Fiction Vortex - June 2014

by Fiction Vortex

  Dutch cursed as he inched backward on his belly. The sun was low on the horizon, nestled into the cradle formed by the rocky summits. He went to the saddlebag where he kept his pistol and drew it out, checking the chamber. He had only one bullet and not much time; he would have to ride fast if he was going to catch up.

  When darkness fell Dutch left his horse, who was foaming at the bit, and proceeded on foot. The moon had risen, its craggy face leering at him as he made his way as quickly and quietly as he could through the sagebrush.

  In the distance he heard scraping, as if something heavy was being dragged. He could only hope that Lazarus and the sheriff were making the sound. He had lost sight of them some time ago.

  Scrambling up an outcropping of rocks, a sharp crack resounded through the air. The explosion of noise came from so close that it rang in Dutch’s ears, and he dropped immediately to his hands and knees — unsure if the bullet was meant for him or another target.

  After catching his breath he inched forward on his elbows. Cresting the ridge, he could see the clearing below. A hole had been dug large enough to bury a man there, and Lazarus was lying in the dirt beside it. Blood oozed from his shoulder, forming a dark pool that showed slick in the moonlight. But he wasn't dead; his chest still rose and fell with jagged breaths.

  Dutch counted his blessings as he reached for his gun. The sheriff was on the other side of the grave, leaning over a wood coffin, his back turned. Dutch leveled the revolver, steadying his arm on the rock before cocking the hammer. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but he wanted to be prepared.

  The sheriff pried open the lid of the coffin with the tip of a shovel, and a strange, familiar musky odor wafted forth. Dutch froze as he caught sight of what was inside.

  At first he thought the moonlight was playing tricks on his eyes. There was a body in the coffin, of that there was no doubt. But there was no sign of decomposition. It looked as if it had just been laid there; blonde locks still neatly arranged over a satin pillow. The face of the entombed figure was obscured, as if covered by a thin-white veil. A shroud that clung too tightly to the demure features beneath to be fabric, and which did not move as the figure slowly sat up.

  Dutch, who thought himself beyond shock by such things after having seen Lazarus revive over a dozen times, felt a chill run down his spine. His hand trembled and for a moment he lost his grip on the trigger of his gun.

  The white sheath encasing the face began to crack, peeling away like dry onion skin. He could see clearly now the countenance of the young woman who rose from the coffin, her calico gown falling into place as she stood. Saw that she had yellow slitted eyes, which peered out above her waxen cheeks.

  She continued to rise even after reaching full height, and Dutch had to stifle a scream when he saw what lay below the hem of her skirts. He suddenly realized where he had smelled that peculiar, musky odor before.

  The soft hiss of scales on a rough surface sounded as she slithered over the side of the wooden box, the lower half of her body coming into view. The diamond-pattern he now saw meant one thing for sure: death.

  The snake-girl wound her way towards the sheriff, who held aloft a vial that shone with a bright green light. The snake-girl seemed drawn to it, as if mesmerized by the way it swayed in the air. As she leaned in close to examine it, a forked tongue flicked from her mouth. The sheriff recoiled as her soft laughter mixed with the vibrating hum of a snake’s rattle.

  "Ah, you still hold onto that, do you?" Her voice was light, childish.

  "Your mother warned me before you were born; you think I would forget?" The sheriff recovered himself, thrusting the glowing object forward and driving the snake-girl back.

  The long narrow tongue made another appearance. "So you bled her dry in order to protect yourself?" The voice became a hiss and the snake-girl rose further on her serpent's body so that she towered over the sheriff. She sneered down at him. "You lock me away so that no one need know the horror she gave birth too?"

  "I did what was best for you." The sheriff stood steadfast. "I take care of you, don't I?" He pointed at the body of Lazarus, which had grown still. "I make sure you don’t go hungry."

  The snake-girl turned, as if suddenly realizing they weren't alone. Her tongue flicked from her mouth with new vigor as it tasted the air. She sank and slithered towards Lazarus's body, leaning down so her blonde locks fell into the pool of fresh blood as she lapped at it. She looked back up and smiled, or so Dutch thought, but then he saw that her lower jaw was distending. Her lips passed over Lazarus’s hairline.

  Dutch knew that it was now or never. He threw himself over the precipice of the boulder while the sheriff was distracted, and charged. He needed to get hold of whatever it was the sheriff was holding that kept the monster at bay. Then he would have his one shot, and he would have to decide whether it was for the lawman or the girl.

  The sheriff wheeled at the last moment as he heard Dutch coming, but Dutch had already leapt. Instead of landing on the sheriff’s back like he had planned, the two men collided and landed in a heap on the ground. The glowing vial came free from the sheriff’s grasp and skittered across the coarse sand.

  Dutch and the sheriff tussled, grabbing at each other as they tried to gain the upper hand. The sheriff reached for his holster, but Dutch kicked at his hand and the revolver flew into the air, landing with a thud in the distance.

