Was her entire life built upon a lie? – #NewRelease #ForcedProximity #StrangersToLovers

I’m so embarrassed! My friend Pebbles Lacasse had a new release on the 9^th of November, which was also her birthday. I told her I’d feature the book on release day, but somehow I completely forgot to set up the post.

My apologies, Pebbles!

Fortunately, the book is still available at its promotional price of only $1.99!

Blurb

Eldora hopes to ride out the blizzard at home with her cat, but when an avalanche slams into her car, a snow-covered man rescues her purely out of obligation.

With her family dead, she’s alone in the world with a wilderness recluse whom sees her as nothing more than a burdensome workaholic, and there’s no way to escape.

Kept prisoner in his cabin by the snowstorm, the mystery of Kian’s past slowly unravels.

A man more dishevelled than Kian bursts through the door spouting fearful warnings of her keeper. Worse are the secrets housed in his eyes that burn into her soul and chill her to the bone.

Confronted by her past, can she believe anything she’s been told, or was her entire life built on a lie?

Buy Links

Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D9R52718

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/snowmansburden

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/216654499-snowman-s-burden

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/snowman-s-burden-by-pebbles-lacasse

JOIN MY ARC TEAM for a chance to win prizes:

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PEBBLES’ WEBSITE:

https://www.PebblesLacasse.com

NEWSLETTER SUBSCRIPTION:

https://bit.ly/pebbleskinkynews

LINKTR.EE:

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Excerpt (Adult)

“Can I put my clothes on? I’m cold.”

With no shift in his calm demeanour, he says, “No. I want you to go to the kitchen, open the bottom cupboard door, and retrieve the jute rope. I want to bind you.”

“Bind me?” I laugh nervously. “You want to tie me up?”

“Yes.” He tilts his head as if to question me. “Do you trust me?”

A heavy breath fills my lungs and eases free after I turn to comply with his wishes.

A beige rope rests among many basic ropes used for tasks other than binding a human. But the rope I hold in my hand is soft enough to be meant for use of only one thing: tying someone like me.

My socked feet stop a few feet from him, and I hold the rope out on my open palm while I study the sexy slant at the outer corners of his eyes. To some, he may look sad with his downturned eyes, but I find them sexy.

“Turn around,” he whispers, and I follow his instruction. “If at any time you feel pain or discomfort beyond what you can endure, you are to say mercy. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper and feel his hands on my wrists as the rope encircles them and pulls snugly but not tight.

The rope slides around my skin; the heat it leaves in its wake has my body on fire. As more rope is used to take away my freedom, it steals a gentle whimper from me.

His lips graze my neck behind my ear. The hot breath from his near-silent snicker proves his enjoyment and sends a wave of heat straight to my vagina.

He’s wrapped my arms from my wrists up to my elbows, nearly touching them together.

It’s uncomfortable but not more than I can endure. The tips of his fingers glide down the front of my shoulders, over the outer curves of my breasts, and down my ribs to my hips. His touch has me giggling as shivers have my skin lifting with tiny bumps.

Gently, he turns me to face him and grips the rope at my wrists in one hand and a fistful of hair in the other. There’s a fire in his eyes I’ve come to know as being his sadistic nature that only appears when he wants to do something sexual.

His lips crush to mine as he tries to devour me, and his tongue fills my mouth. The bulge in his jeans presses against my belly, and I want nothing more than to feel its thickness inside my pussy.

My head is yanked back by my hair locked in his fist. He gently pulls down, sinking me to my knees before him. Having not released my hair, he tilts my face up to look at him. “Tell me you want my cock in your throat. I want to know how much it’ll turn you on to choke when I force your nose to my belly.”

Fear takes my breath away, and I can say nothing. He wants to choke me with his cock. It’s one thing to take his cock down my throat under my own volition; if I choke, it’s under my control to back off. If he forces me and it goes too deep, vomit might follow if I retch.

“Do you not want me to force you to take all of my inches?” he asks with kindness in his tone as the fingers on his free hand caress my cheek.

Feeling vulnerable on my knees and with my head at his mercy, I can barely manage a whisper. “I don’t want to vomit.”

