Through Murderville (TPP Excerpt)

“Do you have a name?” She asked slowly, blowing air through pursed painted lips.

“Tegan Labelle is the-” I stopped talking because the flow of air out the Pixie’s lips expanded and then ceased. She straightened the utility belt concealed beneath her rainbow skirt and moved close enough I could smell her familiar perfume. She looked so small up close.

“Tegan Labelle is one of the worst sex-offenders in town,” the Pixie whispered tensely, “she runs a rape house out of the west end but I’ve never tracked down her headquarters. Are you saying you found-”

“Her home,” I nodded, “so far as I could tell she lives there with some guys for security. Guys I recognized from the shooting at the square.”

The Pixie took two steps away from me with the poise of a ballerina and then turned batted long lashes behind painted lids.

“How many guards?” She asked.

“Three, at the most,” I replied, “maybe as little as one. I chased two guys I recognized from the shoting there after an… incident.”

She glowered but smoothed her gloves and uniform, obviously thinking hard.

“You have a way in?” She asked?”

“I should be able to crack the lock, I brought a bump key.” I showed her the mostly smooth fresh key and file I’d already used to give it a few shallow ridges. I’d gotten a good look at the front door’s lock on my walk-by and done a little research on the lock’s generic make.

“Good,” she said, smiling approvingly and leading me to the arena’s east wall where the reinforced drainpipe stood, nearly invisible in the darkening night. “I’ll follow you from cover, you lead me to Labelle’s house. And try not to start any fights,” she added admonishingly as I swung over the building’s edge.

Following the same path Woody Mcrgroe had led me on for a few blocks, I turned toward the river early between two ramshackle buildings. I heard the odd scamper from above, the kind of sound I might usually attribute to a squirrel, but knew it was the Pixie in close pursuit.

I walked down the alley between the two brick flophouses, avoiding variously stinky and messy porches extending from the buildings’ side units. My crocs squished or stuck occasionally, but as I exited the narrow space my navy cargo shorts and a loose black t-shirt fluttered in the breeze. The humidity in the air had my hair curling more than usual, or maybe it was just anticipation. I threaded my way between cars in the barking lot behind the strip.

As I stepped onto the footbridge a strangely disguised female voice hailed me from below.

“Who dare cross over my bridge?” The Pixie demanded in her best troll imitation.

~*~

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Atop the Arena Again (TPP Excerpt)

Hello readers, a big thanks to everyone who has liked The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. As I’m nearing the end of the novella excerpts will become shorter and scarcer, so to keep interest going I’ll be running some contests for free books or collaborative opportunities through the facebook page in weeks to come. If you’re a fan of the Pixie, check it out!

And now…

~*~

I resisted the urge to smoke through the pack of cigarettes the Pixie had left in her dozens of purses strewn across the arena’s roof. The soldier girl had never showed again at the gym, and after waiting half an hour on the arena I began to worry I’d come too close to discovering her identity, and she decided to avoid me. Or perhaps her unit had just shipped out. My mind raced in circles until a familiar voice hailed me.

“You look more concerned than a housewife who’s lost her pies,” The Pixie joked as she clambered over the arena wall. She seemed a bit slower than usual, but most likely she had just given up on being so showy all the time. Parlor tricks are only impressive twice at most.

“You on the other hand,” “I replied sternly, “are late.” We faced off on the rooftop, me in my green crocs and khakis shorts and an army-green polo, her in her usual costume of purple, pink, and rainbow. She planted tiny pink fists on her hips.

“How do you know I wasn’t working on our adventure?” She asked over her shoulder as she strode gallantly about the rooftop swishing her cloak back and forth.

“Because I’ve already decided on our adventure.”

She stopped and turned slowly to face me. Nothing moved except the breeze stirring her cloak and the feathers atop her mask.

“What adventure is that?” She asked sharply.

“I know where,” I said, taking a slow step forward, “and I know who. And I know how.” I took another step. “We can take down the crew that shot up the cops after my… incident at market square.”

