Lisas World of Books

Excerpt:

I returned to the room and knocked, entering at the direction of The Chosen One… who stood in front of the mirror wearing nothing but his Chosen underwear and the tyrian purple cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His chest was puffed out, and his enormous, muscular limbs flexed this way and that as he posed himself in dramatic battle postures with his famous great sword. Every inch of visible skin was hairless and glistening. He had worked up a sweat admiring himself, and I could still smell the liquor on him.

“Um…” I mumbled, wondering if I should return at a more convenient—and less embarrassing—time. Much to my chagrin, he didn’t stop flexing on my account.

“Go ahead and pack,” he grunted as he clenched his stomach to make all of his tightly bound abdomen muscles pop. “I’ll wait for the pressed clothes.” He turned to the side and threw the cloak over his shoulder so he could admire his hips and backside, casting daring glances at his tiny embroidered face on the seat of his underpinnings through the polished brass.

I was certain my own face was scarlet as I skirted past him to gather up everything and return the items to the trunks that seemed the most appropriate. The entire time I worked, he didn’t break from his posturing, and I wondered if it was a form of exercise for him, or if it merely exercised his ego. My work was hastened by embarrassment, and when I was done, I silently took up the first Tome of Tiberius. I turned my back, ignoring his grunting and wheezing, and flipped to chapter 3, skimming for the most pertinent pieces of information. I needed to know how to handle The Chosen One’s finances.

I quickly learned it was my duty to draw up contracts when The Chosen One agreed to take a deal, enforce the contracts, and collect the fees. It was my duty to arrange for appraisers, auctioneers, and moneychangers to convert any “spoils” of The Chosen One’s labors—those that he did not keep for his personal collection—to coin. It was my duty to ensure there was sufficient coin for The Chosen One to live whatever lifestyle he chose and to fund any campaign. Incidentals incurred as a direct result of a campaign—such as bribing furious husbands—came from funds before they were deposited into a bank and Tiberius’ percentage was calculated. There was a list of “lifestyle” actions that came from the bank and were not considered incidentals; “donations and women” were on that list. Thus, I assumed him throwing coins into the crowd was not an incidental, either, but came from The Chosen One’s own bank holdings.

“You need to plot a course for Vevesk,” The Chosen One said between poses. “They have vampire stoats.”

“What,” I asked, slightly startled by the break in silence. “What is a stoat?”

“I think they said it was like a long rat.” He glanced over at me. “Find out. And find out how to kill it.”

I stared at him until his self-admiration embarrassed me enough to look away. “You don’t know how to kill them?”

“I assume I cut them up enough, they’ll die,” he quipped. “You need to figure out how it happened so I can stop it. Evil wizard, ancient curse, typical vampirism, that sort of thing.”

“I have to learn what caused this outbreak of blood-sucking long rats?” I asked, incredulously. Surely he was jesting. That was his job.

“Chapter 2,” he said, stripping off the cloak so he could better admire his shoulders.

I grimaced and turned to the second chapter in the Tome of Tiberius. This detailed how I was to conduct necessary research for a campaign and successfully translate it to The Chosen One, for him to then implement that knowledge to complete his feats of heroism. I sighed deeply. “There is no university here to hold historical works, and many of the larger temples do not have any books in them at all. I will need to visit the Wizards’ Guild, the Questers’ Guild, and the Scriveners’ Guild,” I explained.

“Go quickly,” he ordered without sympathy. “We leave soon.”

I gritted my teeth and rose from my chair, throwing Tiberius’ quill and a stack of paper sheets into my shoulder bag. It was all but impossible to do the kind of research this would require in only a handful of hours. So, I ran.

Excerpt 1:

I’d burned her bones, but she was back again.

And now she was pissed.

I fired my shotgun filled with salt rounds, but she vanished between when I pulled the trigger and when the shells fired. Then she materialized behind me and gave me a shove that sent me sprawling.

I’m a big guy, and thanks to a favor from a Slavic god, I’m immortal and pretty damned hard to injure. That doesn’t mean I like being tossed around by ill-tempered ghosts who have overstayed their welcome.

I rolled and came up with the shotgun locked and loaded, firing into the ghost’s midsection. That bought me a moment or two since salt fritzes ghosts’ ability to manifest, but I knew she wouldn’t be gone long.

I walked to where the tracks had been and stopped when the toe of my boot struck an old spike left from the long-ago rails. A scream reverberated through the forest. I pumped my shotgun and blasted her again before she could fully re-form. Then I set a salt circle around myself to keep her from knocking me around, dumped lighter fluid on the spike, and dropped a match on it.

People called the ghost the Lavender Lady. The stories said that she had been gathering the flowers back in the early 1900s when she was struck by a train—back before the tracks had been pulled up when trains still ran.

The town of Moonville was nothing but ruins now; the railroad was long gone, and the tunnel had fallen into disrepair, but the Lavender Lady still wandered the forest, surprising hikers and scaring thrill-seekers.

The Lady’s real name was Henrietta Austin, and while her body was found amid the flowers for which she was nicknamed, the evidence suggested foul play, covered up by the train accident story. Since the culprit was long dead, I couldn’t give Henrietta justice, but I might be able to give her peace.

But first, she would try her best to kill me.

Henrietta’s ghost hurled herself against the salt circle’s iridescent barrier, angry at fate and desperate to take it out on someone. Her corpse-pale face, marred by fury and decomposition, pressed against the scrim, and a terrible screech threatened to make my ears bleed.

“Depart from here, Henrietta Austin, and trouble the living no more,” I commanded. “Your time is long past, and your killer is dead. Let go and move on.”

The fire flared around the old rail spike, and I could see Henrietta’s spirit fading. The accelerant I’d poured on the metal stake wouldn’t melt iron, but I took the chance that flames would burn away enough of the coating to drive her off. Then I could pull the stake out of the ground, put it in the lead and iron box I’d brought, and make sure Henrietta never bothered anyone again.

Henrietta gave one last blood-curdling scream and vanished. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe her energy had dissipated that quickly after haunting these woods for a century, but perhaps she needed to recharge before attacking again.

By that time, I intended to have her anchor—the spike—out of her reach forever.