Dimestore Plot Bunnies

So it's been over a year since anyone posted here, which I think is a pretty terrible shame. I have loads of terrible dime store romance novel plot bunnies floating around in my pathetic brain, and I think some of them need to happen.

And they're going to happen here.

Chances are I won't finish very many of them, but them's the breaks, I guess. Besides, who knows what weirdness will emerge. If someone likes something I abandon, please, feel free to step up and take over. I'm down with that.

So...let the bunnies commence!

Attempted Pyrokinetic Murder

Okay, so the title is obviously a work in progress. Who else knows what will happen.

Incidentally, the story starts here.

It continues below, or above, depending on whether or not you know where to click.



James was a simple creature, and he liked life best when it was sunny and uncomplicated. He'd never admit it to his mates, but he'd always imagined that his first real gander at love would've been...simple: an exchange of smiles across a room at party; a long, surprisingly engaging conversation. They'd exchange phone numbers, and then there'd be dates and long phone calls, and one day there'd be no more dates, there'd be living in each other's lives. After that, the only answer would be marriage...or moving on.

James hadn't expected the object of his affection to be co-opted by his co-star. Everyone on set loved Riley, so maybe James shouldn't have been surprised that Asia fell in with the rest, but people loved Riley because he was adorably shy and polite, and Asia the super stunt-girl should hardly have been attracted to such...puppyish sweetness.

During sword training Asia was polite and helpful, encouraging even, and James had to summon all his acting skills so as not to blush whenever Asia curled her hand around his to correct his grip. It took every ounce of his will not to lean close and breathe in the scent of her whenever she put a hand on his hip to correct his posture. Outside of the training shed, Asia's acknowledgment of him was perfunctory at best. She always seemed too busy to do more than nod and make brief eye-contact before hurrying on to do whatever it was that anyone needed her to do. Because, of course, she wasn't just the stunt coordinator - she also handled armor and weapons and a host of other things that required her to hover around James almost as much as his AD without ever really acknowledging him.

It was only a month into shooting, and James was convinced that someone higher up the ladder was conspiring with the fates to taunt him with Asia's presence as much as possible so as to drive him insane - or maybe just test his acting mettle. Lunch was his only reprieve. He could slump alone in a corner of the catering tent and eat slowly, pretend that he wasn't scanning the face of ever passer-by and hoping it was hers.

Until the day when it was hers and she was laughing, face alight with joy, and goodness gracious she was beautiful in an uncanny, unexpected way - and she was laughing at something Riley had said.

James's chest tightened. He watched, gaze hawk-like, as Asia and Riley drifted through the catering line together, got matching salads and drinks, chattering all the while. They sat down at the other end of the table. Fiona amd Serena, who were usually thick as thieves with Riley, didn't join him. They sat with James instead. That was a bad sign. A horrible sign. A boy and a girl only got deliberately left alone like that when their friends were hoping they'd hit it off or something equally rom-com horrid.

Serena glanced down at the happily chatting couple. "I'm surprised you're not with them, Fi."

Fiona shrugged. "Unlike Riley, my Irish is terrible. I'd never keep up."

"What Irish?" James asked distractedly, watching how Asia and Riley spoke, heads bent close.

"Asia speaks Irish, so Riley's getting his daily dose of home during lunch," Serena explained.

"Oh." James swallowed and focused his attention more closely on his lunch companions. "I thought Asia was American."

Serena snickered softly; Bradley rolled his eyes.

"Apparently one of her adopted brothers is from Northern Ireland, so she speaks Irish," Fiona said. "She's terribly fascinating."

James agreed, though for entirely different reasons than Serena might.

"She's quite fun to talk to when she's not bossing the stunt boys around," Serena said. "You should talk to her sometime. I think you'd like her."

James would've given he wasn't sure what - something extreme, definitely - if she's say something to him beyond Guard up!

"What makes you think I don't like her?" he asked.

Fiona made an indelicate sound rather like a snort, but she was too pretty to snort. "You barely speak to her, you hardly look at her, and when you do, you seem to be putting every effort into pyrokinetically murdering her."

