Tag Archives: short story

Scattered Wealth

I’m a little (or a lot) late to the BlogBattle party, but I wanted to continue with what I started last month in The Precious Maiden. Here’s another episode of Grant & Teagan, a series about treasure-hunting adventurers aiming for the over-the-top feeling of a radio serial set in the ’30s,  with October’s theme of “scattered.”

There are many quality writers who participate regularly (and turn in their work on time). Check out their stories too!

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain — Herculean Hero, Finder of the Fantastic, and Accomplished Acquirer of Astounding Artifacts!
Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

 

Taken by treacherous treasure-seekers, and possibly pursued by putrid pirates of the past, Grant and Teagan will learn that not every long-sought prize has monetary value, and not every apparent enemy is a truly a threat. But is this lesson too late in coming? Find out, in this week’s episode: “The Scattered Wealth of the Sunken Wights”

Once again, Grant strained against his bonds and shouted curses at their captors, but all his rage went unheeded. One of the Kaiser’s men laughed and spat in the grass, then shooed away the persistent black goat who seemed to think the ruins were his territory. The German soldier went back to scouring the moss-covered stones for any hidden secrets or remnants of the promised treasure.

The goat hopped into the trees but quickly reappeared, meandering around the site chewing on thick leaves and watching Grant from a distance.

Teagan ignored Grant’s thrashing and closed her eyes to concentrate. How had this happened?

No Krauts had been among the treasure seekers and grave robbers who pursued the pair to Saint Kitts days ago. A little mischief at the docks had prevented the competition from setting sail, even if any would have followed Grant’s admittedly ill-advised venture into the wrath of a hurricane.

So how did the Germans arrive just hours after Grant and Teagan found this site? Hauptmann Graebel, one of the Germany’s most effective — and brutal — collectors of antiquities and curiosities, had followed the clues to Saint Croix and the ruins of Vallarte’s final resting place.

The realization hit like a slap across the face. “They have a U-boat,” Teagan whispered. “You don’t have to worry about a storm when you’re deep under the waves.”

Grant paused his futile attempt and considered the declaration. “Hmm. Should’ve guessed that not having them on our trail was too good to be true.” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and pulled against the ropes with his whole body’s weight and strength.

Judging by the changing colors in the patches of sky visible between the thick branches of the trees, the sun had almost set.

It didn’t slow the work; Graebel had torches enough to light the whole site.

“You’re wasting effort, Grant,” Teagan muttered, sitting slumped against the tree to which she was tied, her long red hair draping her face in shadows.

Her partner turned, the shame and anger plain on both his face and tongue. “Oh? And what are you doing to help us escape? Other than figuring things out after the fact.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she replied, “because I can’t do anything. We’re going to have to trust what Vallarte’s daughter promised.”

Grant scoffed – a weak, defeated laugh of a man with no options except for the word of a long-dead spirit. “She said they’re coming…” Grant stated. “That they’ll know someone is digging up whatever’s left of Vallarte’s gold, and that they’ll spare no one they find here.”

“Burning greed,” Teagan said, recalling the ghost’s words. “She said it like it held special meaning.” The verse echoed in Teagan’s mind with the spirit’s haunting tone.

Burning with greed and vile misdeeds, your death guaranteed, your judgment decreed: no rest or relief for the bloodthirsty thief.

Even with Allhallowtide and All Soul’s Day fast approaching, Teagan shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to sit in a Mass and pray for the souls of those who had passed on. Quite another to encounter a soul in person.

The spirit of Guadalupe Maria Eledora Vallarte had lingered in this place for nearly three hundred years, since the death of her father and family at the hands of his mutinous crew. She had appeared to Grant and Teagan as well, ready to pronounce the same curse she had supposedly placed upon all those who dared claim her father’s gold.

And when the Kaiser’s thugs barged in, machine guns at the ready, she spent several minutes following Graebel, uttering similar words of doom and destruction… until he produced holy water and burned her repeatedly with mere droplets sprinkled her way.

The ethereal screams seemed to linger in the air, like an invisible finger of ice stroking Teagan’s spine. If the Germans felt fear at the sights and sounds, they hid it well. Or perhaps they feared Graebel more than anything the spirit could do.

Grant sighed, dripping sweat, and sagged against the tree. He met Teagan’s gaze, and she saw the weary acceptance in his eyes. “She said a great many things, Teag. How many of them have helped us get free so far?”

Teagan tried to come up with a witty response, but no words worth saying came to mind. All they’d sought here had come to nothing. No treasure, and more questions than answers. The ghost claimed sailors from many ships had plundered the treasure over the years, and all of them had fallen prey to her curse. Charred vessels lay submerged around Saint Croix, supposedly crewed by the unliving sailors who had fallen victim to their own greed.

But how would that help her and Grant?

She turned her attention to the goat who, for the fifth time since their capture, nosed about in their scattered supplies. The Germans didn’t seem to care that the creature had made a mess of Teagan’s belongings, though at one point Teagan heard some discussion about fresh roasted meat.

Why only my gear?

The goat suddenly looked her in the eyes, and Teagan thought she saw a flash of something red in the animal’s teeth before it disappeared into the lengthening shadows among the trees.

Teagan peered into the growing darkness, but the goat was gone on whatever errand had occupied its mind.

Some soldiers celebrated as they emerged from the largest building, showing off coins that glinted gold in the torch light. Graebel gave them an encouraging nod with a hint of a smile, but his eyes held no mirth behind his spectacles. It seemed he sought more than Spanish doubloons.

Teagan grimaced as the man turned toward her and Grant. Now he grinned under his hawkish nose, his bared teeth predatory. The men wore no uniforms, but Graebel made his khaki shorts and thick shirt look like full ceremonial attire, nonetheless. He approached with a crisp gait despite the uneven ground. “You know more of this place than you have let on,” he said, his English almost devoid of any accent. “What have you learned in your brief time here?”

“Learned to remember you lot have submarines,” Teagan muttered.

“Hmph. Yes. I applaud your… ‘creativity’ in Saint Kitts, delaying your peers. Setting out into the gale was foolish, but fortune favors the bold. Had you not, we would have uncovered every secret of this wretched island before you set one foot on the sand.”

Teagan held back her surprise at what Graebel revealed. The Germans had a contact at Saint Kitts who passed on information, just like so many previous times and places on their travels where their paths had crossed. How widespread were the Kaiser’s efforts? They seemed to span the globe.

Grant looked over at the soldiers celebrating their find. “Gee,” he said, “I guess we missed a spot.” He wouldn’t reveal anything intentionally, but his bluster and bravado had landed them in plenty of trouble before.

Graebel sneered at his soldiers. “The men are easily entertained by thoughts of treasure troves. I seek something greater… something far more useful for the rise of the Third Reich than mere precious metal. Something that can free our armies from such frivolities and weakness.”

He eyed Grant, then sized up Teagan.

She raised her chin in defiance, holding his gaze despite the nauseating feeling stirring in her stomach. This one truly believed in his cause.

Graebel smiled and leaned in close. “What do you know,” he asked in a slow, too-calm tone, “of the curse of Guadalupe Vallarte?”

Teagan felt her eyes widen before she could force a nonchalant expression. “It seems like she was murdered here as a prisoner of pirates. That seems like a pretty terrible way to go.”

“Not that,” Graebel hissed. “Not her death.”

He drew closer, and she felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he whispered, “What do you know of the strange undeath which she afflicts upon others? I have read a most interesting account of her victims—skeletal sailors now locked into single-minded purpose.”

The holy water, Teagan realized. He came prepared for a spirit. He came to find her, not gold.

Teagan cocked her head at the sight of the goat, standing in the shadows, staring at them. It wasn’t chewing, just watching with otherworldly concentration. Watching her, specifically.

Graebel stared at her with the same unsettling intensity. “You’ve seen many things over the years, have you not, Miss O’Daire? Much that might prove useful to the cause of Germany.”

One of the soldiers burst into the ruins from his post guarding the entrance, panting from sprinting and shouting a warning. “Ein fackelzug!” he cried, pointing toward the sea. Graebel hastened toward the man, who continued calling out, “Ein fackelzug im Meer!”

Teagan replayed the words in her mind. A torchlight procession in the ocean? Corpse-lights, perhaps?

She smiled and shot a glare at Graebel’s back. “Something tells me you’ll be learning more than you wanted to know about that curse.”

Gunfire erupted in the night. Grant turned toward the sound. “That’s coming from the north ridge. Do you see the strange glow in the trees?”

A second burst of machinegun fire resounded to the south, followed by screams and shouting in German. The guns in that direction went silent as suddenly as they had pierced the quiet. Between the trees at the edge of the ruins to the north, a flaming skeleton lumbered toward one of the soldiers, unfazed by the bullets shattering its bones. When it finally crumbled, another stepped over its smoldering remains and clamped an unyielding and searing hand around the throat of the German.

