Feed aggregator

I’m a little bit late on this. It’s been a very hectic month, and I just finished my taxes (Canadian taxes are due on the 30th of April). My mother very helpfully suggested that I could get them done early and then I wouldn’t been in this crush–but I pointed out that it will take 3 days no matter when I start, and it’s not like I haven’t had a ton of other emergency deadlines >.< So, this is the first two chapters of Heir of Light, one because I try to post a chapter a month before the book is out, and the second because I was late. I am sorry to be so behind in everything, and I mean … Continue reading →

Thank you so very much to all of this year’s guests for the excellent essays that made April 2025 another amazing Women in SF&F Month! And thank you to everyone who shared their posts and helped spread the word about this year’s series. It is always very much appreciated! This year’s series has ended, but I wanted to make sure there was a way to find all of the guest posts from 2025. This was the fourteenth annual Women in […]

The post Women in SF&F Month 2025: Thank You and Links first appeared on Fantasy Cafe.

I do most of my business writing on Patreon these days, but roughly once per month, I’ll put a post for free on this website. This post initially went live on my Patreon page on March 30, 2025.  If you go to Patreon, you’ll find other posts like this one.

Putting Yourself Out There

I’m gearing back up to return to the university in the fall. After a heck of a couple of years, I’m resuming my very slow attempt to get a few extra college degrees. Mostly, it’s an excuse to listen to people much younger than myself learn cool stuff, and an excuse to listen to people somewhat younger than myself share their expertise.

I get inspired by all of that.

I’m searching class schedules and realizing that my Spanish has gotten rusty again, so there is probably a summertime online refresher in the complicated tenses on the horizon. Even though, really, using the proper tense is not my problem so much as finding the correct vocabulary word. As in any word that might suit in that circumstance. The vocabulary was the first thing to flee my brain in the hiatus.

The thing that fascinates me the most, though, is watching the theater kids, particularly those who are (at 18, 19, or 20) convinced they’re going to be Actors! (and yes, the exclamation point is there for a reason). Most won’t be, not because they’re not good enough, but because they don’t listen well and they already think they’re God’s gift to the profession.

Mostly, I watch the ones who are insecurely secure in their dreams. These kids know exactly what they want in their lives, but they’re not sure they’re good enough to get there, so they work extra hard to figure out where they should be.

Sometimes it is not where they expect to be. In the theater department in particular, they have to take courses in all aspects of theater, and they sometimes learn that they love a part of theater that they hadn’t expected to like at all.

Surprisingly enough to my younger self, the one who didn’t have the courage to follow her musical abilities into a music degree or to even walk into the theater department at the University of Wisconsin, there are a lot of introverts in theater. Some of those introverts are writers, yes, but many go onstage and perform. Most, in fact, because they like being someone else in front of a group. It’s safer for them.

I get safe. It makes sense. I also get the fear of doing something revealing in front of a crowd. Mostly, that fear is gone for me now. Years of public speaking and talking on panels at sf conventions eased my mind.

Still, I was pretty shocked when I learned that a lot of actors and musicians suffer severe stage fright—people you’ve all heard of. If they have to go onstage, they sit in the dressing room and shake, or, in some cases, puke, because they’re so scared.

Had I known that…well, I doubt I would have done it, because puking is not something I voluntarily do, even for art…but it certainly would have eased my mind about what for me is relatively minor stage fright (in comparison to what these folks have).

Really, though, it’s what they are willing to do for their dreams and their art. They put themselves out there. More importantly, they figure out how to put themselves out there.

Every year, I have a conversation with at least one of my writing students who is terrified for some reason I never probe of putting their work in front of an audience. It always boils down to the fact that they’re afraid of being seen.

Sidebar from a nearly 65-year-old person who has worked in the arts her entire life: You are never seen. Not in your entirety. You may reveal all of your secrets and no one will care. Or they’ll comment on the portrayal of something minor, like the cat, and kvetch about that. It’s disappointing…and freeing.

 

However, the fear of being seen is a real and crippling fear, stopping a lot of prose writers and poets from following their dreams. Writers, unlike actors and musicians, can hide from the world. You can use a pen name, set up a legal entity that doesn’t use your real name (in an obvious manner), and never let your picture out into the world.

You can hide and publish your work. That’s the great thing about being a writer.

Usually when a writer figures out their own personal workaround, they put their work on the market, whatever it means for them.

I had one of those discussions this past week with a couple of different writers, some in person, one online, and when I photo-bombed the Writers’ Block webinar on Wednesday.

After that moment on the webinar, I spent a few hours thinking about how universal that fear is among writers. I’ve been in this business almost fifty years now, and I’ve seen it every year.

Then Dean and I watched a little bit of The Voice. We often watch something to rest our poor brains, usually at dinner. We’ve moved away from news (since there’s no way that will relax anyone), and gone to documentaries and The Voice.

We usually watch a segment or two and then go back to whatever we were doing. It will take us days to watch an entire 2-hour episode.

So that Wednesday night, we watched two members of Michael Bublé’s team duet on a song he wrote, called “Home.” Most of you know it as a super hit for Blake Shelton, but Bublé wrote the song and released it first.

Before the battle, Bublé talked a bit about writing the song. I can’t find the clip for that (mostly because I’m lazy, but also because it’s not that relevant), but I did find the one that caught my attention.

It got me thinking, and I went up to my office and made a list.

Most people who work in the arts realize that their work has to be put out into the world.

• People who write music must perform that music to sell that song/sonata/whatever. They may be terrible singers. They might be shy as hell. But they need to make, at minimum, a demo tape.

Often they perform their own work, in some kind of concert, and it is that work that ends up catapulting them into whatever level of fame they will reach.

And then, partly because of the vagaries of the (exceedingly complex) music copyright laws, they may hear someone else cover their song. They might be like John Legend, who has said on The Voice that he cannot listen to a cover of one of his songs fairly. Or they might be like Bublé who not only assigned the song, but was honored by the way the singers performed it.

• People who write plays write them with production in mind. What is the point of writing a play if it’s just going to languish on your desk? The problem, though, with writing a play is that when it is performed, there will be an area that the performers cannot do or cannot say.

In early drafts of a play, the playwright will have to be nearby to do some kind of work to smooth out that section. Sometimes it’s because the star is a doofus and can’t say a word with more than two syllables, but mostly it’s because that section of the show, when performed in previews, did not work. Neil Simon deals with this a lot in his autobiography Rewrites.

• People who write screenplays know that they’re writing something that will be performed as well. I had a very famous writer friend who wrote the wordiest damn screenplays ever and had, in his contract, a clause that said not a word could be touched.

After his early years in Hollywood (when he didn’t have enough clout to have that stupid contract), he rarely sold a screenplay and when he did, it was a charity sale from a friend who would buy the screenplay so that the writer could retain his Writers Guild membership. (And then the charity friend would do a shooting script.)

• Artists know that their paintings or photographs will be displayed or used on covers or put on t-shirts and prints and everything else.

Even the lowest of the low, graffiti “artists,” the ones who deface buildings, understand that their art needs to be seen. (I’m grumpy about graffiti these days since Vegas has a lot of wall murals all over the city—and the freakin’ graffiti “artists” will deface them. Grrr. I hate people who deface other people’s art.)

• Even young poets these days understand that they might have to get up in front of a crowd at a poetry slam and declaim their poem.
• And let’s not talk about comedians, who are also writers, who get in front of a crowd, and risk bombing night after night after night. Dean and I saw one of George Carlin’s shows in his last years, and Carlin was testing material so new that he was holding paper torn from a notepad.

Some of it was funny. Much of it was not.

Fiction writers—people who write novels and short stories—are the only artists I know who expect someone else to publish their work. Fiction writers, particularly those who are traditionally published, believe that all they have to do is write it, and everyone will flock to their feet.

That’s an ingrained attitude, and a hard one to fight. Heck, a lot of these writers are worried when they decide to give a copy of their manuscript to an editor at a book publishing house or (worse) an agent.

Writers do not expect to have their work in the public view, and often fear it.

I’m not sure why this is. I think it’s just part of the culture.

There are movies that show writers at work, and someone else dragging that “brilliant” manuscript off the writer’s desk. Or the writer “gets discovered” in an English class (never happened when I was in school). Or someone else mailed off their manuscript.

That myth goes hand in hand with the idea that writing should be hard and writers should suffer while doing it. That myth also goes with the idea that anything written fast is terrible and anything labored over is brilliant. And that myth goes with the idea that being prolific is a sin. (Tell that to Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare.)

Indie writers have a similar problem, but it’s couched in other terms. I don’t want to learn how to publish. That’s going to be hard. It’ll take too much money or I can’t do covers or…or…

Okay, I want to reply, whatever roadblocks you want to set up for your work, go ahead.

But real artists—be they musicians or painters or (yes) writers—need to have their work seen. They need to figure out how to get on that stage despite their stage fright and put their art in front of an audience.

Otherwise the art will be destroyed when they die, tossed out with the trash or deleted off their computers.

Oh…and let’s talk “covers” for a minute. Blake Shelton’s version of “Home” is very different from Bublé’s version, which is different from the duet that aired on The Voice this past week.

If you’re lucky as a writer, and if you put yourself out there, at some point, someone will want to do make another piece of art using yours as inspiration. Maybe a movie, maybe a TV show, maybe a dramatic reading or an audio book.

That’s a “cover” for lack of a better term. (It really is a derivative work, and it does fall in a different place in the copyright law, but go with me on this for a minute.) Instead of being all protective and saying that you must control all things, say yes…if the contract terms are good.

That’s all.

A singer doesn’t have to get permission to cover a song. I can sing “Home” badly in front of an audience if I want to, but if I get paid for it, I need to let the songwriter know that I’m going to be covering the song. The songwriter cannot say no.

It gets complicated after that. (Okay, it’s already complicated.) But implied in all of this is that the music needs to get in front of an audience. The play will be performed. The screenplay will become the basis for a movie. The painting will hang on a gallery wall.

What makes writer-artists any different? Why should we fight so hard to create something and then be afraid to put it in front of an audience. Particularly since we’ll never see that audience. We don’t have to hear from them either, if we keep our email private and don’t go on social media and don’t read reviews.

What makes fiction writers so dang delicate? Every artist has fears. All of us do. If we want to make a living at our art, we learn to overcome the fear.

It may take a dozen workarounds. It might mean the writing equivalent of puking in the bathroom before stepping on the stage. But if you value your own work and your own dreams, you learn how to get past whatever is stopping you.

Just like other performers do.

“Putting Yourself Out There,” copyright © 2025 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Picture of Gavin is there because, despite appearances, he’s terrified of putting himself out there.

 

While House Andrews is away (hopefully somewhere gorgeous, where the only monsters are overloaded breakfast waffles), you’re left with me. Mwahahaha.

As always, the result is chaos! Fluffy, nerdy, deeply chalant chaos. Some of you are still trying to marry London though sheer force of headcanon – because would a guy with such good jawline really be capable of betrayal? And who among us hasn’t at one time suggested impromptu post-mortem thumb fingerprint extraction surgery in a toxic monster-infested cave trap? Long live Team Facts Be Damned, you’ve taught me all I know!

The comments have also been busy trying to figure out which Talent would serve us best beyond the gate.

I see you. I hear you. I have made you a thing: The Inheritance Talent Sorting Quiz.

Tried to write it as a ‘choose your own adventure’ story. That’s technically the tank-repairing grandma of LitRPG, so it should work. There are 6 possible results: assessor, tank, blade warden, scout, healer and mining foreman. Sorry chat, you can’t aim for the InBearitance. If we can’t all be Bear, no one can be Bear. It’s only fair.

Gentle note:

This is just for fun. Every Talent plays a vital part in helping humanity survive. If you think getting a particular result might ruin your afternoon, it’s perfectly fine to skip the quiz. Bear still loves you.

Also: the newsletter doesn’t like the quiz plugin and sends it out in code. If you read this in email form and want to take the test, click here to come directly to the website.

Long may you survive the breach, BDH! Preferably with all your thumbs.

6668

The Inheritance Talent Quiz

When the first gate tore and monsters came out, everything went sideways. Humans freaked out. A few—not me, I’m a dog—woke up with powers no one could explain. Talents. Some became walking shields. Some turned into stabby-happy blade machines. Some just got very good at finding shinies.
The war is still going. It's time to find your place in the breach. Take the quiz. Get sorted. Don’t die. And bring dog biscuits.

— Bear, Winner of the "Best Girl" Guild Award, 3 years running

 

1 / 10

You step through the gate. The mist clings to your boots and the air smells like copper and rain. Ahead, alien darkness stretches, waiting.

Before you challenge it, you reach for your talisman. Every diver has one. Something to hold, remember, and ward off the worst. What do you carry?

A dog tag from someone who didn’t make it. You wear it so no one forgets. A coin you flip before each gate run. It doesn't matter what you call—it’s not about the outcome, it’s about the toss. A nugget of rusty breach ore. Worth nothing. Kept it anyway. It hums sometimes. A loop of thread, torn off from your oldest guild coveralls. It’s frayed. So are you. Still works. A polished citrine crystal. Your mother said it brings prosperity. You mostly use it as a fidget spinner. Just a ritual. You whisper your name once, then leave it behind. In the breach, no one can hold you, even by your shadow.

2 / 10

The first thing you encounter is a grove of bioluminescent fungi, stretching as far as the eye can see. Some pulse with variegated light; others twitch when the air moves. Do you…

Immediately start cataloguing. Potential resource, possible danger—both matter. Could it work as potential escape cover for later? Who knows what will be chasing you on your way out. Clear a path through it—gently, if possible, forcefully if not. Look for signs of medicinal properties. Even breach-nature heals if you know where to look. Check whether it grows over something more valuable. You're in this for the income as much as the outcome. Investigate the wider area while everyone is focused on the mushrooms. Someone has to.

3 / 10

At the other end of the mushroom field, the ground starts to shake underfoot. Debris cascades down the cave walls. Ahead, a narrow tunnel splits left, and a spindly stone bridge stretches right across a deep chasm. Neither path looks safe. Make your choice.

A "gut instinct" is your experience and perception telling you something before the brain has had the chance to formulate rational thought. You pick the path your intuition dictates. Not all of you will be able to fit through the narrow tunnel. You test the bridge’s strength with your full weight. If it breaks, better it’s you than the others. You guard the crossing until everyone else makes it through. Survival is a priority, but resources are the whole reason the team is here. Which path leads to fewer regrets? Bah. Rocks. You know rocks. Rocks fall, nobody died. They're overreacting. Make sure everyone’s stable before committing to either direction.

4 / 10

Good news: your whole team made it across the narrow stone bridge. Bad news: the air here crackles with static. Something hums in your teeth. Only one step into the eerie cold and your comm unit sputters and dies. HQ is gone. Radio silence. What do you do?

Fall into leadership mode. Contact or no contact, someone needs to take responsibility for the team. You have no authority here. You can only hope procedure will be maintained. Mutter a curse and keep working. If it's important, they’ll find you. Rally the team, keep panic from spreading. Hold position and fortify your location until a new plan forms. Double-time it to higher ground to assess the new area. Sooner or later, the order will be to move.

5 / 10

You hear a faint tapping behind a collapsed wall in the new cavern. Comms are still down, so it could be someone from the assault team, trapped. How do you handle it?

Leave the team to their work and go investigate from a side tunnel. Clear the rubble with brute strength—there's no time to lose! Weapon at the ready. Chances are it's foe, not friend. Have your supplies at hand. You hope it's not too late for whoever's out there. Use tools to clear rubble efficiently, like you were trained to do. Evaluate the surroundings and probabilities before you even touch this new problem.

6 / 10

An ambush! There's monster fire as soon as you clear the suspicious tapping wall. Your instincts scream. You react with:

Shield up, block as much of the damage as possible. Fall back, analyzing the cavern for counterattack or escape options. Find cover and prepare to deal with the inevitable. Stealthily drop a grenade on the enemy from above. Play deadly games, win deadly prizes. Rush the enemy, cutting your way out. If it's heavy enough, it's a weapon. I'm not going down today.

7 / 10

You've escaped the monster ambush, but one of your teammates is down—bad leg wound, bleeding fast. What do you do?

Assess the wound and try to stop the bleeding immediately. Carry them without slowing down. Clear a path for evacuation, with force if necessary. Look around for that one lichen that acts as a painkiller. They must be in agony. Find the fastest way back to the gate. Time matters. Rig a makeshift stretcher out of whatever you have. You'll take turns getting them through this.

8 / 10

You've been in the breach for a day now and it's taking its toll. You find a mostly intact supply crate dropped by the assault team. What's the first thing you grab?

The fresh pair of socks. Work conditions are hard and trench foot is harder! A new can of high-vis spray paint. This breach is loaded! Med supplies, the severe limb injury is draining ours. Emergency rations. I need my strength. Check for any weapons. Even with the safety protocols, we don't want them to fall in enemy hands. The portable beacon. Escape routes matter more than loot.

9 / 10

You’ve reached the anchor chamber. It’s pulsing at critical mass. Once it ruptures, monsters will flood Earth. But this is also the first chamber you've come across any high-value ore. You have minutes. What do you do?

Collapse the anchor. We'll find good ore in other breaches. Slash at anything that comes from the anchor while others mine. We're in a blue threat-level breach, we can take these monsters. Block the entrance. If creature wants to go through, it won't make it past you. Get your team out alive. Nothing is worth dying for. Move out. No looking back. Secure the ore—fast. After all that, you’re not leaving empty-handed.

10 / 10

As you stumble through the collapsing gate, bloodied and exhausted, one thought burns brightest in your mind. What was most important to you inside the breach?

