Christmas Newsletter
Have I ever mentioned I'm really bad at these? Because I'm really bad at these.
I could do it more often, if I wanted to chirp about whatever the latest kerfuffle on the funny farm (aka, the writing community) happens to be. But I promised myself and all twelve of you, my subscribers, that I wouldn’t spam your inboxes. Besides, who really wants to read every obscure take on every minor disagreement? That’s how mole hills turn into mountains.
The Big News: Winds of Change
Is now available! Hardcover and softcover, priced at $35 and $25 respectively through standard commercial outlets, or $30 and $20 through my website. It is a single novel detailing the end of Rifun’s story. It is not necessary to read The Hands of Time, or any other book, beforehand, although I’m not going to discourage the practice.
By all accounts, Rifun should not be alive. He’s taken a pickax to the head, been stabbed in the chest, suffered years of torture, survived poison, and still gone on to lead intergalactic armies and conquer worlds.
But that was all “before.” When he still had the ability to manipulate Time, Matter, and Energy, and cause the physics of the universe to bend to his will.
That’s all gone now. His body is broken, his vision is failing, and his supernatural abilities have been stripped from him by a deity he believes he has irredeemably failed. Now he sits in a maximum security prison in West Virginia, waiting for his many, many enemies to come take their revenge.
He’s made peace with his fate, but fate isn’t ready to accept his apologies. There’s one more thing he has left to do in this life, but he’s going to have to figure out how to pull it off while in prison with no vision and no abilities. Can he redeem himself in the end, or will he fade into the afterlife he’s earned?
The Rest of the Story
I have officially decided to suspend the production of ebooks for the time being, although I will not be removing any that are already available. I know people really like ebooks, for a variety of reasons, including price and portability, but I have my own reasons for discontinuing.
Formatting. It has always been a fight to get the formatting right, and I know that some of my first ebooks don’t look all that pretty on a reader. If I spend an hour on regular paper formatting, I spend two hours on ebook formatting. If I could just upload a PDF and be done with it, I would, but Smashwords is the only one I know of who does that, and by Draft2Digital metrics, my best outlet is Apple Books.
Authenticity. I don’t doubt that someone has fed my books into an AI. I personally do not believe that my books are so breath-taking that people are conjuring up their own stories “in the style of Brooke Shaffer” or “use Tommen/Kayla/Rifun” or whatever the prompt may be. And I wouldn’t be especially worried if they were because I still write better than AI. The main purpose here is an attempt at portraying authenticity to my readers and the general public. I don’t know how well I’m going to succeed.
Ownership. Printed books cannot be revoked because you didn’t pay your iPhone bill. Printed books don’t have ads. Printed books will not be interrupted by Candy Crush notifications. Printed books can be loaned out to family and friends. Printed books can be put on a shelf for ten years, move with you four or five times, and picked back up again without needing to save, update, find an app, find a file, or charge a device. Just open it up and read. It’s yours.
I may do ebooks again in the future. I’m not swearing them off by some holy vow. This is just a suspension, to see how things develop in the world of AI.
As for audiobooks, I know The Chivalrous Welshman is unfinished, as is The Hands of Time. I’d really like to get those done. Mostly it’s a matter of time and motivation. If someone were to message me and specifically ask for those books, I would be more inclined to put effort on that front. Right now, I’m not inclined, but I haven’t forgotten.
The Fun Things: A Short Story
As a Christmas gift from me to you, I wrote a short story. This is kind of the bridge between the end of The Hand Holding the Knife (The Hands of Time #3/F) and Turning Point (TCW #9), showing a little more of the relationship between Rifun and Godwin. This was a one-shot attempt, really only edited for spelling, but it may be considered canon.
***
The Final Plan
Haunstein cursed when he saw who stood on his doorstep. “Can’t you people ever just come see me at the hospital? At the very least, can’t you stop by during the day? My neighbors think I’m selling pilfered drugs on the side.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Godwin said, shouldering his way inside. “We don’t pay you. Besides, you asked me to come last time.”
