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mallory-michael-langdon · 6 years

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my beginning and end, started with you

(AN: I might revise this whole thing later, but I feel like this chapter came out pretty decently. Also, @natalielivesformusic I know you wanted to be tagged so here you go! 😊)

Chapter 2

2018 December

Michael Langdon was an interesting specimen. The boy-no, the man was more intelligent than he let on. He could fool you, with his charming smile and the seemingly innocent guise he hid beneath but Mallory knew a brittle mask when she saw one. Could see the cracks in his demeanor, the sudden bouts of melancholy and brooding. He kept a small notepad, with a hardcover in which he spent endless hours writing in, only God knows what. But he was intent on letting his thoughts and plans seep by way of ink and paper.

But when he wasn’t confined to his room, pacing back and forth whilst his mind drifted and mused, he was in the lobby or cafeteria exercising his mind with board games, Mallory as his partner of choice. He always insists and she can’t help but feel he’s testing her, weighing her merits and finding her wanting. Still, she played along to his games, more out of pity than anything else. After all, this would only be for a moment, before she leaves the hospital, then California altogether.

He has somehow managed to coil himself around her daily routine. Of waking up in the morning and freshening herself in the women's restroom, brushing her teeth with a toothbrush and toothpaste from the Rite Aid down the street before heading to breakfast in the cafeteria, only to find him sitting there, waiting for her with a nice board game from the children’s sector.

He’d initiated their companionship, true, but she had taken him up on the offer. And she admits, she does enjoy her time with him. It is very lonely in the day when no one has a reason to call her, and even lonelier at night. When the lights shut off, and only the pale moonlight that manages to peak through the curtains give her comfort. This is how it must feel to be old, she thinks, the last of the last, a pitiful scion, and it makes sense why some would like to die young and beautiful.

She couldn't imagine someone like Michael, as beautiful as he is, old and frail and alone, on his cold deathbed. She could see him, however, in a pool of his own blood, steaming and fresh or maybe no blood at all. Maybe a bottle of pills and a side of alcohol, how the youth are wont to die these days. He’d be immortal in death, forever young.

How he got in here anyways is still beyond her. Her imagination ran wild when it came to it. Sometimes she just sits and ponders on the scar on his right side when she’s bored enough but she never has the courage to pry the truth from him.

The nurses ask why she doesn't just leave and come back when it’s time to pick up her mother, but Mallory refuses to leave the woman’s side. Not when she’d been so close to death, and was barely alive now. Mallory was content with sleeping on the stiff cushioned couch beneath the thin cotton and woolen covers the staff gave her if it meant she could keep her mother safe and above all else alive.

She called Cordelia, letting her know that she'll return soon enough but the Supreme was in no hurry to rush her, forever an understanding and patient woman.

Sleeping in the hospital has brought back every haunting memory that feels too strong, too real to just be a simple dream. But depriving herself of sleep was a death sentence within itself, and so despite her reluctance, she slept.

The sky was grey, covered in thick clouds that rained ash. The air was hot and humid, with a sting that watered the eyes, and infiltrated the lungs better than any cancer. Fallen debris and a thousand broken pieces of the grand foundations that once kissed the sky littered the ground, as soft as grass. In the distance, fires raged and so did chaos in the streets that remained. Screams rose higher and higher, before going still. A tree stood proudly, with a dark, sweet fruit, while a murder of crows and ravens hovered around it, taking their share. It was disquieting, but she found the sight beautiful. That amidst all the madness, joy could still be found, life could still be cherished.

“I’d rather chase them away and take the fruit for myself.” the boy said suddenly, a sneer marring his beautiful face. They sat on the ruined ground, shoulder to shoulder. She in white and he in black.

Once upon a time, that response would have startled her, but she’d long grown used to it. Michael wasn't a good person, she wasn't daft enough to believe otherwise no matter how much she tried to find that dying light.

“Would you at least leave the rotten fruit behind for someone else to eat?”

The boy chuckled, eyes heavy with a particular glint as he gazed on at the tree. “No. Why would I do that? When you can just…” he waved toward her nonchalantly. “Make them fresh again, maybe even make something new.”

“Would you share, at least? If you were full and there was more left?” Michael looked at her then, his stare long and hard, sultry and intent.

“I would share with you Mallory.” Michael wasn't a good person, but he wasn't bad either.

