Ambulatory Cadavers Audiobook

Super excited to release the audio version of Ambulatory Cadavers! It's out now! Available on Audible and soon on amazon and itunes! And! I have promo codes! The first five people to leave a comment on this page will get a free code to download the new audiobook, which has been narrated by the wonderful Melika Jeddi. Plus, a download code for M Lauryl Lewis's zombie apocalypse book, Rotten (see previous post for more info). That's two free zombie audiobooks! Just comment below to win :) A refresher: Two cousins. One on the verge of a great discovery... and excessive power, wealth, and infamy, the other on the verge of an odious marriage. Lyra will stop at nothing to achieve her father’s dream of dissolving Parliament into anatomical sludge, and to search out the farthest reaches of science and the arcane arts. That is until her own dreams begin to awaken, jolted by the electric sparkle of an artist’s eyes. Lacking a strong constitution, Alice can only run from her problems, that is, until she collides into the company of a strange young man of questionable occupation and discovers her cousin’s terrible plans. The dead are about to rise, the Lords are about to fall, and things are about to get creamy. High society will never be the same again. Amazon ebook link: http://amzn.to/2w4YNMo Audible link: https://www.audible.com/pd/Ambulatory-Cadavers-Audiobook/B081RH9KQ3 And here's a little about the narrator:  Melika Jeddi is a professional audiobook narrator and aspiring author. She especially loves narrating books with a cast of colourful characters, as she enjoys coming up with the various voices. Obsessed with all things nerdy, she dreams of one day publishing her own fantasy trilogy, but in the mean time she thoroughly enjoys reading other people’s books, with a particular interest in graphic novels. In her free time, Melika runs her own small online business selling custom book packages, as well as a bespoke crochet service. www.mymarvellousbooks.com https://www.facebook.com/MyMar... https://www.facebook.com/MyMar...

October Frights: Book Excerpt and announcement

Hello, I have an exciting announcement, my horror comedy, Ambulatory Cadavers, is currently being made into an audiobook!
I don't think it will quite be ready in time for Halloween, but it should be out by early November!

Here's a short excerpt from Chapter Nine: In Which Alice Encounters a Cake in the Grass

A piercing scream came from around the corner of the house. Alice dropped her fork and parasol, nearly leaping out of her seat. Lyra turned her head with a speed to match that of her metabolism and Charles’s eyes nearly popped out onto the table.
“What—” he began. Another scream followed and a loud crunching and then silence.
Alice shivered. The birds stopped singing. The fountain splashed discordantly in the sudden stillness. Shuffling steps approached and around the corner stepped an undead soldier.
“Braaaaaaaaaains,” it said, fixing its soulless eyes on Alice. It stepped out of the shadows, the sun falling on its grey-bluish green skin. It had once been a young man, but now it stooped and hobbled like an ancient one. Blood dripped from its drooling mouth, sinews stuck between its teeth dangling like party streamers. Stitches lined its widow’s peak and laced its chest, peering out from its open jacket. Not a soldier’s jacket after all, but stained with fresh blood nevertheless.
“Wonkers,” Alice squeaked breathlessly, seizing her pound cake.
“My Creature,” Lyra whispered.
The creature narrowed its eyes. “Braiiiiiiins!!” it screamed, and charged across the lawn. Alice, Lyra, and Charles all squealed in unison, toppled their chairs, and fled. The creature was between them and the house, so they made for the greenhouse.
The pound cake slid off the porcelain plate. Alice skidded to a stop and looked back at the cake lying in the grass.
“Cake!” she cried.
The cake did not respond. The zombie, however, yelled enthusiastically, “Brain! Uh! Brains!” As it turned out, the walking dead could keep her from a good pound cake. She turned and ran. Lyra and Charles were a good ten paces ahead of her and they didn’t look back.
“Wait!” she called after them. She glanced back. The zombie was closing in. It reached the pound cake but stopped to pick it up. Alice ran faster.
Charles and Lyra were almost to the sparkling walls of the greenhouse. The pound cake whistled past Alice’s head. The zombie crowed as the cake rolled between Lyra’s feet, tripping her. She toppled in a cascade of white gauze and pink ribbon, her parasol snapping underneath her.
Charles plowed up turf as he skidded to a stop and wheeled around to help her up. Alice reached them and grabbed Lyra’s other arm. Together, she and Charles pulled Lyra through the greenhouse door. Charles slammed it shut and barred it with a shovel. Alice’s last view was of the zombie loping awkwardly toward them, wailing, “Awww!” in dismay.
Alice collapsed onto the tiled floor, shaking. Lyra stood swaying next to her, mumbling under her breath. Charles wiped his forehead. The lower walls of the greenhouse were frosted glass, so they couldn’t see out.
“They’re real!” Alice gasped. And then she started crying. Charles helped her to her feet and the three cousins stood in a tight circle hugging as the zombie pounded on the door.
“What fools we’ve been!” Charles exclaimed.
Alice had her head buried in his chest, but he pushed her away and she found her head on an even less receptive breast — Lyra’s. Charles seized a trowel from a tool bench and stood ready at the vibrating door. To Alice’s shock and surprise, Lyra began to gently pat her shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Lyra said consolingly, “good girls like you will go straight to Heaven.”

Remember to hop on over to check out the other participants offerings as well.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

The Word Whisperer

Hawk's Happenings

Carmilla Voiez Blog

M'habla's!

CURIOSITIES

Frighten Me

Winnie Jean Howard

Always Another Chapter

Balancing Act

James P. McDonald

greydogtales

October Frights! and a Book Excerpt

Hello! Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop. You can check out the other blogs on the Hop via the link at the bottom of this post. I really enjoyed this last year and I'm happy to be a part of it again. Life has been happening and I'm behind schedule on everything, so to start off, here's the first chapter of my horror comedy novel, Ambulatory Cadavers!

