Deicide, Vampire Confessions, and the Legacy of the Brethertons

By Stephen Bills

The Trilogy of Death: Book Three
This time, everybody dies...

Right, so: you propel most of your friends to their deaths fighting a war that turns out to be based on a stupid misunderstanding. Your wife runs off and joins your enemy because she's terrified of you. You kill an innocent man (though, admittedly, accidentally). And your brother murders you.

All in all, not a good week to be James Paddington.

Still, there's an upside: being dead means that the God of Destruction can't fulfil His divine plan to obliterate the universe. So on the whole, better to just stay in the ground.

But you can’t keep a good man down. Coming back from the dead isn’t easy, though. And there's always consequences for making deals with the Gods...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Bills
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311990709

Stephen Bills

Born in South Australia in 1984, Stephen Bills is a kilt-wearing Adelaidean with a B.A. in Philosophy, a Graduate Diploma in Library and Information Management, and an M.A. in Creative Writing. When he is not writing, he catalogues books for several interstate libraries, drinks wine (not at the same time), and referees mixed-gender roller derby. All these things leave him less time for writing than he’d like, but he’s getting to it as quick as he can. His Dewey number is A823.4. What’s yours?He writes comedy novels. Specifically, ones that deal with the supernatural and paranormal in some way: ancient prophecies about armageddon, telepathy, indestructable briefcases that alter the fate of the world. That kind of thing.

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Deicide, Vampire Confessions, and the Legacy of the Brethertons

By Stephen Bills

Copyright 2016 Stephen Bills

Smashwords Edition

Discover other titles by Stephen Bills free at Smashwords.com:

Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown

Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

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Prologue: The Dark

Paddington stumbled to his knees. He hadn’t seen where the shot came from – some unseen window, no doubt – but he heard its crack all around him. He felt the intense heat in his chest and the spreading cold. His left arm gave out and dropped Beck’s body onto the bridge beside him. Paddington stared at it as he tried to take a final ragged breath.

Then he fell forward… and forward… and forward.

And staggered forward a step. Now he was standing. How had that happened? He’d been kneeling. On a bridge. He’d fallen forward, so he should have smacked his face into the stone. How was he now standing? Had he spun a full rotation frontwards and collected his legs on the way?

And where was the bridge?

Where was the… anything?

Ah.

He looked around. Nothing. Just blackness. Emptiness. Void. He looked down and saw himself clearly, though there was no light source to illuminate him.

It reminded him of the place inside him, where the wolf dwelt while he was human, except this place felt… bigger. Huge. Endless. And his wolf form, James, was nowhe—

Oh, there he was. Standing close by his left, almost tickling his hand. Paddington extended his fingers and felt its fur. No, his own fur. James could feel the hand running through the fur on his back, and he looked up to see Paddington, the human, standing just to his right with an expression of fascinated excitement.

Yeah, this was different…

James stepped around Paddington’s back and looked. There were five bullet holes in his coat, but no scent of blood. Paddington’s fingers found the wounds: old scars long healed.

Damn it, he was dead, wasn’t he? Shot in the back by Adon—

No, that wasn’t right. He’d been walking toward the castle. Any new wounds should have been on his chest… unless he hadn’t been shot from the castle. He’d been shot from behind.

But the only person behind him had been…

Mitchell! he said.

Ah, he understands at last, said a voice behind him.

James and Paddington looked around and, seeing nothing, shared a glance. The wolf raised an eyebrow. Paddington said, What?

Chapter One: Rhythms of Eternity

I suppose we should decide who gets him, said the voice. The Voice, almost. There was an ancient quality to it, like crinkling paper or crackling fire, but low in register and more male than anyone Paddington had ever heard.

He is yours by right, said another voice, this one all around him. Silky, moist, high. Not girly; aged and confident, almost sensual except that his mind rebelled against allowing that word in his head when connected with the voice.

The male snorted. He is far less mine than yours.

It’s hardly my fault if you choose your champions poorly.

He’s not my champion anymore. And don’t call him that – he’ll develop ideas above his station.

‘He’ is listening, by the way, Paddington said, looking upward, as if speaking to an audience far above or a judge in a large courtroom. Why he did this he couldn’t say, since one voice appeared at his ears as if from everywhere and the other was always behind him. Shall I assume I’m dead, killed by Mitchell? he asked.

