O. J. Barré | Updates

Book Launch from 10am to 2pm at 307 Made in Downtown Cheyenne, WY

O. J. Barré — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Get your signed paperback early! My new book release is scheduled for August 16, 2026, but you can get yours before everyone else.

Come to 307 Made in Downtown Cheyenne from 10am to 2pm on Saturday, August 15th. I'll be there signing and personalizing copies of my new fantasy thriller spinoff, Crossed, CURSED, & Nearly Dead, along with the Awen prequels and trilogy.

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Crossed, CURSED, & Nearly Dead - 1st 3 Chapters

O. J. Barré — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 08:49:22 -0400

Oakland Cemetery

Elise Hester Johnson had no idea that a trip to the cemetery would change her life forever. Her blocking spell kept the ghosts at bay while she and her sisters passed through the old section of Oakland Cemetery. But the spirits’ suffering still pierced her heart.

“Come on, Rona. I told y’all I can’t be here long.” Elise’s Southern accent had returned with a vengeance.

Rona Wainwright was a genius, and great at many things, but sensing ghosts and energy wasn’t one of them. In her defense, the profuse blooms covering the centuries-old graves were captivating. Reds, yellows, purples, and blues spilled from the low walls outlining the narrow lanes. She glanced up from the flowers.

“Sorry. I can’t help it.” Elise’s new-found sister peered over her spectacles with a bemused grin. “I had forgotten how beautiful it is here.” A Master Gardener, Rona could rattle off the name of every plant in the nearly 50-acre park. If they weren’t in a cemetery, Elise might be tempted to ask.

Instead, she peered nervously over Rona’s shoulder at a rogue wraith. It had followed them since they entered the gate. Elise thought she’d exorcised the damn thing, but there it was, clothing suggesting a more recent period than most buried here. Grabbing Rona’s hand, Elise dragged her away from the fragrant lavender.

By the time they caught up with Honey, Elise was grateful for the shade. She rested under the emerald canopy, fanning the front of her shirt, and wished she’d brought water. Atlanta’s heat and humidity were palpable. Of course, summer in Gloucestershire could be just as steamy.

Honey lifted the heavy blond hair from her neck and poked it beneath the wide-brimmed yellow hat. “I didn’t know famous people were buried here.” She had gone ahead at her hitchhiker’s urging. “Back there, I saw Margaret Mitchell, Kenny Rodgers, and the man Austell was named for.”

“This is the Druid section,” Alexis added through Honey’s lips. It was strange hearing her triplet’s voice coming from a thirty-something blonde bombshell, even though Elise had her own hitchhiker and knew exactly how it worked.

They gawked at the marble dragon atop the wall, then sauntered down the lane, side-by-side.

Stopping to squint at a marker faded by time and weather, Elise reminded them, “Hope said to look for the white Celtic cross. The plot should be planted with flowering quince.”

“More like overgrown with it.”

Alexis had swiveled Honey to the right, where a black, hip-high wrought iron fence barely contained woody quince shrubs. A pair of pink Georgia marble vaults peeked from beneath the bramble, and salmon-red blooms past their prime lent the deadly tangle a festive air.

A noisy Killdeer zoomed past Honey, screeching to her babies.

“Shit!” the blonde squealed, diving to the pavement. With a sheepish grin, she straightened then ducked again when the fledglings flit past.

Laughing at Honey’s antics, Rona and Elise joined her to stare at the impassable thicket below the imposing statue.

“Now what?” Alexis wondered. “Of course, we’re all bare-armed.”

“Yeah, didn’t think of that,” Elise sighed. “Hope said the gems were secreted in the false bottom of an urn. And the urn is beneath that cross.”

“Which is buried under all that,” Rona moaned. “How are we going to get to it? I know from experience quince thorns are gnarly. I don’t fancy being ripped to shreds.”

Honey had edged away and circled to the plot behind the cross. “Maybe we could reach it from here,” she called.

Hurrying to join her, the women tiptoed around a family of Nelsons whose descendants mowed the grass and kept the shrubs neatly trimmed. The ghost whooshed past Rona, who didn’t notice, and settled atop the Celtic cross, one knee over the other, eyes on Elise.

She looked away.

“This feels very wrong,” Rona muttered.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Elise agreed, ignoring the wraith. “But I don’t think we can reach it from here either.”

“Well, hell,” Alexis grumbled. “There has to be a way.” She walked Honey along the boundary, peering into the dense thicket. “I can just make out the back of the cross. At least, I think that’s what it is.” She squatted, then went down on her knees to poke an arm through the greenery.

“I can’t reach it.” Backing out, Honey brushed the smut from her pants. “Too bad we don’t have lopping shears.”

“Let me look.” Rona shouldered her aside.

Carefully peeling the thorny branches apart, Rona inched into the thicket on her hands and knees. “Oh, ow, ow-y!” she yelped, then, “ooo, OWW, it bit me!”

“Something bit you?” Elise squatted, preparing to rescue her sister.

“Yeah. The quince.”

“Oh. Well, do you see the urn?”

“No, but the cross is here. Hold on.” Twigs snapped, and swear words filtered from the bushes, followed by a loud “OUCH!”

“What is it?” Elise called. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I found the urn. Hang on.” More twigs crackled.

A welcome breeze lifted Elise’s hair from her sweaty neck and rustled a nearby magnolia’s thick leaves. She closed her eyes to savor the brief symphony of one of the few tree species she remembered from druid school.

“Someone’s coming,” Honey hissed, and they stood still, heads down until the couple passed.

“Okay, they’re gone. You alright in there, Rona?”

When no answer came, Elise hissed, “Rona?” and was greeted by the sight of her dark crown emerging from the greenery.

“I found the urn and the fake bottom, but there’s nothing in it. Assuming that was the right urn.”

“Was there more than one?”

“Nope. Not that I could feel.” She extended arms covered in angry scratches. Drops of blood oozed from the deeper ones.

Elise tutted and handed her a tissue from her pocket.

“You try, Elise,” Alexis urged. “I bet you can sense something.”

“Yeah, no.” Elise had forgotten how bossy Alexis was. “I see dead people. Not missing gemstones.” But she could also be persuasive.

“Won’t you at least try?”

Not sure whether the plea had come from Alexis or Honey, it was so disarming, Elise couldn’t say no. Eyeing the welts on Rona’s arms, she sighed heavily. Then, glaring at Alexis, she crouched in front of the bushes. Rona squeezed her shoulder and grinned like she was having the time of her life.

“It’s to your left. I made a path for you.”

Smiling back, Elise wrinkled her nose at Alexis’s smirk. Then, gingerly pulling the tangle apart, she stuck her shoulders inside, clenched her teeth, and tried to remain stoic as thorns tore at her arms and cheek.

“Shit!” she shrieked, only a few feet in. “Why didn’t I wear long sleeves?”

“’Cause it’s hotter ’n Hades, goofy,” Honey snickered.

Spying the urn, Elise bit back the snide retort on the tip of her tongue and inched toward it. At the base of the cross, the brush was trampled where Rona had rested. Elise crept to it and carefully lowered her body, wincing when pain shot through her hip.

“Ouch!” Ham bawled, and Elise nearly jumped from her skin. “Get this damn thing fixed. You’re retired now, so no more excuses.”

“Where the hell have you been?” she growled at her hitchhiker. “I’ve been calling you.”

“In the Otherworld, scouting for news about Morgan. We promised Emily we’d find my killer, remember? What are you doing?” He swiveled her head to look around. “And in a cemetery, of all places?”

Her body shivered.

“Why, Ham, are you afraid of spirits?”

“Afraid? No. But you know I find them creepy. Especially the ghouls. Are you being spiteful because I ghosted you?”

She could feel his mirth at making a funny mingled with her own unsettled chills. “Don’t say that here.” She peered up at the top of the cross.

The wraith was still there, watching intently. Hamilton shivered again.

“You can see him, can’t you?”

“Yes, and I think he can see me too. I don’t like this, Elise. Get me out of here.”

