Just Ducky

by Talia Kelley

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  Forbidden Publications

  www.forbiddenpublications.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Talia Kelley

  First published in 2008, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Just Ducky

  Prologue

  AUTHOR INFORMATION

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  JUST DUCKY

  TALIA KELLEY

  Copyright © 2008

  Cover Art by DAWNE’ DOMINIQUE © 2008

  Editor—ROSIE BINDRA

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact the publisher via regular mail.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ISBN: Not Assigned.

  Published by Forbidden Publications, JANUARY 2008

  Forbidden Publications

  PO Box 153

  East Prairie, MO 63845

  www.forbiddenpublications.com

  Just Ducky

  by

  Talia Kelley

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dedicated to my Beloved Wolf, and to all the people in my life who have helped me to maintain my sense of wonder.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  Drake lay dying. Beryl. His sweet, precious Beryl was gone. Her father had finally won out, forcing her onto a coach that would take her to a husband she did not love. Her brothers had made their argument against Drake's pursuit with knives and swords. They had taunted him, saying that Beryl had told them she could never wed a commoner like the young blacksmith's apprentice. He had lost his temper then, knowing his Love to be pure and true. He winced as the thought brought to his body's memory every cut and stab they'd rendered.

  His heart beat faster, still unwilling to give up his Love. No. He must pursue her. He found himself unable to move or speak when he tried to turn his head to tell Martha that he must rescue Beryl. Tears filled his eyes. He would not give up.

  Martha knew that he would not give up, but the fever from his wounds was winning over even her skills, and the old woman knew it. The thought of the young man being lost to the world vexed her sorely. Never in her near century of living had she ever seen a love such as the one that was now killing him. She must try to save this beautiful spirit. She knew that she would be labeled a witch if others discovered what she was about to do, but she could not help herself.

  Whatever the method, her work was righteous and just, as her fingers tore the final herbs and she made ready the vessel. She just hoped Drake would understand in time.

  She heard his breathing change. She had completed the preparations none too soon. She turned his head toward her. “Don't you worry, my boy. You'll find her again—for all things cling to the wheel of time and come again—in a time when the two of you will be unhindered. Free to love you—that she will. In true love is freedom, dear boy."

  Too weak to respond, Drake eyed the implements on the table as she stroked his forehead and anointed it with rose oil. His voice had been stolen by weakness, but behind his eyes, his soul and spirit burned bright, right to up to the point to when she took them.

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  Amy sauntered along the quaint little street. Her raven black hair was gathered into an untidy ponytail at the nape of her neck, and the autumn breeze tickled her with the wisps there and around her face. Wrinkling her nose, she brushed at them and pulled her cardigan closed.

  With her calf-length black skirt, grey turtleneck and black sweater, Amy rather resembled the “little black rain cloud” of Winnie the Pooh fame. She scanned the shops, mostly small what-not shops boasting a dusty mixture of antiques and novelties.

  Amy loved antiques; so much so that she had designated Wednesdays as “wander days", on which she meandered through the streets of whatever city she found herself in that week. She thanked Great Aunt Daffodil daily for the fortune bequeathed to her. As a result of the legacy, Amy could wander as she willed without worry for any need or desire that arose.

  She patronized various shops as she made her way down the street, and her bag grew steadily more cumbersome as she filled it with her greatest treasure; books. In Amy's mind, a bruise inflicted by the sharp corner of a good book in one's bag was an injury well worth the discomfort. She sent other purchases on ahead to the large manor “Daffy” had also left in her care. The little girl in her loved arriving home to unwrap her “gifts", rediscovering her purchases and arranging them in her home before settling in the glow of her colossal fireplace to enjoy a good story.

  Now progressing lazily down the street, she had just about decided to head back to her inn when she noticed a mahogany door barely visible in the recess between the display windows of two shops. In fact, at first glance it seemed to be merely eccentric decoration, but upon closer examination, she saw that it was adorned with a baroque script. Being the curious sort, Amy crossed the narrow street to see what the script said. If she'd had any doubts about entering the shop, they vanished when she read the writing.

  "How funny,” she mused, the golden letters announcing the door was the portal to “Daffodil's Delightful Dingalings".

  "Well,” she told herself, “I have to see what this is about.” She felt a mild thrill as she pushed on the antique door, half expecting it to emit an eerie creak. Instead, it swung open in silent acquiescence and she stepped into a narrow sky lit hallway ornate with carved mahogany moldings. She traced the furrows with her finger as she walked along the passageway to a large archway.

  The shop was long rather than deep, extending, she surmised, behind the shops on either side of the entryway. She sniffed the air and exhaled with a contented sigh. Ah, this was the air of a shop she knew would yield the most august and unusual books. She smiled and ventured in.

  The shop presented a hodgepodge of old and new. She peered through dancing dust motes, taking in piles of kitchen utensils, vintage clothing, ancient dolls, and furniture of all sorts—including a hall tree that she mentally checked off as a purchase.

