Blazing Bodices (5 page)

 

*****

For the first time since he'd started his story, Sir Hogshead raised the bottle of whisky and downed a great swallow. I watched in amazement as he stood there in his smudged makeup and blue dress, guzzling whisky after relating a tale that was disturbing on so many levels.

Those of us who were gathered around him in the billiard room of the Wanderers' Club remained silent for a long moment. We were weighed down by the gravity of Sir Hogshead's story, the sheer emotion with which he'd invested that terrible final sequence.

Yet there he stood, looking ridiculous in that dress, those gloves, those boots. The incongruity was appalling.

Finally, I took it upon myself to break the silence. "How did you escape, Algernon? Was there a struggle?"

Sir Hogshead sighed and shook his head. He stared at the whisky bottle in his grip, perhaps gazing at his strangely-attired reflection in the glass. "I walked away. They let me go."

"That hardly seems likely," said Dr. Yarrow.

"Didn't you punch a
few
girls, at least?" said Mr. Asteroth-Phipps. "I rather thought that was what you were leading
up
to."

"They said no one would believe me." Sir Hogshead drank the last swallow of whisky and set down the bottle on the rail of the billiard table. "They said it wouldn't matter if anyone
did
believe me, because it's too late."

Doctor Yarrow sniffed and straightened his tie. "It
does
seem a bit far-fetched, old chap."

"I'd think twice before repeating it outside these walls," said Mr. Ravensthorpe. "You're liable to find yourself institutionalized."

"Scandalized at least," said Mr. Trimble.

"Or romanticized," said Mr. Asteroth-Phipps. "Propositioned, even."

"But the
women
." Sir Hogshead scowled and raised his trembling, black-gloved hands. "They must be
stopped.
We have to reverse the
contamination
, or the legacy of our
manhoods
will be
forfeit.
"

"Perhaps the Royal Marines' Occult Brigade could look into this." Stepping forward, I placed a hand on his shoulder, extending simple camaraderie in spite of his bizarrely inappropriate costume. "But if what you've told us is true, it might already be too late to combat this threat."

Sir Hogshead slumped, staring at the floor for a long moment...then suddenly burst back to vigorous life and shoved me away. "I'll
never
accept that, Captain Thrice! There
must
be a way to undo the damage! And I'll find it
myself
!

"I can
infiltrate
their ranks again." He grabbed the folds of his bell-like skirt and shook it dramatically. "I can become
one
of them whenever I choose. I will
disguise
myself as a woman as
many
times as it
takes
to pry their secrets from them and
alter
my fate as a
father
and a
man!
"

"Bravo!" said Mr. Asteroth-Phipps. "Such a plan cannot
possibly
have a drawback!"

Sir Hogshead scooped his blonde wig from the floor and stomped toward the door. "Gentlemen! If you see me on the street in such a guise..." He spread his arms wide to indicate his corseted, petticoated curves. "...do
not
be alarmed! And do
not
give me away! For I shall henceforth dedicate myself to a life undercover, ending only at such time as I have undone the corruption visited upon our family lines by those veritable daughters of the devil!"

"Worry not! I shan't give you away!" said Mr. Asteroth-Phipps. "But what if I come across you at some time, and without realizing it's you in disguise, I unwittingly accost you?"

Sir Hogshead cast a steely glare around the room at each one of us in turn. The flicker in his eyes when they settled upon me made me wonder if we had gotten the whole story.

"Let it be on your
conscience
," said Sir Hogshead. "Be forewarned, each and every one of you! I will
never
break cover until this
atrocity
has been
reversed
and
avenged.
"

With that, he whirled and darted off down the hallway. I heard the front door open and close, and then he disappeared into the night as if he'd never been with us at all.

Leaving us with one final question.

"Who's going to break these balls?" Mr. Asteroth-Phipps gestured at the unbroken rack of billiard balls on the red felt table. "I was hoping Sir Hogshead would do the honors, but I rather suspect he may have already done his share for one night."

*****

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Earthshaker

Gaia Charmer, World Warrior Book 1

By Robert T. Jeschonek

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Chapter 1

 

How did I stop Ray Long the killer from getting away that night? I threw gravel at him, lots and lots of gravel. And not with my hands, either.

