Category Archives: Fiction

The Price of Failure: An Easy Money Transmission

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This transmission follows directly after The Zephyr. For previous transmissions, visit the Easy Money page.

As close to Gris as I could find.

As close to Gris as I could find, almost spot on.

Reggie sat at the bar and ordered a plate of synth-stew. Raz nodded, punched a few buttons on the first gen synthesizer and waited while the machine gurgled out a greasy paste the same olive-drab color as Reggie’s jacket. While the Docks sported all the wonder that was Old Mitchell Street, anything you bought there was expensive because it was real. Off the beaten path, in the real world, you had to take synthetic food stuffs, made from recycled materials in the waste plants of Sector Five. Fresh food had become a luxury commodity as farms disappeared under urban growth. If you wanted the real thing and had the credit to throw away on it, you had to go to Sector One and the flora encrusted arcologies. Then again, if you had the credit to throw away, most likely you lived in one of those arcologies.

Raz dumped the bowl of paste on the bar in front of Reggie. He stood and watched Reggie, a half smile playing on his face. Reggie glanced down at the bowl and asked, “If I had ordered chicken, would it look any different?”

Raz laughed, deep and throaty. “No, amigo.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Reggie spooned a mouthful, tried to ignore the texture and focus on the flavor, but it was impossible. “Ugh,” he swallowed, “just gimme a beer.”

“All we have is the lab stuff,” Raz shrugged.

“Bullshit. I know you’ve got Sapporo back there,” Reggie waved a finger, pointing to the entire area behind the bar. “My credit’s good.”

Raz laughed again. “No fooling you, eh, amigo?” Raz reached under the bar and Reggie heard a click as Raz unlocked the cooler that held imported drinks. Moments later, Reggie was holding an ice cold bottle of Nippon’s finest.

“You hear the Reds rolled into Paris yesterday? Lo más loco.” Raz asked. “Too bad the NAA pulled out of Eurasia.”

Reggie cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Raz shrugged. “Maybe they could have held it off longer.”

Beer sloshed in the bottle as Reggie took a pull. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You were there, right, amigo?” Raz was absently wiping a spot on the bar with a dirty cloth. “You and that little chica?”

Brows down, Reggie asked, “What are you getting at, Raz?”

The bartender shook his head. “Me? Nothing. I just hear some things, is all.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Things,” Raz turned away, but Reggie reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“What things, Raz?” Reggie growled.

“Amigo, you better keep hands to yourself if you want to keep them,” smile gone, Raz held a vibro-blade a hair’s breath over Reggie’s wrist.

The door burst open, afternoon sun blazing in, silhouetting a slim figure in a billowing coat. Reggie released Raz’s wrist and the vibro-blade disappeared somewhere under the bar.

Gris came in, closing the door behind her, once more bathing the Zephyr in dimness. She hopped onto the stool next to Reggie. “What’s going on, guys?”

Raz and Reggie displayed looks of feigned innocence, smiling. “Nothing, Chica.”

“No? All right,” she scratched her scalp, barely disturbing her short, bright orange hair. “I’ll have a beer, Raz.”

Raz smiled wider and got her a Sapporo. Reggie scoffed at the double standard, earning a shrug from Raz. At a call from the men in the erotica booth, Raz left.

“Glad you’re here, Reg,” Gris said.

“Since when are you glad?” Reggie grumbled. “Didn’t seem to care too much last night with Jefferies in your bed.”

“Fuck you,” she backhanded his healing arm and he yowled in pain, leaping from the stool. He stood, clutching his arm, breathing heavily, glaring at her.

“Christ, you pansy!” she teased. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“You damn near dislocated my arm! I paid a fortune to get it fixed last night!” he shouted, eyes on fire behind his fallen hair.

Holding up a finger, Gris’ eyes lost focus as she accessed her RAM bank. She gently shook her head and smiled apologetically at Reggie as her eyes came back to the room. “Sorry, Reg. I left everything on. Jefferies likes it rough.”

“Are you serious?” Reggie sat back down. “Do I need to know that?”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m not normally strong enough to choke…”

“Shut up!”

“All right,” her hands were up in a show of surrender. “All right, I’ll stop.”

“Bitch.”

“Pansy.”

They sat in silence for a while, each drinking Sapporo. Raz replaced the empty bottles with full ones. The Raptors switched holovids from Vain Gloria to a comedy program that was currently popular during night-time broadcasts. Their loud laughter was the only sound in the entertainment house.

Gris was fumbling through the pockets of her large coat, looking for her inhaler when she paused. “Wait, what happened to your arm last night?”

Reggie answered staring straight ahead. “I think you know, or you wouldn’t have told me to meet you here.”

“What happened, Reg?”

Reggie set his bottle down. “Tiburons.”

“What?” Gris was shocked. “I thought the job was a simple shoot and scoot?”

“It was supposed to be,” he said. He emptied the bottle, swallowing noisily. “I never made it to the mag. They jumped me on North.”

“What happened?”

Reggie shrugged. “I saw them coming from the mag, walking on the other side of North.” He waved at Raz for another Sapporo then raked his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I ducked into an alley, waited until they passed. They must have seen me. They were waiting when I came out.”

“How many?” Gris had stopped rummaging through her coat, all attention on Reggie, her blue eyes blazing.

“Five,” he shrugged, downing more beer, “not counting the Super. It was Hoss and his jumpboys.”

Gris’ eyes bulged. “Hoss recruited a Super? How the hell are you even alive?”

“Killed the Super,” Reggie smirked.

“Are you shitting me?” When he shook his head, she turned away, grabbed her own beer. “Fuck, Reg.” She turned back to him, holding her beer as if she wanted to crush it. “Realz?”

“Realz.” Reggie smiled again. “Once the big guy went down, Hoss and the jumpboys ran.” He shook his arm at her. “Got a broken arm for the trouble. Doc Jimi patched it up.”

Gris scoffed. “Have you got any credit left?” Raz perked up at that, eyeing Reggie.

Reggie waved a placating hand at Raz. “I’m good for it, Raz.”

“See that you are, amigo, or I start taking fingers,” the bartender threatened.

“Jesus, Raz, stop being so dramatic,” Gris chuckled. “I’ll cover if he needs it.”

Raz nodded and wandered off.

“Gris, I’m a big boy, I can handle my own mess. You don’t have to keep helping me out.”

Gris frowned. “If I was really helping you out, I’d pay to get your shit fixed,” she said as she waved a finger in front of his eyes.

Reggie swatted her hand away. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“No?” she searched his eyes. “You’re shit for a liar.” He turned away from her, tried to focus on the holovid the Raptors were watching even though he couldn’t hear it.

She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “What happened last night was bad, Reg. Hoss must have paid a fortune for that Super. He’s gonna be looking to take the cost out of your skin.”

“Dammit, don’t you think I know that?” he growled. “I’ve bigger things, though,” he shuttled the beer bottle between his hands. “The job was scheduled. I was on a timer. It had to be last night. The Tibs got nothing on Stahler.”

“I’m sure Jefferies and the Rogers can offer some protection for a while, but…”

“Fuck Jefferies!” Reggie shouted cutting her off. He saw Raz look over at them and continued in a quieter voice. “You know I want nothing to do with him after what happened in Sarajevo. Besides,” he drank some beer, a sudden pride creeping into his tone, “as long as he’s fucking you, I’d like to see his head leave his shoulders.”

Gris laughed. “Son of a bitch, you’re jealous.”

Reggie remained silent.

Her laughter stopped, but her smile remained as she began searching her coat again. When she couldn’t find the inhaler, Reggie smirked, “Breast pocket.” Gris’ hand shot to the pocket, removing the stim inhaler. Smirking still, Reggie looked right at her. “You always put it there. Bet Jefferies doesn’t know that.”

“Leave it, Reg,” she said. Reggie could hear the soft whoosh of the inhaler as Gris punched the button, taking a deep breath.

