feet from it. She stepped up to the remains of the head, and pushed a few skull fragments around with her toe.
So, that was it.
She turned back towards Vlad. "Let's head back to the pub."
He looked puzzled, but nodded. "As you wish, My Master."
She walked back as Vlad pushed her Triumph after her. He parked it outside and they went in together. The patrons and the landlord seemed shocked to see them, which she could understand, but more trepidatious than relieved.
She ignored the former and went up to the bar. "Your village is safe," she said to the landlord. "The White Dragons will trouble you no more."
There was no cheering of any kind; the men all remained as quiet as the grave. But it felt as if a tremendous weight was finally lifted off the public house. She could see it in the landlord's eyes and the relaxing of his grim expression.
"We cannot thank you enough, Sir Differel."
She cut off any further expression of gratitude. "What did your parents do with the motorcycles when they killed the Dragons?"
He looked confused, but he replied, "They hauled them up into the surrounding hills and threw them into an abandoned gravel quarry. Why?"
"Hmph. Bloody amateurs. They should have destroyed them. The revenants were using them to take corporeal form. But they won't be able to anymore. What's left of them litter your square."
"It's late. Please, feel free to stay the night, free of charge."
She realized that he was trying to make up for his previous actions, but she wanted none of it. "No, thank you. I just want to leave as soon as possible, and never set foot in this village again."
The landlord flashed an expression that appeared equal parts surprise, disappointment, and outrage, but she didn't care. She walked out, she hoped for the last time, and maneuvered the Triumph into the lane.
Vlad appeared out of the night. "And just where do you intend to sleep, Director?"
"Anywhere but here." She sighed and forced herself to become calm. "I'll find some place." Then she flashed a wry smile. "It won't be the first time I've had to sleep under the stars."
She paused, feeling chagrinned. "Besides, I should be perfectly safe with you watching over me."
He responded only with a grinning leer.
"In the morning I can find another pub, or perhaps a cottage, where I can clean up."
"That should be no problem."
She hesitated, and he gave her an expectant look. "Listen, I want to apologize for my harsh words earlier--"
"Master, do not concern yourself. Remember, I am nothing more than your weapon. I do not require your consideration, any more than your pistol, or Caliburn."
She felt her irritation flare. "That has to be the biggest load of blague I've ever heard."
He grinned, bowed his head, and touched the rim of his hat. "If you say so, My Master."
"Oh, shut it, you bloody wanker."
She removed her cap and tucked it into her back pocket before mounting her bike.
Vlad handed her the helmet. "Do you really believe the bikes were the foci of their manifestation?"
"For the others, yes, but I suspect the leader's skull was the ultimate focus. It must have somehow survived the fire, and his evil will used it to manifest himself. He then used the bikes to manifest the others."
He nodded. "Eminently logical. Where do you intend to go now?"
She hesitated as she raised the helmet over her head. "South, I think; I'd like to see the Uffington White Horse."
"I will scout ahead, and find you a suitable place to bed down for the night." He morphed into his huge black hound form and raced off.
She slipped the helmet on, started the Triumph, and turned towards the square. The closest road leading south lay back the way she came about ten kilometers, and that had been the direction in which Vlad went. She started off at a slow speed, and passed through the square as the villagers nervously examined the destroyed the bikes. She spotted the longsword where it had fallen. She detoured over to it, and reached down to pick it up. She took a moment to examine it and found it was in surprisingly good condition.
It will make a fine keepsake.
She inserted it backwards into the Triumph's frame then twisted the throttle and took off into the night.
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For more information on Sir Differel Van Helsing and the Caerleon Order, see the official site [https://www.sir-differel.com/].
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About the Author
Kevin L. O'Brien was born with a pen in his hand.
Well, not quite, but he has been writing for as long as he can remember, at least since First Grade. Writing has always been his first, true love, but it hasn't always been his career. He worked for 15 years as a biomedical researcher, then for 3 years as a web designer. However, after 30 years of trying to be published in print with little success, he has decided to try his hand at self-publishing. Most of his works will be sold as ebooks through various online retailers, but he also plans to make some available for free exclusively on Goodreads.
