The Weather's Always Fine in Paradise

By A.G. Carpenter

Eleven stories about love, survival, and the depths of the human heart.

Eleven worlds – some remarkably similar to our own, some dramatically different.

From the clammy dungeons and mysterious rooftops in The Spider Thief and the Sorcerer to the muddy, voodoo protected shores of Lake Ponchartrain in Legacy to the highrise slums of Venus in The Weather's Always Fine in Paradise, this collection of short stories will take you out of the everyday world and into the realm of 'what if'?

What if magic and knowledge were things that could be leased and reclaimed?

What if voodoo could open a woman's heart to the possibility of love?

What if the things that mattered most were not things at all?

Explore the possibilities in this collection of eleven stories from A.G. Carpenter.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.G. Carpenter
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524282554

A.G. Carpenter

A.G. Carpenter writes fiction of (and for) all sorts. Her short stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Abyss & Apex, and Nature Magazine - Futures. She prefers Die Hard to When Harry Met Sally and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly over Animal House. Her favorite color is black. Repped by Bob Mecoy.

Book preview

DEDICATION

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For Rick, who believes and challenges.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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Thank you to my family who puts up with my mad coffee habit and fascination with other worlds. And thank you to the readers that have encouraged me to keep writing. You make this worthwhile.

Made

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Names, Hersch said, have magic.

Rhiannon – a waif with hair the color of coffee-grounds – giggled. Magic? You mean like what they mean and stuff?

What they mean. How they sound. What they sound like. The nightclub thumped with the latest incarnation of gothic hardcore. Hardly intimate, even sitting almost nose to nose. But that was mere necessity – any further apart and conversation would be impossible.

I don't get it.

He raked his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. Do you know my name?

Another giggle. They told me you’re called Hashtag.

Yeah. You know why?

You have a way with the trends on Flotsam. Tracking things and stuff.

People, he said. I track people.

She thrust her lower lip into a pout that made her less, not more, attractive. That's not magic. You just need a good computer for that. Right?

Hersch licked his lips, considering. He could tell her how he'd typed #rhiannon into Flotsam an hour earlier. How that hashtag had drawn her to him in a way no computer, not even a really good one, could have. He could tell her the truth but she wouldn't believe him.

He shrugged. Probably.

She giggled again and fluttered her hand against his arm, flirtatious. You're too much.

Definitely not as attractive as her 'net profile. Yeah. He turned his head, took a sip of whiskey.

So. What's the real reason you go by Hashtag?

It's cooler than my real name. That much was completely true if not the complete truth.

Oh, yeah? What's that? Curiosity smoothed away some of her affectations.

Hersch Tag. He waited. It was always an unknown 'til it got to the truth of his name. The smart ones knew it was bad luck to be a vampire named day. The rest...

Your name is Hersch. Her lip wrinkled like she'd smelled a fart.

That's right.

Her smile was flimsy. Cool. A glance over her shoulder – searching for a way out, probably. Hey. I have to go visit the little girls room.

Sure. He leaned back and lied. Take your time. I'll be right here.

Right. Okay. Back in a minute. She disappeared into the crowd, just another poseur with dyed hair and bloody lipstick in a hair-tossing, fist-pumping sea of wannabe goths.

Hersch stood and moved toward the lower level of the club. He doubted she’d come back, but he didn't care to take the chance. Ten minutes with her and he was the one feeling the life draining away. Her 'net page had looked promising, but in the flesh she lacked the spark he was after.

He scowled – part irritation, part intimidation – and a flock of spiky haired college boys scrambled to vacate one of the few couches near the edge of the dance floor. Danke. He settled comfortably on the leather cushions, feet stretched out to take up as much of the sofa as possible.

One of the young men just evicted from their prime real-estate sneered. Uncool, man.

Hersch smiled, showing off his teeth.

Whatever. But they made a hasty retreat.

He tugged his phone out of his pocket. He might not be one of the elite, but he was still a vampire and an M-class one at that. No beater would mess with that.

The phone buzzed against his fingers, reminding him there were plenty of fish still to be caught. Or goths. He poked at the screen, scanning a list of possibles. Lots of fish-nets and white make-up, collars and corsets, but more than half of them were smiling or laying about in daylight. Poseurs.

Someone bumped his legs, and he looked up, irritated. This one's... The word taken jammed up in his throat.

The girl settling on the other end of the couch was the opposite of Rhiannon – willowy with dark hair and milky skin that was utterly natural. Do you mind? She pushed his feet off the edge of her cushion with a grin.