“They’re coming,” Teagan repeated. “Literally burning with greed.”

If Grant doubted before, he showed only resolve now. “And we don’t want to be here when they do.” He shifted around, searching for any means of escape.

The ropes holding Teagan vibrated unexpectedly, and she twisted around to see the black goat, still staring at her with its horizontal pupils as it gnawed on her bonds. “You needed a body,” Teagan realized. “Something physical to protect your incorporeal form from holy water and whatever other resources Graebel brought.”

The Germans ran toward the sounds of firefights, this time from the east, near the coastline.

Grant noted their distraction and started working the ropes back and forth on the bark of the tree. “Maybe if I can build up some friction, I can—”

He froze mid-sentence as Teagan stepped away from her tree, frayed rope dangling from her wrists. “How did you – the goat!”

The animal chewed and tugged at Grant’s restraints, quickly freeing him. Grant stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”

He dashed over to what remained of their gear, rummaging in Teagan’s pack. “I have a plan,” he declared. “We can leave some nasty surprises for Graebel and make sure there’s nothing left for him to find here. How much dynamite did you have hidden away in your pack?” After a few more seconds of fruitless searching, he added, “And where did you put it?”

Teagan almost answered, then remembered what she had seen in the goat’s mouth. She looked down at the creature in confusion. “Did you take all my dynamite? The red sticks?”

The goat lifted its head in response. “Well, yes,” the wavering voice of Guadalupe Vallarte said, sounding both present and distant at once. “I placed it around the camp and among the buildings where these wicked men are taking shelter. When the burning skeletons come to fight the interlopers, their flames will light the wicks.”

An explosion rocked the site to the south, belching fire and dirt into the night sky. The goat watched, its odd eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. “I like the red sticks.”

German soldiers ran to and fro, mowing down slow-moving skeletons at first, until they depleted their ammunition. Teagan surveyed the chaos and spotted Graebel. He put down a skeleton with two shots from his Luger pistol, shattering the undead creature’s femurs. Then he too scanned the mad spectacle in frustration, until his eyes found Teagan’s.

Head cocked, he stared with obvious confusion at the sight of his captives, now freed, in the company of a goat.

Another blast tore through the camp between them, seemingly engulfing the German officer.

“Lupe,” Teagan said, addressing the goat. The ghost. The ghost goat? Focus. “Do you know a safe way out of here?”

Vallarte’s voice filled the air around the goat. “I can lead you through the conflagration to your vessel. I know now that you are not like these, or the ones who came before.”

Grant stood laughing at the devastation as another stick of dynamite tore a building apart. “I know it’s a little early, but Happy Hallowe’en, Krauts!”

He patted Teagan on the back. “You definitely brought the treats,” he said with a chuckle. “And you—” Grant said, eyeing the goat. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

The Precious Maiden

It has been too long since I participated in BlogBattle, initiated by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey. When I used to write entries regularly, I loved the idea of writing something like an old radio serial, with intrepid 1930s adventurers and their feats of derring-do as they explored old ruins and sought answers to strange mysteries. It has been a minute — many minutes, really — since the last entry, so I wanted to get back to it.
It always gets me going down historical rabbit trails I find exciting. (Did they have denim shirts in the 30s? What storms happened in the Caribbean that year? Who ruled Spain at the time? What was that island called back then? And so on).


With that in mind, “Precious” as the inspiration, and apologies for going slightly over the word count, here is the latest episode of Grant and Teagan:


From the Adventures of Grant McSwain – Sailor of the Seven Seas, Finder of Forgotten Fortunes, and Savior of Salacious Sweethearts … accompanied as always by his hapless companion, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Last week, we left our intrepid heroes stranded on the high seas as they turned their vessel toward the full strength of a tropical storm off the coast of Saint Kitts. Will they find the lost treasure of Vallarte’s final voyage? Or will they join his ship in the murky ocean depths? Find out, in “Grant McSwain and the Perilous Prize of La Doncella Preciosa!”


Rain smacked the creaking wooden ship with the stinging fury of a hailstorm and swept a yellowed sheet of canvas across the slick deck. “Don’t lose that,” Grant cried, arm outstretched toward the tattered map flapping across the wave-washed planks. “It’s priceless!”

Holding the sloop’s wheel firm, Grant’s muscles strained underneath his wet linen shirt – once white, but stained to beige by the dirt and grime of multiple adventures around the globe. The gusts whipped his clothes, loose but rain-soaked, and he clenched his square jaw as he fought the strength of the storm.

Teagan dove through the rain as the vessel lurched again, tossed in the gale. She hit with a huff and slid across the polished wood, a sopping mess of red hair and limbs, fingers grasping for the centuries-old canvas. Her drenched khaki shorts and denim over-shirt seemed like weights on her body, and her waterlogged hiking boots felt filled with cement.

The winds shifted, buffeting the sails, and the mast groaned in protest. One of the lines securing the foresail snapped with the strain and flew like a snake on the wind, cracking like a whip. Most of the sails held, pushing the ship toward the shoreline at the horizon. As if ye could see the bloody island through all this gale.

Teagan’s fingertips felt rough fabric and pressed down against the deck, pinning the map in place. Priceless, no, but precious—in more ways than one. Vallarte’s ship, La Doncella Preciosa, the Precious Maiden, was presumed lost to the ocean’s depths. What would the last known location of the vessel’s treasure trove be worth on the antiquities market?

Someone could certainly estimate the map’s value. Many had, judging by the resistance and pursuit they faced thus far.

Before Vallarte set out on his final voyage in 1577, the famed conquistador and so-called explorer had infiltrated the royal treasury and stolen Las Esmeraldas de las Princesas –the massive twin emeralds he’d brought a few years earlier as tribute for King Phillip II to honor Princess Isabella and Princess Catherine. That was the real treasure Grant hoped to find.

No wonder so many had hounded them across the Americas and into the path of this hurricane. No Krauts this time, thankfully… but something worse, the finest treasure hunters hired by the fiercest and wealthiest collectors. The race was on—fame and fortune, as always, the reward for those willing to blaze the trail.

Grant scrabbled across the deck as the small ship shuddered, his black hair soaked and disheveled in the storm. He reached out, and Teagan lifted her free hand for assistance … but instead, he snatched up the map. “That was close,” he said, heading back to the stern.

Teagan grunted and rose to her feet, gripping the rail and glaring at Grant through a mop of red. She ran her fingers through her hair to throw it back over her shoulders, but the wind immediately whipped it in all directions at once.

“The storm is getting us there!” Grant shouted, grinning as he squinted into the distance. “This will work, as long as we stay ahead of them.”

Teagan grabbed thick rope to lash the foresail to the rigging. “This won’t work,” she shot back, “if we end up sharing the fate of the Doncella.” Whether at the bottom of the ocean, or smashed along the coast of Saint Croix, the vessel of the wealthy Vallarte did not survive its final voyage.

“We won’t,” Grant called out over the storm’s fury, his grimace belying his confidence. Then he brightened, and he grabbed the line to assist her. “Think of it this way: we’re doing both our countries a favor! Supporting the Monroe Doctrine by keeping European powers from meddling in the Americas and claiming the prize, and supporting Britain by …”

Grant shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Teagan scoffed at the assumption of her allegiance to the crown, then caught Grant’s reference and stared dumbfounded at him. Was he making a lucky connection trying to sound intelligent, or was he actually aware of American foreign policy?

Grant must have noticed her gaze. “I do read sometimes,” he protested.

“Spicy pulps and penny dreadfuls don’t count,” she said with a smirk as she checked the other lashings. The vessel had to reach Saint Croix intact for them to have a chance at finding the treasure, and it would be nice to have a means of escape before their competitors arrived.

Most of their pursuers were stranded on Saint Kitts waiting for the storm to pass, or for new ships to arrive. While treasure hunters might maintain a certain level of decorum in a civilized community, some of their rivals would be all too pleased to find Grant and Teagan out on the high seas or stranded on Saint Croix.

Grant clamped his hands on the wheel, steering the sloop through the storm and waves. “The way I see it,” he declared in a self-assured tone, “it’s only been twenty years or so since America paid good gold for these islands. They’ll want to ensure the European powers stay out of their affairs. Maybe we’ll finally get J. Edgar and his goons on our side for a change.”

“Better to avoid them completely,” Teagan answered, but Grant said nothing in reply, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon.

Another hour of constant struggle to stay afloat brought them through the worst of the storm’s wrath, and after two more hours of dreary downpour, they spotted a dark shadow of land in the distance, barely noticeable in the limited moonlight. Teagan checked the compass once again — right on course for the northeast coast of Saint Croix. Thankfully, Grant proved reliable in many ways other than the intellectual pursuits.

