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…

We walked side by side through the eerily quiet corridors of the Dragon Queen’s castle. I felt as uneasy as I always had in this place, but Mandrake was completely unconcerned. He fed reassurance through our joined hands and I became stronger.
“Dragonheart’s primary function is intimidation,” he said quietly. “Pay no attention to it. Lift your chin my lady and look down your nose at the foolish dragons who seek your fear.”
He was so right and I grinned up at him as the eyes in the painted dragons on the walls followed our every move.
“Can the paintings really see us?”
“Nobody knows. Except the paintings and the stones. And they aren’t telling.”
Outside the beaten bronze doors of the throne room, a guard dragon dozed gently in a patch of wintry sun. Mandrake grinned.
“Shall we?”
He opened a small personnel door that was all but hidden in the intricate scrollwork that decorated the door. As we stepped in I spoke urgently in his head.
‘Why was the guard dragon asleep?’
‘That’s just one of the many things we need to find out.’
The throne room was as noisy and chaotic as I remembered, at least until the assembled councillors and hangers-on saw who had come into the Queen’s presence. It was as if a giant hand had turned off the normal hullabaloo, leaving quiet that could have been cut with a knife. All that could be heard was the rustle and susurration of scaly skin and the sound of water dripping somewhere quite far away.
I had a bad feeling about this but Mandrake showed no sign of distress.
He bent his head in a quick gesture of obeisance to the Queen, who reclined on her massive basalt throne. As was customary, she was the only creature in the room in dragon form and her golden scales shone like new-minted coins. Her multi-faceted eyes whirled and she lifted a foreclaw.
“Mandrake. How good to see you,” she purred, before turning a much less friendly eye on me.
Before either of us had chance to respond, a thin male in a dark, hooded robe spoke.
“Well,” he sneered, “if it isn’t a renegade dragon. Have you come to beg Her Majesty for your life?”
“Renegade dragon?” There were all sorts of nuances and sharp edges to the Queen’s contralto tones, but the robed one seemed impervious to his own peril.
“Renegade indeed, Your Majesty. He stands convicted of the murder of a creature of the Bear Lord’s fiefdom.”
“He does? I had not heard of this.” The silky smoothness of the Queen’s voice spoke of trouble for someone, although Mandrake seemed unconcerned.
The robed one spread his hands. “Such a small matter is scarcely worthy of the attention of a queen. I have here the document that declares Milo/Mandrake wolfshead. It requires only your signature.”
One second he was standing before the Queen with a parchment clasped in his hands, the next he was face-down on the stone floor with a heavy foreclaw on the back of his neck. The Queen hissed.
“And when were you going to slip that among the piles of paper you and yours generate daily?”
When there was no answer she lifted the unfortunate up by his neck.
“Goodness me. He appears to have fainted.” She lifted her voice. “Guards. To me.”
Nobody came but I felt a whisper of magic which I could trace to an enormously fat old male who was ostensibly asleep in the far corner of the room. I pointed him out to Mandrake who flamed briefly. The old one screamed and a dozen armed guards boiled through the doors.
Mandrake had flamed only to warn the magic weaver of his peril, but the Queen was less circumspect. She turned her snout to where the fat one cowered and within seconds he was no more than a pile of smouldering ash.
“Now,” she said bleakly, “let us see.”
Anyone who underestimates the savagery of a Queen Dragon who finds out she has been manipulated needs to have stood where I did and watched one such clean house. It was a demonstration of brutal and bloody vengeance, carried out with dispatch and with little or no possibility of reprieve.
I don’t know how long we stood there, but in the end Her Majesty turned a wary eye on us.
“So Mandrake. What is toward?”
He stepped forward and she laid a claw on his head. Although he no longer held my hand, I felt the rather over-enthusiastic rummaging through his brain, and a headache like a buzzsaw drew hard bands around my forehead, stomach and chest. By the time Her Majesty was finished I could barely keep my feet. Mandrake saw my trouble and drew me forward to his side. The Queen laid her claw on my head for the briefest of moments.
My headache subsided as did the nausea and sense of pressure on my chest.
‘My apologies, shifter. I had not thought you two truly Mated.’
I met her jewel-bright eyes and grinned.
“It has been rather sudden.”
She smiled. “It is ever the way. And you have my blessing for all it is worth.” Then I was forgotten as she communed with Mandrake, who I didn’t feel was in the mood to cut her any slack.
Finding myself supernumerary I looked about for something to do, and my eye settled on a pile of official looking papers on the desk at which Mandrake’s accuser had been seated. Most of them seemed to be arrest warrants. For the dragons of the fighting wing that had been Mandrake’s and sundry others I didn’t know but was pretty darned sure didn’t need arresting. I didn’t fancy leaving any of those documents laying about, fortunately the remedy to that was close at hand. Magic wielders always burn for a long time, and the fat one Her Majesty had incinerated was still smouldering nicely.