The emergency room doctor closed the door and followed the mercenary into the kitchen. “He’s still downstairs. Stays in bed most of the time, don’t think he sleeps much, but I haven’t had to resuscitate him again, and his seizures are far less frequent than they were.” Haunstein folded his arms. “I think he’s finally on the upswing.”
Godwin nodded once and saw himself to the basement door.
Haunstein’s basement wasn’t anything remarkable. Only part of it was finished, the rest still haunted by ghost contractors, or so he put it. The one room that was finished had been more of a storage area when Rifun commandeered it, and this had not changed much in the weeks since.
The room smelled of sweat, fear, and the beginnings of a mold problem. Boxes were stacked high in every corner and along the walls, dented cardboard cliffs inset with and held up by lamps, Christmas decorations, and other miscellany that would not fit in regular containers. The walls were only primered, still awaiting a final color, and the floor was a mosaic of mismatched carpet squares of varying styles, textures, and colors.
The bed was unspeakably old, left over from the previous homeowner and still in pieces when Rifun showed up looking for accommodation. A rusted hollow frame of long-outdated brass, mattress springs that had long ago lost their springiness, another mattress futilely dressed in three fitted sheets in order to hide whatever lurked in the stained pillowtop. The blankets were in decent shape, though: a summer comforter topped by a fleece throw of some cowboy patterns and a knitted throw of alternating brown and red rows.
The man sleeping under those blankets had certainly seen better days; even one who didn’t know him could see that. His skin was pale and gleaming with unwashed sweat, his long hair was greasy, his overall countenance slightly shrunken against his skull as if he hadn’t eaten or drunk for some time. Only the rhythmic rise and fall of the blankets said he wasn’t a corpse.
Godwin slammed the door behind him. It made Haunstein jump and curse again, but while Rifun flinched and blinked sunken eyes back to wakefulness, it was far cry from the man who could launch out of bed like a rocket if he so much as sensed another living being in the same room while he was sleeping.
It was an agonizing wait as the man slowly came around, squinting pitifully against the rather dim light while drunkenly searching for the cause of the noise. Finally, his gaze settled on Godwin.
“Do you know how many times I could have killed you while you took your sweet time waking up?”
Rifun let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “I thank you for not doing so.” Another sigh. “Why are you here?”
“Checking up on you, sir. Good doctor here says you’re finally on the mend.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” Haunstein answered pointedly.
“Midnight?” With the coordination of a toddler, Rifun fished his hand out of the blankets so he could rub his eyes and face. “Shit, this is the first time I’ve slept more than two hours at a time since I got here.”
“Good to hear.”
“So why did you wake me?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t be sure you weren’t dead.” Not entirely a lie. Godwin looked at Haunstein and made a gesture. “Get out.”
“Excuse me?” the doctor asked.
“You heard me. Get out. We have to talk.”
The doctor had no real choice but to acquiesce; there was no way he was going to be able to make them do anything. Grunting a frustrated sigh, he stalked out of the room, making a point of slamming the bedroom door behind him.
“Has something happened?” Rifun was sitting up with all the strength and grace of a ninety year old, struggling to figure out how to make his body move and push the blankets away at the same time.
Godwin cursed. “You look like shit. You ought to eat something.”
Rifun made a sound like a sputtering laugh. “Maybe I will, if I’m truly on the mend and not at so great a risk of throwing up everything in my stomach and my intestines.”
“Human body doesn’t work like that, sorry to say.” Godwin went to sit on the edge of the bed beside Rifun. “As to your question, no, nothing’s happened, good, ill, or otherwise. But I do think we need a plan of action.”
“Survive, that’s the plan.” Rifun went on before he could speak. “I don’t have my Akari abilities anymore, and Haunstein still can’t say if my seizures are the result of poisoning or if they are permanent.”
“An unfortunate predicament, but—”
“What do you want from me, Win? I barely know what month it is, I might have the strength for a bath if I’m lucky, and even if I were in good physical condition, I still don’t have my Akari abilities.”