Quite, said the male.

Right. Good. Well, sort of. At least now he knew. Now, why would Mitchell kill him? To stop him defiling the Mother of Creation?

But Mitchell shouldn’t be able to kill me… Unless McGregor was wrong – unlikely – only those involved in the prophecies could affect their outcome. So either Mitchell was part of the next prophecy from the Book of Idryo or—

Paddington stopped, thought, considered the implications. The only people in the last prophecy were the demon and his brother, the champion. They’d thought that was Beck, but he’d died when he’d tried to eat the Fruit of Life. The champion should have been put beyond death’s touch, not delivered into its embrace.

Which meant Beck probably wasn’t his brother. His death was all Paddington’s fault.

Mitchell’s my brother, Paddington said. He was the right age, similar height, same hair colour (though Paddington’s was thicker); and he’d been there for the first prophecy – the Three-God would appreciate the symmetry of that. Mitchell had even said he was an orphan. How had Paddington not realised?

Two born of the same flower, said the female voice.

Paddington winced. I just called her ‘mum’, he said. Actually, I called her ‘Andrea’ mostly. We weren’t close, he added absent-mindedly, his thoughts back on Mitchell. Mitchell killed him, so did that make Mitchell the demon? Had something gone terribly awry with the prophecies?

Why had Mitchell shot him? Not to fulfil the prophecy; he’d never cared about them before. Had he been embittered by Paddington’s victories? What victories? He’d hardly say he was winning the war against the Andrastes. Was Mitchell embittered by the fight at the Tree on Archi three years back? He had lost his squad over it, true, but since then he’d followed Truman’s orders without any sign of ego or grudge.

If not revenge, then had Mitchell killed him so that Adonis would release Lisa? Fulfil the deal Paddington had been trying with Beck: kill the brother, save the wife? If so, why not tell him? Paddington would have… Yeah, okay, he probably wouldn’t have gone along with that plan. He’d have tried to find some other way. Maybe Mitchell had realised that there was no other way. He’d saved Paddington the fear associated with those final minutes.

In any case, that was the past, back when he’d still been alive. And now I’m in limbo or something, while You two argue about who takes my soul? That would make them Idryo and Enanti: the Gods themselves. Or, Themselves.

You are no demon of mine, continued Enanti, His voice thick with threat.

That’s not very nice, Paddington said. Why not? I killed the Browns. Even did my best to kill my brother; it’s not my fault You didn’t point him out well enough in Your Book. Next time, consider a sketch; You’d make McGregor’s day.

You are not as you should be.

That phrase was hauntingly familiar. His mother had said it to him… he’d lost count how many times. Not the man he was supposed to be. What’s that mean?

The Plan has not been followed.

And when exactly did the plan go astray?

The moment your mother lost her faith.

What? His mother was responsible for screwing up the Great Plan of the Gods? How… how could that be? Not meaning any disrespect to the dead (did he have to worry about that now that he was one of them?), but what had she really done with her life?

And her faith? What faith? Had she had any? She’d never attended church and Paddington hadn’t asked her about it. From an early age, the Gods had seemed stupid to him.

So far, that analysis still held true.

It’s all right, said Idryo. I’ll have him. I suppose he is my de facto champion, now that his brother is your demon.

He is also of the created order, added the God of Destruction, and you always have those.

True, but the beast in him I made for you, said Idryo. There was no form to wave a hand; nonetheless, Paddington felt a hand was being waved at James.

A compromise? You have the human and I the wolf?

It would be fairer, in a way.

Don’t I get a say? Gods it was annoying not having anyone to talk at. The best he could do was to spin around in the emptiness like he was addressing an auditorium.

There was a pause. Paddington felt surprise in the air, though it was hard to be sure: he was used to emotions being on faces.

You?

It’s my life. Well, soul. Whatever. My eternity that I’ll be spending in one of Your afterlives, right? So can’t I choose?

Excellent, said Enanti. They usually want yours.

Depends if hell’s as bad as the rumours, he said. So make Your pitch.

What?

Make Your pitch. What’s in Your afterlife?

Nothing, rumbled Enanti.

Starting small, okay; we have room to grow.

There is no afterlife, said Enanti. There should not have been a first life. You will return to nothingness.

Oh, so You let the atheists be right, in a way. That’s nice. He turned to Idryo, not that he could see Her. But She knew what he meant.