She ran her fingers along the bottom of the urn. “I can’t yet. Don’t be a wuss.” Then, she called to Rona, “I don’t see or feel anything. Where is the opening?”

“On the back of the urn. Against the cross.”

Elise scooted closer, and a thorn jammed into her knee. She bit her lip, wiggled the thorn out, and pressed her thumb against the hole to stop the bleeding. Then, taking a centering breath, she ran her fingers around the urn with her other hand, and one edge wobbled. Pushing against it, she felt the bottom spring open.

“Bingo.”

“What?” It was Rona.

“I found it. And you’re right, there’s nothing in here.”

“Do you sense anything?” That was Alexis.

Doing her best to avoid the thorns, Elise hushed Ham’s attempt to say something, settled on her good hip, and peered into the opening. Then, closing her eyes, she felt out with her senses.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s auntie.”

“What? What is it?” Alexis hissed.

“Shhh.”

They weren’t there, but Elise could see the gems in her mind’s eye. She followed the magical thread as she had taught her goddaughter, Cybele, and surprise, surprise, it led to Morgan Foster, the former Head of Security for the Awen Order. Securing the hinged drawer, Elise turned around carefully and crawled out, sporting her own scratches.

Honey helped her stand.

“What did you find?” Alexis demanded through Honey’s somehow still-tinted lips.

“Nothing. Or, no gems. Morgan took them.”

Alexis stroked her hostess’s chin. “That makes sense. The emerald was set in Aóme. Or, was. Then, Emily and Mitch found the ruby and sapphire in a pendant and brooch. I bet the diamond is set in a piece of jewelry, too.”

“And, Morgan has it,” Rona huffed.

“Yep. She had a fit when Mitch pulled the brooch from his pocket. Then she completely lost it when he wouldn’t give it to her. That’s why she sent him to the frozen fields.”

A chill raced down Elise’s back. She looked around. The same ghost hovered nearby, half-hidden between the limbs of the sweeping magnolia.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Hopping from the low concrete wall, Elise bolted toward the east gate. The others jogged behind her and were huffing and schvitzing by the time they reached Memorial Drive. They'd obviously have to get into shape if they wanted to be private eyes.

Honey pointed to a restaurant across the street. “I need a drink. How ‘bout y’all?”

“Hell, yeah.” Maybe it would dispel the ick that clung to Elise. Plus, get rid of the haint.

The light changed, and they crossed to enter the boisterous establishment. Elise held the door and searched for the ghost. It hovered at the edge of the cemetery gazing in their direction. But it had not followed. Relieved, Elise hurried after her new sisters.

NO GHOSTS ALLOWED, a prominent sign declared.

“Hey, ‘Leesy!” Alexis crowed, hiking her thumb at it and pretend-swiping her brow.

“Phew, indeed!” Elise belly laughed, surprising herself. When was the last time she had done that?

Then, in the irritating way she’d had when they were little, Alexis snapped her fingers in front of Elise’s nose. “Earth to ‘Lees—WHOA!” Elise had instinctively reached for her sidearm, and Honey leapt backward, hands high in surrender.

Luckily, Elise came up empty. Her gun was locked in a safe at Wren’s Roost, where she and Ham were staying.

“How about here?” the hostess trilled just then.

“Perfect.” When Rona grinned and slid into the booth near the corner, Elise marveled. Despite having just found out her wealthy husband was screwing an intern and wanted a divorce, Rona sat there glowing and ordering drinks.

“We’re celebrating. Bring us a pitcher of margaritas with frosted glasses and salted rims.” It was a command, not a request. But a very respectful, well-mannered one. Elise grinned.

“Works for me.”

Regarding Rona with new appreciation, she slid in beside her and took the menu the hostess offered. Honey smirked and claimed the bench across from them, bouncing tattooed eyebrows up and down.

While the young girl recited the day’s specials, Elise and Rona struggled not to laugh at Honey’s silly facial expressions. But when the hostess finally left to turn in their drink order, all three grown-ass women dissolved into snickers, giggles, and snorts.

La Mañana Rosa

The ladies disappeared inside the restaurant Sean O’Leary was surveilling. He wrung useless ethereal hands and hovered above the fence, reluctant to enter the establishment. Not because La Mañana Rosa was a front for the Mexican cartel. But ghosts weren’t allowed. Sean, in particular.

And the manager on duty had the sight.

Sean had gotten himself killed over an investigation. Why? Because he refused to turn a blind eye after the muckety-mucks slammed the door on his case. Now, two years later, people were still disappearing off the street at an alarming rate.

Sean had recognized two of the women. They were druids, and one was his sort-of aunt. The one his Da had told him was a badass. Sean could tell from her behavior in the cemetery that she could see him. If he could talk her into helping him, they could finally bring the shitshow crashing down.

But that meant the erstwhile GBI agent had to suck it up and go inside. He bounced up and down above the iron fence, and growled so loud in frustration that the ghosts in the old section heard and took up the ululation.

With their ghoulish accompaniment, Sean crossed over traffic and squeezed through the door before it closed behind a group of girls too young to be drinking. Balking at the noise and gaggle of flesh, he carefully avoided Emilio to thread through the small dining rooms.

In one, he stopped cold. Making sure Emilio wasn’t near, he studied the man sitting at the bar nonchalantly nursing a longneck beer. Some called him The Bogeyman. But besides Sean, he had been the most vocal lawman to push for continuing the investigation. Sean soon figured out Bogey was casing the joint. And that meant he hadn’t given up either. Things were looking up already.

Continuing his tour through the restaurant a little more jauntily, he spied the gorgeous blonde with the triple-D honkers in the last room near the side entrance. Stationing himself behind a dusty banana palm, Sean settled in to wait.

☼☼☼

The manager of La Mañana Rosa berated the hostess in front of a line of people waiting for a table. The terrified girl, who looked younger even than the ones Sean had followed inside, kept her eyes on the floor. Sean clenched his insubstantial fists. If only there was something he could do for the girl.

Then, Emilio Maldanado turned on his heel and stormed in Sean’s direction. When the brute stopped and wheeled toward the palm at the last moment, Sean nearly shit his etheric pants. But the moronic manager had simply paused to scratch his hairy ass before stomping to the kitchen.

Gross.

A distinctive laugh drew Sean’s attention. The druids’ nonstop lunch banter had been lively, to say the least. More than once, he had blushed at their good-natured digs and racy conversation. Or would have, were he flesh and bone.

When their discussion took a turn toward serious, Sean could’ve sworn he recognized his father in Elise. But her expression changed, and he doubted again. His Da was dead.

Then he saw it—the flash in the eyes, the snarling lip he’d seen at the cemetery when they were poking around the bottom of that cross. Only this time, Sean was certain. His father’s spirit had survived.

Without thought, he flew to the table, gushing excitedly, “Da, it’s me. Your son, Sean.”

Elise shrank away. The other druid and the busty blonde across the table reacted, but Sean could tell they didn’t see him.

“What is it?” the blonde woman hissed protectively, half-standing. “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay,” Elise answered. But the voice was his Da’s.

Sean threw overjoyed arms around them, but sadness skewered him when they didn’t connect. The deep, gravelly voice of Emilio Maldonado broke the moment.

“What the hell?”

Sean jerked around to face the livid manager. His perpetually ruddy face blazed, and he closed the distance in two angry strides.

“I warned you, O’Leary.” He rounded on the ladies. “You three. Out. You’ve been disturbing my patrons since you got here.” He hiked a meaty thumb toward one of the NO GHOSTS signs. “Anyone who hangs out with ghouls ain’t welcome in this establishment.”

He signaled the server, who hovered in fright. She shakily held out the ladies’ check. He snatched it and thrust it at Elise.

“Pay your bill and get out.”

A shocked Sean marveled as electricity crackled from his diminutive aunt. She stared coldly at Emilio and drew to full height. Then, pointedly ignoring him, she lifted her drink and chugged its contents while he stood over her menacingly. Then, slamming the glass on the table, she reached into a pocket, retrieved a fistful of credits, and deposited them in the pocket of the server’s apron.

