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Copyright © 2007 J Armstrong

Copyright © 2008 Pax Britannia, The Hunt, Backspace by J Armstrong

All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Publication, 2008

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 Table of Contents
Part One
Stolen Property ............................................................................................5

Satisfaction ...................................................................................................11

Street of Souls ..............................................................................................19

Choices..........................................................................................................23

Ritual .............................................................................................................30

Peacemaker ..................................................................................................37

Part Two
Saints and Sinners .......................................................................................50

Critical Failure .............................................................................................54

The Other Side .............................................................................................64

Clem’s Gambit .............................................................................................70

Forever Tomorrow ......................................................................................75

Part Three
Crown Imperial ...........................................................................................81

Mushrooms ..................................................................................................88

Eve of War ....................................................................................................96

The Winged Crown.....................................................................................108

Music Box .....................................................................................................117

Ambassador Demon ...................................................................................123

Death or Taxes .............................................................................................131

Part Four
Pax Britannia................................................................................................139

The Hunt.......................................................................................................145

Backspace .....................................................................................................152

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 Part One

Not all stories end in a typical happily ever after; it’s a

matter of perspective.

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 Stolen Property

The stink of low tide almost made Elnis gag. The smell of old fish, mud and

rotting garbage hung in the air with the vague scent of seawater. The night

breeze was gentle enough to keep the stench lingering. He quelled the urge to

spit the horrid taste out of his mouth.

No wonder the port workers congregated in the drinking establishments.

They came to wash away the flavours of the tide.

At this time of early evening, the taverns and alehouses were overflowing

with stevedores, sailors and dockers. Elnis wanted out of this rank city. He’d

had enough of their rough ways, their bad manners, and their awful nasal

accents. Unfortunately, he had business; business he couldn’t let go - no

matter the urgings of his friends.

He looked up at the gently swaying sign. The Sea Mistress looked down at

him with a faded expression of seduction and creaked on her hinges.

The front door burst open, raucous noise erupted and two men stumbled

onto the street, attempted to sing but were laughing too hard. Elnis’s lip

curled with distaste.

He would find his prey here; after all, they had invited him.

Adjusting his charcoal-grey robes around his tall, spare frame, he stepped

into the tavern, closed the door behind him.

The din lessened as people turned to stare, then resumed as they decided

he was no one of note.

The men were grubby, stank of fish and sweat, and Elnis tried not wrinkle

his nose. They’d obviously stopped for a cleansing libation before heading

home. They were not his concern, unless they made it so.

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 Elnis scanned the crowd, looking for the two familiar men. He almost

missed the couple as someone stepped in his way, but he’d seen the shock of

carrot-coloured hair before the bulky man stood before him.

“Dis ain’t no place for the likes o’ yuh.” The burly man said.

Elnis looked up at him. The man’s eyes - blurred by ale, blue and faded by

time - attempted to focus on Elnis without success. In one meaty hand, he

held a tankard. Elnis smelled the bitter brew and quelled his rebelling

stomach.

“I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?” He asked and earned a sneer from

the thick-lipped man.

“Aye.” He indicated the door with his head. “’op it.”

“I don’t think so, sir, I have business here.”

The man scowled. “Didja not ‘ear me? ‘op it or I’ll be makin’ yuh sorry.”

“You are obviously a man of distinction, and trying to protect me from

the… less fortunate in this tavern.” Elnis reached into his robe and pulled out

a circle of silver. “Here.” He handed the man the coin. The man stared down

at the gleaming money, puzzled. “I’d be more grateful if you would watch my

back for me.” Elnis smiled.

Fat fingers curled over the silver, and he nodded as his fist rasped across

his jaw. “Aye.” He rumbled.

Elnis stepped aside and pushed his way through the crowd. Protests cut off

with gasps as the brute followed him.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Elnis bowed to the orange haired man, then

the dark haired one.

Both gaped at him for a moment, looked at each other, then smiled at him.

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 “Elnis!” The dark haired one said. “Welcome, come, sit down, sit down.”

He nudged his companion and he slid across.

Elnis sat, the giant stood back and watched with a sip of his ale.

“So… Elnis, what brings you here?” The dark haired one said with false

cheer.

“A small matter of your thieving from me, Merrick,” he nodded to the dark

haired man, “Dak,” he smiled at the orange haired fellow.

“Aww, Elnis, it’s what we do. No hard feelings, okay?” Dak said and

looked past the giant. “Why don’t we get you an ale and be friends?”

“Why don’t you return my property and we won’t have any unfortunate…

repercussions?” Elnis murmured.

Dak and Merrick grinned at each other. “Can’t do that, squire, we’d be

laughed at.”

Elnis drummed his manicured fingers on the scarred tabletop. “Can do

that, will do that, and you won’t be laughed at.”

“Sure we will.” Dak wriggled in his seat, leaned across the table. “See, in

this town, what you get is what you keep. What you can keep, you own. What

you own, you can sell. Surely a merchant of your standing can understand

that?”

Elnis smiled, warmth coming into his eyes. “Of course I can. It’s the way of

trade. However, I have spent many years building my trade, my business, my

very name and I simply can’t have you stealing from me. I’d like to say I’d be

laughed at, but to other merchants, they take such things in their stride.” He

gave a small shrug. “Some even expect it. I do not. Nor do I take it lightly.”

“What?” Merrick laughed. “You gonna call the law on us? Oh, Elnis.” He

shook his head. “The local guard take a cut of the proceeds. No, you’ll not

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find any recompense or satisfaction there. So, better you write your losses off

and call it day. Come now, let us buy you a drink.”

“I do not care for the refreshments in this establishment, Merrick, all I wish

for is the return of my property.” Elnis said and leaned back.

Merrick and Dak glanced at each other and giggled. “Not going to happen,

I’m afraid.” Dak grinned again.

Elnis’s face lost all expression, but neither men saw it as any danger. They

should have, Elnis thought, they most certainly should have. “That’s your

final word?”

“Afraid so.” Merrick said.

“You have the… items with you?”

Dak smile widened. “That would be telling. And just so you know, there is

no way you could overpower us two and steal from us. Even with Wido

standing over you. Give it up, Elnis and move on.”

Dak sat back with a satisfied smirk, as did Merrick.

“It is most unfortunate you have decided to keep the rings, for they will

bring you nothing but harm.” Elnis said.

“Oy, Merrick, I think they’re enchanted or something, should bring a good

price.” Dak’s brown eyes lost focus as he imagined, no doubt, the wealth he

would gain. Elnis could see it in the way he held his too skinny body, the way

he looked, the way he smiled.

“Yeah.” Merrick agreed and the same expression came over his face.

Elnis lifted an eyebrow. “And what makes you think you’ll ever get to sell

the pieces?” He asked, his finger moving in a circle of spilled ale. When he

was done, a magical sigil had formed. He gently blew on it and the mark

moved slowly towards Dak.

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 Neither man noticed. Dak and Merrick were staring at each other will

undisguised greed. Elnis drew another sigil and blew it towards Merrick.

With a final smile, Dak returned his attention to Elnis. “Elnis, this is our

town, these are our people. We know who to sell to, and who not to sell to.

I’m sorry.” Dak said with mock regret.

The sigil slid up the side of Dak’s ale tankard and crept onto the back of his

hand. Elnis glanced at Merrick as the other mark reached the same

destination.

The translucent magic slid under the sleeve of their tunics.

Elnis dragged in a deep breath and slowly let it out again. “You will give

me the rings.” He said in a low voice.

Dak’s eyes widened in surprise and he turned to his companion. Merrick

glanced back Dak then reached into his tunic and pulled out a leather pouch,

slid it across the table.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Elnis stood and tucked the pouch into his robes.

“I would suggest you never try to steal from a merchant wizard, but you can

explain your actions to the demon Mordai when you see him. He’ll be most

interested; he’s a friend of mine. And don’t worry, he knows you’re coming.”

Elnis stepped away from the table without looking back. He flicked

another silver coin at Wido who caught it in a meaty fist and gave him a

salute with his tankard.

As he reached the door, the noise in the tavern lessened until it was a well

of silence. He opened the door and quietly closed it behind him.

No doubt, the patrons were wondering why the two men were turning a

rather unattractive shade of green, and the smell emanating from the two

would surely be most unpleasant.

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 Ah, well, revenge, when done right, is its own reward. He patted the pouch and

walked away. Maybe the Sea Mistress would no longer tolerate thieves. It was

a given the tavern wouldn’t be having any business for some time. He would

never know, he would not return to this city, but he was sure Mordai would

be entertained for sometime yet.

Elnis laughed into the night; it was a sound that echoed into the alleyways

and reverberated off the walls, not just this time, but his laugh would play in

the night air whenever anyone thought about the strange happenings this

night; a most satisfactory way to conclude business.

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 Satisfaction
Grigor spied a concrete-edged grave with his flashlight and sat down,

confident he could do this. Still, “this is creepy.” He said.

“Of course it is.” Mal agreed sagely and sat next to him. “It’s a grave yard.

They’re supposed to be creepy.”

Grigor turned to his new friend. “You do know this is terribly cliché of us.”

“Yep. But we wouldn’t be teenagers if we didn’t drink in a graveyard, tell

scary stories and freak ourselves out. It’s dew jaw.”

Grigor snorted and reached under his jacket for his flask. “It’s what?” He

unscrewed the dulled silver cap and breathed in the red wine. He had no idea

what type of red wine it was, only that it had a hint of blackberry in it.

“Dew jaw.” Mal pulled a half-bottle of Jack out of his backpack. “You

know when they say,” he put on a snooty voice, “it’s soup dew jaw. Well…”

“I get it, I get it. I just didn’t know you knew. And it’s du jour. D. U. J. O. U.

R. Pronounced ‘du shore’.”

Mal squinted at him. “That’s what I said.” He opened his bottle and took a

mouthful. He swallowed it manfully and Grigor watched as his cheeks puffed

out and little noises squeezed through his mouth until he couldn’t contain

himself and began coughing.

Grigor’s smile was smug. “I told you to get something with less kick.”

Mal coughed and hacked and wheezed. “Jaysus… wept!” He lifted an arm

and wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his jacket. He turned to Grigor. “I

never thought a rich boy would want to hang out with the likes o’ po’ ol’ me.”

Grigor grinned and affected the same posh tone Mal had used. “We like to

know about the less fortunate than us. It is an education.” He resumed his

normal tone and shrugged. “I get fed up with the ‘you should know this

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person’, or ‘don’t talk to him/her, they are not of our class.’ Bloody Hell, I

want to choose my own friends, not who the folks think of as acceptable.”

Mal laughed. “If they only knew what you were up to.” He looked around,

his grin wide enough for Grigor to see the shine of his teeth. “Waddaya

reckon they’d say about you hangin’ in a graveyard?”

Grigor put the back of his hand to his forehead and spoke like his mother.

“‘Oh, Grigor, how could you? He’s so, so, common!’” They both laughed.

“You rebel, you.” Mal giggled.

“Now this.” Grigor held up the flask. “This flask belonged to my great, um,

great? Grandfather. See,” he offered the flask, “you can see were the silver is

slightly worn; been handed down from generation to generation.”

“So why’ve you got it? We’re too young to drink, remember?” Mal took

another slug of bourbon with the same result.

“Jesus, pal, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Mal leaned to the side, blocked one nostril and blew. Then he did the other

side. “Yeah, but it’s got a nice flavour, once you get past the…” He broke off

and tilted his head. “Did you hear that?” He asked softly.

Grigor listened; all he heard was the breeze through the trees. “Nup.”

Mal shook himself. “I could have sworn I heard… Nah. Don’t wanna think

about it.”

But both sat in silence and listened anyway. Grigor looked around,

searching for the noise Mal had said he’d heard, but saw nothing unusual.

“Did you know,” Grigor leaned towards his friend and spoke softly, “that

the trees don’t rustle?”

“What?”

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 “The wind in the trees, it don’t rustle. You know how we’re always reading

at school about ‘leaves rustling in the wind’? Well, they don’t rustle.” He

spoke slowly and failed to squelch his smirk.

“They don’t?”

“No. If you listen carefully, it’s the sound of steam.” He leaned closer until

his lips almost touched Mal’s ear.

“Steam.”

“Rustling,” he whispered, “is a momentary event. The leaves, in a constant

breeze, make a sssss sound.” His whisper rose and fell as he drew out the

sound. “It’s the sound of a…” he softened his voice until the last word.

“Hiss.”

Mal jerked away from him. “Crap!”

Grigor snickered. “It’s true.” He said, his tone more normal, and yet still

hushed. Maybe it was because they were in a graveyard. He took a sip of the

wine, clutched his jacket tighter around his thin body.

“You are such a dick.” Mal griped and took a tentative sip from the bottle.

“That’s what we’re here for.” Grigor snickered. He aimed his light behind

him to read the headstone. “Here lies the faithless Adam Paul. He’s dead and

buried and with the Lord. One wife to many and died in a brawl.” Grigor

grinned.

“Hey, they spelt ‘to’ wrong. Isn’t it supposed to have two ‘o’s’?”

“Yeah, good to know you paid attention in English, but look at the date.”

He shone the flashlight lower. “1720 to 1748. Twenty-eight. He was a

young’un.”

“Shoulda kept his pecker in his pants then.” Mal agreed.

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 Grigor got up and walked to the next headstone. It held nothing of interest

and he moved on. Mal followed him.

“This is boring.” Mal complained as they hunted for more entertaining

headstones. “I thought graveyards were supposed to be, you know, haunted

or something.”

“They are. I saw a thing on PBS one night? This guy, he left a tape recorder

turned on in the middle of a graveyard and when he replayed it, he could

hear voices on the tape.”

“That’s bullshit, man.” Mal said from behind him. “Some asshole probably

spoke into it.”

Grigor shook his head. “Nope, he had a video camera hidden so he could

watch.” He put the flashlight under his chin and turned slowly towards his

friend. “No-one showed up. Only the voices of lost souls.” He intoned.

He saw the glimmer of light in Mal’s wide eyes.

“You are shittin’ me.” Mal’s voice quavered and he slurped down a

mouthful.

“Nah. Scared the spit outta me when I heard those voices. They played the

actual tape.” He clicked off the flashlight and whispered, “help me, help me.

I’m lossst and I don’t know where I am…”

“Cut it out.”

He turned the light on, shrugged. “Just telling you what the voices said.”

“Can’t be true.” Mal muttered and took a swig of Jack.

“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Grigor asked and continued to wander

though the headstones.

“Nah, s’all made up, isn’ it. I mean there ain’t no proof.”

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 Grigor thought Mal was trying to convince himself, that he tried to be

strong, cynical, manly. Through the gloom, he saw a low stone-built structure

and smiled.

“Huh. Goober thought so, too.” He sneered.

“Goober. Wasn’ he the guy who dis’ppear’d las’ year?”

Mal, Grigor thought, was getting well and truly pissed. In a show of

solidarity, he sipped his wine again.

“Yeah, homeless guy who ran around screaming about the end of the

world and the dead rising and stuff. Man, he was weird.” Grigor remembered

the man, unwashed with food stuck in his black beard, smelly, a feral gleam

in his gold-coloured eyes, ratty clothes.

Mal chuckled in response. “Guy was a nut job. Disgustin’ ol’ scrote. Prob’ly

lyin’ in a ditch somew’re.”

“Could be, Mal, could be.” The beam of the flashlight lit up the stone door

of the crypt. He turned back to Mal. “Whaddya think?” He leaned into Mal.

“Wanna look and tell ghost stories to each other?”

Mal giggled. “You can’t scare me, Grigs. I betcha ya can’t.”

Grigor’s grin was lopsided. “How much?”

“Wha’?”

“How much do you bet I can scare yah? Make ya squeal like a girl?”

Mal punched his arm. “You caint. I ain’t ‘fraid of no dead house.”

“Crypt, Mal, it’s a crypt.”

“I bet there’re lots of skel’tons in there, rottin’ corpses, dead, stinkin’

zombies with hollowed out eyes jus’ waiting to suck ya brains out through

your nose or somethin’.”

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 Mal was grinning like an idiot, slurping down his drink.

“Car’n ya wuss, let’s do it.” Grigor smirked with conspiratorial glee.

They both all but ran to the door, pushing and shoving each other.

In front of the stone edifice they paused, saw the metal-wrought handle

with the bar keeping the door shut and grinned at each other.

“You do it.” Grigor nudged Mal.

“No, you do it.” Mal nudged back.

“No, you.” Grigor nudged him harder and Mal stumbled.

“It was your idea, you do it.” Mal thumped him again with his fist.

“Girl.” Grigor sneered and walked up to the door, the light firmly on the

ornate area. He pulled the bar from the handle.

“Bitch.” Mal sneered and reached out for the lever, ready to push it down.

Grigor stepped aside, held the light firm on Mal’s white knuckles as he

lowered the handle. He paused for a moment, then pushed.

Stone ground against stone as the door moved inwards.

“Holy Hell!” Mal coughed and turned his head. “What a stink!” With his

other hand, he lifted the bottle, now almost empty, and took a swig. He

covered his nose for a moment then looked back at Grigor with an impish

smile. “C’mon, girlfriend, let’s party!”

Inside the crypt was dark. No, Grigor thought, not simply dark, but black.

The black only the blind could know, but he didn’t bring up the light as he

stood in the doorway. The smell was appalling. It stank, as Mal had said, of

rotting corpses.

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 Mal was ahead of him, feeling his way over the cold covers of the

sarcophagi, no doubt looking for a place to sit. “Shine the light, Grigs.” Mal

called. “I wanna see.”

Grigor heard Mal’s trainers shuffling across the stone floor. Everything in

here was stone or metal, except for one thing.

The blood in his veins iced over as he heard another, slower scrape against

stone to the left of his friend. His heart began to race as he realised Mal, in his

drunken state, hadn’t heard the noise.

He couldn’t utter a sound, but still didn’t bring the light to bear. Instead, he

backed up, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled with all his might to

close it. The steel bar leaned up against the wall. He picked up and jammed it

under the door handle and doorjamb. Then he back away.

He couldn’t hear Mal, but could imagine the complaints, the slowly rising

voice, the shouts. He wiped his mouth and swallowed. He could clearly see in

his mind the panic on Mal’s face as he realised he’d been locked in. Then Mal

would hear the noise behind him and begin screaming. Probably like a

hysterical girl.

Grigor back up further and lifted the light to the top of the door.

How his great, great, whatever grandfather, managed to become the living

dead, he didn’t know; nor did his father, nor grandfather. Both men spoke of

the man in fearful, sick and sorry tones. All he knew was that Grigor the First

needed to be fed every year on this night, at this time, midnight; and it was his

progeny who bore the burden of providing the meal - however that

happened, or have the creature come after them.

Last year was Grigor’s first time; the homeless man.

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 When his breathing settled back into something resembling normal, Grigor

walked back out of the graveyard, checking over his shoulder ever ten

seconds. His father was waiting. His father waited last year, too.

Without a word, Grigor the Fourth clapped a hand on Grigor the Fifth’s

shoulder and guided him to the waiting limousine.

Once enclosed in the comfort of luxury, Grigor drank down the rest of the

wine. “How many more?” He asked hoarsely.

“Until he is satisfied.” His father murmured and indicated the driver to

move on.

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 Street of Souls

Darkness suited him; a shadow swathed in night, watching with gleaming

black eyes for his prey.

Anticipation swelled in his chest, the burn of hunger sharp in his guts like

claws.

He cocked his head to listen. He couldn’t let the beast inside overwhelm

him. To be caught meant instant death. Patience, he cautioned.

Aladaar huddled in his black cloak, stamped his feet. It was bitter, this

night. I should have chosen a more heavily populated area. He stared out at the

empty street from the stygian maw of the alley.

No. Cutthroats, thieves, prostitutes and beggars; the mad and the drunks…

they all lived here, if you could call this refuse-strewn, sewer-stinking street

as ‘home’.

Bright lanterns hung on wooden posts at each end of the street; the light

barely reached the sides of the road. He’d chosen his spot well: the alleyway

off the centre of the thoroughfare.

He glanced to the right, towards the docks, up into the night sky. A curve

of pus yellow moon hung low. The inns would close soon, and then… well. A

smile lifted his lips as eagerness rose, eased the burn.

A door opened and noise fell into the air. Aladaar drew in a breath and

smelled his target: an ale-ridden old man.

No, he mused with surprise. The elderly man was surrounded by another,

darker, more seductive scent: magic. Its sharp tang stung Aladaar’s nostrils

and he flinched. Damn them, why couldn’t they leave these people alone? Why

must they hunt the down-trodden and desperate? He helped them far more

than anyone else, but the Councillors never seemed to appreciate that.

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 They would not stop him. His lip curled in a sneer as he shifted on silent

feet and peered around the corner. The old man was being held up by one of

the Councillors and he felt the smile crease his chilled face. One shouldn’t be

too much trouble.

He called to his own brand of magic, eased out a breath and waited. This

Councillor appeared raw; too young, too inexperienced to stop him.

Aladaar stepped out of the alley.

The woman gasped and stared at him. He could see her tremble, a fine

ripple shuddered through her body. The old man didn’t react, but he was so

addled, he was drooling even as he swayed at the sudden stop.

“I would take him.” Aladaar murmured and stared at the wrinkled and

stooped man.

“No!” The woman shook her blonde head and struggled to hold herself,

and the old man, upright.

Aladaar stepped closer as she squeezed the old man to her side as if to

protect the wasted shell of humanity. He kept his voice soft, cajoling. “Can

you not feel him slipping away? Can you not hear the slowing beat of his

heart? He has suffered much in this life.”

The woman shuffled backwards, glanced around for help, but there was

none, not on this street. It was why chose this as his hunting ground. And it

struck Aladaar as odd. This woman oozed with magic... Could it be that she

didn’t know?

The tension tightening his shoulders eased and Aladaar felt the thrum of

excitement course through his veins.

“You… don’t know me, do you?” He asked gently and she shook her head,

kept her eyes on him.

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 “I’m sorry if I startled you.” He lifted his hands slowly and pulled back the

cowl of his cape, smiled at her, filled his eyes with kind warmth.

He tilted his head. “I am Aladaar. I’m often down here looking for the

imperilled.”

“You?” She asked, doubt in her eyes.

Aladaar’s chuckle was rueful. “Just because I dress like I live uptown,

which is where I do live, doesn’t mean I should ignore the… less fortunate of

our citizens.” He nodded at her charge. “I need to use my wealth for more

than self-indulgence.” He gave a sad sigh at her wary expression and

slumped his shoulders. “Like you, I have a calling and I understand your

hesitancy. This place,” he gazed around at the garbage-strewn street, “no-one

should be here, living in squalor, in poverty.” His eyes met hers. “In

desperation and desolation. I truly am here to help.”

The woman adjusted her hold on the man, as if he were growing heavier.

And he must have been, for the old man’s milky eyes had closed and he

leaned more heavily against her.

“If you have any doubts, perhaps you could speak with a representative of

the Council?” It was daring of him to mention the ruling body, but she was a

neophyte. The mere mention of the Council had her eyes widening.

“You… you know someone on… the Council?” She asked, awe filled her

eyes and she shifted her grip on the old man who’d slumped against her.

He gave her a beguiling smile. “Not someone, every one of them, and they

know me.” But not for the reasons you’re thinking, sweetling. “I’m often down

here, keeping close watch on those who need it.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m supposed to escort Mr Ellirod home.”

21
 “Then indeed, why don’t I assist you?” He flung his cape wide in

preparation of her passing the old man over. “He must be heavy.” He said

persuasively and smiled.

With some reluctance, the woman eased the limp man into Aladaar’s arms.

He held the old one easily in one arm and pressed a hand to the man’s chest

with the other.

Immediately he could feel the waning strength, the weakening life force.

There wasn’t much to sustain him, but then again…

Aladaar took a deep breath and held out his hand.

“Why don’t you take his other side, then he’ll be completely protected and

you’ll be doing exactly what you were charged to do.” He kept his tone

seductively low and with a relieved smile, the woman wrapped her arm

around the old one’s waist.

Aladaar made sure she touched him, too, and revelled in her power.

***

Aladaar sat on a carved chair outside the King’s Tavern enjoying the sun

and his breakfast. He listened to the gossips seated at a table next him.

“…The White Council said two more bodies and that the killer left no

clues.” A well-dressed corpulent woman loudly pronounced to her

companion and bit down on a flaky pastry.

“A soul-sucker for sure.” The second, emaciated woman agreed.

“Left only desiccated husks, I heard.” The first woman intoned.

Aladaar patted his full belly and sighed, heard the horrified cries of the

woman and old man inside of him. It would be a couple of days before their

life forces were completely digested by the beast. Then he could hunt again.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder to the women; maybe the fat one.