Godwin respected Rifun. The man had seen some shit and still gone on to do incredible things. But this was really starting to try his patience. “Alexander the Great didn’t have Akari abilities. Hannibal didn’t have Akari abilities. Neither did Xerxes, Genghis Khan, Gustavus Adolphus, Sitting Bull, or William Wallace. Vlad Teppis, maybe. Point is, such abilities only serve to augment greatness; they are not greatness in and of themselves. You were leading armies even with your seizures. You were fighting the occupation of your homeland before the Akari, even before Time. Don’t give me this pity party shit that you can’t do anything now.”
Rifun groaned again, rubbed his face again, smearing the oil and sweat on his face like oils on a bowling lane. “Except my enemies do have those abilities.”
“Those enemies are still mortal. They can still be killed just as readily as you or I.”
“Are the Miaramila in a position to launch an attack?”
The question was rhetorical, almost sarcastic, and the answer a grudging, “No.”
They sat in silence for several minutes at which time Rifun excused himself to utilize the adjoining bathroom which was in just as impeccable shape as the bedroom. When he returned some ten minutes later, he no longer staggered and stumbled, and the oil and sweat had been washed from his face.
“You can’t attack the Order; that would be suicide,” he stated, standing in the doorway wearing nothing but boxers and an undershirt, both of them less than fresh. In his sickly state, his scarred flesh looked even more gruesome. “But maybe I can buy you some time to find someplace to dig in, something a little safer and more physical than a stolen Psiaco pirate ship.”
Godwin lifted his chin a little. There he was. “What did you have in mind, sir?”
“I’m going to turn myself in.”
“Sir? Turn yourself over to Julianna?”
Rifun shook his head slowly, carefully, and made his way over to a backpack containing clothes they’d pilfered while hiding in Belgium. “Hardly. Turn myself into Earth-side authorities, the police department of Charleston, West Virginia.”
Godwin considered this while Rifun pulled out a change of clothes and a few toiletries. Then, “You’re going for the spectacle of it. Walter and Tommen would hear about it, no doubt parade it everywhere, maybe launch their own kind of Time-side or Akari-side investigation, however that goes, and it would inevitably attract Julianna’s attention, especially if I slip some of that information through my contacts still in the Order. Trials take some time, and the desire to hear testimony and see evidence, hear the verdict, it might entice her out into the open. Might even keep her engaged long enough to not kill you immediately.”
Rifun nodded. “And the attention would give you time to find somewhere to dig in, regroup, and make a real plan.”
“It’s a step in the right direction, I think, but is this the best idea you can come up with? Exposing yourself like that...it would only work once. And there’s no guarantee she wouldn’t just kill you anyway.”
“I don’t think so. Men only kill. Women will torture, and they’ll do it with a smile.”
Godwin frowned. “Your own experience says otherwise, sir, but you’re on the right track.”
“As for my best idea…” He ran a comb through his long hair, his expression speaking to every kink and snarl and knot he encountered. “I haven’t spent too much time thinking the last few weeks, not lucidly, anyway. I’m amazed I came up with this, to be honest.”
He paused in his combing, his expression zoning out as he blindly groped for the bed. Godwin stood, waiting for the drop. None came. With one hand, Rifun loosely gathered his waist-length hair to keep it out of the way, and with the other hand, he steadied himself on the bed so he could turn around, sit, and slowly lie down. Only once he was settled did he seem to come back to himself and he relaxed. Godwin shook his head.
“You need food and water. You’re thin, you’re dehydrated. Stay here.”
Haunstein was pacing around the kitchen and muttering to himself when Godwin emerged upstairs.
“And?” the doctor demanded.
Godwin went straight for the cupboards, grabbing a large glass and filling it with water. “He’s on the mend, which means he should be mending. Food, water.” He moved to a different set of cupboards that functioned as a small pantry. Timekeepers didn’t need a lot of food, but still more than none.
“Does this mean you’re moving him out of my basement?”
“Not quite yet. Maybe once he can stand up for five minutes without fainting from exhaustion.” He picked out a can of chicken broth three years old, then set about warming it up on the stove.
“You know we have microwaves now, right?” Haunstein yawned.
“You can go to bed at any time,” Godwin informed him, invoking Thermodynamics on the stove to heat the broth quickly. He shut the stove off. “I need no supervision.”
