I’m a big fan of pulp fiction—noir, westerns, horror, sci-fi, and fantasy. You know, hardboiled stories with gritty characters. I’m working on one that blends these genres. The idea was inspired by a ’90s rock video by The Toadies and my collection of Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks, which I received from a thoughtful boyfriend way back when I was 19. I’d like to share the opening scene.
Let me know if it grabs you. I might just serialize the story in installments for you and subscribers of my newsletter. After all, that’s how pulp fiction is meant to be shared.
Visit this awesome Pinterest Board for more fabulous pulp magazine covers.
Meetings at the Edge
Detective Charlie Driver knelt among the charred beams on the blackened stone floor, a cigarette unlit and dangling from his lips as he examined the scene. Ash and smoke were all that remained of the old boathouse at the edge of Stem Pond, which had a dark history of burning down and then rising again from the ashes. Each time, people died in the blaze, just like now.
As with previous incidents, there was no sign that anyone besides the victim had entered or been near the abandoned building when it caught fire, nor was there any evidence of how the fire started or why it only affected the small structure before burning out, despite witnesses a mile away describing flames shooting above the trees like Roman candles. It was as if it had taken place in a vacuum.
His department and the fire investigator officially cleared the scene the day before, and the remains were with the coroner. Every piece of evidence had been collected and sent to Charlie’s understaffed but capable crime lab, and he’d returned to the scene alone.
After the yellow tape came down, there was no one around to crowd his thoughts or question his methods. He would draw a cigarette, brush it beneath his nose before setting it between his lips, and let the ritual stir the instincts he trusted more than evidence. It often helped him get a bead on the victim.
His methods weren’t working today.
While the victim’s presence felt tangible in the lingering scent of smoke and damp earth, their voice remained as silent as the surroundings.
A crow had been lurking nearby for the past hour, occasionally shifting branches as if to remind him it was there. When it finally cawed overhead, Charlie nearly bit off the tip of his cigarette. He palmed it, squinting at the bird, then let the silence settle back in. Was the nosy creature reminding him that he was the only human on this Sunday afternoon, left in this cold, neglected 20-acre park? A gust whipped up unexpectedly, finding its way down the back of his fleece-lined coat, and Charlie stood, pulling his collar tighter.
Feeling as if the pond somehow held answers, Charlie took one last look around. The water wasn’t very deep, and beneath the frost lay a thick layer of moss. Centuries-old ash, oak, and elm trees stretched upward from its shore like twisted skeletons, interspersed with ghostly stands of fir, creating a dense, somewhat gloomy woodland. Frost covered the branches and glittered on the charred ruins beneath his feet—all signs of winter in this rangeland county. Yet, one detail puzzled him: all the green stalks poking through the snow. The park was overrun with wild onions.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very strange about it, not because they grew in winter (onions can tolerate cold temperatures), but because this proliferation was unusually early. And why this place? He rolled his shoulders. Strangeness was increasingly the theme of this investigation, but what that meant for the victim…
Another blast of cold air swept over him, but this one carried something more—something inexplicable—making him want to light up his smoke and take a deep drag. The crow let out another loud caw as it took flight. Clenching his jaw, Charlie slipped the cigarette into his breast pocket and headed for his car. It was time to meet with his partner and go over the facts she’d been gathering.
Want to find out who died in the mysterious fire in a park overgrown with wild onions? Let me know in the comments.
I leaned forward again and repeated my question. “Halil Enair, do you admit shooting Ozzy Pruitt with illegal dark magic, locking him in his owl form, and causing him to slip into a coma?”
Recalling my helplessness and nearly losing Ozzy had me clenching my jaw. But we both survived, and two of the offenders below me risked their lives to help. One was the woman eyeing me steadily. She straightened her shoulders, letting out a dramatic sigh.
“Yes. I shot your owl spy, Michael Elliott.” She drew out my name, snark in tact. It still sounded amazing in her husky voice. “I knew the weapon could have killed him. As I explained the first three times, anyone with you was to be treated as collateral damage.” I raised an eyebrow. No less damning, but I had to give the woman credit for sticking to her brazen honesty.
