Fearless Read-Along: Chapter Thirty

High school had treated a select handful like kings, and all the rest had been churned up in the machine, spat back out with an impressive collection of bruises and scars. Aidan had known one way of life, and because of it, he’d never been one of the kings. He’d had girls, and he’d had his share of notoriety, but his fame was the kind granted to drop-outs, back-talkers, bathroom-smokers, and class-skippers. He hadn’t ever hated school, it was just that it had always felt like such a massive waste of time. Men were dying, his father’s men, in a war of outlaw against outlaw, and kids two desks over had been having meltdowns about who to ask to homecoming. 

I don't ever write straight-up self-insert characters. That would be silly, because all of my characters are the children of my imagination, so I work some of my own experiences and sentiments into all of my characters - sneakily, I hope. I wasn't a drop-out, back-talker, bathroom-smoker, or class-skipper, but, like Aidan, I felt like school was a massive waste of time. I was in all honors and AP classes, and always did my homework; performed well on my SATs. But there was so much pointless sitting around, and movie watching, and group reading. Lord deliver me from the in-class group "popcorn" reading. I would have much rather studied at home and focused all my efforts on my equestrian endeavors, but alas, I had to go to school. 

I feel like Aidan and Tango meeting with Greg at Stella's is the Big Scene of this chapter. It's Aidan's first POV moment (he's a brat, and not my favorite Dog in a personal sense, but he's very fun to write), and it's the club's first step toward engaging with the rival Carpathians. 

The Greg storyline is actually my favorite secondary plotline in the book. It offered me the chance to explore Aidan in an active, relevant way so that, going forward in the series, you know what sort of person he is. And there's a nice little line in this scene where we start see how deeply his sense of inadequacy runs. 

Aidan grinned – nice and big, lots of teeth showing – and glanced over at Tango to get a matching one in return. They’d played this scenario out so many times over the years – he might not be his father’s go-to guy, no, but he and Tango could circle like boxers with the best of them. Maybe, one of these days, Ghost would take note of that.

Poor dude just wants his dad to be proud of him.

And I think Ghost, had he seen the exchange, would be very proud of Aidan for his little visit to a hungover Mercy at the bike shop. 

“I think I misjudged you, five years ago,” Aidan said, levelly. “And I won’t make that mistake again.”

Aidan's not a confrontational guy when it comes to his club brothers, and he does genuinely like Mercy. But he's got his eye on him. 

Downtown, Ava has her first run-in with Mason Jr. since coming home, and it's as traumatic for her as you'd expect. Not only does she have a physical anxiety response to seeing him, but she's forced to face the hard truth that, no, she doesn't love Ronnie, and doesn't think she ever will. Hardly a shocking revelation. 

What I wanted to touch on with more depth is actually her description of the book shop. 

Wherever she was, whichever city or state, whatever mood she was in, there was nothing like a book store to fill her up with happiness. Her favorite in Knoxville was Fourth Down, a tiny, cramped shop that boasted selling second-, third- , and fourthhand books of all genres, just around the corner from the university, the wall behind the register hosting a huge, artistic shot of Neyland. In this shop, she didn’t have to slog through the double-spaced, fast-read novels that leapt off the center displays in the chain bookstores. Here was where she found fat paperbacks with curling covers, cramped print, and coffee stains on the edges of the pages. Here were her favorites from the nineties, the lyrical novels that redefined genres. Here was where she stumbled across faded hardbacks with handwritten dedications in the fronts, that collection of Kipling poems dedicated to Martha, dated 1917. Fourth Down smelled of ink and dusty paper, collapsing bindings and musty cardboard covers. Dust motes swirled in big sprightly columns in the narrow shafts of sunlight that came in through the high windows. It was a magic place: books on shelves, on stools, in stacks on the floor, spread out in heaps on tables, piled to the ceiling between the windows. Shopping here always brought to mind the scene from Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf digging through scrolls at Minis Tirith.

               “Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked, voice dreamy, as she floated down an aisle and passed a finger along the spines of the books.

               Ronnie followed a few steps behind. “It smells like–”

               “Heaven?”

