‘Where World’s Meet’ Free on Amazon on 17 and 18 May: Below, Some Comedy for Testing Times: A Ludicrous Conversation Between Man Vampire Kenrick and His Siren Housekeeper

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Free on 17 and 18 May on Amazon.com

And Amazon.co.uk here

Kenrick fingered his teeth. “As for your complaints about the slaves, these later efforts should make more satisfactory domestics, also adding to the numbers of my private guard. Besides, you also are yourself remiss. You promised me that late hypocrite’s notes. I have yet to see them, though you squander time on ineffectual journeys to Plas Planwyddan.”

“I am setting them in order, in the little spare time I have: hence my complaints.”

He ran his cold glance over her. “Then do not dally.” Her lips thinned again as he went on, shifting uncomfortably. “It must be some hours before I recover those chest wounds. Dare I risk a last sup of your blood for a tonic?”

She touched her own teeth. “You said that of the last you took. You forget, Mr Kenrick, you supped heavily from me on your return. I believe I turn too far for you to take from me. Still, if you care to risk it…”

“Let me smell you.” Lunging, he brought his nose close to her throat, and now entirely vulpine, sniffed, his glassy eyes as bright as silver coins. Even as she flinched back, he pulled away, grimacing. “Faugh! You stink of the kitchen.”

“Naturally, when I have been working there, as you have failed to give me an adequate cook. That girl has much to learn, and the creature Galahad is only good for a kitchen scrub. The others areonly fit for the outdoors.”

Kenrick’s voice rose high, “I asked that lout Williams to use those vulgar looks to draw in some healthy wench to set my teeth a-tingle, but he had the insolence to deny me, protesting that he is too much occupied in training the knights. He added that a surfeit of blood is not good in the early stages of return – much he knows of it. I must expect a protracted convalescence, since that hulking lout still complains of pains in his innards, nigh on a week after his return.

“I suspect he malingers. His scrub is yet human. Doubtless he lingers like a gourmet, relishing every mouthful, while refusing to share her. Why he is so selfish about that slut, when that Frenchman must already have sunk his fangs into her, I cannot fathom. The fellow has become arrogant. I see how things must go in a household without a master.”

“Also, one without a mistress,” she said.

“Humph! I must try you; your blood may yet be good for a last tonic.” Kenrick broke off to wipe away the saliva that had gathered at his lips.

Guinevere Gwynne’s face hardened as she lengthened that fine, long neck above her swelling bosom. “Bite, then.”

“I suppose I must endure the odour –” he pressed his mouth to her creamy skin, and then wrenched away again, shuddering in revulsion. “Ugh! You even taste of grease!”

“That is fat from the roasting fowl merely. I felt the sting when it spat as I bent over it earlier. That will not trouble a hot blooded man vampire.”

“It troubles me, Madam,” Kenrick drew out a handkerchief to wipe his lips. “You stink like to a greasy kitchen wench.”

“Maybe even as that little girl, your late wife’s favourite Katarina. did once, before Dubois took her away],” mused Guinevere Gwynne. “As I say, what can you expect, if I must perform as cook?”

“It is not good enough,” said Kenrick with dignity. “You degenerate into a slattern, Madam. I really cannot have a housekeeper who smells. I see I must ready the remaining slaves to take on this work.”

“For now, I must return to my work in the kitchens. Later this evening, I may find time to set the late Professor’s notes in order.”

As she tuned away, a knock sounded at the door. She opened it to two of Kenrick’s latest knights.

“Master Arthur said we must report to the Great Master,” droned the taller, who looked like a grotesque version of Reynaud Ravensdale.

“Come in if you must,” Kenrick snapped, “Why do you intrude?”
Guinevere Gwynne drew away as they passed.

In the first, Kenrick had clearly tried to reproduce the Grecian proportions of the original, but his skill had fallen short. The figure was athletic, with perfectly proportioned head and columnar neck. But while it had a recognisably Grecian profile, its nose coming straight down from its forehead, its mouth had a twisted look, while its eyes were so wide set that they gave an impression of a divergent squint, and its heavy eyelids and thick eyelashes had been overdone to the point where they drooped as if it was half asleep. Its skin, like Lancelot’s, was far more human than that of the others. The bright chestnut waves made a thatch so coarse that it stood up in wild disorder.

Its associate was less flamboyant. It was a version of Galahad, short and squat, with oversized hands. Its coarse hair was seemingly made of twine, and it had elementary features and a lipless mouth resembling a letter box. Its glassy eyes were prominent and lashless, while its large jaw and chin gave it a pugilistic look.

Both were dressed in tattered, ill fitting livery.  Perhaps it was that same livery once worn by the sullen manservant who used to startle visitors by shouting up from the basement. Their clothing was disordered, and their skin oozed the inevitable green life fluid from cuts to face and hands. They bowed low as their master glared at them.

“Why does Arthur send you? Does it concern our enemy?”

“Great Master, Lancelot sent us out to get the eggs and potatoes from the farm down in the village. As we passed the inn, a group of men in uniform surrounded us, shouting,‘ In the King’s Name!’ They said we were vagabonds, they knew our sort, and we must join the Royal Navy to fight the French.”

Kenrick drew himself up. “A press gang, I take it, though it’s far inland for them. I’ve heard tell two brothers from hereabouts do that work, and like enough have been sent after Arthur by one of those cowardly yokels. The insolence to mistake my liveried servants for vagabonds! Naturally, you escaped them?”