22
 Choices

The world tilted crazily: ships masts, dark sails, black water, lantern-lit

dock, shadowed buildings, star-speckled sky, masts, sails, water, dock,

buildings, sky…

Kelso swung around the spar once more, released, then landed lightly in

the crow’s nest of the merchant ship Mortal’s Bane, hunkered down, out of

sight. If the Guard caught her out after curfew…

She brought her knees up to her chest and tried to still her rapid breathing,

her pounding heart. After all the effort to get here dodging citizens and

soldiers alike, failure meant prison... or worse. Not that she was up to

anything nefarious. No, she was out practicing.

An acrobat could never have too much practice. It was a mantra she lived

by. Kelso rested her forehead on her knees, concentrated on measured

breathing to calm her nerves. Once, her family were renowned throughout

the land as the premier acrobats; tumbled for royalty, they did, made a

fortune, until… the ‘accident’.

Now, if she could get herself down again without attracting any

attention… oh, and don’t forget the proof she’d made it this far.

Kelso raised her head and looked around. She was in a bloody crow’s nest,

what kind of proof would she be able to garner up here? Her gaze moved up

the mast to the capped end. Oh… crap.

Oh, Sando, you vengeful, spiteful sadist.

When he suggested this mission, excitement surged through her veins; a

challenge, at last, she thought. She could imagine herself clambering all over

those ropes and spars, dodging witnesses by hiding behind the cargo or

23
above the lantern-light’s reach. Now, though, it seemed not only foolhardy,

but pointless, too.

What would Sando do with a spar flag? Sure, they were long, but they

were narrow, too, not much to them. The Mortal’s Bane’s flags were a rich red

and burgundy colour. Maybe Sando was going to make some headbands?

Certainly, the irony of the ship’s name wasn’t lost on her.

Nah, Kelso decided and stretched out her legs, massaged her leg and knee.

Whatever he had in mind, she wanted nothing to do with it. She would get

him the accursed flag and then leave him to his own devices. She was tired of

doing everything for him, of giving in to his every demand just to assuage her

guilt. But it was his guilt, too. She understood that now.

He’d milked that for all it was worth and more. Seven Hells, she hadn’t

escaped injury, either! But Sando - poor, pitiful, selfish, self-indulgent, angry,

destructive Sando - if he couldn’t fly as an acrobat, he’d make damn sure

everyone’s life around him was as miserable as his own.

Friends shunned them, no longer expressed sympathy and merely shook

their heads in disgust at his inability to get over it.

Sando’s shout echoed through her memory. “Get over it? How do you get

over not being able to use your legs, you insensitive lack wit!” He yelled at his

last and best friend Bethna.

She’d looked at him. “Do you not want to live anymore?” She’d asked, her

blue eyes sad.

“What do you know about it?” Sando grumped and folded his arms across

his chest, stared out the grubby window.

“I can take care of it, if you wish.” She said softly. “You can either die like a

man, or live your life as a snivelling, wretched wreck, Sando, making

everyone’s life as torturous as your own. If you choose the former, I’ll help

24
you go to sleep in peace. If you choose the latter, you will never see me again,

for I will not put up with this abuse.”

Sando curled his lip, dragged his body higher in his bed. Then he turned

away from the window, ignored Bethna to sneer at Kelso. “So, sister mine,

you would have me assassinated? I’m such a burden, you’d have this witch

kill me? Is it so tiresome, so disgusting, to help me, your own brother? One

betrayal wasn’t enough, you have to take that final step?”

Kelso felt her face pale as she remember the poisoned and embittered tone

in her brother’s voice, felt the sharp pain in her heart at his accusation.

“You would have me murdered so you can be free of me. Look at you!

Whole, walking, talking… and no doubt fuc…”

“That’s enough Sando!” Bethna shouted, drowning out Sando’s vitriol.

“Speak your choice!”

He’d turned his fiery green eyes to her. “I will stay in this place until I am

satisfied my… bane has been punished properly.” His lip curled again as he

flicked a glance in Kelso’s direction.

Bethna raised an eyebrow. “So be it.” She had turned then and walked

away, her dress swishing against the floor. That was last month and Kelso

never saw Bethna again. Rumour had it she’d left town and that saddened

Kelso because she had always enjoyed the other woman’s company, thought

Bethna and Sando might one day… Now she, like Sando, were alone.

Kelso stood and wrapped a hand around the mast. She looked up at the

cap and shook her head. One last foolhardy exercise and no more of Sando’s

escapades. Sando made his choice. Her toes gripped the wooden mast and she

climbed up.

Once she had her prize secured under her shirt, she searched the dock for

foot traffic, and down to the deck for the ship’s watch to change.

25
 This late at night, the watch was more ‘find-a-comfy-spot-and-doze’. The

sailors below her did as she expected; one sat in a giant coil of rope, settled

down to sleep while the other leaned over the stern and stared at the dim

lights of the dock.

Keslo climbed over the crow’s nest, walked the spar to a rope and climbed

down, hand-over-hand. The planks felt smooth under her toes as she silently

lowered herself to the deck near the bow. All was silent. The crew would

catch Seven Hells for the missing flag, she thought with a grin.

She hopped over the side of the ship and onto the stone pier. As soon as

her feet touched stone, she felt an enormous weight lift off her shoulders and

a wicked grin pulled at her mouth. She still had it, still had the talent.

Kelso all but skipped down the alleyway that led home. She stopped and

stretched out her muscles, rolled her shoulders and flexed her arms. She felt

good. Really, really good, almost back to normal.

A giant, meaty hand came down hard onto the back of her neck and she

sucked in a breath of surprise.

“Alright, missy, what’re you doin’ out beyond curfew?” A deep voice

demanded.

“E… e… exercising, sir. I was in an accident and…” Kelso said in a

trembling voice and tried to steady her pounding heartbeat.

The hand moved from her neck, slid down her spine and across to her

waist. “There’s no one out tonight. Just you and I. You can exercise all you

want with me.” His voice was rough, his hand crept around her stomach,

pulled her against his big body and she felt a surge of pure adrenalin.

“P… Please… sir… Let me go! You’re making me feel…”

26
 “I don’t think so. I think you’ll have to pay a toll.” His mouth came down

on her nape and both his hands wrapped around her slim waist.

***

“Did you get it?” Sando’s terse question interrupted Kelso’s thoughts as

she walked through the door to his bedroom. She could smell the illness in

here, catch the scent of desperation, anger and self-neglect. It wasn’t anything

she could do about. All she could do was clean up: him and the room, and

throw more humiliation on her brother’s head by demonstrating that he

couldn’t look after himself – at least in his eyes.

He could have if he tried, but he didn’t want to, wasn’t ready to face that

yet. Well, she’d had enough.

“Yes, Sando, I did.” She tried out a smile as she handed over the package.

He didn’t thank her, merely took it from her with ill-grace and tore it open.

“And this is from the crow’s nest mast?”

“Yes, Sando, it is.”

His green eyes narrowed as they met hers. “I don’t believe you. I think you

screwed one of the crewmen into giving it to you.” His eyes crawled up and

down her body. “You’re too fat and slow to be able to climb up there.”

The words hurt, but he’d flung them at her so often, she was becoming

numb to them. She waited for what came next; it always did. Kelso kept her

eyes on his.

“If you’d been thinner, faster, a better acrobat you could have saved me,

Kelso. This is your fault.”

Kelso stepped closer to the bed and tilted her head. “You know what I

think, Sando? I think you like to keep me around to punish yourself as well as

me.” His face paled. “I think you’re so filled with guilt and self-hate that you

27
cannot stand to be alone with yourself. Yet, you can’t be totally to blame, can

you. Well, guess what, brother. You are to blame. This was your doing and no

one else’s.”

“How dare you!” White rimmed his mouth he was so furious. Kelso

stepped back.

“Sando, it’s time to face up to the truth. You had no business scruffing with

the princess. You had no right to drag me into your sordid affair. You had no

right to demand I help you escape. Worst of all, Sando,” she paused, watched

is rage-filled eyes, “you lost your nerve and you know it. Any acrobat would

have made that leap; the balcony wasn’t that far away. But you didn’t; you

panicked when you heard the palace guard and I couldn’t get to you in time.”

Tears sprang into his eyes and she bit her lip. She would not give in on this, as

she had so many times before.

Kelso massaged her hip. She’d broken her femur in the fall, dislocated her

knee and ankle, too.

Kelso began to pace, but kept her eyes on her brother’s. “The horrible thing

is, you dragged me off the wall, too, because you didn’t want to die alone.

You nearly killed me. It sticks in your craw that I’m almost recovered and

you’re not, nor will you ever be. And still, you don’t want to be alone. But

you’ll punish me; you’ll twist the truth until you can convince yourself it was

me who did this to you.” She snorted out a laugh.

“And I’ve let you because if I had been faster, quicker and fitter, I may have

been able to save you this never-ending pain.” She looked away from the grief

and knowledge in his eyes. Kelso lifted her shoulders. “I’m not going to let

you do that anymore, Sando. You did this to yourself. It’s been more than a

year. Get used to it, or get over it.”

She went to the door and opened it.

28
 “Where are you going?” Sando croaked behind her.

“Where? I’m going where I’m needed and wanted, and yes… loved -

without reservation, without vitriol, without spite.” She turned back to him.

“You were half-right. I am screwing someone.” She gave him a half smile.

“He’s actually one of the guards. All those times you sent me out on errands

to test my skills as an acrobat, hoping I would fail and fall so I could be like

you or worse? He watched and he helped. He encouraged and nurtured and

gave me back my courage.”

“You can’t leave me, Kelso, what will I do without you? How will I

survive?” He sounded so pitiful, so lost and she hesitated.

She ran a hand through her black hair and turned away, her head bowed.

In his mirror, on the wall facing him, she saw the sly, smug calculation in his

eyes. She brought her hand down. “You do whatever you need to do to live or

to die, Sando. Make your choice.”

The door snicked shut behind her.

“Wait!” She heard his plaintive cry. “Kelso! Don’t go!”

“How did it go?” The giant guard asked.

Kelso shrugged and walked into his arms. “It’s his choice. You’ve made me

understand it’s always been his choice; and mine. I can’t facilitate his needs

anymore - you’re right about that. He can rejoin the living, or he can join the

dead.” She looked up into that oh, so handsome face. “All he has to do is

choose, like I have.”

He grinned. “And a fine choice it is, too.”

29
 Ritual

The ritual didn’t go well. James has that look in his eyes again; the one that

disturbs me on a deep level. As if… as if… I gently snorted. I’m probably

imagining things. Again.

Maybe it’s the house. This monument, this testimony to convict labour has

stood since 1810 following a land grant by Governor Lachlan Macquarie to

John Ogilvy for services to the Colony.

I sat in the conservatory, surrounded by lush plants and night darkened

glass. The quiet seeped into my soul, soothed my pounding heart. Every

evening, following dinner, the ritual began with my wandering the house,

closing windows against the cool air, shutting doors to hold in the heat.

“Let the servants do it.” James’ harsh comment echoed in my mind. “It’s

what they’re paid for.”

My poor James. The son of wealth and influence and it wasn’t enough.

Control of business meant control over his home and those who inhabited it,

sometimes with raw language, sometimes with violence.

There was no apology in him, for it was a family trait to rule with iron fist

and short commands.

I looked through the glass, into the night, towards the rose garden and

beyond where I knew the family rested in eternal slumber, surrounded by

lush blooms in spring, naked sticks in winter.

Poor James. He would join his ancestors soon enough, whether through

tragedy or illness. Virtually all Ogilvy men died young. None reached the age

of sixty.

So many out there, struck down in their prime. William, lost at see off the

coast of Eden during a storm in 1859 and his brother Joshua, gunned down by

30
an escaped convict. James, John and Albert during the Great War; one at

Gallipoli, two in France. Another Albert struck down by cholera at Changi,

his brother Daniel, shot down over Germany. However, some survived the

conflicts. Martin returned from the Boer War covered in glory. Andrew and

Scott came home from the Great War with their own medals and never-

ending nightmares. Andrew killed himself in 1934 while Scott determined to

go on.

Yes, the family had a military tradition. Sons of Ogilvy served in every war

so far. My own sons serve: Richard in the Army, while Thomas sails the seas

in the Navy. I’m proud of them, proud they continue the tradition. But what

kind of men will they be when they return? Bitter and angry like their father?

To James’ great shame, the armed services rejected his application on

health grounds. His brother, David, is a Brigadier and never lets James forget

who succeeded and who did not. To James’ credit, he maintains and grows

the family’s wealth and influence. And still it’s not enough.

Tonight, the shame returned. I don’t know what provoked it, but he’s

snarling with barely leashed violence. It is for this reason that I perform the

ritual of wandering the house. It’s to keep out of his way lest he…

We do not speak of such things in polite society. Suffice to say that the

women of the family have always known when their menfolk are… unhappy.

I can hear James. He’s shouting at a servant. I don’t know who the poor

wretch is, but, no doubt, James will recompense them in the next wage

payment.

I sighed, rested my hands in my lap and lowered my head. Is it wrong for

me to be absent when he is in such a mood and allow someone else to

withstand the worst of his temper? He knows not to strike an employee. It

would tarnish his public reputation to be charged with assault.

31
 A smile tightened my cheeks. No, the ritual had not gone well and it’s

probably my fault the poor unfortunate suffers the consequences. Every

evening on my wanderings, I place a sprig of rowan on the windowsills to

ward off evil. Every evening, James finds a sprig or two and is enraged.

I do this because I think he’s cursed, as his father before him, and his

father, all the way back to the land grant. According to the records, this land

was sacred to an Aboriginal tribe. Which one, I have no idea, nor do the

records say; only that there was an encampment here.

John Ogilvy and some of his friends chased the inhabitants off or…

murdered them, for there is no other word for the slaughter of men, women

and children. In those days, Aborigines weren’t considered civilised humans,

but pests to be removed from arable land. So much death surrounds this

house. I shook my head.

I sought to remove the curse, but James has no interest in such… arcane

things, even if it would help him with his mood swings.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, wife. How dare you suggest such a

thing?” He’d ranted when I suggested he see a doctor. The bruises didn’t take

long to fade, thanks to some herbal remedies, and that was the last time I

made comment on the issue.

Agnes, James’ mother, taught me how to avoid the worst of the male

behaviour in the house. Again, it is tradition in this family that such

knowledge be handed to each new bride, and I will do the same for the next

generation.

I don’t see my situation as sad or tragic as others might, I see it as a

challenge: to save this family and create a haven of happiness is my goal,

though some days, it is beyond difficult.

32
 James will look at me with a gleam in his eyes and smile and… I promised

to love and obey; that includes the bedroom. Again, the bruises don’t take

long to fade.

He’s done with the servant; I can hear her weeping which was his goal.

Tears are an aphrodisiac to him and he will be searching for me. If I don’t go,

his wrath will be fearsome, indeed.

My hands are shaking, but I stand and make my way towards the stairs. I

brush by Matthew, who turns with a startled look on his handsome young

face. All of seventeen and already has the girls seeking his attention. But why

does he look scared? James never uses violence against the boys, only the

women – to remind them of their place.

I’ve always a smile for Matthew, but James’ demands come first, so I

continue on to the hand-carved stairs. He’s on the second level, waiting and I

make my way up.

“James.” A respectful nod with head bowed assures him of my

subservience.

“You’ll not walk the house of an evening. Is that understood?” He growled.

“Yes, James.” I replied, firmly. He hates wishy-washy. He wants obedience

and subservience, not replies faint with fear, not from me, the Lady of the

house.

His voice turns soft, filled with threat as he steps closer. “You’ve defied me

before, Jane. Why should I believe your promises now?”

Fear, cold and insidious, flashes through my veins, freezing me on the spot.

I slowly lift my head and James’ eyes are the cold blue of a Winter sky, empty

of any emotion.

33
 “You constantly defy me; embarrass me in front of the staff and meet

with… less desirable members of society. What good are you if I can’t control

you, hmm?” His fingers brush my cheek with mock affection. “Why can’t you

simply do as I say?”

I said nothing, for to speak would incur violence. I swallowed hard.

“Now you understand, my sweet, treacherous Jane.” His smile was cold,

even as I felt the warmth of his fingers. “Oh, yes, I know of the gardener. I

know you have an assignation with him.” His fingers were cruel and hard as

the pressed into my cheeks, gripped my jaw. “I do not believe you ‘consult’

with him on the design and flora of the grounds. No. I’ve heard stories,

madam, and I will not be cuckolded by you or any man.”

I stared into his eyes. Nothing I could say, no proof could I present would

convince him that I did indeed meet with the gardener to discuss the grounds.

James was not the kind of man who believed that I loved him and only him.

His jealousy knew no bounds and any man who looked at me, in his eyes,

was guilty of lust. That meant I was guilty of worse: of seducing them,

because men could resist until a woman smiled at them. That was James’

belief.

He tilted his head and eased the pressure of his fingers, his eyes lingering

on the red marks. “You make me do things, Jane, that I don’t want to. I don’t

want to hurt you, but you do know you have to be punished, your behaviour

corrected.”

His eyes flared with heat.

“Release me, James.” I said and his mouth twisted. “I am still sore from last

night.”

“Again,” he dropped his hand, “you seek to evade your just punishment.”

He gripped my upper arms and leaned in close, his breath smelling of

34
brandy. “I will beat you to within an inch of your life. I will see to it no man

looks at you again. I will kill anyone who comes near you.” He ground his

mouth against mine in an act of violent possession. I wrenched my mouth

away, tasted blood.

“Mom?” Matthew called up the stairs and I turned, horrified that he’d

seen.

I would not have the boy witness this and I wrenched away from James.

He retained hold of one arm.

Matthew continued up the stairs, turned his head at the landing.

“It’s time he learned the ways of the Ogilvys.” James sneered. “And you…

to be reminded of your place.” He drew back his hand and slapped me once,

twice, then used his fist. My head snapped back, blood flew from my mouth.

“Stop.” I cried, raised my arm to protect myself, but James laughed, a deep,

chuckle of amusement. He swung his fist again as I tried to pull away. He

held me fast, as he struck me, his strength increasing as his control slipped

away.

I slapped him and he jerked back in shock, dropped my arm. I’d never

defended myself before, but I would protect Matthew from this. I cast a quick

glance over my shoulder. The boy stood on the landing, shuffling from one

foot to the other, as if unsure.

“You… struck me. You bitch!” James said, astonished and I slowly turned

back to my husband.

His arm raised, hand clenched, he hit me with as much force as he could. I

started to fall backwards, stared at my murderous husband. His eyes were

triumphant.

35
 I had all the time in the world, and none at all and I hit the steps with a

thud, rolled down like a doll, through Matthew. Bright, brief pain shot

through my neck and then darkness enclosed me.

I heard James’ laughter and Isobel, Matthew’s mother replying to him,

then... nothing.

***

The ritual didn’t go well. James has that look in his eyes again; the one that

disturbs me on a deep level. As if… as if… I gently snorted. I’m probably

imagining things. Again.

Maybe it’s the house…

36
 Peacemaker

Carriage lamps flickered on either side of the entrance to the White Horse

Inn; formed circles of gold on the white paint of the walls. Set between the

lamps was a wooden door, painted in a dark colour.

Standing outside, wrapped in an emerald coloured cloak over my pale

green dress and bustle to ward off the chilly late Autumn air, I scanned the

surrounds carefully, but all was hidden by the fog-laced night. I could hear an

odd humming sound and tried to identify from whence it came. It was too

constant to be conversation, too soft to be music; nothing in nature, I knew,

could make that high rhythmic, burring hum.

I turned my head to the left, listening, then the right; the noise emanated

from the interior of the inn. Was it of consequence that the irritation came

from the very place I was to enter?

I would not find out standing here, yet, in this age, it was almost a sin, an

invitation to assault and worse, for a single woman to enter an inn without a

male escort.

Here, in Wiltshire, on a lonely road empty of houses but surrounded by

rolling green hills and farmsteads, it would be… unfortunate should anyone

interfere with me.

I had no doubts I could deflect any unwanted attention, but I would be

remembered for it and that was not my intention. My party awaited me; I

could not linger and taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door of inn.

All sound at the bar to my right ceased, except for that damnable

humming.

37
 The barkeeper turned towards me, his smile peeking out from his

handlebar moustache, he had matching mutton chop sideburns to

compensate for the receding tide of red hair.

“Good evening, Lady Scott, your party has already arrived.” He bobbed his

head and the conversations resumed at a lower level.

“Thank you, Mr Devon, I’ll see to them myself.” I said and smiled back at

him.

I strode down the carpeted hallway, ignoring the dark wood of the

panelling and the portraitures of previous owners. I stood in front of an

equally dark door and took another deep breath, removed my cloak.

The handle moved smoothly as I opened the door. I gasped at the sight

before me. The two men I had come to met had not sat calmly in idle, polite

conversation as gentlemen should. One man had the other by the throat and

second man had a knife to the jugular of the first. The man with the knife

tried hard to cut the first, determined to kill him, but he was held off easily.

“Gentlemen!” My voice was loud, attracting their attention. They gave each

other an evil glare before slowly releasing their holds.

“What’s this all about?” I demanded and closed the door behind me, hung

my cloak on the cedar coat rack and pulled the kid leather gloves from my

hands. The room held three tables with two chairs each and a high backed

lounge against the wall. It was known as ‘the ladies lounge’, since women of

breeding didn’t drink with men.

Both men resumed their seats, mutinous expressions on their faces. “’Tis no

business for a lady to be involved in.” The older of the two muttered and

looked away. The other didn’t bother looking at me, but sat with his long legs

under the table, for all appearances a man at ease with himself. His blond hair

38
was short, perfectly groomed. His eyes were green, I knew and, at most times,

were filled will amusement, usually at someone else’s expense.

“Detective Chief Inspector Morecombe,” I chastised the older man, “we are

diplomats, not brawlers.”

His ruddy face flushed, accentuating the grey at his temples. The rest of his

hair was an unremarkable brown, as were his eyes, although at the moment,

they held cold defiance. He leaned his elbows on the table, not the mark of a

gentleman. “It is only by the Queen Victoria’s command that I am here at all.”

I clasped my hands in front of me, gripped the strings of my clutch bag.

“Indeed. And she thought you would be the most… reasonable of all her

Guardia. And you, Sebastian,” I turned to the other man. His long forefinger

was busily drawing in a pool of water left by the two ale glasses. “I would

have expected more restraint from the King’s vassal. Yet, here I am, a lady of

both courts, and neither of you have seen fit to correct your manners and

address me as such. I know that a gentleman always rises when a lady comes

into the room. Or has that changed since my mission to India?”

Both men looked momentarily chagrined and rose. Both gave me a bow

with their heads. Morecombe went so far as to hold out a chair for me. I gave

him a smile.

“I’ll go fetch some refreshments.” He grumbled.

“Thank you, Inspector; that would be lovely.” He bobbed his head and left

me with Sebastian.

“What was that all about, Bastian?” I asked.

He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed. “I don’t know, but that

humming noise is beginning to piss me off. It’s almost painful. A deep throb

in my head.” He dropped his hands and sighed. “All I know is that the

Inspector has been most confrontational since I arrived. He’s supposed to be

39
the Queen’s counsel in the negotiations, but all he can do is sneer and belittle

and snipe.”

“I would suggest, Bastian, that he is afraid of you.”

“And so he should be. And so he should be. I could tear his throat out and

drink every last drop.”

“Why didn’t you? Why did you let him grab you like that, and with a

knife! How could you be so careless?”

“I heard you coming. I didn’t want to hurt him, for the Dark Goddess’s

sake, just restrain him. This treaty is too important. It will have to wait, he

comes.”

The door swung open and Morecombe came in with a tray; a golden ale for

him and Bastian, wine for me. He set the tray on the table and placed the glass

of white wine in front of me.

“Chardonnay,” he said. “I know you like the French variety from our

meeting yesterday morning.”

“Indeed, my thanks.” I took a sip of the crisp, dry wine and tried not to

smack my lips. It was delicious. Perhaps I could look into purchasing the

winery.

The men took big gulps of ale and I nearly smiled. Machismo: to see who to

take the largest mouthful, as if I found such childishness impressive. I

wondered how they would deal with the impending belches. See who was the

loudest? The longest? I waited, trying to keep the smirk off my face. Who had

the better manners?

Sure enough, Bastian, quietly burped into his fist, but Morecombe’s eyes

began to water before he jumped up and ran to the door. As it slammed, I

heard the expulsion of air and snickered.

40
 I had my diplomat’s face on when he returned, flushed with

embarrassment.

“Excuse me,” he murmured and resumed his seat.

“I think we should get started, don’t you?” I asked glancing from one man

to the other.

Both men nodded.

“The Queen,” I nodded to Morecombe, “wishes that the Vampire King,” I

nodded to Bastian, “cease and desist all… taking of humans.”

“’Tis nothing but murder!” Morecombe groused.

I ignored him. “The Vampire King wishes to feed his people. And,” I held

up a hand to forestall another comment from the policeman, “I might remind

you, Chief Inspector, that vampires have been around a lot longer than

England’s civilisation. It was they who defeated the Romans, the Saxons, the

Vikings, to keep this country pure. It was only through marriage that the

Saxons got a foothold in this land at all.”

