Amaretto Sour

maderr @ 2009-07-13T23:07:00

2009-07-14T03:07:52Z

Finally found plain banana ice cream, and it tastes more like someone used too much vanilla extract. Sadface.

Did stupid boring money crap this evening, then finally got to write. Wrote a doofy ten page cutesy fluffy nonsense piece. Not sure what I'll do with it yet, hmm.

Bed now.

maderr @ 2009-07-12T13:07:00

2009-07-12T17:07:36Z

Bought the next book in the Rogue Agent series by K.E. Mills. Totally loved The Accidental Sorcerer, and now finally have Witches Incorporated. Want to read it like burning, but am trying to resist and write, write, write. My life, as you can tell, is full of woe.

argh

2009-07-11T20:20:12Z

This idea was supposed to be a longish short story, fairly simple and not more than a few days' work.

Instead, it's getting complicated and intricate and politics-ridden and I am really tired and would like a nap but there's too much information in my head that must come out and get smoothed out and argh why can my brain never keep shit simple?

maderr @ 2009-07-11T11:51:00

2009-07-11T15:52:03Z

Goo Goo Dolls were awesome <<333

Oddly enough, I was not the biggest fangirl there. Behind us was a frat boy who totally would have done whatever Johnny told him, up to and including lewd acts. It was kind of extremely hilarious.

Fall down dead now (I think my roomies already have).

ebook recs

2009-07-10T01:49:02Z

Someone asked, so I am slowly compiling a list. I'll add to it here and there, as I have time and remember everything I've read - which is a hell of a lot ^^;; Without blurbs, sorry. The reviews I've done can probably all be found under the 'books' tag, or you can ask.

The two bolded are my absolute, hands-down favorites. I re-read them all the time. They make me happy.

My favorites:

Faith and Fidelity by Tere Michaels
Brindisi Bedfellows by Jamie Craig
Devil's Fire by Sarah Bell
Wes & Toren by J.M. Colail
Dark Lord Seeks Friendship by Elisa Viperas (I can't find a link for this one, argh)

Some other good ones:
Caught Running by Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Cut & Run by Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Mexican Heat by Josh Lanyon & Laura Baumbach
With Caution by JL Langley
Under My Skin 1& 2 by ML Rhodes
Crossing Borders by Z.A. Maxfield

The ones I like despite myself:

Private Dances by BA Tortuga
Handyman by Claire Thompson
To Hate and to Hold by Dakota Rebel

drabbles, drabbles

2009-07-10T00:25:40Z

I was pondering the holidaysmut National Cheer Up the Lonely Day challenge. But, these drabbles don't quite fit, so here they shall go ^_^

(Chaos)

Nikolai held his wine up to the light, and admired the color. His favorite red wine, and he knew Sonya had made certain it would be served tonight. The color was beautiful, somewhere between a rich, dark red and a deep violet. Extremely dry, but he had little taste for sweeter wines.

The sound of laughter, sweet and painful all at once, drew his attention despite his efforts to resist, and he glanced without seeming to glance across the room to where the great and marvelous king held court. Men and women alike clustered around him, fawning and flirting and doing their best to obtain his favor. Nikolai hid a sneered, and turned away, lifting the crystal wine glass to take a sip.

But, as his luck would have it, he caught Zarya's image in the reflection of a glittering gilded mirror. He was handsome, charming, good at being king--as good as any might be, anyway. If he was a trifle weak at points, well, he had Sonya and Nikolai to make up for that. That made him more than good enough for the country.

Too bad he was a coward at heart, but Nikolai could not even interject any bitterness into the thought. The feelings were so old and familiar, they were beginning to go stale. Hopefully they would rot soon, and he would finally be beyond caring. He was thirty seven--thirty eight--and it seemed he should be long past feeling things that had once been laughed away and callously rejected.

But when Zorya laughed again, he still caught himself turning to watch. Muttering a curse, he took another sip of wine and moved well away from kings and mirros, out onto the cool of the balcony. Late fall, only days away from officially being early winter. His deep violet jacket, beautiful but no match for the richer quality of the wine, was not heavy enough to fight back the chill of the swiftly approaching midnight hour.

He rested one hand on the stone railing, looking down below at the people milling about in the servants' courtyard. They were throwig a fete of their own, and he almost envied them. Cheap food, cheap wine, but far more enjoyable than fancy foods and wines that must come with a side of arrogance and entitlement. He took another sip of his wine, and wondered morosely if he was allowed to go to bed yet.

The sound of heels clicking on marble caused him to turn, and he braced himself for yet another flirtation--and breathed a silent sigh of relief when he saw it was only Sonya. "Cousin," he murmured, politely kissing her hand, then more affectionately kissing her cheek. "Have you come to hide with me, or to persuade me to dance with you?"

"A little of both," Sonya replied, pulling up her fur wrap a bit more, shivering in the cold but not looking particularly troubled by it. "I know you do not like a fuss made, but you could at least try to look like you are enjoying the party we are secretly throwing in your honor, Kolya."

Nikolai smiled very briefly. "Of course I am honored, cousing. Aren't I always, by everything you do?

Sonya sniffed, not convinced for a moment. "At least you wore the jacket. You never wear anything but black, Kolya, I swear. Such beautifiul hair, it deserves better treatment than black all the time."

"It's bad enough I clash with most everyone I stand beside," Nikolai drawled. "I should not add further insult by clashing with myself."

"Oh, bah," Sonya said, swatting him lightly. "It is true that most people with red hair should avoid violets and purples. You, however...as ever, Kolya, you seem to break rules effortlessly. It is stunning on you, as every man and woman in the room will attest. Stop hiding on the balconly and show yourself off."

Nikolai dismissed her words with a cutting motion, and sipped more wine. "I am nearly forty, cousin. Well past showing myself off. I am not hideous, but only a timeless beauty such as yourself can show off right up until the day she dies."

Sonya rolled her eyes. "Well, be a brat, then. You were always very good at that. I have a proper gift for you, since I know you will never wear the jacket again after tonight."

As that was very true, he did not bother to say otherwise. "You do not need to give me gifts, cousin."

"Says the cousin who imported a chest of Kundou silk for my birthday," Sonya retorted, and thrust a package into his hands. He barely caught it before it slipped away, and nearly lost his wine in the fumbling. Scowling when Sonya chuckled, he thrust his wine at her and unwrapped the paper-wraped bundle that he already knew was a book.

He was silent when he had unwrapped it. The cover was blank, as was the spine, but Sasha knew it without having to open the book to the title page. "This book is illegal, even for me," he said.

Sonya shrugged. "I do not explore his collection much, but I knew that one when I saw it. He would be pleased to know you have it now."

'He' of course being Sonya's late husband. Nikolia smiled, genuinely and fully this time, and kissed her cheek again. "Thank you, cousin."

"Of course," Sonya said, and kissed his cheek in return. "Now, come and dance with me. You must dance at least once on your birthday, Kolya. It is law."

"Well, if it law, then of course I must," Nikolai conceded. "Let me finish my wine, then I shall come in and find you for the last waltz."

She sighed, but conceded. "Very well, Kolya." She squeezed his arm briefly, perhaps thinking he needed some reassurance or comfort, and then she was gone, only her flowery perfume lingering to prove she had been there.

Nikolai turned back to the night, the party below, the moon full and bright in a cold, cloudless sky, and drank his wine. If he heard familiar laughter again, from time to time, at least out here he was better able to ignore it.

-----------

(Harem)

Shah wished people would leave him alone. He wished more than he could tell them to do so, order them out. But, his father would say that was showing his temper, or his grief by display of temper, and a King must seem strong at all times, and stronger still when times were bad. His hold was fragile enough, being a new and young King in the face of his father's assissation. He could not afford to give even an appearance of weakness.

