In December 2018, I shared Christmas excerpts from eight different BryonySeries books on this blog and then put all the links into one post.
You may read it here
This year, I have a ninth to share. This except is from the first book in the new BryonySeries called Limbo. The book is called The Phoenix, and we released it earlier this year.
Here is the back cover summary:
Late 1895 in Munsonville, Michigan is all about
survival and rebuilding: for the fishing village still reeling from deadly
tragedies, for 12-year-old Marie Clare who is grounded at Munsonville Inn with
her dying father, and for two newly turned vampires foraging their meals from a
dwindling supply of villagers.
But to rise strong and unscathed, some will be
sacrificed along the way. Who gets to live and thrive? And who decides?
Enjoy!
The quarantine was lifted
in time for Aunt Lula and the cousins to gather with the Clares at Munsonville
Inn’s dining room for Christmas dinner, the first time the little family had
left Room 27 since the night George first became ill. Paper chains looped
around the room and around the crooked pine in the corner, from which walnuts
and pinecones hung from the branches. They ate fish and potato balls, roast
turkey and dressing, peas and onions, rice croquettes, fresh rolls, and minced
meat pie. The wine freely flowed (except in the case of Leo’s wife Alannah, who
did not drink wine) as did highly animated conversation about the Clares
remaining permanently in Munsonville. This way, George could join the small
staff at The Munsonville Times and share his editorial talents and years of
expertise.
Death.
The presence had pursued
Marie into the dining room. She glanced around the table. All smiled and
chattered with great animation, all except Marie and Luther, who mostly kept
his gaze to his plate. Unlike Marie, who remained silent throughout the
tortuous meal, Luther occasionally added a pleasantry, even though he never
smiled and every line in his face remained taut.
“Occasional” was key –
until the conversation turned to speculation of the source of the strange
illness that vigilance and blood transfusions had vanquished. Then he looked as
sullen as Marie felt, a sullenness she could not shake.
Leo said both Dr. Gothart
and Dr. Parks blamed a parasite, one that caused rapid internal bleeding.
“By retaliating with
blood transfusions and driving it away with watchfulness, science successfully
eradicated the parasite.” Leo glanced at Alannah’s empty cup. “More tea, dear?”
“Please, Leo.”
George stroked his waxed
mustache with thoughtful strokes. “How would such a parasite find its way to
Munsonville?”
“The parasite most likely
lives in the woods, Uncle George. These woods extend for many, many miles on
three sides, almost to Thornton on the West and beyond Evansville on the east.
No one, not even our founder Owen Munson, has ever explored the length and
depth and breadth of them.”
Lula nodded. “A parasite
or wild beast was our theory when Mr. Blair Ashmore died a few years ago. Do
you remember, George?”
“I do.” George wiped his
lips and reached for the decanter. “Very intriguing, a story still worth
exploring.”
“I look forward to
exploring it with you, Uncle George.”
Lula and Isabella
exchanged glances, their eyes brightly shining.
“We’ve found the perfect
place,” Leo said, noting their happiness as he set down the pepper mill. “It’s
two doors down from us on Pike Street.”
“Ah, Little Marie will
have a family at last. Now, you say no one is still not allowed inside Simons
Mansion?”
“Correct,” Leo swallowed a
forkful of mashed potatoes before he spoke again. “Apparently Henry Matthews is
quite ill, but the symptoms are different. Dr. Gothart and Dr. Parks are not
certain if the ‘parasite’ caused the illness, or if his ailment is new. Until
they grasp it, Mr. Matthews doesn’t leave, and the servants don’t return.”
“They won’t be returning
anyway,” Lula interjected. “The outsiders left town before the quarantine took
effect. The villagers have found other positions.”
“It won’t matter,” Leo
said with a quick shrug as he speared a piece of turkey,” if John Simons isn’t
planning to come back.”
George leaned
forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t you find it peculiar that Henry Matthews is the
catalyst to the entire Simons story?”
Leo paused, his fork in mid-air.
“Catalyst? Uncle George, what are you saying?”
George sat back and folded
his arms. “Let’s review the order of events. Seven years ago, Reverend
Marseilles hired Henry Matthews to paint his daughter’s portrait. That’s how
the family became acquainted with him, true or false?”
“True,” Leo said. “At the
time, Mr. Matthews was a reporter for the Evansville Courier. He also wrote
rather scandalous fiction in serial format, which the wire, and we, picked up.”
