Frankenstein's Captain

By Diana Hunter

The dead speak to Kara Godwin. A walk through the cemetery fills her head with stories...stories she publishes as fiction for some much-needed cash.
But that's all they are - stories. Until the day one of them follows her home.

Robert Walton is real. He fell in love with Mary Shelley and she immortalized him as the ship’s captain who rescues Victor Frankenstein. Only she did more than that...

Now Kara Godwin must decide what to do with Frankenstein's Captain....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Hunter
• Release date: Nov 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310287572

Diana Hunter

Diana Hunter became interested in writing stories with bondage and D/s themes when she found a dearth of them on the web. Nothing she read seemed to have the romantic element she knew was possible in such relationships. Challenged by a friend to write a better one, she wrote her first full-length novel, Secret Submission. Each book Diana writes contains a kernel of truth or deeply held conviction from her own life, but don’t ask her where truth ends and fantasy begins...she’ll never tell! When not writing, Diana is usually at her loom, weaving thread lines of a different sort. Married for over thirty years to the same man, she is grateful for all the wonderful encouragement he gives her.

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Frankenstein’s Captain

By

Diana Hunter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2006, 2012 Diana Hunter

All rights reserved

Discover other titles by Diana Hunter at

http://www.dianahunter.net

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NOTE: This work was previously published in a shorter version entitled Kara’s Captain.

But success shall crown my endeavors. Wherefore not? Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?

~ Captain R. Walton

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Chapter One

She stood among the graves as the loneliness washed over her. Intense longing filled her heart as her eyes scanned the stones, searching.

It was here somewhere. All she had to do was find it. The chill of the afternoon seeped into her bones as she stood in the middle of the cemetery. Sometimes she found peace here among the dead. Other times she found joy. Today, only the loneliness touched her.

As soon as she said the name, she’d know. She always did. The moment she read it on the tombstone, the name would whisper in her head and her heart would fill. She’d be complete again as entire scenes formed from the mist in her mind. All she had to do then, was write them down.

Except today, none of the names spoke, not even when she tried reading each name aloud in her deep alto. Hannah Ames, born 1834, died 1883. Abigail Ames, born 1823, died 1867. No. These names weren’t right. The one she wanted was not here.

Kara Godwin leaned against a stone pillar carved with the oft repeated Beloved husband. Oh, well. Maybe she could put off the landlord one more month. Surely by the end of another thirty days she’d have found a name, written the story, sent it off to the magazine that often published her short stories, and have another month with a roof over her head.

She gazed around at the rows of monuments and markers. Maybe I’ve just been to this cemetery too many times, she thought to herself. Maybe I’ve told all the stories these names have to give me.

For a moment she considered visiting one of the other local cemeteries—there were three in the small town where she lived and they usually were pretty good at providing her with inspiration. All throughout school she’d struggled with her writing until one day she happened to be walking through this very cemetery with her friends. Not on a dare, as high school seniors they were far too old for that.

No, the route through the graveyard was just a local shortcut they’d taken hundreds of times.

Kara turned her collar up against a gust of wind that blew through the cemetery now, remembering how she’d stopped dead, as her friend Jake had joked, staring at one of the stone markers. She’d felt transported that day as scenes flashed in her mind, a full story ready for the writing down. Her friends had called after her, but she had just waved them off in her run to get home and to her computer.

That story, Waterloo or Bust had won her first place in the school’s writing contest that year and had been published in the local newspaper. She’d even gone on record as saying the story had come to her in a flash as if Susan Martin, the name on the grave she’d used for her protagonist, had dictated it to her.

Now, years later, she had a college degree gathering dust on her wall and a small gathering of readers who faithfully bought her stories off the web as well as her meat and potatoes magazine publisher who insured she stayed solvent.

Problem was, she had to be right in the cemetery to hear the name speak and to see the images form. And at home she had stacks of index cards with names written on them—names she’d collected when on vacation. She’d spent hours roaming foreign graveyards, gathering names as if she gathered eggs from chickens. Intriguing names that had never hatched to the point where she’d given up writing them down anymore. She’d lost count of the number of hours she’d spent sifting through the cards, reading them over, hoping one of the names would sound in her ear and spark a story. But it never did. Not even once.

With a stretch, she pushed herself away from the pillar. Clouds obscured the sun and Kara looked up, the gray darkness of the autumn sky warning her of the coming storm. It was time she got herself home anyway. Pulling her light jacket closer as another gust of wind whipped through the gravestones, she sighed and headed for the street.

Still wrapped in her hopes for inspiration, Kara’s eyes roved across the granite carvings—Job White, William Stuart, Susan Dunham. No, no and no.

Nothing. Apparently today was not her day. And when she stumbled into a gopher hole, twisting her ankle, she knew it wasn’t. Her knee slammed into the ground as her foot came out of the hole, the damage already done. She fell onto her side, reaching for her throbbing ankle and gasping for breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose.... She closed her eyes, fighting back tears until the pain lessened and she could breathe again.

She would live. She opened her eyes and glared at both her ankle and the hole beside it. Blasted gopher. Didn’t he know better than to dig where she was going to walk?

Can you wiggle your toes?

The voice startled her and she looked up quickly, turning as far as she could to see who’d spoken. But she couldn’t see him and the chill autumn wind scuttled dry leaves across the graves, giving her a second warning that the storm was brewing. With a sickening feeling in her stomach, she realized the day had slipped to evening and most sane people were already home. Twisting around as far as she could manage, Kara tried to see the man who must be directly behind her but the shooting pain in her ankle stopped her.

Can you wiggle your toes? he repeated.

She put her head down to hide a grin that came unbidden. Damn, but that voice was sexy. Deep, rich baritone with a definite upper crust English accent. Carefully she wiggled her big toe inside her sneaker, then the others when the movement didn’t produce pain. Yes. I don’t think the ankle’s broken. I didn’t hear anything snap. It’s just a sprain. She sighed and shifted her position to be more comfortable. A really, really badly timed sprained.

Good. Can you stand?

Puzzled, Kara wondered why he wasn’t lending her a hand instead of just asking her questions in those incredibly cultured tones. Rolling her eyes, she shifted her weight, grabbed the monument on her right and slowly pulled herself up. Once standing, she made an attempt to use both legs to hold her up, but her ankle had other ideas. As soon as she put even the slightest bit of pressure on her foot, pain shot up her leg.

Okay, that’s not going to work. Kara leaned against the tombstone and turned to her companion.

The cemetery was empty.

Kara snorted. Great. You kept me company until I really need an arm to get out of here, then you disappear. Thanks anyway, she called out to the deepening gloom.

She didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. She was on her own. Well, it wasn’t the first time some guy had left her in the lurch. The only person you can ever count on, is yourself. Her mother’s lesson ran like a mantra in her head. A lesson Kara had learned the hard way.

Now, however, Kara put her iron will to work. Biting her lip, she leaned toward the next monument, her intent being to catch it with her hand, and then hop over to it. Getting to the street was going to take a while, but if she kept the weight off her right foot, she’d make it.

Except her hand slipped off the monument. With her full weight, she fell forward, her shoulder missing the granite marker by a hairsbreadth. Afraid to put her foot out, she fell on her knee, catching herself with her hands as she slammed to the ground once again.

This time tears fell despite her attempt to stop them. The new pain in her knee and arms only heightened the throbbing in her ankle. She shifted until she was sitting on the ground, hugging her arms close to her and rubbing them as she sniffed back tears and talked to herself. Come on, Godwin. You’re not a baby. Just because you fell down twice in ten minutes doesn’t give you the right to sit here and bawl.

There was