I'm special like that. And Ray was stupid. Unlucky's a better word. How was he to know he was dealing with someone like me? Maybe I should've worn a sign for him: "Gaia Charmer. In touch with the Earth."

Make that "
Really
in touch with the Earth."

Maybe Ray would've rethought his plan to kill his last victim at the quarry if he'd known what I can do. And if he'd known I was hot on his trail that night.

He should've known, though. I warned him when he got away the first time. I
told
him I was going to stop him from killing anyone else. But hey, he underestimated me, which is easy to do. I'm five foot two, in my early twenties, blonde, and petite--not exactly a powerhouse to look at. Works in my favor again and again, which is awesome. Ray wasn't the first, and he won't be the last to experience my hardcore ways.

Sooner or later, they all find out what it's like when the Charmernator rolls over 'em.

That night, it was the middle of summer in west-central Pennsylvania, mid-July and counting. The moon was full and yellow over the Allegheny Mountains, bobbing like a dumpling in the hot broth of thick humidity.

Honestly, I was almost too late. I'd just discovered (via other special skills of mine) that Ray was killing and dumping the missing kids at the Buckhorn Quarry. I'd gotten there as fast as I could, but I was still cutting it close. Ray had the kid staked out in the dirt and was sharpening his machete by the time I showed up.

Which was all the more reason for me not to waste a second. I didn't pussyfoot around talking things over with Ray or trying to be tricky. I just pulled out all the stops and went at him as hard as I could.

Which, believe me, is pretty damn hard.

As soon as Ray heard me coming, crunching gravel underfoot, he swung his flashlight around and caught me in the beam of it. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I saw his other arm reach around behind him for what had to be a gun. So I jumped into action.

The thing about the quarry was, it was full of all kinds of rock and dirt...and that, my friend, is something I can work with. I'm the original rock star, you might say.

Sweeping my hands around, I aimed at a pile of gravel midway between us, and I
focused
. Extended my will through my fingertips, if you know what I mean...reached out and touched the gravel with my mind. Felt the size and shape and texture of the pieces. Felt the multitude of forces acting upon them, the halos of gravity and electromagnetism and cosmic radiation. The forces pulsating within them, too--the jostling of molecules and atoms, the spinning of electrons and quarks, the whisper of quantum foam, the humming of superstrings. All the qualities adding up to a marvelous portrait of a pile of objects, a true work of art that I'm privileged to see because of my talents.

Feeling and seeing and sensing all that, I knew how to mold those forces, how to make them do what I wanted. And then I gave them a push.

Keep in mind, this all happened in a fraction of a second. Ray was still in the process of drawing his gun when the first bits of gravel hopped off the pile and shot toward him.

I flicked my fingers back and forth from the pile to Ray. Each time, more gravel jumped the gap and clocked him, dinging off his head and arms and chest. Instead of bringing around his gun, Ray swatted at the flying pebbles, batting them away from his face and body.

But he couldn't stop them all. He grunted as the ones that got through pelted his cheeks and throat, popped against his belly and crotch.

Then, it was time to close the deal. I balled my hands up into fists and pointed them at the pile, letting my power and awareness gather and grow. Picking up as much rock as I could, cupping it in my hands--I mean my
mind
but it
felt
like my hands, like I was holding it and getting ready to let it go.

And then I
swooped
my fists toward Ray and
threw
what I held. Half the pile of gravel leaped at him, crashing in a wave he couldn't hope to swat away. He screamed as it hit him, all nine thousand five hundred and twenty-one pieces of rock (exactly that many, I felt them) coming down on all quadrants of his body, bruising and breaking and smashing in much the same way he'd wrecked those six kids. A few pieces at a time might have been no worse than bugs, but that wave of almost ten thousand little rocks acting together must have felt like a wall hitting him.

