Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Moth wilted like a flower in autumn, but before either Mandrake or I could get to her, the grizzled fighter lifted his hand and gently touched her hair.
“Will you draw strength from one whose gratitude knows no bounds?”
She leaned into him and I felt her grow stronger with every breath.
Outside, the lioness had finished her trawl through the memories of her mate. As far as I could see she was about as pissed off as it’s possible to be without killing someone – and I wouldn’t have bet on all the players in the drama getting away with whole skins.
Mandrake must have thought the same, because he grinned a vicious grin. “Right now, I’m very glad I’m not a lion.”
Lady Lyon stepped forward and stood at the edge of the top step.
“I am embarrassed and I am angry. I will do what I can to make reparation.”
To my internal amusement, Purslane elected herself spokesdragon.
“Perhaps we might awaken sleeping beauty there and ask it some searching questions.”
“Indeed we might. I will have our gaoler bring silver manacles and secure it before it is awoken.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Mandrake muttered and I understood by his tone that he was rather pleased by Purslane’s boldness. He kissed my face and spoke proudly in my head. ‘I trained her, and what a fine dragon she has become.’
A half-were with a vaguely leonine face and rather a lot of bodily hair appeared carrying a set of wrist and ankle chains. He wore heavy leather gloves but even then he only breathed easily when he had chained the female and was able to step away. I felt the poor creature’s pain, but knew it was not mine to heal.
Purslane winced. “We dragons forget how painful silver is to most lycanthropes. I have often wondered why we are not so affected.”
Moth looked soberly at her. “Must never touch silver in dragon form. Never.”
“A dragon touched by silver when flying is likely to fall from the sky,” Mandrake explained. “We pay for being able to deal with silver in human form by being the most vulnerable of all when we ride our beasts.”
I recognised the lurch in my stomach as fear for my beloved, and I rode the pain.
Purslane swallowed audibly. “I am not sure I needed to know that.”
Moth flew to her shoulder. “Did need to know. Friend of Mothwing must take care. Now wake up creature.”
Lady Lyon pulled the dart from beauty’s neck and Purslane’s second dart landed alongside the first wound.
“Antidote should work quite quickly.”
It was only a couple of minutes until the creature stirred. Lady Lyon rolled it onto its side and we watched as the face it wore sort of melted, leaving something that hovered somewhere on the not human spectrum, but I wasn’t sure where.
Moth hissed. “Is face-borrower. Bad creature. Can copy humans. Is stupid but has much malice. Will be servant of something powerful. Creature mustn’t see Mothwing.”
She contracted herself until she could fit into Mandrake’s pocket and disappeared.
Meanwhile the counterfeit lioness writhed and wriggled in its bonds. It snapped, snarled and swore foully, vowing vengeance on all about it. Wulfric put up with its behaviour for about two minutes before striding over and wrapping a hard hand about the now less lovely neck. He squeezed and it became still and quiet.
“You see how it is,” he snarled. “This can be hard or easy. I doesn’t matter to me which you choose. What say you?”
He loosened his grip slightly.
“Easy,” it muttered grudgingly.
“I didn’t hear you.”
His hand must have tightened slightly, because the creature spoke louder and with an edge of panic to its voice.
“I said easy. I choose easy.”
Wulfric took his hand away.
“Right then. Talk.”
“Will answers buy my life?”
Lady Lyon snarled. “No. But truth may buy you an easy death.”
The creature seemed to sink into itself. “What would you have me say?”
“Shall we start with who sent you here?”
“My master is…”
The air around the creature shimmered and grew opaque. The smell that emanated from the fog was nauseatingly rotten. While I retched and tried to hold my breath, the face-borrower fought desperately to get away, but to no avail. It screamed once, high and agonised before the life left its body. A sardonic laugh cut the air, and I was chilled to my bones by the feeling of unalloyed malice, before whatever it was that had done the killing was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
I was beyond angry at casual killing and the manipulation of living creatures without a touch of conscience or empathy, but I had more pressing matters to deal with; my dragon companions were about to lose control.
Mandrake was right on the edge of assuming dragon form, as were all the wing. I felt powerless against their need to hunt the killing thing, but Moth was strong. She struggled out of her hiding place and flew to my shoulder.
“Dragons hold,” she cried in a voice that seemed too large to come from her body. “Be still and await the orders of your Wing Leader.”
I could feel her urging me to go to Mandrake and grasp his hands. I held on as strongly as I was able and poured my love into him through our joined hands. For a few seconds his palms felt scaly and his fingers spasmed as if they were growing claws, but he pulled back from the chasm.
“Dragons stand down,” he ordered and the power in his voice rocked me to my toes.
As the atmosphere around us eased he leaned down and kissed Moth’s curls.
“Thank you,” he said
Moth preened herself. “I did brave.”
“You did indeed. You pulled us back from making a horrible mistake.”
“It was a hard. But now I will ask my sisters if any have smelled that sending.”
I hate it when Moth talks to her fae sisters as it makes my head ache and my stomach churn. Mandrake took me in his arms and I suffered through a mercifully short communication.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

