#syndicate excerpt

[dontjudgemeimawriter]

Mika & Terran argument

I haven't shared an excerpt in a while and I got a good amount done last week.

I'm not sure how much context to give. Reminder of the basic premise that Terran faked Raymond' death and never told Mika, Raymond's twin sister, that he was alive. That's all come out now, and Terran has to face to consequences of keeping it from her. Terran at one point in the scene gives a recap of the preceding events.

Scene under the cut

Syndicate Taglist (ask to be +/-):

@puzzleddragon02 @sleepy-night-child @drippingmoon @thegreatobsesso @athenswrites @charlesjosephwrites @wildswrites @thelaughingstag @cljordan-imperium

--

When I headed to the hotel, bag of Mika’s things over my shoulder and the folder and birth certificates tucked in the pocket of my jacket, I traveled through back alleys. Staying out of the more public areas may not have actually been safer, but it felt it. I knew when someone was following me through the messy side streets more than I did on the busy main streets.

I paused when I saw Mika.

I’d been coming to see both of them, but I’d expected them to be in the room. Mika was sitting on the steps of an abandoned shop that shared an employee parking lot with the Veranda. She hadn’t seen me yet. She was wearing the same jacket she had on yesterday and her hair was in a braid swung over her shoulder. A gray cat was nuzzling its face into her hand, and I could see the edge of a smile.

My presence would ruin that smile.

But it seemed stupid to sneak past her, and we were otherwise fairly alone. So I approached her, keeping a few feet back before announcing myself.

“Mika.”

Her head snapped towards me, the sudden movement making the cat back away. The hint of a smile left and turned back into the hatred she always shot at me. Without speaking to me, she turned back into the cat. “Yes, that’s right. Run away, you know when someone’s dangerous, don’t you?” she said.

I hoisted the bag off my arm. “I have your things. Clothes. Toothbrush. Pajamas. That facial stuff in the bathroom.” I trailed off.

“Well, I’m not keeping it out here, am I?” she said, not accepting the bag, so I put it back over my shoulder.

I didn’t know what to say. “Where’s Raymond?”

She turned back to look at me. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh really? You’re asking me now? How the tables have turned. Shall I lie and say he’s—“ Her own emotions cut her off, not able to say it even to accuse me. I watched as she swallowed hard, knowing what it felt like. She crossed her arms. “Abigail called.”

“Shit,” I muttered. I knew he’d agreed to do whatever and help them find the trove, but so soon?

Mika didn’t say anything, just stared in angry silence.

I wanted him here. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to tell me why Zachary was wrong. And I was still so tired. I’d noticed my body aching on the walk over here.

“You know what? Give me the bag. Thanks a lot, and fuck off.” Mika said. She stood up and held out her hand for it.

I was really tired of her being mad at me. “I’m sorry, should I not have saved your brother?” I snapped. I swung the bag off my shoulder and let it fall to the ground between us. “Before you were mad at me because I did. Now you’re mad that I didn’t, make up your mind.” I could feel myself saying stupid, hurtful things, adding fuel.

“Oh, this is just my wildest dream, isn’t it? That the one person I attempted to trust has been keeping this from me—“

“Oh and it took you how long to extend the slightest olive branch?”

“You should have told me. You should have told me day of, I deserved to know.”

“Mika, do you really not get our situation? I know you know it. I know you know that this is all fucking life or death, you recognized that we’re both terrified. You think I kept this from you for fun, to watch you squirm? I kept it from you to protect him.”

“Because I’m a danger? You think I would put him in danger?”

I balled my fists, holding them at my sides. “You did exactly that, Mika!”

“Oh this whole Judge situation? You think I want him being used like this?” She looked me over. She took a step down the stairs she’d been sitting on and shook her head. “He’s doing this for you. He’s being an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, who was tied to a chair and who was willingly handing over the trove? Do you know how mad Zachary would be if he found out about that? Do you know realize that that’s why the Judge wants Raymond?”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Mika, you handed it over to them! That didn’t look coerced to me.”

“No. That’s on you.” She insisted.

And this was ridiculous. Maybe I’d starting saying things to be hurtful and angry, but that was so blatantly false. “Let me recap for you. I sneak into their room to free Jodi, who was your freind. I get caught, tied up, and paralyzed. You walk in on your own volition and hand over tot he judge a whisper full of information, which Raymond is forced to interpret in exchange for my life. Please explain to me how this is on me.”

I can see tears in Mika’s eyes, and for a moment I think it’s because I’m right. But she shakes her head again. Stubborn as always.

“Terran, why do you think I was doing that?” She asked, this time her voice cracking a little instead of pure anger. “You think I thought it’d be fun to betray Zachary? You think I thought Oh, I sure hate working for him, how about I got help out the guy in charge instead? You gave me no other choice. You made it so I was alone, just like I had been ever since you took him from me. Don’t deny that—even if you didn’t kill him, you took him from me. Why do you think I reached out? And you pushed me away again. That was supposed to give me freedom. You think I would have put Raymond in danger if I’d known?” She turned away to hide wiping an eye with her sleeve. “And what, I’m supposed to trust you now? What else would you keep from me?”

I couldn’t find a reply to that. Her words sunk in. I remembered how she’d tried to reach out, to help me find Jodi only for me to push her away… to avoid her running into Raymond. And maybe I’d been wrong this whole time. She could keep a secret. Maybe I should have told her.

I’d never cared until now how much she hated me. She was hating me for something I didn’t do, so I never took it personally. Never even really cared, for a long time, it wasn’t very important what she thought. But now she was hating me for exactly what I had done. And the hurt that Raymond’s death had caused her… that I’d caused her… that didn’t just go away with his return to her life.

I dropped focus. “I’m sorry,” I said. I avoided meeting her eyes, just started at the ground. “You’re right. I should have told you. I should have told you a long time ago. I should have trusted you and not pushed you away.” I sat down on the stoop. “When I did that, when I saved him, it was the first good thing I ever did. I wanted to protect him, but I was also protecting myself. It was easier to keep you in the dark.” I fiddled with the zipper of my jacket. She didn’t say anything. I found myself continuing talking. “You and Raymond were so good at knowing what the right thing to do is. I watch you do all this and see how much you hate it, because you know it’s wrong. But I’ve only known that based on you guys’s example.”

The cat Mika had been petting, that had disappeared at some point, suddenly jumped up next to me. It curled next to me, a small warm body against my leg.

Mika let out a sigh. “Just don’t keep anymore secrets,” she said.

I reached over to the cat, running my hands cautiously over its body. I know they sometimes bite without warning, but the cat just lifted its had and looked at me.

I wasn’t sure if that meant we were okay, apology accepted. I glanced at her, but her expression was unreadable, as she just stared at the cat. At least he wasn’t angry or crying. “Zachary and I burned your house down,” I said. I looked back at the cat, which had relaxed again. I stroked its forehead. So soft.

“I figured he had,” she said, taking it much better than I’d thought she would. “He’s burned you before, too, hasn’t he?”

She’d asked me that back then, in the bathroom, when I’d helped her.

The memories twisted in my gut, but I kept stroking the cat and it was easier to say. “Yes. Before you and Raymond arrived, it was pretty common. But it was to teach me.”

Mika sat down next to me. She reached over and pet the cat under its chin, and it leaned its head towards her. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s okay,” I brushed it off instinctually.

