First chapter of a possible book

See if you can tell where this is going. Tell me what you think.

HooDoo

Chapter 1

The cab was in a queue of much nicer cars. There was a canopy from the door of his destination clear to the curb, and very much needed today, with a steady cold rain. A uniformed doorman with a huge umbrella shielded guests, as they stepped across to shelter.

The cabby was angry, scowling at him in the mirror. He’d pretended to not understand English very well when he’d picked David up at the airport. Then he’d taken off on a circuitous route, designed to inflate the fare. David checked the man’s license to confirm his name fit his appearance, and then corrected him in harsh terms in Farsi, producing a shocked expression, and grudging compliance. Then he’d wanted to drop David off at the curb, well away from the door. He would have been soaked through before getting to cover.

Not that he wasn’t eager to leave. The well entrenched stink of garlic and sweat seeped around the bullet-proof partition, and infused the whole cab. The insult was compounded when they pulled up, and the uniformed doorman tried to open the door. It was locked, as if David was some deadbeat who might skip on the fare. It remained locked, until David swiped his pay card past the pay-point bolted on the partition.

He stepped out of the cab, but declined to do more than leave the man with just his fare and no tip. The cabbie glared at him, but voiced no insult. He had no idea how lucky he was today. David had other irons in the fire, and other players of immediate concern, starting with his half brother, who had exited the limo in front of him in line.

Mark was already at the front door of the office building as David exited the cab. David hadn’t seen him in years, yet the sight of him stirred stale animus. The man radiated arrogance in his every step and gesture. It was a mark common to the entire family. He watched another liveried worker ease the massive brass and glass door shut behind his brother, keeping his hand on the door as David approached.

His half brother was black as a piece of coal, and proud of it. The whole family was fiercely proud of the fact they were not the descendants of slaves, but had come to America as immigrants. Around the turn of the previous century, when legal entry for their race was near impossible, they came in as household servants of a French diplomatic family, and stayed to the astonishment of their employers. A very unusual history, but not one he could personally see as relevant today. Yet they all retained the French language, and made a point of teaching it to the children.

He was probably the only one of the family in town, who hadn’t been met at the airport by a driver, and treated with dignity. No private limo had been available at the airport, so his only choice had been a grimy hack, that smelled like a Basra slum. As it was, he wouldn’t have been on time if he hadn’t been able to intimidate the driver.

The doorman greeted him with a friendly, “Good afternoon, sir,” but the man didn’t know his name. He nodded pleasantly, the cabbie dismissed from his thoughts in just a few steps. He’d been in the building once when he was seventeen, and never since. That made it eight years since he’d been here, and the place looked exactly the same. Pale Italian marble walls and intricate terrazzo flooring didn’t lend themselves to a remodeling every few years, like a modern office building with steel stud walls and carpeted floors. It contained the offices of his father’s attorneys. They fancied themselves the family’s attorneys, but David retained another firm, who he was certain would not mistake his father’s interests or the family’s as his.

He was here to hear his father’s will read. Crenshaw, of Henry, McPherson, and Crenshaw called him in Atlanta just yesterday, and told him he was a beneficiary. That’s all he would tell him, suggesting strongly he be there. If he’d interrupted his schedule to receive the equivalent of a posthumous raspberry from his father, he was going to be seriously pissed. To the point he’d find some way to make a certain attorney intensely unhappy. It was possible he had been left a final scolding, and the nominal dollar that made it more difficult to contest a will’s provisions.

His mother died six years ago, and he’d ignored the hostility from the family to attend her funeral. When his father passed recently he’d been in Germany, and they managed a memorial service so quickly he hadn’t been able to get back. He was pretty sure that’s exactly what they had in mind. With the reading of the will, he doubted they could exclude him without dangerous legal consequences. They had still failed to notify him by letter, rushing him with a phone call just a day ago. He had to wonder if he’d been overseas, if he’d have been notified at all.

The high ceilings and marble made the sound of his hard dress shoes on stone echo in the corridor. The elevators were old fashioned, with a brass arrow above each door indicating the floor it had reached. He’d hung back to let Mark get ahead of him. Neither would fancy sharing an elevator with the other. He punched a call button and took his coat off, giving it a little shake to rid it of any water beaded on.

The law firm entry was slightly more modern than the building. It had a single glass door, with a glass panel on each side. One bore the name of the partners in gold letters. The Secretary inside looked up at him, expectantly.

