Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #14 (4.3)

  Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

An enraged Dracula stabs the blacksmith after he killed his own wife. What will the repercussions be? See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale. Enjoy!

Dracula #14 (4.3)

The blacksmith clutched at the knife protruding from his chest, no doubt intending to remove it. As if that would make any difference to what was happening or save his life.

“Please… please…” His voice barely rose above a whisper in stark contrast to the boisterous bravado he’d displayed earlier.

Dracula knew his time was running out, and he could be discovered at any moment, but he couldn’t resist toying with the blacksmith, even in death. “Please what, little man?” He leaned in toward the dying man, pressing his own hand over the other’s upon the hilt of the blade.

“You can… you can end this. Keep me alive. Make me… like you…”

Dracula threw back his head and roared with laughter. So now the idea of being strigoi was not so bad, was it?  

Bogdan must have mistaken the laughter for actual amusement. Breathing heavily, he clasped Dracula’s hand weakly, almost expectantly. Hope lived in his eyes, but not for long. Dracula shook him off with a disdainful sneer even as he pressed the knife harder, deeper into the blacksmith’s heart. “If I did not do it for her, why do you think I would do it for you?”

Bogdan made no reply, but Dracula had not expected one, for as the saying went, dead men tell no tales. And the blacksmith was indeed dead.

And not a moment too soon as the church door burst open. Dracula braced himself to face an onslaught of villagers, prepared to do what he must to survive the encounter. But, to his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with Avram and his priest friend. He didn’t have to look into Avram’s eyes to know he was appalled at what he was seeing.

Avram seemed rooted to the spot, as if unable to respond. The priest, however, seemed to be the more capable of the two men at the moment. He rushed back the way they had come and quickly dropped the bolt into place that would secure the door from outside intervention, although Dracula was unsure why he did so. Did he wish to be trapped inside with one such as him? Or did he have the misguided notion that he could somehow overtake the vampire and rid the village of his presence? That idea was laughable, of course.

“Oy gevalt!” Avram exclaimed at last. He pulled himself from his momentary shock and hurried to kneel by Dracula, sparing but a brief glance at the dead blacksmith. “Why has this happened? Have you taken leave of your senses? Have I not warned you about this?”

Dracula gestured toward the body of the dead woman behind him. “He killed her, Avram. His own wife. He wanted to kill me, but she threw herself between us and he murdered her.” He knew he must sound as baffled as he felt. This had certainly not been his intention when he’d come here that evening. Even if he did not love her, he would never have harmed her. Her death was senseless and needless… her husband’s was necessary and justifiable. He would not feel either guilt or remorse for the fool’s demise.

The priest chose that unfortunate moment to join them. Dracula tensed, prepared to attack if necessary.

He hoped that would not be necessary.

“Don’t.” Avram laid a warning hand upon his arm, his tone brooking no argument. “We don’t have time for that. We have to figure out what we are going to do.”

Do? What was there to do? What was done was done. Unless, of course, he needed to deal with the priest, despite Avram’s warning not to do so.

“We can’t just return to the castle as if nothing has happened.” Avram glanced at the priest then back to Dracula. “And we can’t just stay here either, waiting to be caught.”

“You have done nothing. And I have done nothing wrong.” He cast a baleful glance at the priest. “And please spare me any of your homilies on the evilness of murder, priest, for I am not in the mood.”

“I would not waste my breath on attempting to proselytize you,” the priest said. “I would be willing to pray for you, though. For your immortal soul.”

“Gunther, please.” Before Dracula could tell him how foolish he was, Avram had risen to his feet and ushered the priest aside, talking to him in hushed tones.

 Dracula found a grim humor in Avram’s attempt at secrecy. “You know I can hear you, right?”

“Yes, you are quite the busybody,” Avram replied. ‘But even so, hush for a moment, will you, while we try to work this out?”