He turned as if to return to the basement, then paused and made for the man’s fridge. Haunstein made an exasperated sound but did not move to stop him. Godwin grabbed another glass and filled it with iced tea. “You really have assimilated, haven’t you?”
Haunstein dropped his Kentucky drawl for his natural Swiss accent. “That’s what you do when you move to another country—” He switched to straight German. “—besonders wenn du mehrere Leben durchlebst.” (especially when you are living through multiple lives.)
“Glauben Sie mir, ich weiß alles darüber.” Godwin straightened. “Gute Nacht, Herr Arzt.” (Believe me, I know all about that. Good night, Doctor.)
The man muttered something under his breath, but Godwin ignored him as he grabbed the broth and drinks and headed back downstairs.
Rifun was sitting up on the edge of the bed, still working on his hair. Godwin took the comb out of his hand and pressed the glass of iced tea in its place.
“Drink.”
Rifun gave him a look. “This swill? Do you know what Americans put in their tea?”
“Nothing worse than what Julianna put in your tea. Drink.”
His expressions from the discomfort of tangled hair carried effortlessly over into his distaste for the tea which he downed in one go. Godwin gave him no chance for a reprieve before he shoved the chicken broth in his hands.
“Drink.”
This was more well-received, as was the water. By the time he was finished, color had come back to Rifun’s skin, and he admitted that the worst of his current headache had dulled and the stomach cramps had subsided.
“I don’t know what your religious practices are, sir, but you are still mortal,” Godwin told him, collecting the dishes to set aside. “Now, please, for the sake of everyone in this room, especially me, go wash yourself.”
Rifun sighed and stood, already looking and sounding more steady. “Yes, Mum.”
But, about an hour later, the man who emerged from the bathroom, though thin, almost resembled the Faharoa Godwin remembered from the coup.
“Mum knows best,” he snarked.
Rifun gave him a look.
“You gave some thought to your plan, I assume?” Godwin pressed. “Or maybe you’re thinking a little more clearly that we can discuss something more rational?”
Rifun toweled his hair, sat down on the bed, and picked up the comb once more. “Did you have a plan in mind?”
“Not everyone in the Order is truly loyal to Julianna. In the chaos, many were simply scared and fled. When they returned, they were strong-armed into swearing fealty. Some I know, others are still hiding or may be too on-the-fence to be trusted. Our first order of business should be determining how big of a sympathetic force there is, who they are, their strengths, and so on—”
“You expect there would be enough to retake the Order and the fortress?”
“I do. We made off with the fighting men while Julianna is stuck with the artists and philosophers. Some fighting men, true, and the traitorous generals, but still a very soft group.”
The man took an even breath, but his expression was less than enthusiastic. He looked thoughtful, but Godwin could see it wasn’t about the plan.
“Do you really think we should, though?” Rifun wondered. “I’ve been stripped of my abilities. If this were merely a roadbump in the plan, then—”
“Sir, I’m going to say this as kindly as I can manage: fuck the gods. Just, for five minutes, fuck the gods, the spirits, the ancestors, the Author, whoever or whatever it is that you believe in. Whatever or whoever you think is punishing you—”
“Think?” Rifun glared at him. “I had the power of the Akari, I had the power to Build, to shape the universe! Now I have nothing! That isn’t just ‘in my head’ it is a fact! I failed the Author, I failed—”
“I can’t speak for deities, sir, but there are real, physical, mortal men out there who are in great danger and looking for some kind of guidance. Their gods are just as silent as yours. I’ve done my best, but you are still the face of victory and the Miaramila. They are your men, and they are counting on you to lead.”
“And I gave control over them to you, if you recall.”
“Until such time as you were able to sort out whatever the fuck this is with your seizures. Doc says you’re on the mend, which means we can start planning again.”
Rifun stood suddenly and almost went down just as fast. Godwin made no move to assist. The man stumbled and caught himself on one of the many towers of boxes; something inside one of the boxes shifted, the noise sounding like porcelain. Rifun composed himself and turned around. He was still holding onto the comb and now gestured with it.
