{"id":15,"date":"2016-01-30T09:00:10","date_gmt":"2016-01-30T14:00:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/?p=15"},"modified":"2017-01-08T17:37:50","modified_gmt":"2017-01-08T22:37:50","slug":"read-a-sample-chapter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/read-a-sample-chapter\/","title":{"rendered":"TWO"},"content":{"rendered":"
☆ WORCESTER, MONDAY ☆<\/div>\n

Logan Airport was busy at 5 a.m. on a Monday. Somehow Brent had lost a day in travel, but he slept most of it on the three planes that got him here.<\/p>\n

He rented a car, took the insurance, and picked out a 2004 Chevy Impala. He caught Route 90, the Massachusetts Turnpike, while listening to a familiar Boston station playing Dire Straits. Worcester didn\u2019t have its own rock and roll radio station, so the airways had to pick up stations from the big cities of Boston and Providence, Rhode Island.<\/p>\n

Familiar landmarks on Route 90 made him smile. Even the signs on the turnpike did: Allston\/Brighton, Weston, Route 128, Framingham\u2026 I-495. Route 146, one of the Worcester exits.<\/p>\n

He took that exit. From there, he continued to Route 122A, going to Worcester Center. Traffic was heavy around Worcester, due to signal lights and people trying to get to work early on Monday morning. He checked the clock in the car \u2014 it was near 8 a.m. Chances were his mother might still be home, getting ready for work, his father probably already at the police station for his job.<\/p>\n

He drove to Edward Street, past the house. Still white siding, small for five, but too big for the remaining two. No cars were parked in the driveway, and the deck in the back had a mosquito net covering it. His heart gave a little leap \u2014 it was as he had left it. He continued down the street to the end, where it met MA-9. He took a sharp right, then another right into the parking lot of a large building which housed different doctors\u2019 offices for the University of Massachusetts Hospital across the street.<\/p>\n

UMass Hospital, a sanctuary for vampires.<\/p>\n

When he was 16, Brent had gone to work in the transport department in UMass, and met Dr. Bates, who openly stated he was a vampire. Vampires were legal in Massachusetts and most of the liberal New England states, but in other states, such as the Deep South, they were chased out at least, destroyed at worst. When Brent left for the Army, they were talking about making vampirism federally legal.<\/p>\n

Brent walked into the medical building instead of the hospital, to the second floor, down the well-worn carpeted hallway, to the door that said, \u201cDr. Timothy M. Banant, Endocrinologist.\u201d Brent took a deep breath and opened the door. His hazel eyes lit immediately to the frosted sliding glass doors on the other side of the room. He went to the window and it took a moment before the glass slid open.<\/p>\n

The woman with reddish-auburn hair and round glasses was looking at something on her desk as she asked, \u201cCan I hel\u2014\u201d She looked up. Her jaw dropped.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was wondering if \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBrent!\u201d<\/p>\n

He grinned as she jumped up from her seat, ran around the desk and threw open the door that separated the office from the waiting room. Brent caught her in his arms when she ran into them. She was a petite woman, so catching her wasn\u2019t difficult.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Mom,\u201d he said, hugging her. No one else was in yet. She stepped back a moment, looking up at him, her hazel eyes welling up with tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, my God, Brent \u2014 how \u2014 are \u2014\u201d She threw her arms around him again. \u201cHow long are you here?\u201d she said, muffled in his uniform.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout a month.\u201d Three weeks, four days to be exact.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d She pulled back, putting her small hands on his biceps.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been on planes since they gave me leave. I figured getting here was more important.\u201d<\/p>\n

His mother looked him up and down. \u201cThey haven\u2019t been feeding you,\u201d she said. He knew he was fit and trim, hardly any fat on him at all. The Army did that to a person.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you call your father?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought I would go see him after I get a shower.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need the keys?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUm, yeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

She walked back to the office. \u201cIs Keithy still out of work?\u201d he called.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was out last week.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent set his jaw, refraining from saying anything. His mother knew how he felt about Keithy and his \u201cinjury\u201d. Now was not the time or place to discuss it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll get these back to you at lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWith a Ruben from Jake\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

