New Releases
Check out the latest releases!

Previews
Enjoy a chapter of selected upcoming romance novels.

Romance Fan Registry
Be the first to know! New Releases, Favorite Authors, Special Offers!

Romance Forum
Share your thoughts and comments about romance books and authors.

By Kathleen Nance


CHAPTER 1 - Excerpt

The techbar decor was a throw back—all chrome, black tile, and twisted tubes of colored neon. The only modern touches were the moving nanowall advertising the Can-Ook Pride concert next week and the games. The games at Flash Point were top of the heap technology.

Day Daniels opened her coat and leaned one elbow against the slick bar. Music throbbed from the floor in a driving monotone of synthesizers and screeches.

She eyed the customers at the panels of computers and immersed in the virtual games. Which one was her snitch?

"What'll you have?" The bartender matched the decor—dark hair tied back, black leather, chrome gray eyes with less softness than metal, and two spots of color in the electric blue glass rings piercing the top of his ears.

On him, she liked the look.

"Root beer with a double shot of caf blend. Lian," she added, noting the name tag.

Lian lifted one thick brow. "Double shot? Never seen a lady your size who could handle that much buzz. Not enough body fat."

"You've never seen a lady like me."

His easy, practiced glance ran from her braid to her boots, then lingered at her eyes. Most people found them disturbing, being different shades and all.

He didn't. "That an invitation? I get off at midnight. Thirty minutes."

She met him square. "Not a chance. Just give me the R-Beer."

He laughed, not the least offended by her refusal. With deft skill, he twirled the bottles of root beer and caf, shaking them into a precise fizz as he assembled her drink. She paid, then sipped, savoring the cold contrast of sweet beer, bitter caffeine, and bubbles. "Perfect."

"We do it all," he said, pocketing the tip she'd added.

At the familiar phrase, she gave him a sharp look. Be it All; Do it All, the unofficial motto of twenty-second century Mounties. Did he know?

Day swivelled in her chair, turning her back on the bartender, and canvassed the room again. , looking for Bart, the man she'd come to see.

They'd never met; Bart preferred it that way. She'd humored him because he was a good source—knew every underground movement in this half of Canada and always in need of cash to feed his nanochip habit. When he'd given her some bad leads on the current case, though, she figured a face-to-face was needed.

An exultant shout from the previously rapt crowd surrounding the Yeux de Serpent sphere caught her attention, and she strolled over, still sipping that perfect beer-n-blast.

Yeux de Serpent. Eyes of the Serpent. One of the toughest games around—if you set it up right.

One of the players slumped in his seat, and when she glanced at the tally screen she saw why. He'd been neatly annihilated in a mere five minutes.

No record. Her worst defeat at Yeux was four minutes.

The winner, a young male about as thick as a wheat stalk, accepted the accolades of his peers as his due. Apparently, he was a celeb in these walls, the guy who'd never been beaten at Yeux de Serpent. She pushed forward when the fan base left to get him a beer. "Bart?"

"Name's LaseMan." He gave her an assessing leer. "I'm busy right now, chica, but you sit on that couch and I'll join with you real soon. The hands are fast, but the night won't be."

"I'll pass. And you're Bart. No one else in this bar would dare claim the title dude extraordinaire." Either from fear of retribution by LaseMan or from utter embarrassment at the label.

"So, who's asking?"

She held out her hand. "Day Daniels."

He ignored the hand, and the leer turned hard. "You're too puny for a Stiff Brim."

She didn't take offense—much—at the weak slur. She'd been called worse. Still, would have been nice if she could have worn her hat, the symbol of her authority. People always took her more seriously with the hat.

"I'm wiry." She resisted the urge to rub her bare head. Instead, she lowered her hand and took a long swallow of her drink. "You want me to flash my badge to prove who I am?"

"In a No-Border techbar? They'd stake me for talking to you. You must be hopped on some powerful drug 'tail if you think I'll talk here."

"Your last info turned bogus. I want the real stuff."

A tattooed girl joined them and handed him a beer. Bart tasted it before answering. "I'm busy now; prepping for a new challenge." He leaned down and gave the girl a sloppy, open-mouthed, tongue-filled kiss before slanting a glance Day's way. "Go away. We're done talking."

Day downed her drink in a single swallow, feeding irritation with a dose of the alkaloid. She didn't have any more time to waste with this self-important, stonewalling mucker. A Mountie had died; she was charged with finding the killer.

Day ran her options, feeling the bite of escaping time. She could put on her hat, make it official and bring Bart in for questioning. Or . . .

She nodded to the Yeux panel. "I challenge you to a game of Yeux de Serpent." She lowered her voice. "Send your fawners out of earshot, and we talk as long as I keep in the game. I'll even sweeten the deal. No questions the first minute of the game, but after that you answer everything, prompt and true, until the game ends. Then I don't bother you ever again about this."

He fingered his knotted goatee. "What's in it for me?"

"Your usual fee. Plus, you're spared the humiliation of them seeing you back down from a challenge. By a woman," she tacked on for good measure.

"Throw in a kiss when you lose, and you got yourself a deal, chica."

"Bring it on."