               “Old people, I was gonna say.” He made a laughing sound in his throat. “You really do love books, don’t you?”

               She sighed to herself. Once upon a time, she hadn’t ever had to explain that to her man. Once upon a time, she’d been stupid. 

Here's a non-shocking confession: I love words. I love when a book has an enthralling or thrilling plot, sure, but I want that to be accompanied by an author's obvious, uncontainable love of words and the play of language. I grew up reading in the nineties, when books of all genres were lush and fully-fleshed, and I don't ever mind - in fact I prefer - stopping to smell the roses. Or, in this case, the old books. The hottest, trendiest books of the last ten years do not jive with my personal stylistic preferences, and it's one of the reasons there's been such an attempt to trash my work as "unedited" by a subset of GR control freaks. 

It is edited, it's just not written to trend. I'm writing for the word lovers out there, and, as such, I get a little indulgent. Ava's moment here is not only reflective of that, but also my statement on the issue. 

White Wolf Read-Along: Chapter Seven

He always tells the truth...except when it comes to admitting that he's in love. Oh, Nik. 

Sasha's on his way to Moscow in Chapter Seven, and he's understandably frightened. 

This is a short chapter, without much plot movement, but it does two things. One: we catch a glimpse of Philippe using a little magic on Sasha. All that drugged-out calm he feels at the start of the chapter isn't natural; Philippe can't compel with the strength of a vampire, but he's dampening Sasha's panic here. 

Sasha didn't register most of what he said, because the strangest sense of calm had come over him once the train started moving.

 

Two, and this is the most important, we see the beginning of Nik and Sasha's relationship. 

The captain's face softened. He didn't smile, but the tension in his jaw eased, and his eyes grew warmer - summer storm clouds rather than winter. "You don't need to be frightened of us. My men and me."

Sasha felt his brows go up. 

A corner of the captain's mouth twitched; Sasha thought he almost smiled. "We're just following orders. It's Monsieur Philippe who has ideas."

 

Nik's comment here about not being "a nice man," is a true one. He's done unspeakable things as a Chekist, but not because he enjoyed them. And while he certainly isn't "nice," with his prickly exterior, his cold facade conceals a very, very tender heart, as we'll come to learn as the series progresses. His grief over losing Dmitri is still raw, and he loathes the idea of subjecting a "volunteer" to Philippe's machinations already. But then he sees Sasha for the first time, and, boom, instant attraction. He's shoving his feelings down ruthlessly, especially after Dima's death, but he falls hard and fast for Sasha in the early days of their mission. He refuses to acknowledge this, even to himself, because he's frightened, and repressed, and this is the Soviet Union in the forties. It's more important that he keep Sasha safe than to indulge in finer feelings. 

Fearless Read-Along: Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

Irresponsible hoodlum was Grammie Lowe’s favorite descriptive phrase for Ghost. Denise Camden Lowe, of former Little Miss East Tennessee fame, had made what she liked to call an educated decision the day her teenage daughter dragged a twenty-seven-year-old biker through the front door for the first time. Men who rode motorcycles and marked themselves in permanent ink were wastrels of the worst kind. “He’ll never amount to anything,” she’d warned Maggie. “And taking advantage of a little girl – he’s a monster!”

               The monster part was debatable, depending on which angle you were looking from. But irresponsible…clearly, Denise had never been on the receiving end of one of the man’s lectures.

               “…at all times,” he was saying, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, hands jammed at his hips, his posture comical. He should have been a drill sergeant, Ava reflected.

               “Why doesn’t he just duct tape you to his back?” Aidan whispered from the corner of his mouth.

               Ava bit down on her tongue against a giggle.

               “What?” Ghost whipped around on them, dark eyes flicking between the two of them.

               Aidan cleared his throat and said, “I was just explaining to your sweet princess here how important it is to listen to your wise–”

               “Stuff it,” Ghost said, and resumed pacing.

               Aidan lifted his brows at her and she pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from snorting.

               Princess? she mouthed, when she could. Kiss my ass. She stuck out her tongue at him.

               He feigned a deep bow in a moment when Ghost was turning on his heel and had his back to them, sitting upright and munching jerky innocently when their dad passed them. 