Chapter One: In Which Alice Meets a Strange Young Man of Questionable Occupation

Alice did not want to get married. Not to the squint-eyed, flamboyant, and disagreeable Earl of Chornby with his squeaky voice. However, as the carriage pulled up to Hope Hall, and her own hope extinguished, she thought she might consider the proposal seriously. She did not want to stay at Hope Hall for longer than a minute.
“You’ll stay here until you’ve properly considered your ways and repented,” Lady Crawft told her as the phaeton lurched to a stop. “I can’t believe you told the Earl ‘no.’ It’s appalling. Why, it’s criminal!”
“But Mama!” Alice protested. “I didn’t refuse him. I told him I would consider his offer and reply within the year.”
“That’s not what he said. He said you told him you wouldn’t marry him in a thousand years.”
“The Earl exaggerates,” Alice said.
“Nonsense,” Lady Crawft snapped as the footman opened the phaeton’s door. “You will conjure up a yes or you will stay here forever.”
The footman helped Lady Crawft and Alice down.
Hope Hall loomed over them, an extravagant affair constructed in complete disregard for any moral principles involving moderation or humility. It looked like a bank cross-bred with Michelangelo’s private sculpture collection. Huge Doric pillars spanned the forty-foot-wide front stair. Alice’s uncle, the Duke of Hopenheim, hid among the pillars, a sour look on his face as if he were waiting to be struck.
“Christopher!” Lady Cawft exclaimed. The Duke winced. “You look much worse than last time I saw you, are you getting enough air?” Lady Crawft hauled Alice up to the top of the steps where pleasantries were exchanged at double speed. Uncle H led them inside where more pleasantries were exchanged with Alice’s aloof cousin, Lyra. Lyra was always stunning with her auburn hair curling away from her high brow and her dark eyes, which glinted with a coldness the Devil himself would have found terrifying.
Alice wanted to turn, leap into the phaeton and flee.
Instead, Jeebie, the butler, escorted her to her room.
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Crawft, “take her away, I must apprise my brother of the situation.” Which of course meant telling him Alice had refused an Earl and must be talked into changing her mind, which was Uncle H’s specialty. He was the most influential Member of Parliament, infamous for bringing his staunchest opponents around to his point of view in a matter of minutes. Most of them, anyway.
Once Jeebie had deposited her in her room, she bolted the door and opened her trunk to dig out her copy of Poetry for the Cultured Mind’s Expansion and Refurbishment by E.A. Wandlund. She paused, thinking she heard a funny scratching sound from the wall near the walk-in armoire. Mice, she thought, how appropriate. Her skin crawled and she fled to the chaise by the window with her collection of dry poetry.
She always sat there on her visits to the Hall. She would wrap the gauzy curtains around herself so she could see neither the room nor the garden outside, but the sun would glow golden through the pale yellow curtains and illuminate her book.
It couldn’t have been more than half a heartbeat later that Lady Crawft banged on the door. Alice jumped out of her skin.
“Alice!” Lady Crawft demanded. “Open the door.”
Alice dove out of her curtain shroud and looked about the room for a mode of escape. There was only one door, but the room afforded a ridiculous number of other options. She normally tried not to look around when she stayed here, it was too horrible. Now its many gloomy nooks and crannies seemed delightful.
There was a massive vanity and a washstand with a bowl big enough to bathe a dog in. Perhaps she could hide there. Or under the bed. One could hide a regiment under that bed. In fact, Alice had always been convinced that a there was a regiment under the bed, a dead regiment in open coffins. There was the armoire, but Lyra had always delighted in pulling Alice into the dark stuffy confines and telling her ghost stories about the woman in white who perished in the forest but refused to rest.
“Alice,” Lady Crawft repeated, “open this door at once, I must speak with you on the subject of your marriage.”
Alice darted into the armoire. It was bare. She hadn’t unpacked, which meant that as soon as Lady Crawft opened it, Alice would be exposed. And it sounded as if Lady Crawft was breaking down the bedroom door at that very moment.
Alice’s back pressed against the back of the armoire. Again she heard the mice in the wall; their frantic shuffling mirroring her heart.
“Alice! Open. This. Door. Now!” Alice splayed her hands against the back of the armoire and squeezed her eyes shut. Her finger pressed a knot. The armoire back flipped open, dumping her into a secret passage.
Landing on her derriere in a cloud of dust, she thought, So this was how Lyra snuck into my room to imitate dead soldiers under my bed. Her nose twitched. She sneezed.
“Alice?” Lady Crawft asked.
Alice felt around for the secret door and pushed it closed. Her mother’s demands for immediate matrimony were muted. She stood in the narrow passage and inched along, trailing her hands along each wall. The dark was terrifying. She couldn’t see a thing, but she was so very tired of hearing the tedious reasons for her insalubrious marriage enumerated. She came to another door. She opened it and peered in. It appeared to be the interior of Lyra’s wardrobe. No one else would wear such immodestly adorned gowns, especially not Uncle Hopenheim.
Lyra was not very high on Alice’s list of favorable alternatives to coercion so she closed the door quietly and kept moving down the passage. A light flickered somewhere ahead. Behind her came the distant sounds of Lady Crawft beating on her door.
Alice quickened her pace and fell face-first down a very narrow flight of stairs. She tumbled with a cry of horror into a tiny space. Regrettably, the space was already occupied.
“Ow!” yelped a voice.
Alice gasped wordlessly in shock and pain, her limbs tangling with more limbs that were certainly not hers.
“You’re crushing my arm,” a voice said in her ear. “And most of my other body parts as well.” Alice nearly screamed, scrambling off the invisible person and bashing into the wall rather violently; violently enough to give her a goose egg on the back of her head. Her heart sputtered and nearly died.
There was a scratch and a flare as a flint was struck, then a candle bloomed to life and Alice could see a young man with grey eyes that twinkled rather demonically, through a tangled mass of grey curls – although they seemed to be grey from dust and cobwebs rather than the natural cause of aging. His face was thin and his nose and ears stuck out rather comically. Alice sighed in relief – he wasn’t a dead soldier.
“Oh, hello,” he said, looking at her curiously. “Who are you?”
Alice turned red and tried to stand, but her ankle squealed in protest and she collapsed. “Oh, I’ve broken my ankle!” she exclaimed.
“Gosh,” said the young man, kneeling and setting down his candle. “You shouldn’t go around without a light, you know,” he admonished, taking her foot gently and examining it.
Alice thought she might faint. “You shouldn’t either,” she gasped, not sure why she said it. Lack of air seemed the most logical answer.
“I have a light, I just put it out because I thought one of those horrid Hopenheims was coming,” the young man explained. “Your ankle’s not broken. What are you doing in Hope Hall?”
“The other one.”
“What other Hall?”
“No, my other ankle is broken,” she said, holding it out. She wasn’t sure why; it certainly seemed unlikely he was a doctor. She just wanted someone — anyone — to tell her she was fine. The prospect of lying in bed in Hope Hall was far more terrifying than being alone in a secret passage with a complete stranger whilst being deprived of air.
“What are you doing in Hope Hall?” the young man repeated, looking at her other ankle.
“What are you doing? Who are you?” Alice asked.
“Ah, that would be top secret,” the young man said, winking. Alice was mortified.
“Did you just wink at me?” Alice asked.
“Yes,” he replied, apparently taken aback. “Does that offend you? Your other ankle is also not broken.”
“Yes, that offends me!” Alice said. “I mean, the winking, not the ankle. I mean…it’s very familiar.”
“Ankles are,” the young man nodded, picking up his candle and standing. Alice blushed. She didn’t like his being familiar with her ankles, nor remarking on his familiarity with ankles, hers or otherwise.
She also stood, wincing. It forced her into scandalous proximity with the strange young man. She stared up into the curved nostrils of his epic nose. Behind her were the stairs, up which she very nearly flew, but the strange young man opened a door on the other side of the tiny space and Alice’s curiosity rooted her in place. Where did the secret passages in Hope Hall lead? What was this young man dressed rather like a highwayman doing here? Surely burglars dressed in floppy hats, fingerless gloves and jackets, not greatcoats and scarves?
“Who are you?” Alice demanded. It wasn’t very polite, but she was certain that he wasn’t one of the servants, and so a little rudeness could be excused as he presumably didn’t belong in the house.
“Call me Creamey,” he said. “And you?”
“Alice — I…I mean, Miss Crawft,” she said. She really needed some air. The things one did when deprived were truly quite frightful.
Creamey stepped through the door. Alice thought again of fleeing back up the stairs to her room, but as Creamey vanished into the mysteries of Hope Hall, the candlelight went with him, plunging Alice once more into darkness.
Alice lurched through the door after him. Once back in the light, she proceeded more cautiously. Her left ankle still hurt some when she stepped on it. They emerged in another ridiculously narrow passage with a door at one end and steps going down at the other.
“I see, and your business?” Creamey asked, heading towards the steps.
“This is my cousin’s house.”
“Oh…” Creamey said, stopping at the top of the steps. He turned to her. “Um, ah, you won’t mention seeing me, will you?”
“I don’t see that I shouldn’t,” Alice said, much more bravely than she felt. It occurred to her a shocking number of knives could be concealed in a coat of such voluminous nature. Creamey grinned rather queasily.
“Look…I—” he was cut off by footsteps coming down the stairs behind them. The Duke of Hopenheim’s voice boomed down the passageways.
“Heaven help us all,” he was saying. “I can’t imagine that poet is still alive!” The poet in question was Alice’s father. “What he has to put up with… it makes my skin crawl and my eyes flood with sympathetic tears – and you know how unsympathetic I am.”
“Yes, Papa,” Lyra’s voice answered.
“Dammit,” Creamey said, grabbing Alice’s arm and running down the stairs. Alice bolted gladly. The last thing she wanted was to be caught by her cousin and uncle in secret passageways with a strange young man of questionable occupation.
Her ankle threatened to shatter on each step. They reached the bottom as the door in the passage above creaked open. Alice and Creamey sprinted down a long tunnel lined with alcoves, which held horrible things like, medieval torture devices, casks of vintage wine, a few coffins, some old needlepoint, and a statue of Uncle Hopenheim. The air was musty, and odors of mold drifted on the slight draft that stirred the cobwebs dangling from Uncle H’s graven image.
The passage opened up into an ancient cellar; or perhaps it was a dungeon. There was a barred door on one side and a regular door on the other. Straight across from the tunnel opening was a very old looking wooden door banded by strips of iron with large, wicked looking spikes. A collection of antique weaponry occupied the center of the stone cellar: cobweb-coated trunks and racks of rusted rifles, an old canon, poleaxes, and an assortment of bayonets and blunderbuss parts.
“Which way?” Creamey asked.
“I don’t know!” wailed Alice. “I’ve never been down here before.”
Creamey raced to the ordinary door. He peeked in and closed it. “Crypt,” he pronounced. Alice grabbed a rusty sword from the collection.
“Crypt?” she squeaked. Creamey raced to the barred door. It was locked. Alice followed him to the last door, which stood slightly ajar. The Duke’s voice boomed from the stairs.
“You understand the importance of the marriage, of course?”
“I suppose,” Lyra replied.
Alice frowned. Now they were both on to it… how miserable her stay was going to be. Especially if she got caught down here. She followed Creamey through the door. Creamey’s candle glinted on glass phials, beakers and tubes lined out on tables. There were horrible chains hanging from the ceiling and several metal cots lined in a row. A hulking boiler loomed in one corner and wires curled down the walls to connect with great awful gears and tubes and crank handles.
“God’s molars,” said Creamey. Alice gaped at him. “Pardon,” he amended. Then, looking around, he added, “but in all seriousness, God’s molars and eyeteeth!” There was no exit. They couldn’t go back out into the cellar: Hopenheim and Lyra would have reached the tunnel by now and would see their candle…
Creamey pointed at several large cabinets. He opened one, but it was full of bottles labeled with things like, ‘formaldehyde’ and ‘mandrake.’ There was even a brain floating in a large jar. Alice shuddered, looking away from the horrid, slimy things. Her stomach was already tight with fear, which was probably for the best, or she might have emptied it right there.
The next cabinet contained books with authors like Archimedes, Galen, Ocelot, and Paracelsus. Hopenheim and Lyra’s voices were getting closer.
Creamey dashed over to an iron maiden propped up in the corner. He pushed it open. It must have been put to regular use, the joints well oiled, because it didn’t make a sound. He closed himself in, extinguishing his candle.
Alice was about to protest when the door flew open.

