[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  Even though she knew she shouldn’t, the thought of Anne’s relationship with Emory worried her. If Anne loved Emory, why would she marry Garret?

  Petra bolstered up the nerve to ask something she’d wanted to know for a long time. “Anne,” she said. “How do you know Rohan and Emory?”

  Anne selected a pair of breeches and held them up. “I have always known Rohan,” Anne said. “He introduced me to Emory a few years ago.” She paused. “I have never shared this, but Emory reminds me of an uncle I had when I was little. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Because Emory, if anything, is younger than me.”

  Petra reached into her purse and pulled out her panties and bra. They’d been washed and unworn since her arrival at the manor and they reminded her of her other life. She turned her back to Anne, stripped down and put them on. When she turned around, she saw Anne’s gaze flinch away, like she didn’t want to be caught staring.

  “This is what we wear in my village,” Petra explained.

  Anne blushed and studied her shoes.

  Petra looked down at the lacy bra and panties. They were modest by 2014 standards and probably shocking to Anne. To Petra, they felt good, infinitely more comfortable than 1614 underwear. Petra considered a large, ugly jacket made of smelly wool. Maybe smelly could be useful.

  “Where did Emory come from?” Petra asked, thinking of the maps in his cottage. She put on a pair of well-worn and loose breeches and tucked them into the baroness’ boots she’d borrowed. Then, she rolled the sleeves of the cotton work shirt and shrugged into the wool coat. Tugging at the belt holding up Anne’s father’s pants, she took a deep breath. It felt so good to move without the weight of skirts, petticoats and stays.

  “All I know is he is a friend of Rohan.” Anne put on a felt hat and began tucking up her hair. “Are you sure of your plan?”

  “Cross dressing always seems to work in Shakespeare’s plays,” Petra said.

  “Shakespeare?” Anne asked. “You know of him? Have you seen his plays?”

  Petra started to say she’d read some of them, but then thought better of it. She didn’t know if his work had been published in 1614. “A few,” she said, squelching the familiar tug of homesickness before it sidetracked her.

  Maybe we should wait for nightfall, Petra thought, biting her lip because those hips refused to hide even with a long jacket.

  “Hold still,” Petra said, trying to a wrap a thin blanket around Anne’s waist. If she used the quilt to bind Anne’s breasts and thicken her waist, maybe it would give her the appearance of a fat man in an oversized coat.

  Petra fashioned a scarf about her neck. “Just keep your chin down and your hands in your pockets.” Petra gave Anne’s figure a doubtful glance, smiled, and nodded.

  Petra looked in the mirror. She’d make a good villain in a melodrama. All she needed was a mustache.

  “I still don’t understand how you’re going to cause a distraction,” Anne said moments later, as she followed Petra out the door.

  “You will,” Petra said, considering, for maybe the tenth time, showing Anne the phone. She simply didn’t want a long, impossible conversation on how her tiny phone sounded like it had an entire rock band inside. She’d have to explain what a rock band was, which could possibly lead to a discussion on electric guitars, and techno-pop. And no one could explain techno-pop.

  She handed Anne the vial of tincture. “Ready?”

  20

  The jail, or gaol, was used for detention, not for the punishment of criminals. It held those waiting trial and those found guilty and awaiting punishment. Sentences were usually whipping, flogging, or death. The detention period was short, which, in most cases, was not a good thing. The jail keeper usually kept his keys on his belt, and this was a good thing.

  —Petra’s notes

  The public house sat at the edge of the square. From the woods Petra could just make out the barred windows. Anne drew her to the other side of the building, where a guard sat on a stool in front of the door. He had a brown jug at his feet and a ring of keys on his belt. A dark cloud hovered, threatening rain.

  A few villagers walked up the street, on their way to market. No longer breakfast and not quite midday, the inn beside the jailhouse looked empty, although the innkeeper and his wife were probably inside preparing lunch. The bakery across the lane had pies in the window, and a fragrant smoke rose from the chimney stack. From inside came a scolding voice.

