Under Siege

Photo by Mariia Chukhrii on Unsplash

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Hilary said, handing Alison a large stack of towels. “I’m glad of the help. Could you stack these in the linen cupboard? It’s the third door on the right on the upstairs landing. I need everything in its place while we still have a moment.”

Alison took the soft armful. “What’s going to happen?” she asked.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have any idea,” Hilary said. “I’ve never been in this position, and I don’t think that I’ve ever heard of anything like it either. Witches in this cottage are usually involved in small scale things.” She caught hold of Tom’s arm. “It’s late night opening at the Farm shop. Could you drive over there to pick up some extra firewood. We’ve got plenty in the woodshed, but I want some dry stuff that’s ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Of course,” Tom said. “How much should I get?”

Hilary looked at Bracken. “We’ll have to keep the kitchen fire well stoked at least, and probably the library as well.”

“I has already set the fire in the dining room, as many will be eating in there,” Bracken said. "And it has the large, long table for papers if you do not wish to use the library.”

“And if the power goes and people are hurt…” Hilary wrung her hands. “It’s a cold time of year, so we’ll need to keep a few fires going.”

“I’ll bring back plenty,” Tom said. He frowned as he looked around. “Uncle Magnus is on his way, and he’s bringing my cousins. They’ll be a help.”

“And bring plenty of milk,” Hilary said. “You know how people run on tea when it’s stressful.” She gave Alison a gentle push. “When you come back, could you help me sort out the beds?”

“Is not need at all,” Bracken said. “Lord Peregrine is bringing help.” She hesitated, then gently patted Alison’s hand. “I am taking the towels. Miss Alison should stay with others and in the light.”

Alison flinched. “How did I get caught up in this?” she asked.

“It’s just fate,” Tom said. “And it’s not your fault.” He smiled down at her. “At least you’re with friends.”

“What do you mean, Lord Peregrine is bringing help?” Hilary asked.

Bracken firmly took the towels from Alison. “He is bringing Auntie Olive and Auntie Ivy,” she said. “They is excellent at cleaning, and I shall be cooking and providing the drinks. Samgan will guard the hearths.”

“I believe that I should do be able to protect the basic elements of the home,” Samgan said. “I am not able to face spirits in the manner in which you, Paul and Cabus are planning, but I can guard against collateral issues.” He looked around. “Where is Mister Paul? It is not only Alison that should stay in the light and in company. After all, while Mister Paul is currently taking precautions, he has been vulnerable in the past.”

Bracken frowned. “I shall search for Mister Paul,” she said. “After I have placed the towels.”

Hilary took a deep breath. “Okay, until Lord Peregrine gets here, I’m going to ask Alison and Samgan to stay in the kitchen.” She looked at Samgan. “I think that it’s going to be your main post, to keep things going here. Bracken, Auntie Olive and Auntie Ivy should also stay here as much as possible.” She caught Alison’s hand. “The kitchen is the oldest and most heavily protected part of the cottage. You’ll be safest there, but you won’t have anything to do.” Hilary managed a faint smile. “The brownies will be taking care of all the domestic stuff, and it would be cruel to stop them. I saw that you brought your knitting. Perhaps you should settle in a corner, keep going with the knitting and try and relax.”

Alison blinked for a moment. “I’m so used to being busy with my sons.” She looked around the large kitchen. “I’ll go and get my knitting.”

“I shall accompany you,” Samgan said. “And once you are safely back, I shall search for Mister Paul.” He frowned. “I am somewhat concerned. He does not like being idle while other’s work and I would have thought that he would have been active here.”

“I’ll look with you,” Tom said.

Hilary shook her head. “No, the farm shop will shut soon, and while Jed will open up for you, I don’t want to put him to that inconvenience. And don’t forget the milk.”

Tom looked helplessly over at Alison. “I don’t like leaving you when it’s this crazy.”

“The sooner you go, the sooner that you’ll get back,” Hilary said. “Lord Peregrine will be here any moment, and didn’t you say that your uncle and cousins will be here as well? We’ll be fine.”

There was a bustle, then Hilary was alone in the kitchen. She stood for a moment and then turned around slowly. The kitchen was clean and everything was in its place. There was a good stock of food, towels and first aid supplies and another ample stock of magical supplies in her workroom. Bracken had made lists and they were safe if they lost electricity, with plenty of torches, candles and oil lamps at the ready. She couldn’t think of anything else that needed to be prepared. And even if she could, the brownies and Samgan would be able to deal with almost domestic demand. Every instinct that she had was telling her that the kitchen was not her place, but there was nothing yet for her to do. Still, she could check the wards and the flow of magic through the cottage while she had a moment – once she had found Paul.

