Happily Ever Afterlife

  HAPPILY EVER AFTERLIFE

  An Untold Press Anthology

  First Printing, October 2013

  The Baron and the Firebird © 2013 by J.A. Campbell

  In the Belly of the Wolf © 2013 by Amanda Carman

  Blood Borne Pathogen © 2013 by Shoshanah Holl

  The Glass Coffin © 2013 by Emmalyn Greyson

  In Spite of Fire © 2013 by Tilly Boscott

  Clara and the Coon © 2013 by M.K. Boise

  Hans and the Best Day Ever © 2013 by G.L. Jackson

  The Angel © 2013 by Troy Lambert

  Cover Illustration © 2013 by Sean Hayden

  Stock Photo Used in Cover Design © 2013 by Shutterstock/ Kachinadoll

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors' imagination and or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Untold Press LLC

  114 NE Estia Lane

  Port St Lucie, FL 34983

  www.untoldpress.com

  PRODUCED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  The Baron and the Firebird by J.A. Campbell

  In the Belly of the Wolf by Amanda Carman

  Blood Borne Pathogen by Shoshanah Holl

  The Glass Coffin by Emmalyn Greyson

  In Spite of Fire by Tilly Boscott

  Clara and the Coon by M.K. Boise

  Hans and the Best Day Ever by G.L. Jackson

  The Angel by Troy Lambert

  Author Biographies

  The Baron and the Firebird

  by

  J.A. Campbell

  New York, 2013

  "And you're still searching?" The cute late night waitress slipped into the booth across from him after she filled his coffee.

  "Yes." Peter pretended to take a sip.

  "How many years has it been?" The waitress had a dreamy look in her eyes, as if thinking of true love.

  If only she knew how much pain true love caused: the endless searching, the inability to love someone else. Still, he wouldn't change it for the world. "It feels like centuries." It had been centuries, but the waitress, Susan, her nametag said, didn't need to know that.

  "Describe her again?"

  "Last I saw her, her fiery golden hair was long, down to her knees. Her eyes are golden, and her skin the color of cream. She's not tall. She has a beautiful voice, like the chiming of perfect silver bells."

  The waitress frowned. "Does she sing?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe you should go see the Broadway play tonight. I don't know much about it, but it's a musical, and the main singer is long-haired with a beautiful voice."

  "I would imagine most of the singers on Broadway have beautiful voices."

  The waitress smiled. "I'm just sayin'. She could be your girl."

  Peter smiled, humoring her. There's no way his Firebird was singing on Broadway.

  The bell over the entrance chimed, and the waitress looked up. "Well, looks like you're not the only one up this late at night." She slid from the booth and went to help the new customer.

  Peter cradled the steaming mug of coffee in his hands, inhaling the diner coffee smell and enjoying it even though he couldn't drink it. Once his coffee cooled, he put money on the table and left, trying to push the thoughts of musicals out of his mind. Despite his efforts, his mind and feet drifted back toward Broadway.

  Peter, once Baron Pyotr Vasilyev, had traveled: first Russia, and then the world, in search of his beautiful Firebird. He followed the thin thread of rumor and legend. When that failed, he had simply let himself wander until he ended up in the diner, out of ideas and almost out of hope.

  Peter had grown tired of wandering the continents alone and had all but given up hope of finding the one he loved. His hand strayed to his throat where he kept the feather the beautiful Firebird had given him. A faint glow emanated from under his collar and he pulled his coat tighter to hide the light.

  There wasn't much traffic this late at night and he found himself alone, staring at advertisements for the plays. The poster for the current performance was a drawing of a woman in a long 1950's style dress. It showed her profile, her elegant poise, and her shapely curves. Her hair draped over her far shoulder, and he couldn't determine its length, though it seemed to be close to the right fiery gold color.

  He couldn't tell if it was his Firebird or not. He'd only seen her as a human twice and it had been centuries ago. Peter read the names of the actors but didn't recognize any of them, although one was vaguely Russian sounding. Disappointed, he turned away and headed back to the hotel he temporarily called home.

  Once there, he pulled out his laptop and began his nightly routine of searching for new stories about his Firebird. After hours passed, he admitted defeat and was about to retire for the night when the playbill came back to him. It could be her. He went to the Broadway website. He had no other ideas and nothing to lose but a few dollars he could easily spare, so he purchased a ticket for the next evening. Peter shut his laptop and prepared for bed.

  The Firebird's gift allowed him to go out in the sunlight, but he still preferred the night. He lay in the hotel bed and longed for the deep cold of the Russian winters and the wilds of home. Those thoughts inevitably brought him back to the Firebird and how they had met.

  * * *

  Russia, 1725

  The merrily crackling fire didn't warm Pyotr's cold hands or put cheer into his cold heart. He sighed, leaned back into his throne-like chair, and sipped from his goblet. Perhaps something interesting would happen at the audience if any peasants were desperate enough for his counsel to brave the harsh winter. The latest snowstorm had raged for days and had only just cleared. The sun shone brilliantly outside, reflecting off the blanket of fresh snow and making it uncomfortably bright in his chamber. He'd told Boris to leave the shutters open, but he hadn't expected his servant to take so long in returning.

