#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories Christmas Special: The Cleaner

This is the Christmas episode of my ongoing web serial, The UCF Stories, which I update weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin...

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through Goddess Rising, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Crowley however, was still up, having promised himself another chapter of A Guide to Inner Transformation before bed. And so it was that the only creature awake when the cleaner came knocking was a rather large, grey rat.

A pair of rubber-soled shoes landed with scarcely a sound on the kitchen lino. The cleaner paused for a moment, removing his balaclava to wipe perspiration from his face with a black handkerchief. A spare little man, the cleaner had the sort of face that could lead to a legitimate charge of “sneaking” even while sat in an armchair drinking tea. The sort of person for whom close-fitting black clothing had been specifically designed, despite the discomfort writ large upon his face as he adjusted his trousers.

Setting his backpack down carefully on the kitchen table, the cleaner producing a net, a large sack and a pair of what appeared to be army surplus night vision goggles festooned with extra lenses. He was particularly proud of the goggles, his own design, each of the lenses enchanted to see through a different type of magic.

Replacing the balaclava, the cleaner pulled on the goggles, thumbing the power switch. His vision swam for a second until the goggles came online, the kitchen now a fuzzy, speckled green. He crept towards the door.

* * *

Crowley almost squeaked with excitement. In that last chapter he had finally found what he was looking for. It was all so ridiculously simple, he thought, slapping his paw to his forehead. Crowley began to murmur a chant.

* * *

Aveena was never quite sure afterwards whether the sound of Crowley's book falling off the sales counter, or the cleaner stepping on the squeaky floorboard in the passage woke her. She sprang from her makeshift bed in Goddess Rising's stockroom poised for action and crept to the door. Slowly pulling the door open just a little, she glimpsed a particularly disagreeable aura padding slowly into the shop. Aveena shrugged, ink running into her hand until she was holding a wickedly sharp knife before opening the door and creeping out into the passage.

* * *

Sweat matting the fur of his snout, Crowley continued to chant. He felt decidedly strange, as though something grew inside him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate but he persevered, the book suggested he only had one shot at this.

With a flash of eerie blue light, Crowley's rat skin split from snout to tail, a grey cloud blossoming out into the shop. Writhing, the cloud expanded upwards as it coalesced into a roughly humanoid shape.

The eerie blue light played havoc with the cleaner's night vision goggles. He was fumbling with the settings when he heard a man's triumphant shout. Clawing the goggles from his face, the cleaner stared bewildered at the bald, portly man standing naked before him in the shop. The cleaner was sure he hadn't been there a few seconds earlier.

'At last!' roared Crowley.

Phut, phut. The cleaner's silenced pistol spat twice, the bullets catching Crowley neatly in the heart.

Crowley's body slammed into the lino, his outstretched arm pulling a stack of books from the counter as he fell.

The cleaner sucked in lungfuls of air to ease the trembling. He was still wondering where the man had appeared from so suddenly when Aveena slipped the knife between his ribs.

* * *

'Nay laddie, I have no clue who he is,' said Jamieson pulling the balaclava from the body leaking all over the shop floor.

Swazzle was none the wiser now he could see the man's face, though he almost swallowed his tongue when Botchett exclaimed, 'By the gods, it's Nick!'

Swazzle, Pogmorton, Jamieson and Aveena all looked expectantly at Botchett.

'Allow me to present Nick Christmas,' Botchett said sheepishly, 'an elf formerly in the employ of a certain Mr. N. Claus, like.'

'An elf?' chorused the Pixies, Jamieson and Aveena.

'Elves are a myth,' said Swazzle.

'Or ith it juth the way they walk?' sniggered Pogmorton.

'No, really, an elf.' Botchett lifted up Nick's hair, revealing a pointed ear.

'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Aveena.

'Anybody got something I can collect the blood in?' asked Jamieson, eyeing the puddle in which Nick lay. 'Elf blood's worth a fortune if,' he coughed, 'you know the right people.'

Further discussion was cut short when there arose from outside such a clatter. The assembled company ran down the passage, throwing open the back door to find a large red sleigh complete with nine reindeer neatly shoehorned into Goddess Rising's back yard. A large man in a fur trimmed red suit clambered laboriously from the driving seat.

'Hello Noel!' shouted Botchett, waving. 'How are you, bonny lad?'

'Canny for a young 'un, Botchett!' replied Santa, 'How's yersel?'

