Author: fionagreywrites (Page 29 of 31)

The Old Gods Return

April 7, 2020 / fionagreywrites

In this week’s odd prompts challenge, Misha Burnett and I traded writing ideas. I suggested he detail why someone was both prickly and poisonous. He challenged me to explore the old gods’ return after a young girl is removed from a cult. However, I seem to have forgotten about the “twenty years later” part...

“Blast the rotting spots!” Savannah swore, and glanced sideways to see if anyone had overheard her. She tossed the book aside onto the wooden plank floor.

Her brown eyes met Hugh’s, across the porch steps. Her shoulders slumped for a moment before remembering no one here would care, in this strange neighborhood filled with cookie-cutter houses and bread with no personality trapped in shiny, colorful plastic bags.

“Why do you say that?” Hugh asked. “You say it like it’s a swear.” His eyes were half-shut under long lashes she envied.

Savannah turned her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. His face was blank, but she thought his core was tense. Perhaps he was interested after all. Perhaps he was bored. She couldn’t tell.

“It is a swear,” she muttered.

He closed his eyes but didn’t move away. “I don’t understand it.”

“Everyone tells me not to talk about it, but nobody will tell me why.” Savannah leaned back against the railing and tried to imitate his laid-back posture. She breathed in the scent of new grass and damp earth.

He sighed. “So tell me.”

She glanced up over her shoulder. The back door was open with only a screen to stop the words she was tired of holding inside, but she didn’t care anymore.

“You know that I’m a foster kid.” It wasn’t a question. They were all foster kids here.

He nodded.

“My parents were part of a big church. In that compound with all the buildings. Mama Rosa says it’s a cult,” she said.

The carefully pronounced words felt odd in her mouth. A cult meant bad, meant weird, meant crazy. This was the crazy place, with its trimmed unnatural hedges and carefully planted gardens, not a weed found between the perfect, uncracked sidewalks, covered with pastel chalks.

Hugh opened his eyes. “So?”

“So, it’s a swear in the church,” Savannah said. She glared at him and frowned. She gave up on copying his cool don’t-care pose and kicked a stubby leg out over the porch stairs.

He was unfazed. “Okay, so it’s a swear. Why were you swearing?”

“This history book doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t match anything I ever learned before. I was a good student until I came here.”

She felt her eyes starting to water and stared out into the yard with its too-perfect leafy green tree, fresh with early spring buds. So what if the swing hanging from a thick branch was fun? It wasn’t home, filled with the smell of sourdough bread baking and the sounds of chanting.

Savannah tried not to blink and failed. Water dripped slowly down the right side of her face. She pressed closer to the railing and rubbed her face against the round wooden pillar, hoping Hugh wouldn’t see.

He grunted. “Least you can read it.”

She wouldn’t acknowledge his weakness, but was grateful he’d shared. Foster kids had to stick together. She’d been here only two weeks, but even she knew that.

Something moved in the woods behind that perfect tree and the rope and tire swing. “Hey, you see that?”

“What is that?” Hugh sat up. “Something yellow. Big, too.”

Branches crackled as the big yellow blob emerged from the woods, crashing through the undergrowth.

“Oh, sweet holy pudding,” Savannah breathed. She jumped to her feet.

Hugh rose more slowly. “Was that another swear?”

“They were right,” she said, jumping up and down.

“Who was right?”

Savannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Her bare feet danced over the worn wooden porch. “My real parents were right. Mama Rosa can call it a cult all she wants, but they were right!”

Hugh backed toward the door. “Uh-huh.”

She stepped down and spread her arms wide. “Hail and blessings, holy giant banana!”

Thesis Cat has been protesting the lack of attention this degree has caused since she was a kitten.

Night Mission

March 29, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week, my dad got in on the Odd Prompts writing challenge fun and suggested the phrase “fast food for dragons.” I can’t wait to see what Leigh Kimmel comes up with! My prompt came from nother Mike, who suggested I explore a mondegreen misunderstanding…

They ran, legs burning, packs heavy on shoulders and against backs. The first few miles were easy. Boots thudded over the ground without care for the prints left behind, soft turf churned to mud by the time the last of the troopers passed through the terrain. The natural light of a mottled and glowing full moon was all they used for guidance.

Panting grew louder and ragged as the miles lengthened, footsteps no longer striking in rhythm as the terrain changed from uneven fields to unending hills. Both were covered in thistles and long grasses, burrs clinging silently to bootlaces as they could not to uniformed legs.

The men ran on, speed varying, each striving to chase and better the Sergeant solidly shadowed in front of them all, unceasing and unsparing, always leading, always forward. The path was new; the pattern was not.

The Sergeant held up a fist. The men slowed and gathered around in a semi-circle, most leaning forward toward the older man. Four automatically set up in outward-facing positions, trusting their comrades to pass on the message later. The sentries stood still in the gloom, studying their dim surroundings in shining white light, streaks of camouflage paint shadowing their faces.

Earthy spices wafted up from crushed buds and blossoms beneath their boots. The Sergeant’s voice grumbled low in the watchful night, less disruptive than a whisper. “Twenty minutes. Spell the sentries every five. Quiet talk, ye ken? No fires. Then we’re back on’t, lads, and off t’ the target.”

The men nodded and started to disperse, halting movement with a final, muted warning. “Remember, we stop five minutes out from the target for a quick mission brief. Then we exfil out th’ other path. Look over th’ map again if ye need.”

Logan moved toward a small boulder, an indeterminate shade of grey in the moonlight. Shrugging off his pack, he leaned against the cool stone, relishing the feel after the run. He closed his eyes and heard some others head his way.

“Logan,” a voice to his left murmured.

“Aye, Brodie.” The rest would have been better with peace and quiet.

“Been holdin’ onto a question for a bit now.”

He sighed. “Ask, Brodie.”

The other man cleared his throat. “When we left camp…did the Sarge say to get your arse in gear, or to get your arson gear?”

Logan’s eyes snapped open. The moonlight seemed impossibly bright. “Do you mean to tell me, soldier,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “that you didn’t know and didn’t think it was important enough to ask before now?”

“I –“ Brodie tried to speak, but Logan cut him off.

“We’ve been running for hours. Not far from the target.” Logan glared at the other man, watching him pale even under the camouflage streaks of paint.

He shook his head. “You howlin’ dobber. Get over to Sarge and figure it out.”

Logan closed his eyes again, keeping them cracked just enough to verify the other man was headed for the Sergeant.

“That was interesting,” a new voice said softly. “Sarge didn’t tell us what the training mission is yet, did he?”

“Aye, Callum,” Logan said wearily. “You heard him. This training’s about adaptation and improvisation. Short notice stuff.”