  A mean wind blew in, tossing leaves and branches. Undoubtedly it would be better to wait for night, but Anne said conviction and sentencing didn’t have to wait for a trial. And a storm waited for no one.

  What if they were caught? Chambers might want to put Anne behind bars, but would he risk turning Garret against him? Of course, as far as Chambers was considered, Petra was expendable.

  Anne lifted her loom mallet and gave Petra a wide eyed look as if to ask now what? Petra smiled nervously, and took her phone from her purse. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. I’m here to help, she reminded herself.

  Flipping open the phone, she scrolled through the options, and pressed a button. Barking dogs.

  The guard, a beefy guy not much taller than Petra but much heavier, looked in their direction, shifted in his chair, pushed back his hat, and closed his eyes. A dog in the street spun in circles, snout lifted for scent.

  Anne stared at Petra. Petra flashed her another brief smile and then returned to her phone. Moments later, Breaking Benjamin began to scream. Petra upped the volume and watched the guard dash into the woods.

  Anne jumped from behind the log to trip the charging guard and then hit him over the head with her mallet.

  Petra switched off the phone, dropped it and lunged for the keys as Anne whacked the guard again.

  “Let’s hide him behind that boulder.” Petra took one arm. Anne grabbed the other and they dragged him a few feet.

  “Hurry,” Anne urged, her mallet poised over the guard’s head.

  Keys in hand, Petra took off for the town square, holding the cloak tight to hide her face. The bakery still rang with scolding. Only a tailor, a round man with a gimpy walk, came to watch Petra throw the keys into the cell window.

  “Hey!” the tailor called, but Petra sprinted back into the woods, choosing a path that wouldn’t lead to Anne and the guard. Hiding behind a cedar, Petra watched the tailor hesitate at the edge of the woods. He scratched his head, and then, after a few moments, limped back to his shop, wiping his forehead from the exertion.

  Petra joined Anne in a thicket of alders. “The guard?” Petra asked.

  Anne drew the vial of sleeping potion from her pocket. “He won’t be waking soon.” She grabbed Petra’s hand, and they ran into the woods.

  Petra closed the cottage door and leaned against it, breathless. “You were brilliant!”

  Anne took off her hat, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “So were you!”

  “Hush,” Petra said, listening for something other than the lowing cow and singing birds. She thought she heard snapping twigs and heavy footsteps.

  “Quick!” Anne said, who must have heard also. She pushed Petra into her room. “Change your clothes!”

  But Petra had never dressed in the Countess’ clothes without Mary. “What about you?” she whispered.

  Anne threw on an apron over her pants and opened her shirt to unwind the cloths. Moments later someone pounded on the door.

  Petra disappeared into the bedroom before she heard the door screech open.

  “Rohan!” Anne shouted.

  Petra, halfway out of her breeches, called, “Welcome Sir Rohan!” She pulled on the pants.

  By the time she’d buttoned her shirt, Anne and Rohan were at the table, clearly plotting. They looked up when she entered, and stopped talking.

  Rohan stared, fighting a smile.

  “What?” she asked even as she realized her buttons were cattywampus.

  Rohan cleared his throat. “I do not think Emory would appr
ove of your involvement, although he may appreciate your revealing attire.”

  Revealing attire? She wore a pair of pants four sizes too big and a man’s cotton shirt. “I don’t care what Emory thinks,” she lied, cinching the belt of the breeches. “I’m not going to be left out. If it weren’t for me and Anne’s trusty hammer, you’d be growing mold in the town jail.”

  Rohan grinned. “I thought you’d say something like that.” He cocked his head. “Have you any other tricks?”

  A wave of realization hit her. “Plenty, but I’ll only share them if you promise we can help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Don’t toy with us, Friar Rohan,” Anne shook a finger at him. “Tell us immediately where is Master Emory.”

  Rohan looked at his toes.

  “Has he been captured by Chambers and the Earl?” Anne demanded.

  Rohan gave a small shake of his head.

  “He’s there; isn’t he?” Petra guessed. “He’s at Hampton Court.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, her mind spinning.

