MiloDaePesdan

Tatterdemalion
Milo Devans



Prologue

The boy gave up any hope of finding Father. For now, he would concentrate on getting Sister back. But he was a very small boy with only the clothes on his back, his inadequate wits, and the cold iron cover of the grimoire clutched to his chest. What chance did he have against a servant of the gods?

He straightened, and stared down the Bridge of Heaven at the distant maelstrom of churning darkness. The scattered light of galaxies and nebulas glittering with newborn stars hung above and below him, pulled into the ever-hungry maw of that black hole. From such a little thing are worlds born and unmade. Even the gods didn't dare meddle with the Void.

All light in the immediate vicinity vanished. Heaven's bridge glowed. The door would open any moment now.

The maelstrom collapsed into itself, then burst into a kaleidoscopic blaze of light--the pure light. It threatened to overwhelm all his senses, to strip away all his memories. The boy stiffened. He did not flinch. He kept a tight hold of his grimoire and took a determined step forward.

Above all else, he must not forget. He was his Father's son.



I

The cat jumped down from the derelict locomotive and deposited the pigeon at Gerald’s feet like an offering. The marmalade looked up with hopeful eyes at his lanky master, whose disposition allowed him to wear nothing but rags, hand-me-downs, and dirt. With the sun a scorcher overhead and the open lean-to the only habitable place, the cat looked small and wretched against the run-down machinery at the heart of this junkyard. A piteous mew followed.

Gerald dropped the wrench he substituted for a ladle into the pot and groaned. Skinner might be a great help sometimes, but the cat always insisted in the addition of one particular ingredient for lunch. He didn’t know how far Skinner roamed, but one time he’d brought over a parrot, another time a canary. Both were pets from the uppity lords and mistresses. Both were nothing but moldy bones now, and the only reminder these birds once existed were the silver nametags Gerald put around his neck on a little bit of string.

He dumped the pigeon atop a metal slab from the ruins of a tank and began plucking feathers. To give himself more room, Gerald tossed in the chunks of potato and carrot he'd plundered from a kitchen into the iron pot. The meaty smell of stew teased his nose and watered his mouth. "Y’know, Skinner, if you didn’t happen to be a fine hunter, I’d have cooked and et you by now."

"Miaou." The cat looked terribly pleased with himself. He walked behind the locomotive helping to shelter them against the elements, and what he dragged into view set all the faded scars on Gerald's body to twitching.

"Bedeviled cat. What'd you find this time?"

The cat tugged on the dirty sleeve of a limp hand. Since the rest of the person was behind the old train, Gerald had to leave the comfort of his tent to get a better view.

The sleeve belonged to a cotton shirt tucked into leather breeches with a belt, and the clothes did nothing to hide the gender of Skinner's new runaway slumped against the corrugated remains of a piston-wheel. He lifted the cap covering her head, and winced at the curly mass of red escaping from its hairpin. Gemstones flared in the sunlight. Gerald grimaced.

Nothing new here, really. He'd seen it all in his time, and girls in boy's gear were common enough. Some wore it for comfort. Others wore it to hide from potential predators. And a few, like this one here, wore them as disguises for the sole reason of running deep into the night. He wondered if there was a fashion trend going on among the young.

Righteous anger constricted his throat. Gerald fought to control it, along with the bitter tide of memories from a time when fine clothes and a shave were a must, and good food didn't come from the mouth of a cat.

He knew this girl. Or did once, a long time ago.

"Skinner, watch the pot. Let me know when it boils over."

The cat blinked huge, jade-green eyes at him, then bobbed his head in a gesture suspiciously like a nod.

Gerald looked down at the girl, his eyes sad and soft.

"Priscilla. I told you so."



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This is just for fun, written on the spur of the moment. If y'all like it, I can write more. You catch any errors, feel free to point them out.

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Raging_Hopeful

Hmm... I actually liked this piece a lot. It was an easy read and intriguing toward the end. I liked the kitty a lot and was interested to see where this would lead! Keep writing!

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Tundra Belle

Oh! Excellent!

I'm hooked. You've set the stage for a very intriguing story, and done it so well that though I might have a few questions this early on, I'm perfectly content to continue reading in order to learn the answers for myself.

And that is what writing is all about.

High fives, or whatever the current rage is!

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T-Belle
Keep it simple, make it move.

