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section7mfuDedication: I just lost one of my best friends, my ex-husband, the father of my eldest daughter. He was a part of my life for forty years, although we had been divorced for most of that. We realized early on that we weren't good married, but great as friends. He always championed my writing and actually helped me get my first computer. I am flying soon to Florida to visit my daughter and her family. I'm going to miss my friend. RIP David S. 1960-2016.
~~~
The castle loomed ominously before them out of the darkness. The swirling fog played eerily amongst the many openings in the broken walls, and throughout the battlements atop some of the ruins. The sheer size of the castle up close was enough to give them pause for a few moments. The brilliant brassy light that they had witnessed from Sir Thomas Bean’s estate was currently nowhere to be seen. Everything was bathed in what little moonlight could penetrate the fog, which seemed to have a living, breathing aura about it, surrounding the two agents, chilling them with its very presence. The grass underfoot was long and wet, and clung to their legs, reminding Napoleon uncomfortably of thin strands of seaweed. Unwelcome images of kelpies flitted through his mind.
Illya found one of the openings that were at ground level. “Napoleon,” he whispered, “There is a clear entrance into the main courtyard. I believe we will find the construction inside this area.”
An inkling of danger prickled Illya’s senses, just as Napoleon turned towards him, from his own exploration of the wall. A sudden pounding of hooves thundered out of the darkness, yet neither man could see anything.
Though he tried to draw his Special, Napoleon found himself swept up into the air by a man on horseback. He fought briefly, until he was clouted painfully on the back of the head. He saw a bright flash of white, and then everything was black again.
In the meantime, Illya had managed to evade his captor. When the man reached for him, the agile Russian twisted around, and managed to jerk the man’s leg and get one foot into the stirrup and mount the man’s horse. Unfortunately, it was the wrong stirrup for Illya to mount facing forward, so he simply mounted in front of the man, and a (literally) running battle ensued.
Illya was in the process of turning the THRUSHie into mincemeat when suddenly a shot was fired in the air. The horse, well-trained, simply stopped. From a dead gallop. Both men were thrown to the ground. As Illya desperately tried to quickly sort himself out, he started to stand, only to find himself face to face with the barrel of a THRUSH rifle—being held by the most breathtaking—and most deadly woman he had ever seen. Illya sighed. “Chyort.”
He looked around. Napoleon was kneeling in the grass, his hands cuffed behind him. Two THRUSH goons had their rifles trained on his head, their fingers on the triggers. And though there was blood running incongruously down the side of his face, the bastard was wearing his most urbane expression and charming smile. He tipped his head in deference to her exotic beauty. “Lady Olivia, I presume?"
~~~
The castle loomed ominously before them out of the darkness. The swirling fog played eerily amongst the many openings in the broken walls, and throughout the battlements atop some of the ruins. The sheer size of the castle up close was enough to give them pause for a few moments. The brilliant brassy light that they had witnessed from Sir Thomas Bean’s estate was currently nowhere to be seen. Everything was bathed in what little moonlight could penetrate the fog, which seemed to have a living, breathing aura about it, surrounding the two agents, chilling them with its very presence. The grass underfoot was long and wet, and clung to their legs, reminding Napoleon uncomfortably of thin strands of seaweed. Unwelcome images of kelpies flitted through his mind.
Illya found one of the openings that were at ground level. “Napoleon,” he whispered, “There is a clear entrance into the main courtyard. I believe we will find the construction inside this area.”
An inkling of danger prickled Illya’s senses, just as Napoleon turned towards him, from his own exploration of the wall. A sudden pounding of hooves thundered out of the darkness, yet neither man could see anything.
Though he tried to draw his Special, Napoleon found himself swept up into the air by a man on horseback. He fought briefly, until he was clouted painfully on the back of the head. He saw a bright flash of white, and then everything was black again.
In the meantime, Illya had managed to evade his captor. When the man reached for him, the agile Russian twisted around, and managed to jerk the man’s leg and get one foot into the stirrup and mount the man’s horse. Unfortunately, it was the wrong stirrup for Illya to mount facing forward, so he simply mounted in front of the man, and a (literally) running battle ensued.
Illya was in the process of turning the THRUSHie into mincemeat when suddenly a shot was fired in the air. The horse, well-trained, simply stopped. From a dead gallop. Both men were thrown to the ground. As Illya desperately tried to quickly sort himself out, he started to stand, only to find himself face to face with the barrel of a THRUSH rifle—being held by the most breathtaking—and most deadly woman he had ever seen. Illya sighed. “Chyort.”
He looked around. Napoleon was kneeling in the grass, his hands cuffed behind him. Two THRUSH goons had their rifles trained on his head, their fingers on the triggers. And though there was blood running incongruously down the side of his face, the bastard was wearing his most urbane expression and charming smile. He tipped his head in deference to her exotic beauty. “Lady Olivia, I presume?"
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Date: 2016-12-09 06:37 pm (UTC)