#FridayFlash - Buying Time

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Image by iotdfi.

Walther stood outside the door of Madame Toubert's Emporium, a pawn shop in the depths of the Underground City. From the street, the shop looked like any other; three golden balls hung above the door, and both treasures and trash filled the windows. He shivered and pushed open the door.

A bell jangled, disturbing the funereal atmosphere of the shop. An antique calendar hanging opposite the door proclaimed it to be Monday 19th, though it neglected to mention the month. An old woman dozed behind the counter, and a fat ginger cat beside the till threw him a dirty look. He ignored them both and made his way towards the black door in the far wall. The paint peeled from the wood in elegant curls, and he sought a clear patch of door. He knocked, two quick, sharp knocks followed by two raps. The door swung inward, and a young woman peered out of the shadows within, her yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to see, ahem, Count Clock." Walther lowered his voice at the mention of the name, darting glances over his shoulder. The young woman rolled her eyes and gestured for him to step forward.

The door closed behind him, and a cold hand found his in the darkness. Walther guessed it was the young woman, and she led him along a corridor. He bumped into another door at the other end, and she shoved him through the next doorway into a dimly lit room.

Tall candelabras were spaced around the room, their candles burning blue. A silver carriage clock sat on a small mahogany table at the far end of the room. Two men in black frock coats stood either side, hands clasped before them, heads bowed as if in prayer. Reverance hung heavy in the air, and a bead of sweat burst forth at Walther's temple. Perhaps his request wouldn't be granted - or worse, they would ask too much in return.

Another young woman, similar to the first but with electric blue eyes instead of yellow, appeared at his elbow.

"You are here to see Count Clock." She didn't ask, merely stated it.

"That's right."

"It is almost the hour. Be patient, and he will appear."

Walther realised the two men had broken their stances and now stared at him. He knew the Tempus brothers by their reputation alone, and he knew they came armed with knives and truncheons. Still, it wasn't the brothers that he feared. The two young women were clearly Fey, and if they wished it, he wouldn't leave this room alive. Worse still was the Count himself.

The clock chimed the hour, and two small doors at the top of the clock opened. Two silver figures slid out onto a platform, performing an elaborate dance of stilted clockwork moves. Another bead of sweat broke out, this time at the back of Walther's neck. It slipped down beneath his collar, tracing an icy path down his back.

"It would appear we have a petitioner!" A tiny voice rang out in the room, and Walther realised the taller of the two figures on the clock was now pointing at him. He made a small bow in reply.

"And what can we do for you?" The figure beckoned him closer. Walther hesitated, until the woman with electric blue eyes shoved him forwards. He stumbled towards the clock, and lowered himself onto one knee to put himself at eye level with the Count.

"I need more time."

"Don't we all?"

"Sssh, dear. What do you need more time for?" The shorter figure, a woman in an elaborate ballgown, spoke this time.

"My daughter is to be married, and I want to give her a good dowry, but I'm a little short. I only need another couple of weeks to give me time to earn the money to give her."

"How sweet!" exclaimed the Countess.

"Why did you not earn this money sooner?" asked the Count, ignoring his wife.

"I did, sir, but my son fell ill, and I had to pay for medicine. I do not earn enough to make any real savings, sir." Walther bit his lip to stifle a sob.

"What do you do, dear?" asked the Countess.

"I'm a shoemaker, ma'am."

"A noble trade indeed!" said the Countess, clasping her hands together. At her side, the Count rolled his tiny silver eyes.

"I am not sure..." said the Count. Walther's stomach lurched.

"A word, dear?" The Countess pulled the Count to one side. Walther could not hear their low voices, but he marvelled at the craftsmanship of the silver figures as they gesticulated wildly. A few moments passed, and the Count returned to the front of the platform.

"It would appear, Mr Peckwith, that my wife has taken a shine to you and your petition. I will grant you the two weeks that you request as extra time. In return, I would like you to make a pair of shoes fit for a Countess."

Walther froze. He hadn't expected the Count to agree - but he hadn't given much of a thought to what he might be asked to supply.

"For your wife?"

"Yes. When your two weeks are over, one of my associates will bring her to you for measurements."

