Read Online She Walks in Shadows by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles
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face for the first and last time to Lavinia. She felt her blood freeze, her limbs spasm, and, as the boy did his final duty, thought her heart was going to burst. Atop her, Rist disappeared, separated into his component parts, unable to contain any longer the thing that had breached and used him.
Lavinia lay, exhausted, simultaneously emptied and filled.
Her father appeared out of the shadows, old Wizard Whatley whose first name, if ever he’d had one, hadn’t never been Christian. Lavinia drew her legs together with difficulty, but remained where she was, breathless, aching.
“Yog-Sothoth might be key an’ gate, but he still needs a little he’p with the keyhole,” he said and guffawed heartily as he kicked at the young man’s pile of discarded clothes. Rist was utterly gone, returned to the dust that floated on this plane and the one beyond. “If this’un dun’t take, theys alwus another.”
But Lavinia knew there’d be no other, that her seducing days were over and all those suitors she’d turned from her door would not call again; congress with the unseen had its consequences. Her father couldn’t see her properly in the firelight. The dancing flames and shadows made it seem as though her face still had mobility, but she knew as surely as breathing that she’d suffered some sort of a stroke. One side of her face was numb and she couldn’t make it either smile nor frown, no matter how she tried. The pride she’d always taken in keeping her lips together to combat her weak chin so she didn’t look like the worst of the decayed Whatleys — like some inbred halfwit — would no longer be enough. Her left hand was clawed. Her left leg felt like a thick length of wood.
She’d followed the promise of the books, but who knew they’d tell only half-truths? Her days as she’d known them were over. Her hopes of escape were thoroughly dashed. Lavinia Whatley was going nowhere beyond the boundaries of her woods. Her father reached down to help her. She was shorter when she stood, unable to straighten properly. The weight of what had been planted inside her seemed heavy already, though she knew there were a good nine months between her and birth. Lavinia shifted her posture to accommodate it, slouched, slumped.
The whip-poor-wills sang a jaunty tune as father and daughter made their way down off Sentinel Hill.
THE ADVENTURER’S WIFE
Premee Mohamed
IT WAS NOT till after the adventurer had been interred that we learned that the man had been married. My editor, Cheltenwick, did not even let the graveyard mud dry decently on his boots before he dispatched me to the widow’s house with instructions for a full interview, which I had no doubt he would embellish even more than his wont.
“Delicate sighs, Greene,” he said, hurrying me into a cab and pushing a fresh notebook into my hands. “A crystal-like droplet that rolls down her wan face. I want that, and a most particular description of the house, and don’t botch it up!”
“Do it your precious self, Wick-Dick!” I wished to shout, but it was too late and my career would be worth less than an apple-fed horsefart if I did botch this article. Henley Dorsett Penhallick had been a living legend for 50 years; any description of a life-imperiling venture or terrifying journey was known as a ‘Dorsett tale’ in these parts. One never knew of his comings and goings — he was either thousands of miles away, or hunkered in his house ignoring the doorknocker. Every few years, his publisher would release a booklet of his exploits, copied verbatim — at his insistence — complete with the spelling errors and lavish illustrations in his letters. I had seen a few around the newsroom, the long, elegant script tipped exaggeratedly over on its side, as if racing to get to its destination. I was quite sure he had never mentioned a wife. Everyone would have gone quite mad at such a discovery.
Indeed, I expected the house to be mobbed with reporters when I
Lavinia lay, exhausted, simultaneously emptied and filled.
Her father appeared out of the shadows, old Wizard Whatley whose first name, if ever he’d had one, hadn’t never been Christian. Lavinia drew her legs together with difficulty, but remained where she was, breathless, aching.
“Yog-Sothoth might be key an’ gate, but he still needs a little he’p with the keyhole,” he said and guffawed heartily as he kicked at the young man’s pile of discarded clothes. Rist was utterly gone, returned to the dust that floated on this plane and the one beyond. “If this’un dun’t take, theys alwus another.”
But Lavinia knew there’d be no other, that her seducing days were over and all those suitors she’d turned from her door would not call again; congress with the unseen had its consequences. Her father couldn’t see her properly in the firelight. The dancing flames and shadows made it seem as though her face still had mobility, but she knew as surely as breathing that she’d suffered some sort of a stroke. One side of her face was numb and she couldn’t make it either smile nor frown, no matter how she tried. The pride she’d always taken in keeping her lips together to combat her weak chin so she didn’t look like the worst of the decayed Whatleys — like some inbred halfwit — would no longer be enough. Her left hand was clawed. Her left leg felt like a thick length of wood.
She’d followed the promise of the books, but who knew they’d tell only half-truths? Her days as she’d known them were over. Her hopes of escape were thoroughly dashed. Lavinia Whatley was going nowhere beyond the boundaries of her woods. Her father reached down to help her. She was shorter when she stood, unable to straighten properly. The weight of what had been planted inside her seemed heavy already, though she knew there were a good nine months between her and birth. Lavinia shifted her posture to accommodate it, slouched, slumped.
The whip-poor-wills sang a jaunty tune as father and daughter made their way down off Sentinel Hill.
THE ADVENTURER’S WIFE
Premee Mohamed
IT WAS NOT till after the adventurer had been interred that we learned that the man had been married. My editor, Cheltenwick, did not even let the graveyard mud dry decently on his boots before he dispatched me to the widow’s house with instructions for a full interview, which I had no doubt he would embellish even more than his wont.
“Delicate sighs, Greene,” he said, hurrying me into a cab and pushing a fresh notebook into my hands. “A crystal-like droplet that rolls down her wan face. I want that, and a most particular description of the house, and don’t botch it up!”
“Do it your precious self, Wick-Dick!” I wished to shout, but it was too late and my career would be worth less than an apple-fed horsefart if I did botch this article. Henley Dorsett Penhallick had been a living legend for 50 years; any description of a life-imperiling venture or terrifying journey was known as a ‘Dorsett tale’ in these parts. One never knew of his comings and goings — he was either thousands of miles away, or hunkered in his house ignoring the doorknocker. Every few years, his publisher would release a booklet of his exploits, copied verbatim — at his insistence — complete with the spelling errors and lavish illustrations in his letters. I had seen a few around the newsroom, the long, elegant script tipped exaggeratedly over on its side, as if racing to get to its destination. I was quite sure he had never mentioned a wife. Everyone would have gone quite mad at such a discovery.
Indeed, I expected the house to be mobbed with reporters when I
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