“For your trouble.” Then cutting her eyes to the sputtering Emilio, she added, “I’m sorry you have to work for this cave troll. Don’t stand for it. Find another job.” When she dramatically tore the ticket into pieces and let them flutter to the floor at Emilio’s feet, Sean’s ectoplasmic teeth nearly fell out.

Aunt Elise really was a badass. But she wasn’t done. She launched into a tirade.

“That sorry excuse of a meal is on you, asshole. The food was lousy, the drinks, weak, and,” she lifted her nose to sniff the air distastefully, “what is that smell?” Her head swiveled as if seeking the source, then a wicked gleam shone in her eyes.

“Well, well. It seems you have a rat’s nest. I’ll be sure to let the authorities know when I register my complaint about your abhorrent treatment of your employees.”

Emilio stared at her in horror, mouth opening and closing.

“Oh. And that ghost? Sean O’Leary? He might be dead, but he’s a thousand times the man you think you are.”

At that, Emilio lunged, but Elise was faster, delivering a karate chop to his Adam’s apple. Then, the blonde charged, connecting a surprisingly strong jab to his scruffy chin. The manager’s head slammed backward with a satisfying snap, and he slumped to the floor, gurgling.

Every patron within eye or earshot burst into catcalls and applause.

Glaring down her nose at the sniveling manager, Elise sniffed, “We’re outta here,” then herded the other two to the door.

“You!” Emilio snarled, scrambling up to lunge at Sean. “Get out and don’t even think about coming back.”

“Or what?” Sean floated midair. “You’ll kill me again?”

Emilio planted his thick body between Sean and the door.

“Worse, you fucking Mick,” he rasped through gritted teeth so that only Sean could hear. “I will kill everyone and everything you hold dear, including those goddamned women out there.”

A red haze blurred Sean’s vision, then his fingers were around the brute’s neck, and he was squeezing the life from him. A waitress rushed to the sputtering manager who thrashed on the floor, and someone squealed, “Call 911.”

Shocked, Sean blinked and let go.

He slipped effortlessly through the closed door then stopped beneath the awning. Pedestrians rushed past on the sidewalk, and thunder rumbled long and low. Sean stared at his hands in wonder. Never as a ghost had he been able to interact physically. With anything, much less the living. How had he managed it this time?

Another peal of thunder rolled overhead, and the rain began. Sean stepped from the shelter into the storm, and heavy drops penetrated his ethereal form. Most days, this would make him uncomfortable. But all Sean could think about was the satisfying feel of his hands around his killer’s throat.

A New Case

The silent druids jogged across the intersection, hoping to reach the car before the bottom fell out. Elise craned her neck, searching for Sean’s ghost, but Rona tugged her elbow, pulling her along.

A bright flash sizzled overhead, and a terrifying pop stopped them in their tracks when the lightning bolt struck a transformer. Squealing, they galloped for the parking lot as sparks showered down. A clap of thunder brought drenching rain, and the sisters were half-soaked by the time they jackknifed into the low-slung Porsche.

Honey revved the engine and ogled Elise in the rearview mirror, while Alexis growled, “What the hell was that?”

But Elise’s attention was elsewhere. Ham’s son stood outside the restaurant, staring at his hands. An intense yearning seized Elise, then morphed into a sinking feeling. Something fishy was going on.

Sean needed help. Their help.

Honey popped the clutch, pulled out between two cars, then slammed the brakes. The traffic lights were no longer working due to the fried electrical box, and the cars were backing up. Resigned, Elise slumped against the seat.

Seconds later, she clung to the strap and vowed never to ride with Honey again when the blonde cut in front of an oncoming vehicle and took a turn on two wheels.

“That, Alexis, is our next case.” Elise finally said.

Rona’s head appeared over the headrest. “You mean after we find the missing stones and bring Morgan to justice, right? We promised Emily.”

Elise sighed heavily. What was she getting herself into?

“Yeah. After that.”

☼☼☼

A figure materialized from the shadows, and Jed held his breath beneath the blanket of trash. The failing light told him he had slept several hours. The day was almost spent.

The dark form hesitated, sniffed the air, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, glided towards Jed’s hiding place.

His muscles contracted instinctively.

The shadow inched closer.

Jed fingered the stiletto and swallowed the lump of fear, readying himself to dart from his safe zone, home for the last couple of weeks. But still he hesitated, holding his breath, hand wrapped around the thin hilt. Should he stay hidden or run?

Deciding on the latter, he traded the blade for the rusty bolt he kept in his pocket and lobbed it across the dim alley.

The apparition wavered.

When it changed course and melted back into the shadows, Jed seized his chance. Garbage scattered as he fled his hidey hole, and, arms pumping, he rounded the corner at top speed.

Someone waiting on the seemingly deserted street caught hold of Jed’s arm with an iron grip and jerked him backward, then thrust a scratchy bag over his head. The world went dark. Jed kicked and clawed, fighting to get away from the snatcher and the stink of rotted potatoes.

But two arms tightened around Jed like steel bands.

He fought like a wild thing, landing a few blows. But the snatcher tautened his iron grip and dragged Jed bodily, then slammed him against something metallic. Frisking him roughly, the brute confiscated his knife and the sharpened screwdriver Jed kept in his sock.

Finally, the snatcher lifted Jed off the ground and shoved him hard. He went airborne for a scary moment, then landed chin-first on a lumpy pile.

“Oww!” a girl screeched and scrambled out from beneath him.

The loud clatter and clank of a utility door sliding shut were punctuated by the unmistakable scrape of a lock engaging.

High Alert*

*The following was separated from Chapter 3, A New Case, and is now Chapter 4, but I’m leaving it here. For now.

Elise wriggled out of the leather backseat of Honey’s Porsche, leaned in, and sniped, “I’m driving next time.” Then, hand supporting her lower back, she straightened slowly and waved.

Honey snorted, popped the clutch, and spun a circle in the front drive of Wren’s Roost, then hung out the window to sass in a drawl as thick as meringue before it stiffens, “Well, I might just let’cha.”

Rona waved from the passenger seat, fingers waggling cheerily though her face was pale. She was probably suffering from that wild ride, like Elise.

But as the Porsche barreled down the wooded driveway, something else came to mind. Maybe Rona dreaded going home to her newly empty house.

When tires squealed onto Wren’s Way, Elise chuckled. The quirky Honey squeezed every ounce of fun she could from life—something that had long been missing in Elise’s. She wondered for a moment just how long, then sighed loudly, head wagging.

“God only knows.”

Dismissing those thoughts, Elise turned to eye Wren’s Roost’s imposing brick staircase.

“Note to self. Have future drivers drop me out back.”

Gripping the varnished handrail, Elise drew a long breath, set her mind to the task, and started climbing. With every step, the pinch in her hip deepened, growing more and more exquisite. At the top, Elise waited for the pain to subside, then rang the bell, feeling a tad sheepish.

Mary had given her a key. But this was the first time Elise had used the front door, and she didn’t feel like fishing the key from her purse.

The blue eyes of the housekeeper danced as the massive door swung wide, and the bronzed folds of her face wrapped around a warm, welcoming smile.

“You’re home. Come inside.”

Elise gimped across the threshold.

Mary’s eagle eyes followed. “Oh, dear, are you okay?”

From her tone, it was obvious the housekeeper had watched her laborious climb. Elise’s cheeks pinked.

“I’ve been better.” She gingerly crossed the wide foyer, intent upon reaching her room. “I just need to get off my feet for a bit.” Her anxious gaze raked the polished stairs.

“I see that,” Mary tutted and took her elbow. “There, there, dear. I have something to show you.” The shrewd eyes narrowed to search Elise’s. “I’m surprised Hamilton didn’t mention it.”

“Ham is AWOL.”

“Hunting for Morgan, I warrant.”

A world of knowing permeated the hall. Mary Cobb had been around since before Hamilton was born, and was as perceptive as they came. He claimed he could never keep a secret from the Iroquois wise woman. Or from her husband.