Once near the shallows, they raised the sails and Teagan grabbed a sounding pole to guide Grant in as close to the shore as they dared. With the sloop at anchor, a short swim brought them to land under a cloudy night sky.

The skies turned soft tones of purple, followed by vibrant patches of gold, while the pair searched up and down the coast of Saint Croix. Shivering and aching, Teagan slogged on through the sand, taking only small comfort in the misery on Grant’s face as they trekked into the morning.

Then, with the first direct sunlight on the coast, they spotted a telltale ridge behind the foliage. A single black goat stood on the slope, chewing on the plants and staring at these new visitors. “That could be the southern embankment,” Teagan offered, picturing the map’s details in her mind rather than fishing it out of her pack yet again. She studied the landscape and pointed her finger. “There’s the northern ridge that forms the enclosure, running parallel to the water.”

Grant surveyed the area with a tired sag in his shoulders. “Everything’s overgrown.”

“True,” Teagan admitted as she stepped forward, toward the treeline. “Then again, assuming some of Vallarte’s crew survived the shipwreck, how much of a three-hundred year-old makeshift shelter could we really expect to find?”

Grant took another look at the sloop, a small white speck to the south. He took a deep breath, stretched, and shrugged. “If anyone does catch up to us, maybe it’ll throw them off, make them think we’re searching down that way—ait for me!”

He crashed through the thick brush Teagan had slipped through, startling a few birds into flight and interrupting their morning songs.

Teagan followed what seemed like an overgrown path, ducking under tree limbs or holding leafy branches aside, working her way into the enclosed area the map had promised. She reached out her hands to sweep some foliage out of her way and froze. “Worked stone?”

Peeking out from vines and centuries of growth, some smoothed rocks caught the morning light. Relatively sharp lines formed unnatural ridges and walls ahead, hidden within a hollow by the thick branches of the surrounding trees. Teagan studied the stones, running her fingers along them, moving from one ridge to another.

“There are proper buildings here, Grant, with mortar and masonry.” She spun about, trying to grasp the size of the site. “Several of them—far more than any castaways could manage in secret.”

The feeling of being watched tightened on her heart like an icy grip, but she knew it was just the shock of finding an ancient community where there should only be the ruins of one or two makeshift structures. She still found herself tensing at every sound, peering into every shadow.

Grant looked over the area, his face grim. “You think someone else found this place years ago, took the treasure, built themselves something substantial?”

Teagan examined another overgrown building, its rock walls covered in moss and lengths of vine. “Possibly… or perhaps this site was never what we were led to believe.”

A chill struck Teagan’s bones even as she wandered in the warm sunlight, but she shrugged it off as the lingering effects of the night in soaked clothes coupled with the unexpected mystery before her.

Grant stepped into the nearest building, ducking his head to enter the small door. He moved with surprising grace for his size, and waved a long thin reed in front of him to look for traps.

Teagan took a ginger step into a half-collapsed structure, looking for clues while searching her mind for an explanation. Could my source have betrayed us? Or could he have been deceived? He wouldn’t have sold us a map to a site already explored by a previous client, for fear of damage to his reputation.

Nothing stood out in the first three buildings Teagan checked, and if Grant found anything noteworthy, he didn’t call for her.

The fourth structure Teagan approached looked squat and sturdy compared to the others, with rusted metal bars in the two narrow windows. The door had rotted away, but the thick walls and slight elevation on which the building stood seemed to protect the interior from centuries of storms.

More than the others, at least, but not entirely. Teagan noted the rust stains and pitted metal bars that fashioned holding cells. A few skeletons lay slumped against the walls, their wrists still held by leather cuffs affixed to what was left of their chains. Two of the remains included tattered and faded fabric in the style and shape of fifteenth century women’s clothing. The others seemed like young boys of varied heights.

“Grant?” Teagan called, then turned and yelled out for him.

Stones rattled and scraped inside the structure… or were those bones?

Father … have you finally come with the ransom?

A shadowy haze coalesced inside one of the cells, like a storm cloud taking shape, with green forks of lightning crackling through the smoky form. Teagan shook at the feminine voice echoing in her mind as well as the strange sight, and backed toward the open doorway. Her left hand shot to the medallion of Saint Nicholas around her neck.

The growing apparition seemed to regard Teagan with eyes alight like emeralds held in the depths of its darkness. Or … it hissed, does another interloper seek the prize?

Teagan bumped into Grant and gasped. He stood in the doorway, hunched down to peer into the ancient prison ruins. The goat from the slope stood beside him now, still chewing. “I was going to tell you I found something interesting,” he muttered, “but of course you’d have the more exciting discovery.”

“I’d be happy to trade places,” Teagan whispered.

The ghostly image turned its glowing verdant eyes upon the pair, and waves of judgment and wrath coursed through Teagan’s mind. A haunting voice rang out, sonorous like a bell, and the figure raised a finger to point at Grant. “I am la doncella preciosa that Vallarte sought… his daughter. Take what remains of his treasure, scoundrels … and join his mutinous crew in eternal unrest.”


Tune in next time for the epic continuation: “Grant McSwain versus the Cantankerous Crew of Corpse-light Corsairs!”

Also, you can read the other BlogBattler entries here.

Fangs and Fury

Here’s this month’s BlogBattle post, based on the term, “Blaze,” and once again centered around the misadventures of Grant and Teagan, my 1930s “Indiana Jones-meets-Supernatural” duo of explorers.

I took a stab at a sketch of them on a lengthy return flight from a recent mission. I’m not satisfied with this–it’s unfinished and not what I envisioned–but it was a fun effort nonetheless.

Last “episode,” after dealing with a werewolf, Grant fell unconscious from blood loss. Teagan succumbed to lycanthropy and used that unnatural strength to fight back against a double-agent who betrayed her. This time, we join Grant and Teagan two days later, after Grant has sought a cure for Teagan’s condition.

From The Adventures of Grant McSwain, Hunter of Horrors, Destroyer of the Defiled, and Terror of the Treacherous.

Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Firelight danced around the ruined Army camp nestled in the mountains, and wisps of fragrant smoke twisted through the chilly air as Grant hunkered over Teagan’s quivering form. He turned away from the sweat-soaked bristling hair matted on her arms and torso. Grant almost laid a hand on the furry patch of her forehead–between the pointed canine ears that now sprouted from her misshapen body–then reconsidered the danger. He averted his eyes from her bloodied claws and that makeshift muzzle he’d tied around that maw full of jagged teeth. Teeth that could tear his throat open in an instant, or turn him into a monster like–

It’s still Teagan, he reassured himself. She drank Dah-rey’s vial of silver. She’s going to pull through… once the fever breaks. 

His feeble hopes withered at the sound of her ragged breathing, and he turned toward the aged man kneeling beside the fire. “How long will it take for those herbs to purge her body of…”

Striding Bison crushed more of the dried brown leaves with a mortar and pestle, then sprinkled them into the flames. Another aromatic plume rose on the breeze, far more smoke than a pinch of herbs should produce. Curling tendrils stretched toward Teagan’s afflicted body like the fingers of a mournful spirit. “A while,” he said with a shrug, cryptic as ever, his shaky hands moving with reverence and care. The shaman had helped them when past adventures had gone awry, but those had all been of the mundane snake-bite, gunshot-wound, dehydration in the desert variety.

Howls tore through the night, and Grant peered into the murky blackness on all sides. A wasted gesture–the firelight destroyed his night vision. Even so, instead of the call of another werewolf pack, he recognized the war-whoops of hunting parties from local tribes.

“The Chickasaw know what hunts under the full moon,” Striding Bison intoned. “They hate those the wolf spirits possess. Their braves will come with cleansing fire… not the kind for burning herbs, but bodies.”

Grant put his palm on Teagan’s head and grimaced at the heat radiating through her coat of fur.

“They will kill us too,” the shaman added. “They will consider us tainted by her presence. None of the tribes take lycanthropy lightly.”

If the thought bothered Striding Bison at all, he showed no sign. He poured steaming water from a kettle into a stone bowl, dipped a cloth, and laid it across Teagan’s head.

Helpless, Grant left Teagan to shiver under her blankets. He surveyed the wreckage, noting the makeshift defenses the soldiers had erected. The werewolves left no survivors but also had no interest in equipment or supplies. A broken crate of rifles caught Grant’s eye, their dark metal glinting in the firelight. He pulled one from the container and found another box filled with circular drum magazines. “Do what you can, where you are, with what you’ve got,” Grant mumbled, quoting the President he idolized. Teddy wouldn’t back down from the fight. 

Striding Bison smirked and ground more leaves into powder. “The Chickasaw won’t be impressed by Army guns. They’ll have gangster rifles too–and they can shoot from horseback.”

“I know,” Grant said, his shoulders sagging. “But I have to do something.”

