Blazing Bodices

 

By

Robert T. Jeschonek

 

 *****

More Fantasy by Robert T. Jeschonek

 

6 Fantasy Stories

6 More Fantasy Stories

Earthshaker – an urban fantasy novel

Girl Meets Mind Reader

Groupie Everlasting

Rose Head

The Genie's Secret

The Return of Alice

The Sword That Spoke

 

*****

 

Blazing Bodices

 

When the woman who was not a woman burst into our evening, we were just setting up some balls for the breaking.

Shortly after Miss Patel had finished her story of the Emerald Guardians, I and several members of the Wanderers' Club retired to the billiards room. After all the idle chit chat, we felt the need for action. After all, we call ourselves Wanderers, not Gossipers, do we not?

Just as Mr. Asteroth-Phipps was drawing back his stick to break the first rack of balls, the heavy oak door of the billiard room flew open. As the door slammed home against the oak paneling of the wall, the five of us in the room looked toward the noise all at once.

My first impression was of a statuesque woman standing in the doorway, two or three inches taller than six feet. A black overcoat encompassed the upper reaches of her frame, occluding many details of her figure. The rest were hidden by the vast bell of the royal blue skirt of her dress, fanned out over its frame of whalebone hoops.

Her blonde hair, instead of being worn up and properly pinned, lay in a tangled fall upon her shoulders and back. Her hair looked wild, as did her eyes; her long, oval face was glossy with sweat.

A statuesque woman in distress; this was my first impression. Had she been accosted on the street and sought shelter in our club? Was she the victim of a medical emergency, in need of urgent care?

Whatever her business, it didn't take long for us to offer our assistance. The five of us moved forward more or less at the same time. I would expect no less from such a gathering of men of action.

"Madame." I spoke first, bowing my head briefly as I stepped toward her. "I am Captain Buckingham Thrice of Her Majesty's Royal Marines, Occult Brigade. These good fellows and I stand ready to assist in any way possible. How may we be of service?"

It was then, just before she spoke, that I realized the truth of the situation. Raising my head, I suddenly got a closer look at the woman. My steps had carried me to to within ten feet of her, enabling me to make out more details of her appearance.

At which point, my heart skipped a beat. I stopped walking toward her and gaped, unable to look away.

Because there on her cheeks and chin and throat was the unmistakable roughness of stubble.

My colleagues stopped approaching her at the same moment, also gaping at her unexpected appearance. Was she some kind of bearded woman, then, straight from a carnival midway?

Not if her voice was any indication.

"Thank God, thank God!" Her voice was deeper than I'd expected, deeper than the voice of a typical woman. "I'm finally safe!" It sounded deep enough to be something not at all womanly, in fact.

At that moment, the biggest surprise of all kicked in, leaving me reeling. For it was then that I realized this was not a woman at all, and not just a man, either.

This was someone I knew.

The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. "Algernon? Is it you?" Even as I spoke, I wished I could call back what I'd said. I thought it sounded utterly insane.

To my absolute surprise and horror, the person in the doorway did not laugh at me. Did not scowl at the offense or look down in humiliation.

Instead, one black-gloved hand flew upward, took hold of the gleaming fall of blonde hair, and tugged. The entirety of those golden locks came away all at once, revealing a scalp studded with silvery stubble.

The scalp of a man in woman's clothing.

"Can we waste no further time on ridiculous guessing games?" He souded incensed as he heaved the blonde wig to the floor. "We have a most dire business to conduct!"

"Sir Hogshead?" Doctor Yarrow sounded positively apoplectic. "Sir Algernon Hogshead? One of the charter members of our very own Wanderers' Club?"

Mr. Asteroth-Phipps sounded a good deal more amused. "Have you come from a masquerade ball of some sort? Or is this simply a typical night out for you, sir?"

Sir Hogshead plowed forward. Even under the white powder makeup on his face, I could see he was flushed as a stewed tomato as he shoved past me. "Enough japery! We are in danger, each and every one of us!"

Asteroth-Phipps chuckled. "Is there a shortage of rouge at hand, good sir?"

Hogshead grabbed a bottle of whisky from the sideboard and spun, wielding the bottle like a weapon at Ravensthorpe. "The very fabric of our civilization is at stake!"

"And would that fabric happen to be crinoline?" said Mr. Asteroth-Phipps.

Hogshead uncapped the whisky, gulped an amount that could in no way be considered womanly, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. "Laugh if you like," he snarled. "But I've come here to tell you that no less than our very manhood is in extraordinary peril."

"Do tell," Asteroth-Phipps said with a smirk, and then Hogshead began his tale.

 

*****

This whole awful business began innocently enough. I, Algernon Hogshead, arrived home early one afternoon to surprise my wife. I had just concluded a most propitious deal for my import/export company, one that would keep the British Isles well-stocked with exquisite foreign-made musical dentures for years to come, all at a tremendous profit to myself. I imagined I might celebrate the occasion with my beloved Bess.

Imagine my surprise when Bess was nowhere to be found. Our London home was empty as a beggar's bowl--children in school, Bess absent, even the servants gone from the premises. The female servants, that is.

Eternal optimist that I am, I expected not the worst, but the best. Surely, Bess had gone to the market. After all, she was known for joining the household staff in their shopping on occasion to get some fresh air and supervise purchases. It was her own little adventure, she liked to say. I might travel the world with my Wanderers' Club chums, but she could tell just as many cock and bull stories about her own trips down the market with the staff.

Disappointed at the lack of someone with whom to celebrate, I retired to my study and poured a snifter full of brandy. Undoing my tie and collar, I relaxed in my favorite high-backed chair by the fireplace and sipped the brandy, resolving to wait for my wife's return.

One hour passed. I watched its slow progress on the face of the antique clock on the mantle. My first brandy gave way to a second and then a third.

Just as the second hour gave way to a third with no sign of my wife. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it was taking longer than a simple trip to the market.

Yet still I entertained no suspicious thoughts. Even when the third hour melted into the fourth, my only concerns were for Bess's well-being. I began to wonder if something terrible had happened to her, if she'd been injured or fallen ill in the course of her errands.

Just as I was preparing to leave the house in search of Bess, I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Then, the sound of her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. Immediately, I ran out of the study and down the hall, heart pounding with anticipation.

When I hurtled around the corner at the end of the hall and saw her standing in the entryway, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of intense relief. She was not dead, and she did not appear to be injured.

But she did appear to be surprised. Greatly.

Gasping when she saw me, Bess flung her left hand to the base of her throat and stumbled back two steps. "Al-Algie?" She sounded stunned. "What are you d-doing here so soon?"

"Came home to celebrate a deal, my dear." I took a step toward her, frowning with concern as I looked her over. "Are you all right? Have you hurt yourself or some such?"

Bess shook her head once, then nodded. Her perfectly creamy complexion shaded crimson as she blushed. "It's why I'm late getting home, actually. I was visiting Lorna Farnesworth, and I suddenly came down with the vapors." She fanned herself, making the auburn strands of hair around her face dance in the little breeze. "It took me ages to get my sea legs back, I'm afraid."

Such an eminently reasonable explanation. I believed her on the spot, no questions asked. "You're feeling better now, though?"

She patted her hair with one hand, keeping the left hand clasped at the base of her throat. "Still a bit shaky, truth be told. Best if I have a little lie-down, I should think."

"Very well." I nodded and backed away. "We can celebrate another time."

"Thank you ever so much for understanding." Bess smiled thinly and moved past me, heading for the stairs.