“His accent’s so thick, it really was hard to tell what he did say.”

The pregnant silence dropped for a few moments.

“I dinna have a clue either,” Logan said finally. He knew Callum wouldn’t let him get a few minutes of sleep until he answered.

He tipped his head back against the smooth rock. “But tell me, were you so daft as to not grab your arson gear whilst simultaneously getting your arse in gear?”

And now, Thesis Cat would like to remind us all that “almost done” is not the same thing as “done.”

Night Sharks

March 27, 2020 / fionagreywrites

John grunted as he set down his pack. Hours of marching had taken its toll, but the wagons had room only for the most basic and necessary supplies, not soldiers.

He tried not to think of how they would soon also carry the wounded back to the border lines.

Looking around, he studied the area. Yes, the scouts were correct. This would do for a site to build a rough fort, if they could last long enough to create defenses from those too-heavy supplies.

Strategically located by fresh water, the area would extend to include the calm bay they’d wearily marched past. Barges could be used to resupply and send messages, but only once the company’s protection extended to ensure materiel didn’t reach the enemy instead.

His second in command, Lionel, bobbed a cursory salute as he approached. “Good location,” he said. “Hidden just out of their normal scouting range, but within marching distance once the men get rested up.” Lionel shook his head. “Criminal, really, how shortsighted they are. I’d tear those scouts a new one.”

“Good thing they’re on the other side, then,” John replied.

“Can’t say I mind, but I wonder what we’re missing. This location is too perfect. Why not even an outpost here?”

Leaning down, Lionel pulled up a flowering plant common across the clearing. “Wild garlic and leeks to make tonight’s rations tasty. Plenty of them around, with no disturbances.” He dusted off the bulb. “What lives nearby that scares everyone off collecting valuable seasonings?”

John nodded. “We’ll keep a stiff watch tonight.”

“Aye, Captain Ribeye.”

John considered the landscape a moment more. “Lieutenant Flank.”

“Sir?”

“The commercial sailors’ maps used to say ‘here be monsters’ as warnings.”

Lionel shrugged. “I’ve never heard of a ground equivalent, but I’ll see if we have any civilian maps on hand.”

“I’ll get the abatis work groups started.” The leader frowned at the serene woodland view that was causing him such anxiety. “Camp layout’s standard, no need to get in the way there.”

An uneasy pause lingered before John broke the silence. “Check the maps and get the usual trenches going, then. I’ll join one of the abatis ribwork teams,” he said. “Do the Shanks good to see leaders taking part in keeping them safe, what?” His voice was relentlessly chipper, tension around his eyes betraying his thoughts.

Lionel glanced sideways at his leader. “Game faces on, Sir. The men feel the same unease. Let’s not make it worse with validation.” Their faces mirrored unease before settling into bland masks.

*****

Hours later, John headed for the river with the other officers, eager to wash away sweat from days of marching and building temporary defenses.

The Brisket Corps of Engineers had a well-deserved reputation for exactness in stake placement, but it was worth the work. He was confident the sharpened ribs surrounding the campsite would hold, the abatis bound with tendons and catgut. It was worth the cost in speed to bring the supply wagons with them, and he didn’t have to blunt his sword’s edge trying to cut bone.

John thought about his orders as he splashed in the water. Tomorrow the company would shore up the few weak points and begin permanent construction. When the men were rested, they would begin sending out scouts to study Fort Bacon’s defenses.

The locale had a fearsome reputation, but no one seemed to know why. Few returned from forays this far into the wilderness. Fewer still were willing to talk about their experiences.

Captain John Ribeye wished with forlorn hope that he knew what this peaceful glen’s secrets were.

The next morning, he woke to the smell of sizzling wild garlic and onions along with an improved field breakfast. As he emerged from his tent, Lt Flank handed him a biscuit. “Sergeant Round’s delighted to have the time and space to make what he calls real food, Sir. We reap the bennies. Eggs’ll be right up.”

“And we found the coffee from where it got stuck beneath all the ribs in the wagon,” said a blissful voice to his left. The officer’s face was hidden behind a steaming clay mug.

“Morning, Lieutenant Kabob. Any issues in the night?” John yawned, reaching for his own mug as the officer extended it.

“Negative, Capt’n. Nothing reported. I took the deep night shift.” Kabob lowered his voice. “But everyone’s still uneasy. Best anyone can come up with is it’s too quiet.”

John sat, frowning. “Let’s keep them busy.”

Lt Flank brought over a map, much creased and torn at the edges. John gently touched the yellowed paper. “Surprised I didn’t see this in all the other papers,” he said.

“Wasn’t from there, Sir. One of the Shanks had it. Said he an uncle had come this way, years back. Wouldn’t tell him much about it, but got real sad and then drunk when he heard the orders had come to march south. Stuffed this in his hand on the way out the door, bottle still in hand.”

Curiosity piqued, John leaned forward to study the aged paper. “I can’t tell if that’s an ink spill or a bloodstain.”

“Private Chuck said his uncle came back missing a few chunks, so I’d go with bloodstain. Hold it up to the light and it’s easier to see.” Lionel shrugged. “Best we have, I’m afraid.”

“Not an issue,” John said. He leaned back in his chair, squinting in the scattered morning light. “Here lie…night something? Night sharks? Or maybe it’s noise shades. That doesn’t make sense.”

Lt Kabob brought over a plate of the promised eggs and another biscuit. “Better than we’ve been able to tell. We’ll try later when we’re away from the trees more and into stronger light.” He traded the plate for the map. “Looks like some circles, too, or maybe the letter O repeated.”

“Unless it’s a representation,” Lionel added. He pushed his hat back. “Could be a drawing of something. We just don’t know what.”

“Hmm,” John replied, mouth full of biscuit. He swallowed. “Well, that fort won’t attack itself. Let’s get started on improving the defenses and getting things ready for your Sirloin Platoon. The scouts will be itching to go soon enough.”

*****

Days later, Fort Round was slowly turning from a field fortification to a more permanent abode. Assuming the attack went well, John thought grimly. They wouldn’t be here much longer if it didn’t. The scouting missions had already failed several days in a row as injuries in Lt Flank’s Sirloin Platoon racked up.

Private Tip raced up, heading from what they’d decided to call Porterhouse Bay. “Sir! Mail delivery just came in. Orders from High Command.”

The Shank slapped the envelope into suddenly sweaty hands. John gazed at the familiar wax seal. The cow and crossed swords shone against battered paper. He took a deep breath, broke the blue wax, and ripped open the envelope.

Captain Ribeye,

Congratulations on establishing Fort Round. We shall need that fortification if we are to win this war, though we still believe the enemy does not suspect our attack.”

