Unbalanced, an Excerpt

Please allow me to introduce author Cindy Speer. The following is an excerpt from her novel, “Unbalanced.”

Everything you have ever read, everything you have ever dreamed, exists. Knowing this and keeping this constantly in mind is the only way you’ll ever survive the world.

— Grigori Temkov, in a letter to Andromeda

It’ll be snowing soon, Andromeda thought as she pulled her black cloak tighter. It was an impractical thing, fastening only at the throat, the wind parting it at will, but she liked it. Her usual winter coat lacked the elegance needed at these sorts of parties.

The noise from that too-loud, too-glittery party faded as she walked up the path, her feet crunching on pale gravel. She sighed with relief at her temporary escape. The people here were not the kind she felt comfortable with. The food was elegant, the music was good, and everyone was nice enough, but she couldn’t seem to relax. She kept fighting the feeling that, any minute, she was going to do something awful and embarrassing, exposing her to the world as the classless slob she was.

Then there was Alaister.

She looked up at the night sky and watched the clouds pass across the waning moon. She was mad at herself for coming, for trying to wedge herself into a place where she fit about as well as an egg in a sack of marbles. I guess I’m just lonely, she admitted with a bit of asperity, her eyes panning the treetops, noticing how the branches met and interlaced.

She continued along the path, the woods surrounding her. For a few minutes, until the cold chased her back to the party, she was free. She paused and picked up one of the pale water-smoothed pebbles. How expensive, she wondered, would a path of all white river stones be?

A twig snapped, and she jumped. For a second, her fancy made the sound into a gunshot. She clutched the stone to her chest, peering into the woods on either side of the path. Thick brambles and bushes obscured her view. She tilted her head, listening.

Nothing, she decided, considering going back. But she wasn’t ready to face the crowd yet, and she remembered there was an old greenhouse farther down the path. Being out alone in the dark didn’t bother her—she’d gotten over that fear long ago.

There was a bend in the path, and when she turned along it, the moon removed its mask. The trees were suddenly outlined in light, their shadows so crisp they seemed tangible. The path glowed, trailing like a satin ribbon to the greenhouse that glittered, dark and jewel-like, in the middle of a tiny clearing.

A breeze began to rise, causing leaves to skitter and branches to rub. At times, they sounded like an old creaking bedstead, and sometimes they sounded more pained—deep and sorrowful. She shivered, and realized she was beginning to feel unpleasantly chilled.

She reached out and tested the doorknob. The door opened with barely a whisper, and she was in, leaves somersaulting after her, cloak swirling as she turned and closed it. She wrapped the cloak around her, attempting to make it airtight.

It was slightly warmer out of the wind, and the moon silvered everything, turning even the most mundane things magical. There was frost on some of the panes, and the light picked out gem colors in it, the glass seeming to be held by frames of ice, not metal.

“I could run away. I can fake a headache with the best of them.” Her voice sounded oddly hollow, so she swallowed and ran a finger along the water-stained table that dominated the room. She could cut through the woods, get to the road, walk to town and the nearest gas station, call a cab.

That would be easier than facing Alaister MacDuff again.

It had been one of those oddly idyllic relationships, where everything seemed to snap into place as if guided by magic. Seeing him again while she still cared for him made her feel awkward and foolish. The relationship had turned too serious too quickly; they were both talking about the future like it was inevitable. She’d enjoyed it, enjoyed him.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell him she was an agent of Balance. Outside of the fact she wasn’t allowed to discuss her job in the first place, how did a girl tell a perfectly sweet, normal man she made her living keeping the peace between werewolves and vampires? That she belonged to one of those secret government agencies people loved to make up conspiracy theories about? She had too many secrets, and he was perceptive, and asked too many questions.

There was a gust of wind as someone opened the door. She turned and saw him.

“Hello, Alaister.” Part of her panicked. Of course he would follow her. That’s the way her life worked.

He smiled at her slightly, saying nothing. He looked at the long tables with their high sides and mesh bottoms, empty save for an occasional dried leaf or twig.

“A magical place,” he said softly, his deep voice resonating. He was taller than she was, strongly built. He looked wonderful in his black suit; and the attraction she felt for him, normally a niggling, smothered bit of annoyance in the back of her head, came forward with full force.

“What makes you say that?”

He surveyed the tables, the hutch with its stack of broken pottery. He had the look of a man whose bluff had been called.

“There’s still a lingering smell of growing things, plentiful work space, a mysterious location. I think it easily could have been an alchemist’s laboratory.”