The war-cries echoed louder, closer. Even though the mountains blocked some lines of sight, the light of the fire would be seen for miles from the right viewpoint.

“You are one man, McSwain. They are many. They are trained for war, whereas you…”

Fury flared within Grant’s chest, an explosion of rage at the futility of his situation. All his strength cried for action, something to throw, someone to punch, some means to resist the obvious fate looming over him. His fingers tightened on the grips of the Tommy guns in his hands and he glanced at his companion. A realization washed through him like a lit trail of blasting powder. If I have to die to protect Teagan from butchery, so be it. And if I’m going to die anyway… 

Grant dashed to Teagan’s side and set the Tommy guns in the dirt, then drew out his knife. “Bison, you have more of that coyotesbane?”

“Of course.”

“I’m loosening the bonds on her feet and doubling the ropes around her wrists. In a moment, I want you to lead her to safety while I distract the Chickasaw. She’ll be able to move, but she won’t be able to hurt you. Think you can manage?”

Striding Bison’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Grant’s actions. He said nothing, but his eyes moved to the knife.

“I just need to buy you both enough time for her to fight off the disease,” Grant said. He drew the knife along his forearm with a wince, and a line of crimson formed. “The Chickasaw don’t know who was afflicted.”

Grant untied the muzzle and held his arm above her elongated face. Though unconscious, Teagan shifted and jerked, emitting sharp sniffs and a low, hungry growl. In a flash, her teeth latched onto his arm, gnawing and lapping at the wound. He screamed but held still, muscles straining in anguish. When he could bear it no more, he tore his arm free then wrestled the muzzle back over Teagan’s maw.

Pain shot up his arm, throbbing and thrumming with his heartbeat. The moon grew brighter and his senses opened to the world around him with such clarity that he felt as if he’d been deaf and blind all his life. His thoughts wavered between lucid concern for Teagan and a sudden thrilling bond with all of nature.

Striding Bison looked on in horror, then came alongside Teagan and helped her to her feet, her bony arm stretched too far over his hunched shoulders.

Even as he watched the thick black hair sprout from every inch of exposed skin, Grant racked the slides on the submachine guns and turned toward the approaching war-cries. “Come face me,” he howled, his voice deep and guttural. “But be warned! This wolf has fangs!”

One More Round

BlogBattle is back, and so are Grant and Teagan, the fearless duo whose fortunes and foibles in the 1930s comprise most of my entries to the competition. 

There’s plenty of time left in August’s contest, with the theme word of “Moon.” Check the link above and pen your own tale of luna-cy. 

Note: I write these as if they’re disjointed episodes of some ’50s radio show because it’s silly and amuses me to do so. 

—-

After a long hiatus, we proudly return to The Adventures of Grant McSwain, Hunter of the Horrific, Vanquisher of the Vile, and Doer of Daring Deeds! (Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway)

In this episode, howl with delight as–armed with only one silver bullet–Grant faces down betrayal in… “The Werewolves of Wyoming.”

Mountain Moonset, by Jessie Eastland. From Wikimedia Commons, used under Creative Commons license.

Grant leaned against the broken stump of a felled tree, his arm propped on his knee, the dented flask in his hand reflecting the dancing firelight. His eyes glinted like gunmetal as he stared at the corpse on the other side of the fire. His other hand rested on the ground, bloodied but clutching his Magnum revolver. The normally spry man now looked like the mountains surrounding the camp—ancient, weathered, too weary to move.

Brushing back her locks of Irish red with a crimson hand, Teagan dug through the contents of her rucksack. He’s losing blood. So am I. There had to be something they could use…

She tried to ignore the fur-covered limbs and the torn waistcoat stretched across the creature’s frame. Blood soaked through the bleached shirt beneath its vest, the result of a single shot to the heart from Grant’s gun.

Unfortunately, it had taken five attempts to hit the mark. The bullets work. At least we know that. We just need more of them. 

The fire in Teagan’s calf blazed and waned with her heartbeat. A jagged hole in her trousers revealed several puncture wounds in a line. She focused on Grant and pushed her pain aside.

Grant shook the flask and the contents sloshed. “Enough for one more round, if you ladies want some Tennessee warmth.”

Teagan glared across the campfire’s radiance as Grant handed the flask to Da-Re, the meddlesome and far too fetching agent of the Empire of Japan. She brushed a hand through her raven hair and smiled. He handed it to her because she’s the closest, Teagan told herself, trying to quench the jealousy flaring in her chest. Why is she sitting so close? 

The wind picked up again, a mournful wail that tore through the pass. The next gust carried what sounded like answering voices in the dark. Thick clouds rolled low in the sky, as if the moon played peekaboo with the creatures of the night.

Da-Re took a swig and gave a hissing grimace at the alcohol’s burn. “Sorry you had to kill your friend, Mister McSwain.” She handed the flask back to Grant and pointedly avoided acknowledging Teagan’s existence.

Grant shook his head. “Roquefort was always more of a patron, wanting this or that recovered, some mystery answered.” His voice slurred, more from fatigue than the whiskey. “The wire demanding an urgent meeting to ‘renegotiate the contract’ should’ve tipped me off.”

The world lurched and Teagan’s vision spun, but she shook off the sensation and rifled through her supplies. Bandages were easy enough… she could make a number of fabric strips out of Grant’s tattered shirt from their first encounter with the beasts. If I can get my head to clear, at least… but we need something to fight off infection…

More howls reverberated through the mountains, each distinct. The pack sorting out their numbers, searching for their missing member, closing in on where they’d last heard his call.

Each voice stirred the depths of Teagan’s being, some primeval yearning for the open plains, the freedom of the wilderness, the thrill of the hunt. The ache of the wound on her calf throbbed with the resounding echoes.

Eyes closed and body drained of strength, Teagan felt her head loll forward as she fell to her hands and knees.

“They’ll be here soon,” Da-Re muttered, drawing Teagan’s attention. The slender Asian rose to her feet—with Grant’s Magnum in hand—then stooped over the furry corpse. She reached into her vest and drew forth a long metal syringe from between two vials filled with a glimmering metallic solution. Colloidal silver… a possible defense or antidote to lycanthropy?

Teagan looked at Grant, eyes blurry as if underwater. He lay on his side, unconscious but breathing. She could almost hear his heartbeat. “What did you do to him,” she asked, her voice a harsh growl.

Da-Re chuckled. “I waited. Nothing more.” She plunged the syringe into Roquefort’s corpse and pulled the slider. A line of dark red shone through the slot in the metal as the empty glass within filled with blood.

“What are you doing?”

“So many questions, Miss O’Daire.” Da-Re checked the vial, wrapped the syringe in fabric, and slid it back into her vest pocket. “The Emperor wants an army that is ready to withstand all opposition… and you’ve seen these creatures’ ferocity. If we can discover a way to harness that power without the unpleasant side effects…”

“Too dangerous,” Teagan rumbled. Talking felt so difficult. Staying lucid seemed impossible. Why was the moon so bright? “You’ve seen what it does to the victims… surely you won’t do that to your own people.”

Da-Re smirked. “We have plenty of test subjects in the lands we’ve conquered.” She tossed her pack over her shoulder. “Sayonara, Miss O’Daire. I trust I will not see you again.”

Teagan ignored the treacherous woman and crawled toward Grant. His shallow breaths sounded like rushing winds to her over-sensitive ears. He still lived. She could smell the tang of iron in his blood—far more bearable than the stink of those metallic vials Da-Re carried in her vest pouch.

“You should leave him be,” Da-Re said. “More peaceful this way. When the werewolves come, they’ll come for prey.”

Teagan’s muscles tensed, and sudden rage coursed through her. Her back arched, bones popped, and fabric tore as she turned her gaze to Da-Re. The woman looked like a silhouette with the moon—so blazingly bright and full—behind her in the sky.

Bhitseach,” Teagan growled, “they’re already here.”

She lunged across the fire, claws extended for the kill.

 

Tune in next time for Da-Re Versus O’Daire, and the Beast Within!

 

Letting Go (Short Story)

I slip in the back door, and a scented wave of cinnamon and sugar hits me, an intended welcoming warmth that I don’t feel. I head for the stairs, hoping to make it to my room before—

“You’re back!” Mom’s voice sounds strained, her cheerful tone forced. Like always. “How was the mall?”

I shrug. “Boring.”

She pulls a plate of snickerdoodles off the stovetop. “I made some treats for Sunday school, and thought you might like some of the extras. They’re fresh out of the oven.”

“I’m not that hungry, Mom. There’s half a dozen. Dinner’s in an hour.” I feel like she should be the one thinking about that. Still, I’m not about to turn the offer down, not entirely. I snatch one off the plate and let my teeth sink into the soft, sweet cookie.