I grant life everlasting, creation overflowing. Everywhere, at all times, growing and evolving and changing.

Sounds exhausting, he said. And Tipote?

What of it? asked Idryo.

Doesn’t It get a say? Why are You two my only options when there’s a third God?

Tipote has never claimed a soul.

That doesn’t mean It can’t, does it? Paddington asked. Beside him, James huffed once in amusement. He’d stumped the Gods.

"Look at my life. I followed truth more than I ever did creation or destruction. I spent my youth rallying against my home and its stupid ways, attempting to destroy that way of life, but only to create a better way in its place. On any topic that mattered, I fought against destruction, disorder, chaos; but I wasn’t a creator or an inventor or even a painter. Heck, even my stickmen always look at me funny. I can never get the mouths right.

"My point is that over my life, what I did more than anything else was find what was true. I sought to know and understand what was before I tried to remove or rebuild. And if I read the Books right, that’s more Tipote than either of You."

Interesting, said a new voice, this one in front of him. Utterly mid-range, though not deadpan or toneless. Cambridge-educated, intelligent, It sounded… It sounded as if It had found a fascinating new bug to study and was already leaning over, watching its little movements, to find out what it would do next.

You make valid points, said Idryo.

You wish to go with Tipote? boomed Enanti. Fine; take him and be gone.

Take him where? Tipote has no space for souls.

We could watch the world together, suggested Tipote.

The world…

Huh. How long had he been dead? He felt so… divorced from it all. His life, the Earth, everyone he’d ever known: it all seemed so long ago.

Lisa would survive without him: she was strong. With him dead, she’d find someone else. Someone to help her raise their son or daughter. Six months as a wolf might be rough, but the pack and the Team would see her through it.

What about Mitchell? He’d killed Paddington, fulfilled the prophecy, become the demon; would he also defile the Mother of Creation? When? How much longer did the world have?

How long would Mitchell have to live with the guilt of murdering his brother?

I can’t go back, can I? he asked. I suppose everyone asks, but still I… have to know.

I would grant life to each being that passed through here, said Idryo, from the tiniest to the grandest.

And I would return none. Nor allow them life in the first instance. But then, He would say that, wouldn’t He, being the God of Destruction and all.

So you see? asked Idryo. To avoid a cycle of repeated creation and destruction, time and again, in the smallest moments of time and stretching forever, a compromise was required: I would create each being only once and Enanti would destroy it only once.

And I, said Tipote, was allocated the power to ensure that those without life in them could not return to the living.

You can do that? Transfer power? Stop each other from being able to act? He knew Idryo and Enanti were constantly foiling each other’s prophecies, but this sounded more like limiting Their own abilities. Not stopping a consequence, but stopping the act that would have caused it.

What we speak, is.

And there it was. No returning to the living, then. He hadn’t really expected there would be, otherwise the world would be overcrowded with returned corpses. Death would be nothing more than an inconvenience.

Right then. Forget the Earth. Remember Lisa and Truman and Mitchell and the rest of them, but concentrate on his future, here, in this place or another that Tipote would…

Could Tipote create?

However, there is still life in you, said Tipote matter-of-factly.

What?

I’m only half-dead? he asked. Is the human half-dead or half-alive?

No, said Enanti, more a growl than a word, and not directed at Paddington. It came from all over the darkness, crawling across Paddington’s spine and down into James’s tail. It rolled like thunder then took far too long to trail away: the sound itself lingering with a life of its own.

He bears the Seed of Life, said Tipote.

He has the right to try! exclaimed Idryo.

He shall fail, said Enanti.

He has that right, too, said Tipote placidly.

There’s a way back? Paddington asked. Beside him, James pricked his ears up, golden eyes scanning the darkness, thinking hard.

You have eaten of the Fruit of Life, said Idryo, sounding like a pleased mother. Paddington assumed. His mother had so rarely been pleased with him he didn’t remember it that clearly.

But he did remember the second prophecy: the champion would eat the Fruit of Life and pass beyond death’s touch. True, he didn’t remember eating it – Beck had, and it had killed him – but he wasn’t about to mention that.

If you say so, Paddington said.

He must still perform the tasks, said Enanti.

Wasn’t eating the Fruit enough? He suppressed a groan. Why are there tasks?

Enanti huffed. Because Tipote decided there would be.