Without thinking, she pulled out her phone and called Paul. It rang out, but Hilary could hear it faintly in the house. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? Of course, you never think to if you’re looking for someone in the same house, but this cottage, that had started as two rooms and been added to and extended for at least two hundred years, had too many nooks and crannies to make searching easy. She followed the ringing out into the hall, when the call went to voicemail. She rang again, waiting for a moment until the call connected and Paul’s phone started ringing again. She crept down the hall, tuning out the noises of Bracken grumbling in the linen cupboard and Samgan and Alison returning to the kitchen. The phone went to voicemail and she redialled again, ignoring Samgan and Alison behind her. She waited for the call to get through and listened for Paul’s phone. His ringtone sounded out and she hurried forward. Paul was in the library, of course. She should have known that he would be working with Cabus. She reached for the door handle, and recoiled at the sensation of twisted power as she made contact.

It took Hilary all of her courage to push open the door and force herself into the library. “Paul!”

Cabus stood with his back to the bookcase that covered the hidden door, his arms spread wide and his fangs showing. “Leave that man!”

It was Paul’s voice, but the words sounded nothing like Paul as he advanced on Cabus. “You are the wrong type to challenge me, Nosferatu. I have dominion here.”

“You have no right to that man, no claim on him,” Cabus insisted, desperation lacing his voice and his talons growing.

“I take my dominion,” the creature inside Paul replied. “I was disturbed by trespassers, and my old tormentor isn’t here.” There was a low, throaty chuckle. “I am awake, I am freeing myself, and I do not see anyone here to challenge me.”

Hilary slapped Paul hard on the back of his head.

Paul jerked wildly at the sudden shock and dropped to his knees and howled. Cabus took advantage of the loss of concentration and leapt forward, placing his hands either side of Paul’s head. “Ex umbris, in lucem. Relinque hunc virum,” Cabus ordered, the Latin words rolling smoothly off his tongue.

Paul’s face twisted. “Get out of me,” he ground out before putting his hands over Cabus’ hands and snarling with effort. “Get out!”

Hilary put her hands on Paul’s shoulders, feeding power into the efforts of Paul and Cabus. “Leave!”

There was an awful, desperate moment when everything was poised, control of Paul teetering between the two forces, then there was a stench of sulphur and Paul sagged down, almost prone on the floor. Hilary kept her hands on Paul’s shoulders, trying to reassure him as the light flicked overhead.

“Let me check,” Cabus ordered into the silence, and placed his hand over Paul’s forehead. Hilary watched anxiously. She could sense that the presence had left, but how far had it gone? And were there any tiny fragments left behind, traces of possession that could be a weakness to further attacks?

“Let us regroup in the kitchen,” Cabus said grimly. “We have much to discuss.”

Do Werewolves Eat Dog Biscuits

Image from Unsplash, taken by israel palacio

I need to consider the sites I subscribe to. I mean, I quite like knowing that today, 23rd February, is (probably) an anniversary of the first Bible printed at Gutenberg in 1455 and that it’s also the anniversary of the siege of the Alamo. I just worry that I am too easily distracted. I also worry about my priorities as my attention has been mainly caught by the idea of National Dog Biscuit Day.

I don’t have a dog but I’ve occasionally bought hand baked, artisan treats or supermarket snacks for my brother’s dogs. I’m always bewildered by the choice. And then I start wondering – do werewolves eat dog treats.

I suppose it depends on the werewolf type. If it was a werewolf from something like An American Werewolf in London then I don’t suppose that they have much opportunity. They would be too busy ravening and rending to bother much with the supermarket own brand meaty snacks or hide chews. On the other hand, the werewolves from my world that you find in The White Hart are quite happy to snack on the good stuff, even in human form.

As an aside, I did have a quick internet search about whether humans could eat dog biscuits. On the whole, I don’t personally recommend it. Most of the sources said something along the lines of, ‘if you must then it probably won’t kill you’. There were far more articles about why dog biscuits are bad for dogs.

But going back to werewolves, would their shopping basket have washing up liquid, a bag of potatoes, some sausages and a family pack of kibble? Would they make the choice to have value brand soap so that they can get top of the range meaty bites? Or would it be something that they could knock up in their own kitchen between full moons?

I found a recipe for homemade dog biscuits here. I’m not sure about icing them, but they look inoffensive and would be okay for non-werewolves. But what about allergies? I know of at least one Alsatian that has a gluten intolerance. Would the werewolves have the same issue with chocolate that dogs have? That really would be a curse – every full moon, you grow hair, turn into a beast and can’t eat chocolate! And if the chocolate issue applied all of the time, regardless of the moon, then that would explain a lot about werewolves raging and ravening. People denied chocolate may not necessarily be reasonable.