“What is the goal here, Win? I joined the Cult to help myself, kill Cassius, slay the dragon, and make peace. Only one of those things has happened, and it wasn’t even my doing. The coup has proven that I can’t do it. I’m worse off now than I ever was before. The dragon is too powerful for mere mortals, and one mortal can’t do anything worth peanuts. If anything, I only made things worse, gave the dragon an even larger empire with an even greater stranglehold on the universe.” He took a couple steps forward. “So, let’s pretend, for five minutes, that we rally the Miaramila together, including whoever you can scrape up from the Order who is worth a damn. What is our cause? It can’t be the same cause because that backfired with spectacular flourish. But what other cause is there? What greater cause is there than slaying the dragon? Anything else is small and self-serving and can be fulfilled in any number of ways that do not require the Miaramila, the Order, the Akarin, myself, or anyone else.”
Godwin stood slowly and stepped forward to meet him. Rifun was a few inches taller, but that hardly mattered.
“And who were you when the Author chose you, hm? No one. Some unwanted half-blood rapist’s bastard who should have been aborted, a failure to everyone and everything in his village, and ended up on a chain gang where he was blinded and cast out. And yet, the Author picked you. Showed you Time, brought you to the Akari, brought you all this way.”
Rifun’s expression was slack and hollow. “And I failed again.”
“And yet, here you are. Didn’t you yourself say that you wouldn’t fail until you were dead?” He noted the man’s reluctance. “And are you dead?”
“Almost.”
“There are only two answers to that question, and only one way you could answer. No, you’re not dead. And to the Miaramila, you are still a leader. You picked them just the same. You showed them the Akari. You showed them what’s possible. And they’re counting on you. Be the Author to them. To one. Because at one point, you were only one. And no one at that.”
Now Rifun raised a brow. “Do I look like Jesus to you?”
Godwin took a step back and mockingly put a hand under his chin. “Well, I’ve never seen any paintings with His hair quite that long, and you just shaved off the beard. But the skin and hair color isn’t too far off from some renderings. Height, I can’t speak to, and the only possible witness is regrettably dead.”
Rifun shook his head, but the edges of his lips were twitching with a smile he didn’t want to be seen. He sighed, stared at the comb still in his hand, walked around to sit on the bed again. “Whatever it is that you think we need to do, it’s not going to happen while Julianna is looking. She’s actively hunting us down; how she hasn’t thought to look here for me is beyond me.”
“Too obvious,” Godwin quipped. “She’s thinking too hard about it.”
“Whatever the reason, our luck can’t hold out forever.”
Godwin frowned. “You still think turning yourself in is the best idea of a distraction?”
“You just said it: I am still the face of victory and the Miaramila. I stood within five feet of her, both traitor generals right there, and still got away. And I’m still a wanted man in the universe. Breaking me not only breaks the Miaramila, but it breaks the hope of anyone who might dare to oppose her. The same way everyone once feared me because I broke the Time industry and the Akarin.”
“You deny being Jesus, yet here you are, sacrificing yourself for your men.” Godwin forced a humorless laugh. “But you know you’re not likely going to come back from this. Pretending that she does see it through to the end, just so she can hear a guilty verdict, she’s going to have you murdered the next day.”
Rifun shrugged, but it was tired, and his shoulders dropped due to gravity rather than any natural motion on his part. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think you’re going to be wholly idle and disinterested.”
Godwin nodded with a nonchalant shrug of his own. “There is a chance I might be inclined to perhaps Disguise myself as some official in the courts or jail system, just to possibly keep an eye on things.”
Now the man allowed himself a small smile, though he stared at the floor. “You’re a better follower than I deserve. And a better friend.”
“I know. So is this the plan we’re going with? Because we won’t be able to back out halfway through; once you turn yourself in, you have to see it through to the end.”
Rifun nodded. “I know. And I think we’ll have at least a few days to consider it.” He lifted a bony arm. “I’m not turning myself in like this.”
“Agreed, but I’m not your caterer and Doc is tired of being your nursemaid. You’re going to have to actually look after yourself again.”
“Good grief, I get one restful night’s sleep and now suddenly you people are giving me all these responsibilities.”
“Just means you’ll sleep good again tonight.”
“It already is tonight. What time is it, one or two in the morning?”