Morecombe nodded. “Yeah, to save everyone from being slaughtered, I

know.”

“Not so, Inspector, the Queen told you. It is written in some of the oldest

texts known to man, in her private library. Who do you think wrote those

books? The Celts had no written language at the time, you would think…” I

bit off what I was going to say, it would have been pointless. “Excuse me, I

digress. What we need here, is a solution. And my suggestion is that the

Vampire King be given hunting rights, but not to kill the victims, only to feed.

A taste here, a taste there, a… spell of compulsion to make the victim forget.”

I took another sip of wine. It was truly of good stock.

41
 “I don’t know that the Queen will go for that.” Morecombe muttered and

watched as Bastian all but drained his glass.

“The King will.” Bastian murmured. “We only wish to be left in peace as

we always have been, until…”

“Yeah, Van Helsing destroyed… infestations of vampires in Europe, didn’t

he,” Morecombe sneered. “Him and his troop of slayers.”

Bastian narrowed his eyes and I could see a tic start beneath his right one.

He was getting well and truly angered by Morecombe’s attitude; and I

couldn’t blame him.

“Chief Inspector, I would advise you not to mention that. What he did was

murder vampires, the very thing you accuse them of.”

He turned towards me, eyes fierce. “Vampires are nothing but animals.

Condemned, damned, evil.”

Bastian rose unsteadily to his feet. “You talk to me of damnation? What do

you know about it?”

Morecombe grinned as Bastian slumped back into his seat. “I know a lot,

you blood sucker. I know that you are here alone with two humans,” his

triumphant eyes met mine. “I know that the humming noise you hear gives

you a bloody great headache, as it’s meant to. It’s a little invention of mine

and I thought I might test out the frequency on you. It’s set to above human

hearing; that’s why it affects you so.”

Bastian’s eyes met mine and I sat, stunned at the growing pink tinge. His

eyes overflowed with stained water, then the liquid turned red. He held out

his hands, his fingernails had turned a dark red and he coughed. Blood ran

from his lips. “What have you done to me?” He whispered hoarsely.

42
 I stood up, horrified at what I was seeing, backed away from him; his nose

began to bleed and red leaked from his ears.

“A little drug I slipped into your drink. Quite safe for humans,” he nodded

at me, “but quite toxic to vampires. Oh, I imagine if it was closer to daylight,

the dead sleep you have would heal you in time, but it’s barely ten o’clock. A

long, long way from dawn.” Morecombe rose and came to stand next to me.

I shifted backwards, appalled, sickened by what was happening. Bastian’s

head slumped to the table, blood flowing from all orifices now. “What have

you done?” I whispered. “What have you done?”

“Lady Scott, I have rid the world of a disgusting, amoral creature. He

would have followed you home and bled you dry. I will not let these animals

feed on us like we’re a Sunday roast! The Queen will understand when I tell

her.” His shoulder’s lifted in a shrug. “I’ll just say he attacked me and I had to

defend myself. You saw him when you came in. She’ll believe the both of us.”

I shook my head slowly. “No, Morecombe, you have started a war.”

His laugh was a bark of sound and he reached under the table and fiddled

with something. He pulled out a square metal box, flicked a switch and the

humming ceased, much to my relief. “Don’t need this any more. I must say it

is gratifying to know it works. I can’t wait to inform the Queen. We have no

need for a treaty now. Not with this and drug I’ve invented. We can hunt his

kind down with impunity.”

I was aghast. “The Vampire King’s vengeance will be terrible indeed when

he hears of this… abomination.”

“Bah, what can he do? He’s damned already. And I will take great pleasure

in killing him myself.” We both watched as a pool of blood spread from

beneath the table. “You should leave, Lady Scott, and let me clean up this

mess.”

43
 “You seek to take Van Helsing’s place in history.” I murmured watching

the growing pool.

“And I will too. The name of Alexander Morecombe will be known as the

greatest vampire slayer that ever lived.” Again he chuckled, the sound rich

and deep with happiness.

“You are a fool, Morecombe.” I shook my head and tore my eyes from

Bastian to stare in disbelief at the smug Inspector.

“Eh? Why’s that? I’ve killed myself a vampire. Nothing foolish about that.”

He shook his head, fiddled with the box before putting it into his top pocket.

“I’ll make sure your name isn’t mentioned in the investigation.” His laugh

barked out again. “Not that there’ll be one, of course.”

I waved off his comments, stood in front of him. His eyebrows rose in

surprise.

“Have you never wondered why the Queen is desperate for a treaty?” I

asked harshly. “Have you never thought of why the King wants peace?”

“He won’t get it, not while I’m still standing. We humans have to stick

together if we are to survive.” He patted my shoulder, then gripped both and

eased me to the side as the blood pool spread, drained off the table.

I looked at poor Bastian; so much blood from one body. I swallowed hard

and turned back to the foolish man.

“Then let me inform you, Inspector. Peace is essential if humans are to

survive. Peace is paramount because some of the vampires have evolved.”

Morecombe stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Day Striders Inspector Morecombe. A vampire who can walk under the

sun. Who can watch the sun rise and not burn to ash. A vampire, Morecombe,

who has the strength of an immortal, the enhanced senses, who drinks blood

44
and who can walk amongst humans. A vampire who still has vulnerabilities,

but who is much, much more lethal.”

“Day…” his brows lowered and he paled. “You mean vampires can now

walk during the day?”

“I mean exactly that. The barrier that is dawn no longer holds relief for

humans, nor fear for some vampires.”

Morecombe leaned back against the wall. “Oh, my God! They’ll hunt us

day and night! Slaughter us! But… how do you know this? I’m the Queen’s

representative, and I didn’t know.”

I gave him a benign smile and extended my razor sharp eye teeth until they

were points, an extra half an inch longer than usual. There was no mistaking

what I was. I ran my tongue across my teeth, watched as he went white. He

fumbled with his little machine and I grinned at him, gave him the full

measure of the elongated teeth.

“Your box doesn’t work on Day Striders. Oh, I can hear the hum, but it is

an irritant, nothing more.”

His hand dived into his pocket and he dragged out a tiny gold cross and

waved it in my face. I jerked back. Not because it was anathema to me, but

because I didn’t want to be poked in the eye by it.

“No cross, or garlic will help you now.” I slowly shook my head. “Some

myths, you shouldn’t believe.”

He drew his knife and I batted it away from his hand. I grabbed the front of

his jacket, pushed him back into a chair and I leaned into him. I lowered my

mouth to his and he whimpered, his breath short and trembling; the scent of

fear ripe and delicate.

45
 “Now then, what is the penalty for murder, Inspector?” I asked softly, my

lips brushing his. “What do you think the Queen will do to you? Give you to

our King, perhaps? It is only you and I who know about your little… device

and drug, isn’t it? You wanted the glory all to yourself. It wouldn’t do to

share it, would it now?”

“I won’t tell, I won’t tell, I won’t tell,” he whispered the words like a

prayer, a promise, but it was too late for that. He had killed; murdered a

vassal of the King, and that could not go unpunished. Fortunately for him, it

was not up to me.

I eased back, aware of a deep disappointment that it would be someone

else who would mete out justice. “In answer to your question, the Queen is

aware of the… problem which is why she wants the treaty. The King would

not see mass slaughter done, either and keeps the Day Striders as emissaries

and… problem solvers. We would be the same for our Queen. Oh, yes,

Inspector, I am a true lady of both courts, but you don’t need to know my

history.” I said and stepped away from him.

“We Day Striders are powerful enough in our own right to resist

corruption; we are able to regenerate after an assassination attempt without

the benefit of the healing sleep, skilful enough to fight our way out of

trouble.”

I stared at Bastian, felt the quiet grief at the death of a friend and colleague.

“Your job here was to deal with the finer points, not kill the King’s

representative. His job was to discuss things with you. My job was to act as an

intermediary, should it be necessary. I have the power of both Monarchs,

Morecombe; both of them trust me to resolve this to the satisfaction of two

peoples.”

46
 I didn’t know if he was still listening to me, he was still praying. His eyes

were wide with fear, unfocused. I think I really scared him. How unfortunate.

“You may have destroyed the only chance of peace, Inspector.” I looked at

him. He was still praying, though it eased off when I spoke. “Did you not

think of that when you came up with this plan? Did you not consider how

many you would have to hunt?”

He looked away from me to Bastian and I still saw the satisfaction in the

policeman’s eyes. Ah. I had his plan now. He killed one with a small box. If he

could make the device bigger, he could kill us in a wholesale slaughter. Too

bad greed had blinded him to the greater truth.

“It would never have worked, Inspector. Once a mass murder had been

discovered, the Day Striders would have hunted the killer down. There

would be no place you could hide.” I assured him.

His eyes flicked to mine, filled with hate and loathing. “There will be

others after me. If I have started a war, it will not be done until all of you

filthy creatures have been wiped from the face of the earth.” He snarled

hoarsely.

I approached him and he sucked in a fearful breath. “If it comes down to

natural selection, Morecombe, humans are our food; we have no natural

enemy. You do. Us.” I lifted my cloak off the coat rack, slung it around my

shoulders and fastened the clasp. Morecombe rose slowly and eyed the door.

“You can try, but you would not get far.” I said and tucked my hand into

his elbow, held him hard enough that he couldn’t escape.

I eased the door open and guided him down the corridor. As I passed by

the door to the bar, Mr Devon raised his head in question.

47
 “I’m afraid we’ve made a bit of a mess in the ladies lounge,” I said with a

smile, keeping my teeth from showing. “I’m going to escort the Detective

Chief Inspector to Her Majesty. Would you take care of it, for me please?”

“Of course Lady Scott, anything you ask.” He gave me a brief flash of fangs

before turning away to serve a customer.

I murmured just loud enough for Morecombe to hear me. “Who’s damned

now, Chief Inspector? Let’s see what Their Majesties have to say.” And I

guided him into the night.

48
 Part Two

And sometimes, stories are about what came before or

false assumptions.

49
 Saints and Sinners

It was an hour before dawn when Byzzie Jones wiped her stained hands on

a cloth and stepped back from the brick wall.

The high school was long empty for the day, but in her mind, she could

still hear the noise of children playing, fighting, teachers calling out for better

behaviour, the bell sounding.

Out on the street, beyond the fifteen-foot high fence, a car passed by but

she had no fear of discovery. In this neighbourhood, nobody cared what

people did, nobody saw anything; nobody wanted to know.

The light on the corner of the building shone pale yellow light onto the

wall and she moved back further, studied the artwork. Another masterpiece,

she smirked.

The colours merged where they should, and sharper, bolder colours blazed

a path through the picture.

This would cause discussion, she thought, just as she was commenting on

social justice – or the lack of it. It depicted gangs of black men preying on the

neighbourhood. It showed last week’s drive by shooting that took the life of a

five-year old boy who’d been playing on the front stoop of his house. It

showed two police officers beating another black man while a crowd turned

their backs; and in the bottom corner, almost unseen, was a picture of a

blended family having a picnic in her vision of the revitalised park,

surrounded by light.

Anger, despair, ignorance and hope. Always, her pictures had hope in

them.

Byzzie began to pack up her spray cans and heard the mournful echo of a

50
harmonica. She froze, and then resumed her task, not wanting him to know

how he affected her.

Byzzie slowly straightened and turned. He was dressed in what she called

his ‘uniform’: Black turtleneck sweater, black leather trench coat that reached

the ground, black pants and boots. They contrasted well with his shock of

long blonde hair and icy blue eyes.

She wasn’t afraid of this mystery man, never had been. Even when he’d

first appeared, she’d taken… comfort… in his presence. He was like a warm

fire on a cold night; an easy chair and a beer at the end of a hard day’s work.

Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he didn’t, but he made sure she knew how

he felt about what she’d painted.

“Byzantine. Why did you do this?” His voice bordered on the musical and

it gave her pleasure to hear it. He never called her by her nickname, even

when she asked him to.

She shrugged her indifference.

“Why do you follow me?” She glanced at him and continued to put her

cans carefully into each compartment of her paint rack, her eyes on his

beautiful face. “Why do you care what I do?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile and she looked away.

“Your artwork is brilliant. I saw that the first time you painted a wall.”

“Graffiti. It’s graffiti, pal. A destructive mess that someone else will have to

clean up. It’s a blight on the neighbourhood that the council will spend

money on to remove.” She didn’t want this man to know her grief, her anger,

her own despair.

She faced him, hands clenched in fists. His eyes were drifting over her

painting and she wondered if he liked it. A foolish thought. She painted

51
because she could; because of the controversy she might stir up, nothing

more.

Byzantine Jones was a troublemaker – everyone said so – she just continued

their impressions of her.

He stepped forward and rested a hand on her shoulder as he looked over

her work.

Sadness filled his eyes and she felt a twinge in her chest. She didn’t want to

make him sad, for Christ’s Sake, it was just a… okay, it was a painting. One

that had taken her all night to do.

“This is how you feel?”

She shrugged his hand off. “Doesn’t matter what I feel.” Byzzie picked up

her rack and walked to her truck.

“No, you’re wrong, Byzantine.” He said from behind her.

She ignored him and went back for her ladder. He picked up one end and

helped her stow it on the roof of the rusted out truck.

“I can see the emotions in this. You’re wondering if there is any redeeming

feature to this world. You’ve even answered that question by the family in the

corner.”

Byzzie looked at him sharply. That piece was small, barely a foot square on

a painting that cover the side of a building. He had to have taken a closer look

to see it.

“Are you looking for an argument?”

He raised an eyebrow at her and she shook her head.

“It’s late. I’m going home to sleep. Bye.” She walked to the driver’s side

door.

52
 “Byzantine.” She stopped, hand on the door handle and looked at him.

“If you paint something happy, it will bring hope to the people.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise and he smiled. Warmth trickled through her.

“If you paint despair, people will feel despair. If you paint anger, people

will feel anger. If you paint hope, people will feel hope.”

“And you know this… how?” She opened the door and got in, hand resting

on the keys.

“Human nature, Byzantine. Paint something nice.” He stepped back into

the darkness and she heard the harmonica again. Did he play? Or was it some

bag person on the street? She’d never seen him with one, but then she ignored

him when he was leaving. Rude, but who cared?

Paint something nice? There was nothing nice about the neighbourhood,

what would she do?

***

Byzzie spent the first hour after sunset rolling white paint over the

previous night’s work. It was a shame, though, it was one of her better pieces.

Of course, sometime during the day, someone had written obscenities across

the bottom.

She waited half an hour for the paint to dry and then chose her first colour:

yellow.

The harmonica sounded when she was almost done; it was again nearly

dawn. It always amazed her how she lost track of time when she painted.

“Beautiful, Byzantine,” he said softly and goosebumps rose over her body

at his voice. No one had any right to such a sweet voice. She carefully sprayed

the pale blue and walked back to where he stood staring up at the picture.

53
 “Rainbows and joy. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” One hand went to

her hip in defiance.

“No, Byzantine, it’s what you wanted.” He smiled down at her and she felt

heat rise in her face. How could he be so intuitive?

“When the sun rises, all will see this.”

“So what?” She packed up her cans.

“So it is a beginning.” He said pointing the image of a smiling woman

staring down with love at her newborn.

“A beginning?” She lifted her container and went to her truck.

“A beginning, Byzantine. All good things must have a start, just as bad

things do. I’m proud of you.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest and she stopped still. No one had ever said

that before. No one had ever been proud of her.

“Yeah, well…”

His hand rested on her shoulder again and massaged it lightly. Byzzie

lowered her head. How could those few words from a stranger affect her so

deeply.

“Who are you?” She asked. Only once had she asked him and that was

when he’d first appeared all those months ago. He’d demurred then,

something about there being more things under heaven and somebody called

Horatio. Would he answer truthfully now?

“Redemption, Byzantine. I am redemption.” His hand slid away.

“Redemption?”

He nodded. “Think about it, Byzantine. You know who I am, what I am

and why I came to you. Think about what I said to you last night about

54
painting what people need to see to feel better, to create a better world for

themselves.”

She heard the harmonica, but he just stood there, hands at his sides.

“I will see you again, Byzantine.” He gave her another smile, this one

reached down inside her, warmed her; eased the cold grip of anger and… she

returned his smile as if it were the most natural thing in her unnatural world.

Byzzie wasn’t surprised to see a nimbus of light encircle him then fade and

he was gone, along with the sound of the harmonica.

She went back for her ladder and tied it to the roof of her truck, her mind

blank but for the image of his disappearance.

Tomorrow, she would find another wall, paint another scene, and try to

make the neighbourhood a better-looking place to live.

His reasoning was right: she’d felt happier painting tonight’s scene; felt her

spirits lift with each pass of the spray can. Maybe others would feel the same.

Hmm, she thought as she drove away from the school in a cloud of blue

exhaust, the side of the police building was blank, maybe she’d paint two

men: one in uniform, the other in gang colours, shaking hands. Then there

was the council building… something amusing, perhaps; and the court

building… something… about freedom…

55
 Critical Failure

“Rise, North. Rise and greet the new world.” Imogen Trace chanted and

sprinkled droplets of her own blood around the grave. “Rise, North, I bound

thee to me. Rise and greet the new world.”

In the depth of the night, Imogen glanced at the well-manicured turf of the

grave, waited for movement. Nothing. She half closed her eyes, concentrated

and felt the warm power rise from within her. She felt it ease throughout her

body, surge down her arm to linger at her fingertips where blood coalesced.

There it hesitated, as if unsure where to go.

She walked the grave. The power entered the droplets as she moved,

splashed onto the grass, sank into the dirt. When the circle was complete, she

crouched down at the foot of the grave and laid her palm flat, pushed more

power into the circle she’d created.

Now she could see the grass stirring. It shifted as if alive, parted in a

rippling wave to reveal an oak casket. The top slowly and silently opened. A

gust of decay-filled air erupted from the interior and Imogen held her breath.

She hated that; nothing she could do, though.

She reached behind her and fumbled for the Maglite. It was a large one,

designed to penetrate the blackest of nights and she carefully breathed out

again.

The man lifted a hand to his eyes as the beam struck him in the face. “Turn

that bloody thing off!” He said in a husky British accent. “You wanna give our

position away?”

If the situation hadn’t been so sad, she would have chuckled.

56
 “How do you feel?” She asked softly and lowered the flashlight. He was

dressed in Armani. As she watched, his chest filled out, his arms tightened

the sleeves and his legs filled out the trousers.

He’d been a fine specimen of manhood in life, and that, obviously hadn’t

changed with his death. His dark hair was brushed back from a broad

forehead; he had dark blue eyes that were filling out to fit into eye sockets.

The flesh on his face thickened, plumped out to cover high cheekbones, full

sensuous lips and a rounded chin.

“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.” He grumped and sat

up. “What’s that god-awful smell?”

Imogen cleared her throat and didn’t answer. He’d probably be offended if

she said it was him.

“Give me a hand will you? Then you can explain how the bloody hell I got

in here, and what happened in Sydney.” He rose to his feet and staggered,

reached out to steady himself on the side of the grave. “What the hell?”

Imogen stared down at him, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t everyday a

body was raised from the dead.

He looked up at her, accusations flickering through his eyes. “That bastard

buried me alive?”

There was no easy way to say it. “Ah, no, Mr Grosvenor. You’re actually

dead.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her, then tilted his head and frowned

as if trying to remember. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. The dozen bullet

wounds on his torso were still clear to see, though no blood oozed. She gave

him life, she gave him blood, he had none in him except that which magically

made him live.

57
 “Holy shit!” He stuck a little finger into one of the holes. It came out clean.

He did the same to all the holes scattered across his chest and abdomen.

“Wow.”

Imogen waited him out. It had to be tough for him and that was probably

an understatement.

“How did you… no, don’t answer that, I already know.” His eyes lifted to

hers and something flickered in them. “You’re a necromancer.”

Imogen nodded. “While I live, you live. I, and only I have the power to put

you back. Should I die, you will too. It is my blood, my magical blood that

sustains you. You’ll never need to eat or drink, not even from me.” His face

twisted with disgust at that comment. “I have reanimated you, Mr Grosvenor,

and no matter what happens to you, you will live.” Her voice dropped. “Even

if you lose your head, you will still live until I put you back or die. Do you

understand me?”

North snorted and climbed out of the grave. Imogen stepped back, out of

the circle.

“Right.” He said disinterested and looked around. “Hmm. Can’t see a

blessed thing. Is there a view? Not that I care, of course. I mean, how much of

a view can there be when you’re six feet under?”

He tried to take a step forward and found he couldn’t. His legs would take

him only so far, to the edge of the circle before he could walk no further.

“Hey, why can’t I…?”

“I have to release you from the circle first, Mr Grosvenor.”

“Oh, I just assumed…” He narrowed his gaze.

“Assumptions are what got you here.” Imogen said with a small smile.

58
 North lifted that eyebrow again and crossed his arms over his chest,

impatient.

“Not yet, Mr Grosvenor, not until you’ve heard what I have to say.

Whether you come out or not, depends on your answer.”

“Very well.” He waved a hand for her to continue.

“Do you understand everything I have told you?” She asked.

“Yes, madam. You sustain me. While you’re alive, I’m alive and so on. Get

to the point.”

“Were you this arrogant in life?”

He gave her a charming smile as a reply.

“Of course you were,” she muttered and took a deep breath. The taint of

decay still lingered, but it was only a hint. A little aftershave would

overpower it. It was a smell that would always be around him now. “You

may as well have a seat, this might take some time.” She said and sat cross-

legged on the grass.

Imogen shone the light on her backpack and pulled out a lantern, turned it

on and the flashlight off. She reached into her Esky and pulled out a

stoppered bottle of shiraz and a plastic glass.

North looked on with interest as she poured herself a glass. She didn’t

bother to offer him one, and took a sip. His expression was priceless as he

licked his lip and breathed in.

“Good. That’s bloody good. Vintage?” He said and stared down at her in

astonishment. He licked his lips again.

Imogen shook her head. “What sustains me, sustains you. What I taste, you

taste.”

59
 North sat down at the edge of the open grave. “Just remember, I don’t like

avocado, mussels or spinach.”

Imogen chuckled. “Okay, I’ll do that.” She had another sip then lowered

the glass and sighed.

“I wish you’d succeeded in your last mission, Mr Grosvenor.”

“Call me North, but do not call me by my full name. I sound like an

address.” His mouth lifted in a smile and dimples flashed in his cheeks.

Yeah, Imogen thought, he was a fine specimen of manhood.

As if reading her thoughts, but probably her expression, North said, “Can I

still… or do I feel it if you…”

Imogen felt heat rush into her face. Now there was a question! “Ummm…”

“Oh, wait.” He grinned at her wickedly. “‘What sustains you, sustains me.’

That’s what you said, so I can only assume that…”

“What did I say about assumptions?”

“Right.” He said and manfully tried to quell his humour and failed. He sat

there grinning at her.

“Any more and I’ll tip the wine out.” She threatened and he subsided,

although mirth shone from his eyes.

“Now, to begin.” She dragged in another breath and eased it out. “When

you died, it was the end of an era. No, don’t go all stuffy and proud. I mean

that when you died, the idea of freedom died with you. Regardless of your

overblown sense of self worth, you really were the best and only hope we

had, as M no doubt said to you at the time.”

North nodded smugly.

60
 “When you failed, you failed us all, North.” It was a cruel way to put it, but

she had to break through his arrogance and make him understand the

consequences. From his shocked look, she’d made headway. “I mean it North.

You died and so did we all, in a hundred different ways. You went physically,

the rest of us went emotionally, socially. Everything we knew was gone and

now there is a new world. One which is not to our liking.” She took a sip of

wine and he swallowed.

“There is no magic practiced anymore. There is a death sentence on anyone

caught. There are no magical creatures anymore; they are all in hiding after

the purges. Any child that shows any predisposition to magic is destroyed,

their parents, too. And no, before you ask, your magic is gone. That I cannot

return to you. And you don’t have my magic either.”

He lifted his shoulders. “Then what can I do? I always used magic to

complete my missions.”

“Murdo knew you with magic. Knew how to defeat you; strip you of your

magical protection. Killed you. What do you think he’ll do when you confront

him again?”

“Try the same thing again.” North stated grimly, and then eyed Imogen.

“What makes you think I want to face him again?”

“Three things: the first is revenge. Remember, you cannot die unless I want

you to, or I die. Second, because this was the only mission you failed at. And

third… Third, I’ll put you back if you refuse and find another way.”

North looked away from her. “Got it all planned out, haven’t you?”

“Yes, actually.”

He continued to stare out at the darkness. Imogen sipped her drink and

watched him swallow again. At least he was enjoying it. She’d never been a

fan of red wine, but she’d brought it for him. She’d known it was one of the

61
things he’d enjoyed when he was alive. Other… things, she wasn’t willing to

provide.