But, Ham could just as easily have returned to the cemetery to look for Sean. Or, more likely, La Mañana Rosa.

In an alcove Elise had no memory of, stood an ancient service elevator, door ajar. Mary waved her hand at it, and Elise’s spirits lifted.

“Your chariot awaits, dear Elij.”

Her name, Elise, was derived from ‘Elij’, a Druid name for the hind, a small deer of the European woodlands. Squashing the uncharacteristic urge to sob like a baby at the unexpected endearment, Elise threw her arms around the spindly, though surprisingly substantial, caretaker of Wren’s Roost.

“Oh, Miz Mare!” she murmured in her ear. “Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed you. And Wren’s Roost. It’s good to be home.” Elise knuckled a tear that nearly escaped. “Now, how do we know this thing still works?”

“Simple. I use it every day.” Mary stepped into the timeworn box.

Elise poked her head inside to give the elevator the once-over, and the sweetness of rose oil caught her off guard. Mary’s signature scent evoked pictures buried in Elise’s subconscious—of playing with her sisters and Hamilton. In this elevator.

Realizing Mary was watching her with infinite patience, Elise shook off memories that seemed too surreal to be true and inspected the car. Except for the inlaid marble floor and the Celtic scrollwork, it looked like any other elevator from the early 20th century. Many of those were still in service today.

This did not reassure Elise.

“Come,” Mary coaxed. “Let me take you up.”

Elise still hesitated.

“It’s this or one of the staircases.”

Elise gulped down her reservations. With a shudder, she joined the housekeeper, who smiled reassuringly. Then, Mary reached down to slide the door shut and cranked the big bronze handle to the left. The box rose slowly and surprisingly smoothly, making little sound for such an old machine.

On the second floor, Elise thanked Mary and hobbled toward her room as the car descended. But at Hamilton’s quarters, her feet took an unanticipated detour, tweaking her hip and drawing a yelp.

“Ouch, that hurt,” she hissed at her returned hitchhiker.

“Gotta grab my phone.” Hamilton snatched it from the cradle on the manly chest of drawers, located a contact, and held the phone to Elise’s ear.

She resisted, then relented with an annoyed sigh when he insisted.

“Dr. Gray’s office, how may I help you?”

“Hi, this is Elise Hester Johnson,” Ham said in Elise’s voice. “I’m a good friend and cousin of Hamilton Hester. Is Gwendolyn in?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could I have a quick word with her.”

“Please hold for a minute.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Elise hissed.

“Getting your hip fixed. It hurts like a mo-fo, and it could be something simple. You need muscle relaxers. Or a pain blocker. Something. I knew you were a tough broad, but daaamn, Elise.”

“Ms. Johnson, hello. This is Gwen Wray. I was sorry to hear about Hamilton. He was a dear friend. How can I help you?”

Ham ceded control with a warning to be nice.

“Thank you, doc. Please call me Elise. My right hip hurts like the dickens, and it’s making me limp. Could you help me with that?”

“Of course, Elise. If you can come in tomorrow morning, I can squeeze you in before my first patient.”

Elise hesitated, and Hamilton spoke. “That’s perfect. What time?”

They set the appointment for 7:45, and Elise hobbled to her suite.

In the bathroom, she exchanged damp clothes for a short cotton nightgown. Then, inspecting the angry scratches from the cemetery, Elise swabbed them with antiseptic and limped to the bedroom. She shoved the curtains aside to peer at the forest cocooning Wren’s Roost, and felt her body uncoil a little.

She had been on high alert since Ham boarded the flight to Cheltenham. His arrival with her godson, Brian, had turned Elise’s regimented life upside down. And though they had helped Emily and Awen save the world, Elise had been forced to retire from her lifelong career.

A pang of sadness was quickly replaced by anxiety. It tightened her throat muscles and threaded through her gut. The forced retirement haunted Elise. Maybe more than their frenzied fight to save Earth. Now, she needed a long, long, looong vacation. But she wouldn’t get one.

Elise chuckled and mumbled, “You would think retirement meant free time. But, noooo, uh-uh. Not for me. I have to jump into another huge challenge.” She thought a moment, and groaned, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

She opened the window with a heavy sigh and leaned on the sill. The humidity had temporarily dissipated, leaving a refreshing breeze, a welcome byproduct of the summer storm.

At least the drama she and the others had endured had ended in the druids’ favor. It could easily have gone the other way. With the help of the dragons and the Atlantean gods, Humanity had survived. At least for now.

But another whole can of worms had been opened in the process.

Shoving that nightmare aside, Elise inhaled deeply. Then, leaving the window wide, she climbed in bed, acutely aware of her hip. It took a while to find a position that relieved the pain, and Elise was just falling asleep, when the image of Sean O’Leary choking the manager came to her.

What was Sean after? And why was he so angry?

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Awen Rising, The 1st 3 Chapters

O. J. Barré — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 12:15:07 -0400

Chapter 1, December 21, 2012

The president knew he should be attending to other matters, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Today was the prophesied end time. Now, something extraordinary suggested an alternate course: a scroll delivered to the White House in the wee hours of the morning.

Baffled Secret Service agents reported the mysterious crone appeared from nowhere, then vanished as quickly into thin air. Both her dress and manner were that of a bygone age. She had not spoken. Just handed the scroll to an agent and... left.

Not one of them could explain how the woman had evaded the most advanced security system and team in the world. Time travel and magic were pooh-poohed, dismissed out of hand with the utmost contempt. But the president wasn’t so sure.

His polished shoes sank into the carpet as he crossed the Oval Office. He had engineered a rare moment alone and used it to remove the file from the hidden alcove in the Resolute desk. Withdrawing its contents, he reread the report and studied the map at the bottom of the reproduction.

Outside Caen, in the north of France, was a town called Falaise. They would soon learn that it was here the message had been discovered under the ancient ruins of a castle once belonging to William the Conqueror.

The cave was a significant find in and of itself with vault-like chambers decorated in pictographs. An entire library of scrolls and tablets filled one room, a treasury of precious gems and metals, another.

But in an inner chamber, sealed away from all else, was a priceless sculpture of a woman with long, curly hair flanked by an inordinately large hound and wildcat. In the photograph, the woman’s arms were lifted to the heavens in supplication, with the rolled parchment resting in one hand.

The message was written in a lacy style with meticulously drawn symbols. Carbon dating and writing analysis would trace the parchment to the early eleventh century, corresponding to William’s reign. Translated, the missive warned of a world-ending event. Was it connected to the Mayan countdown? That ended today.

Either way, the White House was prepared for the worst.

He stared at the prophecy. If indeed that is what this was, it also declared the existence of a champion. And therefore, hope. Polishing his glasses with a soft cloth, he reread the cryptic message.

When Armageddon threatens,

The sleeping one will wake.

Along the same meridian

The fallen steps in place.

One coast will gather light and kind

The other dark, despair,

But each will yield its suffering

To a world laid waste with fear.

The call will soon be answered

Old wounds doth fester e’er,

The battle begun before

Earth was wrought

Must be won in the helm

Of the sufferer’s heart,

And from thence

She leaps forth

Once again.

The president slumped deeper into his regal chair and tapped the sheet of paper against his chin. The words meant nothing to him. He was a politician and understood legalese, not prophetese.

But the nation’s top minds were working on the cipher. With these clues, he was certain they would come up with answers. The intercom squawked, jarring him back to his hectic day.

Folding the prophecy, the president stuck it in an inside pocket, then replaced the file in the hidden drawer, uncertain of his next move.

Chapter 2, One Thousand Years Ago

The druid Awen focused on exiting Belafel’s body and returning to her own. With a deep inhalation, she invoked the magical waters and separated from the mare.

The spear from the battle was expelled in the shift and floated nearby, handle up. Blood from the wound in the mare’s haunch stained the waters a bright red.

Leading Belafel to the shallows, Awen examined the injury. In moments, the rapidly-healing gash was gone, replaced by healthy tissue and hair. Patting the mare, Awen murmured thanks and released her to the wild. Then she turned to attend the fallen royal.

