Jun 13
Happy Pride Month, have my main characters in their Pride Colors, go buy my book from SapphicSociety at the link above to get inside their heads :P
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Happy Pride Month, have my main characters in their Pride Colors, go buy my book from SapphicSociety at the link above to get inside their heads :P
This obnoxiously repeatative post brought to you by PRIDE MONTH! YES, PRIDE MONTH!
In case I hadn't mentioned lately, I am the pansexual transsexual menace.
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She had geared up almost entirely, staring at the hulking remains of a barn just off the road that would be her pyre in an hour’s time, when the true dread of what she was about to have to do hit her.
“I... I can’t do this...” she said, feeling her hands start to shake as she tried to draw on the heavy, fireproof gloves.
“Nonesense,” Oz chided, once again slapping her on the shoulder. “Of course you can, Ondine. You already have.” He sounded cheerful enough, but he knew intimately what she was hanging up on. He had expected it to be a problem. It was the problem he would have had.
It wasn’t Arthur.
“I meant watch him walk away with my baby again,” she said, eyes wide and unseeing as she stared at the structure in sheer terror.
“So did I,” he affirmed, gently. “You can do this, Ondine.”
She did.
She positioned herself in the hay loft, pulled herself to the very edges of perception, her very first and most powerful spell, and waited.
Her own screaming and pleading jolted through her like electricity, and it took all she had to let him complete his devil-sent mission and, yes, walk away carrying the screaming, kicking, reaching Erica.
In the end, though, the story played out as it had, and she found herself crashing to the ground as the hayloft gave way, and found that the act of saving herself required far less conscious thought than she would have believed.
The actions came as though she were working through a script – of course they did, she had thought through every instant of this moment thousands of times now, both sleeping and waking, voluntarily under counseling and involuntarily while screaming soundlessly into a pillow. Mind you, in those tortured memories she had been thinking them from the perspective of the charred, limp, yet somehow still living, body now in her arms as she walked out into the night.
When the lights of the ambulance hit them, Ondine released Mandy, and faded away into the treeline, securing her place in local legend as the Phantom Firefighter.
“Well?” asked Oz, as she emerged from the trees.
“Well, what?” she demanded, stripping out of her soot- and bloodstained gear and stuffing them into her Wet Duffle before getting anywhere near the pretty car. “I haven’t just vanished in a puff of smoke, have I, so I guess I must have been right.” Accepting the wet towel he handed her and wiping the sweat and fear from her scarred skin, Ondine leaned against the floral-patterned trunk and looked up at the sky, blackened by the smoke from her own cremation. “Take me home, Dad...”
He had. They had retraced the whole strange trip through the ominous portal, and then, he had driven her to her home, and they had ordered in the steak. He sat with her that night, let her talk out the endless thought-loops that accompanies a first timetravel experience, and then told her the next morning that Arthur had been taken prisoner by the Cascadians, and was possibly not coming back.
He had, of course, come back.
Erica was twelve when she revealed herself to him. The last doctor at the maternity clinic in the town he had relocated to had resigned abruptly, citing ‘inhospitable working environment’ and unrelenting protests by townspeople. When Ondine requested transfer there, her head of medicine looked at her as though she had a death wish, but wrote the glowing letter of recommendation. The clinic, of course, was glad to receive any doctor at all, let alone one who arrived on her first day in her Army Dress Greens and Specialist beret, to stand arms crossed in front of the gate and bar his entrance.
It was, of course, Arthur, who had been spending his Saturdays marching back and forth across the driveway waving signs with graphic pictures and angry slogans about god to block entrance to women who, while maybe seeking services to end unwanted pregnancies, were just as likely to be trying to make it to an appointment for a checkup on a fragile and very much wanted one. He had, of course, “brought his kids with him again!” as Lana had so frustratedly put it when she peeked through the blinds that morning to see the three blue-clad figures climbing out of the sedan across the street. Lana had offered to go scare him off, having dealt with him before, but Ondine had declined the help, and went out the door herself to stand in his way.
