by Steve Vernon
Cover by Laura Givens
Copyright © 2011 Laura Given
www.lauragivens-artist.com
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On Guard
WALLACE PADDED SOFTLY ACROSS the wooden floor, following his boy. He faltered slightly as they passed a puddle of golden sunlight streaming through a low window onto the flagstone entryway. His old bones creaked and he longed to rest in that sunny patch, allowing the warmth to soak into stiff muscles. But he followed the boy, mindful of his duty.
In his prime, Wallace had been a mighty hunter. The terror of small rodents. Field mice and rabbits still avoided his domain, though he was far from his kitten days. Old age stalked him as once he had stalked prey in the greenbelt behind his humans’ dwelling.
But despite his advancing age and loss of fluid grace, he held to his duty. The female of his pair of bonded humans had given Wallace charge of the boy when he had been nothing more than a squirming bundle wrapped in blankets.
“Watch over him, Wallace,” his female had said. “Guard him, always.”
And Wallace had. No harm had ever befallen the boy while Wallace was on guard. He would not shirk his duty now for the physical relief of sun-warmed stone.
The boy continued downstairs, as Wallace had known he would, to the windowless cave the humans referred to as The Game Room. Wallace glanced toward the ceiling, thinking of that glorious pool of sunlight. Perhaps later, when the boy tired of sitting in that chair. Perhaps there would still be warm sun to bask in then.
He glanced around the room looking for the most comfortable spot to maintain his guard. In the center of the room two tiered rows of dark blue cushioned chairs faced a blank white screen. Off to one side sat a low stool surrounded by sparkly red metallic cylinders. The male of Wallace’s bonded pair liked to sit on that stool and beat on those cylinders. Wallace could appreciate his human’s need to express aggression, but just the thought of that noise made his head ache.
On the other side of the room was the object of the boy’s attention. A massive black leather chair surrounded by boxes full of mechanical whirrs and whistles. The boy sat on the edge of the chair pulling on skin-tight gloves that sparkled in the room’s low light. He touched one of the boxes and high frequency noise assaulted Wallace’s sensitive ears. The boy pulled a sleek black helmet over his head, covering his eyes with a darkened visor and completely occluding his ears.
Wallace closed his eyes in a slow blink. Why would any intelligent creature choose to blind himself in the middle of the day? The boy spent hours in that chair, completely oblivious to the world around him. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Wallace knew. He’d tested the boy, cavorting around the room leaping lightly onto surfaces where he had no right to be, even sitting at the boy’s feet and yowling until the female had raced down the stairs to see what was wrong. All for nothing. The boy had not emerged from his helmeted stupor.
With resignation, Wallace leapt onto the padded chair closest to his boy, circled three times and sat, tail curled around his paws. He watched the boy’s hands twitch on the arms of the big black chair. Sometimes he spoke, nonsense words and phrases that had no bearing on reality. Quest and Feyland and Thank you, kind sir were uttered with some regularity, but Wallace had long since learned to ignore anything his boy said while wearing the helmet and gloves.
More disturbing were the moments when the boy thrashed in the chair, grunting and jabbing with gloved fists. At these times Wallace prowled around the chair, on guard against the foe his boy obviously fought. But nothing ever manifested, nothing a fierce Norwegian Forest cat could sink his claws and teeth into, and soon the boy would subside once more into twitchy somnolence.
Wallace’s head drooped, and his eyes closed, his nose nearly touching the chair’s pillow-soft fabric. A frisson of warning jerked him awake and he gathered his legs beneath him, ready to spring.
A dazzling light appeared over the boy’s right shoulder. A lightning-shaped tear in the fabric of the world. A delicate, pale green hand appeared in the rent, then another, fingers scrabbling to widen the opening.
Wallace watched with narrowed eyes, crouched and ready.
A small head pushed through the tear, followed by a shoulder and one long arm. Another moment and wings appeared, followed by a female torso.
Wallace waited, confused. His previous experience hadn’t prepared him for a winged creature to emerge from a crack in thin air. His duty was to protect his boy, his totally oblivious boy. But was this small winged female a danger? How could she be? She was hardly bigger than a squirrel, and Wallace subdued squirrels with ease.
The creature, fully emerged now, dropped lightly to the back of the boy’s chair and knelt there, resting. What manner of being was she? Her skin was palest green, like the tender shoots of grass in the spring, her tunic the darker green of oak leaves, her hair petal pink and her wings merely an iridescent shimmer. She blinked solemnly at Wallace with large, liquid eyes the color of molten emeralds.
“Well met, friend cat,” she said, her voice as soft as a mother’s purr.
Wallace blinked and eyed her warily, casting his memory back, searching. Images and sensations whirled past his mind’s eye. His tail twitched in agitation, powerful leg muscles ready for a predatory spring. He remembered the touch of his mother’s rough tongue as she licked him at birth, encouraging his lungs into action. He remembered the peace of floating in a fluid-filled sac safe in his mother’s womb.