Get the book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LX8TJDL/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_hpDnybN02H2Z3

And hop for more horror!

I Was A Horrifying Zombie (Sandemonium 2017)

   So, a week later, I finally get around to writing about Sandemonium. It was August 26, so, sorry if you missed it, because it was a blast.
   What is Sandemonium? It is a small, local, friendly, and fantastic fandom convention in Sandpoint, Idaho, a convenient 45 minutes from where I live. The atmosphere is warm and the vendors are always great. From local authors to artists, game-makers to librarians, they've got something to fascinate. This year, the table behind me was Board2Death a game development company with their own role-playing card game (they had their artist there, who had done all the art for the cards). And there was Sack Lunch Comics and Little Vampires
   I experienced pretty good sales, I thought, for such a small event. I got my picture taken with Darth Vader!

   And there was an author reading, in which I participated (read from Ambulatory Cadavers). I also got to meet Kevin Penelerick, with whom I've been acquainted online, ever since he helped me find  networking opportunities after Ambulatory Cadavers was released (he also writes zombie fiction under another name). He read his children's book, Guppy Butter, which is a horrifyingly delightful tale of tragedy and fish. Seriously twisted (I loved it).
   And there was the cosplay contest. Since I won the amateur department last year, and I sewed my entire costume (sans tights and shoes), I had to enter the professional department, against two fabulous D&D characters.
   All of the costumes were really fun and fantastic! From the pirates to the Skyrim character to the soldiers and Pacman.
   The moral of the story? Cons are fun. Although I did miss out on the panels. They had panels on cosplay and writing and self publishing and gaming. Not much boffering this year, but hey. Also, violin covers of rock songs seemed to be the main soundtrack. In my formal Regency get-up, I wanted to dance, but sadly refrained.
    The best part, really, is talking to readers, potential and returning. When you're sitting at a table labeled 'author,' people will walk up to you and start talking about their own writing, and that is the best thing. There's a little pressure, of course, because I want my success to inspire others. And, I guess it must, without my even having to say anything. Otherwise no-one would stop and tell me that they write, read me their excerpts, and discuss the creative process. It's encouraging and I do my best to be encouraging. I want them to get what I get out of our conversations: inspiration to keep going, to keep writing, and keep connecting.
   Writing brings people together, and that, I think, is the true moral of the story.

   p.s. I wore that make-up all day. Couldn't itch my nose for fear of ruining it.

A Giveaway! With zombies!

   I am giving away three copies of my horrifying (and delightful) Ambulatory Cadavers, a Regency Zombie Novel. So get ready to sink your teeth into a brain! I mean a book. Figuratively, I hope. Since tooth marks would not be very attractive on a book cover and saliva has sanitation issues.
   This was such a fun book to write. All of the characters are my favorite characters, they just appeared to me on the page so real and often ridiculous. It's got it all: science (?!), Balls, art, zombies, gore, and even some romance. I could copy and paste the blurb here, but I'm too lazy, so I'll just state briefly that there are two cousins. One timid, one bold. One evil scientist, one reluctant fiancee. Oh, and a spy, and an artist and then a zombie with character, named Test.
   Reviewers say that it is a literary romp!
   So enter for a chance to win, I'll be signing the copies and probably slipping a little something extra into the packages (just some original art cards 😉). Did I mention I painted the image on the book cover?

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Ambulatory Cadavers

by McCallum J. Morgan

Giveaway ends May 12, 2017.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Ambulatory Cadavers Excerpt

Chapter Fourteen: In Which Alice Joins the Buffet

A zombie soared through the glittering glass and flopped in a heap on top of the harpsichord. “Braiiiiiins!” it shrieked, and chomped into the harpsichordist’s forehead. Blood sprayed across the violist’s sheet music and the whole room screamed as one.

Alice clutched Clara as everyone started to run in all directions, screaming and falling and trampling one another. Viols and violas flew through the air as the musicians scrambled and the zombie polished off the harpsichordist’s nerve center.

The lady in the turban knocked Clara over as she went pounding by in the direction of the door. The two zombies lurched into the crowd from either side. The party population surged towards the door. Several fine ladies and gentlemen managed to trample Clara before Alice could peel her off the floor. She tried to fight the flow of gentry, but they were swept along on the screaming, fruitless attempt at the door.

For a moment, Alice hoped it would not be fruitless as the doors bowed under the pressure of frantic lords and ladies, but it held. Probably for the best, she thought; that many people trying to exit down the hall at once would have been deadly. Now the crowd scattered, pushing and shoving and wailing.

The zombies seemed to be peering through the masses, grabbing the odd guest and comparing them to a locket they each wore. They shoved most of the screaming people away, but randomly, they would snack on a brain here and there.

Asa Crimpton had come through the window at some point and now stood on the sagging harpsichord, wearing a black mask and surveying the melee with a pair of opera glasses.

“I’ll never read novels again!” Clara swore, crossing herself.

Alice dragged her through the confusion, trying to slip around the zombies towards the windows. The pocket watch zombie threw on elderly punch drinker to the side and made for them.

“Run!” Alice said, tugging on Clara. But there were so many other people running the opposite way and crosswise. Charles appeared out of the confusion and pulled them off towards the dining room, punching and shoving people out of his way.

“Women into the dining room!” he yelled.

He grabbed Lyra on the way.

“What are you doing?” she protested.

“That necromancer can’t keep track of everything in this mess!” he shouted back. “If Test goes for you or Alice, he might not see. Besides, if we get the women out of the way it’ll be easier to find Wickwood.”

“What?” asked Clara.

Charles pushed them into the dining room. It seemed that quite a few of the ladies had already had this notion. And several men who were hiding under the table. Lyra checked that none of them were Lord Wickwood then threw the tablecloth back down and tried to fight her way out of the room, but the ladies kept pouring in and she made no headway. Alice pulled Clara along the table to the center and opened the smelling bottle. The two girls bent their heads over it and struggled to remain conscious. Mrs. Crawft cowered in the corner of the room, clutching a candelabra.

Out in the ballroom, Alice could hear Charles rallying the men. “Let’s re-kill these bastards, eh?”

Then the door closed and the lady in the turban locked it and lodged a dining chair under the handle.

Outside, screams reverberated and the chomping accelerated. There were a few pistol shots and then another scream.

“My babies!” Lyra wailed. The other ladies looked at her in confusion.

They all huddled in the semi-darkness as the candles sputtered and the men under the table whimpered. Alice was sandwiched between Lyra and Clara. Lyra’s reticule was tied to her cord belt, dangling and clinking…

Shattering noises, wails, and trampling footsteps came from the ballroom.

Then the door splintered and the chair snapped. The ladies screeched and squealed, pressing away from the doors. Alice grabbed Lyra’s reticule and ripped it loose.

The wilted-looking zombie came groaning into the room, flopping its arms and grinning. It grabbed the turban lady and bit into her head. It came away with a mouthful of silk and spluttered. Spitting and grimacing, it threw the lady to the side and lurched further into the room. The ladies struggled amongst each other to get away. Many of them, including Alice and Clara, leapt onto the table, hitching up their skirts and dancing about as if there was a mouse.

The zombie grinned up at their undergarments and clapped. It started to pull them off one by one and split their heads open. The ladies got the idea and jumped off the table, fleeing back into the ballroom.

