Haunts and Hellions Excerpt

It's been a really long time since I've posted and plenty of things have happened in that time, the most important being that I'm happier than ever before. Staying in the swing of things, keeping up with every obligation, is difficult, but I'm trying. 

I'm hoping to get back into posting on here, writing more very short stories. That's in the days to come. I thought a good way to get back into posting here would be to start off with an excerpt from a short story of mine that has been published in an amazing collection. Haunts and Hellions is one of a few anthologies I have now been published in and I'm hoping to talk about all of those soon. But this post is about my story, "Lady of Graywing Manor." I wrote this story specifically for Haunts and Hellions, hoping it would be accepted. 

Somehow, that hope came true. 

The best way to describe this collection of stories is, well, what's written on the back of the book. I can't say it any better than that. 

"Harkening back to the glory days of gothic romance that had us up reading all night, we present, Haunts and Hellions… 13 stories of horror, romance, and that perfect moment when the two worlds collide. Vengeful spirits attacking the living, undead lovers revealing their true nature, and supernatural monsters seeking love, await you. Pull the blinds closed, light your candle, and cuddle up in your reading nook for some chilling—and romantic—tales." 

If that interests you, read on. If you aren't sure, read on anyway. You might be surprised! 

No more jabber from me. Please, enjoy. 

 

An excerpt from Haunts & Hellions

 

Lady of Graywing Manor

Emily Blue

1840

 

Northern England                            

The thin, constant rain had turned the trail to mud by the time Clara glimpsed a light in the distance. She shivered, clutching shut the hood of her overcoat around her face. Even her teeth were cold, like icicles when her tongue glanced over them. Her tongue was the last part of her warmth. She breathed through her nose to keep the wind from snuffing it out.

Her boots stuck in the mud, each step a struggle to wrench free. The light refused to come closer. Despair weighed her further, heavy on her shoulders. She would never arrive. And what awaited her if she finally did? Streaming ribbons of cloud obscured the stars, and she was thankful because it seemed to her the stars mocked her each night for her lack of a roof overhead.

Licking her lips, she tasted the rain and her tears. The wind picked up, sweeping leaves across the mud road and high into the air. The curtain of rain parted and the façade of a building showed through the gap. The roof spiked in a series of towers, like the stiff peaks of meringue on her favorite desserts. Sharp, clean shadows hinted at ornate structures, buttresses and pillars and curved railings. The light she had seen earlier came from a hexagonal cupola, surrounded by iron cresting.

Her fragile hopes lifted. A mansion would have plenty of places for her to hide for the night. If there was a stable, it likely wouldn’t leak. The straw would be clean and warm.

Clara trudged forward, heart pounding. A portion of the shadows resolved into the shape of a fence. It didn’t look too difficult to climb but as she neared, she realized there was no need. She could fit through the gaps easily. She pushed through, a little puzzled, but relieved. The fence was more for show than function.

The land between fence and manor was mostly flat, with only a few scattered flowerbeds, leaving her little to hide behind. She bent over, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The figure of a man appeared around the side of the mansion. Clara swore under her breath and dropped onto her knees in the grass. The man angled in his walk, cutting across the grass in her direction.

Clara leaped to her feet and started to run.

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. She squeaked and whirled, throwing her hands out in front of herself, scrabbling at the broad chest of the man holding onto her.

A second man looked down at her and blinked slowly.

“You have no reason to be afraid,” he said, his voice curiously monotone. His face matched his voice, smoothed free of emotion.

“Wh-what?” Clara sputtered. The first man continued his approach until he stood only a short distance away. She jerked her head, looking back and forth between them.. “I’m sorry I trespassed. It was a mistake. I’ll be going.”

“You are welcome here.” He released her shoulder and gestured to the manor.

“Welcome?” She wasn’t welcome anywhere. “I don’t understand.”

“She knows you’re coming.” The first man inclined his head toward the manor. His arms dangled limply at his side. “She is waiting for you in the upstairs parlor.”