“That shit is gonna kill you eventually.”

Pocketing the inhaler, she waved his words away. “You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.” She emptied her beer and waved Raz away when he offered another. “What’s the plan now, Reg?”

“Easy,” he said. “Get drunk now, avoid Tibs, and talk to Stahler tomorrow when I can think of what to tell him so that I don’t end up in the Thames.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Gris asked, the fringe of her irises were turning purple as the stim washed through her.

“Think fast, amigo,” Raz said as he placed a holocard on the plasteel bar. “For you.”

The card was marked with a gold lion’s head: Stahler’s crest. Reggie’s hand shook as he picked it up and said into it, “Play.”

An old and distinguished looking man’s head sprung from the card, made of glowing yellow light. The face was restrained anger as it spoke. “Reginald, I am displeased. You had better be standing in my office at eighteen hundred.” The head winked out.

Reggie deflated. “Fuck.”

Of Fear and Cows: A Wyld Hunt Yarn

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For the previous story, please read The Royal Huntsman.

Hodge raised his cup and nodded. “Yes, to business. What drives you to call on the Huntsman?” Not “royal,” no. Now that it’s business, it’s just me.

Saul cleared his throat, sounding no different than a bear. “There have been a number of unexplained deaths.”

“A number?” One eyebrow rose, the only sign of surprise Hodge was willing to show. “How many?”

The mayor ticked off fingers. “Six, I think. Maybe more.”

“Maybe more?” Hodge asked, incredulous. “You don’t know who’s missing?”

Saul laughed. “Not ‘who.’ What.” He gulped from his cup. “At least six of goodman Tate’s cattle have been killed.”

“Cows?” Hodge was instantly furious. “You called the Royal Huntsman out to this backwood for what’s probably wolves?” Doesn’t hurt to throw it around when you need to, does it?

“Now see here,” the mayor raised a hand. “I know a wolf killing when I see it. Or didn’t you notice the trophies on the walls? They weren’t given to me. I earned those.”

Hodge nodded. “To be sure.” Watch your place, fool, or you’ll become one of those trophies.

“Now then,” Saul cleared his throat again, “I took a look at the cattle and whatever killed them was nothing from around Bergn Forest. Small cuts on the neck to bleed them out was what I noticed first. They had also been hamstringed like wolves’ll do, but it was cuts, not bites.” He drained his cup. “There were also burns.”

“Burns?” Hodge was intrigued now, providing the mayor wasn’t lying.

“Aye. Burns on the hind quarters and shoulders, as if flames fell on them.”

Hodge sat back, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. He counted slowly to twenty, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. “You know what that sounds like, don’t you?” he asked without opening his eyes.

Saul Gaynor gulped. A transformation had come over the Royal Huntsman. It was nothing that Saul could really see, but the Huntsman seemed more dangerous somehow. More animal.

“Yes,” the mayor croaked. “I do.”

“What?” Hodge opened his eyes and locked on to Saul’s. “What does it sound like?”

The mayor stammered, going pale. Hodge seemed to loom, sucking the light away, causing the room to go dark.

“Say it,” Hodge barked in a whisper.

The mayor whimpered, growing paler, sweating. “Dragon.”

Hodge smiled and sat back, light returning to the room, though Saul wasn’t sure if it had actually left or not. The Huntsman seemed himself, all indication of anything out of the ordinary gone. The mayor swiped his palm along his forehead then rubbed the damp hand on his trousers.

“Dragons haven’t been seen east of the Grey Mountains in five generations,” Hodge said.

Saul quickly regained his composure. “I know. That’s why we called you. If it is, in fact, a dragon, we’re not equipped to handle it.”

“No?” Hodge smirked. “Not the great hunting Mayor of Bergn Town?”

“Save your jabs for the filth at the taverns,” growled the mayor.

“Hmm, very well,” Hodge nodded thoughtfully. This backwood mayor recovered from the Fear effect very quickly. Bergn is full of mystery, it seems. “Have you saved any of them?”

“The cows?” Saul nodded and stood. “Aye. The most recent was last night. We had it moved into the stableyard.”

“Show me.”

Saul opened the door and barked for Lawson. The snooty butler arrived seconds later, apparently waiting just around a corner and sketched a short bow. “M’lord?”

“We’re headed to the stableyard, Lawson. If anyone calls, have them wait in the front room until I return.”

Lawson nodded. “As you say.” He turned sharply on his heel and vanished around the corner he had appeared from.

Saul sighed and shook his head slightly. “Man’s dry as my beloved grandmother’s…” He glanced at Hodge and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. This way, Huntsman.”

Hodge followed the mayor outside. The rain had stopped and the clouds had parted. The low light of the setting sun lent an otherworldy cast to the freshly washed world. Shadow stood where Hodge had left him, still as stone. Glancing around, he saw no sign of the lurker.

The mayor led him down the main street to just the other side of the blacksmith where the stable and exercise yard was. Ducking his head into the stable the mayor bellowed, “Ho! Rolf! Get your hairy backside out here double quick!”

Within moments, a figure appeared, more dirt and filth than man. Hodge smiled. It was the lurker he had seen on his way into the mayor’s house. The dirt encrusted Rolf was nursing his left arm. As predicted, he had found Shadow no easy prey.

Rolf’s eyes nearly popped from his head when he saw Hodge and he shot into a low bow, almost prostrate. “Wha’ cannae do fer m’lords?” Rolf’s speech placed him as a native of the Northlands.

“Up with you,” Saul said, “The Royal Huntsman wants to see goodman Tate’s cow.”

Rolf looked up at Hodge through muddy brown hair and mouthed the words Royal Huntsman, fear evident in his whole being. Here is one that the Fear will drive to insanity. Hodge smiled.

The dirty stableman leaped up and over to Hodge, landing at his feet. Hodge took a step back, disgust on his face. Rolf pawed at Hodge’s boots, muttering, “I dinna try t’ steal the horse. I dinna try t’ steal the horse.”

“Here now,” Saul bent and grabbed Rolf under the arm, pulling him up and away from Hodge. “What are you going on about?”

“He tried to steal Shadow,” Hodge said calmly, “and got more than he bargained for, I’m guessing.” He pointed at Rolf’s injured arm.

Rolf cringed and shook his head. “No! It weren’t like that a’tall! I meant t’ bring ‘im t’ the stable, I did.”

“There,” Saul said, satisfied. He let Rolf go. “I’d say whether he’s telling the truth or not, that bite is enough punishment. No harm done, eh?”

Hodge looked Rolf up and down. “Perhaps.” Rolf whimpered under the glare. Hodge took a deep breath and smiled at Saul. “Let’s go have a look at this cow.”

Ley Lady Ley: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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This short scene follows immediately after Riding the Ley. For other stories about Hannah Anne and the citizens of Harper’s Grove, please visit the handy-dandy page.

“But I thought I couldn’t do magic,” Deborah said. She sat with her sister, Hannah, on the antique wood-framed sofa, each of them clutching full teacups as if their lives depended on it. Tears and hugs done, Hannah had brewed a fresh pot of tea and now they sat, Deborah with her legs crossed and Hannah with legs tucked up under her. Bridget paced the room, occasionally throwing glances Deborah’s way.

“I thought so too,” Hannah nodded, pushing her mouse-brown hair over one ear. “Aunt June always said that you didn’t have the spark. She said that I did and she was always pushing me and pushing me,” Hannah’s hand began to shake, tea sloshing over the brim of her cup and onto her hand.

“Well, what the hell happened, Hannah?” Deborah implored.

“I don’t know,” Hannah shook her head. “I’ll look in to it tomorrow. Right now, I think we need to just take it easy, get a good night’s sleep and work on the problem then.”

“If you say so,” Deborah was unconvinced. She glanced at Hannah through her hair. “It felt good,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Riding the Ley,” Deborah said. “It felt so good, so…” She smiled, her eyes staring far away, “Powerful.”