“That’s a relief,” he muttered. John pretended not to notice Lt Flank casually inching closer as he read on.

However, we are highly disappointed to hear of your officer’s lackadaisical efforts to scout the surrounding area. Sirloin Platoon begins to disgrace itself with its inability to conduct reconnaissance, and we shall have none of their nonsense.

John froze his expression, hardly daring to breathe. He’d been clear in his message that the scouts had been injured in the process of attempting the scouting runs. Each had been injured while trying to press through toward Fort Bacon, eleven furlongs to the south.

He’d called them back to because field scouts also served as message runners. The men had taken to greeting the forest, assuming something was watching them as the source of their unease. He wanted to have runners in reserve.

Your overabundance of caution is noted. High Command orders you to press the attack within the week, with or without your scouting runs, or be removed as Captain of Roast Company.

The trees spun around him as he reread the threat.

“Captain?” Lionel sped up his approach.

“I deeply regret to inform you that I must resign my commission,” John said, so softly only the lieutenant could hear him. He straightened, clearing his throat, and looked at the Shanks watching. “Shall we adjourn to the command tent?”

Lt Flank placed a hand briefly on his Captain’s shoulder before heading to gather the other officers.

“Keep your voices low,” Chief Marrow said. “Everyone knows something is going on just from the orders arriving. I’ll take care of Private Tip’s mouth later with some appropriate tenderizing discipline. Now, what’s going on?”

Captain Ribeye didn’t respond for a few moments. “I still don’t understand what’s wrong with this place, but the longer we are here, the less likely we are to make it back home.”

“Then what’s this nonsense about resigning?” demanded Lt Flank.

John sat with a heavy thump. “I’ve been ordered to take Fort Bacon within the week. Without scouting runs to see if we need more supplies, men, weapons, or even what the place looks like. Closest we’ve gotten is finding the rapids prevent a river approach.”

Marrow scratched his head. “Some of the men aren’t sure it exists. Think we’re out here on a boondoggle.”

Snorting, John shook his head. “Excellent. We’re asking men to die for a myth. And they will die, without that reconnaissance. We don’t know what we’re up against. We certainly don’t understand the enemy or why they cut off supply lines and trade.”

Lt Kabob picked up the letter from where it lay on the command table and skimmed it in silence, before thumping it back onto the table. His eyes sparked with anger. “Did you even finish reading this? Someone who knew you wrote this letter. You can’t resign, or you doom us all.”

John furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

Joe Kabob thrust the paper toward him. “Did you not finish reading it?”

He skipped down to the middle of the page and gasped.

Understand that Captain Welldone eagerly awaits your commission in the event of your failure or resignation.

We await the joyous news of your success, and look forward to open supply lines once you have taken the enemy’s fortification.

He read the letter aloud slowly. Silence filled the tent.

“You’re right. I stopped reading after the impossible orders. There’s no need for this timeline, or to go charging headlong into danger.”

John shook his head again. “It’s a sneak attack and we’ve stayed hidden. The whole country has sufficient stores in warehouses to last several months before the supply route needs to be reopened, and we could use that time to negotiate a diplomatic solution or develop a new path.”

“You know Captain Welldone from the Sous Vide Academy, don’t you?” Lt Flank asked.

He considered his words carefully before deciding honesty was better than caution in this instance. “His reputation, like his family name, is well-earned. I will not subject you to his whims.”

“Yes,” John said, heart aching as he looked at his men. “Someone certainly knew me.”

Lieutenant Kabob began digging through the papers stacked on the captain’s field desk. “Then we do what we can not to die before we take that fort.” He pulled out the bloodstained borrowed map and a military version. “What do we know from how far the scouts got?”

“We can add in some good supply cache locations. There’s a cave and a hidden area under the biggest blackberry bush you’ve ever seen that would work as medical and resupply waystations,” Lt Flank said.

“We just haven’t gotten to the edge of the forest. Sirloin Platoon said it’s like the land itself fights them from getting through.” Lionel frowned at John’s words.

Chief Marrow leaned over the map. “There. That’s the only path the scouts haven’t tried.”

The men stared at the maps, yellowed and torn against fresh and crisp.

“Anyone else feel herded?” Lieutenant Flank asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “We either let Roast Company go to a sociopath, or we get going.” He stood up, picking up the letter. “Start gearing up. Prep the wagons for injured transport. The boat stays for emergency evacuation.”

“I’ll be in my tent composing a response to my father. There’s only one man who knows me this well.” As he walked toward the tent entrance, he added, “And figure out what that map says!”

*****

Captain John Ribeye eyed the white, wavy ground and hoped it was the last of a lingering fog. They’d spent two days slogging their way to Fort Bacon, capturing Outposts Chop and Ham along the way.

Lieutenant Kabob’s platoon had done well, but they’d gotten little intel from the captured Porkers manning the outposts. They’d been skinnier than he’d anticipated, uniforms baggy and ill-fitting, and poorly supplied by the state of the garrisons.

“Giggled, Sir,” Joe had reported after fights barely worthy of the name. He’d shaken his head. “Can’t say I understand it. And they said we wouldn’t until we saw it.”

John bit his lip, thinking about the past few days while he studied the rest of the scene.

“Send a runner up the river path to Filet Mignon,” he said in a low voice. Whispers carried far in weather like this. “High Command will want to know about this terrain as soon as possible.”

Lionel gave a sharp glance to the mapmaker crouched among the pines, sketching in quick, steady lines. The Shank nodded in return. Rolling the parchment and tucking it into a hardened leather case, he rose and faded back into thicker cover.

“Sir,” Lt Flank murmured. “Is your father that dead set on winning this senseless war, or is he trying to get you killed?”

John sighed. “Tell me what you see and if it makes any sense. That’s not snow. Not even close.”

“That field looks like mashed potatoes and you know it.” Lionel frowned. “No idea what that lumpy white stuff all over the hill is, but it’s terrible terrain for an attacking force.”

“Which we are.” He could hear the defeat in his voice.

Lt Flank tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Fort Bacon appears to have an actual moat. By the smell, it’s filled with gravy. Which is ridiculous, of course. That’s got to be a lot of stew they have on. Which means a lot of soldiers.”

“What did that map say?” He tapped his hand along his leg, trying to remember.

“Something about night sharks, Capt’n. Didn’t make sense.”

“Huh.” Something teased in the back of his mind, slipping away every time it got close. He squinted, hoping it would help.

Lionel frowned. “The fort’s flags look like actual hot peppers to you? All round but triangular and curling?”

“Here be night shades.”John paled and took a step back. “This is a trap.”

