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"'Where is she?' Clinton screamed and shoved me into the street. Instincts took over. My hands ignited in fireballs. I turned to face the detective. His face went from stone to melting ice the moment he saw me. He took a step back, hands in the air. "'Never threaten me. I am not in the mood to deal with your petty bullshit. Clancy is my match and just know that I will raise hell to protect her.' I vibrated with rage at the ones who'd taken her and needed an outlet quick before I took it out on this human. "'Move! I need to see if I can track her.' "'I'm sorry. Jo's like my little sister.' Clinton's eyes dropped as he moved out of my path, letting me pass. I flicked my hands, extinguishing the flames. Reds stood in the alley, looking as fearful as Clinton. I didn't care. I only wanted to find my match. Walking past them, I found my keys laying in the middle of the alley. I picked them up and walked back to the car. Blood was smeared over the window. I swiped my finger over the tacky crimson liquid and brought it to my nose and sniffed. Her fear washed over me in an instant. I had to brace myself against the car to keep from falling. She was terrified. The copper tang bit at my tongue as I licked the blood from my finger. She stopped here, pacing in the alley. He was here. Caleb. He took her. "'Caleb!' I spat the blood from my mouth. "'What?' Clinton regained his composure. "'Caleb took her!' I said again. "'How? How can you tell?' Clinton asked. "'Magic,' Lance answered. "'Blood magic is rare. Warren is one of the few warlocks with the ability.'" "'Can you tell where he took her, or why?' Clinton stepped closer to the car. I shook my head. "'Caleb's a half-demon. He's blocking his intentions from me and has shielded his car.' I hung my head. A sharp, searing ache gripped my chest, radiating outward as if my very soul were being ripped apart. My breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, acrid scent of burning magic. Unable to contain the storm surging inside me, my fist lashed out, slamming into the car window. The glass shattered instantly, exploding outward in a chaotic spray of jagged shards. Tiny fragments sparkled in the dim alley light as they fell, catching the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. Warm blood trickled down my knuckles, mixing with the crimson streaks already staining the window from her. The sharp sting of the cuts was barely noticeable beneath the all-consuming fire raging in my chest.
Script:
Around three in the afternoon, there's a knock on my door that sounds exactly like We Will Rock You, and I know Eric has finally snapped after hours of unanswered texts. He keeps it up for a full minute, belting out the lyrics in the hallway, without a shred of shame or concern for innocent bystanders. I've had enough. I yank the door open and scowl. Can you shut up and come inside before Axhole opens his door to investigate who's torturing a cat? Eric sashays past me, utterly unbothered. Get ready. We've got a lot to do tonight. Like what? I ask, eyeing him suspiciously. It's a surprise, grumpy pants. He flashes a coy grin. Now hurry up and change out of those dirty clothes and get into something appropriately grungy so we're not late. I wasn't planning on leaving my room, I mutter, but I still pull my ACDC shirt over my head and swap it for a plain dark gray one. Eric lifts a clean pair of jeans, gives them a polite sniff, then tosses them at me. Oh, I know. Your schedule today is packed with avoidance. He rolls his eyes. We're in Vegas. You need to let loose and get laid. That's not happening if you keep hiding in here. Unfortunately, he has a point. I jam my feet into my boots and sigh. Fine, but I really don't want to see you-know-who tonight. Voldemort's not even here, Eric says breezily. I saw him leave around lunch while I was flirting with the front desk clerk. I pause, running a hand through the disaster on my head. Are you sure? Oh my gods, he groans. Then before I can stop him, he flings my door open, marches across the hall, and knocks loudly on Axel's door, shaking his ass to the rhythm he's invented. See, he says triumphantly, grabbing my hand. The door opens. Axel stands there, rumpled and sleepy, like he just rolled out of bed. Can I help you with something? He asks. Dammit. Oh, fuck, Eric says. He immediately turns puppy dog eyes at me, mouthing sorry before pivoting back to Axel. I thought you were out. Honest mistake. Sorry for disturbing you. I was just trying my best to convince this homebody over here to come out with me. He punctuates the words with a jut of his thick hip and a dramatic thumb jab in my direction. If my eyes rolled any harder, they'd detach and skitter down the hallway. I thought you said he was out. I said I saw him leave, Eric corrects. I never said I waited around to see if he came back. The front desk clerk really wanted to show me their filing system. Who am I to turn down such impressive organizational skills? He doesn't look even remotely sorry for getting me into this situation, because he wanted to get laid. Axel snorts, an unflattering, surprised sound, and Eric beams like he's won an award. Sometimes I truly don't know what to do with him. I love him, but also, I might kill him. Oh, idea! Eric lifts a finger like a cartoon nerd and gives Axel a sly look. We're having a crazy night on the town. Wanna come with? Correction, I'm gonna kill him now.
Script:
That's an alien. I just saw an alien. Not just an alien ship. An alien being. I mean, just his claw, or hand, but yeah. Well, I say his hand, but maybe it's her hand, or some other pronoun I don't have a word for. They might have 17 biological sexes, for all I know, or none. No one ever talks about the really hard parts of first contact with intelligent alien life. Pronouns. I'm going to go with he for now, because it just seems rude to call a thinking being it. Also, until I hear otherwise, his name is Rocky.
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My grandfather, Bill Vodenall, was a pharmacist. He started in the 1930s in North Loop, Nebraska, a small village in the Loop Valley with about 300 residents, most of them farmers, all of them stubborn enough to stay in a place where the wind never stopped and the soil made promises it could not always keep. During the Great Depression, the people of North Loop could not pay for their medicine with money because they did not have money, so they paid in what they had, a chicken, a wedding ring, a nugget of panned gold from the creek. My grandfather accepted all of it because refusing would have meant letting his neighbors die, and he was not that kind of man. He filled prescriptions and received whatever currency the patient could produce. He was the only pharmacist in North Loop, which meant he was also, by default and necessity, the town's banker, therapist, doctor, farmer, and friend. He held the community together by dispensing what it needed, when it needed it, in the dosage it could tolerate, and he took his payment in the only tender available. He was, in the truest sense of the word, indispensable, because without him, the pain would have been unmanageable and the community would have come apart.
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Chapter 1. So, who is that inner voice anyway? Hey self, let's finally figure out who's been talking in there. Let me say this up front. Your inner voice is loud, bossy, and has opinions about everything. I mean everything. It critiques what you're wearing, second guesses your emails, makes you feel guilty when you eat too many carbs, replays your past mistakes like ESPN highlights, and insists you're the only one who doesn't have life figured out. Sound familiar? Yeah, me too. We all carry around this inner monologue, and whether it shows up as a full-blown courtroom prosecutor or a snarky sidekick, it doesn't stop. It's with you in the car, in the shower, while brushing your teeth, and especially when you lay your head on the pillow at night. That's when it turns the volume up, and unfortunately, it often leans negative, like a bad Yelp review of your life written by your insecurities. But here's the kicker. That voice has power. It doesn't just talk. It shapes. It builds or breaks. It's not background noise. It's more like a narrator trying to write your life story without asking you.