Further back.
He entered the racial memories of his clan, the fierce northern forest cats of ancient days. He remembered creatures not seen by his clan in many lives of cats: gentle tomtens, deadly ogres, fierce trolls, and tricksy ice faeries.
He licked his lips in triumph. The creature was a faerie. Not an ice faerie of the far north, blue-skinned and adorned in ice crystals, but a faerie none the less.
“Why are you here, faerie?” he asked, allowing only a hint of a growl to color his words.
“I’m no threat to you, friend cat,” she said. “I am in search of sustenance, but my food is not your food. I am not your competition.”
She glanced hungrily at the back of his boy’s neck and smiled, showing needle-sharp teeth.
Wallace rose to full height, arching his back, his fur spiking. He hissed a warning. “Not the boy,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “My boy shall not be your prey.”
“Your boy?” she asked, turning to face him once more. “What allegiance have cats to human boys?”
“This one is under my protection. Seek your sustenance elsewhere.”
She swaggered along the back of the boy’s chair—his oblivious boy’s chair!—and surveyed the room.
“I see no other prey, friend cat, and my options are limited. I can only enter this realm where the walls are thin, and the walls only thin where a human willingly enters our realm through the game, Feyland.” She gestured to the helmeted boy. “This human has self-selected. I need the sustenance of his hopes and dreams and vibrant emotions. I need his essence. Faerie needs his essence.”
Wallace stepped closer to the faerie, placing his front paws on the arm of the cushioned chair. He judged the distance to the faerie on the back of his boy’s chair to be less than six feet. An easy jump in his prime; more challenging now. But he could do it. He would do it. That creature would not harm his boy. Not while Wallace lived.
“Find other hunting grounds, faerie. This human and his parents are mine. I will not give them up.” This time, Wallace allowed his growl full voice. The creature had been warned.
“Come now, cat,” the faerie wheedled, her voice sweet as cream. “What’s the difference between one human and another? This one is small and puny and fails to show you proper respect. You can do better. Besides, cats and faeries are natural a
llies. Our clans have always been friends. “Give me this scrawny human. You can do better.”
Wallace’s determination lagged, eased by the sweetness of her words. Tension flowed from his body and his eyes lost their focus and drifted closed.
A memory stirred in the deep recesses of his mind. Mesmer. Faerie mesmer. The clever green creature was hypnotizing him!
He shook himself free of her guile and sprang to his boy’s defense, knocking against the back of the boy’s helmet in the process and pinning the faerie to the leather with unsheathed claws. “He is mine!” he yowled. “You shall not harm my boy!”
The faerie shrieked and squirmed, but could not escape.
The boy yelled and scooted forward, turning a visor-blinded face to the struggle on the back of his chair.
Wallace lowered his muzzle to within a breath of the faerie’s face and whispered, “Tell your clan and court. Warn them. Do not return to this dwelling. Wallace the Fierce guards these humans. They. Are. Not. Your. Prey.”
Before his warning could die on the air, Wallace grabbed the faerie in careful jaws and tossed her back through the rent between the realms. As she vanished, so did the tear.
The boy, having finally managed to yank his helmet from his head, glared at Wallace. “What is wrong with you, cat?” he yelled. “Get off my chair! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’ve ruined my game. Now I’ll have to start that level all over again.”
He shoved Wallace off his chair, jammed the helmet on his head and settled back into his game.
Wallace stalked around his boy’s chair, head high, tail waving like a battle standard. Not only had he defeated the faerie and protected his boy, he’d held old age at bay. He still had it. He was still Wallace the Fierce!
After another circuit of the room, he leapt back up to his perch on the cushioned chair, kneaded the seat and then circled his bulk into a comfortable position. The faerie had said one true thing, his boy didn’t show him proper respect. He yawned and rested his chin on his front paws. But what could he expect? His boy was only human, after all, and obviously in need of a Norwegian Forest cat’s protection.
Fortunately for him, Wallace was on guard.
Acknowledgments
ON GUARD by Deb Logan was first published in CHRONICLE WORLDS: FEYLAND by Windrift Books, June 2016 and was inspired by bestselling author Anthea Sharp's world of Feyland.
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Discover more at Ms. Sharp’s website.
About the Author
Deb Logan writes children's, tween, and young adult fantasy. Her stories are light-hearted tales for the younger set—or ageless folk who remain young at heart. She’s published 14 titles, including short stories, collections, and novels and has been featured in several anthologies. Author of the popular “Dani Erickson” series, Deb loves dragons and faeries and all things unexplained.
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Sign up for Deb’s newsletter and receive an exclusive FREE story!
