A tale of angels, demons and dragons…

For a moment there was shocked silence, then the Fighters turned as one entity and looked at the slight grey-clad figure. She opened her robe and dropped it to the floor before turning her back and sliding her undervest down to expose her shoulder blades and the deep irregular scars where her father’s obsidian knife had sawn away her wings.
To her surprise, the largest of the Fighters stepped forward and picked up her robe – settling it about her body with huge, but almost unimaginably gentle hands. He turned her to face him, and bent the knee.
“Ego sum servus tuus.”
The other Fighters followed suit, bending the knee and vowing themselves to Aeva’s service. Until only one was left. Holding himself aloof. His mouth was set in a thin line and his eyes glittered with anger.
Aeva looked at him.
“I am the creature of one Master. I will not swear servitude to any other.”
“Very well then, you are discharged from this detail.”
He glared at her. “You do not have the authority to dismiss me.”
“I do. And I just have.”
The Fighter made to grab her, and she laughed before grasping the hand that would have compelled her obedience if it could. She adjusted her grip and the male’s face grew pale under his blue skin. Aeva squeezed a little tighter and he fell to the floor in obvious agony. Letting go of his hand she looked down into his face.
“I truly am an Invigilator, you fool. Disrespect me at your peril.”
She turned her back and his hand came out, quick as a snake. He grabbed her ankle and made to twist the foot. Aeva sighed and put one slender finger on his head. He fell unconscious. She looked at the band of Fighters.
“Who leads?”
The giant who had replaced her robe took half a pace forwards and bowed his head as if awaiting punishment.
“I command this detail, my lady. I would apologise for that one.”
“Pfft. A creature of my father’s, no doubt, and of little account. There is no blame. But. Can you vouch for the rest of your detail?”
“I can. I would trust them with my life.”
“Would you trust them with my life?”
They faced each other in the Chamber of the Guardians, a slender female figure with the shaven head of an Invigilator and the perfectly aristocratic features of a high-caste demon, and a hugely muscled Fighter whose square-jawed face spoke of integrity alongside strength. Ironic grey eyes locked with compassionate brown and Aeva smiled.
“I guess you would at that. Now perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what duty my beloved parent set upon you before he sent you here.”
“None, lady. My Fighters and I were simply sent here. The only unusual thing was the inclusion of an extra body. Him.” The big male indicated the unconscious figure with a jerk of his chin.
Aeva grimaced. “Lord Lucifer. Would you be kind enough to look in that one’s head?”
Before the dark lord had chance to even come close to the unconscious Fighter, another of their number spoke.
“It does not serve our Master that one. I have seen it before and it is a creature of the demoness Ishta.”
After he spoke, the silence in the chamber was such that it scraped against the nerve endings. Aeva broke that silence, although she could hear the strain in her own voice she said that which needed saying.
“The female to whom my father gifted my wings.”
In an instant she found herself surrounded by a ring of steel and corded muscle.
“Abomination.”
Voice after voice around the Chamber of Guardians took up the refrain and The Guardians hissed as Lucifer eyed them all bleakly. He seemed to be fighting some sort of internal battle as all sorts of lumps, bumps and eruptions were happening under his gleaming golden skin. Then he bulked his shoulders dangerously and made a hooking motion with his left hand. For a second, nothing happened, then a portal opened in the insubstantial air and a screaming, fighting, swearing creature was pulled through onto the Chamber floor. She, for the creature was a demoness, sat up. She happened to be facing away from her Master who had so abruptly summoned her.
“Who dares touch a creature of The Dark Lord?” The voice was harsh and truculent.
Lucifer said nothing, but his eyes must have been burning holes in her back, as she turned around slowly. When she realised where she was some of her bluster left her.
“Dark Lord.” Now her voice was honeyed and dripped sensuality.
Aeva laughed, and the demoness’ head snapped around as if it was on a spring.
“You,” she hissed and bunched her muscles to spring.
“Sile (be still),” Aeva spoke quietly, but with the full authority of her status and the demoness stopped moving.
Lucifer frowned, but the Inquisitor was not to be intimidated.
“She lives, Dark Lord. Considering that which she bears on her back I would be within my rights to stop her breath.”
“If those are indeed your wings, you do have that right.”
“Oh yes. Those are the wings stolen from my body. I feel them call.”
“Don’t listen to her Dear My Lord. She is just a jealous half-blood who nobody wants.”
Lucifer looked at his creature for a moment before reaching out a hand. The stiff figure of the demoness slid across the floor to where her master stood. He put a hand on her forehead and she seemed to shrink into herself. It took but a moment for a Lucifer to read her memories and when he had made himself cognisant of the facts he slapped the demoness across her face. She screamed a high and tearing scream so he slapped her again.
“Deceit is not permissible. You lied to me. And I indulged you because it amused me so to do. It no longer suits my purpose.” The female cringed and Lucifer laughed at her fears. “Belphegor,” he called, “attend your master.”
The bang and smell of sulphur were as nothing compared to the hulking bestiality of the creature who stood in the centre of the place staring adoringly at his master from muddy yellow eyes. Lucifer smiled and the creature bent the knee.
“Belphegor, you have long been wishful of taking a mate have you not?”
“I have.” The demon’s voice was thick with unrequited lusts and the love of pain. It scraped on Aeva’s nerves like talons on a chalkboard, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut and this truly was one of those times.
Lucifer smiled, but it was a smile that spoke of agony and degradation. He pointed a finger at Ishta. “Behold your mate. You may do with her as you will. Except that you may not kill her.”