“What’s in it for me?” He asked without looking at her.

It was a question she’d expected, but had hoped not to answer. “There’s

not a lot in it for you, North. There’s the satisfaction of always completing

your missions. There’s the knowledge you got Murdo… and there’s the

change the world gig.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes sad. “But you’ll still put me back. Kill me

off again.”

“You’re not alive now.” She said softly and held his gaze.

He nodded slowly. “How long will you keep me…?”

“If you succeed, magic will happen again. The creatures will return. The

world, while changed, will be better.”

“But I won’t be here to enjoy it.” He said bitterly.

“That’s up to you, North.” Imogen said quietly. “If you kill Murdo, if you

can return to us the world, then would you be happy as you are? Would you

be happy to exist like you do? Would you be content to be with me for all my

days? Would you be happy to wear aftershave?” She found herself leaning

forward, but didn’t ease back.

“Aftershave?” He snorted then grinned. “That smell, when I first woke up.

That was me, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.” Imogen looked behind her. She could feel the approaching

dawn. That meant his answer would have to be swift. What he didn’t know

was that she couldn’t return him during the day. If he found out, all he had to

do was delay her until the sun rose and he would have a full day to do what

62
he wished. She could not control him in daylight. It was her secret; one he

could never know, should he decide to help.

“I need time to think about this, necromancer.”

“I can’t give you any.” She said apologetically and set her now empty glass

back into the Esky.

“You can kill me anytime, what’s the rush?”

She closed the lid and turned to him. “Haven’t you been listening? Magic

use is a death sentence. If I’m caught out here…”

“Oh.”

She could feel the first brush of ambient light on the horizon. It was almost

too late.

North drew himself up. He didn’t breathe, but gave the impression that

he’d taken a decisive breath. “Okay then, I’ll do it. Just to see the look on that

murdering bastard’s face when I turn up again, larger than life.” He gave her

that wicked grin as his eyes roamed over her body. “And maybe I can

convince you that all work make a dull necromancer.”

“Job first - bonus later.” She promised, although she wasn’t going to fulfil

his bonus in the manner to which he was accustomed, but no need to tell him

that.

She unsealed the circle and he stepped out.

“By the way,” he asked as he picked up her Esky and backpack and they

walked back to her car. “What’s you’re name?”

“Trace. Imogen Trace.” She replied in a cultured British accent.

63
 The Other Side

Dressed in a long, shimmering blue halter-neck evening gown, Pandora Le

Fleur crooned a torch song as she leaned against the baby grand. Her almost

violet eyes settled on each man in the crowd as she sang, but she didn’t really

see them; they were money and it was her job to extract as much as she could

from those heavy wallets.

Each man would feel as if she was singing just for him. She used her voice

to reach deep inside to draw out their longing, their passion, their hopes and

dreams. The siren’s lure of her song had more than one man smiling

secretively at her.

Her eyes settled on another man as she sang the end of Underneath Your

Clothes, a song from twenty years ago. Her target shifted uncomfortably and

adjusted his necktie, but he smiled back at her. His midnight eyes were warm,

his black hair combed back. Sun darkened skin stretched across Slavic

cheekbones, straight, patrician nose, clean-shaven cheeks and strong jaw. He

even had dimples beside his firm mouth. His interest in her was clear, but he

was just another attractive, well-heeled male, she mused, wanting her

personal attention.

“Thank you,” she murmured into the microphone as she finished the song

and the applause rose. “I’ll be taking a break now, but I’ll be back in half an

hour.” She gave the men a seductive smile, just a slight lowering of her eyes

in promise and placed the microphone on the top of the piano gently. It was

an archaic piece that was more prop than useful. She unhooked the tiny

pickup, the real microphone, from her collar and tossed it onto the glossy

piano top.

64
 Pandora strode through the crowd, brushing against grasping hands and

declining offers for companionship and propositions as she made her way to

her dressing room.

The door closed, shutting out the noise of the patrons and she walked to

the dressing table ignoring the decor. Staring at her polished image in the

mirror, she slumped into the hard seat. Youth was fading, settling into a more

mature image. How long could she do this? Singing in this nightclub for the

tips she drew. Granted, those tips were great, but she was under pressure by

the management to provide a more… lucrative service.

She stared into her own eyes, saw the answer and looked away. Pandora

rubbed her sternum to ease the aching throb, then her arm where the prickles

were starting up again. The pill bottle was in the drawer and she drew it out,

shook the plastic container. Not many left; she’d have to get more.

The pill had just melted under her tongue when there was a quick knock

on her door and she turned as a man stepped through.

He was the last man she’d sung to and her mouth opened to protest his

intrusion.

He held up a hand and loosened his tie before collapsing onto her hunter-

green sofa. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it down and slapped

the glass onto the coffee table with a satisfied sigh.

Pandora eased the frown from her forehead and swivelled the chair to face

him. Silk slithered against silk as she crossed her long legs. “Who are you and

why are you here?”

He looked up at her and grinned. There was something… familiar about

his smile, she thought, but couldn’t put her finger on why.

65
 “You know me, Pan, and you know why I’m here.” His voice was deep,

sensual and made her skin tingle. His voice held an accent, but she couldn’t

decide what kind.

“I know so many people,” she waved him off and turned back to the

mirror to freshen her make-up, “You’ll have to be more specific.” It wasn’t

like her to be deliberately insulting, but his cavalier attitude had her reacting

in a manner she would usually reserve for the sticky fingers of her audience.

He chuckled and her eyes met his in the mirror. “Reaper.”

“Reaper?”

“As in Grim.”

“You don’t look grim to me, pal.” She pursed her lips to apply deep red

lipstick.

Again, he chuckled; the sound caressed her skin. Her eyes met his in the

mirror. Whoever he was, he had power.

“And you don’t seem to be annoyed or shocked by my name.” His teeth

were very white against his skin.

Pandora shrugged and returned her gaze to her mouth, carefully outlining

her lips to make them more lush than they were naturally. “There are so

many weird names out there. Just last week, some idiot introduced himself as

Michael Archangel. Before that there was Jack Ripper, Julian Caesar, some old

guy called George Bush and…” she tapped a finger against her lips, “oh, yes,

Jesus Nazareth. Let’s not forget, Harold Potter, John F. Kennedy and a

woman… what was her name? Ah, Liberty Bell. So, Mr Reaper, your name is

just one of many.”

“And what do all these people want from you?”

“A night of peace and contentment. They want me to give them serenity.”

66
 “Your songs are powerful, Pan.” He acknowledged. “Even I wanted you to

take me in your arms and give me my very own night of tranquillity.”

“It’s the world we live in.” She shook her head and sighed. “There are too

many wars, too much death and destruction. It’s been going on since the

invasion of Iraq, what, twenty years ago?” Grim nodded. “And it’s never

stopped. One by one, countries are at war with their own fundamentalist

groups, vying for control and eventually, it’s got to stop or someone is going

to drop a bomb bigger than the one that wiped out Israel.”

“I agree, Pan. But I’m not here for anyone else but you.”

“And what are you going to do with me?” She wiped some of the lipstick

off her teeth and turned to him. He was sitting back in the sofa, his arms

outstretched along the back.

“I’m going to take you home.” His smile softened.

“I don’t need an escort or a bodyguard.”

“It’s my job to take you.”

Pandora sighed. “Mr Reaper, I don’t want to be rude to you, but no thank

you.”

“Would it help if I had a scythe?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“A scythe? What the hell is that?”

Grim frowned. “How about a black cloak and skeletal hands?”

“Whatever lights your candles, pal.” Another nut job, she thought and

turned back to the mirror, picked up a brush and gently pulled it through her

tea-coloured hair. Maybe it was time for another shade. Black? Blonde? A

cinnamon colour?

“I guess I’m not explaining myself very well.”

67
 “Gee, you think?” She pursed her lips, replaced the brush. There, back to

perfection; then she looked closer at the lines at the corners of her eyes.

“Ms Le Fleur. I’ve come to take you home. I represent Death…” Pandora

cut him off, pissed at the wrinkles more than at him.

“Well, I’ll agree you’d be death to a number of swooning hearts, but not

mine. You’d probably spoil a lot of women; you’re certainly nice to look at.

But I’m immune to your kind of charm. Now, I have a show to finish, so if

you’ll excuse me?” She walked to the door and opened it. She heard him sigh.

“I try to make myself acceptable to people and this is what I get. Try to

make myself look like a modern man and all I get is rejection.”

“Maybe you should change your name, too.” She said over her shoulder.

“Ms Le Fleur, please, I’m trying to make this easier on you.”

“I understand that, but I have things to do and places to go.” He was really

beginning to tick her off. Maybe she should call the Enforcers. There were

laws against stalking.

“Yes, with me. To The Other Side.” He said.

“Other side?” She stopped for a moment. He could only mean one thing.

“Oh, my God!”

He nodded and his shoulders slumped with relief. “Yes…”

“Hot damn! I’m finally going to get a shot at Las Vegas!” She ran up to him

planted a big kiss on his mouth. “I’ll be back in an hour to pack.”

Pandora raced out of the room, face flushed with excitement while Mr

Reaper stood with his hands in his pockets and his jaw slack with

astonishment. Maybe he should check his phrase book again. He’d only spent

two months learning the language and it still confused him. It wasn’t that big

a deal, was it?

68
 He made himself comfortable on the couch. He had time, and when he left,

he would have Pandora Le Fleur with him. The world needed her; she would

expand that circle of inner peace to encompass a lot of people. He doubted

she even knew she was descended from the Ancient Greek Sirens. But he did.

So did his organisation. And he, Grim Reaper – once Etienne Foucault - of

Death Incorporated Records and The Other Side label would be the one to get

her out there; though why the company insisted on macabre names, he didn’t

know.

69
 Clem’s Gambit

“Clem Saunders never did have a lick ‘o sense, Miss. Here, have a seat…

jus’ a sec while I clear these old magazines… There. Yes, ma’am, it is a little

crowded, but it’s outta th’ way and we ken talk in peace. Too much rakit

down there and all…

“Oops, let me clean that off for you. Right. Where was I? Yes, ma’am it

does squeak a bit. Been meaning to fix it, but it’s comfy, ain’t it? You, ah,

wanna libation or someit?

“Okay, yeah, we should git started.

“Um…

“Well, sure. This is a museum, afta all, ev’yfing’s old.

“Up here? Well, missy, if’n you look ‘round, it’s the safest place. All them

sensors and cameras are set up along the gutterin’, lookin’ down and out. No

one can get to them with the com section looken on. There’s lotsa space here,

too. Not too many buildin’s have attic space no more. And this one is the

length of the buildin’.

“A fire? No, missy, the walls’re coated and we got an escape hatch

anyways.

“Why do you want to record what I say? I thought you Si types just sucked

the memories outta people’s heads.

“Damn right it’s impolite! Oh, okay then, you can record. If’n you want to.

“The beginning? Lemme see… Are you sure you don’ want no drink?

“Okay. Hmm. Las’ time I saw Clem was… Toosday. Yeah, Toosday, las’

night. It was my night to sit in the com section. Clem was soundin’ off about

his wife agin. How she ain’t no good, that she don’ do nuthin’ right and how

70
he has to… discipline her all the time now. So he’s goin’ about how she said

she don’ want him no more. Got herself a real fine fella. Plays g-ball down at

the arena. An’ man, he’s good. Wen’ an saw’d him play coupla weeks ago and

wow, he hit this guy so hard, the boy… Er, yeah. Right. Sorry.

“Clem just wouldn’ shut up, so I said to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘you’re better

off without that whore…’ uuhh…‘scuse me ma’am.

“I’m sure you have, Miss, but not from me, it ain’t polite. Anyways, he’s

got this plan to get her back, you know? He’s gonna go down there and take

her back. I said to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘that boy will clean your chrono and

then some’. And he says to me, ‘No, Walt, he won’t, cuz I got me a disrupter.’

I said to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘you go around poppin’ people and the Si’s’ll be

down on you like my missus on a choclat bar. He winked at me and said,

‘nuh, uh, Walt. I don’t care anymore. If she don’t want me, I’m gonna make

sure nobody’s gonna want her’.”

“I surely did, Miss. He was madder’n a cut snake. I figured he was gonna

do ‘em both.

“Do about it? What could I do about it? He walked out an’ went an’ did

them things right away. Yeah, I called the cops, but he was done by the time

they got there.

“Yeah, he did. Came through the door with a big shit eatin’ grin and I said

to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘What did you do?’ an’ he said, ‘Walt, don’t worry, I

dunnit already. Tha’ bitch won’t be rejectin’ nobody no more’.

“Well, now, I don’ reckon a pretty young thing like you should see it. He’s

all messed up right and proper.

“You have? Lord, girl, why you do such things?

“It ain’t a job I’d like to have, and that’s a fact. But let me tell you about it

so you’re unnerstan’ing how it happened, okay?

71
 “Uhhh. Lemme think. Yeah, okay… phew. Just rememberin’ makes me

queasy, y’know? Okay. Clem. He says to me ‘Walt, everythin’s fine now,

don’t you worry none. I’m goin’ now.’

“And I said to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘where do you think you’re goin’ where

the Si’s won’t git you?’ He jus’ grinned an’ pointed to the… the… Seeker’s

Room.

“Oh, it’s a room filled with them relics from the twentieth century back to

the year dot as far as I can tell. From ships that go on the water and stuff.

Ain’t had no formal education, you know.

“I said to him, ‘Clem,’ I said, ‘you don’ want to go messin’ with stuff you

don’ unnerstan’. An’ he said, ‘Walt, I understand just fine. That dummy in

there…’?

“A dummy, Miss. Y’know, one of them human-type things, made of plastic

or somefin’ that people who make clothes dress up so’s you can see what it

looks like.

“Okay, a mangkin. Well, as I was sayin’, Clem said to me ‘Walt,’ he said,

‘It’s covered in a map. A map that glows an’ makes people disappear. I seen it

myself when Professor Gerhardt did some testing on it’.”

“Like I said, he ain’t, got a lick o’ sense. So I follows him. An’ I said to him,

‘Clem,’ I said, ‘don’ do this. You don’ know where you’ll end up or what that

cussed thing is for.’ Course, I didn’t say ‘cussed’ but what I said weren’t

polite. An’ I ain’t usin’ that kinda language ‘round you…

“Sorry, ma’am, just rememberin’. Where was I?

“Yeah, so I follows him. He knowed I did, and there it was.

“Yeah. I guess the Prof didn’ think it was dangerous or that anybody

would touch it, not with me and Clem and the others to watch out for it. So

72
there she was: standin’ tall, wearing nuthin’ but a half-smile, both arms

stretched out as if to hug you or… Yeah, well, I don’ think you need to know

that. Clem walks up to it. He was grinnin’ like a fool.

“He says to me, ‘See Walt? It’s pain’ed all over with a map to anywhere. I

can go off world and no one’s gonna know where I gone.’ An’ I said to him,

‘Clem,’ I said, ‘you don’ know nuthin’ about this! Don’ do it!’ An’ he said to

me, an’ he was real angry, he said to me, ‘Walt, no bitch is ever gonna reject

me agin!’

“Jus’ like that he touches her hands. An’… an’…

“I’m okay, Miss, I’m okay… Okay. Uhh, well, there was this light that jus’

went everywhere! I couldn’t see nuthin’ for a while an’ when I could… Clem

was… he was…

“Yes, Miss, he was spread all over the place. Blood an’ guts an’ other

stuff…. Everywhere! I… I called it in. Puked up some, but I called it in an’

went into the room. That mangkin, Miss, she weren’ smilin’ no more, she was

grinnin’ like a fool. God’s truth, she was grinnin’ like a whore hittin’ the

jackpot in Vegas. I know you probably don’t believe me, but…

“Uhh, you do?

“Yes, ma’am I did. I stepped right up to that mangkin. Didn’ touch it. No,

ma’am, I did not touch that thing. It was pain’ed right an’ so. Kind of like… I

dunno, swirls with bright points all over her.

“On her palms, ma’am. It was small writin’. But the one on the left said: ‘I

will take you to the stars’.

“Right one said: ‘Behold the truth’.

“Beats me ma’am, but that’s what it said.

73
 “Heh, heh. So, you’re saying that because he lied to himself, coz he’d done

evil, the mangkin rejected him? Oh, ho! An’ Walt took it as ‘I will take you to

the stars, behold the truth’ not the other way around? Missy, that is real

funny!

“Do I know what the mangkin’s called? Yeah. I overhear’d the Prof talking

about it. Said it was a gift from them solemn big-eyed alien types. The one’s

who wear them grey robes?

“That’s what they’re called? Navi-gat-ures? What kind of a name is that?

“Yeah, the Prof said so too. That’s why I didn’ want Clem to touch it, an’ he

sure wasn’t pure in intent. He ain’t had no formal education, either. What

would he know about pilots? Clem musta figured that with a Navi-gat-ure

pilot he could tell it to go anywhere he wanted.

“Yes, ma’am, he surely was an idiot. Well, if I’d knowed about the code, I

still wouldn’t touch it. Still want to go back down there? Yes, ma’am. I’ll take

you.

“That’s okay, ma’am. I’m glad to help. I knowed you want to know it all, or

you would suck my thoughts outta my head.

“Yes, ma’am, that would be impolite.”

74
 Forever Tomorrow

The great double doors of the throne room slowly opened as Rendo

shouldered his way inside. “Blessed doors need oiling again,” he muttered.

He leaned on his hydrostatic mop, just inside the doors, and let his eyes

wander around the room, as he’d done so many times before.

Two gold embossed thrones stood on a raised stone dais, empty today. On

the carved black rock walls, in between the arched windows, colourful

tapestries of past battles and rulers drooped forlornly. They were beginning

to fade. Still, they were magnificent. The whole room was. An enormous

fireplace, large enough for a man to stand in, to lie down in dominated the left

and many a morning he’d come in to spend an hour or so cleaning the ash

from the previous night’s fire. Today it was empty, like the room. Above him

was a vaulted ceiling, with exposed beams of smoke darkened ironwood.

From the crossbeams hung chandeliers, made of Nagan crystal. Hard to come

by now, that crystal. It came from the planet Sargossa in the distant galaxy of

Cyrian.

Rendo straightened and slowly walked to the thrones. He bowed his head,

pulled a stained cloth from the pockets of his uni-alls and wiped his nose. He

muttered a prayer that echoed around the empty hall then raised his head at

the sound of trilling.

“Ah, Fordan, still with us, then.” Rendo walked slowly to the fireplace.

Standing next to empty cavern, on the left, was an eight-metre tall and three

metre wide cage, covered by the Royal Blue cloth.

The material slid to the floor with a gentle tug. He would wash it later. On

the high perch, the multi-hued bird sat eyeing him with black eyes. The old

Carillion – a gift from a planetary president, though he couldn’t remember

75
who - raised himself, puffed out his chest, ruffled all his feathers and crapped

onto the bottom of the cage. Then it settled down and trilled a song for him.

Rendo chuckled and shook his head. “My thanks to you, mighty Fordan,

that you can still sing me a song after such an effort.” He eyed the mess on the

cage floor. “Lifts my soul, you know, eases the ache in these old bones of

mine. Though I wonder if you’re eating something I don’t know about.”

Starting from the corner behind the cage, Rendo began to glide his mop

across the floor, dancing to the bird’s song as he swept away the dust. It took

him a solid two hours to finish the floor and the bird had subsided into

silence. It watched him, jumping from perch to perch to water tray to food

tray.

“Aye, Fordan, I’ll fill your trays for you before I leave. There’s a lot of

palace to clean.” The bird chirped and chortled as if chastising him. “Well,

you shouldn’t be such a greedy guts and eat it all in one sitting. Now you’ll

just have to wait.”

From another pocket, he pulled a soft cloth and began polishing the king’s

throne until the gold shone and the white marble sparkled in the sun pouring

through the window. When he was satisfied, he began on the queen’s throne

until it too, matched the gleam from the king’s throne.

He gave the chairs one last swat and backed down the dais. “What do you

think, Fordan? Could they be any more clean?” There was silence from

behind him and he turned. The upper part of the cage was empty and he felt a

growing fear as he approached the cage.

There, in the bottom, the bird lay dead, a bright rainbow against the dull

silver metal. Rendo leaned his mop against the fireplace and placed his hand

on the cage, his fingers wrapping around the wires. “Oh, Fordan,” he

whispered, “what shall I tell the masters?”

76
 He opened the cage and gently removed the body. Rendo cradled Fordan

in his hands. “Aye, but you picked a fine day for it. The sun is shining, the sky

is a clear deep blue. When you fly to your reward, sing a song for me so I

know the heavens still see me.”

Rendo wandered through the palace, talking to the bird until he found the

queen’s garden. The roses, once beautiful in the summer, now stuck up out of

the dirt as thorned sticks, but Rendo remembered them in full bloom. “You’ll

like it here, Fordan, amongst the queen’s favourite flowers. They are of the

rainbow, too.”

He laboriously dug a grave for the bird between two red roses and

wrapped the creature into a cloth before lowering it into the sun-warmed

ground. Dark brown dirt covered the corpse and Rendo muttered a prayer for

Fordan as he filled in the hole. A tear rolled down his pale cheek. “I am sorry,

Fordan, so very sorry and I shall miss your morning welcome.” He

murmured.

When he was done, he lowered his head and said a final prayer. The

afternoon’s light became hazy and he glanced around. The day was waning. It

was time to head to the kitchen for supper.

His footsteps echoed as he walked through the corridors, running his

fingers along architraves and skirting boards, across the tops of desks, chairs,

mantelpieces and making mental notes of what needed to be cleaned and

what didn’t.

The kitchen, like the rest of the palace was empty, awaiting the return of

the Royal household. He could have his choice of food; the stores would be

replenished when the kitchen staff returned. Tonight, he decided, he would

have salted pork and potatoes.

77
 After he finished the meal, he returned to his quarters and lay down. As his

eyes closed, he felt a thrill of excitement. Tomorrow, the entire household

would return from wintering in the north. Tomorrow, their majesties would

see how well he kept the castle clean, though he dreaded telling them about

Fordan. Tomorrow…

***

The bronze bullet of a ship lowered into the courtyard with a quiet hush. A

door opened and a blue spotlight glowed on the ground. There was a bright

flash and then a man stood in the centre of the light. He stepped out of it and

removed his helmet. A squad of marines appeared and formed up behind

him. “Search the palace.”

The marines fanned out with thermal imagers and vibration detectors. It

took little time to report that the palace was empty of all inhabitants.

“Funny thing is, sir,” the Corporal reported, “the squad is reporting

sounds, odd noises but can’t locate a source.” He stared at the great castle.

“The palace is amazingly clean, sir.”

“This planet was infected with the Ferrian virus over a year ago. All human

life exterminated and quarantined until the virus ran its course. Maybe there’s

some anti-static tech that keeps it clean.” The Captain said, then shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. This planet is now ours. Make it so, Corporal.”

The Corporal saluted and returned to the ship to make the proclamation.

“This place gives me the creeps, Cap.” Another marine came up beside

him.

“It’s an empty building, Private. No one and nothing is left. Even the stores

have disintegrated according to my report.” He replied, his eyes constantly

moving.

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 “Yes, sir, but,” the marine lowered his voice. “I was in the throne room?

And I could hear the swishing of a mop. There’s one in there, leaning up

against the fireplace. Nothing showed on the bio-scans, just the swish, swish

of the mop.” He gave a shudder. “Then there was the bird.”

The Captain raised his eyebrows and looked at the marine. “Bird?”

“Yes, sir.” The marine squirmed, uncomfortable. “I could hear bird song,

but no source. The place has no electronic or biological signatures at all. It’s

sterile.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Private.” The Captain glared and marched

toward the throne room. He stopped just inside the doors and tilted his head.

Someone was here, just like the Private had said. The bird song, the swishing,

yet he couldn’t see anyone and his scans were empty of life.

”Oh, look, Fordan, more visitors.” Rendo said and paused in his mopping of the

throne room floor. The bird trilled back at him and he grinned. “Think we should

invite them to stay?”

79
 Part Three

Even in failure, there is hope for a better future.

80
 Crown Imperial

I had worked under an assumed name in the bathhouse for two seasons.

Arriving in the winter, I was thankful to be out of the bitter weather and in

the steamy warmth. The customers were an eclectic lot, sometimes apologetic,

sometimes demanding, it all depended on were the insecurities of the client.

As if to clearly delineate our differences in status, the insecure would

complain and whine, then leave pleased that their behaviour demonstrated

they were higher on the social scale. The secure, however, were pleasant,

polite and were not above sneaking outrageous tips to me.

For the first time in many years, I was happy with the hard work and

mediocre wages. I had nothing to buy - everything I needed was supplied -

and nowhere to go, not yet.

The bathhouse used migrant workers and paid them accordingly. That

hadn’t changed in a thousand years, no matter what the labour laws said. I

was grateful I could get away with an unchecked alias, but I was pissed so

many migrant workers survived on a pittance.

