Sleepless Murder rewrites

So I wrote a few weeks back about self publication and how the whole thing left me with a bad taste in my mouth. And with that, I decided to re-edit my book, currently available for purchase under the title Sleepless Murder (I like that title; it's ominous yet catchy), cut down the number of murders, getting rid of the chapters from the killer's pov, tweak my main character, etc.

Well I've also been toying with the idea of changing the pov of the main story from third person to first person. I've done just that in the first couple of chapters and here's the result, tell me what you think:

Chapter One

“I’m sorry, Liam, I just won’t be able to make it,” my pinheaded little brother said. I’d just finished getting dressed for the day and come into the main living area of my apartment for some coffee and here he was, making a permanent ass print on my sofa. His cell phone was cradled against his shoulder as he manipulated the game controller and the game he was playing screeched ‘Final Lap!’ “I’m really swamped at work, you know.”

Shaking my head, I poured myself a cup of coffee and rubbed my eyes. A crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes lay on the counter in front of me, so I lit one and glared at Josh. I’ve never understood what he saw in those games. I played games on my PC, of course; it was hard to be as involved with computers as I was growing up and not get drawn into gaming, but I’d always preferred RPGs or action games. I never saw the point in either racing or sports games.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling there was about an inch past my fingers. Almost time for a haircut, I thought.  Finally, I got fed up listening to Josh hem and haw around Liam’s questions. I stalked over to Josh and yanked the phone out of his hand.

“Hey!” he squawked half-heartedly before turning back to his game.

“Liam, hey, it’s Kaleb.”

“Hey, Uncle Kaleb...Is he really working next week?”

“Kid you should know better than that; your old man hasn’t held down a job in nearly six months.”

“Kaleb, don’t tell him that!”

“Hang on, Liam,” I said and pressed the phone to my chest. Glaring, I brandished my cigarette at Josh. “Liam deserves the truth, so why not tell him? You told me you were gonna tell Sheila anyway. You swore you were gonna tell her. Guess you didn’t.” Josh muttered something I didn’t catch, and I didn’t care enough to ask about.

“Hey, I’m back, buddy,” I said, putting the phone back to my ear.

“Will you be there?” Liam asked.

I stuffed the cigarette back into my mouth, driving my teeth deep into the filter, almost severing it. “Of course I’ll be there, Liam.”

“Awesome!” Liam sounded excited for the first time since I’d taken the phone from Josh.

“Tell you what, kid. How about after you get out of school tonight, you and me, we’ll head over to the ballpark and you can get some batting practice in?”

“Sounds good. Have you been practicing any, Uncle Kaleb?”

“Oh, ouch, kid, that hurts!” I chuckled. Liam was twelve and nearly as good at baseball as I’d been in high school when I played center field for my school’s varsity team. “I’ve been taking it easy on you. I used to be able to pick off runners at home from center. You hit off me, you got any pitcher licked.” I stopped and thought. “Except maybe Davis, Herrera and Holland,” I laughed.

That got a laugh out of Liam, too. He was a lifetime Royals fan, as was almost every kid in Kansas City who paid attention to baseball. Wade Davis, Kelvin Herrera and Greg Holland were part of the team’s unstoppable bullpen, and the kid idolized them.

“Sounds good, Uncle Kaleb,” Liam said. “Hey, I gotta go- the bell’s about to ring.”

“Alright, kid. Wanna say bye to your dad?”

“No.”

“Kay. I’ll see you after school. Bye.”

Liam hung up and I looked at the cell phone in my hand thoughtfully before spinning on my heel and chucking it at the back of Josh’s head, in the hopes that either one or the other would break.

Josh squawked and jumped up, grabbing the back of his head. I saw, with more than a little satisfaction, the virtual car he’d been driving plow into the race track’s wall and explode. Josh was three years younger than me, but to my displeasure we looked just alike. We’d both been athletes in school, and were built well, but my detective work and keeping up with Liam had forced me to take better care of my body than Josh. Years of sitting on his ass had caused Josh to lose the muscle tone he’d had in school. A steady diet of junk food and beer hadn’t helped matters much either.

