Otherworld Tales Volume 1, Page 2

  Iris jerked her gaze away from the turkey to stare at Hanna. “Excuse me? I may have my own house but this kitchen is still—”

  But we were saved from a fight over territory as Delilah shoved her chair back and stumbled to her feet. Fixated on the turkey, a strange, bemused look flickered across her face.

  Oh hell, I knew that look! The turkey, meanwhile, was strutting around the room, puffing out his chest, his feather tails were spread wide. Which mean he was getting huffy. And a pissed-off turkey was a pain in the ass.

  “Delilah! No—don’t!” But I was too late.

  Within the blink of any eye, Delilah shifted. One moment my 6’1” sister was standing there. The next moment, a fluffy golden tabby appeared. She promptly went bounding after the bird.

  Unimpressed, the turkey lunged at Delilah, narrowly missing her with his beak. Roz tried to grab him from behind and the turkey let out a loud gobble and viciously punched a hole in the incubus’s hand.

  “Motherfucker!” Roz jerked his hand away. At that moment, Menolly pushed her way around the table. She made a leap for the turkey, but Delilah was in mid-pounce, and the next moment, the two of them collided and went down, Menolly getting an arm full of fur and razor blades. Startled, Delilah tried to claw her way out of Menolly’s grasp.

  The chaos increased as the kitchen door opened and Nerissa and Chase entered the room. The turkey, seizing his chance, bolted for the open door, throwing Nerissa off guard. She fell against Chase, who caught her, but in doing so, he backed into Hanna, and the tray of biscuits went flying into the fray. The turkey, now caught on the back porch, was hissing and gobbling, stirring for a fight.

  “Enough!” I cautiously put down the last of the pies I was holding, trying to make sure it was well away from the edge of the counter. But nobody was listening. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I slipped out into the hall, grabbed my purse, then dashed out the front door and raced around back of the house. The rain and wind were whipping up a storm and by the time I got there, I was soaked through. But, as I yanked open the door to the back porch, the turkey shot through the opening like a bullet out of a gun. I ducked out of his way he raced into the storm. The next thing I knew, Delilah was headed for the door and I slammed it shut before she escaped. A thunk on the other side of the door told me she’d hit her head.

  Standing there, dripping wet, I listened to the shouts and turmoil coming from within the kitchen. Fuck it. At the very least, we’d need another turkey, preferably one that was dead. Hoisting my purse over my shoulder, I headed for my car.

  The turkey let out one last gobble. Turning around, I watched him, an evil gleam in his eye shimmering as he was caught in the light coming from the house.

  “You’re lucky, sucker. I’d get a move on, if I were you, before you have a dragon, a puma, a panther, and a pissed-off house sprite after you.”

  As if he understood me, the turkey cocked his head, then turned and ambled into the forest. I jumped in my car and headed to the supermarket. Just another typical D’Artigo Thanksgiving.

  A Ghost in the House

  This story takes place before Samhain, before Harvest Hunting. It is from Camille’s point of view…

  “WHAT’S THAT?” I whirled around, once again sure I heard something behind me. But there was nothing there. The past few hours, I’d been sure something was in the house, but the wards showed no intruders, and there didn’t seem to be anything out of kilter. Frowning, I glanced over at Menolly and Delilah. We were carving pumpkins for Samhain, and the entire kitchen was a mess of newspapers filled with bright orange guts and seeds.

  “I didn’t hear anything.” Delilah mumbled around a mouthful of Cheetos, her eyes crinkling. “But then again, I was watching the movie.”

  We’d moved one of the smaller TVs into the kitchen and were watching Gary Oldman-as-Dracula entice Winona Ryder into a clandestine affair. Even Menolly had to admit, he had his charm, though we all knew Dracula wasn’t really like that. While we’d never met the vamp personally, the scuttlebutt had it that he was an egomaniacal bloodsucker with a narcissus complex. There was a reason he gave vampires a bad reputation.

  “I never understood the appeal.” Menolly stabbed one of the pumpkins and began sawing away at the top.

  “What about Roman?” I asked, repressing a smile.