The clock chimed and the two figures withdrew inside their respective doors. The Tempus brothers snorted, and Walther realised they'd been holding their breath. The blue-eyed Fey slipped a token into his hand, and pulled him towards the door. The yellow-eyed woman waited in the corridor, and led him back towards the pawn shop.

"You get what you wanted?" she asked as she opened the door into the shop.

Walther nodded.

"Make the most of it - and whatever they asked for, get it right."

The door closed behind him, and he struggled to adjust to the lights of the shop. He glanced at the calendar on his way out.

It now read Monday 5th.

This is another story set in my Underground City. If you'd like to read more stories in this setting, you can find them here.

#FridayFlash - The Flee Market

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Ground smog swirled around the feet of the traders as they set up their stalls. A clock chimed in the cavern of the marketplace to announce the early hour. Humans and trolls lurched back and forth, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they laid out their wares on grubby cloths.

Vyolet lurked in the shadows at the edge of the vault. The Flee Market was a tempting target for a Shadowkin, particularly at four in the morning. The so-called militia, little more than local thugs collecting protection money from the traders, wouldn't arrive until five, and the traders were too distracted by setting up to notice a disappearing bread roll or hunk of cheese. The militia would light the lamps, making shadows scarce, but until then, Vyolet could come and go as she pleased.

Vyolet stole through the shadows in the arches leading down to the docks. Ferrymen carried crates up the steps from the canals, and a gaggle of fishwives trudged along the narrow quay behind them. Vyolet peered into the baskets they carried on their hips, but their treasure didn't interest her. It was mostly worthless detritus fetched by their husbands from the Distant Sea.

She passed an alchemist's stall, and frowned. He wore a pin in the lapel of his threadbare frock coat, and the insignia was that of the local DWS group - Down With Shadowkin. Vyolet fought the urge to tear the pin from his coat as she passed, but instead, she filched a small bag of sleeping sand from his table while he looked the other way. Few in the Underground City had any love for the Shadowkin, but without their abilities, the spy network that kept the City Above at bay couldn't operate.

If it wasn't for rogues like me... Vyolet began the thought, but she couldn't finish it. What was the use in being a rogue when she was forced to steal food from the market between jobs? Still, the Flee Market was a den of opportunity. Named for its status as a haven for those fleeing justice, the vast square, with its vaulted roof and bright green lanterns, was Vyolet's favourite place in the city.

Vyolet spotted a disenchanter across the aisle, and flattened herself against the wall beside his table. The shadow was narrow here, and she barely managed to squeeze herself into the blackened rectangle. She watched him remove the enchantments from cheap tourist wares, separating the imitation esoteric items from their magical sparks. The items ended up in a huge basket behind him, but the sparks went into neatly labelled bottles on the table. One of the items was a scarf, and Vyolet snagged it from the basket while the disenchanter busied himself with a wooden replica of the Abandoned Chapel. She tied it around her hair in the fashion of the worker women from the Trade District, but she knew her shifting skin colour and purple eyes would give her away as a Shadowkin.

Her stomach grumbled as Vyolet wandered among the stalls, sneaking from shadow to shadow, trying to spot a food stall. She passed stalls selling boots, fabric, magical equipment, broken furniture and even books, but no food. The clock chimed again to mark the quarter hour, and panic coloured Vyolet's hunger. She hadn't eaten since the day before, and she didn't have long before the militia arrived. They were all card carrying members of the DWS group, and would take great delight in ejecting her from the market - or worse, ejecting her soul from her body.

Vyolet passed under the vast clock, the only way to tell the time underground, and saw she had just five minutes until the militia arrived to patrol the market. She gazed across the sea of stalls and her heart leapt to see a baker reach his stall. He carried a large wicker basket on his back, while two goblins carried smaller ones behind him. She used the shadows between the cobbles of the floor to cross the open square in the centre of the market, and hid in the shadow cast by the awning of his stall. The goblins dumped their baskets and trudged off in the direction from which they had come, leaving the baker to set up alone.