He shook his head. Not at all. The phone chinged – Flotsam spitting out another candidate. He stuffed it into his pocket and edged closer. May I buy you a drink?

She shook her head. No. Thank you.

Ah. He tapped his fingers on his knee, scrambling for an opening. It was easier when he Called them. I didn't catch your name.

A frown. What?

It was a good excuse to lean in, his lips brushing her ear. Your name. I didn't catch it.

She shifted, pressing back on the arm of the couch to get a better look at him. Emma, she said after a moment. Emma Day.

Then we have something in common.

Oh?

My name is also day. A shrug. Well, in German. Hersch Tag. He winced as soon as the words touched the air. Too soon.

Emma grinned, green eyes flickering with the light from the dance floor. Is that why you're not with the other suckers are over there? A jerk of her head at the VIP lounge in the upper corner of the club and the PVC clad, slick-haired vampires that lolled about in it.

The truth was complicated and less attractive. No one likes a coward, even an undead one. Best to keep that quiet. Something like. He laid his hand on her knee, moved in close enough he didn't have to shout. Besides. I like it warm.

She raised an eyebrow. I'll bet you do.

The music on the dance floor changed, slowing from frantic to something like a beating heart. Emma closed her eyes, one hand drifting in the air, fingers ticking with rhythm and melody. Her feet moved on the floor and she shifted toward the edge of the couch as though she would stand.

I like your shirt, Hersch said, quick.

She looked at him. Really?

He took another look. It was black, with a heart painted on it. Not the Valentine's Day kind of heart, the pumping blood in the human body kind of heart. The top was in flames, the bottom crumbling to ash. It was intriguing and discomfiting. Provocative. Though he wasn't sure exactly why.

It's nice, he lied. Did you make it yourself?

Yeah. She drooped, melancholy lines around her mouth. You want to dance?

He didn't normally set foot on the dance floor, one of the few concessions made to proper vampire behavior, but he suspected it was his only chance to hold onto her. In both the literal and the figurative sense. Sure.

The last time he'd been on a dance floor his heart still beat and the newest dance craze was the waltz; the ebb and flow of the techno pit was something altogether different. The warmth, the touch of the living on all sides left him flushed and intoxicated. He shuffled his feet, feeling the thump of the bass notes in his silent chest, and put his hands on Emma's hips.

She moved like quicksilver – liquid and graceful. Her arms floated in the air, head bobbing and feet tapping as though the music was channeled right through her. It was all Hersch could do to hold on and keep in step with her.

He wanted to get closer, to feel the electricity in her rub off on him like static. The crowd around them bumped and jostled with abandon. But as much as he tried to pull her in, as tight as the crowd around them grew, she stayed just beyond full contact.

When the floor lights came up and the exit doors opened, Hersch followed her out to the street like a drunk, anxious to keep her close as the crowd shuffled around them. She reached back and twined her fingers through his, casual.

He didn't bother to try and grab one of the taxis lined up at the curb, more concerned with keeping hold of her.

The crowd thinned, stumbling into cabs or filing onto the bus, until Hersch and Emma were alone on the cracked sidewalk. He tightened his fingers around her hand and pulled her into his arms. He expected the same delicate resistance he'd encountered in the club, but she slipped one hand behind his head, stretching up on tiptoe for a kiss.

Her tongue flickered against his lips like sunlight on water. Hersch let his hands drift down to her hips, leaning against her. Maybe it's not a wash after all.

She tipped her head back. Well?

He tossed his hair out of his eyes, uncertain. Come spend the day with me. Please? he added, when she didn't answer right away.

All day? Her mouth curved in a teasing smile. Can you handle a warm girl for that long?

It was a valid question. Usually he had them laid and out the door before the sun came up.  I'll take it slow. He pushed a strand of hair back out of her eyes. Then, when the sun goes down, we’ll go up to the roof to watch the moon rise.

Yeah? And once I'm asleep?

I'll watch you breathe and listen to your heart. He stopped, flustered. It had been years since he'd felt the need for over-the-top romantic blather. These days all he had to say was Come for the girl to start shedding her clothes and inhibitions. Most times he was lucky if he could get them inside before they were naked.

Emma, however...

Hersch looked at her, intent. She met his gaze without flinching, eyes as deep and green as the secret parts of the forest. Her heart beat faster when he tightened his hands on her hips, a flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cool night air. He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Was it a game? Or a dare?