Before she could elude me completely, however, I shot out a hand and caught her left wrist in my grip. Tugging her hand free, I kissed it lovingly...all the while stealing a glance at the thing she'd been hiding.

At first, I could have sworn it was staring back at me. My first impression was of an eyeball planted in the high collar of her dress, flicking in its socket to look in my direction.

Another moment's inspection, however, revealed the truth. It was an eye, all right, but it was crafted of silver, not humors and muscles and blood vessels. It was just a piece of jewelry, a pendant on a silver chain--an elongated eyeball mounted inside what looked to me like an Egyptian symbol.

I'd never seen it before in my life...not in my house and certainly not on my wife.

But I did not speak of it at that moment. I lifted my lips away from her soft, pallid hand, allowing her to cover the pendant once more.

And then, with a sigh, she was gone up the stairs. I heard the door to her bedroom close, and I frowned.

For the first time, suspicion took shape within me. Why had she felt the need to conceal that strange pendant? What was the real reason for her absence that afternoon?

Perhaps, I thought, my mistress might shed some light on the subject.

 

*****

Lady Undine Crenshaw reclined on a fainting couch in the parlor of her rooms at the Savoy hotel. Her black-trimmed red silk dressing gown flowed over her voluptuous curves, leaving her pale ankles and feet scandalously bare. Sunlight streamed from the open windows through her luxurious blonde hair as it lay across her shoulders and breasts, forming a wispy halo. Her eyes, a brighter blue than any robin's egg could ever be, twinkled as she gazed at me.

"You're asking me about the likelihood that your wife indulged in an assignation?" Her voice was deep and husky. One corner of her mouth was cocked upward in a knowing smirk as it almost always seemed to be. "Darling, how should I know?"

I shook my head in frustration as I paced in front of her. "I'm simply asking your opinion. As a woman."

Lady Crenshaw sighed and turned her gaze to the ceiling. "She was surprised, you say? Alarmed?"

I stopped pacing and looked down at her, expecting insight. "Exactly."

"Perhaps she wondered if your company had collapsed, or you'd committed some unspeakable crime." Lady Crenshaw met my gaze. "Seeing you unexpectedly, and so out of context...of course it would worry her."

"This was different." I waved her off and resumed pacing. "Bess was not happy to see me."

"Believe it or not," said Lady Crenshaw, "wives are not always happy to see their husbands." Twisting around, she reached for the silver cigarette case and matches on the round marble table behind her. "Or so I've heard."

"But the pendant." I pressed my left hand at the base of my throat as I recalled it. "She was hiding it from me. And it looked so strange. So foreign."

Lady Crenshaw opened the case, drew out a slender brown cigarette, and slipped it between her lips. "Perhaps you've been spending too much time at that Wanderers' Club, darling." Her words were muffled as she spoke around the cigarette. "You're starting to see exotic secrets and dangers simply everywhere." Raising the lighter in its little metal box, she pressed the switch with her thumb. A flame popped out of the nozzle on top of the device, and she directed it at the tip of the cigarette while inhaling.

"I have learned to be alert to hidden dangers." I paused at one end of my pacing track and rubbed my silver goatee. "I've learned the hard way. Relaxing your guard can lead to sudden death."

Lady Crenshaw sighed loudly. As I turned to continue pacing, I saw her blow a huge cloud of smoke in my direction. "Is this the only reason you've come over, then? To talk about your wife ad nauseum?"

"Of course not." I brushed aside her question with a swipe of my arm. "When have I ever let her come between us?"

"Perhaps I should bring one of my boyfriends into the conversation." Lady Crenshaw laughed, puffing out three rings of smoke. "But which one shall it be?"

Ignoring her baiting, I spun and pointed a finger at her. "I must investigate. Treat this as one of my cases...my puzzleventures."

"Leave off it, Algie." Lady Crenshaw took a drag on her cigarette, then blew out more smoke. "This is bloody London, home of the illustrious Wanderers' Club. Can't imagine a worse place to try to hide a naughty little secret, thanks to you lot."

I grabbed the gold boar's-head handle of my ebony cane from the back of the red velvet chair on which it hung. "It has been my experience," I said as I gave the cane a twirl, "that the quieter the savannah, the closer the lions."

"Oh, dear." Lady Crenshaw crushed her cigarette in the bowl of a crystal ashtray on the marble table. "You've got the scent, haven't you?"

I grinned and reached for the doorknob. "What does your female intuition tell you, darling?"

"Something about people in glass houses throwing stones," said Lady Crenshaw just before she rolled over and turned her back on me.

 

*****

When it came to cold trails, this one was positively frozen.

After leaving Lady Crenshaw's apartments, I set out to retrace Bess's footsteps from earlier that day...all for naught. Everything appeared to line up properly with the tale she'd told me.

Surreptitiously interviewing our household staff, I found that each and every one of them backed up her story. Yes, she'd gone with them to the market. On the way home, she'd stopped off to visit Lorna Farnesworth, and they'd continued on without her.

Unsatisfied, I probed further. Setting out after supper for an evening constitutional, I swung by the Farnesworths' residence three blocks away. A knock of the boar's head handle of my cane brought a butler to answer the door.

"I come in search of a glove, my good man." I held up one of Bess's pale blue satin gloves, which I'd pocketed before leaving home. "This one is terribly lonely. Did my wife happen to leave behind its mate when she was here earlier today?"

The butler sniffed distastefully and shook his head once. "You have come to the wrong place, sir."

For a moment, I thought the trail was heating up. "My wife was here, wasn't she? Bess Hogshead?"

The butler cleared his throat and lifted one eyebrow. "Do you take me for an imbecile, sir?"

My heart pounded in my chest. I felt it, the thrill of the hunt, blazing through my veins like liquid fire. "Do you mean to say my wife wasn't here?"

The butler stared for an instant...then shook his head. My breath caught in my throat as I stood on the verge of confirming this vital intelligence. As I stood ready to catch my wife in a lie.

And then the butler deflated me. "Yes, she was here, and no, she left nothing behind. I saw to her wrap and gloves myself."

I couldn't help feeling disappointed. "Ah. I see then. Jolly good."

"Thank you and good day, sir," said the butler as he withdrew into the house.

And then he shut the door in my face, just as he had shut the door on this avenue of my latest puzzleventure.

 

*****

My next step was clear to me. If the beast's tracks would not lead me to the truth, I would have to shadow the beast itself. I would have to follow it, as I would an antelope to its watering hole, and watch it interact with its natural habitat.

This, of course, would require camouflage, but I was up to the task. For someone who'd followed the giant spider-gators of Bandu Shoga for hundreds of miles to the hidden treasure of Voxinian the Indignant, this would be child's play.

That night, I made certain preparations for the hunt. This involved drawing various items from the well-stocked disguise kit in the secret closet of my study and tucking them away in a valise. I added a few items of clothing and stowed the valise under the bed, ready for my mission.

Next morning, I followed my routine as if this were any other day. I woke, got dressed, and ate breakfast with Bess and the children...our girls, Ellie and Annie, both nine years old. After breakfast, I retrieved the valise from the bedroom, hid it under the overcoat draped over my arm, and tapped my way out of the house with the boar's-head cane. Just before I pulled the door shut behind me, I shouted to Bess that I would be working late at the office.

And so began the hunt.

 

*****

It felt good to be back in action. I'd been six months without travel or combat, and it had seemed like six years. For one such as I, nothing comes close to the thrill of the chase.