“I’m here for the Carpenter reading,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said grabbing a clipboard. “You are?”

“David Carpenter,” he supplied. “The son.”

“Excellent,” she said, checking off a line on the document.

She pouted a bit at the list. David wondered if the family relationships were noted, and what it said beside he and Mark’s name.

“Everyone is here now.” She didn’t seem inclined to take his coat, or direct him where to go.

David thought of his offices, and wondered if their own receptionists were ever as clueless. He’d have to have a friend test them. It was certainly a security issue too.

“So, if you could find somebody to take my coat, I can wander around until I find the family,” he suggested. If that didn’t give her a hint, he’d have to be blunt.

“Oh, let me take that. There’s a rack in the conference room. Just follow me,” she said coming around the desk.” As far as he could tell, she just left the front door unmanned and unlocked, while she took him out of sight. There was no security here at all.

The conference room had the normal long table, but it also had a nice lounge, with upholstered furniture, and a table with a coffee maker and fixings. The family had all the soft furniture occupied, and a couple of the cousin’s children sitting half way down the conference table, were playing some hand held computer games.

David grabbed a high backed executive chair from the conference table, and wheeled it over by the windows. The noise level in the room had gone down a notch when he entered, and the receptionist removed herself without a word after hanging his coat. David looked around at his relatives, but didn’t greet or acknowledge any except Mark, who nodded, and he nodded back, a neutral sort of gesture. Everyone else avoided his eyes. Mark was looking older. He’d be thirty-five now, a full decade separating them. There were a few uncomfortable strangers, being ignored just as thoroughly as him.

Dave went over and helped himself to the coffee. He poured a bit in a cup and sniffed it. It smelled good enough to take a taste. Not bad, he decided, surprised. He poured, and then added cream, playing an old game his father had hated. He tried to get the coffee the same color as the back of his hand. It came close, but no match. The few times he succeeded seemed to require evaporated milk, and that was rarely offered except in remote areas, and private homes.

The rest of his family couldn’t play the game. They all matched a strong espresso straight up, as his father had. That was one thing they had against him, but there was more than that. They resented his independent success, and the fact he didn’t knuckle under to his father, as almost every one of them had at one time or another. His father had made fortunes in food service, real estate, and property management. David had dropped out of collage early, and formed a company around several patents he owned. Space based com, and aerospace electronics, was what he designed and sometimes actually built. His hardware was all through LEO and the moon. Someday he hoped to get out there himself.

He sat in the chair sideways to the windows, watching the rain hammer down, and sipped his coffee. Some of the family were fidgety, but patience was something he’d taught himself.

Crenshaw came in with several folders. He looked at the children playing at the table, and everyone comfortable in the lounge, and decided to drag a chair over like David, instead of uprooting all of them. He pulled up close enough they were a half circle before him, and he could speak normally. He distributed copies of the will. By the time he was seated some were on the second page. He was very casual crossing his leg over his knee to make a desk for the folders. David thought how his tailor would be outraged, to see him stretching the knees of his trousers out.

“Thank you all for coming. I’ve been instructed to read Joshua Carpenter’s will as he wrote it, with no abbreviations. I will say, he made conditional bequests, which we encouraged him not to do. They complicate matters, and sometimes result in the final disposition of the estate being delayed. Mr. Carpenter therefore said that I should remind you, and I quote. “If my family decides to contest the provisions of my will, I have instructed the firm to fight it vigorously in the courts, sparing no hours or effort. If you are collectively so foolish as to see the money wasted on extravagant billings to lawyers, rather than let someone else get a chunk of it, so be it.”

Crenshaw looked over the tops of his half glasses at them. “I think you will find the body of his will, has the same blunt economy of expression.”

“I, Joshua Carpenter, being of sound body as I write this document, and more importantly of sound and undiminished mind,” – ‘Here he attached certification from his physician and an attending psychologist as to his condition,’ Crenshaw noted, “do make this my true and final will,” he droned on through more boiler plate.

“To the following blood relatives I leave the sum of one-hundred dollars instead of the traditional dollar, to establish I did indeed remember them, but felt this was an adequate bequest. I do this because if any of you answered the call to the reading of my will, I don’t wish to insult you with a dollar for your morning. Most of you have not spoken with me in years, and a hundred dollars is adequate compensation for a morning lost.”