Vyolet seized her chance and grabbed two fresh rolls while the baker laid out long plaited loaves. She got three yards away from the stall when a large hand landed on her shoulder. The chubby fingers forced her to turn around, and she looked up into the heavyset face of a militia runner. He wore the enchanted goggles that allowed him to see her, even in the shadows, and a lopsided leer that made her blood run cold.

"Thought you'd get away, did ya?" He leaned in towards her, and the smell of his breath turned her growling stomach.

Vyolet saw two more runners on the far side of the square. She twisted out of his grip and threw the rolls across the square, smacking two goblins in the back of the head. They turned on each other, and the runners busied themselves with breaking up the fight. Before the runner could raise the alarm, Vyolet dipped her hand into the pouch on her belt and withdrew a fistful of sleeping sand. She blew it into the runner's face, and melted into the shadow cast by his vast bulk as he fell to the ground.

Vyolet streaked across the market, dipping and weaving through the shadows cast by early shoppers. The distracted runners realised what had happened, and their shouts echoed between the stalls. She didn't dare stop to grab more food - escaping with her life seemed more important than her hunger.

She reached the docks and skipped across the canal in the shadows cast by the wall of the marketplace. As she fled into the sewers, she couldn't help thinking the market was well named after all.

Original image by Sankla1. Edits by me.

Announcement - New Book Coming!

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I think anyone who knows me knows that I have a bit of a thing about mummies. You can keep your vampires and werewolves, if there's a bandaged critter lurking somewhere - I can't actually get away from them, either. If I go to a museum, I'll always end up finding the mummies. I love them! I've posted a fair few mummy stories as part of my Friday Flash activity over the past few years, and now I'm pleased to say that I've managed to place a novella featuring mummies with a publisher!

The Necromancer's Apprentice is my retelling of the fabled Sorceror's Apprentice, only it replaces the sorceror with a necromancer, and the overly helpful brooms with blood-lusting mummies. It also features dog-headed men, a fight scene involving a scythe, and a pterodactyl. It's partly set in the Underground City which has appeared in a few of my Friday Flashes (click here if you want another look) and partly in the City Above, where the hapless apprentice ends up working in the House of the Long Dead. I'm not overly sure if it's horror, or dark fantasy, but I'm pitching it as somewhere between the two.

I'm really excited to announce that Dark Continents Publishing, who also published Nerine Dorman's Inkarna and Rab Swannock Fulton's Transformation, will be putting out The Necromancer's Apprentice through their Darkness and Dismay division. My ace new editor, Nerine Dorman, reckons I'm the twisted version of JK Rowling. I'll leave it up to you to decide if you agree when it comes out!

In the meantime, expect more Underground City stories, and definitely more mummies...

#FridayFlash - Frozen World

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Jyximus Faire trudged along the street, cursing the weather as the snow seeped through the holes in his ancient boots. He couldn't remember the winter ever lasting so long before. The Underground City escaped relatively unscathed, its crumbling tenements kept warm by the smog of industry, but the City Above lay smothered by a thick blanket of white. The City mages were working flat out to clear it, but for every snowfall they repelled, two more broke through their defences. It reinforced Jyx's desire to specialise in Elemental sorcery - after all, nature was clearly stronger than the alchemy of the mages.

The huge iron gates to the Academy loomed ahead of him. A coach careered past, sending a spray of slush in its wake. The wet snow caught Jyx across the back, the soaked fabric sticking his threadbare cloak to his shirt. A head poked out of the coach's window, and Jyx recognised one of the prefects. The older boy smirked, and disappeared out of sight into the gloom.

Jyx slipped between the gates after the coach and left the driveway to cut across the lawn. The snow was deeper than it was on the road, but at least he wouldn't get sprayed by passing coaches, and his feet were already frozen. A few more minutes wouldn't kill him.

The lamps of the Academy glowed in the distance, and Jyx forced himself onward. He stumbled through snow drifts on the lawn, watchful for the low iron fence that marked the edge of the Ornamental Garden. Within a few minutes that felt like hours, Jyx saw the fence, and hurried towards it. Doctor Ermes kept the snow at bay in her garden, and only a thin crust of frost coated the twisting paths. Jyx hopped over the fence and stamped the snow from his boots.