  “Dracula is no Roman, believe me.” But she laughed, and then hopped off the counter. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to call Nerissa to find out when she’s coming home.”

  “Camille, can you hand me the Sharpies?” Delilah was drawing on one of the gourds, and doing a pretty good job of it. Maggie was sitting beside her, happy as a clam, scribbling away with a fat pencil on a piece of paper.

  I reached for the bag of pens and stopped as something brushed past my hand. What the…? The touch was soft, but definitely there. And there was something familiar about it. At first I thought it might be Misty, my ghost kitty, but she was off in the living room, playing with Roz, chasing the red dot toy we’d bought for Delilah.

  Maggie let out a mooph as Delilah picked her up and moved her to the side. Hanna opened the oven door, and Delilah hurried over to help her extract a batch of cookies from the oven. Peanut butter, chocolate chip, by the smell.

  “Don’t you let me see you with a face full of molten chocolate, Delilah!” Hanna might be strong, but Delilah’s desire for hot cookies won out as she grabbed one, darting around Hanna to get it. Hanna let loose with a stern scolding in her native dialect, and I returned my focus to the pumpkin I was carving.

  I was doing my best to design a dragon but regardless of all my efforts, the damned thing was looking more like a bedraggled bat. My talent with the carving tool wasn’t much better than my talent for punching bad guys.

  A few minutes later, Menolly returned, frowning. “Well, fuck. Nerissa has to work late. I wish she could get home before it gets too dark, but that’s not going to happen.” She paused, looking around. “Where’s Maggie?”

  I sat up. “Delilah has her—Kitten, where’s Maggie?”

  Delilah pursed her lips. “I put her on the ground by the table. Isn’t she still there?”

  I glanced under the table to Delilah’s side, but there was no Maggie. “No. Where is she?”

  Of course, we immediately went into panic mode. Maggie couldn’t have gone far, and the kitchen door was closed, but…

  “The front door! Is it open?”

  Maggie was learning how to open doors and drawers, and we were watching her all the time now because she was thoroughly into that inquisitive toddler stage. She’d be stuck there for some time. Gargoyles grew very slowly so we had probably a good decade before she grew out of it. And decades after that before she remotely reached puberty.

  I hurried to the front door, but it was still locked.

  “She couldn’t have gotten out through here. I’ll check the living room!” As I headed for the living room, Delilah shrieked. Running full tilt into the kitchen, I found her staring at the floor. Maggie’s favorite stuffed bear was lying there.

  “What’s wrong? Why did you scream?”

  “The bear! I swear, I saw it floating in the air.” She stared at it, eyes wide. “I know I saw it—it dropped right as you came in.”

  “Did you see it, Menolly? Hanna?” I turned to them. Both shook their heads.

  “I was checking the bathroom to see if Miss Maggie was there.” Hanna walked over to the bear and picked it up. “This was on the table with her last I saw.” She headed toward the back of the house. “I’ll just check my room.” Maggie slept there with her at night, in her crib.

  “Nothing out on the back porch.” Menolly cocked her head. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Come quickly!” Hanna’s voice echoed from her bedroom and we raced to join her.

  There, in the crib, lay Maggie, fast asleep. A faint shimmer sparkled near the bed, and as we watched, the bear floated out of Hanna’s hand,
through the air.

  “Who…what…?” Delilah took a tentative step forward, then hesitated.

  I pushed past her and cautiously made my way over to the crib, the others following me. I stopped right before reaching the sparkling lights.

  “Who are you? What do you want with Maggie?” I was ready to go toe-to-toe with any ghost who might be seeking to harm our little girl. But then, Menolly gasped. I turned to see her pointing at the crib, a spark of recognition on her face. Delilah and Hanna were wide-eyed too.

  “Look. Camille…look.” Delilah’s voice was hushed.

  I slowly turned back around. There, leaning over Maggie’s crib, stood a large, doe-eyed gargoyle. She was a woodland gargoyle, with calico fur just like Maggie. A soft, sad light filled her eyes, and her silky fur waved in the astral wind. She gazed at me, as the bear floated down to snuggle beside our girl. It was then that I noticed the resemblance.

