Orbs of Avalon: Tales of Urban Magick and Horror

By Peter R. Talley

In the vast expanse between Earth and Avalon there is a place where the fey watches all. Monsters awaken to the sound of a white bell with silver etchings, magicians and gangsters make desperate bargains, all while impatient ghosts linger on awaiting reunions. These are but a few of the stories held within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter R. Talley
• Release date: Dec 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463051481

Peter R. Talley

Peter Talley, at various times in his life, has worked as a high school speech team coach, newspaper advertiser, hospital emergency manager, investigator, and funeral home assistant. Born in Ohio, grew up in Iowa, and spent the majority of his time working in Nebraska. He currently resides in Hartington with his wife and son. Peter enjoys writing short fiction and is busy at work on a series of urban fantasy novels.

Book preview

Orbs of Avalon:

Tales of Urban Magick and Horror

Peter R. Talley

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Peter R. Talley

Cover Design Caedus Design Co.

Published in 2018 by Peter R. Talley at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

Orbs of Avalon:

Tales of Urban Magick and Horror

Peter R. Talley

Table of Contents

Introduction

When He Came A-Callin’

Cornerstone

Joshua Arbor

Mourning

Freelance

Belated

Those Who Listened

13 Slices of Sin

Junction

Breadbone

An Appropriate Response

The Prize of Fame

The Turning Bridge

The Balladeer

The Magician’s Grudge

Soldier On

Mine to Tell

Forgive and Forget

Tatters

The Dealt Hand

A Formative Age

Limelight

Asperlain

Blink and Click

Guide to the Spectrum Court

Lexicon

Acknowledgements

Author’s Bio

Of all the colors…

Fear not the yellow,

Praise not the red,

Trust not the purple,

Lament not the green,

Stand true against the extremes of black and white

for they hold no brilliance.

Kneel forever to the blue.

Introduction

It begins in a coffee house. People are going about their lives, in ways people often do. Pie is served and crossword puzzles are started. The sounds of newspapers being shuffled accompany the clinking of saucers and cups. Time continues on as morning slowly transforms into day. Customers shuffle in and out, all marching to a set schedule. The short-handed wait staff work hard to make their wages.

Across town two men sit at a bus stop. One man appears much younger than the other. He regrets dressing up in a tie and slacks on such a warm day. They sit in silence, not knowing what to say. The summer morning is not unlike any other usual day in the world. The older man, wearing much more comfortable clothes, smiles, enjoying the peace of being part of something much larger.

A woman drops her suitcase after stepping away from a subway train. The long platform of the stop suspends high above the run-down street below. Off in the distance she feels like she is being watched. The pace of this city is continuous. Paranoia creeps into her eyes as she becomes accustomed to the unyielding traffic of fellow pedestrians. As she picks up her belongings, she hears the breeze whisper. It is unwelcome and insincere.

In and out, between and below, the fates start a new week. Reality and reason begin to merge. A story is formed, created from the difference of perceptions. Bound by a bond stronger than most will ever come to know. It is woven into our very being. The appreciation of wonder, a definition of magic.

Storytelling and monsters go hand in hand when it comes to this world. I find the two to be inescapable. I’ve lost countless hours dreaming, debating, and deciphering my take on magic. As you read these following stories I encourage you to find your own. This book is about confrontation and discovery. Fairy tales and horror will intertwine as you meet characters from every corner of my imagination. Many of these tales are but an introduction to larger stories that need to be told. Rest assured, there is a plan and everything is connected. May you enjoy the journey. – Peter T.

when he came a-callin’

The rail town of Longbranch was in ruins. It had only taken the stranger two days. No one was exempt from the wrath. The bloodshed started before sundown on the first day.

The locomotive pulled into the station late that spring afternoon. The instant the stranger stepped off the train, the depot clerk was afraid. He had seen ominous figures before; such was the way of the country back then. The West had yet to be tamed and man could still be easily confused as beast. It wasn’t the stranger’s look that disturbed the little man. It was the fact that the man in the black duster alone walked off of the train.