“Deb, that’s dangerous thinking,” Hannah said harshly. Deborah’s eyes popped back into focus and opened in surprise. “You’ve heard what Aunt June used to say. Magic isn’t about the power, it isn’t about the thrill. It’s about helping others and there’s always a cost.”

Deborah snorted. “I remember. But, c’mon, Hannah. It was only once. I doubt anything horrible will happen.”

“Famous last words,” Hannah mumbled into her teacup. “Remember the Three-fold Law.”

“I remember it,” Deborah set her tea down on the coffee table. “I should go. Jonathan’s probably worried about where I am.”

“Does he need to know where you are?” Hannah asked. “Is he your keeper?”

“Hannah, don’t start with me again,” Deborah’s voice raised in pitch and volume as she stood, causing Bridget to pause in her pacing. “It’s just that I left so fast and didn’t tell him where I was going.”

“Okay,” Hannah stood too and wrapped her arms around her sister. “Just remember you’re your own woman,” she whispered into Deborah’s ear. “No man can control you.”

Deborah took a step back, a wide smile on her face. “Hannah, look who you’re talking to. I control them.”

Hannah smiled back as Deborah took her light jacket off the coat rack and slipped it on.

“Bridget,” Deborah called to the goat, “you make sure Hannah gets some rest and don’t let her work too hard, okay?”

Bridget nodded and bleated an affirmative.

“All right, I gotta go,” Deborah opened the door. “I’ll see ya at the shop tomorrow.” She stepped out, closing the door behind her.

Turning around, Hannah crossed her arms and asked in mock anger, “Whose side are you on, you long-haired nanny?”

Bridget turned, and gave herself a slight shake, sending waves through her white hair.

“Yes, yes. Your hair is beautiful,” Hannah laughed.

Bridget harrumphed in satisfaction.

“Well,” Hannah announced, rubbing her hands together, “let’s get to work.” She pulled a book down from the bookshelf, settled on to the sofa and began to read.

The Zephyr: An Easy Money Transmission

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Not quite the Zephyr, but you get the idea.

Not quite the Zephyr, but you get the idea.

Cold morning sun cut between the slats of the window blind, slashing across Reggie’s face. He stirred and cracked his eyes, wincing as pain cramped protesting muscles. He grimaced, not sure if the price paid was worth surviving his tussle with the Tiburons. The Super had hit him hard, nearly driving him into the concrete like a nail. A metal bar had broken his left arm just above the elbow and chunks of flesh were ripped from him by razor teeth. Only the quick reflexes and cybernetic augmentations from the NAA army kept him from biting it last night.

The only death from the fight was the Super. Reggie managed to put a slug in the monster’s eye and that drove it into a frenzy. Supersoldiers were created during the Eurasia war in the last decade. Subjects were chosen who were inherently violent and administered large doses of highly refined HGH and PCP. The result was the Supersoldier, a monstrous killing machine. They could ignore pain and loss of limbs and had the strength of ten men. Injuries just made them angry. It thrashed among its compatriots, receiving an accidental knife to the femoral artery. The Tiburons scattered, Reggie limping off the other direction, leaving the Super to bleed out on the street.

Clutching his broken arm, Reggie made a few quick inquiries as to where Doc Jimi was working that night. Fortune had smiled on him; Doc was only a few blocks away.

After a quick exchange of an untraceable credit chit, Doc Jimi worked his magic; a blend of fast acting hormone, antibiotic and nanites. It was his own cocktail, untested in mainstream labs and highly illegal. It was also highly effective.

After that, it was a few derm patches to help with the pain, and back to his flat for much needed sleep.

Reggie sat up on the dirty foam mattress and tested the movement of his arm. All seemed well. He ripped the derm patches off, tossing them to the floor. Elbows on his knees, he scrubbed bloody fingers through his hair and wondered what Stahler would have to say about last night. Nothing good, for sure.

The vidscreen’s new message light was blinking. Reggie stood, scratched his backside and stretched. His muscles protested, but it was a good pain, one that would fade as the day went on. Twisting his head from side to side, he cracked his neck.

His flat was a cheap, one-room deal; all amenities in the same space. He tapped the vidscreen as he walked past to the toilet. The ‘screen flashed to life, showing a list of programs he had designated as favorites. A news ticker ran along the bottom of the ‘screen.

“Play message,” he said as his stream hit the water.

The ‘screen flashed again and Gris’ head filled it. She looked worried and had placed herself only inches from the camera.

“Reg,” she was whispering. “Look, Reg. I heard about what went down.” She leaned to the side, out of camera, and Reggie could clearly see the shape of a man asleep on the bed in the background. His face contorted.

Gris’ face came back and she quickly huffed on the stim inhaler. “I told you I had a bad feeling about the job. If you’re still alive, meet me at the Zephyr, fourteen hundred.” The message abruptly went black.

“I don’t need this, Gris,” he told the blank ‘screen. He had clearly seen a ring on the man’s hand. A Special Forces ring. There was only one man in Yndi City Reggie knew who still wore one of those. Jefferies.

“Fuck!” Reggie punched the wall, popping open freshly closed wounds on his knuckles.

He looked at the ticker. Thirteen-thirty. Only thirty minutes. Best to see what she wanted. Maybe she had some ideas on how to deal with Stahler.

He got dressed, and headed out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Reggie paused before opening the door, standing underneath the dead neon sign designed to look like a face gusting winds across the seas. The broken tubes were covered with decades of filth. The neon sign announced the building as the Zephyr. It had been established before the space port was built for actual sailors and, of course, tourists. After the space port was built, the natural ebb and flow of the city changed and the Zephyr fell off the beaten path. It was now just a run-down local watering hole, no different than any other in S3.

He scrubbed a bloody-knuckled hand through dirty blond hair and stretched his jaw to the side, testing the level of pain. A few cuts and bruises marred his Romanesque face and new holes and blood stains had sprouted on his clothing after last night’s meeting with the Tiburons. He took one limping step forward and pulled the door open.

Reggie paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the entertainment house. It wasn’t a large space, but the lack of custom at this time of the day gave it the illusion of space. Along the left wall was the bar, a long flat plasteel slab the color of a dead sky. A variety of stools ran its length, no two alike, all empty. Raz, the owner, was leaning his thin forearms on the bar, greasy black hair duly reflecting the space lighting on the wall behind him. On the wall opposite, was a row of booths that offered a choice of entertainments: gambling on the midwest dog races, holovids, ‘net wires, erotica and even a stim station. At one of the erotica booths, two men were groping each other. One wore a black faux-leather vest that was too tight on his muscular frame and the other wore a thread-bare pink angora sweater over his feminine body. Angora’s eyes practically glowed purple, deep on a stim high.

The only other occupied booth was in the back corner. Two Raptors sat there, their heads sporting an inch-wide rut of shaven scalp down the middle, a reverse response to the Tiburon crest. Hovering over their table was a holovid of Vain Gloria. Reggie could barely hear it, but he was sure it was playback of her latest concert. The holvid was made of light that threw off a soft orange-yellow glow. Vain Gloria pranced and sang, an elaborate hairstyle nearly as tall as she was sported small figurines of cherubs. Her surgically enhanced voice was nothing less than pleasing even if you didn’t like the club music she made. Her surgically enhanced body helped as well, displayed in all its erotic beauty, nothing left to the imagination. The Raptors, however, stopped watching the ‘vid when Reggie entered, focusing on him. One of them raised his glass, the day-glow green liquid slopping about, and nodded. They had heard about last night.

Overall, the Zephyr exuded filth and decay. The main floor was filled with empty tables and chairs and would serve as a pub area later in the evening as dock workers came in for synth-ale and a snack before returning home. Almost every surface was sticky from years of not being cleaned properly, paint was chipping from the walls, empty bottles and glasses could be found here and there and the whole place smelled like a toilet. Raz said that in its current state, the Zephyr had charm, an air of being lived in, used.

It was one of Reggie’s favorite places to be.

