‘Then let’s get you untied, and we’ll fill you in over some food, hey?’ Peter untied the bonds on one side and Gabrielle did likewise on the other side.
Released, relieved, treated and fed, Spooky sat in the kitchen with Peter and Gabrielle, watching the video they’d shot of him. Mr and Mrs Eddington had left for the day, glad that Peter’s guest was now feeling more himself.
‘This is fucking awesome!’ The horror writer was completely stoked to have been possessed and had it captured on film. ‘Listen to that accent, I sound like a bloody Pom!’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t even fake that!’
‘Yes, that was decidedly strange,’ Peter agreed.
‘You have to let me post this on social media, my readers are going to go nuts! No spoiler bits from your book, of course. Maybe just the part about the old witch and the serpent . . . where you threaten to send me to hell by the holy death, or some shit . . . absolutely priceless.’ He wiped the tears of amusement from his eyes.
‘I reckon I owe you that much.’ Peter couldn’t see any harm in it. ‘Do you remember any of it? Dinner last night?’
Spooky stuck out his bottom lip as he considered the query and then shook his head. ‘Last thing I remember I was working on my bike. I had to take it for a test run and I thought I’d come see what you were up to. You sure turned out to be a hell of a lot more left of centre than I imagined on first meeting, newbie. I can’t bloody wait to read your book now, and find out more about the man I was possessed by.’
‘You won’t like him, he’s an art critic.’
‘Augh!’ Spooky was horrified. ‘Could there be any more accursed creature!’
‘Not for a writer,’ Peter concurred.
‘I’m just glad you haven’t got us up on assault charges.’ Gabrielle was so relieved they were all still friends.
Spooky waved off the injuries. ‘You know how to settle that score.’
‘A bottle of whisky,’ Peter figured.
‘Two.’ Spooky held up two fingers and wiggled them about. ‘One for each bump.’ He looked back to the footage and chuckled again. ‘Bonus.’
‘And I have my ending.’ Safe in that knowledge, Peter just couldn’t stop grinning.
‘Congratulations.’ The horror writer shook Peter’s hand. ‘You’re still alive! In which case it would seem my job here is done.’
Once they had seen Spooky gone, Peter and Gabrielle retreated with their wine-filled glasses to the lounge room. They were huddled together on the lounge watching the fire and the rest of the place was deathly silent. No ghosts, no guests, it seemed not just quiet but empty.
It was such a big house, and yet he frequented only three or four rooms. Peter still didn’t feel the estate belonged to him, yet he had a responsibly to maintain this place and help keep its creative history alive. In the wake of it all, Peter felt incredibly honoured to have been given the opportunity to begin his writing life in such inspiring and conducive surroundings. How many other people like him were out there, working a job they hated while dreaming up storylines they didn’t have the time, energy or confidence to write down?
‘What do you think of the idea of turning this place into a writers’ retreat? We could start a Penelope Whitman Foundation and grant residencies here.’
‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’ Gabrielle turned to gaze up at him.
‘This place used to be filled with creative types and lively debate, I want to try and recapture a bit of that.’
‘Penelope would approve,’ Gabrielle warranted, ‘and so would Em. Maybe their spirits will hang around and inspire a whole new generation of artists?’
‘You could be the in-house researcher?’ Peter ventured to suggest — he may have been grinning but his heart was thumping in his chest.
Gabrielle was grinning also. ‘Is that your way of asking me to move in with you?’
He did actually intend to propose they get married, but was rather ill-prepared, due to chasing down his story; a job lot of being a writer. ‘Kinda,’ he replied, having had an audacious idea.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked as Peter grabbed her hand.
‘I need to show you something.’ Peter jumped up, and Gabrielle frowned.
‘Now?’ She seemed a little annoyed that they were veering off-topic, when they’d finally got around to discussing their relationship.
‘Actually, wait there,’ Peter waylaid her from getting up. ‘I’ll be back.’ He left the room and headed to the library to have a rummage through the safe. He’d figured Penelope had to have a ring or two somewhere in there, but what he found exceeded his expectations.
‘Won’t be a second!’ He headed upstairs for a quick change.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ She sounded agitated.
‘You’ll see, stay put.’
When he returned, Gabrielle was sitting forward in her chair, sipping wine and appearing decidedly bored. ‘Let’s see it then? What’s so important —’ She gasped at the sight of Peter in the shirt she’d insisted he buy for their dinner date, and he opened wide his arms and did a spin.
‘Super sexy,’ she applauded. ‘Is this you telling me we’re never going to dinner?’
‘Not at all. Tomorrow night, anywhere you like.’
‘Okay.’ She was puzzled.
‘But that’s not what I wanted to show you.’ Peter sat back down beside her and then opened the large flat case in his hand and Gabrielle gasped at the array of sparkling jewelled rings before her.