Apparently Paddington had found the answer to the age-old question, do Gods sulk?

To see if you understand, said Tipote. Your return defies our agreement, so we must each agree to override the natural order of creation and destruction by returning you.

There are four tasks, said Idryo.

Four? Odd. Usually three was the Three-God’s go-to number.

One from each of us and one of your choosing.

Right. That made it more complex. Idryo’s would be a cake-walk, presumably, and he could make his own so easy that he’d definitely pass. Seemed pointless having it, really, which probably meant it was a trap somehow. But surely Enanti’s would be flat-out impossible so everyone failed.

As for Tipote… it was impossible to say. What was he supposed to understand? He went through most of his life veering between confused and bewildered, so that wasn’t a good start.

But he’d give it a go.

What’s the first task?

There is more to know, said Tipote. At present, you and your brother have completed one prophecy each as the demon. Thus, at present, neither of you can act as emissary to perform the will of either of my colleagues.

So even if Mitchell had a… blessed union… with the Mother of Creation, it wouldn’t end the world. It wouldn’t even be adultery, since Paddington was dead. It would just be Lisa moving on with her life. Going on without him.

That was probably a good thing.

Your return, however, said Idryo, would tip the scales, as it were. One will become demon, the other champion.

And one of us will win, added Enanti.

That was a lot of pressure. Return: risk voiding all life in the universe and leaving the planets spinning, bare, a monument to Enanti’s contempt for Idryo’s creation. Stay here: risk nothing…

Never confront Mitchell about what happened on the bridge.

What’s the first task? he said.

Chapter Two: Tipote

Ah, that’s better, isn’t it? asked Tipote.

What’s better?

A little privacy.

What was It talking about? Paddington was still alone in the dark place, James beside him. What were they hidden from? There had been nothing there to begin with. Just him and the Gods.

You mean the other two can’t hear us?

You’d best hope not, referring to them as the other two, said Tipote. They’d be most upset.

But that was… how could the Gods not see and know everything? For that matter, how could Enanti have had a plan that went astray if He could see the future perfectly?

You may ponder the metaphysics later, said Tipote. Could It hear his thoughts? Until I release you, you are hidden from their eyes, just as you will be hidden from mine when you complete their tasks. Understand?

The concept, yes; the mechanics, no.

As the mechanics needn’t concern you, let us to your task: I want you to go to the Garden of Terpo. There’s about to be a bit of an incident. You are to coordinate the clean-up, dispense justice, all those policemen-y things, yes?

He was being sent back to Earth already? What sort of incident?

I’m certain you’ll spot it and act appropriately.

That’s the test, isn’t it?

Very good. Are you ready?

Does it matter?

I suppose not, said Tipote.

Paddington recoiled against the sudden light. He squeezed his eyes shut, but even through his eyelids the world seemed bright and red. After a few moments, it had lessened to a bearable level and Paddington opened his eyes again.

He was back.

The sun overhead was warm, the air humid. He didn’t recognise this area, so he closed his eyes and listened. A stream nearby. Woodland sounds: animals, insects. No hum of traffic. No chatter.

Three rivers ran through the Garden of Terpo. Well, one stream which started on the cliffs to the west and split it two just before the centre of the garden. He’d run the length the Garden as a wolf many times and this area wasn’t in it; the plants were all too young and green. Maybe he just wasn’t used to seeing it through human eyes.

No matter. Where was the crime he was supposed to… prevent, or clean up, or whatever he was doing. He really should have asked more questions. Paddington paused. He heard voices ahead. Rather than burst out and terrify people with his reanimation, Paddington sheltered in one of the thick patches of trees nearby and listened.

There are at least fifty-six different species of animal in here with us, said a voice. If Paddington had to guess, he’d say it was a child, a prepubescent boy. They should have names.

Sure, said a female voice. Let’s see… Deer. Fox. Rabbit. Lamb; or sheep, I haven’t decided.

Dinner, said a male voice. Dinner. Dinner.

Meany.

Fine. That one can be pork; or bacon, I haven’t decided.

Paddington didn’t recognise the voices. He didn’t know all of Archi’s five-thousand residents by ear, but he knew the tones: dull and rounded. These people didn’t sound like that. They were too educated.

I wonder what they’re for, said the boy.

Eating, duh, said the man.

No! said the woman.