“You won’t. You’ll see.” He opens his zipper and frees his swelling cock. “Now, open your mouth and let me fuck your throat, or say red. You have five seconds to decide, and if you say nothing, I’m going to do what I want.”

My lips curl inward to coat them with saliva, and then they part.

A smirk rides his lips as he rubs the tip of his hard cock along my upper and then my lower lip, coating them in his clear, sticky precum. The mushroom tip glides along my tongue while I hold my jaw wide and continue to watch him memorize how it looks to enter my mouth.

Further and further, he eases in until I gag. He pulls back only slightly before continuing with his original plan to bury himself down my throat. With patience, he accomplishes his goal and my nose presses to his belly. Tears seep from the edges of my eyes, but they don’t fall because I’m upset. Quite the opposite, in fact. This is so fucking thrilling. My pussy is slick with excitement and eager for a good fucking.

Using my hair to hold my head still, he fucks long strokes from the crest of my lip to the back of my throat at least a dozen times. Only twice do I choke, and the sound seems to arouse him further.

Kian pulls himself from my mouth, grabs my biceps, and lifts me to my feet. In a flash, he has me over his shoulder and is carrying me toward the kitchen area while I giggle at how light he makes me feel. …

 

She had a premonition of triumph – #MFRWHooks #HistoricalRomance

For today’s MFRW Book Hooks, I’m continuing my theme of realistic romance. Today, I am featuring a snippet from my historical romance Power and Persuasion, which is set in Newport, Rhode Island near the end of the Gilded Age, the era of the so-called robber barons.

You may wonder how I can claim that a story from the past is realistic. When I visited the famous Newport mansions and saw the outrageous extravagance that went into their creation, I had a powerful sense of what life had been like within their walls. I could imagine the people who built them, the captains of industry who (like today’s tech billionaires) believed that they deserved their wealth as a reward for their energy and intelligence – never mind the ordinary people on whom their enterprises depended.

Andrew MacIntyre and Olivia Alcott are as real to me as J.P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller.

Blurb

She’s his natural enemy – and the only woman who can satisfy him.

Billionaire industrialist Andrew MacIntyre commands a vast empire of railroads, mines and mills. Labor activist Olivia Alcott is dedicated to helping the factory workers responsible for Andrew’s wealth. They are natural foes, but with complementary needs: his need to command and hers to surrender.

The Hook

“Where is she? Where’s your damned leader?”

The newspapers generally described Andrew MacIntyre as handsome. The epithet did not do him justice. As he stormed towards her, Olivia was struck with a sense of physical power and keen intelligence. He had wavy red-gold hair, a high forehead, a square chin, a determined mouth. His eyes were hazel, deep set under brows darker than his hair. Those eyes drilled into her, fierce and compelling. The women around her shrank backwards in alarm. Olivia steeled herself, holding her ground and fighting the urge to grovel at his feet. Instead of retreating, she took a step forward, holding out her hand.

“Mr. Andrew MacIntyre, I presume?” She marveled at the steadiness of her voice, the cool neutral tone.

“Damned right. And you are…?”

“Olivia Alcott.” She pulled herself up to her full height and forced herself to meet his gaze. She saw anger simmering there, but behind his irritation there was something else, something that intrigued and thrilled her. Something that she might be able to use to further her goals.

Olivia Alcott recognized lust when she saw it.

He towered over her by at least a head. Though his body was hidden by his loose touring coat, his decisive, economical movements suggested he was lean and athletic. For a moment he hesitated, staring at her proffered hand. When he finally accepted it, his firm grip confirmed her impression of strength. His palm felt warm and dry against hers. She suddenly wished that she were not so sticky and disheveled. When he released her, a momentary lightness swept through her, as though she might float away.

“And can I assume that you are the instigator and cause of this illegal strike, Miss Alcott?” He seemed flustered, less confident than she would have expected. Her spirits rose.

“Instigator? Perhaps. But not the cause.” Sweat trickled from her hairline, down into her eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Here.” He surprised her by offering a crisp handkerchief of fine linen, of a white so pure it almost seemed to shine with its own light. The initials ‘AM’ were embroidered in the corner, in golden thread. A faint scent of lavender reached her nostrils.