Aeva’s Challenge by Jane Jago will continue next week

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Why do they do it?

I’m as fond as the next woman of a honed, tanned and tattooed young male body (although the effort necessary to achieve it argues a worrying level of narcissism). What pisses on my strawberries big time is the unlovely sight of a fat, sweaty pensioner dressed in nothing but a snot rag and a cheese wire.

These guys are inevitably a weird shade of magenta and liberally endowed with white body hair. Their bellies precede them like sweat stained battering rams, and their pendulous breasts swing with each step of their bandy little legs.

If I could get a shotgun…

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The smell brought women to their front doors and prudent wives closed their windows. 

“What be that?”

The oldest among them pointed to the mouldering stones of the castle that stood high above them, and the plume of oily black smoke that hung around it.

“They’m burning a body.”

“Question is, who. Is it the old one? Or have he won again?”

The youngest wife sighed. “I don’t suppose us’ll ever know. But that knight was mighty fine.”

“Aye. But so was the old one when he first come here.”

The women shivered and went indoors away from the darkness.

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Fantastic

1. (noun – pronunciation note: Fanta stick) Wooden ‘handle’ used to eat iced lollies made from a particular brand of sweet lemonade. Example: The fantastic was now covered in melting iced lolly, which was happily running down little Jenny’s arm and making the sleeve of her cardigan a soggy mess.
2. (noun – pronunciation note: fanta’s tick) Insect vector of itchy scrotum disease found almost exclusively in the handlers of working elephants.  Example: The population of the outlying villages was being decimated by the preponderance of fantastic disease among the young men.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