  The maneuver left Dutch vulnerable, and the sheriff rounded on top of him. He took hold of Dutch around the neck with both hands and began to squeeze. Dutch felt his windpipe crush inward under the pressure, and his vision began to darken around the edges as he scratched at the fingers around his neck. Through watering eyes he could see that the sheriff would not relent. His hair askew, his teeth clenched, he bore down on top of Dutch. Desperation shone in his eyes, sorrow and hate in the pits of his gimlet stare.

  Dutch sputtered and kicked. Just as he thought he was about to pass out, an awful, howling screech penetrated the thumping of blood in his ears. The pressure released as the sheriff was suddenly flung from atop him.

  "You ... you liar!" The serpent-girl had hold of the sheriff, her lower body coiling about him, constricting him in its strength. "You're trying to kill me!"

  The sheriff struggled, but his arms were bound. The thick body of the girl's lower half flexed, the diamond pattern of her scales twisting in ripples in the moonlight.

  "What," the sheriff stammered, "no."

  Her face came nose to nose with his, her chin stained red. "There's no life in that blood, there's only death, a thousand deaths!"

  The sheriff coughed, wheezed. "I..." he sputtered, "there's another, over there." He nodded toward Dutch, who lay coughing and weak in the dirt.

  The snake-girl paused, turned her yellow eyes to Dutch then back to the sheriff. "I think he'll keep," she hissed, then opened her mouth wide so that her saber-like fangs glistened in the moonlight. Dutch watched, stricken, as she sank them into the sheriff’s neck. The man went suddenly rigid, and foam spurted from his mouth.

  Dutch struggled to his knees, his lungs burned, and his throat felt like it was the size of a pin-hole. The light of the glowing vial was a beacon in the sagebrush, and he knew he had to reach it before the snake-girl came for him.

  He ran as fast as he could, half hobbling. He was only a few feet away when he heard the swishing whisper of scales in slithering high pursuit. He threw himself at the vial. His fingers closed around dirt and gravel when he felt something take hold round his ankle.

  "No!" he screamed. The girl's hands were climbing up his torso; in the edge of his field of vision he caught sight of her blonde hair hanging over him.

  “No!” He screamed again, but this time his words were drowned out by the sound of a gunshot. He felt the weight of the snake-girl collapse on top of him.

  The smell of gunpowder mixed with the musk of the snake-girl as Dutch twisted under her limp body. He took hold of her shoulders and heaved, seeing for the first time the
bullet hole square in the center of her forehead.

  "Nice shot," Dutch wheezed as he slid out from beneath the corpse. “I thought you were a goner.”

  Lazarus approached, looking unusually pale and considerably damp, but otherwise viable. In his blood soaked hand he held the pearl handle of the sheriff's revolver.

  “So did I,” Lazarus said, surveying the scene. Dutch thought he saw a wistful expression in his partner’s eyes as he took in the sheriff’s limp, lifeless body.

  "I think," Dutch said as Lazarus offered him a hand, "it's time we found a different way to earn a living."

  "Yeah, what'cha got in mind?" Lazarus asked as he helped Dutch to his feet.

  Dutch wiped the dirt from his trousers. "I don't know, maybe something where neither of us winds up as the corpse."

  He didn't mean it as a joke, but Lazarus grinned wickedly. It was almost ghoulish the way his teeth shone white in his blood- and mud-caked face. It had been a long time since Dutch had seen Lazarus smile, and Dutch beamed back. "That sounds good doesn't it?"

  Lazarus chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds real good. Come on, partner, let's get out of here." Lazarus threw his arm around Dutch. “The nice folks of Recompense can clean up this mess.”

  “Come now,” Dutch said, cocking his head to the side, “it's not right to just dump a body in the desert. You know that.”

  Lazarus paused, then patted Dutch on the back. “No, you’re right. But I’ve done enough digging for one night.”

  Dutch shrugged, and limped over to where the shovel lay on the ground. Picking it up, he turned back to Lazarus and asked, “You mind keeping me company while I take care of this?"

  Lazarus sighed. “Yeah, I’ll keep you company.” He bent down and grabbed one of the sheriff’s limp arms. “I’ll even give you a hand.”

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  R.Y. Brockway writes short stories with the intent to entertain and thrill her readers. A lover of both the mundane and the macabre, she explores aspects of both in her writing, if not necessarily at the same time. She lives with her husband in Virginia.

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  Book Review: Deadly Curiosities, by Gail Z. Martin

  Review by Caitlin Seal; published June 12, 2014

  Deadly Curiosities is fantasy author Gail Z. Martin’s first step into the urban fantasy genre. The story follows Cassidy Kincaide, the psychic owner of Trifles and Folly — an antique shop specializing in the identification and neutralization of dangerous magical artifacts. When seemingly mundane objects trigger a wave of fresh hauntings across Charleston, South Carolina, it’s up to Cassidy and her allies to find out what’s fueling the dark magic, and stop it.