“Sir?”

“We’re not fighting the Porkers at all. Remember that guerrilla warfare band we studied at the Sous Vide Academy?”

“What about them?” Lionel’s eyes darted from side to side. He looked both confused and paranoid.

“The Nightshades already own that fort. And we are not the attackers.”

John strode back, Lionel following him.

“Lieutenant Flank. Lieutenant Kabob. Chief Marrow. Gather your men.” His voice rang out in the quiet, firm and decisive at last.

Captain Ribeye could feel his breath quickening. He knew what to do, no matter that his father would call it the coward’s option. He’d take saving his men over an artificial, Pyrrhic victory any day.

“We retreat immediately to Fort Round and the Porterhouse Bay area immediately. Be prepared for Nightshade attack. Go!”

A fork whizzed by his ear and embedded itself in the soft tree trunk.

He could hear the thunk of similar attacks nearby. Screams erupted from camouflaged soldiers hidden under cover of pines, bushes, and lingering fog.

“Fall back! Fall back!” John bellowed.

He looked around desperately. Flaming charcoal briquettes landed nearby, wafting smoke and the smell of searing meat into the air. Captain John Ribeye sucked in a breath and coughed, unable to see his troops ahead of him.

Behind him, the ground heaved, white ripples and peaks surging closer.

“Fall back! The potatoes are attacking!”

Happy Snacks

March 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week on Odd Prompts, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to tell us what’s hidden amongst the wildly patterned tiles. My prompt came from Becky Jones, who asked me to explain the horrifying sight of a dragon carrying a human.

Flemming scowled at her easel and bit her lip, letting out an unladylike snort. She didn’t know why the view wasn’t magically transposing itself onto the canvas. The view itself was exceptional, after all.

She stood on a stone balcony several hundred years old, with enough wear to make it nostalgic and feel like home but not enough that one had a sense of danger. The balcony itself had graceful pillars that arched, supporting a roof loosely woven of grapevines. Careful pruning of the natural lattice by the gardener meant filtered daylight shone through, perfect for midmorning painting.

Roses twined up the stone legs of Flemming’s distant ancestor, buds opening layers of shell-pink with centers of a pale yellow reminiscent of aged books. Their scent wafted sweet and floral from his endless watch over the stairs to the grounds below. The balcony’s ivory stone railing overlooked a view to the orchards, next to herb and vegetable gardens that were laid out with mathematical precision.

Beyond, a valley filled with shades of green now that the last of the morning fog had slowly disappeared, overpowered by gentle sunrays and soft light. Moving splotches of white sheep roamed in the distance, urged on by spotted dogs and the children deemed responsible enough to move past egg collection and message delivery duties. Mountains covered in a mix of towering evergreens loomed in the distance, jagged under an open azure sky. A deep blue river bisected the scene, its meandering path burbling and life-giving.

In short, Flemming could not ask for a more picturesque setting for her new hobby. It would, however, help if her new hobby would cooperate.

Palette in her left hand, she took an exaggerated step toward the canvas, currently filled with splotches of approximately the correct color in each location. Biting her lip, she extended an arm, paintbrush tapering to a blob of paint, and stabbed at the work. It left an emerald streak behind.

Baring her teeth in a rictus grin, she tilted her head and squinted luminous, faceted eyes toward the new addition. Yes, that was better. Extending the palette like a shield, she smashed the brush through the next color and continued, tail twitching merrily.

An hour later, she had both made progress on the painting and frightened one of the gardeners into fainting. And – Flemming stopped with a jerk that nearly put a mountain in the wrong place. She’d painted Giselle into the sky without meaning to do so, but with one horrifying addition.

She glanced up. Yes, there was her friend, winging her way inbound, presumably for the landing area near the statue of Great-Uncle Fjorinak.

Flemming hissed, and steam came from her ears. There was a human on Giselle’s back! An abomination, intolerable, an insult to all dragonkind. Her tail lashed rapidly against the stone floor, scales flashing in the filtered sunlight.

She tossed the palette aside. It landed against the balcony with such force it shattered into several pieces, smearing paint against the pale stone. Brush still in hand, she stomped over to the landing pad.

“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at her friend, and then drew in her breath, horror-struck.

Giselle looked at her miserably, thick rope twisted around her body. “This idiot tried to lasso me, Flem. Like a common cow. Not even from the good herd for feast days. Like the cull herd that always has at least one calf accidentally drown itself.”

“You’re not cull herd,” Flemming protested automatically, staring with unblinking amber eyes. Her paintbrush dangled loosely from her claws.

From Giselle’s crimson side, a human covered in metal banged her ribs with a sword. “Stop that, you little twerp,” she snapped.

“Did the human keep doing that while you were in the air?” Flemming asked curiously. “He must not want to live.”

Giselle snorted. “Well, I’ve brought you a snack, then. Get me out of these ropes, would you? And what were you doing when I winged in? You looked like you were fencing with a board.”

Flemming’s mouth gaped open with toothy grin, similar to the one that had caused the gardener to faint earlier. “I’ve taken up painting,” she said proudly.

The metal-clad human stopped banging on Giselle’s ribcage and turned his head toward the sapphire dragon. Flemming glared into the darkened visor. “Do you have opinions, human snack?”

“I’d love to see your work,” Giselle said warmly. “But after you get me out of these ropes. Flem, please.”

“Of course,” Flemming said. She set the paintbrush at the statue’s feet and moved over, slashing a claw at the ropes.

Giselle sighed in relief as the tangled ropes came free and piled at her talons.

Her free hand snagged the metal human’s shoulder as he got to his feet. She pushed him toward Giselle, claws digging into the pauldron with the creak of tearing metal. “Here’s your snack.”

“Our snack,” Giselle said. “You can have the head. Now, let’s see this painting –”

“Wait, wait, wait, hang on,” Marcus said, interrupting his older sister’s tale. “Dragons can’t paint. This whole story is ridiculous.”

“Of course they can,” Sarah insisted from her lofty eleven-year-old viewpoint. “They have the internet. She watched instructional videos.”

“Fine,” he said with a grumble, breaking off a piece of his cookie and leaving crumbs on the table. “Dragons can have art. But knights are s’posed to win.” Marcus stuffed the cookie in his mouth.

“Not from the dragons’ point of view,” Sarah pointed out primly. She eyed his crumbs with distaste and picked up her own gingerbread man, careful not to smudge the frosting.

He grabbed a second cookie and frowned up at her with grumpy brown eyes. “The knight’s not a snack.”

Sarah dunked her gingerbread man into a glass of milk head first. “Isn’t he?” She bit off the head before it could disintegrate and gave her little brother a toothy smile.

