Let me start with the boring stuff. Two main things added here on my website this week: the Contact page and newsletter sign up are back. Exciting, right?

What’s truly exciting is that Warrant for Damnation is DONE!!! It’s completely edited and ready for upload on Amazon. WHOO HOO! Only got one problem…I changed the name of the series and I have no clue what I’ll have to do to change the series name for the other books. I don’t like to do anything easy. Remember when I changed my name from W. J. Howard to Winnie Jean Howard. That included unpublishing and republishing Call for Obstruction.

Anyway, as promised, I’ve got a preview of Warrant for Damnation from the center of the book. There are some new characters introduced, and I absolutely love them and hope you will too. As you’ll see, Barry ends up in a place called the Earthbound Spirits Pub with Chump and Javier. No spoilers in this chapter…just a bit of fun at the expense of Barry.

Warrant for Damnation Preview

With a thud, my movement ceases. I hold out my hands and prepare for another drop, but I’ve somehow landed on a chair or tall stool. Down below, the floor is composed of a black nothingness that causes my head to spin. Good thing the seat feels fixed, but…

Where the hell am I?

I grip the edge of a bar top, recognizable because straight ahead, liquor bottles levitate in two horizontal rows.

Of course. The pub.

My gut burns. How could I have been so gullible again? Not that they gave me a choice. At least I’m not being roasted for Satan’s dinner.

To my right, Chump slaps my back. “Wasn’t such a terrible trip.”

Javier laughs. “Thought we were sending you to Hell to collect the bounty, didn’t ya?”

“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes, but I’m still suspicious. These guys will do anything to get what they want. For once, I’d much rather be back at the hotel, doing what I’m told.

I cough, my breath stirring up ash that coats the surface of the metal bar where my glasses and twenty plus smoldering cigarettes landed. Scratching my head upsets more residue. How did I jump without lighting my hair on fire? Hopefully, the hexed butts taught them an electrifying lesson during our trip. Maybe they’ll think twice before screwing with me in the future. More likely not.

“Listen, man,” a chubby dark-haired bartender says in a brash voice, “smoke all you want, but for God’s sake, use this.” He flings a clear glass ashtray in my direction. Miraculously, I catch it against my chest.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry!” While he mocks with air quotes, a blue sock and tattered tighty-whities drop out of nowhere and hit his head before falling on top of the mess. He closes his eyes and pulls at his hair with both hands, leaving it scruffy. His eyebrows dip into a demonic frown. “Who is this guy? He’s disgusting.”

“He’s not so bad.” Chump snatches the undergarments and shoves them in his pocket. “Clothes are mine. Lost ‘em yesterday.”

Interesting that he’s sticking up for me. Also interesting that our server looks disturbingly familiar.

“Good Lord!” The bartender tugs at his belt, lifting his baggy jeans over his black button up shirt and to the base of his beer gut. “Empty the lint trap before you jump, so I don’t have to look at your nasty drawers again. Otherwise, I’ll charge extra for the trauma. Now, what do you dickheads want to drink?”

“Whiskey for me and Javier. Our friend likes gin.” Chump pays with gold coins the size of pennies.

“Nothing for me,” I say. “I’m not staying.”

The bartender’s quick to bark, “You pay every round whether or not you order.”

“Bring another whiskey,” Chump says.

As our server picks up the last coin, a cigarette on the counter pops and snaps. He jerks, retracting his hand. I cover my wide grin with my palm. The others avert their eyes.

“Clean up this fucking mess or I’ll serve you a Virgin Mary!” The guy slams three shot glasses onto the metal surface, then spins around and retrieves a floating bottle with amber liquid.

My fingers jitter while I sweep the butts into the ashtray, but there’s no reaction to my touch. Either they’re depleted of magic or have identified their new master.

The bartender pours the first round of shots, spilling alcohol onto the remaining litter. Wet ash covers the side of my hand and smears the surface. I purse my lips and keep my opinion to myself.

“Who is he?” I whisper to Javier.

After the bartender walks away, he answers, “Comedian. Name’s Ted Fielding, but you might be too young to recognize him. Died back in the eighties, at the prime of his career.”

“Wait. I know him,” I say. “He’s in a film I love.”

“Was in a lot of stuff,” Chump says, “but no one can ever remember what.”

“No, wait. I know it. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” I gawk at Fielding, star-struck, but no matter how hard I try, my memory fails me.