Giving the fight my all. Understanding the breach so humanity can make the most out of it. Protecting my team. Always. Getting everyone out on their own feet. Having something to show for it. Glory is good, but bonuses feed my kids better. Outmaneuvering every threat the breach threw at me. LinkedIn Facebook Twitter VKontakte

div#ays-quiz-container-10 * { box-sizing: border-box; } /* Styles for Internet Explorer start */ #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 { } /* Styles for Quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-10{ min-height: 350px; width:400px; background-color:#fff; background-position:center center;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} /* Styles for Navigation bar */ #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 { width: 100%;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #000; border-color: #000; background-color: #fff; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-active a.ays_questions_nav_question { box-shadow: inset 0 0 5px #000, 0 0 5px #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-answered a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #fff; border-color: #fff; background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_correct_answer { color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); border-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); background-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 0.4); } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-10 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_wrong_answer { color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); border-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); background-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 0.4); } /* Styles for questions */ #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 div.step { min-height: 350px; } /* Styles for text inside quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-start-page *:not(input), #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_question_hint, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container label[for^="ays-answer-"], #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container p, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-title, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-subtitle, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .logged_in_message, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers *, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_score_message, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_message{ color: #000; outline: none; } /* Quiz title / transformation */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-fs-title{ text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 21px; text-align: center; text-shadow: none; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-password-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-question-note-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question *:not([class^='enlighter']) { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 textarea, #ays-quiz-container-10 input::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-10 select::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-10 option::first-letter { color: initial !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 p::first-letter:not(.ays_no_questions_message) { color: #000 !important; background-color: transparent !important; font-size: inherit !important; font-weight: inherit !important; float: none !important; line-height: inherit !important; margin: 0 !important; padding: 0 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-fs-subtitle p { text-align: center ; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question { text-align: center ; margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question pre { max-width: 100%; white-space: break-spaces; } div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container .ays-field, div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'], div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container .ays-modern-dark-question *, div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question, div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question *{ word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-timer p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 section.ays_quiz_redirection_timer_container hr, #ays-quiz-container-10 section.ays_quiz_timer_container hr { margin: 0; } #ays-quiz-container-10 section.ays_quiz_timer_container.ays_quiz_timer_red_warning .ays-quiz-timer { color: red; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_thank_you_fs p { text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='text'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='url'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='number'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='email'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='tel'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form textarea, #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form select, #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form option { color: initial !important; outline: none; margin-left: 0; background-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='checkbox'] { margin: 0 10px; outline: initial; -webkit-appearance: auto; -moz-appearance: auto; position: initial; width: initial; height: initial; border: initial; background: initial; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .information_form input[type='checkbox']::after { content: none; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .wrong_answer_text{ color:#ff4d4d; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .right_answer_text{ color:#33cc33; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .right_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .wrong_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_questtion_explanation p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_cb_and_a, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_cb_and_a * { color: rgb(0,0,0); text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 iframe { /*min-height: 350px;*/ } #ays-quiz-container-10 label.ays_for_checkbox, #ays-quiz-container-10 span.ays_checkbox_for_span { color: initial !important; display: block; } /* Quiz textarea height */ #ays-quiz-container-10 textarea { height: 100px; min-height: 100px; } /* Quiz rate and passed users count */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_rete_avg{ color:#fff; background-color:#000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-questions-container > .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak { padding: 5px 20px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.for_quiz_rate.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(0,0,0,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_rete_avg div.for_quiz_rate_avg.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(255,255,255,0.5); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_rete .ays-quiz-rate-link-box .ays-quiz-rate-link { color: #000; } /* Loaders */ #ays-quiz-container-10 div.lds-spinner, #ays-quiz-container-10 div.lds-spinner2 { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.lds-spinner div:after, #ays-quiz-container-10 div.lds-spinner2 div:after { background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-circle, #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-facebook div, #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-ellipsis div{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-ripple div{ border-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-dual-ring::after, #ays-quiz-container-10 .lds-hourglass::after{ border-color: #000 transparent #000 transparent; } /* Stars */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ui.rating .icon, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ui.rating .icon:before { font-family: Rating !important; } /* Progress bars */ #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-progress { border-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-progress-bg { background-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.3); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-progress-value { color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-progress-bar { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-question-counter .ays-live-bar-wrap { direction:ltr !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-live-bar-fill{ color: #000; border-bottom: 2px solid rgba(0,0,0,0.8); text-shadow: 0px 0px 5px #fff; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-fourth, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-third, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-second { text-shadow: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-live-bar-percent{ display:none; } /* Music, Sound */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_music_sound { color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-10 blockquote { border-left-color: #000 !important; } /* Quiz Password */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-start-page > input[id^='ays_quiz_password_val_'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-password-toggle-visibility-box { width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; } /* Question hint */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text { background-color:#fff; box-shadow: 0 0 15px 3px rgba(0,0,0,0.6); max-width: 270px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text p { max-width: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_questions_hint_max_width_class { max-width: 80%; } /* Information form */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-form-title{ color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Quiz timer */ #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-redirection-timer, #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-timer{ color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-timer.ays-quiz-message-before-timer:before { font-weight: 500; } /* Quiz buttons */ #ays-quiz-container-10 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button.ays_restart_button { background-color: #27AE60; color:#333; font-size: 17px; padding: 10px 20px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; letter-spacing: 0; box-shadow: unset; white-space: normal; word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-10 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 input.action-button { } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 a[class~=ajax_add_to_cart]{ background-color: #fff; color:#333; padding: 10px 5px; font-size: 14px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; border: 1px solid #333; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button.ays_check_answer { padding: 5px 10px; font-size: 17px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button.ays_download_certificate { white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button.ays_arrow { color:#333!important; white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 input#ays-submit:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 input#ays-submit:focus, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px #333; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_restart_button { color: #333; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_restart_button_p { display: flex; justify-content: center; flex-wrap: wrap; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .step:first-of-type .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 input[type='button'], #ays-quiz-container-10 input[type='submit'] { color: #333 !important; outline: none; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled], #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled] { color: #aaa !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_finish.action-button{ margin: 10px 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-share-btn.ays-share-btn-branded { color: #fff; } /* Question answers */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field { border-color: #444; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: none;flex-direction: row-reverse; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-answers .ays-field:hover{ opacity: 1; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field label.ays_answer_caption[for^='ays-answer-'] { z-index: 1; position:initial;bottom:0;} #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'] { padding: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field { margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item { width: calc(50% - 5px); } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item:nth-child(odd) { margin-right: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field input:checked+label:before { border-color: #27AE60; background: #27AE60; background-clip: content-box; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-answers div.ays-text-right-answer { color: #000; } /* Answer maximum length of a text field */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question_text_message{ color: #000; text-align: left; font-size: 12px; } div#ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays_quiz_question_text_error_message { color: #ff0000; } /* Questions answer image */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-answer-image { width:15em; height:150px; object-fit: cover; } /* Questions answer right/wrong icons */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field input~label.answered.correct:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/correct.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field input~label.answered.wrong:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/wrong.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field label.answered:last-of-type:after{ height: auto; left: 10px;top: 10px;} /* Dropdown questions */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field:focus, #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field { outline: unset; padding: 0.75rem; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single { border-bottom: 2px solid #27AE60; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow { color: #d8519f; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option--highlighted[aria-selected] { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .selection, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .dropdown-wrapper, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow b[role='presentation'] { font-size: 16px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option { padding: 6px; } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar { width: 7px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-track { background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.55); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb:hover { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.85); } /* WooCommerce product */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-woo-block { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-woo-product-block h4.ays-woo-product-title > a { color: #000; } /* Audio / Video */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-time{ box-sizing: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-time-rail { padding-top: 15px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-mediaelement video { margin: 0; } /* Limitation */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers { padding: 50px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-show, #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-hide{ color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_elegant_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_rect_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { box-shadow: unset; background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { margin: 10px 6px; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | End */ /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-10 label[for^='ays-answer']:before, #ays-quiz-container-10 label[for^='ays-answer']:before { -webkit-mask-image: unset; mask-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before { background-color: #27AE60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before { background-color: #27ae60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before { background-color: #cc3700 !important; } /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | End */ #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_results fieldset.ays_fieldset .ays_quiz_question .wp-video { width: 100% !important; max-width: 100%; } /* Classic Dark / Classic Light */ /* Dropdown questions right/wrong styles */ #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div{ border-color: green !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div .selected-field, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div .selected-field { padding: 0px 10px 0px 10px; color: green !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .wrong_div, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .wrong_div{ border-color: red !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_question_result .ays-field .ays_quiz_hide_correct_answer:after{ content: '' !important; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-close-full-screen { fill: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-quiz-open-full-screen { fill: #000; } @media screen and (max-width: 768px){ #ays-quiz-container-10{ max-width: 100%; } div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_light .step, div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_dark .step { padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_light div.step[data-question-id], div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_dark div.step[data-question-id] { background-size: cover !important; background-position: center center !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_light .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page), div#ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_modern_dark .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page) { width: 100%; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-10 input#ays-submit, div#ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button.ays_restart_button { font-size: 17px; } div#ays-quiz-container-10 div.ays-questions-container div.ays-woo-block { width: 100%; } /* Quiz title / mobile font size */ div#ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-fs-title { font-size: 21px; } } /* Custom css styles */ /* RTL direction styles */ #ays-quiz-container-10 p { margin: 0.625em; } #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.6); } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_light .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label, #ays-quiz-container-10.ays_quiz_classic_dark .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label { background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-10.ays-quiz-container.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-questions-container .ays-field:hover label[for^='ays-answer-'], #ays-quiz-container-10 .ays-field:hover{ background: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); color: #fff; transition: all .3s; } #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-10 #ays_finish_quiz_10 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.5), 0 0 0 3px #333; background: #27AE60; } if(typeof aysQuizOptions === 'undefined'){ var aysQuizOptions = []; } aysQuizOptions['10'] = '{"quiz_version":"8.7.4","core_version":"6.8","php_version":"8.2.28","color":"#27AE60","bg_color":"#fff","text_color":"#000","height":350,"width":400,"enable_logged_users":"off","information_form":"disable","form_name":"off","form_email":"off","form_phone":"off","image_width":"","image_height":"","enable_correction":"off","enable_progress_bar":"off","enable_questions_result":"off","randomize_questions":"off","randomize_answers":"off","enable_questions_counter":"on","enable_restriction_pass":"off","enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","restriction_pass_message":"","restriction_pass_users_message":"","user_role":[],"ays_users_search":[],"custom_css":"","limit_users":"off","limitation_message":"","redirect_url":"","redirection_delay":0,"answers_view":"list","enable_rtl_direction":"off","enable_logged_users_message":"","questions_count":"","enable_question_bank":"off","enable_live_progress_bar":"off","enable_percent_view":"off","enable_average_statistical":"off","enable_next_button":"off","enable_previous_button":"off","enable_arrows":"off","timer_text":"","quiz_theme":"classic_light","enable_social_buttons":"on","final_result_text":"","enable_pass_count":"on","hide_score":"on","rate_form_title":"","box_shadow_color":"#000","quiz_border_radius":"0","quiz_bg_image":"","quiz_border_width":"1","quiz_border_style":"solid","quiz_border_color":"#000","quiz_loader":"default","quest_animation":"shake","enable_bg_music":"off","quiz_bg_music":"","answers_font_size":15,"show_create_date":"off","show_author":"off","enable_early_finish":"off","answers_rw_texts":"disable","disable_store_data":"off","enable_background_gradient":"off","background_gradient_color_1":"#000","background_gradient_color_2":"#fff","quiz_gradient_direction":"vertical","redirect_after_submit":"off","submit_redirect_url":"","submit_redirect_delay":"0","progress_bar_style":"first","enable_exit_button":"off","exit_redirect_url":"","image_sizing":"cover","quiz_bg_image_position":"center center","custom_class":"","enable_social_links":"off","social_links":{"linkedin_link":"","facebook_link":"","twitter_link":"","vkontakte_link":"","instagram_link":"","youtube_link":""},"show_quiz_title":"on","show_quiz_desc":"on","show_login_form":"off","mobile_max_width":"","limit_users_by":"ip","explanation_time":"4","enable_clear_answer":"off","show_category":"off","show_question_category":"off","answers_padding":"5","answers_border":"on","answers_border_width":"1","answers_border_style":"solid","answers_border_color":"#444","ans_img_height":"150","ans_img_caption_style":"outside","ans_img_caption_position":"bottom","answers_box_shadow":"off","answers_box_shadow_color":"#000","show_answers_caption":"on","answers_margin":10,"ans_right_wrong_icon":"default","display_score":"by_points","enable_rw_asnwers_sounds":"off","quiz_bg_img_in_finish_page":"off","finish_after_wrong_answer":"off","after_timer_text":"","enable_enter_key":"on","show_rate_after_rate":"on","buttons_text_color":"#333","buttons_position":"center","buttons_size":"medium","buttons_font_size":"17","buttons_width":"","buttons_left_right_padding":"20","buttons_top_bottom_padding":"10","buttons_border_radius":"3","enable_audio_autoplay":"off","enable_leave_page":"on","show_only_wrong_answer":"off","pass_score":0,"pass_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Congratulations!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You passed the quiz!<\/p>","fail_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Oops!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You have not passed the quiz!\r\nTry again!<\/p>","answers_object_fit":"cover","quiz_max_pass_count":1,"question_font_size":16,"quiz_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","questions_hint_icon_or_text":"hide","questions_hint_value":"","enable_early_finsh_comfirm_box":"on","hide_correct_answers":"off","quiz_loader_text_value":"","show_information_form":"on","show_questions_explanation":"disable","enable_questions_ordering_by_cat":"off","enable_send_mail_to_user_by_pass_score":"off","enable_send_mail_to_admin_by_pass_score":"off","show_questions_numbering":"none","show_answers_numbering":"none","quiz_loader_custom_gif":"","disable_hover_effect":"off","quiz_loader_custom_gif_width":100,"quiz_title_transformation":"uppercase","quiz_image_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","quiz_image_height":"","quiz_bg_img_on_start_page":"off","quiz_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_z_offset":15,"quiz_question_text_alignment":"center","quiz_arrow_type":"default","quiz_show_wrong_answers_first":"off","quiz_display_all_questions":"off","quiz_timer_red_warning":"off","quiz_schedule_timezone":"UTC-6","questions_hint_button_value":"","quiz_tackers_message":"This quiz is expired!","quiz_enable_linkedin_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_facebook_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_twitter_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_vkontakte_share_button":"on","quiz_make_responses_anonymous":"off","quiz_make_all_review_link":"off","quiz_message_before_timer":"","quiz_password_message":"","enable_see_result_confirm_box":"off","display_fields_labels":"off","quiz_enable_password_visibility":"off","question_mobile_font_size":16,"answers_mobile_font_size":15,"social_buttons_heading":"","social_links_heading":"","quiz_enable_question_category_description":"off","quiz_message_before_redirect_timer":"","buttons_mobile_font_size":17,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_z_offset":10,"quiz_enable_title_text_shadow":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_color":"#333","right_answers_font_size":16,"wrong_answers_font_size":16,"quest_explanation_font_size":16,"quiz_waiting_time":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_x_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_y_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_z_offset":2,"quiz_show_only_wrong_answers":"off","quiz_title_font_size":21,"quiz_title_mobile_font_size":21,"quiz_password_width":"","quiz_review_placeholder_text":"","quiz_make_review_required":"off","quiz_enable_results_toggle":"off","question_count_per_page":null,"question_count_per_page_number":"","mail_message":"","enable_certificate":"off","enable_certificate_without_send":"off","certificate_pass":"0","form_title":"","certificate_title":"<span style=\"font-size: 50px; font-weight: bold;\">Certificate of Completion<\/span>","certificate_body":"<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>This is to certify that<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\"><b>%%user_name%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>has completed the quiz<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">\"%%quiz_name%%\"<\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 20px;\">with a score of <b>%%score%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>dated<\/i><\/span>\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">%%current_date%%<\/span>","mailchimp_list":"","enable_mailchimp":"off","enable_double_opt_in":"off","active_date_check":"off","activeInterval":"2025-04-30 08:35:11","deactiveInterval":"2025-04-30 08:35:11","active_date_message":"The quiz has expired!","active_date_pre_start_message":"The quiz will be available soon!","checkbox_score_by":"on","calculate_score":"by_correctness","send_results_user":"off","send_interval_msg":"off","question_bank_type":"general","questions_bank_cat_count":{"1":""},"enable_tackers_count":"off","tackers_count":"","send_results_admin":"on","send_interval_msg_to_admin":"off","show_interval_message":"on","allow_collecting_logged_in_users_data":"off","quiz_pass_score":"0","send_certificate_to_admin":"off","certificate_image":"","certificate_frame":"default","certificate_orientation":"l","make_questions_required":"off","enable_password":"off","password_quiz":"","mail_message_admin":"","send_mail_to_site_admin":"on","generate_password":"general","generated_passwords":{"created_passwords":[],"active_passwords":[],"used_passwords":[]},"display_score_by":"by_keywords","show_schedule_timer":"off","show_timer_type":"countdown","progress_live_bar_style":"default","enable_full_screen_mode":"off","enable_navigation_bar":"off","hide_limit_attempts_notice":"off","turn_on_extra_security_check":"on","enable_top_keywords":"off","assign_keywords":[{"assign_top_keyword":"A","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"B","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"C","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"D","assign_top_keyword_text":""}],"quiz_enable_coupon":"off","quiz_coupons_array":{"quiz_active_coupons":[],"quiz_inactive_coupons":[]},"apply_points_to_keywords":"off","limit_attempts_count_by_user_role":"","enable_autostart":"off","paypal_amount":null,"paypal_currency":null,"paypal_message":"","enable_stripe":"off","stripe_amount":"","stripe_currency":"","stripe_message":"You need to pay to pass this quiz.","payment_type":"prepay","enable_monitor":"off","monitor_list":"","active_camp_list":"","enable_slack":"off","slack_conversation":"","active_camp_automation":"","enable_active_camp":"off","enable_zapier":"off","enable_google_sheets":"off","spreadsheet_id":"","google_sheet_custom_fields":[],"quiz_attributes":null,"quiz_attributes_active_order":null,"quiz_attributes_passive_order":["ays_form_name","ays_form_email","ays_form_phone"],"required_fields":null,"enable_timer":"off","timer":100,"enable_quiz_rate":"off","enable_rate_avg":"off","enable_box_shadow":"on","enable_border":"off","quiz_timer_in_title":"off","enable_rate_comments":"off","enable_restart_button":"off","autofill_user_data":"off","enable_copy_protection":"off","enable_paypal":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","result_text":null,"enable_result":"off","enable_mad_mimi":"off","mad_mimi_list":"","enable_convertKit":"off","convertKit_form_id":"","enable_getResponse":"off","getResponse_list":"","submit_redirect_after":"","rw_answers_sounds":false,"id":"10","title":"The Inheritance Talent Quiz","description":"When the first gate tore and monsters came out, everything went sideways. Humans freaked out. A few\u2014not me, I\u2019m a dog\u2014woke up with powers no one could explain. Talents. Some became walking shields. Some turned into stabby-happy blade machines. Some just got very good at finding shinies.\r\nThe war is still going. It's time to find your place in the breach. Take the quiz. Get sorted. Don\u2019t die. And bring dog biscuits.\r\n\r\n\u2014 Bear, Winner of the \"Best Girl\" Guild Award, 3 years running\r\n\r\n&nbsp;","quiz_image":"https:\/\/ilona-andrews.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/Portal.jpg","quiz_category_id":"1","question_ids":"87,84,85,83,82,80,79,81,86,78","ordering":"10","published":"1","intervals":"[{\"interval_min\":\"0\",\"interval_max\":\"25\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are an Assessor!\\r\\n\\r\\nOr your official title, Dimension Breach Resource Assessor. Your Talent scans and evaluates, detecting all the resources in your environment, be they organic or inorganic.\\r\\nWithout you, the breach would just create danger and withhold its wealth. Humanity\\u2019s resources and chances would be diminished. \\r\\nYou\\u2019re so valuable to Earth\\u2019s survival, the Guilds can\\u2019t hire you for all the adamantite in the world. And boy, have they tried!\\r\\n\\r\\nBear says: \\\"Smart human. Sniff first.\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/1_Bl0jbKc5FUZTaPxJPfop_Q.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"A\"},{\"interval_min\":\"26\",\"interval_max\":\"50\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are a Blade Warden!\\r\\n\\r\\nPrecision, protection, lethal grace\\u2014you hold all the cards! You can dish out lethal damage with your weapon AND make yourself invulnerable in your own protective forcefield. No that anyone\\u2019s counting, but if they were, you\\u2019d be a winner in the Talent lottery. \\r\\nThat usually means you\\u2019re given the important roles, and that no one dies while you still stand. People follow you into danger because they trust you to carve the way out. Even the government tasks you to protect their own. \\r\\n\\r\\nBear says: \\\"Strong. Bite back harder.\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/force-shield-escudo-de-forca.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"B\"},{\"interval_min\":\"51\",\"interval_max\":\"75\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are a Tank!\\r\\n\\r\\nYou are the mountain that moves. Literally strong enough to benchpress a car. The meat shield that doesn't crack, always putting yourself between your team and danger. Your amour and shield alone weigh more than some of your team mates.\\r\\nWhen the breach bares its fangs, you take the hit, hold the line, and endure. Everyone is your priority, but you are no one\\u2019s. That\\u2019s a heavy sacrifice you don\\u2019t bear for glory \\u2014you do it because somebody has to. \\r\\n\\r\\nBear says: \\\"Big. Brave. Carries all, even dog biscuit.\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/ca2b365919138f12b807f29931eeb98b.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"C\"},{\"interval_min\":\"76\",\"interval_max\":\"100\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are a Healer!\\r\\n\\r\\nYou are the reason the heroes walk away alive. If they get to you in time, there\\u2019s nothing you can\\u2019t fix except death.\\r\\nYou don\\u2019t head out into the breach with every team, because you\\u2019re too valuable to endanger. But when you do, you bring hope in the midst of death and madness. \\r\\nAnd when the other Talents come out of the gate, a mass of blood and pain, carrying their casualties, your work is merely beginning.\\r\\nEvery scar tells a story\\u2014and because of you, those stories keep going.\\r\\n\\r\\nBear says: \\\"Fix. Then fix again. Ouchies never stop.\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/healing-charmed.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"D\"},{\"interval_min\":\"\",\"interval_max\":\"\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are a Scout!\\r\\n\\r\\nYou move faster, see sharper, hear better and think quicker than anyone else. If you concentrate, you can sense mushrooms being toxic three tunnels away.\\r\\nIt\\u2019s not just about survival when you head out in front of everyone in the breach. You have to outsmart, outmaneuver, and outrun danger, and come back to bring first warning. You read every shadow and sound beyond the gate like a map, and make sure the rest of your team don\\u2019t get caught unaware.\\r\\n\\r\\nBear says: \\\"Light paws. Smart paws. Ears up, eyes open!\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/kuzco-emperor-1.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"E\"},{\"interval_min\":\"\",\"interval_max\":\"\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, you are a Mining Foreman!\\r\\n\\r\\nSurvival isn't just about killing monsters\\u2014it\\u2019s about building something afterward. Others heroically swing blades and dodge monster claws, but who is making all that possible? You are!\\r\\n\\u201cPlaying around with pretty rocks\\u201d ensures humanity gets the precious metals to reinforce armour and forge the weapons. No wonder you get paid the big bucks!\\r\\nMiners are strong, adaptable, pragmatic and not above smacking a monster with a rock drill if it comes to that. You're the bedrock everyone else builds on.\\r\\n\\r\\nBear says:\\\" Shiny rocks good. Shiny rocks mean bacon.\\\"\\r\\n\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/04\\\/TSBEvolution-All-Blocks.gif\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"F\"}]","author_id":"4477","post_id":null,"create_date":"2025-04-29 14:38:45","quiz_url":"","is_user_logged_in":false,"quiz_animation_top":100,"quiz_enable_animation_top":"on","store_all_not_finished_results":false}';