Mallory woke to the sound of beeping machines and faint breathing. Sounds she had long grown used to. It was still night, the hospital quiet and nearly void of life. She leaned up on her elbows, the couch dipping in response, trying to adjust her eyes to the dark. And became paralyzed with fear at the figure that stood at the corner of the room. She could see it's-his shape, lean and tall, staring dead at her. Could feel his gaze carved into her skin.

The amygdala part of the brain settled into a deep freeze, to unstable to fight or flight after waking from the cusp of sleep. Her tongue might as well have shriveled up and rolled to the back of her throat to because she could not speak. What would she say anyhow to the stranger that was steadily making his way to her? The air was thick, sweet and rotten like a batch of roses. It made her head feel as if it were stuffed with wool.

She felt a hand gently grab her arm, a new weight shifting on the couch, a cool and heat hovering above her. “Mallory?” She let out a shaky exasperated breath, not quite sure if she should be relieved yet. It was just Michael. Mallory knows his voice well, has heard it long enough to know whom it belongs to, both in life and sleep.

“W-what are you doing in here Michael? It's too late to play games.” she was all too aware of his hand lingering on her arm.

“But I had a bad dream,” he reasoned. “And I don't want to go back to sleep.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

He flinched at the harshness of her voice.

“I don't want to be alone, and you're the only one I can go to.”

Her disposition softened, vexation and fear fading away.

“Come with me,” he said, letting go of her arm, fingers trailing down her skin to take her hand. The second time their hands have ever touched. Something happened then, a feeling like no other, cold and warm, electrifying even. Something that persuaded her to go, in spite of everything that screamed in her head, that warned her not to.

They raced down the dimly lit halls, he in black combat boots, she in sandals. Holding hands all the while, as he pulled her along. She couldn't help but stare at their joined hands or bite back the comfort it gave her, the sense of familiarity.

It was strange to feel this way. She vaguely recalls ever having feelings for a boy, ever wanting to be around one or one wanting to be around her. A stolen kiss beneath a tree, one that tasted of the cotton candy from the Orange County Fair aunt Val had dropped them off at. This was different, however, more than just a high school crush, perhaps nothing romantic at all. It was deeper than that, something spiritual, a bond old and true and ancient.

They raced up a flight of stairs, taking two steps at a time. “Where are we going?” She asked breathlessly but thrilled for the first time in a long time. It didn't matter that her thighs stung and chest burned, or that she could barely keep up.

“You’ll see.” Was his only response.

They went to the stars, the sky, and the moon. All from the flat surfaced roof of the hospital, a wide and extensive hard granite. Side by side, for there was no other way to take it in. They gazed longingly at the heavens for hours, brushing off the cold and discomfort in favor of looking on. She could feel his hard lean body beside her, the energy that flowed in waves, both light, and dark. Grey. And her? There was a heat of excitement, of desire to be around him, one that hadn't been there before. Ready to combust like a dying star. He was beautiful beneath the pale moonlight, the moonglow painting his skin an eerie white and hair a startling silver, eyes a bright crystal blue. No man should be this beautiful, this innocent. A twisted enigma of good and bad, right and wrong. And she knows the bad is there, the wrong lurking beneath his well-practiced facade, she just has yet to see it.

Is he like me? Pretending to be something he’s not? An imposter stealing another's life? There was a girl buried beneath the magic, the powerful light that consumed her. The real girl, a normal girl, the true owner of this vessel Mallory inhabits. The human half that people so rarely see. It is her life that Mallory leads and sometimes she wonders if she should let go and let that girl fully take over.

“Where are you from Michael?” The question could have meant anything. Sometimes she wishes the wings on her back would return to her, no matter how ugly and big and obnoxious, just to touch the sky and dance with the stars. Just to go home.

He doesn't respond, just looks down at his hands, too ashamed to tell her. But she has an inkling. Can tell by the way he smells, how cold his skin is, as cold as a corpse. How his eyes darken to a deep onyx when frustrated. Or maybe it was all in her head and she was having one of her moments again, projecting her own fears and insecurities onto him.

“Nowhere.”

She hearkened, leaning closer to listen, fixating her eyes onto him.

“I’m from nowhere. I have no one to go back to, not really. I’m alone, I live alone.” that was all he dined to say. He looked fit to cry, voice filled with pain and bitterness, and her chest twisted at the sight. For all that Mallory has been moved about all her life, she has always had a place to go, someone to turn to. Who did Michael have? ‘You’re the only one I can go to’.