“She? She who?” Clara shook her head. She backed away from the strange men, trembling. She didn’t like the way they looked at her. Their faces were like corpses, but their eyes. Their black eyes. Something was looking at her through those eyes. “I need to get going.”

“The lady of the manor,” the first man said, as if that explained anything. “She knows a weary traveler approaches. She has tea brewing for you, and will have dessert sent. She will be disappointed if you leave.”

 

To read more, read Haunts and Hellions at: Amazon.com

 

 

 

A Short Update and A Short Story

Last month wasn't as successful as I wanted it to be, but this month is already looking better. I'm working on several projects right now. I'm also trying to remember to take time for myself to do the things I enjoy. I've picked up another new hobby: crochet! I've finished a scarf and I'm learning how to make circles. 

Circles are hard, guys. 

But you didn't come here to hear me jabber about my life. So many bloggers already do that. I've got a story ready to share that I'm pretty proud of, written in response to a prompt on a writing group on the website DeviantArt.com. It's in a bit different style than what I normally write, but I like the concept and the characters and the hints of plot shown in the story itself. In the future, I might return to the idea again and expand upon it. 

So, here it is. I hope you enjoy. 

"I Found You"

You’re there, at her side.

I lower my sword, the magic rippling along the length of the blade fading away. My power works through conviction and right now, I’m in doubt of what’s right in front of me. I can’t understand what you’re doing there, with her, sitting in the large dark throne at her side instead of in the dungeon where other captives go. I’m supposed to be claiming the throne in the traditional way of our people, by killing the crown-wearer. Then, I’d free you.

But you’re already free.

“Kas?” I whisper.

You stand and approach me, your hand held out like I’m a frightened animal you need to appease. Moonlight shining through the painted glass windows colors the pale white of your dress, first purple and then blue and finally red. Your eyes glow crimson as you look into mine. The crown on your head is stained with the ruby light.

I back away, trembling. I don’t know what to do. This is all wrong.

“I’m sorry, Senna,” you whisper back to me. “But how could I have told you?”

I shake my head and grip the hilt of my sword tighter. The burn of magic in my veins isn’t anywhere to be found. There’s nothing for me to rely on. “Told me what? What’s going on, Kas? Why are you here? With her?”

She stands from her obsidian chair at my words, holding her head high and shoulders back. Her slender black dress hugs her regal figure, displaying the curves I wish I had. The same curves you have.

Realization strikes me, like you’ve taken my sword and plunged it into my heart. I reel, staggering, my boots sliding on the polished black floor. The Widow Queen, the Black Spider, she has your silky ink hair and bright amber eyes. Her lips are yours, as is the shape of her nose and the point of her chin.

“No.”

You reach out to me again and still I don’t take your hand. You let it fall, disappointment dragging your lips into a frown. “Kas.”

My name feels like a curse when spoken by you.

“How could I have told you?” you repeat. “You saved my life. I’ve been indebted to you. Telling you who I am would have hurt you. Betrayed you.”

I shake my head again, harder this time, and lift my sword. Weak flickers of magic sparkle at the tip, my anger breaking through the barrier of disbelief. “You don’t think this hurts me still?” My voice rises. “I thought you were on our side! I thought we were…”

You flinch. “We’re everything you thought we were,” you say. “I am on your side. But not on the side of your people. Kas, please. Haven’t we spent enough time together for you to know I’m nothing like what they say?”

You?

Another realization.

“You’re the Black Spider. Not her. You.”

“Yes.” You nod. “We kept that hidden from outside forces. My mother, she set the crown in my hands the day I learned to walk.”

Your mother approaches with your unnatural grace to stand behind you, laying her white hand on your shoulder. I can hardly focus on her. Even if my blade alone could kill her without the assistance of my magic, she’s not my target anymore.