Jane Jago

The tiny house Emma called home was full – her mother, gran and three brothers. So she knew it was impossible. But walking to school, she’d pretend a dog walked beside her or, curled up in bed, she would make believe he was too. She never said a word. The last thing she wanted was to put another shadow of regret in her mother’s eyes. 

On her birthday she woke to something small and warm curled on her bed. Sitting up she saw a purring kitten face with blue eyes. Which was when Emma knew she had always wanted a cat.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

Mother looked at her figure in some dismay. She wasn’t getting any younger and she certainly wasn’t any thinner. The living things that crawled on her skin had busied themselves to such an extent that their creations now outweighed them. It was puzzling and it also made Mother lopsided and graceless.

She sighed and considered her few options.

Looking around at her brothers and sisters she now understood why they had done what they had.

Sighing she shook like a great dog shedding the living into the void and reassembling the rest. 

Unencumbered now, she carried on her endless journey.

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Back home after the unbelievable events that had just transformed her life completely, Ginny made herself a soothing cup of rosehip and chamomile tea and wondered why she didn’t feel the usual mix of dread and panic that anything so stressful had always induced in her in recent years.
If anything, she decided after a little self-reflection, she felt calm, confident and even invigorated. Part of that she was sure came from whatever physiological changes being undead provided (undead—she quickly pushed the uncomfortable word away), being a vampire provided, but there was also the simple sense of belonging. Ginny had never ‘belonged’ before, and now she suddenly did. She had a Nest, sisters and a village. That thought left a warm glow deep within.
But part of belonging meant commitment, a giving as well as a taking and right now that meant she had to do her bit to protect both her new communities from the grasping hands of Ronald Dump and his enabler-stroke amanuensis Dom Schilling. She glanced at, then put to one side, the pile of booklets Anges had given her:
Vampires and Other Supernaturals—a spotter’s guide.
Sucking for Amateurs—a new vampire’s guide to blood
Community Manners or How Not To Get Your Face Eaten Off—social regulation in the supernatural community
These things Can Kill You—what to avoid for a long and happy unlife
It was not that she wasn’t interested or didn’t need to know, but right now other things had to take priority. If what she had been told was correct she would have decades or even centuries to get around to reading them.
Ginny also ignored a missed call from Lucinda Lorinski, one of her superficial and supercilious London set—no doubt calling up to either gloat and patronise, or to whine and vent as she seemed incapable of any other variety of social interaction—and instead started rummaging in some of the unpacked boxes looking for her ‘important papers’ locked file. She was pretty sure it still contained some of the research she had done on Schilling when their paths had crossed before.
When she finally unearthed it she had then to spend another half hour looking for the key before she could sit down with a fresh cup of tea and walk through a little of her own history.
There were copies of certificates and awards, letters from celebrities—actual letters not printed out emails—insurance for places and things that no longer existed, or at least not in her life, an entire book of long-forgotten passwords and another of addresses and phone numbers belonging to people who also might no longer exist and had not touched her life for many years.
Ginny was close to giving up as she reached the last thin section of documents. Perhaps she had thrown them away in one of her less lucid moments, when expunging the past had seemed the only way to make the present bearable. Or perhaps she had put them somewhere else, deeming them no longer so important as to take up space in her secure file. Or perhaps…
The folder was manila brown and sat between two large card backed envelopes which contained—respectively—her degree awards and her marriage and divorce certificates. It had one word written on the front in block capitals—BASTARDS!
Sitting back she held it unopened for a while, collecting the reserves she needed to face the painful past. Then she slipped it open and started scanning the documents. She was not entirely sure what she thought she would find there, maybe nothing of real use to the present, maybe just a reminder of how much winning this mattered to her personally as much as to the village.
An hour later, feeling more determined, she put the papers away and locked the file, knuckled away tears that were surely of anger over what had been done than grief at her personal loss, surely, and then gathered the corners of her courage and determination and picked up the phone.
“Major Harmsley-Gunn? This is Virginia Cropper, I just wanted to apologise for being a bit distracted when you called on me before and to say that I would be delighted to take up the vacant seat on the Parish Council. You’re so right, I certainly want to bring along some much needed common sense about progress in the village.”