He laughed. \u201cYes, Mom.\u201d His mother kissed him and sat down. An old man came in and held the door open for him. Brent murmured his thanks. He glanced at the old man, who smiled at him.<\/p>\n

He walked to the car, and drove back to his parent\u2019s house. He unlocked the door to hear barking. The big German Shepherd came bounding out and leapt up, placing his huge front paws on Brent\u2019s shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cPickles!\u201d Brent rubbed the dog\u2019s head, scratching his ears, as the dog licked his face. Brent had hoped that Pickles would remember him. The two had been near inseparable since high school, when he got the German Shepherd. The K9 unit tried to train Pickles for basic work but he was the rebel of the litter. They finally put him up for auction and Brent\u2019s father won the bid.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a good boy,\u201d he said, and the dog jumped down. He took off his backpack and set it down on the floor in the foyer.<\/p>\n

He walked through the impeccably clean house to his room, as it was since he left but dusted frequently. The clothes he pulled out of his drawer smelled freshly laundered. He pulled out what he needed and got undressed.<\/p>\n

Pickles was sniffing at his backpack. \u201cDon\u2019t piss on it,\u201d Brent said, padding naked across the room to the door. He picked up the backpack, bringing it with him to the bedroom. After locking the front door, he walked over to the bathroom and took a long, much-desired hot shower. Finally, he wasn\u2019t encased in a layer of dust or dirt.<\/p>\n

Pickles waited on his bed as he usually did. He and Brent played tug of war for a short time with the wet towel. Brent flipped the towel at Pickles who dove out of the way before it hit him. Brent pulled on his underwear. Those fit, however his denim shorts were a little too big. He chuckled as he threaded a belt through the hoops.<\/p>\n

He pulled on an AC\/DC t-shirt \u2014 it was a little tight across the chest, but still fit. He got on socks and sneakers.<\/p>\n

He put Pickles out to the dog run. He stood at the credenza by the back door that held the fancy china, the set of dishes that were taken out for holidays. Along the top of the credenza were pictures of the family. In the center was his official Army picture in formal dress greens. He looked so young there, less than two years ago.<\/p>\n

Keithy\u2019s picture showed a big broad man, his arm around Brent\u2019s shoulders. It was the last picture before the accident. Before Keithy stopped driving.<\/p>\n

Another picture was of his sister, Lori. Her three kids were gathered around her, dressed in swimsuits, as she sat in a lounge chair by a nondescript pool somewhere. There were no pictures of her and her ex-husband, Alan, anywhere on the credenza.<\/p>\n

When Pickles came back in, Brent made him pirouette before tossing a treat to him. \u201cI\u2019ll be back, okay, big boy?\u201d He found his old phone, plugged in the wall at his nightstand. He thought he was due for an upgrade by now. He unplugged it, flipped it open, and dialed the home landline. Hearing the home phone ring, he nodded, confirming that it worked.<\/p>\n

Brent glanced at the clock on the phone. Nine. Plenty of time to see Dad. He flipped it shut and headed out to the car.<\/p>\n

Brent parked in the tiny parking lot for visitors. He walked to the front of the building, built as a state of the art in the \u201970\u2019s but now rough around the edges like the men. As he got to the door, someone shut the door in his face. With an angry sigh, he tore the door open.<\/p>\n

He walked into a foyer area lined with wooden benches on either side. The person who had slammed the door in his face sat at one bench, looking angry and nervous at the same time.<\/p>\n

Brent walked up to the glass window and leaned on the counter. Beyond the window he could see officers both uniformed and plain-clothes, working. The desks and chairs beyond were metal and beaten, old and well-used, like a lot of the plain-clothes guys. The female officer talked to him through the small speaker set in the window. \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d like to see Detective Jim Rogers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn regards to?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m his son. From Afghanistan.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll check if he\u2019s in. Please take a seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent sat down on the well-worn wooden benches across from the guy. The man glared at Brent, as if the reason he was here was his fault. Brent glared back at him, daring the guy to start something.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat,\u201d the guy snapped at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d said Brent, turning to look through the glass beyond the receptionist. This wasn\u2019t the first time he\u2019d come to visit his father. A few of the uniforms glanced out at him, and one or two waved to him. He smiled and waved back.<\/p>\n