“The thing you did the other day, with the ball,” she started. “You know that wasn't normal right? Maybe you're a witch...no, a warlock. I know there’s a school somewhere, that’ll take you in. Teach you and train you.” She recalls Miss Cordelia speaking on them briefly, the male counterpart to witches.

More silence followed, his dilated eyes never leaving the sky. They were filled with spite almost. As if he were ready to curse God himself. What did he see that she didn't? We live in the same world, and yet see two different things when we look at the stars, she thought.

“Can you teach me, Mallory?” He asked suddenly. “Teach me what you do?”

“You mean magic?”

He looked at her then, lips pursed and eyes sharper than steel and as hard as granite. “I mean everything.” the words left no room for discussion.

lust. i

In the beginning, the one thing Michael liked most about Mallory, was that she didn't want to change him, not really. No, she only sought to understand him, and that in of itself lit a path on a long dark road. Her essence was enough to draw the light out of him, without her even trying to, and it was entirely up for him to decide what to do with it.

It was hard not to be drawn to her, for her beauty was otherworldly when she was in her true form, a girl-child composed of inhumane loveliness. Her wings were the most entrancing, the way they’d open up when she was excited or happy, how warm they were when wrapped around him during the coldest nights. Mallory had been his friend, his companion. The only one who truly understood. They were both vessels put on this earth, to be used at the whims of their gods. People loved the idea of them, but not them. Mallory was going to be the savior to conqueror darkness and Michael was going to be the darkness that brought the end of days. Their lives have been led by prophecies, even when they were completely oblivious to them, and in the end, they’d bring about each other's downfall. The irony, that a bond would be formed between the champions of light and darkness, of god and devil. How their masters roared in protest, their fathers raging at the rebellion of two kindred spirits together alas. This had defied everything they had wanted, had blown every piece off of their chess board. No longer were Michael and Mallory their little pawns, weapons in a feud that has gone on for a thousand years, long before he and she came about.

Something had had to be done, the irony, that in separating their children, god and the devil had come together on that one little thing. She was there for a moment, and then she was gone. Mallory, his angel, his light.

For all that it was a few months for him, he’d felt every year that drifted by without her ever caring to remember him. They’d forged a bond that exceeded the laws of time itself, that transcended the bounds of space, and she had left her end cold, had let her god win when Michael had tried to fight back against his. Had left him in an alliance that couldn't simply be broken. He was hers and she was his, and they were a being in and of itself. She had no right, no right.

Even in his star gazed fascination of her, he’d wanted to corrupt that light, that blind faith, had wanted to taint her, to put the seed of darkness in her as she’d put the fruit of life in him. And in all those years, those long years, he’d been with her how she’d been with him.

A presence that she had yet to identify, the drop of ink that stained her white conscious. Every horrible thought, every ounce of anger and bitterness was his own, manifested into her. In truth, those intrusive thoughts had always been there, more of the world's fault than his, but he was the match that ignited every moment of passion. The rage, the lust, the envy.

He’d been there when she shared her first kiss with another. The things that they did, the stolen moments they had beneath the stars, lost in wild abandon in Mallory’s clumsy attempts to be reckless had been at Michael’s own command, little seedlings he’d planted in her head. She’d never see him, but oh was his presence strong. He had made himself suffer and watch, had felt every touch. Every wet sloppy kiss, the hand that was slowly edging its way further and further up her thigh and to the soft cotton lining of her panties. And when the suffering was too much to bare he’d put the thought into her head to strike the boy hard and red, with a force not entirely her own.

He’d loved her and hated her all at once. Had thought how it’d feel to wrap his strong hands around her delicate little neck and squeeze and squeeze until he heard that satisfying sickening crunch. Michael Langdon was a jealous man. Yes, he knows he influenced her, he made her do it, had put those wanton thoughts in her head, yes yes. But the satisfaction of corrupting her, little by little made up for it.

He’d been there when she set her... father aflame. And why shouldn’t she have? The man wasn't her real father anyhow, just some lowly scum who succumbed to drinking and raping his wife. How the man's blood must've burned to know that another had laid with her, an angel she claimed. Michael had understood him almost, but that empathy had ended when it came to Mallory. Why shouldn't she have gotten angry, why shouldn't she have defended herself, why shouldn’t she have been cruel when the man was cruel to her? Because it was a sin? Because it was morally wrong and she should have turned the other cheek and the man was her father and, oh did he love her once? Michael pissed on that, in fact, he had helped her start the flame.