MiloDaePesdan

More stage setting, a couple of characters introduced, and a few questions raised, but this is the beginning, after all.

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The junkyard began at the city's northern edge and ended just short of a great forest. The actual area the junkyard spanned was large enough to make it a city of its own right. Towers of discarded carriages, wagons, and cabs soared to the heavens. Houses and shops were fashioned out of ramshackle streetcars and rusty mining equipment. Great smokestacks of the early steam engines coughed dirty clouds of thick gray smoke. Over a century's worth of industrial junk gathered here, and in the midst of all this rubbish and squalor, people called it home.

Hans stood on the wide dirt road a good distance from the junkyard. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers and shifted weight from one boot to the other; he looked on at the chaotic clutter, and cursed under his breath. "Damnation. And you expect me to find her in all this?"

The tall, cultured woman beside him cast her companion a severe look from under her bonnet. She balanced a parasol on her shoulder to block out the sun from damaging her delicate skin. "Correction: we are going to find her, and when we find her, we bring her back to her mother. I can sense her, make no doubt about that."

"Oh, I've no doubt we'll find the girl, but where? Where will we find her?"

Hans jerked his chin at the junkyard's entrance. Even from here he could see the rabble of beggars, tramps, and the poor going about what constituted as their daily business. He caught a few stares from passersby. A few were heading out into the city, filtering past the cracks and gutters like the slime they were. The mere thought of wading into the filth and dirt sent all the hairs of his body on end. "This place is worse than the East End. At least there it had some connection to the city. Here--Veronica, you do know the city's jurisdiction is gone the instant we step in there? There's no law in there."

Veronica met her companion's eyes. Her own a cool, steady blue, his an uneasy, nervous green. Suddenly she smiled and patted his cheek with a gloved hand. "You're a good man, Hans. You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself. Haven't I done so, when I lived in the colonies?"

Hans looked away. A sheepish grin stole across his rugged features. "That you did. And survived temperatures harsher than this, not to mention those things you learned from the Orients. On the other hand, your clothes are a dead giveaway you don't belong here."

She waved an airy gesture over the white silk of her dress. "And you? You hardly look medieval in your own."

"I'll rub some dirt on it. Get scruffy. Maybe catch a flea or two."

"Fleas I cannot stand." The wind picked up and blew the smell of oil, metal, and unwashed bodies towards them. Veronica made a face and sniffed, highborn profile contorted in disgust. "Their personal hygiene leaves much to be desired. Soap, for one thing. I, for one, can't understand why even one single person would want to live here."

'Yes, well, this is a junkyard. The water's bound to be tainted." Faint movement caught the corner of Han's eye. He whipped his head in the motion's direction, but found nothing. Still, the pinprick down the crook of his neck brought up his nervousness again. Someone was watching.

He shook the feeling off and offered an arm in genteel courtesy. "Well, we better start looking. We're starting to attract attention."

Veronica snorted. She took the proffered arm. "And we won't, going in like this? Bother. Shall we, then?"

Hand in arm, they stepped into the afternoon dust together. They walked past the arch made by train carriages piled atop each other like bricks, and even if they didn't vanish into the crowd, they at least carved a path through the confusion.

Two pairs of eyes took note of their arrival from the safety of the shadows. One blinked, and moved on four legs. The other stayed; seconds later a machine clacked, and the coded message sped off down the telegraph wires rigged throughout the junkyard. The Scrapped Baron would want to know.

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c21lostboy

MiloDaePesdan, I'm becoming a fan! Great writing as usual and an intriguing story unfolding. Keep posting 'cos I'll be coming back!

Only one critique:

Don't think you need to mention the extrasensory awareness as it has already been implied the previous sentence. You can easily cut it short to:

'Oh, I've no doubt you'll find the girl, but where? Where will we find her?'

Akroma

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A story that's having a go at being epic fantasy...but with the modern world, vampires and werewolves mixed into the cocktail as well...

MiloDaePesdan

Just Milo will do. Lol. I didn't know what I was typing when I first joined this forum. And thanks for the nit, will edit.

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They got as far as the church when trouble struck.

Hans gawked at the dilapidated building. The road forked before the church; a good part of the land was cordoned off to give it space, breathing room against all the gathered junk. The church stood alone, and a bubble of peace and quiet reigned over the deserted area. An oak grew beside the wall, and if the tree was ancient and bent with age, it still offered plenty of shade.