“There is a list of thirty-eight recipients of a hundred dollars, only two of whom have come in today. The rest will be sent a check by certified mail.”

Well, at least I’ve got a hundred, even if that wouldn’t pay the air fare, David thought.

“To my cousin Queena’s children, I leave two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars each, conditioned on them attending a university, starting sometime between the age of eighteen and twenty-one.” Neither of the children at the table looked up. Nor had they been given hard copies, although their mother had. “Henry, McPherson, and Crenshaw shall disperse funds sufficient to cover their documented expenses while at university, and a lump sum of any remainder upon graduation.”

“To my secretary, Eva Johnson, I bequest five-hundred-thousand dollars. Thank you for your loyalty, and the many times you put extra effort into your work. Now, I’d suggest you and your husband Bob can pay off your mortgage, and I hope this helps make you a little more comfortable. To my miserable family, no I wasn’t sleeping with her, or I’d have left her several times as much.”

“To John Harding, the bartender at Elaine’s, I leave an identical gift of a half million dollars. John listened when I wanted, and never shorted my drink or assumed he had a tip coming. Also he could mix the best vodka gimlet straight up I ever drank. I bet you didn’t even know I knew your last name, did you John?”

A beefy fellow who had a five o’clock shadow, and looked like a wise-guy, was sitting with his mouth hanging open in shock.

“To my son by my first marriage Mark, I leave the sum of ten-million dollars.” That cause a stir and a murmuring to pass around the room. “While this is not the bulk of my estate it should offer you security for the rest of your life, if you do not slip into the error of thinking yourself independently wealthy. If you fall into the trap of spending wildly on homes, cars, and boats, it will be gone faster than you can imagine. You are not receiving the bulk of my estate, because I judge you incapable of maintaining the businesses I’ve created over a long period. When major adjustments are needed, I don’t think you are the decisive, strong willed sort, to make them. There are thousands of people in my companies, depending on them for their livelihoods, and I couldn’t throw their futures away on the chance I’m wrong, and you’d rally to the occasion.”

“To my son by my last marriage David, I leave the rest of my estate conditionally. He must travel to Africa, and take a walking pilgrimage with a traditional healer in our Homeland. I found doing so the firm basis of much of my business ability. I believe he has the temperament, and genetic make-up, to benefit from the experience. If he is unwilling to do so, I leave him the same ten million dollars as his half-brother, and will have my counsel Henry, McPherson, and Crenshaw put the balance of my estate in a trust, with professional management, for the benefit of future generations of the Carpenter family. This will have the additional benefit of encouraging you to produce such future generations, instead of selfishly remaining childless.”

The crowd was making quite a bit of noise, several people with their heads together whispering urgently.

Crenshaw looked at David, seeming really interested for the first time. “These are the conditions of your undertaking the pilgrimage. If you decide to do so, you will receive an immediate payment of ten million dollars the same as your half-brother. You will leave and undertake your mission within thirty days. You must survive, and report back to the firm within three years, as to whether you were successful in accomplishing your duty. You must decide today, before you leave the building.”

“He gets to decide himself if he was successful?” Mark asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Crenshaw confirmed, smiling.

“He can hole up in a hotel, and drink and whore, and never see the back country.”

“Indeed, he could, if he was so disposed. Mr. Carpenter must have made the judgment he was of a character not to do so. We were not instructed to hire investigators to check on him. I imagine some of you might.” Something about the way he said it made it an accusation.

“I have my own company, and people depending on me. I’m not sure I want to do this,” David protested. Most of the family were looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’ve not kept up with what my dad was doing. May I ask what the remainder of his estate amounts to, over the minimum bequests?”

“After the twenty-one million-five-hundred-three and eight-hundred dollars of bequests, the total value of all stocks, properties, and insurance, will approximate one-hundred-seven million. The total will vary with market conditions, expenses, and we have ongoing hours billed. But that was the value yesterday, give or take a million.”

The murmur from the relatives was loud, and Crenshaw frowned disapproving.

“I had no idea,” David told him. “I thought a few tens of millions at most.”

“Three or four years ago, yes,” Mr. Crenshaw confirmed. “The market has been kind.”

“In that case I shall undertake to complete his request,” David told him.

A Different Pespective is uploaded

It should be propagated in the system and searchable in 12 hours. It may take a bit to show up in my links at the right or on my author’s page.

