The Scribbler Guardian 1: Arks Of Octava Page 7

  Blah! Charlotte thought of the sword over the fireplace mantel downstairs. Did she have time to get it and run back up? Did she want to be trapped upstairs? She needed to be able to get to her vehicle is what she needed to do. Did she have time to make a mad dash now? No way.

  The basement? God no, hell no. She was not getting trapped down there. The bathroom? No. She needed to get to her vehicle. Oh God the keys. Where were they? Shit, shit! In the kitchen? Or her purse… damn, where was her purse?

  The sword hanging over her fireplace flashed through her mind again. She could grab it and run for her keys and hide near the door. If they tried to break in, she’d go out the opposite way they went for and run to her SUV. She was running out of time. The giant man and boy weren’t getting any smaller as they approached. He looked… unstable. Dear God.

  Charlotte raced downstairs and fought the classic sword off its hooks, trembling and praying. She’d wielded many a sword in her stories. Running a man through didn’t take much practice-skill. She moved toward the door and hid next to the bookshelf. If they broke through that door, she’d be close to the one in the kitchen. God, the keys. Where were they?

  Steps on the porch sounded and she gripped the sword tight. Out of time. She swallowed, trying to think rationally. There was the possibility they needed something. An emergency. The sound that had bolted her out of a fitful sleep—a cracking boom had screamed crash-landing spaceship at first. But the man and kid made her think helicopter or small air craft possibly. There were no such things as aliens. The reality was, a giant man, and kid were on her damn porch. On her porch!

  She pressed herself into the wall and shut her eyes, hoping no part of her could be seen from the door, the amazing full glass door that allowed one to view the beauties of their North Carolina getaway.

  Charlotte’s horror roots kicked in and bloody scenes flitted through her mind—this very scenario even, with the stupid lady doing all the stupid things and the reader thinking she deserved whatever she got and they hoped she got it good.

  The sound of their voices reached her ears.

  “Knock on the door first,” the deep voice said. “Then we’ll….” Something, something, mumble, mumble, something. Dang it! Charlotte bit her lower lip and cringed. Please don’t knock, just leave.

  Three small knocks sounded and she held her breath, praying they weren’t looking into the door, seeing her hiding nearly in plain sight. A dim moonbeam shone through the glass leading right to her feet.

  The second knock came louder, and Charlotte swore under her breath. They weren’t going to leave. This was going to be a long and drawn out torment. Maybe she should just answer it. With a sword? That could make them attack. And having no weapon was no better. She remembered her phone. If she were talking on her phone, they would be less likely to kill her or try to. Maybe. Unless they were psycho—psychos didn’t care about that. And the boy could be a lure, bait, to make her let them in. And just what in God’s name were they really doing out there?! Her shack wasn’t exactly next to the main highway. Come on, Charlotte, think realistically. Something normal. Maybe they were hiking and got lost, a father and son. They sounded friendly to one another, even now as they seemed to chatter just out of earshot.

  Charlotte listened a little more and slowly began to feel less and less concerned with the exchange taking place. Then the boy referred to the man as Mr. Poe. So not a father. Or relative. The possibility that they were in real trouble began to be more plausible. She ventured out of her hiding spot and ran to the edge of the door and flipped on the porch light, putting them blind and hopefully at a disadvantage.

  The man’s voice boomed and Charlotte jumped, horror scenarios returning. God please, she prayed, eyes clenched tight. Please protect me. Please, please, please.

  “Somebody lives here…” the deep voice faded to mumbles again before she caught, “And I need very much to address this pain.”

  What? Pain? Was he hurt?

  “What can you do Mr. Poe?” the boy wondered, sounding worried.

  Poe. Like her character in The Great Muse-Rider story, half-written. Weird or cool, she wasn’t sure.

  “I don’t know really. I’ve never had… this issue before.”

  Curiosity gradually replaced her fears until her nosiness won out. She eyed the man through the glass and instantly realized the most relieving thing. He was blind! Wow, she’d never been so grateful over such a thing. The odds that these two were there to kill her dropped drastically with that. She could just talk through the door. Keep the sword behind her. Find out what they needed.

