Far Too Young To Die: An Astraea Renata Novel Read online

  Contents

  Far Too Young to Die

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Join

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Join

  My Other Books

  Review

  Help me Out

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Far Too Young to Die

  Astraea Renata

  Book 1

  Douglas Wayne

  FAR TOO YOUNG TO DIE

  ASTRAEA RENATA

  BOOK 1

  Douglas Wayne

  Copyright © 2015 by Douglas Wayne. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

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  douglaswayne.com

  This book is dedicated to my wife and kids. Without your sacrifice these books would have never been possible.

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  - 1 -

  “Anything interesting yet?” I asked while cleaning the last of the glasses from another long night at the bar.

  “Give it time, Ast. The bar closed fifteen minutes ago. Most of them will stop off somewhere else to grab a bite to eat before going home.” Just when I thought I’d finished the hard work, Greg brought over another tub full of empty beer bottles and dirty glasses.

  “You know, it’s hard to count down the drawer if you keep bringing me more dishes to clean.”

  Greg laughed. “I thought you liked the job.”

  “Not so much the job as the people.” Bartending is far from the top of my list of favorite jobs, but it allows me to people watch. Something I love more than anything else. I’m always on the lookout for interesting or even adventurous people just to see what makes them tick. People like me interest me the most. They are the ones that rarely end up fully sloshed, wanting to enjoy every moment life has to offer. That’s not to say they don’t partake in a drink or two, but they generally want to be sober when everything happens.

  They follow the fun, and the fun follows them. It’s a beautiful cycle to be in.

  No, I’m not the person you’ll see first in line to jump out of a plane or to ride a new ‘death defying’ roller coaster. I prefer my stakes to be on the lighter side of the coin. That’s not to say that death isn’t a possibility, it’s rather unlikely given my abilities. And it definitely isn’t a possibility for me under normal circumstances. At worst, I get a scolding by the police or other public servants if they learn I was close. At best, they have no idea I played a part and I get to save another person an early trip to the afterlife.

  You may call it hypocritical, that I work in a bar and serve some of the same people I’ve saved over the years, but I call it good business. The amount of money, both in my bank account, and in the tip jar behind the counter is a testament to the support the customers give me. They all know I’m here, quietly watching their back.

  Of course, if they learned that I love the thrill of the ordeal, they might think twice about coming back, but I doubt it. Especially seeing how a new story makes the rounds at least monthly about how the beautiful brunette bartender at Olson’s Pub showed up out of nowhere to save a life or three.

  While I’m on the lookout for my customers, I’m also here to help those they injure by leaving the bar in no condition to drive. The bar has a standing policy to offer a cab ride to anyone who looks like they shouldn’t be behind the wheel, at no charge. We even keep a stool open for ole Bernie every Friday and Saturday night with an unlimited supply of Diet Coke, which we keep in back just for him. But even with him in place, there’s always someone who believes they aren’t nearly as drunk as they think they are.

  Try as I may, you can’t stop them all. But I can save the people they inadvertently hurt. Vehicle damage is another matter entirely, but usually the least of anyone’s concerns.

  “Let me finish cleaning the tables and I’ll take over,” Greg said with a smile as he grabbed the spare tub from behind the counter.

  By the time he had cleaned up the bar, I had nearly finished up with all the glasses, which was always the case. Sometimes I think he makes me that offer to make me feel better, even though he knows he will never have to produce.

  I set the last of the glasses upside down to dry and I moved across the bar to the cash register to close down the till. With a bit of magic that comes with years of experience pressing the same buttons night in and out, the register spits out a receipt fifteen foot long, detailing every transaction from five o’clock on. Just by looking at the total on the bottom of the paper I can tell tonight was another record night.

  After counting back the cash and handing Greg the bar’s part of the money, I still had six hundred bucks, which would sound amazing even without counting the other three sitting in the tip jar behind the counter. The money wasn’t always this good. When we first opened the bar five years ago, we were lucky to make this much a month. That’s without taking out payroll for ourselves. Now, on even the slowest nights, we bring in more money than half the people in the the United States bring over the course of a week.

  We still don’t take out payroll on ourselves, mainly so we can pay the team that works the day shift more money, just to keep them around. I doubt they would leave, however, as the benefits of our hard work trickles over to them too.