Marcus’ eyes lit up. Smashing the cookie down on the low table, he let out an earsplitting roar. “Let’s play dragon next!”

Kidnap & Cookies

March 17, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Gerald’s phone rang. He snatched it off the table he’d been staring at for the past hour, waiting dully for the call. He swiped his thumb and raised it to his ear, mouth suddenly dry.

He hesitated. “Damon?” His voice cracked on the second syllable. He stared at the mahogany surface’s relentless shine, faint lemon wafting from his housekeeper’s polish.

“Your son is fine,” a deep, mechanical voice echoed down the line. The voice was the nightmare of every parent who hadn’t been quite suspicious enough.

He clenched his free hand around the carved chair arm, trying to consciously loosen his grasp on the phone before it shattered through sheer willpower and frustration.

The voice said nothing. Its silence said everything.

“I want my son back,” Gerald said. He was proud that his voice didn’t quaver.

Maniacal, metallic laughter came booming through the line. “It’s good to want things.”

Gerald glanced up. Joe wasn’t just his business partner. He’d helped raise Damon after Lisa died in childbirth. The company wouldn’t have lasted this long without his advice and support. Joe was critical in a crisis, always knowing who to call. But this time, Joe shook his head and looked away.

“Listen carefully,” the modulated voice demanded. “You have until three o’clock. The bomb strapped to your son explodes then, unless you send ten million dollars to the following bank account.” The voice rattled off a number.

“We have hacked your phone. The timer is linked to it. Send the money if you want to see your son alive again. We will know.”

“No cops!” The phone beeped monotonously at him several times before Gerald realized the voice had disconnected.

Joe stared at the dark wooden floor. “This one’s weird, Gerald.”

He barely heard his friend. Blinking rapidly, he thought hard. “Three is only twenty minutes away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do it,” Joe said.

“He’s my son,” Gerald said fondly.

He looked up and saw Mindy, the housekeeper, hesitating in the entrance to the room. She held a plate of homemade cookies. Waving her in, he snagged a still-warm shortbread. The cookie broke into sandy pieces across his tongue. The flavor of butter filled his mouth.

“I’ve got it,” Gerald said. “The timer is linked to my phone. I just have to hack my phone and make sure it never reaches three P.M.”

Joe sighed, and slumped over the table. He stretched out a hand and Mindy pushed the plate toward him.

“Geohack it. Travel backward through time zones,” Joe suggested. He tapped a macaron against the blue plate, scattering grainy white desiccated flakes of coconut across the shining wood.

Mindy shook her head. “You’re overcomplicating it. Just break the phone.”

Damon peeked his head around the hallway entrance. “That only works if the kidnappers are telling the truth.”

“Huh,” Gerald said, tapping his fingers. “Excellent point. C’mere, you.” He hugged his son, feeling the soft hair under his hand.

“I like this game, Dad.” Damon wriggled away. “But I want a cookie now.”

Gerald let him go. Twelve years old meant cookies would always win.

His eyes followed Damon as he ran outside, chocolate chip firmly in hand.

Mindy met his gaze after a few moments. Her unblinking blue eyes made Gerald uncomfortable. “I can’t believe you play a game called ‘Contingency Planning’ with him.”

“To be fair, he knows it as ‘Outsmarting Dad,’” Gerald protested.

Joe scraped his chair back but didn’t stand. “You really think there’s a threat because the company grew so big so fast?”

Gerald shrugged and yawned. “I’d rather he be prepared for anything. And he loved the voice modulator.”

“He certainly can think on his feet,” Mindy said. “He’s a kid, and runs circles around me.”

“Around most people, the precocious brat.” Joe shook his head again. “It has still got to be the weirdest game I’ve ever heard of.”

“You try entertaining a tiny genius,” Gerald retorted.

In the next room, they heard the tones of the clock striking three.

Bells

March 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to explain the woman blowing smoke rings without an obvious mechanism. Leigh Kimmel asked me to explore what happens between the sounds…

In the distance, the tower clock began ringing the song for eleven bells, cutting through the evening darkness. The deep, melodious noise only made her swallow a thin trickle of bile threatening to make her retch. Anya glowered down at the tools in her hands before jabbing the flexible wires into her bun of unruly hair.

“Of course I have everything I need,” she snapped, jerking her head toward the hooded figure seated in the corner of the room. “You taught me, after all.”

The figure was still on a heavy wooden chair, face shrouded, hands knotted and swollen with age.

Anya had always hated this room with no fireplace, where drafts leaked through thin walls. She’d tried to patch the gaps with plaster, but it cracked and dropped off with every change of the seasons. The walls reeked of cabbage and stale sweat, but was all they could afford. The red-faced landlord hadn’t raised their rates since Gruen’s hands became too stiff to work, but it meant she’d become whipcord thin and sleep-deprived trying to make up for a master thief’s skills.

“Magic,” the voice urged, reedy and thin. Gruen’s unkempt beard poked out from under the cowl, grey with yellowed streaks. “You did not succeed in skiving the preventative spell.”

She frowned and stamped her feet to hide her nerves, wiggling her close-fitting leggings and tunic, dark colors mismatched to blend into the night. Anya bent to tighten a bootlace. “I won’t steal from the neighbors,” she muttered to the wooden floor, swept as clean as she could get it.

The chair creaked as Gruen leaned forward, his dusty face emerging from the hood, bulbous nose first. His sour breath wafted directly into her face as she straightened. Long practice kept her from flinching. “That potion Mistress Kira drank yesterday would have kept the tower’s magic from affecting you if you’d gotten to the bottle first. I need this to work, girl.”

“We both do,” Anya replied, and flexed long, thin fingers before pulling on kidskin leather gloves. She’d risked filching them from an affluent halfwit’s belt earlier this week after her practiced eye saw they were exactly her size. They’d help her keep her grip tonight.

She swung a leg up on the windowsill. Gruen’s voice stopped her again. “You must be in by midnight, girl.”

“We’ve gone over the plan several dozen times,” Anya replied, and dropped out of sight. She landed crouched on the roof several feet below, a practiced landing that kept any thumps to the stairwell. That kept from directly annoying the neighbors, who didn’t need to know their neighbors had less than normal jobs.

Clambering over a small wall that served no purpose but to hold a honeysuckle vine and a bird’s nest, Anya took a deep breath in the star-strewn night, away from the stink of the streets. She much preferred transiting the flat rooftops.

She loped her way across the city, thankful most of the buildings were only a few feet apart with each leap. She’d heard a tale from one of the other orphans that some king had mandated the city’s buildings be the same height and color, pale stone that from street level only looked filthy with mud and soot from cooking fires. Anya herself thought the legend was stupid, a ridiculous thing only some rich fool would care about. In her mind, that made it all the more likely to be true.

