BONUS SAMPLE CHAPTER
THE FIREbrAND
T.M. Smith
Sample Chapter
Seattle, WA, Present Day
Braelyn James pretended to eye a yellow-flowered sundress in the window of a First Avenue storefront. But really, she was scoping out her surroundings in the reflection.
A steady stream of cars rolled by, tires whirring on the pavement.
Businesswomen in suits hurried to work. Tourists in shorts checked Google Maps for Pike Place Market.
Friends chatted with their heads angled toward each other.
The homeless clutched their signs for passersby. Everyone behaved as expected.
Nonetheless, she fought the urge to scratch at an imagined six-legged beastie skittering up her spine.
If a shadow crept along her bedroom wall at night, no worry. If lights flickered during a thunderstorm, no problem. If the stairs creaked in her dark house at midnight, no stress. But she believed in gut feelings.
With her gaze still on the window, Braelyn listened. Surrounding voices merged into a streetside chorus. Shoes tap-tap-tapped a busy rhythm on the sidewalk. Nothing was unusual. No one was following her.
Once she chalked the creepy vibes up to a simple case of an overactive imagination, she walked into her favorite crowded coffee shop.
When she reached the front of the line, she smiled and nodded at the barista, not bothering to glance at the menu board to order.
“I’ll have a twenty-ounce Frozen Monkey Mocha.
Oh, two shots of espresso. No, can you make that three? ”
As the barista slid the drink toward her, Braelyn’s cellphone rang. She answered while picking the coffee up and taking a long pull on the mocha. She half listened, prepared for a lengthy speech.
With the coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, she walked toward the exit and stopped, propping the cellphone between her shoulder and ear while juggling her cup and purse.
Just then, a man reached around her to open the door, his arm high above her head.
She turned to thank him, but he didn’t make eye contact.
Braelyn sighed. Must be the sweats and T-shirt.
Not the hottest look. For a trip to the doctor’s office on her day off, however, she had aimed for comfort. Goal achieved.
The tall blond, broad-shouldered stranger was fashion-mag, runway perfect.
Once Braelyn walked through the door, she glanced behind, smiling, trying to snag his attention.
His gaze was somewhere else. What did she care?
Right now, she focused on school and her lame job.
And, as of today again, recovery. Life afforded no time for romance or men.
“What did you say, Chief? I was distracted.” Braelyn returned to her conversation while the stranger stepped out the door to head on his way.
“I’m sending you to cover a story. We’ve got another demon kidnapping. That makes five in two months. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Chief.”
“Okay. Dad. Is that better? First, you promised me a vacation day. That means I don’t have to work.
Second, I’m tired of demon kidnappings. My monsters all look the same.
Red, horned, scaly. Can’t I get an alcoholic genie stuck in a gin bottle or a vampire with a blood phobia?
How about a witch who’s allergic to broomsticks and has a sneezing fit every time she rides one? ”
Braelyn’s mother had died in an auto accident when she was nine years old. Since then, father and daughter had struggled along, navigating the pitfalls of a relationship as best they could.
“Objections noted, Braelyn, but getting old. This story is important. The victim claims her demon has wings.”
“Wings! Stop the presses. I think you’re starting to buy this laughable crap yourself.” She lowered her voice when a gray-haired woman walking toward her on First Avenue frowned, obviously disturbed by Braelyn’s lack of cellphone etiquette.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t believe the hype. I just understand what sells papers.”
At twenty-five years old, Braelyn worked on and off for her father, owner of an online paranormal tabloid called Strange but True, while she took journalism classes at the University of Washington—when her health allowed. Her progress toward a bachelor’s degree was slow.
Now her candle burned at both ends. Again.
Braelyn stepped off the curb. A car horn honked, jarring her back to reality and the sidewalk.
“Lady, get off the phone. Watch where you’re goin’!” yelled a cabbie through an open window.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Braelyn muttered as she enjoyed another sip of her drink.
“What?”
“Nothing, Dad. I’m listening.”
Not true. She was thinking about the lab results.
Doctors had diagnosed Braelyn, then age eighteen, with a malignant brain tumor. She endured surgery to remove it. After that procedure, she braved a series of debilitating chemo and radiation treatments. The cancer went into remission. Then it came back. Twice. Chemo. Radiation. Remission. Repeat.