“Do you have a name?”

Sequel to last Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt!

Thanks for your patience readers, I’ve had a lot of freelance work and other commitments commanding my time… but I’ve kept on schedule, and tonight’s excerpt will be short and sweet. If you haven’t read the prequel to this excerpt you can find it here.

~*~

I crossed the old parking lot on slightly shaky legs and beeped my chevy open with the FOB and ducked into the driver’s seat and dumped my bag in the passenger footwell. I fiddled for my water bottle as I got the engine going and drained the last of it and then dropped it atop the backpack. I pulled my phone out of the bag and pulled up my frequent contacts and called an order in to my favorite local eatery. After several swiftly exchanged sentences I put the blue sedan in gear and three-point turned out of the parking lot.

The streets were quiet, more pedestrians on foot than people in cars on such a nice night uptown. I drove a short distance north with the windows down, enjoying what passed for fresh air and the freedom of a functional vehicle. As I neared a traffic light I ticked my left signal on and changed lanes and turned early into the lot outside the only restaurant I frequented uptown.

The beat up old chevy chugged on worn rockers and grated horridly as the brake pads ground down. The long, low sedan shuddered to a halt in the last available slot outside the Grassfed Burger. Of course it would be busy. I shouldered the door open and swung my feet onto freshly swept pavement. A shiver swept up my spine as I stood straight and slammed the door. With any luck the line would be clear when I walked in, and my order ready, and I could be back in the shoddy if warm chevy and on my way home. Unless you cut little brunette was working. Then maybe I would sit and pick at my house-made fries and chat her up again.

I crossed the lot and pulled open the heavy glass door and found that the line was clear, and the cute brunette was on cash… but I couldn’t see a single free table. I sidled up to the counter and gave the cashier my best smile and told her my pickup number. She already had it ready for me because she knew my order – a grassfed beef patty on a gluten free bun, lots of veggies, no cheese, a little ketchup, a little mayo and mustard. I’d ordered it with fries and a fresh bottle of water and accepted the large brown paper bag and bottle while I dug in my pockets for cash.

“How’s school going?” I asked, knowing she was studying Architectural Engineering at the local University from previous conversations we’d had. I always went for the smart ones.
“Great!” She exclaimed, playing her role as cashier/server with her usual energy. “There’s so much work but I’m in the top fifteen percent and I love what I’m learning about. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I replied, paying her with bills and leaning on the counter while she made change, “just came from the gym, figured I could use the protein.”

“Oh nice!” She said, brown eyes sweeping the eatery for signs of arriving or leaving customers. “Where do you work out?”

I told her and bit my lip at the way her pupils dilated. Even some smart women like fighters. It must be and evolutionary thing.

“I used to kickbox,” she told me, leaning forward over the counter and drawing me in with deep brown eyes, “before I got so busy with school and work and-”

The chimes above the door jangled as a family of four entered and the cut brunette sprang upright, welcoming them to the Grassfed Burger. I whispered a goodbye and left while my food was still warm.

~*~

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Quick Update on The Pixie and Murderville

Greetings friends, my writing on The Pixie’s Paramour continues at a steady pace and I’m confident I’ll have it available for purchase on paperback and e-book by early July at the latest. I’m more than 75% through the writing process but I don’t want to underestimate the time it may take to pick a publishing medium and edit everything to my own satisfaction. Luckily I’ve already got a few advance readers in mind who will help me make sure the final product is as professional as possible. I’ve also found a graphic artist to work with and should have some awesome original pictures to post over the upcoming months.

For anyone new to my blog, The Pixie’s Paramour is a violent thriller novel that brings themes of romance, mystery, and vigilante justice into a short exciting book packed with action. You can find lots of excerpts from it as well as more information on Murderville, the city the story is set in, by clicking on ‘The Pixie’s Paramour’ category tab in the bar on the side of the screen.