See you on Friday for The Inheritance Chapter 4!

The post Horde Alone And Inheritance Quiz first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Here are 7 Author Shoutouts for this week. Find your favorite author or discover an…

The post 7 Author Shoutouts | Authors We Love To Recommend appeared first on LitStack.

Growing up in Southern California in the 60’s and 70’s was a movie lover’s dream. Late night and weekend television in those days was almost completely given over to old movies, especially on the Los Angeles independent channels: KTLA channel 5, KHJ channel 9, KTTV channel 11, and KCOP channel 13.

The independent stations were especially prone to showing independent movies, small films that hadn’t cost much and hadn’t made much and could be acquired cheaply to occupy all the time that had to be filled until sign-off and the test pattern. Many of these movies were from the House of Corman (The Little Shop of Horrors, The Masque of the Red Death, Dementia 13), but most weren’t, and any night of the week you could watch a pulse-pounder like The Flesh Eaters, The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies, or Beast of Blood (once you had advanced — or descended — to Filipino horror movies you could consider yourself a schlock PHD.)

Most of these films were awful, of course (that’s how you wound up on channel 13 at two in the morning), but sometimes a (relative) diamond could be found among the ashes. One movie that I discovered during those years was Night Tide, an odd little indie that aimed a bit higher than the usual cheapie thriller. I was always happy when it popped up in the week’s TV Guide listings.

Made in 1960 and first screened in 1961, but not widely released until 1963 due to distribution confusion (it has a Corman connection after all, because it was released through Filmgroup, his distribution company) and directed by Curtis Harrington, it’s an offbeat film that has all of the expected deficiencies of a micro-budget independent movie along with some unexpected virtues. (It was supposedly made for $25,000, which wouldn’t even cover George Clooney’s carfare today.)

Clearly taking his inspiration from the series of nine horror films that Val Lewton produced for RKO in the 1940’s (Night Tide owes most to the first of them, 1942’s Cat People), Harrington (who wrote the script as well as directed) tells an ambiguous, poetic, melancholy story in an allusive, indirect way. Making a virtue of poverty, Harrington allows the viewer to fill in everything that is only suggested (because it would cost too much to show it), which was very much the strategy Lewton followed in making his underfinanced gems.

Night Tide is the story of a USN sailor, Johnny Drake (a twenty-five-year-old Dennis Hopper in his first lead role) and Mora (Linda Lawson), a young woman who appears as a mermaid in a boardwalk sideshow. (Most of the movie was shot just west of Los Angeles in Santa Monica.)

Strolling along a beachfront street one night, Johnny drops into a jazz club where he sees Mora sitting alone, raptly listening to the music. Struck by her dark beauty, Johnny asks if he can sit at her table to get a better view of the players. Mora agrees, but brushes aside the sailor’s attempts at conversation. While they are sitting there, a strange, black-clad, intense-looking woman comes up and speaks to Mora in a foreign language. The woman walks away, and Mora, visibly upset, rushes out of the club.

Johnny, desperate to make some kind of connection with this intriguing woman, follows Mora down the darkened street, all the while trying to persuade her to talk with him. Perhaps sensing a loneliness equal to her own and touched by his sincerity, Mora permits Johnny to walk her to her home above a carousel. She rebuffs his request to come upstairs with her, but she permits him to clumsily kiss her goodnight, and leaves him with an invitation to come back in the morning, when she will fix him breakfast.

When Johnny returns the next day, he first takes a look at the merry-go-round under Mora’s apartment, where he meets the ride’s operator and his granddaughter Ellen (Luana Anders), who both respond a little oddly when they hear that he’s there to visit the sideshow mermaid.

When Johnny goes upstairs, Mora greets him warmly and leads him through an apartment decorated with souvenirs of the sea, to a balcony overlooking the ocean, where they will have their breakfast. (Seafood, naturally.) During their conversation, the sailor and the enigmatic young woman shyly begin to get better acquainted.

Mora tells him about her job — “I wear an artificial fishtail and I lie in a tank that looks like it’s filled with water, and people pay twenty-five cents and come and look at me, and that’s how I make my living.” When Johnny asks her if she ever gets tired of it, she wistfully replies, “Sometimes — but it’s restful, anyway.”

When Mora asks Johnny to tell her something about his life, he tells her that he is alone in the world; his father left home when Johnny was just a boy, and when his mother died, he thought that the best way to get away from Denver, Colorado was to join the navy and see the world. “But I haven’t seen any of it yet.”

Then, as they are finishing their meal, an odd thing happens. A scavenging seagull swoops down on the table looking for scraps, and Mora takes it in her arms and gently strokes it and talks to it, and the wild creature seems perfectly calm and content. When Johnny asks her where she learned to do such a thing, Mora says that she doesn’t remember.

After their breakfast is done, they go down to the boardwalk and Johnny meets the man who owns the mermaid attraction and serves as its barker, Captain Samuel Murdock (Gavin Muir). He found Mora when she was a child on the Greek island of Mykonos, and brought the orphaned girl back to the United States as his ward. Murdock tells Johnny to drop by his house sometime; he will tell him some interesting things about his adoptive child.

Soon Johnny is spending every liberty with Mora, and even as they grow closer, the young sailor’s disquiet also grows, as he hears some strange things about his new girlfriend. Ellen (who is clearly attracted to Johnny) and others tell him that two young men who had grown close to Mora drowned in mysterious circumstances; the police are still investigating the deaths.

And one night on the beach, where people have gathered for a party, a curious thing occurs. A musician plays the bongo drums, and Mora begins to dance on the sand; as her movements grow wilder and more ecstatic, she looks toward the ocean and sees, standing silently there, watching her, the black-garbed woman who spoke to her in the jazz club. Johnny sees her too. Mora collapses in a swoon, and when Johnny rushes to her to see if she’s alright he looks around for the woman, but she is gone. The woman vanished n the few seconds it took him to get to Mora.

Increasingly worried, Johnny decides to visit Captain Murdock at his home in cement-canaled Venice, and as he nears the house, he sees the woman again. He pursues her, but she evades him in the maze of canals and bridges. When he arrives at the house, the captain gives him an effusive welcome, but soon adds to Johnny’s unease by telling him that he is in grave danger as long as he continues to see Mora, that the gentle-seeming girl might feel “compelled” to kill him. Before he passes out from drink, Murdock tells the disbelieving sailor that Mora is a siren, a member of the ancient race of sea people who lure men to their doom.

When Johnny tells Mora the captain’s story, she tells him that it’s true — “They are waiting for me to join them.” She believes that the strange woman who is following her is one of the sea people, “here to remind me of the time I must go to them in the sea.” Johnny’s scoffing at this absurd tale can neither shake Mora’s belief in her alien nature and her dark fate, or silence his own growing anxiety.

Mora and Johnny

Visiting Mora after she finishes work one day, Johnny falls asleep on the couch while she takes a shower. He dreams that a towel-wrapped Mora walks out and sits by him on the couch, and looking down, he sees that her legs have turned into a fish’s tail; she is truly a mermaid, a creature not fully human. She leans over and begins to kiss him, and suddenly it is not the arms of a beautiful young woman that enfold him — he is entangled in the grotesque tentacles of a huge octopus, strangling him, devouring him. (This terrifying episode is probably Night Tide’s best-remembered scene.)

When Johnny awakens from this nightmare, he calls out to Mora but receives no answer. She has disappeared. Johnny follows her wet footprints out of the apartment and down to the beach. After frantically searching he finally finds her clinging to the pilings under the pier, barely holding on as she is battered by the waves of the incoming tide. As he carries her back to her apartment, she tells him that the sea people were calling her to them.

The next morning, Mora is strangely calm and later, after telling Johnny that the tides will be perfect (because the moon is full), she urges him to go diving with her at special place that she knows. (A few days earlier Johnny had visited a boardwalk Tarot reader who made ominous hints about his future due to the placement of the Moon card.) Johnny uneasily tries to convince Mora that a dive isn’t a good idea, but, unable to dampen her puzzling enthusiasm, he finally agrees.

Taking out a small boat, they make their dive (after Mora cautions the visibly nervous sailor to stay very close to her), and when they’ve gone down to the deepest point, Mora gets behind Johnny and cuts his air hose. As he desperately fights his way back to the surface, he looks back and sees Mora swimming away into the darkness. After waiting in the boat until long after her air would have run out, Johnny takes the boat to shore and stumbles back to Mora’s apartment, where he falls into an exhausted, troubled sleep.

There he has one last dream of this strange, ill-fated young woman — he sees her as a mermaid, sitting on the rocks with the waves crashing about her, an unreadable expression on her face as she regards herself in a mirror. When Mora turns and sees him, she slips into the churning water. Johnny reaches out and takes her hand, trying to pull her back up onto land, but he is not strong enough to overcome the immense power of the ocean’s pull, and a laughing Mora finally slips away from him and vanishes beneath the surface of the sea.

Later that rainy night, he wakes from this sleep, shaken and desolate, and walks to the boardwalk. Going into the mermaid exhibit, Johnny hesitantly looks into Mora’s tank, where he is stunned to see the body of the drowned girl floating face-up in the water, her hair streaming around her. She is still beautiful, even in death.

Captain Murdock (who found Mora’s body on the beach) emerges from the shadows with a gun in his hand and accuses Johnny of killing her, which the young man denies — “But I loved her.” “You loved her! What do you know about love?” Murdock replies. “I’ve loved her ever since she was a child. You did it and you must pay for it!” Murdock fires at Johnny but misses, and the shots bring the police, who take both men into custody.

At the police station a distraught Murdock makes a confession to a detective (and to Johnny — he asked that the sailor be present). When she was still a child, he began telling Mora that she was one of the sea people in the hope that it would keep her from forming close relationships with anyone else, and so prevent her from ever leaving him. Ultimately, even that didn’t keep Mora from wanting something more, and the captain killed her two boyfriends and made his ward believe that her inhuman nature was somehow responsible for their deaths; he just couldn’t bear the thought of losing the only person in the world he loved, the only person in the world who loved him.

Murdock’s “experiment in psychology” worked only too well; Mora “couldn’t face a recurrence of what had gone before, so rather than destroy the person she loved, she decided to embrace the rapture of the depths.”

The only thing left to clear up is the identity of the mysterious woman — was she an accomplice of Murdock, someone he had paid to follow Mora to remind her of her supposed evil destiny? The broken old man has never seen such a woman, never heard of her. She was part of no plan of his.

When Murdock is led out of the detective’s office, he gently pats Johnny on the shoulder, a sad little gesture between two men who will forever be linked by the loss of the woman they both immoderately loved.

The shore patrol arrives to take Johnny back to his ship, and Ellen is waiting at the desk to express her sympathy and to say goodbye. Maybe on his next liberty, Johnny can come by and take a ride on the carousel? The sailor smiles hesitantly and says that it seems like a good idea. As he walks out of the police station, the rain has ended, and a new day is dawning.

Gavin Muir and Curtis Harrington

The film closes with the lines from Poe’s “Annabel Lee” that gave it its title: “And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side / Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, / In her sepulchre there by the sea — / In her tomb by the surrounding sea.”

So, what do we have here? Is Night Tide a brilliant achievement, a neglected masterpiece? You can judge for yourself (there’s a very nice print on YouTube, though there wasn’t several years ago when I bought my Kino Lorber Blu-ray), but it’s not necessary to go quite that far.

You don’t have to look very hard to find Night Tide’s defects. The story, as I said before (and as Harrington always acknowledged) borrows heavily from Cat People, which is a better, more original film, and even if you’re not familiar with the earlier movie, it’s not too difficult to see where the story is going (Captain Murdock’s big revelation isn’t much of a surprise); the dialogue is sometimes stilted, both in the writing and in the delivery by the actors, some of the supporting playing is erratic, and the mark of the low budget is visually evident in dozens of ways.

But many of these failings have a positive aspect, too. If you’re going to pick a model, Cat People is a strong one, and many of its virtues are evident in its successor, while the low budget compelled Harrington to stick to the commonplace in costumes and sets, giving the movie a much-needed grounding in everyday reality (while also permitting the director to concentrate on character rather than on special effects). Despite a few overtly arty touches, the black-and-white cinematography (much of which was shot at night), strongly conveys the darkness and moody ambiguity of the story. (The film’s flute-heavy jazz score by David Raskin is both a plus and a minus; sometimes it’s delicate, eerie, and just about perfect, while at other times it’s discordantly, distractingly obtrusive.)

Perhaps the film’s greatest assets are Dennis Hopper and Linda Lawson. Both were experienced television actors in 1960, but Night Tide was the first movie lead for both of them, and the awkwardness and uncertainty that are sometimes detectable in their performances actually suit their characters very well. Hopper is convincingly shy and callow (a “fair young man, innocent and searching” as the Tarot reader calls him); his yearning for human contact comes across as touchingly genuine. (At the beginning of the movie, Johnny has some pictures taken in an automated photo booth; he puts his hat on, takes it off, smiles, looks serious… and then tucks the pictures into his pocket and walks away. He has no one to give them to.)

Linda Lawson, despite not being gifted with a very expressive voice, nicely coveys a loneliness and a consciousness of being separated from “normal” people that matches Johnny’s intense desire to connect with someone; she makes the lost, doomed Mora a moving, tragic figure.

Night Tide uses its limited resources to try for something different than the usual rubber-monster-on-the-loose quickie; it’s a mood piece in which feeling and atmosphere are more important than plot, a poetic, offbeat combination of fantasy and horror and mystery, wrapped around an ill-starred, very human love story. In some ways it’s almost an amateur film, but it’s none the worse for that. (Remember that one meaning of amateur is someone who does something just for the love of it.) The movie has a unique flavor, sweet and sad, and for all of its (understandable and forgivable) deficiencies, it lingers in the mind; it gets under your skin.

You can always recognize a film that was truly important to the people who made it, and Night Tide is one of those; clearly, it wasn’t just another job to Curtis Harrington, Dennis Hopper, Linda Lawson, and the rest of the people who worked on it — it meant something to them. If you give it a chance — say late some lonely night — you might find that this old, odd little movie has come to mean something to you, too.

Thomas Parker is a native Southern Californian and a lifelong science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fan. When not corrupting the next generation as a fourth grade teacher, he collects Roger Corman movies, Silver Age comic books, Ace doubles, and despairing looks from his wife. His last article for us was The Eccentric’s Bookshelf: Michael Weldon’s Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film

 

The Baby Dragon Café (The Baby Dragon #1)by A.T. Qureshi
What is it about:When Saphira opened up her café for baby dragons and their humans, she wasn’t expecting it to be so difficult to keep the fires burning. It turns out, young dragons are not the best magical animals to keep in a café, and replacing all that burnt furniture is costing Saphira more than she can afford from selling dragon-roasted coffee.
Aiden is a local gardener, and local heart-throb, more interested in his plants than actually spending time with his disobedient baby dragon. When Aiden walks into Saphira’s café, he has a genius idea – he'll ask Saphira to train his baby dragon, and he'll pay her enough to keep the café afloat.
Saphira’s happy-go-lucky attitude doesn’t seem to do anything but irritate the grumpy-but-gorgeous Aiden, except that everywhere she goes, she finds him there. But can this dragon café owner turn her fortunes around, and maybe find love along the way?
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:This could have been more than it was.
Don't get me wrong:I liked the romance. Once again it was grumpy/sunshine, and I really liked the grumpy Aiden. He's more of an introvert than actually grumpy, I have to say. I totally read this book start to finish to see him get the girl and happiness.
It was the world building and the dragons that didn't vibe for me. I felt like the author didn't really know if the dragons were pets or beings that had similar intelligence as humans. The baby dragons felt really off because of that. I also thought the café wasn't used enough in the story. It was more a starting point than something the book revolved around.
The writing style was nice enough, but didn't draw me in. I was not bored enough to stop reading, and not entertained enough to glue myself to the book. 
All in all a nice enough read, but I won't be reading other books in this series/world.
Why should you read it:Grumpy, introverted gardener.