Haunted

The house was old and I loved it from the first moment I saw it. It was of Victorian design, and all three stories of it leaned slightly to the south, like an old man huddled over a fire on a cold day. Janine Harold had called it 'the blue house', but what little you could see of the paint beneath the ivy was peeling and had long since faded to grey. Dusty, moth eaten curtains hung wearily in the large windows, and combined with the overgrown hedges skirting the fence and the large oak tree that obscured most the house from the street, it gave the house a feeling of impenetrable solitude.
The little iron gate squeaked as I pushed it open, a sound somewhere between heartache and a slow smile. Silence hung low in the yard, swirling idly about the empty bottles, balls and broken things that it had collected over the years from opprobrious neighbors. It was like stepping out of reality into the realm of forgotten and overlooked treasures, and I felt neither wanted nor unwelcome- I was just another lost thing that had found my way to the place where all lost things go.

I heard Janine's car purr to a stop just beyond the hedge. I sighed, and tried to look at the house as I thought she might. I couldn't get far enough out of my head. I turned to watch her pick her way across the yard in her heels, jamming my hands into my sweater's pocket. She looked up and gave me a tight lipped smile. I imagine she was trying to appear friendly and eager, but a blind man would have been able to see how uncomfortable she was. A plump, smartly dressed woman in the shady end of a seedy town.
"Good morning, Miss Brunning!" her voice was so overly sweet it almost hurt as she extended a hand towards me.
I barely touched her hand before she whisked it away.
"So, this is the house! Its a...bit of a fixer-upper, I suppose." she gestured to the front door and "For the life of me, I don't know why your mother never did anything with it. She refused to sell the place, but as far as I know, she hadn't gone past the front gate in over a decade before she died."
I followed her onto the front porch and watched as she fumbled with the keys and the front door.
"I can't imagine a woman like my mother had much interest in a house like this." I offered quietly.
Janine shot me a strange look "She...She said that it had been her mother's house. They used to come here for the summers when she was little. Fond childhood memories, I suppose."
She finally convinced the door to open, and stood to the side so I could enter.
"Your grandmother had the place re-wired for electricity and fixed up the plumbing. The heat is all gas, you can find the tank in the back. I believe your mother kept it full, just in case."
I stepped inside and flicked the old light switch to the side of the door. The light-an old chandelier with regular 100 watt light bulbs screwed into it- flickered on, illuminating the entry way. The walls were the shade of yellow that could once have been white, a long time ago, and the hardwood floor was carpeted with dust. Janine stepped in behind me, leaving the door ajar, and moved to stand by the stairs.
"The door to the left leads to the parlour, the other leads to the old library. If you follow the hallway, it leads back to the kitchen, dining room and office. A bathroom" She pointed as she spoke "There are stairs down to the cellar in the kitchen, I believe. The second floor is all bedrooms. One master bedroom, a nursery, and two smaller bedrooms. Two bathrooms. The third floor was all servant housing, I don't think anyone's done anything to change that since the place was built. Then there's the attic, of course."
I nodded, and pushed open the door to the parlour. It was smaller than I'd imagined it, but still large. The furniture was all draped with dust cloths. Portraits in oval frames hung on the walls, so covered in dust you could barely see them.

House of Thorns: Chapter Three

I was crammed into one of the smallest conference rooms the law firm of Hawthorne, Hagen, and Helmuth had to offer, taking a deposition in a securities fraud case. The court reporter was ready to go, and I was ready to go, and opposing counsel was ready to go, but hell if opposing counsel's client was even present. It wasn't a good way to start my day, even though technically my day had started with Greg bringing news of my thrice-damned destiny from The Three.

Most people would have said my day started at my eight a.m. meeting with him. I thought I'd forgotten his face, that I'd concentrated sufficiently hard enough to shove it to the back of my mind but remember it well enough to offer a polite smile and an oblivious handshake when our first meeting came. I hadn't expected to see him in the boss's office within twenty-four hours of the aftermath of a vision. Even if Greg didn't know how truly potent a vision was, The Three knew, and I was sure they'd done this on purpose.

In secondary school I had perfected the pen flip such that I could shoot the pen across the room at will. I was tempted to use my skills for evil, but I was pretty sure Old Man Hagen wouldn't buy I don't want to be lusting after your youngest son and I was frustrated as an excuse.

"I think opposing counsel knows he might lose an eye in the next thirty-seven seconds."

Greg's voice in my ear was soft, as if he were leaning down and whispering so only I could hear. If I closed my eyes I could pretend he was standing behind me, that I could feel his warmth and smell his soap and that he had one hand on my shoulder.

"There," he said. "Calmer now?"