  “You’re Maggie’s mother, aren’t you?” I wondered if she could hear me. But, as she smiled and nodded, I realized that she was dead.

  “We’re taking care of her as best as we can.” Delilah slowly moved closer.

  “We hope you approve.” Menolly gave her a guarded smile, and the gargoyle smiled back.

  She turned back to the crib, and with a ghostly hand, reached down to stroke Maggie’s face. Sound asleep, our little gargoyle softly giggled, and then turned over to hug her bear. Maggie’s mama gave us one last look. Mingled with the sadness, we could see relief, and tears of joy.

  “You can come visit her any time you want,” I said. “You’re welcome here, you know.”

  She raised one hand, nodded again, and began to fade away. As the light of her aura grew fainter, I thought I could hear her say, “Thank you. Please, take care of my baby.”

  “We will,” I promised. “We will.”

  First Touch

  From Rozurial’s point of view, First Touch takes place between Shadow Rising and Haunted Moon…

  A CREAKING WOKE him up. He became aware of the noise as he began to reach the very edge of consciousness. Then, as sleep departed, rolling back like a wave, the sound grew louder, penetrating the last fog that separated Rozurial from the waking world.

  As he opened his eyes, he had to stop for a moment. For the hundredth time, or perhaps the thousandth—he had to let himself catch up. Had to remember who he was and how he had become the man he was now.

  His dreams often took him home to his childhood, before Dredge destroyed his family. Or they swept him away to the idealistic days of his marriage where Fraale and he lived in love. Fraale, the only woman who had ever fully won his heart.

  A moment after waking, his heart would slow down, and he’d remember what had taken place during the long centuries of his life. And he’d remember how he’d become an incubus and once again curse Zeus and Hera.

  But now, the sound was foremost in his mind. He listened. Whatever it was, it beat a steady cadence, like footsteps falling in an empty hallway.

  The studio had been divided into bedrooms—there were four, one of them empty. Roz claimed one, Vanzir another, Shamas the third. Roz’s bed was decked out with thick bedclothes, including a heavy comforter that was quilted and inviting. His room was replete with pictures of his adopted family: Camille and Delilah. He wanted a photograph of Menolly, but vamps couldn’t take photos. So he’d added one of Iris. Dear Iris, who he had a mad crush on, but knew he could never have.

  As the sound echoed again, this time from the common room, Rozurial slid from beneath the comforter, softly edging toward his duster which he kept near the bed. Everyone joked about his arsenal, but he knew they appreciated the weaponry when the shit hit the fan. And truth was, he only felt comfortable when he was armed to the teeth. He’d been a mercenary and bounty hunter far too long to ever feel comfortable unarmed.

  A moment later, he slid into the duster, covering his boxers, and tiptoed toward the door. All the time, the noise continued, the low fall of steps, pacing evenly, never varying.

  It could be Vanzir, or Shamas, of course, but in his heart he knew it wasn’t. There was something out there, all right. Someone—or some thing. With all they had been facing lately, with all the ghosts they’d fought, Roz wouldn’t have been surprised to find one hitching a ride home.

  He leaned against the wall next to the door, his hand on the handle. Then, taking a deep breath, he yanked it open, leaping out into the living room, long dagger ready.

  There, pacing the floor, was Hanna, and the front door of the studio was wide open. The woman was from the Northlands, she was sturdy and strong, pretty in a plain way, with the clearest eyes he’d ever seen. But right now, she appeared unaware of him, her face a mask of fear. Roz lowered his blade, then slipped off his duster. She was sleepwalking, so he took care to be as silent as he could as he padded softly to her side.

  Hanna didn’t wake. She paced blindly, murmuring something beneath her breath. After a moment, Roz was able to make out what she was saying.

  “Kjell, can you forgive me? Please, forgive me, my son. Please, understand why I did what I did.” Her voice cracked, full of tears, but the look on her face said it all: strained and lost, in search of something to quell her guilt.