What? You eat them too!

I know, but… they’re for more than that. They’re noble in their own rights – the way they move and hunt. Their lives and games. They just also… happen to be delicious.

Praise the Three-God for that.

Praise, echoed the woman.

Who were these people? Paddington stole a glance around his tree. Its trunk was barely wide enough for him to hide behind.

The boy stood, back to him, staring up at something. Paddington didn’t notice what it was, though, because the boy was stark naked.

Public indecency? Was that the crime he was here to clean up? Hardly seemed like much of a challenge. He’d expected a threat to his life or an impossible logical leap to solve a daft sequence of clues. Not a straight Put your clothes on and don’t do it again warning.

Oh well. If that was the challenge, Paddington would meet it. One task down, two to go.

But he hesitated before he burst through the foliage. He didn’t know enough, especially if they weren’t Archi natives. He looked farther left, toward the man and woman’s voices.

They were naked too.

A whole nudist family. Were they werewolves? Paddington had been stuck in nothing but his skin a few times, but they weren’t rushing toward cover. The man lay on his back against a tree, his hands curling through the woman’s hair as she lay with her head on his stomach, staring at the clouds. Not a care in the world. Like a scene from a painting: two beautiful people under a tree.

Beautiful, happy, with milk chocolate skin… definitely not natives of Archi.

It wasn’t that other races couldn’t come to the island; it was just that only a few Englishmen had every known Archi existed and its borders had been shut for hundreds of years. There had been no possibility for anyone of colour to immigrate.

Doesn’t it ever bother you? asked the boy.

The woman looked over. Doesn’t wha— Aargh! Ow! Ow! Ah, what did we call these?

Ants, said the boy.

They’re bitey. Make them go away.

Going away now, said the man. The woman had jumped to her feet and was brushing the ants off her skin as she walked away. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall. The man stood – a head taller than the woman – and began stepping on the ants, following their trail toward its source.

Oh, they move in lines, said the boy, glancing over. Try stepping out of their path; see whether they follow you or leave you be.

The man raised a bushy brown eyebrow. Thinking of him as a man hardly seemed accurate, though. It was a title Paddington had bestowed based on the voice he’d heard, but seeing the faces of the two adults… Paddington thought they’d be lucky if they could buy a drink without getting asked for I.D. That said, he couldn’t doubt they were biologically mature: the man’s face was covered in a thick beard and the woman, while not buxom, sure had child-bearing hips.

The two adults walked a pace toward Paddington, who ducked into cover. The nudists were still a good forty feet away; it was unlikely they would see him. He just needed a moment to himself. To sort this weirdness in his head.

They were behaving like children. Like they didn’t understand the world at all…

Paddington suspected it was more than a bit of an incident he was here to clean up.

Oh. You’re right, said the woman as the ants filed past. Sorry, little ants. At least there’s a lot of you. She turned to the man. Your murder spree shouldn’t dent the population.

I only did what you told me to do.

Oh, you’re going to blame this on me? It was all the woman’s fault?

You told me to squish them.

I told you to make them go away.

And I did.

I meant shoo them or something.

I’ll make you go away. He pulled her close.

That doesn’t make sense. She kissed him anyway. And no you wouldn’t.

He placed a hand on the side of her face. No. I wouldn’t.

The woman spun around to face the boy, who took no interest in their moment and stared at a massive tree before them. The man’s arm remained wrapped around her waist and she added her hands over the top of his. Doesn’t what bother us? she asked.

The boy turned to them and, as Paddington had suspected, it wasn’t a boy. It also wasn’t a girl. Its hair was shoulder-length, as with the other two, but its skin paler. Its face was of a full-grown person, though it was impossible to say whether the face was male or female. Aspects of both, but really it was neither. The physique was the same: shoulders too broad for most women but too narrow for most men. No curve at the hips. No breasts. No hair on the chest or chin. No penis.

It was an it. Not a he or a she. A middle of the road, bland, human. What remained of a person when every attribute had been stripped out. It was That. This was the Woman and the Man, the first two humans, and that was That.

And soon it would trick them into eating the Fruit of Understanding and death would enter the human race. That was what he was here to stop.

Except… was he here to stop it? Tipote had sent him here as a policeman. Not to change events, but to dispense justice after the crime.

Was that the test? Whether he could stand here and let this happen?