She confronted him using the only voice she knew he feared. “You need to go away, and you need to stay away.” It wasn’t hard to mimic Oz. For Ondine, it wasn’t hard to mimic anyone, really, to the point where she wasn’t sure what her voice actually was. For a very long time, she had sounded like Arthur.
It hadn’t been nice to use his voice when calling Mark about the barn, but it had simply happened.
She pulled every ounce of Oz she had absorbed in the years since reenlisting into her frame, setting her shoulders and jaw as square as she could and attempting to add bulk and weight to her presence.
“And, you especially need to never bring your wife and daughter here again unless it is for my care as a doctor. Is that clear, Cole?” The look on his face was worth the thousand nights of screaming nightmares she had endured since she had tried to take their daughter and leave him, that night on the Old Highway 95. “GO.”
Hildie had given her a smile and a thumb’s up from behind him, while Erica had stared, wide eyed and speechless, into her face. Arthur had frothed in impotent rage, but what power he had once held over Mandy did not hold sway over Ondine.
“YOU– ” he gasped out the accusation, face contorted into something subhuman. “BRIDE OF LUCIFER!”
– Ondine grasped hard to the wall on either side of the bathroom mirror she had just wiped down of condensation, gasping for breath, and staring into her own reflection, counting the places she had made her body her own. Shaved head, fuck what hair still grew. Nose ring, silver and ruby. Earrings, five up each ear. Pentagram branded into the skin under her left collar bone after the night of the Deus Ex Machina, blotting out the oval scar where the dogtags he had placed back around her neck before lighting the pyre had burned into her the night in the barnfire, permanent reminder that she would own her Wixenhood, come what may.
“Breathe, Ondine,” she reminded herself, speaking aloud to drown out the repetition of Arthur’s cursing. “He can’t touch you anymore. You are more than his wife.” And then, finally, finally, “Your baby is out of his hands. And he is about to die.”
*****************************************************
Read the rest of the story, available for free on my Substack!
Chapter 8
Chapter 8 of my new novel is out now, completely free-to-read on my Substack!
Do you like reading about young wizards but hate transphobes? Do you want to read a modern fantasy series full of vibrantly queer characters with old queer mentors who don't have to have their queerness shoehorned in later by Word-of-God? Do you want technology and magecraft existing in tandem? Do you think more fantasy series should include both weird magicians who can go invisible and jump rivers and extraterrestrials? Do you like troubled teens trying to form a familial bond against stacked odds and coming out the other side of a trial by fire having forged themselves together into a tool to change the world?
The Unified Central States, a war-torn and desperate nation in a state of perpetual conflict with her continental neighbors and under the supervision of an extraterrestrial power, needs a hero. Oscar Bronson and Erica Cole aren't that, and never wanted to be, but they'll try their best to make it out of the fight alive. For the conscripts of the Occult Defense Division's Youth Training Academy, this isn't a guarantee. The war they live may have begun well before their lifetime, but they have plans to outlive it – and to make sure as many of their comrades outlive it as possible, by any means necessary, up to and including treason and dealings with their nominal enemy.
Excerpt from Project Sapling: Chapter 7 which is available free-to-read on my Substack!
She had been just barely in time to drag me to my feet before the next round of automatic weapons fire unzipped the ground I had just been lying across, sending out yet more sprays of dust and stone shrapnel. She did not relinquish my hand, bolting into a dead sprint before I had time to register that I was also running, and tearing off over the next hilltop.
“Why don’t you just do the thing you just did?” I asked, between gasping breaths as we pelted over the hills.
She shook her head, and increased her speed somehow. “Can’t. Like you said – just did it. No reserves. Too big. Have to build back up.”
“Teach me how!” I had no idea if it was even something that I could learn – probably not. Just because it turned out that my training officer was a witch didn’t mean that I could ever–
“Absolutely not,” she snapped. “You’d splice us both into the first hill you tried with.” That was not what I expected to hear. “And probably break the planet while you did it. Now shut up and run!”
I did, and in the lee of the next valley a blessedly solid object presented itself to us in the form of a partially-ruined cinder-block building, long since grown through with grain and sunken into the hillside, now home to a family of long-legged, long-eared, beautifully golden... No, ignore the wings and beaks. Normal-ass hares.