A Different Perspective

I finally have my proofed document and am too sick to go through it. I have a nasty intestinal infection that is likely from a bad salad, and am taking really strong antibiotics.

“April” will be free Sunday June 9th

Get a copy or tell a friend.

Note: There is an RSS feed now on the grey bar above.

I don’t post heavily, so some of you might like to subscribe rather than checking in periodically. New book should be up this week.

Neighbor’s house this morning –

Was trapped in our parking lot most of the morning. Sure makes you appreciate your stuff.

“April” is free all Sun. and Mon. 5/5 and 5/6

It has been re-edited recently. If you have a copy tell a friend please. Link on right.

New cover for “A Different Perspective”

Editing still in progress, but here is the cover.

“Common Ground and Other Stories” – FREE days

Sat. / Sun. / Mon. – April 13 thru 15 – tell your friends. Any reviews are very much appreciated.

I’m also cleaning up “Down to Earth”

It’s not as bad as “April”, though it still needs a lot of commas. I have found a few missing quote marks – but nothing like “April”. I changes a couple sentences that were not clear at all. I’m at about the 30% mark.

If anybody re-reads the re-edited “April” I’d appreciate knowing if it was easier to read and enjoy.

4/17 – The book is re-edited and posted to Amazon. It should be in the system tomorrow. It takes awhile to propagate through their computers.

Working on cleaning up “April” – DONE

I’m finding a lot of errors. I’m embarrassed how bad it is. will be another week at least before I can post it.

Finished finally. I hope you find this reads much easier.

“Paper or Plastic?” is Free 4/1

Tell your friends, or enemies…

“Paper or Plastic?” has been edited heavily

I found a lot to correct. Not looking at it for a long time made the errors just jump out at me. I added a substantial portion of the unused commas in the universe. It won’t propagate through the Amazon system and be online until sometime this weekend though.

Minor problems –

Amazon generally works well. However I am having trouble updating my book description. They thought they fixed it once – but it never showed up. We’ll see if this time they can fix it.

“A Different Perspective” is finished

I have it out to edit and to a few beta readers. It was difficult to finish as I had a severe gout attack that left me sleep deprived and seems to have done some permanent damage to my right hand and wrist. I could not write while that was ongoing.

I have some images and will let out the cover to be done soon. After that I want to finish one of the stand alone books I have started, and if I can come up with some ideas I will do a few more shorts so I have enough of them to release a second collection.

Thanks for feedback in emails and those of you who did reviews.

Price and perception

After a brief introductory period I raised the price on my last book in the April series to $3.99. I was told by most Indie authors that $2.99 books carried a stigma. So far nobody has complained. Instead the new book has sold more than all the others together.

I had not intended to go back and have the older April books professionally edited. I was going to do it myself with a couple volunteer readers. However the economy intervened. I was offered editing services much cheaper than expected, because the economy is in the toilet and the usual sources of work have been scarce for my editor. So I am having “April” and “Down to Earth” edited. Once the new files are downloaded I’m going to increase the price of them too. For those of you who were bothered by typos and errors this should make the books much easier to read without distraction.

A large snippet from late in “A Different Perspective”

The >BOOM< jarred her physically, rocking the bed. She woke to complete darkness which was wrong, she always had enough of a light to find her way to the bathroom. Even outside the window was pitch dark, wrong again on so many levels.

>CRACK< >CRACK< >CRACK< disturbed the brief silence, from inside the house.

>BOOM< sounded again, but followed by a long shredding sound and a horrible scream. President Wiggen threw the covers back and went to the closet. She had to get some real clothes on for whatever was happening. She wasn’t about to face it in her flannel nightgown. She was angry at herself for not having a flashlight and knowing where it was. The closet was closer than she gauged, and she bumped into the door hard.

Light flared behind her, and her empty bed was illuminated. “Oh my God, where are you Wiggen?” her security chief cried. He panned the room and caught her in the beam. “You scared me,” he told her, “I thought they beat me to you.”

“I’ve got to get dressed,” she informed him, ” shine that light in my closet will you?”

“Yes, yes, and dress for outdoors, some good shoes, running shoes or cross trainers, not some silly dress shoes!”

“Are we running then?” she asked.

“Unless you want to stay here and die,” Mel answered bluntly.