It doesn’t bother you that you don’t understand him, said That to Woman, returning to their previous conversation. When he returns with a kill you eat it, but you don’t understand how he can enjoy rending the flesh. Nor does he understand you when you draw in the dirt.

He’s mine, said Woman. That’s enough.

Yeah. A Man of few words.

Is it? What he does to the beasts before you consume them… when they stop moving and the life flows out. How do you know he does not consider doing this to you?

Stop it, said Woman, looking away.

You, shut up, he said. I would never…

But how can she be certain? asked That. She can’t see inside your head.

She doesn’t need to. She can ask me.

Yet the Three-God in Their infinite wisdom have given us a way to know each other’s minds, said That. To understand the consequence of things, so they need not bite us on the arse before we learn. That spread a hand toward the Tree in front of them. Huge, gnarled, twisted. Already ancient – the only ancient thing in a garden that was otherwise fresh and new and green, its lemon-like fruit hung high in its contorted limbs.

Hold on, Paddington had seen that before! In Estika, tonight. Or… in thousands of years’ time. Whenever. He’d convinced Beck to eat from it. The Tree he’d thought was the Tree of Life.

It was the Understanding Tree.

Why suffer the painful way, said That, when your answers dangle just beyond reach?

Of course. In the stories, That had tricked Man and Woman into eating the Fruit because it couldn’t reach it itself.

I didn’t like the biting… Woman admitted.

You want me to stomp them? Man asked.

Still no.

You’re coming up all red and blotchy. He poked one on her leg.

Ow! Quit it! Why did you do that?

What?

Ungh. You— I just… She trailed off and left …don’t understand you unsaid, except in her stare, which turned back to the Tree. She broke out of Man’s hug and strode for it.

What are you doing?

She sprang lightly up, moving from branch to trunk to branch with the air of a practiced climber.

Love, come down. We can talk about this.

What difference would it make? I don’t get you. And I should. She plucked an etrog and dropped to the ground, a step shy of her Man, and stared up at him. Why should the Gods get to understand my own husband better than I do?

I… I don’t know.

They made you for me. She reached a hand up and stroked the side of his face as he had done hers. And me for you. To be together. Yet we’re so different that it tears us apart sometimes.

We always come back together, said Man. Paddington had been in enough arguments with his wife to recognise the tone of defeat. This was his one final attempt, even though he knew he’d lost: an empty sentence uttered so that he could tell himself, later, that he’d done all he could.

I’d rather we didn’t split at all, she said.

He nodded. So would I.

That was watching the other two with a distant smile. Living vicariously.

I would take you over a God, said Man.

And I you.

Together?

She smiled. Just what I was thinking.

Woman held the Fruit between them and they brought their mouths together, as if to kiss, and bit into the Fruit together, one on each side. Their faces winced at its bitterness, then something worse rocked through them. Twitches or spasms as though they were trying to avoid things flying at them. The Fruit fell, forgotten, to the grass as they cried out in gasps of pain and shock and sadness.

After thirty or so seconds, it was over. The contortions faded. Man rose from his knees; Woman straightened from bent double.

What was it like? That asked.

Paddington stormed out of the foliage into the clearing. Forbidden! That’s what it was like. He’d waited, like he was probably supposed to. He’d witnessed the crime. Now it was time to do what he’d heard happened next in the story.

Man and Woman spun to face him. Woman dropped her weight back, spread her arms, and bared her teeth.

Which was when Paddington remembered that Man, Woman, and That were the first of the Three Races, made by Idryo to appease the other two Gods. She’d made Her own creature, Woman, out of Her favourite animal – the big cat. Fast, independent, elegant. For Enanti, She made Man out of its opposite – the wolf. But whereas Idryo had melded the cat and human into one form for Woman – Paddington could see the huge slitted eyes, the protruding canines, the quick, supple body, the fingernails that were almost claws – She had kept them separate for Man.

Man now burst out of his human skin, and into his wolf one.

Paddington stood in a clearing with the first vampire and the first werewolf, both of whom were ready to attack him. He drew the Bretherton Sabre from its sheath at his left hip.

That cocked its head. What’s that?

Bitey, Paddington said.

Man (or should that be Wolf?) rushed forward, thinking Paddington distracted. Oi! Paddington said, swiping across at him. Not to harm, certainly not to kill, but if Man