I don't care how big, bad, scary or powerful someone is, his kids are always going to mock him behind his back. This is one of the lighter scenes in the chapter, like Mercy's antics at Bell Bar later, and I love the chance to sprinkle a little silly in amidst all the angst. 

Twenty-Nine manages to be fun, somber, and, thanks to that, one of the beefier chapters of the book. The emotional meat of it consists of Ava starting to put some labels on her unhappiness since coming home, wrestling with its causes, and the attitudes of the men in her life. Ao3 trope tags would include things like #mutualpining, #jealousy, #ghostisanasshole, and #alcoholconsumption. 

Very Serious plot beats are discussed here, chiefly with regard to the Carpathains' return to Knoxville and all their probable revenge. But one of the scenes mentioned to me most often (and fondly at that) by readers is the Bell Bar scene, where Mercy and Ava both get a little drunk at their respective tables, miss one another, and think the other is beyond reach. 

Mercy said, “Lemme ask you something.” He leaned against the back of his stool, arms folded. “What do you think of that boyfriend of hers? Does he look shifty to you? You know, just your bodyguard opinion. Off the record.”

               “Jesus Christ, Merc,” RJ said.

               Walsh pulled the Johnnie Walker deftly out of reach – both glasses.

               “Hey,” Mercy protested, and Walsh held up a finger in silent refusal.

               “Um…” Littlejohn scratched at his hair. “Shifty like…how?”

               “Like shifty,” Mercy said, exasperated.  Jesus, why was this kid so thick? And why couldn’t he come up with any appropriate synonyms? He wasn’t drunk. Not really… “Like…no es bueno.”

               “Oh, look,” Walsh said, “he’s trilingual.”

               Mercy flipped him the bird. “Write me a sonnet, Shakespeare.” And turned back to the prospect.

               “This is so not good,” RJ muttered.

This is one of the reasons I love Walsh: he's trustworthy. Up to this point, Mercy hasn't been able to talk to any of his club brothers about the way he still feels about Ava, and how difficult it is to see her with Ronnie. Every Dog knows what happened five years ago, but it's not exactly something he can discuss with any of them. Here, it's mostly an alcohol-induced slip of the tongue, but he does trust Walsh, even sober; everyone does. Walsh is the guy who can know all about your dirty laundry, and isn't ever going to gossip about it with anyone else. Though he might try to save you from yourself. At least a little. 

         

     “I want my drink back,” Mercy said, and Walsh moved the glass even farther away.

               “Well that’s not happening.”

 

These bar scenes are also where we meet Holly for the first time! Spoiler alert: I was already mapping Price of Angels in my head at this stage, so I decided to bring her to life a little early and shave off some explaining time in book two. 

“See?” RJ said. “She’s just…something’s off.” He shook his head and poured the beer, frowning as he tried to puzzle it out.

               “She’s scared,” Walsh said. A quick glance to the Englishman’s ever-present flat expression proved that he’d detected the fear, too. His blue eyes touched Mercy’s and they acknowledged each other’s perception. “Of what, who knows. But she ain’t interested in letting any of us help her figure it out.”

               RJ snorted. “Not us, no. But she’s got her sights on somebody for sure.” He motioned across the bar with his mug, and Mercy was surprised to see that Michael had a corner booth all to himself.

               The guy was reading, some thick hardback book open on the table in front of him, hand stroking idly through the condensation on his beer mug. His usual lack of expression seemed appropriate for once, given what he was doing. If it weren’t for the cut, and the hard bulges of muscle visible beneath the long, thin sleeves of his shirt, he would have looked like a professor. As it was, the benign, emotionless picture was set off by a certain terrifying aura of calculated violence.

               And Holly made a beeline for him, sliding into the booth across from him, letting her tray rest against the seat, propping an elbow on the table and saying something to him with a smile that set her whole face to glowing.

               “Michael?” Mercy asked. “She likes him?”

And Ronnie proves that a) he's not as naive as he seems, and b) definitely knows that Ava had some sort of romance with a biker. He'd be stupid not to at least suspect it, given she grew up with the club, but he definitely isn't expecting her ex to be the scariest looking dude he's ever seen.