“It’s been a hard thing since then,” your mother says, speaking for the first time. “But I have never been more proud of Kasina. She will bring in our new era, of cold and shadow.”

You reach for my hand and grasp my wrist with your long fingers, the ones that always touched me so tenderly. “Your age of burning magic will come to an end, Senna. No matter what you choose to do now, it’s too late to stop it. You can kill me, kill my mother, but you can’t stop what’s already here. But you can join me.”

You want me to join the enemy, the dark forces I’ve trained to fight against all my life, so I can live in the dark like you.

Your eyes flash. “Think, Senna! What side has been doing all the killing? For thousands upon thousands of years, it’s always been my kind that are persecuted just for existing. Haven’t you seen enough of that? Haven’t we witnessed it often enough on our journey together?”

Memories course through my mind, brought to the surface by your words. Raids in which I participated, and mobs in which I didn’t. Death and screams and bloodshed, interspersed with flashes of magic.

“All we want,” you continue, “is peace. A chance. Come be with me. We’ll need your power. We’ll need all of you. We won’t be the tyrants your people are.”

I’m dizzy, shaking, filled with burning sickness. I never wanted anything more than to be at your side. Now I have that chance, but it’s taken a form I never expected.

Whose loyalty do I betray?

My sword feels hot against my palm as my decision makes itself, as my heart aligns with what I know to be right.

The End

©2019 Emily Blue

"Popcorn" - short story

I didn't have a very good day yesterday, and I didn't get work done. I did want to get something done though, so I wrote a quick short story.

Please remember to check me out at my author page on Facebook at facebook.com/authoremilyblue. Or, if you've got Twitter, I'm @Miss_Emily_Blue

Self-promotion completed, here's the story! Enjoy!

Popcorn

“Hey, Popcorn!”

Kathrine stirred from her study of the ocean at her nickname, which she hadn’t heard since she graduated from high school 8 years ago. A man hurried up to her, sand kicked up behind him with each step. He halted and stared up into her eyes.

“Holy shit,” he said. “It really is you.”

Kathrine raised an eyebrow, studying his face for some sign he was a boy she used to know. If his strong features held some familiarity for her in their shape, she couldn’t find it. “Sorry, who are you?”

The man grinned. “Don’t you recognize me? Prom king? Quarterback since sophomore year?”

“Oh. Terry?”

“Yeah! That’s me! Holy shit, how have you been, Popcorn??”

“I hated your guts,” she said blandly, and turned away.

“Popcorn-“

She strode away from Terry, but the scuffing of feet against sand told her he still followed. “Stop calling me that. I hated that name.”

“I’m the one who invented it.”

“All the more reason to hate it.”

Her buttery blonde hair, movie theater job, and bout of jaundice junior year had all combined to earn her that dreaded name.

“C’mon, Kathrine,” Terry said, still following her. She wove her way around umbrellas, picnic blankets, and sand castles, trying to lose him in the crowd of beach-goers. He hadn’t lost all his skill from playing football, because he easily ducked and bobbed around the obstacles. He stayed right behind her, his breath hotter than the noon sun on the back of her neck. “You left Thresherton and no one ever heard from you again. You can’t expect me to not want to talk to you.”

She grunted and turned to face him, standing at the top of a dune with the busy shoreline spread out before her. “Leaving Thresherton was the best thing I ever did.”

“Yeah?” Terry stepped up beside her. He lifted his hand. “So why are you back? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Can we have this conversation another time? I’m busy.”

“Busy? All I saw you doing was flirting with that guy back there.”

“Are you serious?” She gestured at the whistle around her neck, and the white words at the top of her swimsuit. “It says right here ‘lifeguard.’ Talking to people is my job.”

He flashed a broad, white-toothed smile and sidled close to her. “You ever take your work home with you? How about we talk over dinner?”

Kathrine held up her hands, sliding them over Terry’s pecs. His grin widened.