They said she was too young. Too inexperienced. That she was an untried Wiccan who would never succeed in such an endeavour. But they underestimated her determination to carry on her beloved grandmother’s work. 

A single tear ran down her face as she picked up grandmother’s wand and stroked it lovingly. She closed her eyes and drew the necessary serenity about her.

Lifting the wand to her face she opened her eyes and blew gently.

The air about her filled with the delicate beauty of hope, joy, laughter and happiness. The bubbles flew gently away, bearing dreams for sleeping children.

Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

In a space station on Gallifrey
They contacted humans today 
They heard what we said
And looked into our heads
And decided to just walk away

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Em heard footsteps and Agnes grinned at her with the sort of evil anticipation that might have earned a clip across the earhole – if there had been time. But given the imminent appearance of their new seventh, Em contented herself by snarking at her oldest friend.
When the door opened Em at least had the satisfaction of winning the private bet she had with herself about what Ginny would choose to wear.
“Come in and sit yourself down.”
She waved Ginny to a chair and Agnes sat opposite her. Em poured Bloody Marys for the three of them, keeping the glasses hidden from view while she added an unconventional ingredient to the one she put in front of Ginny.
“Bottoms up,” Agnes said cheerily, downing half her drink in one gulp. 
Ginny Cropper seemed less keen, stirring the thick red mixture with its accompanying celery stick and looking about her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Do you not care for Bloody Mary?” Em took a slug of her own drink and gave Ginny her least threatening stare.
Ginny stared back then seemed to reach some sort of a decision. “Oh well,” she muttered, “in for a penny.”
She all but upended the glass over her nose, draining every last drop before she crunched the celery. 
“Seems to me that I’m being led someplace, and I find I don’t much care so long as somebody feeds me.”
Em went over to the Aga and took three plates of food out of the warming oven. The plates held large slices of tortilla with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms on the side. There was also a dish of bacon and a basket of warm rolls. The three of them set to with good appetites.
They had about cleared their plates, when Ginny broke the quiet with a tiny, genteel belch. “Oops. Sorry about that, but I think it’s been twenty years since I had anything other than granola and almond milk for breakfast.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Would somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Em found herself feeling the tiniest tad of respect for an odd, wispy female who was far away from what she had any hope of understanding, but was keeping her chin up.
“Yes. I suppose somebody does owe you an explanation. But where to begin? How much do you remember about last night?”
“I remember following the vicar into church. I knew he was after the bats. I remember him screaming at me and pushing me to the ground. And I think I remember a rabbit – but that might just be a consequence of hitting my head on a stone floor.”
Agnes took over with a smoothness that Em could see wasn’t lost on Ginny. “We were about a minute behind you. Or Em was. I’m too fat to run. The vicar completely lost it, and he shot you in the neck. When we had subdued him sufficiently to be able to look at you, your heart had stopped…”
“That’s perfectly possible. I have suffered with a vagal arrhythmia for most of my life. I’m just glad there’s a defibrillator in the village. Who shocked me back to life?”
“There is a defibrillator in the foyer of the village hall,” Agnes said, “but nobody thought of that. Em Fed you with her own blood…”
There was an appalled silence.
“Fed me? Blood? Shot in the neck?” For a second Em thought Ginny teetered on the verge of hysteria, and her fingers reached for the scar where the pellet had been. She flinched, but made a visible effort to hold herself together. After a moment she said in a small voice: “Is this some sort of Twilight thing?”
Em’s respect was growing. “Sort of,” she admitted. “But the difference is we’re real.”
Ginny studied her hands for a moment then gave Em a glare. “Okay, if I buy this, and I’m still deciding whether I do or not, what was in the Bloody Mary? The moment I drank it I felt as if I saw a lot of things clearer, and I also felt physically stronger than I have for years.”
Agnes chortled.
“Shut up Agnes.” Em ducked her head to disguise her own amusement. “Well, Ginny, it was a Bloody Mary. A real one. Yours just contained a thimbleful of blood. A drop from each of your six sisters to welcome you to our seven.” She watched Ginny’s face carefully as she dropped the last piece of the puzzle into place. “Virginia Cropper, vampire. How does that sound to you?”
Ginny shook her head as if to clear it. “Would you mind saying that again?”
“Virginia Cropper. Vampire.” Em and Agnes spoke together.
Ginny dropped her head into her hands then looked up with an exasperated expression. “But I’m a vegetarian…  Doesn’t there have to be a joke in there somewhere?”
Agnes was obviously making up her own jokes, so Em leaned over and clipped her smartly over the ear before she could share them.