“Not especially,” she agreed, already fastening jeans. She sat and pulled shoes on, sturdy ones he’d approve of, not taking time for socks, but she jammed a pair in her pocket. A pull over top and a sweater, it was cool out. She reached for a white one, and then threw it on the floor, it would just make her a target in the dark. Instead she pulled on a chocolate brown one.

“Gloves if you have them too.”

She pulled a drawer open and grabbed fine leather dress gloves.”Lead on,” she commanded, as she was pulling them on.

“First you need this,” he stuck a spray injector to her neck and triggered it before she could object. It burned and felt cold all at the same time.

“You’re knocking me out?” she asked angrily.

“Not at all! That’s a stimulant. It will help you run, not slow you down.” Come on.”

He went not to the door but the window, pulling a strange weapon. “No visible beam. Polycarbonate target. Sixty percent power.” He wasn’t addressing her, oddly he seemed to be talking to the weapon. He used it to cut away the bottom half of the thick window, tilting it to cut a taper wider on the outside. The smell of burning plastic was choking, and the plug melted back together on the bottom. A hefty kick fixed that, and sent it tumbling into the dark. The rush of cool clean air cut the chemical smell quickly.

Mel was dragging a case from beneath the bed. One of many equipment boxes tucked here and there she was encouraged to ignore. When he flipped the lid open it was a stout bar and a rope ladder folded back and forth accordion style. Mel scooped this up in an awkward bundle with both arms barely going around it, the bar against his chest He waddled to the window and stuffed it in the opening, the bar coming up against the window frame noisily.

“Out you go, I’m right behind,” he assured her, offering a hand to back out the window.

“Look down, don’t look back up here,” he commanded as she felt him join her on the ladder. That seemed odd advice until there was a dull concussion and flaming fragments of something sprayed past them from above.

There was a funny rushing sound in her ears, and when she couldn’t find the next rung with her feet she just lowered herself with hands suddenly stronger than normal. She took a breath that seemed deeper than any she’d ever taken before. When she reached the end of the ladder there was no ground under her feet, and she let go without being told. It was only a meter or so to some bushes, and they cushioned her fall. If she was scratched up by them she never noticed. The drug had her heart pounding and she was insensitive to mere pain.

Mel rolled off the bushes and up against her. “Run with me,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up. She ran like she never had in her life. There was just enough light from distant lamps and sky glow to see the fence. Mel jumped for the top and swung over with drug induced strength. She was crouching to jump even before he reached the top.

She let out an exultant cry of joy at the sheer physical power the drug gave her. She hooked her foot on the top bar and levered herself up and over the points with a push of her foot and both hands levered around one of the uprights. Grabbing the bars below the top rail she slide down, the metal shredding the palms out of her thin dress gloves.

When she looked back at the White House her bedroom window was shooting a flame out like a torch. Mel had made sure nobody would follow them out that way. There was a sudden burble of bullets past them from a silenced weapon, clattering on the pavement, and Mel urged her, “Come on!” pulling on her hand. He didn’t try to return fire.

Across the street there was a police barricade along the edge of the park. They cleared that with about as much trouble as a frightened deer. “Two more blocks,” Mel told her. To what exactly he didn’t say.

The first block went by and Mel turned right at the corner, and cut across the short side of the block to a new street. They turned left, and that quickly they were back in an area that had power, and it would have looked better in the dark.

Mel slowed to a walk, although it was hard to do in their state, and there were a couple large black men, bouncers in satin jackets guarding the roped off entry to a club, but nobody waiting to go in at this late hour. The guards looked hard at this odd couple passing, he in a suit, and she in casual clothes, as out of place in this neighborhood as a horse in church. She took the tattered gloves off and put them in a rear pocket.

A store down at the next corner showed lights and appeared to be open, it’s façade a mass of hand written signs listing it’s goods and services, sprinkled with logos ads for beer and wine. A framed red on white sign assured everyone they took negative income tax cards. There were three thin, scruffy young men standing close to each other, their breath frosting the air. One had a paper bag and took a drink from it as they watched.

When they got near the store Mel walked off the curb into the street, telegraphing they wanted nothing to do with them. The trio sauntered, with an exaggerated slowness that fooled no one, into their path. Mel drew a black pistol, unlike the previous strange weapon, and held it pointing up by his shoulder, finger along the trigger guard with perfect discipline.

The three men split without needing a consultation, one walking fast around the corner out of their sight and the other two suddenly remembering a purchase they needed to make in the store.

