Susan Bischoff - Heroes Til Curfew: A Talent Chronicles Novel (Volume 2)

Heroes Til Curfew

Smashwords Edition

2011 Susan Bischoff

All rights reserved, including the right toreproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

http://susan-bischoff.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Ifyoure reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was notpurchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.

Cover Art by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

Authors note: This book is a work offiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the productsof the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, isentirely coincidental.

Contents

(excerpt)

(excerpt)

(excerpt)

The Talent Chronicles

HushMoney

Heroes Til Curfew

Heroes Under Siege (forthcoming)

Also

Impulse Control (short story)

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the followingtalented people:

Kait Nolan, gifted author and dear friend,who continues to be THE person who makes me finish what Istart.

Andrew Mocete and Claire Legrand for carefulreading, enthusiastic feedback, and unconditional support.

Stacey Wallace Benefiel who, as it turnsout, is as awesome at beta reading as she is at craftingstories.

Lauralynn Elliott, author and friend, whocame in with an amazing, last-minute proofreading effort.

Robin Ludwig, Robin Ludwig Design Inc., fora cover so exciting it made me want to write a book that wasworthy.

My husband, Les, who continues to put upwith a lot.

And my daughter, Briar Rose, whose boundlesscreativity is inspiring.

Chapter 1

Joss

Just because youre paranoid, doesnt meanno ones out to get you.

The thought went through my head in my dadsvoiceI was that well programmed. Thats why Id varied myschedule, to throw off my stalker.

As I walked down the brick-paved road thatran through the middle of the downtown pedestrian mall, my ownboots were the only ones I could hear beating the pavement. Thefeelings I had werent the sensations of being followed and watchedthat I had become familiar with over the last month or so. Tonightwas different.

Its not like Im that kind of psychic. Idont have any kind of extra-sensory perception or anything. Itsjust that, since I was a little kid, my dad trained me to payattention to my surroundings. At some point that kind of trainingturns to instinctan instinct that warned me something was up.

The economy of our town was not great, anddowntown was especially bad. Yeah, here and everywhere else in thecountry, right? That left a lot of empty storefronts on the mall, alot of darkened glass windows that showed my reflection as I walkedby, a lone, dark-haired girl in a vintage army jacket and combatboots, faking confidence in her stride.

Our store was at the far end of the mall andI had to walk the whole length of it to get home. I was happy whenmy dad started letting me walk home by myself, because I lovedwalking it, the feeling of freedom in the night air, the quiet, theglow of the converted gas lights. But making enemies, getting myass handed to me, getting to walk around with a bruised face forweeks and all the attention that got methat kind of thing changesa girl, I guess.

I glanced over at the image of the confidentgirl who moved from glass to glass beside me, at the dark alleywaysthat opened up every few buildings, the looming, brick storefacades, and the shadows under awnings where the attractive butweak lamplight didnt reach. I listened hard to the sound ofnothingtoo much nothing, it seemed to meand tried not to thinkabout the cell phone in my pocket and of calling Dylan. Not becauseI was some useless girl, afraid of the dark and in need ofrescuing, but just to hear his voice.

As if I would have the guts to just call upDylan.

I passed by the fountain that they didntbother to put water in anymore, even in summer. More than oneperson had used it for a giant trash can during the day. Is thatreally any better than throwing your trash right on the ground?Whats wrong with people?

I dont know what it was that made me take acloser look as I walked by Dog-Eared. Mr. McGuffey closed the shopat five oclock. He always said that after dinner his customerswere all home reading, and he would be too. The lights were on lowin the front of the store, like usual. Over the piles of used booksstacked against the front windows, the tall bookcases created amaze through the shop and stacks on the floor encroached on thenarrow aisles. But I guess that squeezing your way around Dog-Earedis part of its charm.

There was a flare of light. Just a quicksomething that was gone almost as I noticed it. Definitely notright. Moving closer to the shop, I thought I saw a shadow ofmovement, so I decided to duck down the alley and see if I couldsee anything through the windows over there.

Now Ill admit it: its not a great idea fora girl, alone at night in a deserted downtown shopping area, to gocreeping down dark alleys to peep in store windows where suspiciousactivity may or may not be taking place. But in my defense, Im notexactly an ordinary girl, and I was just going to have a lookanyway.

Through a window I could see the wide aislethat ran across the back of the shop, in front of the door to theback rooms. In that aisle were four boys doing bad things.

I recognized Jeff right off, even though hisback was to me. Maybe it was the Neanderthal posture. Standing nextto him was a smaller guy who looked vaguely familiar. Probably afreshman. Across from Jeff was a tall guy I didnt know, who lookedolder than we were. Next to that guy was a sophomore, Nathan, whowas in my gym class last year.

Jeff and the freshman each had a pile ofbooks in front of them, and when I say pile, I mean it looked liketheyd just gathered up an armload and dumped them on the floor.Nice. They were tossing these books, in sync with each other, intothe air in front of the other two. Who would thend-i-s-i-n-t-e-g-r-a-t-e them. No, really, I kid you not. I dontknow what Nathan was doing, but his book just turned to dust whichfloated down to the carpet. The older guys book burst with a briefflash of flame and then exploded into embers that glowed for asecond before they joined the mess of dust and ash on thefloor.

I shuddered. Damn I hate fire.

And fire in a bookshop? Genius. What a bunchof idiots. Did they want to burn the place down? Start a fire thatwould rip through all those stacks of books, choking the place withthick, black smoke, trapping them all in that maze of bookshelvesas they crawled frantically along the floor, searching for theexit, while the temperature

I sat down hard in the alley and put my headon my crossed legs, taking deep breaths of dirty, old cement andthe smell of my leather boots. Its worth mentioning again: I hatefire.

But what was I going to do, let them burndown the store with their stupidity? Besides the fact that not evenstupid people deserved that experience, more importantly,there was Mr. McGuffey. He used to bring me some tattered picturebook that was beyond selling every week when I was a little kid inthe store with my dad. I totally owe my love of reading to mycomplete lack of a social life and the owner of Dog-Eared. So therewas no way I was going to just walk away.