New Project

I adore my job.  I really, really do.  I love going back to school.  I enjoy transcribing World War II tapes.  You know what I miss?  Free time.  Writing time.

Sometimes It Is Rocket Science and The Art of War & Werewolves are still on my project board, but I've decided to move ahead with a new, untitled project.

Here's a teaser:

The walls were red with blood.  It was all she tasted when she swallowed, all she saw when she forced her eyelids open.  The heavy, metallic scent of blood overpowered everything else in the room.

 Riona’s world was comprised of blood and pain. 

Footsteps echoed like gunshots on the parquet floor.  Riona tensed.  Footsteps meant more pain, more blood.  A whimper fell from chapped, blood-caked lips.  Pathetic.  She was pathetic.  It had only taken five hours with a madman to reduce a nine year veteran of the CMPD to a whimpering, wounded animal.

“Detective O’Dell,” a nasal, masculine voice sing-songed.  The footsteps grew closer.  “I have a surprise for you.”

Edwin Galicia, dark eyes glinting with malicious humor, stalked into the living room of his former home.  There was a hunting knife, blade stained with her blood, in his right hand.  His left arm was wrapped around the neck of a tall, fit man with fair hair and pale, sightless eyes.

Her heart leapt to her throat.  Her stomach twisted; the air in her lungs froze.  Of course.  Of course he’d get tired of playing with her and move on to the hostage. 

“Thought this was between you and me, Eddie.”

“You know how to end this, Detective.”

She did.  Her department issued Sig was within reach.  She could grab it and put a bullet smack in the middle of Galicia’s forehead.  Of course, moving the gun would set off a trap that would drop two thin, needle-sharp iron spikes right onto her abdomen. 

Suicide-by-cop had always been Galicia’s ultimate goal. Taking down a cop was just a bonus.

“I heard that losing one of your senses enhances all the others.  Think that means he’ll squeal sooner?”  Galicia squeezed the hostage’s neck.  “Think the little psychic will know what I’m going to do before I do it?”

“He talks to dead people, moron.  He’s not precognitive.”

“Hey!”  Galicia’s smirk slipped.  “Just for that, I think we’ll skip the warm up and move right on to the real fun.”

Riona exhaled and ignored the sharp pang of pain in her chest.  Broken ribs were always a bitch.  She extended her arm.  Her fingers brushed the grip of her gun.  She mentally calculated distance and trajectory, tried not to think about the pain.  ‘Here we go.’

Hope y'all are having a fantastic summer

Sweet Ride - Normalcy

While I work on Sometimes It is Rocket Science and The Art of War and Werewolves, I've been decompressing and coming down from my Ashwood-haze with a series of shorts.  The title is Sweet Ride and the tagline, in a nutshell, is "A series of shorts on life, love, and the pursuit of aliens."

Be prepared for a whole lotta silliness.

The backdoor exploded open. Splintered wood littered the kitchen floor. Heart pounding so hard it hurt her chest, sixteen-year-old Sarah Johansen reached for the small stun gun concealed in the cutlery drawer. Sweat dotted her forehead. Her arm trembled.

"Towels! Lots of them!" a female voice barked out. A slender, medium-height figure covered in blue goo appeared on the threshold.

Sarah's shoulders sagged in relief. Tears gathered in the corners of her brown eyes as she said a mental thank you to whichever deity protected teenage girls who were home alone. She caught a whiff of sour milk before dashing off to the laundry room. By the time she returned, the figure had moved into the kitchen and was dripping goo onto the bamboo floor. She tossed two towels on the floor and threw a stained, pink towel at the figure.

"Why didn't you hose off outside first?" she asked, using a fourth towel to wipe at the goo covering the figure's back. The goo was thick and sticky. It smelled worse up close.

"Uh, because it's cold?" A swipe of the pink towel across the figure's face revealed the smooth cheeks, slightly crooked nose, and slate blue eyes of Sarah's aunt and guardian Astra Johansen.

"Don't get this stuff in your nose or mouth. It's hell on the mucus membranes."

Sarah dropped the towel she'd been using and took a large, hasty step backwards. Her soft-soled sneakers had no traction on the slick floor. Her feet flew out from under her; she landed flat on her back, head inches from a barstool. Cold blue goo soaked into the seat of her jeans and stained her hands.

