A Monstrous Romance: Strange Aeons, #0.5

By M.R. Graham

The madman. The magistrix. The monster.

Even as she opens the letter, Aurelia knows it is already too late. Still, she has no choice but to answer the summons, though she fears she already knows what she will find.

High in a cold and crumbling castle, a bitter man discovers the secret substance of life. A hideous creature opens its eyes. A mechanical golem finds his heart. This pair of abominations of science know they were destined for each other, but they continue to live only at their maker's pleasure.

Only Aurelia can save them from the fractured mind of her former friend. But first, she has to save herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: qui est in literis
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393433729

Book preview

Strange Aeons: A Monstrous Romance

M.R. Graham

Strange Aeons: A Monstrous Romance

Copyright © 2019 M.R. Graham

quiestinliteris.com

Cover Design by M.R. Graham

This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or are used in a purely fictional manner.

All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form, without written permission from the author.

More by M.R. Graham

The Liminality Series

The Medium

The Mora

The Mage

The Martyr (coming soon)

In the Shadow of the Mountains

The Wailing

The Van Helsing Legacy

We Shall Not Sleep

Dark & Hungry Graves

Strange Aeons

A Monstrous Romance

A Library of Flesh

The Adventures of Morrigan Holmes

No Cage for a Crow

The Death of a Swan (coming soon)

Stand-Alones

The Siren

Poetry

Versos

Papalotes

Strange Matters

Contents

One

November, 1809

In the heart of a dark, misty, and mountainous land was a vale sheltered by rugged peaks. It was green with fragrant fir and pine, and through it flowed a silver river, upon which thrived a little village like a jewel, painted in all the bright, rich colors loved by its bright, poor people.

Above the village, on the slopes, where the fir and pine began to grow stunted and sparse, stood a crumbling castle, its aged towers staring down from dark windows upon the valley below. In the castle lived a man, and though he had not been seen in years, the villagers knew in their bones that he lived. When they spoke of him, they spoke in whispers, and when they whispered, they called him Count Death.

Beneath the castle, in chambers sunk deep into the cold earth, a motionless form lay dreaming amid the devices of an unnatural science. For years, it dreamed, until the night its dreaming ended.

This night was like other autumn nights, cold and damp. The loam beneath the trees exhaled a frigid mist that cloaked the valley and concealed the village, and like a white tide, the dense fog lapped at the roots of the castle.

In the night, the sleeper stirred.

Across the valley, in the crooked angle formed by the brush of one mountainous slope against another, a figure appeared. It paused before beginning its descent, sharp eyes peering out from beneath its hood to survey the darkness. One gloved hand clutched the lead of a small, heavily laden pony. The other curled around a pilgrim’s staff. It hesitated there for a long while, gazing in the direction of the lightless, invisible castle, before plunging into the fog.

The figure’s feet trod the rutted road with confidence, carrying it down to the river and through the village, unseen by the sleeping people. It glided, wraithlike, through the misty streets, between the homes, and across the bridge that led up the other slope of the valley, the little pony following.

Amber fields rolled around it, hidden by the fog, soon replaced by trees, small at first, but quickly rising in towering cathedral vaults that completed the darkness.

It stopped once, and the eyes beneath the hood closed as it listened. All was silent, but for the soft breath of the traveler and the animal. No wind rustled in the leaves and needles above. No forest creatures stirred in the earth below. The mist swallowed all sound.

The path turned rocky as the trees thinned. Perhaps a lone cart came that way from time to time, bearing provisions; the traveler believed the man in the castle still lived, and if he lived, he would have to eat. But there were no grand dinners in that place, anymore. No parties, no balls. Once, the road had been well maintained, for all the carriages it had to bear. Once, the castle had been full of light. Full of glittering men and women of the noblest houses of Europe.

But that was before. It had been a long time since the traveler had last come that way. The letter, its twenty pages creased and brittle with its long journey, weighed heavily in the traveler’s pocket. The letter that had come too late.

Unnerved by the silence, the traveler moved on, taking reassurance from the quiet click and crunch of the pony’s hooves on the path. The trees grew taller and darker, and then they began to thin.

And suddenly, the mist was gone, left behind. The traveler looked back toward the village, hidden by the opaque whiteness that pooled between the mountains, like a gem concealed at the bottom of a bowl of milk. The moon had risen while the figure traversed the darkness of the valley, and now it ignited the sea of fog below. The light revealed the rocky ground and, above, the castle.

It had been beautiful, once, but the years had not been kind. Lichens clung to the weather-blackened stone, competing with the gnarled, grasping fingers of long-dead vines. Not a single gleam of light brightened the windows, many of which were heavily shuttered, many broken. No groundskeeper or footman appeared to demand the traveler’s name or take the pony. The roses that had once filled the black granite urns flanking the door had become sad, bare twigs.

