An Agent's Inbox #19

Dear Agent,

Seventeen-year-old London Howell is stunned when the girl he finds rummaging through his closet claims he "created" her. But before he can get her to the police, he's confronted by the House of Dering. As the city’s ruling family, the Derings maintain the order and secrecy of the city’s magi. London learns that he's a magus, and the only way to determine how he created the girl is to find a sieve, someone who can siphon magic and reveal his abilities. Sounds great, except sieves aren't listed in the Yellow Pages, and London's not interested in leaving his ailing dad to chase fairy tales. That is, until his dad goes missing.

A magus' power lies in his soul, which can be ripped free and harnessed as a weapon, and the Derings aren't the only ones who think London's got one h*** of an arsenal. With his dad abducted by an unknown enemy, London must accept the help of the Derings, including Abby, the beautiful but exasperating Dering princess with a penchant for kicking him.

Saving his dad means uncovering where the girl came from and what, exactly, London is, but as the search for answers grows desperate, he begins to question whether the Derings are his protectors or his captors. Add to that the fact his dad's been keeping some pretty serious secrets, and London has no idea whom to trust. Now, he must piece together the truth before he loses not only his dad, but his soul as well.

SOUL WITHOUT A BOY is complete at 80,000 words and is set in modern-day England. Its opening pages placed as a finalist in the YA category of Wisconsin Romance Writers of America Fabulous Five contest. My short fiction has been published in Daily Science Fiction, and I have a degree in Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire.

Sincerely,
M.L.


SOUL WITHOUT A BOY

On his thirteenth lap around the block, London Howell spotted the monster watching him. It was crouched against the wooden post of a neighbor's mailbox, little more than a shadow with large-knuckled fingers that raked at empty air.

London stifled a groan. Sprinting through his neighborhood at midnight was annoying enough without an unwanted audience. He stopped to catch his breath beneath a lamppost, his hand braced against the cool iron.

The monster across the street moved, shifting on spindly legs that trembled like branches in a storm. Its eyes glowed in the dim evening.

London had learned that if he ignored the monsters hard enough, eventually, they went away. Didn't help his doubts about his sanity, but at least it had worked. But they'd been showing up more frequently in recent weeks, and the watching-him thing was new. Pretending something wasn't there was a lot harder when it was staring at him.

His mobile vibrated in his back pocket and, with a glance at the screen, he picked up.

"You sound like a goat on the rack," Amun said in greeting.

"How," London asked between breaths, "do you know what a tortured goat sounds like?" He shook out his legs, but it didn't help. Even running for three miles hadn't burned off the energy. Great. He considered just rolling into a ditch and letting the monsters have their way with his bones. Or whatever it was they wanted.

"Animal Sacrifices Hour. Wednesday nights at eight. Bring your own blood bucket."

"Brilliant mental image. Thanks."