This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Doom Magnet
Copyright © 2024 Gregory Ashe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published by Hodgkin & Blount
https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/
contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published 2024
Printed in the United States of America
Version 1.04
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-084-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-083-4
Chapter 1
“Bobby!” Millie screamed. “Over HERE!”
“Okay,” Fox said. “I don’t think now is the time—”
“Keme! Keme! Look! Hi!”
“Millie,” Indira said, “they need to concentrate.”
Torn between distracting her friends and, well, the thrill of simultaneously cheering/screaming at them, Millie settled for hopping up and down silently, waving her arms.
It was a bright October day, the weekend before Halloween. The sky was blue. The sun was warm. And although it was cooler than the summer months in Hastings Rock, on a day like today, you couldn’t really tell.
Ketling Beach was a long, wave-smoothed crescent. To the north, Klikamuks Head jutted out into the sea. South, the shoreline curved inward, and across the bay rose the dollhouse profile of Hastings Rock. Where the light caught the wet sand of the beach at exactly the right angle, it looked sheeted in silver.
Banners hung everywhere, announcing the GREMLINS AND GROMMETS SURF CHALLENGE. In smaller type, the banners explained, Brought to you by Gremlins and Grommets Surf Camp. The event had brought out what looked like most of the town, and people lined the beach in folding chairs, many of them wrapped in blankets and carrying thermoses of coffee. Not exactly your Malibu beach scene, but I had learned—to my surprise—that not only did the Oregon Coast have some great surfing spots, the best time of year was late October. Which seemed like a wonderful recipe for death by hypothermia.
But if the cold water had deterred anyone, you couldn’t tell by the number of surfers waiting to compete. Beyond the barrier that marked the end of the spectator zone, they ran the gamut from children with foamboards (presumably the gremlins and grommets, although I wasn’t entirely sure of the lingo) to middle-aged men and women who looked scarily fit for their age. (This from a guy who prefers an elevator to stairs even when he’s going down.)
Deputy Bobby and Keme were down there too. They were both wearing wetsuits as they did some light cardio, warming up for the day’s events. If I had to make a list of terrible, awful, horrible ways to spend the day, watching Deputy Bobby jog and do jumping jacks and laugh at something Keme said probably wouldn’t rank high on the list. It might not even make the list at all.
Although, to be fair, sitting next to Deputy Bobby’s boyfriend, West, probably would make the list. In part, because I was doubly self-conscious every time I looked at Deputy Bobby. (Not that I was doing anything wrong. Not that I couldn’t look at him. Because we were friends, right? And friends looked at each other all the time. Even when friends were in wetsuits, and you could see all their muscles, and friends were bending and stretching and—we’re just friends!) And in part, because the juxtaposition wasn’t ideal. I mean, West was gorgeous. He had flaxen hair in a messy part, perfectly pink cheeks, kissably pouty lips (at least, I assumed Deputy Bobby thought they were kissable), and eyes the exact same color as the sky this morning. He was wearing a ring on his left hand these days, so I guess I needed to start thinking of him as Deputy Bobby’s fiancé. In keeping with the Halloween theme, he’d chosen to go as a very, very, very (need I go on?) sexy construction worker: hardhat rakishly cocked, hi-vis vest, jean shorts, steel-toed boots. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was all. If it were me, I would have been freezing, but since West also apparently had the metabolism of a hummingbird, he looked perfectly comfortable.
Everyone was dressed up, not just West, although nobody else, as far as I could see, had gone for the pouty-sexy-where’s-my-metal-clipboard look, which should have been ridiculous, but honestly? He was totally pulling it off. Indira, of course, had kept her costume tasteful. I’d asked if she was going to be a witch, and she’d asked me why I thought that, and I’d immediately regretted every life choice I’d ever made. (Answer: it’s because of that lock of white hair she has, which gives some seriously witchy vibes.) Instead, she’d gone for a tweed jacket over a rust-colored sweater and jeans, which looked like a normal outfit for her. She’d added big glasses and a crumpled deerstalker cap that sat cockeyed on her head, and when I’d finally had to ask who she was, she’d said Professor Trelawney. (Which, point for me because I had totally guessed witch.)
With Fox, it was hard to tell if it was a costume or daily wear, since Fox’s outfits seemed to straddle the delicate intersection of Victorian train conductor, circus impresario, mortician, and steampunk enthusiast. Today, for example, they were wearing a knee-length frock coat over a Led Zeppelin tee, plus a top hat. (Hats were apparently a thing this Halloween.) Like I said, it was hard to tell if this outfit had been plucked from Fox’s daily rotation or was a Halloween treat.
Millie, on the other hand, was definitely in costume. Millie’s usual attire (which consisted of cute sweaters and jeans) had been replaced by a full ’80s exercise getup: a neon pink leotard, turquoise tights, and electric yellow legwarmers and sweatbands. She’d done a full blowout on her hair and looked a little like Farrah Fawcett if she’d been struck by lightning. God bless her, she’d even found ankle weights. And the thing was…Millie looked amazing. I wasn’t sure she even knew how good she looked because, well, she was Millie. But I knew one thing: I was dying to see Keme’s face when the poor boy finally got a look at her.
As for me, I’d gone with something that I thought was clever. As usual, my friends had managed to blow up my expectations in a way that was both loving and devastating.
“I still don’t get it,” Fox said. “Are you a sex kitten?”
They chose the exact moment when I was drinking some of Indira’s hot chocolate, which meant all I could do for several minutes was choke.
West glanced over at me, gave me an appraising look, and said, “Dominatrix-cat.”
“Oh my God,” Fox said. “That’s exactly it.”
“It’s hot,” West told me. “You’re totally going home with someone tonight.”
“No,” I managed to wheeze through death-by-hot-chocolate.
“What is a dominatrix-cat?” Indira asked.
“I’ll look it up,” Millie announced.
“No!” Fox and I managed at the same time.
“Aren’t you just a black cat?” Millie asked. “I thought the keys just got stuck to you like that time you got wrapped up in all that tape in your office and you couldn’t get it off and you kept shouting for somebody to come help and Keme laughed and took all those pictures.”
“This is not like that!” I took a deep breath, which was hard since I was still recovering from my near-death experience. “And I would have been fine except Keme kept making it worse—”
“Well, what are you?” Indira asked. “Why don’t you just tell us?”
“Because this costume is clever and original and—and insightful.”