‘I couldn’t choose.’ It was delightful to see Gabrielle speechless. ‘Gabrielle,’ he began, ‘will you be my in-house research assistant?’
‘Peter?’ Gabrielle hit him for his attempt at humour in such a moment.
‘Well, and marry me too,’ he granted hopefully.
‘Hmmm.’ She held a finger to her lip to repress her smile. ‘Being your research assistant is rather precarious.’
‘But the job perks are totally worth it.’ Peter held up the tray. ‘I would really love for you to pick one.’
Her eyes opened wide at the challenge. ‘You pick one.’
‘All right.’ Peter looked them over and went to choose one.
‘Hmm?’ Gabrielle gave a disgruntled sound, so he just shifted his finger over the rings until she finally change her tune to, ‘Mmm!’
Peter pulled her ring of choice from the tray, and slid off the lounge and onto his knee. He knew what he really wanted to say, and it was time to let her know how much her friendship meant to him. ‘I love you, not for the way you dance with my angels, but for the way the sound of your name silences my demons.’
‘That’s so beautiful.’ Gabrielle was reduced to tears, as she allowed him to place the ring on her finger. ‘You can be romantic.’
‘I didn’t write that one. Christopher Poindexter did,’ Peter admitted with a grin. ‘But the sentiment is all true.’
‘I know.’ She leaned in to kiss him, but frowned and sat back. ‘Oh my God, Grandma is just going off!’ She could hardly repress her joy.
‘What’s she saying?’ Peter was hoping Adejandra was still on his side.
‘She says, yes!’
That night when Peter slept, he did so with his girl curled up beside him, and he set forth into his dream state with no protection and no mental agenda. It felt incredibly liberating to have no story to muse. It freed his mind to think about other things like what his next book might be about, whether he had a next book. If the book he’d written would be well received . . .
He was determined to get his novella finished and cleaned up in the next few days, and then it would be time to book a meeting with Fabrizia.
On that thought, he allowed himself to be drawn into his mental static, but Peter, so used to holding onto his consciousness thread, couldn’t resist returning to the warehouse studio one last time.
The huge warehouse space was no longer littered with Em Jewel’s paintings, it appeared as gutted and empty as when he’d left it
that afternoon. Peter’s heart sank in his chest. His muse was gone; and he had no idea where his next story was coming from. I’m really going to miss this place, and you, Em. You were right; I really don’t know what I’m going to do without you. We were a formidable team.
The loss ate him up, with the same intensity as Penelope’s death had. He wished now that their last conversation had not been cut short, as he’d not had the chance to say farewell, or to thank Em for the inspiration. For the first time since Peter had stepped onto the path of becoming a writer, he found himself totally alone in that journey and that notion made him deeply sad.
Peter.
He knew Em’s voice and when he turned in the direction the call had come from Peter was standing in the field outside Henry’s country cottage, which was absolutely overflowing with people — a mismatched bunch of characters, who appeared to be from every different era and place on earth! At the entrance gate to the cottage stood Em, dressed as a man, made up as a woman, and smiling warmly in greeting.
I thought you’d gone. Peter was so filled with joy to see his muse he felt the tears of happiness flowing down his cheeks.
The world is not ready for my fabulousness just yet, she explained her delay.
I’m so glad you found Henry. Peter spotted him serving drinks to the guests at the cottage. You certainly seem to be causing as big a splash among the dead as you did among the living.
Em found this amusing. These people are not here for me, they’re here to see you.
Me? Peter was stunned by her claim, as Em took his arm to guide him into the party.
They all have stories to tell, she advised. And they are here in the hope you might help them as you helped me.
Muses. Peter was completely overwhelmed and excited by the wild array of characters to choose from. Penelope had warned him they would come once he’d fully committed himself to his art. So many stories.
Indeed. Em hugged tight to his arm. So, where shall we go next?
EPILOGUE — THE PROLOGUE
‘HORROR WRITER POSSESSED BY DEBUT AUTHOR’S VILLAIN.’ Fabrizia read the headline from her phone ahead of looking at Peter, her finely plucked brows raised high in question. ‘Whose brilliant idea was this?’
Peter was trying to gauge if his agent was angry or impressed, and he really couldn’t tell. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Spooky any more grief as he already owed him two bottles of the good stuff. ‘Mine . . . it was a bit of cross-promotion?’ he hazarded an explanation.
‘Well, between this and your involvement in the police investigation at 4 Kismet Way, I’ve had all the big five publishers on the phone expressing interest in the rights to the story.’
‘How did they even know you were my agent?’ Peter was stunned, delighted and intimidated all at once.
‘Spooky credited as much in his post, that’s how my network works . . . and keeps working. But this?’ She looked back to her phone and had a chuckle. ‘This is priceless!’