I hailed a cab, and it raced me uptown to my first destination: the Wanderers' Club. In one of the guest apartments upstairs, I changed clothes and applied the elements of my disguise.

I emerged a changed man...changed so much, in fact, that I passed the ultimate test. When Rogers, the keen-eyed major domo, saw me in the hallway, he ejected me from the premises, believing I was a stranger.

Out on the street, I stopped in front of a clothiers shop and examined my reflection in the plate glass front window. What a change I saw there!

My silver goatee was dyed black, as were my eyebrows. A false nose, bulbous and scarlet, covered my true, aristocratically aquiline one. Two enormous warts bulged from my face--one on the left cheekbone, the other on the point of my chin. A bushy black wig concealed the close-cropped silver stubble of my natural hair.

Instead of a black business coat and trousers, I wore a ragged gray jacket with holes in the elbows and threadbare gray pants. Topping it off, I wore a battered brown cap with a mangled visor.

I nodded with satisfaction and adjusted my posture, slouching and jutting my chin forward. My camouflage was perfect, ready for the hunt. If I, on another day, had seen me coming, looking like this, I would have thought it was a factory laborer approaching, or a beggar.

Or a street sweeper. In other words, the master of disguise had created the perfect appearance for the role he had chosen to play.

Slipping around to the rear entrance of the Wanderers' Club, I retrieved the push broom that Rogers always kept by the door. Grinning, I ran off down the alley, making my escape before Rogers could find me out.

 

*****

This time, as I dared not hail a cab, the trip across town took considerably longer. I knew no cabbie would stop to pick up someone who looked so unlikely to be able to pay his fare.

Fortunately, as I am always in peak physical condition, the exercise in no way left me winded. I returned to the street outside my home as composed and energetic as I'd been upon setting out that day.

And so I began my charade. My concealment, as they say, in plain sight.

Taking care to remain stooped over, I pushed the broom up the street and back down again, sweeping layers of soot into piles at either end. Always, I kept one eye on the front door of my home, waiting for Bess to emerge.

I felt certain she hadn't come forth yet, as her morning chores and toilette typically occupied several hours. But I presumed she would soon poke her head out of her burrow to sniff the air.

I waited at least an hour, all the while clearing more soot from the street. Fortunately, no one seemed to take an interest in me. No one seemed to notice this dawdling sweeper taking far too long to clear one solitary block of sooty cobblestones.

Finally, as I reached one end of my track and turned for another pass, the front door of my house opened, and Bess emerged in the late morning sunlight. She wore a burgundy dress, black gloves, and an exotic black hat adorned with deep green and blue peacock feathers.

Closing the door behind her, she walked down the front steps to the street and started toward me. Another woman, Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan from three doors up, called out a greeting from her own front stoop and bustled down to join her.

Smiling and chattering, the two of them set out together, looking well-festooned and resplendent. They walked right past without giving me a first look, much less a second.

As I turned to follow, beginning the hunt in earnest, I wondered where these two were headed side by side. For one fact stood out in high relief in my mind as their blithe conversation drifted back on the mid-Spring breeze.

Bess despised Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. I had never known the two of them to go anywhere together, let alone spare a civil word for each other.

 

*****

Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan led me on a winding course through London. Always, I took great care to remain discreet, to maintain a sizeable distance between us and not attract undue attention.

After a walk of nearly an hour, they reached their first destination--a tall, brick building with pale green shutters--and strolled inside. I had made preparations for just such an eventuality, constructing my disguise in such a way that it could be converted to a new configuration. All I would have to do is slip into a secluded alley, discard the jacket and wig, turn the cap inside out, and I could pass for a common repairman who looked only a little like the street sweeper who'd just gone by. In other words, I could become someone respectable enough to follow Bess into her haunts without being turned away at the door.

At least, that was the plan. I intended to blend in, and in so doing, gain access to vital surveillance.

Unfortunately, blending in would not be easy. As I was about to thread an alley and revise my disguise, I got a look at the brass plaque mounted to the right of the brick building's front door.

FEMALE PROTECTION SOCIETY. That was the name of the place. I'd heard of it but had not visited it before.

And with good reason. NO MALES PERMITTED ON PREMISES. Those words were engraved on a second brass plaque mounted on the other side of the door.

Though a lesser man might have been discouraged, I remained determined to forge ahead. Surely, repairmen would have to be admitted on occasion to do the kind of work beyond the grasp of women.

Scooting down the alley, I changed my disguise as planned and strolled out on the street, straightening my posture. As I approached the front door, a dark-haired woman in a black dress glided past and rapped once with the heavy brass knocker mounted there. The door opened, and she sailed inside, glancing back over her shoulder but once in my direction.

Startled, I paused in my tracks as she disappeared from view. For in that single glance, I had recognized the woman. And the mystery of this puzzleventure had magnified a thousandfold.

What on Earth was Countess Calypso doing here? Why had one of the most notorious evildoers in all of Britain come to the same place at the same time as my own dear Bess?

Clearly, it was more critical than ever that I get inside.

Shaking off my startlement, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and moved forward with confident purpose. Taking hold of the knocker, I clapped it twice against the wood of the door and waited.

A rectangular panel slid open, somewhat below eye level, and two gray eyes peered up at me. "Yes?" The voice was that of an older woman, in her fifties perhaps. "How may I help you?"

"I've come ta check the coal furnace, Mum." I altered my voice slightly, making it deeper, using an accent I'd picked up among dockhands during my business at the quay.

The woman turned her head, and I saw she was wearing a gray habit. She was a nun, then. "Sorry, no." She shook her head. "You're not on the schedule."

I grinned and shrugged. "Guess the boss didn' cross 'is T's this time. 'At's all right. I won' be a tick."

The nun scowled. "Come back when the proper arrangements have been made." Then, she snapped the sliding panel shut with a vengeance.

"A bum furnace can be a right killer, Mum!" I leaned close and shouted through the door. "Wouldn' wantcher fine ladies overcome by fumes now, would we?"

"Move along!" said the nun.

And that was the end of that.

Briefly, I thought of revealing my true identity and demanding entrée. A businessman of my stature might be able to bully his way past Sister Push-Off.

But that, of course, would mean forfeiting the element of surprise. It would give the women time to cover up whatever secrets waited inside. No, that wouldn't do.

Retreating across the street, I was uncertain what I should do next. I have not found myself at a loss many times in my life, and this was one of those times.

I could not follow Bess inside. I could not espy her purpose in visiting said institution, side by side with a woman she despised.

Because I, the great wandering hunter, master of camouflage, stalker of secrets, had not prepared for every eventuality that day.

 

*****

My wife and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan were inside the Female Protection Society for nearly two hours. I waited impatiently in my street sweeper guise, clearing soot from the cobblestones while watching the front door, wondering what in the world they were up to in there.

Had they come to volunteer, out of the goodness of their hearts, to help women in need? Had they come to make a donation to the shelter? Had they come to visit a friend or relative in dire circumstances? Or did their visit signify some other motivation altogether?

Whatever their reason for coming there, Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan finally emerged. Chattering amiably, they set off down the street. I followed as closely as I dared, listening hard for any revelatory snippets of conversation, any clue to the business they'd just conducted.

But they gave me nothing. Just the usual "And then Mrs. So-and-So said this," and "Then Mrs. Such-and-Such did that." The same old womanly cluckery, babbling on and on with no apparent point save the wasting of time. Only now I knew that the shallow surface of their idle twittering concealed depths that were unknown to me.