He drifted through the halls, grateful for the momentary reprieve, knowing that all too soon they would come in frantic search of him.

Father, he thought sadly, what am I supposed to do without you?

Not all of the assassins had been caught, his father's harem had already dispersed, none choosing to remain in the palace after so great and personal a tragedy...and he had never taken anyone into his own harem. No one had ever appealed, not in such a way. Lust alone, his father and harem had never ceased to tell him, was not good enough a reason to choose a man for his harem.

Over and over he heard their voices, all the advice, all the reminders. Crowded into that was the noise of advisers, councilmen, nobles of the court, foreign ambassadors, military advisors--all looking to him for answers now. All of it rested on his shoulders. He was no longer learning at his father's side, preparing to take over in another ten or fifteen yeas.

Those days were long gone, and he had best hope he had learned enough to manage while he struggled to learn the rest.

He could hear voices far away, laughter and shouting and more general conversation. Servants, nobles, all mingled together while he hid away in this momentarily forgotten corridor. He longed to take his horse and go for a long ride, or hide in his rooms reading, stroll through his gardens admiring his flowers...

But he could do none of that, because a King did not hide and like it not, he was now King.

Why had his father never told him how very lonely it was to be King? Perhaps his father had never been lonely, not with the men who kept him company. Would Shah ever find such men? Sometimes, he doubted it. At his age, his father had already had two, and he'd had his full five before Shah was even born.

Shah sighed softly, and began to prepare himself for rejoining his court. The way eyes would watch him, follow him, the way everyone wanted to speak to him advise him, attempt to win his favor. He hated that most of all. It had been bad enough a prince, a thousand times worse as King.

He drew in a breath, and let it slowly, then began to walk back down the hallway toward the distant sound of voices.

The sound of music stopped his short, and he lingered at the intersection of two hallways, looking down the one he had ignored in favor of the hallway he had chosen. It was beautiful. He had never heard such exquisite playing.

He turned when the voices flared up, louder than ever, and he thought for a moment someone called for him--but the music caught him, sweeter and more apealing by far. He hesitated a moment longer, then turned away from the voices and went in search of the song.

Hmm

2009-07-09T02:52:21Z

What if hooker boy had a friend, who wanted hooker boy to seduce X for reason Y, or something like that? I really need to stop reading ebooks, cause despite the eye searing pain of most of them, they are good idea fodder. Hmm hmm hmm. There is potential here, but I am too tired and brain dead to take it further atm.

But, I do roll my eyes that every story in this anthology had the same premise - rent boy was actually attending college, cause going to college totally sekkretly redeems him (cause he so needs redeeming). So, shameless hooker who has a friend, who wants hooker boy to seduce someone or something. But why? To keep X from doing something? to get him to do something? To break X and Z up? Hmm hmm hmm.

Bed now.

maderr @ 2009-07-08T20:33:00

2009-07-09T00:33:48Z

Had planned on writing a couple of drabbles tonight, but shit happened. Guess they'll get done tomorrow.

Instead, poll. First, story samples, all in one tidy place. These are the three I most want to work on, but I'm dithering on which to focus on most. They're all currently open, I poke at them here and there.

Black Magic (rewrite)

Prologue: Paladin Lost

The prison cells smelled much, much worse when one was confined to them, rather than simply depositing the guilty party before departing. Rank with mold, damp, rot, and filth he preferred not to examine too closely. Were these places never cleaned?

It was all the worse when the fetid smells were underscored by the bitter wrongness of his confinement, and the overwhelming, soul-deep ache of his grief.

Gone. Rakken was gone. Dead by the hand of Ambrose's friends, dead because he had tried to defend Ambrose, dead because they had dared to love where they were told love was impossible.

He could not bring himself to care that his own death was hours away. All of him that mattered, had died with Rakken. He did not have to die…but he would sooner accept the death they had in store for him than renounce his love for Rakken and live.

Despair clawed at him, but he was too exhausted now to cry again. All he felt was tired and cold and empty. He wanted it over and done. Even the gentle warmth pulsing in his chest was not as reassuring as it might once have been. He loved his Goddess, but he loved Rakken more.

Let them burn him.

Ambrose stirred as he heard the jangling of keys, the click of a lock being turned, the grating of door and the tread of booted feet. As the steps inevitably drew closer to him, the gleam of metal armor just visible in the weak light of a small torch, he slowly dragged himself to his feet—but stayed well away from the filthy bars of the cell.

Through those bars, he stared at High Paladin Levent, not bothering to hide his hate.

"Ambrose." Levent said his name gently, reassuringly, as though they were old friends.

How had he ever thought this man kind? Wise? Why had he ever thought Levent a worthy friend? Mentor? He did not deserve to be High Paladin, and Ambrose did not care if the Goddess took offense at the thought.

Levent, who had cut down Rakken despite begging, pleading, despite the bidding of the Goddess—

Ambrose realize he still had a few tears left to cry, even through the hate that pulsed through him, counterpoint to the empty reassurance of the Goddess' warmth in his chest.

"Ambrose," Levent said again. "Please, you are free now. I know you think you and that demon…" His lip curled, and he could not bring himself to finish the sentence. "He had you bespelled, Ambrose. You are free now. Please, just realize that, renounce your false feelings—"

He did not realize he had screamed, or moved, until he felt the hot sting of power forcing him back, causing him to crash into the far wall with a pained grunt.

Then Levent was opening the cell door, and hauling Ambrose to his feet—and embracing him, and Ambrose shuddered with revulsion and pulled roughly away. As far as he was able, anyway, as Levent did not entirely release him.

All the hate he felt, he conveyed as best he was able, not hiding anything.

"Ambrose," Levent said. "He was just a demon. A vile, deceptive demon. Why—"

"I loved him," Ambrose choked out. "He loved me. There was no black magic, no deception. The Goddess guided me to him, brought him to me, blessed our union—and you took him from me!" He managed to twist free, and swung, catching Levent's nose.

Then he was pinned to the ground, and snarled in rage and hate and grief, mindless to everything but his hatred for Levent, his love for Rakken, now forever lost. The Goddess's warmth pulsed in his chest, mingling with the sharp pain of her grief. This was not how her Paladins were meant to behave, not how this was meant to be.

He and Rakken should have been the start of something new and wonderful. Now, they were just one more tragedy in a bitter struggle which had already lasted far too long.

"I loved him," he said again.

"Why?" Levent demanded, and the sudden anger and bitterness there drew Ambrose up short. "Why him, and not—" He cut himself off with a muttered curse.

Ambrose drew a sharp breath. Levent? Had loved…

That just made it all the worse. Ambrose might have forgiven Levent anything once, but not the awful killing of Rakken, who had harmed none of them, only attempted to defend himself and Ambrose. He'd not deserved to be slain so brutally, so cruelly.

He could not even say he was sorry, for not being able to return Levent's love. He wished he could, but he simply could not.

Levent, who was so stunningly beautiful. Gold hair, gold eyes, dressed in the gold and silver armor of a Paladin, draped in violet, the color of the Goddess. Any man or woman would gladly surrender a limb or two, for the chance of the High Paladin's favor.

But all Ambrose could see was dark skin, a bare, smooth head riddled with scars left from sword and knife and burn, more of the same all along the dark skin. The worst scars were those on his back, ragged edges were wings had been hacked off. Brutal, awful, cruel—that was the life Rakken had lived, as a demon soldier of the High North.

Ambrose had always thought him beautiful. The twilight blue of his eyes. The hesitant smile with a touch of sweetness to it, the infuriating smirk that had first goaded him…the clawed hands that had shown a gentleness Ambrose had found nowhere else.