That house had been just as deadly as the one he still dwelled in. Christ this and Christ that, it was fucking with her mind. She was crumbling, he saw it, felt it. A monster, she had called herself, a monster of all things, because of her most beautiful feature that the world would have her feel ashamed of. Her mother was a raging lunatic, a fanatic, waiting to use Mallory for some divine godly plan, waiting to sacrifice her own daughter for the sake of a world that’d sooner tear her protective wings to shreds. And the man Mallory called father was a drunken fool, a madman, it was only a matter of time before her “father” would start looking at her the way he looked at her mother. It had been time to set her free. Of course, no good deed goes unpunished, but it was a small price to pay. The attack had happened, when his astral body left his physical one to go visit his angel.

That bitch, mother, wouldn't have dared tried it had he been awake, but she caught him unaware, in a deep stupor, and he’d woken to the feel of a sharp pain on his side. He had brought the flames back with him when he woke and there was hell to pay.

Michael had made a deal with his father, his true father, many oaths and vows that intersected the other. If he could have Mallory, if Michael could have his angel, he’d bring destruction to the world, to humanity. Sup on the hearts of innocents. He’d start a thousand wars, set off a thousand bombs. He’d dry the seven seas and leave the fish to rot and stew in the air, he’d freeze the earth twice over before turning it into flame and ash, he’d travel to the depths of the world, to the very ends of hell and tear it all asunder if it meant he could have her, if it meant he could get back to her. And he’d be the king of ashes, the prince of darkness, building a world anew out of chaos and destruction and every deadly sin there is if only she could rule it by his side. It was their future, their destiny, their fate, he knew it was because they had gone and saw for themselves.

Life is hell but heaven is a place on Earth with you, he thought with want and longing. Mallory was still Mallory, even in her physical form. Dressed in a white summer dress with long lace sleeves, golden highlights in her brown hair that complemented her dark hazel eyes. It was truly meant to be, he and her, him and she, together. What were the likes that'd he’d find her here, of all the places? Tending to her mother, using her power, her light to bring the undeserving woman back. He knew it was her, had felt it in the air, and when he saw her in person for the first time in a very long time he saw a brief glimpse of her true form, the white angel. Apart of Michael was frightened of the power she wielded, afraid of what that meant for the world he wished to wrought havoc upon. But he knew better now. They’d make a new world together. She’d bring life anew, beings of her own creation and he’d destroy the ones that weren't needed, burn away all the hypocrisy and lies, create a new set of laws and do away with the old ones.

She was the sun and he the moon, and when they held hands his soul felt fit to soar right out of his body in glee. This is how it was meant to be, but now it was steadily coming to an end again, separated once more.

Mallory has been with him, ever since that night on the rooftop, their bond rekindled. It was to the point that she sought him out, talked to him about everything and nothing at all. And he was content on listening to her speak, could listen to her go on for hours on end. The fear, the reluctance had melted away like dew and he had his friend again. She taught him what she could, in the little time they had.

He scribbled idly in his book beneath the writings, the poems, and drawings of his imagination and dreams, all of them about his destiny. Sometimes he even took the bus to the nearby junkyard, filled with rusted metals and broken relics that he could piece back together, and he always scribbled down his designs and thoughts. The pen twisted violently on the thin lined paper, waning under the pressure and heavy ink.

“So...Michael was your name right?” the woman spoke. A tall and athletic woman, the complete opposite of Mallory and yet the two were related, and above all else close. Val wore her hair up in a messy styled bun, hair a dirty blonde and eyes a penetrating blue. She wore simple and bland colors, black pencil skirts and white blouses, a grey blazer or a trench coat depending on the weather. Her looks were sharp and strong instead of soft and delicate, and he could only guess she was the runt of the litter when it came to Mallory’s brown haired and hazel eyed family. The woman has been coming in for the past few days, the second week of Mallory’s stay, checking up on her niece and was disgruntled whenever she saw him around. She tried to put on a sweet smile, but she failed in that endeavor, her face was too dominant for that.

In truth, Michael actually liked her personality. Blunt and straightforward, no nonsense whatsoever. Could probably command an army if she wanted. He just didn't need her commanding an army against him, or staring at him like some strange insect newly discovered.

He nodded his head and she smiled one of her tight smiles in response.

“You two are friends correct?” she folded her arms, looming over him. He sat on the cushioned couch, where he had been talking to Mallory about spells and hidden covens hours before the woman arrived. Now Mallory was downstairs, checking out with her barely conscious mother. She’d been expecting her grandmother, and was just as surprised as he was when the blond haired woman popped up out of the blue.