Part 18 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Scales

Growing older does not have to weigh
If you throw out your scales one fine day
Tell yourself you don’t mind
A spreading behind
And you’re going to be happy that way

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Today one visited Delphi and the Temple of Apollo. One feels closer to the primal essence of human civilisation in such a place and the enigmatic words spoken by the Pythia remind one much of the purity of concept expressed in Haiku…

Haiku -1

The white purity
Of my poetical soul
Illuminatus

Haiku -2

A flower petal
Weighted down under raindrops
Visceral delight

Haiku -3

I despicable
Fighting hourly temptation
Scratching succubus

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

They landed on the phone wire
Perched, like feathered fruit
On the slender branch
Of a man-made tree.

A hundred tiny voices
Calling to the sky
A raucous caucus
Vibrating the air.

Sudden silence, like nightfall.
Stillness on the wire
Waiting for a sign
Hushed breath in each breast.

Abrupt – the flutter, fluster,
Flap and fly up high
Shape the swoop above
Vanish over the horizon of rooftops.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Wulfric loosened his hold on the unconscious female’s throat and she stopped struggling. He changed back into his bear and the two lords glared at each other.
Leonard spoke first. “What has been happening here?” he growled. “My beast is disgusted with me.”
“Well he might be. We seem to have been being manipulated.”
“Manipulated?”
“Yes. Put a rein on your beast for a moment and think.”
The lion shook his mane again before prowling up and down the steps in front of us.
“This could take a while,” Purslane remarked, “Leonard Lyon isn’t among the brightest.”
We waited. Leonard prowled. Wulfric cleaned his claws. The unconscious female muttered and twitched as she dreamed.
All around me, hard-won patience was wearing thin when a lioness came quietly out of the house. She sat down and looked about her in some hauteur. Leonard hustled his golden self to her side and made to rub his face in her fur. She snarled and snapped her teeth very close to his nose before standing up and making the change, albeit very slowly and with an obvious effort.
It was almost as if an older version of the female unconscious on the steps stood before us.
“Well husband,” she said in a voice with quite the cutting edge of my best dagger. “I think you have some explaining to do.”
Leonard struggled back into human form, but he said nothing only hung his head like a child expecting chastisement.
The lioness turned her face to Wulfric. “Perhaps you have sufficient control of your tongue to offer me an explanation.”
He showed his teeth and I scented ancient enmity. “I might,” he replied, “but then again I might choose to spin you a parcel of moonbeams.”
I decided this was going nowhere fast so I took a hand, sticking my head out of the window and whistling sharply. The lioness’ head snapped round.
“I believe,” I said carefully, “that the creature on the floor may hold the answers to both your questions snd my own.”
Lady Lyon stalked over to where beauty lay and stared down at the creature. “It is,” she said, “passing strange to see another wearing your face.”
“I expect it is.”
The lioness looked at the female who was wearing her face with real loathing. “What is it? Is it the True Shifter? She who is the enemy of all lycanthropes.”
Mandrake took the megaphone from my hand before I could blast the lioness.
“Where do you get that idea?”
“Why. From….” Something must have clicked in her brain. “From a young human woman engaged by my husband to teach our cubs the ways of humans. I remember talking with her and sharing wine. Then nothing until I awoke just now.”