  She didn’t even have her cell phone handy. Stupid. Did she even know where it was? Upstairs. She was pretty sure.

  What if he was faking?

  Charlotte stared at the man a little longer and it hit her all of a sudden. He was nothing short of… very impressive. Okay he was a hunk. Huge, well built. Not old at all, just… rough looking in a mysteriously pleasant kind of way. Wait a minute, did she know him? He was very familiar. She was pretty positive she did know him in fact, but from where? Maybe an actor from a past movie set. She took in his clothing, the gray wool type of coat, only thinner, nearly meeting the ground. Matching gray material for a type of flowing pants and black on his feet. Why was he in costume? Maybe they were en-route to some event, some movie junk crap going on with one of her books. There was always something running amuck and she surely didn’t keep up with all of that racket.

  Still, what would they be doing out there, at her shack in the middle of nowhere? The only people who knew about the place wouldn’t tell strangers, regardless if they worked for her indirectly or not.

  Nothing made sense but she was burning with curiosity to find that out. She stepped into view and the little boy stared at her briefly and broke out waving with a smile.

  “There’s a pretty lady here,” he said to the man before looking back at her. “We’re looking for a Scribbler.”

  “Perhaps you can help us.” The man looked her way, not seeing. “His name is J.P. Howe.”

  Scribbler? She wasn’t sure what was meant by that. She was too astonished with the J.P. Howe bit. Charlotte stared at the man through the glass still, noting the bright silver color of his eyes. Just how in the world did they know that name? J.P. Howe was her pen name for the Muse Series. She hadn’t told anybody jack about that. Except Tommy, but he’d never tell anybody. Even as she thought it, the possibility that he surely must have, presented itself. How else would they know that name? But why would Tommy tell?

  With this new development and information, her gut instincts were convinced they were harmless. Completely. If they were lying and a pair of loons or trained killers, then they had earned their kill, hadn’t they?

  Charlotte set the sword next to the door—just in reach—unlocked then opened it a crack. “Who did you say?”

  “J.P. Howe,” the man said, his strong tanned brow furrowed with concern.

  She stared at him, again nagged to pieces over his familiarity. Charlotte allowed for a brief glimpse at the boy. “Why do you wish… to find this person?”

  “He… is my Scribbler,” the man said, seeming suddenly confused.

  “Scribbler,” she said, not understanding that term. “Did… my agent send you?”

  The man looked directly at her, making her feel like he could see. The intensity in the silver irises freaked her out. “We were sent by the Master.”

  The way he faltered the words brought back her leery. “Is this for a… like position in one of the movie productions?”

  “Movie?” he asked.

  “I don’t think she knows Mr. Poe.”

  Charlotte regarded the shivering boy and suddenly felt way stupid. “I’m so sorry.” She unlatched the chain and opened the door, ignoring the small voice that said she’d just given up the last chance at life. “It’s too cold to be standing out there. Come in.”

  Though she didn’t really have reason to celebrate Christmas, she was not immune
to the ineffable hope of its spirit. She always paid to have her little shack decorated for the affair, nothing at all wrong with that. The boy gazed around, seeming fascinated by the festive décor before helping the man in, who nearly fell into Charlotte when he tripped on the threshold.

  “Divinities!” he mumbled, trying desperately to avoid her touch while stuck with needing her guidance. “My apologies.”

  “You… seem new at being blind. Oh my God, I’m sorry, how rude.” She led him to her favorite chair. “There is a seat to your right.”

  But he didn’t sit. “I have a dire need of your… lavatory facilities.”

  She stared at the face several feet above her, momentarily distracted with the brute angles beneath the facial hair overtaking his jaw. He could have played a thinner version of Hercules. “I’ll have to guide you.” She took his arm and escorted him to the door beneath the stairs.

  “I need privacy,” he said when they stopped.

  She gave a light laugh. “I may be a poor host who rarely gets guests but I think I know not to accompany them to the bathroom.”