  Greg took the stack of money left over and split it right down the middle which was the term of our working agreement. We both returned a Benjamin to the counter which we’d put in a separate bank account to put away for future repairs or improvements to the bar. I had my sights set on a huge glass mirror I want hung right behind me, allowing the men at the bar an easier time looking at my backside while I flirt with another one a few stools down. What Greg called an unneeded expense I considered an investment that would pay for itself in a few short weeks with increased tips from those at the bar. He would rather spend the money on another pool table or electronic dart board setup, hoping to draw in more league play during the week. In the end, we both will get what we want, it’s just a matter of time.

  Greg made a trip to the bank to deposit tonights takings, leaving me to give the bar one final wipe for the night. I poured us both a Coke from the spritzer while he was gone and fried us up an order or two of chicken wings to eat. If there’s one
downside to the bar, especially on a Friday night, it’s that there’s absolutely no time to take a break. I suppose that could be a sign it’s time to hire a few servers, at least for the weekends, but we can’t help wanting to keep things to ourselves for a little while longer.

  The tinkling of bells announced Greg’s return from the bank, right about the time I pull the wings from the fryer to drip dry. I turn the fryer off once they are done, so it has time to cool before we leave for the night.

  “Chicken again?” Greg asked with a grimace as he took his seat at the table.

  “Not my fault that’s the only meat on the menu. Told you it’s time to hire a cook.” I took the plate of freshly cooked wings and placed them in the center of the table, setting a small bowl of hot sauce on the side to dip them in.

  “Maybe we need to forget the mirror and the dart boards and have a kitchen built on instead.”

  “And lose more parking? Already had to give up two dozen spots when we expanded the front. I’m not sure we can afford to give that much up to expand the back.”

  “What if we built up? Add on a second floor where the cook can work. We can have the contractor build in a dumbwaiter to send the food down on.”

  “So the dumb bartender can hand it out between drinks? It’s already hard enough to handle food orders now. We don’t stand a chance if we increase the menu.”

  “Then we hire a server or two. Probably should have a long time ago.”

  I nodded. He was right. While I’d grown accustomed to the heavy weekend work flow, I had to admit it drained me completely. The only thing that kept me going was the slight chance a call would come over the scanners after work, allowing us to go to work doing the thing we did enjoy.

  Of course, now that I was in the mood to jump on one of those calls, the scanner was nice and quiet. It’s almost like the city had had enough and went to bed for the evening, not bothering to cause any of the requisite mayhem a Friday night generally demands.

  We were halfway through our wings when the scanner chirped to life, causing both of us to jump up in anticipation. Our eyes met, and we both grinned, expecting to toss our unfinished wings in the bowl to hop out back to Greg’s supped up ambulance, otherwise known as Maybella, which we kept parked right out back.

  Greg picked up Maybella shortly after we opened the bar. She was our first joint purchase after the bar, though the title remains in his name, which was fine by me. He spent over two months scouring Ebay looking for the perfect deal on one, only to settle on one that needed a new engine, transmission, tires, interior, and well… all the normal stuff that goes in the back of an ambulance. It’s hard to sell the charade if things don’t at least look legit.

  All of that means I can make him drive the thing which he does without a single complaint, not that he had one. He can heal, just not nearly as well as I can. His healing magic is akin to placing a roll of gauze on a knife wound. It will stem the flow of blood, possibly long enough to get the patient to a proper healer or doctor who can patch the patient up properly. Mine is more pure and absolute. Through all of our runs, I’ve brought back people from the most gruesome accidents. If it wasn’t for the mangled steel that used to be their vehicles, you wouldn’t even have known they were in one.

  Too our chagrin, the call turned out to be nothing more than a burglary call for a house on Elm. Not even close to the type of call we would rush out to take.

  The last few weeks had been quiet. So quiet I was ready to jump in Maybella if there was a call about a stubbed toe. Most of the interesting ones had come in while we were busy at work, which made it impossible to answer.

  Impossible enough I considered hiring night help just to get away for them if nothing else.

  We finished our wings and cleaned up our mess, then wiped down the table and make sure the fryer was actually turned off. Call it what you want, but I’ve heard too many tales of restaurants burning down thanks to a faulty fryer I didn’t want to risk the bar to ours. We were at the back door, about to turn off the scanner as we left when another call came in.

  No sooner than dispatch announced the location, we darted out of Olson’s Pub, jackets in hand and hopped into Maybella, finally ready to get to work.

  - 2 -

  Part of the inherent problem with our thrill seeking activity is that we often have to race the clock. Not only do we need to get there before the unfortunate victim, or victims, die to their wounds, we also have to get there well before the authorities. Mainly firefighters or other EMTs that can blow the lid right off of our cover.

