Roasted

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The apple tasted a bit odd. Musty, almost, as if it had been packed in a huge crate and the apple living next door but one had gone mouldy. I flipped through the book but the nearest I could get to a spell for 'oven-roast chicken' was 'incendio' which i was pretty certain was a spell Jasfoup had copied from a teenage wizard book. At least he didn't copy the 'trudge wearily from one bit of the forest to the next with a damp tent' spell.

The spell worked, though. Worked too well, to be honest. I was left with a charred piece of chicken which looked as if it had come from the evening menu of a Toby Inn. I could almost see the blood spattered aprons of the waiters.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I can't believe Harold wants to eat the cockatrice. I'll wait until he tries to cook it and then incinerate it. It's for his own good. He's also eaten the apple. Does he believe he's immortal or something?

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Ooh! Barbecued chicken!

Jasfoup's Journal

How undignified!

Not only did I have to get a bus back into town but Lucy filled her nappy just before we got on. I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life. That'll teach me to offer to babysit..

I shall go and call on Meinwen.

Burning Bones

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Not a bad hall, really. A hat, a gun and, from a little leather satchel the chap had been wearing, a pouch of what look to be sunflower seeds and an apple. Nothing else I really wanted. I'd have felt bad about looting his corpse had he not fired first.

I was almost tempted to have his duster-style coat as well but Julie still looked cold. "Here," I said, passing it to her. "You look cold."

She said thanks and turned away before I could ask her to gook the chicken. I sat on a statue to check my spell book and eat the apple.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold looted the corpse and gave me the coat. I wish I'd had the strength of mind to refuse it but I was cold and it was a nice coat. I had a look at the satchel too and found a leather pouch with half a dozen teeth in it. They looked like the canines of an animal. Something with hollow teeth, anyway.

I used an infernal fire to reduce the body to ash. I didn't feel right about leaving it to be picked clean by scavengers.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I checked out the cave on the off-chance they might be another cockatrice but I found something even better. Nestled among the bones of whatever it had eaten was a large, leathery egg. Fantastic! I hurried outside with it. The bloke's satchel would be good to carry it in but I'd need his shirt or something to keep the egg from breaking.

I paused, surprised. "Where's the body gone?" I said.

Jasfoup's Journal

I scowled at Cadfiel. "Don't be so stupid!" I said, though I was terrified he'd ask further. A nephilim is the product of an angel (or true demon) and a mortal. Lucy was the product of two angels. She was an mortal angel.

Best we don't spread that too wide.

"Come on," I said to the bloke as I opened a portal to Hell. "Down you go. I'd normally come with you but I've been left holding the baby. Can you see the path? Yes? Excellent. Just follow the good intentions."

Looting the Corpse

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I say! The sculptor tried to shoot me!

I did have the reflexes to hold the dead chicken in front of me – at least if it wasn't dead it certainly is now. Felicia took a couple of pellets too though she's still whining about them. I thought werewolves weren't injured by anything except silver and magic. It just goes to show how much they still whine.

I had a look at the chap that shot at me. He looked human until you took off the top hat and then he looked elven. Odd. I didn't think there were any elves in Faery any more. I have to admire Julie's handiwork. Her spell had drilled a neat hole through his skull. He looked like the 'Eagle Eye Action Man' I used to have as a kid. I used to have to, actually, but I kept one pristine in its box. It'll still be stored in mum's attic.

I began rooting through his stuff. At the very least I was having his pistol.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Happily, I brought along a small first aid kit. I think being a stepmom instils a sense on make-sure. I sat Felicia on a stone dog – I doubt he'd be chasing cats any time soon -- and used tweezers to tease out all the buckshot. There were dozens of pieces. Fortunately, each wound closed as soon as I removed the pellet.
From the journal of Felicia Turling

Dammit. Not only did we loose the cockatrice but Harold's getting first root through the bloke's stuff. Hot that I wanted the gun or the hat. I wonder if the cockatrice laid any eggs?

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy started pointing at the soul and giggling. Henry Jackson, the extracted soul, started to get embarrassed. "Don't worry," I said. "She's only six months old. All babies can see the dead at this age. They loose it shortly after they begin to talk."

"That's a relief," said Cadfiel. "I thought I was going to have to report a nephilim there." He frowned. "She's not yours, is she?"

A Sudden Death

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The chap with the antique pistol was one of the rudest people I've ever encountered outside of Billericay in Essex.

"Who are you?" he said. "State your business or say a prayer."

"What sort of prayer?" I said. I was a bit annoyed at both his brusqueness and his imprecise request. "Would you like me to say Grace? Morning adulation, or a general song of praise to God?"

He flinched when I said 'God'. I'd forgotten the fae dislike of religion since the subject never came up when I talked to Grandmother."

"What's the matter?" I said. "You don't like to hear God's name?"

He flinched again. "Desist from such talk," he said.

"Or else what?" I stepped forward. "You brought the subject up. I would never have thought of saying God's name, or Jesus, or Yahweh."

"Stop it!" he said, and fired his little blunderbuss. I closed my eyes and heard a band, a yell, a squawk and a his of air.

"You missed," I said, and opened my eyes.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Oh, for Pete's sake.

I can't believe Harold antagonised the man. He was obviously unstable to begin with and should have been treated with kid gloves, not taunted until he fired the damned gun. He could have been reasoned with, I'm sure, but Harold's taunts left him no choice but to fire.

