Guest Author
Rick Taubold
More Than Magick
What if you were told you have a power that you don't know about? What if you were told that you have to use it to save the universe from a vindictive alien? What if no one will tell you how you are supposed to do this?
Recent college graduate Scott Madison is working more or less comfortably with Jake Kesten, a Ph.D. math whiz, busting computer hackers. Then the pointy-eared Arion in a wizard's robe shows up. Thrust into a fantasy setting with some not-from-Earth guys and the thought that it's all a dream--or Disneyland--works for a while. But crystal dragons, werewolfish guards of blood-relishing humans (not traditional, undead vampires, but clearly evil-intentioned), and a bit of sci-fi scenery all put an end to that fancy. And what is he supposed to think of the young woman popped into their midst against her will?
Finally confronting the alien they were sent after, Scott realizes that his life and the lives of his companions and countless others all depend on him figuring out this power of his, which is definitely MORE THAN MAGICK.
I am pleased to introduce Rick Taubold a Guest Author for April. Along with an excerpt from his novel “More than Magic,” enjoy his short, quirky tale “Jack.”
Rick was born in St. Louis, Missouri. His college training is in chemistry, biology, and nutrition. His linguistic skills include Spanish, French, German, and a smattering of Biblical Hebrew.
Rick used to be an avid bike rider, having completed three "century" (100-mile) rides while in grad school in about eight hours for each ride. Now, his writing affords him little time for that. He enjoys woodworking as a hobby. He has two stepsons and a step-grandcat. He and his wife Rose live in Rochester, New York.
He is a member of the Romance Writers of America (RWA) and is secretary of local chapter, Lake Country Romance Writers.
His website is www.ricktaubold.com.
More Than Magick, Chapter 1
JAKE
Two Years Ago, Spring 1998: Planet Earth
My senior year in college had ended. It was Thursday morning, the day after finals. Two things kept me on campus: a graduation ceremony on Sunday and my job. I was dorm resident advisor and had to stay until the dorm was empty. I received free room and board in exchange for babysitting undergraduates. In the past year I had learned to be tolerant; I had learned to counsel; I had learned when to shut my door—all valuable, real-world skills.
The RA's room had a coveted location near the door, although making it easy to sneak women in and out of the room undetected surely was not the designer's original intent. However, this coming Sunday I, J. Scott Madison, was graduating at my virginal best, having been scared spermless by the do-it-and-watch-it-rot Army training films thrust upon an impressionable, pubescent child of twelve. At least, that's where I had convinced myself the blame lay.
UCSD sits above a gorgeous beach along North Torrey Pines Road in San Diego, where the students surf at lunch. I didn't surf, and I didn't worship the Great Yellow Ball in the sky. Scholarships aside, at those tuition prices I was there to study, as the Colonel frequently reminded me.
With nothing else to do until graduation, I caught up on my TV viewing. During the commercials I alternately considered grad school in marine biology and a real job. The Colonel still hoped I'd choose career military, as my brother had.
I'd gone on a few job interviews, mostly for the experience, and had papered my dorm door with the rejection letters. For sure I wanted to get away from La Jolla, second only to Beverly Hills with its pretentious inhabitants.
When TV soap-opera time arrived, I grabbed my wallet, locked my door, and went hunting for lunch. An ad on the dorm bulletin board outside my room caught my eye:
WANTED: College graduate with no outstanding obligations interested in fieldwork in a war-like atmosphere. If you are a marine biologist looking for that last hurrah before undertaking grad school, this job is for you. No experience necessary. Must like to travel. Excellent pay. No résumé required. Leave message at the number below.
A phone number followed.
No résumé required? Was this a prank, aimed at me, a last dig from those under my care? The monetary reference piqued my interest, though. I needed money for the summer, and I didn't want to live at home.
During lunch at the all-you-can-eat-buffet at Pizza Hut, the ad played games with my mind. If I went to grad school, I was still fair game for my father's career suggestions. What if the ad wasn't a prank? What if it was my chance at autonomous, Colonel-free living? When I got back to the dorm, I wrote down the number and went into my room to call.