I’ve already finished planning the remaining chapters of The Pixie’s Paramour and am beginning a basic construction of the plot and new characters coming up in its sequel, which will be Book II in the Murderville series. However if the first book is a big flop I might re-focus my energy away from the series. I’m starting to get as much momentum as I can behind Murderville now so if you’ve enjoyed the recent excerpts please show your support by taking a minute or two to Like the Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. There will be contests and a lot of fun stuff going on there so it’s worth your while!

Thank you for reading and showing your support!

New Location, Fresh Faces (Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt)

Stepping onto the mats felt like home, and I leaned forward as if to kiss the ground and rolled over my right shoulder, and then my left, and again and again in a continuous tumble that rolled me almost all the way around the outside of the mats. I sat still for a moment, shaking my head and flexing my shoulders and then reversed my momentum and rolled backwards along the same path, over my right shoulder then my left. By the time I found my original position I felt loose and limber and put my palms on the mat and pressed into a turtle stand with my feet raised and flexed to form a triangle. I took several deep breaths and then pressed into a full handstand and tucked my head and rolled to my feet to find myself staring at the owner of the pink runners I’d noticed coming in.

She’d been sitting in the middle of the mats stretching the whole time, and though I’d noticed her presence I hadn’t really looked. She had short auburn hair – a clear military cut – and a slender bone structure covered by the kind of lean muscle every soldier builds in boot camp. She wore navy trunks and a short-sleeved army green rashguard so any doubts I had about her connection to the local military base rapidly diminished.

“Hey,” I said, sitting straddled in front of her and leaning forward to stretch my back and hamstrings, “you new around here?”

“My unit shipped in a few months ago. Shipping out late September.” She smiled down at me, green eyes twinkling. “I was about to ask you the same question. I’ve been here almost every day for the past two months.”

“I was out with a sprained ankle,” I said, “and then I banged it up just as it was getting better.” I indicated the last yellowy green remnants of the large bruise on my shin. She nodded, leaning over for a better look in a deep side stretch.

“What’s your unit?” I asked, making conversation as I brought my feet together for the butterfly stretch, leaning forward to stretch my groin.

“Rangers, Special Operations,” she grinned, “if I told you where I’m shipping out to next month, I’d have to kill you.” I laughed. She did not, but the grin and sparkling eyes stayed focused on me.

“Well then don’t tell me ’till after my workout.” I quipped, and then she did laugh, long and musically and falling on her back.

“That’s the best answer I’ve ever gotten,” she said, still rolling about in mirth, “and I say that to a lot of guys.”

We chatted about combat sports while we finished stretching, and then I tucked my legs into my chest.

“Wanna roll?” I asked. I wasn’t asking her out or inviting her to somersault. Rolling is the most common term grapplers use for sparring.

“Sure,” she said, sounding surprised. A lot of guys aren’t comfortable rolling around with women on the mats. Personally, I prefer it.

She got up on her knees and I stayed sitting with my legs in front of me. We slapped palms and butted fists and then she attacked like a muzzled wolfhound.

The soldier shoved both my shoulders to get me rolling back and then grabbed my legs, trying to underpass my guard. I rolled all the way through the shove, backward over my left shoulder, freeing my legs and snaring one of her ankles at the same time. She fell backwards and recovered to her knees in the same instant, and we found ourselves back where we had begun.

“You’re good,” she said, and in the instant I might have responded grabbed my head with both arms, cinching her grip toward my neck for a quick choke. I tucked my shin and drove my shoulder into her abdomen and picked her up like a wrestler as I came to my knees and stood. She rained light punches down on my back and wriggled like a fish on a line.

“Hey, I thought we were grappling.” I laughed, spinning around as if to deliver some helicopter WWE finisher.

“I thought we were fighting,” she growled in my ear. I made as if to slam her and she squeaked as I set her down gently and flowed into a dominant position. With my body perpendicular to hers and my chest pinning hers and my left arm hooked deep under her right shoulder, she had little chance of escape. As she shrimped and scooted I devoted my attention to isolating her right arm in an americana keylock. When she defended with her left I hooked her elbow and stepped over her head and leaned back to finish with the armbar. She tapped quickly and laughed – no ego to bruise.