Part Twenty-Four 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.

Forgive

If life has one lesson to give
Then it’s simply to live and let live.
You’ll not need forgiveness
If you mind your own business
As there’ll not be a thing to forgive.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

December MDCCLXXVII

It was the longest night and the fires in the sacred grove turned the oiled muscles of the naked young men to liquid fire. The old men watched from under their wrinkled eyelids as the goddess made flesh walked among them. She was beautiful and in the firelight something more than mere beauty with her red-gold hair cloaking her nakedness and the stag horns that seemed to grow from her forehead. She touched each young man with a delicate forefinger and whenever one pleased her they lay down in the loam together as the goddess and the god. The young men not deemed fit to serve watched in envy, save for the one who filmed covertly smiling to himself as he did so…

I

In another place, not far away geographically, but a million miles from the rites of the Druids in terms of intent, Julia Llewellyn was also naked in the the firelight. She was lying in her husband’s arms, noticing how her own mediterranean olive complexion looked golden in the warming glow and tracing the pink patterns the flames made on her man’s white Celtic skin.
“How does anybody even get to be so pale? You look like one of the marble statues in the forum. Just stick a helmet on your head and you’d be a dead ringer for any of the minor gods or messengers.”
Dai moved swiftly, pinning his giggling wife under him and tickling her ribs.
“Minor god, is it?”
“Is,” she said firmly, “the likes of Jupiter and Vulcan are always depicted as old men with big beards.”
He laughed down at her and she wriggled out from under him pushing against his broad chest with one small hand. He rolled on his back and she straddled him, grinning cheekily. 
“You look a bit happier now. So? Are you going to tell me what chapped your arse today?”
“How come you always know?”
“I have eyes, lovely boy. Now spill.”
Dai sat up, so that his wife straddled his lap and rested his chin on the top of her head.  Julia, being Julia, couldn’t resist a naughty wriggle. He pulled her closer and sighed.
“Smooshing my nose Llewelyn. And I really do need to know what upset you.” 
“It’s that moecha Cariad. It’s been playing on my mind all day. I think she’s up to something.”
“And that’s surprising because?”
He snuffled out a reluctant half-laugh.
“It’s not. What is surprising though is that I find I mind on behalf of Caudinus. He’s actually a decent man. Not just decent for a Roman Magistratus, just plain decent. And he obviously loves her, blindly and absolutely. But she is equally obviously bored and discontented.” He gave Julia a brief, twisted smile. “When we were there for dinner and gift giving the other day, she was walking a thin line. First there were those pointed comments over dinner, then we had the Game of Truth. Everyone else was being light and flippant, but it was as if she was trying to dig out the most excruciatingly inappropriate incidents she could think of. Asking you where – and when – you lost your virginity. Making me confess the embarrassing donation I made in the name of science during my academy days, though she knows how much I hate being reminded of that. Dragging out the personal humiliation of poor Caudinus when he was falsely accused of sleeping with his boss’s wife. And then lying in her teeth about her own dalliances. Manufacturing a blush.” His voice shifted to mimic Cariad’s sultry tone. “‘One before my dear husband…’”
Julia quirked an eyebrow.
“I know of at least a dozen” Dai said wryly.” She was and possibly still is, as randy as a mare on heat. But that isn’t my worry. I’m afraid she’s getting fed up with him. She was so mean to him about his Saturnalia gift to her and he tries so hard. I keep seeing the hurt in his eyes.”
Julia took his face between her palms.
“Dai bach, from where I was standing it was obvious that she was fed up with him on the day of their nuptials.”
He gaped at her and she couldn’t help loving him for his naïveté along with his more potent charms.
“So why did she marry him?”
“I’m guessing the lure of being queen of Viriconium was too strong to be resisted.”
Julia felt the sigh her husband heaved and put her arms around him, kissing his chest as that was the nearest bit of him.
“Promise you won’t ever get fed up with me, Julia fach.”
“I think you are pretty safe there, lovely boy. Aren’t you the other half of my soul?”
She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him rather seriously.