Gone, now. Gone forever.

"Renounce him, Ambrose," Levent pleaded. "You're too good a man to waste, to lose to demonic corruption. What of your brethren? What of your sister? I saved you, Ambrose. I can love you better than any—"

Ambrose screamed, and threw him off, lost once more to blind rage. Blind hate.

"I will never renounce," he spat the words, flung them, watched with bitter amusement as Levent recoiled from them. "Rakken was a demon. I loved him. I loved him more than life itself. More than the Goddess. I will not renounce my love for Rakken, for a demon. The Goddess blessed us, and I will go to that pyre knowing that She blessed my union with a demon."

"So be it," Levent said coldly, and yanked him to his feet, hauled him roughly from his cell, threw him at the feet of two Paladins waiting just outside the prison. "Bind him," he snapped. "Our brother Ambrose is too far gone to be saved. He must burn, lest the demons take his soul and make of it a demon."

"Yes, High Paladin," the Paladins chorused quietly, looking miserable but resigned.

Ambrose did not protest, did not so much as look at them.

He did nothing, said nothing, felt nothing—even when the High Priest concluded his prayers, and the pyre was lit.

He said nothing still, even when he smelled his own flesh burning.

Part One: The Necromancer

He'd seen blood before, more than he cared to recall. He'd seen men crushed, men dismembered. He'd seen men mere broken in spirit and mind than they could ever be in body. Women, children…he still had nightmares about the children.

Burns, sword wounds, he'd seen people torn apart by demon hands, seen the damage black magic could do. He'd seen ten thousand nightmares, and would see ten thousand more before he died.

None of it was as terrible as the blood and body parts, the gore and scattered innards, of his cousin and closest friend, scattered and smeared across the confines of the small solar that Alfrey favored.

Sorin slammed the door shut, belatedly sealed it so no others could enter, and then was immediately sick in the first chamber pot he found, a couple of doors down the hall.

He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, then fumbled for a handkerchief, striving to think and not simply recall that horrific scene. Thank Goddess She had drawn him, led him to it before another it first.

Her warmth pulsed in his chest, bright and hot, spreading through him to lend sorely needed comfort and strength, the resolve to carry on despite the horrors he had witnessed, inflicted upon someone he dearly loved. Sorin closed his eyes, and balled his hands into fists to still their trembling. He swallowed, trying to wash away the acrid, sour-sweet taste of vomit lingering in his mouth.

Who, how, and why—those were the details that mattered. Who would do such a terrible thing to Alfrey, a good man and a much-loved priest. How had that person managed to commit such a crime in the heart of the castle, while the King, High Priest, and High Paladin, not to mention the hundreds of other inhabitants, remained oblivious. And why—why would anyone want to murder, and so horrifically, someone so good? Alfrey had never had any enemies, to the best of his knowledge. Everyone loved Alfrey.

Not to mention, Alfrey had been his cousin and best friend. Who would murder a man so close to the High Paladin of the Great Northern Kingdom?

Sorin realized he was trembling again. He needed to do something…but what?

The King must be informed, as well as the High Priest. Then he would have to figure out how to answer the questions of who, how, and why. He would have to go back into that terrible room.

All right. He could tell the King now. The High Priest would be finishing the dawn ceremony, for those who rose that early. By the time he finished reporting to his Majesty, the High Priest would be available. Past that…best that no one else knew, yet. It would cause a panic.

Leaving the room into which he had retreated, grateful it was early enough the halls were still mostly deserted, he made his way first to the kitchens.

Normally, the smells of fresh bread, porridge, honey, cheese, and all the other myriad foods readied for breakfast made him smile, cheered his morning, readied him for the day ahead. Today, they only made him nauseous. He downed a tankard of hot ale only to rinse away the lingering taste of vomit, and to steady himself a bit. Then he scuttled from the kitchens, before someone could pin him down to handle some trifling 'crisis'.

Slipping through the halls of the castle, he at last reached the throne room. So early in the morning, with the sun barely rising above the horizon, it was mostly deserted—but not completely. Even the King did not sleep long, when there were so many problems to address, and people traveled long through dangerous lands to plead their cases.

He pushed through the small, early morning crowd and motioned to King Rofell that he needed a word, and that word was urgent. Minutes later, the room was empty save for the two of them. "What's wrong?" Rofell asked.

As quickly as possible, without sacrificing anything, Sorin related how he had woken earlier than usual to a painful throbbing of alarm and grief from the Goddess, causing his chest to hurt, his entire body to ache. Following the throbbing, searching the castle bottom to top, it had not taken him long to come upon the remains of Alfrey's body.

The King was silent when Sorin finished, grim-faced and still. "No clues," he said at length, "as to who has done this terrible thing?"

"I have not yet had chance to truly search," Sorin replied. "It was an awful sight. I have sealed the room and will examine the corpse and chamber for clues in due course. For now, I must go and speak with the High Priest. It is possible he might hear something from Her that I cannot. I recommend we keep this between the three of us, until such time as we have an answer or revealing it is impossible to avoid. I fear what will happen, should people learn of the murder, and the horrendous nature of the killing."

"Yes," the King agreed. "The three of us. Speak with the High Priest, then. Keep me informed. Find the murdered, and kill him if you must. I grant you full license, High Paladin, to do whatever is necessary."

"Sire," Sorin said with a bow, then turned sharply on his heel and departed.

He strode from the castle keep, across a small courtyard to the rear entrance of the Royal Cathedral.

The Royal Cathedral was larger than even the Royal Castle, meant when it had first been built to accommodate every person in the city, as well as the surrounding farmers for several miles around. The city and surroundings had long since outgrown the Cathedral, but it remained the heart of the faith for those who loved the Goddess.

As he reached the main room, the dawn prayers were just concluding, people departing more quickly than they probably liked, in order to get started on their long days.

The High Priest was speaking to a small handful of people, but when he caught Sorin's gaze, immediately excused himself and went to Sorin's side.

"High Paladin," he greeted, more formal than he would normally be. "I sensed something was wrong, this morning when I rose, but it seemed I was meant to carry one and wait to learn of the problem. I see you are the unhappy messenger."

Sorin only nodded, and motioned they should go elsewhere, leading the way to the High Priest's office.

When the door was closed, he said quietly, "Alfrey is dead. Murdered."

"Tell me," the High Priest said quietly, and sat down behind his desk.

Sorin forced himself to go through the tale once more, relating all from the moment he'd woken, to the present.

When he finished, the High Priest sat white-faced and still in his chair, save the faint trembling of one hand laying across his massive desk.

"I know nothing yet," Sorin continued. "I must soon go back to that room and begin to unravel the mystery…"

"No," the High Priest said, the fingers of his trembling hand lifting to press against the center of his forehead. His eyes went cloudy, distant, as they always did when he heard Her Voice.

Paladins felt her, a warmth, a pulsing, in the chest. They could sense in that warmth Her emotions and wants. Priests could hear Her—whispers, snatches of stuff, never completely clear, but they did hear Her Voice, and the High Priest heard Her most clearly of all.

The High Priest frowned in concentration, then extended his other hand. Used to this, Sorin placed his own in it, unperturbed by the suddenly tight, almost painful grip. The High Priest's eyes slid shut, and for several minutes, there was only silence.

As abruptly as he had gone into his trance, the High Priest was out of it, and he released Sorin's hand. His eyes held swirls of violet, the color of the Goddess, as they opened, only slowly fading back to their normal soft brown. Sorin had been told that in the heat of battle, when his power raged, his own eyes did the same thing.

