'Praying for the Devil?'
With the war between the vampires and Varúlfur more brutal and blood-thirsty than it has ever been, Megan Garrick has been forced to seek sanctuary with the one person she hoped she would never have to turn to.
By her side i...
Hey there, Chapelites! How are we all? How long has it been, huh??? It probably seems like I had deserted Harper's prequel story, and truth be told, I probably had, but I've been trying to find the motivation to write recently and writing Harper again seems to be the kick I needed to get back into it. At least, I hope so.
Please do feel free to re-read the prequel story so far, but if you want a quick catch-up, here goes:
The story to date is that (human) Harper is working for the Irish-American Gustin gang in Prohibition-time Boston, having worked his way up from a street-rat kid to a trusted member of Frank Wallace's gang. After getting into deep trouble with their rivals, the Italians from the North End of town, headed up by Joseph Lombardi, discovering his hot and heavy fling with Italian, Lucille Cerone has resulted in her becoming pregnant with his child, and his much-despised mother, Martha Cain, blackmailing him for money, Harper thinks his day couldn't get any worse - that is until the mysterious and clearly deadly, Dr. Benjamin Garrick turns up at the speakeasy bar, The Sportlight.
Happy Reading, my Chapelites! I've missed you all!
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'You're a long way from home, Doc.'
My voice sounds off, like I'm hearing it from a distance, small and weak and muffled. I haven't moved an inch since he approached, but my muscles scream as if I've just run the length of the Southie shore. How can standing stone-still hurt so much?
Doctor Benjamin Garrick doesn't move either but looks strangely at ease. How can that be? How can a British doctor, with his crisp accent and expensive threads, look so fucking relaxed standing in a Boston gang-run speakeasy of all places? How can he look more at ease here than I'm feeling right now?
'I often think home is such a nebulous concept,' he replies, his gaze casually sweeping around the Sportlight. 'Home does not have to be confined to your place of origin. Home cannot always be defined by accent or appearance. Home is transient. A constantly shifting state of mind. Home can be a person. The sound of the oncoming tide at night. The touch of another.' His gaze comes to rest on me again. 'A beating heart.'
My already-wavering grip on my resolve judders. My heart thumps, a turbulent rush of drums that resounds right up into my skull. I clear my throat. It burns and I hate doing it, but I know if I don't my voice will dissolve into nothing, and I can't be nothing in front of this man. Hell, I can't just be nothing in front of any man, but something tells me I need to be more in front of Doctor Benjamin Garrick.
'That's quite a way of putting it. You sure you're a doctor and not a poet?'
The Doctor smiles. Again, it's full of warmth and no hint of menace lurks there, but I feel threatened anyway. Strangers don't get to come in here and just fucking smile at me for no reason. The ones that smile are the snakes. They're the ones you gotta watch, because there's always something behind a smile like that. Always.