Later, as they lay in bed under the goose down comforter, Dai pulled Julia so she lay across his chest.
“What do I have to wear at this gods-forsaken function tomorrow? I’m dreading it, the annual temple turn out for the birthday of the Divine Diocletian I mean. Outside? December? Toga?”
Julia smiled down at him. 
“No. Tunic and trews and a good warm cloak. You have new trews and tunic in fine cashmere wool. You’ll be fine. You should rather have pity on me, as women are not allowed to wear trousers in the temple precinct. But I do have some thick woollen stockings that make my legs look really fat.”
He laughed and they drifted off to sleep in happy intimacy.

The next morning they had to be up well before dawn. Julia had just got in the bath and Dai was shaving when there came an urgent trill from Dai’s wristphone which he had left beside the bed. Dai wrapped a towel around his waist and went to see what was afoot, carefully closing the bathroom door behind him. Julia had a bad feeling about someone calling before it was properly light so she jumped out of the warm water and towelled herself briskly. Before she had finished dressing Dai was back. With his work face on.
“Sorry love, looks like I get to miss the ceremonials. Message from the landlord of the Dragon and Leek on the Ynys Mon road. A bit garbled, because the place is deep in a valley in the woods and the comms are merda, but something about a fine lady gone missing and two dead Roman outriders. I’ve roused Bryn and the posse.”

You can keep reading about the unpleasant goings on at Saturnalia in Dying as a Druid by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago 

I stand in the supermart aisle
The trolly beside me half-full
A fractious and petulant child
Keeps giving my one hand a pull
Whilst I try to decide what to buy
And the emphasis there is on ‘try’

The choice set before me is vast
With strawberry, apple and peach
Avacado, or fresh lemongrass
And blueberry just out of reach
Cocoa or vanilla or plum
The choice is just making me glum.

What? Rosemary mixed in with quince?
Or would I like kiwi and pear?
I’m sure that would make a good drink
But which is best for my hair?
Would it be too much to ask, to
Have a little less food in shampoo?

