Excerpt from "Recovering Ruthless" by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

Now that "House on Top of the Hill" (the third book in the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy) is published, I'm working on the hard edits on "Recovering Ruthless," the third book in the BryonySeries Ruthless series by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara.

The goal, of course, is publication before Calkins Day 2025, so with the holidays and all, I will definitely be busy.

Here is part of the third chapter, which references familiar characters (for the one or two out there who's read my books). 

Just keep in mind that Ed - as a character and an author - is unreliable and lives completely in his imagination.

Or as Ed said in "Staked!": "I, like all creators of mythology, can’t stress out over what actually happened when I can control what I imagined happened.”

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 3: FRAUDULENT

It was/is/will be on the last day of Tara, the worst Christmas in Beulah County, or page 439 in the BryonySeries novel “Staked!”

But all of that was subject to perception.

 

              Fists pummeled his brain. “John-Peter! You promised! Where are you? Come back! Come back! Come back!"

 

            He wrapped his fingers around the locket chain and mustered up the hardest words he ever had to say. “I’m not coming back, Karla!”

 

            For the last time, John-Peter reached up to slam a door, but his waist snapped in two. Pain faded. Karla’s lips met his. His stepfather, Kellen Wechsler, smiled as John Peter sold another burial plot. Karla and he broke into the basement of Eircheard’s pawn shop. “You’re not human,” Dr. Rothgard told him, and John-Peter held a knife at his neck. A newspaper flew out the van window while Uncle Ed’s undead life kept growing dim. Imaged Tara faded into a growing black hole. Soda bread. Dying.

 

Mother.

 

“I’m here, John Peter,” his mother answered sobbing. Her touch felt warm. Banshee wailed as nothingness comforted her hands on his cheeks.

 

John Simons is not your father. Grinning leprechauns. Piano music. Faries and enchanted mirrors.

 

Peace.

 

“Mrs. Wechsler, the chaplain wants a word with you.”

 

“Did he hear me before he died?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure he did.”

 

Blackness. Final peace.

 

It didn’t last long.

 

Bright lights were too intense to see anything, but he could hear.

 

“Error, error,” a mechanical soothing voice informed him. “Please remain calm. System aborting. Linkage lost with interface. Distress call initiated. Would you like to see our special deals while you're waiting? Unable to connect with internet. Ejecting. Please seek immediate psychiatric care. Thank you for using ‘We-Live-Yellow Electronic Womb. Merry Christmas and have a happy eighteenth birthday.”

 

John Peter felt himself flung into the air, past the tree line into the clouds. Open air felt deliciously cool on his skin. The thing is…he never landed.

 

All at once, he was in a large comfortable bedroom, sitting at a small wooden desk. A mirror hung on the wall he was facing, but the image in it wasn’t anyone he knew. A polite knock on the door didn’t give him a chance to take it all in. It opened before he answered.

 

The attractive blond girl was carrying a musket.

 

“Judge Arkins will not be seeing you today as he is busy with other cases,” she informed him in a neutral voice. “His Ruthlessness will see you now and decide what actions to take concerning your case. Follow me.”

 

Something was different about her. She wasn’t from modern times, but he couldn’t place who or what…

 

“Are you quite done gawking? Move. Now.”

 

Her musket had a bayonet. On the march down a long hallway, he realized that the girl’s shoes feet were wider and flatter than they should be. She was Ireland’s interpretation of a mermaid called a merrow. He must still be in Uncle Ed’s imagination somehow. Didn’t he already kill him?

 

The merrow made the greeting an announcement before opening the large double doors.

 

“Steward, the prisoner awaits your mercy.”

 

Uncle Ed Calkins, also known as the Steward of Tara, sat on the far end of a long, narrow, empty dining table with only two chairs, including the one he was sitting in. He seemed as confused as John-Peter. The guard left in a rush, as if she feared what was about to happen.

 

Ed squinted despite his glasses.

 

“Henry?”

 

“John Peter,” John-Peter corrected. His own voice seemed as strange to him as it was unsure.

 

“Come. Sit close to me so I can see you better.”

 

The Steward made it seem like he had a choice. “If I didn’t have you to deny it, I’d swear you were Henry Matthews, but you say you’re John Peter. How? Oh, I remember now. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be selling burial plots or throwing papers with me if you’re not at home or in school?”

 

John Peter answered with a frustrated wave of his hand. The motion felt unfamiliar. “Apparently, I’m a prisoner awaiting your mercy.”

 

              “Why? What did you do?” The Steward studied the incredulous look on John-Peter’s face. “Look, if you think I should know this or you’ve told me before, you were probably telling a later version of me. It seems I will become more incompetent as I become more experienced. I was called by what will be me to solve what will be a problem and you are just an interruption. So tell me again, what did you do?”

 

              “I thought I killed you.

