The Sweetest Nectar

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.

**The Darrow Feuds**

**By Dylan Mandrey**

He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.

Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.

The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.

It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.

"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.

After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.

Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.

"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"

Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.

"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.

Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.

He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.

"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."

Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.

The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.

"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.

"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.

"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"

"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."

Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"

"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."

"Now, just who the hell do you,"

"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."

Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.

This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.

"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."

The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.

Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.

"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."

The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.

"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.

"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."

He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.

He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.

He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.

His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.

He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.

He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.

The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.

He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.

He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.

"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.

"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.

"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.

\* \* \* \* \*

He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.

Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.

Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.

He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.

As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.

But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.

The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.

"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.

A number he had never given him.

"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.

"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."

A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.

"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.

"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."

"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.

He had hit send on the money when a cheery *ding dong* came from downstairs.

There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.

Mr. Sereph had already hung up.

\* \* \* \* \*

After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words **Darrows Feud** on them**.**

In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.

In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.

It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."

His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.

Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.

Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.

The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.

He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.

He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."

"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."

"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"

"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."

Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.

"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."

Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"

"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."

Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.

"How does it work?"

That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.

"Do you care?"

Dylan did, but he said no.

Some things were better left unsaid.

\* \* \* \* \*

"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"

Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.

"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."

Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.

If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.

The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.

Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.

That's why he was working here.

He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.

He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.

"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"

Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.

"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."

They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.

"Mr. Mandrey?"

Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.

He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.

"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."

Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.

"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.

His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.

"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"

Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.

"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"

"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"

Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"

Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.

The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.

Or, it might have been.

"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."

Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."

"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.

\* \* \* \* \*

"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.

Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.

He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.

"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"

"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."

Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.

"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."

"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.

"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"

It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.

"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."

\* \* \* \* \*

Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.

He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.

"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."

The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.

It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.

"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."

Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.

He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.

All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.

"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"

"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."