Dracula’s scowl at Avram’s words deepened when he thought he saw a trace of a smile on the priest’s face. Why was the man so damned calm? Two people dead inside of his church should have warranted more of a reaction, surely?

And why was he sitting here waiting for Avram to decide what to do?

Maybe because Avram made most of the decisions involved in their lives. Dracula simply lived. It was up to Avram to make that possible.

Just as Dracula reached the limits of his patience, the two men returned. Avram seemed resigned, but the priest he could not read.

“We have to leave here for a while,” Avram said.

“A while?” Dracula frowned. “What do you mean by that? And where do you intend we should go?” He never even questioned that Avram should accompany him, that was a given. Avram was in his service, after all. Where Dracula went, Avram went.

“As long as it takes for people to forget,” Avram said simply. “We need money, so I think we shall go to Vienna. I’m sure you are missed there.”

Dracula tried not to groan. Ah, the things one was forced to do in order to stay afloat.

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #12 (4.1)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Dracula has been interrupted in the midst of his tryst with the blacksmith's wife by none other than the blacksmith himself. This can't end well, can it? See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. And don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #12 (4.1)

“You’re not Doina!” The blacksmith appeared to be baffled, as if by simply crying out his wife’s name she and she alone would appear before him.

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” Dracula replied caustically. He vaulted gracefully over the top of the pew and took up a defensive stance in the church aisle, facing the blacksmith. He assumed that his paramour would have the common sense not to show herself and would remain out of sight where she was. To show herself would be the opposite of having a clandestine meeting. Besides which, admitting to adultery wasn’t a great idea for either of them, but most especially for her. “I am certainly not your wife. And now that we have agreed on that, your presence in this place is no longer required so begone.”  He waved one manicured hand in a shooing motion.

The man’s brow furrowed, as if he were still trying to make sense of the situation. Considering where he spent most of his evenings, he was undoubtedly intoxicated. Even when sober, he was no great thinker, so how could one expect any more of him when he was clearly in his cups.

“But the old woman said…” Bogdan shook his head, as if attempting to clear it.

Dracula narrowed his eyes. Old woman? What old woman and what had she said? One possibility came to mind, but he pushed the thought aside to be dealt with at another time.

“I said begone!” he bellowed, his patience having finally reached an end.

As if something had just occurred to him, Bogdan pointed one accusatory finger at Dracula. “Who are you and why are you here? And why do you wear such ridiculous clothes?”

Such an addlepated gollumpus. How dare he insult anyone’s sartorial taste, much less Dracula’s, when the blacksmith clearly had all the fashion sense of a dead cow while the vampire had his clothing custom made at great expense. “I am your better is who I am! And you are no one! You should kneel in my presence, you stupid peasant.” The nobleman was becoming flustered by this fool’s inability to do what he was told, although if he thought about it, kneeling at his feet wouldn’t exactly get him out of the church, which was his immediate goal.

“You sound as big a twit as that bastard in the castle.” Rather than kneel, Bogdan apparently had decided to stand his ground, not having the sense to be afraid of the man before him, and not having the intelligence to realize who he must be. He crossed his arms across his broad chest and glared at him defiantly, having momentarily forgotten his purpose in coming to the church.

And for the moment, so had Dracula. Until he heard an unexpected voice from behind him.

“Do not insult him. Dracula’s a better man than you are, Bogdan. And much kinder.” Doina had left the refuge of the pew. Now she stood by Dracula’s side, her arm linked through his, his presence no doubt giving her the courage to defy her husband in this way, when normally she was the meekest of women. Her words took him by surprise. He was unsure in what way she thought he’d been kind to her, as that had certainly never been his intention, but of course she was correct in recognizing him to be the superior man. That fact had never been in dispute.

