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TwitterImagine discovering one day that the world is not quite what it seems. Magic, once the stuff of legend and fantasy, is real. A shadowy group of sorcerers quietly tugs at the strings of society, exerting control over corporations and governments with an unclear goal. The only thing that stands in their way is an ancient clan of dragons, disguised as humans, living and working right alongside the rest of us - and who are now insisting that you are one of them.
The Silver Token is a contemporary fantasy that tells the story of Jonah Fischer, an unremarkable young man whose life is turned upside down after an chance visit to a coin shop - and an impulsive purchase of an unusual silver coin - leads to an extraordinary series of events. Witnessing a murder that he is later accused of, then attacked by the same killer later at his home, Jonah is rescued by an enigmatic woman named Rebekah and dragged on a wild ride across the country.
On the run from the police and dodging the freakish killer at every corner, Jonah is faced with an unbelievable new reality when Rebekah explains to him that the coin he purchased is being sought after by the Syndicate, a power-hungry group of sorcerers who now have him in their sight. Unbelievable becomes fantastic when she claims to be a part of an ancient clan of dragons, hiding in human form, opposing the malevolent Syndicate and standing in the way of their schemes. Yet the most incredible part of the story comes when she claims that she has been dispatched to protect him because he is, in fact, one of them.
Pulled into a hidden world of magic, intrigue and conspiracy, Jonah must discover the truth about himself, the world, and most importantly unexpected feelings brewing within him before he loses himself in a wild fantasy - or worse.
The Silver Token is complete and now in the preliminary stages of production. We have opted to go with a self-publishing method rather than a traditional publishing route for various reasons, and are currently hoping to be wrapped up and ready to go to the presses (so to speak) by December 2012.
Please take a moment to enjoy the following excerpt from the novel. If you like what you see, be sure to follow this blog or find us on Twitter or Facebook for updates on the process and more detailed information on when the novel will be released. Oh, and be sure to send your friends for a look!
The little chime of
the bell that hung over the door was a friendly, pleasant sound, a
welcome contrast to the harsh, clattering buzz of the door being
unlocked. A simple sign of the times, thought Jonah, no longer the
sort of thing that most people would take the time to ponder. It
wouldn’t do to have a coin shop loaded with gold and silver coins
with the door just hanging open to the public, after all.
Letting the door
close behind him, chiming the bell once again, the young man turned
his attention briefly to the interior of the coin shop. It was a
small, cramped affair, crowded with glass jewelry cases wedged in as
tight as they would fit. There was a pervasive musty odor that
refused to be overpowered by the fresher air that rushed in from the
door, lending the shop an old and slightly dilapidated quality to it.
The staticky warble of big band music playing over an old AM radio
did nothing to alleviate the sense that the store existed in some
kind of time warp, none of which seemed to bother Jonah in the least,
and all seemed to suit the owner just fine.
“Ah, Jonah. Good
to see you!” The elderly shop owner, offering an amiable wave from
behind the counter, was a caricature to match the ambiance: dressed
in a tweed jacket with a flat cap to match, gazing out through a
thick pair of horn-rimmed glasses with friendly, rheumy eyes. “What
can I do for you today, sir?”
“Sammy!” Jonah
smiled brightly and stepped up to the counter, reaching over to shake
the old man’s hand, surprised as always at the strength that those
big old fingers still held. “Can’t I stop buy and just check in
on a good friend?”
Sam, the shop owner,
chuckled heartily. “Ah, a social call is it? Why, that’s all
fine and dandy but it’s business hours, and I’ve a business to
run, don’t you know? Customers to tend to, money to earn!”
The shop was, in
fact, quite abandoned save for the two men, a fact that was
punctuated by the brief lull in the conversation. Jonah paused,
looking around the shop in an exaggerated fashion, scanning with his
dusky blue eyes, listening to the slightly distorted music filtering
through the room. “Customers! Looks like it’s just you and
Glenn Miller, and I’m not sure he’s interested in buying anything
…”
“Psh! Middle of
the day and all, you know. I’ll have you know that on weekends
there’s a line outside, people just waiting to get in!” Sam
smiled crookedly, a set of brilliant white dentures looking a bit out
of place on his otherwise well-worn face. “Say, speaking of the
middle of the day, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you
be at work, or something?”