Among the things he'd seen on the way, he hadn't expected this. The thought these thieves and rats actually worshipped and begged favor of the Lord offended his senses. The brick may be worn, the windows slick with grease and grime, but the cross still hung above the church's double-doors.

An echo of hymns sung by a multitude of voices touched his ears. Hans stood rooted to the spot, and wondered.

Veronica lowered the parasol to block his view. "Dear Hans, you are gaping like a country yokel."

He snapped his jaw shut. "Sorry. I was surprised--"

"That these people believe in someone higher than they? Of course they do. We are of a higher station."

"So they should always believe in their betters?"

"Indeed. They may rebel and twist at the yoke, but they know our birth and blood places us above them. There is no escaping that." Veronica's hold on his arm tightened. Her eyes flashed. "But never mind that. We have company."

The echo of music vanished, and Hans felt a hard knot of tension wind up the muscles of his shoulders.

Feet trampled the dirt. It rumbled all around them like a tattoo of drums. Hans shielded his eyes and saw a rabble bearing down upon them on both paths. He turned, and amid the shimmer of heat made out another mob approaching. Metal glinted in their hands from a motley assortment of weapons. Gun muzzles gleamed in the sunlight. But the only reason why his blood ran cold was the unnatural silence they carried on. Not a man shouted or hurled any curses.

Before he could take in the full scope of their numbers, the church doors burst open. Men in their Sunday clothes filed out, and to Han's consternation serried into ordered ranks. Someone behind them snapped a command. The first rank reached inside their jackets and drew out a brace of pistols, then dropped to their knees and allowed the second rank to draw. All were aimed unquestioningly at them.

Hans felt his muscles tighten even further. The mob he expected--in fact, he'd wondered why they weren't accosted until now--but disciplined men who acted in concert? They acted like a regiment from the army.

The rabble plugged the roads. There was nowhere to escape. To cap it off, more of the riffraff sprang from the piles and towers of junk. Surrounded on all sides from heaven to earth, Hans could only hope they were willing to speak first, shoot later.

Veronica stayed the same as ever, her composure prim and proper. The display of power failed to disturb her. She looked down her nose at the mob. "And who among you in this pack of stray dogs is the leader? We have an errand to pursue, and a duty to complete. Hmph. As if any of you understand the meaning of duty."

"You called, bitch?"

The harsh voice rang loud in the gathered silence. Hans jerked his head skyward. A lithe figure, copper-bronze mane struck by the sun, leapt down from a hill of discarded trams. Hans froze in shock. A woman?

Clad in men's trousers as a statement against her gender's supposed fragility, her blouse ruffled by an ill breeze, the smile on her thin mouth was not friendly at all. She did not curtsey. Instead she bowed in mockery of the classes separating them.

"Milady bitch. My name is Canaille. You may call me Nile, because, like Egypt's ancient river, I will cleanse the taint of your blood upon this world in a torrent. A torrent of gunfire."

Veronica laughed without humor. "Canaille? It suits you, for you are nothing but an uneducated wretch. A wretch and her dogs."

Nile broke into a feral grin. "I'll take that as a compliment. I was born a wretch, or so you bluebloods say. I wish I could grind you both into the dust right now, but milord lost his head and wants to see you first. And we have just the thing to ensure you'll cooperate."

The rumble of machinery penetrated the scene; black smoke swallowed up the sun. The crowd parted. Hans felt his jaw drop again. What thundered into view on heavy treads reminded him of nothing more than a howitzer strapped to a steam engine.

Where in the world had they gotten a tank?

"Have you prayed lately, bitch?"

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MiloDaePesdan

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble...and Gerald is having a one-sided conversation with Skinner?

I'll try to keep my posts in bite-size chunks below 1000 words.

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The stew bubbled to a pleasant simmer. Somewhere amid the mishmash of vegetables, two pigeons and a chicken were boiled to a mouthwatering tenderness. A whole row of quails spit upon a rod--courtesy from a train's coupled wheels--turned slowly over a fire-pit dug into the earth. The scent of food and spices suffused Gerald's sanctuary. He grinned at the thought that more than a few noses were turned his way.

Gerald tested the skin and found it crisped to perfection. He banged the wrench against the pot's side and called out in a loud voice: "Chow! Cooome and get it!"