It was then I realized that if I wanted answers, if I wished to know their secret, I would have to delve beneath the surface in a way I had never done before. A way that would require incredible courage.

 

*****

A day later, my mistress, Lady Crenshaw, was having the time of her life. The business we were conducting in her bedroom, to my mind, was quite serious, but she simply couldn't stop laughing at my expense.

I tried my best to ignore her in spite of my compromised position. "Isn't there some way to loosen this...this..."

"Corset?" The mention of the word set off another gale of laughter from Lady Crenshaw. Clutching the back of a chair, she doubled over, eyes pinched shut as the laughter burst out of her. "You want me to loosen the corset you're wearing?"

As Lady Crenshaw continued her bout of hilarity, I looked down at the alien garment wrapped tightly about my midsection. I'd seen corsets on women many times, of course--I'm married, after all--but it was quite another thing to be stuffed inside one myself.

It was, in fact, quite worse than I'd imagined. "Just unhook the thing, will you? It's cutting off my..."

"Circulation?" Lady Crenshaw gave me a look with both eyebrows raised high, just before falling into yet another blast of howling laughter.

I found myself regretting my decision to approach her for help. Yet of all the women I knew, she was the only one I could imagine giving it in these circumstances. She was the only one I could ask without fear of being turned in to the authorities.

Even at that, this wasn't easy. I didn't relish becoming a laughing stock for my mistress. I wished her to see me as virile, not effeminate.

But this work was critical, and there was no other way. If I intended to infiltrate the Female Protection Society, I would have to appear to be a woman. My disguise would have to be good enough to fool the keen-eyed nun at the front door.

And I would have to be ready in less than two hours. I had first followed Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan to the Female Protection Society a day ago. If they returned there at the same time today, they would arrive in one hour and fifty minutes.

Time was swiftly running out. "I really must insist that we get on with this." I raised my voice to command her attention.

Lady Crenshaw's bright blue eyes lighted upon my lower body. "I must say, darling, it's easier to take you seriously..." Fresh laughter escaped between her words. "...when you aren't wearing women's bloomers."

I planted my hands on my hips and blew out my breath in utter frustration. I didn't have to look in the full-length dressing mirror to know I looked ridiculous.

For the first time in my life, I was wearing a corset and bloomers. A pair of medium-sized cantaloupes had been stuffed into the top of the corset, simulating breasts. My goatee had been shaved, my eyebrows plucked, and a layer of white powder applied to my face.

What in God's name was I doing? For a moment, as I stared at my image in the mirror, I entertained second thoughts. I could not escape the feeling that I had somehow gone astray, that I had stepped outside the bounds of rational behavior.

But the feeling didn't last. The clarity of my mission welled up within me. I knew with great conviction that what I did, I did for sound and irrefutable reasons.

Gathering up what dignity I had left, I straightened my back and spoke with all the male power at my command. "If you are quite done with your girlish silliness, can we get on with completing this regalia?"

Lady Crenshaw quivered, barely able to stifle her laughter. "Yes, yes, of course. Let us finish your kit."

Clearing my throat, I clasped my hands behind me and nodded. "Let's try on the dress, shall we? The blue one?"

"V-very good." Lady Crenshaw was still quivering. "And then the wig?"

I raised my bare chin, admiring the lines of my newly shorn face. "I should think so, yes."

"And then your elephant gun, please," said Lady Crenshaw.

"Elephant gun? Whatever for?"

"So you can blow my head off," said Lady Crenshaw, "as I am fairly certain that's the only way you'll keep me from laughing myself to death!" And then, with that, she dissolved once more into uproarious hysterics.

 

*****

I had a strange feeling as I strolled along the cobblestone street in my wig and dress. Not just the excitement of disguising oneself, the anticipation of infiltrating a new territory where one isn't supposed to be.

It was more than that somehow. An extra shiver that came with doing something forbidden, crossing a line I'd never crossed before. The thrill of breaking a taboo that was fundamental to the very concept of my self and the society in which I lived.

I was dressed as a woman, for heaven's sake. And so far, in the many blocks I'd walked from Lady Crenshaw's apartments, no one had seemed to twig to my deception.

Women had smiled politely and nodded as I passed. Men had doffed their hats and bowed. Some had cast frankly appraising looks in my direction.

It was, by far, one of the strangest experiences of my career as a wanderer. For someone who has traveled the globe, crossed into other dimensions, visited other planets, and jumped both backward and forward in time, that was saying something indeed.

One thought dominated my mind: I was dressed as a woman, and no one could tell the difference.

Except my companion, of course, but she'd helped me accomplish this masquerade. "I must say, you're cutting a fine figure, darling." Lady Crenshaw, who was walking beside me, elbowed my ribs gently. "You seem to have something of a natural talent for this."

I chose not to respond to her remark. Her quips could be an annoyance, thought I was glad for her company. Lady Crenshaw had asked to accompany me, saying she was worried I might hurt myself in this disguise. At first, I'd said no, but then had relented on condition of her restraining her laughter. So far, to my surprise, she'd managed to leave out the hilarity in favor of cool detachment.

Mostly. "You might just be making a more favorable impression than I am." Lady Crenshaw let out a little giggle. "After all, you got that strapping young attorney's calling card back there, didn't you?"

I sighed. "Simply the power of suggestion, darling. All we did was set the table, and he filled in the blanks."

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" She giggled again. "Cheeky!"

"I only hope I shall be so convincing in there." I gestured with one white-gloved hand at the familiar brick building we were approaching--the Female Protection Society. Three women walked in the front door as I watched, chattering among themselves--none of them my Bess.

"Just like hiding among the rhinos, dear," said Lady Crenshaw. "Act like you belong here, and hope no one notices the horn's a fake."

"Ever the font of wisdom." I smiled at a passing businessman in a black suit and bowler, praying he wouldn't recognize me. The both of us were members of the Wanderers' Club. I'd been known to beat him roundly at snooker and darts, and he'd been known to drink me under the table.

As we drew near the Female Protection Society, two women strode out of a side street ahead of us. Instantly, my heartbeat accelerated, and my palms dampened within my gloves.

"There they are." Until then, I hadn't been sure they'd return to the same place at the same time two days in a row. "Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. Right on time."

Lady Crenshaw quickened her pace. "Come along, dear."

I grabbed at the sleeve of her red velvet jacket. "No, wait! She might recognize me!"

"The power of context shall set you free. She would never expect to see you here and thus." Lady Crenshaw tossed her head and fluttered her hands. "But if it makes you feel better, I will do the talking."

The shin-high lace-up black boots I wore clattered on the cobblestones. "Slow down! This petticoat is bunching up between my legs."

"The things you say, darling." Lady Crenshaw turned and grabbed my elbow. "I do believe you are positively one of our foremost Romantics."

 

*****

Lady Crenshaw and I caught up with Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan just as the panel in the door was sliding open. The nun's familiar gray eyes peered out, darting from one to the other of the four of us in quick succession.

Then snapping back to fix on me. And linger there as my heart thundered at the prospect of being found out.

Just then, Bess cleared her throat and spoke. "We've come for the ceremony, Sister. May we enter?"

The nun's eyes held mine a moment longer, then shifted to Bess. "Has someone told you that patience is a sin?"

Bess shook her head. "I hadn't heard that, Sister."

"Because it is a virtue," said the nun, and then the panel in the door snapped shut. "You'd do well to practice it."