Her ankles ached with the thirtieth landing, but Anya could see her goal only a few hundred craken away now. The great stone tower loomed over the rest of the city, built from dark speckled stone that contrasted with everything else. It held the bells that rumbled through the city each hour, but was rumored to hold secrets as well. Not just secrets, but magics, too.

Gruen wasn’t getting any younger. She wasn’t sure how much more gratitude his former students would continue to supply. A few gifts to tide them over had been appreciated. This information was significant enough it felt like a final payment, from apprentice to master, a final graduation.

If it were true.

Anya slowed, breath coming harder now, as she reached the final rooftop. Her eyes measured distances and angles in the dark night. The dark tower was further away than her usual jumps between rooftops. Stepping back, she took a running leap and wondered if she was truly mad.

She sailed through the air and seized the arched arrow-slit window with an outstretched arm. Her right side burned with the strain as the rest of her body thumped solidly against the stone. She’d distributed her weight across the stone during impact correctly, like falling forward. There’d been no way to practice the landing, or even the distance. Anya had nearly let go at the shock. She hadn’t anticipated being unable to breathe.

Wheezing, she scrambled through the narrow window with burning lungs. If she had been eating more regularly, she would have been stuck wiggling, waiting spiderlike for the morning guards to see her against the tower. Or worse, exhausted from hanging on, flattened against the ground and buried in Pauper’s Field.

She wasn’t sure even Gruen would mourn her, even though he certainly wouldn’t survive her loss.

She held the thought of Gruen in her mind as she sagged against the stone stairs inside the tower. She may not like him much, but Anya certainly owed him. Why, she’d not even have a trade if it weren’t for him teaching her the thieving craft.

If she could get this potion, his skill would be restored. She was sure of it. He’d be able to teach her so much more. Flexible fingers grown supple with restored youth would train her the things he tried to describe with increasing frustration.

Anya leveraged her body up with one hand pressed against a frozen, glittering stone floor. The granite tower was musty and cold, each step frosted over. This odd speckled stone held the cold more than the pale stone, it seemed. She gazed around with dismay, and realized she’d leave a distinct trail, even in the dim light that strained through the narrow windows.

She bit her lip. The sharp pain from a slightly chipped front tooth brought her focus back, as it always did. She was on a deadline. It didn’t look like guards came here often anyway.

The intel had said to go up from roof height, so she did, taking each stone step with trepidation. She hadn’t thought getting in the narrow window would be quite so difficult, and had planned to exit the same way. She wasn’t sure if a higher level would work to get onto the nearest building’s roof. Would it be too high?

The door with the crescent moon, the former student had whispered. He’d looked over his shoulder as he shared his information a week prior in the grubby apartment, as if worried a guard would come crashing through the battered, barred wooden door.

She paused at the landing and saw the door she sought was painted with a mosaic of patterned, intertwined lines. A crescent moon stood starkly in the middle, opalescent but unadorned. It reflected the starlight, glowing faintly.

Anya waited, heart rapid, hoping no guards would come by on patrol. Gruen’s student had been so certain. Use the noise of the bells to cover the sound of breaking in. Get out with the quarter chime to avoid the guards.

It must be getting close. Time to be ready. She reached up and tugged on the flexible metal wires in her hair. The lockpicks snagged, loosening her bun.

The bell’s song began, high above her, and she felt a few hairs tear free as she yanked the last pick free and dropped to her knees. She could feel the reverberation through the stone, and didn’t like what the intermittent humming did to her fingertips.

The crescent moon on the door began to glow as she and inserted the picks into a star-shaped silver keyhole, leaning against the door. She closed her eyes and refused to look at the sinuous lines. If she didn’t see them moving, it wasn’t happening.

She had only the time of the song, and then until the twelfth bell to get inside. The longest song, the witching hour, the chill tones of mourning for the dead. Midnight was sacred to the stars.

Anya felt a drop of nervous sweat trickle down her forehead as she worked the lock, hands steady and implements sure even as her pulse pounded in her neck. The balance needed to be precise, a light touch only, gentle pressure to ease the lock open like a lover.

The pins of the lock caught, one, two, three, four, desperate moments as the bells’ eeriest song began to close. She raked her pick desperately back and forth, jamming it into the lock as far as she could. Failure was not an option.

With a click, the last pin raised. The lock turned as her hands slid automatically.

The door cracked and she fell inside, eyes opening in startlement. The door’s crescent moon blazed like the sun, shattering the darkness within.

Anya gazed up into a tattooed face with pointed ears and dark green, watchful eyes. Above her in the tower, the bells ended their song and tolled out the hour.

It was not midnight, she realized with horror and confusion. It was the tones of the clock striking three.

Thesis Cat would like to get this finished herself, thank you.

Blue Hands of the Three

March 11, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week, I challenged Becky Jones to write on what forensic analysis revealed.

nother Mike, who wrote about Aphrodite riding sidesaddle on a goose, challenged me with this: “He was bent over, praying, with his hands together, when the other hands grasped his in support. He blinked, and then noticed that the hands holding his were blue…”

I sat down intending this to be a monkey’s paw, “be careful what you wish for” story. One in which Jonas wishes to hide his problems, and looks up to find a zombie’s blue, rotting hands happy to distract him. I’ll have to explore undead religious proclivities another time, because this spilled out instead.

Jonas froze in horror, as a resounding crash echoed within the cavernous Guildhouse. The wooden balconies populated with heads poking from each of the cubbies, peering into the open middle where the great loomworks rested.

The loomworks never rested long, only stripped of their precious weaving long enough to deliver the highborns’ work and restring for the next commission. The list of commissions was very long, and the only reason an orphan off the streets had ever been taught to read or figure.

He was one of the few thin, limber, light enough to clamber up to the adjustable fiddly bits at the top and resize the work. He was not entrusted with the weaving. Guildmaster did not permit soiled hands such as his to handle the delicate base fabrics or tapestries hung upon the great loomworks.

He turned, every inch a momentous effort of sheer will, creeping unwilling eyes to stare at the wreckage of wood collapsed upon the lobby. He’d just adjusted the frame, and clearly something had gone horribly, miserably wrong.

No one else moved. The weavers at the small looms on the balconies stared openmouthed. Guild Officials stared from the trading desk, where they displayed sample wares and bargained for gold.

A small, pudgy, redheaded boy on the third floor balcony snickered into the clattering silence, rocking back and forth on elbows propped on the rickety balcony. He clearly knew the punishments the Guildmaster liked to give. No one would spare a thought for the orphan boy’s cries.

