[stmercy2020]

Dicey has a fan!  ;D

I had about given up on this story- it just seems like no one has anything to say about it, good, bad, or indifferent.  So, for those of you who are actually enjoying this plot, as convoluted and involved as it is, thank KeithZX for inspiring me to continue.

Chapter Eight

Berry listened intently through Cheshire’s concert.  They were good, he thought, and more than good.  There was a connection, a marvelous synthesis of sound and spirit, a gestalt between them that made the music they produced so much more than simple notes and lyrics and rhythm.  Why, he wondered, this feeling of… foreboding?

They finished their set to loud applause, the audience surging to its collective feet.  In the midst of all that tumult Berry saw something that chilled his blood.  One of the people in the audience, he saw, wasn’t human.  She was tall and fair, beautiful in her seeming, but Berry recognized the signs.  They were being followed by a faerie.

Most people thought of the fair folk as benign if they thought of them at all.  Fairies were the beautiful people, the inspirations of legends, benefactors of mankind.  They forgot that there were older legends, stories in which the fair folk played their cruel games with humans to the chagrin of those poor mortals so caught.  Stories which rarely ended well for the mortal hero.

Berry felt instinctively for his own bodhrán, feeling the taut leather hide, the tough thongs that held it to the gracefully wrought ash frame.  His bone tipper was in his hand unbidden, but he knew that this would not be the time.  Carefully, so as to not attract the sidhe’s attention, he slipped the tipper back into his pocket.

*****

Nicole felt good about the concert.  She and Drifter had been a little off- off-tempo, off-key- since she had flirted with Dicey.  It wasn’t Drifter’s fault, she knew, it was more like she didn’t entirely trust herself, and it came through in her playing.  Drifter had been understanding, though- he had been concerned for her and for Dicey, and that was almost too much to bear.  Over the last several months she had been trying to put it behind her, and it finally felt like, tonight, she had done so.

Certainly there was none of the awkwardness in their music that had troubled them through rehearsals over the last several weeks.  They were playing at the top of their game and the audience was into it and they just fed off that, absorbing the energy and returning it, pure and unbridled.

After they finished their last song, some members in the audience stayed after- some to talk, some to ask for autographs, a couple actually wanted to help with teardown.  Nicole stayed at the front for a little while, but begged off before too long so that she could towel off backstage.  When she got back, Drifter had organized the few remaining volunteers and was chatting with a small, black man.  She thought she recognized him from before the concert, so she ambled over to say hello.

“Good evening, miss,” he beamed at her.  That was really the only word- his smile was broad and white, filled with good humor.  Nicole felt herself instantly at ease in his presence, as if she had known him for years and was just meeting up with him again after an extended absence.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m always good.  That was some mighty fine playing you did up there tonight.”

“Well, thank you.  It was fun, y’know?  A rush.”  Australian.  His accent wasn’t as pronounced as some, but Nicole was good with accents.  “So.  You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?  What brings you out here to our little patch of purgatory?”

He laughed.  “I’m sort of on walkabout, really, but I saw the flyer for your concert and just had to stop in.  I suppose you could say I came all this way just to see you.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, flicking a loose strand of long, copper hair out of her eyes, “you have to come out with Drifter and me for a little after-show party.”

*****

The forest floor was a tangle of soft underbrush and scrub-growth untamed by human hands.  Dicey’s feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she ran.  Behind her, the hounds growled and slavered, barking their savagery as they drove her further and further into the densest, darkest part of the wood.

Wet leaves slapped at her face and body, her loose shift plastered to her by sweat and fear and the constant, numbing mist.  Her breath was hot in her lungs, burning as she turned sharply this way and that, vainly trying to elude her pursuers.

One of the hounds surged forward, ahead of the pack, and Dicey turned just in time to catch him a glancing blow across the snout.  The blow sent a shock all the way up her arm to the shoulder, but the huge beast fell back, momentarily stunned.  Dicey sprinted away, the rest of the pack close behind her.

She stumbled, tripped on a barely concealed root and fell heavily to her hands and knees.  Behind her, she heard a menacing chuckle.  The master of the hunt was nearing, his jet-black mare anxiously chomping at the bit to run her down and trample her into the sod.

A night-bird screamed shrilly next to her head.  Again.

Dicey awoke suddenly to the shrill buzzing of her alarm.  This was the third night running that she’d had that dream.  It felt as if they were getting closer.  Her sheets were drenched, as was her nightshirt, and she stank of barely suppressed terror and dried sweat.