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…

This was one of the two major auction houses in Viriconium that specialised in antiques. It was also the place that, according to his own records, Vibius did the most trade. They had swooped on the owner just as an afternoon auction had finished.
Justina Cynddylan was a harassed-looking woman in her fifties, wearing a fine quality stola and a silver ring of Citizenship. She didn’t seem even slightly intimidated by an unannounced visit from the Vigiles when Bryn produced his ID, and flapped a hand to the stairs at the rear of the auction room when asked if they could go somewhere a bit quieter to talk.
“I don’t have much space, we can use the small store upstairs if you like. But I have nothing to hide, so why not just ask me here?” Her gaze moved past the two for a moment and she raised her voice. “Not that one, Carwyn. The dominus said he was sending someone to collect it.” Then she looked back at Dai. “I am sorry, but I do have a business to run here, so can we make this – whatever it is – as quick as possible please?”
Dai tried his best boyish smile. “Of course, I quite understand. And that is why I suggest we go somewhere quieter so we don’t keep getting interruptions that will delay us all.”
She didn’t quite melt, but the look of tense disapproval softened very slightly.
“Very well.” She led them to the rear staircase and then turned to call across the room “Gawain? Three teas and a plate of those vanilla fingers we had earlier.” A young man, presumably Gawain, put down the box he was carrying and scuttled off through a side door.
The ‘small store’ was well named in Dai’s opinion. It was a room with a tiny window, half full of boxes of bric-a-brac. The other half was occupied by an elderly leather settee and a couple of hard backed, un-matching, very British dining chairs set either side of a small pedestal-leg table. Justina perched on one of the chairs and gestured imperiously that Dai and Bryn should appropriate the settee between them. Dai did so and regretted it in the same moment as the seat sagged away deeply beneath him. He just knew that if he tried to rise he would struggle to free himself. Bryn was clearly a wiser man as he declined the settee and instead used it to display the pictures of artefacts they had taken at random from the internet.
“Do you recognise any of these, domina?” he asked before sitting on the other hard chair.
The auction room owner peered a little myopically at the images, then picked one or two up to look closely at them.
“This is in the collection of Minoan artefacts presently on display in Londinium and this,” she waved another picture, “went missing from an exhibition in Latium four years ago. The rest I could have a stab at their provenance, but I have no idea where they are now.” She dropped the pictures back on the couch and looked at Bryn accusingly. “Why are you showing me these?”
Before he could answer there was a tap on the door and the youngster Dai had seen downstairs brought in a tray of spiced fruit teas and cakes and placed it on the table, then retreated quickly from the room.
“Help yourselves if you want.” Justina waved towards the tray then looked back at the images. “I don’t see what any of these have to do with me.”
“They are not really, domina. Just some items that have been stolen over the last few years.” As Bryn spoke he offered a tea to Dai, who shook his head having decided that trying to drink whilst being swallowed into the depths of the settee would be a recipe for disaster. “We just wondered if you might recognise any of them.”
Justina glared at Bryn as if he had just propositioned her for a night of wild orgies.
“I don’t allow any stolen goods in my auction room,” she said, icily. “Everything that passes through here is checked as having the correct licences.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” Dai suggested and the woman snorted in disgust.
“Perhaps you Vigiles can make mistakes and think no more about it – those in positions of power often seem to feel that way about life. You just shovel your mistakes under the nearest carpet and carry on regardless, with no one daring to say otherwise. But I can’t afford to make that kind of mistake. This is my livelihood. Even if I avoided criminal charges for doing so, it would ruin my reputation as a dealer with integrity and that would destroy my business.”
Dai nodded sympathetically. “Yes. I can see that. So it must have been a bit difficult for you to find out that Josephus Vibius Anser, one of your best customers, was in fact up to his neck in the illicit art and antiquities trade?”
Her face darkened.
“You are not going to try and tie me in to that. Anything and everything that man bought from me had a full and legitimate licence attached. I can give you the entire list, with origins, previous owners, prices made at each sale, everything – solid as a blockchain.”
“Thank you,” Dai said, “that would be very useful so we can eliminate you from our enquiries completely. Perhaps you could email those to us before you go home today.”
He tried to get to his feet then but having his buttocks lower than his knees and the sagging cushion enveloping him it was a little undignified. In the end, he grabbed the edge of the settee with his hands and pulled himself up. Bryn was making little attempt to hide his grin behind a teacup, which he drained quickly when Dai caught his eye. Justina Cynddylan didn’t seem to notice. She was still frowning at them her thoughts apparently elsewhere.
“If you want my opinion,” she said as Dai finally gained his feet, “you would do better asking everybody’s friend, Tony Talog. If anyone is doing things the wrong way it’s him.”
Dai searched his memory and failed.
“Tony Talog?”
Bryn cleared his throat and picked up one of the cakes. “That’d be the man who runs ‘Rara et Vetera’ isn’t it? Your local competition, domina.”
“That – that creature is not any kind of competition for me,” she said firmly. “Half what he sells as pristine originals is heavy restoration. Some so heavy they are really reproductions. I have people attend some of his auctions and they tell me some horrific tales. But it is more than just that he sells bad antiques. One of his employees was close to quitting his place and joining me. The day she put in her notice someone kidnapped her dog and two days later the poor creature appeared on her doorstep stuffed by a taxidermist. She left Viriconium the next day, I believe, at least I have heard nothing more about her since.” She glared accusingly at Dai. “And your lot didn’t lift a finger, of course. I expect the Submagistratus is getting backhanders from Talog to turn a blind eye.”
“Not at all,” Dai assured her. “I am not in the corruption business, although I can’t speak for my predecessor.”
They left her with her mouth agape looking like a stunned sheep and walked quickly from the room, down the stairs and out onto the street.