“We said that the Great Master would not permit it.” They said, “Shite upon your Great Master’ and seized us.”
It stared at a snorting noise from Guinevere Gwynne, then resumed, “I threw one over the hedge. They were angry, setting on us with clubs. We seized these, but tore our skin. Then they set up an outcry, saying much of, ‘Damn my eyes’ and ‘’ Ware that blood, Fred; they have the pox as like as not,’ while trying to rub our gore from their own skins.

“Then they ran from us, with the one who had gone over the hedge coming up fast behind. We chased them, and the locals hooted and clapped their hands. But some made an outcry in the Welsh tongue, and one spoke in English, ‘Kenrick’s monsters have scared them away; it is not good enough.”
“In future, you must be on your guard: prevent them at all costs from ambushing Master Arthur as an ex-sailor. Now be on your way.”

When the creatures had left, Kenrick turned a cold glance on Guinevere Gwynne, who laughed helplessly.

The book is still on offer on Amazon here here

Dark Comedy: Extracts from ‘Where Worlds Meet’ – A Sequel to ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois’.

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I wrote earlier of how dark comedy can be just the thing in hard times, and recommended some works by current Indie authors.
Here is some dark comedy of my own in the form of two extracts from the sequel to ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois‘. In this, the vampire Kenrick makes an attemtped return to this world, along with his handsome confidential manservant Arthur Williams and a troop of monster men trained to follow his bidding.

Naturally, there is a violent clash with Émile, who joins forces with his cousin and fellow ex-highwayman Reynaud Ravensdale and his now wife the former highwaywoman Isabella. But Émile’s own wife Sophie has her own ideas about how to combat the menace…

A stooped, brawny, leathery looking creature with hair like string had appeared by the side of the lane. It stood glowering from eyes which might have been a pair of marbles pushed into its lumpy face. It wore tattered breeches and shirt, and addressed them in a grating drone: “Filthy robbers’ lackeys.”

Longface was lost for words. How had talk of Lord Ravensdale and Émile Dubois’ villainies reached the ears this outcast? He spoke with lordly disdain. “What, you poor lubbard?”

The man – if this was human –seemed eager to explain: “Your masters were smugglers and highwaymen. The Great Kenrick says they belong on Tyburn, and you lackeys as well.” It moved to the middle of the road, slightly crouched.

Longface raged. “You lubbard: Judge Jenkins cleared His Lordship and me. Mind what you say of your betters.”

“Master Kenrick says it was corruption.” The being was contemptuous.

“Kenrick’s dead, fellow; don’t you know that?” Longface spoke pityingly, but he suddenly he felt a chill, as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

“He’s too clever for that, though I like Arthur best, when he smiles.” Suddenly, it clapped a hand to its lipless mouth, its voice rising to an anxious gibber. “Arthur will be angry I talked. If I drive you away, maybe he won’t.” It moved forward in a threatening crouch.
Longface brandished his whip, while Guto roused from astonishment to bunch his fists: “Get away with you!”

The being blundered into the bushes at the side of the lane to force its way through. Longface saw a thorny bush catch and tear one of the exposed arms, and green droplets appear on the leathery skin.

Guto shook his head as if to clear it of the grotesque image, and then stared down the lane, to where the donkey was tethered. “Diawl: There’s the donkey cart down there, by the Kenrick place!” …

…Longface settled with dignity at the desk in the library. He saw that it was his duty to warn Lord Ravensdale (his former robber chief) about these dangerous goings-on, particularly as his cousin Monsieur had mixed with this mad inventor before. That, of course, would have the young hotheads rushing up looking for trouble, but there was nothing he could do about that, except give them the benefit of his wisdom.
He was proud of his lucid and diplomatic letter.
‘My Lord Ravensdale and Your Honour Monsieur Dubois, It is with regret that I set pen to paper as has no wish to be worrying of Your Honours, but things is come to a pretty pass here, with a green simpleton walking about the mountain as bold as brass as can’t be human as with my own eyes I’ve seen green blood coming from it.

It is fair insulting in free talk of Your Honours as belonging on Tyburn when Judge Jenkins un-outlawed us all after that time when, though loath to blow my own trumpet, I did save your life.

The green simpleton do maintain that Kenrick ain’t dead, and him a bitter enemy of Monsieur, who has been most obliging in appointing me here.

It’s a fact that insolent ex-sailor ain’t dead neither as I’ve seen him, and after the flighty French wench we call Ellie who we had to take from that place and won’t let us see her neck, so I must ask her aunt to deal with her to maintain propriety as they say. So I must pick up my pen and trust to Your Honours’ discretion as one who has ever been willing to give you the benefit of my wisdom.

Yours Respectfully

James Higgins.’

Unluckily for him, this note, along with a handful of others, fell from the postboy’s sack into the mud when he took up another’s challenge to a game of pitch and toss at the roadside against an outbuilding wall.

It was only one that he missed seeing. Days later, the farmer spotted it and took it to the post office, and it arrived torn and illegible ten days late at Dubois Court. 

Blissfully ignorant of this, Longface began to make up an envelope. “Them females. When I saw them shameless hen robins at it as a lad, I learnt all I needed about their flighty ways.”

For those interested in buying the whole novel, it is on offer at Amazon  Here