I studied and lived in Japan, got a Master's Degree in Sociology from the University of Oxford and an MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Now I write SFF novels about cerebral people suffering post-modern angst who cope by drinking lots of wine. And misusing magic.
So, one of my clients is Meta (that means you, everyone — Facebook, IG, Threads, Whatsapp), is down and I have nothing to do but wiggle my mouse. In the meantime, I put my chapbook to music courtesy of AI. Some might not approve, and certainly a live band would be better, but some of the songs aren’t so bad. All the lyrics are my own, and technically I own the rights to the music as well. Check it out!
“Hey, Beef Wellington! Try to keep up, won’t you?” Jacob was not pleased to learn that Binah-level clearance involved mentoring younger agents. In his case, Jacob was tasked with a roly-poly new recruit by the name of Wells Jenkin. He was plump, didn’t seem to have much affinity for magic, and worse off, Jacob strongly detected the odor of sheep. Jenkin was from Wales.
“So, so, sorry, Mister Orange!” The young man in his pressed suit struggled to keep pace with Jacob as they marched down a busy street of tourists near Niagara Falls, the Canadian side.
Jacob spared a glance to turn his head and glare at his companion. “Cut it out on the mister stuff,” he shouted. “And hustle!”
Wells nodded, visibly panting, and mustered to keep up with his teacher. “What,” he gasped, “should I call you then?”
“Jacob is fine, though if Victoria were our handler today she’d insist on ‘Agent Orange’ — but for reasons you can assume I’m not too fond of that. Some people call me JO, but those someones usually find themselves organ-less, lying in a bathtub deep in the heart of Mexico.”
“All right… Jacob.” Wells clutched a parcel, about the size of a football, to his side. It was twice enfolded in bubblewrap and enchanted to stay inconspicuous.
Jacob turned and ushered Wells to a stop. His ginger hair, needing a cut, flapped about in the breeze from the nearby waterfalls. “There’s a good lad. So you know the mission brief, correct?”
“We’re,” Wells said, “to deliver this package to a certain someone by the entrance to ‘The Maid of the Mist.’”
Jacob took a moment to fish into the pocket of his denim coat and pull out two garish yellow ponchos, one for each of them, that were alarmingly big for the size of his jacket.
“Well, just announce my presence to the world, you silly chit.” Jacob stuffed one of the water-proof ponchos into Wells’ free arm. “Put that on; it’s sealed. I had R&D work on in because I can’t stand cold water. Can you work shadows yet?”
Cloaking oncself in a veil of night was the nearest form of invisibility Jacob’s agency offered and was part of the basic of training for field ops, but he had heard Wells hadn’t exactly passed with flying colors. That sheep-shagger.
“I think,” Wells said, “I can manage. May I ask a question… Jacob?” The poor sod was still trying to catch his breath and figure out Jacob’s queer sense of decorum.
“Bang away.”
“Why are we running?” Jacob merely grinned. “I’m hazing you, Wellington. Now, into this alley here…”
Stepping gingerly in his new trainers — the last ones were eaten by an ooze — Jacob tugged Wells into a small crevasse between a café and a bank. The street was rife with passersby, and they needed to be inconspicuous with this dead drop.
“Okay, give me the parcel.” Jacob more or less took it from Wells before the eighteen-year-old had time to blink, let alone parse the directions.
“Shroud yourself. Remember, your aptitude goes into my report at the end.” Christ, he sounded like Victoria. He was surprised he hadn’t acquired her curt accent as well.
Wells adjusted his jacket and brushed some imaginary lint off his shoulder. “Do we need to, sir? Er, Jacob? There’s plenty of crowd to blend into.”
Jacob sighed. “I read your records, Agent Jenkin. Well, rather, Doctor Munroe made me read them. Why I got tasked as your mentor is still a mystery to me, as the man never seems to explain anything, but for the time being you’re in my care. Now make like an overweight star on Strictly Come Dancing and disappear.”
Wells visibly winced and drew in a sharp intake of breath. Jacob watched as he closed his eyes and sweat, already dappling his forehead, began to run down his brow and slick his nose.
“it’s coming, Mis… Jacob,” he stammered, “I promise!”
Jacob ran his fingers through his hair. His magic could run laps around this boy’s, and Jacob was only a few years out of graduate school. Annoyed, he grabbed his force-fed pupil’s hand.
“Shadows,” he murmured. Normally he wouldn’t need words of power for such a simple glamour, but he worried about Wells’ stability to maintain the illusion. “Cover him with darknesss, so that he may walk as night. Inumbrare.” And he crossed himself with Catholic rites.
Immediately around Wells a sort of misty darkness began to writhe about his feet; it slowly and steadily slid its way up his body until he was covered in motes of darkness, barely visible in the dim light of the alleyway.
“Mister Orange!” exclaimed Wells, forgetting Jacob’s addressing protocol. “You’re not supposed to help me with spells!”
“Wellington, consider this a one-off. Mum’s the word.” And Jacob pressed one finger to his nose before turning his gesture into a swift flourish, gathering shadows around him and obscuring his form.