She watches me with concern, that same disturbed look she’s been giving me every night for the last few years. “Well,” she says, “I thought… maybe Thomas would like some? They’re his favorite.”

I roll my eyes and set the plate on the counter. “I’m not dealing with this again today. I have homework.” Maybe Dad will eat the other ones, or I’ll just snack on them during school tomorrow.

School… yeah right. Sitting at the dining table with a couple workbooks and an iPad is “school” as much as the first aid kit in the bathroom makes it a hospital. Homeschooling is supposed to be close, intimate… but the way my parents run things, it’s about giving me busy work so they can avoid dealing with me. I’m fine with that—I try to avoid them, too.

“Don’t forget,” Mom yells down the hallway as I make my escape, “we have an appointment with Nick tomorrow.”

I whirl and let loose. “Can we stop pretending that calling Doctor Greene by his first name takes away the fact he’s a shrink you’re making me see because you think I’m crazy?”

Mom lets out that defeated sigh of hers, the one that means she will leave me alone. It’s a stalemate, but I’ll take it.

I walk past Thomas’s room—always empty, always immaculate—and slam my door before flopping onto my bed. Tomorrow’s a big day; I know that’s why they made the appointment. Five years ago, Thomas and I took off on our bikes, and only one of us came home.

* * * * *

“Hello! Good to see you,” Nick says, with a too-white smile and “Happy Holidays” disposition. I don’t mind calling him Nick, even though I’ll argue with my parents about it. To them, and to him, it probably seems cool, a way of relating to the kids he sees. Whatever. It’s all part of the show we’re putting on here. Thirty minutes of fun and entertainment, and the clock starts now.

He’s got two folding chairs in front of his desk, and a love seat in the corner where Mom and Dad could sit together, if Dad ever bothered to show up. I take the one on the left and sink into a slouch, arms crossed, hoodie shading my view.

“Mrs. Talbach,” Nick says in his overly chipper tone. He turns to me, glances at the empty seat, and says, “I’m really glad Thomas could be here today.”

I kick the extra chair aside with a huff. “It’s just me, Nick,” I hiss, “just like the last five times. What are we paying you for again?”

As soon as I say it, Mom’s emotional rubber band snaps—I can feel her burning glare on the back of my neck. “Mind your tone and watch your manners. You’re not paying him for anything—”

“Darci,” Nick says, cutting her off. His tone is solid and firm. “Maybe you’d like a mug of cocoa? Someone at the front desk can help you.”

He takes a seat beside his desk, his eyes on her. He watches in silence, removing any doubt about the directive nature of his suggestion.

I try not to smirk, and I keep my back to Mom until the door clicks shut.

“So,” Nick says, elbows on knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. “Still pushing your mother’s buttons?”

“As much as she pushes mine.”

“You realize your parents have been through a lot, too, don’t you? Today, especially. The memory of the accident hits them as hard as it does you.”

Of course I realize that… but they didn’t see what happened.

Nick glances at the empty chair. “You say that Thomas isn’t with you anymore, but I’m afraid you’re telling me what you think I want to hear. It’s easy to put on an act for the doctor every two weeks, and you’re a smart kid, no doubt about it. Smart enough to figure that out.”

I stare at him from beneath my hood. That’s most of what Dad pays for—Nick and me staring at each other in silence. Maybe that’s part of why he stopped coming.

“You can be honest with me,” Nick says. “No sign of Thomas at all?”

“I let him go. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Move on?”

“Yes, well, you’re a… complex case, in my experience,” Nick replies. His fingers stroke the thick file on the edge of the desk. “In any event, after a traumatic episode, you’re right, it’s important to keep moving forward in life. However, we all want to be sure the direction you’re moving in is healthy. That it leads somewhere better than where you were when we first met.”

Same old speech. “Who’s to say what’s better, Nick?”

“Great question. I think that’s when you benefit most from the perspectives of others—the people who love you, the people you love. Those, like me, who want what’s best for you.”

Out the window, I can see a dozen kids scrambling all over a school playground across the street. Climbing, swinging, chasing, laughing. I miss those days.

Nick leans over and twists the stick; the venetian blinds snap shut. “Tell me about Fairmont Junior High.”

“Sucked.”

“I imagine so, given some of these comics and stories you wrote.” He slides a couple yellowed sheets of paper out from the folder. On one of them, a pair of stick figures fight their way through a school infested with zombies. On another, there’s a list of names titled ‘People I Hope Die.’

I sigh and stare at Nick’s wall of degrees in glossy frames.

Nick points at the comic. “‘Timmy and Tommy Versus the Zombies,’ a tale of twin boys, taking on the mindless horde of cold adults and mean classmates that you had to deal with every day. That’s kind of funny. Maybe a little bit like life?”

When I don’t respond, Nick presses his point. “You drew this, what, a year after he passed away? Do you think maybe you were expressing some feelings you weren’t able to process otherwise?”

I shrug.

“Of course,” Nick continues, “Fairmont had a zero-tolerance policy for anything perceived as threats, so when your teacher found this list, you had to—”

“No! That’s not why we homeschool, okay?”

Nick sits back at the outburst, but gestures for me to elaborate. I’m surprised that came out, but I’m so sick of them worrying about problems and phantoms I’ve already outgrown.

“How do you think it felt,” I say, “being the only kid in middle school with an imaginary friend? Being the kid who freaked out if anyone sat next to him in the cafeteria… Teachers had to keep one desk empty rather than put up with me losing it in the middle of class…”

Nick nods, pretending he knows what it’s like. “That’s why I’m glad we’ve made progress,” he says gently, and gestures at the empty seat. “Some, at least.”

“Whatever. If we made so much progress, what the hell am I doing here?”

“Like I said, you’re complex. There’s still more going on, and I don’t know if you’re ready or willing to address it.”

I shake my head, and my lips curl in frustration. “I’m fine with how things are now. I’m finally fine. I’ve moved on. That’s all I wanted, all I needed. I just wish everybody else would back off and stop trying to tell me what’s best for me.”

“You say that, but—”

“Isn’t it time to go?” I grab the small digital clock he has on his desk—turned away from the patients, of course, but always visible from his chair—and check the time. Ten more minutes. Dammit.

“It’s a sign of progress that you no longer require the additional space and consideration you once expected from everyone,” Nick drones, flipping through records of previous visits. “That’s an important step, but as I review your history, I wonder if we are moving in a healthy direction. One significant concern when dealing with delusions related to trauma is that…”

I’m done with this. My mind shuts down and my eyes wander over the decorations around the room: the dream-catcher some kid made in art class, the framed newspaper story with Nick’s picture, the carved African trickster guy hunched over his flute whose name I can never remember.

“—unable to distinguish,” he continues, “between the real and the imaginary in other parts of life, affecting relationships, job performance—or, in your case, academics—and basic social integration.”

Nick leans forward and gives me his oh-so-caring face. I wonder how many times he practiced that in med school. “What I’m saying is, I can’t just ignore these other symptoms.”

“They’re not symptoms,” I growl. I’m so tired of him and everyone else not listening to what I’m saying about me. “Stop treating me like I have a problem. I had a problem. It’s gone now.”

“You have to want to get well before—”

I fly out of the seat and kick it down behind me. “I am well!”

I had a twin. We did everything together. He got into an accident and died, and that sucks, and nothing’s gonna fix that. I did what I could and let go.

Now I wish they would.

Before Nick can give me another one of his touchy-feely speeches, I storm out the door into the lobby, past Mom and her cup of Swiss Miss, past the secretary’s stupid bulging eyes, past some other waiting mom and her teenage daughter. I leave them all stunned and slam the outer door on my way to the parking lot, slipping my earbuds in. I just want to be alone with the fresh air and my music.

Moments later, Nick leads Mom out the door and checks what I’m doing before continuing his conversation with her. I pause the music on my phone so I can hear, and keep pacing around Mom’s car, eyes on the ground, the perfect image of a distracted teen.

“—following the right approach, Mrs. Talbach. There’s more pain deep inside that he doesn’t want to deal with just yet, and this is his way of coping—or rather, ignoring and suppressing that hurt. Keep on pressing him about why he let go of Thomas.”

“But he gets so angry,” Mom says, her voice quivering like she’s going to cry again. “And he just shuts down whenever I say his name.”

“This is important. It’s going to be a hard road; I won’t lie to you, it’s probably going to be almost as bad as…” He glances at me and leaves the rest unsaid.

The kids on the playground are still shrieking with delight, dashing to and fro. I remember recess with my brother, when we challenged each other to ever-higher climbs and ever-farther jumps off the swings. Always one-upping each other, never afraid of the risks. That, and pranking the teachers in grade school, who never could tell us apart.

“Talk to Jared,” Nick says, referring to Dad. “Please, encourage him to come next time. He’s burying his pain, too. Maybe helping his son will draw both of them out of their shells.”

