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Spike jerked around so quickly, Vernon’s stinger sliced, but didn’t stab, and as he pulled back to strike again, Spike slashed out, drawing a searing cut across Vernon’s chest.
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Vernon turned to Cassandra. “Princess, you must be strong. Think of Elliot. I swear we will bring you home.”
“That’s so sweet,” Spike gushed, “isn’t it, Cassie? Still, you’ve gotta wonder why old Elli isn’t here himself. Hm. Maybe he’s smarter than he looked.”
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“Well if it isn’t Vernon the Valet-ison,” Spike sneered, reclining on a curved leaf, attended by an impossibly handsome young wasp. “I hafta admit, I didn’t expect her to send you. Arturo, bring our guest something to eat; he’s looking a little peak-ed. Or is it ‘piqued’?”
He looked Vernon up and down as the blushing Arturo, eyes downcast, sped off in the direction of the battered butterfly. “Sit,” Spike instructed, “let’s catch up.”
“I don’t have time to indulge you, Spike. Show me the Princess so I can report back to the Queen before she wonders what happened to me.”
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Mr. D’Arc met Vernon at the western edge of Fen as the sun began to slide down the sky.
“Nice to see you again, Brudder. We’ve missed you.”
“Just take me to Spike,” Vernon said. His gasp as they passed a violent attack on a hatching chrysalis caught Mr. D’Arc’s attention.
“Oh,” he sniggered, “de refreshments. Yes, indeed, we do make good use of mahnarcs. I told you dere would be hospitality.”
To be continued…
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Standing before her King, Connie’s honesty tussled with the rare and exquisite pleasure of being singled out for praise, and won.
“Your Greatness, I did what any mother — any parent — would have done if they saw their baby in danger. As pleased as I am that my Arnold has told the world he’s proud of me, I can’t take credit for my instincts. Besides, Arnold’s elder sister, my first born, actually went back toward all those fangs to grab Bitsy and pull her into the house. She’s the brave one.”
“Permission to speak, your Greatness,” came a voice from the ranks behind him.
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The whispers began in the woods beyond Connie’s garden and grew to exultant shouts by the time they reached her windows.
“The King is coming! The King is coming!”
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“Well, Mr. D’Arc,” Queen Lilian began, “what is your master offering?”
“Ahfering? I tink you hahve misunderstood de situation. De Commahnder issues a wahrnin’.”
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With that image fresh in his mind, Elliot easily resisted the Bols de Mort. He pushed headlong through the malodorous meadow to arrive at the Hive at the tail end of twilight.
Vernon, Liaison to Queen Lilian the Undisputed Monarch of Fen, notified the Queen the instant Elliot returned. She met him in the bower moments later.
“Your Magnificence, one of Spike’s rebels has taken Cassandra. He knows she’s King Arnie’s daughter. I’m afraid I’ve put her in grave danger.” Continue reading “Spike’s Messenger”
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Maroon, green, yellow — they stood like soldiers in the grass, waiting so long for a command that never came, they had taken root. Now they thrummed with their thirst for blood, each with its own voice in its own low tone, waiting with the patience of the earth itself. The smell of honey and decay thickened the air.
Elliot’s throat shriveled to a dusty sponge. “I should have asked Marcel for water before I left.”
As he passed the first of the blooms, it shivered with a sloshing sound. “Water. They have water inside. Of course,” he told himself, “they catch the rain. If I can tip one over, I should be able to pour it out.”
At the mouth of the shortest, Elliot stopped dead. “Maybe not.” He swallowed dry air and hurried on.
To be continued. . .
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“Zee shortest way to zee Hive from here,” Marcel Pierre Clouseau told Elliot, “eez east srough zee Bols de Mort field, but eef you go zat way, you must be most cairful not to touch zem.”
“Bols de Mort?”
Space, Time, and Raspberries 
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