There is now an official Seth Gray lj.

Check it out: Here

So I made the new Devil Cares info page today. I’ve given it the oh-so-original moniker of Devil Cares–new. It’s over on the right with the pages. Let me know what you think.

I know I said Devil Cares wouldn’t be updated for awhile, but this popped into my head a few days back and I didn’t know what else to do with it. It seems a shame to just let it rot on my jump drive. So, here’s a short (very short) story about the two older boys out with their father.

Also, whaddya think of the new title graphics?

Silence. Stillness. The calm of early morning. Sunlight had just barely begun to peek through the trees. Beams of light poked through branches and bushes in random places, mottling the ground with their hazy light. This false mist seemed to add to the atmosphere. It enhanced the silence of the woods.

Colt Mossberg felt a quiet contentment in his bones as he and his sons slowly crept through the brush. In his mind there was nothing better than a hunting trip to sooth the worldly cares away. A felt cap with flaps for the ears covered his dark hair and kept his head warm. A thick padded jacket, with the sleeves over his gloves, matched the cap’s plaid pattern. His wife had given the set to him for his birthday, along with the Winchester M 94 hunting rifle in his hands. He loved that woman. Of course, thick pants and heavy boots finished off his hunting clothes. And some long johns underneath.

Colt’s piercing eyes swept the woods back and forth, looking for any sign of their buck. His older boy had found some recent sign awhile back, and Colt had declared it fresh enough to track. Even though Barrett had found it, the tradition was that Colt tracked the first animal. After that, the boys could hunt on their own trail if they wanted.

Stopping, he held up a hand and motioned his boys to come closer. As Colt lowered himself to a crouch behind a bush, Barrett bent down next to him. Colt nodded with pride as the boy showed proper care to keep his .30-30 safely pointed away.

Barrett looked to him, his eyes the same blue as Colt’s own. Carefully, Colt extended a hand to point. Shuffling closer to his father, Barrett bent his dark head close to Colt’s shoulder so he could follow the line of his father’s fingers. There, grazing some distance off, was their buck.

“This has got to be the most boring thing in the entire history of human civilization.” The voice of Colt’s middle son floated up to them from behind. He gritted his teeth as the buck, even as far off as it was, perked its head up.

Colt loved the boy, he really did, but that didn’t mean there weren’t times when he wanted to thrash him.

Just as he was about to hush his son, Barrett whipped around and hissed, “Shh!”

Kimber rolled his gray eyes, a move so familiar Colt could picture it in his sleep. The middle Mossberg had been standing behind them with his arms crossed. He hadn’t brought a gun of his own.

Colt and Barrett were nearly identical, especially today in their hunting gear. But Kimber looked like his mother. His face was longer than Colt or Barrett’s, the bone structure more sloping. His dark blond hair was somehow spiky and curly at the same time. He had even, Colt thought, inherited the woman’s tendency to be difficult for no good reason.

“You’re gonna scare it away,” Barrett whispered to his brother.

In a voice heavy with sarcasm, the other replied, “Wouldn’t that be a shame.”

“Why did you even come?”

Gray eyes fixed on Colt. “I wasn’t given a choice.”

“Why don’t you cry about it?”

Kimber snorted at his brother’s taunt. “Yeah, right.”

If he didn’t end this now, Colt knew, it would ruin the day.

“That’s enough, boys,” he whispered but they didn’t seem to hear him.

“You didn’t even bring a gun,” Barrett said with disgust.

“And why would I?”

“Boys, enough!” Colt hadn’t raised his voice much, but it was enough to convince the buck.

It bounded away, heading opposite the Mossbergs’ direction.

With a growl of frustration, Colt straightened.

“Nice going, Kimber,” Barrett sneered. “You know we don’t go home until we bag a buck.”

Without a word Kimber walked past the bush they’d been using for cover, snatching Barrett’s rifle away from him as he did so.  Colt sighed and started forward to stop his son. The boy couldn’t hit a moving target at that distance.

For a second, Kimber’s eyes tracked the bucks’ movement. Then he dropped to one knee, whipped the rifle into position, and fired.

The crack of it split the air, sounding like the echo of distant thunder as it faded away.

A single round entered the back of the buck’s skull and the animal dropped to the ground. It rolled once or twice under its own momentum.

Blinking with surprise both of the other men turned to look at Kimber. With as much gravity as a sixteen-year-old could muster, Kimber rose.

“Can we go home now?”

Or, Devil Cares is getting a reboot.

Before the torches are lit let me just say, yes, I know twenty-eight chapters is a lot to invest in. I know it’s a long time to wait to restart. But I just couldn’t keep chugging on. This project was not turning out the way I wanted it, and I am nothing if not a perfectionist. And so, I must shut down Devil Cares for now.