The town of Longbranch was rarely a destination. It was a place to pass through. Corby felt a lump form in his throat. The clerk waited behind the ticket booth window for any sign of life. He had watched as the stranger jumped down from the engineer’s post. The passenger cars appeared empty from where he sat. What he didn’t see were the former occupants, their bodies sitting motionless while lifeblood congealed on the floor.

Pardon me, started Corby before being glared down by the imposing man. No.

Where are all the other folk? On the train.

I don’t see none, said Corby as he scratched his head. Cuz they’re dead.

The stranger’s fists were clenched as a dark grimace crossed the long face. He nodded to the frightened clerk before turning to point at the train.

Might as well go home. That’s the last train this town will ever see.

Corby didn’t give the man a chance to turn around. He took the stranger’s advice and ran as fast as two pudgy legs would carry him. The sweaty clerk ran all the way back to the sheriff’s office.

Douglas Clinton was cleaning a rifle when Corby appeared at the door. The deputy smiled at the wheezing man. He placed the weapon on the desk and helped Corby to a chair.

Looks like you are all worn out.

The train…you need to get to the station, Corby explained with desperation.

Now hold on. Douglas peered out the window towards the station. I can see the steam off the engine. What’s wrong?

They’re dead. He killed ’em all!

Who did?

A stranger, cried Corby.

Douglas didn’t waste any more time with the frightened clerk. Clara, his fiancée, was on that train. Douglas grabbed the rifle and rushed for the door. Corby continued to sob as the deputy mounted a horse, for he suspected that the young man was never coming back.

***

Robert Jones had just finished doing business out back of the telegraph office. Miss Lidia’s sweet lemonade was to blame for the early break. When going back inside he found that the office furniture had been thrown around. Printing paper was still floating in the air. Worst of all, the telegraph machine was smashed. Robert was only gone for a minute but the damage was beyond repair.

The telegraph agent was further surprised. A man dashed past the window. It was Will McCoy. He looked frightened, as if he was running for his life.

***

Pastor Robins discovered the dark stranger while leaving Martin’s General Store. The elderly pastor saw the man speaking to a parishioner’s horse alongside the boardwalk. Excuse me, son, said the pastor as he stopped next to the stranger.

I’m not your son, spoke a low voice. The stranger kept a broad back to the pastor. He seemed more interested in watching the horse rest.

Is that Will McCoy’s horse? The pastor waited a moment but received no answer.

Where did you get that horse? questioned the old man. The stranger remained silent. The black duster covered him well. The pastor couldn’t tell where the coat began and the shiny dark hair ended. The crouched figure started to brush the resting animal.

Do you work on their ranch? The stranger shook his head no.

Why won’t you turn around? I’m trying to converse with you.

Pastor Robins stepped closer to the figure. He was growing weary of the man.

Are you new to Longbranch? asked Robins while leaning forward in curiosity. He could tell he was being watched even though the stranger had yet to face him.

You don’t want to get caught outside if a storm comes. Robins heard snorting. He wasn’t sure if it came from the horse or the man.

Ain’t no storm coming, muttered the stranger. I’m only trying to look out for you, spoke Pastor Robins.

You know where I can find Tim Smith? No, I never heard of him.

Never?

I know everyone in this town.

The stranger swiveled as he stood up to continue the conversation. His left eyebrow arched as navy blue eyes met the pastor’s face. A spark of fire gleamed from within. One would reckon ’twas the last great sight Pastor Robins bore witness to before seeing the pearly gates.

Move along, Redcloak, ordered the stranger. "I have no quarrel with you or the flock you tend.

***

Tim Smart awoke from an afternoon nap. The two hearts in his hairy chest beat quite harshly out of anticipation. He had been in town for less than a week. He had even considered staying.

The rented room above the Slantystone Saloon granted more comfort than the little entertainer was used to back home. He had left the old country in search of newfound glory and fame. What he found was a new world ripe with women and adventure. As much as he missed family, he knew this backwater town could easily grant him the joys he was denied back in that old, small village.