"The mystery is not one you can solve," the High Priest said. "From Her, I get that another will come, who can help to provide the answer. But…" He frowned. "I sense black magic in it, something dark, something strange." His eyes met Sorin's. "Somehow, this thing—this person—is bound to you, High Paladin. It will not be you, or he, that will uncover Alfrey's killer. It will take the both of you."

Sorin frowned. "I do not understand."

"Neither do I," the High Priest said ruefully. "But, then, those of us who most directly server Her, are usually the last to understand anything."

To that, Sorin could only nod in agreement, and smile faintly at the pulse of amusement in his chest.

Dance in the Dark

I think my life was pretty normal, right up until the ripe old age of nine. That year, I decided it would be 'totally wicked awesome' to have a Halloween party for my birthday. My birthday was only a week before Halloween, it was a totally wicked awesome idea.

Until a bunch of jackass teenagers in the neighborhood decided to crash it in scary costumes and guarantee my friends needed therapy for the next several years. Plus, all my friends blamed me, and we stopped being friends. Given more time than I wound up having, things would have eventually eased, I like to think.

Then again, one kid was scared so bad, he fled into the street and, we thought, home. He never showed up there, though, and no one ever saw him again.

Looking back, I think at least half those 'teenagers' were real abnormals. Real monsters, if you like. Some of them can be monsters. Some of them thrive on it.

About a week after the party that ruined my life, something else came along to show me I had no idea what it looked like to really see my world end. It was a vampire, straight out of the horror movies. I know now that something was wrong with her – what they call blood-crazy. It happens to vampires occasionally, the way other insanity problems happen in normals. Every race has its dirty, shameful little secrets. This one got loose, and killed several people in my neighborhood that night.

Including my parents. I was next on the list, but another vampire came along and killed her. He was beautiful, and I did not realize at first he was just another one of her. All vampires are beautiful, it is how they hunt. I was confused, hurt, grief-stricken, and definitely in shock, and he was my lifeline.

Two weeks later, my rescuer adopted me. My oh so noble protector, taking me into his home out of remorse and duty. So began my life in the household of the Dracula Ontoniel Desrosiers, and the supernatural world.

Of course, life still had one more hell in store for me. Ten minutes after arriving in my new home, I fell madly in love. Quite the thing to do under the circumstances, but I could not help it. Naturally, I fell for the most unreachable person in existence—my new brother, the Alucard Elam Desrosiers. When we met, I was nine, he was sixty one. I was permitted to call him Elam, eventually. I called him Ella when I wanted to annoy him.

So, in less than a month's time, I lost my friends, lost my parents, was adopted by a vampire, and fell in love with a vampire. That seems to meet anyone's quota for weird in one lifetime, but I was far from done.

All I ever wanted, from the night of that terrible party, was my normal life back. Once brought into the abnormal world, however, there is very rarely any going back. But, growing up a plain, ordinary human in a household of beautiful, powerful vampires teaches you pretty quick to get used to wanting a lot of things you will never have.

I was nine when my parents died, but I remember precious little of them. Easier to forget, perhaps, in order for my nine year old self to cope with it all. I do remember something my mother used to say, though, and it stuck with me. She said it a lot, when I tried to back out of something at the last minute, overwhelmed by fear. She said, 'you've made it to the ball, so you may as well dance.'

~from the journal of Johnnie Goodnight

Case 000: The Devil in Glass Slippers

Johnnie straightened his black and silver tie, thumb sliding over the rose-shaped tie pin made of diamonds set in silver. The suit was tailored, and the equal if not the superior, of any snob in the room. Already a few cast inquisitive, nose-up glances his way, sensing a plain human amongst their powerful throng. But they could not dismiss him entirely, not when he was dressed in thousands of dollars, the color of it called 'black ice'. It was a smoother black than his ink-dark hair, which was razored so the ends fell in jagged wisps around his face. His eyes were a dark charcoal gray, hard as he looked at the man beside him. "So, now are you going to tell me why you insisted I come? You know I hate costume parties."

"Masques," Rostislav corrected, smoothing his own playboy fine hair. If Johnnie was a shadow, Rostislav was a golden boy.

If Johnnie strove to be a good little human, Rostislav was an abnormal troublemaker born.

"They're called Masques," Rostislav said again for emphasis.

Johnnie shrugged. "A rose by any other name would still be just as annoying."

Rostislav slid him an amused look, gold eyes glinting. "The Ice Queen piss you off again?"

"Perpetual state, I would say," Johnnie replied with a slight grimace that was quickly smoothed away again. "I really do not feel like discussing him right now. Tell me why you dragged me here, or I am leaving."

Rostislav sighed at him, long and pointedly. "We are here to find a pair of shoes."

"I am leaving," Johnnie replied, and turning sharply on his heel, strode from the balcony where they had been watching the ball down below, out into the lobby of the hotel where the party was being hosted. It was a beautiful building; his father came here often to conduct business or simply spend time with friends. The Last Star, it was called. It had the finest ocean view in the city, for those who could afford the rooms where that view might be obtained.

Generally, Johnnie loved being here. Tonight, he wanted no part of it. Masques creeped him out. Maybe he should learn to let go of childhood trauma…but, no, he really did not feel like it.

Anyway, the worst part about costumes was the not knowing. He did not see the fun in that. People were hard enough to understand, and abnormals harder still, without the additional challenge.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Rostislav grabbed his arm and yanked him to a halt. "Come on, Johnnie. Don't stomp off in one of your hissy fits."

Johnnie ignored that. "I am not going to dig you out of whatever mess you have gotten yourself into this time, Rostislav. Do it yourself."

"Please?" Rostislav said, golden eyes pleading. "It's not what you think. I didn't start this mess."

"Start from the beginning," Johnnie said. "Tell me everything, and if you leave anything out, I am leaving and will ignore you for a very long time."

Rostislav winced, knowing it was no bluff. "All right, all right. I was asked to consult on some old junk."

Old junk being Rostislav's rather flippant term for magical artifacts. The abnormal world was rife with magic-imbued objects that were never properly cared for or deactivated, and so forth. Many were harmless, but too many were not. Rostislav, a witch of no small ability, consulted on the various objects people found and helped to render them harmless, or least find the person who could render it harmless.

"In with the mess was a pair of shoes. Dancing shoes, made of glass."

"Cinderella slippers?" Johnnie asked, immediately intrigued despite himself. To this day, no one really knew if Cinderella slippers were inspired by the old fairytale, or the tale by the slippers.

History was rife with ways for abnormals to hide themselves amongst humans, from each other… To save energy, many abnormal put spells into clothing, jewelry, or the like, that cast an illusion—a glamour—over the wearer.

Old legend held that a particularly powerful abnormal—no one knew what kind—had placed her spell in a pair of slippers made of glass. Ostentatious and stupid, but abnormals excelled at nothing so much as showing off while hiding in plain sight.

"So we are looking for missing glamour shoes?" he asked. "They should not be too much of a problem."

"They aren't just glamour shoes, unfortunately," Rostislav replied. "Examining them revealed they were actually holding a demon. I put them in a spell cage and left them in the library where we'd been examining everything. We went to lunch…and when we came back, the shoes were gone."

"Wonderful," Johnnie said, and returned to the balcony, staring down at the people below, lips pursed in thought. "So somewhere down there, a demon is wreaking havoc with some Cinderella." He looked at Rostislav. "I do not see why this concerns me. You are the witch. Find it, fix it."

"I can't find it," Rostislav, blowing out a frustrated breath. "I've tried. I finally told Jesse—"

"Jesse?" Johnnie demanded. "You are helping Jesse Adelardi?"