For a moment, I feared she might not admit us...but the door lock cracked open, and the door swung inward.

Bess entered first, nodding to the nun as she passed. Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan did the same, and Lady Crenshaw crossed the threshold behind her.

I half expected to be barred from entry, so it came as no surprise when the nun caught my elbow in her iron grip. She frowned up at me with a searching gaze of such intensity, I could have sworn I felt the heat of it stinging my face.

I held my tongue, lest my voice--which was familiar to her--give me away. Disguising it was the one thing we hadn't practiced...but if the nun asked me a direct question, I would have to improvise.

Lady Crenshaw chose that moment to intervene. "You see it, too, don't you, Sister?" Interposing herself between me and the nun, she hopped up on her toes and stared at my face. "You're not the first to notice her uncanny resemblance to the Virgin Mary."

"No, no, no." The nun shook my arm. "It's something else entirely."

I tensed, preparing to make a fight of it. Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan had already disappeared down the hallway. Perhaps, if I knocked the nun unconscious, I could yet follow my wife and ascertain her secret.

Fortunately, I was spared the trouble. "It's just...you're so very tall." The nun smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You remind me of my mother."

Relieved, I smiled and shrugged. The nun gave my elbow one last squeeze before releasing her grip.

"People thought she was an awful woman," said the nun. "But she wasn't at all what they expected."

"How unlike Henrietta here," said Lady Crenshaw as she drew me away. "She is exactly what you'd expect her to be."

 

*****

Lady Crenshaw and I hurried down the plastered hallway in the direction Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan had gone. I'd lost sight of the both of them, though I suspected Lady Crenshaw had some idea of where they'd gone.

We passed door after door along the hall, many of them closed. Open doorways revealed tiny, candlelit rooms, little more than convent-style cells, each with one bed, one chair, and one woman. The women, glancing up as we rushed past, looked utterly lost and forlorn. Were they the victims of cruel circumstance, cruel men, or their own cruel natures? I had no way of knowing.

The hall hooked right at its far end, and Lady Crenshaw led me around the corner. More doors lined this leg, all of them closed but for one which was in the process of falling shut. Lady Crenshaw bolted ahead, moving remarkably fast for all the crinoline piled around her legs, and caught the door before it could meet the jamb.

Holding it open, she made a little bow and waved for me to enter. "After you, milady."

"Jolly good." I headed for the reddish light streaming out of the opening. "Bit of a role reversal, wouldn't you say?"

"Not if you judge a book by its cover," said Lady Crenshaw.

 

*****

The red light was pouring up from below, from a spiral stone staircase descending into the earth. I hesitated at the top, wondering what awaited us at the bottom...and then I started down. Lady Crenshaw followed behind me.

The smell of incense wafted up as I hobbled down the steps, clumsy in the high heels of the boots I was wearing. I kept one hand on the iron railing along the stone wall at all times, bracing myself in case my balance faltered.

It turned out to be a long way down. I counted twenty steps, then thirty, then forty, screwing ever downward into the underground. Always, the red light grew brighter, the incense stronger as we descended...and a clamor of voices rose to greet us, the sound of a crowd. Strange music also swirled up from below, a swell of skirling pipes and fiddles and instruments I couldn't identify.

By the time we reached the bottom, I'd counted ninety-nine steps. Thus ensconced in the bowels of the earth, I stepped forward, casting my eyes over the startling scene before me.

How many times had I set foot in utterly strange settings far removed from everything I knew and held dear? How many times had my heart shuddered in my chest as I gazed upon a bizarre tableau that cast a queer new light on all my assumptions about the universe?

Yet here I was again.

Lady Crenshaw and I stood on an elevated rim at the edge of a vast cavern hewn from the rock. The bowl-like floor of the cavern was filled with an enormous crowd of people, stretching from wall to wall.

All of them, from what I could see, were women...women of all shapes and sizes and colors and nationalities. Women dressed in every style of feminine garb I could imagine, from the corseted dresses of London and Western Europe to the sarongs of India, from the kimonos of Japan to the fur coats of the Eskimos, from the bowlers and serapes of South America to the buckskins and feathers of the American Indians. It was a veritable international army of women, all of them suffused with the crimson light that had drawn us from above.

I could not hope to count them all in that moment, but I estimated that there were thousands, tens of thousands, all encircling a distant dais in the center of the cavern. All watching a single figure on that dais, a woman, all listening to her voice as it echoed throughout the vast space.

At first I thought she might be Countess Calypso, but no. I couldn't be sure if she was anyone I'd ever known. I couldn't understand a word she said, either. She was speaking some kind of foreign language, one I didn't recognize. That alone amazed me, because I'd thought I'd known every language on Earth.

Not that the women in the cavern seemed to have any trouble understanding. As the woman on the dais shouted rapid-fire jumbles of alien words, the crowd around her clapped and cheered and shouted back at her using the same language.

Bess was no exception. I saw her up ahead at the edge of the crowd, alongside Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. As I watched, Bess clapped her hands overhead and called out in response to what the woman on the dais was saying. I shuddered, unaccustomed to hearing the words of an alien language emerging from my own dear wife's ruby lips.

I turned to Lady Crenshaw at my side and leaned close, speaking into her ear. "What are they saying? I don't understand a word of it."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Lady Crenshaw raised one eyebrow and looked at me with a considering gaze. After a moment, she seemed to come to a decision, and her expression softened. "Lingua femme, we call it. The language of women. A way for women to communicate no matter where they come from or what the dominant language of their homeland might be."

I scowled at her, taking it all in. "This lingua femme...you've known of it all along?"

Her smirk had a trace of playfulness around the edges. "Among other things, darling."

My mind was working overtime as things started falling into place. I was afraid to ask the next question that occurred to me, afraid to hear the answer from her lips. "Undine." A bitter chill pervaded my body. Cold sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and down my back between the corset and my skin. "Have you been to this place before?"

Lady Crenshaw giggled. "Now, darling." She hooked her arm around my elbow and led me toward the crowd. "How many times have I told you about asking questions when you already know what the answers will be?"

 

*****

I did not resist as Lady Crenshaw pulled me forward. I was, of course, concerned that Bess would find me out, but a part of me actually hoped that she would. I felt in need of another ally against this army; Bess might be a part of it, but I still held out hope that she would take my side when my true identity was exposed.

As we drew near to Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan, the speaker on the central dais began to sing an eerie, keening song. The strange music that had been playing through the cavern rose in pitch and tempo to match her, and the army of women sang along.

As the priestess on the dais (for that was what she seemed to me, a priestess invoking an ancient rite) raised up her arms, so did every woman in the cavern except for Lady Crenshaw. The singing grew higher and faster with each passing second.

"What on Earth are they doing?" I had to shout for Lady Crenshaw to hear me. "Some kind of incantation?"

Lady Crenshaw didn't answer. As we reached the crowd, she too raised her arms and sang along with the priestess.

The red light in the cavern pulsated like pumping blood, growing alternately brighter and darker. Above the priestess, the air swirled with thickening pink mist.

"Undine!" I shook her by the shoulder. "What's happening?" But she ignored me.

Suddenly, the swirling mist above the priestess compressed, snapping into a solid form. It was a form I knew well, one that had been foremost in my mind since the day I'd caught my wife coming home late from the market.

It was the same elongated eyeball mounted inside a pyramid-shaped Egyptian symbol as the one that had hung from the silver pendant Bess had tried to conceal. Instead of silver, it looked as if it had been shaped from rippling red plasma, coursing with crackling tongues of energy.