Dracula gave the woman a critical glance, hoping she’d had the presence of mind to pull her skirt back into place and was gratified to find that she had. Wouldn’t want to give her husband the wrong idea as to what they’d been doing. Although her dress was as it should be, one glance at her kiss-swollen lips, lust-glazed eyes, and wanton expression left little doubt as to the nature of their interrupted activities. Not that it mattered if he were being honest with himself. Their very presence together here, alone and unchaperoned, was more than enough reason for her husband to entertain suspicions toward his wife. How could he expect the villagers to think any differently.

Damn. This was not the way he’d anticipated spending this evening. He could just picture the smug expression on Avram’s face when he learned of what occurred here. The self-satisfied grin as he said Didn’t I tell you this would happen? Better you should have listened to me.

Dracula grimaced. He suspected he would have to blur this idiot’s memory before he could allow him to leave. This might be a good time to sever his connection with the woman as well, erase himself from her consciousness. Fun was fun, but this fun had apparently run its course.

All the color had drained from the blacksmith’s face. His mouth hung open in stunned disbelief as he stared between his wife and the other man, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

“Doina, what are you saying? Haven’t I been a good husband to you? Ask anyone in the village, they will tell you. How could you do this to me”—he gestured toward Dracula with one meaty hand—with…with this?”

Far from being insulted, Dracula didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for this poor fool. So he did both, which helped nothing, as now the blacksmith’s temper had returned, and so had realization.

“You are him,” he cried indignantly. “You are that twit in the castle. The one Avram works for.” He spat on the ground in open contempt. “The others…they’re afraid of you. But not me. You are nothing compared to me.”

‘Go away, little man,” Dracula hissed. “You have no idea what I am capable of and you do not want to know.”

Without warning, Bogdan leapt at the vampire. In his raised hand, he held a knife. Dracula had no reason to fear, but he didn’t calculate on Doina throwing herself before him, taking the full force of theblow.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #11 (3.3)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

If Avram thought things were bad before, they just got worse as an old woman tries to warn everyone in the tavern about strigoi. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's going with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #11 (3.3)

“Strigoi,” the old woman repeated. “Heartbreakers. Seducers of women… and of men.” A few of the men in the room squirmed uneasily at her words, while others playfully poked their neighbors and chortled in amusement. “The eyes in the night that see all,” she continued. “The mouths that demand, that steal the lifeblood of others in order to remain forever young.”

“What are you talking about?” one person called out, followed by another and another until the question echoed throughout the room. “What do you know, bunica?” “What tales are you trying to pass off as truth?” As quickly as they’d begun, the voices suddenly stilled. A hushed murmur swept over her listeners, as if they were afraid of what she might say, Avram among them.

“I know much.” The woman cackled. “I see much. Things you are too blind to see. Things you do not wish to see. That which is in front of your face.” As she continued to babbly, many of the men began to rise from their seats. Avram couldn’t tell if they were more frightened or angry at what they were hearing. For a second, he thought she stared directly at him, as if she actually knew something. An unpleasant chill gripped him, but then the moment passed, as did she.

Remain calm.

 The woman began to slink about the room, gliding amongst the tables, her wild gaze darting from person to person, daring them to say something—anything—to refute her words. “Let me ask you this, o wise men of Bistritz. Where are your wives and daughters now, while you are here getting drunk?”

“At home, of course,” a voice replied, followed by a chorus of similar sentiments, Bogdan’s rising above the others. “My Doina is where she belongs, waiting for me to come home so she can take care of me.”

“Tell me then, since you are such clever men, why are your women so pale? Why do they hide their necks from the light of the sun? Why are they so tired lately?” She cast accusatory glances from one man to another. Some of them appeared dumbfounded, as if they were considering her words.

Avram was fairly certain she was casting aspersions on the men’s women as an act of revenge for the way many of them had treated her in the past, making baseless accusations. While he could understand her motives, he did not appreciate them. Especially not now, when Dracula was very possibly involved in the very behavior she was insinuating was taking or had taken place in the village. Despite his protests to the contrary, did he consider it possible that Nico was taking blood from the blacksmith’s wife?

