Visit the Wizard Constable site for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info.

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Chapter 9 - A Night in a Shack

Jorac hadn’t slept on a bed so lumpy in quite some time, and he awoke in the middle of the night several times, tossing and turning. He must have dozed at last, because there was some light leaking through the window shutters when he stirred again. He went outside and used the tiny outhouse (it reminded him of the one his family had when he was growing up). Here there weren’t corn cobs or wads of grass, but a papery, fuzzy leaf of some sort in a small pile near the seat; it proved not as comfortable as the cotton wool used by the rich houses, but better than most alternatives.

When the Dorrie and Kimma came out of the house, the men were up and dressed for the day, and Veseen and Schrog were preparing a list of needed supplies. The squad hadn’t been planning more than a day trip deep into the swamp, so they had only the one tent and little food. Hox was still sleeping, and would be another day recovering. The young giant still needed a bit of tending, and would doubtless need some food when he awoke; the pair of day-old breakfast pies they’d saved him wouldn’t last him long.

It took only a few minutes for everyone to agree that Schrog and Veseen would go into town for supplies, and Dorrie and Jorac would stay here with Hox. Jorac gave Schrog some money; he’d brought quite a lot, and was mentally composing his expense report. “T’ings go right, we prolly be back by lunch time,” Schrog said. “Anyti’ng else you needs?”

Jorac thought a moment. “Yeah, I’d better let our bosses know where we are.” He smiled wryly. “Not that the wizards would come looking for me in time to help, but I can probably avoid a lecture if I tell them.” He scrawled a brief note on the paper he’d brought and handed it to Schrog. “Can you get one of those Swampside runner boys to take it to a constable? Cerom will know where we are, and he can get word to the Wizard Council for me.”

Veseen said “Master Radyry” to Jorac in a quiet voice.

Jorac nodded. “And I need to get word to Master Radyry too. I warned him Veseen might be in late last night, but we’re past that already. Here, let me write another note.” Jorac forced himself to take his time and wrote a flowery, respectful note to the wizard master explaining that Veseen was safe and would be needed further, stressing how valuable the boy had been on the trip. He could have written less, but it was all true, and Veseen’s school marks might benefit.

After Schrog and Veseen set off, Jorac followed the women into the shack, where Kimma checked on Hox. She left a water skin near him and whispered, “He’s okay,” then motioned them outside so they wouldn’t disturb him.

When they got outside, she said, “No fever, arm looks good. Nearly normal color, no swelling.”

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” Dorrie asked.

“Maybe this morning, maybe afternoon. Hard to tell. That potion mostly makes ‘em sleep about one day.”

“You know,” Jorac said, “we haven’t paid you for that potion yet. How much do we owe you?”

“Eh. Well, I tells people anywheres from fifty coppers, up to a couple hundred, depending on how well I likes em. With Schrog here. . . aw, I don’t know. Call it a hundred.”

Jorac knew he had barely a hundred coppers, and wanted to keep them. He reached in his pocket, opened his pouch, and pulled out a gold coin.

“Sorry, I can’t pay a hundred coppers; you’ll have to take this instead,” he said as he handed her the gold. It was worth about five times her asking price.

“What the hell you tryin’ to pull? I gave you my price.” She looked as if she was going to throw it back at him.

Jorac put his hands up in a don’t-blame-me manner. “Hey, I’m on expenses. I’ll turn in a report and collect it back from my bosses. And remember, Hox is so big you had to give him a double dose of potion. Not to mention that you knew what potion to use for his problem and how to use it, and you’re sheltering not only the patient, but four other people who came with him! I’m not sure what I gave you is even enough.”

“Aw, ‘twern’t nothin’. Okay, I’ll keep it.”

Jorac said, “It’s perfectly fair, even at your reasonable rates. Actually, what you’ve done for us is worth a lot more than that. When I get back to the city, I’m going to apply for a reward for you.”

“Reward? What for?”

“You saved the life of a constable on duty. One working for the Wizard Constable, so that counts extra, and I know how to do the paperwork. We’ll get you compensated.”

