 Marcus’s gift, the gargoyle, bobbed his head on Reine’s dashboard as if in agreement. “I don’t want any of my socks dripping with his saliva,” Marcus said. “Maybe we can stuff him into the trunk the next time we make a pit stop,” said Reine, hopefully. The road ahead stretched and twisted into the reddened foliage. There was no sign of civilization except for the small green mile markers that steadily increased. In the back, Hadrian let out a few grunts before settling down into a low snoring. At first, Reine hadn’t wanted to go to Ira’s house party. She figured she would be surrounded by egocentric writerly types. But as the weeks wore on and the pile of manuscripts awaiting her editorial expertise increased instead of decreased (or even staying the same), Ira’s invitation began to look more and more appealing. Ira Reece was the established mystery writer for the best-selling series Through the Acorn Glass, an amalgam of sex, violence, and mystery that the public gobbled up like candy and the critics hated with a passion. One would have never guessed Ira, a short elderly lady of in her late seventies, to write such controversial books. A few years before, Ravenstone Publishing had acquired the rights to put out the rest of the series after a huge bidding war with two other publishing houses. At the same time, Ravenstone had hired three new editors to take over the ailing divisions of science non-fiction, literary fiction, and mystery fiction. Reine, Marcus, and Hadrian had naturally gravitated to each other—not only because they were a generation apart from the good old boys in charge of the other divisions, but that the chairman and chief financial backer of Ravenstone Bartholemew Larrington was against their appointments in the first place. So at one of the parties, the three were skulking and lamenting about their “required” attendance when Ira burst into the scene. She had taken an immediate liking for the young editors and in casual daring, whisked them away from the stuffy party to join her for dinner at a downscale Italian restaurant three blocks away. And now, they were roaring down a small back road, part of the half day journey from New York to Monadnock in Reine’s gas guzzling green Ford Explorer. The early morning was misting, painting the sky a bluish-gray. They had left the last exit fifteen miles behind. Suddenly a brown blur careened ahead. Reine slammed on the breaks. Marcus uttered a sharp expletive. A crash was heard from the back seat as Hadrian was chucked from his previous comfortable position to the tiny space occupied by the cup holders. The stag was a foot away from the bumper. He turned his head to stare at the humans through the windshield. Clear dark eyes peered from a sleek triangular head graced with an interwoven nest of antlers. “You hit me!” Hadrian exclaimed. He had managed to crawl back onto the back seat without waking up. The stag abruptly sprinted away, disappearing into the shimmering trees like a frightened sprite. “Why did I have to draw the short straw?” Reine muttered as she pressed her foot on the accelerator again. “Because you were gullible,” replied Marcus, “And I didn’t trust Hadrian’s meager driving skills.” © 2002, S. Y. Affolee |