Page 7 of Death Warden
My phone rang shrilly, making me jump. I answered without checking the caller ID. “What?”
“Now, now, Adienne, we’ve talked about phone etiquette.” My agent Prue’s cultured tone acted like a balm.
I exhaled. “Sorry, rough night.”
“Oh? Were you up late finishing the manuscript? Because I hope so, considering it’s due in less than a week.”
Ah, fuck. “Prue, my sweet, wonderful Prue—”
“No.”
“I need an extension.”
“You’ve had an extension.”
“Then I need another.” I couldn’t keep the snap out of my tone. “I’m fucking burned out, okay. I need…I need a vacation.” Yeah, Prue was big on vacations, she was always telling me to take one between books, but I’d worked flat out the past two years. “I desperately need one, Prue.”
Like fuck would I be going anywhere, but if it bought me more time to get the damn book done, then I’d fake it.
“Oh, Adienne, why didn’t you say something?” she crooned.
“What? And admit I’m a fraud.” I plonked my ass on a stool.
“You are not a fraud. Fifteen bestsellers can testify to that. Now you listen to me, missy. You put away that laptop and you take a mental break. Recharge and do whatever you have to in order to fill up your creative well. The West Territories are lovely this time of year. I’ll get you that damn extension. If they want Frederick Harding’s next book, then they’re gonna have to fucking wait for it.”
This was why Prue was my agent. “I love you, chick.”
“Not as much as I love you.” She hung up with an air kiss.
Fin leapt onto the table. “Better?”
I stroked his head and he purred. “Much. In fact, I might go out for lunch. The seafood place by the river?”
“They do a delicious sea bass.” Fin’s eyes gleamed.
“We can sit outside…”
“You had me at seafood.”
Let the vacation commence.
* * *
Four hoursinto my vacation and I was ready to tear out my hair. What did people do all day when not working? What did an author do when they couldn’t write? Read? But every book I picked up bored me.
Oh great, now I was in a book slump too. Fin was gone, out on the prowl, or whatever cat-sith did. I had no clue, he never spoke about it, and when I asked, he changed the subject. I did know he was one of the last of his kind.
Special.
Mine.
I pulled the Scrabble board out from under the sofa and set it on the coffee table. We’d play when he got home.
My fingers grazed something else. The corner of a book? I fumbled and managed to draw it out.
Worn brown leather with gold leaf lettering in a language I didn’t understand.
“What the heck?” I’d never seen this book before.