Bart promptly claimed the Settings chair and turned on the playing field. Ah, machismo was alive and well, even in the twenty-second century Dominion of Tri-Canada.

Day sat in the Colors chair, enjoying the double buzz of caffeine and challenge. She laced her hands, stretching the fingers and cracking the knuckles, as she studied the layout.

Playing field surrounding them in a sphere of color. Easy moving swivel seat with full range. Standard controls on the hand sets, but each machine played a little different, she knew. She'd suggested the minute delay as much to give herself a chance to get the feel of the controls as to give him a nudge. From Bart's smug grin, she knew he expected the game to be over before that minute was up.

Bart was good. Damn good. With the unfamiliar controls, she was hard pressed to keep up with him. As the seconds passed, though, she gained comfort with the controls, giving her fractions better speed as the red lines raced across the holofield. In the first minute, she regained a little space, a little breathing room.

"Minute's up. What do you know about the murder of Luc Robichaux," she commanded, using her best lawman voice.

"No-Borders will break my fingers if I talk about them."

"Mounties would go for the wrists, too," she said just as he twisted his hand in a spectacular move that had her silent and scrambling to counter. "Start spewing."

"They listen to the Voice of Freedom. It's a rallying point."

"It's a sexless electronic voice over the fiberoptics."

"There's a message."

"Free choice, stand up to the United Colonies of Earth Imperialists, a better life for all? We Canadians could have told them about democracy for the last hundred years."

"Banzai."

"What's Banzai?"

"Who. A woman. Spirit of freedom for the Voice of Freedom. The Voice says she brings the ideals of the past. That's all I know." He leaned forward, intensifying the push to win.

"That's it? Not worth what I'm paying you. Shall I make my big announcement?"

When he saw that he wasn't going to get a reprieve by ending the game, he said, "Try the Shinooks. Word is, there's a connection. Something with their tribe leader. The No-Borders got something big going on; the Shinook have a piece of it. But all I heard was a name. A place. Citadel. That's all I know, I swear." Citadel. Day stiffened, her lines stuttering on the fire field. A place of awestruck legend.

The cheers from the watching audience shook her out, told her she'd almost lost the game. Still, she had the new leads she needed, and all he'd give her. She could quit now. Instead, she bent to the controls. Be it all. Do it all. Neither motto allowed for throwing a game.

The game advanced in waves with Bart pulling ahead and her battling back. Fatigue entered the match, and her previously injured shoulder started to burn. Day had no doubts about her stamina; but, frankly, she was getting bored.

Then, she smelled it; the unmistakable acrid aroma of UCE tobacco. Illegal as hell for over a hundred years, but making a comeback, thanks to the No-Borders' smuggling. She sniffed again, risked a glance off the sphere to locate the direction. There, at the rear. She saw a door. "You win, lover." She leaned over and gave a thorough kiss to the shell-shocked Bart.

Never let it be said a Mountie reneged on a bargain.

But, her hand resting on his pressed into the nerves at his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain. His fingers would be powerful sore the next few minutes. She whispered, "Never give me bad data again. Or call me chica."

She released him, then slipped through the crowd, who swarmed around Bart with congratulations. On the far side of the back door, she paused in the empty hall and exercised the kinks from her wrists and fingers. Her shoulder still felt like hell.

At least the caffeine was working her system. When her hands were limber, she drew her hat from her pocket, unfolded it, activated the nano-fed stiff, narrow brim, and then set it atop her head. Official at last.

Cautiously, she advanced down the plush, cold passage, her cloud of breath leading the way. The tiled hall was lined with polymer sculptures and splotch-color art. The hall twisted past some rooms, none of which radiated that distinct odor, all of which were empty when she checked them. The hall doubled back before it ended at an exit. The odor was stronger here.

A sound from behind caught her attention. Footsteps? She paused, head cocked, listening and smelling, annoyed that her heart tripped against her ribs. All she could hear came from the bar she'd just left—music vibrations, talk, the ping of games. Must have been the echo of her boots.

That left outside.

The door opened smooth and silent into a private courtyard. Used for clandestine trysts she guessed from the profusion of pornographic statues, their wire lovers twisted into kama sutra contortions. A narrow tributary of Thunder Creek bisected the courtyard, and behind the thicket of trees lining the banks, she heard indistinct voices. She wound closer until she nudged against a pile of white boxes. Staying in the shadows, keeping one eye on the four men talking and smoking, she crouched down and opened one box. One sniff and taste of the dried leaf inside confirmed her guess. Prime UCE tobacco, ready for rolling and banned for over a hundred years.

This just went from a minor smoking bust and a few coins fine to dealing. Still a misdemeanor, but the fines were heftier.

She wrapped a handful of leaves in her scarf, then pocketed it. Arrest by a Mountie was a conviction, but a little physical evidence never hurt.

The murmur of conversation sharpened in front of her, but so far the four men hadn't spotted her. No weapons in hand, she noticed. They'd have to take a part of a second to draw on her. If they were so inclined. Most tobacco busts were smooth. You arrested them; they paid their fine before the court, and that was it.

