Sticks & Stones

  Praise for SoulChaser

  “With an intriguing premise and bloody good action scenes, SoulChaser takes us on a paranormal adventure where death hunts among us, even as we don’t realize it....”

  - Chris Marie Green

  Author of VAMPIRE BABYLON

  “A fast moving tale of Kiah, a SoulChaser going after a rogue soul from the Abyss, both of them jumping from human to human in the pursuit. And in the bloody chaos that follows, Kiah’s lady-love suddenly disappears without warning or explanation. Read on.”

  - James C. Glass

  Author of VIPER OF PORTELLO

  “Just finished SoulChaser and I loved it! It hits the ground running and doesn’t let up until the final page. It all added up to some epic story-telling and I honestly can’t wait for the next installment.”

  - Keith Knapp

  Author of MOONLIGHT

  -----

  The Starriders Saga

  (as J.A. Anderson)

  Dragon Fire

  Rebels Without A Clue

  P/U (Pranksters United)*

  The SoulChaser Universe

  Earthbound Trilogy:

  Earthbound

  Heaven’s Eyes*

  Flight of Angels*

  The Jean Archer Quartet:

  The Diamond and the Rough

  Interlude #1: Sticks & Stones

  All Fall Down*

  (*forthcoming)

  -----

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, places and reference materials portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental and are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Jean Archer: Sticks & Stones

  jeanarcher.net

  SoulChaser Universe

  soulchaser-universe.com

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  “SoulChaser” logo designed by Juan Maestas

  Cover design by the author

  Author photo by Amelia Binkerhoff

  Copyright © 2015 by Jason A. Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  SEG Books

  P. O. Box 1287

  Pleasant Grove, UT 84062

  First Digital Edition: September, 2015

  The day was overcast, the sky was a heavy gray that looked ready to douse Grantham, England’s streets with rain when she found the book. It rested unnoticed in a stack of ancient leather bound and hard-backed tomes, tucked away in a nowhere book exchange called Tabitha’s.

  Monique had been searching for something interesting to read when the back of her fingers brushed across its worn cover and an electrical charge surged up her hand to radiate instantly through her whole body. She shivered, then moved the upper part of the stack and uncovered the book itself. The rough, much abused, brown leather cover didn’t have a title stamped on it or on the book’s spine, which she found curious. She had expected some sort of embossing or impression in the leather based on how aged it looked; after picking it up and looking over its exterior, she finally had to open it.

  The first few pages were blank...old...aged to the color of yellowed parchment. Feeling a little deflated, the teenage girl continued to turn the brittle pages and finally exposed one with curious, black writing in the center.

  Scripted in a foreign tongue, she couldn’t read the title, but she found the flowing, ancient calligraphy intriguing. Her fingers seemed to tingle where she touched it. After a few minutes of holding the grimoire, she decided not only did she have to have it, but the book wanted to be taken with her.

  The possibility of other discoveries laid aside, she stood and hugged the book to her chest; she could feel the tingle anywhere the book touched her skin. She crossed to the counter, a wood slab so old it had darkened from use, and so worn that a pale spot appeared where store clerks of years past had stacked customer’s items for purchase.

  The heavy, sweating man with the waxy beard and matted black hair behind the counter asked her, “Is that all for you today, miss?” in a thick British accent.

  Nodding, Monique set the book on the counter for the clerk to inspect and ring up on the computer register. Probably the only modern device in the entire place, she decided as she waited.

  The clerk put his hand out to pick up the book and jumped as a static charge bit his fingers with an audible snap! Looking between the book and the astonished young woman, he waved the book toward her. “Take it, take it,” he stammered, the look in his eyes one of intense discomfort.

  Confused now, Monique reached out and pulled her treasure toward her. I will never understand these people, she decided as she scooped up the book and left at a slow, steady pace.

  Monique Morris didn’t see the haunted look on the face of the clerk as he watched her leave the shop. The tinkle of the bell as the door opened and closed didn’t do anything to lighten the heaviness that had begun filling the small shop the moment Monique had uncovered the ancient book.

  The book became the reason for her existence, now, the only thing that mattered. It told her of the energy of the Void: radiant darkness in a sea of light. All the things that mattered before...school, family, home life, love, lust, sex...everything that once held any meaning for her – from the innocence of childhood to the ignorance of a young adult – now paled in the seductive knowledge the book continued to impart.

  Jean Archer stood in the front yard of the Holiday House...so named for her adopted father’s fascination with decorating the large home in full regalia of whatever holiday happened to come around that month. Today, however, it looked less a celebration of red, white and blue than a memorial of a war-scarred land.

  Three days had passed since the Archers emerged from their basement emergency shelter below the house, into the chaos and mayhem of Shadow Valley in crisis.