The corpse made his way down the buffet to Alice and Clara. Alice was paralyzed. Clara had lost her wits in the horror and danced a mad cancan. The zombie grinned and reached for her hungrily. Another lady of more fortitude picked up the epergne from the center of the table, dumped the flowers and fruit off and hurled it at the zombie’s head. The creature stumbled back and advanced again. Alice unlocked her frozen limbs and pushed the hysterical Clara behind her.

The zombie reached up and grabbed Alice’s wrist—the wrist of the hand that held the smelling bottle. As the zombie pulled her off the table, the bottle fell out of her limp grasp and shattered on the creature’s head.

The ammonia and salt trickled down his face into his mouth and he wailed, letting go of Alice. Alice promptly slid under the table and cowered next to Lyra’s looker. The zombie screamed, its terrible voice rising in pitch until the chandelier shattered and the mirror cracked. It fell to the marble floor next to Alice, its sightless eyes staring at her. She screamed and scooted back, bumping into a punch drinker, but the zombie did not move.

buy the book here

Ambulatory Cadavers Unleashed!!!

Halloween Night 2016

It was a rainy night.

Dark.

But inside Bonners Books, it was warm and dry.

The copies of my new book didn't arrive in time for their own birthday party and traffic was dismally slow. Slow as in a total of two groups of people came in (not including my sister and her boyfriend, and my brother who was acting as my assistant). Now, I enjoyed my evening. I got to sign a couple books and even read to the second group of people who came in. They were a great group, enthusiastic and interested in me and my work. I'm very grateful to them for making my event worth it. There was a lot I could have been very depressed with, if not for the great people who did come and the amazing hosting of Bonners Books.

I was left with piles of candy, which I had meant to distribute to the masses of people who came toodling through. I had giveaway bags that were meant to be door prizes with a drawing. I had even shaved off my beard to match the time period of my costume (and make my makeup application easier). I bought an add in the paper (those stupid things are super expensive) and ordered special posters.

But it really is always worth it.

Even if NO ONE had come in. These things must be done.

I guess I want to use my somewhat disappointing event (yes, not a total fail, I enjoyed it, it just wasn't what I had hoped for) as encouragement to new and struggling authors.

YOU HAVE TO HAVE THESE EVENTS OR NO ONE WILL COME TO THEM EVER! 

They have to happen for people to come!

Don't let one slow one, or two, or three get you down. Keep having signings, keep going to open mics, fairs, conventions, because you have to be visible for anyone to see you. It's a lot of work, it's exhausting, and sometimes it seems so futile. You might think, this isn't why I write anyway, why am I wasting my time?

Just one positive interaction with a reader is worth all of the trouble.

That's why I write, anyway. I write because I have a story to tell, because when my story delights a reader, that delights me. I have to write anyway. Writing is a compulsion. I can't not write. But I'll take whatever reward I can, and the gleam in a reader's eye is a reward I can truly say is the best reward.

So, even if you only get one gleaming eye (or two, as that is generally the way people's anatomy is arranged) then you've done your job. You've won a fan. Each fan matters. And I actually love that part of being a small time indie author that no one's heard of: I have time to connect personally with those who have heard of me. I know what it feels like to have someone you're a fan of reply to your comment on social media, and if I can do that for someone, then I'm happy.

So, just in case you do become best seller famous someday, enjoy the small time while you can. Enjoy those intimate signings where only a few people come in, because really, they're the best.

Writing isn't about making money anyway.

Plus, any excuse to dress up is fine by me.

A few creepy candles to add atmosphere

Me with some creepy candles

Ready to sign your books!

Ready to eat your brains!

My book babies

My most successful Regency era coat to date

Where is Edith Cushing? She's my soulmate. And I have a candelabra to match

My latest book baby, now available on amazon!

Get my books here.
And watch me read chapter nine below:

A Regency Tailor's Tale

   Okay, so I cannot lay claim to the title ‘tailor’ and you will soon see why.

   This is the story of how I made my Regency outfit for my zombie costume for my book release party. This is not a how-to. More of a how-not-to.

   I was driven to sewing by desperation.

   Ever since I was little, I liked capes and cloaks and things.

   I wanted costumes, but my Mom wasn’t much of a seamstress, not to say she couldn’t, just wouldn’t. My next stop was the thrift stores around Halloween time. Although we have lovely thrift stores in our area, their costume selections always left much to be desired (and I think they’ve gotten worse since I stopped looking). I had to start making them myself.

   I still used the thrift stores for my fabric purchasing. I didn’t use patterns and I sewed by hand. This was arduous.

   Eventually, I got a hold of a sewing machine (my Grandma brought hers up for my sister. My sister had no interest in sewing and so I took the thing over). My first attempts were shaky. I still didn’t use patterns. Totally cooked it up from my head and while chopping up fabric. When I attempted my first pair of trousers, I finally cut up an old pair of pants and used that for a pattern.

   Then I began making coats. I took an old suit coat and chopped it up for a pattern. The first was a simple copy. 

The first pair of trousers, originally for a Sweeney Todd costume, paired with the first coat for a Mad Hatter. My brother made the hat.

   The second diverged greatly, becoming somewhat reminiscent of  a Regency era coat for last year’s Halloween, inspired by Tanz der Vampire, the German musical with the incredible costumes. Needless to say, I totally winged it with the collar and it’s barely satisfactory. Also, the thrift store is no longer my fabric store. I found gorgeous fabric at a local shop called the Alley Fabric Nook. The drawback to this, is the astronomical prices of fabric. Slide your card and whack bang you spent fifty dollars on cloth!

Tanz Der Vampire costume. I made the waistcoat, coat, cape, and trousers. And ascot, if you can really say that a half sewed together strip of silk is an  ascot.

   Now I’m working on coat number three.

   I started with the waistcoat. This outfit was inspired by Lord Chornby’s unholy getup in Ambulatory Cadavers, and was going to include a paisley waistcoat. I went fabric shopping, this time on amazon, and found some birds I couldn’t pass up. So I made the waistcoat first. And the shirt. This time I decided to actually sew the shirt, too. The shirt turned out rather wild and untamed, but it will be mostly hidden, so I think it will do.

This photo was before I added the ruffles on the shirt cuffs

   I still don’t know how one is supposed to do the tall collars on this style of waistcoat, so this one has issues. I suppose it needs to be sewn in between the outer layer and the lining or something crazy like that, I just sew it straight on and frown when it doesn’t lay how I want. I think this one turned out a little crooked as well, and it’s too tall, so unless the coat collar can keep it in check I’ll have to shorten it or fold it and call it good.

   I almost got a little too ambitious with the coat. I pulled out my copy of The Mode in Costume by R. Turner Wilcox and flipped to the section ‘The French Restoration’ encompassing Louis XVIII, 1815-1824 and Charles X, 1824-1830. I examined the claw and hammer coat tails on those glorious frock coats and couldn’t refrain. 

Frock coat from 'The Mode in Costume'

   Instead of copying the two back panels of my cut up suit coat pattern, I made the back of the coat in four pieces. I didn’t quite succeed in the layering of the claw and hammer, but I got a deluxe-looking back.

Advanced sewing, no? For me, yes. Took some dexterous manipulation.

   It took me three tries to get the collar right. Those Regency era coat collars are so weird looking (in a good way!). How do you make those? I still don’t know. This is just as close as I got.

The pictures make it look better than reality!

The Infested Palace (Make Your Own Adventure Game)!

  Day Four of October Frights!
  I consider this a fairly ambitious project. Though it actually wasn't as hard as I'd imagined. It jusy took a LONG time to link everything together. I was inspired by a story by Garth Nix: Down to the Scum Quarter from his collection Across the Wall. It was a parody of rpg create your own adventures. I wanted to make an interactive post, and this was all I could come up with. I created all of the accompanying drawings in 1 1/2 days, so forgive their sloppiness.
I eliminated any need for dice, but you'll have to remember what two weapons you choose. Have fun and message/comment if you hit a glitch. Also, there's a giveaway at the end ;)
Are you ready to try and escape the 'Infested Palace' alive, and with your brains intact?
Begin the adventure!

Or preorder the book that this game is loosely based around, Ambulatory Cadavers

And check out the other blogs on this hop

An InLinkz Link-up

Ambulatory Cadavers Art and Giveaway!