"This isn't going to turn me into a Smurf or anything is it?"

"Nope. No Smurfette for you." Astra paused, eyes going soft and unfocused. "Well, probably not. Nothing that won't fade away by Monday, at least."

"Except I have a date tomorrow night." Sarah crawled across the floor to the round table in the breakfast nook and used the edge of the table to haul herself to her feet. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? You don't like Matt Barker."

Astra wrapped a towel around her head before crouching down to unlace her goo-coated running shoes. "Oh, I like Mr. Barker just fine. He's a polite boy and a hell of a field goal kicker. I do wish he'd pay more attention to his grades, but other than that he's a surprisingly normal teenage boy."

"Ah. Normal." Bitterness dripped from Sarah's words. "I forgot what a crime being normal was."

"It's not just him, kiddo. It's his parents. The lawyer and the doctor. Who both have time to make it to every PTA meeting and participate in the booster club and bake sales. They look so perfect it makes my teeth itch."

"Matt says they never fight. So what if his family is normal?"

"Anyone who tells you their family is normal is lying or an alien. Even then they're probably lying."

"Not everyone has a closet full of skeletons, Aunt Az."

Astra eyed her niece for a long moment. She let out a reluctant sigh and slung an arm across Sarah's shoulder. "You're right, kiddo. I'm sorry. I'll go easy on your Mr. Barker."

"But you'd still like it if I brought him by for a quick scan, wouldn't you?"

"Better safe than a Pfrashan's midnight snack."

"Can you do it without drawing blood this time? It always makes the rest of the date awkward."

Astra released Sarah. On her toes, Astra hurried back to the door and snagged a strap on the goo spattered backpack just inside the doorway. She plopped the pack on the granite countertop. Glass rattled and something beeped.

Sarah carefully made her way across the kitchen, glanced at the chicken sauteing in the pan, and leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. "Dinner's going to be ready in ten minutes. If you blow the kitchen up, you're ordering the pizza."

Astra scowled at her niece. She unzipped the center compartment of the pack. She stuck her hand into the dark recesses of the pack. When she was elbow-deep in the pack, she let out a soft, triumphant laugh. "Got it!"

"I want pepperoni and mushroom. And breadsticks."

Astra held up her find. What looked like an old Polaroid camera dangled from a weathered black leather strap. She cradled it in her hands, stroked the grimy lens with blue fingers.

"So you're going to take his picture and see whether or not he shows up on film? I thought you were afraid he was an alien, not a vampire." Sarah knew better than to touch the device. Alien tech always looked benign but usually did nasty things like burn your fingers or make you hallucinate for two days.

"Nope." Astra popped the 'p', grinned. "This is a Virah scanner. I found it in one of the Institute's closets. Terrible xenophobes, the Virahs. Their security forces use these scanners on anyone who passes through their ports. It'll tell you a person's planet of birth, their year of birth in relative time, which solar system their parents are from, the last five planets they've visited, and which immunizations they've had."

"Scan me."

Astra stilled. Her eyes went dark and cold. She blinked and that horrible stillness was gone. The plastic smile that stretched across her face sent a shiver down Sarah's spine. "No can do, kiddo. Don't know how much charge is left in the power cell."

"Okay." Sarah could feel the goo solidifying on her skin. It was cold and hard as concrete. "I'm going to wash my hands and change clothes. Can you watch dinner until I get back?"

"Of course."

Sarah hesitated. Take down squads of rampaging, or just hungry, aliens? Her aunt could do that with one arm tied behind her back. Cook a meal that was nutritious and tasty? Not even with Julia Child standing over her shoulder. "Are you sure?"

"Positive, kiddo. Go wash up before you have to wear gloves to tomorrow's date."

Sarah washed her hands three times with the scrubby antibacterial soap Astra brought home from the Powell Institute, the shadowy quasi-government agency tasked with protecting the US from aliens, and in some cases protecting the aliens from US citizens. To her relief, the blue washed away and she was left with pink, steamy skin. She tossed her jeans in the hamper and pulled on a pair of soft black sweatpants.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, Astra had taken the chicken out of the pan and zapped a bag of frozen vegetables in the microwave. The individual cups of brown rice Sarah had nuked earlier were already on the table. The back door had been closed but there was a gap between the jamb and the door.

