This part directly follows the events of last week.
You can read last week's chapter --> HERE <--
Andrew’s eyes were trained on Jeremy as the vampire kneeled by Frank. Andrew checked to make sure the safety was on and nodded at his friend. Jeremy extended Frank’s bare leg until it was at the level of his head, and with an expression of disgust sank his teeth into Frank’s calf. Frank’s eyes grew wide and he tried to cry out, but he lacked the air to do it. In the next instant he had passed out, from fear or from lack of oxygen. It made no difference to the others, who were glad he wasn’t going to raise a fuss. Jeremy ‘s attention was elsewhere.
In the dead-silent kitchen there Andrew could hear the sucking, slurping noises emanating from the vampire. That would have been funny on an ordinary day, but today it made Andrew break into a cold sweat and filled him with revulsion. Jeremy hadn’t tasted human blood in over 40 years. He’d been totally clean for so long, there was no telling how he would react now that he was exposed to it again.
To his amazement, Andrew noticed a bizarre change in Jeremy. Jeremy normally looked so pale he could have passed for an albino, with white hair and papery skin, he looked like a colour photograph left to bleach in the sun. Now it seemed that colour was suddenly flooding back into him. His skin was becoming rosy and pink again, with a vivid blush on his cheeks. His straw-like hair was changing from bone white to charcoal grey then to raven black. Most noticeable, however, were Jeremy’s eyes.
While his flushed skin and dark hair made him look years younger and much handsomer, his eyes were terrifying to behold. The vampire was becoming so saturated with blood, the capillaries in his eyes were bursting, creating two seas of deep red out of which flashed two cat-like slits for pupils.
Frank was breathing easier now, but his olive skin was growing so pale that he seemed to be turning green.
“Jer, I think you can stop now,” said Andrew in a husky voice.
Jeremy ignored him as he sucked ferociously.
“Jer. Stop, you’re draining him,” said Andrew more forcefully. He tried to lay a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, but the vampire snarled and batted the hand away with a blow that made his bones grind. Andrew cried out, but still managed to jam the barrel of his gun into Jeremy’s neck. The vampire froze and let out a feral growl.
“Drop it, now,” shouted Andrew, feeling sick.
Jeremy dropped Frank’s leg and spun around so fast he was a blur. He snarled at Andrew and crouched low, ready to pounce on his throat. Andrew flicked off the safety catch with an audible “click.”
Just as quickly, Jeremy seemed to recover himself. He straightened up and adjusted his shirt collar. He was still the handsome black-haired stranger with the demon eyes, but underneath it all Andrew could see the real Jeremy guiding it.
“Sorry, Andrew,” said Jeremy in a rich deep voice so different from his usual strained whisper. “I lost control there for a moment. But I think I’ve got…” (he interrupted himself with a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down) “…everything sorted. Is he breathing again?”
Andrew lowered the gun and reset the safety. He then examined Frank with what little expertise he possessed. “Yeah. He looks like he’s breathing comfortably now.”
“I managed to break it up a bit, I think,” said Jeremy. “My saliva acts as blood thinner, so that should help. The doctors can do the rest for him... whenever they bloody get here. We could have walked there by now,” he grumbled irritably.
“You alright?” asked Andrew again.
“I could do with a glass of water,” said Jeremy.
Andrew made to get up but he was halted by a loud, “NO!” from Jeremy. “No, don’t leave me alone with him just now. The impulse is too strong still. Can you put a plaster on him or something?”
Andrew wordlessly drew out the first aid kit from the cabinet in the breakfast nook. It was where they kept the candles, matches, torches, and battery-operated radio for emergencies. Once the blood was mopped up with an antiseptic wipe, it was hardly noticeable on his leg and after Andrew’d put a plaster over the larger marks, it looked like nothing more than a simple scrape. Andrew sighed in relief as he realized that the EMTs wouldn’t be asking about the teeth marks on Frank’s leg in correlation to his copious blood loss.
Jeremy seemed to have calmed down now that Frank was patched up, though his fingers continued to flex and squeeze compulsively while they waited for the anticipated knock at the door. At long last the ambulance arrived and Frank was carted off to the nearest hospital.