Rostislav glared at him. "Yes," he hissed. "Business is business, and I don't want you to fucking lecture me. The shoes are what matter, and right now I need your help, alright? I didn't get to investigate closely what the demon had to do, to break free of the shoes. All I know is that they are Cinderella slippers, and this is Jesse's ball, so we need to find them soon."

"Let us hope," Johnnie said, "that we figure out which tradition was used by the sorcerer who put a demon in a pair of slippers." He looked out over the crowd again, and murmured softly, "Shake and quiver, little tree, throw gold and silver down to me."

"So does this mean you'll help me? I told Jesse that I knew a clever little detective."

Johnnie rolled his eyes. "I am no detective. Finding the odd missing object and such for people does not a detective make."

"Whatever. Let's find the slippers. It's entirely possible they're not even here…"

"No," Johnnie said, eyes still on the crowd. "A demon in Cinderella slippers would find no better place to be than a costume ball. So let us go find Cinderella, and hope we do it before the stroke of midnight." He glanced back at Rostislav, and sneered at the gold half-mask Rostislav was sliding into place.

"Didn't you bring a mask, Johnnie?"

"I do not wear masks," Johnnie replied. "You know that."

"Yeah, yeah. You really need to learn to mellow."

Johnnie ignored him, and turned away, sliding into the role of finder that he seemed to have acquired over the years. He looked over the crowds of people again, murmuring softly to himself again as he caught sight of a woman with a particularly extravagant hair arrangement. "Riddle me, riddle me, what is that; over the head, and under the hat?"

Rostislav frowned at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Johnnie replied. "Just nonsense. Make yourself useful witch, see if you cannot pick out bits of Cinderella style spell work. I doubt we can detect the demon itself, but the spells and effects employed with Cinderella slippers are more or less rote. Hunt them out, or at least try."

"Oh, yeah." Rostislav made a face. "Because illusions, love spells, and enchantments are so bloody uncommon at a bloody masque."

Johnnie regarded him coolly.

"Alright, alright," Rostislav replied, throwing up his hands. "What are you going to do?"

"Examine shoes," Johnnie replied, striving to keep his voice even and unaffected, and not let out the bitterness that always came with the knowledge that he had no abnormal abilities to draw upon. He was the quintessential ugly duckling, and heaven and hell forbid anyone let him forget it. This costume party was going to be a nightmare—already he could see the looks, feel the curiosity. Some knew him, and would tell those who did not. Others would simply figure it out for themselves. Everyone wondered why his father had adopted him. Nearly all pitied him. Many regarded him as potentially amusing. All looked down on him. "Shoes and people."

He pointedly dropped his gaze to Rostislav's shoes, which were as perfect and golden as the rest of the man and ensemble. He should probably know Rostislav's costume, but he really did not care. The sooner he found the slippers, the sooner he could go home.

Not that he was in any hurry to go home, really, he thought with a stifled sigh. What waited for him there, but another fight with Elam? Home was seldom a welcoming place at the best of times, and worse still when the Ice Queen was in a foul mood and eager to take it out on his unwanted brother.

Gods above, he wished the day would come when he stopped hoping for Elam to return just some of what Johnnie felt for him.

Shoving the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand, he watched as Rostislav descended the grand staircase and rapidly vanished into the throng below.

Johnnie stifled another sigh, then finally descended the stairs himself.

Impractical

I.

"That's quite a bit of post, eh?"

"Hmm?" Terrell looked up absently as he heard the voice of his best friend, Kirian, and saw that Kirian had indeed taken up residence at the seat opposite, and was currently poking and prodding at Terrell's mail. Terrell made a face at the mess, the mail being one thing he did hate going through, even if practicality demanded it be tended. "Yes, bugger it. As if I've not got enough to do."

"Speaking of doing things," Kirian said, "are you attending the Quinton lecture this evening?"

"Attending?" Terrell asked with a snort, and gave up any attempt at studying. Kirian was obviously in the mood to talk, and there was nothing for that save to let Kirian run his course or wait until something else distracted him. "I'm assisting him with the thing, curse my luck. I've half a mind to be drunk while I do it, but that—"

"Would not be practical," Kirian finished for him.

"Precisely," Terrell said with a nod, refusing to be baited. He rolled his eyes as Kirian continued to poke and paw at his mail. "Oh, do leave off. None of that is for you."

"No," Kirian agreed, "but this certainly looks to be a serious matter for you."

Terrell stared in surprise at the envelope Kirian flourished. He knew it on the spot—the scarlet paper, the elegant swan crest pressed into black wax, the short, concise hand…a formal missive from his father, and it looked thick. That boded good or ill.

In no real hurry to discover which, he nevertheless reached out and plucked the envelope from Kirian's fingers, breaking the seal and pulling out a thick fold of what proved to be many sheaves of paper—some of them signed and notarized. Legal documents, then. He set them aside in favor of first reading his father's accompanying letter.

Terrell,

I have arranged a marriage for you. It comes rather suddenly, I know, but I take fortune where I find it. I know you would not be troubled. The informal announcements have been made, I enclosed copies of them in addition to the early contracts being drawn up.

Your betrothed is Edlin Crandall Courtright, the third son of George Courtright. I expect you know the name. He is a good man, intelligent, hardworking, and greatly enthused over the marriage and the opportunities it presents. We met three months ago, during the course of business. He suits the estate and family well, and I believe you will get on together.

I am arranging a formal supper to announce things properly at the end of the this month, both as your husband and the future Steward of Fivecoats Estate. We should, obviously, appreciate your attendance. The sooner you are here, the better, on the chance some problem arises and the entire thing must be called off.

Do arrange to be home, or inform me when you can be home that I might rearrange things accordingly.

Yours,
Henri

Terrell blinked, then read through the letter again, lips pursed thoughtfully. Courtright, yes, even he knew that name. Odd, he'd not realized any of the five sons had not been snapped up. The family was notoriously wealthy, especially for untitled merchants. The Merchant Princes, they were called. Father must be most impressed by this Edlin, to arrange for the marriage only three months after meeting him, and a third son at that.

Well, he had been thinking they would finally have to get around to arranging a suitable marriage this summer. The rate it was going, they could be married and done right around his birthday, when his mother's estates came fully into his possession. Very likely what father intended, very efficient and practical.

End of the month, hmm…he could probably rearrange things easily enough. This time of year, and so far along in his studies, most of his time was his own to study when and how he pleased. Yes, he could—

"Terrell!"

"What?" Terrell jerked, pulled roughly from his thoughts, and realized that Kirian had been calling his name. "Sorry, Kir. What were you saying?"

"I've been asking you what's in the letter."

Terrell handed it over by way of apology. "Father has found me a probable husband. I'm to go home at the end of the month to be formally betrothed. I would imagine if that goes well, the wedding will be this summer."

"Married!" Kirian bellowed in outrage. "What sort of revol—"

Terrell laughed in fond amusement. "Kir, it's quite all right. A bit earlier than I expected, but what does it really matter? This works out much better, really."

"What does it matter?" Kirian demanded. "How can you just sit there and calmly accept your life is being written out for you?"

"Kir," Terrell said. "It is nothing of the sort." He spread his hands, better to display the pin on his jacket that marked him a student of the college, the other three that marked his high status, his specialties. "I am a scholar, I have been practically since I could read, if not sooner. My mother left me, the youngest, her personal estate when she died. I am not fit to run it. If left to my own devices, I would have it run into the ground before next year. My father and I do not want to see the estate suffer, and he has his hands full—he should not have to care for my responsibilities his whole life. We agreed long ago it would be best if I married someone who could tend Fivecoats properly. I thought we would be discussing the matter of marriage this summer. He simply has taken care of it a bit sooner."

"But—what if he is a cad? A scoundrel? A thief? You have not even met him!"