“Yes, burn a child to teach him a lesson, that’s totally fine and normal.”

“To teach me to be an assassin. To survive,” I argued.

“Fine,” she said. Then, she added, “You look like crap, you know.”

I managed a small smile at that. “Yeah, I didn’t sleep very well.”

“And poured energy into him yesterday,” she added. I’d forgotten about that. “Of course you’re drained.” A pause. “Did you come here just to bring my stuff or did you want him for some reason?”

“I wanted to bring your stuff” I said. But now that I was trying to be honest, I added, “And I didn’t really want to just stay at home.”

“Now there’s a sentiment I can get behind,” she said.

The cat decided it was bored of us and stood, walked behind Mika, and then let away.

“I found something else,” I said, remembering what was in my jacket pocket. I reached in and pulled out both things. The birth certificate I handed over first. “From your old house,” I explained. “I thought you might need it if you do manage to leave.”

Hint of a grin. “Thanks,” she said. She read it over, then folded along the seams and stuck it in the bag of her things.

“I also found this,” I said, taking out the folder. I tilted it towards her.

“What is it?” She asked, but she opened the envelope, and I waited for her to discover it herself. “A journal?”

“Your mom’s.” Suddenly I was afraid I’d lost something by giving it to her— what if she didn’t want me to read it? “I haven’t read it. But I think there’s stuff about my parents in there, too.”

She stroked a hand over the book. “Let’s go inside,” she said. “We can look through them together.”

Thank god. It was just as good as saying she forgave me. I gave her a smile— I think a real smile, for the first time with her— and stood, following her into the Veranda.

[grailknightmonty]

"and it is here in the lavender hues of dusk following a day of adventuring, that he knows to be the feeling of home, and being home."

redraw of some brainrot from October, inspired by part of the Ianitee analysis I did

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Excerpt St. Guess

↳ Joey peered hard through the doors, cupping his hands around his eyes to get a better look inside. "Huh," he muttered, his breath fogging the glass in front of his face. "Well, it ain't a whiz-bang in there. Guess it's not open after all. Let's come back tomorrow."

Mickey looked in over Joey's shoulder and his expression settled on a concentrated frown. Farther inside the museum, in front of what Mickey could vaguely make out to be the security office, a man in a tan single-breasted suit without a hat spoke to a much more refined, older gentleman. The younger man took a catalog envelope from the older man and smiled personably, patting him on the shoulder and engaging with him directly, holding grateful eye contact. The older man smiled as well, shaking his hand as his brows pitched in apology.

"Are there people inside?" Joey asked.

Mickey watched the younger man laugh at something and turn toward the front of the museum. "Security guard talking to the director. Likely picking up a series of misplaced paychecks."

Joey stepped away from the door and urged Mickey to do the same. "What?"

"During the renovations, the staff paychecks were either misplaced, improperly handled, or halted," Mickey explained as he moved to stand closer to Joey. "One of the security guards has just received his back pay."

"How do you do that?" Joey shrugged, mystified. "One of these days, you gotta tell me how you do that."

"And give away my secrets? Joey." Mickey tutted with a grin. "It's fairly obvious."

"If it was obvious, d'you think I'd be standin' here makin' myself look stupid?"

"Hmm," Mickey intoned, choosing at the benefit of everyone not to respond to that otherwise.

The security guard opened the door, brushing past the pair as he exited. "'Scuse me, fellas," he said, gracing them both with the same warm smile Mickey had seen inside the museum.

Mickey locked eyes with him for one moment that dragged on like several. Neatly combed, blue-black hair—dyed. Shiny. Slicked down with pomade. His eyes were green, full of life, youthful in contradiction to the shallow crow's feet at the outer corners. His smile could have illuminated an entire room.

He shifted the envelope to his other hand and bounded down the steps.

Mickey watched him, his gaze tight. Willing the man to glance back at him.

Some physical distance grew between them before he did just that. He threw one last look behind him, halfway across the street, and the friendly smile developed into one of deep understanding…an acknowledgement of words unspoken, or perhaps a pass of pleased appraisal.

Joey's stare bounced from the man to Mickey. "You know him?"

"No," Mickey said.

But he was sure he would.

[biglisbonnews]

How does the placebo effect take hold? A doctor explains 2 influential factors There is considerable experimental evidence that expectations drive our experience of treatment regardless of whether the treatment is a drug or placebo. https://www.inverse.com/science/placebo-effect

[contemplatingoutlander]

The north star here is truth. We tell the truth, even when it offends some of the people who pay us for information. [...] The facts involving Trump are crystal clear, and as news people, we cannot pretend otherwise, as unpopular as that might be with a segment of our readers. There aren’t two sides to facts. People who say the earth is flat don’t get space on our platforms. If that offends them, so be it. --Chris Quinn, Editor of cleveland.com/The Plain Dealer

THIS is the kind of attitude that journalists and editors should have regarding reporting on Trump!

Chris Quinn, the editor of cleveland.com/The Plain Dealer wrote this excellent column explaining to his readers why opinion columns on his platforms are so critical of Donald Trump. His response is a credit to his integrity as a journalist/editor, and should be emulated by others in the mainstream media. Below are some excerpts:

A more-than-occasional arrival in the email these days is a question expressed two ways, one with dripping condescension and the other with courtesy: Why don’t our opinion platforms treat Donald Trump and other politicians exactly the same way. Some phrase it differently, asking why we demean the former president’s supporters in describing his behavior as monstrous, insurrectionist and authoritarian. I feel for those who write. They believe in Trump and want their local news source to recognize what they see in him. The angry writers denounce me for ignoring what they call the Biden family crime syndicate and criminality far beyond that of Trump. They quote news sources of no credibility as proof the mainstream media ignores evidence that Biden, not Trump, is the criminal dictator. The courteous writers don’t go down that road. They politely ask how we can discount the passions and beliefs of the many people who believe in Trump. This is a tough column to write, because I don’t want to demean or insult those who write me in good faith. I’ve started it a half dozen times since November but turned to other topics each time because this needle hard to thread. No matter how I present it, I’ll offend some thoughtful, decent people. The north star here is truth. We tell the truth, even when it offends some of the people who pay us for information. The truth is that Donald Trump undermined faith in our elections in his false bid to retain the presidency. He sparked an insurrection intended to overthrow our government and keep himself in power. No president in our history has done worse. This is not subjective. We all saw it. Plenty of leaders today try to convince the masses we did not see what we saw, but our eyes don’t deceive. (If leaders began a yearslong campaign today to convince us that the Baltimore bridge did not collapse Tuesday morning, would you ever believe them?) Trust your eyes. Trump on Jan. 6 launched the most serious threat to our system of government since the Civil War. You know that. You saw it. The facts involving Trump are crystal clear, and as news people, we cannot pretend otherwise, as unpopular as that might be with a segment of our readers. There aren’t two sides to facts. People who say the earth is flat don’t get space on our platforms. If that offends them, so be it. As for those who equate Trump and Joe Biden, that’s false equivalency. Biden has done nothing remotely close to the egregious, anti-American acts of Trump. We can debate the success and mindset of our current president, as we have about most presidents in our lifetimes, but Biden was never a threat to our democracy. Trump is. He is unique among all American presidents for his efforts to keep power at any cost. Personally, I find it hard to understand how Americans who take pride in our system of government support Trump. All those soldiers who died in World War II were fighting against the kind of regime Trump wants to create on our soil. How do they not see it? [emphasis added]

I encourage you to read the entire column. It is worth it.