Mom nods. “I’ll try.”

Can’t wait to see the train wreck tonight when she brings that up.

* * * * *

“I’m not going back, Darci,” Dad shouts. “I tried that psycho-babble bull. We’re throwin’ money at that guy every month, and for what?”

They always think their fights are some kind of secret, something I don’t notice because it happens after dark, behind closed doors. Even quiet voices carry through the vents; shouts come through loud and clear. The doors and walls aren’t nearly as soundproof as their minds.

“Honey,” Mom pleads, “there has to be some way to make things better.” I hear the crack in her voice as she adds, “I can’t lose him too.”

“Wasn’t it that quack’s idea to let the imaginary friend crap run its course in the first place? Then all of a sudden, we’re supposed to stop playing along. Where did that get us, huh?”

Like I’m some garbage video game they’re playing… Push A to expose pain; tap B to speed recovery; use right trigger to unlock closer relationship.

“Doctor Greene says we need to keep talking to Thomas,” Mom insists, her voice ragged. That tone—she’s barely holding together. It’s the threshold before the bubbling pot boils over.

“Darci, he keeps saying Thomas isn’t there anymore.” For once I have the tiny spark of hope that maybe someone believes me. “He’s not doing any of that imaginary crap like before. Maybe we’re only going to make things worse if we press the issue.”

“I can’t pretend that—I won’t accept that he—God, Jared, every time he acts like this, I feel like I’m grieving all over again.”

Dad says nothing. I get where Mom’s coming from, but she doesn’t know what Thomas went through, either.

“So… what do we do?” Mom sounds broken.

“Hell if I know.”

* * * * *

“Let’s talk about that day.” Nick isn’t even trying to go slow today.

“Fine. There’s not much to say. We rode our bikes up the steep hill on Hoffman Street, up to the train tracks. Nobody rides down that hill—it’s crazy. I told Thomas he didn’t have to do it, I told him he won the bet. I chickened out.”

“Is that right?”

“He said it wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t go through with it.”

Nick sits back, giving me a suspicious eye. “What did you say to that?”

I look around the room, trying to focus on anything else. Mom didn’t bother coming in this time. Dad called about some last-minute meeting at the office, so Mom stayed in the car fighting with him over the phone while I checked myself in for my appointment.

Against my will, the memories flash through my mind: my brother lurching forward and pedaling like mad, building up speed before the descent, my hand reaching out as if I could pluck him off the bike from ten feet away. “I didn’t have time to say anything.”

For an instant, I feel the onset of tears, the old hurt like a hand wrapped around my heart, squeezing into a fist. It was my fault. I goaded him into it. He lost control—I should’ve known that would happen—and went into traffic on Garfield Avenue at the bottom of the hill…

“Thomas,” Nick says, “it’s not healthy. All that guilt, all that blame, that crushing burden? You’ve been carrying it too long.”

My eyes drop to that folder on the desk, the name “Thomas Talbach” written in thick black Sharpie. Of course that fat secretary had me booked under the wrong name, the same one on Nick’s file. As he waits for me to answer, Nick taps his fingers on the folder almost like he’s pointing out the mistake everyone keeps making.

Just like how the hospital put the wrong name on the death certificate.

Just like the gravestone.

I don’t need any help. I don’t have any burden to put down. My only problem is I don’t know how to get everyone else to see that.

“My name,” I mutter, “is Timothy.”

Nick locks eyes with me, his face stern, his tone hard. “You need to let go, Thomas.”

“That’s the thing, Nick. I already did.”

 

Delusions and Adventures – Two Open Submission Opportunities

Writer friends and followers:

While there are a host of magazines and collections that often solicit submissions, two recent options caught my eye.

ApparitionLit runs a quarterly open solicitation for submissions of poetry and short fiction, with some appropriately thrilling or mysterious theme. This quarter is “delusion,” but unfortunately, the session is about to close (Feb 28th).

They’re accepting works with a theme of vision from May 15-31, and submission guidelines can be found here.

Find a quiet place, listen to the voices in your head, and write out all your inner pain… easy!

 

 

 

 

 

Since I’ve been focused on preparing my own submission, I failed as a blogger and provided those links far too late for anyone else to benefit. To make up for this heinous misdeed, here is another opportunity for short story submissions:

Rachel Ritchey is organizing a short story contest for adventure fantasy and sci-fi pieces as part of an anthology to raise money for charity. The inspiration for this piece is a cover picture provided with the submission details at the link above.

This contest just opened up today (Feb 26th) and runs until March 16th.

Now my guilty conscience is (somewhat) appeased, and I can get back to working on my own pieces.

Finding Allies

Readers: This is a scene I wrote for a character in a tabletop roleplaying game, someone out to do good even if their powers are misunderstood and condemned by society at large.


Fleuris ducked down the alleyway between wooden shops and hawker’s stands near the Quay, weaving her way between the meandering peasants ogling things they could never afford. She shot a glance behind her and caught a glimpse of sunlight sparkling off two shields emblazoned with the six-point sun of Aulivar.

Soulforged—champions of Justice and unwavering bastions of virtue. They’d chased her across mountains and rivers, over leagues and tendays. She’d tried to ditch them in the dark corners of every town and city in the ‘Marches, but still they maintained their pursuit.

Even among their zealous order, few sins earned such relentless retribution as necromancy.

If only they could let me explain… if only they could understand.

Her friends would be waiting at the docks… Trenton strumming his lute and singing a sailor chanty, Galla sharpening her longswords, Hakri meditating and memorizing a fresh array of war-spells. But the three companions wouldn’t be enough by themselves to take on the pirate crew… so Fleuris intended to bring help.

It shouldn’t be far now, and the ritual wouldn’t take long—provided the Order lost the trail along the way. Her prize lay at the edge of Mirelenai’s sprawl of ramshackle buildings and flimsy shanties. The dread pirate Bloodhook the Brutal, Captain of the mighty Dire Shark, scourge of the Bay of Raentallas, lay wrapped in tight sheets in a shallow grave outside the town. After the mutiny, Bloodhook’s crew buried him on land to prevent his spirit from returning to the seas he loved and lorded over—one last spiteful jab at the savage master who had beaten them into submission.

Now the Dire Shark sailed the bay once more, tormenting seafaring merchants and plundering their ships’ holds. The Seamistress would pour out a chest full of gems and gold coins on anyone who sent the Dire Shark to the ocean’s floor.

“Seize that girl!” a voice shouted from much too close behind her. Another shouted, “The Ghostskin in purple,” and Fleuris gasped. She zipped down a narrow walkway that stank like an open sewer, trying not to consider the filth staining the hem of her burgundy skirt. The deep violet cloak wrapped around her wispy frame obscured her face from view, and her gloves of thick, black lace helped hide the tell-tale alabaster skin the Order sought.

She hustled through the dim-lit walkway, headed for the sunlight at the far end. A few paces from the street, she stumbled over an unseen obstacle like a tree root, and glanced down, squinting in the darkness. A body of some poverty-stricken peasant lay slumped against a wall, not yet dead a full tenday, judging by the rate of decay.

Fleuris probed the supernatural realm with her heightened senses and latched onto a glowing spark of life hanging in limbo. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the soul, then again to the body on the ground. She yanked the life force from the ether and shoved it into the corpse, then watched the fruit of her labor.

The body clambered to its feet, loosing a swarm of flies and dropping chunks of flesh. Dead eyes stared at Fleuris, waiting.

She doffed her cloak, threw it over the corpse’s shoulders, and sent it a forceful command. Then she slipped into the crowds on the street, her step calm and sure despite the racing thrash of emotions and the rapid drumbeat in her chest.

After passing a few merchants, Fleuris paused at a tailor’s stand and reached for her coinpurse. “How much for the forest green cloak there,” she asked, “with the silver trim?”

While they exchanged offers and counter-offers, Fleuris caught the glimpse of her violet cloak near the walkway she’d passed through. The animated corpse shambled into the street and lumbered away from her, toward the busy docks at the heart of the town.

Fleuris threw the new garment over her shoulders and clasped the smooth material with a silver brooch under her chin. Then she froze in fear. Two dozen paces away, she spotted the pair of Soulforged from the Order, stomping their way through the crowd toward her.

“Undead!” Someone shouted in the distance, and another voice chimed in. “A walking corpse near the Ragged Sail! To arms!”

Other cries joined the throng, and the two Soulforged halted their approach. Then they dashed toward the commotion, swallowing whole the hook and bait she’d left them.

Fleuris turned her back to them and strode away with as casual a pace as she could muster. This road would curve toward the fields and foothills outside the town. A short walk by the bay in the afternoon breeze would lead to the grove which held Bloodhook’s remains.

Buried on a slope within earshot of the sea, but laid in a grave that faced away from the water… With cruel care, the Dire Shark’s crew had chosen the site of Bloodhook’s final resting place.

