From THE CELTIC VIXEN
Ulfin bid his friends good eve, and with a slight stagger, walked back to his tent. Lifting the oilskin flap, he crawled inside and rolled onto his cot. Shutting his eyes, he fell into a deep, drunken sleep. Until the words, "The dead walk tonight and it is not even Samhain," sounded in his ear, along with a puff of hot breath.
Ulfin shot out of bed and grabbed his sword. He gasped, startled at what he saw. He blinked again, but the shadowy form of a man still floated in front of him. "You are dead," he said to Gwynfael or what looked like Gwynfael, Nesta's deceased husband.
"Yes," the ghost answered.
"You are blurry."
"Yes, I am real, yet I am not solid. That is why I appear, as you say, fuzzy."
"And you are ... bright. My eyes sting when I look at you."
"In truth, because you are in your cups. When you are sober and more than half awake, I will but glow a bit. It is the difference between the flesh and the spirit."
"You ... you are a ghost." Ulfin took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. "I must be dreaming."
"No, we already established I am real, though fuzzy and glowing."
"You cannot be real. It's the ale, I had too much, you are naught but a hallucination."
"I am no drunken dream, I've come to help."
Vampire Highland Fling |
Queen of Kings |
A Fine Cauldron of Fish
© 2010-2015 Cornelia Amiri