“Nice one,” she said as we reset and slapped palms and butted fists and went again.

~*~

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Meet the Pixie Herself

The Pixie pushed past a loose horizontal grate and slithered like a sea otter into the murky waters of Murder River. She swam beneath thick algae and dispersed trash, invisible to any passerby who might glance down from the bridge above. Her oxygen supply tasted tinny but it was plentiful and she swam strongly for the far shore, letting the current pull in her favor.

Her neoprene and vulcanized-rubber encased hands grasped the rocks near the shore first, and then her feet found toeholds. With the current ushering her out to the bay she felt like a climber perched on a vertical cliff. Her mask slipped above the surface in the shade of a large pine.

The harbor’s long strip of land jutting out into the bay was one of the few places in Murderville old trees still survived. The waterfront further away from the Pixie’s position had even more foliage, but no covert access to the streets. Long docks jutted like a jack o’ lantern’s teeth from the far shore where a dozen or more sailboats still moored. The Yacht Club was the last bastion of the upper class within walking distance of the downtown core.

She stepped ashore and stripped out of her drysuit, hanging it across one of the pine’s higher branches. The Pixie unfurled her cape and pulled her mask from beneath her skintight purple shirt. She breathed in and put the mask on, and then breathed out and became a shadow.

The shadow moved from the shade of one pine to the next, never unveiling herself to the overcast day for more than a second. She sprinted past the old shambledown outbuilding that marked the end of Yacht Club parking and rolled beneath the bushes lining their barbed-wire topped fence. She crawled on knees and elbows beneath the neatly trimmed hedges, keeping her cloak wrapped tight. The fence ended at a short cliff overlooking shallow waters.

The Pixie scanned the area behind her and then peeked up over the hedges. Nothing moved except a bag blowing in the wind, caught in a tornado caused by the angle of a city maintenance building.

She took a running start and leaped out over the cliff feet first. The bare tips of her gloved fingers jutted painfully into the gap between the last of the fence’s poles and its metal mesh. She swung in a skillful arc around the fence and rolled down a strip of grass to put her back against the maintenance building. She followed the gaps in its security cameras like a well-marked trail and scooted safely across main street and into a darkened alley. She progressed like a doe alone in a meadow, on tip-toe with ears honed and eyes on the swivel. No one barred her path until she made it up to the boarded-up old pizza place. She tried to remember the smell of their freshly baked crust and secret house sauce coming out of the oven, but the overpowering stench of urine and mildew kept her locked in the present.

Meet Mrs. Swinway (Pixie Excerpt)

No zen garden is gonna’ move this mood, Boris snorted as he twisted the front doorknob and entered his small mudroom. The chief was up his ass about the shootings and literal pile of missing persons reports, and damn it… Boris always asked her to keep the doors locked. Even in the county across the bay bridge from Murderville, home invasion was woefully high. Boris unlaced his boots and left them on the tray and pushed through the inner door that led to their wide kitchen. He dropped his keys on the island that dominated the room and took off his coat and dumped it on one of the polished teak-backed stools and opened the fridge and twisted the top off a cold beer. He took the first blessed sip as he closed the fridge door and saw his wife coming in from the living room.

She was a slight woman wearing long blonde hair that hung artfully across her royal blue evening gown. Her deep brown eyes opened up to Swinway and made him feel safe in a way that almost made him uncomfortable. He had put something clever about that in his vows, something the more literary types at the station had helped him come up with. She strode around the kitchen island, high heels clicking and blue dress swishing, and put her arms around him and kissed him like it was their last day on earth. Fuck the beer, Swinway thought, leaving it on the island and embracing her so forcefully her heels left the clean tiled floor.

They broke apart after several seconds, or maybe minutes, and he set her back down gently. She wobbled a little on her heels and punched him playfully.