Many factors led to this decision, but mostly it’s because I didn’t give the project the attention it deserved before sitting down to write. I had even remarked out loud that DC was my “tester story” to see if I could really write a book. There’s nothing wrong with this in and of itself. The problem is it reads like a tester story. Characters in Devil Cares don’t have the depth my characters usually do; we’re twenty-eight chapters in and I don’t feel like we really know who these people are.

That said, I’m too fond of the concepts behind this universe to abandon it completely. Thus, the redux. I will allow this world to percolate in my brain for awhile before sitting down to formally make some notes. In the meantime my main focus will be Jason Dane and his world. Writing The Good, the Bad, and the Blond is a lot like watching a train wreck. Jason’s life is just so delightfully messy I can’t wait to get in there.

So, long story short, I’m sorry for all this, but Devil Cares will be gone for awhile. I’m still making graphics and such to keep the characters in my mind. Maybe I’ll post those up as we go along, if there’s any interest in me doing so.

In any event, the Mossberg brothers will be back one day. And, hopefully, written in the way that they deserve.

In order to make up for how utterly sucky the last few weeks have been, here’s the second half of the first chapter of The Good, the Bad, and the Blond.

Upper middle class families apparently lacked imagination because every house in the subdivision I could see was cookie-cutter similar. Lawns, and a few small bushes, were carefully tended with an eye for detail that told me none of the people inside the houses did the tending. Remarkably, to me, at least, even the cars were alike. While none of them were Ferraris or anything, all of them were the top of the line in whatever line they happened to be. If it hadn’t been for the police presence outside door three sixty-two, and the media presence kept at bay beyond that, it would have been a screamingly normal day in the neighborhood.

God, did I just make a Mr. Rogers reference? No cookie for me.

Stomping along behind me as I swaggered my way up the drive, Mason was breathing like a jet plane engine. Deep, calming breaths, I’m sure. An idea occurred me to as I bounced up the three steps leading to the front door. An idea so devious and delicious I couldn’t not do it.

Once I had the door open, I stood just inside and turned around to face Mason.

Smiling with the full force of my flawless teeth, I said, “Ah ah ah, Mason, must be thinner than door frame to ride.”

His face turned a shade of mauve I didn’t know was possible to produce in nature. When he spoke, his voice was very loud for someone hissing between clenched teeth.

“If you think I’m gonna let you in there—”

“Let me, Mason?” I couldn’t arch my brow in that suave, easily-put-you-in-your-place way, so I had to raise both eyebrows at him. “If you’ll recall, our lovely Chief of Police has declared that I get anything I want while I’m working on this case. And right now, I want nothing so much in this world than for you to be on the outside for once.”

I canted my head and held up my hand to do one of those little waves where you just bend your fingers at the knuckle. “Buh-bye, now.”

It was with great satisfaction that I swung the door closed in his face. Mason’s voice was clearly audible as he bellowed for someone to get him the chief on the radio.

My bright smile hadn’t dimmed at all when I turned to survey the room. Immediately inside the doorway was a ceiling-high shelf of books. I suspected they were never read because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere on them. No self-respecting bibliophile that I knew of would allow any kind of cleaning solution on their precious tomes. A step closer revealed the titles, they were old classics mostly, and then I knew they were never read.

Just beyond the bookshelf was a short step and then I was in the living room proper. Everything in the room seemed to say new money to me, but I’ll be the first to admit it isn’t like I would know. The couch was large, made of cushy brown leather, and very obviously expensive. An obscenely large TV sat opposite it, and I noticed with no small amount of envy that the screen was made of crystal for scrynet interface.

How the hell did people afford this stuff?

Sitting in front of the TV was a wire-and-glass coffee table. It looked old and beat up, so you knew it cost a pretty penny. The floor was hardwood, which I will never understand in a living room. Then it occurred to me that maybe it had cost more than carpet, but I had no idea of the cost of either. If I remembered I’d scry it later.

Maybe it’s just my morbid sense of humor, but I always find it immensely ironic when the victim’s body is in the living room. She was sprawled in the space between the coffee table and the big leather couch, but both pieces of furniture had been pulled out to get a better look. A ceramic bowl, chipped from the fall, lay just out of her reach. Popcorn was scattered all over, alerting me to the bowl’s contents.