Tim hopped out of the bed and gave his tiny body a healthy stretch. A smile somewhere between proud and lecherous crossed his face. The prostitute from the night before was still sprawled out in bed, exhausted from passionate sex. Tim began an early evening ritual. Nothing fancy, just a teeny-weeny little illusion that he had learned when a kyyd. It covered up the backwards knees and stubbiness of a Satyr heritage.

***

Deputy, cried out an exasperated Robert Jones. He had managed to stop Douglas by standing in front of the deputy’s horse. My office. It’s been ransacked!

Robert had shouted something. Douglas sat saddled, inches away from the man in the street, but the telegrapher’s voice didn’t matter. Finding Clara was the only thing mattered. It was as if the world had swallowed up everything else.

Go home, Robert.

Deputy, you don’t understand!

I said, go home. Douglas trotted the horse around the man. The train station was just ahead and he had no more time to lose.

***

I’m here for Tim Smart, announced the stranger.

The few inhabitants of the town square went about their way, choosing not even to look in his direction.

Where is Tim Smart? The stranger spoke once more, and this time his voice shook those standing on the street. All trembled at the sound. The stranger motioned to a terrified boy who had been playing by the well.

Little James couldn’t help but to stare at the stranger. Tears and snot streamed down the boy’s face. He was too frightened to move.

Will you help me, boy?

I won’t help the devil, yelped Little James.

I’ve already killed that beast.

The stranger knelt down and smirked. Innocent eyes stared at the weathered stranger. The child was trying to muster courage. Who was he to scare a little boy? Had he forgotten the real reason he had been called to this undertaking? It had been so many years trying to make reparations.

A shot rang out.

Get away from the boy, ordered a grizzled man with a tin star on his vest.

Two other townsfolk had assembled from behind. Each of the sheriff’s men were brandishing guns and on horseback.

It always comes to this, stated the stranger as wistful memories faded to grit.

The stranger stood.

Don’t make me tell you again, said the sheriff.

And keep yer hands where I can see ’em, said the skinnier of the two deputies. This one had an eager trigger finger; it was all ready to pull off a shot.

Cold navy eyes linked with the horse underneath the sheriff.

Go on, boy, get to your mother.

The stranger sharply whistled. Instantly all three horses bucked their riders to the ground. Guns were fired and the town square exploded into a scene of pandemonium. The stranger had unleashed his rage. Two double-action revolvers discharged into the madness. In a matter of moments, the three lawmen had been destroyed.

***

The deputy boarded the train. There was blood on the floorboards. His boots moved through the muck, seat by seat, desperate to find his future bride.

Clara? called out Douglas with fading hope.

Open-eyed corpses slumped in their cushioned seats. The dead were pale in color from blood dribbling out of their ears. Their expressions were waxy and afraid.

Flies disrupted the stillness of the passenger car. They were fat this season. Douglas swatted them off his face. He was almost to the end of the passenger car before noticing something out of the corner of his eye. It was a flabby man with only one eye.

The flabby man had his back to the window. He had been shot. The eye was bigger than usual and sat in the middle of his forehead.

The solitary eye was looking down at the wound. His three-fingered hands were stubby and bloodstained from holding wormlike intestines that had spilled out from his stomach. Blood was everywhere and the smell was terrible.

Can you hear me? asked Douglas.

The eye twitched and rolled upwards to stare at the deputy.

Where’s my girl?

The flabby cyclops tried to speak. It coughed up blood. One stubby hand thrusted outward to grab at Douglas. Its three fingers clawed at the air near the deputy’s chest. Its flabby body paused and then spasmed. The solitary eyelid closed half-shut. It gurgled for a final time and stopped moving.

Douglas? sniffled Clara.

The deputy turned to see his beloved fiancée. Clara’s blue eyes and smile revealed relief. She appeared two rows behind the cyclops. Her face was flushed but otherwise looked fine.