“How was your day sweetie?” She asked, picking up the beer and pressing it back into his palm. His hands dwarfed hers. She was fine boned perfection, the kind of woman he’d never even touched before he met her. “There’s dinner in the fridge if you’re hungry. I made you lasagna.” She leaned in and whispered the last word in his ear like a spell, and it might as well have been one. If the woman wanted Boris to quit getting all his calories from beer, she’d chosen the right treatment.

“How did I ever get lucky enough to marry a woman like you?” He asked, touching his bottle to the section of back her dress left bare to make her squeal.

“You say that every day,” she smiled, brown eyes sparkling.

“Not every day,” he asserted, “only when you remind me. I’m going to microwave a plate of that-” he kissed her “-lasagna. Can I fix you anything?” He always asked.

“No thank you dear,” She always said. “I’m going to lay down, I have a headache from my meetings today.” She reached up and massaged angelic temples with fingers forged from ivory. “I might join you for a drink later though.” She said, lingering a moment in the doorway.

Mrs. Swinway walked down the hall to her bedroom as Boris rummaged in the fridge. She closed the door behind her and paced to the Styrofoam head that faced her dressing table and mirror. Slowly and graciously she pulled the blonde wig off and set it carefully on the Styrofoam head. She ran her fingers through the short dark hair that had regrown since her last chemo treatment and massaged her scalp. A quick lay down would do her a world of good.

Meet Det. Swinway I (Pixie Excerpt)

I thought we’d spend the next few excerpts getting to know Detective Boris Swinway a little better. For anyone following on WordPress, I would super appreciate your support in the form of liking The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page . You’re the greatest!

~*~

The bells above the Cafe Doux’s threshold jangled erratically as Swinway let the heavy glass door fall shut behind him. He half grinned-half grimaced at a handful of off-duty cops he knew. They lounged in easy chairs with steaming mugs on saucers in their laps or sat in groups at the short shiny-topped tables. It was a regular police hangout particularly during the day, and the one café in town where Boris knew the staff wouldn’t annoy him. They knew what he liked, generally speaking: quick service and limited conversation.

Boris waited in line until the barrista’s flashy smile and ornately piled blonde hair were right in front of him. He ordered a Redeye and watched the young woman fill a large ceramic mug with Ethiopian Dark Roast, leaving room to add a shot of fresh Espresso at the end. Something close to a genuine smile twitched Swinway’s lips as he exchanged a folded bill for the mug and tossed his change in the tip jar. A Redeye had all the rich flavor of his favorite dark-roast combined with more caffeine than any single cup of coffee could offer.

Just what the doctor – or in this case, his stomach – ordered.

Swinway sidled to his favorite easy chair at the back and settled into it. He picked up one of the local rags and took another sip of coffee, glancing down the length of the cafe covertly. No one was looking at him. He stood up and took the coffee and the paper and ducked through the open doorway that led to the restroom.

Inside the Sweetcafe’s mensroom was Swinway’s slice of heaven on the job. The coffee went on the homely ceramic sink’ flat top, the door stayed locked, and he sat on the john and unfolded the paper on his lap.

The rag was suitably called the Daily Journal because most of the stories in it seemed like they’d been scrawled in a sixteen year old girl’s diary. Swinway groaned, wishing he had grabbed something better. The Journal would do though.

The front page had an old stock photo of the Pixie dodging bullets – literally dodging them. Swinway had been there. Few good photos of the masked menace had been published since. It had seemed like a perfect storm… Swinway and his last partner and a whole team in riot gear had a good tip on a big drug deal, and got there just in time to bust both parties. The dealer’s had some heavy artillery and the damned Pixie had shown up in the middle of it and danced through their line of fire and disabled the punks with the automatic weapons. The story in the rag extolled the Pixie as a hero, but Swinway disagreed. He’d lost a good partner that night. Sighing, Swinway read the story.

