Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  Carefully, Catherine unfolded the pair of spectacles that had been hanging from a chain around her neck and perched them on her nose. "According to my notes, you began a relationship, an extramarital relationship, with one Miss Martha Strimpton, approximately 12 years ago."

  Harold rolled his eyes. His last mistress. She'd always been such a calm and sweet thing, biddable and meek, just as a woman ought to be. Unlike these nasty pieces. "And how would you come to know Miss Strimpton?"

  "How we know her is irrelevant. What is relevant is that you had a standing agreement to provide for her after your affair ended. You have not done so."

  "These things, they are never set in stone now are they?" He laughed nervously then shouted out again as the chair slid a few more inches towards the hole in the ground.

  He'd been very fond of Martha in her day. They'd been happy and she was a simple one, only wanting his time and to take care of those who mattered to her, the servants and her sister, Betsy! How such a plain-faced ugly old crone has been related to his lovely Martha had been a mystery he could never fully solve.

  But…much like the fish rotting on the floor of the factory he now found himself in, Martha had overstayed her welcome. When he ended their liaison, she became a bitter grasping woman, clutching at his purse. And now she had betrayed him. How dare she come to this nasty group of women and demand satisfaction?

  And now his father had tightened the purse strings, damn him. It wasn't as if he had enough blunt to continue to take care of Martha. And certainly not that horse of a sister.

  At least he was up for the election. Once he was in position as a “Right Honorable Member,” no one would look too closely at his activities at the bank. No one would question the occasional side deals; they were all part of the life of a politician. And if he could get on to the special appropriations committee with the army and navy supplies? Lord knew they practically printed their own money! He'd be flush in the pockets then, nobody would notice missing cash, even if he were to wallpaper his office with the glorious stuff.

  He could then start to shower his mistress with gifts, and she in turn would shower him with her affection.

  But first, he had to get out of this situation he found himself currently in.

  The rope protested against the wooden pulley, creaking and groaning. He dropped a full foot closer to the water. He shouted out as his heart plummeted into his toes. "Please! This is outrageous behavior. I shall do whatever you need me to do."

  "You need to give Miss Strimpton what you owe her, Sir." Caroline looked back down at her book. "A settlement of funds for her sister to buy out the lease on her home, as well as the jewelry you had already gifted Miss Strimpton." She slapped the book shut and looked up at Harold with a cocked eyebrow. She appeared slightly miffed. It was the first sign of emotion the stone gargoyle had used that day.

  "Yes, yes, I'll get the settlement, just as soon as I have won my seat...Ahh!" The rope fell further while the chair swung in the air. Something from the depths of the Thames leapt out, hitting his toes, and splashing his legs. "My God, there's some monster in there!"

  Catherine carefully unfolded the napkin to reveal a lemon tart.

  A lemon tart? In this foul place? Was she parted from her wits?

  "Most likely nothing more than a bad-tempered cod, not that they wouldn't take a bite, given the right circumstances." She took a delicate nibble of her pastry, closing her eyes to savor the taste.

  The indignity of being eaten by dirty Thames cod, or worse, a chub, after surviving the battle of Waterloo. He couldn't abide it.

  The rope creaked ominously as the large Indian took a step closer. His arms were just now beginning to shake. He had seemed as strong as Sampson when he had first walked in the room, but what if he gave out? Would he just let go of the rope?

  "She will be requiring the money now, as you have left her with absolutely nothing, not even a roof over her head."

  "She has already left the townhouse to go on to live out her days with her sister. She most likely will not find another protector at this juncture in her life."

  "And who exactly do you think financed her sister's small cottage in Bushwood?" She finished the bite of the tart. “Mona, would you like a tart, I know how much you enjoy them.” A quick hand shot out, then the urchin’s mouth was full, her cheeks like a squirrel’s.

  "That is not my concern." He knew of course. It had been one of the few indulgences Martha had asked for. My God, to be in such a place that all you wanted was safety and shelter for those you cared for. A warm meal, perhaps a candle or two.