“Come on, Sam,
it’s Memorial Day. Got the day off. Decided to go for a ride and
wouldn’t you know it, I found myself passing right by your place.
Figured I’d stop in and see what’s new. What’re you doing open
today, anyway? Shouldn’t you have the day off?”
“Day off?” The
old man waved his hand around dismissively at the thought. “A day
off is a day when I can’t make any money.”
“Right,” Jonah
said with a nod, leaning over and peering into one of the display
cases while thoughtfully stroking his chin.
The old man
sputtered with a little laugh. “So you say you’re here to see
what’s new? Not just here for the company after all!”
Jonah leaned in and
faked a conspiratory little smile. Escaping his apartment for a
morning ride along the seaside had done much to invigorate him,
lifting his spirits. The thought of indulging in another one of his
precious few interests had left him feeling practically giddy by
comparison. “I suppose you’ve got me there, Sam. Money’s
practically burning in my pocket.”
Collecting coins
was, in fact, one of the few real passions in Jonah’s life. Ever
since the day his father had given him a US Mint silver poof set for
his 8th birthday, he had become fascinated by coins. He had demanded
that his allowance be paid in quarters so that he could sift through
them, meticulously sorting them by date and mint mark, storing the
new finds away and spending much of the rest at local coins shops
when he could convince his parents to take him. When he’d gotten a
little older and began to understand the value in certain rarer
finds, he had started saving his money. Where other children saved
theirs for trading cards or the latest video game, he’d save his
for a buffalo nickel.
Over time he’d
developed an especial affinity for silver. Since graduating college
and getting a fairly good paycheck he’d been able to graduate from
a coin here and there to somewhat regular purchases, filling in gaps
in his collection, growing from hundreds of dollars to several
thousands of dollars in value. Sam, who had gotten to know him quite
well over many visits during the years, often joked that the value of
his collection hidden away under his bed probably rivaled the stock
in the shop.
“Don’t want to
singe yourself too badly, best hand those burning bills on over,”
the older man said with a jovial chuckle, before reaching his hands
underneath the counter. “You’ve got some pretty good timing,
too. Just finished going through some recent acquisitions, got a
whole boxful of new stuff from an estate sale. Some real gems here,
and it looks like you’ve got first dibs.”
Jonah watched as he
pulled a tray out from beneath the counter and set it on top, waving
a wrinkled hand over it with a flourish. There were rows of coins,
some encapsulated in plastic containers and professionally graded,
others loose but propped up in little slots in the felt tray.
Several gold coins glimmered in neat rows on one side of the tray,
just begging for attention, but gold was a little too rich for his
blood. “New stuff, eh?”
“Oh yes. He was a
collector, had a lot of good stuff. Look, here, a 1921 standing
liberty quarter. You’ve been looking for one of these for a while,
haven’t you?” The old man continued yammering on about the
particular little gems and surprises in the lot, carefully pulling a
few coins out of their spot and laying them out flat on the top of
the counter. Jonah paid them a passing glance - he had, indeed, been
looking out for that particular quarter - but found that he could not
help but to keep looking back the tray, scanning the little rows of
loose coins. One in particular, something dull and easy to overlook
among the shinier selections, kept catching his attention.
Reaching in, he
pointed at the little dull coin. “What about this one? What’s
this?”
“Hmm? Oh, well,
let’s see here,” Sam said, sounding briefly disoriented as he’d
been interrupted in the middle of his spiel. Thick, shaky fingers
pulled the coin out of its slot and laid it flat on an unoccupied
piece of the felt. “Well now isn’t that odd, I don’t remember
seeing this one in the collection, how did it get here?”
“Where did it come
from?” Jonah asked the question without looking up, his eyes
fixated on the coin. It was small, about the size of a penny, silver
in color, well worn and tarnished. There looked to have been some
lettering but it had been worn smooth, and in the center some kind of
intricate weave pattern. “What can you tell me about it?”
Sam picked the coin
up again, turning it in his fingers. “I’m … I’m not quite
sure to tell you the truth, I’ve never seen this coin before. I’m
positive it wasn’t in this collection before, I would have
remembered seeing something like this.”