  Rohan tightened his lips and then spoke slowly, as if unsure of how much to reveal. “Chambers plan begins tonight. Emory is expecting me without a harem.”

  His implication was clear, but Petra wasn’t buying it. She looked at Anne and back at Rohan. “You can’t ditch us.”

  “Yes. You can’t leave us in a ditch or in a cottage, for that matter.” Anne nodded emphatically. “We are no harem.” She took off her apron and showed Rohan her brother’s baggy shirt.

  “You too, Anne?” Rohan said in mock despair.

  “Don’t try to leave us,” Petra said. “We will just follow.”

  Wind whistled through the trees, and rain splattered against the shuttered window. Cold seeped through the cracks of the door.

  “T’will prove a wild night,” Rohan said.

  “The storm will be vicious,” Anne agreed, but Petra didn’t think that that was what Rohan had meant. Anne secured the shutters as rain began to fall

  The damp barnyard smell seeped in, giving Petra an idea. “I want to try something,” she said.

  Anne and Rohan gave her curious looks.

  “It might not work, but if it did…I need sugar, no? Well then, honey crystals?”

  When Anne nodded, Petra studied the tapestries. “And dye, preferably orange and red.” Then she went to the window and looked at the barn. “And whiskey. And cow pies.”

  Petra dumped the contents of her purse on the table and picked up Zoe’s Girl Scout gadget. “And this.”

  The gadget had a pocket knife, spoon, compass and a tiny pair of scissors, but most importantly, a lighter. Petra flicked it, and a small blue flame shot up.

  Rohan and Anne gasped.

  “Just wait.” Petra sent a silent prayer of gratitude to Bill Nye the Science Guy and Mr. Manning, best chemistry teacher ever.

  21

  Hampton Court Palace sits on 59 acres. King Henry VIII had a court of over one thousand. At the palace he could feed and house them all and still have room for friends. Did King Henry have friends?

  —Petra’s notes

  “It’s enormous,” Petra breathed, catching sight of Hampton Court. The size of the palace overwhelmed her. “This is never going to work.”

  Rohan pulled the wagon beneath a thicket of alders as rain streamed through the dark leaves Petra prayed they were sheltered, if not from weather, then from sight. The horse nickered and shook his mane and the harness tinkled, a small sound blending in with the night noises, barely audible above the rain drip-dropping around them. Rohan swung out of the wagon and then held out a hand to help Anne.

  “Have faith,” Anne whispered to her as she jumped out of the wagon and then tugged her hat over her ears.

  “Happy up,” Rohan said to Petra as he held a hand to her. “We don’t need to ignite the entire palace, only where Chambers is sleeping.”

  Petra looked at the massive palace. “This place looks like it has hundreds of rooms.”

  “Thousands, actually,” Rohan said casually.

  Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed.

  “Don’t you see?” Petra said, waving her arms at the palace. “This is hopeless. It can’t work.”

  “My dear, heaven is on our side.” Rohan sounded as if he’d talked to heaven and personally orchestrated the lightning storm.

  Petra rolled her eyes and hunkered beneath the cape, but clothes provided little protection from the weather. How many years until the invention of plastic? No one had an umbrella or even a poncho. No Nyquil or Sudafed. Any of them could catch pneumonia. Or a million other life threatening diseases.

  In the coach house, Petra saw Garret’s carriage. Her heart twisted with worry. How could Anne marry someone she barely knew? Did she trust him? Did he sympathize with Chambers? Petra nodded at the carriage. “He won’t be happy to see you here, Anne” Petra said, pulling her hood so that it covered more of her face.

  Anne frowned at the familiar coach. “Emory won’t be happy to see you here either. Although,” she said with glistening eyes, “it is a very good plan.”

  Shifting her feet, Petra decided she wouldn’t think about Emory. All of her concentration needed to be focused on right here, right now. She contemplated the palace. The windows were shaded, but occasionally she saw silhouettes and shadows moving past like fleeting pantomimes.

  Straightening her shoulders, Petra took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

  Anne grabbed one hand, and Petra reached for Rohan with the other so they formed a chain. Petra squeezed Anne’s hand and Anne sent her a squeeze in return.