'Can't grumble, like. By the way, how's the sleigh running? My VTOL system for the reindeer working out alright?'

That explained the panniers strapped to the reindeer's sides, thought Swazzle.

'Canny, man, very canny. I'd never have got it in here without that reverse thrust option. Glad I let you talk me into it.' Santa beamed.

'Howay in then, have a glass of summat,' said Botchett, 'then perhaps you can help us out with a little problem.'

'Problem?' Santa waddled towards the door, a sack dangling over his shoulder. As he stepped through the door Santa caught sight of the elf's body. 'Nick bloody Christmas!'

'We were wondering if you might have any ideas what to do with him, like?'

'Do with him?' bellowed Santa, 'Do with him?' He kicked Nick soundly in the ribs. 'I'll feed the bugger to me pigs, that's what I'll do with him.'

'Don't ask, like' whispered Botchett as Swazzle opened his mouth. Swazzle shut his mouth.

* * *

Suitably fortified by Mistress Botchett's Midwinter Spiced Sloe Gin, Santa threw the elf's body into the sleigh. Botchett stood with his arm round his wife's shoulders on the back step with the Pixies and Aveena, each clutching a small neatly-wrapped gift from Santa's sack.

'No peeking mind,' shouted Santa with a wave as the sleigh wheezed into life, 'or they'll turn into coal and sticks.' He winked, pulling on a red leather flying helmet and goggles while the steam pressure rose. The reindeer pawed the ground as steam ran along the pipes to their panniers.

A light winked green on the dashboard and Santa flicked the reins.

'Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!' He winked at Botchett, shouting over the roar of the sleigh's engines, 'They love that bit!'

As the sleigh began to rise slowly into the air, steam blasting from the turbines in the reindeer's panniers Santa yelled, 'Rudolph! The beacon!'

A red glow sprang from the nose of the lead reindeer as the sleigh banked to the right and shot into the night sky.

* * *

Crowley moaned softly. Opening an eye, he put a paw to his head, wincing as he felt the lump on the back of his skull. That was one hell of a dream, he thought. Feeling something sticky on his fur, Crowley examined his hand, for a moment more curious about the pads and claws than the drying blood covering his palm. Realisation dawned as he gazed past his paw to the furry body, tail limp against the cold lino.

'Bollocks!' muttered Crowley.

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Thanks very much for reading. Now, if you fancy something a little darker, may I respectfully point you in the direction of my Deck The Halls story, 'Tis the Season to be Jolly. Consider it my Christmas present to you, dear reader.

to one and all!

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories Christmas Special: The Cleaner

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #31: Infestation

This is episode 31 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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Bishop Barclay watched the entirety of Rev Beresford's video footage in silence, his eyes glued to the TV screen. When Pogmorton's hand emerged from the cauldron he jumped, rattling his tea cup, and smiled apologetically at Rev Beresford. Only when the video had finished did he speak.

'Very interesting, Austin. I think we may be able to use this witch.' The bishop glanced over his shoulder at the imperfection hanging in the air. 'There's the Book for a start.'

'I am not sure she will be able to help us with that, Your Grace.'

'Why ever not, my dear man?!'

'She said something about only the one who wove the original enchantment being able to dispel it...'

'In that case,' Bishop Barclay interrupted, 'She has aided us immeasurably by raising that, that...'

'I believe it is a pixie, Your Grace.'

'Yes, quite. By raising that pixie from the dead. It sounds to me as though we are already halfway there. She just needs persuading to get it to aid us a little further.'

'I'm not so sure...'

Bishop Barclay flapped his hand for Rev Beresford to be quiet, cocking his ear towards the fireplace.

'Austin, is it me, or is your fireplace singing?'

'Pardon, Your Grace?'

'Shush and listen, man.'

Together they both listened, straining to catch any hint of sound emanating from the fireplace. Rev Beresford, being a little hard of hearing, heard nothing. Bishop Barclay by comparison, became quite animated.

'Where does the chimney run in this building?' he asked, beaming.

'Err...there's a fireplace in the shop, Your Grace, but it was bricked up before I bought the building. There might even be one in the cellar, I believe that was once servants' accommodation, but with these old legs,' he indicated his walking stick, 'I haven't been down there for years.'

'No matter.' Bishop Barclay dismissed Rev Beresford's frailty with a wave of his hand. 'Perhaps I ought to take a look myself.'

'Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble, Your Gra...'

'Nonsense man! It would be my pleasure.'

