Ami Ruda Writes

Shattered Bond

Shadow and Light (Book One)

…A short plant with red leaves caught my eye.

“Hey, can you shine a light this way?”

August flicked his lighter, producing a small flame. He pulled the Light, forming threads that he wove into a large, shimmering ball. Wispy strings of moonlight, drawn to his magic, joined the glimmering sphere. It floated above his free hand as he walked over.

“Not too close,” I cautioned before hunching over the plant to study it. 

It had a woody stem with leaves in bunches of three, looking similar to an oak sapling but with slightly fatter points around the edges of the leaves. At this time of year, the leaves were a fiery red, and it wouldn’t be long before they fell off.

Shooting August a mischievous grin, I searched my pockets. Perfect, I had a tissue. 

“What is it?” he asked, voice wary. 

“Poison oak.”

“And you’re…collecting it?”

“Yep.”

“Why?” he asked in a resigned tone, as if he already knew.

“I thought I’d rub some in a certain werewolf’s underwear.” 

He groaned but continued to illuminate the plant for me as I picked two more leaves before gingerly folding them in the tissue and slipping them into my pocket.

Pax’s magically enhanced body would break down the poisonous oils quicker than a human, meaning he might not even break out in a rash, but constant contact with the oil—say on an item of clothing in a sensitive area—would at the very least make for some itchy few hours.

Just one more small act of defiance, wearing him down. Revenge tasted so much sweeter when it was taken one morsel-sized bite at a time.

There was a sudden, hard yank on my slave bond. A sharp, shrill howl sliced through the night.

I straightened. August’s Light-cast orb blinked out, deepening the shadows.

I tried to decipher the cry. Had they killed a prey or was it something more? Every muscle in my body tensed as I stood rigid, listening with my breath held.

Another cry rent the air, deeper this time. It was the howl of the alpha, and I knew what that sharp rise and steady fall meant.

Vampires.

“Run!” August yelled….

…Then the vampire queen said to Malachi, “I’ll kill her right now if you don’t tell me what you know.”

Malachi barked out a cold, cruel laugh. “I’m sorry, were you under the impression you could use her as a bargaining chip?” He bent over, laughing harder. “Can you believe that, Pax?”

His lieutenant chuckled, his eyes flashing with disdain in my direction.

Queen Selena, clearly not expecting this reaction, seemed taken aback for a moment. “What do you mean? You’ve been searching for her; she’s your fated mate.”

Slowly, Malachi straightened. He wiped tears from his cheeks and met my eyes for the first time. Damn this destined mate business. Despite all that had happened, that attraction was still there. Faint, but there it would remain until I fully mated with another, or one of us was dead. I hated him for this, for these uninitiated emotions, for not wanting me.

“Go to hell,” I said, unsure if I was saying it to him or her or to all of them.

“You misunderstood,” Malachi said to the vampire queen without taking his eyes off me. “In the beginning, yes, I was hunting her, but then I kept searching because of who she was with.” I frowned. “I didn’t come here to rescue her.” He reached for his gun and aimed the barrel at me. “I came here to kill her.”

The muzzle flashed. A loud boom shook the air. 

My head snapped back as he shot me in the head.

Party Pandemonium

Traveling Town Mysteries (Book 10b of Eleven)

Ella Barton stared into the dancing flames of a sweltering bonfire while her two best friends argued over whether one of them could use her homemade smoke grenade to clear the church for the potluck that would soon commence. They both had thirty years on Ella, but neither behaved like your typical senior citizen.

Wink, the owner of Grandma’s Kitchen and Ella’s friend, was shaking her head. “We can’t, Flo. We tried that a few years back, remember? Shorty had an asthma attack, and the sheriff banned us from the next three potlucks.” 

For a Halloween costume, Wink was wearing an old-fashioned aviator’s helmet in an attempt to emulate her idol, Amelia Earhart. It made sense, given Wink’s affinity for heights. And adrenaline. And anything else that made Ella’s buttocks clench in paralyzing fear.

Flo, who’d proposed the grenade question, harrumphed. She seemed thoroughly put out that neither Ella nor Wink supported the use of potluck explosives, so she rummaged through her purse, murmuring complaints about the “puny bonfire” needing a little liquid encouragement. Ella caught a whiff of the pungent fumes of kerosene wafting from the woman’s ginormous handbag, accompanied by the clinking of metal and glass. 

Feeling the need to intervene, Ella leaned over and asked, “Whatcha got in there, Rambo?”

“Mind your own business, Poodle Head.” 

Flo had bestowed the nickname on Ella after a particularly humid day had frizzed Ella’s curly hair to the point that she looked like a backup singer in an ’80s hair metal band.

Ella just hoped that the town’s usual potluck fiascos weren’t worse tonight. This week’s food gathering had been elevated to a Halloween party once people realized that the two dates happened to coincide. 

The trio currently stood before a raging bonfire on Keystone Village’s church grounds while they waited for the party inside to start. Depending on the day, the church doubled as a town hall, bingo hall, and occasional holiday party venue. At that moment, its white steeple pierced an angry canopy of clouds that threatened to rain at any moment. 