Asking questions like, ‘do werewolves eat dog biscuits?’ can get some really interesting answers, and some of those answers turn up in my writing, like in Tales from the White Hart So I suppose that I shall carry on with my subscriptions to those sites and see what else comes up.

I’d love to hear what you think about werewolves and dog biscuits, so feel free to leave a comment.

 

After the Dark Storm

Image from Unsplash, taken by Matt Hanns Schroeter

“It’s getting quieter now,” Brother Aran said. “And it should be dawn soon.”

Father Dorian nodded. “Yes, it’s quiet.” He sighed and pushed himself up from the wooden settle. His old bones creaked. “They said that it would likely finish before dawn.” He pinched out the single candle. Faint light shone through the shutters. “The wind has stopped.”

“What happened last night?” Brother Aran asked. “It sounded like demons racing around the village.”

Father Dorian picked up the jug of water. “Would you like a drink, my son?”

“I will share some with you,” Brother Aran said. “And we should be able to go out and get more soon.”

Father Dorian rubbed a weary hand over his face. “It will soon be time for the morning worship.” He watched Brother Aran pour the last of the water into two cups and drank gratefully as he listened carefully at the shutters. He took a deep breath and then opened them. Dawn sunlight streamed in.

Brother Aran sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. It sounded like the devils of the infernal pit were in the village this morning.” He looked past the old priest. “And I think that they may have been. There is quite a mess left behind.”

Father Dorian unbolted the door and removed the wooden bar. The courtyard was untouched, and the cottages and pens of the village that the priest and his apprentice had blessed were also safe. Beyond that was chaos. Branches and leaves were tumbled all around and scorch marks ran along the track to the forest. “Thank the Holy One Most High that the forest dwellers warned us.” He winced at the pain in his bones, then carried on. “

Brother Aran swallowed. “What are they like?”

“The forest dwellers?” Father Dorian limped across the courtyard and towards the chapel. He sighed. “I was younger than you when I first saw them. The old priest here was the first man that they met.” He looked sadly past the untouched bounds of the village to the battered meadow. “I forgot to bless the pasture. I blessed the fields, but I forgot the pasture.” He turned to Brother Aran. “They came at the same time as the goblins, but from the forest, not the mountains. When I first saw them, I thought that they were angels.” He shook his head. “They are not. Nor are they goblins or men. But there is such a light in them.” He limped up to the chapel door and rested for a moment. “I am failing, and I shall have to take you to meet them soon to pass on the duty. But you must never tell the lords about them. You must never tell the kings or the soldiers or the merchants. I fear that our good friends would be hunted like goblins, and they do not deserve that.”

“Why should they hunt them?” Brother Aran asked.

Father Dorian looked sad. “Great men fear what they cannot control. These strangers in the woods, they have such knowledge of the stars and the forest. They have a grace in them that shames us mere men. It would shame the lords and they would not tolerate it. And they are kindly to us, in this village. They warned us about this devil’s storm, and they share knowledge of healing. We cannot betray them.”

“They’re not demons, are they?” Brother Aran asked. “Because back in the city they said that it was dangerous to study the stars too much.”

“If they are demons, they are strange ones,” Father Dorian said, opening the chapel door and walking towards the high table. He bowed creakily. “They send for me to baptise their children, and they pay their tithe more readily than many villagers.” The old priest waited until Brother Aran had bowed respectfully. “And after the worship here on a Sabbath, I go to the forest and preach again to them. They listen better than all the villagers combined.” Father Dorian sank onto the bench in the corner. “They do not know who they are either. They study the stars to find out.” He stretched his bad leg out in front of him. “I fear that I will not live to see their answer. Say the prayers, my son, and read the passage of the day. Then, after we have eaten, I will take you into the forest with a gift. You can meet them and we can thank them for the warning.” Father Dorian ran a weary hand over his face. “Because without that warning, I suspect that we would all be in pieces. We owe them our lives, and perhaps our souls. We should take a good gift.”

Brother Aran’s hand trembled as he lit the candles on the high table. After the terror of the storm in the night, now he was going to meet the strangers in the forest. He opened the prayer book and found the right passage. It didn’t matter whether he was scared or whether he was eager. He had a duty. He couldn’t guess what waited in the forest. He had to go, regardless. He was called to bring the faith to whoever needed it. Yesterday he had said the last prayers over an old man in a dark hut and blessed a plough. Today he would go into the wild wood and pray with strange creatures that were not ruled by the king. The dark storm had passed and now they continued, just as they should. He took a breath and started to pray.