  Four days gone from the last fireball had fallen, but due to the massive amount of damage and terrible loss of life, it had taken until this morning for Devon Archer to get his cherished Cadillac home. Even without the glowing, seared edges, the contrast between the burned away section and the pristine front end of the car made for a stark image.

  At the height of the disastrous storm, golf-ball size burning chunks of rock raining from the sky had caused dozens of fires. Most had been extinguished, but over the rooftops across her wide street, she could still see the pale gray pillars of smoke from the lingering fires the Shadow Valley Fire Department battled to contain.

  The Holiday House – much like the homes nearby – had fared fairly well, since their suburb was located on the opposite end of the valley from the epicenter of the destruction. Shattered windows, missing roof shingles, torn up landscaping, all superficial, with the exception of two houses further down their street. They suffered from flood damage due to the burst water mains.

  Jean turned her gaze from the distant towers of smoke to the two cars in their wide driveway. Britt’s beat up muscle car, a 1971 Challenger, took center stage for the moment as the family’s primary vehicle. He had left the car with permission for Jean to drive it while he served in the military overseas, with the one proviso: that she take care of it.

  On the far side of the Challenger sat a mound beneath a pale green tarp.<
br />
  As she walked over to the rear end of Britt’s car, she heard a honking behind her that she could only describe as “cheerful”. She paused to look back, already sure of what she’d find.

  Rolling up the broken asphalt, trying to stay out of the multiple potholes and a large trench of collapsed road surface to her right, Serena Hepworth gradually slowed her sky blue Mazda Miata to turn into the Archer’s drive.

  Smiling, her green eyes dancing, Jean walked around to where her best friend climbed out of her treasured car, gently closing the door behind her.

  “Hey, Rah-Rah,” Jean greeted Rena, using the girl’s group nickname.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Rena said and the two girls exchanged a quick hug.

  Glancing between Rena and the empty car, Jean said, “Where’s Chad? I thought you two planned to spend the day together.”

  A shadow of doubt crossed Rena’s pretty face.

  “His parents decided they needed him home to help with some repairs to their home network.”

  Hmmm...I hope everything’s okay, Jean thought. Aloud, she said, “That makes sense. He’s the tech guru, after all.”

  “Anyway, what’cha doin’?” Rena said, instantly bubbly again.

  Jean motioned for the blonde to follow her as she walked over to the large mass covered in pale green.

  “What’s this?” Rena asked, standing beside her.

  Scowling, Jean took hold of the tarp with both hands and pulled heartily. It slid toward them, then off to their left. Beneath it rested Devon Archer’s charcoal black Cadillac CTS-V.

  Wincing, Rena said, “Yikes.”

  With a nod, Jean said, “Yep, Dad’s pride and joy...or what’s left of it.”

  The deep charcoal gray luxury sport wagon had rested beneath the tarp for the last two days, since her father had been able to arrange to get it brought home from the county fairgrounds. It had taken longer than expected to arrange a tow, as emergency crews got a handle on the extensive damage the entire area had experienced last several days ago.

  “Is that from the Fair?” Rena asked, reaching out to touch the ragged edge where a five-foot sphere of ball-lightning had hit and vaporized the entire rear of the automobile. From the area where the back seats had once been and forward, the Cadillac remained in immaculate condition. Everything from there back was just gone. Without a rear axle, the car rested on the seared edge of the floorpan.

  Pulling her hand back as if it still felt hot from the storm damage days earlier, Rena asked, “Is he gonna be able to fix it?”

  Her wavy red hair bounced slightly as Jean laughed, then stopped when she realized Rena wasn’t kidding. “Oh, um...I don’t know. He may have to just replace it. They don’t make them anymore.”

  “Maybe he can get a used one?”

  Smiling at her good friend, Jean shrugged. “Maybe.” She nodded to the Challenger. “In the meantime, Britt’s beast has become Dad’s daily driver.”

  Glancing between the Cadillac and the muscle car, Rena almost commented twice, then finally responded with, “Huh.”

  The girls replaced the car cover in silence, then Jean put an arm around the blonde’s shoulders and steered her toward the weather-damaged front yard. Once sculpted landscaping now lay strewn across the wide grass. The stone front walk had cracked apart at the seams, like an upset jigsaw puzzle, leaving jagged seams where smooth ones had been only days before. Years of care and nurturing Jean’s mother, Elise, had spent with her fingers in the soil – undone in a sliver of that time.

  Interestingly, the Holiday House had weathered the last few days of meteorological upheaval better than others on the street.

  But it wasn’t all destruction and mayhem. A quick look up and down the street revealed rebuilding in progress. Two houses up, the Reynolds had hired one of the local contractors to fix and re-sod their entire front yard. Two of their three massive oak trees had to be hauled away after being completely uprooted.