She was playing with a split on the edge of one of the tables, running her fingernail up and down the crack.

“I thought alchemists usually work in basements.”

He came closer. “Maybe this one wanted to be different.”

“You never know.”

He was almost touching her now, his warmth like a bonfire. Her fingernail scraped up some splinters, one of which went deep into her finger. She winced.

“You know, this whole avoiding-you thing and not-wanting-to discuss-things thing works ever so much better without you here.”

“Well, that explains why I’ve not been doing a good job of getting to talk to you so far tonight,” he said, taking her hand. He must have noticed she’d hurt herself picking at the table, because he peered closely at it. She could see the bit of wood clearly, dark against the pale of her skin, but knew he wouldn’t.

“See, that means the plan was working.” She extricated herself gently, squeezing at the injury with a forefinger and thumb.

He leaned his forearms on the table.

“You would have done better sticking with the crowds.”

“Maybe I thought you could take the hint.” She gave him a half-smile. “Stalker boy.”

“Sadly enough, mind reading has never been one of my talents.” He paused at her soft hrumph to add, “No, really, it is sad, because it would completely improve my stalking abilities. But I just have to rely on being lucky.”

She wiped her hands on her skirt.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

He straightened so he could turn and lean against the table next to her.

“You’ll think it’s lame, considering the effort I went to, but I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

She tried to find something to say.

“Alaister…”

She let it trail off, and they stood together in an awkward silence neither one of them could seem to fill. He gave her another smile then stepped away, as if getting ready to go.

Andromeda was the first to hear the scream.

“Where did that come from?”

“The house.”

She pulled the door open, and they went out into the cold again, running up the path. Sometimes, only the paleness of the stones led them when the moon hid behind fast-moving clouds. She couldn’t hear music, even when they got closer to the house. A blanket of absolute silence settled around them, as if the world were holding its breath.

They slowed, picking their way carefully. As they rounded the bend, the white gravel disappeared, and she thought for a second the path had ended.

No, she realized, something was lying across it. She bent, eyes straining, as she tried to make sense of the shape.

Then the cloud passed, and Andromeda saw a face, eyes dark and vacant, the shadows of the branches crisscrossing the woman’s pale skin, giving it the look of crazed china. That and a hand, palm up and out of place, were the only recognizable pieces.

Something cold touched her face. It was like a clammy hand closed over her nose and mouth, and she couldn’t breath until it slid over her cheek and off. She jumped and tried to pull away. She looked around, shivering, knowing that, shrouded by the woods and uncertain light, something was watching her.

Alaister muttered under shaking breath and grasped Andromeda’s elbow. As one they stepped back.

“What could do a thing like that?” he whispered.

The body had been ripped apart, scattered. She shuddered, feeling ill, but the spell was broken; and she turned her thoughts back to the tragedy at hand.

“This just isn’t one of those things you get used to, is it?”

“No,” he answered. “I don’t see how you could. Let’s get to the house, and see if anyone’s called the police.”

They backed down the path, neither one quite able to stop looking at the corpse, as if it might come to life. They found a gap through the trees and weeds and got off the path.

“I think we can agree she’s not the one who screamed.” Andromeda said, since the killer had obviously spent some time with his victim.

“Then there’ll be others coming soon.”

She tripped, cursing the heels on her shoes, but the ground was too cold for her to just take them off.

“Take my arm,” Alaister offered. “I don’t bite.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. He was nice and warm, and she could feel comfort flowing from him.

She heard sirens in the distance. Good. Hopefully, the police would detain everyone to ask questions, which would make her job easier.

“That…whatever did that wasn’t human,” she whispered. “Do you think it was a wild animal?”

“I don’t know. There are…things…” He paused. “I just wouldn’t wander the woods alone again.”

In the silence that followed, she worried the murder over and over in her mind. She had a tricky situation on her hands. Such savagery could easily be blamed on a werewolf. If that were true, she had to discover who was responsible before the vampires got wind of what was going on. Anything could be used as an excuse to declare war—or at least make things messy.

Vampires and werewolves were, like anyone else, more good than bad. That didn’t mean they didn’t hate each other enough to use any legal means to decimate the others’ populations. Politics and racial hatred, her least favorite combination.

Hearing her sigh, Alaister said, “We’re almost there.”

Soon, they crossed back into the lighted areas of the front yard and porch. People were milling around, trying to get answers. A slender young man whose shaved head shone in the amber porch light smiled and started towards them, and Alaister steered her around a group of people and away from him.

Cindy can be found at her website, www.apenandfire.com.