Chapter One
Matt
December 1, nineteen days until deadline
What comes next? What comes next?
My brain chanted these words over and over again, cutting through the death metal pounding in my ears, as my feet hit the pavement. Alone on the road, I forced a fist pump in a futile attempt to jolt my creative juices into a flow state.
What comes next?
Running usually shattered my writer’s block immediately, like magic. Most of the time, the simple act of tying on my shoes got the old brain working, but not today. Nothing could silence the constant chatter of “What comes next?”
I pulled off my T-shirt as I turned around at the end of the street, where Stagecoach Run met the main road, Rogers Drive. Yes, it was December in the Midwest, but the unseasonable warmth had me sweating like a pig out here.
My fingers itched to check the mentions on my phone, even though I knew I shouldn’t bother. For one thing, there’d probably be no cell service out here on the road, and for another, not having easy access to social media was kind of the point of me being in the middle of nowhere, Illinois.
Okay. What just happened in the story? Trying to quash the desire to doom scroll through my Twitter feed, I forced my mind to replay the book so far, as if watching it happen in a movie.
Cassya, the youngest of the Bastyan siblings, was just picked up by pirates in the Jayde Sea. Her brother, Sheldyn, is now sitting on the throne in Baryos, even though he’s the second son. Markys, the rightful heir, has gone missing and is presumed dead. Petrya is on a quest to find him. She just happened upon an oracle who told her she will never marry but will have three sons.
So, now what?
Years ago, back before I’d even written a single word, I completed a comprehensive outline of the entire series, which I followed religiously through book two. But when I sat down to close out the trilogy almost a year ago now, nothing felt right. I chucked the whole outline in the trash and started over. And then I started over again, and again. I spent almost twelve months killing darlings, and now all I had to show for it was about thirty thousand crappy words and a forest’s worth of broken pencils.
I waved to an elderly woman, who was out arranging a trio of white wicker reindeer on her snow-free lawn. She waved back, hesitated for a moment, and then started flailing her arms wildly and shouting. I glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby to come to her aid. When I realized it was all up to me, I ran over to her, letting my noise-canceling headphones drape around my neck.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Wide-eyed, she released the reindeer she’d been holding, letting it fall sideways to the ground. Her mouth appeared unable to close any longer. Was that one of the signs of stroke? I tried to recall my research from back in book two of my fantasy series, when the king’s older brother died suddenly at the dinner table, leading the other characters to speculate—was it a natural death, or was it murder?
The woman clutched her heart, which was covered by a red sweatshirt boasting a Christmas tree and the words, “Let’s get lit.” I mentally prepared myself to call 911 and fumble my way through CPR. I wasn’t normally the guy who got into daring, heroic situations like this. I wrote about men and women like that, but I wasn’t one of them.
“You’re M.C. Bradford!” she squawked. “I’d recognize that face anywhere! I have all your books!”
Oh, shoot.
Again my fingers twitched to check social media, to see what they were saying about me.
Again I caught myself before I could reach for my phone.
“I can’t believe you’re here!”
I’d spent twenty years as an author living in relative obscurity, writing books that only mattered to a handful of devoted fans, but one year ago, everything changed. My fantasy series, The Bastyan Saga, premiered on TV. I hadn’t thought much of it initially. I’d been excited, sure, and I was glad to have the extra money, no doubt, but I’d experienced enough disappointment in my writing life not to bank on anyone actually watching it.
But the powers-that-be shortened the series name to the very important-sounding The Saga, and for some reason, that tricked people into checking out this odd-ball fantasy story about a bunch of siblings trying to make their way in a kingdom of corruption and depravity.
I assumed people showed up initially for the equal opportunity nudity. I liked to pretend they stuck around for the high-stakes drama.
Long story short, one year ago, only the geekiest of geeks had heard of me. Now everyone, including this woman out in the middle of nowhere, knew who I was.
“Thank you,” I said, even though she technically hadn’t actually complimented my work. Maybe she loathed my books and kept them around as doorstops or to give as gifts to people she hated. Maybe she’d seen the viral video of me…
I shuddered. Of course she had. That was probably how she’d recognized me so quickly.
She leaned in closer. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Running.” Realizing I now stood before her, not as a random jogger, but as a semi-famous person, I pulled my sweat-drenched T-shirt down over my head, covering my half-naked body. One day she’d describe this encounter in detail to her friends and family members, and I hoped it wouldn’t include information about the density and grayness of my happy trail.
“I mean, do you live here?” Her eyes widened.
“I’m renting a place,” I said, “just for a bit.”
Jane, my assistant, would want me to make sure I wasn’t alienating one of my biggest fans, but since I became famous, I was always hesitant to give too much of myself to anyone new. Letting people get too close had come back to bite me a few times. I hoped that vague answer would be enough info for this woman, and she wouldn’t try to dig into the wheres and whys and how longs.
“Wonderful! You’ll have to go to the Christmas fair at the owner’s club, and the New Year’s Eve party of course—”
“Actually, I’m here to work…”
“Right,” she said. “Oh. Of course you are. I saw that video. They treated you so—”
I raised a hand to stop her. We would not be reliving the worst moment of my life today. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
She frowned. “I’m sure.”
“And…if you wouldn’t mind keeping it quiet that I’m here.” I glanced around on instinct, making sure we were still alone. “I came to this town to get away from…you know.”
“Of course,” she said, miming zipping her lips. “It’s our little secret.”
I grinned in an attempt to keep things light, breezy, uncomplicated. “Feel free to tell everyone in January after I’m gone.”