[magic-is-something-we-create]

Writeblr Re(rere)intro that's a year late!

Hi! I'm Pax, and I write Big Books that keep getting darker and darker in subject matter 🎉🎉

Basics about me:

he/him or they/them, Mid 20s

Favorite genres: Fantasy, SciFi, Horror, Mystery

Favorite authors: N. K. Jemisin, Tamsyn Muir, Brandon Sanderson, Pierce Brown, Samantha Shannon

Other things I do: Digital art (including commissions!), Twitch streams (usually art or writing sprints, occasionally video games), digital art assets and fonts (PWYW on Ko-Fi!)

Basics about my WIPs:

THE MILLENNIUM SAGA

High fantasy/Steampunk epic, 8 books planned. Book one: Firebreathers (160k words; ~700 pages) Book two: Echoseers (148k words; ~600 pages) Book three: Goddess-Touched (15k as of posting; 3rd attempt at drafting) First person, Multi POV What starts as a simple rebellion against their local Citylord becomes a flight - and fight - for their lives, as Ember Timber, their family, and their newfound friends are forced to flee overseas from the vengeful general who will stop at nothing to earn her Eternal King's favor, and will in fact relish hunting her own son and grandchildren for sport. But along the way, the crew learns that the Eternal King's immortality was not granted in return for his success as the Chosen One long ago, as they have always been told - and the sacrifice for such a thing is not only paid dearly in blood, but on its way to being repeated.

WHISPERS

Dark fantasy Noir. Currently with beta readers. 172k words; ~750 pages. First person, Dual POV. Set in the same world as Millennium Saga, ~5 years after the series concludes. Marika Swiftfoot owes her life to the Shadow of Fowden, the sorceress leader of a terroristic crime syndicate based in the north pole. When the man she once loved finally comes to collect on that life debt ten years later, she plans to kill him the moment it's safe. Too soon, after all, and everyone else she's ever loved will join him beyond the Veil. But hate isn't the only feeling that lingers between them, and when they're offered another way out of their debts, the lives of a few innocents looks like a bargain compared to the life of cruelty ahead of them. Lorelei has been hunting the Shadow for twenty years, and looking for the sister who disappeared for thirty. And here, names are legacies: she wants to earn Hopebringer before her legs give out for good, to erase the stain her father's name has left with Vowbreaker. And for that, she sees one way forward: she must never break her vows, no matter how small. The Shadow must die, and the Whispers with her. Her sister must be found, even if all that's left to find is a story. She must find answers for every case she takes on, even if she doesn't know so much as the name of the man who's gone missing.

THE LOST

Space opera webcomic. First scene fully illustrated; will release once the first chapter is complete, a week after Patrons receive the final scene. In the far reaches of space, the term "Media Empire" is quite literal; the Watchers have extended their influence throughout their galaxy filament with the help of their beloved Coliseum, and the Champion therein. After all, having a shapeshifter capable of replicating anything leads to some gruesome, spectacular fights, made all the more heartrending when they are the last of their kind, trapped in the ship molded from their kin's corpse. But while the Watchers have total control over what happens in the pit, they cannot predict the audience. And they certainly cannot predict the malfunctioning psychic implant of an assassin in the front row, and the loss of both opponents and a long-time prisoner of war to the escape.

I also post art of all of these semi-regularly, including in-progress stuff, as well as excerpts and rambling braindumps!! I'm also a huge worldbuilding nerd, so if you ever want to learn more about the worlds I'm writing, don't be afraid to ask!! I love talking about them :D

Boosts are appreciated <3 tell me about your own WIPs in the tags/replies/wherever!! I love learning about what people are working on!

[tieflingfingers]

Honeyed tongues nor silver wit could distract from the symbols staining her brow. Long hair wasn't for mere feminine wiles. It cloaked the half-elf. Gave her access to a monotonous life. Thomasin peered up at Rugan with uncertainty she hadn’t noticed thrived within her chest. Her composure wilted. Lips pursed into the shapes of syllables that could never truly explain enough. She knew the Zhentarim. How they operated. What blistered morals bled into the soil. From the Dalelands, down the Chionthar, and all the way in Baldur's Gate. She knew them well. And so, every prayer whispered to every god hoped they didn't know of him. "Draghazar. They're defunct. Anyone with an ounce of forethought would jump a ship on the verge of capsizing."

excerpt idea from plot relevant rugan smut fic i'll get to in the timeline. design of tattoo for syndicate group based on thief cants, drow language, and common format mixed.

Deep Bats.

[burnwater13]

Din Djarin showing the Klatooinian mob boss the bounty fob with his image, in the Ring world butcher shop. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 5, Return of the Mandalorian. Calendar by DateWorks.

NOTE: This is a lightly edited excerpt from another Grogu story. It fits this photo better than anything I could write fresh. Please enjoy.

Grogu’s Diary

Time for Meditation Practice with Master Luke… 

Location: Meadow

Grogu understood that Master Luke wanted him to meditate. But Grogu couldn’t help but worry about the Mandalorian. Din Djarin had only sent Grogu with Luke because he realized that it was pretty easy for a person using a lightsaber to cut up a bunch of battle droids. Grogu wished that the Mandalorian had simply asked Luke for one. It would have made everything easier. 

First, without Grogu to look after him, what would Din Djarin do if he got hurt? Or lost? Or lonely? He’d probably go back to bounty hunting. Yech. Bounty hunting had been a noble profession when the people they were collecting were actual bad actors and criminals. But it was hard to say that was the case. After all, look at how they met! Grogu hadn’t done anything wrong. Why would you kidnap someone and think it was a good thing?

Anyway, Grogu could just imagine the Mandalorian taking a bounty puck to help him earn the credits to replace the Razor Crest. He’d probably have to go someplace dangerous. And he’d end up meeting a bunch of bad people who would want to hurt him. People like a Klatooinian syndicate boss. 

Din Djarin would walk into wherever that guy was and try to not freak out the other people there. That would be hard to do because Mandalorians had a reputation for being dangerous and very hard to kill. That whole hunter and prey thing. 

Eventually he’d find the person. That guy would probably be sitting around and counting his credits. Grogu was pretty sure that’s what the bad guys did that got them into all that trouble to begin with. They stole, or skimmed, or otherwise obtained credits that didn’t actually belong to them. If you are going to do that, you are going to count those credits.

He could just see the Mandalorian politely explaining that the person could decide if they wanted to come in cold or warm. They never really picked warm, even if they thought they did. The bad people usually did something or said something that made it impossible for the Mandalorian to bring them in warm. 

Without Grogu by his side to guide him, the Mandalorian would bring this person in very cold. Like ‘head in a bag’ cold. Ooooh. That gave Grogu a bad case of the shivers. He’d seen worse but he still didn’t like to think about it. He couldn’t imagine how hard doing that must be to the Mandalorian. He was a pretty gentle person, all things considered. Taking someone’s life was never his preferred way of solving a problem, even if it had been pretty frequent for a while.

The people who know the deceased would likely be pretty sad about it, right? But knowing the Mandalorian, Grogu was certain that he would treat them fairly. He had no doubt that Din Djarin would offer them the credits because he didn’t need them. He’d have the head to give to people who put out the bounty. He’d get paid. 