The Thing in the Night

 

Image from Unsplash, taken by Joshua Whysall

Toran looked anxiously at the hillside. “Perhaps we should wait for Lord Deveric’s instructions. This is something new.” There was a murmur of agreement in the group of villagers surrounding them.

Sir Selwyn shook his head. “We can’t risk waiting. So far only cattle have been taken. It could be a child next.”

Toran closed his eyes against the thought. “Goblins come in numbers. We all know that. What if we are overrun?”

“There are only traces on one set of tracks,” Sir Selwyn said. “And it is unheard of for goblins to come down from the mountains before the snows. It may be just one.”

“Lord Deveric should be leading us instead of dancing in Aldberg,” one of the men muttered.

“None of that talk!” Sir Selwyn snapped. “I know you, Berun. You’re brave enough after a drink. I’m sure if you have a beer or two, you can keep up.”

There were a few quiet chuckles around the group but they fell quiet. Berun clenched his fist. “Pardon, Sir Selwyn, but it is the Lord who should protect his lands.”

“I don’t know what he is doing or why,” Sir Selwyn said, “But the tracks are now and we are here now and I can’t risk a real person being taken. It’s bad enough losing the cattle. Istan lost his best bull two nights ago, and Agatha lost half her flock of goats. I don’t know how she will manage. We cannot lose more this close to winter. So my squire, Toran, will go with me to the cave. The rest of you, stay close to the village, with plenty of light, and keep watch. Protect our own.”

Orvin nodded. “We’ve brought all the beasts to the Infield, and we’ve got the dogs as well.” He hesitated. “If there are a lot of goblins, you won’t be able to drive them back.”

“If there are more than three goblins I shall come back here and make better plans,” Sir Selwyn said. “But we need to know. If there is a troop of the goblins already down from the mountains, then we can send word to the king’s court and Lord Deveric will return. He is a good lord.”

“It may be that there is no trace tonight at all,” Toran added. “We blocked the entrance to the cave this morning. It may still hold, and we will be spared more raids.”

“Or we will find out how well they move stone,” Berun muttered. “My grandfather said there were no goblins when he was young, that they came out of nowhere. That it took years to learn how to protect ourselves. What if it is something else new?”

“Enough,” Sir Selwyn said. “It could just be bandits, and they have been around since the time of the ancients. We will deal with whatever we find. Take your posts and pray for a quiet night.”

Sir Selwyn and Toran trotted towards the waterfall in the woods. The moon was bright and the damp path gleamed. Toran found himself peering into the dark shadows. “It took ten men to get the boulder in position to block the cave,” he said. “Do you think that the goblins could have moved it.”

“I don’t know,” Sir Selwyn said, also scanning his surroundings. “Whenever I’ve faced goblins, I’ve always been aware of their numbers and speed, but not their strength. They’re scrawny little things.”

“Do they really carry poisoned knives?” Toran asked.

Sir Selwyn nodded. “Some of them, not all. It’s always the numbers, not the poison on their stone knives. Now, quiet, and keep alert. We’ll leave the horses by the boundary stone.”

The path was tricky in the dark, and it took longer than expected to reach the clearing. The moon was dipping behind clouds and it was getting harder to see the way.

“I don’t want to light the lantern,” Sir Selwyn muttered. “I don’t want to alert anyone, especially if it’s bandits that are raiding.” He stumbled over a tree root and bit back a curse. “But I don’t want to break my neck in the dark either.”

Toran stifled a yawn. “Won’t it be dawn soon?”

Sir Selwyn paused for a moment and thought about their travel. “We’ve got an hour or two yet, lad. And I don’t want to miss them.” He strained to see through the gloom. “This way, I think.”

Toran followed him. There was barely a gleam from the moon and only his familiarity with the path was keeping him steady. “I can hear water.” He murmured.

“I can hear something else as well,” Sir Selwyn whispered. “Light the lantern, but keep it hooded.”

They crept closer to the waterfall, the trickle slowly growing into the roar of a stream swollen by autumn rain. Sir Selwyn moved a little quicker, trusting that the sound of the water would hide their approach. Whoever was there was not trying to be quiet. They could hear the thrashing of branches even over the sound of the falls. “Get the lantern ready,” Sir Selwyn hissed.

Toran held the lantern out in his left hand away from him, his short sword in his right hand. Sir Selwyn had his sword out as well as they crept closer. The moon shone briefly over the clearing. Toran looked at Sir Selwyn. “The boulder has gone,” he breathed.