MacKenzie pressed my back against the cool concrete of the shattered wall between a corner and a window through which the litter – clutch? – of sweet fluffy babies poked their little beaks inquiringly before turning and hopping away. One of them shook out stubby little wings before hopping down and away. At some point I would have to admit to myself how long I had been seeing them.
MacKenzie said – something? That sounded more like wind again than actual words, and pressed me backwards to the concrete once again as I felt the tendrils of wind pick at my hair and clothing. “Just hold still and pretend you aren’t here. And for gods’ sakes just try to be quiet for once.” She grabbed me by the hand, squeezing tight, pressing herself to the wall as well.
And then she faded away, blending seamlessly with the wall.
I almost asked what had just happened, but I found myself staring down at the place where our joined hands had faded into almost pure air. Alright. I was already well-practiced at pretending that I didn’t exist. It was a special skill.
The helicopter that had been pursuing us thumped harmlessly overhead and then circled back away to the north.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding, and MacKenzie floated back into the visible spectrum with a long hissing breath, pained grimace, and a hand held rigid and claw-like against her forehead. “Sssssssss..... Goddamn...” She held the palm of that hand to her forehead for a few seconds before pulling it away, blinking at the hand, eyes searching the palm of it as though inspecting for blood.
“What.” My question came out as a flat quack.
“Hush.”
“This is like the Folding thing, right? Is this how you just appeared on my roof?”
“I said hush, idiot. I’ll explain it later. Just... not right now. Right now I need you to be very quiet for a few minutes until I can see color again, alright?” She was still blinking erratically, and a moment later slid down the wall to sit in the grain at its base, placing her head in both hands.
I took off my pack and sat next to her, plucking anxiously at the seedheads around me, but heeded her order for silence. If the pounding in my head was anything to go by, she really had been looking for bloodstains on her hands.
Sunrise over the Palouse
Free art piece, supplemental to my free novel, in illustration of the penultimate scene from yesterday's chapter.
Chapter 4
Do you like reading about young wizards but hate transphobes? Do you want to read a modern fantasy series full of vibrantly queer characters with old queer mentors who don't have to have their queerness shoehorned in later by Word-of-God? Do you want technology and magecraft existing in tandem? Do you think more fantasy series should include both weird magicians who can come back from the dead and extraterrestrials? Do you like troubled teens trying to form a familial bond against stacked odds and coming out the other side of a trial by fire having forged themselves together into a tool to change the world?
The Unified Central States, a war-torn and desperate nation in a state of perpetual conflict with her continental neighbors and under the supervision of an extraterrestrial power, needs a hero. Oscar Bronson and Erica Cole aren't that, and never wanted to be, but they'll try their best to make it out of the fight alive. For the conscripts of the Occult Defense Division's Youth Training Academy, this isn't a guarantee. The war they live may have begun well before their lifetime, but they have plans to outlive it -- and to make sure as many of their comrades outlive it as possible, by any means necessary, up to and including treason and dealings with their nominal enemy.
Chapter 4 begins the second part of my new serialized science-fantasy novel, introducing two new voices to the page and tightening the focus of the interfamilial struggles of the Bronson and Cole families to the microcosm of two troubled teens as the story -- and the 23rd century -- progresses!
Welcome to the Punchline
“Well, Agent MacKenzie, I've just gotten off the horn with your old Director, and you're mine, now! Welcome aboard. Heh.” I didn't bother to hide the satisfied grin of a small victory, but Agent MacKenzie did not handle the news with grace.
“What? But I'm on the team tracking–” his panic at being taken off what was, I had learned, his first assignment in the field, was palpable.
