by Jonah Hewitt
“That was a one-time deal, Sky! I thought we agreed never to talk about that ever again!”
“I wasn’t talking about you, scrapple-boy!”
“Shut up, Sky!”
As the arguing faded into the house, Lucy had to stifle a laugh.
Miles leaned in and whispered close to her ear.
“He really does taste like scrapple.”
Lucy laughed out loud.
“When…or why did you…” she began.
“Don’ ask!” Miles cut her off. “Ya don’ wanna know.”
Lucy laughed again and then looked down and realized Miles’ hands were still full of pizza boxes.
“Oh! Here let me get that for you.” She opened the screen door for him, but didn’t immediately follow him inside.
Miles was already a few steps inside when he realized she wasn’t following him.
“Aren’t ya comin’ then?” he said a little worried.
“Um, I just need a few minutes,” she said nervously.
“Aw right. Don’ be too long will ya? I can’t take too much of these blighters by meself.”
Miles went in and the screen door banged closed behind him.
Lucy stood on the porch and hugged herself for a half a minute and tried not to cry. For the first time since her mother died it seemed like maybe things were going to be ok after all.
She started to open the screen door when she felt something behind her, fainter than a breeze, softer than a whisper. It was odd. She had the distinct impression that she was being watched. She turned to look, but no one was behind her. It was just the drive, the garden, the stone lantern and then the woods. Still, just to make sure, she walked to the edge of the porch and looked again. There was nothing, not even a breeze. It was deathly still.
“Graber?” she called out, but there was no response.
She was about to turn and go when she looked down and noticed a package at the foot of the porch steps. She looked around quickly. Had Miles or Tim dropped that? No, it was definitely not there before. She leaned over and looked at it closely. It was a striped gold and black box, tied with a velvet bow. It was like one of those elaborate gift boxes from an extremely fancy high-end store, or at least that’s what they looked like in movies. Lucy had never been in an actual luxury store before.
Lucy looked both ways. She was afraid to leave the safety of the porch and wondered if it might be a trap. Then she quickly darted down, grabbed the box and raced back to the porch. She quickly turned around. No one was there. It was safe.
She looked at the gift box. It was beautiful. It was definitely not left by Tim or Miles. They didn’t have such high tastes. Sky could have left it, but it wasn’t his style. He wasn’t thoughtful enough to leave gifts, not without taking credit anyway.
Lucy pulled the ends of the bow until it slid off and opened the box. Inside was a set of pajamas, but not just any set of pajamas. The top was a short-sleeved, black silk Asian-looking thing – a cheongsam, Lucy thought it was called. It had a subtle but beautiful black-on-black brocade pattern that you could only see close up. The pants were a taupe silk crepe. They looked warm, loose and comfortable. There was even a matching pair of tatami flip-flops with black silk cord straps. It was all gorgeous and wonderful. They were the kind of clothes she always wished she could have but could never afford.
There was no note. The pajamas were the note, and Lucy knew instantly who had sent them and why. She looked out into the woods past the garden for a long while, but she never saw who she knew must be close by, watching. After a while, she closed the box, gathered the ribbon and walked inside, hugging the box tightly to her chest.
Inside, Tim had already found Lucy’s mother’s vinyl collection and her vintage Beocenter 3500 turntable. It didn’t take him long before he had found her mother’s single of “More than a Feeling.” Schuyler groaned but didn’t protest any more than that. With a slice of greasy pepperoni in one hand, Lucy started dancing while Tim did air drums and guitar. Even Schuyler and Miles joined in after a while, though Miles wasn’t much of a dancer. Lucy ate pizza and danced long into the night, as the song played over and over.
“Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all,” She thought, before Miles tripped over his feet, nearly knocking both himself and Lucy over before Schuyler swept in and caught her just before she fell. Miles landed on Tim.
The story of Limbo's Child continues...