'Well, only if you're sure. Access to the cellar is through a trapdoor in the floor of the shop.' Rev Beresford held out a key from his waistcoat pocket. 'This opens the connecting door to the shop at the bottom of the stairs. Just inside the front door.'

'Jolly good,' Bishop Barclay beamed as he rose and took the key. 'Thank you, Austin. I shall return shortly.'

* * *

Swazzle and Jamieson stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide in terror as the Draig's song drifted up the chimney. Suddenly, Jamieson sprang into action, wrenching open Mistress Botchett's larder and proceeding to shovel handfuls of bacon and sausages in to the stove's firebox.

'Och, c'mon laddie, give me a hand.'

Between them, they managed to get through Mistress Botchett's entire week's stock of breakfast ingredients before the Draig stopped singing, its song replaced by the sound of munching. The aroma of a cooked breakfast wafted out of the stove and Swazzle was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't put some eggs on to fry when Jamieson froze.

'Shite! There's somebody on the stairs,' and with that he vanished.

Swazzle was rummaging around for a frying pan when Jamieson re-appeared moments later.

'This is serious laddie. Get everyone up, wands at the ready,' he urged, 'While I go and prepare a little something of my own for our visitor.

Within moments Swazzle had assembled most of the basement residents at the bottom of the stairs, dismissing their questions with a wave of his hand and shushing them into silence. Jamieson appeared shortly thereafter, explaining the Bishop was having trouble getting the key to turn in the lock. He winked.

'It won't hold him for long,' Jamieson continued. 'Now here's what I need you to do...'

* * *

Bishop Barclay cursed under his breath. Why on earth didn't Rev Beresford maintain this old lock, he wondered as he jiggled the key. Eventually he managed to get it to turn and was soon hauling up the trapdoor to the cellar. Snapping on the torch from his pocket, Bishop Barclay set his foot on the top stair and tentatively began to descend.

* * *

As the Bishop's foot made contact with the illusory floor Jamieson had created, a group of Pixies shuffled forward and pointed their wands at the sole of his shoe, just in time to stop it sliding straight through the illusion. A second group did the same thing with the Bishop's other shoe, and together they began an awkward dance as Bishop Barclay set out to explore the apparently deserted cellar.

After several tense minutes of wandering to and fro, Bishop Barclay headed back to the stairs and began to climb, calling up towards the shop, 'You were right, Austin. There's no sign of anything down here.' The assembled Pixies grinned, breathing a collective a sigh of relief.

* * *

After exchanging pleasantries with Rev Beresford, Bishop Barclay bade him farewell and headed back to his car. Sinking into the air conditioned warmth of the leather seats he sighed.

'Thomas?' he called to his driver.

'Yes, Your Grace?'

'When we get home you'd best call the cleaner. It seems Austin has an infestation in his basement.'

The black Jaguar slid out of Gallows Close into the morning traffic.

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This week also marks the release of the final episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 15 over at Nishi's blog Breathing With Butterflies. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #31: Infestation

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #29: Resurrection

This episode is number 29 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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The little Pixie hand gripped the side of the cauldron, gobbets of the foul liquid dripping from the tips of its fingers to sizzle in the embers of the fire. For a few moments all was silent before Aveena drew in a huge shuddering gasp. Pogmorton broke the surface simultaneously, hacking up great lumps of the cauldron's contents as he supported himself shakily on the side of the cauldron with both hands. Rivulets of it ran down his face and arms, coating a swathe of the cauldron with bubbling, foul-smelling ichor.

Swazzle could not help himself from a sudden intake of breath at the sight of his old friend swinging his leg gingerly over the edge of the cauldron and half climbing, half falling out of its embrace to land with a thud on the ground next to the fire. After a few moments of silent chest-heaving, Pogmorton wiped the sticky liquid from his eyes, rolled over and scanned his surroundings. Their eyes met and Swazzle's breath froze in his throat. It is Pogmorton, but it isn't, he thought as he caught sight of the flat, dead look behind Pogmorton's eyes.

Recognition seemed to dawn on Pogmorton's face, he grinned weakly at his friend before collapsing to the ground again. Involuntarily, Swazzle started forward, stopping only when Aveena waved him back. The witch had begun to stir but had not recovered her strength sufficiently to stop Pogmorton when he suddenly stiffened, raised his head and sniffed the air before falling upon her bleeding leg and lapping like a dog at the blood oozing from her wound.