In a shootout that took place outside local Bar & Grill Emira’s police faced off against members of the Feratria Cartel. Two officers were killed alongside several gang members, and were it not for the appearance of the Pixie the lives of more police officers might have been lost. According to witnesses the feather-masked vigilante appeared in a cloud of sparkles and–

Boris shook his head flipped a few pages and found a piece by the same reporter about a “knife assault” at the same tavern, Emira’s. He remembered that call coming in, but no one got killed or even seriously injured. Some drunk had pulled a knife, and some kind soul had put him down and took some minor defensive wounds in the process. Not the sort of the thing that came as high as his desk, but again the article glorified the “unknown protector” who had saved the night. Swinway smirked. There was always at least a half dozen big men ready to brawl at the City Tavern. They were lucky the drunk didn’t get in a good stab, and the drunk was lucky they didn’t beat him to death. Of course the reporter made it seem like the Feratrias must have connections at Emira’s. They did not.

The mug still felt hot as he palmed the off-white ceramic and lifted it down for a life-saving sip. Whoever discovered coffee was Swinway’s patron saint. Besides, hadn’t the introduction of coffee corresponded with sudden performance improvements in the military? He might have read that somewhere.

Sequel to Yesterday’s Excerpt from the Pixie’s Paramour

I’m really liking this theme, and while I also like talking to my readers, I’m feeling like it’s good to get right to the gravy when posting excerpts. And in that vein, enjoy.

~*~

We crossed the parking lot with the stone and iron lamp posts and scarce cars that separated the back of the strip from the river. As we approached the footbridge I spotted the group of men in hoodies and old sports jackets. Five of them, all within fifteen pounds of each other. The biggest was about my size, the smallest still much larger than Woody. The silvered man at my side seemed loose and confident.

“Evening, gentleman,” I said as we walked up the concrete ramp to the steel-railed bridge. It was about wide enough for two people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder and they were all crowded around the ends of the railings. The biggest guy stepped out to block our path. I guess they picked their leader caveman style.

“You two crossin’ the bridge?” The leader asked. He was actually an inch or two shorter than me, just standing higher on the ramp. Up close he looked shriveled and lean like the rest of his gang, bred down to bone and sinew by a hard life and a diet of coffee, cigarettes, and beer.

“We’re walkin’ that way.” I said as Woody and I stopped just short of the leader. He was in front of his buddies a bit so they made a rough triangle, like the Flying V in the Mighty Ducks movies. But I wasn’t looking for a puck.

“Then you’ll be happy to pay the toll,” the leader laughed, spreading his arms and smiling back. My own grin froze.

“Of course, friend,” I said, pulling Woody’s twenty from my pocket and offering it with a flourish, “thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.”

As soon as he touched the twenty I released it and grabbed the back of his neck and stuffed my elbow in his throat as hard as I could. I stepped forward and shoved his head backward with a twisting motion and sent him sprawling into two of his friends who made feeble efforts to catch him.

I glanced over to see the other two guys rushing Woody. Their hoods had come down and I recognized them in the lamplight – I’d last seen their faces as they pulled off their masks next to Tegan after the shootout at market square.

Woody shifted his stance slightly as they neared to put one ahead of the other and then raised and lowered his hands in a fluid motion and thrust both palms out to strike the first man in the chest. The blow carried such force that the lean young man stumbled back into his buddy and the two took off down the bridge. One of the guy’s who had caught the leader moved toward me so I sidekicked his kneecap and backhanded him in the jaw. Then he became all about helping his buddy, or maybe just laying on the ground next to him. I didn’t see where the last guy went.

“That was incredible,” Woody whispered as if in a trance.

“Woody,” I whispered back, “we’ve got to get out of here. You go back to your car and drive home. I’ll take the streets back to my place. Better if we split up. And I figure I don’t need to say it but-”

“This never happened.” Woody McGroe said with a twinkle in his eye, and smoothed his silver beard. Then he patted my shoulder and power walked back the way we had come.