"Your turn," Sarah said, sliding the meat thermometer into the nearest chicken breast. She ignored the gold cylinder sticking out of the other breast. Alien tech was good for self defense or verifying that one's potential boyfriend was as human as he looked. It wasn't necessarily good for testing the readiness of poultry.

Astra pressed her lips to the top of Sarah's head. "Back in a flash." She disappeared down the hallway.

Sarah used the towels to wipe up as much goo from the floor as possible. The steam mop took care of the goo that remained. She dumped the towels in the washing machine but didn't turn it on. There was no telling what the goo was. Astra would have to determine which laundry soap they used: the regular detergent or the Institute detergent.

She set Astra's backpack on the built-in desk near the oven. There was something beeping inside, but Sarah knew better than to go looking for the source of the sound. There were dangerous objects in Astra's impossibly deep pack. Items so dangerous Astra refused to leave them in the Institute archives.

The rice was starting to go cold when Astra returned. She was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a University of Alabama sweatshirt, but her skin held a faint blue tinge and her damp, normally blonde, hair was a startling shade of indigo.

"Either you have a bomb with the longest timer in the world in your bag or your comm unit is going off," Sarah said before Astra could sit at the table.

"I have not brought home a bomb in over two years. I think it's time to let it go, Sare."

Sarah arched a dark eyebrow, flipped the end of her chestnut ponytail over her shoulder. "'Better safe than missing fingers,'" she parroted.

"You know, that copycat thing was cute when you were five. Now, not so much." Astra dug into her pack and emerged with a silver sphere. It was dented and showed signs of having been burned. Astra held up the device, which put out nearly imperceptible telepathic waves, to her temple. She frowned, slipped the device into her pocket.

"Do you have to go back out?" It would be disappointing, but not unusual. Though her aunt tried to conform to something of a regular schedule, Sarah often ate dinner alone.

"Nope. Just a reminder about Monday's meeting." Astra collapsed in her usual chair, gestured at the chair across from hers. "Let's eat before it gets even colder."

In between bites, they traded stories of English assignments and alien sightings. While having to analyze Lord of the Flies wasn't quite on the same scale as negotiating with notoriously long-winded and pompous Losas, Sarah appreciated Astra's attempt to commiserate. She spread out her trigonometry homework while Astra loaded the dishes in the dishwasher.

"It's an alien conspiracy to take over the planet by turning our brains to mush, isn't it?"

"Reality TV? I thought we already had this discussion."

"No, trig." Sarah glared at her textbook, hoping to set it ablaze with the force of her hatred. "All these sines and cosines and tangents. It's confusing."

"Wait 'til you get to spherical trig, kiddo. I thought I was going to have to tattoo the haversine formula on my arm."

"Not helping, Aunt Az."

"Sorry."

The last dish in the washer, Astra nudged the door closed with her foot and rinsed her hands at the sink. She studied Sarah the way Sarah imagined the geeks at the Institute studied bits of space detritus. Just as Sarah braced herself to ask what was wrong, Astra strode forward and sank onto the chair beside Sarah. Astra placed a hand on Sarah's arm, the blue of her fingers lost in dark fabric of Sarah's sweater.

"What we were talking about earlier - the normalcy your Mr. Barker has- is that something you… want?"

A flippant remark was on the tip of Sarah's tongue, but the seriousness etched on Astra's face forced her to swallow it back. She considered the question. For a time she'd envied the friends who had two parents with normal jobs who didn't race out in the middle of dinners or award ceremonies. She'd resented not being able to have sleepovers in case her guardian came home covered in alien goo or with more injuries than she could explain away. Her friends thought her aunt was a cool spy and that was for the best. The truth was too strange for anyone on the outside to truly understand.

She no longer minded finding random pieces of alien tech in the living room or the garage or the freezer. She knew how to use the stun gun and how to call for help. She knew that her aunt wanted her to join the Institute and she was, more or less, okay with that. She'd accepted that the aliens and weird tech and secrecy and the explosions every other Tuesday were normal.

It meant a lot, though, that her aunt was willing to change her life, the life she'd had long before Sarah was even conceived, for her. She let her mechanical pencil fall to the table and launched herself into Astra's arms.

"No, strange as this life is, I think it's just about perfect."

Warm lips pressed against Sarah's temple. Her aunt's voice was high and bright. "I think so, too."