Today was a good day. I was to clean out rooms and tubs, scrub tiled floors

and walls, check supplies and prepare for the next day’s influx of regulars

and tourists. A bad day meant toilet duty, and aliens could be truly

disgusting in their ablutions.

On this leisure planet, a blue marble of a world called Wellspring, we

weren’t the only bathhouse, but, by the Gods, we were the best.

Down on my hands and knees, scourer in hand, I worked my way

backwards to the door, cursing the hands-on approach when a sonic cleaner

would be easier, when I glanced back to check my direction and found the

shoe, tucked behind the open door, as if kicked off in haste.

81
 Cold fear froze my muscles, my heart pounded and chill sweat popped out

on my forehead. I recognised it for what it was; no one else would, for the

style could only be found on my home world. It was a black reo-beast leather

slip on with a sole made of flexible polymer, rippled for a good grip and

silent: an assassin’s shoe.

My arrogance had killed me. Why? Because when I came to Wellspring, I

could not imagine working in nothing less than the best establishment.

Pride led the Imperial Hunters right to me. They were killers, sent

personally by the Empress. But while they made their allegiance to the

Empire, they had their own personal… loyalties. I had tried to persuade the

Empress to stop the factionalising, but she felt it was a natural part of

democracy. I saw it as division in the ranks and intolerable.

It didn’t matter. I worked in well-known and established businesses

wherever I went. Tracking me was easy, regardless of my many aliases. A

Hunter had come. For me. The thought dissolved my shock and frozen state.

I didn’t touch the shoe. I finished the room with one eye on the door,

emptied the bucket down the drain and scooped the shoe into it. The Hunter

meant me to know he or she was here. To unnerve me? It worked.

I chewed my inner lip until it bled and I ordered myself to stop as I made

my way downstairs. I was a migrant worker, ill-educated, with downcast eyes

lest someone speak to me, and recognise my accent. A Crown Imperial had no

place being a scrubber.

And why, if I was part of such an august household, was I working in a

bathhouse light years from home? Because my life depended on it.

My uncle, Bellar, was determined to put his daughter on the throne and

Bellarine was the biggest, nastiest bitch I had ever had the misfortune to be

related to.

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 I tipped the shoe onto the counter. “Room 128.” I mumbled.

Ceri, an octopod, swept the shoe off the counter and made a note in her

book while tagging the object. Her other hands were busy under the counter,

but I turned away before she could engage me in conversation. I had bigger

worries than whether I offended her.

I returned to my level and the next room on my list. I sat on the edge of the

tub and considered my options.

My home planet, Verbarr, was the Imperial stronghold and seat of

government for four star systems, one of the biggest in any galaxy.

Unfortunately for Bellar, it was a matriarchal Imperium. It was law; written

into the constitution. The only way he could achieve power was through

Bellarine and she would let him. The Empress’s power was absolute, her

wealth incalculable, her influence in other political areas enormous. When the

Empress of Verbarr spoke, the universe listened.

That did not, however, negate intrigue. Palace politics made even the

Terran, Machievelli, look inept. Bellar’s talent evolved around assassination

plots, but he never went after the Empress; he was afraid of her. Her heirs,

however, were fair game. I knew he was behind the deaths of my two older

sisters. Knew, but couldn’t prove. My survival had depended on the very best

of the Imperial Guard. Before I left Verbarr, a dozen of them had died in my

service. My mother had acquiesced to my suggestion of getting off planet for

a while. Only she and I knew of my initial plans. After that, I was on my own.

I am Crown Imperial Jerrian, Duchess of Morgarth, Countess of Forgillia,

Imperial Judicar of Westland and half a dozen other titles, and I am working

as a low paid worker on the fringe of the Pacific System.

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 I lowered my head into my shaking hands and sank to the floor. I had to

leave, all because of a shoe; the Imperial Hunters were the best - no one

escaped their net.

I was doomed. Light years from home and friends, I would be murdered

and I mourned that I would never see the lush forests of Verbarr again. Nor

the white beaches, snowy mountains, shop in the noisy, fragrant markets, eat

the flavoursome foods or anything else.

I had never intended to be away forever, only until the Guard found the

proof needed to condemn Bellar. I understood that mother knew of his plans,

but, again, without proof, his condemnation would be considered murder and

no one was above that law, not even the Empress. It was why assassination

was favoured; only the assassin was punished.

How could I evade the unevadable? A disguise. Maybe. I would have to

keep out of sight. Keep my head down and ignore everyone. In fact, I would

continue as I always had, being invisible to just about everyone. First I had to

get off planet without the Hunter knowing.

With slow hands, I finished my job. The day was drawing to a close. The

night clients would be coming in, with the added benefit of ‘companions’. I

demurred when that job was offered to me. It paid more, but I was no one’s

whore. It might be legal but I could not do it; not and maintain my

imperialistic self-esteem. Besides, I would probably have given myself away.

I shared a room with five others, all of whom were companions. This

suited me down to the ground. It meant I had privacy. I shut the door on a

sigh and turned. Three bunks lined the walls. In the centre of the room were

six chests where we stowed our gear. They doubled as seats as well. Square

windows were set at two corners, overlooking the river and the city. That was

it. That’s all we needed: a place to sleep and another for our gear.

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 “I’ve been waiting, Imperial.” A man unfolded himself from my bunk. I

didn’t question how he knew it was mine. Hunters, as I said, were very good.

He slowly stood. Black uniform, black hair, black eyes, black… shoe.

I backed up to the door and fumbled for the handle, my heart in my throat

as he slowly shook his head. “You know we never travel alone.”

I had no weapons, not that it would have made a difference, but it was all

in the effort, wasn’t it? All I could do was pray it was quick.

He stood straight, not making any threatening moves. Then he sank to one

knee and I gaped at him. “I have come to take you home… Empress.”

I felt my knees wobble and my whole body went numb. Empress? But that

meant… “No,” I whispered, leaned against the door for support, wanted to

block out what came next, but couldn’t.

“The Empress Kerrian was killed in an aircar accident, m’lady.” He said

softly, without taking his eyes off me and I knew, as he did, that Bellar had

taken direct action after all.

The heat of rage and grief surged through my body and I trembled at the

effort to keep calm. My mother was dead. My mother was dead. “Why?” I

asked, my voice hoarse. I turned away from him, rested my head against the

door and slid down into a ball. Hot tears spilled over to trail down my pale

cheeks. I waved a hand, not wanting to know, but the Hunter, ever dutiful,

did not spare me.

“I would suggest, m’lady, that… since your disappearance, certain

elements of court felt free to act.”

Devastating pain spiked my chest, making it difficult to breathe. He was

suggesting was that this was my fault. I agreed. I was the only direct Crown

Imperial left. Since only the Empress knew if I was dead or alive, Bellar would

85
see just one barrier to his ambitions: the Empress herself. Why hadn’t I

thought of that? Why hadn’t the Empress?

Then I remembered the look in her pure blue eyes when I made my

suggestion. I’d thought the weary grief was for my departure as was my own

regret; that her sorrow was for my lengthy absence. Now I could see it for

what it truly was: an acceptance that without me splitting his attention, one

day, Bellar would succeed.

“You are correct, m’lady,” the Hunter said as if reading my thoughts. “The

Empress thought that if she could deflect certain factions, it would give you a

measure of peace. Your absence would also be of benefit for you. She, and

certain member of the Imperial Hunters, have known of your whereabouts at

all times.”

“I condemned her, Hunter, as if I had raised my hand against her myself.” I

mumbled, guilt-stricken. “I killed her.” I raised my eyes to his.

A sneer curled his lip as he held out a hand. “Come now.” He said with

derision. “We know who is responsible and we only await your command.

Yeah, he was right. We knew, but I, too, was complicit and forgiveness

would come hard; if ever. “I would have justice for this misdeed, Hunter. I

would have bloody and terrible justice for the machinations of my uncle.” I

could imagine Bellar on his knees, on his belly, begging for his life. I would

not give it. After all the years of his plots, his plans, his assassinations, his

arrogance and contempt for people, I would have his life for the lives of the

others he had murdered for no other crime than to be an annoyance to him.

The Hunter helped me up and bowed his head. “As you command, my

lady, so shall it be done.” He accessed the comunit on his wrist. “Take him.”

My eyebrows rose. “He’s here?”

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 “No, my lady. I have contacted the ship Imperial Watch. They will send the

message to Verbarr. By the time we return, Bellar and his staff will have

disappeared from his estate.” He gave me a brief smile. “A… fire, m’lady, an

accident in the kitchens. He will be at the Imperial dungeon for your return.”

“And his daughter?” I asked. My voice had gone cold and resumed the

Imperial tone I had thought I’d left behind. The Imperial Watch was the

flagship of the fleet and hearing the name again tore away any façade of the

migrant worker I had left.

“The duchess will also be detained.” His eyes gleamed with triumph.

Bellarine’s disdain for people of a lesser stature was about to come back and

bite her.

I would have a week to grieve for my mother. By the time I returned home,

I would have to don the persona of Empress. But until then, I could be

ordinary. “Thank you, Hunter. I am in your debt.”

“No, my lady. We did not do our job, otherwise, we would not be here. It is

our honour to serve you as we failed to serve the Empress Kerrian.” His eyes

light with a demonic fire. “Your justice will be ours and we will revel in it!”

We, I snorted. One of the first things I would do when I returned was purge

the Guard and Hunters. I would only have those who swore absolute fealty to

me, not the Empire. The days of deadly political intrigue were over. We would

have peace, or I would use my Hunters without mercy.

“Make sure you do, Hunter, for there will be blood on the court floor

before I am done with my own brand of justice.”

He gave me a smile; feral and sharklike. I had my first convert.

87
 Mushrooms

“Retractor, Jeff.” Doctor Emma Hawthorne held out her gloved hand and

her assistant placed the instrument into it. She didn’t look at him, she’d

worked with him for long enough, they were a well-practiced, highly efficient

team.

Emma got to work cracking open the chest cavity and using the retractor to

expand the gap. The heart, pink, threaded by darker pink veins, was exposed.

In the centre of the organ was a tear; small, insidious and fatal. She leaned

forward and studied the small injury. There was a darker pink, almost black

smear along the edges of the wound. On closer inspection, she could see half

a dozen minor tears on the muscle.

“You know, I don’t think this guy knew what hit him, but we’ll go with the

complete autopsy anyway.” She murmured and began cutting the major

arteries so she could lift it out of the body cavity.

“You’d think these people would learn to duck, but no, they have to go all

macho and expect bullets to bounce off them. Sad way to find out they don’t,

huh, Jeff?”

Jeff made no comment. All she could hear was his rapid breathing against

the facemask. Emma shrugged off his silence. As an assistant, he was damn

good, as a person outside of the morgue, he was shy, tight-lipped and, well,

socially inept. Sometimes that personality invaded the work area. Emma had

known Jeff to remain silent throughout an autopsy regardless of what she

said, so his silence didn’t bother her. She just assumed it was going to be one

of his ‘quiet’ days.

“This guy has more holes in him than a sieve. What did they use on him? A

chain gun or did they all decide to claim to have shot him.” She knew she was

terse, but this kind of slaughter always pissed her off. Once a guy was down

88
and dead, leave the poor bastard alone! It was de jour among the troops to

claim a kill just because an enemy soldier had fallen down. Of course, there

was the small matter of body count to ammunition expended. They could

prove they’d shot the soldier because, gee, lookee here, a bullet or two dozen.

She heard Jeff emit a strangled sound.

Emma glanced up, down, then back to Jeff’s face. His skin was almost

translucent, his doe brown eyes wide as he stared down at the body.

“What’s up with you?” She asked a little impatient and lifted the heart out.

She slapped it onto a scale and looked up at the weight. “A little heavy, but

within normal range.”

“Look.” Jeff whispered and cleared his throat. “Look, Emma. In the cavity!”

“Hmm, I wonder what I’ll see if I do look. Will I find more organs?” She

asked with a smile and did what Jeff asked.

Emma froze. “Is that…?” She lifted her eyes to Jeff. He shrugged, slowly.

She found her eyes drawn to the alien thing resting on the dead man’s

spine, revealed when she took his heart. Her throat dried and she swallowed.

Sweat pearled on her forehead and a shiver of pure fear trickled down her

back.

“How does one get what looks like a mini nuke into a living man?” She

asked softly and stared down at the shiny, blood smeared silver cylinder.

There was a dent in the surface. From one of the needler bullets, she thought.

The whole thing was the size of her hand. “You do realise that if the bullet

had hit that dead on, or if I’d nicked it wrong, it would have…” Again they

looked at each other, then backed away from the table.

“Yeah… I think that was the intent.” Jeff murmured, as if the very volume

of his voice would set the bomb off. “Load up your troops with nukes,

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separate them and send them on a suicide mission. Make sure they’re in a

populated area and wait for the enemy to gun you down, taking, of course, a

few of the bastards with you.”

Emma stared at him and pulled her pale green mask down. “How do you

know all this?”

Jeff tugged his own mask down, gave her a wan smile. “Just… stands to

reason, doesn’t it? Fear makes the mind work, oh, so much faster, don’t you

think?”

His cap had a thick patch of sweat across the forehead. As she watched, a

trail of moisture slid down the side of his face. He licked his lips and

swallowed. His eyes never left the body, as if he expected it to blow at any

moment.

“Yeah, I suppose it does.” She agreed. “I think we should call someone

about this, don’t you?”

“As you command, doctor.” He backed up towards the door and levered

his way through.

Emma followed him out – backwards, her eyes on the cadaver. Of course, if

the bomb went off, it wouldn’t make any difference whether she was standing

next to the remains or in the office; or in the next building or one street over.

The whole area would have been one large and unattractive crater.

Still, when the door shut, the tension rushed out and relief surged into her.

“Holy fuck.” Jeff said and slumped into a chair in her office.

“I can categorically, unequivocally, agree with that.” She tugged off her cap

and reached out for her comunit. The local militaria were on speed dial and

she punched the button.

“Captain Hartog.” A cold, aggressive voice said answered.

90
 “Captain, this is Doctor Emma Hawthorn over at the morgue.”

“Yes, Doctor, what can I do for you?” His voice cooled and an element of

distaste crept into his tone. Seems doctors who opened up the dead were less

useful than those who opened up the living.

Emma cleared her throat. “You’re boys dropped off a Kadizurite a couple

of hours ago.”

“Yes, Doctor, we’re interested in the cause of death.”

“Ahm, well.” She hedged, unsure of how to tell him about the bomb. It was

too…

“Come now, Doctor Hawthorn.” Emma frowned at the comunit. The

Captain sounded… amused. Then he made a coughing sound. “We have a

pool on which bullet killed the bastard, so I’ll need verification of the weapon,

calibre of bullet and striations on said ammunition. Can you do that?”

They had a… betting pool? On who killed him? What was wrong with these

people? It didn’t matter who killed him, only that he was dead; that some

mother was grieving for her son, a wife was mourning the loss of a husband,

children were confused and lonely from not seeing their father! Damn it!

Outrage cleared her head and straightened her spine.

“We have another problem, sir. He’s got a bomb inside of him. From what

we could tell, it’s a mini-nuke. I suggest you get someone over here to disarm

it.” She was about to disconnect then said: “What killed your man was lack of

oxygen to the brain.” She pressed the button and cut him off.

“Right Jeff, collect the staff and evacuate the building.”

***

Emma’s finger rubbed the edge of the brandy glass. “You were right, Jeff.”

He looked at her, but didn’t reply.

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 She stared down into the rich amber liquid. “I spoke with Captain Hartog

before he went in. Seems a new thing for the Kadizurite militants. They have

their own surgeon implants the bombs and insert a sensitivity monitor. The

terrorists can throw themselves to the ground, off a staircase, balcony,

building, whatever and the shock will detonate the bomb. Same thing with

the bullets. That way, the suicide bomber can choose a passive or active

ending. Either way, they take as many people with them as possible.” She

sighed and sipped her drink.

“The bullet hit our bomb at just the right angle and disabled the sensitivity

unit. I cannot imagine what kind of a sick mind came up with this, but the

thought of people deliberately wandering into high population areas and

shooting people, then blowing themselves up and taking half the city with

them, sickens me to the very bones. No war is worth this, Jeff.” She gulped

the rest of her drink down and raised the empty glass.

The barman came over and poured more Brandy for her. “Thanks.” She

said with a smile that she didn’t feel.

“That’s not the worst of it, Em.” Jeff finally said. It was the first thing he’d

said since they’d evacuated.

“I would think that was bad enough. What could possibly be worse?”

Jeff drained his ale. “How about kidnapping civilians and inserting micro-

nukes.”

“You are kidding me!” Emma gasped.

Jeff shook his head and unbuttoned his shirt. There, beneath his collarbone

was an angry red surgical scar. “The weekend I had off…?”

Emma felt the hair all over her body stand on end. “Jeff…”

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 “I can’t take it out, Em, that much was explained to me; it’s motion and

metal sensitive, so no horizontal position and no scalpels. A couple of hard

hits over the device and… It’s also on a timer.” His expression went sad. “So,

either way, Em, I’m a dead man.”

“A… a timer? And you thought to tell me now?” Emma slid off the stool.

"We've got to get you to a..."

He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “I wanted one more shift

with you. They granted that. I'm leaving now, to go and do...” He slowly

stood. "Well... something. I’m no hero, but maybe I’ll be able to do some good.

Take a walk in the desert, maybe, so I’m nowhere near civilians. " He lifted a

shoulder.

Emma’s eyes filled with tears and she clutched at his hand. “No, Jeff! I

could have taken it out, given the time! I could have neutralised it, spoken to

Hartog, could have…”

“Done nothing, Em, without killing yourself and a half million people, too.

And we both know that’s what would happen. There’s no time. I don’t want

you to die too. Just… just live for me, okay?”

He leaned down, brushed his mouth against hers. “One day, this war will

be over.” He gave her a wry smile. “Bye, Em, it’s been fun.” He said and

walked away. Emma watched him go, desperately trying to think how to save

him.

***

The Kadizurite leader leaned back against the rocks of his mountain home

and stared out across the plains. In the distance, he could see the city that he

would soon reclaim, whether it was still standing or not. This land belonged

to his people and he would not give it up to the invaders, no matter what they

said their motives were.

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 Humanitarian! Pah! He spat into the dirt. More like imperialism!

It was instinctive, perhaps that he lifted his head and saw the beginnings of

a mushroom cloud out by the edge of the city. To him, it was beautiful. The

lowering sun illuminated the cloud as it expanded and grew.

That must have been one of the police stations, and the surrounding houses

of the traitors. Anyone who consorted with the invaders was a dog who

needed to be destroyed. And if his bombs killed the faithful, well, they died

for a good cause. Martyrs all.

He chuckled, laughed and shook his head. This new plan of his using

mules to destroy the invaders was brilliant. The best part was that no one

knew who a bomber might be. His name gave new meaning to the word

‘terrorist’ and he revelled in it; in the destruction he wrought.

“My lord, I have captured another one for you.” He turned to his son and

grinned.

“Where did you find this one?”

“Down at the morgue. I went to get Lario. To bring him back for a proper

burial and I bumped into this one.” He slapped the man on the back and the

captive winced. “He was all alone.” The son giggled. “So I took him.”

“What do you want with me?” the prisoner asked softly.

The leader smiled at him. “You seem familiar to me.” He narrowed his

eyes.

The captive grinned back and opened his shirt. “Yeah, sure, and you all

look alike to me, too. Go ahead and kill me now. I’m not doing anything for

you stinking…” The son smacked him to the ground.

Wiping the blood from his mouth, Jeff looked up at the son, then the

leader. “You wanna know what the worst thing about being a terrorist is?

94
Yeah? Being terrorised right back. Problem is, you won't suffer like your

victims did. Still, you dead is good enough for me.”

The Kadizurite stepped back. “No… You…!”

“Hell has a special place for assholes like you.” Jeff thumped his naked

chest twice with his fist.

***

In the city in the distance, Emma stood staring at the mountains, pressed

both hands to her chest and felt the surging grief as the mushroom cloud rose,

dark and sinister.

She watched until the night blotted the cloud from her view. "Bye, Jeff.

You'll always be in my heart." She whispered and blew a kiss towards the

mountains.

95
 Eve of War

“Shalimar. Wake up!” Rick cupped his hands around his mouth. “Shalimar!!”

The woman merely stirred in her sleep, rolled onto her side and tucked a

hand under her jaw. Rick smiled down at her. She looked so… soft and gentle

in sleep; so exhausted.

“No good, Rick. C’mon, let’s go.” Harley tugged on his sleeve. He shook

her off and glared.

“This is too important, Harl.” Rick murmured and crouched down to brush

the blonde strands off Shalimar’s forehead.

“The sun rises, pal, and we know what happens then, don’t we.” She said

and tugged harder.

Rick sighed, his shoulders slumped and he rose to step away. The darkness

was being pushed back. He could see the outline of the trees’ foliage. Rick

lifted his eyes. Stars still sparkled in the night sky but there was a… silence, as

if the world held it’s breath for the majesty of sunrise.

Harley was right: he had to go, but he’d be watching; unlike the supposed

guards of this camp who dozed at their posts. He shook his head in disgust

and sorrow.

“This rebellion will fail if we don’t do something, Harley.”

“I’m aware of that, Rick, but bitching about it won’t get it done. And we

will get it done if it’s the last thing I do.”

The fire in her eyes reflected her determination, her thirst for vengeance.

Whether they could achieve that was another matter; Shalimar was the key

and he stared down at her.

96
 Rick lifted a hand to his heart and rubbed his sternum. The ache in his

chest came whenever he saw her, as did his longing.

He forced himself to move away, to turn his head to the forest, to follow

Harley deeper into the forest where the sunlight was barely a memory.

***

“The Sprites will not help us.” Shalimar tossed a twig into the fire, her

frustration evident. The sun was low in the morning sky, but already the

forest was warming. She’d awoken feeling lost, alone and tearful; a dream of

Rick lingering in her memory.

“We must have allies, Shalimar!” Eaden growled. “The Aristocracy has to

be destroyed.” He thumped a fist onto the ground. A puff of dust rose.

“I know, Eaden, I know. I don’t want the outland to dry up anymore than

you do. Everyone wants it to rain again.”

Eaden rose, paced in front of the fire. “Bastards! Control the weather,

control the water and you control the population.” He ran a hand through his

dark hair and stared off into the still green trees.

“Already, fresh produce brings a premium price.” He muttered. “And all

we can afford is here,” He turned in a circle, arms out to indicate the forest,

“around us, and precious little of it is edible.” Fists on his hips, he turned to

Shalimar. “Why won’t the Sprites help? We need them; they need us!”

“Gee, I wonder if it’s because you called yourself the ‘King of the Forest’?”

Shalimar pushed up from the ground and walked around the fire to him.

“You offended them, you idiot.”

“It was a joke!” He protested and threw his hands up. “A bitter joke on me;

from corporate king-pin to forest dweller. Who knew they didn’t have a sense

of humour?”

97
 “Rick knew.” Shalimar murmured and felt his name echo within her. She

lifted a hand to rub the ache in her heart.

Eaden grabbed her upper arms and dragged her to her feet. “Don’t you

speak about my brother, Shalimar. You have no right.”

Shalimar winced and lowered her head. Not from Eaden’s tight grip, but

from guilt, remorse and hurt.

“No, I don’t. Is he… okay?” She asked and looked into his eyes.

Eaden shook his head and dropped his hands. “I don’t know, Shalimar. I’m

an outcast, too, now, while he…” Eaden looked off into the forest, in the

direction of Mademar City.

‘Yeah.” She followed his gaze. “He betrayed us both.”

She never saw him move, but her head rang from the punch to her jaw.

Shalimar blinked, stunned, her face throbbing as Eaden stood over her, his

fists up and ready should she try to retaliate.

She lay there for a moment trying to regather her thoughts.

“You will not mention it again.” He spat on the ground, between her knees,

and walked off into the forest.

Everyone in the camp had turned to watch. Shalimar couldn’t meet their

eyes; her shame wouldn’t allow her.

Slowly, she got to her feet, touched her mouth. It stung and her fingers

came away bloody. If that was the only damage she took in the coming

campaign, she’d be lucky. But. She expected to die.

Without the Sprites and the other forest dwellers, their rebellion wouldn’t

last long: the first battle would see an end to them.

98
 She lifted her eyes to the stark blue sky. With only humans, most of them

untrained, against the might of the Aristocracy’s powered weapons and

shielded city…

Shalimar looked away. This afternoon would be her last sunset; by the next

one, she would be dead. They’d have one last hurrah, then; one last attempt to

destroy the Aristocracy’s brutal power and free the world.

Her lip curled with self-condemnation. Free the world; like she was some

kind of superhero.

And after the rebels were slaughtered, the rest of the population would see

the folly in not supporting them. They would die slowly, painfully, pleading

and praying for the water that wouldn’t come. What did she care? She’d be

dead and buried by then.