As I approached, I noticed she was pretty. In a plastic, bleach-blond kind of way, but still. Her nose was fake and her hair was showing dark roots. I had instantly spotted the plastic surgery on her nose. It wasn’t hard; her aura didn’t flow through the artificial body part. Even though I wasn’t using my second sight to see her aura right now, the nose still gave off a sense of wrongness to me. She wasn’t supermodel thin, but she was skinny while still having the healthy amount of body fat. She was casually dressed in jeans and a pink t-shirt. I hadn’t noticed any shoes by the door, but she was barefoot.

At first glance you could almost believe she was lying on the floor because she chose to, because she was sleeping. There were no obvious wounds, and no blood that I could see.

Crouching over the body was probably the only person on the BPD who had been sad to see me go.

Jessica Parker was the PDS’s resident go-to gal. Though she was mundane herself, she knew more about magic than some mystics I knew. Most gals on the force tried to down play their beauty, but Jess didn’t bother. Her rich dark hair was curled to perfection, even drawn back into a ponytail. She was wearing some of those black-framed glasses with square lenses, and they perfectly offset her brows. Perhaps most shocking of all, though, was her fondness for make-up. There was nothing outrageous, just a light dusting of pale silver over her eyelids, and some lipstick just red enough to be pretty without looking artificial. Even that was more than you would see on the average girl-cop. Jess didn’t have the stunningly shaped features I did, but she sure knew how to work what she had.

“Hey, Jason,” she carelessly tossed up to me as she tapped the crystal on her camera.

“Hiya, Jess.” I squatted down next to her. “Whatcha got?”

“She hasn’t been dead for very long, thirty-six hours at the most.” Jess shuffled a bit to the side and aimed her camera again. The crystal set into the front glowed for a second, but unlike mundane cameras there was no annoying flash.

“Auric degrade?” I asked.

“One and a half,” she said.

She gestured with her head toward the body. “See for yourself.”

Rummaging around in my bag of tricks, I pulled out the instrument that would allow me to do exactly that. I guess the technical name for it was spectral illuminator, but I just called it my seeing stick. It looked kind of like a mini Maglight, except it was made of wood and the end was crystal instead of glass. My seeing stick was one of the more useful tools in my possession. Essentially, it was just a wand specialized for seeing the otherworldly.

Letting out my breath, I reached deep inside myself to touch the core of my being. In the most secret parts of my soul I found the shimmering ball of my power. I unwound a thin ribbon of the palest blue—the color of the second sight—and sent it through the handle and into the crystal of my seeing stick. The crystal lit up with the same blue of my power. I drew in a breath. All of this had happened in the infinitesimal space between exhale and inhale.

With my seeing stick illuminated even mundanes, such as Jess, could see the signs of magic that the beam fell on, but it was even clearer in my vision. If I had really wanted to, I could have accessed the second sight all on my own without any visual aids. But this was easier. I swung the beam slowly up and down the victim’s body, trying discern the separate bands of her aura.

Each human being has seven major energy centers on the body, which the Hindis call chakras. They generate all the power that keeps the body running, and then feed this power to the thousands of smaller chakras responsible for day-to-day operation. The seven main chakras were the top of the head (the crown), the forehead (third eye), the throat, the heart, the solar plexus, the sexual organs, and the base of the spine (the root). The four levels of the aura were split among these seven, two each, except for the crown. It got one band all to itself. Considering the crown runs the brain, I doubt the other chakras begrudge it this indulgence.

Some mystics didn’t like terms like aura and chakra because they felt they were trite and new age. I used them because they were simple, one-word descriptors of pretty complicated concepts. Why be a snob when it makes life harder on yourself?

Jess’s statement had been accurate; this girl hadn’t been dead for long. Chakras stop producing energy immediately after death, but there’s still some stored up. Only the fourth band of the aura was left completely intact, though it had lost its color and was a cloudy white. Over top of it was the misty remains of the third band, flickering on and off.

Quantitative measurements such as “half” weren’t very precise when it came to measuring auras, but it was the best we could do. There really wasn’t a better way to describe it.

Standing up, I shone my light over the rest of the room. “Any indication of what killed her?”

Jess shook her head. “Nope. There are no wounds on her, no visible signs of any poison, and no weapons in the house outside of kitchenware.”

I sighed. “So, we’ll have to wait ‘til she gets back to the lab to learn anything else.”

“Pretty much,” Jess said. She stood up, bending backwards a bit before straightening. “If she was killed by magic, only a thorough chakra scan will reveal that this long after death.”

Besides the various everyday items that came with magic, my seeing stick wasn’t picking up anything. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Damn,” I said, “I’d hoped to have something better to tell her parents.”

“Yeah,” Jess said, “I can’t even imagine what this kind of thing must feel like to the parents. Oh, you never asked what her name is. You always do. Her wallet said Christine Daniels.”

