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The things about Nora that make her unique, that comprise her own particular charm, if those things charm you, would’ve made her a really, really bad chess player and would’ve gotten her kicked out of the Machiavelli family. Killian Rhodes, a really, really good chess player, wonders how she thinks she has the temperament to write detective novels. And just who, or what, is this Killian Rhodes? Nora’s sure (she’s in love with him); we’re not so sure. Neither is Nora’s best friend, Seraphina “Sasha” Smith. Sasha is an odd mix of pragmatic and Bohemian. She has a dragonfly tattoo, computer fluency, and street smarts. She speaks in quick, soft, efficient bullets; swears often. And, if she puts effort into it, really focuses, she can read your mind. Listen. Did you hear that? No? Not surprising. You need to be clairvoyant, like Sasha, to hear it. Or seriously disturbed, like Austine, who lives in Nora’s neighborhood, has multiple personalities, and thinks Nora is Jane, a woman who lived in Nora’s house many years ago when Austine was a girl. Austine hates Jane. Why? We don’t know. Neither does Austine. What is making the noise that those two can hear, but we can’t? It’s called a Lark. Not a lark (the bird) but a Lark, a rare, ancient spirit. Ancient civilizations knew about Larks and did whatever they could think of to keep them at a distance. Stonehenge was built to contain them. The Easter Island statues were erected to repel them. The Sphinx of ancient Egypt was intended to look like one. Not benign, but not malevolent either, these rare spirits are as thoughtless and without purpose as storms at sea. A storm at sea only causes destruction if something vulnerable gets in its way. The same is true of Larks. This particular Lark is about five million years old, give or take. It – she, actually – first haunts an Art Deco lighthouse in Nora’s town, Shoals Crossing; then moves into a massive, sprawling corporate complex on the Connecticut shore – with frightening consequences. Even so, Summerland is a ghost story in which the living might just be more bizarre than the – not living. And why not? After all, Killian Rhodes said it himself, “Life is weird, and no one on the planet is ‘normal’. No one.” |
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CHAPTER 1. The Beast It prowled the moors at midnight, which was a surprise to none, and a cold, unfocused dread to all. A young girl stood in the coarse grass, her hair blowing loose in the wind from the sea. She did not suspect. She had lived all her life in these parts, and the familiarity brought with it a sense of security. Safety. The beast, downwind, sensed her unsuspecting ease, and began to stalk her. Closer and closer he crept. She was peering in the other direction, looking for something. Someone? But no one else was near. Only the girl, and the beast. Silently, he crept. Slowly. Closer. Just before he sprang, the girl wheeled around, having sensed something. She shrieked, but it was too late. The beast pounced upon his prey. ...wrapped his paws around the girl's ankle, and was immediately scooped up. "There you are, Fluffums! You are a naughty, naughty boy. Mommy said that if you ran away again you're not going to be let outside any more. Remember?" The girl walked back home on the dead-end street, gently scolding the little black cat with the big imagination. Fluffy of the Moors lay quietly in her arms, purring. Well, not moors exactly; Princess Lane was two streets away from a Connecticut salt marsh. And not midnight exactly, although the September shadows were a bit longer in the evening. "Hi, Mrs. Oliver," the girl called to a neighbor. "Fluffy ran away again." Mrs. Oliver, putting bottles into the metal box on her front step for the milkman, looked up and smiled. "He's a rascal, that one." "He is, Mrs. Oliver. Have a good night." "You too, honey. And you too, bad Fluffy." They continued toward home, which was the house at the end of the street where Princess Lane joined the Marsh Road at the stop sign. As they passed 16 Princess Lane, which was empty again, a "For Sale" sign in the front yard, Fluffy tensed and began to growl. The girl held on tight, thinking her pet had seen another cat and was about to take off. "No, no. I'm not going to have to hunt for you again." She kept walking. From within the empty, silent house, something watched. Within the story of Princess Lane, Tony Maloney is back again in Nora's latest novel, The Case of the Deadly Chameleon |
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