“Don’t forget to grab your jacket,” I called after him as I pocketed the twenty dollar bill that had started the whole mess.

I took a moment to roll the two guys still on the ground into the recovery position. They seemed more or less alive but they’d been two of the older ones and I sort of felt bad. My elbow to the first guy’s windpipe floored him and his breathing was ragged. The other had a glass jaw and probably lots of previous concussions, by the way he went out. And I think I heard a crack when I kicked his leg.

Ah well. Hospitalization and rehabilitation could only do good things for them.

Glancing around and seeing only stillness, I took off over the bridge and into Murderville’s west end. The shooters from market square only had a lead of a minute or two at most. And I had a good feeling where they might lead me.

Excerpt from The Pixie’s Paramour introducing a New Character!

I walked the streets of downtown Murderville, restless and unsure if I was looking for trouble. I’d worn my sturdy leather shoes.

A car horn hailed me, and the unfamiliar vehicle turned the next corner and pulled over as I whirled around. The driver’s door of the tiny fuel-efficient coupe flew open and out into the lamplight sprang Woody McGroe. A short spry man of seventy with enough energy to fill three toddlers, he closed the door and beeped the locks shut on his FOB and pocketed the keys in his tan overcoat. He hailed me by name and strode across the intersection at an angle, stopping traffic with raised hands and a wrinkled grin. The headlights lit up his short gray hair and beard and his dark slacks swished as he stepped onto the sidewalk next to me. He also wore sturdy shoes.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” he said, which surprised me. Last I heard he’d run a great campaign for mayor and lost by a narrow margin. He’d certainly had my vote, and those of most people I knew. If he’d been elected he’d probably be in office right now.

“Always good to see you, Woody,” I said, displaying my teeth in the best smile I could manage at the moment. “What did you want to talk about?”

Woody glanced up and down the street and motioned for me to walk with him away from the only other man visible, a harmless workman trudging in the opposite direction.

“You remember the self defense concepts we discussed?” He asked nervously, eyeing a noisy pub as we passed by. Woody practiced Tai Chi and his daughter was a highly ranked instructor in several martial arts. She had a business in a better place. Woody and I had initially met when I transcribed some video footage of him and his daughter teaching a seminar on the applications of Tai Chi for self defense. I’d offered my two cents and we’d ended up sitting down over coffee and becoming friends. We certainly hadn’t spoken in some time.

“Of course,” I said, “it’s like riding a bike, only much more instinctive.” I laughed slapped one of downtown’s cheap painted lamp posts hard enough to make it rattle.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something related to that,” Woody explained, gesturing at a wide breach in the buildings that led to the river. “Let’s talk here, he added.”

“Go ahead,” I said as I stopped next to him in the open space. I stood almost a head taller than the elderly gentleman. “You can trust me, Woody.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said, sounding more like he meant very accurate anecdotes from friends, “about a group of men bothering people.”

The furnace in my gut that never fully faded ignited and I felt adrenaline seep into my veins on a slow drip.

“Well, I’m a good person to talk to about this sort of thing,” I said carefully, and then “where?” as casually as I could.

“At the footbridge,” he said a little guiltily, pointing over his shoulder. The narrow steel-railed bridge in question was less than three hundred meters from the spot he’d “inadvertently” led me. “Four or five men it seems, some younger, some older. They make people pay a toll or they won’t let them cross.”

Trolls. I envisioned casting them all in the water with broken limbs or necks. And then I breathed.

“You think they’d be there now?” I asked. Two clumps of dense foliage and other garden shrubberies still grew around the mouth of the bridge, because the city still maintained them. Because churchgoers and senior citizens and fucking children used that bridge. I felt my fingernails gouge my palms and unclenched my hands.

“I’m fairly certain.” Woody said. The word fairly might as well not have existed.

“I’m glad you told me about this,” I said, and turned toward the footbridge.

~*~

If you enjoyed this excerpt from the The Pixie’s Paramour you can read the first four chapters HERE!

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