He nodded again, clenching his jaw.

“Oh, how long have you two known each other?”

Michael pondered on whether he should nod again or speak. He chose the latter. “For years.”

“You have other friends?” she countered.

“She’s my only friend.”

She wanted to say more but before she could Mallory walked in, breathless. Val smiled at her niece. “The nurse is waiting downstairs with mom. I filled out the paperwork and everything.”

“Good. Are you ready to go, Mally?” Michael tried not to cringe at the nickname.

Mallory looked hesitant to respond, eyes flickering between him and Val. The woman didn't miss a beat.

“Michael, isn't today your check out day as well? Perhaps we can give you a ride home young man. Wouldn't that be nice, Mally? Maybe even invite him over for dinner.” she spoke, eyes sheening with a hidden intent. “You two are old friends, aren't you?”

Mallory smiled, oblivious to her aunt ’s sickly sweet words. “Yeah! I mean, if Michael’s cool with it.” she looked at him, almost pleadingly. And it was hard to say no, to refuse her anything with those deep magnetic pools of gold.

#my beginning and end started with you #millory #mallory x michael #chapter 2

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danithebookaholic-blog · 6 years

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SPOTLIGHT!

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Paralucidity

By Stephen H. Provost

Publication date: July 15th 2018 Genres: Fantasy, New Adult, Romance

Synopsis:

Somebody wanted Minerva Rus dead. They succeeded. But Minerva isn’t letting a little thing like death stop her.

After the dangerous adventure that killed her in Memortality, Minerva Rus has reconciled herself to being dead. She and her also-dead boyfriend Raven share an amazing gift that allows them to bring the dead back to life―including each other. Now that Jules, their most dangerous enemy, has been banished from reality and trapped inside her own mind, Minerva and Raven plan on enjoying the eternity of their unnatural lives.

But immortality isn’t safe. Minerva and Raven’s life-giving powers mysteriously fade, forcing them to take refuge in The Between, a shadowy realm of memories that lies between life and death. What’s more, their old adversary Jules is on the loose, partnered with a resurrected Nazi scientist planning a monstrous experiment that will change the destiny of the human race. And now it’s up to a 21-year-old dead girl to save the world―again.

Goodreads

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Excerpt:

Maybe Raven shouldn’t have been so confident. Sure, he could get them back to his parents’ home in the Between. No problem. What could go wrong?

Distraction was one thing that could go wrong—very wrong, as it turned out. As he focused his memory on his parents, he was reminded of a story his mother had read to him when he was young. His parents didn’t just read him normal bedtime stories; they read him detailed biographies, historical accounts, ancient myths. The goal wasn’t merely to entertain or send him off to sleep: They were ways to exercise his memory. His parents knew about his gift, and they needed it to stay alive, but they had also wanted him to know as much as he could about the world. “You’ll have an entire library inside your head!” his mother had once told him.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had been. But now it had caused his mind to wander at precisely the wrong time. His parents had once read him a series of stories that seemed, in the present moment, to have diverted him from his intended destination to … here.

Just like the first time he’d entered the Between, he found himself in a forest. But unlike the first visit, when the forest seemed to shift and shudder, this one seemed very much like a real place. The ground felt firm, the sky blocked the sun with a shield of gray clouds, and beside him stood an enormous oak tree spreading in all directions.

“Okay, what just happened?” Mineva asked.

Raven shook his head as he looked around, trying to get his bearings. “I’m not quite sure, Min.”

“Where are we?”

Raven didn’t answer because where he thought they were didn’t seem possible.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Minerva said. “You were right. I think coming here might have allowed us to save some of our strength.”

There was a rustling in the underbrush off to their right. Raven looked over in time to see a brown hare scurrying away. The hare appeared to have been startled by a rapid, rhythmic tapping from high up in a nearby birch: the sound of a woodpecker announcing its territory. A nuthatch in a nearby rowan tree abandoned its perch, as did a jay, which began chasing it for sport.

A moment later, there was another rustling nearby, and Raven realized it might not have been the woodpecker that had spooked the hare and the other birds. This rustling seemed farther away, but grew louder as something trampled on fallen leaves. The sound seemed to rip through the thick woods.

Raven and Minerva instinctively took a few steps backward, sheltering under the massive oak As they did, a twelve-point royal stag burst through a thicket off to their right, bounding past them in a rush of hooves and antlers. Raven found his back hugging the tree as he watched the animal fly past, turning his eyes again toward the place where it had emerged as he heard the sound of branches breaking. Something, or someone, was in pursuit.