  Catherine stomped her foot to bring his mind back. "Miss Strimpton, that's who." She nodded her head once at Krishna, and Harold winced as the chair lurched downward.

  The freezing cold-water splashed against his trousers and his shoes hit the murky water. They would be ruined of course. But that was the least of his worries.

  "Wrong answer, Harold. You see Betsy's husband died early on in the Napoleonic Wars, and as you already know, Martha was ruined by a so-called enterprising young man, whose appetites were not what they ought to be and whose intentions had never been honorable. Betsy did what she could to keep herself and her darling Martha afloat, but now she simply cannot keep up the rent on the cottage. Coincidentally, might you imagine who owns the rights to that cottage?” She did not pause long enough to let him answer, only to draw breath and move on with her tirade. “Indeed. The bank in which you serve on the Board. The same board who has raised rent nearly 30% in Bushwood over the last three annum."

  Harold had no desire to negotiate terms with the harridan. She did not understand business nor was he of a mind to school her on the niceties. "The arrangement is over. To do more would merely encourage you to harass me further. Now if you wouldn't mind, I cannot feel my feet."

  "Would you like to be up to your knees next? Perhaps your bollocks? What a tasty, yet tiny treat that may make for those deep water, bug-eyed fish." She gave a serene smile, as though she were enjoying the view of a rose in a garden during a weekend in the country.

  "What a stone-cold, heartless, battleax you are, Madam."

  "You will not be speaking to Miss Catherine that way." They were the first words out of Krishna's mouth. He had a deep and raspy voice, only barely above a whisper, but it held a real threat of violence. It was followed up by a calculated release of rope, which translated into several more inches of water.

  Something slick and fast slid across Harold’s legs. "There's something slithering about down here! Perhaps an eel?"

  "I love eel pie!" The demented blonde again. "Ohh! Maybe it's the tentacles of a Kraken?"

  "Ahhh! Please you dirty bunch of hellcats, you must take me out of here!"

  "Come hellcats or high water, Mr. Fletcher. It's the settlement or a swim, the choice is yours." She pointed at him with a new tart before popping a small piece in her mouth. “Really Krishna, I can’t believe you don’t like lemon tarts, these are divine.”

  He'd heard and read the stories of those bodies that had washed up on the shores, white, bloated things no one could identify. And he wasn't wearing his signet ring. Would his father believe him to have run off to the continent? His spendy wife would be left in charge of the finances, driving his son to poverty before he even reached his maturity. And the election! He couldn't lose!

  "Oooh, God! Yes, get me out of here! I'll do whatever you want." He sank slowly into the black inky water. Krishna seemed not at all bothered by the chore. "Please I will do as you want."

  "You will pay Miss Strimpton the settlement?"

  The water splashed at his waist, submersing his waist, and those other bits Miss Catherine had alluded to.

  "Yes!"

  "And give her back all of the jewelry that you gifted to her and thus, are rightfully hers in the first place."

  "I..." He was shivering so hard at that moment, with his chest now submerged, that Harold wondered if he would suffer from a heart attack instead of drowning.
>
  The truth was he had already pawned the jewelry for a bit of blunt to impress his new ladybird. All except for the blue sapphire necklace that looked so good between her ample...

  "I am running out of patience, Mr. Fletcher."

  "I don't have the jewelry anymore."

  "Dunk him, Krishna."

  A loud splash, his own scream, and then bitter, never-ending, cold. It was pain and agony, and a shock to the system the likes of which Harold had never experienced, not even during his days as an officer. He tried to think but his head was nothing more than slicing white lights of pain. An explosion of nerves, and then nothing. His lungs were giving out, the pain from holding his breath getting to be too much.

  And then he was dragged back from the watery expanse. Shivering, exhausted, starving for air, he realized these Hellcats meant business. The images of those he’d carelessly tossed aside in his life, tenants who could no longer pay, past mistresses, paraded in his mind as he fought to bring air back into his lungs. The truth was as plain as the smirk on Miss Catherine’s face: His extreme discomfort could be alleviated if at any time he chose to pay Martha what he owed.