Following a short struggle, Aveena managed to at last dislodge Pogmorton, who scampered a few paces away, drew his knees up to his chest and whimpered like a wounded puppy. Aveena eventually reached her knees, staunching the blood with the bandage she had placed next to the cauldron, all the while murmuring to Pogmorton in that sing-song voice parents use to calm frightened infants. Gradually this seemed to have an effect, Pogmorton's body uncoiling as the whimpering subsided. He allowed Aveena to wrap him in the blanket she had ready for the purpose and lead him to the circle's edge.

Swazzle found himself drawn forward even before Aveena beckoned to him. Forming a door in the circle's edge with her finger, Aveena passed a shivering Pogmorton through into Swazzle's arms before sealing the gap and beginning another ritual to close the sacred space.

'Am...am I alive?' Pogmorton whispered as Swazzle lead him towards the back door of Goddess Rising.

'Yes. Yes, I think so,' replied Swazzle trying to ignore the haunted look in Pogmorton's eyes. Mostly alive, he thought.

* * *

Following a brief flurry of activity all was calm in Mistress Botchett's kitchen. The children had been packed off to bed and it had been suggested in no uncertain terms to Master Botchett that he might like to go and find something useful to do elsewhere. Pogmorton, still swaddled in Aveena's blanket, reclined in Botchett's rocking chair, Swazzle sitting beside him on a stool at the kitchen table while Mistress Botchett bustled about, making tea and smothering thick doorsteps of fresh bread with honey.

'Just the thing when you've been re-born,' she muttered with more conviction than she felt.

Under the circumstances Mistress Botchett felt she could forego sniping at Swazzle about the scaly tail still dangling from the front of her now battered stove. Had it not been for the Draig's predilection for Gnome flesh, she could almost have liked the thing, it seemed a dab hand at keeping the stove fire going. There again, she considered having to feed the stove less wood small recompense for the possibility of being devoured any time she fancied a cup of tea.

* * *

Rev Beresford stood, leaning heavily on his cane as he shut off the video camera he had pointed out of his bedroom window upstairs at the rear of Goddess Rising. Lathered in a cold sweat and squinting from intently studying the camera's small monitor, Rev Beresford trembled with more than old age as he made his way to his study and picked up the phone.

'Your Grace? Hello, Your Grace, it's Beresford. Pardon? Yes, I apologise about telephoning you at this hour, but this really couldn't wait.' Rev Beresford went on to explain what he had just witnessed and video-taped.

'As you wish, Your Grace. First thing in the morning. I'll see you then. Goodnight, Your Grace.'

He replaced the receiver. Well, he thought, this was a turn up for the books, and no mistake.

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This week also marks the release of the twelfth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 12 over at Emma Newman's blog Post Apocalyptic Publishing. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #29: Resurrection

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #28: The Amulet, The Witch And The Womb

This episode is number 28 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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It was the night of the dark moon, and since Botchett had “fixed” the flickering streetlamp in the back lane, its intermittent orange glow no longer a distraction, there was little to disturb Aveena as she sat cross-legged in the back yard of Goddess Rising, only the faint traffic noise from the ring-road and infrequent bursts of merriment from revellers at the pub on the corner.

The basement residents were under strict instruction to remain inside and to keep away from the small, barred window that provided the only natural light into the cellar. Only Swazzle remained, hovering outside on the back step after helping Aveena with her preparations. Hopping from one foot to the other, not sure whether it was fear or excitement he felt at the coming ritual, he was sure of his embarrassment at seeing Aveena naked. He had never seen one of the Big Folk without their clothes before, male or female.

Aveena sat in the centre of the circle she had constructed, her back to Swazzle, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the small fire she had built in front of her, onto which she carefully placed a small iron cauldron. To the left of the fire lay a wickedly-sharp looking knife, the firelight reflecting writhing serpents in its blade. Next to that, three small crystal phials. These Swazzle recognised. One held Pogmorton's blood, gathered at the time of his death, another held Twinkle's blood, taken at the same time. A third was filled with Rushalka's tears, Swazzle still had a knot in his stomach at the way he had followed Aveena's instructions at Rushalka's hospital bedside, provoking her sobs with the blunt news of her brother's death. A little way off nestled the final item, a dull green stone the colour of phlegm and about the size of a hen's egg.