An extract from Dying for a Vacation by JJane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook 

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

I am old, and today I lunched well
As my squiffy legged progress might tell
For the bottle of wine
That looked really fine
Is gone – nothing left but the smell

Jane Jago

When did it get to be September?
Where did the summer go?
The wind’s slid out of the gentle south
As autumn begins to blow
The earliest trees are painting their leaves
In hues of russet and gold
While busy squirrels fill their cheeks
And watch the nights unfold
The air round our ears is sharp and clear
Though the sky is still duck-egg pale
It feels like the days at this end of the year
Hear the whisper of winter’s cold tale
When did it get to be September?
How are the nights so cold?
Whose is that wrinkled face in the mirror?
When did we grow old?

©️Jane Jago

A tale of angels, demons and dragons…

Aeva’s peaceful existence was rudely interrupted by a summons to the Hall of Guardians. She pulled up the hood of her simple grey robe and walked quietly to the portal. When she was admitted to the presence of the Guardians themselves, she sensed a rare disquiet.
Thor stood to greet her, before speaking in his darkly thunderous tones. “Five days ago we lost a Messenger. Looked like an open and shut case of stupidity. He was young and crass, and thought he could fly where no one has ever flown before. Turns out he couldn’t. But.”
“But what?”
“But his flying partner has also disappeared.”
That should have been enough, but Aeva’s seventh sense told her there was more.
“And what else?”
“The mother of his mother is a Councillor. And she wants blood. Messenger blood for preference.”
“And this concerns me because?”
Thor’s bark of laughter sounded genuinely amused before he sobered. “Nice try, Invigilator. But you are needed. We are minded to send a small force – to both investigate and impose decorum. We need a commander who even the petty timeservers that constitute the Council will not dare to question.”
“And I’m that commander?”
“You are. One of a very small breed and the only one every Guardian is agreed upon.”
Aeva looked around the almost unimaginably huge room, whose benches were crowded with the Guardians of every living thing on the worlds. She shrugged.
“Expendable am I?”
Thor turned a sorrowful countenance towards her. “Not at all. Whatever gave you that notion?”
Aeva knew it was pointless to argue with a Guardian so she held her peace. The silence was growing awkward when a door somewhere creaked. Thor relaxed.
“That will be your detachment.”
Aeva pounced. “Before they arrive you had better tell me what the thing you don’t want to say is. Unless you would have the embarrassment of having an assignment refused in front of the muscle.”
He tried to stare her down, but she lifted her chin and met him stare for stare. Aeva had more reason than most not to trust Guardians – who were, at best, capricious, and at worst duplicitous and always full of trickery – and she was certainly not going to take an assignment without all the information in front of her.
Thor caved in, and suddenly looked as old as the bones in his throne. “Two things. First the Messenger’s flying partner is a draca and Lady Draca tells us she is almost certainly dead. But no trace of her body can be found.” He stopped speaking abruptly.
“And?”
“And your father has handpicked the Fighters who are to accompany you.”
Aeva looked at him in disbelief. “Well then. I formally refuse to command them. He wishes me dead.”
Lucifer spoke from his seat on the comfortable cushioned benches of the lower tiers. “He does not wish you dead. He may perhaps wish you had never been born…”
Aeva snapped her fingers. “I don’t trust you any more than I trust him. And I believe neither of you.”
The sound that went around the vast chamber was one indrawn breath as most of the Guardians waited for Lucifer to disassemble Aeva with a gesture. However, he merely bowed his handsome head. Gabriel spoke from the seat of power that was his by right of who he served.
“Why are we placing the Lady Aeva in this position?”
“Because there is nobody else we can trust as we trust her.” Lord Draco spoke from the encompassing depths of his kaleidoscopic cloak. “Aeva Darkstar is the agent of Truth.”