Most people try not to think of a body as a person during an investigation. They think of the body as an “it.” They treat it like it’s a thing, not a person. I understood that most people did it so they didn’t lose their lunches, but it just never sat well with me. The victim had been a living, breathing person once with friends, family, and a whole life. I’d always made it a point to learn their names, not just for records, or for the investigation, but because the body had been a person once.

Turning around to face her, I said, “I know who she is.”

“You know her?” Jess’s eyebrows rose.

Sighing, I replied, “I knew her as Chrissy. She’s the oldest daughter of Senator Jackson Daniels. Her brother was my best friend in college.”

“Senator Daniels,” Jess’s eyes were wide as she met mine. “The Unifier, Senator Daniels?”

I nodded.

“Shit,” she whispered intensely.

“Shit,” I agreed.

I’m very sorry about this guys, but I’ve been roped into house cleaning today. If I can light a fire under my sister’s ass hopefully we can get our stuff finished with enough time for me to write, but don’t hold your breath.

On a random note, it appears Clint Eastwood has a knack for easily manipulated titles. I’ve come up with another project based on the title of a “Dollars Trilogy” movie and I’ve never even seen any of them. I’m not much of a Western fan at all, to tell the truth. Oh well, when the muse deigns to speak I just go with it. Never know where I might end up.

Her breath was harsh and shallow as she ran. Although her side was aching, she knew she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t use her car either. That was surely a death sentence.She’d headed to the woods, and now twigs and branches stung her face. A few times she had almost lost her footing due to a log on the ground or hole. Wouldn’t that just beat all, she thought, escape them only to break my neck.

The rain poured down into her dark eyes making her blink rapidly. Her hair was black, thin, and stringy with stored water. Her clothes were no better; they were skin-tight, painted-on skins now.

She knew it was their doing, the renewed rain. How, she didn’t know, but the knowledge set heavy in her gut.

Donna…Donna…

Panic slammed into her as she heard her name echo on the wind. Strength came to her tired limbs. Donna didn’t know where she going, really. She just knew she had to get away.

Lightning split the sky, and thunder boomed in the distance. An electric tingle danced along her skin. She wasn’t going to make it. They were closing in. She slowed some, loosing heart.

A building appeared in the distance, barely visible through the rain. Heart pounding, with hope this time, she sprinted forward. It was the school she saw as she got closer.

Donna dashed up to the door and pulled it open. She had come out of the woods so she was at the back of the school. If she could just make it to the office she could call for help.

Just having a plan in mind gave her new strength and she began to run down the long length of hallway. She hadn’t made it even halfway when her body seized up.

No, please, no, she thought desperately, no!

“Help!” She cried out as her body convulsed of its own accord. “Help me!”

Loosing her balance, Donna fell sideways into the row of lockers. Again she tried to call for help, but the words died in her mouth as the force on her body tightened. It was like the air itself crashed down around her, tightening.

It wasn’t just her, either. Metal ground together, the harsh sound echoing down the hall. Plaster began drifting from the ceiling, snow-like.

Darkness swarmed over the edges of her vision. Uselessly, her hands clawed at the wall, at the air. The force surrounding her intensified.

Sliding down the wall, she saw a long crack appear in the ceiling. She could no longer hear it, however. Another wave of power slammed into her. The ceiling exploded, water raining down on her.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought dully.

Slowly she slumped to the floor, the life leaving her body.

Miles away, in the cozy little building known as the Bright View Nursing home, Priscella Jones was preparing to meet the day. Though she was exceedingly old, she was still strong. Almost never did she need the nurses’ help to function. Today was no exception.

She didn’t exactly spring out of bed, but at her age she was positively speedy. Prissy was opening her closet when the first wave of unease tickled over her. Any other person would have simply shrugged off this feeling, but Prissy had not lived as long as she by being another other person.

Still in her bright red nightgown, Prissy walked quickly over to the table by her favorite chair. Opening the drawer, Priscella pulled out a stick of black chalk and a tube of salt. In the center of the room, she knelt on the tile of the floor. Her knees creeked a bit, but she managed. Spreading her arms as wide she could, she drew an inverted star with the black chalk.

She was attempting to stand when she felt the air tighten around her. All the lights in the room began to flicker wildly.

Taking as much of a breath as she could, she pressed against the force with her will. She felt it slide away, rebounded by her pentagram. Prissy realized her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking, and not from fear.

I’m getting too old for this, she thought grimly.

Unwieldy though her hands had become, she somehow managed to get the salt open. She was only halfway through drawing a circle when the attack came again, more powerful and urgent.

