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An Excerpt From: SEASONAL WINDS ANTHOLOGY:
Spring Wind
 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2006.
All Rights Reserved, New Concepts Publishing
Chapter One
"Fucking cops," Striker grumbled as he increased his footsteps. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his scrub pants and his shoulders were hunched defensively. A scowl drew his features taut, making his eyes appear smaller than normal.
"Just keep walking," the woman at his side said in a low voice. "Don't give them any reason to suspect us."
"I hate fucking cops," Striker stated.
"Well, none of my best friends are cops, either," Bailey MacKenna said. She gave Striker a quick glance. "You look guilty, Nate. At least wipe that expression off your face."
Making an attempt to relax, Striker carefully watched the two policemen strolling along the sidewalk across the avenue. So far, neither of them had looked Striker's way. In his position as diener--the person responsible for handling, moving, and cleaning the bodies at the morgue--he rarely came into contact with the authorities and he wanted to keep it that way. He especially disliked the Portal Patrols who maintained the exits points on Vardar-7.
"Uh, oh," Bailey MacKenna whispered.
Striker looked to where she was staring and felt the blood drain from his face. "I knew it," he said. "I knew we were going to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I told you we were going to get caught!"
The tall man walking toward the policemen wore the dreaded steel gray uniform of the Modartha, the ultra-secret police responsible for the Slándáil Phoiblí, the National Security. The people of her world were terrified of the Modartha for the elite law enforcement officers were not only deadly assassins but during full moons, changed into gray wolves--the most dangerous of their kind.
"We're going to hang," Striker said with a moan. "Sure as shit, we're going to hang."
"Shut the hell up, Nate!" Bailey said. So far the Modartha agent had not looked their way. He had stopped to speak to the policemen who appeared as rattled by his appearance as did Striker.
"We're going to end up in the Doinsiún hanging by our thumbs," Striker muttered.
"We're not going to the Dungeon," Bailey hissed at him. "We've done nothing wrong."
"You don't think providing aid to the Resistance is doing anything wrong?" Striker demanded. "Bailey, if we are caught, we'll be jailed and I've no desire to be some bull's cow!"
Bailey rolled her eyes. "We haven't been aiding the Resistance and we haven't done anything to warrant being sent to the Dungeon. We've simply been attending their secret rallies just as hundreds of other people have. If every curious citizen was jailed, there wouldn't be anyone left to do their everyday jobs. There is nothing with which the Modartha could charge us."
"Not yet," Striker reminded her. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."
It was at that moment the Modartha agent turned his head and looked right at Bailey. She could feel her stomach do an odd little flip and she drew in a breath. Quickly, she looked away from his probing stare, lowering her head with the proper respect one showed a man of his position.
"Oh, Sweet Morrigunia, Bailey," Striker whimpered. "He's crossing the street and coming straight at us."
"Keep walking," Bailey told him. Sweat was gathering in her palms, her heart was thundering--blood pounding--and a cold finger of dread was scratching down her spine.
"Halt!"
Immediately both Bailey and Striker did as they were ordered. They stood stock still, waiting for the Modartha to reach them. With heads down, eyes on the sidewalk, they assumed the required position of hands clasped behind their backs in an attitude of subservience.
"Identify yourselves," the Modartha demanded. He came to stand directly behind Bailey and it was she who spoke first, the senior of the two.
"Cróinéir Second Class Bailey MacKenna, Milord," she said.
"Diener Class Nathan Striker, Milord," Striker replied.
"A coroner," the Modartha said with a snort. "Not a typical feminine occupation."
Bailey said nothing for she'd not been asked a direct question.
"Do you enjoy playing with dead things, wench?" he queried.
"It is my job, Milord," she answered.
"Assigned?"
"Yes, Milord." She drew in a breath for he was so close to her she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck and his body warmth radiating toward hers.
"Don't you like playing with live men?"
She didn't know how to answer that. Her knees felt as though they would give out beneath her at any moment and she was trembling violently beneath his scrutiny.
"Do you prefer playing with live women, then?"
Bailey closed her eyes. "No, Milord. I am not of that bent."
His voice was low, a sultry caress but steel-hard as she felt his lips against the column of her neck. His body made contact with hers. "Step into the alley, wench," he ordered her. He gave Striker a nasty look. "You stay right where you are, diener."
Striker was trembling too, but he managed to bob his head. "Yes, M…milord," he stammered. He was breathing heavily and perspiring copiously with sweat glistening on his pale face. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sensed Bailey moving away from him.
Terrified of the man behind her, Bailey walked the few feet into the shadowy alleyway that ran between two tall buildings. She stopped.
"I didn't tell you to stop, wench. Keep walking," he told her in a gruff voice.
Her mouth dry and her palms slick, she continued deeper into the alleyway until he bid her stop.
"Turn and face the wall," he said.
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