Coming Fall 2012
The Silver Guitar
Book Two of The Dead Things Series
Lucy and Nephys face all new challenges and adventures in the next exciting book of the series, The Silver Guitar. When Moriro and Maggie uncover a plot in the courts of Death to kill the new young Necromancer, Maggie's daughter Lucy, they are forced to send Nephys back to the world of the living to protect and help train her. But getting back to the world above won't be easy. When Nephys departs on a treachorous journey to find a way back, Maggie and Hiero decide to investigate the evil plot by taking a short trip to edge of Hell itself. Meanwhile Lucy isn't exactly enjoying her new role as Necromancer. Her studies are boring and her new vampire bodyguards, Miles and Schuyler, aren't too happy about the arrangements either. Schuyler is bored with his new life as a baby sitter and still refuses to put on a shirt. For his part, Miles is uncertain of his new role as master of the vampire clan at Rivenden and fears he isn't up to the task. Things take a turn for the worse when someone starts mysteriously killing off the vampires and no one knows why or how. It all leads to a search for a mystical object with the power to control the living and the dead and our crew must stop it before someone uses it to kill the last of the vampires, and the Necromancer. Find out what happens to our crew next in The Silver Guitar and enjoy the following excerpt.
Jimmy placed the battered brown leather case on the counter and opened it slowly.
“Check this out.” He said confidently. “I think you’re gonna like this.”
Annie goggled at what she saw. It was a stunner, but not in a good way. What they say about books is also true about instruments, you can’t judge an instrument by its case, but in this example you almost could. It was metal body resonator blues guitar, but it was a mess. The body was all tarnished, black and brown and lots of other colors besides. The bridge was broken, the fretboard was all scratched up with the metal frets bent or missing. Several tuning pegs were broken, not that it mattered. The strings were all broken too and twisted up anyway. One corner of the body was even dented in as if someone had stomped on it, violently.
“Pretty special huh?” Jimmy said expectantly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Annie said flatly.
“C’mon Annie!”
“I’m sorry Jimmy.”
“Give it a chance willya?”
“No.”
“Not even for good ol’ times sake?”
“There never were any good ol’ times Jimmy.”
“But Annie…” Jimmy said despondently, but Annie cut off his next tack with a glance. They stood in silence for a moment.
“What happened to your old guitar anyway?” She said after a while.
“Well there was this promoter see and he had a girlfriend that was with the band…”
“Forget I asked!” She said cutting him off, “I don’t wanna know.” And she started closing the case on the dilapidated guitar.
“Annie please…” He said earnestly. Annie stopped closing the lid on the guitar. Annie looked him in the eyes, and for a moment she saw a trace of his boyish smile in them. The one thing she still loved about him. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option.”
Annie sighed through her nose. “Yeah Jimmy. I know it.”
“C’mon Annie, just pick it up, I know you’ll learn to love it.”
Like I learned to love you? She thought, but she didn’t say that out loud.
She slowly let the lid fall open again and looked down at the guitar, this time giving it a closer look. She hated how easil
y Jimmy could play on her emotions. It was in terrible shape, but it wasn’t a bad guitar. She hated to see good instruments get in this condition. She had loved to fix them up ever since her grandfather, and her father and all her uncles, had taught her the business. She had seen them turn worse junk into treasures. She loved watching them do it. And now that she was the last Markowitz at the Markowitz Family Music Store, she loved doing it too. She loved fixing broken things, hoping to turn them into something beautiful. Maybe that’s why she loved…had loved, she reminded herself…Jimmy, once upon a time.
“Oh okay.” She said at last and pulled the guitar out of the case.
Jimmy smiled. “I knew you would.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” She said. She hated that he knew she would. She picked up the guitar and tested its heft and general feel. It felt heavy, and a little out of balance, like there was something in the body, but it also felt sensuous to the touch, rich and solidly made.
“It’s got a be an eighty year old Dobro or a National for sure.” Jimmy added.
“It’s no Dobro or National, but it is old.” She said musing it over.