 

“Ah that. Page 434. I’m pretty sure you think you conspired with some of my slave poets to shoot an arrow through my back during a limerick competition. Is that what will happen?”

 

“Please tell me this isn’t my afterlife.”

 

              “It’s not. You’re not done with your first. And sorry, but ‘I thought I killed you’ isn’t going to cut it with the judge here. If you’re going to go with that, you need to sound a lot more definite. I know Judge Arkins, and he’s a stickler for positive proof. He’ll dismiss your case before you have a chance to claim that you had a hand in it.”

 

              John Petter shook his head. “Why would I prove that I did kill you? Wouldn’t I try to prove that I didn’t?”

 

              “You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

 

              “Then, I’m free to go and we can end this pointless discussion?”

 

              Ed Calkins sighed heavily,

 

              “Let’s not do this on an empty stomach,” he told the young man and then called out. “Good merrow, we are ready to order.

 

              A different merrow rushed forward. She was as beautiful as the first but dressed in a Sue’s Diner uniform. She had no musket but held a pad and quill pen.

 

              “Goblet of blood for you, Your Ruthlessness?” the merrow asked, quill pen poised over the pad, ready to jot the order.

 

             “Thanks, Wendy. That will do.”

 

              “And you, sir, what will…hey! My eyes are up here, sir!”

 

              The Steward broke in diplomatically. “Never mind him, Wendy. Just bring him prime rib and lobster. Cook the prime rib medium rare and bring plenty of butter for the lobster.”

 

              “As you say, Your Ruthlessness.” She bowed to the Steward of Tara but gave John Peter a hostile glare before returning to the kitchen.

 

              When she was gone, Ed Calkins leaned forward and studied John-Peter, who now looked highly annoyed. “I can see that you’re upset. You’ll have to forgive the merrows. They are in a sexual harassment suit with the leprechauns right now. Perhaps they're hypervigilant about any unwanted attention, even if the attention isn't really that unwanted. You know how crude leprechauns can be.”

 

              “And you know I don't eat meat,” John Peter retorted. “Even a prisoner has the right to edible food. I can't eat anything from an animal. I'm a vegan. You know this.”

 

              But Ed had already launched into a monologue about something or another.

 

              “…and so your father, John Simons who wasn’t really your father, but everyone back then knew him as John Simotes, told me that I had died and come back as a vampire. Well, I didn’t believe him until he placed a slab of uncooked corn beef in front of me, completely raw, mind you. I scuffed the whole thing down like it was my last meal, but what really shocked me was the way I wanted more…the bloodier the better. I could have...”

 

              John Peter’s eyes found another mirror that should have captured the reflection of the diners. Instead, it showed a single person: the young man with dark, neatly combed, shortish hair that he had seen in the bedroom.

 

              “…don’t you see? That was the brilliance to my plan. John Simons couldn’t believe me when I told him that artificial intelligence was beyond my ability as a programmer. I couldn’t argue with him successfully because you were already here. So, cleverly convincing him that he was right, I... ah, the food is here.”

 

              The food was carefully matched to the proper diners. John Peter frowned at his plate. Uncle Ed sipped his blood goblet expectingly. Something was wrong. The sight of dead fish and animals should have turned his stomach. Instead, the smell seemed inviting. There wasn't a single plant-based item on his plate.

 

              “Go ahead,” Ed urged.

 

              “I can’t eat this. You programed me to shudder at dead flesh.”

 

              “I did promise to do that. I’m a fraud, I’m afraid. Take a bite.”

 

              John Peter did as he was told. Cutting a piece of the prime rib and putting it to his lips made his mouth water. The deliciousness of the mouthful was undeniable. “Are you sure this is meat?”

 

              Uncle Ed nodded. “This is your Pinocchio moment. It seems like you're not changeling anymore. You're a real boy now.”

 

              “Dr. Rothgard lied to me.”

 

              “No, young man. I lied to Dr. Rothgard. He told you that I made you because that's what I told him. The truth is I didn't make you as much as I recruited you. You were a deal I made with three others. John Simons wanted a son and gave his blood and a leg from his prized piano to the construction. Eircheard was to build a stock changeling of the finest quality from those two materials, and I was to write software to make that changeling something special. Knowing that was beyond me, I instead gave Eircheard a creature to put inside that Oakwood 360 changeling. I mistakenly thought it was a wood sprite named Glorna. His name might have been Glorna, but he was no wood sprite. He was an imp hypnotized into believing he was a wood sprite. Eircheard knew about that. What no one knew was the additional step I took because I had an infant that Glorna brought me, and he wasn’t going anywhere unless I made sure that infant had a childhood. That baby is the young man you see in the mirror.”

 

              “But I was slightly green…with red hair!”