We had the same blue eyes and sandy hair and had often been mistaken for twins in school, despite the age difference. I kept my hair brutally short, hating to have to do more to it in the morning than run my fingers through it. Josh preferred to let his grow probably because he was just too lazy to go get it cut.

“OW, fucker; that hurt!” Josh shouted.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I cooed in mockery. “Should I get you some ice?” I tried to drag on my smoke and noticed that it had gone out. I re-lit it and growled at my brother. “Are you ever gonna fucking grow up? You can’t make it to your kid’s fuckin’ ball game because you’re ‘working’?”

“I got a couple of things lined up,” he muttered.

“I swear to Christ I act more like that kid’s father than you do, Josh.”

“Fuck, for all I know you could be.”

My fists balled up of their own accord and I glared at my brother. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Joshua?”

The blood drained out of Josh’s face. He knew he was in trouble now; I shared that much in common with Mom- the only time either of us called him “Joshua” was when he was in trouble.

“I just mean, ya know, Sheila wasn’t exactly keepin’ her pants on while we were together...And you two spent so much time together.”

I slapped Josh upside the head, the titanium ring I wore to replace my class ring making a thudding sound against his skull. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Josh!” I roared, infuriated. I knew Sheila hadn’t screwed around on Josh and I most certainly had never slept with her. We’d been friends forever; she told me everything. It would have been like sleeping with a cousin, or worse, a sister. “Liam’s yours, Josh. Sheila says so, I say so and most importantly the fuckin’ state says so. It’s why most of your pay goes directly to Sheila when you’re not taking up space on my couch and are actually getting paid.”

Josh mumbled something and sat back down. I stepped around and stood in between him and the TV.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’; I’m looking for a job, I promise.”

“Right. Is that where you were last night?”

“Huh?”

“Last night; you didn’t pick Liam up at school like you’re supposed to and I had to drop what I was doing to go get him. And you weren’t around when we came by to get you for dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. I was out with a girl. It’s no big deal.”

I was about to reply when the alarm on my cell phone started ringing. I pulled it from the case secured to my belt and tapped the screen to silence it. The calendar was on the screen, showing that I had an appointment in half an hour. Underneath was the client’s name: Theresa Rodgers. I tucked the phone back into its case and stepped back into my apartment’s kitchen to begin getting ready for work. I holstered my firearm on my hip and tucked my wallet which contained my credentials as a private detective, as well as the conceal carry license for the state of Missouri, into my back jeans pocket.

“Try to do something other than play games all day, alright?”

“Like what?” Josh asked without turning from his game.

“I dunno; maybe clean up your fuckin’ mess?” I waved an arm across our shared living room: the floor was covered with empty chip bags, cookie boxes, not to mention soda and beer cans. It’s a wonder we don’t have roaches, I thought.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of it,” said Josh, eyes still glued to the television screen.

“You better, or I’m gonna throat punch you and leave you on Mom’s doorstep. Let her deal with your bullshit.”

“Kaleb, you can’t let Mom know I lost another job,” he whined.

“I don’t want to hear it, Josh!” I snapped. “I’ve got an appointment. I gotta get to work. Either clean up or get out.” I pulled open the door and left before Josh could say anything else.

The door across the hall was open just a crack when I stepped into the hall. My neighbor, Geraldine Finch, had been listening again. Insufferable gossip, I thought, but put on a smile anyway.

“Hi, Mrs. Finch,” I said reluctantly.

“Oh, hello, Kaleb,” she exclaimed in mock surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Finch. My brother and I were having a disagreement about Liam.”

“Oh, dear! Is everything going to be alright? How is your precious little nephew?”

“Just fine, ma’am. Liam’s ball team is in the running for the state playoffs next week. He was just calling to see if Josh was going to be able to come.” As if you didn’t hear every word we said.

“Oh, I see. Will Liam be here tonight?” Mrs. Finch liked to shanghai Liam and feed him junk food as kind of a surrogate grandchild.

“‘Fraid not, ma’am; I’m taking him out for some ball practice tonight. We’ll probably go straight to his mother’s afterwards.”