“Aw, de orange and green frog just make ya sick for a while; it ain’t like it was the orange and purple. He’d have lived.”

Dorrie stepped in. “Young lady, don’t low-rate yourself. You saw what Hox needed and you did it, even after you saw Schrog, and before you heard his tale. And where else were we going to get help for him? You saved his life, and he was on duty, so you get a reward from the constables, or the wizards, or maybe even both. Got to know how to play the game, make them think it’s their idea. Me and Jorac can work on that. And don’t forget to add on your fees when you guide us; we’ll need to make sure that gets paid too.” She smiled. “Of course, you’ve got to come into town to get it.”

Kimma thought for a long moment. “Well, thanks,” she said quietly. “I guess I can use the money.”

Jorac had the impression she was thinking of the future for the first time in a while. He knew what that was like; he remembered the night at his father’s house when he realized he had to find something better to do with his life. The next day he’d shaved the beard he’d grown with the tribesmen, and set out finding the job as a guard that eventually led him here.

Dorrie said, “If you’re going to make money in your business, here’s some advice. You need a special price for nobles and wizards. Five times as high.”

Jorac grinned. “And I just paid it, because I’m working for the damned wizards now – begging your pardon, Madame Velosp.”

Kimma was confused by the remark, so Jorac and Dorrie explained how Dorrie was able to parlay her limited magical ability, along with her theatrical skill, into a good living.

In return, Kimma explained some of the economics of her business, such as it was. Miz Madouve had a good reputation as a healer, more reliable than most. A few other healers came and went in the swamp, sometimes eking out a living for a few years while waiting for some problem in the city to quiet down. Miz Madouve’s clients weren’t numerous and couldn’t afford high prices, so she often ended up bartering her services for food and supplies. “Sometimes I get two or three folks in a day,” she said, “but I go lots of days when I don’t see nobody.”

Jorac asked conversationally, “So, what do you do on days like that?”

“I put on de outfit, an’ Miz Madouve usually goes out swamp-crawlin’. Stuff to hunt out dere.”

“Ur, um, like those soft leaves in the privy? I’ve never seen the like.”

“Yeah, stuff like that. Maybe find some stuff I can trade. I should go out again soon, too.”

“Mind if I go with you? I want to collect some more of those leaves. I imagine we used a week’s supply for you, and if we’re camping I’d like some more.”

Dorrie volunteered, “I’ll sit with Hox. I don’t mind.” She looked at the shack, not at Kimma.

Kimma looked at Jorac and Dorrie, obviously weighing the offer. Jorac didn’t blame her for the caution; despite their constable uniforms and knowing Schrog, she’d only met them yesterday.

Finally she said, “Yeah, alright.” Then her voice changed. “But out dere, I’m Miz Madouve, got it? And don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

“I’ll obey your every command. I don’t want to end up like Hox.” Or with a crossbow bolt in me, he thought, and I know she’d do it. Somehow, that thought more pleased than worried him; competence was something he highly approved of.

Up near the top of the junk heap was what looked like a school bus. Most of its windows were still intact. If she could get inside of it she could hide, for a while at least. Of course, getting up there wasn’t going to be easy, but that actually made it even more desirable as a refuge. As hard as it would be for her to climb up there, it would be next to impossible for a human being.

Directly ahead of her lay the enormous crumpled bulk of a tunnel borer, a big round machine with a toothed maw on one end. It must have been used to dig out the mines, back in the day, and she didn’t doubt it had been great at cutting through solid rock. Its teeth were blunted by age and shiny with erosion now. A length of massive chain, each link as thick across as her thigh, lay draped over its cab. She grabbed onto the chain and pulled herself up, out of the polluted mud, climbing the links like a ladder. She dragged herself up on top of the borer and then stumbled across the side of a tailing heap, a pile of fist-sized rocks that crumbled under her touch.

There, ahead, she saw where a pile of metal rods had rusted together into a thick stalk that jutted out from the side of the pile. The individual rods were no thicker than her thumb. She could swing up on top of the pile and then the school bus would be easy to get to.

