saucepan again, grabbing a fork and stabbing at the noodles, which slipped through the prongs like so many slimy worms. His gut surged up into his throat, and Noam closed his eyes, free hand gripping the edge of the nearest bookshelf.

“You could at least pretend to give a shit,” he said to the blackness on the other side of his eyelids. The pounding in his head was back. “I’m sad about Mom, too, you know.”

His next breath shuddered all the way down into his chest—painful, like inhaling frost.

His father used to sing show tunes while he did the dinner dishes. Used to check the classifieds every morning for job offers even though having no papers meant he’d never get the good ones—he still never gave up. Never ever.

And Noam . . . Noam had to remember who his father really was, even if that version of him belonged to another life, ephemeral as footprints in the snow. Even if it felt like he’d lost both parents the day his mother died.

Noam switched off the heat, spooning the noodles into two bowls. No sauce, so he drizzled canola oil on top and carried one of the bowls over to his father. Noam edged his way between the chair and the window, crouching down in that narrow space. He spun noodles around the fork.

“Open up.”

Usually, the prospect of food managed to garner a reaction. Not this time.

Nausea crawled up and down Noam’s breastbone. Or maybe it was regret. “I’m sorry,” he said after a beat and tried for a self-deprecating grin. “I was . . . it’s been a long day. I was a dick. I’m sorry, Dad.”

His father didn’t speak and didn’t open his mouth.

Noam set the pasta bowl on the floor and wrapped his other hand around his father’s bony wrist. “Please,” Noam said. “Just a few bites. I know it’s not Mom’s cooking, but . . . for me. Okay?”

Noam’s mother had made the most amazing food. Noam tried to live up to her standard, but he never could. He’d given up on cooking anything edible, on keeping a kosher kitchen, on speaking Spanish. On making his father smile.

Noam rubbed his thumb against his father’s forearm.

The skin there was paper thin and far, far too hot.

“Dad?”

His father’s eyes stared past Noam, unseeing and glassy, reflecting the lamplight outside. That wasn’t what made Noam lurch back and collide with window, its latch jabbing his spine.

A drop of blood welled in the corner of his father’s eye and—after a single quivering moment—cut down his cheek like a tear.

“Mrs. Brown!”

Noam shoved the chair back from the window, half stumbling across the narrow room to the curtain separating their space from their neighbor’s. He banged a fist against the nearest bookshelf.

“Mrs. Brown, are you in there? I—I’m coming in.”

He ripped the curtain to one side. Mrs. Brown was there but not in her usual spot. She was curled on the bed instead, shoulders jutting against the ratty blanket like bony wings.

Noam hesitated. Was she . . . no. Was she dead?

She moved, then, a pale hand creeping out to wave vaguely in the air.

“Mrs. Brown, I need help,” Noam said. “It’s my dad—he’s sick. He’s . . . he’s really sick, and I think . . .”

The hand dropped back onto the blanket and went still.

No. No, no—this wasn’t right. This wasn’t happening. He should go downstairs and get another neighbor. He should—no, he should check on his dad. He couldn’t. He . . .

He had to focus.

The blanket covering Mrs. Brown began to ripple like the surface of the sea. Outside, the hazard sirens wailed.

Magic.

Dragging his eyes away from Mrs. Brown, Noam twisted round to face his own apartment and vomited all over the floor.

He stood there for a second, staring woozily at the mess while sirens shrieked in his ears. He was sick. Magic festered in his veins, ready to consume him whole.

An outbreak.

His father, when Noam managed to weave his way back to his side, had fallen unconscious. His head lolled forward, and there was a bloody patch on his lap, yellow electricity flickering over the stain. The world undulated around them both in watery waves.

“It’s okay,” Noam said, knowing his dad couldn’t hear him. He sucked in a sharp breath and hitched his father’s body out of the chair. He shouldn’t—he couldn’t just leave him there like that. Noam had carried him around for three years, but today his father weighed twice as much as before. Noam’s arms quivered. His thoughts were white noise.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, a voice kept repeating in Noam’s head.

He dumped his father’s body on the bed, skinny limbs sprawling. Noam tried to nudge him into a more comfortable position, but even that took effort. But this . . . it was more than he’d done for his mother. He’d left her corpse swinging on that rope for hours before Brennan had shown up to take her down.

His father still breathed, for now.

How long did it take to die? God, Noam couldn’t remember.

On shaky legs, Noam made his way back to the chair by the window. He couldn’t manage much more. The television kept turning itself on and off again, images blazing across a field of static snow and vanishing just as quickly. Noam saw it out of the corners of his eyes even when he tried not to look, the same way he saw his father’s unconscious body. That would be Noam soon.

Magic crawled like ivy up the sides of the fire escape next door. Noam imagined his mother waiting for him with a smile and open arms, the past three years just a blink against eternity.

His hands sparked with something silver-blue and bright. Bolts shot between his fingers and flickered up his arms. The effect would have been beautiful were it not so deadly. And yet . . .

A shiver ricocheted up his spine.

Noam held a storm in his hands, and he couldn’t feel a thing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Victoria Lee grew up in Durham, North Carolina, where she spent twelve ascetic years as a vegetarian before discovering that spicy chicken wings are, in fact, a delicacy. She's been a state finalist competitive pianist, a hitchhiker, a pizza connoisseur, an EMT, an expat in China and Sweden, and a science doctoral student. She's also a bit of a snob about fancy whiskey. Lee writes early in the morning and then spends the rest of the day trying to impress her border collie puppy and make her experiments work. She currently lives in Pennsylvania with her partner.

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