“Why, thank you!” The square of cloth was far more effective than her hand. When she’d mopped the perspiration from her face, she held out the swatch of now-damp fabric. “Here you are.”

He waved dismissively. “Keep it. I’ve got dozens more. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.”

“How much did this handkerchief cost, Mr. MacIntyre?”

“I have no idea. My secretary handles my personal expenses.”

“It’s imported linen, I suspect. Belgian, perhaps?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Look, Miss Alcott—”

“And the monogram looks like real gold. Is it?”

“Honestly, what does that have to do with anything?”

Olivia tucked the handkerchief into her bodice, noting that MacIntyre’s eyes followed the movement. Indeed he didn’t try to hide his survey of her figure, rude as it was. Another tremor of strangeness fluttered in her belly.

“I’m no expert—I don’t have anything so fine myself—but I’d estimate that each of the dozens of handkerchiefs like this that you possess cost at least ten dollars.”

“Ah—really I don’t know—perhaps. Something in that vicinity.”

“That’s about two weeks of salary for one of these women who work here in your factory.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The cause of the strike, Mr. MacIntyre. You asked about the cause of the strike. These poor women—your employees, sir, to whom you have a certain responsibility—generally make five dollars a week. They’d have to work for two weeks—twelve days, twelve hours per day—to afford one of your handkerchiefs. Do you think this is just?”

“Well, they should be grateful they have jobs.” MacIntyre leaned closer, his manner and his voice menacing. “And if you don’t stop your meddling, they won’t. I’ll fire every single one of them in a minute. There are plenty of people who’d be happy for steady work with a reputable company that’s not about to go bust and put them out on the street.”

“Won’t you consider raising their salaries, Mr. MacIntyre?” Olivia countered, inserting a bit of sweetness into her own voice. She laid her hand on his upper arm and felt his muscles shift under her fingers. “An additional dollar a week would make a big difference to them.”

“I’m running a business here, Miss Alcott, not a charity.” He pulled away from her grasp and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then stepped past her to speak to the assembled workers.

“Go back to your machines, ladies. Don’t listen to this—this rabble-rouser. She’s only here to make trouble. You know that MacIntyre Textiles has always taken good care of you.”

“Oh, really, Monsieur?” Lisette Beauchamps pushed her way through the clot of ragged women to confront him. “Did you care when my daughter got the brown lung? Poor petite wheezing and coughing so hard that she couldn’t walk, let alone work? And no money for a doctor or medicine? Or when Maria Clermont’s hand got tangled in the spinning machine? After they cut it off at the wrist, the fever took her. Left her four children all alone, les pauvres. Now they work here too, in this hellhole that killed their mother.”

“Oui!”

“C’est vrai!”

The women besieged Andrew MacIntyre, crowding around him, blurting out their sad stories in broken English. For a moment, Olivia almost felt sorry for him.

“Silence!” His voice drowned out their pleas and complaints. The babble died away. He raised his fist as though to batter the closest of the supplicants. Then he let it fall to his side. “The next person who makes a sound will be arrested and thrown in jail.” Despite his rough words, though, he appeared uncertain.

She had a premonition of triumph.

“Miss Alcott, I’d like to speak with you in private.” Grasping her by the arm, he led her towards his motor car. He opened the door on the passenger side and practically pushed her inside.

Her heart leaped in her chest. Had she won? Or should she be worried? He levered his body into the driver’s seat, then turned to her with a peculiar expression she couldn’t read at all, but that somehow made her tingle all over.

“What’s in this for you?” he asked finally. “You’re obviously an intelligent and cultured woman. Why get involved with this rabble?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do, sir. These people need help.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I do.”

“And you thought you could make me believe, too?”

“I’d hoped I could, yes. That’s why I asked to speak to you personally. You’re young, educated, a different generation from the greedy swine who raped America for their own gain.”

“Like my father, you mean?”

She blushed in spite of herself. Normally she was more diplomatic.

“Well, then, Olivia—” The way he emphasized her first name made her shiver. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

Find buy links at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/powerandpersuasionbook.html

Please visit the other authors participating in today’s Book Hooks!