One-thirty-seven to be specific. Godwin waved a hand. “Fuck if I know. One of the downsides of being able to jump around timezones so easily.”
Rifun made a gesture of acquiescence akin to a shrug, though it turned into a yawn about halfway through.
“I’ll check up on you in a few days,” Godwin told him. “Eat, drink, exercise, and for the love of all things holy, bathe regularly.”
“Right now, I think I’m just going back to bed.”
Godwin left him to it. How many weeks in Haunstein’s care and the man had only just been physically alive. A couple hours of pep talk and persuasion and he was almost back to normal. Why did people go to see Haunstein again?
It was closer to a week before he was able to get back to see Rifun, and by then, the man looked normal. He was clean, his skin had good color, and his physique was recovering well. He had been sitting up on the edge of the bed reading a book when Godwin walked in the door.
“I ought to consider a career change, become a fucking nurse,” Godwin commented, closing the door respectfully.
Rifun raised a brow mischieviously and moved his eyes up from the page, though his head remained down. “Why? You don’t do anything. You just walked in here, started barking orders at me, and left for a week.”
“Exactly. And it worked.”
Rifun shook his head. “Not exactly. Haunstein has concluded that although my seizures are less frequent and less severe because of the lack of poison in my system, they do appear to be permanent. And, because of the lack of poison, it will be like starting at square one to determine specific triggers and treatments.” He nodded toward an orange script bottle on a box which was currently functioning as a nightstand.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
Rifun set the book aside. Judging by the cover, it was some second-rate crime fiction that even the author probably didn’t want to admit to writing. “And with all of that, Haunstein wants me out of his basement.”
“Surely you’re not that bad of a tenant?”
He shrugged. “I clean up after myself, don’t make noise, don’t invite a bunch of people over...I don’t know that I can be any better of a tenant.”
“Must be the rent situation.”
“That’s the only thing I can come up with.”
Both men snickered. Rifun sobered up first with, “But, in all seriousness, he wants me out. I’m assuming you’re all still hiding on Titik’s old ship?”
“We are,” Godwin confirmed. “And you’re still intending to turn yourself in and go to trial and all of that?”
“Yes.”
“Well then in that case, we’re not going to Titik’s ship.”
Rifun sighed and nodded. “All right, fair enough. Better to get this over with.”
“I didn’t say you had to turn yourself in right this second either.” He made a motion. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Before you subject yourself to the joys and amenities of jail, which at any time may be interrupted by the inconvenience of death, I think it might be best to get out and enjoy yourself a little.”
Rifun raised a brow as he stood slowly. “You know how to have fun?”
Godwin matched his look. “Of course I do.”
“Is my definition of fun the same as yours?”
“Let’s find out.”
As it turned out, they were not the same, but neither was it what Rifun was expecting.
“Las Vegas is your idea of fun?” he wondered, looking around at the glamorous hotels rising hundreds of feet in the air, the glittering and glitzy displays, and the full sampling of humanity both good and bad.
“It’s not my go-to destination,” Godwin admitted, “but it has what a man needs before plunging into the belly of the beast.”
They watched a homeless man stumble down the road, booze in hand, and nearly get hit by a car.
“What a man needs, huh?” Rifun questioned.
“Expensive food, expensive drinks, a little gambling excitement, and one or two good-looking prostitutes.”
They skipped the drinks and only Godwin actually gambled any—winning enough rounds of blackjack to tip off security—but the food was abundant. When they finally retired to a hotel room that was probably the nicest either of them had ever seen in all their travels, Rifun initially backed down from the idea of a prostitute.
“Of course there are cheap whores here,” Godwin said. “They’re out there right now on the corners of lesser streets. The ones that come to places like this, however, are just a little better. You just want to get off, find a whore, or save yourself the hike and do it yourself. You want something good or not?” He went on before Rifun could protest. “Isthim is gone and your girlfriend is well past her years. It’s been a hot minute since you’ve been laid, and believe me, you don’t want the escort services in jail; not all of them are voluntary. You need something before you go.”