I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.

When the Wolf Comes Home by Nat Cassidy

Mogsy’s Rating: 4.5 of 5 stars

Genre: Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Tor Nightfire (April 22, 2025)

Length: 304 pages

Author Information: Website

I have to admit, the first time I read Nat Cassidy with Nestlings, my feelings were mixed. But boy, am I glad I gave his work another chance, because When the Wolf Comes Home was a trip that went straight for the jugular. It’s horror that masks itself as a traditional werewolf tale, but what you’ll find instead is a raw and emotionally charged story that goes much deeper than that.

Plot-wise, the story follows a young Los Angeles woman named Jessa Bailey who has reached a dead-end in her acting career and is currently trying to make ends meet by working at a dingy diner. After experiencing a traumatic health scare, she makes her way back home feeling anxious and dazed, only to have her night turned upside down a second time when she discovers a terrified little boy hiding in the bushes outside her apartment. After getting him inside and squared away some clothes and food, she gets his story—or most of it, anyway, before they are attacked by a monster. The beast, which looks half man and half wolf, proceeds to tear through the building and kill many of its residents, and Jess and her new charge only barely manage to escape.

It soon becomes clear that the monster is hunting the boy, but that’s not all that’s coming after them. Certain elements in the government are also interested in getting their hands on him, and a Special Agent named Michael Santos has been tasked to track him down on behalf of a secret organization. Jess has no idea why so many people are desperate to find the boy, but the longer she spends with him, the more she realizes he’s special. Strange and uncanny things seem to happen around him, which Jess finds disturbing and hard to believe. However, once she is named as a person of interest in the attack on her apartment, their fates become intertwined. With no one else to turn to, Jess becomes the boy’s protector and his only chance of survival.

When the Wolf Comes Home is the kind of novel that would translate well to the big screen, with cinematic writing that moves at a fast clip and a story with plenty of action and just the right amount of emotional resonance. But while a film adaptation of this book would undoubtedly be a horror movie, simply because of all the gore and terror, I also think it would be a lot more complicated. As the plot progresses, the surface peels back to reveal several layers of meaning. Our protagonist Jess is deeply flawed and unsure of herself, still feeling raw from the pain of losing her estranged father whom she’s never forgiven for abandoning her. The story’s themes hit hard when you realize the monster chasing her is more than a creature of folklore.

There’s also a surreal quality here that I wasn’t sure what to make of, initially. There were certainly scenes that bordered on sheer absurdity, and I confess, when the first of these scenes hit, my regard for the novel dropped considerably. But this was before I realized how integral these moments were to the big picture. Without spoiling anything, these distortions to reality are directly related to the mystery surrounding the boy and the ideas underpinning the entire story. I couldn’t possibly hold the surrealism against the book after that and even started to enjoy these moments when they added a spot of humor to an otherwise bleak premise.

And truly, most of this book is dark. Sometimes it gets too dark, and you wonder how much more our characters can afford to lose and still manage to keep their hope and sanity. There’s a heaviness that borders on exhausting, and so perhaps it is not surprising that my main complaint lies in the ending. At times, when I’m feeling generous, I think to myself that there’s no other way things could have played out. But when I’m in a more critical mood, I feel like the pacing was all wrong. If nothing else, the novel probably should have ended soon after the climax and not have such a long denouement.

Still, When the Wolf Comes Home is a fantastic read, and a standout in horror fiction. In fact, it easily ranks as one of the most memorable horror novels I’ve read in recent years. When you pick up the book, look at its cover and read its title, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is just another werewolf story. I know that’s what I thought at first. But instead, what Nat Cassidy has delivered here is entirely his own: a wild and weird blend of tension, chills, and heartbreak. It simply works.

Solomon Kane: The Serpent Ring #1, and variant cover by Daniel Brereton (Titan Comics, March 26, 2025)

Sometimes a project and a creator are brought together in the right place at the right time. Titan Comics’ Solomon Kane mini series The Serpent Ring is one of those times. Writer/Artist Patrick Zircher is working at the very top of his game. The project is dear to his heart, and it shows.

The first issue begins, fittingly enough, in Africa. This would have pleased Kane’s creator Robert E. Howard, because some of REH’s best Kane tales, “The Footfalls Within,” “The Hills of the Dead,” “Wings in the Night,” etc, take place on that continent.

[Click the images to ring in bigger versions.]

Interior art for Solomon Kane: The Serpent Ring #1 by Patrick Zircher

The first few pages of the comic are a prologue introducing some mysterious characters and incidents. We pick up with Solomon Kane three pages later, serving with a band of Queen Elizabeth’s privateers. Kane and his companions are in a pitched battle with the crew of a Spanish ship.

In an unfortunate occurrence Kane kills a passenger, ‘an innocent man,’ and makes a promise to the dying man to atone for his mistake. This sets the main plot in motion and Kane’s quest will take him from the Barbary Coast to Italy. On the way there will be swordfights, pistol battles, mysteries added to mysteries, and intimations of dark sorcery.

More interior art for Solomon Kane: The Serpent Ring #1 by Patrick Zircher

That’s all the plot I’ll give away, because you should read it for yourself, so let me talk a bit instead about Patrick Zircher’s work on the comic. Having spoken to Patrick online a good bit, I know this is one of his favorite comics he’s ever worked on. He’s a huge fan of Solomon Kane and it really comes through on the pages.

The story has an epic feel as it ranges around Europe, and a large cast of characters. All of that is well researched and beautifully illustrated, be it sailing ships or the streets of Napoli and Venice. Period costumes, weapons, and people are all extremely well done.

Issues #2 and #3 of Solomon Kane: The Serpent Ring. Covers by Rafael Kayanan and Alex Horley

For the Robert E. Howard fan this is prime stuff, Solomon Kane drawn and written by someone who loves the character and the world. It’s very much in the spirit of Howard’s work. I asked Patrick for a quote about his feelings working on the book and he said:

Solomon Kane embodies, in one character, what I love in stories. Action, adventure, suspense, horror, heroism, and wrestling with the ‘big questions’ of life.

Can’t ask for more than that.

Charles R. Rutledge lives in Atlanta, Georgia. This is his first article for Black Gate.

I’m giving away one book of the winner’s choice for Women in SF&F Month today! Since there were some US-only giveaways earlier this month, this giveaway is for everyone else (though there are a few caveats given international shipping). Here’s how it works: You can choose your own adventure from the books/authors featured this month available on Kennys Bookshop, and I will ship the winner the book of their choice. This giveaway is open to anyone on the list of […]

The post Women in SF&F Month: International Giveaway first appeared on Fantasy Cafe.

I'm excited to reveal the cover for the first novel, Oaths & Vengeance, in my new romantasy series. Click on the link to see it and find out further details about the book and where to pre-order.

 

Zombies! Very excited about diving into this one.

THERE'S ONE IN THE HOUSE. The dragging thump of footsteps, somewhere downstairs, is what tips me off.

(page 1, A World Alone by R.K. Weir)

---------
Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, previously hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following: - Grab your current read - Open to a random page - Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!) - Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their  TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

(Hyperion Japanese cover art)
Despite the genre’s escapist premise, fantasy literature often hosts cutting commentary on real-world issues. The monsters that terrorize these tales—from mythical beasts like the Kraken to the eerie walkers of today’s The Walking Dead—can symbolize humanity’s deepest fears and our most naked vulnerabilities. Through these creatures, fantasy stories have always held a mirror to the shifting anxieties of their eras. As an avid fantasy reader who worries constantly about our collective future, I’m interested in how fantasy monsters represent universal alarm—and how the stories that harbor these monsters continue to fulfill our ever-increasing need for escapist media.

The earliest mythical monsters in human history stemmed from the need to explain mysterious natural phenomena. The creatures of ancient myths often embody our most basic, physical fears: the violence other species, the destruction wrought by severe weather, humanity’s defenselessness against unthinking and uncontrollable natural forces. In ancient Greece, for instance, all meteorological occurrences—from prosperous harvests to devastating floods—were thought to be the direct result of godly intervention. The Greek gods were alternately merciless monsters and generous benefactors; they both caused and exacerbated humans’ powerlessness.

Some of the beings that populated classical myths were more straightforwardly monstrous, and these too represented fears inherent to human existence: the Minotaur, trapped in a labyrinth alone, represents the violent parts of human nature that emerge with isolation. The serpent-like hydra, with its multiple heads, could be said to embody chaos—the uncontrollable force of natural disasters, perhaps, or the seeming inevitability of war. 
Many of these monsters can also be linked to moral and religious narratives. The Minotaur’s defeat by the hero Theseus could be said to symbolize the triumph of virtue over vice, a theme that appeared in ancient mythology and remains popular in fantasy literature today. The hydra, which is often associated with Ares, the god of war, sometimes represented punishment for moral failings, reminding us that ignoring religious or ethical obligations could trigger disastrous punishments. Thus, these early myths used monsters not only to explain the natural world, but also to prop up a moral framework.
(THESEUS AND THE MINOTAUR by Barret Chapman)
As exploration and colonialism brought unfamiliar cultures into contact with each other for the first time, new fantasy monsters emerged to account for explorers’ fear of the unknown. Fantasy monsters developed during this era often symbolized the threats posed by unfamiliar territories, cultures, and species, embodying anxieties about difference. The Kraken of Nordic folklore offers an excellent example. A colossal, squid-like creature, the Kraken could pull down ships with its powerful tentacles. For European sailors during the Age of Exploration, the mythological Kraken symbolized the very real danger of the open sea.
Other fabled monsters were developed during this era to represent the indigenous peoples of colonized lands Ogres, cannibalistic giants, and other “savage” human-like creatures populated stories like The Travels of Sir John Mandeville, a fictional 14th-century travelogue that describes various monstrous beings believed to inhibit the New World. These "monstrous races”, which include “dog-headed Cynocephales” and “one-legged Sciapods”, mirrored appearance-based prejudices against native peoples. 
Unlike the religious mythology of classical societies, stories that emerged during this era were more explicitly fictional. The fictional form gave writers license to exaggerate stereotypes that portrayed indigenous people as grotesque barbarians, reinforcing the fear and misunderstanding that often accompanied encounters between European explorers and native populations. This fear was not only of physical harm, but also of contamination wrought by cultural difference. Narratives of the time often portrayed European explorers or settlers as the heroic figures who, by defeating these monsters, demonstrated the superiority of their culture and values. 
As we’ve seen, the development of fantastical monsters has always been rooted in real fears. This continues today, with fantastical monsters in literature reflecting the complex existential woes of modern people. As technology has advanced, social structures and global concerns have shifted, and so too have the monsters that embody these concerns. Now, many fantasy monsters represent common fears of environmental degradation, political collapse, and social injustice.



One compelling example of this is Blood Over Bright Haven by M.L. Wang. The story’s villain—who I won’t reveal, since you should read the book yourself—causes the protagonist to wonder whether she can trust anyone. The villain’s conniving manipulation, and the unjust magical system of the setting, both parallel modern distrust in authority and misuse of power. 
In many modern fantasy narratives, the villains represent worst-case scenarios that humanity dreads: unchecked corruption (represented by the Darkling from Shadow and Bone), fear of being forgotten (represented by the veil in The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue) and the devastation wrought by modern warfare (represented by the tyrants in The Poppy War). These creatures mirror real-world fears and anxieties, but the narratives where they appear often provide a kind of hope—usually, despite the worst, the protagonists of these stories emerge victorious and some form of justice is served.

Those happy endings are what allow modern fantasy to maintain its escapist allure, even when it contains allusions to very real social ills. Generally, fantasy books and series end with something of a happy conclusion: the protagonist tends to vanquish the monster; the world tends to return to some semblance of order; the villains tend to end up dead or exiled. In a world where these just endings are so rare, reading fantasy allows us to indulge in satisfying depictions of the justice we don’t see in real life. 

Thus, fantasy’s use of realistic monsters does not betray its escapist properties, but bolsters them. It wouldn’t be interesting to read about a world in which everything is perfect all the time, but it can be exciting and validating to read about a world in which grit and determination can lead to meaningful social change. 

The journey from ancient myth to modern fantasy reflects a shift in our relationship to reality. In early mythologies, monsters were believed to be real, physical embodiment of the unknown and unexplainable forces of nature. They were creatures to be respected and feared, forcing humans to recognize the limits of their knowledge and physical ability. As our understanding of the world expanded, these monsters were gradually relegated to the realm of fiction, appearing in explicitly fictional narratives that allowed us to confront our fears from a safer distance. While most people no longer believe in dragons or sea monster, their symbolic power hasn’t been diminished.

The monsters that populate fantasy literature have always been imaginative and otherworldly, but their significance goes far beyond simple escapism or entertainment. Through these creatures, and the characters’ reactions to their violence, fantasy can often elucidate something insightful about the real world. From the ancient monsters that represented natural threats to the modern creatures that reflect existential dread, fantastical villains can all teach us something about the most profound aspect of the human condition. They give voice to the darkness within and without, reflecting both evolving external threats and timeless internal struggles. 

But, despite the terrifying nature of these creatures, the genre itself remains fundamentally optimistic, offering visions of triumph against every kind of evil. While the real world often feals messy and unjust, these stories offer a reassuring sense of order. Many of us feel powerless to confront the monsters we encounter every day—the dangers of unchecked authority, the collapse of social systems, and the degradation of the environment, to name a few—but fantasy provides a safe space to confront these fears.

At their core, fantasy monsters aren’t just symbols of our fears—they’re also reflections of the human condition. They show us the darkness we often try to ignore, but also offer hope that, despite our vulnerabilities and flaws, we can overcome existential challenges. By confronting these monsters in stories led by fearless protagonists, we learn more about our own fears—and how we can rise above them.


Author bio: Caroline is a writer for Reedsy and NowNovel who covers everything from the nitty-gritty of the writing process to the business of finding ghostwriting jobs. When she isn’t writing, Caroline loves reading indie books and spending time outdoors.

 

Book links:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Publisher: Length: Formats: 

The moon turns into cheese. Not metaphorically. Not in a dream. Like, literally. One day it’s the regular rock-ball we all know and ignore, and the next, it’s dairy. That’s the book. That’s the premise. I rolled my eyes too. But then I started reading, and - well, I ended up liking it more than I thought I would. More than I probably should’ve, honestly.

This is John Scalzi doing what he does best - taking a totally absurd idea and running with it. The moon becomes cheese (type undetermined). People react. Some panic, some scheme, some try to monetize it, some go to church. And through it all, Scalzi’s trademark mix of snark, satire, and sneaky emotional depth holds the whole gooey mess together.

There’s not really a central protagonist here-unless you count humanity in general, or maybe capitalism. Instead, we bounce around between a rotating cast of scientists, astronauts, cheese mongers, billionaire tech bros, diner regulars, and one very cursed Saturday Night Live episode. It's like a disaster movie crossed with a sociology paper, but funnier and with more dairy puns.

The plot meander a a bit and I admit I did I lose track of a few characters. But the short chapters kept things moving, and there’s something irresistible about how this book doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is: a ridiculous thought experiment with a surprising amount of insights into human behavior.

If you’ve read Kaiju Preservation Society or Starter Villain and enjoyed the vibes, you’ll probably enjoy this one too. If you haven’t, but the idea of “slice-of-life apocalypse, but make it cheese” sounds appealing, you might be in for a good time. Just don’t come in expecting hard sci-fi. This is soft cheese fiction. And that’s kind of the point.

Unwed mothers, witches, folklore, haunted woods. These ingredients form the nucleus of C.J. Cooke’s The Ghost Woods. Although initially published in the UK in 2022, Cooke’s novel lands on US bookshelves in April 2025. Cooke’s story focuses on two young women in two different times – 17-year-old Mabel in 1959 and 22-year-old Pearl – who…

I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.

The Ghost Woods by C.J. Cooke

Mogsy’s Rating: 4 of 5 stars

Genre: Historical Fiction, Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Berkley (April 29, 2025)

Length: 384 pages

Author Information: Website

This is the fifth book I’ve read by C.J. Cooke, and I think her writing and storytelling just keep getting better and better. The Ghost Woods has quickly become one of my new favorites by the author, second only to A Haunting in the Arctic. Once more, readers are transported to a historical setting where the atmosphere is thick with tension and mystery—with just a touch of the supernatural—and the emotional depth of the characters takes center stage.

In The Ghost Woods, Cooke returns to Scotland’s misty and isolated countryside to spin a tale exploring themes of motherhood and life altering decisions. Set in 1959 and in 1965, the novel follows two women who finds themselves at Lichen Hall, a home for unwed pregnant girls. Mabel is first to arrive in the earlier timeline, frightened and confused because she has no idea how she got pregnant, and no one believes her even though she swears she has never been with a man. Several years later, Pearl makes the same journey to the old mansion in preparation for the birth of her baby, the result of a careless one-night stand following a split from her long-term boyfriend. After losing her nursing job because of it, Pearl’s family thought it would be best for her to lay low until she gives birth.

While Mabel and Pearl come from very different backgrounds, both women come to similar conclusions about Lichen Hall. It is a strange and eerie place, hidden in the woods far from the nearest town and hospital. Many parts of the house are in disrepair, with mold permeating the walls. The property belongs to the Whitlock family, but it is Mrs. Whitlock who clearly runs the show, as old Mr. Whitlock is ill and mostly bedridden, kept out of sight. Also living with them is their grandson, a trouble young man who makes some of the girls staying at the home uncomfortable. As hosts, the Whitlocks are cagey and seemingly hiding some secret knowledge about their huge crumbling mansion, in which Mable, Pearl, and the other women shut away there find themselves trapped.

Like all of Cooke’s other novels, The Ghost Woods excels in atmosphere. Lichen Hall is a character unto itself—distinct with its own unique personality, and that personality to malevolent and threatening. The women, already feeling alone and vulnerable because of their conditions, are made even more anxious knowing Mrs. Whitlock does not believe in outside help. The lady of the house is a mysterious character, kind and comforting one moment, cold and cruel the next. Whatever her motives though, she is adamant that no doctor will ever be called, so the young expectant mothers can only rely on each other. This gives the story a claustrophobic and oppressive vibe, where among the vivid descriptions of the encroaching forest, nothing feels entirely safe.

The plot also employs dual timelines, which I felt was mostly effective. Being relatively close in time, however, sometimes the two threads blurred, especially once Mabel and Pearl’s perspectives came together and intertwined later in the book. The slow build at the beginning also made those early chapter the most challenging, but pacing improves once the story introduces more characters and gives the chance for the horrors at Lichen Hall to develop.