And as I watched, I saw it blink. A lid of scarlet flame swept down and back up within the triangle.

It was then I realized, with a sickening lurch, that this eye belonged to something alive. Something that was gazing down at us all from somewhere else.

Something, I could have sworn, that possessed an intelligence most malevolent.

Why weren't the women in the least bit alarmed? Was I the only one in this vast underground vault who perceived the potential for danger?

"Undine!" With increased urgency, I grabbed Lady Crenshaw's arms and shook her hard. "I need you!"

It was enough to draw her attention and make her stop singing. "Whatever for?"

Suddenly, a great shrieking cry emanated from the hovering eyeball, so loud and so shrill it set my teeth on edge. Another followed, even louder, even shriller.

The piercing shrieks sent me reeling in a circle with hands clapped over my ears. "God save us!" I saw my wife turn and frown as I cried out, doubled over in pain. "What's happening?"

Lady Crenshaw crouched in front of me and took my head in her hands. "Quid pro quo, darling."

I gazed at her through tear-filled eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a very lucky boy, Algie," said Lady Crenshaw. "You get to witness the start of a new era."

 

*****

The fiery eyeball swiveled in its pyramid socket, and the red light in the cavern pulsated faster. The army of women from all corners of the globe danced with increasing abandon, wailing an otherworldly song in twisted counterpoint with the eyeball's ear-splitting shrieks.

Only Lady Crenshaw and I remained still at the fringe of the frenzy...and Bess, too, who was suddenly quite interested in watching us both.

"You should be happy for us." Lady Crenshaw smiled. She still held my head in her hands. "We are free at last."

I felt dizzy. Was it the shrieking, the incense, the pulsating light? "Free of what, exactly?"

"Think for a moment," said Lady Crenshaw. "If you were truly a woman, what one thing would you most desire to rid yourself of? What one part of your life would make it least worth living?"

"Corsets?" I was having trouble organizing my thoughts. "High heels?"

Lady Crenshaw shook her head. "One great burden has darkened the lives of women since the beginning of time, shadowing our every moment of existence." She leaned close and kissed me on the forehead. "The pain of childbirth, of course."

The shrieking rose in intensity. The red light flashed faster, ever faster, until it created a strobing effect.

Lady Crenshaw's face flickered like something out of a nightmare. "We have only ever had two options: bear the pain for the good of the human race or forego the pain and stop producing children.

"But now, we have negotiated a third option." Lady Crenshaw smiled. "We have introduced a third category of 'parent' who will change the equation."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bess lean down to stare at me, her image stuttering in the strobing red light. She cocked her head to one side, and her frown deepened with fascination.

Lady Crenshaw kept my own head fastened between her hands as she spun out her tale. "Think of them as gods, darling, from elsewhere. A level up and over, if you will." Her eyes widened with feverish enthusiasm. "Becoming as one with us, they will infuse our systems with divine energies. Thus united, we shall possess the power to remove the agony from the childbirth process.

"We will still feign it for the benefit of your kind, of course." A look of disdain flickered across her face. "Mustn't let the men know our suffering has diminished. Not that keeping you in the dark is much of a challenge, is it?" Her laughter was cruel. "For all your vaunted skill as a wanderer and puzzleventurer, have you ever guessed that the members of the 'fair sex' are the true masters of the world?"

More of her cruel laughter rained down upon me. As I stared at her, I wondered if she'd been like this the whole time I'd been with her. If she'd always nursed this secret loathing even as the two of us had nurtured our covert romance. Had she ever felt love toward me?

Perhaps I could still appeal to her sense of reason. "Bonding yourself to these creatures from beyond. What's to stop them from assuming complete control of you?"

"We have a deal." Lady Crenshaw nodded smugly.

"What if this foothold is the precursor to a full invasion? What if you're opening the door to the end of the world?"

Lady Crenshaw's eyes narrowed. "It will be worth it."

The shrieking of the god-thing and the women continued to grow louder. The strobing of the red light picked up speed. If the deal were about to be consummated, I had a sense my time to thwart it was swiftly expiring.

I decided to try one last appeal. Pulling my head free of Lady Crenshaw's hands, I grabbed her wrists and locked them in an iron grip. "What about the children, damn you? Have you stopped to think how this will affect them?"

Lady Crenshaw shrugged. "There may be added...permutations. A darkness, I'm told. A slight shadow on the souls of future generations.

"But honestly, what can it hurt? If anything, it may strengthen our descendants for the challenges of the 20^th Century. We can hardly do worse than the 19^th, can we?"

I felt a sudden surge of clarity and self-righteous rage. "What you're proposing is unnatural." I shook her by the wrists in the strobing light, giving rein to my indignation and horror. "We must call a halt to this wicked transaction!"

Just then, a single hand fluttered down like an autumn leaf and landed on my forearm. Shooting a glance in the direction from whence it had come, I saw my wife looking back at me.

The expression on her face was one I had not seen there before: deep sadness entwined with unyielding firmness like ivy on a wall. The aspect that made the strongest impression, however, was what was missing. Perhaps it was the flickering of the red light distorting her features, concealing what I thought should be there...but I could see no trace of it.

No trace of affection in her gaze when she looked at me. Had it ever been there at all, in all the days and nights I'd known her? Thinking back, I couldn't be sure.

Or had I willed it there, as I'd willed all good things in my life into being? As she and these thousands upon thousands of women had willed a new destiny for their sex?

Bess gazed at me in my wig and makeup, my dress and corset and bloomers, and squeezed my arm. I would have liked to have seen a smile on her face, but she gave me none of that. Recognition only, and resignation, and resolution.

And when she spoke, the words were all the more terrible for the absolute lack of regret in her voice.

"It's already done, my Algernon," said Bess as the shrieking and strobing and dancing reached a frantic crescendo around us. "Your own child in my womb is among the first fruits of this new arrangement."

 

*****

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."

*****

 

Special Preview: Earthshaker

Gaia Charmer, World Warrior Book 1

By Robert T. Jeschonek

Now On Sale

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.

 

*****

 

Chapter 2

 

One great night's sleep later, and sure enough, the thrill was gone. Just like I'd expected, but not because I wanted it that way. Believe me, I'd rather have smooth sailing all the time, swear to God...but I don't have the choice. It's just how I am.

"Bipolar," they call it. To me, it's just business as usual.

By the time I walked in the front door of the agency, I felt like I wanted to kill myself. Put myself in a coma, at least.

I slammed the door behind me and knocked over the umbrella stand with my shin--and for what? For absolutely no good reason.

I owned the agency, for crying out loud. Cruel World Travel was all mine, free and clear; I was working for no one but myself. Business was good; it was nine in the morning, and there were already customers in the place. Plus which, my partner, Duke, was doing all the work. Truth was, he almost always did all the work, and he did it without complaining.

So what was my damn excuse? Why couldn't I just be happy and satisfied for more than a few hours at a time?

Of course, thinking these thoughts only brought me down more. Which was why I hung up the ringing phone on my desk instead of answering it. Correction, I picked up the receiver and slammed it down like a blacksmith's hammer on a horseshoe.

And that, my friends, is what finally got Duke's attention.

Turning his chair around from the computer screen where he was huddled with two young female customers, Duke chuckled. "Looks like somebody needs her coffee."

"Mind your own business." I dropped down hard into the chair behind my desk, folded my arms on the blotter, and laid my head on them. Shut my eyes like a schoolkid taking heat in the classroom. I just wanted to tune everything out.