Kirian looked ready to burst, he was so red-faced and worked up. Terrell flagged a steward to bring them wine, then returned his full attention to his friend. "Kir," he said soothingly. "Please, do not get so angry on my behalf. I promise you this has been my plan as much my father's."

"But—but you don't love him, Terri," Kirian finally burst out.

Terrell laughed, more surprised than perhaps he should be, knowing Kirian as well as he did. "How do I always forget, my friend, what a charming romantic you are? Love is the stuff of stories. Nonsense. It's unrealistic and impractical."

"Impractical," Kirian said scathingly. "You and that blood word—everything must be practical.”

"Yes," Terrell said tersely, a bit stung. He felt things should make sense and serve a purpose. Kirian knew that.

Kirian's enraged expression softened. "I'm sorry, Terri. I know how logical you are, and you know I admire it most of the time. It works well for you. I just…it seems so cold to me. What if this man is not who or what your father thinks? What if he is an opportunistic bastard? You know nothing about him, and one little weekend at home will not tell you anything. You do not even know what he looks like, and yet you sit there smiling, telling me it's all very practical and reasonable."

"Well, such marriages are the convention," Terrell said calmly. "I should think your aunt and uncle will be working away at one for you—"

"Over my dead body," Kirian snarled. "I will do as my parents did, and marry for love. I can't be as…cool as the rest of you. It's just not in me."

"No," Terrell said fondly, "I suppose it's not, Kir. Your parents were a law unto themselves, of course their son would follow in their footsteps."

Kirian nodded stiffly.

"Be that as it may," Terrell continued, "for myself, I do not see love being especially good at running Fivecoats. I will choose to go with the man my father has chosen, unless he proves to be any of those things you listed. I do not anticipate it, however, my father has a sharp eye for such things."

Kirian threw him hands up in exasperation, and gulped down the freshly poured wine. He scowled as he set the glass down, but a reluctant smile was fighting its way onto his mouth. "Love and practicality are not mutually exclusive, you know."

Terrell smiled himself, and sipped his own wine more sedately. "I am not getting into a debate with you on the matter, Kir. I have plenty of other arguments to arrange, first, if I am to pass this year.

Laughing, Kirian motioned for more wine to be poured, and as easy as that the argument was over—for now, anyway. Terrell knew Kirian would not let the matter rest so easily, not when he was the soppiest romantic Terrell had ever met.

He pulled his book and note cards close again, determined to get to work, but a final glance at the post Kirian had disordered gave him unexpected pause. He had paid it so little mind before, he had noticed neither his father's letter nor the package that he now spied.

That was decidedly curious—he was not expecting any package. His father's letter had given no indication he should expect one… Curiosity getting the better of him, he pushed his work away again and dug the box out of the mess of letters.

Well, it had come from home. Strange father had made no mention of it. Hmm. Using his table knife, he cut the twine, then set the knife aside and slowly unwrapped the brown package paper. Inside was a small jewelry box and a neatly folded letter, sealed with… Terrell frowned, certain he was not seeing what he thought, but a prolonged second glance confirmed it. Pressed into the blue sealing wax was a faerie. What a fanciful seal, and now he was perfectly baffled.

"Whose sending you presents? A secret admirer to challenge your practical fiancé?"

"Oh, shush," Terrell said lightly. "I've no idea who sent it. Suppose I am about to find out." Breaking the seal, he glanced over the neat, flowing handwriting, written in blue ink on cream paper.

Terrell,

I hope you take no offense at the presumption of informal address. Given I have mostly arranged our wedding alongside your father, with you completely absent, I saw little point in formal address.

Your forgiveness I do beg, for taking such liberties as to accept your father's offer of your hand without ever consulting or meeting you. I believe everything proceeded with a speed none of us anticipated. I suspect you are much like your father, from all I have been told, and so suspect you will grant me that forgiveness. Indeed, I suspect I need not even ask for it, but the asking is the point for me.

In that vein, I did want to send some token of our informal—and soon to be formal, I admit to hoping—arrangement. Take it as apology, or trifling betrothal gift, whichever you find prefer. Rather, whichever you find most practical, for I sense that is what will decide you.

I look forward to finally meeting, and hope we do get on well, for I confess I already am quite fond of Fivecoats.

Your servant,
Edlin

"Well?" Kirian demanded impatiently.

Terrell surrendered the letter and turned to the box—a velvet jewelry box, long and narrow. Deep scarlet velvet, it suddenly struck him, and with the star and moon crest of the finest jeweler in the city—the country, really.

He flipped the box open and stared in surprise. Inside were a set of cuff links, a cravat pin, and a ring. All were made of gold, set with glittering amethysts of superb quality. It was a simple, elegant, handsome set. Apology or betrothal as he chose, indeed. "This was most kind of him."

Kirian snorted. "Seems too bloody charming and know it all if you ask me," he said, looking up from the letter. He sneered as he saw the jewels. "Definitely too charming. I don't trust it."

Terrell rolled his eyes. "Now you're just being petulant. They're quite handsome, and charm is a practical trait for a businessman to possess. If he is charming, then I anticipate Fivecoats will only benefit from being under his hand."

Kirian looked at him in disgust. "You are quite hopeless."

"I am practical."

"Same thing."

Terrell shook his head, refusing to be the first to laugh. Instead, he pulled the ring from its satin bed, noticing only then that his name had been inscribed on the inside. An elegant touch. Smiling, he removed the simple garnet ring he normally wore and replaced it with the new one, all the more pleased when it proved to be a perfect fit. Bold, charming, possessed of good taste, and paid attention to detail.

He was already duly impressed with his intended.

"I do not believe it!" Kirian said, suddenly looking torn between outrage and amusement. "You are already falling for his charm! Mr. Practical, simpering over a pretty bauble."

"Do not be ridiculous," Terrell replied, rolling his eyes and putting the jewelry case away. "Of course I am impressed, that does not mean I am falling for anything. The gift conveys many qualities, all of them pleasing to have in a spouse. Could we please stop haranguing me about this? It is quite normal an arrangement, I promise you, amongst conventional persons."

Kirian sneered. "Then I thank the gods every day I am not conventional."

Terrell smiled. "You most certainly not, and it lends you a charm all your own."

"Indeed," Kirian said, making a face. "Indeed. Shall we dine?"

"Why not?" Terrell asked, giving up entirely on getting work done. He would have time later that night, anyway, and it was clear Kirian was upset about more than his marriage. "Aunt and Uncle troubling you again, Kir? What are they saying now?"

"That if they receive one more note concerning my behavior as it pertains to losing my temper, they shall pull their funding straight away and I can forgo any hopes of schooling."

Terrell smiled. "Whenever are you going to tell them that you have not needed their money for a very long time? Indeed, I think you make more in a month than your uncle does the year."

Kirian flushed, and drank the remainder of his wine, motioning for the steward to bring more. "It is none of their affair, and I never meant to make such money. It was a lark, not…" He flapped a hand absently. "I have no desire to be rich."

"Yet rich you are," Terrell countered. "You really are quite impractical, hiding the fact you are one of the wealthiest men in this room."

"By accident," Kirian hissed, flushing all the darker. "I have no desire for people to befriend me simply because they like the size of my bank account, when they will have nothing to do with me otherwise."

Terrell nodded, and let the matter drop, not wanting to start another argument. "So obviously your aunt and uncle do not have you upset. What is the source of your ire?"

Kirian shrugged, and scowled at his freshly poured wine. "The trouble that got the letter sent off in the first place. Burlington will have my balls if I get into one more scrape."

"Scrape, indeed," Terrell said, snorting in amusement. Only Kirian would describe his fifteenth duel that term alone as 'one more scrape'. "Only you, Kir. Deep, dark secrets and duels every morning," he teased. "The most impractical man I know."