Not final, Fleuris corrected herself. He will rise again… I’ll see to that. Though he did nothing to atone for his crimes in life, he shall do much to repay them in death.

After all, Trenton and Galla had asked for allies on their quest. They didn’t specify living allies.

 


Note: This was written and inspired partly by discussions about whether a necromancer in D&D could possibly be considered “good.” My thoughts on the subject are found here, but I’d love to hear yours.

The Kinder Choice

Here’s a short story for Rachael Ritchey’s Blog Battle this week, where the word is restraint and the suggested genre is Historical Fiction, specifically Western. 

This is one of my current favorite characters, the gambler prophet whose dice give him insight into what’s to come. But this is a generation later, when the Gift has moved on to a new face – Annabelle Boudreaux, a troubled woman with a deck of cards that calls her to action. 

I really want to turn one of these into a NaNoWriMo book or similar project, but for now, they’ll pop up in short stories.

—-

The moon casts a bright silver light across the plains, and stars twinkle over the Falstaff Saloon. The street smells like manure and tabacca-spit despite the soft pitter-pat of rain, and cigar smoke rolls out the door like a fog. The music inside fills the breeze with a dancin’ tune, the fiddler better than this corrupt town deserves.

Mercado’s whole gang is inside. The man himself is upstairs—chasin’ sporting girls, countin’ blood money, maybe both.  The century may have turned, but men are pretty much the same as ever.

I feel the ache in my bones—joints that have seen a several dozen years complain at the thought of what’s to come. I put this life behind me twenty years ago, and I’m not keen on seeing it claw back out of the plot where I buried it.  

The young brunette next to me slides the last round into the chamber of her revolver. The Devil’s Sharpy, Annabelle Boudreaux has the Gift just like I once did—with a deck of cards instead of my old pair of dice. ‘Course she uses it pretty much the opposite of me.

“This is a mistake, Annabelle.”

“It was a mistake for him to snatch Aideen off the stage—one of many poor choices Mercado’s made over his lifetime.”

Aideen Brannaghan—Annabelle’s half-sister and partner-in-crime, a timid Irish lass who’s decent with a pistol, but deadlier with a pair of knives than anyone I know, once you spark her temper. We could really use her now… but then we wouldn’t need to be here in the first place.

“I meant us, alone, trying to take him down.”

“It’s what the cards said would come to pass.” She laughs, and the whiskey on her breath nearly gets me drunk. I wonder how she sees straight to shoot, but then I remember how the Gift worked in my day. It’d be hard to miss a target all glowed up like an electric lantern.

“Maybe something’s changed,” I venture, knowing how weak and futile the plea must sound.

Annabelle slides out a deck of gleaming cards and fans a dozen in her hand, every card a one-eyed Jack. The hearts catch my eye as important—something she never bothered to explain. I ain’t sussed out all of how she interprets what the Gift shows her.

“You of all people should know better, Mister ‘God’s Shooter’ himself.”

I spit on the ground. “A stupid nickname from a far-fetched story written by a fool.”

“Quite a few stories, or so I hear… the better part of ‘em true.”

“Not a lot of men you can trust. Pretty girl like you has to know that by now.”

“Men lie, but graves don’t. You ready?” She flashes me that smile of hers, then turns away before I can respond.

“You ain’t.” Like most women I’ve cared about, once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no dissuading her. My words are wasted before they’re out my mouth, but I say ‘em anyhow.

“Just try to keep up.”

With that, Annabelle dives through the swinging double doors of the saloon, and thunder booms from the pair of Colts in her slender fingers. The fiddler’s bow screeches to a halt and he dives behind the bar.

“Show some restraint,” I shout over the din, laying down some covering fire at the boys on the second floor. “You can’t just go in guns blazin’ like the Gift is some kind of magic shield.”

Annabelle shoots me a glare. “But that’s what you did for years.”

“An’ I got the scars to prove it.”

She plugs one of Mercado’s goons with a no-look over-the-shoulder shot. Makes me wonder if the Gift works different for her than it did for me. Then she gives me a raised eyebrow. “Pretty sure no one but Lucien ever landed a shot on you, Zack. You can’t lie to a natural born swindler.”

“I’m not talkin’ about my skin, girl. Some hurts, time don’t heal.”

“That much I already know. That’s why I’m here… to give back some of the hurt Mercado done to me and mine.” She fans the hammer and sweeps the room. Three more toughs drop to the hardwood floorboards. Quiet fills the main room downstairs, and there’s a muffled scream from the second floor.

“Aideen,” Annabelle shouts. She dashes up the steps, and I hobble after her quick as my age permits.

Before Annabelle reaches the double-doors of the master suite, gunfire tears through the polished wood. Annabelle shoulders through the doorway, guns at the ready, disappearing from my view.

Unexpected silence hangs over the saloon as I lurch toward the shattered doors. Once I reach the suite, I find Annabelle holding Aideen close, the younger girl half-dressed, her short splash of red hair tucked underneath Annabelle’s chin.

A wisp of smoke curls up from the pistol in Aideen’s shaking hand, and two bodies lay slumped in the corner with large crimson stains in their pretty white waistcoats. “Had to wait until I could get loose,” Aideen whispers. “But I almost—they were going to—“ She trails off, eyes squeezed shut.

Annabelle’s gaze remains fixed. Her hand doesn’t flinch at all, the barrel of her Colt trained on the bead of sweat runnin’ down the furrow between Mercado’s eyebrows. The man sits against the wall clutching the gunshot wound in his leg.

Annabelle’s finger tenses up on the trigger. Then she smirks. “Aideen, go get your knives.”

Aideen starts collecting her things and hands Annabelle one of the long steel blades.

“Let the law clean this up, girl. You done what you set out to do.”

“Oh no,” Annabelle says with a mirthless laugh. “He’s not buying his way off the gallows again. Getting Mercado was just the start. Now we can have some fun.” She turns a hungry grin his way, and he goes whiter than a playing card. “I’ve been waiting years for this, amigo.”

“Annabelle, don’t become the thing you hate. Trust me.”

“This man,” she says, waving the Colt in Mercado’s quivering face, “is a scourge on this whole Territory, a pus-filled boil of infection on the back of humankind.” Her face is red an’ steaming, her eyes like a locomotive furnace at full bore–and Mercado’s tied to the tracks up ahead-a that train. “The things he’s done deserve an eternity of all God’s wrath, and I think it’s fitting we get started in the here and now.”

“Think about what you’re doing, dammit.” I see the pistol flinch in her hand—gotta hope what I’m sayin’ might sink in. “You been given this foresight for a reason, a purpose, something bigger and greater than seekin’ your own self-interest.”

Annabelle swallows hard, and the barrel of the Colt dips toward the floor. “You’re right, Zack,” she says with a long sigh.

Then she blows Mercado’s brains across the wood-paneled wall.

“Christ have mercy, girl, what did I say? Show some restraint!”

Annabelle dumps the empty cartridges on the floor in the spreading pool of blood and hands the knife back to Aideen.

“I did,” she says, colder than a desert night. “You don’t know what all I had planned.”

My Galway Girl

Ed Sheeran’s new YouTube video caught my eye in the trending videos the other morning:

The video is a fun romp through the nightlife of the town, from clubs to bars with a dance troupe and a tattoo parlor in between. Sheeran’s music always feels rich and full of inviting complexity to me–easy enough that you bop along to the beat like the usual radio pop, but with enough quality and skill baked in that you can really enjoy some subtle touches. Likewise, the catchy chorus is contrasted with his usual quick-witted wordplay and cadence. It’s a good example of everything I like about his albums.

Despite my love of Ed Sheeran’s music, that’s not what really drew me to check out the video.

About a year ago, I started a series of loosely connected short stories for the wonderful Rachael Ritchey’s weekly BlogBattle. I’d tried my hand at some varied pieces based on the prompts, but someone else had done an ongoing story with a couple interesting characters and their madcap antics. I thought that would be an interesting challenge.

Some combination of the League of Explorer content in Hearthstone and my kids’ enjoyment of the Indiana Jones movie series led me down a path toward a bumbling tough guy with the chiseled jaw and gleaming smile who gets all the credit, and his “hapless” assistant, the fiery redhead from Ireland who actually gets the job done and saves his bacon.

He’s the brash and dapper charmer who, heedless of danger, punches his way through a burial chamber full of Nazis to snag the mysterious  artifact and save the damsel in distress. She’s the “weak” sidekick checking meticulous research in her pouch, marking traps with flags, and disabling the Nazis’ death machine–all the while casting sidelong and suspicious glares at the obvious double-agent on his arm.