Jonas whirled and pelted from the hall, stumbling over limbs grown too long as he tore through the streets. He landed on his knees, bruising them against the cold stone floor the Temple of the Moirai.

He bent over, praying to The Three, aware the Guildmaster would punish him for breaking the great loomworks. He could not even fathom the depth of this punishment, having destroyed the primary source of this Guild District’s wealth.

Worse – if he could no longer climb with impunity, he had no value to the Guild. Jonas shuddered at the faint memory of life on the streets.

Wetness struck his cheeks, and he blinked furiously, unwilling to admit weakness. Now was a time for strength. He needed to prove his value to the Guild.

He just had no idea how to do it.

Jonas closed his eyes, hands clenched together, hoping the three statues’ cold eyes would soften if he only prayed hard enough. He felt warm, rough hands close over his. A man’s voice, harsh with years and commanding, begin the Chant of Respect to The Three. Jonas stumbled over the familiar words.

“…and – and to each our allotment, which we shall not struggle, for we know The Three have measured what – what is to be.” Jonas opened bleary eyes, struggling not to sniffle.

His eyes widened further to see the hands still grasping his. Blue!

“Look at me, boy,” the voice commanded.

Jonas lifted his eyes to see a perfectly ordinary, study workingman. Brown eyes that looked like they laughed often, crinkled at the edges. A tidy beard, streaked with more white than the remaining muddy brown. And hands dyed blue, arms streaked in paler shades up to the elbow.

The man laughed. “It’s from the indigo, boy. The blue dye. You get used to it after a while.”

Jonas lowered his eyes.

“Hey now, eyes up.”

Jonas suspected this man could be heard over a thousand looms if he wanted, but his tone was kind and quiet, not even echoing in the stone-walled temple.

The bearded man took pity on him and released his hands. “Your reaction was interesting,” the man said casually, settling back and studying the statues of The Three.

Jonas studied the statues, shooting the man a sideways glance, uncertain.

“As if you were afraid of the Guildmaster.” The man studied his indigo hands, as if examining the calluses.

Shuddering, Jonas looked away.

“Boy, you don’t have to worry about being strapped for this. Accidents happen.”

He couldn’t stop the panicked mewl that emerged from his throat. Accidents did not simply happen with the Guildmaster. The worst he’d done before now was eat a pear uninvited, and he’d been whipped on a weekly basis or more.

“Someday I’ll share the stories with you, boy. Over a mead, when you’re a bit older. The point is that you learn from your mistakes.”

The man stood up and reached out a hand. “Like learning to build looms from scratch, so you can fix them, and know when they weaken.”

Jonas stared upward, confused.

“I’m the Grand Guildmaster, boy.”

Jonas straightened, tongue-tied. He still didn’t take the outstretched, unwavering hand.

“I’ve heard stories about this district. Bad stories, and too many of them. I’ve come to take control and fix things here.”

Jonas dared to hope. He reached out, tentative and unsure.

The man grasped it in a firm grip.

“And if you’re to become my apprentice, I’ll need to know your name.”

Purple Ink

March 4, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to explore theta brain wave stimulation. Leigh Kimmel asked me to explore people duplication, but I suspect I went in a different direction than intended.

“Darling, don’t forget to close the blinds,” Choi called to her husband from where she brushed her hair in the other room.

Her husband walked out of the nursery, but lingered in the hallway. “The twins are out of the light and sleeping,” Adam said. He leaned against the doorjamb, stubbing a toe repeatedly against the wooden floorboards.

“Finally.” Choi looked at her husband with exhausted eyes. “There’s so much more work with two. I can’t believe we got duplicates.”

He coughed, and looked away. “About that.”

The hairbrush landed on the bed with a distinct thump. Choi braced herself against the edge of the bed, ready to launch herself across the hall. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll be able to tell them apart now,” Adam replied. His tone was measured and reasonable. “Their personalities aren’t developed enough to be helpful otherwise.”

She glared at him, her mouth twisted. “I told you to keep them out of the sunlight!”

“They’re fine, dear. We just also might want to boost whichever one faded with a little paint. As long as neither fades entirely, right?”

“Paint.” She spat the word as if he’d suggested poison.

“Oils, maybe, or acrylics. Not watercolors. Something more permanent than mimeograph ink.”

His eyes were filled with the hope of a child who knows he won’t get a treat, but still can’t resist asking.

It was a long few minutes before Choi sighed. “But I did so love the smell.”

As a bonus, here’s some more Thesis Cat!

Thesis Cat Gets Personal

February 29, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Are you playing with your website instead of writing your thesis, human? Hmm?

Homicide Clearance Rate, 99%

February 23, 2020 / fionagreywrites

In this week’s Odd Prompts challenge, I charged ‘Nother Mike with “No one escapes the Wild Hunt.”

Mine was from Misha Burnett. ” A forensic necromancer interviews a murder victim. Unfortunately, the testimony of the deceased is inadmissible in court. What information could the victim provide that would give the police a lead on finding evidence that could be used to convict the killer?”

Before we get to that, Thesis Cat continues to do her job in guilt-tripping me to get back to work.

Guarding toaster pastries is important work.

Onto the story!

I stared down at my body and blew out a frustrated sigh of non-existent air. Guess I didn’t need oxygen anymore, but automatic habits die hard.

It still annoyed me further. Counting to ten didn’t help. It was all I could do not to stamp my foot like a toddler in the midst of being denied a cookie.

Yeah, realizing I’d never have a cookie again didn’t help the urge.

I tried again. “Hey. HEY. Heeeeeyyyyy.” I waved my hand in front of the cop’s nose. “Look, dude, I know you can see me. Ever since that asteroid hit, everyone can see ghosts until they cross over.”

He’d blinked at the word “dude.” Good. I’d been trying for a reaction. Maybe offending him wouldn’t help my case, but I’d been pleading and begging for help for twenty minutes, ever since the cops showed up.

Let me tell you, it’s really weird to walk into your neighbor’s house, uninvited, through the wall, and ask them to call the cops because you’ve just been murdered.

Walked right through a whole cabinet of creepy china figurines, too. The memory made me shudder. I guess ghosts can do that, still.

“C’mon, man. I can give you a name, a description, even the reason why and where he works. I thought I was getting out of the guy’s way. He wanted to back into the parking space.”

I kicked my own ribcage, but my foot just passed through. The cop put up his hand like he was trying to block me. I hoped it made him feel freezing cold. Serves him right for ignoring me.

“I was meeting a friend for lunch and told him about what happened. I figured at worst parking lot guy would have spit in my food. Gave me a look and a shake of the head every time he walked past the table.”