Cats of all colors, sizes, and breeds flooded the space outside the lean-to. They popped up from the maws of dormant furnaces. A few peeked from under the bellies of crippled wagons. Others sauntered down from the heights where they napped in the sun. Excited mews and hungry purrs tickled Gerald's ears, and he smiled down at the irrepressible bundles of fur and mischief.

Gerald chuckled when a tortoiseshell had the tenacity to rub against his leg. "Shameless! You'd better wait in line."

With a grunt of effort he lifted the quails off the pit. Gerald stepped back to watch the swarm of cats tear the cooked birds apart. Within seconds, only the oil-coated rod remained.

He wiped his scalded fingers on his ragged pantaloons. Greedy furballs, he spoiled them too much with his cooking.

He ladled a cracked bowl with chunks of steaming bird stew. With a straw hat on he made his way around to a small cottage. He'd repaired it himself, from the holes on the roof to the shattered windows. But Gerald didn't need to use the front door; that and the wall it hinged on had collapsed. The irregular edges had all the hallmarks of a sledgehammer. Few things ever survived the pace of industrialization.

Skinner looked up when Gerald's shadow fell across the pallet he guarded. The marmalade flicked his ears at the sleeping figure curled up in a nest of cushions.

Gerald squatted beside the girl and doffed his hat. He set the stew at Skinner's outstretched forepaws. "She woke up, then went back to sleep, eh? Well I can't blame her. It's a miracle she's even made it here. But what I want to know is, how'd she know I was here?"

The cat nosed the bowl and picked out a sauce-covered wing; bone crunched as he chewed. Skinner purred.

"Yes, you're welcome." Gerald sighed and massaged his brow. Old memories fogged his head. "I see. One of my old acquaintances in the city, then. There's few enough left that I can guess who did it. Her coming here can only mean it's started."

Skinner cast him a sharp, steady look. Green pupils slit with gold held his gaze, and the slow, steady beat of his pulse drummed his ears. The longer the marmalade stared, the more Gerald felt as if the very depths of his soul threatened to plummet into a greater chasm.

Green eyes from a great forest of long ago. They froze him in place, and he could only return the stare, helpless.

The cat speared a carrot with one claw. He flicked it at his human companion and purred a laugh.

Gerald shook himself. The spell broke. "That's true. They'll have to clear the junkyard in order to reach the forest. Are you suggesting we hold them here? I admit it makes a rather...malodorous barrier in the noses of our enemies, but the yard is mostly debris. Short of an outright war, we can't do anything more than delay them. And we--that is, you--tried it once before. It didn't work. You lost the entire southwestern forest to fire, railways, and home development. I won't even speak of the casualties."

Skinner licked the bowl clean and pushed it over to him. "Mrouwr."

"Yes, yes, you have humans on your side this time. But what can we do? We are vagabonds and vagrants, the outcasts and outlaws. I doubt there's more than one honest man out of a hundred in that lot."

Gerald wondered how he could translate human motives to a cat. "Most of them are not with me to fight for your cause. They support me only because of who I am. Or was. Do you understand, Skinner?"

Those unnerving eyes beheld him. The cat gave a grudging nod, ears flat on his furry head.

"Good. As long as you understand that."

He rose to get the marmalade another portion when the telegraph rattled and clacked in a corner of the cottage. When the noise stopped, Skinner glanced at him inquiringly.

Gerald's shoulders drooped, but resolution set his dark eyes afire.

"They're here. Lord help me, Skinner. We're going to war after all."

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c21lostboy

Keep it coming!

Should it not be 'grind' not 'ground'?

MiloDaePesdan

Nice, you caught a nit.

This is the conclusion to chapter one. Chapter two answers most questions asked in this chapter and raises a helluva lot more.

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The steam tank and a platoon of infantry escorted them till they reached a narrow avenue. Down this road the facade of a villa allowed shafts of sunlight to pierce the open arches where windows and massive doors once stood. Jagged pillars and fallen columns gaped like the broken jaws of an ancient beast, while a riot of ivy scaled the cracked walls. The rest of the manor lay in rubble covered by grass, dandelions, and golden cattails.

Nile poked Hans in the back with a rifle when he stopped. "Come on, I'm sure you've seen enough doom and ruin. The Scrapped Baron's waiting."

"I'll continue only if you remove Veronica's gag." He gestured at the bandanna wrapped tight around his companion's mouth. Veronica, for her part, simply looked bored with the proceedings and leaned against him. "It's most undignified."