A machine identified itself as Jake. It asked for my name, phone number, and the date and time I was calling. It thanked me and promised to get back to me. I gave my dorm phone number, not my cell. If he was legit, he'd call right away. If not, my phone would be disconnected Monday with no forwarding number. I'd already exchanged email addresses with any friends I wanted to stay in touch with.
Why had I called? The ad said, "Travel." I hated to travel. Life as an Army brat had dragged me through six different grade schools and five different high schools.
"Field work in a war-like atmosphere." That chimed military, and reinforced the prank aspect.
And how many job applications are made by leaving a message on an answering machine?
* * * *
Nine a.m. the following Monday morning, with a B.S. officially appended to my name, I packed the last of my college memorabilia, a senescent toothbrush, and my beloved, face-scouring razor that had faithfully brought me to attention for numerous early-morning exams.
Only two other students were still in the dorm, a sophomore who had stayed to see his brother graduate—he was leaving shortly—and a junior who had taken an on-campus summer job and was moving into off-campus housing today. Where was I going?
Someone knocked on my door. "It's open." Probably one of the two dorm stragglers coming to wish me luck with my life, although I couldn't imagine them up this early.
"Do you normally invite men into your room this early in the morning?"
I came to attention—force of habit—and stared at the body behind the unfamiliar voice. "Excuse me?"
"You wanted a job." He made it a statement.
How did he know? "The bulletin board ad? I figured that was a prank."
"So why did you call?"
"Then you're Jake?"
"Yep. I've been called a prick, but never a prank. Is that modern college slang for the same thing?" He stepped forward and proffered his hand over the bed.
I shrugged and shook his hand. He was six feet tall and well acquainted with the gym. Short, kinky, black hair came to a point on his forehead, and inch-long sideburns framed a square jaw with a shaved-last-night stubble. I guessed him late twenties.
"Ready for the interview?" he said.
"I'm not exactly dressed for an interview."
He smiled. "Neither am I." His barely ironed, button-down white shirt, jeans, and deck shoes were still better than my denim shorts and tan, pocket T-shirt. And he was wearing a nouveau formal, black leather tie.
"I have a flight at twelve forty-five," I said.
"We'll be done long before that."
This had to be a joke, but since I'd finished packing and had nothing better to do for the moment, it might prove amusing. I offered him my chair and sat on the bed. "Sorry, my résumés are packed away."
"My ad said none required." He pointed to my suitcase. "I appreciate my employees being ready to go on a moment's notice." He pulled a tattered, spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. He read, "Name: Jefferson Scott Madison."
"Scott. I don't use my first name."
But he continued. "Place of residence: Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Age: Twenty-two. Height: Six-four. Weight: One-ninety. Major: Biology, marine concentration. Minors: Art and Literature. Marital status: . . . Single." He looked up. "Any kids?"
"You said I was single."
His eyes drilled into mine. "Marriage is not a prerequisite to procreation, as I'm sure your biology classes adequately taught you." He grinned, displaying perfect, white teeth. "You're still a virgin."
I felt the warmth rising in my neck. "That's a rather personal question." But it wasn't a question.
He dropped the smile. "This is a personal interview."
"I think the question is considered discriminatory."
"That's only for EOEs."
I tilted my head at him.
"Equal Opportunity Employer. I'm not, so I don't give a shit."
Keep cool, Scott. "Unless you're recruiting male prostitutes, what would my sexual activity have to do with this job?"
Above his blue eyes, thick eyebrows came within a quarter inch of joining. He raised one. "What I don't need is someone whose first priority in life is getting laid. You're the Colonel's boy, all right. Evasive."
"You know my father? Did he send you?"
"Yes, I do, and no, he didn't." He pushed back the chair and stood up. "Let's go get some breakfast."
"I have a plane to catch."
"Plenty of time. I'm hungry, I'm buying, and I guarantee you won't miss your flight because I'm leaving at the same time. I'll drive you to the airport to save you cab fare. Besides, you must have questions about the job."
"I'm not interested."
"Not even in free food? College students—"
"Ex-student."
"—never turn down free food. It's a law of the universe."
More Than Magick is available from Rick Taubold at www.ricktaubold.com