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…

Chapter Ten – The Dragon Queen

Purslane beckoned from the doorway of a log cabin and Mandrake strode over. I waddled along in his wake and about halfway across the clearing he must have noticed I wasn’t with him. He turned around and came back to me.
“Want a lift?”
I nodded and he picked me up under his arm. Once we were inside the cabin, he helped me to crawl out of the heavy embrace of my orc fur coat. Stripping off his own coat he raised an eyebrow at Purslane.
“We decided to move when it occurred to me that we could have been construed to be interfering between houses Lyon and FitzRoy.”
“Ahh. Yes. It doesn’t pay to underestimate your intelligence, my friend.”
Purslane blushed with pleasure.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I nodded and so did Mandrake.
“Food will be a few minutes.”
“Thank you. My mate and I need a small talk anyway.”
She moved away tactfully and he turned his attention to me.
“Tell me why you were so upset by Moth staying with her sister, beloved.”
“Because I don’t trust Titania. And because I have a worm in my gut.”
He opened his arms and I burrowed into his embrace.
“Do you want to go back to her?”
“No. I’d only get in the way. The fae hate me because in their minds I have corrupted a child.”
“A child? But surely Moth is older than you.”
“Yes. She is. But according to fae law she is not an adult until she chooses her name and gender.”
“Gender? Isn’t she a girl fae?”
“Well no. Not really. Mothwing is actually non-binary. She chose female pronouns for herself, but she has never formally assigned herself a gender.”
“Formally assigned?”
“Yes. When a fae makes the Choice it stands in front of the silver mirror in Castel Seelie and says ‘my name is X and I am a male/female fae’ and then they are fixed and adult.”
I watched him absorbing that and then he smiled a gentle smile. “Does that mean we are sleeping with a perpetual adolescent?”
“Something like that.”
I felt a sob catching in my throat. “I just want her to be okay, but I understand that it isn’t up to me.”
Mandrake cupped my face in his hands. “She’ll be fine. There’s a lot of steel in that small body.”
I stiffened my spine. “There is and she will be so pissed off if I fall to pieces. Except…”
“Are you worried that you are left without an anchor should you need to Shift?”
“Yes.”
“You need not worry. Moth showed me what to do. And I am physically strong enough to drag you back from wherever.”
That was a relief. It didn’t do much for the aching Moth-shaped hole in my chest, but at least I no longer had to fear spending the rest of my days as a dragon/wolf/bear/whatever.
Mandrake’s perceptiveness surprised me as I heard his voice in my head. ‘I miss her too, and it hurts. But we need to do our bit to support her from here.’
I leaned thankfully on his strength and knew myself blessed to have such a one as he in my life. Once I stopped reacting I could think.
“Tell me about the black dragon.”
“His name is Ba’al and he is wolfshead to every dragon that ever left its egg.”
“It must be bad.”
“It is. He was the Queen’s mate and he tried to usurp her throne by selling her to human skin traders.”
I felt my own skin go cold to think that someone would sell his own mate to those who would skin her alive and sell her golden skin.
“If I ever meet this dragon,” I said, “he’s dead”.
Mandrake kissed my hand.
Purslane came to where we stood.
“There is soup and bread.”
“Thank you.”
We went to the table where there was thick vegetable soup, bread, golden butter, and sharp crumbly cheese. It was delicious, and I ate rather more than is my custom, while Mandrake cleared two bowls of soup and most of a loaf.
When our appetites were satisfied I put my hand on his. “How fares your dragon, beloved? Does he need to eat?”
“Not yet, my heart. Tomorrow perhaps, depending on what we need to do.”
“See your Queen?”
“I’d prefer to do that today. The snow has stopped and I can smell no more in the air. Besides which, something in my gut says there is need to hurry.”
“Then that is what we shall do. I just wish I could bathe and change my clothes first. I’m pretty sure I stink.”
“We both do. Luckily this camp has a bathhouse. And Purslane has had the water heated.”
A brisk hot bath made me feel much better, and when Purslane found me a leather riding suit with fur-lined boots and parka I could have kissed her.
The main part of the wing was to remain in the woodland camp, but two of the oldest and most battle-hardened males were to accompany us.
With me riding Mandrake in dragon form, and him leading the way, we reached Dragonheart before I even had chance to get cold. The two seasoned battle dragons backed themselves into what I thought of as garages – frontless rooms with high roofs and large braziers warming the air – and composed themselves to wait.
Mandrake made the change and held out his hand.

Jane Jago

Sir cat. Unblinking
Watches prey
The way you watch me
Every day
Without the pain
Of empathy
Behind the eyes
No care for me
My feline watcher
With jade gaze
Joy of my nights
Despair of days

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

You are young so you shouldn’t be that
All pasty, complaisant and fat
With your mouth-ends turned down
And a grumpy-arse frown
From under your middle-aged hat

Jane Jago