If I learned anything about Halil Enair, it was that although she might speak impulsively, every word had a purpose or was meant to provoke a specific reaction, and the little bee loved to sting. Was I giving her what she wanted? I doubted it. I hadn’t been an alpha this long without mastering my reactions to goading, yet I sensed my fellow alphas’ eyes on me. I upped the sternness of my glower.
“I admitted my actions five times,” Halil continued. “Heizan and I explained to the investigators no less than seven times the workings of my father’s dark magic weapon and his orders to bring you to him. I admitted three times to participating in your torture, describing in lurid detail every act I inflicted on you. Would you like me to repeat those details a fourth…” she cleared her throat, “and fifth time?”
If her hands were free, one would rest on her cocked hip, although the gesture might reveal her slight tremor. I also had another quirk to add to what I was learning about Halil Enair. She quantified things to make her point and didn’t like landing on even numbers. Interesting.
“We can skip…” I started to drawl. She interrupted.
“You blushed each time I illustrated my… creativity in handling certain of your parts. You’re doing it again.” And there was that deliciously throaty voice from that nightmare cavern. “You must feel those cheeks flaming hot like your swoony eyes tend to do when your dragon is riled. You aren’t used to getting red in the face, are you, Alpha?” How did she do that? Turn that sting into allure, her exaggerations into truth.
Her inscrutable amethyst gems, framed by thick blonde lashes, beckoned me like a siren with an irresistible song, and everyone but us might have vanished from this chiseled-out crater. Being alone with Halil Enair in the desert didn’t seem like such a terrible idea…
I gritted my teeth, and the insanity passed. She continued in her smug, honeyed tones. “I promised on that godsforsaken island to submit to an accounting of my crimes. I kept my promise. Now, let’s get on with the sentencing. I’m tired of standing here, getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”
Halil Enair
I swiped at the irritating copper cuff with my toes. Flush against my skin and feeling more like silk than metal, I hardly noticed it was there except for the incessant hum. I scoffed. The Council thought their magic band would hamper my abilities. I had different ideas that I hadn’t tested because a small part of me wanted to atone. Another part wanted to know how long I could stick it out without cheating, and part of me couldn’t stand disappointing a certain alpha, even if I did think he was arrogant.
I bit back another huff and glanced across the table. The lovebirds were busy canoodling, so I dished out our casserole. Next, I uncorked the wine and poured it into etched crystal glasses—a ritual I’d come to enjoy as much as our post-dinner cribbage games.
That surprising new pastime got me thinking of the more profound reflections I’d engaged in since moving to Ketchikan. Yeah, go figure. I, live-on-the-edge Halil, was having insights. While my frustrations often overwhelmed me, I admitted that my probation, or exile of shame, was serving its purpose, helping me realign my life and embrace the concept of having choices.
I could even acknowledge that the alpha, who suffered the worst from my actions, seemed fine with letting me denounce him as my jailer, as if he understood my need for a bullseye with broad shoulders. Gods, get your mind off that mouthwatering physique, Halil. Still, the analogy illustrated the soul of an alpha—the willingness to shoulder responsibility for so many. But then he did something that made me wonder if there was more to it.
Michael Elliott had attached the monitor to my ankle himself, sealing it with his dragon’s magic while my Aunt Magdalene took care of my brothers.
His face was fascinating to watch as I fidgeted and jerked, jumping up to complain, sitting back down, and fidgeting again just to see that fine, darkly stubbled jaw clench in… well, I’d hoped it would be irritation. Instead, the alpha looked amused. I can still see that glimpse of his tantalizing smile and the glint in his deep midnight-blue eyes. Eventually, I sat still long enough to let him finish, mostly to enjoy gazing at his luxuriant blue-black hair as he knelt at my feet.
Challenging him seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’m sure I came off as a sullen adolescent. I couldn’t stand to make our probationary arrangement easy or give him that oddly intimate power over me: an untenable outcome and the hardest to swallow. Yet, I had the same question every time I went down this path: how could he smile at all after what I had done?
Spero Vic
After sitting half the bloody day in a hazy corner of the Juniper’s Hollow, broiling next to the fire and nursing too many beers while I waited for my mark to show his hairy dwarf face, I was itching to toss a chaos spell into the middle of the crowd to break the monotony. It didn’t help that my butt ached like a mother. Why did pubs never have cushioned seats when the entire goal was to keep their patrons engaged in prolonged alcohol consumption?