  Cassidy is aided in her search by two friends. Teag, one of her employees, is a master of martial arts who can weave both information and energy to suit his needs. With them is Sorren, a vampire who has protected members of Cassidy’s family for generations. I was a little skeptical seeing another urban fantasy where the female lead tags along with a powerful vampire guardian. But for the most part Sorren stays in the background and avoids the worst of the clichés.

  Martin is clearly in her element when bringing the ghosts of Charleston to life. Cassidy’s investigation is peppered with the stories of pirates and smugglers whose deaths are tied to the evil threatening the city. I’ll admit, I’m a big fan of ghost stories and I loved the touch of character Martin gave to her haunts.

  Unfortunately, as the book progresses the pacing stalls out. Between the ghost stories and magic infused battles, the characters sit down again and again to rehash information and review their plans. The writing, which flows well enough during the book’s action scenes, becomes repetitive and clunky in these sections. It’s frustrating to see these problems from someone with as much experience as Martin, especially when they distract from an otherwise fun story.

  Despite the bog-down in the middle, Cassidy’s investigation does come to a satisfying conclusion, and urban fantasy fans will likely enjoy this peek at the spookier side of Charleston.

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  Haunted Heirlooms: Resurrecting the Past with Cherished Items

  by Gail Z. Martin; published June 19, 2014

  Anything you keep for sentimental reasons has a hint of haunt to it.

  The word “memento,” one we often use to mean sentimental knick-knack, actually means “remember death,” and described the Victorian penchant of making jewelry to memorialize their dead. While we no longer make death jewelry, the items that we keep for sentimental reasons are more similar than not to those old Victorian lockets — a memorial to memories and emotions that we don’t want to forget.

  Deadly Curiosities, my new urban fantasy novel from Solaris Books, is centered on a 350 year-old antique and curio shop that exists to get dangerous magical items off the market and out of the wrong hands. The proprietor, Cassidy Kincaide, is a psychometric, someone who can read objects by touch and sense strong magic and memories.

  While Cassidy’s talent goes far beyond the nostalgia most of us experience, there’s more truth to her magic than you might feel comfortable acknowledging.

  Think about the treasures you’ve got stashed away in a box. You keep things that have little or no monetary value because they bring back a strong vision of the past. Pictures, jewelry or personal possessions of those who have passed away serve to extend the influence of the dead over the living, even if it’s just the power of memory.

  The items we hang onto — as individuals and a society (museums) — not only remind us of the past, they shape our understanding of that past by what we choose to keep and what we throw away. Because what we keep is selective, our heirlooms tend to reinforce the memories we value and erase the things we don’t want to remember. Many families have been divided by vicious squabbles over heirlooms with no monetary value for this very reason. As a society, the items we enshrine in museums reinforce a code of conduct, a view of national identity, a worldview. Old objects have power.

  Go to any religious shrine, and you’ll see more objects with a hint of haunt. Relics and religious artifacts are invested by our belief with power. We look to them for clarity, luck, protection. Wars have been fought over such objects because on a deep instinctive level we sense imbued power. Think of the feeling of awe that you get in a historic site/shrine/museum, a sense that because of the objects housed in that place, the past isn’t gone, it’s just thinly veiled.

  ~~~~~

  I’m celebrating the launch of Deadly Curiosities the whole week of June 22-29 with more than 30 different guest blog posts, a Facebook launch party featuring prizes, guest authors and surprises, podcasts, three different excerpts, a Reddit give-away/AskMeAnything and a Goodreads party/give-away. Get all the details at www.DeadlyCuriosities.com, and follow me on Facebook.com/WinterKingdoms or on Twitter @GailZMartin!

  I’ll be signing Deadly Curiosities in major cities across the U.S. and in England, Wales, and Scotland this summer — the full book tour schedule is on my website, so please stop by and say hello!

  ~~~~~

  About the Author: Gail Z. Martin writes epic and urban fantasy, steampunk and short stories. She is the author of the Chronicles of the Necromancer series, the Fallen Kings Cycle series, and the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga series of epic fantasy books, as well as the Deadly Curiosities urban fantasy world. Coming in 2015, Iron and Blood, a Steampunk novel, co-written with Larry N. Martin. Gail is a frequently contributor to US and UK anthologies. She also writes two series of ebook short stories: The Jonmarc Vahanian Adventures and the Deadly Curiosities Adventures.

  She leads monthly conversations on Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/GailZMartin and posts free excerpts of her work on Wattpad https://wattpad.com/GailZMartin. An original novella set in the Deadly Curiosities universe, The Final Death, is available free on Wattpad here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/15334006-the-final-death

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  About Fiction Vorte
x

  Fiction Vortex, let’s see …

  A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It’s a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.

  Nope.

  A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.

  Not that either. But we’re getting closer.

  Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS’s form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer’s undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot warrior.

  Now we’re talking.

  Take your pick. We don’t care how you characterize us or the site.

  Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it’s-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?

  Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.

  There’s a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren’t as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It’s almost like we’re saying, "I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb," but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.