“Which one is he?”

               Ava felt her throat constrict. “Which one is who?” She tried to play dumb.

               “Okay, I may not have a clue about this club stuff, but I’m not so stupid I can’t see that you obviously had some sort of thing with one of these guys. What was the name ? – Mercy?” He nodded and tipped his head toward the table of Dogs. “Which one? He’s over there, isn’t he? And that’s why you look like you just got punched in the stomach.”

               The waitress returned, with perfect timing, and set down their drinks. Ava ordered them a basket of wings and a plate of fries, and threw down half her drink in one swallow as the brunette stowed her pad and walked away.

               Ronnie may have enjoyed the cleavage, but once the girl was gone, he was laser-guided on Ava again. “So?” He lifted his brows.

               She sighed, and ran her finger around the rim of her heavy glass tumbler. “Mercy, yeah,” she said, feeling defeated. There was no sense pretending at this point, not if he’d figured it out. Her face heated and she furthered the problem with another slug of Jack. “He’s the tall one, with the black hair.”

               Now it was Ronnie’s turn to look like he’d been punched in the stomach. “What?” He twisted around in his chair and took a good long stare at Mercy; he had to be seeing the same stalwart man she saw, the way he made all furniture seem insubstantial. “No.” He was shaking his head when he turned back around, his eyes wide, face pale. “No. No way were you ever with that guy.”

My personal favorite scene of the chapter is the final one, the nighttime kitchen table moment between Ava and Ghost. 

Ava's been rattled, unhappy, and afflicted with a yearning she doesn't want to name outright because it reminds her of five years ago, and makes her feel like a kid again - in a bad way. A lot of this is about Mercy, but not all of it. 

I'm hard-pressed to think of a post-coming-of-age story in which a character is able to return to a life cut short by circumstances and pick right back up where they left off. Student of literature that she is, Ava knows this well, and has told herself, during her time away at undergrad, that she hasn't just moved on, but that she's become a better version of herself. But hearing Ghost say that hurts, because the longer she's back in Knoxville, the more she realizes that her "growth" was a valiant attempt and a convincing charade, but nothing true and spiritual and deep. She's the same person she was before - and that's a person (she thinks) Mercy never loved, and which her father and boyfriend think no longer exists. 

Much is made in literary circles of subverting reader expectations. I chose, in this novel, and the series as a whole, to subvert character expectations instead. Probably the "good" or "correct" outcome would be for Ava to have actually moved on; to fulfill the old "you can't go home again" trope. But I went for the opposite. Ava's fast nearing a crossroads, and quietly accepting here that Ghost will never understand her is another nudge toward a complete and total return to her factory setting. 

“You’re finding your way. Your way, and it has nothing to do with the club, or me...” He frowned savagely. “Or people who ought

to know better.” Read: Mercy. He snorted, then the softening came again, such a rare and valuable thing, that Ava hated that she hated what he said next. “I’m proud of you.”

               Her smile was thin, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “You wanted me to be different.” From the rest of you, she left unsaid.

               “I wanted you to be better,” Ghost corrected. “And you are.”

               The backs of her eyes burned. She blinked and stared at her hands.

               “I just…” Ghost took a troubled breath. “I wanted you to know that. That you’re doing a good job and I’m proud.”

               That was probably her cue to leave, because she wasn’t going to get bigger praise than that. But she felt unsteady. It had been a very long time, she suddenly realized, since she’d sought shelter in the arms and leather-covered chests of any of the Lean Dogs in her life. She missed that. She was rabidly nostalgic for that, and wanted to dive across the table and into her father’s lap so he could tuck her under his chin and promise to put bullets in all her fears.

               But she wasn’t a little girl anymore – not that club-attached girl she’d been growing up – and he was proud of that.

               “You okay?”

               “Fine.” She shoved to her feet so fast her hip caught the edge of the table, and she bit down on a yelp.

               Maggie would have called her back, forced her to sit down again and talk about whatever was putting the stricken expression on her face. But Ghost didn’t – he never did – and he let her go.