As if the hard oak wasn’t bad enough, I was forced to cram my long legs into awkward angles to fit them beneath the shrunken booth.
A shrill laugh pinged off my frayed nerves, and I closed my eyes. The Woody Woodpecker impersonator at the bar was going to be my first victim. Shit.Cartoons?What would pop into my head next? Disrupting the cheer careening around the low-ceilinged oak-beamed tavern was gaining traction as a workable idea.
The hours enduring pipe smoke, beer fumes, burning candles, and dwarf sweat had triggered a throbbing in my left temple. I needed relief, but drawing attention was out of the question. So, I distracted myself with thoughts of the luscious redheaded hellion I’d left snoring in my bed at dawn after borrowing her portal key to hop into this realm… illegally. It wasn’t often that my schemes lined up with a night of acrobatic sex. Unfortunately, I was so over this vigil that my most lurid moments with Ursula weren’t even doing it for me.
My empty stomach clenched, reminding me I hadn’t consumed anything but the dwarves’ superior version of German beer since yesterday. Shit! F##* hunger, f*#% nerves, f%*# Ursula. Meeting the dwarf and talking him out of the thing I’d come for was the only way to satisfy the hollow pit in my stomach, the gnawing ache I’d lived with for too many rune-cursed months.
I was about to run a hand through my hair but remembered just in time to keep both hands wrapped around my tankard, pretending to enjoy my tepid beer. My glamour kicked ass, easily concealing a tall human dressed in a duster loaded with rune magic in a room full of stout patrons who barely topped five feet. However, after so many hours fighting hunger and boredom, it was becoming harder to maintain. I needed to hold it together until Larin Birch sauntered through that oak plank door.
Was it too much to expect a regimented dwarf to stick to his schedule? Had someone gotten to him? I just need to get what I came for, return home, and slip the key around Ursula’s lovely neck before she wakes. Then, I’ll rouse the dryad and send her back to her forest, her memories as hazy as her missing hours.
This plan had been weeks in the making, and this was only the first step, one of many in a series of progressively crazier moves still ahead, which was nothing new for the “batshit-crazy rogue mage intent on his purpose,” as another surprisingly astute lover had said, stumbling out of my apartment, laugh-crying and shaking her head. A night with me between silk sheets often resulted in blissful disorientation and colorful slurs against my character, even from the powerful supernaturals I typically went for.
All but one. A shapeshifter with man-killer instincts: Halil Enair, an especially memorable dalliance, who won’t be pleased to see me on her doorstep. Unfortunately for her, she had a crucial role to play in my scheme.
I unclenched my jaw and took a few deep breaths. No one needed to hear my teeth grinding. Still… “Just a little chaos,” I mumbled, running my hand down my coat sleeve to soothe the marks pulsing hot on my skin. “They won’t know it came from me.”
Past drafts gone in a puff! Or, with the magic delete button. If I were an angsty writer of a past century, the pages would have been burned. I know an author who actually did burn his first draft, but that’s his story to tell, and it’s a good one.
I’ve been doing a lot of purging this month, getting ready for a big disruption in my life, so why not purge my drafts and give you my latest…
Enjoy meeting Onyx, who has the honor of opening my story… his story.
March 27, 2025
The Dragon
Onyx – Deep Inside Ben Shiel, Western Scottish Highlands, UK – Late June
In the mountain’s dim recesses, a dragon lay coiled in slumber on a granite shelf, snorting smoke rings at invisible foes. His fiery exhales turned to steam in the damp air, sending ashy tendrils writhing around his fearsome spikes before dissipating like miniature storm clouds.
His eyelids fluttered, one popping open to reveal a midnight blue iris flashing off a bank of dazzling quartz crystals before shutting again. His nostrils flared as if scenting danger.
It wasn’t just his face in motion. The dragon’s great wing jerked before his hind leg pumped the air. The vigorous movements sent scree tumbling off the edge and clattering into icy pools far below, inciting twittering protests from the deeper, more secretive inhabitants.