Clara! exclaimed Douglas, taking her into his arms. It was awful, said Clara. We were being robbed, or I thought so.

It’s okay now, darling. You’re safe.

You don’t understand, she said pulling away. That one-eyed thing was going to kill me! I was saved by an outlaw.

What outlaw?

He was on the side of the train. I saw him jump onboard after the tunnel. He pointed right at that one-eyed man and called him out. The conductor tried to stop them but he was so fast. He drew his gun and shot through the roof. It was deafening.

You poor, poor, lucky girl, said Douglas, remembering the bloodied ears of the other passengers. Wait, where is this outlaw?

That one-eyed man didn’t look like that before, continued Clara. He looked all normal-like before the outlaw yelled at him. I saw him change, change into that. Clara trailed off as she viewed the flabby cyclops shift in its seat.

A burp rumbled from the cyclops. Its body had started to soften. The fat body quivered and melted. Flabby arms were the first to liquefy. The cyclops had become a puddle of slop. Look away, darling, said Douglas while shielding his own eyes from the mess.

I watched him shoot that thing. He then pointed his gun at me!

Douglas hugged her again and listened.

He asked if I was with child. I lied. I lied and said yes! He told me to stay quiet until we pulled into town.

***

The stranger stood within the doorway to the Slantystone Saloon. Its two-story frame was filled with music from the piano by the bar. The inhabitants carried on without care. Not a soul seemed to notice as the stranger surveyed the room. The playful tune worked its magic on the crowd of prostitutes and gamblers. Drinking, dancing, and singing drowned out the grittiness of the earlier gunfight.

A small but handsome man played the piano. Short fingers moved across the ivory keys with a fluster of excitement. The sound was magic. It confused and seduced the saloon dwellers. All of the men and women were under his spell.

The pretty young singer was the first to succumb. Her curvy body rested against the piano. She was unable to sing. The words slipped from her mind the moment the piano player started his new song. It was simply easier to relax and enjoy.

Five men sat at a table trying to play cards. They each had the same dumbstruck expression. Their cards fell carelessly out of their hands. The stranger recognized one face from a bounty poster. He wasn’t the target. The rest of his men were equally unimportant.

A bartender stared off into the distance. His glassy-eyed stare showed he lost attention sometime mid-pour. A bottle of whiskey emptied over the brim of a cowboy’s glass. The whiskey splashed from the bar onto the unresponsive cowboy’s shirt.

The stranger entered the saloon. His hands pushed back his duster to gain better access to the two revolvers. It was time for Tim Smart to die.

Your partner ain’t coming, said the stranger to the pianist.

The small man paused for a moment, cracked his knuckles, and started the song over. This time he played it with even more spirit. The boastful tune had eased its way into the people’s hearts. The room’s attitude quickly changed from lethargic to enraged.

I knew trouble was coming for me, said Tim Smart. Life’s been too easy and where’s the fun in that?

Let the man play, complained the singer.

The stranger ignored the woman but could tell the rest of the room was becoming agitated. It was best to size up the biggest threats and get ready for a fight. He kept the card players in sight as he walked toward the piano. Soon everyone in the room would be against him.

Now why don’t you tell me how I wronged you? said Tim Smart. Did I steal your coin? Did I sleep with your wife?

You are guilty of self-banishment.

Well who the hell are you to say something like that? Tim Smart asked as his fingers hesitated above the piano keys.

Please keep playing, begged the singer.

I’m the Herald of the Censor, stated the stranger grimly. "You are sentenced to die.

Now hold on, friend, said Tim Smart. My other friends want me to stay. Isn’t that right?

Let him play, demanded the people.

The entire crowd had surrounded the stranger. Their glossy eyes now filled with resentment.

It’s your call, friend, smiled Tim Smart. They will tear you and this place apart just to hear my music.

The stranger drew to fire. The double-barrel revolvers aimed directly through the crowd at the man sitting behind the piano. As the triggers were about to be pulled, he was hit by the full weight of the piano and forced backwards into a group of men.