There’s also the slight issue of too many things happening at once, to the point where I feel some of the more minor story threads were not satisfactorily resolved. However, the answer to the most important mystery as well as the twist at the end of the book helped make up for it and made me more forgiving of any loose ends. In fact, the abundance of ideas and themes added overall to the novel’s rich layered feel, even if I would have welcomed a bit more tightening.

All in all, C.J. Cooke delivers another chilling and atmospheric tale in The Ghost Woods, and I think both fans of her previous work as well as new readers will find plenty to love here. This is gothic horror at its finest. Also highly recommended if you enjoy broody historical fiction with a touch of the fantastical, such as influence from fairytales and folklore, or simply unearthly ways of looking at the natural world.

After receiving a great shock, Grace, a CPA who always lived a cautious life, decides to sell her business and move west, not realizing that the man who bought her business deceived her. Her departure looks like guilt, and suddenly Grace, who only wants peace and quiet, finds herself with a price on her head.

Included in the World’s Finest Mystery and Crime Stories, “Cowboy Grace,” also received an Edgar Award nomination for Best Short Story of the year.

“Cowboy Grace“ is available for one week on this site. The ebook is available on all retail stores, as well as here.

 

Cowboy Grace By Kristine Kathryn Rusch 

“Every woman tolerates misogyny,” Alex said. She slid her empty beer glass across the bar, and tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. “How much depends on how old she is. The older she is the less she notices it. The more she expects it.”

“Bullshit.” Carole took a drag on her Virginia Slim, crossed her legs, and adjusted her skirt. “I don’t tolerate misogyny.”

“Maybe we should define the word,” Grace said, moving to the other side of Carole. She wished her friend would realize how much the smoking irritated her. In fact, the entire night was beginning to irritate her. They were all avoiding the topic du jour: the tiny wound on Grace’s left breast, stitches gone now, but the skin still raw and sore.

“Mis-ah-jenny.” Carole said, as if Grace were stupid. “Hatred of women.”

“From the Greek,” Alex said. “Misos or hatred and gyne or women.”

“Not,” Carole said, waving her cigarette as if it were a baton, “misogamy, which is also from the Greek. Hatred of marriage. Hmm. Two male misos wrapped in one.”

The bartender, a diminutive woman dressed wearing a red and white cowgirl outfit, complete with fringe and gold buttons, snickered. She set down a napkin in front of Alex and gave her another beer.

“Compliments,” she said, “of the men at the booth near the phone.”

Alex looked. She always looked. She was tall, busty, and leggy, with a crooked nose thanks to an errant pitch Grace had thrown in the 9th grade, a long chin and eyes the color of wine. Men couldn’t get enough of her. When Alex rebuffed them, they slept with Carole and then talked to Grace.

The men in the booth near the phone looked like corporate types on a junket. Matching gray suits, different ties—all in a complimentary shade of pink, red, or cranberry—matching haircuts (long on top, styled on the sides), and differing goofy grins.

“This is a girl bar,” Alex said, shoving the glass back at the bartender. “We come here to diss men, not to meet them.”

“Good call,” Carole said, exhaling smoke into Grace’s face. Grace agreed, not with the smoke or the rejection, but because she wanted time with her friends. Without male intervention of any kind.

“Maybe we should take a table,” Grace said.

“Maybe.” Carole crossed her legs again. Her mini was leather, which meant that night she felt like being on display. “Or maybe we should send drinks to the cutest men we see.”

They scanned the bar. Happy Hour at the Oh Kaye Corral didn’t change much from Friday to Friday. A jukebox in the corner, playing Patty Loveless. Cocktail waitresses in short skirts and ankle boots with big heels. Tin stars and Wild West art on the walls, unstained wood and checkered tablecloths adding to the effect. One day, when Grace had Alex’s courage and Carole’s gravely voice, she wanted to walk in, belly up to the bar, slap her hand on its polished surface, and order whiskey straight up. She wanted someone to challenge her. She wanted to pull her six-gun and have a stare-down, then and there. Cowboy Grace, fastest gun in the West. Or at least in Racine on a rainy Friday night.

“I don’t see cute,” Alex said. “I see married, married, divorced, desperate, single, single, never-been-laid, and married.”

Grace watched her make her assessment. Alex’s expression never changed. Carole was looking at the men, apparently seeing whether or not she agreed.

Typically, she didn’t.

“I dunno,” she said, pulling on her cigarette. “Never-Been-Laid’s kinda cute.”

“So try him,” Alex said. “But you’ll have your own faithful puppy dog by this time next week, and a proposal of marriage within the month.”

Carole grinned and slid off the stool. “Proposal of marriage in two weeks,” she said. “I’m that good.”

She stubbed out her cigarette, grabbed the tiny leather purse that matched the skirt, adjusted her silk blouse and sashayed her way toward a table in the middle.

Grace finally saw Never-Been-Laid. He had soft brown eyes, and hair that needed trimming. He wore a shirt that accented his narrow shoulders, and he had a laptop open on the round table. He was alone. He had his feet tucked under the chair, crossed at the ankles. He wore dirty tennis shoes with his Gap khakis.

“Cute?” Grace said.

“Shhh,” Alex said. “It’s a door into the mind of Carole.”

“One that should remain closed.” Grace moved to Carole’s stool. It was still warm. Grace shoved Carole’s drink out of her way, grabbed her glass of wine, and coughed. The air still smelled of cigarette smoke.

Carole was leaning over the extra chair, giving Never-Been-Laid a view of her cleavage, and the guys at the booth by the phone a nice look at her ass, which they seemed to appreciate.

“Where the hell did that misogyny comment come from?” Grace asked.

Alex looked at her. “You want to get a booth?”

“Sure. Think Carole can find us?”

“I think Carole’s going to be deflowering a computer geek and not caring what we’re doing.” Alex grabbed her drink, stood, and walked to a booth on the other side of the Corral. Dirty glasses from the last occupants were piled in the center, and the red-and-white checked vinyl tablecloth was sticky.

They moved the glasses on the edge of the table and didn’t touch the dollar tip, which had been pressed into a puddle of beer.

Grace set her wine down and slid onto her side. Alex did the same on the other side. Somehow they managed not to touch the tabletop at all.

“You remember my boss?” Alex asked as she adjusted the tiny fake gas lamp that hung on the wall beside the booth.

“Beanie Boy?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

“Never met him.”

“Aren’t you lucky.”

Grace already knew that. She’d heard stories about Beanie Boy for the last year. They had started shortly after he was hired. Alex went to the company Halloween party and was startled to find her boss dressed as one of the Lollipop Kids from the Wizard of Oz, complete with striped shirt, oversized lollipop and propeller beanie.

“Now what did he do?” Grace asked.

“Called me honey.”

“Yeah?” Grace asked.

“And sweetie, and doll-face, and sugar.”

“Hasn’t he been doing that for the last year?”

Alex glared at Grace. “It’s getting worse.”

“What’s he doing, patting you on the butt?”

“If he did, I’d get him for harassment, and he knows it.”

She had lowered her voice. Grace could barely hear her over Shania Twain.

“This morning one of our clients came in praising the last report. I wrote it.”

“Didn’t Beanie Boy give you credit?”

“Of course he did. He said, ‘Our little Miss Rogers wrote it. Isn’t she a doll?’”

Grace clutched her drink tighter. This didn’t matter to her. Her biopsy was benign. She had called Alex and Carole and told them. They’d suggested coming here. So why weren’t they offering a toast to her life? Why weren’t they celebrating, really celebrating, instead of rerunning the same old conversation in the same old bar in the same old way? “What did the client do?”

“He agreed, of course.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Is that it? Didn’t you speak up?”

“How could I? He was praising me, for godssake.”

Grace sighed and sipped her beer. Shania Twain’s comment was that didn’t impress her much. It didn’t impress Grace much either, but she knew better than to say anything to Alex.

Grace looked toward the middle of the restaurant. Carole was standing behind Never-Been-Laid, her breasts pressed against his back, her ass on view to the world, her head over his shoulder peering at his computer screen.

Alex didn’t follow her gaze like Grace had hoped. “If I were ten years younger, I’d tell Beanie Boy to shove it.”

“If you were ten years younger, you wouldn’t have a mortgage and a Mazda.”

“Dignity shouldn’t be cheaper than a paycheck,” she said.

“So confront him.”

“He doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong. He treats all the women like that.”

Grace sighed. They’d walked this road before. Job after job, boyfriend after boyfriend. Alex, for all her looks, was like Joe McCarthy protecting the world from the Red Menace: she saw anti-female everywhere, and most of it, she was convinced, was directed at her.

“You don’t seem very sympathetic,” Alex said.

She wasn’t. She never had been. And with all she had been through in the last month, alone because her two best friends couldn’t bear to talk about the Big C, the lock that was usually on Grace’s mouth wasn’t working.

“I’m not sympathetic,” Grace said. “I’m beginning to think you’re a victim in search of a victimizer.”

“That’s not fair, Grace,” Alex said. “We tolerate this stuff because we were raised in an anti-woman society. It’s gotten better, but it’s not perfect. You tell those Xers stuff like this and they shake their heads. Or the new ones. What’re they calling themselves now? Generation Y? They were raised on Title IX. Hell, they pull off their shirts after winning soccer games. Imagine us doing that.”

“My cousin got arrested in 1977 in Milwaukee on the day Elvis Presley died for playing volleyball,” Grace said. Carole was actually rubbing herself on Never-Been-Laid. His face was the color of the red checks in the tablecloth.

“What?”

Grace turned to Alex. “My cousin. You know, Barbie? She got arrested playing volleyball.”

“They didn’t let girls play volleyball in Milwaukee?”

“It was 90 degrees, and she was playing with a group of guys. They pulled off their shirts because they were hot and sweating, so she did the same. She got arrested for indecent exposure.”

“God,” Alex said. “Did she go to jail?”

“Didn’t even get her day in court.”

“Everyone gets a day in court.”

Grace shook her head. “The judge took one look at Barbie, who was really butch in those days, and said, ‘I’m sick of you girls coming in here and arguing that you should have equal treatment for things that are clearly unequal. I do not establish Public Decency laws. You may show a bit of breast if you’re feeding a child, otherwise you are in violation of—some damn code.’ Barbie used to quote the thing chapter and verse.”

“Then what?” Alex asked.

“Then she got married, had a kid, and started wearing nail polish. She said it wasn’t as much fun to show her breasts legally.”

“See?” Alex said. “Misogyny.”

Grace shrugged. “Society, Alex. Get used to it.”

“That’s the point of your story? We’ve been oppressed for a thousand years and you say, ‘Get used to it’?”

“I say Brandi Chastain pulls off her shirt in front of millions—”

“Showing a sports bra.”

“—and she doesn’t get arrested. I say women head companies all the time. I say things are better now than they were when I was growing up, and I say the only ones who oppress us are ourselves.”

“I say you’re drunk.”

Grace pointed at Carole, who was wet-kissing Never-Been-Laid, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. “She’s drunk. I’m just speaking out.”

“You never speak out.”

Grace sighed. No one had picked up the glasses and she was tired of looking at that poor drowning dollar bill. There wasn’t going to be any celebration. Everything was the same as it always was—at least to Alex and Carole. But Grace wanted something different.

She got up, threw a five next to the dollar, and picked up her purse.

“Tell me if Carole gets laid,” Grace said, and left.

Outside Grace stopped and took a deep breath of the humid, exhaust-filled air. She could hear the clang of glasses even in the parking lot and the rhythm of Mary Chapin Carpenter praising passionate kisses. Grace had had only one glass of wine and a lousy time, and she wondered why people said old friends were the best friends. They were supposed to raise toasts to her future, now restored. She’d even said the “b” word and Alex hadn’t noticed. It was as if the cancer scare had happened to someone they didn’t even know.

Grace was going to be forty years old in three weeks. Her two best friends were probably planning a version of the same party they had held for her when she turned thirty. A male stripper whose sweaty body repulsed her more than aroused her, too many black balloons, and aging jokes that hadn’t been original the first time around.

Forty years old, an accountant with her own firm, no close family, no boyfriend, and a resident of the same town her whole life. The only time she left was to visit cousins out east, and for what? Obligation?

There was no joy left, if there’d ever been any joy at all.

She got into her sensible Ford Taurus, bought at a used car lot for well under Blue Book, and drove west.

***

It wasn’t until she reached Janesville that she started to call herself crazy, and it wasn’t until she drove into Dubuque that she realized how little tied her to her hometown.

An apartment without even a cat to cozy up to, a business no more successful than a dozen others, and people who still saw her as a teenager wearing granny glasses, braces and hair too long for her face. Grace, who was always there. Grace the steady, Grace the smart. Grace, who helped her friends out of their financial binds, who gave them a shoulder to cry on, and a degree of comfort because their lives weren’t as empty as her own.

When she had told Alex and Carole that her mammogram had come back suspicious, they had looked away. When she told them that she had found a lump, they had looked frightened.

I can’t imagine life without you, Gracie, Carole had whispered.

Imagine it now, Grace thought.

The dawn was breaking when she reached Cedar Rapids, and she wasn’t really tired. But she was practical, had always been practical, and habits of a lifetime didn’t change just because she had run away from home at the age of 39.

She got a hotel room and slept for eight hours, got up, had dinner in a nice steak place, went back to the room and slept some more. When she woke up Sunday morning to bells from the Presbyterian Church across the street, she lay on her back and listened for a good minute before she realized they were playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” And she smiled then, because Jesus had been a better friend to her in recent years than Alex and Carole ever had.

At least Jesus didn’t tell her his problems when she was praying about hers. If Jesus was self-absorbed he wasn’t obvious about it. And he didn’t seem to care that she hadn’t been inside a church since August of 1978.

The room was chintz, the wallpaper and the bedspread matched, and the painting on the wall was chosen for its color not for its technique. Grace sat up and wondered what she was doing here, and thought about going home.

To nothing.

So she got in her car and followed the Interstate, through Des Moines, and Lincoln and Cheyenne, places she had only read about, places she had never seen. How could a woman live for forty years and not see the country of her birth? How could a woman do nothing except what she was supposed to from the day she was born until the day she died?

In Salt Lake City, she stared at the Mormon Tabernacle, all white against an azure sky. She sat in her car and watched a groundskeeper maintain the flowers, and remembered how it felt to take her doctor’s call.

A lot of women have irregular mammograms, particularly at your age. The breast tissue is thicker, and often we get clouds.

Clouds.

There were fluffy clouds in the dry desert sky, but they were white and benign. Just like her lump had turned out to be. But for a hellish month, she had thought about that lump, feeling it when she woke out of a sound sleep, wondering if it presaged the beginning of the end. She had never felt her mortality like this before, not even when her mother, the only parent she had known, had died. Not even when she realized there was no one remaining of the generation that had once stood between her and death.

No one talked about these things. No one let her talk about them either. Not just Alex and Carole, but Michael, her second-in-command at work, or even her doctor, who kept assuring her that she was young and the odds were in her favor.

Young didn’t matter if the cancer had spread through the lymph nodes. When she went in for the lumpectomy almost two weeks ago now, she had felt a curious kind of relief, as if the doctor had removed a tick that had burrowed under her skin. When he had called with the news that the lump was benign, she had thanked him calmly and continued with her day, filing corporate tax returns for a consulting firm.

No one had known the way she felt. Not relieved. No. It was more like she had received a reprieve.

The clouds above the Tabernacle helped calm her. She plugged in her cell phone for the first time in days and listened to the voice mail messages, most of them from Michael, growing increasingly worried about where she was.

Have you forgotten the meeting with Boyd’s? he’d asked on Monday.

Do you want me to file Charlie’s extension? he’d demanded on Tuesday.

Where the hell are you? he cried on Wednesday and she knew, then, that it was okay to call him, that not even the business could bring her home.

Amazing how her training had prepared her for moments like these and she hadn’t even known it. She had savings, lots of them, because she hadn’t bought a house even though it had been prudent to do so. She had been waiting, apparently, for Mr. Right, or the family her mother had always wanted for her, the family that would never come. Her money was invested properly, and she could live off the interest if she so chose. She had just never chosen to before.

And if she didn’t want to be found, she didn’t have to be. She knew how to have the interest paid through offshore accounts so that no one could track it. She even knew a quick and almost legal way to change her name. Traceable, but she hadn’t committed a crime. She didn’t need to hide well, just well enough that a casual search wouldn’t produce her.

Not that anyone would start a casual search. Once she sold the business, Michael would forget her and Alex and Carole, even though they would gossip about her at Oh Kaye’s every Friday night for the rest of their lives, wouldn’t summon the energy to search.

She could almost hear them now: She met some guy, Carole would say. And he killed her, Alex would add, and then they would argue until last call, unless Carole found some man to entertain her, and Alex someone else to complain to. They would miss Grace only when they screwed up, when they needed a shoulder, when they couldn’t stand being on their own. And even then, they probably wouldn’t realize what it was they had lost.

***

Because it amused her, she had driven north to Boise, land of the white collar, to make her cell call to Michael. Her offer to him was simple: cash her out of the business and call it his own. She named a price, he dickered half-heartedly, she refused to negotiate. Within two days, he had wired the money to a blind money market account that she had often stored cash in for the firm.

She let the money sit there while she decided what to do with it. Then she went to Reno to change her name.

Reno had been a surprise. A beautiful city set between mountains like none she had ever seen. The air was dry, the downtown tacky, the people friendly. There were bookstores and slot machines and good restaurants. There were cheap houses and all-night casinos and lots of strange places. There was even history, of the Wild West kind.

For the first time in her life, Grace fell in love.

And to celebrate the occasion, she snuck into a quickie wedding chapel, found the marriage licenses, took one, copied down the name of the chapel, its permit number, and all the other pertinent information, and then returned to her car. There she checked the boxes, saying she had seen the driver’s licenses and birth certificates of the people involved, including a fictitious man named Nathan Reinhart, and viola! she was married. She had a new name, a document the credit card companies would accept, and a new beginning all at the same time.

***

Using some of her personal savings, she bought a house with lots of windows and a view of the Sierras. In the mornings, light bathed her kitchen, and in the evenings, it caressed her living room. She had never seen light like this—clean and pure and crisp. She was beginning to understand why artists moved west to paint, why people used to exclaim about the way light changed everything.

The lack of humidity, of dense air pollution, made the air clearer. The elevation brought her closer to the sun.

She felt as if she were seeing everything for the very first time.

And hearing it, too. The house was silent, much more silent than an apartment, and the silence soothed her. She could listen to her television without worrying about the people in the apartment below, or play her stereo full blast without concern about a visit from the super.

There was a freedom to having her own space that she hadn’t realized before, a freedom to living the way she wanted to live, without the rules of the past or the expectations she had grown up with.

And among those expectations was the idea that she had to be the strong one, the good one, the one on whose shoulder everyone else cried. She had no friends here, no one who needed her shoulder, and she had no one who expected her to be good.

Only herself.