These disturbances did not trouble Ben Shiel. Upheavals were a constant in the mountain’s life, caused by forces more relentless than his winged friend. On the contrary, the dragon’s visits were comforting and far too rare. It was unusual for Michael Elliott, the mountain’s steward, to shift into dragon form and withdraw, allowing the beast an independent physical existence.
And so Onyx, the mighty dragon, as black as his name implied, slept in the cradle of the mountain and dreamed…
###
Michael, watch out!
“Onyx?” Michael inquired mildly through our bond as he straightened from his inspection.
My human should have been alarmed by my voice and ready when the silent missile, whizzing out of the trees, burrowed into his neck. The charge tore agonizingly through every nerve in his body. I knew this—remembered it. But I didn’t feel it. Why?
The rift. We were in Alaska during the Anurashin conflict. Another dream?
Panic gripped my heart, but the vision would not release me. I was inside Michael, watching as he went from stooping over the dead caribou he was examining to planting face-first in the bloody snow without the slightest awareness to stop his fall. Not a single muscle on the powerful shifter even had time to twitch.
The carcass must have distracted me, the blood and exposed flesh stirring my hunger—a foolish mistake when Michael’s physical body was in control.
A Great Horned Owl toppled out of a spruce tree, landing beside us—shot by another bolt before he could take flight. Michael would be frantic if he knew his friend had fallen, worrying more for Ozzy than himself.
My voice sounded feeble even to me as I called out to my human host. My frustration turned to icy horror when a barely perceptible pop signaled the worst thing imaginable, and the tether binding our souls began to unravel. This time, the pain felt real as I shattered into a thousand pieces and began swirling inside a vortex, like a barrow full of leaves picked up and carried by the wind. Once again, death by separation threatened us both.
I reassembled in a place devoid of substance. Yet, I hadn’t vanished completely, and my senses remained intact, as evidenced by the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow.
“What do we do with the owl?” said a woman, her voice tight with apprehension. “I acted on orders without thinking.”
A man replied in a tone no less grim. “We’ll claim we killed the spy. Hopefully, the owl will recover from the human dose and find his way back to the pack.”
“If Airzoih…”
“Welcome to the deadly game I’ve been playing, little sister.”
The siblings lifted my human, propping him between them as a cool misty force coalesced around us. A single step into the charged haze transported us from the Alaskan wilderness to a damp, echoing space that smelled of the sea. After stripping Michael of his clothes and securing him to a rough-hewn bench, the pair retreated into their mist. A day passed in silent darkness, Michael unconscious for most of it.
Before he came to, the brother returned, but not in human form. I recognized his scent and something more. Snorting breaths, shuffling wings, and a massive, spiny tail scraping against stone. The scent picture was complete. This was the dragon who’d been spying on us for weeks, the reason we were investigating the caribou. His shallow breathing sounded from the recesses as he settled in to wait.
Michael came awake, heart pounding, his agony raging as his body fought to heal. Without our bond, he wasn’t repairing as he should. But he was an alpha. It would take more than debilitating pain to keep him from assessing his situation. Just as he spotted the ruby-red dragon in the shadows, the beast transformed in a shower of crackling energy, the bolts illuminating the cavern in strobe-like flashes before the shadows fell back into place.
A man stepped into the thin light provided by a small crevice, struck a flint against the wall by the cell doors, and lit a torch. The shadows receded, and we got our first look at the enemy. Dark blonde hair swept back from a face like that in a Greek fresco. His lavender eyes were shadowed with weary conflict. A man forced too long to act against his nature.
Your dragon was stolen, Michael Elliott, by Prince Airzoih’s illegal magic. I can only imagine the pain you’re in. He means to kill you after toying with you. You need to convince me to stop him.”
“And who are you?” Michael rasped between parched lips.
“There’s water above you.” The man said, gesturing to a dripping straw-sized bamboo shoot jutting from a larger bamboo pipe near Michael’s head. Michael drank—and drank some more—until his stomach heaved, and he spewed half of the water back out.
“It’s mostly desalinated. You’ll be fine. To answer your question. I’m the only reasonable offspring Airzoih spawned.”
“Where are we?”
“Far from your pack, Alpha.”
