Flying fluke, p.1
Flying Fluke, page 1
Flying Fluke
Hound of Dawn Book 3
H.S. Torben
Simply Absurd Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by H.S. Torben
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by GetCovers
ISBN (ebook): 979-8-9863141-5-0
ISBN (paperback) : 979-8-9863141-6-7
Contents
Dedication
Tuesday
1. Blue
2. Rhodes
3. Finn
4. Nisha
5. Sam
6. Devon
7. Finn
8. Rhodes
9. Nisha
Wednesday
10. Devon
11. Sam
12. Finn
13. Rhodes
14. Sam
15. Nisha
16. Devon
17. Rhodes
18. Sam
19. Finn
20. Blue
21. Sam
22. Blue
23. Nisha
24. Blue
25. Devon
26. Rhodes
27. Blue
28. Devon
29. Nisha
30. Sam
Thursday
31. Nisha
32. Finn
33. Devon
34. Rhodes
35. Sam
36. Nisha
37. Zella
38. Blue
39. Rhodes
40. Sam
41. Blue
42. Rhodes
43. Devon
44. Finn
45. Zella
46. Devon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By
Dramatis Personae
Dedication
To my daughter, who told me how proud she was that I did something cool, like writing a book.
It is and will probably be the only time she ever associates me with anything cool. But she did. Once. And now it’s in writing, so she can’t take it back.
Love you, baby girl.
Tuesday
***
Wild seraph’s soul succumbs to dragons
While Blazing stars thwart nocturn’s talons
Now ancient wraith awaits the choice
Twilight, fire, son, or voice.
Souls born of feral forge rebuke
And seize the crown by flying fluke.
Two wings to fly and Sentries hold
An untamed legion waits upon the road
***
1
Blue
“Burning mothers down, y’all.”
What? That could not be right. The catchy disco rhythm pulsed through her aching head as Blue fought to get her bearings. She couldn’t breathe. Her shoulder was wet. And someone was snoring. Everything hurt. Yet her body was numb. The cheerful man continued to sing about infernos and burning babies. Surely he wasn’t singing about burning babies. Oh. “Disco Inferno.” She was listening to disco. Why? Why did the word inferno remind her of something? She peeled one eye open only to find the world around her fuzzy and black at the edges. A glowing yellow beacon illuminated the sky directly above her, proclaiming in neon-green letters: "When life gives you limes, make margaritas."
A noise between a snore and a groan drowned out the upbeat music, and she cut her open eye down to see where it came from. The top of a man’s head rested on her shoulder. The rest of his body was on top of her, too. No wonder she couldn’t breathe. The guy was huge, smelled like a locker room and a campfire, and a pair of yellow, daisy-shaped sunglasses sat askew on his face. A line of drool rolled out of his mouth, soaking her shirt. Charming.
Must have been one hell of a night. She had never woken up dazed and confused on a floor listening to disco underneath both a margarita machine or a very large, flower-bespectacled man before. How did she know that? How did she get here?
The song changed, and Gloria Gaynor told her about being afraid and petrified. Blue could relate to that, with a little pinch of "what the fuck" sprinkled on top.
Desperate to form a clear thought through the fuzzy waves that pulsed with Ms. Gaynor’s declarations of survival, she closed her eye again and was rewarded with a flash of memory.
The fog of her brain produced an image of a world on fire and Silly Sunglasses Man running at her holding a mask of some sort, screaming about dragons as a cloud of green gas followed him. Did she know him? She hoped so. He was snoring on her. Dale? Gale? Vale? No. Vale was her name. Hale? That was it. His name was Hale. As soon as the name crossed her mind, everything came rushing back.
Prior to waking under the great margarita sun, she’d fought a sadistic, fireball-slinging asshole named Larson Battle. Larson grazed her with a fireball. There was a giant purple portal, time travel, guns, knives, poison gas, collapsing buildings, and a flock of the cutest little dragons she had ever seen. Was this really her life? There had to be another explanation. A sane one. She got drunk and passed out with sunglasses at a disco. That’s what happened.
That wasn’t what happened. She really got hit by a fireball. Her chest throbbed at a danceable 117 beats per minute, in rhythm with the music. Her heart thundered and her vision wavered in time with the waves of pain.
Would she survive? Ms. Gaynor thought she would. But Blue wasn’t so sure. Getting hit with a fireball couldn’t be good for your health. And dragons. She died when dragons fell from the sky. Ms. Z, the most accurate oracle in the Cahlad’s history, told her so.
Damn.
She had died. And wherever she ended up had a margarita machine and a strange and darkly twisted disco soundtrack. She liked that. Not the part where she died, but everything else she could deal with. She expected heaven to look different. Sound different. But at least she wasn’t in hell. She just came from there and would not recommend.
Wait. Had Hale died, too? That was not okay.
Someone shouted nearby. Two someones. Men. They sounded alarmed but not angry. Uh-oh. Did she break some disco-heaven protocol by landing under the drink machine instead of by the doorman? Was her name not on the list? Would they be wearing leisure suits?
