James Dreadful and the Tomb of Forgotten Secrets by Alan Creed EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Alan Creed
- Language: English
- Genre: Black & African American Fantasy Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
A Mortal Breakfast
The fire wasn’t hot.
Yet the ship burned.
The mizzen crackedunder the strain of the flames and tilted. The tortured
wood moaned. A flurry of sparks, reflecting over the boiling water of the
lagoon, danced frenzied in the chilled dawn air, and whirled over the
gunwale, some lighting on the wood there and turning to ash. The others
glinted off the underside of fish, jostled by the scalding water, floating
James was spent of screams.
His wide eyes were fixed on the glinting misericorde between the fingers
of the gruesomely burnt specter, whose crisp skull shone through the
charred flesh like a face through a melted plastic bag. The man threw a
portion of his cloak aside, sending a spiral of crackling sparks into the
smoky air like fireflies, revealing a belted scabbard glittering with silver
chasing and minute specks of flame. The pommel of his sword glowed like
a harvest moon as he placed his palm on it and leaned forward, a tiny beard
scintillating with gnat-sized embers on his burnt-black chin.
He held the dagger clasped between his fingers like a surgeon and slid the
end along James’s cheek, then down his neck and to his shoulder, the one
visible eyeball watching him with crafty humor. “Hmmmmmm,” he
breathed, sending a stream of smoke from his nostrils—a stream that
produced a cloud in front of James’s face. “It can’t always be a lazy day in
hell. But I figure I’ll just run it through yer eyeball—blade’s shit for
skinnin’. Bloody misericorde. Couldn’t yeh have a better one at hand, yeh
James was only marginally aware of his own frantic breaths—the sweat
gathering in beads on his forehead, the striking of his heart, like breakers
waxing in a storm. He wanted to close his eyes, but he dared not take them
off the nightmare leering over him. After what seemed like a minute, he
noticed the grotesque face had turned aside, looking at something out of his
peripheral. James couldn’t move; the terror had locked his muscles. But he
turned his head a little, trying not to take his eyes off the dagger. Still, he
was able to notice something small standing on the table near his face,
shouting like a mouse.
“Wait!” it was screaming.
“Wha’s this?” Rekenhowler growled. The misericorde was tapping a rapid
staccato against James’s left cheek.
“I said wait because you need him, you idiot!” the small voice shouted
It was Quizlow.
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