The Royal Huntsman: A Wyld Hunt Yarn

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The lone horseman rode into Bergn Town late in the afternoon from the Mast Road. He was a grim and dirty man, an ugly scar on his left cheek pulled his mouth up into a perpetual sneer. Greasy dark hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck with a plain leather cord. He wore dark wool in browns and greens, sturdy leather boots and a large green cloak that flowed out onto his horse’s black haunch. A massive knife, just shy of being a short sword, hung from his belt, the lower tip of the sheath tied around his thigh. A club-like long bow rested under the cantle of his saddle, the ends showing from under his cloak, and a quiver full of arrows, some seemingly too big to even be called arrows, hung from the pommel. Saddlebags were full to bursting and a bedroll completed the ensemble. A small silver pin on the collar of his dirty coat, embossed with the upraised hand of the ancient Kurov family overlaid with a drawn bow, marked the rider as the King’s Huntsman.

Bergn was more of a large logging post rather than a town, but it was important to Kurov, the Split Kingdom. It sat in the eastern foothills of the Grey Mountains, among the white pine forest. The chief export was the white pines themselves; straight and tall, they were shipped down the Mast Road to the city of Portsmouth, Kurov’s largest port and shipyard, to be sold as masts to the ship builders. The straightest and tallest were claimed by the King, used in the construction of the massive three-mast ships of the King’s Navy. Bergn also housed a paper mill, making and exporting a medium grade paper made from the de-limbing of the white pines.

The horse’s hooves squelched in the mud. A light rain had been falling since the morning and even though it was early spring, the air held a chill. Most of the people hurried about the town, cloaks pulled tightly, sounds muted in the dampness of the day, even those from the saw and paper mills. The Huntsman walked his horse straight to the large two-story house that marked the beginning of the Mast Road. He passed the people, inns, shops, blacksmith and farrier without a glance. Almost all of the townsfolk stopped to look at the Huntsman, most glancing warily, others staring outright, all knowing what his arrival meant.

The Huntsman stopped before the house, dropping the horse’s reins. Trained, the horse would not move while the reins dangled to the ground. The Huntsman looked back along the road and saw a man crouched behind the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, eyeing the horse hungrily. He smirked and hoped the fool would try to steal his horse. Some lessons are only learned the hard way and that fool would learn Shadow was not to be trifled with.

The door to the house opened, revealing a thin stick of a man with a stuffy air. He looked down his nose at the Huntsman, nostrils flaring as if he smelled something foul. Strange to find someone in this backwater acting as if he belonged at court. Perhaps he did. Time to follow the forms.

The Huntsman sketched a bow, no more than a nodding of his head, really. He hated the formality of his job. The hunt was what mattered. The pulsing in his veins as he cornered his quarry, blade at the ready for the first gush of hot crimson…

The Huntsman shuddered and smiled ruefully. No, not here. Not at this time.

“His Royal Highness, King Domenic Cristobal Munoz, has answered your petition and sent his Royal Huntsman to hear your case and do all that is necessary to solve it,” the Huntsman sneered. He really hated this part.

The thin man raised an eyebrow, a sign of extreme surprise when in court. Yes, the Huntsman was convinced this man had been at court, or at the very least, was trained there. Why was he all the way out here, though? “This way, M’lord,” he intoned, turning sharply and entering the building. Oh yes, definitely from the court and quite unhappy to be in Bergn Town.

The Huntsman followed the butler inside. The house was built entirely from rough-cut logs, the holes and gaps filled with a soft yellowish mortar. The place was plainly decorated to resemble a hunting lodge, the owner clearly had no illusions above his station, or perhaps he enjoyed hunting. If so, this particular job might be easier that expected. Too often, those who petitioned the Royal Huntsman had no understanding of what the job entailed and made ridiculous demands.

The butler led him down a short hall. The floor creaked a little under the runner and the trophy antlers that dotted the walls cast vein like shadows. The butler paused outside a plain, closed door and glanced back at the Huntsman, disdain clearly showing. Sighing, he rapped once on the door and opened it.

“The Royal Huntsman, Sir,” the butler intoned. The Huntsman expected everything the butler said sounded like an announcement.

“Well, send him in!” a voice boomed.

The butler stepped aside and held out a hand into the room. “M’Lord?”

The Huntsman stepped into the room. A very large man was standing at a window, a sheaf of papers in his hand, moving them back and forth as if trying to read them clearly. He looked up when the Huntsman entered, smiling broadly.

“Well? Come in, come in! Have a seat,” he pointed to a plain, ladder backed chair, something one would find in a farmhouse. The seat cushion had seen better days, but the only other chair had no cushion. “Lawson, some ale for me and the Huntsman,” the butler bowed and as he was shutting the door, the big man added, “And none of that swill you usually send me. Tap one of Jakob’s barrels.” Lawson scowled and left.

“An interesting man,” the Huntsman said to the closed door.

“Eh, Lawson?” the big man laughed. “Little too stuffy for me, but I’ll work with what I got.” He stuck a meaty hand out towards the Huntsman. “Saul Gaynor, Mayor of Bergn.”

The Huntsman took the offered hand and pumped once. “Hodge.”

“Hodge? No ‘Royal Huntsman’ muckety-muck?” Saul laughed.

“I prefer Hodge,” he said as he sat in the cushioned chair. He put Lawson out of his mind, a mystery for another day, and took a good look at the Mayor.

Saul was in his middle years, youthful muscle turning to fat, but Hodge didn’t think for a second that Saul had become complacent. Short hair going grey met a neatly trimmed beard framing his jovial face. He was taller than most men and carried himself with an evident self-assurance. His clothes were plain wool, though of a good weave and his leather boots had been tooled with a running stag. He was every inch a country born leader of men. The perfect type of man to run a logging camp.

The mayor tossed the papers on a side table, muttering about his eyesight and sat in the other chair, legs apart, resting his elbows on his knees. His entire posture took on a conspiratorial tone. Hodge noted this, but said nothing.

Saul stared into Hodge’s eyes. “You seem young for one of your station,” he grumbled.

Hodge raised a calculated eyebrow. He was familiar with the feeling out phase of his job. Politics and games. How he hated them. Couldn’t they see that all that mattered was the thrill of the hunt? The kill? Why play games? Well, perhaps this country mayor would see.

“I earned this badge,” Hodge said, lightly touching the pin on his collar. Earned with blood and screams.

Saul laughed, leaning back. “No doubt you did. I’m sorry if I caused offense.”

“No,” Hodge spoke quietly. “They all question me. It is an unfortunate part of the job.”

Saul nodded. “Well to business then.” The door opened and Lawson entered, a tarnished silver pitcher in one hand and two wooden cups in the other. He threw a disdainful glance at the papers on the table. Pushing them aside with one arm, he set the pitcher and cups down.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Lawson droned, eyes looking over the mayor’s head.

Saul sighed. “No, thank you, Lawson.” The butler nodded curtly and left the room. “Man does his job well, but he’s a pain in my backside,” the mayor laughed. Groaning, he stood and poured the ale, handed a cup to Hodge. Saul raised his cup. “To the hunt, Huntsman,” he toasted, emptying his cup in one go. Hodge lifted his cup in response, taking a swallow. His eyes widened a bit. Whoever this Jakob was, he knew his way around a brew.

The mayor filled his cup and dropped into his chair. “As I said, to business.”

The Brown Memorial Library: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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Mrs. Petunia Jones shoved the padlock together, her frail, liver-spotted hands shaking under the strain. The closet-sized Post Office was now closed for the evening. She waved one skeletal hand goodbye to George Winstock, who stood with a bored expression behind the counter of the general store which contained the Post Office, as she shuffled past. “Enjoy your Sunday night,” George called after the nonagenarian. He added, under his breath as he turned to count the cigarette packs, “Crazy old bat. Whoever heard of opening the Post on Sunday?”