He was invisible in daylight and knew it, and in the beginning he'd tried to get me into trouble. Of course, he'd tried to get me into trouble when we were children, so why I thought he'd try anything different when we were adults was utterly irrational, if attributable to the fact that I was in love with him.

I opened my eyes and smiled tightly at opposing counsel. "How much longer?"

"He said he'd be here any minute." Opposing counsel was Jeremy Walsh from Wimbush and Christofferson.

"He was in my year at law school," Greg said. "He does a great rendition of Sinatra's My Way when he's had seven shots of tequila."

I raised my eyebrows at this and studied opposing counsel some more. He looked very buttoned up and proper, headed for at least a junior partnership at his firm before forty, and probably alcoholism and a heart attack.

Walsh lifted a hand to his face nervously. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I said.

Voices outside the conference room caused us both to turn.

"Dad, I'm pretty sure Gray doesn't want to see a closet -"

The door opened, and there was Geoffrey Hagen, the Old Man himself, standing in the doorway. John stood behind him, looking aggrieved.

And behind John stood Gray. Memories from the vision assaulted me, and for a moment I was back in that place, in his arms, his lips on my skin -- my pen dropped from my nerveless fingers, and then Walsh was on his feet.

"Mr. Hagen," he began, "I didn't realize we'd have the pleasure -"

"See?" Mr. Hagen was saying to Gray. "It's not a closet - it's a conference room! The newer, smaller ones were Greg Hawthorne's idea, actually."

My chest constricted at my husband's name, and to make matters worse, his ghost laughed softly, huskily in my ear.

John's expression soured at my husband's name. "Can't you see Emma's working?"

"Mr. Hagen," I said, coming back to myself. I rose to my feet and smoothed down my jacket, the gesture automatic, as if I were rising to address a judge. "We were just preparing for that deposition I mentioned earlier."

"Of course - so sorry to interrupt," Mr. Hagen said. "I figured I'd show Gray around the office, save you the tour so after lunch you two can get down to business." He had the audacity to wink.

John wore an expression of longsuffering. "I told you that Emma's wrapping up the last of Greg's caseload. She has deadlines and no time to baby-sit Gray --"

Damn if Gray didn't flinch and look, just for a moment, like a kicked puppy at his elder brother's words. He lifted a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, and something about the gesture was small, defensive, and oh but I knew what his hands could do.

"Greg's caseload is dwindling," Mr. Hagen said, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, Emma and Gray have a lot in common, and it'll be a good chance for them to become properly acquainted."

The suspicion that sparked in John's eyes was completely apropos, because Mr. Hagen would love it if I ended up the wife of sweet, young Gray, because I came from the "right kind" of family, and between my gift and Gray's, our children would be powerful. It made me a little sick to think about it, but then John had somehow remained oblivious to the true nature of the House of Hagen all his life, and he thought I'd try to sleep my way up the partnership ladder by marrying Gray. John could keep his damned partnership. I had more pressing issues to deal with, like the hand Fate had dealt me.

Gray seemed to sense the mounting tension, for he placed a hand on his father's shoulder and said, "I'd like to see the mock courtroom."

"Of course! Of course. This way." And Mr. Hagen sauntered away, Gray on his heels.

John lingered in the doorway. His expression was disdainful, suspicious, but then he'd always hated Greg, and now that I'd taken Greg's workload he was even more resentful than before. "Taking a deposition, are you?"

"Mr. Walsh's client is running a little behind," I said. "I'll be sure the billing reflects his client's ill manners accordingly."

John nodded once, sharply, and pulled the door closed.

I sank back down in my seat. I'd give anything to be ignorant of the stock market once again. I'd give anything to not have seen Gray Hagen in the flesh, with my own eyes. The door opened again, and a disheveled accountant scooted into the room.

"Hey! I, uh, got a little held up with -"

I yanked open my file. "State your name and occupation for the record, please."
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House of Thorns: Chapter Two

There was something irrepressibly funny about the fact that I had chosen what was ostensibly the ditziest profession in the world and I had been born into one of the most grim duties Destiny had ever conceived of.

Anyone who knew me at all, really knew me, couldn't get their heads around the fact that I was a necromancer by birth and an actor by choice. I couldn't really explain to them that a necromancer was, by necessity, an actor. The first time I'd unexpectedly raised the dead - a neighbor's cat, killed by a drunk driver - I learned that if I didn't smile and act like nothing was out of the ordinary, the men in white coats would come take my mother away.