“You’re the dragon spy.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the owl?”
“I’m afraid he got zapped too. I don’t think he fared well.”
Michael swallowed down the news, tucking it away for later.
“How does the prince benefit from targeting me?”
“Airzoih wants us to eliminate dragon shifters so that his hybrid army reigns supreme,” the man replied, glibly divulging his sire’s plans. “You’re our initiation.” Derision entered his relaxed tone. “Degrading a powerful alpha will prove we’re a success—one he can glorify while he weakens the opposition.”
“How does he have children who can summon a dragon?”
“Our mother is Fiona McIver.” Michael jolted at the news.
“We lost Fiona in the Fae War,” he ground out. “I saw her go down.” He referred to a war long over but never forgotten.
“All part of my father’s plan, and one reason he aligned himself with the opposing coven. It’s the witches’ dark potion that incapacitates you and suppresses your dragon. Fiona’s, too.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want your help to save my mother…”
A purple mist came to life in the center of the cavern, interrupting him. When it cleared, four dragons loomed large. The beasts snapped and snarled at each other for space until, one by one, they changed into three men and a woman. They bore a striking resemblance to the one who’d been bargaining with Michael, and they glared their greetings to each other with the same astonishing, lavender eyes. I recognized the woman’s scent from the forest.
When she caught sight of Michael, her expression turned feral, and she sauntered toward his crudely assembled cage. “You don’t look so legendary, Alpha of the Fire Star Pack,” she said, eyes gleaming a deeper violet. She gazed at Michael’s form like a predator, passing her tongue over her lips. Michael’s body reacted, his skin prickling with heat despite his pain receptors still firing like rockets.
“Fiona told us stories about you and Onyx when we were children,” she purred. “Do you miss him? Is it painful? Fiona still cries for Nangelica. It’s hard to imagine such a deep wound in my soul since my dragon is just a façade. Heizan says the separation is tearing our mother apart.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “Fiona can still kick my father’s ass if he fails to take the proper precautions. I wonder how strong you are without your dragon’s spirit
“That’s enough, Halil,” Heizan said under his breath. He didn’t seem interested in drawing the other siblings’ attention, leaving them to their mumbled discussion in a dark corner.
Despite the woman’s practiced posturing, I sensed a battle waging in her. It surprised her. But it was Michael who astonished me when she failed to offend him, not because he was indifferent. He saw beyond her contempt, recognized something in those amethyst windows to her soul that touched a place few had reached. It only made him look closer.
I hope you enjoy these tidbits shared in this month’s email newsletter.
Never once have I failed to find the education I’m looking for on YouTube. I wanted to know more about Norse magic and runes and came across YouTuber and professor Dr. Jackson Crawford who teaches that very subject. Here is the first video I stumbled upon in my search about Seiðr Magic and Gender:
Dr. Crawford has an entire course on runes.
That led me to rune song, which led to compiling a playlist of reinvented primitive music… pulsing, haunting, magical shaman stuff, great for fantasy inspiration. The first is an album by Munknörr. The second is a performance by Heilung.
Heilung’s music is described as “Viking metal,” in this charming article in a New Jersey high school newspaper. Heilung uses traditional instruments from around the world, including a horse skin drum, a Hindu ritual bell, and a buffalo horn rattle. They also sing in multiple languages, primarily Old Norse, Old English, and Old Saxon. This song, Krigsgaldr, translates roughly to battle magic.
I’ll finish this piece with two Chronicle documentaries that are lengthy but well worth watching. The first is the history of the Celts. You might be surprised by their origins and insights into a complex, creative culture built upon salt trading.
The second documentary is a history of the Dark Ages told through the art left behind. One major takeaway from both documentaries is the skewed writings of the historians, namely the Romans, who had no compunction about spinning history in their favor.
Art tells a different truth.
So, if you got this far, you might still be wondering about the real meaning of barbarian. It’s covered quite well in the video above, and you probably already know it refers to uncivilized people. Simply, it means other; those who don’t speak like us (according to the “civilized” Romans, it was everyone who lived outside of the Roman Empire).