Updates 11/24

 

Firstly, Happy Birthday to Miss Sonata, who is officially a yearling this month! She's almost as tall as Kit Kat and Bambi already, so she's gonna be a big gal when she comes into her own. Also the sweetest and most cooperative. Thanks for being the best baby.

On to the book stuff.

If you follow me on Instagram, then you'll know that the whole family's been recovering from Covid. Everyone's feeling better, but not well, ya know? That crap lingers. Which means my last two chapters of Inherent Violence have been much shorter and less informative than originally planned. I was grateful to post something, but not pleased with the length. 

This week, I'm returning to the Wednesday/Friday posting model, and both chapters will be properly long and involved. This story is going to move quickly - in the sense that I know straight where to head with it - if I can continue to feel better and better each day. I'd also like to continue with my Dartmoor origins posts over on Substack.

Speaking of: You can get all caught up with paid and free posts on Substack HERE. The next chapter of Inherent Violence drops this Wednesday for paid subscribers. 

Read-alongs pick back up this week as well, starting today with the next chapter of Fearless. Get all caught up HERE.

I'm still scrambling to get Avarice of the Empire out before the end of the year, so keep your fingers and toes crossed that I manage to accomplish that.

Sorry, everyone, for being slow. Thanks so much for sticking around! 

#TeaserTuesday: Would Have Been Romantic

 

I evilly can't wait for everyone to read some of the big reveals in this installment. 

Almost there! Just a couple more chapters. Today's teaser is a rare calm moment. 

Alfie wasn’t thrilled about toting a second passenger. She tolerated Rune, because Tessa loved him, and had stroked her face and assured her that he would be a gentleman. She even liked him, ordinarily, her affection a genuine ripple of pleasure through the bond when Rune scratched behind her frill or offered her a scrap of meat from his dinner. But the distribution of weight on her back was different. She didn’t struggle, per se—Tessa would have put her foot down about taking Rune along if the test flight had proved unsuccessful—but there was an adjustment period, when they first started climbing into the sky.

Now, morning officially underway, the sun a washed-out lemon wedge along the horizon, they’d reached altitude and Alfie didn’t have to flap her wings so hard. She conveyed her comfort to Tessa, and Tessa, sitting forward in the saddle, hair streaming back from her face beneath her helmet, finally began to relax.

The view was breathtaking.

Jagged, snow-capped peaks pierced a layer of cloud so thick and opaque it looked like a fluffy bearskin rug rolled across the earth. The air was frigid up this high, as cold as the height of winter in Aeretoll; it stung her cheeks, made her eyes water. She was glad of Rune’s arms warm and strong around her; the heat of his chest pressed tight to her back.

Had they not been riding to their certain doom, it would have been romantic. 

Fearless Read-Along: Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

Finally, our long sojourn to the past comes to a close. Did anyone have to go back and peek at what was happening pre-flashback to get up to speed? No shame; i did it, too. It feels like an age has passed while we witnessed Ava and Mercy's disastrous first attempt at romance. But it means that, going forward, we know exactly what happened between them, and not only do their actions in the first part of the novel make sense, but we have underlying context for everything that's about to happen. Stylistically, I enjoy that gut punch of Part Two. You know from chapter one that they're exes, but now you know how painful it is to be around one another again. 

In Chapter Twenty-Eight, we have a sweetish brother/sister moment.

               “He’s outside, you know.” Aidan pretended to find the contents of his jerky bag fascinating.

               “I know.” She sighed again. “How f***ed up is it that I miss him?”

               “Pretty f***ed up.” He bumped her shoulder with his in what amounted to a big show of support from him. “But I get it.”

               “You do?”

               “Not even a little bit. Just being nice.”

               She snorted. “That’s a first.”

               “Hey, I’m nice. I’m super fucking nice.” Wicked half-grin. “Just ask Monique.”

               “Ugh.” She let her head fall sideways, so it was supported on his shoulder. “You’re hopeless.”

               “Kinda great, huh?”

               Ares looked between them, thumping his tail on the floor, hoping for another handout.

               “Hey, Aidan? Thanks for running the creep show off.”

               He made a dismissive sound.

And we have some world-building and plot movement on Maggie's end of things. 