It wasn't common knowledge that John was only my half-brother. His mother had been my father's mistress, but after Mom got taken away to the funny farm because Baby Gray was raising half-mangled cats off the hot Las Vegas tar, it only seemed right to Dad to marry his little side-show. It was probably for the best, since John had been far more interested in taking over the family business than I ever was. He'd worked hard to get through Harvard, and it was all out of fear - fear that he'd never be good enough for Old Man Hagen, for the man he'd never dared call Dad. He thought he was a disappointment, but he wasn't; he was a fine lawyer and Dad was looking forward to retiring and leaving structured takeovers to John's capable hands. The problem with John, of course, was that his mother hadn't been from the right family, so John, though he inherited the legal and business acumen of the offices of Hagen and Matheson, had not inherited from the House of Hagen. I, on the other hand, had inherited from the House of Hagen in full. Despite John's constant disdainful ribbing about my being a model-turned-actor, I'd studied hard, and I'd taken on my duties as a scion when I came of age.

Of course, so far away from the home base in Vegas, it was easy to forget the restless undead who roamed the nights beneath the casino lights. And the House of Hagen wasn't the only Chantry in Vegas to guard the desert gates - the House of Hawthorne was just as old and just as powerful, and their own scion, Gregory Hawthorne, had been the perfect son - skilled necromancer and skilled lawyer.

He'd died a year ago, and no one would tell me why, but Dad insisted I come home. So here I was, standing in the doorway of Dad’s office and wondering what fate he'd leave me to. I was, ostensibly, at the office to shadow a lawyer in preparation for a part I'd landed in an upcoming indie film. I didn't know that they made indie films about lawyers, but I'd landed the role, and claiming professional research seemed better than just giving in to my father's demands. It also made John a little less hostile - he was sure I was coming home to take over now that Dad was making even more noise about retirement.

"Gray, my boy, how have you been?" Dad swept me into one of his crushing bear hugs, and I winced when I heard my ribs creak.

"I've been great, Dad," I said, and tried to pull back. I had always been too thin and weak for my own good.

"So, a movie about lawyers, huh? I bet they took one look at your old man's pedigree and thought you'd be perfect for the part," Dad said.

"It's a lower-budget independent film," I began, but it was pointless trying to explain anything to him about my career. I was pretty sure he didn't even know the name of the show I worked on regularly. "So, which poor associate have you saddled with me? I know John's got more important things to do than let he follow him around like a lost puppy."

"I picked a lawyer who just moved here from the Summerlin office," Dad said. He finally pulled back and went back to his desk, pressed a button on his complicated-looking phone device. "Janine, send in Emmaline."

Emmaline. The name rang a bell. Why? "Are you sure she won't mind?"

"She's a good litigator and a hard worker, but she's not working on anything too top-secret for now, so it should be all right," Dad said.

"Mr. Hagen."

Her voice was low for a woman's, husky, and sent shivers down my spine. I turned and lifted a hand to wave, ready with a Hollywood smile, but when her eyes met mine, she turned pale.

"Emmaline! I don't think you've met my younger son, Gray, but he's here doing research for a project," Dad said, and led me over to her.

She was staring at me as if she wanted to flay my skin off my spine. Then she collected herself and said, "It's good to meet you. Are you doing research for a law review article or independent research paper or a practical class? What year in school are you?"

I shook her proffered hand, genuinely nervous that she might set me aflame. "Nice to meet you, too. Actually, I'm an actor doing research. For a role."

"I see."

Never had two words been so poisonous.

"Well, Mr. Hagen, I'll be glad to show you the ropes. I'm afraid I'm going to be late for a deposition, however. If you'll excuse me - perhaps we can catch up after lunch." She handed me a business card, spun on her heel, and walked away.

I stared after her, then down at the card.

And my heart plummeted into my shoes. Emmaline Hawthorne. She was Greg's widow.

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Inspiration for all

I want a love story reunion to feel like this. Seriously. No words, all emotions. Also, Wicker Park was a surprisingly good romance.

Possibly a first chapter

I'm thinking of calling it "House of Thorns."



You can't break destiny, they told me. Destiny breaks you.

They weren't kidding.

"Hey, Emma. How are you feeling?"