  It was money or death for Harold. And even Harold didn't love money that much.

  "I'm still not sure how ye got that tight-fisted old coot to give up the funds, and I'm not sure I want te know, but we are grateful, none the less." Miss Strimpton's sister, Betsy burst out, shaking her head and bustling about the room, fidgeting with the various knick-knacks that decorated every last open surface. "Saved me 'ouse ye did."

  Catherine, resplendent in a light blue and daffodil striped day gown, smiled mysteriously over her teacup before taking a sip of the excellent tea. It was no longer third steep as it had been the last time she visited the sisters. "A girl's got to have some secrets."

  "I couldn't believe it. After all the years I gave that man. I loved him in my own way." Martha took a bite of tart, closing her eyes with the pleasure of the lemony goodness on her tongue. And excellent tarts they were. Betsy had even hinted about possibly starting up a small bakery, just for a few local friends and the like.

  Catherine had indicated she would be the first to sign up.

  Mona was a particular fan of the delicious morsels.

  Betsy leaned down to refill Catherine's cup. "Can't imagine how you could have loved that cur, but I suppose a badger is good at hiding his claws now and again." She set the pot down with rather more force than was necessary. "But when he came out and showed his true colors, why it was Catherine and her cohorts to the rescue. And we cannot thank ye enough."

  "I promise you it was nothing. As you know I went through my own troubles of a similar variety. It was the least I could do."

  "And sadly we aren't the only women who find themselves in strained circumstances after a man has done us wrong." The sweet and still very attractive Martha, despite the extra pounds that had softened her middle, looked down sadly at the floor. When she looked back up her sweet brown eyes were swimming with tears. "What if he tries to retaliate?"

  "I wouldn't worry overly much about that. He's very intent on winning a seat in Parliament. I'd hate for those rather creative books he's been keeping at the bank to be replaced by the real ones Mona managed to slip out of his office safe." She gave another smile, like a cat that had eaten the cream.

  Betsy all but fell over in a hearty guffaw.

  "Oh thank you," Martha trembled out, reaching for her handkerchief all the while her sister continued to roll around with mirth.

  Betsy dabbed away tears of laughter in time to Martha clearing her own. "Take these to Mr. Liset, with my thanks, if you wouldn't mind." Betsy plopped a few lemon tarts into a small basket. She shook her head. "I just don't know how you girls done it. I've been extolling your virtues down one side of the mornin' market to the other. Just the other day, one of the cooks from a fine house around the corner mentioned that her employer might be in a touch of trouble. Seems her precious mother's jeweled necklace has gone missing, around the same time as the young man she had been entertaining left, along with the new downstairs maid."

  "A story all too common I am afraid," Catherine said, her lips drawing into a tight line of disapproval.

  "Aye, well, I may have mentioned what a great job you did for my sis, and if you are amenable to it, she could certainly use some help."

  "Hmm..." Catherine took another bite of bread, looking for all the world like a saint in the pages of the Bible.

  "You know," Martha perked up, a light settling in her eyes. "I've been thinking, Catherine, I know that you certainly have no need for money, of course, but I also know how much you give to those less fortunate than yourself. Perhaps this would be a great way to bring about some more funds, all while helping even more of those in need?"

  "And you can bet, me and Martha would be willin' to pitch in, in whatever way we can." Betsy stomped on the rickety wood floor, polished to within an inch of its life, just as everything else in the house, smelling of lemon and beeswax.

  "Betsy, would you mind terribly bringing me my reticule and coat? I do believe it is time I move on from your wonderful hospitality."

  "Oh, of course." Martha sat up from the table and carefully scooted around the crowded parlor. "We would never want to waste your time, Catherine."

  "Spending time with friends is never a waste." She reached out to take her satin beaded reticule from Betsy, opening the small bag.