  Pyotr stood and paced, carefully avoiding the shafts of sunlight. The audience was soon. Where was his damn servant?

  Finally, Pyotr's sensitive ears heard the rapid footsteps of his loyal servant. Boris ran down the hallway, the sound from his footfalls echoing off the bare stone walls. Pyotr winced, anger briefly stirring his dead heart. By the time Boris arrived, the passion had faded, too difficult to maintain.

  "Baron, your cherries." He gasped for breath and tried not to double over while holding out a silver plate with two golden cherries. They glowed more merrily than the fire and, again, Pyotr felt the faintest stirrings in his dead heart.

  For a moment, he let Boris struggle to stay upright, a slight punishment for his tardiness. Then he took pity on his servant and took the plate from his hand. Pyotr admired how the glow reflected off of the perfect sheen of the silver, as he always did. Then he slowly picked up one of the cherries. His fingers tingled with the magic they contained. Already, he saw blackness spreading down the stem from where his fingers delicately grasped it. Quickly, before the magic could fade, he placed the cherry in his mouth and pulled the stem away. Warmth spread through him, bursting from his core as the sweet flavor burst from the cherry, granting enough power to protect him from the sunlight for an hour or so. Pyotr placed the stem on the silver plate and repeated the ritual with the second cherry. It was enough to get him through the audience and, perhaps, have some time to walk in his gardens before he must retire to his dark study. Some days, it was enough. Some days,
he wanted to consume all the cherries and walk in the daylight for as long as he could, but the tree only had so many, and without it, he couldn't care for his people. Not that he really wanted to care for his people and their petty squabbles, but it was his duty, handed down, along with a strong sense of responsibility, from his father years before.

  Pyotr set the plate down on the scarred wooden table and turned back to his gasping servant. Boris was used to a sedate life. Perhaps it would do him some good to get more exercise.

  "I trust you have an explanation?"

  "No, Baron. I mean, yes, and no." He looked afraid.

  Pyotr was a fair master, if only because he couldn't raise the effort to be cruel, and he couldn't remember ever seeing fear on Boris's face before. He settled into his chair in front of the fire and gestured for Boris to continue.

  "Baron, as I do every day, I counted the cherries. Every single one. We should have three hundred left, including the two you just consumed. However, we only have two hundred and ninety-five."

  Pyotr sat up and glared at his servant. A passion, such as he hadn't felt since he was alive, aided by the warmth from his magical cherries, ignited inside him. "Explain." His normally bored voice was icy, and Boris fell to his knees, practically in tears.

  "I went out to begin my count, as I always do. I came up five short. I counted again, and again, to be sure." His voice trembled.

  "Who has stolen them?"

  "I…I don't know. There were no tracks but my own. None would dare climb the wall to your private gardens. Only I have the key." Boris hung his head. He must have known how it sounded.

  Pyotr leaned back into his chair, tapping his fingernails on the arms. Boris had served him faithfully since the servant was a lad, and he couldn't imagine Boris betraying him. Especially since he and his family depended on Pyotr's good will for shelter and food, and none had the money to buy such a treasure, except for Pyotr himself. No one traveled in the storms that had ravaged the land, so perhaps there was some other explanation. However, it wouldn't do to let Boris off the hook completely. He was the only one with the keys to the garden, after all.

  "Boris, those cherries are what allow me to properly care for my people, your family included. I must have enough to last until the tree renews itself at midsummer."

  "Yes, Baron. I know." His voice shook and he bowed lower, his head almost to the ground.

  "Rise, Boris. Tomorrow, you will get up with the sun, and you will stand guard in the orchard and capture this thief."

  "Yes, sir." Boris stood.

  Pyotr was almost amused at the relieved expression on his servant's face. It was more emotion than he'd felt for a while, and even though he was deeply angry at the theft, he was grateful to discover he could still feel.

  Pyotr rose from his chair and headed to the audience chamber, Boris at his heels.

  * * *

  Pyotr paced back and forth in front of the fire. The sun was just past its height, and Boris should have returned by now, preferably with the thief captured. It was time to go to the audience. The magic in the cherries allowed him to pass as human for a time, along with going out into the daylight. If he had to face his people as he was now, pale and cold, they would know something was wrong. Perhaps if it were only one day, they would think he was sick. The effort of leaving his study without magical aid was almost more than he could bear, but his sense of duty to the people his family had watched over for generations prevailed, and he forced himself from the room. He avoided shafts of sunlight from the narrow windows as he walked. Fortunately, his throne was well shadowed in the audience chamber. He used some of his power to wrap the shadows more closely about him and hide his waxy pale appearance from his people.

  He could see the confusion on the first petitioner's face as he approached at Pyotr's lazy gesture. He could hear the whispers from the back of the audience chamber as if the peasants whispered in his ear. What is wrong with Baron Vasilyev?

  If Boris didn't appear soon, he'd have to hunt up one of the other house servants and send them into the garden to look for him. Boris was the only one he trusted to go into the garden, and the thought made him uneasy.