"It is not deep and dark," Kirian protested. "It's only no one needs to know. Look at how bothersome you are, knowing. And it's not every day, only every couple of weeks."

"Sometimes twice," Terrell said, laughing as Kirian's scowl darkened. "I think what you need is a nice, level-headed spouse of your own to give you better things to do with your time."

Kirian picked up his fork and jabbed it in Terrell's direction, before stabbing it into the chicken just brought them. "If I ever I desire to marry myself off in practical fashion," he retorted, "I shall of course consult you immediately."

Terrell shook his head and drank a bit of wine. "Many happy marriages begin as arranged," he said, then motioned discreetly at a group of men gathered around the fire. "The black-haired chap there, Rawlings. You know him."

"Can't shoot to save his life," Kirian commented.

"Which is probably all to the good," Terrell replied dryly, "given he was shooting at you. Anyway, he was married three years ago to a woman his parents chose. They are quite happy, and he adores the son his wife recently bore. The fellow next to him, Greene, married to a man chosen by family. They get on splendidly. The rest of them are engaged or soon to be, I would wager."

Kirian made a face. "I would love to know the details that go unsaid, and how many of them keep extra bits of fluff on the side." He shrugged irritably, but his eyes strayed back to the little group. "What about the blonde fellow? The reddish-blonde, I mean."

Terrell glanced back the group, and picked out the man he meant. "Evelyn Thiering? Well, he's the fourth son of the Duke of Pennington, I would imagine he was betrothed shortly after birth." He frowned in thought. "Though as to that, I've never heard a word as to whom, and a rumor like that would circulate. Hmm…" He slid Kirian a thoughtful, teasing look. "Why? Having impractical thoughts, Kir? Going to whisk the Duke's son off to your seaside cottage, after defending his honor in a dashing duel?"

"Oh, stuff it," Kirian said, rolling his eyes. "No—I just—he writes me letters. Well , not me me, but you know—" He flapped hand. "Other me. Whatever. Only, I didn't know who he was until a couple of days ago, and I tried to introduce myself—just as me, not you know—but he's so starchy and cold, even worse than you…oh to hell with it."

Though he was curious and dying to tease, Terrell knew when to leave well enough alone. It was completely impractical how flustered Kirian got by his fame, and more impractical still that he kept his identity secret when revealing it would make his life so much easier in so many ways.

But that was Kirian.

Instead of teasing, he moved the conversation to more mundane matters, school, professors, the pending holidays, until Kirian at last seemed less a storm and more like his usual windy self. By that point, the club dining room was practically deserted. "Shall we to our rooms, then?" he asked, and began to pack up all his books and papers, neatly set aside once they had begun to dine.

"I hope I have not kept you too long from you studies," Kirian said apologetically.

"Nothing I cannot make up easily tonight," Terrell replied with a smile, as they bundled into their coats and stepped out into the foggy night, headed back up the steep road to the school at the top of the hill. In the dark and moonlight, fog curling all about, it was easy to see how the school had gained its foreboding reputation. "I keep my nights free for a reason."

"Practical to a fault," Kirian said with a reluctantly fond sigh. "I await the day, my friend, that someone teaches you to be impractical."

Terrell snorted. "That will be the day someone teaches you to hold your temper."

"Never happen," Kirian replied loftily.

"Agreed," Terrell said with a laugh, and opened the gate, bowing playfully for Kirian to precede him through it, back onto school grounds and across the field to the apartments they called home here.

Their apartments were a simple enough affair—a small sitting room, with their bedrooms off to either side, with a little kitchen and dining area off the back. He could afford better, easily, and Kirian despite his best efforts could afford much better, but they both of them were content with what they had. It was practical, even if Kirian would have a fit if he said that.

Saying their good nights, they split off to their separate rooms.

Terrell set his bag down, then got a fire going in the little fireplace. Once the room began to warm up, he stripped out of all but his breeches, stocking and shirt. Setting the rest of his clothes neatly aside for washing later, he fetched his bag again and began to remove all that he would have to work on that night.

He paused as his fingers closed over something decidedly not a book or piece of paper. Extracting the velvet box, he flipped it open and regarded the contents thoughtfully. Then he glanced at the amethyst ring on his finger, admiring the quality of gold and jewel, recalling his name inscribed on the inside. It made him wonder about the actual betrothal and wedding rings, and if they had already been picked out.

Not that it mattered, it would make sense if everything had already been attended, but he did wonder.

If his intended had sent him gifts, it would only be proper to send a gift in return. But what? Edlin had the advantage over him, to be sure. Edlin knew plenty about him, while he knew practically nothing about Edlin.

Frowning thoughtfully, he got up and paced around his room, seeking inspiration. When he turned up nothing, he abandoned his bedroom in favor of the sitting room. Oh, he was terrible at thinking up gifts—and for someone he'd neither met nor even seen, that did not help one bit.

He paused at the mirror beside the door, frowning at his reflection, lost in thought. His hair was nutty brown, straight and unremarkable, kept to a practical length. His eyes, an odd sort of almost-lavender pale blue, ran in his father's line. He really needed to get around to buying new spectacles, his were beginning to look more than a little ragged. Hmm. He was handsome enough, without being too good looking.

No, that problem was Kirian, who did not seem to realize that his beauty drew as much trouble as his temper—all that wavy golden hair, the soft brown eyes, tall and lithe. Beautiful, rather than merely handsome. Impractical, beauty like that; it always drew more trouble than it was worth. Kirian certainly proved that, if unwittingly.

What of his intended? He knew Edlin's family of course, if only by name and reputation. He seemed to have an impression they were dark-featured, but did not know why he would think such a thing. But, he did not know for certain, and so it was hard to select jewels or other such things which might suit. He did not know the man's like or dislikes at all.

He turned from the mirror at the sound of a door clicking open, to see Kirian stepping from his bedroom, in a like state of casual disarray, dangling a glass of whiskey from his fingers, normally bound hair loose and disheveled. He paused as he saw Terrell, confused. "I thought you'd be buried in your essays by now, Ter. Something wrong?"

Terrell shrugged. "Not really. I was only trying to think of a suitable gift, in return for the jewelry, but am turning up blank."

"Ah," Kirian said, then smirked. "You cannot think of anything practical and fitting, because he's a bleedin' stranger."

"I simply have not thought of it yet," Terrell said stiffly.

Kirian grinned, and set his drink down with a clink on the low table in front of the sofa, then vanished back into his room. He reappeared a few minutes later, arms full of his writing and drawing implements, making Terrell stare at him in surprise. "Kir, whatever are you about?"

"I've one here," Kirian said absently. "Nearly finished; it's perfect for this sort of thing. He can hang it up in his office or whatever and brag about it loads. And it will cover all the nonsense you go on about—shows you have influence, good connections, plenty of private income, so on and so forth. That's what you'd call practical, right?"

"Yes…" Terrell said slowly. "But, Kirian, you don't have to—you do not even like him or that I'm getting married at all."

Kirian did not immediately reply, worrying his lower lips with his teeth as he focused on his drawing. Finally he paused long enough to flap a hand. "Neither here nor there, Ter." Kirian looked up briefly to smile, the hesitant, shy smile that Terrell wished more people saw. Kirian deserved to have more people see him smile that way. "I won't call him out until he does something to deserve it, and it won't help anything to cause you more problems. If you want a good, and gods above practical, gift, this will do." He picked up his whiskey and tossed back the contents, then returned to his work.

Bemused, never quite certain what to say or do when Kirian got this way, Terrell sat down in one of the armchairs opposite the sofa Kirian and his supplies had overtaken, and waited quietly.

