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…

It seemed to me to be no more than the truth and I leaned into Mandrake’s formidable strength secure in the knowledge he would never use that physicality in any way that would ever cause hurt to me. He must have caught the edges of my thought because he rested his face against my hair. For a second his naked love warmed my soul even as his physical heat warmed my body.
Purslane became very brisk and practical, in an effort, I thought, to conceal her emotion.
“Your face will heal cleanly I think. There should be no scar. Dragon venom is a great healer. Your wrists and ankles are bruised and abraded, and your ankles were filthy, but I have dressed them with antiseptic ointment.”
I leaned forward and offered her my hand in thanks. She took it and for a second I touched her mind. She was a fine proud female and I would never tell Mandrake of her unrequited love for him.
I had been through quite a lot in the last few days and I found myself wholly unequal to planning and plotting. I left it to Mandrake and his dragon chums, opting instead to doze and try to husband my energies. While all the shouting and arguments went on around us, Purslane put a big mug in my hand.
“Soup,” she whispered, “made only with pot leeks and potatoes.”
“Thank you my friend.”
She blushed that I would call her friend, but it was a blush of happiness not anger. I smiled at her and essayed the soup. It was excellent. I found myself hugely hungry and when Purslane put a slice of buttered bread in my hand I bit in with relish, meal finished I felt greatly improved.
“I must have been unusually hungry.”
“That isn’t entirely a surprise. Your kidnappers had you for better than two days, and I’m sure they never fed you.”
“Two days?”
“Yes. Your fae kept tabs on your whereabouts while Mandrake gathered a rescue force.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you for coming to my aid.”
She blushed again and I grinned.
“It’s okay. I know you did it for Mandrake. But the end result was me getting saved.”
Moth came to my shoulder. “You needs to get dressed if you wants to be in on surprise for bad men.”
I very much did, and Purslane held up a blanket screen while I climbed into a cold-weather suit and a pair of fur boots. Moth combed my hair until it crackled and moved like living silk. While she combed she planted the plan in my head. It seemed good to me and I gave Mandrake an upraised thumb.
His answering grin was dangerous. Our vehicles moved across the car park and I watched as the blowing snow covered every trace that we had been near the kidnappers’ car. As the snow piled up on the roof of that vehicle I shivered at the thought of how cold I would have been trussed up and with only a ratty old sleeping bag to keep me from freezing to death.
“How stupid are they?” I asked out loud.
“Fairly. But a female of the FitzRoy clan would be much less affected by cold than most. That family is part seal and they carry a layer of insulating blubber under their skin.”
“So they just left me to suffer.”
“That’s about the size of it.” A burly male with whorling inked scrolls on his torso showed his fangs before diving headfirst into a fur-lined parka. When his head emerged he grinned more normally. “They say you are tattooed too.”
“I’m inked, certainly. But it is about an inch deep into my flesh.”
He bowed his head. “I had heard of this thing. My respect knows no bounds.”
I had experience of draconic trials of bravery and I wasn’t up for any of that crap today. So I snarled at him.
“Even if they had to tie me down?”
“Even then.”
I felt his puzzlement at my vague aggression, and I pulled myself back. I was being stupid. This friendly dragon wasn’t testing me. He was just trying to find some commonality. l felt a little ashamed of myself, but covered it with my friendliest grin.
“They didn’t tie me. But I screamed.”
“Everyone screams and that’s just skin-deep ink.” Then he must have cottoned on to my train of thought because he turned a kindly smile my way. “I did not seek to put you to the test, madonna. It was but conversation.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m a bit on edge.”
He bowed his head again. “To admit when one has been misguided in a thought is true wisdom and the brightest of bravery.”
I held out my hand and he took it in his huge palm. I felt the need to make reparation and there was only one way I could do that.
“My name is Perdita,” I said.
“I am Thistle, egg brother to Mandrake. I will hold your name in my soul.”
“And I will hold your name as dearly as that of your egg brother.”
We clasped fingers for a moment and I felt his true nobility. Mandrake smiled from his position of command, but the surprise was Moth. She hovered in the air in front of Thistle’s face.
“I am Mothwing, daughter of Harebell, and I greet the friend of my bonded sister.”
Thistle bent the knee in a truly courtly gesture.
“I am proud to know you.”
Moth smiled at him before taking up her favourite perch on my shoulder.
‘We trust these dragons much,’ she whispered in my head.
‘I find them worthy of trust.”
‘Moth do too.’