“Well do tell him I said hi and good luck, won’t you? Oh, but listen to me blather on; you’ve surely got more important business this morning than talk to a dottery old bat like me, don’t you, Mr. Detective?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Finch, but I do have to get going. But I will tell Liam you wished him luck. You take care.” I said, all in one breath, trying to get away before Mrs. Finch could get a word in edgewise. My feet were moving before the last words tumbled out of my mouth.

“Have a blessed day, dear,” I heard Mrs. Finch say to my retreating back.

The heat hit me like a hammer when the apartment building’s door swung shut behind me. It was late August, school had just started, but the weather hadn’t figured out that it was supposed to be cooling down. Much to my annoyance, I started sweating as soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, it seemed. I made a mad dash for my car and cranked up the AC. Staying outside longer than necessary would ensure me sweating half to death. Lighting a cigarette, I flicked the turn signal and eased into traffic, heading for the office.

Chapter Two

 Kansas City is one of those strange cities that stands on both sides of the state line; there’s a Kansas City, Kansas and a Kansas City, Missouri. Talk to someone who lives outside the metropolitan area and they think it’s just one big city, and maybe officially it is, but if you talk to a resident of either side, they act like the two sides are two different worlds. Aside from their mutual love of the Royals and Chiefs, the Missourians and Kansans regard themselves as living in two different cities, as if State Line Road were a twenty foot wall, rather than a street. A lot of the residents of one side worked on the other side of the state line, however, and I was no different. The office I worked out of was on the Kansas side, but the apartment Josh and I shared was on the Missouri side. I call myself a Missourian and I’m damn proud of it.

I rolled across State Line Road to the Kansas side where everything was more expensive: booze, smokes, even gas. Realizing the price difference, I swore inwardly; I’d meant to pick up a pack or two of cigarettes before crossing the state line. They were at least fifty cents cheaper in Missouri than Kansas and I needed to save every dime possible. Being a private investigator wasn’t exactly lucrative, so I wasn’t rolling in dough, especially with Josh living in my guest room and eating all my damn food. Fucker ate my good cookies, too, I thought with another inward curse.

Barely half an hour later, I was standing in front of my office, rifling through my keys, a cigarette clamped in my teeth. When I’d first rented the building it took all of my willpower not to put “Kaleb Davies, Private Investigator” in gold leaf on the door like they did in the old detective movies. Unlocking the door, I stepped in quickly, relishing the blast of cold air from the A/C. I flipped on lights as I made my way through the small building.

It looked like a small two or three bedroom house from the outside, and maybe it had been once. Innumerable lawyers, electricians and plumbers had passed through the place in the nineties; every time I passed it while I was growing up there was a new occupant. When I’d started renting the place, just after getting my PI license, I learned why. The plumbing was bad, the A/C was shot, even the electrical work was shoddy. It took me the better part of a year to get the place sorted out, but eventually I did.

After checking the machine for messages and finding none, I plopped down behind my desk and looked at the clock. My one appointment of the day was late. I picked up the desk phone, looked up the number and was about to dial when the buzzer I’d installed as a doorbell went off.

“Come on in, Ms. Rodgers,” I said, thumbing the intercom next to the phone. “I’m in the back office.”

The door creaked open and I could hear the girl’s footsteps, most likely high heels, on the tile floor getting closer. I climbed to my feet and stepped around the desk to greet her.

 Chapter Three

“All I’m saying,” I explained for what seemed like the hundredth time, “is that there’s no guarantee that I’ll find anything at all. Cyber crimes aren’t like normal crimes. There’s no physical evidence left from cyber crimes- no fingerprints, DNA, nothing.”

“So it’s hopeless? Is that what you’re saying?” Tessa Rodgers was young, younger than I was, anyway. She should have known better. She’d been bopping along, firewall disabled, without antivirus or spyware protection. She did all her banking online, using passwords I could’ve cracked when I was twelve. It was a wonder that she hadn’t been robbed before.