Sir Selwyn nodded and pointed near the pool. “Look.”

The carcass of a large cow had been dumped at the water’s edge, its broken neck at a grotesque angle. In the brief moonlight, the blood seeping into the water made a dark patch. Sir Selwyn touched Toran’s arm and pointed to the other side of the clearing. Broken ferns and branches made a gap in the woodland. Something had dragged the cow through there. Sir Selwyn eased towards the gap and pointed at some of the destruction. “They went that way,” he mouthed, pointing down the new track. “Follow me and keep the lantern ready.”

It was surprisingly easy to follow the tracks, even in the deep darkness between the trees. Enough moonlight was getting through to give a shape to the darkness, and whoever had gone this way had left a clear path. The going was still slow, though, and painstaking as the men picked their way through the woods in pursuit of the cattle thief.

“It will be dawn soon,” Toran said quietly. “It’s getting lighter. Whoever it is may be coming back this way soon to hide in the caves.”

Sir Selwyn nodded. “Well thought. Keep alert. We’ll hear them before we see them.”

“They’ve headed towards the Far Lea Farmstead,” Toran said. “But there’s no-one there. They’re staying in the village.”

“Then whoever it is will be back soon.” Sir Selwyn said. “We’ll wait here. They are likely to be coming back for the cow no matter what. Get the lantern ready. As soon as they approach, shine a beam right at them and I’ll attack.” He caught Toran’s doubtful look. “Or we’ll know to get back to the village as quickly as possibly to raise the alarm.”

“I can hear something,” Toran whispered.

Sir Selwyn strained his ears, then nodded. “I hear it too,” he said. He worked his sword shoulder and took position behind a sturdy oak. “Get ready, lad.”

As the figure burst through a stand of birch, Toran raised the lantern and shone a beam straight into its eyes. It let out a pained screech and lurched towards Toran, who backed away.

“What in the Name of the Most Holy One is that?!”

Sir Selwyn swore loud, long and hard. “Run, lad, run for your life. Get to the village and warn them. Run!” He raced forward, his sword swinging.

“I’ll not leave my lord,” Toran shouted, but he felt sick. It wasn’t a goblin that they faced, nor was it a man, It was something else like he had never seen. Whatever it was stood a head and a half taller than Sir Selwyn, who was a tall man. But it wasn’t cleanly built and athletic, like the knight. Instead it was a lumpy figure, like handfuls of river clay squashed together by a child. Dull, small eyes gleamed in the light of the lantern and a half formed face snarled as it swung a thick fist towards Sir Selwyn.

Sir Selwyn jumped back and swung. The creature didn’t try to move out of the way and the sword sliced into its arm. But it didn’t get far. “It’s got a hide like boiled leather,” Sir Selwyn yelled. “Keep the light in its eyes.” He swung again.

The creature yowled. Slime trickled from the cut, but the thing still swung again at Sir Selwyn, flinching at the light. Sir Selwyn dodged back but slipped and lost his footing.

“Over here!” Toran yelled, desperately dancing back to distract the thing as it loomed over Sir Selwyn. It turned and lumbered towards him, before suddenly screaming in pain. Sir Selwyn rolled to his feet and took his chance. He sliced the sword across the back of its legs. This time he had got the aim and the power he needed. The thing toppled forward, hamstrung and howling.

“What is it? What is it?!” Toran cried.

“Stay clear of it,” Sir Selwyn said. “It’s not finished yet.”

Toran stumbled further back, directing the lantern at it. “This is no goblin.”

Sir Selwyn stepped away from the swinging arms. “It’s not even a big goblin,” he yelled over the cries of the creature. “It’s a different shape. I don’t know what it is.”

Torun stared at the thing, lumpen and huge, flailing around at them as it howled in pain and frustration. “What do we do?”

Sir Selwyn stared at it. “I’ll stay here,” he said. “You get the men up here with nets. If we can pin its arms, we can finish it off and take the carcass to Lord Deveric. He’ll know what to do.” He glanced at the tops of the nearby mountains, already gleaming gold. “But wait until the sun’s up. There’s no point in taking risks.” He stepped back quickly as the creature managed to lurch closer to him.

“I’m not leaving you,” Toran said. “I mean, I’m not leaving you, sire. They’ll hear the noise down in the village. They’ll come and see.” He skirted quickly away from the creature that had dragged itself to its feet and was hobbling painfully back towards the waterfall and its cave.

“Use the lantern in its eyes again,” Sir Selwyn dodged as the thing flailed madly, trying to get past and to its lair. “We can’t risk it getting underground. We’ll never be able to track it there.”