Of course, in some things she was good. Habits of a lifetime died hard. She began researching the best way to invest Michael’s lump sum payment—and while she researched, she left the money alone. She kept her house clean and her lawn, such as it was in this high desert, immaculate. She got a new car and made sure it was spotless.

No one would find fault with her appearances, inside or out.

Not that she had anyone who was looking. She didn’t have a boyfriend or a job or a hobby. She didn’t have anything except herself.

***

She found herself drawn to the casinos, with their clinking slot machines, musical come-ons, and bright lights. No matter how high tech the places had become, no matter how clean, how “family-oriented,” they still had a shady feel.

Or perhaps that was her upbringing, in a state where gambling had been illegal until she was 25, a state where her father used to play a friendly game of poker—even with his friends—with the curtains drawn.

Sin—no matter how sanitized—still had appeal in the brand-new century.

Of course, she was too sensible to gamble away her savings. The slots lost their appeal quickly, and when she sat down at the blackjack tables, she couldn’t get past the feeling that she was frittering her money away for nothing.

But she liked the way the cards fell and how people concentrated—as if their very lives depended on this place—and she was good with numbers. One of the pit bosses mentioned that they were always short of poker dealers, so she took a class offered by one of the casinos. Within two months, she was snapping cards, raking pots, and wearing a uniform that made her feel like Carole on a bad night.

It only took a few weeks for her bosses to realize that Grace was a natural poker dealer. They gave her the busy shifts—Thursday through Sunday nights—and she spent her evenings playing the game of cowboys, fancy men, and whores. Finally, there was a bit of an Old West feel to her life, a bit of excitement, a sense of purpose.

When she got off at midnight, she would be too keyed up to go home. She started bringing a change of clothes to work and, after her shift, she would go to the casino next door. It had a great bar upstairs—filled with brass, Victorian furnishings, and a real hardwood floor. She could get a sandwich and a beer. Finally, she felt like she was becoming the woman she wanted to be.

One night, a year after she had run away from home, a man sidled up next to her. He had long blond hair that curled against his shoulders. His face was tanned and lined, a bit too thin. He looked road-hardened—like a man who’d been outside too much, seen too much, worked in the sun too much. His hands were long, slender, and callused. He wore no rings, and his shirt cuffs were frayed at the edges.

He sat beside her in companionable silence for nearly an hour, while they both stared at CNN on the big screen over the bar, and then he said, “Just once I’d like to go someplace authentic.”

His voice was cigarette growly, even though he didn’t smoke, and he had a Southern accent that was soft as butter. She guessed Louisiana, but it might have been Tennessee or even Northern Florida. She wasn’t good at distinguishing Southern accents yet. She figured she would after another year or so of dealing cards.

“You should go up to Virginia City. There’s a bar or two that looks real enough.”

He snorted through his nose. “Tourist trap.”

She shrugged. She’d thought it interesting—an entire historic city, preserved just like it had been when Mark Twain lived there. “Seems to me if you weren’t a tourist there wouldn’t be any other reason to go.”

He shrugged and picked up a toothpick, rolling it in his fingers. She smiled to herself. A former smoker then, and a fidgeter.

“Reno’s better than Vegas, at least,” he said. “Casinos aren’t family friendly yet.”

“Except Circus Circus.”

“Always been that way. But the rest. You get a sense that maybe it ain’t all legal here.”

She looked at him sideways. He was at least her age, his blue eyes sharp in his leathery face. “You like things that aren’t legal?”

“Gambling’s not something that should be made pretty, you know? It’s about money, and money can either make you or destroy you.”

She felt herself smile, remember what it was like to paw through receipts and tax returns, to make neat rows of figures about other people’s money. “What’s the saying?” she asked. “Money is like sex—”

“It doesn’t matter unless you don’t have any.” To her surprise, he laughed. The sound was rich and warm, not at all like she had expected. The smile transformed his face into something almost handsome.

He tapped the toothpick on the polished bar, and asked, “You think that’s true?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. Everyone’s idea of what’s enough differs, though.”

“What’s yours?” He turned toward her, smile gone now, eyes even sharper than they had been a moment ago. She suddenly felt as if she were on trial.

“My idea of what’s enough?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I suppose enough that I can live off the interest in the manner in which I’ve become accustomed. What’s yours?”

A shadow crossed his eyes and he looked away from her. “Long as I’ve got a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my mouth, I figure I’m rich enough.”

“Sounds distinctly unAmerican to me,” she said.

He looked at her sideways again. “I guess it does, don’t it? Women figure a man should have some sort of ambition.”

“Do you?”

“Have ambition?” He bent the toothpick between his fore- and middle fingers. “Of course I do. It just ain’t tied in with money, is all.”

“I thought money and ambition went together.”

“In most men’s minds.”

“But not yours?”

The toothpick broke. “Not any more,” he said.

***

Three nights later, he sat down at her table. He was wearing a denim shirt with silver snaps and jeans so faded that they looked as if they might shred around him. That, his hair, and his lean look reminded Grace of a movie gunslinger, the kind that cleaned a town up because it had to be done.

“Guess you don’t make enough to live off the interest,” he said to her as he sat down.

She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe I like people.”

“Maybe you like games.”

She smiled and dealt the cards. The table was full. She was dealing 3-6 Texas Hold ‘Em and most of the players were locals. It was Monday night and they all looked pleased to have an unfamiliar face at the table.

If she had known him better she might have tipped him off. Instead she wanted to see how long his money would last.

He bought in for $100, although she had seen at least five hundred in his wallet. He took the chips, and studied them for a moment.

He had three tells. He fidgeted with his chips when his cards were mediocre and he was thinking of bluffing. He bit his lower lip when he had nothing, and his eyes went dead flat when he had a winning hand.

He lost the first hundred in forty-five minutes, bought back in for another hundred and managed to hold onto it until her shift ended shortly after midnight. He sat through dealer changes and the floating fortunes of his cards. When she returned from her last break, she found herself wondering if his tells were subconscious after all. They seemed deliberately calculated to let the professional poker players around him think that he was a rookie.

She said nothing. She couldn’t, really—at least not overtly. The casino got a rake and they didn’t allow her to do anything except deal the game. She had no stake in it anyway. She hadn’t lied to him that first night. She loved watching people, the way they played their hands, the way the money flowed.

It was like being an accountant, only in real time. She got to see the furrowed brows as the decisions were made, hear the curses as someone pushed back a chair and tossed in that last hand of cards, watch the desperation that often led to the exact wrong play. Only as a poker dealer, she wasn’t required to clean up the mess. She didn’t have to offer advice or refuse it; she didn’t have to worry about tax consequences, about sitting across from someone else’s auditor, justifying choices she had no part in making.

When she got off, she changed into her tightest jeans and a summer sweater and went to her favorite bar.

Casino bars were always busy after midnight, even on a Monday. The crowd wasn’t there to have a good time but to wind down from one—or to prepare itself for another. She sat at the bar, as she had since she started this routine, and she’d been about to leave when he sat next to her.

“Lose your stake?” she asked.

“I’m up $400.”

She looked at him sideways. He didn’t seem pleased with the way the night had gone—not the way a casual player would have been. Her gut instinct was right. He was someone who was used to gambling—and winning.

“Buy you another?” he asked.

She shook her head. “One’s enough.”

He smiled. It made him look less fierce and gave him a rugged sort of appeal. “Everything in moderation?”

“Not always,” she said. “At least, not any more.”

***

Somehow they ended up in bed—her bed—and he was better than she imagined his kind of man could be. He had knowledgeable fingers and endless patience. He didn’t seem to mind the scar on her breast. Instead he lingered over it, focusing on it as if it were an erogenous zone. His pleasure at the result enhanced hers and when she finally fell asleep, somewhere around dawn, she was more sated than she had ever been.

She awoke to the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee. Her eyes were filled with sand, but her body had a healthy lethargy.

At least, she thought, he hadn’t left before she awoke.

At least he hadn’t stolen everything in sight.

She still didn’t know his name, and wasn’t sure she cared. She slipped on a robe and combed her hair with her fingers and walked into her kitchen—the kitchen no one had cooked in but her.

He had on his denims and his hair was tied back with a leather thong. He had found not only her cast iron skillet but the grease cover that she always used when making bacon. A bowl of scrambled eggs steamed on the counter, and a plate of heavily buttered toast sat beside it.

“Sit down, darlin’,” he said. “Let me bring it all to you.”

She flushed. That was what it felt like he had done the night before, but she said nothing. Her juice glasses were out, and so was her everyday ware, and yet somehow the table looked like it had been set for a Gourmet photo spread.

“I certainly didn’t expect this,” she said.

“It’s the least I can do.” He put the eggs and toast on the table, then poured her a cup of coffee. Cream and sugar were already out, and in their special containers.

She was slightly uncomfortable that he had figured out her kitchen that quickly and well.

He put the bacon on a paper-towel covered plate, then set that on the table. She hadn’t moved, so he beckoned with his hand.

“Go ahead,” he said. “It’s getting cold.”

He sat across from her and helped himself to bacon while she served herself eggs. They were fluffy and light, just like they would have been in a restaurant. She had no idea how he got that consistency. Her home-scrambled eggs were always runny and undercooked.

The morning light bathed the table, giving everything a bright glow. His hair seemed even blonder in the sunlight and his skin darker. He had laugh lines around his mouth, and a bit of blond stubble on his chin.

She watched him eat, those nimble fingers scooping up the remaining egg with a slice of toast, and found herself remembering how those fingers had felt on her skin.

Then she felt his gaze on her, and looked up. His eyes were dead flat for just an instant, and she felt herself grow cold.

“Awful nice house,” he said slowly, “for a woman who makes a living dealing cards.”

Her first reaction was defense—she wanted to tell him she had other income, and what did he care about a woman who dealt cards, anyway?—but instead, she smiled. “Thank you.”

He measured her, as if he expected a different response, then he said, “You’re awfully calm considering that you don’t even know my name. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who does this often.”

His words startled her, but she made sure that the surprise didn’t show. She had learned a lot about her own tells while dealing poker, and the experience was coming in handy now.

“You flatter yourself,” she said softly.

“Well,” he said, reaching into his back pocket, “if there’s one thing my job’s taught me, it’s that people hide information they don’t want anyone else to know.”

He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and with two fingers removed a business card. He dropped it on the table.

She didn’t want to pick the card up. She knew things had already changed between them in a way she didn’t entirely understand, but she had a sense from the fleeting expression she had seen on his face that once she picked up the card she could never go back.

She set down her coffee cup and used two fingers to slide the card toward her. It identified him as Travis Delamore, a skip tracer and bail bondsman. Below his name was a phone number with a 414 exchange.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin and the surrounding areas. Precisely the place someone from Racine might call if they wanted to hire a professional.

She slipped the card into the pocket of her robe. “Is sleeping around part of your job?”

“Is embezzling part of yours?” All the warmth had left his face. His expression was unreadable except for the flatness in his eyes. What did he think he knew?

She made herself smile. “Mr. Delamore, if I stole a dime from the casino, I’d be instantly fired. There are cameras everywhere.”

“I mean your former job, Ms. Mackie. A lot of money is missing from your office.”

“I don’t have an office.” His use of her former name made her hands clammy. What had Michael done?

“Do you deny that you’re Grace Mackie?”

“I don’t acknowledge or deny anything. When did this become an inquisition, Mr. Delamore? I thought men liked their sex uncomplicated. You seem to be a unique member of your species.”

This time he smiled. “Of course we like our sex uncomplicated. That’s why we’re having this discussion this morning.”

“If we’d had it last night, there wouldn’t be a this morning.”

“That’s my point.” He downed the last of his orange juice. “And thank you for the acknowledgement, Ms. Mackie.”

“It wasn’t an acknowledgement,” she said. “I don’t like to sleep with men who think me guilty of something.”

“Embezzlement,” he said gently, using the same tone he had used in bed. This time, it made her bristle.

“I haven’t stolen anything.”

“New house, new name, new town, mysterious disappearance.”

The chill she had felt earlier grew. She stood and wrapped her robe tightly around her waist. “I don’t know what you think you know, Mr. Delamore, but I believe it’s time for you to leave.”

He didn’t move. “We’re not done.”

“Oh, yes, we are.”

“It would be a lot easier if you told me where the money was, Grace.”

“Do you always get paid for sex, Mr. Delamore?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. “Don’t play games with me, honey.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You seem to enjoy them.”

He shoved his plate away as if it had offended him. Apparently this morning wasn’t going the way he wanted it to either. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

“And I’m just asking you to leave. It was fun, Travis. But it certainly wasn’t worth this.”

He stood and slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “You’ll hear from me again.”

“This isn’t high school,” she said, following him to the door. “I won’t be offended if you fail to call.”

“No,” he said as he stepped into the dry desert air. “You probably won’t be offended. But you will be curious. This is just the beginning, Grace.”

“One person’s beginning is another person’s ending,” she said as she closed and locked the door behind him.

***

The worst thing she could do, she knew, was panic. So she made herself clean up the kitchen as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and she left the curtains open so that he could see if he wanted to. Then she went to the shower, making it a long and hot. She tried to scrub all the traces of him off of her.

For the first time in her life, she felt cheap.

Embezzlement. Something had happened, something Michael was blaming on her. It would be easy enough, she supposed. She had disappeared. That looked suspicious enough. The new name, the new car, the new town, all of that added to the suspicion.

What had Michael done? And why?

She got out of the shower and toweled herself off. She was tempted to call Michael, but she certainly couldn’t do it from the house. If she used her cell, the call would be traceable too. And if she went to a pay phone, she would attract even more suspicion. She had to consider that Travis Delamore was following her, spying on her.

In fact, she had to consider that he had been doing that for some time.

She went over all of their conversation, looking for clues, mistakes she might have made. She had told him very little, but he had asked a lot. Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely any more—all of their conversations had been about money.

Carole would have been proud of her. Grace had finally let her libido get the better of her. Alex would have been disgusted, reminding her that men couldn’t be trusted.

What could he do to her besides cast suspicion? He was right. Without the money, he had nothing. And she had a job, no criminal record, and no suspicious investments.

But if he continued to follow her, she could go after him. The bartender had seen them leave her favorite bar together. She had an innocent face, she’d been living here for a year, got promoted, was well liked by her employer. Delamore had obviously flirted with her while he played poker the night before, and the casino had cameras.

They probably had records of all the times he had watched her before she noticed him.

It wouldn’t take much to make a stalking charge. That would get her an injunction in the least, and it might scare him off.

Then she could find out why he was so sure he had something on her. Then she could find out what it was Michael had done.

***

The newly remodeled ladies room on the third floor of the casino had twenty stalls and a lounge complete with smoking room. It had once been a small restroom, but the reconstruction had taken out the nearby men’s room and replaced it with more stalls. The row of pay phones in the middle stayed, as a convenience to the customers.

Delamore wouldn’t know that she called from those pay phones. No one would know.

She started using the third floor ladies room on her break and more than once had picked up the receiver on the third phone and dialed most of her old office number. She’d always stop before she hit the last digit, though. Her intuition told her that calling Michael would be wrong.

What if Delamore had a trace on Michael’s line? What if the police did?

A week after her encounter with Delamore, a week in which she used the third floor ladies room more times than she could count, she suddenly realized what was wrong. Delamore didn’t have anything on her except suspicion. He had clearly found her—that hadn’t been hard, since she really hadn’t been hiding from anyone—and he had probably checked her bank records for the money he assumed she had embezzled from her former clients. But the money she had gotten from the sale of the business was still in that hidden numbered account—and would stay there.

Her native caution had served her well once again.

She had nothing to hide. It didn’t matter what some good-looking skip trace thought. Her life in Racine was in the past. A part of her past that she couldn’t avoid, any more than she could avoid the scar on her breast—the scar that Delamore had clearly used to identify her, the bastard. But past was past, and until it hurt her present, she wasn’t going to worry about it.

So she stopped making pilgrimages to the third floor women’s room, and gradually, her worries over Delamore faded. She didn’t see him for a week, and she assumed—wrongly—that it was all over.

***

He sat next to her at the bar as if he had been doing it every day for years. He ordered a whiskey neat, and another “for the lady,” just like men in her fantasies used to do. When he looked at her and smiled, she realized that the look didn’t reach his eyes.

Maybe it never had.

“Miss me, darlin’?” he asked.

She picked up her purse, took out a five to cover her drink, and started to leave. He grabbed her wrist. His fingers were warm and dry, their touch no longer gentle. A shiver started in her back, but she willed the feeling away.

“Let go of me,” she said.

“Now, Gracie, I think you should listen to what I have to say.”

“Let go of me,” she said in that same measured tone, “or I will scream so loud that everyone in the place will hear.”

“Screams don’t frighten me, doll.”

“Maybe the police do. Believe me, hon, I will press charges.”

His smile was slow and wide, but that flat look was in his eyes again, the one that told her he had all the cards. “I’m sure they’ll be impressed,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket with his free hand. “But I do believe a warrant trumps a tight grip on the arm.”

He set a piece of paper down on the bar itself. The bartender, wiping away the remains of another customer’s mess, glanced her way as if he were keeping an eye on her.

She didn’t touch the paper, but she didn’t shake Delamore’s hand off her arm, either. She wasn’t quite sure what to do.

He picked up the paper, shook it open, and she saw the strange bold-faced print of a legal document, her former name in the middle. “Tell you what, Gracie. How about we finish the talk we started the other morning in one of those dark, quiet booths over there?”

She was still staring at the paper, trying to comprehend it. It looked official enough. But then, she’d never seen a warrant for anyone’s arrest before. She had only heard of them.

She had never imagined she’d see her own name on one.

She let Delamore lead her to a booth at the far end of the bar. He slid across the plastic, trying to pull her in beside him, but this time, she shook him off. She sat across from him, perched on the seat with her feet in the aisle, purse clutched on her lap. Flee position, Alex used to call it. You Might Be a Loser and I Reserve the Right to Find Someone Else, was Carole’s name for it.

“If I bring you back to Wisconsin,” he said, “I get a few thousand bucks. What it don’t say on my card is that I’m a bounty hunter.”

“What an exciting life you must lead,” Grace said dryly.

He smiled. The look chilled her. She was beginning to wonder how she had ever found him attractive. “It’s got its perks.”

It was at that moment she decided she hated him. He would forever refer to her as a perk of the job, not as someone who had given herself to him freely, someone who had enjoyed the moment as much as he had.

All that gentleness in his fingers, all those murmured endearments. Lies.

She hated lies.

“But,” he was saying, “I see a way to make a little more money here. I don’t think you’re a real threat to society. And you’re a lot of fun, more fun than I would’ve expected, given how you lived before you moved here.”

The bartender came over, his bar towel over his arm. “Want anything?”

He was speaking to her. He hadn’t even looked at Delamore. The bartender was making sure she was all right.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Can you check back in five minutes?”

“Sure thing.” This time he did look at Delamore, who grinned at him. The bartender shot him a warning glare.

“Wow,” Delamore said as the bartender moved out of earshot. “You have a defender.”

“You keep getting off track,” Grace said.