“You won’t remember,” Chump says. “The Earthbound Spirits’ Pub is a neutral zone for otherworldly types, same as the Purgalator Coffee Shop. Souls in Limbo run the pub, and the bartenders are celebrities who’ve committed suicide or overdosed.”

I shiver, remembering Margery used to send me on Purgalator coffee runs.

“They’re given a choice to come here or go to Hell’s Refugee Camp.” Javier hops off his stool, leans against the bar, and balances on the bottomless abyss of a floor.

“Ted committed suicide,” Chump says, “not that it’ll help you remember his movies and TV shows. Everyone remembers the servers’ names, but customers can never remember their accomplishments. Guess it’s a preferable punishment than going to the refugee camp.”

After a trip there, I’d push drinks too.

“I know you’re concerned,” Javier says, “but God’s and Satan’s forces can’t hunt here. All patrons are required to keep the peace.”

“Sucks,” Chump says. “Nothin’ funner than a good brawl every now and then.”

By the sound of Chump’s opinion of this place, keeping the peace is more of a suggestion. With any luck, we’ll keep our visit low-key. No telling what might happen if I’m recognized as Hell’s most wanted, even if the pub’s neutral.

“The coins offered at the dryer were for Fielding’s section,” Chump says while using his index finger to draw boobs in the wet residue. He admires his artwork with a chuckle and adds, “He takes care of ex-couriers.”

“Really? He’s kind of an asshole.” Then again, I’m sitting between two pricks who shoved me through a portal against my will.

Chump picks up a glass and exposes veins, bulging on his twenty-inch bicep. He downs the shot of whiskey, then snatches up the one in front of me, liquid spilling over his thumb. “Here’s to living another night with our heads.”

With a pretend glass in hand, I motion to swig the air whiskey. Javier savors his spirits with dainty sips. After a deep breath, I spin around and notice a wall of decorative mirrors, hanging midair and willy-nilly in the darkness, drifting like the bottles. Oddly, the glass reflects the bar’s furnishings and other objects in the place, but we patrons are invisible, as if we’re vampires. Or it’s how the pub assures anonymity, not that it’s giving me a warm fuzzy that no one will recognize me.

A stream of color whooshes through a gold-leaf frame and targets a barstool a few seats down from where Javier stands. It solidifies into a demon with alligator skin. An orange glow radiates from the cracks over his face and neck and hands. The rest of him is covered in a black tracksuit with white stripes trimming the legs and sleeves.

Explains our transport into this place, the mounts being the portals, but how do I make the exit offering to slide back to the laundry room?

The hunched over demon tosses a gold coin onto the bar, and Fielding glides in with a blue flaming froufrou drink. When Tracksuit turns and stares though glowing eyes on a hairless gorilla-like face, I divert my attention to the opposite side of the room.

There are quite a few demon patrons, and the pub extends farther than the eye can see. With Satan’s bounty hunters on the prowl, the dim setting is welcome, unless our new neighbor has recognized me.

“How big is the pub?” I ask. “And why is it so chilly?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” Chump motions for a refill.

“It’s Limbo,” Javier says, “not a warm day at Disneyland.”

When I turn to face the demon, he’s still looking at me.

I ask the guys, “How do we return to the hotel?”

“Too many questions,” Chump says.

“Hey, this place may be neutral, but I doubt it applies to someone with a warrant for damnation and a father like…” I snap my mouth shut when Fielding glides in, not wanting him to know my kinship to an escaped fallen angel.

The bartender sloppily pours our second round and says, “Crazy ex-courier alkies and your bottomless glasses.”

“Speaking of drunks, Izi should be nearby.” Javier takes a few steps backward and scans the area. His body bobs as if he’s on a trampoline.

“Seen Izi and her crew?” Chump asks Fielding.

“Tracking your stupid friends isn’t in my job description.” Fielding glares at me. “I hope you wipe your ass cleaner than you scrubbed my bar.”

I straighten and bounce a knee.

Chump leans back and checks out my butt. “Don’t see any flies.”

Fielding flings a rag at me. The cold dampness slaps my face before falling into my lap. I get to work, polishing the surface while biting my tongue.

“Izi must be here somewhere.” Javier shifts closer to the decorated frames. “Guess I’ll go find them.”

“Hey, wait!” But he’s already out of sight.

I motion to follow him until Fielding slaps the bar and yells, “Finish your job.” “Okay, okay.” I wipe faster, my intent to discover a way out of here rising.