She grabbed one of the rods and pulled on it. It gave, but just a little. She worried it might snap off in her hand. She looked down and saw that her footing was ridiculously bad. She had one foot on the loose tailings, the other on a flap of rusted metal that probably wouldn’t support her weight.

It didn’t matter. She had more important things to worry about than falling in the lake. Chey leaned out as far as she could and then jumped, swinging on the rod, all of her mass conspiring with gravity to pull down hard, to shear off a length of metal.

The rod held. She brought her feet up to get them on top of the pile, but missed.

When Michael showed up at Ana’s house on the following Wednesday, he made sure that 1) he brought his checkbook to purchase her painting, 2) he arrived around lunchtime, and 3) he dressed sharply yet casually, in khaki slacks and a white shirt, looking as clean-cut and non-threatening as possible. When she opened the door, Ana was impressed by how handsome and proper he looked in such a simple outfit. The pale colors and clean lines of his clothes brought out his athletic form. In turn, Michael noticed approvingly that Ana wore a skirt that conveniently flared right above the knees and a button-down with a rounded collar similar to the one he had seen her wear in church on the day they met.

“I seem to have perfect timing. Am I interrupting your work again?”

“No, I was just having lunch,” she said, without inviting him in.

He stood there, waiting calmly.

“You have a habit of just dropping by unannounced at people’s houses, don’t you?” she asked him. Once again, she sensed her own ambivalent reaction to his brazenness, feeling simultaneously flattered and repelled by it.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t usually do that. But… I hope you don’t take this the wrong way… for some reason I feel so at ease with you, Ana. I see no point in being formal with each other,” he said warmly.

Neither do I, Ana thought, appeased. “Would you like to join me for lunch?” she invited him in. She led her guest into a modest dining room, furnished with a simple wooden table and chairs. Michael surveyed the meal already set on the table: fresh plum tomatoes, French baguette and bhabha ghanoush, a Greek eggplant dish.

“For some strange reason, I still prefer the foods I had as a child in Romania. My grandmother used to make this amazing eggplant dish. It’s called salata de vinete.”

“That’s some kind of salad, right?”

“Eggplant salad,” she confirmed. “Would you like to try it?”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Ana went into the kitchen to get him an extra plate, glass and set of silverware.

Visit the Wizard Constable site for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info.

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Chapter 8 - An Unexpected Reunion

The crossbow was now pointed directly at Schrog, and the old healer lady was revealed to be a young, very attractive woman with short, dark hair. Her eyes glinted, and her mouth pursed in anger – it looked to Jorac as if she was struggling to control herself. It took just a second for him to get over his surprise, then he causally reached down and put his hand on his dagger – just in case.

Schrog said nothing at first, his face amazed. With his voice almost breaking, he said, “Kimie, you’re alive!”

“Fockin’ right I’m alive. No thanks to you. One day I’m keeping house with my mum, and the next I’m carried into the swamp in a sack and left with a half-crazy old lady. And told not to ask any questions, nor go back, ever. What happened!” She lifted the crossbow and sighted it straight at Schrog, who looked back without blinking.

He drew his knees up and put his arms around them. In a tight, choked voice he said, “Kimie, I may deserve killin’, but not for your ma. Was de first decent t’ing I done. Gimme a min here.”

“It’s Kimma. I ain’t a little girl any more.” Without the old-lady voice, she pronounced her words a little better, but still had the accent. The crossbow didn’t waver at all; it was still pointed at Schrog’s face.

Schrog nodded and wiped his tearing eyes with his sleeve, looked at the ground in front of him, and continued in a firmer tone. “Dis is all eight years ago. Kullo had been talkin’ about a big score, I didn’t know from where. Den your ma came to me, middle o’ de night. She was hurt bad. Said she just killed Fergram, remember him? Short guy, liked his drink. He’d got drunk and let it slip dat Kullo’s new big score was sellin’ girls – not pimpin’ em, dat be too easy to trace, but sell em as slaves, put em on a boat and gone. Young girls ten, twelve years old. Had him a buyer and all. You was gonna be one of dem. Anyway, Fergram talked too much, and yer ma sticks him with a knife. Didn’t kills him quick enough, ‘cause he stuck her too. She comes to me, says to get you outta dere. So I did.”