"No," Nile replied. She glared at the woman in question. "Her tongue's sharp enough that I don't need her to whet it against my words."

A muffled chuckle escaped Veronica's lips. Irritated, Niles urged them forward at a walk. "You tear that off and I'll shoot you in the back. You want to die a backstabber's death?"

"Ah, If I may, who is this self-styled baron?" Hans asked to defuse the situation. He glanced over his shoulder. The platoon detached itself from the tank and brought up the rear. Men in their Sunday clothes, armed with nothing but pistols. He still couldn't get over it.

The tank took a while to turn. The smokestack blasted a noxious cloud of fumes and rattled with the motion. He recognized the build from one of the early models, discarded when improvements were made on the treads and drastically repositioned the tank's internal fittings. This one had a stubby turret at the front, while the engine rumbled at the back. The new ones were smaller, lighter, and positioned rotating turrets in the middle.

"The Scrapped Baron? He said you knew him," Nile said, tone light with genuine surprise. "Then again maybe you don't. The old man's losing it in his age."

"What does he look like?"

"Tall, dirty, in the rags of his former office. His hair's turning gray."

"There are many tall men with gray hair and retired from employment," Hans said in a dry voice. "Some stoop and walk armed with canes. Can you not be more specific?"

"I don't have to. You've got an appointment. And he doesn't stoop."

Niles led them past the villa's skeleton and through a double barrier of train carriages. Cannons poked their muzzles out from hewn sections of the walls. Hans understood the emplacement at once; in the event of a ground assault, both avenue and villa split and channeled the enemy, where they ended up in the classic killing ground of an abattoir. This Scrapped Baron was at least an able tactician.

But Hans didn't know any retired generals who called the junkyard home.

They stopped in open ground, ringed off with mountains and towers of trashed machinery. A giant locomotive the height of three men together dominated the center, with a ramshackle lean-to on one side, a cottage on the other. Hans stared at the number of cats scattered all over the yard. He'd never seen so many strays in his life. A nagging suspicion whispered in the back of his head, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Someone emerged from the cottage. Tall, lanky, body scrubbed with dirt, the man walked towards them with an easy stride to his legs. The straw hat he wore hid the upper half of his face. His clothes were fit for a tramp or a rascal, with so many tears and patches over the original cloth. The impression of a tomcat struck Hans. He'd seen that lazy walk somewhere before.

The man raised his head. Veronica's eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. Hans reeled as if thunderstruck. The man who looked at him now with eyes hardened by poverty and bitter experience was all too familiar. How had he ever forgotten?

He dropped to the ground on his knees, heedless of Nile's sudden alarm at his action. Hans slammed a fist into the dust, and bowed.

When he raised his head again, tears brightened his vision.

"Milord. Milord Gerald Melbourne. Forgive me, for I did not remember."



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Chapter two: Priscilla wakes up...and the cats hate her?!

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c21lostboy

Milo, this is good stuff. However, there was something nagging me about your last but one post. This bit:

Before this you've established that marmalade's cause is the forest, so I don't think you need to keep mentioning it - it kind of overspecifies it for the reader. I think you can lose 'humans who care for the forest' completely from the first part. And in the second part, rephrase along the lines of:

'Most of them are not with me to fight for your cause.'

Apart from that I'm hooked and look forward to Chapter 2!

MiloDaePesdan

You're right--the way it sounds compared to things I've done up to now, it's like I'm beating the reader over with a stick. Lol. I'll edit.

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II

The cheap pig iron threatened to rupture from the intense fire radiating in its heart. Gerald shoveled in another batch of coal then used the spade to bang the firehole shut, abruptly cutting off the brilliant wave of heat and light. He blinked several times to regain his night vision. The boiler attached to the firebox began to clank. He leapt back when escaping steam hissed at his feet.

"Milord? I think the bath's ready."

Gerald poked his head out the locomotive's window. Hans waved from atop the train. He carried a lamp plundered from a signalman's box to help him scale the ladder up the train's side. The warm glow of burning oil revealed a brass bathtub superimposed over a mass of firetubes where steam passed to heat the water, the engine's section sliced open to fit the tub in. Gerald didn't care if it looked ridiculous. With the height the train offered a man could get decent privacy under the stars without eyes peeking in.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. Thanks to Hans, he didn't need to climb up and check for himself. If only he could repair the pressure gauges, then it'd be much easier on him. As things stood now, he was grateful for the man's presence.