Jonah grinned a
little, briefly looking away from the coin. “Sure this one didn’t
just slip through the cracks?”
“Psh.” The
shopkeeper’s voice sounded ever so slightly irritated, but his gaze
was fixed on the little coin as he turned it around in his fingers.
“Not even sure what it is. Feels about right for a silver coin,
and it’s about the right size for a Roman denarius. Definitely
looks old,” he continued, muttering, fumbling with his free hand
for a loupe sitting next to the register to give it a closer look.
“Well worn but not in terrible shape. But these markings … makes
no sense.”
Watching with rapt
attention, Jonah did not realize he was leaning so heavily over the
counter until he nearly bumped into Sam’s head, pulling back at the
last second with a little blink. “Wrong?”
“Roman coins
always had some kind of bust on one side, usually the emperor at the
time the coin was minted. Some god or goddess on the other side.
This,” he said, setting down the loupe and resting the coin in the
palm of his hand. “This is a Celtic knot. Inspired by Roman
artwork but definitely not Roman. And the inscription … it’s
pretty worn out but doesn’t look Latin to me.”
Jonah found himself
strangely deflated at the news, but continued to pay attention while
Sam turned the coin over. The other side, which he hadn’t seen
before, looked to be some kind of stylized dragon, like something one
might see on an old family crest. “Now, this … this doesn’t
look right at all. Style isn’t Roman at all, and once again this
lettering doesn’t appear to be Latin.”
“So. You know
what it isn’t … but can’t say what it is?”
Sam huffed a little
and then sighed. “Afraid not. It’s definitely old, and the
right size, but the markings just aren’t right for a denarius. I
suppose the designs are more classically British, so maybe it’s
some kind of token, maybe an old denarius that someone repurposed,
but it’s nothing like I’ve seen before.”
Without stopping to
think about it, Jonah reached into his pocket and fished out his
wallet. “How much do you want for it?”
“What? You want
to buy this thing?”
“Fifty dollars.”
As if to punctuate his offer, he pulled out a crisp $50 bill and
laid it out on the counter.
The old man looked
from the bill, to the coin, and then back up at Jonah. “Fifty
bucks? Look, I’m all for making a buck but this thing is worth
maybe three dollars in silver. Hell, even a denarius in this
condition might not bring that much, just depending on whose mug is
on the damned thing.”
“Or it could be
the first ever coin discovered that was minted by one of the first
kings of England, and might be worth millions.” Jonah smirked a
little bit, pushing the bill in Sam’s direction. “Fifty bucks.”
“Well, that’s a
bit of a stretch of the imagination. Likely as not I’m still
getting the better end of this bargain,” the old man said, peering
down at the fifty and then sighing. “All right, fifty bucks it is.
But if you turn around and get rich of this thing …”
With a little more
haste than he intended, Jonah snatched the coin off the counter, gave
it a cursory look before stuffing it into his pocket. “Uh, yeah.
Don’t worry, Sam, I’ll take you out to dinner if it comes to
that,” he added, a little meekly.
“Steak dinner,”
Sam said, waving the fifty in the air and making his way over to his
cash register, ringing the sale up. “Make that steak and lobster.
Surf and turf.” Jonah smiled, and opened his mouth, about to
respond to the demand when a loud buzzing from behind him caught him
off guard, and he found himself whirling about. “Looks like we got
another customer,” the shopkeep muttered, also turning to look in
the direction of the door.
The heavy tinting of
the glass windows made it so that Sam could see the customers ringing
the doorbell even if they could not see him. Standing in front of
the door was what Jonah could only describe as a small mountain of a
man - barrel shaped chest, broad shoulders, thick upper arms and a
head that seemed to sit right on top of them, his neck was so thick.
Close-set eyes and a thick brow seemed to give the man a permanent
scowl, peering at the door from beneath short-cropped, raven black
hair.
“Hmm. Don’t
know this fellow. What do you think, Jonah?”
Jonah was surprised
by the question, turning to Sam with a confused little stare. “What?
What do you mean?”
“Not sure if I
want to let this fellow in.” The sound of another buzz punctuated
the big band music still warbling quietly in the background, the big
man holding the doorbell longer than was necessary. “Don’t like
the look of him.”