She pressed her hand against his cheek. So warm. He bent his head and kissed her again. Deep. Slow. As though he could find an answer in the meeting of tongue and lips and breath. She didn't resist, pressing against him with a shiver he recognized. She's willing, but not easy.

He broke away, shaking with the need to hold her more intimately. Please? It was a whisper.

Emma nodded. All right. Is it far?

Not too far. He took her hand. Come on.

His nest was in an old office building near the river, four stories of brick with carved stonework and located in a district that was mostly warehouses and dingy industrial buildings. It was the kind of place beaters didn't go after dark unless they were trading drugs or sex or money for drugs or sex or money.

Normally the girls clung tight to his arm, hearts purring like an overwound clock as they realized where they were going. Emma didn't let go of his hand, but she walked with a long and easy stride, her heartbeat almost lazy. As if they were out for a walk in a park.

She glanced sideways at him, smiled shy.

He clenched his free hand into a fist as a wave of impatience rose, followed closely by a rush of desire that made him stumble.

You okay?

Yes. He pulled her close for another kiss, light and teasing lest he lose control completely. I really want you.

Her cheeks pinkened, but she slipped both arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his throat.

Dear gods. He lifted her off her feet, tucking her carefully into his arms as he put vampire speed to practical use; running the last few blocks, then sprinting up the stairs to the third floor and the comfort of his nest.

Oof. She pressed one hand to her head, the other knotted tight in the front of his shirt as he set her back on her feet.

You okay? A sudden pinch of concern. Maybe he had moved too fast for her mortal body.

Dizzy. She smoothed the lines out of her forehead. Better. She squinted against the darkness. Where are we?

He spread his fingers, willing the lights across the ceiling to life. He’d used candles before, but the melted wax on the floor was a bitch to clean up and these days electricity was cheaper.

Her eyes widened as several hundred tiny bulbs switched on, transforming the battered old office space into a romantic hideaway. At least, that was how he hoped she saw it. Heavy velvet drapes, hung over tight shutters, covered the windows. The crown molding was chipped, the plaster discolored where old wooden beams leached tannin into the porous surface, but in the pinpoint illumination it looked less dilapidated.

Emma turned in a slow circle, tapping her fingers against her leg. Like your own night sky.

Yes. He combed his fingers through his hair.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Not much furniture.

I'm a man of simple needs.

I'll bet. She unzipped her boots and kicked them off. Stood up on the bed and unbuttoned her skirt. He'd expected lacy panties, the kind girls buy for too much money and wear when they hope to get laid, but she was wearing plain cotton ones. In blood red.

He didn't lose control. Just let it off the leash as he stepped up on the bed with her.

Her t-shirt came off over her head to reveal milky skin punctuated by shell-pink nipples. She tasted of honey and roses.

A murmur in the back of his head demanded attention. That means something, Hersch.

Emma pulled at his shirt, hands sweeping across his back and chest like fire in a dry field, then sliding down to his waist where she yanked his belt free of the buckle. His trousers stuck around his knees, caught on his boots, but he didn't care.

One hand on each of her ankles and a swift tug put her flat on the mattress, arms over her head as he pressed against her.

Hersch loved warm girls for all the obvious cliches: their heat; the way their hearts echoed in his own empty chest; the ease with which he could make them squirm and whimper with ecstasy. But Emma was not easy.

She gave willingly, and took as well – exploring the cool hollows of his skin with her mouth and fingers, then sprawling on the tangled sheets as he mapped her curves with lips and tongue.  He tried to get in her head, but just as she had resisted him on the dance-floor, her will remained beyond his reach, forcing him to depend on the traditional method of pleasing a woman.

Her sigh touched his lips as they came together; the skin of his shaft growing warm as she held him inside. Hersch.

The sheets creaked with strain as he knotted his hands deep in the bed clothes. Focus. It was tempting to let go the last fingerhold on control, but his chest ached with a need that went beyond his own physical satisfaction.

He looked down at her, confused.

Deep green eyes, lazy with desire, only deepened the ache.

Am I in love? It was not impossible, but the chances against it were staggering. He bent his head and kissed her throat. Again the taste of honey and roses. He knew that was important, but he couldn't remember why.

Hersch. She moaned in his ear and he could only think of holding her as close as his own skin as they moved together. Fast. Then slow. Somehow she was on top, head thrown back, hands braced on his chest.

She cried out, wordless. Or maybe that was just the crackle of ecstasy along his nerves that muddled his comprehension. He tried to say her name, uncertain if he made any noise at all, certain that words were unnecessary to telegraph his undying need for her. Undying love.

Emma sagged to the bed,