Any way, a person bad enough for Din Djarin to go after them probably wasn’t treating the people they knew very well. It seemed likely to Grogu that those folks had probably been cheated too and it would only be fair for them to get their credits back. His friend, the Mandalorian, would be doing them a favor. 

But could he do all that without getting hurt? Grogu didn’t think so. Even if he used the Darksaber, it was pretty likely that Din Djarin would still have something bad happen. Grogu wondered if he could heal the Mandalorian from so far away… he’d have to ask Master Luke when they were done with meditation time.

Time for Skills Practice with Master Luke… 

Location: Pathways

Grogu was sad. Master Luke didn’t really give him a straight answer about being able to heal a person (the Mandalorian) from a vast distance. Master Luke said, “Grogu, focus on the now. You are here with me now. We do not know where the Mandalorian is or what he is doing.”

Grogu didn’t really believe that. He could feel Din Djarin in his heart and he knew the Mandalorian was lonely. He’d probably brought the head in a bag to the person who set up the bounty. Grogu bet he told that person to put the head on ice, like that was going to make it less gross. That’s a Mandalorian for you.

And while he would at least have the credits he needed to build or buy a ship, he still wouldn’t have Grogu with him. Credits didn’t really cure loneliness. 

For loneliness you need to have people you care about or at least tolerate in your life. Grogu bet that Din Djarin was looking for the other Mandalorians. He always wanted to see them when things were getting rough. Grogu had no doubt that they were somewhere nearby. Hidden in plain sight. They were good at that. Probably why the Covert was called a covert.

Grogu had taken to calling Luke’s Jedi Training School, a sleep away Jedi camp, because they spent all of their time outside. Once the mech ants finished building the buildings he’d think about calling it a school. But it wasn’t a covert. Not like how the Mandalorians did things.

Grogu looked up as he heard Master Luke call his name. He gave him a quizzical look because that one always worked out the best. If he gave Luke his ‘I’m sad and I don’t really like being here’ look, he be on the receiving end of a fresh edition of the ‘Jedi don’t do attachments’ lecture. Grogu preferred to only hear that lecture once a day. 

“Grogu, Jedi have to practice way finding. To do that you will need…” Master Luke was droning on. Grogu wondered if Din Djarin was being droned at by the other Mandalorians. He was pretty sure that the Armorer was great at delivering lectures. He wondered if the bounty hunter was being lectured about taking his helmet off so Grogu could see his face? It seemed likely. 

Grogu knew that the Creed, or the Way, prohibited Mandalorians from removing their helmets in front of other people. But honestly that was a bit silly to him. Din Djarin had to partially remove the helmet just to eat. Up a little, take a bite or a sip, then right back down. Over and over and over. Grogu appreciated that he would never see how messy or neat an eater the Mandalorian really was, but wearing the helmet seemed pretty odd to him. 

But then maybe because Din Djarin had the Darksaber now the Armorer would honor him as their new Mand’alor and he could change the rules and let everyone take their helmet off when they needed to or at least with their family. That would be nice, right?

But if the other Mandalorians saw that Din Djarin had the Darksaber would they be happy for him or mad? What if they wanted the silly thing? What if he had to fight them? What if he got hurt? How could he be so far away from Grogu, getting hurt and being scolded without the help of his favorite pal? That just didn’t seem right. Grogu had so much and the Mandalorian had so little. 

“Grogu? Grogu, are you listening to me or do I need to review the ten points of way finding again for you?” Master Luke sounded a bit out of sorts.

Grogu smiled at him and pointed to the path. The first rule of way finding is know where you are. Grogu knew right where he was and that it wasn’t where he wanted to be.

This was not the Way.

Check the link here for the complete story:

[dontjudgemeimawriter]

Looking for excerpts?

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Main WIP: Syndicate

Terran is an assassin in Calson City, where a criminal syndicate controls the city. Raymond was working with them until he rebelled and saved someone they were going to kill, and Terran was supposed to execute him but faked Raymond’s death instead. Terran’s learning morality, realizing that he doesn’t want to be in this situation anymore, learning right and wrong, but simultaneously trying to hide what he’s done to avoid getting killed as a traitor himself. Conflict is mainly whether he learns real compassion and freedom from the syndicate, or if he resists this in favor of keeping up his cover. Mika is Raymond’s twin sister who doesn’t know he’s alive and had to take Raymond’s place as an assassin and hates it. There’s also magic and gay. Raymond has mind magic, and Terran can do various enhancement-type spells including making himself focus.

This story gets dark and I've included trigger warnings. The flufftober section should be much safer to read in general. But the story has a lot of trauma and fire-related discussions, so if either of those is a major trigger for you, no worries-- this isn't for you. "Abuse" indicates references to actual abuse, "trauma" may refer to depictions of PTSD

Insterested in more? Read more about this WIP here Add to my taglist

Scenes:

Terran & Raymond “Breakup” TW: killing/death ment

Poker Flashback TW: fire, abuse, trauma

Mika & Terran’s truce TW: killing ment

Card & Falling Asleep (Raymond’s POV) TW: ment of fire, abuse, death

2 Truths & a Lie  

Martel Bridge

Homework Flashback

Zachary being threatening TW: Manipulation, implied arson, killing, death

Rock Climbing Flashback  TW: mention of killing, death

Raymond and Terran discuss trauma TW: Discussion of trauma, abuse, fire

Scenes that 1. End a story/chapter/arc; 2. Is important to a character’s development, & 3. A sad/tragic scene TW: 1. fire ment, unconsensual mind magic(?) 2. Kidnapping ment 3. Fire, anxiety/panic attack. (Note: All 3 scenes here are on the longer side)

Scene that contains cool worldbuilding TW: death ment, unconsensual mind magic (Discussion of)

Peaceful scene

Descriptive text & favorite dialogue TW: Trauma--Not explicitly anything major but there is a depiction of a trigger in scene 2

Embrassed/flustered & put a lot of work into: TW death/killing ment (Note: Scene 2 is the same as 2 truths and a lie above, though I think it's shorter)

1 character protects or cares for another TW: Fire & burns

Action/combat & character introduction TW: 1. Suffocation, killing ment. 2. [not sure, nothing explicit]

Terran & Raymond kiss TW: killing mention

Flufftober scenes

Candles, Lanterns, & Fairy Lights TW: fire (candles), discussion of trauma

Picnic

Blankets

Caught in the Rain

Bedtime Stories TW: literally the tamest tw for burns

Hot Chocolate TW: Fire (fireplace), trauma

Soulmate AU Warning: Not really fluff

Poetry, Music, Art, & Craft TW: Trauma

“Oh, you’re a morning person” TW: killing ment

Supporting Each Other’s Quirks and Hobbies

Thick as Thieves

Slow Dancing

Game Day TW: minor death ment

Shooting Stars

Other WIPs

This month I plan on working on a different WIP, Second Chance. If I post any excerpts I will add them!

Ardisci: A scene from the POV of the god of knowledge in the universe of Second Chance, not official content. TW: Death mention

Drake Knight: a intro scene for a story about dragons. TW: implied dragon death, fire (like y'know. dragon breath)

[sephirthoughts]

EXCERPT FROM THIS THING

inspired by @thecloudstan 's post about an AU where Cloud is a dancer/sex worker at the Honeybee and Rufus Shinra becomes his regular customer and that's what it's about.