This was Lady Mandrake's amulet, a simmering malevolence seeping from it to the point that Aveena had placed it within its own circle. A circle within a circle. Swazzle was secretly relieved he had not had to have anything to do with the amulet. He had seen the effect obtaining it had had on Aveena's relationship with Botchett.

As the witching hour approached and the liquid in the cauldron gently warmed, wisps of steam beginning to curl into the chilly night air, Aveena began to rock gently backwards and forwards. Dead on the stroke of midnight, how did she know, Swazzle wondered, Aveena rose and began to whisper, the chant rising to a gentle murmur as she turned to her left and moved slowly round the circle.

Swazzle blushed and tried to avert his eyes as Aveena came around the circle towards him but found he could not, his gaze drawn to the Pogmorton tattoo on her thigh. He could have sworn it looked different about the eyes, clearer, glittering. Must be the firelight, Swazzle thought as Aveena turned her back on him, continuing her circular journey.

As the ritual progressed over the next half hour, Swazzle's rising unease made him wish he had not asked to be present. A ghostly mist swirled around the circle, drawn from the earth as Aveena passed, curling and eddying in the wake of her passage, forming a sharp edge where it met the circle's edge. Within the mist spectral shapes started to appear, among which Swazzle could make out a fox, a raven and several other, more worryingly humanoid outlines.

The chant continued, clouds rolling in slowly to blot out the stars. A sudden rumble of thunder made Swazzle jump. He released a breath he had not been aware of holding. Aveena's voice rose slowly, always remaining slightly louder than the thunder that rumbled closer with each booming peal. The shadows, seemingly energised by the approaching storm, capered at the circle's edge, growling and snapping at eachother while Aveena continued moving, oblivious, concentrating her energies on maintaining the chant unbroken.

Every third time she passed her starting point, Aveena bent without breaking step and cast one of the phials into the cauldron, which hissed like an angry cat on receipt of each morsel. Once all the phials had been fed to the cauldron, and the surface of the liquid took on an oily sheen, Aveena stopped dead, her back towards Swazzle. She knelt, cradling the amulet in her hands before spitting on it and tossing it into the cauldron. The instant the liquid closed over the amulet a silent shockwave blasted out from the cauldron, blowing away the mist surrounding the circle, scattering the creatures.

Aveena picked up the knife, thunder crashing overhead as she held it up to the storm. An instant before she began the downstroke, Swazzle had a sudden premonition of what was coming and clamped his eyes tight shut. As a result he did not witness Aveena plunge the tip of the knife into her thigh, nor did he watch as she drew the blade carefully around Pogmorton's outline. By the time he dared to peep through laced fingers, Aveena was holding something childlike and bloody above her head while blood pooled under her leg in the firelight.

The chant reached a crescendo with a sudden shout in a language Swazzle did not comprehend, and Aveena cast the body into the cauldron. Seconds later a single bolt of lightning arced through the night sky into the cauldron. For a split second Aveena's circle was alive with tendrils of silver light, which slithered and danced over its surface, giving it the appearance of a huge, domed spiderweb. Then it was gone, the night an inky black once again, only the odour of ozone on the breeze and spots dancing before Swazzle's eyes witness to the lightning's presence.

Aveena collapsed backwards, her outstretched hand falling dangerously close to the circle's edge. Swazzle stuffed his knuckles into his mouth as a Pixie-sized hand, still wreathed in the cauldron's slimy ichor, grasped the cauldron's edge one finger at a time.

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This week also marks the release of the eleventh episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 11 over at Angie Capozello's blog Techtiggers' Soapbox. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #28: The Amulet, The Witch And The Womb

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #21: An Audience With Lady Mandrake

The gateway to Lady Mandrake's citadel.

In which Botchett and Aveena, in search of an amulet, venture deeper into the lair of Lady Mandrake...

As Botchett and Aveena made their way to the citadel it began to rain, a cold, hard rain that fell in sheets, swirled by the biting wind. They were almost upon the entrance when Aveena spotted a slight, unkempt figure lounging against the wall of the porch, trying to keep out of the weather. Layers of ragged, filthy clothing swathed the figure, giving it the appearance of a large hamster.

Sensing their approach, the figure snapped upright as Botchett stepped into the porch. Aveena caught sight of a much thinner man than she had at first thought, shoulder length greasy hair framing a narrow, weasely face. Twinkling brown eyes shone out above a narrow, pointed nose which, in turn, gave way to a set of protruding, yellow teeth as the face smiled in recognition.

'Pilgrim? What brings you here?'