He looked up to see his father moving on the left hand side of the room. He threaded his way between desks and came to the side door leading to the waiting area. Brent stood up to meet him. He was a large man, tall and broad like Brent, but with a paunch Brent didn\u2019t have. Because he was losing his hair, to make things easier, he went bald. He had Brent\u2019s angular face that was filling out, however; not as chiseled as his own.<\/p>\n

\u201cBrent!\u201d He pulled Brent into a bear hug. \u201cHow are you? Are you here to stay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust a month,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least for Fourth of July, that\u2019s good. Come on back.\u201d<\/p>\n

People called him by name as he followed his father to a desk behind a partition and diagonally under the stairs. \u201cI got a new partner. Luke gets in around 10.\u201d His father hooked a chair over for Brent. \u201cCoffee?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs long as it\u2019s not the same that the Army has.\u201d<\/p>\n

His father laughed. \u201cCream, no sugar?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep.\u201d<\/p>\n

His father walked to the coffee station which was within view of the desk. Brent looked around \u2014 his father had moved from the middle of the room to the edge, closer to the glass-enclosed office of the captain of detectives. His father returned with the coffee, the stirrer sticking out of it. \u201cHow is it over there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you want the line we\u2019re fed or the truth?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cQue est veritas,<\/em>\u201d said his father. \u201cWhat\u2019s in your gut?\u201d<\/p>\n

Leave it to his father to get right to the emotional heart of the matter. \u201cIt\u2019s a worthless fight. The people don\u2019t trust us, don\u2019t understand the idea of freedom and liberty. We\u2019re helping them so that the Taliban can come sweeping back to a clean country.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn. You\u2019re there for how much longer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo years. Then college.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood thing you have plans. Better than your worthless brother.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s up with that?\u201d<\/p>\n

His father shrugged. \u201cHe\u2019s screwed the system, that\u2019s all. Got the right doctors to write the right things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I do some \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

His father said, \u201cNo. Leave him alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can cast something \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not worth it, Brent.\u201d He smiled and pointed to a small stack of files in a file holder on his desk. \u201cAt least my unsolveds are less than my solveds.\u201d He drank his own coffee. \u201cDid you talk to your mother?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe wants lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n

He chuckled.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Brent.\u201d A man came over and clapped a pair of hairy hands on Brent\u2019s shoulders. \u201cBack home?\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent craned his neck to look at the bear of a man standing over him. He was large in every sense, broad, strong, and hairy. \u201cFor a little while. Hi, Tony.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLooking good, kid. The Army put some meat on those bones.\u201d He slapped Brent\u2019s shoulders, hard. Brent winced. \u201cCaptain wants us,\u201d he said to his father.<\/p>\n

\u201cLuke isn\u2019t in yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUs.\u201d He motioned between Brent\u2019s father and himself. \u201cAs in you and me. We\u2019re the only ones here this early.\u201d<\/p>\n

His father got up. \u201cMust be a hot one. Be right back,\u201d he said to Brent.<\/p>\n

Brent watched them go, his father walking over, swinging his arms, and Tony, loping along like the werewolf he was.<\/p>\n

Rubbing shoulders with the vampires in UMass had introduced him to a whole host of Children of the Moon, as they liked to call themselves. Werewolves, vampires, fae, ghosts, and witches; creatures that most people didn\u2019t believe existed. Worcester was a stop for some of them on the way to Boston, where supposedly the RevWar ghosts and Old World vampires held sway.<\/p>\n

Many of the Children of the Moon worked together. They believed that they were all of the shadowy underground, fringes of the multitudes of the Children of the Sun, as they called humans. As with the human races, countries, and cultures attempting to join with each other, there were some growing pains.<\/p>\n