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If I’d never heard of me would I read my book? #Poetry #Stories #Giveaway

By Donavan Hufnagle (Guest Blogger)

I tend to discover new books through word of mouth by my students, colleagues, wife, or other writers. The books I appreciate the most are by those “unknown” authors. I am one of those “unknown” authors with mostly unknown books. With that stated, I find that authors like me, take more risks with their writing, challenging readers in a positive way.

Poetry, of course, is automatically going to present a challenge to readers. In most cases I would argue that poetry requires more participation from the reader than fiction, for example, so without even describing my books, I am already at a disadvantage. Reader don’t like to work that hard. However, poetry could win over more people if they just give it a chance. From a practical stance, most poetry is short, and we can live in the poem longer and move away from the poem with more without having to read 300 pages or whatever. I never can understand that in a culture where our attention spans are constantly being reduced, how 700-page books keep showing up. Why not read poetry? In most cases, you can read one or two poems, allow those poems to puncture your senses and thoughts, close the book, and come back later to different poems for a different experience.

In my poetry, I want to challenge readers while, also, stimulating them with more experiences in a shorter frame. More importantly, I want the reader to take away multiple experiences from the same poem. In this way, I try to have poems that speak on many different levels. For one instance, in the poem “The Spirit of Deep Ellum,” I may be referring to the blues musician Blind Lemon Jefferson, but that aspect of the poem is only an additional layer and those unfamiliar with Blind Lemon Jefferson will still move away from the poem understanding the narrative about a person struggling to make it in life—a coming of age story in a way, which everyone can relate to. In other words, I want my poems to relate to a larger audience while pleasing those looking for more depth. You can read my current book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) and appreciate the intricate layering of identity being showcased and resonate with the many pop cultural references and their connection to our culture and ourselves….

But I want you to, overall, enjoy the basic human stories that are being told.

Blurb

Echoing Chuck Palahniuk’s statement. “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known,” this collection explores identity. These poems drift down rivers of old, using histories private and public and visit people that I love and loathe. Through heroes and villains, music and cartoons, literature and comics, science and wonder, and shadow and light, each poem canals the various channels of self and invention. As in the poem, “Credentials,” “I am a collage of memories and unicorn stickers…[by] those that have witnessed and been witnessed.”

Excerpt

Grandma, If Only These Walls…

 

Do you sleep naked beneath

a popcorn sky riddled with residue

of the past and clues to asbestos?

I remember

when I clawed the ceiling,

the putty knife scraped away

the yellowing kernels and it snowed

for the rest of the day. For the rest

of my life.

They popped. And from the ceiling,

down, eventually,

yellow falls asleep on the bed.

I am a child in a snow globe,

making snow angels the same

yellowish tint as her nubs, her alley-cat

eyes, these walls.

I know little of her:

her modeling days—her costume

jewelry displays throughout

the house, but where did she wear this

ruby ring? When did this

emerald rest around her neck?

An albatross?

I imagine her strut

on the runway, such

power. They stare at her, wait

for her everything. A look. A twist.

A wink. Was she always on

display?

Did the flash of cameras blind her

marriage—rumors of others,

into another?

How the hell could she let

the next in? He stole her

money, molested her

children and grands. He smoldered her

like the tip of her cigarette,

And from the tip, down,

eventually, the ash snow fell

gray to yellow.

 

About the Author

Donovan Hufnagle is a husband, a father of three, and a professor of English and Humanities. He moved from Southern California to Prescott, Arizona to Fort Worth, Texas. He has five poetry collections: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), Raw Flesh Flash: The Incomplete, Unfinished Documenting Of, The Sunshine Special, Shoebox, and 30 Days of 19. Other recent writings have appeared in Tempered Runes Press, Solum Literary Press, Poetry Box, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, Subprimal Poetry Art, Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others.

Website: http://www.donovanhufnagle.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/donovanhufnagle

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/dhufnaglepoetry

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/These-Are-Not-My-Words/dp/B0DBMN46M4/ref=sr_1_1

One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Swearing off romance - #ContemporaryRomance #SouthernCharm #Giveaway

Blurb

Sharon Gable, a seasoned interior designer in Columbia, South Carolina, swears off love after ending a relationship filled with deceit. She focuses on expanding her business with her best friend and avoiding romance until she's unexpectedly set up with architect Bradley DuPont at an engagement party. Despite her resistance, Sharon finds herself drawn to Bradley's undeniable charm and rugged allure.