The garden hummed with the low vibration of the Doctor's magic, entwined with the natural energy of the plants and trees. Jyx loved the garden, and couldn't wait until next year when they'd begin to study specific Botanical magick. He'd already read all of the books the library had but there was nothing like actually practising it - especially with an expert like Doctor Ermes.

A stream wound its way through the garden as it flowed from a spring beneath the Academy in the west and into the canals in the east. Jyx normally arrived at the Academy by canal but with the water frozen solid, he'd had to travel on foot. A narrow bridge carried the path over the stream.

Halfway across the bridge, a strange noise caught Jyx's attention. It sounded as though someone were pounding on glass and shouting to be heard. He looked around, but the nearest building was the Academy, and it was too far away for him to hear any of its occupants.

The pounding got louder and on a whim, Jyx looked over the side of the bridge. He saw movement below the ice, and he leaned over the rail to peer closer. The shapes below the ice moved like people, sliding to and fro like a crowd in Monument Square, but the water wasn't deep enough to hold people. Jyx had heard of lakes beyond the City where the water stole the reflections of any who dared to look into it - had Doctor Ermes enchanted the stream to do the same to ensnare unwary students?

He frowned. Capturing reflections was only one step up from the nefarious Shadow magick, and while he longed to try both of them, it wasn't right that innocent people were walking around without their reflections, especially not if they were students. He looked at the Academy, and back at the frozen stream. He was already an hour late - pausing for another five minutes wouldn't make any difference.

Jyx looked around on the bridge, and spotted a small pebble tucked in a hollow near one of the posts holding up the rail. He picked it up, wincing at the cold stone against his frozen fingers, and leaned back over the rail. He remembered a spell he'd seen in a book about Water magick, and now seemed the best time to try it. Jyx stretched out a trembling forefinger and drew a sigil over the ice. The light trail left by his finger pulsed a deep blue that grew lighter by shades the longer he stared at it. Once the light trail turned white, Jyx hurled the stone at the ice.

The ice cracked and the light trail faded. Jyx scowled, annoyed that the sigil had failed. He looked about on the bridge for another projectile, but it seemed the pebble was the only available missile.

The ice groaned. Jyx watched as the shapes congregated around the tiny fracture. The crack widened as they pounded on the underside of the ice. The air filled with a hideous cackle, and Jyx realised the laughter came from the trapped reflections. The crack heaved open and a jagged talon poked upwards out of the ice.
Panic seized at Jyx and he fled from the bridge. He didn't feel the pain in his feet as he plunged through the garden and broke out into the kitchen garden near the east wing of the Academy. The voices of students heading for the main building drifted through the air, and he ran in their direction.

Jyx reached the Academy and raced up the steps to the main doors. The other latecomers slipped inside, glad of the warmth in the entrance hall, but Jyx paused on the threshold, listening hard. A shiver unconnected to the weather ran down his back as the faint echo of a cackle drifted on the breeze.

Jyx hurried inside, hoping that Doctor Ermes would never know.

* * *

Jyximus Faire is the protagonist of my work in progress, The Necromancer's Apprentice, and I thought you might appreciate an introduction to the world above my Underground City. The other City flashes can be found here.

#FridayFlash - The Unsaid Warning

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The young man shuffles into the work room wearing the familiar despondent look. He looks at the floor and fiddles with the cuffs of his frock coat. Delta looks him up and down while his attention is fixed on the rug. His fine clothes and tidy hair give him away as a visitor to the Underground City - it would take saving for several years before many of its inhabitants could even afford his boot laces.

"What can I do for you?" asks Delta, although she already knows why he is here. There is only one reason why anyone ever visits her.

"I was, er, told that you, ah, have abilities," replies the man. He will not meet her gaze, though she cannot decide if this is through embarrassment or shame.

"I do indeed, but it depends which of them you want. What brought you down to Limestone Alley?"

The young man finally looks up, and tears fill his brown eyes. Delta clucks and steers him to the reclining chair by the window. A gas lamp on the wall outside affords little light, and she lights fat pillar candles on the sill. The young man eyes the battered chair with suspicion, but she motions for him to sit.

"My price is a shilling," she says.

"So small a price!" says the young man.

"Then you accept. Excellent. I'll have to ask you to open your shirt a little."