“The sun is almost up,” Toran said, twisting the horn panel on the lantern to direct a beam. “The light won’t work much longer.”

The creature flung up a thick arm to shield its face from the lantern but then slowed to a halt. Sunlight flooded down the slopes as the sun rose, the rays shining straight into the thing’s face. Sir Selwyn braced, ready to swing again and then stopped. He looked closer, and then leaned forward.

“Watch out!” Toran cried.

“It’s not moving,” Sir Selwyn said. He slowly reached forward with his sword and tapped the shape. It rang like iron on rock. The creature still didn’t move. Sir Selwyn moved closer still and rapped his mailed fist onto the creature’s arm. “It’s rock. It’s solid rock.”

Toran looked at the sunlight shining into the clearing and then back at the shape. “It was trying to get back to the cave before dawn. It couldn’t stand sunlight.” He touched the slashed leg. It was dry like a stone split for building.

Sir Selwyn stared for a few moments more, then turned to Toran. “Get back to the village. Bring back the priest to see what it is and to pray over it, and all the men of the village you can quickly find. Tell them to bring hammers. We’ll smash this thing to rubble before nightfall. And we use the rubble to block the damned cave.” He sank onto a fallen tree, his face set. “Go! And then we will send word to Lord Deveric, and he will know what to do.”

My Favourite Author

Image from Unsplash, taken by John Wiesenfeld

I am a bad reader. I read a lot of non-fiction, especially history, as you may be able to tell if you read my books. I re-read a lot of my favourite authors as well. Sometimes I feel I will need dynamite to get out of my reading rut. I'll be returning to reviewing in the new year to force open my horizons.

Unfortunately I have just found that they are releasing my favourite author's books on kindle. This is not necessarily a good thing. I know a whole bundle of amazing and talented authors, but I keep going back to Essie Summers, the wife of a New Zealand minister, born 1912. She wrote romances with a Christian feel to them and I have been hooked for years. I read, re-read and re-re-read the books to tatters. Now that they are on kindle, I shall be reading them even more. And I don't know why.

I could tell you that they deal honestly with people. That the characters have depth, the dialogue is crisp and that the world of her story has depth. I could talk about the wonderful descriptive flair that she has, the feeling that there is a continuation of life around the story. I could talk about some of the more complicated plots (trust me, some are extremely complicated with half sisters and adopted brothers and all sorts). Lots of other authors have those. I still keep going back to Essie Summers.

I suppose I feel comfortable reading them. I relax into them. They are wholesome and fun and speak of honest feelings. It reminds me that there are good people out there. But, to be honest, it's still something of a mystery. I'm going to be buying them all as they come onto kindle, as soon as I see them. I don't know why they call to me, but they do.

Thinking of why I like them so much has made me wonder. Are there some books that just call to you? Is it some sort of compatibility? Could you sort personalities by favourite author instead of star sign or that thing with the letters? Perhaps it's like food cravings - a deficiency in real life means that you crave a certain type of book? If so, I can confirm that I am deficient in New Zealand. I am not going to comment on the romance aspect, as I have been married for over 30 years and he is awesome. I'm still going to finish here and settle down with 'No Orchids by Request'

I'd love to hear if you have any authors that call to you the same way. Comment down below, it would be great to see your thoughts.

Hunting in the Fog

Image from Unsplash, taken by Kevin Mueller

Vitalius paused at the corner of the street and breathed in deeply. The heavy, acrid fog of the London’s East End sent most reeling, but to the vampire, it was a balm. It had been a good decision, he thought, to leave Dubrovnik and hide in the holds of so many ships that brought him here, eventually, to the thriving capital of Queen Victoria’s Empire.

He picked his way carefully over the rough cobbles. Earlier in the evening he had attended a performance of Carmen and then joined with the intelligentsia of literary society for a late supper. He had barely touched the creams and jellies that had been spread out and he had avoided the devilled lobster. He hungered for something completely different.

And here it was. Barely half an hour in a hansom cab from the glittering West End to this – the murk of London’s darker side. As he paced slowly, he watched. The contrast was stark. From the expensive gowns and lavish dinners to the cheapest of the cheap. Women were clustered on corners, their outlines softened by the clinging fog. Vitalius sneered. They were his for only a few coins. But he would not take someone from a group or somewhere well lit. He was not ready to get noticed. He pushed further into the dark, cramped alleys and back streets of Whitechapel.

