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Chapter 4
QuebecMother Marie-Claire was attempting to get some work done in her office, but the sparkle of sun on new-fallen snow distracted her. Working out the budget was one of her least favorite duties as Mother Superior of Les Petites Soeurs de Sainte-Anne. The numbers refused to reconcile themselves, and she hoped they might be better behaved after a short break.
Mother Marie-Claire succumbed to the lure of the beauty of the world and went to look out of the window.
Sister Bernadette, along with one of the novices and Anne, had appropriated three of the large metal trays from the herb-drying room and were sliding down the steep hill on them. Mother Marie-Claire smiled and wished she could join them. She would gladly abandon her budgeting task for an hour, if only her 67-year old body had been capable of the exertion that came so easily to the young women.
It was hard to believe that the vibrant, active woman enjoying the beautiful morning was the same one Father O'Malley had brought to them in the dead of the night only a week ago. She was such a wee slip of a girl, cradled in the arms of the elderly priest, that Marie-Claire had at first thought she was a horribly abused child. In addition to the severe blow to the back of her head, she was a mass of cuts and bruises; one eye was swollen shut, her ribs were purple and Mother Marie-Claire had feared internal damage. The Mother Superior had thought the poor young woman would not live through the night.
The sisters who were skilled in healing had cleaned her up as well as they could, checked her pupils every hour, and prayed constantly. God was good. Her pupils remained equal and reacted to light, and by the time Anne regained consciousness, the worst of her injuries had already healed. It was that miraculous healing that had convinced Mother Marie-Claire that God would heal this woman Himself, without the necessity of attempting to get her to the nearest hospital, which was two hours away.
Within a week, although Anne had completely healed physically, her memory had not returned. Mother Marie-Claire was concerned.
It was a precept of their order to offer shelter and safe haven to any woman in need, but what if Anne had a family who were searching for her? Marie-Claire had sent a Sister into the village every day to purchase the Toronto and Montreal newspapers as well as the local ones, but there had been no mention in any of them of a missing woman.
Anne had said she wished to stay here for the present, but was she really competent to make that decision, due to the memory loss? And what if the concussion was more severe than it appeared?
Mother Marie-Claire sighed. God had a plan for Anne—she was sure of it. So, she would leave her in His capable hands and get back to work on the recalcitrant budget.
**********
This sucked!
Danny pushed the vintage Indian motorcycle through the snow drifts, getting more pissed off by the mile. Forced to travel by night, the snow had a frozen crust that taxed even his superior strength. It was like a fucking Ice Age here! Whatever had possessed him to leave Texas and come to fucking Canada?
He thought it would be cool to check out Cleveland—he'd never been to a Hellmouth, and with Sunnydale gone, he figured Cleveland would've become Party-Central by default. He shoulda just gone to fuckin' Mardi Gras as usual. But no-o-o-o!
Cleveland wasn't as great as he'd heard. Fuckin' Faith the Vampire Slayer enjoyed her work too much for his comfort! He had just about decided to take off, when he met Rosie. Um-um-um! She was a real firecracker. And then she had introduced him to Roger, the Master Vampire. What kinda name for a Master vamp was 'Roger' anyway? But Roger had been sired over a century ago by the legendary Angelus, so Danny thought he might learn something and get himself his own minions when he got back to Texas.
But all Roger wanted to do was hit up convents—some kinda daddy-kink tribute to his sire—and Danny was already bored by the time they got to Quebec. Only so many penguins you can eat, ya know, before ya start wantin' a little variety in your diet!
Danny had just about talked Rosie into splitting with him for Miami, when Roger had made a big mistake.
Small convent, out in the back of beyond—shouda been a piece 'a cake. Yeah-huh! The Slayer had come outta nowhere; took out Roger and all twelve of his minions! Tiny little thing, too. Danny had never seen nothin' like it. With Rosie dust, Danny didn't see any need to stick around and defend Roger. The Master Vamp wasn't nothin' to him! He figured he'd hightail it outta there while the goin' was good and the Slayer was occupied.
The fuckin' bike was stuck again!
Danny gave a massive shove and it broke free. Damn! He couldn't wait till he crossed the border and got outta the fuckin' Snow Belt. Yep. Miami sounded good. He had a hankerin' for some hot Cuban food!