“I can barely see you,” whinged Wells. It grated on Jacob’s ears.
“Well, that’s the point then, isn’t it?”
“How will you see me?”
“Since I cast the spell, I can see you like a sheep at a shearing. The others? Not so much.” Jacob decided he should probably stop on his sheep euphemisms. The poor Welsh.
“Oh… oh, okay,” said Wells; Jacob’s words had probably struck a nerve. On to happier things!
“Keep to the sides; don’t engage anyone, and we should be fine.” Jacob nodded at their dubious delivery. “Whatever that is, the sooner this test is over, the sooner you get your marks. Apprentice.”
“Yes, sir! I mean, Jacob, sir!”
Inwardly groaning, Jacob flicked the piercing in his ear and wondered which was the worst of two evils. “Handler, do you copy?”
“Hey there, JO!” called a boisterous battlecry into Jacob’s eardrum.
“Aphy? Is that you? What on earth are you doing as a handler?”
“After the incident with the Eyeballs and a bar fight or three, I requested some lighter work from Doctor Munroe. He was more than obliging.”
Lighter work? Victoria would have Aphrodite’s guts for garters if she heard her profession described as “light work.” Jacob allowed himself to smirk.
“Status?” he asked.
“You rendezvous in fourteen minutes. Better get a shuffle on.”
Jacob nodded, mostly to himself and then looked at his protégé. “All right, mate?”
“Yes… Jacob.”
Suppressing an almost dietetic urge to roll his eye, Jacob grabbed Wells by the hand and pulled him out of the alley. There were still massive throngs of people: tourists taking selfies and gorging on poutine. Jacob kept close to the side of the bank and pushed Wells out in front of him.
The poor lad was shivering from nerves. How on earth did he get cleared for field duty? Jacob would have to write a very scathing report indeed if he didn’t want Wells to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. For now he just hissed, “Proceed, Jenkin, to the attraction’s entrance. I’m right behind you.”
It was a pity, Jacob mused, that their cloak of illusion didn’t ward off smells. He wondered if he should propose something to R&D; Jenkin stank like a skunk in heat. Even on-goeres who were too involved and deceived by Jacob’s magic turned up their sunburned noses after catching of whiff of them. Deodoraant, Jacob thought, was probably a better idea.
The bank they passed was old, back from trailblazing times, and despite the bustling crowd it didn’t look much modernized. The brickwork was in dire need of repair and flecks of paint peeled off its door.
“Twelve minutes, JO,” Aphrodite’s voice chimed in his ear. He daren’t respond lest he drew the crowd’s attention. Jenkin, for his part, did his best to inch his way forward, eyeing the package nervously. Jacob wondered why neither he nor Wells hadn’t been briefed on its contents.
Oh well, he thought. It was probably something utterly banal and useless for the purpose of testing the wee mageling. Jacob slinked along the bank’s exterior, letting his fingers trail along the bricks. Just a few more minutes, he reckoned, and they could make the drop and be on their way. He hoped that their contact was more adroit than his pupil.
That was when he sticked a finger in it. “Wellington,” Jacob said in a harsh whisper.
“Did you make sure the package was sealed?”
“Ye…es, Mister Orange. I mean Jacob. JO?”
Jacob ignored the nomenclature and took a gander at his new trainers. Just like before, a slimy intensely green substance covered the toe of his shoe. Ichor.
It’s that time of year again… spooky time! As I get ready for a great night with friends, I have a couple of issues to address.
Some people have been trying to reach me on Facebook, but my account was hacked and then suspended. I’ve reached out to Meta and hopefully they’ll resolve the issue. I am alive and can be reached here or on Instagram.
Next, hubby got very very ill this month and was in the ICU for over a week, which made me start going grey with nerves. Erp. He’s out now and on the mend, so thanks to all of those who sent well-wishes and prayers. He’ll be okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
In short, Jacob’s launch has been pushed back by a bit due to how insanely busy I’ve been this October. I promise to get some new content up to keep the momentum going come November, so I ask for your patience and continued support!
A ginger for justice. He travels the world at his Agency’s whim, solving various crises with his reliance on shadow magic and a good dosage of Catholic school training. Half American, half English, Jacob Tennyson Orange is an unpredictable but capable agent to deal with.
An American raised by a Chinese amah, no one knows his real name or age. He shares a sullied past with Jacob, the two having met along the Seine and frequently imbibing the local wines. Is he a leader or a traitor? Perhaps only he knows what the Progenitor Machine is…
A young American field operative at Jacob’s agency. After a traumatic experience that left her eyes jaundiced, she believes she can see the dead and wears dowdy robes. Jacob thinks she’s faking it.
Hailing from Cape Town, Dr. Munroe is the head of the London branch of Jacob’s agency and his immediate boss. Munroe is a gifted mage that has been known to launch lightning bolts at those he finds incompetent.
Jacob’s faithful driver through the harried streets of London. He and Jacob once had a game of alcoholic darts and they both ended up in the hospital, getting their stomachs pumped.