The uniform studiously continued to study my dead body, placing evidence markers by blood splatter. He looked everywhere but at me.

“Nametag said Devon, from Mika’s Diner. Over on Greene street.”

A throat cleared behind me. Tall, stubble, greying brown hair, sharp blue eyes that missed nothing but looked exhausted. He wore a rumpled suit and a faded black trench, with a badge slung around his neck on a cheap chain. He jerked his head at me, and I heard the officer first on scene breathe his own sigh of relief.

Lucky bastard, his exhalation had real air in it.

I followed what had to be the homicide detective into what until an hour ago had been my living room. He sat on the couch and waved at hand at my favorite chair like he owned the place.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You want someone to talk to you or not?” His voice reminded me of rusty barbed wire, quick with a comeback and ready to give you tetanus if you were too much of an idiot.

I sat.

“No one will listen,” I started. “I know exactly who did it.”

“Yeah, but don’t you watch the news, kid?” He slumped back against the cushions, leaning on the armrest and studying me as he settled in.

I blinked. “What?”

“I’m saying Fiddler v. Tennessee,” he said. “I’m Joe, by the way. Joe Brighton. Homicide detective. Fourth Precinct.”

“What the hell is Fiddler v. Tennessee?” I asked, frowning. I didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“Supreme Court case. We’ve been watching it for the past couple years. Right after the asteroid hit a decade ago and everything changed, right? This guy says ghosts are no longer humans, therefore they’re no longer sentient.”

I snorted.

He nodded. “Yeah, I agree. But it’s got an impact. Means ghost testimony doesn’t hold up in court.”

“We’re not in court,” I pointed out. “We’re in my living room. Next to my dead body.”

“Yeah, but that uniform in there? Steve’s a good guy. He’s wearing a body cam that records everything, all right? Means he can’t talk to you without it getting caught on camera. That’s a problem.”

“How come you can talk to me?” I asked, stiffening with belligerence.

He crossed his legs in a figure four. “To answer your question, what conversation?” he asked, looking around.

“I’m just getting a sense of what you were like as a person. Talk to myself all the time, you know. Part of my detecting process.”

“I’m no longer a forensic necromancer, after all. No specializing in talking to dead people and getting their testimony, not anymore. I’m just a homicide detective now.”

He tapped slender fingers together, then pressed two fingers to his mouth like he wished they were holding a cigarette.

Snarling, I leapt up. “You mean you can just ignore me and that’s somehow okay?”

Joe didn’t bother making eye contact. “Exactly. And Steve and the other uniforms have to, or they get in trouble.”

Pacing, I struggled with my options. “This is so unfair. I should fight this in court.”

“Good luck finding a lawyer who’ll take that on,” Joe said. “Non-person, remember? Did you add a provision in your will for hiring a lawyer to represent your ghost’s interests posthumously?”

I choked, then remembered I didn’t have to care about that. “Did I what?!”

He leaned back against the couch even further, like the weight on his shoulders was real and tangible. “I see you were a reader. Mysteries.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked, starting to feel the fight drain from me. “You can’t use anything I tell you.”

“Unless you find a way to get me something I can use that’s not your direct testimony.” Joe made eye contact at last. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything that would help with that, do you?”

I stood firm, feet planted, and whistled high and loud. Joe winced, but I didn’t care. I knew Wilbur would come to our whistle, no matter how afraid he was of the strange man on the couch, or how traumatized he’d been after seeing me stabbed.

I glared at Joe. “I do this, you take care of my dog. You take him in or find him a nice warm home. Not some shelter that’ll put him down, not some terrible owner that’ll make him fight.”

He nodded, once, short and sharp. “Everybody’s got a bargain.”

Studying him with new eyes, I realized his relaxed posture was studied tension, held to contain a tightly wound spring. “You’ve done this before.”

A shoulder shrugged inside the trench.

I turned away at the sound of slow feet and a slight whimper. There he was, my 155-pound bundle of oversized bloodhound joy. Covered in my blood splatter, and maybe some attacker DNA.

“Wilbur, sit.” I gave his head a caress, trying not to notice that I couldn’t feel his fur, that I had to hold my hand just above his ears to keep from sticking my hand through his brain. Poor guy’d been through enough tonight.

I looked at Joe. “He’ll sit for you if you swab his teeth. And fur, I guess.”

He nodded, and waved over a tech I hadn’t noticed in the door.

“Bloodhound got a nose on him?” He gave Wilbur the pet I couldn’t, scratching gently around the ears. Joe looked at me briefly over the tech’s head, but there was compassion in the look. He knew what I wanted, but could never have again.

“He does,” I said sadly. “He trained for it before I got him, but his temperament was never quite right. The nose is there. But he’s a bit of a scaredy-cat.”

The tech stood up, avoiding looking at me as she packed away her samples from my dog.

“Wilbur,” I said. “Time to get to work.”

Joe nodded in approval, and got up to follow my bloodhound.

It was three hours later when they came back. I’d apologized to Steve the uniform by then, who made a few random nods and commented out loud to his partner what a shame it was that I’d ended like this.

I was sitting on the front porch when Joe arrived, Wilbur bounding up behind him. He sat down on the stoop next to me, stroking the dog’s head.

“He was a very good boy,” Joe said softly, mumbling a little. I guess outside, he tried to keep up appearances more.

“He always is,” I said sadly, holding out a hand for Wilbur to sniff. He didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t corporeal.

“Led us straight to one Devon Nelson, who works at Mika’s Diner. Idiot still had the knife in his hand, smeared with your blood. He’d tried to wipe it off on his own shirt, thinking it would blend in since it was a dark color.”

I leaned back and kicked my legs down the steps. “All over a parking spot?”

“Yeah. Confessed and everything.” Joe kept his head bent over Wilbur.

I sighed. “Feels pretty dumb. Now what?”

Joe grimaced, his face contorting on the side I could see. “Now you either move on, or hang out and do whatever you didn’t get a chance to do in this life.”

“I thought I’d know what to do,” I said. My voice must have been sad, because he looked up finally.

“Nobody really does,” he said.

He stood up, and Wilbur looked at me, tongue lolling and ready to give me a good lick.

I reached out and cupped my hand around his long, droopy ear, wishing I could feel the warmth.

He turned to walk away and paused halfway down the cracked concrete walk. “Come visit Wilbur anytime.”

Couldn’t argue. It wasn’t like I could feed the dog, or walk him through the wall when he needed to go out. I watched as Joe rolled the dark sedan’s window down for Wilbur, who loved to let his ears flop in the wind.

I wondered what it took for someone to talk to the dead each day, and what more it cost to have to hide it.

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