Heavy footsteps echoed nearby, vibrating the floor beneath her. A gigantic shadow swooped into her vision, blocking out the margarita sun. The song changed again, this time to the Bee Gees “Staying Alive.” She wanted to groan or laugh but failed to manage either. Barry Gibb taunted her now.
The shadow spoke. “Vale?” That made sense. Heaven would use her real name.
Another shadow appeared, outlined by the ethereal glow of the margarita machine. “Get him off her.” She recognized the voice, but preferred floating to figuring out who it belonged to. These must be the angels.
With a grunt, the first angel hauled Hale’s body away, removing the weight from her chest, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have the energy to breathe. Floating was nice. Easier. “He’s bleeding. Two gunshot wounds. I’ll get a kit.” Footsteps thudded away. They would help Hale. This was a strange place, but she could rest now.
Exhaling in relief, a series of memories, faded like overexposed film, flashed through her mind. Amber reading an obnoxious romance novel out loud to make her laugh. Rhodes teaching her to play the guitar. Ivan treating her to French toast after a bad day. Beating Finn at beer pong in some beachside tourist bar while Greenlee, Lexi, and Devon played in the surf outside. Holding Lexi in her arms for the first time. Greenlee’s enthusiastic face, covered in grease and paint and dust as he told her about one of his projects using words she didn’t understand but made her happy anyway. Watching movies and eating ice cream straight from the carton curled up on the couch with Devon. Listening to Sam complain that she didn’t warn him to bring a coat while they stood in the snow and watched the dancing green Aurora Borealis. So much love in her life. And, hey, margaritas and a cool soundtrack at the end. She was lucky. No complaints.
Her eyelids fluttered as the second shadow grew larger and the angel knelt next to her. His gigantic body leaned close enough to become more than a blob. Sadly, the angel did not wear a leisure suit. Concerned deep-brown eyes set in a model-worthy yet grumpy face with flawless brown skin gazed down at her.
Yep. She was dead and somehow she’d made it to heaven. Because that is the only place Ivan would have gone when he died. “Hey, Vanya.”
His mouth moved. But she didn’t hear him. The music turned off. The pounding drum in her ear stuttered and fell silent, and she floated away into the darkness.
2
Rhodes
Owls.
The spine-tingling screech of an owl pierced the night. Rhodes raced through the tops of the trees, bounding from branch to branch like the devil himself was chasing him. Because he might be. When the purple portal that sprang to life in the clearing in front of the cabin he and his two charges Ava and Lexi used as a safe house, he told them to run. Moments later, a living nightmare appeared: Larson Battle glowing and ready to rain down fire and brimstone.
At the moment, that was not his most pressing problem. The two little girls he p romised to protect with his life were in these trees somewhere in front of him, disguised as owl food. Why did they have to pick squirrels? He should have drawn the line and insisted on bears. He shouldn’t have sent them out into the night by themselves but had them wait in the cabin instead, at least until he had a better grip on what was happening. A half dozen powerful magic users stood in the field between Battle and that cabin. They might have been safer there.
The thundering crack of an explosion vibrated through the trees, and he lost his footing. Larson. Plummeting to the forest floor, he instinctively distributed his body weight, wincing as the ground raced toward him. At the last moment, he folded up and executed a perfect superhero landing, tiny squirrel fist tapping the forest floor. He should not tell Lexi about this. She would gloat.
Without waiting, he raced back up the tree and resumed his desperate attempt to get to the girls before their bones ended up in a ball of owl scat. How had his life come to this?
Somewhere in front of him, the squeaks of terrified squirrels and the agitated barks of a hungry owl met his ears. The moon hid behind the clouds, and the night remained pitch-black. He couldn’t see a damned thing. Squirrels were fast in the trees, but had terrible night vision. He needed to shift to something else.
A roaring flutter behind him drowned out the struggle ahead of him and grew louder and more defined by the second. A faint flutter of light-gray-and-brown feathers flapping furiously appeared through the canopy. Almost there, he spared a glance over his furry squirrel shoulder at the encroaching noise. A shadowy blob roiled through the night sky toward him. He didn’t stand a chance of outrunning it, but he gave it his best shot. A chorus of trills rang out from the ominous flock of birds descending on him in a roaring whisper of flapping wings and the overwhelming scent of smoke and singed hair. Rhodes flinched and tried to make himself small. A feathered body crashed into him and strafed by close enough to see details. But squirrel night vision must be worse than he realized because it looked like a tiny dragon.
His feet stuttered to a halt, and his whiskers twitched in confusion and frustration. Owls weren’t bad enough? It had to be a joke. Another body bashed into him, and he let out an earsplitting squeak of terror and frustration, struggling to hang on to the branch while dangling by his feet, still trying to put eyes on the owl harassing the girls. Their squeaks were now sharp and bordering on snarls.