Gerald left the engine cab, the spade over his shoulder and a whistle on his lips. Hans jumped down with reckless ease and shadowed his back. They sauntered over to the lean-to. Everything they needed to say had already been said these past few hours, and a comfortable silence settled between them. The servant had found his long lost master, the master his servant.

The fire-pit crackled with flames. A cold breeze stole the heat from his fingers. Gerald rubbed his hands together and held them out to the fire. Hans retreated to stand guard in a corner.

A log landed in the pit and scattered the glowing embers. Nile arrived with an armful of firewood, closely followed by a quiet Veronica.

"Hullo, old man," Nile said in greeting. She kicked over a small barrel she'd rolled along the way. Wine sloshed and gurgled inside. The wood she dumped at his feet. "We're back from our little walk. Veronica and I had a heart-to-heart talk about you. Girl talk. But don't ask me for the details."

Gerald chuckled when Hans bristled defensively. He shook his head. "Stand down, Hans. She means no disrespect."

"But, to address the former Patrician of the city in such a manner--"

Nile stuck out an impudent tongue. A dangerous gleam reflected the fire in her eyes. "And where were you when it happened, boy? Where were you when the bobbies dumped him in my yard? Sucked your mother's teat lately, boy?"

Hans bolted upright, fists clenched and his jaw stiff.

"We were looking after the young mistress," Veronica answered in a careful voice. "Milord asked us to."

"Pax romana, you three. That's all beside the point." Gerald upended the wine cask and gestured for Veronica to sit. "I've word the city is getting a reinforcement of troops by river. They're using the excuse of an undermanned garrison to pull soldiers in. Well, we can all guess what they've planned for this junkyard."

"When will they arrive?" Nile asked.

"Two weeks hence. Not enough time to prepare."

"Any chance of a court appearance before the king...?" Veronica trailed off.

"To do what?" Nile interjected. Bitterness and abject disappointment hardened her words. "Grovel before his throne, begging for scraps like the dogs we are? You're the perfect example of the attitude I hate in bluebloods. And you did call me a wretch."

"And I humbly take back my words." Veronica lowered her head. Tendrils escaped the tight bun of her glossy black hair. "Even a dog's bite will fester a wound till it rots."

"I pleaded myself with the king once," Gerald said in weary tones. He stared into the fire, and memories danced before him. "Shall I tell you again what he said to me? His Majesty sounded more concerned over the ministry of his colonies and trade than the assured destruction of his forests. He has more than enough hunting grounds, so what is the fall of one to progress?"

"I'm only with you on this one because it's a chance to stick in their craw," Nile said. The flames roared when she tossed in another log. Her mane matched both the fire and her temperament. "We have to look to our own first. And Patrician you may have been, but you're one of us now, old man."

"I've known that for well over six years. I'm not bound to forget."

Footsteps shuffled from behind the locomotive and silenced them. Someone yawned. A warm glow spread from the fire and entered Gerald's heart when a red-haired girl in unkempt boy's clothing emerged, drawn to the light. Eyes as dark as his own blinked in disbelief, then a slow smile lit them up.

"Good evening, Priscilla."

He lurched forward on his feet to wrap her in a hug when a menagerie of spitting, hissing cats attacked.



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Miaouch. Cats are not pets.

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MiloDaePesdan

You people are satisfied enough with this story to just lurk and read?



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"Milady!"

Hans jumped from his corner only to end flat on the ground, poleaxed. The old master hadn't lost any of his speed. He hadn't even seen the outstretched arm till it smashed his guts like a spearshaft.

"Don't interfere, Hans. You will not hurt the cats."

"But your niece is--" Hans doubled over and choked on the words. Fierce heat gave way to cold then back again, and a ball of pain congealed in his stomach. The master hadn't lost any of his strength either.

"Milord, you must have a good reason for doing this, don't you?" Veronica asked. Her calm tone didn't hide the way her hands squeezed the stem of her closed parasol.

Gerald straightened. The flames of the pit lent him the shadow of a god. A god thrown down from the heights, never again to hear the adulation of his people, but still in possession of all his power. The former authority he wielded as ruler of a city infused his voice.

"Have you ever known me to act without one?"