“He gives me the
creeps.” It was more than that, actually. Something about the man
set off alarm bells deep inside of Jonah’s mind, enough to make him
feel a little knot forming up in the pit of his stomach. Something
about the man standing on the other side of the door was inherently
wrong. Instinctively he knew that the small mountain of a man
standing on the other side of the doorway was trouble.
Sam nodded grimly,
waving Jonah behind the counter with him, when the man again
depressed the button longer than was necessary. The buzzing sound
was suddenly grating on Jonah’s nerves, and make his skin prickle.
“Yeah, me too. Don’t think I’m gonna let this one in.” Sam
pressed another button on the side of the counter, leaning in to
speak into what must have been a microphone, elevating his voice.
“I’m sorry, we’re closing for the day.”
It was hard to read
the man’s reaction through the tinted glass, but when he reached
forward to ring the buzzer once again, it made it clear he had no
intention of backing down. Sam turned to look at Jonah a little
apologetically. “Look, if this creep doesn’t beat it I’m gonna
have to call the cops. Don’t want you getting mixed up in all
that, so, why don’t you go ahead and make your way out the back,”
he said, thumbing in the direction of a door behind the counter.
“Last door on the end, don’t go in the first one. It’s just
the toilet.”
Jonah opened his
mouth to protest, but yet another insistent buzz sounded while the
man leaned against the doorbell. With an irritated harrumph, Sam
mashed down the intercom button and leaned in to yell into the
microphone. “I said we’re closed! Go away!”
For a brief moment
it looked as if the man was going to take the advice. His arms
dropped to his sides and he took a step back, gazing blankly at the
darkened glass in front of him before balling his hands into fists.
With a grimace and a sudden flash of movement, the man made his
intentions crystal clear when he slung his fist at the door, knuckles
smashing into the glass, which responded with a dull thud and a
crunching sound.
“Holy shit!”
Jonah took a step back in the direction of the back exit, turning to
throw an incredulous look in Sam’s direction, the older man
standing with a bewildered expression and a hand over his chest.
“Did he really just punch the door?”
The answer came in
the form of another fist slamming into the glass, in precisely the
same spot. The glass bulged momentarily under the force of the blow,
bending into the shop, snapping back into place with a series of
spiderweb cracks and little concentric fissures forming around the
shape of the man’s fist before he drew it back, presumably to
strike again.
Again Jonah could
only stare in shock. It shouldn’t be possible, he thought. “Isn’t
that glass bulletproof?”
The old man did not
answer, but the mention of bullets seemed to galvanize him. The look
of shock on Sam’s face faded and was replaced with a grim sort of
determination, and once again he reached under the counter. “So he
wants to play rough, does he? Ain’t the first punk come try to
make a quick dollar off an old man,” he said, grumbling, pulling
out a slightly dusty pump-action shotgun. Peering at the weapon,
presumably to make sure that it was loaded, he muttered “Time for
you to get out of here, Jonah. Back door.”
“I can’t just
leave you here,” Jonah protested, another loud crack sounding from
the doorway as the man slammed his fist in to it again, the cracks
widening and spreading.
“I’ve handled
these bozos before,” Sam said with a sort of grim determination,
looking over at him and nodding once. “I can’t have you just
standing there, in the way. Please. I’ll have this clown on his
way before you can count to ten …”
His mind raced,
looking for some kind of protest that he could offer, something he
could say to convince the old man to let him stay, let him help, but
he realized that Sam had a good point. He certainly wasn’t
proficient in weapons of any kind - not that he had any to offer -
and, indeed, was likely to just get in the way. Casting one last
glance at the doorway, looking at the sinister mountain of a man
coiling his muscle for another blow, he made his way for the back
doorway, pulling it open and slipping into the empty hallway beyond.
Still, he couldn’t
just leave. In spite of the better half of his mind that agreed it
was time to run, time to get out of the shop where he might at least
call the cops, some strange sense of loyalty to his friend kept him
from running. Pulling the door most of the way shut behind him, he
let it remain open, just a bare crack, so that he could peek into the
shop from behind. The view was unnerving - he was looking over Sam’s
shoulder, along the length of the shotgun barrel, which was now
pointed unsteadily at the shadow of the man assailing the door.