**********
Los Angeles
With a satisfied grin, Will leaned back in his chair and hit 'save'.
His second novel continued the adventures of Lady Deirdre and Azreal.
For a hundred years, they traveled all over Europe, wreaking havoc. Deirdre's quiet, anonymous existence had come to a crashing halt with her creation of the impetuous, depraved 'Angel of Death'. But Azreal had never forgotten the beautiful Rosamunda, who had loved him so desperately she had chosen to die, rather than live without him. Deirdre was a woman who needed to be the center of attention; she wanted Azreal's undying adoration, and she couldn't compete with a ghost.
So, she conceived a diabolical plan. Rosamunda was long beyond her reach, but she had discovered another girl, who not only looked like Rosamunda physically, but who also had the gift of Second Sight.
Priscilla was a gently-reared girl from a good family who had been raised to fulfill her womanly destiny by becoming a wife, mother and pillar of the community. Alas, that was not to be, for Deirdre was a law unto herself and made her own destiny. She'd give Priscilla to Azreal to do as he wished, as a replacement for Rosamunda. When Azreal had degraded and tormented Priscilla to his heart's desire, he would recognize that she—like Rosamunda—was nothing! And then he would belong to Deirdre alone.
But what Deirdre hadn't counted on was what is now common knowledge about captivity and torture; prisoners frequently turn to and identify with their captors/tormentors.
After driving Priscilla to madness, Azreal then sired her. Instead of driving Rosamunda from his heart and having Azreal all to herself, Deirdre was now faced with an insane vampyre Priscilla, who had developed an obsessive devotion to Azreal.
The novel concluded with an inventive menage a trois, which could be deleted at the publisher's discretion without affecting the story. Will hoped it wouldn't be removed, however; he had worked very hard on that particular passage. He'd had no idea it would be so difficult keeping track of so many different body parts!
He'd spell-check and print it out later, but now he was starving! Will slid a frozen pizza into the oven, but he was too hungry to wait for it to cook, so he opened a can of Spaghetti-Os to tide him over. Pouring a large glass of milk, he leaned a hip against the sink and ate his Spaghetti-Os while looking out of the window.
He was feeling very accomplished, and had already thought of a plot for a third novel—Priscilla would make a companion!
Will saw movement out of the corner of his eye and looked out to see the postman approaching with a whole stack of mail. Will's heart began to thump and a sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He flung open the door and, in his excitement, nearly grabbed his mail from the postman's hand.
Shuffling through the stack, he sent the bills sailing in the direction of the kitchen table. There were five letters from publishing houses remaining. Now that the moment was at hand, he was suddenly afraid to open them. His stomach clenched with nerves, and he turned off the oven, suddenly losing his appetite.
Tapping the letters against his palm, he went into the living room and sank down on the couch. He lined the letters up in a row on the coffee table and for long minutes, just sat there staring at them.
He picked up the letters and shuffled them like a deck of cards, laying them face-down on the coffee table, again in a row. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the first envelope on the left and ran his thumb under the flap. Harper. He closed his eyes briefly before dropping them down to the first line.
Dear Mr. Winter; We regret to inform you . . .
The letter fluttered from his suddenly nerveless fingers to the floor.
Okay. A rejection. Not the end of the world. Authors got ten, twenty, sometimes even fifty rejections for every acceptance.
He slit open the second letter. Doubleday. Dear Mr. Winter: We regret . . .
Might as well get this over with. They say ripping off a band-aid hurts less than prolonging the agony.
He snatched up the next envelope. Penguin regrets. Pocketbooks regrets. SRPB. . .
Dear Mr. Winter: Thank you for submitting your manuscript Fallen Angel of Death. One of our editors, Harriet Parker, would like to meet with you next Thursday at our offices in Toronto, if this would be convenient, to discuss publication of your manuscript. If you are represented by an agent, he or she is welcome to accompany you. We at Supernatural Romance Paper Backs (SRPB) are looking forward to making your acquaintance. Sincerely, Regina Dumont, Editor-in-Chief, SRPB.
With a dazed look in his eyes, Will carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. He had so much to do, he didn't know where to begin.
He was expected in Toronto.
Next Thursday.
To discuss publication of his book.
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Continue to Chapter 5
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