Bradley, back in town to care for his ailing grandfather and manage the family business, is burdened by his West Coast job and familial obligations. Yet, Sharon captivates him like no other, offering a respite from his tumultuous family dynamics.

As their connection deepens, they must confront external forces bent on sabotaging their happiness. Will Bradley persuade Sharon that their attraction is worth exploring, or will malicious schemes tear them apart?

For fans of contemporary romance dipped in southern charm, Away with Shadows delivers a captivating tale of love and loss, resilience of spirit in the face of adversity, and familial complexities against the backdrop of Columbia, South Carolina, and Paris, France.

Excerpt

When Bradley and his brothers returned to Gramps’ house from the funeral, friends and family warmly greeted them. Kera and Gregg arrived shortly after, but Sharon was nowhere to be seen.

Was she in another part of the house?

With so many people walking around him and blocking his way, he grew more impatient by the minute. His search was momentarily interrupted when he entered the kitchen to find Sara and some of the other women preparing the food for everyone.

“Hi, baby,” Sara said as she walked around the island to hug him. “Where are your brothers?”

“They’re in the living room, mixing with the guests.”

Sara stood back to look at him. “I know this is a stupid question, but I’m going to ask anyway. How are you guys holding up?”

“We’re good, Mrs. Sara. It’s just going to take some time to adjust to Gramps not being here. I think we’re going to be all right.”

“Just know that if there’s anything you need, you can call me. You know we got you.”

“I know, Mrs. Sara. We appreciate that.”

“Well, I made food for you all for the week, and I’ve already put it up for you in the refrigerator, so all you need to do is put it in the microwave and heat it up.” She beckoned for him to follow her to the pantry and pointed to the top shelf. “I made your favorite lemon sour cream pound cake and a Sprite upside-down cake as well.”

Rubbing his hands together in excitement, he thanked her and gave her a hug. As they closed the door to the pantry, he turned to see a familiar face at the other end of the vast kitchen. One he had been waiting to see all day. It was her. She was finally here. His heart leaped, and he couldn’t help the big smile came across his face.

About the Author

M.M. Skye is an entrepreneur and contemporary romance writer. A native of South Carolina. M.M. Skye has a diverse background in education and business. With her passion for storytelling and a love for cultural diversity, M. M. Skye’s books offer a unique blend of romance and cultural immersion.

You can find her with a book or a pen and paper somewhere ready to create unique characters and stories the reader can relate to. Her passion for writing began in middle school when she read her first novel. It wasn’t until high school when her tenth-grade honors English teacher encouraged her to major in English, that she began weaving tales.

Her time at Voorhees University gave her the extra knowledge she needed to hone her craft.

Away with Shadows is her debut novel.

You may follow Author M.M. Skye at the following social media sites.

Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61566866913441

Pinterest

https://www.pinterest.com/authormmskye/

Instagram

https://www.instagram.com/mmskye1/

Website

https://www.mmskye.com

Amazon Author Page

https://www.amazon.com/stores/M.M.-Skye/author/B0DJX444XV

The author will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Charity Sunday: For Human Rights Everywhere – #HumanRightsWatch #Homophobia #CharitySunday

Regardless of your political affiliation, you can’t deny that the results of the U.S. election earlier this month will create significant threats to many groups, including immigrants, people of color, LGBTQ individuals, and women seeking reproductive health care. The platform and policies of the winning party state outline quite clearly their intentions to introduce draconian legislation, roll back existing protections and target groups considered to be “undesirable”. There’s no secret about this.

Against this background, I found it hard to pick a cause for this month’s Charity Sunday. Organizations I considered included Kids In Need of Defense (KIND) for immigration rights, GLAD for LGBTQ advocacy and Planned Parenthood. Then I realized that underlying all these individual missions is the fundamental concept of human rights. While some forces work hard to divide us into groups, camps and sides, in fact we are all human beings – and despite claims to the contrary, all human beings deserve the same opportunities to live in peace and dignity, to be free from fear, to raise families and build communities, to love and to create. So I decided to step back and support the principle of human rights for all.