'For a start that's Master Pilgrim to you, bonny lad, and it's none of your business why I'm here.' Botchett moved towards the door, the figure sidling round to put himself between Botchett and the entrance.

'Shift,' barked Botchett.

'I can't,' whined the man. 'I have my orders. Lady Mandrake said...'

'Listen, bonny lad, I am going in there to speak to your mistress whether I gave to go through you first or not.'

'But...but...I'll have to announce you...'

'Which will mean leaving your post, won't it? And we both know how the Lady feels about people leaving their post, don't we? Eh?' Botchett winked at Aveena.

The man was still spluttering as Botchett and Aveena pushed past him into the citadel.

'Thank you, Rat,' Botchett called back over his shoulder then, turning to Aveena, 'That bugger's well named. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit, like.'

Aveena was about to reply when the combined smells of overcooked vegetables, unwashed humanity and smoke from braziers fuelled with rubbish assaulted her nose and throat and she gagged, coughed, tears leaking down her cheeks. Botchett seemed unaffected by the stench.

Botchett glanced around the huge chamber they found themselves in. Moonlight filtered in through many windows set into a high, vaulted ceiling. Moonlight combined with flickering light from the braziers gave just enough light to reveal a community of ragged figures standing in the shadows around the perimeter of the room, the murmur of countless conversations slowly stilling as Botchett and Aveena made their way towards the dais at the far end of the room.

Lady Mandrake reclined on her throne as Botchett and Aveena approached. Dressed entirely in black leather, her shock of shoulder length blonde hair tipped with red seemed to shine out of the darkness of her ensemble, which was topped off by an old fashioned black top hat. Aveena shuddered as she realised the aura coming from the clothing was of human skin, not leather. Botchett seemed either unaware or he chose to ignore the fact.

Lady Mandrake glanced slowly up from the crystal goblet, the contents of which she had been contemplating.

'Master Pilgrim. What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long.' Her honeyed tones made Aveena feel particularly uncomfortable. 'To what to we owe the pleasure of your company in our humble abode?' She punctuated the last sentence with an expansive gesture.

'My Lady,' Botchett bent his knee to her, Lady Mandrake laying a hand upon his head. Aveena could see from his aura that it took all of Botchett's self control to keep from cringing at her touch. 'We are in need of your unique expertise, like.'

'Oh,' Lady Mandrake's eyebrow rose into her hairline, 'How so?'

'I...we have need of an Amulet of Resurrection...'

'Vincent,' Lady Mandrake interrupted absently, 'Refreshments for our guests.'

The tall, thin faced man in the black suit standing just behind the throne nodded imperceptibly before disappearing into the shadows, returning shortly with a tray of crystal goblets and a matching jug of deep red liquid. He filled a glass for each of them, refilling Lady Mandrake's goblet as she held it out for him.

Lady Mandrake drank deeply, 'Ah, that's better. Now, what was that you were saying about an amulet, Master Pilgrim?'

Botchett lowered his voice and a whispered discussion took place to which Aveena was not privy. She could however, get a sense of the toing and froing of the negotiations from the periodic flares in Botchett's and Lady Mandrake's auras. By the time Botchett called her forward, Aveena had a sense the negotiations had concluded with each on an equal footing, though perhaps slightly in Lady Mandrake's favour, but only just.

'Allow me to present Miss Aveena Murphy,' Botchett said as Lady Mandrake held out her hand to Aveena. Aveena took the proffered hand and in an instant understood more about Lady Mandrake than she could ever have wished. She attempted to pull away, but Lady Mandrake held her fast, Aveena sensed her gazing deep into her eyes.

'Yes, Master Pilgrim,' purred Lady Mandrake, 'I think perhaps we can do business.' She turned her attention again to Aveena. 'There is much power within you, young one,' she said matter of factly.

Aveena finally managed to wriggle her hand free and turned to Botchett, her face a barely concealed mask of anger. She was still fighting to control herself when Lady Mandrake spoke again.

'You will of course stay and dine with us. I will have Vincent draw up the contract while we eat.' Lady Mandrake rose languidly to her feet and strolled towards a large mahogany table, loaded with dishes of fine foods.

As they followed at a distance, Aveena hissed at Botchett, 'Contract?'

'Well, you didn't expect her to give us the amulet for nothing, did you, bonny lass?'

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This week also marks the release of the fourth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 4 over at Crone's Cauldron Publications. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #21: An Audience With Lady Mandrake