“Those stories were quite
popular among our readers, too,” Lula interjected. “So, of course, Dick
continued running them.”
George grimaced, and
Isabella quickly refilled his glass, her jewels sparkling under the
chandelier’s lights.
“So from there, he
randomly attends some sort of literary society at the parsonage a couple of
times before moving to New York to work for the family-owned New York Gazette.”
“Also correct,” Leo said.
“Remember his uncle, Mr. Albert Brumfeldt, owns the Gazette, among other
newspapers across the country. One clarification: Henry Matthews didn’t just
‘appear’ at the literary society. An acquaintance was a longtime member of that
society, which even my father occasionally attended. It was that mutual
acquaintance who arranged a meeting between Reverend and Henry Matthews regarding
the painting of a portrait. So his attendance wasn’t necessarily random.
Reverend himself might have invited him, as an expression of gratitude. And,
Uncle George, as much as it irks you to hear it, Henry Matthews is artistically
gifted. The portrait was lovely.”
“And then,” George
continued, as if Leo hadn’t spoken at all. “And then just as randomly he shows
back up in Munsonville, after a crime lord’s daughter jilts him, and brings
John Simons with him. Now here’s my theory: I believe Henry Matthews intended
to marry Agnes King for her money. I also believe Agnes King learned the true
nature of his ardor and escaped his hellish clutches by seeking asylum in a
House of God. But where shall the asp find its next prey? Ah, in his ‘friend,’
the very rich and renowned John Simons. But how to get his money? Could
it be he schemed with Miss Marseilles to seduce Mr. Simons and then slither his
way into their home?”
Leo dropped his fork.
“Uncle George, I don’t
trust Henry Matthews any more than you do.” Leo groped for the fork with a
trembling hand. “The sight of him turns my stomach. But I’ve known the late
Mrs. Simons since childhood. She was simple, quiet, and God-fearing. Such a
rouse would not be in her.”
“And yet,” Lula added
bitterly. “Look how quickly she spurned Luther once she snagged a better
prospect.”
“Mom! Luther never
formally courted her.”
Baby Eugenia woke up and
began crying. Like her mother, Eugenia had a rose tint to her flaxen hair,
rounded limbs, and a cherubic face. Alannah fumbled with her bodice and
arranged a soft blanket over the baby to retain her modesty and not offend the
men. Still, Marie caught a glimpse of Alannah’s conical breast, her brown
areolae.
“He might have,” Lula
insisted. “If Henry Matthews had not brought John Simons to town.”
Luther pushed his plate
away and reached for the decanter. Marie noted disgust, not unease. Was the
malignant sensation merely fancy, a ruse of her overwrought imagination?
Marie’s cocktail of strong
emotions, consternation mixed with despondency and surliness, persisted through
breakfast the next morning and when she later attacked her studies. She
answered in blunt monosyllables to any question her parents posed her, the only
time she spoke.
Finally her papa addressed
her bad temper. He actually picked up one of the padded chairs and carried it
across the room without huffing, a good sign of a renewed constitution. He
placed the chair next to Marie without making a sound, and then he sat and
leaned close. She felt him scrutinizing her, but she kept her gaze on her
notebook and scribbled away.
“Little Marie, why must
you pout? You should rejoice; The Dream is to be realized at last.”
“Yes, Papa, I’m very happy
for you.”
“Happy girls don’t invert
the corners of their mouths. Do not lie to your papa.”
“Then don’t insult The
Dream by belittling it.”
“What a queer little
speech. Well, you are growing up.”
“Yes, Papa.”
George sighed loudly, and
she set aside the pencil and looked accusingly at him. He took one of her
hands, clasped it between his cool slender ones, and kissed it, lingering over
the kiss and stroking her hand against his bristly cheek before he spoke again,
this time in a low voice.
“You dream by night; you
know the nature of dreams. When dawn arrives, you eagerly allow dreams to fragment
and disperse in favor of daylight and sunshine. Well, Little Marie, I am like a
man wakened from a long sleep. It is time that I, too, walk in the light. Have
you no comment?”
“Yes. Remember Satan
himself is transformed into an Angel of Light. Be my Papa who holds fast to The
Dream. Do not become a Father of Lies and transform this room of healing into a
place of perdition.”
With that, Marie picked up
her pencil and began to jot x 4 − 2x 3 + 2x 2 + x + 4, if only to grasp an
absolute truth.