Peter breathed a sigh of relief — his agent was actually thrilled. ‘Have you had a chance to read Em’s story?’ He thought he was asking a little much, as he’d only emailed it over last night.
‘Of course I did.’ She placed the phone aside, to get down to business. ‘It had me up till all hours.’ She paused to smile sincerely, and Peter wondered if she realised how the suspense was killing him. ‘It’s wonderful, Peter, and a perfect accompaniment to Penelope’s novella.’
‘Yes!’ Peter jumped right out of his seat, clenching both fists to his chest in victory, ahead of air punching with his right. ‘Sorry, I’m just so relieved.’ He shook off the thrill, and stood still.
‘Perfectly understandable,’ she allowed with a smile. ‘But, there is a but.’ She motioned with her eyes for him to sit back down.
‘I know I’ll need to write about what happened to the characters in Penelope’s story.’ Peter realised there were some kinks to iron out.
‘Yes there is that. Between these two novellas we almost have a novel.’ Fabrizia came over to take a seat on the lounge next to him, which made Peter feel a little more wary than if she’d gone to sit behind her desk as it seemed to indicate the problem was personal, not business. ‘I feel this book is missing a prelude,’ she was frank. ‘A whole other story that links the other two tales together. Your story.’
‘Mine!’ Peter was horrified.
‘You’re the one who solved the mystery.’
‘I . . . had a lot of help,’ Peter objected. ‘And it was not of a conventional nature.’
‘Listen to me. This murder scene you uncovered at 4 Kismet Way gives that title a whole new meaning. And,’ she spoke up over his next pending objection, ‘we don’t want people thinking you are trying to capitalise on Penelope’s fame, like her last co-author. But if you tell the story of how this book came to be, then all the parts of this tale that need fixing will fall into place.’
Upon consideration, Peter couldn’t argue with that. Still, he was dazed by the proposition of exposing himself and his method in print. ‘I did have dealings with ghosts, Fabrizia.’ He decided he must come clean with her about that. ‘People are going to think I’m a loon.’
‘And what do you think of the other writers you’ve met?’ Fabrizia posed, not batting an eyelid at his qualms.
‘They’re all a bit eccentric.’ Peter smiled, conceding her point.
‘Who cares what people think, so long as they buy your book?’ Fabrizia encouraged. ‘People love a good ghost story, especially one you can prove.’
Peter was feeling braver now. ‘So, if I do as you suggest?’
‘Then, get ready to whip up some hype over your debut novel; we have media interviews and meetings with publishers lined up back to back all day.’ She slapped his knee to dispel his shock as she stood.
‘Whoa, seriously?’ Peter felt he’d gone from dipping his toes in the shallows of publishing, to being flung straight into the ocean.
‘Seriously.’ She moved to collect her bag from her desk.
Peter was expecting it would be ages before he’d have to face any media — debut authors were seldom cast into the limelight, and the prospect was as exciting as it was nerve-racking. He knew all the facts of the case, but at the same time, he must be careful not to give away too much of the plot. He’d once wondered, when the book was done, if he’d feel naive or proud of his achievement, and the truth was he wasn’t going to get time to even think about it.
‘You look petrified.’ Fabrizia was obviously amused by how green he was. ‘Did you think writing the book was the difficult part?’ She laughed. ‘My dear young man, that’s just the prologue, now the real work begins.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TRACI HARDING is one of Australia’s best loved and most prolific authors. She has published several bestselling books and been translated into several languages. She lives on the beautiful Hawkesbury River in NSW.
ALSO BY TRACI HARDING
THE ANCIENT FUTURE TRILOGY
The Ancient Future: the Dark Age (1)
An Echo in Time: Atlantis (2)
Masters of Reality: the Gathering (3)
The Alchemist’s Key
THE CELESTIAL TRIAD
Chronicle of Ages (1)
Tablet of Destinies (2)
The Cosmic Logos (3)
Ghostwriting
The Book of Dreams
THE MYSTIQUE TRILOGY
Gene of Isis (1)
The Dragon Queens (2)
The Black Madonna (3)
TRIAD OF BEING TRILOGY
Being of the Field (1)
The Universe Parallel (2)
The Light-field (3)
THE TIMEKEEPERS
Dreaming of Zhou Gong (1)
The Eternity Gate (2)
AWOL (3)
The Storyteller’s Muse
COPYRIGHT
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2016
by HarperCollinsPublish
ers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Traci Harding 2016
The right of Traci Harding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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ISBN: 978 0 7322 9941 5 (paperback)
ISBN: 978 1 4607 0315 1 (ebook)
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Harding, Traci, author.
The storyteller’s muse / Traci Harding.
Storytellers — Fiction.
Deception — Fiction.
A823.4
Cover design by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio
Cover image by Colin Anderson/ Getty Images
The Storyteller's Muse Page 32