“It’s not hopeless. Unless the hacker is incredibly careful, there are ways to trace them.” I knew this bit from personal experience. “But even if I’m able to track the thief, there’s a good chance your money is already gone- either spent or transferred God knows where.” That finally broke through the shell and made an impact on her.

“I won’t get my money back?”

“To be honest, most likely not.”

“Yet you’ll expect to be paid?”

That plucked my nerve for what I decided would be the final time. I pointed to the three frames hung on the office wall. “Do you see those, Ms. Rodgers? Those are two diplomas and a license. Criminology,” I said, pointing to the topmost frame in the pyramid, “which means I know how thieves are likely to think and act.” I pointed again, this time to the bottom left of the pyramid. “That one’s computer science- I tested out

So I stopped in the middle of a sentence right there, but you get the gist, right?

On self publishing.

Alright, gentle readers, time for an update. For those of you who didn't know, this past November, I took part in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. This is a competition wherein the contestants write a novel, 50,000 words or more, during the month of November. You're not competing directly against the other writers, more with yourself and the lil bastard in your head that tells you everything you're writing is crap. Anyway, I did it. I wrote a little over 50,000 words during November and claimed the top prize. In this case, one of the prizes was two free paperback copies of your book if you self published on a certain website.

So I did it. Sleepless Murder is now available on Amazon, both as paperback and on Kindle. And I'm conflicted about it. Let me break it down for you.

On the one hand, seeing "Brett Engetschwiler" on the cover of a book was nearly orgasmic. It's the realization of a dream I've had since the first grade. But once the novelty of that wore off, the whole thing left kind of a bad taste in my mouth. To be honest, it feels kind of like cheating the system. I mean sure, I put in the hours writing to get the manuscript done. I spent a couple days editing and futzing with it, which wasn't nearly enough time but I was on a deadline dictated by whoever does NaNoWriMo awards. So I published what, by all accounts, should never have seen the light of day.

Is it a terrible book? No, I do still think it's a good story and everybody who's read it has told me they enjoyed it. It just needs polishing. And so now I find myself going back to it like a jeweler with a rough-cut gemstone. Sure, it's pretty as it is, but it can be better. Time to break out the chisels and cutters and buffers and get to work.

Keeping in mind that this is the rough draft, if you are morbidly curious, you can purchase the current version of Sleepless Murder here.

Typewriter issues

So I bought this typewriter a few months ago and ever since I changed the ribbon, it's dealt me a fit.

This here's the beast; a Brother Cassette Correct-o-Riter XL 2000, from 1981, I believe. I've still got all the paperwork, including the long-expired warranty card. From research online, I may be the only one who set out to use this thing; the rest are on Ebay.

Without the cover; you can see the cassette that holds the ribbon.

This here's my problem. The top row? That's a line of lowercase "D"s. It cuts off the tops! I also have the same problem with the semi-colon; they show up as commas.

The infamous cassette; no longer manufactured, my only option when I purchased a new ribbon was to wind it onto the original cassette.

So, edit! I fixed the damned thing! The problem was the alignment; I think it was chaotic evil...

 The top line was before alignment changes, bottom line after. As you can see, the lowercase are super high on the line; the top edge of the lowercase is even with the top of the uppers. In my inexperience with the machine, I'd just assumed that's how it was supposed to be with this. I was wrong, of course.

The typewriter is a carriage shift type, meaning the whole carriage lifts up to strike capital letters. On both ends of the carriage are a set of screws with a nut holding them in place (The two seen above are the ones from the left hand side of the platen). These four screws adjust the alignment. I fiddled with all four, but only the ones on the left seemed to make a difference.

In order to get the alignment right I actually had to raise the uppercase to just below the threshold of being cut off themselves, then lower the lowercase until their bottom edges lined up. It's a tough thing to explain, but fairly easy to do. Now if I could only get the bell working...

NaNoWriMo 2014

This is the rough draft of the novel I wrote for National Novel Writing Month. I've since started editing, and a number of things have changed already. Warning: Adult content. Reader's discretion is advised. Ha! I've always wanted to write that!