  "Well, we certainly can't thank ye enough," Betsy exclaimed, brushing her hands on her apron. “And ye should really think about what we said earlier, about that idea for the business. Miss Lisel would be particularly useful in that sort of thing. Even Eve's got her talents."

  Catherine perked up a single eyebrow, then pulled a few calling cards from her purse and handed them to Martha.

  With another captivating smile, the elegant woman swept from the house.

  Martha and Betsy looked down at the cards, elegant gold script written upon a thick and quality ecru white paper.

  The Cats Consortium.

  Retribution. Recompense. Revenge.

  Nothing like a little vengeance and tea to make everything right with the world. Not bad for a day’s work.

  Kim lives and writes in Denver with two fluffy white, fuzz butt bunnies and a managerie of house plants. She has an unhealthy obsession with rainbow colored pens and sushi. Kim loves to write romance, particularly historical Regency.

  Find out more at facebook.com/kimberly.kennedy.7524.

  34

  Wings For Azazel

  by Mhairi Simpson

  A feline Fallen Angel with a quota and a deadline, up against the manager from Hell who thinks he really can herd cats.

  Azazel licked his paw, then started cleaning his ears. It never failed to throw off the younger generations, who didn’t quite understand the finer points of a sense of humour developed over several millennia. It also bought him time to control his anger. “Mezzy, my boy, you can’t be serious.”

  “As an archangel in a whorehouse,” snapped the smoothly dressed lesser demon in front of him, known to most as Mezrael, Perdition of Shady Accountants. ”Passage to Earth is now performance-based. If you fail to bring in six souls by the end of the quarter, your wings will be revoked.”

  “You can’t revoke my wings,” hissed Azazel. Hell was deathly boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. Had been for centuries. Earth was the only place that made existence worthwhile these days. Art. Music. Dreamies. How was he supposed to survive immortality without access to those things?

  Mezrael made that sound human plumbers made when they were about to charge a client enough to replace both kidneys and their firstborn child’s soul.

  “I don’t make the rules,” he said, in a tone which suggested Hell would be much better off if he did. “No souls means no wings, and no more aimless wandering around Earth.”

  Azazel considered ripping the little turd’s lungs out, but it took more than that to kill a demon. More to the point, he’d end up covered
in the pissant’s entrails. It wasn’t worth the hours of grooming. “I’m one of the original Fallen Angels. I focus on quality, not quantity. I brought in Hitler. Mao.”

  His silent “have some Hell-blessed respect’ was implied.

  The air danced, suddenly full of grit and the buzzing of flies. Azazel sighed. He had no interest in demonic drama, but there was no stopping this one.

  Belial materialised out of the whirling pestilence. “He may not be able to revoke anyone’s wings, but I can.” His voice was full of crawling things, a hunger for putrescence. Belial enjoyed his job far too much, in Azazel’s humble opinion.

  “And you need to stop trading on past glories, old-timer,” Belial added. “You haven’t brought in a soul in decades. The quarter ends at midnight tonight, by the way.”

  “The Morningstar left you in charge?” asked Azazel mildly.

  Belial’s laugh sounded like a blood-soaked chainsaw. “No. He just left. If he doesn’t want to take care of his responsibilities, I will. So yes, I suppose in a way, he did leave me in charge.”

  He disappeared in another swirling vortex of flies and maggots and Azazel squinted against the coarse grit scoring his skin. Eventually it subsided, allowing him a clear view of Mezrael’s face. The lesser demon’s expression couldn’t have been more condescending if he were a politician talking to a journalist, a smug smirk Azazel wanted to claw off his face.

  The problem was, if Mezrael was under Belial’s protection, the consequences would be immediate, and beyond painful. Azazel had fought the Lord of Pestilence before, and if anyone asked, he had absolutely won, but all the same, he’d prefer not to have a rematch, if he could possibly avoid it.

  Not because he couldn’t win, but it would cut into his sunbathing and Dreamies time.