He looked up at her “Kimma, she had a big knife hole in her belly. Blood and shit comin’ out of it. You know what dat mean. Best wizard in de city might save her, but prolly not. She say to save you, don’ worry about her. So, I did what she said.”

He raised his hands helplessly. “I t’ink, where I’m gonna hide a li’l girl? I remember Miz Madouve, she owed me – helped her out of a couple o’ jams, stopped a guy from robbin’ her one time. So I puts you in dat sack, and runs out here, in de dark. No moon dat night. Got lost. Found her place in de mornin’. Had to leave you wit’ her.

“Time I got back to de place, your ma was dead, and a bunch of shit started happenin’. . .” He stopped and shook his head. “Anyways, dat’s what happened to yer ma.”

Visit the Wizard Constable site for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info.

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Chapter 7 - To The Swamp

They walked on through Swampside with no further incidents. In, fact people melted before them on the street, and even the hawkers quieted their cries as they passed; Raah’s word obviously carried weight here. After about half an hour they reached the edge of town, where a final clearing marked the start of the riverside trail that led south to “deep” Swampside.

Since there was no one else in sight, they stopped there to adjust their small day-packs and their clothing. The men changed into high boots and stuffed their pants into them, and Dorrie removed her veil and fancy skirt to reveal some practical pants underneath. Having been warned about biting insects, all wore long sleeves – for Hox, long sleeves came down to only past his elbow, but he was used to that. It was nearing midday, so Jorac suggested they eat their lunch, some barely edible sandwiches they’d bought from a street vendor, washed down by water from the flasks everyone carried.

As they were finishing up, Jorac spoke to the group. “I was hoping we could avoid this, but we’re going to have to go at least a little way into the actual swamp. I did a little reading about it, but I didn’t find out much that would help us. Mostly they said it’s dangerous, and you should have a guide, and you shouldn’t touch anything you don’t have to. So all I can tell you is, keep alert and don’t touch anything you don’t have to. We’ll stop at the first place we can and do our test.” And with that, they set off again.

The road began as wide, solid ground, but it soon narrowed to a winding trail, squishy in spots, that went around hummocks and through patches of sedges, some taller than even Hox. As before, Hox was at the rear and Schrog took the lead. The pace he set was slower than Jorac expected, and Schrog developed an odd head-bobbing pattern that confused him until he realized Schrog was scanning the swamp around them and the ground ahead, almost before every step.

This part of the trail showed frequent use, with matted vegetation or bare ground on the path itself, and nearby plants cut or trampled back from the margins. Sometimes small paths branched off to the side; Jorac wondered if they were game trails or led to some swamp-dweller’s house, but decided to wait rather than interrupt Schrog’s concentration with questions.

It was a beautiful sunny day, but it was beginning to be humid and quite warm. Jorac had been told that the wizard spell that gave Vaggert perfect weather gradually faded beyond the city’s borders. He found his clothes beginning to stick to him, and there was a rich, swampy background smell of decaying vegetation. Some annoying gnats buzzed around them, but there was no other wildlife to be seen.

After Jorac idly complained about the gnats, Veseen said “Hold up, please. Last week I learned a warding spell that might work here.”

He pulled some spell component out of a small pouch he carried, and explained, “I’ve gotten to the point I don’t need the components for a few spells, but this one is still new to me. This is powdered fly wings; it should work for this.”

He had everyone stand well back from him, then concentrated and slowly, carefully cast a spell. When he motioned the group back to him, Jorac saw that a small circle around the apprentice was clear of insects. Other people could enjoy it too – but only if they stood right next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Veseen said dejectedly. “I wasn’t trying to be selfish, but I don’t think I helped anyone else with that. I was hoping I could make the circle bigger.”

