Fire and Fantasy: a Limited Edition Collection of Epic and Urban Fantasy
Page 234
Catherine moved and Phoebe was once again face to face with the baron. He was smiling.
“Roses, how quaint, and such a lovely blood red color.”
Phoebe lunged at him. He slapped her hand out of the way and the roses fell to the floor. He set his foot on them, grinding them into the carpet until they released their odor.
Wally staggered upright. “Wrong kind of roses, should be dog roses,” he said in a faint voice. “You have to try something else.”
The baron laughed. “Perhaps she should try marigolds, or daffodils.”
He seemed to be looking down at Phoebe from a great height. He was growing, expanding. “Do you have something else to try?” he asked.
“Only this!” Bill came at him in a wild fearless rush with the oak stake in one hand and a hammer in the other. The momentum of his charge carried them both to the floor with Bill on top. Bill’s attack was frantic and merciless as he drove the stake into the baron’s chest. Phoebe watched in breathless horror as Bill pounded and pounded. Ted shambled in from the doorway. Phoebe picked up the vial of holy water and threw it in his face and he retreated, screaming.
A fountain of blood erupted from the baron’s chest and his eyes closed.
Catherine looked down at him. “I was supposed to marry him. Is he dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“What do I do now?”
Phoebe looked at her sister impatiently. “Pull yourself together.”
Catherine’s eyes cleared. “Phoebe? What am I doing here? Why am I wearing this ugly dress?”
“Forget about the dress. Take a look at your boyfriend.”
Catherine looked down at the baron. “Who is that?”
“That’s the man you were going to marry, after you killed me.”
Catherine shook her head vigorously as if to clear away the remaining tendrils of the baron’s influence. “I don’t understand. What have I done? Who is he?”
Phoebe heard a low moaning from somewhere behind her and saw Ted covering his face wih his hands as the holy water bubbled on his skin.
“Miss Phoebe.”
Phoebe turned to see Wally struggling to rise to his feet. “It’s not over,” he whispered. “He’s not dead.”
Phoebe looked down at the blood gushing from the baron’s lifeless form. “He’s gone, Wally. We did it.”
Wally shook his head. “He still has hold of me. He’s not dead. Look. He’s moving.”
The baron’s hands twitched.
Phoebe took a step backward.
The baron’s arms moved.
Phoebe caught hold of Bill’s sleeve. “Bill, he’s moving.”
The baron raised his right arm. His hand closed around the stake that protruded from his chest. Phoebe watched in horror as he pulled the stake free. He sat up. Blood no longer flowed from his wound. He looked at Phoebe and then looked at the stake.
“Pine,” he said triumphantly.
“No, it’s oak. You should be dead.”
The baron shook his head. “This is not oak. It is pine. A cheap imitation.”
“But I bought it myself,” Phoebe protested. “It was supposed to be oak, to match my kitchen cabinets.”
The baron surged to his feet. Bill lunged at him and the baron knocked him backwards with a vicious backhanded blow that sent him sprawling into the entryway. Phoebe heard a sickening thud as Bill’s head hit the tiled floor.
Phoebe heard herself screaming as she saw Wally fall back into the chair. Someone grasped her hand. Catherine was holding onto her and staring at the baron with wide panicked eyes.
“Don’t let him…” she whispered. “Don’t let him take me.”
Phoebe gripped her sister’s hand. “Look at me. Don’t look at him.”
“Catherine.” The baron’s voice was low, smooth, and insidious. “Look at me Catherine.”
Phoebe squeezed her sister’s hand until she thought the bones would break. Catherine had grown fragile over the long weeks of her captivity. “Don’t look at him.”
Catherine moaned.
Phoebe sensed that the baron was behind her. She felt his foul breath on her neck. She tensed, waiting for the moment that his fangs would pierce her skin.
“Come, Catherine.”
His breath was heavy and excited in her ears but she could hear another sound, one that the baron was ignoring. Someone was at the door. Someone was pounding. She saw Wally struggle to his feet.
A sudden sharp pain and the baron’s fangs pierced Phoebe’s neck. She jerked away. She heard him laugh and felt the trickle of her own warm blood on her collar bone. Her senses began to swim. She was aware of Catherine’s face inches from her own and the baron’s voice urging Catherine to bite.
“Come Catherine, take of your sister’s blood. Your first meal. Your consecration as my wife. Come, it is sweet.”
She felt the baron twining his fingers into her hair to hold her still.
Catherine’s voice was unsteady and Phoebe saw that her eyes were closed, refusing to look at her captor. Her voice had grown stronger, more determined. “No, I won’t do it.”
The baron’s voice became impatient. “Do you want to be my bride? Do you want the eternity I can give you? Look at me Catherine.”
Catherine opened her eyes and looked at the baron. Phoebe saw the moment when her sister’s eyes clouded over, trapped by the baron’s will.
