Pentacle: A Self Collection by Tom Piccirilli

Author:Tom Piccirilli [Piccirilli, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Published: 2011-09-26T23:00:00+00:00

I camped a mile outside town and slept until dawn. The migraine that accompanied necromancy kept me down another two hours. It was nearly nine in the morning by the time I made Summerfell. A short strip of main street contained a fountain in the square, statue of a local revolutionary war hero, and the usual cannon. A lot of people were out mowing their lawns, which looked pretty trimmed to begin with. Verandahs, porches and gazebos were in abundance. These people liked to sit among themselves outdoors. A lot of well-kept gardens and white picket fences. I even saw a couple of women with parasols. We walked for a while. No dogs.

Time check, Self said. We drift back seventy years?

Someone's drifted a few centuries more than that to keep the ancient devices handy. Where's Maymon?

Church bells pounded out the hour. Families walked over for mass. He sniffed and pointed.

I stepped up the church steps and Self gave a shudder. I hate this place.

I know.

Too damn drafty. He scrambled down my thigh and hopped inside, nimbly avoiding the congregation as people filed in past us, greeting each other with good mornings and God blesses. An obvious stranger in my jeans, T-shirt and traveling satchel, I thought I might get a cold welcome, but the priest standing at the door shook my hand as I entered. Self loved churches and started looking up ladies' skirts, and I slapped him in the head, directing him down the aisle.

Four millionth spawn of a duke of Hell, Maymon hovered above the altar and eventually settled before a woman I took to be Sarah Grantham. Bird-heads quietly squawking, four tongues occasionally unfurling, he tried to make contact with her.

Can we break this inheritance? I asked.

No.

There's got to be a way.

Maybe, but you have no right.

I more or less shoved my way into the crowded pew two rows behind Sarah Grantham so I could keep watch on her. She was perhaps twenty, with hair pulled into one of those oddly-knotted ponytails that gave her an adolescent appearance until I saw the cast of her features. Natural, dark and lovely. Large almond eyes immediately drew my attention—expressive, slightly hard, perhaps even bitter. A single dimple to the left of her mouth, a splash of caramel-colored freckles across the forehead. If Rachel had looked anything like her sister then the witch-hunter had done an even more awful job on her than I'd thought.

She sat between an older couple I took to be her parents, each holding one of her hands. It was an uncommon sign of affection to see nowadays. Her father appeared to be a stereotypical accountant-type: thin, short, thick lenses. Distinguished pure silver hair worn conservatively close to his scalp, his starched collar creased his throat, speckled with dried blood from bad shaving cuts. A smile had been soldered weakly in place. Behind his glasses his gaze had the bleak flatness of someone who is a fraction of an instant from fainting.

Her mother was a petite

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.