She turns away and gathers her supplies while the young man removes his silk cravat and unbuttons his shirt. Even the skin of his chest bears the pale golden glow of one used to sunlight. Delta glances at her own hands, so white even in candlelight.

"This will sting a little," she says, turning back to perch on the stool beside the chair.

"Compared to the pain I feel now, it will be nothing."

He lies back and closes his eyes, but Delta notices his knuckles turn white as he grips the arms of the chair. She whispers a soothing lullaby, learned at her grandmother's knee when she lived with the coven, and sets to work.

The young man gasps the first time the needles touches him, and he bites his lip to keep from complaining. Delta's needle flashes back and forth, pulling the thread between her neat row of stitches. Moments later, the work is done, and she draws a sigil in the air above the young man's chest.

"Oh my!" The young man looks down at his flawless chest, and presses a hand to his breastbone. The haunted, faraway look has fled from his eyes, replaced by warmth and friendliness. His handsome face cracks open in a broad grin.

"I take it sir is pleased?"

"I am most impressed, my good woman!" He clambers out of the chair and does a jig across her narrow room.

"I am glad, sir." Delta tidies away her tools while the young man marvels at his reclaimed love of life.

"You are a true marvel, really you are. Next time I have my heart broken, I shall know where to come!" He presses a shiny shilling into her hand and skips out of the room before Delta can stop him.

She thinks of running after him, but the sound of his footsteps has faded by the time she reaches the door. Her warning dies on her lips and she sits in her chair by the small grate, pulling her knitting into her lap. She knows he will return when he realises that a mended heart will never break again - but nor will it love.

* * *

This is another of my stories set in the Underground City, the setting of my work in progress, The Necromancer's Apprentice. You can access the others here!

#FridayFlash - The Dreamcatcher

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Theophilius Hopgood sat at his desk, the quill in his hand poised above a parchment strip. He peered through his glasses at the small glass bottle on the shelf of the desk. Tiny blue particles drifted to and fro, disturbing the pale green mist inside the vial. Hopgood dipped the quill into the ink and scrawled ‘Eternium’ on the parchment. When the ink dried, he’d stick the label onto the bottle, and it would leave his workshop, destined for sale in one of the emporia far below his attic.


Three ornate cages stood near the open window. Two of the cages were empty, their occupants out working in the City Above. The third cage contained a large grey bird that slept with its head tucked beneath one wing.

A fluttering of wings at the window announced the return of one of the birds. Midway between a vulture and an owl, it squeezed through the narrow opening and landed on Hopgood’s vast work surface. Its ruby talons gripped a net of woven cobweb and silk thread. Clouds of coloured mist clung to the net, sparkling in the gloom of the workshop.

“Ah, Medusa, you have been busy!”

Hopgood petted the bird, and she raised one leg to allow him to remove the net. He picked up his tweezers and teased each of the clouds free, depositing them into small glass bottles. He counted six in total. He shook out the net and hung it from a peg on the wall to dry.

Hopgood examined the bottles. Two of them contained pale green clouds studded with floating blue particles. Hopgood smiled – he’d need to write more Eternium labels, and dreams of immortality always sold well.

The bird fluttered up to one of the empty cages and clambered inside, far less graceful on foot than she was in the air. Her ruby talons gripped the bar of the cage and she settled down to sleep, tucking her head beneath her wing to mirror the pose of her avian neighbour. Hopgood marvelled at those talons; right now, they kept the bird upright through sleep, but those same talons could also prise free the dreams of slumbering Citizens.

Hopgood settled down in the chair to write more labels for the bottles. He counted two dreams of immortality, one of love, one of success, and two of enduring friendship. Ettamora would be pleased; her dreams emporium was the favoured destination of slum-dwellers hoping to share the dreams of the rich Citizens in the City Above.

The third bird clattered through the window, landing on the desk in a heap. Its talons were tangled in the silken net, and Hopgood spent ten minutes working the bird free. The net held a single cloud, heavy and black, studded with red beads that glowered like baleful eyes.

“Sandor, how often must I tell you? You must harvest only good dreams, not bad ones!” Hopgood admonished the bird as it flew up to the cage, hiding in its shadows.