None of it touched the kid staked to the ground, though. Guided by my mind, it all stayed focused on killer Ray, dancing over the little girl as if he had an invisible bubble parked around her. Every last piece of gravel had a single purpose only--to batter Ray Long till he gave up and fell down.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen as fast as I thought it would. Somehow, Ray got his piece out and threw shots into the shower of stone, as if that was going to help. Then, fighting the tide, he managed to crank his arm in my direction and got lucky. Pumped out a bullet that grazed my shoulder, the son of a bitch.

It was enough to break my concentration and my hold on the gravel, which stopped in mid-flight and dumped to the ground. As I cried out and grabbed at my stinging shoulder, Ray scrambled out of the mess of rock and ran off.

Ran off into the quarry, the dumbass. My own personal playground, you might say.

I followed him into the maze of rock and dirt piles, running full tilt in the moonlight. Reaching out with my mind and power, I tugged at a dirt mound ahead of him, bringing it down in a landslide to block his path. When he darted in another direction, I knocked rocks off a heap, sending them bouncing straight for him. One caught him in the hip, another bashed his ankle, but he staggered for only a moment and kept going.

Ray disappeared around a hill of limestone chunks, and it took me a few steps to catch sight of him again. That was when I realized he might get away. The S.O.B. had a motorcycle stowed behind the limestone, about thirty yards back. He leaped onto the seat and started the engine; the front wheel was pointing right at me.

As the bike's headlight flared on, I stopped in my tracks and quickly assessed the options. Lots of rock and dirt around, but I could only move so much of it at a time. Dipshit Ray might just power through any shower of rubble I could whip up.

Time for another tack, I thought. Reach into my bag of tricks for something different. Something guaranteed to lay him out fast.

Dropping to a squat, I planted the palm of my left hand on the ground. Reached out through my fingertips into the layer of earth between me and Ray.

As Ray revved the bike and threw it into gear, I felt the intricate web of tiny fissures and fractures lacing the surface. Sensed the vibrations flowing through them from the bike, rumbling and crackling and splintering, spreading the web further in all directions.

The bike leaped toward me, but I stayed cool. Closing my eyes, I picked out the soft spots between us, the points where the underlying rock had been weakened...each a glowing red pocket of stress in my mind. A button to be pushed.

And then I pushed one. As the roar of the motorcycle approached me, I lifted my hand, made a fist, and brought it down hard on a precise point on a fracture line. Poured my inner force into the blow, giving it more impact than the punch of a single fist.

I felt the power surge out of me like fire, saw it in my mind's eye like silver lightning flickering through the web. The bolt slashed along a jagged path of fractures and fissures, charging like an errant spark through the cracks in a shattered mirror.

And then it hit the stress pocket, and I felt it implode. The soft spot suddenly gave way, and the ground sank.

Right in the path of the motorcycle.

A hole opened up in front of Ray, the ground dropping too fast for him to swerve. The bike's front tire lurched down into the pit and caught there, spinning the rest of the bike over it. Ray, too. He hurtled from his seat and flew through the air, sailing over my head. He came down ten yards behind me on the pile of limestone, cracking his head and bones on sharp corners of solid rock.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and got to my feet. Turned and looked at him. Shook my head.

There he was, unconscious, ready for delivery to the authorities. The monster who'd killed six kids and who'd been about to kill a seventh was out of the game. People could breathe a little easier. And it was all thanks to me.

This was what I call "smooth sailing"...the kind of moment when I am absolutely high on life. When I'm feeling so good about who I am and what I do that I could just dance like a fool. I saved a life, beat the bad guy, made a difference. Hallelujah!

I made a point to drink it in while it lasted, because I knew it wouldn't. I smiled and raised my bright blue eyes to the full moon, because I knew myself too well, and I knew "smooth sailing" would become the opposite extreme far too soon. It would quickly turn into "sinking fast," no matter what I did, because that's just how I am.

But for that moment, I took a deep breath of the humid, dusty air, and I let myself grin. Time to untie and console the victim. Time to hand over Ray Long to the cops. Plenty of good stuff still to come.

Closing my eyes, I danced a little. I swayed from side to side in the moonlight, happy to be alive. Happy to be in the world, to be special, to be me.

And I spun around once, feet turning in the dirt, hands clasped to my chest as if cradling my beating heart.