“I think you have answered at least part of your own question.” It was Purslane who had stepped out onto the roof of the all-wheel. “Lioness,” she said coolly, “you have choices to make here. You can kill the creature who stole your face without ever letting it wake up. Or you can awaken it and question it closely.”
Leonard opened his mouth, and his mate turned on him.
“You be quiet.”
He subsided into silence, as did Wulfric Bear – although I did spot signs of unholy amusement in the unnatural rigidity of the Bear Lord’s posture.
“How can we safely awaken this creature?”
“You must bind it with silver.”
“We must?”
“Unless you would risk it overtaking your mate’s mind once again.”
The lioness beckoned and Leonard came forward, kneeling on the cold stone at her feet. She put a hand on his head.
‘She listens to his mind,’ Moth was in my head as ever, and she sounded quite impressed. ‘Mothwing does not know that other creatures can make the mind link.’
Mandrake must have heard her too because he explained. ‘It isn’t a real link such as we have. It is to do with the blood bond in carnivorous mates.’
I felt Moth’s revulsion but she made no comment. Mandrake looked uncomfortable. His mind voice was troubled.
‘I worry that beloved fae will suffer when my dragon must feed.’
There was a flutter of wings and Moth leapt from my shoulder to his.
‘Be not worry, loved dragon. Your beast will not link with Mothwing unless danger is known.’
I felt Mandrake’s puzzlement. “The bond is between our human forms and Moth. The reason she remains linked to me no matter what form I take is because I only borrow other creatures’ forms. Underneath I remain myself. Lycanthropes have two true forms which are separate, even if the same entity uses them.”
I hadn’t realised I was speaking out loud until a thickly-built fighter came to my side. He had tears running down his face.
“Thank you,” he said, “you have just explained something that has weighed on my mind for four centuries. My life mate was half-fae, and we had the mind link – even at great distance. But I didn’t hear her dying words. That has haunted me. I was in my dragon form when she died, and I thought myself just too caught up in battle to have heard her last farewell.”
Moth fluttered over to his shoulder. “Not your fault dragon fighter. Will you lend Mothwing your beloved’s name?”
“I will. She was called Horsetail.”
Mandrake gripped my shoulder and I put my hand over his. “Be tranquil, our beloved knows what she is doing.”
I could feel Moth pulling in her Will, then the air was filled with a subtle scent that reminded me of new mown hay and warm lambs. The face that floated on the air was homely enough although her eyes were like jewels. The dragon fighter put out a hand as if he would touch her and, for the briefest instant, a square, brown hand slid into his massive palm.
“Blame yourself no more, beloved. It was none of your fault. Hear me now, though. I love you and I am waiting for you beyond the rainbow.”
Then she was gone.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.
Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.
Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.
“What makes you think you are worthy?”
“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”
“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”
Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.
The same yearning, the same questions.
Alone in her underground chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

I can’t understand people that
Don’t see that the world must be flat
If the planet was round
It would bounce round and round
It’s a big spinning bowl – on a rat

Jane Jago