Hopgood wrung out the net, squeezing the black cloud into a larger jar, its glass thicker than that of the other bottles. He forced in the stopper before the cloud could escape, but the particles hammered against the cork for several moments.

“You see, Sandor? That’s why bad dreams are dangerous. They’re always trying to get out and affect everything they touch. I’ll have to send it down to the forge so they can melt it down for nightmare parts.”

A loud knock echoed around the workshop. Hopgood shuffled across the room, squeezing between desks and display cases. He opened the door to a thin girl carrying a basket. She wore a threadbare shawl around her narrow shoulders, and her pinched features bore an expression of wearied resignation.

“Good evening, Pola. I have some new product for you.”

“Why do you ‘ave to live right up ‘ere? Takes me ages to climb them stairs,” said Pola, stepping into the workshop.

“The birds need to be above the smog to find their way out.”

Hopgood’s stomach roiled to think of the smog that clung to the Underground City. What he wouldn’t give to escape, to find a small attic in the City Above where he could enjoy fresh air and open skies. Not once had his birds brought home that dream. That was his own dream – definitely not for sale.

Pola grimaced, and moved no further into the workshop. Hopgood rolled his eyes and returned to his desk to fetch the finished bottles from their shelf. He wrapped them into a large handkerchief so he could carry them back to Pola. She tucked them into her basket, and handed him fourteen small copper pieces, one for each bottle. Ettamora would sell them on for three coppers each.

“Be seein’ you, Theo.”

Pola turned and left, her wheezing filling the stairwell as she descended into darkness. Hopgood closed the door and returned to his desk. Sandor still didn’t sleep, instead peering out of his cage at his master. Hopgood held out his arm and Sandor clambered free, fluttering down to rest on Hopgood’s forearm.

“I want fresh air, Sandor, and I’m sure you do too. But I can’t afford a workshop Above.”

Sandor pecked at Hopgood’s chest and stared up at him, an idea burning in his grey eyes. Hopgood smiled.

“Sandor, you’re a genius. Why don’t I just sell the dreams myself?”

The bird nuzzled against his master, and Hopgood moved across the workshop to the grate to enjoy its meagre warmth. He settled in his old chair, Sandor roosting on his shoulder. Soon Hopgood’s eyes closed and his mind drifted, skipping through the open boulevards of a city whose sky stretched for eternity.

* * *

This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Three of the other stories so far are The Supplicant, The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

#FridayFlash - The Supplicant

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The shrine to Beseda lay deep in the bowels of the Underground City. It could only be reached by a twisting staircase that cut its way through layers of black and grey rock, a staircase frequently blocked by the sheer number of supplicants trying to enter or leave the shrine. Its lack of natural light made time irrelevant in the Underground City, and traffic to the shrine was almost constant. However, Arabella determined that many of the slum dwellers would be packed into taverns and other drinking dens on the Feast of Rogues. As a result, the staircase to the shrine was mercifully quiet as she picked her way down the steps towards the hallowed doors.

She slipped between the iron gates and padded along the hallway towards the inner sanctum. There were no guards, for everyone guarded the shrine in their own way, and the priests were more fierce than anyone the City could appoint. Arabella clutched her meagre offering and bit her lip - would it be enough? She hoped that sincerity would hold more weight than quantity when it came to matters of supplication.

Arabella ducked under the low beam and stepped inside the shrine. Priests sat in alcoves set into the walls of the circular room, bent over scrolls or tablets. Only one looked up as she entered, and after passing a disinterested gaze over her, he returned to his work. Arabella took that as an invitation to enter fully, and she ventured further into the shrine. The centre of the room was dominated by a tall statue of a slender woman, arms held aloft as her owl wings curved around her body for either protection or modesty - the priests could not decide. Two long, elegant feathers formed eyebrows, and talons tipped her fingers and toes. A range of offerings occupied the plinth at her feet, with prayers written in either childish handwriting or simple pictures.

Arabella knelt before the giant statue of Beseda, the owl princess deity of vulnerable women and legal affairs. She placed her bedraggled bunch of liberated nightblooms on the plinth and bowed her head. She kept her voice low so as not to disturb the priests in their work, or indeed to provide them with new subjects for idle gossip.