Still, she drew her weapon—the mere sight of a Distazer eliminated a lot of pointless bravado and resistance. Long, slow breaths, five of them, gave her oxygen and focus, as she visualized the action plan, then she straightened her hat firmly on her head and stood. The odor of burning tobacco stung her nose, and a smoky haze clung to the air. She pressed back a cough and strode forward.

"Evening, gentlemen. That's an illegal substance you're smoking there. Lay down the cigs and put up your hands real slow."

"Shit, a Mountie," snarled one as they sprang apart.

What happened to surrender? Already this was off plan. She skimmed a line of warning fire, close enough to tingle the hairs on their arms. "Stop! Don't move, except to stretch 'em high. Last warning."

Halifaxing Hell, they kept circling, and they were pulling out weapons. Training kicked in with the dregs of caffeine. Ducking behind the nearest bush, she blasted one in the sciatic, one on the shoulder before he could finish throwing a lethal laser dagger. The dagger clattered uselessly to the ground. She got the third in the elbow, and he cursed as his arm flopped nerveless to his side.

A rustle of leaves sounded behind her. She whirled. She dove, and the deadly beam aimed at her heart sliced the tree instead. Rolling behind a marble pedestal holding a six-foot glass phallus, she pulled her second Distazer, upped the power on both, and slashed with stunning fire, aiming for the pings coming from both directions, getting one.

"Back up!" she scratched into her comm. "Five shooters in the Flash Point courtyard."

The night shook with silent energy blasts. The fourth smoker tossed the tobacco leaf into Thunder Creek. What were they doing out here? This misdemeanor bust had gone loco.

One smoker ate the dirt, but she didn't bother to celebrate. That still left two, plus the guy who'd snuck up on her, and they weren't taking turns in coming after her. Panting, she spared a glance for her guns and swore. Half charged. There hadn't been enough sunlight to recharge the Graetzel cells.

The sculpture above her shattered. Day ducked and rolled. The hat protected her face, but glass shards sliced and stabbed her arms and nape. Threw off her aim, too, but she didn't stop firing blind into the night. All that kept them back was her resistance. An enemy blast hit her elbow, paralyzing her wrist and hand. Number two gun dropped. Blood—her blood—dripped onto the handle. Where had they moved? She held fire. Sweat blinded her as she tried to see how the opponents placed. Her side arm beeped a low power warning.

The fourth smoker finished dumping the leaf, then disappeared, probably circling her. The other two smokers had used her pause to creep forward. Before she could pick one off, a man burst in to view. Lian, the bartender. Great, now she had a civilian to worry about.

"Get ba—" The warning died in her throat. This civilian was packing one of the sweetest looking Distazers she'd ever seen.

Coolly, he picked off the closest smoker.

Fine-looking gun and he knew how to use it.

"Day?" he called, ducking back behind the covering of trees.

He knew her name?

"You hurt?"

"Nah," and just to prove it, she brought down the third smoker.

That left two.

Before she could shout a warning, one shot at the bartender—who avoided being hit only with an athletic sideways leap. She got in one shot before her gun powered off, but it was enough to keep the shooter from finishing the deed. She scrambled for her second gun, hoping it still had power, as the reckless bartender raced forward in attack. The dealer must have decided the odds were no longer in his favor, for she saw his shadow join his companion's in a race toward the rear of the courtyard. Day followed. From the corner of her eye she saw Lian run a quick perimeter, making sure the downed smokers were all still out of commission and wouldn't be launching sniper attacks, then he followed her out into the cold, still night of Moose Jaw.

Just in time to see the two disappear down into the ancient tunnels beneath the city.

"Stay here," she commanded Lian, the civilian. "You were lucky before; you could have gotten hurt. My RCMP backup with be here in a nano."

He nailed her with a hard glance, and for the first time she felt at a dangerous disadvantage. Bleeding, right hand still useless, shoulder on fire, one gun out of power.

"You were outmanned," he snarled, as he squeezed through the opening in the wooden slats and plunged down into the tunnels, reputed to have once been a haven for smugglers.

Day scrambled down the creaking wooden steps into the first dirt-packed cellar in pursuit. At the bottom, she choked down a cough. The tunnels, a labyrinth of dirt walls and storage cellars, smelled of mold, rat droppings, and disuse.

"I was bringing them down," she whispered, making a swift reconnoiter to be sure Rupert didn't look to ambush them from behind one of the barrels.

"Especially the one aiming for your heart." Lian scanned the other half of the room.

"I had a plan. Lian, get back topside. You're not authorized. You shouldn't be here—"

For a moment, his radiating fury was almost palpable, then the hardness in him morphed to a mocking grin. "Could you at least say thanks for speeding along the plan?"

Fine-looking weapon. Fine-looking man, she realized abruptly, and she'd bet he knew how to use that asset, too.

"Quarry went down here, Day." Lian disappeared into one of the branching tunnels.

She turned on her narrow beam light, then caught up to him in the narrow tunnel, Distazer pointing straight at his shoulder blade. "How'd you know my name was Day?"

"Day Daniels, I'm Lian Firebird." He glanced over his shoulder. "Point that Distazer some where useful. I'm your new partner."

top ^