Mrs. Jones stepped into fading light of early evening and draped her shawl over her head. Cowl-like, the shawl covered most of her face, only her hatchet nose appearing beyond the opening. Grasping her cane in one unsteady hand, she began her slow and painful walk up the hill to the Town Hall.

Ninety-two years she had lived in Harper’s Grove and she could say with complete certainty that it hadn’t changed much at all. A few new houses here and there, but the builders had to conform with the strict rules of the Harper’s Grove Historical Society and the result were homes that looked as if they had been around since before Mrs. Jones had been born. She loved Harper’s Grove and couldn’t imagine a finer place to live. Leave the sunny beaches and palm trees for the Hollywood sinners, New England winters were a true test of your love for God.

She had seen many people come and go from her town. She had a granddaughter somewhere south, perhaps New York City, she couldn’t quite remember, but other than that, her family was gone to God’s sweet embrace. It was the winter of ‘53 that took her husband John and oldest son, John Jr. when the grippe blew through town. Three years later, her daughter succumbed to smallpox of all things. Her youngest son, Matthew, survived long enough to marry and have a daughter of his own. He and his wife drove off the Miller Bridge in ‘69 when the plow truck hit them. Holes in her heart, all of them.

Most of the citizens looked upon her as a curiosity, a relic of times gone by. Except for young Miss Ennis. The sweet girl was a Satanist, Petunia was sure, but she was a nice girl. Corrupted by her mother and aunt, both of which had died young, surely punishment for their sinning ways. Mrs. Jones stopped by Miss Ennis’ store every Wednesday, Bible clutched to her chest to ward off the devil’s influence and tried to convince Miss Ennis to repent her evil ways. The poor girl never did and always assured Mrs. Jones that she wouldn’t put a spell on her for disturbing her day. Nice girl, to be sure. Such a shame.

Cresting the rise, the Town Hall loomed before her, ground floor windows ablaze with light. The upper floor was as dark as Miss Ennis’ soul and it was there that Mrs. Jones was going. She painstakingly climbed the steps of the building as a cold wind began to blow. Too cold for Spring. Mrs. Jones pursed her lips. Devil’s work, for sure.

Inside, the Town Hall was warm and inviting. Worn floorboards creaked as she entered the vestibule and she paused as a raised nail bumped the toe of her hard leather shoe. The building smelled of stale smoke and wood polish. Petunia inhaled deeply through her nose, relishing the smell of old. Through the doorway proper, she could see the neat rows of wooden benches all facing the large age-darkened oak table at the head of the meeting room. She didn’t enter, but instead, headed up the stairs to the second floor.

It was a painful climb, her knees screaming in protest. Twenty-four steps with a landing after the first twelve, was a long way to for a ninety-two year old woman. When she reached the top, she paused in the doorway facing the blackness of the library. She closed her eyes and sniffed again. In addition to the wood polish and old smoke, her could detect the faint scents of dust, dried leather and just underneath it all, the vanilla of old paper. The Brown Memorial Library smelled just like her grandfather’s house.

When her grandfather, Clarence Brown, died in 1929, Petunia was only eight years old. Grand Papa donated a large sum of money and his entire personal library to the town in his will. The money was used to convert the upper floor of the Town Hall in a public library. It didn’t take much because the town officials were able to use Grand Papa’s bookcases. The library’s smell, its very atmosphere, reminded her of one thing: childhood.

“I’m so tired, Grand Papa,” she whispered into the darkness.

Opening her eyes, stepped inside.

She needed no light to guide her. She came here every day after the Post Office closed and every night in her dreams. A few steps in, she dropped her cane and held her arms out to the sides letting her fingertips brush against the smooth wood of the bookcases on either side of her. A playful smile caressed her lips and she spun in place on the ball of one foot, a graceful pirouette. She stopped, her dress continuing to spin, wrapping her legs briefly before it unwound.

Slowly, she continued down the aisle, turning in among the books to the right about halfway down the center aisle. Expertly, her hands found the old tome she sought, its leather cover stained across the center of its spine from decades of use. She pulled it off the shelf and reverently clutched it to her chest.

Along the side of the great room, she found her favorite chair and carefully sat down. Moonlight played among the leaves outside the window, motes of dust dancing in its silver shafts. Petunia opened the book’s cover and inside read the faded words, penned in a spidery hand, “To my lovely Petunia, may your dreams always come true, Grand Papa.” She sighed, running her fingers over the brown letters, a small smile lighting her face.

She closed her eyes, face bathed in the moon’s glow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Mayor Johnston opened the Town Hall the next day, he found old Mrs. Jones sitting in a chair by the window, an old copy of Alice in Wonderland resting in her lap and a look of profound peace on her face. Shaking his head fondly the way you would do after witnessing a toddler do something cute, he gently touched her shoulder. Her head dropped to the side and that was when he noticed she wasn’t breathing.

scriptic

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: I’m so tired.

I gave Talia this prompt: There’s a stain on my notebook where your coffee cup was. – The Squeeze, “Black Coffee in Bed”

Old Mitchell Street: An Easy Money Transmission

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Old Mitchell Street

Old Mitchell Street

Reggie leaned back against the door to Gris’ flat and huffed a deep breath. His false bravado had reached a limit and he had to get out of there before he stayed another night and defaulted on the job. She may not know it, or even care, but she had him wrapped so tightly around her finger that he didn’t think he’d ever get free. Tonight’s job though, ah, that would fix it all.

He combed his fingers through his hair and slunk down the five flights of stairs. The lift was broken, had been for some time, and any talk of it being fixed was long gone. So went life in Sector Three. Rotting from the inside out.

The job was in Sector Five on the other side of the city, but Reggie had plenty of time. He had cased the area yesterday and knew where to set up. He considered stopping in at the Zephyr for a quick drink. It was only down the corner, but he waved the thought away. He needed a clear head this evening. This was the biggest job yet; the one that would set him up for the rest of his life.

He stepped over Chu’s legs where the stimboy lay sprawled across the vestibule. Chu was a permanent fixture of Gris’ flat building and a decent guy when he wasn’t doped, so Reggie spared a few seconds to be sure he was breathing. Satisfied at the rise and fall of Chu’s chest, Reggie threw open the door and stepped out into the filth of Sector Three.

On the official charter documents, this part of what used to be Groton, Connecticut was labeled Sector Three. Most people called it S3 or the Docks. Reggie could see the hulking masses of the orbiters in the distance to the west across the Thames River, in what was once New London. The shipyard ran day and night, orbiters either being unloaded or prepped for a trip into Earth’s orbit where they would dock with a solar skimmer and transfer their cargo. From there, the skimmers rode solar winds to bring men and supplies to the lunar mining colonies and raw ores back to Earth. At night, the shipyard area of the Docks was ablaze in light and on cloudy nights, that light lit up the sky in an electric grey that could be seen for miles.

S3 was the working slug’s part of Yndi City. It was dirty, beat up and run down, and the average slug seemed to like it that way. It was the backbone of Yndi City’s economy, a hub of import/export and tourism.

Reggie headed north along Old Mitchell Street, or OM as the locals called it, toward the mag-rail station on North. The street was lit in a wash of neon, the sun having just set behind the silhouettes of the orbiters. OM was the main thoroughfare through S3 and catered to locals and tourists alike. Clubs were on every corner, the heavy drone and pulse of the current rave suffusing the ground as he walked past. Food vendors taking up closet-sized holes in store fronts shouted fresh catches and fried goods, most inspired by the snack foods of Japan from the early part of the century. Corporate stim kiosks stood in solitary abandonment, giant phalluses ignored when stim could be had for an eighth of the price in the Underground. Chi-bi girls stood in groups of two or three, the big-eye, small-mouth surgical alterations having turned them into grotesque caricatures of the anime characters they were inspired by. Reggie never understood the BESM fad, but each group of Chi-bi’s attracted a small flock of males, known as Jumpers, after a long defunct manga magazine, most fingering the Chi-bi’s pink or blue hair and flashing credit chits with blinking green lights indicating full accounts. Judging by the large number of Jumpers, the Chi-bi’s stood to make some good money tonight.