Unfortunately, he would not put it past him. When the vampire wanted something, he had a tendency to throw caution to the wind. They would most definitely have to talk about this… on their way out of town. There was no doubt in Avram’s mind that this was the only option they had, under the circumstances The important thing for now was to divert the attention of the townspeople so that he could ascertain for himself whether Dracula was still in the village or not.

Please, God, let him be gone.

If the beldame continued in this vein, the superstitious villagers might jump to the misguided conclusion that Dracula was guilty of something. Who knew what they might do then, acting under the influence of mob mentality.

And even if perchance Dracula was guilty of something, Avram felt the need to protect him, even if he was weaker than the nobleman. Physical strength would not necessarily stand him in good stead. In fact, it would probably worsen the situation. The only practical solution was to leave for a while and let things cool down.

Extended travels, far from Transylvania.

“You know nothing, you disgusting hag.”  Bogdan again. He advanced drunkenly toward her. A couple of his companions attempted to hold him back, but he broke from their well-meaning grip until he stood directly before the old man. He shook his finger in her face, but she never flinched. “You’re just jealous of her, of all the women, because they are what you are not. Young and beautiful.”

That was definitely a matter of opinion, but Avram held his tongue.

“Begone with you, foul creature!” Bogdan finished dramatically. Avram couldn’t help but admire his fearlessness, although his stance seemed a little bit shaky due, no doubt, to high consumption of alcohol.

At that unfortunate moment, a large gust of wind shook the building, rattling the windows. Bogdan’s legs gave away and he collapsed onto the floor, looking stupidly around him.

“You have angered the gods with your stupidity!” the woman cried as mass confusion ensured. Avram wanted to tell them it was only wind but knew he could never make himself heard above the chaos.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Avram sighed. Gunther was in the thick of it once more, attempting to calm the anxious men. They began to slip out of the alehouse, no doubt heading home to see what they might find. Bodan’s cronies abandoned him there on the floor, scattering like chaff before the wind.

Such fair-weather friends he has.

At least he wasn’t going anywhere. But that thought was premature, as Bogdan staggered to his feet. Most of the customers had fled, leaving a disgruntled owner and servers with little to do but clean up after them. The old lady wore a grin of self-congratulation at the effect she’d had on people she had no reason to like. But her work was not done.

She leaned down toward Bogdan and whispered in his ear.

“Church?”

Avram lurched to his feet, desperate to prevent the blacksmith from leaving. But he found his way blocked by the rude young man who’d served them earlier. Avram had barely registered who he was when the other man swung at him and Avram fell unconscious to the floor.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #10 (3.2)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Things are going all wrong at the alehouse. Someone has upset the blacksmith in regards to his pretty wife, and Avram fears something worse is to come. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #10 (3.2)

A collective gasp surged through the alehouse. The ensuing silence rendered the argument between the two men all the more audible, encouraging listeners.

“I simply said she seems very happy lately. That’s all I said, Bogdan. You are making a fuss over nothing.” And yet the tone of the speaker’s voice implied so much more. What did he know, what could he have seen, and did it somehow relate to Dracula?

How could it not?

Avram focused his attention on the far side of the room. Bogdan and the other man, whom Avram recognized as one of the local farmers, faced one another in an almost pugilistic stance—Avram wasn’t sure if they intended to fight or dance. Bogdan’s fists were raised, so perhaps dancing was not on the agenda, but his opponent appeared to be more amused than intimidated.

“And why wouldn’t she be happy? She’s married to me,” Bogdan boasted. Such a schlemiel. The blacksmith’s claim of marital bliss drew a few indiscreet chuckles from the eavesdropping customers. Even the servers had stopped what they were doing to openly gape at the growing spectacle. “She has a good home,” he continued. “Plenty of food to eat, clothes to wear, and she has the wisdom and guidance of my beloved mother, who lives with us.”