My chosen charity today is Human Rights Watch. HRW is an international organization that investigates and documents human rights abuses around the globe. They use techniques ranging from personal interviews to satellite imagery to high-tech data science in order to publish irrefutable evidence of situations where human beings are being deprived of life, liberty and security.

HRW is controversial, at least partly because it tells stories some people, organizations and governments do not want to have heard. To guarantee their independence, they do not accept donations from any governmental body. Of course, merely exposing cases of atrocities, genocide, injustice and discrimination will not by itself improve the situation. However, it’s a first step.

I urge you to spend some time on the HRW website, reading their reports and familiarizing yourself with their methods.

Today, I’m pledging to donate two dollars to HRW for each comment I receive on this post.

For today’s excerpt, I have a sequence from my dystopian MM romance The H-Gene. This near-future speculative novel imagines a United States splintered by natural disasters, civil strife and the devastating effects of a plague, supposedly spread by gay men. The authoritarian government has rounded up anyone testing positive for the H-gene and interned them in remote “quarantine” camps, patrolled by robot guards and surrounded by moats of toxic waste.

I wrote this novel more than ten years ago, strongly influenced by the homophobic trends in the U.S. along with memories of the AIDS epidemic. Alas, it feels all too timely now now.

Blurb

When love is forbidden, the whole world’s a prison.

Dylan Moore will do anything for freedom. Seven years ago, a gay plague spread to heterosexuals, killing millions and sparking brutal anti-gay riots. The Guardians rounded up men who tested positive for the homogene and imprisoned them in remote quarantine centers like desolate Camp Malheur. Since then, Dylan has hacked the camp's security systems and hoarded spare bits of electronics, seeking some way to escape. He has concluded the human guards are the only weakness in the facility's defenses.

Camp guard Rafe Cowell is H-negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell — and claims to be in love with Rafe. Despite his qualms, Rafe finds he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

Dylan's plan goes awry and Rafe comes to his rescue. Soon they're both fugitives, fleeing from militant survivalists, murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and a powerful man who wants Dylan as his sexual toy. Hiding in the Plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more than their own safety at stake. Can they help prevent the deaths of millions more people? And can Rafe trust the love of a man who deliberately seduced him in order to escape from quarantine?

Excerpt

Something tickled his ear. “Private message,” his earpiece announced in a voice that was neither male nor female. He tapped his fingertip on the embedded bud, the signal for it to proceed.

“Meet me today at 1700 in the generator building.” Something took flight in Rafe’s stomach, then landed with a thud. The voice remained neutral, but he recognized the sender. “We need to talk. I have changed the security code so that we won’t be interrupted. 22A4J.” Without really trying, Rafe memorized the code. But he wouldn’t go to the meeting. Of course he wouldn’t. “Please,” whispered the earplug. “It’s important.”

The message ended. Rafe tapped at the device again, but it did not repeat. He flopped back onto his bed, sending his ereader crashing to the floor. Damn him! Who did the queer think he was, ordering Rafe around? Tempting him?

How the fuck had the guy routed a message to his private channel?

That was it. He had to tell the Guardians.

He rolled over and buried his face in his crossed arms. He kept hearing the electronic voice. Please. Please…

His alarm clock read 1618.

The generator room was at the north end of the camp, nearly two miles from the main entrance to the inmate precincts. He’d have to take a velocart, one of the small electric trucks the robo-guards used to move heavy equipment around. He could pick up a biohazard suit from the lockers just outside the gate…

What was he thinking? Rafe rubbed his throbbing temples.

“Please.”

In eighteen months at Malheur Camp, Rafe had never once set foot inside the electrified fence that separated the resident precincts from the guard quarters and the control station. It wasn’t forbidden, strictly speaking. He’d studied the procedures in case there was ever a need for human intervention. He knew the layout from the digital maps. He certainly knew what things were like inside, after all his hours staring at the monitors.

It had simply never been necessary. He shook his head, trying to banish his wayward thoughts. It wasn’t necessary now.

Suddenly the overhead light went out. Simultaneously an alarm began to ring in the corridor. The small window above his bed provided enough light for him to find his shoes. He stepped from his quarters into the darkened hallway. A red emergency beacon flashed in the corner.