Not that Duke would let that stop him. "You, Earth Angel, are the only business I have." I heard him get up from his chair and stroll across the office. He poured coffee in a mug and headed my way. "Now tell me why you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"I just wanna be left alone," I told him.

"If so, then why'd you come in here today?" Duke chuckled and put the mug down on the desk in front of me. "Now tell me, satin doll. What happened last night?"

A sniff or two of that steaming coffee was enough to convince me I should give it a try. Lifting my head, I reached for the mug. "Caught a serial killer."

"Well, congratulations!" Duke sat on the edge of the desk and slapped his knee. "That's fantastic! How could you possibly be in a bad mood after that?"

Duke knew damn well I didn't need a reason for a mood; he knew me better than anyone, even my best friend, Aggie Regal. This was his way of drawing me out, which of course annoyed the hell out of me...but also actually made me feel a tiny bit better. Duke had a way of doing that, with me and everyone else. His beautiful soul shone through; even its strange container couldn't obscure it. Even his body that looked human but wasn't.

"Okay, listen." Duke leaned down and smiled, dark eyes twinkling. His light brown skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his long oval face glowed with affection. "How about if you drink that coffee and take a little time to work out the kinks? Then you can help me put the finishing touches on Minthe and Nephelae's itinerary."

Suddenly, I sat straighter in my chair. Damned if he didn't know exactly how to get my attention. "Minthe and Nephelae?" My eyes shot to the two young ladies at the computer where Duke had been working. They both smiled and waved...one platinum blonde with light blue highlights, one brunette with deep green highlights, both strikingly beautiful. They looked as if they weren't a day over twenty-one.

Which was all the more amazing if you knew neither one of them was a day under three thousand years old.

"Good morning." I nodded to them both and managed a faint smile. I've always done my best to show respect to their kind; after all, they and others like them make up over half of my annual sales at Cruel World. They're a specialty of mine, you might say.

Creatures connected to the Earth in extraordinary ways. Nymphs and gnomes and all the host of not-so-mythic life-forms with special abilities. I cater to them, because they're some of my best customers.

Also because I'm one of them myself.

"So what do you say?" Duke raised his eyebrows, and the smooth skin of his high forehead rippled like a sweet roll. "Does that sound like a plan you can live with?"

His soothing voice and good humor got to me like always. I was still in "sinking fast" mode, but my rate of descent leveled off. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" I said it, but I didn't mean it. "You're fired."

"You fire me twice a day," said Duke. "At least."

"Maybe we need to have a talk about the meaning of the word 'fired.'" I picked up the mug and sipped some coffee. "It doesn't mean 'keep coming to work and bothering me."

"I'm sorry." Duke batted his eyes innocently. "Did you just say something?"

I sighed disgustedly and looked past him to Minthe and Nephelae, who were still sitting around the computer. "So where are you headed, ladies?"

Minthe was the brunette with the green highlights. "The Peruvian Andes."

"Llactapata and Cota Coca," said Nephelae, the platinum blonde with light blue highlights. "Lost cities of the Inca."

"Not so lost anymore." Minthe smiled and shrugged. "But still exciting to us."

I nodded. Nymphs like Minthe and Nephelae are often tied to one place or phenomenon or plant. In Minthe's case, it was mint, believe it or not; with Nephelae, it was certain types of clouds. It can be tough for beings like them to travel, or at least to control where they go.

But there are ways for them to break away, and I know them well. It's why I get so much of their business...because they spend their lives tied down, longing to see the world, and I make it happen. Duke and I know all the tricks.

Stuck in a magic spring in Greece or a cursed bower in Provence? Always dreamed of getting wild at Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street or riding the Maid of the Mist through Niagara Falls? Call our toll free number or shoot us an e-mail, and we'll rock your world.

We'll feel good doing it, too. Like I said, I'm one of them myself. I must be, considering what I can do. So it's like I'm helping out the home team.

And they keep coming back for more.

"We loved Rio." Nephelae sighed and rolled her eyes with delight.

"The African safari was the best, I think," said Minthe. "I'll never forget the view from Victoria Falls."

"I'm glad you liked the trips. I'm glad we could help." As I said it, I felt my dark mood lighten just a little. Helping the nymphs keeps me going; that and my hobby, which is using my unique skills to hunt down killers.

If I couldn't travel beyond a cove or grove or pool, I know how I'd feel if someone helped me get to Paris or the Taj Mahal. Fortunately, I'm not stuck in one place in spite of my nymphiness. Duke's theory is that I'm an oread, a land-based nymph linked to mountains and valleys--but apparently, I'm a moveable oread. That's a good thing, because I think I'd totally lose my mind if I were stuck in one place for life. I like having my home base in a small town, but I also like being able to get away whenever I want to.

So I really identify with my special customers, and I can tell they like me, too. We share a bond I just don't have with other people. They're important to me, right up there with Duke; in fact, my best friend Aggie is one of them.

"Well now." Duke slid off the desk and clapped his hands together. "Are you sufficiently caffeinated, my dear? Would you care to help with these young ladies' itinerary?"

I took a long swallow of the warm, mellow coffee. (Did I mention Duke makes the best coffee on the planet?) I hated to admit it, but I was actually feeling better. Almost smiled but didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Nag nag nag." I lowered my voice for his benefit. "Why can't you let me wallow in my misery?"

Duke spoke softly, too. "Because this is a business, and I'd rather if you don't drive away all the customers." He gave me his most withering look, but I knew it was a put-on. The old man didn't have it in him to be pissed at me.

I drained the cup of coffee and plunked it on the desk. "Big man, telling me how to run my business."

"Good luck finding someone else who can do it better." Duke chuckled and ran a hand over his wavy hair, dyed shoe-polish black except for his sideburns, which were gray. Being who and what he was, he could've looked any age he liked, but he chose to be an old man. He looked like he was in his mid-70s, near the end of his life. He looked exactly the way he had near the end of his first life, back in the day. His real life. Back before he became what he is now, which isn't the same, isn't even human.

"You win this time," I said, though the truth was, Duke won every time. "Now get outta my way, Edward." With that, I pushed out of my chair and brushed past him.

"All right, ladies." I managed a grin as I thought about my last jab; Duke hated when I called him "Edward." Maybe today would turn out all right, after all. "Who wants to hear about a Peruvian Incan city that isn't on any maps?"

Minthe beamed like a floodlight. "Really?"

"You know of one?" Nephelae was breathless.

"But of course." I gave my hand a casual toss. "You won't find reference to it anywhere...but Cruel World Travel will set you up." It was true. Another of my special skills; I know places no one else alive in the world has ever seen or heard of.

Just as I settled into a chair between Minthe and Nephelae, I heard the front door's ring tone...a little ditty Duke was fond of called "Caravan." We'd set it to play every time someone opened the door; it sure beat the little bell every other business in North America used.

I didn't bother to turn around. Figured we had another customer and Duke could take care of them. But then I heard the familiar boots on the hardwood. Even before Duke said a word, I knew who it was.

"Good morning, Sheriff Briar." Duke sounded pleased; he liked the Sheriff a lot. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you," said Briar. "I just need to talk to Gaia. I hate to interrupt..."

"You can't fool me, Dale." I smirked as I turned to face him. "Interrupting me is how you get your rocks off." It was a joke, because Dale Briar was a rockhound on the side--a rock collector slash prospector slash amateur gemologist.