  She picked through the piles on her way to the books. The heaps were arranged in such a way around the display shelves that she found it necessary to follow the path between them, around the store to the bookshelves along the length of the back wall. Amy grinned broadly as she contemplated row upon row of leather bound volumes. This could take hours. She wondered idly how late the establishment stayed open.

  She bumped her head when an ancient voice crackled from beside her as she bent to examine a particularly promising copy of Grimms’ Fairytales.

  "May I take Miss's bag?"

  "Oh!” She rubbed her head where she had bumped it.

  "My apologies.” The pointed face of the man before her bespoke his chagrin. “I didn't mean to frighten Miss."

  "Oh.” Amy smiled down at him. “I startle easily, I'm afraid. I'd be happy to take my bag to your counter, if
you like,” she offered, eyeing his delicate frame.

  He shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned and led her to the end of the shop where an old-fashioned cash register rested on an antique dining table. “Are you looking for anything special?"

  Amy deposited her bag next to the cash register. “Mmm, not really. Although I have been hoping to find a claw foot tub."

  He considered this for a moment, seeming to run through a mental checklist. “Hmm ... no, I don't have any bathtubs ... washtubs and rain barrels, but no bathtubs. Sorry, Miss. Feel free to browse. I may yet have something to catch your fancy. I've new inventory, too. Please, let me know if I can be of assistance.” With that, he turned to rummage through a pile of merchandise. Finding herself unmistakably dismissed, Amy wandered back to the bookcase, perusing a book here and there.

  She had found an ancient looking picture book and was deep into it, oblivious to the old man's approach until he startled her by losing control of a pile of freshly priced treasures. Instinct taking over, she jumped back. She'd dropped a knife on her foot once, and Amy learned from that to move quickly.

  "Oh, my!” The old man, mortified, scrambled to clear away debris from around her feet. “I'm so sorry, Miss!"

  Amy crouched down to help. “It's okay, really."

  The shopkeeper peered up at her as she stood to place some of the items on the shelf. “That's twice now that you could have abused me for my clumsiness. I don't mind saying, it's happened before. Most young people don't tolerate the foibles of old age, but you—instead you've helped me to clean up, when I could have injured you,” he marveled.

  Amy flushed bright red. “Really, it's—” she began.

  "Nonsense,” he interrupted. “Your grace should not go unrewarded.” He grasped her hand as she reached out to pick up more merchandise. “Tell me, Miss. If you could have any wish in the world—if you knew it would be granted—what would it be?"

  Amy looked at him wide-eyed with surprise at the question. She shook her head slowly. “I really don't know."

  Smiling, he reached up toward her with both hands. “May I?"

  Puzzled as to what he meant, Amy nonetheless nodded.

  Concentrating very hard on her forehead, he took her face between his hands. She watched as he closed his eyes and seemed to go to sleep. She had almost concluded that this was the case when he smiled.

  "There it is.” He opened his eyes, tiny sapphire gems set in creased chamois. “I have just the thing. Now, where did I put that?” His voice faded as he sank into thought, then he bustled off, calling over his shoulder, “You enjoy looking around, Miss. I'll be right back."

  Amy watched him for a few seconds as he retreated. She rather liked the wrinkled little gnome; he reminded her of a favorite uncle, though no one in her family would wear bright yellow trousers with a lime green shirt and vest. Must be the Daffodil theme. She laughed inwardly at the garishness of the colors and turned back to the books, wondering what he was up to.

  She'd worked her way through half of the bookcase and pretty much forgotten about the little man and her curiosity when he returned, a bit dusty and disheveled, bearing a small ornate rosewood box and a decidedly mischievous grin.

  "Here it is, Miss. You'll like it, I promise.” He beamed at her and winked. Amy hesitated. “Well, go on, take it. It won't bite you, dear.” He proffered it.

  She took the box from his hands as he watched her expectantly. “Thank you.” She smiled. She examined the box with her fingers as much as with her eyes. “It's exquisite,” she murmured. The delicate carvings showed a scene of love between a merman and a woman. “So rare to find a merman depicted."

  "Open it, Miss,” the old man insisted. She wondered at his eagerness. What could this box possibly contain that would excite him so for her to see? She raised the lid and then nearly dropped the box as she saw a glistening eye staring back at her.

  "Oh!” Amy looked closer at the contents of the chest. “Ohhh ... how adorable!” She saw that the eye that had startled her belonged to a little sculpture of a duck so lifelike, she fancied she saw it move. She tentatively reached in and stroked the feathers.

  "It's so soft,” she whispered. “So real."

  "It ought to be, Miss. It was created as a gift for Queen Elizabeth. Molded of leather, and the feathers are real, too.” He watched her pet the jewel green head, a gleam in his eye. “Pick it up, Miss."

  Amy gingerly lifted the feathered figure. “It's so light,” she observed. “And warm..."