Tim Smart released all of his hidden strength by kicking the piano forward. The crowd scattered as the piano crashed into the stranger. This motion broke the illusion, revealing Smart’s stubby goat legs.

Kill him! yelled Tim Smart.

The saloon went wild. The townspeople wanted the stranger dead. They wanted the Slantystone destroyed. Bottles flew across the room, fists punched, and boots stomped. The frenzied attacks continued as the stranger fought to stand back up.

The stranger used his revolvers to hit the townsfolk. He knocked back man after man, resolute to find and kill the newly exposed satyr. He raised a revolver to fire but was then grabbed from behind and lifted into the air.

You tell them we ain’t ever going back! thundered a muscular, one-eyed man before throwing the stranger across the room.

The stranger hit the wall hard. Bones cracked and his body fell to the floor. The stranger gritted his teeth. It was time to mark off one more escapee from the list.

The cyclops roared and charged for another strike. The one eye locked onto the stranger. Its six-foot, scar-covered body smashed through saloon tables, tossing chairs and crushing people in its path. The cyclops gained momentum and bounded into the air, attempting to land and bring its full weight onto the stranger.

At the last second, the stranger lunged back against the wall and kicked up, catching the cyclops in the eye with a boot spur. The stranger twisted, causing the spur to move past the eye and into the cyclops’ skull. The one-eyed beast dropped without taking another breath.

Tell those high-courting, Seelie Spectrum housed jackasses that Tymot Smyrt won’t be kneeling to any more of their lords and ladyships, fumed the satyr before shooting the stranger in the chest with one of his own double-barreled revolvers.

The stranger toppled to the ground. Darkness filled his eyes. His mission incomplete. Death was calling. Time and purpose were murdered.

***

A frosty wind had whipped up from the West. Two brothers admired their father’s land from atop magnificent steeds. The fields had been harvested earlier in the month, yet the grey-green prairie grass regrew tall enough to wave boldly in the current of wind.

The Lord of Ambershank was, however, known for more than his vast grain supply. His sons both wore the ceremonial armor of their family. The Gruoens of Ambershank had earned their reputation for being honorable on the battlefield and true to the people. They had a long history in Avalon of supporting the crown of Everlawn.

The family motto had changed since the recent uprising. To grow, to thrive, to flourish was now replaced with a commoner’s view of, To grow into the green. This troubled the two brothers deeply. Supporting the green was seen as weakness. Becoming the green would be viewed as treasonous. Their father had made the ill-advised decision to stand silent during the Fall of Wishing. House Glitterpine had fallen. The Spectrum Courts alienated the remnants of their extended family, causing all lesser houses and supporters of wishing and mankind to lose prestige and title.

Today the Lord of Ambershank, Master of Lesser House Gruoen and General of the Emerald Branch Empire, was to meet with House Regalia. The ambassador had requested an audience with their father to ensure a continued peace. The realm had fresh wounds to heal and the brothers had hoped their father would do what was necessary to pay and retain respect in the eyes of Lady Indigo.

She has no place in our lands, said the younger son. True, but she now thinks she owns all of the lands, said the oldest son.

Father won’t let us call her the Dark Empress. She is an oppressor and a fraud.

The Matriarch’s family holds the throne. It doesn’t matter what we think.

It does matter, declared the younger son. House Parstain’s heir will return. She will make it right.

Where was House Parstain when the Afreet were killed? Where were our friends when Glitterpine was splintered? They have little concern for us. Yes, they are the true rulers but without a head for the crown the throne will remain empty.

How does that make it Moira’s throne in the meantime? asked the younger son.

Parstain’s minor houses have influenced where they can. They are impotent, though, when it comes to disputing the Matriarch’s decree of heredity. She married well.

I don’t want to attend the gathering, said the younger son.

Father won’t let you. You know why we are here.

Will you kill me, brother?

"The Matriarch commands that all lesser houses only have one successor. If any oppose the rule, all