It is my business to know what other people don't.

I've never been able to put my finger on precisely why I am captivated by the character of Sherlock Holmes, but captivated I am. I still have the version of 'The Speckled Band' I first read as a kid (a significantly simplified child's version, but we all have to start somewhere). In those pages the great detective sprang to life, intelligent beyond compare, charismatic, and of single-minded fortitude. Even when I discovered he had serious substance abuse problem and was, in reality, a high functioning sociopath capable of only the most basic human emotions and little empathy, I was undeterred. This was my guy. Not entirely losing touch with reality, I knew a fictional character was not an appropriate prospect for a long term relationship. Nevertheless, the obsession was banked, never abated. Recently, I've again been watching my favorite video incarnations of the amateur detective (who was anything but amateur), immortalized by the incomparable Jeremy Brett. Reading the stories, watching the episodes, are like saying hello to old friends, gone for a time, but never truly forgotten. And so I return to foggy Baker Street, pounding the cobblestones, keeping up with his hurried, determined stride. The game is afoot.

What it means to miss New Orleans...

Gaston sat at one of the back tables in the dingy bar, watching the world pass by as he had day in and day out for centuries. The beer bottle before him dripped condensation onto the scratched wood, the breeze wafting through the massive open French doors and the overhead fans doing little to counteract the crushing humidity. He flicked ash from his cigarette, pretending to take a puff. He was never mad at Remy for turning him into a vampire. How could he hold a grudge against his own flesh and blood? What he missed were the little things. The soothing burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The harsh warmth of tobacco smoke filling his lungs. His body hadn't been able to digest anything but blood in almost too long to remember and the lack of working lungs made smoking difficult. But he could pretend, just enough, to sit undisturbed for hours enjoying the sights, the sounds, the smells. Thinking. Calculating. Waiting.

Oubiliette

As a distraction from the prowling beast's mounting agitation, he studied the raw reminder where his hand had been. Given the extent of his injuries, his body couldn't start the healing process. So he watched the crimson trickle down his skin, fading into the darkness. All he could see was stark white bones and ruddy muscle, but somehow he felt his palm, his fingers. A phantom sensation for an appendage forever lost to the stagnant liquid beneath. How many times over the years had he been the one to uncover flesh and bone? To violently expose that which should never have seen the light of day? Despite his waning strength, a cynical chuckle escaped his chest. Underneath it all, monsters and humans were all the same: vile, evil, corrupt. A mess of blood and organs. Nothing more.

Stranglehold

Summer does nothing for me. Most people I know can't wait for summer. The long days, warm nights. Beach weather, shorts and flip-flops. Driving around with the convertible top down. I prefer not to leave the house from July 1 through Labor Day. Maybe it's the heat, the days where the atmosphere is so poisonous you can barely breathe. Maybe it's the fact I hate wearing shorts and would rather live year-round in my favorite pair of jeans. Maybe it's because I grew up in a house with no AC and vividly remember being so hot I thought my face was going to melt off like the guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Whatever it is, I stagnate in summer. It's like all my creative energy is inversely proportionate to the temperature. This has left me sitting on several story lines which is irritating at best. I have ideas, I go to write, and nothing comes out. While this allowed me to catch up on more TV than I should be watching in any given day, it's not what a want to be doing. So I wait and ponder the practicality of a move to Antarctica. October can't come soon enough. 

The Shadow Princess- Part 16

The night of the thunderous blizzard would forever be remembered not just for the odd weather pattern, but for the night Miss Matilda's house in the woods mysteriously burnt to the ground. Sparked by an errant lightning strike, the mansion was a smoldering pile of rubble by the time the townsfolk were able to plow a path down the forest road. Huddled in the remains of the Westerfell cemetery the rescuers found their frost bitten librarian, covered in soot and snow. While Miss Genevieve was taken to the doctor's and nursed back to heath, a search party looked for the enigmatic stranger who'd taken up residence among them. Despite their valiant efforts, the young man was never seen again. Miss Genevieve, the only witness to his whereabouts, remained silent regarding what happened, knowing the town's wild speculation would pale in comparison to the truth. Their librarian made a full physical recovery but her spirit seemed altered, a malignant shadow ever present where she walked. The rumors quieted to a dull hum until an astute older woman noticed Miss Genevieve's weekly pilgrimage down the dirt lane to the remnants of the Westerfell estate as well as their librarian's blossoming shape. 