Rufus isn't in this part though this is another scene from the story that I am finding very fun. i know i have like 156 WIPs already shut up

VALENTINE CRIME SYNDICATE YOU GUYS

… The Valentine family had to be courted, because there was no one above them on the District Six totem pole, and Andrea needed to stay in their good graces, in order to run his business. That meant if Vincent Valentine was present at the club, he was always the top priority. 

That is, unless something unexpected and terrible happened. Wouldn’t you know it, something unexpected and terrible happened.

While he was high up above the stage, on his aerial hoop, transitioning from a gazelle split to an inverted archer’s pose, Cloud saw Tifa, with her clipboard, talking urgently to the guests at the table beside Vincent Valentine’s, up front in the VIP section. When his spin came around again, he saw her bowing profuse apologies, as the party stormed off, in dudgeon. 

What the hell was going on? Tifa would never disrupt a performance and come to kick people out of VIP, unless Andrea told her to, and he’d never do that unless…oh fuck.

Cloud nearly slipped off his hoop, but managed to make it look intentional, by dropping into a one-leg hox. Tifa, who looked like she was about to burst into tears, was back, and she was showing four men to the table she’d just had vacated. 

They were all tall, pale-skinned, varying degrees of muscular, and dressed head to toe in black leather. Most notably, all four had the same shade of bright silver hair. 

The Remnants. The only criminal element not suppressed by Shinra or the Valentine Syndicate, in Midgar. They were ostensibly a nomadic biker gang, of no fixed abode, and thus difficult to stamp out, entirely. They’d been breezing into town, on and off for years, defying Shinra and openly picking fights with the Valentines, and yet they always emerged unscathed.

Some said they were a secret offshoot of the Shinra family, and were supported by them behind the scenes, as a way to weaken the Valentines, without openly going to war with them. Others said they were connected to the Valentine family, and were used by them to distract Shinra, when they were making moves.

All anyone could confirm for certain was that they were unpredictable, extremely violent, and terrifyingly strong. They also seemed to have sleeper agents lurking everywhere, who would crawl out of the woodwork to do their leader’s bidding, before vanishing into thin air again. 

Their leader was Sephiroth. He was the eldest of the four brothers, as well as the tallest and most muscular. He also had the longest hair and longest coat, as if that was how their gang denoted hierarchy, or something.

Literally everyone who worked at the Honeybee knew who the Remnants were. When they came strolling in like they owned the place, hostesses working the floor froze in terror, waitresses walked into each other, some of the dancers on stage faltered and missed their steps, and even a few in-the-know guests got up and left. 

Cloud kept performing, as if everything was normal, and made some quick calculations. It would probably be ok, but there was no telling what these guys would do. Usually they just watched the show politely, and then Cloud would deal with them in the presidential suite, by himself. 

They’d never actually done anything violent, inside the walls of the Honeybee, but Sephiroth had made clear his intention to engage Cloud’s services, whenever he was in town, and by just being there, he and his brothers were pretty much holding the entirety of the guests and employees hostage, to make Andrea and Cloud comply. 

Cloud swallowed in a dry throat, at the thought of what they’d do to him, and wound up his routine with a hanging half angel, one leg outstretched behind him, the other toes pointed delicately downward, like an angel alighting on the earth (hence the name of the move), free arm reaching out longingly, as the hoop spun down toward the stage. 

Avoiding looking directly at Sephiroth, he dropped into his graceful dismount at the center of the stage, with the glittering dancers surrounding him, and they all struck their final pose. 

As the curtain came down, he quickly told the girls to run backstage and then get the hell out of here, as quietly as possible. Apologetic and grateful, to the sacrificial lamb who was saving them all, the girls thanked him with tears in their eyes, as they retreated in fear, from the wolves outside the curtain.

Cloud took a deep breath, straightened up his costume, and signalled the stage techs, who raised the curtain again. All alone, he took the spotlight bow, to uproarious applause, as usual.

During the standing ovation, Sephiroth walked directly to the stage and stood in the orchestra pit, with his arms spread, and a half-adoring, half-deranged smile on his (admittedly beautiful) face. 

Cloud forced himself to return a big, bright smile, and leaped off the stage, into arms so strong, the man didn’t even wobble from the impact of 150 lbs. of leanly-muscular young man landing directly upon his person. 

Most of the audience had no idea that anything was wrong, and assumed this was Cloud’s lucky client, for the night. There were a lot of whistles and catcalls amongst the applause, as the big, handsome, silver-haired warrior carried away his beautiful, golden-haired dancer, like a princess. 

Cloud glanced over at the VIP section, as he threw an arm around Sephiroth’s shoulder, and saw that Vincent Valentine was no longer there. A wise decision, on his part. He was not even a match for Sephiroth, let alone all four of the brothers.

“Please, don’t hurt anyone,” Cloud whispered in Sephiroth’s ear. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just let everyone else go, ok?”

The man’s laugh vibrated through his chest. “You make me out to be some kind of monster. Careful, or you might hurt my feelings.”

Cloud heard the mako-soaked madness in his voice, and relaxed a bit. So, he’d been shooting up. Believe it or not, that was actually a good thing. Sephiroth was more volatile, when he was high, but he was easier to manipulate, and far less cruel. 

“Sephi, don’t be so mean to me,” Cloud pouted, stroking Sephiroth’s bare chest, between the leather harness straps. “You know how much I care about my friends. You and the boys scared them really badly, last time.”

Sephiroth nuzzled his cheek. “If I leave them be, this time, will that make you happy, my little puppet?”

“Mn,” Cloud nodded, kicking his legs a bit, to further infantilize himself. Sephiroth liked to think of him as a half-brainless doll, so he leaned into it. “Now, promise you’ll be nice, so we can have fun together.”

“I promise, I’ll be nice,” Sephiroth said, with a smile that did not inspire confidence in his little doll. 

“Promise Kadaj and Yazoo and Loz will be nice, too,” Cloud insisted.

Sephiroth laughed outright. “Alright, alright, I promise we’ll all be nice. But you’ve got to be nice to us, in return.”

Cloud caught the hungry gazes of the three following them, as Sephiroth carried him to the elevator, and sighed inwardly. The things he did, for the greater good. They should give him a medal, or something. Or at least a raise. ...

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Bezzle excerpt (Part IV)

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and TOMORROW in SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

This week marks the publication of my latest novel, The Bezzle, and to celebrate, I'm serializing an excerpt from Chapter 14 in six parts:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The Bezzle is a revenge story, a crime novel, and a technothriller. It stars Martin Hench, a hard-fighting forensic accountant who specializes in unwinding high-tech scams. Hench made his debt in last year's Red Team Blues (now in paperback!); The Bezzle is a standalone followup:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865854/redteamblues

The serial tells the tale of Stefon Magner, AKA Steve Soul, a once-famous R&B frontman whose disintegrating career turned to tragedy when his crooked manager forged his signature on a rights assignment contract that let him steal all of Stefon's royalties, which ballooned after modern hiphop artists discovered his grooves and started buying licenses to sample them. The first three installments related the sad circumstances of Stefon's life, and the real-world analogues (like Leonard Cohen and George Clinton, both of whom were pauperized by sticky-fingered managers) as well as one real-world countermeasure, copyright termination, a thing that more artists should know about and use:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

Today's installment weaves in a major subplot for the first time in the serial: Los Angeles's notorious, murderous Sheriff's Deputy gangs. These are another unbelievable true tale: for decades, the LASD's deputies have formed themselves into criminal gangs, some of which require that initiates murder someone to be inducted:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_LASD_deputy_gangs