Shalimar went to her sleeping roll and drew her sword out of its leather

sheath. Time to make sure it was as sharp as a razor. If she was going to die,

she’d damn well take a few of those assholes with her.

***

“We need a plan.” Rick said as he sat by the sleeping Shalimar.

“Oh, gee. Really?” Harley said, but didn’t look at him. Her focus was on

the rest of the camp, none of whom noticed them.

“We need to get her away from here, temporarily, Harley. I know I cannot

save her from her course.” He waved a hand around the encampment. “Nor

them. What she must do, she must do.”

“Yada, yada, if they do not attack tomorrow, they never will and everyone

outside the city will die. I know all this, Rick.”

He glared at her. “You could try to be more helpful, you know.”

99
 Harley got into his face, her expression tight. “Listen, pal, I want this as

much as you do. I want the head of that prick of a Lord Garia on a spike. Or a

sword, or gutted like a fish, or…”

Rick turned away from her and studied Shalimar; blocked out Harley’s

vengeful diatribe; he’d heard it all before. Ad nauseum. A betrayed mistress

was a tiresome thing.

He lay down next to Shalimar, his lips caressed her ear. “Shalimar, wake

up, honey.”

“Rick.” She murmured and turned towards him; her eyes remained closed.

“Shalimar, I need you.” He said and kissed her ear, the ache in his heart

bringing tears to his eyes. Oh, why had he thought he could…

“Rick…” Her eyes slowly opened and he was struck by the pure emerald

coloured depths. She blinked at him, focused as he smiled. Her lips began to

lift…

“Get on with it.” Harley muttered above him.

Shalimar bolted upright; rubbed her eyes then slowly turned to him.

“You…” Her glance swept the camp site, but no one was awake. “You….

can’t be here!” She whispered harshly.

Rick sat up slowly and got to his feet. “Come with me, there is much to

discuss.” He said and she winced at his loud tone.

“Shh. You’ll wake everyone and they’ll kill you!” Shalimar scrambled to her

feet.

“But not you?” He asked, amused.

“Oh, Rick!” She turned away so he couldn’t see what was in her expression.

But he knew anyway.

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 “This won’t take long, Shalimar, I promise, but I must speak with you.” He

moved towards the forest and then glanced back at her.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured as she lifted her sword and followed. A

disgruntled Harley brought up the rear.

***

Five hundred metres from the camp, Shalimar saw Rick sit on a log and

turn his head toward the sky. His profile was similar to Eaden, with a high

forehead, long nose, an oh, so kissable mouth and a pugnacious jaw.

“Ah, shit.” She muttered. A year away from this man and nothing had

changed. She never cared that he’d betrayed them to the Aristocracy, but she

wanted to know why before letting him go. She glanced back at the scowling

woman. She didn’t want to ask; it hurt her soul to ask, but… “Are you and

he…”

The woman was attractive in a sharp-featured way; pointed chin, a blade of

a nose, cold, crystal grey eyes and black, black short hair. She had a sharp

tongue too. Rick would easily be tempted by her opposite.

The woman shook her head and snorted with disgust. “Not even. I’m

doing this for revenge.” She growled. “Not anything touchy-feely.” Her lip

curled. “Besides, it’s you he has googly eyes for; no one else, not now, not

ever.” She came to a stop and sighed. “Go on, it’s important.”

Shalimar tilted her head, relieved and turned to face Rick.

Shalimar approached and sat cross-legged before him. “What is it, Rick?”

He lowered his head and stared at her with such love she had to look

away, a lump in her throat and pain in her heart. She wouldn’t betray her

comrades; surely he wouldn’t ask her to? If he did… that would be the final

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betrayal. The one she couldn’t forgive no matter how much she loved this

man. She had to live or die with her decisions; he did not.

“Oh, honey.” He reached out with a hand, but didn’t touch her. “I wish… I

truly wish things were different.”

Her hands lifted towards him without thinking and he drew back, out of

reach. It hurt and she dropped her hands.

“The Sprites are ready to parley.” He said and she stared at him. Business

first, then.

“They’ve refused Eaden.” She said and cleared her throat of the huskiness.

“They will not refuse you.”

She snorted. “I’m not the leader of the rebellion.”

“No, sweetheart, but you understand their ways. They are well aware of

what’s going on, but their pride is such that they won’t deal with someone so

arrogant.”

Shalimar nodded over the surge of relief. Maybe they wouldn’t all die after

all. The hurt of his refusal to touch her remained and it took all her willpower

to suppress the tears or to press a hand to her heart.

“Better yet, the fairies are coming.”

“Fairies have no wish to involve themselves in the matters of Men. They

have stated that over and over again.” Shalimar got to her feet. “They would

prefer to stay hidden and wait until we destroy ourselves.” She said bitterly.

“Indeed. However, the Aristocracy will destroy the outland and protect

their own cities. The outland, if you recall, includes the land of Fairy, and

Sprite, and…”

“Demon, Elf, Vampire, Were… She gets it, Rick, move on!” The woman

called over.

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 Shalimar glanced at Rick’s companion. How could she hear them from

thirty metres away? Shalimar wondered, then put it down to the forest’s

acoustics and faced Rick.

“Rick…” She began but he held up his hand.

“I don’t have much time, Shalimar, in fact, I should be going. I just wanted

to tell you about the Sprites. To… see you…”

“But…”

“No, Shalimar. Listen… go the Sprites, now. They represent all of the

Outland, by consensus. Speak to them. You’ll have their support and their

legions. The Aristrocracy will fall, but you must act quickly, before the sun

rises.” Rick stood and went to Harley. “Now, Shalimar.”

Shalimar threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, I’m going. I’ll… see you later?”

He gave her such a sad smile that she felt it all the way down to her very

core.

“Go, sweetheart and remember I love you. Ever and always.” He turned

away and vanished into the forest.

“And I, you, Rick. Ever and always.” Shalimar murmured. On a sigh, she

turned and began walking towards the home of the Sprites, deeper in the

forest.

***

“You don’t look well rested at all, Shalimar.” Eaden walked over to the fire

where she sat.

Shalimar didn’t lift her head. The pre-dawn chilled her bones and the

warmth from the flames only seeped into the front of her. “The Outlanders

are going to be here before we go in.” She said without preamble.

Eadon sat across from her. “What? But I thought…”

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 Shalimar lifted a shoulder. “I went and saw them last night. I had to try,

Eaden.” She raised her gaze to his.

His smile was so much like Rick’s, she blurted: “Rick told me to go to

them.”

The smile vanished and he paled. “You… didn’t… You couldn’t have! By

the Gods, Shalimar…”

“Eaden! Calm down. He told me to go to them because they wouldn’t deal

with you. We have the allies we need.” Her grin was fierce. “We are gonna

kick the spit outta the Aristocracy, Eaden!”

But he wasn’t as cheerful as she expected; he simply rose and came to sit by

her side, threw an arm around her shoulders. Something he’d never done

before. In fact, he was positively averse to touching her. She thought it was

because of her relationship with his traitorous brother. Was it something else?

“Shalimar,” he said hoarsely and swallowed. “It couldn’t have been Rick.

He’s… he’s…” He sighed and hung his head. “Shalimar, you know my spy

resources are quite good, don’t you?”

She snorted. “Without them, we wouldn’t be able to even enter the city.”

“Do you remember when we escaped?”

“Sure.” She murmured and stared into the fire, saw it happen again. “Only

three of us knew of the complete plans to over throw the Aristocracy.” She

said quietly. Eaden didn’t interrupt as he, too, stared into the fire. “You, me

and Rick. When the troops arrived, Rick showed them where we were; he was

with them. You and I ran for it.” Her mouth twisted. “You had to drag me

away. I couldn’t believe what Rick had done.” She had been tainted by Rick’s

betrayal because of her relationship with him. It was to her shame that she

could have done something, anything to stop Rick, and had failed. Eaden had

escaped the mistrust due to his fiery relationship with his brother.

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 “He knew everything, Shalimar, and thought that if the Aristocracy could

get me – his overbearing, arrogant, selfish brother - they’d spare you; he was

wrong. Lord Garia planned to murder us. Rick tried to trade me for you. They

caught him, Shalimar, tortured the truth out of him and he tried to make a

deal. And when we got away… they…” Eadon took a deep breath. “They

killed him, Shalimar. Rick is dead, and has been for a year.”

Shalimar shook off his arm. “What bullshit, I spoke with him last night!”

“I… I couldn’t tell you, Shalimar, I knew how much he meant to you; how

much you meant to him.”

Shalimar shook her head. “You’re wrong, Eaden, I spoke with him; he told

me to go to the Sprites! He’s not dead!” Her voice rose and she pushed away

from Eaden. She stood and turned; smiled. “There, you see? He’s standing

right over near that burned stump!” She began walking towards Eaden’s

brother. “Rick! Tell him...” Then she saw it and stopped. The blood drained so

quickly from her head that she felt light-headed. She could… see through him

to forest beyond. His companion, too.

“Rick?” She asked faintly.

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Harley bit out. “Now, she knows!”

“Rick?” She asked again and staggered forward reaching out to him.

He stepped forward, nodded to his brother. “Eadon. You finally told her.”

“I did, brother.”

“Well, finally!” Rick grinned then looked at Shalimar and his smile faded.

“I’m sorry, Shalimar, so… desperately sorry. I only wished to…”

“You died on me? For the past year, I had hope that you… that I… that

we…” Her voice jammed up in her throat and she couldn’t speak.

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 “You expected to die today, Shalimar, and I couldn’t let that happen.” Rick

said and reached out to her, cupped her jaw, though Shalimar only felt the

brush of chill air. “Now, you have a chance to live.”

“God, Rick… without you? I can’t!” She fell to her knees, renew grief

surging. “I… can’t…”

He crouched down in front of her. “I know this is hard, Shalimar,” he said

softly, “and I wish it could have come at a better time, but honey? You know I

love you. I know you love me. But there is a greater love: that for the people;

all peoples.”

She lifted tear-flooded eyes. “The people won’t keep me warm at night or

share my bed, my home, my life; I’m lost without you Rick.”

His smile was sad and sweet. “When this is done, Shalimar, you’ll see the

value in what I say. Now, my warrior woman, go and kick some lordly butt.

Free this world. Destroy the weather machine and let the peoples live without

oppression.” He leaned in closer, and spoke for her ears alone. “Eaden will be

waiting for you, as he has done for all these years.”

Her head came up. “Eaden?”

“He has loved you, too.” Rick’s eyes filled with glee. “What we had was

flash and spark; with him, you’ll have passion and a deep abiding love. I’ll be

watching over you… Shalimar.”

“Rick?” She asked and saw he was fading.

“Be safe, Shalimar, I’ll be waiting for you.” He rose and nodded to his

brother. “Take care of her, Eaden, or I’ll be back.”

“Farewell, brother.” Eaden reached out his hand, but he touched nothing.

“Know that I, too, love you.”

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 Rick’s image became more solid. “I love you, brother.” He grinned and

walked into the forest.

***

“Did you have to lie to them?” Harley asked sourly.

“Yes, Harley, I did.”

“Why, for the Gods sake?”

“Because if I didn’t plant the idea, Shalimar and Eaden would spend the

rest of their lives alone. Their love for me…” He shook his head. “Their love

for me would blind them to ever finding someone else; and no one, no one

should walk through this life without love.”

“Huh. It worked for me.” Harley said smugly.

“Oh, gee, and look who you’ve got as a companion shade? Did you ever

think that the Gods might be trying to tell you something?”

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 The Winged Crown

Finrael rolled a rare gold coin over his knuckles and back again.

This coin was special to him, made for him by master craftsmen at the

behest of Her Majesty. Etched on one side, the Queen’s profile; on the other, a

ferret standing on his back paws, snout in the air, as if scenting prey. After

five years, it still made him smile. It was a measure of how Queen Tarrin

regarded him: with admiration, pride and no small amount of amusement.

Ferrets were, after all, cunning, sly creatures who could wheedle their way

through the smallest of gaps. They were savage, too, but not adverse to a

good, solid bribe.

Just like him, he chuckled. He wondered if the Queen knew he’d recognise

what she was trying to say? Wondered if, even now, she smiled to herself at

the thought of him demanding an explanation from her messenger.

He lifted his eyes to the messenger, sitting across from him in this very

private booth and put the coin in his money pouch; the one he kept hidden at

his waist. Kenro was a trim, fit man, with a pointed black beard, clean-shaven

cheeks, slicked back hair, and deep blue eyes that watched Finrael’s every

move. He appeared at ease with his surroundings, but Finrael knew the

picture of unstudied grace was faked.

The Bowman’s Arms was Finrael’s turf in this small town, hamlet really,

with its dirt streets and grubby two dozen thatch-roofed cottages. It was nice

here, regardless of the poverty-stricken appearance. Behind those ill-fitting

wooden doors lay hidden wealth. The people of this town - and others like it -

were his. The residents worked for him, lived for him and died for him. In

return, he gave them a percentage of his profits, enabling them to live in fine

comfort, if only on the inside of their domiciles.

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 This man, though, leaned back against the scarred wooden booth, dressed

as if he wanted the peasants to know how wealthy he was, had no idea that

every single inhabitant of this hamlet had more money than he did. Tarrin

should have known better than to send a fop like Kenro. He’d been here a

turning of the glass without once mentioning his mission.

“For the last time: What does the Queen wish of me?” Finrael asked with

aggrieved patience.

Kenro waved a negligent hand. “It is a small matter, really. It won’t take

more than a couple of hours of your time.”

“Of which, you’ve taken up more than I’m willing to part with.” He stood,

turned away and nodded to one of his henchmen. The hulk known as Bando

approached with lumbering slowness that belied his intelligence. Many a fool

had underestimated Fin’s bodyguard to their detriment.

He heard the thud of metal hitting wood and glanced down at the table.

Kenro had tossed a coin down. Fin felt the blood leave his face. He lifted his

hand and waved Bando off as he stared at the money, although ‘money’ was a

misnomer. This coin was old, tarnished to a deep golden colour as if dirt in

the surface stained it with a darkness no amount of rubbing could erase. He

knew this piece, knew its’ legend. He thought it destroyed or lost. And now it

had returned.

Without taking his eyes off it, he slowly sat, reached out to touch it, but

kept his finger just above the surface.

“The Winged Crown.” He breathed.

“She thought you might recognise it.” Kenro smirked and Fin slowly lifted

his gaze so the man would not mistake how close he’d come to death. The

smirk faded and Kenro swallowed. “Er… I mean…” He took a hasty swallow

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of his ale and licked his lips, looked away to the few other patrons in the

Arms.

Fin stared down at the dark gold. A pair of wings faced him. A man’s

profile against the tabletop. He knew this because he’d held this coin in his

hand once before: when he’d helped Tarrin take the throne from her

paranoid, insanely brutal mother. And that had nearly ended in disaster.

He’d been given the coin in exchange for guarding a merchant’s train

through a corner of the neighbouring country, Tro. He’d thought the coin

pretty, interesting, and played with it. But then, he’d helped the Princess

Tarrin against assassins and court intrigue to ascend to the throne of Lath. At

every turn, it seemed they’d be murdered. Every plan he made dissolved into

disarray.

And then, one morning, he left the crown sitting on the window sill after

he’d shown it to Tarrin. That day had gone well, and those after, too, until he

recalled the coin and remembered where he’d left it. Once in his hand again,

danger surrounded them and he knew the coin was cursed. He’d thrown it

from the tower into the forest below. How had it come to be in Kenro’s

possession? Into Tarrin’s possession?

Fin touched the pad of his finger to the face of the coin. A subtle buzz ran

up his finger and into his hand before he withdrew. The coin knew him and

he suppressed a shudder.

“Where did the Queen get this?” He asked and raised his eyes to the man.

Kenro shrugged. “She gave it to me to give to you as a measure of her

urgency.”

“And what does Her Majesty want me to do?”

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 Kenro abandoned his relaxed stance and leaned forward. “You know of the

prophecy, Finrael, you know the consequences if it comes true. She charges

you with stopping that prophecy.”

Fin shook his head. Silly bitch. Didn’t she know that prophecies always

came true? Never in history had one failed, no matter how people tried to

change it. “No.” He said.

“Yes.” Kenro hissed, earning him another glare. He didn’t back down,

however and Fin gave him points for courage. “There is no one else to do this.

You: the worst of the worst, a killer, a thief, a pimp and standover man. You,

a mobster, for the Gods’ sake, have the skills to do this!”

“There are others to can do it, Kenro, and you know it.”

Kenro leaned closer. “Darik and his army are massing at the border. You

know him. You could easily slip in and kill him.”

Fin felt his lips twist. Yes, he knew Darik. He used to run with the boy in

the wilds of Tro before Darik went to military school. “You mean Darik thinks

the prophecy is about him?”

Kenro nodded and quoted the prophecy. “The Queendom of Lath shall fall.

From the west comes a man with a body of armour and lust for power in his heart. He

will throw down the bastion of women with blood and fire. Nevermore shall women

rule, for what remains is only servitude to the conqueror.” He said quietly.

Fin curled his lip. “Tarrin has closed off every border, armed every man;

reinforced every citadel. Darik will fail, as his father did before him, and his

father before him.” Finrael said. “What makes you think this time is any

different?”

“The Queen seems disturbed. There is something different about this

impending assault.” Kenro replied. “This coin,” he tapped the tarnished

surface, “frightened her enough to send it to you.” He shook his head. “The

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prophecy is not so old as to be forgotten. I remember my great grandfather

speaking of it in hushed tones, and heard it from his own great grandfather.

Everything that is happening now, has happened before. Who’s to say this

time, the Kingdom of Tro won’t succeed?”

“Do you remember the rest of the prophecy?” Fin asked. “That the offender

in the prophecy was an outcast?”

“Darik thinks he’s the one because his father tossed him out for failing

school. To Morik, that was unconscionable given that Darik was the first in

centuries to fail.” Kenro replied.

“Oh, boy.” Finrael narrowed his eyes. “Does the Queen not see this a

Morik’s way of forcing the prophecy? That everything Morik and Darik have

done is to fit in with the prophecy?”

Kenro shook his head. “I don’t know what the Queen is thinking; I’m only

her messenger.”

“For a smart woman, she can be remarkably dumb sometimes.” Fin leaned

back and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Tarrin, he thought, was not as

well versed in prophecy reading as she should be.

He eyed Tarrin’s man. “Does Darik have an heir yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then think on this: if I kill Darik, there will be a battle for the throne of

Tro. Whoever wins will be an outsider and probably have the same attitude

towards the prophecy as Darik and his father. It will not stop the prophecy,

nor even delay it. It might even play into the prophecy. Have you or she

thought of that? These prophecies are always vague for that very reason. You

can put whatever interpretation on it as you like. If one man fails, then you

can say, ‘oh, so it wasn’t him after all.’ Then you get to wait for the next mutt

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who thinks the prophecy is about him. It will not stop. Not now, not a

hundred or a thousand years from now.”

Kenro shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to say. I know what you

say is true. But the Queen wants this. She feels it’s the only way to ensure

peace in our time. It will take years for Tro to stabilise if left without a

legitimate heir. You have to do this!”

“Just in case.” Fin said drolly.

“Yes, just in case.”

Fin shook his head again. Bloody prophecies: always turning up at

inopportune moments. He had business to attend to, now Tarrin wanted him

to run off and murder his childhood friend who – through his father’s urgings

- thought he was destined to be king of the world.

But. The coin. It knew him. Surely that meant something? Maybe it was just

old magic that filled it, kept it and the prophecy alive. Hmmm, there’s a

thought.

“Return to the Queen. Tell her she’ll have her answer before dawn.” He

made a shooing motion and Kenro rose, uncertainty on his face. “Leave now

or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Kenro nodded, drained his tankard and walked out.

“Bando!” He called and the giant of a man strolled over.

“Sir?”

“I’ve got something for you to do. Some… research.”

***

Fin read what Bando had found for him and smiled.

“It was remarkably easy to find the information, sir.” Bando said quietly.

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 “Indeed, you have my thanks. Now, sit in the corner and write down

everything you see happens next.” Fin instructed.

Bando bowed and found a shadowed corner of the blacksmiths forge to

hide in. Fin watched as the big man settled himself with parchment and quill.

Bando cleared his throat and eased into a still position. If you weren’t looking

directly at him, you might not see him at all. Good.

Fin turned his attention to the next part of his plan.

The fire was hot, the crucible ready and Fin dropped the coin in. The metal

began to soften, sank into the contours of the cup. The wings held their shape

for a moment then dissolved.

It seemed a shame to destroy something of antiquity, but then sometimes,

things of antiquity were not what they seemed.

Fin stepped back as the metal began to spark and smoke.

A column of smoke drifted up, but it wasn’t ordinary smoke. This held a

shape that coalesced into a man dressed in robes. The smoke thickened until

almost solid and Finrael could see the features of a white bearded man in

black robes.

“Bastard son of a whore!” The spectre spat.

“Ah, the late and unlamented wizard, Jastro.” Finrael smiled benignly.

“Thought you could manipulate events, huh?”

“How did you know?” The shape shimmered then firmed.

“Sheer bloody arrogance on your part, wizard, the buzz of magic in the

coin and a good deal of research. You were looking for the right man to fulfil

your plan of destroying Lath, as Lath once destroyed you. If I’d gone to kill

Darik you would have found that man.”

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 “I thought it could have been you. You’re nothing but filth for what you do

to your own people. If anyone could rid this world of the bitch queens, it

would have been you. You could have ruled this world. Killed Darik and

taken both kingdoms. Now…”

“Now that you will shortly be truly dead, the prophecy has no sway. It is

now nothing more than a poem, a poor one at that, written by you to forment

mischief.” Fin tilted his head and chuckled. “Fancy that? Your fear-ridden

prophecy has now been reduced to simple literature.”

“You said prophecies always come true. What makes you think this one is

any different?” The shade sneered.

Fin shrugged. “I don’t. I believe what I said. But you and I both know it

wasn’t a prophecy, but the rantings and threats of an old man thwarted by the

first Queen of Lath, the Witch Queen, I believe. Someone picked it up and the

coin you’d magicked yourself into and thought ‘gosh, a prophecy!’ And

history did the rest, or will be once another story is spread across the land;

one that begins with a cursed coin and ends with the cleansing of that coin.”

The wizard snarled and began to fade.

“One more thing before you take off for Hell, wizard. I may be a mobster,

the filth of the earth, a killer, thief and the Gods know what else. But.” Fin

held up a finger. “And it’s a big one. The current bitch queen? She’s my wife.

We rule Lath together: her, as the face of respectability, and me, as the face of

the underworld. Together we make Lath great: Two sides of the coin creating

a balance and filling the needs of all citizens, not just the law abiding. Your

so-called ‘prophecy’ was never going to be fulfilled in Tarrin’s or my lifetime

because she doesn’t rule on her own. You might want to think about during

eternity.”

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 The wizard was still gaping at him as the smoke dissipated and

fragmented into the night.

“Get all that?” Fin turned to his henchman. Bando nodded as he finished

the last sentence. “Great. Now you can spread that story.”

Fin turned to the west and stared out into the night through the open doors

of the forge. “Let’s hope the news gets through in time.” He murmured.

“Aye.” Bando agreed and packed up his tools, strode away with a purpose.

All Fin could do now was wait. Bando would do his best. He was a

storyteller, not just a friend and body guard to Fin – Fin didn’t need one, but

it was expected that a mobster would have one – and he would make sure as

many people knew about tonight’s happenings.

He would soon know if Bando succeeded: the watch fires of Lath would

remain unlit and Darik and his army would depart. If Bando failed, the

warning flares would be lit, sending explosions into the sky and Darik was on

his way to fulfil the wizard’s plan.

He and Tarrin would have to make other plans if that happened, but for

now he’d keep his own watch. He used tongs to lift the crucible off the fire. In

the bottom was a puddle of gold. He tipped it into the cool water, eased back

from the rising steam and spitting water, waited for the gold to cool before

collecting it. He’d sell it for a handsome profit.

***

It was a week before he saw the distant glow of the fires in the blackness.

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 Music Box

“Well, that didn’t go well.” Rocheros muttered and twisted around, stared

at the swirling colours of the four walls, the ceiling and floor. Rainbows of

colour undulated d across the surfaces in a dizzying display.

“Nope, not well at all.” Walder agreed and stamped his pink slippered

foot. Colours fanned out, rippled across the floor, up the walls and into the

ceiling to meet at a point then bounced back.

“So, how do we get out?” Rocheros asked.

Walder rubbed a grey eyebrow. “Ahm…”

Rocheros rolled his eyes. “That’s wizard-speak for ‘I don’t know’, isn’t it.”

“Mostly.”

“‘Mostly’? What does that mean? It’s your fault we’re in here!”

“Partly.” Walder said and rubbed his chin. Rocheros could hear the rasp of

bristles and looked around again. The colours were making him nauseous.