"There," Kirian said an hour or so later, and turned his large sketchbook around to present—

"That's Fivecoats," Terrell said, shocked. "You only visited it the one time!"

Kirian tapped his temple. "Excellent memory, you know that. It was going to be your birthday present, but this works just as well. Unless he turns out to be a bloody bastard, in which case I'll take it back before I put a ball in him."

Terrell nodded, not able to tear his eyes from the image long enough to thank Kirian properly. He always managed to forget how talented Kirian was, until he saw his work all over again. The most fascinating thing was that it was not even art for which Kirian was unwittingly famous—the artwork was secondary to his poetry.

One of those very poems…no, a new one, was written in elegant penmanship into the sky over the landscape view of Fivecoats Estate which Kirian had sketched with nothing but a handful of different colored inks.

"It's beautiful," Terrell finally said. "Perfect as always."

"Perfectly practical," Kirian agreed teasingly, and set it on the table before beginning to clean up his supplies. "We'll get it framed and sent off tomorrow, and if it does not please your man, then you know to break off the engagement immediately."

Terrell laughed, but nodded. "Thank you, Kir."

Kirian shrugged the words off as he stood up, and said only, "I think at this rate, we both will have to forego sleep or breakfast to get all our work done for tomorrow."

"Speaking of work," Terrell asked, "isn't your second volume due to the publisher soon?"

"Next month," Kirian said without looking at him, walking to his room—but his neck and ears were red, and Terrell would have snickered except that was not at all the practical thing to do in light of his gift. "Good night, Ter."

"Good night," Terrell replied, and went back to his own room, leaving the drawing on the table so that no harm would come to it.

Back in his room, he finally settled all of his books and papers and bent to his work, forcing all distractions to the back of his mind until the work was done.

View Poll: New LT3 Story

maderr @ 2009-07-07T20:38:00

2009-07-08T00:38:53Z

Hey rykaine,

nikerymis informs me Butterfly contains 50 ellipses. In case I wanted to know. Is that too many, n/n?

Making betas cry,
maderr

maderr @ 2009-07-06T19:16:00

2009-07-06T23:16:59Z

Megan's morning:

Sasha: Why are their eggs boiling?

Megan: OH FUCK MY BREAKFAST

--

Megan: *goes to make toast, puts bag on burner recently vacated by eggs, melts plastic*

--

Text from Sasha: Why is the cinnamon sugar in the sink?

Megan: *facepalm*

--

Also nearly forgot my lunch, got to work a bit late, and I swear I did something else fantastically doofy.

In other news, saw some awesome name at work today: Finefrock and Silverthorn. Of course, upon seeing Silverthorn, all I could think was Wait. That's a real name? Goddammit, does this mean I have to stop rolling my eyes and making fun of everyone who names their elves Silverthorn and Goldsummer and crap?

Now to go ~~read porn~~ write more Huntsman.

maderr @ 2009-07-05T21:08:00

2009-07-06T01:08:46Z

Hmm, never did get to my book review. Shall have to do that at some point, still. Got too busy tweaking Toki's story, adding mroe to Huntsman, and slacking off ^^ But, 11,000 words written and then typed over the course of a holiday weekend is not so bad.

Now to figure out what to do the rest of the night. I'm not certain I have the energy to write the next scene, atm. Hmm hmm hmm.

I hope everyone else had a good weekend ^__^ Fourth of July here was rain rain stupid rain.

quick rec

2009-07-04T15:37:16Z

For those that do not follow bb_shousetsu, the latest issue just came out. Some good stories, but this one was totally my favorite ^__^

Ahaha

2009-07-03T00:04:52Z

I found a cooking game on Facebook. Am doomed. I still miss Cooking Mama. We all have our weaknesses.

Today was an awesome day

2009-07-02T23:39:24Z

We threw a coworker a babyshower, it was so cute ^___^ He totally did not believe all the stuff was for him, and he totally was close to tears when he realized it was, hee hee. I <3 him.

The one girl's last day was today, she kept crying. I made fun of her, naturally, because that's what we do, but I also gave her a goodbye present and made her cry all over again ^____^

Work was, for once, lots and lots of fun. Hopefully it continues in this vein, but likely it will not. Ah, well, enjoy the sunshine while you can ^_^

Finished Toki's story.

Except a scathing book review today or tomorrow. It was truly the shittiest thing I've read in a logn time.

Now, what to do with the rest of my evening, hm hmm hmm.

The State of Things

2009-07-02T00:48:26Z

*Andra's story started today on LT3 ^___^ I hope everyone is enjoying it, we are extremely happy she has agreed to work with us.

*Bound continues. I hope everyone is enjoying that and Beast, on LT3

*Am nearly done with Toki's story, oddly enough. Am still deciding what exactly to do with it.

*Work is work

*I am making coffee (decaf)

*I make awesome Bourbon Slush

*I may have been weak, again, and bought a book of gay fairytales I chanced upon in the bookstore (usually the g/l section sucks at my BN, but I scored this go 'round). If it's any good, I shall link.

*THREE DAY WEEKEND YAY

*I never get tired of listening to Shinedown. <<<333

maderr @ 2009-06-30T06:07:00

2009-06-30T10:08:05Z

*my cat did not want me sleeping today. He started waking me up at 5:00, and gave me no rest until I got up at 5:30. Argh

*had a weird dream, rather than a terrifying one, for once. All I remember now is that some punk kids were beating up our house, saw me and hit a baseball through my bedroom window. I called 911 and the operator started laughing at me. I do not remember more than that O_o But, at least there was no one being murdered or murdering me or shit like that -__-

*my dad sent me a package ^___^ I has grits and other yummy things these friggin' yankees never stock

*mmm, coffee

maderr @ 2009-06-29T01:14:00

2009-06-29T05:14:56Z

Dear insomnia,

We are not friends. Go the fuck away.

Awake and hating it,
Megan

oh, dual monitors

2009-06-28T19:30:51Z

I get double the yummy

Monitor one:

Monitor two:

maderr @ 2009-06-28T11:31:00

2009-06-28T15:31:19Z

Saw Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen last night ^__________________^ My roommies laughed at me, cause I am total fangirl for all the military stuff.

Now I have to do bios and summaries and other annoying crap. I hate author bios. I have no idea how long it should be, or what to say.

Mmm, Transformers and military. I love those movies so damned much. Revenge really was kick ass.

ahahaha

2009-06-27T02:17:43Z

Drinking game to Twilight was maybe not the smartest thing ever. But it is the funniest thing ever. Quote of the evening:

"I drink for the tongue"

nikerymis = Bugs

2009-06-26T18:58:53Z

The running joke around here is that nikerymis has a gremlin problem, given the way her electronics and car like to go wonky.

Also, I am probably dead when she sees this.

maderr @ 2009-06-26T14:48:00

2009-06-26T18:49:06Z

Sasha keeps yelling at me for reading ebooks instead of working. It's much, much harder to get away with shit when there is a task master on the premises. sulk sulk sulk

I am at home!

2009-06-26T13:57:45Z

For now, anyway. We had a kickass storm last night, and it fucked shit up. Only just now got internet back, and my office is apparently zero on the whole electricity thing. So, my boss told me to chill at home until she calls.

maderr @ 2009-06-25T19:42:00

2009-06-25T23:42:36Z

One day, I'm going to write a story about a guy named Alexander who has loads of trouble with gremlins :3

maderr @ 2009-06-24T21:23:00

2009-06-25T01:23:35Z

There is a sad lack of Bones/Chekhov in my life. HINT HINT SKYLARK WRITE MORE HINT HINT

Also, I have brownies. They are very delicious. OM NOM NOM BROWNIE