The baron tightened his grip on Phoebe’s hair. “Come Catherine. Take her blood.”
As Phoebe twisted her head away she realized that she knew something the baron didn’t know. She was wearing a wig. His hands were not tangled in her hair; they were tangled in her wig. She twisted her head viciously and felt the pulling of the combs that held the wig to her real hair. She twisted again and the baron was left holding her wig as she danced away from him, light-footed in her sneakers.
Hands reached for her. She turned to defend herself and saw that she was facing a grey haired man in a white priest’s collar.
“Who…?”
Wally’s voice was faint but he was struggling to rise from the floor. “I let them in. Father Simon’s a priest.”
“I can see that.”
Bill’s voice came to her from some distance away. He was sitting in the entryway with his head between his hands.
“If the priest forgives him…” he said weakly.
The baron’s laughter drowned out the rest of Bill’s words. “Do you think I can be so easily defeated?” he asked. “He cannot forgive me unless I ask for his forgiveness and that is not going to happen. Your priest and his powers are useless against me.”
He stretched out his arm; it seemed impossibly long and impossibly strong. This time he wrapped his hands around grasped Phoebe’s neck as he dragged her toward him.
“Come here, Catherine.”
Catherine’s eyes were still clouded and she glided forward like a sleepwalker. The baron tightened his grip on Phoebe’s neck and bent her head sideways. Catherine was close now with her teeth exposed in a terrible mocking grin. No fangs. Not yet.
Phoebe tried to lock eyes with her and bring life to the clouded eyes. For a moment she thought she saw a spark. Catherine turned her head away and looked at the priest standing motionless, his hands wrapped around his pectoral cross.
Catherine turned back to Phoebe and there was life in her eyes but her voice as she spoke to the baron was still lifeless.
“Does it have to be her? She’s my sister.”
“I’m sorry but that is what is required. Now get on with it.”
Catherine’s eyes were positively sparkling but only Phoebe could see them.
“Sorry? Are you really sorry? Am I expected to forgive you?”
“Of course.”
“Ask me.”
Phoebe tried to draw breath as the baron’s hand tightened in frustration around her neck Lights flashed behind her eyes, and she was full of doubt but Catherine was not doubting. Catherine’s eyes were clear and confident.
Hope flared in the back of Phoebe’s mind as her legs began to give way. She knew that the baron’s desire for Catherine had overcome his defenses. He was about to make the biggest mistake of his long, evil life.
His voice was choked with frustration and lust. “Forgive me, Catherine.”
Catherine winked one eye at her sister.
“I forgive you. My church forgives you.”
The baron released his vise like grip on her throat. Phoebe sucked in a great gulp of air and stood still as a statue as the baron crumpled to the ground. He stared up at Catherine, his face full of confusion. He turned his eyes on the priest standing beside her.
“How did you do this?”
“I am not the one,” the priest replied. “Catherine is the one.”
The baron’s physical presence was crumbling and becoming one with the floor. “She can’t be a priest.”
“That’s what I told her,” Phoebe said, “but I was wrong.”
She hoped the baron heard her. His startled eyes held their shape for another moment, and then he was gone, reduced to dust.
Eleven
WALLY
Wally stood on the balcony outside Miss Phoebe’s penthouse. Behind him he heard the hum of a vacuum cleaner; Bill was removing the last traces of Raoul deBressard from the carpet.
“It’s over,” Tabita said softly. “Let him go.”
She slipped her hand into his and he felt the warmth of her new human life pulsing under her skin. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Suppose I turn into a pile of dust like the baron?”
Tabita took a tighter grip on his hand. “You won’t.”
“Easy for you to say,” Wally complained. “You made your confession to Father Simon.”
“And you made yours to Miss Catherine. It’s the same thing.”
Wally looked at the eastern horizon. He thought he detected a slight brightening of the sky. Bill had finished with the vacuum cleaner and in the sudden silence he could hear his own heart pounding; his own blood ringing in his ears.
A faint orange tint appeared between the buildings. He closed his eyes and turned his head away.
“Wally.” Tabita’s voice trembled slightly. “This is it; my first sunrise in three hundred years. How long for you?”
He kept his eyes closed. “Two thousand.”
“Did you ever think you would live to see it?”
“No.”
“Are you going to open your eyes?”
“No.”
He lifted his head. Light filtered through his closed eyelids, and warmth washed across his face. This was it. This was the light he had feared and turned away from for two thousand years. In all the time that had passed since the day he was taken by the undead lord, he had known only cold moonlight.
Tabita drew a long shuddering breath. What was wrong? Was she dying beneath the rays of the sun?
He opened his eyes to look and saw her face turned toward the sun, saw the bright rays on her skin, saw the light reflected in her eyes.
“Look, Wally. Look.”
He looked and he saw the golden sun rising above the rooftops. He heard footsteps behind him and felt the weight of Miss Phoebe’s arm around his shoulders.