   The October Frights Blog Hop continues!
   Today we have art and a giveaway!
   I had a post on here about the drive to write and how it's like being a host for some alien intelligence that compels you to write (here it is, if you want to check it out). Writing isn't the only thing I'm a host for. I have an alien compulsion to draw, too. Often it seems to be another facet of the writing compulsion: I have to draw what I write. I like to be able to see my characters and how they dress, since I usually write stories set in another time period, and with Ambulatory Cadavers I had to see them especially clearly, because they would appear on my book cover.
   I've always loved the Regency period. I studied fashion plates and illustrations of the clothing of that period before designing the cover. It had to be authentic.
   Test was of course the most important character to design, being the zombie representative of the book. I think I was sketching ideas in April 2015 when I was writing the first draft. I wanted something decayed but cartoonish, like Plants vs. Zombies. But also somewhat classy and dignified. I think I found the right balance.

Katie M John is the wizard who framed my painting. Wonderful isn't it? And drippy. She is wearing a matching velvet bonnet and spencer: the short jacket popular during the Regency era.

Oil portrait of Test

   The compulsion never ends: I started out testing my new ink dip pens and before I knew it, I had the whole cast of Ambulatory Cadavers. These were really fun to paint: fast and furious.

Asa Crimpton--Artist and Medium. As a professional artist, it is perfectly acceptable for him to view naked women.

Charles von Hopenheim--Not much up in the skull, but lots in the heart, although most of it is futilely directed at his cousin, Lyra.

Creamey--A strange young man of questionable occupation. Is his nose broken or does it have naturally graceful curvature?

Lyra von Hopenheim--Avid scientist and social rebel. Sometimes a coup d'etat is the only answer.

Test--He's really very handsome actually...in a way. But he will eat your hydrangeas. They make a lovely garnish for brains.

Alice Crawft--Lyra's cousin. Doomed to an odious marriage. She enjoys edifying poetry, painting, and the pianoforte.

   If you like these ink dip pen and watercolor portraits, you're in luck, because I'm giving away a set of 5x7 prints! That's six altogether: Alice, Test, Lyra, Creamey, Charles, and Asa. Also, I'm giving away a print of the painting that was used in the book's cover.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Also, here is a preorder link for Ambulatory Cadavers

An InLinkz Link-up

A New World of Horror...and Smelling Salts

   This is sort of a re-post of stuff I had on my Cover Reveal party for Ambulatory Cadavers. It introduces the world of Monezuela were the book takes place.

   Ambulatory Cadavers is my new horror comedy novella, coming October 31!
   Blurb:
   Two cousins. One on the verge of a great discovery—and excessive power, wealth, and infamy—the other on the verge of an odious marriage.

Lyra will stop at nothing to achieve her father’s dream of dissolving Parliament into so much anatomical sludge, searching out the farthest reaches of science and the arcane arts. Until her own dreams begin to awaken, jolted by the electric sparkle of an artist’s eyes.

Alice’s worst nightmares begin to awaken as great expectations weigh upon her and her answer to a very important question is awaited. Lacking a strong constitution, Alice can only run from her problems—until she runs into a strange young man of questionable occupation and discovers her cousin’s terrible plans.

The dead are about to rise, the Lords are about to fall, and things are about to get creamy. And high society will never be the same again.

   Bamberg…the ripest nest of vipers in all Monezuela. In all the world, in fact. I created Bamberg as the setting of my own barber tragedy after watching Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. It became the home of many wild tales of darkness and crime. And ridiculously foolish and fashion-prone individuals. I knew that someday I would write about this place, this notorious city and the country of which it is capital: a land without a continent, an un-sunk Atlantis. I did not know that this day would come so soon.

   Bamberg was just waiting to have a story slapped down in its winding streets and catacombs and slums and elaborate parks. So where else could I put the walking dead when they came ambulating across my laptop screen?

   I actually already have an unpublished story lurking around somewhere that was meant to be set in Bamberg, but I don’t think I use the name. At any rate, I think Ambulatory Cadavers is a much better introduction into this comical hive of wickedness. It will ease us gently into this world, a world that really was still somewhat undefined and foggy. We will spend quite a bit of time out in the countryside near the city before diving into the streets and the bloodshed that will ensue.

   Are you ready to follow me into Monezuela and Bamberg? Keep a close eye on your pocket book, your china, your unmentionables and your relatives.

   Review of Ambulatory Cadavers by Mr. Harold B. Farthingale for the Bamberg Daily Discharge

   This is a highly disgusting work of fiction. Hysterical and lewd, it depicts obscene violence in a cavalier manner and plays with words as if they were of no consequence. The characters display little or no remorse for their hideous actions and fall in love with unrealistic candidates. This is sure to give impressionable young people a distorted outlook on life and morals and fill their heads with complete nonsense. 

   Furthermore, blue kissing is metaphorically described in vivid detail and decapitation is portrayed with gruesome and callous abandon. This type of sensational writing is neither skillful nor of remote value. It is frivolous and wicked and should not be purchased, borrowed or hidden beneath stockings in bureau drawers

An InLinkz Link-up

Ambulatory Cadavers Excerpt

Chapter Three: In Which Lyra’s Diabolical Plans Are Thwarted

Lyra hated company. One had to get up so god-awful early. The Duke of Hopenheim was always very strict about traditional Monezuelan breakfast, even though fashionable society had begun to adopt the British form of breaking the fast in a much less formal manner. The Duke of Hopenheim liked to have everyone together in the mornings so he could glare at them all in turn and tell them what he thought they ought to do with their lives. And he insisted upon dress.

Afraid of Alice’s quaint way of looking much too sprightly in the mornings, Lyra rose especially early to make absolute certain that her barmy cousin didn’t outdo her. She had to rouse her lady’s maid from an apparent binge sleep-off and wasted a good ten minutes getting Bridgette out of bed and then thirty to get her hair satisfactorily tamed into an acceptable arrangement of curls and topknot. Perhaps she should just get a Titus cut, it would be less trouble.

After much deliberation and very little input from the sluggish maid, Lyra decided on a cream chiffon and silk gown. Then she realized a bit of ribbon needed sewing back on and dresses and pearls and bonnets and shoes and parasols hurricaned around the room.

Lyra grudgingly slipped into a pale blue muslin gown and tripped down to breakfast late. Lyra stopped on the thresh-hold. The breakfast room was empty save for the butler.

“What’s the meaning of this, Jeebie?”

“Miss?”

“I haven’t missed breakfast, have I?” Lyra asked, suddenly greatly afraid. “Did Leroux make my favorite?” She always missed breakfast when Leroux made her favorite.

“No, miss,” Jeebie said, pulling out a chair.

“No to which?”

“You have not missed breakfast, but neither has Leroux made your favorite.”

Lyra sighed. When would things work out in her favor? She glanced down at her gown. All this carefulness for nothing. She strode into the room and took her seat.

“Where is Alice? And Papa?”

“Still asleep, m’lady,” Jeebie said, placing a plate before her.

“Ah, well, let them miss out, I say,” Lyra said. She tucked in with enthusiasm. More enthusiasm than was generally considered proper for a young lady, but no one was at breakfast, so she excused herself. “More sausage,” she demanded.

Lyra was halfway through her indecorous seconds when Alice arrived. Lyra swallowed rapidly, nearly choking, and assumed a more polite eating rhythm. She glowered at Alice’s lustrous hair, perfectly arranged with little flowers of silk. Her porcelain complexion, humongous blue eyes, sweet as a baby’s, and adorable little nose and mouth always made Lyra furious.

“Good morning, Alice,” Lyra said. “I thought you’d never come!”

“So did I,” Alice said resignedly, “but I got so hungry. Is…uncle here?” Alice looked around fearfully.

Lyra rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s invisible,” she said sardonically.

Alice started and gasped quietly. “He is?”

“No, you twit,” Lyra scoffed, silently praying for the chandelier to fall on her head.

“Oh,” Alice said, her voice heavy with relief. “Is he not coming down to breakfast?” she asked hopefully.

“I hope not,” Lyra said.

Alice smiled tentatively. Or maybe not, it was hard to tell since Alice seemed to do everything tentatively. Even sitting down. Alice sat down tentatively and began to tentatively taste her breakfast. Hungry indeed. She must have slept in late to recover from Aunt Elizabeth’s tirade. That must be what was keeping Papa in bed as well.

“I hear you have a proposal,” Lyra said innocently. Alice cringed. “Rupert Winkle, the Earl of Chornby.”

“He did propose to me,” Alice confirmed tentatively. Lyra silently applauded her; the girl was an artist of the oxymoronic.

“You could do worse,” Lyra said.

“Not much worse, I should guess,” Alice responded. Lyra was shocked. The girl actually had fight in her.

“He is a hideous old sack of vitriol,” Lyra said, “but he could be a hideous old sack of vitriol without a title.”

“I could give him many titles,” Alice mumbled.

“What did you say?” Lyra asked, leaning forward.

“Nothing,” Alice said, turning a lovely shade of scarlet. Lyra was astounded.