He shook his head. Blinked. “‘Partly’. ‘Mostly’. Is that all you can say?”

“Generally.”

“Walder. We are stuck inside a cube the size of a toaster oven. We need to

get out of it!” He loosened his tie. Was the air getting thin in here? Warmer? “I

need to get out of here!” He peeled off his suit jacket.

“Calm down. I’ll get us out, I promise.” Walder smirked. “Am I not the

world’s greatest magician?”

“Not even close, pal. Otherwise we wouldn’t be in here.” He walked to the

wall in front of him and touched it. The rainbows spread out, bounced off

other rainbows, rippled around until he had to close his eyes against the

vertigo. The wall itself was luke-warm, not the cool he’d expected.

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 “We’re in a magical item.” Walder said from behind him.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Rocheros muttered.

“And it was a powerful spell that brought us here.”

“Again, no surprise there.” Rocheros brushed his hand over the surface.

There was a vague roughness, almost like scraping against fine sand.

“My point is that only a powerful spell can get us out of here.” Walder said

happily.

“Great.” He dropped his hand and turned to the magician. “Okay O Great

Magician, caste away.”

Walder clicked his tongue. “It’s not that simple, my boy. I need things, I

need to meditate, I need to…”

“Get on with it! I have a meeting in…” Rocheros checked his watch, but it

had stopped. “Mmmm, soon.” He finished.

Walder gave an aggrieved sigh and sat down. The rainbows rippled

towards Rocheros and he grimaced.

While Walder meditated, Rocheros walked around the cube. It should have

been simple: a legendary, magical cube that allegedly could change time:

backward and forward. A time capsule, and his excitement and greed knew

no bounds. Now, though…

Walder began crooning in a foreign language. Rocheros ignored him and

continued to walk the walls. It should have been easy to go back in time and

adjust things that he’d done, things that he’d said. If it had worked, he would

be much richer and happily married with the required two children with

maybe one on the way.

As it was, he was still a struggling, single businessman with visions of

grandeur. He could see that now. The only way to get ahead in life was to

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work for it, and not try to take short cuts. He should have known: any time he

took a short cut, he lost.

Well, he was well and truly lost now, just not geographically. He slumped

down in a corner and watched the wizard. Walder was a highly respected

wizard. Rocheros shook his head. World’s greatest magician, he sneered and

undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Damn, it was getting warmer in here. He

closed his eyes and waited, draped his jacket across his lap.

Rocheros jerked awake. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep. How could

he? He must have slept for a while, though. The thirst didn’t sneak up on him,

it clubbed him until he thought he would simply dry up and blow away; if

there had been a breeze. He smacked his lips. A big glass of beer, yeah, that’s

what he’d get the first time he was out.

Walder’s crooning deepened to a hum.

Rocheros felt vibrations buzz through his buttocks. His skin tingled

unpleasantly and he jumped to his feet. Jesus! Now he could feel the

vibrations through the soles of his shoes.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded, but the wizard made no

reply. The rainbows rippled out, with Walder at the centre.

Rocheros stared at the old man. Was it his imagination or was the wizard…

Holy shit! He was sinking through the floor!

Rocheros opened his mouth to say… something, but before he could,

Walder had gone straight down and disappeared.

He walked to the spot, the colours rippling out from where Walder

vanished. His hands brushed over the spot but nothing remained. The

rainbow continued to flicker outwards from his hand, from his knees. “Where

are you?!” He shouted and ran his hand across the floor again. “Walder!”

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 “Hummm,” came a sonorous voice. The rainbow reacted, colouring every

surface with a sky blue.

“What?” Rocheros yelled and the rainbow lines appeared, ricocheted

around the walls.

“Be at peace, Rocheros. Hummm.” Came the voice again.

Hum. How was humming going to help him? He wasn’t a goddamn

wizard. He didn’t know any magical words or spells and it sure as hell wasn’t

going to make him feel better!

“Hummm.” The word lengthened and the lines of the rainbow softened,

the colours blending.

Rocheros sat where the wizard had, closed his eyes and hummed a ditty.

He cracked an eyelid. Nothing happened. He tried another tune. Still nothing.

He slapped the floor in frustration. “Bloody hell!”

“Hum.”

Didn’t the voice know any other word or tone?

Rocheros blew out a breath, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. “Hum.

Right.”

“Hum.”

He caught the end of the word and repeated it in the same low tone, kept

the note until he had to take another breath. It was almost as if the single note

was inside him, around him, was him and he felt the tension ease out of his

shoulders. He kept doing it even when he felt cool air brush across his cheeks.

“Mmmmm.” He intoned and the acoustics changed. He no longer felt the

resonance of the note.

Rocheros kept humming while he slowly opened his eyes. And abruptly

stopped.

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 He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his kitchen. Rocheros cleared his

throat and rose. His legs ached, but it looked like his own kitchen. Nothing

had changed. There was his faux-brushed steel fridge, his laminated granite-

pattern topped counters, the windows overlooking the park, bank statements

and bills stuck under a rock on the counter, and the accursed cube sitting,

where he’d left it, on the dining room table.

“Good thing you’re not tone deaf.” Walder said from behind him and he

jumped.

Rocheros nodded.

“So, how about some coffee?” The wizard asked. “Or perhaps I could…”

He waggled his fingers.

“No! God, no.” He gripped the old man by his arms. “I’ve learned my

lesson. I’ll work at being a success; I won’t try any more short cuts. I

absolutely, positively promise. In fact…” He strode to the dining room and

picked the cube up, brought it back and handed it to the magician. “Here,

take it. Do with it what you will.”

“Why thank you, Mr Rocheros, this is a fine gift.”

“Take it.”

Walder hummed a few bars from a commercial. The outside of the box lit

up with the rainbows again. Rocheros shuddered and stepped back.

“Send me a bill for your troubles, Walder, I’ll try to pay you, but…”

Walder sent him a warm smile. “Oh, I have no doubt about that, Mr

Rocheros. Look closer at your surrounds.”

Rocheros did as asked and swallowed a gasp. The brushed steel fridge was

genuine, not one with brushed laminate surface. The granite tops, when he

touched them, were real, too. He went to the window. He was much higher

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up than he expected. He went to the stack of papers, lifted the rock. The top

page was his bank statement.

“Oh, my God! I’m… I’m…”

“Rich, yes, I know.” Walder chuckled. “Just a token of my appreciation, of

course.”

“Token?” Rocheros turned his stunned mind to what Walder was saying.

“Sure. You gift me with one of the most precious items in wizardom, it

would be churlish of me not give you some reward. I’m sure you can take it

from here.” He held out the box. “Beloche’s Music Box. For soothing souls

among other things.” Walder grinned, then to Rocheros’s astonishment, both

he and the box slowly disappeared. “Good luck, Roch, I’m sure you’ll be

happier now. That’s what music does, you know, it makes people… happy.”

Rocheros stared at the empty spot and wondered who or what the wizard

was. But, he snorted, he knew: he was Walder, the World’s Greatest Magician.

122
 Ambassador Demon

“You must understand, gentle fem, that what you ask is impossible.”

I glanced sideways at the Hadean Ambassador and found my gaze stuck.

Bezaroth was epitome of Hadean masculinity; that much I understood from

the briefing file. He was, if you’d been a nineteenth century religious zealot, a

two-and-a-half-metre tall, red-skinned, fire-eyed demon - an insipid

description of the Ambassador.

His flesh gleamed with the colours of sunset, rippling through gold, scarlet,

reds and yellows. Not mottled, but flowing, like silken water. My hand

twitched as if to touch him, to see if his skin was as hot as the colours and I

clasped my hands in front of me.

His head was human like, if you ignored the curling and ridged, black

horns that sprang from the sides of his forehead, the long, aristocratic and

human nose and the full-lipped mouth that covered spiked teeth. His jaw

flexed with strength, square with a dimpled chin. His hair flowed black and

curling down to his shoulders. The Hadean’s eyes were fire, flickering with

moving light, mesmerising. And his voice, deep, sensual, sliding over and

under my skin like velvet. I suppressed a shiver.

I turned my head as his lips quirked in a knowing smile. We were walking

through a tunnel, lit by the walls that pulsed with red and yellow light

through the rock.

Clearing my throat, I returned to business. “Indeed, Ambassador, but that

is what we diplomats are employed for: to find solutions to the impossible

questions.”

His laugh was a rumble, deep in his naked and well-muscled chest. If you

came from a hot planet, you would dispense with clothes, too. He wore a very

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short skirt that rode low on his hips, and almost obscenely high on muscled

thighs. The material gleamed wetly, but I was not so bold to touch it and find

out.

“I have heard it said that on your planet, a diplomat is someone who will

tell you to go to hell in such a manner that you will look forward to the trip.”

My smile was short, pained, at the cliché. “I’m sure they do, Ambassador,

but not to the diplomats.”

He clasped his six digit hands behind his back, his clawed feet clicking

against the stone floor and nodded. “I meant no offence.”

I let the comment slide. This mission was too important to take his attempt

at friendliness as an affront.

“Surely, we have time for small talk, before we get down to business?” He

said into the silence.

I glanced at him again, puzzled. Up ahead lay the answer to Earth’s water

problems. The question of whether the Hadeans would share that technology

was paramount. Earth did not have time for ‘small talk’. Even as we walked

the corridor, humans were dying of thirst; the desert in the centre of Europe

was expanding and would, in a few years, join with the Russian desert. Only

the coastal fringes of the continents were still fertile enough for crops.

I reigned in my frustration. I would do the people of Earth no good if I

offended the only man capable of influencing his Prime to allow us the

machine.

“Of course, Ambassador. What would you like to talk about?” I

murmured.

Bezaroth’s laugh rumbled out again. “I did not mean to make you

uncomfortable.”

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 I shook my head. “I’m sorry. This mission is too important to us.” I drew in

a tiny breath and silently cursed. Never give any advantage away at the

negotiation table. That was one of my first lessons and I had no excuse. “I

mean, this treaty is important to both of our peoples.”

His fiery eyes looked down at me, solemn, knowing. “I know what you

meant. You have no need to twist your own words; I already know that you

need us more than we need you.”

His words did not make me feel any better. “Ah…”

“I understand you are considered attractive on your world.” He

interrupted, the flame in his eyes expanding. I knew that it meant desire and I

flushed, red heat crawling up my face.

“There,” he murmured, “now you are approaching the right colour.”

My cheeks and chin darkened further. He meant it in humour, but I still

resented the implication. Earth no longer considered skin colour as

meaningful, and it was offensive to point out such differences. The Hadeans

did think it significant, though not through any racist ideology. Pale Hadeans

blistered under the heat of their world unless protected. Hadean children

didn’t acquire the lush, vibrant colours until puberty. They lived in cooler

quarters, kept away from the main population; darker Hadeans, the briefing

read, were outcasts, considered diseased and separated from the main

communities. It was no secret the Hadeans liked to… explore… other,

compatible, species. At least they accepted the offspring, not like some other

species I could name…

But I wasn’t a child to be patronised, nor was I an alien to be toyed with,

but I tried to take his remark in the spirit it was meant. “Thank you,

Ambassador.” I bowed my head slightly, lowered my eyes so he wouldn’t see

the anger. As an ambassador, Bezaroth sucked.

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 Up ahead, I saw the massive five-metre tall stone doors that led into the

machine room. This was what I had travelled a hundred light years for and I

swallowed. The hopes, dreams and future of Earth lay behind those doors.

He took in a deep breath. “It is an interesting colouring you have, gentle

fem. The same shade of hair as the night sky and yet your eyes are the cool,

deep blue of the sky at dusk.”

“You flatter me, sir.” I said stiffly.

“Flatter? No, I merely speak the truth. I am intrigued.”

“I am, how did one of your guards put it? As cold in appearance as a dead

fire.” I felt him tense beside me. “I understand that is quite an insult.”

“Yesss.” The words hissed between his sharp teeth. “I would do much to

avenge this insult.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Would you?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but not everything. To say what was said is to suggest

you are without life, without purpose, that you are nothing but an irritant

blown away by the wind!”

“Indeed not, my good Ambassador. The ashes of a fire are a source of

fertiliser – there is a purpose – and mixed with soil, it creates new life; it is a

sign of renewal.”

He stopped at the doors and turned to me, the flame in his eyes the flicker

of interest. “We have no use for ash. It is an intriguing concept you present.”

“Nothing but the truth.” I shrugged.

His gaze rested on my face for a moment as if trying to follow my logic. “It

bears future exploration.” He said softly, but his words had a double meaning

that I was sure he meant to convey.

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 I stared at the door, willing him to turn away from me. It was an effort not

to return his interest. “Just so,” he murmured and faced the doors, “just so.”

He put his broad hands on the panels and shoved hard. The stones

squeaked, ground against each other as he pushed inwards. My heart

thumped in my chest in anticipation. I would be the first to see how Hades

cooled itself, created water enough for the Hadeans to survive on this hot

world.

The door edges separated and a gust of warm humid air breathed through

the gap to dampen my face. I closed my eyes, enjoying the moisture after the

hot trek down the corridor.

“Here is the machine.” Bezaroth announced with reverence.

I lifted my lids and stared. Unsure of what I was looking at.

The room was cavernous, silent but for the drip of water into a multitude

of puddles on the roughly hewn stone floor and an odd squeaking sound. In

the centre was an incredible plant. Verdant green and so lush, the breeze

pushed the leaves together. That was the squeaking: the thick leaves rubbing

against each other.

We walked in, my eyes wide on the plant’s abundant foliage. It was so big I

couldn’t see the top of it and it was at least twenty metres in diameter.

“Now you understand why it is impossible for us to share our…

technology with you.”

“Can we not take a cutting? Grow it back on earth?”

“No. It requires the climate of Hades’ underground.”

“But… the machine…” I breathed in the moist air, fragrant with the

spiciness of the plant.

127
 “Is Hades herself.” He reached out and touched a leaf. It curled backwards,

a yellow spot appearing where Bezaroth had brushed the surface. “As you

can see, it cannot stand to be touched. There are many, many more of the

Seraph Plants on Hades. It is they who make life here possible and they refuse

transplanting. Cuttings die, no matter what we do. They are a power unto

themselves and should they die, we die.”

I felt my shoulders slump. I had come all this way and I would get no

result. My own planet would wither and die, like an unwatered vine. The

thought tightened my chest, clogged my throat and my eyes stung. My

mission of mercy was for nothing. Worse, I suspected the Hadeans had lied to

us. This was no machine; this was a natural event.

The foliage muted my bitter laugh. “Mother Nature at her finest.” I said

and his brows lowered in puzzlement. I waved his unspoken question away.

“I can see by the translucence of your skin that you are upset. I did not

mean to cause such anguish. I only wished to impress upon you the unique

nature of this world.” His clawed hand reached out to touch me; and I let him

brush the skin of my upper arm. The claws were sharp, but the very

gentleness of his touch made me want to weep. It was a caress, nothing more

and I turned my head away.

“No, Ambassador. It is not you who caused this vain hope, but generations

of my own people with their arrogance in thinking the Earth would always be

able to fix herself. They were wrong. And in assuming that, they have

condemned the home world.”

“Come, gentle fem, we will leave this place and go somewhere

comfortable. I would speak to you about your problem and how it can be

reversed.” He was comforting, soothing and sad. But his voice held an

element of barely suppressed smugness, as if he knew a secret.

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 “Our best scientist have determined that there is no solution; that we must

have outside intervention or we are doomed. It cannot be reversed.” I allowed

him to wrap his hand around my arm and escort me out of the room. His

palm was smooth, warm, almost hot, but pleasantly so and I stepped closer to

him without thought.

I did not look back; the implications were too painful.

“Of course. But, gentle fem, your scientists are limited by what they know.

Our scientists have millennia more of knowledge and experience. It is time to

put away greed and negotiate on a more lasting solution.”

“Are you suggesting we are greedy?”

“In your own way, yes. You have something and nearly destroyed it; now

you want more of the same thing without learning how not to make the same

mistakes. I think it is time humans learned the value of what is given them.”

He released my arm at the door and turned to grab the hand inserts at the

door. With a mighty heave he closed one, then the other door. I couldn’t help

but watch the display of rippling muscles in his back and wonder what the

red skin would taste like.

Bezaroth turned and ran a hand over his chest as he saw my expression. I

had to close my eyes and turn from him.

“There is no shame in admiring beautiful things, gentle fem.” He said and

took my arm once more.

I gaped at his forthrightness. Were the Hadeans telepaths, too?

The rumbling laugh came out again and I stared at his chest, unwilling to

see the flickering flames in his eyes. “Ah, gentle fem, you humans are so

restricted by propriety. You are most child-like, charming as only a babe can

be, and just as temperamental.”

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 I tilted my head. “I’m wondering if I should be insulted by that remark on

behalf of my race.”

“No, indeed not. For like a child, you are also open to the learning and

exploring of new things. You have a sense of adventure, a fearlessness that we

can only admire. It is the tantrums we fear most.” He gave me a courtly bow

and took my hand in his, spreading his fingers between mine.

“We are a much, much older race than humans and somewhat staid in our

ways. The Hadeans may be able to teach you a many technical things, but

you... you can teach us on a more... intimate level.” His voice held a promise

and I wondered if it was as personal as his low tone made it.

I refused to answer, but gave him a professional smile. He returned it with

a snort, the fire in his eyes flaring with humour.

“Come, we go to the Science Hall, where, I believe, Amaroth may already

have a solution for you.” His eyes flickered with heat. “Then we can

negotiate.”

130
 Death Or Taxes

“Madre Dios!” Came the soft cry and Angela looked up from her seat on the

ornate wooden staircase of the Rothschild estate. The middle-aged and fleshy

woman before her was genuflecting so hard she looked like she was swatting

flies.

“Infanta el Diablo, actually,” she replied with a smile and smoothed a hand

down her long midnight hair, from crown to tip. She crossed her pale hands

over one another on top of the narrow black briefcase resting on her lap.

The woman backed up to the double glassed doors and closed them,

sputtering in Spanish.

“English, Mrs Rodriguez, you must speak English.” Angela shot the cuffs

of her Armani suit jacket and moved her knees to the side to examine her

perfect shoes; all black, of course. No other colour would do.

Maria Rodriguez continued to wail in her native tongue.

“Now, now, Mrs Rodriguez, you know your taxes are due and well, I’m

here to collect.” Her words brought the torrent of words to a sudden halt and

Angela smiled. “Come, let me show you the bill.”

“Devil child! You no take Pilar! My girl, she good girl! You no take her!”

Maria clutched her hands to her ample bosom.

“Of course not, Mrs Rodriguez. How could I tax something that I own? No,

no. It must something of yours. That's where the profit is.”

Maria took a hesitant step forward, a scowl emphasising the lines on her

flabby face. “Pilar is safe from you?” She asked and took another step

forward.

“Well, yes, until it is her time to go, of course. Or she does something…

foolish.”

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 Maria nodded, her grey-streaked brown hair bouncing.

“I should never have bargained with you.” Maria spat and walked to the

staircase, slowly mounting them until she was level with Angela. With a sigh,

she sat down. Angela shifted aside to give the large woman room.

“I’m aware of your history. I’m aware of everyone’s history. Father was a

good teacher. He’s very astute in determining the needs of people.”

“Eh?” Maria turned a puzzled glance to her and Angela leaned on the

staircase railing.

“You do remember that it has been two thousand years since the Vatican

made their deal with us?”

Maria tightened her lips and gave a sharp, disapproving nod.

“Well, then. You must abide by that deal. To buy your way into Heaven,

you must deal with the Devil. That’s me, or, at least, I’m the representative.

The Pope and the Cardinals all agreed in the profit sharing venture. They get

your souls if you’ve been good, we get them if you’ve been bad. To offset

the… discrepancy in profit earnings, we get to tax you, while the Church gets

an equivalent donation.” Angela chuckled and patted Maria’s thick fingers

clutched in her lap.

“It’s not your fault that the Vatican never really took us seriously. It’s not

your fault that they had spread the story about the Devil’s playground to

ensure obedience of parishioners. For all their grab for power, they never

understood we were as real as they. Now, they do.” She tapped her long,

patrician nose, black eyes dancing with humour. “But don’t worry. If you

think the higher ups in the Church are going to Heaven because they saved

all those souls, well, I let you into a little secret.” She leaned towards Maria.

“They’re not taking the Stairway to Heaven; they are taking the Slide down to

Hell.”

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 Maria gasped, her face squishing together, her mouth tight, her eyes all but

hidden in the fleshy folds of skin.

“That’s right. They sold you lot out to us. That does not deserve reward; it

deserves punishment. And we’re very creative.” Angela sighed with pleasure.

“It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling that, you know. Manipulation, coercion,

psychological threats of damnation, are all skills we look for in souls. And the

church? They are true masters at it.”

Maria wrung her hands together and said nothing. Her skin was pale with

a sheen of sweat that Angela hoped wouldn’t drip onto her suit. The sour

smell was bad enough. Time to get business out of the way.

“And so to your tax bill.” Angela opened the suitcase. Papers glowed a

fiery red and she pulled the top sheet out.

“Now, then.” She pretended to read. She knew what it said; she’d written

it. “Pilar, it seems, is addicted to Papal bread and sacrament wine. Tsk. Such a

good Catholic girl. It’s going to be expensive. You should tell your Church to

stop overcharging. We get equal remuneration.”

“My girl, she good girl.” Maria muttered. “My girl is good girl. She take her

vows!”

“Of course, the better she is, the more profit we make.” Angela ignored the

sharp-eyed glare. “Then again, if she’s bad, we get her anyway.”

“Coming and going.” Maria stated. “You get us coming and going!”

“And isn’t it a wonderful thing?” Angela laughed and turned her gaze to

the glowing paper. “Your bill is for twenty-three thousand, seven hundred

and forty-nine dollars and fifty-two cents.” She presented the paper with a

flourish, ignoring Maria’s gasp of outrage.

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 “I can no pay that! Cheat! Liar! Thief!” Maria flung herself down the stairs

to stand glaring up at Angela.

“Why, thank you, but flattery will not get the bill paid.”

“I no pay! I no pay!” Maria shouted.

“We can, of course, repossess Pilar or you for that matter for non-

compliance.” Angela’s smile was predatory.

“I appeal! I know my rights, I appeal!”

“To whom, dear woman?” Angela laid the sheet on the stair and closed her

case. “The Age of Litigation is what led to the Vatican’s deal. You can only

appeal to me, as arbitrator of the case.”

“NO! My girl is good girl!”

All expression left Angela’s face. “Is that your final decision? Make very,

very sure of it. You either pay in coin or you pay in blood, Mrs Rodriguez.”

Maria started to shake and Angela frowned. All that flesh and fat wobbling

couldn’t be a good thing. “Are you alright, Mrs Rodriguez?” She asked. It

wouldn’t do to lose a source of income. Her father would be pissed.

“What you care?” Maria said, her breath coming out in wheezy huffs.

“I can make you a deal.” Angela moved further down the staircase. Smoke

rose from where she’d sat and from under her feet, the smell of brimstone

wafted into the air. Damn it. She looked down. She’d have to buy another pair

of shoes and skirt. Bloody Holy water. Too many civilians were using Holy

items these days to keep the devils at bay. She’d have words with the Bishops

about this… and then present the bill for new shoes and clothes. Hmm, I like

that idea. Dad would be so proud.

“D… d… deal?” Maria asked.

134
 “Yes. Your bill must be paid. You took on the responsibility when your

prayers were answered and a child was born. We took surety from you via

our agent. Father Mendez, remember him? He was the priest with whom you

prayed. You would, and I quote, ‘do anything to have a child’.”

The woman's nod was shaky. “Okay. You understand then. We have to get

a return on our investment. Pilar is about to take Holy Orders. That puts her,

for the moment, out of our purview. You were the guarantor of her life. While

she has no income of her own, you guaranteed the taxes upon her life. You

agreed, signed in blood.”

“I… he… lied to me! A priest, consecrated to God, lied to me! He said once

she took her vows, no one could touch her! Or me. I gave her to the church!”

“He’s our agent. Of course he lied to you. It is not our responsibility to tell

the truth, that’s just…” Angela tilted her head, “wrong, on so many levels.

And you.” Angela pointed a sharp fingernail at Maria. “Had no right to give

away a life to anyone. It had to be her choice, not yours.” A smirk appeared.

“Bad Maria, for giving away something that wasn’t yours. And now you

understand why all those Popes and Cardinals are currently enjoying the

tortures of the Hotel California."

Maria’s pig-like eyes widened.

“And you thought it was just a classical song. Heh. Nope.” Her smile

slowly slid away. “There are two ways to go with this: Death or Taxes. Your

choices, contestant number one, are these: Pilar’s death and your taxes for the

outstanding amount; or behind door number two: your death and we tax

Pilar until the outstanding debt is paid, with compound interest, of course.”