They sport gang tattoos, have secret signs, and run vast criminal enterprises. This has been the subject of numerous investigative press reports, and one extensive official report that called the gangs "a cancer":

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/deputy-gangs-cancer-los-angeles-county-sheriffs-department-scathing-re-rcna73367

The sordid tales of the LASD gangs beggar belief. For example, deputies in charge of LA County jails forced inmates to pit-fight and took bets on the outcomes:

https://www.aclu.org/publications/report-cruel-and-usual-punishment-how-savage-gang-deputies-controls-la-county-jails

The taxpayers of LA have shelled out tens of millions of dollars to settle claims against LA's criminals with badges:

https://news.yahoo.com/deputies-accused-being-secret-societies-230851807.html

Periodically, LA judges and officials will insist that they are tackling the problem:

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-05-17/dozens-of-lasd-deputies-ordered-to-show-suspected-gang-tattoos-reveal-others-who-have-them

But at every turn, the LA police "unions" manage to crush these investigations:

https://abc7.com/los-angeles-county-lasd-deputy-gangs-cliques/13492081/

And top cops are right there with them, insisting that these aren't "gangs" – they're just "subgroups":

https://lapublicpress.org/2024/01/former-la-sheriff-villanueva-sheriffs-gangs-are-just-subgroups/

It's very weird being an Angeleno and knowing that one of the largest, most militarized, best funded police departments in the world has been openly captured by a hyperviolent crime syndicate. When I was in the Skyboat Media studios last December with Wil Wheaton recording the audiobook for The Bezzle, Wil broke off from reading to say, "You know, someone's going to read this and google it and have their mind blown when they discover that it's real":

https://sowl.co/8nyGh

That's one of my favorite ways to turn literature into something more than entertainment. It's why I filled the Little Brother books with real-world surveillance, cryptography and security tech, giving enough detail to advance the plot and give readers an idea of what search terms would let them understand and use the concepts in the novel. That's something I'm happy to keep up with the Hench novels, unpicking the inner workings of scams and corruption. The more of us who are wise to this, the sooner we'll be able to get rid of it.

Here's part one of the serial:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease

Part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#copyright-termination

Part three:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/20/fore/#lawyer-up

And now, onto part four!

The last of the boxes had been shelved.

Benedetto rose from his chair. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to the movers, and dug a roll of twenties out of his pocket and handed each of them two of their own. He turned to me as they filed out. “You wanna get sushi? The place next door is great.”

The empty storefront was in a down-­at-­heels strip mall in Eagle Rock. On one side, there was a Brazilian jujitsu studio that never seemed to have any students training in it. On the other side was Sushi Jiro, name on a faded sign with half its lightbulbs gone. Beyond that was a vaping store.

“The place next door is good?”

He laughed. “You San Francisco motherfuckers got terrible LA restaurant radar. Put Sushi Jiro in the Mission and it’d have a Michelin star and a six-­month waiting list. Here it’s in a strip mall and only the locals know how good it is. Bet you never had a decent meal in this town, am I right?”

“I’ve had a few,” I said, “but I admit my track record isn’t great.”

“Let’s improve it.”

The sushi was amazing.

#

Inglewood Jams had the kind of books that were performatively bad, designed to foil any attempt at human comprehension.

But whoever cooked them was an amateur, someone who mistook complexity for obfuscation. Like cross-­referencing was a species of transcendentally esoteric sorcery. I don’t mind cross-referencing. It’s meditative, like playing solitaire. I had Bene­detto send over some colored post-­it tabs and a big photocopier with an automatic feeder and I started making piles.

One night, I worked later than I planned. Sushi Jiro was becoming a serious hazard to my waistline and my sleep-­debt, because when your dinner break is ten yards and two doors away from your desk, it’s just too damned easy to get back to work after dinner.

That night, I’d fallen into a cross-­referencing reverie, and before I knew it, it was 2 a.m., my lower back was groaning, and my eyes were stinging.

I straightened, groaned, and slid my laptop into my bag. I found my keys and unlocked the door. The storefront was covered with brown butcher’s paper, but it didn’t go all the way to the edge. I had just a moment to sleepily note that there was some movement visible through the crack in the paper over the glass door when it came flying back toward me, bouncing off my toe, mostly, and my nose, a little. I put my one hand to my face as I instinctively threw myself into the door to close it again.

I was too late and too tired. A strong shoulder on the other side of the doorframe pushed it open and I stumbled back, and then the guy was on me, the door sighing shut behind him on its gas lift as he bore me to the ground and straddled my chest, a move he undertook with the ease of much practice. He pinned my arms under his knees and then gave me a couple of hard hits, one to the jaw, one to the nose.

My lip and nose were bleeding freely and my head was ringing from the hits and from getting smacked into the carpet tiles over concrete when I went down backward. I struggled—­to free my arms, to buck off my attacker, to focus on him.

He was a beefy white guy in his late fifties, with watery dark eyes and a patchy shave that showed gray mixed in with his dark stubble. As he raised his fist for another blow, I saw that he was wearing a big class ring. A minute later, that ring opened my cheek, just under the orbit of my eye.

Apart from some involuntary animal grunts, I hadn’t made a sound. Now I did. “Ow!” I shouted. “Shit!” I shouted. “Stop!” I shouted.

He split my lip again. I bucked hard but I couldn’t budge him. He had a double chin, a gut, and he was strong, and used that bulk to back up his strength. It was like trying to free myself from under a boulder. That kept punching me in the face.

The strip mall would be deserted. Everything was closed, even the vaping store.

Shouting wouldn’t help. I did it anyway. He shut my mouth for me with a left. I gagged on blood.

He took a break from punching me in the face, then. I think he was tired. His chest heaved, and he wiped sweat off his lip with the back of his hand, leaving behind a streaky mustache of my blood.

He contemplated me, weighing me up. I thought maybe he was trying to decide if I had any fight left in me, or perhaps whether I had any valuables he could help himself to.

He cleared his throat and looked at me again. “Goddammit, I messed your face up so bad I can’t tell for sure. I hope to fuck that you’re Martin Hench, though.”

Even with my addled wits, this was an important piece of intelligence: he came here for me. This wasn’t a random act of senseless Los Angeles street violence. This was aimed at me.

I was briefly angry at Benedetto for not warning me that Chuy Flores was such a tough son of a bitch. Then I had the presence of mind to lie.

“I don’t know who the fuck this Mark Hendricks is.” My voice was thick with gargled blood, but I was proud of Mark Hendricks. Pretty fast thinking for a guy with a probable concussion. The guy slapped me open-­handed across the face, and as I lay dazed for a moment, he shifted, reached into my back pocket for my wallet, and yanked it—­and the seat of my pants—­free. Before I could react, his knees were back on my biceps, pinning my arms and shoulders. It was a very neat move, and fast for an old guy like him.

He flipped my wallet open and squinted at it, then held it at arm’s length, then smiled broadly. He had bleach-­white teeth, a row of perfectly uniform caps. Los fucking Angeles, where even the thugs have a million-­dollar smile.

“Shoulda sprung for botox,” I slurred.

His grin got wider. “Maybe someday I will. Got these in trade from a cosmetic dentist I did some work for.” He dropped my wallet. “Listen, Martin Hench, you stay the fuck away from Thames Estuary and Lawrence Coleman.”