Sarah's eyes fell on the broken door. It would be the third they had to replace in a month. "Next time you go running after a stray pack of Evirs, could you just knock or call ahead? Mr. Haversham at the hardware store is starting to get suspicious."

Christmas Fluff

This is post-Daughter of Deception and pre-The Chaos Child & Mistress of Malice and Mercy

Tobias Duke stood on the side porch, just outside the kitchen, mouth agape and eyes comically wide.  When he’d left to deliver a dinner package to the team on Christmas Eve rotation, his wife had been firmly ensconced on the couch watching a ‘50s holiday cartoon.  There were a few decorations around the living room, and a massive, needle-dropping tree wedged in beside the fireplace.  He’d expected to come home to a similar sight. At some point in the two hours he’d been gone, his wife had been body-snatched by a twisted Goth Christmas elf, the pages of North Pole Living had exploded all over his house, and someone had taken to torturing dogs on the radio.

“You’re letting all the cold air in,” the Viola-shaped Christmas Demon snapped, brandishing the floppy, gingerbread man end of a spatula.

Despite the lighted, black-and-purple Santa hat, red-and-green striped tights, and holiday sweater, it was his wife’s voice.  Duke shuffled into the house, but kept on his leather jacket.  With his crappy luck, Christmas Demons exploded into showers of tinsel or something.

Finn, a set of reindeer antlers bobbing on his head, ambled through the kitchen and flopped onto the red-and-green bed under the built-in desk. Bells jingled when Finn rested his head on his paws.  For the first time in his life, Duke felt a pang of sympathy for Viola’s mutt.  

The Christmas Demon twirled away from the stove and beamed up at Duke.  Her eyes were twinkling and she smelled like nutmeg.  It was a shame she was a wife-stealing demon.  Duke enjoyed the way Viola’s whole face lit up when she was happy and nutmeg was a comforting scent.  He was going to regret making the Christmas Demon regret invading his house.

“Did Johnny and Juan enjoy the tamales?  Did you give them the pumpkin bread?” The Christmas Demon asked.  “You forgot the salsa, but by the time I found it in the fridge, I figured you were over halfway there.”

Duke blinked.  He closed his mouth, opened it.  He licked his lips before closing his mouth again.

“Tobias?”  The Christmas Demon extended an arm.  Holiday-themed charms dangled from a silver chain.  A small, warm hand tipped with red-and-white nails pressed against his forehead.  “Are you all right?  Did something happen to you?”

“To me?”  He wrapped his fingers around the Christmas Demon’s wrist and tugged it away from his face.  “What happened here?  It’s like someone killed Christmas Cheer, resurrected it, and set the zombie loose in the house.  And then they shoved the spirit of Baldor the Demented Elf inside you.  And then they attacked the Christmas station so that every song comes out sounding like it’s being sung by screaming cats.  I thought we were having a nice, quiet holiday.”

The Christmas Demon - Viola - deflated instantly.  She tugged her wrist out of Duke’s grasp and shoved her hands in the pockets of her green shorts.  The hat slipped down on her forehead obscuring her eyes.  “Sorry. “

“Vi,” Duke sighed, reaching for her.  She scurried backwards, shoulders hunched in and pigtails drooping.

“Run down to the store to pick up another half-gallon of milk, and I’ll take care of it.”

He started to say something, but the screaming on the radio was just too much. He snatched the stereo’s remote off the counter and shut the music off.  The sudden silence was a balm to his ringing ears. 

“Milk,” she repeated, eyes fixed on the Christmas tree mat on the floor.

“Viola.”

“Whole milk, please.  I need it for the fudge.”

“Viola!”

Her shoulders quivered and her eyes squeezed shut.  He tamped down his irritation.  He was cold, confused, and, thanks to the mouthwatering aromas filling the kitchen, starving.  Was that mulled cider he smelled?  And gingerbread?  And what was that she’d said about fudge?

“Please.”  She swallowed, lifted her head a fraction.  “Just go get the milk, Tobias.  I’ll clean up this and talk to Granny.”

“Granny?”  What did his grandmother have to do with the Christmas Horror Invasion?

“She called while you were out.  Asked if we wanted to have dinner.  I invited her over here.  I ran up to the attic and got my boxes and I guess I went a little overboard.  I just thought that since the holiday is all about family….”  She shrugged, hung her head again.  “It doesn’t matter.  I should have asked you or told her no.”