OM was a noisy and garish tourist trap, but it was also the top of the Underground. If you needed something, anything, you could find someone who knew somebody who could get you what you wanted if you were willing to step off the main street and into the unlit, trash covered, slimy stink of the back alleys and from there into the darkest part of Yndi City; Sector Five. Always a bad idea to do so without a weapon of some sort.

Reggie walked along, boots thumping, hands thrust into the pockets of the olive drab jacket he always wore. The weight of his Colt hanging at his side was a comfort as he ignored the spectacle of OM and focused on the job he had to do. Leaving the Chi-bi’s, Jumpers, kiosks and fried foods behind, Reggie crossed onto North Street, just one block from where it intersected with the old bridge and the mag-rail.

If OM had an exact opposite, North Street would be it. Here was the collection ground of OM’s leavings: piles of refuse, half occupied buildings and the dregs of humanity. Without looking closely, Reggie thought of the Northers as a hundred variations of Chu scattered along the length of North. As with any city, the lines between the wealthy and poor parts were as clear as a lightning bolt.

A block away, Reggie could make out the grey shapes of perhaps five or six people coming towards him on the opposite side of the street. The large crests on their heads marked them as Tiburons, a nasty collection of thugs who ruled all the streets of S3 except OM. They shaped their hair to resemble the dorsal fin of a shark and most had their teeth replaced with plasteel razors. They weren’t a group Reggie wanted, or needed, to tangle with. Not tonight.

He ducked into a side alley, back to the wall, dark shadows wrapping him in a blanket of obscurity. He clicked on his En-Vee and the world became tinted a digital green. Heat signatures marked the Tibs as they strolled along North, engaged in a violent argument. Yes, it was best he remained hidden.

Automatic targeting reticles popped up on the display hud, marking each Tib with a green halo. With a thought, Reggie could turn those halos red and pop off the required rounds with his Colt, perhaps only missing one target. The NAA army had blessed him with abilities that allowed him to survive and thrive in a city whose Underground ate people daily.

He watched and waited. Five Tibs. Six rounds. He might survive. He could take them out, but, no. He was too close to OM and unwanted attention would be drawn to the sound of gunfire. The YC Protectors didn’t do much in the way of protecting anything, Jefferies and the Rogers did most of that, but the Procs did patrol OM in droves, upholding the appearance of safety and security for the tourists. He didn’t need Proc bullies bothering him tonight. He had work to do.

The Tibs passed him and he lost them in the glare of a streetlight. En-Vee was for near darkness, any light source could make it bright enough to blind him. Reggie waited to a count of one hundred before stepping out of the shadows, a thought turning the En-Vee off.

“I told ya I sees a chump-stick slink into the dark, Hoss,” a voice chortled behind him.

Reggie spun around, hand reaching into his jacket and closing on the grip of his revolver. The five Tibs were arrayed before him, standing in varying degrees of combat readiness. They held metal bars, knives, chains: standard street gang weapons. Behind the Tibs loomed a sixth, and eight-foot-tall monstrosity with an impossible amount of muscle bunched on his tank-like frame. His dorsal hair was so large, it flopped over to the side, drooping under its own weight. A Supersoldier. They must have picked him up on their way back towards the alley.

“Ah-yurp,” nodded one one the Tibs. Hoss.

Another Tib, the smallest of the group, was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He’s here without say-so,” he squeaked. “He needs say-so to walk our waters.”

“Lemme squash the bug,” the Super rumbled, cracking his knuckles with a sound like gunshots, flexed muscles stretching his skin to near ripping.

The one called Hoss nodded. “No say-so, no go-go.”

Reggie tried to smile. “Hey, guys, c’mon. Just passing through, yeah?”

The Supersoldier leaped forward, roaring.

Things had been much better when he had been hidden.

Storch-Badge

For this week’s Master Class, we were given the line, “Things had been much better when he had been hidden.” from Douglas Adams’, Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. This is the second time a Hitchhiker’s Guide book has been chosen for Master Class and I count myself lucky to be included in a group of writers who thrive on such geeky books.

True to Master Class offering hard prompts, Professor SAM required her students to use this line somewhere in our story in a position that is a multiple of four. In my story, the prompt line falls in the 24th paragraph.

This entry in the Easy Money online novel follows immediately after The Last One and was a required evil. Full of exposition and descriptive passages, it fit naturally as the next installment. It might be a long and tiring read for some people, but it is our first good look at Yndi City and helps to set the stage for further stories about Reggie, Gris and all the others. I hope you enjoy what I consider a brief look at this world.

 

Riding the Ley: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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For the first part of this tale, please read Tabby. To read other stories about Hannah, please visit the Harper’s Grove page.

Hannah stared at the cat and said nothing while her brain racked itself for any hint about talking cats. Deborah lay still on the floor, golden hair and amber tea nimbused around her head. The cat looked back at Hannah for a few seconds, licked its paw and drug it down its face. It resumed its steady gaze.

I have heard about talking animals, Aunt June’s voice rang in Hannah’s head, but have never encountered any. It could just be myth, but in our world, who knows for sure?

Thanks for nothing, Auntie. Hannah’s lips drew into a thin line.

When knowledge fails, follow action and trust your instincts, Aunt June’s voice said.

Better, thought Hannah.

“Who are you and how did you get into my house?” Hannah asked the cat, oozing as much menace into her voice as she could.

The tabby swished its tail. “No need for hostility, my dear. To answer you, I am and I did.” The cat bared its teeth in what Hannah hoped was a smile.

Hannah squinted her eyes in suspicion. “That sounds an awful lot like Old Testament vagueness.”

The cat rose and stretched, flexing its toes, revealing blood red claws. “There are other powers in this world, Hannah, some just as old, or older than, the ones you follow.”

Those crimson claws were ringing warning bells in the deep recesses of Hannah’s brain. She stuck out her leg and jabbed her toes into Deborah’s ribs. “Deb!”

The cat sat and ran a tongue over its whiskers. “Your sister is asleep and will stay that way until I wake her up. This conversation is for us alone.”

An angry goat’s bleat trumpeted from the doorway to the living room as Bridget charged into the kitchen. The cat rose, back arched, ears laid back and hissed at the goat. Bridget stopped dead in her tracks, frozen in mid-stride. Slowly, she toppled over to the side and landed with a soft thud.

“Bridget!” Hannah yelled, running over to her friend. Hannah ran her hands over the goat, tried to pick her up, but Bridget was as stiff as if she had been stuffed by a taxidermist and wouldn’t move.

Hannah whipped her head around, glaring at the cat. “What did you do?” she screamed, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

The tabby was stalking along the table, hackles still raised, tail expanded like a stiff-bristled brush. “Where did that disgusting creature come from?”

Hannah sprung up, fists clenched at her sides. “Bridget’s not disgusting! She’s my friend!”

The hair on the cat’s back and tail slowly began to subside. “Are you sure about that, Hannah? That the creature on your floor is your friend?”

A strangled sound escaped Hannah’s throat in anger. “Of course she is! She may be a stubborn, bull-headed, pain in the ass of a goat, but she has always been my friend!”

The blood-clawed tabby sat down and cocked its head to one side, looking down at Bridget. “Are you sure about that? Can you be, in the world you live in?” The cat looked at Hannah. “How long have you known Bridget?” The cat’s voice oozed disdain at the goat’s name.

Hannah looked perplexed. “I’ve known her for a long time.”

The cat harrumphed. “When did you first get her?”

Hannah’s fists relaxed. “It was…” She looked down at Bridget. “We met when…” She looked back at the cat. “What does it matter?” She flung her hand in dismissal. “She’s my friend and always has been.”

“Perhaps you’ll figure it out one day,” the tabby laid down on the table, crossed its paws and let them drape over the edge. “I have come to discuss other matters.”