She shoved him back, hard enough to send him careening down the side of the sand dune. He sputtered and sat up at the bottom. She stared down at him, hands on her hips. “You bullied me all through high school. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that just because we’re adults now.”

“You hold a grudge, girl, damn.” Terry stood up, his face turning red not from the sunlight but from an internal burning.

“Maybe I would have given you a chance. But I can see you haven’t changed.”

“You think you changed? You’re still a bitch.”

Kathrine kept her expression blank, even while waging an internal war against herself. She’d come back to this judgmental little beach town after being away so long, but she didn’t owe an answer to anyone as to why.

For a time, she’d been able to forget the power that so confused her during her formative years by moving to Nevada. It had grown in strength during the last several months, calling her back to the ocean in the same way salmon returned to the streams in which they were born.

Home was by the sea. She had to get used to that truth.

She didn’t need annoying men getting in her way.

Kathrine set off down the far side of the dune, approaching the ocean. Her thoughts rippled and wavered, following the ebb and flow of the tide. A wave crested, and she crested with it.

Terry followed her, jabbering nonsense about why she should give him a chance. She hardly heard him under the constant rushing whisper of the sea.

Kathrine sank her mind into the water, the power of the relentless pounding ocean surging through her veins. She moved out of the way just as a rogue wave, summoned by her call, broke right on top of Terry. Taken by surprise, he collapsed under the wall of water.

Kathrine breathed out, letting the wave recede with the tide. Terry emerged, lying on his back and half-buried in wet sand. Seaweed clung to his arms.

She left him trying to sit up and made her way back to her lifeguard’s tower, where she watched the surfers and the children at play, never knowing who kept them safe from the undertow, and who provided them with the perfect epic waves. 

The End

© 2019 Emily Blue

"The Collector" - a short story

This is a short story I wrote for an anthology. It was passed over, and I was looking for another place to submit it too. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to fit in anywhere else. So, why not give it a home here?
I like it as a story, so I'm glad to share it!
Please remember to check me out at my author page on Facebook at facebook.com/authoremilyblue. Or, if you've got Twitter, I'm @Miss_Emily_Blue
Self-promotion completed, here's the story! Enjoy!
The Collector

The kitten paddled her palm with tiny paws, the round bulge of its soft stomach rubbing her fingers. Her heart ached with a fierce love she’d never felt before, a glow of heat spread into her throat and stomach.

“I think she likes you, Gene.”

Imogene let her gaze linger on the kitten’s thin tuft of a tail, the flat ears and the pink button nose between unopened eyes, savoring the details like a critic appreciating the fine nuances of a novel. “It’s a mutual feeling,” she murmured. “It’s a girl for sure?”

“Well, it’s hard to tell yet, but we think so. It’s funny, I could have sworn you said you didn’t like pets.”

With the utmost care, Imogene placed the little calico kitten back in the basket with the rest of the litter. The mother cat swept out her paw and pulled her daughter between her paws and began to bathe her with quick laps from a bright pink tongue. Imogene straightened up and looked at her neighbor. “What I said is I’ve never had a pet.”

“Every person should have at least one pet. It’s a good experience.”

The experience was what she was after.

The experience was always what she was after.

Fingers trembling, Imogene fished a $20 bill out of her wallet and gave it to her neighbor to have the calico kitten held for her. In seven weeks, the darling creature would come home with her and she would discover the world through its newly-open eyes, seeing and learning in ways she knew she couldn’t currently imagine. Anticipation flowed through her veins, sharpening her senses, filling her with the urge to shout simply to shout, to expend sudden energy.

The kittens needed sleep, and the neighbor needed to tend to chores before her husband came home. Imogene let herself be guided to the door where she said a hasty farewell. She stepped outside and bounded across the adjacent yards to her own front door, and leaped inside. 

She rushed through the foyer and down the hall to what might have been a bedroom if she’d lived with anyone else. Instead, the room was filled with bookshelves, shelves upon shelves, so many that they protruded out into the hallway and prevented the door from shutting. It was a library, though the clutter gave it the feel of a maze. 