 

              “No. You were inside an electrical device from the distant future. It cost me two trips to the end of time and back to get the thing. From that ‘electronic womb,’ you and Glorna acted together to make John-Peter Simotes. It was the Oakwood 360 unit that was green. It was Glorna that couldn’t eat meat the same way an alcoholic can't drink the smallest bit of alcohol lest he go back to what he was. Before he was part of John-Peter, he ate a woodsman. Once an imp tastes blood…well imagine John-Peter’s childhood as a cannibal.”

 

              “And now?” John-Peter stuffed another bite of prime rib into his mouth.

 

              “Now? You’re grounded, of course. Your mother died giving birth to you. Your father died in a murder/suicide. He became a vampire and his victim, also a vampire, became your stepfather. Both vampires have been staked, so all you have for a guardian is me. Sorry about that, but your grounded for the next eight years. It won’t be so bad. I sent you to the future of this Tara, which is still in the ancient past, but all portals that lead to Munsonville do so in the year 2019. That’s how I know you won’t escape. That’s where we are right now, so most of your grounding is already served.”

 

              “But you’re grounding me for a crime you claim I didn’t commit.”

 

              “Indeed. You’re welcome. You have to prove to Judge Arkins that you would have been brave enough to kill your uncle to save the imprisoned young women. My punishing you for it might help your case. I know you think you did. You remember doing it, but that was Glorna who did the deed, not you. You never went through the enchanted mirror. You remember what happened only because of the telepathic link that Glorna had with you. Try and understand. Most vampires just crawl into their coffins when it's time to sleep. Some have to reenact their murder or suicide every day just before sunrise. I only reanimate once a year, but somebody has to kill me. Sometime in my future, Glorna will. But I believe that you would do the same. The two of you are like twins. You had the same parents and shared the same thoughts for the last eighteen years. The only difference is you're different creatures and only you have parents. That was another fraud. Your mother, Bryony, was the first love and wife of John Simons, but John was not the father. Care to guess who your father was?”

 

              “Henry Mathews?”

 

              “Indeed. Can you imagine what he would have done to you if he’d found out that you were the love child of that illicit pair? That's why I kept you living your life remotely in that electronic womb. Now you have to prove to a judge that you would have murdered Ed Calkins and traded yourself for the girl you call Angela – even though her name is 42 – just as Glorna did. If you can prove that, your sentence would be a four-year, full ride to Jenson college.”

 

              It was all too much for the eighteen-year-old. “So I’m not a changeling anymore?”

 

              “You never were.” Ed took another sip. “And if you continue to call yourself John-Peter Simotes, people that knew him will not be amused. John-Peter Simotes is dead now, and the pieces that made him are ready to live their own lives. For Glorna, that’s going to be far more difficult. He’s been three different creatures. I think you should take your father’s name. Matthews. Jean-Pierre Matthews.

 

              “Jean-Pierre is just John-Peter in French,” the boy informed the vampire dryly. “And I must be sick, or the food is enchanted. I can’t eat another bite.”

 

              “No matter,” the Steward replied. Then he shouted at the door. “Wendy, would you come here for a moment? I have a candidate for the Red Branch that I’d like you to consider.”

 

              The youth was shocked. “You don’t mean the Knights of the Red Branch, do you Uncle Ed? You’ve been filling me with those legends for years.”

 

              The annoyed merrow rushed forward immediately, but upon noticing that no others had entered the room, she began clearing plates and paid no notice to Jean-Pierre. When the Steward called her out, the merrow frowned but politely set the silverware she was carrying on the table.

 

              “With all due respect, Your Ruthlessness, I cannot be compelled to accept any lad just because you desire it.”

 

              “Noted, Wendy. I only ask that you consider him.”

 

              “Didn’t you say he’s eighteen? He’s too old. We don’t accept married men and if he’s been unable to find a wife by that age…well.”

 

              “Boys don’t marry so early where he’s from.”

 

              The merrow sighed and looked Jean-Pierre over in a way that made the lad blush.

 

              “Stand up,” she directed with her hand as much as her mouth.

 

  Reluctantly, he complied.

 

              “Turn around.”

 

              Her boldness made her pause, but – again – Jean-Pierre did as he was told.

 

              “See how you like it,” she hissed but then addressed the Steward. “He’s attractive enough, but in what way is he elite? Has he known battle? Because for the looks of him, he’s hardly been outdoors.”

 

              “He killed a vampire once,” the Steward hedged. “But that was an accident and only half of him participated…the half he was not, I’m guessing.”

 

              “Kellen Wechsler?” the still standing lad turned to ask.

 

The vampire nodded his head, but the merrow was clearly not impressed. She stared him down with one more question.

 

              “Life for a Red Branch Knight is hard,” the merrow said, almost defiantly. “Why do you wish to be in their number?”

 

              “I really don’t.” Jean-Pierre answered honestly. “It’s my uncle’s idea.”