The casket showcase had a view of the street through tall windows Maggie had always found ill-placed. Because of them, she and Jackie had been sitting ducks while they shopped. Flanders’ wasn’t the nicest funeral home in town, but it was one that had always served the Dogs, and for that, they were all loyal customers. Down a short, carpeted hallway, they found the owner, Byron Flanders, waiting for them amid the potted urns in the sunlit lobby. Bright rays slanted in through the front, white-swagged windows, finding the delicate hollows of the orchids and lilies.

               Flanders – narrow, petite, immaculate, almost effeminate – glided toward them in a tan summer suit, his footfalls silent on the short-napped carpet. “Ladies, I trust you found something that will suit?”

I love the world-building scenes. While I do use some real-life Knoxville landmarks, the shops and restaurants are all fictional. I feel like creating a tangible environment beyond the main characters' homes grounds the story in a way that lends credibility to the wilder, more extreme moments of action. Once you're fully submerged in the setting, and it feels like a real, walkable place, the plot is easier to accept. 

The chapter ends on a "dun-dun-DUN" note with the knowledge that the Carpathians are back in town, and likely out for revenge, given what Maggie tells Jackie here. 

Maggie bit down on her lip as one of the bikers plucked at her memory. “That one.” She tapped a finger at the glass. “The old president’s son. Jasper Larsen.”

               “How do you know that?” Jackie asked.

               Maggie sighed. “Because Mercy killed his father and uncle on Ava’s bedroom floor.”

White Wolf Read-Along: Chapter Six

Sasha was nineteen, and foolish enough to think his life would always be his.

In 1942, after the Battle of Moscow, Soviet leadership began conscripting young men and women from Siberia to refill the decimated ranks of the Red Army. The sad truth is, even if Nik and co. hadn't ventured to retrieve Sasha, he would have wound up a soldier regardless. 

It's hard to imagine, even as someone living in the United States, the incredible vastness of Siberia. It's true that they did, and do, think of themselves as "free," compared to their fellow Russians. The tsars largely left them to their own devices, and even the Bolsheviks failed to bring them under the boot heel the way they did with western Russia and the steppe lands. The weather's brutal, summers and winters severe in extremes, with short-lived springs and falls. But they were far removed from the revolutionary politics of Moscow, St. Petersburg, or Stalingrad (now Volgograd), and Sasha's attitude reflects this. He's not known the starvation and subjugation of urban Russians, and that furthers his already-natural sunny disposition. 

In this chapter, Sasha "meets," or is accosted by, rather, Nikita's strike team of Chekists. He obviously has no fine feelings about Nikita, but he notices him.

A few years older than Sasha, dark-haired, snowflakes melting on his jacket, his eyes hard and blue-gray. His face was handsome, but cruel. Shut up like a summer dacha, revealing nothing.

I tend to be what George R.R. Martin calls a "gardener" when it comes to writing long-form book series. I let relationships develop organically, and this oftentimes leads me away from an initial idea, and toward a more natural romantic pairing. As a character grows, so too does my idea of what a happily ever after might look like for them. 

But in this case, I planned for Nik and Sasha to end up together from the very beginning. It was just a sloooooow burn. I wonder how many people suspected that's what I was doing, or if it came as a surprise as the series unfolded. 

Sasha also meets Philippe, and is rightly suspicious of him.

His smile made Sasha think of the hunt, the moment of stillness when the sights were leveled and the trigger finger was ready. The held breath before the shot.

The Chekists were in the business of searching homes, confiscating valuables and daily staples alike, and raping wives and daughters. There's no way Sasha can refuse to go along with them, and he and his parents both know this. So does Philippe, which is why he uses fear to manipulate them.

"I don't think I have to tell you that they are not gentle men."

It's a quick peek into Nik's POV, but we see his extreme guilt complex at work. At this point, he just wants out, no matter what shape that takes.

This line of work would get him killed one day.
And it would be a relief. 

I got such a kick out of writing this first meeting knowing where the characters would end up down the road. Knowing that things get better, and that they find a little slice of happiness amidst the crazy. Also knowing how abrupt, frightening, and seemingly careless this meeting is, and how important they'll be to one another later.