Each bookcase held notebooks, ancient journals with yellowing pages, school-issued composition books, moleskins and pocket diaries with trendy cover designs. The smell of paper filled the air, light and sharp as a cut.

Imogene trailed her hand over the shelves as she walked, skimming her fingers over polished wood and uneven bindings. 

She was a collector. Only blank books would do as vessels, holding the memories and experiences she poured into them to build the library of her life. 

She closed her eyes, letting her feet carry her through the narrow aisles, walking a path she’d traveled a thousand times, of which she would never tire. Sensations tugged at her, mischievous ghosts of recollection, not as strong as what the books held but enough to turn her thoughts to the times gone past. Sunlight on her skin and damp grass under her bare feet, the cold of a winter wind blowing her from behind, making her feel as if she could start running and lift up in the air. 

She felt, distantly, in her mind, a hand on her knee and a soft-lipped kiss, and gray ocean waves coiling around her ankles. Bittersweet thoughts of her ex, on the heels of anger that still stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. The first sip of coffee at dawn. Taking a wrong turn off the highway, the queer empty isolation of a forgotten town.

All these and more, she had stored. When she opened a book, the distant memories crackled to life like a kindled fire and she experienced all over again the distinct moments that made up this first half of her life. 

Imogene opened her eyes. She stood next to a bookcase, mostly empty except for a few thin notebooks on the top shelf. She picked up the newest one and opened the cover, inhaling the scent of leather. She flipped past the decorative title page. This part was important. Every aspect of the magic of memory-keeping had to be exactly right. Nothing could be out of place, and that meant turning to the right page. The first page, where all stories began.

Her heart swelled in her chest as she recalled the weight of the kitten in the palm of her hand, so light and yet so powerful, so full of life and potential. The experience, uniquely hers, flowed from her in a neutral-toned, subtle light, filling the pages to brimming with emotion. No bright flashes accompanied the transfer, no gaudy sparkles or puffs of smoke, none of the usual trappings people expected from stage magic. This was real, and it could only be caught in the twisted, acutely-angled corners formed by the meeting of bookshelves. It was elusive and had to be worked for, chased, pursued.

Her shoulders slackened as the current of magic slowed, finally stopping when there was nothing left in her to give. Now, whenever she liked, whenever she wanted to feel this exact way again, she could come here and open this notebook and recall it all.

Imogene moved away from the shelf to a box in the corner, where she picked out another notebook at random. She set it on the mostly-empty shelf with the others for the next time.

The work of a collector was never done, after all.

The End

© 2019 Emily Blue

"Mint Chocolate Chip" - A Short Story

I'm actually pretty proud of this story. I recently joined DeviantArt.com and am part of several writing groups. One of them has a weekly writing prompt and I wanted to participate. This week, we could write whatever we wanted as long as it was less than 1,000 words (about 3 pages) so I gathered some ideas and went to town.
You know the drill by now! Follow me on Facebook at facebook.com/authoremilyblue or on Twitter @Miss_Emily_Blue

Mint Chocolate Chip

Gabriel walked away from the cart with his ice cream. Melting tendrils of mint chocolate chip dripped over his fingers, already melting in the summer sun. He paused and dabbed at the sticky mess with the thin napkin the confectioner had handed him. He succeeded only in smearing the ice cream around. The feel of sugar drying on his skin, clotting his arm hairs together, made him grimace.

I should have gotten the cinnamon pecans, the young wizard thought. That would have been a better choice on a day like this. Why hadn’t he thought ahead? Master Zeke kept telling him to keep the consequences of his actions in mind before he did anything.

Something tugged on his jeans.

Gabriel looked around and saw the head of a child, all auburn ringlets with crimson flashes brought out by the sunlight. He pressed his lips together and pulled away. Children were gross creatures. “What?” he said, impatience bittering the sweetness on his tongue.