  At the bottom of the street, a county construction team had made strong headway fixing a ruptured sewer main. The rotten stench was mostly gone now, carried away by the mountain breezes that still struggled to clear the smoke and airborne debris from above.

  “Have you talked to the girls since…” Rena suddenly stopped, a look of alarm on her face. “Oh, Jean! I’m sorry.”

  Jean smiled, hoping that the fist she felt tighten around her heart didn’t show as strain on her face. “It’s Ok, Rah-Rah,” she said and put her arm around her friend to give her a hug. “No, I probably won’t see them until the service tomorrow.”

  “Me, either. I’ve thought about going over there a couple times, but just couldn’t,” Rena said.

  Jean could hear the pain in Rena’s voice. They were only two of more than a handful of people mourning the loss of Cristoff Rainn, a key member of their very tight circle of friends, the Paranormal and Supernatural Society, or P.A.S.S., for short. He had died less than a week ago and the horror of his death still loomed heavy over everyone close to him.

  She tried not to be selfish, tried to put other people’s feelings before her own, but Jean constantly fought back the dark memories of Toff bleeding out in her arms. The sensation of his body growing limp and cold in her grasp haunted her dreams, the touch of his lips on hers only a few days before, as they shared their first - and only - kiss, seared forever in her memory.

  Shaking her head mentally to clear her thoughts, Jean said, “Come on, I’ve got a few different hair styles I want you to look at for tomorrow. I’d like to try something new, but I don’t want it to be inappropriate for the occasion.”

  “You got it, Bosslady” Rena said, smiling when she used Jean’s P.A.S.S. nickname.

  Jean let herself laugh, something she’d been making a conscious effort to do frequently the last few days, and lead Rena up the shifty front steps and into the house.

  Monique carefully pressed the glue tip to the inside edge of the gift wrap paper, laying down a thin, white trail of glue along the outside edge. Then, after setting the Elmer’s Glue bottle aside, she carefully flattened out the thin trail of glue, then wiped the excess on a nearby hand towel. Once the glue had dried and she’d wrapped the grimoire in the blue flower patterned cover, it wouldn’t look any different than the other textbooks on her shelf. Only she would know it was special.

  Ready for a break, Monique left her hobby room, careful not to get partially-dried glue on the doorknob. She trekked through the large garage, then through the main floor of the house.

  As she passed the pantry room, she could hear her mother bumping around, rearranging it, which she did whenever she felt stressed. As a result, the pantry was the most organized room in the house.

  “Monique, sweetie,” Mrs. Morris called, without peeking out of the pantry. “Please ask your father if he stopped at the store, like I asked.”

  The girl hummed a non-committal response and instead of going upstairs to the bedrooms floor, she headed down the main floor hallway, homing in on the sound of the local news playing in the family’s great room.

  Monique fiddled with the glue residue on her hands as she walked down the stairs to the home’s massive entertainment room. The thick gray pile carpet absorbed her steps, despite the bounce in her stride.

  She noticed her father sprawled out on the tan sofa sectional, his attention glued to the sixty-inch video screen on the opposite wall. Slowing, she wandered over to the sofa; rather than sitting, she stood beside her father, who pointedly did not acknowledge her. After nearly a minute of picking at the drying glue on her hands, she stamped her foot in frustration, which even in tennis shoes, made nearly no sound.

  His jaw clenching, Monique’s father rolled his eyes, then slowly looked over and up at her.

  “What?” he demanded, no warmth in his vo
ice.

  Bristling, Monique snapped, “Well! If you’re gonna be rude!” and turned back to the stairs.

  It was all an act, and her father knew it.

  Exasperated, he said, “I’m watching the news, Monique. What is it?”

  With a smile as sweet as the most delicious poison, Monique pivoted back to him and said, “Mom said to ask you if you stopped at the store on your way home.”

  Frowning, he replied, “I told her--” then he leaned past her so that he was yelling up the staircase. “I told you I wasn’t going to stop at the store before coming home!”

  “And I told you tough shit, that I need you to stop and get my diet cola!” came her mother’s voice from the floor above.

  Grumbling to himself, he rested back on the sofa cushions.

  The only thing that Monique heard was something resembling, “...drink diet everything it still wouldn’t help your fat ass...”

  Monique smirked as her father cranked up the volume on the news report. The somber, cookie-cutter newscaster’s words drew her attention to the screen.

  “...funeral is being held for Cristoff Rainn, the only son of Randall Rainn. Direct descendants of one of Shadow Valley’s first families, the Rainns…”

  “What?” Monique asked. “When did that happen?”

  His frown deepening, Mr. Morris replied, “While we were on holiday. Something to do with all this mess around town.”

  “I knew there was some dead people, but I didn’t know Prick-toff Rainn was one of them!”