“Tell me about Bridget. If she’s not a goat, then what is she?”

“No. I have come to discuss you and the Ley.”

“Wait, what?” Hannah shook her head. “The Ley? That’s just one of Aunt June’s stories. Power like that doesn’t exist.”

“It does, Hannah,” the cat nodded, “and you know it. How was it you closed the Hellgate? Your paltry spells and potions could never do such a thing. Only a demon, angel or a witch riding the Ley could have.”

“No,” Hannah shook her head vigorously, her mousy-brown hair flailing out like a dancer’s dress. “You’re wrong. That’s too much power for one person to have. In the wrong hands…”

“Yes,” the cat interrupted. “In the wrong hands such power could become a tool of great destruction.” The cat stood and stretched languidly. “Haven’t you become dismayed at the state of the world, Hannah? The wars, the poverty, the hunger and the hate? It’s a nightmare world and you have the power to fix it.”

Hannah thought. “How? I’m only one person.”

“One is enough, my dear witch. You have the ability to go where others can’t, do what others only dream of.” The cat sat and cocked its head once again. “Wouldn’t it be grand if you could do that? End the world’s problems and set things right? It’s easy once you try.”

Hannah nodded. “What do I have to do?”

“Eliminate the sources.”

“Eliminate?”

“Yes,” the cat relished this. “Do away with leaders and governments.” The cat flashed its claws. “Permanently.”

“What?” Hannah was shocked. “You mean…?”

“Yes, Hannah. Kill them all. You can wipe them from existence. Remove evil and make the world a better place.”

“What?! No!” Suddenly, Hannah knew what this cat was. The crimson claws should have tipped her off immediately, but the warning bells she had heard were not enough. She turned and ran into the living room, cursing herself for not wearing any protection. She skidded to a halt in front of the ancient hutch and yanked open the top drawer. Inside, a collection of items were jumbled together. Hannah fumbled her hands in the drawer, desperate to find her protection bag. When her fingers closed on the soft flannel, she quickly clutched the bag between her breasts.

“What’s that?” asked the cat from the doorway. “A ju-ju bag? Very cute, Hannah”

“Ah!” Hannah screamed as the bag burst into flames, searing her hands and leaving a smoldering char mark on her blouse. Hannah shoved her hands into opposite armpits, tears flowing down her face. “Why?”

“Why?” The cat sauntered into the living room, jumped onto the couch and laid down. “I have chosen you to be my instrument of death, my sweet, reluctant witch.”

“No!” Both Hannah and the cat were startled by the shout from the doorway to the kitchen. Deborah stood there, hands clenched into fists, sun-dress and hair being blown by an impossible wind. She was surrounded by a glowing nimbus of blue light and her eyes were blue light, tiny shoots of lightning escaping from the corners.

“Leave my sister alone!” Deborah shouted, so loud that the house shook. The cat’s eyes opened wide and then it was gone in a flash of blue light. The cat’s voice sounded as if from the other side of the world, but so close as to be in Hannah’s head, “I shall return for you.”

The light and wind faded from Deborah and she collapsed to her knees. Hannah rushed to her and cradled her head in her hands. “Deb, are you alright?”

Deborah nodded. “I think so. I just feel like I haven’t slept in days.”

“What did you do to the cat?”

Deborah looked up through mussed hair, her glasses askew. “Sent it away, I think.”

“Where?”

Hannah’s sister shook her head. “I don’t know.” Suddenly Deborah straightened surprise on her face. “Hannah what did I do?”

Hannah sighed. “You rode the Ley, Deb.” Hannah cupped Deborah’s face in her hands and smiled. “You rode the Ley.”

scriptic

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Talia gave me this prompt: I promise I’ll do better next time.

I gave k~ this prompt: Sometimes, things don’t stay dead.

 

Tabby: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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Photo Credit: Raina Ng

Hannah’s Kitchen. Photo Credit: Raina Ng

“I woke up in bed with a man and a cat,” Deborah Ennis said as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in July and Deborah’s sister, Hannah Anne, had already opened all the kitchen windows, letting in a gentle breeze.

“And that’s different for you, because…?” Hannah Anne dropped the tea ball into the teapot and gently placed the cover on. “Did you actually know the man this time?”

“Gods, Hannah, you can be such a bitch,” Deborah leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. “Of course I knew him. It’s that guy I met last weekend in that club in Manchester.”

“Jonathan?”

“Yeah,” Deborah smiled. “He’s such a nice guy.”

“I’ll bet,” Hannah mumbled as she reached for a blueberry muffin. Louder, she asked, “So, what’s the point?”

“Huh?”

Hannah sighed and shook her head. “About waking up with him.” She pointed at her sister. “I don’t want details.”

“Oh!” Deborah’s eyes went wide. “It’s the cat.”

Hannah raised an eyebrow as she took a bite of her muffin. Bridget entered the kitchen and bleated loudly, announcing her need to go out. She stood at the door, pointedly looking at Hannah. Hannah sighed, stood and as she approached the door, growled at Bridget, “You know how to let yourself in. You better figure how to let yourself out.” With that, she yanked the door open, narrowly missing Bridget’s nose and held the door for the goat. Bridget snorted and trotted out to the backyard. Hannah snarled and slammed the door shut.

“Geez, Hannah. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s that stupid goat,” she said as she sat back down at the kitchen table. “Always needs me to let her out, but she damn well can get inside even if the door is locked. I’m getting tired of it.”

“You never get this upset with Bridget,” Deborah said as she poured some tea into a coffee mug that was boldly labeled, World’s #1 Witch. “Something else is bothering you.” She pushed the mug over to her sister. “Anything to do with why you shut down the yard sale early?”

Hannah accepted the tea and took a sip. “Yeah, I guess. I have a lot to think about.” She put the cup down, took another bite from her muffin. “Doh, wad abow da cad?”

“What?”

Hannah swallowed. “I said, ‘Now, what about the cat?’”

Deborah chuckled, a deep throaty sound. It was something she did naturally and one that most men thought attractive. “Of all the things Aunt June taught us, you never did get the hang of not talking with your mouth full.”

Hannah scowled and said nothing.

“Yeah, so, this cat,” Deborah took a sip from her own tea and smiled in delight. “Wow, Hannah! What is this?”

“I’m trying a new blend. You like it?”

“Mmm hmm,” Deborah nodded. “It’s good.”

Hannah smiled. “Thank you. I’m thinking of setting up a tea counter in the shop and I’m trying out some new blends.”

“That’s a great idea!”

“Thanks. Now, tell me about the cat.”

Deborah nodded. “When I woke up this morning, Jonathan was still asleep and there was a cat in the bed with us.”

“It was probably his,” Hannah dismissed.

“No, we were at my place. I don’t have a cat.”

“Oh. What did you do with it?”

Deborah pushed her golden hair over her ear. “I shooed it out.”

“Okay, then,” Hannah smiled. “Problem solved.”

“Not quite, Hannah,” Deborah leveled her gaze at her sister. “It came back.”

Bridget bleated loudly at Hannah’s elbow. Hannah and Deborah both jumped, Deborah letting out a little squawk.

“By the Three, Bridget!” Hannah yelled. “Stop that!” She pointed towards the living room. “Go watch Animal Planet.”

Bridget turned, tail up and strutted from the kitchen.

“One of these days,” Hannah muttered, dropping her head into her hands.

“The cat did that,” Deborah said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Did what?” asked Hannah, voice muffled behind her hands.

“Popped back,” Deborah nodded towards the living room. “Like Bridget does.”

Hannah looked up eyes anxious. “What kind of cat was it? Black?”

Deborah glared at Hannah expecting to be picked on, but when she saw that Hannah was serious she took a deep breath. “No. It was a tabby.”

Hannah let out a breath. “Thank the Mother.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll be fine.”

“Really? Black cat bad, tabby good?”

Hannah grinned. “Something like that.” She took a sip of tea. “Where is it now?”

