The Crossover (11 page)

She laughed and nudged him. “I bet you won’t be a virgin by spring, not if you don’t want to be. All the girls will want you.”

Mik stared into the flying snow. “I doubt it. No one will ever believe I summoned an ice dragon.”

But everyone did.

Excerpt: Heroes and Vallenez, by Angela Kulig

Coming February 2013… a gritty urban fantasy for younger readers, by Angela Kulig, author of Skeleton Lake…

Victor Vallenez might not be a villain, but that doesn’t make him a saint. At age 16, Vic could be a career criminal, but instead he spends his time lurking in corners and telling other peoples' secrets—for a price. As a professional snitch, money is the only thing that talks more than he does. Still, as much as Vic hates to admit it, there are some things even blood money won’t buy—mainly Emily. So, when her chivalrous butthead of a boyfriend shows up and asks for his help, there is one very good reason he won’t turn him down—and that’s his angle.

Read on for an excerpt…

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I always say, a punch to the face is a great way to end the day. Alright, I’ve never actually said it, but I think about it every time it happens, and for me that’s a lot. I chalk it up to the hazards of the lifestyle, and buy boxes and boxes of Band-Aids. I hate running out of them too, the guy at Quick Stop always looks at me weird when I have to buy cartoon adhesive bandages because that’s all they have left. He never asks questions, though—maybe he doesn’t speak English—anyway, I keep going back.
 

The guy that stood in front of me looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t decide if he was the one who paid to find out who his wife was seeing on the side, or the son of that mob boss I accidentally offended last year. How was I supposed to know that horse was his daughter? How was I supposed to know she was anyone’s daughter? Needless to say, he did not find my livestock jokes at all amusing. So I’ve been trying to sell him out ever since then, and I can’t be sure, but I think that only makes him angrier.
 

It doesn’t really matter if this guy’s the scorned lover, or the horse girl’s brother, because he currently stood between me and my only escape route. Well, my only escape route, apart from the ten foot tall metal fence I was backed up against. It had metal barbed wire, and signs reading “
Warning! Keep out!”
in about a dozen languages.
 

I eyed the rusted wire and wondered how much skin I’d lose if I had to depart that way.
 

The man was even closer to me then, and he was wailing on about something or another. It’s always the same thing from these people. They pay for my good information. It’s not my fault that they don’t always like what they hear, and it’s not my fault that sometimes other people would also pay for the same thing. It’s just business, and I am good at my job. Anything you want to know, anything at all, I can find out for you. But don’t shoot the messenger, or in this case, beat him up in a dark alley.
 

Some people just have a hard time letting go.
Oh look at that
, I thought.
He’s making demands now. Unreasonable demands. Isn’t that cute?

It’s probably just a part of the grieving process, the mourning over a woman, possessions, their control over the situation, anything really.
 

This is just your typical dark alley, off a typical dark street, and trust me I’ve seen a few in my life—but if I had listened to my mother I wouldn’t be here now. You know, I used to be a good kid. But things change.

The guy was right on top of me then. His blonde hair flattened with perpetration, his angry eyes were dull and unfocused.
 

“You’re gonna pay, Vallenez.” he slurred.

And
 
if I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d still have made far less money than spilling all my dirty little secrets, or usually, other peoples secrets.
 

I had already realized this man, in his present state, was capable of far less damage than the barbed wire. He had no knife, no gun, and no sword. He was just an angry mortal man, and bruises are always easier to hide than potential stitches. Just a little tip from me to you.
 

It’s not like I don’t understand this guy’s anger, I get that. I’ve had all kinds of unpleasant things happen to me in life, though, and only the recent ones were brought on by myself.
 

Most people in the world aren’t really good or evil. It’s not just me, no matter what you think. Not everyone is a hero or a villain. Some people are, and trust me I’ve met and pissed off a few of both kinds. But for the most part, the lines are blurred, and people on either side love me, and then hate my guts. Whatever. I don’t like them very much, either. It’s just a paycheck.

I looked away from the blonde and waited for a blow that never came. I hadn’t had my eyes closed but I have this habit of strategically mentally escaping unpleasant things. I’ve got this shirt right, that says
I’m not here right now I’m in Tahiti
. I’ve never been there, but I like to think I’d go one day. Or you know, maybe just clip out some nice pictures from a travel brochure.
 

Right then I was blocking out the guy in front of me. I’m pretty sure he had been shouting that he was going to kill me, but they always say that. Tough guy talk involves saying a lot of stupid crap loudly, thinking that you mean it, but they never do. And I’m too smart to wander around the guys that do mean it.
 

The blonde’s eyes suddenly looked semi-coherent, but his mouth puckered into a big stupid shocked expression. He was standing so close, I couldn’t see why. When people are about to pound you into the cement, you usually aren’t looking
behind
them, and I’m an expert at looking over peoples shoulders.
 

Someone had pinned the blonde’s right arm against his sweaty back, and I recognized that face instantly. Short brown hair, dark eyes, and a dark complexion. The one hero in the world I want to see the absolute least. Not that I really want to see any of them at all, but Richard Roca and I have a history, and not for any of the usual reasons.
 

Let’s just say girls always want the hero, and leave it at that. If you thought barbed wire and bruises hurt, it’s nothing compared to what this guy did to me, and he did it all without even raising a finger. And last time I checked, the feeling was mutual. So I had no idea why Richard was saving my hide in a dark alley in the middle of the night. Frankly, I was pretty sure that it was past the golden boy’s bedtime.
 

Rich, and he hates it when I call him Rich, he belongs to an order of heroes, The Order of the Golden―
something.
Eggs? Was there a beanstalk involved? Or maybe it was shield? No, I think that’s an insurance company. Oh heck. it doesn’t matter. What does matter is, that even among the good guys, they are the good guys. So good, they should probably all be off being bishops somewhere, not saving a gray hat like me on the bad side of town.

Oh yeah, it was
The Golden Cross.
I remember now.
 

As good and noble as they typically are, however, by the time Richard had found me in the alley, that good-natured spirit no longer applied to me. The heroes in his order treated murderers better than me, and I know why, but that wasn’t really my fault.
 

I’ve done a lot of terrible things. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, and I never lie. So believe me when I tell you: I go out of my way to avoid those particular heroes. Besides, of all the horrible things I have done, there are many things I have not done. I’ve never stolen from people who couldn’t afford it, and I’d never killed anyone. Not directly anyway.

I can’t be held responsible for what people do with my information once I deliver it to them. It’s like trying to nix the Internet because some idiot looked up how to make bombs online. Watch your kids people, seriously, and don’t blame me.
 

Richard spun the blonde around, and deposited him lightly on the mucked up ground. It really stunk; I hadn’t really realized it until that moment. Richard patted the angry and shocked man on the back, and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the street at three a.m., but that’s what it’s like here. It never stops.
 

Richard wore an expression I couldn’t read, but he looked miserable. That made me feel a lot better about myself. He should be miserable. But he didn’t look particularly angry,
so what gives?

About the Author

Larry Kollar lives in north Georgia, surrounded by kudzu, trees, and in-laws. His day job involves writing user manuals—some of which may have been fiction, but not by intent. He has had short fictional works published in the Hogglepot Journal, the Were-Traveler, and the anthology
Best of Friday Flash, Vol. 2
. Longer works include
White Pickups
, his first novel, and the
Accidental Sorcerers
series. For more of his strange fiction, and even stranger reality, visit his blog at http://farmanor.blogspot.com/

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Copyright © 2013 Larry Kollar. All rights reserved. All wrongs avenged.

For republishing permission, please contact the author at [email protected].