Crying out, Priscella went down. She was already crouched to make the circle, but even so she felt her hip give as she struck the floor.

Thankfully, her grip on the salt container was true. With shaking hands, Prissy whipped the salt in an arc around her. The force lessened some, but half the circle wasn’t strong enough.

She felt the strange heavy air recede, and knew it was gathering itself for another strike. Gritting her teeth, Priscella lifted her arm into the air with what felt like Herculean effort. She shook the salt tube in another half circle, and then brought it back again. On and on she shook out the salt until she couldn’t keep her arm raised anymore.

The salt particles buzzed as the force struck them, but her circle held this time. Smiling with relief, Prissy reached beneath her nightgown for the smooth white plastic pendant she knew would be there. In that instance Prissy did something she hadn’t done in weeks and weeks.

She called the nurse.

I must apologize not only for the lack of the last two updates, but also for the lack of notice. We went on a trip for my sister’s birthday and I’d forgotten it was coming up. So anyway, give me a few days to recuperate and I should be back to normal. My aim is to have last Friday’s update go up this Friday and then update as normal. Sorry about yesterday and tomorrow, but I’m wiped. So, look for things on Friday.

Take a look at the newest link over yonder in the “Pages” section

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And, as always, let me know what you think!

This seems like a pathetically short chapter for the long term importance it will have. Oh, well. Also, bid a fond farewell to Wes’s POV.

The phone rang at the Mossberg Mansion a little before seven thirty, just after Wes had finished his breakfast and had gone upstairs to change.

Picking it up from its dock, Kimber said, “Mossberg residence.”

His head was canted to keep the phone in place on his shoulder as he cleaned up the pans he’d used to cook.

“I see, thank you.” He dried his hands on a towel and hung up the phone.

A few seconds later Wes clomped down the stairs, dressed for school.

“Marsha Reese just called,” Kimber told him, “turns out school’s closed today. You can go back to sleep.”

“Why?” Wes asked, “Not that I’m complaining, but what happened?”

Shrugging, his brother replied, “She didn’t really know for certain, but she heard a water line burst or something. Probably from the rain.”

Grinning a little, he went on, “It’s probably for the best. I hate driving Barrett’s car.”

“It’s a truck.”

Kimber rolled his eyes. “It’s all the same.”

Shaking his head at his brother’s foolishness, Wes turned and headed back up the stairs.

He was on his way to his bedroom when he had a thought. Instead of stopping at his door he kept on until he came to his parents’ room. Wes hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the knob. In some small part of himself, it felt like a violation to go into his parents’ rooms when they weren’t around to give him permission. Especially, since they’d never be able to again.

With a deep breath, he rested his hand firmly on the door handle and twisted it. He stepped inside and stopped to look around.

Everything seemed so unfamiliar now. Wes knew that was stupid, but it was true. Squaring his shoulders, the youngest Mossberg walked inside and shut the door.

What files and paperwork his father’d had on succubae were still lying on the bed where Kimber had gone through them before they’d left to oust it. He had stacked them nicely, though. The box they went in was sitting next to them.

Like every child, Wes had secretly thought his father had known everything, even when he would have denied it. It was an unpleasant shock when Wes saw the info Colt Mossberg had collected about succubae was surprisingly small. There wasn’t all that much more in the files than Kimber had told them. Wes noted the part about them liking white roses and poppies was written in his mother’s precise handwriting.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Wes began to read.

Apparently the word “succubus” itself came from the Latin “to lie beneath,” which, Wes thought back to his own ordeal, wasn’t strictly accurate. They held powers over lust and emotion, they could enter and manipulate dreams, and even cause sleep paralysis. Wes hadn’t known that last. The last bit of info was a blurb describing their illusion powers—although his father called it “selective reality”—and that these powers increased in the presence of mirrors.

There wasn’t so much as a single line describing their origins.

Frustrated, Wes put the papers back in the box.

Kimber hadn’t known, and his last source to prove one way or the other what the succubus girls had told him hadn’t turned up anything.

Wes wasn’t sure whether he wanted the girls to be telling the truth or not, wasn’t sure what that would mean about what else they had told him.

Leaving his parents’ room, he headed toward the computer room. There was no door to open as he entered it. His mom had worried about the kinds of things he might look at, so she’d had the door removed. A sad smile crossed his face as he thought of it.

Sitting in the swivel chair, Wes leaned over to switch on the computer. Any sources he might find on the net might not be very accurate, but he had to try. He had to know.

If the succubus had told him the truth he had to find out. Wes might not be ready for what he’d find, but if he didn’t look he’d never know.

A few clicks of the mouse booted up the internet.

“Here we go,” Wes said.