“Then what is it?” Jimmy said sincerely curious.
“It’s a nothing, that’s what it is.” Annie said flatly.
Jimmy looked disappointed. What Annie said was technically true, it wasn’t made by any national manufacturer, but that wasn’t the full story. Annie was playing her cards close to the vest. The truth was the thing was custom made from the body to the frets. It was more than just a guitar. It was a work of art, and it had been made by an artist, some master craftsman, probably back in the 1920s or 30s. She ran her hand lovingly along the neck and fretboard. Most necks were made of rosewood, this one was solid ebony, same with the head and tuner keys. The fretboard was inlaid with mother of pearl and black tortoise shell, which itself was inland with what looked like solid sliver in a filigree pattern. The frets were silver too, though many were missing and bent, and so were the strings. The body was the traditional shape, all metal, probably brass, which was unusual, but it was all silver-plated – that explained the dark brown tarnish – and every square inch of it was engraved in ornate leaves and patterns like you might find on a western saddle, except it was even more ornate. It had something of a Mexican and old world flair to it, as if it were made somewhere south of the border. She flipped it over and looked at the back. There were horseshoes and spurs and silhouettes of two rearing horses, with cowboys twirling lassos, and in between them was a large monogram, like a cattle brand, with the letters T and L inside a circle.
She flipped it back over. The one dented corner of the body wasn’t as bad as she had first thought, and everything else was reparable. Resonator guitars didn’t have big sound holes, and the whole thing was soldered shut, so she couldn't inspect the interior or the resonator cones, but it felt heavy, even for a metal guitar, like it had something other than the resonator inside it.
“Where did you get this thing?”
“Well that’s a long story…” Jimmy said rubbing his neck.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I didn’t steal it! If that’s what you mean. I found it if you really have to know.”
“Where? In a barn? It feels like it has a bird nest in it.”
“C’mon Annie…I just thought that with your skills, you could fix it up, make it like new. Do that magic that only you can do.”
She narrowed her eyes at him again. She hated it when he tried to flatter her, mostly because it worked. “I don’t know.” She said thoughtfully. She was having a hard time deciding what she wanted more, the guitar, or to disappoint Jimmy and his one big break.
“A one of a kind guitar like that? If it was fixed up, it could be worth thousands!” Jimmy implored her.
Annie bit her lip. She had to admit it to herself. She wanted the old guitar. Bad. There was something about it. It made her feel special just holding it, even just looking at it, and she wasn’t even all that in to horses and western stuff. It just made her feel so…confident. She set it back in the case and closed the lid.
“50% off of any of the refurbished or used guitars in the shop – nothing new. Final offer.” She said definitively.
“What?!” Jimmy seemed affronted.
“Final offer Jimmy, take it or leave it.”
Jimmy looked furious, but fifteen minutes later he walked out in a huff with a shreddin’ refurbished Gibson, and Annie had the old silver guitar and closed the register on two hundred and thirty-five dollars. She just knew he had money.
Congratulations! If you scrolled down this far you've found the secret prologues and secret epilogue to Limbo's Child. I wrote these chapters in order to get a better understanding of my characters' lives and motivations, but I dind't feel that they had a proper place in the book as I had originally constructed it. Still, I thought my readers might be interested in this additional material so I included them here at the end of the updated edition of the book. The prologues give background information on our two main villains, Hokharty and Amarantha, and more or less flesh out their back stories. The epilogue details what Amarantha was doing just after Lucy picked up her pajamas and went inside on the night of her birthday as described in the epilogue above. All three contain some minor spoilers and reveal to a certain extent, some future plot elements behind the story of Limbo's Child. Now I am of two minds when it comes to spoilers; sometimes I like to be surprised, but other times its fun to see the end from the beginning. So I leave the choice up to you. Don't say you weren't warned. - Jonah H.
