Sometimes, this story lies dormant in my head, nearly forgotten, but then, all of a sudden, at times like this, it feels so real that I almost think I've been to these places and met these people, when really, that's just their way of reminding me that I've already created them, so I might as well just write the damned book.
With no further ado, I give you the [draft of the] prologue (in which I first meet Archer Knox, hero of the story and occasional bane of my existence) of this book with the working title, On The Wings Of The Night.
Prologue
He was no angel, by the looks of him. Actually, I thought as my footsteps brought me close enough to see him clearly, his sharp features, dusky complexion, and pitch-dark eyes and hair would have put him more at home among devils. Brimstone in his veins would certainly have explained his evident comfort as he reclined in that wrought-iron chair on the café patio. He was just staring up at the stars in apparent obliviousness to the fact that everything else in sight was spangled with late-November frost.
With my teeth chattering away in spite of my Iditarod-worthy gear, I was thinking I’d have been willing to exchange at least a little of my own soul for whatever was keeping the chill from biting right through his meager flannel shirt and jeans. It made me even colder just looking at him and, considering that I’d spent the first twenty eight years of my life on the beach in cutoffs and a bikini top, my patience for single-digit temperatures was already next to nil. He hadn’t shown any sign that he was aware of my presence, so I decided it was up to me.
“You must be Archer,” I called to him across the pavement.
He nodded, but instead of continuing the standard greeting ritual and verifying my identity in return, he said, “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” without ever lowering his eyes from the sliver of a moon, hanging low and yellow like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.
“Sure,” I answered, “if your idea of beauty includes frostbite.”
“You really think it’s so bad?” He asked softly, returning his eyes to their heavenward target.
“What I think—” I began, but then hesitated on the brink of more sarcasm. I reminded myself that, while there was a strong possibility that this guy was a total loon, the job he’d proposed was the only prospect I’d had in six months, and I figured it’d be better if I didn’t screw it up in the first five minutes of the meeting, so I started again.
“What I think is, it’s probably a lot nicer by that fireplace I see in there,” and drawn by the inviting glow through the glass, I scooted past his table and took hold of the door handle.
“You coming?” I added with a backward glance.
With a sigh, he swung his feet down from the tabletop and rose, forcing me to aim my eyes nearly seven feet in the air to keep contact with his.
“I have a choice?” he asked, but closed the distance between his former seat and the café entrance in two long-legged strides.
“I’ll tell you what,” I replied, pulling the door open, “you can do what you like, but if you still need a ghostwriter, you can find me in there where it’s warm.”
“After you,” he said, and followed me over the threshold and across the room to a pair of hideous, yet sinfully comfortable velveteen armchairs by the fire.
Once we were both seated and drinks had been ordered, Archer said without a hint of mirth, “You know, it’s funny you call it ghostwriting.”
On The Wings Of The Night is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