To keep the length of this blog down, I'm pulling down this document here. Anybody who wishes to read it, please visit this link and purchase a copy, or stay tuned for updates as I attempt to polish the work and get it professionally published.

Preview of a new story

I've been fiddling around with a vampire story for about half a year now and decided to share it here. Despite the over abundance of blood suckers in media now, I still like them. This story came about because of a friend's nickname; Kittynn, this is for you.

1

The man skulked in the alleyway, watching as the relentless crowd of pedestrians passed. He was searching for someone, someone new. Several women went by, each catching his eye and making his pulse quicken. Some of the ladies were professionals heading home; others were groups of girlfriends going to the movies or out drinking. The man suppressed annoyance at the fact that all were in groups. He wanted one alone, and so he stood in the dark of the alley, fondling himself through his pants pocket, getting ready for what was to come. Finally, he saw one that really got his motor running: a leggy redhead in a dark emerald-green dress. She was tall, and her dress was cut low enough to reveal a good amount of cleavage and just high enough that he could catch glimpses of thigh as she walks.

He stepped out of the alley just before she reached him, moving casually. Clapping a hand to his face, he fell to his knees, acting like he’s searching for something.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, concerned.

"Ah, I lost my damned contact lens...Would you mind helping me look for it?"

She crouched, seeming to prefer keeping her dress clean over modesty. Perhaps she was going to meet a date. Her underwear certainly supported that theory; a flash of black satin between her legs excited the man far more than his fondling himself could have. She started sweeping her hands over the pavement, searching for a lens that isn’t there.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it...I just got these lenses, my wife’s gonna give me hell for losing one already..."

"Maybe it rolled into the alley," she offered, "let’s check there." He nodded and began crawling toward the alley, still searching for the lens while the woman duck walked, overtaking then passing him.

When they were far enough into the alley to avoid being seen, the man tackled the woman, putting a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams. No words passed between victim and attacker; the only sounds that could be heard were the grunts of the man as he tried desperately to wriggle his member free of his jeans and the muffled cries from the woman. Neither of them heard the soft thump of something falling in the mouth of the alley. Not falling, no, in truth it was a leap.

I’d been watching the whole mummer’s farce from a fire escape above. I always waited until moments before the crime was committed; the attacker would be off his guard and the victim was more likely to break and run after being saved. It seemed a bit cruel, perhaps, to let the woman be attacked at all, but I wasn't a mind reader; I had to be one hundred percent sure he was a predator. I grabbed the sleaze bag by the neck and threw him like a ragdoll into a midden heap. The woman, weeping and still trying to scream, scrambled to her feet and fled like a doe that had scented a hunter. Not a poor metaphor; there was a hunter here and I let him take over.

I stepped toward the rapist as I transformed and grabbed him by the throat when he tried to run. Slamming him against the wall to give him a taste of what he’d done to nearly twenty women, I let the glow of the nearby streetlight fall on my face. He saw murder in my flaming red eyes and knew he was dead even before I sank my fangs into his throat and started to drink.

 ****

Obviously there's no plot in this brief bit, in fact the plot doesn't kick in for several more pages. Just though I'd share the opening scene, because I think it's a great idea, even if I don't think its spectacularly written.

Preview chapters

Ok, I don't have a title for this as of yet, but I thought I'd share a few chapters of the book I'm working on. Please don't steal my work.

CHAPTER I: STEALING FROM A GODDESS

1

The temple was silent as a crypt as the thief passed over the threshold. The monks had gone to their rest at sunset, perhaps an hour or so before, and hadn't bothered to post guards; the building was open for worship anytime, after all. Orion crept down the aisle, passing the pews like a solitary groom at a wedding. The Goddess gazed down on her wayward son with a look of anguish on her face, as if his choice of profession pained her more than any torture imaginable. His eyes jumped up to the massive ivory sculpture, painted in vivid color in the daytime, it was merely grey amidst black at this time of night. In truth, he was grateful that he couldn't see Alyssia's eyes staring down at him in judgment, because, although he wasn't exactly the most devout churchgoer, the eyes of the goddess of life still held the power to make him feel uneasy.