What the hell is happening to me? she wondered, not for the first time.  She stepped into the bathroom, stripped and got into the shower, turning the water up so hot that it was nearly scalding.  She let the burning water drive all sense of uneasiness from her, washing it away with the grime and sweat.

As the last vestiges of her nightmare left her, she barely remembered the last thing she heard, after the huntsman’s evil laugh, between the discrete sounds of her alarm.  She had heard the huntsman’s deep, gravelly voice:  “Soon, pretty girl.  Very soon.”

*****

Lisette had been noticing the elves’ increased activity for days now, and she was ready when they moved against her.  She was expecting it.  She was walking along one of the more secluded paths on the grounds of the Rolling Hills Retirement Community.  She had finally slipped the prying eyes of the watchful orderlies, and was enjoying the fresh, cool October air.  The orderlies meant well, she was sure, but she was too old and tough to really appreciate their efforts on her behalf.

She felt the slight change in the atmosphere, the shift in the breeze, and smiled grimly to herself.  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a handful of dark, metallic shavings and quickly arranged them in a rough circle around herself.  As she finished, a tall, impossibly tall, man stepped onto the path and cocked his head at her.  He was dressed in brown trousers and a green knit shirt, complete with soft leather boots and a silver charm medallion.

“And what does the emissary of the queen of twilight want with me?” Lisette asked tightly.

“Come, now, lady,” the elf replied, “you have been meddling in affairs that are beyond your kenning.  The queen would have you stop.”

“Just like that, eh?” she spat.  “I don’t think so.”

“So be it.  Our next meeting shall not be so cordial, then.”  The elf bowed and seemed about to leave, but Lisette already had the catgut in her hands and was weaving an intricate pattern.

“Not so quickly, elf.  I believe we have more to discuss,” she said, drawing a small, leaded crystal from her pocket.  “Much more.”  She tossed the crystal at the elf’s feet and barked a word in a tongue long-forgotten, binding the creature inescapably to her trap.

*****

Dasia shrugged her bookbag over both shoulders as she got her bike from the rack in front of Rogers High School.  High school was not proving any easier than middle school, that was certain.  It was a Friday, for God’s sake, and she had homework from four classes.  She had really wanted to see Ron tonight, but figured she ought to at least get her biology and algebra homework done, first.  She’s leave her social studies and French homework for tomorrow…

Biking down McTigue, she decided, pretty much on a whim, to stop in the Resurrection Cemetery and visit her Grandpa’s grave.  It wasn’t a huge stone, like some of the monuments here, but it was quiet and peaceful, shaded by several nearby trees on the Eastern end of the graveyard.  Dicey always called them marble orchards, she thought with a grin as she turned in the main gates and started down the path.  It was amazing to Dasia how well the tall hedges and the stone wall kept out the traffic noise from the busy surrounding streets.  It was as if she had somehow been transported to another world.

Dasia never saw the huge, dark beast that rushed from the shadows, barreling into her and crushing her to the ground.  She had a momentary sensation of pain, smelled the rancid, fetid breath, and heard the low growling voice.  “Pretty.  So pretty,” it spoke, the voice barely comprehensible as its weight pressed the air from her lungs.

*****

Cliff looked at his face in the mirror, not for the first time, hating how alien it felt to him.  Armanjani had told him the surgeon would give him a new look, and he hadn’t lied.  Inserts had squared his jaw and made his cheekbones more prominent.  He’d been given dentures to replace the teeth that he’d lost when that bitch hit him, and some of the fat in his face had been removed.  They’d even given him hair plugs to fill in the places where his blond hair had started thinning.  He was by no means pretty, but he was definitely different.  Now he was being coached on how to move- Armanjani didn’t want anyone recognizing him by accident.

Goodrun was not a stupid man.  He was violent and amoral, but he understood perfectly what was going to be asked of him.  He was going to have to get close to someone- someone who had reason to know him from his previous life.  He didn’t know what his next task would be, but, somehow, he didn’t think he was going to be expected to do anything as blatantly aggressive as he was used to.  That also disturbed him.  Armanjani had clearly picked him because he was controllable.  He accepted that- Armanjani owned him, and Cliff was smart enough to understand all that was implied by that ownership- but he didn’t intend to use him as the kind of animal he had been raised to be.

“Ah, at last,” Sattar said from the doorway, “I was beginning to despair of your ever becoming ready for your part in the days to come.”

Cliff turned to see the smaller man.  As always, Armanjani was dressed in an expensively tailored suit, perfectly fitted to his small frame.  He stood stiffly, almost at attention, his briefcase held in front of him, legs about shoulder-width apart.

“I think it’s time that we got you dressed for your new role.  Something in Armani, I think.  And you will need a new name as well.”