Mel holstered the weapon, but stayed in the street, ignoring a sanitation truck that had to swing wide around them. He cut right into the side street the one young man had fled to. He was nowhere in sight. Cutting across, he went to an ally that ran up the center of the block between commercial buildings. He pointed a small device down the alley, and there was rattle of a steel shuttered door being lifted by a motor, but it was so dark she couldn’t see it, and the echoing sound in the dark alley was no help.

Mel took her hand again, confident, and guided her. “Easy,” he warned her, slowing. “Feel ahead of you, low.” Her hand came up against something cold and hard. It was grimy too, and she wiped her hand on top of her pants leg.

The noisy door came down behind them, making her jump. It was much louder now. Once it was down Mel turned on the same torch he’d used in her room. They were standing in front of a boxy delivery truck. Paul Romano and Sons Produce it said across the front in green letters with yellow shadowing. He beckoned, and walked her to the passenger door. It unlocked with an old fashioned milled key, and he slid it open.

Once Wiggen climbed in, a high step, both in and up, he went around and climbed in the driver’s side. The seats were much nicer than you’d expect in a utilitarian vehicle. He didn’t pause, sliding across the seat and going in the back. There was a rattle of keys again, and metallic sounds. He returned and laid a heavy long gun on the floor within reach. A large white box with a red cross he propped against her seat and opened up.

She was surprised again when he stood back up, undoing his trousers let them fall in a pile around his ankles. Bright blood streaked his leg down the sides. There was a neat hole, still trickling blood. “You didn’t say you were hit!” she objected.

“And what good would that have done?” he asked. He had a point. He took a little tube with a flange on the end and pressed it to the outside hole and pushed, injecting something in the wound. After a shudder and a pause he did the same to the inside.

“Surely you need more attention than that. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“With the Patriots watching the hospitals? No thanks. My blood is on the sidewalk, and even though I twisted my pants leg tight below the wound, I don’t doubt I left a drop here and there. If they don’t find it tonight they surely will in the morning. This will stop the bleeding, inhibit infection, and if I never get further treatment it will slowly dissolve as it heals.”

“What if it’s damaged inside?” Wiggen insisted.

“I can still feel my toes and move them, so no major nerve damage.” He was fitting a flexible cuff on his right hand while he talked. “If it had hit the artery or bone I wouldn’t have ran here two blocks with you, drugs or no drugs. As soon as this cuff finds a vein in my hand, I’ll put a slow drip on it to replace some of the fluids I’ve lost, and we’ll get out of here before they track us down. Ah, good,” he said, when the cuff around his hand showed a green light.

He hung the soft IV bag on a coat hook behind his seat, and eased the pants back up past his knees but didn’t fasten them, turning carefully to face forward. “Would you go in the back,” he asked, handing her his flashlight. “There is a bin labeled ‘rations’ and I’d like you to get us several energy bars and bottles of water. Also there as a big plastic bucket. Dump the stuff in it out on the floor, and bring it and the rations back up front please.”

She did as he asked, carrying the stuff up front in the bucket. He dumped the food out and left the empty bucket between the seats. “What is the bucket for?” she asked.

“It will likely be obvious in a bit,” he said cryptically.

The truck started with a low rumble, which meant it was a Diesel, not an electric or fuel cell drive train, he ran the door up and when it was all the way up turned on his headlights and pulled out. She heard the door start back down as soon as they pulled out. They went a few blocks and pulled into a open market, busy with activity even though there was no sign of the sun yet. Mel parked by some other trucks and plugged his hand comp in the dash and did something.

“We are going to make a few deliveries, working our way to the west, and somewhere out near the edge of the Metro area we’ll stop, and when we start again we’ll be a different truck,” he promised.

“I don’t feel so good,” Wiggen complained. “My hands are shaking, and, uh…”

Mel handed her the bucket quickly. She shoved her face in it and was horribly sick.

“Unfortunately that is the price for the boost my spray gave you.”

Wiggen rinsed her mouth out with one of the bottles of water.

“Why aren’t you sick then?” she demanded.

“I had three of those injectors,” he explained. “They are calibrated for me, and I weigh about ninety-five kilo. I never thought to have one made up for you,” he admitted.

“For all you know it could have killed me!” Wiggen said horrified.

“Well staying there was going to kill you for sure,” he said, shrugging.