I’ll link you to the Oxford Classical Dictionary, which goes into the definition at length. and says in part: The term was a social designation rather than a legal status, but could inform institutions and actions and, within certain contexts, the differential treatment of groups, in which case it can be appropriately described as racial thinking.
I hope you enjoy these tidbits shared in this month’s email newsletter.
As you might imagine, magic systems are an important literary device in fantasy writing. Choosing the right level on the High to Low Magic spectrum is crucial to shaping the plot and driving the characters whether the system features big in the plot, or is merely a gossamer thread. Check out 7 Ways to Create a Spectacular Magic System For Your Novel at Writers Write.
Click to Subscribe. Unsubscribe anytime.
Hard and Soft Magic is another way to look at it as my go-to fantasy writing guru, Richie Billing, brings out. He explains how Hard Magic requires detailing the system’s complexity and all its nuanced rules, whereas soft magic lacks clarity and leaves more to the imagination.
The Starlight Chronicles falls on the lower end of this spectrum, which is typical for writers with romance as their overarching genre. But even we must be serious about our magic system as we develop the plot, flesh out the logical details, and strive to make our fantasy elements vibrant no matter that the bulk of the magic is left unsaid. It still comes through. Readers must have enough believable substance to become immersed as much as they need captivating settings and compelling characters.
I want to nudge my current work in progress (my spinoff story for dragon shifter Michael Elliott) higher up the scale. Elliott’s dragon will be a major character and Onyx needs a backstory. To that end, after creating my antagonist and giving Spero his opening scene, I’ve taken a break from writing and turned to research.
Spero hails from a long line of Nordic witches who use rune magic. The runes are etched into his skin as a means to access and control their power. That’s both a painful handicap and a super strength, which will come out in interesting ways in the story. Suddenly, my mage’s backstory became paramount and needed much more work.
This epiphany led me down fascinating historical paths involving runes, the sagas written in them, their use in incantations, their songs. So, I pulled out long-neglected knitting and crocheting projects and stitched away while watching YouTube videos on Norse Mythology, Viking history, and the Dark Ages, including nuggets like the real meaning of the word barbarian. I also learned the surprising origins of the Celts and how they spread through Europe and competed with the Roman Empire in art, culture, and wow, even chariot racing!
Pod People Unite! Yesterday, I blogged about my Work In Progress (WIP) and invited followers to tag along. This is blog 2 to point you to my new page where I’ll keep all my updates organized and share fun stuff like what follows… ❤️
A Peek Into Starlight Chronicles Dragon History
Fact One – The dragon species was wiped out eons ago in the Great Purge
Fact Two – In the time before the last dragon vanished, an underground sect formed to continue the noncorporeal species through a symbiotic bond with a human who could withstand the harrowing transformation to a dragon. Many made the ultimate sacrifice to perfect the ability.
Fact Three – These humans became the first animal shifters.
Fact Four – When dragons disappeared, so did their kingdom in the fae realms. Great magic still exists there if anyone knows where to look.
Fact Five – Our sexy main character, Michael Elliott, is a dragon shifter and the alpha of the Fire Star Pack. His territory covers the State of Oregon in the U.S. Michael is bonded with an ancient dragon called Onyx.
Fact Six – When Michael shifts into a dragon, Onyx gets his corporeal body back though he occupies it with Michael. When Michael is human, Onyx is with him in body and soul. It’s truly a symbiotic relationship, and the bond is never meant to be broken.
Fact Seven– The two share a castle in the Scottish Highlands passed down by Michael’s dragon host predecessors. (In The Starlight Chronicles, Elliott, as Selena came to call him, teamed up with bear shifter and alpha of the North Star Pack, Andras Johns, to support Selena Aires in her prophetic quest. The three reunite in this story, and Michael will finally share dragon lore with Selena. It will be more than she bargained for.)
Fact Eight – Onyx has scales like obsidian and the same deep midnight blue eyes as his host.
The Starlight Chronicles series is a great place to rev up for Michael’s spinoff story from Book Two, Drago Incendium, which starts where Book One, Ursus Borealis, leaves off. The saga concludes in Book Three, Tigris Vetus.
This new novel is for Michael. 🥰
Let me know if you’re enjoying the journey! Comment with ideas and feedback.
By D. L. Lewellyn 