The shadow of the flock soared over him, trills growing frenzied and deafening. It shifted and dove for the cluster of light feathers. This could not be happening.
Righting himself, he raced ahead, now close enough to see the nightmare of fur and feather unfolding in front of him. The owl held a squirrel in its paws, flapping and screeching in fury as the other squirrel clung to its back, plucking out feathers. But the owl still somehow held on to its prize and gained altitude.
The shadow of the dragon flock turned and dove toward the airborne scuffle, obscuring his view with black feathers. Anguished screeches and startled squeaks drowned out everything else. A moment later, the shadowy flock soared into the night, carrying the dismembered pieces of a great horned owl. Two quiet thumps met his ears, and he squinted toward the ground to see two squirrels standing on their haunches, little squirrelly fists resting on the ground. Their tails twitched, and they chirped at each other furiously.
Throwing himself off the branch, he landed next to them, and they stopped squeaking.
One squirrel raced off, moving through the thick carpet of pine needles blanketing the ground. The other looked right at him, still holding the superhero pose. He didn’t know it was possible for a squirrel to appear smug, but this one managed it. This had to be Ava.
They were good kids, and he would do everything in his power to keep them safe. But he would rather be back in the clearing, doling out violence to whoever threatened them. That was straightforward, and he excelled at it. Wrangling tween and teenage girls, not so much.
A squeak from behind him drew his attention, and he jaunted over. Lexi sat on her haunches, covered in scrapes and scratches from the owl’s claws, pointing one digit on her little squirrel hand at the ground in front of her where she rearranged the pine needles, revealing lines of bare dirt in a pattern. But he wasn’t sure what they were. Backing up, he climbed a few feet up a neighboring tree and looked down.
Drawn into the pine needles, the message “Wolfs Now” met his eyes. Rhodes tittered in amusement and hopped out of the tree.
He told them squirrels were a bad idea and even warned them about owls. Sometimes you just had to let them make their own mistakes. Thankfully, everyone lived through this one.
Lexi’s tail twitched, and she eyed the sky warily. She chirped at Ava, who joined them, whiskers twitching. He bumped against both girls and sent a wave of magic into their bodies. The same wave shifted his own form into a nice-sized wolf. Ava morphed into a disgruntled gray-and-brown wolf smaller than his own with a whining growl. She shook her fur out in displeasure, sitting down hard on her haunches.
Lexi turned into a small solid-gray wolf that fell onto its side with a yip, startled by the sudden change.
They needed to keep moving. Battle might still be back there and he needed to put some distance between Ava, the magic supercharger, and Larson Battle, the raving flame-throwing psychopath trying to capture her and use her as a tool for world domination. At least now he was back to relatively sane problems.
He would not acknowledge the dragons. They had to be a squirrel-brain-induced hallucination.
He barked and turned west, knowing they would follow.
At least now they weren’t owl food.
#
3
Finn
A wave of pain radiated across his right cheekbone and a loud crack of sound filtered into his ringing ears. Snapping his eyes open with a strangled cry of surprise, the pinched and angry face of his teammate Kendra Reyes, illuminated by the light of a large fire, filled his vision. “Stay with me, Torrin.”
He blinked, trying to clear his head. Did she just slap him? What in the hell? No longer focused on the pain in his face, other pain centers flared to life in his consciousness. His right arm screamed and refused to move. His left leg throbbed with white-hot pain that dimmed his vision and muted his hearing with each beat of his heart.
The mission to extricate Hale, his teammate and friend, and Zella, the Paragon’s partner, went sideways. A full-scale battle ensued on the front lawn of the Cahlad Prime campus, complete with explosions and gunfire between his small team, a contingent of well-armed magic terrorists, calling themselves the Sovereign and their leader, Larson Battle. And that fucker favored meteorites as his weapon of choice.
The fighting leveled a parking garage and turned an entire city block in Nashville into a twenty-foot-deep crater. A federal agent shot him, and Kendra dragged him through a purple portal to safety.
They still had people on the other side. Devon, his sister-in-law, was there. She had a gun. His heart stuttered. Devon was there. Was she safe now?
Finn struggled to lift his head off the wet ground with little success. He was lightheaded and nauseous. The night was cool, but he was sweating profusely. All grave signs. The nasty side effects of blood loss were hitting him fast. He scanned the tree-rimmed clearing lit by the glow of a flaming cabin.
He counted the eight people they started with. His sister Devon leaned heavily against her "roommate" Greenlee. Kendra glowered at him from above. Harper Kilgarden, Ben Hughes, Nisha Ravi, and the Cahlad Paragon, Mitch Collins, ended up scattered around the clearing. One of their targets, Zella, lay still on the ground. A small black dog walked from person to person, wagging its tail and attempting to get someone’s attention. He did not see Hale, though the man had been moving under his own power before Finn went down.
He also counted three other people. They came through the portal heavy a piece of shit U.S. Senator, and two people presumed to be dead: the Cahlad Regent, Sam Sotach, and Mitch Collin’s daughter, Amber.
