My recent bodice-ripping affair with Canva has finally led me to redesign the cover for "Black Dragon," which you might remember was a tad too edgy. This one is a little shittier, but vastly more appropriate.
When she finally came to bother James in the storehouse, Lizzy had aged by about thirty years since she’d talked to him. Quite literally. James was not, by this, point, surprised.
“A little too early, I see. In any case, call me Halcyon for now.” The man watched James another moment, then disentangled his long fingers and rose gracefully from his chair. James tracked the back of his vibrant green coat as he moved to the window.
“Right,” James said. He observed the six of them, all lounging on storage crates, with the mistrustful resignation of a groom at his shotgun wedding. “I guess this makes us a team from now on.”
Uh, no, James would have said if he was Eric. But he was James, and the slow burn of Lizzy’s stare stopped him by the oregano pots.
“Let me tell the story of your life,” Eric panted. He didn’t have time to stop and breathe, and the white proximity of the four blades closed his throat. His Adam’s apple convulsed drily--he'd better talk fast.
The further they delved into the base, the more important-looking the rooms got. The smell of wine got stronger, the cut of the suits got nicer, and the rough-looking kids started thinning out. The handguns started getting more conspicuous, too, and shinier.
“Let’s leave my father’s alcoholism out of this, operative,” the big guy retorted, stiff as a board. He crossed his arms so the muscles in his shoulders all popped out like mutated grapes. “I’m in charge of this squad, in case you forgot. So stuff it, Tess.”
James dreamed that a man with a towering shadow drove him into an empty black corner, and every time James tried to hit him an invisible, impossible force deflected him. The man never stopped smiling.
Eric paced a tight circle in the hallway. The mirror was bright in the dark. “I haven’t heard anything from James.”