Mercifully, he’d remained unconscious for most of the arduous journey. His head rested on a mat of lotus flowers with his youthful face floating above the surface. The rest of the duke’s body lay submerged in the pool.

Awen studied the finely chiseled features and wondered again that he had been sent to her. Had she not intervened, William, Duke of Normandy, would have died with the others.

She had awakened at daybreak and knew the duke was in danger. The tea leaves had given confirmation. Later, as Awen bathed in the pool, his gaunt features appeared in the reflection of the clear water. She’d gazed into eyes the color of steel, and a knowing had come upon her: this man would unite nations and take all she held dear.

Of course, that was predicated on Awen saving him. She did have a choice. But it was a fool’s choice and against Awen’s nature to do otherwise.

She grunted as she drew the creaking mail from the broad chest and muscled arms and shoved it aside. Summoning all her strength, she dragged the duke inch-by-faltering-inch out of the water, then leaned close to probe for injuries. The wounds had closed, save those that kept him from waking.

With an ear to his bloody gambeson, Awen listened for the beat of life. It was faint but steady, a good sign. Placing her cheek above his mouth, she felt his breath, shallow and hurried. Turning her face to examine William’s color, her lips accidentally grazed his.

The eyes flew open, stared without seeing, and closed again. William’s body was waking, but his spirit still wandered the Otherworld.

Worried he might not come back from that dark, treacherous world, Awen touched her lips to his cold, white ones. The eyelids flickered. Encouraged, she placed her hands on either side of the handsome face and kissed the duke in the way of the druid: forehead, nose, chin, eyelids, cheeks, then back to his lips.

This time they were warmer, and breath tumbled from them like the water that sprang from the rocks of Luftshorne. Awen waited, face inches from the fallen warrior’s. But the death sleep was unrelenting.

Uncertain as to what to do next, Awen sat back on her bare heels. The glade would soon go dark. She must set a fire and heat the kettle. But first to wake the almost dead.

Shaking the shoulder that had not been pierced, she urged, “Arise!”

The handsome head lolled away.

Cradling it gently, she eased it toward her to repeat the kiss of life. This time, the princely lips parted on hers, and strong arms snaked out to encage her.

Awen jerked away in protest, but her lips softened of their own accord and yielded to the duke, whose eyes never wavered. No veil could hide the soul of this man; no shroud could cover hers.

Betrayed by her body, Awen melted into the warrior’s embrace. Her heart thumped against his gambeson. His heart answered and beat in sync with hers, slowly, steadily gathering strength.

When the heat between them was too much to bear, Awen squirmed out of the duke’s grip, eager to escape the unfamiliar feelings.

Gloom had settled heavily upon the clearing. Awen must get him inside.

“Come,” she commanded, ignoring the color riding high on her cheeks.

Shakily, William clasped her outstretched hand and let her drag him upright. With a long moan, he wobbled on unsteady legs. Awen crooked an arm around his waist and helped the weakened leader to her simple hut one step at a time.

His heavy-lidded eyes masked the effort Awen knew it must cost him. The healing waters had mended his outer wounds, but the toll on his psyche was another matter.

William ducked through the doorway, swaying when she let go to close the door. Reacting quickly, she grabbed his out-flung arm.

“You’re shivering. Can you strip out of these wet things while I light a fire?”

The duke got the tight inner armor over his head, and his knees buckled. He staggered into Awen and dropped to the floor, arms pinned overhead.

She bent to free them from the sopping gambeson.

“We’ll get you in bed, your grace. But first, we must remove these wet breeches.”

William rolled his eyes but obliged. He pushed them to his knees and slumped back to the plank floor.

Water sloshed from his royal boots as Awen shucked them off. The sodden breeches followed.

“That way, my lord.” She pointed with her chin, eyes averted.

She could feel the blush staining her cheeks as she helped the naked man stand.

William took two stumbling strides across the room and collapsed on the tiny bed in the corner.

Relieved, Awen rushed to bolt the door and close the curtains. She added wood to the fire until it blazed. The chill hinted at an early winter.

She turned to the man draped across her bed and gasped. The young Duke of Normandy had fainted again, leaving the glory of his aroused manhood on display.

Awen shivered and covered her eyes. This morning’s vision had not prepared her for the raw attraction that sparked her breath and made it ragged.

She hurried to the cot and arranged the pelts over the duke’s frame, then leaned closer to feel his feverish brow. William was not out of the woods yet. The night ahead would be critical.

☼☼☼

William woke to a distant roll of thunder. Without opening his eyes, he knew he was somewhere other than the Chateau. Then horror and grief tore at his heart.

Percival. Vesuvius. All were dead. Even Shaen, his page, brilliant beyond his nine years, had fallen to the murderers. Thunder rumbled, louder this time. A storm approached.

How could he have survived, and where was he now?

They’d been traveling north with Vesuvius in the lead on a hunting expedition in the wildlands. A gift from his uncle for his seventeenth birthday, William had been suspicious. But all had gone well for the first two days, and he’d lowered his guard.

Then the heathens fell upon them, attacking his small party from all sides. Ferrach had reared, taking a spear meant for William, then crashed to the verge.

William had managed to roll free and whip his sword from its scabbard. But an arrow knocked him rearward, then a spear struck him in the back.

After that, William had no recollection. Was he dead?

Nay. A flame seared his back where the spear had hewn, but his heart beat strong. His shoulder ached where the arrow found its mark. Yea, William lived.

But how had he managed to cheat Death of its rightful quarry? No man survived such a mortal wound, not even William, Duke of Normandy. Yet here he lay, on a pallet of soft feathers with naught but a fur covering his loins. A glance told William he was in a one-room hut that felt oddly familiar.

And he wasn’t alone. A woman huddled by a lowing fire with the reddest hair he had ever seen. It coiled in riotous masses of curls tipped in pure gold. A great wolfhound lay at her feet, and a wildcat curled in her lap. The cat’s yellow eyes were trained upon William, alert and on guard.

He examined the rest of the room without moving his head. There was a door and two windows. Should the need arise, he could escape.

But why was he here? Why was he not dead? And who was this mysterious woman?

With great effort, William pushed himself upright, then slowly maneuvered his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging the pelt with him. The room swayed, and nausea threatened as the wolfhound, a beast of some heft with bared teeth, scrambled up and planted its body between William and the maiden.

She straightened in consternation, and the fire’s reflection danced in crystalline eyes the color of Oriental jade. He had seen those eyes. In a dream, perchance?

“Who are you?” His voice quavered, as weak as he felt. “And where are we? What magic has kept me alive?” William swung his arm as if brandishing a sword. “My shoulder and back bear no mark. What magic is this that my heart yet beats?”

“Druid magic, my lord. I am Awen.”

William recoiled. “A witch? I have been magicked by a witch?”

The druidess leaned forward and held a candle between them. Her cerise hair tumbled over lithe shoulders, and her green eyes delved into William’s soul. Heat gathered in him. He stared, mesmerized.

She tossed her fiery hair and laughed.

“A witch I am not. I am a daughter of Earth, as you are its son. My powers come from her and can be used only for good. You know this. You have the gift. Search your heart.”

William tried to stand, with the fleeting thought of running away, but his legs betrayed him. He collapsed on the bed and studied the witch through narrowed eyes.

He felt alarmed, but not threatened. Safe even in spite of what he’d been told about witches. He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses. William felt no evil or malice from the witch. No duplicity, either.

Still, he was wary. The church despised pagans and had fought long and hard to wipe them out. How had this one survived?

The witch answered his thoughts.

“I fled. My mother and father were murdered, along with our servants. Other druids happened upon me, a childless couple fleeing England. They brought me with them and raised me here. Strong magic hides this glade. It can be found only by those who know it.”

She paused, and William motioned her to continue, propping on an elbow when he could no longer hold his body upright.

“I foresaw your uncle’s treachery. He betrayed you and sent you riding to certain death. I could not let that happen.”