He was dressed in black from head to foot and swaddled in a thick, black cloak. Underneath the cloak was his satchel, a leather bag laced closed with rawhide and cinched tight to his back by a baldric slung over his shoulder. Along the baldric were several rows of throwing knives that glittered in the low light. On his sleeve, easily accessible, was a half diamond lock pick in a leather sheath as well as another knife. This one, however, had been modified using a hammer and anvil- he'd blunted the edges, turning the knife into a torsion wrench. On his hip was a short sword with a sweat-darkened leather grip; its sculpted pommel peeked out from beneath his cloak every now and then, throwing off flickers of moonlight.

As he strode past the altar a glint of gold caught his eye, coming from the shadows of a partially open cabinet. He knelt beside the altar, looking as if he were about to pray and slid his satchel down the baldric until it rested against his hip. With one yank, the laces opened, revealing the black maw of the vacant bag. He always emptied it before going on a job: it left more room for loot. The marble was hard on his knees, but he'd endured worse pain before. Pulling the cabinet open revealed the candle sticks that usually burned on the altar, flanking a bejeweled chalice. With a small smile, Orion loaded the sacred items into his satchel before standing and turning once again to his main goal.

2

The client had found him at The Drunken Unicorn, a tavern down the road from Orion's shop. He'd been sitting in the corner, drinking deeply from a mug of ale and staring dreamily at the tavern's owner, Rose, when a man dressed in white robes pulled out the chair across from him and seated himself. Perturbed at having his lecherous train of thought interrupted, Orion glared at the monk as he lowered the tankard.

"Pardon my interruption," the man said in a soft voice, "but I am in dire need of your services, master thief."

"Let's assume you're right about who I am. What does a white brother need with a thief?" His voice held a deadly edge and he discreetly loosened his sword in its sheath. His eyes flicked to the bar where Rose was looking over at him, concerned. A short shake of his head told her to stay put for now.

"We have a common friend, sir. Brandon Blackwald recommended you when I mentioned that I needed a certain book acquired...quietly. Call me Dirk."

Orion swore under his breath. Bran, one of the frequent customers at his shop, liked to send unsolicited jobs to him and Orion always hated that. It wasn't that he was averse to work, but he preferred to scout locations himself rather than having someone, whose only knowledge of the business was how to buy the spoils, try to spoon feed him. "Not your real name, I assume...But Bran's a loyal customer, Dirk; tell me what you need."

"There is an illuminated copy of Alyssia's Trials in Elyria's temple to the goddess, bound in leather covered in gold leaf. I would most dearly love to gaze upon it for myself; the bishops only quote from the book, brothers are never allowed to lay eyes upon it."

The thief traced a finger over the pitted and scarred surface of the table before taking another pull from his flagon. "You want me to steal a book? That's all?"

The monk looked around, alarmed, as if Orion had shouted at the top of his voice rather than murmuring. "It's the single most important book in our religion," he hissed at the thief. "If I can get my hands on it, I could discover for myself if what they preach is truth."

 "Yeah, I suppose. Or you might destroy it..."

"W-why would I do that?"

"You have that hood pulled down, but I can still see kohl around your eyes. Your face has obviously been powdered heavily. Monks of Alyssia don't do that. You're one of Nyx's followers in a white robe. So, now that I know what you are, why don't you tell me why you really want this book?"

With a growl, the monk pulled his hood back, revealing the skull-like visage that had been drawn on his face in makeup. "How did you know?"

"If you're going to impersonate a white brother, have the sense to wash your face- there's makeup smudged on your sleeves and hood. Also, Bran's a follower of Nyx; draft horses couldn't drag him into the temple of Alyssia. Now answer my question before my lady-friend throws you out on your bony ass." The thief cocked his head at Rose, who had taken up a position at his elbow during their conversation. Orion swept the tavern with his eyes briefly and saw that the place had cleared out.

"What's she going to do to me?" The monk asked, half laughing.