The snows melted, summer came and went, and as the first leaves turned burnt orange, Miss Genevieve gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Speculation was rampant as to the father. Most assumed it was the Westerfell heir who'd since run off back to Europe, abandoning the young woman. Eventually, even the nosiest of the town's inhabitant ceased their questions, accepting her refusal to answer just as they accepted her withdrawal from much of town life. Their once stoic and gregarious young librarian now as strange as the peculiar young man she'd befriended. It was the old timers who recalled faint memories of Miss Matilda and her kin who noticed one abnormal habit although they could never put their finger on what had them so unnerved about it. Those who frequented the library and the scant visitors to Miss Genevieve's home to congratulate mother and baby saw the same oddity. Not a reflective surface was there to be seen. Purposefully, carefully, she had covered every last mirror. 

The Shadow Princess- Part 15

Crackling tendrils of flame licked along the walls, yet the room grew so cold Genevieve's fingers numbed. There was little doubt what demon Stephen conjured with his challenge. Her pulse roared in her ears, body quivering in fear. Stephen remained outwardly calm, waiting for the inevitable, realizing his life would eventually come to this. The mirror fogged as unseen breath blew against the glass, the shrouded form of a woman materializing. A thunderous boom echoed through the house as the roof collapsed onto the second floor above their heads. Genevieve couldn't prevent the reflex of glancing heavenward, the goose flesh on her arms alerting her to the outcome she was dreading. No more were they alone in the room. Her lungs stopped working, breath catching, as she watched the ghastly woman in grey standing before the fireplace mantle scant feet fro the man who evoked her presence. Bloodshot eyes simmered with pent up rage festering for countless generations like a necrotic wound. All Genevieve wanted to do was run, but Stephen didn't flinch, locked in a battle of wills with his vengeful ancestor. 

"You had all of my family since your sister living in fear. You got what you wanted for so long. Watched so many suffer as you suffered. Your reign of terror is an an end. I am not afraid of you anymore." 

The shadow princess cocked her head to the side, a terrible grin pulling skin on her skull taut as a bow. A maniacal cackle bounced off the walls growing so loud Genevieve had no choice but to clamp her hands over her ears. The shadow princess raised her skeletal hand and waved goodbye to the last of the Westerfell line just as she had to his mother when she was a girl. Waved goodbye as the mirror over the mantle shattered. Razor projectiles flew into the room. The librarian dropped to the floor, covering her head, glass biting into her skin. It wasn't until the musical tinkling ceased she dared glance up. The shadow princess hadn't moved, the same psychotic smile plastered on her face. At her feet surrounded by bloody glass lay Stephen Westerfell, a growing puddle of crimson pooling from the jagged gash across his throat. Genevieve wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but her body refused to follow her commands. Flame licked across the ceiling, as the fire invaded the last bastion of safety. An icy chill swept across the room, the window behind her unexpectedly blown open by invisible hands. The ghost turned her hateful gaze to the sole survivor and pointed at the window. Genevieve needed no further instruction as she blindly raced for freedom, leaving the horrors of the shadow princess's funeral pyre behind.   

The Shadow Princess- Part 14

The world paused, sounds hushed. Stephen was bruised, knuckles bloody from the sheer number of times he struck the door and windows in vain. Choking plumes of ebony smoke spilled under the door as the fire drew closer turning the structure to tinder. Genevieve was paralyzed, her mind rapidly acclimating to the fact she was sealed in a fiery tomb. Faintly she could hear her name being called, but it was garbled like it was spoken through water, the world drifting further away. 

"Genevieve, stay with me. I need you now."

Stephen's voice rang in her head like a perfectly struck bell as he shook her shoulders once more, jolting her back to reality. The door was a lost cause, the heat warning them both what terrors lay beyond. Their only chance of escape was the windows, but no matter what they threw against the glass it refused to break.

"Stephen, it's no use. She'll never let us go."

Perhaps it was survival instinct as the smoke began to make the air unbreathable. Perhaps it was a burst of courage prompting him to face his fear. Or perhaps it was the heart wrenching dread and despair he witnessed in Genevieve's eyes. Regardless of the reason, Stephen decided to act. He strode with purpose to the massive mirror overhanging the mantle, tearing the covering from it and exposing the glass.

"For too long have you haunted my steps. For too long have I run. I am not running anymore, Violetta. I am not letting you destroy another innocent life. Let her go and take me. Kill the Westerfell line if that's what you want. No more will you be allowed to lurk in the shadows. This ends tonight."