Sneak Peek!

What do you want for Christmas?

Why, a snippet of Shadows Falling, Book II in the Shadows Series, you say?

I can do that.

Merry Christmas, book lovers!

(Here, Rose's past comes to light and we learn about her childhood with a collection of gypsies, one of them, a conman named Solomon):

Solomon could throw knives like a magician. With the skill of a marksman and the grace of a dancer, he could throw them at people’s heads. He began his show with a request for a volunteer. People being people, therefore complete and utter wastes of skin, would consistently endanger his skill. No matter the brave farm boy, the savvy city girl, the mustached gentleman, and so on and so forth, they would consistently ruin his show. Flinching was the best he could hope for, utter panic and ducking and screaming the norm. It annoyed him mightily, though he smiled and pretended to be sympathetic. Really, he wanted to show his skills, and it was difficult to do that when your assistant is running off. So I became his girl, his never flinching, brave girl; at the age of nine I could do what most soldiers could not. I could stand, fierce and calm, as he threw razor sharp knives at my body.

This is what I would do:

I would stand flat, against a painted back drop of canvas. It was painted bright white, and the color red was used to paint a huge target that completely engulfed me. I stood, straight as an arrow and twice as still, and the first throw would go a little off.

On purpose, of course.

It would barely even hit the canvas; winging madly off the side and clinging only just to the very edge, it would wobble and throb in the peripheral of my vision.

The second would be nearly as bad.

The crowd would begin to jeer a bit.

“No wonder she was your willing participate, sir!” they’d laugh. “Why, I’ll be up there next if that’s the best your aim can do!”

The third shot would wildly veer off and pin my skirt to the canvas. The crowd would gasp a bit, mostly the women and children. They realized I could not easily go anywhere should a shot go awry; the knife held me fast.

The fourth would whiz by my ear, my stoic, never flinching ear, and land so close to me that a lady would inevitably shriek.

The fifth would pin my hair to the board, and still, I never moved.

The sixth would land square between my third and second fingers of my left hand, just like we had practiced, and if I lifted up my thumb and forefinger I could nearly caress the metal blade, and I was always tempted to, but still I held still. The crowd would now be utterly silent, but I could normally hear a murmured prayer or two.

The seventh would bind my skirt more tightly to the canvas bull’s eye, and the eighth would miss my boot by the tiniest hair’s breath.

The ninth would graze my hair again, and I would feel the ivy crown tremor with the weight of the blade as it settled through the leaf. At least half the crowd would now be telling Solomon to stop.

The tenth, and final, knife would be thrown with such force that I would have been knocked backwards, if I hadn't had the heavy canvas backdrop behind me, supporting me, and in fact, pinned to me, like a young girl’s embroidery caught in its hoop. I was stretched tight, and escape—at least a quick escape—would have been nearly impossible.

The tenth knife would miss my throat, but only just.

Someone would swoon, someone would curse Solomon, someone else would shake his hand merrily, someone would rush to help me, and they all would pay their admission in relief.

The time came when I was weary of being the prey of Solomon’s knives (I wasn't frightened but I was bored), and he grudgingly let me practice my own throwing skills. At first I was dreadful; I had no depth perception, no knowledge of the mechanics of force and gravity and flight, no premonition of where my wayward tosses would land. But one thing I did have: a love for the feel of the handle in my palm, the way it fit my tiny fingers perfectly, the way the cheap silver glinted in the sun, especially as it somersaulted and flipped its way to its target. The way I felt at home and secure and in love with the knives.

One night in late October, a party came to see us. We already had a crowd, and their group of ten or so, mostly blathering young girls, made it the largest I had ever performed for. We did coin tricks, sold bottles of potions, collected tickets to see the twins in their dark and separate tent, and told fortunes by the light of the gypsy wagon. The group of girls were rich, their frocks the whitest whites with huge bows and boots that laced up tightly. They all had gloves of lace with pearl buttons, and I found myself desiring a pair myself. I eyed them longingly as I took their tickets.

One, a girl of perhaps twelve, was the ring leader (it was her birthday party) and saw me looking. She tucked her glorious locks of ebony hair behind her ear and tapped me on the nose.

“Would you like gloves like mine, little gypsy urchin? Look, girls, how she stares at us!”

The others tittered.

“As if we are the odd ones here!” another whispered loudly.

“Why are you so yellow haired, gypsy girl? Did they steal you away?” The first girl leaned towards me, as if voicing a conspiracy. “Were you a nice girl like us, with a family, and the dirty gypsies came and stole you away?”

“Or perhaps she has an English father somewhere, with a taste for gypsy women?” said the second girl, and they all laughed uproariously.

“Here, little child,” The first girl unbuttoned her glove dramatically. “Take mine. Never let it be said I don’t know how to give to charity. That should shut Mother Louisa up this week.” She slapped them against my cheek with wicked force that stung and would leave a red mark behind to remember her by for days after, and they left to get their fortunes told.

I’m sure it seems quite obvious that I hated them very much. Any girl would at that point, but I am not just any girl.

When they came to my tent I wore the white gloves. I threw every knife perfectly, narrowly missing my dear Solomon, who pretended alarm at the last throw, just for the audience’s sake. Everyone in my crowd applauded loudly, but not that group of girls. They only looked at me with contempt.

So I asked for a volunteer.

Of course, the girl who gave me the gloves—her lily white hands bare now, bare and lovely and graceful, not tanned and with bitten nails and knife scars like mine—volunteered, the way I knew she would. This one wouldn't back down from a challenge. She wasn't easily frightened or intimidated. She knew how to get places and what to do, and say, and act, once she got there. She was ruthless and arrogant. I very nearly liked her, if only she hadn't turned her contempt towards me. Perhaps we could have been friends?

Solomon watched me warily, and with concern, as if he knew I wasn't feeling well. For the first time ever, my hands shook ever so slightly as I picked up my first blade. I steadied them immediately. I stared at her, with her black shiny locks of hair artfully arranged around her shoulders, as she stood against the canvas backdrop. Her pointy little boots stuck out to the side in a ballerina’s stance, and her hands were clasped in a dainty fashion in front of her stomach. Every man and every boy couldn't pull their eyes off her, and every girl and every woman wanted to be her. I motioned to her to put her arms to her side and spread her fingers. She did so without hesitation or qualm. The only movement she gave me as the first knife found its mark in the bull’s eye was a bored little yawn.

“She’s never worn gloves before,” Solomon explained to the police later when they arrived. “They made her hands slippery. She’s only a child. It was a tragic mistake.”

“Whether or not the victim lives, we’ll have to shut you down,” the police told him. “Pack up, but don’t go anywhere until this is sorted out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, girl. No more playing with knives, do you hear?”

I didn't want to talk to him, but Solomon nodded at me, urging me to. “Yes, sir.” I muttered.

“We wouldn't want more accidents. Play the piano; take up painting. But for God’s sake, don’t play with knives. Tragedy happens when you miss what you’re aiming for. Could have happened to anyone now.” He looked at me with sympathy. “Could have happened to anyone, child. Anyone can miss.”

When he leaves, I run to Solomon, and he ruffles my hair and calls me Goose.

“I didn't miss,” I say into his chest.