Maria sat on the bottom step, her breath wheezing in and out and held a

hand to her chest. “I cannot pay it. I am housemaid. Pilar made her own

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choice, I just encouraged her.” She murmured. “I’m to be punished for being a

good mother? Where would I go?”

Angela’s lips twisted in dismay. The one question she didn’t want to

answer. “Where else?” She hedged.

Her hand clasped around the handle of the briefcase and stared at her

smoking shoes. When she lifted her gaze, Maria was standing, facing her,

hands clamped in front of her and a triumphant smile on her face. “You have

me, then, Infanta. Pilar is good girl, she not be corrupted. She go to Heaven.

Me, I live good life, I am ill. I no fear you. I go to Heaven, too. I raise my girl

right.” She spread her arms wide and there was a bright flash with no sound.

Angela threw up her arm to protect her eyes from white burst. In the silence,

she blinked and stared down at the dead woman.

“Bugger.” She said softly. “Death and Taxes, no matter which one they pick,

them upstairs interfere.”

“Not so, Angela,” a bell-like voice said from behind her and she turned, “we

simply… facilitate. Death, well, there’s an end to it. Taxes, we simply upgrade

the financial situation of the client.”

“Lucy; long time, no see.” Angela gave the angel a twisted smile. “How’s

Dad? Smite any sinners lately?”

“I’d snicker, but it’s beneath me.” The blonde haired, blue-eyed angel said.

“Everything is beneath Heaven.” Angela sneered.

“Yeah, but it’s too good a joke to waste. I came to tell you about the

remuneration package.”

“Yeah?”

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 “Mrs Rodriguez used the same priest as a witness for her will. With Pilar

taking her Holy vows, she’s refused everything from her mother. So, we get

Maria’s soul, you get her estate. Profit sharing all around, I'd say.”

Angela smiled, though the loss of a client to upstairs stung she could always

buy another. “Ah, well, I’ll just have to see if Pilar…”

“Uh, uh,” Lucy raised an admonishing finger. “The deal is done, Ange.

Build that bridge, move over it.”

Angela chuckled. “Oh, alright, damn it! Pilar’s safe… until she trips up.”

She held out her hand but Lucy waved it away. “You’re smoking too much,

Ange, I don’t want to mess up my manicure. Let’s just say all is well above

and below.”

“Great!” Angela rolled her eyes. “Sure. Nice doing business with you, Lucy.

Oh, by the way? You have a smudge on your wing. See you next time.”

Angela vanished in a puff of black smoke and brimstone. Lucy waved the

pungent haze away. She checked her wings. “Bitch.” She sniffed and brushed

a hand down the side of the left wing to remove the taint, waved a hand over

the piece of paper on the stair, then disappeared.

The sheet’s red glow faded until the paper was a pastel pink. White lettering

crossed across the bill: Paid in Full.

137
 Part Four

In other worlds, not all is perfect; nor should it be.

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 Pax Britannia

“You’re surrounded, so don’t make a move or we’ll kill you where you

stand!” The artificially-enhanced bellow of the guard echoed around the

raised walls of the amphitheatre.

I slowly turned in a circle, saw the uniformed guards with strange looking

sticks on the tiers of the arena. As I watched, more guards appeared. There

must have been a centon of them. Did they think me so dangerous?

All I wanted was to discuss this war with the government of Atrea; to stop

the killing and negotiate a peace between this world and Yerin.

“Throw down your arms and raise your hands!” The guard bellowed and I

heard a kind of whining sound. They pointed their sticks at me.

I looked down at my arms. He wanted me to separate them from my body

and then raise my… hands? What a strange request!

I did as he first requested: I didn’t move.

“You hear me, mutt?”

Mutt? What was a ‘mutt’? Was it a derogatory term? If so, why? I had

glimpsed this world and dressed accordingly. Did something mark me as

different? I was taller than these people, yes, but it wasn’t that uncommon. I

had slightly different colouring, with very short black hair, uptilted dark blue

eyes and a body my creator described as ‘buxom, but slim and firm’. Did all

that tell these people of my alienness?

The guards on the lower tiers stepped cautiously down onto the field. Since

I was the only one standing in the middle of the green-coated area, I assumed

they thought I would do something… deadly. I did not. I simply waited until

the humans formed a circle around me, some twenty metons from me.

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 One guard barged through the crowd, holding a little stick, pointing it at

me; at my head. I studied him. He was red-faced with anger, his mouth a tight

line of determination. He didn’t appear to be a fit human, not with that belly

overhanging his belt, but his steps were confident. He stopped in front of me.

“You’re under arrest, spy.” He said with satisfaction.

“I am no spy.” I said. “Merely an emissary from another world to stop this

fighting.”

“Yeah, sure, tell it to the judge.” He kept his red-rimmed eyes on me, but

addressed his troops. “Keep an eye on her while I cuff the mutt.”

He tugged silver bracelets off his belt. “Turn around, hands behind your

back.” He growled.

“And then what will you do?” I asked.

“I’m gonna seal your hands together, what else, you stupid mutt.”

“My name is Pax Britannia and I don’t want to be ‘cuffed’ as you say.”

The man laughed at me. “I don’t care if you’re Holy Moses! I’m gonna cuff

you!”

As my creator often said: Violence is the last resort, but for some people, it

should be the first; use the judgement I have given you to find the way.

I tried again, hoping this wasn’t the scenario he’d painted for me. “Take me

to your leader.”

His mouth split in a broad smile and I thought I’d finally got through to

him, but alas, no.

“Oh, you’ll see a leader, but not the one you probably imagine. Now do as

you’re told or my men will drop you where you stand.”

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 I looked around at the circle of blank-faced men. I could see they had no

compassion, no sense of right or wrong, only a determination to do as

ordered. My eyes went to the sky and saw the clouds gather in the pale lilac

heavens. I did not want to act, and yet, if I did not, my mission would fail

before it started.

“Sir?” I said gently. “I do not wish to hurt you or your men, but please, you

must let me speak with the government.”

His reply was to put the end of the stick to my forehead and press in

against my skin. “One last time, and I’ll speak slowly so you understand: turn

around and put your hands behind your back, or I’ll spread your tiny brain

all over the park.”

I assumed he meant the stick he pushed against my forehead was a

projectile weapon. He knew not what or who I was, but that did not matter to

him; all he knew was violence.

My eyes rolled upwards to the black weapon, and then back to him. “If it is

violence you wish for, sir, I will oblige.”

His ruddy face blanched white and the stick trembled. “You bombed up?”

“No.” I frowned. “I have no weapons, I am…” a weapon I was going to say,

but he moved his hand and struck me on the side of the face.

My head jerked sideways, but I did not move. The area stung where he’d

split the flesh over my cheekbone and I could feel the red fluid called ‘blood’

slide down and drip off my jaw.

“Stop jerking me around, mutt!” He lifted his fist again.

I may have been created illegally, but that did not mean I was to be treated

with such disrespect.

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 I saw his fist come towards me, but in slow motion. I had all the time in the

world to stop his strike; and did so. My fingers curled around his fist and

squeezed.

My other hand reached up into the sky. Feel the power of the lightning, I

heard my creator’s voice in my head from the training he’d given me.

I twisted the man’s fist until he went down on his knees. I stepped back,

heard the rumble of thunder then the ear-shattering snap as the bolt of

lightning filled my hand.

Feel the solidness of the earth.

I reached out my other hand to the ground and made it tremble, lifted a

wave of dirt and pushed it towards the troops. Some panicked and fired at

me, but the dirt absorbed their shots, the lightning blocked the charges.

Others simply turned and ran. I let them. I was not here to kill, merely

persuade.

I lowered my lightning-struck hand and swept it before me. The weapons

melted in the hands that held them; every piece of metal melted: buttons, belt

buckles, helmets, everything.

The charge left me and I lowered my hand. The earth settled and I turned

back to the leader of the troops.

“Sir, I would speak to your government.”

His eyes glazed over as he stared at me. I had not caused him lasting

damage, so why did he curl around his fist like that? His breathing was harsh,

rapid and his complexion did not look healthy.

I crouched down before him and he flinched as I laid a hand on his

shoulder.

Feel the energy of the cadecaus; draw the warmth from Mother Earth’s Heart.

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 I focused on healing the man; he was riven with disease, stank of rot, but I

healed him anyway.

And when it was done, he still glared at me. “Alien mutt.” He sneered.

I lifted my hand and backed away. Stood up and breathed deeply.

This man was not worthy of the gift, but I could not take it back.

“I will speak to the government. You would do well to either guide me, or

stay out of my way.” I walked away from him; didn’t turn back, and I should

have.

The blast from his weapon caught me square in the middle of my back and

threw me forward. As I lay there stunned at the effrontery, he cuffed me.

Cuffed. Me!

A meaty hand clamped down on the back of my neck and leaned in, his

hot, fetid breath close to my ear. “I don’t give a shit who or what the fuck you

are, my job is to protect the citizens of this world, and by God, I will.”

“I should have left you to suffer in the dirt.” I muttered.

“That you should have, but you give me any trouble, I will blow your

fucking head off.”

“That you won’t, you miserable war-monger.” Feel the strength of steel. I

rolled him off me and he fired as he lost his balance. The projectile pinged off

my back.

I got to my feet, the man firing his weapon at me as he did fell sideways. I

broke the cuffs and then plucked the thing out of his hands, crushed it.

“I am done with you.” I said and looked into the sky. Feel the lightness of the

air, the swiftness of the raptor. And I rose off the ground. I hovered there and

regarded the man as he climbed to his feet. “Your people will be at peace

whether you wish it or no. As with the Yerin, so it will be with Atrea.”

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 With that, I rose into the sky to search for the government building.

Obviously, my mistake was that this world did not govern in an open forum,

with easy access for its citizens.

My creator gave me much: the ability to draw power from planets. I am, so

far, invulnerable. I am also, unfortunately, new to life and must learn new

ways and that will take time. But I also have a mission: to bring peace where

it is needed, and I would not fail the legacy of my dead creator.

I am unique in the galaxy; a wanderer of worlds.

I am: Pax Britannia.

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 The Hunt

The constant trickle of stinking water was getting on her nerves. Raisa

thought she’d be used it by now, but the smell strengthened, grew worse. She

didn’t want to reach for the mask, though; that would limit one of her senses.

“Sometimes, I hate this job.” She said through tight lips, lest the air touched

her tongue. The stench was bad enough; tasting it would be worse.

“Me, too.” Her partner, Ches, said cheerfully behind her and she silently

sneered. “But he’s got to be down here somewhere. It’s the only place he could

be.”

Raisa glanced back at him. His teeth gleamed white in the gloomy

subterranean sewer as he grinned at her. She couldn’t see the rest of his face,

only shadowed movement.

Ches, much to her annoyance, enjoyed every extermination job they did, no

matter what he said. If he would argue with her once in a while, she’d respect

him more. But as the junior partner, he thought agreeing with her would ease

his way to a senior exterminator position. He was wrong; it was upon her

recommendation that he rose through the ranks, and his constant cheer didn’t

help his cause.

Though she was trying to train him, she still kept some of the job secret;

Ches had to prove himself first.

She shook her head in disgust, gripped the barrel of the gun and cautiously

stepped forward.

“Are you sure that tank isn’t too heavy?” Ches asked.

Raisa rolled her shoulders. Yes, the chemical tank was heavy, but no way

would she let her partner take point. The last time he did, the mess took

weeks to clean and months to cover up.

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 “It’s fine. Now focus. He’s one sneaky bastard.”

There was a splash behind her, a muttered curse and Raisa rose from her

crouch to turn and stare at Ches standing in the middle of the sewer. Black,

viscous liquid oozed sluggishly around his lower legs. So much for focusing.

He picked up one foot and shook some near solids off his boot, stepped

back up on to the rim and shook the other foot.

“This has got to be an environmental hazard.” He said.

“Unfiltered and undiluted industrial and human waste? Surely not.” Raisa

said with a raised eyebrow.

“That bastard is going down.” Ches promised darkly. “I’ll never be able to

wear these boots again; and they’re my favourite.”

“Let’s catch him first, okay? You can take it out of his hide.” Raisa returned

to her stealthy vigil. “Now keep quiet so we can find him.”

One slow step at a time, she crept down the tunnel to the t-intersection. She

lowered to one knee and cocked her head to listen down the right tunnel.

Ches did the same with the left tunnel.

And they waited.

Raisa heard nothing but the trickle of water, saw no sly, subtle movements,

felt the same steady air current. Their quarry wasn’t down the right side.

Ches snapped his fingers to attract her attention and pointed down the

tunnel when she looked at him. She gave him a nod and crept past him.

“Distance?” She asked in a whisper.

“A hundred metres, no more.” He replied with a jerk of his chin.

Raisa nodded. “Get ready. If he gets past me, you know what to do.”

“Kill him anyway I can. Gotcha.” He said with a smile.

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 The rim of the sewer was too narrow for the work she needed to do. Raisa

resigned herself to getting mucky and stepped into the sludge, eased one foot

then the next through the stuff.

Ahead, she saw a grate in the ceiling of the sewer. Here was a perfect place

for an ambush. The morning light flared down, blocked the rest of the tunnel

from view.

She could hear the clop-clop of horses on the cobbled streets above, the

chatter of street urchins begging and the angry curses of the patrons

approached by the orphans.

“Be off with you, you filthy beggar!” One man shouted.

“C’arn, mister, just a penny!” One boyish voice cajoled.

Raisa paused to listen. She’d seen the filthy streets, the coal-smutted

buildings and air, the factory stacks belching smoke, the unwashed, barely

clothed people who worked sixteen, eighteen hours a day to feed their hordes

of grubby, emaciated children. She’d seen, too, the ladies and gentlemen in

their finery, riding polished handsome cabs, their pockets and reticules

jingling with coins, ignoring the less fortunate as if they were invisible.

Memories flashed behind her eyes. She’d been poor once, no, worse; she’d

dressed in rags picked out of the garbage and tied together, ate rejected and

rotten vegetables from the markets, discarded food from the restaurants.

She’d slept in doorways, under bushes, on the rocky beach, above the high

tide mark under the pier. She recalled the beatings from local thugs, and her

killing of a couple of them; all to survive the mean streets. Oh, yes, she knew

well the desperation of the poor.

Ches tapped the tank, breaking her out of the ugly memories. She rolled

her shoulders and continued on, her hands gripped the barrel to stop them

from shaking.

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 She crept past the square of light, using the rim, and moved deeper into the

gloom of the slime coated tunnel. Here and there, she saw the scrape marks of

someone reaching out to avoid slipping into the muck.

It had to be him; no one else would venture down into these filth-strewn

hollows unless paid handsomely - like she and Ches – and only for a very

good reason.

The temperature slowly rose. It was barely noticeable at first, but the

warm, moist and fetid air huffed against her face. There must have been an

outflow pipe from one of the above- ground factories.

The muck began to steam, warming her feet inside the boots. Their quarry

needed warmth, heat, to survive and England, this winter, was harsh.

One hundred metres, my ass.

She saw a flicker of movement up a head and stopped, slowly lifted her

right hand and pointed. Ches lightly pushed her tank; enough for her to know

he’d seen her signal, not enough to push her over.

Ches would stay behind, acted as a barrier if her quarry got past her. Her

partner was big enough, strong enough and fast enough to stop the bastard in

his tracks.

Onward she slid, using the muck to hide her footsteps, her eyes straining

for more movement.

Her toes touched an edge, a step, and she eased forward, stepping down.

The muck was now up to just below her knees, the warm wetness leaking

through her trousers.

“D… d… don’t kill me!” Came a whispered plea from the darkness.

Raisa squinted to find the source, but the tunnel’s acoustic bounced the

words back at her.

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 “What?” She asked and shifted to the left, stared hard into the stinking

gloom and raised the level of her night vision goggles.

“Don’t kill me, please!” The creature shifted, held it’s limbs together as if to

plead for his life.

She raised the gun, thumbed the safety catch and prepared to spray the

area with a toxin lethal to the race of reptilian Acanthus, but safe for

humanoids.

“It wasn’t me.” The creature pleaded, “it was…”

Raisa slammed into the muck, hit from behind. She held her breath as Ches

– for who else could it be – forced her under.

The tanks were too heavy with Ches on her back to lift up, no doubt what

he intended but struggled hard to push up. She dropped the gun and shoved

her hand into her trouser pocket. There. She tugged out the re-breather and

shoved it over her nose mouth with one hand, blew hard once to expel the

awful slime. The micro-machinery of the equipment cleared the rest and de-

toxified the recycling air. Then she pulled the stunner from her other pocket.

All she needed was to press it against him and zap!

Raisa slowly let herself relax as if drowning; a twitch here, a twitch there

and finally, she let him push her all the way down to the bottom of the sewer.

He stayed atop of her for a minute longer, then got off, pushed her away.

She pressed the tabs to release the tank and let it slide off.

Chez should have ripped the night-vision lens from her face, should have

asked about what weaponry they’d need for the Acanthus. He would not get

the opportunity to make any more mistakes.

149
 She allowed her body to rise and surfaced without a ripple. Twenty metres

away, Chez had his hands around the metre and a half Acanthus’s throat and

she shook her head. He really was a murderous idiot.

The Acanthus had protective dark grey scales all over his eight-limbed

body and tail. His mouth held sharp teeth that regenerated should any be lost

and solid bone reinforced his head. Chez must be out of his mind to take one

on.

Then again, the Acanthus made no move to protect himself. Was he a

pacifist?

Raisa pushed off from the side of the sewer and swam closer. Now she

could hear Chez, muttering curses and accusing the beast of betrayal.

“You sorry-assed lizard! I give you your freedom and this is my

repayment?”

“I am not free. I live in squalor.” The Acanthus said without any effort. “I

want off this putrid world and you are going to take me.”

“I’ll kill you!” Chez shouted and pressed harder, kicked at the beast.

Raisa was as close as she was going to get. She reached out and pressed the

stunner against Chez’s calf. He looked down. “Wha…?”

She pressed the button and her former partner dropped into the muck,

shuddering and shaking as the electrical charge coursed through his

traitorous body.

Raisa stood and pulled the re-breather off her face.

“I thought you dead, Exterminator.”

“I’ve been at this too long to go into a situation blindly.” She said and

hauled Chez out of the muck and rolled him onto the shelf of the tunnel. She

150
tugged the cuffs off her utility belt and snapped them around Chez’s wrists.

“Sewers equal water equals a re-breather, at the very least.”

The Acanthus gave her his species version of a smile. “A worthy

deception.”

Raisa shrugged his comment away. “Now, you said ‘it wasn’t you’?”

The Acanthus sank lower into the warm slush, as if it were a spa. “That I

did. Your companion… took bribes from my enemies, used their knowledge

to set me up. I fled, to here. To this world. I did not know the Terrans were

struggling to enter the Machine Age.”

“And an extermination warrant was sworn out and handed to me.” Raisa

sat on the shelf, away from Chez’s still spasming body. “You have proof of

this?”

“Yes, gentle fem, I do. He,” the Acanthus glanced at Chez, “offered to free

me for money. Having lived here for two of this planet’s moon cycles, I

accepted. But I could not go through with it, not when it meant another

death.” He hung his head.

“We’ll deal with that when we get back to Galactic Central. In the

meantime, we’d better get this scum-sucking, bottom-feeder back to the ship.

He’s gotta be cleaned up before his trial.”

“My thanks.” The Acanthus rose, clasped his clawed hands together and

bowed.

Raisa wiped muck from her face and flung away, grimacing as she did so.

She couldn’t smell the sewer any more. “Sometimes, I hate my job.”

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 Backspace

“I can’t use ‘It was a dark and stormy night’, that’s already taken. I think. I

can’t remember by whom, though.”

“What’s that, honey?” Mike’s wife, Fenella, looked away from the

television to glance absently at him while the knitting needles clacked and

clicked in her long fingers.

He gave her a wan smile. “Nothing, sweetie, just thinking out loud.” He

said, but she’d already turned back to Oprah.

Rubbing his grey-bristled chin, he returned his attention to the blank screen

of the laptop. Two black words, in a rather nice cursive script, topped the

page: Chapter and One.

“I should be able to think of something.” He muttered.

“What’s that, honey?”

He rolled his shoulders and glanced back. Fenella had tilted her head, but

her eyes were firmly focused on the T.V.

“I’m trying to think if an opening line for my book. What do you think of…

um… The match scratched noisily across the rusted metal…” He typed as he

spoke.

He stopped as she looked at him and shook her head.

“Don’t you remember?” She asked. “That’s the first line of The Guns of

Navarone. You read it last month.”

“Oh.” He chewed his lip and sat in thought, poked a finger on the

backspace key until the words were the two he started with. Fenella went

back to the television, her knitting needles clicking away. He really wanted to

write an adventure.

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 Okay. He’d chuck that idea and write a… hmm… western. No. Done to

death. Although… he hunched over his keyboard and began typing. It was a

feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America that the toils and dangers…

why did that sound familiar? He shrugged and continued to write: of the

wilderness were to be encountered before the… adverse… hosts…

He sighed and backspaced again. Last of the Mohicans, he was sure. Write

what you know. Wasn’t that what everyone said? Write what you know.

Mike knew history. In fact, he loved history, had taught history for the past

thirty-five years. So that’s what he’d write. He scratched his stubble, then

rubbed his hands together as words appeared in his head.

“In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don,” he

said aloud, “there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering…”

“Sir Walter Scott would be pissed with you.” Fenella said as if in

conversation.

“Eh?” He lifted his head and turned to her.

“You’re quoting from Ivanhoe. Is that what comes after the dedication?”

“No.” He sighed, his index finger moved to the backspace again and

pressed down repeatedly.

Damn it!

Okay, okay. History. He cleared his throat, his mind, rested his fingers on the

keyboard again.

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons, it will be

pru… His fingers hesitated then went to that key again. He jabbed down on it.

And cursed: Bloody Dickens!

Backspace, backspace, backspace…

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 He stared at the page, at the blinking cursor and sneered at it. I am a

Professor of History and English Literature. I should be able to create something

of worth!

Fingers lightly tapped the keyboard without pressing hard enough to write

on the screen. He hunched over the letters.

Right, then. You will write something genius, something special. You will

be the toast of the literary world.

For many days we’d been tempest-tossed. Mike whimpered.

Smith-Bloody-Family-Robinson! Backspace, backspace, backspace…

Still, the book had merit, and he felt a spark of creativity. He’d write about

travelling. Not history.

“This journey took place in a part of Canada which lies in the north-western part

of the great sprawling province of Ontario. There’s a good start.” He tossed to the

screen. “Hah, I have you now. Readers will want to know about the journey,

the area, too.” He hunched back over the keyboard, but his fingers froze at his

wife’s voice.

“What’s that, honey?”

“Um… my beginning.” He said with strained calmness.

“I thought you were writing about The Incredible Journey.” She said.

“And it will be once I’ve finished it.”

She snorted. “Honey, I meant Sheila Burnford’s book. The Incredible

Journey? I read it as a child. Wonderful story.” Click, click, clack.

Mike growled and hit the button again.

Comedy. I’ll write a classic comedy! He thought with some desperation.

Something that starts of innocuous and builds…

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 The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. There. Nothing

wrong with that. He tilted his head and thought. The words came to him.

It stood on its own and looked out over a broad spread of West Country farmland.

Not a remark…

He looked up, then back. Fenella was staring at the screen over his

shoulder.

“What?” He asked with trepidation.

“I know you don’t like me to mention it, but your near photographic

memory is coming to the fore. Again.” She murmured gently.

“What do you mean? These are perfectly good words. Not a thing wrong

with them!”

“No, there isn’t. They’ve already been published.” She said with a sad

smile.

“Published? Already? By whom?” He grumbled.

“Ah, Douglas Adams.”

“Douglas Adams.”

“I remember some years ago, you had your students do an essay on

comparative literature.” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and then

let it go. “You got them to read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and…”

she prompted.

“Ah.” His shoulders slumped. “The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy: A

trilogy in four parts.”

“I have a suggestion, though, honey.”

His finger slowly pressed the backspace key again and again and again.

“No. I’m done with this. I’ll let others write. I’ll read.”

155
 “Honey, that’s not like you. I know you can create a masterpiece, you just

need to get your head away from what’s already been written and set in your

mind.” She turned the laptop towards her and began pressing keys.

Mike watched her with a frown between his brows. The frown eased to

puzzlement, and then lifted in surprise and flattened out as he smiled.

“Fenella, you’re a genius.”

“Of course, honey, that’s why you married me.” She said smugly.

“And there I thought it was for your good looks and stunning personality.”

She lightly slapped his shoulder and returned to her knitting and Oprah.

Mike clicked the mouse over the words and more appeared. He kept going

until he hit upon ones he liked. Then he minimized the screen.

Chapter One, he read and flexed his fingers.

He held the disk as if…

Mike’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He was on a roll now. It would be

brilliant, a classic, lauded throughout the literary world, and all because his

wife knew about Story Generators and he didn’t.

156