“Very well,” Gabriel turned the bottomless pity of his eyes on the slender figure standing sword-straight in the strange light of the Chamber. “Lady Aeva. If I will stand surety for your safety will you do this thing?”
“Great Lord. You must not do that. There are risks inherent in what this Chamber asks of me. But if you will make the Fighters understand that they are truly mine to command, irrespective of what my parent may have tasked them with, I will be content.”
“It shall be as you request, bright lady. Lucifer, of your goodness.”
Lucifer sneered at his brother’s choice of words, but nonetheless he came forward. Both stood and watched impassively as a score of blue-skinned winged beings walked quietly onto the floor of the chamber.
They all bowed to Lucifer and his bright brother.
“Behold your Guardian,” Gabriel spoke formally and with the power that was his to command making his voice sound like the brazen trumpets that call the foolhardy to war.
Lucifer raised his fathomless black eyes. “My children. I have orders for you.”
The Fighters stood up even straighter and regarded the Dark Guardian with eyes dazzled by love.
“Behold she who stands before you. Her name is Aeva Darkstar and she is your commander. You will obey her. She speaks for me.”
The winged ones looked confused and not a little dismayed, but one by one they raised their right hands and placed them above their hearts. As they did so each one spoke.
“Votum vovit ego.”
Their dark Guardian surveyed them with obvious pride before offering Aeva an ironic bow.
“Will that serve, lady?”
She looked at him for a beat before shaking her head.
“Not really.”
Lucifer looked stunned, then his face darkened.
Aeva continued speaking. “I do not doubt that your Fighters will obey me to the letter, but I have a feeling I will need more than the obedience of automata.”
“That may be the case, Invigilator, but if you would have their hearts and minds as well as their obedience they need to hear your truth.”
Aeva inclined her head, and Lucifer spread his hands before he began speaking.
“The Lady Aeva is the daughter of your Demon Master. Got on the unwilling flesh of a mortal female. He chose to deny the responsibilities of paternity and Aeva was raised by her mortal mother until she reached adulthood. It was an uneasy childhood for a winged monster begotten by rape. But they managed, until your master took a hand in the game. He sought the death of his only daughter, but succeeded in killing her mother instead. We demanded penance of him and the young Aeva came to the place of the Messengers to be educated.” He paused to study the rapt faces of the Fighters before continuing in a voice so quiet they had to strain to hear him. “Your master was not done. When Aeva was a fledgling Messenger he joined the game once more. He found her when she slept and he stole her most prized possession leaving her writhing in agony.”

Aeva’s Challenge by Jane Jago will continue next week.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

As a woman whose face has more furrows than a ploughed field, you can probably guess my stance on this subject.

Firstly: At what point did it become sensible to inject your face with food poisoning?

Secondly: Has nobody explained how frigging stupid you look when the only facial expression you can muster is vague surprise.

Thirdly: This doesn’t so much make you look young as desperate

Fourthly: If you stopped pulling the disapproving face that makes your mouth look like a cat’s bum…

And finally: Nobody looks at women over fifty anyway, so have a cake and enjoy life.

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

It was quiet in the forest. Too quiet. The small things made no noise, and the busy brown birds hushed their chatter. The old woman sniffed the air. A smell of man sweat made her wrinkle her nostrils even as she climbed into the arms of a tall tree. The witch hunters dragged their prey into the clearing, laughing coarsely. She was young and might have been comely once; now she was just a smear on the forest floor. A smear whose blood awoke the hungry ones. The hunters screamed, but their prey died with a smile on her lips.

Jane Jago