Hans watched in growing horror. The felines hurled themselves at the girl with fanatical abandon. They brought her to her knees and piled in. With bared claws and glistening fangs they savaged her. They shrieked with the voices of their primeval ancestors, angry at the resurrection of an enemy thought long dead, and fought till blood spewed from open gashes.

Hans turned away and closed his eyes. But Priscilla stayed quiet in midst of this bedlam. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to echo their fury and devolve into a monster. She bit her lip, and did nothing.

The ferocious onslaught slackened. The cats pulled back in a tight circle within arm's reach, ears flat to their skulls and tails on end.

Priscilla raised a bleeding hand to a Siamese in a gentle gesture. But the cat snarled, batted her fingers aside, and hugged the ground. It retreated on all four paws.

"Mrowr."

The cats scattered at Skinner's voice. The marmalade approached the girl without any trace of his kin's hostility. Astonished dark eyes met forest green. Skinner walked over and sat before her. This time Priscilla reached out with bloodied fingers. She touched his orange fur.

Skinner bent his furry head and purred under her petting hand.

Priscilla swept Skinner into a tight hug. The cat licked her ear where scratches left it almost in tatters. Even where he lay Hans could hear the cat's loud purr. She hugged him, then raised her head to meet Gerald's understanding gaze.

"He knows. Uncle, he knows."

* * *

Nile coughed into a fist. "Can someone please explain to me what in hellfire just happened?"

Gerald ordered a shaky Hans to fetch the antiseptic and bandage roll he stowed in the locomotive. He assisted Priscilla, still with Skinner in her arms, into the shelter of the lean-to. "It's an old story. And one you don't want to know. Cats hold grudges even longer than humans."

"It's because of what she can do to them," Veronica supplied. "Am I not right, milord?"

"Correct." Hans stumbled down from the train with the asked-for items. Gerald wetted a piece of fluffy cotton with the antiseptic and dabbed at his niece's wounds. "You explain to her."

"The forest is home to hundreds of cats," Veronica began in her quiet voice. "They were here before the city. They were here before the first boat landed on these islands. And they will always be here among us, no matter how many logs we chop down for our houses and fires.

"I possess something of an ability. I don't know what to rightly call it, but it is useful in my trade. To detect a mind amid a whole sea of others, pinpoint it--well, you know how it goes from there."

"Assassin," Nile spat in disgust. "Hound dog."

Veronica smiled, and some of her old hauteur resurfaced. She sniffed. "Not a trade for the foolish. But most of the time I spend it tracking down those who owe backstopped finances to my master's--mistress'--family. But to return to the point. Priscilla possesses a similar ability, but one more potent and dangerous."

"Only to animals." They turned at the sound of her soft murmur. Priscilla winced when her uncle found a particularly deep scratch. Skinner nuzzled her neck to help her ignore the pain. It didn't look like she was going to release the cat at the moment. "Only to animals. And I never did want to hurt them, but they don't like me. They find me...repellent."

Hans rested on the ground; he didn't care if his clothes got dirty anymore. He jerked his chin at this revelation. "So that's why we haven't any vermin in the house."

"I never asked for this." Gerald looked up when frustration steeped her voice. He saw how much control it took her to hold back the tears. He killed the irrational urge to get up then and there, head straight for the city, and tear long, bloody strips from the one in the heart of it all. "I never did. Uncle, you were right. Back then, when I was still eleven, you said I should leave after what she did to poor Father. Mother wanted to use me all along. Mother doesn't love--"

Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. "And even if I'm safe here, now, she's going to turn to her other alternative.

"She'll attack the junkyard. Then Mother will burn the forest down."



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End of chapter two. Any questions, comments, nits, or absurdities of this world you want to see?

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c21lostboy

Yep!

I'm just happy to see what you've got to throw our way!

Still very much enjoying it, so keep posting! Got a couple of nits for you.

Ditch the 'at'.

I had to read this sentence more than a couple of times before I got it! And I'm still uncertain as to who 'the one in the heart of it all' is. Priscilla? or Skinner? Think this needs a rewrite.

Shouldn't it be 'what she did' not 'what she's done'?

I'll be watching for more...

MiloDaePesdan

EDIT:

Post destroyed. Chapter III had a major rewrite. Why? Because I wasn't satisfied with it. See my next posts for the update.

Lurkity-lurk, you invisible people. Hope y'all liking it so far.

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