“No matter,” Jorac said, “it was worth a try.” He’d still rather work with the self-effacing youngster than any number of more powerful wizards. They all shrugged and walked on – at least when they were walking it took a little while for the bugs to find them.

It would have been a pleasant stroll except for the gnats, the squishy path, the increasingly powerful smell of decaying vegetation, and Schrog’s obvious concern. At the first dry wide spot outside of town, a lumpy raised area with wide-based trees all around, Jorac called a halt so they could do a manite test.

To provide darkness, Jorac had checked a small tent out of the City Guard’s supply depot and asked Hox to carry it. When they unfolded it, it proved to be a floppy canvas box tent, now very worn. To assemble it, they’d have had to find and cut poles to tie it up to, which seemed like too much trouble, so they merely used it as a big canvas wrap. Hox was too tall to fit inside, so stood guard. The other four got inside, using Dorrie’s walking stick to hold up the middle, and managed to get it fairly dark. After a little while for their eyes to accustom, Dorrie did the honors again while Veseen shielded Jorac, and they marked the direction on the ground with a stick.

The inside four were happy to emerge from the canvas – it had been stifling inside – and the group talked while they folded it up and stowed it. Their mark on the ground definitely didn’t point back the way they’d come, but it was hard to tell exactly what direction it did point. They squinted up at the sun and tried to figure it out. Veseen apologetically explained that a competent wizard could have told the exact direction, but he hadn’t learned that skill yet. They finally decided the direction was still south, or perhaps southeast, further into the swamp but somewhat away from the river – crosswise to the trail at this point.

They stood and gazed at the thick, marshy vegetation in that direction. Everyone looked reluctant to go on, and Jorac felt the same way.

“Well, that’s it, unless we can get a guide. Schrog, if we go back to Swampside, can we hire a guide?”

“Yeah, dere might be somebody in town. Take a while to find ‘em, maybe dey could be trusted, maybe not.” He looked down and kicked the ground a little. “But dere used to be somebody lived out dis way who could help. We can go see if dey’re still dere.”

Jorac’s an ordinary city constable in the city of Vaggert; he’s allergic to magic but still takes the job of Wizard Constable, working for the city’s overbearing, officious wizards. He encounters cutthroats, slavers, poison frogs, crazed wizards, hidden beauty, and much more - this is not stereotypical “epic fantasy”, it’s a fast-paced, fun adventure story. Support indie authors! You can buy the book on Amazon. E-book copies are also available on Kindle, B&N Nook , and iTunes Visit http://www.wizardconstable.com/neatorama.html for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info, and special prices for Neatorama readers.

---

right here., or visit the Wizard Constable Website for chapter links + maps.

For a long time she just wondered what to do next. It had seemed so simple, back in the fire tower. She would find Powell, convince him that they needed each other. Then they would run off into the horizon together. Find some way to survive, together.

Without him she was doomed to an eternity alone. Trying her best to do what he had done, to get as far away from people as she could so she didn’t end up killing them. It seemed like the worst possible fate she could imagine. Was it really so much better than taking the way out Bobby wanted for her, one quick silver bullet to the head?

She was supposed to have died on the Yellowhead Highway. Lycanthrope kills two in bloody road rampage, no survivors—that was one way it was supposed to have played out. She had thought many times that she might have, well, actually, preferred it. The guilt of surviving her father’s death, the blankness and trauma and fear and depression and unhappiness that followed, the sleeplessness that had defined her life—none of those things would have had to happen. If she died now, if somebody killed her twelve years after the fact, things would still balance out. In their own bad way. Chey knew she understood very little about the universe, but she knew that things coming to a bad end was not unheard of. That sometimes happy endings were too much to ask for.

Lycanthrope kills two.

Ana looked over her new painting again. Somehow, everything felt wrong about it: the sinuous forms of the woman; the brightness of her red dress; the serene smile upon her lips; the sunny, colorful background surrounding her. There was absolutely no darkness or anguish anywhere in sight. What’s come over me? she wondered.