“Vi, it’s fine.  I don’t mind spending Christmas with Granny.  I usually do.  I was keeping it low-key for you.  You don’t care much for Christmas, so I wasn’t going to force it down your throat.”  That had been his reasoning, but the words sounded wrong.  What was it?  What was he missing?  There had been another reason he’d wanted to spend Christmas alone with his new wife.

She perched on the edge of a stool.  Somewhere along the way, the stool had acquired a big, red felt bow. “It’s my favorite holiday.  At least it was until, well, you know.  Livy tried but we never really celebrated it much because Mom was in the institution and Dad was gone.  Kinda hard to celebrate when almost half your family is gone.  I just thought that now… I don’t know… it would be nice to try again.”

He was an idiot.  The biggest idiot on the planet.   How had he forgotten teasing her about her Christmas obsession?  He’d even helped her hang lights outside her bedroom window one year, and another year he and Sebastian had cut down a small pine tree for her to put in her room.  She’d carried candy canes in her pockets and had been one of the first to memorize his “Twelve Days of Tracking Christmas” song.  Then her father had gone missing, four days before Christmas, and that had been the end of Santa’s gothiest elf.

“What did you do last Christmas, Vi?”

“Nothing.”

He arched an eyebrow.  His wife was a bundle of perpetual energy.  She never did nothing.  “Come on, Vi.”

“I bought myself a Christmas present or three from the liquor store across the street from the hotel and spent Christmas Eve watching It’s a Wonderful Life.  I don’t remember anything else until Boxing Day.”

He looped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on the top of her head.  “You could have told me you wanted to go all out for Christmas, sugar.  One word, and this place would have made Macy’s jealous.”

“I didn’t know I wanted it until Granny called.  We were talking about tamales and queso and eggnog, and it just hit me.”

Duke leaned back, lifted her chin, and pressed his lips to hers.  She tasted like candy canes and sugar cookies.  Her eyelids fluttered against his cheeks and she sighed happily against his lips.  He pulled back and flicked the fuzzy ball on her hat. 

“The Duke Family Christmas Extravaganza is on.  Hold on to your stockings, sugar.”  He grabbed the remote, hesitated.  “Maybe without the Manic Mutts murdering ‘White Christmas’.”

“Deal.”

By the time Granny arrived, there was a gingerbread army lined up on the counter, mulled cider steaming in the crockpot, and a tower of fudge cubes on the table.  Bing Crosby’s crooning was the perfect complement to the laughter and teasing.  Once the tamales were gone and the eggnog had been liberally laced with rum, Duke led the procession to the living room.

Skulls-and-crossbones, bats, and Goth Gabby ornaments were interspersed between the silver balls and tiny cowboy boots on the tree.  Granny had made Viola a stocking to match the one she’d made for Duke nearly three decades earlier, though hers looked like it had been purchased at the Halloween store.

He was distracted by Finn’s attempt to get a gold bow off his tail and missed the bright red gift bag Viola grabbed from under the tree.  It wasn’t until he heard Granny’s bark of laughter and Viola’s squeal that he turned back around.  Viola’s face was as red as the bag and she was elbow-deep in the present.

“Oh, sweet mercy.”

Oh.  Yeah.  There had been another reason he’d wanted to spend Christmas Eve alone with his wife.  Something about the tree and the fireplace and the lights down low…

“Vi, sugar…”

“Seriously, Tobias?  Tassels?”

Vi’s Fudge Recipe

·   2/3 cup cocoa
·   3 cups sugar
·   1/4 teaspoon salt
·   1-1/2 cups whole milk
·   1/4 cup butter
·   1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Grease an 8” dish.  Combine cocoa, sugar & salt in a large, heavy saucepan.  Stir in whole milk and bring to a rolling boil - STIR CONSTANTLY!!  Boil, without stirring, until you reach soft ball stage (234°F  or if small bit turns into a soft ball in cold water) Don’t stir.  Take off the heat.

Add butter and vanilla to mixture.  DON’T STIR!  Let it cool to until the pan is almost cool  to the touch.  Beat until it gets thick and matte.  Spread in pan.  Let it harden and then cut into squares.

 

No tree up at home, but my desk has holiday spirit!