It was easier here. In the wealthy areas of North and West London, the new aether technology was causing interference. Here in the poor slums, there were no aether lights or stoves to disturb the flow that curved and snaked overhead. Like all vampires, he could see the aether trails with their currents, the ebb and flow of the energy that was now being harnessed by the new engines and their crystals. Here, where the flow was undisturbed, he could walk unimpeded by the darkness and the fog and search for prey.

And prey there was in abundance. Life was so cheap here. An unregarded child, a drunken woman or a sick and crippled man were all easy to find and unlikely to be missed, at least, missed by anyone that mattered. Vitalius turned left into a maze of alleys and then right, into a back street that had been fruitful before. Dirty public houses lurked at the corners with light and music dispersing into the deadening fog. He smiled. The taste of the cheap gin added a certain piquancy. Some vampires fed solely on the aether energy. Vitalius preferred more robust food.

He paused. His ancient instincts told him that someone was following him. He smiled at the thought. Few in this bustling city knew enough about vampires to even guess that they existed. None of the people in his old home would have followed him into narrow spaces in the dark. Of course, the local thieves had not had a chance to learn from the mistakes of others. This could be more fun than the opera. He ducked suddenly right into a narrow alleyway.

Even he found it difficult in the dark and the smoke as he picked his way over the cobbles. The aether energy was thin overhead and barely flickered as he moved steadily forward. A cat fled as he approached and his perfect hearing could hear the rats scratching over the stealthy approach of his hunters. He smiled again. The prey was bringing itself to him. He ducked right again away from a drunken couple and then jinked left to avoid the lights of a pub. He slowed. Ropes across the top of the alley gave him pause. Someone hung their clothes here when the fog wasn’t thick in the air. It made one escape route trickier, but there were always other options. He could hear the movement behind him. There was more than one, but that was unlikely to be a problem.

Vitalius paused and then slowly turned. The wall behind him was solid and there were no crates or barrels to impede him on either side. Three shapes emerged from the mist. His smile grew. Three of them! He would feed well tonight. “Do you have any idea of what you have followed tonight?” His fangs lengthened and his claws grew from the tips of his fingers. Unexpectedly, a cold chill of fear ran through him. The three facing him also grew fangs and claws and they did not look ready to back down.

“We know what you are,” the leader said. “And we know what you planned. We do not permit that here – and we police our own.”

The Orchids

Image from Unsplash, taken by Rae Galatas

“Charles, are you listening to me?” Cynthia tapped her foot impatiently.

“Hmm?” Charles looked at his sister. “What? Look, this is incredible. I’ve managed to cross pollinate and look at the results. I may present them at the Society next month.”

Cynthia peered at the orchid that Charles was presenting so triumphantly. “It’s a funny sort of pink.”

“No, my dear, look at the markings! They are extraordinarily exquisite. And there is nothing else like these in the world! I created them in my glasshouse.”

“Most people grow pineapples in their glasshouses,” Cynthia said. “But Charles, this isn’t why I came.”

“Isn’t it?” Charles’ gaze was fixed on his orchids. “Perhaps you came to see my latest acquisition. Ellington sent it to me from Nicaragua.” He glanced up at his irritated sister. “Come and see this! I don’t suppose there’s another specimen like it in Europe. Ellington was stationed on the Mosquito Coast, you know, and retired there. You remember Ellington? Friend of father.” He caught Cynthia by the hand and dragged her from the drawing room. “It’s all the aether crystals,” Charles said. “They’ve revolutionised the keeping of orchids. It’s made all the difference.”

“Aether crystals can send you mad, you know,” Cynthia said. “Alfred won’t have them in the house. And about that…”

“Your husband is an old fusspot and always has been,” Charles interrupted. “Look at this!”

Cynthia caught her breath as she entered the glass house. The humid heat almost overwhelmed her and she grasped at the nearby table to steady herself. “You could have warned me to loosen my stays!”

“Don’t touch the table!” Charles shrieked as he tenderly closed the door. “There can be no draughts or sudden disturbances. These flowers are valuable. I was offered a thousand guineas for that specimen on the counter.”

“Did you tell Helen that?” Cynthia asked.

“Helen is always so busy with the business,” Charles said. “Besides, I would never part with it.” He frowned and stroked his chin. “Though if I can get some decent plants grown from seed… But it’s a dashed tricky business, Cynthia, and I’m loathe to risk being without it.”

Cynthia looked at the black and violet flower that seemed to smirk malevolently. “The business is doing well, but Helen said that you were spending a lot on these flowers.”