“What kind of titles?”

“I shouldn’t,” Alice said, “he really hasn’t done me any wrong other than ask for my hand whilst holding such prestige and titles and an unfortunate lack of the delightful in his personality.”

“He strikes me as a wife beater,” Lyra said.

“No!” gasped Alice. “I mean, surely not. He seems more like the kind who might stay away for long periods of blissful time.” A hopeful look came across her face.

“So you’re giving up?” Lyra asked, on one hand disappointed in what she had thought was a new and braver Alice, and on the other delighted that she would soon be leaving.

“I didn’t say that,” Alice said. “I started out to defend his character and found myself on a road I did not want to be on.”

“That’s what happens when you defend characters undeserving of kindness and friendship.”

“That’s very uncharitable,” Alice admonished.

“Charity,” Lyra said disparagingly, “what a useless scrap of rubbish.”

“’And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins’” Alice said.

“Jeebie!” Lyra called. “Bring me the newspaper, she’s quoting scripture!”

Jeebie brought her a freshly cut and ironed paper and vanished back into the shadows. Butlers, supernatural creatures of darkness. It was like having a djinn. She flipped through the paper, making sure to hold it forbiddingly between her and Alice.

"A Hole in the Ice" book excerpt

Coming September 2014 from Little Bird Publishing House

Prologue

     A cat yowled somewhere in the distance. Further away, someone fired a gun. A man, dressed in black, slipped out of a dark alley; the mist swirled around him. He breathed in the acrid, smoky air, and glanced at the hazy moon.

Turning a corner, he looked nervously behind him. Was that a lantern? Or the gleam of the moon on one of the burnt out lamp-posts? Ahead of him someone ducked out of sight. He hunched his shoulders in an attempt to appear smaller and dashed down an alley. Without looking behind him, he turned onto the next street and crossed over a bridge, passing sooty stone walls and flickering lamps. Down a dark lane, up another alley, he ran as swift and soft as he could. He stopped, panting. Looking behind him, he saw a shadow move. As he had feared, he was being followed.

He slipped into a side street, one hand protecting the secret pocket in his waistcoat. Something moved in the fog and caused him to alter his course. He went left, then right, then left. A top hat loomed menacingly out of the darkness, blocking his path. Ducking around a corner, he watched as the figure ambled by, its cape stirring eddies in the fog. The figure stopped and looked about, then moved on.

Once it was gone, he sighed in relief and set off again. Then he heard something ahead of him, a scratching like a thousand pens on parchment, a scrabbling like fingernails inside a coffin.

He turned and fled down a narrow pathway, passing several dark openings. Slipping into one of the openings, he emerging on a wider street that followed the river. The noises grew louder behind him, the scuttling more frantic. Silent lightning forked in the sky, lighting up the smoke wreathing the rooftops. The man in black ran across an ancient bridge spanning the murky river. He looked to the right, down the river. The top hat mirrored his crossing on the next bridge.

Shrill squeaks drove themselves into the black clad man’s ears. Glancing back he saw a moon-gilt mass teeming over the cobbles of the bridge. He suppressed a cry and ran faster. If he could only reach the embassy and his comrades—but he had to go downriver—he would have to outrun the top hat.

He careened around a sooty corner, bumping into a ragged figure. He cried out, but the figure was hatless, merely a beggar or murderer. The man in black pushed him aside and continued to run. He was now on a lane lined with dark shop windows.

The squeals followed him, building as they grew closer. The beggar screamed behind him. The man plunged into a y-shaped intersection. He hesitated for a moment, then ran left.

He stopped dead by a cold lamppost as noiseless lightning again sliced the sky. He hugged the lamppost with stiff, frightened fingers. The top hat stood in the middle of the road.

Behind him, the cobbles roiled under the moonlight, scratching, scraping, and scrabbling. The moon winked out as the clouds and smoke choked off its light. In the murky darkness the man could see hundreds of glittering beady eyes. The man whirled around and made to rush the top hat, maybe slip past in the dark.

A lantern flared red in the night. The man in black skidded to a halt. The lantern turned to reveal the head of its bearer. The head grinned, all aglow, like a scarlet carnival mask. The man was trapped.

The swarming eyes surged towards him and rats crawled up his legs. Their claws tore his trousers and scratched his skin, a froth of biting, clawing, squeaking terror. The man in black fell screaming to the cobbles as the hungry rats poured over him. The head turned its lantern so the light spilled onto the rats. They shied away from the bright red glow.

“Back!” the head commanded, sweeping off its top hat. The rats obeyed, squealing in protestation of the light. The owner of the head and hat stooped over the wailing man in black and searched his pockets. He soon found the secret pocket and its occupant. He slipped the round shape into his own pocket and stood, replacing his hat. He turned his lantern on the rats and strode off into the fog, driving the vermin before him.

The man in black moaned and a last silent flicker shot through the tattered clouds. The Thames continued to flow sluggishly and darkly along. The moon reappeared from behind a tattered cloud.  Somewhere nearby a cat yowled.

Chapter One: When People Have Dinner

As darkness fell, Parsifal paced in the upstairs hall, stopping every few minutes to peer out of the window. He wanted to be the first to see his uncle’s carriage, but the fog caused the gate at the end of the gravel drive to melt into obscurity. Finally, when it was impossible to see anything further, he gave up his watch and went to his room.

He collapsed in a chair and picked up a book. But Parsifal couldn’t focus on reading; his imagination wouldn’t stop playing with the possible identities of the guests his uncle was bringing. What if the Prime Minister came for dinner? Or the Duke of Wales? It was possible, given his uncle’s prominent status. Parsifal hoped his uncle would stay a few days. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his uncle would go riding with him before he left again. It had been so long since the last time…

Excitement downstairs interrupted his reverie. Maids were rushing about and Mrs. Hue, the housekeeper, could be heard barking orders. He hurried to the window in the hall. Carriage lights glowed on the drive; wheels creaked and a harness jangled. When the carriage pulled up to the house, Parsifal  tried to smooth out the tail of his dress jacket as he dashed down the stairs, wanting to make a good impression. He joined Mrs. Hue by the door and heard the voice of his uncle, Lord Keazund, ring out with authority, like a great pipe organ. Another voice answered, this one a musical air on the viol. Mrs. Hue watched through the peep-hole and waited. Footsteps sounded on the front stairs. At the last moment, before anyone on the other side could turn the knob, Mrs. Hue flung the door wide open. Lord Keazund did not seem at all perturbed. He merely stepped over the threshold, filling the hall with his commanding presence. His chiseled features were handsome and fashionably pale. Few people were taller than him, and those who were, did not seem so.

 “Good evening, master,” Mrs. Hue said jovially, taking Lord Keazund's coat.

 “Good evening, Mrs. Hue,” he said . Then he turned to Parsifal and greeted him with a single nod of the head and the mere acknowledgement of his name.

“Parsifal.” 

Parsifal nodded, mirroring his Uncle. He didn't let the cool greeting give him the pang it usually did as he was too preoccupied looking at the people behind him.

Standing directly behind his Uncle was a woman. As she stepped into the lamplight, her hair shimmered. Her features were soft, like the lines of a light sketch. She was not a glamorous Parisian; there was nothing overtly sensual about her, and yet her simple pastoral beauty was completely riveting.

“This is my nephew, Parsifal,” Lord Keazund said. “Parsifal, this is Lady Vasille.” Parsifal bowed deeply and she curtsied back.

 “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lady Vasille said, and she sounded as if she actually meant it.

“The pleasure is mine,” Parsifal said. Lady Vasille slipped out of her cloak and passed it to Mrs. Hue with a friendly smile. Parsifal tried his best to stop staring and turn his attention to the other guests.

Four more people entered the hall. The next to be introduced was Sir Oaktree, an average man with whiskers. The only remarkable thing about him were his cruel green eyes that gazed over everything with a scorching ferocity. He was followed by Mr. Carrion, a sallow looking man; Mr. Dorril, a fat man; and Sir Morris, a cheerful red-cheeked fellow.

Lord Keazund led the way into the dining room. He sat at the head with Mr. Carrion, Sir Oaktree, and Sir Morris on his right. Lady Vasille sat on his left.

 “Come sit here,” Lady Vasille said to Parsifal, gesturing to the seat next to her; forcing a disappointed Mr. Dorril to sit in the next seat down.

Parsifal couldn’t believe his luck. He yanked on his cuffs and wished he’d paid more attention to his appearance earlier that evening. He sat down between Lady Vasille and Mr. Dorril and studied his uncle, wondering if he was really going to be allowed to dine with them.

