Authors: K. Dicke

Spring Tide (37 page)

And finally, thank you, Julie, for being with me since day one, and not laughing directly in my face when I first put on a leash (gave you my draft). I’m so grateful for your friendship in many, many ways.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

K. DICKE (it’s pronounced Dick-ee, ’nough said) left the lucrative-but-boring field of accounting to pursue her dream of having superpowers—or at least writing about superpowers. She might be one of very few Midwestern moms who loves both surfing and needlepoint.

Visit her online at
tideseries.com
.

DEAR READER,

Thank you for checking out
Spring Tide
!

Maybe you liked it and maybe you didn’t, but either way I’d love to know your thoughts. Your opinion matters to me—a lot. Please consider taking a couple of minutes right now to jot a review on Amazon or Goodreads, or wherever it is that you browse and shop for books. Or you can tell your friends on Facebook, etc. Or, feel free to email me and tell me what you think of the story: [email protected]

I had a blast playing pretend with Kris and Jericho. Please help me spread the love!

Want some more?

Kris’s journey continues in

Tidal Wave

Turn the page for a sneak preview.

CHAPTER ONE

I
stood in front of the mirror too long, feeling attracted and repulsed, ashamed but empowered. Skin-tight black leather pants matched a black leather bra that was semi-covered by a silver mesh tee, a studded black belt wrapping my hips twice and snaking around my left thigh. Beneath the ensemble was a short thin body. Tangled yellow hair fell down my back to the bra’s strap, a strap that supported little up front. I quickly looked away before my sight rose to my eyes. Picking up my electric guitar, an Explorer, I buried my pathetic self and let the reflection take over before heading out to the dragon (my pea-green, super-old Fiat wagon that sported no air conditioning).

My crew, Deathkill, was opening for a washed-up speed metal band, our most prominent engagement to date. With a scowl on my mouth that was stained with dark burgundy lipstick, I parked and walked in the front of the bar. The joint was only slightly less decrepit than the other venues we’d played—barely lit and sticky floors. I skimmed the turnout from beneath heavily shadowed lids and saw our lead singer, Quake (so called because his amateur wrestling moniker was Quaker, Scourge of the Pennsylvania Dutch). Despite his daunting size and shaved head he had the face of a baby. He also had the stamina to shriek every lyric. I joined him and we collected Dean, Roman, and Mort, alighting the stage just as half-ass multicolored lights shown down from above. Dean laid down a beat. Quake screamed. It was on.

Compression waves, the series of barcodes my brain used to interpret frequency and vibration, sprang into my mind and patterned the song as I jumped in. The waves started when I was young to compensate for the fact that I couldn’t hear my own voice—every other itty bitty noise on the planet, but not my voice. The waves automatically appeared when I spoke, helped me regulate my intonation and volume. I also employed them to visualize the music so I could improvise any way I wanted. At the moment, they showed lines of varying thickness, capturing double bass on drums, dramatic breakdowns, and big guitars.

Somewhere in the second chorus all the rage, stress, and bad feelings I’d carried around for so long exited my soul and collected in my fingers. It was sweet relief—the escape from the world I so desperately needed that only metalcore could give me now. The chords and runs I’d been playing became complex, driving harder and faster with the music. I made the solo my own, the notes intricate and sinister, my fingers moving feverishly among the frets.

Did leather slut-wear give me more flair or induce me to swing my hair around or head bang when appropriate? Yeah. Did it give the hard rock genre merit? No. Did it give me confidence to be part of the culture? Hell yes. My performance was killer. I fronted the show, strutted the stage with a raised fist, the audience caught up in my alter ego. They mimicked me, took in my darkness and met it with their rebellion. The real me, plain old Kris Edwards, would’ve been much happier playing acoustic at a tiki bar by the shore. But those days were long gone.

After we’d finished and taken down our equipment, Quake pumped my hand. “You slayed me! I’m so jacked I wanna slingshot powerbomb everyone here!”

I touched his humongous forearm. “Your enunciation was much better tonight.”
Even though you still kinda sound like Mickey Mouse on downers.

“Really? Ya mean it?” He ushered me toward a table. “Drinks are on me!”

Something slammed against my shoulder and propelled me forward four steps.

I turned and saw Roman, who had been the lead guitarist before I’d joined the group.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You don’t want me to play with you then say it!” I punched him in his chest, knocking him off balance.

Confused by my outburst, he only shrugged.
That’s what I thought.
I picked up my case and headed for the door because I knew I couldn’t keep up the façade much longer and hated the way I was acting. That and I wasn’t much for the Hell’s Angel’s wannabe that was ogling me from across the room. Dean, our drummer and my housemate, caught my eye. I shook my head and he nodded.

I went out the exit and into steam that was rising from the pavement, tinted yellowish-green by the fluorescents. It had finally rained, ending the drought Dallas had been in for months.

Ten steps into the parking lot, chills ran through me. I immediately stopped, turning my head left and right as I scanned the area. I spotted red hair pulled up in a bun and a frock with a long skirt and a high neck. She was standing by my car.

She found me again.

Fear rose from the depths, making sweat drip down my neck, but I tamped it down. I resumed a casual stride until I was five feet from my visitor. I didn’t raise my hands to her. There was no point.

She gestured to my ride. “The rust along the wheel wells is coming in nicely.”

“I care.” I crossed my arms. “What do you want?”

She looked me up and down and laughed. “Who do you think you are?”

I took two long steps, putting my face an inch from hers, my voice low. “
Daughter of Time
, Ava.”

“What?” She pulled her head back. “What did you say?”

“Heard of it?”

She didn’t answer, but I could see by her expression that she was thinking real hard or trying not to think at all—I wasn’t sure which.

“Truth is the daughter of time and
nothing
can hold it back. So when the time comes, and it will come…” I clenched my teeth. “…I will bury you.”

“Well, let’s see how much longer you can last in your condition.” She poked me between the eyes with an ice cold finger. “It really won’t take too long before you waste away to
nothing
.”

A cloud of red materialized and I reeled back three feet. She disappeared, floated away into the night sky as ten billion tiny particles.

“Bitch.” I hated that word more than any other in the English language, but that’s exactly what Ava was.

I had been trash talking Ava for sure. But I truly believed in
Daughter of Time
, played it every day to keep myself going. Even after James Thompson, the artist who’d written and recorded the song, had cancelled his tour three years ago and dropped off the face of the earth, I still clung to his words. There was only one song that meant more to me than
Daughter,
the one I’d started for Jericho, but I couldn’t play it anymore—it hurt too much.

I pulled off the rock-baller belt I was wearing, hoping that the act of removing part of my tough-girl costume would remove the rage I was feeling and the image in my mind of me cutting Ava’s throat from ear to ear.

There was nothing left to do but go home and try to sleep so I could get through another day. At that second, I wanted to go to the ocean so badly—to hear its rhythm, feel its salt on my skin, and take in its power.
If only.

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