Delamore shrugged. “I like talking to you.”

“Well, I find talking with you rather dull.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t think so a few days ago.”

“As I recall,” she said, “we didn’t do a lot talking.”

His smile softened. “That’s my memory too.”

She clutched her purse tighter. It always looked so glamorous in the movies, finding the right person, having a night of great sex. And even if he rode off into the sunset never to be seen again, everything still had a glow of perfection to it.

Not the bits of sleaze, the hardness in his expression, the sense that what he wanted from her was something she couldn’t give.

“You know, the papers said that Michael Holden went into your old office, and put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Then the police, after finding the body, discovered that most of the money your clients had entrusted to your firm had disappeared.”

She couldn’t suppress the small whimper of shock that rose in her throat.

Delamore noted it and his eyes brightened. “Now, you tell me what happened.”

She had no idea. She had none at all. But she couldn’t tell Delamore that. She didn’t even know if the story was true.

It sounded true. But Delamore had lied before. For all she knew he was some kind of con man, out to get her because he smelled money.

He was watching her, his eyes glittering. She could barely control her expression. She needed to get away.

She stood, still clutching her purse like a schoolgirl.

“Planning to leave? I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His voice had turned cold. A shiver ran down her spine, but she didn’t move, just stared down at him unable to turn away.

“One call,” he said softly, “and you’ll get picked up by the Nevada police. You should sit down and hear what I have to say.”

Her hands were shaking. She sat, feeling trapped. He had finally hooked her, even though she hadn’t said a word.

He leaned forward. “Now listen to me, darling. I know you got the money. I been working this one a long time, and I dug up the records. Michael closed all those accounts right after you disappeared. That’s not a coincidence.”

Her mouth was dry. She wanted to swallow, but couldn’t.

“‘Member our talk about money? One of those first nights, here in this bar?”

She was staring at him, her eyes wide and dry as if she’d been driving and staring at the road for hours. It felt like she had forgotten to blink.

“I told you I don’t need much, and that’s true. But I’m getting tired of dragging people back to their parole officers or for their court date, or finding husbands who’d skipped out on their families and then getting paid five grand or two grand. Then people question your expenses, like you don’t got a right to spend a night in a motel or eat three squares. Or they demand to know why you took so danged long to find someone who’d been hiding so good no cop could find them.”

His voice was so soft she had to strain to hear it. In spite of herself, she leaned forward.

“I’m forty-five years old, doll,” he said. “And I’m getting tired. You got one pretty little scar. Did you notice all the ones I got? On the job. Yours is the first case in a while where I didn’t get a beating.” Then he grinned. “At least, not a painful one.”

She flushed, and her fingers tightened on the purse. Her hands were beginning to hurt. Part of her, a part she’d never heard from before, wanted to take that purse and club him in the face. But she didn’t move. If she moved, she would lose any control she had.

“So,” he said, “here’s the deal. I like you. I didn’t expect to, but I do. You’re a pretty little thing, and smart as a whip, and this is probably going to be the only crime you’ll ever commit, because you’re one of those girls who just knows better, aren’t you?”

She held her head rigidly, careful so that he wouldn’t take the most subtle movement for a nod.

“And I think you got a damn fine deal here. The house is nice—lots of light—and the town obviously suits you. I met those friends of yours, the ball-buster and the one who thinks she’s God’s Gift to Men, and I gotta say it’s clear why you left.”

Her nails dug into the leather. Pain shot through the tender skin at the top of her fingers.

“I really don’t wanna ruin your life. It’s time I make a change in mine. You give me fifty grand, and I’ll bury everything I found about you.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” Her voice was raspy with tension. “For the first payment?”

His eyes sparkled. “One-time deal.”

She snorted. She knew better. Blackmailers never worked like that.

“And maybe I’ll stick around. Get to know you a little better. I could fall in love with that house myself.”

“Could you?” she asked, amazed at the dry tone she’d managed to maintain.

“Sure.” He grinned. That had been the look that had made her go weak less than a week ago. Now it sent a chill through her. “You and me, we had something.”

“Yeah,” she said. “A one-night stand.”

He laughed. “It could be more than that, darlin’. It took you long enough, but you might’ve just found Mr. Right.”

“Seems to me you were the one who was searching.” She stood. He didn’t protest, and she was glad. She had to leave. If she stayed any longer, she’d say something she would regret.

She tucked her purse under her arm. “I assume the drink’s on you,” she said, and then she walked away.

He didn’t follow her—at least not right away. And she drove in circles before going home, watching for his car behind hers, thinking about everything he had said. Thinking about her break, her freedom, the things she had done to create a new life.

The things that now made her look guilty of a crime she hadn’t committed.

***

She didn’t sleep, of course. She couldn’t. Her mind was too full—and her bed was no longer a private place. He’d been there, and some of him remained, a shadow, a laugh. After an hour of tossing and turning, she moved to the guest room and sat on the edge of the brand new unused mattress, clutching a blanket and thinking.

It was time to find out what had happened. Delamore knew who she was. She couldn’t pretend any more. But he wasn’t ready to turn her in. That gave her a little time.

She took a shower, made herself a pot of coffee, and a sandwich which she ate slowly. Then she went to her office, sat down in front of her computer and hesitated. The moment she logged on was the moment that all her movements could be traced. The moment she couldn’t turn back from.

But she could testify to the conversation she’d had with Delamore, and the bartender would back her up. She wouldn’t be able to hide her own identity should the police come for her, and so there was no reason to lie. She would simply say that she was concerned about her former business partner. She wanted to know if any of what Delamore told her was true.

It wouldn’t seem like a confession to anyone but him.

She logged on, and used a search engine to find the news.

It didn’t take her long. Amazing how many newspapers were online. Michael’s death created quite a scandal in Racine, and the pictures of her office—the bloody mess still visible inside—were enough to make the ham on rye that she’d had a few moments ago turn in her stomach.

Michael. He’d been a good accountant. Thorough, exacting. Nervous. Always so nervous, afraid of making any kind of mistake.

Embezzlement? Why would he do that?

But that was what the papers had said. She dug farther, found the follow-up pieces. He’d raised cash, using clients’ accounts, to bilk the company of a small fortune.

And Delamore was right. The dates matched up. Michael had stolen from her own clients to pay her for her own business. He had bought the business with stolen money.

She bowed her head, listening to the computer hum, counting her own breaths. She had never once questioned where he had gotten the money. She had figured he’d gotten a loan, had thought that maybe he’d finally learned the value of savings.

Michael. The man who took an advance on his paycheck once every six months. Michael, who had once told her he was too scared to invest on his own.

I wouldn’t trust my own judgment, he had said.

Oh, the poor man. He had been right.

The trail did lead to her. The only reason Delamore couldn’t point at her exactly was because she had stashed the cash in a blind account. And she hadn’t touched it.

Not yet.

She’d been living entirely off her own savings, letting the money from the sale of her business draw interest. The nest egg for the future she hadn’t planned yet.

Delamore wanted fifty thousand dollars from her. To give that to him, she’d have to tap the nest egg.

How many times would he make her tap it again? And again? Until it was gone, of course. Into his pocket. And then he’d turn her in.

She wiped her hand on her jeans. It was a nervous movement, meant to calm herself down. She had to think.

If the cops could trace her, they would have. They either didn’t have enough on her or hadn’t made the leap that Delamore had. And then she had confirmed his leap with the conversation tonight.

She got up and walked away from the computer. She wouldn’t let him intrude. He had already taken over her bedroom. She needed to have a space here, in her office, without him.

There was no mention of her in the papers, nothing that suggested she was involved. The police would have contacted the Reno police if they had known where she was. Even if they had hired Delamore to track her, they might still not have been informed about her whereabouts. Delamore wanted money more than he wanted to inform the authorities about where she was.

Grace sat down in the chair near the window. The shade was drawn, but the spot was soothing nonetheless.

The police weren’t her problem. Delamore was.

She already knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied with one payment. She had to find a way to get rid of him.

She bowed her head. Even though she had done nothing criminal she was thinking like one. How did a woman get rid of a man she didn’t want? She could get a court order, she supposed, forcing him to stay away from her. She could refuse to pay him and let the cards fall where they might. Years of legal hassle, maybe even an arrest. She would certainly lose her job. No casino would hire her, and she couldn’t fall back on her CPA skills, not after being arrested for embezzlement.

Ignoring him wasn’t an option either.

Then, there was the act of desperation. She could kill him. Somehow. She had always thought that murderers weren’t methodical enough. Take an intelligent person, have her kill someone in a thoughtful way, and she would be able to get away with the crime.

Everywhere but in her own mind. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much he threatened her, she couldn’t kill Delamore.

There had to be another option. She had to do something. She just wasn’t sure what it was.

She went back to the computer and looked at the last article she had downloaded. Michael had stolen from people she had known for years. People who had trusted her, believed in her and her word. People who had thought she had integrity.

She frowned. What must they think of her now? That she was an embezzler too? After all those years of work, did she want that behind her name?

Then again, why should she care about people she would never see again?

But she would see them every time she closed her eyes. Elderly Mrs. Vezzetti and her poodle, trusting Grace to handle her account because her husband, God rest his soul, had convinced her that numbers were too much for her pretty little head. Mr. Heitzkey who couldn’t balance a checkbook if his life depended on it. Ms. Andersen, who had taken Grace’s advice on ways to legally hide money from the IRS—and who had seemed so excited when it worked.

Grace sighed.

There was only one way to make this right. Only one way to clear her conscience and to clear Delamore out of her life.

She had to turn herself in.

***

She did some more surfing as she ate breakfast and found discount tickets to Chicago. She had to buy them round-trip from Chicago to Reno (God bless the casinos for their cheap airfare deals) and fly only the Reno to Chicago leg. Later she would buy another set, and not use part of it. Both of those tickets were cheaper than buying a single round-trip ticket out of Reno to Racine.

Grace made the reservation, hoping that Delamore wasn’t tracking round trips that started somewhere else, and then she went to work. She claimed a family emergency, got a leave of absence, and hoped it would be enough.

She liked the world she built here. She didn’t want to lose it because she hadn’t been watching her back.

Twenty-four hours later, she and the car she rented in O’Hare were in Racine. The town hadn’t changed. More churches than she saw out west, a few timid billboards for Native American Casinos, a factory outlet mall, and bars everywhere. The streets were grimy with the last of the sand laid down during the winter snow and ice. The trees were just beginning to bud, and the flowers were poking through the rich black dirt.

It felt as if she had gone back in time.

She wondered if she should call Alex and Carole, and then decided against it. What would she say to them, anyway? Instead, she checked into a hotel, unpacked, ate a mediocre room service meal, and slept as if she were dead.

Maybe in this city, she was.

***

The district attorney’s office was smaller than Grace’s bathroom. There were four chairs, not enough for her, her lawyer, the three assistant district attorneys and the DA himself. She and her lawyer were allowed to sit, but the assistant DAs hovered around the bookshelves and desk like children who were waiting for their father to finish business. The DA himself sat behind a massive oak desk that dwarfed the tiny room.

Grace’s lawyer, Maxine Jones, was from Milwaukee. Grace had done her research before she arrived and found the best defense attorney in Wisconsin. Grace knew that Maxine’s services would cost her a lot—but Grace was gambling that she wouldn’t need Maxine for more than a few days.

Maxine was a tall, robust woman who favored bright colors. In contrast she wore debutante jewelry—a simple gold chain, tiny diamond earrings—that accented her toffee-colored skin. The entire look made her seem both flamboyant and powerful, combinations that Grace was certain helped Maxine in court.

“My client,” Maxine was saying, “came here on her own. You’ll have to remember that, Mr. Lindstrom.”

Harold Lindstrom, the district attorney, was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair and a runner’s thinness. His gaze held no compassion as it fell on Grace.

“Only because a bounty hunter hired by the police department found her,” Lindstrom said.

“Yes,” Maxine said. “We’ll concede that the bounty hunter was the one who informed her of the charges. But that’s all. This man hounded her, harassed her, and tried to extort money out of her, money she did not have.”

“Then she should have gone to the Reno police,” Lindstrom said.

An assistant DA crossed her arms as if this discussion was making her uncomfortable. It was making Grace uncomfortable. Never before had she been discussed as if she weren’t there.

“It was easier to come here,” Maxine said. “My client has a hunch, which if it’s true, will negate the charges you have against her and against Michael Holden.”

“Mr. Holden embezzled from his clients with the assistance of Ms. Reinhart.”

“No. Mr. Holden followed standard procedure for the accounting firm.”

“Embezzlement is standard procedure?” Lindstrom was looking directly at Grace.

Maxine put her manicured hand on Grace’s knee, a reminder to remain quiet.

“No. But Mr. Holden, for reasons we don’t know, decided to end his life, and since he now worked alone, no one knew where he was keeping the clients’ funds. My client,” Maxine added, as if she expected Grace to speak, “would like you to drop all charges against her and to charge Mr. Delamore with extortion. In exchange, she will testify against him, and she will also show you where the money is.”

“Where she hid it, huh?” Lindstrom said. “No deal.”

Maxine leaned forward. “You don’t have a crime here. If you don’t bargain with us, I’ll go straight to the press, and you’ll look like a fool. It seems to me that there’s an election coming up.”

Lindstrom’s eyes narrowed. Grace held her breath. Maxine stared at him as if they were all playing a game of chicken. Maybe they were.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, “if her information checks out, then we’ll drop the charges. We can’t file against Delamore because the alleged crimes were committed in Nevada.”

Maxine’s hand left Grace’s knee. Maxine templed her fingers and rested their painted tips against her chin. “Then, Harold, we’ll simply have to file a suit against the city and the county for siccing him on my client. A multi-million dollar suit. We’ll win, too. Because she came forward the moment she learned of a problem. She hasn’t been in touch with anyone from here. Her family is dead, and her friends were never close. She had no way of knowing what was happening a thousand miles away until a man you people sent started harassing her.”

“You said he’s been harassing you for a month,” Lindstrom said to Grace. “Why didn’t you come forward before now?”

Grace looked at Maxine who nodded.

“Because,” Grace said, “he didn’t show me any proof of his claims until the night before I flew out. You can ask the bartender at the Silver Dollar. He saw the entire thing.”

Lindstrom frowned at Maxine. “We want names and dates.”

“You’ll get them,” Maxine said.

Lindstrom sighed. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

Grace’s heart was pounding. Here was her moment. She suddenly found herself hoping they would all believe her. She had never lied with so much at stake before.

“Go ahead, Grace,” Maxine said softly.

Grace nodded. “We had run into some trouble with our escrow service. Minor stuff, mostly rudeness on the part of the company. It was all irritating Michael. Many things were irritating him at that time, but we weren’t close, so I didn’t attribute it to anything except work.”

The entire room had become quiet. She felt slightly lightheaded. She was forgetting to breathe. She forced herself to take a deep breath before continuing.

“In the week that I was leaving, Michael asked me how he could go about transferring everything from one escrow company to another. It required a lot of paperwork, and he didn’t trust the company we were with. I thought he should have let them and the new company handle it, but he didn’t want to.”

She squeezed her hands together, reminded herself not to embellish too much. A simple lie was always best.

“We had accounts we had initially set up for clients in discreet banks. I told Michael to go to one of those banks, place the money in accounts there, and then when the new escrow accounts were established, to transfer the money to them. I warned him not to take longer than a day in the intermediate account.”

“We have no record of such an account,” the third district attorney said.

Grace nodded. “That’s what I figured when I heard that he was being charged with embezzlement. I can give you the names of all the banks and the numbers of the accounts we were assigned. If the money’s in one of them, then my name is clear.”

“Depending on when the deposit was made,” Lindstrom said. “And if the money’s all there.”

Grace’s lightheadedness was growing. She hadn’t realized how much effort bluffing took. But she did know she was covered on those details at least.

“You may go through my client’s financial records,” Maxine said. “All of her money is accounted for.”

“Why wouldn’t he have transferred the money to the new escrow accounts quickly, like you told him to?” Lindstrom asked.

“I don’t know,” Grace said.

“Depression is a confusing thing, Harold,” Maxine said. “If he’s like other people who’ve gotten very depressed, I’m sure things slipped. I’m sure this wasn’t the only thing he failed to do. And you can bet I’d argue that in court.”

“Why did you leave Racine so suddenly?” Lindstrom asked. “Your friends say you just vanished one night.”

Grace let out a small breath. On this one she could be completely honest. “I had a scare. I thought I had breast cancer. The lumpectomy results came in the day I left. You can check with my doctor. I was planning to go after that—maybe a month or more—but I felt so free, that I just couldn’t go back to my work. Something like that changes you, Mr. Lindstrom.”

He grunted as if he didn’t believe her. For the first time in the entire discussion, she felt herself get angry. She clenched her fingers so hard that her nails dug into her palms. She wouldn’t say any more, just like Maxine had told her to.

“The banks?” Lindstrom asked.

Grace slipped a small leather-bound ledger toward him. She had spent a lot of time drawing that up by hand in different pens. She hoped it would be enough.

“The accounts are identified by numbers only. That’s one of the reasons we liked the banks. If he started a new account, I won’t know its number.”

“If they’re in the U.S., then we can get a court order to open them,” Lindstrom said.

“Check these numbers first. Most of the accounts were inactive.” She had to clutch her fingers together to keep them from trembling.

“All right,” Lindstrom said and stood. Maxine and Grace stood as well. “If we discover that you’re wrong—about anything—we’ll arrest you, Ms. Reinhart. Do you understand?”

Grace nodded.

Maxine smiled. “We’re sure you’ll see it our way, Harold. But remember your promise. Get that creep away from Grace.”

“Right now, your client’s the one we’re concerned with, Maxine.” Lindstrom’s cold gaze met Grace’s. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

***

Grace thought the eight o’clock knock on her hotel room door was room service. She’d ordered another meal from them, unable to face old haunts and old friends. Until she had come back, she had never even been in a hotel in Racine, so she felt as if she weren’t anywhere near her old home. Now if she could only get the different local channels on the television set, her own delusion would be complete.

She undid the locks, opened the door, and stepped away so that the waiter could bring his cart/table inside.

Instead, Delamore pulled the door back. She was so surprised to see him that she didn’t try to close him out. She scuttled away from him toward the nightstand, and fumbled behind her back for the phone.

His cheeks were red, and his eyes sparkling with fury. His anger was so palpable, she could feel it across the room.

“What kind of game are you playing?” he snapped, slamming the door closed.

She got the phone off the hook without turning around. “No game.”

“It is a game. You got away from me, and then you come here, telling them that I’ve been threatening you.”

“You have been threatening me.” Her fingers found the bottom button on the phone—which she hoped was “0.” If the hotel operator heard this, she’d have to call security.

“Of course I’d been threatening you! It’s my job. You didn’t want to come back here and I needed to drag you back. Any criminal would see that as a threat.”

“Here’s what you don’t understand,” Grace said as calmly as she could. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Bullshit.” Delamore took a step toward her. She backed up farther and the end table hit her thighs. Behind her she thought she heard a tinny voice ask a muted question. The operator, she hoped.