The Secret Prologue
The House of Hokharty-Ra
Hokharty-Ra gently caressed the cheek of his young boy and only child, Hotep. The five-year-old was still sleeping in the arms of his mother on their bed. The boy stirred, and shooed away the hand as if it were a fly and then snuggled back into his beautiful mother’s shoulder and fell back asleep. The Horus Lock, a long lock of hair on the right side of the boy’s otherwise shaved head fell across his eyes. Hokharty smiled and gently lifted the lock from his son’s face and laid it neatly to the side. As he did so he said a prayer.
“Horus far-sighted, protector and savior, guard my son by this lock of hair.”
He gazed at them both lovingly a while longer, then kissed the foreheads of each, got up, tied his kilt around his waist and slipped on his sandals.
It was not yet dawn, but the house had to be blessed every morning. The Chief Magician to the Pharaoh Djoser could, of course, have servants attend to it, but he never let anyone attend to the important matters. It was his way.
As he entered the courtyard, he passed a cot lying behind some drapes to one side. Hokharty did not mean to wake the elderly occupant, but he was getting up from his bed all the same. Hokharty gently put a hand to the shoulder of the old man to plead with him not to trouble himself but to rest instead. The old man only smiled, shook his head and placed his hand on the hand of Hokharty, his eyes wet. He would not rest while his master was up. It was better to be a servant in the house of Hokharty than it was to be a master in the House of Pharaoh. No slave was ever whipped here or parted from their loved ones, and all who lived in the House of Hokharty-Ra knew that their master would one day be chief amongst his ancestors in the halls of the blessed and justified dead. The old man stood up. He would be at his master’s side this morning and every morning as long as he was alive.
Hokharty smiled. The two of them had performed this silent ritual every morning for the last thirty years. The old man went right away to light the fires before the gods’ statues for burning the incense. As Hokharty began his prayers, the old man was right there with a tray, holding the precious and fragrant spices and all that they required for the pre-morning blessing in the courtyard.
First, they blessed the North and invoked the Goddess Nut, the sky, and Geb, her brother, the Earth. They looked to the Imperishables, the immortal stars that never set beyond the horizon, and said prayers that their house and its occupants would
be likewise ever-lasting.
Then they turned to the East, and offered prayers to a trio of idols, Asari, Usa, and Haru-Ra, the Father, the Mother and the Son, gods of the underworld, life and light and the sun, protectors and saviors. They asked them to make their house prosperous and safe.
Then Hokharty turned south and said his own prayer to Set. His servant never joined him in this prayer and many in his house thought it odd that Hokharty-Ra bothered with the god of destruction and darkness at all, but Hokharty was meticulous in all things and never let anything go undone. The prayer was short and begged that no one in the house today would cause the god any offense. The old servant held the tray and wrinkled his nose at the idol of Set with its large ears and ponderous, long snout, but Hokharty had already turned to the West and the jackal-headed statue of Apnu.
This statue was the largest and most magnificent in his house. Hokharty smiled. He always left the god of the dead to the very last, because of all the gods, he was the only one he had ever met. Hokharty knew that when he died, Apnu would come for him and guide him to the halls of his fathers.
Hokharty reached for the incense on the tray but the tray was not there. He turned to see the old servant, but he wasn’t there either. Hokharty walked to the center of the courtyard. There, in the entrance to the house, the old servant was standing, trembling, shaking his head from side to side while slowly walking backwards. Hokharty almost went to him, but then he heard…voices–rough, angry voices. The old servant’s eyes darted to his master and his face implored him to run. Hokharty didn’t know what to do. He went to the edge of the courtyard, crouched low beside a pillar out of sight, and pulled the curtains around him.
From behind the curtains he could see what was happening. Rough men, low men, filthy and brutish and carrying improvised weapons had entered the house. Thieves. The guards at the gate were being thrown to the floor. The old servant was pleading with them. They were asking for the gold and the women. Then they asked about the master of the house. They were looking for ransom as well.