Avram remembered Bogdan’s mother. Her presence wasn’t the blessing the blacksmith thought it was, and he was sure Doina felt much the same way. No wonder she was drawn to the handsome nobleman. Also, too bad she was drawn to him. She would have been better off having an affair with one of the villagers. A more normal man.

A dark shape passed in front of Avram’s line of sight. Only then did he realize that Gunther had pushed his chair back and was crossing the room in the direction of the two combatants, swiftly closing the distance between them. Suddenly fearful for his friend, Avram rose as well and quickly followed him. If Bogdan became any more riled up than he was, he might strike out blindly and not realize he was hitting a priest.

“And lucky she is to have you,” Gunther inserted smoothly as he took up a not very subtle stand between the two men. “I’m sure Doina realizes what a good husband you are and appreciates the life you and your mother have given her.”

“That’s just what I said, Father,” the other man claimed. More snickers followed. Bogdan swiveled his thick neck left and right, glaring at his neighbors, but he was apparently too slow to catch anyone red-handed.

“Sit back down, Bogdan, never you mind him,” one of the blacksmith’s friends urged. “Here, come have some more beer,” another chimed in, joined by the other men at his table in a drunken Greek chorus.  Avram watched the blacksmith seem to visibly relax at the entreaties of his friends. He said a brief prayer of thanks beneath his breath as Gunther coaxed the second man back into his seat with his own companions, before turning toward Avram with a wink and a smile.

 To quote the bard, all’s well that ends well. Avram made a mental note to buy his friend another drink… or two.  He’d more than earned that for his timely intervention. He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as he patted Gunther’s shoulder and they returned to their table. This night could not end soon enough for him.

As if on cue, conversations resumed once more, the noise level rising accordingly, and business continued as it had been before.  Avram hoped Dracula was done by now and back at the castle. Or at least somewhere outside the village. And hopefully practicing discretion, although sometimes that seemed to be too much to ask of the man, despite the fact he was old enough to know better. He glanced with renewed interest at the bread and cheese on the table. A little nosh wouldn’t hurt. He reached for the bread, but his hand froze in mid-air.

“Strigoi.”

Apparently, his momentary peace of mind had been premature.

That single foreboding word rang out, too loud for Avram’s taste, overriding the other voices and bringing all conversation to a halt once more. It might just as well have been the voice of Jehovah for the effect that it created. The speaker was an elderly woman whose shapeless dark brown cape resembled a shroud. This woman, whose name everyone had forgotten, was usually referred to as the old bunica, or grandmother, if not worse. She was known about the village for being peculiar—no one knew where she came from, she had no known family, and she lived alone, a large black Transylvanian hound her sole companion. Plus, further damning her in the eyes of the villagers, she followed the precepts of no known or acceptable religion. Some referred to her as the Witch of Bistritz, but Avram did not hold to such nonsense. However, he knew that even though she was an object of irrational fear, she was very superstitious herself, and a likely candidate to spread unfortunate rumors. Especially when it came to his master. He sometimes wondered if Dracula had known her in her youth but he’d never asked him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

All eyes turned toward the woman, as if anticipating she had more to say. And they were not wrong.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #9 (3.1)

  Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

While keeping an eye on the village blacksmith to keep him from finding out about Dracula and his wife, Avram converses with his friend, Father Gunther. But something isn't quite right and Avram knows it. See what's going on in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what they're up to. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #9 (3.1)

Gunther fell silent. Tendrils of anxiety wrapped about Avram’s heart.  Why was it beating so fast? Something was wrong. and whatever it was it was about to get worse. Someone dropped a glass, which shattered, and he visibly flinched at the explosion.

 This was no time to panic, and no time to borrow trouble. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Maybe he should step outside for a moment. He needed to think, but without all the noise. He glanced across the room. Bogdan was still there. One less worry.

He started to rise, but Gunther’s hand on his coat sleeve stopped him. His friend leaned across the table, speaking in a low voice that necessitated Avram’s full attention. “I’m afraid they’re beginning to talk, Avram.”