“That's part of what I've just been talking with your boss about, lad. You were the last set of eyes on your target, and the trail is cold. You said he vanished into thin air, and as far as your team currently scouring the area can tell, you are entirely correct. There's no body, no trace of a footprint past where we found you, nothing, kid. Well done.” I held up one hand to command his attention and stop his panicked protesting. “I have been given permission to brief you on the true nature of the man you are pursuing, and to take you back to the Academy to enroll you into the Specialist Preparatory Occult Training programme, Takeshi! Hehehe...” The look on MacKenzie's face on the word 'occult' was enough to warm my cold dead heart. “You've just spent the last six months chasing an old son of a bitch warlock, and now you are going to actually have a chance of catching him if you can find him again.”
The poor boy must have thought I was mocking him. “A what? What? What are you on about?” He looked downright offended, like I had just called him a nasty name or insulted his intelligence. He shook his head, and addressed the insult I had actually caused before getting back on track. “I go by Will, by the way. You have no idea how badly butchered my given name has been by my fifth-grade class. Now, a what now?”
“Warlock.” I examined my fingernails, frowning at them with bared teeth as the unpleasant memories stirred. “Your man was one of us, until he went off his morals and started terrorizing civilians. Not that he wasn't an utter asshole the whole time, mind you...” I looked at the face before me, still giving me a look like I was winding up a long joke with him as the butt. “And, I'm sorry, Will, then. I can imagine that was an unpleasant year.” The various ways that an adolescent boy could twist the clearly foreign name of Takeshi into unpleasant things crawled across my mind, and I shook my head once more to clear those away.
I sighed, took a moment to organize my words before speaking. It had become quicker, over the years, but was still a task that required doing. What on earth is Winston doing putting Uninitiated Agents on the case to track down Jon Deveroux? He's a first rate wizard with a mean streak. You're going to need all the help I can give you if you're going to live through this...
“You saw what you think you saw, son. I won't lie to you. I believe you. I know the man. I know how he did it. He taught me how, and now I have the chance to teach you how to catch him.” Another frustrated sigh punctuated my speech.
MacKenzie was still glaring at me. “Specialist Preparatory Occult Training?”
“Yes, kid. Welcome to the Occult Defense Division. How are your ribs doing, by the way?” I smirked, knowing beforehand what the answer would be.
“What? Ah...” MacKenzie was caught off guard, his alarm rising to the surface once again at being asked to pay attention to the fact that he had been told he had a cracked rib, and felt the rib snap, but the pain of the injury had rapidly subsided. “Um... Much better, actually... Thank you... Hm... Your driver said he thought I cracked one, but he was just guessing.” His eyes were wide with attempting to process what the last hour of his life had held. “My arm still hurts like a bomb, but my ribs are just fine...”
“Felix and Arthur are some of my finest Medicmages,” I told him, flatly, shrugging. “If Felix says you cracked a rib, you cracked a rib. He also decided to stabilize the rib and get it healing before removing you from our canopy, which was probably good.” I regarded the still-disbelieving MacKenzie with a frown of my own. “I'd still take it easy for a while, if I were you.”
“Medicmage? Are you making fun of me, Captain Roe? I really don't appreciate being taunted by a jumped up infantryman with a bad sense of humor,” he spat, now glaring coldly at me.
“Easy lad.” I rubbed at the plate in my skull again, grimacing as the boy jostled himself in his seat, obvious jolts of pain hitting him when he moved his right arm. Welcome to the Deveroux Broke my Bones Club. We meet Saturdays. “Don't strain your ribs – this is no joke. My boys are good, but humans have their limits. You need to remember that in the future.”
“But the Occult Defense Division is a bad joke? What? You... are joking, sir?” He waited for me to confirm that I was playing a prank on him. “WHAT?”
“HAH.” He would come to know the Bark of Approval soon. “Welcome to the punchline, kid. Joke's on everyone else.” With a snap of the fingers, I pulled a spark of violet flame out of the air, holding it between my thumb and forefinger, and passing it before MacKenzie's startled face several times before opening my hand and letting it vanish, proving the emptiness of my open palm. “Now, still insist this is all a bad joke? I'm not laughing at you.” I grinned at his astonished look, easy and reassuring.
He hesitated, still gaping in disbelief, and then spoke. “I... I almost made that jump, sir.”
[Read the rest currently releasing for free on my Substack, publishing regularly.]
Chapter 1