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Reynard sat in the sun. It lit his fur and warmed him to his bones. He had almost everything a fox could need. Except a mate. He half closed his eyes and saw her against his eyelids as svelte, and smooth, and subtle as a snake.
When he heard the voice, he thought himself dreaming at first, but the  he realised it was a real happening and he looked to where the sound came from.
She sat about two feet from him basking in the same sunbeam that warmed him.
When the sun went in they walked the night together.

 Jane Jago

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

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

I am old, and I worship the sun
A snooze in the heat is such fun
I lay like a lizard
With a sign on my gizzard 
‘Turn me over when you think I’m done’

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Em was out of sorts in her skin and she couldn’t seem to settle to anything, there was, she was sure, something she was missing. And she had the feeling it was going to be a costly oversight.
Erasmus landed on her shoulder.
“A pint of blood for them.” The voice in her head was mildly amused.
“I’m missing something, boyo. But I don’t know what it is.”
“If you knew what it was you wouldn’t be missing it.” The cold logicality of his small, bat brain was somehow comforting. “Let’s break it down.”
“Okay. Theoretically the bats are now safe from the machinations of the reverend. But I don’t feel as if they are. And then there’s the man himself. Or rather not-man. He’s an unregistered supernatural being. But I don’t know what.”
“He’s a were Emmeline. You only had to ask.”
Em felt as if martial music was being played in her head. “A werewolf on my patch. I don’t think so.”
“Em. He’s not a wolf. Nor a dog. Nor a cat. Nor anything that flies. I said he was a were. I didn’t say what sort of a were.”
“Well. Spit it out. What in the name of Azriel and all his dark angels is he?”
“I don’t know. Seems like nobody knows. The bell tower bats say he’s a rodent of some sort. But even that doesn’t feel right to me.”
“So. Doug Turner is a were. But we don’t know of what sort.”
“That’s about the size of it. Added to which I think he will make another move against the bat colony soon.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. He’s obsessed.”
Em frowned, but couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. 
“It’s a good job he’s being watched then. But. Do I tell the bishop or hang on until we know more?”
Erasmus dug his claws into her skin. “Tell him. Stop being pigheaded.” 
Once Em nodded her assent, Erasmus dropped from her shoulder and with two strong beats of his wings he was back hanging from his beam.
“Get on with it, woman,” he said irritably before composing himself to wait.
Em sighed, but had to admit he was right. As usual. She stomped over to the phone with a heavy feeling in her stomach. She pretended to look for the number in the pink leather book Agnes had presented her with one Christmas, but in the end Erasmus’ eyes boring into her back galvanised her into action.
“Okay. Okay. I’m doing it. Right now.”
She dialled the digits she knew perfectly well – rather hoping nobody would answer. But the receiver was picked up on the second ring. Immediately Em knew it was the bishop himself and cursed inwardly.
“Emmeline.” His voice was as mellifluous as ever, but Em detected a thread of strain under the bonhomie. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I do. Though you are probably not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Doug Turner is a were.”
“Are you sure?”
“Erasmus is. But before you ask we don’t know what his animal is.”
“So you could have an unregistered werewolf in your village.”
“Seemingly not. I’m told he isn’t a wolf, a dog, a cat, nor anything that flies. Otherwise? Your guess is as good as mine.”
The bishop actually groaned. “I had a bad reaction to that young man when he was brought to my notice. But I put it down to not liking smooth operators. Now I am told that my instinct was right and I should not have ignored it. How irritating…” He went quiet for a moment, and Em could all but hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “We can do nothing today. But I will book a call with the archbishop for as early as possible in the morning. And when I have spoken to him I will come along and deal with your vicar personally. In the meantime, please keep away from him.” 
“I’m having him watched, as you know. From a discreet distance. But we could have an immediate problem. I can’t guarantee we’ll keep away if he goes after the bats.”
“Surely he can’t be that monumentally stupid.”
“Erasmus thinks he can.”
“In that case deal as you see fit. You will have the backing of the diocese.”
He ended the call and Em sat down hard on the nearest chair. 
“The bishop will be here tomorrow. Which should be a relief. Except…”
Erasmus regarded her through one beady eye. “Except that we both know something is going to happen tonight.” 
“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
He didn’t bother to answer her.
While she was wondering what to do, the phone rang. It was Agnes. 
“We may have a problem here.”

Part 12 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.

Be Prepared

It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Mumsie and oneself planned a treat for Adonis. A light supper in a nice restaurant, followed by theatre in the round in the tiltyard of the ancestral home of one of our less distinguished titled families. It sounded so perfect and one’s Hellenic chum was beyond delighted by the prospect. 