  The fancy pant job, hand stenciled lettering of a local ambulance service, can only get you so far when you pull up in outdated equipment. Most police officers just want to secure the patient and get them on their way, so they rarely question us when we pull up to the scene.

  Greg drove through the city streets with the sirens blazing while swerving through the light overnight traffic while I struggled to slip into a freshly bleached set of white scrubs in the back of Maybella. The outfit came complete with rubber gloves, bronzed name tag, and even a surgical mask draped around my neck if the situation called for it. Which it had, more times than once.

  Believe me when I tell you that getting blood coughed in your face is not the most pleasant thing in the world, even when you are generally immune to most diseases.

  When we first started this, I used to get dressed in the front seat, but after nearly being in a few accidents of our own I learned to change outfits away from prying eyes. Our relationship is purely platonic, but presented with the body of an admittedly self-proclaimed goddess, even the best men melt in front of me. Greg is NOT an exception.

  “What are we dealing with?” I asked as I pulled myself into the front seat and buckled back up.

  “Car accident,” he said, sparing me a glance. “Single car. EMT and fire is on the way. Luckily, the police are tied up with the burglary call from earlier.”

  We were in luck. Not only did we get a call, we got one on the same side of town where the police were already tied up. They would still send an officer over to investigate and clear the scene, but it would take a while for them to draw straws to decide who to send over. That meant, our only competition was the other first responders, which was as good as a win for us.

  Under the hood of Maybella, we have something they don’t. A 6.7 liter Power Stroke diesel engine supped up with a turbocharger and a fully loaded NOS injection system, just to give us that extra boost when we need it. More times that not, we use it to get the hell out of dodge after securing the patient, though we have used it to pick one up a time or two.

  Greg made a left turn on Banks. Maybella’s tires screeched and moaned as it lifted on two wheels, making me believe she was about to flip over. He laughed, like he always did when trying to scare the shit out of me, raised his left hand and said “gravito.” The driver’s side of the ambulance slammed into the pavement in a shower of sparks that filled the air behind the ambulance.

  “You know,” I said, punching him in his arm. “I hate when you do that.”

  “Can’t a guy have a little fun?” he chided.

  I smirked, yet grabbed the handle above my head and held on for dear life, just to play it safe.

  He made another turn onto Tucker, much more carefully this time. I was thankful for that though suspected the only reason he had made the turn like that was the sight of the accident scene just a few blocks away. I guess it’s hard to look like one of the good guys when you come to the scene like a bat out of hell.

  As advertised, the accident was of the single car variety. At this time of night that often meant there was one person involved. A blue Ford Taurus was on its smashed roof, which looked to have slid about two hundred feet before coming to a rest by smashing into the front of a brick office building. Through the dim streetlights I made out a large scrape where the car had slid. I couldn’t tell where the flip had happened, but I suspected the smashed in mailbox was to blame. I always hated when they j
umped out in front of my car in the middle of the night.

  Greg stopped alongside the still running Taurus, making sure the rear door stopped about five feet from the driver’s side door. He does this so we can get in and out as quickly as possible. The longer we linger, the more likely it is that we get caught. And while Greg can manipulate the memories of people we encounter, it is something we don’t like to do. Most people, when presented with an accident in front of them, will believe you when you pull up in an ambulance to help. Sure, we aren’t the most humanitarian about getting our patients in the back of Maybella, but we have a zero percent complaint rate amongst our patients.

  Before Maybella came to a stop, I hopped out of her to get to work. The smell of burnt rubber filled my nose and looked at the tires, noticing both of the front tires had blown out in multiple spots. Exhaust filled the air and the front tires spun as the engine was still running. All the doors were smashed and bent from the impact, making it impossible for me to jar them open.

  Greg, now out of Maybella, jogged around the ambulance and stood next to me. “I got this,” he said, cracking his knuckles. He took in a deep breath and punched the side of the car, creating a fist sized hole just behind the driver’s side door. He then grabbed the metal behind the door and ripped it free then tossed the mangled door on the pavement next to the car.

  “You know what they say about discretion,” I say, nodding my head to the growing crowd of people across the street. In response, he tapped his bare wrist to remind me that time is even more valuable. Greg then ran to the back of Maybella. I presumed to pull out the stretcher so we could get this sorry sap out of here.

  With the door out of the way, I knelt down and saw him for the first time. His body was a tangled mess of blood and bone, with exposed muscle tissue from where the mangled roof had torn his skin. The front seat of the car was tilted back. It was either faulty, or this guy thought enough to reline it as the car went airborne. Whatever the case, it probably saved his life.