“Lady Beseda, I need your help. I know I don’t come often but that’s ‘cause I don’t like to bother you none. But right now I can’t do much more on my own. I tried to be good, see, I tried to do what I were told, and I tried to always take each beatin’ with a smile in my heart, but it ain’t no good.”

Her fingers strayed to the array of bruises on her left arm, fresh purple flowers amid blooms of dull brown and vicious yellow. The words that accompanied each blow were like daggers to the heart, imprinted on her mind like hieroglyphs of pain.

“I never wanted to marry him in the first place but Mama said I had to leave, give her more food for the rest o’ the family. She knows he hits me, but she says I must deserve it.”

A stray tear escaped and slid down Arabella’s cheek, tracing the faint shadow of an old bruise usually hidden by her curtain of hair. Her husband didn’t hit her face any more; he wouldn’t be able to sell her to the men at the tavern if she looked damaged.

“I know what he’s got planned for me, and I don’t want no part of it. I’ve only got a few days until my cycle ends, and then…”

Arabella sniffed back another tear. She closed her eyes and continued her prayer to Beseda inside her head. The priests, recognising true need, left the weeping young woman alone in the shrine. However, Arabella was not quite alone. Something soft brushed her face, and she opened her eyes to see a long white feather, spotted with black, lying on the plinth on top of her bunch of nightblooms. Better yet, a small glass vial stood beside the feather.

Arabella snatched up the gifts and threw her arms around the legs of the statue. She smothered the cold stone with kisses, and her words of gratitude tumbled out in a rush. She slipped the vial and the feather into her pockets and bolted out of the shrine, almost colliding with the priests in her hurry to leave.

The young woman thought of the gifts as she scrambled up the twisting staircase, the flaming torches throwing flickering shadows across the walls. She smiled; everyone knew that owl tears were poisonous. The vial contained either release or retribution, depending on how she used it.

“And the feather will take the sting away,” she sang as she climbed.

Praise be to Beseda…

* * *

This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Two of the other stories so far are The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

#FridayFlash - The Fishwives

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The fishwives stand in a line along the sea wall, their arms outstretched as if they’d hold back the tide. They wear near-identical clothing, choosing the drab colours of those who dwell in the Underground City. The only difference between them is within the lace motifs of their mud brown shawls, motifs which mirror the intricate cables of their clans.

An excited chatter begins, tearing along the line. Movement is sighted at the bottleneck into the bay - their husbands return. The sea boils and churns, waves parting to spit forth the menfolk. Their grey scales gleam in the fading light; fins and gills put the husbands halfway between fish and men. Webbed hands clutch treasures of the deep, and muscular arms throw the catch of the day to the fishwives.

Some women cram baskets with fish and crabs, others seize precious stones and assorted detritus, the spoils of many shipwrecks beyond the bay. Their hauls depleted, the men turn and dive beyond the waves. They flick powerful tails in goodbye as they return to the depths.

The fishwives load the baskets onto carts, and haul them towards the gaping tunnels at the foot of the cliffs. Bereft of their husbands but laden with bounty, they begin the slow trudge back towards the Underground City. Their goods will soon appear in the markets and junk shops, their pockets lined with copper.

* * *

This story is set in the same universe as my laryngitis-inspired tale, Vault of Lost Voices.

#FridayFlash - The Vault of Lost Voices

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Grimelda Purkiss waddled down Green Urchin Close. She pulled her shawl tighter as if to block out the foul smells of the narrow thoroughfare. She ducked to avoid a damp low-hanging sheet and tutted. Why the women of the Underground City chose to hang out their washing when they had no sun by which to dry it was beyond her.

She turned the tight corner at the bottom of the Close and the object of her errand came into view. A bow window jutted into the alley, grime caked to each of its tiny panes of glass. A hand painted sign above the door read 'The Vault of Lost Voices'. Grimelda smiled.

A bell jangled above the door as she stepped inside. The air smelled cool and clean after the warm squalor of the alleys and closes outside, and ornate lanterns blazed with blue flames either side of the door. Walnut shelves ran the length of the back wall, groaning beneath the weight of assorted bottles and jars.