“My uncle?” he scoffed. “It is no secret that his loyalties lie elsewhere. But why would a druid witch care about my fate?”

She stared at a point just over his head.

“This morning, I dreamt of your ambush. You were killed by the spear that pierced your heart, bleeding out as one of your own turned his back. He betrayed you, Sir. And relished striking the killing blow, this man of fair face and foul heart.”

William’s guts twisted into a knot. He suspected he knew who had done the deed.

“Then Normandy rebelled and neighbor slew neighbor. The madness spread throughout France, England, and the rest of Europe, then on to the Orient and the world. Civilization fell, and anarchy reigned as humans laid waste to our Earth.

“Great cracks appeared all over the land. Fiery pits opened and spewed magma until the sea boiled, and the air filled with fumes too harsh to breathe. Earth died. And took all life with her.”

William stared at the sultry witch. Her story sounded much like the Armageddon prophesied in the Christian bible. But she couldn’t be right. As much as he would like to think so, William wasn’t significant enough to have such a profound effect on the entire world.

“What has this to do with me?” The quaver was back in his voice.

The woman blinked as if waking from a trance.

“Only you can stop it. How, I do not know. But the vision was clear. If you die, Earth and all she mothers will die too. I could not let that happen. So with the help of a brave mare, I rescued you. And brought you here. The waters did the rest.”

“The waters?” William touched the shoulder that had been pierced. “The healing Waters of Luftshorne?”

The witch nodded.

“That’s a legend.” He scoffed, but something had healed his mortal wounds. Something very powerful.

“Aye,” she agreed. “A legend based in fact. When you’re strong enough, I will show you the waters. But tonight, you must rest.”

Something in her dusky tone made William realize how drowsy he felt. In the middle of a yawn, he tried to remember what he’d been about to say, then decided it didn’t matter. He sighed and sank to the feather mattress and burrowed beneath its soft furs.

On the precipice of slumber, a thought invaded his mind. He was in a druid’s lair, under the spell of the druidess. He must escape, or all would be lost.

☼☼☼

William woke with a start. The cabin was empty, save for him. Moonbeams played on the thin curtains and bathed the hut in purple light. The storm had passed, and he felt stronger. A dulcet voice wafted to him from outside.

What had the witch done with his clothes? William rose and wrapped a pelt around his waist. This time, his legs held and carried him to the side window.

Through parted curtains, he spied the maiden. She was in the center of the meadow, clad in nothing but a simple robe. It hugged her body and flowed to the rhythm of a slow, provocative dance. A fire flickered at her bare feet, and she swayed, unaware that William watched from the window.

A need sprang within him, so sweet and so sharp that his heart pounded against his ribs. Leaving the confines of the hut, he approached the witch, averse to interrupting her sensual dance but unable to stop his feet from advancing.

She turned toward William, slender arms twirling overhead, punctuating Celtic words he didn’t understand. But her welcome was unmistakable. He reached for the maiden, and the pelt fell between them.

Awen swayed in the circle of William’s arms, singing of the earth and its countless blessings. An ancient memory stirred his royal feet to move in long-forgotten steps. As he gave himself to the primitive dance, the melody washed over and through his body, entering the wounds the waters couldn’t reach.

One by one, William felt them heal, and gratitude filled his heart to overflowing. He bent to graze Awen’s lips, ending her song mid-verse. For a fleeting instant, he was aware he was at the witch’s mercy.

Oddly, William didn’t care.

He guided her to the fallen fur and settled her gently upon the curls that framed her alabaster shoulders. Awen’s eyes filled with hesitation, and William faltered.

Awen reached up and pulled him closer.

Slowly, he drew her robe from her shoulders and paused to feast on her natural beauty. Her body trembled as his fingertip traced liquid lines from her navel to her chin, then back again.

With ragged breath, William claimed lips as hungry as his own.

The desire grew between them, and the kiss deepened. The world disappeared, and all that existed was their exquisite, mounting need. With a passion transcending any he had known, William rose above the druid priestess and pierced the veil of the kingdom forbidden to him by birth.

☼☼☼

The fire roared, stoked by winds whistling down on godsbreath. Crimson sparks leapt in the night air to dance around Awen, the last druid priestess, and William, the young Duke of Normandy.

It was an unlikely union. Awen was a witness to the obliteration of both her realm and people. William was a product of the ones to blame, the bastard destined to bring the veneer of civilization to an unruly kingdom.

Rain sprang from the mushrooming clouds. Eager grasses ripened on autumn’s sharp tongue welcomed the benediction. The expectant sky exploded in a thunderous display of pyrotechnics, and a bolt of lightning struck the oak beneath which the lovers lay. Ripped asunder, the monarch of the forest shrieked, and thunderclaps shook the vault of the heavens before rolling across the land.

Far away in Falaise, nobles bolted upright in privileged beds, and peasants rose from rick and cot to wonder if judgment day was upon them. How close to the truth their suspicions lay, not one amongst them would guess.

For that night in September 1042, a noble seed was planted in fertile druid soil and blessed by the elemental divine. The blending of ancient energies was wrought.

Humankind’s hope would survive.

Chapter 3, A Thousand Years Later

Emily Mayhall stared out the window. The Pacific Ocean sparkled Caribbean green in the early afternoon sun, and a stiff onshore breeze whipped whitecaps on the waves. Hungry pelicans dove for lunch, and the street people of Venice Beach worked what was left of the boardwalk.

Most of them lived in the block-long chasm that loomed in the distance, an area once known as Muscle Beach. Her team had been the first on-scene after that chunk of coastline had vanished. Emily shivered. It was one thing to chase disasters for a living; it was another when it happened in your own backyard.

Despite her intentions, Emily’s gaze drifted to the registered letter that mocked her from its perch amid the clutter on the counter. It had been there all week and at the postal store before that. Sighing, she decided she had suffered long enough. Opening it couldn’t be worse than wondering what misery it might hold.

Rising from the overstuffed armchair, she crossed to the counter and lifted the official-looking envelope in the air. For the umpteenth time, she gazed at it intently, trying to divine the message within.

As usual, Emily divined nothing.

It grated that she’d thrown away precious dollars to develop a sensing ability Shalane had insisted she possessed. That she had listened to the shaman in the first place was part of the rub. Regaining the self-esteem her mother’s tongue had taken from her was difficult enough. Avoiding others with the same agenda was harder still. On the surface, they were like everyone else.

Emily eyed the letter. If it was a debt that hadn’t been listed in her already-discharged bankruptcy, the creditor was up shits creek. That’s what her Canadian friend would say if Emily were to solicit her advice. Of course, she hadn’t. And couldn’t. Not without giving her new identity away.

Dismissing the pang of guilt, Emily ripped open the envelope and searched the solitary sheet of linen for an unpaid balance due. There were no numbers, just a request to contact the office of Mitchell Albom Wainwright III, Esquire, whose address was in Atlanta, Georgia. The letter was dated January 11, 2042, more than a month ago. What did Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third want?

She folded the letter, stuffed it back in the envelope, and tossed it on the counter. Outside, the surf broke over the jetty, and its spray danced high against the pale blue sky. The wave washed inland and surged back toward the sea, stirring a palpable need in Emily. She needed to run. It was a crystal-clear day, and she could think of no better cure for the fear that plagued her.

Fishing sunglasses and a lone key from the bottom of her purse, she stopped to hug Ralph. He mewed and blinked sleepy amber eyes, pretending to be annoyed. His purring told her otherwise. She planted a kiss on the spot between his cheek and ear.

“Bye, Ralphy. I’ll be back.”

He yawned and stretched on the back of the armchair, then set about licking the fur she had mussed. He was OCD like that, a compulsive washer. The two of them made a fine pair.

Scanning the tiny apartment, Emily dug beneath papers to retrieve a worn headband. Only a few boxes dotted the floor of the three rooms. She’d sold most of her stuff. The furniture was gone except for the bed and armchair. The maintenance guy had promised to take those.

“Back soon, Raf-feller!” Emily called as she turned the two bottom locks and the deadbolt.