“Who is? What do you mean?” He slid back into his chair and moved it closer, keeping a suspicious eye on their nearest neighbors, although he didn’t think that’s who he meant. Whatever Gunther was about to say, though, he knew it wouldn’t be good.

The tavern door blew open unexpectedly. Avram jumped again, then reprimanded himself for his skittishness as one of the villagers entered and slammed it shut behind him. All sound ceased for a split second. “Watch out for the stafi,” the newcomer announced before joining Bogdan’s table.

Avram shivered. Not because he believed in the Romanian equivalent of the Irish banshee, but he knew these people did… and more. He turned his attention back to Gunther.

“I mean the people of the village. They notice things, some of them. Such as how young Dracula looks. Still”

“How young he looks? He is young,” Avram bluffed. “How old do you think he is? Older than me, yes, but…” He gave up that losing argument before it was even truly begun. Despite his many years of existence—Avram wasn’t even sure how old the vampire was, to be honest—he looked to be no older than a man in his thirties, while Avram was already forty.  A well-preserved forty, to be sure.

His lips had turned suddenly dry. He picked up his ale and drank. How was he going to explain this?

“Some of the older people still remember his father and they say he looks exactly like him.”

“Is that surprising, that a son should look like his father?”  Of course that wasn’t true. Dracula’s father died centuries ago, none of them had ever seen him. And of course, Dracula resembled his “father”, as he was both father and son. How else to explain his many years as lord and master of the castle other than by changing his name on a regular basis so the villagers would not suspect his actual longevity? His ruse had worked for many ears. This was not good.

Calm down and listen. He lightly strummed his fingers across the brim of his hat on the table before him and waited.

“Avram, you’ve been my friend ever since we were little. I understand that you feel you owe him a debt. He took you in after your parents died. He’s been like a father to you, when most of the village turned its back on you.”

“Not your parents,” Avram pointed out. “Or you. Your family has been nothing but good to me. And things here have improved.” He ran one hand through his too curly black hair, the bane of his existence. ”Mostly.” Some people could never forgive him for being Jewish.  “And yes, I do owe Dracula my life. I don’t know how I would have survived without him. So please can we have no more of this nonsense?” In his heart, Avram knew he should hear more, learn what was being said. But he was suddenly more afraid than before that something truly bad was about to happen and he could do nothing to stop it.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt because of him.” Gunther paused, as if searching for the right words. What, was there something worse than what he’d already said? Avram grew more apprehensive as silence stretched between them, until at last, the words were spoken. “The old stories are being revived.”

Scheiss.

Avram didn’t bother to ask which stories Gunther meant. He knew only too well.

“Old wives’ tales, nothing more.” His lies fell limply onto the table between them like wounded birds… or bats.  Perhaps it was time to go abroad. There were women in other countries who would love nothing more than to see their favorite Count once more… women with money, which they badly needed. Not to mention, there was a certain Parisian publisher who was waiting for more material of the erotic kind that Avram wrote so well, even if Dracula did take the credit for his writing. That was a practicality, since it was easier to sell his books if people thought they were being written by a mysterious handsome nobleman than by a Jew.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Avram. You’re my best friend and I would do anything for you. Are you in any danger?”

The question caught Avram by surprise. Danger? Him? “From what?” His hand stilled on the hat brim, his brow furrowed as he met his friend’s gaze.

“I think you know what.” Gunther patted Avram’s hand. “You’re a good man, a very loyal friend. I just worry for you, that’s all. Worried that you’ve given your allegiance to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Avram forced a chuckle he was far from feeling. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gunther. I think you are a good man too, perhaps a little naïve. I mean, to believe such tales?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head, as if to dismiss the very idea.

“What are you saying about my wife?” An angry roar rose above the hubbub of the alehouse. All heads turned toward the source of the disturbance. It was Bogdan, who else?

Avram had a bad feeling all hell was about to break loose.

to be continued

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb