Title: The Quicks, The Deads, and Me
Author: Don Hilton
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 07/19/2024
Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 58600
Genre: Horror/Thriller, Paranormal, new adult, interracial, nonbinary, trans, questioning, serial killer, ghosts, mythical creature
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Description
Mazie’s a serial killer. She’s been one for a while. She knows that, of course, and does an excellent job of hiding it.
Then, there’s Sk’doo. Something less than a ghost, it’s doing its thing, zooming around its cemetery, listening to Deads. Its routine changes when a body is placed in a nearby pond. In learning how it hap-pened, Sk’doo discovers its Quick friend, Kaz, is in danger.
Who’s Kaz? She’s lonely, afraid, and confused. She’s ghosting her way through life, preferring the peace of a cemetery to the pain of living. At least until Sk’doo causes her to meet Mazie who brings light and excitement.
Mazie is manipulative, opinionated, and cunning. She decides to “”educate”” Kaz, taking delight in creat-ing a series of uncomfortable situations for her more-than-willing victim. Kaz begins to blossom and falls hard for her new friend.
All the same, Sk’doo must warn Kaz of the danger Mazie brings. The problem is how, when Kaz has no idea Sk’doo exists.
The Quicks, The Deads, and Me
Don Hilton © 2024
All Rights Reserved
Ms. Collins comes through the register on her weekly run. She was my grade school librarian but is retired now. She has a bad knee and always asks me to carry her groceries out to her car. Then, she’ll give me a quarter even though I tell her I don’t want it.
She buys the same things almost every week. A bag of whatever apples are on sale, two large potatoes, a loaf of wheat bread, a pound of ground round, a quart of blue milk, a can of black olives, some fresh vegetables, and two pints of ice cream: vanilla and double-chocolate fudge. This week, she’s added small jars of peanut butter and sweet pickles—both are store brand.
I could fit her groceries into two bags, but she always wants four to make them easier to carry when she gets home.
“Four bags, please, dear.”
“Yes, Ms. Collins.”
“Could you help me carry it out to the car?”
“Yes, Ms. Collins.”
At the register, Sarah gives me a wink and a nod.
I lift the bags and walk slowly behind Ms. Collins. I see Jimmy at the far end of the lot, making another cart run.
“I wish I was young and strong like you!”
She always says the same things too.
“You reading any good books this summer?”
“A couple,” I lie, hoping she doesn’t ask about them.
“I’m glad you started reading. You didn’t come into the library that often when you were in elementary school, you know.”
I wonder if every librarian remembers everyone who used to visit along with every book they read. For me, dyslexia made the library a confusing place.
Despite her trouble walking, Ms. Collins never parks in one of the handicap spots. Her blue SUV is always down the lot, a row beyond the first cart rack.
“Watch this,” she says, as she pulls the car’s remote from the bright-yellow pouch she wears around her middle. She fumbles a bit, then stops, straightens her right arm, points the remote at the car, and pushes a button. After a moment, the car bings a couple times and the back hatch slowly lifts. She smiles at me. “Magic. I never get tired of that!”
I smile back. She says that every week too. I load the bags into the back of the vehicle.
“Hold on a moment.” She unzips another pouch pocket.
“Really, Ms. Collins, you don’t have to…”
“No, dear,” she says firmly, not looking up from her search for the quarter I know is coming. “You did a little extra work and so you deserve a little extra pay. Never be afraid to accept payment for your work. Remember that.”
A sudden, hot breeze blows her grocery receipt from one of the bags and around the side of her car.
“I’ll get that!” I say.
Jimmy appears from behind us, as if out of nowhere. “Too slow, Kazabee!” He dashes between the SUV and the cart rack, head down, grabbing for the slip of paper bouncing along the ground, out into the lane beyond.
He runs right in front of the car. It’s not moving fast and is one of those new ones with automatic everything. It slams on its brakes, but it’s still too late.
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Don Hilton was raised the second of three sons in a small Pennsylvania town. Easily bored, his life has been a broad mix of experiences. He’s struggled with the blues and is pleased that time grants some measure of peace. He prefers his peanut butter sandwiches with strawberry jam.
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