A damp wind greeted her, lifting curls the color of crimson and gold, and with them, Emily’s spirits. Inhaling deeply, she savored the briny tang of the ocean air.

An aging gull landed on the railing, mewing as if greeting an old friend. Another swooped down and started a ruckus, no doubt sensing a mark in the making. Disappointed when Emily had nothing for them to eat, they raced to the beach, screaming challenges at one another before continuing the search for a handout.

Smiling at their antics, she braced her hands on the low stucco wall and leaned against it to rise on tippy-toes, stretching her calves. A long, high whistle shrilled from the nearby bottlebrush tree. Amid its fluffy red blooms, a parrot mimicked Emily’s movements, yellow head bobbing up and down.

She placed her foot midway up the wall, leaned into a thigh stretch, and squatted before stretching her abdominal muscles. The entire warm-up took only a minute, just long enough for more parrots to join her audience.

“Hello lovelies,” Emily called to the chattering birds. She zipped her jacket and fixed the headband over ears too sensitive to endure the rolling coastal winds blowing in from the ocean. Fingering the Taser in her jacket pocket, she said a silent prayer she wouldn’t need to use it and dashed down the three flights of stairs to the street.

Turning from the beach, Emily jogged a short block to Pacific Avenue and followed it to the park. She was sweating by the time she entered the gates, but the cursed letter dogged her, attached to her psyche by a thread of her own weaving. Determined to outrun it, she increased her pace, counting to sync her breath to her stride, “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight—”

Her toe caught a corner of the sidewalk, likely lifted in one of the myriad quakes. Her quick reflexes and cat-like agility kept her on her feet, but she chomped down hard on her bottom lip, drawing blood. Crying out in pain and frustration that had nothing and everything to do with biting her lip, Emily ran even faster.

The neighborhood had survived, though buckled and broken, unrepaired by a government that had run out of money and leadership long ago. Emily spit the blood in the sand beside the trail.

“Budget cuts, my ass.”

It was the bullshit reason they’d given for firing her. But it was really because she had identified a pattern in the chaos. No sooner had she shared her theory with her boss than she’d been out on her ass with barely a severance package to show for her years of service.

But not before Cyclone Charlotte literally ripped her fiancé from her arms. Emily pressed her tongue to the jagged skin of her bleeding lip, not wanting to think about Trey. He had saved her life, but it had cost him his.

“Think of the government. Think about Chester. Be mad, dammit!”

Her ex-boss, ex-friend, and one-time lover had sold Emily out. His betrayal wasn’t limited to her dismissal, either. Chester had made sure Emily wouldn’t work again by getting her blacklisted.

Zigging around a barrier, she caught a flash of movement. Emily yanked the Taser from her pocket and dropped to a crouch, heart thudding. When it turned out to be her favorite street lady, wearing layers of warring colors, Emily relaxed.

A grinning Maude waved and threw her head back to cackle, revealing gums sporting nary a tooth. Pocketing her weapon, Emily hailed the leathery-faced woman and left the erstwhile actress with a crumpled bill.

A fresh gust of wind blew in from the sea, whipping the flags overhead. Today, they were stacked one atop the other and lowered to half-mast. Emily wondered who had died. Keeping up with politics was a pastime she’d never pursued. Or politicians, either.

“Actors, now, are a different story,” she muttered to herself, passing the building Caleb MacLaine had reclaimed. She eyed the Einstein posit emblazoned on the side: “Imagination is More Important than Knowledge.”

As a scientist, Emily had no trouble with Einstein’s theories of motion and relativity or even gravitational waves and wormholes, though much of it had been replaced by the Universal Theory of One. However, seeking knowledge had been her life, and she could not fathom how this maxim could be true.

At the Muscle Beach Chasm, she detoured through an alley between two mansions. Riotous masses of geraniums and hot-pink bougainvillea spilled over every surface of the patio to her right. On her left, coastal oaks trailed Spanish moss. One had been given a whimsical face, complete with lips and nose. She waved to the tree-man, grateful Venice Beach had been spared, at least for the most part.

Many coastal cities had been wiped out completely, leaving gaping sinkholes and putrid pits filled with ash and rubble, and dirty salt water. Chunks of the entire California coastline had succumbed to the advancing sea. Nearby Manhattan and Huntington Beaches were both gone, with a million people lost and presumed dead.

Emily had worked those disasters and consulted on others. Pre-Charlotte. Pre-Trey. She had participated in recoveries around the globe, even led a few. She’d been told she was bossy, but got the job done, working longer and harder than most of her peers. Until six months ago, when she’d been handed her walking papers. She snorted with disgust. She’d had her fill of studying disasters anyway.

Which really only meant Emily had lost her nerve.

She cut across an eerily vacant Bel Air Avenue, fingers gripping the Taser in her pocket. Had more of the locals packed up and left? Many wouldn’t, or couldn’t, in spite of the continued and constant warnings. Either they’d fooled themselves into thinking the worst was over or prayed it wouldn’t happen to them. Emily felt a sting of shame, knowing she could be counted in their number.

At the precarious shortcut, she slowed to pick her way through the debris to the beach and jogged a while in the shifting sand. All but the ocean and its wildlife faded. Gulls cavorted in the crashing waves, and pelicans dove for an afternoon meal. The salty spray soothed Emily’s soul. The sun coaxed a smile to her lips.

Then she stumbled and retched when the stench of old death assaulted her senses. Unable to not look, Emily bit back a sob for the innocent sea lion rotting on the beach, even as her rapidly sorting, cataloguing brain compared the reek of old death to the shambles of her life at the present.

“Shut up, dammit,” she cried in anguish. Keeping an eye out for obstacles, she settled into a blistering pace, anxious to escape both life and death. It was something Emily pondered a lot—escape. Change your name, use cash, stay off the grid. With a new identity and tricks her mother had perfected, even a novice could disappear.

So, reeling from Trey’s death and Shalane’s persistent stalking, Emily had assumed a new identity—one taken from the ledger in her mother’s box. She chose the first name on a long list of aliases they had used over the years, and Ebby Panera became Emily Mayhall.

But she wasn’t her mother, and living this way felt wrong. On New Year’s Eve, alone and lonely, Emily had resolved to find her true self and to be it no matter what. So far, she hadn’t a clue what that was.

Unease stirred in the pit of her stomach. Searching for the source, she glanced over both shoulders, then detoured inland. Unbidden, a puzzle she’d been pondering earlier snicked into place. Her mother’s box, the registered letter, and the recurring dreams were all connected. They had to be.

The day she’d signed for the registered letter, Emily had tossed it on the counter unopened. But a compulsion to retrieve her mother’s wooden box from its hiding place had seized her and wouldn’t let go. She had fallen asleep leafing through a remarkably preserved papyrus tome contained within. Delicate hand-drawings of dragons, birds, and animals, along with maps of places that no longer existed, filled the pages in a flowing, lacy hand. The language was so cryptic that Emily had yet to discover its origins. Not that she had tried very hard.

Upon falling asleep that night, the dreams had come in fits and spurts, so urgent Emily woke in a sweat. Each time she had fallen back asleep, the dreams continued. In every one of them, she was a druid priestess in times gone by, fighting to save the life of one man. A royal who would be both her destiny and downfall. An unknowing diverter of disasters.

Clearing the last line of beach cottages, Emily faltered when sand pelted her in the face. Sputtering, she brushed the grit away, along with the haunting dreams, the box, and the letter.

She pounded the boardwalk, lungs laboring, and avoided the eyes of the few locals who scurried to let her pass. In the distance, her destination bobbed into view. Battered and shorter than its original length, the Venice Pier jutted reassuringly into the agitated sea.

Pumping harder, she ignored the pain that pierced her side and rounded the point. A woman with blond, flyaway hair stood in her path. Unable to stop or even slow down, Emily plowed her over, ears assaulted by a sharp squeal as they tumbled to the ground. Fire shot up Emily’s forearms as her palms bore the brunt of her fall.

Sudden fear liquefied Emily’s innards. Her adrenaline spiked. A female version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy groaned beneath her, eyes clenched tight.