Mr. Dorril took up slightly more space than the conventional table setting, pushing Parsifal closer to Lady Vasille. Their proximity meant his elbow brushed hers. Even through his evening dress, his elbow tingled at the contact.

He turned to apologize, but somehow the words wouldn’t come out. She smiled at him and he felt oddly warm. He smiled back. The maids were rushing the food and wine to the table. Mrs. Hue had retreated to her place by the sideboard, making sure everything ran smoothly.

“As I was saying in the carriage,” Mr. Carrion said, “the Eastern Republics are a serious threat to the control of power in Greater Europe.”

“On the contrary,” Lady Vasille said, “They are completely unimportant.”

“Unfortunately, Lady Vasille, they do have enough power to affect us,” Mr. Carrion said.

“How, exactly?” Lady Vasille asked. “Besides trade being disrupted by their little wars?”

“No, but ideas and political movements are contagious.” Mr. Carrion looked annoyed,

“That is entirely so,” Lady Vasille agreed.

“And they might oppose our ideas and stir other countries against our movement,” Mr. Carrion continued, unwilling to let his point go.

“Yes, exactly! The Belarian Alliance is already doing that,” Lady Vasille said.

“But,” said Mr. Carrion, “the Eastern…” 

 “The Belarian Alliance is the real threat, Mr. Carrion,” Lady Vasille said reprovingly. “The Eastern Republics revere the Belarian Alliance, if the Alliance dies, the Republics will lose faith; kill the leader and then the Republics will die, too.”

Mr. Carrion looked confused, “Well, I suppose...”

Lady Vasille turned away from the discussion as the rest of the company joined in with venom. “Politicians,” she said to Parsifal, “Talk, talk, talk.” She yawned, and Parsifal gave a start. He had just been enjoying using all his well-polished manners in front of such prestigious people and then one of them yawned for the whole table to see and no one noticed.

“I expect you know quite a bit about them being as you live with one.”

He cleared his throat nervously. “Um, not exactly.”

“Oh, that's right, you probably don't see much of your uncle, do you?” Lady Vasille said, biting her spoon thoughtfully.

 “No, I don't. He's usually away, doing . . .” Parsifal shrugged, “whatever he's doing.”

 “How long have you lived with Lord Keazund?”

 “I was seven when my uncle adopted me.” He glanced over at his uncle who was in full political swing. “So about nine years,” he sighed.

 “You're just sixteen, then?” Lady Vasille asked. Parsifal nodded. Lady Vasille continued, “Orphaned? That's terrible.”

 “They never found my mother,” Parsifal said defensively. “She disappeared on an expedition to Siberia. All they found was a strip of blue ribbon from her hair.” It was what he always said on the subject, trying hard to smother the ungracious feelings of resentment. He still wondered why she had run off on an expedition to Siberia, of all places, when he was so young. It didn't make any sense.

“Oh,” Lady Vasille said, nodding her head and pressing her lips together to indicate that there was little more she could offer. She changed the topic. “If you're sixteen, you'll be introduced into society soon, won't you?”

 “I hope so,” Persifal said, letting out a light laugh, relieved that the tricky subject of his orphan status had come to an end.

“Do you live in London?” Parsifal asked.

“Sometimes, but I also have a house in Berlin.”

“Germany,” Parsifal said. “What's it like there?”

“It's a wonderful place; it has a really old feel, like layers of memories hang like a thick dust in the air.” She looked straight into his eyes. Hers were warm and deep. Time slowed; his lonely heartbeats drawn out in the silence.

Lady Vasille turned back to her plate and the clink of silverware resumed. Parsifal looked away awkwardly, and caught sight of his uncle gazing at him and Lady Vasille. His face was mostly unreadable, but there was a mixture of something there that made Parsifal feel suddenly guilty.

“How exactly do you know my uncle?” Parsifal asked as soon as his uncle looked away.

“I have a little influence in areas that he would like to have influence in, so he has taken me into his plans.”

“You're not a politician, are you?” Parsifal asked with concern. He'd never heard of a woman politician.

“Of course not. I despise the creatures,” she replied, smiling at Lord Keazund who had glanced over at them again. “But you don't have to be political, or even in the government, to have power.”

“What is my uncle up to?” Parsifal asked, suddenly interested in politics.

“He has the most diabolical plan,” she said before turning to the maid. “Some pudding, if you will.” She turned back to Parsifal. “It involves a trip, and that's  as much as I should probably tell you.” Deftly, she changed the topic, “Thanks for sitting between me and Dorril. I sat next to him in the carriage. Not pleasant.”

Dorril was close enough to hear, and Parsifal assumed he had by the way the large man shifted uncomfortably.

“Um, you're welcome,” Parsifal said. “Who are they?” He looked pointedly at the assembled company. “What does my uncle want from them?”

“Some of them may be useful in more than one way,” Lady Vasille replied. “Others...” she pouted alluringly, “may not. Time will tell. That's why we’re all here having dinner; talk reveals things.”

 “Perhaps too many things,” Lord Keazund said, looking directly at Parsifal. The rest of the company, except Sir Oaktree, were in a loud debate about the way business was conducted in Belgium.

 “Or too few,” Lady Vasille said.

 Lord Keazund looked at Vasille and she looked back defiantly. Finally Lord Keazund turned to Parsifal. “By the way, your tutor is being replaced. Dr. Liam is no longer welcome under this roof.”

Parsifal wanted to ask why, and would have, but his uncle had already turned away. The rest of dinner passed in a flood of arguments and debates. Afterwards, Lord Keazund and his guests departed to the sitting room, probably for more of the same. Sir Oaktree was last through the door. He stole a look at Lady Vasille. Parsifal watched Sir Oaktree's hand drift down to his pocket and Parsifal caught a glimpse of something metallic. Sir Oaktree’s pocket watch? Sir Oaktree glanced around again and this time caught Parsifal looking. His cruel eyes hardened and his hand jerked out of his pocket, guiltily.

“Sir Oaktree!” Lady Vasille called from within the sitting room. “Where is that paper you wrote for The Critical, I wanted to see it.”

Sir Oaktree glared at Parsifal before striding into the sitting room, “You have heard of my modest writings?” he said. Parsifal watched the room disappear as Lord Keazund closed the door from within.

Parsifal waited a moment, then crept up to the door. He put his ear to the crack, straining to hear. Sir Morris was saying something about Sir Oaktree and The Critical. Lady Vasille asked something. Sir Oaktree replied and Sir Morris interjected.

“If only someone had a copy of the article,” Lady Vasille said.

 “I believe I left my case in the carriage; I may have one in there,” Sir Oaktree said.

A chair creaked. Lord Keazund spoke, “I’ll have someone retrieve it for you.”

“No need, your Lordship,” Sir Oaktree said, “I need some fresh air and this is just the excuse to stretch my legs. If I may?”

 “The carriage house is around the back,” Lord Keazund said. Footsteps came towards the door. Parsifal jumped back and retreated hastily down the hall. The handle turned. Parsifal hid in the dining room.

“Bloody Morris, can't keep his mouth shut. They already suspected me. It'll be even trickier now,” Sir Oaktree muttered as he hurried past.

Parsifal waited until Sir Oaktree’s footsteps receded, noting how the footsteps didn’t sound as if they went in the direction of either the back or front door. Parsifal gave up the espionage; he didn’t want to be caught when Sir Oaktree came back. He retrieved his book from upstairs, returned it to its shelf in the library and headed in the direction of the bathroom. As he walked down the hall he savored the moments of the whole affair. He tried to decide what to think about Lady Vasille, and how radical she had been with her disregard for proper etiquette.

The bathroom door stuck for a moment, as if bolted, then gave way. Someone else was already inside.

Parsifal didn’t have time to stop. He bowled into Sir Oaktree, who went stumbling into a shelf. Scented soaps rained to the floor. Sir Oaktree dropped something, which clattered down amongst them.  

 “Sorry! I didn’t realize… I…” Parsifal offered in flustered apology.

Sir Oaktree grabbed something off the floor and stuffed it into his pocket, looking around wildly, as if he expected someone to attack him.

 “I’m terribly sorry,” Parsifal continued, “I didn’t know you were in here.”

Sir Oaktree glared at Parsifal as he stepped around him to the door, then exited hastily, slamming the door on Parsifal. He stared at the door for a moment. “Curious,” he said to himself, bolting the door. The bolt was stiff; one could easily pull it only part way, if they weren’t paying attention. Parsifal turned to the water closet. He was reaching for the towel when he noticed something on the floor, laying amongst the similarly shaped soaps on the floor. He picked it up. It was the size of his palm and was slightly warm. The lid was clasped shut with asimple clip, and a rectangle-shaped hole in the lid showed a wire suspended vertically across the middle of it, making it clear that it wasn’t, as Parsifal had initially assumed, a pocket watch. He drew it closer to his eye and looked into the slit. Inside there was something moving, swirling; a throbbing, pulsing power.