It was Greg's voice, baritone, soothing. I half stirred from my sleep. My internal clock insisted it was entirely the wrong time to be waking up, and when I peered through my eyelashes I could see that it was still dark outside. Night. And then I saw his silhouette, backlit from the streetlights streaming in the window. He was sitting beside me on the bed, still fully dressed, obviously home from a late night at the office. Greg. My husband. He was home. I smiled drowsily and reached out to twine my fingers with his - and my hand hit the cold cotton of the comforter.

I sat bolt upright and flung my hand out to turn on the touch lamp - and Greg was gone. The comforter was smooth and unruffled, untouched. No one had been there. I sighed and buried my face in my hands, willing my racing heart to slow down.

It was just a dream, or maybe a dream mingled with memory. It had been a year. Greg was dead.

"Sorry, Emma. I didn't mean to scare you."

Greg's voice again. I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing in the corner of my half-empty bedroom. Greg was dead, and a year later, his soul was still hanging around. I wondered what it meant about my husband, that in death he was dressed in a suit sans tie as if he'd just come home from work. He hadn't died in the house - I wouldn't still be living there if the building was burdened with that. I shuddered and tried not to think of the way he'd lost his life, of the last time I'd seen his mortal remains --

"I didn't scare you, did I." It wasn't a question.

I took another deep breath. "Hey Greg."

His smile, though faint, was as sweet as it had been in sunlight. "I don't mean to bother you."

He didn't bother me usually, not really. Catching me half awake, however, was catching me vulnerable. "What's up?"

"There's something you have to see." He stepped forward, offered a hand. He was even more powerful in death than he had been in life, and in life he'd been a virtuoso beyond all expectations, even as the scion of the House of Hawthorne.

"Is this a demand from the House?"

"A warning from the Three." His tone was grim.

I took a deep breath. I wasn't on good terms with the Three. Greg knew the reason. Greg was the reason. He wouldn't have asked if it was for a good reason.

"All right." And I put my hand in his - almost. Before we would have touched - because we couldn't touch - I tumbled into the future.

A cellar. A six-pointed star drawn on the floor, overlaid with a tree of life and runes. Too much magic, too many different kinds. Walls lined with books, floor to ceiling. A man standing in the middle of the star, shirtless and supermodel thin, a book open on his palms. Ink dancing up his wrists, twisting up his arms, twining across his torso.

A lock of brown hair falling into brown eyes alight with a shy smile. A wide, generous mouth, soft in a kiss and quick with arcane words.

Long-fingered, spidery hands dexterous with a coin to make children gasp as it disappeared, smile as it reappeared. Those same hands curled around a gun, squeezing a trigger, six shots, deadly accurate.

A portal, gaping, open, straight to the Deep Nines.

A ring of seven golden candles, and those hands playing with a string of seven shining stars.

Blood. So much blood. His blood. Screaming. A shattered soul. His lips shaping my name.

"Emma. Emmaline."

My name, on his lips, in my dead husband's voice.

"Emma."

The future turned to grey.

"Emma, come back now."

And I was back in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of my bed. Greg sat beside me. I was breathing hard, hands clenched into fists.

"W-what was that?"

"I can't see what you see." Greg's tone was apologetic. "I never could. But it's important."

"Did the Three send a message with it?" I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. I used to imagine that if I looked long enough and hard enough I could tumble into his soul, feel more than just his magic.

He nodded. "They said --" and his expression became slightly puzzled, because the riddles of the Three were beyond the finite reasonableness of his necromancy -- "to watch for your destiny and to give him everything."

I raised my eyebrows. My destiny was a him and not an it. But of course. I'd refused to Stray all growing up, and when I finally Strayed, it was into Greg's arms. I'd already come into my full power, and it was too late for a Stray to be harmless. My proper destiny had finally arrived.

"Thanks, Greg."

Again with his smile. I knew he would have to leave forever one day, but before he did, I wanted to see him smile in the sunlight one more time. He'd stopped reaching out to try to touch me, to comfort me, but knowing he was there was everything. We'd been best friends before we'd fallen in love, and most of the time, I could imagine we were best friends again, the inseparable duo we'd been before we married.

"Anything for my Emmaline."

"I know you don't like talking to them either." I smiled up at him.

"The House of Hawthorne has its rules, and I am still its scion." He rose up. "You should try to get some sleep."

I nodded and crawled back under the covers. "Yeah. Depositions tomorrow."

"Good night."

I smiled. "Good morning." And I sank back into sleep.

Destiny was coming for me.

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