We left chez Farquhar in good time, with Adonis expertly piloting Mumsie’s elderly and temperamental Volvo. One sat enthroned at the centre of the rear, buttressed by Macintoshes, Wellington boots, suncream and several bottles of a bright green beverage – consisting one was helpfully informed of White Rum, Green Chartreuse, Fernet Branca, and Dry Vermouth. I eyed the bottles with some suspicion.

It was a drive of some forty minutes, giving one leisure to study Adonis’ glorious profile and to note that not only had Mumsie been over the upper lip with Grandpapa’s cutthroat razor, she had also made a vague effort at throwing some dollops of maquillage at the ridges and craters of her abused physiognomy. Our arrival was unmarred by lateness, unavailability of parking, human tiffs, or inclement weather.

Supper being delightful, we were a little late finding our allotted position on the verdant terracing. Fortunately for the health of the gentleman with the northern accent who cast animadversions on the parentage of our party, Mumsie had imbibed sufficient claret to do no more than push her face into his and enquire pleasantly whether or not he would enjoy picking his teeth out of his fecal matter. Adonis dragged her off before worse could befall.

And then we began watching the play.

But then. Disaster. Of a sudden the sky became black and as it crackled with lightning the power failed and we could no longer see actors, actresses or our own hands before our faces. 

As the rain beat down upon our unprotected heads we ran pellmell for the urine yellow shelter of the Volvo. We may, it is fair to say, have reached that nirvana a little faster had not Mumsie so far succumbed to her potations as to fall into a rapidly accruing puddle and then take physical exception to some persons who were foolish enough to laugh.

As the only non-drinker in the party, the onerous task of wrestling the mechanical Machiavelli homeward fell on one’s slight shoulders. Whilst one drove homeward in the gloom and bouncing rain, one reflected on the play and mentally prepared one’s review of same.

My review of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare

One was surprisingly carried into the magical world of an enchanted wood where the magnificent horned figure of Oberon sent a thrill through one’s very bones. The other pieces of business interrupting the tale of faerie were an irritant, but one could cope – even chortling a little at the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe. 

As much as one saw was enjoyable, and one day one may even make the effort to find out how it ends.

Star rating: Three out of five – mostly awarded for a disturbingly sexy fairy king.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

