The 15th of April is a day of woe and suffering here in the United States. That's our deadline for filing Federal Income Taxes, you see, and that's when a lot of us watch sadly as we stuff envelopes full of money and watch that money fly away, never to return. It's a time of change: specifically, a time when change is really all we have left, jingling uselessly in our pockets.
It's a perfect time for a StoryBundle. And if you're going to buy a StoryBundle, why not buy one with Pay Me, Bug! in it?
On April 15, StoryBundle will launch a new collection of eight indie Fantasy and Science Fiction titles. It's the ImmerseOrDie StoryBundle, eight books (including mine) that passed the ImmerseOrDie Report.
Artemis and David have been at the small house on the beach for four days, trying to decide what to do.
The library was acceptable as a base of operations when the focus of their activities was the palace, but when it became clear that was no longer the case David decided Artemis needed access to a real bed and a refrigerator stocked full of healthy food. Artemis didn’t object—he was subdued for most of the short trip back, brooding silently over the discovery that the books he’d counted on retrieving—the purpose of their trip to the island to begin with—were gone. And that they were taken, apparently, by a copy of himself.
“Which is why we’re certain it isn’t a member of the board.”
Jason Kline stands in the Haruspex Analytics Situation Room, facing a large flat-screen monitor displaying the shadowy silhouette of the Chairman. Simon Yin is working on a laptop to his right. The rest of the team is in other parts of the building making discrete alterations to the network that will make things a little easier to manage in the future. The only other person in the room is Mara Ioannou, sitting off to the side, listening intently. She hasn’t involved herself in the discussion so far, but she’s been paying close attention.
Special Agent Alan Grant is dead. His body is placed on an autopsy table, his upper torso split open, the gaping crack in his chest held apart with an old, dented rib spreader. Plastic bags filled with his organs, each clearly labeled and marked with permanent black marker, sit in a pile on a small wheeled table to the left of his head. His lifeless eyes are still open, and wide dark stripes—something called tache noir—spread across the whites of both eyes.