Keystone Village was like any typical town—except it came from the 1950s. Yes, the actual 1950s. About ten years back, a dome of light and plasma had suddenly appeared over the village. Then the entire township and surrounding outskirts had been transported to 1920s Chicago. This erratic behavior had continued ever since, with the dome appearing without warning, relocating the town, then disappearing again. That was how Ella had come to be stranded in Keystone.

…

Ella had just enough time to gape at the storm before an arm in a bomber jacket reached through the open doorway and yanked her inside. 

“You’re late,” Wink said, dragging Ella across the sanctuary. 

In the span of fifteen seconds, the dress Ella had commandeered from Flo’s closet had been soaked through. She dripped a trail of water on the hardwood floor as they navigated a swelling crowd. 

On the left-hand side of the sanctuary, chairs had been arranged around circular tables. On the right, long tables groaned beneath mounds of food. The usual accouterments of casseroles, lasagnas, and pot roasts were lit by Jack-o’-lanterns and more candles than a Bath & Body Works store. If the fire code violations and white sheet ghosts hanging from the rafters weren’t enough to mark the special occasion, then the dessert table certainly was. In place of the usual sugary smorgasbord were popcorn balls, frosted pumpkin-shaped cookies, and homemade taffy that was sure to test the hardiest of dental fillings.

Her appetite decreased when she spied a wobbling, salmon-colored gelatin mold with strawberries and what appeared to be cut up hot dogs suspended inside. She wondered if she would ever understand the 1950s obsession with gelatin molds.

For her part, Ella had brought nothing, as she was banned from bringing food by her friends and the town council after a food poisoning incident involving undercooked egg salad, summer heat, and expired mayonnaise.

A young ghost darted past her, chasing a witch and climbing over hay bale decorations. Among the costumed revelers were a few pirates—whether they were in costume or actual pirates, she couldn’t be sure in this town—several hobos of the Red Skelton variety, and more than a handful of Lone Rangers. 

And clowns. There were clowns everywhere.

Up on the short stage at the front of the sanctuary, a hobo pounded an upbeat ditty on a piano, occasionally looking askance at his musical accompaniment: a man plucking away on an out-of-tune ukulele, not even bothering to keep time. 

Ella could feel the anticipation in the room growing as the crowd formed a perimeter around the buffet, bumping into each other as they jockeyed for the best position.

But before Ella could find a suitable spot, Wink thrust an old-fashioned football helmet into her hands. Ella’s nose wrinkled. “Why does this helmet smells like vinegar?”

“Don’t know. Put it on.”

“But my costume.” Ella pointed at the cotton bouffant on her head. It had taken an hour of teasing and shaping as well as half a container of talcum powder to achieve Flo’s washed-out gray beehive.

Wink ignored her protest, jamming the helmet down on Ella’s head herself. Ella was then bodily moved into position, and it wasn’t until she twisted the helmet around to be able to see that she could scope out their competition. Doris, the history teacher handing out walnuts, must have gotten the fire under control because she stood a few yards away, stretching her limbs in preparation. Ella still needed to talk to her about that odd message hidden in her nut.

When she caught Doris’s eye, Ella shot her a friendly smile. Instead of returning the gesture, however, the teacher’s expression hardened. 

Eesh, this town and its competitive potlucks. Or was she upset about the bonfire? It wasn’t as if Ella could control Flo; no, that woman was a force unto herself.

But then she noticed Doris’s eyes were directed slightly left of Ella to a man in a clown costume, not the friendly kind you see at kids’ birthday parties, but the creepy, vintage kind. And because this was Keystone, he wore a wizard’s hat.

“Don’t forget your assignment,” Wink said, drawing Ella’s attention back to the party.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on casseroles. Just don’t forget to grab Birdie’s pumpkin pie.”

Flo had joined them. “I got my area covered.” Her face split into a maniacal grin as she reached into her purse and produced something vaguely resembling a flute or a recorder.

Ella’s voice rose a full octave. “Is that a blowgun? Where in the Elmer J. Fudd did you get a thing like that? Will?” 

Just saying his name made her heart and stomach flutter. William Whitehall was an inventor from the 1920s who’d come to be stranded in the town as Ella had. He was a genius ahead of his time; roguishly handsome, funny, and just sane enough not to qualify as a mad scientist. Just the way she liked her men.

Wink gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “She’s had that blowgun for ages. Though, I thought Chapman had confiscated it after she hit Reverend Bates’s backside with a dart.”

“Accidentally. I was aimin’ for Shirley. She said my shortbread cookies tasted like chalk.” Flo used the sleeve of her choir robe to polish a section of the weapon in a way that bordered on indecent. “I haven’t been able to use it for a while.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Ella said, “but is it because you ran out of darts?”

“Nah, ran out of poison.”

“Uh-uh, nope. Give it here.”

“Don’t get your britches in a knot.”