Grace held up a hand. “Come any closer and I’ll scream.”

“I haven’t done anything to you. I’ve been trying to catch you.”

She frowned. What was he talking about? And then she knew. The police had put a wire on him. The conversation was being taped. And they—he—was hoping that she’d incriminate herself.

“You’re threatening me now,” she said. “I haven’t done anything. I talked to the DA today. I explained my situation and what I think Michael did. He’s checking my story now.”

“Your lies.”

“No,” Grace said. “You’re the one who’s lying, and I have no idea why.”

“You bitch.” He lowered his voice the angrier he got. Somehow she found that even more threatening.

“Stay away from me.”

“Stop the act, Grace,” he said. “It’s just you and me. And we both know you’re not afraid of anything.”

Then the door burst open and two hotel security guards came in. Delamore turned and as he did, Grace said, “Oh, thank God. This man came into my room and he’s threatening me.”

The guards grabbed him. Delamore struggled, but the guards held him tightly. He glared at her. “You’re lying again, Grace.”

“No,” she said and stepped away from the phone. He glanced down at the receiver, on its side on the table, and cursed. Even if he hadn’t been wired, she had a witness.

The guards dragged him and Grace sank onto the bed, placing her head in her hands. She waited until the shaking stopped before she called Maxine.

***

Grace had been right. Delamore had been wearing a wire, and her ability to stay cool while he attacked had preserved her story. That incident, plus the fact that the DA’s office had found the money exactly where she had said it would be, in the exact amount that they had been looking for, went a long way toward preserving her credibility. When detectives interviewed Michael’s friends one final time, they all agreed he was agitated and depressed, but he would tell no one why. Without the embezzlement explanation, it simply sounded as if he were a miserable man driven to the brink by personal problems.

She had won, at least on that score. Her old clients would get their money back, and they would be off her conscience. And nothing, not even Delamore, would take their place.

Delamore was under arrest, charged with extortion, harassment, and attempting to tamper with a witness. Apparently, he’d faced similar complaints before, but they had never stuck. This time, it looked as if they would.

Grace would have to return to Racine to testify against him. But not for several months. And maybe, Maxine said, not even then. The hope was that Delamore would plea and save everyone the expense of a trial.

So, on her last night in Racine, perhaps forever, Grace got enough courage to call Alex and Carole. She didn’t reach either of them; instead she had to leave a message on their voice mail, asking them to meet her at Oh Kaye’s one final time.

Grace got there first. The place hadn’t changed at all. There was still a jukebox in the corner and cocktail waitresses in short skirts and ankle boots with big heels. Tin stars and Wild West art on the walls, unstained wood and checkered tablecloths adding to the effect. High bar stools and a lot of lonely people.

Grace ignored them. She sashayed to the bar, slapped her hand on it, and ordered whiskey neat. A group of suits at a nearby table ogled her and she turned away.

She was there to diss men not to meet them.

Carole arrived first, black miniskirt, tight crop top, and cigarette in hand. She looked no different. She hugged Grace so hard that Grace thought her ribs would crack.

“Alex had me convinced you were dead.”

Grace shook her head. “I was just sleeping around.”

Carole grinned. “Fun, huh?”

Grace thought. The night had been fun. The aftermath hadn’t been. But her life was certainly more exciting. She didn’t know if the tradeoff was worth it.

Alex arrived a moment later. Her auburn hair had grown, and she was wearing boots beneath a long dress. The boots made her look even taller.

She didn’t hug Grace.

“What the hell’s the idea?” Alex snapped. “You vanished—kapoof! What kind of friend does that?”

In the past, Grace would have stammered something, then told Alex she was exactly right and Grace was wrong. This time, Grace set her whiskey down.

“I told you about my lumpectomy,” Grace said. “You didn’t care. I was scared. I told you that, and you didn’t care. When I found out I didn’t have cancer, I called you to celebrate, and you didn’t care. Seems to me you vanished first.”

Alex’s cheeks were red. Carole stubbed her cigarette in an ashtray on the bar’s wooden rail.

“Not fair,” Alex said.

“That’s what I thought,” Grace said.

Carole looked from one to the other. Finally, she said, very softly, “I really missed you, Gracie.”

“I thought some misogynistic asshole picked you up and killed you,” Alex said.

“Could have happened,” Grace said. “Maybe it nearly did.”

“Here?” Carole asked. “At Oh Kaye’s?”

Grace shook her head. “It’s a long story. Are you both finally ready to listen to me?”

Carole tugged her miniskirt as if she could make it longer. “I want to hear it.”

Alex picked up Grace’s whiskey and tossed it back. Then she wiped off her mouth. “What did I tell you, Grace? Women always tolerate misogyny. You should have fought him off.”

“I did,” Grace said.

Alex’s eyes widened. Carole laughed. “Our Gracie has grown up.”

“No,” Grace said. “I’ve always been grown-up. You’re just noticing now.”

“There’s a story here,” Alex said, slipping her arm through Grace’s, “and I think I need to hear it.”

“Me, too.” Carole put her arm around Grace’s shoulder. “Tell us about your adventures. I promise we’ll listen.”

Grace sighed. She’d love to tell them everything, but if she did, she’d screw up the case against Delamore. “Naw,” Grace said. “Let’s just have some drinks and talk about girl things.”

“You gotta promise to tell us,” Alex said.

“Okay,” Grace said. “I promise. Now how about some whiskey?”

“Beer,” Alex said.

“You see that cute guy over there?” Carole asked, pointing at the suits.

Grace grinned. Already, her adventure was forgotten. Nothing changed here at Oh Kaye’s. Nothing except Cowboy Grace, who’d finally bellied up to the bar.

 

___________________________________________

“Cowboy Grace“ is available for one week on this site. The ebook is available on all retail stores, as well as here.

Cowboy Grace

Copyright © 2016 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in The Silver Gryphon, edited by Gary Turner and Marty Halpern.
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2016 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Imageegami/Dreamstime

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Today’s Women in SF&F Month guest is Kate Elliott! Her work includes the epic fantasy series Crossroads, the space opera series The Sun Chronicles, and the young adult fantasy series Court of Fives, to name a few of her many books. Her next novel, The Witch Roads, is described as the “fantastic first in a new duology…filled with rich worldbuilding, political intrigue, and themes of class and family secrets” in a starred review on Library Journal. Her newest book will […]

The post Women in SF&F Month: Kate Elliott first appeared on Fantasy Cafe.

Alex Costa, thirty-two years old, honorably discharged after eight years in the Marine Corps. He and his husband had just celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary, and before the dive, he had showed off the necklace he received as a gift – a clover charm in gold with a small breach emerald in the center. For luck.

Alex sprawled on the rocks, face up. The left side of his skull and face were sliced off, and the cut was so sharp, it was like half of his head simply disappeared. His one remaining eye stared up at me, dull and lifeless.

I squatted by the body. My leg whined in protest, so I sat on the ground and picked up Alex’s SIG Spear.

“This probably won’t work,” I told Bear.

Bear enthusiastically panted.

Originally the SIG Spear was developed as a civilian version of US Army XM7, a multi-caliber rifle that answered the military’s need for the small arms with greater firepower.  It offered higher muzzle velocity and better long-range shot placement. This version of the SIG Spear was developed specifically for the gates. I knew all of this because I had been briefed on it and taught how to fire it.

There was just one problem.

I turned the rifle on its side and found a small black selector. It could be turned only two ways: toward a stylized bullet etched into the gun or toward the identical bullet with a line through it. Fire, no fire. As my retired Marine firing range instructor put it, private-proof. So easy even a soldier could do it.

The selector was in the safety position. Alex died too fast to fire off a shot.

I flipped the selector toward the bullet, raised the rifle to my shoulder, and pressed the trigger. Nothing. As expected.

A small red light flared on the rifle and faded.

The use of guns inside the gate was strictly controlled. Only smart guns were permitted, and only combat-rated Talents could carry one. Nobody wanted the civilians grabbing weapons dropped by their injured escorts and firing them in a blind panic. Nobody wanted to hand a working firearm to the enemy either. That technology needed to stay in human hands as long as possible.

Each smart weapon was keyed to the biometrics of its owner. In a pinch, it could be unlocked by entering a code given only to the assault and escort team members. A new code was issued for every gate dive.

They didn’t give me the code. I was a non-combatant Talent. I would never need this code, because I had a big strong blade warden with an invulnerable forcefield to protect me.

“When we get out of here, I’m going to punch that smarmy weasel in the face.”

I flipped the gun over to the code lock. The small screen had space for six digits.

123456

654321

000000

111111…

Nothing. I could sit here for hours and not get anywhere.

“If there are more of those four-armed creatures on the other side of the gates, guns won’t be much of an advantage for us, Bear. They still need a human to aim and fire. Parrying an attack at that speed requires a top tier combat Talent, and we don’t have too many of those.”

I went through Alex’s pockets and came up with two energy bars and a ka-bar knife.

Anja’s corpse was next. She wasn’t cut, but there were chunks of rock embedded in her chest. Killed by London’s grenade.

She wore the same shoe size as me, 8 in women’s. I took her boots. They were dry.

“I’ve turned into a ghoul, Bear. I’m now robbing the dead.”

Panic crested inside me, and I shoved it back down again. Don’t think, just do.

I took his canteen and the bars and moved on to the next corpse.

Fifteen minutes later I’d worked my way around the cavern back to where I’d passed out. Nine of the twelve miners had died. Of the escort team, only London had made it out.

George Payne was the oldest miner on the crew. He was fifty-four, and his years had been hard-won. He’d brought a backpack. Inside I found Motrin, a Chapstick, some tissues, a small towel, a packet of jerky, a Leatherman multitool, a pair of dry socks in a Ziploc bag, and way too many Tiger Balm patches. I dumped the patches and kept everything else. I swapped my socks out, put Anja’s boots on, and loaded the rest of what I gathered from the others into the backpack. My haul consisted of eight energy bars, seven 32 oz canteens, two Kit Kats, one portable first aid kit, and a pack of THC gummies. Only four canteens fit. That and the one on my waist made five.

“A Ka-bar.” I showed the knife to Bear. “That’s the weapon we have to work with. This is all our firepower. Right here in my hand.”

Bear didn’t seem impressed.

“We’re going to make it out of here if I have cut my way through every last monster in this fucking breach.”

Big talk. Whatever killed the assault team was probably still out there. Jace, the assault’s team tank, was protected by over a hundred pounds of adamant, which he wore like sweatpants because he was literally strong enough to bench press a car. Blue Savant shot lightning from his fingertips. Ximena, a pulsecarver, had a reaction time of fifty milliseconds and could dice a horde of monsters into pieces with her twin swords.

I had a Ka-bar and needed ibuprofen for my knees after a 100-meter dash.

What was the alternative? Sitting here and dying?

I had gone through all of the human dead. The grey attackers were next. I walked over to the first body. The grey shroud wrapping around the four-armed corpse shivered.

I stopped.

The shroud stretched toward me in long strands, like algae swaying with the currents. Behind me, Bear whined.

I flexed. The grey shroud burst into a blazing violent orange. It was plant based and also animal based, an odd hybrid somewhere in-between. A mixotroph like the single-celled Euglena, which used photosynthesis like a plant but moved and ingested food like an animal. And if it touched me, I would be dead. I had no idea how I knew it, but I was absolutely sure. It would kill me.

I backed away. The shroud shivered, as if vibrating in frustration, and settled back onto the corpse.

I swallowed and turned to the woman in blue.

I’d successfully avoided thinking about her and the gem up to this point. But there was no choice now.

What did she do to me? She did something. I didn’t feel that different. Did she really put a gem inside my head? Was that why my leg healed?

But if you had a magic gem that could fix broken bones in a matter of hours, it was highly likely said gem could also regrow limbs. Why give it to me? Why not keep it and regenerate the arm?

Treasure your inheritance, my kind daughter.

All the questions. Zero answers.

The dead woman lay on her back. Her face had lost its vibrant color. The pink and turquoise dulled, muted, as if she were a wilted flower. Her blood-soaked robe stuck to her body, and the puddle of blood by her arm had congealed to a dark viscous gel.

Logic said I had to search her, but something about it felt fundamentally wrong, like committing sacrilege.

I circled the body and flexed. The corpse turned a faint violet, so light it was almost white. A sliver of deepest black stretched by the woman’s side. The sword. My talent had no idea what to make of it, so it registered it as a slice of darkness.

I blinked my power off and knelt on the rocks by the sword. I remembered it being slender and blue, but now it seemed shorter and dull, washed-out grey in color. There was no wrapping on the hilt. The whole thing was one continuous chunk. It looked metal but I had no idea what kind. Nothing like I’d ever seen before.

A sword was much better than a knife.

“I’m sorry you died,” I told the corpse. “I need your sword to survive.”

And now I was talking to dead people.

I touched the sword. Sparks burst from the blade. The blade turned blue. The handle flowed in my fingers as if liquid and wrapped around my wrist.

Panic punched me. I jerked my hand away on pure instinct, flailing around like there was a poisonous bug on my arm. The band of metal around my wrist snapped open, and the blade clattered to the floor.

I froze, staring at it.

The sword lay on the stone, inert, once again dull, muted grey.

A moment passed. Another.

The sword didn’t move.

Okay. One more time.

I reached for the sword. The moment my fingers touched it, the metal flowed again, anchoring itself around my wrist and fitting perfectly into my fingers. The urge to fling it away gripped me.

I clenched my teeth and waited. 

The sword waited with me.

Was I controlling it? Was this some alien artificial intelligence? Was it alive somehow?

Nothing was happening.

I took a deep breath. 

The sword flowed through my fingers to my forearm and wrapped around it like a pale-blue metal bracer.

I quashed the scream before it left my mouth. My fingers were free. I moved my arm around. The bracer stayed as if glued.

I moved as if to stab. The sword streamed into my palm, lengthened into a half-formed blade, and stopped. Waiting for a target? I lowered my arm. The blade slithered back into a bracer.

“Magic sword,” I told Bear.

The shepherd eyed the bracer and kept her distance.

I had made a full circle around the cavern. The pool where Stella died was right in front of me. Her head was still on the bottom, dark hair swaying with the weak current.

I needed to fish Stella’s head out of the water and put it with her body. When the guild eventually came for the corpses, they might miss it, and Stella’s parents would need a whole daughter to bury.

The hair swayed.

I had to do this. It was very simple: wade into the water, pick up the head, put it with her body.

Oh my God. She was twenty years old. She was alive this morning. She was talking, walking, breathing and now she was dead and her head was in the water and Tia was only four years younger. Would somebody be taking my daughter’s head out of a pool like this one so I could look at her face one last time? When they got Stella out, they would put her in a box, and then they would bury her, and her mother would never see her again.

How do you survive this? How do you go on after this?

Her parents couldn’t be much older than me. They would have to live the rest of their lives without her. There was nothing anyone could do. This was done. She was dead.

Tears wet my eyes. I splashed through the water, picked up her head, and climbed out, slipping on the rocks. Her body lay on its back. What do I do? Do I put it on her neck? Do I leave it next to her?

I was holding a kid’s head in my hands and trying to figure out how best to leave it with her corpse.

Someone wailed like a hurt animal, and I realized it was me. Tears came, so many I couldn’t even see.

I put the head gently by her side, dropped to the ground next to her, and cried. I cried and screamed for Stella, for her parents, for Sanders and Anja, for their children and loved ones. I cried for Costa who was missing half of his face and for Aaron who lay in pieces.

I sobbed for all of them, all the bodies in this cave. And I cried for myself, trapped here, left to die, and for my children who might never see me again.

Bear padded over to me and lay by my side. I hugged her and cried harder. It was just the two of us, the cave, and the raw pain of my grief.

Gradually, the sobs subsided. I ran out of tears. For a while I sat there, silent, staring at Stella’s body. Slowly, very slowly, self-preservation woke up and took over. Nobody was coming for me. Nobody would help me. It was up to me.

Nothing new.

I could do this. I’ve been doing this since I turned eighteen and my mother informed me that I had two weeks to move out. I’d been doing this since Roger decided that he didn’t want to do this anymore.

I got up.

Bear stared at me.

“Time to get a move on.”

I swung the heavy backpack onto my back and picked up Bear’s leash.

I was halfway to the tunnels when the generator sputtered and died, plunging the cavern into darkness.

The post The Inheritance: Chapter 3 Part 2 first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Back in early January, with snow falling on our bare trees and the brisk cold of a northeastern winter defining our days, I wrote a post for this blog about “Nesting.” The title referred to what Nancy and I had been doing around the house — unpacking, finding places for our stuff, making improvements to the new house.

That process has continued in the months since. While we have also done other stuff — editing, music, birding, and other pursuits on my part; weaving, knitting, and getting her last academic paper published on Nancy’s part — we (mostly Nancy) have still been working on the house. My hands are not (and never have been) steady enough to paint the trim around the interior of the house, so Nancy has carried the bulk of that burden. And with the onset of spring, my multi-talented spouse has also been planning her approach to landscaping our new yard. And I have done more unpacking and have been slowly hanging our art around the house.

I posted a couple of photos of the new place back in January, but wanted to follow up with a few more today.

And I wanted to say a few things about this blog, which I seem to be struggling to keep up with consistently. I am trying. Truly. A lot of the time, though, I just don’t want to write. It really is as simple as that. Most days, I wake up, confront the newest atrocity committed by this hateful, cruel, criminally incompetent Administration, and am torn between wanting to write yet another outraged screed and wanting to ignore politics altogether. I don’t want this blog to become nothing more than a nonstop critique of all the current occupant of the White House is doing to undermine the strength of our republic. But I also don’t want to post about birds or baseball or our latest favorite series on Netflix when the country is burning down. And so I go for weeks without posting at all, which isn’t an answer either.

This is actually symptomatic of a larger problem. I’m not writing much of anything — not blog posts, and not fiction. I did some fiction writing early last year, when I was hired to write something in someone else’s world. But the truth is, I haven’t written a word of fiction that was really my own since we lost Alex back in October 2023. Will I write again? I hope so. That’s all I can say for certain. I want to write again. But I don’t want to write now, and I feel that I owe it to myself to take this time to continue healing. I have no idea how long this feeling will last. A month? A year? A decade? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. All I know is, I need to take care of myself.

Because I AM healing. I’m doing better in most ways than I was a year ago, and far better than I was a year and half ago, when the grief was fresh and I thought it would never ease.

Watching the house come together has been good for me. Watching spring touch our little slice of the Hudson Valley has been lovely. Trees are blooming. Flowerbeds are revealing themselves. We moved in late in November, so the arrival of warmer weather has been a revelation for us.

I saw Erin in March. I will see her again in May. And then June. And then maybe later in the summer. And then . . . soon after that. Being with her is a balm for both Nancy and me. And so is Nancy and my time together. The love tying our family together remains strong, and in many ways missing Alex, loving her, grieving her, has become one more unbreakable filament binding us to one another.

So we nest. We heal. We love. And we continue to ask your patience and support.

Have a wonderful week.