It's been a while since I shared a straight excerpt here on my blog, and since I am almost through editing The Proper Bearing, it seemed fitting to give you all one now.  Our hero, Nick Forsythe, has just entered his final year of secondary school (what the English consider high school).  His friends, trouble-making twins Cris and Terry, have been late in returning from detention for a couple of hours, and when they finally arrive, their reasoning is not what he expected in the least... 

Since this week's theme is "First Line of a Scene or Chapter", I have two pieces to share, simply because I couldn't make up my mind.  Both are from In the Cards, coming in September.  

This week's excerpt from In The Cards takes place during a reading for its heroine, Beatrice, as she's trying to find her footing in her new hometown.  The image to the right is from Peter Pracownik's "Dragon Tarot", which is the deck I chose for her new friend and mentor, Louise Mullein.  ​

    ​As the last few rays of sun disappeared over the horizon, they were replaced by the spark and flare of a lighter, then the single glowing eye of a cigarette.  Crowley drew in a lungful of nicotine, then sent it up to join the dark clouds closing in over town.  “Bugger of a storm comin’ down soon.”
    “Okay, seriously?”  Fritz kicked over a rock with his sneaker as one of the first fat raindrops landed on his shoulder.  “Being here is already enough of a cliché.  Do you have to add the dialogue?”
    “Not my fault the weather agrees.”  Crowley bared his nicotine grin, turning toward the riverbank.  “Besides … they’re getting closer.”
    “Not that I mind a little rain, but we really should get outta here before anyone sees us.”
    Crowley flicked his thumb, sending a spit of ash into the current as the rain begain in earnest.  “Think you just bloody well jinxed yourself there.  But at this point, it don’t matter who sees us.  As far as I could tell this afternoon, cat’s nearly outta the bag.”
    “That was awful.  Why can’t we leave him out of this mess?”
    “Those’re the orders.”
    “Said the guy with the anarchy patches on his jacket.”
    Crowley reached out and dug his neon fingernails into the collar of Fritz’s coat.  The blue and green highlights in his pale blond hair flopped into his face as he leaned in close and bared his teeth.  “Listen, you walking ball of nerves.  I don’t know if you forgot what tree you stashed your brains in this morning before you drank your Ovaltine, but there’s only one authority I respect enough not t’question.  It’s in your best interests – and Ral’s – t’do the same!”
    Fritz flailed, swatting Crowley’s hand as he tried to wiggle free.  “I – but – it – just  - that – I – he – let go!”  He squeaked, swiping raindrops off his chest and straightening his collar.  “It isn’t that I question the big black bossman.  I just don’t see why he doesn’t let you handle the girl.”
    “I’ve got my own hand to play.  As for the girl,” Crowley said, shielding his cigarette from the rain, “it’s gotta be one of you.  When it comes to Iknara, I paid my dues a long time ago.”
    Fritz shook his head.  “I don’t care what he says we’ve got to do.  There must be some way to finish this without getting someone else’s blood on my hands.”
    Crowley rolled his eyes.
    “Oh, don’t look at me like that.  Not everyone likes being a pain in the … butt.”
    “One of these effing days, I’m going to see you swear.”  Crowley smirked, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.
    Fritz slicked rain from his broad forehead and shook it out onto the ground, where the riverbank was quickly degrading into thick, red mud.  “If you make that call, I’m leaving.  I can’t watch you involve anyone else in this mess and just lurk around getting your kicks out of watching them flip out.”
    “Suit yourself.” Crowley shrugged mid-dial.  “Just remember how t’make an omelet.  Wouldn’t want you to starve.”
    As he trudged up the hill to where he’d parked his Galaxie, Fritz raised his eyes to the storm clouds and let out a wordless whine.   “Trixie,” he told his car, settling in behind her wheel, “I’m liking this job less and less.”

This week's excerpt is straight out of From The Desk of Buster Heywood, due for release in mid-September!

The overhang outside the door kept him dry as he looked out at the storm that had rolled in over the North End.  The slush banks Cameron had kicked to pieces were already melting under the onslaught of the rain, pitted and spiked like termite hills, and rivers ran past the edges of the sidewalk into the gutter.  Buster pulled his gloves on and buttoned up his coat to steel himself, then stepped out into the frigid deluge. 

The tenement building had no roof overhang for him to duck under, so he was soaked by the time he reached the alley.  Even so, the building shielded him from any gales coming at him from the side, leaving him to contend with the rain from above.  He ducked beneath a fire escape and paused to remove his glasses, wiping droplets off with his scarf.  It wouldn’t last long, but at least he’d be able to see long enough to find his way back to the Jetta.

“You,” an unfamiliar voice called out from behind him.

Buster turned, feeling his dinner turn, as well. 

“Yeah, you.”  A short, thin man with a patchy goatee moved forward into the alley.  He wore a faded grey wool coat that looked as though it had seen several previous owners before him, and tattered jeans.  The stained apron around his waist and red bandana tied over his hair marked him almost unmistakably as Luis’ busboy.  “I know who you are..."