“The phrase is ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’”

Flo’s hearing turned selective. “Relax, I modified the poison recipe from my aerosolized sleeping agent. The most it’ll do is give someone a five-minute nap.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

At the front, Ukulele Joe began another musical assault on his instrument. It took five bars before Ella realized he was strumming Hot Cross Buns. Joe huffed when the crowd’s protests reached a crescendo. Stopping mid-song, he pronounced the feast about to start.

Anxiety rolled down Ella’s spine like a wave before settling in her gut. She hated this part.

Next to her, Wink squatted into a runner’s stance.

Across the way, a Lone Ranger cracked his knuckles. A few lips murmured the Lord’s Prayer as their owners crossed themselves.

Back at the microphone, Joe had forgone his instrument so he could pat his large hands over his pockets, a crevice forming between his brows. A town councilwoman sidled up to his elbow, cleared her throat, and surreptitiously handed over a starter pistol. The only sound in the sanctuary now was the rain drumming a dull roar on the roof.

The pistol went off like a cannon, resulting in a few surprised screams—including from Ella. Splinters of cedar ceiling rained down. Joe blinked at the gun, surprised by the live ammunition, then shrugged. 

Pandemonium ensued. A six-foot-tall behemoth in a gorilla costume shoved Ella aside. 

She recovered quickly. Sprinting, she used her elbows to clear a path in the gorilla’s wake, sending a “Sorry, Betty,” to an elderly woman she barreled over. 

Her target was in the middle of the buffet. 

She ducked under a flying slice of garlic bread, then leaped over two clowns wrestling on the hardwood floor, one of them with the wizard hat from earlier.

“You’re going down, sport!” one of the clowns yelled before she was out of earshot.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She spared a glance at the dessert table, and her footsteps faltered. Wink was taking on Sally, Ella’s nemesis. The little girl, all freckles and blonde pigtails, smiled sweetly before lobbing a water balloon through the air. 

Ella didn’t get to see the outcome. Watching the showdown had cost her precious seconds, and a freight train in the form of a colonel in a soldier’s Civil War uniform (which she knew from seeing him around town was his actual, everyday attire) slammed into her. 

Her body flew through the air. Stars pricked her vision.

Rolling onto her stomach, she then staggered to her feet. Score one for the moldy football helmet, though she still came away from the collision with a fat lip and a deeper understanding of Newton’s third law of motion. 

It took Ella a moment to get her bearings again before she was off again. She circumvented a witch whose hands were full as she put a Lone Ranger in a headlock over a bowl of mashed potatoes. 

As Ella was passing Flo, the crazy woman ducked several flying olives, then belted out a battle cry before bringing the blowgun to her lips.

In one smooth swipe, Ella confiscated the weapon without breaking stride. Flo called her several dirty names, but her insults were quickly swallowed by the din.

At last, Ella reached the casseroles, but she wasn’t the only one. Across the expanse of food, a witch shouted at some unseen partner to grab more turkey legs, then stared her down.

Ella licked bruised lips, then dove for the serving spoon. Her adversary—being closer—already had her fingers curled around the handle. What followed was an intense utensil tug-of-war.

Ella was just considering abandoning the utensil to scoop up casserole barehanded when an ear-splitting bang split the air. Her grip slipped from the spoon, sending her reeling.

The smell of gunpowder filled the air. She searched for the source, expecting to find Ukulele Joe’s “starter pistol” as the culprit.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had fired a gun in the church (Ukulele Joe notwithstanding). There was that time Shorty had taken offense to someone using his toupee as a frisbee and had whipped out what Flo called a “peashooter that wouldn’t tickle a bear.” Heck, in a town of outlaws, pirates, and Vikings, one came to expect the occasional shootout.

Then a piercing scream behind Ella made her spin around. The sea of people formed a circle, shuffling back from a central point with looks of horror. There, only five feet away, lay the clown in the wizard hat sprawled on the floor. Beneath him was a puddle of blood expanding across the hardwood floor.

Ella’s world tilted. She staggered over and knelt beside him. His breath came out ragged and wet. 

Her brain was slow to catch up. Stop the bleeding. 

The crimson flow stemmed from a single point in his chest, like a bullet wound.

She didn’t dwell on this or consider the implication as she swiped a stack of cloth napkins from the casserole table and pressed them to his wound.

“Quick!” she heard herself shouting. “Someone find Pauline.” She could swear she’d spotted the doctor in a cat costume just a few minutes prior.

Her plea was easily heard over the crowd as the remaining pandemonium from those unaware that something tragic had just happened faded like a ripple in a pond, emanating out from the injured man. Whispers rustled around her.

“What happened?”

“I heard a scream, turned around, and there he was, on the floor.”

“Is that blood?”

A clap of thunder shook the church, and the lights flickered. The clown with the wizard hat had stopped breathing. His eyes now held an unfocused stare at some distant point she couldn’t see. Then he let out a final breath. 

“No,” she whispered, applying more pressure to the wound.

The crowd parted, but Ella didn’t look up. Someone knelt beside her. She recognized Pauline’s hand as it checked for a pulse in the man’s neck. The doctor released a weary sigh that said this happened too often. Gently, she reached over and pulled Ella’s blood-stained hands away.

“He’s dead,” the doctor pronounced.