When the doorbell rang, Ana didn’t rush to open the door. It was usually people soliciting money for various causes she didn’t support. This time, however, the solicitor must have been really desperate, since they rang the doorbell several times in a row. With an annoyed sigh, Ana lay down her brush and went upstairs to check who it was.

“Michael?” she asked with surprise. How does he know where I live? she wondered. She tried to recall if she had invited him to her house, or perhaps alluded to an invitation. But she couldn’t recall any such exchange between them.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked with a coy smile.

“No, actually, I was just finishing a new painting.”

“May I see it?” he spotted an easy overture.

Ana hesitated. It crossed her mind that she didn’t know Michael all that well. How much interaction had they had so far? A brief meeting in church, a short exchange at her gallery and a few seconds of conversation at the Renaissance festival, she recalled. Even her close friends called in advance before showing up at her door. “How did you get my address?” she asked him.

Jorac’s an ordinary city constable in the city of Vaggert; he’s allergic to magic but still takes the job of Wizard Constable, working for the city’s overbearing, officious wizards. He encounters cutthroats, slavers, poison frogs, crazed wizards, hidden beauty, and much more - this is not stereotypical “epic fantasy”, it’s a fast-paced, fun adventure story. Support indie authors! You can buy the book on Amazon. E-book copies are also available on Kindle, B&N Nook , and iTunes Visit http://www.wizardconstable.com/neatorama.html for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info, and special prices for Neatorama readers.

---

right here., or visit the Wizard Constable Website for chapter links + maps.

The pain curled her inward on herself. It made her want to scream. She forced the pain down, away from her, and rose to her feet. If not for the strength her wolf shared with her she knew she would be unconscious, maybe even dead already.

She spun around in a circle, looking for Powell. Looking for any sign of movement—a flash in the darkness, a dull glint. There was nothing.

“Talk,” he said. “You want to talk to me. Fine. Talk.”

But she couldn’t think of what to say. So instead she looked at Port Radium.

“Today’s the day! I’m taking out the trash,” Ana announced on Saturday morning. Being a neatness freak, she celebrated the day of the week when the garbage got collected.

“Vayas con Dios, mi amor,” Rob hummed a farewell song to the garbage, amused by his wife’s enthusiasm for the mundane.
Meanwhile, the kids were busy wolfing down the remains of that morning’s batch of pancakes.

“Let’s finish up so we can have a full day at the Renaissance Fair,” Rob urged them, keeping in mind the fact that no matter how late you got there, you still had to pay full price for the tickets.

“Stop staring at me!” Michelle snapped at her brother.

Allen was looking innocently past her at the T.V., which happened to feature an exciting episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants. “I’m not!” the falsely accused protested.

“Instead of picking on your brother, why don’t you go put on your costume?” Rob suggested.

“But Daddy, I can’t be a fairy anymore!” Michelle objected.

“Why not? We paid a hundred bucks for that costume last year.”

“Because. Last year I was still a little girl.”

“And what are you now? An old lady?”

“No, but I’m too old for that girly stuff. I can’t dress as a fairy anymore. It’s embarrassing.”

Great! Another hundred bucks thrown out the window, Rob concluded. Meanwhile, his wife was deciding which outfit in her wardrobe looked appropriately medieval for the festival. According to Michelle, everything her mother wore pretty much qualified. Nevertheless, Ana was faced with a tough decision. Should she wear ordinary clothes and act like she’s going to the fair just to please the kids? Or should she be a good sport and wear her Romanian folk costume with the golden brocade? Since she felt in pretty good spirits that morning, she opted for the Romanian costume.

Jorac’s an ordinary city constable in the city of Vaggert; he’s allergic to magic but still takes the job of Wizard Constable, working for the city’s overbearing, officious wizards. He encounters cutthroats, slavers, poison frogs, crazed wizards, hidden beauty, and much more - this is not stereotypical “epic fantasy”, it’s a fast-paced, fun adventure story. Support indie authors! You can buy the book on Amazon. E-book copies are also available on Kindle, B&N Nook , and iTunes Visit http://www.wizardconstable.com/neatorama.html for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info, and special prices for Neatorama readers.