With the next blow,
the man punched a surprisingly neat hole right in the door, chunks of
it falling away and letting his fist pass right on through, coming to
a stop just inside the door. The man held it there for a long
moment, as if brandishing his fist, little bits of glass caught in
the coarse hair covering his forearm, letting it turn slightly before
pulling it back and grabbing on to the raw edge of what Jonah
presumed to have been bulletproof glass. With a grunt loud enough
for him to hear, the man pulled on the glass hard, peeling it back
with almost no resistance. When there was enough of a hole opened
up, he simply barged his way right on in, breaking the door around
his frame.
Sam, unsteady but
unwavering, finally pumped the action on the shotgun, loading a shell
with a threatening ka-chunk sound that even made Jonah shiver,
keeping it pointed right at the intruder. “All right, mister, it’s
time for you to turn right back around and go back the way you came.”
The intruder did not
seem in the least fazed by the sight of a shotgun barrel staring him
down, standing rather impassively in front of the wreckage of the
doorway, gazing right back at the man with coal-black eyes. “Where
is it?”
“Cops are on their
way. I don’t really care that you made a mess of my door, just
turn around and leave and never come back, and that’s the last you
have to worry about this little mistake …”
“Where is it?”
The man repeated his query, speaking in a deep, sonorous voice, the
words a little unsteady and forced, and marred by a thick accent that
Jonah could not place. With a grimace, he took a step forward.
Sam responded by
tightening his grip on the shotgun. “I don’t know what it is
you’re after, son, but it ain’t worth a throat full of lead. I
don’t want to use this but I will if I have to. Don’t make me do
it.”
Undeterred, the man
took another step forward, and then Jonah’s ears were suddenly
assailed by a boom so loud that he could feel it in the chest like a
fist. The shotgun jumped in Sam’s unwieldy grip, the recoil
forcing the old man to stumble backward while belching out a little
plume of smoke. The big man, mountain that he was, stumbled backward
several steps from the force of the blast, his shirt tearing open and
his chest blossoming in an ugly spray of red before he tumbled
backward into the wreckage of the front door.
Jonah had seen guns
fired on television, had seen his fair share of explosions in movies,
but this was nothing like it. His ears still rang from the blast,
and the acrid odor of gunpowder on the air was already plucking at
his senses. Then there was the man, crumpled on the floor, felled by
a shotgun blast to the chest. He had heard that seeing death faked
in the movies was nothing like seeing it in person. He was almost
inclined to agree when he saw the man twitch.
He was still alive.
“Holy shit,” he
whispered under his breath, watching incredulously as the bulky man
twitched again, rolled to his side, and began to slowly push himself
back up to his feet. The wound on his chest looked far too shallow
and inconsequential for the shotgun blast, the clothing sheared apart
but the skin largely intact beneath, save for an oozing wound the
size of a quarter.
Sam, too, must have
been watching in disbelief, for the old man hardly budged as the
wounded intruder pulled himself up straight, fixing that inky black
gaze forward again and making his demand in that strange, foreign
voice. “Where is it?”
“I don’t …
know what you mean,” the old man responded, his voice now shaky and
devoid of the conviction that it had only moments before.
The intruder took a
few steps forward, now standing just in front of the counter, close
enough that Jonah could now begin to smell the iron tang of his blood
on the air. “The token. Where is it?”
The old shopkeep
shuffled back a step, the shotgun forgotten in his hand as it drooped
downward and then fell to the floor with a clatter. “Token? I’m
sorry … look, the gold coins are right over there … this is just
a coin shop …”
For a moment, the
strange man seemed to consider the response, blinking
dispassionately, hardly moving, and then worked his mouth slowly, as
if trying to decide how to respond, himself. “Then you are of no
use to me.”
Suddenly the man
moved with more speed than someone of his bulk seemed like he had any
right to move, leaning forward over the counter and shooting a hand
out in Sam’s direction. The old man did not have a chance to
respond before thick, meaty fingers closed around his throat, lifting
him up off the ground, his thin, spindly limbs beginning to thrash in
the air. Jonah could do nothing but watch while his old friend was
lifted up into the air, wheezing and gasping for breath; he could do
nothing but watch as those big, meaty fingers clamped down around his
throat with a sickening crunch. The strange man relaxed his grip,
and the shopkeep collapsed into a pile on the floor, unmoving.