  "It was Her Majesty's favorite bath toy. She took much joy in it. Guarded it jealously, too, I've been told."

  Amy replaced the duck and carefully closed the lid, but she didn't hand the box back. An ardent desire to own this fascinating figure filled her. “How much?"

  She noticed a gleam in his eyes as he shook his head. “It's not for sale, Miss."

  She tried to hide her disappointment as she held out the box to him. “Oh, I see."

  The old man held up his hand. “No, no, you misunderstand.” He gently pushed her hands away. “It's yours."

  Amy's heart fluttered, but she couldn't accept such a precious gift. “Oh, no, I couldn't. I was only behaving as—” she began, but the old man interrupted.

  "Consider it a reward for being an exceptional young lady.” He set his jaw in that way that elderly people do, and she knew he would not be refused; she'd seen that look many times.

  Amy sighed, but she smiled and the warmth of gratitude filled her voice. “Thank you, sir. The gift is too generous, but I accept it in the spirit in which it's offered."

  His bright smile of satisfaction rewarded her. “Good. Gracious even in acceptance. A rarity, indeed,” he marveled.

  Amy blushed, eyes downcast as she gathered a small stack of books. “I'd like to purchase these.” She looked around. “And the hall tree. Oh!” The hall tree was now by the cash register, half wrapped for shipping.

  "I saw you make note of it, Miss,” he explained. “I know a ‘buyer's blink’ when I see it.” He winked.

  Amy chuckled. What a character. “Well, thank you,” she said. “You're most—” Not wanting to insult him, she did not say “odd", which was the first word to come to mind. “—accommodating,” she finished.

  He gave a little bow. “Think nothing of it.” He bustled up to the front of the shop with Amy in tow. She gave him her address for shipping and paid for her purchases. He patted her hand as she took back her credit card. “You enjoy your new friend. You deserve him."

  Amy smiled and tucked the box into the top of her bag, patting it affectionately. “I'll take good care of him,” she assured the shopkeeper. “Thanks again.” With that, she made her way from the shop and out into the autumn wind.

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  Nestled in the box's dark velvet, the wistful spirit sighed. He didn't know how long he'd been trapped in the feathered vessel, but it seemed an eternity. He longed to touch the face that had looked in on him, and he wondered at the warmth her touch had caused.

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  The day had been longer than she'd anticipated at the outset and Amy's body ached with fatigue. Still, her exhaustion failed to override the thrill of anticipation as she closed the door to her room at the inn. In fact, her eagerness to open the little parcel nestled in her bag rather astonished her.

  Setting the tote on the bed, she drew the paper-wrapped package from its refuge among her books. She smiled, filled with warmth as she realized that the shopkeeper had wrapped the box in cotton batting before enclosing it in stout parcel paper. What a dear old man. She'd have to remember to write a thank you note.

  When she had finally finished the delicate task of freeing the little chest from its wrapping, she stood for a moment with it balanced on one palm and traced the intricate carvings with the fingers of the other hand, then set it on the vanity before her, admiring the light's effect upon the elegant relief on the box.

  She stood for many moments in awe of its beauty, at last bringing herself to leave
it briefly in order to start the water for a most welcome bath. The water was not hot, but the chilled air in the room caused an inviting rise of vapor from its surface.

  With a contented sigh, she returned to the bedroom and gathered her robe and towel, placing the little chest on top of them as she laid them on the little stool near the tub.

  Amy pulled her boots off her feet with a grateful moan, then shed her sweater and dropped her skirt to the floor. She turned to shut off the water and stopped dead.

  The little box was open, and the charming toy sitting up. Strange. I don't remember doing that. She reached over and shut off the water, eyes never leaving the little duck. It seemed to be staring at her bare legs and her thong.

  "Oh, now I'm just being silly,” she told herself with a shiver. “There's no way that thing is staring at me.” Still, she could not deny the feeling that someone was watching. Folding her arms across her chest in a self-conscious gesture, she examined the walls, suspicious of each knothole and groove. She'd never opened the medicine cabinet, so she swung the door open and examined every square inch of door and cubby. The window was dismissed as inaccessible. She was, after all, on the second floor. At last, satisfied that nobody could possibly be watching her, she dismissed the feeling as her own paranoia and finished stripping.

  She glanced into the mirror as she freed her hair from its binding, pleased with the sight of the long locks flowing over her soft breasts. She'd been concerned about their size when she was younger, but now she pulled her hair back off them to fall in soft waves down her back. She cupped her breasts, massaging them to relieve the soreness inflicted by the stricture of her bra. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the doe-soft skin and the weight of them in her outstretched fingers.

  The feeling of being watched returned, and she could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath, but she knew she was alone so she dismissed it. She found, however, that the thought of a man admiring her excited her more than she'd care to admit. She sighed and raised the soft duck to her face, looking into its glistening eyes.