Smiling, Rose traced a sign in the air. It glowed slightly and her eyes flashed as the candle flames dimmed. Dirk's eyes widened as the candles snuffed out completely and electricity crackled around the woman's head. She pointed at him with a shapely finger and a spark arced from her fingertip to his forehead. He jerked in his seat, feeling the shock rush through his body. He blinked and the candles were lit again. "That is but a taste, my friend," Rose said quietly. She placed her hand on Orion's shoulder, and he leaned toward the other man.

"A freak!" Dirk hissed. "You keep poor company, thief."

In a flash, Orion's sword was in his hand and the tip was pointed at Dirk's throat. "You want to watch your tongue, friend, before you lose your head. If you want to do business with me, then go ahead, but if you insult my friend again, you'll be wearing your tongue around your neck. Understand?"

The monk nodded, eyes not leaving Orion's sword.

"Very good," Orion said. "Now, how about you tell me why you really want this book?"

"The..." Dirk cleared his throat shakily. "Alyssia's Trials is sacred to Nyx as well; Alyssia is Nyx's sister, after all. No matter which god I worship, we both revere the same book. My goals are simply as I said."

"Rosie, your father was as devout a follower of the two gods as any man I've ever met...Is he telling the truth?"

 "Yes, Alyssia's Trials concludes with Nyx's Abyss, the black monks' holy book," she told him, still glaring at the monk. "As to whether he's truthful about his intentions, I can't say."

Orion nodded and turned back to Dirk. "What's in it for me?"

"I'll pay you six hundred gold arrows. You should also be able to acquire perhaps another four hundred in various goods from the temple."

"You say that I'll get four hundred more in loot, but you don't seem to know for sure. I think you should be paying a thousand, rather than expecting me to find half of it. It is the most important book in the country, after all. For one thousand arrows, you'll have it."

3

The monk had managed to pull together the money Orion asked for, but would only give six hundred up front. The rest would be his upon delivery of the book, a condition to which the thief agreed. Now, here he was, lying flat on the floor and peering under the door that opened on the rectory, hoping the black monk would be true to his word. He had no worries about running into monks of the light, Alyssia's followers; their goddess was of the daytime, and they were also. Devotion to her meant being abed as long as the sky was dark, and Orion knew dawn wasn't for awhile.

The rectory door was locked, of course, but that posed no problem to him. With a speed that was more practice than inborn skill, the thief plucked his home-made torsion wrench from its sheath and tested the lock. It was a pin and tumbler lock; that was good. He'd worried the monastery was so old that everything would be protected by ward locks and he would have to strong arm his way in. Holding the wrench with his left hand, he pulled his half diamond pick out of its place on his sleeve and slid it gently into the lock above the wrench. It was a four pin tumbler and with a series of taps from the pick, Orion had it unlocked and was entering the rectory.

This section of the temple was larger than a few of the noble houses he had robbed. Room after room opened off the main hallway, all of them beckoning him, calling him to explore them for treasure. He stood in the corridor for several minutes, listening to the normal building noises that formed a steady current of clicks and rustlings beneath the snores of the monks. That cacophonous symphony was coming from somewhere up above him, suggesting one of the myriad chambers before him contained a staircase. He found it hard to believe that the portly monks climbed a ladder every morning and night. Moving slowly to deaden the sounds of his footfalls, Orion began to open doors.

Room after room disappointed him. One was nothing but row upon row of the white monk robes, freshly cleaned judging by the smell. In another, he came upon the same sight, but the robes in it were used: dirty, reeking, and worn through and ripped in several places. The stench made his stomach roll and he closed the door as quickly as he'd opened it. Other rooms contained food, each seemingly devoted to one particular item: salted meat, smoked fish, turnips, carrots...He'd found enough food in this chapel to feed the destitute of Elyria for weeks.

Finally, he came to the room he was looking for: the bishop's chambers. Orion knew the man didn't sleep here; his spies had told him that the bishop wished to appear humble and so slept with the other brothers in the barracks above, but the previous bishops hadn't been so pious. Another lock barred the thief's way, this one more complex, but also more worn; he barely had to prod the pins before they fell in line. In less than a minute, the picks were tucked back in place on his sleeve and he'd slipped inside the magnificent room.