Parsifal was mesmerised with curiosity, he couldn’t resist flipping open the lid. A small spinning wheel was suspended in  liquid; it  quivered slightly under the tremble of Parsifal’s hand. A small magnifying glass was hinged to the side of the apparatus. Strangely distorted figures decorated the face, but on closer inspection he could make out,  N, W, E, and an S. The wheel spun erratically. It was a broken compass. Sir Oaktree must have dropped it. Parsifal slid it into his pocket. He’d try to catch Sir Oaktree before everyone went to bed; he didn’t think Lord Keazund would be pleased if he barged in on their little meeting.

The next morning, sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the pale green wallpaper and making it brighter than usual.  Parsifal began the morning ritual, rising, washing and dressing. Whilst attempting to align his  contrary cravat, he caught sight of the broken compass laying on the dressing table. ‘Strange’ he thought, ‘I was sure I left it in my pocket.’ He reasoned that the maid, who came in every morning before he awoke to fill the wash pitcher with hot water and remove his clothes from the day before, must have found it in his pocket and set it there.

Parsifal had meant to ask Sir Oaktree if it was his and see it safely into his hands, but the party of dinner guests had stayed in the sitting room until long after Parsifal had gone to bed. He resolved to try and give it to Sir Oaktree at breakfast. He finished his cravat with a resigned sigh and picked up the compass, stuffing it into his pocket as he headed downstairs.

“This house is much too green,” he said to himself, walking down the green painted hall with its equally green carpet. “Makes one feel quite nauseous.”

He arrived to discover that the breakfast table had only one occupant: Mrs. Hue.

 “Are they all still in bed?” Parsifal asked, sitting down at the table.

“No,” said Mrs. Hue, “they left last night. All of them. Lord Keazund included. That man just can't stay home!”

 “You mean they left in the middle of the night?” Parsifal asked. That was disappointing. Not only had he failed to return the broken compass, but he hadn’t said goodbye to his uncle… or Lady Vasille.

“Yes. And with a woman, too,” Mrs. Hue said. Parsifal did not answer, he was too busy eating sausage and thinking on the lovely Lady Vasille. Mrs. Hue continued, “Maybe he's found himself a wife, at last.”

Parsifal swallowed his sausage, almost choking, before exclaiming, “Mrs. Hue, please, remember your place. Lord Keazund was with a party of politicians; they were all about business.”

Mrs. Hue brushed the admonishment aside, still seeing Parsifal as the small round faced boy she’d bounced on her knee. “Ah, but that’s the perfect cover; he can't go riding about with a lady by himself. Wouldn’t be proper,” Mrs. Hue said knowledgeably. “By the way,  before he left Lord Keazund told me to tell you that he would be finding your new tutor as soon as possible.”

“Why is he replacing Dr. Liam?” Parsifal asked, sure that the all-knowing Mrs. Hue whould have some insight.

“Your uncle didn't say, he just muttered some vague thing about how he should have realized earlier or some such rot.”

The doorbell rang and the maid, Suzette, scurried past to answer it. She returned with a man in tow.

 “Dr. Liam,” Suzette announced before hurrying out. 

 “Why are you here?” Mrs. Hue asked indignantly.

 “To fulfill my tutoring duties, of course,” Dr. Liam said.

 “Well,” Mrs. Hue said stuffily, “Lord Keazund is replacing you, so we have no need of you.”

“Ah, but until the replacement arrives, I should continue teaching, yes?” Dr. Liam said. Mrs. Hue harrumphed and said, “Well, seeing as I don't know when such a replacement will arrive, I suppose you may continue for now.”

Dr Liam smiled.

Lessons began after breakfast, starting with Advanced Application of Calculus, then the Practice of the Fine Social Arts, followed by Dancing, Drawing, Music, Enhanced English, and Geographical History. Every other day, Dr. Liam would insist on French. It was pleasant to listen to his Scottish accent. Dr. Liam was easy to understand. The way he presented new concepts made them clear, and his lessons were cleverly planned. Parsifal was doing marvelously well. So, why was Dr. Liam being replaced?

“Dr. Liam,” Parsifal asked, during Dancing, “why is Uncle sending you away?”

Dr. Liam paused before replying, “I can only guess...” he paused again, “I thought this would probably happen, aye, knew it would. I haven't gotten anything official from him yet. I expected a warning.”

Parsifal looked past the spectacles, into the stern gray eyes. “What about?” he asked.

Dr. Liam shook his head, “I only know that one must be very careful about what is done and what is said. This is not a conversation we should have.” Parsifal went to protest but Dr. Liam raised a sad smile and shook his head again, “I think we should take another go at this Bavarian Waltz, don’t you?” Dr. Liam held out his arms and Parsifal took his hand in his. They went through the waltz again and no more was said.

Throughout the rest of lessons, Dr. Liam often glanced out of the window, or started at sudden noises, such as when a pen dropped to the floor. It got worse as the day wore on. The tutor glanced around more frequently, running his hands through his hair and fiddling with his cuffs. Parsifal watched in concern, it was clear that the Dr. was on edge, but couldn’t bring himself to ask what was wrong.

Dr. Liam left earlier than usual, not staying for afternoon tea. Before he went, he pressed a manila envelope into Parsifal's hand, saying,

“Sorry I couldn't stay longer, lad. I hope you have learned enough. I tried. But perhaps not hard enough.”

Parsifal stared dumbly at the envelope. He didn't understand his tutor’s words, nor the sadness in his eyes. Dr. Liam had been a wonderful teacher. What did he mean?

 “Thank you,” Parsifal stammered, “thank you for teaching…” There was more he wanted to say, but Dr. Liam was smiling sadly and already turning towards the door.

With a pang, Parsifal watched as Dr. Liam left. His good, amiable, brilliant teacher, gone. When he returned to the tea table, he was more than a little irritated by Mrs. Hue's attitude about it.

 “The sooner the replacement shows up,” Mrs. Hue said, “the better.”

 “He was a good tutor,” Parsifal protested, picking up his teacup.

“Not if Lord Keazund is getting rid of him,” Mrs. Hue said, picking up a scone and sniffing it suspiciously.

 “I have no idea why he should do so,” Parsifal said.

 “Precisely. We have no idea what sort of man Dr. Liam could be,” Mrs. Hue said.

“How does that connect?” Parsifal asked testily, sipping his tea. It needed more milk.

Mrs. Hue turned and yelled down the hall, “Suzette, are these scones perfectly fresh?”

 “Yes ma'am, baked 'em just now.” Suzette's voice drifted back.

 “What I should like to know,” Mrs. Hue said, putting the scone back down, “is who will be replacing Dr. Liam?”

Parsifal let Mrs. Hue ramble on; he was too busy thinking about other problems, like how he was going to return the compass. The longer he left it, the more he felt like a thief.  Now that the guests had gone, he'd have to wait until Lord Keazund came back. His uncle should know the address.

 “How well do you think uncle knows Sir Oaktree?” Parsifal asked Mrs. Hue.

 “Who? That creepy little man? Haven't the slightest,” Mrs. Hue said. Parsifal sighed but she wasn’t quite finished. “He seemed to know the Lady Vasille well enough. I wonder when they'll get married – your  uncle and that lady – she looked like a good match. Pretty enough. Lord Keazund needs to settle down and raise a family properly.”

Parsifal had no wish to repeat the breakfast time conversation and so stood, putting an early end to afternoon tea. He headed to his room with the intention of dressing for a refreshing afternoon ride. Undressing, he found the broken compass and manila envelope. He was about to open the envelope, but stopped. The old compass tingled in his other hand, forcing him to set the envelope aside for later. He opened the compass lid.

There was something strange about the piece. Again, he felt the throb within it – like a heartbeat. He lifted the magnifier and looked through it, expecting to see enlarged cardinal marks. Instead, there appeared a substantial smudge on the glass. He tried to wipe it off with his finger, but it didn’t do any good. He scrubbed at it with his sleeve. Had the smear just changed color?

He brought the compass closer and a chill settled on him as the smudge cleared to show moving shapes. Impossibly, it was as if small figures moved on the other side of the glass. Parsifal brought the magnifier right up close to his eye. All at once there was a loud rushing sound and he could no longer hear the birds chirping  through the open window.