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…

I sat quietly barely breathing. The car was powerful and smooth and we seemed to be travelling a well-maintained metalled road. After what I estimated was around twenty minutes the car slowed and I felt it turn onto a less smooth surface.
I reckoned we must be pulling into an eatery of some sort and I hoped on hope that Moth and Mandrake were close enough to home in when I was left alone. Because I honestly didn’t think much of my chances of survival if I reached my intended destination.
The vehicle came to a stop and I somehow knew it was parked in a quiet corner away from passing people. For a minute nothing happened then a disturbance in the air warned me that someone was moving. The fist to my face was vicious, calculated to cause maximum pain without actually breaking any bones – although one or two of my teeth felt loose. He must have been wearing something big and chunky in the way of rings too, because the skin on my cheekbone split and I could feel blood running down my face.
Cold voice spoke completely emotionlessly. “She isn’t playing dead. Cover her with a couple of blankets and we’ll go eat.”
“Why’d I have to cover her up all nice and warm?”
“Because. Knucklehead. Lion intends to kill her himself. He would not be amused if we left her to freeze to death.”
The thug in the seat beside me covered my torso with a smelly old sleeping bag before climbing out of the car. It didn’t seem to matter about my feet, which were already freezing. If this carried on for long at least I’d not have to worry about Lion killing me – the cold would do it long before I got to him.
“Weather’s closing in. It’ll be good to get something warm in my belly.”
When the door opened I could smell snow. Great. Now Moth and Mandrake needed to track me in a bloody snowstorm.
I don’t know how many minutes it was before I heard vehicles coming slowly towards me. I thought myself hallucinating when the sound indicated that they were parking either side of my prison. I was trying to open my eyes when the door was wrenched open and I felt strong arms lift me. I was passed into the back of some sort of a van, where it was blissfully warm and careful hands were cutting the bonds about my wrists and ankles. I felt a gentle touch on my cheek and Moth was there in my head.
“Open your eyes beloved,” she said sharply. “Sit up now.”
I fought my eyes open to see Mandrake and Moth’s beloved faces looking down on me. I struggled to lift my head and Mandrake braced me with a strong arm.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes.” My voice was a rusty thread.
The hands that were tending my wounds were gently efficient. “Let the lady be quiet for a minute while I look to her face.”
“You have the right of it, Purslane.” Mandrake said. Then to me. “Rest a while beloved. You are safe now.”
I was only too happy to lean against his heat and let the warmth seep into my bones. Moth cuddled against the front of me and between them they drove away the killing cold.
Something astringent was wiped across my cheek and the female called Purslane spoke in some anger. “Whatever bastard did this intended for you to suffer pain.”
“Oh. He did. And I am.”
“We shall see about that. This will sting for a moment.”
She wasn’t joking. For a second the world spun and I couldn’t have drawn a breath if my life depended on it. But it was over in a heartbeat and the raging pain in my face had dulled to a manageable ache.
“Thank you. I take it nothing is broken.”
“Probably not. Your cheekbone could be cracked but as long as you don’t let anybody else use your face as a punchbag for a while. It will be fine. Also the three loose teeth will settle in a very short time if you can stick to soft food.”
While she talked she set a couple of stitches in my cheek. I sat quietly for a few minutes before pulling my will together and starting to talk.
“The first thing you have to know is this was a case of mistaken identity. I was taken in place of Amaranth FitzRoy.”
Purslane stopped attending to my wounds, sat back on her heels and swore foully.
“What?”
She showed me her teeth. “No problem for you, Madonna, but all fighting dragons received a royal directive that we were not to interfere between houses Lyon and FitzRoy.”
“That’s just dandy, isn’t it?” I said bitterly. “Declare Dragonheart out and not bother to inform the Agency. Even they wouldn’t have hung me out to dry quite so thoroughly.”
“What means that, beloved?” Moth asked.
“It means that if anybody had known of an ongoing feud, I’d not have been sent into the college where FitzRoy’s daughter is living without backup of the heavily muscled sort.”
Moth drew herself in and I could feel her fighting against her own rage. Before I could comfort her, Mandrake spoke.
“Be at ease, beloved fae. There will be a reckoning.”
“There will indeed.” Purslane sounded truly dangerous.
“It is not your fight, belle soeur.”
“You are wrong. It is our fight. You may no longer be our wing master in the sky. But you are still our wing master in our hearts.”
I wondered what the new wing leader might have to say about that assertion until Moth spoke in my mind.
‘Purslane is new wing leader.’
There was at least one other presence in the van and I got the sense of experience and wisdom when he spoke.
“We will deal first with this vermin, shall we.”
“Yes indeed.” Purslane inclined her head to Mandrake.
“Take back your own, Sky Lord.”
He swallowed hard. “A loan of your dragons would be appreciated.”
Her smile was like the sun rising and she bowed her head as if to hide her blazing joy. I wondered if anyone was going to explain what the frag had just happened. Moth obliged in the quiet vaults of my head.
‘Purslane offers beloved his command back. He can take forever. But he makes clear is only loan. Our beloved is great hearted dragon.’

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The smoke which filled the interior of the Dreaming Room sneaked around the edges of Kanu’s thoughts, whispering of what was to come.
“You must lie here,” the High Priest declared, gesturing with his staff of office to a place on the stone floor which had been marked around by engraved with holy symbols. They glittered darkly in the sputtering light of the torches, having been filled freshly with the blood from the sacrifice just made to send Kanu on his journey.
He wanted to say no, to protest this was a mistake that the birthmark he bore was just that and not a sign that he would be the one to fulfil the prophecy. But the eyes of the High Priest were without compassion and the expressions on the faces of the two strong women armed with fire-spears who flanked him were invisible behind their beaked masks.
So Kanu lay down in the sacred place in the Dreaming Room and closed his eyes. The rolling chants of the priests in the god’s sanctuary reached in through the doorway lifting his inner self like waves on the shore.
Then he was standing on the shore beneath a dark star-filled sky on the shores of a blood-red sea.
“Look!”
The voice was that of the High Priest and yet also that of the god. Kanu looked into the water and saw his reflection. Talons. Wings. Horns. A towering body with primal strength.
It was true.
The prophecy was true.
He was indeed the Destroyer.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

The pawprints in the newly laid concrete were enormous.

“That sure as hell weren’t no kitty cat,” Cletus opined, hiding a grin

Elmo swallowed nervously. “I never wanna meet a cougar that big. We gonna fill the prints in?”

“Naw, let’s leave ‘em. It’ll give folks something to talk about.”

It did. The little path leading to the brothers’ double-wide became famous, featuring on local radio, and even one of them late night tv shows with talking dogs. 

Cletus decided it might be best not to ‘fess up, so he burned the leather ‘paw’ and kept his mouth shut.

Jane Jago