Jonah could do
nothing but stare in horror as an innocent man was murdered less than
five feet away. His hands and feet felt like they were made of
stone, his jaw heavy as lead as it gaped open. “Oh my god …”
Inky black eyes
snapped up and looked straight in his direction. Instantly the
paralysis that he felt fled from his muscles, and Jonah wheeled
around, fleeing down the hallway. He didn’t have time to think,
didn’t have time to cry, to mourn for the fallen. He was probably
pissing in his pants as he ran, but he didn’t even have time to
think about that. His legs urged him onward, his brain imagining
that murderous bulk of a man pounding down the hallway after him.
Making for the end of the hallway, Jonah kicked down the door and
burst out into the fading light of the afternoon, shielding his eyes
before he glanced first in one direction, then the other, getting his
bearings. Hardly pausing, he turned to the left and ran across the
asphalt as fast as his feet would take him.
The man had to be
behind him. He couldn’t afford himself the luxury of turning to
look back, sprinting for the end of the little strip mall, arms
flailing as he turned to the left again and made his way for the
parking lot out front. His motorcycle was there, tucked safely
beneath the shade of a tree, and wordlessly he thanked himself for
parking it facing out, away from the parking space. His feet pounded
anxiously at the pavement. All he could do was hope and pray that he
could make it before that man caught up to him. Fishing for the key
in his pocket, he pulled it out and had it ready as he ran right up
to the side of the bike.
He almost reached
for his helmet strapped to the back, but the thought in the back of
his mind of that man chasing him down made him forget all about it.
Throwing his leg over the seat, his fingers fumbled with the key,
trying to line it up with the ignition, taking what felt like far,
far too long. Finally the key slid into the slot, turned to the side
with a click, and his thumb was on the ignition. The bike roared to
life beneath him, breathing out a high-pitched whine as he abandoned
all sense of pacing, popping the clutch and twisting the throttle,
clinging on to the machine in a sense of desperation as it lurched
beneath him, the tire squealing for a brief second and then shooting
out of the parking space. He thanked his stupid luck that the little
parking lot was mostly empty as he careened through spaces that might
otherwise have been blocked, hazarding a glance in his mirrors,
catching a glimpse of the dark, foreboding man standing angrily where
his bike had been parked only seconds before.
Hardly pausing to
take a breath, Jonah guided his bike out of the parking lot, zipping
right out into the roadway in spite of the traffic. The angry beep
of a horn to his side made him almost jump out of his skin, but again
he twisted the throttle, shooting away down the road, defying the
speed limit as he sought to put as much distance between himself and
the coin shop, as fast as he possibly could.
Half a minute and
half a mile down the road, however, the rush of adrenaline wore off
and the reality of the situation caught up with him. A little ball
of tension in his stomach was beginning to writhe, and Jonah suddenly
feared that he might throw up. Turning down a side road, glancing
over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed, he finally
pulled over at the side of the road, cutting the throttle, leaning
forward and let out a long, painful scream.
Sam was dead. He
had just witnessed the friendly old man murdered. He had just spend
the last handful of minutes running for his life. These kinds of
things weren’t supposed to happen, not to quiet, normal guys like
himself. He did not know how to react. His scream died off, and the
sour knot in the pit of his stomach suddenly rose up in his throat -
he had to lean over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the
sidewalk next to him.
Empty, his stomach
still churned and heaved. His legs began to quiver and feel weak,
and Jonah feared he might black out. With barely enough sense to put
down the kickstand of his bike, he stepped unsteadily off to the
side, collapsing onto the sidewalk and rolling onto his back,
clutching his stomach and moaning.
The sound of
footfalls coming in his direction suddenly made him panic - had the
man followed him, after all? Sitting up, he spied a man, much
smaller, eyes wide with concern. “Hey! Hey are you all right?”
“No,” he said
miserably. He was not all right. Falling to his back again, he
stared up at the fleeting clouds in the sky, then closed his eyes as
he felt another wave of nausea coming over him. “I’m not all
right …”
The bystander spoke
with a heavy Indian accent, but clear enough for Jonah to hear. “Is
there anything I can do for you, mister?”
“Call the cops …
please … I’ve just seen a murder …”