  “Of course,” he said, sounding strained, hand gripping the jamb.

  “Are you injured? Can you manage?” She realized her question about him being recently blind was relevant again. “Were you recently injured?”

  “He was blinded from doing that trick,” the boy said excited.

  “Mind your words,” the man said sharply.

  “What trick blinded you?” she asked as the bathroom door shut in her face. Guilt pricked her for prying and then she cringed at the sudden sharp grunts and banging, like maybe he’d taken a spill into the tub! “Do you need help? Are you okay?”

  “I am blind, not cripple!” he boomed, sounding more annoyed than hurt.

  “The light is…” Charlotte remembered then, “of no use to you.” She turned to the boy then. “What sort of trick blinded him?”

  The boy peered around her at the bathroom door then whispered with bright blue eyes, “Are you the Scribbler?”

  “Scribbler? What do you mean by that?” she whispered back.

  Disappointment slowly dissolved his smile. “Oh. You must not be.”

  “Quarks and hadrons,” the man muttered from the bathroom before letting out a groan and several gasps that had her hurrying away from the door.

  She kept an eye on the bathroom and sat in her favorite chair, pointing to the couch next to her for the boy to sit. He obeyed with a happy grin, hopping up on the over-stuffed sofa with the faded red country scene all over the upholstery. The man gave another loud groan drawing Charlotte’s glance. What on earth was wrong with him in there? Was he passing a kidney stone?

  “Mr. Poe is my best friend,” the boy said, drawing Charlotte’s attention back. “I’m Kane.” He nodded as though that were all that needed knowing about the two of them.

  “Is he… your father?”

  He shook his head rapidly at her stupid question.

  “Brother?”

  Another head shake.

  “Uncle? Cousin?” she hurried at the eruption of blind stumbling in the bathroom.

  “Friend,” the boy said. “Best friend. He saved my life.”

  “When?” Charlotte stood, glancing at the door. She was torn with the instincts to help the man while not wanting to get so close to him after his blind bathroom expedition.

  “Just a bit ago.”

  At hearing him groping at the door handle, Charlotte hurried to the bathroom, waving for the boy to follow. “So…” she whispered when he made it to her side, “you guys had some trouble? Is that why you’re walking?”

  “We came in a capsule from Octava,” he whispered back. “Mr. Poe does this little trick see, and he can talk to Scribblers.”

  The door yanked open. “Dear boy, do mind your words!” The man held on to the jamb appearing a few shades… brighter.

  Charlotte looked at the boy, worrying at her lip. Capsule. Was he uneducated? Didn’t he know the proper terms for vehicles? And what the dickens did they mean about scribblers and talking to them? She could only assume that meant writing. So he talked to other writers. That wasn’t so amazing or strange but the boy made it sound like it were some neat trick.

  “What are Scribblers young Kane?” she boldly asked as the man took a step. She grabbed his forearm instinctively and he recoiled at her touch. “Somebody must assist you, Mr. Poe,” she said. It was rather comical the way he responded to her.

  “I can manage,” he said gruffly.

  “You can manage to break your neck, yes. Stop being a fussy pants and let me help you to the couch.”

  Kane laughed and skipped ahead. “Fussy pants. She called you a fussy pants.”

  She was accustomed to men of all sorts avoiding her like the plague. She never really understood it but had learned to be grateful. But with him, his rejection was comical. Maybe even fun. She clearly needed to socialize more. What had she become, to be so easily entertained and desperate for human interaction? She couldn’t deny that there was something about him. Like this… harmless… teddy bear aura that gave her complete peace where her previous fears were concerned. And Mr. Poe! Fancy him having that name. And the kid was adorable.

  “Indeed,” the man muttered, sounding unimpressed while realizing he was in no position to quarrel with her.

  As Charlotte led him, she was drawn to the scars under the layer of facial overgrowth. Wow. How… odd. He was like a fierce warrior. But yet there was something… calm about him. She wouldn’t call it gentle… maybe confident. And then there was--

  “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I can’t feel.”