Exhausted, plagued with recurring headaches, she had visited Dr. Joe, her oncologist, even though she wasn’t due for an appointment.
Disheartened, Braelyn had left his office this morning after reviewing the lab results.
As she suspected, the cancer was no longer in remission.
Though it was back, her doc assured her it was still a slow-growing tumor and promised new miracle drugs.
She told him she needed space and time to absorb the news, planning a few days of gorging on popcorn with lots of butter, scarfing down an obscene number of Almond Joys, learning to drown in whiskey or rum, sobbing into Kleenexes, and banging her damaged head against a rock.
But her mind was a collection of boxes. School sat in this box.
It could wait. Earning money to house, clothe, and feed herself occupied another box.
Dad would insist on taking care of that one.
Childhood memories without a mother crowded its own container.
It was fruitless to regret the loss. Her love life was the empty box.
Wrong time to worry about that one. Then the big one housed the brain tumor.
Once she accepted that the cancer box was in her life again or she had drugged herself with buttered popcorn, she would be ready to tell her dad the news, report to Dr. Joe for a new round of miracle cures, and fight.
She had kicked the disease before. She would again. Some people led worse lives. Who? Braelyn let out a loud sigh as she gave herself a theoretical backhand.
Okay, lace up. Stop being a baby. At least, don’t make a scene in public.
Still, she hated repeated visits to a sterile lab, drugs that made her barf her guts out, precious months away from her job and school.
Her dad droned on while Braelyn sipped her drink, dodging people on the street. Does he ever take a breath? That man is a bulldog when he scents a story.
“Seventy-three percent of our readers believe in demons. It’s your story.
That’s the end of it. I have a ticket to Cincinnati, where a hotel room waits for you.
Interview the victim so you can return late tomorrow.
Everything is in my office. If I’m not in, pick up the ticket and details from Judy. ”
“You know, someday I’m going to have a real job on a real newspaper reporting real news.”
“Great! I want the same for you. Just say the word. You can quit, go to school full time, maybe get that degree and real job you keep throwing in my face. I’ll be happy to pay for your classes if you’ll let me.”
Braelyn rolled her eyes. “Dad, we’ve been over this.” Braelyn accepted she had no control over a brain tumor, but she could control who paid for her education. Small victory for me. Yay.
“Right. You insist on working for me to earn money for school. So, as editor-in-chief, I insist on assigning you stories. See how that works? Back to the demon kidnapping. The Cincinnati story is all in a day’s work, and the public loves this shit.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Opportunity doesn’t knock twice. ”
“Don’t use clichés, Dad. You’re pounding one more nail into the coffin of my journalistic integrity, but I’m at the end of my money rope this month and will be in your office at the drop of a hat. Hear that?” She paused. “I just dropped my battered Seahawks cap.”
“Hilarious. It’s summer. You didn’t sign up for any classes. So, you have nothing better to do.”
Braelyn’s shoulders sagged as she glanced left and right to cross the street.
Nothing better to do. She should be off to Europe, riding the Eurail, eating overpriced food, drinking too much wine, flirting with all the handsome Frenchmen, grabbing joy while she could.
Where am I headed? Oh, yeah! Cincinnati. What could be better?
Her dad lowered his voice a few notches. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a hack.”
“No, you know what I mean.”
“Oh, you mean ‘feeling’ in bold and all caps. I feel the same as I felt yesterday and the day before that and the week before that.” Not a lie. Not exactly. “You’ve asked me the same question every day for seven years. Find a new conversation starter.”
“I’m your father, Braelyn. I love you.”
Her breath hitched as she brushed an unbidden tear from her cheek. “I know, Dad. I love you right back.”
“Are we still on for dinner this weekend, or do you have a better offer?”
“Of course, we are. You’re the only man for me.”
“About that, you need to get out more. Meet friends. Go on dates.”
“How can I when I’m off to Cincinnati?”
Though she hated keeping secrets from her father, it was too soon to tell him the tumor had returned. She needed space. But she also needed the comfort of his untroubled eyes before they dulled with the news.