“It’s Lionel Coleman,” I said.

“What the fuck ever,” he said. He labored to his feet. I stayed still. He looked at me from a great height, and I stared up his nostrils. Without warning, he kicked my ribs hard enough that I heard one of them crack.

“You’ve been told,” he said to my writhing body, and let himself out.

ETA: Here's part five!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#poacher-turned-keeper

[an-ungraceful-swan]

SoKeefe for the ship thing!

fill your drink with tonic gin (this is the american dream)

universe: human/crime au

canon compliance: 2/10 if not lower

category: narrative story

summary: Sophie is a detective who works for the Black Swan Detective Agency after dropping out of the police academy and Keefe is a high class socialite turned vigilante. Though some series of events they end up begrudgingly working together to take down a big crime syndicate that’s funded by his family and slowly let their walls down despite initial mistrust and dislike. There’s absolutely a gala scene where they have to go undercover to get information and Sophie is so uncomfortable with everything and keefe is just really sweet and tender and it’s adorable before they end up getting in a fight in the alleyway and Sophie’s in her element and if he hasn’t fallen already he is head over heels

excerpt: “Don’t just stand there looking hot and stupid, actually come over here and help me.” Sophie snaps, turning her head as much as possible with the awkward position she’s in, one leg precariously balanced on the stool and the other kicked up on the table. She’s trying to pin up the new bits of information, but the boards gotten so large she has to fight to reach it

Keefe looks like he might be about to laugh, but he flicks his hair out of his face. “But you’re doing so well.” He says and Sophie shoots him a look.

“Fuck off. You make enough jokes about being tall, put your money where your mouth is.”

[apocalyp-tech-a]

An Unusual Alliance excerpt:

“Do you see them?” Tech asked.

“Yes. There are two different ones that we did not see before, cybernetic enhancements.”

“Yes, Haxion Brood syndicate, but the female Rodian we saw last time seems to be closing in on us first.”  Tech ushered Layna down the main road, walking the traffic side with his hand behind her back.

Layna threw her head back in laughter so she could peak behind them. “She has her weapon drawn, she is hurrying toward us.”

Tech now grabbed Layna's arm and pulled her down a side street and they broke in to a run. A blaster shot sparked against the wall where they had just hurried past. Tech unholstered his blaster and shot behind them, motioning to Layna to take the lead ahead of him.  The blue toned Rodian ducked behind a garbage drum, but was soon on their trail again. At the end of the alley between the buildings, Layna stopped.  A small metal ball hovered slowly in midair and spun to a stop, its tiny red lights blinking very quickly signaling that it was about to go off before Tech and Layna could find proper cover.

Tech's protective instincts kicked in and he shielded Layna bodily as an enormous shockwave from the Haxion Brood repulsor grenade knocked them both backwards off their feet. Layna's ears rang as she shook her head, trying to recover from the blast. Tech seemed to do the same, but a little quicker as he was already up and started shooting with one hand as he pulled Layna up by her bicep with the other. A Haxion cyborg appeared at the end of the alleyway with blaster rifle in his half metal half flesh hands, his long black duster swaying around two metal legs. Layna grabbed Tech's other blaster from its holster and started shooting as well, walking backwards, stepping over the Rodian who was behind them and had been knocked unconscious from the repulsor shockwave grenade.

Unlike the Rodian, this bounty hunter was shooting round blue rings at them. Stun bolts. The Haxion Brood syndicate wanted them alive for the larger bounty.

*Imagine my excitement when I heard a Haxion Brood mention in Episode 8 because they play a very small part in my Tech x OC fan fiction An Unusual Alliance as you can see in the excerpt. Here's the link if anyone wants to give it a chance hopefully:

[the-golden-comet]

Could I 👉👈 get an infodump on Shito pls? I love the excerpts I've read of him and Tenshi. And with Yoji! Love a boy with a sword and a big family.

I will allow a crumb of Shito knowledge for you, Jamie 🫶✨

Itazura Shito is a 30 year old celebrity, already worried about being washed up. He works for his Dad’s company [REDACTED], which has a popular front on Earth Realm, and funds a crime syndicate with close ties to the Yakuza. Sufficed to say, Shito has had to do a lot of dirty work for his father.

Itazura’s dad assigned a bodyguard, Ono Yoji, to protect his son, and uses Itazura’s notoriety to fund his criminal organization. Yoji has been around Shito since he was around 15, basically making this bodyguard his found father.

Shito’s “partner” is an assigned industry plant known as Orochi Doku, who is an absolute bastard that despises Itazura on the surface, but has to maintain a “lovey dovey” front to “appease Daddy.” Once Tenshi enters the picture, it’s on sight for Doku. Tenshi coming into Shito’s life threatens the “status quo,” but in actuality, it’s a window of freedom for Shito.

Tl;dr—Daddy issues, psycho “ex,” a bodyguard who is more of a father to Ita than his own father ever was, a cinnamon roll angel who comes into his life and breathes a new sigh of life that he so desperately needs, and hijinx. Lots of hijinx 💛✨

[whimsicaldragonette]

Blog Tour and Arc Review: The Lily of Ludgate Hill by Mimi Matthews

Order

Add to Goodreads

Publication Date: January 16, 2024

Welcome to The Lily of Ludgate Hill book tour with Berkley Publishing Group. (This blog tour post is also posted on my Wordpress book blog Whimsical Dragonette.)

Synopsis:

Lady Anne Deveril doesn’t spook easily. A woman of lofty social standing known for her glacial beauty and starchy opinions, she’s the unofficial leader of her small group of equestriennes. Since her mother’s devastating plunge into mourning six years ago, Anne voluntarily renounced any fanciful notions of love and marriage. And yet, when fate puts Anne back into the entirely too enticing path of Mr. Felix Hartford, she’s tempted to run…right into his arms. No one understands why Lady Anne withdrew into the shadows of society, Hart least of all. The youthful torch he once held for her has long since cooled. Or so he keeps telling himself. But now Anne needs a favor to help a friend. Hart will play along with her little ruse—on the condition that Anne attend a holiday house party at his grandfather’s country estate. No more mourning clothes. No more barriers. Only the two of them, unrequited feelings at last laid bare. Finally free to gallop out on her own, Anne makes the tantalizing discovery that beneath the roguish exterior of her not-so-white knight is a man with hidden depths, scorching passions—and a tender heart.

Author Bio:

USA Today bestselling author Mimi Matthews writes both historical nonfiction and award-winning Victorian romances. Her novels have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, Kirkus, and Shelf Awareness, and her articles have been featured on the Victorian Web, the Journal of Victorian Culture, and in syndication at BUST Magazine. In her other life, Mimi is an attorney. She resides in California with her family, which includes a retired Andalusian dressage horse, a Sheltie, and two Siamese cats. Learn more online at www.mimimatthews.com.

Author Photo Credit: Vicki Hahn

Rating: ★★★★

*My Review, Favorite Quotes, and Non-Exclusive Extract below the cut.