A black velvet curtain swished to one side, and a tall thin man appeared behind the counter. A mane of white hair clung to his skull, and a pair of pince nez perched on the end of his beak-like nose. He held out a bony hand.

"Farridon Upworth, at your service. How may I be of assistance to you today?"

Grimelda fished around in her bag and withdrew a slate. She found half a stick of chalk in her pocket, and wrote "I require a voice" on the slate. Farridon nodded, his expression suitably grave and serious.

"I understand, madam. Here at the Vault of Lost Voices we pride ourselves on providing the very best vocal capabilities to our customers."

Grimelda raised one eyebrow and wiped her slate clean. She scribbled a new message and held it up for Farridon to read. He frowned.

"Well yes, it is true, we sell voices that have been lost but never claimed, but I assure you, we shall find the right voice for you. Now if you'd like to come closer?"

Farridon gestured to a spot beside the counter. Grimelda stepped forward and gazed at the bottles and jars on display. She could see more shelves stretching away into the darkness beyond the curtain. It seemed many of the City's inhabitants were accustomed to losing their voices.

"Now then. What kind of voice were you looking for?" asked Farridon.

Grimelda wrote on the slate. 'Stately. With gravitas'. Farridon read the message and looked Grimelda up and down. She narrowed her reptilian eyes, convinced she saw mirth in his expression. He turned away and his shoulders hitched as he scanned the bottles on the shelves. She glowered at his back, though sadly he wasn’t the first she’d encountered who couldn’t look beyond her appearance.

"How about this one?" Farridon turned back to her, forcing away the remnants of his grin.

Grimelda took the bottle from him. The voice flickered behind thick red glass. She looked up at Farridon, and he motioned for her to open the bottle. The voice fluttered free when as she removed the cork, settling on her throat.

"What do you think?" asked Farridon.

"I'm not entirely sure this is what I wanted," replied Grimelda, her voice deep and rich. She screwed up her nose – she sounded like Senator Williams.

"It is indeed a stately voice, madam."

"Yes but I'm a woman. This voice is not a woman's voice."

Farridon took back the bottle and flicked the fluttering voice free of Grimelda's throat. He captured it in the bottle and replaced the cork. He returned the bottle to its place on the shelf, and handed Grimelda a tall blue bottle. She pulled out the cork and another voice appeared. It flew in lazy circles above the counter until Farridon forced it in Grimelda’s direction.

“And this one? This is a high quality voice, madam.”

“I don’t think it suits me.” The voice was high alright – too high. Grimelda envisioned one of the shrivelled City Mages, taking a week to make a single pronouncement.

“Very well. Does anything in particular catch your eye?” Farridon removed the voice and put the bottle under the counter. He gestured to the shelves behind him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

Grimelda pointed to a curvaceous silver bottle up near the ceiling. The voice inside sparkled in the lantern light. Farridon raised an eyebrow and pointed to the bottle.

“You want to try that one? Really?”

Grimelda nodded. Farridon let out an exasperated sigh and climbed a small ladder to reach the bottle. Grimelda scowled as he tossed it down to her. The glass was smooth and cold to the touch, and the voice made a beeline for her throat when she pulled out the cork.

“Is this voice to madam’s liking?”

“Oh it’s perfect.” The silvery voice of an elf filled the room. Grimelda smiled – it sounded like sunlight on running water, the first snowfall of winter, and a nightingale’s lament rolled into one.

“You wanted stately. With gravitas.” Farridon pouted.

“I’m entitled to change my mind, Mr Upworth. How much will this one be?” Grimelda returned her slate to her bag, and rummaged in its depths for her purse.

“That one is sixteen shillings. You may keep the bottle, too.” Farridon held out an expectant palm.

“A bargain, Mr Upworth.” Grimelda dropped the coins into his hand. She prised free the voice, careful not to damage its gossamer wings, and swallowed it. She giggled, feeling it tickle as it took root.

She crossed the shop and pulled open the door. The alley outside no longer seemed oppressive or noisy. Life itself looked different to Grimelda. She was different. She wasn’t the timid half-troll any more.

Now she was the half-troll with an Elfin voice.