Just as I had no choice but to launch a fire dart at his brain.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

That stung like a tax demand.

I could see the geezer's finger whiten on the trigger so what else could I do? I leaped in front of Harold an took the shot for him. Buckshot stings but isn't fatal to a lycanthrope. The wound will heal as soon as the lead is removed. The damned chicken wasn't so lucky though. It'd dead now. What a waste of a business opportunity.

I have to say, though, Julie's a fine shot. She nailed him right between the eyes with a fire dart. It cauterised as it killed.

Jasfoup's Journal

I let Cadfiel have his little joke. It's not as if angels get much of a chance to enjoy humour. I think that's what makes them become arbiters in the first place – a chance to smile. They're the only tier of angels demons can approach without bursting into flames. We call them arbiters because – with Heaven as it is – there are no souls for them to collect. They're there more to debate if the soul goes to Hell or Purgatory. You can bet the soul will ask for the latter but sometimes they're better off serving for petty sins in Hell. Purgatory can be harsh.

Lucy woke up.

Steam punk

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I couldn't understand why Julie was jumping up and down and yelling at me – they're so volatile, aren't they? Deranged witches, I mean, Not women in general ( though I do generally find them incomprehensible). "Cock! Cock!" she was saying and yes, it was a cock. A deformed rooster if you asked me. "It's all right," I said, "I'll pay the sculptor for it when he arrives. I didn't mean to kill it."

I looked past her to see a man walking toward us from further up the path, He didn't look like a sculptor unless sculptors generally carried antique-looking brass and rosewood pistols but I could be wrong. I'd be annoyed if someone had just (accidentally) killed my pet deformed chicken too.

"Look," I said, pointing. "That's probably the owner."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I tried shouting at Harold but I was so frightened all that came out was 'cock'. He probably thought I was coming onto him or something. When he pointed out the man with a the gun I almost fainted until I remembered I already had a fireball charged up. I fingered the little fetiche holding it in my pocket. Men with guns I can handle.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

The cockatrice wasn't dead. I could see its heart still pumping and smell the life. "It's not dead, chaps," I said. "be we really need a crate or a coat to put it in."

Harold pointed at the bloke with a gun. I could smell the fear coming off him but the chances of that gun having silver shot was minimal. I could take him easily.

And he had a big coat.

Jasfoup's Journal

Having a baby with you doesn't make it easy to get to soul collections on time. By the time I got there, Cadfiel (my opposite number on accidental deaths) and the extracted soul had been waiting five minutes. Cadfiel laughed when he saw me. "I thought the Demon Babysitter was a B-movie until now," he said.

I scowled. "Laugh all you like," I said, "but this little lady means the world to me."

"Aww. The big nasty demon has a heart."

Actually, I have several. All labelled in jars. "Yes," I said. "She's a little angel."

What? No Eggs?

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

It took me a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and I stumbled about blindly, eventually tripping up and landing on a chicken, which gave one mighty squawk and lay still. I waited for a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and looked about. There was no sign of the sculptor but I seemed to have killed his chicken. I hoped he wouldn't be too upset.

I have to say, though, it was a damned odd chicken. It was all right as far as the shoulders but past that it looked more like an alligator (or crocodile – I could never work out the difference). I picked it up by its enormous chicken legs and half carried, half dragged it outside.

"Look," I said. "I couldn't find the sculptor but at least we won't starve."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I nearly had a heart attack right then an there. Granted Harold had probably never seen a cockatrice (and neither had I for that matter) but to kill it and drag it out of the cave was either really brave or really stupid.

Probably the latter.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I can't believe Harold actually caught a live cockatrice. If we can get it home we could start a very lucrative business and get rid of anyone we don't like with one fell swoop.

Jasfoup's Journal

My Bloodberry alarm went off to remind me I had an appointment to collect a soul from a gentleman in Shorpe Street. He would, in about ten minutes, die of asphixiation from a chicken bone lodged in his throat.

It took a minute or so to realise I couldn't just portal there. I couldn't leave Frederick in charge of Lucy on his own. I'd have to take her with me.

Image: Cockatrice by Dan Scott

Classics Cock-Up

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I knocked on the door and called out a 'Hullo?' Actually, I say 'door' but it was more of 'a hole in the rock without a door' that scraped my knuckles a bit and the 'Hullo?' was more of a 'Hullo...hullo...hullo...low...low'. Luckily for me Jasfoup taught me an 'antiseptic' cantrip that prevented any infection. Actually, Jasfoup taught me the 'septic' cantrip and Julie figured out how to reverse it. I hope I got them the right way round else my hand will drop of. Ha-ha.

There was no answer from the exquisite sculptor so I assumed he was asleep. If I squinted hard enough I could just about make out a big pile of straw, though I'd complain about the lighting if I was him. It had to be the dreariest workshop I've ever been in. I couldn't see any tools, either.

I went in.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I can't believe Harold actually went into the cave. I thought he took Classics at Oxford! Didn't someone tell me he'd taken Classics at Oxford? Or did they just mean he robbed a bookstore?

Either way he should know the product of a gorgon by now. Even if it was just from watching 'Clash of the Titans'.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Small furry animals turned to stone. What's up with that? I wish I knew the reversal spell. It would be like a buffet – and what a brilliant way to preserve food. It'd be like a freezer that never has a use-by date.

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy woke again a little after two and we watched 'Camberwick green' and 'Trumpton'. I tell you, that Windy Miller fellow is hiding something.