“I have a better idea,” Rifun said. Godwin raised a brow and made a gesture to continue. “Not tonight. You spend the night erasing yourself from the surveillance footage. As few people as possible should know that you were with me, and no one should be able to prove it.”
“Sir, do you have any idea how many cameras are in a place like this?”
“Do you have any idea the faith I have in you to do it anyway? Tomorrow, I will go down and make myself seen alone. You can stay up here with your prostitutes. When I get back, we’ll figure out any last minute details, and you can send me back to Charleston to turn myself in.”
With that Rifun retired to bed. Godwin glared at his back for a moment until a new idea struck him. With the details slowly forming in his mind, he left the hotel room and went in search of surveillance.
The following day, Rifun went down to the casino as planned, mostly just to make himself seen and get his face on the cameras.
Godwin, meanwhile, stayed in the room. He Disguised himself as Rifun and called an escort service. The girl was good, as expected, but more importantly, she was obedient.
“I like you,” he told her, still Disguised as Rifun. “I want you back here tonight. Ten o’clock.” He gave her enough money to get her to open her planner and pencil him in then and there. “But we’re going to play a little game. You like games?” She did, or she said she did. “Good. All I need you to do is bring a strobe light. Nothing big, nothing fancy, just a strobe light. Can you do that?” She could. “Good.” He gave her the details of the game. “I’ll see you tonight, my dear.”
He squeezed her ass one last time before letting her go. Once she was gone, he shed the Disguise, then rolled out of bed to grab the pad of paper and pen sitting on the hotel desk. After scribbling out a note for Rifun, he grabbed his things and left the hotel room.
Many hours later, he was sitting in a commandeered squad car of Las Vegas Police Department, Disguised as a cop who had called in sick but was now suddenly feeling much better and able to go to work. He sat half a block from the hotel.
“217 from Dispatch, you’re needed at Caesar’s, hotel room 418, for a believed to be 30 year old man in seizure, RP believes it to be drug-related.”
Godwin confirmed this on the radio, lit up the car, and rolled over to the hotel. He made sure to greet the receptionist on the way in before swinging over to the elevator. Up to the correct floor, down the hall, and there was the prostitute.
The only things she would give were her name—not her real one, he assumed—the fact that the seizure had occurred after he utilized her services, and the fact that he had a prescription bottle. She didn’t know what it was for, but she didn’t feel right leaving him when he might die. But now that the police were here, she was going to see herself out. She had other appointments to keep. Godwin just thanked her and sent her on her way.
Once she was gone, he radioed that it was safe for the ambulance to approach. Paramedics affirmed and said they would be up in just a few minutes.
Godwin stood over Rifun, lying naked on the floor, residual twitches a testament to the seizure. What a way to go.
He grabbed the script bottle. Lorazepam. As common a seizure medicine as anyone could find.
He looked up as the medics announced themselves and bumbled into the room.
Godwin remained detached from their work, instead pretending to study Rifun, as if trying to discern his identity.
“I recognize this guy,” he stated. He went to Rifun’s bag and began rummaging through, going for the place where he knew his fake passport and visa would be. He nodded emphatically and looked at the medics. “Hey, can you keep him under for a few minutes?”
“Keep him under?” one medic inquired. The second was still patting Rifun’s face, trying to get him to wake up. Godwin nodded and the first medic just shrugged. “All right, we’ll keep him down for a minute or two.”
Godwin stepped out into the hall with the fake papers, then began scrolling through his equally commandeered phone, looking for phone numbers. He found the chief of police and wasted no time waking him up.
“What do you want? And why are you calling me?” the man demanded.
“Sir, I have something here you’re going to want to know about.”
***
I may or may not write another one-shot about the attack on Aleis, but I haven’t decided.
Odd Attachments
It’s not unusual for authors to become attached to their characters. Rifun has been that character for me since The Timekeeper Chronicles began. However, Godwin has also become a high favorite since his debut in The Hand Holding the Knife, and his role in The Akari-Bearer has only strengthened that attachment. He is truly a joy to write just on account of his bluntness, to say nothing of his shenanigans.
Right to Bear Arms (The Akari-Bearer #2) is coming along swimmingly and still on track for a July 2026 release.