He writes primarily speculative fiction--fantasy, science fiction, horror, and their sub-genres--but he also likes to try his hand at thrillers, suspense, mystery, and even westerns. However, his stories tend to have a fantasy element, no matter how subtle.
Most of his stories involve the following three main characters:
Medb hErenn [https://www.medbherenn.com/]--One-time queen of Ireland, she is over 3500 years old. A warrior and a sorceress, she cannot be harmed by any weapon made by the hand of man.
Eile and Sunny, Team Girl [https://www.teamgirlforever.com/]--They are two adorable, vivacious, fun-loving young women whose motto is ONWARD TO ADVENTURE!!! Yet trouble follows them like a love-sick puppy wherever they go.
Sir Differel Van Helsing [https://www.sir-differel.com/]--The descendent of Abraham Van Helsing and King Arthur, she heads the Caerleon Order, the premier monster-hunting organization of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. She commands Dracula, the most powerful vampire extant, and the greatsword Caliburn, better known as Excalibur.
He also writes a series of sword & sorcery stories set in an alternative universe known as the Lands of the Dreams of Men.
Kevin lives in Denver with his family and 4 cats.
For more information, see the Songs of the Seanchai [https://www.seanchaisongs.com/].
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Discover other titles by Kevin L. O'Brien:
A fidus Aranea, Adventurer's Honeymoon, Barbarians R Us, The Beast of Exmoor, The Christmas Vampires, Dark Vengeance, Desperate Acts, Disposable Commodities, Do Unto Others, Far-Sight, Feline Savior, Gourmand Hag, Gratuitous Crossover, Gruff Tolls, Immanuel, Inseparable, The Lions of Inganok, Man Friday, Masie's Mind, No Torrent Like Greed, Oak Do Hate, Post-Traumatic Redemption, Pride and Fall, Sacrificial Offering, Shenanigans, The Steel Gazelle, The Temple of Ubasti
Enjoy these other titles at fine ebook retailers everywhere.
Available on Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/story/list/20075368
A Deliberation of Morality, The Denver Walker, Fun 'n' Games, The Golden Mushroom, In an Octopus's Garden, Jigsaw Dragon, A Little Hospitality, The Peril Gem, The Price of Folly, Redshirt, Rhapsody in Orange, A Typical Friday Night, Youthful Indiscretion
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Connect with Kevin L. O'Brien Online:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KLOB_writer
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kevin.l.obrien.1
Website: https://www.seanchaisongs.com/
DeviantArt: https://teamgirl-differel.deviantart.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/Kevin_L_OBrien
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Sample Excerpts
From "Inseparable"
The chariot delivered Donall Ruad Mac Roibeaird to the dolman just as the evening sun touched the horizon. He stepped carefully off the back, and accepted his sh
ield and spear from the charioteer. They spoke no words, merely looked into each other's faces, then Donall Ruad turned towards the dolman as the chariot drove away.
He would not need it again; he knew he would not be returning. Whether anyone would come looking for him in the morning was of little importance, because he would be dead and, he hoped, past caring. His only concerns were the location and the task; his only worry, whether he could accomplish what he came to do. As an honorable warrior, he feared failure more than death, but he also feared that he may not truly die.
A freezing wind gusted, biting his exposed skin and chilling his elderly bones. It was late autumn in Erin, ten days past Samhain, and already the mountains were covered with snow, heralding an especially cold, wet winter. He tried to wrap his cloak closer around him, but his fingers were too cold from lack of blood while their joints ached maddeningly. He absently stroked his thick, bushy, gray moustache, then reached up to scratch an itch on his balding, wrinkled scalp under his helmet. As he lowered his hands, he looked at them, and grimaced at the sight of their gnarled fingers, and the loose, parchment-white skin covered in dull brown spots, with blue veins running like ridges along their backs. Not for the first time he reflected on the tribulations of growing old and decrepit, when he should have died on a field of battle in honorable combat. But he had not fought for over thirty years.
Still, there was no sense in dwelling on what should have