Housetrap: The Housetrap Chronicles, #1

By R. J. Hore

In a world ruled by committees of wizards, and packed with every creature imaginable, in the sleazy backstreets of Central City you can always count on Randolph C. Aloysius to solve your problems. That is, assuming his trusty Girl Friday, Bertha, can track him down.

A sucker for a pair of legs, Randy takes the case of a long legged Elf trying to locate a missing boyfriend. Simple.

Of course, nothing is ever simple in Randy's life, what with avoiding commitments to his long-suffering lady friend, an attempted murder, a real murder, stolen baubles, and another damsel in distress. What's a private eye to do?

Simple really. Follow the clues off-world, avoid demons, vampires and other assorted miscreants, and hope to come home with enough coin left over to meet Bertha's back wages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Dec 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781927454725

Book preview

BURST Presents

Housetrap

The Housetrap Chronicles, I

By

R. J. Hore

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

BURST

www.burstbooks.ca

A Division of Champagne Books

Copyright 2012 by R.J. Hore

ISBN 9781927454725

December 2012

Cover Art by Petra K.

Produced in Canada

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my wife Barbara who puts up with me, and my children who sometimes comment on my work. A special thanks to the Freelancers writer’s group, and Leia, who give out much appreciated criticism. No thanks at all to Parker, the cat, who sits on the keyboard.

One

I don’t like Elves, never have. I sat tilting back in my chair counting the stains on the ceiling when she walked through the open door of my inner office unannounced—unannounced, because I’d just given Bertha the afternoon off to visit her sick brother. Bertha’s half Banshee, thin as a lamppost with long straight dark hair and big brown eyes. She’s always got a relative down with the Black Death or some obscure curse; I think she has twelve brothers, but I digress.

The Elf arrived in my office wrapped in a full-length gold lamé coat with a large hood covering her head and hiding most of her features, but I could tell she was pure Elf. Those yellow eyes are a dead giveaway even if you can’t spot the pointed ears. I’m a student of nature, have to be; the breed often determines character, or motive, or veracity. In my business you have to stay two jumps ahead or you’re squashed like a scarab. I’m a Mongrel myself. You can never tell about Mongrels, and there are more of us around now ever since the Goldilocks affair. Now there was a real witch, not the kind with just a warty nose, but she married that Wolf back in the days before they gave femmes the vote. Then they went overboard and made it all legal in the Intermarriage Act of 1812, and everything has tumbled Jack over Jill downhill ever since.

The Elf glanced about the room nervously, then in a single fluid motion crossed her long legs and slid into the battered chair opposite me like maple syrup poured from a mason jar. I sighed deep inside, rocked forward to rest my elbows on the scratched oak desk, painted a smile across my ugly mug and waited. I had all day; it had been two weeks since my last case. She fidgeted for a minute and I matched her, stare for stare, until my eyeballs screamed for mercy. The Elf had the kind of face you see perched high on a mantelpiece, thin bone china, pale, delicate, and carved by a master.

She broke first. I need your help, Mr. Aloysius. Her words vibrated in the air.

That’s why creatures usually come to see me—that, or to try and collect on past due bills.

Why? I asked, wondering if this would turn out to be the usual bored and missing mate or vagrant lost love. Maybe we’d have some real excitement for a change and I could rack up a full day or two in extra fees, perhaps even slip Bertha some of her back pay. I think I was only three months behind, but...

Are we alone? The Elf drew her hood back revealing the usual rich flowing mane and glanced about again, peering into the shadowed corners of my little room.

I don’t know what it is about Elves, but they either have long hair draped halfway to their waists or all cropped off short above those ears. My offices are tiny, no nook large enough to hide a teenage Hobgoblin. There may be an inch or two of dust and debris in the corners, but although Bertha doesn’t do windows either, she always casts about each morning for listeners and weaves a keep-out spell around the place just in case. Bertha’s been taking Shamanism at that cut-rate night school down the street for the last two years now and already refers to herself as a professional Sha-person. Sometimes I think this liberation stuff has gone a bit too far.

Yes, I said without blinking.

She slowly moistened her lips. ’Tis true, some Elves have pointed tongues too. This one was, pointed and blood-red.

This is a dangerous matter, and I have no one else I can turn to.

Her voice dropped down a few octaves and I had to blink and stare at the open doorway behind her. Something made me wish that Bertha sat at her desk, instead of shadows. An icicle formed along my spine. After all, I have some Sidhe blood, on my grandmother’s side I think, and when Elves turn on the charm they can be deadly. And they usually only bother to turn on that fatal charm when they want something very badly, or when there is serious trouble.

Maybe you had better tell me the full story, I croaked, wishing for a cool dark bottle of La Bat’s Breath to lubricate my rapidly parching throat.

You will help me? she purred, those eyes pure melted honey.

Of course. I stretched the painted smile until my face almost cracked. Anything... for the proper fee.

Silently the Elf reached into her sleeve and pulled out a fashionable silk purse shaped like a sow’s ear, handing me three gold coins. Will this be sufficient to retain your services?

I rolled the coins around in my fingers. They were pure gold, ancient, five wizarey each, and just starting to show signs of wear. The face of some long-deceased and self-important Elf King glared right back at me. Probably brought over in the family chest when her ancestors migrated from Europe. Elves tended to be traditionalists. I could unload these for a bundle of paper at the local counting house.

That will do for a few days, I stated, but then, there may be expenses.

Long delicate fingers, careful not to touch me, dropped a fourth gold coin into my damp palm. Let me know if you need any more.

I will, sweetheart! Now, what’s the problem... and... as you already know my name, maybe you should begin by telling me yours.

She winced at my familiarity, then sighing, spoke so faintly I had to twitch an ear to catch her words. My name is Rose. I came here from the East four years ago, taking a position as Assistant Headmistress in a college for quality young ladies. Things were progressing well at school, I found a penthouse apartment overlooking the river, was enjoying my work... and then I met a charming young gentleman from a good family.

I knew it—another loused-up love affair.

She hesitated and glanced around the room again. Do you have anything in this place to drink? There is enough dust in here to bury a Brownie.

I raised an eyebrow and chewed on the stem of my cold briar pipe.

I mean spruce tea, chicory coffee, pure spring water... anything wet. And a clean cup, if you have one.

Slowly I pushed back my chair and stood up. Elves are seldom subtle, unless they are up to something, which, now that I think on that, they usually are.

I can offer you a little pure Irish. I smiled. In your chicory, of course.

The yellow eyes drank me in, then spit