But Briar wasn't in the mood for jokes. "This is pretty important, Gaia." He winced and combed his fingers through his thick brown hair. He looked uncomfortable.

"You need to wrap up Ray Long?" I figured there must be loose ends from the killer I'd turned over the night before. Wouldn't be the first time. "Can it wait like an hour or so? I'm with customers."

Briar shook his head and sighed. "Can't wait, Gaia. It's about Aggie."

Suddenly, I shot straight into red alert mode. I got up and walked away from Minthe and Nephelae without a word or a sideways glance.

"When was the last time you saw her?" said Briar. His expression was frighteningly grim.

I didn't want to answer. I was afraid of what he might say next. "Yesterday morning. Around eight."

"Okay." Briar fidgeted with a ring on his right pinky, twisting it back and forth. The stone was a super-rare red tiger's eye I'd found for him with my talents. Okay, I'd made it for him. He'd tumbled, cut, and set it in gold like a pro. "I'll tell you flat out, Gaia. Aggie's missing, and you were the last to see her."

"Missing?" The word sounded unreal as I said it.

"She didn't show up for work today," said Briar. "Didn't call in, either. No one's seen or heard from her since...well, since you saw her yesterday morning."

"That's over twenty-four hours." My heart pounded like a heavy metal drum solo. I felt flushed and chilled at the same time. Forget red alert; I was at Defcon Five and climbing.

"Does she have any family?" Briar raised his shaggy brows hopefully. "Maybe there was an emergency and she had to drop everything."

"No blood relations," I said. "Aggie's like me."

Briar nodded. He didn't know everything about my world, but he knew enough to get the picture. He'd seen me in action more than a few times. "Can she take care of herself like you?"

I shook my head. Aggie didn't have my kind of abilities, and she wasn't much of a fighter.

"Then this just became my top priority." Briar turned and reached for the doorknob.

I beat him to it. He had to jump back to avoid getting hit in the face with the door as I flung it open.

Without a word to him or anyone, I charged out into the parking lot toward my black hybrid Toyota Highlander SUV. I was behind the wheel before Briar even got the door of his cop cruiser open.

And then I was gone, whipping out of the parking lot like I'd just robbed a bank. Briar chasing me with lights and siren blazing, barely keeping up.

Aggie. My breath caught in my throat as I raced toward her apartment. As I felt my mood shift into a third gear, one that had nothing to do with smooth sailing or sinking fast. One in which everything that slowed me down or distracted me peeled away, leaving nothing but a knifepoint of crystal clear focus and white hot intensity. Willingness to do terrible things. To do anything it took. Apocalypse in the chamber, hammer cocked, finger on the trigger.

For this mood, I didn't have a clever nickname.

 

*****

 

What happens next? Find out in Earthshaker, now on sale!

*****

About the Author

Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. DC Comics, Simon & Schuster, and DAW have published his work. According to Hugo and Nebula Award winner Mike Resnick, Robert "is a towering talent." Robert was nominated for the British Fantasy Award for his story, "Fear of Rain." His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, was named one of Booklist’s Top Ten First Novels for Youth. Visit him online at www.thefictioneer.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter as @TheFictioneer.

 

*****

 

About the Book

Blazing Bodices originally appeared as part of The Chain Story online project.

 

Reginald Asteroth-Phipps is copyright © 2010 Nathan Long, used with permission. For more work by the author, visit http://sabrepunk.com/

 

Doctor Yarrow is copyright © 2010 Robert E. Vardeman, used with permission. For more work by the author, visit http://www.cenotaphroad.com/

 

Jack Ravensthorpe is copyright © 2010 Michael A. Stackpole, used with permission. For more work by the author, visit http://www.stormwolf.com/store/

 

 *****

 

E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek

Fantasy

6 Fantasy Stories

6 More Fantasy Stories

Blazing Bodices

Earthshaker – an urban fantasy novel

Girl Meets Mind Reader

Groupie Everlasting

Rose Head

The Genie's Secret

The Return of Alice

The Sword That Spoke

 

Horror

Bloodliner – a novel

Diary of a Maggot

Dionysus Dying

Fear of Rain

Road Rage

 

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Dick by Law – a novel

 

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Getting Higher – a novel

 

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The First Detect-Eve

The Foolproof Cure for Cancer

The Other Waiter

Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?

 

Poetry

Flight of Ideas

 

Science Fiction

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6 Scifi Stories Book 3

Beware the Black Battlenaut

Give The Hippo What He Wants

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Lenin of the Stars

Messiah 2.0

My Cannibal Lover

Off The Face Of The Earth

One Awake In All The World

Playing Doctor

Serial Killer vs. E-Merica

Something Borrowed, Something Doomed

Star Sex

Teacher of the Century

The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe

The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake

The Shrooms of Benares

Universal Language – a novel

 

Superheroes

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7 Comic Book Scripts

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A Matter of Size (mature readers)

Forced Retirement (Forced Heroics Book 1)

Forced Betrayal (Forced Heroics Book 2)

Forced Partnership (Forced Heroics Book 3)

Heroes of Global Warming

The Dream Lord Awakens (graphic novel script)

The Masked Family – a novel

The Wife Who Never Was

 

Thrillers

Backtracker – a novel

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The Trek It! Series

Trek This!

Trek Off!

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Trek Script!

Trek Script 2

Trek Novel!

Trek You!

Trek It!

 

Young Readers

Dolphin Knight – a novel

Lump

Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf

Tommy Puke and the World's Grossest Grown-Up

 

*****

 

Now on Sale from Robert T. Jeschonek

A Young Adult Fantasy Novel That Really Rocks!

One of Booklist's Top Ten First Novels for Youth

 

Being trapped in a book can be a nightmare—just ask Idea Deity. He’s convinced that he exists only in the pages of a novel written by a malevolent author . . . and that he will die in Chapter 64. Meanwhile, Reacher Mirage, lead singer of the secret rock band Youforia, can’t figure out who’s posting information about him and his band online that only he should know. Someone seems to be pulling the strings of both teens’ lives . . . and they’re not too happy about it. With Youforia about to be exposed in a national magazine and Chapter 64 bearing down like a speeding freight train, time is running out. Will Idea and Reacher be able to join forces and take control of their own lives before it’s too late?

 

School of Rock meets Alice in Wonderland in this fast-paced, completely unpredictable novel of alternate realities, time travel, and rock ‘n’ roll. If your favorite band does not exist . . . do you?

 

"Overall, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist is a wacky and enjoyable trip...full of intriguing, imaginative concepts that keep a reader hooked." –Thom Dunn, The Daily Genoshan

 

"This first novel has all the look of a cult fave: baffling to many, an anthem for a few, and unlike anything else out there." –Ian Chipman, Booklist Starred Review

 

"Chaos theory meets rock 'n' roll in adult author Jeschonek's ambitious, reality-bending YA debut." "...this proudly surreal piece of metafiction could develop a cult following..."–Publishers Weekly

 

"Reading this reminded me of authors like Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman…" –BiblioJunkies

 

Now Available from Graphia Books!

Order now from your favorite bookseller.

 

*****

 

BLAZING BODICES

 

Copyright © 2012 by Robert T. Jeschonek

www.thefictioneer.com

Cover Art Copyright © 2012 by Ben Baldwin

www.benbaldwin.co.uk

 

Published in May 2012 by Pie Press by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.

 

Originally appeared online as part of The Chain Story, 2011.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

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