“I’m alive,” he whispered.”
“Yes, you are.”
Miss Phoebe pressed something into his hand. “Have a chocolate.
* * *
The End
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“Arthurian Chronicles - Volume One”
A lighthearted insight into what life was like in Arthurian times.
About the Author
Eileen Enwright Hodgetts lives in Pittsburgh (surprisingly) and is active in its theatre community where Phoebe and the Steel City Vampires began life as a stage play. She was born in England and, before moving to Pittsburgh, also lived and worked in South Africa and Uganda.
These countries inspired her novels, from her best-selling Arthurian Sagas to action adventure stories set in Africa and Eastern Europe.
In her spare-time she aspires to be a master cheesemaker and makes a killer buttermilk blue cheese. She is currently experimenting with chocolate cheese… someone has to do it!
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The Siren
Meg Xuemei X
The Siren Copyright © 2016 by Meg Xuemei X
* * *
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
The Siren
She was born to rule, but her fight for love could steal her birthright... and destroy humanity in the process.
The fallen angels are back to reclaim Earth, and her only chance to stop them has been hidden for millennia. Failure to find The Eye of Time will keep her from Prince Vladimir, her first love, and destroy the future of humanity.
When Ashburn, a genius farm boy, discovers the ancient power and accidentally binds Lucienne to him, the end of the world seems inevitable. The last Siren has one chance to save her future, her love, and the fate of the entire world...
Prologue
In the atrium courtyard of the Lam complex in the suburbs of Chicago, eighteen-year-old Kian McQuillen watched Lucienne Lam writhe in her nanny’s arms. The rusty red leaves of the oak tree he leaned against drifted down in the wind, caressing the black shirt that stretched over his muscular chest.
“Look, sweet girl,” the nanny coaxed, pointing at a mansion across the courtyard, “the Red Mansion.”
The dawn’s light painted the ceramic tiles of the mansion the color of blood roses. On the roof stood a marble statue of an immortal ruler—the Siren riding a phoenix (凤凰) with two xiphos swords strapped across his back.
“Your grandfather, the Siren, lives there,” the nanny continued.
The baby didn’t look impressed. When she couldn’t wrench free from the nursemaid’s arms, she raised her small fists and pounded the nanny’s face.
“The girl’s got fire!” The nanny turned the baby around to steer clear of her fists. Waving her hands in vain, the baby screamed. A number of the Lam family, who dwelled in the homes of Chicago suburbs situated on the opposite of the Red Mansion, began gathering in the courtyard. Lucienne had awoken everyone.
“The poor child is probably afraid of this new place,” the nanny murmured, “away from her parents.”
That was only half the truth. Kian was among the men who had accompanied Jed Lam—the Siren—to retrieve the baby from her father, who had holed up in San Francisco. The baby’s mother had mysteriously disappeared right after giving birth. Her father gave up his daughter after he got a big paycheck out of her. Kian understood why Jed took his granddaughter to Chicago to be raised in the Red Mansion. The Sirens’ line never produced a female offspring. Lucienne Lam was the first in thousands of years.
“Her mother is Russian trash,” spat a haughty seven-year-old as he approached the baby. The boy was the most promising candidate to be Siren.
“Your half-sister also has the Siren’s
blood,” the nanny said.
“She’s an abomination!” the boy shouted.
“Be nice, master,” said the nanny.
The surrounding family members looked surprised that the timid nanny stood up to defend this baby to the candidate. Kian watched the little scene with his usual blank mask. He wouldn’t take sides. He had stayed neutral and turned down all offers to support any of the twelve candidate clans. They wanted his resources, military skills, and influence with the Siren. Kian’s stony expression shifted to relief when he became aware of Jed’s arrival. He moved like an arrow. In mere seconds, he was at the Siren’s side, amid three of his guards.
At sixty-one, the Lams’ leader exuded power and control and could easily pass for forty-five. Some said the Siren’s power preserved him as it had all Sirens before him.
The courtyard quieted, except for the baby’s outraged cries.
“Hey,” Jed stood before the girl and clapped his hands to get his granddaughter’s attention. “You were fed, weren’t you? So what’s the matter, Lucienne?”
Lucienne snapped her attention to the powerful man. Wearing an encouraging smile, Jed opened his arms. She regarded him a moment longer, then brushed his hand aside. She locked her brown eyes on Kian, probing him, and stretched her chubby arms.
The parents of the candidates could barely contain their glee—the girl had ruined her chance to bond with the Siren by openly rejecting him.
Kian felt sorry for the baby, but she wasn’t his responsibility. His shoulders stiffened and he was about to make a quick exit. But the nanny immediately passed the squalling infant to him. As soon as Kian took the girl, she stopped sobbing.
“Why didn’t you take her earlier,” Jed asked, expressing his obvious displeasure toward his surrogate son, “so she would stop screaming like a hellion?”