“They’re orchids, Cynthia, not just flowers. Besides, now that we have all the aether heaters and humidifiers, we only have the cost of any replacement crystals. Travers sorted it all out. The new aether science has made all the difference. Look at this!” Charles dragged his sister to a large mahogany cabinet. “See – heat controls here, humidity here, all on timers. Travers sorted out everything. Of course, I have to keep on top of distilling the water. The water around London is shocking for orchids. But even the distillation is aether powered, look!” He dragged Cynthia over to a glass contraption that was hidden behind the ferns. “This is the absolute latest thing in orchid culture. I think I’m the only one in North London who has one.”

Cynthia fanned her face, desperately trying to catch her breath. “Charles, we really need to talk.”

“I know it cost a few more guineas than I normally pull out of the business, but it can stand it. Helen’s doing sterling work and so is Travers. Look, the water comes in from the mains supply here, then goes through the evaporator here. It was a devil to set up, pardon my language, but worth it. It goes out of this window here, to allow condensations – this room has to be at this temperature for the orchids, you know. They are so delicate. Where was I? Oh yes, then the condensate is fed into this flask. I don’t water automatically, though. I wouldn’t want to risk it. I had a nasty case of root rot in one of the specimens from Siam, lost quite an expensive example of Dendrobium to it, and overwatering at the port was no doubt the cause.”

“Charles, you need to listen!” Cynthia said. “Aether crystals aren’t always safe. Travers said you didn’t get any of the latest shielding.”

“Didn’t see the point, old thing, and I suppose I have been dipping into the business somewhat so I didn’t want the expense. But I have a private buyer for these, which I’ll keep for any further investment. Why, I could even turn a profit.” Charles waved an expansive hand at some unprepossessing shoots.

“Charles, do you miss Helen?” Cynthia asked.

“What do you mean?” Charles turned back to aether engine. “I saw at breakfast. No, hang on.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “No, I don’t know if I did see her. But I’m sure that I saw her at dinner last night.” He looked at Cynthia with doubt in his eyes. “Or was she at one of her meetings. The business is quite demanding, you know.”

“I need to get out of here,” Cynthia said, carefully making her way to the door. “And you need to listen to me.” She opened the door and stood there, waiting.

Charles hesitated for a moment and then rushed through the room, meeting Cynthia at the other side before carefully shutting the door. “I told you – I cannot allow draughts in there. What is so damned important?”

“Your language around ladies is dreadful,” Cynthia said, walking away and back to the drawing room where she collapsed into a chair. “And the heat of that room is insufferable. Please ring for some tea.”

Charles looked around absently and rang for the maid. “Well what is so important?”

Cynthia stared at him. “You know Helen, your wife, the one you moved heaven and earth to woo, the one that took our family business and actually made it turn a profit? The pretty woman with the red hair?”

“Yes, what about her? She hasn’t met with an accident has she?” Charles said. “Because it would damned inconvenient if she had. I’ve had a telegram this morning about a package on its way and it takes time to get a specimen settled, especially if it’s come from some distance.”

“May I remind you of your language,” Cynthia said. “Helen left you. She’s been living with her brother for the last six months and taking a salary from the business. Mr Travers, your secretary, is leaving because his father died and he needs to go back home to support his mother in Manchester. And Mrs Callaghan, the housekeeper, won’t stay another week as there is no lady of the house. You need to do something.”

“But I can’t possibly spare the time,” Charles exclaimed. “I’ve just told you, I have a package likely to arrive any day now.” He looked at her. “Are you sure that Helen left? I can’t think why she would. We haven’t had a cross word since Christmas.”

A housemaid came in and set the tea things on a side table. Cynthia waited until she left before pouring herself a welcome cup of tea. “She left just before Christmas. I helped her move. And I don’t blame her one bit! At least she’s keeping the business going. If she didn’t, you wouldn’t have the money for these orchids.” Cynthia watched her brother carefully. “If I were you, I would not upset her.”

“Why would she leave?” Charles asked, bewilderment in every inch.

“Because you didn’t attend your only daughter’s wedding,” Cynthia said. “I can’t see any way of reconciling with Helen, at least, but I would avoid antagonising her. And I think that you will need a new housekeeper as a matter of urgency.”

“Simply not possible, my dear,” Charles said. “I don’t have the time. And if that is all, I must get back to the glass house. Some of the blooms were looking fragile and I need to check the water levels.”

“At least get some shielding for those aether crystals,” Cynthia said as she watched her brother stand and head towards the door. “They can power anything, but they can send you mad.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles said. “I show absolutely no sign of irrationality of any sort. I’m sure that Mrs Callaghan will see you right before you leave.”

Cynthia listened to the door close firmly, then took a long drink of her tea. She had never felt more worried in her life.