  Alarm filled her, followed by confusion. “What does that mean, Mr. Poe? Am I hurting your arm?” She held back laughter at the absurd question.

  “Your gaze upon my face bears a heat. I can feel it.”

  Her brows shot up in amazement and humor. “You say it like I’ve molested your face with my gaze.”

  “You did,” he said, his tone sounding disgusted.

  Her laughter rang out. What an odd effect he had on her. “I molested your face with my gaze! Priceless, Mr. Poe. I have no desire to molest any part of you my dear… older sir. I was merely trying to understand how I know you,” she partially lied. “I’m sure I do. You look very familiar.” She helped him sit and he seemed grateful to be rid of her touch, going so far as to rudely wipe his hands on his clothes. But she found it hilarious rather than offensive.

  “A Scribbler is one who pens stories,” the man said, seeming to want to change the subject.

  “Pens stories.” Charlotte sat again. “Like a writer?”

  “Is that how the scribblers refer to themselves?” He sounded perplexed before adding, “I must find my own Scribbler. J.P. Howe. It is of utmost importance.”

  “You said that, yes.” Charlotte leaned back, staring at him, feeling like she had a fun new playmate. “What might you be needing with this… person again?”

  “To speak with them.”

  “About what?” Mr. Duh.

  “About…” again, caution seemed to make him pause. “Matters that are not permissible to share with the wrong individual.”

  “Well, I am… Mr. Howe’s assistant. I know all of his business.”

  “So you’re not a scribbler?” Kane said, sounding disappointed.

  “I never said that.” Charlotte regarded the boy with a smile then asked, “And do you have a first name?” It would be funny if it were Jeramiah.

  “Jeramiah. And you are?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Impossible.” What were the odds? “Jeramiah Poe. What a… fantastic name. What business do you need with Mr. Howe, that I might call him and report it?”

  “He is here?” Poe asked. “Miss?”

  “Pane. Charlotte Pane. And no, he’s not here. I’ll call him on the phone. He’s not far though.” She realized having another human due back was wise, nearly as soon as she realized she’d just invited them to wait for him. “He’l
l be back any day.”

  “Day!” The man sat forward. “That’s too long to wait. Can you call him now?”

  “Call him?”

  “You said you would call him and report it.”

  “I… think I shouldn’t disturb him. Just at this moment.” She stood suddenly. “Where are my manners? I shall put on…” tea? How odd was that? And shall? She needed to drop the Victorian dialect already, she sounded ridiculous. Not that he’d notice with his own peculiar style. “Coffee for us, and rich hot chocolate for our young Kane.” She smiled at the beaming boy next to the oblivious Mr. Poe, who was only half as formidable looking while sitting.

  Excusing herself, she raced to the kitchen. Charlotte paced in a nervous frenzy like she’d forgotten what a kitchen even was. She paused and took several focusing breaths then flew to the cabinets, going through each in search of proper serving ware. After every cabinet’s unexplored secrets were revealed, she discovered she had a lot of everything she didn’t need in that moment. She eyed the cute little Christmas set meant for decoration and darted to it. She rinsed it out before putting on a fresh pot of coffee and milk for the hot chocolate.

  Returning, she found the good Mr. Poe whispering to the boy who sat with a hungry rapt look on his cute face.

  “Here we are.” She set the tray down then straightened. Charlotte noticed the boy’s happy gaze, scanning her body. Oh dear. “You like my PJ’s do you? Snoopy and the Red Baron. Classics. They’re as old as me.”

  “And how old is that, madam?” Mr. Poe asked.

  The sincere curiosity in his tone and the innocent gaze of the boy prompted her honesty. “I’m twenty-nine. An old spinster.” She added the last in a rickety voice and the boy laughed.

  “You don’t look very old, Miss Charlotte. You look pretty. Like the people from the Romance Province. They’re all pretty from there. Mr. Poe doesn’t like it though. He says the people there are confused.” The boy’s sincerity coupled with the strange words filled Charlotte with a mix of déjà vu. As though she’d done this before someplace, in another world. She wanted to pinch herself as she contemplated it.