The fae\u2019s hate of the vampires had eased into dislike; the werewolves and vampires joined together and buried the hatchet centuries ago. Ghosts worked with anyone who could notice them, which were mostly witches and some vampires. Vampires liked to consider themselves the \u201caristocrats\u201d of the Children of the Moon, but werewolves and fae often would put a kibosh on any vampire that got too big for their britches. That was when the old animosities would come into play, and a hunt would be called out on the vampire, who would have no recourse than to pipe themselves down or get out of Dodge before the wolves and fairies destroyed them.<\/p>\n

Before he had even gone to UMass Hospital to work, sometimes Brent would help his father with cold cases. He glanced over at the file folders that his father had called \u201cunsolveds.\u201d He lifted himself slightly off the chair and picked out the first folder from the pile.<\/p>\n

Some of these cold cases were vampires that had lost control, or uncaring vampires that were passing through to Boston or other points beyond in the hinterlands of New York or even further west. Sometimes they were fights between werewolves, or a fae gone rogue. Or sometimes, they were just people.<\/p>\n

He glanced around the room again, opened the folder. Taped to the inside flap were photographs, mostly of the scene of the crime. He wasn\u2019t looking for those. \u201cMarilyn Monroe\u201d was in the alias line, called that because she \u2014 he, actually \u2014 played that character in some clubs. He was found dead on Worthington Avenue, a hot spot for gays, drugs, and sex workers. His real name was unknown\u2014<\/p>\n

\u2014John Kemp<\/em>\u2014<\/p>\n

\u2014Brent grabbed a sticky note pad and ball point, scribbled the name and pasted the note next to the blank spot that said \u201creal name.\u201d He glanced around again, then continued to read the narrative.<\/p>\n

\u201cMarilyn\u201d had been found dead from strangulation according to the coroner. He turned the page. Three suspects were named. He looked closely at each name, but none stood out. However, one of the suspects mentioned \u201cTool\u201d, and that name hi-lighted in red in his mind\u2019s eye.<\/p>\n

All Brent had to do was think the spell, and \u201cTool\u201d came up in his mind, everything from how he looked to his last known address, the make and model of his car \u2014<\/p>\n

Brent scribbled one note after another. He was still scribbling when his father snatched the folder out of his hands.<\/p>\n

Brent\u2019s eyes were white when he noticed the folder was gone. To quench the spell, he closed his eyes and exhaled.<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you not to do that anymore,\u201d said his father sternly. \u201cPsychometry isn\u2019t grounds for a warrant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Dad.\u201d Brent opened his eyes. \u201cI was only trying to help.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you were. You\u2019ve always been right. But this kind of thing is too freaky to admit in court. They don\u2019t care if the Armed Forces believes in it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill you at least notify his next of kin?\u201d<\/p>\n

His father opened the folder and looked at the front page. \u201cWe\u2019ll try.\u201d He closed the folder and tossed it on his desk. \u201cBesides, if the department knew what you could do, you\u2019d be working for Larry first, and you know what kind of an idiot he is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent glanced at an empty desk, a few rows away from his father\u2019s. Larry Salucci was an excellent patrolman, a mediocre sergeant, and a horrible detective. He never asked the right questions, even with a cheat sheet. He followed his gut, and was often wrong.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant to go with me on a call?\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent glanced at the clock. \u201cYeah, sure, I have a couple of hours.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll bring you back in time for lunch.\u201d His father picked up his jacket.<\/p>\n

Tony walked over to them, shrugging into his jacket. \u201dIs Boy Wonder coming?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. We have to bring him back for lunch or my wife will be pissed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tony chuckled. \u201cC\u2019mon then.\u201d<\/p>\n

☆     ☆     ☆<\/div>\n

Brent climbed into the back seat. He searched for the buckles. \u201cNo seat belts?\u201d<\/p>\n

Tony turned to Brent\u2019s father. \u201cWhat year is this car? 1967 Chevy?\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent found the seatbelt tucked into the back seat. \u201cNever mind, I found them.\u201d His father drove the three of them to the hospital.<\/p>\n

\u201cDomestic violence,\u201d said Tony. \u201cWhite female, aged 28, found beaten outside her home at four-thirty a.m. this morning. The newspaper delivery person called it in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going to be the reporter,\u201d said Brent\u2019s father to Brent. \u201cPick a paper.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Gazette<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSold.\u201d<\/p>\n