Visit Deb to learn more:
deblogan.wordpress.com
[email protected]
Also by Deb Logan
Dani Erickson Stories:
Demon Daze
School Daze
Family Daze
Challenging Daze
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Faery Adventures:
Faery Unexpected (novel)
Lexie’s Choice (short story)
Of Dragons and Centaurs (short story)
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Short Story Collections:
Ghosts and Ghoulies
More Ghosts and Ghoulies
* * *
Novels:
Thunderbird
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Short Fiction:
The Worst Summer Vacation Ever
Beauty or Butterface?
Terrors
Salt Water
On Guard: A Feyland Story
Lilah’s Ghost
Angelic Voices
Copyright
ON GUARD
Copyright © 2017 by Debbie Mumford
Published by WDM Publishing
First published by Windrift Books, June, 2016
Cover and Layout copyright © 2017 by WDM Publishing
Cover design by WDM Publishing
Cover art copyright © Prillfoto | Dreamstime.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
The Dream Spinner
by Mollie Hunt
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All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written consent of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Copyright 2017 © Mollie Hunt
Design by Rosalyn Newhouse
Published in the United States of America
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This story 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 purely coincidental.
Other Books by Mollie Hunt
Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries
Cats’ Eyes (2013)
Copy Cats (2015)
Cat’s Paw (2016)
Cat Call (2017)
Short Stories
Cat’s Cradle
Dream Spinner (2017)
Other Mysteries
Placid River Runs Deep (2016)
The Dream Spinner
“I always have the nicest dreams when you’re with me,” Ada half-said, half-thought to the cat who lay like a black shadow at the foot of her bed. The golden sunset eyes stared back at her, unwavering conduits to other realms. The dream was slipping away now but Ada could remember its essence. Youth, beauty, love. Everything the years had taken away.
The old woman rolled over and stared past the window into the night. Her stomach hurt, her swollen ankles throbbed in rhythm to her feeble heart, her cloudy mind sifted her reality for some trace of hope. There was none. The doctors agreed the nonagenarian was not long for this world.
Ada felt a gentle touch, the smoothness of fur.
“You still love me, Morningstar kitty?”
The cat’s soothing purr was audible.
She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the anesthetic slumber take her away. Her breathing steadied and her spasms relaxed. Once more she was a little girl in a white dress playing in the garden of her childhood. The fragrance of Daphne delighted her senses, the sunlight warmed her upturned face. She was well and whole, her life before her. In her nostalgic reverie, she didn’t notice the cat drop to the floor and stalk purposefully from the room.
Morningstar took his bearings, then began his nightly cruise through the vacant corridors of St. Joseph’s Care Facility. It was late and the lights were turned low. At the computer station, a pair of caregivers talked softly as they monitored the residents’ sleep cycles. Occasional moans issued from the darkened rooms but that was commonplace; the elderly bore the actions of a lifetime to haunt both body and soul. Morningstar was familiar with those hauntings. He knew sleep was where the ghosts made their debut. The black cat knew more about ghosts than anyone. He was the dream spinner.
The first time he felt the calling, he had been little more than a kit curled up beside his young companion. She trembled as she slept, and Morningstar could sense her nightmares, terrible visions no child should experience or endure. In his kitten innocence, he had longed to help her. More than anything, he wanted to bring her peace.
And then he did.
He wasn't sure how it happened. One moment he was lying on the bed; the next, he'd been slapped down into the middle of her dream, appalled at what he s
aw there. The horrifying images made him want to run and hide, but he had be brave if he were to do any good. Through an empathy he'd not known he possessed, he began to spin the ether of her thoughts, imbuing them with beauty and joy. It was laborious, and soon Morningstar was falling into his own exhausted doze. When he woke, the child was still asleep but now her face was calm, her lips curved in a soft smile. Even though he was uncertain what he'd done, Morningstar knew his efforts had paid off. He also knew this was not the only time this newfound ability would be required.
A sound hit the big cat’s sensitive ears, ripping him from his musings. A small cry, inaudible to the caregivers and their computer monitors, but to Morningstar, it was clear as a yowl and disturbingly familiar. Fleet as thought, he changed directions. Trotting past room after room, he came to a half-open doorway and ducked inside.
The old man was barely distinguishable from the sheet that draped his form, so pale and thin was he. Instantly Morningstar was up on the bed beside him. The shadow cat paced the snowy length until he reached the contorted face, then put his nose close, pulling the man from sleep with his gentle breathing.
The filmy eyes opened but there was no sight there, claimed long ago by macular degeneration. Still the man knew his visitor at once. His lips grimaced into the whisper of a smile. A bony hand came up to touch the luxurious fur. Morningstar mewed in quiet greeting.
“Where ya been, hairball?" croaked the man, rubbing the cat’s sideburns just the way Morningstar liked best. "Old Buck’s been missing ya.”