An instant later, a small man wearing a dirty green cloak over a brown shirt emerged from the thicket. The horse he rode, an unremarkable light brown steed of average size, hadn’t been prepared for the sight of Minerva and Raven just a few steps off its intended course. It reared and nearly threw the man from its back, breaking off the chase. It danced nervously in a circle, backing away from the two strangers.

“Wearg rounsey!” the man said under his breath in a voice that, even in just those two words, they could tell was thickly accented. He dismounted hurriedly and stomped to the place where his hat had landed in the dirt. “Wearg haet!”

The man seemed scarcely to be paying attention to them. Raven took Minerva’s hand and started inching toward the other side of the tree. If they could get clear of his field of vision, they could perhaps go unnoticed. He obviously had a temper, and there was no use antagonizing him.

“What language is that?” Minerva asked, leaning in to whisper in Raven’s ear.

“English, I think. He said something that sounded like ‘hat,’ and ‘rounsey’ … I think that’s a kind of horse.”

The man walked up to the horse, which had calmed and stood minding its own business. He swatted at its hindquarters with the cap. The horse, taking offense, whinnied loudly and ran off.

Minerva continued her conversation with Raven mind to mind. Better not to draw any more attention than necessary. That’s not like any English I’ve ever heard. What does “wearg” mean?

Probably dammit, or maybe something worse.

“Incer! Astende!”

The man had turned and was staring straight at them, pointing with a drawn sword. He approached in a measured stride that was as ominous as it was methodical.

Minerva looked at Raven.

I have no idea. Either he wants us to stand where we are, or he thinks we’re astounding. Maybe both?

“No comprendo,” Minerva ventured.

That won’t work. He’s not speaking Spanish.

Well, it’s the only other language I know any words in. You got a better idea?

Raven had to admit he didn’t. What was bothering him was the fact that he’d obviously taken them someplace in the Between where he didn’t know the language. That meant this place somehow existed independently, at least to some degree. It was more a destination than a creation, which meant he had less control than he would have if they had landed in his own memory.

The man stopped a few paces away, looking them up and down. The anger seemed to have drained from his face as recognition dawned.

“By the beads of the blessed Mary, thou art one of those!”

Now he’s speaking like Shakespeare, Minerva offered.

Maybe he’s bilingual?

“I’d attempt no escape, were I thou. Anon, mine own men hast encircled this clearing.”

“We mean no harm,” Raven said, putting his hands down and opening his palms in front of him. “I don’t even know how we got here.”

“You got here by remembering, lad.” Now his language was closer to modern English, but still with the same thick accent. He stroked his scruffy chin. “I’d say … southwest side of the New World, about the nineteen-hundred and eightieth year of our lord.”

“Close,” Minerva said. “L.A. area, 2016.”

He put his cap back on without bothering to dust it. It was plain from his body odor that he’d gone without bathing for days. Or weeks.

“Can’t get ’em all right,” he shrugged. “The gifted and revived come here from all times. We try to make sense of their tongues when they land, and we do a fair job of it. Those of us who are gifted pick them up quickly enough.”

So, he’s gifted, Minerva commented.

Guess so. Looks like there are more of us than we thought.

The man turned and put two fingers to his lips, letting go a shrill whistle. Almost at once, three men emerged from the undergrowth. Two of them were shorter than Raven and Minerva, barely five and a half feet, but the third was a bear of a man who looked a full foot taller and significantly bigger around than either of his companions.

The man they’d been talking to, who appeared to be their leader, stepped toward Raven. “I believe introductions are in order,” he said, extending his hand to grip Raven’s. “I’ll begin with myself. Roger is the name, and these are my lands.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“Roger,” said Raven, more than a hint of skepticism in his voice. “I would have sworn your name would be …”

Minerva finished the sentence for him: “Robin Hood?”

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Purchase:

Amazon / B&N

Author Bio:

Stephen H. Provost is a veteran editor, reporter and columnists with more than 30 years of experience at daily newspapers in California. He’s currently the managing editor of The Cambrian on the Central Coast, as well as a columnist and assistant city editor for The Tribune in San Luis Obispo.

As an author, he has written historical nonfiction (“Fresno Growing Up” and “Highway 99: The History of California’s Main Street”), novels (“Memortality” and “Identity Break”), while also exploring the realms of mythology, fable and ancient history.

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From one bookaholic to another, I hope I’ve helped you find your next fix. —Dani

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