Enter Grant McSwain, Doer of Daring Deeds, and his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

For a dash of realism, I did some wiki-browsing and found articles on supposedly authentic Irish phrases. Those searches led to a travel site for “places to visit in Galway, Ireland,” which seemed like the perfect hometown for this world-wandering adventurer. I loved what I read–it’s always fun trying (as much as one can over the Internet) to dive into the characteristics and unique qualities of a particular town or region.

To see it in living color–even if somewhat staged–is that much better. And while the song and video are entirely modern, Sheeran still conveys that ancient “don’t you wish you were here?” allure of the Emerald Isle.

If you haven’t seen the video, it’s fun and worth a view. And if you haven’t read the adventures of Grant McSwain, you can check the BlogBattle category of posts, or you can find them compiled on Wattpad here.

#BlogBattle entry – A Calculating Man

This week’s Blog Battle entry is for the word “bribe” in whatever genre I choose. This is the second half of last week’s story from the underworld featuring Dom the detective and his dearly loved Innova the spirit of creativity.

I’m a little bit late and a lot bit over the word count but here it is:

Statue of a red oni, from Wikipedia (Public Domain)

I crouch and hustle toward the banks of the River Styx, my drab, lifeless fingers wrapped around Innova’s wrist, almost charcoal against her gleaming skin. The waters ahead churn black and gray underneath a rolling mist. We’re almost to the ferry, hiding behind ramshackle houses, slipping through crowds of bodies wandering aimless near the docks like the wreckage of the afterlife.

Innova digs her heels into the dirt and pulls me back. “Dom, this is insane.” She gestures at the small black box strapped around her radiant ankle. “You should just take me back to the bar before the Oni gets suspicious. Calm, rational responses aren’t his style.”

I ain’t rational either, not when it comes to her. She doesn’t understand the lengths I’ll go to, the madness and hope her presence inspires within me. I’ve been Soulless for years, ever since I pulled the trigger on all my pain and suffering. I’d hoped to end it, and got an eternity’s worth instead. And after years on the outskirts of the underworld, this spirit of creativity clinging to my arm is the only thing that matters to me.

“I still have more time with you,” I protest. “He gave me his word. And if you can’t believe the giant ogre-demon Overlord who runs half of Death’s Landing, then who in Hell can you trust? Other than me, of course,” I add with a laugh.

Innova scoffs, but follows toward the ferry. Fact is, I need her to trust me on this one, maybe more than ever. I’ve been working this plan for a while and can’t have it fall apart at the last step.

 The Ferryman stands at the stern of his vessel, watching each tank of bootleg spirits his dockhands unload to their storage facility. “Move faster,” he growls. “I got another shipment to fetch from the other side.”

I can hear a crowd of voices on the other side of the building, the eager buyers who ditched the Oni and his expensive bar to come get a cheaper fix. The Ferryman is building some powerful demand from his customers, judging by the ruckus on the streets nearby. Makes me wonder what he’s getting out of the bargain. The Oni deals in secrets… what does the Ferryman collect?

Questions for another day. We’re a short dash from the mooring, and the dockhands are hauling off the last of the tanks. The Ferryman is already pushing away from the dock. It’s now or never.

 I feel Innova pulling away, resisting, quivering with fear now that we’re in sight of the ferry. “Trust me, babe,” I whisper. Then I dash for the boat, and thankfully she comes along, her fingers digging into my unfeeling skin.

 The dockhands watch in surprise, and the tanks of spirit they’re carrying fall forgotten in the dirt. The Ferryman’s face twists in confusion at the sight of this blazing bright woman and the bedraggled scrub of a Soulless running toward him.

 We hit the edge of the dock and leap, hanging over the black waters of the Styx for a second before crashing onto the planks of the ferry in a tumble.

 A voice roars loud enough to shake my heart inside chest. “What is the meaning of this?!” I look up at the Ferryman, but he’s glaring at someone on the docks. Behind me, Innova groans.

 At the edge of the dock, surrounded by a team of hovering demon-spawn, the Oni stands armored and armed for battle, his fists on the massive plates of obsidian at his hips. His mask is a glowing crimson like lava. His horns are tipped in blood. The long sword he holds in one hand looks like a massive sheet of razor-sharp metal with a handle tossed onto one end for convenience.

 His mask moves slightly, his gaze taking in the whole scene. When he speaks, the dock rumbles beneath his weight. “A fool hoping to steal one of my precious guests? And perhaps worse—a greater fool cutting into my market with cheap imitations of my product?”

 The Oni points, and four winged demons swoop toward the ferry to pull it back to the dock. The Ferryman whistles and a dozen of his burly assistants pour out of the storage facility in seconds, fists clenched, ready for a scrap.

 “Dom,” Innova breathes, “what have you done?”

 The Oni stomps a hoof onto the ferry and for a moment I fear the whole thing will capsize. His entourage of demons engage the dockhands trying to reach their master, and the shoreline turns into a madcap fight scene from some eighties action movie.

 “I’m not trying to escape with Innova,” I say.

 “Of course you are not,” the Oni replies, the empty eyes of his mask fixed on the Ferryman. “You are a thoughtful man, Dominick. A calculating man who knows the cost would be more than he could pay.”

“Just figured you’d be interested in what’s going on here.”

The Oni takes a step toward his rival. His fingers tighten around the haft of his ridiculous sword—a wall of metal bigger than my entire body. “You are correct,” he says, fearless, like a master looming over his cowering dog.

 The Ferryman’s eyes dart along the docks and the shore. His men put up a good fight, but the demons are driving them back, separating the dockhands from their leader. He throws up his hands in desperation before the Oni. “You can’t kill me! I keep the Underworld full of fresh souls, customers you need. If I stop bearing the departed from the world above, the whole circle of death and life breaks down.”

 “You speak truth,” the Oni admits. “I cannot kill you. However…”

 There’s a rush of wind as the Oni unleashes an overhead chop. The Ferryman screams and his left arm hits the deck with a thud.

 “You can still pilot your vessel with one hand.” The Oni leans in close. “I’m quite certain you could do it without legs if need be.” His expressionless mask examines the ship. “The soul-traps on this vessel… you will disassemble them, yes?”

 The Ferryman whimpers and gives a vigorous nod.

 Then the Oni turns to Innova and me, standing at the stern, near the rudder and the wheel. “You had a hand in arranging this meeting, Dominick. Did you seek reward? Are you currying favor, perhaps asking for another day with my lovely spirit by your side?”

 Now we come to it, the moment I’m expecting and dreading and hoping for all at once. I lick my lips, eyeing that insane, bloody thing in the Oni’s massive hand. “How about—how ‘bout you set her free?”

 The Oni stares in silence.

 “Otherwise,” I continue, forcing some resolve into my voice until it booms over the waters, “Otherwise, I flip this on and you all get sucked into the soul traps like a Hoover.” I tip my chin toward my hand, resting on the switch that powers the vessel’s mechanisms.

 I swear, even the dockhands and demons on the shore go silent. Rule number one of the outskirts: you don’t threaten the Oni.

Innova whips her head around at me, her jaw hanging like a fish plucked from the water. Even now she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

 I take my eyes off her and find the Oni inches from my face, his blood-mask staring down at me, a fire smoldering in the black pits of his eye holes. “You dare not risk your beloved.”

 He’s smart, calling my bluff. I don’t have an answer for that.

 “I’d rather die,” Innova declares, “than be trapped on your shelf, brought out to prance before the refuse that frequents your bar, hoping to someday earn the right of basic freedom.”

 I take her hand and give it a squeeze. I wasn’t sure how to get around the obvious fact that I would never put her into harm’s way.

 The Oni grunts in frustration. His fingers flex and splay around the haft of his wall-sword. “You would be trapped too.”

 “I’m Soulless,” I reply. “I’ve got nothing to trap, nothing to lose.”

 Our standoff lasts several minutes, and then the Oni laughs. “Well played. Bribing me with my own soul. Truly a calculating man.” He turns to Innova and etches two glyphs of flame in the air. “Your contract is revoked. You are free to go.”

 Innova gasps, stumbling like a drunk. Her natural radiance gleams even more, like the sun finally peeking through a cloudy sky. “You—what?”

 “You are freed, spirit. No longer bound.” His voice hardens into a primal growl. “Nor do you belong here any longer.”

 

She flashes me a smile of thanks before he banishes her from the Underworld. There’s a flash of light, then—nothing. An empty spot where she stood, a hole in my heart that only she filled.

I look up at the gloomy skies and the thick stalactites high above, imagining that somewhere, beyond the miles of rock and lava, she’s feeling the sun on her face once again. It’s the only thing keeping me standing under the crushing weight of grief and loss.

“I respect what you have done here, Dominick,” the Oni says. “But you are wrong.”

“About what?” I stand at the stern, staring into the darkness above.

“Having nothing to lose,” the Oni says. He marches off the ferry, each step rocking the shuddering vessel.