Robert Crane - Alone

I’ve heard it said that writing is hard. I disagree; writing novels is easy thanks to the people I have to help me.

Once more, my greatest thanks to my editorial team:

First of all Heather Rodefer, a real trooper, who pores over each page with ruthless precision, purple pen in hand. Her tireless efforts, real-time feedback, and fearlessness in telling me when something is simply not working help keep my work from becoming self-indulgent codswallop.

Second, I must thank Debra Wesley, who in addition to being the speediest to deliver her feedback, is also a constant source of wry humor, insight into the larger world of fantasy and sci-fi, and affirmation for whatever project I’ve just completed.

Third, Shannon Garza read through this particular volume multiple times, trying to figure out what grammatical sin I had committed that caused her Texan sense (it’s like spider-sense, but for Texans) to tingle with displeasure. She ended up figuring out by pure instinct something that I thought I had fixed. Kudos to her for helping me smoothe out that particular problem and also for finding the cover art after a long search on shutterstock.com.

I shudder to think what any of these books would look like without the countless hours these three put in helping me fix the errors of perspective and thought, grammar and syntax. Keeping a story straight in my head is a lot of work and it’d be impossible if not for outside help like theirs.

Thanks again to Kari Layman for the affirming conversations that led me to go out on a limb and write this book. If she’d said it didn’t sound that interesting, I probably would have worked on something else and Sienna Nealon might never have left her house.

Thanks also to Calvin Sams, who read through and gave some very helpful notes.

A special shout-out and thanks to Nicholas J. Ambrose, author extraordinaire. You can find a sample of his new novel, Samantha’s Promise, in the back of this work – and I recommend reading it, then buying the book.

The cover of this book is a (slightly cropped) photo by Anna Omelchenko, who I believe is in Lebanon.

To the fans, the people who have been buying and reading my work and sharing your feedback, a hearty, hearty thank you. The best letters always seem to come on the days when I need them most.

And finally, thanks to my family – wife, kids and parents – for doing all that you do so that I can do what I do.

When I woke up, there were two men in my house. As alarming as that would be for most girls, for me it’s doubly so; no one but Mom and I are allowed in our house. No one. That’s rule number one.

I sensed them creeping around in the living room as my body shot to instant wakefulness. It probably sounds weird, but I could hear them breathing and an unfamiliar scent filled the air, something brisk and fresh, that brought with it a chill that crept into my room. They did not speak.

I rolled off my bed, making much less noise than either of them. I crouched and crept to the doorway of my room, which was open. It was dark; dark enough for me to tell they were having trouble seeing because one of them brushed the coffee table, causing a glass to clatter. A muffled curse made its way to my ears as I huddled against the wall and slid to my feet. We had an alarm, but based on the fact that a deafening klaxon wasn’t blaring, I could only assume they must have somehow circumvented it.

I didn’t know what they were looking for, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl (eighteen in a month, and I guess I’d say woman, but I don’t feel like one – is that weird?) and there were two strange men in my home, so I guessed their motives were not pure.

How did they get in? The front door is always locked – see rule number one. I peeked around the doorframe and saw them. The one that hit the coffee table looked to be in his forties, had a few extra pounds, and I could tell, even in the dark, that he had less hair than he wished he did.

The other one was younger, I guessed late twenties, and his back was turned to me. They were both wearing suits with dark jackets, and the older guy had shoes that squeaked. Most people wouldn’t notice, but right then I was hyperaware. He put a foot down on the linoleum in the kitchen and when he went to take another step there was a subtle sound, the squeal of rubber soles that caused those little hairs on my arm to stand up.

I weigh a hundred and thirty-seven pounds and stand five foot four. The old one was over six feet, the younger a little taller than me. The young one held his hands in front of him, probably because his eyes still hadn’t adjusted.

What do you do in a situation like this? I couldn’t run; I’m not allowed to leave the house. That’s rule number two, courtesy of Mom. So when she’s at work, I’m at home. When she gets home from work, I’m at home.

I don’t leave the house, ever.

The two of them edged their way around. The old fat one stepped on a soda can and swore again. I was suddenly thankful for my pitiful housekeeping efforts of late. I saw the younger one heading toward me, and wondered what to do. Can’t leave. I reached to my right and felt the press of an eskrima stick in my hand, leaning against the old record player. I picked it up and transferred it to my left hand while my right went back to searching for its companion.

Eskrima sticks are batons, each about two feet in length. I could fight with one alone, if I had to, but I’m better with two. Mom started teaching me martial arts when I was six. I’m only allowed to watch an hour of TV a day, and that’s if I do all my chores, all my studies, and I’ve behaved myself. The eskrima sticks are part of my studies. Two hours of martial arts every single day, no exceptions.

The young guy peered through the door and didn’t see me. I was huddled against the wall, motionless, crouching at waist level for him. He swiveled when I moved but before he got a chance to react, I brought the eskrima stick up into his groin. I didn’t know him or what he was here for, so I didn’t swing with full force, but it still ruined his day. Just like Mom taught me.

He let out a scream and I rose, driving the point of my shoulder into his solar plexus – that’s the place in your stomach where if you get hit, you’d say you got the wind knocked out of you. Wheezing and gasping, it sounded like he was going to get sick on me. Mom says that happens sometimes, so I moved out of the way as he fell to his knees. An eskrima stick to the back of the head put his lights out. As he fell, I caught a faint whiff of a pleasant scent – sweet yet pungent, cologne of some sort I guessed. It was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before. I liked it.

A stream of curses reached my ears from Oldie in the living room, and I saw his hand come through the door, so I reached out and made a connection with his wrist – with one of the sticks, of course. Just a tap. He yanked it back with a grunt of pain. I flung myself through the door, leading with a front kick that he blocked with the same hand I had just whacked, and he grunted again before trying to counter with a punch.

He was pretty far away, so I let him follow through. I didn’t think he could see me, and he was as slow as a glacier compared to Mom. She practiced with me every day, and still beat the hell out of me during practice. You’d think after training with the woman for twelve years I’d have figured out how to beat her, but no…

Oldie took another swing and I sidestepped, my feet carrying me into the kitchen. I brought the eskrima stick overhand and cracked him on the head as I let out a little giggle. I couldn’t help it, really. Day after day it was study, study, study, practice, practice, maybe watch a little TV, wonder why I’m not as good at fighting as Mom, and then one day you wake up and there are two men in the house. And I’m beating them both senseless without giving it my full effort.