  Rozurial knew what had happened. Camille had told them, once she was capable of talking about her ordeal. She’d told them how Hanna had helped her escape Hyto’s evil lair. How Hanna had tended to her wounds, had helped Camille cope with the aftermath in the wake of the torture sessions the crazed dragon had put her through. And finally, Camille had told them how Hanna had saved her own son by ending his life. There had been no other choice, but everybody knew she carried the stone of that memory around her neck.

  And now, apparently, guilt and regret were driving Hanna out of her bed, into a waking dream.

  Roz encircled her shoulders with his arm, and led her into his room. She quieted at his touch, and as he tucked her into his bed, she let out a soft sigh and fell into a deep sleep.

  That night, Rozurial sat by her side, holding her hand as she slept. He could feel her need. She was lonely. She’d lost her husband, her children, and her home. She’d followed her conscience and it landed her in an alien land, far from where she started. As he reached out to brush a stray hair from her forehead, it occurred to him that they had a great deal in common. They had both lost everything and everyone they loved, and both of them carried memories of the torture and death of their families.

  At that moment, Hanna opened her eyes and pulled back, startled. But as her gaze fell on his, Roz leaned down to gently press his lips to hers. Hanna hesitated a moment, then she opened her arms, and welcomed him in.

  A Crackle of Flames

  This scene—from Delilah’s point of view—takes place shortly before Autumn Whispers…

  SHADE HAD KINDLED the bonfire in the fire pit and now we sat around the flames, watching them crackle and pop as they spit their way up the wood. The night was cool and leaves were deserting the trees, caught up in the whirl of the wind. It was clear for once, and stars littered the sky overhead, sparkling in the chill of the mid-October evening.

  I fiddled with the ring on my finger, the smoky quartz hadn’t come off since I’d first accepted it and now it was like a part of me—it was a part of my nature and bound me to Shade in ways I still didn’t understand.

  He handed me a stick and the bag of marshmallows, and I impaled four of them, then held the candy over the flames, catching the sugar alight. I watched the marshmallows char and bubble up, and then pulled my bounty back, blowing out the flames. I always bit into them too fast, always ended up burning my mouth, and this time I told myself I’d wait. But the scent was too tempting and, once again, I had a mouthful of molten sugar and fanned my tongue.

  Shade laughed. “You never learn, do you, Delilah? But his eyes were warm and I knew he was teasing me. He seldom called me sweetie, or love, or honey—almost always my name, though he did call me Kitten like
the others. Or when he was in the mood for sex, he’d call me Pussycat.

  I shrugged. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.” I took another bite, but the candy had cooled enough and this time, I happily finished it off.

  We were down by Birchwater Pond, where we’d installed picnic tables and the fire pit and a covered shelter. Tonight, Shade and I had felt the need for some privacy, other than in our rooms, so we’d decided to spend the evening here, under the shadow of the night.

  This was our time. Autumn, the season of our master, The Autumn Lord. Hi’ran was strong with us tonight, looming like a great shadow of fire and smoke. I could feel him in the trees, in the flames, in the very air with its chill tang that bit into the skin ever so slightly.

  “He’s here.” I glanced at Shade.

  “I know. He’s watching us. He’s watching the world. There’s something afoot and the Harvestmen are alert.”

  “Samhain is coming—perhaps that has something to do with it?” The season of death was upon us, the season of the Witch, the season of the cauldron. Camille’s season, with her death magic. Menolly’s season—the time of the vampire. And now…now that I was a Death Maiden, my season, too. We lived in a world of darkness and flame, but it was comforting as well as melancholy.

  Shade closed his eyes, leaning back to listen to the wind. After a few minutes he shook his head. “This is not in the natural order of things. I sense something approaching.” He scooted closer to me and draped his arm around my shoulders. His skin, the color of a strong latte, blended into the night, and his honey-amber hair gleamed under the pale starlight.

  I reached out, placed my lips against his, and gently kissed him. Then, he was holding me close, pulling me into his embrace, his mouth fastened against mine. I slid off the bench onto the ground, pulling him down with me, and there, against the wet grass, in the light of the flames, I pulled off my jacket and shirt, as he tugged against the snaps on my jeans.