“Well, I tried three more times to get rid of it, but it always came back,” Deborah shrugged. “I left it on the bed.”

“Okay. It might be a familiar sent by another witch, but I don’t know any other witches closer to us than Manchester.”

Deborah’s eyes opened wide. “Is that bad?”

“Could be. Familiars have been known to act as spies.”

“Spies!” Deborah leaned forward, her voice shaking. “Why would anyone want to spy on me?”

A large tabby cat jumped up onto the table and sat down. Both women froze, tea mugs halfway to their mouths, eyes locked on the cat. The cat calmly looked back and forth between them.

“I thought you said you left it on your bed,” Hannah whispered.

“I did,” Deborah hissed.

The cat looked at Hannah and nodded. “Hello, Hannah,” it said.

Deborah fell to the floor, spilled tea darkening her golden hair.

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It’s a brand new Harper’s Grove Tale, starring Hannah, Deborah, Bridget and a cat for this week’s Master Class. I was given the honor of choosing this week’s prompt for the class and after careful consideration, I chose, “I woke up in bed with a man and a cat.” It’s the opening line of Robert Heinlein’s “To Sail Beyond the Sunset.”

This story slots nicely between the yard sale story (which comprises All the Demons and A Gold Medal) and the unfinished evil mist story (currently comprising Paedric’s Incantium and Out of the Frying Pan).

 

Welcome to Harper’s Grove!

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Vermont small town with trees in autumn colors. Vermont, New England, USA

Hannah Anne Ennis rode her ancient bicycle along the curb, swerving around the parked cars, enjoying the warmth of the newly risen sun on her face. The small town of Harper’s Grove, New Hampshire was waking up and Hannah winced every time her left leg pumped down and the bicycle squeaked. She tried to hum an old song that Aunt June used to sing, tried to ignore the squeaky gear, but it was no use.

The bike screeched horribly and so did Hannah as she turned a hard left to avoid a dog that jumped out at her from behind a parked car, nearly tumbling her into the street. When she saw that it was just Jack, the old mortician’s dog, she stopped the bike in another screech as the brakes grabbed. I really need to fix this thing, she thought ruefully, it makes enough noise to wake the dead.

Hannah kicked the stand down and swung off the old Schwinn. Jack stood by, half-heartedly wagging his tail, watching with his rheumy eyes. The dog looked much like his master: old, thin and dried out. Clumps of hair were missing here and there and he smelled of an ammonia-formaldehyde cocktail.

Straightening her denim skirt, Hannah reached out a hand to scratch Jack’s ear when a voice like dried leather said behind her, “Hrm, he bites.”

“Jack doesn’t bite and you know it, Mr. Lux,” Hannah said to the voice behind her amiably.

“Well, hrm,” a skeletal hand the color of death grabbed Jack’s collar. “That may be, hrm, Miss Ennis, but Jack doesn’t like people.” The hand jerked and Jack was pulled away from Hannah.

Turning, Hannah confronted the mortician. Nearly a foot and a half taller than she, Mr. Lux was a personification of Death. Tall and thin, his joints showed as points through his black suit. A weak scruff of white hair wrapped his head from ear to ear, carefully combed back with Brill Creem. He bared his teeth at Hannah, which she knew to be his attempt at a smile.

“I think it’s Jack’s master who doesn’t like people,” Hannah told him firmly.

Mr. Lux’s grin grew wider, revealing an impossible amount of teeth. “The dead, hrm,” he jerked on Jack’s collar once again, though the dog hadn’t moved, “The dead have more interesting things to talk about.” He placed a hand over his breast and sketched a brief bow. “Good day, Miss Ennis.”

“Good morning, Mr. Lux,” Hannah smiled as friendly as she could. The mortician always made her skin crawl.

“Hrm, come Jack,” Mr. Lux jerked the collar once more, turned, and led the dog back the way Hannah had come.

Hannah watched the pair as they walked away, climbing back onto her bicycle. Rumors said that Mr. Lux could talk to the dead and that he was saving the stories they had to tell. Stories that revealed secrets about the inhabitants of Harper’s Grove. Hannah did not know how true the rumors were, but she did know that what seemed impossible, probably wasn’t.

She kicked off and began the squeaky ride once again. Various Harper’s Grovers were about the beginnings of their morning business and Hannah greeted them all with a smile. The morning was just too glorious to let her encounter with the mortician bother her.

Hannah’s morning bike ride to her shop was a staple of Harper’s Grove. Other shop owners looked for the short, plump woman with the mousey brown hair streaming behind her as she peddled her way up Main Street. Hannah usually stopped and visited each, asking after their health and making small talk, collecting hot tea, a bagel or croissant, the morning paper and maybe an apple or two. Hannah put everything in the wicker basket she had made that hung from the handlebars. She wouldn’t trade small town life for any other place in the world.

Harper’s Grove was in the Monadnock Region of New Hampshire, south of Keene and just east of Brattleboro, Vermont and was a postcard vision of a New England town. The town was kept clean, buildings painted regularly, lawns mowed and trees trimmed. It was the home of one fire department garage, which housed a thirty-five year old engine; a sheriff’s office, which was almost always closed as Sheriff Burns was also the town barber and held court at the barbershop; a general store that also doubled as a farmer’s market in summer and early fall, which had a post office counter in the back that ancient Mrs. Jones stood behind all day, even on Sundays though no one knew why and a town hall building whose upper floor had been converted into a library in 1929 when old Clarence Brown died and donated all his books to the town. Above the town, on a slight rise, stood the Episcopal church, built in 1701, which still rang its bell at six in the morning, noon and six at night.

The small town was also the home to Seven of Cups, Herbs and Sundry, Hannah’s small shop that she co-owned with her sister, Deborah. Hannah inherited the small shop when her aunt June passed away almost a decade ago. Hannah immediately offered a co-ownership to her sister. Deborah had hedged for a few days, but had agreed. Deborah had wanted to leave Harper’s Grove for New York. She hated small town life and always dreamed of something bigger for herself, but Hannah was sure there was a man involved. There always seemed to be a man in Deborah’s life.

Hannah hopped the bike up the curb and coasted to a stop in front of the shop. She swung off and balanced the old Schwinn on her hip as she dug for her keys in a voluminous skirt pocket. Finding them, she slotted the key, grunted until the tumblers fell and pushed the thick wood and glass door open.

The shop was dark and smelled of scented candles, herbs and patchouli. Hannah wheeled the bicycle inside, shut the door and opened the blind to the window that was most of the door. Large planks of wood, worn by nearly a hundred years of walking feet, squeaked as Hannah expertly wove her way to the back of the shop in the faint light from the door window. Shelves of books on a variety of subjects lined one wall, all in keeping with the theme of Seven of Cups: herbology, witchcraft, new age self help, Wicca, biblical studies, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Shinto, numerology, astrology, and many others. It was an extensive library dedicated to religious and ceremonial studies of all kinds and was Hannah’s pride and joy.

Throughout the center of the shop were a number of free standing shelving units. Dried herbs were on one unit, candles of all sizes, shapes and colors on another, athames, chalices, and jewelery decorated with pentacles, suns or moons were on a third.

Harper’s Grove seemed a strange place for such a shop since the town had a long history of Protestant worshipers, but Hannah, and her aunt June before her, were well liked by many and the store prospered.

Hannah flipped the light switch to the back room office, wheeled her bike into a corner and brought her tea and blueberry muffin to her desk. She sighed when she saw there was no space for her breakfast on the desk. Deborah had left it a mess again after closing last night. She nudged a few papers aside, set the tea down and began gathering up papers with one hand while she bit from the muffin in her other. The paperwork would be filled out correctly, of that she had no doubt, and barely glanced at it.

Once space was clear and the papers put away, Hannah glanced at the clock. Five minutes until she had to open. Once again she sighed. No time for me, she thought. I hope whatever you did last night was worth it, Deb.