  Lightning flashed and lit upon a lone figure running through the courtyard.

  “Well done,” Rohan breathed. “Well done.”

  The man had a cape over his head and it flapped around him. He sprinted to the wagon and stopped short. Emory. Disbelief flickered across his face as his gaze traveled from Petra’s boots, up her thighs and rested on Anne’s father’s baggy shirt.

  Rohan held up his hands like a cop stopping traffic. “Before you say a word,” he said to Emory, “Lady Petra, blow your fire.” He handed her the flask of whiskey.

  She looked at him questioning and then, after a glimpse at Emory’s livid face, she pulled the gadget from her purse, took a mouthful of whiskey, ignited the lighter and spit the whisky. Flames shot five feet into the air.

  Rohan looked proud, Emory shocked.

  “Just one of many tricks!” Rohan crowed.

  “It’s actually Mr. Manning’s trick,” Petra told them, remembering the afternoon in the parking lot when the students had taken turns blowing fire. They’d used corn starch, but whiskey worked even better.

  When the blood returned to Emory’s face, he said to Rohan, “Despite her parlor trick, she cannot stay.”

  Rohan flexed his jaw. “She must.”

  Rain, like tears, trickled down Emory’s face. He groaned and flicked his gaze between Petra and Anne. “They have no place here.”

  “Oh, like this is your place?” Petra took a step forward and brushed the rain from her eyes.

  “You, I have no doubt, will prove a distraction.” It could have been a compliment, but it wasn’t. Emory stood in front of her and lowered his voice. “I cannot worry about your safety.”

  “Then don’t.” Petra studied Hampton Court. Moments ago she’d been sure the plan would fail, but with Emory’s disapproval egging her on, she itched to set the place on fire. Sort of.

  “Did you find Chambers?” Rohan asked Emory.

  Emory pointed to a window on the ground floor of the east side. “Unfortunately, the king and his men have left the residence.”

  Rohan, looked at his boots, his face pained. “We waited in vain.”

  Emory nodded. “The opportunity to expose the Earl, for the time being, has passed.”

  “The Earl?” Anne asked, her voice rising an octave.

  “The kegs?” Rohan asked.

  “In the cellar.” Emory spoke confid
ently. “There’s only one guard.”

  Rohan nodded and reached to the floor of the wagon and then tossed a coil of rope and a strip of cloth to Emory.

  “Are those for the guard?” Petra grimaced.

  Emory considered his weapons, a smile glinting in his eye, “They are for you, should you refuse to stay in the wagon.”

  “I’m not staying in the wagon.” She laughed and folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t do this without me.”

  Rain dripped off Emory’s nose. “We can, and we will.”

  “I bet you can’t do this,” Petra flicked the gadget and a small flame flickered.

  “And you don’t have this,” Anne held up her vial of sleeping potion.

  “They have proven to be exceptionally resourceful,” Rohan said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Emory’s shoulder. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps even heaven-sent.”

  Emory shot Petra a harsh look. “I do not see—” he began.

  Rohan laughed. “You will see, you will hear, and you will smell.” He gave Anne the whiskey, dye and the basket of cow pies. Anne gave him the vial.

  “God speed, my friends,” Rohan said, placing his hands on the small of their backs and giving each of them a push forward.

  When Emory tried to follow, a crack of thunder drowned out Rohan’s words. Petra knew they weren’t words that Emory wanted to hear. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Emory and Rohan argue as she hurried after Anne.

  Sloshing through mud, they crept to one side of the massive hall. Wind pulled at their clothes and spat rain in their faces, but it also masked the sound of their footsteps. Over the noisy storm, she heard her thundering heart.

  What was she doing here? When she’d first arrived in 1610 she’d had misgivings about being alone in the dark outdoors. But now, it was after midnight, and she held the makings of a bomb in her hands. A bomb! This wasn’t a shoot-em up movie or an episode of CSI where-ever. This bizarre situation was real and she knew the consequences were serious.