“I don’t think Frank’s first day in England is doing so well,” said Jeremy sadly as they watched the flashing red lights drive away.
“Could have been worse,” said Andrew.
“I really don’t see how.”
“He might have eaten the breakfast you were going to make him.”
Jeremy frowned and slapped Andrew lightly on the back of his head. There was a loud crack and Andrew was on the floor yelling in pain.
“My neck! I think you broke my bloody neck!”
Jeremy examined his newer stronger blood-saturated hand, wide-eyed in alarm and chagrin. “Oh, heck! I forgot!” He said to himself as he sped down the pavement trying to flag down the ambulance again.
Showing posts with label Young Adult. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Young Adult. Show all posts
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite
This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2
Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.
He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.
Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.
As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.
The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.
“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.
“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.
“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.
“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”
“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.
“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”
“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.
“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.
“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).
“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”
“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.
“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.
“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.
“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.
Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”
“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.
“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”
“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”
“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”
“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.
“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”
“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”
Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.
“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”
“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.
“It is?” asked Andrew.
“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”
“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.
Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”
“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.
“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.
Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.
“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.
“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.
“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.
Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.
"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.
(continued next week)
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2
Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.
He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.
Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.
As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.
The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.
“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.
“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.
“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.
“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”
“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.
“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”
“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.
“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.
“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).
“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”
“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.
“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.
“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.
“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.
Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”
“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.
“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”
“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”
“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”
“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.
“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”
“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”
Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.
“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”
“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.
“It is?” asked Andrew.
“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”
“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.
Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”
“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.
“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.
Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.
“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.
“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.
“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.
Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.
"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.
(continued next week)
Friday, September 2, 2011
The Shooting Party
“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.
He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.
“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”
“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.
“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”
“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”
“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”
“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”
“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Git.”
“Ass.”
Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.
“That means we’re about to start.”
“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”
“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.
“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.
“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.
“Good fur?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.
“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.
“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.
“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”
“How?”
“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”
“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”
“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”
“Huh?” asked Kelly.
“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”
Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.
“PULL!” shouted Phelps.
There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.
“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.
“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”
“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.
“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.
“Jolly good!”
“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.
Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.
Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.
Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.
Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”
“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.
“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.
“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”
“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.
“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.
“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.
“He alright?” called Kelly.
“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.
“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”
"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.
Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!
He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.
“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”
“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.
“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”
“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”
“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”
“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”
“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Git.”
“Ass.”
Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.
“That means we’re about to start.”
“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”
“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.
“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.
“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.
“Good fur?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.
“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.
“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.
“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”
“How?”
“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”
“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”
“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”
“Huh?” asked Kelly.
“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”
Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.
“PULL!” shouted Phelps.
There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.
“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.
“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”
“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.
“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.
“Jolly good!”
“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.
Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.
Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.
Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.
Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”
“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.
“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.
“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”
“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.
“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.
“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.
“He alright?” called Kelly.
“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.
“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”
"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.
Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid
The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.
“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.
“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.
“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.
Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.
“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”
Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.
“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”
Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”
Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”
PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!
“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.
“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.
“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.
Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.
“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”
Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.
“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”
Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”
Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”
PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!
Friday, July 22, 2011
MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!
UPDATED NOV. 7 2011
At long last Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is available for sale from it's publisher,Hunt Press.
CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!
 |
The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print! |
Did you love Must Love Dragons? We know we did! Well, Monica Marier is back with a brand new series and it's now available for pre-order! As always, get it now before it comes out when the price goes up?
Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier
A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World!
Introducing The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly: Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs. One is a washed up, boozing wizard, one is a debonair walking disaster. They’re gentlemen of fortune who realize that the advantage goes not to the biggest hand, but the better bluff. Additionally that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, and chicks dig scars.
Can the pair of them stop arguing long enough to save the citizens of Poulipolis from a watery grave? How will they manage with a shifty working girl and a hardened police inspector dogging their tails? Follow the hijinks of the Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly (and their blue dragon, Philomena) as they unravel clues in a mysterious underwater city!
CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!
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