The child looked up at him. The red flecks in her hair continued down over her face, smears and splatters. Blood.

He gasped and yanked out of her grasp. His fingers went numb and he dropped his ice cream. “What the hell?” He dropped to his knees in front of the girl and grabbed her shoulders, his former revulsion forgotten. “What happened? Are you okay?”

She blinked blue-gray eyes at him. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered.

His heart pounding, he reached to her with his magic, scanning her for injuries. Shimmers of light, like little heat waves, skimmed over her thin frame, undisturbed by the darkness of trauma.

It’s not her blood. Oh, God.

And there was something else. The glimmer in the depths of her round eyes. A light reflected in his own. A shine of magic.

Everything made a terrible sort of sense now. Gabriel shook the girl, her head rocking back and forth. “What did you do? What happened?”

“Hey, what’s going on over here?”

Gabriel snapped his head up. An older man approached, looking stern. The scene he was walking into looked awful, and Gabriel was very aware of it. A bloody child, a grown adult male. No one else seemed to have noticed what was going on, everyone minding their business on the crowded boardwalk, but if they did…

The girl trembled under Gabriel’s hands. The temperature in the already-hot air started to rise, leaping to scorching levels. Gabriel watched, horror climbing up his spine, as his skin mottled pink and then red from the touch of the heat. Pain snarled through his hands, a sensation like he’d grabbed a pan straight out of the oven.

He forced himself to act. Releasing the girl with one hand, he thrust his fingers into his pocket and grabbed at the white powder he kept on his person at all times.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and then he threw the Blinkdust into the other man’s eyes.

The man flinched back, too slow. The dust reached his eyes, dulled his perception of what he had seen through a process Gabriel was still working to understand. He went slack, standing motionless except for rapid blinking.

The effect wouldn’t last long.

Gabriel grabbed the girl’s blazing arm and started to move, walking fast through the crowd. Running would attract too much attention. Pulling her behind him, feeling her trip and stumble, he ducked between a clam bar and a pizza parlor, through the cluttered and dirty alley to the back areas ringed with dumpsters and recycling bins.

He spun to face the girl and dropped in front of her again. “What’s your name?”

She stared at him and blinked a few times. “P-Penelope. What did you do to that guy?”

“I made him forget we were there.” It was close enough to the truth. “Penelope, what did you do? Did you use your magic on someone?”

She hesitated. The blood was drying on her skin, going ruddy.

“I’m a wizard. I can use magic, too. But you knew that, right?” Gabriel lowered his voice. “That’s why you came to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whimpered.

He bit his tongue. Showing his urgency would make her retreat further. “Then, show me. Take me to where it happened.”

Penelope looked at him for a moment longer before nodding. She grasped his hand, sliding her small fingers between his.

She led him to the scene of what she’d done, behind an arcade. Gabriel needed only a glance at the remnants of another human spread up the back wall and across the ground to know the whole story. She’d been grabbed and had protected herself, probably more violently than she meant to. Her young magic knew no limits. Not yet.

“Penelope,” he said, trying to sound calm, “where are your parents? Your mom?”

“I don’t have parents.”

Of course, not. Unfortunately, that was a story most wizards knew all too well.

“Me, neither,” Gabriel said. “But I have a teacher. He shows me how to use my magic. I think you should meet him.”

Penelope looked at what she’d done and said, in a voice much older than her years, “Me, too.”

The one day Master Zeke lets me take a break from studies and I find an orphaned mage.

He straightened up. “Let’s get you away from here. I’ll find you a bathroom so you can clean up, and I’ll call my teacher. While we’re waiting, we can have ice cream. Would you like that?”

She might have been a mage -a very powerful one, if he was reading the signs correctly- but she was still a child. Penelope took his hand again and said, “Okay.”

 At least this was one situation in which he knew the consequences of what he was doing. He was going to get this kid the help she needed.

© 2019 Emily Blue