His earpiece vibrated once again. “Sorry to bother you, man.” Rafe recognized Turk’s ghetto intonations in the bland synthesized voice. “Something’s blown in the generator room. For some fucking reason, the droids can’t get in. Will you check it out?”

And how did you manage this, Dylan? Rafe thought, torn between fury and wonder. “I’m on my way,” he told the air as he strode towards the main gate.

It was late afternoon in September. The floppy biohazard suit was hot. Designed to keep microbes out, it obviously didn’t let any air in. Rafe summoned two robo-guards to accompany him through the gate. A third met him with a velo. “Dismissed,” Rafe told them, his voice sounding hollow through the ventilator. “I’ll drive myself.”

The cart made its stately way down the central artery from the gate to the northern section of the camp. In the mid twentieth century, Malheur Camp had been a field station for geologists studying the volcanic origins of the eastern Oregon plain. Some of the dorms dated from that period. Those wood-shingled huts had been bleached to a uniform grey by decades of harsh weather. The more modern buildings were plain plastifoam rectangles with vertical slits for windows. Originally white, they were now a dingy yellow, spotted here and there with patches of black mold.

There were no trees. The flat ground was mostly bare, strewn with sharp basalt pebbles. The inhabitants of one or two dorms had tried to cultivate some ornamental plants, but the vegetation had just withered and turned gray like everything else. Probably the toxic chemicals in the moat had leached into the soil over the years. Rafe had heard someone joke about that once, maybe one of the drivers who brought supplies. “Double use,” the guy had commented. “Keep the pervs from escaping and get a waste dump at the same time.”

Fresh fruit and vegetables were cultivated in hydroponic greenhouses in the southeast quadrant. The warehouse was in the southwest. Rafe rolled past the workshops and the rec halls—like the dorms only larger—a basketball court and a baseball field, and row after row of bleak barracks. Side roads branched off to the left and right, leading between the dorms towards the concrete walls and the first electrified fence beyond. Floodlights mounted on three-story-high steel towers loomed over the cramped clusters of low-rise buildings.

Robo-guards strode along the paths or herded groups of inmates to their assigned duties. A few figures in neon pink came out of the buildings to watch Rafe pass. He was, for some reason, glad that the biohazard mask hid his face.

He arrived at the generator room at 1652. Why the fuck should I care what time it is? he scolded himself as he parked the velocart. Unlike most of the structures in the camp, the generator building was reinforced concrete with a steel door. The Guardians had foreseen the possibility of sabotage.

Of course, that hadn’t made any difference to Dylan.

Rafe took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing pulse. He had to remove his glove to punch in the security code. The lock clicked. He pulled the heavy door open.

It was pitch black inside, and silent. Normally, the hums and whines of the generators would have filled the windowless, two-story building.

“Dylan?” Rafe’s voice had a quaver that was not due to the respirator. This evidence of his own weakness made him angry. He pulled a penlight out of the chest pocket of the suit and flashed it around the apparently empty space. “3218! Show yourself. You’re in big trouble.”

The door clanged shut behind him. He took a step forwards, still not seeing any sign of the devil he knew must be there.

Nothing. Rafe seethed. He couldn’t stand to be played for a fool. He tore the mask off his face and pushed back the hood, then strained his ears for some indication that he was not alone. All he could hear was his own breathing.

Rafe played his light over the black coils and silver casings of the generators to his right. They ran the length of the building, flanked by an aisle to allow access for maintenance. Control panels lined the left wall. Normally they’d be populated by blinking lights and gauges, Rafe guessed, but they were dark now. Halfway up the aisle, between the power equipment and the controls, was a sturdy looking bench several feet wide. Rafe sat and swept the light along the bottom of the silent generators, in case someone had squirmed underneath.

He held his breath and listened to absolute silence. “Dylan,” he said finally, struggling to keep his voice even. “You asked me to come. I’m here. Come out and tell me what you want.”

A snap. A hiss. The smell of melting wax. Dylan stepped into view, apparently out of nowhere, holding a candle. The warm light illumined the curved shells of the machines, making them look like antique mechanisms of forgotten purpose. It flickered across the floor like fairies dancing in the woods. It made Dylan’s skin glow like polished ivory.

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