---

right here., or visit the Wizard Constable Website for chapter links + maps.

Night had officially fallen. The stars were out, thick in the heavens, and they gave enough light for the two of them to see each other but not much more. The moon had not yet risen, so they were still human.

Powell wore a pair of coveralls much like her own—she guessed he, too, had been forced to scrounge for clothing since he’d been in Port Radium. He didn’t have Dzo around to follow after him in a rusty pickup truck anymore.

He had an ugly scar across his forehead and cheek. Either he’d been injured since his last change or he’d had a near miss with a silver bullet. His icy green eyes were quiet—she couldn’t quite gauge what he was thinking. Or what he was planning.

She wondered if he’d given as much thought to this confrontation as she had.

“Hi,” she said, moving toward him as sedately as she could manage. “Powell. Listen. There’s something I have to tell you, something I—”

“Save it,” he said.

Then he leapt right at her, his head down, his arms wide. He grabbed her around the midsection and knocked her off her feet. She went skidding along a rough section of asphalt and her head bounced off a broken stone. Light erupted behind her eyes and she couldn’t seem to breathe.

He was on top of her, a piece of rubble in his hands as big as her head. He brought it up high, clearly intending to use it to smash her face in. She lunged upward with her knees and he flew off of her. Rolling onto all fours, she looked over and saw him doing the same.

“Just give me a second,” she called. “Just let me—”

“No more lies,” he said.

Michael felt himself sinking into the giving softness of the pillow. A warm, tingling sensation enveloped his midsection. He didn’t dare open his eyes, fearing that it might break his concentration. In the dark, he intuited her presence. Her long dark hair covered him like a silky blanket. Her mouth wrapped around him, determining the pulse of his desire. When he was about to lose control, he pulled her up towards him. Strangely, however, he felt more resistance than anticipated. Something isn’t right about this, it occurred to him. She didn’t glide up his body with sufficient ease; her curves didn’t envelop him with the fragile softness he expected. As Michael opened his eyes, the fantasy of Ana vanished. “Karen?” he asked incredulously. Once fully awake, he realized that his life was back to normal. “What a pleasant morning surprise,” he attempted to mask his disappointment.

“Good morning, sweetie!” Karen cooed in a melodious tone that rang false to his well-trained ears.

Why does her behavior strike me as fake? he wondered. Well, maybe not fake, he reconsidered. Because, in all fairness, she’s trying her damnest to please me. But it still seems… forced. Like she’s trying to be something she’s not. He recalled the last time they had attempted this particular activity, nearly two years ago, when Karen had lunged into the bathroom afterwards, to rinse her mouth out with Listerine. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to, honey,” she assured him.

There goes that word again. “Honey.” It sounds so strange coming from her mouth. What in the world does she want from me? Michael wondered. In the past, whenever Karen did him any sexual favors, afterwards, she’d either ask him to do something for her in return (such as spend the weekend with her sister or her parents) or, worse yet, kindly inform him that she had already made plans for them. “I don’t want to have brunch with either your parents or your sister’s family today,” he preempted in one breath two possible requests.

Karen’s lips quivered into a smile that she maintained for a few seconds. “But I wasn’t asking you to do that, sweetie.”
I can’t recall the last time she called me “sweetie,” Michael reflected. Karen’s saccharine behavior gave him the strange sensation of swimming against the current in a sea of molasses.

Jorac’s an ordinary city constable in the city of Vaggert; he’s allergic to magic but still takes the job of Wizard Constable, working for the city’s overbearing, officious wizards. He encounters cutthroats, slavers, poison frogs, crazed wizards, hidden beauty, and much more - this is not stereotypical “epic fantasy”, it’s a fast-paced, fun adventure story. Support indie authors! You can buy the book on Amazon. E-book copies are also available on Kindle, B&N Nook , and iTunes Visit http://www.wizardconstable.com/neatorama.html for an index to all posts for this book, maps and related info, and special prices for Neatorama readers.

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right here., or visit the Wizard Constable Website for chapter links + maps.