Of all the French-fried luck.

Leaping to her feet, Emily dashed away, pulling her hood over her head. The woman she had bowled over was none other than her stalker, Shalane Carpenter—shaman, sorceress, evangelist, creep.

“Come back, you lunatic!” Shalane screeched behind her. “Come back here, you—” Wind and distance garbled the rest.

Emily sped for the cover of the decrepit pier, praying Shalane hadn’t seen her face. When the path dumped her on the far side of the jetty, Emily bent forward to gulp air, lungs blazing. On legs of rubber, and guts threatening to hurl, she sidled to a bench and doubled over in pain.

“I think I ruptured something,” she gasped.

An unkempt veteran leapt from the bench, accusing eyes frantic beneath black, bushy brows. He backed away quickly, putting several cracked spans of concrete between them.

If Emily could have laughed, she would have. Instead she sucked in air and fought to keep from losing her meager lunch. She collapsed on the seat the man had vacated and tucked chilled hands beneath sweaty armpits. Soon, the fuzziness faded from her sight, and she no longer felt like puking.

When there was still no sign of Shalane Carpenter, Emily told herself the run-in was coincidental. The shaman hadn’t known it was her.

Though far from convinced, a satisfied sigh escaped Emily’s lips. The jog might have brought her close to discovery, but it had eased the unbearable tension building in her chest since the dreams began.

Slouching low, Emily stared at the sea. Waves broke angrily against the reef a hundred yards out, whipped to a frenzy by yet another storm brewing in the Pacific Ocean. Swells upward of ten feet slapped the underside of the pier before rushing to the beach. Onlookers gathered to watch a pair in wetsuits battle the big surf. Emily dug a fist into her side and groaned when the letter popped into her head.

“Go away!” she cried, wishing her brain would obey.

It wasn’t like Emily had any credit left to ruin. Not after losing her job and the resultant bankruptcy. She had a little cash from the sale of her stuff. But come Friday, it was official—she would be out on the street with no job, no home, and nowhere to go. And now, in spite of all her many precautions, Emily’s stalker might know her whereabouts. She swiveled to search both ends of the boardwalk.

No Shalane. But her relief was short-lived. The deeper, primitive ache of destitution twisted in Emily’s gut. She wrapped her arms around knees scuffed in the fall, and buried her face, willing the dam not to break. If it did, the tears might never stop.

“Ahhh-wen.” At the edge of awareness, a musical voice crooned the name from Emily’s dreams.

Her head jerked up, startling a gull that was picking through a metal waste can. On a shriek, it took flight and wheeled toward the sea. Shivers danced along the nape of Emily’s neck. Who else could know about Awen?

The number of surfers and spectators was growing, but no likely culprits there. Had it been a snatch of song on the salt-laced breeze? Or was Emily hearing things on top of everything else?

“Stay in the moment,” she muttered with a calm she didn’t feel. “Now is all that matters. Those people are okay. That gull is okay. That homeless man is okay. Shalane didn’t see you, so you’re okay, too. Now quit the waterworks and stop freaking.”

In defiance, her mind conjured the aqua clunker Emily had purchased after the bank repossessed her sexy little coupe. Tears blurred her vision, and Emily rubbed her face briskly in her hands. The salt-eaten sedan had a large back seat. Which was good, considering her collision put the kibosh on her plan to seek refuge at the Venice Mission.

Replaying the crash in her head, Emily had to grin. It’d felt good to deck that sadistic bitch, even if by accident. Only now she would have to get away from here, money or no money. And as Emily Mayhall, she didn’t know a soul. Not here or anywhere else.

A long-forgotten scent jolted her awareness and was gone before Emily could give it a name.

“Ahhh-wen.” More thought than sound, the druid moniker tickled her inner ear.

Baffled, she stood to search the boardwalk, the beach, and the sea. A new and different foreboding crept upon her, more disturbing than Shalane or homelessness. Like molten metal, it trickled slowly down Emily’s spine and spread through her body, triggering her instinct to run.

~ Keep reading in Chapter 4, Water Dragon. Click to keep reading!🤩

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When Inspiration Strikes - The Idea that Spawned a 1,250-Page Trilogy

O. J. Barré — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 09:08:51 -0400

(Cover photo courtesy of Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash)

I once read that ideas float upon the wind.

They present themselves to many people, but most don’t give them another thought. Even fewer act upon the ideas. And since everything begins with an idea, why would a story be any different?

When the inciting idea for the Awen Trilogy struck in 2011, I was living in a small cabin in the woods of North Georgia outside Dahlonega. If you’re not familiar, Dahlonega is an adorable, once-gold-mining town just shy of the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.

I had landed there after leaving my heart home on the Southern California coast. Then, the relationship I upended my life for didn’t work out, leaving me and my cat, Bugsy, trapped.

So there we were in Georgia — with no job, no money, and no way back — or out. A blanket of depression settled upon me, along with the anxiety I’d started having in SoCal.

Yet, my time in North Georgia was not without fruit.

I was honing my writing chops, churning out regular blog posts at That Rebel, and connecting with other writers. And I was writing a sassy women’s fiction novel set in the local area. Then, the story ideas that had flowed so easily, suddenly dried up.

Now, I have practiced meditation since getting sober in 1991. On that particular morning, I settled in a chair on the back deck. Behind me, the cabin hid me from the outer world. Before me lay a sun-dappled forest of Georgia hardwoods — oak, birch, beech, elm, dogwood, wild azalea.

Back and side yard of that Dahlonega Cabin

In preparation for meditation, I took several deep breaths as I was taught all those years ago. Then, to anchor, I sent energetic roots down into Mother Earth. Unbidden, a thought popped into my head:

“What if something hitchhiked up my roots, into me, then escaped into the world?”

I know, I know. If you think I’m weird, you’re in good company. People have been telling me that my whole life.

You may or may not know this, but the point of meditation is to empty the mind of all thought. If one does occur, you’re to notice it, then turn back to the silence.

But that thought persisted.

For the next many days, it nagged at me, forcing me to consider the peculiar question and others that caromed from it.

What if something DID live inside Earth?

What would that something be?

Would it be friendly? Evil?

Why would it want out?

If it did travel up my energetic roots, how would it get out of me?

Through a sneeze or cough, like germs?

And if it managed to escape into the world, what would it do?

Wreak havoc?

Control minds?

Take over the world?

I’m not sure how long I pondered this notion. Days? Weeks? More? After all, I was depressed, remember? And writing a book. And blogging MUCH more frequently than I do today.

But I DO remember realizing at some point that I was at a standstill with my women’s fiction novel. No matter how much I allowed myself to ponder, agonize, and lollygag, those bright, shiny story ideas would no longer come.

I now know that this is my process.

When the ideas stop flowing, the story is done. But at the time, I had no clue this was the case.

Still, I couldn’t get that root idea out of my head.

So, I decided to give it more thought. Could I work the idea into a story? If so, what type of story would it be? A “thing” hitchhiking up an energetic root is not something one would stumble upon in regular fiction. In a metaphysical work, yes. Or a fantastical one. But a friend in SoCal had hit a wall trying to sell her metaphysical novel. So, fantasy it was.

And fantasy means magic. Which opens up new worlds.

Now, I had an inciting idea. And the notion that I could use it as a springboard for a fantasy novel. But that’s all I had. Nothing more.

Except for plenty of time to ponder.

~ la fin

This post began running long, so in a future one (probably next week’s), I will share how other ideas started glomming on. Like the Druid idea. And the William the Conqueror connection. And maybe the Reptilian/Hollow Earth brainstorm.

But for now, that’s enough from me, folks! It’s your turn:

I bet you’ve been struck by a story idea, too. Or maybe you’ve had an idea that inspired a career, a poem, a song, a new business, a hobby, a love, or some other fabulous life-affirming experience. Please share it with us in the comments. We’d love to read about it.

Part II: Inspiration Strikes - Now What?

From my heart to yours, Olivia/O.J.❤️

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