Giveaway

I have to be honest.  For a few weeks I feared that I was never going to get Mistress of Malice and Mercy finished.  I started a new job in June (this was after quitting my job of nearly 11 years in March and working a "transition" job for a few months), and I started taking a few classes in September.  Add to that the volunteer World War II transcriptions I do for my grandfather and a museum here in Texas plus the other side projects I talk myself in to and I was feeling pretty overwhelmed. 

I couldn't give up on it, though.  I love Duke and Viola so much, and they have been a part of my life for almost five years now.  I knew how the story (and the series) were supposed to end, but I couldn't take that final step to get there. 

I am so happy that it is out there for all of you to enjoy that I can't stop grinning.  Fortunately, my coworkers know what a dork I am.  Daughter of Deception and The Chaos Child went through minor revamps to match the format of MMM, as well.

To celebrate, I am giving away 5 copies of the entire series (PDF only) and 10 copies of Mistress of Malice and Mercy (PDF only).  I will randomly draw a name from commenters who can answer this question:  What is Viola's middle name (the answer can be found in the backstories on the blog, especially the one from December 1983.  Hint:  think Greek).

Contest Ends 11/30/12.

If you don't want to comment, you can always email me at ashwoodtrilogy@gmail.com

Mistress of Malice and Mercy

It is a year overdue, but it is up at Amazon and I am working on BN & Smashwords.  If you are having a hard time with it and want it in PDF, just shoot me an email.

Thank all of you for sticking with me throughout all of this.  Y'all are truly amazing.

Cover

A view from the end

Mistress of Malice and Mercy is done.

Yes, you read that right.  It's done.  All I'm waiting on is the cover art (Viola will be on the cover of this one... I'm so excited and nervous I can hardly stand it) and a few final edits.

To celebrate with y'all (since I can't pour you each a glass of the wonderful Texas red wine I'll have tonight), I'm posting a snippet from the last chapter.

But first... I struggled with how I wanted to end this story because it is the end of the series.  I worried about making it dramatic and final, but when the time came to actually write the chapter, it was so much easier than I feared.  It comes back to how it started:  a guy, a girl, and a pack of demons. 

- - -

“Who do we have to kill?” Duke murmured in her ear.

“A pack of Nverns,” Viola said, reading the messages on her screen.

The duvet lifted.  Cold air wafted over her back and chest.  Duke’s head loomed over hers.  “How in the hell did a pack of Nverns get your phone number?” 

 “I think the better question would be how they managed to use the phone,” she countered, wriggling her fingers at him.  “They have crab claws, remember?”

 

Duke flopped down beside her, shoving her head to the edge of the pillow.  “Who do we know brave enough to interrupt our vacation?”  He scrubbed a hand over his face.  “The vacation we made very, very clear that we earned.”

 

“Tom.  He says there’s a pack of Nverns nearby.   The Trackers in the area aren’t equipped to deal with them.”

 
Duke scowled at the ceiling.  “How does Tom know where we are?  I thought we made him promise not to try to locate us?  You even had that ridiculous pinky-swearing ceremony.”

Viola wriggled guiltily.  She and Duke had agreed to limit their access to technology, but she was so behind on her emails that the thought of falling even further into the hole made her skin crawl.  She’d taken advantage of every moment alone and scrolled through her inbox, reading important emails and deleting spam messages.

 

“There may or may not be a website devoted to  Chaos Child sightings.  It may or may not have been started by that nice Grakken couple we helped in El Paso.  Tom may or may not have emailed me the link four days ago.”

 

“I may or may not kick your ass,” Duke growled, rolling over to pin her arms to the mattress.

“Pack of Nverns,” she reminded, though she was tempted to let him try.  She ran her toes along the back of his calf, chuckled when his pupils dilated and a growl rumbled in his chest.  “I brought my new pants.”

 

“And the vest?”

 

“Yup.”  She reached up to trace the curve of his lips.  “In the unlikely event you manage to kill more Nverns than I do, I’ll show you what it looks like without the t-shirt underneath.”

 

“You’re on.”

Before she could blink, he was off the bed and headed for the small closet.  Her Giivva hide pants landed on the bed followed a second later by the matching vest.  The soles of her heavy black boots thunked against the wooden floor when Duke set them beside the bed.

Cathedral & Jackson Square during ghost tour

New Orleans trip