Cliff looked confused.  “What am I supposed to be?” he asked.

“Why, you are a record producer.  You will be investigating a band- Têtes Rouleront- and you will offer them a contract.  We wish for them to do a tour across the U.S., as well, from New York to California.  I will give you the details when you secure their agreement.”

“Uh huh.  What’s the catch?”

“None of them may know who you truly are.  You already know one of the band, but she cannot suspect you in any way.”

Cliff stiffened.  “Dicey Boudreaux,” he hissed.

[KeithXZ]

Thank you for continuing Dicey's story St Mercy.

There are two ways people read stories on the web.  All-at-once, and chapter-by-chapter over the weeks as they are written.

It is always harder for people to follow stories chapter-by-chapter over the weeks.

I've looked through the archives over at DtV, and I've found some fine stories that continued, and built, and then suddenly stopped after 4 or 5 installments.  The last 1/2 or the last 1/3 of the story was never written.

Looking back now, my suspicion is that the readers following along as these stories were written must have lost track of the plot.  Without readers providing feedback at the time, the authors probably figured their work was unappreciated, and moved on to something else.

But coming along later, and reading what was written all-at-once, is much easier.  There is no hint of what the past problem was.

I think that Dicey's story has the potential to become a very popular well-read story when it is complete.  People will sit down, and read chapter after chapter, over a day or two, and they will really appreciate the character development and plot twists.

I don't know what you have in mind, but Second Chance might need a full-length novel to tell its story.  That would be a pretty ambitious undertaking.  But, as I say, while people may have trouble reading it a chapter at a time, reading it continuously is much easier.

So far, you are doing very well.  I am enjoying her story very much.

(I do wonder what tools the site has if you make a wrong turn with the plot and want to go back and correct it.  The longer a story is, I suspect, the greater the likelihood of any author needing to do take a different branch.)

[stmercy2020]

Thank you for continuing Dicey's story St Mercy.

There are two ways people read stories on the web.  All-at-once, and chapter-by-chapter over the weeks as they are written.

It is always harder for people to follow stories chapter-by-chapter over the weeks.

I've looked through the archives over at DtV, and I've found some fine stories that continued, and built, and then suddenly stopped after 4 or 5 installments.  The last 1/2 or the last 1/3 of the story was never written.

Looking back now, my suspicion is that the readers following along as these stories were written must have lost track of the plot.  Without readers providing feedback at the time, the authors probably figured their work was unappreciated, and moved on to something else.

But coming along later, and reading what was written all-at-once, is much easier.  There is no hint of what the past problem was.

I think that Dicey's story has the potential to become a very popular well-read story when it is complete.  People will sit down, and read chapter after chapter, over a day or two, and they will really appreciate the character development and plot twists.

I don't know what you have in mind, but Second Chance might need a full-length novel to tell its story.  That would be a pretty ambitious undertaking.  But, as I say, while people may have trouble reading it a chapter at a time, reading it continuously is much easier.

So far, you are doing very well.  I am enjoying her story very much.

(I do wonder what tools the site has if you make a wrong turn with the plot and want to go back and correct it.  The longer a story is, I suspect, the greater the likelihood of any author needing to do take a different branch.)

Thank you once again for your kind words, KeithXZ, and apologies for getting the letters backwards in your name.

I sincerely hope that this story won't be that long.  I'm at about 41 pages, right now, and I think I might have another 50 left in me for this story, but we'll see.

I know that most readers probably find the chapter-by-chapter format frustrating.  It is bloody difficult to write a story of 50+ pages all at one go, though, and we writers need some encouragement.  One of the reasons I started writing the Sylph stories was, quite honestly, as an ego stroke.  I just get a little bitchy, you see, when I spend hours (and days, really) working on something and get zero feedback.  I'm not really greedy- I see stories out there that have several thousand views and, like, 5 responses, so I can't honestly say that I'm getting short-shrift.

And I write in MS Word, mostly.  I just cut, paste, and then apply the formatting changes.  If I find myself having to rewrite (God forbid), I would probably have to resort to posting an entirely new thread explaining what was going on and why.

I do maintain a rough outline in a separate file that I go back to just to keep me moving in the right direction, and I take copious notes about each of the characters that I create, many of which will probably never actually make it to print.  I mean, seriously, who cares that the Motorheads were inducting Joey into the gang and so needed him to commit a murder on film.  Nobody.  Nobody really needs to know that the most crucial piece of evidence introduced at their trials was the security camera footage from the warehouse, either, but I keep track of that stuff.  I'm just weird, that way.

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