They drove to Saint Vincent\u2019s. They walked through the crowded emergency room, flashing their badges. Brent followed close so he wouldn\u2019t be left behind. The two men stopped at the nurse\u2019s station, and Tony asked where the woman was who had been found beaten. \u201cFifteen,\u201d said the nurse.<\/p>\n

The three men went to the temporary room, separated from others by a thin wall of glass and curtains around it. The smell of the hospital reminded Brent of the operating theater back in Kandahar. All he needed to do was utter the healing spells he knew and most of these people would be out of here. But that would also mean he would be exhausted by the time he finished.<\/p>\n

Brent\u2019s father knocked on the window, which was covered by a curtain. \u201cDetectives Jim Rogers and Anthony Carlucci. Can we come in?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d said a tired voice, and the two men stepped inside. Brent came in right behind and took a spot in the corner.<\/p>\n

The two detectives showed their ID. \u201cI\u2019m Detective Rogers,\u201d said his father. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLinda.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLinda, can you tell us what happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDunno,\u201d she said. Brent looked at the woman. Her eyes were swollen, one eye swollen shut, the other shiny and red. She was probably white, but her face was going to be covered in black and blue bruises. \u201cWent outside with my dog. Got beat up. Don\u2019t know where my dog is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tony flipped open his reporter\u2019s notebook. \u201cDo you live at 78 Lincoln Avenue?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s my sister\u2019s house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you live there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was visiting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere was your sister?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s not home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind of dog do you have?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne of those mop top dogs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHavanese?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent bit back a chuckle. Leave it to Tony to know his dog breeds<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your dog\u2019s name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHarry.\u201d<\/p>\n

His father asked, \u201cDid your dog have a leash?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d She focused her open eye on Brent. \u201cWho\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a reporter from the Gazette<\/em>,\u201d Brent said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want no reporter here,\u201d said the woman. She glared at his father and Tony. \u201cI don\u2019t know who beat me up and stole my dog.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you said you lost your dog.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey musta stole my dog,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

They would eventually get her to tell them what was going on, but Brent wanted to help. Brent thought the truth spell and when the woman caught his eye, he let it go with a push of his will. The woman stared at him, blinking. The two detectives turned to look at Brent, who gave them a short nod.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo,\u201d began Tony, \u201cwhat \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman suddenly burst into tears. \u201cIf I tell you, he\u2019ll kill him!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019ll kill who?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTyler. He\u2019ll kill my baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her \u201cbaby\u201d was Harry, the dog. She had gone outside to take the dog out while her sister wasn\u2019t home. Tyler had broken up a few days ago with her sister==who she refused to name. While Linda was outside, Tyler approached. Tyler, a linebacker training for the Patriots, easily overpowered her and started to beat her, first with a leftover snow shovel from outside, then with his fists. She tried to run to the door but he caught her in between the doorway and outside and he started beating her there too. She tried screaming, but the area was apathetic and no one came to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said he was gonna take my baby and he said he was going to kill him if my sister didn\u2019t talk to him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brent stepped outside, having \u201cgotten the story.\u201d His father asked more questions as Tony stepped out to take a look at the records. Brent hung around the room, until his father came out. \u201cNeed to see if the dog\u2019s still there,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Tony returned. \u201cNo note of a dog following the ambulance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course not. That would be too easy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tony chuckled. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t have a hard time finding a dog.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe hard time will be if the dog goes to you, Tony.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust because I\u2019m an alpha doesn\u2019t mean I can get all dogs to do what I want.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

☆ WORCESTER, MONDAY ☆ Logan Airport was busy at 5 a.m. on a Monday. Somehow Brent had lost a day in travel, but he slept most of it on the three planes that got him here. He rented a car, took the insurance, and picked out a 2004 Chevy Impala. He caught Route 90, the … Continue reading “TWO”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[5,4],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":107,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15\/revisions\/107"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/grimaulkin.com\/books\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}