The letter grew heavier at the traveler’s breast.

With no one to tend the pony, the traveler secured its lead to the branch of a tree just within the forest edge and approached the door. The dark wood, as old as the castle itself, had seen violence. Deep gouges pocked the surface, and the moonlight vanished into the black, undulating streaks where tongues of flame had passed.

At last, the figure revealed itself. From beneath the pilgrim’s hood, a woman emerged. Her ebony skin drank the moonlight, but her eyes gave off a subtle glow of their own.

She reached out and raised the iron ring, bringing it down with enough force to shake flakes of rust from the heavy bands crossing the wood. The walls reverberated with the great, hollow sound, as though nothing was left within.

Nothing alive.

She retreated a step and tipped her head back, regarding the jagged black line of the wall and the stars above. The door had been hacked and burned, but it had also been closed and barred. If the castle had been attacked, if it had fallen, would the invaders have closed up behind themselves? The door would have to have been barricaded from the outside by anyone leaving. So there had to be someone still inside. Was it the author of the letter, or only his corpse? Or something else altogether?

The woman stepped back again, eyes roving over the castle’s windows. Long ago, the building had been a medieval fortress, but the following generations had been more interested in comfort than defense. There were still the small, square openings and narrow balistaria, but the newer towers glittered with diamond-paned leaded glass. Some were already broken. That was one possible way in.

If only she had a grapple.

She froze. There, at that window. That gleam was not the moonlight on glass. It was moonlight on a face, a face of silver. And then it was gone.

Wait! she called, but the figure did not reappear.

A face of silver in a broken window in a dead castle in a silent forest. And the letter, dragging at her pocket like lead.

What have you done, Magnus? she whispered. He couldn’t have done that to himself, could he? He wouldn’t have returned to old habits, not after everything…

Her entire body broke out in gooseflesh, a shiver working its way up her spine.

The letter was undated. She had no way of knowing when it had been sent, only that the messenger who brought it had been dead at least three years when she finally returned home. At least. But desiccation could be deceptive. The sad little mummy might have lain there five years, ten. He might have arrived the very evening she left, collapsing onto the floor of her chamber while the hearthstones were still warm. If she had been there to find him, to tend him, to receive the letter and set off immediately once he was well…

She shook herself. The man was dead, and she had buried him without even knowing where she might begin to search for his name to engrave upon a stone. Or for his faith. She said her own prayers over the shallow pit, and that had to be enough.

The man was dead, but there was something in that castle, still, and she could let herself hope that it was Magnus. Whatever it was, it had seen her, she was sure. It had stared down, and for a fraction of a second, she had met its gaze. There had been that uncomfortable frisson of knowing.

But wherever it had gone, it did not seem to be coming to open the door.

She had no grapple, and she had no ladder. The windows remained a possibility, but she would have to travel back down into the village for tools, and she suspected the villagers would not be friendly.

So, if not up, then down. There were passages and chambers beneath the castle. Back before the letter, before they had parted ways, Magnus had laughingly called them the dungeons. Some of them led back up to the surface. She only needed to find one of the entrances.

She glanced back at the pony. There were wolves in the mountains, and there might well be worse inside the castle, and she hated to leave the animal alone. But then, what could she really do to protect it, out there on her own, about to plunge into darkness?

She rubbed its ears and soft nose as she unbuckled the bundle of blankets from atop the saddlebags. The mass of wool unfolded from around a long, curved object. Going openly armed would have made her feel safer, perhaps, but she did not want to risk being stopped on the road. A woman traveling alone attracted enough attention, an African woman even more, and an African woman dressed as a man… If she had dared to be a black woman traveling alone, dressed as a man, and carrying as unusual a weapon as a shotel, chances were good she would have been forced to use it.

But there was no one near, now, except the pony and the owner of the silver face. She unfastened her cloak and left it atop the blankets, buckling the sword belt around her waist. Beneath the cloak, her trousers, boots, blouse and jacket were all black, as well. If not for the glaring moonlight, she would have been all but invisible.

She slipped away, her steps light enough not to disturb the skittering stones of the mountainside.

And when a hand grasped her arm, she was not entirely surprised.

Two

The hand was cold and hard as stone, and though it did not squeeze, the traveler sensed the strength to crush her bones. She whirled, the arced blade of her shotel singing in the autumn air.

It met her assailant’s ribs with a… with a clang. Metal rang on metal, harsh and discordant, and she stared up into a silver face. At first, she thought it was a mask. The eyelids yawned open over black pits, behind which, she thought she saw the reflection of real eyes.