My Review:

I loved this. It was exactly the sort of banter-filled stubborn hero and heroine who are gone for each other but refuse to admit it story that I love. It's easily the best of the Belles of London series. Anne and Hartford are perfect for each other but it takes them a while to admit it. The only problem I had with it was that it was *extremely* predictable. I knew exactly how it was going to go from the beginning and there was no deviating from that. I actually stopped about 75% of the way through and checked goodreads to make sure I hadn't already read it before. I hadn't. And yet I had predicted every. single. thing that happened. It was like deja vu but more so. The last quarter unfolded exactly as I expected it to. I don't know if the foreshadowing was just really intense or what but that did lessen my enjoyment of the story. Aside from that, however, everything else was exactly as I like in a historical romance. I am curious about the next one, as well, after meeting who will obviously be the new wheelchair-bound, artist hero. I have high hopes because neither of those is something we typically get in a romance hero. *Thanks to NetGalley and Berkley for providing an early copy for review.

Favorite Quotes:

"I wish I were more eccentric," Anne declared, rousing her spirits to the cause. "I might have traveled to Yorkshire weeks ago and saved Julia from her fate."

Non-Exclusive Excerpt:

The twin fragrances of pipe smoke and parchment met her nose. Lemon polish, too, though there was no sign that the maids had done any recent tidying up. The library was a place of spectacular clutter. Bookcases lined three of the walls; leather-bound volumes on botany, agriculture, and natural history were pulled out at all angles as if an absent-minded researcher had wandered from shelf to shelf withdrawing tomes at random only to change his mind midway through extracting them. The fourth wall was entirely covered in framed sketches of flowers and greenery. Some images were produced in pencil and others in delicately rendered watercolor. They were-along with the teetering stacks of botanical journals and drooping maps that spilled over the sides of the earl's carved mahogany desk-evidence of his prevailing passion. Lord March's love of exotic plants was legendary. He'd spent much of his life traveling the globe, from the wilds of America to the highest peaks of the Himalayas, bringing back rare seeds to nurture into bloom. A distracted fellow at the best of times, but a kind one, too, as far as Anne recalled. It had been a long time since she'd darkened his doorstep. A lifetime, it felt like. She tugged restlessly at her black kid-leather gloves as she paced the worn carpet in front of the library's cavernous marble fireplace. She'd never excelled at waiting for unpleasantness to arrive. Fortunately, she didn't have to wait long. "Hello, old thing." A familiar deep voice sounded from the library door. Anne spun around, her traitorous heart giving an involuntary leap in her breast. Mr. Felix Hartford stood in the entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. Lord only knew how long he'd been observing her. She stiffened. After all these years, he still had the power to discompose her. Drat him. But she wouldn't permit her emotions to be thrown into chaos by his attractive face and figure. What cared she for his commanding height? His square-chiseled jaw? For the devilish glint in his sky-blue eyes? And devil he was. The very one she'd come here to see. "Hartford," she said. Her chin ticked up a notch in challenge. It was a reflex. There was no occasion on which they'd met during the course of the past several years that they hadn't engaged in verbal battle. This time, however, he made no attempt to engage her. He was dressed in plaid trousers and a loose-fitting black sack coat worn open to reveal the dark waistcoat beneath. A casual ensemble, made more so by the state of him. His clothes were vaguely rumpled, and so was his seal-brown hair. It fell over his brow, desperately in need of an application of pomade. There was an air of arrested preoccupation about him, as if he'd just returned from somewhere or was on his way to somewhere. As if he hadn't realized she was in the library and had come upon her quite by chance. An unnatural silence stretched between them, void of their typical barb-filled banter. Greetings dispensed with, Anne found herself at an unaccountable loss. More surprising still, so did Hartford. He remained frozen on the threshold, his usually humorous expression turned to stone on his handsome face. At length, he managed a smile. "I knew one day you'd walk through my door again. It only took you"-withdrawing his pocket watch from his waistcoat, he cast it a brief glance, brows lifting as if in astonishment at the time-"seven years to do it." She huffed. "It hasn't been seven years." "Six and half, then." Six years and five months, more like. It had been early December of 1855, during the Earl of March's holiday party. She'd been just shy of seventeen; young and naive and not formally out yet. Hartford had kissed her under a sprig of mistletoe in the gaslit servants' hallway outside the kitchens. And he'd proposed to her.

But Anne refused to think of the past. Never mind that, living in London, reminders of it were daily shoved under her nose. "You're not going to be difficult, are you?" she asked. "That depends." He strolled into the room. "To what do I owe your visit?" "Presumptuous, as always," she said. "For all you know, I'm here to see your grandfather." Hartford was the only child of the Earl of March's second son-the late (and much lamented) moralist Everett Hartford. Anne well remembered the man. He'd been as straitlaced and starchy as a vicar. Rather ironic, really, given his son's reputation for recklessness and irreverence. "My grandfather is in his greenhouse," Hartford said, "elbow deep in chicken manure. If it's him you've come to speak with, you're in for a long wait." She suppressed a grimace. There was no need for him to be crass. "Really, Hartford." "Really, my lady." He advanced into the room slowly, his genial expression doing little to mask the fact that he was a great towering male bearing down on her. "Why have you come?" Anne held her ground. She wasn't afraid of him. "I've come to ask a favor of you." His mouth curled up at one corner. "Better and better." He gestured to a stuffed settee upholstered in Gobelins tapestry. "Pray sit down."

Excerpted from The Lily of Ludgate Hill by Mimi Matthews Copyright © 2024 by Mimi Matthews. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

[darkmaga-retard]

In a stunning interview with Judge Andrew Napolitano, former CIA Analyst Larry Johnson quotes high-level Israeli government officials as stating their concern that if Israel maintains its current warmongering ways, the Zionist State could disappear within one year. Johnson also describes the radical religious zealotry of many Israelis behind the nation’s infatuation with war. (A very similar zealotry exists within a majority of evangelical churches, by the way.)

Johnson also explains why the miscreant Benjamin Netanyahu will never end Israel’s wars: He knows that as soon as the war(s) ends, he will be arrested and tried for multiple criminal acts within Israel (not counting the international war crimes of which he is accused) and probably spend the rest of his life in prison. Bottom line: Netanyahu is purposely keeping Israel’s wars alive for his own personal self-preservation.

Here are some of the excerpts from Judge Nap’s interview with Larry Johnson:

Napolitano: Is Israel committing National Suicide, Larry?

Johnson: Sure appears that way. You know when you're in a fight, and particularly in a war, the last thing you want to do is to be fighting a civil war, be warring against each other at home.

You've got the head of the military, basically the Israeli military, the IDF spokesman, coming out and opposing Netanyahu. You've got the head of Mossad opposing Netanyahu, and Mossad is like the Israeli version of the CIA. You have the Shin Bet, which is, I describe it as, it's like the FBI with a CIA twist, because it's really, it's not so much a law enforcement outfit as it is a domestic intelligence/domestic security outfit. All of them are coming out and condemning Netanyahu. And Netanyahu in turn has been calling them cowards and weaklings.  

And then in addition to that, you've got some very prominent members or former members of the Israeli Defense Force. There's General Yitzhak Brik, he put an op-ed in Haaretz over the weekend. And, boy, he didn't pull any punches. He came out and said that Israel, if it keeps on this path, it's going to collapse within a year, that the country will come apart at the seams. [Emphasis added]

Napolitano: Well, some of this stuff that General Brik said is strategic, and some of it is personal. For example, he said of Prime Minister Netanyahu, “He has lost his humanity, morality, norms, values and sense of responsibility.” That's about as harsh as you can get. He's not talking about Netanyahu's personality; he's talking about his decisions to slaughter innocents and to use reservists and the IDF with which to do so.