It made him more than a little sick to know that the work his mother had done gathering tithes had gone to pay for all the extravagance before him. Gold and silver trinkets were present everywhere: candlesticks, urns, ink pots, even plates...far more than the thief could ever carry. Setting his mouth in a grim line, Orion began walking about the room, determined to bring out as much as he could. His first stop was the previous bishop's bed. It was richly hung in velvet and dusty from disuse, but he wasn't concerned about that. Stripping the silk covers off the goose down pillows gave him a few extra bags to carry treasure in.

In a matter of minutes, two silk pillow covers were filled to bulging and tied off with strips Orion cut from the curtains. The only piece of furniture in the room he hadn't tossed for valuables was the writing desk that held pride of place in front of the large window that looked out on the apple orchard the brothers tended. Seating himself in the plush chair, the thief scanned the top of the desk. The piece he'd been sent here to steal was open in front of him, and he immediately understood why the black monks were willing to pay a thousand arrows for the book. It appeared to be bound in gold and the script was written in golden-hued ink. Using gold ink was absurd, but it did bump up the price of the piece, and the utter beauty of the book would make it hard to doubt the divinity of the author.

Gingerly, he closed and slid the precious tome into an empty pillow cover and walked it over to the bed, then returned to the desk. Sitting back in the bishop's chair as if he belonged there, the thief began opening drawers and pulling out potential valuables and piling them where the book had been. When the desk was tossed, he stood up and surveyed the take. The black monk who'd hired him had said he may find perhaps four hundred arrows in treasure in the church. Looking at the pile, the thief surmised that he'd found four hundred's worth in the desk alone. Quickly, he started tucking the treasures into the final pillow cover, when something else caught his eye.

A storage cupboard stood near at hand, the door slightly ajar revealing a scrap of cloth that stuck out of the crack. After stuffing the last of his loot into the sack and tying it closed, Orion stalked over to the door and pulled it open. Three rolled tapestries stood against the closet's back panel. They were obviously very old, but at the same time exquisitely preserved. Carefully, he picked one up and unrolled it on the top of the bishop's desk. Enough light from the moon drifted through the window for him to see what was woven into the large bolt of cloth.

It was a battle; men in armor, some on foot, some mounted, stood lined up across a field from another group of men and women, this group half naked. It seemed to be a battle he recognized from history lessons, but he couldn't quite place it. Rolling the tapestry back up, he decided to take all three with him and inspect them further. Carefully, he walked them over to the bed and placed them next to his four impromptu sacks. Nodding in satisfaction, he gazed down at the bed, seeing perhaps three months worth of not working laid out in front of him. Perhaps enough that he could research the tapestries, which intrigued him.

Altogether, he'd taken far more than he could ever hope to carry out in one trip, but he'd come prepared. Just outside the temple district his horse waited patiently, hitched to a small wagon. It took him nearly an hour to load all of it into the wagon, making seven trips to the cart and back, one for each of the clanking, jingling sacks from the bishop's office, and another for each of the tapestries. Each time he returned to the cart, his horse, Ebony, snorted at him and pawed the ground with a hoof, as if anxious to leave. In truth, he was as nervous as she seemed to be: already the eastern sky was lightening and the monks would be awake soon.

His suspicions proved true on his last trip: he could hear the thud and scuff of feet swinging out of bed above him. With his heart in his throat, Orion scrambled, throwing the last sack, containing the book he'd come for, over his shoulder and running for the door. It may not have been necessary, but he felt that the only thing worse than killing someone on the job was being seen. As he left the tree shaded grounds of the temples behind and approached Ebony for the last time, the mare whickered and swished her tail. He dropped the last sack in the cart and patted the nervous animal's neck as he trotted around the cart to the driver's seat. Taking up the reins, Orion snapped them and urged Ebony forward. Casting a look over his shoulder at the temple of Alyssia, he saw that the sun was just peeking over the horizon and turning the white marble a delicate pink. He smiled at the beauty of both the dawn and his timing as he steered the cart and mare toward his shop.