  * * *

  The last of the peasants left the audience, and Pyotr slumped in his chair. Where was Boris? He spent a moment fancying what torture he would lay on his servant for his failure, but the mental effort became too much.

  He once again considered walking into the sunlight without the protection of the magical cherries and ending his long years, but his duty to his people prevented him from taking the first step that would lead him to an end of his boredom and misery. Instead, he wearily got to his feet and went back to his study. His duty was perhaps the only thing he had left, and he clung to it though he wasn't sure why.

  He waited for another hour before he heard Boris's footsteps pounding down the hallway, running as if his life depended on it. Pyotr picked up a book, acting as if he'd been reading. Boris tapped on the door. Pyotr could hear him gasping for breath.

  He hesitated for a long moment. "Come in," he finally said, his voice icy.

  Boris pushed the door open and fell to his knees, forehead on the floor. His skin looked blue, and he trembled violently, as if he were nearly frozen.

  "And you have been where?"

  "T-t-the o-o-orchard, B-b-baron." His teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  Pyotr growled in annoyance, lurched to his feet, and grabbed Boris by the collar. He hauled him over by the fire, practically tossing him in it. Boris didn't even have time to flinch. His clothing was stiff with ice, and Pyotr believed Boris had been in the orchard the whole time. He waited while his servant thawed and stopped shaking.

  "Explain."

  "I went to the orchard before the sun rose, as you commanded. At first nothing happened, but then as the golden light of day reflected off the tops of the trees, I heard a song like nothing I'd ever heard before. Its purity and beauty brought tears to my eyes, and…" He crouched to the ground in terror.

  "And?"

  Boris sighed. "Then I woke, nearly frozen, hours later, and ran straight here. I am sorry, m'lord. I've failed you. I can only ask that you make my end quick, in return for my years of faithful service." His voice quavered.

  Pyotr stared at Boris for a long moment, debating what to do. Boris had failed, but he suspected magic was involved, and Boris could hardly combat that. However, he didn't want Boris to think he could get away with failure. Pyotr decided to pass judgment once the mystery had been solved. He glanced at the window. Weak light filtered through the shutters. The cherries had to be picked in daylight or they would lose their magic instantly. At the height of the sun, the magic was strongest, but even now they'd have enough to sustain him.

  "Boris, quickly, before the light fades, return to the orchard and bring me five of the cherries. Since you obviously can't be trusted to discover our thief, I will have to do it myself." His words were a little harsh, and he knew it.

  Boris stared for a moment, obviously shocked. Pyotr had never before asked for more than three and only then on special occasions.

  "Hurry, Boris. The sunlight fades while you hesitate."

  The servant dashed from the room. Pyotr sank back into his chair, intrigued despite his anger. It had been ages since he had encountered something interesting enough to stir his emotion without magical aid.

  * * *

  Pyotr stared into the fire until the sky lightened to gray false dawn. Then he wrapped a thick, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, though he didn't truly need it, and picked up the tray containing the softly glowing cherries. He didn't want to consume them until the last minute since they were picked under the weakest light. His footsteps barely broke the deep silence in the castle. The few servants he kept slept deeply at this hour. He paused just outside the corridor leading to his private garden, sensing his servant. Boris's breathing was even, but not quite deep enough that Pyotr thought he was asleep. What was his servant doing here?

  Bor
is looked up from the steaming mug in his hand and squared his shoulders, as if preparing for a fight. "I could not let you go into potential danger alone, and I brought your breakfast." Another mug sat on the bench next to him.

  Pyotr felt hunger pull at him, making his teeth ache. He hadn't had any blood in a few days, and while the magic of the cherries made it possible, if he were to resist a magical attack, the blood would be most welcome. He carefully set the tray of cherries down and picked up the mug. It was goat, as always, but warm and relatively fresh. Pyotr drained the mug.

  "Thank you, Boris." Warmth seeped into his extremities, and he knew there would be a touch of color in his cheeks. Next, he quickly ate all the cherries, not taking the time to enjoy the energy spreading through him. He thought he might almost feel human again, though he couldn't truly remember what that was like. He took his own key from around his neck and opened the door to the garden. The sky was clear, though the sunlight was weak. He could smell snow on the air. They'd have another storm soon.

  Pyotr led the way to the golden cherry tree. It shone beautifully in the weak light. The dash of green and gold in the otherwise bare garden warmed his heart and he gazed at it for a while.

  The pure notes of a perfect silver bell broke the silence and pulled his attention away from his greatest treasure. He looked around, trying to find the source of the song. Boris yawned and leaned against the nearest tree. Pyotr felt sleep tug at him as well, but he was able to resist, though he mimicked Boris's pose, leaning against another tree. The song grew in strength and beauty, and Pyotr had to fight to keep his eyes from closing completely, though he did let them fall, so as to fool whoever cast the spell. Boris snored gently. The cherries' magic, and his innate vampire powers, allowed him to fight off the strong magic. He watched, entranced, as the most beautiful bird he'd ever laid eyes on, flew into his garden.